Work Text:
Arthur protests. Of course he does.
“What would you do with it while you’re at work?” Arthur asks, frowning like he thinks Eames has come up with this idea just to piss him off.
What would you do with it, Eames notes. Not ‘we’. “It could be housetrained,” he says. “Or it could stay on the balcony.”
“The balcony? What’s it going to do out there?”
“It’s a dog, Arthur,” Eames says, mouth twitching. “They are, in fact, capable of entertaining themselves.” And perhaps he shouldn’t smile when Arthur seems bound and determined to work himself up, but the smile starts up before he can help it.
“That’s not what I—” Arthur sighs. He shakes his head and goes back to packing files into his briefcase, expression pinched. Eames watches him from the sofa with arms crossed. “Can we talk about this another time?” Arthur asks finally. “I need to get ready for work.”
When don’t you? Eames almost says. He bites it back at the last second. “We don’t have to talk about it.” He forces himself to shrug nonchalantly. “It was just a thought.”
It is just a thought.
It just so happens to be a thought that Eames has had for years now, before he’d met Arthur. Before he’d met Henri, even. But everything in Eames’ life seems bound and determined to keep thought from becoming reality, so perhaps Eames ought to just give it up as a lost cause.
There’d been a time, though, when getting a dog hadn’t seemed so farfetched. There’d been a time when getting a dog had almost been a foregone conclusion – part and parcel of Henri and Eames’ dream to buy a house together, to raise children together. The only stickler, aside from waiting for the right time, had been agreeing on a breed.
Not so now, though.
Now Eames has a boyfriend who lives half his life in his office; who owns a catalogue-perfect apartment, stain-free and scuff-free, and wants to keep it that way. Now Eames has a boyfriend who loves him, who’s faithful to him, but doesn’t want anything resembling traditional commitment, and balks at the first hint of it.
Eames can almost see it, the way he and Arthur will remain locked in an interminable holding pattern until the end of their days – co-existing in uncertain certainty, in the unstable stability that’s seemingly defined their relationship since the very beginning.
Eames loves Arthur. And he knows Arthur loves him.
He isn’t sure it’s enough.
“I don’t get this,” his sister says.
It’s an old refrain by this point, and Eames tunes her out rather than argue, because arguing just makes Amy rant more. He switches his phone to his other hand and starts writing up a lesson plan, listening with only half an ear as Amy enumerates Arthur’s seemingly endless faults. He only tunes back in when she signals she’s winding down.
“You’re young, you’re attractive, you’re sweet,” Amy is saying. “You could get anyone you wanted with barely any effort. Why are you clinging to him?”
“Why do we do anything in this life?” Eames asks, deliberately whimsical.
“Eames.”
Eames sighs explosively. “I’m happy, Amy,” he says. “I’m bloody happy. What more do you expect?”
“I expect you to not settle, especially when you don’t have to,” Amy shoots back. “You and Henri used to talk about your future together, you—”
Henri. Always Henri. “Must you bring him up every time we talk about Arthur? Or, more accurately, every time you talk about Arthur?”
It’s Amy who sighs this time. “I’m just saying—”
“That the man who cheated on me and tried to cover it up is better for me than the man who’s been faithful to me?”
“No, you—” Amy cuts herself off with an annoyed tch. “What I was going to say is that you used to talk your future. Now— nothing. You just talk about your job, and what you saw on TV. The most I’ve heard you plan is what you’re going to do next weekend.”
“Maybe I like things better this way.”
“Oh, Eames,” Amy says. That’s it. That’s all she says. It’s infinitely worse than all her pissed off ranting.
“This is why Trisha is, yet again, my favourite sister,” Eames says, after a long silence. Trisha leaves him be. She doesn’t make him defend his choices, and nor does she rip down those defences when she smells bullshit.
Amy huffs out a laugh, although it tapers off into yet another sigh by the end. “You should have everything you want,” she says. She sounds like she’s speaking as gently as she’s able. “You shouldn’t have to settle.”
“I’m not,” Eames says. It sounds unconvincing, even to his ears.
The thing is, Eames is usually very, very good at lying.
It’s not a skill he’s proud of, per se, although he had been, when he was younger. But however he feels about it now, Eames knows he’s good at lying – to others, and to himself.
And the trick to lying to oneself, Eames knows, is to never probe too deeply.
Arthur doesn’t want that sort of commitment. He doesn’t want domesticity. He’ll probably never want marriage, let alone children. But as long as Arthur doesn’t outright say it, Eames thinks he just might be able to bear it. He can live with lies. It’s knowing for certain that terrifies him.
True to form, Arthur seems to be just as committed to maintaining this dance of avoidance as Eames is.
The one time Arthur catches Eames watching an episode of The Dog Whisperer—
(by sheer coincidence, honestly – Eames had been channel surfing, not trying to drop a hint)
—he stares at the TV screen for a second, brow pinched into a frown, then vanishes into his home office. He doesn’t emerge for three hours.
The only time doubt doesn’t worm its way through Eames’ chest, dull and throbbing, is when they’re fucking. When they’re fucking, there’s no room for doubt – there’s no room for anything beyond more and harder and deeper.
Arthur’s red-cheeked and glassy eyed by the time Eames urges him onto his back. Arthur goes without protest, without resistance or hesitance, and oh, that’s wonderful. It’s gorgeous, is what it is – Arthur spread out for Eames, relaxed and pliant. He isn’t gritting his teeth, or turning his face away; he isn’t snapping at Eames to hurry the fuck up. He does say, “Are you just going to sit there and stare forever?”, but it’s paired with a smirk, not a sneer.
“Good things come to those who wait,” Eames says, eyes still riveted on the slim lines of Arthur’s body.
Without looking away, Eames takes Arthur’s hands and pins them above his head. He admires the subtle, resultant arch of Arthur’s back, the parabolic curve of his ribcage.
“Good things come to those who wait, sure,” Arthur says, “but right now I just want to come, so...” He hooks a leg over Eames’ hip, breaths coming quicker.
Eames smirks. He’s been working Arthur over for almost half an hour now; Arthur’s already slick with lube, his stomach sticky with pre-come, and all he does is groan when Eames slides two fingers back into him. Eames is half-tempted to draw it out for longer, except Arthur clenches down on his fingers then, and Eames’ cock throbs.
He pushes Arthur flat against the bed; keeps Arthur’s wrists pinned while he draws Arthur’s other leg up. Arthur, never one to do exactly what Eames wants, throws said leg over Eames’ shoulder. He smiles smugly at Eames, although the overall effect is undercut by the slackness of his jaw and the dazed, pleasure-disconnected look in his eyes.
Arthur’s smugness vanishes entirely when Eames presses into him. He tips his head back against the pillows, tightens his legs around Eames to pull him in, and Eames goes gladly. He thrusts into Arthur, over and over, his pace quick and hard - all thoughts of teasing and drawing things out gone, forgotten.
The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in their room, obscenely loud, interlaced with Arthur’s desperate panting. Eames’ orgasm builds easily, quickly - Arthur’s desperation fuelling his, like always - and Eames fucking revels in it, except—
Except this isn’t their room, part of him says. This is Arthur’s room, Arthur’s bed. None of this belongs to Eames, too, even if they are living together. If Arthur cuts him loose, what does Eames have to hang onto?
The thought takes him by surprise. It’s the first time he’s ever thought something like that whilst fucking, and his fingers tighten reflexively around Arthur’s wrists. Arthur hisses, but Eames delivers his next thrust with a hard snap of his hips, as he tries to shake off the unsettling thought, and Arthur’s hiss of pain turns into a moan halfway through.
“Fuck—Eames,” he says. He’s clearly thinking about nothing but pleasure, about nothing but Eames, and Eames wants to match him, wants that oblivion.
He drops his chin to his chest - keeps his eyes fixed on the red flush spreading down Arthur’s neck, along his torso. He grips Arthur’s hip tightly with his free hand, hard enough to bruise. Arthur doesn’t complain, however - just lets out a whine, quiet and needy.
“You—I need—” Arthur gasps. The rest of his words dissolve into a moan.
“You need what?” Eames grates out, still driving into Arthur, hard and relentless. He wants Arthur to say it, needs Arthur to say it.
“Eames,” Arthur says.
Eames slows his thrusts; turns them shallow. He leans in close, pressing his mouth to Arthur’s ear. “Tell me. I want to hear you say it.” He lifts his head to meet Arthur’s eyes.
Arthur’s answering gaze is dark, wild, but his jaw is clenched, abruptly contrary and stubborn. He bucks wildly beneath Eames rather than talk, the leg over Eames’ shoulder flexing and tensing, trying to fuck himself down on Eames’ cock.
Eames grabs that leg, then shifts more of his weight onto the hand trapping Arthur’s wrists; keeps him pinned, stops him from moving. “You need what, Arthur?”
A thin, strained noise escapes Arthur. “Your hand,” he finally manages. He’s heaving for breath, hair in disarray, and God, Eames wants him. “I want you to jerk me off—fuck, Eames.”
Eames wraps a hand around Arthur’s cock immediately, but doesn’t start stroking. “You need it?”
“Yes,” Arthur says, eyes rolling back a little. “I need it, Eames, come on—”
That’s enough for Eames. He tightens his hand, strokes Arthur roughly. Arthur arches immediately into his grip, breaths fast and desperate, teetering on the edge. Eames throws the full weight of his body into his next thrust, and that does it. Arthur comes, slick and hot - over Eames’ fist, against his stomach - his head thrown back, body stretched taut, mouth open on a ragged moan.
Eames fucks him through it, movements ruthless, until the rhythmic clench of Arthur’s orgasm becomes shuddering, full-bodied aftershocks. Then, and only then, does he let go, lets himself tumble over the edge.
“Fuck—oh fuck, Arthur,” Eames gasps mindlessly, losing his head at the way Arthur’s legs tremble, still trying to pull Eames in deeper as Eames fills him up, marks him, wet and filthy.
Eames slumps against Arthur afterwards, crushing him against the mattress; relaxes his grip around Arthur’s wrist as he does. Arthur, still boneless from orgasm, doesn’t protest beyond making a small, breathless noise. Eventually, however, he starts wriggling, pushing at Eames’ shoulder.
“Eames,” he wheezes.
Eames heaves a huge sigh and rolls off him, but wraps an arm around Arthur as he goes; Arthur ends up pulled against Eames’ side, head pillowed on his shoulder. Surprisingly, Arthur doesn’t complain. Just wriggles for a few seconds more, then goes still, quiet.
A minute passes in silence. Arthur’s actually dozed off, Eames realises, blinking. That’s—good. Better than good, really. God knows Arthur doesn’t get enough sleep. Eames smiles, closes his eyes, too, and—
Arthur’s phone dings. It’s followed a few seconds later by the swoosh noise that signifies an incoming e-mail.
Arthur’s eyes snap open and his head goes up like a scenting bloodhound.
Eames tightens his arm around Arthur’s waist - half-deterrent, half-warning - but Arthur twists his torso and stretches an arm out to grab his phone anyway. His movements are satisfyingly languorous, but Eames’ satisfaction is cut short when Arthur taps the e-mail open, skims it, and says, voice brisk, “Oh—I have to take care of this.”
Arthur pushes at Eames’ arm. Eames is tempted to wrench the phone out of his hand, drag him back down to sleep, but the easy, post-coital haze is already draining away. Arthur swats at Eames’ shoulder, never taking his eyes off his phone. “Eames, let me up.”
“Alright,” Eames grumbles, and lets go.
Arthur hops out of bed the instant he does. He plucks his underwear off the floor, pulls them on one handed, then grabs his shirt. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he says, voice distracted. “Maybe two.” He walks out of the bedroom without a backward glance.
“I’m going to start charging you an hourly fee,” Yusuf says, as he wipes the bar clean.
“I haven’t spoken to you about Arthur for half a year,” Eames replies.
Yusuf snorts. “You talk about him every time I see you.”
“Well, fine,” Eames says. “I haven’t complained about him for half a year, then.”
“But you are now,” Yusuf says. He uncaps a bottle of beer and sets it down in front of Eames.
Eames takes it. He takes a long pull of beer, too, before saying, “I’m not—complaining. Exactly.”
“My precognitive powers tell me there’s a ‘but’ coming.”
“But nothing,” Eames says, abruptly mulish. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t need to talk about this. He can keep his house of cards, so long as he breathes just right. He can do this.
Silence descends between them for a few minutes. Yusuf doesn’t look up from cleaning the bar, and Eames keeps his eye on his beer, in between steady sips.
Yusuf buckles first. He sighs, long and protracted. “You want my opinion?” He says, but barrels on before Eames can answer. “Of course you do, why else would you have brought this up?”
Eames gives him the finger.
Yusuf shakes his finger at Eames in turn. “Your boyfriend’s rubbing off on you, mate,” he says. “And not in the good way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean being avoidant isn’t like you,” Yusuf replies, frank as ever. “If you guys don’t want the same things in life, it’s not going to work.”
You don’t understand, Eames wants to say. There’s so much more at risk now – far more than there was a year ago, or even six months ago.
“He’s so much better these days,” Eames says finally, eyes on his beer. Then he winces. That had come out sounding far more pathetic than he’d intended. “I just mean—what if he gets worse after we talk about it? What if he backslides?”
A year ago, Arthur had been careening from one work project to another and hurtling toward self-destruction in his downtime. And Eames—
Eames had been picking up after him. He’d picked the glass shards out of Arthur’s palms when Arthur – sleep-deprived, exhausted, trembling – couldn’t, and patched him up; he’d weathered his mood swings and self-loathing; he’d lulled him to sleep. It had been exhausting. Just thinking about it now is exhausting. Eames doesn’t want those days again. And his life is so intertwined with Arthur’s now— Eames thinks part of him might very well break, if Arthur breaks.
When he glances up, Yusuf is watching him, not unsympathetically. “He’s supposed to be your boyfriend, not your child,” Yusuf says. “It shouldn’t be up to you to do all the heavy lifting.”
“I shouldn’t say things that I know are just going to lead to a pointless fight, either.”
Yusuf shakes his head. “You want to make decisions for the pair of you, like Henri did, in the end? You want to keep secrets like he did?”
Eames pulls back, stung. After a beat, his eyes narrow. “Have you been talking to my sister?”
To his credit, Yusuf doesn’t even try to dissemble. “She said a couple of things over Facebook chat, yeah.”
Eames snorts. “Amy isn’t exactly the most unbiased of observers.”
“And you are?”
Eames purses his mouth and doesn’t reply.
It takes another beer and two shots of Johnnie Walker, but an hour later, Eames sequesters himself in a quiet, private corner of Yusuf’s bar, pulls his phone out of his pocket, and dials a number he knows by heart.
Henri picks up on the fourth ring.
“Eames,” Henri says, sounding puzzled but delighted. “I wasn’t expect—”
“Why did you hide it?” Eames demands, cutting him off. He doesn’t specify what it is. There’s no need to specify.
Startled silence. Then: “What is this about, Eames?” It’s said with Henri’s trademarked softness, and Eames finds the tension in his shoulders melting away involuntarily.
“Just answer the question,” he says, without heat.
Long, steady exhale. “I was afraid you’d leave me,” Henri says, so quietly that Eames has to strain to hear him. “I didn’t want to lose you. But, even more than that, I was terrified of hurting you. I never wanted to hurt you—”
“Well, you did a fantastic job of it anyway,” Eames sneers before he can stop himself. He doesn’t need to see Henri to know that he’s just flinched.
“I know,” Henri says. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Eames. I wanted to tell you—”
“Then why didn’t you? Why—”
“Because the timing was never right,” Henri interrupts, voice strained. “I was—when I received my diagnosis, I was so guilty. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you what I’d done, let alone that I was HIV positive. So I put it off. And I kept putting it off. Even though I knew that the longer I waited, the worse it would be, I—couldn’t tell you. And by the time I’d convinced myself I had to tell you—”
“I’d already found out for myself,” Eames finishes.
“Yes,” Henri agrees quietly. “You did.”
Eames doesn’t reply. He can’t reply – his throat feels far too tight for words to slip past.
Henri’s confession isn’t a surprise. In his less bitter moments, Eames had mulled over whether Henri’s silence had been motivated by guilt and fear. But his confession hurts like a punch to the chest anyway because it resonates too sharply, is too eerily similar to what’s happening now, with Arthur.
You want to make decisions for the pair of you, like Henri did, in the end?
Eames grimaces. Fucking Yusuf, he thinks.
“Now it’s your turn, I think,” Henri says, after the silence stretches out for too long. “What’s this about?”
It takes a few seconds for the tightness in Eames’ throat to dissipate. “Arthur and I,” he says haltingly, “we—” he breaks off with a frustrated sigh; scrubs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know if we’re heading the same way. And I don’t know if I can talk to him about it.”
Eames can practically feel Henri’s astonishment radiating over the line. “And so you’ve called me for—what? Relationship advice?” Henri asks.
“Possibly,” Eames mutters.
“I—well,” Henri says, seemingly floundering. He makes a noise – a huff, or maybe a truncated sigh – and then he says, “Tell me what’s been happening. From the beginning.”
So Eames tells him. He tells him about Arthur’s avoidance, about Amy’s and Yusuf’s scepticism; he tells him about every little doubt and anxiety that has been accumulating since he and Arthur had agreed to give their relationship – whatever that may be – a proper go. Henri listens without interrupting; he gives only the occasional quiet mhm and go on to indicate he’s paying attention.
It feels familiar, comfortable, and as he keeps talking, Eames finds himself relaxing further. If it weren’t for the fact they were talking about Arthur – about Eames’ relationship with Arthur – this could almost be like old times, Eames thinks. And then he thinks: this shouldn’t feel so comfortable.
It shouldn’t feel so easy, but it does. Of course it does. They’d been together for seven years, as lovers and best friends both. Eames had talked to Henri about everything, once. And Henri had talked to him about everything, too. Until he hadn’t.
When he finally winds down, Henri says, “What has Arthur said about all this?”
“He... nothing,” Eames says. “He hasn’t said anything.”
“Nothing at all?” Henri asks, sounding both incredulous and indignant on Eames’ behalf. “All these concerns and he had nothing to say?”
Eames pinches the bridge of his nose. “He hasn’t said anything because we haven’t exactly... talked about this,” he admits.
More silence from Henri. Eames can’t read anything from it this time, until Henri lets out another sigh, affectionately pained. “You must talk to him,” Henri says. “Keeping secrets because you’re afraid that he’ll leave you… if you keep this up, you’ll lose him anyway.”
“This coming from you?”
“Do as I say, Eames, not as I did.” Gentle, firm, with more than a touch of regret. “Think about it. What would you have done, if I’d been honest with you from the start?”
Eames would have fought with him. Yelled at him, perhaps. Maybe left him, for a while.
Forgiven him.
“This isn’t the same,” Eames protests weakly. “I haven’t done anything wrong here.” And what if it’s too late? Eames has kept silent, allowed Arthur to think everything’s okay for—for months now. If he talks to Arthur now and Arthur ends up furious with him, could Eames really blame him for being angry?
“You asked for my advice,” Henri says, “and I’ve given it. Take it or do not. But if you don’t, and Arthur ends up leaving you—well. You know where to find me.”
Eames makes a noise that’s caught somewhere between a snort, a laugh, and a sigh.
The walk home is a long one. By the end of it, Eames is left with only a lingering fuzziness in his brain and a slight case of dry mouth. The rest of him is stone cold sober.
Eames lets himself into the apartment, trying not to slink, even though his shoulders are threatening to slump of their own volition. Because that’s the script, isn’t it? Slinking home after talking to the ex and re-hashing old times? Never mind that the re-hashing was so far from erotic it may very well have punched through the other side.
He pauses in the hallway, head cocked. Amazingly, Arthur has beaten him home, although Eames can hear him tapping away at his laptop in the living room, so Arthur is hardly winding down. Still, Arthur hasn’t sequestered himself away in his home office, and nor is he running mechanically on his treadmill, which bodes... well. Better that Eames speak to Arthur now, when he’s in a relatively good mood, than wait and risk Arthur getting worked up over another project, right?
There isn’t ever going to be a better time, Eames tells himself, just other times.
He takes a deep breath and walks into the living room.
Arthur is sprawled out lengthwise on the sofa (as sprawled out as Arthur gets, anyway), facing the living room entrance, his laptop propped up against his knees.
“Hey,” Arthur says when Eames comes to a stop beside the sofa. He doesn’t look up from his laptop or pausing in typing, and he sounds slightly preoccupied when he adds, “What do you think about—”
“We need to talk,” Eames blurts.
Arthur stops typing.
“Alright,” Arthur says slowly, after a beat. His brow furrows as he raises his head and meets Eames’ eyes. “About what?”
About what? Eames thinks, stuffing down the hysterical giggle that bubbles up from his gut. Where to begin? And how to begin?
“I don’t—” Eames starts, before deciding, no, that sounds far too negative. He tries again. “We need to talk about... us. What we’re doing. Where we’re going as a couple.”
Arthur’s frown deepens. When he opens his mouth, Eames holds up a hand and says quickly, “Let me just—let me get this out first. Please.”
Arthur shuts his mouth so quickly Eames hears his teeth click together. He doesn’t miss the tight grip Arthur is keeping on his still-open laptop, and his own fingers twitch in sympathetic nervousness; Eames rubs a hand over his mouth to disguise the slight trembling.
“We’ve put a lot of effort into this relationship,” Eames says carefully. He holds his hand up again when Arthur straightens suddenly. “I’m—I’m so proud of you for going to therapy, and I know you don’t want me to say things like that, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am.”
“I’m sensing another ‘but’ here,” Arthur says. His face is still – that too-still stillness that signals the metaphorical impending storm.
Part of Eames is tempted to take it all back; to wave it off and say never mind, it’s nothing, it was just a strange, passing fancy – anything to erase that look on Arthur’s face – but it’s too late for that.
So Eames takes another deep breath, unsteady this time, and says, “But... when I was in my twenties, my life was sorted. Or I thought I had my life sorted, anyway.” He smiles bitterly. “Still, it was more sorted than my life is now. I was with someone—”
“With Henri,” Arthur says stiffly.
“Yes, with Henri,” Eames says, anxiety and guilt making him inordinately irritated at the interruption. He starts pacing. He can’t bear to sit down, even though it’d probably put Arthur at ease. “Henri and I, we had it all worked out. We were going to get married, even if it wasn’t legally binding. We were going to buy a house, maybe adopt. Get a dog at the very least—”Arthur looks abruptly panicked, but Eames pushes on.
“And then it was ruined. For the longest time afterwards, I didn’t want anything remotely close to that dream. I didn’t even want to fall in love again. But now—” Eames falters. There’s no way he can say but now that Henri’s back, I want those things again, without Arthur misinterpreting it entirely. “I just— I need to know, Arthur,” he says finally. “I need to know if we want the same things in life, although, hell— at this point, I’ll settle for knowing where we’re going to be at next year.”
Eames pauses for breath. His heart is hammering like he’s run a marathon, and the slight tremble of his hands has transformed into full blown tremors. Arthur is staring at him, face pale, mouth hanging open slightly – he looks blindsided, stunned. He looks awful, and Eames hurts for him. His whole chest aches with it, and he understands now – understands acutely, painfully – why Henri had been so afraid to tell him the truth.
He has to look away, down at the ground, before he can steel himself and say, “I love you, Arthur, but I can’t do this if I’m never going to have any of those things. I don’t need everything, but I need some of them, and if you can’t— if you don’t want—” Eames trails off. He swallows a few times to ease the tightness in his throat, then raises his eyes to meet Arthur’s. “I can’t do this if you’ll never want anything beyond what we have now.”
It’s like a switch gets flipped. Arthur’s expression shuts down entirely, even as he’s suddenly spurred into movement. He slides his laptop off his lap, places it on the coffee table with neat little movements, and gets to his feet.
“Right,” Arthur says, inflectionless. He nods, seemingly to himself. “Right,” he says again.
And then he turns on his heel, and walks away.
Eames gapes. For five whole seconds, he simply stands there, frozen, jaw slack. Long enough for Arthur to stalk to the guest room, jerk the door open, and slam it shut behind him. A few moments later, Eames hears the whir of the treadmill starting up, followed by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of Arthur running.
There’s a roar of white noise in Eames’ ears. Fucking Arthur, he thinks. Fucking typical avoidant Arthur—
Sick, impotent fury floods his veins then, so quickly it’s almost dizzying. Eames is gripped by the urge to hit something, to break something – anything. Anything to get the rage out. He looks around wildly—
And zeroes in on Arthur’s laptop.
That laptop. Arthur’s little lifeline to the office, even when he’s at home; his shield when things get too uncomfortable, just like the guest room with the treadmill is his fortress. That laptop stands for everything wrong in Eames’ life right now, and Eames hates it – abruptly, irrationally.
He lunges for the laptop; grabs it with both hands, hard enough that he hears the metal and plastic creak. Eames raises it up to—Christ, he doesn’t even know. Throw it, maybe. Or smash it. Or possibly carry it to the guest room and hurl it at Arthur’s stupid avoidant head, except—
Except the motion brings the laptop to eye level, and Eames catches a glimpse of the screen. He goes still. After a few moments, he lowers his arms. He lowers himself down onto the couch, too, as he takes in the dozen or so browser windows and documents open on Arthur’s laptop. Word documents and spreadsheets – labelled with things like veterinary requirements and apartment-suitable breeds – sit alongside online factsheets on the weekly costs of dog ownership.
The throbbing, angry pressure in Eames’ chest recedes in the face of overwhelming love, affection and guilt.
This—this is typical Arthur, too, he thinks distantly. Being relentlessly practical; researching things to death, always putting everything in terms of money and cost-benefit analyses. But all the practicality in the world can’t erase the fact that Arthur’s been looking into getting a dog.
“Oh, Arthur,” Eames murmurs.
He glances at the closed door of the guest bedroom. The pound of Arthur’s feet against the treadmill hasn’t altered or paused, not once, which means Arthur is likely furious, hurt, or confused. All three, probably, and an Arthur who’s furious, hurt, and confused is an Arthur who’ll lash out if Eames approaches him. But it’s as Yusuf said. Eames doesn’t usually do avoidance. He picks up the laptop and carries it with him to the guest room.
Arthur doesn’t stop, or even turn his head, when Eames walks in. His expression is as blank as the wall he’s staring at. Eames doesn’t say anything, just walks over to the low bookshelf that holds Arthur’s old business school textbooks. He sets the laptop down on top of it and angles the screen toward Arthur.
There’s a high pitched beep, the whir of the treadmill winding down. Eames turns around. He finds Arthur staring at the laptop, rather than him. His jaw is clenched tightly – possibly in an effort to hold back all the awful shit he wants to say.
Eames steps onto the treadmill behind Arthur. Arthur doesn’t turn to face him. Eames winds his arms around Arthur’s waist anyway. He ignores the way Arthur stiffens up, and pulls him against his chest. Complete silence for a minute, broken only by the harsh, steady rasp of Arthur breathing. Then Arthur takes a deeper breath and says:
“You’re a dick.”
It’s predictable. It’s so predictable Eames can’t help but laugh a little. “I am,” he says. And then, even though his stomach is curdling with shame, some perverse part of him makes him add, “Like calls to like, and all that.”
Arthur doesn’t laugh. “I’m not psychic, Eames,” he says tightly. “And I’m not—good at understanding people like you are. How am I supposed to know what you want if you don’t tell me?”
“I’m telling you now,” Eames says. It’s a weak defence. He knows it, and Arthur knows it, too.
“Now,” Arthur bites out. “You’re telling me now. After how long? You acted like everything was fine. I thought everything was fine.” The next breath he takes is shaky. It shudders against Eames’ chest, and if Eames didn’t know better, he’d think Arthur was on the verge of tears. Arthur doesn’t do tears, though. Not often. No—this is anger, sharp and hot.
“Right,” Eames says, contrite. But the urge to defend himself rises up after a moment, and he adds, “A year ago you would’ve lost your mind if I’d brought any of this up.”
“Yeah,” Arthur says immediately, voice withering, “a year ago.”
Eames’ chin goes up at his tone. “You’re a lot better than you used to be,” he admits. “A lot better. But surely you can understand why I was cautious, can’t you?”
“I’m not your goddamn baby,” Arthur snaps, pulling away a little and twisting in the circle of Eames’ arms to meet his eyes. “Just because I needed you to take care of me back then, it doesn’t—” he stops abruptly, shaking his head. Scrubs at his face and lets out a hard breath. Finally, he says, low and muted, “I’m trying, Eames.”
“I know,” Eames says. He pauses. “Well—I know that now.” He draws Arthur in again, then glances meaningfully at Arthur’s laptop. “You could have just told me. And yes, I am fully aware of the hypocrisy of that statement. Nevertheless. You could’ve told me.”
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Arthur mutters, but the defensiveness in his tone is just a shade too high to be natural. Eames raises an eyebrow. After a beat, Arthur adds, cheeks slightly pink, “And I didn’t know if I could handle having a dog. Didn’t want to get your hopes up by talking about it, then not get one.”
It’s so odd, Eames thinks. Given how harsh and brutal they’ve been toward one another, especially at the start— how odd it is that they’ve been handling one another with kid gloves, in all the wrong ways.
Eames turns Arthur gently, until Arthur is pressed against him again, Arthur’s back to Eames’ chest. He tightens his arms around Arthur’s waist. “I’ve been disappointed before, in life,” Eames says, lips brushing the shell of Arthur’s ear. “I can handle it, you know. And I know the difference between discussing things in the hypothetical and discussing things concretely, too.” He doesn’t even try to stop his voice from turning affectionate when he adds, “Not all of us approach conversation like it’s the opening gambit to a hostile takeover.”
Arthur huffs – slightly annoyed, mostly amused – but doesn’t argue.
“I don’t always want to be guessing what you’re thinking and feeling,” Eames continues, “even if I’m ‘good at it’.” He lifts his hands away from Arthur’s sides, just long enough to make air quotes, then hugs him again. “It’s just what I had to do with you, for a long time. This communication thing, it goes both ways.”
Arthur bows his head. There’s a long silence before he says, “I’m not sure how I feel about... all that. All the things that you want, I mean.” He gestures jerkily with one hand. “I’ve never thought about it.”
“That’s a bit of a lie, I think,” Eames says, as lightly as he can.
Arthur tenses up. Then he takes a deep breath, holds it for a second, and exhales, long and even. Does it again, then a third time. The line of his shoulders relaxes. Still, it takes another handful of seconds before Arthur says, “I’ve never thought about having all that with a man.” Very quietly, almost a whisper: “I didn’t want to.”
Eames swallows and nods. He knows all that. It’s nothing Arthur hasn’t said before, or at least implied – he’s practically screamed it, at a few points. In fact, this may be the calmest that Eames has ever heard him say it. That doesn’t make it hurt any less.
Arthur’s hand comes up to grip one of Eames’ wrists. He squeezes lightly. “I don’t know how I feel about everything that you want,” he says again, his voice taking on that awkward brittleness that signals Arthur at his most sincere, “but I’m not... saying no outright.”
Hope is awful, Eames thinks. It’s the thing with feathers, yes, but the thing with hidden talons, too. “What are you saying, then?”
“I’m saying... ‘maybe’,” Arthur replies. Frustration simmers and bubbles at the edges of his voice when he adds, “That’s all I can give you right now. I can’t give you a yes, or a date, or—anything like that. And I know it’s not what you want to hear, but fuck, Eames.” He lets out a hard breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’ve never mentioned any of this before. How was I supposed to know? I thought you liked things the way they are.”
“I do,” Eames says. “I do like things the way they are now. I just...”
“You don’t want them to be like this forever,” Arthur finishes, flat. When Eames nods against his neck, he sighs. “This isn’t a ‘no’,” he says. “It’s just a ‘maybe’. A ‘maybe’ that could become a ‘yes’, if we take it slow. If we take time to weigh up the pros and cons, and analyse—”
Arthur keeps going. Possibly. Eames isn’t sure, because his brain had stopped processing words the instant it heard Arthur say we. It replays it, over and over again: we. Not you. Not I. We. Eames’ heart clenches again. Hope flares in him, treacherous and gloriously bright.
“If we talk about it, you mean?” Eames says, cutting through the middle of Arthur’s pontificating as cheekily as he dares. He can practically feel Arthur’s eye roll, even if he can’t quite see it, given their current positions.
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “If we talk about it.”
Eames grins widely, without reserve. He gives Arthur a quick squeeze around the middle, hard enough that Arthur wheezes on the exhale.
And then he hoists Arthur off the treadmill – ignoring Arthur’s indignant squawk – and drags him to the floor.
Because Arthur is—well, Arthur, he creates a new list of apartment-suitable dog breeds over the weekend, organised in their descending order of preference.
He’d made a spreadsheet with a list of reputable breeders and the contact details, too, except Eames had nixed that immediately with a horrified, “A breeder? Oh—no. No, Arthur. There are so many abandoned dogs in New York, there’s really no justification for getting a pedigree dog other than vanity, is there?”
Arthur had blinked (like he always did whenever Eames expressed any overtly anti-materialistic sentiment), but recovered admirably after a moment, saying, “Oh. Well. I guess that will cut down on upfront costs.” And then he’d promptly vanished back into his home office to research reputable animal shelters.
That’s how, on the following Saturday afternoon, they end up on 59th Street, at the Humane Society of New York.
(Eames has a sneaking suspicion that, in Arthur’s mind, the Humane Society is the animal shelter equivalent of a high-end boutique store.)
They’ve been wandering up and down the rows for close almost an hour – Arthur occasionally pointing out a dog that’s on their list, but mostly hanging back – when the back of Eames’ neck prickles. Eames turns around—
And finds himself on the receiving end of the most solemn stare he’s ever received in his life.
At least, it’s the most solemn stare Eames has ever received from a four-legged creature. Upon further reflection, Eames thinks Arthur’s stare is the only solemn stare that can top this one.
The owner of said solemn stare is a tiny, male cream French bulldog. Unlike most of the other dogs – that had jumped up, barked excitedly, or at least trotted closer at Eames’ approach – this dog just... sits. It just sits there, head tilted, forehead slightly wrinkled, eyeing Eames like it’s concerned for the state of Eames’ immortal soul.
“He looks so serious,” Eames says, inordinately delighted.
Arthur looks back and forth between Eames and the bulldog. “Serious?” he repeats disbelievingly. “He’s cross eyed.”
“Oh, he is not,” Eames says, waving a hand dismissively, before peering at the bulldog again. “Alright, he’s a little bit cross eyed,” he admits, “but it’s a part of his charm, that he manages to look so serious despite it.”
It takes Sandra, one of the volunteer workers, only a matter of minutes to unlock the cage, bring the bulldog out, and place him in Eames’ arms. The bulldog stays silent throughout, still peering up at Eames with a look of utmost concern – it’s so Arthur-like it’s charming.
Eames fingers the card blurb attached to the cage door – ‘Smudge’ is apparently the dog’s name. He skims the short summary. “All his brothers and sisters have been adopted already?” He asks. “And his mother?”
“Yeah,” Sandra says. “He’s the sweetest thing, but he’s not— uh. He’s not the most active puppy in the world, or the most demonstrative. Which isn’t a bad thing, but most people want puppies that are energetic and...” she pauses, searching for words.
“Overt in their affection?” Eames suggests.
Sandra smiles somewhat ruefully. “Exactly.”
Eames gives Smudge a sympathetic pout. Then he holds him up to Arthur, grinning. “He’s like you.”
Arthur’s brow furrows. “Excuse me?”
Not the most overtly demonstrative thing in the world, Eames thinks, but doesn’t say. “He’s so solemn,” he says instead. “Always frowning, like you.”
As if on cue, Smudge wuffles quietly at Arthur, his already wrinkly brow wrinkling further. It matches Arthur’s frown perfectly, proving Eames’ point, and good God— if Eames’ mind hadn’t been made up before, it is now.
“That settles it,” Eames says, smirking. “This is it. This is fate. Clearly, this is the dog I’m meant to have.”
Arthur’s frown intensifies. “Seriously?”
Eames grins. “He’s got comedic timing. Plus, he matches you, and I know how much you like things to coordinate.” He cradles Smudge in one arm and digs his phone out of his pocket. Lifts the bulldog up higher, so he can get Arthur’s face in frame, too, and snaps a picture – two frowning, solemn faces.
“There— see?” Eames says. He tilts his phone to show Arthur. “Just like you. Always taking the world too seriously.”
Arthur crosses his arms and huffs. “That just means he’s sensible.” He eyes Smudge. “This is the dog you want?” He seems to be aiming for impassive, but Eames can hear definite undertones of vague horror.
Sandra coughs – possibly to cover a laugh. “For what it’s worth,” she says, “I can say that Smudge definitely likes you.”
“How do you figure?” Eames asks.
“He hasn’t stopped staring at you, this whole time,” Sandra replies. “He does that with people he likes. He usually just avoids eye contact otherwise.”
Eames looks down at Smudge again. Smudge is, indeed, still staring at him. “You hear that?” Eames says, grinning at Arthur. “He likes us.”
“He likes you,” Arthur corrects, but he stares back at Smudge, locked in a frowny face standoff.
Eames pauses. “We can keep looking if you really don’t—”
“No,” Arthur says quickly. He clears his throat. “No. You—you like this dog. You didn’t like any of the others as much.” He eyes Smudge with trepidation, but nods decisively after a moment. “He’s the one.”
Eames smiles down at Smudge. “I’m not calling him Smudge, though,” he says.
“Thank God,” Arthur mutters.
“He looks more like a Porkchop,” Eames finishes. He grins again when Arthur makes a pained noise, and politely looks the other way as Arthur marches off to a corner, taking deep, calming breaths as he goes.
Arthur is not demonstrative.
He’s yet to tell Eames that he loves him. It’s a struggle for him, still, to kiss Eames in public, and he keeps a respectable distance between them when they go out, out of habit.
But Eames knows Arthur loves him.
It’s written in every line of his body, in everything that he does. Eames sees it when Arthur takes over and completes all the adoption paperwork, so Eames can keep cradling and playing with Porkchop; he even sees it when Arthur insists on paying all the fees, because spending money on Eames is still the easiest way for Arthur to say I love you.
They don’t have a plan for marriage, or a house, or children. But they have a dog, Arthur’s guarantee of ‘maybe’, and the promise of future talks. It isn’t the future Eames had envisioned for himself when he was twenty five, but it is a future. One that he’s happy with. And if the time comes that he isn’t, well— they’ll talk about it.
That’s good enough for Eames.
