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Eames can't remember exactly what started it. Him, most likely. It's usually him, when it comes to things like this. The how's and why's are slowly fading to the back of his mind as Arthur takes another step towards him, hands curled into fists at his sides, jaw ticking. He looks infuriated. It's becoming.
"Gonna hit me, love?" Eames asks. He offers his jaw, tapping two fingers against it. "Make it a good one, would you? I'd like to have some proof for my story about the great Arthur losing his grip."
Arthur stops in front of him, their chests bare breaths from touching. He's got an inch or so over Eames, and he's using every bit of it, lording it over him like it means something. Eames straightens his shoulders and smiles. He's bigger, but Arthur's faster. If they're not a stalemate in action, he'll be damned.
"You have thirty seconds to leave," Arthur says. His voice is low, thick. He's fighting against his anger, the rush of it across his face open as he ever gets. Eames just has to find the right button to press and he'll have fireworks.
"I think I'll stay," he says. "It's a nice room. Plenty of space. Sharing is caring, Arthur." He leans against the hotel room's wall, tipping his head against the plaster. Outside the windows, the sky is black. It's half past too late, and Arthur's knuckles have gone white.
"Twenty-one seconds." Arthur's tie is loose, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. There's a smudge of ink on his cheek from a broken pen Eames had stored in his desk. There's something tired in the line of his shoulders. It's off putting. Eames is trying not to notice it and failing.
Eames stays.
"Ten seconds." Arthur's face is slowly getting redder, from his neck to the apples of his cheeks to the tips of his ears. A rush of heat settles low in Eames' belly, full and throbbing. He's enjoying himself.
Eames crosses his arms across his chest loosely, tipping his head against the wall. He's running count in the back of his head- eight, seven, six- watching the vein at Arthur's temple pulse. He's going to give the bastard an exploding head, and he'll laugh himself to the bank. At the two second mark, he smiles sweetly.
"Time's u-" Eames is cut off by the sudden pressure of Arthur's fingers around his throat. His head cracks against the wall, the room going dizzy with it. He's never been surprised at Arthur's strength, and he isn't now.
"I don't know what your problem is," Arthur hisses, leaned in close. His lip is curled, eyes narrowed. He's pissed, and Eames wants to remember this moment until he rots. "But you're going to stop."
"Gonna make me?" Eames chokes out. It's petulant in the same way he's always petulant around Arthur. The man makes him feel like a school boy again, all ties and straight backs and tight lips. Arthur's thumb brushes the spot under his chin before digging in, a sharp pressure in the soft spot above his adams' apple. It makes Eames' mouth snap shut, his teeth biting across his tongue for a second too long.
"You," Arthur says between grit teeth, "are the most annoying, pitiful excuse for a co-worker I've ever had the misfortune of working with." If he could, Eames would laugh. Of course Arthur would make it about work. Of course.
Eames presses into the width of Arthur's hand. Try me. Four fingertips curl against his skin, pressing in. There will be bruises, a line of dots down the column of his throat like buttons. The bite of nails into the tender spots makes him jerk. Arthur's leg slides between his, his knee resting under the weight of Eames' balls. A warning.
Eames rocks against him, shameless. He's hard as a fucking rock, head going dizzy with each suffocating second. He feels like he's coming out of his skin, bleeding into Arthur. Bursts of colors dance in front of his eyes. He's going to go out sooner rather than later, but at least it will be magnificent.
"Jesus." Arthur locks his thigh between Eames' legs, grinding up against him. "You're a sick bastard." Eames chokes on his agreement. He is. Oh yes, he is.
It feels like being suckerpunched when Arthur lets him go, too much air drowning into his lungs in a burning rush. It leaves him gasping on the floor, head against Arthur's shin, blackness swimming in front of him. He's on the verge of passing out, chest expanding in rapid fire.
Arthur doesn't move, and Eames is shameless enough to reach into his own pants, fingers scrambling to wrap around his dick. If he doesn't get off, he might just explode. One of Arthur's shoes presses at the juncture of his legs, splitting his balls to either side. Eames rides along with it. It hurts in ways dreams never do, and that makes it feel all the sweeter. Real Arthur's a real boy, bitchfit and all.
The points on his neck feel raw, tiny crescents from Arthur's nails still carved into his skin. He stabs at them clumsily with his free hand. There's sweat pooling in the dip of his spine, tacky against the slick of his shirt, and if Arthur so much as breathes on him he's going to come in his pants like a teenager.
"Is this just a big game of pigtail pulling?" Arthur asks from above him, lip still curled, hands switching from fists to wide open palms is even turns. Eames jerks himself off instead of answering. His hand's dry and rough, too hard too fast, but oh it's good. Arthur presses his foot against him, and Jesus fuck that hurts.
"Didn't want to make you think you were too special," Eames says thickly. Arthur's fingers close around Eames' throat again and squeeze. It feels like his heart's going to explode into bite-sized bits; he'll be nothing but tiny portions of Eames all across Arthur's nice clean room.
"I don't play these games," Arthur says against Eames' jaw. His skin is hot and smooth, and he smells like lavender. Eames can barely hear him over the rush of blood in his ears. "And I swear to god, I'll do more than choke you the next time you pull this bullshit."
It sounds more like a promise than a threat, and Eames comes over his hand, black spots taking over his vision as Arthur releases him again. He coughs into the carpet, unsure of how he ended up against it at all. Once he can see again, he's going to burn this memory into the back of his mind.
"I hope you're pleased with yourself," Arthur says around a sneer. Eames laughs roughly.
"Immensely," he replies. "Give me a moment and I'll show you how pleased I am."
It shouldn't feel hollow when Arthur spins on his heel and leaves his own room, but the feeling of victory follows down the hall after him. Eames presses the bruises on his throat with rough fingertips and waits.