Eyes Wide Shut, 1/1
Title: Eyes Wide Shut
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~2600
Rating: R
Warnings: Brief sex.
Summary: All he wants is to be wanted.
Author's Note: This is a follow-up to Requiescat; so, spoilers for the last part of Requiescat! Or if that doesn't bother you, all you need to know is that Arthur used to be Neil McCormick. Title is from the Adam Lambert song 'Sleepwalker'.
Two hundred American dollars. That is how much eleven gay men in Seattle would be willing to pay solely for the privilege of sucking Arthur's cock.
He swirls a glass of white wine in one hand and peruses the responses to his ad. It's never made sense to him. He would never pay money to suck somebody else off. And yet, here they are, without fail: almost a dozen men, all over forty years old as best he can tell, clamouring to respond to his Craigslist ad and be the one he might choose to service him.
He's not serious. He's really not. Hence the listing in Seattle, when Arthur is in fact in London.
He's just curious.
So why is this the third time he's done it?
Eames enters the apartment with a bang, the way he does most things. He's holding a bag and wrestling with a dripping umbrella that looks to be on its last legs, spokes jutting out at awkward angles.
"God, it's pissing down out there," Eames announces loudly. "Fucking unbelievable, you'd think after three days the rain would let up and give us a chance to dry off."
"Need help?" Arthur inquires mildly, already having closed his inbox and pulled up an innocuous game of Tetris.
"No, I've got it. Let it never be said that I'm not an excellent provider. Dinner is served."
Dinner is fish and chips from the shop down the street ("the chippy", Eames calls it). Eames' own portion is smothered in curry sauce, which Arthur finds alarming. He sprinkles his with malt vinegar. Eames tries to coax him into trying one of his chips and laughs at the expression Arthur makes when it's waved in front of his face; he gets a smear of sauce on Arthur's lip, and leans over the table to kiss it away.
Afterward they stumble into bed naturally, fluidly, shedding clothes, like this is the next step in a dance they've long mastered. Arthur tells him he tastes like curry, and bites off a groan when Eames slides down the bed and wraps his sinful lips around Arthur's cock. Eames likes sucking him off -- Arthur would even say he loves it -- he'd probably suck him all day, if Arthur let him. It works for Arthur, who doesn't get the same enjoyment out of the act. He likes receiving. He always has.
When he's hard enough, Eames draws away and gives him a bottle of lube. Arthur spends just a minute prepping him before he buries himself deep inside Eames, letting himself tumble into that familiar black spiral of lust. He lets go completely, fucks Eames into the mattress, kisses him blindly. He loses himself utterly and it's a blissful high, better than any drug rush. Arthur should know.
They share a cigarette when they're both spent, taking lazy drags from it, tangled in the sheets together.
"You know how nobody's really at their most attractive when they come?" Eames muses aloud.
"Yeah." God, does he know about that.
"Well, you are."
"Thanks." Arthur exhales and watches a thin thread of smoke spiral away. "I think."
"It's a compliment," Eames assures him. "Christ, I wish you could see yourself. Like you're in fucking raptures. Beautiful."
Arthur gives him the cigarette, to shut him up. He closes his eyes and slumps into the pillows, silently delegating the task of clean-up to Eames, who doesn't complain. When the lights are off, the cigarette's out and they and the bed are reasonably tidy, Eames leans over and kisses him once more.
"I love you," he murmurs against Arthur's lips.
Arthur says quietly, "You too," which isn't really a reply at all, and Eames falls asleep. Arthur stays awake.
The thing is.
The thing is that Arthur is one of the best extractors in the world. And he's used to being the best at everything he does. He's come to expect it as a matter of course. He's Arthur; he's the best. Everyone knows it.
So it drives him mental that Eames is better at this relationship than him.
Eames loves him wholly and absolutely. He loves Arthur openly and gladly.
Arthur lies awake at night and wonders how that must feel, because he doesn't know. He doesn't know if he'll ever know. Because the thing is this: the only time Arthur thinks he could be in love is when he's having sex.
He wants to love Eames, but he doesn't know how.
And Eames' love keeps him there like a moth in a jar. No matter how far across the world Arthur scans for people to desire him, it'll always come back to Eames. Eames' love is a balm. It's more than love; it's adoration, devotion. It bewilders and soothes Arthur in equal parts. It keeps him there because if he loses it, he doesn't know what he'll do. He loves being loved by Eames.
He just doesn't fucking know how to love him back.
He gets up in the middle of the night, lights another cigarette and pulls open his inbox on his laptop. Two more replies to his ad. He slams the laptop shut.
Fuck.
+
When Arthur is at work, he's like a racehorse wearing blinders. There's only himself, the goal, and whatever lies in between.
They take a job in Rio together, since they only take jobs that require both of them, and Arthur is glad to sink back into the role of point man, let all the background noise fall away. No distractions. He is utterly single-minded in his pursuit.
When they get back to their hotel room and Eames lays a hand on him, Arthur shrugs him off, startled and annoyed.
Eames accepts this and, for the rest of the job, worships Arthur from a distance.
Arthur doesn't tell him he's secretly terrified to let distractions in when he's at work. If he stops being the best point man in the world, he's nothing, he's nobody. He's just Neil McCormick from Kansas, and not even Eames can find anything to love in that.
The job goes off flawlessly.
Arthur's so relieved, his hands almost tremble when he's packing up the PASIV.
+
Eames makes him laugh on the flight home by imitating the extractor they worked with, whose accent was terribly Bostonian. Eames is a wicked mimic and Arthur can afford to let distractions in now. They're a couple again.
When they're back in London he makes up for the sexless week by letting Eames fuck him thoroughly. Secretly, Arthur loves this.
Something one should understand about Arthur: He's never given it up to just anybody. Yes, he was a hooker; that doesn't mean he was ever some kind of fucking sloppy party bottom. The majority of his work was blowjobs, and the majority of that had him receiving. Actual sex came in at a distant second and he almost always topped. When Arthur let himself get fucked, it was only for the right kind of money or else some man he was genuinely attracted to, who he might have even had sex with for free.
Eames isn't like the right kind of money or the right kind of client. The truth is that when he covers Arthur's body with his own, stretches him out and pushes inside, when he's buried to the hilt inside him and Arthur feels that strange sense of fullness all the way up his spine, he feels complete. Whole. He thinks it must be more than a physical response, because Arthur has been hurt like this before and would kill before he let that happen again, so opening himself to Eames like this makes him unpleasantly vulnerable. There's an element of trust here that makes this ... intimate.
Arthur has never been intimate before.
He doesn't have the words to describe any of this to Eames. He chokes out words of gratitude that make Eames laugh and come nowhere close to explaining how he feels when Eames is inside him. Eames fucks him like he's special, like he deserves this kind of care. Eames explores him carefully and thoroughly, sounding him out and learning all the ways to make Arthur shudder and whine. His attention is laser-focused and transfixes Arthur like a searchlight. For a brief time, they're the only two people in the entire world.
And when this happens, Arthur swears -- swears he's in love. Dizzy, drunk, head-over-heels in love, because what else could make him feel like this?
Then the afterglow fades. The flood of endorphins slows to a trickle. And he just feels tired and well-fucked, which is nice, but can't begin to recapture that former violent burst of emotion.
It never seems to fade for Eames. He wakes Arthur in the morning by looping an arm around his midsection, drawing him close and pressing kisses to the back of his neck like he just can't stand not touching Arthur for a second longer. Arthur shivers and curls into him. He soaks up Eames' love like a plant starved for sunlight.
He's so jealous of Eames. Eames, who loves so easily.
+
"I have to go," he says one morning, when he's sufficiently warmed up, wrapped snug in the cocoon of Eames' arms.
"Oh? Where to? Got a hot date?"
Arthur smiles thinly. "To Los Angeles."
Eames shifts, his breath puffing warm on Arthur's neck. "Why?"
Because he has to get away from Eames, is what he doesn't say. Because he doesn't know how to be in a relationship, because he's bad at it and he's never been bad at anything before and it scares him.
"To see Cobb," is what he does say.
+
Arthur likes it at Cobb's house because he likes being around the children. They make him feel so uncomplicated. Even though they know that, once, Uncle Arthur was sick, and when he came home he tried to hurt himself, and they had to leave him alone when he was trying to sleep because he was very, very sad and they couldn't make it better.
Kids move past such things easily. Cobb considerably less so.
Arthur plays babysitter for a few days and unwinds. He plays with the kids and helps Phillipa with her homework. He puts them to bed each night and reads them stories. Cobb hovers and watches, silent.
When the kids are asleep they sit and drink beer and talk quietly. Cobb tells him how his classes are going and what his students are like. Arthur tells him about the business and the jobs he's been taking. Sometimes they reminisce about old jobs they did together.
Eventually, Cobb clears his throat and asks.
"How's it going with Eames?"
"Good," Arthur says.
Cobb looks down at his beer, takes a measured sip, plainly uncomfortable.
"I wish it were better," Arthur says.
"It's not going so great?"
"No. It's fine. Eames is very ..." Arthur squints down at his own beer bottle, suddenly self-conscious and unhappy. We were supposed to be like you and Mal, he wants to say. I thought we would be.
"Does he make you happy?" Cobb asks, and Arthur smiles a little in spite of himself.
"Yes." He misses Eames. Right now, he misses him.
"Shouldn't that be enough?"
You'd think.
Arthur says, staring down at his beer: "I think it's my fault Mal died."
The clock on Cobb's wall goes tick, tick, tick.
"What ..." Cobb starts, stirring.
"She wanted to help me. I think I might have been the first dreamer to go to limbo. No one working on the Project understood. They wrote a report about it and they were able to guess that I'd gotten trapped in a deeper layer of my psyche, but I don't think they knew the implications of that. Mal read that report, I don't know how she got ahold of it. But I think that's why she wanted to start experimenting with deeper dreaming. I think she wanted to understand what I did to myself so that she could help me. And I guess that's how it got to limbo. Cobb, maybe you put that gun to her head, and maybe she pulled the trigger, but I think I'm the one who put the bullet in the chamber."
It feels so good to say all this out loud.
He didn't know what a weight it was.
He waits for Cobb to say it's okay, he's just being foolish, but instead Cobb has put down his beer and is kneading his face with the heels of his palms, and what he says, without looking up, is, "You should go."
"I'm sorry," Arthur says.
"I know. Really. I do. But I really think you should leave now."
Arthur gets up quietly. He doesn't leave right away, though. He feels unwanted and it prickles at him. Like rejection.
"I've taken bullets for you," he says.
"I know you have."
"You should get shot in the kneecap, and see how you like it."
"Please go."
Arthur does.
+
Cobb doesn't want him. He feels like he's lost his place in the world. Arthur has belonged to Cobb for years. Even after the extractor retired, Arthur has always felt he'll be Cobb's point first and foremost.
He feels lost and that's how he ends up in a low-rate motel in Los Angeles after an hour of email correspondance over Craigslist, across from a man who looks about fifty and like he scarcely dares to touch Arthur.
"You're gorgeous," he says reverently. "Like a fucking GQ model, fuck."
Arthur lowers his eyelids and shrugs. The words sound right, but some chord is off, some jarring note in a familiar song.
He knows what it is, once he's sunk onto the edge of the bed, and this man -- this john, who the fuck's he kidding -- has crawled up between his legs, running his hands up Arthur's thighs, and Arthur breathes out slow and measured.
He doesn't feel in control.
He feels very much out of control.
It's all wrong. He can't.
"I can't," he says, shoving the man's hands away when they travel in to the zip of his jeans. "Sorry. I just can't."
The man curses at him. Calls him a tease as Arthur stumbles unsteadily out of the room. Arthur doesn't care. He feels better already.
+
He flees. Across the world. Until the sun is just breaking over the horizon and spilling light over London, through the window of Eames' flat and creeping up the bed when Arthur finds him, collapses in next to him, a shivering mess.
"Hey," Eames mumbles, stirring, pressing a blind kiss to his hair. "How's Cobb and the kids?"
"Fine. Just hold me, for a minute?"
Eames obliges him. He smells good. Arthur presses his face to Eames' neck, lets himself bask in this unfamiliar feeling of being cherished. He's had a taste of being loved now. To be merely desired will never be good enough again.
He lays there until the warmth of Eames' body has chased the last of the shudders out of his muscles and he's slack in Eames' arms. Like a narcotic addict who's found a fix, he feels relaxed and content.
"How long will you want me?"
"Forever," Eames murmurs, sleepy, maybe asleep again already.
And that's enough. Arthur thinks, that's enough. It's enough to keep him here. As long as Eames wants him. They can be happy like this.
As long as Eames wants him.
(unfinished) sequel
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~2600
Rating: R
Warnings: Brief sex.
Summary: All he wants is to be wanted.
Author's Note: This is a follow-up to Requiescat; so, spoilers for the last part of Requiescat! Or if that doesn't bother you, all you need to know is that Arthur used to be Neil McCormick. Title is from the Adam Lambert song 'Sleepwalker'.
Two hundred American dollars. That is how much eleven gay men in Seattle would be willing to pay solely for the privilege of sucking Arthur's cock.
He swirls a glass of white wine in one hand and peruses the responses to his ad. It's never made sense to him. He would never pay money to suck somebody else off. And yet, here they are, without fail: almost a dozen men, all over forty years old as best he can tell, clamouring to respond to his Craigslist ad and be the one he might choose to service him.
He's not serious. He's really not. Hence the listing in Seattle, when Arthur is in fact in London.
He's just curious.
So why is this the third time he's done it?
Eames enters the apartment with a bang, the way he does most things. He's holding a bag and wrestling with a dripping umbrella that looks to be on its last legs, spokes jutting out at awkward angles.
"God, it's pissing down out there," Eames announces loudly. "Fucking unbelievable, you'd think after three days the rain would let up and give us a chance to dry off."
"Need help?" Arthur inquires mildly, already having closed his inbox and pulled up an innocuous game of Tetris.
"No, I've got it. Let it never be said that I'm not an excellent provider. Dinner is served."
Dinner is fish and chips from the shop down the street ("the chippy", Eames calls it). Eames' own portion is smothered in curry sauce, which Arthur finds alarming. He sprinkles his with malt vinegar. Eames tries to coax him into trying one of his chips and laughs at the expression Arthur makes when it's waved in front of his face; he gets a smear of sauce on Arthur's lip, and leans over the table to kiss it away.
Afterward they stumble into bed naturally, fluidly, shedding clothes, like this is the next step in a dance they've long mastered. Arthur tells him he tastes like curry, and bites off a groan when Eames slides down the bed and wraps his sinful lips around Arthur's cock. Eames likes sucking him off -- Arthur would even say he loves it -- he'd probably suck him all day, if Arthur let him. It works for Arthur, who doesn't get the same enjoyment out of the act. He likes receiving. He always has.
When he's hard enough, Eames draws away and gives him a bottle of lube. Arthur spends just a minute prepping him before he buries himself deep inside Eames, letting himself tumble into that familiar black spiral of lust. He lets go completely, fucks Eames into the mattress, kisses him blindly. He loses himself utterly and it's a blissful high, better than any drug rush. Arthur should know.
They share a cigarette when they're both spent, taking lazy drags from it, tangled in the sheets together.
"You know how nobody's really at their most attractive when they come?" Eames muses aloud.
"Yeah." God, does he know about that.
"Well, you are."
"Thanks." Arthur exhales and watches a thin thread of smoke spiral away. "I think."
"It's a compliment," Eames assures him. "Christ, I wish you could see yourself. Like you're in fucking raptures. Beautiful."
Arthur gives him the cigarette, to shut him up. He closes his eyes and slumps into the pillows, silently delegating the task of clean-up to Eames, who doesn't complain. When the lights are off, the cigarette's out and they and the bed are reasonably tidy, Eames leans over and kisses him once more.
"I love you," he murmurs against Arthur's lips.
Arthur says quietly, "You too," which isn't really a reply at all, and Eames falls asleep. Arthur stays awake.
The thing is.
The thing is that Arthur is one of the best extractors in the world. And he's used to being the best at everything he does. He's come to expect it as a matter of course. He's Arthur; he's the best. Everyone knows it.
So it drives him mental that Eames is better at this relationship than him.
Eames loves him wholly and absolutely. He loves Arthur openly and gladly.
Arthur lies awake at night and wonders how that must feel, because he doesn't know. He doesn't know if he'll ever know. Because the thing is this: the only time Arthur thinks he could be in love is when he's having sex.
He wants to love Eames, but he doesn't know how.
And Eames' love keeps him there like a moth in a jar. No matter how far across the world Arthur scans for people to desire him, it'll always come back to Eames. Eames' love is a balm. It's more than love; it's adoration, devotion. It bewilders and soothes Arthur in equal parts. It keeps him there because if he loses it, he doesn't know what he'll do. He loves being loved by Eames.
He just doesn't fucking know how to love him back.
He gets up in the middle of the night, lights another cigarette and pulls open his inbox on his laptop. Two more replies to his ad. He slams the laptop shut.
Fuck.
+
When Arthur is at work, he's like a racehorse wearing blinders. There's only himself, the goal, and whatever lies in between.
They take a job in Rio together, since they only take jobs that require both of them, and Arthur is glad to sink back into the role of point man, let all the background noise fall away. No distractions. He is utterly single-minded in his pursuit.
When they get back to their hotel room and Eames lays a hand on him, Arthur shrugs him off, startled and annoyed.
Eames accepts this and, for the rest of the job, worships Arthur from a distance.
Arthur doesn't tell him he's secretly terrified to let distractions in when he's at work. If he stops being the best point man in the world, he's nothing, he's nobody. He's just Neil McCormick from Kansas, and not even Eames can find anything to love in that.
The job goes off flawlessly.
Arthur's so relieved, his hands almost tremble when he's packing up the PASIV.
+
Eames makes him laugh on the flight home by imitating the extractor they worked with, whose accent was terribly Bostonian. Eames is a wicked mimic and Arthur can afford to let distractions in now. They're a couple again.
When they're back in London he makes up for the sexless week by letting Eames fuck him thoroughly. Secretly, Arthur loves this.
Something one should understand about Arthur: He's never given it up to just anybody. Yes, he was a hooker; that doesn't mean he was ever some kind of fucking sloppy party bottom. The majority of his work was blowjobs, and the majority of that had him receiving. Actual sex came in at a distant second and he almost always topped. When Arthur let himself get fucked, it was only for the right kind of money or else some man he was genuinely attracted to, who he might have even had sex with for free.
Eames isn't like the right kind of money or the right kind of client. The truth is that when he covers Arthur's body with his own, stretches him out and pushes inside, when he's buried to the hilt inside him and Arthur feels that strange sense of fullness all the way up his spine, he feels complete. Whole. He thinks it must be more than a physical response, because Arthur has been hurt like this before and would kill before he let that happen again, so opening himself to Eames like this makes him unpleasantly vulnerable. There's an element of trust here that makes this ... intimate.
Arthur has never been intimate before.
He doesn't have the words to describe any of this to Eames. He chokes out words of gratitude that make Eames laugh and come nowhere close to explaining how he feels when Eames is inside him. Eames fucks him like he's special, like he deserves this kind of care. Eames explores him carefully and thoroughly, sounding him out and learning all the ways to make Arthur shudder and whine. His attention is laser-focused and transfixes Arthur like a searchlight. For a brief time, they're the only two people in the entire world.
And when this happens, Arthur swears -- swears he's in love. Dizzy, drunk, head-over-heels in love, because what else could make him feel like this?
Then the afterglow fades. The flood of endorphins slows to a trickle. And he just feels tired and well-fucked, which is nice, but can't begin to recapture that former violent burst of emotion.
It never seems to fade for Eames. He wakes Arthur in the morning by looping an arm around his midsection, drawing him close and pressing kisses to the back of his neck like he just can't stand not touching Arthur for a second longer. Arthur shivers and curls into him. He soaks up Eames' love like a plant starved for sunlight.
He's so jealous of Eames. Eames, who loves so easily.
+
"I have to go," he says one morning, when he's sufficiently warmed up, wrapped snug in the cocoon of Eames' arms.
"Oh? Where to? Got a hot date?"
Arthur smiles thinly. "To Los Angeles."
Eames shifts, his breath puffing warm on Arthur's neck. "Why?"
Because he has to get away from Eames, is what he doesn't say. Because he doesn't know how to be in a relationship, because he's bad at it and he's never been bad at anything before and it scares him.
"To see Cobb," is what he does say.
+
Arthur likes it at Cobb's house because he likes being around the children. They make him feel so uncomplicated. Even though they know that, once, Uncle Arthur was sick, and when he came home he tried to hurt himself, and they had to leave him alone when he was trying to sleep because he was very, very sad and they couldn't make it better.
Kids move past such things easily. Cobb considerably less so.
Arthur plays babysitter for a few days and unwinds. He plays with the kids and helps Phillipa with her homework. He puts them to bed each night and reads them stories. Cobb hovers and watches, silent.
When the kids are asleep they sit and drink beer and talk quietly. Cobb tells him how his classes are going and what his students are like. Arthur tells him about the business and the jobs he's been taking. Sometimes they reminisce about old jobs they did together.
Eventually, Cobb clears his throat and asks.
"How's it going with Eames?"
"Good," Arthur says.
Cobb looks down at his beer, takes a measured sip, plainly uncomfortable.
"I wish it were better," Arthur says.
"It's not going so great?"
"No. It's fine. Eames is very ..." Arthur squints down at his own beer bottle, suddenly self-conscious and unhappy. We were supposed to be like you and Mal, he wants to say. I thought we would be.
"Does he make you happy?" Cobb asks, and Arthur smiles a little in spite of himself.
"Yes." He misses Eames. Right now, he misses him.
"Shouldn't that be enough?"
You'd think.
Arthur says, staring down at his beer: "I think it's my fault Mal died."
The clock on Cobb's wall goes tick, tick, tick.
"What ..." Cobb starts, stirring.
"She wanted to help me. I think I might have been the first dreamer to go to limbo. No one working on the Project understood. They wrote a report about it and they were able to guess that I'd gotten trapped in a deeper layer of my psyche, but I don't think they knew the implications of that. Mal read that report, I don't know how she got ahold of it. But I think that's why she wanted to start experimenting with deeper dreaming. I think she wanted to understand what I did to myself so that she could help me. And I guess that's how it got to limbo. Cobb, maybe you put that gun to her head, and maybe she pulled the trigger, but I think I'm the one who put the bullet in the chamber."
It feels so good to say all this out loud.
He didn't know what a weight it was.
He waits for Cobb to say it's okay, he's just being foolish, but instead Cobb has put down his beer and is kneading his face with the heels of his palms, and what he says, without looking up, is, "You should go."
"I'm sorry," Arthur says.
"I know. Really. I do. But I really think you should leave now."
Arthur gets up quietly. He doesn't leave right away, though. He feels unwanted and it prickles at him. Like rejection.
"I've taken bullets for you," he says.
"I know you have."
"You should get shot in the kneecap, and see how you like it."
"Please go."
Arthur does.
+
Cobb doesn't want him. He feels like he's lost his place in the world. Arthur has belonged to Cobb for years. Even after the extractor retired, Arthur has always felt he'll be Cobb's point first and foremost.
He feels lost and that's how he ends up in a low-rate motel in Los Angeles after an hour of email correspondance over Craigslist, across from a man who looks about fifty and like he scarcely dares to touch Arthur.
"You're gorgeous," he says reverently. "Like a fucking GQ model, fuck."
Arthur lowers his eyelids and shrugs. The words sound right, but some chord is off, some jarring note in a familiar song.
He knows what it is, once he's sunk onto the edge of the bed, and this man -- this john, who the fuck's he kidding -- has crawled up between his legs, running his hands up Arthur's thighs, and Arthur breathes out slow and measured.
He doesn't feel in control.
He feels very much out of control.
It's all wrong. He can't.
"I can't," he says, shoving the man's hands away when they travel in to the zip of his jeans. "Sorry. I just can't."
The man curses at him. Calls him a tease as Arthur stumbles unsteadily out of the room. Arthur doesn't care. He feels better already.
+
He flees. Across the world. Until the sun is just breaking over the horizon and spilling light over London, through the window of Eames' flat and creeping up the bed when Arthur finds him, collapses in next to him, a shivering mess.
"Hey," Eames mumbles, stirring, pressing a blind kiss to his hair. "How's Cobb and the kids?"
"Fine. Just hold me, for a minute?"
Eames obliges him. He smells good. Arthur presses his face to Eames' neck, lets himself bask in this unfamiliar feeling of being cherished. He's had a taste of being loved now. To be merely desired will never be good enough again.
He lays there until the warmth of Eames' body has chased the last of the shudders out of his muscles and he's slack in Eames' arms. Like a narcotic addict who's found a fix, he feels relaxed and content.
"How long will you want me?"
"Forever," Eames murmurs, sleepy, maybe asleep again already.
And that's enough. Arthur thinks, that's enough. It's enough to keep him here. As long as Eames wants him. They can be happy like this.
As long as Eames wants him.
(unfinished) sequel