Sinful.

Almost finished, Eames thinks to himself as he works furiously at his painting the next morning. He’s so close to being finished with his painting of Ariadne, and he wants to finish today, because he knows that over the course of the next two days, he’ll find something he’s not happy with and continuously make adjustments until it comes time to give Ariadne the gift. He always has to be done a couple days in advance if he wants to be happy with the finished product.

Eames arrives early this morning, earlier than usual, right after the studio building is unlocked for the day. He’s been working for about twenty minutes now. He’s got paint all over his hands and his worktable and there’s a smudge or two on his cheek as well. He looks like an utter mess, but he hardly even notices.

“You’re particularly early this morning, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says in a voice that’s just short of the crisp tone he always uses. Arthur isn’t a morning person. It takes him a good hour or two and maybe a couple cups of coffee before he’s ever fully awake and functional. That doesn’t mean, however, that anyone should try to take advantage of Arthur in the morning. That would be a mistake. No one takes advantage of Arthur (unless, of course, you’re pretty enthusiastic about dying a slow, painful death).

Eames grins. “And you’re perfectly punctual, as always, dearest,” he replies, words rolling off his tongue smoothly.

Arthur drops his messenger bag at the foot of the modeling platform. “You know,” he comments, turning around to look Eames in the eye. “I can never tell if you’re trying to compliment me or if you’re just making fun of me.”

Funny thing is, it’s exactly the same way for Eames, and it sounds like Arthur is used to knowing people too, knowing things easily. Eames smirks.

“It’s a compliment, darling,” he says, drawing out his words in his heavy British accent. “It’s always a good thing to be on time. I can’t tell you how many times people have been furious with me because I’ve been late. Terrible way to make a first impression, really.”

Arthur raises his eyebrow at Eames but doesn’t respond and sips at his coffee instead. He walks around the table to look at Eames’ painting. Eames looks down at his hands and laughs.

“I make such a mess, don’t I?” he asks no one in particular and then goes to wash his hands.

Arthur doesn’t look away from the painting and continues to drink his coffee. “I’ve been wondering,” he says slowly, as if giving this a lot of thought as he speaks. “Who is she? I saw her once at the farmer’s market, but I don’t think we were ever introduced.”

Eames dries off his hands on a paper towel and walks back over. He smiles fondly at the painting and says, “That is my Ari – well, Ariadne, actually; beautiful name, but terribly long and bothersome to say out loud. She’s lovely, isn’t she? I just adore her. She’s my best friend in the whole world.”

Eames’ sentences don’t exactly all follow the same train of thought and he’s most certainly jumping all over the place, but it settles into some form of sense in the end and he gets his point across. He has a tendency to do this when he’s nervous or excited about something, or both.

“Lucky girl,” Arthur comments, “To have a best friend willing to go through all this trouble for a birthday present.”

“It’s a big deal!” Eames exclaims. “She’s turning eighteen. It’s a milestone and must be celebrated appropriately.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth curves up, the most pronounced smile Eames has ever seen Arthur sport. Arthur still doesn’t look at Eames.

“Of course,” Arthur says. He sips thoughtfully at his coffee and then his eyes finally shift to look at Eames. His eyes take on a rather piercing quality, as if he can read every one of Eames’ secrets. It’s kind of unnerving, actually, but Eames doesn’t let it show (or at least, he hopes he doesn’t).

“I suppose it’s a good thing, then, that you don’t have a girlfriend,” Arthur says casually. “I’m sure she’d be jealous of Ariadne if you did.”

Eames’ eyes widen in shock and then narrow in suspicion. It’s true, Eames is currently single, but how did Arthur know that? It’s not as if there’s some giant neon sign displaying this kind of information to the world.

“How—?”

Arthur’s eyes turn abruptly to the painting again. “You don’t act like someone who’s in a relationship,” he says shortly as an explanation. Eames is surprised at how perceptive Arthur is.

Eames laughs then, easily, sounding completely relaxed, though really, he’s nearly shaking with nervous energy. He doesn’t know where this conversation is going, but he knows where he’d like it to go, and it has the potential to get really awkward really quickly.

“I never act like I am,” Eames shrugs, leaning back against his worktable. “Everyone always says that’s my problem. Too flirty. Couldn’t stand it. But I suppose… I suppose I could try, if the right person came along.”

Arthur pauses, coffee lifted halfway to his lips, and his eyes are all but unreadable. It’s one of those times Eames wishes he could read Arthur’s mind, because he desperately wants to know what Arthur is thinking, if Arthur picked up on what Eames was alluding to. Arthur lowers his coffee but otherwise doesn’t move. Eames wonders if Arthur is going to do anything at all or just kind of stare at him.

Seconds tick by. Eames grows more nervous. Arthur doesn’t move, and then when he does, it’s so quickly that it takes Eames by surprise. Arthur places his coffee cup down on the table behind Eames and steps closer so that there’s not more than a couple inches separating their faces, all the while maintaining that same, strong eye contact that Eames can’t seem to break.

Arthur smells like lavender and freshly laundered clothing, and the scent washes over Eames in soft waves, swallowing him whole and pulling him under.

And then Arthur kisses Eames and whatever self-control Eames had mastered over the past week and a half flies out the window. Arthur’s lips are delicate and impossibly soft against Eames’ and Eames’ hands can’t stay still. They’re tugging at Arthur’s shirt and slipping under the cloth and running across his skin. They’re settling at the back of Arthur’s neck for a brief moment to pull Arthur ever closer and then they’re roaming to his hips, his arms, his chest.

It’s like this is something absolutely essential to Eames’ being that he’s been deprived of his whole life and now, now he just can’t get enough. Arthur tastes like coffee and defiance and faintly, Eames thinks, of fine red wine. It’s all mint and spice and mandarin oranges, and Arthur’s body is so unbelievably warm against Eames’. It’s strange and complex and just so much Arthur. And when they pull away from each other, Eames doesn’t know if he’ll ever remember how to breathe properly again.

Arthur’s eyes are bright and wild, and his cheeks are just the slightest bit flushed. His clothes are rumpled from Eames’ too eager hands, and a few strands of hair have fallen out of place, curling in thin tendrils around his face. His lips are slightly parted with the rapid pace of his breathing, and, Eames thinks, he’s never seen Arthur look more disheveled; he’s never seen Arthur look more real.

Arthur blinks slowly, as if for once his sharp mind can’t quite figure everything out. Eames faintly hears footsteps coming down the hall – some of the other students arriving for class. Damn, he thinks. The moment is gone.

Arthur walks past Eames to his usual place by the modeling platform and carefully, meticulously tugs his clothing back into place, smoothing out the wrinkles with slender, graceful fingers. He pushes his hair back away from his face and by the time the students walk in from the hallway, there is no sign that anything ever happened (from Arthur, at least; Eames is considerably less composed, not that anyone notices).

Eames casually turns back to his painting, deciding to put away his paints for now. He shoots Arthur a look that clearly reads “we’re talking about this later.”

Arthur just lifts his shoulders a fraction of an inch and lets them drop again, barely even a shrug. His mouth twitches up ever so slightly at the corners, his eyes playfully teasing in that way that gets Eames worked up in ways he didn’t even know possible.

“Maybe.”