A/N: This is a work in progress, but I have about this much more already written. I will try to get this out as soon as possible so you're not waiting! Thanks for reading!

"What are you doing here?!" Arthur squeaked, helping Eames in the window anyway. His bulky frame squeezed through the opening and he tumbled on the

floor like the world's worst circus clown, springing to his feet with a whispered, "Tada!" that made Arthur want to giggle, but he settled for grinning madly instead.

"Eames," he whispered, pushing at his shoulders, "what are you doing here? You're going to get us both killed."

"I had to see you," Eames whispered back, ducking under Arthur's defenses for a quick peck at his lips. "You didn't think I would just settle for a hug and a handshake at the airport, did you?"

Arthur kissed him back, almost without meaning to, before he could get his lips under control. "You can't, mmmph, be here." Eames kissed him again, grinning, the crooked smile of someone who knew they were going to get away with it. "Mmph! Stop it! We're going to get, mmph, in so much, mmph, Stop it!"

He pushed against Eames' shoulders half-heartedly, as Eames wrapped his strong arms around Arthur's too skinny, too pale body and kissed him for all he was worth.

"God, you taste, mmph, so, mmph, good…"

Eames kissed Arthur's mouth, hands under the thin t-shirt he wore, taking down Arthur's defenses like they were made of tissue and half-hearted attempts at parentally imposed morality.

"What is that?" Arthur asked, dazed when he finally pulled back for breath.

Eames waggled his eyebrows. "Coconut."

Arthur melted, as Eames had known he would, as his heart warmed and he realized perfect happiness could exist on the same plane as perfect sadness.

Eames was flying back to England tomorrow. His parents had never promised how long they were going to stay in the States, and Eames, it turns out, had known it would end someday, but Arthur hadn't. So when Eames had asked him out, blatantly leaning against his locker like it was easy, like it was okay, like it was something people did, Arthur had jumped in with both feet and his whole heart, like the teenaged dumbass he was. And why not? He'd already figured he would be alone forever in his high school of closeted gays and homophobic straights. Finding Eames was already a one in a million chance— a gorgeous guy the universe had to fucking import in order for his dreams to become a reality— and he knew better than to think this was a coincidence.

So he'd said yes, calm and sure in a way he hadn't known he could feel a moment before, and he wasn't stupid enough to flaunt their relationship at the school, but his parents knew, and Eames' parents knew, and they had after school and weekends, and Arthur was in love.

He was head over heels, heart skipping out of his chest, butterflies in his stomach, stupid smile in study hall, in love. Eames was… God, he was everything. Arthur read novels about people in love, smirking to himself, "I know what you're feeling. Shakespeare? Austen? Basically written for us." He was so stupid.

Eames kissed his way down Arthur's neck, his hands roving under Arthur's shirt, and Arthur realized what this was. This was it. This was his last chance to taste that before it was gone.

He stepped back, looked Eames in the eye, and lifted the hem of his shirt. He pulled it off one-handed, the other hand hooking Eames' belt loop to keep him there. Then he tugged at Eames' shirt.

Eames raised his eyebrows, not really in surprise, but in question. "You sure?" he asked, hands already at his clothing.

"Yeah," Arthur answered, knowing he really was sure. "Yeah, I am. I want this."

"Yeah?" Eames said, an excited grin bursting out of him that Arthur couldn't help but mirror. He felt like punching the air. Instead, he turned and thumbed the lock on his bedroom door.

"Yeah. We've got to be quiet though."

"Course," Eames nodded, like that went without question, and maybe it did, but it wouldn't be the last time Arthur said it that night.

They kissed and disrobed clumsily, unhurriedly, excitedly. They'd talked about this, theoretically, hypothetically, hopefully, but they'd never done anything more than mutual masturbation, and Arthur knew it was stupid, but he felt like this one act, this final step, would make it real. It would make it official, something no one could take away from them. Something they couldn't undo. Something that would make it last.

He was right and he was wrong.

It turned out two 17-year-old virgins having clumsy first-time sex in a twin bed wasn't the stuff of pornos, but it was still soft and tender, and achingly sweet. Eames loved him— he whispered it fervently into Arthur's sweaty temple, and Arthur loved him back, with his whole being. And it was good. It was so, so, good; easy orgasms that they felt no shame for, taking the edge off so they could focus on being careful, considerate, patient. Just like they'd talked about wanting when that day came.

They didn't know what they were doing, but it was okay because they didn't know together. They figured it out. It wasn't rocket science, and Arthur was in love. He pushed the morning and the future out of his mind, knowing this was the right decision, taking it with both hands. Eames was too much, too good, too perfect to be anything but preordained.

Eames stroked his body like it was precious, like it wasn't too small or too bony, like Eames knew too that this was meant to be. They cuddled and whispered and smiled at each other, and Arthur's heart ached from being too full. His eyes filled from trying to contain it all, and he was in love. There would never be another person like this.

He was right, and he was wrong.

Because Eames left. The next day, they exchanged chaste hugs and several waves, the reality not quite sinking in, and Arthur and his parents saw them off at the airport, watching Eames lug his backpack and his boarding pass, with Arthur's sweatshirt around his waist. And then he was gone.

It didn't feel real, but it really, really was.

They called and texted at first, but then those got fewer and more infrequent, and suddenly it had been weeks since he'd heard from Eames and realized he had nothing to tell him. And then Arthur, straight-A student, graduated high school and decided he hated fate.

The feeling started to solidify as he sat on a folding chair, its legs sinking into the football field and the PA system scratchy no matter what year it was. The girl next to him was yawning and concentrating on nothing but adjusting her cap and how her hair looked, and the guy behind him was bragging, loudly, about how 'fucked up' he was getting that night. So this is it, he thought. Actually trying, actually giving a shit about how I did in school, and it leads up to this: sitting in the same chairs, listening to the same speech as the rest of these assholes.

And Arthur should have walked off the damn field right then, tossing his cap in the air behind him as he left, stripping out of his gown and leaving it in a crumpled pile on the 20-yard line. But he didn't. He shook the principal's hand, smiled for his mom, and moved his tassel. Because that was what you did. But sitting in the garage later, a sheet cake wilting with the heat and a basket of cards on the folding table beside him, he decided he was done.

He missed Eames. It was over, and Arthur had finally acknowledged the truth that he would never see him again, and everything from here on out in his life would be different because A) Eames had been his, and B) he didn't get to keep him.

Well, fuck that.

If the universe was spinning at exactly the right pace to put Eames into his life, well, then fuck everything all to hell if the same universe decided it was a "learning experience" or some shit to take him back out. It was a shitty system, and he was damned if he was going to support it. Fuck fate. Fuck it in its stupid ass.

He was done following the path fate had laid out for him. He picked up the acceptance letter his mother had placed proudly on the table in the corner, along with his 2nd-grade tee ball trophy and his taekwondo belts, and folded it carefully. Then he walked out of his own graduation party. Good luck keeping up, fate.

His parents blew a gasket when they found out what he'd done, and they called the recruiting office to see if they could, somehow, veto his decision to enlist. But he was 18, a legal adult in his state, and as the US Army told his parents, in much nicer terms, there was fuck-all they could do to stop him if that's what he wanted.

His family were academics through and through. There was very little history of military service his parents could point to and be proud of, and Arthur knew he could still do that for them, at least. He wasn't throwing anything away, he assured them, and he wasn't going to be killed, and he wasn't going to go away and come back a different person. None of which he knew for sure, but all of which he knew was the right thing to say. At the end of the day, he was still a straight-A student, and he would always actually try and actually give a shit, no matter what he was doing. He just decided he wanted a say in what it was he was doing for a while.

Boot camp didn't break him, and he managed to put on some wiry muscle even though he still looked like a baby— even in his dress whites. The short hair made his ears stick out more, but he loved everything else. He loved the early morning drills and the late night exercises, and the predictability of routine.

Until he didn't. After boot camp, it was just a job. He did what he was asked to do, and he did it well. He felt confident, ready, calm. And he was done waiting.

He got a day of R&R, had too much to drink at a bar off base and blew a nameless guy in the bathroom. He wanted there to be at least one more, anyone's, to take the sting out of it. Eames was just a person. It was puppy love which had built him up and it was unrealistic to measure every person he'd ever date against this unobtainable standard. Better to suck a dick, let someone suck him, let someone fuck him, and pave the way for someone real. Someone solid and obtainable.

He didn't look for anyone, exactly. He just kept taking whatever left turn happened to appear, selecting whichever option would fuck fate up more. 'Accept the unexpected' was his personal motto, although he only ever said it in his head, and he kept his head down.

"Arthur," called Patrick, flinging a Playboy on his neatly made bunk. "You look like you could use a round with Miss April."

He grinned at Patrick, just for the joy of not letting him get under his skin. "Thanks, I'm all set," he said, tossing it back. "I've got a vivid imagination."

Patrick smirked. "Oh yeah? Whooo, Arthur, my man, I didn't think you had it in you." He rose from his bunk and sauntered over, making sure he had the attention of the rest of the guys in the tent. If Patrick was anything, it was a prima donna, and he loved to be the one calling the shots. Arthur hated him, just a little, but only because he was the antithesis of everything Arthur liked in a person. "Tell us more!" Patrick crowed. "Gather round, boys, it's story time."

Arthur placed the last folded t-shirt in his footlocker and closed the lid. He gave Patrick a once-over, too tight shirt stretched around his biceps, fatigue bottoms slung low on his hips. He leaned close to Patrick's ear, turned so the attentive audience couldn't see the graze of his lips on Patrick's earlobe and could only see the hard swallow Patrick gave.

"I only give private storytimes," Arthur murmured in his ear, his voice a low rumble. "But I'm a very, very good storyteller. Behind the Mess at 2100."

Then Arthur walked away, not looking back, not giving a shit what Patrick would do. Fate could watch him cross the finish line from the starting blocks.

He let Patrick fuck him and refused to think about Eames.

"Oh, my God," Patrick breathed, his belt clanging like an idiot. "I've never… I'm not… oh, God, that feels…"

"Patrick," Arthur snapped, "shut up and fuck me, or I'll find someone who will."

And with that, Patrick came with a whimper, and Arthur rolled his eyes. He grabbed Patrick's hand and showed him the common courtesy expectation of the Reach Around, and after that, it was easier.

He took to strolling past the mess hall after his shift, and sometimes Patrick would be waiting, sometimes Brian, occasionally Jimmy, who would trade messy hand jobs with a "thanks for the assist, bro," like they were two straight guys just helping each other out. Jimmy made Arthur laugh, and they actually ate together from time to time too. For a couple of years, it was alright. He went through a dry spell after the night he strolled past and saw Brian and Patrick kissing, though, something he'd never done with either of them, and that was alright too. They'd be good together. Then there were random guys, men, bars and hotels, and Arthur convinced himself that the time and buffer had made him forget.

The first time he heard about Project Somnacin, spoken of in whispered tones, he wasn't really interested, but if it had been an opportunity that had fallen in his lap, he'd have shaken his head and run the other way. As it was, he stopped hearing about it, and then there was a firearm discharge on base, and then it was all anyone could talk about. Rumors were everywhere, from someone trying to shoot somebody, to someone actually managing to shoot themselves, to government conspiracy theories about the project itself. None of the rumors were good. A sane person would have stayed as far away as they could. So Arthur, naturally, started inquiring.

When he finally got the assignment to the project, it didn't feel like fate. It felt like a hard-won battle and a bloody finish, but he grinned with satisfaction. He called his parents that night.

"Hey, Mom," he said into the handpiece, turning away from the guy in the cubicle next to him crooning something into the phone. He propped his heavy head on his fist and let his eyes droop closed, a warm sense of security settling over him as he listened to her talk about Mrs. Miller next door, who had been stealing her tulips, if you can believe it, just digging them up and moving them to her own yard, and how his cousin Megan was pregnant from that bearded guy at Christmas, and on and on.

He listened and nodded even though she couldn't see him, mmhmm-ing where appropriate and patted himself on the back for how it had turned out. It was definitely not where his senior class had pictured him, and not where he'd pictured himself.

Then, in the middle of his mother's story about their weekend grocery shopping, he smelled it. He perked up in his chair, glancing around, but nothing had changed. The same soldier sitting next to him, the same tone of his mom in his ear, but over everything, a breeze. And the scent of—

"Coconut." Arthur stood up, phone pressed hard to his ear, eyebrows drawing together. "Mom."

His mother stopped talking, sounding concerned. "Yes, honey? What is it?"

"Why haven't you asked me why I'm calling?"

"Well, I just figured you'd tell me when you were ready, Arthur."

"What's going on?" Arthur said, frowning heavily and looking at everything. "Who is this?"

It was a stupid question, one he hadn't really meant to say out loud because that was definitely his mother's voice. But as soon as it was out of his mouth, the line went dead, and everything around him froze. The people, the sound, even the air.

"Excellent work, son," came the voice behind him. "Most people don't realize something was wrong until they wake up."

His new CO was strolling in behind him, and Arthur couldn't place a source, but he could still smell it. Sickeningly sweet, cloying, choking him. The room started to spin, his head started to ache, and he fell to his knees, blacking out on the way down.

He blinked awake in the same room where he'd laid down on the military issued cot, IV in his arm and a soldier in a surgical mask still standing over him, jotting things on a clipboard. She nodded at him as he struggled to sit, his CO next to him sitting up too.

"Nice work, soldier," the older man said, his voice cool and clinical.

"Thank you, sir," Arthur said, clearing his too-dry throat, trying to keep his lunch in his stomach. "What did I do?"

That night, Arthur lay on his side and jerked himself slowly, not caring if he came, just squeezing his eyes shut and remembering Eames' hands, his lips, his voice whispering his adoration into Arthur's spine. Because, of course, he hadn't forgotten a thing. To do so would be a betrayal, to his younger self, whom he hated and loved and wanted to be and wanted to bury, and to Eames, who had been so much a part of that younger self, a personification of the good parts of him, and a comfort for the bad. Arthur touched himself and remembered.

Dreaming was hard work, and he was a straight-A soldier too, and he sat through more lecture time than he did dream time, learning what others knew and following orders to the letter.

Eventually, Arthur was the one people were coming to for help, with questions, with possibilities. He kept his head down and made friends with the tech guys who helped with the machine. He learned how to clean it, how to repair it, and eventually, how to build it. He stored it all in his

head, the way they taught him, and then stored it somewhere else, a way they didn't teach him. He taught himself everything there was to know about that machine, until he knew it better than his rifle, than his hands, than his own thoughts. There was no turning back from the path he'd chosen, but he was fairly sure fate had fucked off about three dreamshare COs ago. No one knew where this boat was headed.

Except, apparently, for the general who was defunding the project. Too much risk, too many deaths, and not enough successful application in a timely manner. The official position was that they were "tabling" it, for a more applicable time, but Arthur was done. He had been through too much, dreamt too deep, and pushed too far to table anything. He gritted his teeth and took the next left.

Not re-enlisting made his mother cry happy tears and his father clap him on the back. It made Arthur's stomach hurt and it made him drift around for three months, getting two jobs in IT and hating both of them, and working on rebuilding the machine from memory.

The design was simple and easy to replicate, even with non-military hardware. It was the drug that he couldn't do on his own.

"Hello, this is Dr. Tupper, I'm calling from the Phoenix office to inquire about that batch of Somnacin I ordered last week. Well, can you check again? I can't keep taking time out of my day to contact you. You people should have had this fixed the last time I called. Sweetheart, this is what we call 'unacceptable record keeping'. I want to talk to your supervisor."

Three months as a civilian IT customer service rep had taught Arthur one thing: if you went high enough and yelled loud enough, eventually you'd reach someone who was paid more than it was worth to waste their time, and they wouldn't know enough about their own company to recognize any of the bullshit you were feeding them. Then they'd do what he needed. Life was a bitch like that.

So he had lied to his mother after all; he had come back different. He had learned to play dirty, learned when to be rude to get his way, learned when to shut off his feelings and punch his way through. To be fair, he couldn't promise that it was his time in the military which had made that happen— he might have been that person underneath all along. But Arthur was too old for what-ifs.

The somnacin was how he met Dom, and through him, Mal. They were academics too, and his parents loved them. His mother kept saying how he needed to find a nice girl like Mal, although Jewish, of course, and then she would laugh and tell Arthur to invite them for dinner. He just let it go, not upset about the assumption and not needing to correct her. He had sworn off dick for a while anyway. It hadn't necessarily lead to anything bad, but it hadn't lead to anything good, either, and he didn't like the introspection it inevitably turned up.

Mal was the one who introduced him to Jackson and asked quietly how it was going.

"Slowly," Arthur said, sipping the mug of coffee she'd made him as she tucked her feet underneath her on the couch and swirled the wine in her glass.

"That is good, no? Slow and steady wins the race?"

Arthur tipped his head in acknowledgment and dropped it. He didn't need to explain that the architect's appetite was voracious and they hadn't really been doing a lot of getting to know each other with their clothes on. They'd had one conversation about books which Arthur had to remind himself was not a reason to end a relationship, and if they went out, which they rarely did, it was never to the movies or, God forbid, the theater, but to bars and clubs. It was good. It was fine. It was freeing and did an excellent job of separating love and sex in Arthur's mind. Relationships, even long-term ones, could be casual. Life wasn't a fucking Hallmark movie.

Their breakup was inevitable, and messy, and stupid because Arthur had done a fantastic job of making sure the PASIV plans in his brain were secure. The ones he kept in a box under his bed though…

"No more!" Mal swore, stomping through their trashed office. "We go to the clients, we become untraceable, we do not. Date. Coworkers."

Arthur glared and rolled his eyes, something he hadn't previously been aware he could do at the same time, and he did not point out the fact that Mal had thrown them together or that Dom and Mal had been fucking before he met them.

So Arthur, who'd had to learn how to be rude, was tasked with keeping them untraceable. He was the tech guy, so he should know, right? Because they taught those classes at night school. On the other hand, it was one more left turn the universe couldn't possibly have predicted for him. He started hanging around the wrong sorts, both criminals as well as pasty guys who lived in their basements, telling his parents he had done such a good job on all the IT conferences he'd been going to that the company had him traveling to their various international locations. He'd be back for Passover, don't worry about him. He stuffed down the impulse to tell them he wasn't throwing everything away, that he wouldn't get killed, and that he wouldn't come back different. They hadn't asked anyway.

"Do you want some cake?"

"I would, darling, but someone has dropped some hair on the top."

"What? That's coconut. It's a German chocolate cake; it's supposed to be there."

"Ah, it looks lovely, but unfortunately, coconut is an abomination. It tastes like dirty straw."

"Eat a lot of dirty straw, do you?"

"Come over here and I'll eat you."

Arthur never slept well in hotels. He scrubbed a hand over his face and slid into his trunks. A few laps in the pool should shut his brain off enough to sleep, and if that didn't work, there was a bartender in the hotel bar who'd looked at his ass earlier. He'd try that next.

On his third lap, he felt like someone was watching him, and he switched to a freestyle stroke and used his breaths to scan the small area around the pool. Florida meant outside pools though, which meant a larger area than just what he could see. He finished his lap and decided to call it a night. Maybe the bartender would be there, maybe he wouldn't, but one thing was certain: he was buying his own shampoo and conditioner in the morning, and he was never going to use the hotel provided amenities again. Fucking coconut-lime scented shit was putting him on edge.

"Hey, thanks, Carl," he said, slipping another $20 to the hotel attendant. "Night swims are the best."

"Yes, sir," Carl replied, not giving a shit and pocketing the money before Arthur could change his mind. He was really only there to keep drunks from falling in and drowning in the middle of the night, what did he care if Arthur swam?

"Arthur?"

Arthur froze, not sure if he should turn around or not. He hadn't given anyone that name, Dom and Mal wouldn't—

"Darling?"

Arthur spun.

Eames was standing there, actually standing in front of him. Khaki cargo shorts and a god-awful orange Hawaiian shirt, wearing a hat even though it was night and carrying a Bahama Mama with a mother fucking umbrella. He looked amazing. Arthur took one look and the door he'd shut on his heart flew wide open. One look and every teenaged idolatry, every unsent text, every night of longing came smashing into him like a freight train.

Eames looked different, and exactly the same. As a kid, Arthur'd always assumed people aged in a way that made them unrecognizable from child to adult, but he'd have known Eames anywhere. He was taller, but not by much, had more wrinkles, but not by much, and he was thick. His whole body was a solid slab which Arthur wanted to press onto the nearest flat surface and straddle.

"Eames?" His voice was a waver, uncertain like he hadn't been in years. With everything in his being, more than he'd ever wanted anything, he wanted Eames to stride across this pool area, take him into his arms, and hold him. "I've never stopped wishing everyone else was you," he'd whisper, and Arthur would say, "I know," and the ache in his chest would finally subside.

"How the hell have you been?" Eames said, grinning widely, coming closer.

"Ah…" Arthur tried to smile back. "Good?"

Eames stuck out his hand. "Bloody hell, what's it been? Ten years?"

"Twelve," Arthur whispered, his hand gripping Eames' and shaking like it was something he didn't have to tell his limbs how to do.

"Pardon?"

Arthur just frowned and shook his head. "Nothing. How have you been? Back in the States, I see. What brings you back here?"

Eames just laughed and held up his drink. "Well, they don't have beaches like this in England!"

Arthur gave an awkward half laugh, trying to remember exactly how far away the beach was from this particular hotel. Then his hands had nothing to do, and his trunks were puddling water on the ground, and this was it. This was the universe's last, cruel fuck you. Eames was going to give him a, "Well, it was good to see you," and he would never hear from him again. He would walk away, ridiculous drink in hand, and Arthur would crumple, a broken pile of parts.

"You look good," Arthur croaked out, too devastated by Eames' appearance to think straight. Eames of old would have leered at him, leaned in close, and made some kind of innuendo before grinning like a loon. Arthur of old would have laughed and kissed his neck.

The Eames in front of him spread his hands and laughed down at his outfit. "Ah, well, when in Rome, am I right? But, seriously, mate! What are you doing here? Have you really migrated away from the frozen tundra you call home?"

"Ah, no," Arthur said, giving Eames an odd look. "Just passing through. I'm attending one of the conferences here." At the hotel. Where he wouldn't be staying if he'd moved here. Arthur mentally retraced his steps and reached for the loaded die he'd started keeping in his pocket at all times. Eames was acting… strangely. Wasn't he? Also… mate? Were they just going to ignore their history, then? Is that what people did when they accidentally ran into their first… everything while prepping a mostly-illegal job?

"Of course, of course," Eames said. "Are you heading back to your room now? Mind if I walk with you? I can't believe it's been so long!"

Arthur tried to shake off his sense of unease. Of course Eames was acting weird. It's not as if there were some kind of protocol for this particular scenario. It was off-putting for him too. Arthur grabbed his things from the beach chair by the pool and draped his towel over his shoulders, holding onto the ends, and let himself smile at Eames— a real smile.

"Sure, why not?"

He saw Eames relax too and turned to lead the way. Eames followed, the same walk, the same easy smile, and Arthur's heart beat harder.

"How long is your conference?" Eames asked conversationally, and Arthur spent a few minutes delving into the backstory he'd created for his parents. It was the first time he'd ever had to use one of them for someone other than his family, but he was immensely grateful he'd created one. He was here with his two co-workers, they were staying a week, he was enjoying the weather and couldn't wait until they had a break so he could read a book in a hammock properly.

Eames finished his drink and grinned at him, and the sight of those wonky teeth made Arthur's fists clench. Eames asked him question after question— had he tried this restaurant yet, had he bought any kitschy souvenirs for anyone, was he learning anything interesting at the conference? Before Arthur knew it, they were at his hotel room door.

Arthur withdrew his room card, turning it over in his hands. "This is me," he said, indicating his door.

Eames' face softened, and he hummed as he looked at the room number like he was making a mental note. Arthur's stomach flipped and Eames took a step closer. "Darling," he said, his voice warm as he took Arthur's hand. He squeezed Arthur's upper arm with the other hand, a tingle of warmth spreading through Arthur's body. "It was so good to see you."

For a moment, Eames was just as he remembered. That intense gaze, the quirk of those lips, his thumb sweeping across Arthur's knuckles— Arthur was 17 again and Eames was the whole world.

Then Eames stepped back. "We should meet up again!" he said. "Maybe get a drink, catch up." His smile was wide but felt different somehow, and Arthur struggled to switch gears.

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "Yeah, we should do that. It's been a long time."

"Too long." Eames gave him a cheeky wave. "Cheers, darling."

Arthur watched him walk away, admiring the view, then let himself into his hotel room. For just a moment, for just one damn second, he allowed himself to stand there, back pressed against the door, a stupid smile on his face, and breathe. Eames, his Eames, had stood a foot away from him seconds earlier and asked him to have drinks.

Maybe it wasn't about fate. Maybe it wasn't about the choices he'd made. He didn't know anymore. What he did know was that he needed to take a shower, and all of a sudden, the thought of the hotel-provided shampoo wasn't turning his stomach. In fact, he had a pretty good idea what he could use it for that might even help him sleep. It had been a long time since he'd rubbed one out to thoughts of coconut and Eames. Since he'd let himself think about it so frankly, anyway. It seemed fitting, somehow, a nod to all those nights he and Eames had "watched a movie", winding each other up, before going to their respective homes and beds.

Arthur rolled his eyes at himself, still grinning, and shucked his trunks, placing them in the sink while he showered. He turned on the shower, letting steam fill the room, and he reached for his phone to check the time. Except he'd put his phone in the pocket of his trunks. And his trunks were sitting in a pile in the sink.

Arthur felt the pockets anyway as if he could have somehow missed an Otterbox in the thin material. Then, as he looked at his hands, he noticed the tan line on his wrist. His watch was missing too.

"Shit."