Arthur gets through the rest of the day alright. If by 'alright' you mean constantly checking his phone, groaning occasionally, consuming nothing but ten mugs of coffee, struggling to fight the urge to have a fag or ten, and questioning the purpose of his existence. Apart from that he's perfectly fine. By the end of the day he's finished the financial reports ready for the meeting tomorrow and given them to Cobb to look over. He's twitchy and irritable and gloomy and he just wants to go back to his apartment and curl into a ball and scream into his pillow and eat loads of chocolate because he is actually a teenage girl.
"Arthur, these reports…" says Cobb, wandering over to Arthur's desk, where he's currently engaged in the very constructive activity of leaning his head on the desk and groaning quietly because it means he doesn't have to go home and face Eames.
"Yes?" says Arthur, not bothering to move.
"You seem to have got a little distracted."
"Huh?"
Cobb clears his throat and starts reading from the reports.
"The projected figures for this year are shit I don't know what to fucking do what if he loves me I think he does oh God what if he does oh God oh God as the charts on page 4 show the financial sector of Extractions Inc. has been particularly lucrative in March due to the increased levels of holy fuck I really need him oh God oh God why."
He looks up.
"And then there's just a really long keyboard smash."
Arthur grabs the reports from him.
"I mean, it's fine if you want to have an emotional crisis," says Cobb, "But please don't do it over the financial reports. The meeting's tomorrow, Arthur. You need to fix this."
"This is going to take me all night."
"You can't stay here and do it. Go home, look after Eames, do it there."
Arthur gives him an I-can't-go-home-and-be-in-the-presence-of-that-man-and-focus-on-financial-reports-I-just-can't look.
"Well, tough," says Cobb, who knows Arthur well enough to know exactly what the look means, "You're just going to have to."
"Fine," Arthur huffs.
"Hey, boys."
Arthur and Cobb look up to see Ari entering the office, Cobb's children physically attached to her like adorable blonde limpets. James seems to be asleep, his head buried in Ari's shoulder, and Philippa's holding her hand, looking very tired.
"Go on, sweetheart, show daddy your picture," says Ari, pushing the little girl forwards.
Philippa stumbles towards her father and he picks her up, crushing her in a hug.
"Hello," he says, kissing her, "Have you been a good girl for auntie Ari?"
"Yes! I drawed you a picture," says Philippa, holding out a crumpled piece of paper.
Cobb picks it up to look at it.
"What's this?" he asks, squinting at the colourful scribbled mess.
"It's I and you and Jam-Jams and everybody."
Cobb holds up the picture so Arthur can see it. Arthur guesses that the stick figure frowning and wearing a suit is him, Cobb's the one with a beard and squinting eyes, Miles is the one with grey hair and a speechbubble saying 'I'm British', Ari's the one with eyelashes, and Philippa and James are the small ones. The title at the top of the page says Mi faimliy. Sometimes, Arthur thinks his goddaughter is going to kill him with cuteness.
"That's great," says Cobb.
He points to a smiling face inside a square at the bottom of the picture.
"What's that?" he asks.
"Mummy."
Cobb looks down and Arthur bites his lip because they both know what she's drawn, the picture of Mal that Cobb keeps on the mantelpiece, young and happy, when they'd first met. Arthur has the same picture on his bedside table. He's the one who took it. It hurts to look at it.
"Did they behave themselves?" Cobb asks Ari.
"Oh, they were good as gold," she says, brushing James' hair out of his face, "Weren't you, baby?"
James stirs a little, clinging to her tightly, and Ari smiles at Cobb. And Arthur realises that Ari adores Cobb and the children, and they're a family, or they could be. They'd be a pretty bloody perfect one. All of a sudden, he feels like he's intruding on them.
"Thanks, Ari," says Cobb.
Ari shrugs with the shoulder that doesn't have a toddler attached to it.
"Oh, I'm just being a good friend, me."
"You know you're more than that."
"Am I now?"
"Um, listen, I owe you for looking after the kids – can I buy you dinner?"
"You can."
Cobb doesn't break eye contact with Ari as he says, "Arthur, you and Eames are babysitting next Friday night."
"Oh great, now I'll have three kids to look after," says Arthur.
"Come on," says Cobb, depositing Philippa on the floor, "Let's get you home."
He takes James from Ari, even though he complains a little, and kisses Ari on the cheek before he goes. She smiles and waves goodbye to the kids, then promptly collapses onto Arthur's desk the minute they're out of the door.
"Oh my God, he's perfect," she says, covering her head with her hands.
"Go away, and take your disgustingly adorable romance with you," says Arthur.
"But the kids are adorable, Arthur, I love them, and he asked me to dinner, how old-fashioned and cute is that, and I just want to be ridiculously domestic and bake cakes and argue whose turn it is to put the kids to bed and ugh."
Arthur rolls his eyes, because they really are sickeningly perfect.
"Your parents are going to flip," he says, because he knows them, and they really will.
"I know. Oh God, it's going to be so awkward. What am I going to say?"
"Just – tell them you've met a boy. And then later tell them that the boy is actually a thirtysomething-year-old man with two children and a heap of emotional baggage."
Ari laughs and looks up.
"I love you," she says.
"Why is everyone saying that today? Am I looking exceptionally unloved?"
"Oh, who else said it? Was it Eames? Has he finally admitted his love for you?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Ari, he said it on Monday. Well, that was the first time to my face. He wrote it in alphabet sweets before, but I'm only counting Monday."
"And what did you say?"
"I told him to go to sleep. We were in bed. Well, on the couch. But we were going to sleep on it."
Ari raises her eyebrows.
"So he shagged you on the sofa, said he loved you, and you told him to shut up?"
"Yes. Apart from that first bit."
"You should have said it back."
"Maybe I didn't because I don't feel that way," says Arthur quickly, getting up and stuffing the financial reports in his bag.
"You mean you don't love him?"
"Not necessarily."
Ari gives him a what-are-you-on-Arthur look.
"Not necessarily? Either you do or you don't. Well, actually, you blatantly do."
"Why is everyone saying that as well?"
"Because it's obvious."
Arthur pauses and gives her a truly crushing bitchface. Ari just laughs and kisses him on the cheek.
"Oh, darling, darling," she says, ruffling his hair.
"Don't call me that. I'm not your darling."
"No. You're Eames'."
Arthur tries very hard not to scream.
"You should really tell him you love him, you know," says Ari, "Then I won't have to deal with you angsting all the time because you haven't been thoroughly fucked yet."
"Thank you for that thoughtful contribution."
"Come on, like you don't want it."
Arthur sighs.
"Yeah, but it's not just like that, is it? It comes with all this other shit as well. Like living together or making compromises or sacrifices or falling in love."
"But it's all that other shit that makes it worthwhile in the first place. That's why you're with someone anyway. Because you want the other shit."
"But that's why it hurts when it ends."
"Who says it has to end?"
Arthur shakes his head.
"I don't want it to even start."
"Arthur, it already has."
He knows she's right.
When Arthur gets home, Eames is standing in the kitchen doorway. He has a hand on the doorframe and he seems so tall and so big, so much stronger than Arthur's ever thought he was, and he's looking at him like he's angry – no, not angry, more like sad. And then Arthur knows that this probably isn't going to go well.
"I didn't think you were coming back," says Eames, breaking the silence.
"Of course I came. Why wouldn't I?"
Eames shrugs.
"Maybe because you don't love me?"
Arthur sighs, runs a hand through his hair.
"Eames…"
"No, it's fine. Really. I'm feeling better now, anyway. I can go back to work tomorrow."
"Eames."
"I don't need you, Arthur. Go home."
Arthur steps closer, reaches out towards him, but Eames backs away.
"It's fine, Arthur. I got the message. I'll back off. That's what you want, isn't it? That's what you've always wanted. It's not like you didn't tell me. It's not like you didn't keep telling me. I just didn't want to listen."
"Eames, please, just listen to me."
"Listen to what, Arthur? What are you going to say? That it doesn't matter? That we can still be friends? Don't pull that bullshit on me, I know it's not true. I know you don't mean it."
Arthur grabs onto Eames' shirt desperately, both hands grabbing the fabric.
"You're not listening," he says.
"I listened last night, Arthur," says Eames, pushing him away, "When you said you don't love me. Remember that?"
"Eames –"
"And you know what the worst thing was? You said that I don't love you."
Eames pushes Arthur against the wall, crowding him in, and Arthur feels very, very small.
"Well, fuck you," he says savagely, "Because I fucking do."
He puts a hand to Arthur's face, and looks at him hard, like he wants to hurt him. And Arthur knows that he doesn't, not really, because he couldn't, he never could.
"I don't know why," Eames says bitterly, "It's not like you give a shit about me."
"I do, Eames! You fucking idiot, I –"
"I don't want to hear it. Honestly, it's – it's okay. I'm thinking about heading off again. Going back to my old job or something. Mum will understand. I'll hand in my resignation tomorrow."
Arthur shakes his head, grabs at Eames again, fingernails digging into his waist.
"No, no," he pleads, "Don't go."
Eames smiles, but it's full of hurt.
"My darling," he says, running his thumb over Arthur's lower lip, "When you say that, I almost believe you care."
"Fuck you," Arthur breathes, and now he's trying not to cry, "Don't say that."
"Why not?"
"Because I do."
"But not in the way I want."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," says Arthur, and he grabs Eames' head, drags him closer and kisses him.
He bites at Eames' lower lip until he bleeds and shoves his tongue into Eames' mouth and tastes him, blood sharp and metallic. He kisses him desperately, presses their bodies together, like he can't stop, like he won't ever stop. And Eames pulls away.
"No," he says, breathless, "No."
Arthur follows him, holds onto him, presses his fingers into him.
"Why not?" he says, and Eames turns his head away, so Arthur kisses his neck, bites at it, savage and frantic, teeth and tongue.
"Because you don't love me," says Eames, pushing Arthur away, "It doesn't mean anything unless you love me. I wouldn't have cared when we first met. But now – I want you, Arthur, I want all of you, I want to be with you. And you don't want that."
Arthur backs him against the wall, kisses him again to shut him up, because he doesn't want Eames saying this, he just wants him to stop talking because he hasn't worked out what he wants yet, not other than Eames on him, now.
Eames puts his hands on Arthur's hips and pushes him away, gently.
"I'm sorry, darling. I can't do it. I used to be able to, but now… I think you've ruined it for me. I only want you."
"Then have me."
"Say you love me, and I will."
"Eames."
"Say it."
Arthur looks down.
"You can't, can you?"
Eames smiles and touches Arthur's face, gentle, like a lover.
"Thank you for not lying to me, at least."
"Please, Eames, I need you."
Eames shakes his head.
"Darling, that's not love."
"It's close enough."
"Can I have my keys back, please?"
Arthur fishes them out of his pocket and hands them over. This isn't his home. It never was. It was stupid to think it was. Eames opens the front door.
"You know, I really thought we could've had something," he says sadly.
"We still could."
"Goodbye, Arthur."
Arthur kisses him before he goes because he doesn't know how not to. He doesn't know how he can leave Eames without kissing him gently, hand around his neck, brushing against the bruises he's left there. He doesn't know why kissing Eames just feels like the end. Because it shouldn't be.
"Goodbye, Mr Eames," he says softly, and this is wrong, this is all wrong, and he knows it but he can't stop it.
Eames shuts the door behind him.
Arthur's two streets away when he starts crying. He gulps in air and cries, collapsing against the wall of a run-down shop, hugging his knees to his chest, the evening air cool, the sky still light. He covers his mouth with his hand to stop the noise, and sits there, shaking, because he's lost Eames and he's never going to have him, not ever. It's not fucking fair.