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Dominick Cobb snores like a motherfucker. That’s the real reason that Arthur has always insisted on his own hotel room on jobs. Dom, Arthur knows, has always chalked it up to Arthur’s natural introversion or maybe his snobbery, but of course it’s neither; when they’re hired for a lucrative job in a tiny Montana town with only two available hotel rooms, Arthur claims Eames as his roommate faster than is probably polite.
“Are you sure?” Dom asks, blinking at Arthur, squinting, suspicious.
“You look like you need the peace and quiet,” Arthur says, grasping for an excuse. It's true, at least: Dom looks tired as fuck. James doesn’t sleep much, since Dom got back.
“Fine with me,” Eames says distractedly, “so long as I get to be the big spoon.” It’s an obvious joke; he’s not trying very hard, busy trying to catch the desk clerk’s eye.
Arthur doesn’t bother acknowledging his weak attempt, just hefts his laptop bag over his shoulder and slides their keycards into his palm. “Three-oh-seven,” he says, slapping one of the cards down in front of Eames. “Be quiet if you come in late.”
Arthur’s nearly dropping with exhaustion, having flown in from Utrecht via JFK, and that was before three hours in the car with Dom and Eames, three hours with Eames’ roadtrip music blasting and Dom driving cautiously like the soccer dad he really is now.
There are, of course, two beds, spread with the sort of cheap shiny bodily-fluid spattered coverlet featured on 60 Minutes episodes. Arthur strips the floral monstrosity off the bed nearer the window and tugs down the bleached sheets, the rough pilled utilitarian blanket. Tired as he is, it still looks amazingly appealing. He strips down to his boxers, brushes his teeth, and crawls into bed, dropping off almost immediately.
“Sorry,” says Eames, when he comes in some time later, flicking on the light. “I didn’t know you’d be out already.”
“Time’s it?” Arthur asks, rolling over, squinting at Eames.
“Eleven,” says Eames. “Thought I’d get started on some surveillance, the mark’s entire family were drinking at the bar downstairs.”
“Good,” Arthur says tiredly, and burrows back into his pillow, drifting a little as he listens to the quiet sounds of Eames getting ready for bed. He doesn’t know where Eames was coming from for the job, but he’s clearly more than a little weary too, judging by his slow clumsy movements. The light clicks off after another minute and Eames sighs, shuffles under the covers on the other bed, makes little sleepy stretching noises. Silence falls over the room, briefly.
“Is that a cat?” Eames asks, his mattress creaking as he shifts up onto his elbows, the dim silhouette of his cowlick sticking up like it’s expressing his confusion.
“No,” says Arthur, cracking a yawn, “that’s somebody fucking.”
“That’s”— Eames begins, “it’s — what?”
Arthur reaches over and turns on his bedside lamp, because Eames sounds — and indeed, looks — genuinely shocked. “Fucking?” Arthur repeats, raising his eyebrows, wondering if this is another lame-ass attempt at humor on Eames’ part. “You know, when people get all naked and have orgasms together?” Arthur adds by way of clarification, because Eames is continuing to look mystified.
Eames’ cheeks go faintly pink, and for a long moment there’s nothing to listen to but the thumping of the headboard next door, the shouting.
“Dear lord,” Eames mutters, and Arthur had always thought of ‘stiff upper lip’ as yet another incomprehensible British turn of phrase, but Eames’ upper lip has indeed gone weirdly immobile. “Honestly,” Eames says, apparently still at a loss.
“You spend half your life in hotels,” Arthur says, baffled. “How are you not used to this yet?”
“Yes, half my life,” Eames repeats, smoothing his hair down, blinking hard, “and this is the first time I”— and he stops himself just in time for oh, yes, god, yes! to travel with perfect clarity through the thin walls.
“Are you serious?” Arthur asks, grinning in spite of himself. "I spend every other night listening to someone bang someone else two feet away." He gets up on one elbow to better observe Eames’ prim and shocked face. “I had no idea you were such a prude,” he says, entertained.
“I’m not a prude,” Eames returns, annoyed but blushing more with each passing shout from the next room. He pauses. “I just — I don’t really fancy being the unwilling participant in someone else’s exhibitionism fetish.”
“It’s not exhibitionism,” Arthur scoffs, but that’s the moment that the man next door decides to pipe up too, adding a series of loud shouts to the rising cacophony. “Look, I’ll call the front desk if it’s really bothering you,” Arthur offers, pulling a face. “What room would that be, 309 or 305?”
“No, god no,” Eames intervenes hastily, putting his palm down over the phone to prevent Arthur from picking it up. “I mean, what would we even say?”
“We’d say, please call the assholes next door and tell them to bite their pillows a little more,” Arthur says. He rolls his eyes at Eames’ horrified face. “I’ve done it before, honestly. We’re well within our rights.”
“No, it’s,” Eames says, and blushes yet more, “they sound about ready to — I imagine they’ll be quiet soon enough.”
Arthur sighs but pulls his hand back. “Wouldn’t count on it,” he says. “In my experience these things always last way longer than you’d think.” He looks over at Eames again, trying not to smile, because Eames looks so perfectly appalled, like he’s not at all the same guy who’s been making passes at almost everyone in winking distance the whole time Arthur’s known him. “It’s just sex, Eames,” Arthur says, more gently than he normally would, doing his best to hide the amusement he feels.
“Of course it is,” Eames says, making an obvious attempt to sound blasé, normal. “Right, of course.” He lies back slowly and stares fixedly up at the ceiling, jawline tight with visible tension. Next door, the woman keens her way through what sounds like a particularly enjoyable orgasm. Eames swallows, his larynx bobbing.
Arthur looks away, feeling a weird flush of secondhand embarrassment, and flops back down onto his own mattress, sighing. It's clear that neither of them is going to sleep while this goes on, Eames stricken with his unexpected fit of Being British, and Arthur too thrown by Eames' reaction to relax back into sleep.
“It’s so rarely two guys,” Arthur says, making conversation to cover the noise a little, to puncture the heaviness of Eames’ continued silence. "Brokeback Mountain is a load of shit," Arthur goes on when Eames doesn't reply. "I was led to believe that Montana is full of cowboys fucking."
There's a long pause. Arthur is about to suggest turning on the television, cranking the volume, when Eames speaks at last. "Well," he says stiffly, "men are generally a little more restrained.”
Arthur gets half a laugh out before he recognizes that Eames’ tone isn't actually flippant.
It’s not that Arthur thought Eames was some sexual dynamo — that much flirty posturing is usually a cover for real insecurity, after all. But this is still unexpected, the revelation that Eames thinks guys are quiet in bed, that that's just the way it is, that —
“Depends on the man,” Arthur says quietly, prepared to let the whole issue go along with any long-held deeply secret hopes of Eames being a good fuck.
But Eames doesn’t seem to catch Arthur’s tone of dismissal, because the next moment his bed is creaking and Eames is back up on one elbow, staring over at Arthur. “Are you,” he asks, sounding a little hoarse, “what — Arthur, do you —“
“Oh jesus,” says Arthur, embarrassed, “that wasn’t some weird come-on, I’m sorry if that’s how it came across.”
“No, I,” Eames says, and gives his head a little shake as though trying to clear it. He licks his lips, avoids Arthur’s gaze, bracing himself. “I know what you’re thinking, I’m not repressed and weird, I just — I’ve never thought it was necessary to a good time, all that racket.”
“Really?” Arthur asks, blinking, his mouth pulling up at one corner. It's stupid, how relieved he is. “Love a noisy fuck, not going to lie.” The couple next door reaches another unfortunately timed peak, but at least it sounds like the guy is coming too, this time. “I like it when I’m more directly involved,” Arthur revises thoughtfully, raising his own voice to be heard.
The smile that curls over Eames’ face is unapologetically dirty; abruptly Eames seems more like himself than he has since this whole thing began. “You filthy little,” he begins fondly, and Arthur — Arthur would normally shut Eames down right about now with a warning or a threat.
But Arthur instead finds himself grinning back conspiratorially, fond of Eames in spite of himself: blushing, dirty, paradoxical Eames.
“You,” Eames begins, and abruptly his smile slips and falters. His flush is entirely different this time.
“Yeah, okay,” Arthur says impulsively, and flips back his covers in invitation.
"We're on a job, Arthur," Eames says, sounding downright scandalized, but of course — of course — Eames is teasing, now, because he's already crossing the gap between their beds, already clambering onto Arthur’s mattress and closing in on Arthur’s personal space.
Eames is big, bulky, warm, mostly naked, and his skin is everywhere, but he's hovering over Arthur now on all fours, studying him, smirking. "So you like to squeal," Eames says in a contemplative tone, not moving, like he thinks he’s somehow pinned Arthur without putting in any of the actual effort involved.
And that's just it, isn't it? That's the thing that makes Eames so fucking infuriating, pushes him past casual flirt and over into creepy predator, this damnable certainty Eames has that he's got something on Arthur, that he can dangle it over him the way he's holding himself up over Arthur at this moment, out of reach and superior and entertained by Arthur, above him in so many ways.
But it's different, suddenly; Arthur's seen Eames squirm, now, even if Eames seems to have forgotten as much.
Arthur smiles as sweetly as he knows how, like Eames' teasing is beguiling him, and then brings his knees up to bracket Eames’ torso, clamps down on his sides, and flips him over onto his back before Eames has time to figure out what Arthur's doing to him. "No," Arthur says, slamming Eames' wrists up against the headboard, grinning, "I like to be the one causing the squealing, actually."
Eames is still smiling, though it's not clear now whether it's because he's being stubborn or if he's genuinely delighted. "I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed," Eames tells him, poking his pointy tongue out and pinching it between his white crooked teeth.
It's Eames' job to do the verbal bantering; Arthur prefers just getting shit done. He doesn't answer Eames, instead bending down and drawing a neat circle with his tongue around one of Eames' nipples. Eames makes an amused-sounding huff, but no more.
Arthur bites down.
Eames' back arches and he pushes out a startled grunt, knocks his fingers against Arthur's cheekbone, his jaw, trying to urge him off. "Of course you're a fucking sadist," Eames grates out when Arthur comes back up, smiling easily, "what else would you be, you horrid little tosser—“
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Arthur grins, "that didn't hurt, you baby."
Eames pulls a faux-injured expression but can't hold it. "I'm only saying, it doesn't count if I'm in pain, you twat."
Arthur twists his mouth around as he considers this, shifting his hips up Eames’ body as though accidentally encountering Eames’ impressive hard-on.
"That's residual," Eames insists before Arthur can say anything, "that's a residual erection from before you started chewing on my tits—“
Arthur wriggles his ass a little until Eames goes pink around the ears and stops talking. This time when Arthur bends down, he's gentler, slower. Eames goes quiet, but in all fairness, he doesn't go unresponsive. His hand comes up and settles in the short hair at the nape of Arthur’s neck. It feels almost tender, maybe too familiar, but Arthur lets himself enjoy it because Eames’ chest is hard and broad and Arthur has wanted this for so long. After a while Arthur mouths his way to the other side of Eames' chest, gives his other nipple the same treatment, dares to bite at it too. This time Eames is ready, maybe, because his fingers tighten only to hold Arthur's head in place, and his hips ride up in a slow pleased roll.
"Okay, enough of that," Arthur decides, sitting up, shaking away Eames' hand, getting up on his knees and hooking his underwear down.
Eames looks a little dazed, satisfyingly so, and his gaze gets caught on the skin Arthur's revealing. Arthur hesitates, thinking.
"Be right back," says Arthur, swinging his leg over Eames, climbing backwards off the bed.
"Hey, no!" Eames exclaims, hands outstretched, trying and failing to capture Arthur as he goes. "Wait, what?"
"Shh," Arthur warns him, "that was getting kind of loud just now, Mr. Eames."
Arthur digs around in his suitcase for a minute and comes up with his least favourite tie, then digs a little more and finds that tie of Cobb's, the one that Arthur keeps thinking he's going to return and never does. It's black and narrow and hideous. It'll do just fine. Arthur straightens up and looks back over his shoulder to find that Eames has taken the opportunity to shed his own underwear. He's sprawled over the bed, lazy and entitled and altogether too proud of his – okay, yes, – really nice body. Arthur turns and holds the tie up for Eames to see.
"No," says Eames, stroking himself idly.
"Why not?" asks Arthur, frowning.
"Cheating," Eames answers, and raises his eyebrows for emphasis.
"Fine," Arthur sighs, and drops the tie. "I'll give it back to Cobb after all."
"Please tell me you haven't ever," Eames asks, appalled.
"Oh, christ," Arthur says, and goes back into his suitcase searching for lube and condoms. "Way to ruin the mood, Eames."
“—worn Cobb's clothing," Eames finishes. "Don't be disgusting, darling."
"I could still gag you," Arthur points out. "I'm not committed to this squealing thing."
"Take off your pants and get over here," Eames answers equably.
Arthur juggles the condom and lube from one hand to the other so he can slip his underwear off, let it drop to the floor.
Eames goes appealingly quiet again, and Arthur really does want to stop and rethink his position on the squealing because a quiet Eames — maybe that's a better goal. But then Arthur considers the prospect of Eames helplessly shouting under him, and decides he's better off trusting his first instincts.
Arthur gets onto the bed, beside Eames this time instead of over him, gets Eames by the chin, and bows his head to give a first proper kiss. When he backs off again, Eames licks his lips and shoots Arthur a smile midway between amused and nervous. "Are you being nice to me?" he asks.
"Of course not," Arthur answers, feeling a little frown wrinkling his brow. "I just wanted to be sure I'd kissed your mouth beforehand."
Arthur doesn't wait for Eames to ask, just slides his hands down, hooks them under Eames' knees, pushes them until Eames’ heels are spread. "Darling, that's hardly — I haven't — I’m straight off the plane from —“ and Arthur never finds out where Eames was coming from today, because Eames goes abruptly silent even as Arthur chuckles low and a little mean against the curve of Eames' skin, presses his thumbs in to hold Eames open, to press his own unshaven face in, rough and inconsiderate and assured, while Eames’ right heel slips and skids and Eames exhales slow and loud.
Arthur is sure to give Eames the same kiss now as he had a moment ago, gentle and maybe nice, hardly any tongue: the perfect first kiss. He's rewarded by the jumping of the small muscles high up inside Eames' thighs, the little tender pieces that pin Eames together, his seams. If you're going to take someone apart, Arthur tells himself, going in for a second, deeper, kiss, it's best to start with the seams.
Eames is quite obviously shocked by Arthur, judging from the little half-sentences he manages — filthy and can't believe and shouldn't — but it's a tautly managed shock, anyway, it's quiet and proper like Arthur never thought Eames was, it's little barely audible gasps and clamped-down shudders and never never asking for more.
Except, Arthur thinks, except for those little jumping hungry muscles under his thumbs; they're begging.
Arthur lifts his head and Eames tilts his chin down to meet his gaze, red-cheeked and lips redder still, like he’s been biting them. "You can touch your cock if you want," Arthur tells him, because anyone else would be jerking off by now.
Eames lifts one eyebrow, sarcastic. "Thank you for your gracious permission," he says with perfectly biting intonation.
"Just don't come yet," Arthur adds as an afterthought, and pushes Eames' thighs incrementally further apart, goes back down to work.
Eames doesn't touch himself; it's his first strategic error, Arthur thinks, since the moment he let Arthur get the drop on him.
"I'd no idea you had such an oral fixation," Eames says next time Arthur comes up for air. He sounds casual as anything but the sheets are wrinkled into starbursts where his hands must have been clutching them, and his cock is red, snug against his flat hairy belly, leaking.
"I like mouths," Arthur says, curving his own, watching Eames' smile falter in answer, that same nervous flicker of tongue over full lip. "Don't you?" he adds, reaching down, circling Eames' cock, stroking it idly. "You like mouths, right?"
Eames laughs and closes his eyes, tilting his head back into the pillow. "Brilliant," he agrees a little absently, "mouths are”—
"I'll use mine on you," Arthur offers, and Eames' hips rise up into the next stroke, casting their vote. "If you want."
"Mm, if you like," Eames says, rolling his head side-to-side, shrugging, smirking.
Here's where Arthur should strike some kind of a deal with Eames, make some sort of kinky rule about how Arthur will work harder, take Eames deeper, suck a little more, every time Eames lets out a sound of appreciation. Here's where Arthur's supposed to play the game. But Arthur looks down at Eames, the sprawl of him over Arthur's hotel bed, the spike of his hair and the ink of his tattoos, the close way he's watching Arthur, trying to guess his next move, and abruptly Arthur doesn't want to play a game. His throat goes tight with want, and he honestly can't help it, the way he suddenly has to move his hands up and wrap them firm around Eames' ribs, exhale a little sharply to dispel the frisson of anxiety that always presages a rare fit of true honesty on Arthur's part.
"I don't really care if you make noise," Arthur says, "but I'd like it if you did." He digs his fingers in a little, finding the dips that demarcate the soft places between the lines of Eames' ribs, like Eames is made to fit inside Arthur's hands, just like this.
Stupid thought, stupid impulse, and Arthur clears his throat, hastening to suggest that the rule be that Eames can't make noise, that Arthur will stop if Eames dares to make a noise, if — but Eames draws breath to speak, Arthur's hands riding the swell of his ribcage helplessly.
"Anything you like, darling," he says, voice smudged like he's forcing the words out around a tightness in his throat. "Anything you like."
Arthur smiles without meaning to, hides it by quickly shuffling back, ducking down and mouthing the head of Eames' cock, sucking at it gently. Eames falls quiet save for a little pleased grunt, but as Arthur takes him in deeper, he seems to remember the bargain he's struck, and he makes an almost comically forced sounding hum of appreciation that has Arthur chortling as best he can around a mouthful of Eames.
"Really?" Arthur says, lifting off, grinning unashamedly now.
Eames grimaces. "That's what I hate about it, all the fakery."
"Says the guy who basically fakes everything," Arthur points out, snorting, "for a living.”
Eames' gaze cuts away; Eames is embarrassed, Arthur realizes delightedly. "Point taken," he mutters, sighing. "Right, I'll give it a go."
"No," Arthur returns, clamping down on the amusement that wants to show through his tone. "No, just — if you feel it, just — let it go."
"Right, okay," Eames says tautly.
"I mean it," Arthur says, giving Eames' flank a little fierce squeeze of emphasis. "Eames. Unwind. You have permission, remember?"
Arthur maybe expects Eames to laugh it off again, but instead he frowns a little, nods, and blinks like he's startled by his own acquiescence.
Arthur opens his mouth, takes his time now, sucks gently and then licks around Eames' foreskin before rolling it back with his lips. Arthur doesn't mean to do it; his low hum of pleasure is purely a natural reaction to the little rush of precome that slicks over the blade of his tongue. The sound isn’t meant as a demonstration, or as encouragement, but Eames' hand abruptly lands on Arthur's head, gentle if clumsy. He murmurs, "I know, I —" and his voice goes gritty, dry, and his breath explodes outwards as Arthur moans again, deliberately this time around.
"So you really," Eames says confusedly, "Arthur, you really do,” and he gasps and makes a sound of surprise then, because Arthur is going down as far as he can, now, hollowing his cheeks, and it's a fucking terrible shame if no one has ever made Eames aware of how delicious he is, how perfect, how — "Oh fuck," Eames whispers now, fingers moving over to flirt with the tip of Arthur's ear.
"Mm," Arthur agrees, bobbing a little now, working Eames into something more like a rhythm, and Eames is — he's quiet, but god, he's — he's here, he's definitely here, breathing soft and fast and stroking his thumb around the shell of Arthur's ear like it's all he'll trust himself with. Eames is considerate. He's polite. He's — nothing like what Arthur thought he'd be, here under Arthur's mouth.
"Lube, please," Arthur says, pulling off, heart pounding, not sure what he wants except feeling like he's skirting too close to the edge of some breathtaking fall, like he'd better shift course before he stumbles over it.
Eames is still open, loose, from Arthur's mouth, and it's only the work of another minute or so to stretch him with two fingers. Eames watches Arthur with dark wide pupils, eager, still barring the quick in-out of his stomach as his breath moves faster. "Okay?" Arthur asks, rolling on the condom, because Eames — Eames weirdly seems like the kind of guy you need to check up on, now.
"Yeah, hurry the fuck up," Eames says, up on his elbows, watching still.
Arthur takes a moment to rearrange Eames' thighs so they're open over Arthur's lap, then inches forward and splays his hand flat on Eames's belly. "Tell me if you like it," Arthur requests, even though he's pretty sure Eames isn't exactly holding back, now, flushed and dark-eyed, wet.
"What kind of a daft," Eames tries to say, but then he trails off as Arthur pushes in, and he's not hiding it this time, fists in sheets.
"Tell me," Arthur says again, hearing his own voice low and fluid and thick. "Eames."
"I — it," Eames says, frowning with his eyebrows and gasping with his mouth, expression confused and lovely. "It's, you're — yes."
"Yes?" Arthur checks; he would smile, maybe, if he could, but the only functioning part of his brain is sitting back and admiring Eames.
"Like it," Eames says, eyes popping open again as Arthur bottoms out. "Please. I like it, don't stop."
"Don't know that I could," Arthur admits, and draws back a little only to rock in again. Eames is hot, tight, slick, his thighs heavy. "Hold your legs, here," Arthur says, and moves Eames' hands, shows him what he means, and Eames holds himself open, pulls his legs up, lovely.
"Fucking, fucking hell," Eames manages, as Arthur starts to move steadily, "you're — this is — good, Arthur, it's —"
"Keep talking," Arthur says, biting his lower lip, trying to focus on lasting, unable to pull his eyes away from the spill of Eames, his chest, arms.
"Can't," Eames says, and follows it up with a soft drawn-out sound, nothing that would make it through even these thin walls, but something wrenchingly real, something Eames lets go because Arthur wants him to, and Arthur redoubles his efforts, inspired.
"Yeah," Arthur gasps, because Eames is making him work for it, and that's not how this was supposed to — but it doesn't fucking matter. Another low moan, and Arthur's laid waste by it, only managing to tamp down his own noises of appreciation with the knowledge that he can't be too loud or he'll miss something, he'll miss one of those desperately sought little noises he's drawing out of Eames one by one.
Eames lets go of his legs and they spring back to push heavily against Arthur's own, and Arthur takes a minute to register that Eames is holding Arthur by the forearms, squeezing them to get his attention. "Can we," Eames says, breathless, "this is — maddeningly amazing — but can we just," and Arthur nods stupidly and abruptly Eames knocks Arthur off-balance, tips him over like he's nothing. They're crosswise on the bed now but it doesn't matter because Eames is clambering over him, tugging Arthur back up to a sitting position, settling down on Arthur's lap. "Like this?" Eames asks, as though he hasn't just rearranged Arthur with hardly any effort.
"Yeah, if you," Arthur says stupidly, dimly aware that he'd probably give Eames anything he wanted right now.
Happily, all Eames seems to want is Arthur's cock back in his ass, and he manages this much with a little shift in position and a slow downward glide of hips against hips. Eames' cock is hot and insistent between their bellies but Arthur can't — Eames is tipping Arthur's face up to his own, kissing Arthur's mouth while Arthur is still struggling to touch all the parts of Eames he can suddenly reach, Eames' ass and his back and the undersides of his thighs. The wings of his shoulders, the slick secret place where they're joined. Arthur can't—
— "Shh, it's alright," Eames says, and his palm is suddenly pressed over Arthur's mouth. And yeah, Arthur thinks he might have been getting a little loud in spite of himself. Eames' hand is good, it's — it's necessary, because Arthur doesn't want to miss it when Eames picks up the pace, when Eames starts making low pleased noises that might aspire to be words but don’t quite resolve into coherence.
The bed thunks haphazardly into the wall, now, off-kilter with their sideways fucking, their combined weight listing the bed at an angle. "Right," says Eames, slowing for a moment, taking Arthur by the wrist and drawing his hand up to Eames' lips. "You like mouths, innit." And Eames takes in Arthur's two fingers, moaning around them like Arthur had around Eames, before, wet and nasty. Arthur can't quite believe he'd been stupid enough not to get his cock in Eames' mouth already, but fingers are good, fingers will do for now, they'll —
Eames sucks on Arthur's fingers, hard, riding him, getting noisier, and then pops them out again and pulls Arthur's hand down behind.
"Go on," Eames says, and nudges Arthur's hand closer to where Arthur's cock is pushing inside Eames. "Make me squeal, darling."
Arthur's fingers are spit-wet and his cock is slippery but it still takes a moment to ease in alongside, a long breathless moment where Eames holds obligingly steady and leans his forehead against Arthur's, breath hitching. Eames' palm had slipped a little while Arthur worked his fingers in, but Arthur slides his face back into the hollow of Eames' hand now.
He doesn't want to miss anything.
Arthur doesn't know, actually, if it's the stretch of his fingers or just the build up to this moment, but Eames seems abruptly to lose any inhibitions and it only ramps up when Arthur gets his free hand between them and wraps it around Eames' cock. Eames has, Arthur decides dizzily, a really fucking gorgeous voice, and it's yet more gorgeous now when it's loud and ecstatic and building. Eames' palm slips away as Eames loses control, growing close, but it doesn't even matter because it just makes it better, both their voices clamoring and echoing around the small room, and Arthur's not going to last, he's not — he's —
Eames comes first, blessedly, and Arthur barely has time to register the slickness spilling over his fist before he's following after.
In the aftermath, they kiss, sloppy and fond and slow, and Arthur only gradually notices the hard burn of his thighs, the ache of supporting Eames' weight. The sweat on Eames' shoulders and sides makes it more and more difficult to keep a firm grip, and finally Eames sort of slips off, laughing.
"Aren't you going to get that?" Eames asks, limbs every direction, beaming at Arthur.
"Get that," Arthur repeats dimly, and only then realizes that the ringing in his ears is overlaid by the shrill of the hotel phone. "Oh, shit," Arthur says, and half-falls from the bed in his quest to make the noise stop. Eames is giggling, now, no question about it.
"Sir, this is the front desk," says the clipped professional voice on the other end. "I'm sorry, but we've had a noise complaint with regards to your room?" She stops there, delicately.
"Right," says Arthur, "well, we're done now, so."
"Okay," she says hastily, "thank you for your compliance with our quiet hours, sir."
Eames starts hitting Arthur about the head with a pillow before Arthur's properly hung up. "You can't bloody tell them that," he scolds.
"Why not?" Arthur asks, grinning, ditching the condom. "S'true."
"Agh," Eames says, and pulls the pillow back to attempt his own asphyxiation. Arthur climbs back into bed next to him, unbothered.
"You're so weird," he tells Eames fondly, giving him a thump on his hip. "Roll over, you said you wanted to be the big spoon."
"I hate you," Eames says, coming out from under the pillow, rolling over. "You crass, vulgar, appalling American." He slings his arm around Arthur's middle anyway, hauls him in close, snugs his chin over Arthur's shoulder.
"Can we do it again tomorrow?" Arthur asks.
"Do you think they sell gag bits at the tack shop?" Eames asks.
"If they do we'll need a couple of them," Arthur can't help but answer, and then he's dropping into sleep.
The next morning over breakfast, Cobb looks fucking awful, like he got run over by the sleep deprivation truck. He smears a hand over his eyes, cracks an enormous yawn, and says, "Did you hear those guys, last night? Jesus fucking christ, the walls are like cardboard."
Eames' cheeks are abruptly as pink as the half grapefruit on his plate. Arthur hastens to draw Cobb's attention before he can notice.
"It's Montana," Arthur says, "it's like, the capital of gay cowboy fucking, Dom."
Dom flags the waitress over for another refill of his coffee. "I'm switching floors," he declares. "I mean, what if they're at it again?"
“Good plan," Arthur says, nodding, serious. "They — they probably will be. I'll bet."
And beside Dom, Eames' mouth twitches, betraying the slightest of smiles.