Inception fic: Don't Fall in Love with a Dreamer (1/2)
Thank you for continuing to witness my downward spiral. Well, I wrote one fic that was, like, 8,000 words of smut, so clearly I had to top that and write a fic that is 20,000 words of smut. I may have a problem.
Don't Fall In Love With A Dreamer [Archive of Our Own link]
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Inception.
Warnings: There is nothing in this fic that requires a warning.
Summary: Arthur joins the mile high club, Cobb joins the broken hearts club, Eames joins the smug extractors' club, and Yusuf just wants to club everyone. Or, Eames steals Cobb's point man. Arthur/Eames.
For this prompt on the kink meme.
*
In order to survive in the dreamsharing business, one had to have a very strong sense of self-preservation. Or, as Eames had thought whilst watching Dominic Cobb take a dive out of a two-story window of a bar in Mombasa, extremely amazing luck. As it was, Eames hadn't lasted nearly thirty-five years (in real time) by being thick. He knew when to push forward or to back off; he knew when he was in over his head and when he was one step away from finishing his goal.
That did not explain, then, why he found himself once more in the company of that gruesome twosome, Cobb and Arthur -- and their new pint-sized architect, Ari-something-that-was-difficult-to-pronounce, as well as Yusuf, the chemist who supplied most of the dreamers in the southern hemisphere -- in Paris, plotting inception. Inception was impossible. Eames knew this. Arthur knew this. Small children and animals knew this. The only person who didn't seem to know this was Cobb (and his patron, the Japanese gentleman in a suit that probably cost more than the entirety of Eames's last commission).
His philosophy did, on the other hand, explain his interactions with Arthur. The moment Eames had met Arthur, a little over three years ago in Yangoon during a job in which they'd spent twenty-six hours locked in a car boot together until Cobb had rescued them, he had known Arthur was bad news. He was entirely too handsome and entirely too competent; he had a dry sense of humour, slim hips that would have fit perfectly in the cradle of Eames's hands, and a secret weakness for paisley that manifested itself through his tie collection; but Eames was only a gambler when it came to material possessions (namely, someone else's money).
Eames had thought Arthur had similar feelings toward him. He knew himself well; he was a talented thief, he was an even greater forger, he was rather handsome when he shaved and did his hair properly (which was why he so rarely did it; he didn't want to make men and women across the globe swoon at the very sight of him), he was extremely fit, he was, frankly, hilarious, and he was so charming he had once talked his way out of being thrown in gaol in Yorkshire. He could tell Arthur was affected by all of these factors because of incidences such as:
"Darling," Eames said absently, inspecting the passport he was adding the final touches to, "pass me the exacto knife?"
Arthur started to hand it over, and then froze. "Did you just call me--?"
Eames thought back. It seemed he had. It had just seemed so natural rolling off his tongue. "I'm sorry," he replied insincerely, "do you prefer 'love'? 'Crumpet'? 'Mon chere'?"
"I prefer 'Arthur'," Arthur said, irritated. "Seeing as how it's my name."
Ten minutes later, Eames asked, "Would you hand me the stapler, sweetheart?"
Arthur handed it over wordlessly, their fingers brushing. Eames waited for Arthur to say or do something, but after a few minutes it seemed he truly hadn't noticed. Finally, he watched as Arthur's head snapped up, mouth shaping an 'oh.' To his surprise and delight, Arthur's only response was to meet his eyes, shrug, and return to his computer. With a strange feeling in his chest, Eames stared at him.
"What the hell did I just witness?" asked Cobb, shattering the moment.
A week later, Cobb called Arthur "kid," and Arthur said, "Don't ever call me that again, or I'll break your legs."
While Cobb made a face like particularly injured Shar Pei, Eames called, "Darling, I could use your help reading this map; my Cyrillic's not as good as yours, I'm afraid," and Arthur immediately joined him.
Eames felt victorious (even if it was at Cobb's expense). But that was all -- victorious.
And:
The plan had gone pear-shaped. Cobb and the architect, Nash, were arguing over whose fault it was whilst Eames and Arthur exchanged shots with the Kor Polis Tentera DiRaja. In three minutes, Eames was going to press the switch that would set off the all the lovely blocks of C4 he'd arranged round the warehouse in preparation for this very scenario.
Arthur's next shot hit one of the officers in the shoulder, and he went down as the rest of his mates scattered to shield themselves behind the crates on the other side of the building.
"Go on," Eames shouted at his teammates from behind the safety of his own crate, nodding at the now-available door. The police weren't going to leave them this opening for much longer, and they needed to get as far away from the warehouse as they could before they were either shot (or perhaps worse, arrested; Eames had an arrest warrant longer than the circumference of the Earth), or before Eames went down and hit the trigger by mistake, blowing them all to kingdom come. As furious as Eames was by this turn of events, he had no desire to accidentally kill Arthur or Cobb. Maybe Nash, though. He wouldn't lose sleep over Nash.
As soon as the words left Eames's lips, Nash bolted out the door. Cobb got off a few good rounds before he fled as well.
When Arthur didn't appear to be leaving, Eames snapped, "Get out of here."
"You first," Arthur grunted, shooting another officer square between the eyes.
"Can't, I have the switch," Eames explained. He fired a series of shots into the space where he knew a set of officers were hiding, and he was pleased when one cried out in pain, followed by a heavy thud. "I'm not waiting round outside while you decide to off yourself for the greater good."
"Then we'll leave together," Arthur said.
Eames nodded grimly. "On the count of three."
At 'three,' they both fired randomly in the general direction of where the police were hiding, making sure the officers were keeping their heads down and their eyes on the floor; they were nearly to the door when Eames caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Quickly, he dropped to his knee and, resting his arms on top of the crate in front of him, fired. The man who was about to shoot Arthur in the back collapsed as Eames hit him in the chest, and Eames glanced over his shoulder to make sure Arthur was gone.
"After them," one of the cops screamed.
"Here goes nothing," Eames murmured to himself. Then he hit the switch and ran for his life.
Outside, he had just enough time to duck behind a pile of cement pipes before the warehouse exploded, knocking him to the ground. The air became thick with smoke, already filling Eames's lungs and making it difficult to breathe, and his ears were ringing as a result of being too close to the explosion. Dimly, he heard his name, and he turned his head to see Arthur and Cobb running toward him. He grimaced as the world spun a bit.
"Eames," Arthur was shouting.
They both pulled him to his feet. Eames touched the back of his head gingerly, which felt oddly wet; his fingers came back red. "I think I hit my head," he said, surprised. He didn't remember hitting the ground quite that roughly.
"You stupid bastard," Arthur seethed. "We were supposed to leave together!"
"Hey," Cobb said, looking round suddenly, "anyone seen Nash?"
"Eames, you idiot, stay still, you have a head wound," Arthur snapped. He pulled out his flawless chocolate brown pocket square and pressed it against the back of Eames's skull, scowling. Eames wasn't that bad off, really, but he was so shocked Arthur was dirtying his clothes for him he couldn't move. Arthur turned back to Cobb and said, "I don't give a fuck where Nash is."
And also:
"For the record," Arthur said, as Eames grabbed Arthur's long, sinewy arms and wrapped them round his waist, "I hate you."
"The feeling is mutual, I assure you," Eames replied.
Arthur peered over the ledge and blanched. He pulled one arm away so he could hit the button on the walkie-talkie on his belt. The whole thing gave it a rather eighties action film vibe; Eames tried to remember whose idea it was to separate them and give them walkie talkies. Cobb's, probably.
"Cobb, you're sure we don't--?"
The walkie-talkie spat static. "Arthur," came Cobb's voice, tight with worry, "the building's going to go any minute. You don't have time for this. You weigh about a hundred pounds; Eames isn't going to drop you. You need to jump now."
"I weigh more than a hundred pounds, asshole," Arthur snapped, squeezing the breath out of Eames.
Some sick part of Eames was enjoying being faced with Arthur's only apparent phobia: falling. Specifically, it seemed he was scared of jumping off roofs of very high buildings seconds away from imploding. Mostly, Eames was enjoying Arthur being pressed against him from head to toe, even if his back was stiff and his cock wasn't. Not only was this the first time he had seen Arthur show any sign of fear (aside from the time a projection had appeared during their second job and attacked Arthur with an axe and then turned round and started screaming at Cobb about trains, because that had been bloody terrifying for everyone), but it was also the first time he'd had to improvise with this team. The original plan had been for Arthur and Eames to zip down to the vault together, but the mark's projections had somehow rigged the building to explode, and they had only minutes, if not seconds, before the whole thing went down; only Eames'd had time to secure his harnass before the projections had started their little demolition scheme. Cobb himself was already on the ground, taking time between gun shots to tell them to move their arses.
Personally, Eames liked improvising; it made things much more interesting.
"The projections are headed up the stairs," Cobb shouted, "you need to get down now!"
Eames tucked Arthur's glock into the small of his back for him. "Are you ready?" he asked gently. He tried to peel Arthur's hand off the walkie-talkie, but he wouldn't budge.
"Mr Eames, I hate you," Arthur repeated. His eyes closed, and Eames walked them backwards until all he needed to do was lean back and they'd be falling. "I hate you and your ugly clothes and your stupid, handsome face."
Arthur let go of the walkie talkie in order to put his other arm round Eames, and Cobb said, "His-- what?"
Eames chuckled. "Hold on tight," he whispered in Arthur's ear, and then he fell backwards into the sky.
So, plainly, it would have been entirely too easy for Eames to let Arthur close. Arthur was a dangerous man, in multiple ways. Lethal, sexy ways. But Eames was satisfied with their relationship -- the status quo of their push and pull -- up until they were working on the Fischer case. Because in that instant, when Arthur looked at him in astonishment and said, "Mr Eames, I'm impressed," something changed.
*
What that 'something' was, however, Eames couldn't say. He didn't even notice it at first. He was far too busy putting together his forge of Browning; he had to make sure he had the walk right, had to make sure to hold his glasses just so. Browning came from old money, and he was very precise in his actions, having spent years being trained how to present himself to the public. Every expression, every gesture, was planned. Sometimes Eames caught Arthur watching him from across the workshop, his head cocked to the side thoughtfully. Once or twice, Arthur abandoned his desk and leaned against Eames's mirror, as if Eames was putting on a show just for him. Surprisingly, he never said anything about it other than, "Good work, Mr Eames." No snide comments; no remarks about whether or not Eames's entire plan was bound to fail.
So it wasn't like Arthur was doing anything particularly peculiar. But Eames had a feeling.
One morning, Arthur entered the workshop, set a coffee on Eames's desk, and smiled at him.
He was rather adorable when he smiled, all dimpled cheeks and bright eyes, but it was also unsettling, since Arthur tended to smile over things like big guns and the latest designs in menswear, neither of which boded well for Eames. Until this moment, Eames had managed to get Arthur to smile at him exactly once, and only because he had sacrificed a large part of his dignity to do so. It had involved loads of alcohol (loads), a fake beard, and a battered copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover. Eames didn't like to think about it.
"I brought you coffee," Arthur said, still smiling.
Eames glanced down at it. "Why?" he asked sceptically.
Arthur's smile slipped slightly, but he seemed determined to keep it up. "I can't bring you coffee?"
"That depends," Eames said. He poked the cup with a finger. "Is it poisoned coffee?"
This time Arthur's mouth flattened into a familiar thin line. He yanked the cup off the desk took a long swill. "Would I have drunk it if it was poisoned?" he demanded after setting it back down.
"You would if you had already taken the antidote," Eames suggested.
Arthur threw his hands in the air. "Drink the damn coffee, Eames!"
"Arthur, stop harassing Eames and go help Ariadne with the mazes," Cobb called from his work station, not even looking up from the papers he was scribbling on.
Now it was Eames's turn to smile. "Yes, darling, do stop harassing me. I have very important work to do, you understand."
Arthur stormed away, muttering something under his breath that sounded like, "Why do I even bother."
"I think," Eames said to Cobb, eyeing Arthur as he pushed the release button on the PASIV with a little more force than necessary, "our Arthur may need a holiday after this job. Don't you agree?"
Cobb glanced at him and scrunched up his face. "Huh?"
"Nevermind," Eames replied, watching as Arthur's eyes fluttered shut.
*
One minute, Eames was sitting on the riverbank as Fischer agreed to live up to his father's final request; in the next he was in the plane as it coasted over American waters. He was one of the last to wake up, it appeared. Arthur was already up and about, expertly removing the PASIV's IVs and clearing away any sign of what they'd been doing. Luckily, Fischer was only just coming to, muttering in his sleep and lolling his head like an overgrown child.
"Cobb and Saito?" Eames whispered, as Arthur knelt at his feet and recoiled the IV. Arthur shook his head, mouth tight. When he stood again, he set his hand on Eames's shoulder, heavy and warm.
"They'll be okay," Ariadne said. She sounded exhausted. "Cobb will get them out."
Personally, Eames thought she was putting entirely too much faith in Cobb -- because if he hadn't known it before, this job had most definitely alerted him to the fact Cobb was completely mad; it was one thing to risk your own life, but it was another to risk the lives of your team, especially when your team included your right-hand man and a green graduate student. Yet soon after, just as she'd said, Cobb and Saito awoke. Eames glanced over in time to see Arthur's beautiful, relieved grin as Cobb took in his surroundings.
Now there wasn't anything to do but wait, Eames's least favourite part. They still had at least half an hour before landing in LA, and Eames gazed at the clouds out the window and tried to decide where to go next. His semi-permanent residence was in Mombasa, of course, but Thailand was nice this time of year, and he hadn't been to India in quite some time. He wondered whether Arthur was going home with Cobb, or if he'd be out on the next flight. Parting was such sweet sorrow, and all that.
When he dared to look across the aisle, he noticed Arthur's jacket was left in his seat, but he didn't know where the man himself had disappeared to. He figured the toilet, but when Arthur didn't reappear after ten minutes, a prickle of worry made him get up and duck behind the curtain. On the other side of the next curtain was the first and business class toilet; most of the cabin was in the process of waking up, yet there was no queue.
The door said 'occupied,' but then it was opening and a hand was shooting out and hauling him inside, and Eames had just moved to snap someone's neck when Arthur said, "Calm down, it's me."
"What the bloody fuck?" Eames demanded. Adrenaline was spiking through his veins, making his heart pound and his palms sweat. He dropped his arms from where they had been about to put Arthur in a choke hold. Ten seconds more and-- "Are you mental? How did you know it was me? What if I'd been some hapless businessman, or Fischer?"
Arthur didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. He raised his chin. "I needed to talk to you."
"And you couldn't have talked to me at the aeroport?" Eames hissed.
They were crammed together tightly in the tiny cubicle. This close, Eames could smell Arthur's cologne (something woodsy but light) and his shampoo (Head and Shoulders -- Eames could tell because it was the same one he used, too, which surprised him; he wouldn't have thought Arthur the type to buy his hair products from Boots), and the harsh lighting highlighted the fine lines round his eyes. Unfortunately, it also drew attention to his lovely cheekbones and pointed chin and the hints of mahogany in his hair Eames usually pretended he didn't notice. Arthur's lips were parted and Eames's cock twitched at the sight.
They'd been flying for half a day, and Arthur looked as fresh as a daisy. In fact, there was something else about him, something different; Eames had never seen him look like this before. Arthur looked almost... happy. Or, at the very least, content.
"Are we still dreaming?" Eames asked, leaning backwards as far as the toilet would allow.
Arthur frowned at him. "No, we're awake. Obviously."
"Are you certain, love?" Eames asked. "You seem... off."
He hoped Arthur would pull out that adorable little red die and show him they had come out of all three layers safe and sound, but instead Arthur cocked an eyebrow at him and started to move forward with a predatory expression, which didn't help the case for this being reality. Eames caught his shoulders. "Darling, what are you doing?"
"Look," Arthur said, staring somewhere in the general vicinity of Eames's chin, "I obviously suck at this. So you really need to help me out here."
"I honestly have no idea what you're on about," said Eames.
With a frustrated sound, Arthur grabbed him by the tie and kissed him. Eames was so surprised at first he merely stood there, arms resting at his sides, whilst Arthur's lips pressed against his, slick and hot. He curled his other hand round the back of Eames's neck, and that was when Eames's eyes slid shut and his licked into Arthur's mouth. Then Arthur moaned, quietly, and Eames's higher brain functions kicked in.
"Wait," Eames said, grabbing Arthur's wrists with his hands and holding them far away from his body, "stop, stop."
Arthur blinked at him. He looked annoyed. "What now?"
"I don't--"
Want this, he tried to say, even though he did want this, desperately, whilst at the same time he also wanted to run in the opposite direction. Arthur was efficient and clever and angry and so ridiculously gorgeous, and Eames had to remind himself that getting involved with Arthur meant getting his heart broken and stomped on by those one-hundred fifty pound Dolce and Gabbana shoes. He was dead set against pain (provided, of course, that it was his own). Or maybe Arthur wouldn't break his heart, and they would spend the rest of their days running round the globe robbing from the rich and keeping it for themselves, madly in love and excruciatingly in lust, and Eames honestly did not know which possibility frightened him more.
He was fine with how things had been up to this. He had known exactly what to expect in that relationship, and it had worked for him.
But then Arthur's face went terribly blank, almost as if he was hurt, and Eames felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He found himself saying, "I didn't think you were interested," instead, which was a blatant lie.
Something in Arthur's face softened. "Maybe I've been harbouring a secret crush on you," he said, shaking his wrists free from Eames's grasp and bracing one strong hand on the tiny toilet counter.
Eames looked at him incredulously.
"Or," Arthur amended, "maybe I always found you attractive, in a scruffy, unwashed, incredibly masculine kind of way."
"Firstly, Arthur, it may surprise you, but I do, in fact, bathe. Regularly, even. Secondly, thank you."
At that, Arthur moved again, lining up their bodies from head to toe, pressing Eames's back against the wall of the toilet. Eames could feel how hard Arthur was, now, without even being touched, but he balled his hands into fists to prevent himself from shoving them down Arthur's trousers. He could feel the hard, tight line of Arthur's belly and thighs where they were pressed against his, and he just wanted to touch Arthur all over and turn him round and brace his hands against the wall and just push inside him.
"Or maybe," Arthur continued, voice low, and Eames knew they were finally getting the truth now, "it's because you're smarter than Cobb."
Eames swallowed thickly. His hands dropped to Arthur's hips on their own accord, and, this close, he could feel a shiver run down Arthur's spine.
"And is that what brought this on? Does it turn you on, my being smarter than Cobb?"
Arthur smirked. "I don't know," he said, moving his hips in a slow roll that made Eames's vision white out, "why don't you tell me?"
Any protests were wiped clean from Eames's mind. The only words he could think of were yes and please, and they were kissing again, hands fumbling with each other's clothes. Eames didn't know what he wanted to remove first, Arthur's oxford or his trousers, or if he wanted to forego clothing removal altogether and just muss his hair until it stood on end. He had seen Arthur's hair gel-free twice in the three years they'd known each other -- in Myanmar, after they'd finally gotten out of the boot, and in Rio, when Arthur had pretended to be a backpacker to get to a mark -- and both times had made Eames ridiculously hard in a way that made him question his own sanity.
Arthur made up his mind for him by going straight to Eames's belt, his fingers brushing maddeningly over the outline of Eames's cock in his trousers. But Eames was a master pickpocket and thus faster, and he got Arthur's belt undone first, tugging his trousers down far enough to get to soft skin, sliding one hand round the back to squeeze the perfect plumpness of Arthur's arse; with a jolt, he realised Arthur wasn't wearing any pants under his outrageously expensive trousers. It was so unexpected and slutty, and suddenly Eames felt like he was suffocating, like all the air had been sucked out of that ridiculously small cubicle, and he needed Arthur right now. Letting out a low pleased sound, Arthur's fingers tore at Eames's own belt without any of his usual poise.
"Arthur, you naughty minx," Eames murmured, circling a thumb over the point of Arthur's hipbone. "Look at you."
Once Eames's trousers were open, Arthur held up a hand to Eames's face. "Lick," he ordered, but he looked anything but commanding with his face flushed bright red and his chest heaving.
Eames grabbed Arthur's wrist and licked long lines up his palm, wetly sliding his tongue between Arthur's fingers until Arthur was saying, "Okay, that's enough, I can't, I need to--"
With one hand fisted in Eames's shirt, Arthur wrapped the palm Eames had wetted round both their cocks and began stroking, flicking his tongue against Eames's in time with his hand. Eames groaned and pulled away, nipping at Arthur's lips, sucking at the hot skin beneath his ear.
"Fuck," he whispered into Arthur's hair, as the tugs on his cock became sloppier, more frantic, "I can't believe we're doing this here, with all those people outside, with Cobb outside, I didn't know you were such a dirty boy--"
Arthur dropped his forehead to Eames's shoulder. Neither of them were going to last long, Eames knew; not after three years of wanting. Eames's hands slid under Arthur's shirt and up the long line of his sweaty back and along his sides, needing to touch skin.
Soon enough -- too soon -- his balls were tightening and his heart was pounding in his ears, and he was going to-- going to--
He came with a low, strangled groan, bucking into Arthur's hand. Arthur was gasping, but he hadn't come yet, and Eames grabbed his jaw and roughly pulled his face up so he could see, holding his chin between his thumb and forefinger; Arthur's mouth was open, his eyes wide and nearly black, and he was the most gorgeous thing Eames had ever seen. "Eames," he said, and was finished, spilling into his own hand.
After, Eames rested his chin on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur's breath shook, as if he was the one who had been seduced in an aeroplane toilet.
"I think my trousers are ruined," Eames murmured.
"Damn," Arthur said, "and those were your only decent pair of clothes, too."
*
Of course, leaving the toilet proved to be a bit tricky. The 'fasten seatbelts' sign had clicked on some time ago, which meant most people in the plane were awake and preparing to land.
At Eames's insistence, Arthur left first. He looked no worse for wear, but Eames worried Cobb would take one look at them and realise what they'd been doing, and then Eames would be dead. He had, of course, escaped assassins at an aeroport before (Belfast, 1999; Salt Lake City, 2005), but none of them had been as crazy as Cobb. Arthur probably wouldn't let him die, but there was no guarantee; he had looked fairly irritated when Eames had explained exactly why it was imperative they leave the toilet separately, so he might be happy to let Eames bleed to death on the tarmac.
As soon as Eames slid out of the toilet, he found several people in the front row gazing at him in horror. Obviously, they had not been as quiet as he had hoped. He sent them all a lecherous smile.
One of the flight attendants tapped him on the shoulder. "Sir, we're landing soon. You need to return to your seat."
Thankfully, when he got back to first class, Ariadne was staring at Cobb who was staring at Saito who was on the phone with someone. But Yusuf caught Eames's eye and gave him a wicked thumbs up, and Eames's stomach tightened with something like dread.
*
What happened next was standard procedure. Stealthily, the team attempted to ignore each other as they each walked through customs and into the baggage claim, except for the brief looks Cobb gave everyone to signal he was okay and not going to prison for the rest of his natural life and leaving his children with more issues than they no doubt already had. Next, Eames tried to avoid a pensive-looking Fischer. He may have been avoiding Arthur a bit, too, because Eames was a git who gave people handjobs in public toilets and didn't call later.
He was waiting outside the terminal at the taxi stand and debating which area of LA he wanted to crash in when he felt someone walk up behind him. It was Arthur, pulling his suitcase behind him, his jacket draped over his arm. Eames didn't know whether or not they were supposed to pretend they didn't know each other, but then Arthur told him, "Your money will be in your account tomorrow, Mr Eames," so he supposed that meant Arthur thought the inception had gone swimmingly.
"Cobb left with Miles," Arthur added.
"I don't actually know who that is, but okay," Eames replied.
"With Cobb on a break, it looks like I'm going to have plenty of free time now," Arthur said pointedly.
Now, then, would have been the perfect time to leave. Eames could leave LA right now; he could kiss Arthur goodbye, turn round, and buy the next ticket to Kenya or any other country where he wasn't already wanted -- which was, unfortunately, a number that was dwindling rapidly.
But Arthur looked at him, eyebrows raised, and he looked back at Arthur, wanting him all over again.
"Shall we get a hotel room?" he asked.
"I've booked one at the W Westwood," replied Arthur, raising his hand for a taxi, and that was that.
The W Westwood turned out to be somewhat close to the aeroport, but there was a traffic accident that turned fifteen minutes into nearly an hour. It was alright, however, because Eames and Arthur occupied themselves with making out in the backseat, to the driver's obvious chagrin. Eames tipped him generously for his trouble.
Naturally, the hotel was quite nice; Eames had a difficult time believing Arthur would be willing to stay at the kind of place that had Magic Fingers. It was right across from the UCLA campus, and inside was very modern and stylish and clean and all the rest of the things Eames usually associated with Arthur. Of course, now he had new things to associate with Arthur, too, and he didn't know why he was here right now at this hotel, riding the lift to the room Arthur had booked days ago, like a bloody idiot.
Arthur seemed to be taking it in stride, though. He wasn't behaving as if any of this was odd, or as if Eames were muttering to himself. He merely unlocked the door and dragged his suitcase inside, expecting Eames to follow him. And follow him Eames did.
Like the rest of the hotel, the room was nice. Big, spacious, beautifully-decorated; there was a desk and a couch and an armchair. The bed looked luxurious, the kind in which you could curl up with someone for days and never want to leave.
"This was a bad idea," said Eames.
Arthur looked unimpressed. "A bad idea."
"If I leave, what will you do?" Eames asked, suddenly curious.
"Well, normally I'd get drunk on the mini-bar while watching bad movies," Arthur replied, carefully draping his jacket across the back of the couch, "but now I think I'll go down to the bar and pick up the first guy who buys me a drink."
Eames grit his teeth. "Your sense of humour needs work, darling."
"Who says I'm being funny?" Arthur replied, smirking.
His eyes were dark, and Eames recalled how wrecked Arthur had looked when he came. He slammed Arthur against the wall, tugging Arthur's collar down as far as it could go so he could get to his neck.
"So you're staying?" Arthur asked, grabbing at Eames's shoulders. "Just to clarify."
"Looks that way," Eames conceded.
Whilst he sucked a bruise onto the pale skin of Arthur's throat, Arthur pushed Eames's jacket off and then went to work on his tie. Eames kicked his shoes off and heard them bounce across the carpet.
"You look so good in this," Arthur said breathlessly, practically rutting against Eames's thigh. Eames didn't know if he was hard from what Eames was doing to him, or if it was the suit, but right now he didn't care.
Eames slid Arthur's tie off and tossed it on the floor, moving to the other side of his neck to leave a twin mark. Without looking, he undid his own cufflinks as Arthur unbuttoned his oxford, and then that, too, went the way of the jacket. He pulled his undershirt over his head, hearing it land somewhere behind him, and then he shoved off his trousers and stepped out of them. All that remained were his pants, still slightly sticky from what they'd done before.
Arthur, regrettably, was still fully clothed.
"I'm beginning to rue all this fabulousness," Eames said, taking Arthur's hands and removing one cufflink and then the other.
"Blasphemy," Arthur replied. He shoved his now-free cufflinks into his trouser pocket, and Eames started on what felt like the millions of buttons of his waistcoat.
He was momentarily delayed when Arthur chose that time to run his hands up and down Eames's bare chest, lowering his head to leave slick kisses across Eames's sternum; he seemed to like the sound his nails made when he scratched Eames's chest hair. Finally, Eames got the waistcoat unbuttoned, but then he had to get Arthur's oxford off, and he hated couture more than anything at this very moment. Arthur was making it more difficult by shifting in his arms to mouth at his tattoos, which sent a flare of want straight to Eames's cock but didn't do much in the way of getting them both starkers.
That was when Eames spread Arthur's waistcoat open and saw he was wearing braces.
"That's it." He tugged Arthur up by the back of his collar, and he growled, "I don't care how much this cost, I will rip it off you," and the next thing he knew Arthur was naked from the waist up and folding his undershirt, oxford, and waistcoat into perfect little squares and placing them on the armchair, dropping the braces on top of the pile. He wore his trousers obscenely low on his hips, and it reminded Eames that Arthur wasn't wearing any pants under them.
"This suit is Dior Homme," Arthur said with a glare, as if Eames gave a shit.
"I don't care if the Queen herself stitched it by hand," Eames said. "Why are you still wearing clothes?"
The glare intensified, but Arthur undid his belt and gracefully shimmied out of his trousers in a way that would have looked ridiculous if Eames had done it.
Naked, Arthur was trim by not overly muscled, lean but not fragile, pale but not sickly. His cock was a good size, and it bent slightly to the left. Eames had never allowed himself to jerk off to fantasies of Arthur, but he thought Arthur looked better than he could have possibly imagined. He reached down and stroked himself as Arthur, seemingly oblivious, folded his trousers and placed them with the rest of his clothes; Eames's eyes traced the long line of Arthur's back.
"Take off your socks," Arthur told him. "You look insane."
He plucked a condom and several packets of lube out of his trouser pocket, none of which Eames had noticed before.
"Hold on, did you plan on getting me off on the plane?" Eames asked incredulously, his hand stilling on his cock. "That entire thing, you planned it?"
Arthur glowered at him. "No, I always hang around waiting for strange men in bathrooms."
Eames honestly did not know what to think about that. Arthur had made a plan. Arthur had sat round, perhaps late at night naked in his hotel bed, touching himself, thinking of how he was going to seduce Eames.
"Well," Eames said, "well, that's just. I mean, the toilet? Honestly?"
"You're an asshole," Arthur said, and then kissed him.
Eames pulled back long enough to ask, "What other kinds of things were you planning?"
"If it had worked," Arthur said, "I would've let you fuck me over the desk."
Eames grinned. "Well, then it's a good thing I'm so susceptible to your charms, isn't it."
In a frenzy, they both shoved everything off the modern glass desk, and Eames pushed Arthur face-down onto it; Arthur gripped the edge as Eames stood between his long legs. Then, without warning, he dropped to his knees and gripped one of Arthur's thighs in each hand, spreading them as far as they would go. He began licking into Arthur, and Arthur made a sound that couldn't be called anything other than a squeak; he did it again as Eames moved his tongue in small circles, and it deepened into a loud moan when Eames flicked his spit-slick tongue across Arthur's hole and then pushed it in. Arthur, who had been so quiet in the aeroplane toilet before, who had only breathed out a single word -- Eames's name -- when he came.
"Eames, Eames," Arthur repeated now, his thighs trembling.
Eames's tongue slipped past the first tight ring of muscle, and Arthur's back arched in a beautiful, tight curve. He shoved back into Eames's mouth, fucking himself as Eames wrapped both arms round his thighs to keep him from falling.
He was panting like he had been running a marathon. "Eames, you need to stop, I don't want to come like this."
Eames pretended he didn't hear him. When he'd felt Arthur'd had enough of just his tongue, Eames sucked on one finger and then slid it into him, slowly, and then he went back in and licked round the stretched hole until Arthur began squeaking again.
"Oh god," Arthur gasped. "You bastard, you bastard."
Eames pulled back and let go of Arthur's legs, and Arthur slumped forward with a cry that was half-disappointment, half-relief.
"Where're the supplies?" Eames asked, voice scratchy as if he'd been shouting.
With a weak hand, Arthur gestured beside him on the desk, and Eames rolled on the condom, watching as Arthur locked his elbows and stood tall. He tore open the first pack of lube and coated his fingers and then his cock; by now, Arthur had to be nice and loose, but he wasn't going to risk hurting him. He was so hard and ready his hands were shaking.
Kissing the back of Arthur's neck, he lined himself up and murmured, "Ready, darling?"
"Eames, for fuck's sake--"
Arthur opened up round him so easily he was able to slide in with one single push. Eames curled one hand round the wing of Arthur's hip, and with the other he began jacking Arthur off slowly; he watched as Arthur held onto the edges of the desk like if he let go he'd float away, all the while letting out a stream of incoherent curses with Eames's name mixed in for good measure. Arthur's body was warm and pliant as Eames thrust into him, and inside he was hot and wet, gripping Eames's cock every time he slid back in.
Mouthing the notches of Arthur's spine, he sped up both his hand and his thrusts until Arthur was gasping and Eames was losing control. This was so much better than before, his cock in Arthur's tight heat, his mouth on Arthur's skin, Arthur naked and falling apart in his arms, Arthur unable to keep himself from making those sounds.
"You feel so amazing," he breathed into Arthur's hair. "Is it good for you?"
"You've got to be kidding me," Arthur said, a laugh shaking out of him.
"Show me how good I make you feel," Eames said.
"I'm not going to come just because you told me to," Arthur replied, but Eames leaned over and nipped his earlobe and Arthur was, in fact, coming all over Eames's hand, his arse tightening in almost painful spasms round Eames's cock. His arms gave out and they crashed onto the desk, and Arthur probably would have slid to the floor if Eames wasn't inside him.
That tipped Eames over, and he was coming, hips snapping and blood rushing in his ears.
After, they dragged themselves to the bed, lying perpendicular to each other. Eames rested his head on Arthur's chest, staring at the ceiling; Arthur carded his hand through Eames's hair.
"This is a nice hotel," Eames said eventually. Arthur hummed in agreement. "Is this where you usually stay when you come to LA to see Cobb?"
He felt the 'why?' was heavily implied, and Arthur must have heard it, because Eames felt him shrug. The hand in Eames's hair slowed but didn't stop. "I like the neighbourhood."
"What a funny thing to say," Eames said.
"I went to UCLA."
"Is that so?" Eames asked, delighted at this new piece of information. He pushed himself up on one elbow to study Arthur's face. "What was your course?"
He expected some kind of maths or science -- Arthur loved things that were ordered and in their place -- but he was completely taken aback when Arthur's lips quirked and he replied, "Film Studies."
"You're having me on," said Eames. "Really?"
"Really."
"Really?" Eames repeated.
Arthur looked vexed. "What'd you study?"
"I have several degrees, darling, but none to any university I ever attended."
"You're a terrible person," Arthur agreed, but he ran a palm down Eames's chest and licked his lips.
"Where are you from originally?" Eames asked. Arthur had already answered two of his questions, so surely it couldn't hurt to press his luck for more. He wanted to know everything about Arthur; he needed to tuck it all away in his mind so he could recall it later, when he was left with only his fond memories (and maybe a pair of Arthur's pants he would steal whilst Arthur was in the shower) and they were a world apart.
Arthur's head rolled on the pillow. "Wisconsin," he replied, saying the word as if it had personally offended him.
Eames tried to picture it. Oddly, he had thought Arthur from somewhere posh, like New York. Or perhaps having sprung fully-formed from his father's head. "Is that near here?"
Arthur snorted. "No, it's up north. Lots of snow and cheese. Do you know how difficult it is to be Jewish in Wisconsin? I learned how to fight because I was sick of always getting beaten up on my way to Hebrew school." He paused. "Where are you from?"
"Stow-on-the-Wold."
"Who are you, Shakespeare? Stow-on-the-Wold," he echoed in a terrible English accent. He poked Eames. "You're so English. Can you say 'please, sir, I want some more'?"
Eames sniffed. "Absolutely not, it's degrading. And besides," he added, running a hand up Arthur's lanky thigh, "I need another half-hour before I can even begin to think of 'more.'"
"Right-ho, guv," Arthur replied.
Eames sat up in mock anger and loomed over him. "Oh, you think you're so cute, don't you. Hi, my name's Rick," he said, in his best impression of Arthur's flat accent, which he knew he was actually quite good at. "I like guns and apple pie. I wear my sweater and my sneakers when I go park my truck in the parking lot. Let's have a soft drink, and maybe later we can vacuum the room."
Arthur threw back his head and laughed, bright and happy. "That's terrible. That's not funny at all." But he didn't stop laughing. It gave him lovely lines round the eyes and showed off rows of pearly white teeth, and he looked gorgeously debauched -- sprawled naked across the bed, his impossibly long limbs loose, with love bites along his neck and his hair mussed beyond repair -- and much younger than his twenty-nine years. Eames didn't want to let go of him so soon.
"Come back to Mombasa with me," he said. "For a little while."
Arthur was still smiling broadly. "Okay."
*
Eames loved everything about Mombasa. It was laid back; it was a colourful mixture of Portuguese, Arab, British, Swahili, Indian, and Mijikenda culture; it was loaded with thousands of tourists every day of the week, mostly confined to the beaches and Fort Jesus. The weather was wonderfully hot and humid all year round, and Eames had grown accustomed to twenty-eight degree winters. The beaches were sandy, the drinks were cheap, and the food was excellent. The only thing the city lacked, in Eames's opinion, was a proper football team. He wasn't much of a fan of cricket, and there was only so much rugby he could watch before he needed a stiff gin and tonic. Still, it was Eames's tropical paradise.
He had a flat in an old, light blue colonial building in the Old Town, far too close to where Cobb had met him a few months ago. It wasn't near the more popular beaches and nightclubs, but he was getting older and was starting to appreciate the quiet. Also, there were always plenty of tourists for him to fool and older blokes to play cards with, in case he got bored.
Once the taxi dropped them off outside the flat, Eames realised he'd never had anyone else stay with him in this flat other than Yusuf, and only that one time when his ex had kicked him out.
"It's a bit of a mess," he said apologetically, opening the door.
He watched as Arthur looked round the place, at Eames's comfortable leather couch and heavy oak furniture and stacks of second-hand books that had accumulated dust over the weeks, along with the paintings on the walls and Turkish rug under his feet. In the bedroom was a creaky old four-poster bed and a massive wardrobe he'd found at a market in Nairobi, and he'd painted the walls of that room green. Eames didn't decorate with any sort of plan or style; he simply bought what he liked, and he liked things that looked old. Arthur's flat was probably all clean lines and modern art, probably one of those stylish places with white walls and black furniture and one single red vase, or something; he probably read design magazines and spent hours looking for the perfect shade of ecru.
"I like it," Arthur said, touching a frame of a Manet replica hanging next to the entrance of the kitchen. "It's very you."
"You like it?" Eames asked.
"Well, I'd like to set that couch on fire," Arthur admitted, "but the rest of it's nice."
They fucked on that couch, and then in the bed, and then again on the couch, until Arthur complained of chafing. They took a break so Eames could run out and bring them back kebabs, and then they fucked on the kitchen table and up against the wardrobe. By the time the sun came back up the next morning, Eames was sore from head to toe, and his thighs wouldn't stop cramping. He'd never had such a thoroughly rewarding workout.
"Ow," Arthur said.
Eames looked down to where Arthur was curled up next to him. "Alright there, love?"
"I never should've told you I can put my ankles behind my head," Arthur groaned.
"And I never should have laughed that time you fell off the couch," Eames agreed. He was still aching from Arthur's revenge, and his carpet would probably need to be professionally cleaned.
"I have stubble burn in places no one should have stubble burn."
"I," Eames started, but he really couldn't top that one.
"As soon as I can move again," said Arthur, "I'm taking a shower and using all your hot water."
"Be my guest," Eames replied, and then he passed out for ten hours.
When he woke up, it was late afternoon, and Arthur was in the kitchen making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He was wearing a pin-striped button down and another pair of his spectacularly form-fitted trousers, but his feet were bare and his hair was unstyled, which was the same thing as Arthur being in sweatpants and yesterday's t-shirt. Eames wanted to sneak up behind him and press him into the counter, but Arthur was holding a butterknife and there was a very slim chance he'd escape without being stabbed; he'd once seen Arthur stab a projection in the face with one of those, and it hadn't looked like something Eames wanted to experience for himself.
"How can you live in Kenya and drink Nescafe?" Arthur demanded, sounding as if Eames had sinned against nature.
"Good afternoon to you too, love," Eames said. He plucked one of the sandwiches off Arthur's plate. "I had bread?"
"No," Arthur replied round a mouthful of sandwich. "I went to the store."
Eames opened his cabinets and found his once-bare shelves were now stocked with food. The fridge was the same. The dishes left behind in his sink to rot whilst he'd been in Paris were washed and stacked on the drying rack, and the rubbish had been carried out.
"I didn't bring you here to clean for me," Eames said. It gave him a funny feeling.
"I know," said Arthur. The 'you idiot' was implied.
*
It turned out Arthur really had studied film, because the entire hard drive of his laptop was filled with movies, mostly classics and some strange indie ones Eames thought looked vaguely terrifying. Eames wondered if these helped Arthur when he was creating dreams; his dreams were always impeccably detailed and elaborate, but he didn't have a very good (if any) imagination. Once, he, Eames, and Cobb had used Arthur as the architect for an extraction in which they made the mark believe he was in prison, and Eames had sworn at the time it had looked eerily like The Shawshank Redemption. Now he knew why.
So Arthur liked movies, and he liked reading the books Eames had left round the flat, and he liked taking long walks through the Old Town and stopping at dodgy coffee houses, and he liked listening to Eames talking to strangers at the pubs and casinos, and he liked giving the arms dealer Eames had introduced him to impossible weapons requests and then finding the perfect place in Eames's apartment to hide them. Eames was now better armed than he'd been in years. Arthur liked when Eames brought him his morning cuppa in bed; he liked when Eames fell asleep with his head on his shoulder.
He didn't like the weather. One day Eames caught him eyeing a waistcoat with longing.
All in all, Eames was fascinated.
"You know," Eames said one morning after Arthur had been in his flat for a little over a fortnight, "Yusuf lives in Mombasa, too."
Arthur lowered the newspaper he was reading. Of course Arthur bought the New York Times in Kenya. "As in Yusuf the chemist, whom Cobb bribed to keep quiet about the effects of his Somnacin blend?"
"Well, it does sounds terrible when you say it like that," Eames said.
It was true they could have ended up in limbo thanks to Yusuf (and Cobb, of course, but Arthur didn't seem to be blaming him now, did he?), but Yusuf was one of the few people Eames didn't find horribly dull. And Eames had never trusted him completely -- Eames never trusted anyone completely; it wasn't a good idea for anyone in his line of work to be held to one person -- so Yusuf's betrayal didn't sting as much as it could have. Mostly, Eames was annoyed with him, and he very much wanted to know what Yusuf was planning on doing with Cobb's share. He could still associate with Yusuf so long as they never worked together again. It was just that simple.
Yusuf's laboratory was still next to the dream den, a short matatus ride away from Eames's flat. Eames preferred public transport because it gave him an opportunity to people watch. He knew Arthur, on the other hand, would have preferred walking or taxi, but Eames liked to make him use the matatus as often as possible just to see the hilariously appalled look on his face as he was squeezed between Eames and literally dozens of other people. Every time, Arthur said, "Never again, Mr Eames, never again!" yet he always followed Eames onto one next time round. Eames enjoying ruining Arthur's elegance one brightly-coloured mini-bus at a time.
The first thing Yusuf said when he saw Arthur was, "Oh no, is the world ending?"
Both Eames and Arthur stared at him. "Say what?" asked Eames.
"Arthur's wearing a t-shirt," Yusuf explained, gesturing. "Wasn't that one of the signs of the end times? War, famine, Arthur in casual dress?"
"I'm on vacation," Arthur said. "Also, it's really hot outside."
Yusuf snorted. "You're on holiday in Mombasa?"
"Maybe I wanted to go to the beach," Arthur said, lips thinning.
"Your skin has the same deathy-white pallor as a vampire," said Yusuf suspiciously.
"Alright now," Eames cut in. "I didn't bring Arthur here for an interrogation."
Arthur gave Eames a pointed look. Eames realised this was not going as well as he'd hoped. "I'll let you two catch up."
As soon as he was a good distance away on the other side of the lab, Yusuf turned to Eames and hissed, "Why'd you bring him here? I never wanted to see any of the loons from that inception job ever again. It was the most frightening experience of my life!"
"Even me?" asked Eames.
"Especially you."
"Yusuf, you wound me," Eames replied, placing his hand on his heart.
Yusuf nodded at Arthur, who seemed to be poking his way through Yusuf's things. Eames watched Arthur pull out a long plastic tube and give it a puzzled look. "So is he here on a job?" Yusuf asked. "I haven't heard of any work in Mombasa lately."
Eames picked up a slide off the table and gave it a more thorough study than it was probably worth. "Not exactly, no. He's... visiting me. For an unspecified amount of time."
Yusuf frowned again. "A normal visit, or a sexy visit?"
Eames glanced over to where Arthur was gazing at Yusuf's equipment with an adorably perplexed frown on his face. "A sexy visit. Absolutely a sexy visit."
"Words cannot begin to describe how horrified I am right now," said Yusuf.
"I'm pretty sure possession of this drug is illegal," Arthur called from across the room, holding a flask in his hand. "I know we're criminals and everything, but you shouldn't have this out where anyone could see it."
Yusuf scowled at Eames.
"Darling, Yusuf just offered to take us out to lunch," Eames said.
Arthur looked amused. "Oh did he?"
"I bloody hate you," Yusuf whispered.
However, several hours and a stomach-busting amount of samosas later, Arthur was helping Yusuf test out his newest chemical explosive -- the parts of which he'd bought with Cobb's share of the inception job -- on rubbish on the bank of Tudor Creek. Across the river, tall, white buildings and red-roofed colonial-style resorts jutted out of the trees. They were standing mostly covered by the bridge, and Eames patrolled the area round them, puffing on a fag and keeping an eye out for the police. Every few minutes, he could hear an explosion, followed by Yusuf and Arthur cheering enthusiastically.
He sat on the sand. An explosion rocked the earth.
"Yay," Arthur and Yusuf's voices called in the distance.
Not long after, Arthur walked up to him. "This stuff is good. We should steal it."
Eames shaded his eyes with one hand and peered up at him. "Or we could simply ask him. He is my friend, after all. You are aware of the concept of friendship, aren't you? Or did Cobb never allow you to have any friends?"
"I didn't need Cobb's permission to live my life," Arthur said. He took a seat next to Eames and paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Although he did once tell me he was the only friend I needed."
"Your Stockholm Syndrome is so very disheartening," Eames agreed.
There came another explosion from the direction of the bridge. This one was much bigger than any of the ones before. Both Eames and Arthur scrambled to their feet.
"I'm king of the lab!" Yusuf shouted.
*
Part two
Don't Fall In Love With A Dreamer [Archive of Our Own link]
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Inception.
Warnings: There is nothing in this fic that requires a warning.
Summary: Arthur joins the mile high club, Cobb joins the broken hearts club, Eames joins the smug extractors' club, and Yusuf just wants to club everyone. Or, Eames steals Cobb's point man. Arthur/Eames.
For this prompt on the kink meme.
*
In order to survive in the dreamsharing business, one had to have a very strong sense of self-preservation. Or, as Eames had thought whilst watching Dominic Cobb take a dive out of a two-story window of a bar in Mombasa, extremely amazing luck. As it was, Eames hadn't lasted nearly thirty-five years (in real time) by being thick. He knew when to push forward or to back off; he knew when he was in over his head and when he was one step away from finishing his goal.
That did not explain, then, why he found himself once more in the company of that gruesome twosome, Cobb and Arthur -- and their new pint-sized architect, Ari-something-that-was-difficult-to-pronounce, as well as Yusuf, the chemist who supplied most of the dreamers in the southern hemisphere -- in Paris, plotting inception. Inception was impossible. Eames knew this. Arthur knew this. Small children and animals knew this. The only person who didn't seem to know this was Cobb (and his patron, the Japanese gentleman in a suit that probably cost more than the entirety of Eames's last commission).
His philosophy did, on the other hand, explain his interactions with Arthur. The moment Eames had met Arthur, a little over three years ago in Yangoon during a job in which they'd spent twenty-six hours locked in a car boot together until Cobb had rescued them, he had known Arthur was bad news. He was entirely too handsome and entirely too competent; he had a dry sense of humour, slim hips that would have fit perfectly in the cradle of Eames's hands, and a secret weakness for paisley that manifested itself through his tie collection; but Eames was only a gambler when it came to material possessions (namely, someone else's money).
Eames had thought Arthur had similar feelings toward him. He knew himself well; he was a talented thief, he was an even greater forger, he was rather handsome when he shaved and did his hair properly (which was why he so rarely did it; he didn't want to make men and women across the globe swoon at the very sight of him), he was extremely fit, he was, frankly, hilarious, and he was so charming he had once talked his way out of being thrown in gaol in Yorkshire. He could tell Arthur was affected by all of these factors because of incidences such as:
"Darling," Eames said absently, inspecting the passport he was adding the final touches to, "pass me the exacto knife?"
Arthur started to hand it over, and then froze. "Did you just call me--?"
Eames thought back. It seemed he had. It had just seemed so natural rolling off his tongue. "I'm sorry," he replied insincerely, "do you prefer 'love'? 'Crumpet'? 'Mon chere'?"
"I prefer 'Arthur'," Arthur said, irritated. "Seeing as how it's my name."
Ten minutes later, Eames asked, "Would you hand me the stapler, sweetheart?"
Arthur handed it over wordlessly, their fingers brushing. Eames waited for Arthur to say or do something, but after a few minutes it seemed he truly hadn't noticed. Finally, he watched as Arthur's head snapped up, mouth shaping an 'oh.' To his surprise and delight, Arthur's only response was to meet his eyes, shrug, and return to his computer. With a strange feeling in his chest, Eames stared at him.
"What the hell did I just witness?" asked Cobb, shattering the moment.
A week later, Cobb called Arthur "kid," and Arthur said, "Don't ever call me that again, or I'll break your legs."
While Cobb made a face like particularly injured Shar Pei, Eames called, "Darling, I could use your help reading this map; my Cyrillic's not as good as yours, I'm afraid," and Arthur immediately joined him.
Eames felt victorious (even if it was at Cobb's expense). But that was all -- victorious.
And:
The plan had gone pear-shaped. Cobb and the architect, Nash, were arguing over whose fault it was whilst Eames and Arthur exchanged shots with the Kor Polis Tentera DiRaja. In three minutes, Eames was going to press the switch that would set off the all the lovely blocks of C4 he'd arranged round the warehouse in preparation for this very scenario.
Arthur's next shot hit one of the officers in the shoulder, and he went down as the rest of his mates scattered to shield themselves behind the crates on the other side of the building.
"Go on," Eames shouted at his teammates from behind the safety of his own crate, nodding at the now-available door. The police weren't going to leave them this opening for much longer, and they needed to get as far away from the warehouse as they could before they were either shot (or perhaps worse, arrested; Eames had an arrest warrant longer than the circumference of the Earth), or before Eames went down and hit the trigger by mistake, blowing them all to kingdom come. As furious as Eames was by this turn of events, he had no desire to accidentally kill Arthur or Cobb. Maybe Nash, though. He wouldn't lose sleep over Nash.
As soon as the words left Eames's lips, Nash bolted out the door. Cobb got off a few good rounds before he fled as well.
When Arthur didn't appear to be leaving, Eames snapped, "Get out of here."
"You first," Arthur grunted, shooting another officer square between the eyes.
"Can't, I have the switch," Eames explained. He fired a series of shots into the space where he knew a set of officers were hiding, and he was pleased when one cried out in pain, followed by a heavy thud. "I'm not waiting round outside while you decide to off yourself for the greater good."
"Then we'll leave together," Arthur said.
Eames nodded grimly. "On the count of three."
At 'three,' they both fired randomly in the general direction of where the police were hiding, making sure the officers were keeping their heads down and their eyes on the floor; they were nearly to the door when Eames caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Quickly, he dropped to his knee and, resting his arms on top of the crate in front of him, fired. The man who was about to shoot Arthur in the back collapsed as Eames hit him in the chest, and Eames glanced over his shoulder to make sure Arthur was gone.
"After them," one of the cops screamed.
"Here goes nothing," Eames murmured to himself. Then he hit the switch and ran for his life.
Outside, he had just enough time to duck behind a pile of cement pipes before the warehouse exploded, knocking him to the ground. The air became thick with smoke, already filling Eames's lungs and making it difficult to breathe, and his ears were ringing as a result of being too close to the explosion. Dimly, he heard his name, and he turned his head to see Arthur and Cobb running toward him. He grimaced as the world spun a bit.
"Eames," Arthur was shouting.
They both pulled him to his feet. Eames touched the back of his head gingerly, which felt oddly wet; his fingers came back red. "I think I hit my head," he said, surprised. He didn't remember hitting the ground quite that roughly.
"You stupid bastard," Arthur seethed. "We were supposed to leave together!"
"Hey," Cobb said, looking round suddenly, "anyone seen Nash?"
"Eames, you idiot, stay still, you have a head wound," Arthur snapped. He pulled out his flawless chocolate brown pocket square and pressed it against the back of Eames's skull, scowling. Eames wasn't that bad off, really, but he was so shocked Arthur was dirtying his clothes for him he couldn't move. Arthur turned back to Cobb and said, "I don't give a fuck where Nash is."
And also:
"For the record," Arthur said, as Eames grabbed Arthur's long, sinewy arms and wrapped them round his waist, "I hate you."
"The feeling is mutual, I assure you," Eames replied.
Arthur peered over the ledge and blanched. He pulled one arm away so he could hit the button on the walkie-talkie on his belt. The whole thing gave it a rather eighties action film vibe; Eames tried to remember whose idea it was to separate them and give them walkie talkies. Cobb's, probably.
"Cobb, you're sure we don't--?"
The walkie-talkie spat static. "Arthur," came Cobb's voice, tight with worry, "the building's going to go any minute. You don't have time for this. You weigh about a hundred pounds; Eames isn't going to drop you. You need to jump now."
"I weigh more than a hundred pounds, asshole," Arthur snapped, squeezing the breath out of Eames.
Some sick part of Eames was enjoying being faced with Arthur's only apparent phobia: falling. Specifically, it seemed he was scared of jumping off roofs of very high buildings seconds away from imploding. Mostly, Eames was enjoying Arthur being pressed against him from head to toe, even if his back was stiff and his cock wasn't. Not only was this the first time he had seen Arthur show any sign of fear (aside from the time a projection had appeared during their second job and attacked Arthur with an axe and then turned round and started screaming at Cobb about trains, because that had been bloody terrifying for everyone), but it was also the first time he'd had to improvise with this team. The original plan had been for Arthur and Eames to zip down to the vault together, but the mark's projections had somehow rigged the building to explode, and they had only minutes, if not seconds, before the whole thing went down; only Eames'd had time to secure his harnass before the projections had started their little demolition scheme. Cobb himself was already on the ground, taking time between gun shots to tell them to move their arses.
Personally, Eames liked improvising; it made things much more interesting.
"The projections are headed up the stairs," Cobb shouted, "you need to get down now!"
Eames tucked Arthur's glock into the small of his back for him. "Are you ready?" he asked gently. He tried to peel Arthur's hand off the walkie-talkie, but he wouldn't budge.
"Mr Eames, I hate you," Arthur repeated. His eyes closed, and Eames walked them backwards until all he needed to do was lean back and they'd be falling. "I hate you and your ugly clothes and your stupid, handsome face."
Arthur let go of the walkie talkie in order to put his other arm round Eames, and Cobb said, "His-- what?"
Eames chuckled. "Hold on tight," he whispered in Arthur's ear, and then he fell backwards into the sky.
So, plainly, it would have been entirely too easy for Eames to let Arthur close. Arthur was a dangerous man, in multiple ways. Lethal, sexy ways. But Eames was satisfied with their relationship -- the status quo of their push and pull -- up until they were working on the Fischer case. Because in that instant, when Arthur looked at him in astonishment and said, "Mr Eames, I'm impressed," something changed.
*
What that 'something' was, however, Eames couldn't say. He didn't even notice it at first. He was far too busy putting together his forge of Browning; he had to make sure he had the walk right, had to make sure to hold his glasses just so. Browning came from old money, and he was very precise in his actions, having spent years being trained how to present himself to the public. Every expression, every gesture, was planned. Sometimes Eames caught Arthur watching him from across the workshop, his head cocked to the side thoughtfully. Once or twice, Arthur abandoned his desk and leaned against Eames's mirror, as if Eames was putting on a show just for him. Surprisingly, he never said anything about it other than, "Good work, Mr Eames." No snide comments; no remarks about whether or not Eames's entire plan was bound to fail.
So it wasn't like Arthur was doing anything particularly peculiar. But Eames had a feeling.
One morning, Arthur entered the workshop, set a coffee on Eames's desk, and smiled at him.
He was rather adorable when he smiled, all dimpled cheeks and bright eyes, but it was also unsettling, since Arthur tended to smile over things like big guns and the latest designs in menswear, neither of which boded well for Eames. Until this moment, Eames had managed to get Arthur to smile at him exactly once, and only because he had sacrificed a large part of his dignity to do so. It had involved loads of alcohol (loads), a fake beard, and a battered copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover. Eames didn't like to think about it.
"I brought you coffee," Arthur said, still smiling.
Eames glanced down at it. "Why?" he asked sceptically.
Arthur's smile slipped slightly, but he seemed determined to keep it up. "I can't bring you coffee?"
"That depends," Eames said. He poked the cup with a finger. "Is it poisoned coffee?"
This time Arthur's mouth flattened into a familiar thin line. He yanked the cup off the desk took a long swill. "Would I have drunk it if it was poisoned?" he demanded after setting it back down.
"You would if you had already taken the antidote," Eames suggested.
Arthur threw his hands in the air. "Drink the damn coffee, Eames!"
"Arthur, stop harassing Eames and go help Ariadne with the mazes," Cobb called from his work station, not even looking up from the papers he was scribbling on.
Now it was Eames's turn to smile. "Yes, darling, do stop harassing me. I have very important work to do, you understand."
Arthur stormed away, muttering something under his breath that sounded like, "Why do I even bother."
"I think," Eames said to Cobb, eyeing Arthur as he pushed the release button on the PASIV with a little more force than necessary, "our Arthur may need a holiday after this job. Don't you agree?"
Cobb glanced at him and scrunched up his face. "Huh?"
"Nevermind," Eames replied, watching as Arthur's eyes fluttered shut.
*
One minute, Eames was sitting on the riverbank as Fischer agreed to live up to his father's final request; in the next he was in the plane as it coasted over American waters. He was one of the last to wake up, it appeared. Arthur was already up and about, expertly removing the PASIV's IVs and clearing away any sign of what they'd been doing. Luckily, Fischer was only just coming to, muttering in his sleep and lolling his head like an overgrown child.
"Cobb and Saito?" Eames whispered, as Arthur knelt at his feet and recoiled the IV. Arthur shook his head, mouth tight. When he stood again, he set his hand on Eames's shoulder, heavy and warm.
"They'll be okay," Ariadne said. She sounded exhausted. "Cobb will get them out."
Personally, Eames thought she was putting entirely too much faith in Cobb -- because if he hadn't known it before, this job had most definitely alerted him to the fact Cobb was completely mad; it was one thing to risk your own life, but it was another to risk the lives of your team, especially when your team included your right-hand man and a green graduate student. Yet soon after, just as she'd said, Cobb and Saito awoke. Eames glanced over in time to see Arthur's beautiful, relieved grin as Cobb took in his surroundings.
Now there wasn't anything to do but wait, Eames's least favourite part. They still had at least half an hour before landing in LA, and Eames gazed at the clouds out the window and tried to decide where to go next. His semi-permanent residence was in Mombasa, of course, but Thailand was nice this time of year, and he hadn't been to India in quite some time. He wondered whether Arthur was going home with Cobb, or if he'd be out on the next flight. Parting was such sweet sorrow, and all that.
When he dared to look across the aisle, he noticed Arthur's jacket was left in his seat, but he didn't know where the man himself had disappeared to. He figured the toilet, but when Arthur didn't reappear after ten minutes, a prickle of worry made him get up and duck behind the curtain. On the other side of the next curtain was the first and business class toilet; most of the cabin was in the process of waking up, yet there was no queue.
The door said 'occupied,' but then it was opening and a hand was shooting out and hauling him inside, and Eames had just moved to snap someone's neck when Arthur said, "Calm down, it's me."
"What the bloody fuck?" Eames demanded. Adrenaline was spiking through his veins, making his heart pound and his palms sweat. He dropped his arms from where they had been about to put Arthur in a choke hold. Ten seconds more and-- "Are you mental? How did you know it was me? What if I'd been some hapless businessman, or Fischer?"
Arthur didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. He raised his chin. "I needed to talk to you."
"And you couldn't have talked to me at the aeroport?" Eames hissed.
They were crammed together tightly in the tiny cubicle. This close, Eames could smell Arthur's cologne (something woodsy but light) and his shampoo (Head and Shoulders -- Eames could tell because it was the same one he used, too, which surprised him; he wouldn't have thought Arthur the type to buy his hair products from Boots), and the harsh lighting highlighted the fine lines round his eyes. Unfortunately, it also drew attention to his lovely cheekbones and pointed chin and the hints of mahogany in his hair Eames usually pretended he didn't notice. Arthur's lips were parted and Eames's cock twitched at the sight.
They'd been flying for half a day, and Arthur looked as fresh as a daisy. In fact, there was something else about him, something different; Eames had never seen him look like this before. Arthur looked almost... happy. Or, at the very least, content.
"Are we still dreaming?" Eames asked, leaning backwards as far as the toilet would allow.
Arthur frowned at him. "No, we're awake. Obviously."
"Are you certain, love?" Eames asked. "You seem... off."
He hoped Arthur would pull out that adorable little red die and show him they had come out of all three layers safe and sound, but instead Arthur cocked an eyebrow at him and started to move forward with a predatory expression, which didn't help the case for this being reality. Eames caught his shoulders. "Darling, what are you doing?"
"Look," Arthur said, staring somewhere in the general vicinity of Eames's chin, "I obviously suck at this. So you really need to help me out here."
"I honestly have no idea what you're on about," said Eames.
With a frustrated sound, Arthur grabbed him by the tie and kissed him. Eames was so surprised at first he merely stood there, arms resting at his sides, whilst Arthur's lips pressed against his, slick and hot. He curled his other hand round the back of Eames's neck, and that was when Eames's eyes slid shut and his licked into Arthur's mouth. Then Arthur moaned, quietly, and Eames's higher brain functions kicked in.
"Wait," Eames said, grabbing Arthur's wrists with his hands and holding them far away from his body, "stop, stop."
Arthur blinked at him. He looked annoyed. "What now?"
"I don't--"
Want this, he tried to say, even though he did want this, desperately, whilst at the same time he also wanted to run in the opposite direction. Arthur was efficient and clever and angry and so ridiculously gorgeous, and Eames had to remind himself that getting involved with Arthur meant getting his heart broken and stomped on by those one-hundred fifty pound Dolce and Gabbana shoes. He was dead set against pain (provided, of course, that it was his own). Or maybe Arthur wouldn't break his heart, and they would spend the rest of their days running round the globe robbing from the rich and keeping it for themselves, madly in love and excruciatingly in lust, and Eames honestly did not know which possibility frightened him more.
He was fine with how things had been up to this. He had known exactly what to expect in that relationship, and it had worked for him.
But then Arthur's face went terribly blank, almost as if he was hurt, and Eames felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He found himself saying, "I didn't think you were interested," instead, which was a blatant lie.
Something in Arthur's face softened. "Maybe I've been harbouring a secret crush on you," he said, shaking his wrists free from Eames's grasp and bracing one strong hand on the tiny toilet counter.
Eames looked at him incredulously.
"Or," Arthur amended, "maybe I always found you attractive, in a scruffy, unwashed, incredibly masculine kind of way."
"Firstly, Arthur, it may surprise you, but I do, in fact, bathe. Regularly, even. Secondly, thank you."
At that, Arthur moved again, lining up their bodies from head to toe, pressing Eames's back against the wall of the toilet. Eames could feel how hard Arthur was, now, without even being touched, but he balled his hands into fists to prevent himself from shoving them down Arthur's trousers. He could feel the hard, tight line of Arthur's belly and thighs where they were pressed against his, and he just wanted to touch Arthur all over and turn him round and brace his hands against the wall and just push inside him.
"Or maybe," Arthur continued, voice low, and Eames knew they were finally getting the truth now, "it's because you're smarter than Cobb."
Eames swallowed thickly. His hands dropped to Arthur's hips on their own accord, and, this close, he could feel a shiver run down Arthur's spine.
"And is that what brought this on? Does it turn you on, my being smarter than Cobb?"
Arthur smirked. "I don't know," he said, moving his hips in a slow roll that made Eames's vision white out, "why don't you tell me?"
Any protests were wiped clean from Eames's mind. The only words he could think of were yes and please, and they were kissing again, hands fumbling with each other's clothes. Eames didn't know what he wanted to remove first, Arthur's oxford or his trousers, or if he wanted to forego clothing removal altogether and just muss his hair until it stood on end. He had seen Arthur's hair gel-free twice in the three years they'd known each other -- in Myanmar, after they'd finally gotten out of the boot, and in Rio, when Arthur had pretended to be a backpacker to get to a mark -- and both times had made Eames ridiculously hard in a way that made him question his own sanity.
Arthur made up his mind for him by going straight to Eames's belt, his fingers brushing maddeningly over the outline of Eames's cock in his trousers. But Eames was a master pickpocket and thus faster, and he got Arthur's belt undone first, tugging his trousers down far enough to get to soft skin, sliding one hand round the back to squeeze the perfect plumpness of Arthur's arse; with a jolt, he realised Arthur wasn't wearing any pants under his outrageously expensive trousers. It was so unexpected and slutty, and suddenly Eames felt like he was suffocating, like all the air had been sucked out of that ridiculously small cubicle, and he needed Arthur right now. Letting out a low pleased sound, Arthur's fingers tore at Eames's own belt without any of his usual poise.
"Arthur, you naughty minx," Eames murmured, circling a thumb over the point of Arthur's hipbone. "Look at you."
Once Eames's trousers were open, Arthur held up a hand to Eames's face. "Lick," he ordered, but he looked anything but commanding with his face flushed bright red and his chest heaving.
Eames grabbed Arthur's wrist and licked long lines up his palm, wetly sliding his tongue between Arthur's fingers until Arthur was saying, "Okay, that's enough, I can't, I need to--"
With one hand fisted in Eames's shirt, Arthur wrapped the palm Eames had wetted round both their cocks and began stroking, flicking his tongue against Eames's in time with his hand. Eames groaned and pulled away, nipping at Arthur's lips, sucking at the hot skin beneath his ear.
"Fuck," he whispered into Arthur's hair, as the tugs on his cock became sloppier, more frantic, "I can't believe we're doing this here, with all those people outside, with Cobb outside, I didn't know you were such a dirty boy--"
Arthur dropped his forehead to Eames's shoulder. Neither of them were going to last long, Eames knew; not after three years of wanting. Eames's hands slid under Arthur's shirt and up the long line of his sweaty back and along his sides, needing to touch skin.
Soon enough -- too soon -- his balls were tightening and his heart was pounding in his ears, and he was going to-- going to--
He came with a low, strangled groan, bucking into Arthur's hand. Arthur was gasping, but he hadn't come yet, and Eames grabbed his jaw and roughly pulled his face up so he could see, holding his chin between his thumb and forefinger; Arthur's mouth was open, his eyes wide and nearly black, and he was the most gorgeous thing Eames had ever seen. "Eames," he said, and was finished, spilling into his own hand.
After, Eames rested his chin on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur's breath shook, as if he was the one who had been seduced in an aeroplane toilet.
"I think my trousers are ruined," Eames murmured.
"Damn," Arthur said, "and those were your only decent pair of clothes, too."
*
Of course, leaving the toilet proved to be a bit tricky. The 'fasten seatbelts' sign had clicked on some time ago, which meant most people in the plane were awake and preparing to land.
At Eames's insistence, Arthur left first. He looked no worse for wear, but Eames worried Cobb would take one look at them and realise what they'd been doing, and then Eames would be dead. He had, of course, escaped assassins at an aeroport before (Belfast, 1999; Salt Lake City, 2005), but none of them had been as crazy as Cobb. Arthur probably wouldn't let him die, but there was no guarantee; he had looked fairly irritated when Eames had explained exactly why it was imperative they leave the toilet separately, so he might be happy to let Eames bleed to death on the tarmac.
As soon as Eames slid out of the toilet, he found several people in the front row gazing at him in horror. Obviously, they had not been as quiet as he had hoped. He sent them all a lecherous smile.
One of the flight attendants tapped him on the shoulder. "Sir, we're landing soon. You need to return to your seat."
Thankfully, when he got back to first class, Ariadne was staring at Cobb who was staring at Saito who was on the phone with someone. But Yusuf caught Eames's eye and gave him a wicked thumbs up, and Eames's stomach tightened with something like dread.
*
What happened next was standard procedure. Stealthily, the team attempted to ignore each other as they each walked through customs and into the baggage claim, except for the brief looks Cobb gave everyone to signal he was okay and not going to prison for the rest of his natural life and leaving his children with more issues than they no doubt already had. Next, Eames tried to avoid a pensive-looking Fischer. He may have been avoiding Arthur a bit, too, because Eames was a git who gave people handjobs in public toilets and didn't call later.
He was waiting outside the terminal at the taxi stand and debating which area of LA he wanted to crash in when he felt someone walk up behind him. It was Arthur, pulling his suitcase behind him, his jacket draped over his arm. Eames didn't know whether or not they were supposed to pretend they didn't know each other, but then Arthur told him, "Your money will be in your account tomorrow, Mr Eames," so he supposed that meant Arthur thought the inception had gone swimmingly.
"Cobb left with Miles," Arthur added.
"I don't actually know who that is, but okay," Eames replied.
"With Cobb on a break, it looks like I'm going to have plenty of free time now," Arthur said pointedly.
Now, then, would have been the perfect time to leave. Eames could leave LA right now; he could kiss Arthur goodbye, turn round, and buy the next ticket to Kenya or any other country where he wasn't already wanted -- which was, unfortunately, a number that was dwindling rapidly.
But Arthur looked at him, eyebrows raised, and he looked back at Arthur, wanting him all over again.
"Shall we get a hotel room?" he asked.
"I've booked one at the W Westwood," replied Arthur, raising his hand for a taxi, and that was that.
The W Westwood turned out to be somewhat close to the aeroport, but there was a traffic accident that turned fifteen minutes into nearly an hour. It was alright, however, because Eames and Arthur occupied themselves with making out in the backseat, to the driver's obvious chagrin. Eames tipped him generously for his trouble.
Naturally, the hotel was quite nice; Eames had a difficult time believing Arthur would be willing to stay at the kind of place that had Magic Fingers. It was right across from the UCLA campus, and inside was very modern and stylish and clean and all the rest of the things Eames usually associated with Arthur. Of course, now he had new things to associate with Arthur, too, and he didn't know why he was here right now at this hotel, riding the lift to the room Arthur had booked days ago, like a bloody idiot.
Arthur seemed to be taking it in stride, though. He wasn't behaving as if any of this was odd, or as if Eames were muttering to himself. He merely unlocked the door and dragged his suitcase inside, expecting Eames to follow him. And follow him Eames did.
Like the rest of the hotel, the room was nice. Big, spacious, beautifully-decorated; there was a desk and a couch and an armchair. The bed looked luxurious, the kind in which you could curl up with someone for days and never want to leave.
"This was a bad idea," said Eames.
Arthur looked unimpressed. "A bad idea."
"If I leave, what will you do?" Eames asked, suddenly curious.
"Well, normally I'd get drunk on the mini-bar while watching bad movies," Arthur replied, carefully draping his jacket across the back of the couch, "but now I think I'll go down to the bar and pick up the first guy who buys me a drink."
Eames grit his teeth. "Your sense of humour needs work, darling."
"Who says I'm being funny?" Arthur replied, smirking.
His eyes were dark, and Eames recalled how wrecked Arthur had looked when he came. He slammed Arthur against the wall, tugging Arthur's collar down as far as it could go so he could get to his neck.
"So you're staying?" Arthur asked, grabbing at Eames's shoulders. "Just to clarify."
"Looks that way," Eames conceded.
Whilst he sucked a bruise onto the pale skin of Arthur's throat, Arthur pushed Eames's jacket off and then went to work on his tie. Eames kicked his shoes off and heard them bounce across the carpet.
"You look so good in this," Arthur said breathlessly, practically rutting against Eames's thigh. Eames didn't know if he was hard from what Eames was doing to him, or if it was the suit, but right now he didn't care.
Eames slid Arthur's tie off and tossed it on the floor, moving to the other side of his neck to leave a twin mark. Without looking, he undid his own cufflinks as Arthur unbuttoned his oxford, and then that, too, went the way of the jacket. He pulled his undershirt over his head, hearing it land somewhere behind him, and then he shoved off his trousers and stepped out of them. All that remained were his pants, still slightly sticky from what they'd done before.
Arthur, regrettably, was still fully clothed.
"I'm beginning to rue all this fabulousness," Eames said, taking Arthur's hands and removing one cufflink and then the other.
"Blasphemy," Arthur replied. He shoved his now-free cufflinks into his trouser pocket, and Eames started on what felt like the millions of buttons of his waistcoat.
He was momentarily delayed when Arthur chose that time to run his hands up and down Eames's bare chest, lowering his head to leave slick kisses across Eames's sternum; he seemed to like the sound his nails made when he scratched Eames's chest hair. Finally, Eames got the waistcoat unbuttoned, but then he had to get Arthur's oxford off, and he hated couture more than anything at this very moment. Arthur was making it more difficult by shifting in his arms to mouth at his tattoos, which sent a flare of want straight to Eames's cock but didn't do much in the way of getting them both starkers.
That was when Eames spread Arthur's waistcoat open and saw he was wearing braces.
"That's it." He tugged Arthur up by the back of his collar, and he growled, "I don't care how much this cost, I will rip it off you," and the next thing he knew Arthur was naked from the waist up and folding his undershirt, oxford, and waistcoat into perfect little squares and placing them on the armchair, dropping the braces on top of the pile. He wore his trousers obscenely low on his hips, and it reminded Eames that Arthur wasn't wearing any pants under them.
"This suit is Dior Homme," Arthur said with a glare, as if Eames gave a shit.
"I don't care if the Queen herself stitched it by hand," Eames said. "Why are you still wearing clothes?"
The glare intensified, but Arthur undid his belt and gracefully shimmied out of his trousers in a way that would have looked ridiculous if Eames had done it.
Naked, Arthur was trim by not overly muscled, lean but not fragile, pale but not sickly. His cock was a good size, and it bent slightly to the left. Eames had never allowed himself to jerk off to fantasies of Arthur, but he thought Arthur looked better than he could have possibly imagined. He reached down and stroked himself as Arthur, seemingly oblivious, folded his trousers and placed them with the rest of his clothes; Eames's eyes traced the long line of Arthur's back.
"Take off your socks," Arthur told him. "You look insane."
He plucked a condom and several packets of lube out of his trouser pocket, none of which Eames had noticed before.
"Hold on, did you plan on getting me off on the plane?" Eames asked incredulously, his hand stilling on his cock. "That entire thing, you planned it?"
Arthur glowered at him. "No, I always hang around waiting for strange men in bathrooms."
Eames honestly did not know what to think about that. Arthur had made a plan. Arthur had sat round, perhaps late at night naked in his hotel bed, touching himself, thinking of how he was going to seduce Eames.
"Well," Eames said, "well, that's just. I mean, the toilet? Honestly?"
"You're an asshole," Arthur said, and then kissed him.
Eames pulled back long enough to ask, "What other kinds of things were you planning?"
"If it had worked," Arthur said, "I would've let you fuck me over the desk."
Eames grinned. "Well, then it's a good thing I'm so susceptible to your charms, isn't it."
In a frenzy, they both shoved everything off the modern glass desk, and Eames pushed Arthur face-down onto it; Arthur gripped the edge as Eames stood between his long legs. Then, without warning, he dropped to his knees and gripped one of Arthur's thighs in each hand, spreading them as far as they would go. He began licking into Arthur, and Arthur made a sound that couldn't be called anything other than a squeak; he did it again as Eames moved his tongue in small circles, and it deepened into a loud moan when Eames flicked his spit-slick tongue across Arthur's hole and then pushed it in. Arthur, who had been so quiet in the aeroplane toilet before, who had only breathed out a single word -- Eames's name -- when he came.
"Eames, Eames," Arthur repeated now, his thighs trembling.
Eames's tongue slipped past the first tight ring of muscle, and Arthur's back arched in a beautiful, tight curve. He shoved back into Eames's mouth, fucking himself as Eames wrapped both arms round his thighs to keep him from falling.
He was panting like he had been running a marathon. "Eames, you need to stop, I don't want to come like this."
Eames pretended he didn't hear him. When he'd felt Arthur'd had enough of just his tongue, Eames sucked on one finger and then slid it into him, slowly, and then he went back in and licked round the stretched hole until Arthur began squeaking again.
"Oh god," Arthur gasped. "You bastard, you bastard."
Eames pulled back and let go of Arthur's legs, and Arthur slumped forward with a cry that was half-disappointment, half-relief.
"Where're the supplies?" Eames asked, voice scratchy as if he'd been shouting.
With a weak hand, Arthur gestured beside him on the desk, and Eames rolled on the condom, watching as Arthur locked his elbows and stood tall. He tore open the first pack of lube and coated his fingers and then his cock; by now, Arthur had to be nice and loose, but he wasn't going to risk hurting him. He was so hard and ready his hands were shaking.
Kissing the back of Arthur's neck, he lined himself up and murmured, "Ready, darling?"
"Eames, for fuck's sake--"
Arthur opened up round him so easily he was able to slide in with one single push. Eames curled one hand round the wing of Arthur's hip, and with the other he began jacking Arthur off slowly; he watched as Arthur held onto the edges of the desk like if he let go he'd float away, all the while letting out a stream of incoherent curses with Eames's name mixed in for good measure. Arthur's body was warm and pliant as Eames thrust into him, and inside he was hot and wet, gripping Eames's cock every time he slid back in.
Mouthing the notches of Arthur's spine, he sped up both his hand and his thrusts until Arthur was gasping and Eames was losing control. This was so much better than before, his cock in Arthur's tight heat, his mouth on Arthur's skin, Arthur naked and falling apart in his arms, Arthur unable to keep himself from making those sounds.
"You feel so amazing," he breathed into Arthur's hair. "Is it good for you?"
"You've got to be kidding me," Arthur said, a laugh shaking out of him.
"Show me how good I make you feel," Eames said.
"I'm not going to come just because you told me to," Arthur replied, but Eames leaned over and nipped his earlobe and Arthur was, in fact, coming all over Eames's hand, his arse tightening in almost painful spasms round Eames's cock. His arms gave out and they crashed onto the desk, and Arthur probably would have slid to the floor if Eames wasn't inside him.
That tipped Eames over, and he was coming, hips snapping and blood rushing in his ears.
After, they dragged themselves to the bed, lying perpendicular to each other. Eames rested his head on Arthur's chest, staring at the ceiling; Arthur carded his hand through Eames's hair.
"This is a nice hotel," Eames said eventually. Arthur hummed in agreement. "Is this where you usually stay when you come to LA to see Cobb?"
He felt the 'why?' was heavily implied, and Arthur must have heard it, because Eames felt him shrug. The hand in Eames's hair slowed but didn't stop. "I like the neighbourhood."
"What a funny thing to say," Eames said.
"I went to UCLA."
"Is that so?" Eames asked, delighted at this new piece of information. He pushed himself up on one elbow to study Arthur's face. "What was your course?"
He expected some kind of maths or science -- Arthur loved things that were ordered and in their place -- but he was completely taken aback when Arthur's lips quirked and he replied, "Film Studies."
"You're having me on," said Eames. "Really?"
"Really."
"Really?" Eames repeated.
Arthur looked vexed. "What'd you study?"
"I have several degrees, darling, but none to any university I ever attended."
"You're a terrible person," Arthur agreed, but he ran a palm down Eames's chest and licked his lips.
"Where are you from originally?" Eames asked. Arthur had already answered two of his questions, so surely it couldn't hurt to press his luck for more. He wanted to know everything about Arthur; he needed to tuck it all away in his mind so he could recall it later, when he was left with only his fond memories (and maybe a pair of Arthur's pants he would steal whilst Arthur was in the shower) and they were a world apart.
Arthur's head rolled on the pillow. "Wisconsin," he replied, saying the word as if it had personally offended him.
Eames tried to picture it. Oddly, he had thought Arthur from somewhere posh, like New York. Or perhaps having sprung fully-formed from his father's head. "Is that near here?"
Arthur snorted. "No, it's up north. Lots of snow and cheese. Do you know how difficult it is to be Jewish in Wisconsin? I learned how to fight because I was sick of always getting beaten up on my way to Hebrew school." He paused. "Where are you from?"
"Stow-on-the-Wold."
"Who are you, Shakespeare? Stow-on-the-Wold," he echoed in a terrible English accent. He poked Eames. "You're so English. Can you say 'please, sir, I want some more'?"
Eames sniffed. "Absolutely not, it's degrading. And besides," he added, running a hand up Arthur's lanky thigh, "I need another half-hour before I can even begin to think of 'more.'"
"Right-ho, guv," Arthur replied.
Eames sat up in mock anger and loomed over him. "Oh, you think you're so cute, don't you. Hi, my name's Rick," he said, in his best impression of Arthur's flat accent, which he knew he was actually quite good at. "I like guns and apple pie. I wear my sweater and my sneakers when I go park my truck in the parking lot. Let's have a soft drink, and maybe later we can vacuum the room."
Arthur threw back his head and laughed, bright and happy. "That's terrible. That's not funny at all." But he didn't stop laughing. It gave him lovely lines round the eyes and showed off rows of pearly white teeth, and he looked gorgeously debauched -- sprawled naked across the bed, his impossibly long limbs loose, with love bites along his neck and his hair mussed beyond repair -- and much younger than his twenty-nine years. Eames didn't want to let go of him so soon.
"Come back to Mombasa with me," he said. "For a little while."
Arthur was still smiling broadly. "Okay."
*
Eames loved everything about Mombasa. It was laid back; it was a colourful mixture of Portuguese, Arab, British, Swahili, Indian, and Mijikenda culture; it was loaded with thousands of tourists every day of the week, mostly confined to the beaches and Fort Jesus. The weather was wonderfully hot and humid all year round, and Eames had grown accustomed to twenty-eight degree winters. The beaches were sandy, the drinks were cheap, and the food was excellent. The only thing the city lacked, in Eames's opinion, was a proper football team. He wasn't much of a fan of cricket, and there was only so much rugby he could watch before he needed a stiff gin and tonic. Still, it was Eames's tropical paradise.
He had a flat in an old, light blue colonial building in the Old Town, far too close to where Cobb had met him a few months ago. It wasn't near the more popular beaches and nightclubs, but he was getting older and was starting to appreciate the quiet. Also, there were always plenty of tourists for him to fool and older blokes to play cards with, in case he got bored.
Once the taxi dropped them off outside the flat, Eames realised he'd never had anyone else stay with him in this flat other than Yusuf, and only that one time when his ex had kicked him out.
"It's a bit of a mess," he said apologetically, opening the door.
He watched as Arthur looked round the place, at Eames's comfortable leather couch and heavy oak furniture and stacks of second-hand books that had accumulated dust over the weeks, along with the paintings on the walls and Turkish rug under his feet. In the bedroom was a creaky old four-poster bed and a massive wardrobe he'd found at a market in Nairobi, and he'd painted the walls of that room green. Eames didn't decorate with any sort of plan or style; he simply bought what he liked, and he liked things that looked old. Arthur's flat was probably all clean lines and modern art, probably one of those stylish places with white walls and black furniture and one single red vase, or something; he probably read design magazines and spent hours looking for the perfect shade of ecru.
"I like it," Arthur said, touching a frame of a Manet replica hanging next to the entrance of the kitchen. "It's very you."
"You like it?" Eames asked.
"Well, I'd like to set that couch on fire," Arthur admitted, "but the rest of it's nice."
They fucked on that couch, and then in the bed, and then again on the couch, until Arthur complained of chafing. They took a break so Eames could run out and bring them back kebabs, and then they fucked on the kitchen table and up against the wardrobe. By the time the sun came back up the next morning, Eames was sore from head to toe, and his thighs wouldn't stop cramping. He'd never had such a thoroughly rewarding workout.
"Ow," Arthur said.
Eames looked down to where Arthur was curled up next to him. "Alright there, love?"
"I never should've told you I can put my ankles behind my head," Arthur groaned.
"And I never should have laughed that time you fell off the couch," Eames agreed. He was still aching from Arthur's revenge, and his carpet would probably need to be professionally cleaned.
"I have stubble burn in places no one should have stubble burn."
"I," Eames started, but he really couldn't top that one.
"As soon as I can move again," said Arthur, "I'm taking a shower and using all your hot water."
"Be my guest," Eames replied, and then he passed out for ten hours.
When he woke up, it was late afternoon, and Arthur was in the kitchen making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He was wearing a pin-striped button down and another pair of his spectacularly form-fitted trousers, but his feet were bare and his hair was unstyled, which was the same thing as Arthur being in sweatpants and yesterday's t-shirt. Eames wanted to sneak up behind him and press him into the counter, but Arthur was holding a butterknife and there was a very slim chance he'd escape without being stabbed; he'd once seen Arthur stab a projection in the face with one of those, and it hadn't looked like something Eames wanted to experience for himself.
"How can you live in Kenya and drink Nescafe?" Arthur demanded, sounding as if Eames had sinned against nature.
"Good afternoon to you too, love," Eames said. He plucked one of the sandwiches off Arthur's plate. "I had bread?"
"No," Arthur replied round a mouthful of sandwich. "I went to the store."
Eames opened his cabinets and found his once-bare shelves were now stocked with food. The fridge was the same. The dishes left behind in his sink to rot whilst he'd been in Paris were washed and stacked on the drying rack, and the rubbish had been carried out.
"I didn't bring you here to clean for me," Eames said. It gave him a funny feeling.
"I know," said Arthur. The 'you idiot' was implied.
*
It turned out Arthur really had studied film, because the entire hard drive of his laptop was filled with movies, mostly classics and some strange indie ones Eames thought looked vaguely terrifying. Eames wondered if these helped Arthur when he was creating dreams; his dreams were always impeccably detailed and elaborate, but he didn't have a very good (if any) imagination. Once, he, Eames, and Cobb had used Arthur as the architect for an extraction in which they made the mark believe he was in prison, and Eames had sworn at the time it had looked eerily like The Shawshank Redemption. Now he knew why.
So Arthur liked movies, and he liked reading the books Eames had left round the flat, and he liked taking long walks through the Old Town and stopping at dodgy coffee houses, and he liked listening to Eames talking to strangers at the pubs and casinos, and he liked giving the arms dealer Eames had introduced him to impossible weapons requests and then finding the perfect place in Eames's apartment to hide them. Eames was now better armed than he'd been in years. Arthur liked when Eames brought him his morning cuppa in bed; he liked when Eames fell asleep with his head on his shoulder.
He didn't like the weather. One day Eames caught him eyeing a waistcoat with longing.
All in all, Eames was fascinated.
"You know," Eames said one morning after Arthur had been in his flat for a little over a fortnight, "Yusuf lives in Mombasa, too."
Arthur lowered the newspaper he was reading. Of course Arthur bought the New York Times in Kenya. "As in Yusuf the chemist, whom Cobb bribed to keep quiet about the effects of his Somnacin blend?"
"Well, it does sounds terrible when you say it like that," Eames said.
It was true they could have ended up in limbo thanks to Yusuf (and Cobb, of course, but Arthur didn't seem to be blaming him now, did he?), but Yusuf was one of the few people Eames didn't find horribly dull. And Eames had never trusted him completely -- Eames never trusted anyone completely; it wasn't a good idea for anyone in his line of work to be held to one person -- so Yusuf's betrayal didn't sting as much as it could have. Mostly, Eames was annoyed with him, and he very much wanted to know what Yusuf was planning on doing with Cobb's share. He could still associate with Yusuf so long as they never worked together again. It was just that simple.
Yusuf's laboratory was still next to the dream den, a short matatus ride away from Eames's flat. Eames preferred public transport because it gave him an opportunity to people watch. He knew Arthur, on the other hand, would have preferred walking or taxi, but Eames liked to make him use the matatus as often as possible just to see the hilariously appalled look on his face as he was squeezed between Eames and literally dozens of other people. Every time, Arthur said, "Never again, Mr Eames, never again!" yet he always followed Eames onto one next time round. Eames enjoying ruining Arthur's elegance one brightly-coloured mini-bus at a time.
The first thing Yusuf said when he saw Arthur was, "Oh no, is the world ending?"
Both Eames and Arthur stared at him. "Say what?" asked Eames.
"Arthur's wearing a t-shirt," Yusuf explained, gesturing. "Wasn't that one of the signs of the end times? War, famine, Arthur in casual dress?"
"I'm on vacation," Arthur said. "Also, it's really hot outside."
Yusuf snorted. "You're on holiday in Mombasa?"
"Maybe I wanted to go to the beach," Arthur said, lips thinning.
"Your skin has the same deathy-white pallor as a vampire," said Yusuf suspiciously.
"Alright now," Eames cut in. "I didn't bring Arthur here for an interrogation."
Arthur gave Eames a pointed look. Eames realised this was not going as well as he'd hoped. "I'll let you two catch up."
As soon as he was a good distance away on the other side of the lab, Yusuf turned to Eames and hissed, "Why'd you bring him here? I never wanted to see any of the loons from that inception job ever again. It was the most frightening experience of my life!"
"Even me?" asked Eames.
"Especially you."
"Yusuf, you wound me," Eames replied, placing his hand on his heart.
Yusuf nodded at Arthur, who seemed to be poking his way through Yusuf's things. Eames watched Arthur pull out a long plastic tube and give it a puzzled look. "So is he here on a job?" Yusuf asked. "I haven't heard of any work in Mombasa lately."
Eames picked up a slide off the table and gave it a more thorough study than it was probably worth. "Not exactly, no. He's... visiting me. For an unspecified amount of time."
Yusuf frowned again. "A normal visit, or a sexy visit?"
Eames glanced over to where Arthur was gazing at Yusuf's equipment with an adorably perplexed frown on his face. "A sexy visit. Absolutely a sexy visit."
"Words cannot begin to describe how horrified I am right now," said Yusuf.
"I'm pretty sure possession of this drug is illegal," Arthur called from across the room, holding a flask in his hand. "I know we're criminals and everything, but you shouldn't have this out where anyone could see it."
Yusuf scowled at Eames.
"Darling, Yusuf just offered to take us out to lunch," Eames said.
Arthur looked amused. "Oh did he?"
"I bloody hate you," Yusuf whispered.
However, several hours and a stomach-busting amount of samosas later, Arthur was helping Yusuf test out his newest chemical explosive -- the parts of which he'd bought with Cobb's share of the inception job -- on rubbish on the bank of Tudor Creek. Across the river, tall, white buildings and red-roofed colonial-style resorts jutted out of the trees. They were standing mostly covered by the bridge, and Eames patrolled the area round them, puffing on a fag and keeping an eye out for the police. Every few minutes, he could hear an explosion, followed by Yusuf and Arthur cheering enthusiastically.
He sat on the sand. An explosion rocked the earth.
"Yay," Arthur and Yusuf's voices called in the distance.
Not long after, Arthur walked up to him. "This stuff is good. We should steal it."
Eames shaded his eyes with one hand and peered up at him. "Or we could simply ask him. He is my friend, after all. You are aware of the concept of friendship, aren't you? Or did Cobb never allow you to have any friends?"
"I didn't need Cobb's permission to live my life," Arthur said. He took a seat next to Eames and paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Although he did once tell me he was the only friend I needed."
"Your Stockholm Syndrome is so very disheartening," Eames agreed.
There came another explosion from the direction of the bridge. This one was much bigger than any of the ones before. Both Eames and Arthur scrambled to their feet.
"I'm king of the lab!" Yusuf shouted.
*
Part two