Work Text:
Grumbling, Arthur pulls an abandoned load from the only dryer not in use. Two weeks into the semester and he’s ready to swear off laundry on Sunday nights.
He tosses his wet clothes in, sets them tumbling, then hesitates; he has a fuck-ton of reading but he can’t just leave someone’s clean clothes in a heap. Cursing himself, he snags a pair of jeans, smoothes and folds them, reaches for the next pair. By the time he’s done with the T-shirts he is more than a little curious about this guy. The jeans are a mix of well-worn 501s and pricier high-end brands — True Religion, 7 For All Mankind, but the shirts are either variations of heather grey or sport dorky messages. He’s not sure who wears $300 jeans with a T-shirt that proclaims “I reject your reality and substitute my own”.
“Sorry. Sorry! I forgot to set my timer and I finally started making progress on sodding d’Alembert and…Christ, did you fold all this?”
It takes Arthur a moment to process the rapid-fire words, the lush British accent, as his entire focus is on the incredibly hot guy that goes with them.
“Uh, yeah?” he says, somewhat dazed. Mystery solved — who cares what the hell a shirt says when it’s hugging those shoulders?
“Wow. Thanks. Eames, 4 South,” Eames, the incredibly hot British guy, offers his hand and Arthur takes it automatically. “I generally prefer to know a fellow’s name before he gets into my jeans but I make exceptions for gorgeous men in laundry rooms.”
Eames, the incredibly hot British guy who is hitting on him. “Arthur, 3 North.” Shamelessly deploying his dimples he adds, “And I usually expect breakfast once I’ve handled a guy’s button-flies.”
“Arthur,” Eames all but purrs. “Could I interest you in breakfast?”