Sweaty hands invade matted hair; too sharp teeth skim ticklish skin; writhing legs kick, knee, slide and move together – and it's crazy because Arthur has never loved Eames before.
(And he's screaming, "Are you alright?!")
Mouths race across anything within reach, sometimes colliding against each other in a battle and a dance and everything in between. His lips have never been used so productively, so effectively.
(And he's making a joke during a job, solely to calm eyes that have something akin to concern in them: "Then I will lead them on a merry chase.")
Eames moves against him like a wave – giving everything he's got in, achingly slowly drawing back out. And it's destructive and constructive, it's a storm and it's repeated over, and over, and over, again, and again, and again.
It's affecting their breathing, which is less like breathing, more rasped and hiccoughy, awe-inspiring in a way Arthur can't believe comes from Eames.
(And he's watching the forger walk away, reluctantly impressed because the grenade launcher did make quite the boom)
Their limbs, sweat-licked and thoroughly licked, strike out, fly and jerk spasmodically in such an erratic rhythm that it would be ridiculous anywhere and at anytime else.
(And he's doodling 'Eames Eames Eames' in swirly letters, when suddenly he's flailing because of Eames Eames Eames. And when he finally manages to push his weight forward on the chair, it's to look at Eames, who is deliberately – smugly – looking not-at-Arthur)
They die a little, inside. Their eyes click together while ecstasy pulsates through them. Eames bellows out something like 'Arthur', and Arthur is gasping, each exhale a reverent 'Eames' like it's all he's ever known.
(And Cobb's putting on his jacket, saying he's going to get him, and Arthur asks "Eames?" like he's never heard of such a thing)
Leaping out of bed, even though they'd both rather collapse back and sleep until noon, they scramble desperately for their clothes. They urgently rummage through pockets, totems surfacing after ages, seconds.
The poker chip whirls, the die somersaults. The truth is revealed and they look at each other, dazed.
(And he jolts, shudders awake as Yusuf pushes him. The first thing he sees with clarity as he falls is Eames' infuriating smirk)
It's real: it's real and how could they not have known? The smell of cooked onions wafts through the neighbours' window into his; the traffic groans below outside and a bird squawks, shrill and horrible; they're naked. They're naked, cold, gleaming with sweat, real. They're real.
Eames smiles bludgeoningly bright at him, and Arthur smiles back. It is terribly beautiful, so organs are transformed into twirling dervishes. The smile is an agreement: they crawl back into bed. They face the ceiling. They don't cuddle – they're men – but Arthur's arm is thrown across Eames' chest, and Eames' ankle hooks with his.
Arthur doesn't really know how he feels about this.
("Non, je ne regrette rien")
Written, loosely, for the prompt 'onion'. 'Bludgeoningly' is not an actual word.
