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Inception Equestrian AU, "Dare to Dream," Eames/ Arthur, R, 2/2
Summary: The Forger and Point Man are selected to showjump for the United States at the Olympics.
Author's Note: Once upon a time I read one too many stories in which The Forger and Point Man were incorrectly capitalized-- and twelve thousand words later, here we are. Warnings for shameless, ridiculous oversimplification of the Olympic team selection process, and also for prostitution. It probably goes without saying, but any resemblance to actual Real People is entirely coincidental. The working title of this story was "Inception Crack AU", so take from that what you will. Usually I can blame![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pushdragon for these things, but unfortunately this one is all me.
*
Sitting on The Forger outside the Grand Prix ring, waiting to be presented, was one of the most surreal things Eames had ever done. He still felt as if he were dreaming, as if he were going to wake up at any second and find himself in his caravan in Virginia, or worse yet in Kenya.
The Forger's braids were a little crooked. He leaned forward to twist them straight and discovered that Yusuf had done the one at the center of Forge's neck with red, white and blue yarn in place of brown. It made him smile; he was still smiling when the ringmaster waved them in.
The lights were very bright and the crowd seemed enormous as he followed Nash's red coat into the ring. He had ridden in front of bigger crowds at Washington and Syracuse and in Florida-- but they'd never cheered for him like this, not even when he won. He halted Forge between the sweating, nervous Money and the more sensible Limbo, and took off his helmet as the first strains of the Star Spangled Banner began to play.
It made him blink back tears, being here like this, being American. Even Nash looked moved, even Ariadne was quiet, and beyond her Mal was crying openly and Arthur was more solemn than ever. Tonight they were rivals, but in a few months they would all be riding for the same cause. Eames had never been part of anything before, not anything like this, and it was terrifying and amazing.
When the presentation was over and Cobb had made his fundraising speech, they turned to ride out and somehow Arthur slipped between Eames and Ariadne. “Good luck tonight,” he said grimly, and if Eames hadn't known-- if Arthur hadn't asked him on a date only an hour before, he would have thought it was a threat.
“Good luck to you, too, darling.”
“For Christ's sake,” Nash snarled from behind him. “Some of us actually want to jump tonight, you know. Get a move on, Africa.”
Eames turned to say something rude, caught Ariadne putting her tongue out, and thought better of it. “Good luck, Nash,” he said instead, catching Nash off guard. They filed out of the ring and into the warmup, which was full of horses.
The Grand Prix was a huge class, with a great deal of money on the line. Eames didn't jump until second to last, so he passed Forge off to Yusuf and went to watch the first few rides. The course was very big, and needed careful riding: none of the first half dozen horses were clear, though Ariadne and Limbo were close, just touching the tape at the water with a hind foot.
After that, Nash and Money and Arthur and Point came in and jumped back-to-back clears, Nash very fast and rough and Arthur very precise. Eames went and warmed up, letting The Forger canter around for a bit before he put him at the fences. There was nothing Forge loved like the possibility of an audience, and his big ears flopped cheerfully as cleared the vertical with inches to spare.
Eames patted him, gathering his courage, before he rode over to the in-gate. Mal was just finishing, Edith snatching at the bit and arching her neck like a warhorse. “Zero jumping and zero time faults,” the announcer said.
“How many clear so far?” Eames asked Yusuf.
“Five,” Yusuf answered, “counting Mal Cobb.”
Mal rode by, smiling at Eames on her way past, serene and beautiful and entirely in love with someone else. The horse and rider just before Eames went in and completely demolished the course, so that Eames was forced to wait while they replaced a shattered rail in the triple combination. “Brilliant,” he muttered, wondering if he had time to slip off his horse and be sick.
The steward was already opening the gate for him. Eames mustered a smile and a thank you for him and rode in. The ring seemed vaster and brighter than ever, now that he was alone in it. He saluted and kicked Forge into a canter as the whistle went.
Every time he jumped a course, there was a moment when he felt completely lost. Was it the red and white rails to the fan fence? The black oxer to-- and then his brain came awake, and he jumped the green rails, the black oxer, Forge forward and very light just as they'd schooled. Left turn to the wall, then the water to the fan to the in and out. After the first four fences he knew they would be clear unless he did something phenomenally stupid. Red rails, the triple combination, and gallop to the final oxer.
The Forger met his fences perfectly, as easily as if they were three feet high instead of six. Pulling him up afterward, Eames sighed with pleasure. “Jump off like that, and we might just manage to pay the mortgage this month,” he whispered, and Forge tossed his head as if he understood.
He rode The Forger back out to the warmup ring and found a quiet corner to stand so that he could concentrate on remembering the shorter but more difficult jump off course. Yusuf sponged the sweat from The Forger's neck and gave him a peppermint. “Just the six of you to jump off,” he reported. “Cobb seems pleased to have his proteges doing so well.”
Eames accepted the bottle of water he offered, but didn't drink. Nash went by on his way to jump, Money jigging anxiously. Eames didn't much like Nash, who tended to be hard on his horses and harder on his owners, but he admired him. Nash had come up from nothing-- no family, no money, had started out galloping racehorses at a tiny track in Maryland. He was ruthless and driven and clever in ways that no one who'd had a decent start in life could appreciate.
Tonight, though, Eames wasn't sorry when Nash had a rail. Arthur was clear, but too careful for once, his time six seconds slower than Nash's. The next horse was clear and had a time of forty-three seconds, and then Mal went in and laid down a blazing clear in thirty-nine seconds. When the last horse before Eames had a rail, he knew Mal's was the time to beat.
The Forger was bigger than Edith, and needed more room to turn, but he was well-balanced and fast. And there was that inside turn, the one Eames had walked when he was talking to Arthur. If he managed it, he'd win. Of course, Nash hadn't managed it. The money for second place would pay the vet and the farrier. But second place might not be enough to get his sponsorship.
Tonight was a night for taking risks. Eames touched the brim of his hat in salute to the judges and kicked The Forger into a gallop. Planks first, this time, then the red rails to the fan, and then he swung Forge around on a dime like a polo pony, and they were going to get in too close at the water-- The Forger's ears flicked as Eames steadied him, as if to say, Show me where to go, idiot, and I'll take care of jumping the fences. He took off from just in front of the water jump, and Eames, looking down, could see the lights glimmering, and then they landed safely on the other side.
They cleared the black oxer and as they came down Eames shifted his weight and opened his right hand, and they were down and already turning. It was a difficult turn, almost too difficult, something Cobb might have managed on Architecture, something Eames was crazy to try with so much money on the line. The Forger came to the triple combination off balance, angry, but with seconds to spare. Eames sat deep and kicked with all his might.
The Forger met the first fence of the triple wrong, twisted to clear it, caught himself and rose to the second perfectly. Eames didn't dare so much as whisper thanks for fear of distracting him. One stride, two strides-- they were over the third and through the timers.
“Eames and The Forger,” the announcer said, “showing Olympic talent tonight. Thirty seven and six tenths seconds. That will give him the win here tonight.”
As Eames rode through the gate, Cobb caught The Forger's bridle. “You took a hell of a risk there,” he said.
Eames nodded, breathless.
“It paid off. Saito wants to meet you in half an hour.” He stroked Forge's neck. “This horse could be something special.”
“Thank you,” Eames managed, but Cobb's eyes were distant and dreaming. It wasn't Forge's red, sweating neck he was seeing, but another horse. Architecture had been a chestnut, too, but so dark he'd looked almost black in the photographs Eames had seen. He wondered if Cobb regretted, now, the bridges he'd burned then. Architecture was dead, and irreplaceable-- but there were other horses almost as good.
But Eames didn't know, himself, what he'd do if he lost The Forger like that, how he'd go on. It wasn't something he wanted to think about. “Thank you,” he said again, and this time Cobb moved back and let him ride on.
Arthur was just beyond the out-gate, waiting while his groom wiped the foam from Point Man's bit. “Beautifully done,” he said. “You made that turn look easy. Mal will be furious.”
Eames shrugged, trying to stay cool. “It was all The Forger.”
“Not all of it.” Arthur's grin made him look younger, less grim. “They want us back in for the awards in a minute. We're still on for later?”
“Of course,” Eames agreed, swallowing hard. “There's someone Cobb wants me to meet, but I shouldn't be much over an hour--.”
“I'll wait,” Arthur said easily. “While you charm Saito out of ten years' profits. You're worth waiting for, Eames.”
“Thank you. For all of it, Arthur. Bringing Cobb around as much as any of it.”
“It's what you deserve.” Arthur adjusted the cuffs of his shirt so that the barest hint of sleeve showed at the wrists. He was perfectly pressed, elegant; Eames had an overwhelming urge to unwrap him like a parcel.
“I wouldn't be here today it it weren't for Senior,” he said. It was a mistake. Arthur's relationship with his father was complex, but not friendly. Arthur looked away. “Hey,” Eames added. “You and Senior, both. The two of you made me crazy. Nothing ever happened quick enough for him-- and you--.”
Arthur smirked. “Me?”
“You're perfect,” Eames said, as the groom buffed Arthur's boots. Two thousand pounds, and made by the same bootmaker who did Prince Harry's. “Do you have any idea how intimidating that is?”
“Eames--.” But whatever Arthur had been going to say was lost as Yusuf bustled up, red-faced from flirting with Ariadne, and began to sponge The Forger clean.
Eames loved him, he did, but he couldn't help feeling that this wasn't Yusuf's forte. He was brilliant at keeping the horses fit and healthy and happy, but somehow Eames and Forge never looked quite as pulled together as everyone else. Maybe if they got the sponsorship, they'd be able to afford someone to follow him around and shine things.
“We're going to present the awards for the Grand Prix now,” the announcer said, and The Forger turned his head and sneezed bits of chewed carrot on Arthur's immaculate breeches.
“I'll text you as soon as I'm done,” Eames told Arthur, trying not to smile.
“Don't drop the trophy,” Yusuf called after him as he rode into the ring. “Sponsors hate that!”
He lined up next to Mal, who was second. “Well done,” she said. “Dom is so pleased.” Eames tried not to think about what she meant by that.
They played the anthem again for Eames and The Forger, and hung a gigantic blue ribbon on Forge's bridle, and presented him with a giant trophy and an oversized check. Eames smiled until his jaw hurt and said thank you in all the correct places, trying not to yawn. The Forger, who adored the attention, posed like a champion with Paris and Nicky Hilton, and then finally they were done.
Eames slipped him a peppermint and rubbed his ears before he handed him off to Yusuf and went to meet Saito and Cobb. It was barely nine, but it felt much later. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and washed the worst of the dirt and sweat off his face in the toilet, and then slipped into the V.I.P. tent.
Cobb was at a table in the corner. The man with him was of average height, average build, not young, but he looked both wealthy and powerful. Eames had learned very young to be afraid of men like that, and it was very tempting to slink back to the barn and give up. They'd get by somehow or other. They always did. He hated asking people for things, for money--.
Mombasa, in a vast and dimly lit hotel room, with crisp white sheets. “Name your price,” the other man had said, his English crisp and flat, and Eames had blushed and stammered and come up with a figure far too low. He shook the memory off and pasted on a smile, walking toward them.
Professional riders were nearly always professional con men as well, and confidence was the most important part of the job. Eames spent a great deal of time convincing doubting horses that they could, in fact, jump the fences he pointed them at. He didn't depend on force, like Nash, or relentless preparation, like Arthur.
“Gentlemen,” he said to Cobb and Saito. “Thank you for your patience.” He shook Saito's hand, noting the strength of the older man's grip. Saito hadn't always been a businessman. He liked them scrappy, Cobb had said, so Eames had better not be too smooth, too charming. Both of the others were drinking Scotch. Eames ordered a beer. An American beer.
He was American now. Working class. A self-made man. It wasn't even a lie. In fifteen minutes he had Saito where he wanted him. It didn't hurt that Saito was there to be played. He knew what he wanted. Eames knew how to give it to him.
The best part was, they would probably make each other happy. Saito was ambitious, but he didn't have Arthur Senior's nasty streak. Eames was good at producing horses, and even better at competing with them. If he had more time, more help, if he didn't have to sell his best prospects on in order to pay the bills--.
“My company is very dependent on image, of course,” Saito was saying. “May I have your word that there is nothing in your past that would be problematic?”
Eames set his glass down gently on the table, didn't look at Cobb. Didn't shred the napkins or flinch or over-react in any way. He was a good liar, much better than most people realized. He'd lied to the nuns as a boy, and nuns were excellent judges of character.
He could lie to Saito, and he could make it convincing. He was very, very good. But he'd been rushing his fences all night, leaving strides out, galloping when caution was the wiser choice. The instinct that had gotten him out of Kenya alive, that had kept him alive on a thousand half-broken horses-- it was telling Eames to steady, to re-balance. This wasn't a man to lie to.
Eames looked Saito in the eye and said, “No. I can't give you my word on that, I'm afraid.” He could see, out of the corner of his eye, Cobb was shaking his head. That was it, then. He'd lost his nerve, blown his chance at a sponsorship. Cobb would never give him another.
Saito looked back, his face very grim. Eames wasn't precisely sorry he hadn't lied. He had the feeling Saito was a bad man to cross. He had been poor before, and survived; he wouldn't survive waking up in an alley with bullets in his kneecaps.
It was late, and he was hot and tired and he still had his date with Arthur. Eames pushed his chair back and stood. “I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Saito,” he said. “Have a nice night.” He nodded to Cobb, and Cobb nodded back.
Eames had turned to go when Saito said, “A moment, Mr. Eames.”
Eames turned, curious.
“Your riding tonight in the Grand Prix-- it was brilliant. You are very much the sort of man I am looking for. And we both know that men like us do not become successful without breaking certain rules of society.”
He knew. Somehow he knew, and he was going to tell everyone. Eames sat down heavily. “What do you want?” he asked.
“I want to be an active partner in this enterprise,” Saito said, his dark eyes cool and assessing, “not merely a source of funding. You and your friend Yusuf will continue to choose the horses, to school them and prepare them and compete them. I will take over the business portion. I will ensure that you have the necessary resources. I think that, should we join forces, we could do quite well together.”
And, Eames thought, no one will ever have to know about your sordid past as a prostitute. It wasn't much of a choice. “If you knew my history, why did you ask?”
“I wanted to see what you'd say. Partners should be able to trust one another, after all.”
Cobb was looking back and forth between them. “I seem to have missed something,” he said finally.
Saito smiled. “Not at all, Dominic. I'm very much obliged to you for introducing me to Mr. Eames.”
“Of course,” Cobb said, as if it had been his idea.
“My lawyers will draw up a contract and send it on to you,” Saito said to Eames. “I'll be in touch.”
“I'll look forward to it,” Eames agreed, putting out his hand, and this was not precisely a lie either. Saito was going to be either a godsend or a blessing, but he had no idea which. “If you'll excuse me, I should check on my horse.”
This time they let him go. He wandered back to the barn, where Yusuf was just finishing up with The Forger. Eames ducked under the stall guard and leaned tiredly against the horse's strong shoulder. “Oh, darling,” he said into Forge's neck, “you were magnificent tonight.”
“That's what they tell me,” Yusuf agreed. He looked as hot and filthy as Eames felt, but considerably more cheerful. There must be a date with Ariadne in the works. “Are we rich, Eames?”
“Christ, I don't know,” Eames said with a sigh. “By the time he was through talking details I couldn't tell up from down. I think we may be, if we do as we're told.”
Yusuf had been bandaging The Forger's legs. Now he looked up, dark eyes sharp. “You didn't sign anything?”
“The nuns didn't raise any fools, isn't that what you always say? Of course I didn't sign anything. Anyway the business is half yours. Saito knows that-- he did his homework.”
“And he knows about Mombasa?”, Yusuf asked.
Mombasa, Island of War, Eames thought tiredly. Mombasa was something he and Yusuf never, ever talked about. When Eames was eight and Yusuf ten, they'd run away from the orphanage, and not been caught for two glorious days, until Sister Benedicta had cornered them in an alley and marched them back by their ears. “We'll get out for good someday,” Yusuf had promised solemnly, and it hadn't occurred to Eames to wonder how.
But children grew up, and sometimes faith wasn't enough. Yusuf had found a job at a stable, and Eames had followed him two years later. There was never enough money to do more than get by, never enough to save, and they were already dreaming of America. And then there had been The Forger. Yusuf was brilliant at chemistry, and sold drugs. Eames didn't have anything to sell.
He wasn't proud of it, but he wasn't sorry, either. How could he be sorry? The Forger had been worth it, after all. Like the sisters, Eames was intensely practical; that was something else Kenya taught. Life was too short, and too precious, to worry whether the money that bought food had been raised by arms-dealing or highway robbery-- or sex. Eames often thought Americans underestimated nuns.
“He said he knew everything-- and I believe him.”
“Oh,” Yusuf said. “Eames--.”
“That's why he wants us,” Eames interrupted him, choking on the words. “Because we're hungry. Because we're desperate, because we can't afford to walk away from him.”
“We might be hungry, but we aren't starving. We're equal partners, Eames, and I say we pass.”
It wasn't-- Eames hadn't even thought that passing was a possibility. “Really?”, he asked.
“Really,” Yusuf said, sliding Forge's halter off. “Go get cleaned up for your date with Arthur, idiot. If you can't have a sponsor you can at least have a sugar daddy.”
“Do you think Arthur would still be interested? If he knew?”
“Will he like you if he finds out you put out? Do I look like a teenage girl? You're supposed to be an American man now, my friend. Try to act like it.” Yusuf smiled, though, saying it. “Arthur has loved you for years, and you are the only one who never noticed. I think there are very few things he wouldn't forgive you.”
“Darling,” Eames sad, and meant it. “I don't suppose we have any money left?”
Yusuf dug a twenty-dollar bill out of the gas money. “I expect change. We aren't rich, you know.”
Ariadne's mother was sitting in a lawn chair outside their caravan, a cigarette clenched in her long red nails. Eames hurried by, eyes on the ground, and made do with water buckets for his bath. He hoped Yusuf wasn't going to end up on the wrong end of Mrs. Ariadne's legendary shotgun.
*
Afterward he texted Arthur and then put on the smartest clothes he had with him, which wasn't saying a great deal. He was ready when Arthur drove up in his shiny blue convertible, spraying gravel all over the lot. He'd had a shower, the bastard, and was wearing a beautifully cut suit. Arthur didn't have to sleep in his horsebox, or a pop-up camper, or a Super 8 motel. Arthur was undoubtedly staying at Senior's Hamptons house, next door to Puff Daddy.
Eames got in the car, feeling like Cinderella after her ballgown had turned back to rags. It was as nice inside as out, although it would have been nicer with the top up and the air conditioning on. “How did your meeting go?”, Arthur asked him.
“We decided we wouldn't suit,” Eames answered, fiddling with the radio so he wouldn't have to meet Arthur's eyes.
Arthur's fingers brushed his, shifting gear. It might have been an accident. “What a shame,” he said, and it sounded sincere enough. “There's Robert Fischer, too, you know. His father had racehorses, but I think he's looking to branch out.”
“Maybe. I've got some pretty nice sale horses in at the moment, so I should be all right.”
“Of course,” Arthur agreed, stopping the car in the street outside a restaurant. Eames glanced at his watch-- almost 10:30. There were advantages to being the son of the former head of the C.I.A. “In fact,” Arthur went on, as the valet hurried up, “I was meaning to ask you about that bay mare you had in the first class yesterday.”
“Don't,” Eames said, and Arthur held up a hand to the valet outside his window. “Date me or employ me, Arthur, but you can't do both.” Not you, he thought, and not ever again.
“She's got a pretty good jump,” Arthur said mildly, “but I'd rather have you.” He opened his door and handed the valet his keys and a folded bill. “Come on, let me buy you dinner, at least.”
“I want an enormous steak, mind you,” Eames said, getting out.
The restaurant was dimly lit and expensive, and almost empty. Eames shook his head when Arthur suggested Champagne. “I'd be asleep by the time they brought the food,” he told him, which was true. They drank Cokes instead, and ordered steaks with fries.
“We used to come to this place a lot when I was a kid,” Arthur said, looking around. “Senior likes it because it's quiet enough to do business in. I'm sorry. Not exactly the most romantic place in the Hamptons.”
Eames looked down at the heavy dark tables, the starched cloth napkins, the crystal. “It's nice. Classy.”
“You don't like it. We can go somewhere else.”
“Arthur,” Eames said, taking his hand. “It's nice. I'm not used to nice, that's all. I could get used to it.” He could get used to the feel of Arthur's fingers laced in his, narrow and strong. “Growing up in Kenya, me and Yusuf, we'd tell each other stories about the kind of people who ate at places like this. I never thought I'd be one of them, is all.”
“What was it like-- Kenya? Do you miss it?” Arthur's dark eyes are curious, assessing. He's listening to Eames, in a way people usually didn't.
“All the time and not at all. It was so hot and dry most of the time. The Forger thought Senior's farm was heaven, all those big green fields. But there's more-- it's like the people there live harder, faster, than they do here. It was never dark where we grew up, never really quiet.”
“You and Yusuf?”
“Yusuf is like my older brother,” Eames said. “Family. We're a package deal.”
“You can't choose your family,” Arthur agreed, no doubt thinking of his own horrible father, “and you can't outrun them.”
No, Eames thought, but sometimes they can outrun you. He didn't say it. It had been a lifetime ago, after all, and how could you miss what you'd never had? He took another piece of bread instead. “What would you have done if you didn't do this?” he asked. “The horses?”
“Not politics,” Arthur said immediately. “Something honest like prostitution.” Eames didn't flinch. “Seriously? Business, probably. I like to run things, as you may have noticed.”
“Yeah, I can see you being head of Microsoft at thirty, or whatever,” Eames agreed, softening the words with a smile. “You wouldn't drive the middle management to suicide.”
Soundlessly and delicately as a ballet dancer, the waiter set their meals on the table. Eames pried his fingers loose from Arthur's. “I'm going to need two hands for this beauty,” he explained. “You asked about Kenya? This was more meat than we ate in a year there.”
As expected, it's perfectly cooked, too. Eames fell on his like a starving animal, while Arthur ate tiny, dainty bites. But he ate fast, at least; he was as hungry as Eames is.
When they came up for air, Arthur said, “Did you want to order something for Yusuf to go? Another steak?”
Eames shook his head. “I will bet you every cent I've got on me he somehow weaseled his way into Ariadne's trailer for dinner, Ariadne's darling mum's shotgun not withstanding.” Arthur stared. “He was brilliant with the nuns,” Eames amplified. “Had them eating out of his hand at a very young age.”
“Ariadne's mother has her own N.S.A. file,” Arthur said slowly. “Senior warned me. They did the beauty pageant circuit in the late 1990s, you know. The assault charges were dropped. She was actually ruled off as part of the settlement-- that's when they switched to showing leadline ponies.”
Eames stared at him. Arthur stared back, straight-faced. Eames was the first one to give in and laugh. “Darling,” he gasped, when he could finally breathe again. “You conned me. You completely had me.”
“I have hidden depths. You have no idea.” Eames thought that he might be right about that. Maybe he'd been missing out on all kinds of things, just because Arthur occasionally seemed a bit creepy and intense. “Dessert, Eames? Or coffee?”
“Better not,” Eames said regretfully. It would be amazing, no doubt, but he was already so full he felt stuffed.
Arthur handed his credit card to the waiter. Eames did hasty math in his head and decided not to risk insisting on splitting the check. It was probably nearly as much as his weekly feed bill. Yusuf's twenty wouldn't even cover the tip. “Thank you for dinner,” he said.
“Of course,” Arthur answered, not looking at him.
Christ, Eames thought, this is the part where he'd ordinarily ask me back to see a video of a sale horse or something, and then we'd go to bed, but I flipped out on him earlier and now he thinks I'm a psychopath. “Maybe we could go for a walk or something,” he offered. “Work off dinner.”
He glanced discreetly at Arthur's shiny watch. It was after 11:30, which made that officially an idiotic idea. Eames wasn't even sure it was what he wanted-- Arthur. It would be complicated, and Eames could ill afford complications.
With Saito out of the picture, there were a lot of things Eames couldn't afford. Arthur was his teammate. Arthur was Dom Cobb's protege. Arthur was Arthur Senior's son, and Senior had access to dirt other people couldn't imagine existed. Do you think Arthur would be interested if he knew, Eames had asked Yusuf, but the truth was, Arthur might already know.
It didn't matter, because the words were already out of Eames' mouth. Arthur blinked, considering. “It's late,” he said finally. “Why don't we go back to the house instead?”, he asked. “We can have a drink, and I'll run you back to the showgrounds afterward, if you'd like.”
If you don't want to fuck after all, he didn't say, which for Arthur was practically coy. Eames wondered if he was meant to feel pressured, having let Arthur pay for dinner. Did it make him the woman? Was he morally obligated to put out? “Yeah,” he agreed. “I'd love to get the, the tour from you.”
That was enough to make Arthur blush. Eames had seen him bucked off by a young horse, rolling around in the sand of Senior's ring. He'd seen him sweat through his shirt, the first time he'd jumped the fast, strong Point Man. He'd stayed up one night walking a mare with colic, and seen Arthur roll in just after four, his hair standing up and his suit rumpled. He knew Arthur wasn't actually perfect.
But Eames still enjoyed seeing Arthur do something human-- eat, blink, smile, blush, fuck. The thought of Arthur in bed made him push his chair back, a little too eagerly, and stand up a little too fast. He was rushing his fences again, probably. Time to sit back and wait for them to come to him.
But Arthur, unlike The Forger, wasn't particularly patient. He held out his arm to Eames, and Eames took it, half laughing and half annoyed. Arthur had a reputation for flamboyance, which was all very well. When you were rich you could afford to be noticed, to be different. But Eames had to make a living, and it wasn't going to be on the strength of his manners, or his fashion sense.
He let Arthur open his car door for him, even though it felt awkward and wrong. Having that conversation now would definitely be getting ahead of himself. It was a short drive to the house, which was good; Arthur's grip on the gear shift turned his knuckles white, though it was hard to tell if that was anticipation or just nerves. For the sake of his own nerves, he decided to assume it was anticipation.
As expected, Senior's house was right on the beach and very, very big-- but unlike the farmhouse in New Jersey, it was modern, all glass and light. It was hard for Eames to imagine, living like this, growing up like this. It isn't because Mombasa wasn't beautiful, and it wasn't precisely the money: Eames had seen money at Cobol, even if he hadn't had any.
It was the way beauty and money were so ordinary to Arthur, the way his immaculate suits were only clothing, and his Porsche was only a car. Things didn't matter to him, because he'd never had to live without them. Eames had never felt so far from home as he did standing in front of the fireplace in Senior's living room, looking up at a painting even he knew was a Picasso.
And then Arthur kissed him, sudden and shy, and he thought that perhaps it didn't matter so very much, that maybe the Americans were right about home being what you made of it, because kissing Arthur was like winning the biggest class, like having the national anthem played for you while they hung a medal around your neck and the crowd roared. All the years he'd known Arthur, all the time he'd wasted daydreaming about lovely, broken Mal-- and kissing Arthur was like victory.
They went to see Arthur's bedroom after that, of course. Arthur's shyness bled away as he pulled Eames up the stairs, dropping his jacket over the newel post and Eames' on the landing, sending cufflinks flying and fumbling at Eames' belt. And then he was on his knees in front of Eames, there in the hallway, his fingers fumbling Eames' cock clear of his pants.
This isn't happening, Eames thought, leaning back against the banister. He'd had sex in hotel rooms and horseboxes, but never before in a hall. But Arthur's mouth was on him, warm and wet and undeniably real, and he couldn't help bringing his hand up to run it gently through Arthur's hair. “I never thought,” he said, “never in a billion years, that you would be so fantastic at this.” And he can feel Arthur laughing around him, but it's true.
He never thought that much about what sex with Arthur would be like, anyway, except when Arthur turned up with one of his boyfriends, looking faintly fucked around the edges. But he never thought of Arthur sucking him off, that prim mouth curving around him, he never thought of rocking his hips gently while Arthur knelt in front of him, careless of the knees of his expensive suit.
He was so tired, and for once that was a good thing, because it kept him from coming embarrassingly fast. It had been a long time since he'd done this, since he'd made the time for it. After he left Mombasa he'd felt like his body wasn't his own anymore, and he'd set out to reclaim it, but that hadn't worked either. There hadn't been anyone special in a long time, not since Mal.
Arthur had him at the edge, had every nerve in his body at attention. “Darling,” Eames said, and tugged at his hair, but he could feel Arthur shake his head and increase his efforts and then Eames closed his eyes and came in Arthur's mouth in the open hallway lined with expensive artwork. It was astonishing, all of it, Arthur most of all.
He was still half dazed when Arthur pushed him into the bedroom, and even though it was meant to be the focal point of the tour he couldn't have said what color the walls were, or even the bedframe, except that it was massive. But he noticed the sheets, which were made of cotton so heavy it felt like parchment, and he noticed the pillows Arthur was lounging against, and the contrast of Arthur's lean brown body against the soft ivory.
The first time he'd been with a man for money it had been by accident, outside a club. He'd been home, for the first time since he'd left, because Soeur Marie Louise-- the only one of them with any kindness in her-- was ill. And while he was there Sister Benedicta had lectured him about wasted potential and immoral behavior, so that by the time he left the orphanage he was angry, so angry that he took the money he'd meant to put in the poorbox and spent it getting drunk. He'd gone with the man into the alley and let himself be fucked against a wall, and afterward the man had shoved thirty dollars in his hand instead of a telephone number
The second time he hadn't even known how much money to ask for. It had hardly mattered-- he'd closed his eyes and thought of The Forger, little more than half-broken and well on his way to being served on a dinner plate. Only Eames knew what he might be someday, Eames and Yusuf, who had the best eye for a horse of any man in Africa.
But by the end, he'd known exactly what he was worth, and he'd held stronger men than Arthur down while he kissed the arc of a collarbone, the edge of a throat, while he unzipped trousers with fingers gone unsteady. Arthur was benefiting from a great deal of experience, and it showed in his closed eyes, in his arms raised and hands taut on the bedposts, in his body, tense and perfect.
Jesus God, let me not fuck this up, Eames thought, the way he had in the beginning when he'd thought it mattered, when he thought he wouldn't get paid. He licked his way down Arthur's hairless, tanned body, immaculate and expensive as everything Arthur wore, and swallowed Arthur's dick. Above him, Arthur shuddered and moaned, more beautiful laid bare like this than he was carefully buttoned and discreetly opulent.
It shouldn't have surprised Eames, the way even the face Arthur made when he came was elegant. “You're so perfect it's unreal,” he said when he could breathe again. Arthur had been running his fingers through Eames' hair, with the same gentleness he showed to Point Man.
The fingers stopped, and moved again. “Is that really how you think of me?”, Arthur asked, sounding more curious than upset.
Eames was lying with his head on Arthur's lean thigh. He thought about sitting up, but he felt as if all of his bones had turned to butter. Besides, he'd never been able to read Arthur's expressions. “Maybe,” he said. “A little. Things work out for you--.”
“My father works things out for me,” Arthur interrupted. “You're damn good at what you do, Eames, and you got there by yourself. You don't think I'm jealous of that?”
“Um,” Eames said, unable to come up with a coherent response to this flattery, especially since he agreed with it. “You're pretty great yourself, Arthur.”
Arthur laughed and wiggled down until they were next to each other, lying at an angle across the big bed. “Promise me something,” he said.
“Anything,” Eames managed, almost asleep.
“Promise me we'll win the team gold in London, because otherwise Cobb is going to kill us for this.”
“Definitely,” Eames said, and fell asleep to the sound of Arthur's laugh.
Author's Note: Once upon a time I read one too many stories in which The Forger and Point Man were incorrectly capitalized-- and twelve thousand words later, here we are. Warnings for shameless, ridiculous oversimplification of the Olympic team selection process, and also for prostitution. It probably goes without saying, but any resemblance to actual Real People is entirely coincidental. The working title of this story was "Inception Crack AU", so take from that what you will. Usually I can blame
pushdragon for these things, but unfortunately this one is all me.*
Sitting on The Forger outside the Grand Prix ring, waiting to be presented, was one of the most surreal things Eames had ever done. He still felt as if he were dreaming, as if he were going to wake up at any second and find himself in his caravan in Virginia, or worse yet in Kenya.
The Forger's braids were a little crooked. He leaned forward to twist them straight and discovered that Yusuf had done the one at the center of Forge's neck with red, white and blue yarn in place of brown. It made him smile; he was still smiling when the ringmaster waved them in.
The lights were very bright and the crowd seemed enormous as he followed Nash's red coat into the ring. He had ridden in front of bigger crowds at Washington and Syracuse and in Florida-- but they'd never cheered for him like this, not even when he won. He halted Forge between the sweating, nervous Money and the more sensible Limbo, and took off his helmet as the first strains of the Star Spangled Banner began to play.
It made him blink back tears, being here like this, being American. Even Nash looked moved, even Ariadne was quiet, and beyond her Mal was crying openly and Arthur was more solemn than ever. Tonight they were rivals, but in a few months they would all be riding for the same cause. Eames had never been part of anything before, not anything like this, and it was terrifying and amazing.
When the presentation was over and Cobb had made his fundraising speech, they turned to ride out and somehow Arthur slipped between Eames and Ariadne. “Good luck tonight,” he said grimly, and if Eames hadn't known-- if Arthur hadn't asked him on a date only an hour before, he would have thought it was a threat.
“Good luck to you, too, darling.”
“For Christ's sake,” Nash snarled from behind him. “Some of us actually want to jump tonight, you know. Get a move on, Africa.”
Eames turned to say something rude, caught Ariadne putting her tongue out, and thought better of it. “Good luck, Nash,” he said instead, catching Nash off guard. They filed out of the ring and into the warmup, which was full of horses.
The Grand Prix was a huge class, with a great deal of money on the line. Eames didn't jump until second to last, so he passed Forge off to Yusuf and went to watch the first few rides. The course was very big, and needed careful riding: none of the first half dozen horses were clear, though Ariadne and Limbo were close, just touching the tape at the water with a hind foot.
After that, Nash and Money and Arthur and Point came in and jumped back-to-back clears, Nash very fast and rough and Arthur very precise. Eames went and warmed up, letting The Forger canter around for a bit before he put him at the fences. There was nothing Forge loved like the possibility of an audience, and his big ears flopped cheerfully as cleared the vertical with inches to spare.
Eames patted him, gathering his courage, before he rode over to the in-gate. Mal was just finishing, Edith snatching at the bit and arching her neck like a warhorse. “Zero jumping and zero time faults,” the announcer said.
“How many clear so far?” Eames asked Yusuf.
“Five,” Yusuf answered, “counting Mal Cobb.”
Mal rode by, smiling at Eames on her way past, serene and beautiful and entirely in love with someone else. The horse and rider just before Eames went in and completely demolished the course, so that Eames was forced to wait while they replaced a shattered rail in the triple combination. “Brilliant,” he muttered, wondering if he had time to slip off his horse and be sick.
The steward was already opening the gate for him. Eames mustered a smile and a thank you for him and rode in. The ring seemed vaster and brighter than ever, now that he was alone in it. He saluted and kicked Forge into a canter as the whistle went.
Every time he jumped a course, there was a moment when he felt completely lost. Was it the red and white rails to the fan fence? The black oxer to-- and then his brain came awake, and he jumped the green rails, the black oxer, Forge forward and very light just as they'd schooled. Left turn to the wall, then the water to the fan to the in and out. After the first four fences he knew they would be clear unless he did something phenomenally stupid. Red rails, the triple combination, and gallop to the final oxer.
The Forger met his fences perfectly, as easily as if they were three feet high instead of six. Pulling him up afterward, Eames sighed with pleasure. “Jump off like that, and we might just manage to pay the mortgage this month,” he whispered, and Forge tossed his head as if he understood.
He rode The Forger back out to the warmup ring and found a quiet corner to stand so that he could concentrate on remembering the shorter but more difficult jump off course. Yusuf sponged the sweat from The Forger's neck and gave him a peppermint. “Just the six of you to jump off,” he reported. “Cobb seems pleased to have his proteges doing so well.”
Eames accepted the bottle of water he offered, but didn't drink. Nash went by on his way to jump, Money jigging anxiously. Eames didn't much like Nash, who tended to be hard on his horses and harder on his owners, but he admired him. Nash had come up from nothing-- no family, no money, had started out galloping racehorses at a tiny track in Maryland. He was ruthless and driven and clever in ways that no one who'd had a decent start in life could appreciate.
Tonight, though, Eames wasn't sorry when Nash had a rail. Arthur was clear, but too careful for once, his time six seconds slower than Nash's. The next horse was clear and had a time of forty-three seconds, and then Mal went in and laid down a blazing clear in thirty-nine seconds. When the last horse before Eames had a rail, he knew Mal's was the time to beat.
The Forger was bigger than Edith, and needed more room to turn, but he was well-balanced and fast. And there was that inside turn, the one Eames had walked when he was talking to Arthur. If he managed it, he'd win. Of course, Nash hadn't managed it. The money for second place would pay the vet and the farrier. But second place might not be enough to get his sponsorship.
Tonight was a night for taking risks. Eames touched the brim of his hat in salute to the judges and kicked The Forger into a gallop. Planks first, this time, then the red rails to the fan, and then he swung Forge around on a dime like a polo pony, and they were going to get in too close at the water-- The Forger's ears flicked as Eames steadied him, as if to say, Show me where to go, idiot, and I'll take care of jumping the fences. He took off from just in front of the water jump, and Eames, looking down, could see the lights glimmering, and then they landed safely on the other side.
They cleared the black oxer and as they came down Eames shifted his weight and opened his right hand, and they were down and already turning. It was a difficult turn, almost too difficult, something Cobb might have managed on Architecture, something Eames was crazy to try with so much money on the line. The Forger came to the triple combination off balance, angry, but with seconds to spare. Eames sat deep and kicked with all his might.
The Forger met the first fence of the triple wrong, twisted to clear it, caught himself and rose to the second perfectly. Eames didn't dare so much as whisper thanks for fear of distracting him. One stride, two strides-- they were over the third and through the timers.
“Eames and The Forger,” the announcer said, “showing Olympic talent tonight. Thirty seven and six tenths seconds. That will give him the win here tonight.”
As Eames rode through the gate, Cobb caught The Forger's bridle. “You took a hell of a risk there,” he said.
Eames nodded, breathless.
“It paid off. Saito wants to meet you in half an hour.” He stroked Forge's neck. “This horse could be something special.”
“Thank you,” Eames managed, but Cobb's eyes were distant and dreaming. It wasn't Forge's red, sweating neck he was seeing, but another horse. Architecture had been a chestnut, too, but so dark he'd looked almost black in the photographs Eames had seen. He wondered if Cobb regretted, now, the bridges he'd burned then. Architecture was dead, and irreplaceable-- but there were other horses almost as good.
But Eames didn't know, himself, what he'd do if he lost The Forger like that, how he'd go on. It wasn't something he wanted to think about. “Thank you,” he said again, and this time Cobb moved back and let him ride on.
Arthur was just beyond the out-gate, waiting while his groom wiped the foam from Point Man's bit. “Beautifully done,” he said. “You made that turn look easy. Mal will be furious.”
Eames shrugged, trying to stay cool. “It was all The Forger.”
“Not all of it.” Arthur's grin made him look younger, less grim. “They want us back in for the awards in a minute. We're still on for later?”
“Of course,” Eames agreed, swallowing hard. “There's someone Cobb wants me to meet, but I shouldn't be much over an hour--.”
“I'll wait,” Arthur said easily. “While you charm Saito out of ten years' profits. You're worth waiting for, Eames.”
“Thank you. For all of it, Arthur. Bringing Cobb around as much as any of it.”
“It's what you deserve.” Arthur adjusted the cuffs of his shirt so that the barest hint of sleeve showed at the wrists. He was perfectly pressed, elegant; Eames had an overwhelming urge to unwrap him like a parcel.
“I wouldn't be here today it it weren't for Senior,” he said. It was a mistake. Arthur's relationship with his father was complex, but not friendly. Arthur looked away. “Hey,” Eames added. “You and Senior, both. The two of you made me crazy. Nothing ever happened quick enough for him-- and you--.”
Arthur smirked. “Me?”
“You're perfect,” Eames said, as the groom buffed Arthur's boots. Two thousand pounds, and made by the same bootmaker who did Prince Harry's. “Do you have any idea how intimidating that is?”
“Eames--.” But whatever Arthur had been going to say was lost as Yusuf bustled up, red-faced from flirting with Ariadne, and began to sponge The Forger clean.
Eames loved him, he did, but he couldn't help feeling that this wasn't Yusuf's forte. He was brilliant at keeping the horses fit and healthy and happy, but somehow Eames and Forge never looked quite as pulled together as everyone else. Maybe if they got the sponsorship, they'd be able to afford someone to follow him around and shine things.
“We're going to present the awards for the Grand Prix now,” the announcer said, and The Forger turned his head and sneezed bits of chewed carrot on Arthur's immaculate breeches.
“I'll text you as soon as I'm done,” Eames told Arthur, trying not to smile.
“Don't drop the trophy,” Yusuf called after him as he rode into the ring. “Sponsors hate that!”
He lined up next to Mal, who was second. “Well done,” she said. “Dom is so pleased.” Eames tried not to think about what she meant by that.
They played the anthem again for Eames and The Forger, and hung a gigantic blue ribbon on Forge's bridle, and presented him with a giant trophy and an oversized check. Eames smiled until his jaw hurt and said thank you in all the correct places, trying not to yawn. The Forger, who adored the attention, posed like a champion with Paris and Nicky Hilton, and then finally they were done.
Eames slipped him a peppermint and rubbed his ears before he handed him off to Yusuf and went to meet Saito and Cobb. It was barely nine, but it felt much later. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and washed the worst of the dirt and sweat off his face in the toilet, and then slipped into the V.I.P. tent.
Cobb was at a table in the corner. The man with him was of average height, average build, not young, but he looked both wealthy and powerful. Eames had learned very young to be afraid of men like that, and it was very tempting to slink back to the barn and give up. They'd get by somehow or other. They always did. He hated asking people for things, for money--.
Mombasa, in a vast and dimly lit hotel room, with crisp white sheets. “Name your price,” the other man had said, his English crisp and flat, and Eames had blushed and stammered and come up with a figure far too low. He shook the memory off and pasted on a smile, walking toward them.
Professional riders were nearly always professional con men as well, and confidence was the most important part of the job. Eames spent a great deal of time convincing doubting horses that they could, in fact, jump the fences he pointed them at. He didn't depend on force, like Nash, or relentless preparation, like Arthur.
“Gentlemen,” he said to Cobb and Saito. “Thank you for your patience.” He shook Saito's hand, noting the strength of the older man's grip. Saito hadn't always been a businessman. He liked them scrappy, Cobb had said, so Eames had better not be too smooth, too charming. Both of the others were drinking Scotch. Eames ordered a beer. An American beer.
He was American now. Working class. A self-made man. It wasn't even a lie. In fifteen minutes he had Saito where he wanted him. It didn't hurt that Saito was there to be played. He knew what he wanted. Eames knew how to give it to him.
The best part was, they would probably make each other happy. Saito was ambitious, but he didn't have Arthur Senior's nasty streak. Eames was good at producing horses, and even better at competing with them. If he had more time, more help, if he didn't have to sell his best prospects on in order to pay the bills--.
“My company is very dependent on image, of course,” Saito was saying. “May I have your word that there is nothing in your past that would be problematic?”
Eames set his glass down gently on the table, didn't look at Cobb. Didn't shred the napkins or flinch or over-react in any way. He was a good liar, much better than most people realized. He'd lied to the nuns as a boy, and nuns were excellent judges of character.
He could lie to Saito, and he could make it convincing. He was very, very good. But he'd been rushing his fences all night, leaving strides out, galloping when caution was the wiser choice. The instinct that had gotten him out of Kenya alive, that had kept him alive on a thousand half-broken horses-- it was telling Eames to steady, to re-balance. This wasn't a man to lie to.
Eames looked Saito in the eye and said, “No. I can't give you my word on that, I'm afraid.” He could see, out of the corner of his eye, Cobb was shaking his head. That was it, then. He'd lost his nerve, blown his chance at a sponsorship. Cobb would never give him another.
Saito looked back, his face very grim. Eames wasn't precisely sorry he hadn't lied. He had the feeling Saito was a bad man to cross. He had been poor before, and survived; he wouldn't survive waking up in an alley with bullets in his kneecaps.
It was late, and he was hot and tired and he still had his date with Arthur. Eames pushed his chair back and stood. “I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Saito,” he said. “Have a nice night.” He nodded to Cobb, and Cobb nodded back.
Eames had turned to go when Saito said, “A moment, Mr. Eames.”
Eames turned, curious.
“Your riding tonight in the Grand Prix-- it was brilliant. You are very much the sort of man I am looking for. And we both know that men like us do not become successful without breaking certain rules of society.”
He knew. Somehow he knew, and he was going to tell everyone. Eames sat down heavily. “What do you want?” he asked.
“I want to be an active partner in this enterprise,” Saito said, his dark eyes cool and assessing, “not merely a source of funding. You and your friend Yusuf will continue to choose the horses, to school them and prepare them and compete them. I will take over the business portion. I will ensure that you have the necessary resources. I think that, should we join forces, we could do quite well together.”
And, Eames thought, no one will ever have to know about your sordid past as a prostitute. It wasn't much of a choice. “If you knew my history, why did you ask?”
“I wanted to see what you'd say. Partners should be able to trust one another, after all.”
Cobb was looking back and forth between them. “I seem to have missed something,” he said finally.
Saito smiled. “Not at all, Dominic. I'm very much obliged to you for introducing me to Mr. Eames.”
“Of course,” Cobb said, as if it had been his idea.
“My lawyers will draw up a contract and send it on to you,” Saito said to Eames. “I'll be in touch.”
“I'll look forward to it,” Eames agreed, putting out his hand, and this was not precisely a lie either. Saito was going to be either a godsend or a blessing, but he had no idea which. “If you'll excuse me, I should check on my horse.”
This time they let him go. He wandered back to the barn, where Yusuf was just finishing up with The Forger. Eames ducked under the stall guard and leaned tiredly against the horse's strong shoulder. “Oh, darling,” he said into Forge's neck, “you were magnificent tonight.”
“That's what they tell me,” Yusuf agreed. He looked as hot and filthy as Eames felt, but considerably more cheerful. There must be a date with Ariadne in the works. “Are we rich, Eames?”
“Christ, I don't know,” Eames said with a sigh. “By the time he was through talking details I couldn't tell up from down. I think we may be, if we do as we're told.”
Yusuf had been bandaging The Forger's legs. Now he looked up, dark eyes sharp. “You didn't sign anything?”
“The nuns didn't raise any fools, isn't that what you always say? Of course I didn't sign anything. Anyway the business is half yours. Saito knows that-- he did his homework.”
“And he knows about Mombasa?”, Yusuf asked.
Mombasa, Island of War, Eames thought tiredly. Mombasa was something he and Yusuf never, ever talked about. When Eames was eight and Yusuf ten, they'd run away from the orphanage, and not been caught for two glorious days, until Sister Benedicta had cornered them in an alley and marched them back by their ears. “We'll get out for good someday,” Yusuf had promised solemnly, and it hadn't occurred to Eames to wonder how.
But children grew up, and sometimes faith wasn't enough. Yusuf had found a job at a stable, and Eames had followed him two years later. There was never enough money to do more than get by, never enough to save, and they were already dreaming of America. And then there had been The Forger. Yusuf was brilliant at chemistry, and sold drugs. Eames didn't have anything to sell.
He wasn't proud of it, but he wasn't sorry, either. How could he be sorry? The Forger had been worth it, after all. Like the sisters, Eames was intensely practical; that was something else Kenya taught. Life was too short, and too precious, to worry whether the money that bought food had been raised by arms-dealing or highway robbery-- or sex. Eames often thought Americans underestimated nuns.
“He said he knew everything-- and I believe him.”
“Oh,” Yusuf said. “Eames--.”
“That's why he wants us,” Eames interrupted him, choking on the words. “Because we're hungry. Because we're desperate, because we can't afford to walk away from him.”
“We might be hungry, but we aren't starving. We're equal partners, Eames, and I say we pass.”
It wasn't-- Eames hadn't even thought that passing was a possibility. “Really?”, he asked.
“Really,” Yusuf said, sliding Forge's halter off. “Go get cleaned up for your date with Arthur, idiot. If you can't have a sponsor you can at least have a sugar daddy.”
“Do you think Arthur would still be interested? If he knew?”
“Will he like you if he finds out you put out? Do I look like a teenage girl? You're supposed to be an American man now, my friend. Try to act like it.” Yusuf smiled, though, saying it. “Arthur has loved you for years, and you are the only one who never noticed. I think there are very few things he wouldn't forgive you.”
“Darling,” Eames sad, and meant it. “I don't suppose we have any money left?”
Yusuf dug a twenty-dollar bill out of the gas money. “I expect change. We aren't rich, you know.”
Ariadne's mother was sitting in a lawn chair outside their caravan, a cigarette clenched in her long red nails. Eames hurried by, eyes on the ground, and made do with water buckets for his bath. He hoped Yusuf wasn't going to end up on the wrong end of Mrs. Ariadne's legendary shotgun.
*
Afterward he texted Arthur and then put on the smartest clothes he had with him, which wasn't saying a great deal. He was ready when Arthur drove up in his shiny blue convertible, spraying gravel all over the lot. He'd had a shower, the bastard, and was wearing a beautifully cut suit. Arthur didn't have to sleep in his horsebox, or a pop-up camper, or a Super 8 motel. Arthur was undoubtedly staying at Senior's Hamptons house, next door to Puff Daddy.
Eames got in the car, feeling like Cinderella after her ballgown had turned back to rags. It was as nice inside as out, although it would have been nicer with the top up and the air conditioning on. “How did your meeting go?”, Arthur asked him.
“We decided we wouldn't suit,” Eames answered, fiddling with the radio so he wouldn't have to meet Arthur's eyes.
Arthur's fingers brushed his, shifting gear. It might have been an accident. “What a shame,” he said, and it sounded sincere enough. “There's Robert Fischer, too, you know. His father had racehorses, but I think he's looking to branch out.”
“Maybe. I've got some pretty nice sale horses in at the moment, so I should be all right.”
“Of course,” Arthur agreed, stopping the car in the street outside a restaurant. Eames glanced at his watch-- almost 10:30. There were advantages to being the son of the former head of the C.I.A. “In fact,” Arthur went on, as the valet hurried up, “I was meaning to ask you about that bay mare you had in the first class yesterday.”
“Don't,” Eames said, and Arthur held up a hand to the valet outside his window. “Date me or employ me, Arthur, but you can't do both.” Not you, he thought, and not ever again.
“She's got a pretty good jump,” Arthur said mildly, “but I'd rather have you.” He opened his door and handed the valet his keys and a folded bill. “Come on, let me buy you dinner, at least.”
“I want an enormous steak, mind you,” Eames said, getting out.
The restaurant was dimly lit and expensive, and almost empty. Eames shook his head when Arthur suggested Champagne. “I'd be asleep by the time they brought the food,” he told him, which was true. They drank Cokes instead, and ordered steaks with fries.
“We used to come to this place a lot when I was a kid,” Arthur said, looking around. “Senior likes it because it's quiet enough to do business in. I'm sorry. Not exactly the most romantic place in the Hamptons.”
Eames looked down at the heavy dark tables, the starched cloth napkins, the crystal. “It's nice. Classy.”
“You don't like it. We can go somewhere else.”
“Arthur,” Eames said, taking his hand. “It's nice. I'm not used to nice, that's all. I could get used to it.” He could get used to the feel of Arthur's fingers laced in his, narrow and strong. “Growing up in Kenya, me and Yusuf, we'd tell each other stories about the kind of people who ate at places like this. I never thought I'd be one of them, is all.”
“What was it like-- Kenya? Do you miss it?” Arthur's dark eyes are curious, assessing. He's listening to Eames, in a way people usually didn't.
“All the time and not at all. It was so hot and dry most of the time. The Forger thought Senior's farm was heaven, all those big green fields. But there's more-- it's like the people there live harder, faster, than they do here. It was never dark where we grew up, never really quiet.”
“You and Yusuf?”
“Yusuf is like my older brother,” Eames said. “Family. We're a package deal.”
“You can't choose your family,” Arthur agreed, no doubt thinking of his own horrible father, “and you can't outrun them.”
No, Eames thought, but sometimes they can outrun you. He didn't say it. It had been a lifetime ago, after all, and how could you miss what you'd never had? He took another piece of bread instead. “What would you have done if you didn't do this?” he asked. “The horses?”
“Not politics,” Arthur said immediately. “Something honest like prostitution.” Eames didn't flinch. “Seriously? Business, probably. I like to run things, as you may have noticed.”
“Yeah, I can see you being head of Microsoft at thirty, or whatever,” Eames agreed, softening the words with a smile. “You wouldn't drive the middle management to suicide.”
Soundlessly and delicately as a ballet dancer, the waiter set their meals on the table. Eames pried his fingers loose from Arthur's. “I'm going to need two hands for this beauty,” he explained. “You asked about Kenya? This was more meat than we ate in a year there.”
As expected, it's perfectly cooked, too. Eames fell on his like a starving animal, while Arthur ate tiny, dainty bites. But he ate fast, at least; he was as hungry as Eames is.
When they came up for air, Arthur said, “Did you want to order something for Yusuf to go? Another steak?”
Eames shook his head. “I will bet you every cent I've got on me he somehow weaseled his way into Ariadne's trailer for dinner, Ariadne's darling mum's shotgun not withstanding.” Arthur stared. “He was brilliant with the nuns,” Eames amplified. “Had them eating out of his hand at a very young age.”
“Ariadne's mother has her own N.S.A. file,” Arthur said slowly. “Senior warned me. They did the beauty pageant circuit in the late 1990s, you know. The assault charges were dropped. She was actually ruled off as part of the settlement-- that's when they switched to showing leadline ponies.”
Eames stared at him. Arthur stared back, straight-faced. Eames was the first one to give in and laugh. “Darling,” he gasped, when he could finally breathe again. “You conned me. You completely had me.”
“I have hidden depths. You have no idea.” Eames thought that he might be right about that. Maybe he'd been missing out on all kinds of things, just because Arthur occasionally seemed a bit creepy and intense. “Dessert, Eames? Or coffee?”
“Better not,” Eames said regretfully. It would be amazing, no doubt, but he was already so full he felt stuffed.
Arthur handed his credit card to the waiter. Eames did hasty math in his head and decided not to risk insisting on splitting the check. It was probably nearly as much as his weekly feed bill. Yusuf's twenty wouldn't even cover the tip. “Thank you for dinner,” he said.
“Of course,” Arthur answered, not looking at him.
Christ, Eames thought, this is the part where he'd ordinarily ask me back to see a video of a sale horse or something, and then we'd go to bed, but I flipped out on him earlier and now he thinks I'm a psychopath. “Maybe we could go for a walk or something,” he offered. “Work off dinner.”
He glanced discreetly at Arthur's shiny watch. It was after 11:30, which made that officially an idiotic idea. Eames wasn't even sure it was what he wanted-- Arthur. It would be complicated, and Eames could ill afford complications.
With Saito out of the picture, there were a lot of things Eames couldn't afford. Arthur was his teammate. Arthur was Dom Cobb's protege. Arthur was Arthur Senior's son, and Senior had access to dirt other people couldn't imagine existed. Do you think Arthur would be interested if he knew, Eames had asked Yusuf, but the truth was, Arthur might already know.
It didn't matter, because the words were already out of Eames' mouth. Arthur blinked, considering. “It's late,” he said finally. “Why don't we go back to the house instead?”, he asked. “We can have a drink, and I'll run you back to the showgrounds afterward, if you'd like.”
If you don't want to fuck after all, he didn't say, which for Arthur was practically coy. Eames wondered if he was meant to feel pressured, having let Arthur pay for dinner. Did it make him the woman? Was he morally obligated to put out? “Yeah,” he agreed. “I'd love to get the, the tour from you.”
That was enough to make Arthur blush. Eames had seen him bucked off by a young horse, rolling around in the sand of Senior's ring. He'd seen him sweat through his shirt, the first time he'd jumped the fast, strong Point Man. He'd stayed up one night walking a mare with colic, and seen Arthur roll in just after four, his hair standing up and his suit rumpled. He knew Arthur wasn't actually perfect.
But Eames still enjoyed seeing Arthur do something human-- eat, blink, smile, blush, fuck. The thought of Arthur in bed made him push his chair back, a little too eagerly, and stand up a little too fast. He was rushing his fences again, probably. Time to sit back and wait for them to come to him.
But Arthur, unlike The Forger, wasn't particularly patient. He held out his arm to Eames, and Eames took it, half laughing and half annoyed. Arthur had a reputation for flamboyance, which was all very well. When you were rich you could afford to be noticed, to be different. But Eames had to make a living, and it wasn't going to be on the strength of his manners, or his fashion sense.
He let Arthur open his car door for him, even though it felt awkward and wrong. Having that conversation now would definitely be getting ahead of himself. It was a short drive to the house, which was good; Arthur's grip on the gear shift turned his knuckles white, though it was hard to tell if that was anticipation or just nerves. For the sake of his own nerves, he decided to assume it was anticipation.
As expected, Senior's house was right on the beach and very, very big-- but unlike the farmhouse in New Jersey, it was modern, all glass and light. It was hard for Eames to imagine, living like this, growing up like this. It isn't because Mombasa wasn't beautiful, and it wasn't precisely the money: Eames had seen money at Cobol, even if he hadn't had any.
It was the way beauty and money were so ordinary to Arthur, the way his immaculate suits were only clothing, and his Porsche was only a car. Things didn't matter to him, because he'd never had to live without them. Eames had never felt so far from home as he did standing in front of the fireplace in Senior's living room, looking up at a painting even he knew was a Picasso.
And then Arthur kissed him, sudden and shy, and he thought that perhaps it didn't matter so very much, that maybe the Americans were right about home being what you made of it, because kissing Arthur was like winning the biggest class, like having the national anthem played for you while they hung a medal around your neck and the crowd roared. All the years he'd known Arthur, all the time he'd wasted daydreaming about lovely, broken Mal-- and kissing Arthur was like victory.
They went to see Arthur's bedroom after that, of course. Arthur's shyness bled away as he pulled Eames up the stairs, dropping his jacket over the newel post and Eames' on the landing, sending cufflinks flying and fumbling at Eames' belt. And then he was on his knees in front of Eames, there in the hallway, his fingers fumbling Eames' cock clear of his pants.
This isn't happening, Eames thought, leaning back against the banister. He'd had sex in hotel rooms and horseboxes, but never before in a hall. But Arthur's mouth was on him, warm and wet and undeniably real, and he couldn't help bringing his hand up to run it gently through Arthur's hair. “I never thought,” he said, “never in a billion years, that you would be so fantastic at this.” And he can feel Arthur laughing around him, but it's true.
He never thought that much about what sex with Arthur would be like, anyway, except when Arthur turned up with one of his boyfriends, looking faintly fucked around the edges. But he never thought of Arthur sucking him off, that prim mouth curving around him, he never thought of rocking his hips gently while Arthur knelt in front of him, careless of the knees of his expensive suit.
He was so tired, and for once that was a good thing, because it kept him from coming embarrassingly fast. It had been a long time since he'd done this, since he'd made the time for it. After he left Mombasa he'd felt like his body wasn't his own anymore, and he'd set out to reclaim it, but that hadn't worked either. There hadn't been anyone special in a long time, not since Mal.
Arthur had him at the edge, had every nerve in his body at attention. “Darling,” Eames said, and tugged at his hair, but he could feel Arthur shake his head and increase his efforts and then Eames closed his eyes and came in Arthur's mouth in the open hallway lined with expensive artwork. It was astonishing, all of it, Arthur most of all.
He was still half dazed when Arthur pushed him into the bedroom, and even though it was meant to be the focal point of the tour he couldn't have said what color the walls were, or even the bedframe, except that it was massive. But he noticed the sheets, which were made of cotton so heavy it felt like parchment, and he noticed the pillows Arthur was lounging against, and the contrast of Arthur's lean brown body against the soft ivory.
The first time he'd been with a man for money it had been by accident, outside a club. He'd been home, for the first time since he'd left, because Soeur Marie Louise-- the only one of them with any kindness in her-- was ill. And while he was there Sister Benedicta had lectured him about wasted potential and immoral behavior, so that by the time he left the orphanage he was angry, so angry that he took the money he'd meant to put in the poorbox and spent it getting drunk. He'd gone with the man into the alley and let himself be fucked against a wall, and afterward the man had shoved thirty dollars in his hand instead of a telephone number
The second time he hadn't even known how much money to ask for. It had hardly mattered-- he'd closed his eyes and thought of The Forger, little more than half-broken and well on his way to being served on a dinner plate. Only Eames knew what he might be someday, Eames and Yusuf, who had the best eye for a horse of any man in Africa.
But by the end, he'd known exactly what he was worth, and he'd held stronger men than Arthur down while he kissed the arc of a collarbone, the edge of a throat, while he unzipped trousers with fingers gone unsteady. Arthur was benefiting from a great deal of experience, and it showed in his closed eyes, in his arms raised and hands taut on the bedposts, in his body, tense and perfect.
Jesus God, let me not fuck this up, Eames thought, the way he had in the beginning when he'd thought it mattered, when he thought he wouldn't get paid. He licked his way down Arthur's hairless, tanned body, immaculate and expensive as everything Arthur wore, and swallowed Arthur's dick. Above him, Arthur shuddered and moaned, more beautiful laid bare like this than he was carefully buttoned and discreetly opulent.
It shouldn't have surprised Eames, the way even the face Arthur made when he came was elegant. “You're so perfect it's unreal,” he said when he could breathe again. Arthur had been running his fingers through Eames' hair, with the same gentleness he showed to Point Man.
The fingers stopped, and moved again. “Is that really how you think of me?”, Arthur asked, sounding more curious than upset.
Eames was lying with his head on Arthur's lean thigh. He thought about sitting up, but he felt as if all of his bones had turned to butter. Besides, he'd never been able to read Arthur's expressions. “Maybe,” he said. “A little. Things work out for you--.”
“My father works things out for me,” Arthur interrupted. “You're damn good at what you do, Eames, and you got there by yourself. You don't think I'm jealous of that?”
“Um,” Eames said, unable to come up with a coherent response to this flattery, especially since he agreed with it. “You're pretty great yourself, Arthur.”
Arthur laughed and wiggled down until they were next to each other, lying at an angle across the big bed. “Promise me something,” he said.
“Anything,” Eames managed, almost asleep.
“Promise me we'll win the team gold in London, because otherwise Cobb is going to kill us for this.”
“Definitely,” Eames said, and fell asleep to the sound of Arthur's laugh.
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Your horse names were inspired: Edith and Limbo, and Dice for the piebald pony, as much as The Forger and Point Man (and total agreement about incorrect capitalization, so I love that you took that and turned it into this).
on the most horrifying road in America--LOL so very true.
Eames' past really caught at my heart, what he'd had to do to get away from his life in Kenya; that sense of desperate stoicism. Arthur was intriguing, with his 'discreet opulence' and his interest in Eames that everybody else could see. That was such an interesting moment, when Yusuf says 'Arthur has loved you for years,' and I realized, suddenly, that Eames was, not exactly an unreliable narrator, but certainly one who wasn't necessarily interpreting everything around him very accurately.
Very enjoyable; thanks for sharing.
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So much fun. I love the horses' names, I love the feel of this world, which I know absolutely nothing about, love the new twists on familiar characters, like Eames being Mal's dalliance.
Even in a crazy scenario like this, you still write beautiful character drama. Eames's constant senses of outsider-ness drives the story, creates a fascinating point of view through which to observe this world, and opens the door to all those lovely class observations you do so well. Especially the one about the equestrian world being made up of the very rich and the very poor, both dependent on each other - I have no experience to tell me whether that's accurate, but it certainly sounds convincing.
If I say that this didn't feel like an ending, because Eames didn't feel to me like he was quite convinced of his place in this world even having won both first place and Arthur, please don't take that as any sort of concrit. Really it's an unapologetic plea for more :)
I can't help wanting to know what happens when Cobb finds out about them, when Arthur finds out about Eames's past, when (if) Eames actually turns Saito down.
I know you will have secret back-story. Can you tell me more about Nash - I loved your one hint that he might be an actual layered character rather than just the villain of the piece. What what was Arthur like when Eames was working for his father and he was trying to learn everything he could? I doubt senior wanted a gay horseman for his son, somehow.
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