Gunpowder, Gelatine [Rough Trade] pt. 2
previous
&
February
Eames has to cut a trip short when he gets a text from a teacher he knows, asking him to work the whole week for her due to a family crisis. It's a great opportunity for him-a week of income with the possibility of more; and he knows and likes the students. It just means leaving Long Island on Sunday, instead of Monday.
To comfort himself, he decides to go over to Arthur's that night. He's in the mood for a nice rough fuck. He texts ahead, just a brief home early, be at ur place soon, and doesn't get a reply. That means he's playing Russian roulette once he gets into the elevator. Arthur could be entertaining someone. Not likely, but it's happened. In that case he reckons the college roommates card will do; it drives Arthur mad but at least he can be associated with Eames with his dignity intact.
Once he's on the 24th floor, just a few steps away from Arthur's door, he hears a violent crash. Eames grabs the key and enters as quickly as he can.
He skids to a halt in the kitchen doorway. Arthur's kneeling on all fours amidst a truly impressive array of shattered glass and porcelain. There are smudges of blood on the floor around him. The cupboard doors have all been flung wide open and chips of glass lightly spray the countertops beneath them. As Eames watches, gaping, Arthur sits back and wraps his arms around himself, staring at the mess, rocking back and forth slightly and letting out harsh, grating sobs through his teeth. He doesn't appear to even see Eames.
“Arthur,” Eames says, stunned, not sure what's happened here. He steps forward tentatively, crouches down when Arthur doesn't stop him. “Hey, pet, look at me. You're bleeding on yourself.”
“Go away,” Arthur says in a very low, choked voice.
“Look at me, Arthur,” Eames repeats, reaching for him. Something's not right.
“Go-away,” Arthur repeats rigidly. “Don't touch-don't!-”
He lashes out as soon as Eames touches him, like a wild animal, but it's easy to grab onto his wrists. Eames hangs on grimly as Arthur thrashes to free himself.
When he finally goes limp in defeat, he takes a few deep breaths and blinks several times. Then he says, sounding surprised, “Eames.”
“Yeah.”
“You're here.”
“Yeah, I'm here.” Close up, Eames can see that it's his palms bleeding-not his wrists, thank goodness. Eames takes one of his hands by the wrist and holds it palm-up for a better look, and Arthur just kneels there, exhausted, and docilely lets him touch and probe. He doesn't even wince when Eames pries little slivers of glass out of his flesh, making more blood ooze out. “What've you done to yourself, Arthur?” he murmurs, taking the other hand.
“I just wanted a glass of water.” Arthur's voice hitches. “But I couldn't hold the glass.”
Eames can see why. His hands are shaking badly. That's not a good sign. It means Arthur's either taken something or has been awake for much longer than is healthy.
“You dropped the glass and then decided to throw all your dishes on the floor?” Eames says.
Arthur curls up around a massive, crippling yawn, which answers the previous question. His whole body shakes and then sags visibly when it's over.
“I'm so fucking tired, Eames,” he croaks.
“I can see that,” Eames says, letting go of his hand.
“My boss sent me home,” Arthur says, his voice rising in agitation. “The fucking first-year associate kept catching mistakes I'd made. So I went home and I tried to work on my presentation from here but the computer keeps saying this ... awful, disgusting shit ... I think I'm seeing things.”
He blinks and a tear falls from his eyelashes, which is funny because he doesn't notice or even appear to be crying. Maybe his body is too exhausted to cry beyond producing tears. His eyes are glassy and glazed.
“I just wanted water,” he says, dazed, childlike.
“But you dropped the glass ...”
“I'm so sick of everything I touch going to shit,” Arthur whispers.
“... and then you smashed the dishes?” Eames says, trying to make sure he has this in the right order.
Arthur's head lolls in a nod. Another tear escapes. “Yeah.”
“Well,” Eames says gently, “that was silly, wasn't it.”
Arthur lifts his head, his gaze suddenly sharp with fresh awareness. “What are you even doing here?”
“Cut my trip off. I texted you,” Eames says.
“I didn't get it.” Arthur's eyes narrow.
“Well, never mind. Come on.” Eames takes one of his hands, tries to guide him to his feet. “Let's clean you up.”
Arthur resists. “Go home. I don't need you.”
“I'm just trying to help.”
“I don't need your fucking help!” Arthur shouts, lashing out at him again. “Fuck off, Eames, why don't you ever just fuck off-”
Eames backs out of the kitchen and takes a moment to collect.
He could leave. This isn't his problem. He wasn't even supposed to be here tonight.
He takes a deep breath.
Then he walks to the bathroom, rummages around in the cupboards under the sink until he locates a first-aid kit that's never been opened before. He checks its contents quickly, runs some hot water and soaks a hand-towel.
Arthur's standing when Eames returns to the kitchen, gripping the counter and staring at the remnants of his dishes all over the floor without emotion. Eames puts a light hand on his shoulder and says, “Come on.”
He sits Arthur down at the table. He wipes away the blood first, then goes over the cuts with tweezers to extract any tiny shards of glass he might have missed. Arthur doesn't budge or speak except to grunt in pain when Eames disinfects the cuts with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide. None of the wounds is too deep; most are scratches. He puts bandages on the worst ones, and when he's done, Arthur stares at his palms uncomprehendingly.
“What did I do?” he asks himself softly.
“Come on, sleepy,” Eames says cajolingly, helping him up. “Let's get you in your pyjamas.”
He hasn't seen this soft side of himself in a long time. Maybe it's been in hiding; not gone for good like he'd thought. Arthur follows him like a tame little lamb, just stands there while Eames peels him out of his clothes and helps him into his pyjamas.
“Why are you doing this?” Arthur asks him wearily when Eames tucks him into bed. “Why did you stay?”
“Close your eyes and relax,” Eames says instead of answering. Arthur just looks at him, so Eames switches off the lamp. He walks out and shuts the door.
He considers. He could leave now.
Arthur's laptop is open, running but powered-down on the couch. When Eames touches the trackpad, it opens to a locked screen. He shuts it down and wonders what exactly Arthur saw on the laptop screen that troubled him so badly. Hallucinations are a byproduct of sleep deprivation. The thought of Arthur's computer mocking his sexuality is sort of funny, in an awful way. Maybe that was it. Maybe something worse. He won't know.
In the kitchen he has to locate Arthur's broom and dustpan in order to sweep up the mess. He finds that three-quarters of Arthur's drinking glasses and all of his plates are a total write-off, but the bowls and coffee mugs, on the higher shelves, have been spared. It's shocking how much there is on the floor-Eames only has two or three plates himself, and Arthur doesn't exactly host dinner parties; but he would buy entire sets, wouldn't he? Once the broken dishes are swept up, Eames tackles the bloodstains with a washcloth. The kitchen looks virtually normal once he's done.
He came here for sex; the sort of violent, aggressive sex that he and Arthur typically enjoy. He didn't intend to wind up coddling Arthur into going to sleep and then cleaning up his messes. If Arthur's crazy, Eames must be even crazier.
He sighs, and heads into the bedroom. There will definitely be no sex tonight. And there's no point going home-it's freezing outside, and he's tired, too.
Arthur is completely unconscious in the bed, lying on his side, mouth slightly ajar. Eames watches him closely while stripping down to his boxers. Funny how he's so normal-looking in sleep. He wonders how long it's been since Arthur last slept. Too long, obviously; longer than Eames has ever seen him go.
When he crawls under the sheets and switches the lamp off, he hears Arthur stir, and then Arthur is nuzzling against him, attracted to the warmth of his body.
“Hey,” Arthur slurs drowsily, pressing his face into Eames' shoulder. “You stayed.”
It doesn't mean anything. He's probably still asleep, in fact. Eames hesitates. Then he rolls over to face Arthur and wraps an arm around him carefully. Arthur shifts into his arms willingly, nestling into him like a baby animal, and exhaling through his nose in a contented little sound. It's the first time they've ever done anything like cuddling. Arthur is warm and soft; lax and trusting in Eames' arms. It feels nice. He could get used to this.
“'Course I stayed,” Eames says at last. Arthur is unreachable again, though, completely limp against Eames and breathing evenly.
He's asleep and he didn't need sex, or a massage, or any form of orgasm. He's been awake for days and all he needed in the end, apparently, was for Eames to be there.
Like magic.
In the morning Eames cracks open an eyelid when the light is flicked on. Arthur's standing there, hair damp from the shower, dressed for work and knotting a tie. He looks crisp and professional, a total transformation from last night. He catches Eames' eye in the mirror.
“Hey,” he says.
Not, wake up and get out of my apartment now, Eames thinks. Amazing. He checks the clock. Twenty more minutes before he has to get up and start getting ready, too. He lets his head flop back onto the pillow.
Arthur finishes the tie and gives it a tug. Evidently satisfied, he turns around.
“I'm going to work,” he says. He seems slightly uncomfortable. “I'll-I'll see you later? Tonight, maybe?”
“Yeah, sure,” Eames mumbles, closing his eyes.
He doesn't hear Arthur move. After another few moments, Arthur speaks again.
“I slept for six hours.”
It's not a thank-you, but it's about as close as Arthur gets. Six whole hours is a lot of sleep, for Arthur. Eames opens one eye again and offers him a smile which Arthur tentatively returns, hinting at a dimple.
“I'm glad you stayed over,” he says, and switches off the light. “Bye.”
At that moment Eames is glad he stayed over, too.
&&&
June
Arthur is backsliding.
Eames tries to hold out hope, but it's fading fast and it feels awful. They've been living together a year now and they were finally smoothing out some of the last few kinks, actually getting pretty good at this whole committed relationship thing. And now Arthur's sliding right back to square one. For the past two weeks he hasn't once gotten home before midnight, and he's been uncommunicative and grouchy. They had sex three times last week and they've had one quickie this week; and their average is six times a week at least.
Now Eames has had a bad day, and he's the kind of person who appreciates a bit of coddling after a bad day. Another teacher at school, a man he respects as a sort of mentor, visited him after class to tell him to stop being nice to his students. Apparently, there's more than a few girls tittering over Eames when they're supposed to be learning history, trying to come up with ways to access his Facebook or get his mobile number.
“It happens, it's not your fault,” the other teacher says. “You're young and good-looking, and I know it's easy to use your age to develop a rapport with the students. But it's got to stop. You can't be their friend. It just takes one sexual harassment claim, and the school board will throw you to the wolves.”
It's a real blow, because Eames considers himself to be pretty stern, actually. Even though it's true he and his students have a rapport, it's not because he's trying to be their friend-it's because he's consistent and he respects them. He sits on his desk to teach, at a nice comfortable remove from them. It's the accent that's his undoing, he decides, and he can't do much about that.
It's not his fault, but it still feels like he's somehow in trouble, and he wishes, just this one night, that Arthur would come home at a reasonable time and kiss him and tell him not to worry about it. So of course Arthur doesn't.
< Eames 9:47pm > come home!!!
< Arthur 10:02pm > Srry working late.
Arthur's brother calls around eleven and Eames reports that he's working late again. He stresses the again, hoping for a little commiseration, but David just laughs and says, “Yeah, sounds like Arthur.”
He and Eames have had a few halting conversations over the phone when Arthur isn't around. He sounds almost exactly like Arthur, which is weird, but he's friendlier, easy to talk to. He's warmed up to Eames now that he's evidently past the strangeness of talking with his older brother's boyfriend, and suddenly remembering something from a long time ago, Eames wants to take advantage of that.
“Hey-did Arthur really teach you to surf when you were younger?”
David laughs again. His laugh is very different from Arthur's, warm and lighthearted like it doesn't cost him anything to let another person hear it. “Yeah, he did. I don't think you could get him on a surfboard now if you paid him.”
“Damn,” Eames sighs. “I'd love a picture of that.”
“I got all the family photo albums after our dad died. Arthur didn't want any. I could send you one if you like.”
“I would love that,” Eames says, surprised.
“Sure. Just remind what your apartment number is?”
My apartment number, Eames thinks after he's hung up. Not Arthur's. Mine now, too.
When the phone gives its long-distance ring again half an hour later, Eames assumes it's David again; but checking the screen, he recognizes a Canadian area code. Mystified, and wondering if it might be an old friend from teacher's college, he mutes the TV and answers it. “Hello?”
“Hi.” That soft voice is too familiar. “Eames?”
Eames' brain momentarily abandons him, and he blurts out, “Why are you calling me?”
“I've just been thinking about you ...”
“I mean,” Eames cuts him off harshly, “why the hell are you calling me on my boyfriend's phone, Henri?”
“Oh,” Henri says, faltering. “This is the number your sister gave me. I didn't know ...”
“Which one?”
“Amy.”
Of course. He can never figure out her intentions. She might have been doing him a favour, not giving his ex-boyfriend a mobile number-Eames had explicitly changed the old number to avoid this. She might have been gambling on the risk that Arthur would answer, to scare Henri off. Or maybe she intended for Henri to spook Arthur, make him think he has competition for Eames. Because Arthur would be spooked, of course. Eames has no idea.
“I don't want to talk to you,” he says, because he knows the more Henri talks, the more compelled he'll be to listen.
“Just wait,” Henri says, predictably. His French accent is one of the nicer ones Quebec has to offer, not glottal or overpowering. “Please. I'll talk. You just listen.”
Eames says nothing. After a stretch of silence, Henri says quietly, “Amy told me you were seeing someone.”
“Yeah.”
“An investment banker.”
“Yes.”
“I'm happy for you.”
“Good.”
“I'm not seeing anyone,” Henri adds. Eames forces a rough laugh.
“I imagine the dating market isn't so open to people with HIV.”
Henri gives his shy little laugh in return. “You'd be surprised. I'm on treatments, my viral load is almost undetectable... I have next to no chance of passing it on.”
“Oh,” says Eames. “So you just don't tell them. Like you didn't tell me.”
“No, I ... no,” Henri says softly, sadly. “That was a mistake.”
“Yeah, you made a lot of mistakes.”
“I know I did.” Henri's almost whispering.
The front door opens; Eames' heart leaps. Dropping the cordless phone to his side, he calls, “Hey, you're home. You want to watch TV? I got pizza-”
Arthur walks straight past the living room without looking at him and says dully, “I want to be alone, Eames.”
He disappears. A door shuts. A few moments later, Eames hears the treadmill in the guest room start up.
His heart is surging again, not so pleasantly now. This is what Arthur always does when he's in a bad mood; he sequesters himself, not subjecting Eames to his grumpiness. It works for them. He just wishes it didn't have to be tonight.
He reminds himself that Arthur's only been behaving consistently off for two weeks. And the person who made him so headshy in the first place is on the phone, gripped loosely in his right hand. He lifts it.
“You still there?”
“Yes,” says Henri.
“What do you want?”
“An opportunity to talk. I'll be in New York City this weekend. For work.”
“I wasn't aware New York had a physiotherapist shortage.”
“There's a conference.” Henri pauses. “I'd like to meet with you.”
“And say what? Give me a preview.”
Henri's natural quietness makes him hard to hear over the phone, but there's no mistaking when he says, “I want to be with you again.”
“You cheated on me.” Eames' throat aches. “You could have-”
“You were willing to work it out before. You were going to help me with the treatments, and ...”
“I changed my mind,” says Eames. “I realized what an idiot I was trying to salvage our relationship just because I didn't want those seven years to have been a waste. But they were.”
“Not to me.”
“You-” There's nothing Eames can say that won't sound melodramatic. You broke my heart. You betrayed my trust. You made me almost give up on ever loving someone again.
“I want a chance to fix my mistakes. A fair chance. And if this, this investment banker, if you still think he's better for you afterward, then I can move on.”
“He is better for me. He's never cheated on me.”
“Let's just talk,” says Henri. “As friends. We'll just catch up. You don't have to say anything yet. I just want the chance to change your mind.”
Seven years is a very long time to love somebody, Eames thinks. He doesn't even know where this thing between him and Arthur is going in the long run. He doesn't even know if Arthur likes him anymore, or if he's gotten better, decided he doesn't need Eames, wants his life to be uncomplicated again.
“Maybe,” Eames says, and he hangs up.
When he goes to bed an hour later, the treadmill is still going. He doesn't hear Arthur come to bed that night.
&
The next day is Friday. Arthur is gone before Eames gets up and still not home when Eames goes to bed. At three AM Eames hears the shower running, and a few minutes later Arthur hits the mattress at his side and is out like a light.
Eames is up by nine o'clock the next morning, showered and bright-eyed by the time Arthur shows signs of stirring. Eames sits on the edge of the bed.
“Coffee?”
Arthur nods mutely. Eames sets the mug down on the bedside table and Arthur sits up with a relieved sigh. He sips at it with his eyes half-closed.
“Thanks,” he says, reviving slowly.
Eames just watches him for a bit. At first, absorbed in his coffee raptures, Arthur doesn't notice; then he blinks and says, “What.”
“Just thinking,” Eames says. Henri wants him to be at a restaurant on 89th St. at twelve o'clock for lunch. Eames honestly doesn't know if he wants to go.
“Thinking what?” Arthur asks curiously.
“Wondering if you're as flexible as I recall,” says Eames. “Trying to picture you with your knees up round your ears.”
“Pervert,” Arthur says, eyes half-closing again. Eames smiles.
“Do you have to work today?”
“No.” Arthur sighs. “I'm sorry I haven't seen you in like ... days. But I finished my pitchbook last night, so.”
“What pitchbook?”
“The pitchbook I've been busting my ass on for two weeks,” says Arthur, opening his eyes. “I thought I told you.” His brow furrows. “Didn't you wonder why I wasn't home till after midnight every night?”
“I-”
Eames falters. Come to think of it, maybe Arthur did tell him there was a big project of some kind.
Shamefaced, he says, “I thought you were backsliding.”
Arthur groans. “The day I start backsliding, you should consider it your duty to push me in front of a train.”
“Or gradually shag you into better habits. That seemed to work before.”
Arthur snorts, rolling his eyes. “Anyway,” he says, “I told my boss I'm not doing any more projects that big on such a tight deadline. So my hours should go back to normal this week.”
“Thank God,” Eames says earnestly, with a rush of real relief. Arthur tilts his head quizzically, and Eames says, “I've just really missed you.”
Arthur takes a last sip of coffee and sets it down. Thoughtfully, he says, “You know, I'm pretty flexible.”
Eames pounces on him right away, his pulse thrumming with want, and pulls Arthur down onto his back. Arthur slings one leg over his shoulder easily; then Eames pats the other. Arthur sighs, but he puts his other leg over Eames' shoulder, too. They're both in their boxers: Eames bears down a bit and rolls his clothed groin against Arthur's in a pantomime of fucking.
“Alright?”
“Fine,” says Arthur, trying to sound collected but already hard just from this.
“How about ...” Eames leans down lower, until his nose is touching Arthur's and their lips are brushing, and Arthur bends for him, incredibly. “... if I kiss you?”
Already Arthur's cheeks are turning pink, but he says in a strained voice, “Still breathing.”
Eames sits back. Arthur takes a few quick breaths.
“Do you trust me?” Eames asks.
“Is that a trick question?”
“No. It's a simple one.”
Arthur eyes him narrowly, but says, “Yes, I trust you.”
“Alright then.” Eames drags Arthur's boxers off him without ceremony, followed by his own. While he's doing this Arthur is fumbling in the bedside table drawer, pulling out lube and a condom-Arthur hates making a mess first thing in the morning. Once Arthur's knees are on his shoulders again, Eames slicks two fingers and presses both inside Arthur at once, making his face go tight and his gaze flit away. He leans down and kisses Arthur while he does this, partly to distract him, partly to gauge how long he can hold this position before he suffocates. When Arthur starts panting and pushes at him, Eames leans back again, lets him take a couple gulps of air.
“Alright,” Eames says, taking his fingers away. He puts the condom on quickly, sitting back on his heels, then leans forward and plants his hands on the mattress on either side of Arthur's head. “You can tell me to stop,” he says, and then he pushes in to where he's made Arthur wet and open for him. He slides all the way in, one long steady push, and holds himself there. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut against the strain, breathes through it. Then he nods.
He likes to push himself, which is a good thing, because Eames loves to push him too. He starts fucking Arthur properly right away, pressing down to make him bend a bit more, and Arthur takes this easily. He looks lovely-flushed all the way up his chest, hair in disarray-and he gulps swiftly when Eames leans far enough down to kiss him, folding him just about in half.
“Okay,” Arthur says to some unasked question, breathing through his teeth. “I can take it.”
“Good boy,” Eames says, and he starts a quick, rough rhythm. Arthur tips his head back, breathing hard, stubborn as ever.
It's when Eames kisses him that he starts struggling. Eames knows it, and plunders his mouth aggressively, not giving him a window to breathe. When he stops, Arthur's face is flushed, but he still won't tap out, he's still meeting Eames' eyes like this is some kind of challenge, so Eames kisses him again.
He could do this all day, fuck and kiss and bite Arthur, and he starts to lose himself in it until abruptly Arthur is pushing at his chest a bit, saying breathlessly, “Eames-Eames-”
Eames eases back a bit, just enough to let Arthur snatch some air, thrusting into him steadily. “Still trust me?” he asks.
Arthur locks eyes with him again. His eyes are watering, his face flushed red. He clenches his jaw and nods.
Eames leans close again, slides his thumb over Arthur's neck and starts pressing down. Arthur grabs at his arm, clutching, fighting open-mouthed for air; and with his other hand Eames reaches down and strokes Arthur's leaking cock a few times, roughly. Underneath him Arthur's whole body snaps taut in the grip of his climax; the only sound he makes is a strangled gasping noise.
Eames takes his hand away to let him breathe, and in the next second he's coming, too, helplessly compelled by the way Arthur's body shakes apart underneath him. It's amazing, it's always amazing with Arthur; there's never been anything better than this. A lot has changed in a year, but this feeling hasn't.
He slumps there, and he hasn't even recovered before Arthur shoves him off.
“What the fuck was that?” he gasps.
“Unless I'm mistaken,” Eames says, drawing himself up, “that was the best orgasm of your entire life.”
Arthur stares at him, rubbing at his throat, still catching his breath.
“You said you trusted me,” Eames reminds him.
“Jesus,” Arthur says dazedly. He shakes his head briskly, like a dog. He's trying to pull on a stern expression, but the corner of his mouth is starting to twitch. “Well, I didn't know we were playing erotic asphyxiation chicken, did I?”
“It wasn't chicken,” Eames protests. He ties off the condom and throws it at the trash bin. “I knew what I was doing. I wouldn't suffocate you for real.”
Arthur hmmphs, wiping his belly off with Eames' boxers so he can flop down facing the wall. After a few seconds he admits grudgingly, “It was a pretty good orgasm.”
Eames stretches out behind him, cuddling up close and skating his fingers up and down Arthur's stomach. “'Pretty good'? Not 'earth-shattering'?”
Arthur elbows him, not with real malice. “I like to give you something to aspire towards.”
“You just can't admit that I rocked your world.”
Arthur elbows him again, chuckling when Eames just squeezes him tighter. It's nice, for a minute; everything is back to normal, they're good, everything is good. They cool off together, and Arthur lets Eames stay like that, wrapped around him.
“David's going to send us a photo album,” Eames says, remembering. “A photo album ... full of photos of you.”
“Ugh.” Arthur drags one of the sheets over his head. “Stop talking to my brother. It's so weird.”
“I had a bad day on Thursday.”
“Poor you,” says Arthur, with typical lack of sympathy.
“My ex-boyfriend called me. He wants to see me. Today.”
Arthur is silent under the sheet. Then, slowly, he starts to roll away. Eames tightens his grip.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Arthur echoes. He pulls the sheet down, though he's still looking at the wall, rather than Eames. “I didn't know there was an ex-boyfriend.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to see him?”
“I don't think so.”
“Maybe you should,” says Arthur.
“No,” says Eames. “I don't think I will.”
Arthur seems put out by this, strangely, but Eames can't figure out what's wrong. He gives Arthur a little squeeze, trying to convey reassurance without words.
At last, Arthur says carefully, “Well ... I thought you and I could do something today.”
“What?”
“If you want to-go for a walk in Central Park?”
“Arthur,” says Eames sincerely. “I'd love that.”
“But if you want to meet your boyfriend-”
“Arthur,” Eames cuts him off. “You're my boyfriend.”
Arthur gives a soft little snort, as if amused. “Oh yeah.”
“Oh, yeah,” Eames mocks. Arthur's amusement fades rapidly, though, and to distract him, Eames nips his earlobe and says, “Some of my students are in love with me.”
That gets Arthur's attention. He stirs and demands hotly, “What? Who?” He pauses. “Why?”
Eames jabs him in the stomach from behind. “Well, why do you love me?”
“Because you're an asshole, like me,” Arthur says, without missing a beat.
There's a loaded pause. Eames doesn't say anything. Arthur's ears turn slowly pink as he realizes what he's said.
“You're an asshole,” he repeats softly, glaring at the wall.
Eames kisses the back of his neck. “I know.”
&
It's like they've turned the clock back fifteen months, walking down Central Park West together. Arthur's quiet the whole way there. When they enter the park, it's full of people-it's that hectic time of year when the tourists have started arriving in flocks but the locals haven't yet left town on their vacations-and Arthur keeps himself close to Eames' side. Eames can't help but wonder how this is going to go. Arthur isn't out at work; maybe he won't want them to be seen.
“It was our anniversary a couple weeks ago,” Arthur breaks the silence between them. He's looking at the ground while he walks.
“Was it?”
“Sort of. We don't really have a solid date. I just figured, since you moved in one year ago, that could be our anniversary. But I missed it because-work.”
“I see,” says Eames. Arthur looks up at the trees, shoving his hands in his pockets. He's wearing a navy blue polo and one of those elusive pairs of jeans that Eames always wants to tear right off him.
“I wanted to get something for you,” he admits awkwardly. “To kind of-commemorate-and I guess also to thank you for sticking around, even though I suck at this-”
“You don't suck.”
“-and I was thinking of getting you a watch,” Arthur goes on. “A nice one. But I couldn't figure out what you'd like. So eventually I called Mal and asked her, and she said I should forget the watch. She said I should get you something that would mean something to you. So I thought of the last time we went for a walk here, when I had to leave for work, and ...”
He stops walking, and Eames does, too. Arthur takes a deep breath and then leans in and kisses Eames. Right there in the middle of Central Park for all of Manhattan to see, Arthur kisses him, and he doesn't half-ass it, either. He even lets Eames slip both arms around him.
People walk past them. The world keeps turning. Arthur stays there.
When he eventually pulls back a bit, he says sheepishly, “Sorry for being a jerk sometimes.”
Eames smiles fondly, stroking his cheek with a thumb. “Let me tell you something, Arthur,” he says, and his heart gives a nervous pang. He's never talked to Arthur about Henri before today. He hopes this is the right thing to say. “My ex was never a jerk. He was always nice to me. He always said the sweetest things. He told me he loved me every day, and he meant it.”
Arthur's gaze drops to the ground. Eames reaches over, touches Arthur's arm gently, and waits for him to look up again.
“And after all that, he was still fucking around with another man on the side,” he says. “I always know where I stand with you, Arthur. It's one of the things I like about you. You're a grouchy bastard sometimes, but you never lie to me. So don't you worry about being a jerk. I knew who you were when I agreed to move in with you; that's why I said yes. That's why I'm here with you, right now, instead of with him.”
Arthur lifts his head, managing a small lopsided smile.
“Well,” he says after a long pause, shrugging. “No danger of me sleeping with another man, I guess.”
“No, I imagine not,” Eames says, smiling back.
They start walking again. Arthur puts his hands back in his pockets. “So-how about a picnic?”
“That would be perfect.”
“You don't think I'm being cheap? Because I want to take you out to dinner, too, but I thought pretzels would be a good start.”
“It's not cheap. It's perfect.”
“Okay. Good,” Arthur says briskly, veering off toward the nearest vendor. “Pretzels on me, then.”
“Don't forget the lemonade,” Eames calls after him. Arthur flips him the middle finger, and Eames grins.
Some things never do change.
He figures he can live with that.
&
February
Eames has to cut a trip short when he gets a text from a teacher he knows, asking him to work the whole week for her due to a family crisis. It's a great opportunity for him-a week of income with the possibility of more; and he knows and likes the students. It just means leaving Long Island on Sunday, instead of Monday.
To comfort himself, he decides to go over to Arthur's that night. He's in the mood for a nice rough fuck. He texts ahead, just a brief home early, be at ur place soon, and doesn't get a reply. That means he's playing Russian roulette once he gets into the elevator. Arthur could be entertaining someone. Not likely, but it's happened. In that case he reckons the college roommates card will do; it drives Arthur mad but at least he can be associated with Eames with his dignity intact.
Once he's on the 24th floor, just a few steps away from Arthur's door, he hears a violent crash. Eames grabs the key and enters as quickly as he can.
He skids to a halt in the kitchen doorway. Arthur's kneeling on all fours amidst a truly impressive array of shattered glass and porcelain. There are smudges of blood on the floor around him. The cupboard doors have all been flung wide open and chips of glass lightly spray the countertops beneath them. As Eames watches, gaping, Arthur sits back and wraps his arms around himself, staring at the mess, rocking back and forth slightly and letting out harsh, grating sobs through his teeth. He doesn't appear to even see Eames.
“Arthur,” Eames says, stunned, not sure what's happened here. He steps forward tentatively, crouches down when Arthur doesn't stop him. “Hey, pet, look at me. You're bleeding on yourself.”
“Go away,” Arthur says in a very low, choked voice.
“Look at me, Arthur,” Eames repeats, reaching for him. Something's not right.
“Go-away,” Arthur repeats rigidly. “Don't touch-don't!-”
He lashes out as soon as Eames touches him, like a wild animal, but it's easy to grab onto his wrists. Eames hangs on grimly as Arthur thrashes to free himself.
When he finally goes limp in defeat, he takes a few deep breaths and blinks several times. Then he says, sounding surprised, “Eames.”
“Yeah.”
“You're here.”
“Yeah, I'm here.” Close up, Eames can see that it's his palms bleeding-not his wrists, thank goodness. Eames takes one of his hands by the wrist and holds it palm-up for a better look, and Arthur just kneels there, exhausted, and docilely lets him touch and probe. He doesn't even wince when Eames pries little slivers of glass out of his flesh, making more blood ooze out. “What've you done to yourself, Arthur?” he murmurs, taking the other hand.
“I just wanted a glass of water.” Arthur's voice hitches. “But I couldn't hold the glass.”
Eames can see why. His hands are shaking badly. That's not a good sign. It means Arthur's either taken something or has been awake for much longer than is healthy.
“You dropped the glass and then decided to throw all your dishes on the floor?” Eames says.
Arthur curls up around a massive, crippling yawn, which answers the previous question. His whole body shakes and then sags visibly when it's over.
“I'm so fucking tired, Eames,” he croaks.
“I can see that,” Eames says, letting go of his hand.
“My boss sent me home,” Arthur says, his voice rising in agitation. “The fucking first-year associate kept catching mistakes I'd made. So I went home and I tried to work on my presentation from here but the computer keeps saying this ... awful, disgusting shit ... I think I'm seeing things.”
He blinks and a tear falls from his eyelashes, which is funny because he doesn't notice or even appear to be crying. Maybe his body is too exhausted to cry beyond producing tears. His eyes are glassy and glazed.
“I just wanted water,” he says, dazed, childlike.
“But you dropped the glass ...”
“I'm so sick of everything I touch going to shit,” Arthur whispers.
“... and then you smashed the dishes?” Eames says, trying to make sure he has this in the right order.
Arthur's head lolls in a nod. Another tear escapes. “Yeah.”
“Well,” Eames says gently, “that was silly, wasn't it.”
Arthur lifts his head, his gaze suddenly sharp with fresh awareness. “What are you even doing here?”
“Cut my trip off. I texted you,” Eames says.
“I didn't get it.” Arthur's eyes narrow.
“Well, never mind. Come on.” Eames takes one of his hands, tries to guide him to his feet. “Let's clean you up.”
Arthur resists. “Go home. I don't need you.”
“I'm just trying to help.”
“I don't need your fucking help!” Arthur shouts, lashing out at him again. “Fuck off, Eames, why don't you ever just fuck off-”
Eames backs out of the kitchen and takes a moment to collect.
He could leave. This isn't his problem. He wasn't even supposed to be here tonight.
He takes a deep breath.
Then he walks to the bathroom, rummages around in the cupboards under the sink until he locates a first-aid kit that's never been opened before. He checks its contents quickly, runs some hot water and soaks a hand-towel.
Arthur's standing when Eames returns to the kitchen, gripping the counter and staring at the remnants of his dishes all over the floor without emotion. Eames puts a light hand on his shoulder and says, “Come on.”
He sits Arthur down at the table. He wipes away the blood first, then goes over the cuts with tweezers to extract any tiny shards of glass he might have missed. Arthur doesn't budge or speak except to grunt in pain when Eames disinfects the cuts with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide. None of the wounds is too deep; most are scratches. He puts bandages on the worst ones, and when he's done, Arthur stares at his palms uncomprehendingly.
“What did I do?” he asks himself softly.
“Come on, sleepy,” Eames says cajolingly, helping him up. “Let's get you in your pyjamas.”
He hasn't seen this soft side of himself in a long time. Maybe it's been in hiding; not gone for good like he'd thought. Arthur follows him like a tame little lamb, just stands there while Eames peels him out of his clothes and helps him into his pyjamas.
“Why are you doing this?” Arthur asks him wearily when Eames tucks him into bed. “Why did you stay?”
“Close your eyes and relax,” Eames says instead of answering. Arthur just looks at him, so Eames switches off the lamp. He walks out and shuts the door.
He considers. He could leave now.
Arthur's laptop is open, running but powered-down on the couch. When Eames touches the trackpad, it opens to a locked screen. He shuts it down and wonders what exactly Arthur saw on the laptop screen that troubled him so badly. Hallucinations are a byproduct of sleep deprivation. The thought of Arthur's computer mocking his sexuality is sort of funny, in an awful way. Maybe that was it. Maybe something worse. He won't know.
In the kitchen he has to locate Arthur's broom and dustpan in order to sweep up the mess. He finds that three-quarters of Arthur's drinking glasses and all of his plates are a total write-off, but the bowls and coffee mugs, on the higher shelves, have been spared. It's shocking how much there is on the floor-Eames only has two or three plates himself, and Arthur doesn't exactly host dinner parties; but he would buy entire sets, wouldn't he? Once the broken dishes are swept up, Eames tackles the bloodstains with a washcloth. The kitchen looks virtually normal once he's done.
He came here for sex; the sort of violent, aggressive sex that he and Arthur typically enjoy. He didn't intend to wind up coddling Arthur into going to sleep and then cleaning up his messes. If Arthur's crazy, Eames must be even crazier.
He sighs, and heads into the bedroom. There will definitely be no sex tonight. And there's no point going home-it's freezing outside, and he's tired, too.
Arthur is completely unconscious in the bed, lying on his side, mouth slightly ajar. Eames watches him closely while stripping down to his boxers. Funny how he's so normal-looking in sleep. He wonders how long it's been since Arthur last slept. Too long, obviously; longer than Eames has ever seen him go.
When he crawls under the sheets and switches the lamp off, he hears Arthur stir, and then Arthur is nuzzling against him, attracted to the warmth of his body.
“Hey,” Arthur slurs drowsily, pressing his face into Eames' shoulder. “You stayed.”
It doesn't mean anything. He's probably still asleep, in fact. Eames hesitates. Then he rolls over to face Arthur and wraps an arm around him carefully. Arthur shifts into his arms willingly, nestling into him like a baby animal, and exhaling through his nose in a contented little sound. It's the first time they've ever done anything like cuddling. Arthur is warm and soft; lax and trusting in Eames' arms. It feels nice. He could get used to this.
“'Course I stayed,” Eames says at last. Arthur is unreachable again, though, completely limp against Eames and breathing evenly.
He's asleep and he didn't need sex, or a massage, or any form of orgasm. He's been awake for days and all he needed in the end, apparently, was for Eames to be there.
Like magic.
In the morning Eames cracks open an eyelid when the light is flicked on. Arthur's standing there, hair damp from the shower, dressed for work and knotting a tie. He looks crisp and professional, a total transformation from last night. He catches Eames' eye in the mirror.
“Hey,” he says.
Not, wake up and get out of my apartment now, Eames thinks. Amazing. He checks the clock. Twenty more minutes before he has to get up and start getting ready, too. He lets his head flop back onto the pillow.
Arthur finishes the tie and gives it a tug. Evidently satisfied, he turns around.
“I'm going to work,” he says. He seems slightly uncomfortable. “I'll-I'll see you later? Tonight, maybe?”
“Yeah, sure,” Eames mumbles, closing his eyes.
He doesn't hear Arthur move. After another few moments, Arthur speaks again.
“I slept for six hours.”
It's not a thank-you, but it's about as close as Arthur gets. Six whole hours is a lot of sleep, for Arthur. Eames opens one eye again and offers him a smile which Arthur tentatively returns, hinting at a dimple.
“I'm glad you stayed over,” he says, and switches off the light. “Bye.”
At that moment Eames is glad he stayed over, too.
&&&
June
Arthur is backsliding.
Eames tries to hold out hope, but it's fading fast and it feels awful. They've been living together a year now and they were finally smoothing out some of the last few kinks, actually getting pretty good at this whole committed relationship thing. And now Arthur's sliding right back to square one. For the past two weeks he hasn't once gotten home before midnight, and he's been uncommunicative and grouchy. They had sex three times last week and they've had one quickie this week; and their average is six times a week at least.
Now Eames has had a bad day, and he's the kind of person who appreciates a bit of coddling after a bad day. Another teacher at school, a man he respects as a sort of mentor, visited him after class to tell him to stop being nice to his students. Apparently, there's more than a few girls tittering over Eames when they're supposed to be learning history, trying to come up with ways to access his Facebook or get his mobile number.
“It happens, it's not your fault,” the other teacher says. “You're young and good-looking, and I know it's easy to use your age to develop a rapport with the students. But it's got to stop. You can't be their friend. It just takes one sexual harassment claim, and the school board will throw you to the wolves.”
It's a real blow, because Eames considers himself to be pretty stern, actually. Even though it's true he and his students have a rapport, it's not because he's trying to be their friend-it's because he's consistent and he respects them. He sits on his desk to teach, at a nice comfortable remove from them. It's the accent that's his undoing, he decides, and he can't do much about that.
It's not his fault, but it still feels like he's somehow in trouble, and he wishes, just this one night, that Arthur would come home at a reasonable time and kiss him and tell him not to worry about it. So of course Arthur doesn't.
< Eames 9:47pm > come home!!!
< Arthur 10:02pm > Srry working late.
Arthur's brother calls around eleven and Eames reports that he's working late again. He stresses the again, hoping for a little commiseration, but David just laughs and says, “Yeah, sounds like Arthur.”
He and Eames have had a few halting conversations over the phone when Arthur isn't around. He sounds almost exactly like Arthur, which is weird, but he's friendlier, easy to talk to. He's warmed up to Eames now that he's evidently past the strangeness of talking with his older brother's boyfriend, and suddenly remembering something from a long time ago, Eames wants to take advantage of that.
“Hey-did Arthur really teach you to surf when you were younger?”
David laughs again. His laugh is very different from Arthur's, warm and lighthearted like it doesn't cost him anything to let another person hear it. “Yeah, he did. I don't think you could get him on a surfboard now if you paid him.”
“Damn,” Eames sighs. “I'd love a picture of that.”
“I got all the family photo albums after our dad died. Arthur didn't want any. I could send you one if you like.”
“I would love that,” Eames says, surprised.
“Sure. Just remind what your apartment number is?”
My apartment number, Eames thinks after he's hung up. Not Arthur's. Mine now, too.
When the phone gives its long-distance ring again half an hour later, Eames assumes it's David again; but checking the screen, he recognizes a Canadian area code. Mystified, and wondering if it might be an old friend from teacher's college, he mutes the TV and answers it. “Hello?”
“Hi.” That soft voice is too familiar. “Eames?”
Eames' brain momentarily abandons him, and he blurts out, “Why are you calling me?”
“I've just been thinking about you ...”
“I mean,” Eames cuts him off harshly, “why the hell are you calling me on my boyfriend's phone, Henri?”
“Oh,” Henri says, faltering. “This is the number your sister gave me. I didn't know ...”
“Which one?”
“Amy.”
Of course. He can never figure out her intentions. She might have been doing him a favour, not giving his ex-boyfriend a mobile number-Eames had explicitly changed the old number to avoid this. She might have been gambling on the risk that Arthur would answer, to scare Henri off. Or maybe she intended for Henri to spook Arthur, make him think he has competition for Eames. Because Arthur would be spooked, of course. Eames has no idea.
“I don't want to talk to you,” he says, because he knows the more Henri talks, the more compelled he'll be to listen.
“Just wait,” Henri says, predictably. His French accent is one of the nicer ones Quebec has to offer, not glottal or overpowering. “Please. I'll talk. You just listen.”
Eames says nothing. After a stretch of silence, Henri says quietly, “Amy told me you were seeing someone.”
“Yeah.”
“An investment banker.”
“Yes.”
“I'm happy for you.”
“Good.”
“I'm not seeing anyone,” Henri adds. Eames forces a rough laugh.
“I imagine the dating market isn't so open to people with HIV.”
Henri gives his shy little laugh in return. “You'd be surprised. I'm on treatments, my viral load is almost undetectable... I have next to no chance of passing it on.”
“Oh,” says Eames. “So you just don't tell them. Like you didn't tell me.”
“No, I ... no,” Henri says softly, sadly. “That was a mistake.”
“Yeah, you made a lot of mistakes.”
“I know I did.” Henri's almost whispering.
The front door opens; Eames' heart leaps. Dropping the cordless phone to his side, he calls, “Hey, you're home. You want to watch TV? I got pizza-”
Arthur walks straight past the living room without looking at him and says dully, “I want to be alone, Eames.”
He disappears. A door shuts. A few moments later, Eames hears the treadmill in the guest room start up.
His heart is surging again, not so pleasantly now. This is what Arthur always does when he's in a bad mood; he sequesters himself, not subjecting Eames to his grumpiness. It works for them. He just wishes it didn't have to be tonight.
He reminds himself that Arthur's only been behaving consistently off for two weeks. And the person who made him so headshy in the first place is on the phone, gripped loosely in his right hand. He lifts it.
“You still there?”
“Yes,” says Henri.
“What do you want?”
“An opportunity to talk. I'll be in New York City this weekend. For work.”
“I wasn't aware New York had a physiotherapist shortage.”
“There's a conference.” Henri pauses. “I'd like to meet with you.”
“And say what? Give me a preview.”
Henri's natural quietness makes him hard to hear over the phone, but there's no mistaking when he says, “I want to be with you again.”
“You cheated on me.” Eames' throat aches. “You could have-”
“You were willing to work it out before. You were going to help me with the treatments, and ...”
“I changed my mind,” says Eames. “I realized what an idiot I was trying to salvage our relationship just because I didn't want those seven years to have been a waste. But they were.”
“Not to me.”
“You-” There's nothing Eames can say that won't sound melodramatic. You broke my heart. You betrayed my trust. You made me almost give up on ever loving someone again.
“I want a chance to fix my mistakes. A fair chance. And if this, this investment banker, if you still think he's better for you afterward, then I can move on.”
“He is better for me. He's never cheated on me.”
“Let's just talk,” says Henri. “As friends. We'll just catch up. You don't have to say anything yet. I just want the chance to change your mind.”
Seven years is a very long time to love somebody, Eames thinks. He doesn't even know where this thing between him and Arthur is going in the long run. He doesn't even know if Arthur likes him anymore, or if he's gotten better, decided he doesn't need Eames, wants his life to be uncomplicated again.
“Maybe,” Eames says, and he hangs up.
When he goes to bed an hour later, the treadmill is still going. He doesn't hear Arthur come to bed that night.
&
The next day is Friday. Arthur is gone before Eames gets up and still not home when Eames goes to bed. At three AM Eames hears the shower running, and a few minutes later Arthur hits the mattress at his side and is out like a light.
Eames is up by nine o'clock the next morning, showered and bright-eyed by the time Arthur shows signs of stirring. Eames sits on the edge of the bed.
“Coffee?”
Arthur nods mutely. Eames sets the mug down on the bedside table and Arthur sits up with a relieved sigh. He sips at it with his eyes half-closed.
“Thanks,” he says, reviving slowly.
Eames just watches him for a bit. At first, absorbed in his coffee raptures, Arthur doesn't notice; then he blinks and says, “What.”
“Just thinking,” Eames says. Henri wants him to be at a restaurant on 89th St. at twelve o'clock for lunch. Eames honestly doesn't know if he wants to go.
“Thinking what?” Arthur asks curiously.
“Wondering if you're as flexible as I recall,” says Eames. “Trying to picture you with your knees up round your ears.”
“Pervert,” Arthur says, eyes half-closing again. Eames smiles.
“Do you have to work today?”
“No.” Arthur sighs. “I'm sorry I haven't seen you in like ... days. But I finished my pitchbook last night, so.”
“What pitchbook?”
“The pitchbook I've been busting my ass on for two weeks,” says Arthur, opening his eyes. “I thought I told you.” His brow furrows. “Didn't you wonder why I wasn't home till after midnight every night?”
“I-”
Eames falters. Come to think of it, maybe Arthur did tell him there was a big project of some kind.
Shamefaced, he says, “I thought you were backsliding.”
Arthur groans. “The day I start backsliding, you should consider it your duty to push me in front of a train.”
“Or gradually shag you into better habits. That seemed to work before.”
Arthur snorts, rolling his eyes. “Anyway,” he says, “I told my boss I'm not doing any more projects that big on such a tight deadline. So my hours should go back to normal this week.”
“Thank God,” Eames says earnestly, with a rush of real relief. Arthur tilts his head quizzically, and Eames says, “I've just really missed you.”
Arthur takes a last sip of coffee and sets it down. Thoughtfully, he says, “You know, I'm pretty flexible.”
Eames pounces on him right away, his pulse thrumming with want, and pulls Arthur down onto his back. Arthur slings one leg over his shoulder easily; then Eames pats the other. Arthur sighs, but he puts his other leg over Eames' shoulder, too. They're both in their boxers: Eames bears down a bit and rolls his clothed groin against Arthur's in a pantomime of fucking.
“Alright?”
“Fine,” says Arthur, trying to sound collected but already hard just from this.
“How about ...” Eames leans down lower, until his nose is touching Arthur's and their lips are brushing, and Arthur bends for him, incredibly. “... if I kiss you?”
Already Arthur's cheeks are turning pink, but he says in a strained voice, “Still breathing.”
Eames sits back. Arthur takes a few quick breaths.
“Do you trust me?” Eames asks.
“Is that a trick question?”
“No. It's a simple one.”
Arthur eyes him narrowly, but says, “Yes, I trust you.”
“Alright then.” Eames drags Arthur's boxers off him without ceremony, followed by his own. While he's doing this Arthur is fumbling in the bedside table drawer, pulling out lube and a condom-Arthur hates making a mess first thing in the morning. Once Arthur's knees are on his shoulders again, Eames slicks two fingers and presses both inside Arthur at once, making his face go tight and his gaze flit away. He leans down and kisses Arthur while he does this, partly to distract him, partly to gauge how long he can hold this position before he suffocates. When Arthur starts panting and pushes at him, Eames leans back again, lets him take a couple gulps of air.
“Alright,” Eames says, taking his fingers away. He puts the condom on quickly, sitting back on his heels, then leans forward and plants his hands on the mattress on either side of Arthur's head. “You can tell me to stop,” he says, and then he pushes in to where he's made Arthur wet and open for him. He slides all the way in, one long steady push, and holds himself there. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut against the strain, breathes through it. Then he nods.
He likes to push himself, which is a good thing, because Eames loves to push him too. He starts fucking Arthur properly right away, pressing down to make him bend a bit more, and Arthur takes this easily. He looks lovely-flushed all the way up his chest, hair in disarray-and he gulps swiftly when Eames leans far enough down to kiss him, folding him just about in half.
“Okay,” Arthur says to some unasked question, breathing through his teeth. “I can take it.”
“Good boy,” Eames says, and he starts a quick, rough rhythm. Arthur tips his head back, breathing hard, stubborn as ever.
It's when Eames kisses him that he starts struggling. Eames knows it, and plunders his mouth aggressively, not giving him a window to breathe. When he stops, Arthur's face is flushed, but he still won't tap out, he's still meeting Eames' eyes like this is some kind of challenge, so Eames kisses him again.
He could do this all day, fuck and kiss and bite Arthur, and he starts to lose himself in it until abruptly Arthur is pushing at his chest a bit, saying breathlessly, “Eames-Eames-”
Eames eases back a bit, just enough to let Arthur snatch some air, thrusting into him steadily. “Still trust me?” he asks.
Arthur locks eyes with him again. His eyes are watering, his face flushed red. He clenches his jaw and nods.
Eames leans close again, slides his thumb over Arthur's neck and starts pressing down. Arthur grabs at his arm, clutching, fighting open-mouthed for air; and with his other hand Eames reaches down and strokes Arthur's leaking cock a few times, roughly. Underneath him Arthur's whole body snaps taut in the grip of his climax; the only sound he makes is a strangled gasping noise.
Eames takes his hand away to let him breathe, and in the next second he's coming, too, helplessly compelled by the way Arthur's body shakes apart underneath him. It's amazing, it's always amazing with Arthur; there's never been anything better than this. A lot has changed in a year, but this feeling hasn't.
He slumps there, and he hasn't even recovered before Arthur shoves him off.
“What the fuck was that?” he gasps.
“Unless I'm mistaken,” Eames says, drawing himself up, “that was the best orgasm of your entire life.”
Arthur stares at him, rubbing at his throat, still catching his breath.
“You said you trusted me,” Eames reminds him.
“Jesus,” Arthur says dazedly. He shakes his head briskly, like a dog. He's trying to pull on a stern expression, but the corner of his mouth is starting to twitch. “Well, I didn't know we were playing erotic asphyxiation chicken, did I?”
“It wasn't chicken,” Eames protests. He ties off the condom and throws it at the trash bin. “I knew what I was doing. I wouldn't suffocate you for real.”
Arthur hmmphs, wiping his belly off with Eames' boxers so he can flop down facing the wall. After a few seconds he admits grudgingly, “It was a pretty good orgasm.”
Eames stretches out behind him, cuddling up close and skating his fingers up and down Arthur's stomach. “'Pretty good'? Not 'earth-shattering'?”
Arthur elbows him, not with real malice. “I like to give you something to aspire towards.”
“You just can't admit that I rocked your world.”
Arthur elbows him again, chuckling when Eames just squeezes him tighter. It's nice, for a minute; everything is back to normal, they're good, everything is good. They cool off together, and Arthur lets Eames stay like that, wrapped around him.
“David's going to send us a photo album,” Eames says, remembering. “A photo album ... full of photos of you.”
“Ugh.” Arthur drags one of the sheets over his head. “Stop talking to my brother. It's so weird.”
“I had a bad day on Thursday.”
“Poor you,” says Arthur, with typical lack of sympathy.
“My ex-boyfriend called me. He wants to see me. Today.”
Arthur is silent under the sheet. Then, slowly, he starts to roll away. Eames tightens his grip.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Arthur echoes. He pulls the sheet down, though he's still looking at the wall, rather than Eames. “I didn't know there was an ex-boyfriend.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to see him?”
“I don't think so.”
“Maybe you should,” says Arthur.
“No,” says Eames. “I don't think I will.”
Arthur seems put out by this, strangely, but Eames can't figure out what's wrong. He gives Arthur a little squeeze, trying to convey reassurance without words.
At last, Arthur says carefully, “Well ... I thought you and I could do something today.”
“What?”
“If you want to-go for a walk in Central Park?”
“Arthur,” says Eames sincerely. “I'd love that.”
“But if you want to meet your boyfriend-”
“Arthur,” Eames cuts him off. “You're my boyfriend.”
Arthur gives a soft little snort, as if amused. “Oh yeah.”
“Oh, yeah,” Eames mocks. Arthur's amusement fades rapidly, though, and to distract him, Eames nips his earlobe and says, “Some of my students are in love with me.”
That gets Arthur's attention. He stirs and demands hotly, “What? Who?” He pauses. “Why?”
Eames jabs him in the stomach from behind. “Well, why do you love me?”
“Because you're an asshole, like me,” Arthur says, without missing a beat.
There's a loaded pause. Eames doesn't say anything. Arthur's ears turn slowly pink as he realizes what he's said.
“You're an asshole,” he repeats softly, glaring at the wall.
Eames kisses the back of his neck. “I know.”
&
It's like they've turned the clock back fifteen months, walking down Central Park West together. Arthur's quiet the whole way there. When they enter the park, it's full of people-it's that hectic time of year when the tourists have started arriving in flocks but the locals haven't yet left town on their vacations-and Arthur keeps himself close to Eames' side. Eames can't help but wonder how this is going to go. Arthur isn't out at work; maybe he won't want them to be seen.
“It was our anniversary a couple weeks ago,” Arthur breaks the silence between them. He's looking at the ground while he walks.
“Was it?”
“Sort of. We don't really have a solid date. I just figured, since you moved in one year ago, that could be our anniversary. But I missed it because-work.”
“I see,” says Eames. Arthur looks up at the trees, shoving his hands in his pockets. He's wearing a navy blue polo and one of those elusive pairs of jeans that Eames always wants to tear right off him.
“I wanted to get something for you,” he admits awkwardly. “To kind of-commemorate-and I guess also to thank you for sticking around, even though I suck at this-”
“You don't suck.”
“-and I was thinking of getting you a watch,” Arthur goes on. “A nice one. But I couldn't figure out what you'd like. So eventually I called Mal and asked her, and she said I should forget the watch. She said I should get you something that would mean something to you. So I thought of the last time we went for a walk here, when I had to leave for work, and ...”
He stops walking, and Eames does, too. Arthur takes a deep breath and then leans in and kisses Eames. Right there in the middle of Central Park for all of Manhattan to see, Arthur kisses him, and he doesn't half-ass it, either. He even lets Eames slip both arms around him.
People walk past them. The world keeps turning. Arthur stays there.
When he eventually pulls back a bit, he says sheepishly, “Sorry for being a jerk sometimes.”
Eames smiles fondly, stroking his cheek with a thumb. “Let me tell you something, Arthur,” he says, and his heart gives a nervous pang. He's never talked to Arthur about Henri before today. He hopes this is the right thing to say. “My ex was never a jerk. He was always nice to me. He always said the sweetest things. He told me he loved me every day, and he meant it.”
Arthur's gaze drops to the ground. Eames reaches over, touches Arthur's arm gently, and waits for him to look up again.
“And after all that, he was still fucking around with another man on the side,” he says. “I always know where I stand with you, Arthur. It's one of the things I like about you. You're a grouchy bastard sometimes, but you never lie to me. So don't you worry about being a jerk. I knew who you were when I agreed to move in with you; that's why I said yes. That's why I'm here with you, right now, instead of with him.”
Arthur lifts his head, managing a small lopsided smile.
“Well,” he says after a long pause, shrugging. “No danger of me sleeping with another man, I guess.”
“No, I imagine not,” Eames says, smiling back.
They start walking again. Arthur puts his hands back in his pockets. “So-how about a picnic?”
“That would be perfect.”
“You don't think I'm being cheap? Because I want to take you out to dinner, too, but I thought pretzels would be a good start.”
“It's not cheap. It's perfect.”
“Okay. Good,” Arthur says briskly, veering off toward the nearest vendor. “Pretzels on me, then.”
“Don't forget the lemonade,” Eames calls after him. Arthur flips him the middle finger, and Eames grins.
Some things never do change.
He figures he can live with that.