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They’re getting dirty looks for laughing, and laughing loudly, but neither of them give a damn.
Arthur had been dragged to this rooftop soiree by his neighbors, so if any of these boring dignitaries of the condo didn’t appreciate Arthur and Eames’ company, then who was to blame for it?
"This," Arthur slurs, landing in Eames’ lap with two filled glasses, "is really good champagne, Mr. Eamesie. Here, try it.”
The elderly couple sharing a table with them look on in disgust as Eames gulps his down like a shot and moans loudly, ”Fuck me, baby, you’re right. What is this shit?”
Arthur shrugs, still nursing his. “I can’t pronounce the name,” he giggles against Eames’ neck.
"It’s Krug Clos d’Ambonnay," the older man across from them says, annoyed to be distracted from his clear enjoyment of, Arthur can only assume, his granddaughter’s cello performance. "A bottle is oft priced at $2,70—”
Arthur and Eames aren’t listening, too busy chasing the champagne down each other’s throats. Arthur sucks on Eames’ bottom lip before letting him go, whispering in his ear, “I told you you’d look sexy in this fucking suit, Mr. Eames.”
Eames grins lopsided and dazed, reaching for another glass. “And you’ll always look best out of yours, kitty cat.”
Arthur laughs loudly again and almost falls out of Eames’ lap. He mutters his apologies to those closest to them, but still he and Eames snicker, making fun on the hostesses’ hair and her portly husband’s bald spot.
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Needless to say, the entire party’s quietly relieved when Arthur drags Eames away towards the elevator, palming Eames’ cock on the way down to their floor.
”I fucking hate those cunts who keep having those fucking parties,” Eames mumbles once they’re in the hallway. “They’re all so stiff, and dry, and old—Oopsy, darling," he chuckles, going sideways on top of Arthur.
Not that Arthur minds. He moans into Eames’ sloppy kisses, feeling Eames’ big hands roam under his suit jacket as he’s pressed to someone else’s door. “Yeah, fuck ‘em, but fuck me first, Eamesie, okay?”
"You betcha, kittycat. Give me that plump little cu—”
"No, not here." He tries to wiggle around Eames but ends up on the floor. He climbs Eames’ leg. "Crush me in my bed."
Somehow from the hallway to their own place, Arthur loses his pants, revealing his lace panties and thigh-highs, but still he doesn’t care, giggling and tripping over himself as Eames chases him to their bedroom.
Eames gets him bent over the side the bed. He rips open Arthur’s underwear, admiring the claim stamp he’d tattooed on Arthur’s ass before he smacks it hard.
"Eames! You big meanie," Arthur moans, a mix of pain and intense pleasure as Eames smacks his ass again. He’s tossed further up the bed for his struggling, and pushes his ass back to grind against Eames’ cock once Eames gets out of his pants, opens his boxers, and climbs over Arthur’s body.
He nibbles the back of Arthur’s shoulder and neck, a hand at Arthur’s jaw to turn him a little for a kiss, but Eames freezes and groans.
Arthur almost falls off the bed as he turns over to see Eames stumble to the bathroom. He grimaces, hearing the man get sick. He slips out of his jacket, waistcoat, and tie. The room tilts a little when he stands to follow.
Eames is still slumped over the toilet when Arthur gets there.
"Poor baby," Arthur coos, kneeling beside him.
Eames glances at him. “Liar. You’re not drunk, you little… liar.”
Arthur quickly turns Eames head back to the bowl just in time as Eames gets sick again. Arthur smiles a little, rising to wet a cloth with cool water. He places it on the back on Eames neck and rubs Eames’ shoulders, pets his hair.
He’s not drunk. Not really. And in truth he does enjoy a posh suit-and-tie dinner on the roof with those snobs every once in a while, but he knows Eames hates it. The man just simply doesn’t fit in this world and sees no need to pretend otherwise, the way Arthur does. No, Eames tags along and spends the evening getting plastered. Arthur understands.
He sits behind Eames and rubs his back, snickering as Eames curses him whenever his stomach gives him a chance.
It’s worth lying. Better to be ‘drunk’ with his man than dry like all those people who hate them.
Although, tomorrow, Arthur will send flowers to that cello girl, just as soon as Eames gets over his hangover in the morning and punishes Arthur properly, of course.
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End.