Sinful.

They end up going to this charming little Italian restaurant. It’s nothing particularly fancy and it has a sort of homey feel to it. It’s brightly lit and the waitresses and waiters are smiling and pleasant. Eames likes it immediately.

They get a table by the window because Arthur requests it in a low murmur to the hostess. She smiles at him kindly and shows them to their table, handing them menus and telling them that a server will be with them shortly. Arthur smiles at her and thanks her politely. Arthur orders for both of them and asks for a glass of wine with his dinner. Somehow, Eames gets the feeling Arthur comes here often.

Arthur’s thin fingers are elegant on cool glass as he sips casually at his wine and Arthur’s eyes look almost amber in the warm lighting of the restaurant. Tonight, Arthur is all dressed up, sporting a full three-piece suit in crisp charcoal, perfectly creased white shirt and a deep red tie knotted neatly into a double-Windsor. The suit jacket is currently folded neatly over the back of the chair Arthur is sitting in, and his snug little waistcoat fits his body beautifully, accenting his willowy, muscular frame.

Eames wonders if this is customary dinner attire for Arthur or if it’s something special because this is a date. It could be either, really, but Eames decides to comment on it anyways, just in case it’s the latter.

“You look rather dashing tonight, love,” Eames says playfully, leaning back in his chair with a little smirk on his face.

Arthur returns the look, smile just a little more muted but somehow far more enticing than Eames has ever been able to pull off.

“Thank you,” he says smoothly. “I try.”

Eames leans forwards again and rests his elbows on the edge of the table, looking at Arthur and wanting, more than ever, to unravel something, anything of the quiet secrets that make up Arthur. Arthur takes a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving Eames’.

“What?” Arthur asks finally, hoping to prod Eames along. He has his wine glass lifted halfway to his lips, but he doesn’t take another sip.

Eames narrows his eyes slightly and purses his lips. Arthur blinks and his eyes stray to Eames’ mouth, and then he blinks again and he’s fiercely meeting Eames’ gaze once more. It happens so fast Eames isn’t quite sure he actually saw it, almost thinks he’s making things up (he’s not).

“When did all this start?” Eames asks, gesturing to Arthur’s clothing. “All this dressing up, I mean. The suits and ties and formal wear all the time. Why?”

Arthur touches his bottom lip to the edge of his wine glass and stares at Eames thoughtfully for a moment before sighing and setting the glass down. He sits back a little in his chair and folds his hands together.

“It’s about control,” Arthur says, (of course, Eames will think, looking back; it’s rather obvious if he gives the matter some thought – control). Arthur’s voice is completely calm and composed though Eames thinks he can see something almost fearful flickering hazily through Arthur’s brown irises. “Growing up, I always felt like I had no control over anything. Everything was always so hectic and I never had any idea if…” Arthur pauses and tries to think of how to properly phrase what he wants to say, “If things were going to be the same when I woke up as they were when I fell asleep. I needed something to ground me, something predictable that I could depend on.”

“So you just woke up one day and thought, ‘you know what? I think I’m going to go out and buy myself a spiffy little suit to wear all the time’?” Eames asks, his voice light in hopes of brightening Arthur’s rapidly darkening expression.

To Eames’ delight, Arthur’s mouth curves up a little. He makes a sound like exhaling sharply through his nose and closes his eyes for a moment, shaking his head at Eames. It takes Eames a second or two before he realizes that he just made Arthur laugh.

“That’s not quite it, actually, though I’m sure you’ll never believe me,” Arthur tells Eames, his eyes open and honest and humored. “I got accepted to this prep school for high school as a result of my intense focus on my school work – that was what served as my constant back then – and they enforced school uniforms. I grew kind of attached to it; I liked how neat and orderly it felt to wear that uniform every day. After I graduated, I guess I just never quite grew out of that habit.”

Eames hums thoughtfully, mulling over this new information Arthur has just tossed at him so willingly. Their food arrives then, giving Eames a little time to think this all through. He doesn’t know what he’d expected of Arthur, but this doesn’t seem quite as he’d predicted.
He’d expected Arthur, with his refined tastes and impeccable posture, to have been the son of some wealthy businessman or maybe a family seeped through with old money, inheritances, in a big mansion somewhere with a nanny to cater to Arthur’s every whim. Eames doesn’t know what Arthur means by “hectic” and he’s a little afraid to ask. In fact, all of this new information about Arthur is only raising more questions about him, but Eames doesn’t want to seem too pushy, too eager, so he takes a bite of his pasta and keeps quiet.

The more Eames thinks about it, the more he feels like he should tell Arthur something about himself too, because Arthur, for once, isn’t being difficult, and maybe that’s just the wine softening the sharp lines of Arthur’s figure, but Eames feels almost obligated to say something. He just doesn’t know what to say.

As it turns out, Eames does find something to say, sort of, anyways. It isn’t exactly what he had hoped, but it makes for easy conversation, so he just goes with it. He tells Arthur about that one time when he was about ten and still lived in London, when he got his kite stuck in a tree and broke his ankle trying to get it. He was on crutches for a few weeks, and his mother had been worried sick.

Arthur chuckles softly and shakes his head at Eames’ story. It’s the second time Eames has made Arthur laugh tonight, and he’s very proud of that accomplishment.

“Sounds like you were quite the troublesome kid,” Arthur comments, “Your poor mother.”

Eames laughs. “I’ll have you know mum loved me dearly,” he says in his defense. “She thought my little adventures were quite endearing.”

Arthur gives Eames that little half-smile. “I’m sure she did,” he says, and his voice almost sounds sad.

A light pause hovers over them and their waitress comes back to collect their now empty plates. She asks them if they’d like desert, the chef made a delicious chocolate cake today, and Arthur says alright, just one slice, then. She smiles and picks up his empty wine glass in her free hand before leaving.

They share the slice of cake and it is indeed absolutely delicious. Absolutely sinful, Arthur comments.

“Remind me to make a little something special for you one of these days,” Eames says to Arthur. “It’ll completely redefine what you think of as sinful.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows at Eames, curious, and says he’ll hold Eames to it. When they finish, Arthur insists on paying even though Eames quite nearly throws a fit over that (maturely, of course, very maturely; Eames would never act like an immature child, no, of course not). Eames feels all warm and content and thinks that this could possibly be the best first date he’s ever had with anyone. He really doesn’t want it to end.

“Where to now?” Eames asks Arthur as they walk out of the restaurant and into the pleasantly warm summertime night.

Arthur shrugs indifferently. “You can come back to my place, if you want,” Arthur offers.

Eames gives Arthur a loaded look and says with that suggestive inflection to his voice, “Oh, I see. You’re planning on locking me up and taking advantage of me, aren’t you?”

Arthur smirks at Eames. “I believe, Mr. Eames, if either of us would be taking advantage of the other tonight, it would likely be you taking advantage of me,” he points out, and there’s something about his tone that sends a certain thrill down Eames’ spine.

“And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Eames says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Arthur rolls his eyes but fails to entirely mask over his amusement. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself, Mr. Eames,” he replies breezily, leading the way back to where his car is parked.

Eames falls into step next to him and they walk in silence for a moment. It’s comfortable, easy, natural, and then:

“Darling,” Eames says suddenly, a thought that has always slipped his mind now occurring to him, “When are you going to forget the formalities and just call me Eames like everyone else?”

Arthur pauses midstride and looks at him for a moment, really thinks about it. His eyes look dark in the low light, and his hard-to-read expression becomes even more inscrutable.

“When you prove to me that I’m not just anyone else,” Arthur answers finally and begins walking again.

Eames could want to ask more (had he been more like Ariadne, who is notoriously nosy, he likely would have), he could want to pry out some more definite response out of Arthur, but he doesn’t, because somehow, that’s the most satisfying answer Eames has ever received to any question.