Arthur knows, in that oblique way you know things when it's too late to do a fucking thing about them, that he shouldn't have left Eames in charge of the drinks. Leaving Eames in charge of the drinks is like leaving the cat in charge of…no, you know what, no, leaving Eames in charge of the drinks is like leaving Eames in charge of the drinks, there's really nothing else to do it justice. He'd learned this lesson--though apparently not well enough--in Taipei, and again in Madrid, and again in a town in Idaho that was too small to have a proper name but not quite small enough to be without moonshine. Tonight, in a hotel that has somehow materialized near Ariadne's Paris apartment, Arthur has something in his system that might very well be absinthe, a disturbing memory of Cobb doing the Funky Chicken, and his wits about him.
Well, that last is probably just wishful thinking, but if there's one thing he's learned in dreamshare, it's that a man can always hope. It doesn't usually come to anything, but there's no harm in trying.
"You," Arthur says, elbowing Eames in the ribs and certainly not listing into him at all, "are a person."
"Well-spotted," Eames agrees cheerfully. Arthur knows--he watched, he knows--that Eames has had quite a bit to drink himself, but that's why leaving him in charge of the drinks is dangerous. Eames is like…it's…he's an alcohol camel is what he is, he has storage tanks in his body, he has to, in his shoulders, that's where they've got to be.
Arthur feels better for knowing this, and decides to try again with the speaking. "No," he corrects, "no, I meant, you're a person. A bad person. That's what it was."
"Am I?" Eames says, fishing around in his pocket for the keycard to their room. He sounds delighted; Arthur should hit him. "Well, that's dreadful news, you'll have to tell me again in the morning when I'm better equipped to handle it."
"See," Arthur says, "you see, that's--it's--the speaking. You, I know you're drunk, you have to be drunk, no one. Drunk people. Aren't all--composed, like that, what is it, how are you. Bad person. Only explanation."
"Maybe it's my accent," Eames says, slanting a sly grin his way. "It's been known to--"
"I kill you," Arthur says, bracing himself on the doorframe. "Could. Could kill you. Fuck, I hate you, your--no, not your accent, no, who do you, why are you--with the--hands."
"Hands?" Eames says.
"Hands," Arthur confirms. "Big. Fuck."
"Maybe we should just go to bed," Eames says, putting one of those hands--oh, Jesus, why are they big like that, who has hands this big and this warm, Arthur should never have left him in charge of the drinks--on the back of Arthur's neck. "Pardon me for saying so, love, but I'm not sure you're really up for anything else. "
It takes Arthur a second to remember what Eames is talking about; bed, for that second, seems like a pretty okay idea, if a little disappointing somehow. Only then he remembers the cab ride, Eames leaning against his ear and whispering really horribly disgusting things, the party before it, Eames making overwrought sexy faces at him over the bar. And it's been--it's been a long time, hasn't it, between jobs, between countries, between him and Eames and twisted sheets, and the fuck if Arthur's going to sleep now.
"I thought," Arthur says, trying to kick the door shut and missing by about half a foot, "that you had plans for me. You said. About the plans. In detail, the details were…impressive details."
"I did say that," Eames murmurs. His hand is still on the back of Arthur's neck, and now that Arthur looks, his eyes are drooping, crinkled up in the corners, and his smile is more dopey than usual. "But I'd hardly want to--"
"Oh," Arthur says, "okay, we're good, research, whatever, I'm on it, I get it now," and he slams their mouths together without another thought.
Under normal circumstances--under less drunken circumstances, Arthur is going to be in charge of the drinks next time, he's going to do it according to standard measurements and not Eames' crazy approximation of appropriate alcohol to mixer ratios--under normal circumstances, Eames would not stumble. Eames is, in a purely empirical sense, a lot bigger than Arthur; Arthur doesn't think about it most of the time, because of the two of them he's the deadlier, so on the job it doesn't matter much. But here, like this…Arthur loves the difference here, loves the sheer massive size of Eames, how easy it is to climb him like a fucking tree, to brace himself on those brick slab shoulders and fuck down.
But these aren't less drunken circumstances, they're more drunken circumstances, and Eames does stumble, barely manages to hold Arthur's kiss as he falls against the door. It closes--one obstacle overcome, this can be a multi-tasking fuck, Arthur's good at that, gives himself a mental point--and Eames growls into his mouth, something between pleasure and pain.
"You took," Arthur snaps, breaking away, "three bullets, last time, last job, I watched, so don't. Don't bitch, I am drunk, you made me drunk, so I hope that hurt. The door, I mean. You. Falling."
"Pleasant when you're pissed, aren't you?" Eames says, fingering the edges of Arthur's untucked button down. It's all that's left of the suit Arthur left their suite in, but he's trying not to consider that too much.
"I'm always pleasant, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, and has half a second to be proud of himself for not slurring that before Eames is grabbing him 'round the waist, undoing his pants, pulling him in again.
And--okay, and, this is the thing, there's an 'and' here, there's always an 'and' with Eames--it's possible, just possible, that Arthur is drunk enough to be thinking in cold hard truths. There are things he tries to forget about Eames, in the months when they don't see each other; his hands, sure, but his heart more often, the sharp thrum of his pulse under Arthur's fingertips, the way he gentles his touches sometimes, like Arthur's some precious artifact he's not sure how to steal. He groans into Arthur's mouth now, something that would be I missed you if either of them were the type to talk about these things, and Arthur does the only thing he knows how to do; he wraps his legs around Eames' thighs, shifts to scale the length of him, gravity be damned.
"Oh," Eames murmurs, "like that, is it?"
"Do you really want to," Arthur starts, but Eames says, "No, no, Christ, no," and catches his mouth again to shut them both up.
Arthur is--oh, Jesus, Arthur is not going to last long enough for a proper fuck, there's not a chance in hell, it's not going to happen. His cock is miraculously swollen rock-hard, poking out of his boxers to brush against the muscled surface of Eames' stomach, and fuck, even that; Arthur can feel the smear of his own precome there, sticky, and he moans from somewhere deep in his chest, tightens his thighs. Eames, who is in and of himself some kind of living breathing paradox, manages to flip them around and undo his own fly in the same movement, one hand braced on Arthur's lower back to hold him in place. It's…it's stupidly hot, that's what it is, the way he doesn't even grunt when Arthur pushes his weight back to test the grip.
"Bastard," Eames murmurs.
"Least I trust you," Arthur returns; he'd say something else, panic about that a little, backpedal from it, but he can't. He can't, because Eames' cock is out of his pants now, sliding between Arthur's thighs, against the smooth silk of Arthur's boxers. Arthur is drunk and Eames' dick is fucking huge and he's being held up like he's some kind of rag doll and it's been months, months, months since they've done this. He drops his head to Eames' shoulder, braces himself back against the wall, and sucks everything he'd say into the hollow of Eames' neck--he's going to come like this, but he can't be fucked to care, it's too good, it's too--
"Jesus fuck," Eames hisses, and oh, Arthur had forgotten about this, the way Eames lets himself talk when he's really properly trashed, the way his voice sounds, rasped raw like that. "Fucking hell, Arthur, you know it's you, yeah? The reason--I'm never, Christ, I don't do this, I never do this, you know that I don't--I'm going to come down your leg like a bloody teenager, I don't--for fuck's sake, your tongue, why are you, are you trying to--"
"Yes," Arthur gasps, pulling away for a second and scraping his teeth along Eames' throat, "yeah, you, you gotta--so I can--"
"Jesus," Eames says, and then his whole body's jerking and Arthur's silk boxers are ruined and Arthur's coming too, wracked with it, Eames' warm, trembling hands still holding him up.