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sirona_ficsOkay, last one, and then I swear I'll stop spamming you with fic for the time being! Until I get bitten by the next plot bunny, that is...
Title: A love story in E minor
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: ~3,200
Disclaimer: Definitely not mine. They belong to Chris Nolan, but bless him for giving them to the world!
Warnings: none to speak of.
Summary: It's a heady delight, having a gorgeous child prodigy working in your music shop, but it's even better when you know he trusts you enough to share his past. A Classical music AU, child-prodigy-piano-player!Arthur & music-shop-owner!Eames.
Author’s Notes: Written for the Eames_Arthur Secret Santa exchange, for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
towel_master. S/he mentioned s/he enjoyed AUs, particularly to do with music, and this one had been knocking around in my head for a while, anyway. The music pieces in this story are real, and can be found on YouTube.
A love story in E minor
The first time Arthur Lake walks into his shop, Eames barely looks away from Nash, eyes narrowed and teeth bared in fury.
“I didn’t go through all the crap I did, getting this place open and staying that way, just for you to turn around and try and screw me, all right? Get your stuff and get the fuck out of my shop!” He points at the door. Dramatic, but fuck, he’s earned it.
Nash slinks off sullenly, and doesn’t look back; Eames would not have been surprised if he had, the sheer bloody nerve of the man! He breathes deeply for a few minutes before turning to face the fresh-faced young man, with barely-there composure -- and nearly swallows his tongue. “Yes, can I help you?” he croaks before clearing his throat desperately.
“I heard you’re looking for an assistant manager,” Arthur Lake says, eyeing Eames cautiously.
Eames tries to find his wits. He’s not going to make a fool of himself in front of Arthur Lake, damnit! “Yes. Yes, I am. Why, are you here to apply for the job?”
Lake takes out a crisp sheet of paper from the orange folder he’s carrying under his arm and hands it over. The CV is concise but uninformative, and far too generic for who Eames knows Lake is. There’s not even a hint of the fact that he’s been playing piano professionally since the age of four and a half, or that he was an honest-to-god child prodigy, or that he disappeared off the face of the earth five years ago after a spectacular breakdown on the New York Met’s centre stage.
The stylishly dressed man standing in front of him bears only a vague resemblance to that striking teenager (tall and gangly even at eleven, with a presence that could bring the house to its feet in a matter of minutes). That presence is still there; even though it’s muted, it still manages to knock Eames over where he stands.
He shakes himself and looks the CV over again, searching for answers -- Columbia Business School, final year undergraduate student, graduates in two months. He looks up at Arthur standing there patiently, and makes what will come to be his best decision since moving to New York. “I’m not looking for an Assistant Manager anymore. I need a Shop Manager. Think you’re up for the job?”
Arthur just smiles at him, confident beyond his age in his grey slacks and striped shirt, a patterned silk tie knotted in a neat double Windsor at his throat -- he would be, though, with everything he’s seen in his twenty-four years. And that’s how Eames procures a genius with the face of an angel to run his music shop.
---
Said shop is a vast space filled with every sort of musical instrument you care to name, and it’s Eames’ pride and joy. He’s been running it for six years now, and it’s wildly successful, a world away from what it started out as -- a way to escape the weariness of his life back in England. It had just not been the same since his parents died and left him the estate; not the same without his father’s calm voice in the study, and his mother’s laughter from the green drawing room that had been her domain. The manor felt empty, stale, a ghost house, and Eames had hated it with a passion. He’d been that close to selling it just to get away, when his uncle invited him to New York for the summer, and he found something to ensnare his waning attention to the world around him.
His mother had loved music; she’d used to travel throughout Europe during the season, chasing performances -- Paris, Milan, Vienna, before coming back to London, a small figure following in her wake like a tiny second shadow, enormous eyes trying to catch absolutely everything. And then one snowy evening she’d taken him to Covent Garden again, and he had sprawled his 14-year-old limbs in the plush red chair, waiting to be entertained, when a young boy had come out onto the stage and bowed to excited applause. And then he had sat at the grand piano and had coaxed the most exquisite, soul-rendering music out of it; Eames had watched enthralled as the smooth, long fingers had flitted over the keys, caressing and gentle and striking, and he had felt something inside him shake loose and awaken, unfurl gloriously in his chest cavity. That was the night he had fallen in love for the very first time; the boy’s name had been Arthur Lake, and he had been eleven.
That was the memory that had flowed through his mind on that foggy morning, as he was passing by the boarded-up shop in the East Village with the ‘For Sale’ sign on the door, with the sound of Haydn’s Sonata in D-major floating through an open window somewhere close by. Much like the first time he’d seen Arthur Lake play live, the idea took hold of him and would not leave him alone. He had money -- a lot of money; sometimes he felt it was the only thing his parents had left behind when they’d left him. That was how E minor came to exist.
He filled it with anything that held his attention -- violas, flutes, cellos, percussions, three grand pianos and one baby grand, trumpets, guitars -- anything went. And people had come; people had flocked to him, students, professors, tutors, the parents of little girls and boys just starting to be able to grasp the fragile neck of a violin excitedly in their little hands.
Eames had always thought that he was a good judge of character, but somehow Nash had managed to slip under his radar when he hadn’t been paying attention. Maybe it was because it had been the anniversary of the car crash and he had not been fit for much but moping that day, heart-sick and aching, that Nash had hoodwinked him so easily. Then again, if it hadn’t been for Nash, he might not have Arthur’s lean form come through the door every morning, juggling keys and his satchel and a large cup of coffee and the morning paper, and he would have never known the unexpected delight of walking down the stairs from his flat above the shop to Arthur’s distracted muttering over the appointments list or today’s student schedule.
Arthur smiles at him warmly now -- like he does every morning, dimples there for a brief flash before they’re gone; Eames is charmed all over again, heart leaping like it hasn’t for years and years. “What’s on for today then, love?” he says, his breath always hitching ever so slightly every time he slips the endearment in without Arthur noticing. He is such a goner for that man, with his effortless competence and his quick, friendly smiles, and his breathtaking confidence in himself, except when it comes to that one thing.
“We have a Mr Frank coming in at two to look at the baby grand -- I keep telling you, Eames, we should have at least three of those in the shop for all the business we do, we’ll just have to order them yet again, and you know how long the shipping takes -- and we have a Mary Mallory coming to buy a cello for her sister in an hour. Then we have Toby, Mark, Stephen, Kelly, and Anna coming this afternoon to play, and Ariadne’s scheduled for four o’clock,” he adds as he flips the appointment book closed and looks back up at him, dark eyes crinkling easily at the corners.
“A full day, then,” Eames remarks mildly. His days never used to be this busy before; it was Arthur’s idea to advertise for Conservatory students to come in to practice here and keep all the instruments in tune – since instruments need to be played to keep their finer qualities up to scratch. He’d scheduled them so that the shop would have live music playing constantly during the day; and then he’d gone and got chairs and benches so that people could sit and listen inside, and brokered a deal with the cafe next door to knock through the wall and install huge French windows between the two shops. Business had been booming for both establishments within the month.
Working with Arthur is a constant joy; he’s organised to the point of obsession, but the shop has never run so smoothly, or made so much money. It’s never had such a pleasant, bohemian atmosphere, either; Eames is constantly surprised by the little touches Arthur has scattered throughout the space -- music stands with sheets set up so that people could try the instruments out, a comfortable sofa by the books and sheet music section, spotlights artfully arranged to bring out the honeyed sheen of the wood polish, a few beautifully chosen canvasses on the walls not covered by shelves. In just six months the place has been completely transformed. Eames is a dab hand at charming the customers, but he’s never had the knack for presentation that Arthur displays every day.
There is just one thing marring the perfect contentment of Eames’ existence these days; he stops his face falling with some effort when Ariadne comes in at four o’clock on the dot, calling out cheerful hellos to the two of them. He adores her, he really does; she’s a tiny thing, but her fingers are long and tapered and slide over the piano keys with a proficiency and passion he hasn’t seen since that night at Covent Garden. She is, however, not Arthur.
Arthur refuses to touch the pianos, not even when the tuner arrives every couple of weeks. It’s like he’s cut himself off completely from that part of himself, the part that lives for the feel of ivory under his fingers. He works in a music shop of his own volition -- it must be constant torture to see the one thing you’ve forbidden yourself, for whatever reason, and it drives Eames insane. He watches Arthur watch Ariadne every day, watches the shutters come down behind his eyes when the first notes float in the air, watches him turn away and busy himself with something, anything, to avoid whatever feelings he’s trying to suffocate. It’s breaking Eames’ heart, and he can’t say a word about it, not if he wants Arthur to keep coming into his life every day. He knows the signs well enough; he’d displayed them for a long time since that night when his life changed irrevocably. It’s a grief one doesn’t quite know how to cope with, and so they shut themselves off from that part of themselves. Eames has never felt quite this helpless before; it’s as if Arthur’s perfect confidence in every other aspect of his life completely disappears when he’s faced with his piano-shaped demons.
It’s why he's never told Arthur he knows exactly who he is; it’s like he’s a skittish animal that needs careful handling, and not the composed, self-possessed man that Eames knows he is. The customers are not a problem; Arthur is always perfectly polite, charmingly well-mannered, and no one makes the connection to the wild thing Arthur had become towards the end of his music career -- a rock star without his guitar, the party animal of the classical world, dabbling in anything once and some things over and over again. He is almost unrecognisable as the sullen teenager that flew too close to the sun and got his wings burned.
Eames thanks anything holy out there that Arthur is not like that with him; that he lets himself have an opinion, a personality, that he not only responds to Eames’ teasing but bites right back, snarky and sarcastic and too beautiful for words. Every time he makes Eames laugh, Eames has to bite his tongue hard not to ask him out to dinner, drinks, coffee, anything to spend even more time with him than he already is; but he doesn’t want to scare Arthur away, because he’s the best thing to have happened to him in a long, long time.
It’s hard to keep that thought in mind when Arthur smiles at him like that, when all Eames has said is, “Oh, just whatever you think is best, Arthur, I trust you” in response to Arthur’s question about the new stock arrangement. All Eames has done is speak his mind, but Arthur looks at him like he’s just fetched the moon from the sky and tied a big red bow around it, placing it at his feet. It’s roller-coaster-exhilarating and teeth-grinding-frustrating, all in the same breath.
And then, finally, after a year of back and forth, of being hopelessly in love with Arthur and aching for his attention, it happens.
Eames is in his flat, taking a pot of pasta off the stove and turning off the sauce that bubbles merrily in a smaller pot, when the first notes flutter through the air, tentative and sweet, stopping him in his tracks better than a freight train. The shop is empty; it’s just Arthur left downstairs to turn off the lights and lock up -- Eames knows, because that’s where he left him half an hour ago at the end of the workday. Yet there it is, ever so faint, Chopin’s Nocturne op. 48 #1 -- less well known than the rest of them, but Arthur’s signature piece, slow and hauntingly mournful, lighter as it goes on; like waking up from a deep, dark sleep, like finding your way back into the light.
Eames almost trips down the stairs in his rush to get to the shop, but he can’t make it through the doorway -- he’s frozen in place by the sight of Arthur’s straight back on the piano bench, shifting back and forth with the lilting melody. His face is turned away from Eames; he’s facing the front of the shop, yet Eames can see the sheer emotion he pours into the piece, plain as day.
The last note sounds and Arthur stays still, hardly even breathing. And then his hands lift again, and he launches softly into Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, fingers moving without hesitation, as if the last six years have disappeared without a trace. It’s mesmerising, and unbearably arousing. Eames’ whole body is thrumming white-hot with love and desire and a fierce pride in Arthur’s resilience, his refusal to run away from his past any longer.
He’s so focused on Arthur that he doesn’t immediately realise that the music has stopped. Arthur closes the lid on the piano gently, stroking over the shining wood with careful fingers. Then he stands and turns, looks straight at Eames. A flush flares high on his cheeks, staining them pink, but he holds Eames’ gaze without embarrassment; Eames’ brain-to-mouth filter fails him utterly and completely.
“Oh god, Arthur,” he rasps, taking a couple of steps towards him. “That was unbelievable, oh my god, you’re so perfect, I’m so happy it’s--you’ve-- It was like I was fourteen again, did you know I fell in love with you that night? And then you came here, to my shop, it was like Christmas, I mean just look at you, and you stayed, and I was too scared to tell you before, but my god, Arthur, it’s you, it’s always been you, and I can’t even--” which is when Arthur takes mercy on his poor, befuddled mind, covers the remaining few steps between them and kisses him, sneaking a slick tongue into Eames’ mouth that falls open, soft and pliant, letting Arthur take whatever he wants from him.
The feel of him under Eames’ hands, when he finally catches up and reaches for him, is addictive -- long, lean muscles coiled with strength and intent; the heat of his skin; the beguiling scent of him, sandalwood and spice with a hint of wood polish -- Eames breathes him in, fills his lungs with it, presses closer to his body, tilts his head unasked to let Arthur in deeper, slips a greedy hand under the cotton sweater and shirt to seek out the silky touch of naked skin on his fingertips. Arthur makes a noise in his throat that sets Eames aflame, makes his breath hitch and rush out of his chest in a strangled moan.
“Right here?” Arthur asks, breathless, when Eames pushes him back down onto the piano bench he’d vacated just moments ago and tugs his tie off, unbuttons his shirt as far as the sweater will allow, impatient to taste what he’d only imagined countless times before.
“Why not? It all comes back to this in the end, doesn’t it?” Eames murmurs, sinking to his knees and grappling with Arthur’s belt clumsily. Arthur braces himself on the piano behind him, breath stuttering when Eames unzips him and just looks at him for a long moment, committing his wild hair, reddened lips, flushed cheeks, half-lidded eyes to memory before he bends closer and mouths at him through his boxer briefs, inhaling deeply, revelling in the heavy scent of arousal thick on the roof of his mouth.
Arthur makes a broken sound when Eames reaches inside and tugs his cock out, already more than half-hard and quickly filling as Eames trails a flat tongue over the length of it before flicking the tip inside his slit. Arthur’s hips jump under the hand curled over them, rocking him into the open space of Eames’ mouth. Both of them groan desperately; Eames is so aroused that he has the vague suspicion that it won’t be long before he spills inside his own trousers. He opens his throat and sinks his head down, takes Arthur as deep as he can while Arthur falls apart above him.
It doesn’t last long; it’s too much, too intense; the space between them is too heavy with history and want -- it makes Eames greedy, makes him take everything Arthur is willing to give him -- until Arthur can’t stop himself from fucking his mouth, until a hand reaching inside his pants to roll his balls gently in its palm makes Arthur whine harshly and come long and desperate down Eames’ throat. Eames licks him clean eagerly, even as Arthur sinks backwards against the piano, soft and spent and deliciously fucked out. Eames’ own predicament is painful in its hardness, but he wants to wait; he wants to feel Arthur’s long, elegant fingers wrap around it, stroke him swiftly and skilfully until all he can say, all he can think is Arthur’s name.
Arthur straightens and reaches for him, curls a hand possessively over the nape of Eames’ neck and pulls him into a kiss, tongue seeking out the taste of himself in Eames’ mouth. A sneaky hand unbuttons his trousers and snakes inside, but Eames stops him with a frantic moan and an effort that leaves him wrung out and shaking.
“D’you think maybe we could take this upstairs, before you’ve befuddled my mind past caring that I’m about to come all over the floor of my shop?” he forces out quickly, clutching a hand around Arthur’s strong forearm in desperation.
Arthur smiles wickedly; it makes Eames groan, seeing the way it twists those delicious, mobile lips. “I suppose that’s a reasonable request, Mr Eames. As long as you promise that you won’t respect me in the morning?”
“Darling, I think that’s pretty much a guarantee,” Eames rasps, rising to his feet and dragging his smirking love up the stairs.
END
Title: A love story in E minor
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: ~3,200
Disclaimer: Definitely not mine. They belong to Chris Nolan, but bless him for giving them to the world!
Warnings: none to speak of.
Summary: It's a heady delight, having a gorgeous child prodigy working in your music shop, but it's even better when you know he trusts you enough to share his past. A Classical music AU, child-prodigy-piano-player!Arthur & music-shop-owner!Eames.
Author’s Notes: Written for the Eames_Arthur Secret Santa exchange, for
towel_master. S/he mentioned s/he enjoyed AUs, particularly to do with music, and this one had been knocking around in my head for a while, anyway. The music pieces in this story are real, and can be found on YouTube.A love story in E minor
The first time Arthur Lake walks into his shop, Eames barely looks away from Nash, eyes narrowed and teeth bared in fury.
“I didn’t go through all the crap I did, getting this place open and staying that way, just for you to turn around and try and screw me, all right? Get your stuff and get the fuck out of my shop!” He points at the door. Dramatic, but fuck, he’s earned it.
Nash slinks off sullenly, and doesn’t look back; Eames would not have been surprised if he had, the sheer bloody nerve of the man! He breathes deeply for a few minutes before turning to face the fresh-faced young man, with barely-there composure -- and nearly swallows his tongue. “Yes, can I help you?” he croaks before clearing his throat desperately.
“I heard you’re looking for an assistant manager,” Arthur Lake says, eyeing Eames cautiously.
Eames tries to find his wits. He’s not going to make a fool of himself in front of Arthur Lake, damnit! “Yes. Yes, I am. Why, are you here to apply for the job?”
Lake takes out a crisp sheet of paper from the orange folder he’s carrying under his arm and hands it over. The CV is concise but uninformative, and far too generic for who Eames knows Lake is. There’s not even a hint of the fact that he’s been playing piano professionally since the age of four and a half, or that he was an honest-to-god child prodigy, or that he disappeared off the face of the earth five years ago after a spectacular breakdown on the New York Met’s centre stage.
The stylishly dressed man standing in front of him bears only a vague resemblance to that striking teenager (tall and gangly even at eleven, with a presence that could bring the house to its feet in a matter of minutes). That presence is still there; even though it’s muted, it still manages to knock Eames over where he stands.
He shakes himself and looks the CV over again, searching for answers -- Columbia Business School, final year undergraduate student, graduates in two months. He looks up at Arthur standing there patiently, and makes what will come to be his best decision since moving to New York. “I’m not looking for an Assistant Manager anymore. I need a Shop Manager. Think you’re up for the job?”
Arthur just smiles at him, confident beyond his age in his grey slacks and striped shirt, a patterned silk tie knotted in a neat double Windsor at his throat -- he would be, though, with everything he’s seen in his twenty-four years. And that’s how Eames procures a genius with the face of an angel to run his music shop.
---
Said shop is a vast space filled with every sort of musical instrument you care to name, and it’s Eames’ pride and joy. He’s been running it for six years now, and it’s wildly successful, a world away from what it started out as -- a way to escape the weariness of his life back in England. It had just not been the same since his parents died and left him the estate; not the same without his father’s calm voice in the study, and his mother’s laughter from the green drawing room that had been her domain. The manor felt empty, stale, a ghost house, and Eames had hated it with a passion. He’d been that close to selling it just to get away, when his uncle invited him to New York for the summer, and he found something to ensnare his waning attention to the world around him.
His mother had loved music; she’d used to travel throughout Europe during the season, chasing performances -- Paris, Milan, Vienna, before coming back to London, a small figure following in her wake like a tiny second shadow, enormous eyes trying to catch absolutely everything. And then one snowy evening she’d taken him to Covent Garden again, and he had sprawled his 14-year-old limbs in the plush red chair, waiting to be entertained, when a young boy had come out onto the stage and bowed to excited applause. And then he had sat at the grand piano and had coaxed the most exquisite, soul-rendering music out of it; Eames had watched enthralled as the smooth, long fingers had flitted over the keys, caressing and gentle and striking, and he had felt something inside him shake loose and awaken, unfurl gloriously in his chest cavity. That was the night he had fallen in love for the very first time; the boy’s name had been Arthur Lake, and he had been eleven.
That was the memory that had flowed through his mind on that foggy morning, as he was passing by the boarded-up shop in the East Village with the ‘For Sale’ sign on the door, with the sound of Haydn’s Sonata in D-major floating through an open window somewhere close by. Much like the first time he’d seen Arthur Lake play live, the idea took hold of him and would not leave him alone. He had money -- a lot of money; sometimes he felt it was the only thing his parents had left behind when they’d left him. That was how E minor came to exist.
He filled it with anything that held his attention -- violas, flutes, cellos, percussions, three grand pianos and one baby grand, trumpets, guitars -- anything went. And people had come; people had flocked to him, students, professors, tutors, the parents of little girls and boys just starting to be able to grasp the fragile neck of a violin excitedly in their little hands.
Eames had always thought that he was a good judge of character, but somehow Nash had managed to slip under his radar when he hadn’t been paying attention. Maybe it was because it had been the anniversary of the car crash and he had not been fit for much but moping that day, heart-sick and aching, that Nash had hoodwinked him so easily. Then again, if it hadn’t been for Nash, he might not have Arthur’s lean form come through the door every morning, juggling keys and his satchel and a large cup of coffee and the morning paper, and he would have never known the unexpected delight of walking down the stairs from his flat above the shop to Arthur’s distracted muttering over the appointments list or today’s student schedule.
Arthur smiles at him warmly now -- like he does every morning, dimples there for a brief flash before they’re gone; Eames is charmed all over again, heart leaping like it hasn’t for years and years. “What’s on for today then, love?” he says, his breath always hitching ever so slightly every time he slips the endearment in without Arthur noticing. He is such a goner for that man, with his effortless competence and his quick, friendly smiles, and his breathtaking confidence in himself, except when it comes to that one thing.
“We have a Mr Frank coming in at two to look at the baby grand -- I keep telling you, Eames, we should have at least three of those in the shop for all the business we do, we’ll just have to order them yet again, and you know how long the shipping takes -- and we have a Mary Mallory coming to buy a cello for her sister in an hour. Then we have Toby, Mark, Stephen, Kelly, and Anna coming this afternoon to play, and Ariadne’s scheduled for four o’clock,” he adds as he flips the appointment book closed and looks back up at him, dark eyes crinkling easily at the corners.
“A full day, then,” Eames remarks mildly. His days never used to be this busy before; it was Arthur’s idea to advertise for Conservatory students to come in to practice here and keep all the instruments in tune – since instruments need to be played to keep their finer qualities up to scratch. He’d scheduled them so that the shop would have live music playing constantly during the day; and then he’d gone and got chairs and benches so that people could sit and listen inside, and brokered a deal with the cafe next door to knock through the wall and install huge French windows between the two shops. Business had been booming for both establishments within the month.
Working with Arthur is a constant joy; he’s organised to the point of obsession, but the shop has never run so smoothly, or made so much money. It’s never had such a pleasant, bohemian atmosphere, either; Eames is constantly surprised by the little touches Arthur has scattered throughout the space -- music stands with sheets set up so that people could try the instruments out, a comfortable sofa by the books and sheet music section, spotlights artfully arranged to bring out the honeyed sheen of the wood polish, a few beautifully chosen canvasses on the walls not covered by shelves. In just six months the place has been completely transformed. Eames is a dab hand at charming the customers, but he’s never had the knack for presentation that Arthur displays every day.
There is just one thing marring the perfect contentment of Eames’ existence these days; he stops his face falling with some effort when Ariadne comes in at four o’clock on the dot, calling out cheerful hellos to the two of them. He adores her, he really does; she’s a tiny thing, but her fingers are long and tapered and slide over the piano keys with a proficiency and passion he hasn’t seen since that night at Covent Garden. She is, however, not Arthur.
Arthur refuses to touch the pianos, not even when the tuner arrives every couple of weeks. It’s like he’s cut himself off completely from that part of himself, the part that lives for the feel of ivory under his fingers. He works in a music shop of his own volition -- it must be constant torture to see the one thing you’ve forbidden yourself, for whatever reason, and it drives Eames insane. He watches Arthur watch Ariadne every day, watches the shutters come down behind his eyes when the first notes float in the air, watches him turn away and busy himself with something, anything, to avoid whatever feelings he’s trying to suffocate. It’s breaking Eames’ heart, and he can’t say a word about it, not if he wants Arthur to keep coming into his life every day. He knows the signs well enough; he’d displayed them for a long time since that night when his life changed irrevocably. It’s a grief one doesn’t quite know how to cope with, and so they shut themselves off from that part of themselves. Eames has never felt quite this helpless before; it’s as if Arthur’s perfect confidence in every other aspect of his life completely disappears when he’s faced with his piano-shaped demons.
It’s why he's never told Arthur he knows exactly who he is; it’s like he’s a skittish animal that needs careful handling, and not the composed, self-possessed man that Eames knows he is. The customers are not a problem; Arthur is always perfectly polite, charmingly well-mannered, and no one makes the connection to the wild thing Arthur had become towards the end of his music career -- a rock star without his guitar, the party animal of the classical world, dabbling in anything once and some things over and over again. He is almost unrecognisable as the sullen teenager that flew too close to the sun and got his wings burned.
Eames thanks anything holy out there that Arthur is not like that with him; that he lets himself have an opinion, a personality, that he not only responds to Eames’ teasing but bites right back, snarky and sarcastic and too beautiful for words. Every time he makes Eames laugh, Eames has to bite his tongue hard not to ask him out to dinner, drinks, coffee, anything to spend even more time with him than he already is; but he doesn’t want to scare Arthur away, because he’s the best thing to have happened to him in a long, long time.
It’s hard to keep that thought in mind when Arthur smiles at him like that, when all Eames has said is, “Oh, just whatever you think is best, Arthur, I trust you” in response to Arthur’s question about the new stock arrangement. All Eames has done is speak his mind, but Arthur looks at him like he’s just fetched the moon from the sky and tied a big red bow around it, placing it at his feet. It’s roller-coaster-exhilarating and teeth-grinding-frustrating, all in the same breath.
And then, finally, after a year of back and forth, of being hopelessly in love with Arthur and aching for his attention, it happens.
Eames is in his flat, taking a pot of pasta off the stove and turning off the sauce that bubbles merrily in a smaller pot, when the first notes flutter through the air, tentative and sweet, stopping him in his tracks better than a freight train. The shop is empty; it’s just Arthur left downstairs to turn off the lights and lock up -- Eames knows, because that’s where he left him half an hour ago at the end of the workday. Yet there it is, ever so faint, Chopin’s Nocturne op. 48 #1 -- less well known than the rest of them, but Arthur’s signature piece, slow and hauntingly mournful, lighter as it goes on; like waking up from a deep, dark sleep, like finding your way back into the light.
Eames almost trips down the stairs in his rush to get to the shop, but he can’t make it through the doorway -- he’s frozen in place by the sight of Arthur’s straight back on the piano bench, shifting back and forth with the lilting melody. His face is turned away from Eames; he’s facing the front of the shop, yet Eames can see the sheer emotion he pours into the piece, plain as day.
The last note sounds and Arthur stays still, hardly even breathing. And then his hands lift again, and he launches softly into Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, fingers moving without hesitation, as if the last six years have disappeared without a trace. It’s mesmerising, and unbearably arousing. Eames’ whole body is thrumming white-hot with love and desire and a fierce pride in Arthur’s resilience, his refusal to run away from his past any longer.
He’s so focused on Arthur that he doesn’t immediately realise that the music has stopped. Arthur closes the lid on the piano gently, stroking over the shining wood with careful fingers. Then he stands and turns, looks straight at Eames. A flush flares high on his cheeks, staining them pink, but he holds Eames’ gaze without embarrassment; Eames’ brain-to-mouth filter fails him utterly and completely.
“Oh god, Arthur,” he rasps, taking a couple of steps towards him. “That was unbelievable, oh my god, you’re so perfect, I’m so happy it’s--you’ve-- It was like I was fourteen again, did you know I fell in love with you that night? And then you came here, to my shop, it was like Christmas, I mean just look at you, and you stayed, and I was too scared to tell you before, but my god, Arthur, it’s you, it’s always been you, and I can’t even--” which is when Arthur takes mercy on his poor, befuddled mind, covers the remaining few steps between them and kisses him, sneaking a slick tongue into Eames’ mouth that falls open, soft and pliant, letting Arthur take whatever he wants from him.
The feel of him under Eames’ hands, when he finally catches up and reaches for him, is addictive -- long, lean muscles coiled with strength and intent; the heat of his skin; the beguiling scent of him, sandalwood and spice with a hint of wood polish -- Eames breathes him in, fills his lungs with it, presses closer to his body, tilts his head unasked to let Arthur in deeper, slips a greedy hand under the cotton sweater and shirt to seek out the silky touch of naked skin on his fingertips. Arthur makes a noise in his throat that sets Eames aflame, makes his breath hitch and rush out of his chest in a strangled moan.
“Right here?” Arthur asks, breathless, when Eames pushes him back down onto the piano bench he’d vacated just moments ago and tugs his tie off, unbuttons his shirt as far as the sweater will allow, impatient to taste what he’d only imagined countless times before.
“Why not? It all comes back to this in the end, doesn’t it?” Eames murmurs, sinking to his knees and grappling with Arthur’s belt clumsily. Arthur braces himself on the piano behind him, breath stuttering when Eames unzips him and just looks at him for a long moment, committing his wild hair, reddened lips, flushed cheeks, half-lidded eyes to memory before he bends closer and mouths at him through his boxer briefs, inhaling deeply, revelling in the heavy scent of arousal thick on the roof of his mouth.
Arthur makes a broken sound when Eames reaches inside and tugs his cock out, already more than half-hard and quickly filling as Eames trails a flat tongue over the length of it before flicking the tip inside his slit. Arthur’s hips jump under the hand curled over them, rocking him into the open space of Eames’ mouth. Both of them groan desperately; Eames is so aroused that he has the vague suspicion that it won’t be long before he spills inside his own trousers. He opens his throat and sinks his head down, takes Arthur as deep as he can while Arthur falls apart above him.
It doesn’t last long; it’s too much, too intense; the space between them is too heavy with history and want -- it makes Eames greedy, makes him take everything Arthur is willing to give him -- until Arthur can’t stop himself from fucking his mouth, until a hand reaching inside his pants to roll his balls gently in its palm makes Arthur whine harshly and come long and desperate down Eames’ throat. Eames licks him clean eagerly, even as Arthur sinks backwards against the piano, soft and spent and deliciously fucked out. Eames’ own predicament is painful in its hardness, but he wants to wait; he wants to feel Arthur’s long, elegant fingers wrap around it, stroke him swiftly and skilfully until all he can say, all he can think is Arthur’s name.
Arthur straightens and reaches for him, curls a hand possessively over the nape of Eames’ neck and pulls him into a kiss, tongue seeking out the taste of himself in Eames’ mouth. A sneaky hand unbuttons his trousers and snakes inside, but Eames stops him with a frantic moan and an effort that leaves him wrung out and shaking.
“D’you think maybe we could take this upstairs, before you’ve befuddled my mind past caring that I’m about to come all over the floor of my shop?” he forces out quickly, clutching a hand around Arthur’s strong forearm in desperation.
Arthur smiles wickedly; it makes Eames groan, seeing the way it twists those delicious, mobile lips. “I suppose that’s a reasonable request, Mr Eames. As long as you promise that you won’t respect me in the morning?”
“Darling, I think that’s pretty much a guarantee,” Eames rasps, rising to his feet and dragging his smirking love up the stairs.
END
