"You've never explained your tattoos to me," Arthur said, his eyes on Eames' chest as Eames reached for the shirt he'd just ironed.
"Ah," Eames said, light, casual. "You never asked, darling." He also dropped a wink in there, because nothing made Arthur roll his eyes quite like a wink.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "I didn't realize everyone got a different answer."
Eames pulled the shirt on, stalling, and when Arthur stepped closer to him, he backed up involuntarily. The queen size hotel bed, in the only room that had been available, and the bane of Eames' existence for the past two nights, hit him in the back of the legs. Eames swallowed.
"You told Stevens that this one was because of your mother," Arthur said, and Eames held his breath as Arthur's fingertip grazed the pink rose, high on his collarbone, as he moved aside the edge of Eames' unbuttoned oxford.
"Mmm hmm," Eames said, no idea what he was agreeing to.
"But you told Simi it was because of your first high school crush."
Eames said nothing because he didn't know Arthur had heard that. In truth, Eames loved his tattoos, showed them off every chance he could get, because they, each and every one of them, were precious. They were carefully thought out, expertly done, and involved a thorough discussion with his tattooist before they were laid into his skin.
He told different stories to everyone because none of the stories were true. But he hadn't lied to Arthur. Because Arthur had never asked.
"What did you tell Cobb about the tree?"
He was talking about the sandalwood tree that stretched up over his back and down his bicep. The painstaking detail that went into the close-up of each of the unassuming, rounded leaves was exquisite. Eames knew exactly how many there were.
"I told him it represented Africa."
"Does it?"
Arthur wasn't looking him in the eye, just studying the tattoos he could see and lifting the edge of the shirt aside to peek at a sandalwood tree branch under it.
Eames told him the truth. "No."
Arthur hummed. "Did you know that sandalwood is one of the most expensive types of lumber on the planet?"
Arthur was just a little too close. Eames could smell the pomade he used in his hair, the aftershave he used.
He gave a jerky nod. "Yes." He knew quite a lot about sandalwood, actually. Especially about the way it smelled in hair pomade and aftershave.
"And this one?" Arthur said, his touch on Eames' chest a breeze of air that made him harden everywhere.
"That—" he cleared his throat. "That's a wolf."
Arthur chuckled, low in his throat, and shook his head. "I know, Mr Eames," he said, and Eames had a sudden thought that Arthur might be seducing him because no one sounded that sexy by accident. Right?
"I just wondered what it represented."
Eames couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He wanted. Oh, how he wanted. "You mean, besides wolves?"
Arthur traced it with his fingers, touching the ink as it skated down his stomach. He hummed in acknowledgement and Eames swore he could feel his skin tingle where Arthur was connected to him.
"How do you know it's not just a wolf?"
Arthur shrugged with one shoulder, a frown on his adorable lips. "I don't. But I can't imagi—"
He broke off as he saw the almost unnoticeable bit of ink at Eames' waistline. His fingers brushed the spot, and Eames jumped. It was healed already, so Eames blamed forgetting about it on the fact that he could no longer feel it at all times anymore.
"Eames?"
He was so stupid. He should have gotten it lower. Or smaller. Or not at all. But he'd sat in the shop chair, a miserable puddle of self-pity, and when Hank had asked him to visualize the heart of his anguish and then tell him what he saw, he had. And on his skin, it was beautiful.
"I…" Eames broke off, covering the spot with his hand and looking away.
"Is it new?" Arthur asked, and his fingers twitched, like he wanted to pull Eames' hand away.
"No," Eames said, his voice tight and his eyes closed. "I mean, yes."
He could sense Arthur's head tilt and furrowed eyebrows even with his eyes shut, and he might as well open them if he could see it all anyway. Sure enough, Arthur was studying him. He placed his hand gently on Eames'.
"Can I see?"
It was a soft, quiet question that was the beginning of Eames' undoing, and Arthur didn't even know. How could he know?
He let his hand be nudged away and Arthur pulled the band of his trousers down a fraction. He cocked his head quizzically and Eames looked away. He had done this. This was his fault, not Arthur's, and there was no stopping it now. He undid his belt.
The clang of the buckle was jarring and Arthur pulled his hand back a fraction to give him room. He was half-hard in his pants, but Eames didn't bother to hide it because he was already ruined. Arthur would know about more than that in a second anyway.
Once he dragged the zipper down he stilled, trousers gaping open, belt hanging obscenely, and waited. He stared into the corner of the room, letting Arthur decide what he wanted.
There was a tentative hand at the waistband of his pants, then a firmer one on his jaw, turning him to face Arthur. Arthur's serious brown eyes met Eames', pupils a little more blown than he'd anticipated, but his face stern.
"Eames," he said, "is this okay?"
Eames pressed his lips together and nodded. No, this was not okay, but not for the reason Arthur was asking. It was not okay that Arthur did this to him and he had no recourse. It was not okay that he allowed himself to be in this situation when he would never stop Arthur, never tell him no. It was not okay that he would relive this moment over, and over, with nothing else to add to it because Arthur would never forgive him for this.
Arthur tugged the band of his pants down with more care than Eames wanted and made an interested noise when he recognized the beginnings of the Penrose steps etched into Eames' hip. But Eames just waited.
Arthur wouldn't be able to see all of it unless Eames disrobed, so he pushed his trousers to the floor. Arthur eased Eames' boxer briefs down, watching Eames' face the whole time, and Eames looked back. He wasn't shy, never had been. He wasn't careful either. But this was Arthur, and he was exposing him in more ways than one.
The tattoo was big. It covered from the top of his hip to his groin, the Escher style shading bending and flowing with the shape of his body. And in the center, in bold red, sat his doom.
There was a stunned silence, just like Eames knew there would be. "Eames," came Arthur's strained voice, just like he knew it would. "What does this one represent?"
Eames couldn't lie, and it wouldn't matter if he did. He told Arthur what he already knew. "You."
He looked at Eames, then, and whatever kind of rejection Eames had been afraid of, he saw none. There was wonder in Arthur's stare, a finger tracing over the lines before he covered it with his whole hand.
"Me."
Eames nodded again, and Arthur sank to his knees. He wrapped a hand around Eames' hip and swiped his thumb across the ink again, studying it, his lips parted. Eames sucked in a breath, fully hard now, and Arthur leant forward and pressed a kiss to the tattoo. He drew in a long breath through his nose and Eames had no idea what was going on, but Arthur was running his hands over Eames' thighs and touching his tongue to the steps, and god, he was lost.
"Arthur," he begged, not knowing for what and Arthur nudged his nose into the crease of Eames' hip.
"Please," Arthur broke in like it was wrenched out of him. "Please don't push me away."
"Darling," he said, reproach in his voice, because of course he wouldn't, couldn't. Arthur took it for the invitation it was and touched him, lips and tongue and fingers, destroying him with a look, a taste, a moan.
When Eames could take no more, he hoisted Arthur up and started pulling off layers. Arthur helped, tiny buttons taking too much time and too much focus and Eames kissed him, all the softness he had felt for years, coming out in a rush as he pressed their mouths together.
When they were finally, eventually naked, Arthur tumbled them onto the bed.
"Jesus, I can't believe you got this on you forever," Arthur groaned, grinding his erection into the crease of Eames' hip where the red die and poker chip rested against each other. Eames watched Arthur's cock slide against that image and swore softly under his breath.
"I like tattoos," Eames said, frotting against Arthur, pulling him in tighter. "I like you."
"... can't believe…" he bit the rose on Eames' collarbone. "I want to know about all of them. Every single one."
Eames strained up against Arthur's body, the delicious friction everything he needed. He buried his hands in Arthur's hair and kissed him because he had no other response. Not when Arthur felt like that, responded like that, touched like that.
"I don't understand this one," Arthur panted into his pectoral, licking the tidal wave that curled around his nipple. "Tell me about… this one," he said, around sucking on Eames and making him gasp.
"You're a... tidal wave. You knock me over," Eames said with a groan. "You've got, gnngh... hands... like an ocean," he babbled as Arthur worked his way down Eames' body. "All of you. The push and pull of you." He couldn't stem the flow of words. He didn't want to. These images were Arthur. Were Arthur's. He should have them. He should have everything.
There were no words after that, just touches and sounds and tastes and there was so much Arthur in his head and in his hands he had no room for anything else.
Afterwards, when Arthur had collapsed on top of him and they lay together, drifting in and out, Arthur finally asked him.
"What do they mean?"
Eames stared at the ceiling, running his fingers up and down Arthur's back. He didn't answer. When Arthur pushed himself up and looked Eames in the eye, he looked back, steady and calm.
Arthur blinked. He looked down at Eames' ink, trailing over his body like a diary, and traced a sandalwood leaf.
"Are they all me?" His voice was small with awe.
"Yes."
"Here?"
"Your tie pattern on our first job."
"Here?"
"La Vie En Rose."
"Here?"
Eames wolf whistled as he touched the wolf tattoo and Arthur grinned, his dimples making Eames' heart do funny things in his chest. The lone wolf was more, of course, Arthur's competent solitary nature combined with his fierce loyalty to the pack, his ability to slink through shadows… Eames would tell him. But he was definitely worth a whistle too.
"My hair stuff and my aftershave…"
"Sandalwood takes a long time to grow, darling, but its scent lasts for years and years."
Arthur smiled at him again, this time soft and fond.
"In that case, Mr. Eames, I'm pretty sure I know what your tattoos mean."