ARTHUR
"What the fuck was that?" Arthur demanded.
Cobb looked up from the papers in his hand, pretending surprise so effectively that Arthur thought about throwing something at him. Finally, Cobb shrugged.
"Henrickson hooked us up. Your Eames is pretty damn intelligent. Look at this! In thirty minutes he filled in some of the holes Mal has been working on for weeks. She's going to flip."
Arthur goggled at him. "Holes?"
"Believe it or not, Arthur, this is not about you. This is about dream research. Your Eames is a fucking prodigy. He's doing work on neural mapping that corresponds with subconscious architecture in ways that are remarkable. Check this out; his work on memory sharing is almost groundbreaking. Mal and I have come up with theories, but Eames has done the legwork. It's a beautiful thing."
Cobb was gone, lost in the depths of dreamland, poring over the drawings and figures and waxing poetic about nonconscious acquisition and priming and covariations. Arthur reluctantly sat down and picked up a notepad. It was covered in a script that looked part scrawl and part elegance, sharp spiky letters broken with unexpected whorls. Eames' handwriting was a conundrum, rather like Eames himself.
"I have to show Mal. Your Eames is going to help us achieve the next level. I can feel it. Arthur, you're—" Cobb stopped and looked at him sharply. "Are you okay with this? What happened between you guys, anyway? For a one night stand you're being pretty weird. I've seen you around former flings and you still flirt with them and act interested. I've never seen you behave like one doesn't exist. What's up? Did he do something—?"
Arthur scowled. He shouldn't have walked out like that. What the fuck was wrong with him? Cobb was right; it had been a one time thing and wasn't anything to be embarrassed about. Christ, now Cobb and Ariadne were thinking he'd been raped or something, instead of experiencing the most amazing night of his life.
"No, he didn't do anything I didn't want him to do," Arthur snapped, blushing. "I was just… a little more out of control than usual and I don't care for the reminder."
Cobb stared at him. "You mean you actually let some of the ice chip away from the block you carry around and now you're treating the poor guy like he stole your virginity?"
Arthur scowled and threw the paper down. He ignored Cobb's ridiculous question. "I don't have a problem with you working with him."
"Good, because I was planning to anyway, and it will be easier if you're not walking around with a grudge up your ass."
"Shouldn't you run off and show Mr. Prodigy's work to Mal?"
Cobb nodded and gathered all the evidence to shove into his briefcase. "Yeah, I should. Maybe you should call Eames and apologize for being a prima donna."
Arthur flipped him off.
Cobb laughed and shrugged into his blazer. "Don't wait up," he said and left.
Arthur groaned and rested his head on the back of the sofa. He wasn't acting like a prima donna or someone whose virginity had been stolen; he just didn't want to see the guy again. Was that too fucking much to ask?
He thought about Eames' number, rolling it around in his head. It was too easy to remember, with lots of twos that had always been Arthur's favorite number. If he called, what would he say? "Hi, Eames, can you stay away from my roommate and my friends because I'm trying to forget those incredible lips of yours and the way they felt wrapped around my dick?" Arthur shut his eyes with a groan, already feeling the familiar heat of arousal at the memory.
He went to his room and stripped off his clothes, half-intending to shower, fully intending to indulge in the memory of Eames. God, Eames had been in Arthur's apartment, sitting on Arthur's couch, looking at him with those surprisingly innocent blue eyes and smiling with that fucking mouth. Arthur threw himself on the bed, hand on his cock before he even reached a reclining position.
That night… Despite the alcohol, Arthur remembered every moment of it. The way he had teased Eames with his mouth, not allowing him to come, tormenting him and taking what he wanted… Arthur had never been so bold before. He remembered the feel, the taste, of Eames' cock in his mouth, the silken length of it under his fingers, and the way Eames' had shivered and pleaded, hands clutching the mangled blankets.
Arthur gasped and stroked himself, lost in blurring memories, wanting to hold onto every touch, every murmured word, every taste, and the feel of Eames' fingers as they pushed into him, driving him deeper into Eames' mouth—
Arthur's back arched as he came, spurting fluid over his abdomen and slicking his fingers as he kept tugging, milking every drop and shuddering with the bliss of release. He thought of Eames' smile and the way his eyes had darkened with desire.
"Fuck," he muttered. I'm an idiot. He gave you his number, dumbass. Call him.
Arthur leaned over the bed and fumbled for his trousers, dragging them closer with a finger through one belt loop. He wiped his hand on the fabric and then fished his phone out of his pocket.
He tapped in Eames' number and bit his lip as it rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Then four. Arthur was quickly losing his nerve.
"Eames, here." The voice was still seductive, even uttering two short words. Arthur opened his mouth to speak and then he heard the background noises—throbbing bass music and the clink of glasses beneath the laughter and chattering sounds of many people. Eames was at a club, or a party.
Arthur had waited too long; Eames was already looking for another bed partner.
Damn it. Arthur pressed the button to end the call and sagged back onto the bed, feeling strangely bereft. He couldn't recall when being proven right had been so utterly depressing.
EAMES
"Hello?" Eames said and pushed a finger into the ear not pressed against his phone in order to drown out the sounds of the club. "Hello?"
He pulled the phone away and looked at it, only to find the call disconnected. He frowned, not recognizing the number blinking at him before it vanished and left his background image behind.
Who could be calling—? The answer hit him like a blow. Oh God, it was Arthur. The idea sent him shoving away from his stool and pushing through the crowd to get outside where it was quieter. As soon as the doors shut behind him, blocking the music and forced jollity, Eames pressed the callback.
The phone rang and rang endlessly.
"Please pick up," Eames muttered.
He gnawed his lip as it rang and mentally cursed himself. Bloody hell, seeing Arthur in Cobb's flat had been like a kick in the gut. Arthur's lovely, surprised face altering to a glare levelled at Cobb, barely acknowledging Eames' existence… Cobb's sympathetic look had been the final straw. Eames had to accept the fact that Arthur did not want him.
He had left the flat and driven straight to a random club, intending to pick up the first person who met his fancy, take them home, and shag the memory of Arthur out of his fucking head.
Eames had barely got through half his drink when the phone rang. Now he listened to the rhythmic tone and knew Arthur—it had to be Arthur, hadn't it?—was not going to answer. For a moment, he considered lobbing the phone across the car park in a fury.
"Fuck!" he yelled aloud. A couple walking past gave him a wary look and quickened their steps. Eames tried to calm himself. Maybe it hadn't been Arthur. It could have been a wrong number, or some random marketing call. He gripped the phone tightly, indecisive, wanting to drive over and demand to know if Arthur had called, but if it hadn't been him then Eames would look like the biggest fool in the world.
He took several deep breaths and then lifted the phone again.
"Hey, Eames," answered Cobb.
"Are you still at your flat?" Eames asked.
"No, I'm on my way to Mal's."
Eames made a face. He had been hoping he could talk his way back to Arthur and Cobb's place just to see Arthur again, as ridiculous as it seemed.
"Hey, are you busy now?" Cobb asked.
"No."
"Can you come to Mal's? I was thinking about that pathway theory of yours and think it might be better if you explain it to Mal. Otherwise she'll ask me a million questions."
Eames glanced at the club door and realized he no longer had an inclination to pull anyone who wasn't Arthur. "Yeah. Yeah, okay, I can do that."
He made a mental map of the location of Mal's house from Cobb's directions, hung up, and got into his car. At least focussing on dream theory would keep his mind off of Arthur. Possibly. Hopefully.
ARTHUR
Arthur sipped at his coffee and stared listlessly at his computer monitor. He should be working on his project, or at least researching Cobb's latest exercise in mental gymnastics, but he couldn't seem to concentrate. All he could think about was someone else in Eames' bed and berating himself for being unable to consider anything else.
He heard Mal's laugh before the door opened. She and Cobb spilled into the room, looking disheveled and far too happy for so early in the morning. Or late morning, Arthur amended, realizing it was almost noon. He had slept later after tossing and turning half the night. Luckily, he didn't have class on Fridays until 2pm.
"Arthur!" Mal said and hurried forward to sling her arms around his neck and press a kiss to the top of his head. Arthur smiled, despite his mood.
"Do we have any food?" Cobb asked, walking to the kitchen and opening a cabinet.
"When do we ever have food unless Ariadne is here?" Arthur asked dryly. They both detested grocery shopping and tended to either eat out or order in. Or not eat.
"Good point, but I thought we had some chips. Mal wants Mexican."
Arthur threw her a questioning look. "You really came here looking for something to eat?"
She wrinkled her nose pertly. "Of course not. I came here to see you, Arthur. Dom says you are having some difficulty."
"Difficulty?" Arthur frowned and shot a glance at Cobb, who was looking through cabinets they hadn't opened in weeks. "Cobb, if there are chips in there, I guarantee they won't be edible."
"Yeah, fine, I just thought we had some. I know we still have salsa."
"With Eames," Mal said.
"I don't think the salsa is—what?" His attention shifted back to Mal, who was watching him sympathetically and then back to Cobb with a glare.
"Eames," Mal repeated. "He is a very smart fellow, Arthur. I think you might like him if you would get to know him better."
Arthur stopped glowering at Cobb, who was scrounging in the fridge, and stared at Mal. She leaned against the back of the sofa and smiled at him. "You know Eames?" Arthur asked stupidly.
"I met him last night. At first I was not so sure, but whenever your name was mentioned he would get this interesting tension about him. He finally loosened up and asked many questions about you. Dom says you met him at Saito's party and went home with him." She frowned. "Was it not good?"
Arthur flushed, but then her words registered. He often felt two steps behind when talking to Mal, but this was ridiculous. "What do you mean you met him last night? When, last night?"
Cobb shut the refrigerator, hands wrapped around a jar of salsa. "Right after I left here. Eames called me when I was on my way to Mal's, so I asked him to come over and talk to her. We ended up talking theory all night. Oh shit, how old is this stuff?"
"We will go to Mama Carlotta's," Mal said and gave Cobb an even stare.
"All night?" Arthur repeated.
"Yes, and I feel badly. Poor Eames had a class at eight o' clock this morning and he did not leave until… What time was it, Dom? Past three, no?"
"Past three, yes. Closer to four." Cobb tossed the salsa jar into the trash and dusted off his hands. "Mama Carlotta's it is. Arthur, do you have any money?"
"You still owe me twenty bucks," Arthur complained, but opened his desk drawer to grab his wallet. His thoughts were whirling. Eames had been with Mal and Cobb all night. He hadn't taken anyone home. Had Eames even been at a club? What if Arthur had misheard? What if it had been the damned television?
Cobb snatched the bills from Arthur's hand in passing. "Thanks, Artie. Come on, Mal, let's get some food and then go back to your place and go over those neuroimaging graphs again."
Mal chuckled. "You say the most romantic things, Dom." Despite the statement, her tone was fond. She pushed away from the couch. "You should come with us, Arthur. You are cooped up in here far too often."
"I'm fine," Arthur said. "I have class in a couple of hours."
She sighed and put a hand on his cheek. "All right, but you should come over tonight."
He squeezed her wrist and smiled. "I will."
She leaned down and whispered, "And I think there is more to Eames than meets the eye. That is all I will say about that." She straightened, gave him a wink, and went out.
Arthur sat back in his chair when the door shut behind them. He had a lot to think about.
It started to rain while Arthur was in class and by the time he jogged back to his car, the sky was pouring buckets. He was glad he had decided to drive rather than walk across campus or he would have looked like a drowned rat by the time he got home.
He sat in the car and let it idle until the heat came on and dissipated the fog crawling over the windows. Impulsively, he threw it into gear, left the University parking lot, and headed for Eames' house.
The rain was slightly lessened when he parked and hurried up the front walk, mentally debating the wisdom of his potentially idiotic plan, but his internal war came to nothing when his third sharp knock brought no one to answer the door.
Eames wasn't home.
Cursing his luck, he ran back to the car and sat in it for a bit, fingering the edges of his phone while he debated calling Eames, but what would he say? "I realize I've been a total asshole for the past few days, but I'm over that…" Yeah, that would probably go over well.
Arthur started the car and decided to go home. Maybe he could convince Mal to invite Eames over tonight and Arthur would make an effort to talk to him.
He pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex and slung his laptop bag over his shoulder as he slammed the door. It was pouring again, oh joy, and the short dash across the lot would likely leave him drenched.
He ran anyway, splashing through puddles and hoping his Italian loafers weren't ruined, especially considering how much Cobb harassed him about the expense. He raced around the corner of the building—and slammed straight into someone whose arms clutched desperately at him to keep them both from falling.
Arthur gripped the man's forearms and held tightly as his laptop case slipped across his back and dangled, threatening to drag him down.
"Arthur," he heard.
He caught his balance and looked up in surprise. His hands tightened even as Eames' loosened from his biceps, not quite letting go, but obviously considering it.
"Eames," Arthur breathed. They stared at each other in shocked silence for a moment and Arthur realized he hadn't been this close to Eames since he had left his bed and departed his house like a wraith. "Eames," he repeated and took a step closer.
"Arthur, are you—?"
It was all Eames managed to say, because Arthur silenced him with a kiss. Eames gasped and Arthur took his parted lips as an invitation and snaked his tongue inside, greedily tasting him. Eames' fingers tightened on his arms again and then slid around Arthur's back to pull him even closer.
It shouldn't have felt like coming home, not after one stupid night and several days of soul-searching denial, but it did. It felt wonderful. Arthur kissed him as if he would drown without consuming Eames completely.
After a minute or two, he felt like he might actually drown, because the rain was still pounding down on them and the kiss was sodden, and water trickled down his face, and his hair was soaked. Eames pulled away and Arthur couldn't help but laugh at his bemused expression.
"You are completely mad," Eames said.
Arthur nodded agreement. He felt a bit crazy, truthfully, but could find no reason to regret it.
"Cobb is in your flat. I dropped off some notes for him and I admit I was rather hoping you would be there. Are you feeling all right? You've not been drinking? Had a sharp blow to the head? Kidnapped by little green men and replaced with a doppelganger?"
Arthur shook his head happily. How could he have forgotten how delightful it was just to listen to Eames talk? "Can we…?" Arthur stopped, suddenly uncertain. He had rejected Eames for days and acted like their time together had meant nothing.
"Can we what, Arthur? Can we get out of this bloody weather, for a start?"
Arthur nodded and let go of Eames' shirt. He sidestepped, intending to head toward the apartment, but Eames caught one of his hands and pulled him along instead, back in the direction of the parking lot. Arthur allowed himself to be led.
Eames' car waited in the lot. He opened the passenger side door for Arthur, just as he had the night they had left Saito's party. Arthur entered without hesitation. Eames jogged around the front of the car and climbed into the driver's side. He slammed the door and inserted the key, and then grinned at Arthur.
"Now, then. Arthur. Since you are, presumably, in your right mind, where would you like to go?"
"Your house," Arthur said and then amended the statement. "Your bed."
Eames caught his breath and seemed on the verge of lifting a hand to feel Arthur's forehead, but then he only smiled and turned his gaze to the windshield. "Excellent choice. If you see any bobbies, try and warn me, all right? Because I will most assuredly break every speed law on the way."
Arthur tried to concentrate on the drive, but his eyes kept shifting to watch Eames' hands on the steering wheel and his forearms flexing with every movement. The sleeves of his blue paisley shirt were rolled up nearly to his elbows. The closer they got to Eames' house, Arthur waited for doubt to assail him. Surely it was crazy to give into this… whatever it was?
But each time he glanced over at Eames, whose attention remained fixed on the road as he passed cars and took corners at speeds that made the tires squeal in protest, Arthur could feel nothing but calm, as though he had finally made the right decision.
Eames slid the car to a halt before the house, parking half on the grass and yanking the key from the ignition before the engine even shut off. He gave Arthur a quirky grin.
"Changed your mind, yet? Last chance."
Arthur shook his head and opened the door. His heartbeat was already quickening at the knowledge of what awaited him. His palms felt damp, and not just from resting against his wet trousers.
Eames unlocked the door and ushered Arthur inside with the briefest grasp on his elbow. He tossed his keys toward a glass bowl resting on a side table near the entry. They missed the bowl, slid across the wood, and came to a halt precariously near the edge.
"Home, sweet home," Eames quipped. "I'm not sure you remember it, seeing you were a bit out of it at the time."
Arthur looked at him. "I remember everything," he said seriously.
Eames swallowed and his eyes went dark and liquid. Arthur stepped into Eames' personal space, wrapped his arms around his neck, and kissed him again. Eames felt cold, chilled from his wet clothing. Arthur should have been cold, but he was burning up.
"We should… mmph… get you." Eames tried to speak through Arthur's determined mouth. "…wetclothes," he managed.
"Yes," Arthur said and started on the buttons of Eames' shirt, working by feel because he did not plan to stop kissing Eames' gorgeous mouth now that he'd started.
Eames' fingers tugged at the knot of Arthur's tie. And continued trying to speak. "Why—mmmmh—why tie… mmm?"
Arthur assumed he wanted to know why he wore a tie to class. Arthur believed in being properly dressed at all times, but now was definitely not the time to explain that to Eames. When the paisley shirt parted, Arthur pushed his hands inside and touched Eames' skin, stroking upward over ribs and chest and brushing his thumbs lightly over Eames' nipples, earning a sound muffled by Arthur's mouth.
Arthur's wet tie seemed to frustrate Eames, who gave up trying to loosen it and went for the buttons on Arthur's white shirt instead. He dragged the collar free of the tie once the fabric fell open. Eames unbuttoned Arthur's sleeves, single-handedly, one at a time, gently pulling Arthur's hands free of his hot skin—quickly replaced—and then tugged the shirt away from Arthur's shoulders. The material had barely fallen away before Eames' hands, warmer and softer than expected, moved over Arthur's flesh, touching back, shoulders, and arms. Arthur realized he had not, actually, remembered everything about that night, because the feel of Eames' hands seemed brand new.
Arthur reciprocated, quite willing to feel every inch of Eames' damp, cool skin. He left off kissing Eames' full lips only to press biting nibbles against his face and neck, intent on working his way down his torso and tasting every bit of Eames' flesh on the way to his prize.
"Arthur," Eames said breathily. "God, you're so…" His hands slid downward and cupped Arthur's ass, squeezing and dragging him forward. The pressure of Eames' hardness was delightful torment against his own rigid cock, but the gesture was also keeping Arthur from his goal. He tried to pull away, taking a step back and hoping to remove his groin from Eames', not that Arthur's cock had a problem with the arrangement, but Arthur wanted Eames' pants off as soon as possible.
But Eames held tighter and shifted his hips, grinding them together at the same time his mouth laid biting kisses down Arthur's neck. Delicious heat curled through Arthur, burning away every hint of chill. His fingers latched onto Eames' waistband, needing to tear away the barriers between them. Arthur's head fell back and he groaned as Eames' teeth bit into the taut muscle above his collarbone, followed by his tongue soothing the bite.
"Arthur." Eames' voice was rough. "I need you to go into the bedroom right now and lie down on my bed."
Arthur thought about bristling. He hated to take orders; in fact, he had a long history of rebelling against authority, as his juvenile record could attest. But Arthur sensed that Eames' words were less a demand and more of a warning that if Arthur didn't move immediately, the less-than-spotless living room carpet would be his next destination. He reluctantly disentangled himself from Eames and then turned and walked to the bedroom, pausing only once to throw a coy smirk over his shoulder.
The expression on Eames' face was priceless.
Although Eames hadn't said anything about getting naked, Arthur thought it would be a good idea, so he kicked off his shoes and slid out of his pants. He wasn't quite ready to expose himself completely, despite their past history, so he left his boxer-briefs on and crawled onto the bed. Eames hadn't followed him and Arthur frowned, wondering where he had gone.
Arthur propped the pillows comfortably and lifted one knee before arranging himself in what he hoped was an enticing pose. As he did so, his gaze snared on a ring of fake leaves sitting looped over one bedpost—Arthur's Roman circlet. Eames had kept it.
The rush of warmth he felt at the sight was quickly followed by uncertainty. It was possible Arthur was getting in over his head, but he would rather not think about it. He willed Eames to hurry, before he lost his nerve. As if called by the thought, Eames appeared around the edge of the door and stopped short. His eyes travelled slowly over Arthur and then a smiled curved his sinful lips.
Arthur's heart rate quickened as he looked at Eames, who was definitely all man—broad and muscular with hair on his chest and a five-o-clock shadow darkening his jaw. His nipples and the tantalizing indentation of his navel made Arthur want to eat him alive. He swallowed, mortified that his mouth was actually watering.
"Arthur," Eames said. "You are a vision."
"How can you tell from way over there?" Arthur asked in what he hoped was a seductive tone.
Eames grinned. "I remembered I had purchased more of this," he held up a small plastic bottle that Arthur thought he recognized as lubricant. "It was still in the bag in the kitchen. I thought we… well, I hoped we might need it."
"Oh, we'll need it," Arthur assured him and could not resist smiling when Eames' countenance lit up. Eames tossed the bottle toward him and Arthur snatched it out of the air, pleased that he had caught it and not had it bounced off his fingertips in a display of dweebishness.
Eames walked forward. He had already removed his shoes, possibly in the kitchen, and shed his pants on the way. After a slight pause, Eames dropped his boxers, as well.
Arthur levered himself up in order to appraise the sight. His memories of Eames' cock were vague, at best, and alcohol-tinted. The reality was better than he remembered, and possibly a bit alarming. Eames cock stood at half-mast, not quite fully hard, but long and thick, with a dark spot at the tip where the foreskin had begun to slide back.
"Like what you see, then?" Eames asked, sounding borderline arrogant, but his eyes were soft and gleaming with amusement and something deeper.
Arthur only nodded and then Eames was on the bed, climbing over Arthur and pushing him back against the bed, claiming his lips. Eames hands wrapped around Arthur's wrists and held them down.
"Shall I tie you to the bed this time, so you cannot escape?" Eames asked, pulling back to look into Arthur's eyes.
"I won't escape," Arthur replied.
"No creeping out with the dawn and leaving behind only a crown of foliage and a nebulous memory?"
"It was long past dawn. And nebulous? I thought I was the drunk one."
Eames frowned. "I can barely remember a thing." Arthur's fist caught him in the ribs and Eames huffed a surprised laugh and continued, "I only meant you'll have to refresh my memory."
"I suppose that can be arranged," Arthur said and took hold of Eames' cock.
