Okay, so, this is kind of a riff off something I wrote, with serious amounts of cuddling added... o_O
Eames has to take off his gloves to fit his key in the lock, his fingers trembling and the cold burning on his chapped knuckles, his breath tumbling from his lips in a soft white cloud. He lifts his suitcase inside and shuts the front door, then he stands in the warmth of the hallway, rubbing his hands, his eyes slipping shut for a moment, inhaling the musty-sweet scent of old wallpaper, second-hand books, a faint, pleasant overlay of tobacco smoke.
He takes off his coat and hangs it up, then he climbs the stairs to the bedroom, running his palm over the smooth worn wood of the banister, feeling as he always does; as he has since Arthur first arrived; as if he’s walking through a dream he might wake from. Arthur’s curled up asleep on the bed, on top of the blankets, in a slanted rectangle of afternoon sun, naked apart from an old grey cotton T-shirt Eames has owned for years, loose threads coming away from the hem. The lush curve of his arse, whiter than milk, and the delicate, vulnerable skin of his inner thighs. Eames sits on the bed and mouths a kiss to the back of his neck, nuzzling into his dark curls, and Arthur, says, rather groggily: ‘You’re back early,’
and shifts in the sheets, sleepy arms reaching out to pull Eames towards him. They lie facing each other on top of the blankets, in a trembling rectangle of winter sun, kissing, Arthur’s pale fingers slipping into Eames’ hair, his lids half-closed and his mouth needy and soft and welcoming. The scratchy wool of Eames’ trousers on the insides of his thighs and Eames’ sweater with its faint lingering scent of cold and the warm tangle of their bodies in the sunlight.
‘Darling,’ Eames murmurs, ‘you haven’t dragged this T-shirt out of the laundry basket, have you?’
And Arthur mumbles: ‘It still smells of you,’ and tries to hide his face in Eames’ shoulder, his forehead creasing slightly in confusion and a deep pink blush seeping across his cheeks: the lovely shyness and hesitation with which he explores the shape of his own heart.
ARTHUR/EAMES (OMG I AM KIND OF BLUSHING AT HOW GOOEY THIS IS...)
Eames has to take off his gloves to fit his key in the lock, his fingers trembling and the cold burning on his chapped knuckles, his breath tumbling from his lips in a soft white cloud. He lifts his suitcase inside and shuts the front door, then he stands in the warmth of the hallway, rubbing his hands, his eyes slipping shut for a moment, inhaling the musty-sweet scent of old wallpaper, second-hand books, a faint, pleasant overlay of tobacco smoke.
He takes off his coat and hangs it up, then he climbs the stairs to the bedroom, running his palm over the smooth worn wood of the banister, feeling as he always does; as he has since Arthur first arrived; as if he’s walking through a dream he might wake from. Arthur’s curled up asleep on the bed, on top of the blankets, in a slanted rectangle of afternoon sun, naked apart from an old grey cotton T-shirt Eames has owned for years, loose threads coming away from the hem. The lush curve of his arse, whiter than milk, and the delicate, vulnerable skin of his inner thighs. Eames sits on the bed and mouths a kiss to the back of his neck, nuzzling into his dark curls, and Arthur, says, rather groggily: ‘You’re back early,’
and shifts in the sheets, sleepy arms reaching out to pull Eames towards him. They lie facing each other on top of the blankets, in a trembling rectangle of winter sun, kissing, Arthur’s pale fingers slipping into Eames’ hair, his lids half-closed and his mouth needy and soft and welcoming. The scratchy wool of Eames’ trousers on the insides of his thighs and Eames’ sweater with its faint lingering scent of cold and the warm tangle of their bodies in the sunlight.
‘Darling,’ Eames murmurs, ‘you haven’t dragged this T-shirt out of the laundry basket, have you?’
And Arthur mumbles: ‘It still smells of you,’ and tries to hide his face in Eames’ shoulder, his forehead creasing slightly in confusion and a deep pink blush seeping across his cheeks: the lovely shyness and hesitation with which he explores the shape of his own heart.