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Eames steps through the door of his apartment. Pale light is filtering through the half-closed curtains, enough to illuminate the well-worn furniture and wooden floors, but barely so.
It’s only late afternoon. London in November is as dreary and soggy as Eames’s coat and as cold as his feet. Sometimes he thinks he must be daft to come back here when he has a cozy sun-lit apartment in Mombasa. Blissful heat all year, and the floor boards don’t creak. His nan called it ‘call of the blood’. So far he hasn’t found a better explanation. Except the daftness. He’ll take sentimentality over daftness any time.
He puts his suitcase down and throws his soaking coat over the rack. He’s too tired to care if it drips on the floor. Even wet and cold, Eames is glad to be home and not holed up anymore in a miserable and even colder warehouse in St. Petersburg. He’ll never understand why cozy hotel rooms seem to have gone out of style in dreamsharing.
It’s quiet. If it weren’t for the empty cup and the plate with a few crumbs on the coffee table and the fact that he knows he drew the blinds before his departure five weeks ago, he’d think the apartment was empty.
Eames wanders over to the half-open bedroom door and yes, there he is.
Arthur is curled up on the rumpled bed, taking a nap.
He’s lying on the left side, Eames’s side, of the bed, face pressed into the pillow. His hair is curling, longer than the last time Eames saw him and free of product, and he’s drooling. The wet spot on Eames’s pillow is already quite impressive. Eames leans against the door jamb, smiling what feels like his first real smile in weeks. One that makes him feel happy and warm, and not like he’s making funny faces at people. St. Petersburg sucked.
As always he marvels how different, how young Arthur looks without his sartorial armor. He’s always lovely, whether he’s drooling on Eames’s pillow or killing projections with a precisely aimed shot. But this one, this soft and private side of Arthur is Eames’s favorite.
His smile grows even wider when he notices Arthur’s choice of clothes. He’s wearing a white tank top and black Adidas track pants that have seen better days. They look familiar, an awful lot like Eames’s workout clothes, and are much too large for Arthur’s frame.
Eames can count the times they’ve seen each other in the last six months on two hands. Eight times. It’s not enough. They never talk about what they are to each other, and to be honest, it bothers Eames. But seeing Arthur here in his home, wearing his clothes and at ease like he belongs here, it makes something unfurl in his chest and fill him with warmth.
Eames strips quickly and slides into bed, fitting his chest to Arthur’s back and stealing some much needed warmth. He pulls the covers over both of them, and the old quilt at the foot of the bed, too, for good measure. He can’t resist sticking his cold feet under Arthur’s blissfully warm calves, and Arthur startles awake with a squawk that can’t be called anything but girly. Eames grins. He’d outright laugh, but he actually has plans for his bollocks. A little later, after a much needed nap.
“I can hear you smile, you know,” Arthur grouses sleepily into the pillow.
“Just because you are such a lovely sight,” Eames murmurs, pressing a kiss against Arthur’s nape. “I’m glad you’re here. Even if you disabled my state-of-the-art alarm system.”
Arthur hums and bows his head, a silent demand for more kisses. Eames slides his lips over sleep-warm skin, tasting salt and sleep and Arthur. He doesn’t get to taste it often enough, so Eames takes his time, curling his tongue against the small bump at the top of Arthur’s spine that makes him shiver and arch against Eames, like a cat that asks to be petted.
“Eames, your alarm system is a decrepit lock that quivers and opens at a stern look,” Arthur says. He sounds still knackered.
Eames remembers the picture Arthur sent him yesterday. Arthur lounging on the couch of his apartment in Los Angeles in nothing but the smallest cut-off jeans known to man. Eames wanked so hard and long over it that his phone battery died and he missed his flight without his usual wake-up ring. Arthur must have flown in earlier in the day from L.A. It’s no wonder he’s dead on his feet.
“Terribly sorry that my flight was delayed, darling.” Eames presses the words into Arthur’s neck, not yet ready to relinquish his prize.
“Wait, are you tracking my flights?”
“Of course,” Arthur says blithely. “And your credit cards. How else would I know where to find you? And that your flight was, indeed, not delayed. Now come and kiss me properly.”
Eames follows orders actually quite well, if he has the right incentive. Kissing Arthur happens to be one of his favorites.
It’s a little awkward, with Arthur on his side and turning his head, and Eames leaning up on one arm so can he fit their mouths together, but a little discomfort has never deterred them.
He kisses Arthur slowly, unhurried, enjoys him with just a slow slide of lips until Arthur leans back against him with an impatient sigh, lips parting and coaxing Eames deeper. Eames loves the delicious little noises Arthur makes, soft and throaty, content, like getting a crick in his neck and being kissed in a slowly overheating nest of blankets is all he ever wanted.
Eames can’t remember that he ever wanted anything else. Anything else than Arthur’s arse snugged back against him, his own hand stroking lazy circles through the trail of hair on Arthur’s belly, their tongues tangling without any hurry because they know they’ll do it again later.
“Ouch, dammit.” Arthur breaks their kiss reluctantly and Eames winces in sympathy. Arthur’s neck and shoulder have to be killing him.
“I’m getting too old for this. Here, let me…”
Much to Eames’s delight there’s a lot of wriggling and inadvertent groping while Arthur climbs over him so he can get to his side of the bed. They both get tangled in the heap of blankets and Eames takes an elbow to his ribs, but then Arthur is finally nestled against his side, one leg sliding between Eames’s and his head on Eames’s shoulder. Fitting into the curve of Eames’s arm as if he belongs there.
And that’s the point, isn’t it. Arthur does belong there. Eames misses him like crazy when they’re apart, which is most of the time, and he’s a bleeding fool for not telling him. Bugger all, Eames is a thief, he takes the things he wants. Time to buck up.
Eames tips Arthur’s head up, with his free hand cupped around his cheek and his thumb under Arthur’s chin. Arthur opens up only too willingly for him, always so eager. It makes Eames feel wanted, special in a way he’s never felt before, and for a moment he lets himself get lost in Arthur’s warmth and sleepy kisses.
“Missed you, sweetheart,” he breathes into their kiss.
Arthur’s breath hitches and when they part for air, two spots of color are high on his cheeks. It’s rather fetching, and Eames hopes it’s not just because of the smothering heat they’ve managed to create in their little blanket fort.
His answer comes as a kiss to his chest, Arthur mumbling “missed you, too” into his skin.
“This is nice,” Arthur sighs, pressing himself a little closer. The feeling of his fingers carding through the hair on Eames’s chest is comforting and hot as hell at the same time.
It’s more than nice, Eames thinks, enjoying the slow burn of arousal in his belly and the knowledge that there’s no hurry to do something about it.
“We could have this every day,” Eames says quietly. “How much closet space do you need?”
“You’ll have to give to up the guest room,” Arthur says, just as quietly.
His eyes are bright and earnest when he looks up at Eames, chin propped against Eames’s chest. He’s beautiful, rumpled and sweaty, and Eames wonders how he managed to leave every time he did. He must be daft after all, but he’s done with being daft. He never needed the guest room anyways.