the warmth of your love's like the warmth of the sun.
Sunday Morning
Arthur/Eames, R, prompt: " together, possibly married, with kids of their own."
1326 words
--
Eames wakes up to the noise of the TV in the living room, turned on to Saturday morning cartoons. He pulls the blanket higher over his head, trying to block out the sun, then gives up completely because Arthur is lying on the other half of the bedsheet and no amount of prodding will get him to move.
He reaches across the bed and drapes an arm around Arthur, resting his chin on Arthur's head. Arthur's hair tickles his nose and Eames can feel the warmth of his skin through his pajamas. He is about to go to sleep again when a loud crash erupts in the kitchen.
Arthur twitches and grunts, shrugging Eames' arm off.
"Go check on the children," he tells Eames, who makes a noise of complaint but pulls on a pair of pants anyway. He slips into a wifebeater and pads into the kitchen, sighing when the familiar mess of food and toys on the floor greets him.
"Oh, Sophia," Eames groans. It's too bloody early for this, he thinks, as he reaches for his daughter and balances her on his hip, pushing the hair out of her face. "Darling, what were you doing? Were you trying to get some food?"
Sophia nods and points to the bits of cereal scattered on the floor.
Eames continues to talk to her while he sweeps up the rubbish and then props her up on the counter where she kicks her legs back and forth as he pours her a glass of milk. She says thank you Daddy to him and he smiles fondly at her, tousling her hair and kissing her on the forehead, remembering when she used to be a tiny baby, gurgling and pink and wrapped in a bundle in Arthur's arms.
"Is your brother awake?" Eames asks.
Sophia nods. Charles is watching TV in the living room, playing with his toy cars on the floor and doesn't even look up when Eames deposits Sophia next to him. Eames watches whatever is on tv for awhile, flipping through the channels and turning it back to cartoons when Charles voices out a gurgled complaint. He makes coffee in the kitchen and pours cereal into two seperate plastic bowls, handing the kids one each.
He goes to check on Arthur who by then is already brushing his teeth in the bathroom. Eames hears the toilet flush and the door creak when Arthur steps outside, wiping his mouth against the back of his wrist, his hair neat as ever and pushed back over his head.
Eames grins when Arthur snatches the mug of coffee from his hand, stealing a long, languid sip. He touches the corners of Arthur's impeccable hairline with his thumbs and then laughs when Arthur makes a face.
"Seven years and you still wear your hair the same way?" Eames says. He plants a warm kiss on Arthur's forehead, feeling Arthur sigh and sink against his chest. Seven years ago Arthur would have shoved him off and told him to go kill himself, but now he just grins and kisses Eames back on the mouth, touching their noses together.
"I like to be consistent." Arthur says then pats Eames on the cheek, taking Eames' cup of coffee with him.
+
They have breakfast in the kitchen. Arthur turns off the television, saying something about how it rots the brain while throwing Eames a pointed look, then picks up the kids, one under each arm and carries them to the breakfast table.
Sophia sits on the high chair with a bib under her chin but Charles is already five so he gets his own place at the table. Eames makes pancakes for breakfast because Arthur's culinary skills consist of ordering takeaway at swanky Italian restaurants and dialing for Chinese and pours more coffee for Arthur when Arthur raises his mug, not looking up from the morning paper.
Sophia plays with her food, getting mush everywhere on the floor while Charles requests a TV set for the kitchen so he can watch his programmes.
The kitchen is noisy with the constant chatter and it gives Eames a headache above the combined smells of batter, grease and Sophia's vomit on the floor. When they finish breakfast, Arthur takes Sophia to the bathroom to give her a wash while Charles stays behind in the kitchen to help Eames tidy up, claiming he's a big boy now and therefore capable of helping Eames with household work.
They leave the kids to play until noon which is around the time Arthur drapes himself all over Eames' back and rests his chin on his head. Eames huffs, shoulders twitching, and pulls Arthur's arms around his neck. They are in the living room, the kids are on the floor watching "educational TV" according to Arthur, and Eames is on the sofa, leafing through a sports magazine.
"What is it?" Eames asks absently, rubbing his palms up and down Arthur's arms and pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist.
Arthur whispers something lewd into his ear that makes Eames' cock twitch in interest.
"Now?" he asks, breath speeding up. He glances at their children. Sophia is busy with her paper dolls and Charles is on his stomach on the floor, watching TV with rapt interest. Eames chest tightens, pulse skipping a beat when Arthur wraps his arms around his shoulders. His throat feels suddenly try.
"They won't even notice we're gone," Arthur tells him, nipping him in the ear. "We'll be quick."
They make a run for the bedroom. Arthur kicks the door closed and Eames slams him against it, gathering him into his arms and lifting him up against the door. Arthur wraps his legs around Eames' waist as they paw at each other's shirts, panting and gasping wetly against each other's mouths, buttons clattering to the floor when Eames dips his head to suck Arthur's nipple into his mouth.
It's been months since they've done this. 19 weeks, Eames has been keeping count.
Between sporadic phonecalls from Cobb every now and then for jobs that require them to fly out of the country, and Arthur's refusal to have sex with their children around or at least until they've hired a decent babysitter, Eames has been wanking in the shower, wondering if Arthur will ever let him touch him again.
It feels so long ago and he's surprised he still even knows what to do, how to drive Arthur crazy with brief nips and kisses.
Arthur sinks against him and sighs, making all the right noises in his throat. They fuck against the door with half of their clothes still on and Arthur is tight, so tight, tighter than Eames last remembers him.
"Darling," Eames gasps against his ear, lifting Arthur's leg over his hip and pounding in sweetly, screwing himself deeper, as deep as Arthur's body will allow. "Do you ever -- do you ever touch yourself, finger yourself there?"
Arthur moans, bucks, hard, once, and then comes, spilling hotly between their bellies, pulsing all around Eames' cock. They sink to the floor in a tangle of sweaty limbs and mismatched clothing, Arthur's legs haphazardly crossing Eames' back, come dripping down his inside thigh.
Eames moans when Arthur licks his pulse point, laughing weakly when Arthur's hair falls out of place and he pushes it back up with sticky fingers.
"You haven't lost your touch," Eames says afterward, unable to help himself from grinning stupidly. Arthur grins back and pulls him in for a kiss.
+
Later, they take the children out for lunch. It's a sunny day and Arthur walks alongside Eames on the street with Sophia in his arms and Charles tugging at Eames' sleeve and asking to be carried every five minutes.
Eames throws an arm around Arthur's shoulders, expecting to be berated for it. But he is pleasantly surprised when Arthur just sighs, leans closer, and angles his head toward his shoulder.