Sinful.

It’s another day before Arthur and Eames speak for the first time, though Eames is trying to work up the courage to say something throughout the entire second day of Arthur’s modeling for the class. He ultimately fails at doing so (though he does learn, thanks to Edith’s bold curiosity, that this figure modeling Arthur does is more of a strange sort of “part-time job” while he attends college than a true career) and he later finds himself ranting in frustration about this to his dear friend Ariadne, the only one who is willing to patiently listen as he obsesses over crushes, the only one who is ever willing to offer some advice on these sorts of things, which is why he loves her the best.

When he finishes speaking, “tomorrow” is all she says, in that firm, sure way of hers. She somehow makes the three syllables sound like a forceful command and a gentle reassurance, an order and a promise at the same time. Eames will never figure out how she manages to do that.

When “tomorrow” rolls around, Eames arrives earlier than usual, as he knows the studio is unlocked at promptly seven o’clock and he has the proper ID card to get into the building. He has a canvas tucked under his arm, planning on taking the extra forty-five minutes he has to work on the painting he’d begun the previous evening when he found that he couldn’t sleep. It needs to be done by next Saturday, and Eames wants it to be perfect. It’s a present after all; he doesn’t want to present some half-assed painting to his best friend in the whole world. No, he wants to give her something that he’s proud of, something that will make her smile.

He doesn’t mind getting up earlier for this. He’s always been more of a morning person anyways.

He sets himself up at his worktable and retrieves the proper paints and some paintbrushes. He flips through his sketchbook’s pages, between which he’s keeping the photograph he’s basing this painting off of. It’s a candid snapshot of Ariadne, and she’s laughing at something he’d said not too long before snapping the photo. Her hair is blowing around her face and she’s got this huge grin on her face, and she looks absolutely beautiful. Eames remembers taking this picture with a Polaroid camera on a particularly windy day at a street fair this past spring. He paid a dollar for the one picture and doesn’t regret it one bit.

Eames has successfully immersed himself in painting in the minute details of the flow of Ariadne’s brown waves of hair when the studio door clicks open and Eames hears the telltale clack of well-polished shoes against concrete flooring. Eames tries not to let this affect how he acts, but he can’t help becoming acutely aware of every last movement he makes. His fingers suddenly seem clumsy and his arms feel awkward. He wonders if he’s the only one who notices (he probably is).

He hears Arthur’s shoes click-clack across the floor to the raised modeling platform and the low thump of Arthur’s messenger bag hitting the floor echoes through the room – or maybe it only sounds incredibly loud to Eames because he’s paying such close attention.
Eames glances up at the clock then. Seven-thirty-eight; Arthur is early, again, as always, and the two of them are the only people in the room for the third day in a row.

“Do something!” Eames keeps shouting at himself in his head. “Just introduce yourself; say something, anything!” but he finds that his voice has chosen to fail him once again and instead pretends to be thoroughly engrossed in his painting, when in reality, all focus he possessed had fled as soon as Arthur stepped into the room. In the end, though, Eames is lucky (or maybe not so lucky seeing as he almost has a heart attack the instant it happens) and Arthur decides to speak with him today.

“You’re always here so early,” Arthur comments, and it’s a simple statement, but it’s also the first time Arthur’s ever spoken directly to Eames, so, needless to say, Eames is more than a little bit flustered about this whole thing.

“Um… yeah,” Eames replies lamely, instantly cursing himself for being so awkward around Arthur. He’s usually not like this. In fact, he’s usually quite charming (or so he’s been told), but for some reason, he’s at a complete loss for words around Arthur. He thinks maybe it’s because Arthur is older and more graceful and simply exudes this kind of almost old-fashioned but undeniably appealing allure without so much as batting an eye and all that makes him intimidating, but Eames isn’t sure. Whatever it is, whenever Eames is around Arthur, it’s like the little battery in his brain dies and he can’t come up with a single witty thing to say.

Arthur’s shoes click over to Eames again, but Eames doesn’t dare look away from his painting. Suddenly the paint dried onto the handle of the brush in his hands has become extremely interesting.

Arthur stops behind and a little bit to the left of Eames. The smell of strong black coffee wafts over to Eames, and the silence lingers on until Eames just can’t help it anymore and chances a glance over his shoulder. And once he looks over at Arthur, he finds that he’s all but incapable of looking away.

Arthur looks as he always does, neat, composed, and perfectly put together. He’s rolled the sleeves of his crisp white button-up shirt to the elbow, and his hair is slicked back in its usual style. The only difference today is that instead of those pressed slacks Eames has seen for the past two days, Arthur is sporting a pair of dark-wash jeans that hug his hips and legs so well, it should be illegal. The inappropriate thoughts begin crowding in to fill every crevice of Eames’ mind almost immediately.

Arthur is nursing a cup of coffee in one hand and doesn’t look fully awake quite yet, something Eames hasn’t seen before, and Eames supposes that’s because Arthur hasn’t finished his morning coffee yet. Usually by the time Eames arrives, the coffee’s nowhere to be seen, but that’s because Eames typically arrives about ten or fifteen minutes later than this.

The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirks up into a sort of half-smirk, not really a smile at all, and he raises one eyebrow.

“What’s this?” Arthur asks, gesturing over to Eames’ painting.

“A painting,” Eames answers dumbly. He kicks himself inwardly for sounding so stupid and adds quickly in short, stumbling sentences, “It’s a present. For a friend. Her birthday’s coming up soon.”

Arthur nods slowly and takes a sip of his coffee, stepping just a bit closer to peer over Eames’ shoulder at the Polaroid picture of Ariadne sitting on his open sketchbook.

“Her?” Arthur asks. Eames can feel the slightest tickle of Arthur’s breath against his ear.

Eames just nods, not trusting himself to speak lest he make a less than appropriate noise, and Arthur is quiet for a moment, drinking his coffee quietly. His dark brown eyes flick back and forth between the painting that isn’t nearly finished and the picture. Then he looks at Eames and doesn’t smile.

“It looks just like her,” Arthur says simply, and Eames just nods and tries his hardest not to melt into a puddle on the spot, because as indirect as that statement was, it’s a compliment, right? Eames contents himself with thinking that it is.

Arthur’s eyes travel back to the painting and he examines it for a little while longer.

“What’s your name?” he asks suddenly, his gaze not moving from Eames’ painting.

“Huh?” is the first thing that comes out of Eames’ mouth, and he curses himself inwardly because surely Arthur must think he’s a fool now. After all, Eames has done nothing but sound like a complete idiot this morning.

Arthur’s eyes slide over to meet Eames’ gaze, though Arthur doesn’t move his head.

“Your name?” he repeats, and if he’s annoyed at all at having to repeat himself, it doesn’t show. Though, Eames reasons, Arthur is always so composed, any fluctuation in emotion would likely be hard to detect.

Eames whips out the best imitation of his usual smirk and says in a voice that’s more confident than he feels, “Just call me Eames, if you don’t mind.”

Arthur turns his head then, and that half-smirk from before is pulling at his lips again. Arthur’s eyes look amused or maybe they’re just making fun of Eames; Eames can’t really tell (odd, he’s usually so good at reading people).

“I don’t recall getting the memo that ‘Eames’ is a common first name now,” Arthur says, and Eames is sure it’s amusement in Arthur’s tone now.

Eames feels some of his nervousness melt away. It seems as if they share a similar sense of humor, Eames thinks, maybe.

Eames allows himself a laugh. “Yes, well, dear old mum decided that it’d be a good idea to give me a name that’s so atrocious, I’ve never gone by it for a day of my life,” he tells Arthur, and much to his delight, Arthur’s mouth pulls up into a brief smile, though it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.

“That bad, huh?” he says and finishes his coffee, going to throw the cup away in the trash can by the door.

The caffeine is obviously beginning to work its magic, for Arthur seems far more awake and alert now than he had been when he’d first walked in. Arthur walks back to his usual spot and settles into the chair by the models’ platform, pulling out a worn paperback book from his messenger back and rocking the chair back onto its back two legs. Eames wonders how Arthur manages to stay perfectly balanced in such a precarious manner of sitting.

Arthur meets Eames with a sharp, strong gaze and Eames feels a bit intimidated again, though he’ll never admit to it aloud. A faint smile plays at Arthur’s lips and his eyes soften for a moment.

“Well then, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says briskly, with a certain air of finality. “It’s a pleasure to formally meet you.”

“Yeah,” is all Eames can think to say and then Arthur is flipping open the book in his hands and hidden away behind it before Eames can come up with anything cooler to say. And then it’s back to their usual morning routine of not speaking, and Eames thinks to himself – as far as first impressions go, this probably wasn’t the worst he could have done, right?