Sinful.

When Ariadne arrives, Eames is just stepping out of his bathroom after taking a much needed shower, washing charcoal, paint, and lord knows what else down the drain. He’s been home for maybe an hour or so, lazing around and going online and what have you. He has a towel slung loosely around his hips and is wearing not a whole lot more. While anyone else would’ve likely been flustered at seeing Eames like this, Ariadne doesn’t even notice; she’s quite used to it by now and hardly even blinks.

“Hey,” she says as she crawls into Eames’ room through the window. She never bothers with the door and Eames thinks it’s rather neat. How she manages to climb up to his room, which is on the second story of the house, when there’s nothing to grip onto but solid, smooth wall, Eames will probably never know. It’s a cool trick, though, very clever.

“Hey,” he responds absently, standing in front his closet, pondering its contents. He turns to Ariadne. “‘Wear something nice.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ariadne shrugs unhelpfully and plops down in Eames’ swivel chair. She spins herself around in circles and laughs. Eames makes a face.

“Ari,” he whines, stomping a foot down childishly. “I called you over here to help me, not use my furniture as amusement park rides.”

Ariadne laughs some more and eventually stops spinning. When she stands, she wobbles a little, dizzy, and Eames rolls his eyes, unable to suppress the smile that’s fighting its way to his lips. She joins him by the open closet and starts rummaging through it with a sort of resolute determinedness that Eames finds rather endearing.

“Jesus, Eames,” she mutters as she sifts through his clothing. “Could you be more disorganized?”

His clothes are a mess in his closet, most not even hanging properly on their hangers anymore. The floor of his closet is no longer visible under the pile of clothing and it’s impossible to tell what’s clean and what’s not, but Eames likes it better this way. It may not look like it, but he’s got a working organizational system going, okay? He knows where things are when he needs them, and that’s what counts.

“I’m an artist,” Eames shrugs, the perfect excuse for these sorts of things. After all, a messy room signifies a creative mind, right?

Ariadne finally emerges with a midnight blue button-up shirt that Eames doesn’t remember buying and a pair of jeans. She tosses those at Eames and tells him to get dressed. Eames grabs a clean pair of boxers and retreats to his bathroom to put on his clothes. When he comes out again, fully dressed, he’s fiddling with his shirt, wondering if this is “nice” enough for Arthur’s standards. Ariadne smacks his arm and tells him to stop fretting so much.

“It’s just a date,” she says, “Nothing to get so worked up over.”

She sounds very sure of herself.

“And besides,” she adds, “You’re Eames. Since when has Eames ever been bad at charming the pants off of someone?”

Eames chuckles softly at this. “So long as we’re talking in third person,” he says, “Eames would like to point out that this isn’t just a date; this is Arthur. Eames would like it if he didn’t make a fool of himself tonight, which, if he’s honest with himself, happens far too often for his liking.”

Eames wouldn’t dare say anything like that about himself to anyone other than Ariadne. It He doesn’t act it, but he’s not quite as together all the time as he seems. That’s not to say he’s weak or insecure by any means; he just has his doubts sometimes – but then again, doesn’t everyone? And still, despite all this, even if he doesn’t think so, he does manage to be very charming on nearly every occasion.

Ariadne rolls her eyes at Eames. “Eames is ridiculous,” she says to him. “I don’t know why I put up with him.”

Eames smiles easily and agrees, “Me either.”

Arthur is supposed to be over to pick Eames up at seven. But of course, Arthur, being Arthur, gets there a nice eight minutes early. Eames was counting on those last few minutes to… well, he doesn’t exactly know what, but still, he was counting on those last few minutes.

Arthur arrives early and Eames is in his room, frowning at a mirror while Ariadne insists that he looks just dandy. It’s Eames’ father, a man by the name of Laurence, who answers the door, and when he sees Arthur standing at the door, all perfect posture and well-coifed hair, he doesn’t even flinch. Most fathers probably would be surprised at seeing someone like Arthur at the door to pick up their son, especially a son like Eames, but Eames has gone out with some pretty strange people in the past, so Laurence is completely desensitized, so to speak. Compared to some of the people Eames has taken a liking to, Arthur is positively normal.

“Eames,” Laurence calls up the stairs. It’s a strange occurrence; Eames’ parents both calling him by the last name that they all share, but it’s how it’s always been, and it’s as if Eames’ first name doesn’t even exist (Eames likes it better that way anyways). “Get down here.”

Eames glances at the clock in his room, a little frantic. Ariadne rolls her eyes at him for the umpteenth time that afternoon and shoves him towards the door.

“You look fine,” she tells him, a little more force to her words than before. “Just go.”

She pushes him out the door and to the stairs, following him down as he walks to the door. She pokes his side when they turn the corner and Arthur, who is making polite small talk with Laurence, comes into view. Eames nudges her discreetly with his elbow. They exchange a look.

Arthur meets Eames’ eyes and Eames smiles.

“Hello,” he says in greeting. “Don’t you look lovely tonight.”

Arthur’s mouth curves up almost imperceptibly and he nods once in Eames’ direction.

“Hello,” he says, sounding a bit more relaxed than Eames remembers (or maybe it’s just his mind playing tricks on him).

Laurence looks at Ariadne, a little surprised and certainly curious. “Oh,” he says. “Ariadne, when did you get here? I hadn’t noticed.”

Ariadne shrugs. “A little while ago,” she says nonchalantly, “I came in through the window.”

Laurence looks thoroughly surprised (of course, Ariadne’s done it before, and he knows it, but that doesn’t stop him from being shocked every time it happens; after all, they have a door for a reason) but all he says is, “Right.” He then politely excuses himself and retreats from the scene, leaving the three of them in the foyer.

As Eames goes to put his shoes on, Arthur’s gaze shifts to Ariadne and he smiles that polite smile again, the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”

He’s careful not to mention that he already knows exactly who Ariadne is, because if he did, he’d ruin the lovely surprise of the painting Eames has waiting for her. With this, Eames is very pleased. Ariadne smiles, and she rocks back and forth on her feet a little.

“I’m Ariadne,” she offers, sticking out her hand. “Eames and I are kind of really good friends.”

Arthur’s eyes crinkle a little at the edges and a touch of feeling seeps into his brown eyes. “Nice to meet you,” he says, shaking her hand. “I’m Arthur – though I’m sure you already know that.”

Ariadne giggles and Eames can tell she’s right on the verge of saying something incredibly embarrassing at his expense, so he quickly steps in and says, “Shall we go, then?”

Ariadne shoots Eames a smug little smirk, and Eames sticks his tongue out at her. Arthur raises his eyebrow at the two of them, looking on with quiet amusement, but says nothing. Instead, he simply turns to step out onto the front walk of the house.

“Call me later,” Ariadne insists as they walk out the door and part ways, Ariadne headed to the bike she tossed carelessly in Eames’ front yard when she arrived (the girl’s so hipster, she rides that thing everywhere instead of driving a car, which her parents offered her as a graduation gift but she turned down).

“I know what to do,” Eames says, waving her off, plenty familiar with Ariadne’s nosy ways, knowing that if he doesn’t call her later tonight, she’ll call him and insist that he tell her every last detail of the date.

Ariadne waves goodbye to the two of them and calls, “Bye!” over her shoulder, hopping on her bike and pedaling down the street.

Arthur smiles softly, looking rather nostalgic. He’s always kind of wanted a sibling, someone he could trust with anything, regardless of how weird or depressing or scandalous it was. “She’s very cute,” he says with a very sincere, kind of platonic warmth in his voice.

“Isn’t she?” Eames agrees, sticking his hands in his pockets. He turns back to Arthur, his smile turning into more of that smirk he loves to use so much. “So where are we headed to tonight, hmm?”

Arthur looks at Eames, his features looking sharp as always but strangely delicate in the low lighting the streetlamps offer. He looks like he could almost break to the touch. Arthur smiles mysteriously.

“You’ll see,” he says and walks towards his car.

Eames has no choice but to follow, left wondering what Arthur has planned for tonight.