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With almost two decades of con jobs under his belt, in dreams and topside, Eames thinks it's fair to say he's something of a connoisseur when it comes to seduction.
There are the shock and awe seductions, the ones involving unrelenting waves of flattery and courtship, that might later be described as whirlwind romances. There are the Goldilocks seductions, the ones that require one to tread a fine line; not too much, lest one come off as insincere, but not too little, lest one’s target miss the point entirely.
And then there are seductions like this: Arthur stepping a shade too close as they wrap up a job, close enough that Eames picks up on the heat of his body and the scent of his cologne. His smile is warm and slyly inviting as he says, “Do you want to grab a drink after we’re done here?”
Eames looks him up and down. Arthur is dressed the way Eames enjoys the most: sinfully tight trousers that cup his arse and cock lovingly, his hair brushed away from his face, but not slicked down against his scalp. If Eames is not mistaken, Arthur has selected this outfit because Eames likes it most, and the thought of him doing so pleases Eames to no end. Sometimes the best seductions are the simplest ones.
They agree on getting a drink or two at the hotel bar; just enough to give the evening a pleasant blur, smoothing over any minor fumbling that’s likely to come with a new partner. The conversation flows easily between them, with none of the jockeying for control that comes with work, Eames is delighted to discover. He’s even more delighted to discover that Arthur is a tactile flirter, the brushes of his hand and his thigh against Eames’ occurring far too often to be accidental.
Unfortunately - or perhaps fortunately, depending upon how one looks at it - there is a truly excellent bartender on staff tonight, making tasty and inventive cocktails. ‘A drink or two’ becomes ‘do you want to try this one with me?’ before spiralling rapidly downward into, ‘oh my God, this one is supposed to be an ode to the Prohibition era, it's practically an obligation for us to try this’.
Somewhere around the twelfth (or some other double digit) cocktail - with Eames’ vision starting to double, and Arthur’s light, flirtatious touches now verging on public indecency - Eames says (with only the slightest touch of a slur, thank you), “Perhaps we should move to my hotel room.”
“Fuck yes,” Arthur says, his slur far more pronounced than Eames’. The hand on Eames’ thigh slips higher, fondling Eames’ half-hard cock through his trousers. Eames pushes his hips into the welcome pressure for a second or two, just enough to convey his approval, before moving back.
Arthur grins, and heaves himself to his feet, gripping the bar for balance. He even offers Eames a gallant hand up, something that Eames finds truly hilarious (before finding he does, in fact, need the hand up). Arthur tips the barman with denominations in three different currencies, while Eames praises him extravagantly, and then they stagger out of the bar, weaving and leaning against one another for support.
They make out sloppily in the lift, their hands greedy and grasping, and their breathing heavy. Arthur’s cock is a promisingly hard length against Eames’ thigh. There should be no alcohol-related performance issues there, then, Eames notes happily.
By the time they arrive at the door to Eames’ room, both their shirts are untucked, and Eames has managed to work two of Arthur's shirt buttons open. Arthur tries (and mostly fails) to return the favour while Eames is occupied with getting his keycard out of his pocket and opening the door.
They spill into the room, a tangle of limbs and lust. Arthur shoves Eames back against the door as it closes, so hard that Eames’ head bounces off the wood.
“Ow,” Eames says, although it doesn’t hurt as much as it ought to. God bless alcohol.
“Sorry.” Arthur kisses Eames’ ear in added apology. Eames graciously elects to forgive him, especially when Arthur slots their bodies together and presses a kiss to his— well, first his cheek, before course-correcting and kissing Eames’ mouth, wet and lush.
“God, kissing you is even better than I imagined it would be,” Arthur says, against Eames’ lips. His breath is an almost eye-watering blast of pure ethanol tinged with citrus. But, then again, Eames supposes his own is no better. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long. Timing was never right.”
“Bloody awful timing,” Eames agrees. There’d been several near misses, when one or both of them had been in relationships or otherwise unavailable. And then there was the almost-certain agreement to shag that had been ruined by Eames needing to go on the run. By the time he’d gotten clear, Arthur was on an entirely different continent and effectively on the run himself, chasing Cobb's half-mad arse around the world. “It’s rather impressive we’ve finally managed this, really.”
“It’s crazy,” Arthur says, nodding. He kisses Eames again - interspersed with more praise for Eames’ mouth - before saying, in an amazed, confiding tone, “You know what the craziest thing is, though?”
“Mm?” Eames says, more focused on getting his fingers coordinated enough to undo Arthur's suddenly fiendishly complicated belt buckle.
“You’re not even my type,” Arthur says. He runs his hands down Eames’ sides, around to his arse, and squeezes appreciatively. “There are so many things about you that are usually turn-offs for me.”
Eames pauses.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re hot,” Arthur goes on, continuing to grope Eames with every sign of enthusiasm. “You’re unbelievably hot. Easily one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen—”
“I’m sensing a ‘but’ is coming,” Eames says. There’s a vague, incipient feeling of outrage creeping up behind the lust and the alcohol buzz.
“But,” Arthur says, with great relish, “you’ve got these wonky teeth, your tattoos are fuck-off ugly and don’t even match, and your hair—”
“What’s wrong with my hair?” Eames demands. He’s heard complaints about his teeth before (always from Americans - their obsession with perfectly straight teeth is something he’ll never truly understand), and his tattoos, too. It’s no skin off his nose, really, given that neither have ever hindered him. But never has anyone complained about his hair.
“You style it the same way my grandpa does,” Arthur says, matter-of-fact. “Which— I know you’ve got this whole retro wardrobe vibe going on, and I like it, I really do, but the hair is just—” he makes a face, apparently unable to find the words to adequately convey his distaste.
“Oh, as if you have any room to talk,” Eames says, abandoning all attempts at getting Arthur undressed in favour of crossing his arms (no easy feat with Arthur still leaning all his weight against him). He isn’t offended, exactly, but his honour - shrunken and warped and dented as it may be - is demanding that he even the score somehow. “What with that shellacked helmet you used to sport.”
Arthur, surprisingly, does not bristle. He only nods, head lolling like a rag doll, saying, “Fuck, I know,” with genuine mournfulness. “I had to change my hair, did you notice? I was combing it back a few months ago, and I saw my hairline was receding.” He rakes his hair back in an approximation of his former gelled down look. “See?”
“I do see,” Eames says. He’s seen it for the better part of a year actually, but, unlike some, he had the grace and good manners to not comment. “And may I say, this is the oddest seduction technique I’ve ever been subjected to. Does insulting your partners before sex generally work for you?”
“Most things work for me,” Arthur says, and Eames is not so outraged that the bluntness fails to amuse. “And I wasn’t—” Arthur stops, frowning mightily. “Okay, I guess I did insult you. But I didn’t mean it in a bad way—”
Eames raises his eyebrows. “You were insulting me in a nice way?”
“—I was just saying,” Arthur continues over the top of him, utterly graceless, “that all those things don’t do it for me, usually. But they do when it comes to you.”
Eames stares at him.
“Well,” he says, finally, “the feeling is mutual. When it comes to your receding hairline, patchy beard growth, and frightful under eye circles.”
Arthur beams, evidently pleased they’re on the same page. “So can we—” he grabs hopefully at Eames’ belt, but somewhere between getting his head slammed against the door and having his physical imperfections enumerated, Eames’ body lost interest in the proceedings and went for a metaphorical wander.
“Shit,” Arthur says, looking down. “Me too.”
They spend a few moments contemplating their mutually flaccid states, before Arthur brightens, saying, “We can try again tomorrow?”
Eames imagines waking up beside Arthur in the morning, the pair of them bleary-eyed and sallow-skinned, haggard from drinking, likely with appalling morning breath. The thought is not as unappealing as it ought to be, but—
“I can deep throat,” Arthur says. “And I’m cool with switching. If you need extra convincing.”
“Say no more,” Eames says, and tugs Arthur to bed.