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Language:
English
Series:
Part 6 of All Shook Up
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Published:
2013-06-09
Words:
2,696
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
52
Kudos:
358
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22
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4,645

Love Me Tender

Summary:

The strip of photos from the malt shop photobooth had never left his wallet.

Notes:

The sixth and final fic in this series. Thank you to everyone who's followed along <3 Beta'd by anatsuno.

(See the end of the work for more notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Work Text:

“Darling,” Eames calls up the stairs, “it’s lovely out, we ought to go for a walk later this afternoon.”

Arthur calls back from his study, “We will, I just need to finish this article.” Then comes the familiar clacking of Arthur’s typewriter.

Eames sets his bags of shopping in their tiny kitchen. Arthur left the record player on in the living room, and Bob Dylan is whining tinnily. Eames isn’t sure what Arthur sees in him, but he never complains. Much.

Arthur comes down the stairs and into the kitchen as Eames unpacks the shopping, and catches Eames around the waist to firmly kiss him. “Just in time for tea,” Eames says, and Arthur takes over putting away the shopping as Eames puts the kettle on.

They go out to the fire escape to take tea, sitting on rickety chairs overlooking Greenwich Village. It’s a view Eames has enjoyed for years, so different from the silent woods that constituted the backyard of the house where he was living when he met Arthur.

Arthur has his glasses on, as he often does these days. When he’s not typing articles, he’s reading, and when he’s not doing that he’s on the phone, gathering information, or running around town. Some days, they barely see each other. But Eames doesn’t mind, considering there was a time when he assumed he’d never see Arthur again.

“How’s rehearsals?” Arthur asks.

Eames sips his tea and nods. “Going well. Have I mentioned lately I’m glad I wrote you and you told me to pursue acting if I loved it so much?” He squeezes Arthur’s hand, smiling.

“Only every week or so for years,” Arthur says, grinning back. “I was glad you wrote me. Meant you were still thinking about me.”

Eames clucks. “Darling, I’ve thought of nothing else since. Pass that last biscuit, will you.”

Arthur does, leaning in for a quick kiss. As Eames munches, he reflects once again upon the fact that they’re free to sit here, on their fire escape, buildings and people all around them in one of the largest cities in the world, and no one bats an eye in their neighborhood if they kiss or hold hands. They can even attend parties thrown by their friends without having to pretend they’re something other than they are.

They are, in fact, throwing a party of their own tonight, to celebrate their anniversary of Eames moving in here.

This was Arthur’s brownstone originally. He’d worked hard to save up and move to New York City, and as soon as his sister married her boyfriend, he left. She was young, but happy, and Arthur approved of her husband. He felt secure in moving here. Arthur had always been astute, and had crossed paths with a newspaper editor, Dominick Cobb, who hired him as a research assistant. Soon, he was a reporter with a beat.

Eames, meanwhile, found himself swept up in his uni’s drama department. Professor Miles saw real talent in him and arranged for him to meet with his daughter, Mallorie, at a company in New York City after he graduated. Once he heard this news, Eames went still all over, thinking of the fact that Arthur was in New York. His Arthur, whom he hadn’t seen in years. His Arthur, whom he’d written to constantly, even phoned when he could.

Eames had hoped his love for Arthur would have some mercy on him and fade away in accordance with their physical separation, but it had not. It hurt as sweetly as it always had. When he sent Arthur a telegram saying he’d be auditioning to join a company in the city, Arthur’s reply came immediately. They made plans for dinner the night of the audition, and naturally, ended up in Arthur’s bed.

Eames had had a few clandestine lovers at uni, and Arthur had slept with a few men since he’d moved to the Village. That night they reunited, however, erased everyone else from their minds, and it was as if no time had passed at all.

The next morning, Eames sat on the edge of Arthur’s bathtub as Arthur dozed away in bed, and cried from happiness. He never told Arthur about that bit, but he suspected Arthur knew from his red eyes and sniffling nose.

The strip of photos from the malt shop photobooth had never left his wallet.

Mal turned out to be a great friend, and Eames soon found himself in the employ of her theater company. His mother sent him off with her best wishes; he wires her money every week. He lived in a spare room of Mal’s enormous penthouse until she noticed how lovestruck he and Arthur were around each other and took Arthur aside to suggest he ask Eames to move in. A bold move, and the perfect one. “It is not because I do not love you, William,” she said, “it is because he loves you more.” That was Mal for you. She crossed paths with Arthur’s editor at one of their parties, and rumor had it they were attending tonight’s party as a couple.

“What are you going to wear tonight?” Eames asks. Arthur had found in the city a deep appreciation for current fashions. Slicked-back hair, motorcycle boots, and a leather jacket were cutting edge in the little town they’d lived in, but Arthur quickly got up to speed on the latest trousers, suits, and loafers, indulging his heretofore unknown clotheshorse side. He’s now a hepcat fashion plate.

That said, he still keeps his leather jacket and even wears it rather often. Eames won’t hear of his getting rid of it.

He’s also kept Eames’ class ring on a chain around his neck, all this time.

“I’ll probably wear that brown suit,” Arthur answers with a shrug. “You?”

“That patterned shirt you say I look so good in,” Eames replies with a wink. Arthur’s ears go a bit pink. Eames had put on some muscle weight to play Stanley Kowalski a few years back, when he was living in Mal’s flat, and hadn’t thought anything of it when he saw Arthur again -- Arthur hadn’t said anything -- until he realized that Arthur’s touches lingered on his shoulders and arms, that his fingers dug into Eames’ back as if he was trying to sense bone under the muscle and was pleased to not find it, and that he kept staring, ears going pink just like they were now.

Eames kept working out long after the role was past.

He traded his letterman’s jacket and basketball shoes for suit coats and expensive loafers ages ago. He’s taking on a reputation as an eccentric, fearsomely talented actor, with an intellectual yet mechanically inclined reporter boyfriend (who teases him about the women and men who wait for him at the stage door, only to be disappointed).

Yet Arthur still has the ability to revert him to a blushing, lip-biting mess with a certain arch expression or two, a wry quirk of his lips and an innuendo dropped in a lower register of voice. The sexiest thing Eames can imagine is Arthur curled up in his armchair in his study, absorbed in a book, tipping his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, bare toes curling as he reads, with his shirtsleeves rolled up to show his forearms. Sometimes Eames can’t help sinking to his knees before him, tilting his face up for kisses, reaching for his fly and wordlessly offering an impromptu blowjob that’s never refused.

It’s not that they never fight. When working on a particularly knotty story, Arthur can get short-tempered. Eames can get distracted when he’s absorbed in a role. Somehow, no matter what, sleeping with Arthur every night -- in their bed, in their home -- makes up for it all. Just the simple act of sleeping, something Eames would have given anything for back when they’d met. To sleep through the night with him where they both belong, to wake or be awakened with lazy kisses, was more than he could have dreamed, and now it’s his everyday reality. He’s still not used to the wonder of it.

Arthur always sleeps curled around his back, a leg between his and an arm over him, as if keeping him from getting away again.

After tea, they go on their walk, and talk about the party. They buy bouquets at the corner florist for the assortment of vases scattered throughout the brownstone, and then set about baking and cooking things. Eames chops vegetables for crudités while Arthur sweeps the floors and puts away the books and scripts that tend to accumulate on their tables and table-like surfaces. After a quick supper of sandwiches, they dress and put the final touches on the brownstone in preparation for the guests. Arthur gets out the good whiskey.

Mallorie does in fact show up with Dominick. The junior reporter Arthur mentors, Ariadne, shows up with a date. The stage manager at Eames’ company, Yusuf, comes late, but brings some marijuana. A good number of people are in attendance, and the brownstone is rather crowded. Someone’s brought a guitar and, horrors, is playing and singing to a small group of very serious-looking, fashionable people, crammed into a corner. Arthur’s social consciousness friends.

Eames makes his way through the crowd, smiling and making conversation, well pleased. It feels good to bask in the attention here, to know they’re surrounded by people who support them. He thinks of how alone he used to feel in school, with no one who could even know that he loved Arthur. How drab that life seems now, Arthur the sole bright spot in it, besides the well-intentioned care from his mother.

There’s a gentle touch to the small of his back, and then Arthur’s kissing his cheek. “Having fun?” he asks.

Eames nods, and shrugs. “Yeah. But I must say, I’m afraid I can’t help looking forward to everyone leaving so we can be alone together.” He winks.

Arthur chuckles. “We could get in the car and drive off somewhere,” he teases. “Do you ever miss our late-night secret escapades?”

“Not as much as I enjoy being able to sleep with you every night,” Eames says honestly. “Though I do appreciate the lessons you were able to impart to me on those occasions.”

Arthur snickers, blushing. “The pleasure was all mine.”

“Darling.” Eames sighs, affectionate, and presses a kiss to that pleased smirk.

The party winds on, gradually becoming more subdued, the guitar player eventually performing more melancholy and quieter tunes. But it’s a peaceful atmosphere, with soft chatter and fond chuckles. The food is nearly gone, of course.

It’s the wee hours when the last stragglers have left, and the two of them agree to only clean up anything that can’t possibly wait until the morning. “Afternoon,” Eames amends, looking at the wall clock.

Together, they retire to their bedroom, exhausted. They strip down to their boxers and get under the covers, Arthur at Eames’ back as usual. Eames reaches back to cup his hip.

“You said you couldn’t wait for us to be alone together?” Arthur says. Eames can picture Arthur’s suggestively raised brow.

Closing his eyes, he smiles fondly. “We waited years to be alone together,” he half-jokes. “What’s a few hours more?”

Arthur chuckles, quiet for a moment. “It hurt me so much when you left,” he comments, in a murmur. Eames clucks, turning in his arms to soothe him. “No, it’s fine,” Arthur says. “I think it was good for us.”

Eames, considering, rests a palm on Arthur’s chest, feeling his heart beat. “Yes, I think it was. Hard to believe that at the time, though.” He sighs.

Arthur’s jaw cracks in a yawn. “I’m exhausted,” he comments, rubbing his eyes. “Is it all right with you if we just go to sleep?”

“I could blow you, for old time’s sake,” Eames suggests.

Snorting, Arthur stretches out on his back, ears going pink. “If you must.”

“Shall I pretend I’ve never done it before and need you to teach me how?” Eames says, batting his lashes and affecting an innocent expression.

Arthur laughs, breathless. “God, do you know how many times I jerked off thinking about that? The way you said ‘Tell me what to do.’”

“Is that a yes? It’ll be very difficult for me to pretend I don’t know what I’m doing,” Eames says archly.

“You’re a very talented actor. I’m sure you can manage.”

Eames pushes the covers back, and moves to straddle Arthur’s lower body. He considers. “No offense, love, but on second thought I don’t think I’ll be doing that tonight.” He presses a kiss to just above Arthur’s navel.

“That’s fine,” Arthur says, voice slightly strained. He moves to help as Eames gets his boxers off.

With Arthur settled back in, Eames presses his hips down with both hands, and exhales warm breaths onto Arthur’s hard cock, a tease Arthur loves despite his usual protestations to the contrary. He reaches for Eames’ hair.

Eames nuzzles at the base of Arthur’s cock, licks a light, slow meandering line up it. It’s up nearly against Arthur’s belly, so Eames loosely wraps a hand around it before shifting up and starting to take it in. He’s leisurely, light-touched, acting casual.

Arthur may still have fond memories of teaching innocent Eames how to suck cock, but Eames knows for a fact that his heart belongs to current Eames and his expert knowledge of everything Arthur enjoys.

He takes Arthur in, as deeply as he can, and hums in pleasure as he slowly pulls off. Arthur’s leaking copiously, and his taste is already all over Eames’ tongue.

“You love this,” Arthur murmurs, voice low, and Eames meets his gaze as he takes him in again. Arthur’s fingers clench in his hair.

It’s like that for a while, Eames drawing off with his lips tight around Arthur, tongue lapping at the head of his cock until Arthur is shifting restlessly, at which point Eames makes him wait before taking him in again. He’s rewarded with a groan and a tug to his hair each time.

One of this favorite things is to do is what he’s starting to do now: gradually going faster, getting caught up in the push and pull, the way they both start to unravel. As usual, both of Arthur’s hands end up in his hair, and even on his back at this angle Arthur’s starting to fuck his mouth, lost in pleasure, artless and open, all for Eames.

Arthur comes down Eames’ throat with Eames’ hands cradling his hips, Arthur’s hands still in his hair. Eames fairly floats up the bed to kiss his dazed mouth, catching for a moment a glimpse of his expression as he opens his fever-bright, nearly black eyes.

Arthur’s hands roam restlessly over him, one getting in his flies and taking hold of his cock, and Eames thrusts into his sure grip. He comes breathing in Arthur’s whispered encouragements, and Arthur pulls him down to rest on his warm, sweat-damp skin, proprietary and natural as if Eames were an extension of his own body. Eames kisses the chain resting against his neck.

“Now I’m all sticky and even more exhausted,” Arthur pretends to complain, a smile in his voice, sounding fond.

“Oh, hush.” Eames chuckles. Just for that, he settles his weight more on Arthur.

“If I hush, I can’t tell you how much I love you,” Arthur points out, stroking his fingers over Eames’ back.

“Oh? In that case, speak. How much do you love me?”

“More than you can possibly imagine.”

“I take exception to that, love. I have a splendid imagination, you know.”

“It’s still more than you can imagine.”

“Are you talking about loving me or just my arse?” Eames teases.

Arthur’s hands roam to said arse, and give it a fond squeeze. “Mm, I do love your delightful, plump ‘arse,’” he says, “but I mean all of you.”

Eames sighs, smiling, and closes his eyes. “Arthur, my darling, I adore you infinitely.”

-------

"Love me tender,
love me true,
all my dreams fulfill.
For my darling, I love you,
and I always will."

Notes:

Title from Elvis' Love Me Tender, of course. Thanks to anatsuno and Liz for all your help!

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Works inspired by this one: