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Arthur doesn't have to say anything for Eames to know exactly how he feels.
Eames makes it a habit of not fucking on the job, not fucking anywhere near the job, and that's easily enough achieved when Arthur won't even consider it out of concern for professionalism. But that's easier said than done when he's actually forced into quarters like these, with Arthur pressed along his front and his back jammed against the wall, the both of them clinging to the other so as not to fall out of bed.
This is another matter entirely.
It's bad enough that their train had been delayed long enough to force them onto the overnight route, but it's worse still that all the carriages had been booked near solid, leaving the five of them to share four beds. And it's not so much that Eames minds sharing with Arthur -- does it half the time anyway -- and it's probably better than the alternative of listening to Cobb or Ariadne or Yusuf bitch about why them when none of them are sleeping together to begin with -- but Eames has always had a hard time keeping his hands off Arthur, and it's no easier when he hasn't any choice.
The way Arthur is tensed and rigid against him suggests that he's not having a much better time of it.
So he doesn't actually have to say it for Eames to know that this is one of their most miserably erotic shared experiences in recent memory.
All they can really do is lie together, chest to chest, and try not to make things worse than they clearly already are. Arthur'd resisted undressing in front of the rest of the team, getting down to his unbuttoned shirtsleeves and underwear only once they'd wrestled the blanket into some kind of order, and it's damnably unfair that it's so warm in the carriage, because Eames is sweating in his boxer shorts, and Arthur's skin is hot everywhere they touch. He can't even flick off the blanket because Arthur would probably hit him.
It has been this way for hours.
Arthur's trying to preserve some space, Eames can tell, but he's still got one arm looped around Eames' waist, and their thighs are touching. It's uncomfortable, and it's awkward, and Eames is fucking turned on. Arthur's hard too, even as he holds himself away, and it's all Eames can do not to press against Arthur, to test him, to slide his dick against Arthur's and rub them together in the dark.
He can't, though, because Arthur would probably kill him, because Yusuf's up top and Ariadne and Cobb are across the aisle, and they could probably see them if it weren't so dark. Eames can't, and he's so hard he doesn't think he'll even be able to sleep. So he just twists his fingers in the back of Arthur's shirt, holds on, and tries very hard to calm down.
It's a little surprising, then, when Arthur kisses him.
It's uncoordinated in the dark -- Arthur gets more of his top lip than he does his mouth, and it's awkward the way their noses bump, but he finds the angle eventually and licks into Eames' mouth, sure and familiar. It's soft and hot and sucking, and Eames opens to it, sliding breathlessly into the kiss.
Arthur is a phenomenal kisser when he wants to be, dirty and devastatingly precise, and Eames lets him, unable to resist the soft pressure of Arthur's lips, the slick slide of Arthur's tongue.
He slides a thigh between Arthur's legs, and Arthur jerks his hips against Eames, bringing their groins together. It's awkward with their underwear, the unwanted friction of fabric where Eames just wants skin, but Eames pushes against him anyway, helpless with the taste of Arthur's mouth, the heat of his skin. He just wants.
He slips a hand under Arthur's shirt, stroking down Arthur's back, and palms his ass, pressing them closer. Arthur twists against him, rubbing, and the kiss turns open-mouthed and filthy. There's something impatient about the way Arthur kisses, even frantic, and Eames knows the feeling -- the shaking desire to be with him even when they can't. And Eames is so turned on by the heavy friction of Arthur's cock against his, by the desperation of their movement that he's maybe just one good angle away from coming in his pants.
But Eames can also hear the raggedness of their breathing as they kiss and the rush of the train around them, and they need to stop before someone wakes up.
Arthur reaches for him before he can quite pull away, fingers grasping the back of Eames' neck. It's dark enough with the blind drawn that Eames can't make out his expression, can't really see much of anything, but Arthur's breathing quavers. He doesn't stop brushing kisses over Eames' mouth, even when Eames stops responding. Eames recognises this: he can't help it.
Eames can't quite bring himself to say we can't, but he thinks it.
Arthur pauses, then, and shifts against him. He sits up a bit, and pushes Eames back, sliding half on top of him. It's a new weight and a new angle, and Eames can feel the hard shape of Arthur's cock pressing against him, hot and hot, and he pulls Arthur back down. They could just lie here, sweaty and turned on, and it would be fine, he thinks.
Arthur's mouth brushes against the shell of his ear, though. His breath is hot and loud and erratic and he says, "We can be quiet," -- not even vocalized, just a damp rush of air.
Eames has never been quiet in his life, but he's beginning to think it's too late to just give up and go to sleep.
Arthur finds his mouth again, his lips damp and swollen, and Eames kisses him, sucking at his lower lip, their tongues brushing carelessly. It's messy, and Eames settles his palm in the space between Arthur's shoulder blades, under his shirt, and hooks an ankle around Arthur's. He lifts his hips, pressing his cock against Arthur, and Arthur presses back -- his hipbones are sharp, pointed, and Arthur must find the friction he wants, because he moves slow and hard, and Eames can feel his heartbeat racing through his chest.
It's intoxicating, the way Arthur ruts against him, the way his mouth goes slack as they kiss, breathless and gasping at once. Arousal spikes through him, and Eames shudders with it, wanting more, wanting Arthur's hands and mouth and skin. But he slides their hips together, and even though the layers of fabric, it's good and hot and perfect, because it's Arthur.
The rhythm is impossibly slow, and Eames tears his mouth away, unable to breathe for the heat between them. He feels Arthur lower his head, the sharp curve of his cheek pressing into the side of Eames' neck, but Arthur never stops moving his hips, rubbing against Eames, maddeningly slow.
Eames feels sluggish, heavy with lust, and he can't stop panting, has to stop from moaning. He slides a hand down Arthur's side, palming at his ass through his underwear, and that seems to do it -- as he pulls Arthur more heavily against him, Arthur stills, and his breath stutters, and Eames feels the languid jerk in his cock as Arthur comes.
He's acutely aware of the silence around them -- of the whisper-rush of the train moving across the landscape, of quiet rhythmic breathing, the occasional snore -- but Arthur only gasps against his neck, once, and Eames' stomach clenches, heavy with desire. No one else has moved.
It's going to be horribly awkward in the morning, and Eames can well imagine it. But it's entirely too much when Arthur mouths at the side of his neck, teeth dragging over muscle. He's already over-sensitized, and it's either too much or not enough when Arthur fumbles between them, fingers sliding over Eames' chest and down his stomach, and palming his cock through the cloth. There's nowhere for him to move to, and Arthur holds his hips down, still heavy against him; and there's nothing for it but to let Arthur stroke him through it, careful and firm and exactly right.
He comes as quiet as he can, biting down around the moan, the tension of arousal slipping away through the circle of Arthur's fingers, the damp of Arthur's skin.
Arthur kisses him again, mouthing up his neck and slotting their lips together. There's no intent to it, the way he kisses Eames, but it's soft and unhurried, and for all that it's still hot and sweaty and now uncomfortably sticky, Eames feels finally, finally as though he can relax.