Archive of Our Own

You take a deep breath. It’s dark around you, besides the dim street light coming from the window to your left. It’s enough to see the outlines and general shapes and objects. It’s enough for now. Perfect, even. You ignored the light switch on purpose. It’s more convenient that way, especially since you don’t want to draw any attention to your presence.

You’re standing in front of a beautiful dark brown oak door, that seems solid and you don’t doubt it is. You’re alone and hopefully it will stay that way, but you can’t be sure since the situation is vivid and everything can change in a matter of seconds. Someone could be walking down the stairs with his dog or going back from a late dinner. The possibility is thrilling and only adds to the excitement that’s buzzing through your whole body.

You take a look around you, squinting your eyes a little to subdue the darkness. You’re in a very nice red brick apartment building in a very nice and quiet neighbourhood in Chicago suburbs. It’s so predictable that you actually snort under your nose at the thought.

To the right there are: a stairway and the door to the lift. Behind you - a bare brick wall and closer to window, to your left, door to another apartment. You suspect that you could be visible to someone who would peek through the peep-hole, but the chances are low, though you dressed yourself in black clothes – black cargo pants with lots of helpful pockets, black sneakers, black long sleeve t-shirt that’s stretching along your chest, clinging to your traps and biceps and fitted black sleeveless hoodie – so really, the darkness and shadows are your allies. You take a moment to mentally hi-five yourself and smile, ‘Real man on a mission’. Oh, speaking of which…

There is a small table, not to high, right beside the door you’re so interested in. The beautiful and solid oak door. On top of that table there is a vase, with some kind of flowers in it, probably fake ones, but you’re not sure nor you want to be. No idea about the kind of the flowers either. You take that vase and you put it down on the floor besides the table’s legs, just so it wouldn’t be in the way. You don’t want to knock it off by accident and make unnecessary noise now, do you? Foresight, you see.

You stand in front of this door again, raise your arm and knock. You’re fairly sure there is no one there, because you made sure to get to know the schedule of the person who lives here. You know the place should be vacant for about two more hours, but you can’t be hundred percent certain and besides, certainty is cockiness and cockiness means sloppiness, and the last thing you want is to be sloppy. Doubt, on the other hand, stimulates imagination and imagination is your best asset, something you pride yourself of having.

You saw from the street below that the lights are out, but that means nothing, so you knock, and actually panic a little. You realize that you haven’t thought about every possibility. What if something came up and this person changed the schedule and is now sleeping, as the lack of lights could indicate? Or what if this person doesn’t live alone like you assumed? There could be a boyfriend or girlfriend living there or someone visiting, a parent or some relative. Fuck, even a housekeeper. It’s possible. Not always every detail comes up in a preliminary research (‘Especially since research is not, in fact, your asset,’ your mind kindly reminds you). You suck the air through your teeth, knock again, then you wait.

No sound neither from the apartment nor in the hallway - good sign. ‘At least there is no dog waiting to eat me,’ you think to yourself and smile. Of course you didn’t bother to find out about any possible dangers, such as animals ready to defend the household and its master, of course. Well, still silence so it’s your lucky night. The place is vacant, just like it supposed to be, so you can now proceed to next step in your plan.

Just when you were reaching into your front left pocket, where you’ve hidden your handy tool set, you feel someone’s eyes on you. You try not to let it show that you’re startled, so you’re turning slowly towards the stairway and you see an older woman in an elegant dark green coat and curly, still mostly black hair, standing there and gazing at you curiously.

Before you can even react the lady makes this face at you, like she was trying to say ‘No luck tonight,huh?’ It’s still mostly dark, but some light filtering from the stairway’s bulbs allows you to notice. It’s disturbing and warming, but mostly disturbing, to talk with some stranger not using any words and still being able to communicate so well. You just give her a sad smile and soft eyes and she seems to understand. She sadly smiles back, albeit sympathetic, and turns to walk down the stairs.

‘Shit shit shit shit,’ you mutter to yourself. How could you not hear her coming if here is so silent? Anyway, that was close. You shake your head and resume your actions. It takes you 48 seconds to break into this apartment and you can’t help but feel smug about it. It’s a little longer than usual, but the locks were doubled and they were not the standard ones what meant more fun for you.

You grab the door handle and push the door open smoothly and silently, where you’re welcomed by enveloping darkness. You take a tentative step forward and finally enter, closing the door behind you. That’s it. You’re inside. You’re so excited that you could jump up and down at this point, but you don’t, for now.

There are chills running through your body, that’s buzzing with anticipation - you thought about this moment for a long time. You check your watch – 10:49 pm. – so you have an hour and twenty-one minutes to yourself in this apartment and oh, you’re going to enjoy every minute of it.

You’re not familiar with the layout of this place, but it wont deter you from exploring. Your skin itches for it already. You move slowly and cautiously, minding not to break or knock off anything.

You wish you could switch the light on to discover and absorb every detail with your hungry eyes, but that’s out of question. You can’t afford to compromise your presence, so instead you reach into your right knee pocket and retrieve a small flashlight, it’ll do.

You try to take your steps soundlessly, barely touching the hard wood floors with the soles of your shoes. When you round the corner of the hall and step into the kitchen, you feel that something bumped into your legs and you jump, a little surprised.

Your heart beats faster and you feel the light sheen of sweat covering your forehead already. You’re pointing your flashlight down in search of the source and suddenly, a set of bright, fluorescent tiny circles flashback at you. You gasp, appalled, and clutch the kitchen counter for balance.

After a second and a muffled ‘meow’ you exhale loudly, relieved, and squat down to pet this scary monster dressed as a fluffy cat. ‘Hey mate, you scared the bloody shit out of me,’ you whisper to said cat and lift him up into your arms. Its fur is long and soft under your fingers. It reminds you of your favorite afghan you’ve got as a child from your grandmother.

You smile at that memory and touch your lips to the cat’s head. It smells nice, like a candy. You wonder how long it’s been since the cat was treated with a bath, if it’s into baths, which would be quite unusual for a cat, but nature has many secrets not fully known to human, you decide. Maybe its owner is into baths, so the cat has nothing to say on that matter.

‘You don’t seem unhappy though,’ you smile at the cat after short examination. You set it free on the floor again and it immediately rubs its head against your calfs. You look at it fondly once again and touch your finger to your lips as in a command for it to stay quiet and let you to continue.

Huh, who would have thought that the person living here is into cats. Amusing. You happily soak this new knowledge that gives you a new angle, a new perspective to see this person. You can already feel the greediness uncoiling under your skin. You’re even more thrilled now at the prospect of unraveling more secrets. You crave them.

You step fully into the kitchen. The floor is tiled and the cabinets are somehow light in color, but you wouldn’t dare to name it: if they’re white or creamy or beige or light lemon. In the light the flashlight provides you, you can’t tell much about colors. Anyway, the kitchen seems neat. There are not too many things left out on counters or in the sink.

Silver and very shiny coffee machine catches your eye. Professional equipment, probably very expensive. Coffee enthusiast then. You rummage through some cabinets and drawers, but nothing interesting is there, nothing out of ordinary. You can’t find any tea though, so – coffee enthusiast indeed. You manage to find a glass, which you fill up with tap water and down it in three gulps, leaving it after in the sink.

You open the fridge and poke about its contents. Uuuu, grapes. You’re stealing some and eat. Sweet and juicy. You grin with your mouth full and stuffed cheeks. You probably look very stupid right now, but who cares? At least you don’t.

When kitchen becomes boring you carefully move around the kitchen island, arranged as a bar counter (with bar stools and everything) to – what you assume must be – living room. Big, spacious room with big flat TV screen in front of a large black leather sofa, that looks comfortable. You collapse yourself onto it and stretch your legs out on the small glass coffee table. You sigh audibly and pat the buttery soft and smooth leather with your palms.

You take a look around you, flashing light on surrounding walls and a few furniture. Besides the sofa and the coffee table, there are shelves installed around the TV with books and probably DVDs. There are vinyls under the TV, that hopefully, during your next visit, you’ll be able to examine more closely, as a music mole that you are. There are no paintings on the walls or any pictures, framed or otherwise and that’s interesting.

As much as you would like to stay on the sofa and kip, you drag yourself towards the hallway and peek into first room you encounter. Uuuu. The bathroom! You clap your hands together in delight and enter eagerly. It’s safe to switch the lights on this time, so you do it.

The warm white light fills the room and your eyes start to mark every available surface. Your fingertips trace the patterns on the shower stall glass and you feel ecstatic. Little bundles of electricity travel up and down your spine as everything in you is just buzzing like you had swallowed whole beehive.

For a fleeting moment you consider the option of taking a shower and your cock seems to agree with you, if its twitching is any sign. Eventually you dismiss that thought due to the lack of time you have left, and you try very hard not to pout about it for too long.

You turn around and look at the sink with just a toothbrush laying on the side. Above the sink there’s a medicine cabinet that you open. Bandages, painkillers, some gauze, hydrogen peroxide, boring, boring, boring, tooth paste, bottle of lube (another chill down your spine – weird, isn’t it?), razor blade, boring. You sigh and close the cabinet.

You catch your reflection in the mirror - cheeks slightly pink, eyes unfocused. You’re too afraid (or maybe too uncomfortable) to try and give the proper adjective to how you look right now, how your face looks. ‘Pervert stalker,’ you grunt under your nose and stride off of the bathroom, remembering to turn off the light.

You enter the room next door and bingo - bedroom. You switch on your flashlight again, because the room has a window and you wouldn’t want to risk anyone’s attention with the lights turned on. You immediately step inside and stand in front of the king sized bed, that’s surprisingly unmade. It has clear signs that someone was in it not that long time ago: covers are pushed to the left side and pillow has a head-shaped crease.

It’s the most personal space in the apartment, the essence of the person living here. Your stomach fills with butterflies caressing your insides with theirs feathery soft wings. This shouldn’t make you feel this way, but somehow it does.

To the left there is a wooden chest of drawers with single small black comb laying on top of it. You come closer and pull open the first drawer – clean sheets, second – clean towels, third – blankets.

On the way to the walk in closet, you trip over something. ‘Shit,’ you breathe and flash the light on it. It’s an opened suitcase, half packed. You crouch down for it and move it onto the bed. You put the flashlight in your mouth and with two free hands rummage through the contents of the suitcase.

There are folded shirts and ties and underwear, three pairs of slacks and one pair of jeans, t-shirts, towel and a sponge bag that you open and glance through it. It contains a bottle of shampoo, shaving kit, some lotion, soap and a little jar with hair pomade that makes you smirk when you poke it. After you’re done you put everything back in its place and collapse onto the bed with a heavy sigh.

So he’s leaving to somewhere, again, and you’re sure that he hasn’t just came back, because you was watching him for the last four days that are enough time to unpack. If you would hesitate one day longer, it could be too late. How you, of all people, considering how unfortunate your life in general is, are that much lucky, you wonder.

In fact, you’re about to find out if you’re a lucky man, or just delusional. It’s risky what you’re doing right now, what you decided to do. You like to think of yourself as a risk-taker, but honestly though, you probably shouldn’t, as the last two years best indicate. You don’t think that you’re either a good person, or reliable one and some people even question your sanity.

You collapse dejectedly onto the bed with your feet still touching the floor and arms stretched out above your head and it’s so, so comfortable, that you go boneless. It’s a million times better than sleeping in a car seat for four bloody days. The sheets are plain white, nothing fancy, but they’re soft and feel luxurious. You’re grinning so wide thinking that’s probably egyptian cotton, preferably hand-woven. Apparently, some things don’t change.

You’re laying there, on his bed, thinking that there is no single thing that is yours in this apartment, no sign of your existence, no you in his life anymore. You don’t blame him, per se, considering how things worked out at the end. Nevertheless, it hurts. You groan pitifully and turn sideways, feelings of regret and self-pity are twisting your face in an ugly grimace and these thoughts give your mouth a bitter taste.

You’re idly tracing patterns on the cover and inhale deeply, desperate to smell him once more, after so long time, but you can only sense the light and spine-tingling aroma of early spring Alpine meadow and it makes the corners of your mouth turn down. That’s disappointing, to the point that your stomach drops, and at the pit of it, you can feel the burning sensation that’s spreading out and steadily consuming you from the inside.

After a moment of stillness your eyelids start to drop, but you can’t afford to fall asleep here, no matter how tempting this might be. Against your instincts you pry yourself to your feet and go to the walk in closet.

You switch the light on and immediately relax at the sight of even rows full of hanging suit jackets and neatly folded suit trousers, dress shoes aligned impeccably in a row just under it. You smile fondly and delightfully while taking this all in.

You step further in and brush your fingertips on fine fabrics, the smoothness of silk ties displayed on shelves. You notice the cufflinks that glimmer in a bowls, t-shirts, jeans and khakis packet into the drawers. You wonder casually if your favorite trousers of his, that clung to his bubble shaped arse just right, are somewhere here. You feel light headed and slightly dazed at the memory.

Eventually you relocate yourself to the living room, onto that invitingly comfy leather sofa, helping yourself with a bag of organic tomato monosodium glutamate-free chips (that taste horridly, by the way).

You’re half way through the atrocious, sour-wooden delicacy when you hear the footsteps approaching in the hallway. You immediately sit straight, tossing the bag carelessly to the side and bolt behind the heavy, dark window curtains. Then you just wait and strain your ears to hear everything.

---

Arthur steps out of the elevator with a heavy sigh and visible fatigue. He lives only on a second floor, but tonight he’s too tired to even consider taking the stairs. Don’t judge him, really. He’s just an overworked, haunted man, that at this rate will take every help he can.

He’s clutching his messenger bag and a bag of take-out from this thai place he likes so much. Slight headache already threatening at the back of his head and he still has to finish his packing tonight. Shuffling his feet forward he reaches his door and enters. The keys rattle, thrown into the small bowl near the hanger, the light switcher clicks being turned on, warm light washes the place.

Arthur goes straight to the kitchen, welcomed by Bandit, happily purring at his feet. He smiles at him and makes mental note to feed him after he settles as well as to let Ariadne know that her cat is doing great and doesn’t even miss her.

He throws his food onto the counter and frowns, spotting the empty glass in the sink. He can’t recall leaving it there, but he shrugs and puts it away, in its place.

He swings his messenger bag onto his sofa and stops dead in his trucks when it gives a sound of crushed foil. His eyes widen when the realisation strikes - someone’s in his house. So the glass… Arthur smacks his forehead, snarling angrily, ‘Jesus Christ!’ He pulls out his gun from the cache hidden in the couch’s arm and ducks behind it, crouching down.

‘Damn it,’ he mutters to himself. He already turned the lights on and made a noise, both with his bag and with his indiscreet entering (how the hell was he supposed to know?!). No time to fret though. Whoever was here, or worse, still is here, already knows Arthur knows; position’s compromised.

He’s about to crawl towards his bedroom, having fleeing through a window on his mind (since he doesn’t know who or how many of ‘whos’ are in his house, are they armed, with what and what exactly are they after?) when he hears a shuffling somewhere near the windows.

He’s laying flat on his stomach on the floor and turns his gaze towards the noise. Then he sees it - behind the curtain, someone’s standing there. If he squints enough, he can distinguish dark soles of shoes peeking from under the curtain’s fabric. Is this happening?

He would think he’s dreaming if not the fact that he remembers where he is, how he’s got here and what was he doing before. Still, the level of amateurism and ineptitude is crushing and beyond any notion. Where are the professionalists? Arthur had hoped that if someone would decide to eliminate him he would send the most skilled and experienced assassin, not some pitiful first grader.

It still didn’t mean that there weren’t more attackers, or that this peculiar one wasn’t dangerous (‘On his own obtuse way’ Arthur’s mind supplied) and armed with grenades, for crying out loud. Arthur’s not the one to ignore the danger, so that’s why he’s rolling himself on the floor to the nearest corner and swiftly stands up, back to the wall.

He puts the gun barrel to the stranger’s head (or well, where he presumes his head should be, given the obstruction) and says low, but firmly “Move and I shoot”.

The figure behind the curtain raises his hands rapidly in - what Arthur again presumes - gesture of surrender and freezes.

“How many of you are here?” Arthur growls and reaches slowly to grab the curtain in an attempt to pull it off of this man.

“It’s just me, darling,” the man says, voice like he had swallowed the whole box of nails and it makes Arthur shiver.

He snorts, visibly deflating and moves the curtain away with one swift and graceful movement of his arm. Then Arthur sees him, plain on sight, final confirmation. It’s Eames, standing there like that’s a natural occurrence, fucker.

Arthur flares, suddenly bursting with anger, nostrils flaring. “What the FUCK do you think you’re doing, Eames? You fucker!” he nothing but shouts.

“Ah, missed me then?” Eames smirks and the blatant smugness in the tone of his voice is repugnant; fuelling Arthur’s anger.

“Yeah, like fuck I did,” Arthur deadpans back, gaining a visible wince from Eames; like he could fool  Arthur again that he cares. He puts a safety on his gun and discards it, for now, onto kitchen’s island.

Resigned and already feeling more tired, the weight of the world sitting on his shoulders once again, Arthur turns towards Eames and asks, “What do you want Eames? Don’t tell me you don’t want anything, because you wouldn’t give yourself the trouble to find me if you didn’t want something. Why are you stalking me? I asked you the last time to not to do it again. I don’t want to have anything to do with you anymore.” He casts him hurt look and gestures expectantly.

Eames expression is pleading and so vulnerable that it is very hard for Arthur to look him in the eyes. It gets him anxious, and despite his reason his stomach clenches hard at the sight. Why is he still so naive and stupid, if he should be long done with hope and any expectations regarding Eames, that proved so many times not being reliable at all? He was nothing more than a source of disappointment and heartache for Arthur.  

“I wanted to see you darling,” Eames whispers hesitantly and is now looking at his shoes, fiddling with his fingers.

Arthur feels his throat constricting and palms balling into fists at his sides. “Quit the bullshit, will you?” he snarls.

“You haven’t visited me, didn’t answer any of my calls or messages, haven’t replied to any of my letters or postcards and -”

“And yet it didn’t deter you or gave you any clue as to why,” Arthur can’t help to interject viciously.

“ - and I just wanted to tell you my part of the story, my truth, to explain,” Eames continues determinedly. “Even the worst of prisoners are given the chance to defend themselves and state their facts.”

And again, the flicker of hurt runs through Eames’ face and disappears the next second, but Arthur notices anyways. It’s making him feel more sad, but also a little satisfied. ‘Suits you right after what you’ve put me through,’ he thinks to himself.

Eames continues with hushed voice, casting hesitant glances at Arthur, afraid to look straight at him for longer than a second perhaps. “I know you didn’t want to see me, Arthur, but I really had to give myself the last opportunity.”

“I messed up,” Eames sighs, “I messed up and I needed to clean my own mess eventually. I never wanted you or anyone else to be dragged into that mess. Or for you to clean it up for me -” he raises his finger in warning, “- and don’t try to deny darling, I know that’s what you would do, but I couldn’t allow it. Not this time,” he adds, seeing Arthur ready to open his mouth, eagerly to interject again.

“But I guess I messed it up even more because of it,” says Eames, resigned. “I’m not that good at cleaning and securing the corners like you are,” he chuckles looking at Arthur with familiar affection. “I already made you so much trouble, I didn’t want to add more.” After a heartbeat, “It snowballed very quickly from then and before I knew, the mess grew to the point I couldn’t handle it. I panicked.”

The sincerity in Eames’ voice and eyes strings something powerful inside of Arthur. He can feel it in the tips of his fingers - the pang of want, the want to reach out and touch Eames, to hold him, perhaps, and never let go, though he tries very hard to dismiss it. He crosses his arms and sends Eames - what he thinks - his best look of disbelief.

Eames scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. “I made sure you would know I didn’t die in this accident. You must have know I did it as a preservation. I needed people to think I was dead. This rubbish about me surviving and being holed up in some private medical government facility or this about me being imprisoned for my forgeries - which are too good to be ever recognized as such, mind you, -” he snorts, “This? Nothing more than rumours, you knew that.”

“It was never about this, Eames.”

“I know, love. The truth is, I’ve made some poor choices, that led to another poor choices, that led to another and another until I lost the sense of reality. I’m sorry that I cut you off, pet. It was the only thing I knew how to do. I didn’t want to drag you down to the bottom with me. And you… you told me many times, many times you warned me, you looked after me, took care of me, took so great care of me and I didn’t listen, I thought I knew better, that I could handle it without you witnessing how pathetic and useless arsehole I am. I’m so sorry,” Eames is babbling, accent thickened and world tumbling out of his mouth in a rush.

“You acknowledging your mistakes don’t change anything, Eames. I wasn’t waiting for your apology, because it doesn’t mean anything to me anymore. I heard it so many times coming out of your mouth that it doesn’t do a shit for me now. This whole ‘mess’, like you named it, only proved that we’re not good with each other. Don’t you see it?”

Eames tries to reach with his arm for Arthur, but he moves out of his grasp. “Arthur, please -”

“No Eames. I’m sorry. I was willing to help you. I really tried to help you, because I was committed. I was ready to go through all of this with you, but the hell you’ve put me through because of it? It was too much and I’m still angry at you. Every time I close my eyes I see you pleading and crying and telling me you’ll get better, that this was the last time, that you wont touch the booze or cards ever again, that you’re so sorry…” his voice brakes then, too overwhelmed by the burst of old feelings, once buried deep down inside of him. He can’t look at Eames, doesn’t meet his eyes, trying to blink away the tears. “I put all my trust in you, I gave you every piece of me and I warned you when we started being together - remember? - that if you ever fuck me over, betray my trust and hurt me, we’re done.”

After saying this, Arthur moves towards his bedroom, stopping for a moment just to toss with resigned, quivering voice “You know the way, walk yourself out” over his shoulder.

___

Eames stood there, in Arthur’s new house, that he had to find for himself once more, when Eames couldn’t have stopped to stalk him whenever he went, pleading to please listen to him. He watched Arthur’s retreating back. His words made Eames even more embarrassed of himself. If he could, he would let the Earth swallow him. How many times, during his rehab and then his therapy sessions, he dreaded for this moment, but never suspected how hard it would be. Maybe he shouldn’t have been coming here at all, leave Arthur in peace and let him make his live anew instead. For once to not be so bloody selfish.

___

How to tell someone you love so much ‘forgive me’ not using actual words, since you were abusing them carelessly in the past? How to fix unfixable? How to let go something you can not live without? How to cut the Gordian knot? How to dig yourself out from under the pile of so much emotions, misunderstandings, failures and regret? Is there a way to walk through this and towards the light? The solution? To forgiveness.

You’re standing there, rooted to the spot, while all thoughts in the whole universe are running around in your head. It feels like you were standing here for an hour, but in fact it was a minute tops.

Arthur seemed so haunted and bitten down, that it makes you want to heave. ‘You’re making him feel this way. You’re making him miserable,’ your mind kindly offers to you.

Your whole insides quiver and you notice your hands are trembling. You still yourself with a few deep breaths and decide to follow Arthur.

You stop in the doorway of his bedroom, reluctant to go further for now. You see him  standing there, beside the bed, his back to you, and he’s shaking (‘crying’ - your mind supplies), his whole frame rocking from the force of his sobs, but you can only hear sniffling.

Your chest tightens painfully and your own eyes start to water, because even though you knew Arthur’s upset and that it’s not easy for him either, seeing your darling Arthur in this state, because of you, hits you in the guts.

“Arthur,” you whisper and rush to him, but minding not to startle him. You put your hand on his shoulder and squeeze tentatively. Just this brief and innocent contact burns the skin of your palm. It’s been two long, agonizing years since you were able to touch him and force of longing nearly knocks you out of your feet.

Arthur doesn’t stop, if so, he sobs more intently, and you are on the verge of falling behind him yourself. He’s tightly grasping his sides with his arms, but you turn him around so he’s facing you and you hug him. You hug him like your life depends on it, and it sort of does. You wanted to do so for a very long time.

You’re moving your hands up and down on Arthur’s sides while his forehead is resting on your shoulder. You pet his hair, gently shushing and murmuring nonsense and kissing his head, his temple. You cling to him, giving the only comfort you can think of in this moment, until he calms down gradually.

You feel his arms loosening up around himself and he’s turning his face just so, that you feel his breath on your neck. It burns, oh how it burns, every point of contact sending electric waves down your spine.

You close your eyes and allow yourself to breathe him in, inhale his scent you always loved so much. It’s exactly the same as you remember - familiar, delicate sweet undertones mingling with something heavier, more woody and earthy. It’s so Arthur, that you must bite hard the insides of your cheek to not moan at the top of your lungs.

You hold him tighter, your hands sliding down to envelop his waist. You bury your face in his neck and greedily steal deep breaths filled with his scent and it’s like coming back home. You’re going to wet his shirt, because you’re not able to hold back tears anymore.

You two stay here like that for a moment or for an hour, or for eternity, if it would be up to you. Your stomach grows warm when you feel him sliding his hands off himself and circling them around your neck, pressing his body into you like he wants them to become one and, well, at least you do.

“God, Arthur,” you breathe, moan or shriek, for all you care. It’s not important when he’s holding you like that and you hold him back just as much, all tension dissolving from your body as if by magic. “I’ve missed you so much, Arthur, so much.”

And the moment falls. Arthur breaks the embrace, steps back and looks at you with his dark brown eyes, red rimmed and puffy from crying, but beautiful nevertheless. His gaze is searching, assessing and you look right back at him, no hesitation. You hope he can notice your honesty, that at this moment, you’re holding your heart on your sleeve for him.

You can’t help yourself, so you cup his cheeks in your palms, thumbs stroking affectionately, sweeping the tears away. Your heart pounds in your chest as if trying to claw its way out. You fidget self-consciously under the scrutiny.

Then something changes. There’s a series of emotions running through Arthur’s face and you could swear that there is a relieve now on the display, even though his lips are pressed in thin line and brows knotted in a frown (and oh, how adorable frown this is).

In a matter of seconds Arthur is devouring your lips. You’re surprised and don’t respond immediately, but feeling his tongue prodding on your teeth strikes you to action. You open your mouth for him and suck in Arthur’s tongue and suckle hard, feeling the sharp pang of arousal welling up at the bottom of your stomach.

You bite his lower lip and pull until it makes delicious wet plop sound when you release it. You don’t waste any second and devour his mouth with yours in return, until Arthur moans into the kiss and goes boneless. You’ve got him, all of him in your arms and hold him tightly, pressing into him with your front.

“I’ve missed you darling,” you repeat to him, moaning between kisses. You stop only to take a breath, panting into each other mouths. Arthur licks his lips and you know it only because your mouths are so close, that you can feel the moisture of his tongue on your lips too, and fuck if that’s not hot.

Arthur shrugs his shoulders, just like he would silently telling himself ‘ok, what the fuck’ and suddenly his hands are all over you. You feel him touching your shoulders, sliding his palms to your hips and squeezing there, then up again to the back of your neck, down to the small of your back, and lower, lower to grab your arse and guiding your hips as he pleases.

You groan when you feel his erection rubbing at your thigh and hip in circles, but you’re not far behind, hoping he can feel yours as well. You’re light headed, so much so that your vision blurs and world starts to spin around. You stumble a few times, but he’s got you now for a change, firm in his arms.

He grabs the hair at the back of your head and pulls at them hard. He’s lapping with his tongue over your exposed throat, scraping it with his teeth. You push your hips onto his and groan and moan and sigh, unable to do anything more with your incoherent mind, because you want. No, you crave.

“Darling… oh Arthur…” you slur, “oh fuck, it’s been so long... since I… you… oh god.”

“Oh yeah? Tell me about it,” Arthur spits sarcastically. His voice is so deliciously ruined, that it send another spike of want to your groin. You’re rock hard and starting to feel dizzy from the blood deprivation in your brain. You might as well come here and now, like a bloody teenager.

You reach for Arthur, trying to tug his shirt out of the waistband of his trousers, to feel more skin, you need to feel more skin, but he smack you in it and steps back. He’s panting, lips kiss swollen, hair slightly mussed. He’s beautiful.

Your cock throbs once, twice and it must have caught Arthur’s eye, because he’s looking at your groin with hunger. You sob when you see him licking his lips, still eyeing your bulge. You slide your palm to your crotch and rub with open palm, slowly up and down the hardness.

He’s watching, focused, but then he’s stilling your hand with his and squeezes, curling his fingers. He closes the distance and growls into your mouth, “Shut up, fucker,” so fast that you don’t even have time to retort ‘Oi, well mannered like always,’ before he pushes you onto the bed with his hands flat on your chest. You collapse with muffled ‘ouf’ when all the air is pushed out of your lungs.

He’s standing in front of you, nudging your knees open with his leg, so when you do, he stands between your splayed thighs and looks you up and down, panting and with parted lips, but otherwise his face is emotionless.

He does a show of taking off his waistcoat, slowly unbuttoning and sliding it off of his shoulders. Your eyes are on him, tracing graceful movements of his long, slim fingers and you don’t care that your neck hurts from this position, and that you’ll probably going to suffer from cramps in a few hours. You wouldn’t care even if you’ll have to fold your back into a fucking bow, to be honest.

Arthur slides his magnificent fingers up his chest to loosen his tie. The silk is rustling seductively, sending sparks of lust to the pit of your stomach. You’re watching him with hooded eyes and parted lips as he’s tossing the tie to-who-cares-where.

He meets your eyes now and then, sending you brief, heated looks and every time he does so, it’s like someone is stabbing you - hot sharp feeling piercing your guts. You grab the sheets in your palms so you wouldn’t try to reach for him, paw at him, tore his shirt off, because he clearly doesn’t want you to. He might not tell you to submit, but you’re not stupid to ruin the moment by fruitless attempts to change the leadership here.

You watch him ,transfixed, as he’s unbuttoning his shirt, just the few top buttons, bloody tease, and oh how you want to see his bare shoulders, your favorite spot between his collarbones, round pert nipples. You’re staring, there is no other word to describe it - you’re hungrily staring at his exposed skin, so intently, that you barely notice that he’s tapping your tight with his hand.

“Take these off,” he requires. You register with enormous pleasure that Arthur’s voice dropped a few tones down. ‘His sex voice,’ you think and smirk. You’re disposing of your trousers with record speed, Arthur takes care of them the rest of the way from your knees. He doesn’t smack your hands when you slide off your boxers.

The chilled air feels nice on your overheated skin, very nice, almost like a relief. You see Arthur’s watching you, wandering with his gaze over your half naked body and it should be uncomfortable, but it’s not. You preen under the weight of his attention, especially when his eyes linger on your cock, flushed, very, very hard, jutting proudly, resting on your belly in the pool of precome leaking out of its dark red head.

You stretch your back deliberately, presenting yourself, slightly lifting up your hips off the bed, inviting. Your mind cuts off when you see Arthur licking his lips, still roaming with his eyes over your naked crotch, between your spread legs, eliciting loud and obscene moan from your mouth. It’s almost unregistered by your poor tormented brain, but it happens again, when Arthur licks his lips a second time.

“Slut,” he murmurs in awe, breathless and it sounds like he’s sharing a very intimate secret with you right now. Fuck if it doesn’t do shit for you. It’s okay, it’s good. If someone would be allowed to call you like that, it would only be Arthur. It is only Arthur.

You want him to call you that, because when he does it, it sounds like a tender caress, like a praise. You push your hips up, up, up in a circular motion, bending your back so only your shoulder blades and head touch the bed covers, moaning and groaning with every movement. Everything, anything to get into this sinful mouth of his, Jesus Christ.

You’re long past caring how desperate you must look. This man here, Arthur, had seen you at your best and at your lowest, so no point to fake anything. You’ll give him everything. He does that, well, did that, very often - reducing you to nothing more than a puddle of nerves, denuding you to pure lust and primal instincts and he’s doing it right now.

Arthur touches you then and it sends electric shocks under your skin. He touches your thighs with his magnificent skilled hands, fingers splayed widely, and moves them up, oh God, up and past your groin, and still up, stopping for a second at your hips, where he squeezes, hard, eyes on your body, and goes still up, hands slide over your sides.

You squirm under his hands, your head snaps back and you bow your back even more, ”Arthur, Arthur,” you chant, voice like not yours, raspy and harsh. He’s towering over you and you can feel his breath on your stomach, quick puffs of hot air. You moan like an eager bitch in the heat, too turned on to think straight anymore.

“Such a pretty slut,” Arthur whispers so close to your skin, that in addition to hearing it in his low, private tone of voice, you can feel this words being spoken, lips brushing skin. It makes you whine, it makes your brain set on fire, and just like that, you crossed another boundary - you tossed away any self-preservation you had left.

He grabbed your hoodie and is pushing it open, off your shoulders, but not off entirely. He bends and does something with his mouth, his teeth maybe, to the hem of your black t-shirt, but you can’t see properly from this angle, even if you could, your vision is too dazed to notice any details at this point. You hear a loud ripping sound, and in two seconds, your t-shirt is left in shreds at your both sides, chest exposed, bare.

“Fuuuuck!” you whimper and that’s it, you’re going to die here, in Arthur’s bed. Cause of death: turned on beyond human reason. What a glorious way to die. Your skin burns, you cock is spurting more and more fluid and you start to lose touch with reality.

Arthur must have sensed the state you’re in, because he placed his palm in the centre of your chest and pushed, pining you to bed. You fall, helpless, desperately stealing gulps of air. You can’t see clear and you can’t hear right. Every touch and action reaches you with delay. It reminds you of floating underwater.

After a while, you slowly come up. He’s holding your cheek in his palm. It’s oddly affectionate, intimate and helpful at the same time, grounding. Trust Arthur with finding ways to bring you home safe.

Just when you were starting to go back to awareness you almost pass out again when you feel his slicked, long and gorgeous, fingers prodding at your entrance. You didn’t even registered him reaching for supplies, sneaky bastard. You try to sit up or at least look between your legs, but Arthur still has his palm on your chest and is pushing you intently down, so you do so and try to relax.

You’re surprised, although not unpleasantly, that he wants to fuck you, given the circumstances, you initially thought he would ride you wringing his pleasure out of you.

It’s been two years since you bottomed and, in fact, you did this only with Arthur and haven’t since you parted. No one before made you want to give yourself entirely to him. Maybe it was a trust issue. You definitely have a problem with reasoning at this moment.

You haven’t been with anyone during these two years and didn’t even considered it. You don’t know about Arthur, but you actually hope he had someone to keep him company, to satisfy his needs and take the edge of loneliness off. You wouldn’t mind that much, it’s not that you have any real claim on Arthur, especially not after what you’ve put him through. You only wish you could be the one to keep him company now, if he wishes, if only.

So you don’t say anything, don’t ask questions, don’t offer any objections, just laying down and enjoying. Arthur’s fingers are magnificent, you both know what you think about them and how you love when he fingers you, indulging your fixation. You have a huge kink if it comes to his hands.

It’s nothing but warm pleasure now, when he’s moving skilfully his fingers, two at the moment. It burns a little and feels slightly odd, but not uncomfortable and you’re sure that in a minute the feeling will go away and you’ll adjust. His fingers sink in you, gentle, but adamant, in an even rhythm, then pushing and scissoring, massaging and stretching your greedy hole.

You melt into bed, pleasure building, tension from muscles uncoiling and you start to pant when he’s increasing tempo. He adds more lube and pushes third finger in, at what your hips are waking to life again, pushing down onto his fingers, circling. You let soft pants and pleading noises to escape from your lips.

The picture is extremely hot: his hand on your sternum, pushing down when needed or just simply adding pressure, his other hand slick and glinting, disappearing between your thighs, his hair long since fallen out of pomade, falling almost into his eyes, his face focused, frowning adorably at the task, eyes all black, lips swollen and parted, shirt still on, unbuttoned just so, tucked out of his trousers - which are still on, damn it, impressive bulge stands out like a cherry on top of a delicious cake.

He’s kneeling on bed, between your legs, in fact, his own legs are parted too, pushing your thighs open, obscenely so. The way his thighs muscles tense under his trousers - bloody sinful. Your hands itch to reach for them, wrap your fingers around them, to feel how tight they are, but you don’t.

Your cock rests on your stomach, neglected, spurting more and more precome that, once pooled in your belly button, dribbles to the sheets. You feel filthy and wet. You feel wonderful.

He didn’t touch you, not much, not once your cock, just like he doesn’t care, but you know he does, even if he pretends otherwise. You know him and you know this game, know Arthur needs it this way, needs to deal with his coping in his own way. It’s ‘hate’ sex and it’s okay. Your guilt ridden soul would give him everything, anything he wants, you’d let him use you even, if he desires. You take what you can get in return, whatever he’ll give you.

You start losing yourself in pleasure coming from Arthur’s fingers in you. Yeah, you’re such a slut for fingering that you could come just from this - you did a few times in the past - being stretched, filled up, played with, being navigated towards climax, simply taking, submitting.

Yes, you love that. You show how much you love it right now - moving your hips, thrusting your arse up, spreading your legs, closing your eyes and purring under your nose, focused only on his fingers, on their movement.

He’s circling them around this spot inside of you, ruthlessly avoiding even brushing it, making you whine and groan, broken sounds, who knows, if of pleasure or irritation or both. Probably both.

You try to navigate your hips so he’ll touch it, if only by accident, but he’s precise, he’s Arthur, and when Arthur wants something, he’ll execute it with determination and precision. You’re fucked, to say at least. You wont get it, unless he’ll give it you on purpose.

You feel the warmness uncoiling in your groin, spreading up to your chest and neck, the tightening of your abdomen muscles, burning from the constant flexing and you’re desperate. You’re close.

You start to trash, trying to get more, better, faster, harder and then you feel it, his fingers rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves and oh God, not touching, not sliding, but staying stock still and just rubbing, like the cook kneads bread dough.

Your eyes shot open and you try to fight down the daze to see him, to look him in his beautiful dark eyes, to let him know of everything and anything, all and nothing. You drink the sight of his face, knotted in a mixture of focus, arousal and awe, the wet patch on his pants covering his bulge, making you whine pathetically, loud to your own ears that are burning, for sure all red, just like your face is burning too.

“Yeah, that’s right,” you bubble. “Please, please,” you plead, to his ears only. He moves his hand from your chest and grabs your neck and fuck, you’re so close you can taste it.

Your body goes rigid, arse in the air, back bowed impossibly so and it’s when he does it, it’s when he twists his palm slightly that he’s still holding your neck, but his index and middle finger slip into your mouth.

You close your lips around them and just hold, accommodate, unable to do more and you’re coming hard, so hard you think you might pass out. You feel him still pressing your prostate, milking you, even though you made such a mess of yourself already, cock spurting rope after rope after rope of thick white spunk. You sag on bed, wrung out, panting, loose and pliant, floating on a happy cloud.

Sudden and sharp sound of zipper breaks you out of your haze and you force your eyes open to see Arthur unzipping himself and pulling out his cock from his soaked trousers, pushing them down his thighs. It’s red and hard. He squeezes some more lube on it and aligns himself, giving your hole few teasing shallow pushes, as if to ask physically for permission.

It didn’t escape your notice that he didn’t put a condom on and the thought itself sets your insides on fire. It’s a huge display of trust, since it’s been two years and a lot could have happened on your and his side. Truth be told - you want him to have you like this, to mark you. It’s personal then - all of this, the sex. Making things even? Revenging? Saying proper goodbye?

You’re more aware now than an hour before, so you’re pushing your hips towards him so that he slips inside of you more. You exhale with such relief that your body visibly shudders. You don’t have to do it again, because Arthur’s already pushing into you.

He bottoms out on his first push, all the way to the hilt, all you can do now is to think: ‘Thank God’ and ‘Welcome home’. You bite your lower lip very hard, not trusting yourself with your words, otherwise who knows what embarrassing would skip out of your mouth. ‘Yes, please,’ or more likely ‘I love you so much, I’m so sorry. I wont ever make you cry again,’ or worse: ‘You’re the only star on my night sky’, ‘I want to grow old with you’. What really burns your tongue for being held inside of your mouth though, is ‘Please forgive me’.

Thankfully, Arthur starts moving, pulls out almost completely to slam back in again and it feels glorious. You’re sensitive down there, but also relaxed and pliant, so it doesn’t feel particularly unpleasant and anyways, you crave to be filled again, you want him to take his pleasure from you.

You spread your legs even wider for him trying to meet his every thrust, but he bends your knees instead, hooks your legs on his elbows, so that’s impossible for you to move, to have any control, and starts thrusting in earnest.

There’s urgency there, you feel it, you let him have it, to have you. You pinch your nipples lazily, pull them to erect, stroke idle patterns through slowly drying mess on your stomach with your other hand.

He holds your thighs, nails leaving half-moon shaped marks and you hope you’ll have bruises there tomorrow - you’re favorite kind of reminder. You know he’s close; the way his hips speed up, the way their start to stutter, the way his eyes pinch close, head leans back baring his neck, the way his hold on you tightens, filthy moans and ragged breaths leave his mouth with every hard thrust.

He shouts, actually shouts when he climaxes, empties himself inside you, stuffing you up with his cum, making you light headed. The air in the room smells like sex, like naked sweated bodies, like paradise. Oh you missed it so much. You slide your legs down onto bed and you close your eyes when you feel him pulling out.

The next thing you know he’s collapsing beside you and he’s naked. You must have kip for a few minutes, because you missed him undressing and cleaning you up, and he must have at some moment, if your clean, dry stomach is any indication.

He’s laying on his back, looking pointedly at the ceiling, licking his lips - the sign that he’s concentrating on something, weighing his words before speaking.

You reach for him, brush your finger on his side, but he closes his eyes and rolls onto the side, his back to you. You do the same and prop yourself up on your elbow, just to lean down and kiss under his ear, nosing this place gently. “Arthur,” you whisper, at loss for any other words.

“I’m tired,” is his answer.

You clear your throat. “Yes, of course,” you say, but it lacks the bite.

So that’s it. Time for you to go then.

“Do you want me to go so you could rest and sleep?” you ask.

He still didn’t move. You hear him sigh. “Yeah, tired like that too. But. Um. I’m tired of this all. I’m tired of moving, of running, of avoiding, of you chasing me, of this place, of my own feelings, of depression. I’ll run, you’ll run after me. So…” he hesitates. After a moment he whispers, “Come with me.”

“Sorry?” you ask dumbfounded. It’s too early to hope yet.

Arthur gestures with his hand towards the general direction of the opened suitcase. Suddenly, pieces come together for you. You smile fondly and put your hand on his warm shoulder, kissing it.

“Always,” you whisper to him.

F I N