Work Text:
The furnished flat they rented for the job was nice, upscale, quiet, well-appointed, but it lacked a decent working surface. Arthur’d hunted up a hefty wooden drafting table that looked like it had been scavenged or maybe stolen from a college workroom, complete with architectural graffiti and hospital-green tubular steel legs.
This monstrosity now squats, conspicuously ugly, in the flat's sleek living room.
It makes Arthur's mouth twitch whenever he catches a glimpse of it askance, but in the small hours of the night when he sits in front of it with his pencil smudged fingers turning through pages of his sketches and schematics, Arthur forgets to be anything but fond of its wide scarred surface, the faint dusty scent of eraser crumbs and graphite taking him back to his own student days. He could work on the computer — they'd had computers then, too, of course — but for paradoxical architecture Arthur's always preferred the inelegance of paper and pencil. Time enough for sleek lines and perfect surfaces in the dreamscape.
The turn of the deadbolt at the door pulls Arthur out of his dazed sleepy working trance. He blinks at his watch — nearly three o'clock, already — and then turns his head over his shoulder to watch the door swing open into the flat. Eames enters shuffling with fatigue or intoxication or both. His skin has that shiny used look you only get from hours of sweaty dancing with a whole lot of other bodies. His shirt's inside out and one side of his face glitters faintly in the dim light of the foyer. He's been topless, and grinding with at least one sparkly twink. Arthur's mouth cants into an unwilling grin which he manages to conquer in time for Eames' gaze landing on him.
"Thought you'd have kipped hours ago," Eames says, eyebrows raised.
"Working on the layouts a little more," Arthur answers. Now he's pulled his focus off his work, his body is making its displeasure known, twinges in his shoulders and his lower back, stiffness in his thighs and neck. He rolls one shoulder back and stifles a groan. "You're back early."
"I might look the part," Eames says, "but I'm the wrong side of thirty now." He closes the door and shoots the bolt, drops his keys into the dish on the cabinet next to him. "There's a reason you're generally cast older than you are, acting."
"Hmm," Arthur contributes. He glances back down at his sketches for only a moment before he sets his pencil aside, reaches over to click off the swing lamp that's been casting a puddle of light for him to work by. "Any news?"
"Nothing, no," Eames says. "I didn't realize how boring the clubs are when you're not looking to pull and not off your head."
"We'll find him," Arthur says, slipping to his feet. He can't resist the urge to stretch any longer, flinging his hands up into the air and rolling up into them, feeling his muscles ease with a soft burn of relief. "We'll find him," he repeats.
"Christ, I'm knackered," Eames says, reaching down and pulling up on the hem of his t-shirt. The shirt's obscenely tight even on Eames' recently slimmed down body, and worn enough that Arthur can trace the shapes of several of his tattoos even through the cotton weave. "I need a shower, I smell like Satan's bollocks."
"That's not true," Arthur says. "I can smell you from here, you're like a walking aerosol of Axe."
"What did I say," Eames mutters, but he strips his shirt off anyway, flinging glitter over the hardwood. It's still a bit of a shock seeing him like this; for most of their working lives, Arthur's known Eames as a veritable bull of a man, hard and broad and bulging under linen shirts and blazers. His recent stint in a north African detention centre has stripped him down to something much more lithe and boyish even though nothing could alter the muted strength of his frame underneath. He's waxed and primped for this job. If it weren't for the familiar curls of ink over his chest and shoulders, Arthur would scarcely recognize him.
"No one would fault you for enjoying yourself a little," Arthur says, halfway across the room already, heading for the bathroom. "I mean, keep a steady head but — you know. You could have a little fun."
"Would you?" asks Eames, and something wary in the sound of his voice makes Arthur glance back at him. Eames has got his jeans open now, is wriggling them down off his ass and thighs like he usually gets undressed in the front entrance. "If you were the one undercover at G-A-Y?"
"I might," Arthur says equably, letting his gaze drift since he's looking anyway. Eames is wearing navy and white striped boxer briefs. His underwear is in character. It's not exactly suggestive of someone who planned to keep their fly zipped all night. Eames' normal undergarments of choice are generally more utilitarian, manly, shapeless. They certainly don't cling to the curve of his ass like that.
Eames huffs out a breath of laughter through his nose and straightens up to kick his jeans off his feet. He can't exactly miss Arthur's gaze on him, but he doesn't acknowledge it, just busily toes out of his shoes and socks. His close-shorn hair is neat. His lips are turned down at the corners but his mouth is still ripe, plump, obscene in the way a perfect peach is obscene just before it loses its bloom. "If I'd any idea how to draft a plan," he says, "I'd offer to swap jobs."
"No," says Arthur, "no you wouldn't." There's a beat of hesitation and then they both laugh ruefully while Arthur finally pulls his focus away from mostly-naked slender Eames, barefoot in the foyer. "Okay, I just need to brush my teeth and then the bathroom's all yours."
Arthur keeps his eyes off his reflection while he flosses and brushes and splashes water over his face. He knows what he looks like at the end of a long day of indoor work and it's nothing like club-tired sweat-dry gorgeous Eames. Arthur goes pale, his jaw sticks out more, his brow constricts into an unwilling and unshifting frown. Arthur knows how to fool people into thinking he's handsome; shuffling around bleary-eyed in shirtsleeves and wrinkled wool dress pants with a coffee hangover is not among his tricks.
When Arthur emerges from the bathroom the flat has gone dark except for a fine line of yellow light spilling from under Eames' bedroom door. Arthur clicks off the bathroom light and half-feels his way to his own bedroom, unfamiliar terrain. He reaches for the doorknob and finds hinges; slides his fingers over and finds the knob, rattles the door open and doesn't bother looking for the light switch. He undresses quickly, carelessly, and flings himself onto his bed before he wrestles the duvet out from under his own body weight. He feels heavy, dropping with abrupt fatigue, and the pillow under his head is cool and perfect — but it's a matter of seconds before he's forced to realize that sleep won't come so easily after all. He's too aware of the little sounds around him, the shushing of the down feathers under his ear, the patter of a soft rain starting outside, the soft sounds of Eames across the hall pulling the shower curtain open and starting up the spray, the thump-thump-bump of Arthur's own pulse.
He should probably look for the lube in his suitcase, jerk off fast while Eames is safely occupied; an orgasm would put him under, most likely. Instead, Arthur rolls over onto his back and splays a palm flat over his belly. His skin is warm to the touch, soft barring the sprinkling of hair that trails in an arrow down from his navel. His hipbones, when Arthur shifts his fingers over a little, are reassuring, solid, stable. His ribs, less so, the way they move with his breath, the way they slip away secretively towards his middle. Arthur breathes in and out, drifting his fingertips over his skin, unsure if he's trying to soothe or stimulate, mostly trying to distract his mind from the pull of worries that want to surface: the job, finding the kid, the architecture, the hungry curve of Eames' shoulder blades, checking to be sure his dad has filed his taxes, shit — has Arthur called since they worked out his insurance claims? Has — Arthur shakes his head briefly to clear it, pinches a nipple, listens to the snap of raindrops from one end of the room and the static shush of the shower coming from the other. No worries, not now. He'll call his dad tomorrow. They'll find the kid. Arthur will finish the layout, and Eames will — Eames will —
Rain. Shower.
He's not so much jerking off as he is just playing around with his half-hard cock with his hand down his underwear, hoping to drift into sleep like this, when his bedroom door pushes open gently if not slowly. Arthur yanks his hand out of his boxers and sits up on his elbows, though Eames could hardly have made out what his hand was doing under the covers in the darkness. "What is it?" Arthur says, heart pounding. "Did you hear something?"
"No," Eames says, frozen. It's impossible to make out his expression in the darkness, but Arthur hears his breath now that his own pulse has stopped leaping so fast. Eames is audibly worked up, panicked or scared or angry. Arthur can hear the adrenaline in the rush of his panting. "I thought you might have fallen asleep already," he says.
"What," Arthur begins to ask, made stupid by shock and by fatigue, but then Eames seems to shake himself out of his own paralysis and steps back, tugging the door closed as he exits. "Wait," Arthur says helplessly. "Eames."
"I'm sorry, it," Eames says, "it was a rotten idea."
"Maybe," Arthur agrees, but he throws back the duvet anyway. "Eames."
They've had sex before, of course they have, but it's been a few years and it was never on a job anyway. Arthur can't quite remember why they'd stopped — it doesn't make any sense to his brain when abruptly Eames is in bed next to him, smelling like shampoo and water and ripping his towel away in a single hurried motion. He's not the Eames Arthur's body remembers but he kisses like Eames, generous and slow and like it's the most important thing in the world, kissing Arthur, holding Arthur's jaw steady and just kissing him. Arthur is embarrassed, almost, by how much he likes it, surging ungracefully into the kiss and then subsiding, surrendering, nearly as gracelessly, his iron grip on the nape of Eames' neck softening into a happy caress. He can admit it, now, how much he's been thinking about this in the little absent minutes during hours of work, during pauses in their strategy sessions, forcing Eames to eat a sandwich on his way out the door every night, Eames in tight jeans and tighter shirts, small Eames, narrow Eames, young Eames, beautiful Eames.
The words slip out, like Arthur's id is the one talking: "I want to fuck you, can I fuck you?" Arthur chases the question with a laugh because it's such a ridiculous thing to — Eames has always been pretty vividly in the category of Tops Who Don't Bottom, and why would Arthur even entertain a complaint about that when Eames is also in the category of Tops Who Are Fucking Amazing At Topping? Arthur never minded turning over for Eames — quite the opposite. And he's never thought about Eames turning over for him, not until just now, not until this moment when he finds himself sliding hands down to palm Eames' round lovely ass. "Sorry," Arthur says, but he's not.
"Sure," Eames says, dazedly, "good for the soul, doing new things, innit."
"You've never," Arthur half-asks.
"Not since the last time I was about this size and shape," Eames says. "You put on a stone of muscle and everyone wants you to bend them over."
"It doesn't matter to me," Arthur says politely. "I mean, I really like it when you fuck me."
"I know you do, darling," Eames says, smiling abruptly, "but — yeah. No, I think —" and he rolls his ass back into Arthur's hands, and god, he's pretty, he's beautiful, he's ridiculously hot, and Arthur rolls over onto him and does some truly undignified groping and grinding while he kisses Eames' perfect soft mouth. Eames stuffs his hands down the back of Arthur's boxers and pins him in place for a moment while they push their hips together and gasp into each other's mouths. "You're so," Eames says, and buries the rest on the side of Arthur's neck.
Arthur has to turn on the light to find his condoms and lube in his suitcase, and he leaves it on when he comes back to the bed because — well, Eames. Because Eames. Arthur drops a condom onto the mattress and pauses long enough to strip off his boxers, then pauses a little longer in due appreciation for Eames flat on his back in Arthur's bed, naked and hard, and pulling one leg up while he watches Arthur watch him.
"Are you going to be gentle with me?" Eames asks quietly, deadpan, letting his thigh fall open.
"What, like you always are with me?" Arthur returns, grinning. Eames fucks like an animal, usually; Arthur loves every second.
"You can't fault me for enjoying myself a little," Eames says, quoting Arthur's earlier words with not a flicker of irony. "You're so lovely, darling."
"I'll go gentle at first," Arthur bargains, pretending that Eames can't see the way Arthur's ears heated up at this idle compliment. "Then we'll see how it goes."
Arthur doesn't go particularly gentle, though not for lack of trying. He slips his fingertip around Eames' asshole with the best of intentions but he gets derailed by how quickly the flush rolls down from Eames' hairline over his cheekbones and ears and neck, down to his collarbone and the top of his chest until his tattoos are picked out against a rosy sweet background. Rosy and sweet — it can't be Eames, but it is, and Arthur corkscrews two fingers in almost without thinking about it just because he wants to see Eames' face go taut and then lax, wants the dig of Eames' pedicured twinky heels against the cotton sheets, the greedy arch of Eames' lower back that brings his ribs into brief prominence before he subsides down, cursing. "Sorry," Arthur says again, not meaning it this time either.
"Like hell," Eames says, eyes fluttering closed. He scrubs a hand over his head, brusque and bracing, but his other hand is almost unconsciously sensual by contrast, tripping over his lips and his chin and the bump of his larynx. "Fuck," he exhales, rolling down into Arthur's hand, "oh, fuck, that's good."
Eames has got a nice-sized cock, not freakshow big, not pornstar big, but normal guy big. Arthur knows it's Eames' relative size that makes it look bigger, that and the way he's waxed down from his usual overgrown hairy self, but Arthur's always appreciated the concrete over the abstract, the tactile over the conceptual, and so he doesn't hesitate now in curling his free hand around Eames' cock and giving it a few experimental tugs. Feels the same as ever, satisfyingly hard and thick, hot and gliding easily in the hollow of Arthur's palm. Eames has never been particularly wet, before, but having two fingers up your ass does things to you, and Arthur's not really surprised when Eames gives a little sigh and slicks the top of Arthur's hand over with pre-come, and again a few strokes later. Arthur curls his fingers deliberately to make Eames even wetter, and then dips his head and licks just under Eames' foreskin.
"God," Eames says shakily, "easy, I'm half done already just from being all night on the dance floor with blokes grinding up against me, you —"
Arthur pulls up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gone cold abruptly. He'd forgotten. He spreads his fingers apart in case Eames had noticed Arthur's little shift in mood, and Eames goes obligingly glassy-eyed and mindless. "Do you want to turn over?" Arthur asks, more to cue Eames than out of any actual uncertainty. Of course Eames wants to turn over. It's easiest, that way, especially if it's been a while.
"No," Eames says instead, eyes sliding shut, "no, like this. Fuck me like this."
"Yeah," Arthur says, too hastily after too many seconds' surprised silence, "yeah, sure, I," and he leans forward, pulls his hand free, and fumbles for the condom he'd left up by Eames' shoulder. This puts him in sort of awkward proximity to Eames' face, and Arthur is vaguely considering kissing him when Eames' fingers dig into Arthur's side with deadly accuracy. Arthur snorts with surprise and follows it up with an actual honest-to-god giggle, horrifyingly, but of course Eames doesn't stop there, tickling Arthur until Arthur collapses into actual helpless laughter and loses his balance, landing chest-to-chest on top of Eames. "Stop it, you fucking asshole," Arthur chokes out between bursts of giggles, alternately batting at Eames' hand and writhing away from it.
"Okay," says Eames, and stops, but there isn't more than a second for Arthur to catch his breath before Eames has Arthur's face between his palms and is kissing him soft and insistent. This time when Arthur goes lax, it's for entirely different reasons. He's dizzy, can't breathe, doesn't care. He wants inside Eames.
His hands shake when he tears the condom wrapper open and rolls the condom on. Arthur blames the late hour, low blood sugar, tiredness; Eames can't see it anyway from this angle. "Here we go," Arthur says, and lines up, pushes in.
Eames is concentrating. Arthur recognizes the look from work, not from bed. In bed Eames has never looked like this, before. In bed Eames is joyous, devious, spiteful, funny, furious, serious. But Eames doesn't think when he fucks. Arthur has always liked that about him. But he's surprised to discover he likes this too, the little wrinkle between Eames' brows that connotes focus, like taking Arthur's cock inside him is like working round to a mark's weak spot, finding the right angle and the right pressure point so it can become effortless. It's — it's endearing, maybe. It makes Arthur's chest ache. "You okay?" he asks, when he's all the way in, leaning forward slightly into the cradle of Eames' hips and thighs.
"I am," Eames says, thoughtfully if in a raspy tone, "I am bloody perfect, thanks. This — your cock feels really — fuck."
Arthur smiles, pleased, before easing Eames into it with a few barely-there thrusts. Eames may be smaller than Arthur's known him but his legs are still reassuringly solid and muscular. Arthur feels safe letting them hold him up while he reaches between them to stroke Eames' cock, get him more relaxed. Eames looks a bit poleaxed, now, mouth hanging open slightly and the breath rushing from him every time Arthur pushes in harder. Arthur wants, abruptly, to impress Eames, and so he lets go of Eames' cock, gets his weight more on his knees, and rolls his hips side to side as he fucks into Eames slow and steady. He's never had the brute strength that Eames wielded so easily but Arthur's got his own secrets, and being flexible and coordinated has its perks. Eames groans appreciatively and tilts his head back, pushing up into Arthur's hips, watching him with eyes half-lidded now. Arthur gives him a bit more of the same, picking up the pace and depth as he goes, and then shifts his weight forward more and does it faster yet, harder.
Eames is responsive and hungry for more, bringing his knees up to help, making short pleased noises, squeezing his hands over the tops of Arthur's shoulders in mute encouragement. Eames feels good, christ, hot and slick now, tight but easy to work into, hard leg muscles and lifting hips, fuck, and Eames looks even better. Arthur forgets going gentle, it falls entirely out of his mind, and then his mind falls away too as he holds Eames' legs up and fucks him breathless and groaning until Eames' chest is gleaming with sweat, his hair going dark at the temples, his cock leaving messy slick trails over his bare-skinned ink-lined belly. "You want to come?" Arthur asks, slowing so that Eames can gather his breath and his brain cells enough to answer; Arthur knows what it's like, being fucked like this.
"No," Eames says, sounding wonderfully stupid, "I mean, fuck, yes, but," and he shivers, full-body, letting one calf slip down from its perch on Arthur's shoulder, knee bending around Arthur's back and urging him forward. "Like this," he says. "Can we — take our time? Like this?"
Arthur shrugs Eames' other leg down and shifts up, letting Eames fold his ankles at the small of Arthur's back, landing so that he's nose to nose with Eames again. "Like this," he agrees, and rolls his hips slowly again, driving the breath from Eames' lungs, catching it with his own mouth, kissing Eames to give it back. "God, you feel good," Arthur tells him, "like, amazing." He chases Eames' mouth again, kissing him and fucking him slowly and it's all kind of surprisingly romantic given that this is Eames, Eames who likes to pin Arthur against the wall and hold him there, Eames who is a little too fond of biting Arthur where people could see, Eames who always likes winding Arthur up just to make him come that much harder, later on, after the job is over.
"Stop, fuck, wait," Eames says, wrenching back, pushing at Arthur. "Stop, get off."
Arthur stops and gets off Eames with startled efficiency, pulling back and tumbling to the side, gasping for air. "What is it, are you hurt?" Arthur asks, stunned, a bit scared, because Eames had sounded —
"No, I'm," Eames says, collapsing back onto the bed, swiping a hand down his face, "just — I was right to begin with, this is a rubbish plan, we shouldn't —"
"Are you fucking serious?" Arthur half-yells, not sure if he's more annoyed or relieved. "It's a bit late for second thoughts, you asshole!"
If he expects anything of Eames, it's maybe a laugh, because that's Eames' usual reaction to Arthur shouting angrily at him, but Eames only sighs and nods. "There's a reason we didn't shag when we were working, back when we shagged," he says, and he's studying his fingernails now, casual and sort of leonine, not at all like the guy who was gasping into Arthur's mouth seconds ago.
"Refresh my memory," Arthur bites out, annoyance firmly unseating relief. He sits up and pulls off the condom, wings it over onto the nightstand. He may be pouting, but it's not like Eames is watching.
"It's the same reason we stopped shagging at all," Eames says, "and it's the same reason we shouldn't have started up, tonight. I mean, bully for you and your newfound love of fucking twinky lads through the mattress but—"
"That's it, where's my gun," Arthur says, heading off the bed now.
"—and it's all the worse now that I'm older, now that I'm old enough finally to be clear-headed about this shit and I can see what it is, what's going on," Eames is saying, or something to that effect.
Arthur stopped listening around the moment Eames said 'twinky lads'. He's now busy digging through his suitcase, not seriously looking for his gun. He grabs clean underwear instead, a pair of jeans, throws them to the floor. He'll get some work done, maybe. He's sure as hell not staying in this room with Eames, not with Eames rambling on about whatever the fuck he's rambling on about. Eames is fucking well right about this being the reason they'd never fucked when they were working, why they'd stopped fucking altogether, why they shouldn't have fucked tonight — it's because Eames is a spectacular asshole sometimes, and not in the cute tickling teasing way, but in the real legitimate heart-bruising kind of — "did you just say you're in love with me?" Arthur says, freezing, a pair of socks in his hand.
Now Eames laughs, but not his usual controlled amused rumble, a sort of unhinged trill that has Arthur worried all over again. Eames is still flat on his back in the bed, looking up at the ceiling, still fiddling with his fingernails, still naked and fucking unfairly beautiful, and he just said he loves Arthur, that he's in love with Arthur.
"Eames," Arthur says, coming to his feet, stomach in a knot. "Eames."
"Go on, get dressed and get out if that's what you were meaning to do," Eames says, sounding more like himself. "I'll go back to my bedroom just as soon as I can gather up the tatters of my former dignity."
"You've never had any dignity," Arthur replies sort of automatically. He goes over to the bed and stares down at Eames, who nervously and briefly meets Arthur's gaze. "You love me?"
"Oh, fuck off," Eames says.
Arthur doesn't really think about it, just lobs the ball of socks at Eames' head, where they bounce off his eyebrow with a satisfying amount of force. "You're such an asshole," he says, for the millionth time, and then he bends down like Eames is a naked Snow White and Arthur's his naked Prince Charming, and Arthur kisses Eames' ripe cherry-red fairytale lips and Eames, Eames is sweet and rosy and soft, and he's horrible and aggravating and handsome, and he's in love with Arthur, in love with Arthur, in love with him.
"I'll go gentle on you," Arthur says again, before he sinks inside Eames a minute or an hour of kissing later.
Eames shivers and arches up for a kiss. "It's my first time," he says in all earnestness.
"I know, babe," Arthur says very softly, "I know it is."