loadedparadox

((From Complications verse, post his drunken texting. Talk of sex, prostitution and unsafe sexual practices.))

In truth, Arthur had lied. He'd told Eames he was heading home but the the only truth was that he'd paid the tab and left the bar. For another one that he knew of but hadn't frequented in years. Not since he'd stopped looking for random hookups just before Mal's death.

The place hadn't changed at all. The music too loud, house music for dancing, the lights were bright in spots, dim in others, and the couches in the corner were plunged in darkness. It was a place meant for hook ups and cheap sex and it was the last thing Arthur needed, and the one thing he could think of. It wasn't the first time that thoughts of Eames had driven him to places like this, though that had been years before.

The mark he chose was not broad shoulder with full flips and too much attitude. He didn't look like Eames in any way, shape, or form. He did, however, have one of those damned hats on, almost the same colour orange as the one in the picture safely saved in Arthur's phone.

Usually he would have bid his time, bought the boy a drink and then eased into things. Arthur just wasn't in the mood to play games. Brushing past the others in his group, Arthur leaned in and whispered softly against his ear. "Come with me. Now."

It wasn't likely the demand that had him following but rather the cut of Arthur's suit. It always paid to look expensive, especially with rent boys who were looking for a good payout.

He didn't wait for a response, turning and walking out the door. The boy followed. Across the street, two doors up. The hotel rented by the hour, never had sheets on the bed, and was the sort of place that usually made Arthur think of gasoline and molotov cocktails. Instead he paid in cash, took the oldfashioned key and headed up two flights by stair, ignoring the old elevator.

Opening the door, he stood aside so the boy could proceed him in. Closing the door, he twisted the lock without looking back.

"So, what did you have in mi..."

The boy never got further than that.

Grabbing him by the shoulder, Arthur spun the boy around and slammed him against the wall. It earned him a moan, the boy gladly parting his legs, reaching up to pull away his hat. Arthur's hand grabbed his wrist, almost numbingly tight.

"Leave it," he muttered, reaching around to undo the boy's belt buckle and top button of his fly. Not worry about anything more, shoving the denim down narrow hips even as he leaned in to bite sharply at the back of his neck. The skin was so tender, tasting of salt and sweat and Arthur's tongue was still burned with scotch and all he thought about was leaving a bruise there, a dark mark like ink on the skin.

Even as his hand closed around the bulge throbbing behind black boxerbriefs, Arthur was already pulling away.

"I can't..." He shook his head, stepping away as he blinked, seeming to come out of a haze. "I apologize."

Pulling his wallet out, he didn't even count the money, tossing a handful of bills onto the bed and jerking open the door in nearly the same moment. Without a look back he head down the stairs and out the door. Let the boy believe he couldn't perform. Let him enjoy the four hundred dollars on the cheap mattress. Arthur didn't care what the hell he thought. Just like Arthur didn't want to still have the thoughts he was. About how Ariadne would look at him if he knew, how the boy's shoulders had been too narrow, his lips too thin. About how even if he'd fucked him into that damn thin wall it wouldn't have been what he wanted.

And maybe, torn between them as he was, it never would be.