Eames loves coffee, loves the bitter taste of bleary-eyed mornings. Coffee is the taste of failure, of a night spent betting against the house. Of paying off debts from the ponies, of hiding in a dingy hotel room because he owes the wrong person too much money. Coffee is the taste of a hangover, head pounding, but needing to get up, to run, to catch the next flight or miss the next bullet. Coffee is a hot humid morning in a city packed with street vendors who don't speak the Queen's-English, it is the twist of his tongue around new words. Eames loves coffee, two spoons of sugar, a shot of cream, even better if it's that fake crap.

Coffee lacks the sharp scent of far-away spices, it's familiar, grounding, wakes him up, makes him know it's all real, too real. Coffee is not tea, it's not his childhood, scrambling through streets, coming home off a con, coming back to the stern worried face of his mother. Climbing telephone poles, breaking apart the structure of London's communications network. Tea was his first lesson in human interactions, he doesn't drink tea anymore unless he has to.

Sitting back against hand-woven pillows in a smoke filled room, Eames' world is filled with sharp spices, the tea their host has poured for him sits untouched before him, he is staring away, studying the people at the table before him. It is low to the ground, to his displeasure Arthur has arranged himself to Eames' side, it makes it hard for Eames to study him. He can see the Point-man's hands though, they hold the small cup of tea with the skill of someone well indoctrinated into this culture. Eames usually orders coffee when visiting Yusuf, but the man had insisted they all share tea.

It's a sign of friendship, the pouring of the tea, the acceptance of it by your comrades. Eames knows all of this, has shifted his way through enough Tea Houses, some of them the kind that don't serve tea, but he doesn't do that anymore. The thought of the look on precious Arthur's face if he found out Eames had been slumming it up with a rent-boy, Eames would rather shoot himself than see that look.

"You are not drinking your tea my friend." Yusuf looks hurt, Eames remembers the crash of a tea cup against peeling wall-paper, the fifth flat they'd moved into in two years. His mother crying, he picks up the pieces of his great-grandmothers fine-china. His father never stuck around long, but when he'd been there, he'd left his mark. Eames opens his mouth, finds the words hard to come, his grin masking, but not doing well.

"He is allergic to the spice." Arthur lies for him so easily, Eames looks to him, eyes sharp, but Arthur is not returning his gaze, he watches his lover collect the cup, drink for him. "Oh I wasn't aware, I am so sorry." Yusuf motions over the waiter, orders coffee for him, free of spices, free of thick flavored tea-leaves, free of memories. "It's fine mate, it seldom comes up unless Arthur is trying to poison me with his cooking." Eames teases, goes with the lie.

Later, when he's pressing Arthur into a wall, mapping his mouth with his tongue, he can taste the spices, the delicate anise, the strong cloves, and under it all Arthur who is intoxicating as usual. The drywall crumbles against his hands pinning Arthur in place, and the spice is perfect, the scent of the man pressed against him. As much as Eames loves coffee, loves the thrill and the promise, the reminder of who he is now and not who he was, he loves Arthur more. Arthur who is spice and danger, so many lies and secrets all wrapped up in a package of boring redundancy, tea. Arthur is the spice of life, and Eames cannot get enough.