Arthur Levine's social life is like self-service checkouts that actually work without pissing everyone off. It does not exist. His weekends consist of sleeping, tidying, cleaning, cooking, and, if he's feeling really crazy, ironing. He leaves the flat in order to purchase the food which he needs to live, but that's it. If he didn't have to work in order to earn the money which he needs to live, he'd never go outside. He has a flat, not a home. It's spotlessly clean, as if dust particles don't dare to settle in Arthur's house because they've heard horror stories about what he'll do if he finds them. He thought about getting a cat once but he soon realised he wouldn't be able to cope with the cruel reality of cat hairs. And for years, for years, Arthur is happy to live like this, quiet and solitary. But he can't anymore. He's – lonely. And he doesn't know why. Arthur rolls over in his white-sheeted double bed and stares up at the white ceiling.
"Bloody Eames," he says, and leans out of bed to grab his mobile from his bedside table.
Arthur, 9.32am
Morning.
Eames, 9.33am
alrite luv? not lyk u 2 txt me 1st. nt tht im complaining. xx
Arthur, 9.33am
I'm not sure how to put this. So I'll just say it bluntly.
Eames, 9.33am
oh hello ;)
Arthur, 9.34am
I'm bored. Entertain me.
Eames, 9.34am
ur place or mine?
Arthur turns up on Eames' doorstep at a few minutes past ten.
"Alright, darling?" says a pyjama-clad Eames, holding a newspaper and a mug of tea and opening the door with his foot.
Something smells good.
"You having breakfast?" says Arthur.
Eames grins.
"I'm making pancakes."
Arthur barely suppresses a groan.
"I'm so glad we're friends."
"So am I, love," says Eames, and pulls him inside.
So they stand in Eames' too-small, too-cluttered kitchen and Eames makes pancakes and they sit in Eames' too-small, too-cluttered garden and eat them. Arthur does the washing up while Eames has a shower. Then Eames says, "I was gonna go help mum out a bit today," and Arthur says, "Can I come too?" so they go to Something's Brewing and Mrs Eames beams at them and hugs them both tightly and pretends she's forgotten that Arthur vented his sexual frustrations at her publically and lets Tariq and Aisha off for a few hours because "Taffy and his young man are helping me out for a bit." Eames and his mum have the kitchen to themselves, and Arthur's front of house. His first job was at a restaurant when he was 15. He liked it, liked being independent, liked getting away from his family, liked being busy and productive. He learnt his work ethic there. He's a good waiter, quick and efficient and he memorises table numbers and orders easily. It's a sociable, busy few hours, and then Tariq and Aisha come back and Arthur and Eames sit in the kitchen having lunch.
"So this is how you entertain me?" says Arthur jokingly, who's sitting on a crate of mushrooms and eating a prawn cocktail sandwich, "By making me work? Way to show me a good time, Eames."
"Oh, I'm sorry," says Eames, leaning closer, "Would you rather I made you do something else?"
Arthur shrugs.
"Depends what that something else is."
"I have a few ideas."
"Oh?"
Then Eames decides to actually tell him exactly what his few ideas are, and Arthur chokes on his sandwich. Stacy looks over.
"Something in your throat, darling?" she asks.
Arthur chokes harder.
Stacy insists that Arthur keeps his tips, since he just worked for her for free, then kisses him and Eames goodbye, saying, "Have a nice weekend, darlings." That afternoon they go to the cinema and see some superhero movie and get bored halfway through so they throw popcorn into the air and try to catch it in their mouths and provide their own running commentary, which they find bloody hilarious, and the other occupants of the cinema find bloody annoying. It's getting dark by the time they leave the cinema, and then it gets awkward when they say goodbye because Eames is trying to get Arthur to come back to his so Arthur says, "Thank you. For today. We should do it again sometime." and it's polite but vague, and Eames says, "You free next weekend?" hopefully and Arthur says, "I think so," because it doesn't sound as tragic as I'm free every weekend, and tries to leave, but Eames doesn't let him go before he's grabbed him, pulled him into a tight hug, and taken the opportunity to lick his neck, and Arthur pulls away, laughing, and says, "Goodbye, Mr Eames," and goes home.
And then Arthur goes round next weekend and the weekend after that and sometimes they help out at Something's Brewing and sometimes they stay in and Arthur tries to beat Eames at Mario Kart (and fails) and sometimes they go out and Eames tries to get Arthur drunk (and fails). And it's fun, and it's been nearly five months and Eames is still desperate to get on Arthur and Arthur is still avoiding the issue and Cobb is on the verge of slamming his head on the desk and screaming at them to deal with their sexual tension because this is the third time this week Arthur has doodled a penis on the financial reports. And then one Monday, Eames calls Arthur to say he's ill, and well, we're back to where we started, aren't we, with Arthur getting pissy on the tube to work, because that's what this story is about, really, Eames being ill and Arthur, his darling –only his darling – dealing with it. He doesn't deal with it very well, of course. this is Arthur we're talking about.
"Morning," says Ari the Architect as Arthur steps into the communal kitchen.
Yusuf, who's standing next to her, gives him a cheerful wave.
"I hate my life," Arthur replies, and starts to make coffee, because he's just decided his life isn't worth living any longer and coffee is the only immediate solution because his razors are at home.
"Do you want to expand on that?" asks Ari blithely, leaning against the kitchen counter and stirring her coffee.
"Not really. Just wanted to let you know. My life sucks. Fuck my life, Ari. Fuck it. How was your weekend?"
"Better than yours, by the look of it."
Arthur spills his coffee on the kitchen counter and spends the next few minutes swearing at it.
"What happened?" asks Ari, folding her arms, "Did you forget to tape Antiques Roadshow?"
Yusuf giggles.
"Shut up."
Arthur's got enough on his plate without being teased about his TV preferences. When Eames found out about it, he'd come up with a whole score of strange (if inventive) antique-based innuendos (such as "Would you care to evaluate my goods?").
"Did you take Eames home and then wake up to find him gone?" asks Yusuf.
"Shut the fuck up, Yusuf!"
"Nah," says Ari, "If that happened, Arthur would be tied to his bed for the next ten days."
She and Yusuf snort with laughter.
"You too, Ari?" Arthur says, deeply betrayed, "You too?"
"Are you sexually frustrated?" Yusuf asks, his voice overly sympathetic.
"No…"
"Yup, sounds like it to me," Yusuf comments, taking a sip of coffee.
Arthur looks at Yusuf. It's a look that says, Bitch, I will end you. (It's a look that Yusuf knows well.)
"Awh, honey," says Ari, putting a hand on Arthur's shoulder, "What happened?"
"Eames happened."
"It's alright, Arthur," says Yusuf, "Tell us where the bad man touched you."
"I want to punch you," says Arthur, "In the face. With a chainsaw."
"Did he send you a text saying 'morning beautiful' or something?" asks Ari.
Arthur blinks.
"Well, yes. He does that every morning."
"Did he forget?" asks Ari, "Are you scared he doesn't love you anymore?"
"He called me to say he's ill at home."
"Aww," says Ari, pinching Arthur's cheek, "Are you missing him already, baby? Are you terribly upset?"
"I'm not upset!" Arthur practically yells.
"No, Arthur, of course you're not upset, you are the image of composure, please go on," says Yusuf mechanically.
"Everyone on the tube overheard us having a domestic. An old lady thought I was talking to my boyfriend. She gave me a piece of fruit cake to take to him."
"That's nice," says Ari, "You can take it to him after work."
"I'm seeing Eames after work?"
"Well, yeah," says Ari, as if he's just said something ridiculous, which he actually hasn't because he and Eames are not a couple by the way, "Someone's got to take care of him when he's ill."
Arthur gives her a Look.
"Oh, come on, Arthur," says Ari, "He doesn't live far away. He's just up on King Street, I think."
"Queen Street," Arthur corrects.
"Huh?" Ari and Yusuf ask simultaneously.
"Are you guys, like, twins or something? It's Queen Street. I go round his. Sometimes."
Arthur could swear that Ari and Yusuf just blinked at the same time. Arthur shrugs.
"I got bored one weekend. And the weekend after that. It's kind of a habit."
Yusuf raises an eyebrow.
"And you don't go round to fuck?"
"No, Yusuf, I bloody well don't!"
Yusuf widens his eyes and puffs out his cheeks.
"Wow, Eames has more willpower than I thought. He gets you alone and he still doesn't screw you into a wall? Man, no wonder he's going crazy."
Arthur rolls his eyes.
"He's not that into me."
His co-workers give him a he-wants-to-cover-you-in-honey-and-lick-every-millimeter-of-your-skin look. Arthur can't really respond to such a look, mostly because he's imagining Eames licking honey off him, so instead he says, "Look, can't you guys take care of him?"
"No," Ari and Yusuf reply in unison.
"Why not?"
"We're busy," says Yusuf.
"Doing what?"
"Going out," says Yusuf, at the same time Ari says, "Staying in."
They exchange glances. Arthur narrows his eyes.
"I see how it is."
His day's quiet and uneventful without Eames there to pester him, and it's true that he gets more work done, but he's spectacularly bored. He decides that he hates Eames for just bounding in and messing his neatly ordered life and dashing off again, leaving a trail of wreckage behind him, and then he remembers that Eames hasn't left him, he's just off work sick today and he is massively overreacting and he's just drawn a penis on his financial report.
Arthur turns up on Eames' doorstep at a few minutes past nine. He's dishevelled – but only by Arthur's standards. His tie is slightly askew, and his hair sticking up, not quite its usual rock-solid, gel-encased self.
"You look rough," says Eames.
"Have you seen yourself?" asks Arthur.
Eames is a whole new level of dishevelled. He's wearing worn old pyjamas, barefoot, hair messy, unshaven, bags under his eyes. He pulls the door open wider.
"Get in here," he says, pulling him in for a hug.
"Get off," Arthur mumbles tiredly against Eames' chest, in a way that really means don't you dare let go, "Don't want your germs. Meeting on Friday. Need to be well."
"Oh darling," says Eames, catching their reflection in the mirror, "We are a pair."
Arthur looks at the mirror, then promptly faceplants into Eames' chest.
"Ugh. I look like a vampire. And you look like some kind of werewolf."
"Ah, Halloween-themed illnesses."
"Not ill, just tired. Hellish journey home. Someone decided to kill themselves on the train track. Wouldn't mind joining them."
Eames chuckles, rubs Arthur's back.
Arthur pulls away after a bit, because he's hugging his co-worker in his hallway and, well.
"You got food?" he asks.
"Do pot noodles count as food?"
Arthur shrugs and heads into the kitchen. It's a tiny galley kitchen, with only enough room for the two of them, and of course it's very messy, even though Arthur has nagged him about it (until Eames said, "What are you, my girlfriend?" and he shut up).
"Mmm, cardboard and chemicals. Sounds great."
"Top left," says Eames, pointing to a cupboard. He shoves a heap of letters to one side and pushes himself up to sit on a kitchen counter.
Arthur fishes two pot noodles out of a particularly full cupboard and struggles with the packaging, fingers scrabbling over the plastic lids.
"None for me, thanks," says Eames, "Stomach bug and all that."
"Who said anything about you?" says Arthur, and rips both pots open with his teeth.
Eames laughs.
"Have you eaten anything today?"
"Does nicotine gum count?"
Arthur fills the kettle and flicks the switch.
"Honestly, darling, what would you do without me?"
Arthur gives him a look.
"I wouldn't be eating pot noodles on Monday night in the kitchen of my extremely irritating co-worker, who I am only visiting out of the goodness of my heart."
"Co-worker? I think we're a bit more than that, darling."
Arthur doesn't say anything to that, because the kettle boils. He pours the boiling water into the pots, then moans and flops down onto the only space available, which happens to be Eames' lap.
"Can't be bothered to stand up. Too much effort," he mumbles into Eames' t-shirt by way of explanation.
Eames ruffles his hair.
"I like it when you're tired. You're very cuddly."
"'M not cuddly," Arthur says fiercely.
His words are somewhat negated by the fact that he has his arms around Eames' waist and his head on his lap.
"Course you're not, darling."
Arthur looks up.
"Forks," he says.
Eames opens the drawer next to him with his feet, which is a skill he learnt when he was very bored one Sunday afternoon, and pulls out a fork.
"That's not exactly hygienic, Mr Eames," says Arthur, hauling himself to his feet and taking another fork out of the drawer.
He stuffs it into one of the pot noodles and forks a heap of the stuff into his mouth.
"So – hungry," he says, taking another huge bite.
"You're so refined," says Eames, reflecting that he's probably more turned on than he should be by Arthur sucking up the noodles that are trailing out of his mouth.
"Like – you're not –mm – enjoying – this," Arthur manages in between bites.
He finishes both pots in record time, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Eames wonders if this is what Arthur having a mental breakdown looks like. Arthur points a finger at him.
"We will never speak of this again."
"What, the time you turned up on my doorstep at nine in the evening and proceeded to eat every pot noodle in the house?"
"Yes. I must maintain some sense of professionalism."
Eames looks at Arthur, his hair askew, eyes wide but obviously knackered, fork still in his hand.
"I think you just lost that, darling."
Arthur shrugs.
"Oh, well in that case, let's fuck."
Eames blinks.
"I really like it when you're tired."
Of course, Arthur doesn't follow through on his offer, because the Lord is testing Eames and he fully intends to fail this test and sin his way to hell but Arthur's got this pure virginal thing going on and Eames has really got to get around to corrupting him. They end up on the couch, watching University Challenge. It doesn't really compare to a sexual experience, unless you're really into quizzes or something. Anyway, Eames isn't, and he doesn't know any of the answers because they're ridiculously difficult and he's only got room in his head for useful things, like how to build flat packed furniture or live off baked beans or get any woman hot under the collar from the other side of a room. At least he has his arm slung around the back of the couch, almost around Arthur's shoulders.
"I'm sorry, Eames," Arthur sighs, "I'm meant to be taking care of you. I'm really not doing a good job of it, am I? How are you?"
"Not my best."
"That's vague."
"Alright. I was sick twice yesterday and three times today. My head hurts and my eyes hurt and I can't get to sleep and I'm cold."
Arthur doesn't say anything.
"Find one hundred thousand to the power of a fifth," asks Jeremy Paxman.
"Fuck if I know," murmurs Eames, wondering who on earth could work that out.
"Ten," says Arthur, at the same time as Manchester's team captain.
"Correct," says Paxman.
Arthur smiles lazily.
"How?" says Eames, "Just – how?"
"I'm a Financial Analyst, remember? 'S got a bit to do with numbers, love."
Eames looks blank.
"At least you're pretty," sighs Arthur, turning back to the TV.
They sit in silence for a moment.
"Arthur?"
"Yes?"
"I'm ill. Can I have a cuddle?"
Eames slips his arm around Arthur's shoulders, and Arthur grumbles a little, but doesn't show any real signs of resistance. Eames shifts so they're lying on the couch, Eames' arms over Arthur's back, and Arthur's head on Eames' chest. Arthur wriggles halfheartedly.
"Have to go home," he mumbles.
"Stay tonight."
Arthur laughs.
"Now there's a proposition."
He pushes himself up on Eames' chest and looks down at him, hair falling into his eyes. Eames tries and fails not to imagine this in an entirely different context.
"I don't see how this is conducive to your recovery."
"Oh, I'm feeling better already," says Eames, and pulls Arthur back down.
"So are you gonna tell me what's bothering you?" he asks, after a few moments of silence.
"Hmm?"
"You were exceptionally pissy this morning. I mean, even for you. You haven't been like that with me, since – well – when we first met."
Arthur smiles wryly.
"How things have changed."
Because, they kind of haven't really. But then, Arthur wouldn't be here if they hadn't.
"It was nothing, don't worry about it," he says sleepily, "We've got a big meeting on Friday, it's stressing me out a bit. Big financial review, all that stuff."
He yawns and buries his face in Eames' pyjama shirt.
"Now if you don't mind, I'm going to sleep," he mumbles.
"I don't mind," says Eames, and pulls his arms around Arthur tightly.
They lie like that for a few moments, breathing falling into sync, until Arthur's lying perfectly still, eyes shut, perfectly wrapped up in Eames, and Eames looks down at the sleeping man in his arms and whispers, "I love you, Arthur Levine."
Arthur cracks one eye open.
"Go to sleep, Mr Eames."