Work Text:
Arthur has a sick weight set-up in the enclosed porch off the back of the garage--a ton of banged up old free weights leaning against the wall, angled benches for push-ups and sit-ups, a bunch of stuff--kettle bells, medicine balls--Eames doesn’t really know what to do with, so he sticks with the weights and does a lot of pull-ups on the bar set up in the doorway. The porch is roomy, with a couple mats at one end below a scratched, spotty mirror screwed into the wall. Most of the equipment is second-hand, marked with faded stencils from half a dozen university athletic departments. After a month or two, Arthur gets some newer stuff, a squat bar, a new bench press bench and a heavier set of plates, a punching bag he gets Eames to help him hang in the corner.
The porch is sunny and it gets a good cross-breeze if you crack open the windows. Eames spends a lot of time in there, after school. Arthur’s usually not around, so he eats a snack and works out for a while; sometimes he does his homework in there, stretched out on the mats in the sun.
"I’m not going to sleep with you," Arthur said, sometime in the first couple weeks, sitting across from Eames at the dinner table, spreading mustard on his burger bun.
"Yeah, okay," Eames said, because Arthur seemed like he was trying to be nice or something, like he wanted to get to know Eames first, maybe.
"Okay," Arthur said, "You want pickle relish?" like it was just settled, and Eames figured Arthur would let him know when he wanted it, maybe just come in his bedroom some night, or smirk and pull Eames’ head down towards his lap when they were sitting on the couch watching tv.
Once he gets to know him better, Eames realizes Arthur would probably knock, before coming in his bedroom, that it would have to be a Friday or a Saturday because Arthur wouldn’t do it for the first time on a school night. He wouldn’t just push Eames’ head down either, he’d--ask, probably. Say Eames had been here for a while, he ate a lot of food, Arthur had had to buy him a bunch of new clothes, he’d broken the side mirror on the car by mistake, banging it into the garage door when Arthur was teaching him how to drive, he’d let Eames tag along to Mal and Dom’s and use the PASIV with them almost every weekend. None of that stuff was free. And Eames would nod and agree and Arthur would fuck Eames in his bed at the other end of the house after dinner, after they finished washing the dishes.
That’s why he’s so surprised when he sees Arthur leaning in the doorway of the porch, watching him do bicep curls. Because it's a Wednesday afternoon, and he has a midterm on Thursday; he's supposed to go over to Mal's after this so she can quiz him on verb conjugations. It’s hot, so Eames is just wearing a pair of shorts and sneakers. Arthur’s wearing a suit and tie, and when he sees Eames watching him he straightens and starts taking off the jacket. Oh. Eames stops.
“Keep going,” Arthur says, still watching him in the mirror. He hangs the jacket on a hook next to the door and then loosens his tie and takes that off as well. He rolls up his sleeves as he walks slowly across the floor, still watching, his mouth flat, intent. Eames’ hands feel sweaty; he has to tighten his grip on the bar to keep it steady as he raises it again. His arms look good--big; he hopes Arthur’s noticed how heavy the weight he’s using is.
Arthur stands behind him. Eames does another rep. Arthur says,
"Feet a little further apart." Eames' stomach lurches, but he does it.
"Another," Arthur murmurs, and Eames has to exhale hard to get his breathing under control enough to get the weight up. Arthur lifts one hand, meets Eames’ eyes in the mirror, and Eames’ dick twitches; if Arthur fucks him on the mats, watching him in the mirror, he’s never going to be able to work out in here again without a boner, but he doesn’t care, not when Arthur says,
"Okay?" and waits for him to nod before putting two fingers, low, on his back, just above the waistband of his shorts.
"You’re using your back," Arthur says. Eames’ face, in the mirror, looks confused, and Arthur sees it. "Right here," he says, pressing a little harder. "You’re using your lower back to get the weight up."
"Oh," Eames says.
"Form’s really good otherwise," Arthur says, stepping away and sitting down on the weight bench. "Watch your wrists a little; don’t twist them at the top."
Eames does another ten reps, and then puts the barbell down, breathing hard.
Arthur smiles at him, commiserating. "Makes it harder, doesn’t it," he says.
"Yeah," Eames says, tipping his head down until all he can see is the mat and Arthur’s shoes. His arms hurt. There are tears at the corners of his eyes. "A lot harder."