.four (are we having the time of our lives?)
title. we'd sing in the doorways, or bicker and row.
pairing. eames/arthur.
rating. pg-13.
word count. 3,000 approx.
summary. five arthur and eames moments.
disclaimer. not mine at all.
a/n. for my darling fermine, who has been waiting for me to write something in this fandom since the film came out. ♥. title, header and cut text belongs to Elbow.
one.
It has been a long day and a job well done, celebrated in the bar just around the corner from the warehouse that is constantly hazy with cigarette smoke and waters down its beer. Now Arthur and Eames are walking back to their respective apartment buildings, the air cold and fog swirling around their ankles. Eames stuffs his hands in his pockets and tries to walk in a straight line, rambling on about everything that comes to his mind until Arthur tells him to shut up, Eames. The excitement they felt earlier at having completed another job seems to have been left behind at the bar and now Arthur seems almost melancholy.
Eames waits a whole three minutes and forty-two seconds before he speaks again, partly because he does not like silence and partly because he does not know what else to do except bump his shoulder against Arthur's as they walk and curl his hands furthur into his coat pockets to warm them up. Arthur says nothing this time, just sighs and hangs his head and glares at the ground. Eames tells him, cheer up, love, it might never happen, but Arthur just glares the way he always does when Eames calls him pet names.
The walk to his apartment building has never seemed this long before, and Eames is regretting that last stiff whiskey he had because the streets are starting to spin and he's knocking into Arthur more and more as they walk. They turn down an alleyway and Eames trips over his own feet, once, twice, and Arthur snorts but grabs Eames' elbow to steady him anyway. Next time don't drink so much, he says, and Arthur's one to talk because not three weeks ago Arthur drank too much wine and Eames had to drag him home, Arthur leaning heavily on his shoulders and smiling drunkenly into his neck the whole way. It's the only time he's ever seen Arthur lose control, the only time he's seen him tip his head back and laugh, really laugh, the clean line of his throat stretching down
Arthur drops Eames' elbows and quickens his pace just as Eames slows his, reaching out and catching Arthur's wrist. Arthur freezes and his shoulders heave in a big sigh as if he is sick and tired of Eames' antics but alcohol is coursing through Eames' veins and making him bold and foolish so he tugs Arthur closer to him. Arthur doesn't even resist, maybe because Eames caught him by surprise or maybe just because he is tired and he knows the best way to deal with Eames is just to let him get bored.
So he doesn't complain as Eames crowds his personal space and fists one hand in the lapels of Arthur's coat, the other one tracing the line of Arthur's jaw, which has suddenly become the most fascinating thing. It is not the first time they have had moments like these, almost-moments when it would be easy for Eames to close the gap between them but each time something hard in Arthur's eyes stops him and this time is probably no different. Still, neither of them moves for another minute, Arthur's breath ghosting over Eames' cheek, Eames rubbing a thumb over Arthur's cheekbone, and then Arthur steps back, says, Eames, you reek of alcohol, and the moment is broken.
The rest of the way Eames tells a story about a time he was playing poker in Madrid and he was down to his last chip but he managed to come back and ended up winning. It isn't until the end of the story that Arthurs says that he knows, he was there, remember? And then they're at Arthur's building and Eames says goodbye by ruffling Arthur's ever-perfect hair before turning and walking the last two streets back to his own building.
*
two.
They are dreaming, testing out a new maze. It is just Arthur and Eames; Cobb visiting his children, Ariadne busy with finals and Yusuf off god knows where. Arthur is the dreamer so of course they are in what looks like a financial district, all tall glass-fronted skyscrapers and impossible architecture.
They should probably be training, practicing shooting and forging, in Eames' case, but instead they are sat shoulder to shoulder on a bench opposite a fountain that defys all laws of physics. Eames is silent, no extravagant and mostly made up stories springing to mind, and he can't quite bring himself to break the silence and taunt Arthur over the way his dreamscapes are always minimalist and crisp.
Eames tips his head back, sighs, his hands deep in his pockets and slouching low in his seat. He is vaguely amused that Arthur has got him in a suit, a finely-tailored suit that he has to admit does fit him well. Arthur waits fifty-one seconds--Eames counts--before looking over at Eames with what is possibly a look of distaste, but Eames can't tell for sure because he can only see Arthur out of the corner of his eye. So he winks at Arthur and Arthur rolls his eyes, and Arthur really must relax once in a while, darling. He lets the pet name roll off his tongue because he knows how much Arthur hates it when he calls him anything other than Arthur, why else would he do it?
Arthur mutters something about bad posture and crumpling a good suit and that's it. Eames pushes himself off the bench, grabbing Arthur's too-skinny wrist and tugging him over to the fountain. Arthur digs his heels in and protests as soon as he sees what Eames is doing but even though he's stronger than he looks, Eames is still stronger than him. Then Arthur tries to change the dream, pushing the fountain further and further away, but that just attracts the attention of Eames' projections: you'll get yourself killed, Eames tells Arthur. Good, Arthur says, but he stops trying to change the dream and lets himself be pulled towards the fountain. Eames will pay for this later, but right now, it's worth it.
The water is freezing, and somehow Eames is surprised, as if he was expecting Arthur to have made it pleasantly warm. He tugs Arthur in after him, watching and definitely not laughing as he stumbles and water splashes up the front of his suit. Arthur pulls a face and Eames decides the best thing to do is kick Arthur's legs out from under him so he goes falling back into the water, just deep enough that he doesn't hit his head on the bottom. But Eames doesn't move away fast enough and Arthur manages a kick to the back of his knees which sends Eames tumbling down on top of Arthur and despite what Arthur may say, no he didn't mean to land on Arthur, it just happened.
Eames lies there on top of Arthur in the cold water until Arthur struggles into a sitting position and Eames falls off. Arthur's hair is dripping wet, his suit soaked and he's frowning, of course he's frowning, he's Arthur and he loves his suits and here he is, in a fountain, soaking wet. Eames laughs some more, because he's Eames and he's managed to make Arthur look foolish without being hit (yet) and that is a rare thing.
Arthur makes as if he's going to stand up, and come here, Eames says, reaching out to grab Arthur's sodden tie and pulls him closer. Water drips off Arthur's jaw and his breathing is shallow as Eames leans in to lick the water droplets off his lips before pressing their lips together. Eames wishes this could be their first kiss, not the hurried one they shared last week in the corner of the warehouse when they were on an adrenaline high and were pretty sure that their next job would either get them killed or stuck in limbo for eternity. But it is not their first kiss, it is their second, and it is a very good second kiss.
*
three.
The hotel room is one that neither of them would have chosen if they had a choice. Eames, for all his ill-fitting clothes and time spent in dingy bars playing poker, likes up-market hotels with king-size beds and fluffy white towels everywhere you turn as much as Arthur does. This hotel, however, has peeling wallpaper and rickety old double that looks like it could collapse at any moment. They have to keep a low profile, Cobb says, and somehow in Cobb's mind that means checking into the worse hotel they can find. It's alright for you, Cobb, Arthur says, you don't have to share a room and a bed with Eames. Eames takes offense at that. Especially as Arthur often shares a bed with Eames, but he supposes Arthur doesn't want Cobb to know that.
If Eames is honest, he cannot remember much of the previous night. He knows they were working until late, Arthur poring over sheet after sheet of information on their latest mark and Eames learning the case files of all the mark's friends until one in the morning, and he knows that after that he took out the bottle of whiskey he had packed. Everything afterwards is really just a blur.
He wakes up on his side, Arthur lying on his stomach next to him, an arm stretched above his head and Eames' face is pressed against it, his free hand resting on the small of Arthur's back. They are both naked and the sheets are drenched with sweat and sticky with come. Eames' head is pounding, his mouth is dry and he must have only gotten four hours sleep, at the most, but Arthur's head is turned towards him and his mouth goes slack in sleep. Arthur stirs slightly as Eames traces nonsensical patterns into his skin and kisses the crook of Arthur's elbow.
Arhur wakes up slowly, with a groan and a wrinkle of his nose, shifting onto his side and frowning when he sees the mess he's lying in. Eames can see the thoughts running through his head, can see that Arthur's about to leave to fetch a cloth so he tightens his grip on Arthur, pulling him flush up against him, tucking a thigh between Arthur's and burying his nose in the crook of Arthur's shoulder. Arthur grumbles and tries to wriggle out of Eames' grip.
It takes him five minutes to admit defeat, tipping his forehead against Eames' and sighing loudly. Eames laughs, pinches the skin on Arthur's waist and Arthur hits him on the back of the head. But then Arthur sighs again and his nose bumps against Eames' and that is when Eames falls back asleep.
*
four.
They are still in Paris when Cobb calls and tells them to meet him in Rome as soon as they can. It is two months after the Fischer job, months that Arthur and Eames have spent kicking around Paris doing the occasional simple theft, nothing too complicated without their extractor. None of them have the skills Cobb has.
Arthur books them and Ariadne plane tickets for the next morning, only Arthur and Eames miss their flight because Eames gets them drunk the night before so they wake up late, and then Eames joins Arthur in the shower and is more interested in kissing the back of Arthur's neck than actually washing. They get to check in ten minutes late and Arthur is furious. He refuses to speak to Eames for the next three hours as they try to get another flight but of course they are all booked because Arthur is cursed, apparently, doomed to spend the rest of his life in an airport with an idiotic man child. It is around this time that Eames decides it would be an excellent idea to drive to Rome instead and he won't take no for an answer.
They rent a car from the airport and Eames drives, pulling over at the first service station he can find to stock the car with plenty of food. Arthur still refuses to talk to him, except to tell Eames that it is all his fault. I know it is, Eames replies cheerfully, and he flips through all the French radio stations until Arthur slaps his hand away and they sit in silence. Every time Eames tries to talk, glancing over at Arthur as he does, Arthur glares at him and Arthur is actually pretty scary when he's mad, not that Eames would admit it.
It takes roughly thirteen hours to drive from Paris to Rome, and Eames drives for as long as he can, until it's dark and the roads are mostly empty. Then he pulls over in a cheap motel that only has one spare room, and that room only has one bed, and the world really is out to get me, Arthur says. Arthur can be very melodramatic.
You never usually mind sharing a bed with me, Eames says, pouting slightly and trying to look hurt.
You're never usually this infuriating, Arthur counters, and that really is unfair because Eames has tried to make up for them missing their flight, done the best he can to lighten the mood. It is not his fault that Arthur doesn't appreciate him trying to fill long silences with stories of counting cards in Las Vegas casinos and charming rich old ladies only to make off with their diamond necklaces, but there doesn't have to be someone talking all the time, Eames.
Eames knows Arthur is just tired and fed up and that he doesn't really mean what he is saying, but he takes a spare blanket and pillow and sleeps on the floor anyway, until four in the morning when Arthur crouches next to his head, wearing just boxer shorts and a t-shirt, and wakes Eames up by brushing the hair off his forehead and rubbing his thumb along his jawline. Eames stands, stretches the kinks out of his back, and follows Arthur back to bed, Arthur's chest to Eames' back and Eames' hand curled over Arthur's hipbone.
*
five.
When Eames dreams he likes to dream wide open spaces. Ariadne likes complex mazes and Arthur likes tall buildings and Penrose stairs, but Eames, Eames likes places that stretch endlessly on into the distance, where he is the only person for miles around. In reality, it is the opposite. In reality, he likes to be surrounded by as many people as possible, but then dreams are a way to escape reality and in dreams, he doesn't feel the need to be so close to other people.
He is dreaming now, stood amongst endless rolling hills covered in patchwork fields seperated by overgrown hedgerows. It feels a lot like England, this place, on a rare but glorious summer day when the sky is a perfect shade of blue and the sun shines in a way that makes you think it will never stop. But this is not England, and if he thinks hard enough he can remember the five-star hotel room with views of the Pacific ocean.
Arthur is stood next to him, his face turned into the sun like a sunflower, like he hasn't just left the sweltering Los Angeles heat. He is wearing a suit but no tie, and his top buttons are undone and Eames' eyes track the long line of his pale throat. For once, they have no work to do, so Eames can take his time. There is no need for hurried kisses and stolen glances, and that in itself is a wonderful feeling. They do not have much time to themselves after the Fischer job, though you would think it the oppposite, they can retire with their millions, but everyone wants a piece of the team that successfully pulled off inception. They are celebrities in the criminal world.
Arthur turns away from the sun, opening his eyes and looking at Eames like he has only just realised he is there. He smiles slowly, genuinely, and Eames hardly gets to see Arthur show emotion other than thin patience and infuriation. Arthur does not show his emotions easily, you have to work to see them, and that makes them even more satisfying when you do finally see them.
It's a bit empty here, Arthur says, looking around him and then back at Eames, and Eames has to shade his eyes because the sun is bright, far too bright. He steps closer, closer so that they are a few inches apart and he drops his hand from his forehead to Arthur's shoulder, his fingers curling around Arthur's neck and Arhur smiles again, breathes out slowly, Eames, and his left hand settles on Eames' waist as his right traces over Eames' lips. This moment is painfully intimate, more so than when they are between the bed sheets, slick with sweat, and Arthur's toes curl with pleasure as Eames is buried deep inside him. It is more intimate than the time straight after the Fischer job and they were stood smoking outside the entrance to LAX, watching as people rushed in and out of the airport, always in a hurry, and Eames smoked through three cigarettes, back to back, before tugging Arthur to him by the wrist and kissing him in the sticky heat, until airport security asked them to leave and they took a cab to Arthur's place, laughing and touching the whole way.
Eames lets his free hand untuck Arthur's shirt and slip under it to brush against warm skin, running light fingertips up Arthur's side, and Arthur breathes out shakily, laughing silently, because Arthur, with his three piece suits and tight-lipped, proffessional smiles, is ticklish. He drops his hand from Eames' waist and bats Eames' hand away, curling his fingers around his wrist and pressing his thumb to Eames' pulse point. His other hand falls to fist in Eames' shirt, half the buttons already undone, and then his hand slips underneath the shirt to flatten against Eames' chest, warm skin against warm skin, and that is when Eames kisses him, under the mid-afternoon sun.
pairing. eames/arthur.
rating. pg-13.
word count. 3,000 approx.
summary. five arthur and eames moments.
disclaimer. not mine at all.
a/n. for my darling fermine, who has been waiting for me to write something in this fandom since the film came out. ♥. title, header and cut text belongs to Elbow.
one.
It has been a long day and a job well done, celebrated in the bar just around the corner from the warehouse that is constantly hazy with cigarette smoke and waters down its beer. Now Arthur and Eames are walking back to their respective apartment buildings, the air cold and fog swirling around their ankles. Eames stuffs his hands in his pockets and tries to walk in a straight line, rambling on about everything that comes to his mind until Arthur tells him to shut up, Eames. The excitement they felt earlier at having completed another job seems to have been left behind at the bar and now Arthur seems almost melancholy.
Eames waits a whole three minutes and forty-two seconds before he speaks again, partly because he does not like silence and partly because he does not know what else to do except bump his shoulder against Arthur's as they walk and curl his hands furthur into his coat pockets to warm them up. Arthur says nothing this time, just sighs and hangs his head and glares at the ground. Eames tells him, cheer up, love, it might never happen, but Arthur just glares the way he always does when Eames calls him pet names.
The walk to his apartment building has never seemed this long before, and Eames is regretting that last stiff whiskey he had because the streets are starting to spin and he's knocking into Arthur more and more as they walk. They turn down an alleyway and Eames trips over his own feet, once, twice, and Arthur snorts but grabs Eames' elbow to steady him anyway. Next time don't drink so much, he says, and Arthur's one to talk because not three weeks ago Arthur drank too much wine and Eames had to drag him home, Arthur leaning heavily on his shoulders and smiling drunkenly into his neck the whole way. It's the only time he's ever seen Arthur lose control, the only time he's seen him tip his head back and laugh, really laugh, the clean line of his throat stretching down
Arthur drops Eames' elbows and quickens his pace just as Eames slows his, reaching out and catching Arthur's wrist. Arthur freezes and his shoulders heave in a big sigh as if he is sick and tired of Eames' antics but alcohol is coursing through Eames' veins and making him bold and foolish so he tugs Arthur closer to him. Arthur doesn't even resist, maybe because Eames caught him by surprise or maybe just because he is tired and he knows the best way to deal with Eames is just to let him get bored.
So he doesn't complain as Eames crowds his personal space and fists one hand in the lapels of Arthur's coat, the other one tracing the line of Arthur's jaw, which has suddenly become the most fascinating thing. It is not the first time they have had moments like these, almost-moments when it would be easy for Eames to close the gap between them but each time something hard in Arthur's eyes stops him and this time is probably no different. Still, neither of them moves for another minute, Arthur's breath ghosting over Eames' cheek, Eames rubbing a thumb over Arthur's cheekbone, and then Arthur steps back, says, Eames, you reek of alcohol, and the moment is broken.
The rest of the way Eames tells a story about a time he was playing poker in Madrid and he was down to his last chip but he managed to come back and ended up winning. It isn't until the end of the story that Arthurs says that he knows, he was there, remember? And then they're at Arthur's building and Eames says goodbye by ruffling Arthur's ever-perfect hair before turning and walking the last two streets back to his own building.
*
two.
They are dreaming, testing out a new maze. It is just Arthur and Eames; Cobb visiting his children, Ariadne busy with finals and Yusuf off god knows where. Arthur is the dreamer so of course they are in what looks like a financial district, all tall glass-fronted skyscrapers and impossible architecture.
They should probably be training, practicing shooting and forging, in Eames' case, but instead they are sat shoulder to shoulder on a bench opposite a fountain that defys all laws of physics. Eames is silent, no extravagant and mostly made up stories springing to mind, and he can't quite bring himself to break the silence and taunt Arthur over the way his dreamscapes are always minimalist and crisp.
Eames tips his head back, sighs, his hands deep in his pockets and slouching low in his seat. He is vaguely amused that Arthur has got him in a suit, a finely-tailored suit that he has to admit does fit him well. Arthur waits fifty-one seconds--Eames counts--before looking over at Eames with what is possibly a look of distaste, but Eames can't tell for sure because he can only see Arthur out of the corner of his eye. So he winks at Arthur and Arthur rolls his eyes, and Arthur really must relax once in a while, darling. He lets the pet name roll off his tongue because he knows how much Arthur hates it when he calls him anything other than Arthur, why else would he do it?
Arthur mutters something about bad posture and crumpling a good suit and that's it. Eames pushes himself off the bench, grabbing Arthur's too-skinny wrist and tugging him over to the fountain. Arthur digs his heels in and protests as soon as he sees what Eames is doing but even though he's stronger than he looks, Eames is still stronger than him. Then Arthur tries to change the dream, pushing the fountain further and further away, but that just attracts the attention of Eames' projections: you'll get yourself killed, Eames tells Arthur. Good, Arthur says, but he stops trying to change the dream and lets himself be pulled towards the fountain. Eames will pay for this later, but right now, it's worth it.
The water is freezing, and somehow Eames is surprised, as if he was expecting Arthur to have made it pleasantly warm. He tugs Arthur in after him, watching and definitely not laughing as he stumbles and water splashes up the front of his suit. Arthur pulls a face and Eames decides the best thing to do is kick Arthur's legs out from under him so he goes falling back into the water, just deep enough that he doesn't hit his head on the bottom. But Eames doesn't move away fast enough and Arthur manages a kick to the back of his knees which sends Eames tumbling down on top of Arthur and despite what Arthur may say, no he didn't mean to land on Arthur, it just happened.
Eames lies there on top of Arthur in the cold water until Arthur struggles into a sitting position and Eames falls off. Arthur's hair is dripping wet, his suit soaked and he's frowning, of course he's frowning, he's Arthur and he loves his suits and here he is, in a fountain, soaking wet. Eames laughs some more, because he's Eames and he's managed to make Arthur look foolish without being hit (yet) and that is a rare thing.
Arthur makes as if he's going to stand up, and come here, Eames says, reaching out to grab Arthur's sodden tie and pulls him closer. Water drips off Arthur's jaw and his breathing is shallow as Eames leans in to lick the water droplets off his lips before pressing their lips together. Eames wishes this could be their first kiss, not the hurried one they shared last week in the corner of the warehouse when they were on an adrenaline high and were pretty sure that their next job would either get them killed or stuck in limbo for eternity. But it is not their first kiss, it is their second, and it is a very good second kiss.
*
three.
The hotel room is one that neither of them would have chosen if they had a choice. Eames, for all his ill-fitting clothes and time spent in dingy bars playing poker, likes up-market hotels with king-size beds and fluffy white towels everywhere you turn as much as Arthur does. This hotel, however, has peeling wallpaper and rickety old double that looks like it could collapse at any moment. They have to keep a low profile, Cobb says, and somehow in Cobb's mind that means checking into the worse hotel they can find. It's alright for you, Cobb, Arthur says, you don't have to share a room and a bed with Eames. Eames takes offense at that. Especially as Arthur often shares a bed with Eames, but he supposes Arthur doesn't want Cobb to know that.
If Eames is honest, he cannot remember much of the previous night. He knows they were working until late, Arthur poring over sheet after sheet of information on their latest mark and Eames learning the case files of all the mark's friends until one in the morning, and he knows that after that he took out the bottle of whiskey he had packed. Everything afterwards is really just a blur.
He wakes up on his side, Arthur lying on his stomach next to him, an arm stretched above his head and Eames' face is pressed against it, his free hand resting on the small of Arthur's back. They are both naked and the sheets are drenched with sweat and sticky with come. Eames' head is pounding, his mouth is dry and he must have only gotten four hours sleep, at the most, but Arthur's head is turned towards him and his mouth goes slack in sleep. Arthur stirs slightly as Eames traces nonsensical patterns into his skin and kisses the crook of Arthur's elbow.
Arhur wakes up slowly, with a groan and a wrinkle of his nose, shifting onto his side and frowning when he sees the mess he's lying in. Eames can see the thoughts running through his head, can see that Arthur's about to leave to fetch a cloth so he tightens his grip on Arthur, pulling him flush up against him, tucking a thigh between Arthur's and burying his nose in the crook of Arthur's shoulder. Arthur grumbles and tries to wriggle out of Eames' grip.
It takes him five minutes to admit defeat, tipping his forehead against Eames' and sighing loudly. Eames laughs, pinches the skin on Arthur's waist and Arthur hits him on the back of the head. But then Arthur sighs again and his nose bumps against Eames' and that is when Eames falls back asleep.
*
four.
They are still in Paris when Cobb calls and tells them to meet him in Rome as soon as they can. It is two months after the Fischer job, months that Arthur and Eames have spent kicking around Paris doing the occasional simple theft, nothing too complicated without their extractor. None of them have the skills Cobb has.
Arthur books them and Ariadne plane tickets for the next morning, only Arthur and Eames miss their flight because Eames gets them drunk the night before so they wake up late, and then Eames joins Arthur in the shower and is more interested in kissing the back of Arthur's neck than actually washing. They get to check in ten minutes late and Arthur is furious. He refuses to speak to Eames for the next three hours as they try to get another flight but of course they are all booked because Arthur is cursed, apparently, doomed to spend the rest of his life in an airport with an idiotic man child. It is around this time that Eames decides it would be an excellent idea to drive to Rome instead and he won't take no for an answer.
They rent a car from the airport and Eames drives, pulling over at the first service station he can find to stock the car with plenty of food. Arthur still refuses to talk to him, except to tell Eames that it is all his fault. I know it is, Eames replies cheerfully, and he flips through all the French radio stations until Arthur slaps his hand away and they sit in silence. Every time Eames tries to talk, glancing over at Arthur as he does, Arthur glares at him and Arthur is actually pretty scary when he's mad, not that Eames would admit it.
It takes roughly thirteen hours to drive from Paris to Rome, and Eames drives for as long as he can, until it's dark and the roads are mostly empty. Then he pulls over in a cheap motel that only has one spare room, and that room only has one bed, and the world really is out to get me, Arthur says. Arthur can be very melodramatic.
You never usually mind sharing a bed with me, Eames says, pouting slightly and trying to look hurt.
You're never usually this infuriating, Arthur counters, and that really is unfair because Eames has tried to make up for them missing their flight, done the best he can to lighten the mood. It is not his fault that Arthur doesn't appreciate him trying to fill long silences with stories of counting cards in Las Vegas casinos and charming rich old ladies only to make off with their diamond necklaces, but there doesn't have to be someone talking all the time, Eames.
Eames knows Arthur is just tired and fed up and that he doesn't really mean what he is saying, but he takes a spare blanket and pillow and sleeps on the floor anyway, until four in the morning when Arthur crouches next to his head, wearing just boxer shorts and a t-shirt, and wakes Eames up by brushing the hair off his forehead and rubbing his thumb along his jawline. Eames stands, stretches the kinks out of his back, and follows Arthur back to bed, Arthur's chest to Eames' back and Eames' hand curled over Arthur's hipbone.
*
five.
When Eames dreams he likes to dream wide open spaces. Ariadne likes complex mazes and Arthur likes tall buildings and Penrose stairs, but Eames, Eames likes places that stretch endlessly on into the distance, where he is the only person for miles around. In reality, it is the opposite. In reality, he likes to be surrounded by as many people as possible, but then dreams are a way to escape reality and in dreams, he doesn't feel the need to be so close to other people.
He is dreaming now, stood amongst endless rolling hills covered in patchwork fields seperated by overgrown hedgerows. It feels a lot like England, this place, on a rare but glorious summer day when the sky is a perfect shade of blue and the sun shines in a way that makes you think it will never stop. But this is not England, and if he thinks hard enough he can remember the five-star hotel room with views of the Pacific ocean.
Arthur is stood next to him, his face turned into the sun like a sunflower, like he hasn't just left the sweltering Los Angeles heat. He is wearing a suit but no tie, and his top buttons are undone and Eames' eyes track the long line of his pale throat. For once, they have no work to do, so Eames can take his time. There is no need for hurried kisses and stolen glances, and that in itself is a wonderful feeling. They do not have much time to themselves after the Fischer job, though you would think it the oppposite, they can retire with their millions, but everyone wants a piece of the team that successfully pulled off inception. They are celebrities in the criminal world.
Arthur turns away from the sun, opening his eyes and looking at Eames like he has only just realised he is there. He smiles slowly, genuinely, and Eames hardly gets to see Arthur show emotion other than thin patience and infuriation. Arthur does not show his emotions easily, you have to work to see them, and that makes them even more satisfying when you do finally see them.
It's a bit empty here, Arthur says, looking around him and then back at Eames, and Eames has to shade his eyes because the sun is bright, far too bright. He steps closer, closer so that they are a few inches apart and he drops his hand from his forehead to Arthur's shoulder, his fingers curling around Arthur's neck and Arhur smiles again, breathes out slowly, Eames, and his left hand settles on Eames' waist as his right traces over Eames' lips. This moment is painfully intimate, more so than when they are between the bed sheets, slick with sweat, and Arthur's toes curl with pleasure as Eames is buried deep inside him. It is more intimate than the time straight after the Fischer job and they were stood smoking outside the entrance to LAX, watching as people rushed in and out of the airport, always in a hurry, and Eames smoked through three cigarettes, back to back, before tugging Arthur to him by the wrist and kissing him in the sticky heat, until airport security asked them to leave and they took a cab to Arthur's place, laughing and touching the whole way.
Eames lets his free hand untuck Arthur's shirt and slip under it to brush against warm skin, running light fingertips up Arthur's side, and Arthur breathes out shakily, laughing silently, because Arthur, with his three piece suits and tight-lipped, proffessional smiles, is ticklish. He drops his hand from Eames' waist and bats Eames' hand away, curling his fingers around his wrist and pressing his thumb to Eames' pulse point. His other hand falls to fist in Eames' shirt, half the buttons already undone, and then his hand slips underneath the shirt to flatten against Eames' chest, warm skin against warm skin, and that is when Eames kisses him, under the mid-afternoon sun.