Chapter Text
X.
“Smoking is a terrible vice,” Arthur says to him on Tuesday, folding his coat carefully over his arm; Eames ignores him.
Arthur stands there and stares at him, waiting for—a response?
The fucking cheek; Eames feels an itching tingle at the back of his neck, the urge to push, to prod, to ignite. He ignores it in hopes that it will go away. It doesn’t.
Finch clears his throat for a solid five minutes until Eames slowly swivels in his chair, affecting an expression of boredom instead of incredulity as his boss begins to steadily lecture him on The Evils of Smoking.
Arthur’s eyes are the over-bright of exhaustion, and determination gathers in the pinched space between his eyebrows. His hands move with illustrative swoops, and punctuate The Facts. Eames resists the urge to roll his eyes— barely.
Eventually Arthur pauses for breath,
“You have a meeting in twelve minutes with the board.” Eames interjects.
Arthur looks startled for a moment, eyes snapping to his watch, and then back to Eames. Finch licks his lips and Eames’ grip tightens on the hard plastic arm of his office chair.
“You really should quit,” Arthur says to him, his coat between them like a shield. Eames bites at his lower lip and watches the curious hunger in his employer; carefully considers the best course of action to get Finch to leave him the fuck alone to do his goddamn fucking job. Eames spreads his legs slightly, relishing the delicious stretch of his trousers across his thighs and savours the way the pink blooms high on pale cheeks, sweeps across the tips of ears.
“Darling,” Eames’ laces his words with sarcasm and injects them with callous jeering, “I didn’t know you cared.”
The air between them turns crisp and thin, Arthur’s back straightening slightly, a chasm. Eames turns back to his computer, task complete, but can’t help himself from cataloguing everything.
The curl of Arthur’s hand at his side into a fist; the knuckles of his hand translucent bleeding into pink, the way Arthur’s stare becomes glassy and blank like slick tar, like empty hatred; a hollowness that eats away at Eames’ marrow like acid. The entirely unfair and utterly graceful way Finch turns on his heel and lets the gaping maw of his office swallow him up with a snap.
Eames runs a hand over haggard planes and weary lines. “Buggering fuck,” he whispers to himself, allowing a brief moment of frustration, hot pain, and the strangling grief of knowing you’re missing out on something.
Pushing back his hair, and rolling his neck, he gets on with being an amazing goddamn file manager.
X
Arthur is being nice. Or— yes, nice. Not kind, but… nice. And as much as Eames has tried to ignore it, the fact of it lies suffocating-heavy, slowly smothering. It’s not quite niceness , rather a cool politeness—false consideration wrapped up in saccharine sweetness—it hurts Eames’ teeth, it aches in the clench of his jaw, in that space deep in his throat—it hurts.
He tries prodding at it, trying to get a rise out of Arthur, at the very least a reaction.
He tries to drown out the echoing blankness with drink and drink and drink.
Sure, the unreasonable working conditions and offhanded cruelty fucking sucked, but anything, anything. Is better than Arthur barely acknowledging Eames with detached indifference and a congenial smile stretching his lips.
Arthur is nice to prospective clients.
Arthur is nice to acquaintances,
Arthur is nice to strangers.
Nice is…
Nothing.
It’s ambivalence wrapped up in social graces. It’s a bored glance, a brief nod, a stilted conversation about the weather. It’s neither tingling cold nor searing heat; it’s a precise balance of the scale on nothing.
Nice is nothing. It means
Eames is nothing
To Arthur.
Eames sits at his desk convulsively swallowing and trying to keep his breathing regular.
“Get a fucking grip, get a fucking grip,” he whispers at the letters of his keyboard.
He hadn’t realized how much getting a reaction out of Finch kept the too-muchness at bay; the creeping sad-soaked thoughts that make him cringe, make him bite, make him feel the violent scream of worthlessness.
It doesn’t fucking matter.
Nothing fucking matters.
Eames’ head is still in his hands when he hears Arthur walk by, sees the carless lingering caress of fingers brushing along the edge of his desk in the blurred edges of his peripheral.
He tenses, expecting the overwhelming confusing compressing force of Arthur.
He doesn’t realize Arthur didn’t stop until he hears the mechanical open and close of the lift doors signalling Arthur’s departure like the closing of a book.
He doesn’t realize until he hears the soft, “Salut,” and the creaking of plastic cradled like a lifeline against his ear that he’s called Mal.
“Something’s wrong with me,” he tells her over and over, like a skipping record, like a poem, “You are important, and you are needed,” she tells him over and over, like a balm, like a song.
X
Everything is bleak and dried out; stiff, starched. At work Eames drapes on other people, covering himself with the shells of capability, of competence. Ariadne fills the silent gaps with a brilliance that slides across him like windswept scarves, Dom sits with him and silences the noise with the branded silk of liquor, and Mal holds him together with duct-taped words and stiches of encouragement; fondness like glue.
Three weeks go by, and Eames finds himself solidifying; holding back the cresting swell and pull of seductive nothingness by holding onto his found family. Falling into old patterns and tentatively seeking new ones.
He runs calloused fingertips over the welcoming cream of empty pages and grasps his pen more tightly, rolling it reassuringly. Although his mind screams, and his chest hurts, his panic-laced fingers shake as he sketches on the bus on his way to work, as he smoothes ink in comforting erratic lines at night when sleep feels like a distant memory, sure and true in the morning with the grounding taste of coffee skittering across his tongue.
Eames feels splintered but—settling; cold hard acceptance shoving its way down his throat with every bland ‘good-morning’ and succinct email from Finch.
He feels. Okay.
Of course it all goes to shit at the office ugly-sweater Christmas party.
X
“I’ve found it,” Eames emerges from the tiny dressing room of the second hand shop, arms outstretched, closed eyes lifted to the ceiling. Ariadne’s face is a combination of horror and glee, hands hovering between her heated cheeks and bright eyes.
“You found it,” she breathes, awe-struck, inspired.
Eames steps out of the lift and the holiday soaked clamour of the room scatters and quiets until it’s nothing but the kitschy plastic sound of generic Christmas music lilting between the slack-jawed employees of Finch & Son.
Eames bows.
Dom coughs and nudges his way around him, already having spotted the outrageously large crystal bowl of punch; a few people gasp.
Dom’s sweater is not ugly. Alright, so it’s sort of hideous— a demented looking Rudolph leers from a garish pea-soup green knit. But it’s really not all that ugly. It’s just that Cobb found it in the little boy’s section, and it reaches to a few inches above his navel. Eames thinks the gasps are more appreciative than horrified, and he rolls his eyes.
Eames’ jumper, however, is a horrid manic-LSD-trip homemade pastiche of tinsel, hot pink, palm trees, beer belly Santa, stoned looking elves, and honest-to-God working Christmas lights that flicker and wink cheerily. Eames had felt it wasn’t him enough, and so he’d pulled out the hot glue gun and bedazzled the shit out of it.
Ariadne had found a sweater of a bunch of deer boning, and is already eagerly showing a laughing Yusuf. Eames’ eyes flit across the room, he tries not to be obvious about it, but— he can’t help it; can’t help himself.
He lazily watches Dom unscrewing a flask and then remembers the hissed warning from Mal,
“Watch him, Eames. I’m not sure if I got all the flasks, he hides them in places you wouldn’t believe.”
“Aw, you’re no fun,” Cobb whines as Eames snaps up the flask, just as Dom is about to tip its contents into the punch. Eames takes a pull—scotch corded and hot burns down his throat. He hands it back to Dom whose eyes have already landed on a tray of champagne bobbing and weaving through the jumble of tasteless party attire.
X
Dom hands him another drink while loudly blathering about having to see a guy about a karaoke machine before lurching off towards the glittering disco ball across the room.
Eames watches. Finch is working the crowd, and Eames watches the thin skin of Arthur’s neck as he sips champagne, and feels that frantic familiar pull in his gut and looks down into his own glass.
He concentrates on his breathing, on the slow and steady rhythm of it. Closes his eyes and imagines charcoal lines smudged and stark, imagines hard planes and soft shading, and he’s smiling in the drunkenness of calm when he opens his eyes, startles a little, caught off guard at the sight of Arthur in front of him looking as if he’s been hit by a truck. Fingers loosely holding onto the rim of his champagne flute, lips parted slightly, cheeks flushed, the look in his eyes wild, unguarded, open and fraying and wanting.
“You look—” Instead of finishing his sentence, Arthur finishes his drink, tipping the last of it back and placing it on a tray that appears at his side as if by magic. His eyes never leave Eames’. “What were you thinking about, just now?” Arthur asks, head tilting to the side, still looking, still staring: drinking Eames in.
Eames looks away first. Down a little at the, Jesus fuck—the sinfully snug jumper Arthur has poured himself into. His eyes narrow,
“Arthur, the subject line of the e-vite was, ‘Ugly Sweater Party’.” Eames is glad to find his voice steady and drawling, dark with teasing.
“It has amazing hand to fabric.”
Eames doesn’t bother replying, just raises an eyebrow sardonically, lifting his drink to his lips, the subtext a resounding, ‘What the fuck?’
“It’s mauve.” Arthur says, tone of voice offended, looking down at himself as if the garment he is wearing is the ugliest fucking thing in the world, and not a delicious softness clinging to his frame, accenting the milkiness of his skin, the life in his eyes.
Eames feels hammered, high on the feeling of having the sharp vision-fuzzying focus of Arthur on him. He feels hot and brave and reckless and unfettered, alive and unhinged, and like taking something,
can’t help himself, tongue loosened and coated with the cloying taste of alcohol, he chuckles a little, looking back up,
“It’s gorgeous.” Eames clenches his jaw at the honesty of it, but doesn’t look away.
Finch stares at him thoughtfully, moves a little closer, the movement of it even but edged with nervousness. He crosses his arms casually, a parody of nonchalance, eyes magnetic,
“Is it?” he asks, and Eames can feel his heartbeat pounding behind his eyes,
“Looks like it has amazing hand to fabric,” Eames feels steady on shifting ground—flirting has always come easily to him, but Finch is—Finch.
Arthur leans in; his breath a hot-cold-hot-cold pattern beating on the shell of Eames’ ear, “Why don’t you find out for yourself?” he asks, bold as brass, voice a slide like whisky, but Eames knows.
He knows what this is, how Arthur is; what will inevitably happen after sobriety and guilt take hold of Arthur and shake him and shake him. Eames knows, and it speaks to his masochism, to his depravity and helplessness, and complete lack of self-worth that he finishes off his glass, not breaking eye-contact, licks his lips, and follows Arthur into the stairwell.
Such a bad idea, Arthur takes the steps two at a time up to his office, his footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell.
Such a bad idea, Eames feels his nerves alight and the air in his lungs feel like an alive, scratching thing.
Such a bad idea. Arthur rests against the dark wood of his desk, legs a long lean line, inviting.
Eames hits the floor hard.
His hands are shaking as he pushes Arthur’s sweater up slightly, pulling at the t-shirt he finds underneath it from decadent trousers. He glides his hands greedy and starved over firm pebbled skin. His ears are ringing and he feels as if he’s in a gun-fight; vision tunnelling and hands steadying for the task at hand.
Steady through unbuckling Arthur’s belt, the snick of leather; steady through the unmistakably loud separating of zipper teeth, steady through the push of rich fabric down muscled thighs, until Eames takes a steeling breath, hands at the banded waist of Arthur’s briefs, and then— there’s that smell, sweeping into Eames over the heady cloud of alcohol. Arthur’s smell, clean and broken and hopeful, and it makes Eames screw his eyes shut. Makes something lurch inside of him; some raw thing, delicate and dangerous.
He swallows thickly, opens his eyes to find Arthur looking down at him; no doubt cataloguing the wrecked desperation Eames knows is openly scrawled across his face. Finch runs possessive fingers across his jaw, ending at his lips, parting them with his thumb, and running the thick pad over crooked teeth. He drops his hand and smiles at Eames; a self-deprecating smile, so full of sadness and longing that it makes Eames freeze.
Eames registers something breaking inside of him. Arthur is in front of him, perfect— and infuriating because of it, and he makes Eames want. Want in such a devastating and terrifying way, and Arthur is in front of him, heat coming off of him in waves, lips wet and shining, standing over Eames like he belongs there, and he’s here, he’s here. But he’s not.
He’s already receding—pulling away at Eames’ stillness, reading it as hesitation, something already shifting the curve of his mouth and stealing over his eyes.
Eames sees it, and he feels the slip of alcohol in his blood, feels his heart pounding rabbit-fast, and his body straining towards Arthur; wonderful and wretched, reckless. Helpless as he watches the shutter come down, snapping detachment colouring his every movement, as Arthur closes himself off with crossed arms wedged tightly across this chest.
“I didn’t take you for a sloppy drunk, Eames.”
He feels itching madness.
“Go home, you’re a mess.”
“Eames.”
Madness.
“It won’t last,” Eames finally gets out; voice raspy and thick, “It won’t fucking last.”
He has to steady himself on his knees then, and he is horrified and ashamed at his own weakness.
Arthur is quiet.
“You and me,” Eames continues beneath the blackness. “You’ll take, and I’ll give and give and give until there’s nothing of me left.”
Arthur swallows.
“You’ll get bored,” Eames says, smiling, though god knows why, “You’ll get bored. You’ll get so fucking bored.”
“Eames—”
But he can’t hear it, doesn’t want this confirmed,
“No.” Eames says, gutted, “I know how these things go. I know how these things end.”
He stops then and heaves heavily through his nose, fingers fisted against the wood floor. Bitterness and misery and want sludge thickly inside of him. He shuts his eyes and tries fiercely to calm himself. Tries lamely to tame the aching and coax it back under his discontent.
Arthur is breathing noisy and inelegant above him, and Eames feels fingers digging into his shoulder, firm and hard enough to hurt a little.
“You goddamn beautiful thing,” Arthur breathes into the emptiness above Eames’ head.
Eames feels so lonely then he could choke on it. He doesn’t hear the rest of what Arthur says, just kneels there stupidly, head bent over, can feel the weight of Arthur’s gaze. Doesn’t move or speak, and finally Arthur just sighs softly and leaves.
X
Eames waits until he hears the door close behind him, and then he falls forward onto his hands and panics; watches the smudged cloud of his breaths appearing and then disappearing on the polished floor in front of him. He tries to pull his phone from the confines of his trousers, and it’s all wadded around the pocket lining, and he feels his throat closing and the shameful prick of hot liquid behind his eyes, and then his phone is in his hand, but his limbs are like deadened branches, heavy as lead.
Shit. Shit. Shit. He tries to focus on the timing of his breaths, on the simple routine of breathing, and then he hears the door re-open behind him, and that’s it. It’s gone. Eames loses the rhythm of his breaths, moving forward to clutch his head in his hands against the floor and try to shove back the sickly feeling of not being wanted, of being bought, of being alone. He tears at his face, shoving and punching, trying to keep in all the things that want to leave him.
It’s Dom. Oh god, thank god, it’s Dom crouching in front of him and asking, “Can I touch you?”
Eames nods, he thinks, oh god. Fuck. Dom puts his hands on Eames’ shoulder, over the place where Arthur had gripped him so tightly. “I need you to sit up a little, okay Eames. Can you do that?” Eames tries to move but he can’t, and that terrifies him. All his control disappears and he can’t catch his breath. Cobb gently moves his hand in-between Eames’ shoulder blades,
“It’s okay Eames, you’re doing great. Breathe with me, okay?” Cobb’s breaths are slow and exaggerated, his chest rising with each inhale, falling with each exhale.
Eames listens to the sound of Dom breathing and tries. It’s just shallow breaths at first, and he falters when he remembers.
It takes ten minutes between him and Cobb before Eames feels in control again and okay to sit up on his heels. The humiliation feels too hot on his face and smothering-sharp and he almost loses it again, but Cobb’s hand is steady on his shoulder, and Eames knows him, knows he can trust him with everything.
“Do you feel ready to leave?” Dom asks, and Eames nods and stands a little shakily, and when he turns it’s to see Arthur in the door, looking nervous and frantic and unsure and worried.
The fucking nerve.
“You weren’t responding and I didn’t—”
Eames looks past him, shooting and reloading in his head, shooting and reloading, shooting.
“Save it, Arthur.” Dom says, firm but friendly. “Just leave him be, you’ve done enough. I’ll see that he gets home.”
Dom calls them a cab and Eames watches the blurred lights and listens to Mal loving him from the other side of his phone clutched tight to his ear.
Wrung out and exhausted, he falls asleep and dreams of the blanketing brilliance of snow and the fresh smell of gun smoke.
X
Eames wakes up to dappled sunlight across the blankets twisted around his calves. He stretches, and starts—quick to look at his clock, leaning in to the stretch of it when he remembers that it’s Christmas Eve and he has three blessed days off of work to forget and lose himself in painting, gift giving, and family.
Eames pulls on his favourite pair of sweatpants—threadbare and grey, worn and soft, dipping low, barely hanging on to his hips but for the swell of his arse. He shuffles across the linoleum and puts the kettle on, yawning groggily. He loves the routine and luxury of mornings off; pressing down the bread in the toaster, the movement of spreading thick marmalade across crisp crumbey toast. The sing of the kettle, and a cup of good brew. He basks in it, head back, munching happily, planning a painting and then
He hears a knock at the door.
He answers it bare chested, fingers twitching for his gun.
“You were a wreck last night,” Arthur says, voice strong and sure.
Eames’ brow furrows severely.
“I believe mess was the word of choice,” he retorts tartly and Arthur flinches.
Silence stretches, but Eames is a stubborn bastard so he stays quiet and waits it out.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t do it,” Arthur says, low, apologetically. Eames laughs meanly, tries to keep it from sounding as crazy as he feels, isn’t sure that he succeeds, “Couldn’t? Or won’t.”
“Can’t.” Arthur rasps out, sounding fucking wrecked, “Can’t because it’s you, Eames. It’s you. Why can’t you let me be?”
Eames mouth falls open and he makes an involuntary startled sound.
“Why can’t I let you be?” he knows he sounds angry, can’t help the acidity leak into it and eat away at his patience, it was wearing thin already.
“Why can’t I let you be?” he must look wild, Arthur takes a step back, but Eames grabs at his shirt, crumples the its softness between meaty capable fists and pulls, slamming the door to his flat and shoving Arthur against it.
“This is not on me, Finch. You cannot put this all on me. You’re the overbearing bastard who won’t let me be. I’m not the one. I’m not the one.” He can’t stop repeating himself, knows it isn’t helping his case, just makes him look more and more like a fucking nutter, “ I’m the one who can’t get you out of my fucking skin. Who can’t get the thought of you out of my fucking mind.” He goes for biting-acerbic, but the words come out forgiving and wretched instead.
They stand, just—being; giving in to the gravity of the other. Eames knows he’ll cave first, recognizes the familiar pull of inevitability, but holds out for as long as he can—obstinate in his restraint until Arthur’s eyes are nearly black with lust and his lips, pale and parting, spit out, “fucking do it,”
so he does— slowly lessening the space between them, giving fair warning, one meaty hand sliding back to gently grab Arthur’s neck like grabbing onto his courage, mind shredding away into static. He drags his lips dry around the sharp angle of Arthur’s jaw, fingers clenching in the wool of Arthur’s jumper,
He presses his lips against Arthur’s with a harsh broken sound.
Arthur’s mouth is slick and molten, a hot wet slide pouring fire into Eames. The cashmere of Arthur’s sweater barely brushes against the bare skin of Eames’ chest, and the forger growls, and breaks away; shaking slightly, nipples hard and aching. He inhales messily, eyes closed, relishing the darkness.
Eames startles at the feel of Arthur’s hand, warm and big, spreading slowly across the jut of his hip. Arthur’s fingers press against the worn grey of Eames’ sweats and the jut of his hipbone, firm and solid, fingertips bruising—promising.
“Look at me,” Arthur says, low and loose. Eames does and feels three seconds and a few good words away from falling apart at the seams, held together by the drying saliva on his lips and a heavy hand reeling him in, “I want you to see me.”
His fingers flex against Arthur’s neck.
“Now,” says Arthur, in this snooty fucking tone of voice that wraps itself around Eames’ cock, “why don’t you show me what that pretty mouth of yours is good for.”
Eames slips his hands underneath the hem of Arthur’s jumper, selfishly brushing them up the expansive luxury of Arthur’s sides trailing goose bumps in his wake.
“Amazing hand to fabric,” he murmurs, and relishes Arthur’s annoyed shudder.
“Get on with it,”
Fuck that. If Eames is gonna give, he’s gonna give on his terms.
Arthur’s teeth are trapped between his lips, and Eames tugs the wretched jumper off and then has to remember how to breathe because Arthur is bloody beautiful and all that skin, all that sprawling unmarked skin.
“Frustrated, Arthur?” Eames smirks pinning Arthur to the door with a hand curved around a broad shoulder, “I can fix that.”
And he wraps plush, unashamed lips around a dark pebbled nipple and sucks.
Arthur honest-to-god growls and Eames feels the vibration of Arthur’s head thudding against the door behind them.
Eames tongues and laves and nips and sucks in a languid inconsistent rhythm, humming and slurping. His lips are wet and smear across the tight nub easily; he blows and Arthur flinches, lets out a muffled whine, and Eames feels pride swell in him heady and intoxicating.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Finch sounds on his way to wrecked, and Eames plans to ferry him there; soul be damned. He switches to the other nipple, lightly tripping his tongue over it in a relentless staccato, gets it slick with his saliva, feels Arthur’s back arch into it, grins around his mouthful as he feels a hand at his neck dragging him in, pushing the sensitive-sore point into Eames’ mouth, demanding more.
Eames’ dick is a concentrated heaviness between his legs, tenting his sweats, and he looks up at Arthur, thick lips sticky with spit, and shoves himself between his bosses slut-spread legs and grinds.
And Arthur just—perfect and awful, face split into a shit-eating grin, backs his ass slowly down Eames’ tension-clenched thigh and then back up, rutting brazenly, hard cock trapped between them, eyelids shuttering and a, “god, that’s good,” drawling out of him like a prayer.
The forger snarls and wraps a bunt-wanting hand underneath the curve of Arthur’s knee and pulls; lifting his leg and wrapping it around his own hip. Eames thrusts hard, rough and unpredictable against Arthur, and even through all the uncomfortable friction, Arthur looks like he’s coming apart; his resolve cracks and a deep moan escapes him, and Eames can’t fucking handle it, he can’t.
“I knew you’d be like this,” he manages, “I knew you’d ruin me.” And through half-closed eyes he watches Arthur’s face harden, lust and triumph and relief stripping away the civilized veneer.
Arthur plunges three fingers into Eames’ mouth, and Eames sucks like he’ll die without this, and he knows he might.
“So fucking hot,” Arthur grunts, “so fucking gorgeous like this, all that strength and those fucking pants falling off your ass like that, god, Eames,” Arthur’s hands trace him, mapping all the ink, all the scars and mottled tissue marring the dips and planes. Eames feels wild and unsteady, like he might laugh or scream or cry.
Arthur bites at Eames’ ear, dripping greedy words and these high hot shivering little sounds as he rides Eames’ thigh, gaze unwavering, unforgiving.
And Eames can’t turn his brain off, can’t help the buzz under his skin and the crowding words in his headspace and god, how he’d wanted this. Wants this. So sickly-bad. Wonders why he wanted this so much, if he wanted something that he’d exaggerated in his head, and he tries to convince himself that there are so many things more important than this.
“Look so good with my fingers in your mouth,” Arthur pants.
But there isn’t. There’s nothing more important than this. Just a little taste and he’s already like a goddamn junkie after a fix. Wants it more than ever. And how you often think about something as it’s happening, he wants it to never end, and to always be here. Wants to learn how to break Arthur in a single moment and with a single word, wants to be healed under Arthur’s skilful fingers.
Arthur is, of course, relentless. All that fucking control doesn’t just evaporate, and he chases his orgasm like a feral, desperate thing. Eames looks down to watch the dark stain blooming sticky and damning on Arthur’s trousers, and unable to help himself, he lets go of his hold around Arthur’s neck and gets a hand around his dick.
Fuck. He’s making a mess of himself, leaking everywhere, and he quickly matches the pace of Arthur’s grind.
Arthur’s eyes are dark like sin and coloured with frustration.
“I want your mouth, you stubborn bastard.” Eames smiles around the fingers still jammed between his lips, loving the full spit-sloppy feeling of them,
Eames grunts and Arthur pulls the fingers out of his mouth, “Come,” Eames demands, “you want me to see you? Huh, Finch?” Arthur whines against him, “Can’t come on your own, Arthur? I can fix that.” Eames barely recognizes his voice, so quiet and low and made of sex.
Arthur tenses against the wall and wraps his other leg around Eames’ tapered hips, and Eames shifts his hold, covetously gets his feel around the firm globes of Arthur’s arse. Arthur grabs at Eames’ shoulders,
“So fucking strong,” Arthur groans, sinuously riding him, “Eames,” and his breathing sounds a little frantic, like maybe he’s about to come, about to flood his pants with come just from moving against Eames’ body, and it’s that thought that makes Eames finally lose any semblance of control and coherency.
He knows his voice is throaty and panting, “Fuck Arthur, fuck, fuck, want you to dirty yourself, wanna see you get your trousers wet and sloppy for me, wanna—” doesn’t finish that thought, because Arthur is grunting low and filthy in his ear, and then whining high and desperate and Eames sees splendid white brilliance behind his eyes, a whimper falling out of him, palm frantic as he spurts across his knuckles, soaks the inside of his sweats. He forces his eyes open when he hears a high, broken, simple sound of absolute pleasure and he catalogues everything for later.
The way Arthur’s lips bloodless between his teeth, his hair sweat-plastered against his forehead, the righteous strain of his neck, the way his chest heaves, and the burning branded feeling of Arthur’s trouser-trapped cock spilling through all those layers. The lax softened sex-out glaze of his eyes and the full-bodied shudder and the fearfully fond, tender way, he sighs,
“Brute.”
Eames guides them carefully to the floor, back leaning against the door and they stay like that for a while, neither saying much, letting the silence steal in and ground them.
Eames leans his head back and blinks tiredly at the room. He closes his eyes and threads his fingers through Arthur’s hair; messying it, lightly holding on to what he has for now.
“Cuppa?” he asks, fingers still itching for his gun.
X
“This is amazing tea.” Arthur sounds of sex and surprise and Eames grins at him across the table,
“It’s cos I’m British, innit, babe” he says between sips, and Arthur laughs and lounges and Eames feels too full of reckless happiness to help himself when he says,
“You should come to my Boxing Day party.”
“Sorry?” Arthur says, all politeness, but Eames can see him shifting on his chair, jizz-plastered pants probably sticking against his skin.
“Boxing Day. I do an all-out fucking do, everybody brings booze, the gifts they want to auction, leftovers…the Cobbs will be there.” Eames finishes lamely.
Arthur’s face is getting pinched and lemon soaked, and his posture is looking more and more ram-rod straight, so Eames smothers his face into the steam of his tea and mumbles,
“Think it over.”
X
Christmas day is family-warm and love-filled. Eames nervously hands out two paintings: one to the Cobb’s, and one to Ariadne. Dom openly cries over the heavy, economic strokes that make up the impressionistically captured piece of him and Mal dancing barefoot and happy in their little homey kitchen. “Nepal,” Ariadne breathes, punching him in the shoulder and holding the frame close, as if to push the memory-imprinted canvas into her heart.
“You shouldn’t have,” she says, and he knows it for the lie that it is.
X
Eames’ Badass Boxing Day Blow Out stemmed from a stuffy child-hood full of unrecognizable far-off relatives, parents who tried to purchase his affection with presents, and of course—alcohol. It’s Dom’s favourite holiday.
Eames had sent a mass email to the Secretaries Anonymous, and half a dozen of them sip tea out of chipped mugs while Mal passes out auction paddles.
Arthur is here.
Arthur is here. Jesus.
Because Eames is a bit of a pathetic wanker, he’d mailed Arthur his Christmas gift—no note attached, so he chokes on his spit, devolving into a coughing fit, when he opens his door and Arthur’s neck is wrapped in soft grey knit.
“Nice scarf,” he wheezes out, failing at nonchalance.
Arthur smiles a little self-consciously and runs a hand over it lightly, tugging at it slightly. His eyes are dark with warmth and mischief, masking uncertainty, “I didn’t know you knit, Mister Eames.”
Eames spreads his hands wide, “Jack of all trades, me.” His face heats when he realizes he’s given himself away, Arthur’s smirk is wolfish, “you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you.”
Eames crosses his arms, “Mal tell you?”
Arthur hums while winding the scarf off, baring his throat, smoothing his hair,
“Smells of you,” he says simply, and Eames wants to lay face-down on the carpet.
“Eames!” Ariadne eagerly holds up a fistful of scarves, “these shitty gifts aren’t gonna sell themselves, get your luscious ass over here and start the bidding!”
Eames can feel his heart beating and his throat is dry and his skin feels hot and too-small, so he puts on his most ridiculous auctioneer voice, and the laughter that peals unbidden and unbridled out of Arthur Finch is better than any gob-job Eames has ever had.
He escapes to the kitchen having already auctioned off three pairs of socks and won two outrageous neck ties that Arthur had scowled at fiercely and hate-fuelled, and he’s feeling good— so good— so he nips into his room to call his mum and leave a message with her assistant Clara, and he’s having a breather in the hallway—just a minute to catch his breath because his head is spinning with it, rich and tipsy and—
“It’s good to see you two getting along,” Eames hears Mal telling Arthur in the kitchen.
“I don’t know what to do about him, Mal,” Arthur says.
Eames stills.
“He’s so fucked up, and he just makes me feel like a wreck, and I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
The emptiness and resounding ‘you knew this was coming’ roars and slams through him like a freight train.