and these winter words are the next big things we'll put on a show.
Thieves By Tuesday
Arthur/Eames, PG-13, prompt: " 5 of Arthur's domestic habits that didn't surprise Eames."
thank you to bronson my trusted beta. i love the ever living fuck out of you, man. peace, bro. fistbumps all around.
3362 words
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0.
Eames wonders how it starts, this business of collecting things over time and filling each room with them, photographs and art pieces hanging on the walls, curtains woven in India and plush carpets the color of dried blood that Arthur painstakingly matches with the furniture - the old grandfather clock in the hall with its second hand missing, lacquered and smelling deeply of old wood.
Time slows down, drags like a rising tide of warm air. It's a strange feeling, like a loosening in the cavity of his chest. Being tethered down to one address is one thing but finding Arthur's tie coiled at the bottom of his suitcase is another.
Sometimes he goes out for walks, alone, and then comes back in the middle of the night to the warm curve of Arthur's back curtained by thick blankets, the same unanswered questions still nesting in his subconscious, percolating in an endless dizzying swirl.
And then Eames sits back, leans against the headboard, contemplating a smoke and a thousand other things like the relativity of time and a pending job in Los Angeles, Arthur's slipper in the hall, upturned, and the dark curl of hair at the back of his neck, things that, because of their utter meaninglessness, blanket him with an odd sort of peace, the kind that sinks clean into his bones at the end of a long day.
1.
Arthur cooks. This should come as no surprise to Eames who's always firmly believed Arthur is capable of everything, and if not everything then at least an inordinate number of things that makes him far more competent than the average person. But then: he cooks the same day Eames turns up on his doorstep on the pretense of having left his jacket at Arthur's apartment, and it knocks Eames off center but in a kind of subdued way, eyebrows raised in surprise but not complete skepticism.
They both know there is no jacket involved and stand poised in the kitchen resuming their daily colloquy as the smell of sizzling food rises into the air and perfumes the room. Eames says, "When did you learn how to cook?" and Arthur shrugs and refills his glass with wine, cocking his head to the side in that coy way that should be outlawed and is not coy at all when Arthur does it but in fact, smug, if not a little mocking, and sends tiny surges of electricity across Eames' skin. Eames shivers.
"I've always known how to cook." Arthur says.
Eames leans his back against the counter and doesn't bother masking his interest. "What else can you do?"
They eat dinner in relative silence which crests and falls with every clink of silverware and Eames' best attempts to praise Arthur's culinary skills. He pushes the greens around in his plate, forming a tent around his braised fish while Arthur meticulously spears the leaves with his fork and asks him about his latest job.
"The usual," Eames says, waving a hand in the air. "How's Cobb doing?"
Arthur doesn't smile.
They move to the living room.
Dessert is a homemade concoction, Arthur's very own and consisting of chopped nuts, chocolate sauce, fried pancakes and vanilla ice cream. Eames spoons the ice cream into his mouth while a movie plays in the background, sauce dribbling down his chin which he wipes against the back of his hand, smearing his cheek with faint finger-trails of syrup.
Arthur looks up, hands him a napkin without a second thought, says, "Here, use this," and their fingers brush as Arthur extends a hand, something easing through Eames' skin like a fever.
Eames smiles.
They swap plates and afterwards turn off the television, draping themselves across the sofa as Arthur hooks a foot around Eames' ankle and sips his wine.
"So how are things?" he asks, nudging his foot up Eames' shin.
Eames leans forward and plucks the glass out of Arthur's hand, takes a sip, sets the glass aside and then settles between Arthur's legs.
It's a comfort to feel the warm gust of Arthur's breath across his cheek after six months of traveling from continent to continent, sleeping in lank bedraggled mattresses far from the comforts of home.
In Cambodia, Eames lost his carry-on luggage, was almost shot in the knee, twice, slept in shoddy buildings housing prostitutes and illegal immigrants, and bought Arthur a postcard which he forgot to send and promptly left in the airport bathroom.
Arthur's mouth twitches and Eames is tempted to kiss him but he doesn't. "You've got a little something," Arthur says and gingerly touches the corner of Eames' mouth like a bullet wound, fingers light and soft.
"Mm." Eames says, smiling. "Imagine that."
2.
Eames stops by again a week before he is summoned to Mombasa by a fat paycheck and a promising career as a swindler.
It's July and the air conditioning is down and Arthur calls a repairman over to check on the problem. Today is just that kind of day. Nothing goes according to plan. The two of them are restless and on edge and soaked through with sweat, the foul heat of summer making their hackles rise, their noses drip with moisture and Arthur's hair, slick, when he pushes it back from his eyes, seem darker, longer.
They ignore each other as they wait for the repairman. Eames wants to go out, drink, wants to have sex and drag Arthur across the bed, fold his knees over his shoulders and taste the dark heat of him with his tongue but Arthur is in the living room, moving files around on his computer, sipping lemon iced tea stirred with a teaspoon of honey and listening to godawful French music inspiring a violent massacre.
Eames showers and has a proper wank. It startles him later on to find that some of his clothes are hanging in the closet, starched and crisp and contrasting heavily against the dark fabrics of Arthur's clothes, and that a pair of his loafers are sitting on an otherwise empty shelf adjacent to the one housing Arthur's collection of shoes, covered with a film of dust and unmoved from where Eames had left it seven months ago before he flew to Brazil for a job. He doesn't ask.
He naps the afternoon away and wakes, sticky and overheated in his own pool of sweat, to find Arthur sitting by the window, reading a book entitled The Dynamics of Coercion. Arthur nods at him in acknowledgement, setting his book aside, leaning his head against the padded back of the chair and closing his eyes. He doesn't move, until, half a minute later his mouth opens in a languid yawn, and he says, muffling the noise against the back of his hand, "Air condition's still down. Repairman's in the hall right now and he says it's gonna to take awhile."
"Define awhile."
Arthur shrugs.
They have sex that afternoon and Eames can hear Arthur sigh when it is finally over, drugged by the heat around them, maybe, or else by some other unnamed force that is moving under their skin, slipping into their pores and mixing with their blood.
He touches the damp skin of Arthur's back and curls against the arc of Arthur's spine, pushing their legs together and inhaling the sharp tang of Arthur's sweat. The hair on their calves scrape together, rough like grit, but Eames sweeps a leg over Arthur's knee and lets it stay there, hooked, heavy, folded over Arthur, expecting to be elbowed in the stomach - or worse, shoved off like plenty of other times, laughed off with a disbelieving shake of the head and a quelling look - but then Arthur goes and does the strangest thing: he tips his head back, snorting, and leans comfortably against Eames' chest.
"Good luck in Mombasa," he says in the morning when Eames leaves the apartment. "I mean it. Try not to get into too much trouble." His eyes crinkle in the corners and Eames pretends he isn't completely charmed.
They don't kiss at the doorway because they are not the kind of people, they are the kind who keep to separate sides of the bed, the kind who dance around each other and respond to phone calls three days late and drink expensive wine in bed while the other one checks his e-mail by the window.
Eames steps forward and cups Arthur on the shoulder. He says, "Yeah. Thank you, you too. Good luck," and nods his head, once, to appear calm and aloof. When the door closes, he walks down the hall, one hand inside his pocket. He kicks the wall when he turns a corner.
3.
They see don't see each other for extended periods of time which is why, after the Fischer job, things get a little tense. At the airport, everything is calm and quiet; they say hello again only to return to separate ends of the world like when villagers might return to their homes after a war, but a few weeks later, Eames turns up, unscraggly and miserable on Arthur's doorstep, sporting a five o'clock shadow and a broken arm.
"Trouble again, Eames?" Arthur says, but he lets him inside anyway and fixes him something to drink.
And so begins the cycle. You can't brace yourself for famine when you know nothing about hunger. From time to time, Eames visits whenever he flies stateside. He leaves little things in Arthur's apartment, a toothbrush, a fake credit card, an antique watch given to him by his great grandfather before he passed, a comb with knotted strands of his hair tangled in the fine teeth, so that he may have reason to return, an excuse, maybe, when he stumbles out of cabs at three in the morning, and presses the buzzer on Arthur's door.
It feels like something unspeakably sinister but whether Arthur notices, he doesn't say. In the morning they reach for each other with faces turned away, mouths closed, eyes scrunched, kneading each under the blankets, alert and awake, like swimmers diving into water and then gasping when they surface for air.
Afterwards, they have breakfast and shower separately before leaving. They come back a few times to repeat the cycle, complete steps one to four. One is when Eames shows up at Arthur's door with a Pinot Blanc, usually without preamble and wearing his best cologne, two is when Arthur lets him inside and three is when Eames walks Arthur backwards to the bed and Arthur rolls them over and pushes Eames on his back, straddling his hips and curling his tongue around his cock. Four, they're working on four.
There are some things they don't do, like tell Cobb about their arrangement, because Arthur's defense is always up, like a barricade of knotted wires, and it is only when he comes, eyes clenched and mouth open in a shuddery exhale, that he lets Eames see who he really is, if only for a moment, in that brief window in time, the veils lifted and the creases in his face smoothened in a paroxysm of calmness, throat bared and skin flushed, a wrinkle between his eyebrows when he slides off Eames' cock and rolls onto his side of the bed.
Arthur's life can be glimpsed in increments, from the pieces of post-modern art that hang on the walls to the square ceramic plates he keeps tucked inside the kitchen cabinet. There is always a basket of oranges on the breakfast table and ashtrays crowding every available desk in the bedroom and living room.
Somewhere beneath the veneer of tasteful furniture and elegantly woven curtains, is Eames' shirt hanging on a hook, his leather duffel bag, half-opened like a mouth, its contents spilled across the bedroom floor. There will always be a place for him no matter how out of place he sometimes feels amidst the elegance of Arthur's lifestyle, maybe a corner somewhere, where he can sit awhile and shuffle a deck of cards while nursing a glass of bourbon.
4.
"You do your own laundry?" Eames asks.
"Yeah," Arthur says. "Why?"
It's harder than it looks, juggling an armful of laundry and a steaming mug of coffee, but even at seven in the morning, Arthur manages it quite well, resting his hip partially against the wall to balance the weight in his arms and toe a pair of plaid underwear from the floor to add to the already teetering pile in his arms.
In the laundry room, Arthur asks Eames to pass him the box of detergent.
"I've never seen you do laundry before." Eames says.
"Well now you have."
"Will you do my laundry for me?"
"That depends. Are you physically incapable of loading the washing machine?"
Eames smiles.
In December, he runs into Arthur in Edinburgh. The city lights overlap with the snow in the air and the two of them find themselves in Eames' flat in Bristol, eating soup and crackers in front of the roaring hearth, slightly drunk on the cheap red wine that Eames bought along the way.
"Would you rather be in a hotel right now?" Eames asks. They're in the living room, watching the snow outside fall in soft feathers, Arthur on his computer, scrolling through his e-mails, Eames smoking and turning a poker chip over and over in his right hand.
The night is cold and starless, quiet and dark outside. Arthur turns his head, sniffing out a cold, and then shuts his computer with a click. "Your apartment's nice," he says after a moment, draping his arms across his knees. "But I didn't know you played golf." He gestures towards the crystal trophy sitting on the mantle.
Eames shrugs and raises his eyebrows, wonders briefly if he has enough time to shove a week's worth of laundry into the closet or if he's stocked the fridge with more food than wine and what ever happened to the cottage cheese he left sitting on the kitchen table three months ago. He leans against the window and runs a finger across the dusty pane.
"I don't play golf," he says, "But I do love a challenge every now and then. I play sometimes. And I win. Well, I win most of the time. I'd like to think it's a gift. Does that impress you?"
"Few things impress me." Arthur says although his eyes crinkle into a smile in the corners.
"Am I one of them?" Eames asks.
Arthur shrugs. He takes the tea back into the kitchen and sweeps peanut shells off the coffee table.
"You always do that," Eames says. He makes a vague gesture with his hand when Arthur raises both his eyebrows. "Tidy up. It's... it's disconcerting."
"I like to work in a clean space." Arthur says, "Is there something wrong?"
"No," Eames says and bites back a smile when Arthur wipes the rings of moisture off the table.
"No," he repeats. "Carry on."
5.
Eames picks him up from a red-eye flight from Bolivia and because he hates American cars takes a cab to JFK where Arthur waits, with a skeptical eye, wheeling his luggage across the sidewalk to meet him halfway.
"Eames." he says. "You're right on time." He's wearing a dark green coat in the middle of September and he hands Eames his suitcase without preamble.
"I wanted to carry a sign that said, 'Welcome back!'" Eames says, "But I wasn't quite sure how you would take it."
Arthur smiles wryly.
They stand there for a long time, people around them drifting in and out of cars, spilling across streets and over sidewalks.
"How was Bolivia?" Eames asks.
Arthur pulls out an aluminum case from his coat pocket, the gold lettering on the cover catching in the light. "I got you these," he says, lifting the lid, fingering the gold foil wrapped around the filter paper.
"Expensive cigarettes," Eames hums in interest. "I can't say I'm not impressed. Are you trying to woo me Arthur?"
"Far from it," Arthur snorts, snapping the lid back and shoving the case toward him. "You're the type of man who looks like he doesn't need it. Wooing." He shakes his head.
Eames laughs, pocketing the case and pulling the passenger door open. "That's not completely true, you know."
Arthur shrugs, dismissive. "I'm hungry. Let's eat. Do you have anything planned?"
Eames smiles. He takes Arthur to lunch on Fifth Avenue where Arthur occasionally scrolls through the messages on his phone as he scoops scallops into his mouth.
Back at the apartment, Arthur pushes aside the curtains and lets the light flood in from the street. Several stories below, New York hums, vast and swirling in smoke, backlit by the headlights of passing cars.
Arthur makes coffee and sorts out his clothes, hangs his coat on the hook behind the door next to Eames' tweed jacket. He changes the bedsheets and burns a stack of folders containing information on the Bolivia job and then telephones the Vietnamese restaurant near Saks. He sits at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, playing music on his computer - the kind that used to make Eames roll his eyes and shake his head but now he has the tolerance for.
Eames watches him, freshly showered too, leaning against the doorway in a dark blue sweater and jeans, comfortably silent, the way he often gets during the sudden pauses in their conversations, and, for once in his life, unable to summon the urge to speak.
"Want some coffee?" Arthur asks, barely looking up from his screen.
Eames pushes himself off the wall and scrapes a chair from under the table, resting his chin on his hand.
"Tea please," he says, finally, when Arthur looks up at him. "If you have any, that is."
Arthur does.
They eat dinner in the living room when the food arrives and Eames helps Arthur with the dishes in the kitchen, rinses the grease off plates with a pair of rubber gloves and a dollop of dishwashing liquid smelling faintly of citrus. They sleep on opposite sides of the bed and wake up at noon to the hum of the clock on the wall, pad across the room to piss, brush their teeth, and shove each other against the sink, colliding in open-mouthed kisses against the tiled wall, hair creased from sleep, the beds of their palms cupped between each other's legs and Arthur's teeth digging into Eames' shoulder blade when he hooks a leg around Eames' hip and comes, shuddering, collapsing on the floor.
They carry on like that, for awhile, intermittent like a tidal wave. They meet each other in various cities several times over the course of a year. They start returning each other's phonecalls and e-mails and build something resembling a life.
Eames sees it in the letters that pile on the bureau, in the space between the kitchen sink and the fridge where dust and spilled food have congealed on the tile. This is their life together, he thinks, and it is bewilderingly normal as it is bizarre. It's not going to get any better and it is not going to get any worse and Eames thinks maybe he can live with that.
He feels a twinge in his chest sometimes when Arthur dismantles his gun in the living room, sitting alongside him in the morning, the television turned on to the news and breakfast still warm in their bellies, settling like the comfortable weight of Arthur's hand on Eames' knee when he pushes himself up to his feet and, barefoot, pads across the room to make coffee.
Sometimes Eames catches himself staring at the soap dishes lining the bathroom shelf, or the shampoo bottles huddled together in a neat little row by the bath tub, the halo of soap chips on the sink hardened to stalagmites.
He wipes his palm across the mirror in circular strokes, easing the steam off the surface to check his reflection. Then he yells across the hall in his Sunday bathrobe with his watch still on and asks Arthur where the hell he keeps his painkillers.