Love And Let Love
Title : Love And Let Love
Summary : “I’m just going to pop round to the pub for a pint. I’m giving you full permission to fuck Arthur or make love to him in my absence. Have at it and have fun.”
Rating : R
Notes : Written for this inception_kink prompt.
Further Notes: This got ridiculously out of control and it barely stayed on prompt. But, I wrote it anyway. Also, I think this constitutes as my first real Eames/Arthur fic.
EDIT: Two more sentences, that make all the difference, added to the end.
He’s in Berlin for a job.
The extraction business isn’t kind to him these days. No one needs a Forger, a human one anyway, so he has to revert to the trade that got him as far as he is. Thievery. There’s a particular piece of work in The Staatliche Museen that can get him money and lots of it. There’s a flat in London he wants to put a down payment on, an early birthday present for Arthur. It’s exactly the kind of place he would like. It’s on the second floor of a converted Victorian house, now a town house, with a view of the park. Domesticity isn’t his strong suit, but for Arthur that’s something he’s willing to work on.
The job is a success. Having Interpol on his tail counts as a success to him. At least they haven’t caught him.
With the Petrus Christus portrait rolled carefully and tucked into a secret compartment of his carry on, Eames runs. There’s not a place in the world they can’t find him, but hiding has always been his strong suit.
They’re much smarter than he gives them credit for. They’re much better than the FBI that’s certain. They’re waiting for him when he gets Stateside. They wait for an entire week before they determine he’s not going to show up. Eames waits an extra day before he knocks on the door. It’s soft and unsure.
Arthur stands in the doorway, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, lips pressed in a firm thin line. This isn’t how they’re supposed to greet each other after two months of being apart. Eames isn’t a romantic, but there’s a protocol that needs to be followed when two lovers are reunited and this isn’t it.
“My sister was here.” It’s all Arthur says and Eames knows he has fucked up. He fucks up often, but this is of an entirely different caliber. “She still is. Good evening Mr. Eames.”
“Is it the pizza Arthur? I’m hungry.” The soft twelve year old voice travels through the room just before the metal door shuts in his face.
***
He travels to India, Brazil and Switzerland before he settles in Kenya. He can’t return to England. Yusuf’s mild mannered company is what he needs.
He’s biding his time. He burns the painting with Yusuf’s help and all that’s left of the fresh faced girl is ashes. He scatters them, the burning midday sun blazing down on his back. It’s a figurative mourning.
The one week he promises Yusuf he’ll stay turns into a month and then another and then four. The realtor calls him, in the middle of the third month, and in curt tones he tells her he’s no longer interested in the flat. She sells it to a newlywed couple.
Arthur doesn’t call. Eames knows he won’t. Still, when Yusuf’s phone rings, he grabs for it expectantly.
He blends into his surroundings easily. The suits Arthur hand picks for him go into storage. Colorful shirts Yusuf approves of take their place.
***
One visit from Cobb is all it takes.
His bags are packed and he leaves Mombasa behind. It wasn’t really his anyway. He borrowed it for far longer than he wanted to.
Eames isn’t expecting Paris. With Cobb’s history, he doesn’t even think it’s a feasible option. Paris still isn’t the safest choice for him. Interpol officers are still after him.
Arthur is there, as always, at Cobb’s side. Still slick and well dressed, like the memory of Arthur he preserved. He nods curtly and Eames returns it.
It’s meaningless.
***
When he meets Ariadne, his eyes are still trailing after Arthur. Yusuf is buzzing excitedly around her and Arthur is walking away with Cobb and Saito.
“Sorry, didn’t quite catch the name,” He says when Yusuf snaps his fingers in front of his face loudly.
“Ariadne,” She repeats with a smile. She holds out a hand tentatively and when he accepts it, she shakes his hand firmly.
This is the reason they’re in Paris. Nash is no longer in the picture. The wide eyed, fresh faced girl is. She reminds him of the painting he burns in Yusuf’s back yard.
She’s brilliant. She’s far better than he remembers Cobb being when he joined his temporary team at twenty-five. She has a smile that’s nice to look at. Only one side of her mouth curves upward when she does so and she hides her teeth. It’s soft though, entirely feminine.
He’s not the only one who notices.
***
It’s Eames’ job to observe, to understand people.
Arthur doesn’t look at him anymore. The sly glances that were once reserved for him are thrown in the direction of the young architect. The girl with the impeccable hair.
She unnerves him. It’s her eyes, Eames decides. They’re perceptive. They dare anyone who comes across her work to find a fault that’s not there.
He kicks Arthur’s chair, it’s a cry for attention, and she watches him.
Arthur regards him with the same impatience he had on their first job together. He has insurmountable amounts of time for the girl however. Any fleeting question is reason enough to saunter over to her work table and spend more than five minutes in her company.
***
Arthur is stubborn. To a fault.
“We have to talk.”
Arthur is elbow deep in paper work and a glance upwards is all he spares Eames. “Do we?” No hint of malice. It’s almost amused.
Eames bites back his frustrated sigh. There’s indifference laced in everything Arthur does. Eames doesn’t concede defeat.
“Arthur…”
“Arthur, can I borrow you for a sec?” He stands tall and moves swiftly across the room to Ariadne. Eames is left standing with an unspoken apology.
***
He thinks he may hate her. She’s oblivious. She smiles at him and he inclines his head but it’s an empty gesture of civility.
Eames watches her with the quiet burn of contemplation. She’s mesmerized by Arthur. They all were mesmerized by the man at some point.
Their courtship is ungainly. It began in bloodshed, back to back in a dream firing at a deadly subconscious, waiting for the kick.
Arthur and Ariadne are different. He holds doors open for her. He smiles when she flicks his ear playfully when she walks past him, all while talking to Yusuf. It’s innocent. It’s not a collision.
It’s not like them.
The discovery of them is made just two days after Eames notices them standing side by side, fingers intertwined. It’s an inconspicuous action. Their hands drop just beneath the top of the table and they’re listening to Yusuf. She hooks one of his fingers with her index and Arthur’s lips twitch.
It’s just as good as a smile.
He’s going over Arthur’s notes. His Unabomber handwriting is still indecipherable years later.
There’s shuffling coming from an anteroom.
His curiosity is never sated. He cracks the door open. Regret, in regards to decision to do so, fills him instantly. He swallows hard.
Hands reach up to loosen a tie from its confines of a shirt collar. A scarf is tossed aside without care.
He’s sure he hates her.
It takes minutes for him to convince his legs to move. He needs as much distance between himself and the pair as the city will permit. He snatches Arthur’s files off the table and walks out of the dimly lit warehouse. They’re none the wiser of his presence.
***
Eames has never been to Australia. The mornings are colder than he expects. Still, he stands on the balcony, taking small drags of his Marlboro. It’s a habit he promised Arthur to stop, but there’s no Arthur around for him to uphold his end of the bargain.
“That’s a disgusting habit.”
Arthur is sitting not twenty feet away, legs crossed and he’s thumbing through the Sydney Morning Herald. It must have taken an admirable force of concentration to overlook him. Predictability isn’t something Arthur can be accused of, but his actions are constant. Wait long enough and his anger dissipates. It boils over into nothingness.
“It’s comforting.”
“It can kill you.”
“I can die while walking down the street.” Eames drops the half smoked butt and crushes it with his foot. He drags the extra chair away from the table and deposits himself into it. He rests an ankle on his opposing knee.
Arthur tosses a section of the paper to him and Eames grins.
“It’s nice to see time hasn’t stopped you being a dick.” Eames folds the comics section, not missing the twitch of Arthur’s lips. “Arthur I- sorry.”
Eames isn’t practiced in the art of apologizing. Arthur is set in his ways and so is he. He’s right, always. When they make mistakes, and they do so -often- neither one apologizes.
Arthur folds the business section and drops it onto the table unceremoniously. “Being interrogated by Interpol agents in regards to your whereabouts wasn’t exactly how I wanted to celebrate my sister’s twelfth birthday.”
“Shit.” Eames mutters. Dates forego him. Always.
“Yeah… shit.”
His response is light, careful to avoid further conversation. Arthur sips on his coffee, staring out at the harbor the balcony overlooks. Eames doesn’t attempt to engage him further.
***
They have three days before the flight is scheduled to leave for L.A.
Eames is halfway through his last pack of Marlboros. It’s how he de-stresses. It’s not entirely to blame on the job. Inception is a daunting task, but he finds himself reaching for one whenever Ariadne is in his vicinity.
He’s defeated by her presence.
The idea of competing with a waifish twenty-three year old for Arthur’s attention is enough to drive him mad. He takes a deep drag and exhales the intoxicating smoke through his nose.
“You really should stop.”
He flicks stray ashes away, eyes cutting to the side. Arthur stares pointedly and Eames flicks it away. Barely a third of the stick was smoked.
“You shouldn’t be wasteful.”
Eames laughs. It’s soft and as intimate as their shared breathing space.
“Who did you sell the painting to?”
“I burned it.” Eames grins at the tightening of Arthur’s jaw.
“You burned a Petrus Christus portrait? They are going to kill you if they get their hands on you.”
If. If, not when. Arthur not doubting his abilities is just as good as forgiveness.
“I think I did the world a favor. She was hideous.”
“Does this mean you’re going to burn the Mona Lisa as well?” Arthur questions, raising the beer bottle to his lips.
The heaviness in Eames’ chest lifts. There’s a smile on Arthur’s lips he pretends not to notice as he reaches for another Marlboro. Arthur makes a disapproving sound around the mouth of the beer bottle and Eames tucks the packet back into his tweed jacket.
***
What Eames hates the most about Ariadne is the fact that there’s nothing to hate. She’s perfectly harmless. She’s polite- obviously raised by well to do parents, she’s well read- she cites Voltaire, Nobokov and Dostoevsky when talking to Saito, and when she widens her eyes -slightly out of fear and mostly out of shock- she looks like a wounded bird and he has a disconcerting urge to comfort her.
She couldn’t have been more than fifteen when he and Arthur first met. The thought is entirely too amusing to him. He bites back raucous laughter when he sees them walking together in the lobby of the hotel.
***
Eames doesn’t notice the bottle is empty until he tips it back and nothingness meets his lips, his tongue. Arthur is leaning against the railing of the balcony, arms folded against his chest casually. He accepted the unspoken invitation.
One of the bottles of red wine Saito sent them for dinner, teeters dangerously close to the edge of the balcony. Eames snatches it away and takes a long pull. It’s nearing midnight.
“You should go back in. You’ll be missed.” It’s a cheap test and Eames knows it, but the words leave his lips anyway.
Arthur extends his hand for the bottle and Eames proffers it willingly. His elegant fingers wrap around the thin neck, thumb brushing over the cold perspiration- over Eames’ index finger- as he brings it to his lips. He doesn’t respond to Eames’ comment and Eames doesn’t bother to repeat himself.
The decision is made. There’s nothing left to say.
Eames curls a hand around Arthur’s neck, tugging him forward. Lips and teeth clash. The sweet taste of wine is heavy on both their tongues.
Arthur’s free hand fists his shirt. He pushes him away with more strength than Eames remembers him having. “Don’t. Just … don’t.”
Arthur disappears through the sliding doors.
***
Eames lazes against the doorframe a cigarette hanging limply between his lips, two bottles of beer in his hands and a smile tugging at his lips.
“You can’t come in with that thing.” Arthur points to the cigarette distastefully. Eames flicks it into the toilet bowl as soon as he’s in the room. Arthur sits in the farthest possible chair and Eames bares his teeth in a wide grin.
“I don’t bite.”
Arthur takes a swig of the cold beer in response. His hair is wet, dripping onto the contours of his cheekbones. Eames’ hands - tongue- itch to flick away the droplets from Arthur’s face. He smells distinctively of the French shower gel Mal introduced him to - the one Eames is allergic to as they later found out in Morocco.
Eames wipes a hand blindly over his cheek, mimicking the action he can clearly see himself doing in his mind.
“Why’d you do it?” Arthur’s voice is low and his eyes are cast towards the window that overlooks the harbor.
“Oh Arthur,” Eames begins, struggling to force laughter into his tone, “why does a thief steal? I’m sure even Yusuf’s cat can give you an answer to that question.”
Arthur’s face immediately hardens.
“I needed the money.”
Arthur opens his mouth and snaps it shut. He repeats the action three times. “What for?”
“Because I had none, Arthur. A weekend trip to London to visit the old boys can really fuck with a bloke’s bank account.” Eames can’t tell Arthur the truth. Not now. Not ever.
“They won’t let me see her for another year.” They. Arthur’s high strung, infinitely protective parents.
He moves forward until he’s directly in front of Arthur, blocking his view of the Opera House. Fingers hook under his chin, pulling his gaze up. “I’m sorry.” He says it this time, not unsurely but with conviction.
Eames’ thumb traces slow circles in the unshaved stubble. He relishes the prickling pain that meets his soft skin.
Arthur doesn’t move Eames’ hand away and he makes no attempt to do so either. His teachers had always said he never took initiative. When Arthur looks up at him, Eames feels a resolute pounding against his ribcage.
His thumb traces a path from the hollow of Arthur’s cheek to his lips. It would be entirely too easy to take what he wants.
A sharp knock at the door interrupts his train of thought.
“Arthur,” it’s Yusuf, “Cobb wants us to meet in his room in five.”
***
Three hours later, Eames lays awake in his bed, acutely aware of the quietness of his room.
He’s grown accustomed to the silence. There’s enough room on the bed next to him for another body, but the sheets are cold and pristine, like the maid would have wanted it to stay.
He never really understood the meaning of the phrase deafening silence until his bed is void of Arthur’s snores and sighs of impatience.
Sleep isn’t a necessity anymore.
He avoids it as best as he can because more often than not, he wakes up reaching for a hard, comforting body that isn’t there.
***
“Security is going to run you down.”
“And I will lead them on a merry chase.”
“Just be back before the kick.”
“Go to sleep Mr. Eames.”
His face lights up at the name that’s not used in contempt like the last time. It’s playful this time. He’s forgiven.
***
The hotel bar is empty.
It’s just him, his glass of brandy and the bartender who looks dangerously close to sleep. The boy sways and his eyes droop. Eames downs the bronze liquid, signaling for another. This is his fifth, or maybe it’s his sixth. Either way he doesn’t care.
It’s another job well done. They’re the first team to pull of Inception and he’s a lone figure. Cobb, as expected is with his children. Arthur disappears with Ariadne. Eames is willing to bet his right arm Yusuf is already asleep. Saito is gone, like a ghost that wasn’t really there. It’s not the last any of them will see of the man, but Eames knows it’s in his best interest not to be seen with any of them.
He’s not drunk, far from it, but he wants to be when Arthur and Ariadne walk in side by side. American liquor is too weak, too saccharine, for what he’s faced with.
“Hello,” Ariadne smiles at him, taking a seat on the barstool next to his. Arthur spares him a glance, taking the seat next to Ariadne’s. “Beer on tap please.” She makes her request.
“How’s the happy, newly rich, couple this evening?” Eames queries, hoping it doesn’t sound as bitter out loud as it did in his head.
Arthur leans back against the backrest of the barstool, arm resting casually along the back of Ariadne’s, and stares pointedly. It’s a berating look. He tips the glass of red wine against his lips and Eames can taste the grapes in his own mouth. He makes the cherry wood barstool look like the most regal and comfortable throne, with his legs crossed.
Eames has a sudden childish urge to push Ariadne out of the way and occupy the seat next to Arthur. When she smiles at him, he bites back his scowl and orders a double scotch.
It would be a long night and he hopes his liver can keep up.
***
Arthur shows up on his doorstep nine months later. He’s in Russia and it’s the middle of December.
His dark hair is dusted with powdery white snow and the ridge of his nose is pink with cold.
“Do you have room for one more?” He asks, adjusting his scarf, pulling it closer to his body. He offers himself vulnerably without any provocation, after far too many months apart.
Arthur’s carryon sits outside the door, forgotten as he’s tugged inside.
Frantic hands rip at shirts. Warm hands burn cold skin. Eames locks his arms around Arthur’s shoulders. Questions will be asked at a later time. His lips suck a path along Arthur’s jaw. Snow and aftershave blend on his tongue. Arthur is unresisting to the pull and tug of his hands. Arthur’s nimble fingers, with pads like satin, brush the skin of Eames’ hips and he clutches at the brown hair that curls at the nape of Arthur’s neck. When Eames finally kisses him, like he’s wanted to since that day in New York, it’s urgent and fierce, taking what’s his.
Arthur has always been his.
***
Eames doesn’t expect Sunday morning lie-ins with Arthur.
Expectations are terrible things. What he does get this time, though, is better.
Two tickets to remote destinations always sit on side tables, kitchen tables and coffee tables of whatever hotel or rented apartment they’re staying in.
The questions of why Arthur comes back are never asked and Eames doesn’t care for the answers.
***
They’re in London, backs up against the grimy Undergound walls, guns cocked and ready.
Interpol really doesn’t give up easily.
They celebrate Arthur’s sister’s fourteenth birthday surrounded by a throng of giggling girls who don’t take their eyes off Arthur for a second.
Arthur pretends not to notice, but the reddened tips of his ears tip off Eames.
When they’re alone, surrounded by the confines of the walls of Arthur’s New York apartment, Eames presses a kiss to his bared shoulder that sports a graze that still hasn’t healed fully.
“You were good with them today.”
“They’re teenage girls. They’re not difficult to keep an eye on.”
“I’m sure most of them didn’t mind having your eye on them,” Eames grins and Arthur’s ears redden again.
Cobol is just as assertive as Interpol, if not more so.
He returns to Mombasa, to collect the suits that are still in storage, with Arthur by his side. Yusuf’s kettle is barely whistling when there are agents at the door.
They’re chased out of the country and the continent. Eames knows he’ll never see those suits again.
In Sweden, Arthur buys him twenty packets of nicotine patches and gum.
“I’m not sleeping your bed anymore if you smell like smoke.” It’s a threat and Eames rises to it. He slaps a patch onto a forearm and pops a square of gum for good measure.
***
They’re in Belarus when Eames first becomes aware of the late night phone calls. He rolls over in the middle of the night, searching for the comfort of Arthur’s warm body and it’s not there.
A light peeps from under the bathroom door and Eames waits, now fully awake, for Arthur’s return. Twenty minutes later he’s still waiting and flickering, patterns of someone pacing interrupts the direct stream of light, projects onto the white linen sheets he’s tangled in.
Arthur’s low, rumbling laugh seeps through the crack of the door.
“That’s great, really. So you’re now an employee of Ibos & Vitart.”
A pause.
“Eames? He’s … he’s good.”
When he googles Ibos & Vitart the next morning while Arthur is still in the shower, his jaw tightens and he rips off the nicotine patch as an act of defiance. It’s an architecture firm in Paris.
In Argentina, they’re stretched out on the carpeted floor of their hotel room, surrounded by empty tequila bottles and nursing black eyes.
“That was a night for the books,” Eames declares, pressing the cold, empty bottle to Arthur’s right eye.
“That was a night to forget,” Arthur corrects, wincing when Eames presses down too hard. “Two black eyes just because you couldn’t keep your sticky fingers to yourself.”
“You have to agree Arthur, Persephone would love the necklace.”
“You are not giving my sister a stolen necklace.”
Eames’ rebuttal, a detailed explanation as to why blue diamonds are a girl’s best friend, is cut short when Arthur’s phone lights up, its vibrations causing it to dance across the floor.
Arthur doesn’t answer it. When it vibrates again much later in the night, he slips out of Eames’ grasp and onto the balcony, not bothering to close the door behind him.
“Eames is fine. We’re both fine. How are you?”
Eames turns on the bed to face Arthur who’s leaning against the railing of the balcony.
“This is why doing a pub crawl isn’t a good idea. The number of pubs you went to is inconsequential. You ended up in the hospital with a broken calcaneal tendon.”
The heat in Libya rivals that of hell, Eames is sure of it. Seeing Arthur in khakis and a shirt that’s buttoned indecently low, by Arthur’s standards, is worth it however. Their geographical location next to the Mediterranean Sea is seemingly meaningless.
The nights are warm and their skin is glazed in a sticky sheen. They lose clothes quickly and tangle their limbs, desperate for a kiss- a touch. Arthur emits heat that burns to the touch when Eames looms over him, fingers biting into the flesh of his waist. He moans throwing his head back, dark strands fanning across the pristine white pillow and Eames’ teeth seek out the offered expanse of flesh. His tongue curves against the arch and Arthur’s low moans reverberates against his lips that suck the salty-sweet sweat off feverish skin.
Arthur makes the call this time. He wraps a discarded sheet around his slender waist and waddles towards the bar that’s in the adjoining room. His cell phone sits atop the side table.
Eames knows he shouldn’t listen to the conversation, but his burning curiosity is difficult to ignore. He lifts the receiver off the hook of the hotel phone easily and presses it to his ear.
“How’s Eames?” The soft, familiar voice filters through.
“He’s… great.” There’s a lightness to Arthur’s tone when he replies. Eames can almost see the smile and the dimples that come with it. “Happy birthday.”
“Oh boy, twenty-seven. That’s a scary number.”
“Tell me there was no pub crawling this time.”
When she laughs, it occurs to Eames he’s never actually heard Ariadne laugh before. She was all polite smiles when he knew her so long ago. It’s not an unpleasant sound.
“There will be no pub crawling this time. That’s reserved for Yoann’s birthday. By the way, I found the jacket you left behind yesterday while unpacking.”
“Which one?”
“The Yves Saint Laurent dinner jacket. You’re never getting it back. Yoann has staked claim. I think he may have slept in it last night.” Arthur chuckles and Eames doesn’t quite get what’s funny. There’s yelling in the background and Ariadne sighs. “I have to go. We’re having a grown up celebration tonight. Nice dinner, fancy dress, the entire works.”
“Have fun.” Ariadne hangs up hastily and still Arthur doesn’t put down his receiver. Eames listens as he lets out a long strained sigh. When he reenters the room and curls up behind him, Eames shifts away from him ever so slightly.
They never visit Paris. Arthur makes sure of that.
The pièce de résistance happens in L.A. Phillipa’s eleventh birthday is upon them and they both are obligated to visit. They’ve missed every other birthday between the ages of seven and ten and they can’t miss this one. Cobb makes that very clear.
Their once leader doesn’t appear surprised when they show up together and with a gift that has both their names tacked to the card. He merely ushers them in and sends Arthur off to deal with pre pubescent girls who smile at him and cause his ears to redden.
“Hey Eames, do you have an extra…” Cobb trails off counting the shabby dollars in his hands, “ten?”
He shakes his head no. “I haven’t had time to stock up on the American money.” He spots Arthur’s jacket. Without hesitation he reaches for the wallet. It’s as good as his. He slides the crisp ten out of the compartment it’s tucked into and hands it to Cobb who hurries away to pay the pizza delivery boy who looks entirely too bored with his life.
Eames doesn’t snoop. Not through Arthur’s belongings. There are some boundaries he doesn’t cross, but the worn to touch paper tucked away catches his eyes. It’s no bigger than an inch in length. Nimble fingers pry it from its holster. It’s a photo booth picture of Arthur and Ariadne, taken three years ago no doubt.
Just behind it is a grocery bill that’s barely readable. The items listed and their outrageous prices aren’t why Arthur keeps it. The scribbling on the back hurts him. It’s not like any kind of pain Eames has felt before. He tucks the leather wallet back into Arthur’s jacket, making sure not a single thing is out of place, before he’s out the front door. Later, when Arthur returns to their hotel room he finds Eames’ luggage gone.
Go to him Arthur, you miss him. You love him. Staying here, with me, won’t end well. I love you.
***
What Eames hates most about Ariadne is the fact that once he gets to know her, he understands why Arthur doesn’t stop loving her even while loving him. She quickly becomes a damn good friend. She’s still polite, when need be, and she still looks like a wounded bird from time to time, but he realizes he never really knew her. The short period of time they worked together nearly four years ago wasn’t spent getting to know the girl.
She’s not a girl anymore though. She’s a woman. Gone are the days of scarf wearing.
***
It takes Arthur three months to arrive. The summer is in full bloom when he does pluck up the courage to return to France. It’s hotter than any previous years, Ariadne tells him while bemoaning the lack of air conditioning in her bedroom every night.
“Jesus Eames, put your cock and balls away. Please. Just because it’s called an Eames Lounge Chair doesn’t mean you have to mark it as your territory like a dog.”
Yoann, Ariadne’s neighbor and sometimes best friend, is painting a portrait of him and the buff is the only right way it can be done.
“I cannot interrupt the artistic process, Ariadne.” He tuts tauntingly, wagging a finger at her.
“Eames, there’s a gentleman caller for you,” Yoann announces, walking back into the room. Ariadne looks at Eames who grins wider than before.
“Is this what happens while I’m at work? You two sit in my apartment naked all day long?”
The Frenchman and the Englishman nod, simultaneously. Just over Ariadne’s shoulder, Eames notes the looming figure in the background.
“Why are you naked?” Arthur’s voice is tight. Ariadne spins on the balls of her feet. He’s not who she’s expecting to see and it’s clear that Arthur has come prepared to see her. The control that’s ever present in his eyes slip easily in her presence. It’s a look Eames knows all too well.
“Does this mean you’re leaving?” Ariadne asks Eames with more happiness than he thinks is appropriate.
“One question at a time, please.” Eames sits up, covering himself modestly with a throw pillow and he tosses one for Yoann as well. “Ariadne’s friend here is painting a lovely portrait of me, for me. And you, my dear, look far too happy to get rid of me. Have I not been a wonderful houseguest?”
“Your naked behind has touched almost every surface of my apartment. That nullifies every single nice thing you’ve done.”
“Eames, put some clothes on.” Arthur moves forward. He stands shoulder to chest with Ariadne and they wear similar looks of disapproval.
They’re avoiding the elephant in the room. They don’t look at each other and they don’t say a word to each other. He’s not expecting them to leap into each other’s arms, neither one of them is the leaping type, but any semblance of communication would be fruitful. A few scribbled words on the back of a grocery receipt send Arthur to his arms, but a trip to Paris stalls him.
Eames watches them intently. There’s neither a furtive sidelong glance nor a stray finger reaching. Neither one takes their eyes off him. Yoann packs and leaves with a promise of returning later.
“Well, I should order dinner. You can’t eat if you don’t have pants, Eames.” Ariadne exits through a side door hastily and still Arthur doesn’t look at her.
A muscle in Arthur’s clenched jaw twitches and Eames isn’t so sure of his grand idea anymore. He sits up, back ramrod straight, when Arthur places his briefcase on Ariadne’s salvaged coffee table. He unbuttons his jacket agonizingly slow and Eames’ spine tingles in anticipation He can’t place the look in Arthur’s eyes and it’s exciting. This is a reaction he didn’t count on.
“Cover yourself Eames.” The soft fabric of Arthur’s jacket hits his chest and he laughs raucously as the man he loves walks out of the room.
***
Ariadne isn’t wrong to bemoan the heat. Eames can’t sleep and Arthur shifts restlessly on the bed next to him. It takes a lot of coaxing to get him to agree to stay at Ariadne’s apartment rather than a hotel. He faces Arthur’s back and when he reaches for him, Arthur shrugs his hand off like a petulant child.
“Cor, it’s worse than Libya,” Eames sighs, wiping his brow, staring up at the blank ceiling.
“Nothing is worse than Libya.” Arthur’s voice is muffled by the pillow. Eames grins triumphantly. He’s finally talking.
“Jesus tap dancing Christ on a cracker, I need a cold drink.”
Arthur turns to face him, brows furrowed. “You’ve started talking like her.” It doesn’t slip Eames’ notice that Arthur never speaks Ariadne’s name.
“Ariadne has a way with words.” Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Eames doesn’t bother to pull anything on over his boxers when he stands. “Are you coming?”
The slap of Arthur’s feet against the hardwood floors blends with his in a rhythmic echo as they both trudge down the staircase. Arthur stops abruptly when he opens the kitchen door and Eames doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know what awaits them just beyond the doorway. Ariadne is sprawled on the wooden kitchen table, in her underwear he’s willing to bet, with the door of the refrigerator open. He has caught her in the same position more times than he can count since the beginning of summer.
He hears Arthur’s sharp intake of breath and sees the incessant bobbing of his Adam’s apple. The fluorescent light filters onto Ariadne’s milky skin and Eames can’t help but wonder if Arthur’s fingers are itching to trace the droplets of sweat that gather on her thighs, the same way they itch to grasp at his cock when he teases for too long.
“Eames, you are buying air conditioners tomorrow. I can’t sleep on this table for another night.” The arm that’s draped over Ariadne’s eyes never moves and her words are slurred, laced with oncoming sleep.
“Buying home appliances isn’t exactly my forte,” Eames pushes past Arthur, grabbing a beer out of the fridge, “but I’m sure Arthur won’t mind helping. Will you?”
Ariadne’s leg that’s indecently splayed drops from the edge of the table immediately and her hands tug down the tank top that was previously folded just under her breasts. Her modesty in Arthur’s presence is nothing short of endearing.
***
Eames never believed in beating around the bush. He can’t help but wonder if all those conversations between Arthur and Ariadne were dreams. They avoid each other with determination that rivals that of saints.
***
The first Monday of Arthur’s stay, Eames doesn’t make any plans to leave and Arthur doesn’t make a peep about leaving, Yoann makes them breakfast.
Ariadne enters the kitchen late, ready for work, and Arthur’s hand that’s buttering his toast stalls. She’s wearing a slim fitting suit, pencil skirt and all and his eyes are transfixed.
“Air conditioners Eames, air conditioners!” She calls over her shoulder when she walks out of the kitchen, coffee in hand, and Arthur’s eyes trail after her until she’s no longer there. Eames carries on like he doesn’t notice.
When Ariadne walks past Arthur, who’s slowly making his way through her miniature library, on evenings she flicks his ears playfully in greeting and Arthur smiles. He doesn’t tear his eyes away from his book, he just smiles. Eames’ lips inadvertently turn down at the sight. It’s far too sad a smile.
She goes out with her friends frequently on weekends. More often than not, Eames finds Arthur sitting on one of Ariadne’s purposefully mismatched couches waiting. He reads, sometimes he watches television, but really he’s waiting for her to return home safely.
Eames sits and waits with him.
***
For a couple of months Eames forgets why he came to Paris. He’s caught up in the novelty of returning home to the same bed every night, with Arthur in it, and not being beaten to a bloody pulp. Interpol has bigger fish to fry and his low profile doesn’t hurt matters either.
The domesticity he’d never had a grasp on presents itself on a silver platter to him. Ariadne hands it to him on a silver platter.
***
Dates always forego him, but Eames never forgets this one. He couldn’t if he wanted to. The night Arthur comes back to him is forever engraved in his memory. It’s always lingering at the front of his mind, vivid images flashing when his eyes close peacefully, contentedly.
Ariadne doesn’t forget either.
“One day you’re going to have to tell me what it is about December thirteenth that gets you so down.” The mention of the date stalls Eames who’s readying to meet contacts of his at a bar for a drink. Yoann and Ariadne are sitting on the staircase outside both their apartments.
“What if I told you it’s about a man?”
“Then I’d say you’re a horrible liar and I revoke our friendship card. But no matter, the terrible Christmas sweater party is on. I still don’t see why we couldn’t do it at yours. You have two floors. I have one room.”
“I want to give Arthur and Eames their privacy. Let’s just leave it at that.”
The pain in his chest, guilt as he would later find out it’s called, returns.
***
What Eames really hates most about Ariadne is also what he hates most about Arthur. They both suffer in silence. They act like martyrs.
“Ariadne.”
“Hmmm?” She looks away from the book she’s reading.
“I’m just going to pop round to the pub for a pint. I’m giving you full permission to fuck Arthur or make love to him in my absence. Have at it and have fun.”
It’s not ideally the way he wants to extend the invitation to share Arthur’s affections, it’s not a heartbreakingly sweet note, but it’s effective. When he returns from the bar, staggering ever so slightly, he finds them curled up on the Eames chair.
What he came to Paris to do is done. Now, they'll restart on even footing.
Summary : “I’m just going to pop round to the pub for a pint. I’m giving you full permission to fuck Arthur or make love to him in my absence. Have at it and have fun.”
Rating : R
Notes : Written for this inception_kink prompt.
Further Notes: This got ridiculously out of control and it barely stayed on prompt. But, I wrote it anyway. Also, I think this constitutes as my first real Eames/Arthur fic.
EDIT: Two more sentences, that make all the difference, added to the end.
He’s in Berlin for a job.
The extraction business isn’t kind to him these days. No one needs a Forger, a human one anyway, so he has to revert to the trade that got him as far as he is. Thievery. There’s a particular piece of work in The Staatliche Museen that can get him money and lots of it. There’s a flat in London he wants to put a down payment on, an early birthday present for Arthur. It’s exactly the kind of place he would like. It’s on the second floor of a converted Victorian house, now a town house, with a view of the park. Domesticity isn’t his strong suit, but for Arthur that’s something he’s willing to work on.
The job is a success. Having Interpol on his tail counts as a success to him. At least they haven’t caught him.
With the Petrus Christus portrait rolled carefully and tucked into a secret compartment of his carry on, Eames runs. There’s not a place in the world they can’t find him, but hiding has always been his strong suit.
They’re much smarter than he gives them credit for. They’re much better than the FBI that’s certain. They’re waiting for him when he gets Stateside. They wait for an entire week before they determine he’s not going to show up. Eames waits an extra day before he knocks on the door. It’s soft and unsure.
Arthur stands in the doorway, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, lips pressed in a firm thin line. This isn’t how they’re supposed to greet each other after two months of being apart. Eames isn’t a romantic, but there’s a protocol that needs to be followed when two lovers are reunited and this isn’t it.
“My sister was here.” It’s all Arthur says and Eames knows he has fucked up. He fucks up often, but this is of an entirely different caliber. “She still is. Good evening Mr. Eames.”
“Is it the pizza Arthur? I’m hungry.” The soft twelve year old voice travels through the room just before the metal door shuts in his face.
***
He travels to India, Brazil and Switzerland before he settles in Kenya. He can’t return to England. Yusuf’s mild mannered company is what he needs.
He’s biding his time. He burns the painting with Yusuf’s help and all that’s left of the fresh faced girl is ashes. He scatters them, the burning midday sun blazing down on his back. It’s a figurative mourning.
The one week he promises Yusuf he’ll stay turns into a month and then another and then four. The realtor calls him, in the middle of the third month, and in curt tones he tells her he’s no longer interested in the flat. She sells it to a newlywed couple.
Arthur doesn’t call. Eames knows he won’t. Still, when Yusuf’s phone rings, he grabs for it expectantly.
He blends into his surroundings easily. The suits Arthur hand picks for him go into storage. Colorful shirts Yusuf approves of take their place.
***
One visit from Cobb is all it takes.
His bags are packed and he leaves Mombasa behind. It wasn’t really his anyway. He borrowed it for far longer than he wanted to.
Eames isn’t expecting Paris. With Cobb’s history, he doesn’t even think it’s a feasible option. Paris still isn’t the safest choice for him. Interpol officers are still after him.
Arthur is there, as always, at Cobb’s side. Still slick and well dressed, like the memory of Arthur he preserved. He nods curtly and Eames returns it.
It’s meaningless.
***
When he meets Ariadne, his eyes are still trailing after Arthur. Yusuf is buzzing excitedly around her and Arthur is walking away with Cobb and Saito.
“Sorry, didn’t quite catch the name,” He says when Yusuf snaps his fingers in front of his face loudly.
“Ariadne,” She repeats with a smile. She holds out a hand tentatively and when he accepts it, she shakes his hand firmly.
This is the reason they’re in Paris. Nash is no longer in the picture. The wide eyed, fresh faced girl is. She reminds him of the painting he burns in Yusuf’s back yard.
She’s brilliant. She’s far better than he remembers Cobb being when he joined his temporary team at twenty-five. She has a smile that’s nice to look at. Only one side of her mouth curves upward when she does so and she hides her teeth. It’s soft though, entirely feminine.
He’s not the only one who notices.
***
It’s Eames’ job to observe, to understand people.
Arthur doesn’t look at him anymore. The sly glances that were once reserved for him are thrown in the direction of the young architect. The girl with the impeccable hair.
She unnerves him. It’s her eyes, Eames decides. They’re perceptive. They dare anyone who comes across her work to find a fault that’s not there.
He kicks Arthur’s chair, it’s a cry for attention, and she watches him.
Arthur regards him with the same impatience he had on their first job together. He has insurmountable amounts of time for the girl however. Any fleeting question is reason enough to saunter over to her work table and spend more than five minutes in her company.
***
Arthur is stubborn. To a fault.
“We have to talk.”
Arthur is elbow deep in paper work and a glance upwards is all he spares Eames. “Do we?” No hint of malice. It’s almost amused.
Eames bites back his frustrated sigh. There’s indifference laced in everything Arthur does. Eames doesn’t concede defeat.
“Arthur…”
“Arthur, can I borrow you for a sec?” He stands tall and moves swiftly across the room to Ariadne. Eames is left standing with an unspoken apology.
***
He thinks he may hate her. She’s oblivious. She smiles at him and he inclines his head but it’s an empty gesture of civility.
Eames watches her with the quiet burn of contemplation. She’s mesmerized by Arthur. They all were mesmerized by the man at some point.
Their courtship is ungainly. It began in bloodshed, back to back in a dream firing at a deadly subconscious, waiting for the kick.
Arthur and Ariadne are different. He holds doors open for her. He smiles when she flicks his ear playfully when she walks past him, all while talking to Yusuf. It’s innocent. It’s not a collision.
It’s not like them.
The discovery of them is made just two days after Eames notices them standing side by side, fingers intertwined. It’s an inconspicuous action. Their hands drop just beneath the top of the table and they’re listening to Yusuf. She hooks one of his fingers with her index and Arthur’s lips twitch.
It’s just as good as a smile.
He’s going over Arthur’s notes. His Unabomber handwriting is still indecipherable years later.
There’s shuffling coming from an anteroom.
His curiosity is never sated. He cracks the door open. Regret, in regards to decision to do so, fills him instantly. He swallows hard.
Hands reach up to loosen a tie from its confines of a shirt collar. A scarf is tossed aside without care.
He’s sure he hates her.
It takes minutes for him to convince his legs to move. He needs as much distance between himself and the pair as the city will permit. He snatches Arthur’s files off the table and walks out of the dimly lit warehouse. They’re none the wiser of his presence.
***
Eames has never been to Australia. The mornings are colder than he expects. Still, he stands on the balcony, taking small drags of his Marlboro. It’s a habit he promised Arthur to stop, but there’s no Arthur around for him to uphold his end of the bargain.
“That’s a disgusting habit.”
Arthur is sitting not twenty feet away, legs crossed and he’s thumbing through the Sydney Morning Herald. It must have taken an admirable force of concentration to overlook him. Predictability isn’t something Arthur can be accused of, but his actions are constant. Wait long enough and his anger dissipates. It boils over into nothingness.
“It’s comforting.”
“It can kill you.”
“I can die while walking down the street.” Eames drops the half smoked butt and crushes it with his foot. He drags the extra chair away from the table and deposits himself into it. He rests an ankle on his opposing knee.
Arthur tosses a section of the paper to him and Eames grins.
“It’s nice to see time hasn’t stopped you being a dick.” Eames folds the comics section, not missing the twitch of Arthur’s lips. “Arthur I- sorry.”
Eames isn’t practiced in the art of apologizing. Arthur is set in his ways and so is he. He’s right, always. When they make mistakes, and they do so -often- neither one apologizes.
Arthur folds the business section and drops it onto the table unceremoniously. “Being interrogated by Interpol agents in regards to your whereabouts wasn’t exactly how I wanted to celebrate my sister’s twelfth birthday.”
“Shit.” Eames mutters. Dates forego him. Always.
“Yeah… shit.”
His response is light, careful to avoid further conversation. Arthur sips on his coffee, staring out at the harbor the balcony overlooks. Eames doesn’t attempt to engage him further.
***
They have three days before the flight is scheduled to leave for L.A.
Eames is halfway through his last pack of Marlboros. It’s how he de-stresses. It’s not entirely to blame on the job. Inception is a daunting task, but he finds himself reaching for one whenever Ariadne is in his vicinity.
He’s defeated by her presence.
The idea of competing with a waifish twenty-three year old for Arthur’s attention is enough to drive him mad. He takes a deep drag and exhales the intoxicating smoke through his nose.
“You really should stop.”
He flicks stray ashes away, eyes cutting to the side. Arthur stares pointedly and Eames flicks it away. Barely a third of the stick was smoked.
“You shouldn’t be wasteful.”
Eames laughs. It’s soft and as intimate as their shared breathing space.
“Who did you sell the painting to?”
“I burned it.” Eames grins at the tightening of Arthur’s jaw.
“You burned a Petrus Christus portrait? They are going to kill you if they get their hands on you.”
If. If, not when. Arthur not doubting his abilities is just as good as forgiveness.
“I think I did the world a favor. She was hideous.”
“Does this mean you’re going to burn the Mona Lisa as well?” Arthur questions, raising the beer bottle to his lips.
The heaviness in Eames’ chest lifts. There’s a smile on Arthur’s lips he pretends not to notice as he reaches for another Marlboro. Arthur makes a disapproving sound around the mouth of the beer bottle and Eames tucks the packet back into his tweed jacket.
***
What Eames hates the most about Ariadne is the fact that there’s nothing to hate. She’s perfectly harmless. She’s polite- obviously raised by well to do parents, she’s well read- she cites Voltaire, Nobokov and Dostoevsky when talking to Saito, and when she widens her eyes -slightly out of fear and mostly out of shock- she looks like a wounded bird and he has a disconcerting urge to comfort her.
She couldn’t have been more than fifteen when he and Arthur first met. The thought is entirely too amusing to him. He bites back raucous laughter when he sees them walking together in the lobby of the hotel.
***
Eames doesn’t notice the bottle is empty until he tips it back and nothingness meets his lips, his tongue. Arthur is leaning against the railing of the balcony, arms folded against his chest casually. He accepted the unspoken invitation.
One of the bottles of red wine Saito sent them for dinner, teeters dangerously close to the edge of the balcony. Eames snatches it away and takes a long pull. It’s nearing midnight.
“You should go back in. You’ll be missed.” It’s a cheap test and Eames knows it, but the words leave his lips anyway.
Arthur extends his hand for the bottle and Eames proffers it willingly. His elegant fingers wrap around the thin neck, thumb brushing over the cold perspiration- over Eames’ index finger- as he brings it to his lips. He doesn’t respond to Eames’ comment and Eames doesn’t bother to repeat himself.
The decision is made. There’s nothing left to say.
Eames curls a hand around Arthur’s neck, tugging him forward. Lips and teeth clash. The sweet taste of wine is heavy on both their tongues.
Arthur’s free hand fists his shirt. He pushes him away with more strength than Eames remembers him having. “Don’t. Just … don’t.”
Arthur disappears through the sliding doors.
***
Eames lazes against the doorframe a cigarette hanging limply between his lips, two bottles of beer in his hands and a smile tugging at his lips.
“You can’t come in with that thing.” Arthur points to the cigarette distastefully. Eames flicks it into the toilet bowl as soon as he’s in the room. Arthur sits in the farthest possible chair and Eames bares his teeth in a wide grin.
“I don’t bite.”
Arthur takes a swig of the cold beer in response. His hair is wet, dripping onto the contours of his cheekbones. Eames’ hands - tongue- itch to flick away the droplets from Arthur’s face. He smells distinctively of the French shower gel Mal introduced him to - the one Eames is allergic to as they later found out in Morocco.
Eames wipes a hand blindly over his cheek, mimicking the action he can clearly see himself doing in his mind.
“Why’d you do it?” Arthur’s voice is low and his eyes are cast towards the window that overlooks the harbor.
“Oh Arthur,” Eames begins, struggling to force laughter into his tone, “why does a thief steal? I’m sure even Yusuf’s cat can give you an answer to that question.”
Arthur’s face immediately hardens.
“I needed the money.”
Arthur opens his mouth and snaps it shut. He repeats the action three times. “What for?”
“Because I had none, Arthur. A weekend trip to London to visit the old boys can really fuck with a bloke’s bank account.” Eames can’t tell Arthur the truth. Not now. Not ever.
“They won’t let me see her for another year.” They. Arthur’s high strung, infinitely protective parents.
He moves forward until he’s directly in front of Arthur, blocking his view of the Opera House. Fingers hook under his chin, pulling his gaze up. “I’m sorry.” He says it this time, not unsurely but with conviction.
Eames’ thumb traces slow circles in the unshaved stubble. He relishes the prickling pain that meets his soft skin.
Arthur doesn’t move Eames’ hand away and he makes no attempt to do so either. His teachers had always said he never took initiative. When Arthur looks up at him, Eames feels a resolute pounding against his ribcage.
His thumb traces a path from the hollow of Arthur’s cheek to his lips. It would be entirely too easy to take what he wants.
A sharp knock at the door interrupts his train of thought.
“Arthur,” it’s Yusuf, “Cobb wants us to meet in his room in five.”
***
Three hours later, Eames lays awake in his bed, acutely aware of the quietness of his room.
He’s grown accustomed to the silence. There’s enough room on the bed next to him for another body, but the sheets are cold and pristine, like the maid would have wanted it to stay.
He never really understood the meaning of the phrase deafening silence until his bed is void of Arthur’s snores and sighs of impatience.
Sleep isn’t a necessity anymore.
He avoids it as best as he can because more often than not, he wakes up reaching for a hard, comforting body that isn’t there.
***
“Security is going to run you down.”
“And I will lead them on a merry chase.”
“Just be back before the kick.”
“Go to sleep Mr. Eames.”
His face lights up at the name that’s not used in contempt like the last time. It’s playful this time. He’s forgiven.
***
The hotel bar is empty.
It’s just him, his glass of brandy and the bartender who looks dangerously close to sleep. The boy sways and his eyes droop. Eames downs the bronze liquid, signaling for another. This is his fifth, or maybe it’s his sixth. Either way he doesn’t care.
It’s another job well done. They’re the first team to pull of Inception and he’s a lone figure. Cobb, as expected is with his children. Arthur disappears with Ariadne. Eames is willing to bet his right arm Yusuf is already asleep. Saito is gone, like a ghost that wasn’t really there. It’s not the last any of them will see of the man, but Eames knows it’s in his best interest not to be seen with any of them.
He’s not drunk, far from it, but he wants to be when Arthur and Ariadne walk in side by side. American liquor is too weak, too saccharine, for what he’s faced with.
“Hello,” Ariadne smiles at him, taking a seat on the barstool next to his. Arthur spares him a glance, taking the seat next to Ariadne’s. “Beer on tap please.” She makes her request.
“How’s the happy, newly rich, couple this evening?” Eames queries, hoping it doesn’t sound as bitter out loud as it did in his head.
Arthur leans back against the backrest of the barstool, arm resting casually along the back of Ariadne’s, and stares pointedly. It’s a berating look. He tips the glass of red wine against his lips and Eames can taste the grapes in his own mouth. He makes the cherry wood barstool look like the most regal and comfortable throne, with his legs crossed.
Eames has a sudden childish urge to push Ariadne out of the way and occupy the seat next to Arthur. When she smiles at him, he bites back his scowl and orders a double scotch.
It would be a long night and he hopes his liver can keep up.
***
Arthur shows up on his doorstep nine months later. He’s in Russia and it’s the middle of December.
His dark hair is dusted with powdery white snow and the ridge of his nose is pink with cold.
“Do you have room for one more?” He asks, adjusting his scarf, pulling it closer to his body. He offers himself vulnerably without any provocation, after far too many months apart.
Arthur’s carryon sits outside the door, forgotten as he’s tugged inside.
Frantic hands rip at shirts. Warm hands burn cold skin. Eames locks his arms around Arthur’s shoulders. Questions will be asked at a later time. His lips suck a path along Arthur’s jaw. Snow and aftershave blend on his tongue. Arthur is unresisting to the pull and tug of his hands. Arthur’s nimble fingers, with pads like satin, brush the skin of Eames’ hips and he clutches at the brown hair that curls at the nape of Arthur’s neck. When Eames finally kisses him, like he’s wanted to since that day in New York, it’s urgent and fierce, taking what’s his.
Arthur has always been his.
***
Eames doesn’t expect Sunday morning lie-ins with Arthur.
Expectations are terrible things. What he does get this time, though, is better.
Two tickets to remote destinations always sit on side tables, kitchen tables and coffee tables of whatever hotel or rented apartment they’re staying in.
The questions of why Arthur comes back are never asked and Eames doesn’t care for the answers.
***
They’re in London, backs up against the grimy Undergound walls, guns cocked and ready.
Interpol really doesn’t give up easily.
They celebrate Arthur’s sister’s fourteenth birthday surrounded by a throng of giggling girls who don’t take their eyes off Arthur for a second.
Arthur pretends not to notice, but the reddened tips of his ears tip off Eames.
When they’re alone, surrounded by the confines of the walls of Arthur’s New York apartment, Eames presses a kiss to his bared shoulder that sports a graze that still hasn’t healed fully.
“You were good with them today.”
“They’re teenage girls. They’re not difficult to keep an eye on.”
“I’m sure most of them didn’t mind having your eye on them,” Eames grins and Arthur’s ears redden again.
Cobol is just as assertive as Interpol, if not more so.
He returns to Mombasa, to collect the suits that are still in storage, with Arthur by his side. Yusuf’s kettle is barely whistling when there are agents at the door.
They’re chased out of the country and the continent. Eames knows he’ll never see those suits again.
In Sweden, Arthur buys him twenty packets of nicotine patches and gum.
“I’m not sleeping your bed anymore if you smell like smoke.” It’s a threat and Eames rises to it. He slaps a patch onto a forearm and pops a square of gum for good measure.
***
They’re in Belarus when Eames first becomes aware of the late night phone calls. He rolls over in the middle of the night, searching for the comfort of Arthur’s warm body and it’s not there.
A light peeps from under the bathroom door and Eames waits, now fully awake, for Arthur’s return. Twenty minutes later he’s still waiting and flickering, patterns of someone pacing interrupts the direct stream of light, projects onto the white linen sheets he’s tangled in.
Arthur’s low, rumbling laugh seeps through the crack of the door.
“That’s great, really. So you’re now an employee of Ibos & Vitart.”
A pause.
“Eames? He’s … he’s good.”
When he googles Ibos & Vitart the next morning while Arthur is still in the shower, his jaw tightens and he rips off the nicotine patch as an act of defiance. It’s an architecture firm in Paris.
In Argentina, they’re stretched out on the carpeted floor of their hotel room, surrounded by empty tequila bottles and nursing black eyes.
“That was a night for the books,” Eames declares, pressing the cold, empty bottle to Arthur’s right eye.
“That was a night to forget,” Arthur corrects, wincing when Eames presses down too hard. “Two black eyes just because you couldn’t keep your sticky fingers to yourself.”
“You have to agree Arthur, Persephone would love the necklace.”
“You are not giving my sister a stolen necklace.”
Eames’ rebuttal, a detailed explanation as to why blue diamonds are a girl’s best friend, is cut short when Arthur’s phone lights up, its vibrations causing it to dance across the floor.
Arthur doesn’t answer it. When it vibrates again much later in the night, he slips out of Eames’ grasp and onto the balcony, not bothering to close the door behind him.
“Eames is fine. We’re both fine. How are you?”
Eames turns on the bed to face Arthur who’s leaning against the railing of the balcony.
“This is why doing a pub crawl isn’t a good idea. The number of pubs you went to is inconsequential. You ended up in the hospital with a broken calcaneal tendon.”
The heat in Libya rivals that of hell, Eames is sure of it. Seeing Arthur in khakis and a shirt that’s buttoned indecently low, by Arthur’s standards, is worth it however. Their geographical location next to the Mediterranean Sea is seemingly meaningless.
The nights are warm and their skin is glazed in a sticky sheen. They lose clothes quickly and tangle their limbs, desperate for a kiss- a touch. Arthur emits heat that burns to the touch when Eames looms over him, fingers biting into the flesh of his waist. He moans throwing his head back, dark strands fanning across the pristine white pillow and Eames’ teeth seek out the offered expanse of flesh. His tongue curves against the arch and Arthur’s low moans reverberates against his lips that suck the salty-sweet sweat off feverish skin.
Arthur makes the call this time. He wraps a discarded sheet around his slender waist and waddles towards the bar that’s in the adjoining room. His cell phone sits atop the side table.
Eames knows he shouldn’t listen to the conversation, but his burning curiosity is difficult to ignore. He lifts the receiver off the hook of the hotel phone easily and presses it to his ear.
“How’s Eames?” The soft, familiar voice filters through.
“He’s… great.” There’s a lightness to Arthur’s tone when he replies. Eames can almost see the smile and the dimples that come with it. “Happy birthday.”
“Oh boy, twenty-seven. That’s a scary number.”
“Tell me there was no pub crawling this time.”
When she laughs, it occurs to Eames he’s never actually heard Ariadne laugh before. She was all polite smiles when he knew her so long ago. It’s not an unpleasant sound.
“There will be no pub crawling this time. That’s reserved for Yoann’s birthday. By the way, I found the jacket you left behind yesterday while unpacking.”
“Which one?”
“The Yves Saint Laurent dinner jacket. You’re never getting it back. Yoann has staked claim. I think he may have slept in it last night.” Arthur chuckles and Eames doesn’t quite get what’s funny. There’s yelling in the background and Ariadne sighs. “I have to go. We’re having a grown up celebration tonight. Nice dinner, fancy dress, the entire works.”
“Have fun.” Ariadne hangs up hastily and still Arthur doesn’t put down his receiver. Eames listens as he lets out a long strained sigh. When he reenters the room and curls up behind him, Eames shifts away from him ever so slightly.
They never visit Paris. Arthur makes sure of that.
The pièce de résistance happens in L.A. Phillipa’s eleventh birthday is upon them and they both are obligated to visit. They’ve missed every other birthday between the ages of seven and ten and they can’t miss this one. Cobb makes that very clear.
Their once leader doesn’t appear surprised when they show up together and with a gift that has both their names tacked to the card. He merely ushers them in and sends Arthur off to deal with pre pubescent girls who smile at him and cause his ears to redden.
“Hey Eames, do you have an extra…” Cobb trails off counting the shabby dollars in his hands, “ten?”
He shakes his head no. “I haven’t had time to stock up on the American money.” He spots Arthur’s jacket. Without hesitation he reaches for the wallet. It’s as good as his. He slides the crisp ten out of the compartment it’s tucked into and hands it to Cobb who hurries away to pay the pizza delivery boy who looks entirely too bored with his life.
Eames doesn’t snoop. Not through Arthur’s belongings. There are some boundaries he doesn’t cross, but the worn to touch paper tucked away catches his eyes. It’s no bigger than an inch in length. Nimble fingers pry it from its holster. It’s a photo booth picture of Arthur and Ariadne, taken three years ago no doubt.
Just behind it is a grocery bill that’s barely readable. The items listed and their outrageous prices aren’t why Arthur keeps it. The scribbling on the back hurts him. It’s not like any kind of pain Eames has felt before. He tucks the leather wallet back into Arthur’s jacket, making sure not a single thing is out of place, before he’s out the front door. Later, when Arthur returns to their hotel room he finds Eames’ luggage gone.
Go to him Arthur, you miss him. You love him. Staying here, with me, won’t end well. I love you.
***
What Eames hates most about Ariadne is the fact that once he gets to know her, he understands why Arthur doesn’t stop loving her even while loving him. She quickly becomes a damn good friend. She’s still polite, when need be, and she still looks like a wounded bird from time to time, but he realizes he never really knew her. The short period of time they worked together nearly four years ago wasn’t spent getting to know the girl.
She’s not a girl anymore though. She’s a woman. Gone are the days of scarf wearing.
***
It takes Arthur three months to arrive. The summer is in full bloom when he does pluck up the courage to return to France. It’s hotter than any previous years, Ariadne tells him while bemoaning the lack of air conditioning in her bedroom every night.
“Jesus Eames, put your cock and balls away. Please. Just because it’s called an Eames Lounge Chair doesn’t mean you have to mark it as your territory like a dog.”
Yoann, Ariadne’s neighbor and sometimes best friend, is painting a portrait of him and the buff is the only right way it can be done.
“I cannot interrupt the artistic process, Ariadne.” He tuts tauntingly, wagging a finger at her.
“Eames, there’s a gentleman caller for you,” Yoann announces, walking back into the room. Ariadne looks at Eames who grins wider than before.
“Is this what happens while I’m at work? You two sit in my apartment naked all day long?”
The Frenchman and the Englishman nod, simultaneously. Just over Ariadne’s shoulder, Eames notes the looming figure in the background.
“Why are you naked?” Arthur’s voice is tight. Ariadne spins on the balls of her feet. He’s not who she’s expecting to see and it’s clear that Arthur has come prepared to see her. The control that’s ever present in his eyes slip easily in her presence. It’s a look Eames knows all too well.
“Does this mean you’re leaving?” Ariadne asks Eames with more happiness than he thinks is appropriate.
“One question at a time, please.” Eames sits up, covering himself modestly with a throw pillow and he tosses one for Yoann as well. “Ariadne’s friend here is painting a lovely portrait of me, for me. And you, my dear, look far too happy to get rid of me. Have I not been a wonderful houseguest?”
“Your naked behind has touched almost every surface of my apartment. That nullifies every single nice thing you’ve done.”
“Eames, put some clothes on.” Arthur moves forward. He stands shoulder to chest with Ariadne and they wear similar looks of disapproval.
They’re avoiding the elephant in the room. They don’t look at each other and they don’t say a word to each other. He’s not expecting them to leap into each other’s arms, neither one of them is the leaping type, but any semblance of communication would be fruitful. A few scribbled words on the back of a grocery receipt send Arthur to his arms, but a trip to Paris stalls him.
Eames watches them intently. There’s neither a furtive sidelong glance nor a stray finger reaching. Neither one takes their eyes off him. Yoann packs and leaves with a promise of returning later.
“Well, I should order dinner. You can’t eat if you don’t have pants, Eames.” Ariadne exits through a side door hastily and still Arthur doesn’t look at her.
A muscle in Arthur’s clenched jaw twitches and Eames isn’t so sure of his grand idea anymore. He sits up, back ramrod straight, when Arthur places his briefcase on Ariadne’s salvaged coffee table. He unbuttons his jacket agonizingly slow and Eames’ spine tingles in anticipation He can’t place the look in Arthur’s eyes and it’s exciting. This is a reaction he didn’t count on.
“Cover yourself Eames.” The soft fabric of Arthur’s jacket hits his chest and he laughs raucously as the man he loves walks out of the room.
***
Ariadne isn’t wrong to bemoan the heat. Eames can’t sleep and Arthur shifts restlessly on the bed next to him. It takes a lot of coaxing to get him to agree to stay at Ariadne’s apartment rather than a hotel. He faces Arthur’s back and when he reaches for him, Arthur shrugs his hand off like a petulant child.
“Cor, it’s worse than Libya,” Eames sighs, wiping his brow, staring up at the blank ceiling.
“Nothing is worse than Libya.” Arthur’s voice is muffled by the pillow. Eames grins triumphantly. He’s finally talking.
“Jesus tap dancing Christ on a cracker, I need a cold drink.”
Arthur turns to face him, brows furrowed. “You’ve started talking like her.” It doesn’t slip Eames’ notice that Arthur never speaks Ariadne’s name.
“Ariadne has a way with words.” Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Eames doesn’t bother to pull anything on over his boxers when he stands. “Are you coming?”
The slap of Arthur’s feet against the hardwood floors blends with his in a rhythmic echo as they both trudge down the staircase. Arthur stops abruptly when he opens the kitchen door and Eames doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know what awaits them just beyond the doorway. Ariadne is sprawled on the wooden kitchen table, in her underwear he’s willing to bet, with the door of the refrigerator open. He has caught her in the same position more times than he can count since the beginning of summer.
He hears Arthur’s sharp intake of breath and sees the incessant bobbing of his Adam’s apple. The fluorescent light filters onto Ariadne’s milky skin and Eames can’t help but wonder if Arthur’s fingers are itching to trace the droplets of sweat that gather on her thighs, the same way they itch to grasp at his cock when he teases for too long.
“Eames, you are buying air conditioners tomorrow. I can’t sleep on this table for another night.” The arm that’s draped over Ariadne’s eyes never moves and her words are slurred, laced with oncoming sleep.
“Buying home appliances isn’t exactly my forte,” Eames pushes past Arthur, grabbing a beer out of the fridge, “but I’m sure Arthur won’t mind helping. Will you?”
Ariadne’s leg that’s indecently splayed drops from the edge of the table immediately and her hands tug down the tank top that was previously folded just under her breasts. Her modesty in Arthur’s presence is nothing short of endearing.
***
Eames never believed in beating around the bush. He can’t help but wonder if all those conversations between Arthur and Ariadne were dreams. They avoid each other with determination that rivals that of saints.
***
The first Monday of Arthur’s stay, Eames doesn’t make any plans to leave and Arthur doesn’t make a peep about leaving, Yoann makes them breakfast.
Ariadne enters the kitchen late, ready for work, and Arthur’s hand that’s buttering his toast stalls. She’s wearing a slim fitting suit, pencil skirt and all and his eyes are transfixed.
“Air conditioners Eames, air conditioners!” She calls over her shoulder when she walks out of the kitchen, coffee in hand, and Arthur’s eyes trail after her until she’s no longer there. Eames carries on like he doesn’t notice.
When Ariadne walks past Arthur, who’s slowly making his way through her miniature library, on evenings she flicks his ears playfully in greeting and Arthur smiles. He doesn’t tear his eyes away from his book, he just smiles. Eames’ lips inadvertently turn down at the sight. It’s far too sad a smile.
She goes out with her friends frequently on weekends. More often than not, Eames finds Arthur sitting on one of Ariadne’s purposefully mismatched couches waiting. He reads, sometimes he watches television, but really he’s waiting for her to return home safely.
Eames sits and waits with him.
***
For a couple of months Eames forgets why he came to Paris. He’s caught up in the novelty of returning home to the same bed every night, with Arthur in it, and not being beaten to a bloody pulp. Interpol has bigger fish to fry and his low profile doesn’t hurt matters either.
The domesticity he’d never had a grasp on presents itself on a silver platter to him. Ariadne hands it to him on a silver platter.
***
Dates always forego him, but Eames never forgets this one. He couldn’t if he wanted to. The night Arthur comes back to him is forever engraved in his memory. It’s always lingering at the front of his mind, vivid images flashing when his eyes close peacefully, contentedly.
Ariadne doesn’t forget either.
“One day you’re going to have to tell me what it is about December thirteenth that gets you so down.” The mention of the date stalls Eames who’s readying to meet contacts of his at a bar for a drink. Yoann and Ariadne are sitting on the staircase outside both their apartments.
“What if I told you it’s about a man?”
“Then I’d say you’re a horrible liar and I revoke our friendship card. But no matter, the terrible Christmas sweater party is on. I still don’t see why we couldn’t do it at yours. You have two floors. I have one room.”
“I want to give Arthur and Eames their privacy. Let’s just leave it at that.”
The pain in his chest, guilt as he would later find out it’s called, returns.
***
What Eames really hates most about Ariadne is also what he hates most about Arthur. They both suffer in silence. They act like martyrs.
“Ariadne.”
“Hmmm?” She looks away from the book she’s reading.
“I’m just going to pop round to the pub for a pint. I’m giving you full permission to fuck Arthur or make love to him in my absence. Have at it and have fun.”
It’s not ideally the way he wants to extend the invitation to share Arthur’s affections, it’s not a heartbreakingly sweet note, but it’s effective. When he returns from the bar, staggering ever so slightly, he finds them curled up on the Eames chair.
What he came to Paris to do is done. Now, they'll restart on even footing.