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The first time they had sex marked the one year anniversary of Mal’s death. It would feel sacrilegious except Mal, the real Mal, the Mallorie Arthur remembered before all the jobs and the money and the blood and the dreaming and - well, she was a hopeless romantic.
Dom had been as well, to a certain extent. He would be anything for Mal.
“Are you sure you feed him well enough?”
The day Arthur met Mal she looked stunning (as Arthur found out eventually, she always did). An experienced dreamsharer, she looked appropriately like a vision: clad in diaphanous blue fabric with freshly painted nails, a coy smile, graceful hands. It was the health, though, that Arthur looked back on - her creamy skin, knowing smile, and vibrant eyes, eyes that narrowed with calculation whenever she deemed Arthur was too serious, working too much - too American, mon loup. C’est la vie. Enjoy living.
Back then, Mal was much like the wine she adored. Full, encompassing and just the right amount of firmness that reminded Arthur, well, la vie est trop courte pour boire du mauvais vin - life is too short to drink bad wine.
In the beginning, it took some convincing from Arthur - “Dominick, sincerely, Mallorie is lovely. However, I assure you: my heart, my interest, and my dick all lie faithfully with men.” With Dom’s blessing, Mal’s friendship with Arthur blossomed, and so did Arthur’s recollections of her dearly imparted wisdom that went along with it.
And now -
“She’s gone.” It escaped as a broken whisper, one cracked in all the wrong places: a sheet of ice on concrete. The acknowledgment was a sentiment usually reserved to be confided solely to a glass of bourbon.
But Arthur was not alone, physically or mentally. Hadn’t been, after Rio de Janeiro, in which Dom pushed too hard and Arthur gave too much and the job ended with Arthur passing out after too many stimulants and an absence of sleep that left blue-black smudges under his eyes for weeks after the incident.
“Mon loup, have you met Monsieur Eames? We have worked several times in the past - très magnifique work, parfait…”
Arthur hadn’t been in any state to defend himself, hadn’t wanted to, because Mal had smashed her skull into bits weeks and weeks and weeks before and Dom and dreamsharing had crushed her sanity long before that and -
“Arthur? Darling? Who is on the phone? Arthur - why are you so pale? Arthur?!”
“Jesus fucking Christ you bloody idiot get the fuck out of my way Cobb - ” Eames had dragged Arthur out of that Rio de Janeiro basílica like one might drag a rag doll. Arthur didn’t protest because his head was spinning and his sight was filled with black spots and that spicy scent that curled around him was familiar, warm, safe -
“I admit, Mr. Eames, you remind me of her, sometimes. You both have these personal smells, distinct, exotic, like fresh turmeric and woodlands and something else - ”
“Arthur, love, let me help you, tell me how I can help - ” At first, the date marking a year after Mallorie Cobb’s death felt like a dream, or perhaps a nightmare. Eames sat with Arthur in that cold cottage in Wales, consoling him, resorting to begging, and yet -
The hands that wrapped the wool afghan around Arthur were as calloused as ever, the curved scar on the hand resting on Arthur’s shoulder as silvery as he remembered, and when he turned Eames looked like himself, all soft lips and eyes and home like the sun drenched cornfields Arthur grew up vanishing into -
“Eames,” Arthur breathed, voice croaky and too small. He coughed, trying again. “Eames,” he said, louder.
“What is it, darling?” They sat on a woven rug ringed by too many candles, the odds and ends of advent wreaths and kitchen mainstays and nubs snatched from lanterns. The power had gone out ages ago, the storm fierce, and neither of them had wanted to sit in the dark. Arthur thought it all seemed much like a bad omen, the start of a sour story, a Grimm’s fairy tale. His stomach echoed the thought, coiling tighter with every beat of his heart. She’s dead she’s dead she’s dead for one year now and she’s not coming back, never, dead dead dead - it was near impossible to breathe over the thumping of his heart. And yet -
Arthur, as shattered as he was, couldn’t help but notice the way the light caressed the planes of Eames’ face, outlined his chin and the dip of the scar through his eyebrow, illuminated the compassion in his multicolored eyes and -
It was ridiculous. “Romantic,” Mallorie’s voice insisted. “Arthur, promise me you will never forget la joie de vivre.”
“Mallorie - Mal would want us to celebrate,” Arthur said. “Her - ” Arthur’s voice broke. “Her before, not after.”
“Celebrate,” Eames mused, rocking to his feet. “We can do that.”
“Arthur, mon loup, I noticed you et Monsieur Eames growing close, these past few soirs. I have this charmant friend in Greece, he owes me a few favors. He has this gorgeous sailing boat, built for deux - mon Dominick is not much of a sailor, you know, but Monsieur Eames…”
Arthur and Eames fumbled into nooks and crannies in the small Wales safe house as the storm continued to grumble around them, lighting up the outdoors in spectacular strikes of lightening. It took a while, but after a few clouds of dust and one or two stolen kisses - “Eames, the bed is upstairs - ”
“ - I don’t see you protesting - ” The couple emerged victorious with a cheap bottle of whiskey. Armed with copious candles, Arthur and Eames made the trek up to the loft, bedding down on the landing on a mildewy blanket Arthur had rescued from the closet. Coming to a stop once more threw Arthur off - his heart was too loud again, and his shaky smile slid from his face, the scent of burning candles doing nothing to erase the sudden sadness dragging him under.
Unnoticed by Arthur, Eames had carried the afghan upstairs. He leaned forward to tuck it around Arthur’s rigid shoulders, the familiar smell of his aftershave causing his muscles to ease, just a bit. One of Arthur’s hands snaked up to readjust the blanket and he felt thrown backwards - young, dismantled, unsure, his emotions raw.
“Monsieur Eames, such a pleasure to see you again. Ah! And with Arthur, too, looking quite en bonne santé, mon loup. You have a secret way with him, that much is clear.”
“We can grieve, here,” Eames offered, balancing shot glasses on his knee as he uncorked the whiskey.
Arthur took a deep breath - in, then out, cher - and caught Eames’ eyes in the flickering light. There’s no forgery tonight. From either of us. They took a few shots of whiskey, eyes meeting, silence keeping - the tension between them had gone on for so long without a proper resolution, even Cobb had noticed -
“Arthur, this dance is beautiful, even Dominick sees, but you two can’t deny the passion - ”
Their introduction felt like a toe in the water, the Rio incident a forceful poke at something undefined -
“No,” Arthur said firmly, smoothing the blanket beneath them. He reached out, hand steady as his fingers curled around Eames’ bicep, eyes tracing the way his lips parted, tongue snaking out - “Tonight we celebrate.”
Arthur pounced on Eames, and quiet curses fell from their mouths as dripping candles tipped onto them, quickly righted by Eames’ fumbling hand.
Then Arthur’s mouth was on Eames’, and Eames’ on his, skin pressing together as Eames caught Arthur’s bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling until Arthur gasped. Their tongues swirled together carefully at first, tasting, testing, but the hesitance quickly burned off as Arthur’s hand reached up Eames’ chest to fist in his shirt. Eames broke to swear, “Oh, shit, darling - ”
And then Arthur accidentally elbowed Eames’ chin in his haste to get his layers off, needing touch, friction -
“ - Eames - ”
Arthur would never forget the feel of Eames’ hands the first time they caressed his naked chest, really touched him, tracing milky white scars and sparse freckles and pebbled nipples. His tongue followed, wet saliva leaving glistening trails under the candlelight. When Arthur couldn’t stand it anymore he twisted, rolling them onto their sides, hand pushing at Eames’ chest, pressing -
It was Eames’ turn to moan as Arthur tugged at the edge of his ear, nipping a path down his neck. It was that sound Eames had just made for him firmly at the forefront of the Arthur's mind as his hands buried into his brown hair, tugging him closer -
“Arthur, darling - ” Eames nearly purred as his lips closed around one of Arthur’s nipples. Arthur’s gasp filled the loft, lingering, and -
“Eames, please, babe, I need - ” Their bodies twisted impossibly closer, boxer briefs a barrier and friction to something that felt inevitable, so close -
Eames muttered a string of encouragements as Arthur slipped a hand along the waist of his underwear, nails gently skimming over his broad stomach and curls, right above -
“Arthur, love, you’re teasing, Christ - ” Arthur palmed Eames’ cock slowly, right hand encased under one of Eames’, thumb rubbing over the stain of precum at the front of his underwear. His fingers caught on the outline of Eames’ shaft, stroking.
“It’s worship. Untethered.”
Then Eames’ body heat disappeared a moment as he pulled away. His movements were mesmerizing under the flickering light as he undulated, hurried, rolling, the barrier of fabric off, away. It was only seconds before his naked body rushed to move back onto Arthur’s, a magnet pulled home.
In his haste, Eames’ searching hands hit Arthur’s own. They continued downwards, trailing over his pelvic bone, his stomach. His broad fingers paused over Arthur’s remaining clothing, gripping and pulling as Arthur surged again to meet Eames’ mouth. The removal of Arthur’s underwear sparked something and they tangled further in each other, craving closeness, friction. The wool afghan bunched beneath them, their breath tasting and nibbling, worrying, tongues exploring mouths layered in a hint of alcohol -
Arthur could feel the velvet heat of Eames’ cock rubbing against his thigh, and he just couldn’t take it, couldn’t wait anymore, couldn’t stand the tension -
“Like maraschino cherries, mon loup. I am serious, it is passion amoureuse when the tongue spirals just so - ”
Arthur’s lips encased the head of Eames’ dick and he felt a hand tangle in his hair, grasping, stroking. Everything was just so warm, muted, his thoughts and sight and touch consumed by the man beneath him, by the salty skin of his cock as he bobbed up and down its length, tongue tracing along the taut shaft. The rocking of Eames’ hips became a sign of barely-there restraint as Arthur continued moving along his dick, body brushing against Eames’ legs, his dick so hard and wanting -
“Arthur - ” Eames ground out, dragging him away from the blowjob in a messy kiss. His hand came up to caress Arthur’s face, eyes burning with lust, fingers slipping in between his swollen lips -
And a second later Arthur felt his world spin again as Eames was suddenly above him, forearms braced on either side of his shoulders, face inches away from his own -
Precum dripped on Arthur’s stomach, and he looked down to see Eames’ cock weeping, heavy and dark and thick in the light of the candles. Arthur was entranced by the sight, transfixed by the physical proof of Eames’ desire.
“Eames - ” Arthur began, overcome, overwhelmed. He needed to tell Eames, needed to vocalize this sudden punch of yearning, of need, of dare he say it, lo -
“You will know, Arthur, I say this with no exaggeration. It could take years, especially for you. To accept him, to voice the feeling, but I know we will find the man for you, and once we do, you will look at him, and you will think of your future together. Because without him in your future, it will not be your best path forward. You understand? Non? You will.”
“Thank god for well-stocked kitchens, darling.” Eames balanced on his side, abs rippling, one hand trailing below Arthur’s stomach. His quick fingers darted out to caress Arthur’s aching cock, oil smearing in his wake. His mouth followed, teasing the pearlescent tip, the moistened shaft catching the light as Arthur’s lips parted, watching the scene unfold.
“Ah, Eames, right there, please.” Eames sucked Arthur’s dick deeper in reply, throat fluttering briefly around the first few inches of his length.
“Oh, I love it when you beg,” Eames rumbled. The heat of his mouth vanished from around Arthur’s cock, but before he could protest, Eames’ hand was back to pumping, stroking, too slow -
Arthur’s back arched as Eames’ other hand touched a sticky welcome to Arthur’s hole, flesh and friction warming the lube between them. Arthur could feel fat drops rolling down his thighs, a promise of things to come.
“You always think, mon loup. You will learn, sometimes it is best to just feel.”
“Faster, Eames, come on,” Arthur urged, his hands spasming around Eames’ shoulder blades. Eames’ hands worked in dual synchronicity, Arthur’s dick twitching under Eames’ ministrations even as his body worked to accept the first of Eames’ fingers.
It could have been minutes or days before Arthur remembered to palm at Eames’ hard dick, hand damp with precum and sweat and oil as he tugged with frantic, fast rhythm.
“Yeah, that’s it, Arthur, just like that, love, keep on - ”
It seemed to be a contest of who could groan louder in that moment: Arthur, then with two fingers firmly pulsing inside him, and Eames, holding off an orgasm with valiant, panting effort as Arthur’s hand stroked deeper, faster.
Nothing felt better to Arthur than the eventual slide of three fingers within him. They were firmly locked in a kiss, Arthur desperate to feel Eames’ mouth, to thrust and plunge with as much ardor as he wanted Eames to mimic, to inundate his senses with the feeling of being alive -
“You need the hard times. The job didn’t go well, you disagreed, quoi, you two are still friends, more, and you will see eye-to-eye again. In fact, go to Mombasa, catch him, go out for a stroll, go to the plage, jump in the water and feel it around you, feel his arms around you, pulling you up, Arthur, up - ”
Arthur pulled apart, chest heaving, body gyrating, seeking - “I need you inside me, Eames.”
“Darling, yes.”
The initial penetration was like lightning behind Arthur’s eyelids, an instantaneous roaring in his ears. When he felt adjusted he opened his eyes, and it was like seeing Eames all over again, seeing the crease in his forehead when he looked at a particularly slippery target, seeing the sweat trickle down his neck after losing a tail, or the flex in his braced forearm as he leaned against a doorway, lips curving into a smirk, eyes dancing -
“You’re so beautiful,” Arthur breathed, forehead tipping back to catch Eames’ gaze.
Eames’ face split into a blinding smile, lips pressing down to catch along the tip of Arthur’s nose, his forehead. Arthur rolled his hips as Eames thrust deeper, and Eames grunted, chest rubbing hot and fast against Arthur’s flesh.
“I can think of nothing better than - than seeing you like this, forever,” Eames panted out, pausing to tug a hand at the disheveled, sweaty locks of Arthur’s hair. Arthur smiled, exhaling as a deeper thrust hit just the right spot, and their motions grew faster, more frenetic, eager to ride the same high again.
It was at the precise moment Arthur felt Eames’ thrusts grow more erratic, their bodies pressed impossibly close, friction everywhere, that his oil-slicked dick twitched uncontrollably. “Eames - yes - Eames - ” Was the closest warning Arthur could give before he felt himself let go, his cock spurting thick releases of cum between them, eyes rolling back, movements uncontrolled, positively -
“Primal, Arthur. Love - sex - is the transparence between you and your lover. There are no masks, nothing hidden, and that release - Eames is unpredictable, non? You complain? Oh, don’t protest, mon loup. Maybe you should find out if he is the same - eh, under the sheets.”
“Yes, Arthur, ah, you are perfect, darling, let go - ”
Arthur panted, reorienting himself as he found his body pulled onto Eames’ lap, skin nearly vibrating as Eames managed quick, sporadic thrusts up into him. Arthur rallied, hands planted beside his legs, muscles working, aching, as he met Eames’ bucking with fervor. He licked a stripe up Eames’ chest as he bounced, tongue catching over the fine hairs that curled over the surface.
“Darling, love, Arthur - “ Eames practically keened, fingers clenching near Arthur’s spine. He thrust, once, twice, a last time -
And with a final moan Eames stilled, cock convulsing within Arthur. Their foreheads pressed together, slick skin, chests moving in rhythm. They sat a moment, Arthur curled just as much around Eames as Eames was clutched around him, sweat cooling on their skin.
“It looks like we never made it to the bed,” Arthur murmured. Eames let out a surprised, slightly out of breath huff, the air stirring a few pieces of hair near Arthur’s temple.
“It’s true,” Eames said, planting one last kiss on Arthur’s forehead. He extracted himself from Arthur with gentle hands, fingers lingering across the surface of his skin as they sat side-by-side on their makeshift bed. “You can mourn the loss of these blankets while I get some stuff to clean us up.” Eames smirked at Arthur as he rolled to his feet, eyes lingering on the glistening surface of Arthur’s chest. Arthur watched as Eames progressed down the stairs, unabashedly staring at the curve of his ass, eyes slowly moving up to follow his spine, the swell of his arms -
“You need someone who is just as capable as you, Arthur. Not the same capable, but someone who will see you as you are without all the - the bullshit, oui? He will think of you first thing in the morning, and you will be the last thing he thinks about at night. In between, you will challenge each other, and - ”
“Ready to get under the covers, Arthur?” Eames’ return called Arthur to his feet, and he greeted him with a warm flannel upon standing. They took their time to wipe each other off, small laughs escaping at particularly messy points. After cleaning up and extinguishing most of the candles, they stood back where they started, near the loft’s bedroom door.
Eames raised his eyebrows in expectation. “Well? Shall we?” How does he look so good, even after messy sex on the floor? Eames was slightly sweaty, yes, but Arthur couldn’t believe how amazing his hair looked, and his beautiful skin, and those eyes -
Arthur darted forward to lick a falling drop of sweat from Eames’ ear. Grinning, he didn’t wait for the Eames’ reaction, pulling him hand-first into the bedroom. It felt like as much of an escape as their first day together in Mombasa. The previous knot inside Arthur’s chest was nearly forgotten - especially when Eames reached down to playfully slap his ass as he climbed onto the bed.
It was with the same familiarity that they stole under the sheets together, Eames’ arm snaking to pull the quilt loosely around their spooning bodies. It was only when they finally rearranged themselves in an acceptable sleeping position that Arthur turned to face Eames’ chest, eyes blinking to find Eames’ in the dark. He exhaled quietly.
“Alright, there, Arthur?” Eames’ hand made slow circles at the juncture of Arthur’s hip, his lips a whisper over his hair. “It was quite an event-filled night.”
“I’ve had more hectic,” Arthur teased, his cold nose bumping against Eames’ chest as he snuggled closer.
“Ooh - I’m sure, and yet - ”
“Eames?” Arthur rubbed at the top of his forger’s shoulder, fingers pausing over a scar near his neck. Eames stilled, mouth closing.
“Darling?”
“I - I love you.”
“ - you will love him, Arthur.”
Eames blinked, eyes softening in the dim light. “I love you too, Arthur. Very much.” His thumb curled, tracing the edges of Arthur’s tentative smile. “And it’s not just the endorphins talking, either.”
“I - let’s sleep, Eames.” Arthur rolled back over, directing Eames’ arm around his waist. “After all, we have to be ready for round two in the morning.”
“I like the sound of that.” Eames snuggled closer, thunder a distant echo around them.
“Arthur, remember, la pluie ç'est pas toujours triste. Rain is renewal of life.”
The realization came to Arthur slowly, just as his mind was finally drifting off: with Eames, he felt utter warmth, inside and out. “Il était une fois,” Arthur whispered.
“What, darling?”
“Nothing,” Arthur closed his eyes once more. “Just enjoying the storm.”
fin.