Sinful.

Arthur calls Eames in a couple day’s time, on Sunday while Ariadne and Eames are squabbling over whose turn it is to pick the movie they’re going to watch. Eames’ cell phone rings and it’s Ariadne who first snatches it off of Eames’ desk.

“Arthur,” Ariadne reads off of the cell phone screen.

Eames holds his hand out for it and demands, “Give it.”

Ariadne smiles deviously as the phone continues to ring and holds it behind her back where Eames can’t get it. “I choose the movie, you get your phone,” she says, eyes flashing playfully.

Eames rolls his eyes at her, and pretends to give a second’s thought as to which he considers more important (Arthur, of course, no question).

“Fine, fine,” he says, holding his hand out more insistently now. One or two more rings and it’ll go to voicemail, and Eames doesn’t want that.

Ariadne cheers victoriously and tosses the phone to Eames before going to inspect Eames’ extensive collection of DVDs. Eames chuckles and flips his cell phone open, bringing it up to his ear.

“Hello,” he greets cheerfully, flopping back on his bed. “Miss me already?”

Arthur makes a scoffing sound and Eames can imagine him rolling his eyes in a picturesque example of annoyed affection. “Don’t flatter yourself,” Arthur says, and sure enough, Eames can just barely hear a smile in his voice.

As it turns out, Arthur is calling to invite Eames to lunch the following day (which, Eames will argue, does indeed mean that Arthur misses him already, and Arthur will deny it for as long as he lives). He asks if Eames has any plans for lunch, and of course Eames doesn’t, so he happily agrees to meet Arthur at this nice little café not too far from the art studio. Eames tells Arthur he’ll meet him there when his class takes their lunch break. Arthur says that sounds perfect.

“Great,” Eames says, grinning. “Then, it’s a date.”

Arthur just kind of snorts in response. “Don’t be late,” is all he says before he hangs up and it’s such an Arthur thing to say that Eames grins a little wider, even as Ariadne waves a DVD in front if his face and it turns out to be, of course, one of those sappy chick flicks that Ariadne loves so much that has no business being in Eames’ room.

Lunch the next day is lovely, and Eames enjoys it thoroughly. It’s quiet and comfortable and Eames is a little surprised at how easy it is being with Arthur. They talk a little about this and that, and neither of them mentions Arthur’s little breakdown a few days ago, if that’s what you’d call it, though Eames can’t get that image out of his head, the wide, broken eyes and lost expression, stuttering breaths and trembling fingertips.

It’s safe to say that Eames is a little more than curious about what exactly happened to Arthur’s parents, but he manages to keep his mouth shut, for Arthur’s sake. He can tell it isn’t something Arthur wants to talk about just yet, especially not so soon, so he sticks to safer subjects, light little jokes that make Arthur smile, just a bit. Eames makes Arthur laugh once and catches a glimpse of the dimples that form on either side of Arthur’s mouth when he smiles, really smiles.

From that point on, Arthur meets Eames for lunch at that café one or two days out of the week, when Arthur’s not too busy. Neither of them quite realizes that they’ve developed something of a routine until perhaps a few weeks in, when Eames pauses with his food lifted halfway to his mouth and stares at Arthur.

Arthur only glances away from the worn, dog-eared book he’s reading for a second, but one of his eyebrows quirk up at Eames as he continues to read.

“What?” he asks Eames, using his free hand to lift his cup of coffee up to his lips so he can take a sip. Eames silently wonders how many cups of coffee Arthur goes through every day.
Eames chews thoughtfully on his food and swallows before asking, “Has this become a regular thing, dear?”

And by “this” Eames is really trying to say “us,” trying to ask about the standing of their relationship without actually asking. He doesn’t want to say it directly, doesn’t want to be the one to put a label on whatever it is they have. He’s afraid he’ll scare Arthur off. But he doesn’t know that when Arthur does something, he does so wholeheartedly, throwing himself into it full force, unwavering, loyal till the end, and Arthur probably wouldn’t have been scared off anyways.

Arthur shrugs, one shoulder rising and falling just an inch. He folds over the corner of the page he’s reading to mark his spot (he’s the only person Eames has ever met who dog-ears his pages from the bottom and not the top) and looks over at Eames, setting the book down on the table.

“I suppose it has,” Arthur says, and his eyes are somehow serious and somewhat fond at the same time. He lifts a cherry tomato from his salad up to his mouth with those thin, elegant fingers of his. “Is that not what you wanted?”

Eames grins then. They seem to be speaking the same language now, the same dance of skirting the edges of something neither wants to say aloud because it feels fragile, like it will vanish the moment it’s spoken.

“Don’t be silly,” Eames says, waving that ridiculous notion off. “Of course it’s what I want.”

Arthur nods and the corner of his mouth curves up and he goes to take another sip of his coffee. Eames steals a bite of Arthur’s salad and Arthur doesn’t even flinch. Arthur goes back to reading his book a moment later and Eames stares out the window as he eats, people watching because it’s one of his favorite pastimes. It’s all just so natural that Eames wonders how he ever got through life before this all.

Eames’ eyes slide over to Arthur, noticing how the sharp planes of Arthur’s face seem softer as he reads. Arthur himself seems to have become softer towards Eames, less cold, less distant, less detached. It’s like he’s filled out, become more whole and human before Eames’ eyes, and Eames realizes with little surprise that over the course of these past few weeks, unlike when all this started, he hasn’t once felt the urge to just bend Arthur over the nearest surface and ravish him until he can’t see straight anymore (or at least, not while he’s in Arthur’s presence; at night at home in his room, it may or may not be a different story).

Arthur looks up from his book, perhaps feeling Eames’ eyes on him. He raises an eyebrow. He has funny eyebrows, very expressive, Eames has noticed.

“Is something wrong?” Arthur asks, and he sounds more curious and mildly amused than concerned.

Eames smiles and says, “Not at all, darling. Couldn’t be better.”

Arthur looks at him for a moment as if suspecting otherwise before nodding once and turning back to his reading, his eyes flicking rapidly across the lines of text. Eames smiles to himself, a little softer, a little sweeter.

Couldn’t be better.