Eames didn't get the chance to visit his brother much - every other Christmas and the odd week throughout the year when money wasn't tight - but when he did, Eames never wanted to leave.
It wasn't just the monstrously huge flat screen television with more channels than Eames deemed strictly necessary, or the fact that his sister-in-law made the best chicken he had ever tasted. It wasn’t even the fact that Californian weather was a huge step up from what he was used to back in England, although all those things helped.
It was his nephew, Arthur. He was as sharp as a tack, and at 16 he was brighter than his Dad and Eames had been at his age - combined. He was some sort of computer genius, attended special classes at a local University, and quizzed Eames on more British history and politics than Eames could keep up with.
He was also a hell of a lot better looking than most teenagers. He had, so far, missed the horrors of teenage acne, inheriting his mother's flawless fair skin, and he kept his clothes in a better state than Eames did, even now that he was in his thirties. He also carried himself with more confidence and grace than Eames thought natural for someone his age, though he supposed being the overachieving only child of a pair of successful lawyers could do that to a kid.
Eames was proud as hell of him and genuinely enjoyed his company. Arthur made him feel interesting, a novelty. He teased Eames about his English slang, the way he took his coffee and the amusement he took in the ridiculous late-night American infomercials they watched together as Arthur’s parents slept upstairs.
On one such night, Eames sent him off to bed around midnight, fearing another glare from Arthur's mother in the morning if she learnt he had been up late again. Eames lost himself in one nature documentary after another, before eventually deciding to turn in himself.
He had almost reached the door of the spare bedroom when he heard it - a low, agonised sob. Eames paused, glanced around, and saw the light spilling from beneath Arthur's bedroom door.
He took a step towards it, wondering if he should ignore the sound, thinking that Arthur wouldn't want to be caught if he was crying. But worry clutched at his chest and he pushed against the door.
"Arthur?" he whispered, putting his head around the door when the only reply was another choked sob.
The glow of a bedside lamp illuminated Arthur's half naked body as he writhed on his bed, his t-shirt bunched up around his ribs, long legs pushing the sheets and his checkered boxer shorts to the end of his bed. He had a hand tight around his stiff cock, jerking it so hard it looked painful.
Eames gasped, his hand gripping the doorknob. He felt a sudden prickle along the back of his neck and he jerked around, expecting to see his brother standing there in the dark hallway, demanding to know what the fuck he was doing, but the hall was empty.
Eames swallowed and shut his eyes, his arm tensing as he brain fought to pull the door closed, knowing he should pull the door closed, right now, but then Arthur moaned and Eames looked back again, his heart hammering so loudly he wondered how Arthur - how the whole damn neighbourhood - didn't hear it.
Arthur now had two slick fingers pushing in and out of his hole, disappearing to the knuckle as he bucked and twisted between his hands, seeming not to know which he wanted more of. His head tossed on his pillow, the sweat on his neck gleaming from the soft light of the lamp. Eames' gaze jumped between his face - not knowing if he wanted Arthur to notice him watching or if the idea terrified him - and the hand on his cock, now squeezing a drop of precome from the reddened head.
The mattress springs started to squeak as Arthur grew desperate, the flush on his cheeks spreading to his neck and disappeared into his t-shirt. He gave a frustrated whine and heaved himself up on his knees, fucking himself down onto his hand and gasping over every breath.
A loud groan escaped his lips and Eames winced - surely that would carry to the next room? - but then he noticed the porn magazine, lying on the floor next to the bed. It was open, showing a man with his legs spread, muscles straining, with a dildo half inside his ass.
Eames bit his lip and stepped into the room just as Arthur gave a heartbreaking whine.
His eyes shot open and landed on Eames before he could even consider leaving. Arthur's hands jumped away from his body as if electrocuted and he scrambled back towards his headboard, eyes wide and terrified, until he had nowhere else to go.
"I was - I just -" he started, suddenly darting towards his bedsheets before Eames settled a hand over his arm.
"It's okay, sweetheart, it’s okay," said Eames, wondering how the hell he was keeping his voice so calm. He pressed Arthur back into his pillows and chanced a glance down. His cock was curved against his stomach, straining and damp at the head.
"You need to come, yeah?" he whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed and pressing a hand over Arthur's bare thigh, trying not to notice how his hand easily covered the width of it.
Arthur nodded, his chest heaving. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.
"I need to - I just really need to -"
"Shh, it's okay, you're fine," Eames muttered. He took Arthur's cock in his hand, his gasp at the heat of it lost in the groan that rumbled from Arthur's chest.
"That feel good?" Eames asked, his fist pumping over Arthur's flesh, his sweat and precome allowing for a deep, slow massage.
Arthur nodded and tipped his head back against the wall, his neck a long, gorgeous arch. Eames stared, lips tingling with the desire to kiss it. He held back, afraid to get too close, afraid to move anything more than his hand.
He pulled Arthur off as slowly as he could force himself to, tightening his grip around the head and rubbing a thumb over the dome of it. A vein throbbed beneath his fingertips and Eames adjusted his grip to rub along it, earning him a sharp jerk of Arthur's hips and a bite of his lip.
Eames kept his wrist going and let his gaze slide down Arthur's body, over the straining ribcage, the sharp hipbones, down to his balls which Eames tried to ignore the lack of hair on, and further back between his thighs.
He lifted Arthur's leg by the ankle and bent it up, Arthur moving mindlessly with him without resistance. Eames' hand stuttered over Arthur's cock at the sight of his stretched, wet hole between his cheeks. He glanced to the bedside table and saw the half empty tube of lube, its cap off.
Eames slid the fingers of his free hand between Arthur's legs.
"Is this what you want?" he asked, rubbing a gentle fingertip over the hole.
Arthur's hands twisted in his pillow and he grit his teeth, pressing his hips down onto Eames' hand.
"Were you trying to find your prostate?" asked Eames, his mind tight and obsessed on the hard flesh in his fist, the wet muscle beneath his fingertip, not letting himself think about what he was saying.
"Yeah," gasped Arthur, his cheeks burning brighter, his hair dark and curling with sweat around his temples.
Eames jerked him harder and pressed a finger inside.
"Fuck" he hissed, as Arthur took him in with one long slide, his finger slipping in to the hilt. He pulled back and added another, before pressing them both back in.
Arthur's knees fell open.
"Oh - God - " he keened, and Eames' cock throbbed in sympathy, wondering if Arthur had ever had anything as long, as thick, inside of him before.
"Move for me pet, find where it feels good," Eames said. The room suddenly felt stifling and he wet his lips, curling his fingers inside Arthur's clenching body.
Arthur twisted and undulated against the bed, the little muscle he had stretching and straining, until he shuddered and curled his toes against Eames' thigh.
"There?" Eames asked, pressing down and rubbing when Arthur nodded. His jaw was slack and there was moisture that Eames knew wasn't sweat clumping his eyelashes.
Eames worked his hands between Arthur's legs and felt his wrists begin to cramp, but he couldn't stop. The need to see Arthur come, to feel his orgasm in his hands, was tight and painful between his legs. His neck was straining, not able to stop watching Arthur's body but listening all the same for a creak of a floorboard or a twist of a door knob from the hall.
Arthur hardened a little more in Eames' hand and another drop of precome slid down to drip across Eames' knuckles. He stilled his wrist between Arthur's legs and pressed his fingertips down firmly against his prostate.
"You going to come?" he asked, breathless.
"Yeah, God please," Arthur gasped, his hand scrabbling against Eames' forearm, the little nails scraping along his flesh.
Eames slid his fist to the base of Arthur's cock and tugged him with a firm grip, lowering his head. Arthur groaned and bucked before Eames' lips had even touched the head of his cock. Eames moaned around him, his fingertips pulsing against the spot inside him that made Arthur whine.
Arthur's hands clenched into his shirt, balling the fabric away from his shoulders, curling his body up and in towards Eames' head.
"Oh - FUCK -!" he spat, and Eames hummed around him as he came, swallowing his ropes of come, vaguely noticing that it was the first time he had heard Arthur swear. He fought the fierce clench of Arthur's hole to press into his prostate as Arthur kept coming. He felt Arthur’s gaze on the back of his neck as he gasped down at him, almost in shock, until he slumped back into his pillows with a shuddering sigh.
Eames let Arthur's cock slip from his mouth and gently pulled his fingers from his body, glancing up at him. Arthur had an arm thrown across his eyes, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. Eames pressed a kiss to his clenching stomach and rubbed a hand over his chest before tugging down his t-shirt. His stomach gave a lurch when he saw it had the Batman symbol splashed across it.
"Good?" he asked, unable to keep the smirk from his voice. Arthur smiled beneath his arm and Eames saw his cheek dimple.
"Mmm hmm," he hummed, letting his legs straighten and fall to the bed.
Eames reached down into his pyjama bottoms and bit his lip as he grasped his throbbing cock. He pulled it to lie flat against his stomach, hidden beneath his waistband. Anxiety crept back into his bones and suddenly the room felt glaringly bright, the silence of the house pressing against his ears. He leant back away from Arthur, his hand landing on Arthur's discarded boxer shorts.
He tossed them onto Arthur's chest, not knowing what his reaction would be once the bliss from his orgasm had worn off.
"Pull those on and get some sleep now, okay?" he said, trying for a casual tilt in his voice.
Arthur reached for them blindly and clenched them in his fist, his tongue sliding over his dry lips. Eames glanced away, the image of his softening, damp cock against his stomach burned into his retinas. Arthur pushed himself up to pull on his underwear, the silence painful, though Arthur appeared unconcerned.
Eames stood up and glanced around, his gaze settling on the half finished homework on the desk, the framed science award certificate, the poster from some kid’s fantasy film Eames had never heard of. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the floor.
"What's a computer whizz kid like you doing using magazines, anyway?" he asked with a laugh, toeing at the magazine at his feet. "I thought you'd have your own stash on your laptop, password protected and everything."
"Shut up," said Arthur with a grin, running a hand back through his hair, the gesture so innocent that Eames had to look away.
"Sleep tight, okay?" he said, reaching for the doorknob.
Eames closed his eyes.
"You're not going to - I mean, you won't tell Dad, will you?"
Eames fought the urge to laugh and glanced back over his shoulder.
"About the magazine or about what we - ?"
Arthur curled his arms around his knees and blushed a little.
"Both, I guess."
Eames forced a smile onto his face and shook his head.
"He doesn't need to know, right? We'll keep it between us."
Arthur smiled and nodded, pulling his sheets up around himself and reaching over to his lamp.
The room fell into darkness and Eames closed the door behind him, again expecting to see Arthur's parents waiting for him, looking murderous, but the hall was still blessedly empty. He made his way to his room as quickly and quietly as he could manage, and no sooner had his door shut behind him than he was sliding to the floor, a hand in his pyjama bottoms.
His nails skirted across the floorboards as he jerked his cock, he head hitting the door with a thump. He let it fall forward, the memory of Arthur's cock pulsing come into his mouth forcing his hand faster. He opened his eyes to banish it and stared down at the head of his cock slipping in and out of his fist. The flesh burned red, even in the darkness.
He panted until his cock gave a jerk and he came into his hand, his back arching and his legs shaking against the floor.
He gave himself a moment, staring into space, wiping his come onto his pyjama bottoms. When he had caught his breath he tugged them off and threw them onto his suitcase, absently deciding to deal with them in the morning. He crawled into bed, his limbs trembling, and fell heavily against his pillow.
He stared at the blinking numbers of his alarm clock, his head throbbing, watching time creep forward. He groaned and rolled onto his back, pressing his hands to his face.
It was merely hours before morning, before Eames would be called down to breakfast. How could he sit around a table with Arthur opposite him, in his socks and his Batman t-shirt, drinking orange juice? What if Eames couldn't stop himself from imagining him, flushed and naked, fucking himself on his fingers, fucking himself on Eames' fingers? What if that was all Eames saw every time he looked at him from now on?
Eames swore to the ceiling and stared out the window, watching as the dark morning turned slowly to gold, wondering how the hell he would ever get to sleep, but dreading the next day even more.