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The first time Eames kisses Arthur, they're in a dirty motel in Sicily, and it’s raining outside.
Arthur kneels before Eames, and the cold concrete hidden beneath the layer of scratchy carpet hurts his knees. He’s framed by Eames’ thighs, his knees, his shins: one of Arthur’s hands rests on the junction of Eames’ shoulder and neck, and the other presses gauze to the gash above his right eyebrow.
“Goddamn mafia,” Arthur murmurs under his breath as he tips Eames’ face gently to the side with two fingers, wiping at the blood that’s running, half-dried, into his eye. His chest is tight and hot; he feels like yelling at Eames, like screaming at him for not calling Arthur sooner and thinking that he could handle the situation on his own—but he knows it wouldn’t do any good. He might as well focus his aggression on something else. “You’re lucky I came when I did.”
The bed Eames sits on is low, and shakes loudly whenever they shift. This, along with the pounding of rain against the windowpanes and the roof and the quiet, steady measures of their breath, is the only sound in the room.
Eames is quiet for a moment, and Arthur thinks he won’t answer. He’s looking down at Arthur with large, midnight-deep eyes; eyes that blink hesitantly, as if he doesn’t want to stop looking. His hair hangs across his forehead in clumps assembled by sweat and rain, and already his right eye is going dark and puffy with a bruise. The curve of his lips is full and shadowed in the half dark. You wouldn’t think he was beautiful right now, Arthur thinks, unless you were in love with him.
“Arthur,” Eames says softly.
He’s very beautiful.
Five hours ago, Arthur got a call.
Five hours ago, Eames informed him that he’d managed to get himself onto a hit list of a few “rather notorious criminals” so could Arthur “be a love” and come save his ass?
Four hours ago, Arthur boarded a plane.
Three hours ago, Arthur showed up in Sicily.
Two hours ago, Arthur found Eames hiding behind a dumpster and getting shot at.
One hour ago, Arthur saved Eames’ life. Again.
Arthur becomes aware of the fact that Eames is cupping the back of Arthur’s neck with one broad palm, and wonders how long he has been. The touch is warm; it’s grounding, after the long flight, after the hunt for Eames, after seeing him pinned down and kicked and hit, and all Arthur wants to do is to let himself lean into the feeling of Eames skin against his. His hand falls away from Eames’ face, and he tips his head back to meet his eyes directly.
“I’m glad you’re ok,” he says on a whisper.
Eames draws him close, and Arthur follows. Eames presses his lips to Arthur’s, and Arthur doesn’t pull away.
His lips are warm, cracked, a little bit damp, and infinitely gentle upon Arthur’s own. Arthur’s heart kicks to attention; it swells in his chest and he thinks that Eames is a paradox, that Eames is contradiction, that Eames is a thing that is too good for Arthur to let be true.
Arthur leans away before he forgets himself and kisses back. He stands, less steady than he wants to be, and the look on Eames face makes him want to break something.
“Goodbye, Mr. Eames,” Arthur manages.
It’s still raining when he leaves.
***
Eames is completely trashed the next time it happens.
They were all out: Eames, Cobb, Yusuf, Ariadne, celebrating a job gone well. They’d asked Arthur to come, but he didn’t—too much to do, he said, researching their next mark, he said, but in reality he was just too fucking exhausted. He’d planned a silent night in his apartment in Paris, sitting on his couch in the dark and pretending to have normal sleeping habits…
But Eames had fucked that up. Arthur really shouldn’t be surprised.
“Thanks, Arthur,” Yusuf says as he and Ariadne leave just behind Cobb, coats slung over their arms. Yusuf smiles sheepishly, as if he knows what they’re doing is sort of an asshole move, but he takes Arthur’s noncommittal grunt as the dismissal it is, and leave him alone with Eames.
Eames, who is sitting at the bar with his head on his arms. Possibly snoring.
“Ugh,” says Arthur out loud, because nobody is paying him any attention and he’s mad. He stands there looking at Eames for a moment, arms crossed over his chest.
“Arthur?” Eames asks, voice muffled. He sounds… well, utterly miserable, Arthur notes with some surprise. “Darling? My love? Sweet—”
“Yes, Eames, it’s me,” Arthur interrupts impatiently. He prods Eames in the shoulder and he turns his head, gazing up at Arthur balefully. Arthur represses the urge to roll his eyes. “Come on.”
Eames sits up suddenly, grabbing Arthur around the shoulders for support. He looks very, very serious, and Arthur shifts under the weight of his strangely lucid gaze.
“Darling,” Eames says softly, the roundness of his words just a little bit slurred. “Did they make you take care of me?”
“They made me come get you because you weren’t cooperating with them,” Arthur says flatly. He doesn’t address his confusion over this: why would Eames listen to him? He never does, not really, not any more than he listens to anyone else. It’s a point of contention.
Eames frowns so sadly that, despite himself, Arthur feels a twinge of something in his chest that he chooses not to think about. “But,” says Eames, and then must forget to finish the rest of his sentence out loud, for he simply sits there, warm palms on Arthur’s slim shoulders, and stares at him.
“Alright,” Arthur says, a bit more gently than he means to. “Up you get.”
It’s a feat getting Eames out the door and into Arthur’s car, but one that Arthur manages nonetheless. He buckles Eames’ seat belt for him as Eames’ eyes drift closed, and forces himself not to look for too long as shuts the door.
Arthur knows where Eames’ hotel—of course he does. It’s not a far drive, but Eames is asleep, going off of his very rare silence. The even rhythm of his breath calms Arthur’s nerves, lets some of the tension out of his spine. Sometimes, Arthur thinks that he’s his most relaxed with Eames, no matter the situation they’re in. It’s puzzling.
Eames wakes up as Arthur parks the car, and a long, slow, blurry smile pulls across his face. His head is tilted back, and he watches Arthur through hooded eyes.
“Out,” says Arthur. His voice disturbs the velvet silence of this space between them; Eames blinks heavily. “I have places to be tonight.”
Eames opens his mouth to speak, but Arthur slips out of the driver's seat before he can. He feels Eames eyes on him as he steps up onto the sidewalk, searing the space between his shoulder blades.
Eames struggles out of the car. The door slams brashly.
“Hot date, darling?” He sounds disgruntled. “Sorry to keep you. Or. Detain you.
Draw
you away.”
Arthur thinks of his comfortable, familiar couch back at his apartment. “Something like that,” he says, turning and keying open the door with the key he’d nicked from Eames’
pocket a few minutes ago.
Eames’ hand comes to rest on Arthur’s forearm before he can walk inside. Arthur glances over his shoulder, and the look on Eames’ face kills the words on Arthur’s tongue swiftly.
“Arthur,” says Eames, and he sounds stone cold sober here under the sickly light above the door, moths swinging in crazed arcs around their heads. His pupils are iridescent, reflecting the stars above; his hand is warm as it slides down Arthur’s arm and tangles with his fingers. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” says Arthur stupidly. Eames smells like beer and soap, and he looms a little closer than he usually does. He is a solid, grounded presence that Arthur longs, suddenly and powerfully, to lean into. “Uh. That’s… it’s fine. I don’t actually have a date,” he babbles. “I just want to sleep.”
The corner of Eames’ mouth ticks upwards. Far in the distance, a cricket chirps, and then is drowned by the roar of passing cars. A cool wind blows. Arthur shivers.
“You take care of everybody,” Eames says, voice low, voice lulling, voice one long, liquid stream of sound that makes Arthur’s heart beat harshly in his chest. It’s a strange shift in subject; it hearkens Arthur back to Eames’ forgotten “but," from earlier. Eames traces Arthur’s hairline with one finger, touching the fine hairs that are beginning to loosen themselves from their carefully gelled position and curl at Arthur’s temples. “But I wonder, darling: who takes care of you?”
“I do,” says Arthur. Eames has been moving progressively closer, and Arthur has been letting him; now, Arthur’s shoulder blades have come up against the cool glass of the hotel’s backdoor, and the juxtaposition between that chill and Eames’ radiating heat is shocking. “I take care of me.”
And there’s that sadness on Eames’ face again, a sadness that Arthur longs to be angry about, a sadness that Arthur would be angry about if it looked anything like pity. Instead it looks like… like regret. Like pain. Like something that nobody has ever felt about Arthur before.
“I would,” says Eames, and he sighs, a waft of alcohol-tinted air turning to frost between them. His color his high, and his eyes are bright, and he sways closer. And Arthur just fucking lets him . “Take care of you.” He frowns, and Arthur knows it’s coming, and Arthur doesn’t move away. “Arthur—” says Eames, and:
Eames, touching the edge of Arthur’s jaw like he’s made of glass; Eames, kissing Arthur with clumsy movements that he’s obviously trying to make gentle; Eames, blunt and raw and wanting in his intentions, reaching out and so easy to reach back to, so close, so—
“You’re drunk.”
It’s troublingly easy to get a hand on Eames’ chest and push him backwards. Arthur ducks out from his loose grip, straightening the lapels of his coat and the strands of hair that Eames has coaxed into soft, fine curls.
Eames stands in the center of the sidewalk, hands held in weak fists at his sides, shoulders slumped lower than Arthur has ever seen him—and Arthur almost comes back to him. Arthur almost ignores everything that his head is telling him and pays attention to what his heart is telling him for once, almost steps forward and pulls Eames into his arms and kisses him back.
He doesn’t.
“Are you going to be alright?”
The smile Eames gives Arthur is wide and broken. “Perfectly fine,” he says. He sways, alone, in the circle of yellow light. Arthur tosses him his room key. He fumbles, movements clouded with drink, but catches it. “Think about what I said.”
Arthur doesn’t answer. His car is silent as he drives home, and his apartment is even quieter. He doesn’t sleep that night.
***
The third time, Arthur is tired.
It isn’t that Arthur isn’t used to pain. It’s just that, usually, it’s anticipated. In his line of work, it’s rare to get out of a job without some minor injury: bruises, abrasions, maybe a broken rib. Worse, sometimes—but that’s all in Arthur’s dreams, that’s all pain and maiming and sometimes death on an incorporeal level, so that even if it feels real (and it feels real ) Arthur can comfort himself with the fact that he’ll wake up. Probably.
But this —this had come out of nowhere, and it’s more real than any dream.
Arthur’s face hurts. Arthur’s ribs hurt. Arthur’s wrist hurts, and Arthur’s neck hurts, and… and…
It’s a strain to lift his fist and knock on the door, but he manages it, leaning heavily on the doorframe as his head falls forward to rest against the door itself. He tells himself to breathe: in, out, in, ignoring the way his lungs scream, ignoring the way every limb shakes with lack of sleep, with lack of sustenance, with overwork—
The door opens, and Arthur falls forward into someone’s chest. They are incredibly warm, and incredibly solid, and Arthur can feel himself falling asleep on his feet.
This is the safest he’s felt in two days.
“Arthur?” Eames voice is really worried, but he’s got an arm around Arthur’s waist and one hand stroking at his bloodied hair, and so it’s fine, it’s really fine, Arthur is fine… “Darling, what—darling.” He sighs, and shifts so that he can half carry Arthur across the room. Arthur makes a noise of half hearted protest, but Eames still hasn’t stopped touching him, so it’s ok. “Oh, Arthur.”
Arthur opens his mouth to say something like: I was just kidnapped and used as a punching bag for twenty-seven hours, I haven’t slept in four days, and you’re the only person I know in London, hence why I’m here . Instead, he says “Eames,” and feels his knees give way.
“Ok,” Eames murmurs, sliding one arm under Arthur’s legs and one around his shoulders and carrying him gently the rest of the distance across his living room until he can nestle Arthur carefully into his couch cushions. Arthur, eyes shut heavily, reaches out blindly, and smiles as he feels Eames take his hand. “Alright, darling, it’s ok Arthur, I’ve got you.”
Arthur opens his mouth to say something like: I think I need to go to the hospital, but since none of my passports are legal and I am technically dead in this country, that isn’t an option. Will you be able to find a solution for this predicament? Instead he says: “I know,” and drifts immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep.
***
What have you gotten yourself into, my love? ( Eames’ hands in his hair, on his bruised cheeks, one finger running down the bridge of his nose) Do I need to go shoot someone? Multiple someones? I will, you know. You never believe me when I say things like this to you, but I will, Arthur, I’ll do anything you ask of me. Anything. I’ll take care of you, darling Arthur, I’ll… I love you. I’ll love you, if you want me to, if you’ll let me (lips on his forehead, cool, soft) please, would you let me? I’m good for you, I think, love, or better for you than whatever this is, and I know you’re good for me. I like having you in my flat. I like that you came to me. You can come anytime you want to. Please never come like this again, though. I’ll make sure you don’t. I’ll make sure this never happens again. Darling…
***
When Arthur wakes up, the room is dark save for the ambient glow of a lamp in his peripheral, and the sound of Eames’ soft, even breathing fills the space around him like music.
Slowly, Arthur turns his head. He’s laying on the couch, still, but there’s a pillow under his head now, and a thick afghan tucked precisely around his legs and torso; he still aches all over, a dull, throbbing ache, but it’s muffled, like he’s coming off of the effect of painkillers.
In the glow of the lamp, Eames sits hunched in his armchair, neck at an awkward angle, legs crossed at the ankles. His shirt is rumpled; Arthur’s blood stains his unbuttoned cuffs.
As Arthur watches him, he takes in a long, rattling breath, noting with some relief the increased ease with which his lungs expand. He didn’t think he was going to make it here last night, and he wasn’t thinking clearly enough to consider going anywhere else. All he could remember was Eames, Eames, Eames is in London, and his feet had walked him here with more purpose than his mind was even capable of in that much pain.
Across the room, Eames blinks awake, making eye contact with Arthur immediately. For half a second, his gaze is blurry, sleep-blind; and then it clears, melting into a smile so soft that Arthur’s heart throbs as Eames comes to kneel beside Arthur.
“Hello, love,” Eames whispers softly. He brushes Arthur’s hair back from his forehead, and in Arthur’s addled state, he’d almost call the gesture fond. There’s something about the way Eames is looking at him that makes Arthur think of endless galaxies, stretching eons into the future. “How are we feeling?”
Arthur thinks that, probably, he should be embarrassed. But Eames is looking at him so kindly, and his flat is so snug, and someone’s words are echoing in Arthur’s head, misplaced words like care, and love, and anything, and darling, that he just can’t help but be content.
“Um,” says Arthur. His mouth is dry, and tastes like something has died in there, gums thick and tongue clumsy with painkillers and remembered punches, and Arthur wonders when the hell Eames had him swallow pills. Eames runs his thumb over the arch of Arthur’s swollen eyebrow. “Better,” Arthur rasps. “Safe,” he continues, almost as an afterthought, but it’s true. It’s is wholly, overwhelmingly true. Here, on the couch of a gorgeous thief who is wanted in seven countries, Arthur feels safer than he’s ever felt in his life.
Eames blinks slowly, a gesture like underwater-movement, like a film played in slow motion. Then he leans down until he’s close enough for Arthur to feel the heat of his breath across his cheeks, and rests his lips lightly upon Arthur’s forehead.
Arthur’s eyes flutter shut. Quietly, he cradles the back of Eames’ neck with one hand, and his thumb rubs the soft hairs at his nape; soft like silk, short and a tiny bit bristly against the soft pad of Arthur’s palm.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. There are stars wheeling into place behind his eyelids, swirling around his head like the Milky Way, and Eames has a hand resting on Arthur’s sore ribs so tenderly that it soothes rather than hurts. Arthur feels like he’s flying, like he’s rocking on a boat in the middle of a stormy sea with only Eames to tether him. He has no idea why he’s apologizing. It just seems like the thing to do. “I got blood on your shirt.”
“God, Arthur.” Eames huffs a laugh into Arthur’s skin, and his voice is still reverent in a way that Arthur doesn’t understand. “Love. Hush.”
“Ok,” Arthur whispers. He realizes that he has his arms around Eames, plucking at the fabric of his shirt meditatively, stroking up and down his spine in an almost disturbingly possessive manner. Eames doesn’t seem to mind.
They’re quiet for a long, perfect moment. Then Eames shifts a little so that he’s looking down at Arthur, head tilted.
“You’d better get some more sleep, darling,” says Eames. He smiles, and it’s the one that makes everything about him a million times more beautiful than it already is. “Shame that this —” he gestures at Arthur’s bruised face, his bloodied knuckles— “is what it takes to get you to rest. We’re going to have to work on that.”
We, Arthur thinks, vaguely satisfied, and then—oh, fuck, he said that out loud, didn’t he? Judging by the look on Eames’ face—a little bit shocked, a little bit heartbroken, a lot hopeful—the answer is yes.
“We,” Arthur says again, on a sigh. He’s too tired to be embarrassed by anything that’s going on, and it’s… blissful. “We.”
“Yeah, Arthur.” Eames swallows, throat bobbing above his wrinkled collar. “Yes, love, if you—” he nods. Nods again. Smiles, and the corners of his eyes crinkle, and Arthur presses his finger there, as if he can take up the perfect shape and imprint it onto his own skin. “We.”
***
The fourth time, Arthur kisses Eames.
Morning. Arthur is sitting up on the couch with his legs crossed, afghan wrapped around his shoulders, a mug tea in his hands; Eames’ television is on—news—and Eames himself is sitting beside Arthur, looking tired and content as he watches the program with unfocused eyes.
Arthur thinks, I love you.
Arthur says, “Eames.”
There must be something in his tone. Eames turns his head immediately, serious and receptive and hopeful and close, the scent of him pressing around Arthur and settling his heart in his chest. Arthur smiles: it stretches across his cheeks, broader than anything he’s worn in so, so long, and Eames mouth falls open the smallest amount.
“Thank you,” says Arthur. He feels better than he did yesterday, last night. Muzzy and warm and full of sunshine, even in the middle of this rainy London morning, even with one eye swollen shut and bruises lining his ribs and arms. “For taking care of me.”
Slowly, Arthur leans forward to set his mug on the coffee table; Eames takes it from him, and sets it on a the wooden top with a dull clink.
“Always,” says Eames hoarsely. He presses his finger into Arthur’s right dimple, and Arthur takes Eames’ hand in both of his, and scoots closer on the cushions, and cups his jaw, and kisses him.
It’s—it’s—it’s—
“ Arthur, ” Eames moans, and pulls Arthur as gently as he can until they’re stretched along the length of the couch, Eames leaning against the armrest with Arthur settled comfortably between his legs. Arthur can feel Eames’ heart beating against his own through their thin layers of clothing and skin and bone, and it thuds in perfect time with Arthur’s pulse as their lips drag slowly together.
***
The fifth, sixth, seventh times happen consecutively, with very enthusiastic consent from both Arthur and Eames. After that, Arthur loses count.
Infinity, he’d say, if pressed to guess. Forever.