Sinful.

“Hello, Mr. Eames,” Arthur greets, and his tone is more casual and relaxed than Eames has ever heard. Maybe it’s because it’s a Sunday and warm and it’s summer, or maybe it’s just because Arthur is getting more used to being around Eames. Arthur himself isn’t too sure, but whatever it is, he comes off as less controlled and tight than he usually does, and Eames likes it. He likes it a lot. He wants to see Arthur like this more often.

“You don’t live near here, do you, darling?” Eames asks, hands casually in his pockets, “Because if you do, then surely, I must be losing my mind because I can’t remember ever seeing you before, and I’m sure I’d remember a face like yours.”

Arthur indulges in a soft half-smile and answers, “No, I don’t, actually. I’m just here because this lovely lady insisted that I accompany her.”

Eames’ attention is drawn once more to the woman standing right next to Arthur, a little too close for comfort, her arm looped with his. Their shoulders are almost brushing and she really is lovely. Her whole face smiles as she laughs delicately, and she reaches a graceful hand up to brush her curls out of her face.

“Well, I didn’t want to be alone, Arthur,” she says and Eames catches a lilting French accent weaving in and out of her voice, making her words sound soft as they leave her mouth. “You never know what could happen.”

Arthur shakes her head at her, and she laughs softly again as if they’re sharing some fantastic joke. There probably is a joke, Eames thinks, an inside joke because they’ve known each other for so long that Eames doesn’t even stand a chance. He tries anyways.

“And you’re Arthur’s friend, I assume,” Eames says conversationally, trying to keep any and all traces of envy out of his voice. He succeeds, he thinks, for the most part.

“Ah, yes,” she smiles warmly at Eames and extends a dainty hand for him to shake. “I’m Mal.”

Eames shakes her hand and is surprised by how firm and steady her grip is. She looks too slight and frail to have so much force in her.

“Eames,” he says and Mal looks at him curiously.

“A very unique name,” she comments, and her voice is kind.

She turns to Arthur then and says something about wanting to get some tomatoes before they leave. Arthur nods and reaches into his pocket to pull out his cell phone, flitting his thumb across the screen to illuminate it so he can check the time. His mouth pulls down at the corners and says that they really have to be going, that it’s getting late and they have plans. Eames tries not to look too disappointed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says in that brisk way of his, but his eyes are soft.

Eames grins. “Of course you will, love,” he says and there’s that smile just barely playing at the edges of Arthur’s mouth again. Eames feels very proud.

Arthur and Mal wave goodbye and turn, walking away. Eames hears Mal mention the tomatoes again, remind Arthur that they still have to buy them, and Arthur tells her they’ll get them now. Eames sees her lean in close to Arthur and whisper something in his ear that makes him freeze in his tracks. She keeps walking a step or two before pausing as well, looking back at him with a teasing smile on her face, her hand still resting lightly in the crook of his arm. A sort of silent communication seems to pass between them, Mal with her playful smile and Arthur with his suddenly tense stance.

“No,” Eames hears Arthur say, loud and clear over the din of the farmer’s market around them.

Mal laughs again and tugs Arthur’s arm to pull him along. “Of course not, Arthur,” she says, a mocking edge to her voice. “You’re right. You always are. Silly me. What was I thinking?”

Arthur shoots her a glare, though it isn’t completely serious, and they disappear into the crowd. Eames wonders what they were talking about, what was so shocking that it got Arthur to freeze up like that. Eames wonders exactly how close Arthur and Mal are. Eames wonders why he’s wondering so much.

Beside him, Ariadne lets out a snort of laughter. “Mr. Eames?” she teases.

Eames nudges her playfully. “Shut up,” he says around a smile that refuses to go away (secretly, he finds it really adorable that Arthur insists on calling him that when just “Eames” would have sufficed).

The next day, Eames arrives at the studio building, painting tucked under his arm, at the same time as Arthur. He smiles a hello at Arthur before swiping the ID card he was given at the beginning of the summer to unlock the building’s door.

Eames holds the door open for Arthur with his free hand and nods once. “After you,” he says with exaggerated politeness.

Arthur gives Eames a slight roll of the eyes but walks in first anyways, thanking Eames in a tone not unlike Eames’. Eames falls into step beside Arthur as they walk down the hall to the proper room.

“The rest of your Sunday was enjoyable, I hope?” Eames asks in hopes of striking up a conversation.

Arthur looks at Eames with a pleasant expression on his face. “Yes,” he says.

“Good,” Eames smiles, and he means it. He pushes open the door to the studio that his class is always in and again gestures for Arthur to go in first once more, to which Arthur rolls his eyes again, the gesture more pronounced this time.

“Always the gentleman, aren’t we, Mr. Eames?” Arthur says lightly.

Eames smirks. “When I need to be,” he replies just as easily. He begins to set up his work space to work on his painting of Ariadne some more before class starts. He’s going around and getting his paints and brushes, and Arthur is setting down his messenger bag by the modeling platform.

“Say,” Eames says, suddenly remembering something he’d wanted to ask Arthur. “What were you doing at that farmer’s market anyways? You said you don’t live near there and – excuse me for saying this; I really hope you don’t take it the wrong way, darling, because I assure you I don’t mean any offense by it – but you don’t exactly seem like one who cooks very often.”

Arthur’s mouth curves up at the ends and he looks like he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. Eames wonders if Arthur ever laughs.

“You’re right,” Arthur says. “I hardly ever cook, but Mal does and she wanted to make dinner last night. She’s a wonderful cook, you know.”

Eames nods in what he hopes is a detached and indifferent manner, because he feels a sudden bite of envy at Arthur’s words. It’s very clear that Arthur cares deeply for Mal, that they’re very close, and Eames thinks it wouldn’t be entirely impossible for them to be (he cringes at the thought of saying this word about them) dating.

“I’ve been told I’m an excellent cook as well,” Eames says breezily, trying not to sound like he’s making an attempt to compete with Mal in any way.

Arthur gives Eames a long, measured look, and then he smirks, chocolate brown eyes flashing knowingly. He sips casually from the cup of coffee’s holding in his hand and looks at Eames over the brim of it.

“There’s no need to be jealous, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says levelly.

Eames pulls his lips up into a smirk to hide the pounding in his ribcage. It’s not often that anyone can read him so well. After all, usually, he’s so good at pretending when he needs to be; it’s something he’s perfect to an art form. Usually, only Ariadne can ever tell if he’s lying or not. It’s a little unnerving, in a way, that Arthur can see right through him, especially since Eames can’t read Arthur well at all.

“Who said I was jealous?” Eames counters.

Arthur looks like he wants to say something but then changes his mind at the last minute and simply gives Eames this impassive stare. It looks like his mind is working at a million miles an hour behind his carefully composed façade, but Eames doesn’t have slightest clue as to what Arthur might be thinking about.

“Right,” Arthur says shortly, “Fair enough.”

He looks away then. Eames shifts his gaze to his painting and misses the flicker of something akin to disappointment or maybe just longing in Arthur’s eye. Next time, the writer hopes, maybe next time he’ll catch it.