There's no wind tonight, even up here on the roof. Arthur closes his eyes as he lays back, a pack of Marlboros sitting on his chest. He waits for footsteps.
He doesn't move when he hears Eames' approach, doesn't even open his eyes until Eames speaks, "Bloody freezing out tonight."
Arthur fishes in his pocket for his lighter as Eames sits beside him, pulling two cigarettes from the pack and handing one to Eames. "I like smoking in the cold."
He leans up on his elbows, lights Eames' smoke first, then his own. He doesn't remember when this became so easy. It's been six weeks since the job started, and five since Eames found him on the roof of the abandoned apartment building they've appropriated as their workshop. He'd lit his cigarette from the tip of Arthur's, and they'd sat, mostly in silence, and watched the smoke curl away from them. Arthur remembers a time when they couldn't have sat this close to each other without someone pulling a gun. He doesn't recall exactly when that changed.
"You like smoking, period," Eames says, and Arthur doesn't have to look at him to know he's smiling.
Arthur settles flat on his back again, and Eames stays sitting, arms around his knees.
"I prefer smoking when it's hot and humid. Reminds me of New Orleans when I was young."
Arthur quirks his mouth. Eames has been more talkative lately. Arthur's gotten out of the habit of responding, as Eames already has the unfair advantage of apparently being capable of reading Arthur's mind. It's as uncomfortable as it is thrilling.
"I liked the changes you made to the first level today."
He doesn't grin at the easy compliment, but only because he brings his cigarette up then, purses his lips around it studiously to stop them from betraying every Goddamn thought in his head.
"I'm gonna give up smoking once this job's over."
Arthur can feel his shoulders tensing, and takes a deep breath to mask it. He's wholly uncomfortable with the knot that tightens in his stomach at the thought of this job ending, of Eames dropping off the map again as he always does, untraceable. It's not as if he hasn't gone months without seeing or even thinking about Eames in the past. This shouldn't be something he can't handle.
He turns his head, finding Eames looking down at him, and makes himself smirk. "If you wanted to play 'Two Truths and a Lie', you could have said so."
"I'm lying, am I?" Eames says, eyebrows raised.
"You're an addict. You'll never quit," Arthur says, taking a drag and blowing smoke rings in Eames' direction. Predictably, Eames pokes his finger through each one in turn. They watch them dissipate, silent for a few moments, before Eames looks at his cigarette thoughtfully.
"Two truths and a lie, then… I had my first fag when I was twelve years old. My brother got me drunk for the first time when I was thirteen. And," he stretches his legs out in front of him, easing down onto his back so their shoulders would be brushing if they weren't both wearing winter coats, "The smell of coconuts makes me nauseous."
"Your brother didn't get you drunk when you were thirteen."
Eames lets a huff of a laugh out through his nose, "Yeah. It was my sister."
"Charming." Arthur gives him a sidelong glance, licking his lips because Eames really is lying very close to him, his breath rising in puffs like their smoke in the frigid air.
"It's your turn."
"Um," Arthur starts, weighing the pros and cons of actually abiding the rules of the game, "I'm allergic to bee stings, my childhood dog was named Skippy, and I can successfully conceal up to eighteen weapons on my person."
Eames laughs at the sky, "Even a six-year-old Arthur wouldn't name his dog something as undignified as Skippy."
He's right, of course; Arthur had inexplicably named that dog Howard.
"Mmm," he says noncommittally, then impulse takes over, "Wrong. I'm not allergic to bees."
If Eames detects the lie, he doesn't call Arthur on it.
"Yours are boring," he says lightly, "Ah, I got my first tattoo on a dare, I was expelled from six boarding schools in four years, and I gave my first blowjob before I received one."
Arthur clears his throat, taking a drag from his cigarette to center himself before answering, "You didn't go to any boarding schools. But you did get expelled, twice."
"That one was too easy, wasn't it? You probably have my transcripts memorized."
Arthur turns his head, "Wait, on a dare? Really?"
"A drunken one, at that," Eames grins, rubbing at his chest, "Kind of started a chain reaction, though."
"How many do you have now?"
Eames looks at Arthur, and lying like this, their noses are inches apart, "I believe it's your turn. Give me something good."
Licking his lips, Arthur flicks the rest of his cigarette across the ground as an excuse to look away. His hands are going numb, so he shoves them carefully into his pockets, because that takes up a little time, too.
"I picked my college major by flipping a coin," he says carefully, then pauses while Eames shifts, props himself on his elbow so he's almost looming over Arthur, studying his face, "I haven't spoken to my mother in ten years, and the… the first man I ever shot outside a dream was a friend."
All of those things are true. Arthur chews the inside of his cheek while he waits to see if Eames can tell.
"You… the first one," Eames says, but he's frowning, and Arthur simultaneously loves and hates the way he's staring, "You didn't flip a coin."
"Uh," Arthur says eloquently, wishing he'd kept his cigarette, or that he could light a new one, but feeling like he's locked into a game of chicken; he can't move. "Yeah."
Eames doesn't stop staring until Arthur very nearly squirms, but he finally looks away, past Arthur to the Chicago skyline. He takes a final drag on his smoke. He doesn't offer anything else, doesn't take his turn, so Arthur sucks in a breath and keeps barreling forward.
"I genuinely hated you for years after we first met, and I forget why," he says, and Eames looks down again, unreadable, "I think you're smarter than the people you work with ever give you credit for, and… I feel fucking insane when I'm around you," he finishes, wincing when it comes out sounding a little anxious.
Eames purses his lips in a poorly-suppressed smile, "You're cheating."
Arthur swallows, "Yes."
"Arthur," Eames murmurs, a little rough and dangerously close, so close Arthur's cheeks start to warm from his breath, "Are you armed?"
"I'm always armed," Arthur says immediately, then frowns, "Wait, what?"
"Because I don't want to do something that might get me shot, if I'm out of line."
Arthur grunts in frustration, surging up to close the few inches of distance and press their mouths together.
Eames makes a noise that's almost like a whimper, and Arthur tastes smoke when his lips part. Eames is bracing himself with a hand on the roof by Arthur's head and caging Arthur in and it's good, holy shit it's good. He feels a little wild, like a teenager, hiding away somewhere secret to make out in bulky jackets in the dead of winter. Eames' weight feels good at his side, and his hair is soft between Arthur's fingers. Arthur pulls Eames on top of him a little more, so their legs tangle and he starts to seriously consider the merits of fully clothed humping on a rooftop.
But the wind starts to pick up, and a particularly sharp gust has Arthur rethinking that plan as he tenses and Eames shivers above him.
"I would really, really like to continue this somewhere warm," Eames says, pulling back just enough to form words.
"That's the best fucking idea," Arthur breathes, then kisses Eames again, because he can't help himself, because Eames' mouth is right there and he's allowed to do this right now. He's almost lost again when his fingers slide from Eames' hair down to his neck, and Eames jumps, letting out what could only be described as a squeal.
"You have the coldest hands in the world," he gasps, wrenching Arthur's arm down, "We need to relocate."
Arthur lets Eames pull him to his feet, and this time it's Eames who steals a kiss, though it's short-lived.
"I hate Chicago," he says, tugging Arthur towards the stairwell, "Why couldn't we have gotten to this during the Bartlett job? Madrid is a lovely place for shagging on rooftops."
Cobb is still working, evidenced by the light spilling from the hall at the top floor. Arthur feels mildly frantic at the idea of having to speak to him right now, and Eames must agree, because he takes the stairs painstakingly quietly.
When they're outside again, Eames steps to the curb, glancing up and down the street and bouncing to keep himself warm.
"What are you doing?" asks Arthur.
"My hotel is an hour's walk from here and it's about thirteen below," Eames says, and Arthur grabs his arm before he can wave down a passing cab.
"My place is two and a half blocks, come on."
Eames slings an arm over his shoulders, "Lead the way," he grins, "I didn't know you owned a flat here."
"I'm subletting from a friend. I hate hotels, I only live out of them when I have to," Arthur says, starting them down the sidewalk.
"Really?" Eames muses.
"Truth," Arthur says dryly, and he can't take another step before Eames is pressed against him, nipping at his lips and coaxing Arthur's mouth open with his tongue.
With that precedent set, it takes twice as long to get to Arthur's place as it should, and they're both a little hard and a lot hypothermic by the time they tumble through the door.
The apartment is barely warmer than it is outside, and Arthur makes a beeline for the thermostat, turning the dial and listening to the ancient heaters click and groan to life. He turns the lights on as Eames wanders curiously around the living room.
"How much of this is yours?"
Arthur glances around, shrugging. "The furniture is my friend's, but most of the stuff on it is mine." He slips into the bedroom to switch the heat on in there, too, and when he comes back out, Eames is tilting his head to read the titles of the magazines on the coffee table.
He seems content to explore, but Arthur is still shivering, and that feels doubly unpleasant now that they're inside and they still can't take their clothes off comfortably. He taps at the radiator with his shoe and it clacks at him in protest.
"This place is going to take forever to heat up," he says, then hesitates, because there's something about being indoors, in the light, that makes things feel more precarious. But Eames just grins at him, crossing the room and giving him a look that makes Arthur feel infallible.
"D'you think we can warm it up?" Eames asks, all eyebrows and crooked smirk.
Arthur rolls his eyes and takes Eames' hand, "C'mon."
The bathroom is freezing too, but Arthur sheds his jacket anyway. Eames looks at him, apparently awaiting an explanation.
"It takes forever for the heat to start working," Arthur repeats, now sliding open the buttons on Eames' coat, "It's easier to warm up in the shower while we wait."
Arthur lets the coat slip to the floor, then starts on his own clothing, his hands clumsy and still a little numb. Eames stills him, looking hungry in a way that makes the room seem a little warmer. He thumbs at Arthur's collar, leaning close to bite lightly at the skin above it.
"I've wanted to strip you out of these ludicrous clothes since the day I met you," he says, laughter in his voice.
"My clothes aren't ludicrous," Arthur replies, but Eames is sucking at his throat, tugging his tie off, and opening shirt buttons, and Arthur's clothes can be ludicrous tonight if it makes Eames want him out of them like this.
"They are, but if it helps, they've also been the source of a fair few fantasies of mine," Eames kisses along his jaw, then down to his shoulder as Arthur's shirt flutters to the floor. "I'm sure you'd be properly scandalized if you knew how many pairs of expensive slacks you've ruined in my dreams."
Arthur shudders, biting his lip, and only partly because it's fucking freezing. As goosebumps raise on his arms, he fumbles with Eames' shirt, finally getting it open and pushing it off his shoulders, and, fuck. In all their years working together, Arthur has seen Eames' bare torso a grand total of one time, and that experience had been mostly dominated by the fact that Eames had been stabbed in the shoulder. So he'd known more or less what to expect, but seeing it in front of him, broad and hard, covered in coarse hair and faint scars and tattoos and fuck–
"I'm sorry, I want to savor this, I really do, but we have a goal here," Arthur grits out, pulling Eames toward the shower and reaching in to switch it on. He gets his own pants off, leaning against the shower to deal with his socks and shoes, getting a decent view of Eames' bare ass as he does the same.
And then they're naked, and Arthur is stepping into the cubicle, hissing at the scalding spray. He turns the temperature down as Eames joins him, wrapping his arms around Arthur's torso and pressing them together, standing skin on skin and shivering under the water. Arthur tucks his head against Eames' shoulder, kissing and nipping with chattering teeth.
Eames runs a shaking hand up and down Arthur's spine, holding him close and shifting until they both gasp at the friction. They're half hard and the heat is helping things along, Arthur's breathing going shallow as Eames grinds slowly against him. He spins them after a moment, letting the water hit their opposite sides and feelings the tightness drain from Eames' back. It's relaxed and peaceful when they're finally both warm enough to move with a modicum of grace, sucking in lungfuls of steamy air.
Arthur tilts his head under the spray, letting the gel in his hair dissolve and melt away, strands falling onto his forehead. When he opens his eyes again, Eames is watching, biting his lip. Arthur runs his hands over Eames' chest appreciatively.
"You should get your clothes tailored," he says, tracing the ridges of muscle over his ribcage.
"You think my clothes are worth tailoring? Half of them are second-hand," Eames says, flexing his biceps with a shit-eating grin as Arthur's fingers brush across them.
Arthur shrugs, his focus narrowing to the lines of ink curling over Eames' skin, "I like your clothes," he says absently.
Eames kisses him then, nudging Arthur under the water so they can't draw breath until they pull apart, blinking droplets out of their eyes.
Arthur watches the water cascading over the tattoos and gets a wild urge to trace them with his tongue, as if Eames' skin would be more sensitive or taste differently where the black lines stain it. His eyes dart, trying to separate the edges of one design from the other, but they run together and he can't tell where they separate.
"Which one was first?" he asks, studying the place where Eames had touched when he'd shared the memory.
Eames touches just under his collar bone, where a tiny, faded silhouette is drawn.
"Is that supposed to be the grim reaper?" Arthur says, biting his cheek to keep from laughing because it is a grim reaper, with a manic smiley face poking out of his hood and that's hilarious but for all he knows, it carries some deep, personal, highly disturbing meaning for Eames.
"It is indeed," Eames says, looking down at it fondly, "I got the face added years later; it used to just be the reaper himself. My mates and I fancied ourselves goths, I think."
Arthur does laugh at that, and Eames doesn't look at all embarrassed, just pulls Arthur to him and kisses him hard. His hands slip down to cup Arthur's ass.
"As we're no longer at death's cold door, I'm going to move this along to the portion of the evening involving orgasms," he says, licking into Arthur's mouth. Arthur makes a noise of agreement, snaking his arms around to Eames' back, feeling the dimples just above his ass and grinding their lower bodies together. Eames walks Arthur backwards until his shoulders hit the cool tile under the shower head, and moves to suck a mark into Arthur's neck.
"I don't have any shirts that'll cover that," he gasps, squeezing Eames' ass with one hand while the other grips his wet hair.
Eames hums, sucking harder in response. He thumbs over Arthur's hipbones, spanning his hands so they come so close to Arthur's erection that he squirms, arching off the wall. Teeth and tongue move to his shoulder, then his chest, and then Eames is on his knees.
"Can you just-" Arthur says, tipping Eames' head back and staring down at him, "I just want to – in case I never get to see this again, I want to memorize this sight."
Eames' eyes crinkle and he licks his lips, wrapping his hand around the base of Arthur's cock. "I'm always available for repeat performances," he smiles, jacking Arthur slowly, and that thought shouldn't make Arthur moan, but it does.
Eames laps at the head of his cock, making a pleased sound, and Arthur's head thumps against the tile. Eames' mouth is a complete cliché – plump and full with suction like a vacuum, and he hums around Arthur's cock like this might be enough to get him off. Arthur's legs tense and shake and Eames pulls on his hips to get them to move, just a little, while he slips his fingers around to Arthur's ass.
"Fuck," Arthur gasps, bucking when the tip of Eames' finger touches his hole, "Fuck, Eames."
Pulling back, Eames thumbs the head of his cock, gazing up at him as he presses the finger in gently. Eames's back is streaming with water, and there are tattoos on his shoulder blades that Arthur hasn't seen before, and he's grinning like he's just won a prize.
"Put your mouth—" Arthur gasps, his voice breaking when Eames gets right back to it, wriggling that finger inside him and sucking him down, cheeks hollowing obscenely. A second finger works its way in, and there's no lube and the stretch is almost uncomfortable, but Arthur's toes curl against the floor and presses back against it anyway.
Arthur doesn't normally have a hair trigger, but the heat and tightness and the sounds Eames makes while he sucks him are enough to have Arthur's nails digging into his shoulders in an embarrassingly short time. Eames licks him once more, slow and almost smug, and then his mouth is gone and it's just his fingers, which are great but not even close to enough.
"Do you think the bedroom's warmed up?" Eames asks casually, scissoring his fingers apart slowly, stealing Arthur's breath, "I would really love to fuck you properly, if you're alright with that."
Arthur is more than alright with that. He nods weakly, and Eames pulls his hand free and stands, kissing away the whimper that Arthur tries to suppress. Eames tastes like precome, and it's filthy and perfect, Eames' tongue sliding against Arthur's like he wants to share.
Somehow, Arthur remains upright long enough to step out if the shower, and returns to reality while Eames dries him with a towel from the rack. He returns the favor, pressing himself into Eames' body and licking the water from his temple while he rubs the towel over his back.
The bedroom is warm, close to uncomfortably so, but Eames likes the heat and Arthur's short-circuited brain likes the idea of hot and damp and sweaty, so he doesn't touch the thermostat.
Eames backs him up to the bed, pushing him down on it with enough force to make him bounce. Arthur sprawls, legs apart because looking at Eames just induces that urge, arms stretched above his head.
"You spend a lot of money on clothing for a man who looks this good with nothing on," Eames says, crawling over him.
"You don't wrap expensive presents in a brown paper bag," Arthur retorts, and is moderately sure that the sentence makes sense, at least grammatically.
"I'd feel less guilty about ripping a brown paper bag the next time I want to get you naked," Eames murmurs, nipping at Arthur's jaw, "Lube?"
Arthur gropes blindly for the nightstand so as not to pull away from what Eames' tongue is doing to his ear. He feels around and comes up with a bottle of lube and a condom, the former of which is woefully close to being empty.
"Sorry, I don't get a lot of visitors while I'm working," he says as Eames takes the bottle from him.
"No worries. I don't mind being thorough."
Arthur shivers, and takes one of Eames' hands as he moves down Arthur's body. He wets his lips and sucks two thick fingers into his mouth, enjoying the way Eames' breath stutters where it's puffing over his stomach.
"Arthur..." Eames growls, his tongue tracing the ridges of Arthur's abs, "You'll have to return my favor someday. We can't go wasting that mouth of yours."
Arthur flicks his tongue at the tip of Eames' fingers as a promise, then lets them go with a slurp that he knows is obscene. Eames is sprawled between his legs now, breathing heavy and hot over Arthur's cock, giving it a lick that has Arthur whining, he's so sensitive.
He feels two spit-slick fingers tracing around his hole, but only one pushes in, quick and all the way to the knuckle. His shoulders tense, and it's been a while since he's been fucked, but his body seems to remember how to do it just fine. He feels his muscles loosen their grip on Eames' finger as he shifts it, starting the stretch. The second finger comes soon after that, a little drier now because saliva really isn't the best lube, but it's not too much yet, and Arthur's gritting his teeth just to keep himself from coming the next time Eames so much as accidentally breathes on his cock.
"How're you doing?" Eames asks, and Arthur is relieved to hear his voice rough and low, like he's a little bit lost in this too.
"I'm... it's good, it's -- can you -- bigger, three fingers, I want three."
Eames lets out a huff that sounds more aroused than amused, and pulls his fingers free to squeeze a little lube over them.
"I'd always suspected you for a bit of a slut once you let your guard down," he says, pushing back in with two, and then finally three fingers, sliding them in steady against the resistance.
"I didn't even have to speculate on you," Arthur gets out, impressed with himself for forming sentences at all at this point.
Eames is pushing one of Arthur's legs up, bending it towards his chest, and Arthur has actually hooked his arm under his knee to hold it there before he realizes what the end game is.
"Eames—" he tries, and then Eames' tongue is flicking at the skin stretched around his fingers, and Arthur can't breathe. Eames uses his fingers to open him further, then soothes the burn with his tongue, darting it into his hole. Arthur needs to say You have to stop or I'm going to come all over myself, but his body hasn't felt this good in a long time and it's sending mixed signals to his rational mind. Eames licks up his perineum to his balls, stubble scraping Arthur's skin, and Arthur can't hold his leg up anymore. It slips out of his grasp, thumping Eames in the shoulder and conveying the message Arthur couldn't.
Laughing, Eames looks up. When Arthur's eyes can focus, he sees flushed cheeks and red lips and wet, messy hair, and everything about this guy is a leading cause of premature ejaculation.
"Can you please get up here and fuck me?" Arthur says, not even concerned by the fact that he's slurring.
Silently, Eames pulls his fingers out of Arthur's body and rolls the condom on, and through his haze, Arthur feels a little proud that he made Eames' hands tremor like that. Eames hitches Arthur's legs up over his shoulders, leaning down and folding him nearly in half as he presses his cock against Arthur's entrance.
Arthur is stretched and ready, and the edge of pain just feels like a buzz along his nerves, pushes everything higher as Eames moves slowly, slowly in. Arthur is shaking and gasping and the air feels too dry and hot, and he clutches frantically at Eames' damp hair, then grips his own instead when that gets him nowhere.
He's distantly aware that someone is saying fuck, fuck, fuck and that in all likelihood, it's him, but then Eames is jerking his hips a little and the head of his cock nudges up against Arthur's prostate and fuckfuckfuck--
"Oh, fuck," he moans, feeling his whole body tense and jerk as come spills onto his belly. He's gripping Eames' cock like a vice and somewhere in his mind, he acknowledges that Eames is groaning his name.
It takes longer than it should for him to come down, still twitching as his back drops out of its arch.
"Jesus, Arthur," Eames says, leaning down to kiss him sloppily.
"Sorry," Arthur breathes, "Keep going, don't worry."
"I'm not worried," Eames whispers, letting Arthur's legs slip down to his waist. Then he reaches between them to grip Arthur's cock, and Arthur chokes.
"Hit me if you can't take it," Eames says, sounding a little broken, starting to fuck Arthur while he jerks him.
"Ea -- it's -- ah, ah," Arthur can't even manage two syllables, every muscle tensing and contracting at random. It's too much and he's too sensitive and it hurts, though not in any way that would make him consider stopping it. He can't coordinate anything, can barely wrap his legs around Eames' hips, can't do much at all but take it.
"That's good, love, you're alright," Eames is saying, soothing in his ear while he shreds him to pieces with his hand and his cock, "You can do it, just let me…"
He feels it in his fingers and his toes, shocks all through his body as Eames coaxes him hard again. Eames kisses him, but Arthur can't coordinate a response, just whimpering and keening around the probing tongue.
The pace is frantic and brutal, but if Eames is desperate, then Arthur is wrecked. His voice is hoarse from moans and from the air in the room, which is a million degrees and getting hotter every time Eames rubs against his prostate and his thumb brushes over the head of Arthur's cock.
Eames is talking again, and Arthur struggles to listen over the roar in his ears.
"... gorgeous, you're so fucking hot like this, look at you all fucking shattered for me," he says, licking at Arthur's temples and brushing lips over his eyelids and Arthur realizes the moisture on his lashes isn't sweat.
"Harder," he rasps, and Eames obliges, burying his face in Arthur's shoulder and driving him into the mattress.
Arthur sobs when he comes again, feeling like it's been wrung forcefully from his body. He feels his come spill hot and wet onto the mess he's already made on his stomach, and he clings to Eames, whispering, "Come on, come on," because he's almost as desperate for Eames' orgasm as he was for his own. He clamps down, arching his back and rolling his hips with the energy he has left, and Eames groans into his neck, his hips snapping as he comes. Arthur's strung out and whimpering through the last thrusts, almost numb with overstimulation.
Eames goes boneless after he's finished, shifting the polite amount of weight off Arthur's chest without actually letting go of him in any way. Arthur's not the type to lose consciousness after sex, but tonight is a night of exceptions.
He rouses when he feels Eames pulling out of him, hissing at the emptiness. He drags his eyes open.
"Was I asleep?"
Eames pulls off the condom, glancing around for the wastebasket and tossing it. "Ten minutes or so."
Arthur nods, licking dry lips and propping himself on his elbows. "It's really fucking hot in here," he says, then pushes himself up and off the bed, standing quite unsteadily.
He turns the thermostat down, then pads out to the bathroom, cleaning his stomach with a cloth. He switches the heat off in the living room, and grabs two bottles of water. Eames is sitting on the edge of the bed when he gets back, looking uncharacteristically unsure. Arthur hands him a bottle.
"Thanks," he says, and downs a few mouthfuls.
"I don't-" he starts, just as Arthur says "Listen-"
Arthur snorts, taking a seat next to Eames and bumping their shoulders together, "You're welcome to stay. Neither of us are going to sleep much tonight after the time we spent under today."
Eames nods, setting his water on the floor and laying back, making himself comfortable on the pillows again with an easy, lopsided smile, "What do you do when you can't sleep?"
Research, usually. "Read, watch TV. We could go for a walk," he suggests, pushing himself back so he can rest his head on Eames' stomach.
"I'm not sure if it's worth the hypothermia," Eames brings his arm down over Arthur's shoulder, taps his fingers on his clavicle, "We never did finish our game."
"There's not really an end to that game; I think you just keep going until you feel like you know enough."
"But there's so much to know," Eames says, and when Arthur cranes his neck to look at him, he's regarding Arthur seriously. After a beat, he drops his head back to the pillows.
"I'm the heir to the sixth-largest fortune in Britain," he says, playing up his accent for no discernible reason, "I was the sole proprietor of the most successful brothel in Amsterdam for eleven months… And I was once arrested for attempting to inappropriately touch a member of the royal family."
Arthur raises an eyebrow, lifting his head to stare at Eames properly. Eames stares back. Then he grins.
Rolling his eyes, Arthur drops back down and raps his knuckles against Eames' ribs, "You are so full of shit."
"Part of my charm, darling," he says easily, brushing his fingers across Arthur's jaw, and Arthur leans into it, and that's easy too. "You'll learn to love it."