He nods. “What is it?”
Eames grins at this, “take this lime,” he says, handing him a quarter of a lime. “Put it in your mouth and leave a little sticking out; it'll help me out later.”
Arthur tries his best not to look like a lost puppy, but by the laugh that Eames lets out, it probably didn’t work. “Okay,” he replies.
It happens in slow motion for Arthur. Eames, leaning down with the shot glass in hand, coming closer to his stomach as the seconds tick by. His tongue darts out and slowly, so fucking slowly, he licks up the strip of salt, and Arthur doesn’t bother hiding the groan that bubbles deep in his throat at this, because fuck. Once he reaches the end of the salt, his lips linger for a half a second before he quickly knocks back the shot glass.
And before Arthur can even realize what’s happening, Eames’ lips are shooting toward his, grabbing the lime with his teeth, and he’s pretty sure he hears a growl in Eames’ throat as he takes the lime from him. It's possibly the hottest thing to happen to Arthur, ever. He feels lips on his, for a small fraction of a second, and it’s enough to make his knees go weak.
Eames cuts him off, after removing the lime from those beautiful, plush lips. “Your turn, darling.”
Really, Arthur thinks, to hell with the turns, because all he wants to do is run his tongue along Eames’ body, and possibly his dick too, and maybe other places that he can’t name right now because he just wants.
So he does the only logical thing he can think of: he lunges for Eames and smashes their lips together.
Eames, as Arthur is discovering quickly, is a very thorough kisser, and his tongue feels absolutely delightful pressed against his own. Arthur has only kissed a handful of people, and it’s not because of being involved in Disney, but rather because he likes to choose who he plays tongue hockey with carefully. It’s a sketchy business, the one that he’s so involved in, and he doesn’t want to take any chances.
Eames is worth taking chances on; he's worth taking a lot of chances on, now that Arthur thinks about it.
He’s never been kissed like Eames is kissing him, who is kissing him with such force and ferocity that it’s making his stomach churn, and every time their tongues brush against each other, Arthur fights the urge to push him back into a wall and to just take him. There's something about being tongue fucked by this British man that makes Arthur go absolutely insane, makes his cock just that much harder, makes his eyes a little more lust-crazed.
His mouth tastes like hints of citrus, old tobacco, and there’s the slightest note of tequila there that makes Arthur’s toes curl and makes his heart beat just a little bit faster. This may also be the reason why his fingers force their way onto Eames’ shirt, holding it tightly and pulling it close, their bodies lining up together so he can feel Eames' hard muscle pressed against his lithe, thin lines.
Their clothed erections brush, and he's happy when both of them groan in simultaneous pleasure. The fact that Eames is enjoying this as much as he is makes Arthur all the more turned on.
“You’re so bloody fit,” Eames breathes against his mouth, and he doesn’t try to stop the whine that forces its way out through his closed lips, because fuck, that accent does a number on him like nothing ever has.
“I love it when you talk British to me,” Arthur remarks offhandedly, dazed, not really knowing what he’s saying anymore.
Eames laughs at him and he sounds nothing but fond.
Arthur might be a little drunk now that he thinks about it, because the world is spinning slightly, his head feels too heavy (but he’s not stopping this for anybody), and the room is steadily getting hotter.
Arthur’s fingers are undoing buttons before he can even recognize what he’s doing; he doesn’t make a move to stop them. The appreciative noise that Eames makes when Arthur’s fingers brush against the hot, too hot, skin gives Arthur a burst of confidence and he pushes the shirt off of Eames’ shoulders, exposing ink.
"You're beautiful," Arthur breathes, because he is, and all Arthur wants to do is run his tongue along the planes of Eames' stomach and shoulders. He wants to suck marks in the creases of muscle and possibly lick a line up his cock, just to taste everything.
“Arthur,” he breathes, and he sounds like sex, he smells like sex, he is basically the picture of sex, and Arthur knows that he’ll have jerk off material for the rest of his fucking life. He pushes closer, wanting to intrude the man’s space like he wanted to intrude his body.
Once Eames’ shirt is off of his body, Arthur steps back to appreciate the view (who knows when he’ll get this chance again; he’s going to fucking devour it), and he’s pleased with what he sees. Eames’ skin is tan, thick, and rich with strong muscles and dark tattoos, and his chest is covered in sparse, light-colored hair. He’s never been so turned on by the thought of chest hair before, that Arthur might find this a little revolting, but it’s Eames, and it’s there, and it’s lovely.
He runs his fingers over the lines of dark ink, which elicits noises out of Eames that should only be acceptable in porn movies. He sounds as delicious as he actually is, and Arthur is suddenly dumbfounded by the fact that this impossible man actually wants him.
He wants him in a way that might possibly put Arthur’s ass by his cock; to give him the opportunity to get fucked like he hasn’t in a while.
The thought itself makes Arthur groan, hot and low, easy in his throat. This causes Eames to slam him against the nearest wall, pushing, teasing, and tasting everything that he can, pulling, twisting, learning Arthur’s body in a way that no one ever had.
It makes him weak at the knees so he wraps his legs around Eames’ waist, even though he’s positive that Eames could keep him up on his own because those fucking muscles were the size of Arthur’s head alone.
The Brit’s breath hitches, his fingers faltering slightly on Arthur’s skin, his cock leaping against his thigh where it’s currently pressed.
Arthur’s confidence shoots through the roof.
“Yeah?” Eames asks, twisting his fingers around Arthur's hair, pulling slightly. Arthur moans low, appreciative, discovering a kink that he never knew he had. Something in his eyes must’ve screamed more, because he pulls tighter, with no compromise and more drive. Arthur’s mouth waters.
“You want me to?” He asks again, his tongue tracing shapeless figures on his skin, leaving it unbelievably hot in its wake.
Arthur nods, “I do,” he forces out, because there’s not much a man can say when he has a hot, unforgiving tongue against his throat and a hand twisted in his hair.
“Tell me how much,” Eames’ voice is hot, and slow, deep and rugged, and it’s like nothing Arthur’s ever heard before. It undoes him to the core, makes him fall apart, his cock leaking pre-come in his trousers.
There’s still the pleasant, but distant, burn of the alcohol in his mouth and his mind races to what it would be like licking tequila off of Eames’ cock; the thick, uncut member against his tongue, flat against his taste buds.
Arthur meets Eames’ eyes. “Fuck me like a whore.”
Eames’ breath falls from his mouth in quick bursts and his teeth sink into Arthur’s neck a little painfully, with bated pleasure beneath the surface. He’s never felt anything like this, which is to be expected when you’re not as sexually experienced as Eames probably is. It’s a thought that makes him jealous, but turns him on more than he could ever imagine.
“Fuck,” he growls, and soon Eames and Arthur are naked, save their boxers, and there are miles of tan skin with black ink curling around the harsh muscle. There’s something about Eames’ body that makes Arthur’s mouth water; something that makes him want to just fucking maul the man like a bear after hibernation.
There’s something about Eames that drives Arthur absolutely wild, and he’s loving every second of it.
“Wanna fuck you till you can’t walk no more,” Arthur whimpers as Eames touches a very sensitive part of his stomach with his tongue. It feels heavenly.
Eames tongue vibrates along his skin as his body writhes in pleasure, and he’s never done anything quite like this before, with a man that’s twice the size of him and can pin him to the bed, no questions asked. A man that can, no doubt, crush his body like a twig with so much as a simple flex of muscle. A man that could, no doubt, mark Arthur's body more harshly than anyone ever has.
The thought makes Arthur’s cock leap against where it’s pressed against Eames’ leg.
“Fuck, can’t wait to have your cock in my mouth,” Eames says throatily, his voice deep and velvet smooth.
Arthur can’t stop the high-pitched mewl that bubbles in his throat and escapes his lips.
“My pretty little cock-slut,” Arthur whispers, his voice possessive; Eames was his, his, his.
His eyes go dark, darker than he’s ever seen them before; they’re like glistening sapphire gems and his mouth goes slack, creating a morphed version of an ‘o’.
“Arthur, fuck,” Eames whispers brokenly, like this is killing him -- and it probably is, fucking a Disney Channel kid, because if word got around about this, Eames would probably never be able to live it down -- and he ruts shamelessly against his leg. “You can’t just say shit like that to me,” he says.
Arthur’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline, suddenly intrigued. “Why is that?”
Eames narrows his eyes at him, pulling Arthur’s body close before wrapping his fingers in his hair again, pulling hard. “Don’t sass me, boy,” he snaps, but there’s no heat in his voice, only naked arousal.
“Daddy,” Arthur whimpers, and he can feel Eames go rigid. “Teach me a lesson.”
When Eames gains his composure, he smacks Arthur’s ass once. He moans, deep and throaty, and it’s possibly the best his ass has ever felt. He never thought he’d be one for the spanking kink, but there’s something arousing about the way the skin tingles afterwards that he can’t get enough of.
“You think I should?”
Arthur nods, “I’ve been a bad boy.”
Eames squints again. “You’ve been messin’ about with those big boys, haven’t you?”
“Muscles, tattoos, facial hair, the whole lot, daddy.”
Eames shivers at this. “I’m going to need to fuck you into shape."
Arthur shakes against his body, placing open-mouthed, slack kisses-- which aren't even kisses anymore, they're just the pressing of lips, wet, and sticky, lubed slick with his saliva—against Eames’ throat.
“You think I should do that?” Eames asks, his fingers curling possessively around Arthur’s hip, portraying the message that he isn’t about to go anywhere soon, and he’s more than okay with this.
“I think you should,” he replies, “teac-”
He’s cut off by being thrown down on the bed, his body bouncing off of it, and he can’t help but whimper at the pure strength that Eames has.
“Cage me in, daddy. Make me feel it,” Arthur says.
He wants to get fucked; he wants to feel the come sliding down his legs because it can’t fit in his abused hole anymore. He wants Eames to get so rough that he can’t walk for at least a week, but mostly he wants Eames to mark him so he can remember who he belongs to in the first place.
“Mark me,” Arthur whispers, and it might be the way that his eyes twinkle when the older man leans forward, but the next thing he knows, his hair is getting pulled roughly, hard, with no compromise and all take, and Arthur hasn't felt anything better.
“Fuck,” Arthur groans, shameless, rutting into his hand like he’ll die if he stops. Part of him knows that he probably would.
“You like that?” Eames asks, his fingers bruising the skin they pass, but this is what Arthur wants. He wants to be marked, branded, and utterly fucked by this man. He wants every shameless thing done to him. He wants to be pressed between Eames’ body and the sheets, being fucking until his hole can’t stand it anymore, until his thighs shake with too much exertion. He wants no give, no compromise. He wants brute strength and power. He wants to be fucking owned.
“Own me,” he admits.
Eames growls, rough and instinctive, deep in his throat. The sound alone makes Arthur’s hips jerk, makes pre-come fall from his heavy cock that’s resting on his belly. He gives it a pull, conveying the message to ‘hold the fuck on’, because he wants Eames’ cock so badly his ass can taste it.
“So young,” Eames whispers, his tongue curling around Arthur’s bicep, worshiping the skin beneath it. “So pretty,” his tongue presses flat against one of his nipples now, and he makes a whining noise deep in his throat, losing everything resembling control (and if he’s honest with himself, it’s been gone for a long while now). “So mine.”
Pre-come sprouts at his cock again, and he’s not even embarrassed by how wet his boxers are already.
“Brand me,” he says slowly.
The other man growls and pushes his further into the bed. “Daddy’ll make this feel good, kitten, promise,” he purrs.
Eames, like Arthur had discovered with the kissing, is amazingly good at giving head. He’s amazingly good at everything, Arthur infers, because fuck, there’s not been a thing that Eames hasn’t been experienced in, and the thought alone leaves his cock leaping in his mouth.
Eames smirks, and reaches to pet Arthur’s pubic hair. “Such a good boy for me, baby,” and it should sound sleazy, like every porno he had ever watched, but there’s something about the way that Eames’ voice curls around the words and tugs. It has his mouth watering.
He reaches down with a shaking hand, and pets Eames’ hair, too drunk on lust and booze to wrap his fingers in it like he wants to, to pull hard and show Eames that he can take control too.
Eames pulls himself off of his member with a sickening ‘pop’, and looks up at Arthur, mouth slick with pre-come and saliva. He looks utterly fucked, and they’ve not come yet. Arthur totally has the right to feel smug about this, so he doesn’t stop himself.
Eames growls, “think you can control me, do you?”
Arthur curses, “fuck,” and then thrusts his hips into the Brit’s this-should-be-in-a-porn-movie mouth, successfully shutting him up. “I’m in control here,” he mewls, trying to sound harsh, but he only sounds breathless.
Eames doesn’t even gag, the bastard. “Mm,” is all he says.
He thrusts his hips in deeper, and it’s then that he realizes that the vibrating around his cock is the other man moaning. “Like it when I choke you, daddy? You like it good, don’t you?” He whispers, and thrusts again, this time deeper, harder, and Arthur knows that he’ll have a bruised throat tomorrow. But by the sounds coming out of Eames’ mouth, he absolutely loves it.
He thinks this is supposed to be his name and he doesn’t care; he thrusts again, almost choking him. Eames is loving it. He’s shaking against Arthur’s body, and if he's barricades Arthur in a little tighter, his teeth scraping against his cock a little harsher, he doesn’t say anything.
Too good to stop, Arthur thinks hazily, too good, much too good.
Eames pulls off of his cock then, and Arthur whines. “The only way you’ll come,” he says slowly, using the same voice that he had with the shots, and his toes curl. “Is if my cock is buried deep inside you."
Arthur’s hips jerk up into Eames’ own, and they both moan as their unclothed erections brush.
It’s possibly the best feeling in the world. Next to penetration, of course.
“Again,” Arthur breathes.
The other man obliges him, either because he likes the feeling just as much as he does -- and judging from the groan that it elicits from him, this is highly possible -- or because he likes seeing Arthur’s mouth go slack, his eyes go half-hooded and needy, just like the rest of him.
Something grows inside Arthur, something hot, and uncontrollable. Something that unnerves him to the core, and it takes a second to realize that Eames’ fingers are dancing around his hole, the tips pressing in every few beats. Arthur’s breath falters.
Eames takes this as a sign of discomfort, and he pulls his fingers away. He whimpers from the loss. “You okay, kitten?”
Arthur nods. “Yes,” he says, short, and to the point, and if he takes Eames’ hips and thrusts them down to meet his own, well, no one can exactly blame him. “Fucking do it again,” his breath is caught in his throat, and he sounds young, so young, but he can’t help himself.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, and he’s sure he’ll go as far as begging to get Eames buried inside him to the hilt.
“Anything for you,” Eames says. It makes his heart jump in his chest; it makes a warm, prickly feeling spread throughout his body and he wonders how his body has the ability to feel so many fucking emotions when he’s a hop and a skip away from getting fucked.
Suddenly, too fast and too soon, but not nearly enough, there’s something slick and wet circling around his hole (Arthur didn’t even hear the bottle of lube opening, he didn’t even register that Eames had lube at all). It feels heavenly and he thrusts moves closer to Eames’ fingers, hoping to convey the message to ‘get them the fuck in there now’, and ‘stop dicking around’.
Eames, because he is a bastard and evidently likes making Arthur suffer, leans in close to his ear, his teeth scraping the skin there. "Tell daddy what you want," he says.
When Eames finally has Arthur stretched and ready, he’s dripping with come, and his whole body is shaking in anticipation. Arthur’s only been fucked by two people; the first was by someone he loved way too much, and the other was a drunk fuck, and they were both nothing like this. This is scorching hot, almost too much, but it’s dancing along the line of not enough, and he wants more.
The way the bigger man’s body feels pressed against his, pushing him down into the sheets and trapping him inside, is what Arthur had been dreaming about since he had first saw Eames in a movie. This is better than his fantasies because this is real.
“You ain’t a virgin, are you?” Eames asks, and Arthur thinks he meant to sound a little harsher than he came off, but all he sounds like is a little too fond and whole lot breathless.
Arthur shakes his head. “No, but it has been a while,” he offers. He figures this is one of those ‘better to let them know’ kind of situations.
Eames grunts, non-committal, and the sound sends a rush of hot lust to Arthur’s cock. “Fuck,” he whispers.
“That’s the idea,” he says, and it should sound corny, too ‘this-is-another-porn-movie’ and too soon, but it doesn’t. It sounds right, and it’s too sexy to comprehend for Arthur, and he pulls the bigger man on top of him, their hips lining up together nicely.
“How do you want it?”
Arthur bites his lip in consideration. He’s never faced someone before while getting fucked, mostly because the other party had never wanted it, and because missionary style, to Arthur, generally conveys an emotion that’s a whole lot stronger than lust.
Arthur breathes out and looks Eames in the eye, his eyes black with lust, half-hooded. His mouth waters. “However you want to take me,” he says.
Eames doesn’t say anything else. He grabs a condom from the side table -- when the fuck did that get there? Arthur doesn’t know, he didn’t even notice -- and grabs his hips forcefully, a touch possessive in the man’s fingers.
His free hand comes around to Arthur’s face, holding the packet in front of his mouth suggestively. He wants you to rip it open with your teeth, his mind supplies helpfully. This is what he does, making sure to keep eye contact the entire time, and he can’t help the slight whimper that leaves his throat.
Soon, Eames would be buried inside him, thrusting and giving Arthur everything that he’s been painfully away from for the last couple months. He needs this so badly that he’s not above shoving Eames in now.
He makes an appreciative noise, halfway between a grunt and a coo, and slips the latex over his waiting cock. He strokes it a few times, pulling at the head, and lifts Arthur’s leg over his shoulder.
He nods, all the words he planned on saying leaving his mouth, because the head of Eames’ cock was pressed against his entrance.
This is the final straw for the Brit who thrusts the head in fast, paying no attention to the ring of muscle that wants to stop him, and pushes steadily in until he’s buried to the hilt. It’s a little uncomfortable, but Arthur’s sure this is because Eames isn’t moving.
Eames obliges him and thrusts in harder, his hips stuttering every few thrusts with abandon, and he can tell he’s pushing that much closer to the edge, the edge of losing control completely.
Arthur desperately wants to see this, he thinks in his haze of ‘get-the-fuck-in-me-harder-now-fuck-s
“Arthur,” he drawls, the end of the word coming off as a breathless moan for the both of them as he hits Arthur’s prostrate. He sees stars, and bright light. “Fuck, you’re so good for me kitten, so, so good, so mine. Mine.” He’s rambling now and Arthur doesn’t mind because it only covers the slap of skin, and their harsh breathing. Both of which will make Arthur come way too soon. He wants to hold out until at least Eames does; he doesn’t want to fall apart without the other man.
From there on, it’s take, take, take for the both of them. Both of them desperately want to get off, and this is when Eames finally lets go of Arthur’s hips. “Touch yourself,” he says, quickening his pace, aiming for Arthur’s prostrate with every thrust.
He doesn’t miss once, and this leaves Arthur writhing beneath him, mewling, making noises he didn’t knew he could make, pulling on his cock desperately. He needs to come, has been needing to ever since they started this, and he doesn’t care about making Eames fall apart first anymore. He just cares about finishing this, needing to finish this.
“Eames, fuck, fuck I’m going to fuc-” his orgasm bubbles and blossoms, and all he sees is bright white and stars, and he closes his eyes because it’s too much to keep them open. Eames is shaking with his coming orgasm now, thrusting in sporadically.
Arthur doesn’t even realize that he’s coming until he opens his eyes and sees Eames’ mouth open wide, his eyes even wider, his body shuddering in the aftershocks of his orgasm.
He stays perched on his fists like that for a moment, and for a second he thinks he might stay like that for a long while, until he pulls out. It makes Arthur hiss because it’s always uncomfortable, and Eames lands with a soft ‘thud’ next to him.
They don’t say anything for a while, both of them in post-coital bliss, too fucked out and spent to say anything.
“Well,” he starts after a few moments, because he’s still a teenager, and he’s still fucking restless and can’t stay still for too long.
Eames chuckles. It’s throatier than usual and it makes Arthur more than a little smug. “Well?” He prompts, and Arthur’s pretty sure he’s trying for being amused, but he sounds nothing but too-sated-to-think.
“That was awesome,” Arthur replies, his vocabulary shot to hell.
“Mm,” Eames agrees, his fingers dancing along the contours of Arthur’s back. The touch is nice and sweet, and there are no sexual undertones to it, which makes Arthur shiver delightfully.
Arthur wonders what to do now because he’s never been quite good at this. With his ex-boyfriend, this had been easy; they would fuck and get off, and then they’d cuddle in the bed together for a couple of hours talking about nonsense before they eventually fell asleep. Even with that one one-night-stand he had, he was too drunk and he had passed out as soon as the sex was over.
This is different, Arthur knows, because Eames is looking at him in a way that suggests that he wants Arthur to stay, and he might just give into him for as long as he wants, if that is what he wants.
“You can stay the night,” Eames says, as if reading his mind. He doesn’t doubt for a second that he can, because it seems like Eames is unable to do anything. “I’m pretty sure Ariadne left a long while ago, and you don’t have any other way.”
Arthur nods, not needing an excuse. “Alright,” he says, “I can move to the gue-”
Eames cuts him off, looking a little incredulous, but there’s a hint of something fond underneath it, and it warms Arthur’s insides. “Stay here.”
And he does.
When he wakes up in the morning, he’s sweaty and sticky, and his mouth tastes like old copper and rotting flesh. He’s not sure what to think of this, but he turns his head back into the pillow that’s beneath him and finds that it grunts. His head is pounding furiously and he’s too afraid to open his eyes because he’s pretty sure he has a hangover, and he can tell he’s not anywhere familiar just by the smell.
Fuck, he thinks, he’s probably fallen asleep on his neighbor’s back lawn again (don’t ask why this happens frequently, he honestly doesn’t know, nor does he care to know), and tries to get up, but then he remembers the grunting pillow.
This grunting pillow isn’t a pillow, it seems, because it has chest hair and a sprinkling of a musky smell.
“Arthur,” the voice whispers. Suddenly he remembers, the memories coming back like a landslide: Eames drinking shots off of his belly, Eames offering the touch of his fingers and his cock, Arthur being slutty for it, Eames offering him the night here, and Arthur taking it.
“Eames,” he grumbles, his voice is a deep rumble from sleep and he still doesn’t want to open his eyes. “Head hurts.” Eames chuckles, the action sending vibrations straight to Arthur’s skull. “Now it hurts worse,” he moans.
“It’s in the first drawer on your left.”
Arthur doesn’t want to think about what this implies, and instead goes searching for the pain medication. When he finds it (eyes still closed, thank you), he knocks three back and offers it to Eames. “Want some?”
“No,” he hears him answer, but soon his hand is devoid of a bottle and his pillow is gone too.
“Hey,” Arthur calls, but his voice sounds weak even to his ears, “get back, you grumbling pillow.”
This elicits a laugh out of Eames, bright and lovely, and it almost makes Arthur open his eyes. “You’re quite an adorable little bastard when you’re hungover, aren’t you?”
Arthur shrugs, “s’guess,” he says. He doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore, but he’s not quite sure if he ever did.
After a few minutes, when the pain medication finally starts doing the trick, he opens his eyes and finds coffee (black) on the table by the bed for him. He takes it gratefully, even if Eames isn’t in the room -- he smells pancakes, where are the pancakes -- and gulps it down.
“In here, love!” He assumes Eames thinks that he knows where ‘here’ is, but doesn’t comment on it, and instead snoops around the house in the time it takes to actually find him.
There are pictures on the wall, not pictures you’d expect, but they clench at Arthur’s heart in a way that he can’t explain. There’s a picture of him with a Black Labrador who is almost cuter than Eames is, a picture of him with a palm looking way too excited, and a picture of Eames and a woman that resembles him too much to just be a coincidence.
He finds plenty of books scattered on Eames’ table, along with various red cups and food from last night, and he resists the almost irresitable urge to start cleaning.
Arthur’s a fan of organization, and always has been. He was the child that would clean his room without being asked, he had two planners; one for school and one for his activities outside of it, and he even had his clothes arranged by what they were, then by what color they were, etc.
He isn’t ashamed of this, mostly because he’s still like this, and partly because people generally find it adorable.
“There you are,” Eames says around a mouthful of food. Pancakes, his mind supplies helpfully, because as soon as the smell hits his nose, his stomach is hungry for it.
“Sorry,” Arthur shrugs, even though he’s not, and takes the proffered pancake on a fork that he just noticed.
Eames grins, “yeah?”
He nods; it’s possibly the most delicious pancake ever. He shouldn’t be turned on by this, but he’s always been a fan of food, and he’s a teenager, and there’s the fact that he’s probably had a hard-on since he woke up, but just realized this.
He looks down and realizes that Eames is naked. “You’re naked,” he muses.
The older man raises an eyebrow, looking amused. “I always cook nude,” he says, “it’s a rather freeing experience.”
Arthur finds this incredibly hot, but he’s come to terms with the fact that he’ll probably find everything Eames does attractive.
When he checks his phone, he has thirty-five missed text messages, twenty-missed calls, and thirteen voicemails. He tries to act surprised, but he’s really not.
“Someone was eager to get a hold of you,” Eames says, peering over his shoulder.
Arthur shrugs, knowing that they’re all from Ariadne. “It’s Ariadne, I kind of deserted her last night.”
From: Ariadne @ 12:55 A.M.
Arthur where are you
From: Ariadne @ 12:59 A.M.
ARTHUR DID YOU DIE
From: Ariadne @ 1:20 A.M.
(She was obviously drunk at this point).
From: Ariadne @ 1:25 A.M.
omg are u with eam13es
From: Ariadne @ 2:01 A.M.
did u hit that
From: Ariadne @ 2:30 A.M.
Arthur blushes, especially because he knows Eames is reading too, but he seems not to be too put-out by the fact that Ariadne basically hinted at the fact that he wanted to fuck Eames even before they met.
He takes this as a small victory and suppresses the urge to fist pump.
“She’s an insistent little bird, isn’t she?”
Arthur shrugs, and kisses the side of the other man’s mouth, who melts into his touch, a soft inviting sound escaping from the back of his throat. “I don’t want to talk about Ariadne anymore.”
After that, they don’t talk much about anything.
Eames promises to call and Arthur leaves his house, somewhat giddy and a whole lot infatuated. Part of him thinks that the Brit might just back out.
Eames doesn’t call for a few weeks.
He tries not to be disappointed about this, but it’s hard to keep his mind on anything but him.
He’s since been released from the hands of Disney, and he actually shook their hands before leaving (it was hard, don’t let his politeness fool you), and has been regularly auditioning for roles. Roles which require a lot of concentration and build-up for auditions, and he’s had one-too-many breakdowns.
Ariadne is understanding of this, and she’s even more understanding of the Eames bit, too.
“Don’t fret it, Arthur,” she says, and she sounds like she pities him.
This annoys him, and he says as much.
“I don’t pity you,” she replies, and she sounds somewhat distracted, but this might just be Ariadne in general. “All I’m saying is to hang in there. Don’t count him out.”
He’s doubtful. “I don’t think so. It’s been three weeks, Ariadne. He would’ve called by now.”
He can picture her shaking her head on the other line, and he hears her annoyed sigh through the phone. “No, Arthur, just give it time. Haven’t you ever thought of the fact that maybe he doesn’t want to come to you too soon?”
Arthur bites his lip, but doubts this. “Maybe he finally realized that I’m a Disney star.”
Ariadne snorts. “Ex-Disney star,” she says.
“That may be, but it’s all anyone will see me as.”
“No, that’s not true. Shia Labeouf isn’t looked as a Disney star anymore,” she points out.
“He’s looked as a raging questionable-morals type of guy,” he sighs, “I’m not sure how that’s much better.”
“Yeah,” Ariadne agrees, “I guess you’re right. But seriously, hang in there.”
They talk for a few more minutes before they hang up, and he throws the phone into the couch.
He’ll try, he thinks, and he's not quite sure if he's trying for himself anymore.
When Eames finally contacts him, it’s a few days off of a month after they slept together.
“Hello, kitten,” he says into the phone.
He sounds drunk.
“You’re drunk,” he replies, and he’s more than a little disappointed at the fact that Eames isn’t even sober. It’s not like Arthur was expecting Eames to be this guy that would call him right away (he had been), or for him to be his knight that would inevitably save him from a life of doom in Hollywood (it did sound nice).
He wonders for a brief second if this is all he’s worth to Eames: a drunk fuck, a drunk phone-call, and maybe that he’s just never going to be the ‘right one’ for him. It would make sense, after all; their age difference is staggering. And while he’s never paid too much attention to numbers, mostly because math is ridiculous when it comes to something that is as priceless as love, it makes sense. He’s an ex-Disney star, someone who can seriously taint a more well-known actor’s career if they were even mentioned to be with him -- like Eames -- and there’s still the fact that he’s still a kid, and he still feels like a kid most of the time.
And as the thought that he might just not mean anything hits him, he’s almost sure that he is.
“S’not that darling,” he drawls, slurring his words, and his accent sounds messy and rushed. It’s not as attractive as it was when they were drunk a month ago. “I’m just tipsy,” he insists.
“Why are you calling?”
He imagines him shrugging nonchalantly, in only that way that Eames can, staring off into the middle distance as he does when he’s not sure what to say. He also imagines that when the Brit hangs up with him, he’ll probably laugh to his friends about how he has the latest ex-Disney star under his spell, how he’ll say ‘bend’, and Arthur will ask ‘how far’.
Neither of them are exactly appealing.
“That’s a silly question,” he breathes, and Arthur knows he’d probably say something more intelligent if he hadn’t been completely smashed. “I wanted to talk to you, my darling boy.”
“You’ve had a month,” Arthur begins, licking his lips almost instinctively. “I don’t understand why it took you so long.”
“Now, now, don’t get snappy on me,” it’s a joke, joke, joke. It’s always a joke to Eames. Everything is a joke to Eames. He wonders briefly if this is because Eames thinks this is all he’s really worth.
He doesn’t dote on it because it depresses him, but the more his mind sits on it, the more true it feels.
“I’m not getting snappy, I’m being curious.”
“Did you not want me to call?”
Arthur shakes his head, because this is the farthest from the truth; he always wants to talk to Eames. “No.”
He can hear Eames’ sloppy smile on the other end, and he imagines that one night where they laid beneath the sheets, wrapped up in each other and the blankets, sharing sacred smiles and secret touches.
“Such a good boy you are, Arthur,” he whispers.
And Arthur doesn’t know what to say after this, so he hangs up because for some reason in that moment, not talking to Eames is better than talking to him at all.
“Arthur, you have to call him back,” Ariadne says, a few days later, after he told her what happened.
He knows that he needs to because he’ll never forgive himself if he doesn’t, and he kind of misses Eames more than he’s ever missed anything. But his pride is getting in the way. It’s been a few days, and the other man hasn’t called back, drunk or not, texted, emailed, or even come to Arthur’s house (and he knows this is possible, everyone knows everyone and his address is accessible).
“I know,” he replies, because he doesn't want to go through a fight with her about something that they both know is inevitable.
“Then do it,” she replies, “it’s obvious that he isn’t going to take the next step until he’s intoxicated again, and you don’t want that to happen.”
She’s right, and he knows she’s right, but he doesn’t want to do something that’ll ultimately cause him pain in the end. “What if that’s all I am to him, Ari?”
Ariadne sighs into the phone, much like she did that one night when he was nervous over Eames never being a part of his life anymore, and he knows what’s coming. It’s one of her lectures, one of the lectures that he’s grown to hate, but appreciate all of the same. It’s the lectures that somehow make him look like an idiot even though he knows he’s being smart, and he somehow can’t hate her for this.
“You’re not just something drunk to him, Arthur,” she replies, and then she sounds like she’s contemplating telling him something.
“Tell me,” he replies.
“What?” She sounds surprised.
“You sound like you’re holding something back from me, tell me.”
He knows she will. “I wasn’t going to tell you this because I didn’t want to get your hopes up in the beginning, but after you guys slept together, he looked...better than I had ever seen him before.”
He blinks. “That’s because he got fucked, Ariadne. Most people look better after they’ve shoved their dick into something other than their hand.”
She snorts. “Arthur, be rational here,” she pauses, for a moment. “He looked... he looked happy, and that’s something I can honestly tell you that he hadn’t been before that night. It wasn’t just because he fucked someone, it was because... well, I don’t know exactly, Arthur, but people don’t smile at everything because they ‘stuck their dick into some place.’”
He flicks the piece of paper he’s been toying with for the last half-hour between his fingers. “We’ve only known each other drunk,” he points out.
“And maybe, Arthur, that’s all he thinks he’s worth.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why do you say this?”
“It takes two to tango-” she cuts herself off, with an annoyed sigh, and he imagines she’s probably waving her hands in a chaotic motion, like he’s actually there in front of her. “All I’m saying, Arthur, is that the only time you’ve known him is when you were drunk, right? And it takes two to make conversation. Maybe he’s not contacting you because he thinks that you only see him as a drunk fuck.”
He laughs, because that is absolutely ridiculous. “That’s insane, Ariadne. He’s a grown man. I’m sure he can tell the difference between blatant interest and just wanting to get laid. I stayed, after all.”
He’s sure she’s close to giving up. “Fuck-” she murmurs, and something crashes. “Okay, I have to go, but try, Arthur, okay? You’ll regret it if you don’t.” And the line goes dead.
This seems like déjà-vu to him but he’s too tired to care and instead of calling him like he probably should, he decides it can wait another day, and sleeps.
When he finally does call Eames, it’s two days later, because he’s too afraid to do it before then.
He shouldn’t be acting like this because he’s fucking twenty-years-old in two weeks, and he’s a fucking adult, and he can almost drink legally, and this should automatically grant him the gift of being mature when it comes to this. But of course he’s not, because he’s Arthur, and he’s not nervous about reading big books or doing big assignments or trying out for roles, he’s nervous about calling a hot guy that he drunk fucked.
There’s something seriously wrong with his psyche, but luckily he doesn’t care enough on most days to take his hypochondriac ways too seriously.
Eames doesn’t answer until the fifth ring, and he doesn’t know what to take this as. “Hullo?”
His voice is thick with sleep, rusty and rough, deep, but still is velvet smooth somehow, and Arthur is suddenly struck by why it took him so long to answer. He doesn’t feel guilty for waking him up, but is thankful, because maybe he’ll be too hazed with sleep to hang up on him, for taking too long to call, or for even calling at all.
“Eames?” He asks, and then breathes out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “It’s me, it’s Arthur.”
There’s a pause, and the silence is deafening to his ears. Maybe, he thinks, this is a mistake, because if Eames was actually interested in talking to him, he probably would’ve answered him by now, and maybe he can still fake dialing the wrong number. Surely there are other Arthurs out there who just so happen to know a different Eames, hopefully.
“Arthur?” He asks, and his tone is disbelieving, but otherwise it’s level, and steady. He can’t detect anything else in it, but for as good as Arthur is at acting, he’s shit when it comes to reading people in general.
“It’s me,” he repeats.
There’s another silence, and he’s sure that it’s a mistake now. “I’m sorry-”
“Well this is-”
“Sorry, go ah-”
“No, you.” Eames replies, cutting him off.
Arthur gulps. “I’m sorry,” he replies.
“Whatever for?” He sounds bewildered, and Arthur tries not to find this endearing.
“For hanging up on you the other night,” he says.
“Oh, that’s okay,” he says, and it sounds like it’s not.
“I just couldn’t stand to talk to you drunk...” he trails off.
“When I’d rather talk to you sober.”
Eames doesn’t say anything for a long time after that, and Arthur doesn’t know if it’s because he doesn’t know what to say, or because he’s letting the words sink in. With each second that ticks by, Arthur feels the small thread of hope that he’s holding on to slip further and further away from his grip. The ball is now completely in his court. He decides what happens next, and the reality of it all makes Arthur straddle the verge of a panic attack.
Generally, in situations like these, panic attacks are unwelcome.
“Arthur,” he eventually says, and his voice is steady and even, but there’s tightness to it that he’s never heard before.
“Don’t-” He cuts himself off. “Don’t say something that you don’t mean,” he replies.
Arthur blinks. “What makes you think that I didn’t mean it?”
Eames snorts out a laugh that’s humorless and bleak, and it undoes the netting in his chest. “Arthur, you’ve had all of a month to contact me,” he says.
“I know,” Arthur replies. “But you were the one who said you’d contact me-”
“Communication runs both wa-”
“What was I supposed to think when you called me drunk, Eames?” He snaps, because he didn’t know what to think when that happened, and that’s the whole problem.
“You called me drunk, Eames, so I thought that’s all I was worth to you,” he replies, trying to keep his voice steady, because god dammit, he was a fucking adult and he wasn’t going to let something like this derail him.
Eames chokes on a breath, and it makes his heart falter. “I don’t-” He cuts himself off again. “I called you drunk,” he starts.
“Yes,” Arthur agrees.
“Because I thought that was the only way you would have me.”
Arthur blinks. “Eames, you do realize that you’re dancing on the wrong line of forty, right?” He asks, and it’s not like he can’t understand where Eames is coming from, because he can, but the man is an adult and he doesn’t understand why he can’t tell that Arthur is actually interested.
“I’m steadily approaching midlife crisis, Arthur, thank you for reminding me,” he replies, his tone bleak.
“We’re fucking idiots,” Arthur breathes out.
“So you do admit that you were somewhat at fault here?” Eames asks, amused, and the light is back in his voice again, and Arthur realizes that yes, he very much does enjoy talking to him when he’s sober.
“Eames,” he snaps, “this isn’t the purpose of this conversation.”
He just breathes a laugh, one that’s more humor than anything else, and the fire returns to Arthur’s chest at this. “Just trying to shed some light,” he says dismissively, and he imagines him throwing a flippant hand, maybe shrugging his shoulders.
Arthur’s struck with just how much he wants to see Eames again.
“Are-” He tries again, because his voice is going to be even, and he’s not going to let Eames think that he’s some petty teenager here; he’s really not. “Are we okay?”
“I’d think so,” Eames replies after a few seconds, and he lets out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. “The only thing I suggest, Arthur dearest, is that we actually try this whole ‘communication thing-” he’s definitely using air quotes at this point; he’s also mocking by this point, too. “-because it’s going to be the foundation of our relationship.”
Arthur raises his eyebrows. “So now we're suddenly in a relationship?”
Eames coughs, “I assumed that is what this was.”
“It is,” he confirms, and he hears a breathless chuckle, and what sounds like a sigh of something that resembles relief in answer. “I’m just a little upset at the fact that there are no extravagant fireworks, or confetti, or the fact that no one has cried yet.”
“Arthur, you do realize that your life is not actually a Disney Channel movie, right?”
Arthur glares at the phone, contemplates throwing it at the wall, but then decides it’s much too expensive for that. “Fuck off,” he replies, good-natured enough.
“I suppose,” Eames says, “this is the part where we admit our love for each other.”
He goes silent just to mess with him, just to spite him.
“-or, I guess we could always take it one day at a time,” he adds.
And that sounds pretty fucking brilliant to Arthur, so he agrees.