A/N: While this is intended as a sequel to At the Bottom of A Pint Glass, it stands just fine on it's own. Another one I posted on LJ but never put up here, so here you all are.
Eames is Always in Mombasa
They don't always live together. Some nights Arthur is the one edging through the dark and some mornings he is the one waking up alone. Things go with no consistency, no dependability, nothing at all that stays tangible for too long.
Which makes it safe.
The both of them are too good at their job—because they always get there: standing on the other's doorstep and tumbling inside with a kiss and a fractured hello. Falling into arms that have been waiting much too long.
Some days it is a game—they leave the city, leave the country, leave no trace, leave the other to follow blind. Some days it is a race—run fast enough that nothing, that no one, can catch them. Some days its a job—a job that brings them together, a job that pulls them apart. Some days they want to. Most days, it is just what they have to do—to keep themselves sane, to keep themselves safe.
They curl inward and inward until they see each other—and then they bloom.
The message blinks in his voice mail a little more than a week after he goes to the grocery store and never comes back.
Arthur, darling, he starts. It's how he always starts.
I can't do this any longer, love. He pauses and Arthur feels his breath catch. Eames's puff of breath crackles static into the phone. I'm not coming to find you. Not again. Arthur and Eames's recording breathe as one—a long, shuddering intake of air that does nothing to satiate the burn in their chests. Goodbye, love.
You have no more messages.
Arthur does everything he can to remain calm—he breathes, he counts. He sets his phone face down on the same counter he ends up clinging to to keep standing up. He presses his palms to it as if in an attempt to meld with the linoleum, staring at the star of his fingers stretched out against the white.
He goes over the last three months—every little thing, every little word, every little whisper, every little line, every little damned note and wayward coffee mug left on his behalf.
And then he sees it.
The last three times—maybe four times, maybe five, maybe six—it hasn't been Eames. Eames had stopped running.
But Arthur, he never stopped—doesn't know how to stop.
Eames had stopped running. And now, Eames has stopped chasing. Now Arthur is alone.
Eames's cell goes to voicemail—again and again. Texts go unanswered—no matter how pathetic he is: how much he begs and he pleads.
Never in his life has he acted like this. Never in his life has he pined after someone this way. Never in his life would he have expected that the person who reduced him to this would be Eames.
But here he is, on his knees, groveling and sniveling to a cellphone.
He tries Cobb next.
"Dom," he says and tries to sound as though nothing is amiss. Of course, he fails—maybe not miserably, but enough.
"Arthur? Hey, you okay?" Maybe Dom knows him too well. Maybe he's just telling himself that to avoid the humiliation of admitting that it probably sounds in his voice—loud and clear.
So he doesn't answer the question—just lobs another one of his own. "Do you know where Eames is?"
"Eames?" Arthur almost wants to smile, because the years of working together let him practically hear the knotting of Cobb's brow. "Isn't he in Mombasa?"
Something of a laugh—although it's closer to a sob—pushes past Arthur's lips. "Of course he's in Mombasa," he murmurs to himself, "Eames is always in Mombasa." He hangs up before Cobb can ask the questions dancing on his tongue. Instead he calls the airport, books a flight, packs his bags—bag—and leaves. He is used to leaving by now.
Arthur always hated Mombasa: the sticky air, the year-round heat that weighs in like a shroud. He is reduced to his thinnest pair of slacks and his lightest of cotton shirts, and even then he has to roll the sleeves. To top it all off, the humidity plays hell with his hairgel.
The resulting rumpled mess that pounds on Eames's door at two in the morning hardly looks like Arthur at all.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," says a sleep-logged voice from behind the door. Uneven footsteps stomp their way to the entrance, "Lay off it, will you?" He says just as he tugs the door open.
He looks for a second—draped across the door frame, hair a mess, no shirt and half awake—and doesn't know the man before him.
Something clicks and he stands a little straighter. "Arthur?" He asks, shock washing across his features.
Arthur hears his suitcase hit the ground. "Eames—I..." The words tumble over each other and get lost in a pile at his feet. Arthur watches them at first before raising his eyes to look up at Eames—desperate and heartbroken and more sorry than he's ever been in his life.
Eames runs a hand through his hair and moves to straighten the shirt he only just realizes he isn't wearing. "Arthur, what are you-"
"I'm sorry."
Soft: a prayer that drifts from between his lips and makes for the heavens. Arthur hangs his head, keeping his eyes screwed shut against the tears he's too ashamed to let fall.
"I'm so sorry."
He raises his head and chances opening his eyes. "I'm not running anymore."
And then Eames is there, his arms wrapped around Arthur so tight he can hardly breathe—so tight he doesn't need to breathe; not now that Eames is there again.
"I'm not letting you anymore, love," he breathes against Arthur's ear. Arthur twines his arms around Eames's waist and finds his anchor again. He buries his nose in the crook of Eames's neck and just drinks in the smell of him—overlayed with rum and sweat and Mombasa. "I've been an utter mess without you," Eames says, drawing his fingers through Arthur's already half-tousled hair.
Arthur laughs and doesn't relinquish his hold. "You've been a mess? I couldn't even—since your call, I-" His words start to trip over each other again.
"Shh, shh," Eames pulls back to cup Arthur's jaw in his hands. "You're here, now—and damned if I let you go running off again." A smile tugs at his lips. "I love you, Arthur darling."
Arthur snatches Eames forward to yank him into a messy kiss. He can taste the thin layer of sweat on Eames upper lip, along with the alcohol on his teeth. Eames wraps and arm around his waist and drags him inside, somehow managing to knock the suitcase in with them before kicking the door closed. He rolls Arthur against the wall, pressing against him in an attempt to get closer than touching.
His mouth drifts from Arthur's lips to the side of his mouth, dragging and dotting over his cheek to the edge of his jaw, down his throat to the collar of his shirt.
After so much time with Arthur, buttons are easy. In a couple of seconds, the shirt is a non-issue.
Skin against skin—heat flaring higher in the Mombasa blaze. Eames's fingers trail down and explore the smooth facets of Arthur's chest, drifting further to trace the lines of his stomach, arcing up along the curves of his sides, back down to the frame of his hips. He holds him there, fingers fiddling with the belt loops of his slacks and reaching to drift under the seams.
Arthur throws an arm across Eames shoulders, arching into his touch. The other hand wanders to follow the path from Eames's ear down his neck to his shoulder, down his arm to his elbow, down his forearm to his wrist. There he stops, laying his hand across Eames's fidgeting fingers—lacing his own fingers through them to keep them in place. Eames hums against Arthur's neck and gives his fingers a playful squeeze.
Arthur disentangles their fingers to weave his other arm up around Eames's neck. The shift draws their mouths almost together and they stand there at first, hardly moving, hardly breathing, watching the glint of eyes in the vague moonlight. Arthur shifts them together, but does not instate a kiss. Instead, his lips drawing across Eames mouth with each word, he murmurs, "I think we should move this somewhere else."
"Couldn't agree more, love." Eames murmurs back, before stealing the kiss dangling before him. He takes hold of Arthur's hips and pushes them in the direction of the bed. The backs of Arthur's knees bump the mattress and he clings to Eames's neck for balance. Eames grins as Arthur wobbles. "You really should learn to let go, Arthur," he says with a smirk, and one more step forward is enough to send Arthur sailing into the sheets. He bounces and settles, looking up at Eames's dim silhouette from his new vantage point. Eames looms like a hungry wolf.
Arthur loves it.
"Think you'll be able to control yourself, Mr. Eames?" He asks in a taunting sing-song.
A low rumbling chuckle sounds from the back of Eames throat, and he leans forward to straddle Arthur's hips. "On the contrary, Arthur darling—I'm perfectly in control."
"I'd hate to see you out of control," Arthur all but groans, popping the waistband of Eames's pants for emphasis.
A sound that could pass for a purr or a growl or any manner of sounds in between bursts through Eames teeth. He drops a hand on either side of Arthur's head, pinning him in place. "That's interesting." His nose brushes Arthur's and he nuzzles down against Arthur's jaw, breathing him in. "Because I was just thinking how much I would love to see you out of control."
"I'm never out of control."
Eames laughs and nips at Arthur's throat, loving the sharp intake of breath he earns for it. "Is that a challenge, darling?" He says against the all too sensitive skin.
"A suggestion." The wicked grin on Arthur's face makes Eames quite sure that he was lying when he told Arthur he was in control, because he most certainly is not, and if Arthur keeps running his hands across Eames's thighs like he is now, he'll get to see just how out of control he really is.
"Not much for subtly, are you, love?"
"Eames," Arthur says, rousting the man from near slumber.
"What, love?" Eames runs his hand through Arthur's hair—he always has loved it down—and grins at the man as widely as his lips can manage.
Arthur's grip around his waist tightens and he burrows his nose into the hallow of Eames's neck.
"Love you, too," he tells the skin there, and Eames glows.