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He remembered that night in the club, music throbbing, lights flashing, when Arthur had stumbled up to him with the glazed eyes of a man high on X and declared “I feel good,” with a giggle that almost didn’t suit him.
“Yes, you do…” Eames purred, backing him into the bar, pressing lightly chest-to-chest. "My place?“
"Mmm…” Arthur smiled hazily; pressed his cheek into Eames’s broad back as Eames stalked out of the bar, brain just buzzing with the leading edge of drink.
Eames was in his glory, savoring the feel of Arthur’s delicate yet strong hands wrapping around his waist, pushing up the edge of Eames’s leather jacket as his fingers were already working their way over the sensitive bone of his hips.
Still in his glory half an hour later as Arthur fell naked to the bed, dragging Eames down with a wild laugh and a greedy mouth.
He woke that morning with a start when he felt the bed shift and cracked groggy eyes open to see Arthur stumbling hurriedly towards the door, desperately trying to yank on his ruined Burberry shirt. It was only after a good hour of hushing and soothing and forcing hot tea on him that Eames got Arthur to calm down and talk to him…to admit that he had in fact not been high at all when he’d followed Eames home, that he had come because he wanted to, wanted Eames, and then panicked upon waking next to him.
Eames still remembered with a happy prickling feeling the moment he had realized: Arthur had been straight stone sober when he had whispered “I love you…”