[December 23rd] If
If
R
Author : bauble | Artist : the1969
Eames wakes up with a vicious headache and a bruise that spans his entire right side. Beside him, Arthur is sprawled on top of the covers, drooling and completely naked except for one sock. Eames would spare a moment to ogle-drool and all-except that the light streaming in through the curtains burns his eyes.
“That was a hell of a cock-up,” Eames mutters when he manages to drag himself into the bathroom to vomit. He feels marginally better once his stomach has expelled everything he’s consumed in the last twenty-four hours, and he decides to take a seat on the tile floor until the world stops spinning.
Eames doesn’t think he got off yesterday night-his cock doesn’t feel like it usually does after he has a good, satisfying orgasm-and he doesn’t think Arthur did either. He vaguely remembers them both trying to, but Arthur had been too drunk to make it past half-hard and Eames may have fallen asleep while Arthur was in the middle of giving some atrociously sloppy head.
Eames gathers the willpower to stand and stumbles into the shower. He emerges feeling a touch less green, and when he walks out into the bedroom again, Arthur is awake on the bed, sans drool and sock.
“What the hell happened?” Arthur croaks as he casts a bleary look around the hotel room. A few pieces of furniture have been upended and there’s a broken bottle of scotch on the floor. Everything stinks like booze.
Eames makes his way over to his inexplicably torn pants and fumbles with his totem before answering. “I believe we got a little carried away with our yuletide festivities.”
“Ugh,” Arthur groans, clutching at his head. “This is not-let’s just pretend last night didn’t happen.”
“Agreed,” Eames says, relieved that at least they seem to be on the same page about the whole debacle. “The less said, the better.”
“I’m going back to sleep,” Arthur announces, flopping back on the bed.
As Eames collects his clothing from various corners of the room, flashes of memories return: Arthur laughing at something he said, the smell and heat of his cock against Eames’ cheek, the way Arthur slurred when he said, “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?”
Once he’s fully clothed, Eames walks to the door and pauses to look back at the strangely vulnerable curve of Arthur’s body tucked beneath the sheets. He thinks, for a second, about kicking off his shoes and crawling back into bed behind Arthur, sleeping the rest of the day away. It’s a tempting thought, Eames realizes with some surprise.
“Hey,” Arthur says, suddenly. “You could stay, if you wanted. I-a hangover’s a bitch to get over, alone.”
Eames takes in Arthur’s sallow complexion, limp hair, the bruises under his eyes. It’s hardly the most appealing sight Eames has ever seen, and yet-
“Yeah.” Eames takes his hand off the door. “I suppose no one should suffer a hangover alone.”
