Eames presses a grin against Arthur's cheek, wrapping around him from behind. "Arthur," he says, like a warning, running his hands down Arthur's chest, "you have the filthiest habits."

Arthur sucks the orange dust off his thumb, tongue chasing it all, then pulls it out with a pop. "You love it," he says, and moves on to his index finger.

Eames huffs, like a laugh but breathless more than amused. "It's torture." He catches Arthur's hand, gets another soft pop for his tugging. "Absolute torture."

"I know." Arthur laughs, fingers wet against Eames' bottom lip.