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The party is loud, and crowded, and everything Arthur hates. He drinks more horrific punch.
"Why are we here?" Ariadne trips over to him, sitting down heavily on the empty couch cushion next to him. She looks lovely when she's been drinking - her curls get curlier and her cheeks get pink. Arthur is resting with his head on the back of the couch - he lets it fall over to look at her. She matches his pose. They smile at each other, misty and drunk.
"I think you said something about enriching your college experience." He's distantly impressed that he's not slurring yet.
"Okay. I'm pretty sure I'm enriched now. Dear Mommy, today I learned that frat boys are really fucking stupid. Can we go home now?"
Arthur laughs, low in his throat.
"You can leave, if you like. Take my car."
"I don't think I can drive."
"Then come home with me."
She hums.
"Promises, promises."
"We'll take a taxi. I'll pick up my car tomorrow."
Ariadne has just gotten her coat when there's a sudden crash by the staircase. They both look to see a very drunk frat boy climb up from the remains of the beer pong table, having apparently fallen from the stairs onto it. He's wearing a polo in a truly horrific shade of orange, and his frat buddies pull him onto his feet with only slight belligerence at having ruined their game. The frat boy laughs, loud and warm, and looks around him as he brushes himself off (pointlessly - beer doesn't brush off). Arthur is pretty sure they see each other for a moment, and when their eyes meet he's suddenly and painfully aware of how much he doesn't fit here.
"Who's that?"
Arthur's hand is on the small of Ariadne's back - he's not sure when that happened. He shrugs.
"Some idiot. Let's go home."
~
Arthur doesn't take Ariadne home - he has the taxi drop her off at the front door of her dorm. She spends the short ride with her nose buried into his collar.
She sighs into his shirt when he tells her where they are, and Arthur can feel her lips move through the fabric. She sits up before he decides if he wants to move or not, and the smile she gives him is simultaneously sleepy and completely endearing. She runs a hand through the mess of her hair and murmurs a goodnight, then slides out of the car. Arthur stays until he sees her wobble through her front door, then gives the cab driver his address. He leans his against the window and closes his eyes until he feels the car stop.
His house is dark, but he makes the long walk to his bedroom without turning on the lights. He runs his hand along the wall, feeling the familiar ridges in the paint that tell him when he's going to hit a corner. He falls asleep to the sounds of night coming through the open window, in a bed that's far too large for one person.
He falls asleep quickly and dreams in fragments - of lips pressed against his collar and a loud and bright laugh.
~
The sun is far too bright in the morning. Arthur pulls out his sunglasses as he steps out of the cab to cut the glare. He looks around for his car for a moment, thankful when he spots it that it isn't covered with eggs or spray paint or something else ridiculous. He's about to step into it and leave when he sees someone lying on the front lawn.
He thinks about leaving. He wants to leave. But in case they're hurt, he walks over, just to check.
He's only half surprised when he sees it's the frat boy from last night, the one with the balance problem. He seems to have lost last night's atrocity of a shirt, but unfortunately he also seems to have lost everything else in the way of clothing. Arthur glances over him, briefly distracted by his muscular everything and the vaguely tribal curl of black ink on his shoulder. Arthur pokes him gingerly with his foot, hoping he isn't dead. He doesn't want to have to deal with dead, drunk frat boys when he has a hangover.
Thankfully, the frat boy isn't dead, just asleep. He grunts when Arthur nudges him a little harder than strictly necessary (okay, maybe he kind of kicked) and finally stirs awake. He lifts his head, squinting against the light, and Arthur remembers how beautiful he found him last night, when he was drunk. He's annoyed that it hasn't gone away, that it's worse now that he's completely naked, lying on his stomach surrounded by beer cans.
"Do you know what time it is?" he asks. His voice is smooth, and he has an accent. Of course he does. Arthur checks his watch.
"It's about nine."
"Oh. Lovely, thank you." He looks around him, seems to notice where he is and what he is (isn't) wearing.
"Um, I hate to have to ask, but do you happen to know where my clothes are?"
"No idea."
"Right, thanks anyway. Lovely to meet you by the way, I'm Eames." He sits up and holds out a hand. Arthur shakes it and very decidedly doesn't look down, feeling like his morning has taken a turn for the surreal.
"I'm Arthur."
"Arthur, lovely. I'm gonna nip inside and get dressed, but then will you let me take you to coffee?"
Arthur laughs. "For what?"
"For looking so lovely this morning. And for not calling the cops."
Arthur shakes his head, but doesn't say no. He tells himself he isn't watching Eames's ass as he runs into the house, but he's an appalling liar, even to himself. It was a really nice ass.
He leans against his car while he decides if he should leave or not. He's still debating when Eames comes back out, but the sideways baseball cap and pink polo combination makes him want to get in to his car just so he can run Eames over. He takes a steadying breath, and remembers that he's a better person than that most days.
"You're not getting in my car wearing that," he says instead.
Eames grins, undeterred.
"That's alright, we can walk. Come on darling!"
"My name's Arthur," he mumbles, but there's no heat to it.
~
It turns out Eames knows where to find the best coffee on campus - a little cart behind the cog-sci building that's still open on Saturdays. They sit on the lawn for over an hour. Arthur leans back against the bark of the old oak tree and feels the slight heat of the morning sun. He breathes in the smell of a perfectly done latte and listens to the sound of Eames's voice as he tells Arthur his life story.
~
Things Arthur Learns About Eames:
1. They're both taking the same 19th century novel course
2. His mouth is really distracting when wrapped around the rim of a coffee cup
~
Arthur can't help looking for Eames when they get to class on Monday, and every following day. Predictably, the more he finds out about Eames, the more irritating he finds him. Eames sits in the back corner of the lecture hall when he bothers to show up at all, Arthur comes to class fives minutes early every day, and he sits in the middle of the second row (he stopped sitting in the front only after Ariadne said she wouldn't be friends with him anymore if he did). Arthur has something to say about the text every day, but Eames speaks maybe once a week, if that.
What annoys Arthur is that when Eames does bother to speak, the points he makes are always really good, but he barely even pays attention. Arthur sneaks a glance at his notebook once on his way out, and it's covered in vaguely pornographic and surprisingly anatomically correct doodles instead of any actual notes. Arthur hugs his notebook to his chest like he's trying to cover up his meticulous, color coded outlines. Eames catches him looking and smirks like he knows what Arthur's thinking as he stands there like an idiot.
"Are you coming to have coffee with me then?" he asks, voice far too smug.
"I don't really have time. I have another class in an hour and I haven't finished my reading," he says, wishing he could just walk away.
Eames pulls a face that is far too close to a pout to sit comfortably on the face of someone over the age of twelve.
"I was hoping for more than that, but I suppose I'll have to make do." He stands, sliding his beaten up backpack over one shoulder. Arthur adjusts the strap on his messenger bag as he considers. His next class is pretty close to the cog-sci building, and he's been feeling pretty tired today.
"Yeah I guess," he says, and when he sees Eames grin he cuts off his reply with, "but make it quick, I really do have homework to do."
"Oh honey, I promise to make every moment worth your while."
~
For the first time in the semester - for the first time in years - Arthur doesn't make it to class on time. Ariadne doesn't let it slide, of course - she has class all the way across campus right before the one they share, so he's usually the first one to get there. Most days he arrives right as the previous class is getting out and saves them two seats three rows in (their compromise). Today, he bolts into lecture hall a full fifteen minutes late, horrified with himself as he slides into seat she saved for him in the back row.
"Where the hell have you been," she hisses at him, staring in disbelief. "I can't believe you, I almost couldn't save you anything, these were the only seats left."
"I'm sorry, I got caught up."
"With what?"
"I ran into a friend, I lost track of time." If anything, her eyes get even wider.
"Who?"
Arthur glares. "I have friends, I don't know why you sound so shocked."
"Sure, but not friends you ignore class for. What's his name? Why haven't you told me about him?" She gasps. "Oh my god, do you have a crush on him? Are you dating?"
"Ariadne, people are glaring at us. Please shut up." There aren't, not really, but it works. Arthur spends the rest of lecture ignoring pointed looks from Ariadne and struggling to hear what the professor is saying in his low mumble. He bolts out of his seat before she can ask him anything else, but he knows it's not going to help. His phone buzzes about five seconds later.
So what's his name
Arthur sighs, figures he might as well get it over with.
Eames.
The hell kind of name is that
A British one? I don't know.
You always were a sucker for accents. When am I meeting him?
Preferably never.
You're no fun
~
Ariadne does manage to meet Eames of course, mostly by virtue of practically stalking Arthur until he agrees that they can all meet for coffee.
It's not really surprising that they get along well when he thinks about it - Ariadne likes people (more than Arthur most of the time), and Eames seems to get along with everyone. It shouldn't be surprising, but he's still taken aback by the way Ariadne begins to play with her hair the way she always does when she's flirting, and that she begins to laugh a little louder, a little brighter. He's even more unsettled when he sees Eames lean in a little bit closer, speak with a voice that gets a little rougher, his accent a little thicker.
He doesn't like the twist of jealousy in his gut.
He doesn't like what it says about him that he's not even sure who he's jealous of.
~
After careful deliberation, Arthur decides he needs to try being an adult. He realizes that if Ariadne and Eames want to date he shouldn't stop them. The child in him can't seem to care. He starts staying late after class so Eames leaves first, running to the library instead of meeting Eames after coffee. Eventually he even starts getting work done instead of staring out the window. He's taking five classes this semester, which he knew was a mistake, but it was the only way to graduate on time after switching his major from Management Science to English two years in. Eventually his grades improve, but his mood doesn't.
Then Ariande meets Robert two months into the semester, at one of the corporate get togethers Arthur's parents make him attend for when he "gives up that silly writer dream and realizes he belongs in the family business." Arthur usually insists on keeping his college friends and business acquaintances separate, but today he feels completely unequipped to deal with corporate bullshit alone, and there's no way he's bringing Eames to see this part of his life.
He was sure they'd hate each other when he introduced them, (or that Ariadne would find him boring, which amounts to about the same thing) but Fischer ends up knowing a surprising amount about 17th century gothic revivalist architecture, and he and Ariadne end up talking for hours in a corner over the free catered champagne.
Arthur can't help the slow creeping of relief, the silent packing away of all their missed chances, as he watches Ariadne give Robert her number and play with her hair.
He's pretty sure she was always too good for him anyway.
~
On Monday, he's sliding his novel into his bag after class when he feels someone standing over his shoulder. He doesn't look up, but the bright purple skater shoes tell him it's Eames.
"Did I do something wrong, darling?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Course you don't. Coming for coffee then?"
"I really can't, I still have to finish this novel," he says on reflex, used to dodging Eames by now. He hears Eames sigh above him, and stares at the pen graffiti on the desk (he'd already erased all the pencil).
"Look, my house is having a party this Friday. I'd like you to come." Arthur traces a swirl of ink on the desk and tries not to think about the swirl of ink on Eames's shoulder.
"Ariadne already said yes." That gets a response. He looks up, startled, and sees that, actually, Eames just looks kind of tired.
"You talked to her?"
"Sure. She, unlike some people, gave me her number." Arthur doesn't take the bait.
"Anyway, party's at 9, you know where."
"Right." Arthur still goes to the library instead of the coffee cart, but he doesn't get any work done.
~
The party this time is exactly like the last one, expect possibly even more crowded. Ariadne brings Robert, and Arthur tries not to think about it when they disappear after a few hours. He vaguely knows a couple people here - he's met Yusuf a couple times and they talk for a bit, but they don't have much in common.
He wanders upstairs eventually, coming out into a space that during the day probably serves as a living room, but tonight has been cleared of furniture and turned into a black light dance floor. Eames is in the middle of the small crowd, shirtless and sweaty, flailing around wildly to some kind of techno beat. Arthur stops at the top of the stairs, watching him.
Arthur took ballroom for years. He knows how to waltz, how to foxtrot, and even how to tango. He's not very good at tango - he's always felt ridiculous instead of sensual - but the point is that he knows how. He would never and has never danced like this, but he's kind of surprised that he wants to.
Eames sees him standing still by the opening of the stairway like an idiot, and he throws his arms up.
"Arthur! You made it!" he cries, the picture of wild abandon.
He practically throws himself onto Arthur and he staggers under the sudden dead weight of drunken frat boy. Eames pushes himself upright but keeps an arm around Arthur's shoulders, dragging him into the middle of the crowd and pulling them together. Eames moves in a way Arthur's not used to, his body posture loose and fluid. He tries anyway, and after awhile he begins to get the sway of Eames's hips. He's usually a lead, but there's something freeing in letting Eames decide where they go, in following his body queues. He tilts his head back and lets himself get lost.
It's almost a relief to stop thinking and just move, and Arthur doesn't even protest as people start to leave and Eames pulls him into his room instead.
They don't have sex, barely even kiss. Eames rolls them over and presses Arthur into the crappy Ikea mattress and black sheets, seriously, but he's too drunk to even try anything other than mouthing at Arthur's neck before passing out. Arthur tries to push him off, but Eames has at least twenty pounds on him and Arthur has no leverage, so instead he tilts his head away from Eames's horrible breath and falls asleep.
~
"Let me take you out," says Eames, apropos of nothing.
Arthur looks up from his reading. One of Eames's feet are bouncing, like he's nervous. Arthur looks away, watches the early rain make shadow patterns on the wall opposite the window.
"Please," says Eames.
Over the course of the semester, Arthur has learned that Eames is annoyingly smart for how little he cares, and that he owns an alarming number of tshirts with horrible slogans. Lately, that knowledge has expanded to include that he sleeps in until noon no matter when he went to bed, that he has the worst morning breath Arthur has ever encountered, that he somehow manages to smell like Axe all the time even though he swear he doesn't use it and Arthur has never found a can of it in his room (which Eames never cleans). Eames also has a surprising fondness for E.M. Forster and P.G. Wodehouse, of all things, and his mouth is alarmingly charming when he does that quick flicker of a smirk he's so fond of. And he makes Arthur laugh.
"Yeah, okay," says Arthur
He looks down quickly, but not before he sees Eames's smile, like Arthur has just given him the best Christmas present.
~
Eames gets completely plastered on their first date, because he's apparently never heard of moderation. Arthur doesn't feel like dealing with Eames's frat house (some of them are okay, but enough of them would make catcalls and ask lewd questions), so he takes Eames back to his house instead. Eames makes it as hard as possible to get him into the guest bedroom - he leans against Arthur's side and presses sloppy kisses against Arthur's neck, his jaw, finally his mouth. Arthur dumps him onto the mattress but Eames protests when he gets up to leave, pulling him back down. Arthur goes but fends off Eames's attempts to get him undressed. Instead he lies down on top of the covers and lets Eames trade kisses with him until Eames falls asleep. When Arthur hears his breathing even out he gets up quietly, closing the door behind him before falling asleep in his own room.
~
Eames comes into the kitchen right as Arthur finishes making coffee, like a bloodhound tracking a scent. His jeans are ripped and slung low on his hips and his boxers are black. They have a skull and crossbones pattern. He's not wearing a shirt, and Arthur spends a few seconds staring at his tattoo again. Arthur is wearing a white button down and slacks, but his sleeves are rolled up and his feet are bare.
"So this is what your house looks like," says Eames.
"Yes."
"Ariadne wasn't kidding when she said you had more money than God."
Arthur shrugs. He doesn't like bringing people to his house, they usually treat him differently afterwards.
"You put me in the guest bedroom." There's something unreadable in his face.
"I'm sorry, was it uncomfortable?"
Eames snorts instead of answering, pours himself coffee with far too much sugar. It's a rare nice day after a bout of rain, and the sun is slanting through the trees and the large picture window. It gilds the side of Eames's face, his hair.
"I think I had a bit too much to drink last night," Eames says, in a voice that might be an apology.
"You were plastered," says Arthur, because he's incapable of letting anything go. Eames shrugs.
"And so you were too gentlemanly to take advantage? I seem to recall I was very ardent."
Arthur is leaning against the island in the middle of the kitchen, Eames is mimicking his posture against the counter by the window. They're only separated by a few feet, but it feels much bigger. Eames is backlit by late morning sunlight. He looks a little bit unreal, and a little bit pissed off. Arthur looks away.
"If I say yes, will you stop being mad at me?" Arthur asks his coffee maker, fiddling with it to have something to do with his hands. He smiles when he hears the clink of a coffee cup against the counter, the creak of the floorboards. He leans into it when Eames wraps an arm around him, turns his head and takes the kiss Eames is offering.
As Arthur lets Eames into his mouth, he becomes hyper focused on the feel of Eames's tongue, of the slick heat of his mouth. The rest of his attention begins to fragment, until all he's aware of is the dig of the marble cabinet in his back, the rough glide of Eames's callused hands on his shoulder blades, the slight ache in his groin. Eames tastes mostly like sugar, with a hint of bitterness underneath from the coffee, and his skin is warm even in the morning chill.
They kiss for what feels like hours, but Arthur eventually notices the stiffness in his knees from standing still for so long, and he grabs Eames's hand and pulls him down the hall back to his bedroom. His cock is thick and heavy between his legs, and it brushes against his slacks every time he takes a step. It's maddening.
By the time they get back to the bedroom, Arthur practically shoves Eames down onto the bed. Eames stumbles a bit as he goes and laughs, a low rough chuckle that goes straight to Arthur's already aching groin.
"Careful love, you don't want to break me."
"Shut up," Arthur growls, and Eames's grin is so far beyond lewd that Arthur feels compelled to lick his mouth open and get it off.
Arthur always finds undressing someone else incredibly awkward - performing the mirror image of muscle memory is tedious at best - so he leaves Eames to his own meager clothing and takes his own clothes off instead, hating buttons as his fingers slip, suddenly clumsy. He wonders in a flash if he'll start wearing t-shirts if this becomes a regular thing, but this train of thought is cut off by the sight of a very naked Eames greeting him when he finally pulls off his slacks and boxers. Eames is lying on his back on Arthur's bed, propped up on his elbows with his cock thick and erect against his stomach. Arthur clambers back onto the bed arching into Eames's touch, bending down to bite at the corner between Eames's neck and his collar bone.
"God, Arthur, I want you to fuck me," Eames groans out. Arthur lifts his head and meets Eames's eyes. They're blown wide, and Arthur can only nod, momentarily breathless. They've messed around, obviously, but never done this. Thankfully Arthur is nothing if not always prepared, and it's only the work of a moment to scramble in his bedside table and pull out the small bottle of lube he hasn't opened yet and a condom.
"On your knees," he orders, surprised when his voice comes out as a growl. Eames goes without comment except that he looks potentially even more aroused than he was before. Arthur takes a moment to enjoy the sight of Eames on his bed with his ass in the air before he can't wait anymore and slicks his fingers.
Eames makes a practically criminal noise when Arthur slips a finger inside him, something between a whine and a moan that goes straight to Arthur's cock. He works Eames open as quickly as he can, feeling clumsy as he rolls on the condom. He's still not entirely sure what he's doing, if he did it right, but the moan Eames makes as Arthur pushes in seems to indicate he's enjoying himself. Arthur has to stop himself from coming right there as he feels the clutch of heat around his cock, so good even through the latex. He reaches down and begins to stroke Eames off as he thrusts into him, matching the pulse of his hand with the snap of his hips. Eames is cursing beneath him, things like fuck Arthur harder god yes just like that love it when you fuck me you incurable control freak god I need you. Arthur comes with a blinding whiteness in his eyes and a sickening feeling in his heart, like he's losing something he didn't know he had.
He lies in bed afterwards, staring at the ceiling with Eames runs his fingers lightly over Arthur's chest. Arthur thinks of switching to tshirts sometimes to make undressing easier, to someday fucking Eames without a condom. His mind is spiraling, and he can't stop it.
~
Finals sneak up on Arthur before he's ready for them, and he spends the entire week locked up in the library until closing time, ignoring most of Eames's texts and phone calls.
Seriously I have to study he sends, and then turns his phone off. Eames leaves the next day, done with his finals early and off to the family that calls him multiple times a day. Arthur can't help the breath of relief that escapes him.
Arthur spends three days barely leaving his house, living on delivery and his library. On the last day he drives to campus and walks the entire length of it, reveling in the rare sight of a completely empty university campus. The buildings echo with the click of his shoes.
He spends almost an hour relearning the shapes of buildings he usually just thinks of in terms of utility, but it's sharply cold today, and he forgot his thick coat. He's only a block or so away from his car when the skies open and it starts to rain, soaking him through in a matter of seconds. He runs to his car, but he's still shivering by the time the engine warms up enough for the heater to work.
When he finally gets back home he stands in the empty hallway for a full minute, listening to the staccato drips of water on the floor. An hour later he's in his car again, making the two hour drive back home.
His parents are surprised but happy to see him - he'd told them not to expect him for at least a week. He'd told them he had important things to take care of.
He drops his suitcase in his room and falls into bed. He's asleep before he can even take off his shoes. He wakes up two hours later with a headache and a horrible sore throat. The sun has gone down and he feels disoriented, timeless.
He rolls over and pulls his phone out of his bag. The display flashes at him, too bright to his eyes, showing the same empty display of his clock and nothing else. He opens his messages anyway, flips through his inbox.
He finds Eames's number under the Sent folder.
I think I'm sick, he sends before he's really thought about it. Where are you?
He phone rings ten minutes later.
"Hello?" His voice is rough, more like a croak.
"Arthur? Good lord, you sound awful." Eames's sounds cheery, and just a tiny bit drunk. Arthur can hear people talking in the background and something that might be the TV.
"What's going on?"
"The usual."
Arthur's attention begins to wander as Eames starts to tell him some hysterical story about one of his various aunts getting drunk and fighting with another aunt and having to be dragged out by two of his cousins. He forgets sometimes that Eames has a huge family - three siblings, and more cousins than he can count. Arthur wonders, vaguely, if he'd be better at making friends if he had a sibling to be a default one. He's still lying on top of his bed. He kicks his shoes off, crawls under the comforter, humming occasionally so Eames thinks he's still listening.
"And how are you enjoying your own slice of domestic bliss?" he finally asks, when Arthur's eyes are closed and he's pleasantly drifting.
"Just got home," he mumbles.
"What, you spent the past three days alone?"
"It's not so bad. It was quiet."
"Of course it was. Where's Ariadne?"
Arthur shrugs, forgetting Eames won't be able to see it.
"Home," he says instead. "In Seattle."
"You sound tired."
"I am," he says. "I'm sick." he feels warm too, lost in a cocoon of his own body warm under the covers and the sound of Eames's voice.
"Go to sleep then, love," he says.
"'kay. Eames?" he says, when he thinks he might have hung up.
"Yeah?"
"Glad you called."
Eames laughs softly. It sounds fond.
"Yeah, me too. Go to sleep."
Arthur shuts off his phone, and is asleep instantly.
~
They don't talk again for the rest of break, but Arthur beings to get a string of text messages.
fuck its bloody freezing out here i always forget, says one the next day. whats the weather there?
Rain. He sends back. It's always rain.
~
Arthur doesn't pick up Eames from the airport, doesn't even drive back to campus until the night before classes start. He gets home late, getting through his front door past midnight and falling into bed immediately. He hasn't been sick for weeks now, but he still feels tired all the time.
The next day he stops having time to be tired. Because of his five classes last semester (that he barely passed, thanks to Eames) he can graduate in the spring, but he still has to take four classes this semester and they all require massive amounts of reading.
He doesn't see Eames in any of his classes. He tells himself he isn't looking - Eames isn't even a lit major, he was just taking the class out of curiosity and a GE requirement.
His phone stopped buzzing around the last week of break, around when Arthur stopped replying to them. He tells himself that he's fine with that, that he doesn't have time for Eames anyway. He stops going to the coffee cart behind the cog-sci building, the one that's open even on Saturdays.
Instead, he spends time with Ariadne when she's not busy with Robert. He has to work a little bit to get her to forgive him for fucking off and not calling all of break, but he hadn't been sure how to deal with her now that she's in a relationship. He doesn't hate Fischer, but he belongs to a part of Arthur's life he doesn't like to be reminded of, and they don't have much in common. Ariadne seems to be happy with him though, and Arthur feels like he's been horrible and petty when he sees the way she smiles at his name - shyly, like a secret, like something Arthur never was.
~
"You're an idiot," says Ariadne, as she spreads her study materials all over his living room.
Arthur grunts.
"You should just call him. I know you miss him."
Arthur throws an eraser at her. She catches it without looking up. Throws it back at him, hits him in the chest.
"He misses you too. Idiot."
Arthur watches the rain instead of answering.
~
They run into each other eventually. Arthur honestly isn't sure if it's accidental or if Eames has been looking for him.
"Hey," says Eames. Arthur stops pretending to read.
"Hi."
"How was your break?"
"Fine. How was yours?" Arthur can't look at Eames for long, afraid he'll get lost.
"Mental."
Arthur can't think of anything else to say, afraid that if he opens his mouth ridiculously sentimental things like I'm an idiot or I'm sorry or even I miss you and the way you're looking at me make me really want you to fuck me, but I'm afraid of you will come spilling out of his mouth.
"You're avoiding me," Eames says eventually.
"No I'm not."
Eames just looks at him. Arthur tells himself he doesn't see the disappointment. He's a terrible liar.
~
"Do you love Fischer?"
Ariadne's mouth opens, then closes again without saying anything.
"You mean Robert, Arthur," which is basically a default protest at this point.
"You're avoiding the question."
"I'm stalling, there's a difference."
"Why are you stalling?"
"Because I'm thinking of how to answer. Shush for a minute."
Arthur obeys. Ariadne chews on her lip when she's thinking - Arthur simultaneously finds it endearing and wants to toss her a tube of Chapstick.
"It depends on what you mean, I suppose," she finally says. "I look forward to talking to him. I'm happier when I know I'm going to be seeing him. We fight sometimes, but we both know that it's better to apologize than stay mad at each other. He takes care of me because he wants to, not because he thinks he has to, or that I can't take of myself, and I do the same for him when I can. The sex is awesome."
This was not something Arthur wanted to hear. He wrinkles his nose. She sticks her tongue out at him.
"You asked. I guess what it comes down to, is that he makes me happy."
Arthur studies the carpet.
"What about Eames? Does he make you happy?"
It's not something Arthur had ever really considered.
"Oh, Arthur," Ariadne says, and he doesn't understand the sadness in her eyes.
~
"Your room is disgusting," Arthur says, because it's true, and it's the first thing that comes out of his mouth.
Eames looks up from his desk.
"Thank you for your opinion, Arthur. Glad you could stop by." If he's surprised to see Arthur he doesn't show it, but he does look angry. Arthur doesn't blame him. He'd probably be angry with him too, but he's not done.
"You have horrible taste in music, seriously, who the fuck listens to Britney Spears unironically? You're loud, and you're messy, and you obviously want people to notice you, but I still want you and I don't know why."
Eames is leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed across his chest. His expression is somewhere between annoyed and amused.
"I know I have intimacy issues and I'm a textbook example of commitment phobic, and you're seriously the last person I would ever imagine making me want to change that but for some reason I still want you and I'm thinking of trying. And I'm sorry I'm a mess and I can't promise that I won't run again, but I was hoping that maybe you'd take me back."
Eames looks stunned, and Arthur has a moment of wanting to back out the door babbling apologies, but Eames can move when he wants to, and he's in Arthur's space before Arthur can really even blink. He feels the breath leave him in a rush as his back hits the door hard but is distracted by the hot press of Eames's mouth on his.
"I'm sorry," Arthur gasps out between bruising kisses. He feels like he can't breathe, like Eames is taking all the air, but this time he doesn't care. "Eames, I'm sorry."
Eames hushes him, pulls him back away from the door. They fuck desperately, rutting against each other on Eames's bed, barely able to wait until the get their clothes off. Eames pins Arthur to the bed and strips them mercilessly. Arthur is grabbing for him almost before Eames gets his pants off, needing him closer after so long of running away.
Eames prepares Arthur quickly, urged on by Arthur's hissed orders of go faster you asshole I'm not going to break. When Eames pushes into him Arthur wraps his hands around Eames's shoulders and relishes in the ripple of muscle in his back as he pulls out and thrusts in again. He clings to Eames and feels safe for the first time in months, and when he comes he doesn't feel like he's losing anything, least of all himself.
~
Epilogue
~
Summer comes suddenly this year, bursting in around mid April and refusing to leave. Arthur finds himself barely able to concentrate on school work anyway - he's graduating in a month and his skin feels too tight with anxiety and what ifs about After - and it isn't long before Eames is pulling him away from the library for a weekend on the beach.
Arthur usually hates the beach, but he can't deny that it holds some attraction when Eames pulls his shirt off in one smooth motion and then runs into the ocean. The water's too cold to really go swimming, but Eames pulls him into the surf anyway. Arthur lets water wash over his calves, digs his feet into the sand and lets the outgoing waves bury them. Ariadne is still up on the sand, building truly impressive and rather improbable sand castles with Robert. She's covered in sand, and her cheeks are red from the sun. She looks happy, and truly lovely. Arthur smiles to see her, and knows the slight pang in his chest is a phantom ache, unable to hurt him anymore. He turns, and begins to walk down the shoreline, sure that Eames will follow him.
Most of the sandy area is packed with sunbathers but further down the beach it gets rockier, and the blankets and towels give way to tide pools. Eames grabs Arthur's hand as follows him into them, and they get lost wandering around poking into crannies. Eames loves sticking his fingers into sea anemones, laughing like a child as they close up. He even gets Arthur to do it a couple times, and he's simultaneously fascinated and repulsed by their sticky tentacles.
Eventually they find a place where the rocks give way to a small island of sand surrounded by rocks and the sea. Arthur leans against the cliff face at the back of the half circle and tilts his head up to the sun. The tide is coming in and they'll have to leave soon if they want to make it back without swimming, and Arthur has a small cut on his foot from stumbling over the rocks, but he doesn't want to leave yet. It's quiet here, and with Eames looking gorgeous with his tanned skin and flushed cheeks it's hard to see the point in other people.
Eames has him backed up against the rock, and he's pulling Arthur towards him, his hand splayed across the small of Arthur's back. Arthur lets himself be pulled, and leans in to kiss the sun off him. Eames tastes like salt, and something indefinably familiar.
If Arthur were given to sentimental urges, he might call it coming home.