the loneliest man in town (1/1)
title: the loneliest man in town (1/1)
pairing: arthur/eames
rating: er, M?
word count: 538
warnings: none.
notes: De-anoning for this prompt at inception_kink. Title from a song of the same name by Mic Christopher.
“Arthur.”
Smoke curls from parted lips, intentionally decadent. Arthur shifts against the brick alleyway wall, rough masonry digging into his scapulae. Everything smells, unsurprisingly, of piss and sick, alcohol and refuse. Possibly even semen, for there is a tied-off condom next to the overflowing trash bins.
“If we end this, that’s it. No take backs, no second chances,” Eames is saying, voice throaty from the cigarette, rasping around the vowels. “It’s not the way I work. I’ll walk away and not look back.”
His eyes are hooded and lazily speculative, as if he doesn’t quite believe that Arthur is being serious.
Arthur breathes in second-hand smoke and ingrained filth, shifting his too-dry mouth into a smile - brittle and cruel and vicious.
“Believe me - that’s exactly what I want you to do.”
Eames looks at him, his gaze inscrutable. After a long moment, he pushes himself away from the wall, flicks his still-burning cigarette to the ground and says a quick, “fuck you, darling,” as he brushes past Arthur, the endearment ringing false and wry.
Laughably, after all the effort he has vested into remaining cool and calm and impassive, it is that light and utterly innocuous shiver of contact that unsettles Arthur. He is forced to remember, despite his better judgment; whispering memories prickle at his exposed skin and caress his brow, torturous and coquettish.
Crisp dawn. Eames fucking into him on rumpled hotel bed sheets, one steadying hand on the jagged edge of a hipbone and the other splayed across his flushed abdomen, fingers horribly cold against Arthur’s overheated skin.
Humid mid-morning. Pulling Eames in for a quick, sloppy kiss whilst the others are under, oblivious and dreaming. Nipping at his peeling lips, slick and slightly sticky with residual chapstick.
Drizzling afternoon. Oily Thai takeaway, scrawled diagrams on whiteboards, idle conversations that vacillate between theft and therapy. Raindrops on the windows refracted against Ariadne’s face, her skin mottled and tinged blue. The ham-fisted way Eames clutches his chopsticks, crudely efficient but technically incorrect.
Frost-bitten night. Two pairs of spectacles discarded on the bedside table. Two pairs of brogues, hurriedly kicked off. Two pairs of feet entangled beneath downy blankets, ankles bony and toes curled - the sole point of contact between them. And even then, if one wakes before the other, said individual will retract their feet hastily, almost guiltily.
Because they have always shied away from unnecessary touching. Even during sex, they are focused and single-minded; they are in it for the outcome rather than the experience. It is merely a means to an end, an outlet, a release.
They kiss, sure, but only because there is no reason not to do so. Not when they’ve done everything else.
They are both men of action and reaction, push and pull, give and take (or rather, take and take); they fumble together and then apart again, not knowing what they want or even if they want.
The side-door leading back into the dingy bar slams shut; the sudden bubble of riotous laughter and drunken singing is abruptly terminated, though the muffled strains continue to seep down into the alleyway.
Arthur stubs out Eames’ glowing cigarette butt with the heel of his shoe, the lingering stench of stale sweat and musty tobacco thick in his flared nostrils.
pairing: arthur/eames
rating: er, M?
word count: 538
warnings: none.
notes: De-anoning for this prompt at inception_kink. Title from a song of the same name by Mic Christopher.
“Arthur.”
Smoke curls from parted lips, intentionally decadent. Arthur shifts against the brick alleyway wall, rough masonry digging into his scapulae. Everything smells, unsurprisingly, of piss and sick, alcohol and refuse. Possibly even semen, for there is a tied-off condom next to the overflowing trash bins.
“If we end this, that’s it. No take backs, no second chances,” Eames is saying, voice throaty from the cigarette, rasping around the vowels. “It’s not the way I work. I’ll walk away and not look back.”
His eyes are hooded and lazily speculative, as if he doesn’t quite believe that Arthur is being serious.
Arthur breathes in second-hand smoke and ingrained filth, shifting his too-dry mouth into a smile - brittle and cruel and vicious.
“Believe me - that’s exactly what I want you to do.”
Eames looks at him, his gaze inscrutable. After a long moment, he pushes himself away from the wall, flicks his still-burning cigarette to the ground and says a quick, “fuck you, darling,” as he brushes past Arthur, the endearment ringing false and wry.
Laughably, after all the effort he has vested into remaining cool and calm and impassive, it is that light and utterly innocuous shiver of contact that unsettles Arthur. He is forced to remember, despite his better judgment; whispering memories prickle at his exposed skin and caress his brow, torturous and coquettish.
Crisp dawn. Eames fucking into him on rumpled hotel bed sheets, one steadying hand on the jagged edge of a hipbone and the other splayed across his flushed abdomen, fingers horribly cold against Arthur’s overheated skin.
Humid mid-morning. Pulling Eames in for a quick, sloppy kiss whilst the others are under, oblivious and dreaming. Nipping at his peeling lips, slick and slightly sticky with residual chapstick.
Drizzling afternoon. Oily Thai takeaway, scrawled diagrams on whiteboards, idle conversations that vacillate between theft and therapy. Raindrops on the windows refracted against Ariadne’s face, her skin mottled and tinged blue. The ham-fisted way Eames clutches his chopsticks, crudely efficient but technically incorrect.
Frost-bitten night. Two pairs of spectacles discarded on the bedside table. Two pairs of brogues, hurriedly kicked off. Two pairs of feet entangled beneath downy blankets, ankles bony and toes curled - the sole point of contact between them. And even then, if one wakes before the other, said individual will retract their feet hastily, almost guiltily.
Because they have always shied away from unnecessary touching. Even during sex, they are focused and single-minded; they are in it for the outcome rather than the experience. It is merely a means to an end, an outlet, a release.
They kiss, sure, but only because there is no reason not to do so. Not when they’ve done everything else.
They are both men of action and reaction, push and pull, give and take (or rather, take and take); they fumble together and then apart again, not knowing what they want or even if they want.
The side-door leading back into the dingy bar slams shut; the sudden bubble of riotous laughter and drunken singing is abruptly terminated, though the muffled strains continue to seep down into the alleyway.
Arthur stubs out Eames’ glowing cigarette butt with the heel of his shoe, the lingering stench of stale sweat and musty tobacco thick in his flared nostrils.