Arthur enjoys the sight of his new Seattle apartment that September, when he steps in through the entrance with the last of his things and surveys the connected living and dining room area. The landlord has provided the apartment with a set of furniture much to his liking. There's two half-circle couches upholstered in beige, several white armchairs to accommodate further seating, if necessary, and two sleek coffee tables made of dark wood in the center of it all. Perhaps the most grand thing is the gleaming silver chandeliers above both the living room and the charming seating area just to the right of the open kitchen.
He sets the box down on the kitchen counter tops, runs his fingers along the shimmering granite and smiles as he thinks about what he might do to this place to make it his own. Despite the large scale of the design, the nine-hundred and twenty feet and the two bedrooms and one bath make it feel sort of roomy.
He likes that such a small place can have class, and for nine-hundred and fifty bucks a month, even.
Arthur's caught up in what he wants to marvel at first, the enormous ceilings and walls painted in a dark mocha, or maybe he wants to see the Seattle cityscape from his new balcony. Either way, he fails to notice the sound of someone clearing their throat from behind him.
"Excuse me," He blinks away his rapid thoughts, his eagerness to get unpacked so that he might curl up on the living room couch with a good book and the fireplace crackling as his white noise has been shoved aside for now. There's a hand on his shoulder and he spins to acknowledge the person. "Are you the previous tenant?"
Arthur quirks an eyebrow at this man, his eyes raking over the salmon colored fitted t-shirt, the bright orange scarf and the thick framed glasses that the newest arrival adorns. Most importantly, he's carrying a box.
"Actually..." He makes a point of beginning to unpack the things from the box he'd recently set on the kitchen counter, mostly full of coffee mugs and other assorted dishware. "I'm the current tenant."
The man blinks at him and glances down at a piece of paper in his free hand, "How odd. I was quite certain I had the right apartment."
He grins quickly as he adds, "We must be neighbors, then."
"Perhaps you're next door." Arthur ignores the latter comment, gingerly setting one of his favorite coffee cups down on the granite counters - one that says 'I love my cats' in red, curling letters. "This is apartment thirty-four."
"Then no." The man says rather flatly, frowning as he offers Arthur the slip of paper. "I'm afraid you're in the wrong place, darling. Mine's apartment thirty-four."
More than a little put off by the frankness of the other's statement and the uncalled for pet name, he snatched the paper. On it was the address to the apartment complex and the number for this very apartment.
"You were misinformed." He passed the paper back, waving a dismissive hand. "Mr. Saito informed me that-"
"Mr. Huromashi Saito?" The other inquired. "The owner of this complex, correct? Your landlord?"
Arthur could really only nod his head, before the man spoke up again.
"I ought to make a call."
He'd been pacing the living room for the last half an hour, wondering what sort of mistake could have been made in regards to the ownership of this apartment. Truthfully, he couldn't really afford to lose it, having already moved out of his previous place. He was starting his new job that very Monday, as well, as an assistant at a nearby architectural firm and he wouldn't have the time to search for a new residence.
Arthur peered into the hallway for the third time in the past ten minutes, watching the man who had stumbled into his apartment furrow his brow before saying something into his phone. They'd been talking for too long and he was beginning to worry that he'd have to consider the potential of homelessness.
When the man smiled hesitantly, murmured something that looked like 'thank you' into his phone, before hanging up and strolling back into the apartment, it was all he could do to force himself to remain at ease.
"William Eames." Arthur stared down at the hand offered his way with a sort of perplexed expression. Reluctantly, he took hold of it and shook before offering his own name. "Well, Arthur, I thought we ought to get to know each other more."
He really, really didn't want to ask, but it slipped out before he could think, "Why?"
"Because, darling," The man smiled, more happy about the scenario than he probably should be. "Unless you've got another option; that makes us flat mates, which I told Mr. Saito would work out wonderfully. We'll split the rent and this place in plenty big enough for the two of us. Now, I should let you know-"
"Wait..." Arthur held up a hand to silence the other. "You agreed to this?"
Eames scooped up the box he'd placed on the dining room table when he'd left to make the call, "You're free to leave anytime you like, love."
The man hummed as he carted his things down the hallway that led to the flat's two bedrooms and its singular bath and Arthur could only watch him leave in silence, searching for some other solution in his head and coming up, regrettably, empty-handed.
"Hold on." Eames peeked out from around the corner, the box still in his hands.
"Yes, Arthur?"
With a million things to say, he was at a complete loss, faltering with his words before settling on the only thing he could think of.
"I hope you like cats."
"Your horse is ruining my things." Arthur lifts his eyes to see his roommate storming into the living room, holding one of his cats in a matter that suggested he was disgusted with its general existence. Gideon, the black, overweight Himalayan looked oddly pleased with himself. "You should keep it locked up."
"And you, Mr. Eames, should clean up your things." He dropped his gaze back to the report he'd been skimming. One of his friends, a young, interning architect by the name of Ariande, had wanted him to glance over a promising proposal of hers. "I believe that was the general agreement we had come to about our living arrangement."
One of the things he'd come to know quickly about the older man was that he was a painter and that he wasn't very good at picking up his messes. Normally Arthur could appreciate art, but not in the form of paint splatters all over his lovely wood floors.
"Yes, well-" Arthur scowled when the other dropped Gideon in his lap, the cat's paws were sticky with black paint and easily stained his slacks. "He's your thing, you can clean him up."
"I have a meeting to go to!" But he soon found himself glaring at Eames' retreating form, left completely ignored. "Goddammit, Eames-"
He never saw the smirk on the painter's face as he took his seat back in front of his easel and pretended to be oblivious to the sounds of the younger man treading back to his room.
Several weeks of living with Eames and his bothersome habits and ostentatious clothing was enough for Arthur to believe that he could truly take on anything, and he could do so with an unparalleled and admirable level of patience.
So when he came home from a long day at the architect firm, where his boss had continuously denied his numerous and well-thought out proposals for a neighboring company looking to expand, and his arrival didn't go entirely unnoticed by his roommate, he managed to bite back any and all retorts and keep himself from lashing out. Despite his talent, his boss likes to remind him that he's only an assistant.
"That is you, isn't it, darling?" Arthur sighed heavily through his nose, counting to five and hanging his coat up before answering.
"Yeah?"
"Come here for a moment, would you?"
The architect complied, unenthusiastically making his way to where the living room lead out to their balcony. His anger subsiding momentarily, he found Eames quietly contemplating his half-painted easel. Arthur could make out some of the Seattle cityscape, outlines of skyscrapers and the city's renowned Space Needle.
"I'm having a bout of indecisiveness." Eames declared, rubbing at a spot of blue paint on his stubbled jawline. He only succeeded in smearing it. "What's your opinion, love? If you say so, I shall continue, but if not I think I'll start over."
Now, Arthur was no scholar of the arts, but he always prided himself on knowing a good painting when he saw one. And really, even though he'd seen the scenario - a cityscape in the sunset - over a dozen times, he rather liked the way this was turning out. He wanted to see it completed, the buildings reflecting the rays of the setting sun, the reds and oranges tainting the sky.
"Yeah," He said, tired and unusually inarticulate. "You should finish it, I mean. I'd like to see it finished."
Eames smiled, "You're a peach."
He chose to ignore that, "I'm taking a shower."
The painter saluted him briefly, pausing and calling out to him just as he entered the hallway to their bedrooms.
"Darling, one more thing?" Arthur raised an eyebrow his way, making a move to support himself on the nearest wall. "I'd like to do a painting of you sometime."
The architect fumbled, slipping a little before standing upright, "Of me?"
"Yes, why not?" Eames replied, either unaware of the other's startled reaction or else choosing not to acknowledge it. "As long as you don't mind posing nude for me, Arthur, then we can get started whenever you'd-"
He didn't even get to finish his sentence before Arthur was off down the hallway, closing the bathroom door with a little more force than necessary.
"I suppose I should take that as a 'maybe'?"
Eames, who couldn't have known that embarrassment was the main reason for the other's haste, resumed his painting with a smile.
The painter, Arthur was convinced, was born with absolutely no shame.
He'd been doing nothing; he'd been very innocently brewing a pot of coffee when he heard Eames enter from behind him.
"Dove," He started, which was nothing new. Arthur was begrudgingly becoming used to the pet names. "Would you happen to know where one of my shirts is? The one I asked you to wash?"
"You're going to have to be more specific." The man claimed he knew next to nothing about doing his own laundry and he had to wonder it was even possible for that to be true. Simply put, Arthur was quickly placed in charge of it. "What color was-"
The architect had turned around to face Eames, a full cup of coffee pressed to his lips. It nearly ended up on the floor when he fully took in the sight of the other.
"Eames..." Still managing something like an even tone, Arthur stared straight ahead, eyes not drifting any lower than the man's tattooed shoulders. "Where are your clothes?"
The painter shrugged, clearly not as concerned as the younger man was about him strolling about their apartment entirely naked.
"I told you." He didn't sound exasperated, just more or less amused. "I'm looking for my shirt-"
"Your shirt has nothing to do with your pants, Eames. Where are your pants?"
He'd long since closed his eyes, covered them up with one of his hands in case that wasn't enough. The imagery was there, though, burned into the black of his eyelids and he faced the kitchen counter tops when he felt the warmth spreading on his cheeks.
Bare skin, flushed from the shower, wet, dripping wet...
"Darling..." Arthur froze when he felt arms around his waist, when the full-length of the other's body was pushed up against his back. "You're blushing. No need to be embarrassed, we're both men."
"Try the... Try the dryer-" Eames pulled away instantly, much to the other's relief, beaming at the reply.
"I thought you'd know." He might've thrown a wink his way, but Arthur was too busy recovering. "Thank you, darling."
He never thought it'd need to be addressed, but perhaps they should add a 'wear clothing at all times' clause to their set of ground rules.
Not that Eames ever listened to them, anyway.
They saw their first flakes of snow in the middle of November and Arthur had a difficult time appreciating their beauty until he was actually stepping into the warmth of their glorious heated apartment, kicking the precipitation off of his black oxfords. He hadn't noticed his flat mate standing by their open balcony until he'd unraveled his scarf and hung that up beside his coat.
"It's lovely, isn't it?"
He regarded Eames silently for a moment, the way his breath came out in frosted puffs of air and the way he smiled at the gently drifting snow. There was a mug of something steaming in his hands, it looked like hot chocolate.
"Your painting's done." Arthur said, instead, glancing over his shoulder at the completed canvas. "Did you finish it this afternoon?"
"Just recently, yeah. Gonna be hard to get rid of it, though. I've sort've grown attached."
He raised both of his eyebrows, crossing his arms to protect his hands from the chilly winds, "Attached?"
"Fond of it. It's the first one I finished in our apartment, yeah?" Eames shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. "Got Yusuf coming by with someone tomorrow, if that's all right? I'm not gonna be around, so I hoped you could see to it."
Yusuf, a man Arthur had never really met, but Eames claimed he was a good friend. A friend who hooked his paintings up with interested clientele.
"Sure."
"I got something else I'm working on." The painter grinned over at him, meeting his eyes for the first time. "But I can't show it to you until it's done, darling."
Something inside him warmed at that statement, at the pleased glint in Eames' grey eyes, so he hurriedly averted his gaze.
"That's good, then." He cleared his throat. "How you're getting back into your work. It'll be good for the rent."
"Yeah." Arthur watches the other pull his gaze away out of the corner of his eye. "Of course."
They observe the falling snow for a few more minutes before stepping back inside and closing the doors to the balcony and every once and awhile, Arthur catches Eames glancing over at his completed painting and the smaller canvas beside it, covered from view by a cloth.
"No," The man shakes his head and Arthur doesn't fight back a frown. He thinks he's been patient enough with the customer that Yusuf brought over that day, this man who stood in front of Eames' painting for a half an hour only to shake his head. "No, this isn't right. I won't buy it for this price."
The architect is tempted to ask what's wrong with it, because this client is being incredibly vague, but he stands quietly nearby.
"I was told this would be worth my time, but I can see that I was misinformed." Arthur bites his lip - what's this guy's problem? "I'll pay you half, but that's the highest I'm willing to go."
Anger flickers inside of him; he knows how hard Eames has worked on this, has seen him have his good moments and the bad ones, too.
"We can't accept that offer." His words were meant to be polite, but they'd come out clipped. This guy had no right to say what he has. "It means too much for us to let it go so simply, I'm sorry."
He escorts the man out with nothing more than that and takes great pleasure in slamming the door closed behind him, running his hands through his slicked hair and wondering what he was thinking. Half the price would have covered a good portion of the rent, and they needed to pay the heating bill as well.
Arthur doesn't know what it is that makes him do it, but he slaps his own money down in Eames' hand the instant he walks into the door and tells the other that the painting will look just fine over their fireplace.
They both decide he's right, it looks perfect.
It's something like 3:00 in the morning when he wakes up, shivering beneath his covers and sheets, even though he distinctly remembers ensuring that the heat was turned on that night. Against his will, he pushes himself out of bed and thinks to check the apartment's temperature. He slips on a sweater - black, cashmere - though it does little to protect his bare feet from the cool hardwood floors.
Arthur throws open his roommate's bedroom door within the next minute.
"You..." He sucks in a deep breath and releases it slowly. "You didn't pay the heating bill, did you?"
Eames eyes him, startled and barely awake. Apparently the cold doesn't affect him.
"Arthur..." He groans, rolling over and mumbling into his pillows. "It's early, can we talk about this later?"
"You di... You didn't, did you?" His teeth are chattering and his hair's a mess. Even if the other was fully conscious, he wouldn't be taken seriously. "Eames, what the hell? It's freezing."
"C'mere, darling." The painter's voice is muffled, even though he extends his arms. "It's warm here; we can talk in the morning."
Arthur's back in his own room the next instant, not even bothering to close the other's door behind him.
There's not much he can do, so he crawls back into his bed and pulls the covers tight around him. He finds himself twisting and turning a number of ways and still nothing makes him warmer.
He's eventually able to get some sleep, with the added layer of his sweater, but the sound of his door opening and carefully placed footsteps pull him quickly from it.
"Shh, just me, love." Eames says when he makes a move to sit up.
"Get out." He huffs, allowing his eyes to fall closed once more. "I'm trying to sleep, I was nearly there."
Except that the other doesn't listen to him and the covers are pulled away briefly before a body, so much warmer than his sheets, slides in beside him.
"I'm sorry." He doesn't say anything when a pair of arms encircles him, providing him with that desired, crucial body heat and he doesn't have the will to pull away. "I'll take care of it in the morning, yeah?"
Arthur nods sluggishly and sleep takes him not long after, a deep sleep induced by the comfort of another so close to him. He only starts to feel cold again the next morning, when he wakes up sprawled in his bed, tangled in the covers and sheets.
It's past 10 on a Saturday morning and Eames is fully dressed and making coffee in the kitchen. He acknowledges the architect, not mentioning anything about his disheveled appearance, and proclaims that he was just about to leave to see about getting their heating working again.
While he does that, Arthur sips at his coffee and, alone and still dazed from what lingers of his sleep, he thinks about the warmth of the other's arms and how he fit so perfectly between them.
Then he blames his lack of sleep and hurriedly shakes the thoughts from his head.
The heat starts working later that day.
"Someone's in here." Arthur calls over the running water spilling down over him, rinsing the suds from his hair.
"I'll just be a minute, darling." The architect pokes his head out from behind the shower curtain and it's hard to tell whether the flush on his skin is because the other has intruded on his shower or because of the warmth of the water. "Well, don't you look lovely?"
He knows his hair is wet and matted atop of his head, but he still glares at the man in hopes of being taken even the slightest bit seriously.
"I'm pretty sure that I locked the door." Eames just grins and Arthur adds his complete disregard for privacy to his long-running list of the man's cons.
"That's never been known to stop me before." He hums and pats something like cologne onto his neck. He must be going out somewhere tonight. "All done, quick as that. Don't forget to wash behind your ears, love."
A bar of soap hits an amused Eames on the way out.
Eames calls him one evening, sounding completely and utterly smashed. He can barely make out anything the man says over the sounds in the background.
"Monkey..." The painter says slowly, and both of Arthur's eyebrows go up as he waits for the other to continue. He's never heard that one before. "I was wondering... might you be stopping by my way sometime soon? I think... I think that I might need an escort..."
He sighs and glances at the watch on his wrist, he's not really dressed for an evening out, but he could throw a coat on if need be.
"Where are you?"
Eames is beaming on the other end, Arthur can just tell, "On California Avenue. Oh, my monkey, I knew that I could count on you-"
He hangs up mid-rant and looks down at the small, white feline curled up in his lap. His second cat, Charlotte, stares up at him, curiously moving aside when he stands reluctantly to his feet and heads to the door.
He finds Eames barely able to stand up outside the front of some local pub and shoos him into the back seat of the cab he's rented. The man, he soon discovers, is an incredibly friendly and notoriously handsy drunk.
The cab driver eyes them warily as Arthur tells him where they need to go, with good reason, he supposes. The painter is currently sitting on his lap, refusing to relinquish his hold on him. Thankfully, however, the ride is short and he only has to slap the other's hand away when it travels a little too far south and squeezes his back end.
Eames doesn't fight him when he helps slip his coat off and hang it up nearby, just wanders around the living room.
"Were you busy when... when I called you, monkey?" He flops down on the couch and Arthur kneels in front of him, because he plans on making sure the other at least makes it to his bed before passing out.
"Not at all." He thinks to ask Eames about his new nickname while he supports the man and leads him to his room.
"You look like a little monkey, darling." The painter's grinning into his neck as they step into his room. "In your little suits, with your ears. You've got monkey ears."
When Eames starts tugging on said ears is when he decides not to pursue the matter any further. In his endeavors to help the other onto his bed, he catches the end of it with his foot and ends up tumbling backwards.
The man, nearly dead weight on top of him, lets out a sigh.
"Eames..." There's a murmur of acknowledgement against his shoulder. "Why'd you go out tonight?"
He groans, "For funsies, you know me."
"I do." Arthur agrees, sitting up a little even though the other refuses to move. "So I can safely say that you very rarely go out and drink this much simply for fun."
Eames is silent for a moment, for several moments. The architect thinks he might be asleep until he stirs.
"My mum..." He sniffs and calls himself stupid. "She died... Arthur, she died years back and sometimes I miss her."
"Alright." The architect murmurs after a minute of silence, his hand unconsciously stroking the other's hair. "Alright, go to sleep, then."
Eames forgets the entirety of the incident the very next morning.
Arthur thinks about calling his mom before he remembers what he so often forgets.
That she's gone, too.
"Oh, darling, I do love the smell of your cooking in the morning."
"Who says that it's for you?" Arthur smacks the other's hand away from the bacon that he's frying, noting the state of his dress. "A suit? What's the occasion?"
Eames almost seems a tad sheepish that the architect noticed, but he looks fine, really. The slacks and the jacket are black, his dress shirt a light blue and his tie is a smoky grey. He's not nearly as dressed up, himself, in his slacks and his off-white, patterned sweater, but he doesn't have work today.
His hair is loose and wavy; he rarely lets it stay like that.
"I've to meet with a client later." Right, he'd been working on two paintings and was hoping to sell one. "Yusuf insists I look trendy, but I've never liked dressing up, if you will."
"You look sharp." He remarks, a twitch of a smirk on his lips as he slides the cooked bacon onto a plate. He has yet to make eggs. "For once."
"Your approval makes the degradation almost worth it." Eames is smiling, speaking without thinking. "Come now, love, let's have a good luck kiss."
Arthur turns, almost impulsively, and before he realizes it, there's a pair of lips at the corner of his mouth and a hand on his arm.
The painter pulls away soon after, contemplative and reserved. Arthur couldn't find the words to speak even if he wanted to. Their noses are touching, his heart is beating erratically in his chest when Eames bends down and kisses him again.
It lasts longer this time and the other's hands are on his hips, pushing his back into the European cabinetry as lips brush gently against his own.
Then they've separated once more, both at a loss of what to say.
Arthur's cheeks are pink when the other snags a piece of bacon off of the nearby plate and takes a bite.
"Th... Thanks for the breakfast, darling." The painter stammers in his haste, his shoes clicking on the wood floor as he hurriedly departs. "The bacon's exquisite."
He can only nod dumbly until the door closes behind the other and he's left alone.
"Yeah." He says to himself, fingers to his lips, where he can still taste their kiss. "It's great."
Arthur's in a hurry that morning, dressed up in a grey suit and matching silver tie, slipping on his shoes when his roommate steps in, nose to the air.
"Lovely, are you wearing my cologne?"
He freezes, his right foot half-way in his shoes, leading him to believe that he looks utterly ridiculous in his urgency.
"What?" His words are uncertain and a little too quick to be natural. He hopes that the other can't sense his embarrassment. "No, Eames. Look, I don't have time for this. I've got a meeting with my boss-"
"Not to worry." Eames offers him his brief case, eliciting an overly relieved expression of gratitude. "I do that all the time, Arthur. Mix our things up. I don't even bother distinguishing between our toothbrushes anymore."
The poorly disguised look of disgust he receives makes him bite back a grin. Except that Arthur doesn't move from the spot for at least another sixty seconds.
"Darling." He clears his throat. "I was joking, yeah? Merely a jest."
Eames spins the other around, ushering him to the door.
"Off you go, make me proud."
Arthur eyes him suspiciously before taking off and chooses not to leave it up to chance.
He has just enough time to purchase a new toothbrush right before his meeting that morning.
The architect is fetching his second refill of coffee and some sugar packets from the cafe's front counter when he hears an outburst of familiar squeals coming from the other side of the quaint coffee shop. The very direction that he's heading in, regrettably.
Two of his friends, a lovely woman whose husband he worked with and the ever tenacious Ariadne, were hunched together on one side of their booth. They were reading from something and closer inspection proved it to be his moleskin notebook. The one he'd taken with him to work, the one he brought along with him when he'd agreed to meet the two for coffee.
The one he wrote anything and everything down in.
He promptly slides into the opposite booth, clearing his throat to gather their attention and narrowing his eyes at the looks he receives.
"You never told us that he kissed you." Ariadne exclaims. Mal is regarding him fondly and he just realizes what the two are talking about.
"You two-" He hisses and swipes the notebook back, unable to hide his embarrassment when it stains his cheeks with red. "Aren't supposed to be reading that. Intrude on someone else's business, not mine."
To be fair, it's not a journal or, God forbid, a diary. He'd just been cataloging a list of pros and cons for staying in his current apartment and the kiss had come up. He was simply being methodical about the choices he makes in his life - careful, safe.
"Mon cher..." Mal starts in that charming French accent of hers. She sees him run his fingers over the pages of his moleskin anxiously. "He sounds so sweet and you clearly like him. Why would you consider moving out?"
He closes the notebook abruptly, "I don't know."
And that, the two women know, is the end of that.
Eames had gone out one evening. Whether to meet with a client or just out with Yusuf, he isn't sure, but he's happy to have some time to himself.
It happens - accidentally, he'd swear up and down - when his cat Gideon is frolicking about the living room, chasing one of his stuffed toys. Arthur watches as the feline's attention is quickly diverted and he starts playing with the tarp that the painter used to cover his canvases, especially the one he wants to complete before showing off.
He thinks nothing of it until he hears his cat's yowl and then, he cringes, the sound of something fall to the ground. Gideon has successfully scampered away, leaving the incomplete painting to lay face down in the hardwood floor. Arthur hurries over to ensure nothing is damaged, because his cat isn't exactly scoring points with Eames since they've moved in together.
He tries not to glance at it while he picks it up, but he has to assess its condition and he can't do that without looking.
His own face, partially colored, is staring back at him from the painting.
It takes him a nearly a minute of contemplative staring for him to realize that the painting is of him and that the resemblance to him is almost uncanny. When had Eames gotten the chance to observe him enough to know every little detail without him noticing?
Like that dimple near the corner of his lips when he smiles, or the way he holds his books while he reads them on the living room sofa.
He's half-laying, half-sitting on the against the armrest of the couch in the picture, smiling down at something that he's reading in the novel he holds, his hair wavy and falling on his forehead.
Arthur experiences an overwhelming amount of flattery at that moment, standing there regarding the canvas in a sort of silent awe. He feels the heat on the surface of his cheeks at the thought that Eames was tending to this painting so tentatively. He wanted it to be perfect, he wanted the portrayal accurate.
And probably most of all, Arthur took in the knowledge that this was how the painter viewed him, how he looked through his eyes.
His heart hammers in his chest and he feels the slightest bit of guilt for stumbling across the painting when it was clearly not meant for him to be seen yet. The outlines are still rough and there's some color missing even though Eames has been working on this for quite some time.
The thought that the other wants it to be perfect embarrasses him a little more, but it's not necessarily in a bad way. Mostly, he's been rendered speechless with gratification.
A knock on that door startles him beyond belief and, for an instant, he's scared that it might be Eames. He sets the canvas hastily back up on its easel and throws the tarp over it once more.
And then it hits him that Eames has a key, so he wouldn't be knocking. He panicked for nothing.
Still, he answers the door and he's surprised to see their landlord, the apartment complex owner, Mr. Saito in the doorway.
"Is there something wrong?" Arthur inquires, hoping that Eames managed to get their rent money to the man on time. "There isn't a problem, is there?"
"Not at all, Mr. Callahan." He steps aside to allow the landlord in, but the other politely declines. "I only came to tell you about one of our apartments opening up on the second floor. Months ago, you hadn't wanted a roommate and had wanted to move. I was wondering if you felt the same way and would like to take advantage of the opening."
The news strikes him as shocking, because truth be told he hadn't thought about leaving this apartment for months.
He recalls the frustration he went through for the first few weeks he'd lived with Eames, and even what he still goes through today. He remembers that back then he would have given anything for his own apartment.
He contemplates the list of pros and cons in his moleskin to see if that will help and, in the end, he relies on the memories of their times together, of them sharing this apartment and Eames brewing him coffee and making him breakfast, discussing his paintings and the two of them side-by-side on the couch watching whatever movie's on the television.
Arthur glances over his shoulder at the covered canvas and even though his heart has long since been set on his answer, he pretends he's struggled with it.
"No." He says finally, offering Saito a grateful nod. "No thank you, I don't think that I... we can give it up now."
Later that evening, Eames comes home and he's there waiting for him. They have hot chocolate and watch the drifting snow build up on their balcony. The painter makes a comment about the cold, so they light the fireplace and sit close on the couch, watching TV.
The process to get where they were had been taxing, some might even call it arduous, but now that they're there, Arthur can't picture it any other way.
He doesn't want to accept the reality that someday they might have to give up this place, so instead he just convinces himself that it doesn't matter. As long as they're together, his uncertainty about the future is more at peace.
And, for now, this place is their home sweet home.