A/N: The title for this chapter, "The World's a Broken Bone (But Melt Your Headaches, Call It Home)" comes from the lyrics of Panic! at the Disco's "Northern Downpour".
Eames leaned back in his chair and glanced at his watch for the third time in as many minutes—Arthur was late. Not very late, just ten minutes or so past the time they'd agreed to meet up at the restaurant. But unless the circumstances were extenuating, Arthur was usually a picture of punctuality.
The two of them had agreed to take it slow after that scene in the café a couple of weeks ago. As thrilled as Eames was that Arthur wanted him, needed him, Eames knew that rushing things would be a mistake. And at first Arthur had looked dejected at Eames' resolution not to jump straight to sexual physical contact, but it quickly turned to relief. This was what both of them needed. A slow, gentle easing-in period; a couple of coffee dates, a matinee at the movies, and now dinner.
Arthur was now fifteen minutes late.
Eames dug in his pocket for his phone, fingers fumbling as he dialed Arthur's number. He knew he was probably being overly paranoid, but he figured there was nothing wrong with easing his mind. Once he'd heard Arthur's voice and was assured he was okay, Eames could relax. He could hear the rush of his own heartbeat in his ears as the phone rang and rang, five, six times, and then the crackle of the voicemail recording. 'Hey, it's Arthur. I can't get to the phone right now, so just leave me a message and I'll get back to you.' Eames had never heard Arthur's voicemail before.
"Keep the change, love," he said to the bewildered waitress as he got up to leave. She watched him go with a curious air, then shrugged and picked up the ten dollar bill he'd left for his one cooling cup of tea.
Eames had only been to Arthur's apartment building once, to pick him up for the movies, and Arthur had been waiting for him on the balcony. He knocked on the first door he got to, and an elderly woman peered at him through the crack that opened. "I'm looking for Arthur Solomon's flat," Eames explained apologetically, and she pointed him two doors down to number 26. He thanked her profusely and walked the twenty feet to Arthur's door, heart in his throat. He had a bad feeling about this. He took in a deep breath and knocked on the door.
It opened right away, to his great relief, but it was short-lived.
"Arthur, Jesus Christ."
Arthur stood still in the doorway, his face pale and his knuckles white against the door frame. His eyes were rimmed in red, and too bright, and the smile he mustered was wan and shaky and frighteningly fake.
"Come in," he said, and Eames obeyed. Arthur locked (and deadbolted, Eames noticed) the door behind them, then brushed past Eames to drop onto his couch. He drew his legs onto the cushion with him and pulled his hands into the long sleeves of his sweater, giving him the appearance of a young child.
Eames didn't dare start accusing him or questioning why he hadn't shown up. Instead he sat gingerly next to Arthur, but a good few inches away, and asked, "Arthur, love, please tell me what's wrong?"
Arthur didn't look at him for a moment, staring at his knees instead. "It's stupid."
Eames felt a pang of irrational anger surge through him that Arthur could treat his feelings like they were that trivial. He bit at his lower lip to calm himself and very cautiously reached out to put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur flinched at the contact at first, but he didn't move away, and after a second or two he leaned into it.
"Arthur, please," Eames said gently. "I promise I won't think any less of you."
Arthur finally turned to him and made eye contact for one brief moment. "I don't know how to explain it," he said slowly, as if he were numb. "I'll be perfectly fine during the day. If I think about it, I'll start to get nervous, but it's easy to distract myself. But at night... I don't know. It's pathetic. I start shaking and crying and I don't know why. I can't... I can't even go check my mail or put out the garbage. It's like, logically I know nothing's going to happen to me, but..."
"Oh, Arthur," Eames rushed, cutting off whatever else Arthur was going to say. He reached out with his other arm, took Arthur by the shoulders and after asking permission with his eyes, pulled the smaller man into a hug. Arthur leaned into him with something like a sob, burying his face into Eames' t-shirt.
"I don't know, I don't know," he coughed, and now he was definitely crying; Eames could feel the wet patches he left on his chest. "I thought I could do it, I thought I could make myself go to dinner tonight, because it's you. But I—I couldn't. And I couldn't call you either, I was too ashamed to have to explain to you that...that I was fucking scared. I just..."
"Shh, love," Eames said into Arthur's hair, his thumbs rubbing comforting circles on his back. He could feel himself breaking along with the smaller man, but it was Eames' job to be steady, constant, reassuring. He could do that. He could muster his strength to hold them together. "I've got you. I'm not going anywhere." Slowly, like coaxing a bud to open to the daylight, Eames could feel Arthur relaxing in his arms. His breathing evened out, his tremors subsided and for what felt like five minutes they just sat there holding each other.
"Sorry," Arthur finally said. He pulled away and wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater.
"Sorry?" Eames chuckled incredulously. "Arthur, you've got nothing whatsoever to be sorry for. It's me who ought to be sorry. If I'd have known, if I'd bothered to ask, I wouldn't have invited you out after dark. I never want to cause you pain."
Arthur looked at him then, swallowed, the corners of his mouth twitching like he thought he wanted to smile but wasn't quite sure how. "You... you wouldn't be mad if I said I wanted to order takeout then?"
Eames beamed. "Sounds divine. But remember, still my treat."
He shifted to get up, since his wallet was in his back pocket, but Arthur caught him by the wrist. "Wha-" he started, but then Arthur was kissing him, chaste and shy but growing in confidence. Eames settled back onto the couch with him and contented himself with letting Arthur call the shots, pleased and surprised when Arthur's tongue prodded him for entrance. Eames' eyes had dropped shut and he'd begun panting by the time they broke apart. "Bloody hell, Arthur, what was that bit of loveliness for?"
"I...just... Thank you," he said softly, and kissed the corner of Eames' mouth.
By a couple of hours later, they'd finished their dim sum and settled against one another to watch a Mel Brooks movie marathon. Arthur's eyes were glued to the flickering screen, but Eames was mostly watching Arthur, smiling at the way he mouthed silently along with the lines.
"A chastity belt?" he said soundlessly. "That's going to chafe my willy!" He grinned a little, then glanced over at Eames self-consciously, as if he could feel the weight of his gaze. Their eyes met, and Arthur looked surprised, like he didn't know how to react. Then he turned away again, but the smile was back, along with a faint pink flush along his cheekbones. His fingers slid along the suede of the couch cushion, then over to brush against Eames' hand. Eames flipped the hand over, palm up, and their fingers laced together. It was nice. It was warm. But it was also verging on one in the morning, and Arthur was blinking an awful lot.
"It's getting late," Eames said gently when stereo clock blinked one. Arthur stirred and looked up at him, questioning. "I don't want to keep you up."
"Do you have anywhere to be tomorrow?" Arthur murmured.
"Mm? No, not really, far as I know."
"Then would you... stay?"
Eames felt something inside him swell in fondness at the way Arthur looked tentative, but hopeful nonetheless. It radiated through him until he couldn't even pretend to hide his smile. "Do you want me to?"
Arthur grimaced, as if he were embarrassed about it, but he let out a quiet, "Yes."
"Then I'd be glad to."
The smile was still there on Eames' face, but he knew he couldn't cock this up, so he forced himself not to look too giddy. He'd let Arthur take the lead here. Sure enough, Arthur snagged the remote and turned off the TV. His other hand was still laced with Eames', and when he stood, he tightened his grip and pulled Eames with him. Eames stayed quiet as Arthur led him from the living room and into his bedroom.
Eames nearly forgot to be surprised by the move, forgot to ask Arthur if this was really alright when Arthur flicked the bedroom lights on. He'd clearly never grown out of 'dorm mode', and it showed. The walls were covered in posters for bands and art prints, and there was plenty Eames recognized; The Strokes, She & Him, Pink Floyd's The Wall, Arcade Fire, Van Gogh's Starry Night and Edward Hopper's Nighthawks. There was no overhead light, just a ceiling fan, so Arthur had hung the room with white string lights instead. Every inch of available wall space under the posters was occupied by cheap, particle board shelving, bowed under the weight of books upon books. The place was neat, but as Eames had observed, dorm-like.
"This is..." Eames started.
"Shut up, I know. When I'm out of here, not all of my furniture will come from Walmart." Arthur flopped down on the bed, launching a textbook that had been at the foot of it to the floor. Eames picked it up—it was the textbook for Oringa's class, the one Arthur had been a TA for before being attacked. He swallowed.
"I'm going back next week," Arthur said softly. He took the textbook from Eames' hand and reached to set it on the nightstand. "I've talked to my advisor about it. The weeks I missed, they're not going to count against me. I'll finish out the semester like normal."
Eames felt himself frowning. "You're sure it's not too soon?"
Arthur looked at him, and his gaze was steady. "There have been things I've misjudged, I admit it. But I know what I want." And suddenly Eames got the sense that they weren't talking about being a TA at all.
Eames was sitting on the corner of the bed before he'd realized it. Arthur reached out for him, grabbed ahold of his shoulders and shifted himself into Eames' lap. Eames' eyes fluttered closed as Arthur's hands ran over him, down his biceps, across the expanse of his chest, tangled in his hair.
"I want you."
Kissing someone shouldn't have been allowed to get amazingly, mind-blowingly better every time you did it, but Arthur was a rule-breaker, it seemed. He kissed Eames like the world could fall down around them at any moment, like this, them together, was the last vestiges of a dream he was trying to hold onto.
"Eames," he said into the larger man's mouth, and he hooked his arms around Eames' neck and leaned back. The momentum carried them until Eames was over Arthur on the bed. He braced his knee between Arthur's thighs and pushed, grinding into him as he resumed exploring Arthur's insides with his tongue. His hands slid up, found Arthur's, pressed him into the mattress and... And then Arthur wasn't kissing him back.
Eames pushed himself up, alarmed. Something in Arthur's eyes was a bit too wild, and his mouth was slack with shock. "Arthur?"
"Sorry, I'm sorry," Arthur breathed. He sat upright, rubbing at his temple. The lines of tension eased slowly from his body until he was left looking mildly ruffled rather than terrified. "It's just... When my hands were pinned and I couldn't move, it reminded me of..."
Eames' eyes widened in horror. "Oh Arthur, I'm so stupid. I'm sorry, I didn't even think-"
"N-no, don't apologize," Arthur cut him off. He sighed and moved to rest a hand on Eames' shoulder. "There's no way you can foresee everything that's going to trigger me. We'll... trial and error. You'll see," he smiled, as though he could see the doubt still lurking behind Eames' eyes.
"You're sure?"
"Yeah," Arthur grinned. "And, ah, to be honest, there's something I want to try."
Eames chewed at his lip. Now there was a thought. "How about this?" he asked, and lay back on the bed passively. "You take control, and I respond physically if, when and how you want me to." He watched as Arthur's eyes raked over his body, watched the gears turning in his head as he contemplated what he might do with an Eames entirely at his mercy. The smaller man shifted, flush gone up to his ears.
"That... that might work, yeah."
Eames settled into the duvet, making himself comfortable. The way Arthur was looking at him, hungry and wondrous and a little shy all at once, was thrilling. Arthur reached out tentatively, fingers brushing the hem of Eames' t-shirt. Eames understood and shifted himself so that Arthur could push the article up over his stomach. Obviously Eames dressed himself every day, but it felt different when it was someone else facilitating the slide of fabric on his skin. His abs twitched involuntarily and Arthur smirked down at him. Eventually Eames had to help, and he pulled the shirt the rest of the way over his shoulders and head. He moved to fling it off onto the floor but Arthur caught it, folding it quickly and setting it down beside him. Eames raised an eyebrow in askance but Arthur just put a finger to his lips. He knelt down on either side of Eames' hips and lowered himself until he was straddling the larger man.
"Nngh, Arthur," Eames groaned, and his arms moved up to stroke Arthur's sides, but Arthur caught him by the wrist before he could make contact.
"Don't get ahead of yourself. I need time to explore."
Eames wasn't sure what part of him warranted exploring, but he gave an easy shrug. "Fair 'nuff."
Arthur grinned and bent down low to breathe feathery exhalations against the ink below Eames' collarbone, before swiping his tongue across the skin. 'Oh.' He nosed across the expanse of Eames' chest, down to one nipple, his hands stroking the tattoos on Eames' arms and shoulders. Eames' breath was already coming in panting gasps, and there was no possible way he could have stifled the moan he let out when Arthur took the sensitive nub of flesh between his teeth.
"Arthur, Jesus Christ," he bit out. His body was doing things without his permission, like arching under Arthur's weight, and dammit, he was hard. Arthur worried the nipple a bit, then released it, running his tongue around it as if to soothe the skin. Eames wondered if Arthur would move to the next one, but instead he rocked back a bit, grinding against Eames' erection. Eames sucked in a breath, and he caught a glimpse of Arthur cackling deviously before he pulled his sweater over his head. Suddenly they were bare chest to bare chest, and the warmth coming off Arthur's body was incredible. Eames couldn't help his hands moving to run over the smooth planes of Arthur's shoulders and down his sides, but this time Arthur was unresisting, shuddering into the touch. The last time Eames had seen Arthur like this, he'd been huddled into a ball on Eames' bed, haunted and terrified. This version of Arthur was completely different—confident, though a little shy, affectionate and strong. Whatever the setbacks, Eames knew they could make it, long as they stood by each other. And Arthur seemed to sense the emotions welling up in Eames' chest, for he moved up the larger man's body and locked their lips in the tenderest kiss Eames had ever been given.
"Eames," he whispered as he chewed on Eames' lip, and his voice broke. His dark eyes wandered, as if he wasn't quite sure how to vocalize his feelings. "Eames, I think I... I think I'm in love with you." And even he seemed surprised by the revelation, but he couldn't do much to act on it when Eames was suddenly kissing the breath out of him. Eames wanted to say that he absolutely returned the sentiment, but he couldn't find it in him to break away, not when Arthur's hands were tangling in his hair and stroking his jaw. He figured the message was clear enough anyway.
Finally Arthur pulled back enough to look Eames in the eye. "I want to do something for you," he said softly. He used the hand he wasn't bracing himself upright with to stroke Eames through his jeans.
Eames groaned at the touch, but he caught Arthur's meaning well enough even through the fog of pleasure. "Are you sure?" asked his traitorous lips.
"Yeah," Arthur smiled shyly, and Eames thought maybe he should offer protest, that it was too soon, but seeing as how Arthur's nimble fingers were already tugging at his fly, he couldn't be bothered. He didn't quite know what to do with himself, so he just watched Arthur tug his jeans down over his ass. He could feel Arthur's hands on him, pulling him out of his boxers, tugging experimentally at his foreskin and smiling at the easy glide of it. But no, this couldn't be real. There was no possible way Eames was in Arthur's bedroom, on Arthur's bed with his pants around his knees, about to...
"Oh, fuck." The gleam in Arthur's intense, dark eyes and the wet velvet heat of his mouth around the head of Eames' cock were definitely real. His entire body went boneless and he fell back against a pillow and shuddered. It looked as if Arthur were actually enjoying himself. With every little involuntary noise Eames made, the smaller man hummed around his cock. His technique was a little amateur, a thought which inspired fondness (and something strangely like glee) in Eames' heart, but damn if it wasn't the most amazing fucking blowjob he'd ever had. He could feel his balls tightening already, and then Arthur went right ahead and swallowed his cock down to the root.
"Shit, Arthur, I'm gonna–" And he tried, he really tried to get Arthur off his dick before he came, but it was too late. His hand fell slack beside him on the bed, his eyes dropped closed due to the fireworks going off behind them, and shit, Arthur was going to be mad at him, wasn't he? He was still trembling from the aftershocks and wondering how he could apologize when the bed dipped beside him under Arthur's weight.
"Salty," Arthur said almost conversationally, and Eames could have sworn he didn't sound mad at all. In fact, when Eames opened his eyes, Arthur was smiling and leaning in for a kiss. Eames normally hated to taste himself, but in this instance salty was good, yes, salty was very good. "I've... never done that before, you know."
"Could have fooled me," Eames grinned. "And I mean that in the best possible way."
Arthur quirked a brow, but he looked pleased with himself. "I'll take your word for it."
There was a long moment of silence, during which Eames recuperated and Arthur stroked at his hair, thinking, and then Arthur said quietly, "Do you maybe want to... try... sex?"
Eames glanced up in surprise, to see Arthur's gaze averted and the tips of his ears gone pink. And really, Eames wouldn't have been averse to the idea except that in that moment, Arthur looked so small, so unsure. He let out a chuckle.
"Arthur, love, you've already gone and given me the most incredible blowjob of my life." Arthur's eyes darted in his direction in confusion, and Eames smiled and tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind his ear. "We don't have to rush things if you're uncomfortable. And it's alright to be uncomfortable; I'm perfectly fine waiting till you're actually ready. We'll get there another time, yeah?"
"So... you're really not mad?" The doubt creasing his brow was nothing short of heartbreaking.
"I promise you, I'm not." Eames put all the reassurance he could into the words, zipped himself back up, and then rolled off the bed.
"But you're going."
"Not yet," Eames said, and he took Arthur by the hips and pulled him until he was sitting balanced on the edge of the mattress.
"Then what are..." The rest of the sentence trailed off as Eames got on his knees between Arthur's legs. "Wha?"
"We may be saving the actual sex for later," Eames grinned up at him, "but a gentleman always reciprocates."
"O-oh..."
Eames kept his eyes on Arthur the whole time he applied his (rather prodigious, in his opinion) skills, watching the way his head tipped back, exposing the line of his throat, the way his fingers twitched in Eames' hair when he worked him just right, and Eames thought he'd never get enough of it. Arthur gasped Eames name as he came, and Eames swallowed harder than was necessary, because his throat was tightening for more reasons than the obvious. This is what Arthur deserved—not to be abused, but to have someone take care of him, do the things that made him happy, love him unconditionally. And Eames was privileged, honored to be that person.
"Eames," Arthur said again, soft, like his voice was about to break. Eames stood, pulling a sleepily smiling Arthur to him and holding him close. Arthur buried his nose in the crook of Eames' neck and shoulder, just breathing him in. If Eames could have paused that moment forever, he might have, but then the alarm clock on Arthur's night stand beeped two, and he realized Arthur was swaying against him.
"Sleep," Eames murmured into Arthur's hair.
He felt the brush of Arthur's eyelashes as he blinked against him, and then, "Sleep with me?"
Eames tried to hide the touched surprise and the way his heart fluttered when he said, "You really do want me to stay?"
Arthur made an adorably snuffly noise in the affirmative against him, then bent down to tug at Eames' jeans again.
"Well, alright then."
They tucked in together, Arthur nestled comfortably against Eames' back with an arm thrown around his waist. Arthur was asleep in seconds—Eames could tell by the way the breath feathering against his shoulder evened out—but Eames wasn't quite able to fall asleep yet. He glanced at the textbook on the nightstand, dimly illuminated by the red of the alarm clock display. There was a piece of torn-off paper sticking out from between the pages. Eames wasn't usually one for invasion of other people's privacy, least of all his boyfriend's, but he recognized the handwriting on the edge as his own. He reached out and tugged cautiously at it, and the slip of paper came free.
There was just enough light from the alarm clock and from the streetlight sneaking through the venetian blinds that he could make out a note he'd written to Arthur in class one day.
'No shit, you like Jamiroquai too? I thought I'd have to change my name if anybody found out. Arthur, why are we not best friends already?'
Only, that wasn't the end of it. There was more at the bottom, a reply in Arthur's neat all-caps print. A note he'd never given back to Eames, for whatever reason.
'MAYBE BECAUSE I WANT TO BE MORE THAN JUST FRIENDS.'
Eames stared at the note for a while, unsure of what to make of it before finally settling on plain contentedness. Some part of him had been waiting this whole time to wake up, to find that all of it had been a dream, but Arthur was warm against him and the scrap of paper in his hand was testament enough that he hadn't made the whole thing up. He slipped the paper back under the cover of the textbook and settled against a softly snoring Arthur.
"I love you too," he whispered in the quiet darkness of the room.
Arthur mumbled something against the back of his neck, still entirely asleep, but it sounded happy.