“I don’t care,” Arthur says, meaning to be reassuring. From the way Eames’ face flinches, he must not have met his own intentions.
“It’s probably the temperature, darling. I’m a sweet summer child.”
Arthur looks out the window, where, to be fair, it is very cold. Six or seven inches last night and still falling heavy. Inside, however, it’s not like Arthur nickle and dimes about the gas bill. “I know,” he says, this time making sure to keep his voice low, affection creeping in. “It’s fine.”
“I really do want to,” Eames says, pink.
“I know,” Arthur repeats. Eames’ cock is soft against his stomach and still wet with Arthur's saliva. “I've got a dick. Sometimes it's not ready to party.”
Eames still looks tense. Arthur can hardly blame him. He's secretly more than a little relieved that he's never had an equipment failure with Eames. He'd hate to be in his place right now.
“I'll make you some tea,” Arthur says, giving his thigh an affectionate rub.
“No.” Eames says. “I don't need any tea.”
Arthur shrugs. “Alright. What would you like? We can take a break.”
Eames’ voice comes out small, a little stilted: “You can fuck me.”
“No,” Arthur says, dismissing him out of hand. He leans over to peck a kiss onto the tense bow of his mouth. “You’re still sore from… no.” Arthur eases himself back over Eames, like a weighted blanket, and kisses his mouth, tender, curling. He puts one hand at the base of Eames’ head.
Eames mumbles something against his lips.
“What,” Arthur says, pulling back just enough to let Eames speak.
“I really can’t stay,” Eames rumbles, unmelodically.
Arthur laughs. “But baby it’s cold outside,” he says, slotting his mouth back against Eames’ plush lips, using one arm to make sure he gets a blanket up around their shoulders. He stays like that for some time, nibbling at Eames lips and then his jaw, petting at his neck. Eames has one hand on the curve of his hip.
Arthur, who grew up with divorced parents, spent half of his adolescence in Boston with his father and the other half in Toronto with his mom. He loves the weather in the low thirties. Also, he cuts a damn fine figure in a wool coat. He’s not sure how he ended up dating thin-blooded Eames who would always, always rather be sunbathing.
“Here,” Arthur says, breathless, holding the edge of the blanket over his shoulder and passing it off to Eames. “Hold onto that,” he says, and drags himself back under the blanket, down Eames’ body, kissing his way down.
It feels strange to be cocooned away, insulated inside of the new, thick duvet he’d had to buy to keep his cold blooded boyfriend from being incorrigible.
“It’s possible,” Eames says, squirming, “that you know.”
“So think of it as a massage,” Arthur says, breathing over the silk-soft skin of Eames’ soft cock, pressing a familiar kiss to it’s head.
“What,” Eames says, sounding startled as Arthur opens his mouth, and in one smooth movement, enveloping it. It’s so easy this way, fitting completely in the pocket of his mouth, with enough room to articulate a slow, undulating sucting with no awkwardness. Arthur pets at Eames’ thigh, stroking from hip to knee and back, right on top of Eames honest to God longjohns, pulled down just low enough for this.
He’s ensconced, can’t see Eames’ face, which Eames must realize, because Arthur is pretty sure he is making an effort to let Arthur know how he’s feeling: amplifying the breathy noises and sighs that would normally be softer. “This is,” he says, “you were right. Still nice.”
“I know,” Arthur says, pulling off to speak, and grinning in spite of himself. The blanket over his head makes him reckless enough to tell him something he’s never told him before. “One time I got too drunk to get it up and my college girlfriend went down on me for like, half an hour. She kept calling it adorable. At the time I kind of felt condescended to, and totally mortified, but later I realized she was the real MVP.”
Eames’ torso shakes with a single silent laugh. “I hope you returned the favor,” he says, winding one hand under the duvet to find Arthur’s head, touching the side of his face. Arthur moves down to suck Eames’ soft cock again. “Mhm,” he says, around it.
He doesn’t have to move his head up and down, but instead sucks in slow, heady waves, Eames, beneath him, is hot to the touch. Arthur pictures his face, flushed against the air in the room that Eames is under the impression is cold.
It’s almost laughable, but, idiotically, Arthur loves him. Even though he turns into a delicate fucking flower when the weather drops below sixty. Arthur laps and suckles at him relentlessly, probably the lowest stress blowjob he’s ever given in his life, and Eames beneath him is a pat of melted butter.
“You should come up here,” Eames says, “so I can return the favor.”
“I’m good right here,” Arthur says, “unless you’re not having a good time.”
“I’m a clam, darling.” Eames says, still supine and warm. Arthur takes his free hand in his own, threading their fingers together. “But I don't think anything's going to happen, and I just don’t want you to feel neglected down there.”
“Never,” Arthur assures him. “I just want you to have a good time, whether you come or not. And you've got plenty of time to return the favor. Obviously, you’re no match for the outdoors today.”
“Fuck the snow; fuck the outdoors.” Eames says, a little gleeful.
Arthur would feel a little like a traitor if he said something as ridiculous like fuck the snow, because snow is wonderful and crisp and charming and driving on it really allows him to show off a little, so instead he sinks back down to Eames soft cock, arranging his own erection beneath him in a position that will be comfortable as he settles back in on his elbows.
Except, Eames lifts up the blanket to look at him. “Darling? Where does your allegiance lie?”
“Fuck the snow,” Arthur says, with no enthusiasm.
“The things we do for love,” Eames acknowledges, grinning, and cups Arthur’s cheek.
Arthur goes back to it, something warm curling in him like an unfurled ribbon.