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Arthur stares into his beer. It's a bad idea, drinking when he's as lightheaded from hunger as he is, but it helps him blend into the surroundings and, moreover, helps him go through with what he needs to do to sate that hunger.
He scans the room, and tries hard to suppress the petulant inner voice saying I don't want any of them.
Suck it up, Arthur tells himself, glad he's drunk enough to ignore the stupid potential pun.
The guy sitting across from him is decent looking, actually. He'd be reasonably within the limits of Arthur's type, if Arthur had a type at the moment beyond semen generating. Which doesn't mean he shouldn't be careful - his condition may render him immune to pretty much all sexually transmitted diseases, but it offers no such protection against, say, gunshot wounds. Arthur's learned the hard way to be careful about who he picks up.
"Come here often?" he says, voice sliding into the deeper, hypnotic registers of hunger. Arthur can see the guy's pupils dilating further, until there's barely a hint of blue iris left in his eyes. He's licking his lips unconsciously, which Arthur deliberately emulates. It's a cheap tactic, but it works. Arthur's nothing if not pragmatic.
So it's kind of a disappointment, by the time he coaxes the guy to come away with him, to have him collapse on the floor after two steps. When Arthur goes to help him up, the guy waves a hand at him and slurs something. Arthur may be so hungry that he's seeing little spots in front of his eyes whenever he moves his head, but he's not going to sleep with someone too drunk to stay upright. He's got fucking standards.
Nevermind that he's swaying himself as he straightens. He grips the bar to steady himself. He's let this go on too long. Standards or no standards, he needs to get someone fast or he's in danger of losing control.
That same fucking voice chooses that moment to whisper, There's Eames.
Yes, Arthur thinks, sitting back down on the barstool, disgustedly wiping at the place where his hand left a wet print on the bar's surface. There's Eames, who'll lie there and look at Arthur, who'll offer everything without a word and with no mention of the price behind that offering. Who'll smell and taste better than anyone else Arthur's ever had.
Arthur wishes he could blame that on some genetic abnormality, some stupid side-effect of his condition. Sadly, he needs to be drunker than he is to forget that, no, Eames always used to smell like that. But back then, before, Arthur had to come close to catch it, find some pretext to stand right next to Eames and breathe him in covertly. Now, Arthur can smell him from all the way across a crowded room, can smell his hands on the paper still folded up in Arthur's shirt pocket.
"329," Eames said, scribbling and tucking the paper into Arthur's hand. "I'll be in all night." And he gave Arthur that look, the one that means he expected Arthur to cave in soon, to come groveling for cock to suck. Again.
Not tonight, Arthur tells himself, and knows himself for a liar already.
It's the tiny blackouts that makes up Arthur's mind for him. Hunger he can deal with, weakness he can shoulder through, but when he finds himself sitting on the floor and he can't remember how he got there, it's time to do something.
If that something is Eames, then so be it.
It's not a long walk to Eames' hotel, but Arthur takes a taxi anyway. His hands clench too hard on the door handle getting in, and he hears the protesting creak of the plastic. It's a bad fucking day when he can't trust his own legs to carry him. Arthur's had too many fucking bad days lately.
Eames didn't insult him by giving him a keycard. Arthur almost wishes he had. He can break a lock even if he can't think straight, but his fingers are clumsy and his eyes dart aside so much he can't see what he's actually doing. He feels nauseated, worse than dehydration, and starved for the scent just on the other side of the door.
When Arthur finally comes in, Eames is asleep, or pretending to be. Arthur hopes it's the latter, because for all that Eames is infuriating and impossible, Arthur wouldn't actually want him to be murdered in his bed by some random thug.
Arthur climbs to kneel on the bed, and waits for Eames to wake up.
Something happens to his hunger at times like this, when he's (spotted his prey, he very carefully doesn't think) found a potential mark. It's still right there, but muted, lying still like dark water in a cup. As long as he doesn't move, he can wait. In the minutes until Eames opens his eyes, he has all the time in the world.
Eames opens his eyes.
"Arthur," he says, voice thick from sleep and slightly slurred. Arthur doesn't think of the drunk from the bar. Can't, right now, too focused on what's right in front of him.
"Eames," he says. His voice is deep, rougher than his normal speaking voice. Eames shudders when he speaks. There were times that Arthur felt guilty for that, for the very unfairness of it all, but not now. If Arthur can't win, why should Eames be able to?
Eames sits up and touches his hand to Arthur's cheek. Arthur lets him. He burst into the man's room in the middle of the night. Allowing him to touch is the least Arthur can do. "You mustn't let yourself go hungry like that," Eames says, reprovingly, as though Arthur is a recalcitrant child who refuses to clean his plate.
Arthur bares his teeth. Fuck Eames, who thinks he can make Arthur's choices for him. Fuck him for his condescension and his sly smiles and his fucking gorgeous body. "What do you think I'm here for?" Arthur says.
Eames' eyes turn dark. "What, indeed?"
Fuck that game. "Lie on your back," Arthur says. His heart is hammering in his chest, what if he tells me no, what if he turns me out, what if he starts making demands?
Because if he did, Arthur would comply. Right now, Arthur would do anything within his ability to suck Eames' cock. He needs it in his mouth, needs to feel it spurting hot into his throat, and if he doesn't get it in the next few minutes he's not going to be responsible for his actions. This is a painful, literal truth.
He's not exactly thinking about it as he reaches into Eames' messy, open suitcase, grabbing the pair of handcuffs he knows Eames keeps there.
"What are you going to do with those?" Eames looks a little apprehensive. Good, Arthur thinks, vicious with frustration.
"Keep you in place," he says. It's a struggle to keep his voice steady. "I need you to stay put. Until." Until he's sucked Eames dry, wrung every single drop of come from him. "Until I've had enough."
Eames' mouth hangs open, wet and red. Arthur wants that, too, but it's distant right now, far behind the urgency of his need for what Eames is hiding under those blankets.
"All right," Eames says, after a small eternity. Arthur blinks and Eames is lying with his hands held where Arthur can get at them, fingers softly curled inwards. Arthur snaps the cuffs on him, the click of them closing weirdly loud to his oversensitive ears.
"Just." It's hard to get words out. Arthur's mouth is disgustingly wet, he has to swallow over and over for fear of drooling. "Stay where you are. I won't stop until you tell me." If even then. Arthur hopes he'll be able to pull himself away once he starts, but it's not a very realistic hope. Arthur's left it too long. Eames was actually right about something, for once.
Eames is silent as Arthur eases the blanket off him. He's naked under it, the way he always is when he's waiting for Arthur. It's enough to make him feel predictable, and later maybe he'll have the presence of mind to give a damn.
Right now, though, his full attention is needed to properly appreciate what he's got right in front of him. Eames' cock is thick, long and straight, which makes it harder to pull into Arthur's throat. He imagines if he tried it before turning, it would have been difficult. As it is, it slides down smoothly, the stretch of it in Arthur's throat harsh and so fucking welcome Arthur could cry.
He tastes, he tastes so fucking good that for a moment Arthur doesn't want him to come. Perversely, he wants to keep Eames' cock right where he is, snug in his throat, and thank the very condition that brought him here – to Eames' bed, to his knees – for the length of time for which he can hold his breath.
Then the hunger flairs in him, and he swallows, over and over, sucking hard until Eames cries and Arthur has to hold his hips down, until the warm stream of come pours down his throat, and Arthur drinks it down and wants more.
He always wants more, hungry all the time for more than anyone can give him, and for once he's just going to fucking take.
So he keeps his mouth where he is, retreating a little to breathe and to give Eames a moment to recover. Eames makes a pained sound when Arthur takes him into his mouth again. Arthur looks up, waits for Eames to tell him off, but Eames only closes his eyes and lets his head drop.
Eames is hard again soon enough. Arthur almost wishes it had something to do with skill, with desire, with anything but the chemicals in his spit, but it is what it is. Arthur doesn't wish for things: he takes what he can, and shoves the rest aside.
The second time, Eames takes longer to come. The third, he's sweating hard, cursing and kicking at Arthur, but he doesn't ask Arthur to let him go, to stop. So Arthur doesn't, keeps going until he's feeling heavy with satiation and there's a wetness at the corners of Eames' eyes.
"Does it hurt?" Arthur says, pulling back after the third time, licking his lips to chase any remaining drops.
"Yes," Eames says. It's a bare whisper, broken and hoarse, but Arthur can hear him just fine.
"Should I stop?" He could, now. He's had enough to fall asleep content, wake up without feeling ravenous.
"If you want."
"And if I don't?" He keeps his eyes trained on Eames' face. He has no idea what he's looking for in there.
Eames is quiet, for long enough that Arthur wonders if he could've fallen asleep. Then he says, "Don't, then."
Arthur nods slowly and bows his head back down.
He's regained the presence of mind to be gentle, careful as he couldn't be before, slow. Eames doesn't buck into his mouth anymore, tired out, but he still twitches and groans, his hands clutching spasmodically in the sheets.
It takes him a long time to come, but Arthur's not going anywhere. They have the entire night.
When Eames comes, hardly anything comes out, a mere dribble, but it's all Arthur needs. For the first time in – weeks? months? – fuck, possibly for the first time since he was turned, Arthur's full. He wants to sleep, wants to lie on his back and just bask in how good he feels. His jaw is aching and his joints are all sore and his cock is hard and leaking, but he can't bring himself to give a fuck about any of that.
First thing first, though. He drags himself up and uncuffs Eames, rubbing at his wrists in an ingrained response. They're fine, his wrists, not even bruised. Looks like Eames managed to keep almost still all by himself. Arthur's impressed.
When they've done this before he rubbed against Eames, afterward, or taken himself in hand, but he can't find the energy to do anything more strenuous than lying on his back and smiling at the taste of Eames, still thick at the back of his throat.
He doesn't expect the warm wetness around his cock, but he's too tired to actually startle. Eames' mouth is sweet on him, soft like Arthur wasn't, not even at the end. Eames' hand comes to cradle his balls and rub a finger against his perineum, and Arthur arches at that, automatically, helplessly.
"You don't have to," he says, not even entirely knowing what he's saying. "You can. I'll just."
Eames pulls off long enough to say, "Hush," in a tone of voice that makes Arthur close his eyes and try to sink into the bed.
It takes an eternity and no time at all. Arthur doesn't warn before coming, but Eames doesn't seem to want a warning, taking in all Arthur has to offer as if he's the one starving for it. But Arthur's not starving. Not anymore.
He tells himself he's too tired to pull on his clothes, to shower and leave and start the game all over again. He tells himself that even as he wriggles closer to Eames, who pulls the blankets over both of them.
Even as he kisses Eames, long and wet and comfortable, and neither of them seems to want to stop.
Just until morning, Arthur lets himself think as he slings an arm around Eames' waist. He's grown very adept at lying to himself; for a second, it almost seems believable that come morning he'll be able to let go.