"Sure you belong here, mate?" a voice behind him asks, before his exhaustion can answer the first question without his permission. "Junior division is down the hall and to the left."

Arthur turns slowly, his eyebrow raised. He resists the urge to sigh—barely—because it's so typical of the gorgeous ones to make Arthur want to punch them before a conversation can even start. "Oh, I'm sure," he says, failing spectacularly at the attempt to not make it sound like he'd rather be eating shards of glass on a freak show trail. There is a chorus of nervous, twittering laughter. Arthur knows himself well enough to know that, if anything, his expression darkens.

The guy just grins. He's got crinkly eyes, and stupid, crooked teeth, and Arthur hates him on sight just on principle of how much all he can think about is all the filthy sex they could have had, if only he hadn't spoken. His mouth is absolutely pornographic, and Arthur's poor, sleep-deprived brain gets caught there for a second too long.

"Even better for me," the mouth says, still curled upwards. He holds out his hand, and Arthur, reluctantly, shakes it. "Eames, by the way."