Sinful.

It only takes about three and a half days before Eames can’t take it anymore. He gets thoroughly scolded by both Ariadne and Mackenzie for just letting Arthur walk away like that and besides, Arthur’s distraught expression refuses to leave Eames’ mind anyways, so Eames’ will is collapsing almost as soon as Arthur leaves his dorm room.

It takes exactly two hours, forty-eight minutes, and six seconds more for Eames to work up the courage to actually do something about it.

It’s a Thursday. Eames takes out the carefully placed key that Arthur gave him all those weeks ago, retrieving it from the top drawer of his desk from where it sits, resting carefully between the pages of his half-filled Moleskine, and leaves without telling anyone where he’s gone.

-

Arthur gets home around four-thirty, as usual. He gets home quietly and toes off his shoes at the entrance. He tosses his messenger bag down by the door and it lands on the ground with a dull thump. He’s halfway through shrugging off his coat when he realizes something’s a little off. Usually this is where James comes to greet him, pawing at the bottom hem of his pants to be petted. Usually, James is meowing loudly about wanting to be held and fed but today everything is unusually quiet. Arthur looks up.

Surprise hits him like a freight train and it knocks the breath out of him. The air feels thick in his throat and his heart is pounding in his ribcage and he probably looks so stupid just standing there with his eyes wide, mouth hanging open in shock, but he really can’t spare that a second thought because standing right there, right in front of him, is Eames.

Eames is standing by the ceiling-to-floor windows that make up one wall of Arthur’s loft, and he’s cradling James in his arms. His back is to Arthur and he’s simply gazing out placidly at the city around them as he scratches James absently behind the ears. James lifts her head from where it’s been resting on Eames’ shoulder when she notices Arthur’s return. After a brief moment’s contemplation, she lowers her head onto Eames’ shoulder again, wide, curious eyes still considering him thoughtfully.

Eames turns slowly to follow James’ gaze, and Arthur has the strangest impulse to run. He’s never been one to run from his problems; he’s always considered himself fairly good at dealing with confrontation, but for some reason, he just wants to turn and run away and never look back, scared of what Eames might do or say because it might not be what Arthur’s hoping for, and he’s not sure if he can take it. He doesn’t run, though, he doesn’t move, rooted to the spot. He waits.

Eames sets James down on the armchair facing the windows and walks over to where Arthur is, and it’s all kind of awkward and tense but he chooses to ignore that. Eames tries for a smile and isn’t entirely sure he succeeds.

“Hi,” Eames says, and he hates how quiet and unsure he sounds, but he really doesn’t know what else to do or say.

And then it all kind of happens so fast that Arthur doesn’t really know who started it all, but then Eames is kissing Arthur and Arthur is clutching tightly to Eames’ shirt, gasping Eames’ name into his mouth.

“Oh god, Eames,” Arthur whispers, “Oh god, I’m so sorry. I just— I don’t know. You just said it and I didn’t know what to do. I just got so scared, and— and— I don’t know. I ran because I just— I had no idea what else to do, but I regret it every day, and Jesus Christ, Eames, I’m so sorry.”

Arthur’s rambling and he’s a little frantic, and it’s actually rather endearing in a way, because Arthur, always precise and in control and so completely sure of everything, Arthur is never like this, and Eames feels sort of like he’s stealing a little secret part of Arthur just for himself that no one else knows about. It makes him feel a little special, in a way.

Eames shushes Arthur by pressing his mouth to Arthur’s, and Arthur clings to Eames’ shirt as if he’s afraid Eames will disappear forever if he lets go. Eames has missed this, this being able to hold Arthur and kiss him and the way he tastes like coffee and something sweet and very faintly of cigarettes, and from the way Arthur kisses him like he can’t get enough, Eames is quite sure Arthur has missed him as well, even though Arthur doesn’t admit it, won’t ever admit it, because that’s not who he is (he gives subtle signs, though, as it happens with everything he does, and in the years to come, Eames will learn to pick up on them).

When Eames pulls away he rests his forehead against Arthur’s and smiles fondly, tracing fingers along Arthur’s jaw.

“You’re a silly, silly man, Arthur dearest,” he murmurs. “I love you, but you’re absolutely ridiculous sometimes.”

Arthur glares at Eames and snaps, “Shut the fuck up.”

And then Arthur kisses Eames again and they stumble backwards and land somewhere amongst the bed sheets, and then Arthur is gasping Eames’ name as Eames pushes into him and neither of them end up lasting that long because it’s too much, it’s been too long, and neither of them really care.

Later that night, as they lay together in bed, warm and naked and very, very content, with James curled at their feet and Arthur’s tracing absent fingers along the swirls of ink mapped across Eames’ skin, Eames looks at the way Arthur’s expression is so soft, his hair falling out of place and curling around his ears, tension and rigidity gone from his shoulders, and Eames thinks he’s really quite lucky to see Arthur like this, because he’s fairly sure that no one else has really seen Arthur like this, so open and honest and slightly vulnerable. But then again, he’s also fairly sure that Arthur’s never loved anyone else like this, so perhaps it makes sense.

Arthur taps his fingers against Eames’ chest. “We should sleep,” he mentions. “We’ve both got class tomorrow morning.”

Eames shrugs and rolls onto his side to drape an arm across Arthur’s waist. “We could skip,” he suggests. “It’s just one day.”

Arthur gives Eames a disapproving look that Eames blatantly ignores. Arthur sighs and tucks his head into the crook of Eames’ neck.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you talk me into this,” he grumbles against Eames’ skin.

Eames chuckles and runs a hand down Arthur’s spine. “Oh come now,” he reasons, “Wouldn’t you much rather get a few extra hours of sleep and wake up at your leisure? I’ll make you breakfast and everything.”

Arthur hums into Eames’ neck. “You’re a terrible, terrible influence,” he says by way of agreement.

“So I’ve been told,” Eames says easily, “Mostly by you, actually. Doesn’t really keep you away from me though, does it?”

Eames feels Arthur’s mouth curl up into a smile against his skin, and Arthur says with a certain emphatic finality, “Goodnight, Eames.”

Eames laughs and pulls Arthur a little closer to him. He closes his eyes and slowly drifts off, and for the first time in weeks, he sleeps soundly through the night.