Sinful.

Arthur’s apartment is absolutely stunning. It is, of course, immaculately clean save for the wall opposite them when they first walk in, which is covered in a huge, sprawling collage of what looks like things Arthur has collected over the years. Eames sees photographs and newspaper clippings, and right under it is a queen sized bed that looks too big for one person (and god if that doesn’t put inappropriate thoughts in Eames’ head).

The apartment is a loft more than anything, the whole thing like one, open room with a little sectioned off kitchen nook. A door is somewhere off to the left, which, Eames assumes, is a bathroom or something. When he looks to his right, he sees that that entire wall is made up of tall, ceiling-to-floor windows, and the view of the glittering city lights in the night is breathtaking. In terms of furniture, there’s an armchair facing the window (Eames can picture Arthur sitting there on lazy Saturday mornings, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper and watching the clouds roll by) and a nightstand by the bed and not much else. Eames notices that there’s no TV.

“Wow,” Eames breathes. “This is lovely.”

“Shoes off,” Arthur says as he pads across the room to the closet by his bed to hang up his jacket properly so it won’t wrinkle. And then he glances over his shoulder and says, “And thank you. I think so too.”

Eames nudges his shoes over to the side and walks over to the window, hands in pockets, gazing out at the city below them. The apartment is high enough up that it gives a very extensive view of the area around them, and oh, what Eames wouldn’t give to live in a place like this himself.

“It’s nice, huh?” Arthur says quietly, and Eames doesn’t, will swear to this day that he doesn’t jump in surprise (how does Arthur do that, anyways, manage to walk across the room without so much as a sound?).

Eames smiles softly at Arthur and agrees. “Yeah,” he murmurs, turning his gaze back to the view. “It’s incredible. I’m so jealous.”

Eames sees Arthur smile out of the corner of his eye. Eames gets this feeling like Arthur is about to say something but stops himself, that moment of tension, of anticipation, but Arthur says nothing and Eames doesn’t push it. He’s content enough just standing here looking out at the pinpricks of light that make up the city with Arthur by his side.

“Coffee?” Arthur finally speaks after some minutes, and his voice is quiet, as if any loud noise will cause everything to fall to ruins, like a dream collapsing, caving inward on itself.

“How about tea?” Eames asks. He’s doesn’t drink coffee regularly, and, like the good little Brit he is, enjoys a nice cup of tea much, much more.

Arthur nods and glides (there’s really no other word for it, really; Arthur’s so silent and graceful in the way he moves) across the floor to the kitchen to set some water on the stove to boil. He then sets about looking for some tea bags and when he reaches up to check a high cabinet, his shirt rides up a bit (it must’ve gotten untucked somewhere over the course of the evening), and Eames gets a good eyeful of pale white skin. And even though Eames has seen much more of Arthur over the course of the past two weeks, something about this seems more intimate and a bit more exciting. Eames smirks to himself and sits himself down on a stool by the strip of countertop sectioning off the kitchen.

Arthur sets a mug of hot water in front of Eames and drops a tea bag in it. “Sugar?” he asks.

“Just cream will do,” Eames replies easily. Arthur nods and tips a little bit of milk into Eames’ cup. Eames grins and says, “Thank you, love.”

Arthur offers a slight smile and leans against the kitchen counter on the opposite side of the granite counter top as Eames. He’s made some tea for himself as well, and the cup dangles precariously in his light grasp, but Eames doesn’t think for one minute that Arthur will ever drop the cup. He’s too careful for clumsy mistakes like that.

“So,” Eames says just to have something to say, “How is it that a college student is able to afford a place like this? I mean, surely, your job can’t pay you that well.”

Arthur does this half-smile, half-smirk and swallows back a laugh. “Actually, being a figure model pays better than you’d think,” he explains. “And during the school year, I take jobs around campus. It all works out nicely in the end.”

Eames hums softly. “And you dress yourself so nicely,” he muses. He narrows his eyes at Arthur in what would’ve been a suspicious manner, had it not been for the playful flicker in his eyes. “What’s your secret? A generous donation from the parents, perhaps?”

Arthur visibly tenses at Eames’ words. His whole body freezes up and his eyes grow distant, whatever warmth Eames had been able to tease out of him immediately receding. He just closes off, shuts down, all in a matter of seconds, the change happening so quickly, it catches Eames off guard. Eames kind of just sits there for a moment in shock but knows better than to prod anymore.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Eames says quietly (why is he stuttering? He never stutters). “I-I just… I…”

Eames’ voice dies in this throat when Arthur looks at him, his expression so torn and devastated that Eames forgets what he was going to say. He’s never seen Arthur like this before, so vulnerable and broken and raw. But then Arthur’s eyes flash once and the impervious control snaps back into place, cool indifference sliding in to replace any pain Eames might have seen.

“I don’t have parents,” Arthur says shortly, his voice sharp. He turns and sets his cup in the sink. He purposefully avoids Eames’ eyes, so tightly wound that Eames finds himself bracing himself in half-anticipation for Arthur to burst into a million pieces.

Eames takes a breath and stands up, walking around the counter to Arthur. “Arthur,” he beckons softly, gently. “Darling, please just look at me.”

Arthur’s brown eyes flick up from the floor to meet Eames’ and he looks lost and scared and his eyes are so, so wide. Eames has never seen him look more like the twenty-one year old college student he is as opposed to a perfectly polished adult with everything figured out, knowing exactly what to do and where to go.

Eames sighs softly and presses his lips lightly to the top of Arthur’s head. Eames’ hands find Arthur’s face and he leans their foreheads together, smiling fondly and somewhat sadly.

“You’re really incredible, you know that?” he murmurs. “You do this all on your own and you pretend like you don’t need anyone else. But it’s unhealthy to keep everything so bottled up all the time, you know?”

Arthur doesn’t respond. He does seem to relax just a touch into Eames, though, his eyes fluttering shut. A breath kind of like a sigh slips past his lips, and Eames realizes then that Arthur’s hands are clutching almost desperately to Eames’ shirt, bunching up the fabric in a way that will surely make it wrinkle, but Eames doesn’t even care. This is a step, he thinks. This is Arthur letting his guard down.

“It’s been quite a night, love,” Eames says after a moment, running his thumb along Arthur’s jaw line. “Why don’t you take me home now, hmm?”

Arthur’s eyes blink open again, slowly, as lazily as Arthur will allow right now. He presses his lips together and nods once, and Eames smiles and goes to slip his shoes on. Arthur watches him for a moment, filled with a sort of wonder (at what? At the fact that he managed to keep himself together? At the fact that Eames might actually care?), before he snaps out of it and grabs his keys, not bothering with a jacket since he’s just not planning on doing anything other than driving Eames home.

The drive back to Eames’ house is silent and comfortable, and when Eames’ reaches his hand over to cover Arthur’s free hand, Arthur moves to intertwine their fingers together. Eames squeezes Arthur’s hand lightly as Arthur slows to a stop in front of Eames’ house.

“Call me,” he says and makes as if to get out of the car.

He’s got the door open and one foot stuck outside when he hears Arthur say, “Wait.”

Eames turns around with eyebrows raised questioningly and certainly doesn’t expect it when Arthur wraps his slim fingers around the back of Eames’ neck and pulls him close. Eames makes a noise of surprise that’s muffled by Arthur’s lips on his, but it doesn’t take him long to respond by moving his lips with Arthur’s, surprised again by how soft Arthur’s lips feel, the tang of spices and black coffee and something sweet and a little bitter. When Eames pulls away, he thinks he can taste sparks on his tongue.

Arthur smiles a little, the most wholehearted and gentle Eames has seen yet. “Thank you,” he says and Eames smiles.

“Anytime, love,” Eames replies and steals one more quick kiss before sliding out of the car and slamming the door shut behind him. He waves goodbye to Arthur and then turns to walk up the path to his front door, hands in his pockets, very content and warm despite the slight nighttime chill that has set in.