Arthur knows what he feels for Eames is wrong on numerous levels, but whoever said "you can't choose who you love" never spoke truer words.
There's just something in the way they verbally spar that resonates so closely to flirting that Arthur is almost one hundred percent certain Eames does it on purpose because he knows how much it irks the Point Man. Not to mention how much it flusters him and gets under his skin. Not that Arthur allows that to show.
The way Eames casually flings the word "darling" around like it's loose change and Arthur is a homeless man in need makes Arthur want to pull his hair out. But Arthur also knows that if he never heard that word again from Eames he'd probably die. And Arthur would much rather be bald than dead.
Running a hand through the hair Arthur still has left after all of the stress Eames causes him, Arthur is reminded of just how perfectly combed and styled Eames' hair always has to be. It's as if the world will stop turning once Eames' hair gets messed up. Although Arthur wouldn't mind stopping the world if it meant he could drag his fingers through that hair and tangle it beyond belief.
As Arthur makes his way towards the fridge, unable to sleep, his mind possessed with thoughts of infuriating Forgers, he rubs a hand over his face, reminding himself he needs to shave in the morning or he'll end up looking like Eames. Not that looking like Eames would be a bad thing, since he seems to be pulling off the whole messily-pulled-together look. But Arthur doesn't want to look in the mirror and appear to be Eames. Arthur wants to look in the mirror and see himself, Eames smirking behind him as he heads over to the other sink attached to the double vanity.
Taking a deep breath and exhaling in a calculatingly slow fashion, Arthur removes a jug of milk from the refrigerator shelf, pouring himself a glass, and trying not to think that if Eames ever had a problem like this, not that Eames ever would because Eames probably just goes out and gets the girl he wants, he'd be drinking something a lot stronger than simple milk. But this is Arthur, Eames' complete opposite. The yin compared to the yang.
He lifts the glass to his lips, sipping at the cool liquid as it runs down his throat soothingly. Arthur vaguely wonders what it would feel like to make contact with Eames' lips. Those full lips, pulled back into a grin as he covers your mouth with his, kissing away every feeling inside of you but lust until there's nothing left of you except the drive for a good fuck, involving Eames, and only Eames. Arthur gulps at these thoughts, afraid of just what Cobb or Ariadne or Yusef would say if they ever caught sight of these thoughts, these dreams of his.
Before he can help himself Arthur is thinking about Eames' soft yet storming eyes; his outlandish sense of fashion; the way Eames makes it feel as if Arthur is on one continues kick through life; Eames easy laughter, how it flows from the man like water from a babbling brook; the sturdy frame that Arthur always wishes he could curl up in when he panics, no matter how few times that actually happens; that accent, with its sarcastic lilt automatically built in just to spite him.
Arthur groans. The trip to his fridge was supposed to calm his rampant thoughts of Eames, but it seems as if those thoughts have manifested themselves into more of an idea. And Arthur only knows how dangerous ideas are. He gulped, running his hand over his face again before glancing over at the kitchen wall where a phone hangs. He doesn't know what time it is in London. Hell, he doesn't know what time it is in New York, only that it's very late…or more likely very early.
Arthur's brain is whirring, telling him that the job they had together is over and there is no logical reason why he should contact Eames. But his heart is sitting there patiently, subtly reminding him that you don't need a reason to call an old friend. And Arthur and Eames are friends, or at least that's what Arthur would like to believe. And in the end, it's Arthur's heart that wins out for once, and he picks up the phone, listening to the dial tone impatiently, his pupils dilating, his pulse speeding, when the sandpaper sound of a voice on the other end of the phone answers.
Arthur licks his lips, his throat suddenly gone dry, and he finally chokes out the one word that's been repeating itself in his mind and branded into his heart. "Eames?"