Eames loved the feel of Arthur. The way Eames would slip his hand behind Arthur's neck, and the younger man would practically melt into the touch, lolling his head back, and humming contently. And Eames would feel this fluttering in the bottom of his chest, which he tried to ignore, but sometimes, it was too much, and he would let himself move closer to Arthur, maybe wrap an arm around his waist, or let himself nuzzle into Arthur's side, and he would say,

"Arthur."

And Arthur would kiss him, soft and slow, a kiss so different from usual, and Arthur would feel the fluttering, too, but he would just turn the affection into simple lust, and turn the sweetest of kisses into greedy open-mouthed collisions, and Eames would just tell himself he would speak to Arthur later.

He never does.


There are times when Eames oversteps the boundaries. There are times when Arthur pretends not to notice that he does, there are times that he tells Eames to shut up, that he shouldn't be too intimate, that this is just for sex,remember? And then there are those few fragile moments when Arthur wants, desperately, to give in to Eames, who is basically a walking temptation. He wants to return his hug and not to pull away from a kiss that was way too sweet and much too affectionate; sometimes he truthfully, wholeheartedly wants to.

He never does.


They had been fucking for thirty days now.

Tomorrow, it would be one month.

Eames chuckled to himself when he realized that. He could call it an anniversary, couldn't he? One month of being hurt, toyed with, used and broken down by a man he was slowly falling in love with, with every collision of teeth and tongues, with every exploring hand, and every sinful touch. It almost made him wince whenever he thought about it.

It was getting much too hard for Eames to resist. He was determined not to slip, but inevitably, love trumps determination without even a moment's hesitation.

"You act like you've done it before" Eames noted, when they were lying in bed, totally naked, totally exposed save a few sex-stained rumpled sheets pulled hastily over each other. There was a foot or so of space between them, as there always seemed to be. The post-sex high was still very much present, and Eames decided to take advantage of it.

"Well, we have been doing this for a month, Eames." Arthur said. Eames ignored the fact that he remembered how long it had been going on; it was probably just a rough estimate.

"That's not what I mean. You... You seem like you've done this before. This friends with benefits thing." Eames felt the words leave his lips with just a twinge of disappointment, or rather, no, it couldn't possibly be jealousy. He mentally scolded himself for overanalyzing just about everything nowadays. Arthur did rub off of him, after all.

"I have, yeah."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Care to elaborate?" Eames offered, turning onto his side, so he had a better view of the man next to him. He was so beautifully not Arthur at the moment: in the way that he looked completely carefree, no wrinkles coming together above his brow or creases near his eyes. He looked serene.

The point man lay on his back, and Eames could almost hear cogs and gears turning inside the other man's head in the silence around them, as Arthur continued to gaze at the ceiling.

"Maybe someday." Arthur said quietly, and his tone made it clear he didn't want to talk about that for now.

"Why did you come to me that night, Arthur?" Eames asked, changing the subject.

Arthur visibly stiffened, his eyes shutting at the thought. Whether it was because of what they did, or the reason he did, Eames couldn't tell.

"Can we talk about something else?"

Eames let out a frustrated sigh:

"Arthur, just tell me something. Anything. You can't just bottle up like this whenever I ask you something other than what time do you wanna fuck tonight."

Eames felt anger bubble up in his chest, and he couldn't exactly pinpoint why, but he didn't even care anymore. He wanted Arthur to open up, to let go, to tell him something, anything, and it was clawing at him now, the need rising, pulling at him feverishly, and it took all of his willpower to just lay there and wait for an answer from the man that wouldn't even look him in the eyes.

"I was alone."

"What?"

"I was alone," Arthur continued. "After Inception. Everyone had something, someone to go back to, and then there was me. Lonely Arthur. Wretched Arthur. Sorry, pointless, unimaginative stick-in-the-mud Arthur," he snarled, and Eames saw a glint of something he had never seen before in this man.

"It just kind of dawned on me that I would always be the one leaving by myself. Always coming home to an empty hotel room. And I guess, I couldn't-" Arthur breathed in shakily, "I didn't want to be by myself again."

It was at this point that Eames's heart broke. He couldn't stand to see Arthur, who was so gorgeous, so intelligent, so different from everyone, so perfect, so impervious, so... so Arthur, being like that. He knew Arthur didn't want him as anything more than a warm body, but Arthur deserved someone. He shouldn't have to ever be alone.

"Hey," He whispered, reaching his hand out to grasp Arthur's arm in the darkness. The moment his fingertips touched the younger man's skin, Arthur's head fell to the side, locking his gaze with Eames's. Eames only had a second to take in his glistening eyes before Arthur was colliding into him, arms slipping under his and around his waist, heat surrounding them both now.

"Mmm.." Eames hummed, letting the breath he'd been holding out, as he instantly curled his arms around the other man, pressing him closer and stronger.

Finally.

The smell of him - of old parchment, and ironed suits, and foreign to Arthur sweet innocence - flooded the Brit's senses. He breathed in deep, knowing that wouldn't last long, but he craved it. The closeness, the simple act of being with Arthur. He worshipped it, as these moments were extremely, painfully rare, almost nonexistent.

But Arthur didn't move. He kept his forehead leaning against Eames's shoulder, not saying a word. He tightened his grip around the muscular man's waist, feeling the bones in his back.

There was a lovely, comfortable silence, before Eames felt Arthur's shoulders shaking, and small breaths stutter from his lips.

Arthur was crying.

It made Eames's heart melt more and he pulled back, pressing his lips to Arthur's forehead, and then using his fingers underneath Arthur's chin to tilt his face up, and look him in the eyes.

It pained him, to see newly formed tear tracks under the other man's eyes, salty drops making their way down the pale cheeks.

"Come here," the Brit whispered, one arm still draped around him. Eames closed the space between them, lips meeting Arthur's in the sweetest kiss they have ever shared.

It was void of any lust, or hunger, or urgency, and that's what made it so beautiful. It was slow, and careful, and gentle, and Eames was just glad Arthur was kissing him back.

Eames could sort of taste the salt of Arthur's tears on his lips, and he did his best to trace his lips with his tongue, wiping them away.

Arthur broke away, and Eames's heart quickened. However, Arthur didn't move away completely, he just kissed Eames's cheek, letting his lips linger before he nuzzled into Eames's tanned skin in the dip of his neck, and the curve of his shoulder. This was the most affectionate Arthur had ever been, and words couldn't accurately express the emotions screaming in Eames's chest.

Arthur had finally given in to temptation. Temptation of the sweetest, most complicated kind.

"I don't - don't want to be alone, Eames," Arthur stuttered out, his shoulders still heaving up and down.

"Shh...shhh...," Eames murmured, closing his eyes, and kind of rocking them, as Arthur kept choking out sobs.

"You're not alone, darling. Not tonight." He pulled them closer, until their bodies were molded perfectly together.

And they stayed there, until sleep took them both.


Eames tried to tell himself he was being naive, thinking that Arthur would suddenly want to be lovers now and not stay what they were. It was foolish to get his hopes up.

But still, when he blindly let his hand roam the sheets early the next morning, expecting to find Arthur and instead finding cold sheets, and waking up to a completely silent, utterly empty hotel room, he still felt let down.

But he shook it off. Put up his walls, and just let it bounce off of him, as he gathered his clothes. He still had Arthur, even if not in the way that he wanted.

And there was always tomorrow.


Author's Note: Kudos to Paint Me Violent, my amazing, amazing beta for this.

Thank you to everyone who is reading this, haha. Reviews really make my day, along with alerts/favourites and everything, so feel free, haha. Anyways, hope you like this chapter.