Rough Trade, 2/2

[whiskyrunner]

Title: Rough Trade (you are now shooting at your imaginary friend in front of 400 gallons of nitroglycerin)
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~13,200 (~23,400 overall)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Language, references to depression, rough sex.
Author's Note: Based on this prompt on the kinkmeme. Part one is here.
FML, this part was too long and I had to break it into two parts.


&
By the end of January Arthur is working more than a hundred hours a week, which should seem excessive but doesn't, because at least when he's working his ass off he can tire his brain out enough to snatch a few hours of sleep each night; and this is how he ends up sitting at his desk on a Tuesday, running on a lethal cocktail of espresso shots and caffeine pills, and finds, quite suddenly, that he's crying uncontrollably.

He ignores this fact and struggles to go on working. In fact he keeps working until it's been four hours, he still hasn't been able to stop, and somebody has finally gone and fetched Cobb.

“Arthur, Arthur,” Cobb says, pulling up a chair and looking alarmed, “what's wrong?”

“Sorry.” Arthur wipes at his eyes impatiently. “I don't know. I don't know why. I just started a few hours ago and can't stop. Nothing's wrong, I just -- can't stop.”

He expects some uncomfortable pep-talk, or something in that vein. What he does not expect is for Cobb to call an ambulance.

“But I'm fine,” he coughs out, trying to get a grip on himself. Cobb shakes his head, his mouth a thin line, steering Arthur by the arm to where the paramedics are waiting to receive him.

“Take the rest of the day off,” he says. “Take as much time as you need.”

Arthur's protests fall on deaf ears. He's carted off to the hospital, feeling foolish and tired, where he has to wait before a doctor appears and asks him about pre-existing mental disorders and symptoms and medication, and hands him off to a psychologist who asks more invasive questions until Arthur just wants to go back to work.

The psychologist tells him he's having a nervous breakdown and gives him some pills. Arthur throws the pills out and flees as soon as he's allowed to go.

He's finally managed to stop crying, which is one good thing. He calls Cobb up once he gets home and gives him the verdict, that it's just a minor nervous breakdown and the doctors let him go and when can he come back to work?

“No way,” says Cobb firmly. “Stay at home tomorrow. Take a mental health day. Take the rest of the week, actually.”

“Really,” Arthur says, a little desperately, “I'm fine.”

“You're not much use if you end up in the hospital from busting your ass. Take it easy, Arthur, and I'll call you later in the week to see how you're doing, okay?”

Arthur wants to hate him, but can't seem to find the energy. So he just resignedly agrees and hangs up. He spends the entire night watching the cooking channel in a soporific daze.

He's wrapped up in a blanket on the couch in the early morning, actually drifting off, when his ringing phone jars him awake. He answers automatically, thinking confusedly that it might be Cobb with a change of heart.

“What is it?”

There's a brief silence, a soft crackle, and then:

“Arthur?”

Arthur sits up, fully awake. “David?”

“Hi,” his brother says. “Did I wake you? You sound kind of ...”

“No, I was already... How are you?” Arthur asks, wracking his brains to try and remember the last time he heard his brother's voice. “How's, um, Emily? And Noah?”

There's a delay before each of David's replies, and Arthur imagines his words travelling around the globe to Australia, pinging off satellites on their way to him.

“Good,” says David. “They're good. Look, I'm calling 'cause ... I got a call this morning from Dom Cobb?”

“Oh,” says Arthur.

“He says you had a nervous breakdown at work yesterday.”

Arthur feels inexplicably embarrassed. “It wasn't any kind of ... big deal,” he says. “The doctors said it was minor ...”

“Cobb says you were crying uncontrollably for a few hours.”

“He shouldn't have called you,” says Arthur. “Sorry.”

The delay this time is longer. The silence is filled with soft static sounds.

“You don't have to be Dad, you know,” David says finally.

“I'm not Dad.”

“No, but you're the same as him. You know money isn't everything, don't you?”

Needled, Arthur replies, “I know you're twenty-six, and think you know everything.”

“Well, all I know is, my life got a lot better when I realized I don't need money to be happy. Maybe you do -- I don't know, we're different people, Arthur. But you're gonna burn out if you keep going like this.”

“I appreciate the concern, Dave, but I'm really fine. I've just been having some trouble sleeping lately. Work is fine.”

He hears his brother sigh quietly. Evidently David senses there's no use arguing the point, because he changes the subject and asks, “How was your Christmas?”

“Quiet,” says Arthur. “I got your card. Cute picture.”

“Yeah. We were at the Gold Coast a few months ago, it was fun. You should come out here, you know,” David adds. “Noah should meet his uncle.”

“I know. I want to,” says Arthur. “I will.” He calculates wildly, trying to convince himself that he's being honest. “Maybe in the summer, if I can time it right, I'll take a couple weeks off and come see you.”

“Don't say it if you don't mean it,” says David.

“I do.”

“I know you, Arthur.” He lets Arthur soak that in for a moment, then goes on, “Anyway, you know you're always welcome. And you know you can call me anytime, right? Even if it's the middle of the night here. You're not all alone.”

“I know,” Arthur says, resentful now at being babied by his little brother. “I'm really fine, though.”

David sighs again. “I'll call you soon. Take it easy.”

“Sure.” Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, and then, just when he thinks David might have hung up, he says, “Hey -- Dave?”

“What?”

Arthur sucks in a tight breath, keeping his eyes closed. “What would you say if I told you I was gay?”

The pause seems very brief.

“I would say you're my big brother and I love you no matter what.”

Heart beating hard, Arthur says, “What do you think Dad would say?”

“You know what Dad would have said.”

“Yeah.” Arthur lets go of his breath and opens his eyes. His chest hurts. “I'm not gay, I just. Wondered, I guess.”

“Okay,” says David, “well. Like I said. You're not alone, okay?” He clears his throat, a discomfited sound. “I'll talk to you soon. Or you can call me, whatever.”

“Sure,” Arthur says again. “See you.”

He hangs up and wants to smash his phone repeatedly into its cradle. He manages to refrain, though, which is probably a good sign.

&
For the rest of the day Arthur tries to keep busy. He doesn't want to fall into the same rut he did after Christmas. He rearranges some of his furniture, then goes shopping for some more. Then he goes shopping for exercise equipment, because sometimes, in college, exercising used to make him feel better; and besides, he's always trying to lose weight anyway. He has a treadmill delivered to his apartment on the same day and that night, he runs on it for hours. Until his very bones hurt.

He realizes, it's a good kind of hurt.

He's found a new outlet.

He goes searching for more equipment the next day. Traipses up and down Manhattan looking for the highest-end quality stuff until his aching legs are about to give out. He goes home. Surfs the web on his laptop, restlessly, for a few hours. Watches some TV. Tries his treadmill again till he hurts even more. When he can no longer stand his apartment, he goes downstairs to his building's gym, which he rarely has the time to use, and tries some of their equipment, until his whole body is burning.

It's Thursday, but he doesn't bother going downtown to meet with Eames. He's found something better, not at the expense of his dignity. By the weekend, he owns his own home gym system, an upright exercise bike, and a set of weights in addition to his treadmill, and a rowing machine on its way.

Powered by some manic, feverish form of runner's high, it's not until Sunday that he realizes he's only gotten a grand total of three hours of sleep since his breakdown on Tuesday. And then he starts crying again and it's an hour before he can manage to stop.

He prays to God or whatever deity will listen that Eames is home when he goes downtown. Feels like crying again when Eames actually answers his door.

“Christ's sake,” he says, seeing Arthur there. “You expect me to drop everything for you, don't you?”

“Can you give me another massage?” Arthur asks weakly. Eames folds his arms over his chest and frowns.

“I'd rather just fuck you.”

“Give me a massage and then you can fuck me,” Arthur says pleadingly.

“You won't fall asleep?” Eames asks, doubtful.

That stops Arthur in his tracks. Cobb's already said he can try going back to work on Monday. If he falls asleep here, he doesn't know when he'll wake up. He makes an involuntary choked sound in his throat.

“Never mind,” he manages, turning away. Eames catches him by the arm before he can escape.

“Arthur, are you okay?”

Arthur shakes his head impatiently. “Look, I just wanted some sleep, but I'm working tomorrow and I can't stay here--”

He tries to pull out of Eames' grip, but Eames tugs him back a step.

“When's the last time you slept? And I mean a proper sleep?”

“I don't know,” Arthur mumbles, “Monday night I guess. I got three hours or so then.”

“You need to sleep.”

“I know.”

Arthur glares at him. Eames' eyebrows are furrowed.

“Hang on,” he says finally, and, releasing Arthur, he disappears back into his apartment.

Arthur is halfway down the hall, stumbling like a drunk, when Eames catches up to him.

“We're going to your place,” he says.

“I can't,” Arthur starts, “I don't think--”

“Don't be stupid,” Eames says, and that's the end of that argument. Arthur wearily points himself home and his autonomous body does the rest.

Eames gives a low whistle when they pull up in a cab to the front of Arthur's building. He fingers the wrought-iron gates wonderingly as Arthur punches in the code to open them. He doesn't say anything until they actually take the elevator up to Arthur's apartment and he opens the door; then Eames shakes his head and says, “Just how much money do you make?”

“My father left me some,” says Arthur. “That helps.”

He feels a tiny sense of smugness watching Eames explore the apartment, taking in the finished kitchen with its granite countertops and his sofa and the flat-screen TV that hangs on his wall and the view from the balcony. Then he feels a little paranoid, because Eames is essentially a bum and a thief and possessions are all Arthur really has.

“Come on,” he says shortly, going into the bedroom. Eames follows. “I don't know how you live the way you do,” he goes on, as he pulls off his clothes. “You don't even have a couch. Your shower is communal.”

“We can't all work on Wall Street,” says Eames, taking a seat on the bed. “Besides, I'm a man of simple pleasures.”

He makes a soft purring sound when Arthur joins him on the bed, now completely bare. He takes a few moments just to trail his fingertips up and down Arthur's spine.

“Close your eyes and relax,” he says at length, taking his hand away. There's a pause while Arthur hears him fiddling with something, and when Eames brings both hands back to his neck, he realizes Eames had grabbed the oil from his apartment. It's been warmed in his pocket and the feeling is exquisite. Arthur gives a sigh that comes out like a strained whimper.

“How did you get so good at this?”

“I'm licensed in Canada,” says Eames. “Just one of my many talents.” He makes a flexing, rolling motion with his hands. “Good God, you're tense. What the hell have you been doing to yourself?”

“Exercising,” says Arthur.

“Ah. I noticed the machinery.” His thumb digs into just the right spot, and Arthur melts into the sheets with another strained sound of pleasure. “Oh, well. I'll work you nice and loose for me.”

Arthur snorts softly at that. He feels sleepy already, even though he wants to stay awake if only so he can enjoy every second of this. Eames seems to sense it.

“So what did your father do?” he asks conversationally, when he moves down to Arthur's shoulders.

“Finance,” Arthur mumbles. “Like me. But he made more money.”

“And then left it all to you when he passed on?”

“Not all. He gave some to my brother. My brother used it to move to Australia and open up a tattoo shop.” Arthur snorts again. “He's ... different.”

“Is he good at it?” Eames asks.

“Good at what?”

“Tattoos,” says Eames. That makes Arthur consider.

“I don't know,” he admits. “I guess he gets business. And he's always been the ... you know, the creative one. So, I guess. He likes it, anyway.”

“And you?” Eames' hands kneading him send pure, molten pleasure flowing through Arthur's aching back. “Do you like finance?”

Arthur feels tired and sleepy and just wants to lay there, but he drudges up an answer anyway. “I don't know. Not really. But I'm good at it, so, I guess it doesn't matter.”

“It's what you're going to be doing for the rest of your life,” Eames says. “I'd say it matters.”

Arthur just makes an unintelligible sound into his pillow, because Eames is working all the knots out of his muscles and it feels heavenly. This time Eames lets him fall silent, and for awhile the only sound to be heard is the occasional soft grunt of exertion on Eames' part as he massages Arthur's tense back. And it's good, it's so good Arthur is already halfway to sleep when he realizes how low Eames' hands have travelled, just as an oiled finger eases inside him without preamble.

Arthur makes a low gasping sound of protest at once, starting to arch upright, but Eames' other hand is suddenly on his lower back, pressing him to the bed.

“Shh,” Eames is saying. “Stop. Keep your eyes closed. Just keep relaxing, you can do it. This is going to feel good.”

He's never fingered Arthur before. It feels somehow bizarre, way too intimate. But Arthur sinks back down, wary. He's not going to be the one to back off. After a second Eames strokes his finger in deeper, and Arthur keeps his eyes shut and focuses on breathing.

“Good boy,” says Eames, and he slides a second finger in alongside the first. He curls his fingers, stretching Arthur open with uncharacteristic care, stroking almost lovingly. By the time he adds a third digit, any of Arthur's protests have died in his throat, and he's biting his tongue to keep from making a sound.

It's difficult to stay quiet, the way Eames is moving inside him, especially when he finds Arthur's prostate. Instead of massaging it, he strokes just around it, skirting the fringes of Arthur's most sensitive nerve endings. It's sweet and maddening simultaneously and Arthur's flushed, already breaking into a sheen of sweat. Eames makes that same purring sound and drags his fingers around that spot, and Arthur sees coloured starbursts on the backs of his eyelids -- shifting his hand, Eames tilts his fingers from side to side, glancing off his prostate each time. At this point Arthur gives up on staying quiet, and gasps one low, broken word:

“Eames--”

In response, Eames tilts his hand again and presses with just enough force, and before Arthur knows what's hit him, his thoughts are drowned in a roar of white noise. From very far away he can hear himself moaning, almost crying, and feel his muscles draw tight around Eames' fingers. When the rush of blood fades, he's shivering and sweating.

“What,” he pants. “What was--”

“Dry orgasm,” Eames says. He's panting, inexplicably, too; fever-flushed and bright-eyed when Arthur looks round at him. He's fumbling with his pants. “Arthur -- where do you keep your--”

“Don't need it -- just fuck me,” Arthur says quickly. Eames needs no second bidding. Winding an arm around Arthur's waist, he lifts his hips off the bed and enters him in one quick push. With just the oil as lubricant, the friction is unbearably good, just the right side of painful.

Eames wastes no time setting a rapid pace. It takes him only a few moments to relocate Arthur's prostate, and when he does, Arthur's every nerve ending jolts in protest.

“Eames,” Arthur wheezes, squirming under him. “You can't -- too much, I -- fucking sensitive, Eames--”

Eames ignores him, as he always does; just keeps fucking into his prostate with devastating precision. His teeth scrape sharply over the back of Arthur's neck, making him shiver. He's oversensitized and it hurts, and it's not a sweet pain like the friction of Eames pounding into him, like prodding hard at a bad bruise. It's a wild, high hurt that makes his body cry out, forces him to twist and writhe involuntarily to try and change the angle at which Eames is hitting him. It's barely tolerable, it's all Arthur can feel even when Eames wraps a hand around his swollen cock.

“Eames, please,” he begs.

Instead of stopping, Eames drives into him hard, one last time, twisting his wrist in the same motion, and Arthur can actually feel them come at the same instant. This orgasm is almost too intense for him to bear. It seems to go on and on and Arthur is helpless in its white-hot throes.

He's not at all sleepy when he recovers his senses -- he's so awake, and he might be crying, and he doesn't even know what he feels right now, he doesn't know.

“Arthur,” Eames murmurs in his ear, and then he's there, gathering Arthur in his arms and drawing him up to his chest. His shirt smells musty and masculine and Arthur gulps the scent of it, needing something to anchor him back to earth. Eames just holds him, strokes him and soothes him back down. “Arthur,” he says again, like it's a prayer.

“Why,” Arthur manages to force out at last, gasping. “Why do you do this to me?”

“Because you like it,” Eames says. “You like letting go. This is the only time you can give up control, because you trust me, Arthur. You know I'd never push you if I didn't think you could take it.”

“I don't like you,” Arthur says, shudders still wracking his body.

“You would stop me if you didn't want this,” Eames says. “You could stop me.”

The shudders leave Arthur's body slowly, and he starts to feel limp and boneless and heavy in Eames' arms. Dead weight. Eames' heartbeat throbs steadily in his ear. He feels Eames' thumb, grazing the corner of his mouth.

“You could stop me,” Eames says, and he leans down and tilts Arthur's face up to his so he can kiss him. Sucks Arthur's lower lip between his teeth and licks his way into Arthur's mouth. It's casual and effortless.

It should scare the hell out of Arthur.

And somehow, it feels good, and correct.

Yes, his brain seems to think. Yes, this works.

Arthur kisses back. He lets Eames take the lead, even though he normally wouldn't, because he's too exhausted. And they kiss. And kiss. Until Arthur doesn't even know what he's doing anymore, except that it feels right, because he's already asleep.

&
He wakes up alone at six in the morning, which means he's slept for something like five hours. That's a surprise. The fact that he's alone isn't. He stretches and curls into his pillow.

His eyes fly back open less than two minutes later. He scrambles out of bed and starts yanking on clothing, raging inwardly at himself.

He let Eames into his apartment. Eames the fucking bum who has nothing and basically steals for a living. Eames who knows Arthur's most terrible secret and could have answered the phone if it rang, who has already vanished while Arthur was sleeping. What the fuck was he thinking? He let Eames into his fucking apartment!

“Eames, I swear to God,” he snarls under his breath, charging out of the bedroom to take stock of the place, “if you fucking stole a thing--”

He skids to a dazed halt in the door of the kitchen.

The kitchen where Eames is.

Where Eames is, in fact, making coffee.

Arthur wilts slightly under the eyebrow Eames raises at him.

“Just how desperate and impoverished do you think I am?” he inquires, and his tone is curious, though his eyes are narrowed.

“Sorry,” Arthur mutters. “You were gone, and I just thought ...”

“You thought I was out here stealing the silver.”

“Can you blame me?” Arthur says, immediately falling back on the defensive. Flustered and exasperated, he says, “I mean, what was I supposed to think when I saw you were gone--”

“Certainly not that I saw that your alarm is set for six-fifteen, and decided to make some coffee for when you woke up,” says Eames, scathing. “No, that would be absurd.”

“You're not my fucking boyfriend!” Arthur shouts, instantly destroying any chance of defusing this conversation. Eames looks surprised to be shouted at so early in the morning, and Arthur rages on, because he doesn't even feel rested, he feels tired and angry and sore and upset.

“I don't want to wake up next to you! I don't want you making fucking coffee for me! I only brought you here because I needed to get laid so I could sleep! That's the only reason I see you, Eames, get that through your fucking head! I don't want you, I don't want a relationship, I don't want coffee, I want your fucking dick and that's it!”

He emphasizes this by throwing one of the coffee mugs into the sink. It shatters and coffee sprays the granite countertops. Eames just stares at him evenly.

“You are the most closeted faggot I've ever met,” he says coldly.

The word is like a sucker punch. Arthur hates him.

“Get out of my apartment,” he says.

“Oh, come on, Arthur!” Eames scoffs. “We already know how this goes! You have your little tantrum and push me away, and crawl back looking like shit a few weeks later so I can drop everything to rush to your side and fuck all your problems away. Don't you understand how fucked-up and repressed you are? Tell me what's so terrible about being gay!”

Arthur starts shoving him toward the door, snarling out each word: “Normal -- people -- aren't -- gay!”

He fumbles with the doorknob, but Eames reaches back and slams the door shut as soon as Arthur starts to pull it open. Arthur's shaking with anger.

“Move,” he says.

“When's the last time you had sex with anyone who wasn't me?” Eames says.

“I could fuck anyone I want!”

“So why don't you?”

Arthur glares at him. Eames suddenly softens, only slightly, his expression a little less angry.

“I know you made it clear from the start that you don't want a relationship,” he says. “But you can't keep expecting me to put everything on hold every time you deign to throw me a bone. I know you're probably like every straight man who believes that every queer he meets is in love with him, but I'm not that desperate.”

“Why'd you kiss me, then?” Arthur demands.

“Why'd you kiss back?” Eames counters.

Arthur shrugs, feeling like a mutinous teenager.

“Fine,” Eames says bluntly. “You're so terrified of the truth, but I'll tell you anyway. I took you home at first because I thought you were another rich, closeted yuppie who needed taking down a peg. And I was right. But you're something else, too, Arthur -- don't you even see how fucked-up and lonely you are? And I like you, alright -- I love pushing you, I love being the only person who can make you come apart like that when you need it-- This is coming out all wrong, but I think you need me--”

“Like hell I need you,” Arthur spits out. “I'm not a faggot, Eames--”

“But you do,” Eames goes on, his voice steady. “And maybe I need you too, because I'd never put up with this bullshit, I'd never let somebody walk out on me like you do and take them back every time, but I can't fucking help myself, and I think we need to sort this out, Arthur, right now. I don't want to meet you once a week in a crummy bar like we're doing some kind of shady transaction, I don't want it to always be brutal and ugly between us, I should be able to come over to your fucking place without you thinking I'm going to make off with your valuables. I should be able to kiss the man I've been fucking for three months without it being thrown in my face later. I know you don't want a relationship, but I have to draw the line right here. I don't care how you want to define a relationship, but I don't want this anymore. Either you give me something, right now, and we figure out how to do this, or I walk out this door and never see you again, because I'm sick of this. Alright? I'm sick of your shit, Arthur. So give me an answer.”

He moves away from the door. Arthur keeps glaring at him, shaken and furious at Eames' words and all the implications that come with them. He reaches past Eames, and opens the door.

Eames' face betrays nothing. He gives Arthur a curt nod, alright then, and leaves.

Arthur shuts the door and locks it.

&
After Eames is gone, Arthur showers, dresses, goes to work, gets on with his life, and stops sleeping again that night.

Cobb won't let him work as many hours as he was before, so Arthur haunts New York at night like a ghost because he hates being in his apartment. When he is home, he works out; runs on his treadmill till he throws up. He goes to different gay bars and feels nauseous at the way the men look at him. He goes to a regular bar and talks to women and feels ... nothing.

He feels angry and confused and at his wits' end. His brother tries calling him; Arthur ignores his phone. Cobb tries inviting him over for dinner and Arthur makes excuses. He doesn't want to let them in, because how could they possibly understand? When even Arthur himself doesn't? The only person who might have ever understood him is -- Eames.

Just get through February, he tells himself numbly, staring at a spreadsheet, vision blurred, it's only twenty-eight days, it's not that long, just get through February and you'll feel much better.

And suddenly, for the first time, a new voice pipes up from the back of his mind: You're not going to feel better.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and digs the heels of his palms into his face.

“I know,” he mumbles, because after all, he always has. “I know.”

He goes to Eames' at night, because it's the only time he's reasonably sure Eames will be there. Eames doesn't answer. Arthur hurries to the bar, sick and desperate. This time, he finds Eames.

He freezes up. He just stands there for at least a minute, until the bartender notices him and gives Eames a nudge and a nod in Arthur's direction. Eames glances over and rolls his eyes, then turns back to the bar, downs the last of his drink, and gets up.

“Let me guess,” he starts sarcastically, as he walks over, but Arthur cuts him off hastily:

“Okay.”

Eames' eyes narrow. “Okay what?”

“Okay,” Arthur says. “Maybe I need you. I want to -- figure this out. I'm sorry I didn't say so, before, I'm just ... I'm not good at this, you know, but I think maybe you're right, and I don't want to be too late ...”

He trails off warily, half expecting Eames to laugh at him or something, but Eames doesn't. He just nods thoughtfully.

“Okay then,” he says. “You jerk me around one more time, Arthur, and I swear I'm through with you. But okay.” He nods toward the door. “Let's go.”

&
“I don't know how to do this,” Arthur confesses, when they're back at his place and Eames is brushing snowflakes off his own coat. “Do I give you a key, or something?”

“Not if you don't want to,” says Eames. “Or if you don't expect me to be over here a lot. Although,” he says, eyeing the place appreciatively, “it may be hard to stay away.”

“I haven't -- I haven't had a committed relationship before.” Arthur nearly chokes on the word committed. It's a slight comfort that Eames appears as uncomfortable as he is.

“Well,” he says, “we can define it however we want. I mean, we don't necessarily have to be ... committed.”

“I probably won't sleep with other people,” Arthur says, sinking onto the couch and avoiding eye contact. “Not because -- you know, just, I don't have time.”

“Then I probably won't, either,” says Eames. “If we want to keep having unprotected sex with each other, I mean. We should probably both get tested, too, just to be sure.”

“Okay.” Arthur rubs his arm self-consciously. He's uncomfortably out of his depth, and he doesn't like it. “And ... I guess we need to establish certain, uh, boundaries. I'm not really into ... cuddling. Or affection or ... things in that vein.”

“Sure,” says Eames.

“And we have to be discreet,” Arthur says, looking Eames in the eye for the first time. “I mean it. This -- whatever this is? This relationship? -- it doesn't leave this apartment. Or your place, or the bar. I'm not -- I mean, I don't want anyone I know to think I'm--”

“Gay,” says Eames. “Right. I know.”

Arthur hesitates, then gets up and goes into his kitchen. He returns with a spare key, which he hands to Eames reluctantly.

“Be extremely prudent with this,” he says. “I'm giving it to you because your apartment is disgusting and I don't know how you stand it, and it's far away from mine and I don't have time to be traveling back and forth, or waiting for you to get here. You can come over in the evenings. Don't answer the door. Don't answer the phone. And don't eat my things.”

“Right,” Eames says again. There's a faint smile hovering around the corners of his lips and eyes. “Got it.”

“I'll give you my email address, so we can actually coordinate with each other.”

“Don't you have a mobile number?” says Eames.

“My PDA alerts me when I get emails. I'm too busy to take calls all the time.”

“I know, it's just that I'd rather text you.”

Arthur frowns. “I suppose that would work too. BlackBerry does texting, right?”

Now Eames does laugh at him. “You really are terrible at this.”

Arthur manages to crack a faint smile, then sighs.

“Can we just fuck now?” he asks. “Please?”

“I thought you'd never ask,” Eames purrs.

&
There are so, so many snags in their relationship.

Stupid things. Things Arthur wouldn't even think about. They fight all the time. The first time is when Eames pins him down and moves to enter him in missionary position, and Arthur says, unthinkingly honest, “I don't want to look at you when we're fucking.”

The fallout is ugly and awkward and they're still licking their wounds when Eames wants to shower together and Arthur is even more uncomfortable with that.

He wakes Eames up when he sleeps over and tells him to leave before Arthur has to go to work, and Eames says you gave me a key, you can't possibly still not trust me here, and Arthur says I gave you a key, I didn't ask you to move in with me, and there are miscommunications and ruffled feathers and shouted words. They argue about what to watch on TV. They argue about what to have for dinner and who's paying. Eames bitches about Arthur's work, and rolls his eyes when Arthur bitches about it too. Arthur complains that Eames should get a real job, because he doesn't even know what Eames does with his time while he's at work. He suspects it's mostly gambling based on a few telling texts, but sometimes Eames falls off the radar entirely for six hours or so and doesn't respond to messages until mid-afternoon, and Arthur wonders if he's up to the shadier pursuits he'd once mentioned, and frets even more for his reputation if the two of them are found out.

They're terrible at compromise. Arthur says every time he gives Eames an inch, he takes a mile; Eames insists that Arthur won't even give him an inch to work with.

They fight when Arthur works late and comes home tired with a headache and wants a backrub when Eames just wants sex. They fight when he comes home and Eames isn't there because he's doing something with friends and Arthur wants sex. They fight when they have sex. There are days Arthur swears the only reason they both still put up with each other is because the sex is, at least, still incredible.

He's still stinging from another confrontation when Cobb says to him at work one day, “You seem to be doing a lot better these days.”

Arthur thinks about that. “Must be because I'm working less,” he says, but that's not the whole truth. It's true he's not working as late, but if he's being honest with himself, it's because he has someone to come home to. Something to do outside of his office. He's been sleeping better, too. They fight and fight, but he'd still rather be with Eames than at his office.

He says so, when Eames shows up at the apartment later.

“Arthur,” says Eames. “You prefer me to backbreaking labour. That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”

“It would be better if you were a woman, though,” Arthur says, again not thinking; and then they fight some more.

&
Arthur slams the door when he storms in one evening. He hears the TV switch off.

“What's wrong?” Eames calls warily.

Stomping into the kitchen, Arthur starts hunting for alcohol, banging the cabinet doors loudly. Eames appears in the doorway and offers him the bottle of beer in his hand. Arthur grabs it, and takes a long swig.

“Come on,” Eames says, leading him away by the arm.

They settle on the couch together. Eames perches up on the back of it, with Arthur leaning between his legs, and starts rubbing his shoulders, easing some of the tension out.

“I got turned down for a raise,” Arthur says after a minute, when he's relaxed a little, feels less like picking a fight.

“Oh,” says Eames. “But it's not as though you need it, right?”

“You don't understand. I should be making more than I am right now. My dad was making more than I am when he was my age, and that was, what, thirty years ago?” Angry, Arthur takes another swift gulp of beer. “There's no reason why I shouldn't be doing as well as him. All I do is work ...”

“I don't get it,” says Eames. “Your dad's dead, isn't he?”

“Yes.”

“Then who's putting all this pressure on you?”

“I am,” says Arthur. “I've had my life planned out for me since I was a kid.” He closes his eyes and tips his head back, letting it fall against the cushions, his ear brushing Eames' thigh. “I'm supposed to be making more money, and I'm not. And I'm supposed to be married before I'm thirty-five but I don't see that happening, either.”

“Hm.” Eames keeps working at his shoulders, thumbs digging in deep. “I don't get you, Arthur. Why put all this stress on yourself?”

“You don't understand,” Arthur says again.

“I understand you're miserable about the things you can't control. And knowing you, you'll go out and find yourself a woman to marry before you're thirty-five just so you can stick to your little plan and make yourself even more miserable. Why can't you just admit to yourself that maybe you aren't as straight as you thought?”

Arthur wants to be angry, but the tension is flowing out of him thanks to Eames' ministrations, so he just sighs.

“Eames, you can't be gay in my world. That's just the way it is. If you want to be successful, your best shot is to be a straight white male.”

Eames' hands falter on his shoulders.

“Says who?”

“Says the world,” says Arthur wearily. “How many gay congressmen do you know of?”

“We're not talking about congressmen, we're talking about you.”

“When I was fourteen, my father caught me kissing a boy named Joshua in the basement of the Jewish community centre,” says Arthur. He keeps his eyes closed. The memory makes him frown involuntarily. It still rankles at him, after all these years. “He said he would tell my mom, and she was already so sick, and I panicked. I told him Josh had cornered me and kissed me and I just froze up and hadn't known what to do, he was just some queer kid I didn't know. And my dad said--” he swallows thickly, because the words still burn “--'You can be whatever you want, you know. But faggots don't get into Harvard.'”

Eames is silent behind him, just listening.

“I stopped liking boys after that. I swear I did,” Arthur goes on. “I hung out with girls instead and sometimes I brought them home. But my dad never let up, never. He wanted me to be a success, and I wanted that, too, and he knew I couldn't be successful if I was gay, people are too judgemental. I hated that he thought I was ... like that. He used to have his rich, important work friends over for dinner, and he'd let me hang out with them while they smoked cigars and talked business and cracked faggot jokes -- or jokes about women -- same thing, they said -- and I'd laugh too, even if I didn't get it, or thought it was stupid or whatever. And I know my dad wasn't really like that -- he didn't really believe the things they were saying, he just wanted to show me, I guess. You can't be a businessman and be a fag. A hairdresser, maybe, an interior decorator, but not someone ... important.”

Eames starts to massage his shoulders again, slowly. “You know that's bollocks, don't you?”

“Not really,” Arthur sighs. “You haven't been to any of their social events, all the men walking around with their trophy wives hanging off their arms ... they expect you to be just like them, you know, you have to be ...”

“What happened to that boy?” Eames asks. “Joshua?”

“His parents sent him to military school,” says Arthur. “That was the last I heard of him.”

“I'm not a hairdresser,” says Eames. “Or an interior decorator.”

“You don't even have a job.”

“I have a Bachelor's in psychology,” says Eames. “And a teacher's diploma.”

Arthur opens his eyes and blinks. “You're a teacher?”

“I teach at high schools now and then. When they need a supply.”

“How come I didn't know that?” Arthur asks.

“Because school is from eight to three, and you work seven to ten on a good day. And you never asked.”

Arthur twists around. “That's where you disappear to sometimes? Why didn't you ever just say you're a teacher?”

“I'm not a teacher,” says Eames patiently. “There's no full-time positions available right now, that's not how I make a living. And it didn't seem relevant. I really enjoy teaching, Arthur, it's sort of personal. I can't explain it.”

“If you like it so much, why don't you try and get a full-time teaching job?” Arthur asks.

“I'm still forging connections here,” Eames says, now looking flustered. “I need a good network of teachers who'll let me sub for them. Why does it matter to you, anyway?”

Arthur is floored. All this time he's been thinking of Eames as some lazy, uneducated thug -- he's been looking down on him, thinking him stupid. But Eames has an education. All the “shady things”, the pickpocketing, the gambling, the shithole apartment, that's all by choice. Arthur's not sure what to make of it but his opinion of Eames changes, then.

“I think you'd be a good teacher,” Arthur replies, with honest conviction. “Really.”

Eames laughs, self-conscious. “Tell you what, then. I'll start looking for a full-time position, and you work on coming out to your colleagues.”

Instantly Arthur is subdued again. Eames looks momentarily crestfallen, but then he brightens.

“Come on,” he says, sliding off the couch and taking Arthur by the hand. “Let's see if I can't cheer you up.”

Arthur obediently follows him into the bedroom with a sigh of relief, feeling the day's stress slough off him with his clothing. When he gets on the bed, however, Eames stops him. Arthur hesitates, and Eames gently rolls him onto his back.

“I want you like this,” he says quietly.

“Eames,” Arthur says.

“Just once, let me see you when I'm fucking you.”

Arthur sighs again and turns his head to the side, but doesn't roll over again. Eames sheds the last of his clothing and joins him on the bed, slipping a pillow under Arthur's hips. Arthur stares very determinedly at the wall while Eames slicks his own cock up, hitches one of Arthur's legs up under the knee.

He screws his eyes shut when Eames pushes into him.

“God, you're beautiful,” Eames murmurs as he starts to move.

Arthur keeps his eyes shut tight. It doesn't feel very different, except for the change in angle. He tries to keep quiet, but can't stifle an involuntary sound when Eames mouths and nips at his neck.

“Look at me, Arthur. Please.”

He doesn't want to. But Eames' mouth is gone and Arthur wants it back on his skin. So he turns his head, and forces himself to look, afraid that this will suddenly become too real for him. He's not expecting the look in Eames' eyes, his pupils blown, the naked, unabashed affection there.

He starts to glance away again, but Eames catches his chin and brings his gaze back up to Eames' face. And all at once, in that moment, this does become real for Arthur, more real than it ever has been. He's being fucked by a man, by Eames, and it should be terrifying but somehow, it's the most erotic thing to have ever happened to him. He feels like he's just let Eames in for the first time, and maybe he has, and it feels -- good, right down to his soul, Arthur feels good. He feels connected to humanity in a way he hasn't for a long time.

It's like he's falling. He's never felt this way, ever. And Arthur isn't gay, but it hits him that he just might have to make a concession.

He is actually kind of okay with that.

&
It's the middle of April when he gets a text from Eames at work: big news. order something nice for supper. :)

Arthur approaches Cobb cautiously, uncertain how he'll be met. “Hey,” he says, hovering in the doorway of Cobb's office. “Is it okay if I take off early today?”

“Ah.” Cobb's smile is knowing. “Got a date with your girlfriend?”

“What--” Arthur splutters. “I don't -- what makes you think--”

“Come on, Arthur,” Cobb says, grinning now. “You're happier. You've been spending less time at the office. You've met someone, haven't you?”

“I ...” Arthur swallows, inexplicably sheepish. “Maybe,” he admits.

Cobb laughs. “Take off, then. Just make sure your presentation's done by Friday.”

“I'll stay later tomorrow,” Arthur promises. “Thanks,” he adds, and dashes off.

Since it seems to be a special occasion, Arthur decides to forgo ordering take-out, and instead decides to cook. He has a salmon fillet with spinach and dill baking in the oven by the time Eames shows up, carrying a bottle of wine.

“You're cooking!” Eames observes. He peers over Arthur's shoulder at the boiling rice, and steals a swift kiss. “This is truly a momentous day.”

“What's the news?” Arthur asks.

“I would have waited till supper to tell you, but alright then,” says Eames, grinning like the cat who'd eaten the canary. “One of the teachers I regularly sub for is retiring, and I got her job. As of next term, I'm officially an English teacher.”

“Eames, that's ... congratulations,” Arthur says, starting to smile. “Maybe now you can afford to upgrade from your shitty apartment.”

Eames laughs and punches him lightly in the ribs, saying, “Cheek.”

“That is good news, though,” Arthur says, while Eames goes digging for a corkscrew for the wine bottle. He is, strangely, slightly jealous. “You'll be really good at that, Eames. I'm happy for you.”

“Thank you. And how about you, darling? Any exciting work stories?”

Arthur shakes his head. “I'll have to stay late tomorrow.”

Eames makes a discontented sound. “I was hoping to reserve a hotel room for tomorrow night. Make a real celebration of it.”

“Well, I can't make it. I have a deadline coming up fast. And besides, you know how--”

“I know, I know,” Eames grumbles. “This doesn't leave the apartment. Right.”

“We can celebrate tonight,” Arthur says, and suddenly Eames is there, behind him, draping an arm over Arthur's chest and resting his chin on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur goes still, struck by a sudden, intense flash of -- something. It's like déja vu, for a second, but that isn't it -- it's more like an overwhelming feeling of rightness. More than when he's kissing Eames, or having sex with him, this kind of casual touching feels familiar and right. It's one of those moments that makes Arthur want to run for his life away from this relationship.

He's silent. Eames sighs through his nose.

“I had something I wanted to ask you,” he says. “You can say no.”

“The fish is going to burn,” Arthur says, his nerve finally giving out on him. Eames withdraws and watches while Arthur takes the fish from the oven and checks it with a fork. It isn't flaking yet. He puts it reluctantly back in, and starts stirring the rice to give his hands something to do and his eyes somewhere to look at that isn't Eames.

“Okay,” he says finally, not looking up, when he thinks he's ready to hear it. “What was your question?”

“Stupid, really,” says Eames. “But my little sister's getting married in a few weeks. She wants me to give her away, our dad being gone. It'll just be a few close friends, some family members who can make it. And I'd like it if you went with me. I know my mum'll give me grief if I show up dateless, so ...”

He sounds casual, and Arthur can't determine the real intent behind his words. His brain works rapidly while his stomach starts to knot, preemptively.

“You want me to go as your date,” he says at last.

“Well,” says Eames, “that would be the general idea, yes. Like I said, you can say no.”

Arthur's mind is racing. “Won't your family expect a ... girlfriend?”

“I think they stopped expecting a girlfriend sometime around the fifth boyfriend,” Eames says, and then he does that thing where he reads Arthur's mind. “Arthur, I promise you, no one in my family will judge you or stone you or whatever you're imagining right now. They know I like men, it doesn't matter to them. There's no chance of them disliking you because you're male and you're with me. Because you're a rude little arsehole, maybe. But not because you're a man.”

Arthur stops stirring and looks down at the stove, not sure of himself. Eames hovers behind him and Arthur reminds himself, this isn't a long-term thing. He's going to get his act together and someday he's going to feel well enough to abandon this self-destructive lifestyle, actually find himself a nice girl and settle down. Eames is a speedbump in the carefully-planned course of Arthur's life. A minor detour off the main road. Meeting his family is not on the agenda.

On the other hand, this is not a long-term thing, and meeting Eames' family surely can't have lasting consequences.

“Can I think about it?” he says finally.

“Of course.” Eames sounds relieved. “That's a much better reaction than I had imagined.”

“I can surprise you sometimes,” Arthur says, and without warning Eames turns him around, backs him up against the stove and presses their bodies flush.

“Yes,” he says, smiling lewdly, “you certainly can.”

The fish does burn, after all; but neither of them really care.

&
Before the actual wedding, they go out to dinner the night Eames' mother arrives in New York. She's pretty much what Arthur expected, stately and English and scrutinizing.

“So you must be Arthur,” she says, which is less what Arthur expected (he's been having dreams about this. Before now it's been “So you're the man having frequent unprotected anal sex with my son”).

“Um,” he says eloquently. “Yes.”

She shakes his hand and smiles. Eames' sister gives him a hug. It leaves Arthur flustered and feeling the need to clear up the fact that he is not gay despite all evidence to the contrary and also intends to leave Eames as soon as his life gets its shit together, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut.

He's as quiet as possible during dinner, though he can't deflect the many questions sent his way. Yes, he's an investment banker. Yes, investment bankers generally do make very good money. No, no family except for a loser brother in Brisbane. Well, one passed away of cancer when he was sixteen and the other had a heart attack when he was eighteen. Yes, he supposes it was difficult, but he's over it now.

When dinner is over, Eames' mother draws Eames aside for a moment, and then they part ways.

“Well, they like you,” says Eames.

“That's good,” says Arthur, who hadn't realized he was hoping for approval.

“Mum said it's about time I had someone more serious to ground me.”

They descend into the subway together. Eames shoves his hands into his pockets.

“I didn't realize your mum was gone, too,” he says. “I'm sorry.”

“I don't care,” says Arthur. “We weren't that close. She was sick for a long time anyway.”

“Still. Don't you ever feel lonely?”

And Arthur doesn't know. So he just tells Eames he'll go to the wedding, after all.

There's another week of preparation, a rehearsal dinner, and the wedding takes place on a Sunday. Arthur hovers awkwardly in the back during the ceremony, feeling like an intruder. It's mercifully short. They say a few prayers, the vows are recited, and the ceremony's over, and Eames reappears to give Arthur someone to latch onto.

“Come on,” he says. “The reception's at a restaurant down the street.”

Just a couple more hours, Arthur tells himself, and it'll be over.

They've booked the whole place. Servers walk around with plates of hor d'ouevres and everyone else mills around, talking and smiling. Arthur sticks close to Eames, who makes introductions as they make their way over to the food.

“Arthur, this is my Aunt Helen; Auntie, my boyfriend, Arthur ...”

“Lovely to meet you,” Eames' aunt beams at him, shaking his hand.

They're all like that. Arthur's never felt so lost, utterly perplexed at the way Eames' family is receiving him. It flies in the face of everything he's believed for his entire life. They act like he hasn't done anything wrong; which, rationally, Arthur tries to make himself believe, but every day he spends being with Eames, he expects some terrible punishment to strike him down, make him pay for ever believing he could have this relationship and still call himself straight. This expectation is what keeps him from ever allowing himself to be happy. This may be why he agreed to go in the first place, he thinks -- maybe he wanted all along to be attacked by Eames' family, since his own isn't there to do it for him; he needs to be yelled at and cursed out because he's a faggot and this is just how the world works.

Instead, this turn of events is so unexpected that he doesn't know how to handle it.

“I'm a little queasy,” he says in Eames' ear, truthfully. “I think I need to leave.”

Eames squeezes his hand. “Just a little longer,” he says, “please.”

In the end, it's good that Arthur does stay, because after so many months of waiting with bated breath, he finally gets the punishment he deserves.

“...beautiful as always,” Eames is saying, embracing a woman in a long blue evening gown. To Arthur, trailing behind, he says, “Our fathers worked together, Mal's a close family friend. Mal, this is my boyfriend ...”

“Arthur?” says Mal, astonished.

The bottom drops out of Arthur's stomach.

“Arthur,” Cobb says, standing just behind Mal, looking as surprised as she does. Eames glances back and forth between them, and Arthur feels him go a little rigid when he realizes what he's done.

“I didn't know you knew... Eames?” says Mal, looking at him uncertainly. “Why didn't you ever tell me?”

“I'm sorry,” Eames says, and Arthur knows it's addressed mostly to him, but he doesn't care. He hears the distant roar of blood in his ears like he's about to pass out and he hates Eames, hates him so much that the only person in the world Arthur despises more right then is himself.

“I -- this is a mistake,” Arthur stammers out, backing up. He sees Cobb exchange a quick, shocked glance with Mal, and swears he sees disgust there. “I have to -- go--”

“Wait. Please,” Eames says hurriedly, grabbing his hand.

Arthur shoves him off violently and jerks backward, straight into one of the servers, who drops her platter with a deafening clang. Now people are looking over at them, the conversations around them hushing.

“Sorry,” Arthur gasps, still backing away. “I have to go. I'm sorry.”

“Arthur, please,” Eames says quietly, starting after him, and Arthur lowers his voice:

“If you ever touch me again, I'll kill you.”

Eames stops. Turning, Arthur starts to shoulder blindly through the crowd, until he finds the exit and he rushes out, not slowing from his panicked pace until he finds a subway station and hurtles aboard the first train to anywhere.

continue