Sinful.

When the next morning comes, Eames learns something else new about Arthur: Arthur is really not a morning person. It’s probably a little past nine-thirty by the time Eames wakes up, and he wakes up completely tangled around Arthur, who is still sleeping soundly even though it’s bright and sunny and they accidentally left the curtains drawn open the night before. The entire loft is filled with warm sunshine and as Eames tries to maneuver his way out of bed, Arthur groans unhappily at being disturbed and buries his face in a pillow. Eames chuckles to himself and goes to inspect Arthur’s refrigerator for some breakfast.

Eames starts the coffee maker and is able to find the things he needs to make an omelet. He finds what he needs and then goes to wake Arthur up with a cup of coffee in hand. He sits down on the bed and runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair.

“Rise and shine,” Eames coos.

Arthur makes some incoherent noises muffled by the pillow he’s very resolutely covering his face with. Eames smiles amusedly and shakes Arthur gently.

“C’mon now,” he prods. “Time to wake up.”

Arthur turns his head to the side so he can peek at Eames with one eye and glare as menacingly as he can while half-asleep, which, granted, is not very menacing at all. In fact, it’s rather cute, but Eames doesn’t mention that.

“I made you coffee,” Eames offers and Arthur’s expression seems to soften a bit as his gaze focuses lazily on the mug Eames is holding in his hand.

With what seems like an immense effort, Arthur rolls over onto his back and then proceeds to simply lay there for many long moments, blinking slowly at Eames and the sun coming in through the window.

“Coffee?” Eames tries again.

Arthur sighs heavily and drags himself up to a sitting position, looking quite like it’s costing him every ounce of energy and self-control not to just flop back down and pass out. Eames hands Arthur the cup of coffee, catching it when Arthur almost drops it and nearly spills coffee all over himself, and Arthur drinks the coffee as if his life depends on it.

He sighs contently when he finishes, and he blinks a few times at the empty mug in his hands, willing it to refill. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, exhaling heavily through his nose. He looks blearily at Eames and asks, not even close to being awake and slurring his words together, “What time is it?”

Eames shrugs and looks at the clock on Arthur’s nightstand. “Almost ten,” he answers.

Arthur makes a face like Eames just killed his puppy and makes some more incoherent grumbling noises, falling over onto his side and looking very much like he’d be content to just lay there for the rest of his life. Eames fights the urge to laugh. It’s getting increasingly hard, though, not to burst out into hysterics with each passing moment, because really, Arthur is too adorable like this.

“I’ll make you breakfast,” Eames says and takes the mug out of Arthur’s slack grasp.

By the time Eames finishes making omelets for the two of them, Arthur is more awake, but not by much. He stumbles over to the kitchen and perches himself on a stool, folding his arms on the countertop and resting his chin down on top of his arms, his gaze still in that vague state of half-awareness. Eames gives Arthur another cup of coffee, which Arthur gratefully accepts, and then Eames pushes the plate with the omelet closer to Arthur.

“Eat,” Eames orders. “You’ll feel more awake, I promise.”

Arthur stares at the omelet like he’s never seen anything like it in his life, but then after a moment or two of deliberation, he picks up the fork and begins to eat. It takes a good hour, in which they eat in silence because Arthur doesn’t have the energy to talk and Eames takes a shower and then gets dressed, until Arthur is really awake, or at least close to it. He accidentally bumps his hip against the counter on his way to put his dishes in the sink and swears loudly, and Eames just laughs and laughs and laughs.

Arthur gives Eames a look that’s so childishly petulant that Eames grins and coos, “Do you need me to kiss it better?”

Arthur snorts and rolls his eyes instead of outright laughing and Eames goes over anyways and presses his lips briefly to the soft skin of Arthur’s hip just above the waistband of his sweatpants. Eames doesn’t miss the way Arthur tenses at this, but he chooses not to comment on it.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Arthur says stiffly and Eames nods and lets Arthur slip by him.

When Arthur comes out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, perfectly composed and impeccably dressed as always, Eames merely smiles at him. Arthur straightens out his shirt and smoothes his fingers down the front to brush away imaginary wrinkles. Eames wonders if Arthur does this consciously or if it’s such an act of habit that he doesn’t even think about it anymore.

“What time are you expected home?” Arthur asks Eames, all the usual crispness present in his voice again, whatever sleep that clung onto him even after the coffee washed away by hot water.

Eames shrugs. “I’m not,” he says cheerfully enough. And it’s true; Eames’ father doesn’t really care if what time he comes home, just so long as he does before nightfall the second day he’s away. It’s not entirely unusual for Eames to sneak away to a friend’s house for a night, because anywhere is more fun than staying at home, where he’s acknowledged with detached politeness rather than real affection.

Arthur gives Eames a piercing look like he thinks Eames might be lying or hiding something but doesn’t say anything. He nods once and announces, “I’ll take you home now.”

“Whatever you say,” Eames smiles and goes to put his shoes on.

Arthur grabs his keys and subconsciously checks his reflection in the glass door of the oven. It’s another of his little habits, Eames has found, little things that he does without knowing. Eames chuckles.

“You look fine,” Eames insists and then grabs Arthur’s hand to pull him out of the apartment before he has a chance to protest or find fault in his appearance and spend forever trying to correct it.

Arthur means to scowl at Eames, but it comes out looking fond instead. Eames pulls him close and kisses him right there in the middle of the hallway and Arthur rolls his eyes at Eames’ dramatics but otherwise doesn’t make any move to object.

“You know what I think?” Eames says on the drive back to Eames’ house. He doesn’t pause for quite long enough for Arthur to properly respond, and there’s a joking lilt to his voice. “I think you’ve grown to rather like me.”

Arthur snorts, and Eames expects Arthur to contradict, because Arthur does that a lot, just to annoy Eames, just to get on his nerves a little, but instead the corner of his mouth lifts up slightly.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road as he says, “So it would seem.”

Eames tries not to look too disappointed. He actually really likes it when Arthur argues against him like he does; it’s amusing, it’s entertaining when it’s all in good fun, and Eames had kind of been hoping for a better response out of Arthur.

At the stoplight, Arthur turns to Eames with eyebrows raised at how quiet he is. “What?” Arthur asks.

Eames smiles and shakes his head. It’s no big deal.

Arthur rolls his eyes at Eames and then turns his gaze back to the road. “Did you want me to say something different?” Arthur asks, and his usual sarcasm is pouring back into his tone. “Like, actually, I really, really don’t like you; I think you’re an insufferable asshole and I’m really only in it for the sex, which, at this point, hasn’t even happened yet? Oh yes, you’re right, that makes much more sense.”

Arthur somehow manages to say all of this with a straight face and then his lips curl up into that dangerous smirk of his, which he turns on Eames, and Eames just laughs.

“Oh darling,” he grins, “You’re amazing.”

Arthur just shrugs as his smirk fades and he says with an absolutely serious face, “I know,” but his eyes are still smiling.