Arthur hates Oklahoma, always has. He especially hates Oklahoma today, when it is twelve billion degrees outside according to Eames's not-so-concerned-with-accuracy report. He hates that he's sweated through four shirts already — light, thin linen shirts, with sleeves rolled up and no vest. He'd felt half-naked and still sweated through them, and it's not at all because fuckingEames is in baggy shorts and no shirt and it's distracting and unprofessional and not at all fair. And Eames is being ridiculous, guzzling something neon orange and allegedly full of electrolytes, swiping at his stubbled chin with the back of a hand, holding out the sweating plastic bottle to Arthur, invitation and laughter in his eyes.

All that's in Arthur's eyes is sweat, and Jesus he hates sweating. Really. Hates it. And he hates having run out of shirts for this job already, four hours into the first day. It's not fair at all, there is no reason for it to be this ungodly blazing temperature.

"No one told me Oklahoma was on the surface of the bleeding sun," Eames says. Everyone's voices even sound different: like the heat deadens the air, makes them have to work harder to move their vocal cords and shape the words. Eames especially, even half-naked and hydrating like crazy, seems exhausted. He's also the biggest of them, and the least acclimatized to the mugginess of the southern US. "At least it was dry in Mombasa." He takes another swig from his bottle and Arthur loses his train of thought.

A droplet of neon liquid trails out of the corner of Eames's mouth, trickles down his neck, drops slowly, inexorably, down his broad, muscled chest. Arthur loses the droplet in a swath of black ink, one of Eames's myriad tattoos, and pulls his eyes back up to the forger's face. Of course, because it's twelve billion degrees and no one could be expected to have the fastest reflexes in the world, Eames is grinning at him already. "See anything you like, pet?"

"Fuck you, Mr. Eames," but there's no vitriol. It takes too much effort to sound menacing, and besides, he does in fact like the way Eames looks half-naked. He's not blind, or stupid.

"Children, shush. The adults are talking." Ariadne tries, but she can't seem to muster the energy to snap at them. The maze was finished before they left the base, but on the flight Dom had dreamed up a better way to end the second level and so now Ari was stuck redesigning in the heat, without her usual tools. Dom was trying to help, apology splashed across his sweaty face, but everyone's tempers seemed to be on minuscule fuses.

Yusuf moans from the concrete floor — Arthur had almost forgotten he was there. "This is unseemly."

"I'm with Yusuf," Eames mutters. "Can't we dreamshare a bit, you know, go under and think about the cold?"

Arthur shakes his head incredibly slowly; the air feels like molasses. "No, our minds wouldn't take it. Our bodies can feel how ridiculously hot it is here, and they'd reject us trying to fake cold."

"So then let's go away," Yusuf calls from the floor. "There are swimming pools here, are there not? Our hotel even has one inside."

"Sure," Arthur tries to stand, but he is actually a bit faint and wavers a little. Eames's arm catches him, solid and sure, and Arthur keeps talking. "Dom, Ari, take a break. Bring it back to the hotel or something, we'll swim and cool off. We can't do any dreamwork today, not till the level is done, and the client doesn't need it until Thursday anyway."

Dom opens his mouth to object. Arthur holds back a stream of words (workaholic, masochist, sadist, idiot) and instead simply turns and walks unsteadily toward the warehouse door.

—-

The pool is glorious. No, it's hardly cold — the water is what in a normal world would be room-temperature — but it's air-conditioned and the mental trick of wet = cold still works even if one knows it's wrong. Ari isn't even swimming, just sitting on the steps in the shallow end, looking half-asleep. Dom is floating on his back, eyes closed, next to Yusuf on an inflatable lounge chair. Yusuf actually has fallen asleep, and Arthur gives him another two minutes until he accidentally flips the chair.

Eames has slipped out of the pool, dripping and happy, to get some food, "preferably on a stick, cold, and fruity." So Arthur swims a few lazy laps, feeling mildly guilty about the idea of simply lounging.

When Eames returns, he dangles his feet in the water and beckons Arthur over. "Nothing on a stick, pet, but have an ice cream on me."

"No da—"

"I know," Eames interrupts, "no dairy. It's gelato, yours is anyway. Mine is very much dairy, and it is bloody good." He slurps at the chocolate-studded scoop in a way that really should not be sexy at all, but it's hot both metaphorically and literally and Arthur is too drained to worry.

"What flavor is this?" Arthur pulls himself up out of the pool, careful not to drip on the pale pink scoop waiting in a cup.

"Just try it," Eames mumbles around a mouthful of ice cream.

It turns out to be something a little bit sour, with apple and strawberry, and Arthur embarrasses himself by groaning as his mouth fills with sweet, cold puckering sweetness. "Thanks, Eames," he manages to say without even gritting his teeth.

"Any time, pet. Fancy a bite of mine?" Eames waggles his eyebrows, almost looking like his old self, and holds the waffle cone out to Arthur.

"Wish I could," and for the first time, Arthur isn't lying.

—-

Arthur loves Oklahoma. Well, no, he hates the heat and the muggy air and the way it is impossible to get a bagel. But he loves other things about it, including but not limited to the place Dom went to for sodas. And Arthur is not a soda person, far from it, but oh Jesus the vat of soda with perfect ice and a seemingly endless supply of delicious and dreadful-for-you caffeine. Oh yes. He could get used to this.

Of course, Eames poked fun, asked him twelve times if he wouldn't rather have a nice piping hot coffee until Arthur almost gagged at the thought of ingesting anything above freezing temperatures. They throw half-hearted punches, more out of boredom than actual anger, and Eames buys Arthur a snow cone in his favorite flavor without even asking.

"Like you'd drink anything but Tiger Blood," he smiles when Arthur interrogates him later.

"Why do you know anything about snow cone flavors? You're British," and Arthur's tongue is a vibrant red and his mouth is slicked with syrup and he feels almost cool for the first time in three days.

"My mum was American, Arthur, you know that." Eames chomps happily on his own snow cone, which looked ghastly and had the improbable name of the Wolverine. "We used to come back sometimes, see her family in California. 'S rather nice, this, want a bite?" He offers the snow cone to Arthur with the same grin he'd offered everything else earlier.

This time, Arthur accepts.

Arthur loves Oklahoma for its drive-in sodas, and its shockingly friendly people, and the fact that if it wasn't twelve billion degrees it would be quite a lovely place to visit, all trees and grass and quiet. Arthur also loves Oklahoma because later that night, after some surprisingly strong frozen drinks, when Eames leans over and kisses him full on the mouth, he doesn't pull away.