You bastards! I blame all of you for this. xD


Title: Run to Daylight, 1/?
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~3900
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sequel to The Running Play. This story picks up where TRP left off.
Warnings: References to past noncon.
Author's Note: FIRSTLY. I ended up really enjoying this verse! So I'm really glad you guys do too! Secondly, I don't know how long this will be yet (there's a lot bouncing around in my head), but this time I'm going to aim for shorter chapters and more frequent updates, if I can. Thirdly, once again no knowledge of football is really required. However, just to toss this idea out here, I was wondering if I should perhaps write a little football refresher for people unfamiliar with the game? Just to give everyone an idea of what's happening, how the game is played, the different positions, etc? Let me know in the comments if this would be helpful or just more confusing.
Thank you all VERY much for the overwhelmingly lovely comments for TRP. I'm angling for much of the same themes and drama here, BUT less of the angst. If drama can be distinguished from angst. Anyway I will be quiet now so you all can get reading. :') <3




Curled up on Eames' plush leather couch, Arthur channel surfs. His hair is freshly damp from a shower; he's wrapped up in a blanket with Eames' black Lab dozing at his side. He lands on The Tonight Show just as some joke from the monologue wraps up. The audience is laughing.

“So, in case you haven't heard, star running back for the Seattle Seahawks Winston Eames came out of the closet today. He's the first openly gay football player in NFL history to come out during his career -- yeah.” There's a pause for some scattered applause. “And that is running back, not tight end--”

Rimshot. Laughter. Arthur rolls his eyes and Mattie's tail thumps again the couch in her sleep, like she's having a good dream.

“He's going to be designing the Seahawks' new uniform next season. They're going to look a hundred and ten percent more fabulous!”

Arthur flips channels before he can hear the laughter, so fake it may as well be canned, and eventually finds the news. He somehow expects the world to stop, for everybody to be talking about Eames, but they aren't. There's some other stories, mostly safe and bland, because it's late and it's Sunday. Eames does get a mention during the sports segment, after the newscaster has run through the scores of all the games and the highlights, and a short clip of the press conference plays, of Eames saying I have a boyfriend, so matter-of-fact and self-assured that it still makes Arthur's stomach flip. When it cuts back to the two anchors, the woman says to her partner, “What a charismatic man. I imagine he's just broken the hearts of women everywhere.”

They share a companionable chuckle and the woman says, “Well, I wish him all the best. Now to Rod Christie on weather. Rod?”

Arthur's phone buzzes; Mattie thumps her tail sleepily. Arthur pulls out the phone and reads a text from Eames. Nearly home love. xx

Switching the TV off, Arther hugs his knees to his chest and tries to squash the butterflies in his stomach. He hasn't seen Eames yet, not since the press conference. Eames had quickly shut down questions after briefly affirming that his teammates knew about his sexuality, then saying he only wished to talk about football and would answer personal questions at a later time. Dealing with the media is something rookies are taught at training, but Eames has always handled reporters with particular finesse, maybe from talking to Arthur so much.

After the press conference he'd gone back into the locker room and then texted Arthur saying that the offense team were going out for dinner and drinks, and was it okay if he went? Yes, Arthur had texted back. See you later.

Within twenty minutes he hears Eames fumbling to unlock the front door. Getting up, he sheds the blanket and leaves Mattie asleep on the couch. He's standing in the hall in front of the door by the time Eames gets it open.

Eames looks at him. Arthur stares back levelly. Slowly, Eames eases the door shut behind him.

“Well,” Arthur breaks the silence finally, deadpan. “You don't have to look that pleased with yourself.”

Immediately Eames grins, relieved, and grabs him into a crushing hug. He kisses Arthur and spins around, almost literally sweeping him off his feet, and Arthur squirms and growls with fake irritation. Hearing them, Mattie wakes up and comes skidding into the hall. Eames laughs, and releases Arthur to scruff her cheeks.

“I half thought you wouldn't be here,” Eames says. “I thought you might be annoyed.”

“Annoyed? I'm furious! I can't believe you did that--” His voice almost gets strangled off. He only just manages to finish, “For me.”

Eames straightens up and looks at him seriously. “I'd do anything for you.”

Because his throat feels tight and the corners of his eyes are starting to feel wet -- because nobody has ever done anything like that for Arthur -- he clears his throat and demands, “How does your team already know, anyway?”

“Oh, I told them earlier this week. I think some of them already suspected. And Coop was telling me about dinner with the offense guys after the game, and I said I didn't know if I'd be able to go, since my partner would be in town, and Coop said, 'So why haven't we met the missus yet, are you embarrassed 'cause she's ugly or what?' And I said, 'First of all, he's a mister, not a missus, and secondly, if I'm embarrassed of anyone, it's you.' And he got a real kick out of that. And some of the other guys overheard and they asked if it was true, and I said yeah, and Devon was all, 'Good for you,' 'cause I don't think he knew what else to say. And they were razzing our kicker a bit, saying if anyone on the team was gay it should've been him. And that was it.”

“So,” says Arthur, following this, “did you plan this, or--?”

“No,” Eames says, shaking his head. “I wasn't going to say anything. But then I saw you there, and in the spur of the moment I just thought, you know what? Fuck it. I have a boyfriend.”

Arthur really does want to be mad. But hearing those words again make him feel choked up. Eames notices, and folds him into another hug.

“Idiot.” Arthur sniffles into his shoulder. Eames just chuckles fondly and squeezes him.

When Arthur thinks he can talk without his voice breaking or anything embarrassing, he leans back and says, “Your agent called a press conference for Thursday.”

“Yeah, he sent me a voicemail,” says Eames.

“My boss wants me to stay in town to cover it.”

Eames' eyes widen slightly. Arthur knows he's thinking the same thing Arthur had when his boss had called him: that more than four whole days together seems almost too good to be true.

“I have you to myself all week?” Eames says.

Arthur nods, then says wryly, “Hey, Mr. Eames, how about an exclusive interview for the Tribune?”

Eames snorts, and leans closer. “How about, I'm going to fuck that pretty little arse of yours till you can't see straight. And you can quote me on that.”

Arthur gulps a bit at that. Eames laughs again, then starts manhandling him toward the bedroom.

“Come on, pet,” he murmurs in Arthur's ear, his erection pressing insistently against Arthur through their clothes. “I've been waiting all day to do this.”

Arthur stops everything, stops thinking and moving except to wriggle around a bit when he's on his back on the bed and Eames is pulling the clothes off him. He lets Eames shift him around till he's in just the right position, then slide two slicked fingers up inside him; but that's when Eames slows everything down, just starts kissing and kissing him, everywhere he can reach, making Arthur shiver.

When he finally pushes himself inside Arthur, he goes slowly, and it reminds Arthur of that night in Chicago, last December -- God, has it really been almost a year since that conversation? Eames just keeps kissing him, mouthing at him, nipping at his lower lip and stealing all of Arthur's breath away. It's like he can't believe he's so lucky as to have someone like Arthur in his bed, which is stupid, because Arthur's always been the lucky one; and that always makes him feel even stupider because they're just so hopelessly and pathetically in love.

He strokes himself, and Eames goes faster when he's getting close, as if remembering that this is how Arthur likes it. He could honestly go either way right now because it doesn't really matter as long as he has Eames' fat cock inside him, but the rough way Eames snaps his hips soon has Arthur writhing and moaning in earnest. He comes hard, shuddering and clenching down, and when his mouth falls open Eames kisses him fiercely.

“You're mine,” he growls softly against Arthur's lips. Then his frame grows taut, and he releases himself inside Arthur, fucking through it until he finally collapses on top of him. Arthur grunts and shoves him off.

“You're too heavy,” he complains.

“It's all muscle,” Eames replies, flexing for Arthur's benefit.

Arthur rolls his eyes. Grabbing a corner of the sheet, Eames rolls over and starts wiping off Arthur's stomach, gently.

“That's disgusting,” Arthur says, too tired to stop him.

“We'll wash the sheets tomorrow.” Eames sounds equally drowsy. He drops the sheets and leans over to press a kiss to Arthur's forehead. “What d'you think? Shower sex?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, even though he's already showered. He blinks heavily. “Just give me a minute. Not eighteen anymore, you know ...”

“Yeah. Just a few minutes,” Eames agrees, with a yawn. But they're both exhausted; they sleep straight through to the morning.


+
Arthur wakes to a familiar sound. He's not sure what it is at first, so he takes a moment to arch back into Eames, who is spooning him, one arm slung low over Arthur's belly. He's hard, and Arthur thinks about waking him up with a handjob, but the digital clock on the bedside table says 9:14, which seems early considering the day Eames had yesterday. So he lets Eames sleep, for now.

He hears the sound again, and this time identifies it: it's his cell phone buzzing, tucked in the pocket of his pants, which are on the floor. With a soft grumble, he squirms out from under Eames' arm and gets up, fishing the cell phone out and flipping it open.

It's a voicemail. All it says, simply, is, “Arthur? It's your dad. Give me a call when you wake up, okay?”

Arthur considers. Since a falling-out with his mother a few years ago -- she doesn't approve of his career choice, says it isn't stable or feasible and it's certainly not what she paid for him to do when he went to college -- things with his dad have been ... tentatively okay. They talk on the phone every six months or so. But he honestly can't imagine what his dad -- a former cornerback in college -- will have to say about Eames. He gets into the shower, washes quickly, and dresses, and by the time he's done all that, he's made up his mind. He steps onto the back porch and calls his dad back.

“Hi,” his dad says. “I was watching yesterday -- uh, your boyfriend.”

“Oh. Yeah,” says Arthur, for lack of anything better to say. He's not sure what else there is to say.

“That was pretty big of him.”

“Yeah, it was.” Arthur's heart swells. He looks around at the green yard and the blue sky and he loves this place. Mattie paws at the screen door. He gets up to let her out, then says, “So why are you calling?”

“Just to catch up.” Arthur flops back into his seat as his dad goes on, “Where are you now?”

“In Seattle, with Eames. I'm here till Thursday so I can cover his press conference.”

“What's he gonna say?”

“I don't know yet.” Arthur stifles a yawn. “He's good at dealing with press, though.”

“Honestly, it's not the press I'm worried about.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asks.

“Other players. I mean, I guess his team is pulling behind him, they didn't look too surprised yesterday. Not like they'd do much even if it bothers them, he's one of the best backs in the league.” Arthur knows this, but he still loves to hear it coming from other people. From his father, who knows the ins and outs of American football like the back of his hand, it's especially satisfying. His dad continues, “Other teams, though, that's a worry. He's gonna be a target.”

“He's got a good O-line,” says Arthur. “They'll know to cover him.”

“Doesn't always work that way.” He hears his dad take a sip of something, probably coffee, black. “Guys get stupid. It's the masculine nature of football. Who wants to get shown up by a homosexual?”

“That's because people have pre-existing notions about gay people being soft and feminine. They don't picture some guy who knocks other guys down on a football field. But maybe they will now.”

“Maybe they will, and maybe they'll make damn sure they knock him down first.”

Arthur lets that soak in for a minute. Mattie returns from her patrol of the yard and lays her head across his lap. He rubs her ear with one hand, contemplating.

“Eames is smart,” his dad says finally. “If he doesn't let it get to him -- you know, if people heckle him on the field -- he might be fine.”

“He's smart, but I'm not sure he thought all this through,” Arthur admits. That's a thought he had stowed away on the back burner last night, because he hadn't wanted to spoil the mood, but it returns now and it's grim.

His dad chuckles lightly. “So, can I tell the guys at the office that my son's the guy a football player would come out on national TV for?”

Normally Arthur would take this respect and hang onto it, that his dad sees this as something to be more proud of than ashamed. But something icy slithers into his stomach. “Um, no.”

“I can't tell anyone?”

“I'd really prefer if you didn't.”

“Alright. I hope you're ready for if it does get out, though. People see you two together, they're gonna wonder.”

“I know.” And just like that, he's angry again. Why didn't Eames think this through!

“Anyway, I better get going. I'll talk to you later. Call me if you need anything.”

“Bye, Dad.” Arthur hangs up and just sits there for a minute, until Mattie nudges his hand, asking him to rub her ear again. He obliges.

Eventually he gets up and takes Mattie for a nice long walk around the neighbourhood, to clear his head. It's early September and the weather is still gorgeous. By the time they get back, Eames is up, freshly showered and sitting at the kitchen table in boxers and an old t-shirt, listening to his phone.

“Lots of messages?” Arthur asks.

Eames nods, frowning.

“From who?”

“My agent, couple reporters -- there's one from Cobb that's nice, he says hi. I haven't got through them all yet.”

He continues to go through them while Arthur moves about the kitchen, making tea and toast. He slathers two pieces of toast in butter and honey and slides them over the table to Eames, who takes them gratefully, licking the honey off his fingers before he presses buttons on his phone.

He looks increasingly relaxed as he sifts through the messages, but before long his expression clouds and he snorts. He shoves the phone over the table at Arthur, who's sitting across from him now and nibbling his own toast.

“Listen to that.”

Arthur wipes off his hands and picks the phone up. The message replays.

“Hi. It's your father. Look, I don't understand why--” There's a pause, a short, impatient exhalation. “I got to work this morning, and the guys are telling me my son's some kind of cocksucker. I don't understand what you were -- just, give me a call when you get this, alright?”

The message ends abruptly.

“Nothing from my mum, of course,” Eames says when Arthur gives him the phone back. “I suppose she'll hear about it in a month or so.”

“Are you going to call him?” Arthur asks, brow furrowed.

“Nah.” Eames switches off the phone and sets it aside in favour of his tea. “Why spoil a good thing? Listen, I want to take you out for dinner tonight.”

He grins. Arthur raises his eyebrows and sips his tea, wondering how best to respond. “Do you,” he says finally, going for noncommittal.

“It would be our first real date,” says Eames. “Ever.”

“You don't think after last night, people will see you with another guy and put it together?”

“What's to put together?” says Eames. “I came out. The world knows I'm gay. No more secret. Now I can show off my gorgeous boyfriend wherever I'd like.”

“I mean,” says Arthur, trying to keep a level tone, “they'll know I'm your boyfriend.”

“Well--” Eames sounds confused. “Yeah, but--”

And then his eyebrows knit together.

“Wait -- you're telling me you want to stay in the closet?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

“You want to stay in the closet,” Eames repeats. “Right, so all that stuff about how I can't come out because I'd be putting a target on myself, all that stuff was bullshit? Because you didn't want to come out?”

Arthur folds his arms. “Are you mad at me or something?”

“Yes, I'm mad at you!” Eames exclaims. He throws his crust on the floor for Mattie and she takes it, startled, then slinks under the table. “Jesus Christ, Arthur! I come out to the whole world so that I can spend more time with you, and now you're telling me we can't even -- we can't even leave the house together to walk the bloody dog, in case somebody sees you!”

“Maybe you should have thought about what I wanted before you made your big announcement,” Arthur says, still keeping his voice level, because he's mad too and he knows it pisses Eames off even more, when he's angry and Arthur is calm.

“What you-- For fuck's sake, who are you?” Eames demands.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean where's my boyfriend, you know, the one who isn't ashamed of who he is? Who's this insecure coward?”

Immediately Arthur's expression darkens, and knowing he's hit a nerve, Eames returns to the attack: “You used to have no problem being out of the closet, even when it brought you under fire. You used to be the bravest person I know--”

“What, back in college?” Arthur demands. His heart hammers against his chest. “You're right. I didn't have a problem with being gay then. It was everybody else who did.”

Eames glares at him, taking deep breaths. Arthur glares back.

“So, what,” Eames says finally, “you're telling me, what -- you're scared?”

“Yes!” Arthur snaps suddenly. “Yes! I'm fucking scared, okay! Are you happy?”

He shoves his chair away from the table and gathers up his dishes. He throws a piece of crust on the floor as well, and says, “Mattie,” but she stays under the table.

He hears Eames get up when he's standing at the sink, running his plate under hot water to get rid of the drying honey and crumbs. He's so angry he feels shaky all over. Behind him, Eames rests his hands on Arthur's waist, tentatively.

“You should've said,” he says, and Arthur bows his head. Eames reaches past him and turns off the tap, then gently removes the plate from Arthur's grip and places it in the sink. He turns Arthur around, looking him in the eyes. “You should've said if you were scared.”

Arthur forces out a laugh. “You couldn't guess? That I hate being in locker rooms surrounded by football players? And they all smell like the one at Proclus--”

His voice wavers dangerously. He stops, and Eames presses their foreheads together.

“I feel like an imposter,” Arthur says finally, quietly. “When I'm around them. Like, sure, we can talk, no problem, because I'm just some reporter and there's a fine for dodging the media, anyway. But I always feel like one day, one of them's going to look at me and just know, I don't belong there.”

“Yes, you do,” says Eames firmly. “You're a great writer. You analyse the plays better than anyone. Guys respect you.”

“Because they think I'm straight.”

“This isn't Proclus,” says Eames. “I know plenty of guys in the league who wouldn't have a problem with your sexuality. My teammates won't care.”

“I know,” Arthur says, because he does. “It's not rational, Eames. I know. Maybe my fear isn't rational. But it's real. When I walk into a locker room, it's real.”

“Well,” says Eames, with a gentle smile, “I seem to recall you snapping the wrist of the last football player who tried to fuck around with you.”

“Don't, don't,” Arthur snarls immediately, shoving him off, “don't you dare make out like I could've fixed the whole problem for myself if I'd just done that in the first place. You weren't even on the team, Eames, you didn't see me trying to stand up for myself. I had an opportunity with that guy because he was the only one attacking me at the time and because I had you and Cobb and the quarterback in my corner. That's it. If I'd done that two years earlier, they would've -- they did--”

“Arthur,” Eames says, reaching for his face, trying to hush him, but Arthur pushes his hand away angrily.

“You weren't there,” he says shakily. “You think I just lay down and took it, but I didn't--”

“I've never thought--”

“The only reason I'd given up by the time I met you was because I'd already had the shit kicked out of me enough times to learn that it doesn't matter what you do to them, because there's always going to be more of them than you, and they're all bigger and stronger than you and giving in was the only way I could--”

He has to stop, then, to catch his breath sharply, and Eames immediately moves closer and touches his face again. Arthur tilts his head away from the contact, but doesn't move away from the counter. Eames makes a soft, soothing sound and presses their foreheads together again, and Arthur lets him.

“Sorry for yelling,” he says after a minute, in a low voice.

“No.” Eames shakes his head. “I'm glad you did. You never tell me things like this, Arthur. I never know how you feel or what it was like for you. It didn't occur to me why you'd be scared.”

“I guess I ruined your whole coming-out thing,” says Arthur hollowly.

“Not at all,” Eames says, surely to make him feel better. “It's good just having that secret off my chest, anyway. I never liked lying to the guys. And it'll get better, you'll see. Other players will come out of the woodwork. I really think I did a good thing, Arthur.”

“A dumb thing,” Arthur says, grudgingly, “but a good thing.”

Eames kisses him and steps back, clapping his hands together briskly.

“Lazy day and take-out tonight, then? The usual place?”

“Sounds good,” Arthur says, relaxing all at once. Eames strolls out of the kitchen, presumably to go and get dressed (or not, knowing Eames), whistling as he goes, and Arthur, closing his eyes, impulsively says, “I love you.”

Dryly, Eames calls back, “I can't imagine why.” Arthur smiles.

This is a good thing, he tells himself forcefully. It'll have to be.



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