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Eames likes the smell of sleep on Arthur, the warm tang of it on his skin, the salty-sweet creases at the bend of neck, elbow, wrist. Arthur’s hair goes wild overnight, wilder even than Arthur’s hair in its natural curly state — it springs in extravagant leaps from the crown of Arthur’s head, like it has some sort of undisclosed escape plan. Arthur wakes in stages, and his eyes only open near the end of the long process: narrow suspicious dark slits, glinting with faint hatred of light and happiness and what the day may bring.

"Your eyes say no, no, no," says Eames, spooned up behind Arthur. He goes directly back to nuzzling at Arthur’s warm sleepy earlobe (Arthur’s earlobe is absolutely sleepy, though Eames can’t explain how this is possible). "But your cock says yes, yes, yes."

"My cock says reflex response to a full bladder," says Arthur, inert, heavy, resistant. "In a minute my hand is going to say slap, slap, slap."

"Stop making promises you aren’t going to keep, you filthy tart," Eames scolds him, grinning, nibbling. Arthur’s cock is sprung, pushing against the stroke of Eames’ palm. There’s nothing reflexive about it, not at this point.

"Nn," says Arthur, rolling his face into the pillow. "I hate that you’re a morning person. Why are you awake."

"It’s alright, darling," says Eames, shoving Arthur’s little orange pants down around his thighs, "go back to sleep if you like, I don’t mind if you do."

Arthur actually seems like he might do that, taking a series of soft snuffling breaths, subsiding into the mattress even as Eames strokes his flank. Eames likes the purr of Arthur’s faint dark body hair. He pushes it up against the grain and strokes it flat again. Arthur’s navel is sweet, elastic, a little eloquent mouth in the landscape of his flat slender belly. His cock head kisses just under it, faintly wet now. Eames shifts his hand and parts Arthur’s thighs from behind. He’s still slick from last night.

"No," says Arthur. "Gross. No."

"Yes," says Eames, "delightful. Yes." He strokes his thumb around Arthur’s hole and then pushes a little. It goes in surprisingly easily.

"Eames," Arthur says, "that’s so unhygienic. That’s"—

Eames thumbs Arthur open, in-out-in-out, crooks the fat joint of his thumb, and opens his mouth over the knob at the base of Arthur’s neck. “I did right by you last night, didn’t I,” he says, when he breaks away again. “Feel me, still in you.”

Arthur frowns and turns his face further into the pillow but his hips cant back.

"You should always go round like this," says Eames, patting around for the slick. He uncaps it one-handed. It’s messy, getting his dick slicked up, but the sheets are a disaster anyway. Eames wants to keep his thumb in Arthur’s arse. It’s a bookmark, maybe. It’s a promise. "If I had my way," Eames goes on, wriggling closer, getting lube everywhere over his hips and the round faint jiggle of Arthur’s sweet arse, "I’d keep you in this state, with me in you, some part of me in you. Hmm?"

Arthur is very red-cheeked, now, and though his eyes are still closed his mouth is open, panting. He’s clutching the blankets; Eames doubts he realizes it.

Eames pulls his thumb out and replaces it with the tip of his cock. Pauses there to look down between them and admire their intersection. Arthur’s arsehole wants more, clutches at the not-enough of Eames’ cock head, teases at the lip of foreskin. Everything glistens. Arthur breathes raggedly, and his formerly-sleepy earlobes are live and awake and red with rushing blood now, just under the thin skin.

"Would you," Arthur chokes out, "would you fucking fuck me, already.” Morning voice, that, all low and cracked and parched, and Eames loves, loves, loves Arthur in the morning.

Eames fucks Arthur, already. He fucks him slow and curling and deep, and Arthur reaches back and grips Eames’ hip, his arse, hard callused fingertips and strong hands and desperate sips of air. Eames pushes his nose into the safe pink behind Arthur’s ear and gasps and fucks Arthur sunrise-slow, riding on the slick leavings of last night. Arthur gets desperate and even grabbier, exhorts Eames to go faster, fuck, just fucking do it, and when Eames doesn’t obey Arthur shifts his hand higher and fists his hand in the short tender hair at the nape of Eames’ neck, holds him steady, fucks himself back onto Eames as best he can with sweet soft sounds. It hurts, that iron grip of Arthur’s hand, and it’s good, and Eames lets Arthur hold Eames and fuck him sideways until it’s not enough.

"Yeah," says Arthur, "yeah," when Eames rears up and pins Arthur flat, belly-down to the mattress, straddles his thighs, and fucks him deep, fast, selfish. "Oh, yeah, Eames, fuck, that’s good, that’s," Arthur groans, lifting his arse into it. He lifts his head up, too, looks back down over his shoulder and watches Eames fucking him. His hair is a disaster, a bird’s nest; his face is a red-lined map of pillow creases. His eyes are sleepy, half-open. Eames loves Arthur in the morning, he thinks again, loves him, loves him.

"Come in me," Arthur’s saying, "do it, come on, I want you to come inside me, I want it, oh, fuck," and Eames pushes his face between Arthur’s shoulder blades and holds Arthur by the waist when he comes. After, he pulls out and rolls Arthur over, Arthur boneless and heavy and grinning like he’s the one who had the brilliant idea about morning sex. Eames sucks Arthur off; it doesn’t take long, not with Eames’ fingers in Arthur’s wet arse, Eames’ fingers crooking in him through the slick of lube and come.

"Oh my god," says Arthur, "I have to pee so bad."

Eames lies crosswise over the end of the bed and watches as Arthur stumbles to his feet, naked and headed for the loo, thighs shiny high up inside. In a moment the shower starts up. Next time Eames sees Arthur, he’ll be sleek and clean and he’ll probably have coffee in hand, a plan for the morning, ideas about breakfast. His hair will be tamed and his chin shaven, all traces of sleep erased.

Eames will love him like that too, scrubbed and perfect and frowning over his egg-white omelet.

(Eames is seriously starting to think there mightn’t be any way he doesn’t love Arthur.)