They've just finished, laying sweaty and tired in the hotel bed, sheets torn off and thrown on the floor. Eames knows what's coming, could recite it perfectly, but some tiny stupid part of himself prays to whatever exists out there that it won't happen, that he won't—
"Well, there we are." He's pulling on his pants, dammit, he's actually doing it again. Every time. Every goddamn time.
Eames shakes his head, tries to form words. "You could stay, you know." He looks at the window, at the dresser, anywhere but at Arthur. "If you wanted. I mean, it's late, and—"
"No, I can't, Eames." That strange almost-tenderness, the closest thing Arthur gets to affection.
"Why?" and Eames hates himself, hates how he has to ask this when he knows exactly what Arthur's going to say, hates how weak he sounds, how pleading.
"You know why." Arthur sits on the side of the bed, buttons his shirt, brisk and efficient like he is in everything else. "Mixing business and this, it's never good."
"Well," Eames leers, hoping desperately to tempt him back, sometimes it works, "it's good for me." He reaches over, delicately strokes Arthur's shoulder.
The other man freezes. "Yes, well. That's not the point." He shakes off Eames's hand, stands, gathers his jacket.
Eames blinks and he's gone, and it'll be another year before he can get Arthur back into his bed for one more night. How much longer can we keep this up, he thinks to himself, before we stop even trying?