It's not fair of Arthur to say it: "The best part is how you sound all confused, like you're normally so fucking diligent, keeping track of your personal life."
Because, yes, Eames might be a bit of a bohemian, but he's not a madman. He doesn’t dogear pages in books, for example; he uses bookmarks like any civilised person. Eames rinses his plates before stacking them in the dishwasher, when there are plates and a dishwasher rather than the more usual takeaway cartons and plastic forks or bamboo chopsticks. Eames flosses, most nights. He even has a bloody sodding dayplanner (somewhere) with the proper year on it, though admittedly it doesn’t contain too many details of his various engagements and appointments. It wouldn't do to leave a paper trail, after all. Anyone could nick it, and then where would Eames be?
"Oh, top secret information, is it," Arthur says, grinning in a terrible superior way, "how often you cycle per year, that's, like — on a need-to-know basis?"
"Three times!" Eames shoots back, irritably. "Mostly it's thrice per annum, thank you."
Arthur shifts in his chair lazily, bored, recrosses his legs. He looks amused and laconic and fucking annoyingly attractive in his pinstriped trousers and burgundy sweater vest and charcoal tie. "Well, jet lag can fuck you up, sometimes," he says, his token comfort far worse than his outright mockery. "I mean, not me. But I've heard it can."
"Oh, yes, you're above such fucking things," Eames mutters darkly, and then they've got to shelve the topic of Eames, his possibly-missing-in-action cycle, and his probable state of hormonal bitchiness as his body does its level best to catch up again — because here's the extractor, Reas. She’s got her felt pen uncapped and the flip chart set up, ready to attack the problem of how best to get round the mark.
Eames slouches down in his chair and folds his arms over his chest, scowling, ignoring the easy way Arthur shifts over into his professional work-mode.
Clockwork Arthur: sod him.
Eames doesn't think about it again until two days have passed.
He’s doing some work for the job, hunched over his drafting table and painstakingly slicing a piece of cardstock with an x-acto blade. Arthur crosses the floor behind him, a momentary background distraction, there and gone in the periphery of Eames' vision — until, suddenly, he reappears. Hovers.
"What," Eames says flatly, not looking up from his work. Normally, he knows, he would straighten up and smile and purr yes, my sweet Arthur, how may I be of assistance?, but Eames is still irritable and tense and waiting for his body to cooperate at long last. He’s in no mood for idle workplace chatter.
"Reas went out," Arthur says, like that means something.
Eames grunts and uses the angled point of the knife to lever the paper strip out of the sheet, careful not to breathe too hard because it's a vanishingly small strip of text and he's fucked it up twice already this morning.
"Eames," says Arthur.
"What," Eames says again, balancing the strip on the blade, moving it carefully over to the bank slip he's forging. Bloody archival work, it's like the nineties on this job, all rubber glue and eraser dust and delicate eye-straining close-up —
Arthur's hand is a warm shock, gliding with flat palm over Eames' collarbone and down the center of his chest, Arthur behind Eames now, having closed in when Eames was busy focussing on the work in front of him. Eames goes rigid with surprise but, thank christ, he doesn't wriggle, doesn't lose the strip of paper.
"Reas," Arthur says again, low and breathy and teasing, "went. Out."
Oh, thinks Eames. Oh. Well. Not chatter, but something altogether more purposeful, and Eames might be hormonal as fuck right now, but he’s not dead inside.
But then Arthur's fingers drag over and unerringly find a nipple, pinching hard, and it hurts, and abruptly everything goes wrong all at once. Eames chokes back a yelp, and slaps Arthur’s hand away reflexively. The buggering tiny piece of paper, unseated from the x-acto blade, flutters off god knows where — third one today goddammit. And at the same moment, Arthur leaps back with a (decidedly unmuffled) yelp of his own, following it up with, “Ouch, jesus fuck, Eames!”
When Eames twists round to see what he’s fussing about, ready to do a bit of his own shouting and cursing over the bloody horrible work Arthur’s just forced him to start again, Arthur’s sucking on the junction of thumb and index finger, dark-eyed and wounded of expression. “You stabbed me, asshole!” he says, the words a bit garbled around his hand.
"You started it with your," Eames blasts back, holding up both hands and making lewd honka-honka motions with his fingers. "What the hell was that? Warn a bloke before you go medieval on his tits, you sadistic”—
—“Come on, I barely touched you, jesus”—
—“Would you and your libido kindly exit the workspace while I try and accomplish something?" Eames bellows over Arthur’s protestations. "We can't all have jobs that could be ably accomplished by any twelve-year-old with an iPhone and a 3G connection."
Arthur huffs and his eyes go wide. He’s visibly at a loss for a comeback for a long satisfying series of seconds. Finally he holds his hands up and backs away, shaking his head. "Right," he says, "if you need me, I'll be over in this corner using my iPhone and my 3G connection to research drug interactions between midol and somnacin."
Eames raises his index and middle finger in salute. "God be with you," he says, "be sure to update your Facebook status to that effect, hmm?"
"Right," says Arthur, and as he stalks off, Eames can hear Arthur saying, "as if anyone's on Facebook anymore, fuck."
Eames thinks he can make the leap from his hotel balcony to Arthur's, probably. It's three feet, a doddle in a dreamscape, scarcely more than a hop even up here in the real world. He gets a foot up on the railing, grabs onto the brick face of the building's wall, starts to pull himself up, and is abruptly just wearied by the whole effort. He lets go of the brick and pulls his foot back to the cement balcony floor with a thud. "Arthur!" he bellows instead. "Arthur!"
Arthur comes out onto his balcony in his shirtsleeves, clingy little pants, and a scowl. "We have phones, Eames," he says. "We have email. Christ, send me a tweet."
"I was already out here," Eames says sensibly. "Come over, hmm?"
"It's three in the morning," Arthur points out.
"You're awake," Eames answers. "As am I."
Arthur hesitates visibly and drops the scowl a little. “I thought you were still pissed about the," he says, and mimes an air-squeeze.
"Are you actually arguing about getting laid right now," Eames half-asks, flopping back into the cheap plastic reclining chair that comprises the hotel balcony furniture.
Arthur folds his arms over his chest and quirks his mouth, considering. "Do I get to go on top?" he bargains.
"On top of my dick?" Eames clarifies brightly, tilting a smile Arthur’s way. He splays his knees apart and lifts his hips in invitation. It sounds good, though, either way: Arthur on top, doing all the work, Eames just lying there and letting the sex happen to him, letting Arthur make him come however he wants.
Arthur thumbs the stubble on his chin as he ponders Eames' offer, like he's actually putting serious thought into it, standing out in the warm California night air in his unbuttoned oxford and indecently tight briefs. "Yeah," he says, "okay. But you have to get me off, some asshole stabbed me in my fapping hand this morning."
"You've never done it like a lefty?" Eames asks, because as pleasurable as it usually is, wanking Arthur off, it sounds dangerously like work to him in his current lazy state. He lifts his own left hand and sketches a few strokes midair. "It's fantastic, you ought to try it. Just a bit clumsy and wrong, like getting tossed off by a nubile virgin.”
Arthur snorts, coaxed into something approaching good humour by the promise of sex. He doesn't make a bit of a fuss over the distance, just steps up onto his balcony's railing and walks to Eames' like it really is just as sane as going round by the corridor. He lands, light on his feet as always, swings one tight long thigh across Eames' lap as he settles down, strokes hands — gentle hands, Eames notes with pleasure — up inside Eames' belted silk dressing gown. "Been working out," he says appreciatively, bowing his dark head to kiss the side of Eames' neck. "You always have nice pecs but holy shit, Eames. These are fucking amazing.”
Eames lolls his head to the side and exhales, slow and dreamy and yet more languid now he's got Arthur over him, on him. Ten minutes ago he felt so different, lurching up out of a dissatisfying dream with sweat rolling down his back, cock hard, heart pounding and mouth dry. Arthur's touch is like balm all over Eames' skin, a cool respite from the way Eames feels lately: swollen and taut and on the edge of misery at every moment. He's never had such bad symptoms, pre-cycle; but then, he's never gone so long past due in his adult life either. It's probably jet lag, after all. Eames has been living on planes, lately. He hardly knows what time it is now, let alone what month, what season. All he knows is the soft cool slip of Arthur’s perfect fingers over his chest and sides and shoulders, sweet and easy and familiar. Eames’ eyelids start to droop, helplessly.
"You're not going to fall asleep before you fuck me," Arthur warns Eames, noticing. "Did you bring lube and condoms out here at least?"
"Pocket," Eames says muzzily, for all he's still half-hard under Arthur's thigh. "Other pocket," he redirects.
"There's only lube," Arthur says, "Eames."
"S'fine," says Eames, "you're on the pill, aren't you? Besides, I'm probably shooting blanks in this state. And you know Reas has our tests going back months, she's mad about the possibility of PASIV-transmitted, ah — ah, Arthur"
It’s heaven, that cool gentle grip circling Eames’ bare cock, working him slowly for a few moments before Arthur clambers up onto his knees and wriggles out of his pants and shirt.
“You've got lovely big hands, I'm very sorry I accidentally stabbed one of them,” Eames says, watching through half-closed eyes.
"You can make it up to me in a while," Arthur says, reaching round behind himself now, working himself open quick and easy and wonderfully slutty, left-handed no less. "You know, you're taking a lot on faith here just for the sake of getting to put it to me bare."
"Nnn, yes, talk dirty to me," Eames says, rousing himself to steady Arthur by the hips, encourage him up and over and then down, down, into Eames' lap. "Tell me more about how I'm built like an Adonis and you're desperate for me to fill you up with my manly seed, you — shit, shit, that's it, Arthur, you're a wonder."
Arthur is a wonder, he is, he really is, riding Eames like they're not scraping awkwardly across the cement floor on a bendy white plastic chair, like they're not bleary-eyed and tired from the job that Reas is running on the world's tightest extraction schedule. Arthur pins Eames against the chair back with his splayed palm and rolls his hips down into Eames' and makes filthy perfect hungry noises. It's a terrible angle, this, Eames can only go so deep and no deeper, but it doesn't matter because he's suddenly on the edge just from the spectacle of Arthur teasing himself with Eames' cock, Arthur with loose messy bedhead and open mouth and sticky-tipped cock flexing between their bellies.
"Ugh, this sucks, hang on," Arthur says, less enamoured of the position than Eames, apparently. He clambers off the chair and tugs Eames up after him, shoves Eames roughly into the hotel room and tumbles him to the bed. "Better, that's better," Arthur says smugly, and commences to make the mattress squeak and shiver, the crappy hotel bed headboard crack and thump. "Sorry, fuck," Arthur mutters, and it's only then that Eames realizes Arthur was rubbing Eames' chest again as he rode him, that Eames brushed Arthur's hands away unthinkingly because it hurt, it bloody — "they're just so fucking big right now, I — god, god, I'm seriously going to come in a second, how are you?"
Eames answers the question by lifting his hips off the bed and thrusting fast and shallow into Arthur, spilling.
"Feels good, I know, I know," Arthur says, going all sweet and dimpled as he only does when he makes Eames come. He gentles Eames down, pulls off and clambers forward, up the landscape of Eames' body. "Can I come on them? Won't hurt."
"Yeah, have at 'em," Eames says drowsily, magnanimously, even though he's pretty sure it's weird that Arthur's so fucking into Eames' pecs. Whatever Arthur likes to say, they certainly aren't the result of time spent in the gym. More like time spent in the chippy, Eames thinks, drifting off to the weirdly soporific soft sound of Arthur getting himself off a bit unevenly, left-handed. They're kebab-and-pasty-pecs, not bench-press-and-sweat pecs. They're — so sore, that's odd, that's not something that —
"Yeah, yeah, I’m,” grates out Arthur, and then there's the warm-lovely-quick patter of come over Eames' chest, the yet-more-lovely sound of Arthur gasping and half-laughing and finishing off with the sweet soft serious noise he makes when he resigns himself to the fact that there's no more pleasure to be wrung from this particular orgasm. "Shit, that looks hot on your ink," Arthur is saying, and he's smearing it around messily which is going to be terrible in the morning, but Eames is drifting properly now, pleased and sated and utterly incapable of kissing Arthur back no matter how ardently Arthur is kissing Eames' mouth.
Eames has strange and unsettling dreams.
“Strange and unsettling how?” asks Arthur, who is not a morning person but does a shockingly good impression of one, buttoned up and neat and not at all looking like the bloke who slipped out of Eames’ hotel room and back to his own in the pink light of dawn. Scarcely an hour has passed, and here Arthur is looking like he’s been starched and ironed.
Eames, for his part, scarcely feels like he slept at all, hasn’t shaved, and is wearing yesterday’s trousers, yesterday’s socks. Dressing felt like too much trouble once he’d spent ten minutes in the shower scraping dried come out of his chest hair, wincing through the necessary pressure of fingertips to his sore pectoral muscles. Besides, nothing in Eames’ suitcase seems to hang properly on him at the moment, except maybe these trousers.
“Well, to begin with,” Eames says, reaching over to paw through the fruit bowl Reas keeps stocked, “I dreamt.”
Arthur blinks, catching Eames’ meaning now. “How long since, you, ah,” he begins to ask, almost delicate about it. It’s a bit incongruent with the Arthur who woke Eames this morning by pinching Eames’ sides and saying, I like these, gives me something to hold onto while you fuck me. But Arthur’s a different creature when he’s got coffee in his hands rather than Eames’ nascent love handles, sleek pomaded hair rather than tousled pre-shower curls. And besides all that, Arthur credits himself with a certain level of professionalism when it comes to somnacin side effects. On jobs like these where there’s no dedicated chemist, it’s Arthur’s task to mete out the dosages and keep tabs on how everyone manages the drugs in their system.
“Oh, I dream now and then, between gigs,” Eames says, choosing a small mandarin orange. He pushes the curve of his index fingernail into the top of the fruit, teasing the peel away. The flesh is overripe, almost, and gives up a little squirt of juice when he presses too hard. “But never when I’m working.”
Arthur frowns and takes a sip of coffee. “You haven’t been under much, yet,” he says. “We’ve kept you busy with the documents.”
“Probably that’s it,” Eames agrees, and strips away the last bit of peel, holds it up. “Elephant,” he says, and flaps the orange peel ears by way of illustration.
Arthur — still not a morning person — doesn’t bother to smile or even roll his eyes. He just stifles a yawn and gets out his phone, probably making a note to look into the dreaming situation later on once he’s properly awake. The phone makes little clicking noises, like an insect, as Arthur taps the screen expertly.
“I was doing my taxes,” Eames says, because the phone reminds him of the adding machine he’d been using in his dream.
“That’s what passes for strange and unsettling in Eames’ world?” Arthur asks, distracted.
There’s nothing so boring as other people’s dreams. Eames of all people knows this. He decides against telling Arthur the rest: how his teeth fell out, how he’d spent hours trying to find a lost tie, and how when he’d woken up with Arthur’s hands stroking up his sides, Eames thought it was part of the dream, too. He shakes the feeling away and reaches for a banana, pushes the peeled orange towards Arthur across the table. Eames has had terrible heartburn the last few weeks; best avoid the acid, he reckons.
Arthur takes the mandarin and breaks it into sections, makes short work of it, and neglects to say thank you or even break eye contact with his screen: definitely not a morning person, no, though he fakes it well.
The next two days are nothing but hours of work. Eames finishes the archival documents he’s forging, working late into the night to get them done. Then there’s the tiresome business of planting them in the company’s records. This involves wearing a suit and tie, weaselling his way into the company’s headquarters, and chatting up three separate administrative drones. Being charming has never felt so dreadfully dull.
But Eames makes the plant, barely, and escapes to the circus of food carts a few blocks away, joins the hordes of office workers feeling cosmopolitan as they gnaw at different flavours of curry wrapped in different kinds of flatbread.
“Cheesecake for lunch?” Arthur half-asks, coming over and sitting next to Eames on a concrete flower-bed edge. He’s got a plastic tray with salad in it, leafy greens topped with purple-red shredded beets and corn. It looks disgusting.
“Is that balsamic vinegar?” Eames asks, taking the plastic cup of dressing from Arthur’s tray, popping it open, drizzling it over his cheesecake.
Arthur makes the sort of gagging noise Eames didn’t make at Arthur’s own questionable lunch choices. “Eames,” he protests.
“You never use the dressing,” Eames says. “Balsamic vinegar is the new foodie dessert flavour of choice, anyway.”
“On lime cheesecake,” Arthur doesn’t ask, flatly.
“It’s pistachio,” Eames corrects, indignant. “Don’t be mad.”
“Look, I only came over to see if you made the plant,” Arthur says, stabbing at his salad, “not to have you destroy my appetite.”
“Plant made,” Eames says. “And I need you to take me clothes shopping, darling, since you’re so fond of my newfound bulk. I feel like the inside of a boiled egg in this suit, I’m bursting out of it.”
“Well, cheesecake is hardly,” Arthur begins, and stops judiciously when Eames looks over at him pointedly. “I would love to take you shopping,” he revises mildly, “so long as you promise to try everything on before you reject it out of hand. And — no tweed. Or linen.”
“I’d just be pleased with a belt that’s not cutting me in two,” Eames says, groaning, eating more cheesecake anyway.
“I think you should talk to Yusuf, after this job,” Arthur says with a thoughtful frown. “If you’re still not cycling, and gaining weight, and — I mean, clearly your taste buds have stopped working. Plus, the dreaming.”
“I’ve got terminal cancer, probably, is what you mean,” Eames says gloomily. “Cheers, Arthur, you really know how to ruin a good slice of cheesecake.” He slides the last piece onto the fork and frowns at it: dull green cake splotched with dark brown, like camouflage dessert. Wouldn’t do to let it go to waste, though. Eames downs it: more fuel for his malignant tumour.
“If I thought you had cancer, I’d suggest a doctor, not Yusuf,” Arthur says. “Probably it’s a — what do they call it? — an atypical drug reaction. You might have to switch formulations, that’s all.”
Eames reaches over and takes a forkful of beets off Arthur’s tray, still ravenous in spite of his probable impending death. “I’m done for the day, anyhow,” he says, “fancy a long afternoon shag?”
Arthur, who opened his mouth to protest Eames’ food thievery, quite visibly shifts moods with this suggestion, straightening up a little and losing all interest in his lunch. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, okay. Let me just text Reas that I’ll come in to finish my file on the mark’s sister later.”
Eames holds Arthur’s salad while Arthur texts, and eats most of it by way of punishment when Arthur’s single text spirals into a long exchange with Reas that would probably take a fraction of the time if either of them ever used their phones for actual verbal conversations.
“Okay,” says Arthur at long last, “let’s go.”
Eames heaves himself up and groans at the cut of his leather belt across his middle, the tug of his suit jacket over his chest and shoulders. He’s desperate to be out of these clothes, and better yet if that happens with Arthur beside him, similarly naked.
It’s the sound of Om Nom happily crunching through a candy that pulls Eames up from sleep. He slowly rolls onto his back and kicks at the blanket tangled up round his legs, the one that wasn’t there when he flopped onto the bed and beckoned Arthur follow only minutes earlier.
Only it couldn’t have been minutes, because the sun’s setting now, Eames is stiff and bleary-eyed, and Arthur’s dressed again. He’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved thermal tee, his hair loose and feet bare. Arthur’s clearly settled in for the duration with his iPad on his bent knees, working steadily and ably through levels of Cut the Rope.
“Did we have really nice sex and I missed it?” Eames asks, squirming closer to Arthur.
“I actually did blow you for about a minute before I noticed you snoring,” Arthur says, but there’s more amusement in his voice than annoyance. He looks over at Eames and quirks his mouth. “You’ve been working too hard. I texted Reas and told her we have to add three days to the timeline or we’re both walking.”
“And?” Eames prompts, nudging his cheek up onto Arthur’s hip, hoping for a bit of head-scratching.
Arthur’s fingers settle in Eames’ hair and stroke it up and down, delightful and soft and perfect. “And she caved,” he says, “but your per diem went down a little. And I threw in an extra tune-up on her PASIV, that thing’s teetering on the brink of system failure already.”
“You’d have done it anyway,” Eames says, blissful with the gentle tickle of Arthur’s hand over his scalp. “You’d never pull a job on a substandard machine.”
“Reas doesn’t know that,” Arthur says quietly, getting back to his game with his free hand. “You want to sleep more? Should I go?”
“Don’t want to sleep more,” Eames says, though he could honestly go straight back under if he let himself, especially with the warmth of Arthur under his cheek, Arthur stroking his head, Arthur breathing soft and steady and tapping the iPad’s screen beside him. “I believe I owe you at least one minute of fellatio, anyway.” He pushes his head over until he’s nearer Arthur’s fly, drops his palm flat over the soft bulk of Arthur’s cock and gives it a friendly gentle squeeze.
Arthur sets the iPad on the nightstand and unbuttons his jeans obligingly. “You were dreaming again, I think,” he says, lifting his hips and pushing his jeans and pants down when Eames shifts back to allow it. “You were making little noises.”
“Chasing rabbits,” Eames says knowingly as he settles properly between Arthur’s spread legs now, noses up alongside Arthur’s soft cock. He likes this, taking Arthur from zero to coming; usually they’re in a hurry, or already worked up from some feat of dering-do. There’s something particularly nice about having the leisure to kiss Arthur before he’s quite ready for it, Arthur who’s nearly always up for sex, literally and figuratively.
“Sorry,” murmurs Arthur, “just — keep going.”
No way to reassure a bloke that you like his soft cock just fine, thanks, so Eames fills his mouth to keep it busy, sucking on Arthur’s cock head and taking all Arthur’s length in, so easily. Arthur draws a sharp breath in through his nose and twists at Eames’ hair, pleased. Eames can count the heartbeats it takes under his tongue, the bump-bump-bump here along the long vein as Arthur’s cock thickens first and starts to harden with Eames’ gentle sucking and bobbing. Above him, Arthur’s his usual noisy filthy self, half-spoken phrases of encouragement mixed with promises that might be shocking if Eames didn’t know perfectly well that Arthur’s barely aware he’s saying them at all. There’s no mistaking it when Arthur’s awake, that much is certain. Even the rough tug of his fingers on Eames’ hair, ears, jaw, would be ample proof.
But then Arthur’s hands leave for a moment, and when they come back they’re dropping the bottle of lube onto Eames’ face. “Fuck, sorry,” Arthur says, half-laughing, half-gasping, “but can you — I want your fingers.”
Eames pulls off with a noisy sucking sound, just because Arthur pretends to hate that noise even as the leap and freshly wet tip of his cock makes him a liar. “You want to come like this?” Eames checks, getting the bottle in his hand and popping the cap. Arthur’s still got his t-shirt on, and his spit-wet cock is curved up over the hem of it, leaving a dark trail of damp. Eames wouldn’t mind seeing that neat Calvin Klein stretch of fabric even more sullied, patchy and white-wet and filthy with Arthur’s come.
“Yeah, okay,” Arthur says, “will you still fuck me, after? You’re not too tired?”
Eames tucks a finger into Arthur’s arse and comes up to kiss him, lovely solicitous Arthur who thinks Eames is working too hard and that he probably doesn’t have terminal cancer, whose hands are gliding down Eames’ chest and over to his sides to pinch gently at the bulk there. Something to hold onto, Eames remembers, smiling against Arthur’s mouth. “Oh, I’ll fuck you,” Eames tells him, “press you down into the mattress and fuck you for hours if you like. But first,” and he moves back down, pushes another finger in, and takes Arthur in his mouth.
“I liked this shirt,” Arthur says, somewhere between regret and satisfaction, when Eames finishes making him come a while later. Arthur’s got pink cheeks now, sweat on his brow, and jumpy sweet thigh muscles jittering with aftershocks even as Eames keeps pushing more lube into him, using the laxity of orgasm to open Arthur a bit more.
“It’ll wash,” Eames says, rolling Arthur onto his side and coming up to spoon behind him.
“I can’t put this in the hotel laundry,” Arthur says, scandalized, like he didn’t just make the hotel corridors ring with his urgent shouting as he fucked into Eames’ mouth.
“Take it home?” Eames suggests, pushing Arthur’s uppermost thigh up to better expose his wet arsehole. “Oh, sweetheart, look at this, I’m going to fuck you all night.”
“I told Reas I’d come into work, later,” Arthur says, straining up to see the bedside alarm clock. “You can fuck me until 6:35.”
“I’m going to fuck you until 6:35,” Eames revises easily, swiping some lube over his cock.
“Oh, but I’ll need to shower,” Arthur says, “and grab some dinner. Probably — 5:50, actually.”
“I’m going to fuck you until 5:50,” Eames says, and lines himself up, pushes in. It’s delightfully easy, Arthur loose from coming around Eames’ fingers, nothing between them but the thin slick of lube. “Oh, Arthur,” Eames says, and pushes his forehead to the nape of Arthur’s neck, thrusts in fully.
“I don’t have laundry at home,” Arthur says.
“Hmm,” Eames says, trying for polite interest when he’s actually trying to work out how he’ll last until 5:50 with Arthur so slick and hot and perfect around him.
“I don’t actually have a home, really,” Arthur adds, and curves an arm back around Eames’ neck, makes a thrilling series of soft sounds before holding Eames steady for kissing. “Not that I’m homeless,” he adds when he regains his calm a little, “just that I stopped trying to maintain a base of operations when I realized it was more economical to — fuck, oh my god, Eames, this position is really — ah, deep, yes, there.”
“Economical,” Eames prompts him, because it’s helping, actually, listening to Arthur natter on about his budgeting. He moves his upper body a little and pushes Arthur’s down under him, trying for a different angle, wanting to go as deep as Arthur needs.
“Hotel laundry is expensive,” Arthur says, face a bit muffled now by the pillow, “but it’s a relatively small expense when you’re not paying rent or utilities. Plus — plus,” and now he’s pushing his mouth into the bed himself, and his brow’s gone all creased and his eyes are squeezed tight, which is the way Arthur looks when his busy massive brain has been taken utterly offline through steady and insistent application of Eames’ cock in his arse.
Eames pushes two fingers into Arthur’s mouth to help him, and fucks him for a while like that, keeping a weather eye on the clock. 5:43, 5:45, 5:46, and it’s no good, Eames is — he drops back again and pulls his hand free, cinches an arm round Arthur’s hips and holds him steady. Eames fucks into him inelegantly, frantically, abruptly desperate to come. Arthur’s eyes pop open and he grins like he gets it, says, “Come on, Eames, fucking — yeah, come, do it, I want to feel you filling me up,” and Eames grits his teeth and digs his fingers into Arthur’s hip and lets himself go spectacularly.
“Ow,” says Arthur, a moment later, but he’s laughing too. “Ow, holy fuck, you’re kind of a fucking — animal right now.” He rolls away and sits up, looking down to inspect the red handprint on his hip. “It’s a good thing I’m not the one with the too-tight clothes,” he says. He looks back up and takes Eames in, sprawled half on his stomach and taking up more than his fair share of the bed. “You look wrecked.”
“I look like a fat-arse who’s too off form to shag you properly,” Eames says bitterly, not moving.
“Oh, that was perfectly up to standard,” Arthur assures him, beaming. “Any more up to standard and I’d be limping tomorrow, thanks.” He looks down at his t-shirt and frowns again, strips it over his head. “Sleep it off, babe,” he says, leaning in to kiss Eames’ eyebrow, “I’ve got to run.”
Eames shouldn’t go to sleep, of course; he’ll only wake disgustingly early and then his internal clock will be even more fucked than it already is. At this rate he’ll never cycle, he’ll spend all of eternity like this: bloated and spent and sprawled over a mattress.
“Hey,” Arthur says very softly into Eames’ ear, some minutes later. He smells like shower gel, like Eames’ shampoo — on his way out the door, Eames surmises blearily. “Hey, I’m going to call Yusuf tonight, okay? See if he thinks you should be checked out.”
“So I am going to die,” Eames concludes, too done in to open his eyes.
His only answer is the click of the hotel room door as it shuts behind Arthur.