osaki_nana_707

Title: Grace Under Pressure (6/10)
Author: osaki_nana_707
Word count: ~4,100
Pairings/Characters: ArthurxEames
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mentions of underage, language, mentions of past drug abuse, currently un-betaed
Summary: AU. Sequel to Bite Hard. Arthur reunites with Eames. By the next day, they're living together. Still, with the two of them, there's always the opportunity for things to get complicated.

Part Six

Eames awoke to the sound of his bedroom door opening and the sound of Mal's voice. "Monsieur Thomas, have you seen—"

Eames raised his head sleepily, rubbing at his eyes, and he saw her standing there with her hand over her mouth. With her hand there, Eames couldn't tell if she was amused or alarmed, but thankfully she dropped it to show that she was the former.

"Oh… sorry…" she said.

"He had a bad dream is all," Eames replied, looking down at Arthur who was curled up next to him, snoring. He was even laughing at the lame lie. What kind of bad dream required a person to shed of their clothes?

"Breakfast will be ready in about ten minutes. I'll just… leave you two alone…" Mal mumbled, giggling as she shut the door.

Eames rolled out of bed, rolling his shoulders and pawing the floor for his underpants when he heard Arthur move on the mattress. He looked over his shoulder to see him sitting up, squinting in the light, looking strung out and hungover. His hair was an absolute mess, and there was a dried line of drool on his cheek.

"Sometimes you're so beautiful, I think I might just cry," Eames said, smirking.

Arthur threw a pillow at him. "Oh, go fuck yourself, Eames… Fuck… what time is it? What happened last night?"

"It's nine-ish," Eames shrugged. "You don't remember last night?"

"I sort of remember… There was alcohol and sex."

"You were the only one drinking, darling."

Arthur twitched at the word darling, and Eames wasn't sure why.

"I feel like absolute shit…" Arthur mumbled, dragging himself across the room to Eames's bathroom. "I need a shower."

Eames followed after him and let Arthur lean against him while he started the shower. Arthur kept running his hand over the left side of Eames's chest, just as he had at least three times during the night. "Something bothering you?" he asked.

Arthur clambered into the shower, shaking his head. "It's nothing. Shower with me."

Eames took off the underwear he'd just put on and climbed in. The shower seemed to wake Arthur up a little bit, sighing as Eames massaged shampoo into his hair.

"Does your head hurt?" Eames asked.

"A little… I'm okay. It's not too bad. How are you this morning? Do you still feel sick?"

"I feel just dandy," Eames replied, tilting Arthur's head back under the spray and pressing a kiss to his Adam's apple. "Perhaps I have avoided it after all."

"That's good," Arthur said, body arching to press against Eames's. He was already half hard.

Eames sucked a red bite mark on Arthur's shoulder and brought his hand down to stroke him until he was whimpering, and that was when he turned Arthur and pressed him against the wall, kissing along his shoulder blades.

"Breakfast is going to be ready soon," Eames whispered.

"Be quick then, fuck," Arthur groaned, leaning his head back against Eames's shoulder. "Why are you giving me useless information right now? Stop being a dumbass and let's go."

"You're always so mean before you have your coffee," Eames said, pressing his fingers against Arthur's entrance and biting at his earlobe. "I should just leave you wanting."

Arthur whined a little, unable to help himself, and Eames shoved one finger in.

"Don't fret, darling. You know I can't say no to you. I'll give you what you want, but let's not be too loud now or you'll disturb the others."

Eames took no time before sliding in another finger and then a third. Arthur made a disappointed sound when he removed them all at once, but then Eames lined himself up and pushed in, and Arthur choked on the sound.

His fists were white-knuckled on the shower wall as Eames thrust in and out, quick and fevered, and Arthur was biting down on increasingly frantic noises.

"Fuck—Eames, ah—" Arthur stammered, hands slipping on the tiles. "Eames, I—"

Eames reached around and took hold of Arthur's prick, stroking feverishly, and Arthur clenched around Eames, spilling all over his hand and the wall with a shuddered moan. Eames came almost immediately afterward, teeth sinking into a spot on Arthur's back, and then he slumped against his back, breathing heavily against his skin.

They finished the shower, cleaning themselves up, and got dressed in silence.

Eames realized that something was wrong.

"Okay," Eames said then, just as he finished tugging his t-shirt over his long-sleeved shirt. "Clearly whatever this nothing is that's bothering you is clearly not nothing. What's wrong, Arthur? Why were you crying last night?"

"C-crying?" Arthur stammered. "When was I crying? I don't remember—"

"Last night, down in the lounge and up here too. You wouldn't stop. I had to carry you up the steps."

Arthur looked around, somewhat panicked, and said, "I don't remember. It must have been the wine."

"I don't remember you ever being a crying drunk."

"Well, I don't remember why I was crying. Just forget about it," Arthur mumbled, turning to retreat from the room and the conversation, but Eames caught him by the arm and turned him back around.

"Darling…"

"Mal's going to wonder where we are."

Arthur looked down at Eames's arm, the one holding to his wrist, and he almost seemed to be trying to stare through the fabric of his sleeve, and that was when Eames remembered the way Arthur had grabbed hold of the same arm so harshly the night before, thumb pushing down achingly on one of his—

"It's nothing, Eames. I'm fine. I don't remember. Let's just go get breakfast and forget about it, okay?"

Eames sighed, releasing Arthur's wrist. "Fine."

Arthur did remember.

He didn't want Eames to know what madness had been going on in his head. He didn't want Eames to know that he had been terrified that he might die somehow and that he might have imagined wounds on Eames's body because he was drunk and scared.

That had been imagined, right?

Of course the charred holes in his chest had been imagined, but what about the one on his arm? He had been too distracted by the sex in the bath to check, and now Eames had hidden the skin on his arms with a long-sleeved shirt.

It didn't matter. It had been imagined.

Hadn't it?

Arthur needed to know, but he wasn't sure how to go about checking without Eames knowing. He could have just asked, but he didn't want Eames to think he didn't trust him because he did…

…mostly…

Well, he couldn't have trusted him completely if he was suspicious. He hated admitting that, but he wasn't going to deny it. He still thought (hoped) that everything was all in his head, and he was being ridiculous, and he'd find out such and hate himself for ever questioning such a thing.

Until he knew for sure though, he could not let it go.

"Arthur," Olivia said, touching his shoulder, and he realized he'd been staring down into his plate for a long time. "Honey, are you okay? Are you feeling sick?"

"Ah… um… No, I'm fine," Arthur said, forcing on a smile. "I think I'm just a little sleepy still. I didn't sleep well last night… You know, new bed and all that." He grabbed his coffee cup and sipped at it so that he wouldn't have to talk anymore.

Eames was giving him the worried eyes from across the table, and Arthur couldn't help but be angry at him for it. Eames was the one who needed worrying about, not Arthur… unless Arthur really was just insane for thinking what he was thinking.

Damn it, I'm supposed to be on vacation, Arthur thought bitterly. I shouldn't be worrying so much. I should be having a good time. Fuck.

They finished breakfast, and then Eames sat back on the coffee table and sketched Mal lounged on the couch. Arthur sat next to him and watched him do it, how perfectly the lines fell upon the page. Eames was so talented… but Arthur couldn't help but think he did better five years ago. His lines were darker and slightly jagged now. His hand trembled a little every time he stilled it.

The drawing still came out beautifully, and Mal was appropriately impressed. Afterwards, Arthur's mom insisted he draw her and Arthur, and so he did. Arthur lay with his head in her lap, staring up at her while Eames sketched, and it was odd that he could tell she knew something was off by the way her hand was planted in his hair.

By the time Eames finished the sketch, Arthur had managed to put himself at some sort of ease because he didn't want to worry his mother.

"Oh, it's amazing," Olivia said gleefully. "You're so talented. Oh, wow. You drew Arthur just… perfectly. Arthur, look at this!"

Arthur just smiled at Eames because he already knew how good it was, and he said quietly, "Looks like you got my eyes right."

Something shifted in Eames's gaze then, a kind of unsure look, an almost guilty look.

By the next day, Cobb already needed to shovel the walk again, and Arthur went out to help.

Eames, claiming he felt ill, stayed inside. He'd shot up a bit too much, he thought, and his limbs were so heavy he could barely move. He had a towel pressed up against his nose because it was running so badly, curled up in a corner in the bathroom with the door locked so that no one would come in and see him.

He'd shot up through a vein in his leg, behind his knee, so that Arthur wouldn't see the fresh track mark. He was giving time for the ones already on each arm to vanish because Arthur was getting suspicious, and he couldn't let that happen.

If Arthur found his track marks, he'd start thinking that Eames was still a heroin addict, which he wasn't.

He was hiding it to protect Arthur and their relationship, not because he was addicted. There was no way Arthur could possibly understand what it was like—how good it felt, and how bad it felt to be without it.

…that… didn't sound right. It was true, but it didn't sound right.

"Fuck," Eames mumbled, looking up to the ceiling. His voice was muffled by the towel.

"Thomas? Monsieur Thomas?" Eames barely heard the voice at first, but it was clear as day when Mal was knocking on the bathroom door. "Monsieur Thomas? Is everything all right in there?"

"Fine, fine," Eames mumbled, but even he couldn't be fooled by the way he sounded. His voice was clogged with the horrid phlegm running down the back of his throat, his words slurred from the drop in blood pressure.

"Are you sure? You've been up here for quite some time. Do you need some water or something? Medication?"

Eames forced himself up off of the floor and stumbled to the door, unlocking it to peek out at her, to shoo her away. "I'm okay, just a little under the weather," he said, slumping in the doorframe, and was surprised by the look of alarm that washed over her features at the sight of him. "What?" he asked warily.

She placed a palm on his forehead before moving it to his cheek, and she shook her head, pulling him out of the bathroom. "You're feverish. You look terrible. You need to lay down right now."

"It's not that bad," he tried to say, but he really couldn't make much of an argument with a towel pressed to his runny nose and his feet barely shuffling across the floor. "I've been worse off."

I used to be an addict after all.

She pushed him gently down onto the bed and set to untying his shoes and pulling them off. "You just lay here, and I'll make you some warm tea with lemon and honey."

"That sounds delightful, but you don't have to do that," Eames said, trying to smile. He didn't want the tea, afraid it would upset his already upset stomach. "I wouldn't want you stressing your body over me, not with the little one on the way."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," she admonished, tugging the duvet over Eames's body and smoothing out some of the short hairs on his head with her hand. "I'll be back, all right?"

"Don't worry about the tea," Eames tried again. "I'll just try to sleep this off."

He waited for her to leave before he reached down beneath the covers and scratched at his injection site. It didn't relieve the itch very much, scraping at it through his jeans, but it helped somewhat.

Just as he drifted off, he thought vaguely of Vince and hoped that the bastard hadn't given him any bad junk.

It was a little late to be worrying about that now, he realized.

Arthur tugged his coat off with a shiver when he got inside, dusting the rapidly melting snow off of his hair with hand. "You didn't have to push me into the snow, you know," Arthur said, smirking at Cobb.

"You didn't have to throw snowballs at me. I was just retaliating," Cobb replied simply. "You'll be fine. Just don't stand around in those wet clothes."

"I don't intend to," Arthur snorted, making his way further into the house where Olivia was asleep on the couch while a movie played on the television. Mal was just coming down the stairs.

"All finished then?" she asked, coming down to kiss Cobb.

Arthur noticed she looked a little flustered. "Is something wrong?" Arthur asked.

"Oh, everything is all right," she said, waving it off. "It does appear Monsieur Thomas does have a bad case of the flu though. I've sent him to bed. He's sleeping now. I've checked on him a few times."

"So, he really is sick? Is it really bad?" Arthur asked insistently, even though he was already starting for the stairs.

"I'm sure he'll be all right. If he gets any worse, we'll call a doctor," Mal insisted, but Arthur barely heard her because he was already stomping his way up to the second floor.

He found Eames in his bed, just where she'd left him, sleeping, breathing in that shallow way that made Arthur so uncomfortable. Mal had lovingly pressed a cool cloth to Eames's forehead, only for it to fall off when he rolled onto his side.

Arthur approached slowly and silently, careful not to wake him, and pulled the covers back slightly so that he could see his face.

Eames was ashen, and his face was a mess with mucous and drool. Arthur took the cool cloth and wiped the mess clean, and Eames grunted in his sleep. Arthur's eyes fell to Eames's arms, temptation creeping up his spine, but the temptation was sullied just as quickly as it came.

Eames had ripped holes in his sleeves to stick his thumbs through at some point, and now the fabric was hooked there between his thumb and index finger. Arthur wasn't sure how to remove them and push up the sleeve to check without waking Eames. He would have absolutely no medical explanation should he do so.

He sighed dejectedly and moved away from him, tugging his own shirt over his head. He tossed it over one arm as he left the room to get a change of clothes from his room (which was really all the room appeared to be good for since he'd been staying with Eames). He had to peel himself out of the wet jeans and underwear.

After changing into a pair of sweat pants and toweling his hair, he returned to Eames's room and lay down next to him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing his face into Eames's shoulder blade.

Arthur couldn't help but think that perhaps he didn't fit there quite as well as he used to.

Christmas arrived.

Arthur finally managed to put his thoughts aside and just enjoy it, at least for that day. It was easier to manage because Eames seemed to have caught the Christmas spirit and actually crawled out of bed to socialize with everyone else.

Arthur had had a fairly good time reconnecting with Cobb and Mal, spending time with his mother, despite all of his inner turmoil, but Eames had confined himself to his room most of the time, moaning and groaning about the lurgy or whatever he called it. He wasn't faking sick by any means—just looking at him was proof that he wasn't well—but Arthur had still been disappointed by the lack of company. Eames was still spry enough to shove Arthur up against the wall and fuck him the day before, so he couldn't understand why he couldn't come down and be somewhat social.

Arthur let his mother film while they all opened presents, and he was so happy that Eames was around and acting normal that he wasn't even upset when Mal chastised him for smoking. Arthur was somehow convinced into trying to quit for the sake of a child that wasn't even his own. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that Cobb had actually quit, leaving Arthur no one to smoke with other than Eames and sometimes his mom (though she didn't have much of a habit for it like he did).

"Are you really going to stop smoking?" Eames asked, laughing.

Arthur looked at the camera, polishing off his fourth glass of wine and said, "Yes, yes—I'm going to stop. This is proof and documentati—docu… this is proof."

Eames fell over laughing.

Arthur poured himself another glass of wine.

Somehow, around the sixth glass, after presents were opened and paper was scattered everywhere, Arthur found himself leaning against Eames's shoulder, slow dancing because he couldn't stand on his own. Mal was sitting at the piano, singing… and the moment was just nice.

It was like five years ago, back in his apartment, giggling like fools.

Arthur didn't even hear his mother giggle when she recorded him while he leaned up and chastely kissed Eames.

Eames spun him around, dipped him back and laid one full of passion all over his face, and all Arthur could do was let out a muffled sound of surprise and scramble in the hopes that he didn't fall down since, being well past tipsy, the world was tilting with him.

"That, darling, is how you kiss another man," Eames explained when he pulled away. "Amateur."

There might have been howls of laughter from Mal and Olivia when Arthur pulled him back down to show him what for, unabashedly snogging him in front of God and everyone.

"You're a fast learner," Eames breathed when Arthur finally detached his face from Eames's face.

"I do my best," Arthur said, surely grinning like a fool. He let go of Eames's neck then and fell down. He banged his hip on the coffee table in his descent, but he didn't seem to care because the alcohol made it so goddamn funny.

He wasn't sure when he passed out, but it was sometime between the second showing of A Christmas Story and the Peanuts special and somewhere between the couch and the piano.

Eames hoisted Arthur onto the couch, chuckling a little while shaking his head.

"He never could hold his alcohol well, I guess," Eames said, smoothing a loose curl off of Arthur's forehead.

"Not really," Cobb agreed, grinning. "I hope he's not too bruised from the fall."

"Oh, I'm sure he's fine," Eames said, walking back to the piano to grab his tumbler of bourbon. "He can take a little bit of pain."

"We know," the women teased before Olivia started making Oh, Arthur, Oh, Arthur sex noises, and Eames made a sly face at them. It only made Cobb moderately uncomfortable, which Eames enjoyed far too much for his own good.

"Are you all right?" Cobb asked, pointing his drink at Eames's leg. "You're limping a little bit."

"Sprained my ankle making the bed," Eames replied, downing a long gulp from his glass. "How pathetic, right?"

He finished his drink and casually made his way out of the room while Cobb and Mal and Olivia enthusiastically conversed, Arthur snoring away obliviously on the sofa. He locked himself into the bathroom with a sigh and dropped his pants with a subdued grunt, easing himself down onto the toilet seat and propping his leg up on the bathtub.

The injection site behind his knee had been infected, he was sure of that by the fever and redness around it, and it hurt. He'd been discreetly cleaning it since he realized it, but it hadn't helped much. It wasn't going away fast enough.

"Fuck," he hissed, stretching to grab the soap off of the sink and wet it down, pressing it to the area and scrubbing at it. It didn't feel as good as scratching it did, but he knew it was better for it than hacking away at it with his nails. He'd already scratched up his arms from picking at the skin.

He finished cleaning it and dried it with the hand towel but decided to just sit there for a minute because it felt better to have his leg elevated.

Suddenly he remembered a time years and years ago, back when Roxanne had still been alive when she'd gotten an infected site on her arm. It had been disgusting and pus-filled, and she'd still shot up there even with the wound.

It had still been on her arm when she died.

The memory made him shiver as he tugged his pant leg down, and he stood and looked at himself, really looked at himself in the mirror.

He wasn't as skinny as he had been back then. Back then he had been bare bones.

He didn't look quite as sick and tired as he had back then. He'd looked nearly dead.

He hadn't scratched at all of his skin. He used to have scratches and scabs up his neck and face.

He didn't have any of those problems… yet.

Not yet.

When had the word yet made its way into that sentence?

Damn it, he wasn't a heroin addict. He wasn't.

Right?