[December 14th] enough to show me those shins
enough to show me those shins
PG-13
Author : addandsubtract | Artist : slanted_edges
Arthur wakes up sweating, naked except for the boxer-briefs sitting low on his hips. The sheets are on the floor with the comforter, but Arthur can still feel his skin sticking to the fitted sheet beneath him.
Eames is behind him, but they’re not touching. The heat is pouring off of Eames’ body, and just the thought of pressing closer makes Arthur twitch uncomfortably. There’s sweat pooling in the hollows of his collarbones, between his pectorals and the slats of his ribcage.
“Fuck,” he says, and flops over onto his back. Eames makes a contented noise in the back of his throat, and when Arthur turns his head to look at him, the smile on Eames’ face is wide and open. With his eyes half-lidded, he looks almost high.
It probably has something to do with growing up in England, where it’s always dreary, and wet.
“Oh, Arthur, it’s not as bad as all that,” Eames says, and reaches out to touch the side of Arthur’s face, five searing points of heat. Arthur wants to pull away, but he doesn’t. Eames’ fingers are callused and rough. His touch is utterly soft. He’s always been a contradiction.
“It’s worse,” Arthur says. “I don’t even want to fuck you.”
Eames laughs, and slides the toes of one foot up the length of Arthur’s left calf. Arthur shivers.
“Liar,” Eames says. When he presses his lips to the curve of Arthur’s shoulder, Arthur makes a sound that’s almost annoyed. Almost annoyed, and half wanting, and a little needy.
“Mombasa was your idea,” Arthur says, because it was. Eames hates Christmas for some reason he won’t disclose, and Arthur is Jewish. Arthur would be just as happy to spend the 25th in transit to their next job, but here they are, in the flat that Eames still pays rent on in Mombasa. His excruciatingly pleasant landlady had given them each a kiss on the cheek, and a small basket of oranges.
“Home,” Eames says, pointedly, “was my idea.” He’s not wearing any more than Arthur is. Arthur wishes it were cooler, so they could share their warmth. As it is, he’ll just have to bear it. Eames hums when Arthur cups the back of his neck, running his fingers through the hair cropped close there, damp with sweat. Arthur kisses him, and sighs at the uncomfortable heat of it, the way Eames’ lips part automatically.
Arthur wants to slide his fingers down the back of Eames’ boxer shorts, wants to press his knee between Eames’ thighs and feel the way their skin sticks together. He walks his fingers down the notches in Eames’ spine, and Eames’ laughs, delighted.
“Home it is, then,” Arthur says, muffled against Eames’ mouth. It doesn’t matter if Eames can understand him or not. Outside the open windows, the passerby are buying their groceries from the street market, and Arthur can smell the cooking meat, the green of fresh vegetables. He’ll try to keep Eames quiet, but not that hard.
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