Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Are you absolutely sure you know what you’re doing?” Arthur asks, smiling leisurely. Like a predator just waiting for its prey’s misstep.

It is a rhetorical question. Eames has no damn clue what he’s doing – and to be completely honest, he’s never had. Should he have admitted that half an hour ago, when one of the tent poles sprung back and hit him in the face? Probably, but he didn’t – something about man’s pride being too fragile – so he’s definitely not going to surrender now. 

Besides, losing an unfair battle against the stubborn tent has some perks – perks being, Arthur sweating deliciously in the pair of khaki shorts and dark tank top, with that unreadable expression of his, like he wants to simultaneously fuck you and put a bullet through your head. Simply delicious. Eames wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he’s had some fantasies, here and then, involving Arthur, shorts, sweat, desolate forest and too-small tents. Except usually those fantasies ended in mind-blowing sweaty sex, not the embarrassment of being unable to put the tent up. And not the fun one. 

Apparently Eames’ slightly dirty thoughts have put too long a pause on his futile efforts, as Arthus chooses this exact moment to stand up, sighing loudly, wiping the sweat off his hands on his knees.

“Come on, show me what you got, boy scout.” Eames takes a step back, looking hopefully at his latest effort to connect two tent poles. As if to rub it even more in his face, the construction stays straight for around five seconds, before collapsing right in front of Arthur’s feet. “I give up – the floor is yours. Pretty sure they did teach you how to put up a tent, among other extremely useful things like how to tie a knot or bake cookies or something.”

“I was never in boy’s scouts,” Arthus says, swiftly picking up pieces of what’s supposed to be a tent from the ground. What a shame – Eames also did harbour a few fantasies involving Arthur in scout’s uniform – hard to blame him, Arthur has the ability to look stupid hot in absolutely anything. “But I know a thing or two about knots. And baking.” He turns towards Eames and blinks. It comes out as attractive as expected from a man in khaki shorts, hands deep in the tent’s innards, but still – Eames has no choice but to be stunned. Arthur? Flirting? Maybe he’s having a sunstroke?

But no, the only person at risk of having a stroke here is Eames – Arthur has spent the last hour chilling lazily in the shadows, watching Eames’ struggles with barely hidden amusement.

Despite Eames’ hope, Arthur does seem to know what he’s doing, and he’s executing it with well practiced ease. In a few short moments there is a tent standing before them – this time actually looking like it was advertised and – what’s more important – not threatening to collapse any second.

There is only one tiny problem–

“Isn’t it too-” Eames starts, but Arthur quickly cuts him off.

“Too small?” There is a self-satisfactory smirk on his face. “I wouldn’t want to repeat myself, but I did told you–”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eames stares at the contraption in front of them with a rising sense of dread.

“But the nice lady at the store–”

“She was trying to warn you, but you were too busy staring at her boobs to listen,” Arthur remarks, watching the tent with disappointment, as if the thing could magically get bigger under Arthur’s stern gaze. Eames could name a few things that could get bigger under Arthur’s gaze, but sadly this tent is not one of them.

“I thought she was trying to sweet-talk me into spending more money! How could I know?” He throws his hands out in resignation. Arthur remains stoically unimpressed. 

“Do you want me to remind you whose idea it was in the first place?” he asks, finally peeling his gaze away from the tent, towards Eames.

“No.” He had enough embarrassment for a day, thank you very much, no need to rub that in. “So what do we do now?” he asks instead, throwing an accusatory glance at the tent.

The tent, unfortunately, remains silent.

“We get something to eat.” Arthur shrugs, already moving towards their rented car. “And then we sleep. Or at least give our best shot at sleeping in this thing.” 

Before Eames can answer, Arthur already starts rummaging through one of many bags he brought. Eames has nothing to do, but stand behind him, hands in his pockets; the only thing he’s provided – besides the tent and his splendid company, of course – is the alcohol. Somehow Arthur plus a too-small tent plus an ungodly amount of alcohol sounded better (and simpler) in his head. Not his fault that the closest he’s ever been to camping was sleeping in the youth hostel (in a double room, that is).

Arthur has already stopped his mission to find whatever he was looking for in his vasteless bags and produced two sandwiches and two cans of beer from the cooler (where did he get that from?). Eames catches one can swiftly, not trying to hide the disappointment visible on his face. 

“I don’t drink IPA, sorry,” Arthur says, not looking sorry at all. He’s already opening a can, tipping his head and taking first sip. Eames' thoughts instantly screech to a halt, mesmerized by the drop of sweat, making its way down Arthur’s throat. Well, he’s a simple man after all. 

Arthur catches his gaze and smiles leisurely. Eames’ entire brain freezes, so he doesn’t even register when a sandwich hits him in the head.

“Ouch.” It was a particularly heavy sandwich – Eames’ head is not properly equipped to sustain sudden attacks from flying objects.

“Someone looked hungry.” The look on Arthur’s face leaves no room for interpretation about what kind of hungry he is. “Besides, you deserve it, after all this hard, hard work,” he says, a playful smirk on his lips.

The sandwich tasted surprisingly decent – Eames would never in his wildest dreams imagine Arthur could cook something even edible – let alone tasty. He looks between the sandwich in his hand and Arthur with growing consternation.

“Don’t be so surprised, I wanted to match your level of commitment.” He looks at the sad, warm six-pack of beer Eames brought, with pity. “Looks like I overshot.”

“Oh, sure, rub that in, don’t you.” Eames tries his best to look offended. It’s hard to be offended at Arthur in a sweat-soaked tank top. Extremely hard. 

“The only thing I want to rub in is sunscreen on your already red face.” Arthur barely finishes the sentence before once again, diving deep into the numerous bags he brought.

“I’m not burnt. It’s just the way I tan.” Eames’ ego has already suffered enough today.

“Sure, sure.” This time when sunscreen comes flying his way, Eames is ready to catch it. No more long objects hitting him in the head, thank you.

“What else have you prepared, scout boy? Gas stove? Folded chairs? A hammock maybe?” 

“I have, actually.” He’s already turning towards his bags, wanting to procure whatever modern invention camping engineers came up with – maybe an inflatable flamingo. Eames could actually do with an inflatable flamingo. 

“Do you want a chair?” Arthur asks, a foldable chair suddenly in his hands.

“No, I’m fine.” If Eames were to stand up from his very comfortable spot on the ground, Arthur might have noticed that the tent is not the only thing that is currently standing up (there are currently two tents standing up).

“Suit, yourself.” Arthur sits down, cracking open another can of beer. “Need anything else or are you going to spend the whole evening sulking about your fragile masculinity?”

“I’m not sulking. And my masculinity is completely healthy and balanced.” Arthur shoots him a doubting look. “But come to think of it – do you, perhaps, by any chance carry an inflatable flamingo in that bag of yours?”

He’s not sure why he asked that question - maybe it’s the sun, maybe it’s the beer, or perhaps it’s Arthur's presence that has a deadly impact on his brain cells. 

Arthur in question looks at him with growing concern – not only for the state of his manhood, but more probably for the state of his mental health.

“Are you having a sunstroke?” Smarter men could be fooled by the care in Arthur’s voice, but Eames has known Arthur long enough to know that out of two of them, only one is having a great time, and it’s definitely not Eames.

“Har har,” Eames answers, but shuffles slightly closer to the shadow. 

“Seriously, have you drunk any water today?” Eames is absolutely sure that Arthur has perfected the ideal sunstroke protocol and is five seconds away from implementing it, with or without the patient’s consent.

“Drop it.” Eames turns his head away, to show that he is, in fact, offended, but the only thing that is dropped is a water battle near his feet. He picks it up and takes a sip, just to pacify Arthur’s caretaker’s instincts. 

Arthur’s instincts seemed to be pacified, at least for a moment – who would have thought that not drinking anything all day on a hot, sunny afternoon would have repercussions. Who would – not Eames for sure. He was made to function in well air conditioned rooms, sustaining his daily fluid intake from tea, beer and maybe black coffee. 

Arthur, or at least this version of Arthur – relaxed, bare skin, sweat on his lips, curls falling down his forehead – looks like a fish in the water. Eames would have never thought that Arthur would fit in on a camping trip in the middle of nowhere, but Arthur looks almost– happy here, smiling with his countless bags, foldable chairs, coolers and who knows, maybe even a pink flamingo. 

Every last piece of resistance dies in Eames’ throat – that was his plan all along, wasn’t it? To make Arthur happy and relaxed – sure, to sleep with him, but regardless. He looks away, a strange mix of shame and embarrassment sitting in his chest.

*   *   *

The sun starts to set, covering Arthur’s skin in warm, orange glow. The beer cans are empty  (meticulously crashed and put away by Arthur), the food has been eaten and the hot, humid air is slowly replaced by chilly gusts of wind. Eames watches, lulled by beer and sun, how Arthur’s skin erupts in fresh goosebumps with every whiff of colder air. He’s beautiful – always has been – but there is something about nature that strikes a sentimental note.

Eames could sit there longer, watching Arthur deep in thought, but the soft buzzing close to his ears is getting more and more insistent.

“Fuck–” A quick smack of hand ends the short life of a mosquito currently feeding of his arm. There are, however, many more just waiting for the occasion to taste Eames’ excellent blood.

“Hm?” The commotion seems to pull Arthur out of his thoughts – he is now blinking slowly with confusion written on his face, which would be very cute indeed if not for the bloody insects currently trying to blood Eames dry.

“Bloody–” another smack, “–mosquitoes.”  

“Well, we are near a lake.” Arthur stands up and stretches. None of the bloody insects seems even a little interested in him. “What’s your blood type? They have a type, you know.”

“You know bloody well what my blood type is.” Eames is slowly losing a battle against the massive attack of mother nature. Poor Eames, killed by fucking mosquitoes. What a bummer.

“Fair.” Arthur looks at his watch and then the tent, squinting. “I think it’s time to try to catch some sleep.”

Eames has been busy ignoring the cursed construction until now – the tent looms ominously in the dark, but everything is better than a horde of blood-thirsty insects outside.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He gets closer to it, kneels and tries to find the opening – without much success. “Do you have a torch?”

Arthur doesn’t answer, just hands him the torch – from where? Who knows. Arthur’s shorts have plenty of pockets, and Arthur always comes prepared.

With the help of the additional source of light Eames is able to open the tent and quickly roll inside. Arthur follows him, zipping up the opening behind them.

The tent is small. It’s small-small . Eames is sitting up and his head is touching the ceiling, and his and Arthur’s knees touch. The only source of light is Arthur’s torch, the ground beneath them is hard and cold, sleeping bags only providing minimal comfort. There is a reason why Eames was prejudiced towards camping – no sane person enjoys this torture.

He lays down – or as close to laying down as is possible; he’s more in an embryo position, with his knees bent. Arthur looks a little surprised – at how actually small the tent is, or maybe how close they are. After a moment of hesitation, he too lays down, his head mere centimeters from Eames’, knees intertwining. 

Everything is silent for a moment, save from their breathing. They have never been this close – sleeping in the same queen size bed, or on the couch, sure, but not nose to nose, hip to hip, in a tent smaller than a broom cupboard. 

“It was my dad, actually,” Arthur breaks the silence.

Eames tries to connect the dots, but comes out empty – what on Earth prompted Arthur to talk about his father? God, he hopes that now is not the time for sharing traumatic childhood stories. If so, they would be here till morning – Eames has an abundance of those.

“I told you I wasn’t in the boy’s scouts,” Arthur reminds him gently, seeing the confusion on his face. “It was my father who taught me all of it – the camping, the knots, the baking.” He smiles, but his eyes are distant. 

The silence that comes next is telling – Eames doesn’t need to ask what happened to Arthur’s father. Eames would be quite a shitty forger if he couldn’t spot a pattern here and there.

“My father couldn’t even teach me how to tie my shoes,” he says instead. If the conversation about their absent fathers is what Arthur needs, then it will be what he gets. “He couldn’t even remember my birthday, or truth be told, my name.” 

“Is this why you are not using your name? Because it was irrelevant to the people you loved?”

“Eames is my name, darling,” he deflects. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“I’m not psychoanalyzing you – that’s your job. I’m just noticing patterns.” Arthur shrugs.

“Not everything is a variable to be analysed.” Eames turns onto his back, eyes firmly on the ceiling. This conversation starts to stray as far from whatever fantasies he harbours as it could. Arthur sighs loudly next to him and shuffles even closer.

“I know,” he says. It makes Eames turn back towards him, bumping Arthur’s nose with his head. Arthur admitting mistakes is an interesting Arthur – and there is nothing more attractive than Arthur doing things Arthur normally doesn’t do.

“Ouch.” Arthur rubs his nose, but there is a slight smile on his lips, visible even in the darkness. 

“Serves you right,” Eames says softly.

In this exact moment Eames realises that they are literally lying nose to nose – there is no gap between them, Arthur leg pressed between his legs, his arms lying loosely on Arthur’s waist (when did they get there?).

Arthur seems to realise it too, as he pushes his leg into Eames’ groin (he’s definitely feeling the tent now), one of his palms wandering up and down Eames’ thigh, the other tangling up in his hair. 

It feels natural then to close the almost non-existing distance, to kiss Arthur’s pretty, red lips. So Eames does exactly that – pulls him even closer and licks into his mouth. Arthur lets out a muffled moan and kisses him back, his hands at the back of Eames’ head, his leg pressing deliciously into his already hard cock. 

It’s amazing. It’s better than his already wild fantasies – Arthur tastes like sunshine, slightly salty and warm, better than he expected, honestly better than all of his previous encounters (and he has a quite decent body count). 

Then Arthur flips them in one swift movement (how can he even do that in this space?), and if Eames thought that whatever it was before was good, then now it’s top tier. Arthurs fingers in his hair, pulling just right, Arthur’s tongue in his mouth, Arthur’s hips pressing on him just right – the tent, the cold ground, the mosquitoes – all could be as well as dead. There is nothing else on his mind than Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, touching every part of his body, pressing impossibly closer (is it possible to crawl into someone's chest? Cause Eames is willing to give it a go). 

But then everything stops and suddenly Arthur is no longer conjugated to his mouth, but is instead looking down at him with the expression indicating that he is trying really hard not to laugh.

“What?” Eames barks, suddenly embarrassed by, well, everything. His cock doesn’t seem to get the memo, because it’s still painfully hard – and probably leaking already.

“No, it’s just funny how quickly you went from talking about our very sad childhoods to being one step from fucking nasty.” He smiles, teeth showing. “Do you have daddy issues? Or any other issues I should be aware of?”

“Takes one to know one,” Eames says, reaching his hands out. “All this talk about being psychoanalysed just to turn and do the same to me.”

“I’m not psychoanalyzing you,” Arthur laughs, but lets himself be pulled down. “I’m just stating a rather interesting fact.”

“I’m in fact more interested in the other part of your lovely statement,” he whispers into Arthur’s ear. “Something something about fucking nasty?”

“Let’s see what we can do about it.” Arthur smiles and kisses him – this time it’s different, less rushed, more deliberate, sweeter.

Sweet is not a word Eames would previously use to describe Arthur – he probably still wouldn’t – but there is a certain sweetness in Arthur’s moves now. His hands wander lower, until they reach the waistband of Eames’ shorts where they grapple with his fly – without much success. Arthur leans back, lets out a short, frustrated noise and peels back from Eames’ chest, turning all of his efforts into an unequal battle with the zipper. Eames uses this moment to lick a long stripe down his throat – he’s been waiting for this moment the whole afternoon (or possibly even longer – Arthur’s throat has its own particular magic). 

Arthur’s skin tastes salty and slightly bitter (probably from the mosquitoes spray, that bastard), but Eames couldn’t care less. He could lick every inch of Arthur’s skin, including whatever delicious feast was waiting for him between Arthur’s legs. Even if, as of right now, putting his mouth on those parts would acquire a real gymnastic performance – or possibly the destruction of the tent. 

His reflections are brutally cut the moment that Arthur’s hand wraps around his cock. All his thoughts are actually cut in that moment – there is only Arthur, his deft fingers, his eyes locked with Eames’; barely visible in the darkness. Eames could just let go and enjoy this moment (after all, that’s why he came here, no?), but there was something in the back of his mind, buggering him like mosquitoes.

“You know, that’s not how I envisioned our first time,” he blurts.

Arthur blinks and slows down.

“If you still have the ability to declare such sentiments, I’m not doing my job right,” he says, accentuating his words with a squeeze.

Eames shuts his eyes, stifles a moan, and wills his blood to return to his brain even partially – because this, this is important. Arthur, who seems to notice his struggle, sighs loudly and stops.

“Fine – so how did you envision our first time?” He smirks. “Candles and rose petals? Or maybe a quick shag in the airplane toilet?”

“Bed.” Eames manages, catching his breath. “Bed would be enough. And no mosquitoes.”

“Can’t do anything about the lack of bed. Or mosquitoes.” Arthur lays his head on Eames’ chest, suddenly becoming very invested in his nipples.

“Also, I would love to suck you off.”

“That–” Arthur practically purrs, “I can do something about”.

*   *   *

When Eames opens his eyes, the one thing he registers, with all his senses, is discomfort. His back hurts, his skin is sticky with come and sweat, the temperature in the tent could probably fry an egg, and everything itches . He has never felt so uncomfortable in his life, and his uncomfortable life experience includes a short stay in a Chechenian prison (not an experience to be repeated). 

He tries to peel himself away from Arthur, who is apparently sleeping like an octopus, hands and legs wrapped around Eames’ torso. He succeeds in his task, unwrapping Arthur’s limbs and sitting as straight as is possible (both for his back and the tent). He’s just about to open the tent and get a breath of a long forgotten fresh air, when Arthur blinks awake. 

“How was your night?” he asks, smiling playfully. Eames groans and flops back onto the sleeping bags.

“Never again,” he says, feeling another burst of pain in his lower back. “I am not sleeping in a tent ever again. That was the first and the last time.”

“Oh, I’m not sure– you looked like you quite enjoyed it,” Arthur says, stretching up and reaching to unzip the tent. “I quite like it for sure.”

“I enjoyed you, darling, and I plan to enjoy you even more – just on a proper bed this time.” Eames welcomes the first breath of fresh air with relief.

“Hmm…” Arthur crawls out of the tent, and stands up, reaching his hand towards Eames. “Although joining the high mile club also sounds exciting.”

“As long as my lower back doesn’t end up permanently damaged, I’m interested.”

Eames takes his hand and lets himself be pulled into a kiss, morning breath and all.

“Well, we’ll see what we can do about it...”