It wasn't that Arthur was a prude – not at all. In fact, Eames was thoroughly convinced that Arthur revelled in the control he had over a situation when he made subtly lewd, or euphemistic jokes in the most unsuspecting of circumstances, with the blankest of poker faces.
It was just that Arthur expected some sort of relationship before anything…physical occurred.
He wasn't talking about anything as final as marriage – just a commitment. The sort where the parties involved did other stuff together, like…talking, or, or holding hands, or giving wanted gifts. The kind of relationship where you roughly know who they listen to, will endure listening to their abysmal tastes through otherwise perfect snogging sessions, and then get up and make them a coffee with just the right amount of sugar etc. they like in it.
Don't get Eames wrong: he's been in steady relationships before – well, steady for Eames' standards, anyway; but Eames has never been in one with someone like Arthur.
Not because he's male – Eames has never cared for what gender people are, as long as the attraction and the willingness are there.
No, it's the control Arthur grasps and yields; minute details edited due to Arthur's dissatisfaction; the level-headedness he possessively holds onto in dire situations because sometimes that's all he has.
It's the sharp suits he wears, the impression of business being pleasure, and business occurring all the time.
It's that he drinks coffee with four tablespoons of sugar, but no milk.
His personality jars with Eames' so much, he wonders if Arthur would ever allow a relationship between the two of them. If he himself could let them work.
Because Arthur's the kind of person to always appear smart, never dishevelled, only…shevelled. All the time.
Because Eames lays back and enjoys the ride, while Arthur will only ever enjoy the ride if he planned and scheduled the ride himself.
Because what kind of person takes their coffee black and can't abide tea?
When Eames see Arthur, however, diligently working away at the private records of the next mark, a lock of hair falling across his slightly sweaty brow, Eames thinks he could do it: the hand-holding and shit.
When Arthur next goes to make coffee then, he goes in close (Very close), effectively engulfing Arthur into his own bubble. Arthur puts a hand on Eames' chest to prevent further closeness.
"This," he gestures down his body, "does not belong to you, Mr. Eames. And, until it does," he steps back and grins, devilishly, "Keep your hands to yourself."
Eames watches Arthur saunter away smugly.
Bugger it. He was going to miss tea.
