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"Look, kid, I don't know how you got in here with this thing, but I'm not risking my job just to get you a cosmo."
Arthur scowls, snatching his fake I.D. from the bartender's hand. "I said rum and coke," he says pointlessly.
"Sorry, princess," the guy shrugs, nodding at another customer to take his order.
"Hey," Arthur slaps his hand on the bar to get his attention, "I'm already in here, why can't you just get me a drink?"
The bartender raises an eyebrow, giving Arthur a pointed look. "How about you stop asking, and I won't call security to drag your twink ass out of here?"
That appears to be that, inasmuch as the bartender then walks far enough away for Arthur's voice to be drowned out by the music, making Arthur's defense of, "I'm not a twink," rather ineffective.
"You are, actually, but we won't hold that against you here," an accented voice to his right informs him.
Arthur's first, irrational thought is that the bartender called security anyway – do they have silent alarm buttons? The guy standing at Arthur's side is bigger than the bouncer whose eyes Arthur avoided on his way in, his t-shirt stretched over a barrel chest that's wider than Arthur's shoulders, his arms so big he can't seem to hold them close to his body (and Arthur didn't even think that could happen in real life). Arthur is about to back away when he notices the guy is holding a glass out to him, filled with a measure of something dark.
"Fabien's a twat," he says, nodding at the bartender – or at least, in that general direction. Arthur can't tear his eyes away from this guy's shoulders long enough to check. "He forgets he was one of the twinks with a false I.D. two years ago, he'd have thrown a fit if someone talked to him like that."
Arthur clumsily takes the drink being thrust into his hand, croaks out a "Thanks," and tips it back, gritting his teeth and willing himself not to wince at the burn.
"Eames," the guy says, and it takes a moment for Arthur to realize that that must be his name. He picks up Arthur's fake I.D. from the bar and examines it. "And since you are not 6'2" and 25, I'm betting your name isn't Michael."
"Arthur," Arthur says, flushing hot, though he can't be sure if it's from the embarrassment, the booze, or the fact that this Eames guy is close enough for Arthur to smell his cologne.
"Arthur," Eames – Eames growls it, taking half a step closer, making Arthur's breathing feel shallow. "And how old are you really, sweetheart?"
"Eighteen," Arthur says immediately, the most plausible lie he thinks he can get away with.
"Right," Eames grins, showing crooked teeth, "In what, a year? Two years?"
Arthur considers sticking to his story, but Eames puts a hand on the bar next to him, giving no indication that he's going to walk away no matter what the answer. "Two years," Arthur admits, and he couldn't look away from Eames' eyes if he wanted to.
Eames purses his lips in something that looks like amusement, but Arthur can't bring himself to work up any indignation when Eames leans in to his ear.
"Would you like another drink?"
It turns out that Fabien is frightened enough of Eames that he doesn't give much more than a frown when Eames calls him over and orders two shots, while one hand curls unsubtly around Arthur's neck, daring Fabien to refuse to serve him.
"Had tequila before?" Eames asks him, setting a glass in front of Arthur and taking a salt shaker and a slice of lime from the tray that gets set in front of them. When Arthur shakes his head, Eames grins, picking up Arthur's hand.
Arthur's breath catches as Eames kisses his fingers, and his knees threaten to buckle when Eames' tongue flicks out to lick the back of his hand. Arthur watches dumbly as Eames shakes salt onto the wet spot.
"You lick this, then you take the shot," he explains, holding Arthur's hand up to his mouth. "Go on," he urges.
Arthur hesitates only a second before he opens his mouth, lapping at the salt, his eyes watering at the taste. He tips the shot back, and this time he can't help but grimace at the way it burns in his throat, but when he squeezes his eyes shut, he hears Eames, very close, murmuring, "Suck."
Arthur opens his eyes to see Eames holding a slice of lime in front of him, watching him with an expression that makes Arthur's heart race. He lets Eames push the lime between his lips, sucking and biting down a little, letting the bitterness flood his mouth. Eames' grin is hot and dangerous when he pulls his hand away.
"Good?"
Arthur licks his lips, tasting lime and alcohol. "Fucking great," he breathes.
Eames takes his own shot without the whole ceremony, then nods at Fabien for another. This time, Eames licks his own hand, holding it up for Arthur to lap the salt off, and when Arthur slams his empty glass on the table, Eames puts the wedge of lime between his own teeth. Before he can lean down for Arthur to take it, Arthur cranes his head up, feeling bold and reckless with the alcohol starting to do its work, latching onto the lime and pulling it from Eames' mouth.
Eames watches him suck on it for a moment before he reaches up and takes it away, one huge hand snaking around to span the small of Arthur's back, pulling him close and pressing their lips together. His mouth tastes like liquor and smoke, and the kiss is wet and rough, Eames licking into Arthur, biting at him, his broad chest vibrating with a growl.
When Eames pulls away, Arthur feels dizzy, crazy and desperate, wanting to wrap his legs around Eames' waist and grind against him, right here at the bar.
"Have you got a curfew, little boy?" Eames asks, his eyes twinkling.
Not if I get a better offer, Arthur thinks. "It doesn't matter," he says.
"Mmm, it might, for me. If your daddy's got a shotgun," Eames points out, but he's turning Arthur so his back is against the bar, pressing one thick thigh between Arthur's legs.
"I can keep a secret," Arthur breathes, his hips jolting against the pressure.
"Sweetheart, if I had it my way, there'd be no hiding it," Eames says, moving in to scrape his stubble against Arthur's neck, "You wouldn't walk straight for a week."
"Yes," Arthur hisses, his limbs feeling light and tingly from the booze, his hands running over Eames' shoulders, feeling the hard ridges under the straining cotton of his t-shirt.
Then Eames is leaning back, smirking at him. "D'you want to dance?" he asks, already hooking his fingers in Arthur's belt loops, dragging him away from the bar. Dancing was not exactly what Arthur had in mind, but he takes his good luck where he can get it, and he figures any activity that involves him being pressed up against a guy like this is a bigger victory than he expected to get out of this night.
But Eames isn't pulling him towards the dance floor, Arthur realizes belatedly. He's walking them towards the couches along the wall. Arthur raises his eyebrows when Eames sits.
"I thought we were dancing," he says, then squeaks as Eames pulls him down, arranging Arthur so he's straddling Eames' lap, his legs spread wide just to accommodate Eames' thighs.
"We are," Eames says, licking into Arthur's mouth obscenely, "Just listen."
Arthur does his best to absorb the music while Eames mouths at his neck, his hands sliding down to grip Arthur's ass. He grinds Arthur down against him, letting Arthur feel the hard line of Eames' erection against his own.
"We're not supposed to do this here," Arthur says, stupidly, before he can catch himself.
"Do what?" Eames asks, grinning, "You're going to dance for me, that's all," he says, guiding Arthur's hips into a rhythm.
Arthur feels himself flushing, but he's getting to the point where he might have to acknowledge that he's officially a little drunk, and Eames is squeezing his ass, lifting his own hips as he pulls Arthur down against him, and Arthur feels the last traces of embarrassment ebb away. He starts to move, circling his hips, letting his body find the beat of the music.
"Yeah," Eames purrs, smiling dirty and sly, slouching down enough for Arthur to feel Eames' cock pressing against his ass as he grinds down. "That's perfect, darling, just like that."
Arthur groans, running his fingers over Eames' chest, pressing against the muscle just to feel it refuse to give. He can feel himself leaking into his jeans, but he can't bring himself to regret not wearing any underwear. Eames' hands on his ass help him keep his rhythm despite his body's tension, his urge to just press fully against Eames' torso, rut on those hard abs until he comes.
One of Eames' hands leaves him to pop the button on his jeans, but then it's back, sliding down below his waistband to cup his bare ass, fingers dipping between his cheeks. Arthur whimpers, rolling his hips and pressing down against Eames' dick, too turned on for restraint.
"You're a slutty little thing, aren't you? Getting off in the middle of the club, look at you," Eames says, his voice gravelly and pleased, and Arthur nods, more than willing to accept that label if it means he gets more of this. He starts to lose the beat, grinding harder, his hips stuttering. Eames growls, watching him with hooded eyes. "Look how desperate you are... that's it, come on, you take what you need."
Arthur hears himself whine, one of his hands slipping from Eames' chest to palm himself though his jeans, but Eames catches his wrist.
"Ah-ah, you don't need that," Eames says, gripping his hand tightly, wrenching Arthur's arm behind his back as the tip of one finger works into Arthur's opening, and that’s more than enough. Arthur cries out, uncaring of his volume and the people all around them as he presses down against Eames' cock, rubbing himself on Eames' stomach and coming hard in his jeans.
Eames lets him rock his hips until he's too sensitive to keep moving, then wraps his arms around Arthur's waist as he slumps, struggling to catch his breath.
He shivers as Eames' tongue traces the shell of his ear, keeping Arthur pressed firmly down on his lap, shifting against him so Arthur can feel how hard he is. Arthur can't get it up again quite yet, but it's not going to be a struggle, his body already putting in a valiant effort to respond.
"Well," Eames says, "I can hardly send you home in a state like this."
Arthur drags his head off Eames' shoulder, his lips curling into a smile, "I might have to shower at your place," he says, in what he hopes is a casual enough tone.
Eames huffs a laugh though his nose, kissing Arthur messily. "You won't be getting clean if you come home with me, love."
"Who said anything about getting clean?" Arthur asks, grinding down on Eames' erection pointedly.
Eames kisses him again as he lifts him, standing and setting Arthur on the floor. "I'm glad we're on the same page," he grins, taking Arthur's hand and leading him to the exit.