Chapter Text
In February, Eames wakes to the distinct impression that Arthur is curled naked beside him, a hand on Eames just there , lips warm at the base of his neck.
Arthur.
He own hand already between his legs, Eames holds himself still, draws a shallow breath. Lets the illusion of Arthur cling to his skin beneath the featherweight of his duvet.
In the half-darkness of a snowbound city night Eames allows himself to deny reality.
Arthur, who’s been here for less than two months.
Arthur, who hates Boston’s icy cold.
Arthur, who’s talking about transferring to Palo Alto or Austin.
Fuck.