Sinful.

“Why be a figure model if it’s only a part time job?” Edith asks while they all sit around idly so Arthur can take a break halfway through the hour-long pose they’re doing. She’s the only one who’s confident enough to speak to Arthur on a daily basis, and Eames envies her for that, although after talking to Arthur for the first time this morning, the idea of talking to Arthur doesn’t seem quite so unnerving.

Arthur looks like he’s seriously considering Edith’s question for a moment before simply shrugging, a slight rise and fall of the shoulders. “I didn’t exactly plan on it; it kind of just happened,” he says. “But it’s a little more exciting than waiting tables or ringing up groceries, don’t you think?”

The words fall from Arthur’s mouth crisply, like they’re freshly ironed just like the nice white shirts and tailored pants he likes to wear, and Edith giggles into her palm. She’s clearly enjoying the fact that a half-naked Arthur’s attention is on her. He’s sitting in his chair backwards, his arms hanging over the backrest of the chair in what would have been a casual manner, had it not been Arthur (because everything just seems so precise when it comes to him). His shirt is folded on top of his shoes by his messenger bag, and the dark denim material of his jeans makes a lovely contrast against the creamy color of his skin.
Eames is drawing.

His pencil is racing against a half-filled sheet of paper in his sketchbook as his eyes dart from the page up to Arthur and then back down again. Over the past couple days, Eames has found that even when Arthur isn’t purposefully modeling, the way he holds himself makes it seem like he is. Everything looks so carefully thought out and Eames wants to capture as much of it as he can on paper, which is why the page he’s drawing on already has two Arthurs sitting in different positions drawn under today’s date, messily scrawled in Eames’ nearly illegible handwriting (Ariadne complains about it constantly, but Eames makes no effort to improve it).

Eames’ eyes flick up to Arthur as his pencil pauses, and Eames’ breath catches in his throat when he’s met with a pair of watchful brown eyes. Arthur simply looks at him for a moment, notices the sketchpad and pencil poised just above it, and Eames thinks he catches Arthur’s mouth turning up at the ends, his eyes pinching at the corners – but then Arthur looks away and Eames isn’t sure anymore whether that was supposed to be a smile or not.

Eames continues to watch Arthur but Arthur doesn’t look his way again, and then Patty is clapping her hands together and announcing that break is over. Arthur tucks his pants away neatly by his shoes and moves back into his pose, setting the timer for half an hour. Eames pushes his sketchbook aside and continues the ongoing war he’s having with himself to keep his thoughts decent.

The drawing he was working on will remain forever unfinished.

On Thursday, Eames oversleeps and barely makes it to class on time. He curses the fact that he lost precious time he could’ve been working on the painting he’s planning to give Ariadne, and he curses the fact that he’s lost an opportunity to talk to Arthur even more. Eames is the last one to arrive to class that day, and everyone looks his way when he stumbles in and slumps down in his seat. He’s most surprised when he glances up at Arthur and Arthur nods in his direction.

“You’re rather late today, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says by way of greeting and his voice makes it sound as if this is routine, that it happens every day.

Eames grins. “And good morning to you too, Arthur,” he replies, savoring the taste of Arthur’s name on his tongue.

Arthur turns back to his book and Eames goes to get his art supplies and neither gives any indication that this is anything out of the ordinary, even though it is. It’s the first time anything like this has ever happened, and had Eames been alone, perhaps in his room at home, he’d be jumping up and down in joy, but for now, he masks any sign of the excitement he’s feeling save for the slight smile he’s wearing on his lips and the little twinkle in his eye. That much he’ll let slide.

He gushes about it to Ariadne later that day.

Friday, Eames’ alarm goes off on time and he arrives at the studio just about forty minutes before class is to begin. He sets up his workspace with various paints and settles down to work on his painting of Ariadne. He got quite a bit of work done on it the past two afternoons, and it’s really starting to come together, but Eames is a notorious perfectionist when it comes to art (the only thing he’s like this about) and he won’t be satisfied with it until it’s absolutely flawless.

Arthur arrives exactly eighteen minutes before the start of class (and no, Eames hasn’t been impatiently checking the clock every two seconds in the minutes leading up to Arthur’s arrival). The first thing Eames notices as Arthur goes to place his messenger bag down is that Arthur is dressed differently today. In addition to his well-pressed button up shirt and tailored black pants, he’s wearing a lovely dove grey tie, expertly knotted into a neat double-Windsor, and a grey sweater to match. Eames wonders why.

Arthur sips at his coffee and approaches Eames’ worktable. “Good morning, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says and Eames wonders if this is going to become a regular thing. “Same painting?”

Eames nods and Arthur walks around behind Eames to take a look at it. Arthur makes a noncommittal “hmm” sound, but otherwise doesn’t comment. Eames looks over his shoulder at Arthur and raises an eyebrow at him. Eames is feeling considerably more comfortable around Arthur, and his usual flirtatious ways are returning (thank god. It’d been scaring even Eames how nervous and shy he’s been lately).

“You look rather nice today,” Eames notes. “What’s the occasion?”

Arthur looks down at his outfit and then, head still down, moves his eyes to look up at Eames again.

“It’s not that nice,” Arthur says in a tone that clearly states that this is still easily what he considers “casual wear.” Eames thinks Arthur’s standards are a little off but decides to save that comment for later and tucks it away in the corner of his mind.

“I’m meeting a couple friends for lunch after this,” Arthur explains. “I want to look presentable.”

Eames’ mouth curves up into a smirk. “I assure you, darling, you look very, very presentable,” Eames says without thinking (and in a tone that Ariadne has told him makes every word he speaks sound incredibly dirty, but that’s not the point).

And then he realizes he let that pet name slip

(he doesn’t know why he said it, won’t ever figure it out, but it feels right, so he’ll keep saying it, even when Arthur will shout at him to stop, shut up Eames and jump off a cliff, eyes flashing dangerously and hands clenched into fists)

and, though his panic doesn’t show, he searches Arthur’s face for any sign that the older man doesn’t approve, but he can find none. Then again, that might not really mean anything, since Arthur tends to be harder to read than most people.

Arthur doesn’t say anything for the longest time, simply stares at Eames with an impassive expression, his coffee cup lifted halfway to his lips. Eames catches himself holding his breath in anticipation and has to remind himself to breathe numerous times. And then Arthur blinks once and simply nods before heading back over to the modeling platform. He sits down in his usual chair and rocks back in it, drinking his coffee with practiced nonchalance.

“Well, it’s good to know I have your approval, then, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says tidily. “I always try to keep you in mind when I’m getting dressed in the morning.”

Arthur has this way of speaking that makes it hard to tell whether he’s being serious or just joking, and for a moment, Eames almost lets this fool him, but then he picks up on the sarcasm sprinkled lightly over the sentence and laughs, deciding to play along with the joke and have a little fun with it.

“I bet that’s not the only time you think of me,” Eames says suggestively, throwing in a wink for good measure.

Arthur’s chair wobbles as his balance falters and he almost chokes on his coffee, but he doesn’t make any sort of retort (in fact, he looks like he’s trying to suppress a smile) and Eames’ laughter rings out in the air again.