fic: Life's These Yellow Lines
Life's These Yellow Lines
Arthur/Eames
PG-13
band au, ~7500 words.
Written for this prompt at inception_kink: Eames is a depraved rock star. Arthur is the put upon journalist hired by management to write about his latest tour. Also for the band square for au_bingo.
Eames wakes up with a dull, steady thudding echoing around his head.
He moans to himself and stretches out across the double bed he's sprawled on. The sheets are soft and smooth, expensive in an obvious way, and it's such a nice change from his bunk on the bus that it seems distinctly unfair that he can feel so shit when he's on top of a mattress that still has all its springs. He tugs the covers up over his head, eyes shut tight, but the thudding still continues. Eames decides in that split second that he hates whisky, and that he will never drink it again, at least not until someone buys him another bottle he doesn't have to pay for himself.
“Answer the door,” Ariadne groans from the other bed, and it finally occurs to Eames that the pounding isn't just inside his head.
It's also coming from the door. Whoever is on the other side is knocking in an infuriating rhythm that syncs up perfectly with his hangover, and at first he thinks it must be Yusuf, because it's the same sort of beat Yusuf keeps on the drums, steady and solid. Then he remembers that Yusuf had passed out on the hotel's soft carpet about an hour before he and Ariadne had crashed last night, and he's still there; Eames can hear him snoring.
Eames waits, but no one else moves. The knocking continues.
“Fuck,” he says feelingly as he drags himself out of bed. He's wearing his boxers and the same shirt he wore on stage last night, which is, now he thinks about it, pretty nasty. It's barely done up, half hanging off him with two buttons matched up to the wrong holes. He scrubs his hand through his hair as he stumbles to the door, and it takes him two attempts to open it.
There is a man standing in the doorway. He's wearing a suit that Eames vaguely recognises as the type he has to wear for the classier photo shoots sometimes, well cut lines that scream designer, with his shirt buttoned up to the neck and a tie that hangs perfectly straight. For a few seconds - definitely longer than is appropriate - Eames just stares at him, wondering if he's so hungover that his brain is now conjuring up mirages of attractive, exquisitely dressed men to make him feel better about his situation.
The man raises his eyebrow at Eames and clears his throat.
“Yes?” Eames asks. He doesn't recognise the guy, and he's sure someone would have told him if there was a meeting or interview scheduled so early. As the front man, he feels he should be told these things. He thinks that at the very least someone would have told Ariadne, trusting her to tell him.
“Mr. Eames?” asks the man.
“Yes,” Eames repeats.
“My name is Arthur.” Arthur holds out his hand. After a few seconds, Eames' brain wakes up just enough to prompt him into shaking it. Arthur has a very firm handshake. “You have no idea who I am,” Arthur observes after a moment.
“No,” Eames agrees. “I don't.” Arthur's expression doesn't change. “Sorry,” Eames adds, not making any attempt to make it sound sincere.
Arthur sighs. “Your management - Saito? - arranged for me to travel with the band for a couple of weeks. I work for Rolling Stone, I'm a journalist.”
Ariadne's voice floats out from somewhere behind Eames, a little rougher than usual. “Shit! Oh, yeah, Eames, I think I forgot to say. They're doing a story on us. Behind the music.”
“Back stage and behind the scenes,” Arthur tells him.
Eames yawns. He's sure he should be pissed off that no one bothered to inform him of this, to check that it's okay, but he decides the save the feeling for later, when he feels less like something died in his mouth. “Lovely,” he mutters, and turns around, leaving the door open for Arthur to follow him in. “Someone wake Yusuf before we go, I need to fucking shower.”
--
Most of the time, Eames loves what he does. He's in a band because he's good at what he does, because he loves it, and everything else that comes along with it is just a bonus. Sometimes, though, when he wakes up and it's yet another morning after the night before and all he wants is to crawl into the bus and sleep until they reach the next state, and they emerge in the hotel lobby and there's a crowd of girls just outside, he can't be bothered. It makes him a prick, the kind of rock star he hated back when he was going to every gig he could get to in London, but he puts his sunglasses on and keeps his head down and strides straight past them to get to the bus.
He steps inside after Ariadne and Yusuf, thankful that neither of them decide to hang back and sign a few autographs either, and Arthur follows him onto the bus. Eames is trying to decide between coffee and going straight to sleep; the second option wins out as the thought of drinking anything makes his stomach turn. As he stalks off to his bunk, he notices Arthur giving him a look.
He only met the man this morning, but there's something about the tilt of Arthur's head and the slight quirk of his eyebrow that makes Eames feel like he's being judged.
Eames ignores him, too.
--
Having Arthur around as they travel is nothing like the normal style of interview Eames is used to. Usually, all they need to do is answer questions, and usually they get told those in advance, too, so there's not too much any of them can do to fuck it up. This is different: Arthur is there when Eames is shuffling around the bus first thing in the morning before he manages to get any coffee into his system, and when Ariadne is whipping him at video games, and when he and Yusuf sneak outside at rest stops to smoke even though they tell Ariadne they're still trying to quit, trying to mask the smell with Yusuf's Febreeze before they go back in.
The bus comes with four bunks even though there are only three of them, so it's easy for Arthur to slot right in and observe the whole lifestyle. He explains to them that it's meant to help him write a more insightful story on them, but Eames feels uncertain every time he actively thinks about the fact that Arthur is around. Arthur is observing the lifestyle, but he isn't partaking in any of it - he wears his suits and smart clothes even when the rest of them are slouching around in sweat pants or shorts, and he spends all of his time with his nose buried in his laptop or a book or on the phone to his boss at the magazine. He doesn't talk to them like other guests on tour tend to and instead just listens, and Eames doesn't like the reminder that anything he comes out with might end up being printed some day. He's too used to people taking his words and twisting them all out of shape, making out that he's worse than he is even on a bad day, and with Arthur being around all the time, it stands to reason that he could probably do a lot of damage.
At first, he decides that the easiest way to tackle this is to ignore Arthur's presence. They're travelling around on a bus, though, and while it's bigger and infinitely more luxurious than the vans they used to tour around in, it's definitely not big enough to hide from someone in. There's no adequate ignoring space.
It's especially difficult when that someone is Arthur, who may not talk much and may dress like he's expecting an impromptu catwalk to spring up at any second, but is undeniably easy on the eyes.
With this fact in mind, Eames decides that the more practical option is to play up to his stage persona and flirt with Arthur instead. It's what he'd probably do if he met Arthur under any other circumstance, and he's met journalists before, more than his fair share; they never know what to make of it when the front man starts hitting on them. Eames does it a lot now, just for the reactions, and if the worst Eames gets out of this is the label of being an even bigger flirt than anyone previously thought, it's a good deal. It's better than anything real, anything damaging.
Arthur is in the bus kitchen, somehow managing to remain unobtrusive even though the space is tiny and cramped, when Eames decides that he needs more coffee. Arthur is still a little in his way simply by standing in the kitchen at all, though, and so Eames says, “'Scuse me, love,” as they side step each other.
For the first time, Arthur shoots him a look that is surprised instead of judgemental. Eames grins to himself in his victory.
--
Eames makes himself a list as something of a personal challenge. He tends to use a lot of endearments anyway, without even thinking about it, so it's not all that difficult for him. Ariadne peers over his shoulder while he's jotting nicknames down. She rests her chin on his shoulder and says, “Oh, smooth.”
Over the next few days, he successfully slips into conversation with Arthur: darling, sugar, kitten, sweetheart, dear, pet and doll. (He's particularly proud of kitten - Arthur gives him an especially startled look.)
Eames is good at reading people, which is why he's managed to get so far into his career without causing any major scandals, except for the time with the coke and some girl's hidden camera. He knows that it's getting to Arthur, and he's biding his time, lounging around on his laptop while he waits for Arthur to say something.
Arthur waits until they stop at the next venue and Eames is leaning against the side of the bus, cupping his hand around his lighter as he tries to light a cigarette despite the wind. The past couple of shows they've played, Arthur has gone straight into the venue with the tech guys, presumably to get a taste of what work really goes into setting up backstage, but this time he waits until everyone else is heading inside and comes to stand next to Eames.
“Well, hello,” Eames says as he finally gets his cigarette lit. He takes a drag, eyes briefly closing as he feels it rush through him, and then exhales slowly, glancing across at Arthur. He smiles. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Are you ever serious about anything?” Arthur asks.
“Arthur, I'm purely a professional,” Eames says. “I'm serious about everything. The question is, are you ever not?” Out of nowhere, he finds himself wondering if Arthur even owns pyjamas. It's an image that just won't come together in his mind.
“I'm professional,” Arthur says firmly. It doesn't sound quite as good when Eames has already said it, though.
Eames shoots him a smirk. “Sure.”
Arthur goes inside after that, apparently not willing to wait out in the cold with Eames while he smokes, and later on, when the band comes off stage and then goes back on for their encore, Eames glances across at Ariadne on bass just to see her roll her eyes and calls out over the screams, “This is dedicated to all of you, and to journalists everywhere.”
He places his fingers firmly on the frets of his guitar and waits for Yusuf to count them in.
--
“So what are you actually writing about?” he asks Arthur a couple of days later. Yusuf is napping and Ariadne is ignoring everyone with a novel in her bunk, and Arthur is sat on the other side of the couch for once instead of hiding away too. He's tapping away on his laptop while Eames watches old DVDs to while away the travelling time, volume turned up loud to drown out the distant sound of traffic.
Arthur stops and glances at him. “You,” he says, and then amends quickly, “your band.” He starts typing again almost at once, as though he can't bear to stop focusing on his work for more than a second.
Eames looks at him. “Thank you for that information.”
“I can't say much else,” Arthur says. “It's about touring. You'll read it before it prints if you want to, obviously, but I don't want anything to affect your routines. It's got to be authentic.”
“Authentic touring is boring as hell,” Eames points out. “We just drive all day. There aren't even wild parties unless we get a hotel night and find a lot of people we like. It's unfortunate, I know, but that's life.” Arthur continues to ignore him, and something about his caginess is beginning to set alarm bells off somewhere in the back of Eames' head. When a journalist doesn't tell him what they're writing, he's found, in his experience, that it tends to mean whatever they're saying has very little basis in fact. “Come on, Arthur, what are you writing about me?”
“I really can't say,” Arthur says.
Eames thinks back to the very first morning they met, when he was hungover as hell and undeniably rude, when he ignored the fans. He thinks about the look Arthur gave him. His voice loses some of the teasing tone. “It's rude not to.”
“Mr. Eames, this is my job,” Arthur tells him. He offers Eames a small little half shrug, his attention already directed back at his laptop. For some reason, this is what annoys Eames the most, even more than the reluctance to give him a straight answer about what the eventual article may be focusing on - it's just something about the implied casual dismissal, as though Eames' reputation isn't on the line with every printed word. “I'm not the one who organised it, I'm just here to write.”
“Fine,” Eames says. He stands up, even though the film he's watching is only a third of the way through, and runs his hand absently through his hair. He feels unsettled, more than just the usual disorientation that begins to kick in halfway through a tour. “Although I don't see how you're going to get anything done when you just lurk around us without even getting involved. There's no imagination with that, you know, I hope they're not paying you too much.” He turns toward the bunks on instinct, not wanting to stay around Arthur for any longer and faced with the limited interior of the bus.
“You're being an asshole,” Arthur comments lightly as he walks off, and for a second Eames is more struck by Arthur swearing than any of the meaning behind it.
He pulls the curtain of his bunk across after him and stares blankly up at the ceiling for a while. Touring always fucks with his sleeping schedule and can turn him half nocturnal, but today he finds himself wide awake, a little more angry than he thinks he should be.
--
On stage that night, he's even more full of energy than usual. He moves across the stage during every solo, leaning forward as far as he can into the audience as he sings, draping himself over his microphone stand as he talks between songs. He keeps whirling around to grin at Yusuf, and he sings the entirety of their slowest song to Ariadne, back to the cheering crowd throughout most of it as she plays her bass right back at him, tossing her hair back. This is what he loves: under the lights, in front of a crowd, shifting from one persona to another as they jump from song to song.
He stalks off stage at the end of their set still buzzing with energy, boiling hot from the lights and the heat of the venue. He grabs a bottle of water from someone and empties half of it over his head before gulping back the rest of it, and as he wipes over his face with a towel, he catches Arthur's eye for a second and then pointedly turns away.
--
“I'm telling you, Cobb.” Arthur's voice comes floating out from his bunk as Eames passes it, pitched low but not quite quiet enough. “There's nothing to write about so far. It's all stuff everyone already knows, I'm not seeing any hidden depths off stage.” There's a pause. “Yes I'm trying, come on.”
Eames doesn't think any of them are obligated to reveal any hidden depths to anyone, especially someone like Arthur, who is living with them but won't even try to ask. Eames is the front man, and he puts himself out there on stage every single night behind the act of performing. If Arthur can't see that just because they're playing large venues now, because they get a fancy bus and a bigger cut of it all at the end and he assumes, like everyone else, that it's an act, then it's not Eames' problem.
He stalks past Arthur's bunk and into the kitchen, and something must be showing on his face, because Ariadne takes one look at him and says, “You don't have to play the surly rock star when we're on the bus, Eames. I know we've stopped, but we're not in the venue yet.” Her tone is light, but there's worry creasing across her forehead.
It turns out it's exactly what Eames needs to hear to knock him out of his self-absorbed haze. He doesn't want to worry her or Yusuf - he learnt his lesson after the disappearing act he pulled in Mombasa after they finished touring a couple of years ago - and he has to remind himself, occasionally, that this is a job. It's a job that he loves and that he knows he's lucky he's good enough at to do it for a living, but it's still a job, and all jobs have pitfalls. His just happens to involve press, and rumours that circulate more widely than most, and it's his job to stay at least somewhat professional; it's his job to not care.
“I'm just perfecting the act, you know, don't worry about me,” he says, and she looks at him searchingly for a few seconds longer and then smiles.
It turns into a glare a few minutes later when Yusuf pokes his head into sight, mimes lifting a cigarette to his mouth while looking meaningfully at Eames, and the two of them make a dash for the bus door.
--
It's nearing three a.m., and Eames is still sitting on the tiny couch, the light dimmed down low so it doesn't shine throughout the whole bus, listening to the sounds of the road rolling on by beneath him as he resigns himself to the touring sleeping pattern once more. In the wake of not being able to sleep, he's tapped into a need for productivity, a desire to keep himself busy. He taps the end of his pen on the surface of the notebook on his lap, thinking about what to write next.
Eames isn't often in the mood to actually sit down and write lyrics. He's heard other musicians talk about being struck with inspiration any and all hours of the day, and he does get ideas out of nowhere, from watching people everywhere, but he tends to let them brew quietly in his head until he sits down with the specific aim of getting them all down on paper. He's trying to jot a few ideas down just to try and clear his head a little tonight, but not much is happening.
“Can't sleep?” a voice says behind him, and Eames very almost jumps. Instead he just stills his pen and twists around to look pointedly at Arthur.
“Evidently not,” he says.
“No,” Arthur says. “Same.”
Eames finds it slightly odd that Arthur is willingly engaging in conversation with him and is actually initiating it, and Arthur looks - not exactly uncomfortable. Eames doesn't think that Arthur has the capabilities to look uncomfortable, with his expensive suits and his neat hair. He does look the closest to it Eames has seen him so far, though, and there's something almost gratifying about it.
Eames nods at the other side of the sofa. “You can sit down.”
“I will,” Arthur says, but he goes over to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water first. Eames gets the impression that Arthur is trying make a point about not needing Eames to tell him where he can and cannot sit. When Arthur does sit down, the cushion dipping down low with broken springs, he says, “You were good tonight.”
“Well thank you, Arthur,” Eames says. He smiles in spite of himself, partly because he likes getting compliments, but mostly because, judging by the look on his face, Arthur isn't too used to giving them out. There's something about it that Eames finds quite amusing.“I'm glad you think so, I appreciate it.”
“And I wanted to apologise for calling you an asshole,” Arthur continues, almost as though Eames didn't speak. “It was unprofessional of me.” There's a pause; Eames senses that more is coming. “Even if you were being an asshole at the time,” Arthur adds, and he grins, and Eames laughs.
“Fucking finally, Arthur. Soon that stick will come all the way out your arse,” he says, and Arthur raises an eyebrow at him that Eames thinks may almost verge on suggestive. It's late, though, and the light is low. It could easily be his imagination.
--
They finally have a hotel night lined up, a rare night off from performing, and they stop at a local store only to find they have an offer on vodka. They're not even looking to buy any because they know if they want to drink, they just have to find the right kind of people willing to party after a show, but they walk past the aisle and see the bargain sign and Eames looks from the shelf to Ariadne and Yusuf, the three of them in wordless agreement.
“How rock and roll,” Arthur comments when they get back on the bus with their purchases, ready to head to the hotel, but he's smiling. He's been talking to them more ever since he and Eames had their late night chat - not hugely, but he's a little less reserved, a little more involved.
“You can write about the wild lifestyle,” Yusuf tells him dryly, because drinking in a hotel room is nothing compared to what they got up to when they first started making it.
“Oh, I'm sure Arthur wants something a little more in depth than that,” Eames interrupts, and Arthur looks at him for a long moment before Eames turns away to check with the driver how much longer they're going to be.
--
Eames stumbles as he crosses the room to go out onto the tiny balcony it comes with, and he admits to himself that he might be a little bit drunk. It's a fairly clear indicator, along with the way the hotel room appears to be sliding sideways every time he moves too quickly. He grabs Yusuf's cigarettes from where they've been left on one of the beds as he passes, and once he's outside, he sits on one of the dusty, plastic chairs and taps one out the packet.
He's forgotten to pick up his lighter, though, so he finds it very helpful when Arthur appears a few seconds later and hands it to him. “Cheers,” Eames mutters around the cigarette in his mouth, and as he fumbles just once before he gets it lit, it reminds him of that very first morning Arthur showed up, like Eames had just invented him. He waves an arm at the other chair in the same moment Arthur sits down anyway.
Eames smokes quietly for a couple of minutes, content with the silence. It begins to feel like too much after a while, though, a kind of quiet Eames is no longer used to, and he points his cigarette at Arthur and says, “So, tell me something, Arthur.” He doesn't have anything specific in mind as he says it. It's an open request, curiosity surfacing as he takes in Arthur's loosened tie.
“I'm not telling you what I'm writing,” Arthur replies. There's a slight pause before he speaks, which is the only indicator that he's been drinking with the rest of them tonight that Eames can pick up on. That and the loosened tie. Otherwise Arthur looks the same as ever, sharp and prepared for anything.
“What makes you think I'm talking about that?” Eames asks. “You need to learn a little unprofessionalism. As long as it's not another story all about how much of an arsehole I am, I think I'll learn to live with it. It's just that there are too many of those already, you know. I don't want you to bore the world with another one.” He's rambling, he thinks slowly, only recognising it after the fact.
“I only said it once,” Arthur says mildly. “You don't have to worry - how many stories about you being an asshole do you think there are?” He sounds curious; it's the first time Eames has ever heard him change track in the middle of a sentence, the first time he's ever heard him sounding distracted or surprised. He likes it, both the tone of Arthur's voice and the implication that he's finally caught Arthur's interest, one way or another.
“It's what happens when you sell out,” Eames tells Arthur matter of factly. His voice is pitched lower than usual, too many cigarettes in one evening. Even his hair is going to smell of smoke in the morning. “Surely you know everyone hates success.”
“And do you hate success?”
“Are you finally trying to do an interview?” Eames asks, eyebrows raised. Arthur shakes his head, but it's the crooked smile that wrestles its way onto his face that convinces Eames more than the action does. “Of course I don't hate success,” he scoffs. “I hate that everyone else does, sometimes. Reading about how you don't care anymore gets old after a while. It just lacks any effort, but I know there's nothing I can do about that. And the bus beats driving around in the bloody vans.”
“I can't imagine you guys driving around in a van,” Arthur says.
Eames laughs. He takes one last drag off of his cigarette and then crushes the filter out into the grimy ashtray next to him. “Christ, it was shit. We could've had a bus earlier, but my father wouldn't fund any of it. We weren't a wise investment back then.” He smiles, not entirely bitter, remembering it. “I used to almost drive on the wrong side of the road whenever I was tired. We had to get special permission from Ariadne's parents to let her come out with us because she was so young at the time. We almost had to beg.”
“That sounds... that sounds terrifying, honestly,” Arthur says. Eames doesn't miss how he pointedly doesn't comment on Eames mentioning his family for the first time in a long time.
“Oh, it was.” Eames flashes Arthur a grin. “But it was worth it to get to this point. It's what we wanted, to keep on doing what we do. Even if it is easier to be an arsehole now than it was then.”
“You're not really,” Arthur tells him.
“It's okay,” Eames says. His mind keeps flashing back to that first morning, to the lift of Arthur's eyebrow as Eames walked past the fans without a word. He pats Arthur's arm reassuringly. “I know you think I am.”
It occurs to him, belatedly, that he's being nostalgic and almost maudlin, a terrible, drunken cliché all of a sudden.
“Mr. Eames,” Arthur says. His tone is mock-official, which startles Eames into laughing again. “You're drunk. Shut up.”
Eames can't contest this point. “I'm a rock star, darling,” he drawls with an exaggerated wink. “It's all in the job description. How are you not drunk?”
“I'm maybe a little drunk,” Arthur admits. It's a good thing to hear. “I can hide it though.”
Eames leans closer, precarious on his creaking chair, to inspect Arthur's face with more scrutiny. Arthur is right; he is good at hiding it. The only sign that Eames can spot is the loose smile that hasn't quite left his face even as he relaxes, and when Arthur raises an eyebrow at Eames' sudden proximity, all Eames can focus on is his eyes. “You're good at hiding it,” he allows. His voice sounds even lower, but the words don't come out as rough as they were a few minutes ago.
A second drags by, lagging. Eames' sense of time is skewed from all the alcohol, but he feels entranced by this moment, where nothing is happening at all. “I am,” Arthur agrees in something of a mutter.
Eames isn't even entirely sure what they're talking about anymore. He feels entranced by Arthur. He's definitely far too drunk; just another rock star cliché. “What else are you hiding, Arthur?”
Arthur opens his mouth, and Eames wonders when he moved even closer to Arthur, shifting and leaning his chair without noticing it until this moment, until he thinks if he concentrated he might be able to feel Arthur's breath mixed in with the breeze and any lingering smoke. Then there's a noise behind them, a thud and a voice.
“Dude,” Yusuf says, “Eames, where are my cigarettes?”
Eames twists away to grab them and stands up abruptly, chair scraping across the floor. He passes them over and heads back inside, walking away for once from what he's sure can only be a bad idea.
--
Eames wakes up hungover again. He throws on the first clothes he finds that fit him and are presumably his, and stumbles into the en suite bathroom only to find he's managed to match up almost all the colours under the sun. He ignores this and splashes his face with cold water instead in an attempt to make himself feel slightly more alive. They have to be back on the bus in half an hour; he's the last one to wake up.
When he stumbles back into the room, he finds that Ariadne and Yusuf have both gone down to grab some breakfast before they go. It's just him and Arthur - Arthur in the same smart clothes as ever, looking all business even though Eames knows they all drank the same last night - and for a few seconds, Eames feels knocked off balance by it just being the two of them. Nothing has happened, but when their eyes meet as Arthur passes him on the way to the door, Eames feels like something has.
He pins it on the hangover. It's slowing his brain down, making it harder to process things than normal - like the slightly unfamiliar look that flutters across Arthur's face, or how to do more than stare blankly at his food while his stomach flips at the smell when they get downstairs, or how he feels when Arthur says, stretching a little as they stand to leave, “So, my last day with you guys has come round pretty fast.”
Eames didn't pay any attention to the details when Arthur first came out with them. He's been travelling with the for a while now, and it shouldn't be surprising, but somehow Eames is still startled at the suddenness of the good bye.
--
The problem, Eames tells himself, is the break in routine.
One of the things he loves most about touring is the relative freedom it gives them, the chance to travel from city to city, state to state, even continent to continent at times. There's an unpredictability to it that he'll never grow tired of: you never know what's going to happen at the next gig, what's going to show up just around the corner.
The routine it comes with isn't quite the normal kind. There are no 9-5 work hours or early morning alarm clocks, but they spend most of their days on a bus, and there's only so much it's possible to do in such a small space. They wake up at odd times, but the rest of the day is invariably spent reading, watching DVDs, playing video games, raiding truck stops for half decent food and trying not to drive each other too insane. Eames has gotten used to Arthur always being there, even if Arthur always managed to be subtle about his presence, and on tour the smallest difference feels outlandishly magnified.
He doesn't think that he misses Arthur. He still has Ariadne and Yusuf to wind up, to flirt harmlessly with, and it would be strange to miss a quiet, slightly irksome journalist who was only there to spy on them, no matter how good his arse looked in his impeccably well fitting trousers.
The problem is the sudden absence of something he'd finally grown used to. All he misses, just a little bit, is their back and forth; another person to break up the endless stretches of dull, grey road.
--
A few days later, they have a radio interview in the afternoon before they have to get to the venue and start setting up. The interviewer looks bored, even as they walk in, and spends most of the interview asking Ariadne borderline inappropriate questions about being the only girl in the band, as though it's not something they've already discussed to death over the years. He talks over them every time they give an answer longer than a sharp sound bite, and asks a few questions they've already answered, clearly not listening to them too closely.
“Well that was a lot of fun,” Yusuf says when they finally get to escape, rolling his eyes.
Ariadne sighs. “I miss Arthur,” she says almost wistfully.
Eames says nothing.
--
The curtain doesn't draw all the way across Eames' bunk properly, and he spends slow minutes that night that tick over into hours staring out of the small gap at the empty bunk opposite his when he can't sleep. Before Arthur came, they'd turned it into something of a storage space for whatever they didn't have room for throughout the rest of the bus, but since he's gone, it's stayed empty. Eames finds it odd. They all know that Arthur isn't coming back and that no one else will be filling the space, and they could always do with extra storage.
The next day, he's trying to find space for the growing collection of magazines he's buying at each rest stop, and he glances across at what's not really Arthur's bunk at all again. For a moment, he pauses.
He slots the stack of magazines into the small space under his bunk and doesn't think about it.
Later, he raises an eyebrow at himself in the mirror as he's brushing his teeth, and is only marginally surprised to find that the expression reminds him of Arthur even when it's his own reflection that he's seeing it on - it was always impressive how high Arthur's eyebrows could rise up his forehead. Eames shakes his head at himself and looks down at the sink to spit, watching the toothpaste swirl away down the drain with the water.
It's when they have a night off from playing shoes and they schedule a photo shoot for a music magazine that Eames realises that perhaps he does miss Arthur, after all. Just a little. They put him in a Burberry Prorsum suit that's almost too nice, the sort of thing he doesn't feel entirely comfortable wearing, and it reminds him irresistibly of Arthur. It's the sort of thing that Arthur would wear without question, would wear with a quiet, confident pride, would look absolutely fucking gorgeous in, and as Eames struggles with the tie to make it perfectly neat and straight, he thinks, suddenly and finally: well, shit.
--
The article prints during their last week of touring.
They used to read every single piece of press written about them when they first started out, but now it's more difficult to find the time or track it all down, or it's just mildly depressing because someone else has decided not to like them. This is a big story, though, one that was seemingly weeks in the making, and it's in a big magazine, and Saito makes sure they all get sent a copy.
Eames sits on the couch with his feet propped up a bag someone has left on the floor, and he actually reads the entire contents page until he realises he's just putting it off and flicks straight to Arthur's article.
He's a fast reader, so he's been through it twice and is on his third read when he registers the sounds of someone approaching. He doesn't look up. He's still trying to let it all sink into his brain as Ariadne drops down onto the couch next to him. She curls her legs up under herself, worming her toes under his thigh, and he barely blinks.
“So,” she says after a second, her own copy of the magazine in hand, “I didn't know they still published love letters, did you?”
“Don't be ridiculous,” he tells her.
“Oh, come on!” she says.
Eames doesn't respond straight away. There's no denying the article is extremely complimentary of them as a band, documenting their history and their struggle with what Arthur presents as false accusations of selling out, although that's all stuff Eames has read before. The parts about the guilt of occasionally having to rush past fans, though, and the late night writing and Eames' worries about straying away from the things they originally wanted, the dreams they were always chasing down freeways and through state lines no matter who didn't believe in them: they don't usually get dealt with at all, let alone in such a finely crafted, understanding way. It's why Eames has read it repeatedly already.
“Eames,” Ariadne adds softly. “What happened with you two? Things were weird that morning, and you've been, like - just different since he left.”
“Nothing,” Eames says honestly. He sounds almost petulant about it even to his own ears.
“Is that the problem?” Ariadne asks, and Eames looks down at the small black print and doesn't nod because he doesn't have to.
--
“Call him,” Ariadne says.
“I'm busy,” Eames insists, curled around his guitar. He is busy. He's making sure it's perfectly tuned for the last show of the tour, even though they aren't at the venue yet and there are techs who will do it for him again anyway.
“Eames, just fucking call him,” Yusuf chips in.
Eames ignores them both and thumbs at the D string a few times until it hits the note he's looking for. “I don't even have his number,” he says eventually. “He's practically a colleague.”
Yusuf snorts, and Ariadne laughs. “When has that ever stopped you?” she asks. “Call Saito. He'll know his number, you know he knows everything.”
Later that night, jittery with preshow adrenaline, Eames sends Saito a quick text before he strides onto the stage, grinning as the screams wash over him.
--
Saito doesn't just come back with a number. Saito comes back with a cell phone number, a home number, a work email address, a personal email address and Arthur's actual address. Eames thinks he should probably feel bad about the invasion of privacy, but he's really just impressed about how thorough and efficient Saito is, although Eames supposes it's hardly surprising that a man of Saito's position has contacts everywhere.
Arthur happens to live in the city they're playing their last show in. Eames is sweat-drenched and thrumming with energy as he gets off stage and reads the text, and it seems like a sign. It makes it seem like a perfectly acceptable and logical plan, as he thinks about it in the shower, to go straight to Arthur's apartment rather than just giving him a call. The more personal touch is always the best, and he may as well take advantage of the opportunity.
It takes him thirty minutes to get there, just long enough for him to wonder how Arthur will react to this. Probably not too well - Arthur is, from everything Eames has gathered about him by now, a very private man when it comes to his personal life - but for some reason the thought just makes Eames smile, picturing Arthur's face as he sits in the back of a cab and tries not to fidget. He wonders how it took him so long to figure this out.
Arthur doesn't offer a greeting when Eames rings the buzzer. His voice comes crackling out the speakers through a burst of static, just saying, “Yeah?” and Eames takes a second to wonder how to reply.
“There's a big fan of your writing here, Arthur,” he says eventually, and he knows that Arthur must recognise his voice, because after another quick burst of static Arthur buzzes him up. He lives in a nice apartment block: ultra modern and sophisticated, not surprising at all.
Arthur opens the door looking the most casual Eames has ever seen him. He's still wearing a button down shirt, but there's no tie, and the top two buttons are open. Arthur takes one look at him standing in the doorway and raises an eyebrow. “Mr. Eames,” he says steadily.
Eames lifts his (crumpled, well read) magazine into the air between them. “I was very interested in your article,” he says.
Arthur is beginning to smile. It starts off small, just a quick quirk of his mouth, and then spreads slowly across his face. It's infectious; Eames is beaming. “Really,” Arthur says.
“I was particularly intrigued by your portrayal of the front man.” Eames is reverting back to their harmless banter without even intending to, and yet Arthur's smile doesn't budge. If anything, it grows a little, and Eames takes it as a cue to step forward, almost across the threshold. “He seems to have struck a chord with you.”
“I guess you could say that,” Arthur says. He doesn't move back, Eames notices. “He managed to be irritating enough to be quite memorable.”
“Oh, darling,” Eames says, just to see Arthur roll his eyes one more time, “I was only ever trying to charm you. Tell me, did it work?” He steps closer again as he speaks, two small shifts of movement, until he's close enough to Arthur to see Arthur's eyes tracking the movement of his lips, until they're almost as close as they were that night on the balcony.
“Not at all,” Arthur says, but he still doesn't move back, not even as Eames rests one hand on the door frame and leans in. Eames pauses for a moment, a chance for Arthur to tell him not to, but all Arthur does is tilt his head just enough so that their noses don't bump. Arthur kisses like Eames imagined, and it's the first time he's actively acknowledged that he's imagined it: with a precision based kind of hotness, like the most important thing is to be thorough, to make it good. It's dirtier than Eames would have expected. Arthur's mouth opens at the first touch of his tongue, and he makes a low, rough noise into Eames' mouth, right there in his doorway.
“Are you sure about that?” Eames mutters, not bothering to move away to speak, and Arthur smirks. Eames can only just see the expression, this close.
“I'm sure I didn't expect to a get a groupie from a piece of writing,” he says, and finally steps back into his apartment. “I suppose you should come in, if your ego can fit through the door.”
“Lovely,” Eames smiles. He lets go of the doorway and follows, letting the magazine flutter down onto the floor on his way.