Disclaimer: I don't own anything!

Author's Note: Could be viewed as some slash. Isn't intended.

"Seduction is an art. Most can draw, but few can paint."
-Anonymous

Three—In Which Artists Must Have Their Caffeine Fix

It's been raining for several days now, so Eames doesn't know why he hadn't brought an umbrella. Or at least a plastic bag from the supermarket to cover his sketchbook. He grumbles to himself as he steps inside the small café, as familiar to him as his own apartment. He spends a lot of time here, usually working on quick-sketching people, but sometimes to meet potential clients.

But everyone has decided to take refuge here today—not shocking. Today's rain has been the worst this week—and Eames ruffles his short hair to get some of the water out of it. He catches the eye of Ariadne behind the counter—she works too hard to pay for college, though Eames can relate—and she flashes him a smile before she's distracted by another customer.

All of the tables are full except for the little booth in the back beside a window. Eames knows the booth well; it's the usual spot of one of his favorite quick-sketch subjects, a young man with dark curls that are generally gelled back, but apparently the rain had done its job today and his hair is curling loose around his face. His hoodie—worn in places, so it must be a favorite one—might have been black once, but now it's the color of the sky outside. His jeans are a little ragged at the hems, but are otherwise very neat and he's always sitting with that notebook, pen in hand.

Before Eames knows it, he's standing by the booth. "Mind if I take a seat?" he asks before taking a seat without waiting for a reply.

The young man glances up and Eames learns for the first time that his eyes are brown behind the rectangular glasses. As brown as the coffee in the Styrofoam cup by his left hand. "What, you don't have your usual spot saved?"

Eames finds it strange to know that someone other than Ariadne knows that he comes into this café nearly every day. "It seems to have been overrun by wicked witches."

Eames has been told he has an odd brand of humor. Usually, most people don't get it the first time. The young man—a writer, most likely, if that notebook is anything to go by—snorts a little as a reaction.

"So what are we? Good witches?'

"I can see myself as being the Wizard." Eames says. "You…I don't know. The Tin Man, perhaps."

"You think I'm heartless?" The writer has a good arched eyebrow look.

"I think you're in search of a heart. It's a very big difference, darling."

"Don't call me that. And you don't know me well enough to be judging me." He makes to go back to his writing, but Eames is enjoying this conversation too much to just let it go.

"What if I told you I'd like to know you well enough?"

"Then I'd tell you that we're not in the same boat." Eames wonders how the writer doesn't write what he's saying to Eames rather than what he means to write. He could never do that, talk and write at the same time.

"So heartless."

Ariadne finally makes her way to their table. Eames doesn't blame her for the delay; today is ridiculously busy. "What'll you have, Eames? The usual?"

"You know me too well."

Ariadne smiles, but it's tired around the edges. She turns to the writer. "You want another coffee, Arthur? Or something to eat?"

Arthur smiles politely at her and Eames notes that dimples work well on his face. "No thank you."

"Alright. I'll be back in a bit—hopefully."

Returning his attention to the writer, Eames finds his hands playing with the sugar packets that no one ever seems to use. "You don't seem like an Arthur."

"Is it because Arthur the Tin Man doesn't have a very good ring to it?"

"No. You simply…don't."

Arthur snorts again. "Ladies and gentlemen, logic has left the building. Or perhaps you simply never had it."

"That hurts. Really, right here." Eames taps his fingers over his heart. "…What are you writing?"

"A book."

"A budding novelist. Are you writing fiction? Non-fiction? I doubt you'd be writing a biography here, without references."

"It's fiction."

"What's the storyline?"

Arthur ignores his question and seems to finally notice the half-soaked sketchbook that Eames had protected beneath his shirt. "Are you an artist?"

"Yes."

"Please tell me it isn't modern art."

Eames' lips twitched. "I promise it isn't. I do have some manner of pride in myself after all."

Ariadne returns with Eames' chai tea—perhaps a bit of a stereotype, but his roommate back in college had gotten him hooked on the stuff. He thanks her before she has to rush off to another table.

"I thank you for that." Arthur sounds sincere. "It scares me sometimes, what people will consider art. I actually went to an art show once with a friend and there was this canvas, about…as floor to ceiling, maybe four feet long, that was painted entirely one color. That was it. And they were asking a ridiculous amount of money for it."

It's the most Eames has heard out of him. "And the sculptures that look like they might have been a masterpiece at one point before they were dropped and glued back together by an eight year old."

The corners of Arthur's lips tilted upwards a little. "Those too." He glances at the sketchbook that's still dripping a little onto the table. "May I look?"

"If you'll tell me what your book's about afterwards."

Eames can see Arthur considering it, can see him weighing the pros and cons. "…Alright."

Eames slides the sketchbook closer before leaning back in the booth and taking a sip of his tea. It's blessedly warm and he sighs in relief at the first sip. Arthur is careful with his sketchbook, gently peeling the pages apart and, if they refuse to be apart, he simply passes over them. Most of Eames' work is realistic, drawn from life. He likes observing people, likes to see different facets of their personality come out in the position of their bodies, in the shape of their mouths and the way they move their hands.

"They're very detailed." Arthur is unfazed by the fact that most of the subjects of Eames' art don't seem to realize they're being drawn. Lots of people tended to be a little wary of that.

"I like details."

He doesn't blush at the short series of nude works that Eames has worked on. It had been a little bit out of college so that he could have a better sense of proportions and the lines of the muscles in accordance to the limbs—not to say that he hadn't appreciated the other…activities he'd done with those people. "You liked this one. You drew her often."

Eames leans forward a little and smiles in remembrance. The sketch is likely going to be damaged and warped from the water, but that's alright. He can still recognize her. "She was my girlfriend right after college."

Arthur hums in acknowledgment, pushing stray, damp curls from his face with his free hand as he continues to look. He pauses when he gets to the beginning of the sketches Eames started in this café. Most of them tend to include him in one or another.

"Do you find me that interesting?" He asks. The man doesn't seem to like beating around the bush.

"What if I told you yes?"

"You're still in your own boat, Eames."

Eames grins a bit into his cup. "I was right. You are the Tin Man."

Arthur rolls his eyes. There aren't many more sketches in there now. A few studies of individual features, an entire page devoted to hands and various hand positions and a half done sketch of the café as a whole, seen from the far side of the counter.

"You're good at observation." Arthur says as he closes the sketchbook before sliding it back to him.

"Your turn to share."

Arthur stroked the edges of his notebook absently. "…It's about thieves."

"Not a topic I would have seen you going for."

Arthur pretends not to hear him. "Thieves that steal secrets from your dreams."

Eames leans forward on his forearms, setting his tea down. "Interesting…tell me more."