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My Love Is As A Fever

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Arthur pads into the bedroom where Eames is still tucked under the covers, asleep. He sets a cup of tea down on the nightstand beside Eames, and then crawls back into bed. Eames, half asleep, reaches out for Arthur and pulls him close, giving a little gasp at the coolness of his skin.

"Christ, darling. You're freezing," he says, voice rough with sleep.

"There was an open window in the living room. The rain is coming down pretty hard out there," Arthur replies as he snuggles into Eames further, burrowing himself into the crook of his neck, breathing in. He loves the smell of Eames. It’s the smell of sex and musk and man and home.

“There's a cup of tea on the bedside table for you," Arthur tells him, and Eames hums gratefully. It's a few more minutes before Eames shifts and reaches for the cup, taking a hesitant sip, and then another once he's sure it's at an okay temperature. Arthur shifts with him, curling up at his side with his head on Eames' chest and a leg swung over one of Eames'.

Eames traces his fingertips up and down Arthur's spine and sips at his tea, talking about nothing in particular with Arthur. Things like staying in bed all day and what they should have for dinner. When Eames puts the cup down again, Arthur moves into his lap and kisses him, kisses the taste of tea leaves with a splash of sugary milk from his mouth. He kisses and kisses until they have to pull away, both of them flushed and panting slightly.

Arthur's boxers rub against Eames’ bare skin, and Eames takes note of this, pulls at the waistband and lets it snap against Arthur's skin.

"Get these off, yeah?" Eames says, and Arthur does. He lets Eames guide his hips as he rocks them down against him as they kiss, open mouthed and exploratory. Tongues sliding against each other in familiar rhythms.

Eames snatches the lube off of the bedside table and slides slicked fingers between Arthur’s legs, rubs and presses with gentle pressure until, finally, Arthur’s body lets them inside.

Eames fucks him slowly, rolls Arthur over until he's on his back and pushes in so carefully, so achingly good that all Arthur can do is pant and grip Eames' shoulders tight, fingernails digging into skin and muscle.

"Fuck, Arthur," Eames whispers into Arthur's hairline, his mouth leaving behind wet kisses that travel down to Arthur's eyelids, his nose, the dip above his lip, and finally lock themselves with Arthur's lips. Arthur is drowning, drowning. Eames is around him, in him, sharing the same air as him, and Arthur still wishes he could get closer somehow.

Arthur comes fast and hard, flushed and keening, Eames' name on his tongue. Eames follows, pushing in to the hilt, the strength of his body crushing into Arthur's beautifully, knocking the breath out of both of them. Arthur drags his nails up Eames' back, and Eames' hips give one last twitch against him as Eames breathes into Arthur's neck, leaving behind marks with his teeth.

They sprawl on the sheets after, feet and fingers tangled as the sweat dries on their skin. Arthur wants breakfast and Eames wants more tea. So, they get up and make it together, bringing it back to bed with them, and get crumbs and tea stains on the sheets.

Arthur has never felt more loved, has never loved something so wholly before. Eames is the perfect counterpart to him, everything he needs and nothing he ever knew he wanted. He loves him completely, so sharp and real and fully that it hurts in a place so deep down inside of him, Arthur hadn’t known it existed.

So Arthur gladly lets Eames lick blackberry jam from his fingers as he eats his toast. And he willingly lets Eames hold him down and leave small pinching bite marks all over his ribcage that have Arthur gasping with laughter and squirming from ticklishness as Eames’ stubble rubs against his skin. And he happily goes into Eames' arms when he gathers him up, pulling him in close for a kiss and a whispered truth about love. And Arthur, Arthur returns the sentiment, meaning it with every bone in his body, every breath in his lungs, every beat of his heart.

As Arthur pushes Eames down into the sheets and straddles his hips, he knows Eames understands it by the smile lighting up his eyes. And when he crawls down Eames' body and mouths at the delicate skin of his cock, he knows Eames feels that way too. He hears it in the way Eames moans his name, and that's more than enough for Arthur. Eames will always be more than enough for him.