Author's Notes: Written as a Christmas gift to a friend. Thank you for reading!

Disclaimer: I own nothing herein.

As meetings of rare opportunities often go, Arthur finds himself in quite the predicament the morning of November 11th, woken from his afternoon nap in Ms. Aguila's rose floral parlor. He wakes with the resistance of a napping cat, stretches like one too, then shoots up and stumbles to his feet at the sound of the door handle jingling.

Shit, he thinks, and of course right then the door opens and in walks dear, sweet Virginia, arms laden with her little pooch and her ostentatious handbag. Her back turned to him as she closes the door, Arthur scrambles through the doorway and all but leaps like a bouncing ball through the open window he'd left alone in the kitchen. Let Virginia Aguila deal with her suspiciously open windows and rumpled furniture herself. Not like he won't be back next week again to mess it all up—after all, hers isthe warmest house on the street.

He keeps running until her house is nothing more than a speck in the distance, until he couldn't even point in the direction of her snow-covered lawn and spotless Volkswagen in the drive if he were paid to. Then he stops at the side of a street and startles nearly out of his skin from the sound of a very large, very dangerous (in his opinion), motorbike being revved not some five feet away. When he looks up, it's just in time to see the owner of said bike flipping the visor of his helmet up, tugging the hideous black thing off, and turning in the direction of where Arthur is standing and gaping at the stranger on the bike like a loon.

Isn't it just his luck that the same afternoon he nearly gets caught in Virginia's home is the same day he meets his—no, no, he isn't going to say it.

"Well fuck me," come the words from the biker's mouth and Arthur doesn't even think as he walks up to him and grabs his face steady, holding him still, and crushes his mouth against a very soft, very eagerother mouth.

It's freezing—November usually is—and Arthur feels the faintest bit lightheaded the longer he's deprived of oxygen. No one told him finding his—whatever—was to be so intoxicating, not like this at least. And damn, he doesn't even have his name yet.

"Your—name?" he asks, pulling away only briefly, only long enough for the stranger to find purchase on Arthur's neck.

"Call…me…Eames," and shit, the way Eames says his own name makes Arthur's knees weak, just before he remembers himself and yanks away, breathless.

"Oh no—no, no, no and no!" he says, with all the eloquence of a drunk baboon. "You are not my—whatever," denial is just that easy, "and we are not everdoing this again!"

"Are you always so twitchy?" Arthur has to resist the urge to take a swing at him. How is it even fair that Eames seems completely unaffected while Arthur feels as though he's just run 10k?

"Stay away from me!" he exclaims, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand for good measure.

Eames looks at him in amusement, clearly finding the situation much more favorable than Arthur. Then again, he probably has a warm bed and decent food waiting for him somewhere whereas Arthur now needs to find somewhere to camp out for the night.

Avoiding Eames works for about a day before Arthur runs into him again, this time at the supermarket parking lot in the early morning.

"I didn't know maniacs like you even knew this place," he says and yes, he's acting just a bit twitchy again this morning.

"Ouch, that hurts so much coming from a street monkey who probably slept in the sewer last night."

"I—as if you—" don't sound flustered, don't sound flustered.

Eames grins at him cockily and crooks his finger at him and Arthur, as Eames expected, is powerless to fight the pull. Before either of them knows it, they're back in the same position as the day before, only this time Arthur is sprawled across the bike and Eames has his fingers edging around the bottom of Arthur's dirt-stained dress shirt. Eames hadn't shaved in who-knows-how-long and Arthur can feel the sharp stubble rubbing back and forth around his mouth.

"So," What a bastard for pulling away, Arthur thinks, trying to pull Eames to his face again, "you gonna tell me your name now?"

"Arthur…now shut up."

Arthur tries, he really does. He doesn't even realize his trying to avoid that 'Stupid-Bastard-on-a-Bike' is actually him searching the city for him. It's been a week—he's already missed his weekly afternoon nap in Virginia's parlor because of said bastard on said bike.

He's not sure what's worse; the thought of seeing Eames again or the thought of not seeing him again. Either way, he's royally fucked, and not in any of the good ways, until he finds the other man and they figure out what to do, because a 'street monkey' cannotbe soul-mated or bonded or whatever-the-hell-it's-called to a bike-riding-hooligan (his mother's words, not his).

Once Arthur actually admits to himself he needs to find Eames, it's much easier to just allow his instincts reign free and follow wherever his feet take him—which ends up to be at a strip club, or, as those in denial like to call it, a gentleman's club.

Since living in the streets, he's gotten pretty good at sneaking into places through windows and utilizes his skill again to slip in through a conveniently open window in the men's toilets. When he emerges from the stalls and steps into the dimly lit club, he's met with the sight of lots and lots of women on lots and lots of platforms and lots of men drinking and doing lots of other things Arthur himself feels sick just watching.

His feet lead him around several velvet padded private booths until he stops at the bar. The whole place is much seedier than he'd first thought, plumes of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol burning his eyes and nose. He finds Eames, surprise surprise, sitting at the bar in his black chaps and leather jacket with a blonde head doing questionable things at his neck.

Arthur sees red.

They end up, in all places, back on Eames' bike.

"You are a complete asshole," Arthur says, resisting the urge to kick at the bike's kick stand. Eames laughs in his ear and grabs his shoulders, hauls him across the bike until Arthur has no choice but to straddle the seat backward, one of the handlebars digging almost painfully into his back.

"I wanted to see how long it'd take you to find me."

"The bond thing works both ways," he growls, just before grabbing Eames' neck and scratching the tender skin with his blunt nails. Eames hisses and tries to jerk back but Arthur refuses to let go, following him until he's practically sitting in Eames' lap. "How 'bout tomorrow night I'll go back to Virginia's and have some fun with her? She's always been so accommodating in her home." He grins as he says this, knowing that Virginia is a 70-some year old woman who'd have a conniption if she found Arthur in her home. Eames doesn't need to know that.

His words have the desired effect though, as Eames' face darkens into a scowl, lips curling distastefully as he no doubt imagines Arthur in some faceless woman's bed, fucking into her. "Just think of doing it Arthur," he murmurs into Arthur's ear, biting the delicate appendage hard enough to pull a cry from Arthur's mouth. The way Arthur's name rolls of his tongue has a shiver racing down his spine. Arthur can't even remember what he'd been saying.

"How fast do most people move?" Eames slaps him on the ass, no doubt telling him tacitly to shut up. "Seriously Eames! Aren't we moving too quickly?"

The motel room they rented looks trashed when Arthur sits up, palm on Eames' chest. He has to admit, as his eyes roam unconsciously down the length of Eames' body, that he looks muchbetter without the hideous chaps and jacket.

"My parents got married within a week of finding each other," Eames answers, sounding almost thoughtful as he tugs Arthur back down and nips at his bony collar bones. "So I don't think we're moving too fast, if that's what you're implying."

"My parents weren't—you know," admits Arthur. "Dad left when I was about 4. He found his soulmate thing and—"

"Shh, don't speak." Arthur would hit him if he weren't suddenly too busy with sticking his tongue down Eames' throat instead. As it is, he just thanks whatever higher powers be that his fortuitous meeting with Eames didn't end in as much of a disaster as he'd expected. He vows to enjoy a long nap tomorrow afternoon in Virginia's bedroom to treat himself for a week well-spent.