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sirona_ficsNeed you so much closer
Inception
Arthur/Eames
NC-17
For notes, warnings, and disclaimer, please see Part One.
Part Two
They reach the airport with minutes to spare; Arthur grabs his vintage Gucci leather carry-all from the trunk, waving goodbye frantically as he runs inside. Three voices shout “good luck”-s and “we love you”-s from behind him; he spares a second to shout “I love you guys” back, grinning like a loon, before he rushes to the check-ins. Not twenty minutes of dashing through security checks, shouting apologies as he hurries around other passengers, and bemused smiles at his contagious enthusiasm later, he’s strapped into his seat and the plane is taking off, back to New York and off to London an hour after that, on the red-eye flight.
This time round, he can barely sit still the entire thirteen hours it takes him to land in London, driving all the passengers around him to distraction with his incessant nervous fidgeting. It’s about ten o’clock in the morning of the 24th December when he stumbles out of Arrivals at Heathrow, and he is really going to pay for the accumulated jet-lag later – but right now he’s running so high on adrenaline and excitement that he only just manages not to run over to the rent-a-car office through the teeming airport. He owes Sam big time for thinking ahead and booking a car for him last night. He has no doubt that the return favour she’ll extract will be epic; but it’ll be worth it, he thinks as he leaves London behind and heads towards Wiltshire, following the GPS coordinates of Eames’ phone that he’d programmed into the car’s Sat Nav.
The further away he gets from the city, the greener the countryside becomes. Arthur has always adored green fields in winter, and England has those in abundance. There are traces of snow here and there; Arthur wouldn’t at all be surprised if it starts snowing before nightfall, judging by the heavy, dirty-yellow clouds hanging in the sky, biding their time. The roads get narrower and narrower, until they are no more than country lanes full of curves that his mud-splattered Honda hugs closely.
By the time he reaches the correct turn, Arthur is starting to wonder if perhaps he should have called ahead. He glances at the huge bouquet of blush roses that he’d stopped for on his way out of London, hoping against hope that Eames’ mother won’t think him unforgivably rude for gate-crashing their family celebration. Arthur knows next to nothing about Eames’ family, and his imagination has been working overtime for the entire trip; he’s sucked down so much caffeine to keep from getting nervous that he’s fairly vibrating. If worse came to worst, Arthur is sure there are hotels aplenty in London, if not in the vicinity of Eames’ house, that Arthur can make use of. It would just be nice if it doesn’t have to come to that.
The house the Sat Nav directs him to is frankly intimidating. Arthur feels like he’s stepped straight into the pages of Pride & Prejudice without anyone warning him. This is without a doubt what Pemberley must have been based on – honey-gold stone, beautiful columns framing the entrance, extensive, meticulously maintained grounds... the architect in Arthur is a little bit in love with the perfect proportions and the beautiful façade. Arthur half-expects a horse-drawn carriage to clatter to a stop in front of the entrance; instead, there are clear signs that cars have recently rolled to a stop just outside the door. So he follows their lead and climbs out, heart in his throat. He circles the car and fetches the roses from the passenger seat, climbs the stairs and wields the door knocker half-hidden underneath a large, beautifully crafted Christmas wreath of holly, pine cones, and poinsettias twisted together.
He hears a masculine voice shout from inside, something like “I’ll get it!”; moments later the front door is yanked open to reveal a younger version of Eames, down to the side parting and the considering look in his eyes. That’s where the similarities end, however – the longer Arthur looks, the more differences he spots. The man’s eyes are more green than green-grey; the hair is closer to blond than Eames’; the man is clean-shaven, with no indication that he ever goes around sporting a three-day stubble. The biggest difference becomes evident as soon as the man smiles – it’s Eames’ sly smile, but it reveals a row of white, perfectly straight teeth. Something in Arthur revolts; suddenly, he misses Eames’ endearingly crooked teeth almost unbearably.
“Hmmm, dark hair, brown eyes, impeccably dressed, sexy as hell... Bloody hell, you’re Arthur!” the man says, equal parts shocked and delighted. The voice and accent are very similar, but just not quite what Arthur has come to adore. “Thank god you’re here, Will has been simply impossible. Come on, I’ll smuggle you to see him before Mum descends on you and you have to sit through an hour of cross-examination. I’m Matthew, by the way, pleasure to meet you!” he holds out a sturdy hand for Arthur to shake.
“You too,” Arthur says, bemused but smiling, and does so. He can’t help liking the man; Matthew has Eames’ easy-going charm and boyish enthusiasm that sweeps people along against their better judgement – and Arthur should know. “Where did you say Ea—William is?”
“He’s sulking out back, smoking his way through my last pack of fags, the selfish bastard,” Matthew answers cheerfully. He pulls the front door to a close behind him and waves for Arthur to follow him, leading him briskly around the corner of the manor.
“Dare I ask why he’s sulking?” And smoking again, Arthur adds silently. Eames hasn’t smoked in over six months now, not to Arthur’s knowledge.
“I should imagine because you took your time getting here,” Matthew says dryly, rubbing his hands together for warmth. He’s only wearing a thin sweater-vest over his pinstriped shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up; Arthur can see goosebumps spreading over the bare skin.
Arthur frowns. “He doesn’t know I’m coming. I didn’t even know I was coming until I got shoved onto the plane.”
“‘S even worse, then, if he thought he had to get through five more days before seeing you. Will isn’t too subtle when it comes to his personal life.” Matthew looks sheepish for a moment, like he’d pilfered the cookie jar and gotten a smack on the knuckles as a result. “In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that it’s probably at least half my fault he’s sulking right now. I, er. I bugged him to tell me about you until he snapped a little.”
Arthur smirks. Well, well. It was rather nice, not being the only one overly invested in this relationship.
“Just behind the corner there,” Matthew directs. “I’ll, uh. You two come in when you’re ready, okay? I think he might deck me if he sees me before he sees you.” He flashes Arthur a grin and ducks through a door at the side of the house.
Arthur walks on, turns the corner into the back gardens, and there Eames is – leaning one broad shoulder in the doorway behind him, contemplating the yellow-grey sky with a scrunch in his forehead and an unhappy twist to his usually generous mouth. Arthur can’t stop staring, drinking in the sight of the annoying, frustrating, wonderful man who has managed to make himself at home under Arthur’s skin without Arthur so much as noticing.
“Piss off, Matthew,” Eames growls without even turning to look at Arthur, sucks viciously on his half-gone cigarette and lets out a large plume of smoke in the chilly air.
Arthur smiles to himself, very much looking forward to the look on Eames’ face when he realises that it really isn’t Matthew walking towards him now, forgotten flowers dangling from his left hand.
“I said—“ Eames begins, turning to glare daggers at the intruder, and his jaw drops with an audible gasp when he spots Arthur closing in on him, not five metres away.
“Wh—Arthur?! I—I thought you were at your parents’?”
“I was,” Arthur says softly, placing the flowers on the sturdy wooden table by the back door and focusing on the way Eames beams at him, all joyful disbelief. “My mother virtually marched me onto the plane herself. Apparently, I was pining.” He smiles self-deprecatingly, reaches out to run a palm over the sleeve of the thick cranberry-red jumper that he had bought for Eames last month.
Eames snaps his mouth shut at last and moves in, pulling Arthur to his chest and wrapping strong arms around him with breathing-impairing strength. He buries his face in Arthur’s hair, taking a deep breath, no doubt smelling airports and planes and rented car on him. Arthur longs for a shower with the fire of a thousand suns – but not just now. He snakes his own arms around Eames’ torso and clings unashamedly, letting his head drop to his shoulder and breathing in the comforting, familiar scent. There’s only Eames around to see him, and apparently he no longer registers on Arthur’s embarrassment radar.
They separate when Arthur can no longer feel his toes – he’s only wearing thin leather Oxfords, and the English countryside mist is sneaking its way inside with alacrity. Eames pulls him into the house; Arthur remembers the roses at the last minute.
“Darling, you brought me flowers!” Eames gushes in his best Romantic Heroine impression.
“They’re not for you, you ass; they’re for your mother. For—barging in uninvited. Is she going to be pissed, do you think?” Arthur asks anxiously.
“She’s going to be bloody ecstatic, she’s been badgering me about you all morning. Thank god you’ve decided to take mercy on me and save me by showing up in all your glory.”
Arthur feels a shiver run down his spine, but by that point it’s already too late – a stylish, beautifully dressed ash-blonde woman bears down on them the second they step through the large glass doors and into what Eames assures him is the red drawing room. She’s on the shortish side, but her grip is strong when she grasps Arthur’s hand and tugs him down to brush a kiss on his wind-chilled cheek.
“Aurora, my dear Arthur; delighted to meet you at last! William has been effusive on your behalf.”
“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Arthur says, presenting her with the thankfully still fresh flowers.
Aurora’s entire face lights up. “Thank you ever so much, my dear! You didn’t have to! They are so beautiful! How did you know blush roses are my favourite? I’d better go put them in some water, won’t be a moment!” She putters out, face buried in the flowers. Arthur avoids looking at Eames, who (he’s sure) is gazing at him in amusement.
“So, apparently you remember every word I’ve ever said,” Eames muses, smirking; Arthur refuses to bite, flushing only slightly since it’s unavoidable. The tension that’s been gripping him ever since he got on the plane to London drains out of his shoulders at last, and even the sound of the damn King’s College Choir starting up in the background can’t ruin his good mood.
~~
He lies on an ornate walnut bed later that night, in a large, luxuriously appointed bedroom that has, apparently, always been Eames’, battling exhaustion and cataloguing the day’s discoveries out of sheer desperation to stay awake until Eames comes out of the shower.
Eames has two brothers and one sister – Matthew, Holly, and Jasper, who’s married to Emily and has a three-year-old boy called Jeremy, with another baby on the way. They are all stunningly beautiful and as pleasant as Arthur could ever have hoped for. Their father had passed on about eleven years ago, just after Eames had joined the Marines, four years before Arthur would first meet him. Arthur had known about it, but he hadn’t known that the man had had a heart condition that Eames’ leaving had exacerbated, or that he’d had a fatal heart attack two months later – just before Christmas, as it happens. No wonder Eames has been tetchy for weeks; Arthur had known there was something else, not just the spending-Christmas-apart.
He now also knows, even though no one’s said a word about it, that Eames has never forgiven himself for springing the news on his father out of the blue – telling him he was leaving three days before he did. He doesn’t know the reasons behind Eames’ poor choice, but he doesn’t want to pry, either; Eames will tell him, or he won’t, but it’ll be his decision.
The shower turns off at last; Arthur hopes he’d left enough hot water for Eames not to get chilled – he’d spent rather longer than usual in the shower, letting the scalding water soothe his tired muscles and the sore back that eighteen hours on the road had given him. Eames emerges in a cloud of bergamot-scented steam; the smell acts as an instant relaxant, and Arthur melts into a boneless heap under the sheets in relief. Eames dries himself off perfunctionally and pulls on a pair of black silk boxers – another of Arthur’s additions to his wardrobe – before climbing under the sheets and curling himself around Arthur’s pliant form.
“I still can’t believe you’re here,” Eames whispers into his neck, nuzzling the skin affectionately. “The bed’s been so empty without you that I’ve hardly slept since I got here.”
Arthur frowns in the shadowy lamplight, looking down at Eames worriedly. He looks exhausted now that he’s relaxed and his eyes are blinking closed, deep furrows obvious in the skin underneath. Arthur’s arms tighten around him involuntarily, pulling him closer against his prone body. Eames pushes a warm, muscled thigh between his, bringing as much of their skin into contact as possible.
“I’ve missed you, too,” Arthur doesn’t say, pressing a kiss into the lined forehead resting against his cheek instead.
Eames sighs contentedly, warm breath huffing across Arthur’s collar bone as he wriggles even closer. It feels like home.
~~
They’re woken in the morning by Jeremy’s excited yells that reverberate throughout the house and all the way up to their room. Eames drags a warm nose down Arthur’s nape, clutching him closer and refusing to be moved. Arthur, who by now has slept for longer than the last four days put together, is as alert as a sad lack of coffee would allow. He tries to disentangle his limbs from Eames’, but Eames is a champion cuddler and refuses to be thwarted so easily. It’s not until Arthur turns in his arms, pushes him flat on his back, nudges his legs open and presses their morning erections together that Eames even considers opening his eyes. He hums happily, lets his legs fall apart even further and pulls Arthur closer against him.
Arthur starts a languid rhythm, just rocking his weight forward to provide delicious friction that has Eames panting for more in minutes. When Eames grabs his ass and lifts his hips into the movement, mashing their hard-ons together, Arthur wiggles to divest both of them of their underwear and determinedly sets to driving Eames mindless.
“Tell me, tell me you want this,” Arthur urges, nearly breathless.
“Fuck yes,” Eames growls, rocking harder. “I always want you, always, even when you’re being an insufferable know-it-all and a stubborn arse. Especially when you’re being a stubborn arse.” He gasps the last word into Arthur’s mouth, because Arthur has just driven a spit-slicked finger inside him with little warning but deadly skill.
Eames groans and his hips stutter, so eager for it that Arthur’s cock starts leaking all over the place just from the sounds the man keeps making under him. He’s got two fingers inside now, sliding down Eames’ muscled body and licking around the edges of them, forcing more spit into Eames’ entrance; his fingers are being squeezed viciously by Eames’ inner muscles in an effort to stop them leaving his body again. Eames isn’t nearly as tight as five days with no penetration should make him, and Arthur tells him so in detail, hot breath trailing over his twitching balls.
“Fingered myself,” Eames says on an exhale that sounds like a moan, gripping his shoulders hard, nearly speechless with need as Arthur bites at the strong muscles of his inner thigh over and over again, no doubt leaving one hell of a hickey. “Every bloody night I’ve been here without you. Thought of you, imagined it was your fingers inside me, filling me, but it was never enough, it’s never enough when it’s not you, your cock buried so deep inside my arse that I can feel you in my throat, fuck, Arthur, fuck me already, oh god come on.”
Eames is fairly thrashing under his weight now, fucking himself down on his unyielding fingers, his ass opening beautifully under Arthur’s ministrations. Arthur can barely think any more with the images Eames’ gruff voice evokes weaving mercilessly through his mind.
“Where?” he growls, and Eames’ hips snap upwards again, rhythm shot to hell, driving the now-three fingers deeper.
“Top drawer,” he rasps, sounding destroyed.
Arthur performs some frankly uncomfortable acrobatics to get to the lube without removing his fingers from where they are wrecking Eames’ composure further and further with each passing second. His hand closes around the tube at last, and he wastes no time slicking himself up liberally. The noise Eames makes when he tugs out his fingers and starts pushing his cock inside the stretched opening is obscene; Arthur has to bite at his lower lip hard enough to draw blood to have any hope of hanging on to his control. A thin red trickle makes its way down his chin; Eames scrunches upwards and licks it off greedily, takes his mouth, devours it even as he feeds him small sounds of pleasure that slither down Arthur’s spine and lodge straight in his balls.
Eames shifts a little, tilting his hips further, and Arthur slides all the way inside with no further obstruction. He muffles the groan that spills from his lips unchecked into Eames’ delicious-smelling throat. Then Eames clenches around him and slides his palm up Arthur’s chest to pinch a nipple; Arthur exhales harshly and starts pounding into him helplessly, until Eames is yelling hoarsely and spasming around him, milking his orgasm out of him until he’s shaking and sprawling on top of Eames’ sweaty, semen-streaked body.
“Oh, Christ,” Eames breathes, still twitching from the aftershocks, tightening weakly around Arthur when he slips out with a filthy sound, one that Arthur knows full well will be on repeat in his head all damn day, every time he sees Eames sit down too clumsily, or shift uncomfortably against a chair with an unconscious wince.
“God, Arthur,” Eames murmurs weakly into Arthur’s sweat-damp hair, arms wrapped around his narrower shoulders, fingers stroking along his spine idly. He doesn’t say anything more, but Arthur knows what he means. He shifts closer and proceeds to snatch another five minutes away from the busy day, just the two of them holding each other in the warm bed that doesn’t feel empty anymore.
~~
“Your present isn’t actually here, darling,” Eames says apologetically, sitting in an ocean of torn wrapping paper and holding on tight to Jeremy’s wriggling little body while the kid tries to latch onto his father’s long legs and beg to be allowed to go play with his new boat in the unfortunately frozen lake outside. Jasper shakes his head in despair and picks him up, mumbling something about filling up the jacuzzi.
“It isn’t?” Arthur plays along.
“No, I was supposed to be fetching it tomorrow from London. It was an excuse to get out of the house before it all got a bit much,” Eames murmurs into his neck, pressing full lips briefly to the warm skin. Aurora sends him a sharply suspicious glance; Eames grins back innocently, but it’s tinged with a sadness that Arthur knows for what it is – the ghost of a still-mourned father.
“I’m breathless with anticipation,” Arthur deadpans, but he really is looking forward to spending some time alone with Eames, even if it does mean driving into London and back again.
Aurora sighs in disappointment. “I suppose I’d better make the best of it while you’re here, William. I’m under no illusions that you’ve any intention of coming back once you’ve whisked dear Arthur away to town. Oh, well. I did get four whole days with you this time round; I shouldn’t really complain.”
Eames beams at her unashamedly and she shakes her head fondly. “I really should thank you, Arthur,” she says, turning her amused glance to him. “William has been immensely more pleasant company since you arrived. I simply must extract a promise from you to visit along with him as often as he manages to tear himself away from work.”
Arthur smiles back, throwing Eames a knowing look that makes him frown in question; Arthur ignores him. He’ll explain later. “How could I possibly refuse?” he agrees dryly. He sees where Eames gets his charmingly crooked grin from when Aurora bestows just such a one on him in approval.
In the afternoon, the siblings decide to take the family’s three golden retrievers for a long, rambling walk before it gets dark and it’s time for yet more food. Arthur gets a chance to explore the vast grounds, hand tucked snugly into Eames’ as the five of them meander along after the dogs and an ecstatic Jeremy, chatting mildly about everything and nothing. It’s a few hours before the light starts to go and the first fat snowflakes drift gently towards the ground, the ominous clouds that Arthur had scrutinised yesterday finally delivering their load.
Hence, Arthur isn’t too surprised when Boxing Day dawns on a vast blanket of white smothering the countryside around the manor in cold and silence. It’s not too thick yet, not enough to stop him and Eames from driving back to London, but the way tiny snowflakes dance through the air promises several more inches in the next few hours. Forewarned, he and Eames pack quickly and ferry their bags to Arthur’s rented car as soon as they’re done, as Eames had hitched a ride with Matthew on the way over.
Aurora insists they take breakfast with the rest of the family before they go, some of whom are also casting worried glances at the weather and each other. Arthur has a feeling that the house will not stay full for too much longer – even Aurora is thinking about returning to town; he sees it in the almost invisible furrow in her forehead that’s so like her eldest son’s.
When they’re done with their eggs and bacon, Eames refreshes his and Arthur’s coffees absentmindedly, thoughts already on the drive back. Arthur thanks him with a private smile, which makes Eames snap back to the here-and-now with gratifying swiftness.
“Let’s go,” Arthur murmurs, unwilling to prolong the wait. It’s already gone eleven, and the day isn’t getting any longer.
To his surprise, he gets pretty much the same treatment as Eames, minus the fond motherly scolding and brotherly baiting. Aurora hugs him goodbye, kisses his cheek in parting and tasks him again to make sure ‘William’ brings him along when he visits. Holly hugs him as well, her long strawberry-blonde hair flowing over the two of them like a curtain blown by the wind, and laughingly exchanges email addresses with him ‘for pointers, and for when Will’s in a sulk and you need someone to vent at’. Jeremy waves to him shyly from behind his father’s legs, and to his barely-restrained amusement Jasper and Matthew both make a point of taking him aside for a moment, for a ‘brotherly talk’.
“I know he doesn’t show it, but he’s not invincible, you know. And he’s pretty smitten with you. So just keep that in mind, okay?” Jasper says, a little awkward but no less serious. Arthur sees Emily smile proudly behind Jasper’s back as Arthur solemnly nods. Jasper has been nothing but friendly and supportive – but if pressed, Arthur would hazard a guess that there had been some tension between him and Eames when Eames had come out to the family, even if it is years in the past and they’ve both mostly gotten over it.
Matthew just squints at him as he shakes Arthur’s hand, for a moment presenting such a horrifying mix of Eames and Cobb that Arthur has to work hard to muffle the hysterical laughter trying to burst forth. He nods, though – he understands the sentiment all too well. It’s actually rather touching, the way the two instinctively reach to protect their elder brother. It tells Arthur all he needs to know about the Eameses. He can’t say that he disapproves.
Eames seems to find it all a brilliant joke, if the way he baits his younger brothers is anything to go by. Finally, Matthew all but pushes him into the car, not bothering to cover his irritation. Eames submits gracefully, tugging at Arthur to follow. They drive away from the manor to many a colourful arm waving from the wrapped-up group.
Arthur leans back into his seat, exhaling contentedly. “I like them,” he confides, grinning at Eames. “They’re all as mad as you.”
Eames snorts, keeping his eyes on the snow-covered road. “If you think we’re mad, just wait until you meet the rest of the family – my cousin Anna’s a stunt double in Hollywood, and she’s the tamest of the lot of them!”
Yes, Arthur thinks to himself, smiling. Yes, I’ll meet all of them. I’m looking forward to it.
~~
Turns out that all the fuss Eames has been making is totally, completely justified when he pulls the car to a stop in front of a subtly-lit townhouse on Saville Row. Arthur tries not to salivate and fails spectacularly. There is an unobtrusive onyx plaque with a crown etched into it by the front door, advertising to those in the know that this particular tailor works by royal appointment. Underneath it is another, the name Neil Barrett standing out in silver from the black background. Arthur can only blink at Eames as he calmly knocks on the front door, turning to look at him with a pleased smirk.
“What—“ Arthur starts, just as the door is flung open and a thin man in ragged jeans and a tight sweater jumps out, grinning happily at Eames.
“William Eames, as I live and breathe,” says Neil Barrett himself. For the first time in his life, Arthur is a little star-struck.
“Oh, don’t start, Neil,” Eames groans theatrically as he pulls the man into a loose one-armed hug.
“Okay, okay,” Neil laughs, thumping his back enthusiastically. “How are you, mate? And you must be Arthur – I suppose I’ve you to thank for the chance to see Eames here for the first time in nigh on five years!” He extends a hand, which Arthur takes without hesitation.
“Mmm, I can see what all the fuss was about,” Neil murmurs, running a practiced eye down Arthur’s own trim frame. “Yes, they’ll look damn near perfect on him, you’re right,” he tells Eames without looking away from Arthur’s hips.
Arthur looks at Eames in question, but Eames just winks at him, with that damn twinkle in his eyes. “Let’s go in, shall we?” Eames prompts. “I’m freezing my bollocks off out here. I see your manners haven’t improved.”
Neil smacks him on the arm in mock irritation but steps back so they can follow him inside into the warm, well-lit vestibule. “Still a cheeky bugger, in’t’cha,” Neil grouches, leading the way into what must have once been the living room but is now an airy, well-appointed studio strewn with fabrics of every shade and pattern imaginable.
Eames laughs easily. “Listen, thanks for doing this for me today,” he says, the teasing lilt gone from his voice for once.
“Anything for you, you know that,” Neil waves him off. At Arthur’s raised eyebrows, he supplies, “Eames helped me set up when I was starting off. Fresh out of St Martin’s I was -- no money, no sponsors, nothing to show for it but my graduate collection. Your mate here took one look at it and dragged me down to his banker, signed over twenty-five grand to me on the spot. Then he had to drag me all the way back home, too – I almost passed out in the bank. I owe him big time.”
“All right, all right. Let’s see ‘em, then,” Eames waves him off as Arthur turns to look at him, astonished.
“You know—never mind, of fucking course you know Neil Barrett from when he was at St Martin’s. Why am I even surprised any more?” Arthur throws his hands in the air, more resigned than annoyed.
“And now you know Neil Barrett, too, so it works out nicely, doesn’t it?” Eames grins. “Actually, it works out beautifully that you’re here – I’m pretty sure I have the measurements right, I got them off your newest Canali, but it’s always better to try these things on, just in case they need adjustments done.”
Arthur’s mouth is opening and closing soundlessly. He really doesn’t know why he’s surprised anymore – Eames is a sneaky bastard at the best of times. Just then Neil comes out, carrying a perfection of wool and leather that drives every other thought from Arthur’s mind and makes his knees feel unreasonably weak. The black leather boots Neil has swinging from his other hand are not helping matters. He stops himself from grabbing greedily at the clothes only by virtue of his aforementioned good manners.
Neil chuckles at the look on Arthur’s face, handing them over without delay. “Off you go, then. You can get changed in the second room on the left, the one with the 360 degree mirror.”
Arthur just about manages to mumble a ‘thank you’ before he’s off. The leather feels supple and butter-soft in his hands, and the wool is smooth and warm when he strokes it. He can barely wait to feel all this on him. He finds the room without undue stumbling and makes an effort not to rip his clothes off in his rush. The leather fulfils every promise it makes, sliding over his legs like a second skin, clinging tightly to every curve. He watches as it slips over his ass, fitting so perfectly that his own mouth waters. It hugs his already-half-hard cock lovingly as he arranges himself inside and zips the crotch up carefully. The jacket slips over his narrow shoulders smoothly, the leather lining teasing his cold-hardened nipples mercilessly. He should probably have left his undershirt on, Arthur muses, but the temptation to wrap his naked body in the gorgeous fabrics had just been too strong to resist.
The suit is perfect, down to the last carefully-applied stitch. Arthur tugs the boots on, mindful of the tightness in his cock, laces them up, straightens and looks at himself in the mirror. He can’t suppress the shudder that races down his spine at the sight, at the thought of Eames’ reaction when he sees him like this. As if the spike of lust has summoned him, the mirrored door opens and Eames slips into the room, mouth falling open and eyes glazing over.
“Holy fuck,” he breathes – pants, really, eyes shifting restlessly, as if he doesn’t know where to look first.
“I know they’re my Christmas present, but I feel the strange urge to say ‘Merry Christmas, Mr. Eames’,” Arthur delivers in his smoothest drawl. Eames swallows convulsively, eyes stuck to Arthur’s crotch, which is rapidly becoming uncomfortably confining.
Suddenly, Eames makes a noise of utter despair. Arthur panics for a second, before Eames wails, “I should never have let you try this on here; how are we ever going to get to the hotel with you looking like this?”
The smirk that steals over Arthur’s face is truly a thing of evil. “Well, Mr Eames,” he purrs, “I suggest we find out, and fast.”
Eames barely has time to wave at a laughing Neil as he drags Arthur behind him and out of the door.
Arthur shouts a ‘thanks’ over his shoulder, clutching his discarded clothes to his stomach as Eames tugs him down the front steps and bundles him into the passenger seat of the car, giggling like a schoolboy. The cold has put a flush to his cheeks, contrasting beautifully with his tanned skin and mussed blond hair, and Arthur thinks that he is quite possibly the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Then Eames slides behind the wheel and turns to him, with that look in his eyes and that smile on his lips, and Arthur has to revise that statement. Distractedly, he considers that this is likely to happen over and over again, for the rest of his life. He can’t find a single fault with that.
~~
The pants prove they’re staying for the long haul when they survive Eames’ frantic pawing at them without busting a single stitch. The jacket lies long-forgotten on the floor by the front door, and the boots are currently being kicked off Arthur’s feet by Eames’ impatient toes. Arthur has Eames pinned against the wall; Eames’ fingers are nimbly working the button and zip down, taking Arthur out of the delightfully snug pants and stroking him to full hardness – which admittedly doesn’t take long. Arthur has by now spent over an hour being helplessly subjected to the way the leather flexes with his body, warms with its heat; all it takes is that twist that Eames knows makes Arthur’s knees weak and Arthur is thrusting against Eames’ hip desperately, drinking Eames’ groans with his mouth.
“Bed?” Arthur chokes when Eames dips a thumb in his slit, screws his wrist under Arthur’s glans and bites at Arthur’s neck when he throws his head back, gritting his teeth at the shot of lust that spikes through him.
“Won’t make it that far,” Eames groans when Arthur takes one hand off the wall to push his unbuttoned jeans off and squeeze his ass, hard.
Arthur privately agrees, but for what he wants to do to Eames, they definitely need a firm mattress underneath them. “Come on,” he grunts and takes hold of Eames’ jacket lapels, pulls him away from the wall and drags him further into the hotel room. Eames hops on one leg and then the other as he pulls off his shoes and sheds his jeans and pants, trying to balance himself – difficult, with the way Arthur tugs his jacket and t-shirt off his shoulders with swift, decisive pulls.
Arthur pushes him backwards when he’s done, and Eames falls to sprawl full-length over the bed’s honey-gold coverlet with an ‘oof’ of air slammed from his lungs. Arthur crawls on top of him, a predatory grin baring his teeth. Eames’ eyes drift down Arthur’s body, from the firm, pale shoulders to the flat stomach and down to the gaping flap of his pants, still sticking to his ass. The way he smiles up at Arthur speaks volumes about Christmas mornings, and how they don’t even compare.
~~
Later, they lie exhausted and panting on the wonderfully soft bed, Arthur’s arm and leg thrown possessively over Eames’ sweaty body. He’s trying to catch his breath enough to move, but he’s so spent that it doesn’t seem to be happening any time soon. Eames’ arms are folded around him, clutching at him a little desperately. Eames’ nose is buried in Arthur’s hair; Arthur feels his exhales tickling over his ear and down his shoulder, making his damp skin shiver with the current.
“We’re going to have to work out a schedule,” Arthur says apropos-of-nothing, still languid and post-coital, pressing a kiss to the centre of Eames’ chest. “Sort through every major holiday that requires some form of family reunion and decide which family we’re spending it with, because I’m not spending another Christmas apart from you, not if I can help it.”
Eames stills underneath him, and Arthur considers for an endless, terrifying moment that he might have made a mistake, might have got the wrong end of the stick, even after everything. Then Eames is tugging his head upwards and attacking his mouth, kissing him almost violently, like staking a claim, pushing his hand into Arthur’s hair and holding on tight. “Okay,” he whispers against Arthur’s swollen lips, before kissing him again.
END
Inception
Arthur/Eames
NC-17
For notes, warnings, and disclaimer, please see Part One.
Part Two
They reach the airport with minutes to spare; Arthur grabs his vintage Gucci leather carry-all from the trunk, waving goodbye frantically as he runs inside. Three voices shout “good luck”-s and “we love you”-s from behind him; he spares a second to shout “I love you guys” back, grinning like a loon, before he rushes to the check-ins. Not twenty minutes of dashing through security checks, shouting apologies as he hurries around other passengers, and bemused smiles at his contagious enthusiasm later, he’s strapped into his seat and the plane is taking off, back to New York and off to London an hour after that, on the red-eye flight.
This time round, he can barely sit still the entire thirteen hours it takes him to land in London, driving all the passengers around him to distraction with his incessant nervous fidgeting. It’s about ten o’clock in the morning of the 24th December when he stumbles out of Arrivals at Heathrow, and he is really going to pay for the accumulated jet-lag later – but right now he’s running so high on adrenaline and excitement that he only just manages not to run over to the rent-a-car office through the teeming airport. He owes Sam big time for thinking ahead and booking a car for him last night. He has no doubt that the return favour she’ll extract will be epic; but it’ll be worth it, he thinks as he leaves London behind and heads towards Wiltshire, following the GPS coordinates of Eames’ phone that he’d programmed into the car’s Sat Nav.
The further away he gets from the city, the greener the countryside becomes. Arthur has always adored green fields in winter, and England has those in abundance. There are traces of snow here and there; Arthur wouldn’t at all be surprised if it starts snowing before nightfall, judging by the heavy, dirty-yellow clouds hanging in the sky, biding their time. The roads get narrower and narrower, until they are no more than country lanes full of curves that his mud-splattered Honda hugs closely.
By the time he reaches the correct turn, Arthur is starting to wonder if perhaps he should have called ahead. He glances at the huge bouquet of blush roses that he’d stopped for on his way out of London, hoping against hope that Eames’ mother won’t think him unforgivably rude for gate-crashing their family celebration. Arthur knows next to nothing about Eames’ family, and his imagination has been working overtime for the entire trip; he’s sucked down so much caffeine to keep from getting nervous that he’s fairly vibrating. If worse came to worst, Arthur is sure there are hotels aplenty in London, if not in the vicinity of Eames’ house, that Arthur can make use of. It would just be nice if it doesn’t have to come to that.
The house the Sat Nav directs him to is frankly intimidating. Arthur feels like he’s stepped straight into the pages of Pride & Prejudice without anyone warning him. This is without a doubt what Pemberley must have been based on – honey-gold stone, beautiful columns framing the entrance, extensive, meticulously maintained grounds... the architect in Arthur is a little bit in love with the perfect proportions and the beautiful façade. Arthur half-expects a horse-drawn carriage to clatter to a stop in front of the entrance; instead, there are clear signs that cars have recently rolled to a stop just outside the door. So he follows their lead and climbs out, heart in his throat. He circles the car and fetches the roses from the passenger seat, climbs the stairs and wields the door knocker half-hidden underneath a large, beautifully crafted Christmas wreath of holly, pine cones, and poinsettias twisted together.
He hears a masculine voice shout from inside, something like “I’ll get it!”; moments later the front door is yanked open to reveal a younger version of Eames, down to the side parting and the considering look in his eyes. That’s where the similarities end, however – the longer Arthur looks, the more differences he spots. The man’s eyes are more green than green-grey; the hair is closer to blond than Eames’; the man is clean-shaven, with no indication that he ever goes around sporting a three-day stubble. The biggest difference becomes evident as soon as the man smiles – it’s Eames’ sly smile, but it reveals a row of white, perfectly straight teeth. Something in Arthur revolts; suddenly, he misses Eames’ endearingly crooked teeth almost unbearably.
“Hmmm, dark hair, brown eyes, impeccably dressed, sexy as hell... Bloody hell, you’re Arthur!” the man says, equal parts shocked and delighted. The voice and accent are very similar, but just not quite what Arthur has come to adore. “Thank god you’re here, Will has been simply impossible. Come on, I’ll smuggle you to see him before Mum descends on you and you have to sit through an hour of cross-examination. I’m Matthew, by the way, pleasure to meet you!” he holds out a sturdy hand for Arthur to shake.
“You too,” Arthur says, bemused but smiling, and does so. He can’t help liking the man; Matthew has Eames’ easy-going charm and boyish enthusiasm that sweeps people along against their better judgement – and Arthur should know. “Where did you say Ea—William is?”
“He’s sulking out back, smoking his way through my last pack of fags, the selfish bastard,” Matthew answers cheerfully. He pulls the front door to a close behind him and waves for Arthur to follow him, leading him briskly around the corner of the manor.
“Dare I ask why he’s sulking?” And smoking again, Arthur adds silently. Eames hasn’t smoked in over six months now, not to Arthur’s knowledge.
“I should imagine because you took your time getting here,” Matthew says dryly, rubbing his hands together for warmth. He’s only wearing a thin sweater-vest over his pinstriped shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up; Arthur can see goosebumps spreading over the bare skin.
Arthur frowns. “He doesn’t know I’m coming. I didn’t even know I was coming until I got shoved onto the plane.”
“‘S even worse, then, if he thought he had to get through five more days before seeing you. Will isn’t too subtle when it comes to his personal life.” Matthew looks sheepish for a moment, like he’d pilfered the cookie jar and gotten a smack on the knuckles as a result. “In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that it’s probably at least half my fault he’s sulking right now. I, er. I bugged him to tell me about you until he snapped a little.”
Arthur smirks. Well, well. It was rather nice, not being the only one overly invested in this relationship.
“Just behind the corner there,” Matthew directs. “I’ll, uh. You two come in when you’re ready, okay? I think he might deck me if he sees me before he sees you.” He flashes Arthur a grin and ducks through a door at the side of the house.
Arthur walks on, turns the corner into the back gardens, and there Eames is – leaning one broad shoulder in the doorway behind him, contemplating the yellow-grey sky with a scrunch in his forehead and an unhappy twist to his usually generous mouth. Arthur can’t stop staring, drinking in the sight of the annoying, frustrating, wonderful man who has managed to make himself at home under Arthur’s skin without Arthur so much as noticing.
“Piss off, Matthew,” Eames growls without even turning to look at Arthur, sucks viciously on his half-gone cigarette and lets out a large plume of smoke in the chilly air.
Arthur smiles to himself, very much looking forward to the look on Eames’ face when he realises that it really isn’t Matthew walking towards him now, forgotten flowers dangling from his left hand.
“I said—“ Eames begins, turning to glare daggers at the intruder, and his jaw drops with an audible gasp when he spots Arthur closing in on him, not five metres away.
“Wh—Arthur?! I—I thought you were at your parents’?”
“I was,” Arthur says softly, placing the flowers on the sturdy wooden table by the back door and focusing on the way Eames beams at him, all joyful disbelief. “My mother virtually marched me onto the plane herself. Apparently, I was pining.” He smiles self-deprecatingly, reaches out to run a palm over the sleeve of the thick cranberry-red jumper that he had bought for Eames last month.
Eames snaps his mouth shut at last and moves in, pulling Arthur to his chest and wrapping strong arms around him with breathing-impairing strength. He buries his face in Arthur’s hair, taking a deep breath, no doubt smelling airports and planes and rented car on him. Arthur longs for a shower with the fire of a thousand suns – but not just now. He snakes his own arms around Eames’ torso and clings unashamedly, letting his head drop to his shoulder and breathing in the comforting, familiar scent. There’s only Eames around to see him, and apparently he no longer registers on Arthur’s embarrassment radar.
They separate when Arthur can no longer feel his toes – he’s only wearing thin leather Oxfords, and the English countryside mist is sneaking its way inside with alacrity. Eames pulls him into the house; Arthur remembers the roses at the last minute.
“Darling, you brought me flowers!” Eames gushes in his best Romantic Heroine impression.
“They’re not for you, you ass; they’re for your mother. For—barging in uninvited. Is she going to be pissed, do you think?” Arthur asks anxiously.
“She’s going to be bloody ecstatic, she’s been badgering me about you all morning. Thank god you’ve decided to take mercy on me and save me by showing up in all your glory.”
Arthur feels a shiver run down his spine, but by that point it’s already too late – a stylish, beautifully dressed ash-blonde woman bears down on them the second they step through the large glass doors and into what Eames assures him is the red drawing room. She’s on the shortish side, but her grip is strong when she grasps Arthur’s hand and tugs him down to brush a kiss on his wind-chilled cheek.
“Aurora, my dear Arthur; delighted to meet you at last! William has been effusive on your behalf.”
“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Arthur says, presenting her with the thankfully still fresh flowers.
Aurora’s entire face lights up. “Thank you ever so much, my dear! You didn’t have to! They are so beautiful! How did you know blush roses are my favourite? I’d better go put them in some water, won’t be a moment!” She putters out, face buried in the flowers. Arthur avoids looking at Eames, who (he’s sure) is gazing at him in amusement.
“So, apparently you remember every word I’ve ever said,” Eames muses, smirking; Arthur refuses to bite, flushing only slightly since it’s unavoidable. The tension that’s been gripping him ever since he got on the plane to London drains out of his shoulders at last, and even the sound of the damn King’s College Choir starting up in the background can’t ruin his good mood.
~~
He lies on an ornate walnut bed later that night, in a large, luxuriously appointed bedroom that has, apparently, always been Eames’, battling exhaustion and cataloguing the day’s discoveries out of sheer desperation to stay awake until Eames comes out of the shower.
Eames has two brothers and one sister – Matthew, Holly, and Jasper, who’s married to Emily and has a three-year-old boy called Jeremy, with another baby on the way. They are all stunningly beautiful and as pleasant as Arthur could ever have hoped for. Their father had passed on about eleven years ago, just after Eames had joined the Marines, four years before Arthur would first meet him. Arthur had known about it, but he hadn’t known that the man had had a heart condition that Eames’ leaving had exacerbated, or that he’d had a fatal heart attack two months later – just before Christmas, as it happens. No wonder Eames has been tetchy for weeks; Arthur had known there was something else, not just the spending-Christmas-apart.
He now also knows, even though no one’s said a word about it, that Eames has never forgiven himself for springing the news on his father out of the blue – telling him he was leaving three days before he did. He doesn’t know the reasons behind Eames’ poor choice, but he doesn’t want to pry, either; Eames will tell him, or he won’t, but it’ll be his decision.
The shower turns off at last; Arthur hopes he’d left enough hot water for Eames not to get chilled – he’d spent rather longer than usual in the shower, letting the scalding water soothe his tired muscles and the sore back that eighteen hours on the road had given him. Eames emerges in a cloud of bergamot-scented steam; the smell acts as an instant relaxant, and Arthur melts into a boneless heap under the sheets in relief. Eames dries himself off perfunctionally and pulls on a pair of black silk boxers – another of Arthur’s additions to his wardrobe – before climbing under the sheets and curling himself around Arthur’s pliant form.
“I still can’t believe you’re here,” Eames whispers into his neck, nuzzling the skin affectionately. “The bed’s been so empty without you that I’ve hardly slept since I got here.”
Arthur frowns in the shadowy lamplight, looking down at Eames worriedly. He looks exhausted now that he’s relaxed and his eyes are blinking closed, deep furrows obvious in the skin underneath. Arthur’s arms tighten around him involuntarily, pulling him closer against his prone body. Eames pushes a warm, muscled thigh between his, bringing as much of their skin into contact as possible.
“I’ve missed you, too,” Arthur doesn’t say, pressing a kiss into the lined forehead resting against his cheek instead.
Eames sighs contentedly, warm breath huffing across Arthur’s collar bone as he wriggles even closer. It feels like home.
~~
They’re woken in the morning by Jeremy’s excited yells that reverberate throughout the house and all the way up to their room. Eames drags a warm nose down Arthur’s nape, clutching him closer and refusing to be moved. Arthur, who by now has slept for longer than the last four days put together, is as alert as a sad lack of coffee would allow. He tries to disentangle his limbs from Eames’, but Eames is a champion cuddler and refuses to be thwarted so easily. It’s not until Arthur turns in his arms, pushes him flat on his back, nudges his legs open and presses their morning erections together that Eames even considers opening his eyes. He hums happily, lets his legs fall apart even further and pulls Arthur closer against him.
Arthur starts a languid rhythm, just rocking his weight forward to provide delicious friction that has Eames panting for more in minutes. When Eames grabs his ass and lifts his hips into the movement, mashing their hard-ons together, Arthur wiggles to divest both of them of their underwear and determinedly sets to driving Eames mindless.
“Tell me, tell me you want this,” Arthur urges, nearly breathless.
“Fuck yes,” Eames growls, rocking harder. “I always want you, always, even when you’re being an insufferable know-it-all and a stubborn arse. Especially when you’re being a stubborn arse.” He gasps the last word into Arthur’s mouth, because Arthur has just driven a spit-slicked finger inside him with little warning but deadly skill.
Eames groans and his hips stutter, so eager for it that Arthur’s cock starts leaking all over the place just from the sounds the man keeps making under him. He’s got two fingers inside now, sliding down Eames’ muscled body and licking around the edges of them, forcing more spit into Eames’ entrance; his fingers are being squeezed viciously by Eames’ inner muscles in an effort to stop them leaving his body again. Eames isn’t nearly as tight as five days with no penetration should make him, and Arthur tells him so in detail, hot breath trailing over his twitching balls.
“Fingered myself,” Eames says on an exhale that sounds like a moan, gripping his shoulders hard, nearly speechless with need as Arthur bites at the strong muscles of his inner thigh over and over again, no doubt leaving one hell of a hickey. “Every bloody night I’ve been here without you. Thought of you, imagined it was your fingers inside me, filling me, but it was never enough, it’s never enough when it’s not you, your cock buried so deep inside my arse that I can feel you in my throat, fuck, Arthur, fuck me already, oh god come on.”
Eames is fairly thrashing under his weight now, fucking himself down on his unyielding fingers, his ass opening beautifully under Arthur’s ministrations. Arthur can barely think any more with the images Eames’ gruff voice evokes weaving mercilessly through his mind.
“Where?” he growls, and Eames’ hips snap upwards again, rhythm shot to hell, driving the now-three fingers deeper.
“Top drawer,” he rasps, sounding destroyed.
Arthur performs some frankly uncomfortable acrobatics to get to the lube without removing his fingers from where they are wrecking Eames’ composure further and further with each passing second. His hand closes around the tube at last, and he wastes no time slicking himself up liberally. The noise Eames makes when he tugs out his fingers and starts pushing his cock inside the stretched opening is obscene; Arthur has to bite at his lower lip hard enough to draw blood to have any hope of hanging on to his control. A thin red trickle makes its way down his chin; Eames scrunches upwards and licks it off greedily, takes his mouth, devours it even as he feeds him small sounds of pleasure that slither down Arthur’s spine and lodge straight in his balls.
Eames shifts a little, tilting his hips further, and Arthur slides all the way inside with no further obstruction. He muffles the groan that spills from his lips unchecked into Eames’ delicious-smelling throat. Then Eames clenches around him and slides his palm up Arthur’s chest to pinch a nipple; Arthur exhales harshly and starts pounding into him helplessly, until Eames is yelling hoarsely and spasming around him, milking his orgasm out of him until he’s shaking and sprawling on top of Eames’ sweaty, semen-streaked body.
“Oh, Christ,” Eames breathes, still twitching from the aftershocks, tightening weakly around Arthur when he slips out with a filthy sound, one that Arthur knows full well will be on repeat in his head all damn day, every time he sees Eames sit down too clumsily, or shift uncomfortably against a chair with an unconscious wince.
“God, Arthur,” Eames murmurs weakly into Arthur’s sweat-damp hair, arms wrapped around his narrower shoulders, fingers stroking along his spine idly. He doesn’t say anything more, but Arthur knows what he means. He shifts closer and proceeds to snatch another five minutes away from the busy day, just the two of them holding each other in the warm bed that doesn’t feel empty anymore.
~~
“Your present isn’t actually here, darling,” Eames says apologetically, sitting in an ocean of torn wrapping paper and holding on tight to Jeremy’s wriggling little body while the kid tries to latch onto his father’s long legs and beg to be allowed to go play with his new boat in the unfortunately frozen lake outside. Jasper shakes his head in despair and picks him up, mumbling something about filling up the jacuzzi.
“It isn’t?” Arthur plays along.
“No, I was supposed to be fetching it tomorrow from London. It was an excuse to get out of the house before it all got a bit much,” Eames murmurs into his neck, pressing full lips briefly to the warm skin. Aurora sends him a sharply suspicious glance; Eames grins back innocently, but it’s tinged with a sadness that Arthur knows for what it is – the ghost of a still-mourned father.
“I’m breathless with anticipation,” Arthur deadpans, but he really is looking forward to spending some time alone with Eames, even if it does mean driving into London and back again.
Aurora sighs in disappointment. “I suppose I’d better make the best of it while you’re here, William. I’m under no illusions that you’ve any intention of coming back once you’ve whisked dear Arthur away to town. Oh, well. I did get four whole days with you this time round; I shouldn’t really complain.”
Eames beams at her unashamedly and she shakes her head fondly. “I really should thank you, Arthur,” she says, turning her amused glance to him. “William has been immensely more pleasant company since you arrived. I simply must extract a promise from you to visit along with him as often as he manages to tear himself away from work.”
Arthur smiles back, throwing Eames a knowing look that makes him frown in question; Arthur ignores him. He’ll explain later. “How could I possibly refuse?” he agrees dryly. He sees where Eames gets his charmingly crooked grin from when Aurora bestows just such a one on him in approval.
In the afternoon, the siblings decide to take the family’s three golden retrievers for a long, rambling walk before it gets dark and it’s time for yet more food. Arthur gets a chance to explore the vast grounds, hand tucked snugly into Eames’ as the five of them meander along after the dogs and an ecstatic Jeremy, chatting mildly about everything and nothing. It’s a few hours before the light starts to go and the first fat snowflakes drift gently towards the ground, the ominous clouds that Arthur had scrutinised yesterday finally delivering their load.
Hence, Arthur isn’t too surprised when Boxing Day dawns on a vast blanket of white smothering the countryside around the manor in cold and silence. It’s not too thick yet, not enough to stop him and Eames from driving back to London, but the way tiny snowflakes dance through the air promises several more inches in the next few hours. Forewarned, he and Eames pack quickly and ferry their bags to Arthur’s rented car as soon as they’re done, as Eames had hitched a ride with Matthew on the way over.
Aurora insists they take breakfast with the rest of the family before they go, some of whom are also casting worried glances at the weather and each other. Arthur has a feeling that the house will not stay full for too much longer – even Aurora is thinking about returning to town; he sees it in the almost invisible furrow in her forehead that’s so like her eldest son’s.
When they’re done with their eggs and bacon, Eames refreshes his and Arthur’s coffees absentmindedly, thoughts already on the drive back. Arthur thanks him with a private smile, which makes Eames snap back to the here-and-now with gratifying swiftness.
“Let’s go,” Arthur murmurs, unwilling to prolong the wait. It’s already gone eleven, and the day isn’t getting any longer.
To his surprise, he gets pretty much the same treatment as Eames, minus the fond motherly scolding and brotherly baiting. Aurora hugs him goodbye, kisses his cheek in parting and tasks him again to make sure ‘William’ brings him along when he visits. Holly hugs him as well, her long strawberry-blonde hair flowing over the two of them like a curtain blown by the wind, and laughingly exchanges email addresses with him ‘for pointers, and for when Will’s in a sulk and you need someone to vent at’. Jeremy waves to him shyly from behind his father’s legs, and to his barely-restrained amusement Jasper and Matthew both make a point of taking him aside for a moment, for a ‘brotherly talk’.
“I know he doesn’t show it, but he’s not invincible, you know. And he’s pretty smitten with you. So just keep that in mind, okay?” Jasper says, a little awkward but no less serious. Arthur sees Emily smile proudly behind Jasper’s back as Arthur solemnly nods. Jasper has been nothing but friendly and supportive – but if pressed, Arthur would hazard a guess that there had been some tension between him and Eames when Eames had come out to the family, even if it is years in the past and they’ve both mostly gotten over it.
Matthew just squints at him as he shakes Arthur’s hand, for a moment presenting such a horrifying mix of Eames and Cobb that Arthur has to work hard to muffle the hysterical laughter trying to burst forth. He nods, though – he understands the sentiment all too well. It’s actually rather touching, the way the two instinctively reach to protect their elder brother. It tells Arthur all he needs to know about the Eameses. He can’t say that he disapproves.
Eames seems to find it all a brilliant joke, if the way he baits his younger brothers is anything to go by. Finally, Matthew all but pushes him into the car, not bothering to cover his irritation. Eames submits gracefully, tugging at Arthur to follow. They drive away from the manor to many a colourful arm waving from the wrapped-up group.
Arthur leans back into his seat, exhaling contentedly. “I like them,” he confides, grinning at Eames. “They’re all as mad as you.”
Eames snorts, keeping his eyes on the snow-covered road. “If you think we’re mad, just wait until you meet the rest of the family – my cousin Anna’s a stunt double in Hollywood, and she’s the tamest of the lot of them!”
Yes, Arthur thinks to himself, smiling. Yes, I’ll meet all of them. I’m looking forward to it.
~~
Turns out that all the fuss Eames has been making is totally, completely justified when he pulls the car to a stop in front of a subtly-lit townhouse on Saville Row. Arthur tries not to salivate and fails spectacularly. There is an unobtrusive onyx plaque with a crown etched into it by the front door, advertising to those in the know that this particular tailor works by royal appointment. Underneath it is another, the name Neil Barrett standing out in silver from the black background. Arthur can only blink at Eames as he calmly knocks on the front door, turning to look at him with a pleased smirk.
“What—“ Arthur starts, just as the door is flung open and a thin man in ragged jeans and a tight sweater jumps out, grinning happily at Eames.
“William Eames, as I live and breathe,” says Neil Barrett himself. For the first time in his life, Arthur is a little star-struck.
“Oh, don’t start, Neil,” Eames groans theatrically as he pulls the man into a loose one-armed hug.
“Okay, okay,” Neil laughs, thumping his back enthusiastically. “How are you, mate? And you must be Arthur – I suppose I’ve you to thank for the chance to see Eames here for the first time in nigh on five years!” He extends a hand, which Arthur takes without hesitation.
“Mmm, I can see what all the fuss was about,” Neil murmurs, running a practiced eye down Arthur’s own trim frame. “Yes, they’ll look damn near perfect on him, you’re right,” he tells Eames without looking away from Arthur’s hips.
Arthur looks at Eames in question, but Eames just winks at him, with that damn twinkle in his eyes. “Let’s go in, shall we?” Eames prompts. “I’m freezing my bollocks off out here. I see your manners haven’t improved.”
Neil smacks him on the arm in mock irritation but steps back so they can follow him inside into the warm, well-lit vestibule. “Still a cheeky bugger, in’t’cha,” Neil grouches, leading the way into what must have once been the living room but is now an airy, well-appointed studio strewn with fabrics of every shade and pattern imaginable.
Eames laughs easily. “Listen, thanks for doing this for me today,” he says, the teasing lilt gone from his voice for once.
“Anything for you, you know that,” Neil waves him off. At Arthur’s raised eyebrows, he supplies, “Eames helped me set up when I was starting off. Fresh out of St Martin’s I was -- no money, no sponsors, nothing to show for it but my graduate collection. Your mate here took one look at it and dragged me down to his banker, signed over twenty-five grand to me on the spot. Then he had to drag me all the way back home, too – I almost passed out in the bank. I owe him big time.”
“All right, all right. Let’s see ‘em, then,” Eames waves him off as Arthur turns to look at him, astonished.
“You know—never mind, of fucking course you know Neil Barrett from when he was at St Martin’s. Why am I even surprised any more?” Arthur throws his hands in the air, more resigned than annoyed.
“And now you know Neil Barrett, too, so it works out nicely, doesn’t it?” Eames grins. “Actually, it works out beautifully that you’re here – I’m pretty sure I have the measurements right, I got them off your newest Canali, but it’s always better to try these things on, just in case they need adjustments done.”
Arthur’s mouth is opening and closing soundlessly. He really doesn’t know why he’s surprised anymore – Eames is a sneaky bastard at the best of times. Just then Neil comes out, carrying a perfection of wool and leather that drives every other thought from Arthur’s mind and makes his knees feel unreasonably weak. The black leather boots Neil has swinging from his other hand are not helping matters. He stops himself from grabbing greedily at the clothes only by virtue of his aforementioned good manners.
Neil chuckles at the look on Arthur’s face, handing them over without delay. “Off you go, then. You can get changed in the second room on the left, the one with the 360 degree mirror.”
Arthur just about manages to mumble a ‘thank you’ before he’s off. The leather feels supple and butter-soft in his hands, and the wool is smooth and warm when he strokes it. He can barely wait to feel all this on him. He finds the room without undue stumbling and makes an effort not to rip his clothes off in his rush. The leather fulfils every promise it makes, sliding over his legs like a second skin, clinging tightly to every curve. He watches as it slips over his ass, fitting so perfectly that his own mouth waters. It hugs his already-half-hard cock lovingly as he arranges himself inside and zips the crotch up carefully. The jacket slips over his narrow shoulders smoothly, the leather lining teasing his cold-hardened nipples mercilessly. He should probably have left his undershirt on, Arthur muses, but the temptation to wrap his naked body in the gorgeous fabrics had just been too strong to resist.
The suit is perfect, down to the last carefully-applied stitch. Arthur tugs the boots on, mindful of the tightness in his cock, laces them up, straightens and looks at himself in the mirror. He can’t suppress the shudder that races down his spine at the sight, at the thought of Eames’ reaction when he sees him like this. As if the spike of lust has summoned him, the mirrored door opens and Eames slips into the room, mouth falling open and eyes glazing over.
“Holy fuck,” he breathes – pants, really, eyes shifting restlessly, as if he doesn’t know where to look first.
“I know they’re my Christmas present, but I feel the strange urge to say ‘Merry Christmas, Mr. Eames’,” Arthur delivers in his smoothest drawl. Eames swallows convulsively, eyes stuck to Arthur’s crotch, which is rapidly becoming uncomfortably confining.
Suddenly, Eames makes a noise of utter despair. Arthur panics for a second, before Eames wails, “I should never have let you try this on here; how are we ever going to get to the hotel with you looking like this?”
The smirk that steals over Arthur’s face is truly a thing of evil. “Well, Mr Eames,” he purrs, “I suggest we find out, and fast.”
Eames barely has time to wave at a laughing Neil as he drags Arthur behind him and out of the door.
Arthur shouts a ‘thanks’ over his shoulder, clutching his discarded clothes to his stomach as Eames tugs him down the front steps and bundles him into the passenger seat of the car, giggling like a schoolboy. The cold has put a flush to his cheeks, contrasting beautifully with his tanned skin and mussed blond hair, and Arthur thinks that he is quite possibly the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Then Eames slides behind the wheel and turns to him, with that look in his eyes and that smile on his lips, and Arthur has to revise that statement. Distractedly, he considers that this is likely to happen over and over again, for the rest of his life. He can’t find a single fault with that.
~~
The pants prove they’re staying for the long haul when they survive Eames’ frantic pawing at them without busting a single stitch. The jacket lies long-forgotten on the floor by the front door, and the boots are currently being kicked off Arthur’s feet by Eames’ impatient toes. Arthur has Eames pinned against the wall; Eames’ fingers are nimbly working the button and zip down, taking Arthur out of the delightfully snug pants and stroking him to full hardness – which admittedly doesn’t take long. Arthur has by now spent over an hour being helplessly subjected to the way the leather flexes with his body, warms with its heat; all it takes is that twist that Eames knows makes Arthur’s knees weak and Arthur is thrusting against Eames’ hip desperately, drinking Eames’ groans with his mouth.
“Bed?” Arthur chokes when Eames dips a thumb in his slit, screws his wrist under Arthur’s glans and bites at Arthur’s neck when he throws his head back, gritting his teeth at the shot of lust that spikes through him.
“Won’t make it that far,” Eames groans when Arthur takes one hand off the wall to push his unbuttoned jeans off and squeeze his ass, hard.
Arthur privately agrees, but for what he wants to do to Eames, they definitely need a firm mattress underneath them. “Come on,” he grunts and takes hold of Eames’ jacket lapels, pulls him away from the wall and drags him further into the hotel room. Eames hops on one leg and then the other as he pulls off his shoes and sheds his jeans and pants, trying to balance himself – difficult, with the way Arthur tugs his jacket and t-shirt off his shoulders with swift, decisive pulls.
Arthur pushes him backwards when he’s done, and Eames falls to sprawl full-length over the bed’s honey-gold coverlet with an ‘oof’ of air slammed from his lungs. Arthur crawls on top of him, a predatory grin baring his teeth. Eames’ eyes drift down Arthur’s body, from the firm, pale shoulders to the flat stomach and down to the gaping flap of his pants, still sticking to his ass. The way he smiles up at Arthur speaks volumes about Christmas mornings, and how they don’t even compare.
~~
Later, they lie exhausted and panting on the wonderfully soft bed, Arthur’s arm and leg thrown possessively over Eames’ sweaty body. He’s trying to catch his breath enough to move, but he’s so spent that it doesn’t seem to be happening any time soon. Eames’ arms are folded around him, clutching at him a little desperately. Eames’ nose is buried in Arthur’s hair; Arthur feels his exhales tickling over his ear and down his shoulder, making his damp skin shiver with the current.
“We’re going to have to work out a schedule,” Arthur says apropos-of-nothing, still languid and post-coital, pressing a kiss to the centre of Eames’ chest. “Sort through every major holiday that requires some form of family reunion and decide which family we’re spending it with, because I’m not spending another Christmas apart from you, not if I can help it.”
Eames stills underneath him, and Arthur considers for an endless, terrifying moment that he might have made a mistake, might have got the wrong end of the stick, even after everything. Then Eames is tugging his head upwards and attacking his mouth, kissing him almost violently, like staking a claim, pushing his hand into Arthur’s hair and holding on tight. “Okay,” he whispers against Arthur’s swollen lips, before kissing him again.
END
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Date: 2011-03-03 08:40 am (UTC)GOOD MORNING, SWEETIE! HAVE A GREAT THURSDAY!!
♥ ♥ ♥
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Date: 2011-03-03 08:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-03 09:00 am (UTC)Yep. One of THOSE days. *ggg*
<3
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Date: 2011-03-03 12:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-03 04:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-03 03:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-03 04:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-03 04:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-03 04:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-03 10:59 pm (UTC)*add to favorites*
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Date: 2011-03-04 06:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-04 12:38 am (UTC)(Also, I have friended you so as to better stalk your fic posting... :D)
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Date: 2011-03-04 06:19 am (UTC)Also, friend away! :D
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Date: 2011-09-03 03:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-03 06:06 am (UTC)