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moyeeshen · 2 months

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Osculation 5/50 - where it doesn’t hurt (from this list)

A little bit of hurt/comfort (mostly comfort) that follows on from here.

“My ribs hurt,” Eames says, wincing as he tries to move from the position he’s in, his head in Arthur’s lap and his legs arranged over the arm of the sofa.

“What a shame for you,” Arthur replies, not looking up from the book in his hands.

There is quiet for a few minutes, Eames breathing shallowly and shifting around, clearly uncomfortable.

“My legs ache to fuck,” Eames says.

“Poor baby,” Arthur tells him, then turns another page.

“No need to be sarcastic,” Eames mumbles, then opens one eye slightly to look up at him. “Though this is you we’re talking about; maybe you can’t help it.”

Arthur resists the urge to smile.

“If you insist on trying to sweet talk your way into clandestine poker games then slip up and use the wrong name, what do you expect?” Arthur replies, maintaining a straight face.

“You’re a supercilious prick sometimes,” Eames says, but there is amusement in his voice.

“You should have considered the consequences before you decided it was a good idea to punch Lukas in the face.”

“He showed all the signs of being a lumbering oaf, I wasn’t expecting him to be that fast,” Eames rues.

Quiet falls again. Arthur can’t really remember what he’s just read, so he turns the page back.

Eames holds his hand up, waving his skinned knuckles in Arthur’s face. “Kiss it better?” he asks.

“Maybe later,” Arthur says, not quite sure why he suddenly feels self-conscious.

“You’re a cruel man, Arthur,” Eames says, sweeping the back of his hand across his brow. “Even my poor battered body doesn’t elicit sympathy from you.”

It might have been more effective if Eames wasn’t affecting a tone of theatrical suffering.

It’s not that Arthur doesn’t feel a bit sorry for him; the bruising to Eames’ legs is of moderate severity, and he’s pretty sure one of Eames’ ribs is cracked, but the worst casualty is his ego. It was bad enough that he’d been caught cheating, but all Faas had done was threaten to have him removed; Eames had managed the rest himself by picking an ill-advised fight with his brother.

“You’ve only got yourself to blame,” Arthur says. He tries for disparaging but misses the mark, residual concern and a quite frankly embarrassing amount of care colouring the words.

But then, it was probably a losing battle anyway; he’s running the fingers of one hand through Eames’ hair — so far the top of his head is about the only place he’s not mentioned hurting.

“You’re out of practice. You’ve spent the last eighteen months forging authenticity certs and gambling,” Arthur says.

Eames tenses, hissing in pain as a result.

“Cheers for that Arthur,” he grits out. “I know, all right? I know. I know this is unsustainable and I know in the long run it’s not doing me any good. I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s any less difficult. It just means it’s easier to beat myself up about it every time you bring it up.”

His voice sounds pained, a breathy quality to it where he’s breathing shallowly because of the bruised ribs.

“Beat yourself up? Why, was Lukas handing you your ass not enough for you?” Arthur asks.

“Sod off you know what I meant,” Eames says. He goes to cross his arms across his chest then appears to reconsider, wincing at the movement.

If Arthur didn’t already feel guilty then that would have gone a long way towards ensuring it. He can feel the tension in Eames shoulders where he’s resting against Arthur’s leg; if Eames wasn’t bruised and feeling sorry for himself it’s highly likely that he would have got up gone and into the other room, if nothing else.

“This isn’t about dreaming,” Arthur says. “This is about it being a year and a half since you did anything more strenuous than jerk off.”

Then he sighs, ashamed that probably sounds like he’s having a go at Eames again. He reaches over and squeezes Eames bicep.

“I’m sorry your ribs hurt,” he says. He tries not to jostle Eames too much, shifting so he’s curled towards Eames a bit better. “And your legs. And your back.”

He frowns.

“Actually, is there anything that doesn’t hurt?” he asks, brushing a thumb over the discoloured skin around Eames eye.

“Does the black eye make me look dashing?” Eames replies, squinting up at Arthur through the swelling.

“No. It makes you look like you got careless and left your face in the way of somebody’s fist,” Arthur says.

Eames snorts quietly, a small expulsion of breath that tickles the hairs on the back of Arthur’s wrist. His expression flickers when Arthur touches the graze over his temple.

“Shit, I’m probably hurting you doing that,” Arthur says, moving his hand away slightly.

“Yes,” Eames says softly. “But I don’t want you to stop.”

It pulls at something in Arthur’s chest, the thing he’s been ignoring for weeks in case he did something stupid, something like open his mouth and let all the things he’s been hoarding under his ribs spill out into the open.

Arthur can’t tell him how fucking furious he’d been when Eames stumbled back home covered in blood. He can’t tell him because it’s completely over the top. They’ve seen each other battered and bruised enough times by now that it should have been a familiar sight, and that was without even mentioning all the times he’s seen Eames crumple to the floor in a dream. But the lurch of dread in the pit of Arthur’s stomach at opening the door to find Eames slumped against the wall opposite keeps replaying in his mind, reminding him of all the shit that could go wrong.

Arthur can’t tell him how worried he was that somebody had done this.

He can’t tell him how terrified he is that there is some part of Eames that seeks this out.

He can’t tell him he thinks he’s in love.

“You didn’t answer the question,” Arthur says.

Eames gives him a blank look.

“I asked if there was anything that didn’t hurt.”

“I think my right ear is okay,” Eames says eventually.

Arthur leans over him, trying not to press against anything painful, and kisses the shell of Eames’ ear.

“What else?” he asks, talking softly against Eames’ earlobe.

“Tickles,” Eames says, shifting slightly at the words.

“What else?” Arthur repeats.

“Seems he managed to miss my nose,” Eames says, smiling slightly.

“He’s got shit aim then,” Arthur replies, then kisses the bridge of Eames nose, right where it wrinkles when he really laughs.

“My left bicep seems to have escaped unscathed,” Eames continues.

Eames is wearing a thick jumper, so it doesn’t really have the same effect, but Arthur leans down and kisses it anyway.

“What about here?” Arthur asks, touching a fingertip to Eames neck, in the hollow under his ear.

“See, there are conflicting truths at play now,” Eames says, plucking at Arthur’s sleeve slightly. “Because on the one hand I want you to kiss my neck, but the fact of it is I can’t turn my head without it hurting.”

“I didn’t think ‘does your neck hurt?’ could be turned into a philosophical question; clearly I’ve been underestimating you,” Arthur says.

“What can I say? I have a talent,” Eames replies.

“Yeah, a talent for playing devil’s advocate and being a shit stirrer.”

“Stop, you’ll make me blush,” Eames says, then moves his head from side to side slowly.

“On balance, I think it’s worse to the left,” Eames says.

“I’ll take the risk,” Arthur says, and presses his mouth to Eames’ neck, flicking the tip of his tongue against his skin.

He feels Eames fingers touch the underside of his jaw, thumb pressing into his chin.

“Actually, now that I consider it,” Eames says softly, looking at Arthur’s mouth as he talks quietly, “It seems apart from the wallop he gave me to the side of the head, he kept his ministrations strictly below the neck.”

“How considerate of him,” Arthur says, entirely unable to do anything about the silly grin that has plastered itself across his face.

“Oi, where’s my kiss,” Eames says, then puckers his lips and makes exaggerated kissy noises.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Arthur, feigning ignorance.

“Arthur you pillock, just kiss me.”

“I’m assuming that’s an insult and not an architectural term,” Arthur says.

“Stop being obtuse,” Eames says.

“Oh wow, more insults, what happened to asking nicely?”

“That went out of the window when you reneged on the promise of kisses,” Eames says.

“You’re ridiculous,” Arthur says, then leans over and kisses him properly, or at least as well as he can considering the angle he’s at.

Eames tongue is a soft pressure against his bottom lip, a tiny sound catching in his throat as he breathes into it. His fingers twist in the front of Arthur’s shirt, holding him close.

“I’m sorry,” Eames says. “And thank you. I’ll… get there. Don’t push me, because I’ll push back. But—” He swallows. “It helps to know you’ve got my back.”

“We’ve got each other’s,” Arthur says.

Eames smiles at him.

“I’ve thought of somewhere else that doesn’t hurt,” Eames says.

“Where?”

His smile turns lecherous.

“Oh come on now Arthur, use your imagination,” Eames says, then points to his crotch.

“I should have seen that coming,” says Arthur.

“Well, if you play your cards right I can probably muster something up,” Eames says.

“Oh god, that’s terrible, shut up,” Arthur replies.

“It was worth a shot,” Eames says.

They’re grinning at each other, and it feels like relief. Relief that Eames is okay; relief that he’s there; relief that they’re okay.

Relief that they’re still laughing.

“You’ll have to move slightly,” Arthur says, pushing gently at Eames shoulders. “I’ll get a crick in my neck if we do that like this.

“I can always kiss it better,” Eames says.

Arthur might not be able to tell him, at least not out loud, but maybe he's given up on trying to pretend he’s not in love.

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