Word Count: 1200
Summary: Eames makes Arthur question reality.
Notes: SPOILERS, OBVIOUSLY. Seriously, how could I not? regala_electra and I walked out of the theater talking about this. I owed it to Tom Hardy and JGL to make this happen.
Arthur’s scrolling through e-mails on his phone, bag swinging against his side, when an arm winds itself high up around his chest, tugging backwards. The cell-phone drops out of his nerveless hand with a noise that sounds suspiciously like shattered plastic.
“The fuck!” He cries, struggling. His efforts are useless. The grip doesn’t let up and he finds himself pulled and spun around into the men’s bathroom. He’s thrust back into a stall, breathing hard, thinking for a minute the whole thing was too easy, that he’s still stuck in some fucked up subconscious. He drops his bag and turns around, fist swinging. He misses Eames’ grinning face by a mile. Eames catches the next strike and shoves him back against the wall, the force of all of his body weight behind it so that the air whooshes out of Arthur’s lungs.
“Oh, you are a laugh and a half, love,” Eames says, a spread-fingered palm pinning him to the wall. His voice is thick with laughter.
“What’s your problem?” He shouts, grinding his shoulder blades back into the heavy-duty plastic, trying to push off. Eames’ shoves him back with anticipated ease.
“No problem,” Eames replies, and then ducks in to kiss him. Arthur remains unyielding, body tensing up against the onslaught of Eames’ mouth. He smells like laundry detergent, cigarettes, and chalk. Like his mother cleaned his clothes and he went and rolled around on the asphalt in rebellion.
Eames pulls back, teeth scraping over his lower lip in a familiar gesture of derision. “Sometimes your frigidity surprises even me, and I’ve been telling people for years.”
“I’m not frigid!” Arthur replies.
“Yes you bloody well are,” Eames says, he shakes his head at Arthur’s furrowed brows. “Kiss me then.” His thumb strokes down Arthur’s sternum, following the line of buttons on his shirt—an oddly gentle gesture. Not something he would’ve expected from Eames. But he forgets. Eames spends a great portion of his life pretending to be someone else.
“Maybe I’m not into you,” Arthur says, turning his face away. Eames snorts, reaches between their bodies to efficiently tug apart Arthur’s belt. He’s got his hand inside Arthur’s briefs the same way he knicks a wallet, elegant and quick. Arthur gasps as Eames’ hand tightens around his dick, knocking his head back against the wall harder than he means to.
“Oh?” Eames replies, eyes alight with quizzical mockery. He pulls Arthur free of his pants and briefs and starts to stroke, ducking in to kiss him again when Arthur’s mouth opens on a moan. He fights Eames’s at first, keeping his mouth a hard unyielding line. But when Eames’s bites at the outer corner of his lip, fingers ducking back to stroke his balls, he gives in. He can almost hear Eames’ sarcasm in the way his tongue strokes against Arthur’s, the way he runs his hand up and down Arthur’s dick.
He jerks his mouth away, thumping his head back against the wall a second time. He expects it to work like a kick. It doesn’t. He’s still here, pressed back against a grimy airport bathroom stall with Eames shaking into his shoulder with barely muffled laughter.
Arthur doesn’t know what comes over him. He shoves back at Eames, relishing the way the plastic judders and shrieks as he collides back into it. Eames smirks, eyes half-lidded, gaze dipping down to where Arthur’s dick hangs erect out of his pants. He’s completely unruffled. Arthur feels like he doesn’t fit in his skin.
Arthur is not this person. He is not the person whose hand comes up to tip Eames’ jaw back in a bruising grip. He’s not the person who plasters himself to Eames’ body, yanking at the zipper of his pants, fighting to get to skin. But it seems today, he is.
Eames makes a sound into his mouth when Arthur finally gets a hand round his cock. His grabs Arthur’s wrist and pulls his mouth away with an audible click. “You had to know this was coming,” he breathes.
If Arthur was supposed to know, he didn’t. He doesn’t know what the fuck Eames is talking about. He tightens his hand. He can feel the hinge of Eames’ jaw. Eames slowly blinks at him. He says, “Come on,” and gets a hand around them both, tugging with a slow punishing grip that makes Arthur shudder.
“There you go, love.” His deep voice rasps over Arthur, scratching an itch he didn’t know he had. He kisses Eames again, not sure he can stand to hear him talk. Eames doesn’t taste like anything. Almost a surprise. He would’ve expected the cheap Kentucky bourbon he likes so much, or the menthols he smokes like a lifeline. He tastes clean, if such a thing is possible.
Arthur finds himself wrapping his own hand around Eames’s fist, pulling his mouth away to watch their dicks slide together in their interlaced fingers.
“It’s not enough,” he says, voice cracking.
“You…would be a…needy little bitch,” Eames replies. He shakes free of Arthur’s grip and widens his stance, pulling Arthur against him so he barely has room to work.
“What are you—?”
“Shut up,” Eames replies, neglecting his own cock in favor of Arthur’s. He slides back the foreskin, and runs his finger from slit to just under the head. Arthur moans embarrassingly, twisting almost to get away. It’s just this side of too much. Eames won’t let him. His hand runs across Arthur’s hip and descends into the back of his pants, two fingers rubbing over his asshole. Arthur has to grip Eames biceps just to stay upright as Eames continues his double assault.
He thinks about the tile floor, the alternating flower pattern of hexagons. He thinks about how when he woke up this morning he was just hoping to be alive at the end of the day. He never thought about this. At that moment, Eames’s finger dips just past the ring of muscle, barely inside him. But it brings him back to reality as good as any bucket of water. Arthur shakes and trembles. He doesn’t warn Eames that he’s going to come, but Eames knows anyway and he leans in, swallowing his groans in a sloppy meeting of mouths that could never be called a kiss.
He slumps against Eames, feeling where his still-hard dick pokes him in the stomach. Eames shrugs him off, wiping his wet come-stained hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur doesn’t have the wherewithal to get mad. He doesn’t know what he expects. Maybe he expects Eames to finish himself off or to order Arthur to his knees, but he just zips himself up with a curious hmming noise.
Arthur blinks at him.
“See you when I see you,” Eames says, already moving to kick the stall door open.
“When will I ever see you again?” Arthur replies. He’s still a little unsteady from his orgasm.
Eames laughs. He winks at Arthur and then disappears out of the stall.
When Arthur finally makes his way out of the bathroom his broken cell-phone is long gone and so is everybody else. “Fuck this day,” Arthur says to the empty arrival hall. He makes for the signs for taxi service, bag swinging against his shoulder, hand on the loaded die in his pocket.
I can't tell yet if I will write more. The last thing I need to do is wind up with another project, BUT IT'S SO TEMPTING. Also, HOW HAVE I NEVER NOTICED THAT TOM HARDY SHARES A NAME WITH THAT HATED AUTHOR OF JUDE THE OBSCURE (okay, at least I hate him). I really hope his parents did that on accident, or that he isn't secretly related.