Fic: Five Lives They Never Led [1/5]
Title: Five Lives They Never Led
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames, Ariadne/Cobb
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3k
Summary: Five different roads never taken.
A/N: This fic is brought to you by Lady Gaga and drunken encouragement from sorrynotsorry & chibi_lurrel. The upcoming chapters are: doctors, chefs, musicians, and camp counselors.
I. Tell me something that'll change me.
The apartment is, of course, a mess. It always is; it's an inevitable side effect of four artists sharing the same cramped space. Even though the majority of Yusuf's work happens in a darkroom and Ariadne has her studio at art school, bits of their projects invariably trickle back home, and Arthur and Eames both have their work lying around at any given time. The living space boasts a battered, godawful-ugly couch and a temperamental television; the rest of it serves as makeshift studio.
"Hey, Arthur," Eames says, without looking up. He's up to his elbows in plaster and paint- his recent love affair with abstract multimedia work has produced a few interesting pieces, and also of a hell of a lot of messes. At least he's thrown a tarp down under the canvas this time.
"How's it going?" Arthur inquires, giving Eames a wide berth as he skirts the project to slip into the kitchenette.
"Pretty good." Eames sits back on his haunches and wipes his face, leaving a smear of blue across his forehead. "At least, I think so. Hard to tell. Got a quiet afternoon to work on it though."
Arthur makes a noise in his throat and opens the fridge, bending down to dig through its contents. Cold pizza, questionable leftover Chinese, cold cuts- ah, yogurt. He checks the expiration date- still good- and yanks the foil off the top, letting the fridge door fall shut with a thump and digging a spoon out of the silverware drawer.
"Speaking of," Arthur says, settling on the couch, "where's Yusuf at?"
"Got a date," Eames informs him gleefully. "Maybe they'll hit it off. Maybe one of these days I won't have to share a bedroom."
"You are such a good friend," Arthur says dryly. "I for one like rooming with Ariadne."
"You wouldn't like it if you were getting laid."
"Maybe I'm getting laid by her."
"Like hell. She's starry-eyed over that teacher of hers."
"He's an excellent teacher," Arthur replies. He'd had Professor Cobb in his own student days, when Cobb was barely out of his master's program. The man was a brilliant artist with a penchant for surreal, elaborate dreamlike oil paintings and quite a reputation.
"Pretty sure the things she's interested in learning from him don't have much to do with art, unless it's done in chocolate body paint."
"Enough, Eames. I get your point." Arthur cocks his head at Eames' current project, watching as he splatters it liberally with green, uses fingers and brushes and sponges to smear and swirl the paint around over an uneven landscape of canvas and plaster. "That part there looks like a tree from here."
Eames cranes his neck to see from Arthur's angle. "Does a bit, yeah. Nice to know you have a little imagination under that slick hair of yours."
"Just because I prefer classic techniques doesn't mean I don't have imagination," Arthur says without bite. It's a longstanding point of contention between them, contemporary versus classic, and evidently one Eames doesn't feel like getting into, because he just makes a vague sound and returns to his work. Arthur settles in, flips on the t.v., and leaves him to it.
Arthur is tipsy. Okay, so really he's drunk, but so are the other three- Ariadne has gotten her work into a gallery showing, and the celebration hadn't been restrained. There had been dinner and dancing and plenty of drinking, and right now they're sitting in a loose circle in their living room, passing a bottle of rum between them. Ariadne is curled up in her beanbag chair, giggling, and Yusuf is lounging on the floor with one of the pillows off the couch. Arthur is sunk back into the cushions of said couch rather than supporting his own weight, and Eames is next to him, gesturing with the bottle in his hand.
"-the hell are you playing Lady Gaga?" Yusuf is demanding, and Eames nearly spills rum on Arthur while waving his hands around.
"She is an artist," Eames insists, and starts singing along because he knows it'll piss off Yusuf. "Baby is a bad boy with some retro sneakers, let's go see The Killers and make out in the bleachers..."
"She's a crazy chick who wears dresses made of Muppets," Yusuf says loudly, and Eames shuts him up by passing him the rum bottle and continuing, "All we want is hot, hot boys, boys, boys."
"Cheers Eames," Ariadne says, snatching the bottle away from Yusuf to take a pull. Yusuf groans and covers his ears theatrically, but it's a losing battle and he knows it, since both Eames and Ariadne have a completely un-ironic love of Gaga.
"Tell them, Arthur," Yusuf begs, "tell them to stop."
Arthur quirks an eyebrow.
"You like The Long Winters," Yusuf says, "and Belle and Sebastian. And A Silent Film. You can't possibly tell me you like this shit."
"It's Ariadne's party," Arthur replies, and then adds in a fit of wickedness, "Stop calling, stop calling, I don't wanna talk anymore."
"I left my head and my heart on the dance floor," they all three warble together, and Yusuf groans and takes a very large drink.
"Dance with me, Eames!" Ariadne demands, and he gallantly obliges, though in point of fact dancing with her involves an awful lot of helping her stay on her feet. Arthur makes a hazy mental note to force some water down her before she passes out. She and Eames collapse on the couch with Arthur when the shuffle on Ariadne's iPod moves on. Ariadne is warm and smells of rum and vanilla, and her hair tickles Arthur's arm.
"Okay," she says, as seriously as she can manage, "never have I ever smoked a cigarette."
"Never Have I Ever? Really?" Arthur asks, but he drinks, and so do the other two.
"Never have I ever drawn dicks for my sketch assignment just to piss off my professor," Arthur says with a smirk, and Eames drinks. For a long time.
"To be fair," he says, over the others' snickers, "it was a very good drawing. Shading and all. He was mostly angry that he had to give me a decent mark."
"D'you still have it?" Ariadne asks, and Eames grins.
"In my black sketchbook, yeah."
She grins. "Awesome. Your turn."
"Hm. Never have I ever followed an assignment completely."
"But never have I ever failed out of art school," Arthur says mildly, and drinks. Eames chuckles.
"What can I say, darling, formal education wasn't for me. And it's not your turn."
"I know. Was making a point. Yusuf?"
"Never have I ever banged a dude," Yusuf says immediately, and the bottle passes between Ariadne, Eames, and then Arthur.
"Aha!" Ariadne exclaims, pointing at Arthur, "I knew it!"
"It's not a secret," Arthur answers, a little baffled, "you just never asked. I'm queer."
"You mean bi?" Eames asks, and Arthur shakes his head. Bad idea- the room spins.
"I mean queer. Bi, it's not... flexible. There's a gender binary in it, right, but queer, that can be whatever."
"It's vague."
"Exactly." He still feels dizzy. "Should go to bed before we pass out," he adds. There's a murmur of agreement, and Yusuf drains the end of the bottle before they all stagger off to their beds to sleep.
"Oh my God," Ariadne groans, "I feel like death. I feel like I've been run over by a train. I feel like the world is exploding around me. Make it stop."
"I left water and vitamins and advil on your table," Arthur murmurs. He had woken earlier, long enough to throw up, down some water and medicine of his own, and eat a couple pieces of toast before crawling back into bed. Ariadne reaches a hand out, finds the water, and sits up only enough to take the pills and a long drink before sinking back down on her pillow.
"Thanks Arthur."
"Welcome."
"'m glad we don't have a window in here."
"Me too."
There is a rustle as she turns on her side and curls up into a ball, watching Arthur through slitted eyes. "Have you been with a lot of guys?"
"I'm impressed you remember that," he says, because he knows how much she drank. Hell, he's impressed he remembers it. "Not that many."
"More guys than girls?"
"About the same."
"Huh. Would you have sex with me?"
"You're my roommate," he says, which isn't entirely a no, but it's close enough. She lets it be, anyway, to ask instead, "Would you have sex with Eames?"
"He's my housemate."
"So? I'd have sex with him, theoretically. Except there's someone else, but. I'm saying, he's kinda hot."
"If you're into that."
"You're totally into that," Ariadne answers. "I'm going back to sleep until the drums in my brain stop," she adds as an afterthought, then burrows deeper under her blankets.
Arthur hopes to whatever higher power may be out there that she doesn't pass any of this conversation on to Eames.
"So Ariadne says you have the hots for me."
Arthur counts to ten in his head. "Ariadne likes to stretch the truth. Also, I'm trying to work."
"I know, you always do your background to "Stay Loose." It's just background," Eames says, and flops down on the couch. "What did you tell her, then, that made her tell me that?"
"Ariadne," Arthur says coolly, "seems to be under the impression that, because I've been known to have sex with men, I must want to have sex with you."
"Well, that has been my experience with most blokes," Eames says with a grin. Arthur is holding one of his paintbrushes in his teeth while he picks another, but he rolls his eyes with great feeling.
"I could never sleep with anyone who has such an appalling lack of taste," he says once he can talk again, and applies a swath of warm, blush-colored paint to his canvas. It's Eames' turn to roll his eyes.
"I like the classics as much as anyone," Eames protests, "but I'm not wedded to them for my own style. Art is about expression and experimentation because life is about those things. It'd be right boring if we all tried to paint like Caravaggio."
"Who said anything about Caravaggio?" Arthur replies. "You listen to Lady Gaga. You even know all the B-sides."
"And don't think I don't know that you secretly adore "Telephone," you always mouth the words when you think no one's looking," Eames says gleefully.
"I do no such thing."
"You bob your head," he continues, "and if you're standing your hips move."
In that moment, Arthur truly loathes Eames.
"Slander," he says, "will you please let me work?"
"If you sleep with me, I won't tell everyone that you like a pop song."
Arthur turns and stares at him. "Are you seriously blackmailing me with "Telephone" to get in my pants?"
Eames pretends to consider for a moment. "Yes."
Arthur debates this: his indie cred or his morals.
"Can I at least get to a stopping point and clean up my paints first?" Arthur's never had too much by way of morals anyway.
Eames grins. "I guess I can let you do that. I'll be in my room."
Arthur takes his time; if Eames is going to blackmail him into sex, he's damn well going to make the bastard wait as long as he can possibly get away with. Eventually, though, even Arthur is forced to admit to himself that his background is pretty much perfect, exactly what he had envisioned, and he really doesn't have any excuse to linger. He cleans his brushes thoroughly though, and takes his time putting the tubes of paint back neatly in the container labeled "Arthur's Paints: DO NOT TOUCH!"
Eames is lying in a suggestive sprawl when Arthur walks in, and Arthur privately admits that it's pretty damn appealing, especially since Eames is only wearing a pair of paint-stained jeans and, okay, Ariadne might have been right, Eames is utterly fuckable.
"I am absolutely not having sex with you if you don't turn this crap off."
"You don't wanna take a ride on my disco stick?" Eames rejoins with a grin, but he reaches over and starts fiddling with the controls on his iPod. "How about "SexyBack?""
Arthur reaches over and turns it off, then straddles Eames. "Leave the music alone."
"Well." Eames' hands come up to cradle Arthur's narrow hips, thumbs pressing at the bones, "when you put it like that." He pulls him down, and then there are hot, full lips on Arthur's and neither of them are thinking about pop music anymore. Arthur makes a low noise that he swears is not a moan when Eames does something interesting with his tongue and grinds his hips up, rubbing them together through their jeans.
"Too many clothes," Eames growls, and tugs Arthur's shirt off, then pops the button on his jeans. Peeling him out of them proves difficult- "You and your fucking tight jeans-" but once they're kicked to the floor Arthur is naked, and Eames rolls them over so he's on top.
"No pants? Dirty, Arthur, I'm impressed."
"How the hell would they fit under those jeans?" Arthur points out, and makes quick work of the rest of Eames' clothing. He's broad and solid and muscled and both of their cocks are dripping already, slick when Eames wraps his hand around them both and starts jerking them off with rough, lustful strokes.
"Good?" he purrs, and Arthur manages a breathy laugh.
"Yeah." He thrusts up and curls his own hand around Eames' as he leans to kiss him again. "Harder."
They rut together desperately, sweaty and hot and breaths gasping in each others' mouths, and with one particularly perfect twist of Eames' wrist Arthur is gone, spilling over their hands and stomachs with a desperate moan and feeling the heat of Eames' come moments later as Eames groans into the crook of Arthur's neck.
The door clicks open just as Eames is licking Arthur's hand clean, eyes alight with filthy promises.
"Oh my God," Yusuf shouts, and the door slams shut. "I'll never be able to unsee that!"
Arthur snickers into Eames' pillow. "Maybe we should see about you swapping with Ariadne."
Eames blinks, and then he smiles warmly. "Maybe we should."
"Look at this, they love you," Arthur says, and Ariadne smiles. Her cheeks are a little pink, and her eyes are bright and happy.
"I'd never have gotten this far if it weren't for Professor Cobb."
Arthur smiles knowingly. "He's very good."
"Shut up, Arthur, I know about Eames."
"Is that so."
"Uh huh. I'll swap rooms with him, I don't mind. He's wanted you forever, you know."
Arthur smiles and kisses the top of her head. "Listen, Ari, I have to get back home. Got something to work on, otherwise I'd stay. Congratulations on the show." He nudges her. "Go on and talk to Cobb, then. I'll see you later."
Ariadne swats him on the shoulder. "Bye, Arthur."
The apartment is quiet when Arthur gets back since the other three are still at Ariadne's show, and so Arthur changes out of his nice clothes and into jeans and a tee he doesn't mind getting paint on. The soothing sounds of bands no one has heard of fill the room, and Arthur settles in with his oils.
He's been working on this painting in increments since he and Eames first fell into bed together, but only when no one else was around. It's made it difficult to make progress on, but not impossible, and Arthur's pretty sure he can get it more or less done by the time they're back from the show tonight.
It's a portrait of Eames. Eames lying on his stomach on the bed, sheets tangled and puddling around him and warm dawn light through the window illuminating his skin in red and gold and bronze, his hair soft and rumpled. It's much more intimate than it is sexual, and that more than anything is the reason Arthur has kept it hidden; he is always so very careful about which of his feelings he is willing to put on show, and the tenderness for Eames that catches him at unexpected moments is still new and terrifying.
It will look nice in their room, hanging over their two beds pushed together. It will be dry by the time they move things around tomorrow.
Arthur is just putting his paints away when Eames saunters into the apartment. "Ari said you were back here working on something."
"I was," Arthur agrees, "but it's finished now. I'll show you later."
"Just as well," Eames says, "because I've got other plans for you."
"Do you really?" Arthur replies, casually drifting in the direction of his room. "And what do these plans entail?"
"You, naked."
"Right."
"And me. And my drawing pens."
"Kinky," Arthur says, and Eames laughs.
"I'm not doing that to my pens, they're expensive."
"You say that now." Arthur smiles and disappears into his bedroom, and Eames, with a fond shake of his head, gathers his pens and his sketchbook and follows.
He's always wanted to draw Arthur.
Chapter 2: Doctors
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames, Ariadne/Cobb
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3k
Summary: Five different roads never taken.
A/N: This fic is brought to you by Lady Gaga and drunken encouragement from sorrynotsorry & chibi_lurrel. The upcoming chapters are: doctors, chefs, musicians, and camp counselors.
I. Tell me something that'll change me.
The apartment is, of course, a mess. It always is; it's an inevitable side effect of four artists sharing the same cramped space. Even though the majority of Yusuf's work happens in a darkroom and Ariadne has her studio at art school, bits of their projects invariably trickle back home, and Arthur and Eames both have their work lying around at any given time. The living space boasts a battered, godawful-ugly couch and a temperamental television; the rest of it serves as makeshift studio.
"Hey, Arthur," Eames says, without looking up. He's up to his elbows in plaster and paint- his recent love affair with abstract multimedia work has produced a few interesting pieces, and also of a hell of a lot of messes. At least he's thrown a tarp down under the canvas this time.
"How's it going?" Arthur inquires, giving Eames a wide berth as he skirts the project to slip into the kitchenette.
"Pretty good." Eames sits back on his haunches and wipes his face, leaving a smear of blue across his forehead. "At least, I think so. Hard to tell. Got a quiet afternoon to work on it though."
Arthur makes a noise in his throat and opens the fridge, bending down to dig through its contents. Cold pizza, questionable leftover Chinese, cold cuts- ah, yogurt. He checks the expiration date- still good- and yanks the foil off the top, letting the fridge door fall shut with a thump and digging a spoon out of the silverware drawer.
"Speaking of," Arthur says, settling on the couch, "where's Yusuf at?"
"Got a date," Eames informs him gleefully. "Maybe they'll hit it off. Maybe one of these days I won't have to share a bedroom."
"You are such a good friend," Arthur says dryly. "I for one like rooming with Ariadne."
"You wouldn't like it if you were getting laid."
"Maybe I'm getting laid by her."
"Like hell. She's starry-eyed over that teacher of hers."
"He's an excellent teacher," Arthur replies. He'd had Professor Cobb in his own student days, when Cobb was barely out of his master's program. The man was a brilliant artist with a penchant for surreal, elaborate dreamlike oil paintings and quite a reputation.
"Pretty sure the things she's interested in learning from him don't have much to do with art, unless it's done in chocolate body paint."
"Enough, Eames. I get your point." Arthur cocks his head at Eames' current project, watching as he splatters it liberally with green, uses fingers and brushes and sponges to smear and swirl the paint around over an uneven landscape of canvas and plaster. "That part there looks like a tree from here."
Eames cranes his neck to see from Arthur's angle. "Does a bit, yeah. Nice to know you have a little imagination under that slick hair of yours."
"Just because I prefer classic techniques doesn't mean I don't have imagination," Arthur says without bite. It's a longstanding point of contention between them, contemporary versus classic, and evidently one Eames doesn't feel like getting into, because he just makes a vague sound and returns to his work. Arthur settles in, flips on the t.v., and leaves him to it.
Arthur is tipsy. Okay, so really he's drunk, but so are the other three- Ariadne has gotten her work into a gallery showing, and the celebration hadn't been restrained. There had been dinner and dancing and plenty of drinking, and right now they're sitting in a loose circle in their living room, passing a bottle of rum between them. Ariadne is curled up in her beanbag chair, giggling, and Yusuf is lounging on the floor with one of the pillows off the couch. Arthur is sunk back into the cushions of said couch rather than supporting his own weight, and Eames is next to him, gesturing with the bottle in his hand.
"-the hell are you playing Lady Gaga?" Yusuf is demanding, and Eames nearly spills rum on Arthur while waving his hands around.
"She is an artist," Eames insists, and starts singing along because he knows it'll piss off Yusuf. "Baby is a bad boy with some retro sneakers, let's go see The Killers and make out in the bleachers..."
"She's a crazy chick who wears dresses made of Muppets," Yusuf says loudly, and Eames shuts him up by passing him the rum bottle and continuing, "All we want is hot, hot boys, boys, boys."
"Cheers Eames," Ariadne says, snatching the bottle away from Yusuf to take a pull. Yusuf groans and covers his ears theatrically, but it's a losing battle and he knows it, since both Eames and Ariadne have a completely un-ironic love of Gaga.
"Tell them, Arthur," Yusuf begs, "tell them to stop."
Arthur quirks an eyebrow.
"You like The Long Winters," Yusuf says, "and Belle and Sebastian. And A Silent Film. You can't possibly tell me you like this shit."
"It's Ariadne's party," Arthur replies, and then adds in a fit of wickedness, "Stop calling, stop calling, I don't wanna talk anymore."
"I left my head and my heart on the dance floor," they all three warble together, and Yusuf groans and takes a very large drink.
"Dance with me, Eames!" Ariadne demands, and he gallantly obliges, though in point of fact dancing with her involves an awful lot of helping her stay on her feet. Arthur makes a hazy mental note to force some water down her before she passes out. She and Eames collapse on the couch with Arthur when the shuffle on Ariadne's iPod moves on. Ariadne is warm and smells of rum and vanilla, and her hair tickles Arthur's arm.
"Okay," she says, as seriously as she can manage, "never have I ever smoked a cigarette."
"Never Have I Ever? Really?" Arthur asks, but he drinks, and so do the other two.
"Never have I ever drawn dicks for my sketch assignment just to piss off my professor," Arthur says with a smirk, and Eames drinks. For a long time.
"To be fair," he says, over the others' snickers, "it was a very good drawing. Shading and all. He was mostly angry that he had to give me a decent mark."
"D'you still have it?" Ariadne asks, and Eames grins.
"In my black sketchbook, yeah."
She grins. "Awesome. Your turn."
"Hm. Never have I ever followed an assignment completely."
"But never have I ever failed out of art school," Arthur says mildly, and drinks. Eames chuckles.
"What can I say, darling, formal education wasn't for me. And it's not your turn."
"I know. Was making a point. Yusuf?"
"Never have I ever banged a dude," Yusuf says immediately, and the bottle passes between Ariadne, Eames, and then Arthur.
"Aha!" Ariadne exclaims, pointing at Arthur, "I knew it!"
"It's not a secret," Arthur answers, a little baffled, "you just never asked. I'm queer."
"You mean bi?" Eames asks, and Arthur shakes his head. Bad idea- the room spins.
"I mean queer. Bi, it's not... flexible. There's a gender binary in it, right, but queer, that can be whatever."
"It's vague."
"Exactly." He still feels dizzy. "Should go to bed before we pass out," he adds. There's a murmur of agreement, and Yusuf drains the end of the bottle before they all stagger off to their beds to sleep.
"Oh my God," Ariadne groans, "I feel like death. I feel like I've been run over by a train. I feel like the world is exploding around me. Make it stop."
"I left water and vitamins and advil on your table," Arthur murmurs. He had woken earlier, long enough to throw up, down some water and medicine of his own, and eat a couple pieces of toast before crawling back into bed. Ariadne reaches a hand out, finds the water, and sits up only enough to take the pills and a long drink before sinking back down on her pillow.
"Thanks Arthur."
"Welcome."
"'m glad we don't have a window in here."
"Me too."
There is a rustle as she turns on her side and curls up into a ball, watching Arthur through slitted eyes. "Have you been with a lot of guys?"
"I'm impressed you remember that," he says, because he knows how much she drank. Hell, he's impressed he remembers it. "Not that many."
"More guys than girls?"
"About the same."
"Huh. Would you have sex with me?"
"You're my roommate," he says, which isn't entirely a no, but it's close enough. She lets it be, anyway, to ask instead, "Would you have sex with Eames?"
"He's my housemate."
"So? I'd have sex with him, theoretically. Except there's someone else, but. I'm saying, he's kinda hot."
"If you're into that."
"You're totally into that," Ariadne answers. "I'm going back to sleep until the drums in my brain stop," she adds as an afterthought, then burrows deeper under her blankets.
Arthur hopes to whatever higher power may be out there that she doesn't pass any of this conversation on to Eames.
"So Ariadne says you have the hots for me."
Arthur counts to ten in his head. "Ariadne likes to stretch the truth. Also, I'm trying to work."
"I know, you always do your background to "Stay Loose." It's just background," Eames says, and flops down on the couch. "What did you tell her, then, that made her tell me that?"
"Ariadne," Arthur says coolly, "seems to be under the impression that, because I've been known to have sex with men, I must want to have sex with you."
"Well, that has been my experience with most blokes," Eames says with a grin. Arthur is holding one of his paintbrushes in his teeth while he picks another, but he rolls his eyes with great feeling.
"I could never sleep with anyone who has such an appalling lack of taste," he says once he can talk again, and applies a swath of warm, blush-colored paint to his canvas. It's Eames' turn to roll his eyes.
"I like the classics as much as anyone," Eames protests, "but I'm not wedded to them for my own style. Art is about expression and experimentation because life is about those things. It'd be right boring if we all tried to paint like Caravaggio."
"Who said anything about Caravaggio?" Arthur replies. "You listen to Lady Gaga. You even know all the B-sides."
"And don't think I don't know that you secretly adore "Telephone," you always mouth the words when you think no one's looking," Eames says gleefully.
"I do no such thing."
"You bob your head," he continues, "and if you're standing your hips move."
In that moment, Arthur truly loathes Eames.
"Slander," he says, "will you please let me work?"
"If you sleep with me, I won't tell everyone that you like a pop song."
Arthur turns and stares at him. "Are you seriously blackmailing me with "Telephone" to get in my pants?"
Eames pretends to consider for a moment. "Yes."
Arthur debates this: his indie cred or his morals.
"Can I at least get to a stopping point and clean up my paints first?" Arthur's never had too much by way of morals anyway.
Eames grins. "I guess I can let you do that. I'll be in my room."
Arthur takes his time; if Eames is going to blackmail him into sex, he's damn well going to make the bastard wait as long as he can possibly get away with. Eventually, though, even Arthur is forced to admit to himself that his background is pretty much perfect, exactly what he had envisioned, and he really doesn't have any excuse to linger. He cleans his brushes thoroughly though, and takes his time putting the tubes of paint back neatly in the container labeled "Arthur's Paints: DO NOT TOUCH!"
Eames is lying in a suggestive sprawl when Arthur walks in, and Arthur privately admits that it's pretty damn appealing, especially since Eames is only wearing a pair of paint-stained jeans and, okay, Ariadne might have been right, Eames is utterly fuckable.
"I am absolutely not having sex with you if you don't turn this crap off."
"You don't wanna take a ride on my disco stick?" Eames rejoins with a grin, but he reaches over and starts fiddling with the controls on his iPod. "How about "SexyBack?""
Arthur reaches over and turns it off, then straddles Eames. "Leave the music alone."
"Well." Eames' hands come up to cradle Arthur's narrow hips, thumbs pressing at the bones, "when you put it like that." He pulls him down, and then there are hot, full lips on Arthur's and neither of them are thinking about pop music anymore. Arthur makes a low noise that he swears is not a moan when Eames does something interesting with his tongue and grinds his hips up, rubbing them together through their jeans.
"Too many clothes," Eames growls, and tugs Arthur's shirt off, then pops the button on his jeans. Peeling him out of them proves difficult- "You and your fucking tight jeans-" but once they're kicked to the floor Arthur is naked, and Eames rolls them over so he's on top.
"No pants? Dirty, Arthur, I'm impressed."
"How the hell would they fit under those jeans?" Arthur points out, and makes quick work of the rest of Eames' clothing. He's broad and solid and muscled and both of their cocks are dripping already, slick when Eames wraps his hand around them both and starts jerking them off with rough, lustful strokes.
"Good?" he purrs, and Arthur manages a breathy laugh.
"Yeah." He thrusts up and curls his own hand around Eames' as he leans to kiss him again. "Harder."
They rut together desperately, sweaty and hot and breaths gasping in each others' mouths, and with one particularly perfect twist of Eames' wrist Arthur is gone, spilling over their hands and stomachs with a desperate moan and feeling the heat of Eames' come moments later as Eames groans into the crook of Arthur's neck.
The door clicks open just as Eames is licking Arthur's hand clean, eyes alight with filthy promises.
"Oh my God," Yusuf shouts, and the door slams shut. "I'll never be able to unsee that!"
Arthur snickers into Eames' pillow. "Maybe we should see about you swapping with Ariadne."
Eames blinks, and then he smiles warmly. "Maybe we should."
"Look at this, they love you," Arthur says, and Ariadne smiles. Her cheeks are a little pink, and her eyes are bright and happy.
"I'd never have gotten this far if it weren't for Professor Cobb."
Arthur smiles knowingly. "He's very good."
"Shut up, Arthur, I know about Eames."
"Is that so."
"Uh huh. I'll swap rooms with him, I don't mind. He's wanted you forever, you know."
Arthur smiles and kisses the top of her head. "Listen, Ari, I have to get back home. Got something to work on, otherwise I'd stay. Congratulations on the show." He nudges her. "Go on and talk to Cobb, then. I'll see you later."
Ariadne swats him on the shoulder. "Bye, Arthur."
The apartment is quiet when Arthur gets back since the other three are still at Ariadne's show, and so Arthur changes out of his nice clothes and into jeans and a tee he doesn't mind getting paint on. The soothing sounds of bands no one has heard of fill the room, and Arthur settles in with his oils.
He's been working on this painting in increments since he and Eames first fell into bed together, but only when no one else was around. It's made it difficult to make progress on, but not impossible, and Arthur's pretty sure he can get it more or less done by the time they're back from the show tonight.
It's a portrait of Eames. Eames lying on his stomach on the bed, sheets tangled and puddling around him and warm dawn light through the window illuminating his skin in red and gold and bronze, his hair soft and rumpled. It's much more intimate than it is sexual, and that more than anything is the reason Arthur has kept it hidden; he is always so very careful about which of his feelings he is willing to put on show, and the tenderness for Eames that catches him at unexpected moments is still new and terrifying.
It will look nice in their room, hanging over their two beds pushed together. It will be dry by the time they move things around tomorrow.
Arthur is just putting his paints away when Eames saunters into the apartment. "Ari said you were back here working on something."
"I was," Arthur agrees, "but it's finished now. I'll show you later."
"Just as well," Eames says, "because I've got other plans for you."
"Do you really?" Arthur replies, casually drifting in the direction of his room. "And what do these plans entail?"
"You, naked."
"Right."
"And me. And my drawing pens."
"Kinky," Arthur says, and Eames laughs.
"I'm not doing that to my pens, they're expensive."
"You say that now." Arthur smiles and disappears into his bedroom, and Eames, with a fond shake of his head, gathers his pens and his sketchbook and follows.
He's always wanted to draw Arthur.
Chapter 2: Doctors