Title: Any Colour You Like
Authors: Yours truly, and xpenismightierx of Livejournal
Pairings or Characters: Arthur/Eames
Summary: A fic chronicling Arthur and Eames' relationship in six stages, each identified by a color.
Rating: R
Word Count: 11,619
Warnings: Man sexings at some point.
Author's Note: This fic is meant to accompany the fan soundtrack xpenismightierx and I created, and it originally had song lyrics that I had to take out because of ffnet rules. Please visit me at Livejournal (username: pen_pistola) to download the soundtrack and for a link to the story on xpenismightierx's journal with all the lyrics/formatting intact! Thanks especially to xpenismightierx for all her help writing a good 60% of this.

-RED: (pre-relationship)

It was funny how these things happened. If by 'funny,' one meant frustrating, inconvenient and unprofessional—and completely one-hundred-fucking-percent exhilarating. Eames had known Arthur for a long time, years even, and there hadn't been anything between them but the witty banter that came from a long standing friendship-cum-rivalry. It was only during the Fischer job that it occurred to Eames how much he wanted the point man. One day, nothing. The next, he'd had to practically swallow his fist to keep from diving at Arthur and swallowing his cock. But it was more than that. He'd always thought Arthur was a very pretty boy, but Eames thought a lot of people were pretty. It could have been the suits, or his smile, or the care he took in everything he did, from researching a mark to making coffee. It could have been any of it—Eames didn't know. Maybe he'd been teetering at the edge of a precipice for ages, and somewhere along the line he'd been given one last shove. He was completely mystified. All he knew for sure was that there was something different about Arthur, and Eames was determined to have him in more ways than just in bed.

He followed the younger man around the Parisian warehouse like a puppy dog, poking and prodding, even kicking in a couple (okay, several) instances, anything to get Arthur to notice him; Eames was not above schoolyard tactics. At first there was little reaction. Eames chalked it up to his flirting strategy being much the same as his usual behavior toward Arthur, but even Arthur wasn't that dense. Eventually, Eames was catching Arthur's thoughtful frowns out of the corner of his eye immediately following one of his one-liners or subtle innuendos. It was a fair step better than the caustic hostility from before. He'd never really expected it to work, but little by little Eames could see that he was wearing Arthur down, and it was all he could do to stop from clapping gleefully in delight at the thought.

The forger figured he had finally cracked Arthur in Yusuf's rainy dream, when they were shooting at Fischer's unexpectedly militarized projections.

"You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling."

He said it right in the thick of things, bullets flying, Saito lying on a table with a gunshot wound in his chest, the plan going to shit all around them. But as Eames turned away after taking the projections out with a grenade launcher, he couldn't help but notice Arthur looking at him both confused and vaguely impressed. Eames had to repress a laugh. He'd come up with the whole inception plan nearly on his own, and it was a gun, not his brains, that got Arthur interested. Ah well, he'd take what he could get for now. He was planning on having all of Arthur later, and if he had to start out with this, it was fine. It was only a start, after all.

II. Arthur

"You're not serious," said Arthur, staring at the beat-up wreck of a car. It was a 1999 Ford Taurus, inexpertly painted a matte white with what looked like exterior house paint. Eames had already covered the back with a smattering of bumper stickers, including a proud 'Gettin' Lucky In Kentucky' and 'If Size Doesn't Matter, How Come I'm So Popular?'. Arthur leveled a disbelieving stare at him, but Eames just grinned back like a proud father showing off his honor student. "Ugh," Arthur groaned. "You are serious, aren't you?"

Eames went around the passenger side and opened the door, gesturing for Arthur to climb inside. Arthur did so only after thirty seconds' hesitation, during which he reminded himself that the chances of catching gonorrhea from a car seat were really very slim. "Milady," Eames bowed as he shut the door. It was a pity that Arthur's glare was wasted when Eames happily ignored him and slid into the driver's seat.

"You're not going to drive on the wrong side of the road and kill us both?"

"Fuck off," said Eames blithely. Apparently Arthur agreeing to go out with him was enough to make him immune to Arthur's barbs. And it wasn't even a date.

Eames put the monstrosity in gear and pulled away from the curb, and to Arthur's mild surprise, they did not die. As a matter of fact, the car handled rather well as Eames negotiated his way through the congested city traffic. Their destination was, according to Eames, the best coffee shop in Seattle. No Starbucks or Tully's for him; no, he had to pick the most obscure little hole-in-the-wall only a few blocks off Puget Sound.

Despite the long drive and Eames' obnoxious radio choices (the Spice Girls and M.I.A.? Really?) Arthur did have to admit that the coffee was quite good. Possibly even worth putting up with Eames as he flirted shamelessly with the barista for a free muffin. They sat across from each other now, muffin wrapper empty (Arthur hadn't had time for breakfast this morning) and coffee cups half full. The barista disappeared into the back of the shop, leaving them alone, and Arthur finally felt comfortable enough to venture the question that had been buzzing around the back of his head all day. "Eames. Why are you in America?"

Eames glanced up at him, apparently startled by Arthur's breach of the silence. "Why do you ask?"

Arthur gestured out the window at the car parked next to the curb. "That abomination, for one."

"Shut it, that car's got character!"

"Uh huh," Arthur said doubtfully. "But buying a car here seems kind of... permanent. Why didn't you take on any new jobs, or go back to England?"

That earned him a snort and a sidelong glance. "Mm. England. I've never told you about my family, have I?"

"You mean you weren't found in a dumpster and raised in a boys' home?"

Eames rolled his eyes. "No, quite the opposite," he sighed. Arthur quirked an eyebrow at him, prompting him to go on. "Alright, they're actually very rich. And obnoxious. But they passed on a fairly interesting pedigree."

Arthur blinked at the unexpected scrap of info. He'd guessed that Eames wasn't really as low-class as he put on, but... "Oh?"

The forger smirked at him. "Put it this way. If a certain three or four hundred-odd people were to suddenly drop dead, you'd have to start calling me 'Your Majesty.'"

Arthur tried not to act as floored as he felt, forcing his jaw to close. That bit certainly hadn't shown up on the background check. "You're being totally serious?"

"I am. And you," here his grin turned strange, "are changing the subject."

He was, Arthur realized. "Alright, so you have reasons not to go to England, which may include one of the most ridiculous things I've ever heard. But why here?"

Eames looked around, shoulders drawn into a shrug. "I like it here. I don't have any outstanding warrants for my arrest in America, and the food doesn't give me dysentery."

Arthur growled. "Don't play dumb. I mean, why Seattle? Of all the cities, why this one?"

Eames smiled at him then, something even Arthur with all his skill still wasn't quite able to read. Was it meant to be dissembling? Honest? Coy? "What about you, Arthur?"

The reversal irritated him, but maybe if Arthur answered Eames' question, Eames would answer his. "You know why I'm here. It's close to Cobb, where I can keep an eye on him. I'm able to be there if and when he needs me."

"Because you care about him." There it was again, that smile.

"Yes," Arthur said. "Yes, I do."

"Well..." And Eames gave him this look, and it was fond and exasperated and hopeful all at once, and—oh. Oh. He must have seen the realization in Arthur's face, because he picked up his coffee, leaned back in his chair and sipped at it in a gesture that was almost shy.

"You... moved here because... something... me...?" It wasn't Arthur's most eloquent moment.

"Yes, Arthur, exactly that. I moved here because something you." The tips of Arthur's ears reddened, but Eames at least had the decency to look contrite about it. Arthur found that he couldn't be irritated.

"I see."

Eames shook minutely as he set his coffee back down. The man was nervous. It was sort of surreal, really, the way his hands wrung together and his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "If you ever want me to leave..."

The unspoken offer was there. Eames would move someplace else, maybe leave the country. Maybe they'd work together on jobs in the future, once Cobb was back in action again, but Eames would stay out of his hair. He'd leave Arthur alone. No showing up unexpectedly at Philippa's dance recitals. No drunk texts or emails. No random coffee calls at eight in the morning on a Saturday. No pigtail-pulling on his time off. And wasn't that everything Arthur had always wanted?

"Anything more for you guys?"

They both started, and Arthur only barely managed to avoid spilling coffee all over his slacks. The barista stood over them with an awkward smile. The moment was broken, and Arthur couldn't tell if he was relieved about it or disappointed.

"Er, no, thank you." The barista nodded and scurried off, and Eames reached into his pocket for a small tip to leave her. "Shall we?" he shrugged at Arthur.

…

The ride back to Arthur's apartment was rather quieter than the ride out. Eames' gray-blue eyes stayed trained on the road, his fingers tapping incessantly at the steering wheel. Arthur almost wished he'd start talking again, start telling lewd jokes, singing along with 'Wannabe,' anything to break the silence. Halfway back to Arthur's apartment it started drizzling, then pouring, and Eames let out a soft curse, but until they finally pulled up alongside Arthur's building, it was the only thing he said.

Arthur watched the windshield wipers push ineffectually at the rain. He was loathe to ruin his suit, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could stay here. "Sorry I didn't think to bring an umbrella," he said softly, after another uncomfortably long silence. "I didn't think the rain would be this bad."

Eames ignored the apology altogether. He suddenly turned to Arthur, his expression far too serious, and Arthur felt his stomach drop. "Do you want me to go?"

This again. Arthur chewed at his bottom lip, imagining an Eames-free life. He could picture it. It was quiet and peaceful and independent, and, most frighteningly, really fucking boring. Arthur wasn't sure when his perspectives had shifted, and that bothered him. But despite the fear jittering along his nerves, and the rational part of his brain reminding him of all the past and future annoyances Eames had yet to inflict upon him, the answer was obvious when he thought about it.

"No."

Eames' smile lit up like the sun.

-ORANGE: (early relationship)

Arthur glared at the ceiling accusingly, as if it were the ceiling's fault that he was lying naked and completely ravished in Eames' bed. Arthur wanted very badly to reach for his totem and roll it in the hopes that the heavily tattooed arm thrown across his waist and Eames' soft snoring next to his ear was just a dream. But his totem was in the hidden pocket of his vest, and his vest was hanging precariously off of a lamp across the room, getting dreadfully wrinkled. Arthur winced.

Think about how you got here.

Arthur thought backwards. An hour ago, they had been groping at each other like teenagers, trying to release the tension that had built up for months, years, however long they had been playing this game before they'd both worked out the rules. It was nice, perhaps a little too rushed for their first time, but neither of them had particularly minded.

An hour before that, the two of them had shared a quiet dinner on Eames' couch. Eames had lured him here with pretenses of a new job, but as the bottle of wine had grown steadily emptier, and Eames had talked Arthur into slow dancing (slow dancing for fuck's sake) Arthur's suspicions about the true nature of the invitation were confirmed.

Two hours before that, Arthur was at his own apartment trying to figure out how to answer a text message. The sender was unknown, but the misspelled words, poor grammar, winking face and ambiguously sexual tone of the message screamed 'Eames.' Arthur wasn't sure how a promise of work could be remotely sexual, especially in a text message, but that was Eames for you.

The rest of the day up until that point had been just like any other day, and Arthur could remember all of it, down to what he'd had for breakfast. Not a dream.

No. How did you get here?

That was the question of the century. Arthur couldn't remember a time before just recently when he hadn't hated Eames. Sure, Eames had earned his grudging respect during the Fischer job, and there was no doubt he was impressed by Eames' forgery skills, but as a person, Arthur had been offended by his very being. He hated the nicknames, the way Eames was always pulling at his pigtails, trying to get a rise out of him. He hated the way Eames treated everything like a joke, how he took nothing seriously, even when he was being serious. And he especially hated the way Eames played everyone he met, using his people-reading skills to his advantage, making everyone turn to putty in his hands. It was unprofessional, it was unethical, and it was damn annoying. And maybe Arthur had admitted to Eames a few months ago that he'd like it if the forger stuck around in Seattle, but that hardly constituted an interest in having sex with him.

And yet somehow, there he was, in Eames' bed, bruises forming on his neck and chest from where Eames had sucked and bitten, lips still swollen from where Eames had kissed them, hating himself for even being in this situation and dying for more of it at the same time. In spite of Eames representing everything Arthur disliked, somehow the man had managed to crawl under his skin and gotten him to come apart beneath him. Sneaky bastard. Arthur couldn't mentally locate the precise moment when he'd done it, but he had, and now it was too late to go back.

Eames moved by his side, hugging Arthur's waist a little tighter and sighing in his sleep. Arthur thought briefly about trying to slip away, but for some reason the thought seemed ludicrous. He wanted so badly to deny it, but he was perfectly comfortable where he was. It just seemed... right.

Well shit.

IV. Eames

It took some getting used to, this strange, semi-cohabitation of theirs. They'd learned a lot about each other, most of it good, but it went without saying that some of it annoyed the piss out of them. They had been together just long enough for all the bad habits to come out and grate on each other's nerves. Times were trying.

Eames left the toilet seat up and Arthur, always a slave to appearances, would make a fuss every time he went in after him and closed the lid. Arthur refused to watch anything but the news during the evening meal and Eames stomped around because he couldn't watch his trashy television shows. Whenever Eames did anything in the kitchen, he left a giant mess and refused to clean it up until days later. Arthur would seethe as he scrubbed the dishes while Eames lay sprawled on the couch and scratching himself. Little things that wouldn't have bothered them otherwise would coalesce into bigger issues, which broke into the occasional argument complete with heated words and flushed faces.

Even so, at the end of the day, they would either end up in Arthur's bed or Eames' (depending on whose apartment they were at), completely and utterly happy with themselves and each other. They argued, sure, but after the cooling off period one would inevitably slink back to the other and the argument would be forgotten, because neither could stay mad for long. Making up was the best part. It almost made even the most heated of spats completely irrelevant. Almost.

Arthur had withdrawn into himself after one of their fights one rainy fall evening. Eames couldn't even remember what they had been arguing about, only that Arthur had gotten extremely upset and refused to speak to him for a few hours. He came around eventually, as always. But some time after Eames had physically apologized to Arthur, and they both lay on the couch, boneless and lazy, Arthur voiced something that must have been bothering him for a while.

"When's this going to end?" he asked. "We can't keep doing this. You can't base a relationship on fights and make up sex."

"I highly doubt that's what we're based on," Eames said, running his hand absentmindedly through Arthur's hair.

"It sure seems like it." A pause. "You know I've never done this before. What if... what if I fuck everything up?"

"Arthur, love," Eames sighed. "Everyone goes through this. We're still together in the end, aren't we? We're doing just fine right now, and no stupid little argument is going to change my mind about you. Don't worry too much over it."

Arthur shifted against him, using Eames' arm as a pillow. He seemed unsure of himself, but didn't press the matter.

"I promise Arthur," Eames said, kissing the top of his head. "We're going to be okay. What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, yeah?"

"Yeah," Arthur replied. He sounded more sure of himself this time, at least. Eames hugged him tighter, flipped the television on, and let him watch the evening news without complaint.

-YELLOW: (mid-relationship bliss)

V. Arthur

As far as bad jobs went, this one was the worst. The client was disreputable, the intel he'd given them had been shoddy, and they hadn't been given enough time to prepare properly. Arthur hadn't wanted to take the job at all, but he finally gave in at Cobb's insistence. '

Time to get back in the field for real,' Cobb said, 'stretch our muscles a bit'. No more waffling over whether they were still extractors or not. Even a shitty job was practice.

Cobb needn't have worried so much, or at least not about Arthur. He was in fine form, slinging his M16 and mowing down three or four projections at once. He ducked behind a corrugated steel door and into a warehouse when they began returning fire, and before he could correct for his momentum, he was tripping over Ariadne. "Woah, woah."

"Had the same idea for a hiding place?" Ariadne smirked once they'd regained their balance and the surprise wore off. She looked jittery though, knuckles white around her small pistol.

"Apparently three of us did."

They both turned at the third voice, whose owner was grinning at them and stepping out from behind a low wall.

Arthur tried to still the flutter in his chest without success. "Lovely. Eames." His words held none of the bite they might have a year or even a few months ago. And maybe Ariadne noticed, judging by the way she raised an eyebrow at them, but Arthur couldn't muster more than a mild sense of alarm at it.

"Arthur, Ariadne." Eames swaggered over, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, but his gaze stayed locked on Arthur the whole time. "I finished my job, and now Cobb's moving in on the safe." He was mightily casual, considering—until the first bullets began crashing through the high, dusty glass windows. Arthur had to admire that about Eames. One second he was cool as you please, and the next he was a whirling panther ready to rip someone's face off. Eames threw Ariadne behind him, sinking down on one knee and leveling his rifle at the window. One, two shots, and they heard a bloodcurdling scream from outside. Another bullet exploded into a bag of concrete powder relatively close to where they were crouched, so Arthur nodded to Eames and began to cover that window, firing off a few warning shots.

Poor Ariadne was left with little to do but watch as the two of them not only effectively guarded their position, but took out most of the shooters to boot. "You guys are... something," she murmured, almost to herself. But Arthur caught it anyway, and he shot her a glance, taking in her quizzical expression. Arthur realized his and Eames' backs were touching, and he moved away a hair.

"C'mon, let's go," he motioned to change the subject. His rule for ducking out of cover was like listening to a popcorn bag in the microwave—thirty seconds between shots meant it was safe enough to make a run for it. "We only need to buy Cobb a little more time. By my guess we've only got ten more minutes in the dream."

Eames nodded wordlessly and followed him, and Ariadne trailed obediently at their heels. Arthur wended his way through the maze, leading them through small knots of projections in the hope that it would keep their attention away from Cobb. It wasn't easy work for Ariadne, keeping up with them, although Arthur was almost too distracted to notice. It was as if he and Eames had moved past using words. One of them would signal, the other would nod, or Arthur would take point and Eames would immediately move to cover him without being asked. It sent flares of giddiness through Arthur's nerves at how well they worked together. It was eerie, almost. He didn't feel Ariadne's eyes on his back the whole time, searching him. In fact, he'd almost forgotten about her altogether when a shot rang out behind them.

"Fuck!" Arthur and Eames whirled around as one, and neither was sure who placed the killing bullet between the projection's eyes, but it didn't really matter. Ariadne was sprawled out on the ground, surrounded by an ever-growing puddle of red. The bullet had pierced her through the center of her back and come straight out her chest, but she stayed alive just long enough to send Arthur a murderous, pained glare and a breathy, "Goddammit, Arthur, you dick."

"Oops."

But before Arthur had the chance to feel too guilty about Ariadne's premature demise, his walkie crackled to life. "Job's done," came Cobb's voice, gruff about the edges, but satisfied.

Arthur gave an "Mm," of acknowledgement, then nodded wearily to Eames. Shooting himself was his least favorite part of extraction. So before he turned the trigger on himself, he leaned in and pressed his lips to the forger's in a gentle kiss. It was reassuring, in a strange way. Eames smiled crookedly at Arthur after he took a step back. "See you."

His reception upon waking up in the mark's hotel room was a little less tender. "You guys are jerks, and I hate you!" Ariadne was whining. "I got shot in the back because you two weren't paying attention!" Arthur's stomach dropped, and he almost raised a hand to shush her, but she continued before he got the chance. "If you hadn't been so engrossed in playing Starsky and Hutch, maybe you would have seen the guy!"

"What if I'd rather be Huggy Bear?" a blinking Eames interjected, but Arthur wasn't hearing him.

"Ariadne, I, um," he said rather impotently, embarrassed at how thin and reedy his voice came out. All of a sudden, he felt the heat of everyone in the room that wasn't the still-unconscious mark staring at him.

"She's right, you know," said Yusuf. "You and Mr. Eames have been getting along better lately, and I think that's great. Builds up morale, right?"

"Yes, thank you, Yusuf," Arthur ground out. Yusuf looked a bit puzzled by Arthur's snappy response, but Arthur wasn't interested. He could feel his stomach tying in knots, his muscles tensing and his attitude growing defensive. Eames was watching him carefully, keeping silent. He'd made it quite clear that the ball was in Arthur's court, whether he wanted it or not.

"Arthur? Something wrong?" asked Cobb, and Arthur couldn't quite repress the murderous glare he sent in the other man's direction. Cobb had been so self-absorbed after Mal's death that his normal powers of perception had been blunted, but since the Fischer job that wasn't the case. It was a little... inconvenient.

Arthur took a deep breath through his nose and closed his eyes for a minute. This was his team. Cobb had known him for ten years, and while Yusuf and Ariadne were much more recent acquaintances, they couldn't have gone through a job like the Fischer job and not gained something of a connection. What was Arthur afraid of? Sure there was his idea of 'professionalism' and his usual compunctions against workplace dating at stake, but even he couldn't pretend that Cobb and Mal hadn't made an excellent team. Would Cobb really care? Would any of them? Holding onto his ridiculous notions of keeping this a secret was grinding him down, just as Eames said it would. Bastard.

"Alright," he sighed. "There's something I have to tell you." Arthur shot a glance in Eames' direction. The other man was looking at him with open curiosity, and Arthur could almost see his heartbeat speed in his chest. 'Are you really going to do this?' it seemed like he was challenging. Arthur locked his gaze with Cobb, Ariadne and Yusuf in turn, and blurted the words out before he had a chance to change his mind. "Eames and I have been together for six months."

Beat, during which every pair of eyes in the room grew round like saucers, darting back and forth between Arthur and a frankly astonished Eames. 'Oh shit, did I really just say that?' The silence gnawed like a parasite at Arthur's gut. Yusuf broke it first, letting out an undignified little giggle.

"You're not serious, right?" he chuckled mirthfully. "I mean, come on. You two?"

Arthur felt his hands clenching into fists. Somehow Yusuf's disbelief rankled more than the others' shocked stares. So he did the only thing he knew to do. He closed the distance between himself and Eames in three long strides and before anybody (including Eames) could react, he had his arms wrapped around the larger man's neck for an enthusiastic snog session.

"Mmph," Eames mumbled against him in surprise, but it very quickly dissolved into a pleased and equally enthusiastic response. Arthur, emboldened, invaded Eames' mouth with his tongue, and Eames threaded his fingers into Arthur's hair and mussed it spectacularly. Arthur broke away after maybe thirty straight seconds, breathless and disheveled, and turned around to the sight of three people simultaneously jamming their hands into their pockets to check their totems.

"He was so totally serious," said Ariadne quietly.

Eames' grin was as debauched and shit-eating as Arthur thought it had ever been. "So yes," he said, wrapping an arm around a now furiously blushing Arthur, "now you know."

The moment was only broken when the mark began coughing fitfully; he'd gone unnoticed the whole time, and now he was waking up. There was a mad scramble to pack up all their supplies, and then the five of them were bolting from the hotel room before the mark was conscious enough to call security. Cobb shot him a look as they left, something between exasperation and amusement. Arthur should have felt awkward about the whole thing, but the warm feeling bubbling up in his chest wasn't an uncomfortable one. It was relief. Happiness.

They peeled off one by one to go their separate ways, their favorite tactic for avoiding suspicion, but Arthur and Eames never split. Ariadne leaned in conspiratorially just before her path diverged from theirs, and whispered in a bemused Arthur's ear, "Just so you're aware, I totally called it."

VI. Eames

Eames was moving in him, slow and steady, his hand giving Arthur long, languid strokes that produced a soft keening noise in the back of his throat. Eames' face was pressed against the crook of Arthur's neck, alternating between placing soft nibbles and gentle kisses on the exposed skin there.

"Eames," Arthur whined under his breath.

"Shh, love," Eames replied, bringing a finger up to Arthur's lips to silence him. "Shh."

He trailed his mouth over Arthur's jaw until he found his lips. There he placed a deep kiss, savoring the taste of Arthur's tongue, absorbing the minuscule noises of pleasure the smaller man was making. He ran his free hand up the side of Arthur's face, threading his fingers through his hair, rubbing soft circles into his scalp. Eames would never get tired of doing this, being the only person in the world who could make Arthur come completely undone, who could turn him into a boneless pile of goo with a few well-placed caresses and kisses. It was a privilege that Eames was sure wasn't granted lightly, and that made him all the more appreciative of it.

Eames and Arthur didn't normally do this. Sex between them was quick, passionate, and primarily lust based, but tonight was different. Eames had been thinking for a very long time about Arthur and whatever it was they had, and had come to a startling conclusion that had left him shaken for days. He hadn't told Arthur about it yet, but his actions seemed to show it. He was less teasing, more willing to give in and to please, but most of all he was becoming more introspective, thinking more about himself and Arthur as a unit rather than two separate people who lived, worked, and fucked together. This was why tonight he had tried something different, something more gentle and, in his opinion, far more intimate.

Arthur moaned, loudly this time, and Eames knew that he was close. He picked up his pace a little, his hand between Arthur's legs pumping in time with his thrusts. It didn't take long for Arthur to fall off the edge, clenched tightly around Eames as he rode out his orgasm. Eames followed suit shortly after, pouring himself into his lover.

They lay together, warm and panting, stuck together by sweat and Eames' lack of willpower to roll over. Arthur absentmindedly rested a hand on Eames back, tracing the pattern of the tattoo that swirled across his shoulder. Eames nuzzled further into Arthur's neck. It was the happiest he'd been in a while, and he basked gloriously in the afterglow of their love making.

"Arthur," he said, voice low and husky as he felt himself growing sleepy.

"Hmm?"

The moment was perfect. He faintly felt Arthur's heartbeat in his chest. His breathing was rhythmic and comforting and Eames wanted nothing more than to stay there for the rest of his life, slowly melting into Arthur over time until they became one being. It seemed so right to say it.

"I love you."

He felt Arthur go still beneath him. His fingers stopped tracing the ink on Eames' shoulder. Eames lifted his head from Arthur's neck and looked at him. His expression was unreadable. Eames slid a hand up to Arthur's cheek and turned his head toward him so he could place a gentle, chaste kiss on his lips, and Arthur's fingers began to move over Eames' tattoos again.

Eames moved his head to rest in the crook of Arthur's neck again, nipping at his earlobe as he did so. He fell asleep perfectly at peace with the world around him. He had Arthur, he loved Arthur, and there was nothing that would ever change that.

-GREEN: (cracks in the relationship)

VII. Arthur

The look in Eames' eyes was possibly the worst thing Arthur had ever seen. The forger was shocked, disbelieving, hurt. "What?" he blinked, as if hoping against hope that he'd misheard Arthur's words.

"You heard me," Arthur bit out, but he repeated it anyway, just for effect. "I'm going out alone." He strode across the room to the coat rack and slung on his heavy wool coat. "I just... don't want you to come."

Arthur hazarded a glance in Eames' direction. It was still there, that kicked-puppy sadness. The worst thing in the world, all the more sickening because it felt so good. It was like riding a bike down a hill. Once he'd said one thing to hurt Eames, it was so easy, almost satisfying to keep it up in a steady stream of niggling comments dropped strategically like bombs. Things meant to get under the skin, and stay there.

"Arthur," Eames tried, but Arthur didn't turn, just reached for his scarf. "Arthur, please. Don't do this to me, not on our anniversary. I know we've been arguing lately, but we've been okay, right? It's nothing we can't work through." Arthur heard Eames push off the couch hesitantly. "Look, I know I should have asked you before I signed the lease, but I can still get out of it. We don't have to move in together until you absolutely want to. Please?"

Footsteps sinking into the carpet, approaching him. Arthur ducked away and paced over to the door, pulling it open. He met Eames' eyes this time, matching Eames' pleading stare with his own solid, dark wall of stone.

"It's nothing you haven't brought on yourself." His voice was cold, flat, damning, and Eames shrunk away like he'd been burned. It gave Arthur the opportunity he needed to slip out the door and slam it shut behind him.

…

It always wore away, the sick pleasure he got out of hurting Eames. Some part of him knew that he was being unreasonable at the time, but that part was drowned out by his anger and his fear. Later they came back in full force. Arthur sat with his head in his arms, grief on display for anyone who cared to look. Arthur was at least three beers past being bothered by it.

"Alright?" asked the bartender, and even though Arthur wasn't looking, he could hear the concern in the man's voice.

Arthur gave a noncommittal "Hm," and motioned for another beer. He lifted his head only after he heard the clink of the new beer against the bar top and the thunk of the old one in the trash. He took a long swig, grimacing at the taste of the cheap stuff. When he'd drained it, he moved to ask for another, but the bartender cut him off.

"Look, man. I know it's none of my business, but I can think of better ways to end a night than just drinking it away. You've had five beers already. Why don't you try working out whatever issue it is that you have instead?"

Arthur just glared. Who was this guy to lecture him? But the bartender didn't look away, and eventually it was Arthur who broke. He let out a sigh and reached for his wallet, pulling out a few rumpled bills and smoothing them on the counter. The bartender took them and turned around to make change for him, and Arthur dropped his head into his arms again. He didn't need another beer anyway; he thought he might throw up. Everything was pressing in around him.

'I love you.'

Why were those three words so terrifying? Eames had only said them once, but Arthur knew he'd meant them. And what was Arthur doing? Sitting in a bar after eating alone because he was a fucking failure at life. Because the uncertainty eating away at him had pushed him into sabotaging his own relationship, on his god damned anniversary. The bartender turned back around to hand him his change, but Arthur was already pushing off his bar stool, bolting for the door.

…

Guilt settled like a lead weight in his stomach as he let himself back in Eames' apartment. He winced when the door creaked, but all the lights were off except for the one over the sink. A pot of half-eaten ramen sat on the counter next to a neat row of beer bottles, and Arthur had to blink away the moisture in his eyes. He toed off his shoes and socks and padded barefoot to Eames' bedroom, moving to stand in the small sliver of light escaping from the door left ajar. Eames was watching some cheesy talk show with the volume down low, but he perked suddenly and muted it as if he thought he'd heard Arthur in the doorway.

"Eames," Arthur whispered, and as soon as the name left his lips, Eames rolled off the bed and rushed over to swing the door open. Arthur was surprised when Eames looked at him for a moment, eyes glittering in the flickering TV light, before pulling him in for a tight hug.

"Arthur," he said, and it came out sounding like a sob. "I'm so glad you're back."

Arthur couldn't say anything for a while, so he just let Eames hang onto him until the other man was satisfied he was real and pulled away. Arthur let his body lead him then. It was like watching himself from the outside as he pulled off his jacket and his shirt. Eames followed suit, and soon enough they were naked on the bed. They didn't have sex, which Arthur was somewhat relieved about. Eames just held him, breathing in his scent. After a long while, he spoke.

"I canceled the lease on the apartment." It sounded less accusing than Arthur had expected, and more like another apology. "I know I should have asked you. I assumed that what you wanted was what I wanted, and I shouldn't have done that. I just thought that after a year... But that was wrong."

Arthur blinked against Eames' skin, feeling the guilt settle back. "It wasn't your fault."

Eames didn't argue, though it looked like he wanted to. He waited a moment before clearing his throat, focusing his eyes on the wall. "There's something else. I took a job in Italy. Someone I've worked with before needed a forger, so I'll be gone for a week or two." His arms loosened a touch from around Arthur's shoulders. "Maybe if we just take a little break, it'll be better when I get back."

Arthur's throat worked silently. "Okay." He thought of the lone pot of ramen on the counter, and the row of beer bottles. He thought of his things in Eames' closet, and Eames' things in his. The pictures on the mantelpiece. The sex. Those three little words that made his heart clench like he was dying and his lungs seize in panic.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and he wasn't sure whether it was an apology for what he'd done, or what he was going to do.

VIII. Eames

Eames knew immediately upon entering his apartment that something was wrong. The small one-bedroom, which until now had been pleasantly cluttered with a conglomeration of Arthur's and his possessions, seemed emptier, colder. Arthur's touch was missing, and it showed like a gaping hole in the universe. Eames walked around in a daze, taking in each absence one by one. Arthur's nicer set of dishes was gone, the bookshelf was half-empty, and most frightening of all, his clothes were missing. Eames gazed at the gaps in the sparse closet, eyes searching for the tasteful clothes that were supposed to be mixed in with the tasteless ones, but weren't. It took him five whole minutes of staring blankly at a particularly terrible shirt before it hit him that Arthur was gone, that he'd left him. The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water, and he felt sick to his stomach.

Eames stumbled out of the closet and shuffled over to the bed. He sank slowly into the mattress and looked around. As he stared at the walls, he tried to think about what happened, what he might have done wrong to push Arthur away. Sure they'd been having a rough patch, with the apartment issue and all, but they'd made up for that, hadn't they? He and Arthur had been working again with Cobb's team, and Eames had interpreted Arthur's tetchiness as job stress. Maybe he'd missed something. But Eames had been happy, and he'd wanted Arthur to be happy, so he had tried so very hard to make everything work. He'd done his best to make Arthur as comfortable as possible, to make his apartment a stress-free (and sometimes pants-free) zone, but it hadn't helped. Apparently he hadn't tried hard enough.

He could feel himself starting to break, his eyes stinging and throat tightening. There was a giant sob inside of him trying to tear its way out, but he resolutely swallowed it down. He took a few seconds to compose himself, then stood up, grabbed his coat, and headed out into the night. He made a quick stop at Arthur's own apartment complex, and the landlady who knew him by sight gave him a sad smile.

"Left last Tuesday," she explained. "He didn't say why, only that he was leaving Seattle."

So Arthur hadn't just left, he'd run. And Eames had no doubts that if Arthur didn't want to be found, then he wouldn't be. Even quick calls to Cobb and Ariadne turned up nothing. They were as surprised as he was. So he did the only thing he could think of to do—found himself the seediest pub in the area and proceeded to get absolutely pissed.

He was falling asleep at the bar when he was asked to leave.

"'M not done yet," he mumbled, slapping the counter. "Gimme 'nother."

"You've had enough, buddy," the bartender said. "I really think you ought to go home. Nice guy like you's probably got somebody waiting for him, huh?"

"What?" Eames asked, lifting his head up to level a stare at the bartender. "No. Fuck no. Found out the motherfucker left me today. Ran off without even fucking telling me!"

He was angry and very, very drunk, and his voice must have carried, because everyone in the bar was looking at him. For a brief moment, he felt as though he were in a dream and all of the other patrons in the bar were projections staring him down. The thought should have frightened him, and he should have reached for his totem right then and there, but he hesitated. His fury consumed him. He was angry at himself, angry at Arthur, and angry at the bartender for not letting him have another drink. He wouldn't mind fighting a projection or two, even if it was just with his bare hands. And if they ripped him apart, that was fine too.

This was probably the reason why, unprovoked, he punched the man next to him square in the jaw.

He was only dimly aware of the ensuing scuffle, but he knew that at some point he was kicked in the gut, had his lower lip split open, and got a black eye. But the other guy looked much worse by the time they were both kicked out of the bar. It was a pity he hadn't ripped Eames apart. Maybe Eames would have woken up in the warehouse to find that this was all a dream. Or maybe he would have died. Either seemed much better than going home to a cold, empty apartment, the very last place he wanted to be.

But he was tired and in pain, and even he was above sleeping out on the streets. Miraculously he made it home, swaying like a madman and much worse for the wear. He trudged up the stairs, fumbled with his keys, and slammed the door behind him. He went straight to the bedroom and flopped down, beyond bothering to clean up or even take off his shoes. Arthur's eye might have twitched angrily if he were here to see him. But he wasn't.

Eames curled up onto his side, unable to care less that he was dirtying the sheets as he wrapped himself into a warm cocoon. He could still smell Arthur all around him, lingering like the ghost of a dream. Finally, he cried.

-BLUE: (post-relationship)

IX. Eames

Forbes was never going to work with him again, that was for sure. It was hard to perform extractions when you didn't own a PASIV device, for one, and even harder to work with the forger that you knew for a fact had stolen it after your last mission.

Eames hadn't taken the job for the challenge. It was routine and easy, and it didn't push anyone to do their best, much like Forbes. The pay wasn't amazing either, not that Eames was interested. Saito-san's reward for the Fischer job would take care of his bills for years, so frankly, Eames didn't need the money. No, Eames took the job because Forbes was horrendously unorganized and it was so very easy to steal the PASIV device from under his nose, along with enough Somnacin to tide him over till Mombasa, where he could bully Yusuf into making more of it for him.

That had been months ago. No one but Yusuf knew about it, and Yusuf was a good enough friend (a rare commodity in the world of mind crime) not to say anything about it. He had started to work other jobs again, but when it was all said and done, Eames would retire to whatever hotel he was staying at (he couldn't make himself go back to his old apartment) and spend all his time in the dream world. Sometimes he was in a tropical hut on a beach, sometimes in a cozy cottage withdrawn from the rest of the world, sometimes in Rome or Paris, one time even the old warehouse they worked the Fischer job from, but each time it was with Arthur. Or rather, his projection of Arthur.

In Eames' dreams, they were still together. In Eames' dreams they had never gone wrong. Arthur would be there waiting for him, sometimes with a rebuke, sometimes with sex, more often than not, simply with company and conversation. He missed Arthur, he yearned for Arthur, and sometimes he was afraid that this would become his reality and that he wouldn't want to leave. But there was always that nagging feeling in the back of his head. He knew it was all a dream without even having to reach for his totem. This projection that looked like his Arthur was only a shade of him. Sometimes the projection would slip up and do something out of character and that was how Eames knew. It was how he stayed grounded in reality.

It was the beach this time. Eames was dressed in a raggedy pair of khaki shorts and a white wifebeater, lounging in a hammock that hung between two palm trees. Arthur was standing in the sand a short distance from him, wearing a nicer pair of khaki pants and a button-down white shirt. His hair wasn't slicked back for once, and it was longish and wavy and blowing in the wind. Eames wanted to run his hands through it. When he noticed Eames looking at him, Arthur smiled and walked over to him. Eames could have melted over his dimples.

"I was wondering when you'd come back," Arthur said. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on Eames' lips.

"Are you going to invite me onto the hammock?" he asked suggestively. "I've missed you, you know."

Eames wanted very badly to give in and ask Arthur to join him. He almost rolled over to give the smaller man a little room to climb on next to him. Almost. Instead he turned his head away from Arthur and looked out into the water.

"I've missed you too, love," he said, watching the waves hit the shore. "More than you even know."

"I think I do know," Arthur said, giving the hammock a small push.

"Yes," Eames conceded. "You would, wouldn't you?"

He and Arthur stayed like that for a while, neither of them speaking, Eames looking out at the ocean and Arthur patiently waiting for him to do something.

"I don't think I'm coming back anymore," Eames said finally.

The projection of Arthur said nothing, only nodded his head.

"You understand, don't you?" Eames continued. "I can't... I want very badly for this to be true, but it isn't. It's not reality."

"It could be," Arthur pressed. "You could forget about whatever you have or don't have up there and stay here with me. I'd make it worth your while."

"I know you would try," Eames replied sadly. "But I don't think it would be enough. Believe me, I've thought of staying before, I have. But I can't. I would know."

Arthur ran a finger softly down Eames' cheek. "It's up to you," he said. "I can't make you stay. But I want you to know that you can."

Eames grabbed his arm and pulled him down for a kiss and said "I know. Thank you."

They watched the sunset until the timer ran out. The next morning, Eames shipped a briefcase to Mombasa.

X. Arthur

It had been three hundred and seventy-two days, but Arthur wasn't counting. He had a meeting a half hour from now with the man who'd hired him for a freelance job, and he'd be damned if he got there late. He'd opted to walk the New York sidewalks today, and it was beginning to look like the better choice—the streets were still clogged with cars from the morning rush hour. There was a shortcut up ahead, down a wide alley filled with market stalls, and Arthur ducked into it to avoid the crowded street corner. Fruit vendor, bodega, vegetable vendor, meat-of-questionable-origin vendor, café. The door of the kitchen was thrown wide open for ventilation in the spring afternoon heat, and someone had turned the radio on inside. A thread of music drifted into the street, just a snatch of it, and like that, it sucked all the air from Arthur's lungs.

Time slowed until all Arthur could hear was the rush of blood pounding in his ears. That and the music. "Non, rien de rien..."

...

'Do you like the red or the gold?' Eames asks, holding up two different shades of place mats. 'I wouldn't want to offend your tastes, would I?' Arthur rolls his eyes at the other man, but he's secretly touched that Eames even came with him to help pick out furnishings for his apartment.

...

'Mmm, darling, come back to bed. Ten in the morning is far too early to get up on a Sunday.' Arthur pauses in pulling up his merino wool socks. Eames is watching him with half-lidded eyes and a lazy smile, imbued with something soft, something deep. Arthur sighs, thinking of all the things he has to do today. But Eames reaches out and brushes a hand across Arthur's cheek, and all those thoughts fly away. He has plenty of time to spare.

...

Eames steps out of his bedroom and Arthur's jaw drops. The forger has gotten rid of the tweed and paisley for once, and good god, he's dressed in a three-piece suit. He's grinning, a little smug, a little proud, but mostly pleased that he's managed to shock Arthur into silence. 'What do you think?' he asks, turning.

'I... I...' says Arthur stupidly. What he's actually thinking is something along the lines of skipping dinner after all, and just having his way with Eames on the rug instead. But he gathers his wits about him, enough to let out a choked, 'Stunning.'

Eames grins. 'Thank you. I figured I ought to dress up, considering where we're going for dinner tonight.'

Arthur fidgets uncomfortably, feeling the heat of a blush turning the tips of his ears pink. 'You know you don't have to if you don't want to. I know it's not your scene. Don't put yourself out on my account.'

He's surprised when Eames strides toward him, then kneels down next to him on the sofa. Eames takes one of Arthur's hands in his and kisses it. 'Arthur, it's your birthday. And please believe me when I say that it's my pleasure.'

Arthur smiles.

...

They're riding the last little aftershocks of orgasm when Eames pulls Arthur close, fingers stroking the fine hairs at the back of his neck, and whispers, 'I love you.'

...

"Sorry." Arthur snapped back to the present, where a young guy with a pizza delivery bag strapped to his back held up his hands to try and mollify him. Arthur hadn't even noticed the boy run into him, so he waved him off.

"It's nothing."

Slowly Arthur began to realize how much of an idiot he must look. A full-grown man, dressed in a three-piece suit and a briefcase in hand just standing in the middle of the street like a sleepwalker. Arthur brought a hand to the bridge of his nose and rubbed, trying to drown out the dying strains of "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien" from his head. He was supposed to have dealt with this already, and it frustrated him. Whatever he'd had... it wasn't his life anymore. And Arthur made it a point not to regret anything in his life. He didn't regret leaving Eames. He didn't. Did he?

A sick feeling coiled its way up through Arthur's insides, the kind of thing that usually only came around on too-late nights when he sat drunk at some bar. It had been three hundred and seventy-two days, and Arthur knew it. A wave of nausea crashed through him so hard that he had to stumble off the street to lean against a wall for support. He took in a few deep, gasping breaths, trying to calm his body down, but it wasn't working. He'd spent far too long trying to repress this. Now it seemed there was no stopping it.

Arthur shakily pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialed his client's number and offered his apologies, but the meeting would have to be pushed back. Personal reasons. He didn't elaborate, he couldn't without cracking. As it was he barely made it back to his matchbox of a hotel room before collapsing. The torrent of emotions he'd held back so carefully broke their dam, and Arthur couldn't breathe for all his dry sobbing. He tried to vomit, but all he was able to bring up was a bit of bile that burned at the back of his throat.

Finally spent, Arthur collapsed onto his bed and curled up. The sheets were cold, sterile, uninviting. There was only one thing he knew left to do. It took a couple of tries, but eventually Ariadne answered her phone with a groggy, "Hello?"

"S-sorry," Arthur stammered, realizing his mistake. "I forgot to check the time zones."

Ariadne let out a long sigh, and Arthur could hear running water. "Don't worry about it, Arthur, I'm glad you called. It's... been awhile. I'll just make myself a quick cup of tea and I'll be fine." Arthur stayed silent while she bustled around her kitchen. "What's up?" she finally asked him when the microwave began running.

"I'm a fucking idiot."

Arthur could almost hear Ariadne's eyebrows rise. "Huh. Care to elaborate on why?"

"You know why."

"...I see." The microwave beeped in the background, and Ariadne paused while she presumably stuck the tea bag in to steep. "So you've finally caught on."

Arthur let out a bitter chuckle. "Were you taking bets or something?"

"No." Ariadne sounded a bit hurt. "We've just... well, we were worried this would happen eventually. Are you doing alright?"

Arthur had to be honest. "No, not really. I just realized that I wasted the last year of my life being a cowardly fucking asshole to the one man who would put up with me." He figured Ariadne wasn't sure how to respond to that, because she fell silent for several minutes. She was done with her tea by the time she spoke again.

"I'm guessing you want to know where he is."

Arthur's breath caught in his chest. Up until she'd said that, he hadn't been sure of what he wanted or what he'd do next. Now the answer seemed frighteningly clear, hanging right in front of him like a green glowing exit sign at the end of a dark tunnel.

"Please?"

Another long pause. "I'll see what I can do."

-PURPLE: (so we meet again)

XI. Eames

Eames could see him through the window of the diner, sitting in a corner booth, absorbed in his work. He looked good, much better than Eames did. Still done up to the nines in a three piece suit, hair slicked back perfectly into place, all sharp wit and intelligence. He was studying the paper laid out in front of him as he ate his lunch, and Eames wanted nothing more than to barge up to his table and distract him with a good natured insult, a pet name, and a kiss.

He'd heard through the grapevine (read: Ariadne, bless her) that Arthur had been looking for him. That was all she'd told him; he wasn't sure whether it was for a job or for something else, but as he hadn't seen or heard from Arthur in about a year, Eames was taking the search as a good sign. If what she'd said was true, Arthur was ready to talk to him again, and that was something, wasn't it?

He should have been happy about it, but it was so, so hard. Sitting in the driver's seat of his car, looking through the window into the diner and seeing Arthur look as good as ever shook his confidence. It had been over a year, true, but it had been a terrible year for Eames. He was still manifesting signs of it physically in the bags under his eyes and the way he could count his ribs again. Arthur looked the same as he had the day after the successful inception job. Eames could have kicked himself for getting his hopes up.

Of course Arthur would look good. Arthur was the one who had broken up with him, for fuck's sake. Arthur. Beautiful, cold, callous Arthur. Arthur who didn't want Eames, who didn't need Eames, and who was doing much better without Eames than Eames was doing without him.

He watched Arthur for a while longer, guiltily taking in the sight of him, drinking it in as if it were the last time he'd ever see him again (and if he was honest with himself, it probably would be if he knew what was good for him). It took much more out of him than he cared to admit to turn the key in the ignition and drive away.

XII. Arthur

Of course Arthur would look up just as the taillights of Eames' beat-up old car were turning the corner onto the highway. At first Arthur thought he was seeing things–he had been staring at his papers for an awfully long time–but no; it has a different plate, but he'd recognize that collage of bumper stickers anywhere. Fuck. His stomach bottomed out and his hands went clammy as he threw his things together and jogged out to his own rented car.

At least it took less effort to track the other man down when he already knew where to look. It wasn't very difficult to find Eames' car on the road and follow it back to a cheap motel on the outskirts of town. But maybe Eames wasn't trying very hard to avoid him. Arthur hoped he wasn't. He pulled into the glass-strewn parking lot and found a space alongside Eames' car, but he couldn't face this right away. He sat and let the engine idle for a few minutes, soaking up the A/C and willing the lump in his throat to go down. Being nervous wasn't helping—after all, it was only the love of his life on the line.

Finally Arthur was as steeled and ready as he thought he'd ever be, and he ran a hand over his hair to smooth it down. His legs felt like they were weighed down with mortar as he closed he distance between his car and the motel. There was an arched brick gate that tunneled through the front row of rooms to the boxed-in courtyard at the center, and a dark figure stood leaning against the wall just inside. Arthur took a deep breath and stepped out beside him.

"Eames."

Arthur's heart thudded in his chest. There were a thousand possibilities, a thousand things that Eames could say that all chose that moment to run through Arthur's head. Fuck off, Arthur. I'm over you. I don't want you anymore. Don't bother following me. Why did you even come? The last thing he expected was a shaky and genuinely surprised, "Arthur?"

His breath hitched. He'd thought of a thousand things to say on his way over. Please forgive me. I made the worst mistake of my life when I hurt you. I know I can never make it up to you, but please tell me how I can set things right. I don't deserve you, but I'll do anything I can to make myself worthy. But all that came out was a cracked and broken, "Eames, I am so, so sorry."

Eames stared at him, eyes round. But his voice was terrifyingly flat when he said, "Are you really, Arthur?"

The air left Arthur's lungs in a rush. "Eames, I... I was so stupid. I threw away the best thing I ever had. I was scared. I was so scared when you told me you loved me, scared that I was going to fuck everything up. All the fights... I thought if I pushed you away, it would be easier. If I made it your fault, I'd be justified in leaving. It took me way too long to realize what I'd done, but ever since then I've been trying..." And here it occurred to Arthur that he was the most selfish fucking person in the world, but he couldn't stop himself. "I've been trying to get you back."

Eames breathed deeply through his nose, and he stared out at the lazily rippling blue of the swimming pool. Arthur was terrified. He was such an idiot for even coming here; it was ridiculous to think that Eames would even consider taking him back after what he'd done. They stood in silence for a few minutes. Arthur wanted to bolt, but he didn't. He couldn't. But neither did Eames.

"Arthur," he said after a long while. "Please don't fuck with me. Just don't. I couldn't take it." Eames' face was expressionless, but his whole body shook and his hands gripped at the bricks behind him with painful intensity.

The heart Eames had once accused Arthur of lacking silently broke inside his chest. "Eames, I swear," Arthur croaked. And he opened his mouth to say more, but it was difficult to talk with another mouth pressed to his. The kiss didn't last for long, just a few seconds, but Eames remained close to him and just breathed. Arthur could feel it, halting and feathery against his cheek. His lips tingled where the point of contact had been. "Eames?" he whispered, afraid to move lest the moment break.

"You... you are such an unbelievable idiot."

"I know." And god fucking dammit, Arthur wasn't supposed to be crying, but then Eames was circling his arms around him in a jerky, tentative hug, and despite this being the most difficult, most humbling situation of his entire life, he'd never felt so right. "I don't fucking deserve you."

"Nope," said Eames, stubble brushing against Arthur's jaw. "But I never deserved you, either. So I suppose that makes us even." Eames took a step back, and he still wouldn't meet Arthur's eyes.

Arthur wiped at his face, feeling the awkwardness seeping in through the silence. He wasn't sure what was left to be said, or whether Eames had even meant anything by the kiss, but he had to say something. "I know I don't have the right to ask anything of you, but I want you to know that if you'll allow me, I'd like to try this again. And I'm not saying I'll be perfect—hell, I'm only a man. And you know how imperfect I can be firsthand. But I'll try for you. Please, I'll try so goddamn hard."

"Arthur?" said Eames, and when he finally met Arthur's gaze, his eyes were shining. But his mouth, oh, his mouth was drawn into one of those quirky little smirks, the memory of which had kept Arthur up at night so often this past year.

"Yeah?" Arthur said, afraid to be hopeful.

"If I say I'll think about it, will you shut up and come get some coffee with me?"

Arthur felt his lips stretching into a grin so wide he thought his face might break, and then Eames returned it, with interest. If Arthur wasn't a no-nonsense kind of man, he could have danced. He could have written poetry. He could have sung songs to the moon. But instead he settled for a soft and heartfelt, "Yes."

It was a start.

-PINK: (the cracky epilogue)

XIII. Arthur

Arthur was asking for it. Not with words, but with everything else. After the particularly enthusiastic bout in the bedroom the night before, he and Eames had slept most of the day away. Now it was well past lunch time, and Eames was still snoring softly, but Arthur was up. He was sitting on the foot of the bed, wearing nothing but his unbuttoned white oxford shirt from the day before, staring into the mirror on the opposite wall of the small hotel room they were sharing. Out of the corner of his eye he was watching Eames as he slept, but mainly he was gazing into his own reflection.

Arthur had to admit, he could see why Eames was so attracted to him. Even undone, he was absolutely gorgeous. He wasn't being entirely narcissistic either; Arthur was a good-looking motherfucker. He really couldn't blame Eames for not being able to control himself around him. Of course, he could blame Eames for all of the debauched things he thought up to do to him. He could blame him, but he wouldn't.

Truth be told, Arthur loved when he had Eames' lips wrapped around his cock. He loved when Eames had him writhing beneath him, he loved when his ankles were over his own head as Eames plowed into him deeper and deeper with each thrust. He loved being tongue fucked, tied up, ridden, being made to ride, and he even loved being slapped around once in a while. And those were some of the tamer things. Eames had nothing if not a vast imagination and Arthur never ceased to be amazed at how quickly things could turn disgustingly raunchy. It also never ceased to amaze him that he was consistently turned on by it.

His eyes flickered from his own reflection in the mirror to Eames' as he noticed the other man stirring from his sleep. Arthur put on his best set of bedroom eyes and shot them in the direction of Eames' reflection. Like a moth to a flame, Eames' eyes were automatically drawn to Arthur's in the reflection and a sleepy, lascivious smile crept across his face. He sat up slowly, stretching as he did, and then leaned forward, his hands snaking their way into Arthur's lap where he found the smaller man already raring to go.

"Arthur, darling," Eames said groggily into his ear as he slowly began to fist Arthur's cock. "You are absolutely gorgeous."

"And you, Mr. Eames," Arthur replied, rolling his hips to meet Eames' ministrations. "Are delectably filthy."

XIV. Eames

"Fuck, Arthur," Eames managed. "Fuck!"

He was sprawled on his back, gripping the headboard behind him as tightly as he could. His legs were thrown over Arthur's shoulders as Arthur pounded him into oblivion. Arthur growled in response and leaned down to bite his earlobe as he fucked into him. His hands were everywhere and Eames was so close he could hardly stand it.

He was babbling nonsense as the pressure built up in his abdomen and after a few more well-aimed thrusts on Arthur's part, Eames' eyes rolled to the back of his head as he rode out his orgasm. Arthur followed shortly, collapsing onto Eames, not even bothered by the mixture of semen and sweat he was getting all over him. They both lay like that for a while, panting, tired, and in Eames' case, achy. When they could finally move again, Arthur surprised him by not moving at all.

Normally, Arthur would either have rolled right back to his own side of the bed to fall asleep or he would get up and head to the bathroom for clean up. But this time, Arthur stayed on top of Eames, arms wrapped around him, face pressed into his neck, making utterly contented humming noises in the back of his throat as he nuzzled against him.

"Eames," he said lazily as he began to drift off. "I love you."

Eames' insides burst into confetti and fireworks. There were ticker tape parades, street parties, and quite a few triumphant air guitar solos. Arthur had already fallen asleep, blissful like a cat, by the time the festivities inside of him calmed down enough for Eames to return the sentiment. His fingers brushed reverently over the surface of Arthur's skin as he whispered, "I love you too."

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