Title: Geometry and Consciousness
Author: CoffeeWithConsequences
Author's e-mail: CoffeeWithConsequences@gmail.com
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: Mature
Author's Note: Written for the 2017 Inception Reversebang, in response to picture 103 by somedrunkpirate.
Summary: Feeling that he doesn't really know Eames at all, Arthur begins to gather the pieces Eames leaves behind--scribbles and doodles and drawings. When Eames finds his collection, will it bring them finally together, or push them apart for good?




The first picture was a pencil drawing of an owl. Arthur was sweeping up the workspace, double-checking to make sure they’d left nothing incriminating behind, and it turned up in his dustpan. It was a page torn unevenly from a notebook, the sketch haphazard and unfinished. Probably just one Eames had made while he was thinking, or while the team was talking. The man’s hands never stopped, so he was often drawing and doodling while the others spoke. Arthur had no idea why he picked it up, rather than tossing it in the bin with the rest. He liked owls, he figured. Maybe he’d look more closely at it later.

Normally, Arthur would be grumbling to himself as he swept and wiped down surfaces for prints, wondering aloud why nobody else on any of his teams could be bothered to just throw their own shit away and leave spaces as they found them. Recently, though, Arthur had taken special care to be as neutral and pleasant as possible, particularly to Eames. Eames responded in kind--no flirtation or teasing, and no vehement arguing about the details of plans. For this job, and the second half of the one before it, he’d been nothing but collegially, infuriatingly detached.

It was his fault, of course. He ought to have known better. After nearly a decade of knowing one another, of working together off and on, of (Arthur thought) circling each other warily like half-wounded prey animals, he’d had enough. They’d pulled off inception; they were rich as kings; they were, for some value of the term, safe; and their careers had never been better. Eames was laughing and flirting and high on life, and Arthur felt his own calm and security seeping into him in a way it never had before. So it was time. It was OK now. He could let Eames know.

Once he decided to do it, it was easy. He invited Eames to his room for a drink, which wasn’t unheard of, and he kept his voice light while he did it. Ever one for contingency planning, he’d thought about what would happen if Eames didn’t accept the offer, so he made sure it was a casual one. Once they’d had a couple of bourbons, talked some, loosened their ties, Arthur worked up his courage and crossed the room. He took Eames’ glass from his hand and set it down on the table, moved into his personal space, and said, “I want you. And I think you want me, too.”

Never in his life had Arthur been so sorry to have uttered such simple words. Eames’ eyes had widened in a way that ought to have been comical. He’d tried to back up, running right up against the table and sloshing his drink all over. “What?” His mouth had fallen open.

With a sick feeling, Arthur backed up. “Um, I’m sorry. I thought…” He had no idea what he should say. His careful plan hadn’t accounted for this. He’d thought through a polite, “thanks, but no thanks,” in which he kept his temper and his dignity, but not this awkward, clumsy confusion.

Eames immediately tried to salvage it. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I didn’t realize…” He licked his lips and seemed more honestly nervous than Arthur had ever seen him. “I’m seeing someone. Have been for quite a while. It’s...serious.”

Arthur’s stomach clenched. How could he have missed something so obvious? There was never any sign. Eames was always so open, so flirtatious. He knew he should just blow it off, make light of the whole thing and move on, but he couldn’t help himself. “You’ve never mentioned her…”

Eames shook his head. “Him, actually. But no. I like to keep my personal life away from the job. Safer that way.”

The look on Eames’ face wasn’t bemused, it was pitying, Arthur wanted nothing so much as to punch him. In seconds, his humiliation turned to rage. “Fine. No big deal.” His voice was icy.

“Come on, Arthur. Don’t be like that. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m quite chuffed, actually.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I live to flatter you.” He moved toward the door, thinking that if Eames wouldn’t leave, he would. He couldn’t stand to spend one second longer in the same room. “Now, I’ve really got to get back to work.”

“Arthur,” Eames drew his name out and Arthur hated how much he loved the sound. Eames reached for his shoulder and Arthur pulled away. “This doesn’t need to be awkward. If I weren’t in a relationship…”

Arthur interrupted. “You’re right, Eames. It doesn’t. It’s nothing we need to speak of again. Goodnight.”

Eames shot him a frustrated frown, but didn’t try to argue further.

For the rest of the job, they avoided each other and were both polite. This next job had been the same. Arthur wondered if that was going to be their relationship now. He still felt monumentally stupid for messing it up, but the more he thought on it, the angrier he was at Eames. He’d been led on. All that flirting, those unnecessary touches, the obvious and inappropriate ogling of his ass--how was he supposed to take all of that? It wasn’t the way someone who wasn’t interested behaved. Why couldn’t Eames ever just be one person, instead of two or three or five who all contradict one another? Arthur had no trouble imagining Eames as a good, even doting, boyfriend--in his weaker moments, he spent quite a lot of time imagining it--but how did that reconcile with the flirting and innuendo?

Coming back to the present, Arthur realized he’d been sweeping the same spot for at least five minutes, the owl drawing still in his hand. He knew it was pathetic to save it, but he felt pretty pathetic anyway, so what could it hurt?

It took until after the next job, after he’d picked up the third scrap--a few thick lines of blue watercolor, testing the exact shade of the forge’s eyes--that Arthur started putting the doodles up. For ages there had been a completely blank magnetic white board in the office of his California house. Not being one to leave evidence of his business, Arthur never wrote anything on it. One day, though, when he was in between jobs and puttering around in the house, he found himself arranging the three scraps of paper on the board. He moved them around a few times, affixing their corners neatly with small magnets. The owl in the middle, the blue splotches to one side, an odd pen and ink picture of something that might have been power lines and shrubs above it. Even as he did it, he told himself it meant nothing, it was just to have something up on that board, to make the place feel more inhabited. Still, as he wandered back in throughout the day, looking again at the three pictures, he felt warm. It was nice, having something of Eames’ here. As neutral and distant as they now were, the doodles felt more like Eames than did his actual presence.

On the next job, when he picked up another of the doodles, Arthur thought that Eames seemed barely aware he was drawing them. It wasn’t as if he kept a notebook, he just made his mark on any piece of paper that might be lying around, then let them slip away. Easy in, easy out. This one was a line drawing of some kind of bird of prey--an eagle, maybe? It was actually still sitting on Eames’ desk when Arthur grabbed it, but he knew it would be on the floor by the next day, and he decided to take it before it got ruined. He tried not to think about why that was important to him. He wondered, as he pressed it between the pages of his Moleskine to keep it safe, why Eames chose to draw the things he did--what made him sketch an eagle today, as they talked about the forge of the mark’s mistress? How did his mind move from a discussion of recreating her French accent to this bird? There was no way to know, but Arthur spent more time that night wondering than he’d have liked to admit.

As the weeks passed, the blue spots, bird of prey, owl, and power lines were joined by a coiled serpentine pattern made with a pen pressed down hard, and a pencil profile of older man’s face. The coiled pattern had been the result of a near endless and painfully boring session with a new architect in Prague. The old man was Eames’ forge on a job in Chicago. When he looked at the pictures all together, Arthur saw no consistencies among them. Three different mediums: pencil, ink pen, watercolor. Two birds, one semi-identifiable scene, one face, one abstract pattern. Two clearly work-related pieces, three that seemed unrelated. None of them “looked” like Eames to Arthur--there was little color, no intensity. They were shadows, Eames’ afterthoughts. Still, they were the only pieces of him Arthur had.

By this point, there was no way Arthur could deny to himself what he was doing. He was picking up and saving Eames’ doodles, he was placing them carefully in his office, and he was spending hours staring at them. He was trying to find patterns, to “figure Eames out” via these incidental scraps. They were the most he’d ever had to go on, and likely ever would, considering Eames’ continued polite distance. It was now clear to Arthur how little he really knew Eames. From his research (not stalking, research), Arthur knew broad strokes of Eames’ fairly normal sounding upper middle class childhood, his non-stellar academic record, and his early involvement in petty crime. He knew Eames had been in the military, though not for very long. He knew Eames had a flat in London and another in Mombasa, but both were rented--as far as Arthur could tell, he owned no actual property. From being on jobs with him, he knew how Eames took his tea (splash of milk, no sugar), that he was an occasional smoker, and that he changed colognes all the time. But he didn’t know if Eames read books, or watched TV. He didn’t know if he liked dogs or cats, or what kind of working out was responsible for his rather incredible body. He didn’t know if he was still in touch with his family, or who he called friends. Most importantly, he hadn’t known about Eames’ boyfriend.

Eventually, Arthur moved to active snooping. He found two pictures in the trash can closest to Eames’ desk--one was just some rough stamps, looking vaguely like birds in flight. Arthur was fairly sure it was just the blotting paper Eames had been using to mix ink. The other was a mostly complete pencil drawing of a female nude.

For a long time that evening, Arthur stared at the nude. The drawing showed her half-reclined, from her neck to her thighs. It was done tastefully, very much like you’d expect in a figure drawing class, with heavy shading. The breasts were firm and medium sized. One shoulder was slightly drawn up. The hips seemed wide, the vulva only a suggestion of a V between them. It didn’t necessarily mean anything either way, Arthur told himself--people of all sexualities drew nudes of all genders, and he’d guess Eames to be fluid in that respect. But why, Arthur wondered, did he draw this woman, on this day? Was she someone he knew? Someone he’d been with? Had something happened with the boyfriend Eames had mentioned? Was he with this woman now? When the stabs of jealousy came, Arthur didn’t try to fight them back. They weren’t telling him anything he didn’t already know--he was picking these scraps up for a reason, not idle curiosity. He was in love with Eames. Helplessly, hopelessly, infuriatingly, embarrassingly in love. In love enough to horde what was, in essence, Eames’ garbage, as if it were precious.

Arthur spent the remainder of the job disgusted with himself, grouchy and more terse and demanding than usual. If he noticed the shift, Eames didn’t comment on it, treating Arthur with careful distance. Even after months of it, Arthur couldn’t get used to the treatment. Like everything else about Eames, it could be real, or could be the character he’d decided to be for this instance, just as easily discarded as taken on.

Back in California, Arthur added the smudged ink birds and the nude to his collection. It was if the drawings were made by different hands. The light pencil of the man and the owl, the precision of the nude, the abstraction of the water colors and the inky birds. The more pictures he gathered, the more Arthur’s board did indeed look like Eames--pieces of everything, with nothing consistent at all.

Eventually, Arthur’s collage included a handwriting sample, clearly work on a forgery, with the bizarre quote “a hanging owl watches, blue eyes silenced in stone.” He Googled it, but found nothing. Another set of nude sketches, these ones so partial Arthur couldn’t identify their sex. A pencil drawing of a dog, or maybe a wolf. A tree. Some more playing with ink colors, this time for a document forgery. There was even a heavy markered plus sign type graphic that Arthur wasn’t fully sure had been made by Eames at all, though he’d found it near Eames’ bags in a hotel room clean out. Taken together or individually, the pieces continued to puzzle Arthur, and he told himself each time he went home that he would stop being so damn silly and take them down, but he never did it.

Over time, Eames seemed to thaw. A year after Arthur made his ill-fated pass, Eames was back to his old ways--friendly, teasing, leering. It happened gradually enough that Arthur barely noticed until it was fall again and Eames was teasing him about his rolled up shirt sleeves and how his arms made it so difficult for a man to control himself. For Eames, it appeared Arthur’s great moment of humiliation was forgotten.

Arthur hadn’t forgotten. He stayed careful around Eames, wishing he could enjoy the rekindled attention, but knowing it wasn’t real. A few times, he considered asking Eames about his boyfriend, but he couldn’t make himself do it. Did he really want to know? Besides, Eames had made it clear that he didn’t want to share that side of his life with his coworkers. Arthur kept reminding himself that was all he was.

A few weeks before Christmas, Arthur worked a short job in Spain. Eames was brought in at the last minute. He seemed preoccupied and quiet, and though he didn’t return to the level of distance he’d held before, neither was he flirtatious. Arthur was grumpy about it for weeks. But then the holidays came, and Arthur spent a pretty pleasant Christmas (not a holiday he really celebrated, but whatever) with Cobb and the kids, then took several weeks off just to hang out and relax.

Arthur never really minded being alone. He’d lived alone since he left the military--never any roommates or live-in boyfriends--and he liked it that way. He liked having his own space, set up the way he prefered, and not having anybody to answer to for his idiosyncrasies. He also liked his own company. He was a reader, a movie watcher, and a video game player--there was plenty to keep him busy. On this break, he’d bought a couple of cookbooks and was trying to teach himself some basic kitchen skills, which was both easier and more fulfilling than he’d expected. He knew he’d been headed back to work soon, but he’d been quietly content for a while when his doorbell unexpectedly rang one afternoon.

On his porch, incongruous and surreal, was Eames. Eames was dressed for California, or at least for Eames’ idea of California--a short sleeved button down shirt, loose cotton trousers. He was wearing aviator sunglasses (for Christ’s sake). His hair was loose and he was tanned. He looked fucking incredible.

“Arthur!” Eames spoke as if Arthur had been expecting him, as if Arthur had invited him. “So good to see you!”

“Eames, what the fuck are you doing on my porch?” When cornered, Arthur was nothing if not direct.

Eames threw a pronounced pout. “Not a very kind welcome. I thought you’d be happy to see me!” Glancing behind Eames, Arthur noticed a very red convertible parked crookedly in the driveway. “Can I come in?”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Arthur held the door open and stepped aside.

Once he was inside the house, Eames made no attempt to hide his interest. Arthur thought briefly of the board in his office, but there was no reason Eames would need go in there. Instead, Arthur let him to the kitchen and motioned to a stool at the counter. “Sit down and tell me why you’re here,” he ordered.

To Arthur’s surprise, Eames sat. Without asking, Arthur retrieved two beers from the fridge, opened them, and slid one to Eames. Eames eyed the label skeptically, but wisely said nothing before lifting it to his lips and taking a long drink.

Arthur tried not to watch Eames throat move as he swallowed.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Eames began.

“Stop it, Eames.”

Eames rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ve come into a bit of trouble. Nothing I can’t handle, just needed to get myself out of Las Vegas in a bit of a rush. I wondered if I might lay low here a day or two.”

Arthur frowned. “Who’s the trouble?”

Eames explained, in as much detail as Arthur would allow. It seemed to come down to a gambling debt, possibly being caught cheating, and some sort of entanglement with the wife of someone who may or may not be involved in a either a Hollywood studio or the Mafia. Or possibly both. It was all quite confusing and there was no way to tell how much was embellished in the telling.

Arthur sighed. “Why didn’t you just use an alias and check into a hotel?”

“And miss the opportunity to see you with your hair down?”

Arthur raised a self-conscious hand to his head. He didn’t tend to slick his hair back when he wasn’t working. He hadn’t thought about his clothes, either--Eames had certainly never before seen him in soft faded jeans and a Cal t-shirt.

Eames grinned. “Don’t pout. This suits you. Much as you do justice to a suit, you must have been a menace as a student.”

Arthur shook his head. “No. I was a geek.” He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe because Eames made him feel like he’d never stopped being that geek?

“Is that a yes?” Eames tipped up his bottle and swallowed the last of his beer. “I swear, I won’t be a bother. You’ll barely know I’m here.”

That seemed highly unlikely. Still, it wasn’t like Arthur had any real reason to refuse. “OK. But if you’re in hiding, you’ve got to get rid of that ridiculous car. Is it a rental?”

“What do you think?” Eames winked. Seriously. Who the fuck winks?

By the time Eames and Arthur had taken care of ditching the car and returned to Arthur’s house, the sun was setting. Arthur called for pizza and pointed Eames toward the guest room. The drawings in the office were totally forgotten.

They spent the evening companionably. After he got used to having him around, Arthur was remarkably comfortable with Eames. Eames had that effect on people, even those who were more than a little bit in love with him. They watched a movie, chatted about their last jobs. Eames didn’t say anything about how strange he’d seemed in Spain, and Arthur didn’t ask. They didn’t sit close together. They seemed to Arthur like what he’d imagine casual friends to be. It was pleasant--Arthur didn’t have many friends.

It was late when they went to bed. Arthur felt suddenly awkward and asked Eames if he had everything he needed. Eames smiled, his eyes crinkling, his face fond. “I do,” he replied. He looked as if he might say something more, but decided against it. “Goodnight, Arthur. And thank you.”

Arthur laid awake a long time. This might be OK, he thought. He and Eames might be able to be friends and never speak of the way he’d humiliated himself. He couldn’t deny that he was still attracted to Eames--far beyond attracted, to be completely honest--but that wasn’t something Eames needed to know.

***

When he was off the job, Arthur slept late. It was an indulgence, but one he relished, and it came oddly naturally to him. When he was working, he snapped awake at 5:30am without an alarm, but when he was at home, he rarely roused before 10. So, when he awoke, the sun was streaming in and he could hear noises coming from the kitchen. Arthur brushed his teeth--no need to offend a guest with morning breath, even if the guest had invited himself--and made a half-hearted attempt to smooth his hair before heading out to see what Eames was up to.

Arthur drew in a sharp breath when he entered. Eames was turned toward the counter, swearing at Arthur’s coffee maker. He was clearly just showered, his hair wet. He wore jeans, but was barefoot and shirtless, his broad, tanned back drawing Arthur’s eyes. Jesus. Arthur had seen Eames shirtless before, but it had been some time, and he’d apparently been working out since then. His back was all swirling black ink and well-defined muscle, from the top of his thick neck to the narrowing of his waist. The waistband of his jeans rode just low enough to show the elastic of his underwear, the impression of where the small of his back became his ass. Arthur could not tear his eyes away.

Eames heard him come in, but didn’t turn around. “Get your eyeful, then,” he finally said, his voice teasing.

Arthur blushed, but kept his voice cool. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Need some help with that?”

“Need an advanced degree to start the bloody thing,” Eames replied. “What’s wrong with Mr. Coffee?”

Arthur stepped toward him, forcing himself to look away from the plane of bared skin. “Mr. Coffee makes swill,” he retorted, moving Eames aside with a gentle shove of his hip. He felt sparks fly through him--it had been a long time since he’d touched Eames in any way--but he ignored them. He also ignored the side view he now had of Eames’ chest.

As Arthur began to set up the coffee, Eames moved out of his way and hopped up on the counter next to the machine. Arthur glanced at him briefly, then forced his eyes down before he started drooling over tattoos. “Sleep OK?”

“Like the proverbial baby. You’ve got a great shower.”

Arthur nodded absently, measuring beans.

Suddenly, Eames reached out and grabbed Arthur’s chin, turning his face up so Eames could look at him. “God, look at you,” he murmured.

“Look at me?” Arthur scowled.

“Bed head and sweatpants,” Eames shook his head. “You could be twenty.”

Arthur groaned. “I don’t look that young.”

“Not when you’re all buttoned up, no,” Eames admitted. “But right now? It’s kind of making me feel like a dirty old man.”

A hot spike ran through Arthur’s chest and between his legs. What was the implication there? He played dumb. “A dirty old man for staying in my guest room?” he asked, finishing the set up and pushing the button to start the coffee brewing. “Seems a bit much.”

“No,” Eames said, “a dirty old man for what I’m going to do next.”

Before Arthur could react, Eames’ hands were on his hips, reeling him in. While Eames remained on the counter, Arthur was pulled between his legs, immediately aware of Eames’ thick thighs bracketing his body. Arthur stared at him with wide eyes, but Eames didn’t say anything. Instead he moved one hand to Arthur’s chin, the gesture slow and deliberate, and pulled his face closer.

The kiss was sweet. It wasn’t anything like Arthur had imagined--no adrenaline, no danger. Instead, Eames pressed his lips slowly at first, letting Arthur feel the plush weight of his mouth. His hand remained at Arthur’s jaw, his thumb stroking absently, as he parted his lips slightly and let his tongue run over Arthur’s lower lip.

Arthur opened his mouth to give Eames’ tongue room. It stayed soft, Eames slowly exploring, and Arthur’s hands moved to Eames, one at the back of his head, tangling fingers into his wet hair, and one against his chest, running over coarse chest hair, then smooth skin and hard muscle.

It lasted a long time, but didn’t deepen. Arthur’s eyes were closed, and when he opened them, he was surprised to find Eames staring right at him. He startled back, finally breaking their mouths apart.

“Uh...what was that?” Arthur tried to regain his normal breath.

“That was me kissing you. Or starting to, anyway.” Eames tilted his head curiously. “Is that OK?”

Arthur blinked. The coffee was gurgling next to them, and for a moment, he concentrated on the sound. “I don’t know,” he said. “I thought...you had a boyfriend?”

Eames nodded. “I did. Now I don’t.”

Arthur watched his face. He saw hurt run across it and then saw it schooled back to curious neutrality.

Eames kept talking. “A while back, when you…” He started again. “It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested--that I’m not interested--I just couldn’t do anything about it then. I don’t cheat.”

Arthur nodded mutely. This was not at all what he’d expected from this morning.

“So...if you’re still game?” Eames smiled widely. “Could be fun?”

Arthur’s first impulse was to react cruelly, to try to share some of the humiliation he’d felt with Eames. To tell Eames he was seeing someone now, or refuse to be his rebound. But he waited that impulse out, because it wasn’t what he wanted. What he wanted was Eames’ hands on him again, Eames lips on him again. He breathed in hard, his senses filling with the fresh coffee, and with the smell of freshly showered Eames, and he surged forward. “Yes,” he said. “Could be fun.”

The made out like teenagers. Eames eventually hopped down from the counter and crowded Arthur against it, kissing him harder, running his hands down Arthur’s back and cupping his ass through his sweats. Arthur gave as good as he got, winding one arm around Eames’ neck for leverage and rubbing against him, feeling Eames harden against his thigh through the layers of cloth. They both breathed hard, half-panting into each other’s mouths, eyes wide and aroused.

Finally, Arthur had a thought and pulled away. “I need a shower.”

“What?” Eames laughed. “Now?”

“Yeah. I...I want to do this. But I don’t want to be worried about being gross during it.”

Eames bit his lip, clearly unsure whether to laugh or protest, then gestured down to the erection pressing against his fly. “You couldn’t have decided that before?”

“I know!” Arthur reddened, very much aware of his own discomfort. “I’ll be quick. Have a cup of coffee. Think of England.”

“That’s not really what that phrase means,” Eames murmured, pulling Arthur into him again and kissing his mouth softly. “You are such an odd duck. Go. Hurry.”

Arthur took a military quick shower. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes. That was rare for him--he had a lot of different products. He didn’t shave or even moisturize. He barely toweled his hair off before heading out of the bathroom.

At first, he couldn’t find Eames. He went back to the kitchen and noted an open cupboard--he’d found the mugs. But Eames wasn’t there. Arthur went back down the hall and stuck his head into the guest room, but the room was empty except for Eames’ still packed bag on the floor. Arthur had just been in his own bedroom, so he knew Eames wasn’t there, and the hall bathroom door was open.

That left just one room.

Shit. SHIT.

When Arthur walked into his office, Eames was standing only inches from the whiteboard, his coffee cup in one hand. The other hand reached toward the drawings, but didn’t touch them. Arthur couldn’t see his face.

“Eames,” Arthur began.

Eames turned around, and Arthur went cold. Eames’ eyes were blazing. His cheeks were red.

“What the fuck is this?” Eames shook his head in disbelief. “These are...these are my doodles. My trash! Why do you have these?”

Arthur took a moment, trying to compose himself enough to respond. This was going to be embarrassing, but maybe once he explained, Eames would think it was funny.

He didn’t have time to explain.

“Am I your...mark? Are you studying me?” Eames’ voice rose, and Arthur suddenly realized both how infrequently he’d heard Eames yell and how frightening it was.

“No, it’s not like that,” Arthur began, but Eames interrupted again.

“What is it bloody like, then, Arthur?” He gestured to the board. “Because this looks like research. Like your meticulous little mind, studying me. Like your ghastly little brain, trying to figure out my weak points.” His eyes narrowed. “Is that what this has all been about? Are you trying to play me?” He sounded both incredulous and unbelievably angry.

“No, of course not. Let me explain.” Arthur took a step forward, reaching towards Eames’ arm in what he hoped was a calming gesture, but Eames moved quickly away from it.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” He looked sickened at the thought. Stomping past Arthur, he left the office, went into the guest room, then came back out, pulling a shirt over his head as he walked, his bag already on in his hand. “There is something really fucking wrong with you, you know.”

Arthur was struck silent. No matter how weird it was that he’d been collecting Eames doodles--and he could admit it was weird--he couldn’t have imagined this response. He tried one final time as Eames reached the door. “Eames, please, let me explain.”

Eames whirled around and glared. “There’s nothing to fucking explain. Leave me the alone, Arthur. Just stay the fuck away from me.” He pushed the door open so hard it banged against the outside wall, still pulling on his shoes. A moment later, he was gone, walking down to the corner, his phone already open to call a car.

***

For two days, Arthur moped. He didn’t shower, he didn’t shave. He sat around his house, ate whatever he found in the cupboards, and played Zelda. When that started to disgust him, he spent two more days drunk, locked in a hotel room with an old fuck-buddy with a big dick and a tiny brain, for whom he had very little use when he was sober. Once that was out of his system, he went home, threw up, drank some coconut water, and started putting himself back together.

The thing to do was go back to work. It would be easy enough to avoid being on the same jobs as Eames, at least short term. He could do a few boring corporate gigs that Eames wouldn’t touch, and that would give them both some time. It was there he got stuck--time to what, exactly? Eames apparently believed Arthur was either stalking him or trying to con him in some way, and at this point, Arthur thought that might be the case. Looking back now, he was deeply humiliated by what he’d done. Who the hell saves other people’s doodles without their permission? And puts them up on the wall? And spends hours staring at them like they’re some kind of map to hidden treasure? It was the kind of thing he would have done in 9th grade, shy and small and geeky and already aware that it was definitely not acceptable to feel the way he did about Chris Sampson in his French class. It wasn’t the kind of thing a man in his 30s, with a seven figure bank balance and six handguns hidden in his house, let himself do.

After Eames stormed out, Arthur immediately pulled the pictures down from the board, but he couldn’t make himself throw them away. It was more likely than ever that they were the only pieces of Eames he’d ever have, and he couldn’t let go of them yet. He stuffed them in a desk drawer and tried to forget they were there. The night before he left to go to Montreal for his first job of the new year, he forced himself to put them through his shredder. It hurt his heart to do it, but he figured that was as he deserved.

Arthur was able to easily work several simple, boring jobs back-to-back. He didn’t ask anybody about Eames and kept himself from even looking online to see if he’d popped up anywhere. Every time he thought about checking, he reminded himself of the rage in Eames’ face. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, Arthur was the last person he wanted to know about it.

Arthur was wrapping up a short-term job back in Los Angeles when Renn came to see him. There were all of about six people on the planet that Arthur was always happy to see, and Renn was among them. He’d known her for years--since they’d both served in the military--but, like him, she was a completely different person now. Renn was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, with a half-shaved head of multi-colored hair, extensive tattoos, and several facial piercings. Like Arthur, she looked younger than she really was. Unlike Arthur, she used that to her advantage. Appearing to be nothing more than a punk kid, Renn was one of the better hackers Arthur had ever known. She swooped occasionally into dreamshare, but mostly worked other interests. Arthur had worked with her many times and trusted her completely.

They sat on a patio and had coffee, Renn peering suspiciously at the sun from behind her glasses, as if it were out to get her. They exchanged pleasantries, and then Renn stated her purpose--she had a job.

It was a hell of a job. Military, high risk, very high payout. The kind of thing Arthur absolutely loved to do, and the kind of thing for which his particular combination of research skills and comfort with violence made him essential. The trouble was, the job would need a forger. A good one. One who knew the military.

Arthur sighed. “Have you asked Eames yet?”

“No. I was hoping you could do that. I know he doesn’t like doing military stuff, but this is so perfect for him.”

“It’s not just perfect,” Arthur replied. “You’re not going to be able to do it without him.”

Renn shrugged, agreeing.

“OK,” Arthur said, hating to have to do it. “This is not something I want to talk about, and if anybody hears it from you, I will deny it and then never work with you again. Eames and I don't work together anymore. And you need him for this worse than you need me. So you should ask him.”

Renn frowned, clearly about to say something, and Arthur held up a warning hand. “I told you, I’m not going to talk about it. Is that clear?”

Renn was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “OK. I’ll ask him. But, are you sure? There are other forgers.”

Arthur shook his head. “There’s nobody like him. You know that.”

“Yeah.” She looked unsure. “Do you know where he is? God knows he never answers his phone.”

Arthur shook his head. For the first time in years, he honestly had no idea where Eames was.

Renn didn’t say anything else about it, and Arthur steered the conversation back to neutral topics. When they got up to leave, she unexpectedly grabbed him, hugging him hard. Not sure what else to do, Arthur hugged her back.

“Whatever it is, it will be alright,” she said in her fierce little voice, her head against his chest. “I promise.”

Arthur smiled, but didn’t respond. When she finally pulled away, he bid her good luck on the job and left.

***

After the L.A. job finished, Arthur had one day off, then he was headed to Japan. He went methodically through his list of things to do before locking up the house--pick up his cleaning, empty the fridge, make sure the trash cans were at the curb. When the bell rang, he was considering his closet, checking his suit weights against the expected weather in Osaka. As he went to answer it, he was still preoccupied with wondering if the gray herringbone would be too warm.

The delivery man handed Arthur a slim envelope, then insisted he sign for it. Registered mail, then. Arthur frowned. He wasn’t expecting anything. After the carrier left, he set the envelope down on the counter and looked at it suspiciously. Surely nobody would send him Anthrax, right? There was no return address, and the stamp appeared to be from France. He decided to risk it.

The envelope contained a single folded sheet of paper, torn unevenly from a sketchbook. In neat all-caps, it said

I don’t always throw them away.
-E

Arthur recognized the printing as Eames’. His forehead creased as he unfolded the paper. It was a drawing of a man. It didn’t include his head, and his body was only an impression, a tie, rolled up shirt sleeves. The focus of the drawing was his hands, exquisitely detailed. One rested on a surface, likely a table. The other was writing in a notebook. Every muscle was clear, the tension with which the pen was held, the mid-tapping fingers on the unoccupied hand. Arthur stared at the picture, then at his own hand, holding the page. There was no mistaking it. This was a drawing of him.

Stunned, Arthur sat down, inspecting the paper closely. First he looked again at the drawing, then turned it over and looked at the writing. Eames drew his hands. Eames didn’t throw that drawing away. Eames sent it to him.

What did it mean? It seemed like an olive branch, but could that be a misinterpretation? The last thing Arthur wanted was to make things worse. He took out his phone, thinking he’d send a text, then returned it to his pocket. What could he possibly say?

As he finished packing, Arthur propped the drawing on his bedside table, stopping to stare at it every few minutes. Care had clearly gone into it--it was more complete than any of the doodles he’d collected. There was no way to know if was recent, or something Eames drew ages ago. There was no way to know why Eames sent it.

Eventually, Arthur decided not to try to contact Eames. There was no way he could do so without putting some effort into finding out where he was--the phone number Arthur had was almost certainly dead by now, and trying to find out where Eames was felt too invasive. So, Arthur decided, he’d wait. Maybe Eames would contact him. If he didn’t, at least Arthur felt a bit better about the whole fucked up situation.

The next envelope came during Arthur’s second week in Japan. The job was going well, and he was feeling pretty good as he walked into the hotel. The concierge stopped Arthur and handed him several manilla envelopes, which he assumed were all job-related documents he’d been expecting. He didn’t look through them until he’d gone into his room, stripped down to his undershirt and trousers, and poured himself a drink.

This was a different kind of envelope than the first--a white padded mailer with one corner ripped off. It appeared to have been through a few post offices on its way to Arthur, and the postmark wasn’t completely legible. Knowing it wasn’t any of the job related paperwork, Arthur ripped it open.

Inside was another folded sheet with another note written on its backside. This one said

Take the job. I’ll see you in Vienna.
-E

This drawing was also of Arthur. It was less finished and detailed than the one of his hands, but just as unmistakable. It was full length, from the side. His face was barely an impression, penciled lightly, but the details of his suit were filled in enough for Arthur to recognize, and he knew his own tense posture when he saw it. One hand was raised, as if he were explaining something. His body seemed in perfect proportion. Eames had to have drawn this while looking at him.

By the next morning, Arthur decided to take the advice given and call Renn to accept the job in Vienna. She was thrilled, having not found a suitable replacement.

“Have you talked to Eames?” Arthur asked, hoping his voice sounded normal.

“Yes,” Renn replied. “He asked if I’d called you yet. All I said was that you’d passed--I figured that was safe.”

Arthur smiled. “Good.”

Renn continued. “He didn’t buy it. He asked what you said, specifically.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“The truth, more or less,” she admitted. “That you said you’d pass so that I could get him to work it.” Before Arthur could ask, Renn added, “he didn’t say anything about that--just changed the subject to the payout.”

Arthur nodded, forgetting for a moment that Renn couldn’t see him through the phone.

“I’m glad you’re both on board,” she said. “I’m not sure this could work otherwise. It’s going to be tough one.”

“It is,” Arthur agreed. “I can wrap up what I’m doing here in two weeks, three at the most. Then I’m on my way.”

After he hung up, Arthur sat and stared for a long time. He had no idea what it would be like to work with Eames, or even to see him. The idea made him cringe. But he’d known there wasn’t a way to avoid him forever, and since Eames went out of his way to make a first step, he could meet him halfway. He’d apologize, if he could get Eames to hear him out. That was the best he could do.

For the first several days on the job, the opportunity to speak to Eames didn’t come up. Eames was trailing a potential forge and was gone most of the time, and the intense research needed to get started kept Arthur very busy. At the end of the first week, though, Eames finally lingered in the work space for long enough for Arthur to get some idea of him. He was polite and distant, but didn’t seem angry anymore. Time to get this over with, then.

“Eames,” Arthur asked, when everybody else had left for the evening. “Can we talk?”

Eames nodded slowly, unsurprised by the request. “Yeah. But not here. Come by my room later?” His gaze was clear and open. This was another olive branch.

Arthur agreed. For the next few hours, he was barely able to work for his nerves. Over and over, he mentally rehearsed what he needed to say to Eames, but it barely made it better. The truth was that he had no good explanation. He’d even tried to think up a plausible lie, but there just wasn’t one.

When Eames opened his hotel room door, his face was just as calm and impassive as it had been earlier. He’d stripped down to his trousers and undershirt, the heat cranked up in the room. Judging by the papers and laptop spread out over the bed, he’d been working.

“Do you want a drink?” Eames gestured to the open mini bar. Two fingers of scotch sat in a glass on the bedside table.

“No, thanks.” Arthur knew he’d have an easier time getting out what he needed to say with some alcohol in his system, but he wasn’t sure he should be trying to make it easier.

Eames gestured to the desk chair, and Arthur sat down. Eames sat across from him, on the edge of the bed, and looked at him intently, waiting for him to speak. Just before he did, though, Eames began.

“I need to apologize,” he said. “I overreacted.”

“No, no, I need to apologize,” Arthur rushed in.

Eames raised a silencing hand. “Just hear me out a second, OK? It was weird, and disturbing, and I am not going to pretend it wasn’t. But I completely lost it, and that wasn’t necessary. Or even really about you.”

Arthur thought they’d need to come back to that, but first thing was first. “It was weird,” he said. “And I am really sorry. It was an invasion of your privacy and I shouldn’t have done it.”

Eames looked at him suspiciously. “I just don’t get it,” he said. “What was the point? As far as I can find out--and I have looked into it--you weren’t trying to mark me for something. So...what was it?”

Arthur reddened. He was just going to have to tell the truth here. There wasn’t another way “It was...pathetic,” he said. “I just wanted...something of you. I thought I knew you, and when it was suddenly clear I didn’t, I wanted to figure you out.”

Eames frowned. “That’s part of what bothered me about it so much, Arthur. Those scribbles, those...weren’t me. Most of them were for jobs. They didn’t have anything to do with me. And I kind of thought you would have known that.”

The expression crossing Eames’ face was so unexpected it took Arthur a long time to grasp it. It was disappointment. It was hurt. Eames wasn’t just angry Arthur had invaded his privacy--he was hurt that Arthur didn’t know him.

“I thought I did know you,” Arthur said quietly. “But then I found out you weren’t who I thought you were. And the more I gathered up your drawings, the more I thought that maybe you’re not any one person at all.”

Eames looked up sharply. “I am a person, Arthur. Just the one. I play roles, for the job. Most of those idiotic scribbles were part of those roles. They don’t have anything to do with me, the person.” He sighed. “Come over here.”

Arthur did as he asked, sitting down next to Eames on the edge of the bed. Eames reached among the papers and pulled out a portfolio, the string-tied kind that nobody carried anymore, and handed it to him. “These are my real drawings,” he said.

“You don’t have to…” Arthur began, his fingers already itching at the strings.

“No, I don’t. But I want to. I want you to see.” Eames nodded at Arthur to continue.

Inside the portfolio was a thick sheaf of paper. The pages were all sizes and shapes, from yellow sheets torn from legal pads to thick watercolor paper. Arthur pulled out the whole pile, then began to look at the drawings slowly, one by one.

They were mostly done in pencil, with a few ink drawings among them and the occasional spot of color from pastels. Mostly, they were people Arthur had never seen. What appeared to be prep school kids walking down a street that looked like London. A beautiful, round-faced child with a basket of fruit, maybe in India. They didn’t appear to be in any order, older ones and newer ones together. After flipping through a few, Arthur recognized some people--a pair of squinting eyes that had to be Cobb’s, and some unruly hair that looked a lot like Yusuf. He stopped at a nude drawing of a woman. It was the same woman from the half-done sketch he’d spent so long staring at--her posture the same, with the raised shoulder and high, firm breasts. She was completed this time, though, and it was clear that she was not an art class model, but a lover. Her legs were spread, her hand between them.

“Gloria,” Eames said, noticing Arthur had stopped. “Years ago.”

Arthur nodded, and kept moving through the pile until he found Ariadne, looking young and worried, with much of the detail in the picture focused on her scarf. There were several drawings in a row of a handsome, dark-skinned man with a short beard and kind eyes. Arthur looked at Eames.

“Ben. The boyfriend.”

“What happened?”

Eames shrugged. “I got tired of lying. He got tired of pretending he didn’t know he was being lied to.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was due to end, is all.”

The next drawing was an anatomically detailed sketch of an erect penis. It was uncircumcised and seemed large, sticking out at a slight angle from a hatch of thick pubic hair, the shadow of heavy balls behind it. Arthur looked at Eames with a raised eyebrow, equal parts amused and horrified. “Is this him, too?”

Eames shook his head. “That’s...more of a self portrait.”

Arthur’s face felt instantly hot and he drew his hand away from the paper quickly.

Eames laughed. “It’s not going to bite you.” He reached over and flipped to the next page.

At the end of the sheaf of papers, Arthur found six drawings in a row, each one taking more of his breath away. The first showed him clearly younger than he was now, asleep, one arm trailing over the edge of his chair as it would if he were connected to the PASIV. His face was relaxed--dreaming. The next was another one of his hands, this time cradling a machine gun. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was from a militarized dreamscape they’d been in four or five years ago. There was a picture of him walking, a long overcoat blowing around him, and one of him from the back, shoulders hunched, working on something. The last two pictures were just his face. In one, he scowled in a half-finished sketch--Eames had given particular attention to the crease between his eyes and the thinness of his lips, but his head ended abruptly before his hairline. The last page, however, was a fully finished drawing of Arthur’s face in a full smile, dimples showing on both cheeks. He looked excited and adrenaline-fueled and completely happy.

“So,” said Eames quietly, as Arthur continued to stare at the pages in his lap. “Those are my real drawings. That stuff you had--that’s not me. This is me.”

When Arthur looked up, Eames’ nervousness was unmistakable. He knew he should say something, but he truly had no idea what it should be. If he opened his mouth, questions would come tumbling out.

Eames continued. “When I came to L.A., in the kitchen, I...I was so ready. After all this time, finally. Finally you.”

Arthur shook his head, uncomprehending. “But I tried. More than a year earlier, I tried. And you turned me down.”

Eames nodded. “Like I said, I don’t cheat. I was so angry--the timing was so bad. I loved Ben. But I’d wanted you for years already. Already given up on ever having you, really.”

Arthur could feel his mouth hanging open, but he couldn’t manage to close it. “So, after you broke up with Ben, you came to me for…” He wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. Sex? Something else?

“I came to you,” Eames agreed. “I didn’t know if the offer would still be open--you’d gotten so distant. But I had to try.”

“And then you found those pictures. Jesus.” Arthur felt as bad about it as he ever had. “God, I am so pathetic.”

Eames reached out unexpectedly and grabbed Arthur’s arm. His touch wasn’t gentle, he clearly wanted Arthur to pay attention. “No,” he said fiercely. “I still hold that it was a little bit disturbing and stalkerish, but it wasn’t pathetic. Wanting to know me isn’t pathetic. Wanting to know me is...fucking fantastic, really.” He grinned, an unexpected, wide smile. “But if you want to know me, Arthur? Just ask. No need to collect my trash.”

Arthur smiled, chagrined, but hopeful. “I really am sorry.”

Eames shrugged. “If you can forgive me for being a complete dick when I found out, I can forgive you for being a sinister little stalker.”

Arthur laughed. “Deal.”

Eames’ hand was still on his arm. It felt hot. “So...now what?” Arthur asked. “Do we go back to the way we were before? Pretend none of this ever happened?” His voice was hopeful, which he kind of hated himself for, but couldn’t help.

“Good God, I hope not,” Eames said. “After all this drama, would that really be enough for you?”

Arthur paused, then said, “if it needed to be.” He held Eames’ gaze.

“What if it needed to be something else?” Eames’ voice was lower, deeper.

“Then that would be even better.” They were moving closer together, the papers in Arthur’s lap beginning to fall between them. Arthur stopped, gathered them in a tidy pile, and returned them to the portfolio. “I have the drawings you sent,” he said, feeling like full disclosure was the only way forward at this point. “In the back of my notebook. I am going to keep them.” He sounded prim, but determined.

“I’d hoped you would,” Eames replied, taking the portfolio from Arthur and setting it on the floor. “It’s not like I’m going to stop drawing you. You’re my favorite subject.” He paused. “Well, besides my cock.”

Arthur’s unexpected laughter was loud in the quiet room. He looked at Eames unsurely. “Do you really spend a lot of time sitting around, drawing your cock?”

Eames pretended to consider. “You would too. It’s pretty spectacular.”

The ice felt fully broken then, as if they were magically back to equilibrium, to being comfortable with one another. There was a whole new kind of tension in the air, one far more pleasant. Eames reached back out for Arthur’s wrist and pulled him closer, fixing him with a leer. “Wanna see?”

Arthur laughed again and closed the rest of the distance between them, whispering into Eames’ mouth before he kissed him. “Yeah. I wanna see.”

***

The first time was incredible, and the second time was even better. It was mostly as Arthur had imagined it would be--energetic and hilarious and so fucking overwhelmingly hot he nearly passed out. It was other things too, though. It felt like forgiveness, and like friendship, and like hope.

The job was long and hard, and Eames and Arthur fell back into their usual way of working together. They challenged each other, irritated each other, and were occasionally so damn mad at one another that they didn’t speak for a day or two. Several times, though, especially after rows, Arthur found drawings on his desk--mostly innocuous, including a great, cartoonish half-scribbled pen drawing of a fuming Renn--but twice, pictures of himself. They were just impressions, the curve of his arched back, his tensed thighs, his parted lips. Parts of him Eames never would have known before.

“So,” Arthur asked, holding up the latest drawing, a quick penciling of the curve of his hip and the small of his back, barely detailed, recognizable only because Arthur knew who drew it. “Am I supposed to be displaying these, then?”

Eames laughed, running his hands down the back of Arthur’s jacket and over his ass. “I think you have that on display already.”

Arthur shook his head, fond and still a bit disbelieving.

“Arthur, you may put anything I draw up anywhere in your lovely home,” Eames said with mock seriousness. “If you would like me to do a series of six foot penises for your front hall, I would be honored.”

Arthur snorted. “I’m going to have to pass on that.”

Eames shook his head. “Your loss.”

Arthur tilted his face to see Eames more clearly, letting the drawing fall from his hand. “Eames, are we doing this now? After this job, when I go back to California, am I going to be putting these pictures up and trying to get them to tell me where you went?”

Eames pulled him close, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s waist. “I have no intention of going anywhere,” he said seriously. “I’m in this now. And if you’re not, you’d best tell me already.”

“No,” Arthur said softly. “I’m in this too. I am only just starting to know you, finally.” He reached out and smoothed a finger over Eames’ stubble. “All I want is to know more.”

Eames smiled. “Good,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. “I’ve got so much more to show you.”