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Entry tags:
saturday afternoon
Simple Math [COMPLETE]
Arthur/Eames | NC-17 | 7000 words [this part]
i.e. The Fake Boyfriends High School AU
|previous chapters|
Sorry for the wait on the update. Wanted to make this one count. :)
Arthur sleeps for most of Saturday, his standard hangover remedy. At some point Ariadne texts him, Is Eames your prom date yet??, and Arthur just sighs, dumping his phone on the floor as he burrows back down under the covers.
His sheets smell like Eames. Eventually he’ll need to change them, but right now he’s too lazy to bother.
Eventually he climbs out of bed around one and dresses. He’s staring pensively at his bed and the rumpled sheets when his mom taps on the door.
“You alive yet?” she asks.
“Yeah. Finally.” He opens the door for her and she gives him a tentative smile, reaching up to comb her fingers through his messy hair.
“You got in late last night.” It’s not a question, and Arthur knows it. He ducks his head and shrugs.
“Sorry, I had Ariadne drive me home. I didn’t drive drunk, I swear.”
His mom snorts fondly. “Of course you didn’t. I trained you better than that.” She rests her hand on his shoulder, and Arthur sees her take a deep breath, like she does when she’s about to say something she knows he won’t like.
Arthur knows what she’s going to say, and his stomach drops.
“I checked in on you this morning to make sure you were home safe and sound,” she says quietly. “I know Eames was here.”
“It’s not what you think,” Arthur starts, heat rushing to his cheeks. “He was drunk, I didn’t want him driving home, so I told him he could--”
“Arthur, I’m not upset. I’ll admit, it was a bit of a shock to see my son’s boyfriend half-naked first thing in the morning, but--”
“Jesus, Mom.” Arthur covers his face with one hand. Fuck, he should’ve locked the door when he had the chance last night.
She pulls his hand away from his eyes. “Just...no more sleepovers without my permission first, all right? I know you’re almost eighteen, but I’m not quite that free-spirited yet.”
Arthur swallows, staring down at her hand wrapped around his wrist. “We’re breaking up, anyway,” he says in a monotone voice.
His mom blinks. “What? Why?”
“I don’t know, we just don’t get along. It wasn’t working out.”
“Excuse me, but I’ve watched the two of you together, and I’d hardly say that was the case.”
“You don’t know the whole story.” He can’t quite meet her eyes.
“Then explain it to me. Does this have something to do with whatever happened earlier this week?”
Arthur shakes his head. “That was nothing, I--”
“I didn’t press it, I know you like your space, but a mother knows when her child’s heartbroken.”
“I wasn’t heartbroken, I was...Eames doesn’t want to be with me, okay? Not, like, in a serious way.”
His mom raises an eyebrow. “How are you so sure of this?”
“It was nice while it lasted, but I’ve always known--I knew it was never real.” Funny how he doesn’t feel like he’s lying anymore.
She squeezes his hand. “Personally, I’ve frequently thought Eames looks at you like he’d slay dragons for you.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “You’re just being a romantic.”
“Fine, I’m being a stuffy old romantic who just wants to see her son happy. Do you have any idea how much you were glowing at the Hamilton’s dinner party? And Eames’ mother told me more than once that she’d never seen him so--settled.”
He badly wants to tell her about the whole thing, about their arrangement and Eames’ excellent acting skills. He wants to tell her everything and have her stop convincing him that Eames is in love with him. But Arthur just sighs and says, “You don’t get it. He’s always--well, until this last month--he’s always hated me, in some way or another, ever since we were kids.”
“Hated you? Since when?”
“In fifth grade, he--I had a crush on him, some stupid thing, and he practically laughed in my face, and then there was the time he came here for dinner with his mom and acted like I didn’t exist. And in seventh grade, he stole my favorite pen out of my locker and tried to make it look like I’d lost it, and god, eighth grade was the year he told everyone not vote me for class vice-president because I wanted all vegetarian lunches, which was not true. We got into fights during English class, and he’d roll his eyes at me when he thought I wasn’t looking, and the summer before freshman year we were in gym together, but that was--different, we were--we were friends for a while, like actual friends, and I thought--I’d hoped--but then Dad died and it just...never happened.”
“What didn’t happen?”
“Us,” Arthur says on a heavy exhale, shoving a hand through his hair. His chest feels heavy, like the words are being pounded out of him. “I remember thinking, ‘He likes me, we’re friends,’ and I don’t know, maybe it wasn’t meant to be anything more, but I would’ve at least been his friend, shared books with him and listened to his shitty music. He would’ve meant something to me, but when school started he acted like it was nothing, like I was nothing. So...I made sure he knew I felt the same.”
“Oh, Arthur.” She wraps her arm around his shoulders. “Obviously he didn’t feel that way, or you two would never have gotten together, right?”
Arthur swallows tightly. “It’s...complicated.”
“Have you told him any of this?”
“There’s no point.”
“Of course there is! You care about him, and he obviously cares about you. Let me tell you something, that boy wears his heart on his sleeve, just like you. You just do it in completely different ways. I remember that night he and Laura had dinner over here, and he most certainly did not act like you didn’t exist. If anything, he sat and fidgeted and blushed around you, and looked all forlorn when you eventually left the room. For goodness sake, Arthur, he was a ten-year-old who’d just been transplanted into another country! You were probably this mysterious American boy whom he had no idea how to act around, so he did what any ten-year-old boy does when he’s out of his element--he teased you.”
Arthur tries to imagine a young Eames all insecure and nervous, afraid to look Arthur in the eyes. “He wasn’t just some kid with a crush, Mom.”
“But you were.”
“That’s not the same thing--”
His mom hugs him tighter, scratching her nails gently against his hair. “Why are you fighting this so hard?” she asks softly. “Why do you find it so hard to believe that this boy might want to be with you?”
Alarmingly, his throat starts to close up and his eyes grow blurry. Arthur takes a deep breath. “If he didn’t want me before, why would he want me now?” he whispers. “I’m nothing special, I’m not--”
“You are amazing, is what you are.” She presses her cheek to his temple, her voice growing rough and thick. “I know your father did a number on your self-esteem, and I’m partly to blame for that, but...we all make mistakes, Arthur. Your father loved you with all his heart, and I’m sure, somewhere, he’s regretting all times he missed telling you so. Whatever Eames did in the past to make you think he didn’t care, it doesn’t matter now. He honestly adores you, I truly believe this, and he deserves a chance to show you, to make up for the ways he hurt you.”
Arthur shuts his eyes, remembering the time Eames offered up his room without any hesitation at all, the many times in the past few weeks he’s just looked at Arthur and known what was going on in his head. He thinks of the pictures from the dinner party, the kiss, the shot of them grinning at one another like they were sharing some private, secret joke...
It’s been real this whole time, Arthur thinks, and his heart drops into his stomach. Fuck, Eames was right--he really is a fucking idiot.
“Thank you,” he breathes, kissing his mother’s cheek.
She laughs quietly and kisses him back. “You’re a smart guy, sometimes you just need a kick in the pants, y’know?”
“And you’re the best at kicking my ass.” Arthur manages a grin even as his hands shake. He’s got to find his phone.
“Damn straight. Now, are you still breaking up with your boyfriend?”
He digs through the pile of books and dirty socks by his bed until he uncovers his phone. Arthur bites his lip as he grabs for it, terrified and anxious and strangely giddy.
“No,” he says, dialing Eames’ number, “I’m not.”
~
For once, Arthur doesn’t have a plan. He paces the floor of his room after his mom leaves, wondering just how infinitely fucked he is as the phone rings in his ear.
When Eames finally answers, it’s a low, emotionless, “Hey.”
Arthur drops down onto the edge of his bed, rubs his free hand over his thigh. “Hey. So, um--we need to talk.”
“Okay, then talk.” Eames sounds even more distant, almost cold.
“There’s that park near your house, right? Meet me there in a half an hour.”
A long a pause stretches out over the line. “We can just do this over the phone, Arthur,” Eames says quietly, but there’s a hint of confusion in his voice, a trace of apprehension, like he’s waiting for Arthur to drop the other shoe.
To be honest, Arthur can’t really blame him. “I want to see you. In person.”
He hears Eames sigh. It sounds a lot like resignation. “Yeah, all right. Half an hour.”
~
Ariadne takes him to get his car from Brice’s house, and Arthur tells her about the conversation with his mom, leaving out the part about morning sex with Eames.
“You better know what you’re doing,” she says, looking far too concerned for Arthur’s liking. “Don’t break his heart, y’know?”
“I’m--you don’t even know what he’s gonna say!”
“Do you?”
Arthur sighs. “Not really, no.”
“Just go the easy route. Tell him you love him and that you want to be real boyfriends.”
“But I don’t--”
“Yes, you do. Everyone knows it, Arthur--the only people who don’t are you and Eames. Tell him.” She all but shoves Arthur out of the car.
It feels like a long drive to the park; all Arthur hears in his head, over and over, is Ariadne saying, Tell him.
He parks on the curb and looks out into the quiet stillness; empty jungle gyms and sandboxes, merry-go-rounds spinning lazily in the afternoon breeze. It’s peaceful, calm; Arthur’s glad he suggested this instead of just a phone call.
He eventually spots Eames sitting in a swing, his back to Arthur. He holds on to the chain links with a loose grip, kicking idly at the ground with the toe of his sneaker, head bowed and shoulders slumped. The sunlight catches random blond streaks in his hair, makes the tan across his neck look pinker than it really is. He hasn’t noticed Arthur yet, and after a moment Eames rests his temple against his right hand.
Like water flooding his lungs, a sudden rush of longing fills Arthur’s chest, overwhelming and uncontrollable. His breath catches in his throat as he presses his hands to the steering wheel.
Tell him.
He closes his eyes, counts to ten, and opens the car door.
Eames doesn’t look up until Arthur says, “Still hungover?”
“Not really. Had about five cups of coffee. I feel vaguely human again.” He’s wearing a ratty, faded pair of gray cut-off sweats with their school mascot on the hip and an equally faded black t-shirt.
For one insane instant, Arthur fantasizes about sleeping in that same shirt, smelling like Eames’ sweat and cologne.
“Did you really need to drag me out here, Arthur?” Eames asks softly. “There’s nothing really to discuss. I’ll do whatever you want--we can have a fight, whatever, just don’t make it too complicated. I don’t...I don’t want to have to keep up with a bigger lie.” He ducks his head, glancing toward the street as he pushes off the ground, swinging slowly back and forth.
“But we do need to. Discuss stuff.” Arthur swallows, starts pacing in front of the swing set, because he can’t just stand there and look at Eames with his heart in his throat.
Eames frowns at him. “What is it?”
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Arthur says in a rush, without thinking, without second-guessing himself.
“Right,” Eames replies carefully, “I’m well aware of this. Hence the break-up.”
“No, you don’t--it’s not--I can’t--”
“Look, you want me to take the blame for it? Is that what this is about? I’m used to it, people know I never last long in a relationship.”
A dull ache curls up deep in Arthur’s stomach. “I don’t want you to take the blame,” he says, and stops pacing right in front of Eames, their feet nearly touching. He looks at the smattering of hair over Eames’ slightly knobby knees, the way his sneaker keeps rolling over on its side, like a kid’s anxious tick.
Eames huffs loudly, digs both feet into the dirt. “Then what? What the bloody hell do you want from me? Just fucking tell me, and we’ll go home and be done with it and you’ll never have to lay eyes on me again for as long as you like.” He smirks around the words, but Arthur can hear the bitterness, the hurt that simmers below the surface.
Even after everything, he still thinks I hate him, Arthur thinks. But he still can’t make the right words come out. “I want--I-I want...”
Eames shakes his head, and it’s the look he gives Arthur that’s the breaking point, the moment of truth; all the longing and the frustration and anger, all of it is suddenly there in Eames’ eyes for Arthur to see, open and painfully honest. Or maybe it was always there and Arthur just didn’t know how to look.
Arthur doesn’t look away as he says, “I want you.”
Eames blinks. “For what?”
“To...date me. For real.”
He stares at Arthur, blank confusion slowly giving way to something much more complicated. “Right,” Eames finally snorts. “You’ll be my boyfriend, yeah? Try it out?”
“I’m serious.”
“Like hell you are. In what universe would I ever believe you’d actually want to--to be with me?”
“Maybe the same universe where you stick up for me when you don’t have to? Or the one where you get kicked off the football team just to defend my honor? Or how ‘bout the one where you kiss me like you mean it in front of your aunt and I carry your fucking taste around in my mouth for a goddamn week?”
A pink flush spreads over Eames’ cheeks. It gives Arthur hope. “What makes you think I want any of this to be real?” It’s not a denial, and that, too, makes Arthur’s pulse race faster.
He takes a step closer, until he’s standing over Eames, thighs pressed against Eames’ hips. Arthur reaches up and lays his hands over Eames’ on the chain links.
“You never wanted me to lose that student council election, did you?”
Eames’ eyes widen. “The stupid thing in junior high?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Did you actually want me to lose?”
“Those things are bloody meaningless, Arthur--”
“Did you?”
“Of course not! I just wanted your sodding attention, that’s all! That’s all I ever wanted from you.” He winces and attempts to look away, but Arthur grabs his chin.
“You have The Best of H.P. Lovecraft in your room.”
Eames gives a half-hearted jerk of his head. “So?”
“Have you read it?”
He can feel Eames swallow. “Twice,” Eames finally whispers.
Arthur whispers back, “I’ve got four fucking Joy Division albums on my iPod.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at Eames’ mouth. “Including Substance?”
“Found it on eBay from a guy in Scotland.”
“I have it on vinyl.”
“And it probably still sounds like shit.”
“No, it sounds like genius, you uncultured prat,” Eames says, fingers pushing ever so faintly against Arthur’s, which are still wrapped around his on the swing.
“I have discerning tastes.” Arthur suddenly feels ten pounds lighter, a warmth spreading like slow sunlight just beneath his skin. He bumps his knee against Eames’ leg, resisting the urge to grin like an idiot.
“That’s one way of putting it.” The hint of affection in Eames’ tone fades, his eyes growing serious. “What happened this morning?”
Arthur knows it’s a thinly veiled, What changed your mind about everything after kicking me out of your room? “My mom,” he says, simply, and gives Eames a tiny, sheepish grin.
And because he’s Eames--infuriating, obnoxious, brilliant, stupidly amazing Eames--he doesn’t need to say anything more. Eames just nods and replies, “Thought she liked me well enough,” and returns Arthur’s smile, only his is much more tentative, almost shy.
“She does. She thinks you’ll slay dragons for me.”
“Whoa, when did I become bloody Aragorn in this equation?”
Arthur barks out a laugh. “You fucking liar, I knew you’d read Tolkien!”
“I never said--”
“Mrs. Woodson’s English class, eighth grade--you told me fantasy was a waste of time.”
“I don’t remember including Tolkien in that statement.”
“You said hobbits were for ‘simple-minded people.’”
Eames tips his head up, his shy grin becoming brighter, wider. “Yeah, okay, I did. And it pissed you off, right?”
“I wanted to pound your face into your desk with an encyclopedia.”
He laughs through his nose, swinging forward to nudge his elbow into Arthur’s hip. “Sometimes you were just too easy.”
Arthur wants to kiss Eames, fall into him and hold on tight and not think about all the time he’s wasted--they’ve wasted--on fighting each other. Instead, he lets his thumb skim lightly over the back of Eames’ hand, watches in fascination as a pink blush spreads over his cheeks.
“That summer before freshman year, I wanted...something, anything from you,” Arthur whispers. “But then my dad’s accident happened, and I couldn’t deal with that and you, even though we weren’t--it wasn’t like we had anything between us, I just--”
“You don’t know long how I sat in my room, thinking of things to say to you, wanting to call you just to say I was sorry. But I was a fucking coward, and then school started and you never looked at me again, so I figured--I thought it was over. Whatever ‘it’ was.”
Arthur shakes his head, his thumb tracing the hard line of Eames’ wristbone. “You could’ve said something,” he says, knowing damn well he’s just as much at fault.
“Would you have listened to me?”
He sighs. “I don’t know.”
“I was afraid to have your attention after that summer. I didn’t want to know for certain that you hated me.”
“I never hated you.” It’s the truth; Arthur knows it now. He may have been angry and hurt and frustrated with Eames, but it was never hate. “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me...like always.”
Eames snorts, but he lets go of the swing and reaches out to curl his fingers into the front of Arthur’s shirt, tugging him closer. “All I’ve ever wanted since I was a kid was you,” he says, so softly it almost breaks Arthur’s heart.
He shuts his eyes and laughs shakily. “Fuck, you’ve got a really weird way of showing it.”
“So do you,” Eames says, and then he pulls Arthur down further until their lips meet.
It’s a kiss much like the one they shared in Eames’ room not very long ago, careful and slow and a little bit terrifying. Except this time they aren’t exhausted from fighting; Arthur’s not holding his breath, waiting for Eames to come to his senses and shove him away. This time Arthur slides his arms around Eames’ shoulders and holds on, kissing Eames like he belongs to him.
He feels Eames’ arms wrap around his waist, causing Arthur to stumble forward and nearly lose his balance. The swing takes their weight, swaying backward, and Eames laughs into the kiss, biting gently at Arthur’s lip.
“I’d, ah, take you up to my room and do this right, but--”
“‘Do this right’? Are you wooing me now or something?” Arthur smirks, fingers playing through Eames’ hair.
“Fuck off, I meant privacy, you bastard. But Rafe’s home, and god knows what he’ll do if he sees us--”
“He likes me, he said so. He already thinks we’re boning, so who cares?”
“Okay, one, never, ever speak about my brother thinking about me having sex, and two, you are positively romantic.”
“I’m a realist. I, for one, don’t think you’d slay dragons for anyone, let alone me.”
Eames hums, licking filthily over the line of Arthur’s teeth. “Maybe a small dragon,” he breathes into Arthur’s mouth.
Arthur shivers, wanting to feel Eames’ skin, taste him all over, hear him moan again. “C’mon, your brother can deal with it. Let’s go do this right, Romeo.”
“You’re such a little shit,” Eames mutters, kissing him hard one last night before shoving to his feet and hauling Arthur over his shoulder.
“Fuck, Eames! Jesus!” Arthur flails his arms out, laughing and breathless.
“What, is this not romantic enough for you?”
“You’re not carrying me into the house like this.”
“Actually, I think I am. It’ll be a good workout.”
“I’m not one of your fucking weights--shit!” Arthur frantically grabs onto the back of Eames’ shirt as Eames starts to sprint across the park, arms locked around Arthur’s thighs to hold him in place. By the time they get across the street and into the Hamilton’s front yard, Arthur’s dizzy from all the blood rushing to his head, and Eames is panting loudly. He dumps Arthur on the front steps and grins, flushed and far too proud of himself.
“You’re lighter than I thought you’d be,” he gasps when Arthur punches him in the bicep, hard. He’s grinning, too, but that’s beside the point.
“You suck at wooing.”
“There’s no need to woo.”
“Yeah? You sure about that?”
Eames runs the side of his thumb down Arthur’s cheek, kisses him almost chastely and whispers against his lips, “Mostly.”
Arthur leans into the touch, presses the tips of his fingers to the hollow at Eames’ throat and listens to the way Eames inhales sharply.
“C’mere,” he breathes, and then they’re kissing for real, deep and heady and full of unspoken intentions. Eames reaches blindly around Arthur and fumbles the front door open, backs them both through the foyer without ever letting Arthur up for air. They stumble into the bannister and Arthur murmurs, “Oof.”
“Sorry,” Eames laughs, sounding anything but. Arthur bites at his mouth in retaliation.
“Try not to kill me before this is over,” he replies, trying and failing to walk backward gracefully up the stairs while yanking Eames after him.
“I could carry you.”
“And I could kick your ass, so shut up and--”
“Oh my god, are you two making out in the hall?” Rafe yells from his room. “There are children present!”
It still amazes Arthur how much Rafe sounds like Eames, right down to the soft lilt of their accents, but what amazes him even more is how easily Rafe’s taunting makes Eames blush and fidget.
“Fuck off and die, you’re not a child, for fuck’s sake!” Eames yells back. They’ve stopped on the second floor landing, Arthur’s back flush against the wall and Eames’ hand splayed possessively over the dip of his waist.
Rafe sticks his head out of his room, raises an eyebrow at the two of them. The smirk he gives Eames makes him look way older than thirteen. “I could be traumatized from this,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. “I could be emotionally scarred for life, never to have proper intimate relationships, all because my wanker brother shagged his boyfriend on the stairs.” His eyes are wide, painfully earnest, and Arthur bites his lip to keep from grinning.
Eames, meanwhile, is not impressed with Rafe’s acting skills. He jabs a finger at him and says tightly, “You’re not being scarred for life, you’re being an obnoxious prat, and if you don’t fuck off, I’m telling Dad that you watched porn on his iPad.”
Rafe’s playful smirk instantly vanishes. “H-how’d you--”
“The bloody thing smells like Clorox wipes, Rafe. You figure it out. Now piss off.”
Rafe shoots him a deadly glare, but Arthur highly doubts anything will come of it. Knowing the way his older brother operates, they’re both all bark and no bite. Rafe pauses in the doorway of his room and says, “Seriously, Arthur, this whole family’s mental. You should get out while you still can.”
He slams the door shut, and Eames pushes his face into Arthur’s neck. “You see? I told you so.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Yeah, your life’s rough, dude. Luckily you have your own room on your own floor.”
Eames huffs, nosing his way up Arthur’s jaw. “Not my own floor, thank you very much. And to be fair, Rafe has the bigger room.”
“You have a car, though.”
“Touche’. And some day that little monster’s gonna have a girlfriend, and he’ll bring her home, and on that day my life will be complete.” Eames pulls Arthur away from the wall, backing him toward the stairs again.
“And you’ll embarrass the shit out of him?”
“Of course. It only seems fair.”
“Gee, hope this girl thinks it’s hilarious enough to want to stick around.”
They get to the door of Eames’ room, and Arthur presses him against the frame, tugging the neck of Eames’ shirt down to mouth at his collarbones.
“If he’s anything like me,” Eames says, “he’ll only let it get to him if he’s really, stupidly in love with her.”
Arthur goes very still and glances up. Eames is smiling, but his eyes are achingly serious.
“She won’t care, because--because she’ll probably be stupidly in love with him already,” Arthur replies, keeping his tone as light as possible while his hands skim down Eames’ arms.
Their fingers tangle together for a moment, and Arthur feels Eames’ thumb trace over his palm. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it, looking almost dazed.
“What?” Arthur asks softly.
Eames shakes his head. “Really?” It’s a real question. He honestly doesn’t know.
Arthur can’t help laughing in amazement. “Yeah, really. Since the day I met you, although god knows why--you said I turned pink like a girl.”
Cool fingertips cup his cheek, and he sighs when Eames presses their foreheads together. “I was not the smoothest ten-year-old,” he says.
“You really weren’t, but I can forgive you for it.”
Eames grins, sliding his hand back into Arthur’s hair. “You do flush awfully pretty, though.”
“Okay, fuck you,” Arthur growls, and drops Eames’ hand in favor of attacking his armpits in an all-out tickle warfare. He feels an intense personal victory to learn that Eames is indeed very ticklish--he yelps and shoves Arthur away as he opens the bedroom door. Arthur chases after him, tackling him onto the bed and pining his wrists to the mattress.
“That was completely ruthless,” Eames says, panting and attempting to frown. But he’s gone completely loose underneath Arthur, his shirt bunched up around his chest. Arthur’s knees slide against his bare skin where they’re braced on either side of Eames.
Suddenly all Arthur can think is, He’s really mine now.
“You’re just a sore loser.”
Eames’ gaze flicks down Arthur’s body, and Arthur’s maybe a little pleased he inadvertently threw on a cross county t-shirt from freshman year; it’s snug in the shoulders and the arms, reminding Arthur just how fucking skinny he was just a few years ago, before he started getting serious in the weight room. He’s got nothing on Eames, but it’s enough, especially when it makes Eames look at him like that, all hazy dark and hungry.
“I’m not a loser at all,” Eames breathes just before he leans up and licks slowly into Arthur’s mouth, pulling him down without even using his hands. They kiss like that for several long, lazy minutes, Arthur caging Eames against the mattress and Eames making no move to pull his hands free of Arthur’s hold. Their hips don’t connect, but Arthur can feel the heat coming off Eames’ body, can sense the faint shift in tension between them.
He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but Arthur hears himself murmur into Eames’ mouth, “You’re an ex-running back making out with a cross country guy. Some people might argue your loser status.”
He’s not expecting Eames to abruptly pull out of the kiss, red-mouthed and panting and so fucking gorgeous Arthur can hardly stand it.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Eames asks.
“Nothing, it’s just a joke. Forget it.”
“No.” He puts a hand against Arthur’s chest and pushes him back. “Why would you say that?”
“I just. I’m not--I’m not like the other guys you date. That’s all. I think that’s why when we started this whole thing, all your friends were kind of thrown by it.”
“My friends were thrown by it because they thought we hated each other,” Eames says, ducking away when Arthur tries to kiss him. “Is that what you thought? That I just date jocks because I play football and it’s expected of me?”
He doesn’t want to tell the truth, because there’s an uncomfortable swooping sensation in his stomach telling Arthur he’s possibly been a dick this whole time. He can feel his cheeks grow hot, and the tense, scrutinizing look in Eames’ eyes makes Arthur squirm and long be anywhere but laid out above him. “What was I supposed to think, huh? It’s not like you were running around with members of the debate team. You have a type, and that’s fine, that’s--”
“Fuck, Arthur, that’s not it at all.” Eames looks pained, frustrated. He shakes his head, then flips Arthur onto his back, lightning quick. Arthur blinks up at him as Eames sits back on his thighs, one hand splayed over Arthur’s stomach, pushing at his t-shirt.
“Did you ever wonder why the guys I’ve dated are all kinda alike?” he asks quietly, watching the movements of his hand.
“Not really,” Arthur lies. God, he does not want to be having this conversation right now. He feels far too bare underneath Eames, even though he’s still fully clothed.
“Yeah, you did, or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
Arthur huffs loudly, rolling his eyes. “Okay, they’re all jocks with double digit IQs, so what?”
“Well, yes, but...they also weren’t you.”
“What are you trying to say, Eames? Yeah, your exes weren’t me, fine, what does this have to do with us?” It’s hard to sound irritated when he’s shivering at the first touch of Eames’ palm against his skin.
“What I’m trying to say,” Eames replies pointedly, eyes never looking up from Arthur’s stomach, “is that it was all on purpose.”
Arthur gapes at him. “What?”
“They were all jocks, but they were also...empty. The only books they read were the required ones, and none of them knew my tattoo was even in Latin. They were all blond, big, and didn’t give a shit about anything but the next big game, and college was just wherever was closest so they could come back home to party.”
“But...but Brice isn’t--”
Eames shakes his head and gives a rueful laugh. “Brice is the closest thing to you I’ve let myself have,” he whispers. “I wouldn’t even admit to myself that he looked a lot like you, but he--he liked the same books and let me quote Shakespeare at him, and I just...I told you it was just a lark, and it was--just me tricking myself into thinking I could have a vague shadow of you.”
Arthur’s mind is racing, along with his heart. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you need to know that I’m not just going to mess around with you for a few weeks until I get bored,” Eames says. “I suck at relationships because I never wanted any of them--because they weren’t you.”
He thinks about all the little moments in the past when he’d see Eames in the halls, arm thrown around the shoulders of some stocky field hockey player, laughing at something the guy had whispered in his ear. Arthur had never allowed himself to think about it too much, but the idea, the fantasy, was always in the back of his mind; Eames pulling him close to kiss his temple, making some stupid joke just for the sake of making Arthur laugh.
He remembers the first time he’d kissed a guy, a sophomore on the cross country team. It was at a bonfire party and Arthur had been drunk, high on the adrenaline from winning a race that day, and as he’d opened his mouth to the kiss, his eyes had fluttered shut and his only thought was, Eames. He’d gone home angry and frustrated, jerked off in his room furiously and didn’t think about anyone at all.
“Does Brice know what your tattoo means?” Arthur whispers.
Eames finally raises his eyes to Arthur’s. “He never asked,” he replies, and pushes Arthur’s shirt the rest of the way up his stomach until it’s pooled around his chest. He wraps both hands around Arthur’s waist to hold him still as he leans down to place warm, damp kisses across his skin, tongue dipping down into Arthur’s bellybutton, making him gasp.
He doesn’t know what else to say except, “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” Eames breathes, licking at the fine trail of hair disappearing into Arthur’s shorts. Then he grins and adds, hooking one finger into the waistband, “Are these the same shorts you slept in?”
“Shut up, it’s Saturday,” Arthur mumbles, already breathless and hard.
Eames makes a pleased humming sound in the back of his throat. “You don’t dress properly on Saturdays?”
“I dress so that my fucking boyfriend has easy access to blow me,” Arthur shoots back without thinking. Immediately, he bites his lip. Fuck, he can’t say anything right, and they’re not at the point where he can call Eames that without it meaning something, and--
A warm gust of air hits Arthur’s cock. He looks down to find his shorts and underwear pooled around his thighs, and Eames is braced over his hips, staring down at Arthur’s erection and licking his lips.
“Your boyfriend appreciates it,” Eames drawls, smirking as he ducks his head and wraps his unfairly gorgeous mouth around the head.
Arthur’s never gotten head before now. He’s given it once, when he was fifteen, but it was horribly awkward and the guy never even came (by far the lowest point of soccer camp). He tries not to think about how many times Eames has done this, but it’s definitely been more than a few times, since the first press of Eames’ tongue against the underside of his cock has Arthur gritting his teeth and moaning so loudly he knows Rafe can hear him.
“Fuck, Eames,” Arthur gasps. He struggles to push himself up onto his elbows so he can watch, because he has to watch, even if it kills him.
Eames pulls off suddenly, places a soft kiss to the wet slit. “Say that again,” he whispers, voice a couple notches deeper than normal.
Arthur swallows, lets his hips twitch off the bed. A bead of pre-come swells at the tip of his cock, and he watches, dazed, as Eames swipes his thumb through it. “God, Eames, I--”
“Always wanted to hear you say my name like that.” He isn’t looking at Arthur; all his attention is focused on one task, and the look in his eyes is almost hungry as he sucks Arthur back into his mouth, taking him deeper, Eames’ right hand curled around the base, jerking him in time with the pull of his lips.
Yeah, he’s done this more than a few times. Arthur wants to hate every single guy who’s ever had this, who’s ever seen Eames all flushed and his mouth all slick and puffy, but none of that matters now--this is all for him.
He tries to hold on for as long as he can, alternating between obsessing over the wide splay of Eames’ left hand against his hip, the stretch of his shiny lips around his cock, and the way his cheeks hollow in and out with every bit of suction. But it’s the blissed-out, utterly contented softness in Eames’ face that really gets to Arthur, how much Eames wants this.
The heat builds low in his stomach too soon. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, gasps, “Fuck, sorry, I’m gonna come, just--”
But Eames actually smiles around Arthur’s cock and doesn’t pull off, doesn’t move at all except to possibly take Arthur even deeper into his mouth, and that--jesus fuck--
With a strangled gasp, Arthur comes hard, hips arching off the bed and his hands clawing at Eames’ comforter. Eames holds on, swallows everything, and when the rush finally passes and Arthur can breathe again, he lets Arthur slip gently from his mouth.
A slick, wet trail stretches from Eames’ lower lip to the head of Arthur’s cock. He meets Arthur’s eyes, starts to wipe it away, but Arthur groans, “Wait,” and reaches up to wipe his fingers through it.
It’s possibly the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.
“That wasn’t just for a lark, right?” Arthur asks, panting.
Eames shakes his head, crawling up Arthur’s body like a panther. His eyes are dark, and he’s gasping just as hard as Arthur. “I never swallow,” he whispers, and before Arthur can comment on that bit of information, Eames slams their mouth together, giving Arthur the unfamiliar, bitter-salt taste of himself. He kisses him fast and sloppy, frantic, his finesse suddenly gone, and that’s when it registers in Arthur’s foggy, post-orgasm brain that Eames is rubbing off against his hip.
Arthur breaks out of the kiss. “D’you want me to--?”
Eames laughs shakily, eyebrows pinched, almost like he’s in pain. “God, I want you to do everything, but I--I can’t, I need to--”
“Just do it,” Arthur breathes, wriggling out of his shirt and tossing it on the floor. He’s not even sure what he’s offering to Eames, but Eames groans, long and harsh, and seconds later he rears up and jerks his cock, coming all over Arthur’s chest.
Okay, so maybe that’s the hottest thing Arthur’s ever seen in his life. Or maybe just the hottest thing he never knew he wanted to see.
Eames’ shoulders shake after his orgasm fades. He slowly opens his eyes, frowns for a moment at the mess on Arthur’s skin, then grins sheepishly. “Um. I didn’t exactly mean for that to happen.”
Arthur snorts as he tucks himself back into his shorts. “You didn’t mean to come?” He feels light, punch-drunk happy, a warm buzz at the back of his brain.
“I meant the, ah. Impromptu porno shot.” Eames scrambles off Arthur’s thighs, awkward and loopy after just coming. Arthur grins a little too much as he watches Eames dig a Kleenex box out of his nightstand.
“Yeah, I’m totally offended,” Arthur drawls when Eames hands him a couple of tissues. “You’re a disgusting pervert, how dare you come all over me and be hot as shit.”
Eames pauses, and for a moment Arthur thinks he’s actually upset him. He glances up tentatively, only to find Eames looking at him with a wondrous expression in his eyes.
“You’re staying, right?” Eames asks softly. “Here, with me? You’re not gonna run off.”
He doesn’t have anything else to do for the rest of the day, and it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon. If Arthur had his way, he’d never leave this bed. “Don’t have anything better planned.”
“Good, then I’m holding you hostage. We’ve got to work on your musical education when it comes to late seventies British punk rock, and I’ve got a fuckload of vinyl to inflict upon you.” Eames says the words in between kissing Arthur’s mouth, headless of the come slowly drying on Arthur’s chest.
“Jesus, let it go already,” Arthur grumbles, but he cups the back of Eames’ head and pulls him down until they’re tangled around each other on the bed, unhurried and lazy with their kisses. Eames’ arm curves around Arthur’s waist, and after a while it almost feels like a hug. Arthur rolls half onto his back, locking both arms around Eames’ neck as he nuzzles his way over his jaw. He loves the feel of Eames’ weight pressing into him, solid and real.
He loves knowing he can want this and it’s okay.
Eames sighs into the slope of Arthur’s neck, a warm, comforting burst of air, and Arthur whispers, “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything you want.”
“What about Monday?” It’s the last thing Arthur wants to bring up, but he has to. He has to know for certain.
Eames sits up slowly, one arm braced over Arthur’s chest. He tilts his head to one side, eyes narrowed, like he’s trying to read every one of the thoughts that keep racing through Arthur’s head. He reaches up, brushes the hair off Arthur’s forehead, the corner of his mouth quirked in a faint smile.
“Monday’s just another day, mate,” he whispers back, and Arthur laughs.
the end ♥
Arthur/Eames | NC-17 | 7000 words [this part]
i.e. The Fake Boyfriends High School AU
|previous chapters|
Sorry for the wait on the update. Wanted to make this one count. :)
Arthur sleeps for most of Saturday, his standard hangover remedy. At some point Ariadne texts him, Is Eames your prom date yet??, and Arthur just sighs, dumping his phone on the floor as he burrows back down under the covers.
His sheets smell like Eames. Eventually he’ll need to change them, but right now he’s too lazy to bother.
Eventually he climbs out of bed around one and dresses. He’s staring pensively at his bed and the rumpled sheets when his mom taps on the door.
“You alive yet?” she asks.
“Yeah. Finally.” He opens the door for her and she gives him a tentative smile, reaching up to comb her fingers through his messy hair.
“You got in late last night.” It’s not a question, and Arthur knows it. He ducks his head and shrugs.
“Sorry, I had Ariadne drive me home. I didn’t drive drunk, I swear.”
His mom snorts fondly. “Of course you didn’t. I trained you better than that.” She rests her hand on his shoulder, and Arthur sees her take a deep breath, like she does when she’s about to say something she knows he won’t like.
Arthur knows what she’s going to say, and his stomach drops.
“I checked in on you this morning to make sure you were home safe and sound,” she says quietly. “I know Eames was here.”
“It’s not what you think,” Arthur starts, heat rushing to his cheeks. “He was drunk, I didn’t want him driving home, so I told him he could--”
“Arthur, I’m not upset. I’ll admit, it was a bit of a shock to see my son’s boyfriend half-naked first thing in the morning, but--”
“Jesus, Mom.” Arthur covers his face with one hand. Fuck, he should’ve locked the door when he had the chance last night.
She pulls his hand away from his eyes. “Just...no more sleepovers without my permission first, all right? I know you’re almost eighteen, but I’m not quite that free-spirited yet.”
Arthur swallows, staring down at her hand wrapped around his wrist. “We’re breaking up, anyway,” he says in a monotone voice.
His mom blinks. “What? Why?”
“I don’t know, we just don’t get along. It wasn’t working out.”
“Excuse me, but I’ve watched the two of you together, and I’d hardly say that was the case.”
“You don’t know the whole story.” He can’t quite meet her eyes.
“Then explain it to me. Does this have something to do with whatever happened earlier this week?”
Arthur shakes his head. “That was nothing, I--”
“I didn’t press it, I know you like your space, but a mother knows when her child’s heartbroken.”
“I wasn’t heartbroken, I was...Eames doesn’t want to be with me, okay? Not, like, in a serious way.”
His mom raises an eyebrow. “How are you so sure of this?”
“It was nice while it lasted, but I’ve always known--I knew it was never real.” Funny how he doesn’t feel like he’s lying anymore.
She squeezes his hand. “Personally, I’ve frequently thought Eames looks at you like he’d slay dragons for you.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “You’re just being a romantic.”
“Fine, I’m being a stuffy old romantic who just wants to see her son happy. Do you have any idea how much you were glowing at the Hamilton’s dinner party? And Eames’ mother told me more than once that she’d never seen him so--settled.”
He badly wants to tell her about the whole thing, about their arrangement and Eames’ excellent acting skills. He wants to tell her everything and have her stop convincing him that Eames is in love with him. But Arthur just sighs and says, “You don’t get it. He’s always--well, until this last month--he’s always hated me, in some way or another, ever since we were kids.”
“Hated you? Since when?”
“In fifth grade, he--I had a crush on him, some stupid thing, and he practically laughed in my face, and then there was the time he came here for dinner with his mom and acted like I didn’t exist. And in seventh grade, he stole my favorite pen out of my locker and tried to make it look like I’d lost it, and god, eighth grade was the year he told everyone not vote me for class vice-president because I wanted all vegetarian lunches, which was not true. We got into fights during English class, and he’d roll his eyes at me when he thought I wasn’t looking, and the summer before freshman year we were in gym together, but that was--different, we were--we were friends for a while, like actual friends, and I thought--I’d hoped--but then Dad died and it just...never happened.”
“What didn’t happen?”
“Us,” Arthur says on a heavy exhale, shoving a hand through his hair. His chest feels heavy, like the words are being pounded out of him. “I remember thinking, ‘He likes me, we’re friends,’ and I don’t know, maybe it wasn’t meant to be anything more, but I would’ve at least been his friend, shared books with him and listened to his shitty music. He would’ve meant something to me, but when school started he acted like it was nothing, like I was nothing. So...I made sure he knew I felt the same.”
“Oh, Arthur.” She wraps her arm around his shoulders. “Obviously he didn’t feel that way, or you two would never have gotten together, right?”
Arthur swallows tightly. “It’s...complicated.”
“Have you told him any of this?”
“There’s no point.”
“Of course there is! You care about him, and he obviously cares about you. Let me tell you something, that boy wears his heart on his sleeve, just like you. You just do it in completely different ways. I remember that night he and Laura had dinner over here, and he most certainly did not act like you didn’t exist. If anything, he sat and fidgeted and blushed around you, and looked all forlorn when you eventually left the room. For goodness sake, Arthur, he was a ten-year-old who’d just been transplanted into another country! You were probably this mysterious American boy whom he had no idea how to act around, so he did what any ten-year-old boy does when he’s out of his element--he teased you.”
Arthur tries to imagine a young Eames all insecure and nervous, afraid to look Arthur in the eyes. “He wasn’t just some kid with a crush, Mom.”
“But you were.”
“That’s not the same thing--”
His mom hugs him tighter, scratching her nails gently against his hair. “Why are you fighting this so hard?” she asks softly. “Why do you find it so hard to believe that this boy might want to be with you?”
Alarmingly, his throat starts to close up and his eyes grow blurry. Arthur takes a deep breath. “If he didn’t want me before, why would he want me now?” he whispers. “I’m nothing special, I’m not--”
“You are amazing, is what you are.” She presses her cheek to his temple, her voice growing rough and thick. “I know your father did a number on your self-esteem, and I’m partly to blame for that, but...we all make mistakes, Arthur. Your father loved you with all his heart, and I’m sure, somewhere, he’s regretting all times he missed telling you so. Whatever Eames did in the past to make you think he didn’t care, it doesn’t matter now. He honestly adores you, I truly believe this, and he deserves a chance to show you, to make up for the ways he hurt you.”
Arthur shuts his eyes, remembering the time Eames offered up his room without any hesitation at all, the many times in the past few weeks he’s just looked at Arthur and known what was going on in his head. He thinks of the pictures from the dinner party, the kiss, the shot of them grinning at one another like they were sharing some private, secret joke...
It’s been real this whole time, Arthur thinks, and his heart drops into his stomach. Fuck, Eames was right--he really is a fucking idiot.
“Thank you,” he breathes, kissing his mother’s cheek.
She laughs quietly and kisses him back. “You’re a smart guy, sometimes you just need a kick in the pants, y’know?”
“And you’re the best at kicking my ass.” Arthur manages a grin even as his hands shake. He’s got to find his phone.
“Damn straight. Now, are you still breaking up with your boyfriend?”
He digs through the pile of books and dirty socks by his bed until he uncovers his phone. Arthur bites his lip as he grabs for it, terrified and anxious and strangely giddy.
“No,” he says, dialing Eames’ number, “I’m not.”
~
For once, Arthur doesn’t have a plan. He paces the floor of his room after his mom leaves, wondering just how infinitely fucked he is as the phone rings in his ear.
When Eames finally answers, it’s a low, emotionless, “Hey.”
Arthur drops down onto the edge of his bed, rubs his free hand over his thigh. “Hey. So, um--we need to talk.”
“Okay, then talk.” Eames sounds even more distant, almost cold.
“There’s that park near your house, right? Meet me there in a half an hour.”
A long a pause stretches out over the line. “We can just do this over the phone, Arthur,” Eames says quietly, but there’s a hint of confusion in his voice, a trace of apprehension, like he’s waiting for Arthur to drop the other shoe.
To be honest, Arthur can’t really blame him. “I want to see you. In person.”
He hears Eames sigh. It sounds a lot like resignation. “Yeah, all right. Half an hour.”
~
Ariadne takes him to get his car from Brice’s house, and Arthur tells her about the conversation with his mom, leaving out the part about morning sex with Eames.
“You better know what you’re doing,” she says, looking far too concerned for Arthur’s liking. “Don’t break his heart, y’know?”
“I’m--you don’t even know what he’s gonna say!”
“Do you?”
Arthur sighs. “Not really, no.”
“Just go the easy route. Tell him you love him and that you want to be real boyfriends.”
“But I don’t--”
“Yes, you do. Everyone knows it, Arthur--the only people who don’t are you and Eames. Tell him.” She all but shoves Arthur out of the car.
It feels like a long drive to the park; all Arthur hears in his head, over and over, is Ariadne saying, Tell him.
He parks on the curb and looks out into the quiet stillness; empty jungle gyms and sandboxes, merry-go-rounds spinning lazily in the afternoon breeze. It’s peaceful, calm; Arthur’s glad he suggested this instead of just a phone call.
He eventually spots Eames sitting in a swing, his back to Arthur. He holds on to the chain links with a loose grip, kicking idly at the ground with the toe of his sneaker, head bowed and shoulders slumped. The sunlight catches random blond streaks in his hair, makes the tan across his neck look pinker than it really is. He hasn’t noticed Arthur yet, and after a moment Eames rests his temple against his right hand.
Like water flooding his lungs, a sudden rush of longing fills Arthur’s chest, overwhelming and uncontrollable. His breath catches in his throat as he presses his hands to the steering wheel.
Tell him.
He closes his eyes, counts to ten, and opens the car door.
Eames doesn’t look up until Arthur says, “Still hungover?”
“Not really. Had about five cups of coffee. I feel vaguely human again.” He’s wearing a ratty, faded pair of gray cut-off sweats with their school mascot on the hip and an equally faded black t-shirt.
For one insane instant, Arthur fantasizes about sleeping in that same shirt, smelling like Eames’ sweat and cologne.
“Did you really need to drag me out here, Arthur?” Eames asks softly. “There’s nothing really to discuss. I’ll do whatever you want--we can have a fight, whatever, just don’t make it too complicated. I don’t...I don’t want to have to keep up with a bigger lie.” He ducks his head, glancing toward the street as he pushes off the ground, swinging slowly back and forth.
“But we do need to. Discuss stuff.” Arthur swallows, starts pacing in front of the swing set, because he can’t just stand there and look at Eames with his heart in his throat.
Eames frowns at him. “What is it?”
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Arthur says in a rush, without thinking, without second-guessing himself.
“Right,” Eames replies carefully, “I’m well aware of this. Hence the break-up.”
“No, you don’t--it’s not--I can’t--”
“Look, you want me to take the blame for it? Is that what this is about? I’m used to it, people know I never last long in a relationship.”
A dull ache curls up deep in Arthur’s stomach. “I don’t want you to take the blame,” he says, and stops pacing right in front of Eames, their feet nearly touching. He looks at the smattering of hair over Eames’ slightly knobby knees, the way his sneaker keeps rolling over on its side, like a kid’s anxious tick.
Eames huffs loudly, digs both feet into the dirt. “Then what? What the bloody hell do you want from me? Just fucking tell me, and we’ll go home and be done with it and you’ll never have to lay eyes on me again for as long as you like.” He smirks around the words, but Arthur can hear the bitterness, the hurt that simmers below the surface.
Even after everything, he still thinks I hate him, Arthur thinks. But he still can’t make the right words come out. “I want--I-I want...”
Eames shakes his head, and it’s the look he gives Arthur that’s the breaking point, the moment of truth; all the longing and the frustration and anger, all of it is suddenly there in Eames’ eyes for Arthur to see, open and painfully honest. Or maybe it was always there and Arthur just didn’t know how to look.
Arthur doesn’t look away as he says, “I want you.”
Eames blinks. “For what?”
“To...date me. For real.”
He stares at Arthur, blank confusion slowly giving way to something much more complicated. “Right,” Eames finally snorts. “You’ll be my boyfriend, yeah? Try it out?”
“I’m serious.”
“Like hell you are. In what universe would I ever believe you’d actually want to--to be with me?”
“Maybe the same universe where you stick up for me when you don’t have to? Or the one where you get kicked off the football team just to defend my honor? Or how ‘bout the one where you kiss me like you mean it in front of your aunt and I carry your fucking taste around in my mouth for a goddamn week?”
A pink flush spreads over Eames’ cheeks. It gives Arthur hope. “What makes you think I want any of this to be real?” It’s not a denial, and that, too, makes Arthur’s pulse race faster.
He takes a step closer, until he’s standing over Eames, thighs pressed against Eames’ hips. Arthur reaches up and lays his hands over Eames’ on the chain links.
“You never wanted me to lose that student council election, did you?”
Eames’ eyes widen. “The stupid thing in junior high?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Did you actually want me to lose?”
“Those things are bloody meaningless, Arthur--”
“Did you?”
“Of course not! I just wanted your sodding attention, that’s all! That’s all I ever wanted from you.” He winces and attempts to look away, but Arthur grabs his chin.
“You have The Best of H.P. Lovecraft in your room.”
Eames gives a half-hearted jerk of his head. “So?”
“Have you read it?”
He can feel Eames swallow. “Twice,” Eames finally whispers.
Arthur whispers back, “I’ve got four fucking Joy Division albums on my iPod.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at Eames’ mouth. “Including Substance?”
“Found it on eBay from a guy in Scotland.”
“I have it on vinyl.”
“And it probably still sounds like shit.”
“No, it sounds like genius, you uncultured prat,” Eames says, fingers pushing ever so faintly against Arthur’s, which are still wrapped around his on the swing.
“I have discerning tastes.” Arthur suddenly feels ten pounds lighter, a warmth spreading like slow sunlight just beneath his skin. He bumps his knee against Eames’ leg, resisting the urge to grin like an idiot.
“That’s one way of putting it.” The hint of affection in Eames’ tone fades, his eyes growing serious. “What happened this morning?”
Arthur knows it’s a thinly veiled, What changed your mind about everything after kicking me out of your room? “My mom,” he says, simply, and gives Eames a tiny, sheepish grin.
And because he’s Eames--infuriating, obnoxious, brilliant, stupidly amazing Eames--he doesn’t need to say anything more. Eames just nods and replies, “Thought she liked me well enough,” and returns Arthur’s smile, only his is much more tentative, almost shy.
“She does. She thinks you’ll slay dragons for me.”
“Whoa, when did I become bloody Aragorn in this equation?”
Arthur barks out a laugh. “You fucking liar, I knew you’d read Tolkien!”
“I never said--”
“Mrs. Woodson’s English class, eighth grade--you told me fantasy was a waste of time.”
“I don’t remember including Tolkien in that statement.”
“You said hobbits were for ‘simple-minded people.’”
Eames tips his head up, his shy grin becoming brighter, wider. “Yeah, okay, I did. And it pissed you off, right?”
“I wanted to pound your face into your desk with an encyclopedia.”
He laughs through his nose, swinging forward to nudge his elbow into Arthur’s hip. “Sometimes you were just too easy.”
Arthur wants to kiss Eames, fall into him and hold on tight and not think about all the time he’s wasted--they’ve wasted--on fighting each other. Instead, he lets his thumb skim lightly over the back of Eames’ hand, watches in fascination as a pink blush spreads over his cheeks.
“That summer before freshman year, I wanted...something, anything from you,” Arthur whispers. “But then my dad’s accident happened, and I couldn’t deal with that and you, even though we weren’t--it wasn’t like we had anything between us, I just--”
“You don’t know long how I sat in my room, thinking of things to say to you, wanting to call you just to say I was sorry. But I was a fucking coward, and then school started and you never looked at me again, so I figured--I thought it was over. Whatever ‘it’ was.”
Arthur shakes his head, his thumb tracing the hard line of Eames’ wristbone. “You could’ve said something,” he says, knowing damn well he’s just as much at fault.
“Would you have listened to me?”
He sighs. “I don’t know.”
“I was afraid to have your attention after that summer. I didn’t want to know for certain that you hated me.”
“I never hated you.” It’s the truth; Arthur knows it now. He may have been angry and hurt and frustrated with Eames, but it was never hate. “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me...like always.”
Eames snorts, but he lets go of the swing and reaches out to curl his fingers into the front of Arthur’s shirt, tugging him closer. “All I’ve ever wanted since I was a kid was you,” he says, so softly it almost breaks Arthur’s heart.
He shuts his eyes and laughs shakily. “Fuck, you’ve got a really weird way of showing it.”
“So do you,” Eames says, and then he pulls Arthur down further until their lips meet.
It’s a kiss much like the one they shared in Eames’ room not very long ago, careful and slow and a little bit terrifying. Except this time they aren’t exhausted from fighting; Arthur’s not holding his breath, waiting for Eames to come to his senses and shove him away. This time Arthur slides his arms around Eames’ shoulders and holds on, kissing Eames like he belongs to him.
He feels Eames’ arms wrap around his waist, causing Arthur to stumble forward and nearly lose his balance. The swing takes their weight, swaying backward, and Eames laughs into the kiss, biting gently at Arthur’s lip.
“I’d, ah, take you up to my room and do this right, but--”
“‘Do this right’? Are you wooing me now or something?” Arthur smirks, fingers playing through Eames’ hair.
“Fuck off, I meant privacy, you bastard. But Rafe’s home, and god knows what he’ll do if he sees us--”
“He likes me, he said so. He already thinks we’re boning, so who cares?”
“Okay, one, never, ever speak about my brother thinking about me having sex, and two, you are positively romantic.”
“I’m a realist. I, for one, don’t think you’d slay dragons for anyone, let alone me.”
Eames hums, licking filthily over the line of Arthur’s teeth. “Maybe a small dragon,” he breathes into Arthur’s mouth.
Arthur shivers, wanting to feel Eames’ skin, taste him all over, hear him moan again. “C’mon, your brother can deal with it. Let’s go do this right, Romeo.”
“You’re such a little shit,” Eames mutters, kissing him hard one last night before shoving to his feet and hauling Arthur over his shoulder.
“Fuck, Eames! Jesus!” Arthur flails his arms out, laughing and breathless.
“What, is this not romantic enough for you?”
“You’re not carrying me into the house like this.”
“Actually, I think I am. It’ll be a good workout.”
“I’m not one of your fucking weights--shit!” Arthur frantically grabs onto the back of Eames’ shirt as Eames starts to sprint across the park, arms locked around Arthur’s thighs to hold him in place. By the time they get across the street and into the Hamilton’s front yard, Arthur’s dizzy from all the blood rushing to his head, and Eames is panting loudly. He dumps Arthur on the front steps and grins, flushed and far too proud of himself.
“You’re lighter than I thought you’d be,” he gasps when Arthur punches him in the bicep, hard. He’s grinning, too, but that’s beside the point.
“You suck at wooing.”
“There’s no need to woo.”
“Yeah? You sure about that?”
Eames runs the side of his thumb down Arthur’s cheek, kisses him almost chastely and whispers against his lips, “Mostly.”
Arthur leans into the touch, presses the tips of his fingers to the hollow at Eames’ throat and listens to the way Eames inhales sharply.
“C’mere,” he breathes, and then they’re kissing for real, deep and heady and full of unspoken intentions. Eames reaches blindly around Arthur and fumbles the front door open, backs them both through the foyer without ever letting Arthur up for air. They stumble into the bannister and Arthur murmurs, “Oof.”
“Sorry,” Eames laughs, sounding anything but. Arthur bites at his mouth in retaliation.
“Try not to kill me before this is over,” he replies, trying and failing to walk backward gracefully up the stairs while yanking Eames after him.
“I could carry you.”
“And I could kick your ass, so shut up and--”
“Oh my god, are you two making out in the hall?” Rafe yells from his room. “There are children present!”
It still amazes Arthur how much Rafe sounds like Eames, right down to the soft lilt of their accents, but what amazes him even more is how easily Rafe’s taunting makes Eames blush and fidget.
“Fuck off and die, you’re not a child, for fuck’s sake!” Eames yells back. They’ve stopped on the second floor landing, Arthur’s back flush against the wall and Eames’ hand splayed possessively over the dip of his waist.
Rafe sticks his head out of his room, raises an eyebrow at the two of them. The smirk he gives Eames makes him look way older than thirteen. “I could be traumatized from this,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. “I could be emotionally scarred for life, never to have proper intimate relationships, all because my wanker brother shagged his boyfriend on the stairs.” His eyes are wide, painfully earnest, and Arthur bites his lip to keep from grinning.
Eames, meanwhile, is not impressed with Rafe’s acting skills. He jabs a finger at him and says tightly, “You’re not being scarred for life, you’re being an obnoxious prat, and if you don’t fuck off, I’m telling Dad that you watched porn on his iPad.”
Rafe’s playful smirk instantly vanishes. “H-how’d you--”
“The bloody thing smells like Clorox wipes, Rafe. You figure it out. Now piss off.”
Rafe shoots him a deadly glare, but Arthur highly doubts anything will come of it. Knowing the way his older brother operates, they’re both all bark and no bite. Rafe pauses in the doorway of his room and says, “Seriously, Arthur, this whole family’s mental. You should get out while you still can.”
He slams the door shut, and Eames pushes his face into Arthur’s neck. “You see? I told you so.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Yeah, your life’s rough, dude. Luckily you have your own room on your own floor.”
Eames huffs, nosing his way up Arthur’s jaw. “Not my own floor, thank you very much. And to be fair, Rafe has the bigger room.”
“You have a car, though.”
“Touche’. And some day that little monster’s gonna have a girlfriend, and he’ll bring her home, and on that day my life will be complete.” Eames pulls Arthur away from the wall, backing him toward the stairs again.
“And you’ll embarrass the shit out of him?”
“Of course. It only seems fair.”
“Gee, hope this girl thinks it’s hilarious enough to want to stick around.”
They get to the door of Eames’ room, and Arthur presses him against the frame, tugging the neck of Eames’ shirt down to mouth at his collarbones.
“If he’s anything like me,” Eames says, “he’ll only let it get to him if he’s really, stupidly in love with her.”
Arthur goes very still and glances up. Eames is smiling, but his eyes are achingly serious.
“She won’t care, because--because she’ll probably be stupidly in love with him already,” Arthur replies, keeping his tone as light as possible while his hands skim down Eames’ arms.
Their fingers tangle together for a moment, and Arthur feels Eames’ thumb trace over his palm. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it, looking almost dazed.
“What?” Arthur asks softly.
Eames shakes his head. “Really?” It’s a real question. He honestly doesn’t know.
Arthur can’t help laughing in amazement. “Yeah, really. Since the day I met you, although god knows why--you said I turned pink like a girl.”
Cool fingertips cup his cheek, and he sighs when Eames presses their foreheads together. “I was not the smoothest ten-year-old,” he says.
“You really weren’t, but I can forgive you for it.”
Eames grins, sliding his hand back into Arthur’s hair. “You do flush awfully pretty, though.”
“Okay, fuck you,” Arthur growls, and drops Eames’ hand in favor of attacking his armpits in an all-out tickle warfare. He feels an intense personal victory to learn that Eames is indeed very ticklish--he yelps and shoves Arthur away as he opens the bedroom door. Arthur chases after him, tackling him onto the bed and pining his wrists to the mattress.
“That was completely ruthless,” Eames says, panting and attempting to frown. But he’s gone completely loose underneath Arthur, his shirt bunched up around his chest. Arthur’s knees slide against his bare skin where they’re braced on either side of Eames.
Suddenly all Arthur can think is, He’s really mine now.
“You’re just a sore loser.”
Eames’ gaze flicks down Arthur’s body, and Arthur’s maybe a little pleased he inadvertently threw on a cross county t-shirt from freshman year; it’s snug in the shoulders and the arms, reminding Arthur just how fucking skinny he was just a few years ago, before he started getting serious in the weight room. He’s got nothing on Eames, but it’s enough, especially when it makes Eames look at him like that, all hazy dark and hungry.
“I’m not a loser at all,” Eames breathes just before he leans up and licks slowly into Arthur’s mouth, pulling him down without even using his hands. They kiss like that for several long, lazy minutes, Arthur caging Eames against the mattress and Eames making no move to pull his hands free of Arthur’s hold. Their hips don’t connect, but Arthur can feel the heat coming off Eames’ body, can sense the faint shift in tension between them.
He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but Arthur hears himself murmur into Eames’ mouth, “You’re an ex-running back making out with a cross country guy. Some people might argue your loser status.”
He’s not expecting Eames to abruptly pull out of the kiss, red-mouthed and panting and so fucking gorgeous Arthur can hardly stand it.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Eames asks.
“Nothing, it’s just a joke. Forget it.”
“No.” He puts a hand against Arthur’s chest and pushes him back. “Why would you say that?”
“I just. I’m not--I’m not like the other guys you date. That’s all. I think that’s why when we started this whole thing, all your friends were kind of thrown by it.”
“My friends were thrown by it because they thought we hated each other,” Eames says, ducking away when Arthur tries to kiss him. “Is that what you thought? That I just date jocks because I play football and it’s expected of me?”
He doesn’t want to tell the truth, because there’s an uncomfortable swooping sensation in his stomach telling Arthur he’s possibly been a dick this whole time. He can feel his cheeks grow hot, and the tense, scrutinizing look in Eames’ eyes makes Arthur squirm and long be anywhere but laid out above him. “What was I supposed to think, huh? It’s not like you were running around with members of the debate team. You have a type, and that’s fine, that’s--”
“Fuck, Arthur, that’s not it at all.” Eames looks pained, frustrated. He shakes his head, then flips Arthur onto his back, lightning quick. Arthur blinks up at him as Eames sits back on his thighs, one hand splayed over Arthur’s stomach, pushing at his t-shirt.
“Did you ever wonder why the guys I’ve dated are all kinda alike?” he asks quietly, watching the movements of his hand.
“Not really,” Arthur lies. God, he does not want to be having this conversation right now. He feels far too bare underneath Eames, even though he’s still fully clothed.
“Yeah, you did, or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
Arthur huffs loudly, rolling his eyes. “Okay, they’re all jocks with double digit IQs, so what?”
“Well, yes, but...they also weren’t you.”
“What are you trying to say, Eames? Yeah, your exes weren’t me, fine, what does this have to do with us?” It’s hard to sound irritated when he’s shivering at the first touch of Eames’ palm against his skin.
“What I’m trying to say,” Eames replies pointedly, eyes never looking up from Arthur’s stomach, “is that it was all on purpose.”
Arthur gapes at him. “What?”
“They were all jocks, but they were also...empty. The only books they read were the required ones, and none of them knew my tattoo was even in Latin. They were all blond, big, and didn’t give a shit about anything but the next big game, and college was just wherever was closest so they could come back home to party.”
“But...but Brice isn’t--”
Eames shakes his head and gives a rueful laugh. “Brice is the closest thing to you I’ve let myself have,” he whispers. “I wouldn’t even admit to myself that he looked a lot like you, but he--he liked the same books and let me quote Shakespeare at him, and I just...I told you it was just a lark, and it was--just me tricking myself into thinking I could have a vague shadow of you.”
Arthur’s mind is racing, along with his heart. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you need to know that I’m not just going to mess around with you for a few weeks until I get bored,” Eames says. “I suck at relationships because I never wanted any of them--because they weren’t you.”
He thinks about all the little moments in the past when he’d see Eames in the halls, arm thrown around the shoulders of some stocky field hockey player, laughing at something the guy had whispered in his ear. Arthur had never allowed himself to think about it too much, but the idea, the fantasy, was always in the back of his mind; Eames pulling him close to kiss his temple, making some stupid joke just for the sake of making Arthur laugh.
He remembers the first time he’d kissed a guy, a sophomore on the cross country team. It was at a bonfire party and Arthur had been drunk, high on the adrenaline from winning a race that day, and as he’d opened his mouth to the kiss, his eyes had fluttered shut and his only thought was, Eames. He’d gone home angry and frustrated, jerked off in his room furiously and didn’t think about anyone at all.
“Does Brice know what your tattoo means?” Arthur whispers.
Eames finally raises his eyes to Arthur’s. “He never asked,” he replies, and pushes Arthur’s shirt the rest of the way up his stomach until it’s pooled around his chest. He wraps both hands around Arthur’s waist to hold him still as he leans down to place warm, damp kisses across his skin, tongue dipping down into Arthur’s bellybutton, making him gasp.
He doesn’t know what else to say except, “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” Eames breathes, licking at the fine trail of hair disappearing into Arthur’s shorts. Then he grins and adds, hooking one finger into the waistband, “Are these the same shorts you slept in?”
“Shut up, it’s Saturday,” Arthur mumbles, already breathless and hard.
Eames makes a pleased humming sound in the back of his throat. “You don’t dress properly on Saturdays?”
“I dress so that my fucking boyfriend has easy access to blow me,” Arthur shoots back without thinking. Immediately, he bites his lip. Fuck, he can’t say anything right, and they’re not at the point where he can call Eames that without it meaning something, and--
A warm gust of air hits Arthur’s cock. He looks down to find his shorts and underwear pooled around his thighs, and Eames is braced over his hips, staring down at Arthur’s erection and licking his lips.
“Your boyfriend appreciates it,” Eames drawls, smirking as he ducks his head and wraps his unfairly gorgeous mouth around the head.
Arthur’s never gotten head before now. He’s given it once, when he was fifteen, but it was horribly awkward and the guy never even came (by far the lowest point of soccer camp). He tries not to think about how many times Eames has done this, but it’s definitely been more than a few times, since the first press of Eames’ tongue against the underside of his cock has Arthur gritting his teeth and moaning so loudly he knows Rafe can hear him.
“Fuck, Eames,” Arthur gasps. He struggles to push himself up onto his elbows so he can watch, because he has to watch, even if it kills him.
Eames pulls off suddenly, places a soft kiss to the wet slit. “Say that again,” he whispers, voice a couple notches deeper than normal.
Arthur swallows, lets his hips twitch off the bed. A bead of pre-come swells at the tip of his cock, and he watches, dazed, as Eames swipes his thumb through it. “God, Eames, I--”
“Always wanted to hear you say my name like that.” He isn’t looking at Arthur; all his attention is focused on one task, and the look in his eyes is almost hungry as he sucks Arthur back into his mouth, taking him deeper, Eames’ right hand curled around the base, jerking him in time with the pull of his lips.
Yeah, he’s done this more than a few times. Arthur wants to hate every single guy who’s ever had this, who’s ever seen Eames all flushed and his mouth all slick and puffy, but none of that matters now--this is all for him.
He tries to hold on for as long as he can, alternating between obsessing over the wide splay of Eames’ left hand against his hip, the stretch of his shiny lips around his cock, and the way his cheeks hollow in and out with every bit of suction. But it’s the blissed-out, utterly contented softness in Eames’ face that really gets to Arthur, how much Eames wants this.
The heat builds low in his stomach too soon. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, gasps, “Fuck, sorry, I’m gonna come, just--”
But Eames actually smiles around Arthur’s cock and doesn’t pull off, doesn’t move at all except to possibly take Arthur even deeper into his mouth, and that--jesus fuck--
With a strangled gasp, Arthur comes hard, hips arching off the bed and his hands clawing at Eames’ comforter. Eames holds on, swallows everything, and when the rush finally passes and Arthur can breathe again, he lets Arthur slip gently from his mouth.
A slick, wet trail stretches from Eames’ lower lip to the head of Arthur’s cock. He meets Arthur’s eyes, starts to wipe it away, but Arthur groans, “Wait,” and reaches up to wipe his fingers through it.
It’s possibly the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.
“That wasn’t just for a lark, right?” Arthur asks, panting.
Eames shakes his head, crawling up Arthur’s body like a panther. His eyes are dark, and he’s gasping just as hard as Arthur. “I never swallow,” he whispers, and before Arthur can comment on that bit of information, Eames slams their mouth together, giving Arthur the unfamiliar, bitter-salt taste of himself. He kisses him fast and sloppy, frantic, his finesse suddenly gone, and that’s when it registers in Arthur’s foggy, post-orgasm brain that Eames is rubbing off against his hip.
Arthur breaks out of the kiss. “D’you want me to--?”
Eames laughs shakily, eyebrows pinched, almost like he’s in pain. “God, I want you to do everything, but I--I can’t, I need to--”
“Just do it,” Arthur breathes, wriggling out of his shirt and tossing it on the floor. He’s not even sure what he’s offering to Eames, but Eames groans, long and harsh, and seconds later he rears up and jerks his cock, coming all over Arthur’s chest.
Okay, so maybe that’s the hottest thing Arthur’s ever seen in his life. Or maybe just the hottest thing he never knew he wanted to see.
Eames’ shoulders shake after his orgasm fades. He slowly opens his eyes, frowns for a moment at the mess on Arthur’s skin, then grins sheepishly. “Um. I didn’t exactly mean for that to happen.”
Arthur snorts as he tucks himself back into his shorts. “You didn’t mean to come?” He feels light, punch-drunk happy, a warm buzz at the back of his brain.
“I meant the, ah. Impromptu porno shot.” Eames scrambles off Arthur’s thighs, awkward and loopy after just coming. Arthur grins a little too much as he watches Eames dig a Kleenex box out of his nightstand.
“Yeah, I’m totally offended,” Arthur drawls when Eames hands him a couple of tissues. “You’re a disgusting pervert, how dare you come all over me and be hot as shit.”
Eames pauses, and for a moment Arthur thinks he’s actually upset him. He glances up tentatively, only to find Eames looking at him with a wondrous expression in his eyes.
“You’re staying, right?” Eames asks softly. “Here, with me? You’re not gonna run off.”
He doesn’t have anything else to do for the rest of the day, and it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon. If Arthur had his way, he’d never leave this bed. “Don’t have anything better planned.”
“Good, then I’m holding you hostage. We’ve got to work on your musical education when it comes to late seventies British punk rock, and I’ve got a fuckload of vinyl to inflict upon you.” Eames says the words in between kissing Arthur’s mouth, headless of the come slowly drying on Arthur’s chest.
“Jesus, let it go already,” Arthur grumbles, but he cups the back of Eames’ head and pulls him down until they’re tangled around each other on the bed, unhurried and lazy with their kisses. Eames’ arm curves around Arthur’s waist, and after a while it almost feels like a hug. Arthur rolls half onto his back, locking both arms around Eames’ neck as he nuzzles his way over his jaw. He loves the feel of Eames’ weight pressing into him, solid and real.
He loves knowing he can want this and it’s okay.
Eames sighs into the slope of Arthur’s neck, a warm, comforting burst of air, and Arthur whispers, “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything you want.”
“What about Monday?” It’s the last thing Arthur wants to bring up, but he has to. He has to know for certain.
Eames sits up slowly, one arm braced over Arthur’s chest. He tilts his head to one side, eyes narrowed, like he’s trying to read every one of the thoughts that keep racing through Arthur’s head. He reaches up, brushes the hair off Arthur’s forehead, the corner of his mouth quirked in a faint smile.
“Monday’s just another day, mate,” he whispers back, and Arthur laughs.
the end ♥