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“What are you thinking about, Arthur?”
They're standing by the baggage carousel at LAX. They're not supposed to be talking to each other in public, but Eames has never been one to follow the rules, and Arthur wouldn't like him if he was.
Arthur glances at Eames from the corner of his eye. They've been nothing but professional since the night they left Paris, and Arthur has been too distracted by the Fischer job to think about whatever he and Eames have been doing. Now, though-- yeah, now he thinks about it. He considers for a moment, then tries to keep his voice calm when he says, “I'm staying at the Roosevelt. Meet me in the Library at eight.”
Eames doesn't say a word. He doesn't need to. The look he gives Arthur says everything.
And Jesus, Arthur thinks as he watches Eames walk away. Jesus Christ, what he wouldn't do to see that look again.
The Library Bar is tucked away in a corner of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. It's a throwback to the 50s with dark leather couches and wood-paneled walls, and it goes mostly overlooked, which suits Arthur's purposes just fine. He gets there early and orders a cranberry juice, then finds a seat at a table in the corner. He wonders if Eames is there already, and then he remembers that this is real life. Eames can't be forging someone else, and Arthur can't just shoot himself to run away. Whatever they're about to do is actually happening.
Arthur swallows.
It's ten past when Eames finally shows up. He looks rumpled and gorgeous as usual, in a navy blue suit and a dark purple shirt that doesn't quite match. It's a hideous effort at being conservative, and Arthur can't wait to get him out of it.
Eames spots him right away and quirks a smile, but he doesn't come over to the table. He goes to the bar instead, orders a drink and drums his fingers on the counter while he waits. He doesn't even glance in Arthur's direction. He's playing a one-man performance; he's making sure Arthur is paying attention.
Arthur is definitely paying attention.
Once Eames has his drink-- whiskey, from the looks of it-- he saunters over to the table and slides into the seat across from Arthur. He's got a smug expression on his face, and Arthur fights the urge to kick him. It's really confusing to want to hit someone and fuck them at the same time.
“You're irritated with me,” says Eames, curling a smile into his glass. He takes a swallow and puts the tumbler down, then runs a fingertip around the rim.
And just like that, Arthur is distracted. He knows he should be saying something to wipe that self-assured smirk off Eames's face, but he can't think of anything other than how badly he wants to get those thick, gorgeous fingers up his ass.
“That 'fuck me' look suits you, Arthur,” says Eames. “Would you mind telling me what else you're thinking?”
Arthur sips his drink and licks his lips, and watches Eames's gaze drop to his mouth. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't think he needs to.
“Fuck,” says Eames, his voice rough. His teasing smirk is gone, and his pupils are blown dark. He takes another swallow of whiskey, but his eyes don't leave Arthur's mouth. He puts his glass down with a clatter, then reaches over the table and rubs his fingers across Arthur's lips.
Arthur's mouth falls open. He's rock hard in an instant, and Jesus, he's so fucking hot for it, he could probably come just from this.
“Christ, Arthur,” whispers Eames. “Do you have any idea the kinds of things your mouth makes me want to do? I'd burn whole cities to watch you suck my cock.”
Arthur bites down on Eames's fingers and shoves his tongue between them with a moan. It's the sluttiest thing he's ever done in public, but fuck if he's not getting off on it, leaning over the table to take them deeper. He wants them down his throat and up his ass, buried in his hair to jerk his head back while Eames fucks him like a bitch.
And Eames... god, Eames is staring at him like he's just seconds away from snapping, like he wants to shove Arthur against the wall and fuck him right there in the bar. The tension between them is painful, settling like an ache in Arthur's balls.
Eames thrusts his fingers into Arthur's mouth, so deep that Arthur has to swallow around them, and says, “Believe it or not, I had planned to tease you.”
Arthur draws back and looks up at Eames, flicks his tongue against Eames's fingertips in gentle, kittenish licks. “We've been teasing each other for years, Mr Eames,” he whispers. “And frankly, I'm sick of the foreplay.”
“My god, you're a little harlot,” says Eames in a tone that borders on awe. He rubs his fingers across Arthur's lips again, smearing them with saliva, then pulls his hand away and grabs his glass. He downs the rest of the whiskey in two big swallows, then slips out of his chair and gives Arthur a look
It's a challenge.
It's one last chance for Arthur to back out.
It's something that looks suspiciously like please.
Arthur shoves his glass aside and pushes to his feet. He crowds into Eames's personal space until their noses touch, and their mouths are so close together that Arthur can practically feel the way Eames would bite him. He doesn't move in for a kiss. Instead he whispers, “704,” and lets his fingertips skim Eames's thigh, then turns away and heads for the elevators.