![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
annundrielInterval. Arthur/Eames. R. 546 words. Prompts: jealousy, lips, memory, slow, travel. It's been six months.
Arthur watches Eames across the floor of the warehouse. He’s talking to Yusuf, arms folded across his chest, one hip cocked. From the look on Eames’ face, Arthur can tell that all of his smiling, cheeky attention is on Yusuf.
Arthur does not feel the slightest twinge of jealousy, he doesn’t.
It’s been six months since he last saw Eames. Six months since Eames pressed Arthur to his bed in Mombasa, mouth trailing over Arthur’s skin in the early morning light. Since Eames left the imprint of his teeth on the rise of Arthur’s hip, the smudged reminders of his thick fingers on Arthur’s thighs. Months since Eames held him down against the sheets and nuzzled at his balls, mouthed at his cock, sucked him down between those lips.
They hadn’t spent every morning like that—Arthur caught and squirming, hands fisted in Eames’ hair, Eames’ name on his tongue. Some mornings saw Arthur on his knees, pushing into the tight heat of Eames’ ass, watching Eames’ mouth shape his name as the day grew hotter around them. Some saw Eames perched above him, knees on either side of Arthur’s chest, jerking himself off as he worked himself on Arthur’s cock.
Days they slept too late, they took it to the shower, pressed each other against slippery, wet tile. Sucked and fucked and cleaned each other in the cool spray, Eames grinning and calling him darling, swatting Arthur’s ass with a towel when they were done.
But that morning, that last morning six months ago, Eames had held Arthur against sheets that smelled like both of them, mouthed kisses along Arthur’s skin. Nipped and licked and left marks on Arthur that would last for days when Arthur left, reminders that Eames had been there. That Arthur had been there.
Taking his time, Eames had smoothed hands over skin, touched every inch of Arthur there was to touch, roaming fingers tangling in his hair and tickling the bottoms of his feet. Arthur had groaned and threatened and, finally, begged, his entire body singing with want.
Eames had given it to him, had taken everything Arthur had to offer and given him the same in return.
And Arthur had packed his bags and left, returned to work and Cobb. Had gone back to exchanging e-mails and letters, rare postcards that said simply Wish you were here, no signature ever necessary.
Arthur watches Eames laugh at something Yusuf says, remembers the marks that Eames left, how they faded a little more every day until no one would ever have known they were there.
Ariadne calls his name, and Arthur looks away from Eames to find her watching him, brown eyes wide and curious. He smiles at her, already likes her leaps and bounds more than he liked Nash. She’s going to be brilliant.
He follows her over to where she already has blueprints laid out and watches her trace fingers over lines and measurements, voice excited.
When he looks up, Eames’ eyes are on him, face contemplative. Arthur knows it’s only a matter of time before they leave here, before Eames shows up at his door, or he shows up at Eames’. It’s already been six months; they can wait a little longer.
Until then, there’s work to do.
Arthur watches Eames across the floor of the warehouse. He’s talking to Yusuf, arms folded across his chest, one hip cocked. From the look on Eames’ face, Arthur can tell that all of his smiling, cheeky attention is on Yusuf.
Arthur does not feel the slightest twinge of jealousy, he doesn’t.
It’s been six months since he last saw Eames. Six months since Eames pressed Arthur to his bed in Mombasa, mouth trailing over Arthur’s skin in the early morning light. Since Eames left the imprint of his teeth on the rise of Arthur’s hip, the smudged reminders of his thick fingers on Arthur’s thighs. Months since Eames held him down against the sheets and nuzzled at his balls, mouthed at his cock, sucked him down between those lips.
They hadn’t spent every morning like that—Arthur caught and squirming, hands fisted in Eames’ hair, Eames’ name on his tongue. Some mornings saw Arthur on his knees, pushing into the tight heat of Eames’ ass, watching Eames’ mouth shape his name as the day grew hotter around them. Some saw Eames perched above him, knees on either side of Arthur’s chest, jerking himself off as he worked himself on Arthur’s cock.
Days they slept too late, they took it to the shower, pressed each other against slippery, wet tile. Sucked and fucked and cleaned each other in the cool spray, Eames grinning and calling him darling, swatting Arthur’s ass with a towel when they were done.
But that morning, that last morning six months ago, Eames had held Arthur against sheets that smelled like both of them, mouthed kisses along Arthur’s skin. Nipped and licked and left marks on Arthur that would last for days when Arthur left, reminders that Eames had been there. That Arthur had been there.
Taking his time, Eames had smoothed hands over skin, touched every inch of Arthur there was to touch, roaming fingers tangling in his hair and tickling the bottoms of his feet. Arthur had groaned and threatened and, finally, begged, his entire body singing with want.
Eames had given it to him, had taken everything Arthur had to offer and given him the same in return.
And Arthur had packed his bags and left, returned to work and Cobb. Had gone back to exchanging e-mails and letters, rare postcards that said simply Wish you were here, no signature ever necessary.
Arthur watches Eames laugh at something Yusuf says, remembers the marks that Eames left, how they faded a little more every day until no one would ever have known they were there.
Ariadne calls his name, and Arthur looks away from Eames to find her watching him, brown eyes wide and curious. He smiles at her, already likes her leaps and bounds more than he liked Nash. She’s going to be brilliant.
He follows her over to where she already has blueprints laid out and watches her trace fingers over lines and measurements, voice excited.
When he looks up, Eames’ eyes are on him, face contemplative. Arthur knows it’s only a matter of time before they leave here, before Eames shows up at his door, or he shows up at Eames’. It’s already been six months; they can wait a little longer.
Until then, there’s work to do.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-04 03:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-13 04:01 am (UTC)