InsaneJournal

Current mood:	naughty
Entry tags:	dorian gray, eames

Perfume & Cigarettes
Who: Messrs Eames & Gray
What:: Commiseration
When:: Monday evening, January 10th (backdated)
Where:: Dorian’s flat (307A)
Status: Complete
Warnings:: PG13ish. Language & brief/partial nudity.


Dorian felt he was going to be a terrible host, compared to the parties he had thrown on a monthly--and sometimes weekly--basis, back in London. His apartment was sparsely furnished, and he had only the barest of necessities in his cupboards, and no time to run down to market to fetch anything more lavish with which to spread his coffee table. Nor had he any real desire to run down to market in the midst of the incursion of Toclaphane.

Ah, well. At least he had found tea, and coffee, cheese and crackers, and--wonder of wonders!--a bottle of brandy. No cigarettes, but it sounded as if Mr. Eames would not be unwilling to share until such time as he was able to procure his own. He’d have to remember to return the favor.

Eames made his way down to Mr. Gray’s room, carefully not thinking about what, exactly, he was doing. He was really quite good at that, and was often quite impressed with the results that came from his improvising sessions, even if he did say so himself. Anyway, no matter how the next few hours went, it would be better than staying in his flat on his own, painting depressing fake works of art. Besides, he missed Arthur a lot more than he allowed anyone to know, even... no, especially Ariadne and Mal, which meant that he was quite possibly the only person who could actually think of a positive thing regarding the Toclafane invasion; it was the mother of all distractions, and Eames was all for any distractions he could get.

He reached the door he was looking for and knocked, before checking that the three different boxes of cigarettes he’d found knocking round in his flat were all in his jacket’s inside pocket (clearly the result of letting Sirius loose at the fag machines, and no, the irony was not lost on Eames. At least there weren’t any more of those ghastly girly cigarettes Reg had given his brother as a joke. They had been awful). As house-warming gifts went, he supposed they were slightly unusual, but at least they were useful (and wanted!) and that was the important thing to remember. His own Bensons and his zippo were in a different pocket, so he lit up as he waited, ignoring any No Smoking signs that might have been in the area.

Dorian met Eames at the door, an amused little smirk adorning his mouth, not unlike the one that Eames had probably seen on Sirius. Dorian had yet to meet the decadent Mr. Black in person to really make a comparative study of their features, but he was keen on observing the reactions of others to their alleged similarity.

“Welcome to my humble abode, Mr. Eames,” he effused, gesturing grandly toward the interior of his apartment. “And humble it is, if I do say so myself. Won’t you come in?”

Eames was probably not the best person one should expect shocked reactions from. He’d seen and experienced all manner of incredulous things in his various jobs, and given that there were a number of twins in this place already, he was used to the phenomenon by now. Granted, Dorian looked identical to Sirius, but didn’t Regulus look exactly the same as his Arthur? And nobody with half a brain could ever begin to confuse the two of them unless they actually made an effort to do so. Still, it was his first time meeting Sirius’ double and so he allowed himself to raise an eyebrow in reaction. He then returned the little half-smile before exhaling a lungful of smoke.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Gray. I must say, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he replied. He stepped into the flat and glanced around, confirming that yes, it was the same layout as he was used to, before turning back to face him once more. Smiling around his cigarette, Eames held up his hand in a ‘wait a moment’ gesture, and then proceeded to get all the various types of cigarettes out of his pocket. “A house-warming gift for you, sir. I hope one of them is to your liking,” he said, then offered the boxes to Dorian.

Dorian ushered the man inside, securing the door behind. His eyes lit up with a hint of mischief at the gift of cigarettes. “Oh, splendid,” he said, “A cigarette is the perfect pleasure, I always say. It is exquisite, and it leaves you unsatisfied.”

Never mind that what had just come out of his mouth was complete and utter balderdash that made no sense whatsoever if one really took the time to deconstruct the logic--or lack thereof--behind the ipsedixitism. Dorian had never actually said it at all; it was merely an adopted idea that he had heard and parroted so often that he’d never bothered to think through for himself. Then again, Dorian wasn’t much in the habit of intellectual expression, or thinking in general.

He opened a pack at random, and slipped one slender roll of paper and tobacco between his lips, slipping the packet into his vest pocket and setting the others aside for the moment as he searched for his matches. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

That look, the little glint of trouble, Eames expected that from Sirius, not from his doppelganger, and then he kicked himself because he was already expecting certain things from Mr. Gray and that was hardly fair on the poor man.

The poor man who (quite naturally, and entirely obviously) quoted Wilde. How could he do anything but that, Eames reasoned. Even if it was a little bit bollocks. “I have heard that said before, yes,” he replied, then watched as Dorian hunted for a light. He reached into his pocket and took out his own lighter. “I can get that for you, if you’d like,” he offered, flicking the zippo lighter on and off. And if he happened to move a step closer, well. He was only pre-empting the other man’s acceptance of his assistance, wasn’t he?

“Ah. Thank you,” Dorian demurred, leaning over to light his cigarette. “That’s quite handy, isn’t it?” He moved to claim a seat upon the sofa, lounging indolently as he blew out a trail of smoke. “So tell me, Mr. Eames, what is it that you do? I’m afraid that people say I don’t do much of anything. But you know how people talk.”

“Indeed I do. Nothing quite like a bit of gossip to keep the rumour mill churning, eh?” Eames replied as he took a seat at the other end of the couch, “and please, call me Eames. Everyone else does.” He breathed in another lungful of smoke, then tilted his head back and blew a couple of smoke rings into the air. “I do many things. Jack of all trades, Master of... well, a few. More than a few, actually. But I’m about to embark on an exciting new career as an art teacher.”

“Then you must call me Dorian,” the young Adonis replied, looking equal parts innocent and capricious as he attempted to imitate Eames’ blowing of smoke rings. He didn’t try too hard, though, content to simply bask in the simple pleasure of his own cigarette.

“Ah, art, what an excellent pursuit,” he said, “I myself have been a patron of the arts, well, since I was a boy, really. But then, I’m always eager to try new things.”

“Is that so? I’m sure Colligo will make you more than happy, in that case. Everything here is bound to be new to you, and not just in terms of your being a new arrival. The technology, for example,” Eames replied, then looked over at Dorian and smiled. “But I’m more than willing to help you out, if needs be. Of course, that means letting me know what you have and haven’t done before.” He glanced down quickly at Dorian’s lips and let his tongue dart out to wet his own, then looked the younger man in the eye and smiled once more.

“Yes,” Dorian agreed, lips parting as he leaned forward. He knew that look. He knew it, because he felt it on his own face, and it stirred things deep down that he’d sworn he would stop indulging but had long since forgotten how to refuse. “Yes, it’s all quite fascinating...”

The only problem was...there wasn’t much that Dorian hadn’t tried before. “Then again, there’s something to be said for revisiting old favorites as well.”

"I'm fairly certain I could help you with any revising you might wish to do. As I said previously, I've done a lot of experimenting in my time, so I'm sure there's going to be some areas where our skills will... overlap," Eames replied, before taking another drag on his cigarette. Exhaling as he looked around, he frowned very slightly when he couldn't see an ashtray anywhere. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he took his lighter and his almost-empty packet of Bensons out. The last remaining fag was placed on the table, and then as much of the ash as possible went into the empty box before the cigarette was stubbed out on the lighter. The butt then joined the ash in the cigarette box, and it was also placed on the table, while the lighter went back into his pocket.

Once that was done, Eames turned back to give Dorian his full attention, shifting closer to him on the couch. "Now, I suppose it would be the decent thing to do, to offer you a proper welcome to the city," he mused, reaching over to pick at imaginary loose hairs on Dorian's shoulder, "but then, I've never been someone that could be described as decent. Does that bother you, Dorian?"

“Oh, I’m sure,” Dorian began, his face falling from fascination to mild dismay as he realized his sad lack of an ashtray, and he began looking around to find one, but could not. “Beg pardon,” he murmured, as Eames improvised one of his own, “It seems my plans for being an impeccable host were not quite as thorough as I had imagined.”

Dorian, however, was not one to let such mild disappointments mar his ever-youthful face, and laughed it off like the triviality it was. He flicked his own ashes out in the ceramic base that held a nearby potted plant, smirking up at his companion. “Why would that bother me?” he asked, feigning innocence, “It’s not as if my own reputation is completely untarnished.”

Laughing, Eames moved until he was right beside Dorian, his knee resting against the other man's thigh. "I'm not sure, ducks. I just thought I'd check." He let his hand move up to touch Dorian's hair, rubbing it between his thumb and fingertips to learn the texture and condition before pushing it back from his face. Bloody hell, what was it about this face? Was it genetically predisposed to have shampoo-advert standard hair and one hundred percent perfect skin? And apparently a libido to rival that of a fucking (hah!) rabbit. Still, never mind. It probably had downsides as well.

He grinned after that and quickly licked at his lips once more. His hand moved round to rest against Dorian's jawline, and Eames let his thumb sit in the cleft of the other man's chin. "Private welcoming party," he murmured, then leant in to kiss him, tilting his head just so and moving in closer still.

Dorian smiled a little at the pet name, his lips parting like an ingenue as Eames toyed with his hair. It was extremely gratifying to know that his efforts to return it to its perfect coiffure after his earlier dash from the library to the apartments was appreciated. That, and the way the man’s tongue snaked across his lips looked positively sinful.

He let out a soft breath as their lips met, allowing his own to quiver just a little before leaning in to return the kiss with fervor, his own hands moving to Eames’ lapels. He would allow for a bit of exploration, a bit of indulgence before he pressed his palms against the man’s chest and drew back. Just enough to leave him wanting more.

Eames had one hand resting against Dorian's thigh, while the other was combing through the other man's hair and eventually settled at the nape of his neck. Of course, that was the point when Dorian pulled back. Eames couldn't help but chase after the kiss for a moment, then paused and opened his eyes. Looking down at Dorian's hands on his chest, he raised an eyebrow in surprise before looking back up at the other man. "Mixed signals, ducks," he muttered under his breath, then pulled back very slightly as well.

“Don’t misunderstand,” Dorian murmured apologetically, “You’ve already made me feel most welcome, and I’m inclined to thank you for it.” He made a show of glancing down, then back up, as if he were torn between propriety and his desires--which would be all too apparent if Eames got much closer. “You must promise you won’t think less of me.”

Following Dorian's glance, Eames simply watched him for a moment before pulling back a touch further and then looked at the other man, a small smile playing across his lips. He moved the hand at Dorian's neck, trailing his fingertips across his cheek as he did so, but left the other hand resting on his thigh, idly stroking the leg with his thumb as he thought for a second.

More than familiar with arousal in many forms, he was fully aware of Dorian's desires without needing to confirm anything by glancing down at the man's lap. Combined with what he knew of the man's character and behaviour from the book, not to mention the various tells that were screaming at him, this hesitation made no sense, none at all. Unless...

Laughing quietly, he shook his head. "Far be it from me to judge anyone, dear boy, and saying 'no' is never a reason to think less about anyone, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to call bullshit on your sudden change of heart. If I'm wrong, no harm, no foul, and we can have those consolation drinks you mentioned before. But I'm not wrong, am I?"

Dorian pursed his lips, looking only fleetingly sorry that he had been caught in his bluff. The look that followed was one of amusement and anticipation that someone might just be able to beat him at his own game.

“No,” he said, his hand sliding ‘round to the back of Eames’ neck as he leaned a little closer again. “You’re not wrong at all.” His own tongue darted out to moisten his lips now as he went on, “The question is, are you going to fold now that you know I’m a terrible cheat?”

"Good God, man, do you think I'm a fool or something?" Eames replied with a grin, not even waiting to finish speaking before he had a hold of the man's shirt and tie, pulling him even closer. Arthur would have been horrified at the suit abuse, and the sudden thought of the Point Man almost had Eames letting go entirely. By that point, however, Dorian was right up against him. Shutting his eyes, Eames cleared his mind of everything other than what was happening right now and tilted his head back just enough that he could suck Dorian's lower lip into his mouth and nip at it gently before licking his way into the other man's mouth.

Dorian’s mouth opened to protest otherwise, but anything he might have said was swallowed up by Eames’ kiss. His own tongue danced over his lips, his head tilted to allow better access. He didn’t care that Eames was tugging at his clothes, or that they were straining buttons in their attempt to wrest one another closer still. He was only aware that he was much too overdressed.

What the hell was it with people these days? Everyone seemed to want to wrap themselves in sixteen layers of cloth for some reason, and only ever on the days they wanted to have sex with Eames. It was disgusting, truly. Arthur had been like that, and Ariadne habitually wrapped herself in all those scarves, and as for here? He'd only just met Dorian and he had a waistcoat on and a shirt and trousers, and bloody hell, was it too much to ask for just a tee-shirt and a pair of jeans or something simple like that? Apparently so.

His back bumped into the back of the couch, causing him to grunt very slightly in surprise, and then he pulled away from Dorian's mouth to start kissing down the other man's neck. "Going to... rip... this bloody... oh, fuck... this bloody thing </i>off</i>" he managed to say as he made his way down to Dorian's collar bone, tugging at the shirt and waistcoat and tie while he did so. It would probably have been easier if he'd just pull back enough to see what he was doing, but where was the fun in that?

Dorian let his head fall back against the sofa, reaching up to pull the loosened tie from his collar, shivering at the zip of silk against crisp cotton. He threw it on the floor, making quick work of the rest of his fastenings, having at least as much experience undressing as Eames, and probably more so when it came to clothing of his own particular era.

“There,” he purred, raking his fingers through Eames’ short hair and gripping the man’s shoulder, pushing him back just enough to slip out of the infernal waistcoat. “Think you can manage the rest?”

“Cheeky bugger,” Eames ground out as he pretty much shoved Dorian’s shirt off of him and onto the floor. Then he shrugged out of his jacket and got rid of his own shirt by simply pulling it over his head and dropping it onto the floor as well, thus exposing his many tattoos.

It was impossible to keep from comparing Dorian to Sirius, especially now. Granted, sleeping with Sirius had been months ago, but Eames had an excellent memory, despite his claims of forgetting things at times. Would the same things Sirius liked provoke similar reactions in Mr. Gray? He’d soon find out, wouldn’t he? His hands were already busy, mapping Dorian’s chest and upper arms by touch alone, and then he was pulling the other man close once more.

If Dorian he’d known he was being compared to his doppelganger, he would have probably felt a little jealous. Maybe more than a little. And maybe a little bit flattered. Which wasn’t all that different from how Sririus would have probably felt. They did seem to be similarly narcissistic.

At that particular moment, though, Dorian’s competitive streak only ran as far as Eames’ hands, lips, and body--and how far he could drive the man to distraction, how fast...and for how long.