shed your love.
drank the dark wine of the new york night
Arthur/Eames, PG-13, for the prompt: " Eames shampooing Arthur's hair in the shower."
730 words
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Arthur hears the shower curtain rustle behind him. He doesn't look up although he startles a little, shoulders stiffening, keeping his arms firmly braced against the tile as hot water beats down his back. They've just finished a job, a few hours shy of the next one based in Prague. They're in Slovenia now, on the thirty third floor of a five star hotel, working off the remaining frenetic energy, double-checking the money that the client has wired; tying loose ends, so to speak. All Arthur wants to do is sleep.
There is a warm hand on his back.
"Fancy meeting you here," Eames says.
Arthur smiles, ducking his head into his chest and letting the water pelt the back of his neck. It feels good, the water, the hand, traveling smoothly up the planes of his back, resting on his shoulder. He feels Eames smile against his ear, his breath warm, heavy, expelled through the gap between his lips.
Standing together like this, it makes Arthur more aware of the lines of his ribs stretched taut against his skin and how narrow he is compared to Eames. He feels a pang of jealousy almost - Eames is all muscle and broad planes and he has shoulders that make Arthur want to lean on them. They're radically different sizes, hand-to-hand, hip-to-hip; Arthur remembers a time when he used resent Eames for looking so devastatingly good but he'd been young then, stupid.
It's been awhile since they've done this, Arthur thinks. He tips his head to the side just as Eames reaches forward, over his shoulder, for one of the miniature shampoo bottles lining the shelf. Eames squirts a handful onto his palm, it's pearly white, smelling like coconut or vanilla, or a combination of the two, and there's a clatter on the tile as the bottle bounces off it, discarded, rolling across the smooth marble floor.
Another second of fiddling and then there are hands in Arthur's hair, working the shampoo into a lather. The scent is distinctly sweet, cloying, and it makes him want to turn away and wrinkle his nose, but he's closing his eyes because those fingers, Eames' fingers, they feel good rubbing up and down his hairline, the back of his neck.
"How long till we have to leave again?" Eames asks.
Arthur doesn't know. He's too tired and he doesn't want to think, his thoughts incoherent and half-formed when he responds resolutely, "A couple of hours," like he knows what the hell he's talking about. It's a rough estimation that may or may not be far from the truth; they've only been here since 2:30 in the morning and the last time Arthur glanced at a clock, which was right before he stepped into the shower, it was 3:15.
"Why?" Arthur says, half a minute later. Eames shrugs behind him. He doesn't press his hips into Arthur's back which makes Arthur wonder if he wants sex at all, if there will be sex.
Showering together like this is always a prelude; often times it takes less than five minutes before Eames is throwing Arthur against the wall and Arthur is hiking up a leg around Eames' waist, pulling more of his cock into his body in rough, sporadic jerks, hips pulsing, feet squeaking against the tile as Eames fucks him into the wall, slow and steady, the heat burnt into him like a brand, just simmering under his skin.
"After Slovenia, we should go on a holiday together," Eames says. Arthur wants to kiss him, fuck him, but he doesn't act on it, even though his cock twitches in response to the low cadence of Eames' voice. He thinks about this for a second, a holiday, somewhere warm where there's a beach and he can wake up gritty all over, sand in his clothes. Not L.A. which is often packed with tourists this time of the year, but somewhere else closed off entirely to the rest of the world, the sand smooth, the color of wheat.
"Mm," Arthur says, mulling the idea over. He leans back and Eames' chest is warm, despite the rush of cool water sliding down their skin.
Arthur tips his head back against Eames' shoulder, closing his eyes. He sighs. "Yeah," he says, tempering down a smirk when Eames' arms close around his waist, "Definitely."