eternalsojourn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
eternalsojourn) wrote2012-07-13 10:18 am
eternalsojourn) wrote2012-07-13 10:18 am
Entry tags:
Riomaggiore
This was originally written as a commentfic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dremiel’s International Kissing Day post. It's pretty thoroughly fluffy, and for some reason I feel I need to apologize for that more than when I write violence or hardcore porn.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Word Count: ~1900
Warnings: None
Beta:night_reveals
Summary: Arthur and Eames hook up, then drift apart. Arthur returns, and Eames is a little slow on the uptake. Basically, this is my ode to Riomaggiore, La Lanterna, and my OTP.
The first kiss didn't really count, as far as Eames was concerned. They were both hammered after trying to cure their jetlag with airport cocktails, and exhausted after a four-month job that barely hung on by threads. The kiss then was really just messy fumbling accompanying an equally messy, equally fumbling fuck in a overly air conditioned, soulless hotel room. Arthur was gone to catch another flight so early the next morning, Eames could pass the whole thing off as a dream, really.
The second one, though. That was one for the books. That was one to store away into a secret room in Eames's brain to be brought up the next time (God forbid) he was captured and tortured and had to cling to something to maintain his sanity.
It was roughly eight months after that first time, and Eames had seen neither hide nor hair of Arthur, though he'd heard Arthur was on an extraction job on a major British government official. Eames didn't want to get within three countries of that one, having exactly zero interest in being barred from his own damned homeland (again). Eames himself had drifted, taking jobs in more sunny places than not: easy ones with little risk and little money, but that was easily made up for by fleecing the tourists.
But after eight months of that Eames found himself relaxing one bright midday in a cafe in Firenze, wallet fat with a freshly completed job and a particularly lucrative dalliance with a Chilean woman of independent means and a penchant for solid men. The coffee was particularly good, the sun particularly shiny, and Arthur was a particularly pleasing sight when he approached and sat down as if Eames had expected him at all.
"You never called," Arthur said mildly, then waved down a waiter and ordered a macchiato in passable Italian.
"Didn't realize I was expected to," Eames replied, wondering what the hell Arthur was doing there. Job? Perhaps.
Arthur shrugged, looking for all the world like he didn't really care if Eames'd called or not, but neither was he forthcoming with a reason for his presence. "I cancelled your reservation at that shitty hotel," he said.
It wasn't shitty; it was quite nice, actually. Perhaps not to Arthur's taste, which was an intriguing thought. "Am I going somewhere?" Eames said, then took a casual sip of his coffee.
"Cinque Terre," Arthur said. "Train's in 45 minutes. Drink up." Arthur's coffee came then, and he took a testing sip, smiled, and downed it. He stood and walked away.
Eames stood to follow and didn't miss the opportunity to watch Arthur walk ahead, pale olive suit pulling tight as he buttoned his jacket.
***
It was early evening by the time they reached Riomaggiore, and Eames had decided not to ask what the purpose of the trip was, more out of stubbornness at that point than anything. He could feel Arthur expecting the question, and the longer time went on, the less inclined he was to oblige. It was clear Arthur had a plan, and Eames was well-practised in going with the flow.
They walked to a lovely flat a little ways up the hill, flower pots lining the walkway and overflowing with colour, stone steps pale in the sun. Arthur placed his bag in the foyer, kicked off his shoes and walked further in, casually inspecting the place. When he turned and saw that Eames was still standing in the doorway, Arthur lifted his eyebrows.
“Drop your bag wherever. There’s no bellhop going to come help you.”
Eames did, placing his bag against the wall and noting that the sofa was a pull-out one, and that there was one bed. He could assume, but better to be noncommittal. Arthur had only ever approached when there was work.
“You need a shower or anything? Reservation’s at 7:00 at La Lanterna.” Arthur was matter-of-fact, like he was on any job.
“Sure, yeah,” said Eames. He’d had one in the morning, but perhaps Arthur had planned a stakeout and knew they’d be out for long hours yet.
“Help yourself, then,” Arthur said, and sat down to set up his laptop.
When Eames emerged, hair neatly combed into place and feeling quite refreshed, Arthur snapped his laptop closed and stood.
“There’s enough time to walk down the waterfront first,” he said and began putting on his shoes.
With an inward shrug, and still determined not to ask if Arthur wasn’t telling, Eames put on his shoes.
There were several people milling about the waterfront, a few ordering ice cream from the vendor on the cliffside walk. Eames scoped them out, wondering if one of them were who he was there for. One man and his much younger wife appeared likely candidates. Rich, slightly out of place and slightly too formally put-together for holiday-makers in Riomaggiore.
Eames strolled alongside Arthur, who had his hands in his pockets and walked steadily, making idle conversation. Arthur always was stellar at tailing.
At about 7:00, they headed towards the restaurant which was also right on the waterfront. The man and his wife had since left, but when Eames saw them seated in the interior of the restaurant, he figured he had it pegged. Arthur never said a word about it. Flattering? Maybe. Perhaps he expected Eames to just know.
The waiter, a rather hippie-ish smiley young Italian man, showed Arthur and Eames to a table outside overlooking the water. When Arthur ordered a local white to start in Italian, the waiter laughed heartily, slapped Arthur on the back and answered in English. Arthur tried not to look insulted, and failed.
All through the (really startlingly delicious) meal and after half a bottle of wine, Eames had kept an eye on the couple inside, making note of mannerisms and small details he thought he may need for whatever Arthur had planned.
“More wine?” Arthur asked, then shook his head. “No, of course more wine. We still need dessert.”
He conversed with the waiter for a bit while Eames tried not to raise an eyebrow. It was rather a lot of alcohol for a tailing job. Eames wasn’t about to turn it down, though. Live while the living’s good: if Eames had any sort of credo, that seemed a likely candidate.
It was when dessert was nearly done (and Christ, did Arthur know how to pick a stakeout location. Eames could’ve had a second helping) that Eames noticed Arthur leaning back, sated and happy, elbow propped up on the back of his chair and smiling slightly. The casual stance, the soft smile — Arthur was exceptionally good at posing as a couple on holiday. Eames wondered if Arthur had ever tried forging, or even conning.
Eames smirked and raised his glass. “To the Italian Riviera and all of its lovely bounty,” he said. Arthur picked up his own glass, leaned forward and touched his glass to Eames’s, uttering a small hum of agreement.
When they’d drained their glasses finally and Arthur had paid, they stood to go, though the couple Eames had marked were still inside. Figuring they’d got what they needed, Eames decided then to hold out asking any questions for the rest of the evening.
Walking slowly up the hill, they made their way back to the flat. The flowers in the darkening evening were giving off a fragrance unmatched in the daytime. The lights against the vibrant colours of the buildings were truly a sight to behold, and its beauty wasn’t lost on Eames.
Inside, Arthur went to the fridge and brought out another bottle and poured them each a glass. It was slightly too cold, frosting the outside of the glass. The wine caught the meagre light from the windows, causing a misty golden glow in the dim light of the kitchenette.
Arthur moved in close and placed his hand lightly on Eames’s waist. “To not letting another eight months slip through our fingers,” he said and clinked Eames’s glass.
Eames, for his part, didn’t move to reciprocate, as the events of the day fell into place. The couple, just holiday-makers. The flat, the walk, the restaurant. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, top of which was simply, ‘this was a date?’ He said nothing though, instead lifting Arthur’s glass out of his hands to place it on the counter, pulling him in by the hips, and pressing his lips to Arthur’s softly.
One of Arthur’s hands slid around Eames’s waist and the other trailed down his arm. His eyes closed and he tucked into Eames’s body, sliding his hand up to twine in Eames’s hair as he opened his lips. His tongue gingerly sought Eames’s and it was so much more tender, more focused than the last time. Arthur tasted faintly of dessert wine as his tongue softly stroked Eames’s, a relieved sigh on his breath.
With the hand in his hair and Arthur’s hips under his palms, Eames couldn’t recall ever feeling quite so strong and embraced at once. He’d have cursed himself for his blindness had he given it a moment’s thought, but he didn’t. He kissed and kissed, his hand sneaking up to thumb at the tender spot under Arthur’s ear. Just once he pulled back to look in Arthur’s eyes, but he had no words so he kissed again.
Finally (was it an eternity? It should have been) they pulled apart.
“I have no place to be for the near future,” Arthur said. “You?”
“No plans,” said Eames, his voice a bit rough.
“Great, then there’s no rush. I thought we could continue this in there, where it’s more comfortable,” Arthur replied.
Eames nodded and grabbed his wine, letting his touch linger on the back of Arthur’s elbow as they walked to the oversized sofa.
It was indeed an unrushed night, with long kisses, more wine, inconsequential conversation, and finally Arthur pulling Eames to the bed. They undressed lazily, connected lips to lips when they could. Arthur moved to straddle Eames’s lap, holding Eames’s torso up with his knees and arms while Eames held Arthur in a firm embrace, assisting with one hand to guide himself into Arthur, trusting Arthur to take it as slowly as he needed.
Together they pulsed, holding each other upright and occasionally stopping the motion to kiss long and deep before moving again.
After Eames came, face buried in Arthur’s shoulder, he pulled out and tipped Arthur onto his back to take Arthur’s cock into his mouth, savouring the slickness of precome and their mingled sweat. Most of all he savoured Arthur’s soft moans, which he didn’t recall at all from the last time, an oversight he vowed to make up for as much and as soon as possible.
He’d have liked to say there was post-coital sweet nothings, but the long day saw them both falling straight to sleep. He woke once in the night, wondering muzzily what might need to be said in the morning, what apologies owed, what promises (if any) to make, what he even felt ready to say.
But then Arthur (ever the light sleeper) woke, stroked Eames’s arm and mumbled, “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames. There’s no rush.”
Believing it, Eames drifted back to sleep.
***End***
dremiel’s International Kissing Day post. It's pretty thoroughly fluffy, and for some reason I feel I need to apologize for that more than when I write violence or hardcore porn.Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Word Count: ~1900
Warnings: None
Beta:
night_revealsSummary: Arthur and Eames hook up, then drift apart. Arthur returns, and Eames is a little slow on the uptake. Basically, this is my ode to Riomaggiore, La Lanterna, and my OTP.
Riomaggiore
The first kiss didn't really count, as far as Eames was concerned. They were both hammered after trying to cure their jetlag with airport cocktails, and exhausted after a four-month job that barely hung on by threads. The kiss then was really just messy fumbling accompanying an equally messy, equally fumbling fuck in a overly air conditioned, soulless hotel room. Arthur was gone to catch another flight so early the next morning, Eames could pass the whole thing off as a dream, really.
The second one, though. That was one for the books. That was one to store away into a secret room in Eames's brain to be brought up the next time (God forbid) he was captured and tortured and had to cling to something to maintain his sanity.
It was roughly eight months after that first time, and Eames had seen neither hide nor hair of Arthur, though he'd heard Arthur was on an extraction job on a major British government official. Eames didn't want to get within three countries of that one, having exactly zero interest in being barred from his own damned homeland (again). Eames himself had drifted, taking jobs in more sunny places than not: easy ones with little risk and little money, but that was easily made up for by fleecing the tourists.
But after eight months of that Eames found himself relaxing one bright midday in a cafe in Firenze, wallet fat with a freshly completed job and a particularly lucrative dalliance with a Chilean woman of independent means and a penchant for solid men. The coffee was particularly good, the sun particularly shiny, and Arthur was a particularly pleasing sight when he approached and sat down as if Eames had expected him at all.
"You never called," Arthur said mildly, then waved down a waiter and ordered a macchiato in passable Italian.
"Didn't realize I was expected to," Eames replied, wondering what the hell Arthur was doing there. Job? Perhaps.
Arthur shrugged, looking for all the world like he didn't really care if Eames'd called or not, but neither was he forthcoming with a reason for his presence. "I cancelled your reservation at that shitty hotel," he said.
It wasn't shitty; it was quite nice, actually. Perhaps not to Arthur's taste, which was an intriguing thought. "Am I going somewhere?" Eames said, then took a casual sip of his coffee.
"Cinque Terre," Arthur said. "Train's in 45 minutes. Drink up." Arthur's coffee came then, and he took a testing sip, smiled, and downed it. He stood and walked away.
Eames stood to follow and didn't miss the opportunity to watch Arthur walk ahead, pale olive suit pulling tight as he buttoned his jacket.
***
It was early evening by the time they reached Riomaggiore, and Eames had decided not to ask what the purpose of the trip was, more out of stubbornness at that point than anything. He could feel Arthur expecting the question, and the longer time went on, the less inclined he was to oblige. It was clear Arthur had a plan, and Eames was well-practised in going with the flow.
They walked to a lovely flat a little ways up the hill, flower pots lining the walkway and overflowing with colour, stone steps pale in the sun. Arthur placed his bag in the foyer, kicked off his shoes and walked further in, casually inspecting the place. When he turned and saw that Eames was still standing in the doorway, Arthur lifted his eyebrows.
“Drop your bag wherever. There’s no bellhop going to come help you.”
Eames did, placing his bag against the wall and noting that the sofa was a pull-out one, and that there was one bed. He could assume, but better to be noncommittal. Arthur had only ever approached when there was work.
“You need a shower or anything? Reservation’s at 7:00 at La Lanterna.” Arthur was matter-of-fact, like he was on any job.
“Sure, yeah,” said Eames. He’d had one in the morning, but perhaps Arthur had planned a stakeout and knew they’d be out for long hours yet.
“Help yourself, then,” Arthur said, and sat down to set up his laptop.
When Eames emerged, hair neatly combed into place and feeling quite refreshed, Arthur snapped his laptop closed and stood.
“There’s enough time to walk down the waterfront first,” he said and began putting on his shoes.
With an inward shrug, and still determined not to ask if Arthur wasn’t telling, Eames put on his shoes.
There were several people milling about the waterfront, a few ordering ice cream from the vendor on the cliffside walk. Eames scoped them out, wondering if one of them were who he was there for. One man and his much younger wife appeared likely candidates. Rich, slightly out of place and slightly too formally put-together for holiday-makers in Riomaggiore.
Eames strolled alongside Arthur, who had his hands in his pockets and walked steadily, making idle conversation. Arthur always was stellar at tailing.
At about 7:00, they headed towards the restaurant which was also right on the waterfront. The man and his wife had since left, but when Eames saw them seated in the interior of the restaurant, he figured he had it pegged. Arthur never said a word about it. Flattering? Maybe. Perhaps he expected Eames to just know.
The waiter, a rather hippie-ish smiley young Italian man, showed Arthur and Eames to a table outside overlooking the water. When Arthur ordered a local white to start in Italian, the waiter laughed heartily, slapped Arthur on the back and answered in English. Arthur tried not to look insulted, and failed.
All through the (really startlingly delicious) meal and after half a bottle of wine, Eames had kept an eye on the couple inside, making note of mannerisms and small details he thought he may need for whatever Arthur had planned.
“More wine?” Arthur asked, then shook his head. “No, of course more wine. We still need dessert.”
He conversed with the waiter for a bit while Eames tried not to raise an eyebrow. It was rather a lot of alcohol for a tailing job. Eames wasn’t about to turn it down, though. Live while the living’s good: if Eames had any sort of credo, that seemed a likely candidate.
It was when dessert was nearly done (and Christ, did Arthur know how to pick a stakeout location. Eames could’ve had a second helping) that Eames noticed Arthur leaning back, sated and happy, elbow propped up on the back of his chair and smiling slightly. The casual stance, the soft smile — Arthur was exceptionally good at posing as a couple on holiday. Eames wondered if Arthur had ever tried forging, or even conning.
Eames smirked and raised his glass. “To the Italian Riviera and all of its lovely bounty,” he said. Arthur picked up his own glass, leaned forward and touched his glass to Eames’s, uttering a small hum of agreement.
When they’d drained their glasses finally and Arthur had paid, they stood to go, though the couple Eames had marked were still inside. Figuring they’d got what they needed, Eames decided then to hold out asking any questions for the rest of the evening.
Walking slowly up the hill, they made their way back to the flat. The flowers in the darkening evening were giving off a fragrance unmatched in the daytime. The lights against the vibrant colours of the buildings were truly a sight to behold, and its beauty wasn’t lost on Eames.
Inside, Arthur went to the fridge and brought out another bottle and poured them each a glass. It was slightly too cold, frosting the outside of the glass. The wine caught the meagre light from the windows, causing a misty golden glow in the dim light of the kitchenette.
Arthur moved in close and placed his hand lightly on Eames’s waist. “To not letting another eight months slip through our fingers,” he said and clinked Eames’s glass.
Eames, for his part, didn’t move to reciprocate, as the events of the day fell into place. The couple, just holiday-makers. The flat, the walk, the restaurant. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, top of which was simply, ‘this was a date?’ He said nothing though, instead lifting Arthur’s glass out of his hands to place it on the counter, pulling him in by the hips, and pressing his lips to Arthur’s softly.
One of Arthur’s hands slid around Eames’s waist and the other trailed down his arm. His eyes closed and he tucked into Eames’s body, sliding his hand up to twine in Eames’s hair as he opened his lips. His tongue gingerly sought Eames’s and it was so much more tender, more focused than the last time. Arthur tasted faintly of dessert wine as his tongue softly stroked Eames’s, a relieved sigh on his breath.
With the hand in his hair and Arthur’s hips under his palms, Eames couldn’t recall ever feeling quite so strong and embraced at once. He’d have cursed himself for his blindness had he given it a moment’s thought, but he didn’t. He kissed and kissed, his hand sneaking up to thumb at the tender spot under Arthur’s ear. Just once he pulled back to look in Arthur’s eyes, but he had no words so he kissed again.
Finally (was it an eternity? It should have been) they pulled apart.
“I have no place to be for the near future,” Arthur said. “You?”
“No plans,” said Eames, his voice a bit rough.
“Great, then there’s no rush. I thought we could continue this in there, where it’s more comfortable,” Arthur replied.
Eames nodded and grabbed his wine, letting his touch linger on the back of Arthur’s elbow as they walked to the oversized sofa.
It was indeed an unrushed night, with long kisses, more wine, inconsequential conversation, and finally Arthur pulling Eames to the bed. They undressed lazily, connected lips to lips when they could. Arthur moved to straddle Eames’s lap, holding Eames’s torso up with his knees and arms while Eames held Arthur in a firm embrace, assisting with one hand to guide himself into Arthur, trusting Arthur to take it as slowly as he needed.
Together they pulsed, holding each other upright and occasionally stopping the motion to kiss long and deep before moving again.
After Eames came, face buried in Arthur’s shoulder, he pulled out and tipped Arthur onto his back to take Arthur’s cock into his mouth, savouring the slickness of precome and their mingled sweat. Most of all he savoured Arthur’s soft moans, which he didn’t recall at all from the last time, an oversight he vowed to make up for as much and as soon as possible.
He’d have liked to say there was post-coital sweet nothings, but the long day saw them both falling straight to sleep. He woke once in the night, wondering muzzily what might need to be said in the morning, what apologies owed, what promises (if any) to make, what he even felt ready to say.
But then Arthur (ever the light sleeper) woke, stroked Eames’s arm and mumbled, “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames. There’s no rush.”
Believing it, Eames drifted back to sleep.
***End***
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<3
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Arthur moved in close and placed his hand lightly on Eames’s waist. “To not letting another eight months slip through our fingers,” he said and clinked Eames’s glass.
This especially made me awww. <3
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Inception News: July 16, 2012
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Also, as for the last bit of your comment, I don't even know how to process that, so... *bear hugs you instead*