Sinful.

The weekend seems to pass slower than ever for Eames. He can’t recall any other time that time seemed to have passed any slower, except for maybe when he finally thought of the perfect way to ask the cute girl in his math class to prom while trying to fall asleep that one Saturday night. Even so, time seems to be torturing Eames, for it’s simply inching along at a snail’s pace right now, when all he wants is for it to be Monday so he can go to his art class and see Arthur once more.

On Sunday, Eames goes to the local farmer’s market because he really has nothing better to do and the farmer’s market always proves to be an interesting place to go. Ariadne comes along with him this week simply because she can, and she finally got some new film for her camera, so she’s itching to take some new pictures (“hipster,” Eames teases her, and with that camera and one of her usual scarf-and-cardigan combinations, she certainly looks the part). Eames just likes the free samples of fruit all of the vendors offer.

Eames and Ariadne spend an hour or so wandering around from one vendor to the next, tasting little slices of sweet peaches and tart plums. The sun is warm and Ariadne wonders aloud if she should’ve put sunscreen on before they left, because, she claims, she’s sure she’s burning right at this very moment. Every so often, the click of the camera goes off to capture a mountain of fruit or some random passerby.

“Oh!” Ariadne exclaims, hurrying ahead of Eames, eyes bright and excited, “Pluots! I love these. I should get some.”

Eames makes a face as he strolls over, hands casually in his pockets, to where Ariadne is picking through a crate of dark purple fruits.

“What are pluots?” he asks.

Ariadne shrugs. “They’re part plum and part apricot, I think,” she says absently, searching for some ripe ones to take home. “They’re really good.”

Eames reaches over her shoulder to pinch a sample piece and bring it to his mouth. He ponders it for a moment before announcing, “They’re plums.”

“No,” Ariadne protests, “They’re different. I’m getting some.”

She brings the five she’s picked out over to the vendor to have them weighed and pays the man the proper amount of money. She walks back over to Eames with a triumphant grin on her face, her fruits stored away carefully in the canvas bag she brought with her. Eames shields his eyes from the sun with his hands and wishes he’d remembered to bring his sunglasses.

The click of Ariadne’s camera goes off next to him and Eames gives her a questioning look. She just shrugs.

“You’re photogenic,” is all she offers as an explanation.

The two of them keep weaving their way through the rather large farmer’s market, and Ariadne asks Eames a question – something about ice cream and does Eames have any money with him? – but Eames is no longer listening. In fact, he’s stopped walking altogether, because standing not twenty feet away from him is Arthur.

Arthur has his back to Eames, but Eames just knows it’s him. Who else would wear such ridiculously formal clothing to a farmer’s market? And besides, Arthur’s impeccable posture and precise way of movement give him away almost immediately. But that’s not really what gets Eames. After all, Eames assumed that Arthur lives somewhere nearby; it wouldn’t have been a complete shock to see Arthur around, though it would be a very pleasant occurrence indeed. No, what really gets Eames is the fact that Arthur is not only not alone, but also accompanied by a slender and undeniably beautiful woman.

She is tall, not quite as tall as Arthur, but tall enough to peer over the heads of a good number of people. Her hair is a color Eames can only think to describe as auburn, and it falls in smooth waves to just above her shoulders. She has her arm looped around Arthur’s and Eames feels a stab of jealousy in his gut (though in hindsight, jealous was a silly thing to feel; after all, it isn’t like Arthur is Eames’ in any way).

“Eames?”

Ariadne’s voice sounds strangely distant, as if she’s far away. She calls his name again and snaps her fingers in his line of sight to catch his attention. It works. Sort of. Eames blinks slowly and turns to Ariadne as if he’s only just realized she’s been there the whole time.

“Huh?” he furrows his eyebrows at her, his mind still completely preoccupied with what he just saw.

Ariadne raises her eyebrows at him. “You okay?” she asks, her voiced going back and forth between concerned and amused. She pulls it off well.

“Oh… yeah,” Eames answers, completely distracted. That woman is saying something in Arthur’s ear and it looks far too intimate for Eames to bear. “I’m fine.”

Eyebrows still raised, Ariande turns and follows Eames’ line of sight, her sharp eyes settling finally on the one man who sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Do you know him?” she asks.

There’s a pause before Eames says, “Yeah, that’s… that’s him.”

He doesn’t say who this “him” is referring to, but, having been his friend four years, Ariadne knows immediately who Eames is talking about and eyes Arthur with renewed interest.

“That’s Arthur?” she asks. Eames doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to. Ariadne turns back to Eames and smiles, wiggling her eyebrows in that adorable way of hers, “I approve. You always find such cute ones.”

Eames offers a small half-smile, his eyes flicking to her briefly before becoming permanently glued to the scene in front of him once more. He feels Ariadne tug insistently at his hand.

“You should go say hi,” she encourages enthusiastically.

The bright smile on her face and the energy in her tone make it seem like she thinks that this is the best idea she’s ever come up with. Eames isn’t sure. He hesitates. Ariadne gives Eames this sort of loaded look, one that screams “quit being such a coward, you dumbass.” It’s all Eames can do to sigh and follow her as she tugs him along.

“Go,” she whispers and nudges him towards Arthur.

“What am I supposed to say?” Eames hisses back, beginning to feel a little frantic. And besides that slender woman is still hanging off of Arthur’s arm. Eames doesn’t think there’s any way this will end well.

“Oh, you’ll think of something,” Ariadne says, completely sure of herself. “You always do.”

Eames bites his lip, still nervous, and then Arthur’s turning around and walking away from the vendor and if Eames were to call out, he’d be right in Arthur’s line of sight, so that’s what he does, in a loud, cheery voice that doesn’t betray the butterflies attacking his gut.

“Why, hello Arthur,” Eames says smoothly. “What a lovely surprise, seeing you here.”

Arthur quickly finds Eames and their eyes lock, and Eames so doesn’t regret calling out to Arthur, because there’s this slight upward slant in Arthur’s mouth and an amused look in his eye and Arthur actually looks pleased to see him.

Damn, Eames thinks. Why is Ariadne always right?