They exit the bar, stumbling, maybe too much to drink or too many hormones controlling their actions. Arthur is the first one outside, and it takes him a second to realize that it’s raining.
“It’s raining,” he says, pointing upwards, as if Eames would be too drunk to know which way the sky is.
Which, actually, considering past events, is kind of plausible.
Eames chuckles. “Mmm, noticed that, kitten.” He reaches out and pushes his fingers through Arthur’s hair. “Don’t worry, you… it’s fine. You look good.”
Eames licks his lips, and Arthur’s eyes zero in on the plush pink of his mouth. His eyes flick back upwards, making contact with Eames’ colorful ones, boring deep into him.
It’s raining, he finds himself thinking again. It’s raining, and he’s getting cold, and he just wants warmth, warmth and Eames and Eames’ lips on his and his body.
He licks his lips; feels a warm frisson as Eames immediately stares down at his mouth. “Want to come back to my room?” he finally asks.
Eames leans in; kisses the rainwater off of Arthur’s lips. “Mmm, pet, I’ve been waiting to hear those words for a long time.”
Water is dripping from Eames’ hair, following the curve of his forehead, the bridge of his nose, drops dangling from the tip of his nose—Arthur wipes it off gently without thinking about it.
