Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face, looking down at his computer. “No.”

“You haven’t even heard me out,” Eames said, sitting on the edge of his desk. He leaned over, as if to peer at what Arthur was doing that was taking up so much of his attention. 

“I know that this idea is outrageously stupid, and the last time I listened to one of your ideas, someone shaved my head,” Arthur said flatly. He was still sort of pissed about the shaved head thing, even if he claimed he was over it. Growing hair took far longer than he ever thought. 

Eames reached over to tug at a lock of hair that had freed itself from Arthur’s slicked back and gelled hair. “Darling—”

“You can’t just call me that and expect me to agree,” Arthur said, looking up into Eames’ eyes. As he looked up at him he knew one thing was for certain: it didn’t matter the hairbrained plan or how stupidly ridiculous the situation was, he was going to agree. The charm and the looks were enough for his heart to beat a little harder in his chest. Masking it with plain words and sarcasm could only get him so far when he could feel himself wanting to do anything for Eames. 

“But what if I told you that you’d benefit too, hm?” Eames said, walking his fingers along the desktop towards Arthur’s hand. “I need a date for my mum’s 70th birthday party, mostly so that my family stops trying to set me up with a bunch of lawyer prats from London, and you need someone to take to that family barbeque to ward off that little girl who is obsessed with you,” Eames said, as if this was entirely obvious. 

The mention of Cassie gave Arthur a pause. She was the youngest daughter of his mom’s best friend, and while he had made it explicitly clear that he was gay (the rainbow socks and rainbow mug were somehow not enough of a hint), she still attempted to ask him out to drinks every time he saw her. While he understood a bit of the obsession, considering he was the only kid from their particular group who was still single, he was not going to date someone he grew up with. And she was female. 

“I don’t want to torture her,” Arthur said plainly, leaning back in his chair. He looked Eames up and down, the way that his bulk was perched on the desk as if he belonged there. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the licks of tattoos that spilled over onto his forearms. The same forearms that Arthur wished were bracketing him in, shoving him against a wall.

“Not torture, just hand holding in her backyard and a clear note that you are interested in males specifically,” Eames said, clasping his hands together. 

“Why can’t you go to your mom’s birthday alone?” Arthur asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He was unsure of this entire situation, particularly since he was not the kind to lie to parents. Ever. 

“I already told her I was bringing someone. And she might have mentioned you…” Eames trailed off, the rest of his words lost to a mumble. 

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You told her that you were bringing me.”

“She likes you!” Eames said, shrugging as if the entire thing was out of his control. “She was far too excited at the thought of you trudging your way to England for her, and she already had sent off for my old room to be prepped for us.”

“Prepped for us? Is she going to stock it up with lube and condoms, and a great big sign that says ‘Thank you for fucking my son?’” Arthur asked. He looked at Eames skeptically, appraising the expression on his face. 

“I cannot believe you’d say that about my mother,” Eames said, holding up a hand as if gasping. “She’s a demure woman—”

“Who tried to grope my ass when I met her. I remember that very clearly,” Arthur interrupted, reminding Eames of the one and only time that he had met the dashing Mrs. Eames. 

“She’s a poor old lady,” Eames said, pouting his lip out. 

“She knew what she was doing,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes. He moved back to his computer, checking over the final copy of the newest book to leave their publishing house, some romance novel that Arthur could care less about. He could feel Eames’ eyes on him as he attempted to work, but clearly ignoring the man was not going to do anything. 

He had known him for almost five years now, with Eames working in the illustrators gallery next door. He could tell Eames’ faces apart, even in their most subtle forms. His left eyebrow always hitched higher when he was lying, and any stress could be seen in the way that he held his mouth. He was so readable, even when he didn’t want to be. Even when no one else knew what was going on in his brain. 

He was clearly stressed, and clearly telling the truth. Arthur knew that much. 

“I’ll go,” Arthur conceded, not looking up from his computer. “Just this once, and you owe me an appearance at a barbeque. Then that’s it.” Arthur reached up to rub his temples, already thinking of the headache he was going to get from the entire fiasco. “Text me the details so I can buy a flight there.”

“Oh, darling, how ever can I repay you?” Eames said, clutching one hand to his heart like the drama queen that he was. He quickly scribbled down something onto a spare post it note, tossing the pen back into the pen cup before sauntering out of the office, whistling to himself. He seemed pleased as punch. 

To be fair, this particular arrangement was not all bad; they were both totally and wholly married to their work. They both consistently worked through lunch, and frequently were the last to leave the office. Eames would stay to work on some illustration or design— changing subtle lines until it was perfect— while Arthur would stay behind to read an edited book cover to cover. The two of them were perfect workaholics, and likely why they got along so well. Or rather, “well”, considering their own smarmy way of bantering. 

His mother had asked him no less than five times in the past year about his dating life. Four of those times were to set him up with some eligible single person that was a child of one of her friends. The gaggle of women seemed to insist that Arthur was both straight, and willing to date a southern socialite. 

There was a reason he moved to Chicago.

And, fine, he had thought about dating more recently. And had attempted a few dates. He was not the kind of person to take this sort of thing laying down. The last three men he had attempted to date were: a closet case, more interested in Bath and Body Works than Arthur, and a yoga instructor. All were red flags in Arthur’s case, even if the flexibility thing was sort of fun for a hot minute. 

There was only one problem with pretending with Eames: he sort of had feelings for him. 

Not in that dramatic, crush-like way where it was all consuming. He was keenly aware of what Eames looked like and how he flirted, and the terms of endearment were sort of catchy. His attraction was more like a pan on the back burner, simmering out of the way of the more important aspects of his life. He didn’t have to think about it too much. 

He was a professional, and he was good at his job. He could extrapolate those skills into becoming the perfect boyfriend for Eames, and the perfect partner in crime to fool both of their families and lives. He could do that. He was self sacrificial. 

The mere thought had Arthur dropping his head into his hands. Being royally fucked was only a part of this situation. He’d figure out the rest.

Chapter Text

Arthur was perfectly fine with flying. He did it fairly frequently (at least once a year), and was not the kind of person to be disturbed by turbulence. He actually liked the sensation of taking off and landing. His only complaint, when he flew alone, was sitting anywhere but the aisle seat. He had an old soccer injury that had his left knee aching if he sat in the same cramped position for too long. 

Flying with Eames was a whole other situation entirely. 

He was talkative, which was to be expected. But he didn’t purely talk to Arthur, he talked to everyone . The woman in the seat next to them, the man in the seat in front of them, and every stewardess who happened by. He would smile his utterly charming smile, and everyone would be melting in his presence. 

Arthur was the kind of person to watch the in flight movie or sleep, not talk relentlessly and then devour the in flight meal as if it were fine dining. His elbow kept connecting with Arthur’s in the small seats, and after keeping Arthur distracted and not paying attention to the movie, he fell asleep. 

That was perfectly fine too, until he tipped over and laid his head on Arthur’s shoulder. His soft snores were enough to keep Arthur still, tipping his seat back and watching the movie while the rest of the passengers slipped off to sleep themselves. Even the talkative woman in the window seat had fallen asleep, leaving Arthur alone on the plane. 

When they landed, Arthur had not slept for nearly 22 hours, and he was ready to fall into a hotel room and pass out for a few hours before traveling to Manchester. Their stopover in Amsterdam was sort of a hassle, all things considering. He had wanted to stop over in New York, maybe get some sort of work done while he was there. Instead he was stuck in Amsterdam for the next three hours while they waited for their connecting flight. 

“Let’s get some food, maybe some coffee for the next flight,” Eames said cheerily, wheeling both Arthur’s and his carry on behind them. His garish shirt, while charmingly effective for in-flight conversations, was not the sort of thing that was easy on Arthur’s eyes as they walked through the airport towards their next flight. 

“Sleep,” Arthur murmured angrily. He tugged his jacket closer around him, trying to enjoy the few moments of walking that they had so he could stretch his legs. His knee was bothering him, just enough to have him limping a half step behind Eames. He wished he could have nodded off, like Eames had. If only for an hour. 

“Oh, darling, you didn’t mention you were a bad flyer,” Eames said, pausing to look at Arthur. “I can get us something spectacular while you sit and wait for the next flight, hm?”

Arthur scowled at him. “I’m not a bad flyer. I just have a routine , which was disrupted by a certain someone talking to me about pigments and Anish Kapoor, of all people.” Arthur ran a hand over his hair, the loose curls falling down over his forehead. “Did I need to know that much about the Bean? Or the rivalry between Kapoor and Stuart Temple? No. I really did not.”

“Ah,” Eames said, pulling them up to the next gate. He pressed Arthur down into one of the seats, leaving their bags next to him. He ran a hand over Arthur’s head, despite the glare, and smiled down at him. “I’ll grab breakfast.”

“It’s lunchtime,” Arthur grumbled. He’d accept breakfast anyways, but only if it were pancakes. Or perhaps a really good parfait. 

He barely noticed Eames returning until a warm cup was pressed into his hand. He tried to savor the feeling of Eames’ fingers on his skin, but he could feel himself blearily looking over at him. 

“Thanks,” Arthur murmured, lifting the cup to take a sip. He was entirely unsurprised about the hot chocolate that Eames had bought him. 

It was such an Eamesian thing to do; he had always bought Arthur what he needed rather than what he wanted. If they were getting coffees, he almost always bought Arthur something with chocolate. If they were out getting drinks, he got Arthur a vodka cranberry, knowing he liked that more than the whiskey he usually ordered. 

“Nowhere for pancakes, I’m afraid. But I brought back a chocolate chip muffin,” Eames said, dropping the pastry bag into his lap. 

Second best was still good enough, in Arthur’s eyes. 

“This is sufficient. I forgive you for your incessant talking,” Arthur said, kicking his foot out against Eames’ to let him know he was only joking. 

“You flatter me endlessly,” Eames said, grinning cheerfully. He tucked into his own food (some sort of tea drink and a bowl of pasta from somewhere), checking his phone as he ate. He laughed at whatever was on the screen, his cheeks rounding in the way that Arthur liked. 

He sipped his hot chocolate, waiting patiently for the next flight. He was going to sleep on this flight, even if it killed him. 

Eames seemed to be on the same page, if his restraint was anything to go by. There were several times when Eames took a breath as if to say something, only to turn away and swallow the words down. It left Arthur with less than an hour of a nap, but he blinked awake feeling far better than only a few hours early. He saved his muffin, and nibbled at it as they taxied the airplane into the Manchester airport. 

“Did you sleep well?” Eames asked carefully, as if attempting to gauge Arthur’s irritability. 

“Enough to not feel totally and completely awful,” Arthur said, yawning. He offered a soft smile to Eames, trying to let him know that he was perfectly fine and up for conversation. Even if it was a slightly more one-sided conversation. 

“Good. We have a full itinerary that my mother emailed,” Eames said, pulling out his phone. “She even sent a car.”

“She sent a car?” Arthur repeated sort of dumbly. He peeked over Eames’ shoulder at the itinerary, surprised at the detailed schedule. It was the sort of thing that Arthur would create. It was strange to think that Eames came from a family of organized people, and not purely a house of wonderfully garish chaos. 

“Apparently it’s dangerous to catch a taxi from the Manchester airport. Except that’s what I do when I visit alone,” Eames said, shaking his head. “She wants to make a good impression.”

Arthur sort of felt put out by this particular proclamation. He was okay with pretending to date when it was purely to keep each other’s parents off of their backs. It felt different when there were expectations, and when there was some level of care that was being taken to ensure compatibility and trust. 

“I can feel you worrying,” Eames murmured, looking down at his phone. He elbowed Arthur playfully, trying to get him to perk up a little bit more. 

“Not worrying. Just unsure,” Arthur said, as if that clarification made any difference. 

" About what?” Eames asked, leaning back in his seat. 

“If what we’re doing is okay. Like if we really should do this.”

Eames frowned, his forehead creasing as he looked at Arthur. He was so open with his expressions when he wanted to be, it was strange to bare witness to. He was so clearly concerned about Arthur, and his total well being. He was glad he had such a good friend. 

“My mother will be positively tickled, and when things don’t work out romantically, she’ll be pleased as punch that you’re my closest friend instead,” Eames said, as if the answer wras obvious. “No pressure. Because there is none.”

“Yeah?” Arthur asked. The rustle of everyone clambering to get off of the plane started, almost drowning out his voice. 

Eames leaned in close, his eyes shining blue in the light of the plane. He looked so gorgeous, which was not helping Arthur’s worried heart whatsoever. “Darling, it’ll be alright.” 

He immediately jumped into action, unbuckling to get off of the plane. It was a clear assertion that the conversation was over, and everything was settled. Even if Arthur still felt a nervous pang as Eames leaned across him into the aisle, trying to make sure no one was going to touch their carry on bags.

Chapter Text

Arthur had to admit, the car to Eames’ mother’s house was sort of a nice perk he hadn’t really thought about. He didn’t realize that she lived far enough away from Manchester for a taxi to be cumbersome, and he had sort of assumed that Eames would magically convince some cabbie to take them anywhere. He did that all the time in Chicago. 

“I didn’t realize you were rich,” Arthur murmured, tilting his head back against the soft leather seats. He could almost fall asleep in the car. 

“Not rich. We’re from old money,” Eames corrected, as if that distinction made any difference. “Land owners from a long time ago accrued fortunes and now we’re merely profiting off of it,” Eames added. 

“Sure thing, Lord Eames,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes. 

“We have a duke and a lord in my family tree somewhere,” Eames said, waving his hand around as if this was completely normal information to learn and accept. He seemed unphased by his own words. 

“What the fuck,” Arthur said dryly, turning to look at Eames. “How come this hasn’t become relevant before?”

Eames half shrugged, as if trying to wave off this entire experience. “It’s honestly not a big deal.” 

Instead of pushing further, Arthur pulled back. He could see something at the edges of Eames’ expression, something that made him pause. There were very few times that Eames was ever truly reserved: when he was trying not to impose on someone; when he was angry or frustrated; when he was embarrassed (which was a rare occasion); or when he had little to no interest in divulging more information. This was the last situation. 

“Do I have enough time to nap,” Arthur murmured, trying to turn his brain off. Even if he wanted to think about the fact that Eames was royalty and had never mentioned anything before. 

“No,” Eames said, taking out his drawing tablet. He powered it up, humming as he pulled up some file to work on. 

“I don’t have enough time to nap, but you have enough time to work on a drawing?” Arthur asked, glancing over at him sleepily. He could still feel the tiredness tugging at his eyeballs, even with his power nap giving him an extra boost. 

“I’m only editing something before sending it off to be approved,” Eames said, tapping his drawing pen against the tablet. “They want to change the color blue from a cerulean to more of a cyan,” Eames elaborated, as if that made anything any more clear. 

Arthur let his head loll back, closing his eyes. “I don’t know colors.”

“Sure you do, darling. You’re very precise about colors when matching your ties and socks,” Eames drawled, not bothering to look up from his tablet. When he was a bit smarmy with an attitude like that, Arthur couldn’t help but feel a little pang in his chest. He liked the way his voice sounded. 

“Shut up,” Arthur said lightly. 

“Only for you, since you’re clearly tired with that come back,” Eames said. He started whistling instead, which was a far worse offense than his words. 

Arthur tried to tune it out, letting the smooth movement of the car lull him into a soft doze. He wasn’t quite asleep, but his brain was quiet and his body was relaxed. That was enough to rejuvenate him and make him a tolerable companion for dinner. He’d still have to turn in early, with the way he was running on fumes. 

When they rolled up to the gated compound that was Eames’ parents house, it put any conceptions of wealth that Arthur originally had to shame. 

The pale stone walls lead up to a wrought iron gate. In the middle of the gate was a swirled circle with the letter E at the center, done beautifully. He had forgotten that Eames was actually the last name, and that his Eames refused to be called by his first name, which was totally fine. 

As they drove inside, the manor was set back from the gate. It was all white, rising out of the ground as if it were some sort of pearly white tooth; it was perfect beyond conception. There were columns flanking a large front door, and a small rounded turn for the car to drop them off in front of the house. As they approached, the proportion of the house to the car was incredible. Arthur had never felt truly dwarfed by a place of residence before. 

“You’re rich-rich,” Arthur said, looking up at the house. 

“You could say that,” Eames said, looking sort of sickly at the sight of his house. 

“And you live in that shitty apartment on the south side,” Arthur said, glancing at Eames. “You could afford a place closer to work.” Arthur said that sort of presumptuously. Eames’ parents could be managing finances carefully, but based on their need to see their son, he doubted that they were holding back anything. 

“I’m not a fan of material possessions,” Eames said, tucking his drawing tablet away. That was one fact about Eames that Arthur really did know. They had gone shopping together all of three times over the last five years of friendship, and even during those short trips, Arthur had realized how little emphasis money had in Eames’ life. He always went for off brand products, and he preferred thrifting his clothes far more than buying new. 

He lived like an average person. Which was why the extravagance of the house alone had Arthur almost gaping. 

“And to think that my mom had money,” Arthur murmured. 

They got out of the car, the driver pulling their bags out for them. A butler came up to grab the bags for them, sweeping into the house ahead of them. Likely to prepare for their entrance. The fact that they didn’t receive fanfare at this point was surprising. 

“And now you know why I hate money,” Eames murmured into Arthur’s ear, watching the maids and servants snap to attention as they walked into the house. 

It was sort of disconcerting, the way that they behaved. Arthur was used to a level of money, but his money was new money. Made by his father in the record business in Birmingham, his familial money was new. He wasn’t bloated with egotism yet. 

Eames seemed to shrink slightly as he stepped into the house, as if he were merely a smaller and more reserved version of himself. “Mother,” he greeted, sweeping her up into his arms.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you Digby,” Eames’ mother said, her voice quiet. She wrapped her son up in a hug, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “It’s always too long without you.”

“ Digby ?” Arthur mouthed, catching Eames’ attention over the shoulder of his mother. 

“And I you,” Eames responded, smoothing a hand over her shoulder. 

And I you ? This was the sort of proper English that Eames never bothered using. It was as if he was transforming in front of Arthur’s eyes. He acted more reserved when Georgianna, his mother, had visited him in Chicago. They had gone to lunch together and he had acted quieter, like a shade of himself. But he did not act anywhere near as reserved as now. The manor, where Eames was brought up, changed a part of him. He was bound together by an unspoken word. 

Arthur sort of liked the Eames that felt free, at home. 

“And Arthur!” Eames’ mother said, sweeping Arthur up into a similarly tight and quiet hug. She was warm and smelled faintly of cinnamon, as if she was just baking something in the kitchen. Even though Arthur doubted that she baked at all. She had a softness to her, even with her far too proper attire. She looked ready for a tea party, not for an everyday appearance. 

“It’s a pleasure to be inside your home, Georgianna” Arthur said, making sure to embrace her tightly. 

“Oh, such a gentleman,” she said, pulling away. She held Arthur out at arm’s length, examining him from head to toe. “Just as handsome as I remember. And now my dear Digby has you in his grasps.”

“He wore me down,” Arthur said, smiling politely to appease Eames’ mother. 

“Come along,” she said. She pulled Arthur along by the hand, sliding their palms together. “Now that we are further acquainted, I insist you call me Georgie. That’s what all my closest companions call me,” she added. She let go of Arthur’s hand to pat his butt. 

Arthur looked at Eames over the top of Georgie’s head. He rolled his eyes, and Eames smirked in response. Eames’ smirk clearly said she likes you more than me , while Arthur was merely trying to convey how right he was regarding the attention to his butt on this trip. 

“Mum, do you even care that I’m here? You’re turning sixty, and you don’t seem to care at all,” Eames said, almost pouting at her. He seemed to relax now that they were in his mother’s presence, instead of being let loose on the manor as a whole. He still was tight, held together, but his shoulders were slumped in his relaxed state. 

He knew that Eames adored his mother. He called her when he could, but especially in the mornings when the time difference wasn’t so bad. He had caught Eames a few times, standing outside of their offices eating his breakfast and talking to his mother. He’d even been with Eames when his mother would call out of the blue, and he’d dutifully answer and cajole with her. He loved her dearly, and it was so evident by the way he smiled at her. 

“I’ve known you for thirty-two years of your life, and I certainly will know you for the rest. It’s dear Arthur whom I need to talk to,” Georgie said, patting Arthur’s hand. “When I met him stateside, I had only considered him as a dear friend. But now that you two are romantically involved, it’s a whole other rigorous process.”

When she said rigorous, she likely meant it. She was not someone to make jokes, and the implications of some sort of process into dating Eames sounded almost as exhausting as Arthur’s family. 

“Mum, you cannot have him paddle across the lake like you did to Jeremy—”

“I can do whatever I want,” Georgianna interrupted, cutting Eames off. She let go of Arthur to hook her arm into Eames’, pressing against him gently. “Do you not want the best for yourself? How else am I to parse it out?”

“I don’t want to embarrass Arthur,” Eames said quietly, looking intently at his mother. 

“If he’s embarrassed, then he is not the right one,” Georgie said firmly. 

For being in the room, Arthur certainly did not feel as if he was a part of this conversation where he was the subject. It was strange to be talked about while he was standing and listening, but he supposed that was how the Eames’ worked. They added jabs to a person purely by discussing them in the same room as any deliberation. 

When he had met Eames’ mother before, they all had dinner together at a very nice restaurant downtown. She had insisted on paying, and looked very much like a prim and proper mother would look. She almost out-fancied Arthur; he had come straight from work, and the suit he had worn that day was almost not fancy enough for her tastes. Her expensive tastes seemed strange in contrast with Eames’ DIY attitude, but her severity was starting to reveal more about Eames’ character. 

The way he shied away from her while looking for her attention. That was something that Arthur couldn’t help but notice. He sort of wanted to see what Eames at 100% would look like around her, all things considering. 

“Georgie, I assure you that I have only the best intentions with your son,” Arthur said politely, interjecting. He could see the way that stress had settled on Eames’ shoulders, making him tense and snippier than usual. 

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Georgianna said, taking Arthur’s hand in her own. “I’m more afraid that he’ll get bored and dump you faster than you could say ‘why’.” 

Arthur winced at the harshness of her words. When he glanced at Eames, he seemed to flinch back from his mother, hesitant to remain in her space. This was the mother that Eames loved but “couldn’t stand to be around”, as he usually said when she was brought up. No child could be around a parent like this. 

He was not going to call Georgianna a bad mother. But she was a bad mother, in Arthur’s eyes. 

“I’ve known Eames for a long time, and I’ve seen him with other relationships. I know he’s a good guy who does a lot more than drop people who are good for him. Without him leaving his other relationships, then I wouldn’t have the opportunity to be with him now,” Arthur said, patting Georgianna on the back of the hand, as if attempting to calm a feral cat. 

“And that is why I trust you with my son,” Georgianna said, pulling her hand from Arthur’s. That felt like the final word. 

She led her way into the kitchen, leaving the two of them to trail behind her. 

“Sorry,” Eames murmured in Arthur’s ear, walking too close to him as they entered the kitchen, seeing the spread of food laid out for their welcome. 

“We’ll talk later,” Arthur mumbled. He knocked shoulders with Eames to attempt to convey his own support in the matter. He knew this couldn’t be easy, and if the horror stories (and lack of details) regarding Eames’ past relationships were true, then Arthur was getting the same treatment. 

His eyes tracked Eames as he circled his mom, his hand brushing her shoulder and cajoling a laugh out of her. This version of Eames seldom came out back home; this was the Eames that Arthur saw when he was in a particularly bad mood. Right before a deadline, Eames would tiptoe into his office, gently pulling smiles out of him purely to see him happy again. 

He always tried to indulge in Eames’ musings when he was in this particular mood, because he would rather be laughing because of Eames than a stick in the mud because he was stressed. He had no idea that Eames’ behavior was based on intense real experience, that his small moments were based on his relationship with his mom. It was hard to see him like this, and with her barely laughing at whatever he said. 

Arthur might be biased based on his own affections, but he found that Eames was easy to laugh with. He was easy to get along with and smile around, because it was hard to be in a bad mood when Eames was in a good one. It broke Arthur’s heart to see the way he interacted with his mom, fighting for even a shred of affection and attention. 

“Hey, baby,” Arthur said quietly, knowing his words would catch the attention of Eames’ mother. He was slightly concerned at how easily they slipped from his mouth. “I was going to lay down after lunch. Do you mind?” 

Eames’ eyes were tight from his conversation with his mother. He couldn’t tell if that was the right move, but he figured that any time Eames spent where they had something to discuss (see Arthur and their relationship), then Eames would have a far better time with his mother. 

“Of course, darling,” Eames said, reaching out to run a hand down Arthur’s arm, soft and warm from shoulder to wrist. “Let me get us some plates.”

Arthur could feel Georgie’s eyes on him as he moved within Eames’ space, and could almost see the way they narrowed as Arthur let his shoulder brush against Eames as they plated food for themselves. He was sure to take an even amount of vegetables, bread, and cheese. Eames was far too heavy on the bread part, but Arthur was not the kind of person to correct his diet.

They sat at the small breakfast nook in the kitchen, Georgie grabbing only a small piece of bread on a plate for herself. Always the gracious hostess, indulging in the meal without actually eating anything. A plate of food only to allow an ease of everyone eating at once. 

“So, tell me more about your work. I’m sure it’s far less boring than my dear Digby says it is,” Georgie said, picking absently at her piece of bread with a manicured nail. 

Arthur let himself launch into a spiel about the details of being an editor for a publishing house. He could see the way that he drew Georgie’s attention, with her eyes only flicking away from his face to glance at where Eames’ was staring raptly at Arthur. He usually disliked the attention on himself, but he felt as if the tension between the three of them was high enough as is, and providing a distraction to diffuse the situation was necessary. 

He had barely eaten as he rambled on, but he wasn’t hungry. He was more tired than anything, and based on the way that Eames nudged his foot against Arthur’s under the table, he was probably alright to escape for a nap. 

“Mum, if it’s alright, I was going to show Arthur to our room? I kept him up the whole flight here, and I want him to get a bit of sleep before dinner tonight,” Eames said, his hands tucked into his lap politely. 

To see Eames curled in on himself was strange in itself. 

“Oh, I’m sorry to keep you up,” Georgie said, smiling at Arthur. She patted his hand gently, as if giving him permission to leave. “I’ll be out on the terrace.” She swept away from the table, her heels clicking gently on the floor. 

When she was out of sight, Eames sighed, physically deflating. He stared at the tabletop for a moment eyes unfocused. He then picked himself back up, being far more like the Eames that Arthur was used to. 

“Let’s go find our room,” Eames said. He stood, waiting for Arthur to follow, before walking out of the room and down the long hallway. 

Arthur let them be silent until they walked up a staircase to the second floor, the elegantly decorated manor spreading out before them. He couldn’t help but note that Eames seemed out of place here: his gaudy shirt and his loud attitude did not match the quiet hum of the building or the severity of his mother. 

“You love your mother, but she doesn’t seem to—” Arthur paused, trying to find the right word for it. 

“Love me as much?” Eames continued, filling in the blank that Arthur had left. He only looked straight ahead as he said this, his steps slowing slightly. His hands clenched at his sides, as if trying to diffuse some of his energy. 

“Not quite that. It’s as if she loves who she wants you to be, not who you are,” Arthur said, looking down. He could feel how tired he was now that they were separated from her, how he wanted to fall asleep and how it was affecting his words. “I don’t mean to be rude.”

Eames shook his head, pressing his lips together. “I love her, and she loves who I was as a child. She seems to accept more and more of me as the years go on, but I keep changing.” Eames took a deep breath, gesturing for them to enter a room towards the end of the hall. “I can’t help it.”

The sadness in his voice, the way it stayed small on those last words, was so telling. There was a level of emotion behind his words that Arthur wasn’t sure if he really wanted to share, let alone spill while he was in his mother’s manor and under her roof. Eames paused at the door of the room, letting Arthur into the rest of the room. 

“This was your room as a child?” Arthur asked, stepping into it. 

He could see a teenage Eames in this room. The walls were a deep royal blue, and the four poster bed was ornate and a deep oak color. There was a simple light blue set of sheets on the bed with a few paisley decorative throw pillows. At the foot of the bed was a small bench, a deep velvet blue that matched the walls. The rest of the room was a deep rich brown, including the floors. It was a dark room, one for brooding. 

The evidence of Eames’ teenage years was in the guitar in the corner, covered in stickers and a little worse for wear. Behind the guitar was a small corkboard, filled to the brim with all sorts of pictures and drawings; there were so many polaroids of Eames and his school friends that intermingled with drawings of the same school friends. 

“This all that’s left of your life here?” Arthur asked, crossing to the cork board, eager to see this small piece of Eames. 

“All that my mother wanted to keep in here. The rest of it went into storage or stateside with me,” Eames said, staying at the doorway. 

“Why wouldn’t she want to keep this part of you, the youthful part? My mom still has some of my clothes from middle school somewhere,” Arthur said, reaching up as if to touch the pictures. He stopped short, letting his fingers ghost just before the photos. He was so tired, but he couldn’t help but look at young Eames, so happy and carefree in the photos. 

“She got very angry when I came home with my first tattoo,” Eames said. He said this quietly, as if this was a reserved memory, not for telling to others. 

Arthur only nodded, knowing that he shouldn’t push on this matter. He crossed to the bed, noticing their luggage sitting beside the bed, nearest to the door that Arthur assumed was the closet. He glanced at Eames over the bed, watching the way that he was stretched out in the doorway. 

“I like seeing you like this. Relaxed. It feels so much more like you,” Arthur said. As the words were slipping out of his mouth, he knew that they were revealing far too much about him. He hoped that the longing wasn’t evident in his voice, the longing that he tried to keep balled up in the back of his mind. He glanced down, almost afraid to look Eames in the eye for the fear that it would reveal too much about himself. 

“I didn’t used to put up a front with her,” Eames said quietly, voice tinged with sadness. “I’m glad I can be me around you.” He watched from the other side of the room, hands tucked into his trouser pockets, eyes soft as he looked at Arthur. “Take a nap. I’ll come get you before dinner.”

With that, Eames was gone, down the hall and back towards his mother. Back towards the farce he had to put up.

Chapter Text

The dinner went far more smoothly than before. Apparently whatever conversation that Eames had with his mother while Arthur was sleeping was enough to have her smiling at him, patting his hand in a friendly way and laughing at his jokes. Whatever was wrong had blown over. Arthur was grateful for that. 

The dinner was also eased with the presence of Eames’ father, Reginald. The man insisted that he be called “Papa Reg,” but Arthur was hesitant to call anyone any sort of nickname of “father.” It was his own particular issues, not any of the Eames' faults. He allowed himself to call him Reg, which was as far as he would go with the nickname scenario. 

“It’s been so long since our dear Digby has brought home someone that we liked,” Georgie said after dinner, as they were tucking into some whiskey by the fireplace in the grand room. 

“Or anyone at all!” Reg teased, leaning over to pinch at his son’s arm. 

Eames looked particularly uncomfortable at this proclamation, and he was not the kind to embarrass easily. He clearly had memories of past experiences that were severely tainted by his parents. 

“I’ve been single for quite some time too, so I think it’s sort of fitting that we’re together now,” Arthur said, holding his whiskey tightly. He tried not to think of how stiff Eames was next to him. If they really liked him as much as Eames said they did, then they would have to listen to Arthur’s perspective. “We’ve both been married to our work for the last few years that we’ve ignored the romantic aspects of our lives. But lunches together turn into dates, and suddenly we’re wrapped into each other as much as work.”

Georgie held a hand to her chest, as if somehow emotional about what Arthur had just said. Reg seemed equally emotionally moved, despite Arthur’s attempt at the bare minimum. 

“Darling, I think you’ve broken them,” Eames said, sliding an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, pulling him into him. 

They began to talk about one of Eames’ brothers, who were apparently arriving tomorrow for the birthday party, discussing his marriage and the woman that he was dating. It gave Arthur a spare moment to lean back into Eames, relaxing into his grip. 

“That should not have impressed them,” Arthur murmured, sipping at his whiskey. 

“You have a way with words. Spinning things together,” Eames said, clearly referencing the on-the-fly creation of their backstory. He rubbed his hand over the ball of Arthur’s shoulder, watching the conversation in front of them, acting as if he was paying attention. 

“What sort of shit partners have you brought home that lowered the bar that much?” Arthur muttered. His own curiosity got the best of him. He had never seen Eames date, outside of a few short flings early in their friendship. He had a feeling he was not getting the full picture. 

“Are you insulting my dating tastes?” Eames asked, raising his eyebrows slightly.

“Just wondering why you’d date anyone so disasterly when you’re you,” Arthur said, half shrugging, even with Eames’ arm wrapped around his shoulders. 

“What’s that supposed to—” Eames started. He glanced up at his parents, noticing their open stares at them. “Sorry, we were just talking about how lovely the fire is,” Eames said smoothly, covering up for their slightly strange conversation that would likely derail the night. 

“We were discussing retiring to our rooms for the night,” Georgie said, her voice polite if not tinged with amusement at their behavior. “Breakfast will be served at 9am sharp. And it is my birthday, Digby, so I expect promptness and good behavior.”

“Yes, mum. I will have Arthur set an alarm,” Eames said, sliding his arm away from Arthur. He got up to kiss his mother on the cheek, murmuring his goodnight to her. He placed a hand on his father’s shoulder, saying his goodnight to him too.

Arthur repeated the process, being as polite as possible. 

  Now that he had walked over to Eames’ room, the walk this time seemed much shorter. Both of them were content in walking in silence after an evening of discussion. Even Eames was quiet, and he typically had things to say, even if conversation was sparse. He was the kind of guy who talked to Arthur purely to talk, purely because he wanted to express himself at all times.  

“Are you happy we’re back here?” Arthur asked, glancing down at his feet as he walked. He could almost feel the way that Eames bristled beside him, clearly uncomfortable with this line of communication. 

In all of their years as friends, they hadn’t really talked about their home lives or any deeper details like that. They shared lunches at least once a week, and annoyed each other at work otherwise. Their relationship had started as pestering and needling and talking based on proximity, but now they hung out in situations outside of work, and frequently found themselves talking for companionship. 

It was weird to think that Arthur had disliked him at first. Or at all. 

“It’s nice to be back with someone else,” Eames said thoughtfully. “Things will be smoother when my brothers arrive tomorrow for the party.”

“Three of them, right?” Arthur asked, trying to recall their names. He knew very little about them, but he knew they all stayed in England. It was only Eames who became the black sheep of the family, moving to the states. 

“Bernard, Harold, and Thomas,” Eames said, gesturing for Arthur to walk first into the bedroom. “Only Thomas is younger than me, but he just got married, which throws off the entire balance.”

Arthur watched as Eames stripped off his belt and shirt, kicking off his shoes at the bedside. He dropped his clothes wherever he walked, leaving them strewn across the room. Based on the casualness of the action, Arthur figured this was how he acted all the time. 

“I really like being back here. Reminds me of playing footie in the lawn and my brothers and I teasing the security guards into letting us drive their golf carts around,” Eames said, shrugging. “Mum always grills me when I’m alone with her, and while I love her, she seems to find more flaws with me when she can see me in person instead of a voice over the phone.”

“Sorry,” Arthur said, not really sure what to say. He could relate to that; his own mother was far easier to deal with at a distance, where she couldn’t make embarrassing comments or attempt to lure him into her southern circle of mcmansions and revoltingly close friend groups. 

“It’s okay,” Eames said quietly. He grabbed something from his bag, heading into the bathroom. 

Arthur followed him absently, kicking his shoes off near the bed. “Is it though? Is it okay?” He started to unbutton his shirt, watching as Eames got out his toothbrush. 

His words seemed to cause Eames to pause, staring down into the sink. He took a deep breath as if to say something, but no words left his mouth. He instead sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Maybe it’s not. But it’s the only way I know how to be around her.”

Arthur backed up and walked to his suitcase, leaving Eames alone. He wasn’t going to keep pushing him on this scenario, not when his own relationship with his mother was so complicated. The thing was, he cared about Eames more than Eames even knew. He wanted nothing but the best for him, and he was not lying when he said that. Seeing the stress and strain that Eames put himself through for a relationship with his mother was almost painful to see. 

He listened for Eames as he stripped naked quickly, slipping on a pair of soft pajama bottoms and skipping a shirt. He looked up to see Eames in the doorway of the bathroom, patting a towel over his freshly washed face. 

“I didn’t know you had that,” Eames said, gesturing towards Arthur’s ribs. There was a small script there, written in typewriter font. It was barely a smudge on Arthur, frequently covered, so the slight surprise in Eames’ voice was completely understandable. 

Arthur twisted, glancing down at his bare skin. “Yeah, got it right after my dad died.”

“What’s it say?” Eames asked, tossing the towel down behind him haphazardly. 

“ Take another road another time ,” Arthur said, his arm coming down to his side, covering most of the script. He hated when people asked about it, because he was not necessarily willing to share. He only shared with Eames because it was Eames , and Arthur had a certain want to be around Eames while naked. For other activities. 

“Does it mean anything?” Eames asked, watching Arthur pull out his toiletries from his suitcase. 

“It’s a song lyric,” Arthur said, pushing past Eames into the bathroom. His heart beat faster when his bare skin brushed up against Eames’ bare torso, but he was not going to put much merit into something like that. Maybe a few dozen thoughts, but no merit. 

“From what song?” Eames asked, his voice carrying through from the bedroom into the bathroom. 

“A Jimmy Buffet song,” Arthur mumbled, getting the water ready to wash his face. 

“What?” Eames called back to him. 

“A Jimmy Buffet song,” Arthur called back louder. He immediately started washing his face to avoid any sort of wild reaction that Eames was going to have. He could practically hear the way that Eames was vibrating out of his skin with curiosity in the doorway, only waiting for a captive person to answer all of his questions. 

“Darling, a Jimmy Buffet song? For your father? Margaritaville ?,” Eames asked, his eyebrows pulling together, looking at Arthur so skeptically it was as if Arthur was claiming to be a dragon. Or like horns had suddenly sprouted from his temples. 

Arthur grabbed his own toothbrush roughly, annoyed at this line of questioning. This was why he hated when people asked about the tattoo. Or even having people see it. He looked up at his face in the mirror, his tired face, and relaxed at his own expression. He looked dead set on being angry, a hardness in his jaw that he knew wasn’t typical of him. 

“My father was a producer for Jimmy Buffet. He worked to produce that song, as well as many others. Including Margaritaville . That was just the song that my father played the most out of all of Jimmy’s music, for whatever reason,” Arthur said, starting to brush his teeth. 

He could feel Eames’ eyes on him, which was not necessarily something he enjoyed. He usually let Eames stare, purely because denying it felt a little bit like kicking a puppy. He always had this look like he had been betrayed, and he was harmless anyways. Arthur reasoned that he stared because he was an illustrator, looking for emotions and expressions that would be particular to the moment. 

Arthur knew he had been drawn into a few of Eames’ last projects. Several of the last male characters, particularly for book covers, had the same smart slicked back dark hair and slender nose that Arthur had. He couldn’t ignore this. But he knew that Eames drew what he knew, and he stared at Arthur far more than anyone else in his life. 

“Don’t tell my mother about the tattoo. She’d skin me alive for being Jewish with a tattoo, even if we’re barely practicing,” Arthur joked, pushing all of his toiletries back into his bag, turning to leave the bathroom. 

“I didn’t know that about your father,” Eames said quietly, following Arthur back out into the bedroom proper. He walked over to the light switch, watching Arthur get tucked up into bed before turning it off, finding his way in the dark. 

“He died when I was in high school. I try not to think about it too much, because that was— it was hard for me back then,” Arthur said, pushing himself until he was laying flat, looking up at the barely visible scrolls of filigree on the dark wood crown molding at the top of the room, running like a border between the walls and the ceiling. He stared at it as Eames tucked himself into bed. 

It was the first time they’d be sharing a bed, and they were talking about Arthur’s dead dad. He sure knew how to pick good romantic night time conversations, when he had the man who he cared immensely about laying in bed next to him. 

They were silent for a few minutes, the only noise the sliding of sheets on skin as they adjusted themselves comfortably into the bed. Arthur was having a hard time relaxing because of the softness of everything, making him have to shift to not be swallowed up by the marshmallow of a bed. Eames seemed to purely be restless in his efforts to relax.

“You don’t talk about your family much” Arthur asked, the darkness of the night and the silence of their shared room providing the perfect landscape for such a serious question.“I know you talk to your mother, and I knew you had three brothers, but that was about it. I didn’t even know your father’s name, and I certainly didn’t know your brother’s.”

“It never came up,” Eames said simply, dismissively. 

“In all five years we’ve been friends, I’ve told you about my mother. About my sister. You’ve met Leah a handful of times. I’ve talked about a few of my cousins, the ones I like. But I don’t know that much about your family,” Arthur said. He was trying not to push to hard, becoming that investigative person who was prying rather than asking a genuine question. He couldn’t help but toe the line of just invasive enough remarks. 

“Leaving to move stateside was sort of controversial. But I did it for a reason,” Eames said, rolling over to lay flat on his back, mirroring Arthur. “It’s not everyday that you get offered a position overseas that limits the amount of interaction with your family in the best way. If I had stayed-- “ he swallowed, as if biding time for his own words. “I would have become just like my father. I would have resented my mother and hated my brothers if I stayed, but they feel like it’s a personal attack that I didn’t think to stay.”

“They don’t act like it,” Arthur said, confused. 

“But that’s family. They don’t act like they all hated when I moved, and then came around to the idea. My mother is darling, and I love her, but I know she still judges me because I date men and have tattoos and live in the US, being corrupted by American politics,” Eames said, folding his hands over his stomach. “I try not to think about it.”

“This seems like something that you’d boast about, this manor,” Arthur mused, knowing what every room looked like. 

“I’m not proud of my family,” Eames said. He took a deep breath, as if to say something, only to stop himself. It was as if he was thinking about his words before they came out of his mouth. That was such a different mode of Eames, one that Arthur has almost never had to see. To see Eames taken aback by anything, for any question to put him on pause, that was so different. 

“I’m not proud of the fact that my parents were particularly bigoted until I came out to them. I’m not proud of the fact that my father makes money screwing over people with his real estate deals and his inability to see beyond the money behind it. 

“I love my parents, and the support of them over the years. But I’ve done research into their history and the way that screwing over others has been a key part of their success. Learning that my distant relative was a part of a slave ship company, and that I have relatives deep in my family genealogy who were a part of colonizing Africa—” Eames cut himself off. 

This was not something that Arthur had mentally prepared for. He had assumed something similar to his own family situation; someone who did not approve of queer people, or of living a “non-traditional” life. And it sounded as if things were going that way, until he had mentioned the monetary aspect of it. 

He was certainly not expecting the acknowledgement of a deeply flawed history that provided the success they had till this day. To think that they were currently occupying land and using money that was gained because of the pain of others was too much to bear. He could see how aspects of his life piled up: his mother’s passive aggressive love, his parents lack of acceptance of his queerness, his father’s job as a professional asshole, and the knowledge that they were successful because they were white. He could see why Eames would strive to be as little of that as possible.  

“Oh,” Arthur said. It was really all he could say in response. 

“I don’t want to take the money because it’s dirty money. It’s fucked. And my family is perfectly content continuing the legacy of screwing others over for their own status and monetary gain. I can’t live like that, with such a narrow mind of what I’m supposed to look like to be successful”

The heaviness of the situation was not lost on Arthur. He slid his hand over to Eames in the bed, fumbling against his thigh for a moment before finding Eames’ hand, squeezing it gently as he held it. It was the only sort of comfort that Arthur really knew how to provide in the moment. He was unsure of his words in this respect.

“Sorry,” Eames said, turning towards Arthur, letting their hands separate. Arthur so badly wanted to grab his hand back, to hold it for real. “I shouldn’t have brought this up,” Eames continued. 

“It’s not your cross to bear,” Arthur said fiercely, turning to face him in bed. He could barely make out Eames’ features in the darkness of the room, but he so badly wanted to see what he looked like. To see what it would be like to share a bed with him. Arthur shook that thought from his brain. 

“But—,” Eames said, his voice quiet. 

“You are not at fault for the way you were raised. That was a fundamental lack of skill on your parent’s behalf, and your own life outside of their image does not make you anything less than you. It’s not up to you to judge your own merit based solely on your past,” Arthur said. 

Eames patted the bed in between them, sighing in a way that made Arthur’s heart lighten a little bit. It felt as if he was relaxing, letting this particular part not bother him right in this moment. “Darling, you always look out for me.”

“That’s my job,” Arthur said, smiling even though Eames couldn’t see him. 

It was moments like this where things blurred just enough that Arthur could really pretend that they were together. He could imagine Eames saying that to him as he pressed a kiss to the side of his head, or smiling as he took a plate of food off the counter. It was a phrase that would be bouncing around in Arthur’s head, making him wonder if he was doing enough to make Eames happy and taken care of. 

Moments like this happened when they were alone together, far too comfortable for being merely friends who worked in the same building. Like when Eames paid for his dinner because he was feeling generous and wanted to. Or when he slung his arm over Arthur’s shoulder playfully, squeezing the top of Arthur’s arm reassuringly. Or when they fell asleep on the couch together, always ending up piling together. 

He was so helplessly pathetic sometimes. Even when he was mad at Eames, or snarking back at him. He was still so helplessly pathetic.

Chapter Text

Arthur woke up after Eames. The other side of the bed was empty, and he couldn’t even hear the shower of the attached bathroom. In the large manor, Eames was as good as lost to Arthur’s unknowing eyes. 

He stretched, glancing around for some sort of clue or note. 

Eames’ drawing tablet was stacked on the bedside table underneath some sort of notebook, but neither thing looked as if it contained a note. There was a piece of loose leaf paper stuck between the tablet and the drawing pad, sticking out far enough for Arthur to see the gentle sweeps of a pencil on it. 

He was only going to check to see if it was a note, to save Arthur from his prison-like status stranded in the bedroom. He leaned across Eames’ side of the bed, ignoring how weird it felt to think about that. His fingers pulled at the sheet, pinching together as he tried to tug it loose. 

When he pulled it up, he was not expecting to see a sketch of him. 

It wasn’t an old one, from one of the many times that Eames had brought his drawing pad along to lunch for some light sketching of those around him. That notepad was larger, and he knew that it took much of Eames scrambling with it in his arms. This piece of paper, this sketchbook, was a smaller one. A sketchbook he hadn’t seen Eames with before. 

He looked down at the drawing, noticing the sweater he had worn earlier in the day, after they got off the plane. There was a slight smile to his mouth, contrasting with the slump of his shoulders. 

Arthur went to set it back on top of the notebook, underneath the tablet, as if he hadn’t pulled it out to look at it. Leaning across the bed, he had lifted the tablet with ease, but his hand bumped the notebook off of the nightstand as he tried to set the paper down just right. He winced at the noise of the sketchbook hitting the ground, opening to a random page. 

He got out of bed, rounding it to Eames' side to pick up the sketchbook and put it right back where it belonged on the nightstand. He lifted it up, glancing at the drawing as he moved to close it. But something made him pause. 

This drawing, like the other he pulled out before, was also of him. The one on the opposite page was him as well. These sketches had to be older, because they were from winter, when Arthur wore at least one more layer with his suits and a thick wool coat to trek around Chicago. He recognized his coat in the drawings. 

He flipped through absently, looking for sketches of anyone else. Page after page, changing seasons from fall to winter to spring, he caught images of himself over and over again. They were delicate sketches, with an emphasis on their unfinishedness, but it was undeniably Arthur. The faces were always more detailed than the body, his slicked back hair and his slim nose evident in every sketch. 

He quickly snapped it shut, placing it back onto the nightstand in the correct order from before. 

He was not going to think about the sketchbook full of his own face. Eames sketched him because of their proximity; they frequently went out to bars with each other, even if they were meeting their own respective friend groups. They had lunch together most days, and certainly spent more than enough hours with each other to warrant a level of casual proximity. 

They were friends. Friends were allowed to sketch each other. If that was not a rule of friendship, Arthur felt as if it should be. 

To put the sketchbook out of his mind, he quickly hopped into the shower. He would deal with that particular piece of information later, when he did not have a 60th birthday party to get ready for, and three of Eames’ brothers to meet.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was filled with various catering staff when Arthur went in search of breakfast and coffee. He waited around, taking his time getting ready for Eames to return, only to be sitting in the room and waiting for him. The need for coffee overruled the need to wait for Eames’ return. 

He stood, sort of aghast, at the entrance of the kitchen, watching the caterers start to set up whatever the food situation was for the party tonight. He could see the coffee machine on the countertop on the other side of the kitchen, a pot full of coffee. 

He felt someone come up behind him, standing just behind his shoulder. “Looking for the coffee?” the man asked, looming a little bit over Arthur. 

“Yeah,” Arthur said, in response. He turned to look at the man, recognizing parts of Eames’ face in his. “You must be one of Eames’ brothers.”

The man nodded. “Bernard. The oldest. But I go by Belly, even if mum refuses to accept that nickname,” the man said, holding out his hand politely for Arthur to shake. 

“Arthur,” Arthur said, giving him a firm handshake. 

“I know. I’ve seen pictures of you and Eamesie,” Belly said, giving Arthur a once over. “It’s no wonder why mum likes you. Your fashion is like something out of her own personal dreams. You dress like she wishes her sons would dress,” Belly added. 

Arthur glanced down at his outfit: smart jeans cut just so, a lavender button up with the sleeves rolled up, and a complimentary navy blue and lavender sweater vest. He thought he was dressing quite casual, all things considered, but he supposed that not everyone had an affinity for more formal clothing, if Belly’s worn t-shirt, torn jeans, and three day old scruff were anything to go by. 

“Sorry,” Arthur said, as if he were in a place to apologize. 

“No need. She’s turned her attention to my poor children, but they’re barely eight and ten themselves. They’re too busy getting their knees scraped and being absolute terrors,” Belly said, scratching at his chin. “I’ll get you a coffee. Cream and sugar?”

“Much appreciated. And none for me,” Arthur said. 

He watched as Belly elbowed his way through the caterers, pulling a mug out of a high cabinet and pouring out a cup. He grabbed a second cup for himself, liberally adding cream and sugar to the second. When he returned, he pressed the cup with cream and sugar into Arthur’s hands. 

“I didn’t—”

Belly waved his hand, as if waving the words away. “Nonsense. Eames mentioned that you like sweet things, even if you pretend not to,” Belly said. 

“Oh,” Arthur said. He wasn’t sure what to say in response. He was there as Eames’ partner, but he didn’t realize how much Eames talked about him previously. They were really good friends, if not the closest friend that Arthur’s had in a long time, but he hadn’t realized the extent to which Eames had talked to his family about him. He didn’t even think Eames talked to his oldest brother that frequently. 

“He tells mum things, and she told us in preparation of you coming,” Belly said, clearing that up. He must have read something on Arthur’s face, a bit of an uncomfortable pinch in his brow. “We’re all sort of excited to have Eamesie bring home someone he really likes, instead of someone to spite mum. The last guy was a tattoo artist— ha! Gave mum a fright, but Eames dropped him so quickly after that.” 

This particular nugget of information was quickly filed in the back of Arthur’s mind. He hadn’t known Eames to date anyone for as long as they’d been friends, at least not long enough to warrant flying to England to meet the parents. He was not the jealous sort, but he wondered if he was somehow more or less special because he was brought home. 

Belly checked his phone beside Arthur. “Looks like everyone is on the terrace with breakfast. Let’s go.”

They walked down a fancy hallway, exiting out large grand doors that opened to a luxurious terrace. There were stones on the ground, small footsteps leading through the grass to the larger patio area. Under a trellis of wonderfully smelling flowers was a large glass table, with a modest breakfast spread and the rest of the Eames family sitting around it. 

“Darling! Did you get lost on the way here?” Eames asked, standing at the sight of Arthur. He gestured towards the seat next to him, as if he had obviously saved it for him. 

“Wasn’t sure where to go this morning,” Arthur said, shrugging. He took the seat next to Eames, the one directly across from Georgie, and set his coffee down. “I’m lucky I ran into Belly,” Arthur added. He let Eames pull his chair ridiculously close to his, far closer than appropriate. 

“Bernard, what have I mentioned about proper attire at the table?” Georgie said. Her hair was already styled perfectly, dressed to the nines. It was her birthday, and she gave no wiggle room for herself. 

Belly looked down at his clothes, the soft shirt and the worn jeans. “I was going to change after breakfast.”

The level of shame and disapproval coming from Georgie was palpable. It had the other brothers stilling, their wives at their sides glancing at each other. One of the wives made eye contact with Arthur across the table, eyes pinched like this was a regular occurrence. 

When Georgie wasn’t going to keep talking, the conversation around the table started again, albeit slowly. The kids were at their own table, most of them already running off to play on the back lawn together. The cousins seemed to know each other well, two older and two younger. 

“I’m Harry,” the tallest brother said, wrapping an arm around his wife, who had shockingly natural orange hair. “This is Caroline.” 

“The two orange haired monsters are ours,” Caroline said, pointing out the children running out of the terrace and into the lawns. One was a boy with shoulder length hair, the other a girl with her hair the same length as her brother’s. They looked happy, smiling wide with freckles on their noses. 

“Thomas,” the last brother said, clearly the youngest. He had a softness around his eyes that reminded Eames of when they first met, when the boyish chub in his face hadn’t melted to his mature charm. This brother, the one who was upsetting the natural order, had his arm around a mousy looking girl. Her dark hair fell like a curtain around her face. “This is Gemma.”

Arthur couldn’t help but wonder how a shy girl like Gemma passed inspection from Georgie. The slight girl had on a nice dress, which was likely the only reason why she was accepted into the fold. It seemed as if Georgie had a level of presentation she expected of her family. 

“It’s so nice to meet all of you,” Arthur said, letting Eames hold his shoulders. “Eames talks so fondly of home, and I’m glad to see the people who inhabit it.”

He must have said the right thing, if the smiles around the table were anything to go by. 

Georgie focused her attention on him, lips pursing in thought. “The only question is when my dear Digby is going to propose to you.”

This had Eames stiffening. This was clearly a point of contention, if the silence around the table was anything to go by. Either that, or everyone fell silent when Georgie spoke. Both seemed likely. 

“We’ve discussed it—” Arthur said, trying to push down any sort of annoyed feeling at the intrusion into their personal lives. “But I really don’t think it’s something we should discuss so openly. Considering that we’ve only been together a short time, and we’re working our way through the early stages,” Arthur continued, placing a kind but neutral smile on his face. The audacity and gall of this woman. 

He wasn’t necessarily lying. They had discussed if they’d ever get married. They both agreed it would have to be the right person, someone who you don’t feel a need to financially extract yourself from in the future. They both preferred a concept of long term partnership rather than legally binding marriage, all things considering. 

But Arthur felt as if that was likely the wrong response to Georgie. He wasn’t really sure if his current response was the right response. 

Georgie stared at him as if he grew another head. “I shall respect your privacy,” she said. She turned to her husband, whispering to him about something else entirely. 

With the ups and downs of a simple family breakfast conversation, Arthur wasn’t really sure how this family got through any larger interaction. They all clearly loved Georgie, but was it her adoration that they were longing? Her scarce attention? The words of approval? He didn’t really want to psychoanalyze the Eames family, but he couldn’t help but note the way the boys all looked at their mother.

Chapter Text

They were sent away to their rooms after breakfast in preparation for the party. For Eames this meant a long and rambling process that had very little effect on his physical appearance. He “shaved” his face, haphazardly combed through his hair after a shower, and proceeded to take twenty minutes to put together the one suit that he owned and brought with. 

“I thought you said that tension would go down,” Arthur said, stripping off his sweater vest. He looked up at where Eames was standing, half dressed. He swallowed thickly at the sight of Eames’ bare torso, marked with tattoos and looking so perfect. 

“I genuinely thought that it would,” Eames said, half shrugging. He watched as Arthur unbuttoned his shirt, his eyes going glassy before flicking away quickly.

“Does your mother have absolutely no joy in her life? She’s turning 60, right?” Arthur asked, rooting in his bag for his good suit, the one he brought for the occasion. “Is your father too much older than her? Is she uncharacteristically acting older?”

Eames shrugged, buttoning his white shirt up. “She’s always been that way.” He said this as if it was a fact of her personality, not the reality of a controlling mother. 

“Huh,” Arthur said. 

“What,” Eames said flatly. He looked at Arthur over the bed, watching him with cautious eyes as Arthur slid a white button up on, quickly doing up the buttons in the front. He watched Arthur’s movements, eyes lingering far too long. 

Arthur tried to ignore the look of disdain on Eames’ face. If that’s what he could call the carefully schooled expression. “Nothing. I know my family life isn’t perfect, so I really can’t judge.”

“I sense a ‘but’,” Eames said, holding his tie in his hands. 

“There really isn't. I can’t judge your family, even though I was in my head,” Arthur said. He was already saying too much. He shut his mouth quickly, bending down to grab his black trousers from his suitcase. 

“Darling, what you see is such a small part of my life,” Eames said, looping his tie around his neck. He fumbled with tying it, tilting his head back as if that were to help. “My mother was very kind and gentle when we were little. I think it’s only now that we are adults that she has a hard time accepting us as her children. Her control issues make it hard for her to accept that we make our own decisions, particularly when we make decisions outside of her realm.”

That made a surprising amount of sense to Arthur. He wasn’t a parent, had no intentions of becoming one anytime soon, and yet at his age, Georgie would have had four boys running around the house. She had all four of them by the time she was 32, which was how old Arthur was turning next month. Having four boys running around him and watching them grow up, realizing that they will never be children again, that had to be hard. 

He wouldn’t comment on the control issues aspect. He was known to have control issues himself, and he could see how a young mother would be quick to extort her power and control over her children. 

“I’m not excusing her current behavior, mind you, but I have to be gentle,” Eames said, shrugging as he pulled the tie off, starting again. “Her birthday is likely not a happy reminder of anything.”

Arthur wanted to say sorry , but it felt ingenuous. He wanted to somehow express that he understood the way Eames had to tiptoe, to keep his relationship stable and to adore his mother in her own trying times as she likely had to do for him. It was a balance, and while it was not necessarily an equal power balance, there were no hard lines to draw or restrictions to permanently put up. 

“Let me help you with that,” Arthur said, watching Eames struggle. He had already tied his own tie, the knot snug at the base of his throat. He rounded to Eames’ side of the bed, taking the tie from his hands. “Do you even wear ties?”

“Only when asked,” Eames said, waggling his eyebrows obnoxiously. 

“It’s actually quite simple,” Arthur said, sliding the fabric along Eames’ neck. He tried to concentrate on tying it correctly, rather than the way Eames swallowed when Arthur touched him. They were the same height, and with Arthur standing so close, their bodies were practically pressed flush against each other. 

Arthur slid the tie to the base of Eames’ throat, leaving it slightly looser than his own. He stepped back, glancing up at Eames’ face. His expression was as if he had just sucked a lemon, his mouth pressed tight together as if he was attempting to hide his expression. That was sort of out of character for Eames, in general. 

“There,” Arthur said softly. He moved back to his side of the bed, ignoring the way that Eames’ eyes were watching him. It was as if Eames knew his secret, knew what had been on the back burner for so long. Arthur tried to ignore the looks as he pulled his jacket out of it’s bag, brushing lint off of it absently. 

“I was going to go sneak some food, want anything from the kitchen?” Eames asked, rubbing a hand over his combed hair. When Arthur didn’t say anything at first, he was out of the room and down the hall before Arthur could get a real chance to respond. 

He couldn’t help but think that Eames’ actions were weird. Or maybe they were a totally normal reaction to a close friend tying a tie onto you. But that reaction would only make sense if it were a straight man getting his tie fixed in a homoerotic way. They were both queer men, clearly comfortable with their bodies, and tying one tie did them in?

Arthur let the time alone be his time to slick back his hair properly and apply minimal concealer to the bags under his eyes, the ones that would likely be present the entire time they were in England and his sleep schedule was semi irregular. 

They had deeper and more personal conversations here, in Eames’ house, than they ever had back home in Chicago. They usually kept conversation light, to positive childhood memories, shitty college stories, and gossip about their coworkers and their love lives. Especially with Cobb and Mal in their lives, it seemed like they had an endless stream of conversation. 

He didn’t mean to press Eames’ buttons, even accidentally. They did this to each other sometimes; one of them would say something shitty and make the other mad, leaving them both a little titchy and in need of space. He knew that Eames was trying to lighten the mood and provide distance, because that was the easiest way for him to cope with the situation. Arthur tended to poke at it, like a child ripping a scab off of a cut. His processing usually left them both worse for wear. 

It was why he was glad Eames processed alone. It left the both of them with some time to think about things without confronting each other. They had avoided what would likely turn into screaming matches purely by Eames’ own avoidance and Arthur’s quickness in recognizing that and letting everything go. 

Eames slipped back into the room, tie loosened around his throat a ridiculous amount. “Belly and I snuck this from the kitchen while the caterers weren’t looking,” Eame said, sliding the small plate onto the bed. 

It was  mini sandwiches, obviously depleted from Belly’s own half of the amount. There were four total, two for each of them. There were likely a lot more, but Belly had a wife (Diane, very nice) and two kids to deal with. He probably needed the snacks more than Arthur and Eames. 

“You get along with him the best?” Arthur asked, sitting precariously on the edge of the bed. He grabbed the small sandwich, careful to lean forward so any crumbs fell onto the plate or bedspread rather than his clothing. 

Eames hummed, chewing happily. “He’s the only other one who doesn’t go along with mum’s life plans. Both Harry and Thomas fell into the trap; they’re both investment bankers and real estate moguls. Belly is a professor at King’s College in London, which is something to be proud about, but mum doesn’t seem to appreciate it as much. Diane stays at home with the kids and does designs for a clothing company part time, but even that seems too—” Eames made a gesture with his hands, as if trying to come up with a word. 

“Frivolous? Unprofessional?” Arthur supplied. 

“Yes. Frivolous. That’s the word mum used to describe my job, even after I pointed out that I had created the cover for a book she was reading,” Eames said. He shoved the rest of the small sandwich in his mouth, dusting his hands together. “Belly buys every book I design a cover for.”

He could see how the two brothers were almost two halves of the same coin; they both chose nicknames, rejected their mother’s idea of success, and found themselves in a field of high prestige without any real credit given to them from their parents. No wonder why Belly introduced himself to Arthur straight away, smiling and telling him how much he had heard already. 

“I like him,” Arthur said, grabbing the other sandwich that was meant for him. 

“Yeah?” Eames asked. He waggled his eyebrows at him, as if that meant anything. 

“He seems nice,” Arthur said between bites, looking down at the plate. “He prepared me coffee this morning. Cream and sugar, how I usually take it,” Arthur said, half shrugging. 

Eames clutched a hand over his chest. “Is he winning you over? Are you going to switch allegiances to the silver fox, to the brother of mine?” Eames said, making a shocked expression. He looked almost comical, the way he was posturing. 

“It was one coffee, Eames. And he’s married,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes. “And wouldn’t it be weird for me to hit on him, while I’m here pretending to be with you?”

“Right,” Eames said, winking. “Just let me know when you want to be formally introduced, I’ll get Diane out of the way. I’m sure she won’t be heartbroken at all.”

“And you’ll get to live your dream of reciting a Shakespearean style soliloquy about a dastardly love and heartbreak,” Arthur said, smiling at Eames over the bed. He liked this glint in Eames’ eye, the playful one. It was one of his favorite Eamesian expressions. 

“Wouldn’t my mother be so proud, my theater minor finally coming into fruition,” Eames said, laughing a bit to himself. He took the empty plate away, setting it on the bureau next to the bed. 

“What time did you say this party started again?” Arthur asked, shifting his shirt sleeve to check his watch. It was only half past two, which seemed far too early for guests to start arriving for a dinner party on the lawn. They had set up tables and chairs on the back lawn, much like Arthur’s mother did for her own celebrations. It was giving him slight deja vu. 

“At four,” Eames said, brushing any crumbs off of the top of their bedspread. “I was planning on getting some work done, since Mal sent me a bunch of files, even though I’m on vacation. “

Arthur made a face, thinking about the draft he was currently editing. It was a newcomer to the writing scene, working on his second book. He got put under Arthur’s helm for editing because it seemed he had graduated from needing someone to baby him to taking the reins on his own project. But, Nash was being sort of a shithead about the whole thing. He sent Arthur drafts semi regularly, even if they were merely drafts of singular chapters. It was frustrating for Arthur to have to edit, not having read a larger chunk of the work, and it was even harder to deal with his persistent emailing. 

“Shit writer?” Eames asked, noticing Arthur’s face. 

“This kid, Nash.” Arthur shook his head, leaning down to grab his laptop out of his bag. “He should have stayed with Tricia or Lenny, or one of the kinder editors. But they think he’s a genius and capable of managing himself, so they sent him to me. Good story ideas, but he’s so annoying. Too many drafts sent, not enough writing in bulk.”

“Tell him that,” Eames said, leaning back in the bed, sliding his tablet off of the bedside table. 

“I have ,” Arthur said, already feeling himself getting annoyed as he opened up his email, several messages having gone unanswered from Nash. “I told him I’d be gone for almost a week, and he still sends me emails. I think I’m going to ignore them, if only to punish him,” Arthur said, not bothering to open any of them up. 

“That’s the cut throat editor I know,” Eames murmured, falling into his own work. 

They did this sometimes, work side by side. It used to be far more common when they first started talking, and Eames would give too much unsolicited advice, and they’d sit in stony silence because Eames couldn’t bear to stay away. But now they did it because it was nice to share a space with someone and focus on your own work. It was nice to think about the companionable silence.

Chapter Text

The event was apparently very exclusive. 

There were clearly older socialites of all kinds that Georgie knew, and businessmen that Reginald knew. They were all elderly gentlemen with wives exactly like Georgie. They mingled around, holding champagne out of delicate glasses and acting as if it was completely normal for a string quartet to be playing music on the terrace. 

At every table were placemarkers, showing where each guest was to sit. At their table was Arthur, Eames, Belly, Diane, and their two kids. Each six top held a different set of guests, with the other two brothers and Harry’s kids at the other table that flanked Georgie’s own sixtop with her dearest friends. 

“Delegated to the weirdo table,” Belly said, already half slumped in his seat. Diane sat next to him, her brown hair done upwards in an artfully sloppy bun. She had on a simple silver chain that dipped into her low cut dress. She looked completely and entirely far too elegant for this sort of scenario. Belly looked as reluctant to wear a suit as Eames. 

“Back home, I’m the only gay kid, so I’m used to the weirdo table,” Arthur said, sitting down at his chair, his seat beside the eldest of Belly’s children. Her hair was cut into a sleek bob, her dress far nicer than one for a child her age. She was barely 9, if Arthur could guess. 

“Your gay?” the child asked, her eyes widening.

“Yes, Em, like Uncle Eamesie is,” Belly said, leaning forward as if quick to reprimand her. 

“That’s so cool!” Em said, clapping her hands together. “I really love your tie,” Em added, pointing towards it. 

He had selected something subtle: a simple black tie with shimmering threads through it. The threads shimmered rainbow as the light hit them, being both subtle and flamboyant at the same time. That was sort of Arthur’s style. 

“I love anything with a little sparkle,” Arthur said, gesturing towards his own tie. 

Eames reached over the table between the two of them, setting down a flute of champagne for Arthur and a flute of some sparkling thing for Em. “Ginger ale,” Eames whispered in Arthur’s ear, clarifying that he wasn’t willingly giving his niece alcohol. 

“How’d you get them to pour her some in a flute?” Belly asked from his seat next to Eames. 

“I have my ways,” Eames said with a wink. 

“As long as you didn’t seduce some poor caterer girl,” Belly said, eyes flickering towards Arthur. “You have a date this year, and I doubt he’d enjoy it if you brought some floozy back to your room.”

Arthur punched Eames’ chest gently, as if teasing him. “Taking home a caterer from your mother’s birthday? And I thought that waiter you dated was bad enough,” Arthur said, smiling at him. 

The waiter was actually something sort of contentious. He had mistaken the two of them as dating when he had served them at some bar, and when Eames made it clear that they were not dating, the waiter gave them copious amounts of free drinks. Arthur had to take a cab home because Eames and the waiter ended up stumbling back to the waiter’s apartment. They went back twice more for free drinks before Eames dumped the waiter, and they never went back to the bar again. 

Arthur liked that bar. They had really good hot wings. 

“A waiter!” Belly said, laughing. He shook his head at Eames. 

“We can’t go back there, not without fearing that the waiter is going to spit in my drink or something,” Arthur said, grinning at Belly. He could see the similarities in their faces, the ways that Belly’s eyes crinkled the same way Eames’ did. 

“Darling, I thought we promised not to tell that story,” Eames said, bumping his knee against Arthur’s under the table. 

Arthur wanted to pinch at his thigh, but he restrained himself. “I only promised not to tell anyone at home . We’re not in Chicago anymore,” Arthur said, leaning back in his chair, feeling sort of smug. He pushed it back on two of its legs, crossing his arms behind his head. He knew he was being smug, but he also knew how much it annoyed Eames when he was being smug. And sometimes he liked to annoy him on purpose. 

“Ass,” Eames said, hitting the bottom of Arthur’s chair with his foot. 

“Fuck,” Arthur said, swinging his arms forward, the chair hitting the ground roughly. “Don’t repeat that,” Arthur said to Em, who was barely containing her giggles at this point. 

“So smug , darling. I could bring up that guy Peter—” Eames started, 

Arthur reached over and smacked Eames’ chest, trying to get him to stop. “That’s not a story for children. And definitely not a story for your family.”

“You two really have known each other for a long time,” Belly said, looking between the two of them. “Dear Eamesie has talked about you, but you must see each other a lot, with how comfortable you all are.”

“We work across the hall from each other,” Arthur said. He could feel blush rising in his cheeks at the comment about their comfortability. He always knew he was more physical with Eames than nearly anyone else, but his hold on the situation was starting to slip. He was letting himself play the part of chuffed boyfriend too easily. He wanted it, he wanted that part, but he was falling too deep. 

“I annoyed him into talking to me, remember?” Eames said, glancing at Arthur. He launched into some story from early in their friendship to distract from the fact that Arthur was blushing and embarrassed. Not that he was embarrassed at Eames, he was sort of embarrassed at the fact that he was so obviously smitten. 

Belly hadn’t said anything specific or particular, but his glances and his mention of them knowing each other, being comfortable, had Arthur’s skin prickling with his own hidden desire. He knew they were supposed to be pretending, but they hadn’t discussed their act or any part of their relationship. They hadn’t set any boundaries, and it was hard for Arthur to draw those sorts of boundaries when it was so easy to slip into this behavior. 

It wasn’t even too different from how they acted at home. They would laugh and cajole each other regularly, and Arthur wondered if everyone at home knew he was as smitten as he was. He tried to hide it with sharp wit and his own outward facade, but it was so easy to relax here and not be the hard ass that he was as an editor back home.

He felt suddenly very self conscious of his own behaviors and actions, stiffening in his seat and sitting up straighter. He felt Eames’ arm bump his shoulder from where it rested on the back of Arthur’s chair, possessive and grounding. He could feel Eames touching his shoulder as he talked, as if trying to get a read on him. 

“Are you alright, Arthur? You’ve gone pale,” Diane said, looking at him concerningly. He could see her own mothering instinct kick in, eyes drawn into concern. 

“I haven’t had enough to eat, I think,” Arthur said, sitting up and forward a little bit, pulling away from Eames’ arm. “And too much to drink already,” Arthur added, lifting his empty champagne glass. 

“Lemme find you something to eat,” Eames murmured. He ran one hand along the back of Arthur’s neck, standing from the table and disappearing into the tables of other guests, hunting down a wait staff that held a tray of food rather than champagne. 

Arthur leaned back, letting out a bit of a breath. He could feel Belly and Diane’s eyes on him, watching the way that he stiffly sat. He was merely stressed about this entire situation, not because of the family or the house or anything. It was hard to express that to the one brother Eames seemed to actually like. 

“Kids, why don’t you run off to the horseshoes, alright? I’ll come find you when dinner is served,” Diane said, gesturing to her two children, ushering them off to where a few other kids were at the horseshoes across the lawn/ 

Her kindness in sending them away, keeping their prying kid eyes away from him, was much appreciated. “Thank you,” Arthur said, smiling at her. “Felt sort of overwhelmed all of a sudden,” Arthur added, as if that were any explanation. 

“It’s a lot being here,” Diane said, her smile kind. “I was in your position once too.”

“I didn’t say anything wrong, did I?” Belly asked, eyebrows pulling together. “I just thought that since you and Eames have always been so close—”

“It’s nothing,” Arthur said, trying to act as normal as possible. “It’s merely a bit of a head rush, and combined with being here, it hit me harder than it should have.”

Eames returned, putting a small plate down in front of Arthur. He sat next to him, pressing his knee gently against Arthur’s under the table. “All they had was those tiny sandwiches from before and these strange cucumber towers, so I brought you some cucumber towers,” Eames said, gesturing towards the artfully stacked vegetables on the plate. 

“Thank you,” Arthur said, smiling kindly at him. 

“I can make an excuse, let you slip away,” Eames murmured in his ear, lips brushing against his skin. It sent a shiver down Arthur’s spine, the way his breath was hot against him. Something like that shouldn’t be so erotic, and yet with Eames, it always was. 

“I’ll be okay,” Arthur said. Before he said anything stupid, he started to eat the strange cucumber tower, knowing it was preferable to accidentally saying something stupid about being hungry or overwhelmed. He already felt like sort of a duntz. 

He tried not to think about the hand that had come up to rub at his shoulder absently, as Eames attempted to physically comfort him while talking to Belly and Diane. The three of them seemed to get on swimmingly, if now was anything to go by. And Eames was apparently a physical boyfriend, if anything was to go by. He hadn’t paid much attention to the people Eames had dated back home, but he assumed that they experienced the same thing: constant comfort and the delight of Eames’ hands on them.

Chapter Text

The party went on for far longer than Arthur had anticipated. 

Things picked up when dinner was delivered to the tables. They were small burgers, almost sliders, that were so perfectly adorned and not at all what Arthur would have expected from a 60th birthday party. 

“Darling, you asked if she was any fun still,” Eames murmured, tucking heartily into his food. There were a portion of fries for everyone (“chips, darling”) that were crispy and to die for. It seemed as if the woman who had an ease with tearing her own family down was also good at picking food for dinner. 

After dinner was a few short speeches, the first made by good ole Reg. The second by Harry, and the third by a dear friend of Georgie’s. Even in the dimming light of the garden, Arthur could see the tick of Eames’ jaw clenching at the sight of Harry delivering kind words about their mother. He wasn’t close enough to see Belly’s micro-reactions, but he would have to assume the same. 

The sons all loved their mothers, and they likely argued over who would give the speech. While Harry did a great job and clearly was a good public speaker, Arthur thought that Eames might have done better. He was born to talk, and born to talk in front of people, in a way that Arthur was continuously envious of. How Eames became an illustrator when he was so good at talking always confused Arthur. 

As people started to trickle out of the manor, Arthur and Eames excused themselves along with Belly. He had kids that needed to turn in for the night, and Eames seemed eager to avoid the looks and questions from his mother’s friends. If anything that he had said previously about her trying to hook him up with lawyers was true, they’d inevitably bump into some dark haired woman dressed incredibly whose job was to be alluring Eames into a cis-hetero relationship. 

“That wasn’t too bad,” Arthur said. He was internally comparing it to his own mother’s parties, which always felt as if they lasted all day and were inescapable. He had swarms of far too invested family members at those who were willing to be rude in order to glean private information from any other family members, if only to fuel the gossip. 

“That was better than last year,” Eames said, pushing into their room. “Last year she wanted each of her sons to make a speech, and mine was deemed indecent because of one utterance of the word ‘shite’.”

Arthur winced at that, stripping off his suit as he went. He made sure to hang it back into it’s garment bag, trying not to judge Eames’ own tendencies to fling his clothes every which way. He clearly gave the housekeeping staff work when he was a kid, if his own lack of cleanliness was a marker of his youth. 

“One little curse word? And not even a bad one at that?” Arthur asked, slipping on a soft t-shirt, skipping his pajama pants. It was warm in the lawn today, the days slipping further into spring. 

They had two more days here before their flight back. That was something that hit Arthur sort of hard. Tomorrow was a private lunch and gift exchanges, Arthur knew that, but he was unsure of how much more time they could reasonably spend in the house while under the gaze of Georgie. The day they left, on a red eye back stateside, felt so much further. 

“Swallowed a spider there?” Eames asked, pulling back the blankets on the bed. 

This startled Arthur out of his thoughts. “Is that even a phrase? A colloquialism?” Arthur asked, running a hand over his gelled hair, feeling it stick up as he moved. 

“No, but it seemed like you had. You can swallow spiders in your sleep, you know,” Eames said, giving Arthur a pointed look as if he were somehow missing out on this very pertinent, very relevant information. 

“I’m quite aware of that,” Arthur said, ducking into the bathroom. He turned the tap on, starting to splash his face to wash off his makeup and the sweat of the day. He could hear Eames call to him, but over the noise of the tap and his own cleaning, he could barely hear him. 

He lifted his head, patting his face dry. He listened for Eames to call out to him again, likely to spout some sort of ridiculous fact about spiders or the possibilities of eating any number of bugs while sleeping, depending on sleeping locations. 

“What were you trying to say?” Arthur asked, walking out into the bedroom as he smoothed moisturizer over his face. He raised his eyebrows at the way Eames was face planted into the bed, body spread across the bulk of it. 

“I don’t remember anymore,” Eames said, waving him off distractedly. He had his tablet in front of him, open to some sort of gossipy looking news site. He was reading raptly, practically kicking his feet up behind him as if it delighted him endlessly that there were celebrities to gossip about. 

“Clean up so we can turn in,” Arthur said, pushing at Eames’ shoulder. 

“But there is an article about Cher Lloyd and this horrendous bikini she wore on the beach,” Eames said, gesturing to the Daily Mail website as if it were some sort of perfect, credible website. Words which neither would ever use to describe Daily Mail. 

“Then at least roll over. I have a copy to edit while I’m here,” Arthur said, pulling out his own computer. “I know you probably forgot how much work we got done earlier, but I still have another few pages to work through with notes for Nash.”

“We did work earlier?” Eames asked, rolling halfway over, only partially to his own side. 

Arthur rolled his eyes, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “If you prefer, I can read aloud. Then we can both hear the shitty first draft that Nash sent me,” Arthur said, pressing his lips together tight, smiling knowingly at Eames. 

“Fine, I’ll get up. But only because you asked me, and not because you threatened to lullaby me to sleep,” Eames said, referencing the last time that Arthur read aloud. 

He had never been told he had a particularly rhythmic or soothing voice, but ten minutes of Arthur reading aloud to Eames had him falling asleep in the chair across from Arthur in his office. The chair that was designed to be uncomfortable and keep writers uncomfortable and on their toes. 

Arthur listened to Eames as he got ready in the bathroom, doing whatever he did to finish his skincare and health routine at the end of the night. He would hope it had something to do with washing his face and brushing his teeth, but based on the other men that Arthur had dated in the past, some people just did not do things like that. It seemed sort of obvious to take general care of yourself, but the men that Arthur dated were practically uncivilized with the level of disrespect they showed their own skin. 

“I thought you had work to do,” Eames said, spying the Buzzfeed website up on Arthur’s computer. 

“I figured I’d do my own celebrity decompressing, on the correct website,” Arthur said, ignoring the way that Eames slid into the bed beside him. 

“You know Daily Mail is better,” Eames said, rolling onto his side, looking up at Arthur. 

Arthur hummed. “Your British nationalism only shows up when someone mentions the Queen—”

“For kingdom and country!” Eames interrupted.

“And Daily Mail. Which is just another shitty gossip rag, you know,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “At least Buzzfeed has quizzes to take, and polls to click on.”

Eames pushed at his hip. “They only include that bull because of thick headed Americans, always wanting to insert themselves into the drama,” Eames said, rolling flat onto his back, laughing to himself. 

“As if you aren’t entirely narcissistic,” Arthur muttered. “Who wanted to put their own face on a birthday cake as a present to me last year, hm?”

“That’s because I’m a gift to this world, darling,” Eames said, stretching his arms above his head. “As if you could resist this piece of man meat.”

Arthur tried to hold back his blush, but that was sort of impossible. He really truly could not resist it, and when Eames laid himself out in an offer like this, it was hard not to throw his computer and move to straddle him. He wanted to feel Eames writhe underneath him, maybe with his hands tied above him, acting so obedient.

“I think I can resist your horrific shirts,” Arthur said, attempting to deflect. “That one that looks like a horrific Pollock painting almost blinded me.”

“Orange, pink, and mint green certainly go together,” Eames said, propping himself up on one elbow. “Despite your narrow mind, I am the color theorist here. I think I know when I see a winning combo.”

“Emphasis on ‘theorist’ as the operative word in that sentence,” Arthur murmured. 

Eames whacked him with a pillow. 

“What was that for?” Arthur asked, pushing the pillow off of him. 

“Being an ass.”

“Ha. Then you should hit me with a pillow more frequently,” Arthur said, giving up. He closed his laptop, trying not to think about the fact that they were turning in at only half past 10 like old fuddy duddies. 

" Duly noted,” Eames said, falling silent. 

The silence fell over them, soft and enveloping. It brought up thoughts of how this scene would play out if they were actually dating, if Arthur reached over to touch Eames casually as if he was allowed to in bed. He sort of wondered what sort of  reaction Eames would have if he asked for a cuddle, to just be close. 

Instead, Arthur turned over and tried to go to sleep.

Chapter Text

The last thing Arthur expected was for breakfast to be a simple spread of fruits and bread to toast, with absolutely no Georgie or Reg in sight. 

Arthur had dressed simply, expecting the small lunch as more of a family affair, where he’d likely be relegated to entertaining the children while the brothers had their time with their mother for a gift exchange. He had slipped on a soft crewneck sweater from his college (NYU but no one was asking), and paired it with a nice pair of jeans. He put a simple white button down underneath in case it got warm and he needed to strip a layer. Even then, he was the best dressed at breakfast. 

The kids were running around in scuffed jeans and dirty shirts, having already eaten breakfast. The remnants of that were at the small dining table set into the kitchen, half cups of juice and plates only half eaten strewn about as if they had merely forgotten that eating was essential to growth. 

“You look out of place,” Diane said, sitting at the table, a cup of tea in her hands. She leaned back, her simple blue dress making her look elegant in the morning light. 

“What tipped you off?” Arthur asked, blinking at one of the children as they ran past him, some sort of nerf gun in their hands.

Out of all of Eames’ family, she seemed like the best counterpart to Arthur: she preferred to dress up, had a level of respect for herself and her outward appearance, and put up with the disaster of a partner. Although Arthur had to mentally correct himself that he wasn’t truly dating Eames, that it was all pretend. Even if it didn’t particularly feel like pretend at the moment. 

“The NYU sweatshirt, actually,” Diane said, fingernails clicking against the ceramic of her mug as she tapped her fingers. “Grab some coffee, sit,” she insisted. 

Arthur headed over and poured himself some coffee, grabbing cream and sugar the way he typically liked. He sat at the table, amused at the way that Diane had merely pushed all of the plates together haphazardly. He was aware that some housekeeper would likely sweep everything away, but his own sense told him to stack things perfectly. Maybe it was his time as a waitstaff rubbing off on the moment now. 

“Eames still asleep?” Diane asked, peering at Arthur over her mug. She had a glint in her eye, the same sort of glint that Eames got sometimes, as if she was memorizing every detail. Like a spy cataloguing things, ready to report back. 

“He was getting ready when I left. Said he’d meet me here,” Arthur said, half shrugging. “I’d normally not trust him alone, but I think he’s nervous about lunch,” Arthur admitted quietly. He knew he shouldn’t really say anything, but he felt as if Diane could be trusted. She seemed to know Eames fairly well, and if he was anything like his brother, she already knew how nervous the sons were in presenting their gifts to their mother. 

“As long as he didn’t get her a caricature of herself, like he did three years ago, then I think he’s okay,” Diane said, laughing lightly. “He had to leave early from that particular birthday trip, and it made the entire weekend horrific for the rest of us.”

“He had to leave?” Arthur asked, trying to wrack his brain for any trips Eames had taken this time three years ago. They were still in the early stages of their friendship then, back when Eames was dating that girl Natasha, the barista. Arthur didn’t like her, and had blocked out most of that spring. 

“He didn’t have to, but she was really angry. Refused to see him,” Diane said, sipping solemnly. 

Arthur wanted to go back to their room, pack up their stuff immediately. If they had to make a quick exit, he’d rather escape the wrath of Georgie and the emotional trauma it would be to have her give him a tongue lashing—  

“It’ll be fine,” Diane said, rapping her knuckles on the table, catching Arthur’s attention. “Besides, she likes you. When she likes someone one of her sons brings home, the whole weekend tends to go well.”

“This is considered going well?” Arthur asked, thinking of the biting conversations at every group meal. While that was commonplace among his aunts and uncles, he would never speak like that with his mother and sister, or many of his cousins. There was something more sacred about interpersonal family relationships that Arthur found to be important. 

Diane shrugged. “She hasn’t called anyone a disgrace. Although I’m sure she’ll be more chipper after the gifts,” Diane said. “I know she’s different when the WAPs aren’t here.”

“The—” All that was coming into Arthur’s head was a very inappropriate use of that abbreviation. 

“Wives and partners,” Diane corrected, a slightly evil glint in her eye. “Although you sure are dirty for a gay man.”

“Darling!” Eames greeted, saving Arthur from this particular piece of conversation. He swooped in, pressing a kiss to the top of Arthur’s head, checking his coffee as if making sure he didn’t need a refill. “No food? I can make up oatmeal, I know how much you love that.”

“I’m fine,” Arthur insisted, sipping his coffee. He watched as Eames piled food onto a plate, taking care to select more than his own shares worth. He was most likely preparing a plate for the two of them, knowing that Arthur wouldn’t eat if he wasn’t reminded. 

On Monday’s, Eames frequently brought Arthur a danish to have with his coffee before any 10am meetings either of them had. He did it so frequently and consistently that Arthur skipped any breakfast at home on Monday, preferring Eames’ treat.

 He knew that Eames liked to take care of him, and this plate of food right now was only proving it more. It was the one quality of Eames’ that Arthur always appreciated; Eames couldn’t help but be the sober one on a night out, to give everyone rides home, or the one making everyone hangover breakfasts the next morning. He would let Eames mother hen him because he knew how much Eames liked to do things for others. Even if he was selfishly basking in Eames’ attention. 

  “Darling, I know you’re trying to watch your weight to fit into those ridiculously slim suits, but I doubt coffee is any healthier than skipping breakfast,” Eames said, sliding a plate between the two of them as he sat at the table. He looked up and smiled at Diane. “And good morning, dear Diane.”

“Did you happen to see my husband, or rather your ridiculous brother, in the hall?” Diane asked, lips pursed in amusement. 

Eames not so subtly gestured towards the fruit on the plate, as if trying to urge Arthur to eat something. “My brother? I thought I saw him stumbling around but—” Eames shrugged, biting into a piece of toast. 

“Helpful, Eames. Really helpful,” Diane said flatly. She shook her head, almost rolling her eyes at the pair of them. “I’m going to go find him, and I’ll leave you two to breakfast.”

“See you later Diane!” Eames called after her, heartily biting into his food. He nudged Arthur’s knee with his own under the table, huffing a bit of laughter. “She loves me, but Belly and I are thick as thieves. Bro-code and all that,” Eames said, sipping at his coffee. 

Arthur hesitantly took an orange slice, biting at it in an unelegant way, as one does when attempting to eat an orange slice on the peel. He watched Eames pack away food, as if unperturbed by anything. He figured that Eames was likely most happy and joyous in times like this, when he was away from those who would judge him and free to do as he pleased. 

“What,” Eames said, glancing up at Arthur. He sipped at his coffee again, raising a singular eyebrow in question. 

“You seem better today,” Arthur said, half shrugging. 

“The party last night wasn’t half bad. Makes things feel better,” Eames said, as if that offered any sort of explanation for this renewed mood. 

Arthur could only be so optimistic, all things considered. He knew that Eames would likely tighten up as the day went on, forming back into the person he was trying to be for his mother, contained and more subtle in his actions. 

“And the plans for today?” Arthur asked, watching Eames out of the corner of his eye. 

“Diane is taking the kids to the zoo in town after lunch. Thought you’d like to go with,” Eames said, pushing a piece of toast on the plate to Arthur’s side. “We’re having a thing, just us sons, after lunch.”

“Ah,” Arthur said, grabbing the toast before Eames quite literally put it into his mouth to ensure that he ate. “I’ll happily go with them. I was enjoying talking to Em. She seems very intelligent for a child,” Arthur said, half shrugging. It had been so long since he had done something like that, since he had known anyone with children. Mal was currently pregnant with Dom’s kid, but they hadn’t really done much in terms of being “parents” yet. All Mal had done was complain that she couldn’t drink wine. 

“Thought you might,” Eames murmured, leaning back in his chair. His eyes watched Arthur carefully, as if sizing him up, preparing to say something. He seemed pensive, which was a look not well known for him. He so often said what he thought, that Arthur always took pause at this. 

Arthur tilted his head in question, as if acknowledging his change in mood. 

“You’re going to make a really great boyfriend and partner to someone someday,” Eames murmured, sounding almost melancholy at that. He cleared his throat, turning away from Arthur. “I promised my brother a bit of footie with his kids on the lawn, so I better finish up.”

He clearly moved past that particular remark, but the words stayed ringing in Arthur’s head. Even as they transitioned outside, with Arthur sitting on the sidelines with the wives. He could almost hear the wistfulness in his voice as he said those same words to himself over and over. 

It was a small thing, a hidden hope in Arthur’s chest, that he would somehow convince Eames that they would be great together. Not that it would take much convincing, but they had spent so much time as merely friends, that the threshold for their relationship entanglement was far higher than anyone he was merely flirting with. It would take more than a few well placed hints for Eames to understand that he was attracted to him. 

That particular comment almost made it feel like Eames was ready for him to move along, as if his talents were wasted in their farce. Considering the fact that Eames had brought up the entire idea of faking it, he was sort of confused by this particular development.

Arthur tried not to overanalyze things, particularly whatever stream of consciousness slipped out of Eames’ mouth, but he couldn’t help but note the severity and pensiveness that accompanied the statement. Why would Eames say something like that in such a serious tone? Why would he brush it away, as if the comment wasn’t life altering? Not that he knew how greatly it would affect Arthur, but he knew it had to have some sort of impact, based on how weighty he let it be. 

“You alright?” Diane asked, pinching at Arthur’s arm. 

“Yeah, just tired,” Arthur said, fake yawning for her benefit. 

“Someone kept you up last night?” Diane said with a wink, elbowing him as if they were old friends. Which it sort of felt that way, even though they’d barely spoken. 

Arthur looked out at the lawn, the way that all the brothers had joined the kids, playing adults versus kids and letting the kids win wholeheartedly. He couldn’t help but think about what Diane saw between them, and what had given her any idea that they had stayed up all night having copious sex. Perhaps it was his own longing. 

“Some details are meant to stay private,” Arthur said, hoping that was ominous enough for her to make her own conclusions. He spared a glance at her, sort of confused to see her staring at him seriously. 

It was barely 10am and Arthur was tired of people looking at him in a serious manner. He wanted coffee, a good manuscript to edit, and a day in bed. He was so screwed.

Chapter Text

“Arthur! The elephants!” Em said, dragging him along. She had an iron grip on his hand, pulling him along with her wherever she went. She basically ignored her own mother and brother, or even her cousins were they tagged along behind their group. 

The wives (and Arthur) had taken the afternoon for the zoo. Arthur could barely remember the names of the other wives, but they were nice enough. The divide between the brothers was less evident in the wives, but it was clear that the other two clearly had far more in common with each other than with either Diane or Arthur. 

“Yes, Em, I see,” Arthur said, letting himself be pulled to a stop. 

“Do you ever read books about elephants?” Em asked, staring up at him as if he had hung the moon and stars. 

The truthful answer was that an elephant was killed in a jungle in a Vietnam war biography that he had edited once, nearly two years ago, as a favor to a historical editor. That answer would likely crush a 9 year old’s dreams. 

“Yes, I’ve had one. It was a lovely story about a little girl and her elephant friend,” Arthur said, glancing down at Em. 

“A girl like me?” Em asked, tugging at his hand, as if he wasn’t already paying rapt attention to her and every word that came from her mouth. 

“Yes, a girl like you,” Arthur said, staring out at the elephants. 

They were far too majestic of creatures to be used the way they were. Arthur wasn’t a particularly radical person when it came to protest or political affiliation (outside of his assertion that US politics were dreadful and he was a severe leftist), but he was sure to donate to a few charities here and there. He would likely make his next donation to something elephant related, perhaps to stop the poaching of ivory. In this moment, it felt important to do. 

“Didn’t take you for liking the zoo,” Diane said, having caught up with the two of them. She was holding her son, Kyle, by his hand. In his other hand was cotton candy, which was quickly gluing to his hand with every lick of it. She was clearly attempting to hold the stickiness at arms distance. 

“I don’t mind,” Arthur said, letting his arm be tugged by an excited Em. “I have a lot of cousins, and some have their own children. It’s nice to be around kids with genuine excitement,” Arthur added, as if an explanation was necessary. 

The other two kids, the cousins, ran up and started to absorb the attention of Em and Kyle, linking their sticky fingers together and pulling off towards the next exhibit. It left Arthur with all of the wives, which he had not had the distinct pleasure of being solely alone with. 

“What did Belly get Georgie this year?” Caroline asked, falling into step with Diane, her arms crossing delicately across her chest. 

“A watch. Something nice and delicate. He couldn’t think of anything that screamed ‘60th birthday’, so we decided on something simple,” Diane said, shaking her head as if she knew it already wasn’t going to go over well. 

“We got a diamond hair clip,” Gemma said, screwing her face up. “I thought it was stupid, but he knows his mother. My poor mother would faint if I tried to buy her diamonds. She hates anything fancy.”

“At least it’s not a crystalline wine stopper. I told him it was a stupid idea, but he insisted,” Caroline said, rolling her eyes. 

The wives looked to Arthur, as if inquiring about what Eames had bought his mother. 

He honestly couldn’t answer them, because he had no idea. The present was slipped into Eames’ luggage at his own home, and any glimpse of it Arthur saw at the house. It was a small package, clearly some sort of small box. He figured the manner was personal, and that it was up to Eames to handle. He wasn’t a part of the decision, so he wasn’t sure how much of an investment to put into it. 

“You warned him about the caricature, right?” Caroline asked, poking at Diane’s arm, looking almost scandalized at Arthur’s silence. 

“I don’t know what he got her. It was a small box. I didn’t help pick it out,” Arthur said honestly. He had no idea what to say to these women, not when they were giving him severe warnings about Eames. What was one to say about a fake boyfriend who was apparently a notoriously bad gift giver to his own mother?

Arthur had never received a bad gift from Eames. Not that he had received many. But none of them were bad. 

“You didn’t ask? Mentally prepare yourself for the judgement?” Gemma asked. She pressed her lips together. “I know that they value her too much, but she’s their mother, and her weight and opinion matters to the whole family. When she doesn’t like a gift, it’s everyone’s problem.”

Arthur felt like that was unhealthy behavior. He didn’t vocalize this thought. 

“She likes you though,” Caroline said, watching her kids and how they interacted with Diane’s. “She said as much yesterday. Thinks you might be the one to get Dig— Eames to settle down.” Caroline had corrected her use of Eames’ name, but it still felt as if she was going to say Digby, and that she was merely parroting what Georgie had said to her in the first place. 

Arthur had almost no comment to this either. There wasn’t a lot to say to someone who was telling you that you’re well liked. That was sort of the opposite of what Arthur wanted to hear, considering that he was already well aware of how Georgie felt about him from when she had visited Chicago. He knew she thought he was a good influence. 

“Stop, he’s blushing,” Diane said, patting Arthur’s shoulder fondly. If it were anyone else, it would have been extremely awkward. Only Diane, in her funky dress and ankle boots and her jangly bracelets could pat him on the shoulder and have it look totally normal. 

“Well, I like you,” Caroline said, giving him a slight once over. “I hope you stick around, because meeting some new person every holiday is getting sort of old,” she added. 

Arthur couldn’t tell if that was a dig at Eames, or a dig at the family, or a dig at something else. It was pointedly mean, but he couldn’t really parse out what for. From his experience with Caroline, he figured that was merely how she operated. 

“Okay,” Arthur said, feeling uncomfortable. He sort of wished that Em was still dragging him around and pointing out animals, because at least he could escape the eyes of the wives. He was not good at having groups of female friends, which was why he avoided it in general. He didn’t understand. 

“C’mon, let’s start circling back,” Diane said to the group, looking out to where the kids were pressing their face up against a pane of glass. “We’ve got to get everyone back by dinner, if only to turn in early for the drive tomorrow.”

With that the conversation was steered away from Arthur and Eames and back to a safer subject. Arthur was not excited about another dinner with the family, but he would suffer. For Eames.

Chapter Text

“Darling, have you seen my cufflinks?” Eames asked from the bathroom, his voice soft and barely heard out in the main room. 

“I found them on the edge of the sink, so I put them back into their case,” Arthur said. He sat on the floor, trying to pack his clothes back into his suitcase neatly. He could never figure out how to pack everything back together properly, all things considered. He barely traveled far enough for it to matter, but he was not about to have any of his clothes spill over into his personal item for the trip back. It was bad enough they had a day’s worth of travel back to the states. 

“What would I do without you?” Eames said, walking around Arthur to his side of the bed, grabbing the cufflinks case and dropping it into his own luggage. 

“You’d lose your head,” Arthur muttered, neatly folding his pair of trousers up, placing them carefully into his bag. He tried to keep the collars of his shirts straight and the presses of the creases intact, but he hated the way that everything was sitting. It needed to sit flat so his nice suit could lay in it’s garment bag, but even then it was not working out right. 

“Are you going to stay up all night packing?” Eames asked, flopping himself onto the bed. His voice was muffled by the pillow, barely audible to Arthur’s own sensitive ears. 

“Maybe,” Arthur said. The answer was actually no, because they both had things to do in the morning. They had to leave for the airport by 7pm, and they’d likely spend most of the day saying goodbyes to all of the brothers. He was not particularly excited about being alone with Eames’ mother again, but that was only because of her biting tongue. 

He felt honored to have evaded the lashings of Georgie’s words. 

“Maybe?” Eames asked skeptically. He threw one of the throw pillows off the bed, hitting the back of Arthur’s head. “How about we watch some shit tv on my tablet before bed,” Eames suggested, leaning over the bed to peer at Arthur. 

Arthur paused. “Which show?”

“I was thinking either catching up on East Enders , or maybe an episode or two of Luther ,” Eames said, grabbing at his tablet. “Although, if you want quintessentially British in my childhood manor, we could go with Sherlock or maybe The Crown ,” Eames added, rustling about on the bed. He was rolling around, as if thrashing the blankets around to properly nest himself. 

“ Luther , I guess,” Arthur said, tucking his clothes neatly into his suitcase, trying to ensure nothing would wrinkle when it was closed. 

“I knew your soft spot for Idris Elba would win out in the end,” Eames said, rolling over so that he could queue up an episode. He watched Arthur stand, peering at him upside down. “Darling, such a long face for one of our favorite shows,” Eames said, his eyebrows pulling together. 

“It’s nothing,” Arthur said. Which clearly meant it was something, and that Arthur was merely attempting to cover it up. He didn’t have anything in particular to say to Eames, but he felt something in his chest. He wished it were something simple, like heartburn. 

“Are you alright?” Eames asked softly, propping himself up onto one elbow. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? I’m here to support you,” Arthur said, his fingers pinching at the duvet where it was scrunched on Arthur’s side of the bed. He looked down rather than directly at Eames, not particularly sure how to look at him. He’d spent the whole trip in his head, and he was starting to feel guilty for taking so much of Eames’ energy. 

“I’d be happy no matter what you did,” Eames said, sitting all the way up. “You have won my mother over and made my relationship with her better than ever. I owe you for that,” Eames continued, sitting back in his heels, looking at Arthur carefully. 

“You sure everything is fine?” Arthur asked softly. 

“More than fine,” Eames said, grinning, as if his body language had to fill the gaps left behind by Arthur’s lack thereof. “I do wonder how my dear mother will take it when I tell her we’ve broken up, but I figure you’ll be a regular guest at birthday’s in the future,” Eames mused, sitting back on his own side of the bed. 

The breakup was the last thing on Arthur’s mind. 

“Let’s watch something and kip off, yeah?” Eames said, starting to settle himself, turning the sound up on his tablet and forcing himself down into the pillows. 

“Aright,” Arthur conceded, climbing up onto the bed. 

They didn’t particularly have a routine for anything like this. Their nights spent watching tv and ignoring their respective deadlines frequently started with takeout and ended with the two of them slumped on opposite sides of Arthur’s couch, since Eames’ couch was merely a loveseat. If either of them had the wherewithal to think about bed, then they would slink off to Arthur’s bed and leave whoever was still sleeping with the whole couch. 

They had never really shared a bed before. 

The two occasions that Arthur could think of were not particularly memorable, and neither really involved watching a shitty crime show off of Eames’ tablet. 

The first was only a year after the start of their friendship. After a night of drinking, everyone had ended back at Arthur’s apartment. When they divided up sleeping arrangements, it was either forcing Eames to sleep on the floor in his bedroom, or have him sleep in his bed with him. He hadn’t thought twice about it at the time, considering this was pre-crush. He hadn’t had time to acknowledge his attraction to Eames at that point. 

The second was for Dom’s bachelor party, only three years ago. They had agreed to go with Cobb and a few of his stupid lawyer friends to Toronto for a boys weekend, which was arguably the stupidest weekend of Arthur’s existence. He and Eames were paired up for beds because they didn’t know the other lawyers, and they were splitting beds for some reason. 

Cobb footed the bill for both of them, so there were no hard feelings about it in the end. 

Neither of those experiences were anything like the intimacy of sharing a bed in Eames’ childhood home. And, considering they had agreed to also attend Arthur’s mom’s annual barbeque as a couple, this would not be the last time that they would share a bed as a faux couple. 

“Would you mind scooting closer? I want to balance this,” Eames said, lifting his tablet in the air. He smoothed the bedding between them, as if it’s wrinkly status was what was preventing Arthur from moving any closer. 

He didn’t want to think about the fact that he would truly feel Eames’ heat next to him. Sharing a bed, turning away from each other, was far different than this. He wasn’t sure how to place himself so he wouldn’t give away any of his true feelings. Not that they were particularly obvious, but confessing love in Eames’ childhood bedroom was not high on Arthur’s bucket list. 

“I’m moving,” Arthur grumbled, sliding himself closer. He let himself touch Eames, press their shoulders together and feel the soft hardness of his torso. He wanted to cuddle up closer, rest his head on Eames’ shoulder as if he was allowed to. He resisted the urge, focusing doubly on the screen as to avoid anything awkward. 

He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but he woke up turned away from Eames, his blankets tucked in around his shoulders.

Chapter Text

The flight back was far less exciting than the flight to England. Or, rather, Eames had finally figured out that disturbing Arthur in his flight process left him with a grumpy and sleepy man who had far more bitterness in his body than pliable softness. 

They had said their goodbyes to the rest of Eames’ brothers, the families trickling out after lunch. They then had their goodbyes with Georgie and Reg, who were both very complimentary of Arthur, despite their minimal interactions. 

Georgie had squeezed Arthur’s shoulders with her bony fingers, her eyes locking onto Arthur’s intensely, as if commanding not only his attention, but the attention of his very soul. “You are very good for my son. Please do not mistake his personality for indifference. I would like for him to keep you.”

These words were said very seriously, as if giving him grave advice that he was to write down. Or perhaps memorize for some sort of strange prophetic moment in the future. He wasn’t sure what to say, besides nodding and agreeing politely. 

He was far more afraid of Georgie than of the implication that it was Eames’ job to keep him entrapped in his orbit. Arthur was very much against the concept of ownership in relationships, but he found that Georgie as a traditionalist was not going to let this particular piece of her traditionalism go. 

They were waiting in the terminal for their flight to New York (and then to Chicago), when Eames spoke. He was unusually quiet the whole trip back, only commenting twice on those around him. His eyes were sort of distant, like he was thinking of something. Arthur felt no need to interrupt his thoughts. 

“What did she say to you?” Eames asked, looking down at his hands. 

“That she wanted you to keep me, and that we were good for each other,” Arthur said. He was paraphrasing, but he felt like the severity of her words would come across wrong from Arthur’s mouth. 

“She said the same thing to me,” Eames said, half shrugging. “All the support in the world for a guy I’m only pretending to date,” Eames muttered, shaking his head. He seemed sort of lost at this revelation. 

Arthur tried not to feel his own slight heartbreak at Eames’ words. He knew that it wasn’t the fact that they were pretending, it was the fact that he had tried so hard to get his mother to like anyone else he was interested in. Arthur knew the feeling well, and he could understand the strife of trying to find someone that his family liked as much as him. 

“I’m sure you’ll find someone else,” Arthur said. It felt like the thing he was supposed to say. He was at a loss for words otherwise. 

Eames chuckled, dark and low. A self pitying laugh. “I’m not so sure I will.” He sounded so bittersweet about the entire situation, his words tainted with years of his own struggles with his mother. Arthur couldn’t imagine what sort of struggles and arguments he had before him, and he wasn’t really sure he was keen on seeing any struggles or arguments after him. 

Abruptly, Eames stood. “I’m grabbing a drink for the plane. Do you want anything?” Eames asked, standing awkwardly, looking sort of far away. 

“Surprise me,” Arthur said, smiling up at him. He knew something that simple would perk Eames up. He was an illustrator, sure, but he very much liked reading into people and figuring out what made them tick. By now, he was sure that Eames knew him well enough to pick a drink for him. 

“Back in a jiff,” Eames said. He seemed as if he were going to say something else, add his typical darling at the end, but refrained from it. He sauntered off into the airport in search for something for the two of them. 

He came back ten minutes later, right before boarding, with two hot drinks in his hands. One had a tea bag dangling from it, clearly for Eames, and the other had something scrawled on the side. Eames was whistling something jaunty, as if the short break getting drinks was all he needed to push himself out of his funk. 

“Darling, a white hot chocolate for you,” Eames said, pressing the drink into his hands. “I had the most interesting conversation with the barista, who used to work as a concessions person at Etihad stadium, and she was telling me about this wonderful time when they tried to storm the field—” Eames rambled, appearing far better than he was only minutes ago. 

Arthur listened with half an ear as Eames rambled, paying attention to the key details that Eames was giving out. He was so cheerful that Arthur couldn’t bear to interrupt, even as they were trying to board the plane. 

The moment they settled in for take off, Eames was pulling out his drawing sketchbook, scribbling down lines that were too abstract to mean anything instantly. He kept quiet, letting them take off peacefully. 

“Thank you,” Arthur muttered, tilting his head back. He felt the bump of Eames’ elbow against his own, as if acknowledging their own routine. 

He was not interrupted for the entire flight. By some sort of miracle, he was not interrupted.

Chapter Text

“Darling,” Eames murmured from Arthur’s office doorway, leaning on it for support. His garish shirt was distracting from the screen that Arthur was looking at, making it hard for him to finish the last few words of the piece of crap that Nash had sent over. He blinked and pulled his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes slightly as he leaned back in his chair, giving Eames his full attention. 

“It’s nearly six, and I promised Cobb and Mal we’d go out with them tonight,” Eames said, rapping his knuckles on the door frame. He pouted his lower lip slightly, as if trying to beg in his own weird way. 

Arthur sighed. “They’re well aware that we are not actually a couple, right? We keep getting invited on their dates,” Arthur said. 

Since they had returned from England, they’d been invited on a double date with Cobb and Mal for three weekends in a row. The two of them weren’t saying anything in particular about it, but merely asking them both along for some sort of twisted date night while Mal was pregnant and couldn’t drink. They went out for food, the first time, had blown them off the second time, but now was the third weekend in a row. 

“I have no idea why we’re getting invited, but I am not having Mal show up at 3am like she did last weekend, complaining about Cobb while she made that stinky tea I hate,” Eames said, making a face. “She pulled out loose tea from her purse . She frightens me,” Eames added, making a face at that. 

“She’s your boss,” Arthur pointed out. Not that she was much of a boss, all things considered. 

“And Cobb is your stupid lawyer friend from college. Who is a bad friend, by the way. Couldn’t be bothered to answer my calls about the potential legality of using copyright images,” Eames said, pointing to Arthur aggressively. 

“I’m not a lawyer, and I can tell you that’s copyright infringement,” Arthur said, putting his glasses down on the desk. He took a deep breath in, trying to weigh his own desires of going out versus his ongoing date with his couch and the latest episode of Station 19 . He was trying to catch up before the new season, and definitely would rather be at home than out with Mal and Cobb. 

“Darling, dinner or no?” Eames said, catching Arthur’s attention again. 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Fine. But only because I also don’t want to deal with Mal. She keeps wandering in, as if she works here. Which Saito is getting sort of pissed about,” Arthur said, starting to pack up his stuff. 

“You can tell when Saito is anything but—” Eames made a stony face, a perfect mimicry of Saito’s regularly glum expression. “Because that man is far too serious for his own good.”

“He leaves passive aggressive sticky notes on manuscripts when he’s angry. Left me three on my desk about ‘unwarranted visitors’ supposedly ‘ruining my work’,” Arthur said, making sure to emphasize the quotation marks for Eames. He was sort of trying to point out Eames’ own presence in his office, but he already knew that Eames wouldn’t see it that way. 

Not that he wanted the visits to stop. Arthur looked forward to the visits. 

“Passive aggressive notes? I thought that was more your style,” Eames teased, laughing lightly. 

Arthur threw a pen at him, hitting the doorway instead of Eames’ bulk. 

“I’m only teasing. I’ve only ever gotten aggressive silence from you, and I’d take that over any of your cutting remarks,” Eames said, laughing. His smile grew at whatever sort of expression overtook Arthur’s face, the delight clearly evident. “Darling, you look like someone shoved a lemon in your mouth.”

“I’m not that bitter,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes again. He shoved everything into his leather briefcase, not bothering to keep anything safe except his glasses. He needed those to stay nice, considering he rarely needed them. 

“You’re forgetting sour,” Eames said. He immediately ducked back behind the doorway, as if waiting for another pen assault. The playful grin on his face was enough to have Arthur smiling and conceding. 

“Now that you’re done insulting me, can we head to dinner?” Arthur asked, gesturing for him to move out of the doorway. “I could also call Mal, tell her we can’t make it and to bring over her tea—” 

Eames grabbed Arthur’s arm quickly, as if that was going to prevent Arthur from using his phone. “Anything but the tea,” Eames said, eyes wide and serious. “I can’t do it.”

“We’re taking your car. I walked today,” Arthur said, swinging his office door shut behind him. He pushed at Eames’ shoulder playfully, forcing him forward through the hallway. “Plus, you owe me.”

“From what?” Eames asked, heading out of their offices. He glanced back at Arthur as he pushed the button for the elevator, quirking his eyebrow in question. 

Arthur honestly couldn’t think of a specific time, but they had exchanged so many favors he was likely owed one at this point anyways. His silence was a tell, giving away the fact that he had no particular instance in mind that they were settling. He could feel a blush rising in his cheeks at Eames’ intense gaze, his eyes playful and fun yet so serious. 

“I can’t think of anything, but I’m sure you owe me,” Arthur said, trying to keep his voice clipped. It didn’t work very well, considering the way that he felt itchy all over underneath Eames’ gaze. It was more of a leer than anything, the mix of playful and serious having Arthur’s attraction floating to the top of his pot. Or whatever his particular metaphor was working with today. 

The elevators slid open, letting the two of them step inside. Arthur hung back as Eames pressed the button, the doors sliding shut and letting them drop without interruption to the first floor. 

“I wish they still played elevator music,” Eames commented, moving on entirely from their previous conversation. He had nothing in his hands, tucking them into his pockets. He leaned back slightly, looking at the dinghy ceiling of the elevator, as if music were to randomly sprout from nowhere. 

“They still have elevator music in Vegas,” Arthur said, half shrugging. 

“Darling, Vegas?” Eames said, wagging his eyebrows. 

“I went with my sister a few years ago, remember?” Arthur said, shaking his head. He clutched at his briefcase, ignoring the look from Eames. “We went right after she met her husband, but before he was her husband. Although Grant would have married her in a shitty Vegas chapel if she had asked him,” Arthur said, half shrugging. 

“Would you marry me in a tiny chapel?” Eames asked, elbowing Arthur slightly. “I’ll be your blushing bride, dress and all.”

“Ha. Ha,” Arthur deadpanned. He ignored the skip of his heart in his chest at the idea of them getting married, or together at all. “My mother would eviscerate me if I denied her the chance at a big gay wedding, so I’m not sure if it’d work without her,” Arthur answered honestly. 

His mother was so supportive of him, to a fault, and would want to rub her bigoted relatives face’s into the dirt at a gay wedding. Not that Arthur would be happy about that particular turn of events, but it would be wonderful to do out of spite alone. 

“I thought your mother was Jewish,” Eames said, as if that changed anything. 

They got out of the elevator, heading towards the back of the garage where Eames’ shitty VW Beetle was parked. 

“I have a tattoo, and I’ve been gay my whole life, Eames. If my family being Jewish provided any issue, it would have come up already,” Arthur said, huffing a little bit. He thought that was particularly obvious. 

“Wasn’t sure if your mother was as supportive as your sister,” Eames said, holding his hands up as if in surrender. He had met Leah a handful of times, so he had a good gauge on a small slice of Arthur’s family life. But Eames had no grasp on his actual home life. 

“My mother stopped practicing seriously around the time that she moved to Birmingham. There’s not necessarily a booming Jewish community,” Arthur said, half shrugging. “Although probably the best in the south.”

Eames unlocked his car, swinging open the door for Arthur to get into. He rounded the car as Arthur sat down, his steps slow. 

Deliberately, Arthur leaned across to unlock Eames’ side from the inside. 

Eames had made him watch A Bronx Tale early on in their friendship, wanting to know how much of it was real from Arthur’s stint in college in New York. While Arthur could carefully claim that he had absolutely no interactions with mobsters, there was one scene that stuck out for Eames. The scene where the girl leans across the car and unlocks the car door for her date. 

Since then, in Eames’ old VW Beetle, he always unlocked the car door for Arthur and waited for him to lean across and unlock it for Eames to get into the driver’s seat. Not that their particular interaction was romantic; Eames had a very funny notion about what was truly “American” and he had an attachment to this particular act. 

“Thank you,” Eames murmured, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Do you want to pick a new cassette?”

The cardboard box at Arthur’s feet was scuffed on the edges, holding the same tapes that Eames always had in his car. He gave him an option of changing it, even when only four of the tapes worked really well, and it was nearly impossible to change them. 

“I’m good. Let’s listen to Springsteen again,” Arthur said, leaning back into the soft leather seat. 

Eames turned up the sound as they pulled out of the garage, the opening notes of Born in the USA coming through tinny on Eames’ tiny speakers. He started to sing along softly, his voice blending into the music almost perfectly. The way he moved, his ridiculous American spirit and his comfortablitily, had Arthur watching him as he drove to whatever stupid restaurant Mal had picked.

Chapter Text

Arthur called Eames, putting his phone on speaker and setting it on the top of his dresser as he packed. He was getting his money’s worth of this new luggage, with a trip to England and a trip to Birmingham only two months apart. His vacation days were dwindling far too much for his own personal liking, but he had flexibility. And the break was sort of nice. 

“Darling, I was just about to call you,” Eames said, answering the phone. He sounded sort of tinny over the speaker, but his usual timbre was still there. Somehow, the word darling felt more seductive over the phone. 

Not that Arthur was seduced. 

“I wanted to go over what you needed to pack,” Arthur said, slipping out his pastels. He put a pink, blue, and green pastel shirt into his suitcase, tossing some matching ties on top as if that was going to help anything. Then a dark blue polo shirt, one his mother bought for him, and some slacks to match all of it. He felt like a super straight businessman who was attempting to look metrosexual. 

“What I need to pack? Besides my charm?” Eames asked. 

“Ha. Ha,” Arthur said flatly. “You’ve never been to a southern barbeque, and despite the fact that you’ve met my sister, she is very different from my mother or the stupid gated community that will make up most of the barbeque,” Arthur added, picking through his sock drawer. He considered adding in his rainbow socks, if only to ruin his family’s day, but decided against it. Plain pastel socks to match. 

“I figured I’d bring some garish shirts, look particularly dashing so that your mother might like me as much as mine likes you,” Eames said. 

Arthur had no real idea what to say to that. “Can you pack some plain stuff? Anything in solid colors that won’t be too offensive. And nothing particularly queer.”

“Nothing queer ? Who do you think I am?” Eames asked incredulously. 

“The gayest man alive. Super flamboyant. Can you please just pack something normal?”

Eames was quiet for a moment. Too quiet. “Sure,” he said simply, as if that was any sort of answer. 

“You don’t sound sure,” Arthur said quickly, wishing he could see Eames’ face. It was one reason why Arthur hated talking on the phone: he couldn’t see the other person’s face. He based so much of his interactions on how the other person looked— their posture, stance, attitude— that he felt uncomfortable doing the same over the phone. 

“Do they not know you’re gay?” Eames asked, as if that question needed to be asked. 

“They’re southern traditionalists,” Arthur said, as if that were any explanation for the situation. 

“So they know and don’t like it,” Eames said in response. 

Arthur hummed for a second. “Right. That’s probably the best way to describe it,” Arthur said, half shrugging even though Eames couldn’t see him. He tried to think of how he had explained it to past partners, but found himself drawing a blank. 

“I’ll be sure to look my best. Not particularly queer, as to keep it sensible in front of your family,” Eames said, sounding almost amused. “If only my mother could see this, me putting down my garish shirts for you. She’d practically squeal that I was changing for the better.”

“Don’t actually change,” Arthur said adamantly. “I know I’m asking for this favor now, but please don’t actually stop wearing those shirts—”

“I knew you liked my shirts,” Eames interrupted, sounding as pleased as punch. 

Arthur scowled, even though Eames couldn’t see them. “It’s not that I like the shirts, it’s that you’re not truly you without your clothes to match,” Arthur said, making a face. He squeezed his eyes shut at his own words, sort of regretting letting them out of his mouth. 

“Then I’ll be the most me I can be without being overly flamboyant,” Eames said, completely ignoring the weight of Arthur’s words. “I’ll forgo my rainbow shirt in favor of a simple paisley,” Eames mused. 

“As long as you don’t bring that one I hate,” Arthur said, unsure of how much Eames picked up on regarding his own affections, and the weight of his words. He could almost imagine the way that Eames would blow past it, and he hoped that he would move on quickly from this particular moment. 

“The one that looks like a couch? I spilled red wine on it last weekend, so unless the dry cleaners can fix it, then it’s done for,” Eames said. He almost sounded sad about it. 

“Thank God,” Arthur muttered, half zipping up his own suitcase. 

Eames made an offended, choking noise. “Did you just thank God for destroying my shirt? And I thought you were secular.”

“I can thank some sort of higher universal being for getting rid of that shirt,” Arthur argued, grabbing his phone off of his dresser, switching it away from speaker phone. “The fact that the stupid cat shirt is still in rotation is proof otherwise, though. Because if there was a god, they would have taken that thing years ago.”

“Darling, don’t you dare speak ill of my cat shirt,” Eames said, sounding almost sad about it. “I broke my hand in that cat shirt, so it holds meaning.”

“You did not break your hand,” Arthur said, sitting on the floor, leaning against his bed frame. He looked up at his ceiling, letting his head tip back. “You only sprained your wrist. And the shirt was still ugly,” Arthur added, closing his eyes. 

“I’m offended,” Eames gasped, faking his attitude. He sounded so jovial over the phone, and it made Arthur want him there next to him. 

It was one thing that Arthur didn’t realize would happen after they went to England: he missed Eames. He thought that spending every waking moment with him for several days on end would put strain on their relationship, forcing all of Arthur’s own adorations into a more platonic zone. But it only strengthened his own desire for Eames. 

Not even his sexual desire, even if he was practically sex on a stick. It heightened his desire to be close to him, to be near him. To always bask in his glow when he cracked jokes, and to slip into bed with him when it was night time. To elbow him out of the way of the sink and argue with him about clothes. He missed being near Eames. 

“Are you really ready to head to my home? See my life?” Arthur asked, his voice quiet. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think about how vulnerable it made him. He didn’t let many people into his life. 

“I am ready and thoroughly honored that you’d let me come home with you,” Eames said, totally and completely serious. 

That was the nice thing about Eames: he knew when to be serious. He knew when to treat a situation with respect and really acknowledge the impact of it. He was such a fun, kind and exuberant man who could become serious at the drop of a hat. And Arthur hated the way that his actions made his heart pound. 

“Flight leaves tomorrow at one, remember? Do you need a ride to the airport?” Arthur asked, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

“Yes, please. Can Cobb come pick us up? Take us to the airport in that death trap he calls a car?” Eames asked, turning back to his playful side. 

“It’s a convertible, not a death trap. And he’s getting rid of it because of the baby, so I’m sure he’s going to pick us both up in it,” Arthur said. He made a mental note to text Cobb to come over earlier than before, so they’d have time to collect Eames on their way to the airport. 

“I’ve got to go actually pack, darling. Otherwise I’d chat all night,” Eames said, sounding sort of far away. Music started in the background, some sort of hum that Arthur couldn’t recognize. 

“See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight.”

Chapter Text

Flying into Birmingham was far different than flying into Manchester. 

Arthur felt far more in his element as he deftly navigated the airport, with Eames trailing behind him. He had spent all of their trip to England trailing behind Eames, acting as the second to his lead, but now he was in charge. Being in charge was sort of Arthur’s thing. 

He moved them through the airport efficiently, tugging on Eames’ arm when he tried to stop at souvenirs and various other small shops. He forgot how flighty Eames could be on occasion. “No Jamba Juice,” Arthur said without pausing, pulling Eames’ arm. 

“Darling—”

“No,” Arthur said, the two of them already past the Jamba Juice and towards the escalators, heading towards the car rentals. “I want to get settled before nightfall and get some real dinner, so we are not stopping for anything. I don’t care if you’re hungry.”

“Bossy bossy,” Eames muttered under his breath, still audible by Arthur. He let himself be pulled forward, and no matter how annoyed he seemed, he let himself be dragged through the airport. The front he was putting up was flimsy. 

But the only reason why he was bossy was because of the rental car lines. He knew it would be a nightmare anytime after 4pm, and he was right. He could stand in line forever, it was standing in line with Eames that frequently became a hassle in itself. 

If they went to any restaurant with a wait time, Eames tended to be fidgety. He needed his drawing pad or something to do with his hands, and if he didn’t have either or the capacity to retrieve either, he became sort of insufferable. There had been multiple occasions where they had skipped to a less populated restaurant, purely to avoid any sort of wait. It was easier that way. 

Upon seeing the line, Arthur promptly manhandled Eames, tugging at his carry on bag until it unzipped and he could retrieve his small drawing notebook out. “You’re going to sit in that chair and draw pedestrians until I get the car, okay?” Arthur said, pressing the items into Eames’ hand and giving him a gentle push towards one of the waiting seats. 

“Alright then, darling. Commanding. I like it,” Eames said. He growled a little bit, leering just enough to be obscene. “Are you going to be like this in front of your mother?”

“No, because I’m not going to have to wait in line in front of my mother,” Arthur said. “Preventative measures, not flirtations. Get the two straight.”

Eames winked, grabbing Arthur’s bag to take with him. 

An hour later, and they were tucked into the rental car, zooming down the highway south, closer to where Arthur’s mother now currently resided. Arthur was glad that he went for a sedan with a little bit of power, because he was speeding down the highway and enjoying every minute of it. His own stress about the situation, which typically cropped up in overbearing and overcontrolling manners, was being slowly released by the control of the car. 

“If you needed a stress relief, I would have gladly given you a back massage or recited calming poetry,” Eames said, watching Arthur drive. 

“I doubt even your poetry skills would be considered ‘calming’,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes. He let a smile linger on his lips, only to let Eames know he was poking fun and enjoying himself. He knew he could be a bit of a downer, and he didn’t want his own stress to sour his words. 

He pulled up swiftly to their hotel only a half hour later, not enough driving time to completely wind him down from the stress of flying and landing and preparing for what would potentially be the worst barbeque in existence. 

“A hotel?” Eames asked, looking up at the hotel from the passenger seat of the rental car, his eyes glancing around the street. “Weren’t we supposed to stay with your mum?”

Arthur winced. “Yeah, no. Not when my cousins are all staying in town,” Arthur said, trying not to think about the last time he had stayed at home when his cousins were around. “My aunts are—” The words escaped him as he attempted to summarize how terribly awful they were. 

“So a hotel,” Eames said, allowing Arthur to skip past the uncomfortableness of trash talking his own family. “I can do a hotel.”

“I figured as much,” Arthur said, half shrugging. “My mom knows how hard it’s been in the past trying to bring anyone home, that she understands.”

Eames seemed as if he had something to say about this, but kept quiet. It was weird to see him reserved, like he was stepping back into his own parents house instead of into Arthur’s world. To see Eames this way, out of his element and out of his own neighborhood in Chicago, was sort of strange for Arthur. It was like seeing what Eames would have been like as anyone but himself. 

“Let’s go,” Arthur said, turning the car off. He got out to unload the back, keenly aware of Eames trailing behind and taking his time to stretch out of the car. He ignored the way Eames looked, stretching his arms up, a flash of his stomach and the tattoos inked there enough to have Arthur flushing a little bit. 

He could not get distracted by one Digby Eames, not if he could help it. The whole faking it thing worked if they remained as tight of friends and as separated as they were; to mix his own feelings in, his back burner feelings, would be muddying up the whole scenario beyond recognition. He couldn’t do that to their friendship. 

  “Lemme help you with that,” Eames murmured, coming over to take his bags from Arthur. He flashed a small smile, one meant for the two of them, and winked. “While I would love to see you peter around and act all manly for me, darling, I’ll take my own bags.”

“Who said I was offering to carry them?” Arthur shot back, raising an eyebrow skeptically. He wasn’t offering, but if Eames had asked, he’d probably attempt to juggle the bags. If only to show off a bit. 

“Always the gentleman,” Eames said, smirking. He shut the trunk of the car, reaching to sling Arthur’s carry on bag over his shoulder. “Onwards,” Eames said, striding up to the hotel, most of the bags slung over his shoulder.

How the positions were reversed so quickly was beyond Arthur, but he was not one to complain about the way Eames’ biceps were flexing under the weight, or how the breadth of his shoulders looked even stronger and more desirable with the bags so carelessly resting on them. Arthur only wheeled his small bag behind him, watching Eames as they walked inside.

Chapter Text

Walking into Arthur’s mother’s house was like walking into a hellscape. Quite literally. 

The amount of pastel colors was alarming, and the fact that every woman either had teased hair or a large hat was the most southern thing that Arthur could ever imagine. He was acutely aware of his upbringing and the ways of the greater Birmingham area, but he was never prepared for the community that his mother moved into once he had left for Chicago. 

The gated community (Willow Heights) was a prestigious community, funded by his mother’s grand inheritance and the royalties she got from his father’s patents. She got monthly checks from a variety of record companies regarding the music that his father had helped produce, and despite the small percentages of earnings, the monthly grand sum was larger than Arthur’s paychecks as an editor.

She never liked to flaunt that she was wealthy, except when she bought the house. The place was at least a thousand square feet too big for her, and was filled with thrift store furniture and store brand goods. She was at least true to her roots. 

“You had mentioned southern traditionalists, but this was not quite what I had imagined,” Eames murmured, his eyes carefully scanning the yard as they rounded the house. The barbeque was relatively small this year, with only around 50 people in attendance. It was still larger than your typical backyard barbeque, and it’s professional chef manning the grill was not typical. 

  “Into the fire and flames, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said, sliding his hand into Eames’. He tried to ignore the way the warmth of Eames’ palm pressed against his own made his heart settle, feeling far more calm than nervous now that they were connected in some way. He liked the way that Eames let himself be pulled forward, walking together as if they belonged. 

The stares were sort of alarming, but nothing new for Arthur. 

“Mom!” Arthur greeted when he reached her table at the center of the party.

She turned to look at him, her dark hair and dark eyes scanning over his face. “My baby,” she said, standing to greet him. Her small arms wrapped around his torso, hugging him tight to her. She pulled back, holding him at arm's length, grabbing at his wrists to hold his arms out from his torso. “And so skinny.”

  “Life is busy as an editor,” Arthur said. In reality, he hated cooking because he never got the portions correct. He either made way too much for one person, or a portion size far too small for himself. There was no in between. 

“Don’t you feed him?” Arthur’s mother said, addressing Eames. 

“Eames, this is my mother, Deborah,” Arthur said, gesturing back towards where Eames had stopped, giving the two of them space. 

“It’s Debby to all of my friends,” she said, smiling at Eames. “It’s so nice to have Arthur bring home someone so handsome. I can just tell you’re a charmer.” Debby stepped up to Eames, reaching up to grab his face in her hands. 

“Mom—”

“Good bone structure, strong arms, and tattoos! You’re practically irresistible,” Debby said, stepping back from Eames. She waved her hand in front of her face, as if fanning herself off. “Now, tell me, did you ask my boy out, or did he get the courage to ask you for himself?”

Eames locked eyes with Arthur over his mother, smiling at him. His eyes softened kindly, in a way that had his whole face falling into something adoring and lovely. “I pestered him endlessly until he let me take him to lunch. It helped that our offices are across the hall from each other,” Eames said, his smile making his eyes crinkle. He was really selling this moment. 

The fact was, it was the half truth. That really was how the two of them came to know each other. They were coming into the office at the same time nearly every morning, sharing elevators. Arthur was much more fresh faced, wearing an ill fitted suit and still plastering his hair back with gel as if it made him look older. Eames wore the usual shirts he wore, except a tad bit more uncoordinated, if that was possible. 

Eames had asked him to have lunch, pestered him to hang out only once. At the time, Arthur had a boyfriend, some poor sap from his grad program that he had not nearly enough time for. He had agreed to lunch platonically, and they hadn’t looked back. He was sort of surprised that he had even agreed in the first place, considering how annoying Eames was. 

“He was sort of a stick in the mud,” Eames added, smirking. 

“Was not!” Arthur protested, looking from Eames to his mother. “He was wearing the most hideous shirts. I couldn’t say yes until I knew he could properly dress himself.”

Debby laughed, reaching to get a hold on both of their arms. She squeezed their elbows, shaking her head. “You two were meant for each other. Now, come, sit at my table,” she said, pulling them towards the empty seats next to her. 

“Jerk,” Arthur muttered, pulling out the chair for Eames. 

“I’m not going to lie to your mother,” Eames hissed, tucking himself into the table. “And don’t pull my chair out like I’m some sort of blushing maiden.”

“It’s called being a southern gentleman,” Arthur muttered, sliding himself in next to his mother. He smiled kindly at his mother, taking her hand in his over the table. “Where’s Leah? I thought she’d be here.”

“Your sister is too pregnant to fly,” Debby said, patting Arthur’s hand lovingly. “Have you called her recently? She acts as if the two of you never talk, and I find that to be absolutely atrocious.”

He does talk to his sister. Just not frequently. He doesn’t particularly care about her pregnancy woes or her husband, and she doesn’t have any interest in his completely lacking life. They call once a month, at most, to give a perfunctory update. She lived in Seattle, he lived in Chicago. It wasn’t as if they had time to stop over and see each other. 

“I talk to her,” Arthur said, squeezing his mother’s hand. “I just don’t have a lot going on in my life.”

“How dare you say that when you have a lovely boyfriend sitting on your other side?” Debby said, shaking her head. “Hasn’t he made an impact in your life? Something you would want to share with your sister?”

“The last time I called Leah, she complained about her feet being swollen for almost twenty minutes straight. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise,” Arthur said, leaning back in his chair. He glanced around the large circular table, noticing the eyes of Aunt Cathy and Uncle Rick, among his other aunties and his mom’s family. 

“She’s pregnant! What else is she supposed to talk about, the weather?” Debby asked, throwing her hands up in the air. 

“We’ve been friends for so long, Miss Holtz, that he probably forgot to even mention that we had taken the next step,” Eames said, directing this at Arthur’s mother. 

“You’re my friend, call me Debby,” Debby said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t make me seem older than I am. I’m barely a lady.” 

Eames seemed almost gleeful at Debby’s reaction, pressing his lips together and swallowing down his amusement. He looked like something was stuck in his mouth, with the way he was attempting to appear as if nothing was wrong. He would have fooled anyone but Arthur. 

Debby was so much different than Georgie. Loud in all the ways that Georgie was quiet; open in all the ways that Georgie was shut; and complimentary in all the ways that Georgie was cutting. He liked to see the amusement in Eames’ face, considering the vast differences between their two mothers. 

“Mom, can we move past the fact that I’ve been a bad son, and on to what you’ve been up to?” Arthur said, trying to steer the conversation. He really did not need his aunt and uncle hearing how their poor gay nephew was off being gay again. Their side looks were homophobic enough as is. He hated the judgement beaming from their eyes at the tattoos on Eames’ skin, and the way that Eames had scooted his chair closer to Arthur’s at the table. 

She launched into some sort of long and complicated drama involving the two younger women at her work. They were both recently hired for secretarial work, but Debby had theories about their personal involvements with some of the sales people. She could see all of this from her desk, through the glass walls that looked out into the pit where all the other staff worked. She liked people watching. 

Arthur couldn’t be less interested if he tried. He actively avoided work drama at work, and he hated when Eames tried to bring him in on whatever Mal was doing across the hallway in his own offices. He was not a gossipy person. 

But Eames was. He was enraptured by Debby’s theories, asking questions to further the story. While Arthur could barely pay enough attention to catch what she was even talking about, Eames was already thinking about the details. He could see the cogs turning in Eames’ brain, the way he was collecting the minute things into his sponge of a brain. 

He was probably collecting details to draw. He did this sometimes, and recognizing the signs became easy if you knew the pattern. He would ask far too detailed questions, and follow up questions about an individual. If he had any sort of drawing material on hand he would start to sketch, to form the person out in his brain by adding what he thought the details would manifest into. 

Now, with nothing to draw with, he was only raptly paying attention. He would come up with some brilliant sketches when they got back to the hotel tonight. 

“Now, you’re just a bunch of peaches in a prairie,” Debby said, reaching across Arthur to pat at Eames’ hand, her lips curling into a completely pleased smile. This was probably the first time she had liked anyone that Arthur had introduced her to. 

Matt was a no go from the start, because he was a true atheist and attempted to shun religion when Arthur had brought him home for Hanukkah his freshman year of college. Andrew was an asshole who proudly wore a cross necklace, which brought out Debby’s Jewish side. David was just plain boring, in his mother’s eyes. 

It seemed like Eames really hit the spot. He’d have a hard time bouncing back when they announced their breakup. Even if they were amicable, they stayed friends, it would still have Debby comparing every other relationship Arthur had to Eames. Which was not exactly the goal of their whole situation as it was. 

“I was going to take a turn about the party, say hi to all of my guests,” Debby said, squeezing Arthur’s shoulder. “Do you mind? Let’s eat together when the party is winding down, when there’s more room for everyone before the fireworks go off,” Debby said. She was already twirling away in her leopard print and gold jewelry, drifting through the crowd like the Jewish Southern Betsey Johnson. 

They both sat and watched her talk to a few more people, eyes entranced on her hands and the way that Debby commanded a presence. This was why she had barbecues every year, even though she had moved and barely retained any of her old record producing friends. She was the kind of woman you could call “magnetic”. 

“A turn about the party?” Eames asked, reaching up to brush at where a few of Arthur’s hairs had escaped the gel, curling at the base of his neck. “I wouldn’t want to think about how horrific it would be if your mother and mine met each other,” Eames added, turning back to face Arthur. 

They were rudely interrupted by someone clearing their throat across from them. It was Arthur’s Aunt Cathy and Uncle Rick, glaring at them as if they were setting houses on fire and cursing small children into some sort of indentured servitude. Their looks could light a candle, with how fiercely their eyes burned into Arthur’s skin. 

“Do you two have to—” Aunt Cathy said, waving her hand around, as if to encompass who they were as people. “It’s disgusting me. Turning my stomach. Making me lose my appetite.”

Arthur felt where Eames stiffened against him, clearly uncomfortable and caught off guard at the bluntness of their homophobia. It was always a bit startling, to have his aunt and uncle act so terribly to him. Especially since they waited for the moment that Debby was away to launch their attack. 

“I hope this doesn’t disgust you,” Arthur said, sickly sweet, just before he pulled in Eames for a kiss. 

He had thought about what kissing Eames would be like. It was a thought that simmered in the back, something he tried not to think about too frequently. Eames had such plush looking lips, always slightly parsed as if waiting for someone to kiss him. Those same lips felt soft underneath Arthur’s own, pliant and receptive as Arthur pressed in to kiss him, his mouth moving softly against Eames. Even without a warning or preparation, they fell into a soft ease for a few moments, their lips pressing together far too long to be casual. 

By the time that Arthur pulled back, his aunt and uncle were gone from the table. They were long gone, if their absence in the general vicinity was anything to go on. 

“Darling—”

“Sorry about that,” Arthur said, carefully extracting himself from Eames. “We hadn’t discussed what sort of PDA we were okay with, considering the status of this,” Arthur continued, trying to keep his voice clinical. If he didn’t, his voice would be obvious with his want for Eames, with the desire to haul him back in just to kiss him again. 

“Right,” Eames said slowly, as if waiting for the punchline. 

“If I crossed a line—”

“It’s fine, darling,” Eames said, brushing something off the lapel of Arthur’s jacket, eyes trained downwards. “It’s all for the sake of the fake relationship and pissing off homophobic parents, right?” He seemed slightly annoyed at this phrase, but his face wiped clean of any annoyance, looking up at Arthur in his usual way. 

“Yeah, it is,” Arthur said, frowning slightly at Eames. He didn’t want to read into it too much, not when they had an entire barbeque of homophobia to swim through. He would deal with this particular piece of information later, when he had far more time to think about the ramifications of kissing his best friend and the man he was secretly lusting after. 

“Would you like some food? A drink?” Eames asked, glancing out at the party. “We could hold hands and parade around, act as if we’re the best thing since apple pie,” Eames added. He seemed far too delighted at this particular suggestion. 

Arthur watched his face for any clue of his mood or emotions. He could see that Eames was putting up a bit of a front, but he couldn’t really decipher why. “Sure. Let’s go back up onto the porch,” Arthur said slowly. He stood when Eames did, following him up onto the porch. 

He tried not to think about kissing Eames again. Because he’d really like to kiss Eames again.

Chapter Text

“She went all out this year,” Arthur said, looking at the food spread on the porch. He grabbed a plate and immediately went for the potato salad, knowing it was likely his favorite recipe from when he was a kid. He felt Eames trailing behind him, grabbing a plate and starting his own food selection. 

“This is quite the spread,” Eames said, grabbing a small amount of nearly everything. He even wedged some homemade chocolate chip cookies next to his macaroni salad and his hamburger he made up, his plate filling high with food. 

“She loves entertaining. Always has,” Arthur said, looking out over the party. He could see his mother talking to her guests, looking particularly regal as she moved through the party. 

“I’d love to bring her to one of our stupid launch parties. See her turn about the room, making everyone fall in love with her,” Eames said. He trailed after Arthur, following him to a small table tucked close to the house. It was the most private of tables, leaving the two of them relatively alone. 

“I wonder if she could charm even Saito,” Arthur said, settling back into his chair. He could almost imagine his mother talking to his boss, her five-foot-nothing frame and her large jewelry charming the socially inept man. 

Eames let his knee brush against Arthur’s under the table, settling so that it was just touching Arthur’s own. He left it there, the warmth of his leg distracting. “That man absolutely terrifies me.”

“Terrifies you? He’s my boss,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes. “Although when he yelled at you last year right before Christmas—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eames interrupted, pointing at Arthur. “But that was your fault. You told him about the mistletoe I’d hidden.”

“But you managed to hide the mistletoe where you knew that we’d both be standing, and Saito has something about actually being professional in the office,” Arthur said,  blushing. He had sort of forgotten why the mistletoe became relevant to begin with. Not that he had an opportunity to use it, with Saito walking in on the two of them before he had gotten the courage to actually kiss Eames. 

He really needed to stop thinking about his feelings regarding Eames. 

“He’s a true Scrooge,” Eames said, waving his hand as if dismissing Saito. “Now, your mother seems like the kind to break out some sort of Jewish holiday kissing tradition, if only to see her son happy.” Eames knee knocked into Arthur’s underneath the table, a physical representation of Eames’ own leer. 

Arthur put his head in his hands, trying not to think about his mother’s conniving ways. “She one time berated me about not holding hands with my boyfriend because it was ‘bad luck’ to let go of a loved one in public. Convinced him it was some sort of Jewish superstition,” Arthur said. He had tried to block the memory of poor Matt at Hanukkah dinner, afraid to let go of Arthur’s hand. 

“So she was likely disappointed that I wasn’t more—” Eames wiggled his fingers at Arthur, and despite the complete lack of words from his mouth, Arthur knew he meant ‘touchy-feely’. 

“Yes, she probably wanted a little more PDA. She’s a romantic at heart, even if my family are bigots,” Arthur said, glancing out at the party. They really needed to stop talking about PDA. It was lengthening an already sort of awkward situation, and Arthur did not need a reminder that he was a coward who kissed Eames out of selfish reasons to piss of his family (and finally kiss Eames).

 He half wished that he could be as happy as his other cousins, all sitting around with their partners and swapping stories like old friends. Instead, he was at the reject table. Again. Discussing PDA with a man who he was only pretending to be in a relationship with, but whom he wanted nothing more than a real relationship with. 

“I’ll hold your hand extra hard in front of her later,” Eames said, glancing around at the party. “We can aggressively hold hands in front of Cassie, get her off your back. Make sure that no one tries to set you up with a girl again,” Eames added, smiling at Arthur with his stupidly cute smile. He was being so blase about the whole kissing thing. Whatever expression had crossed his face, whatever doubt, was long gone. 

“Later. Before we leave this godforsaken party,” Arthur said, sipping at his drink. He wanted to hide behind the glass, watch his family and friends and his mother’s neighbors with a keen eye. Not only to spy on them, but to watch for himself. He didn’t need any blindsides by homophobic relatives. 

“Darling, are you trying to spy on your relatives?” Eames asked, watching Arthur carefully. His eyes were tracking Arthur’s gaze, watching as it landed on various family members. As if his eyes flicking from person to person truly gained any sort of information. 

“I’m merely observing. I thought that was something you did sometimes,” Arthur drawled, lazy and pointedly mean. He knew Eames could take it. 

“While I appreciate your condescending attitude, I would like to give you a few tips on properly watching your relatives,” Eames said, tapping his spoon against his plate, eyes watching the crowd. “Unless you’ve become quite good at reading lips recently,” Eames added. 

Arthur did not know how to read lips. Or even where to start. He kept his mouth shut at Eames’ line of thought, not wanting to give up an inch. 

“First off, your whole lot talks with their mouths so closed,” Eames said, squinting out at the crowd. “It’s as if they don’t want me to read their lips.”

“I don’t think they train for that sort of thing,” Arthur said, frowning. 

Eames held up a hand as if to stop him from talking. “Secondly, they are all very pretentious. I just caught that blonde woman saying ‘poor as dirt’ to that other blonde woman,” Eames said, nodding his head towards where two of Arthur’s mom’s friends were standing, chatting with each other with their iced teas in hand. 

“People around here value money,” Arthur said with a shrug. As if that was any excuse. 

“And they seem terrible. No offense, darling,” Eames said, nudging his knee against Arthur’s under the table. He was clearly trying to soften the blow of his own judgement, and he was doing a good job of it. Arthur would gladly agree with anything Eames said as long as he got a smile and was called ‘darling’. 

“I am well aware of the shitty state of my extended family. And the fact that they all congregate in a crowd of prejudice every Memorial day for a barbeque,” Arthur said, shaking his head slightly. He was trying to push down all of the bad thoughts, of years of bad barbeques he was forced to attend. 

They were quiet for a moment, the two of them eating their food. It was like watching exotic birds mate, the way that friends danced around each other and paraded their children as if it were some sort of speed dating service. Arthur knew the dance of single children well, having taken on it himself a few times. By bringing home Eames, he sealed himself as unavailable in all of the important ways. They would need more assurance of his queerness, but he was decidedly taken, which eliminated him from the song and dance. 

He liked pretending with Eames. It was so easy to pretend like his best friend meant everything to him, because he already did. He already was attracted to him, and he had thoughts about what it would be like to hold his hand or love him in a romantic way. The only thing that was between them was the fact that they were pretending, and in all likelihood, Eames did not feel the same. 

“What if we make this a thing,” Eames said, looking out at the barbeque, his eyes wandering along the crowd. It was like he was reading Arthur’s mind.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Arthur said, not bothering to look at him. He sipped his drink, trying to ignore the fact that they were touching knees and acting like some sort of illustrious couple, hiding in the background as if that was something that they did. 

“I mean like the date thing,” Eames said simply. 

Arthur frowned. “Specificity, Eames.”

“I want us to be dates for events in the future. I was thinking we could be each other’s permanent dates,” Eames said. He sort of looked like he had swallowed a cactus prior to saying that, his face pinched and his throat tight. Like it was painful to so openly suggest such a thing. 

“Permanent dates? Why?” Arthur asked. But he knew why. He knew exactly why Eames would suggest a thing, purely based on his mother’s reaction and the way that both of their parents thrust potential life partners at them as if they were merely choosing their next meal rather than someone to be romantically interested in. 

Eames stayed stoically silent, which was out of character for him. He always had a barb or joke to push at Arthur, even when they were simply sitting and chatting. He never let things fall silent if he had to, which meant he was totally and completely serious. Eames was only ever quiet when he was serious. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Arthur asked, amending his original question. He took the moment to glance at Eames, looking at his profile thoroughly. He could see the strong set of his jaw and the plushness of his lips, the way his eyes were dark and so charming. He let himself look, really look, because he could. If Eames had anything to say about the matter, he could pass it off as a part of their act and face zero repercussions for staring lustily at his closest friend. 

He already had those thoughts, the ones of lust and romance. He already wanted to pretend, to keep pretending for as long as he could, if it meant holding Eames closer to him than ever. He wondered if it was a good idea more for himself than for their friendship. He wanted to know if he could have his heart broken over and over again by one man, and if having his heart broken by Eames was worth it. He hoped it was. 

Eames looked back to him, eyes open and honest. “Darling, I’m as sure as I could ever be.”

“If it wasn’t completely weird, I’d shake yours in agreement,” Arthur said. He glanced back out at the backyard, at the way his mother was poised in the middle of her group of friends. They were all sipping iced teas as if it was the only thing they had drank all day, and their primness was suffocating, even from a distance. 

“Then it’s settled,” Eames said, knocking their shoulders together gently. “Now, would you like to take a turn about the place?” 

“What are we, Victorian England elites?” Arthur asked. 

“More like your dear mother,” Eames said, lips quirking at his use of the wording Debby had originally used. 

He let himself be taken on a walk around the edges of the party anyways, making themselves as visible as possible. If they were going to fake it, he certainly was going to fake it well. Arthur did absolutely nothing half-assed. 

He was keenly aware of his family and his family friends and whoever else at the party watching as he and Eames strolled by. Whoever had missed their display of PDA earlier certainly were catching this moment now. This particular part of Alabama, in Birmingham, was not really known for its investment in gay rights. Or its investement in gay Jewish men. 

Arthur had grown up going to the Gay Village and acting as if he wasn’t a gay Jewish man living in the south. It wasn’t as if his family was particularly religious, especially not after his father died, but he still celebrated Hanukkah and Passover and sometimes Yom Kippur if his mother bothered trying to celebrate it with him. But it didn’t change the fact that he had two strikes against him in the very southern, very religiously traditional Alabama. 

The small gated community south of Birmingham that his mother lived in, with its sprawling lawns and hair teased to the high heavens, was not necessarily a place that was not particularly open minded when it came to “non-traditional” couples. And yes, it was a place that considered not cis-hetero couples to be “non-traditional”. 

“Is it me, darling, or is everyone staring extra hard now?” Eames murmured in his ear, pulling them to a stop in front of the little gazebo that his mother had at the edges of her yard. Eames pulled them inside, and while it didn’t provide an actual cover for the two of them, it was at least a symbol of privacy. 

“It’s the religious and traditionalist roots,” Arthur said, pulling them to a seat on the bench in the gazebo. “You met my aunt and uncle. They don’t understand anything queer, and they have no intention of understanding anytime soon. They prefer stewing in their own hatred and bigotry.”

“Are they all—” Eames cut himself off, as if he were to say something untowards about any of Arthur’s nastier family members. 

“Rude? Offensive? Mean? Continually trying to set me up with progressively more annoying women in order to attempt to win me back over to the straight side?” Aruthr laughed, glancing out at the party, with its many large hats and pastel colors. “Yes. I thought bringing you might help solidify that I want nothing to do with any of the women they want me to be with. Including poor Cassie, who seems to now be forced into a match with Trevor. He’s worse than anything.” Arthur watched the party, the red dress of Cassie’s standing out from the crowd. 

He sort of felt bad for her now, that he had finally dashed all of her hopes. He was too old for her to begin with, but that didn’t matter if he was a “good catch”. Now that he was spoiled, tainted, he was officially off limits. Even if he suddenly became single. And Cassie would have to date poor Trevor, who was one of his more disasterly cousins. Not that he was a bad kid, it’s just that he preferred shooting guns and acting like an asshole to resembling anything of worth. 

“And you deal with them every year?” Eames asked, his voice small. He seemed somewhat confused by Arthur’s home life, the way that he was four conundrums twirled up into one. His outgoing Jewish mother in a community of homophobic Christians was far different from Eames’ own guarded home life. Their British noble-ism there was rooted in politeness, not bigotry.

It didn’t help that he had quite the opposite of Eames in almost every way: he had a mother who loved and supported him, but a distinct lack of family who didn’t. He had an entire party of people who would openly hate him, instead of a party of people who were too polite to ask the questions they were really thinking. 

“Yes, Eames. Memorial day barbeque, Hanukkah, and Passover if I can get the time off of work. And then her birthday in the spring. So minimum four flights home where I get to be the black sheep in an otherwise alarmingly white and straight flock,” Arthur said, half shrugging. He didn’t particularly want to talk about it anymore, but he also would continuously indulge Eames if questions arose. He was not the kind of person to turn down the Eamesiam curiosity. 

“Under our new agreement, I will be your shield,” Eames said, sliding his arm over Arthur’s shoulder, pulling him in gently. 

“Off to slay the dragons?” Arthur asked quietly, watching the way that his mother sat at the helm of her table, laughing with the other women like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

“I’ll be your Lancelot, Arthur,” Eames said, being utterly cheesy and yet completely charming, “Although, I don’t think that they were shagging in the original tales.”

Arthur huffed a laugh of disappointment at the joke, but let himself be held by Eames. 

They barely noticed another person joining them in the gazebo, sitting perched on the edge as if it were merely a moment’s notice before they were going to be ripped away. “Nice job,” Ari said, their eyes scanning over Arthur and Eames quickly. 

Eames prickled, moving as if to slide away from Arthur. A small pat on his leg had Eames relaxing, staring at the side of Arthur’s face as if having many questions about the tiny person who had magically appeared on the other side of the gazebo. 

“Eames, this is Ari. My cousin. They’re the other certifiable black sheep of the family,” Arthur explained, gesturing towards Ari. 

It was strange seeing them in the light of day, at a family function. Ari tended to avoid them at all costs, considering their current relationship with their aunt and the fact that being misgendered was not high on their list of activities. They had skipped out on everything but last Hanukkah, but mostly because they were in town for business and couldn’t avoid being suckered into the least important holiday of the year. 

“Pleasure to meet the guy who’s been the talk of the party,” Ari said, holding out their hand for Eames to shake.

Eames shook their hand heartily, relaxing at their words. “Pleasure’s all mine.” 

“How many times has Aunt Cathy dead named you?” Arthur asked, leaning back into Eames, letting the two of them settle back down. He tried to ignore the way his skin was buzzing with the contact against Eames.

“At least twice. She’s mad that Mom couldn’t force me into a dress this time,” Ari said, gesturing towards their smart trouser and dress shirt combo. They had bright pink suspenders on, the only pop of color on a black and white outfit. Seemed fitting, all things considering. 

Arthur could feel the questions that Eames had, the way he twitched with wanting to know. He was so bad at being introduced without the whole background, and his own curiosity and desire for information made him utterly insufferable at times. Like now, when he was being sort of a twitchy prick about not knowing every detail regarding Ari. 

“Yes, I’m nonbinary, you can stop looking at me like that,” Ari said, laughing. “I know you’re not being malicious, but I’d like five minutes where someone isn’t openly staring at me because I’m not feminine,” Ari added, raising an eyebrow at Eames. 

“Sorry,” Eames said. Even though Arthur wasn’t looking at him, he knew he was blushing. He was probably embarrassed for being called out, and while it was sort of rightfully so, Arthur forgot to brief him about Ari. He didn’t think he’d have to mention the one cousin he actually liked. 

“He means well,” Arthur said, trying to speak for Eames. “He’s an illustrator, so capturing story and details is sort of his thing.”

“So you’re the illustrator that Arthur raves about,” Ari said, a wicked smile on their lips. They looked at Eames appreciatively, as if seeing him in a new light. Their eyes narrowed at the bit of tattoos sticking out from his rolled up sleeves, and the way his arm wrapped carefully around Arthur. 

“I don’t rave ,” Arthur protested. He glared at his cousin, as if hoping that would send the correct message to shut the fuck up . 

Ari’s eyes flicked to Arthur quickly. They relaxed a bit in their posturing. “It’s good to meet the man I’ve heard a lot about. And the one man that Arthur is brave enough to take home.”

The way that Eames stiffened was far too telling. 

“I will gladly accept the honor,” Eames said, smiling in his typically charming way. 

It wasn’t that Arthur never had someone to bring home, it was merely that he had no interest in walking anyone through the gauntlet of death. With all of the facets of his family and his mother’s community, it never seemed worth it to fly any of his previous boyfriends to Alabama to meet anyone of importance. 

But that particular sentiment apparently hit hard with Eames, considering the way he was now stiffly holding Arthur. Outwardly he appeared no different, smiling at Ari and acting as if nothing was awry in his own charming way. They were already crossing a line they hadn’t discussed, being pressed together like this. They never touched this much outside of cuddling for movies on the couch, and even then it was barely their shoulders pressed together. Not this. Not touching all over, feeling each other’s moods. 

“Have you had a chance to say hi to Jessica and Peter yet? She’s pregnant, and being particularly annoying about it,” Ari said, steering the conversation away from Arthur. They winked at him, as if this was her plan all along. The little shit.

Chapter Text

They were barely in the rental car, after making their rounds for goodbyes, when Eames turned to look at Arthur. “It appears as if you’ve left some details out,” Eames said, his voice carefully neutral. He raised an eyebrow at Arthur expectantly. 

“About what, specifically?” Arthur asked, navigating them out of the hellscape of a gated community. He glanced at Eames out of the corner of his eye, trying to decipher the far too plain look on his face. 

“That I was truly the first guy you’ve brought back,” Eames said, as if that point was totally and completely obvious. “That your family was the way they are, that they call you such mean things.”

Arthur pressed his lips together, avoiding the look that Eames had fixed him with. He was not really interested in explaining to Eames the details of his personal life, not when he had no interest in dragging him into this particular facet of his life. He knew that agreeing to be permanent dates was a bad idea, all things considered. 

“Let’s not do this,” Arthur said, focusing very hard on turning on his blinker to pull out onto the road. 

“Are you really backing out because I asked? Or because you don’t want to share a small personal detail?” Eames asked. His words cut right to the problem. He could be so poignant and precise with his words, that Arthur frequently forgot about how good he was behind the smarm and charm. 

They had shared so much about each other in Eames’ childhood home, spilling secrets like they had extras to share. They were lured into a false sense of comfort by being a small island in a land they could call their own, but Arthur wasn’t particularly feeling the same safety back home. It was one thing to be marooned together on an island, basically having nothing changed except sleeping in a bed together. It was another to start displaying PDA, to hold each other— Arthur was not emotionally prepared for the level of commitment they had taken on. 

“If you can’t tell, my extended family is—” Arthur let out a breath of air, as if that were some sort of explanation. He could feel the way that Eames’ eyes were tracking his facial expressions, reading him when he didn’t particularly want to be read. “They’re traditionalists. And by the time I was prepared to bring any boyfriend home, thinking that he could survive my family, we’d break up because I had taken so long to bring him home. It’s a catch-22.”

“So why now? I suggested coming home to get Cassie off your back, but that’s not really it, is it?” Eames asked, voice soft. He seemed to sort of deflate at the sight of Arthur’s struggle, his eyes softening into something more attune to his regular, everyday looks. The kind looks that Arthur liked. 

“I’m thirty two, Eames. My mom is nearly sixty. I can’t keep avoiding her because I hate her family and friends. I love my mom, and if going to a barbeque once a year where I’m uncomfortable makes her happy, then I’ll do it. I just need to show her that I’m not backing down, and show the whole family that I’m gay and that’s not going to change,” Arthur said, hands twisting on the wheel, gripping it hard. 

His words left the car silent. He knew Eames probably had a hundred— no, a thousand— things to say, but he was holding his tongue. And rightfully so, all things considered. He did not need to be judged because he loved his mom, and he certainly did not need to have the approval of Eames to take any action. Even if he so desperately wanted his reassurance and support.

The whole point of agreeing to this was not to let his emotions get in the way of the end goal: tricking their families into leaving them alone so that they could have a life surrounded by career rather than love and marriage. 

“I shouldn’t judge,” Eames said after a few minutes, apparently having found that length of time to be appropriate for waiting him out. “It’s not my place to decide whether or not you talk to your bigoted family.” Eames winced at his own words. “And it’s not my place to call them bigoted, unless you call them that first.”

This felt like such a paralleled conversation, so imminent of their one back in Eames’ home, only a month and a half ago. It had felt like forever since that moment, since they had started really sharing with each other. 

“Eames, I’m not mad,” Arthur said, letting his hands loosen on the steering wheel, letting go of his death grip that he unconsciously took. He glanced at Eames out of the corner of his eye, the way he was postured uncomfortably. “Relax. The deal is still on, and we’re all good. I shouldn’t have dragged you into my shitty family without giving you the rundown first.” 

He waited a moment for the response back, the usual bite of wit and charm that Eames would respond with to lighten the conversation. When that didn’t happen, Arthur turned to look at Eames at the stoplight, giving him a second to actually look at him. 

His face was solemn, and his stare was intense. It was as if he was contemplating everything from the creation of man to the meaning of life, all while staring at Arthur. His hands were clasped together, as if poised to say something. He clearly had a lot on his mind, things that could not be easily summed into words, apparently. He was a talker, and all he was doing was being silent.

“I mean it. We’re all good. Can we go back to our hotel room and order in? Watch HGTV in our pajamas and eat fried green tomatoes? Other shitty fried food?” Arthur asked, watching Eames’ face carefully. 

In their years of being friends, they’d had tiffs. Fights that couldn’t really be called fights, except for being solved with someone buying the other lunch and the two of them brushing it under the rug. To see Eames affected by the entire scenario, by either Arthur or the barbeque, it was something else entirely. 

“Only if we can get some of that lemon curd pie you were telling me about,” Eames said, rolling his eyes. “Light’s green,” Eames pointed out, gesturing in front of them. 

“My mom is making some for us for tomorrow’s brunch, so don’t worry at all,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “She likes you.”

“I would bloody hope she does. I’m not this charming for just anyone,” Eames said, puffing out his chest a little. He looked so stupidly attractive in his paisley shirt, both garish and utterly charming. 

No one could stay mad wearing a paisley shirt. That had to be some sort of life rule.

***

The drawing of the people, of the drama that his mother had described earlier in the day, was on the complimentary pad of paper on the desk. Eames was in the shower, humming loudly, and had left the paper out. 

Arthur was always sort of surprised about his talents. Or rather, not surprise, but genuine respect for what he did. He had captured someone who had fit the details of the girl that Debby was describing; blonde, tipped up nose like a fairy, eyes wide and angry with a passion that was wasted on secretarial work. The details were all there, not in a necessarily realistic way, but in the elevated artistic sketches that Eames was always leaving everywhere. 

Instead of leaving it, Arthur tucked it into his suitcase. He had so many of these tucked away, ones that Eames had left on his desk or had tossed aside as if to throw them away. He knew it was stupid and sort of creepy to keep all the drawings, but he couldn’t help but want to keep them. He liked Eames’ art. 

It wasn’t until they were in bed, laying down but separated by a space between their beds, that Arthur thought to ask. 

“Why were you so—” Arthur fought his own brain to come up with the word. “Distraught by the barbeque? And what I said?” About things that happened? Arthur kept that last question silent.

Eames was quiet. So quiet that Arthur had figured he had fallen asleep, which made his question a mute point. He shouldn’t have asked it anyway, considering the way that he was acting in the car. And how stiff he got around Ari, which could be its own thing entirely. Their relationship was so uncomplicated before now. 

“I think you deserve a family that loves you for who you are,” Eames said, his voice quiet. “I know that you can’t choose who you’re related to, but you shouldn’t have to put up with it, is all.” 

There was rustling as Eames turned over, dragging the blanket with him. 

His words were so loud in their room. He said what Arthur had hoped (wished, prayed, begged, whatever) all these years. It was what both he and Ari had wanted to happen eventually. That their families would love them for their queer selves rather than forcing their straight-hetero agenda on them all. 

He wanted to tout his boyfriend around the barbeque proudly, instead of having everyone stare as they passed. He wanted Aunt Cathy to stop making lewd remarks regarding his manhood and his virility, and have Uncle Rick not make any more “sodomite” comments. No matter how true he said they were, they were still rude and offensive. And he didn’t particularly take to the slurs they used either. 

“Thank you,” Arthur whispered. He had no idea what else to say.

Chapter Text

“Are you ready for brunch?” Arthur asked, straightening his tie in the mirror, peering behind him at where Eames was doing some sort of stretching routine that Arthur had never seen before. “Or are you trying yoga for the first time?”

“I’m trying to limber up for the level of mental gymnastics necessary for your family,” Eames said, dramatically reaching down to touch his toes. 

“Ha. Ha.” 

Eames’ shirt rode up as he stretched his arms high, revealing the strip of skin above his waistband. It was dark with tattoos, the ink prominent over his taut stomach. Arthur swallowed thickly at the sight, his eyes watching the way Eames flexed in the mirror. Even though he knew he shouldn’t stare so openly like that. He barely even registered the slightly mean comment when he had Eames being sex on a stick behind him. 

“I’m only joking, darling. My back hurts from these stupid beds,” Eames said, gesturing towards the two queens sitting next to each other. 

They were sort of hard beds. 

“They didn’t have the plushness of the beds listed on the website when I booked the room,” Arthur said, half shrugging. He turned towards Eames, holding his arms out as if inviting him to examine the look.

He attempted to go more casual, with a pale blue button down with light yellow pinstripes and a dark navy blue tie. He tucked his shirt into a nice pair of dark denim jeans, to try and not look as fancy as he felt. It was hard to balance between his own expectations of himself and what others would think of him. And he would never wear a tie with jeans, except that was the sort of thing that the other men at the brunch would wear. 

“Dashing, as always,” Eames said quickly, eyes flicking over the look, glancing him up and down a few times. “And mine?”

The shirt was a dark green short sleeve button up with contrasting yellow pocket, collar, and cuff details. It was so Eamesian, the way that it was haphazardly buttoned over a simple white t-shirt underneath, and the graphic blocking of the shirt. It was one of Arthur’s favorites because it was both understated and a statement. And it made Eames look incredibly hot. But he was trying not to think about that. 

“You know I like this one,” Arthur said, gesturing towards the shirt as if that statement was obvious. He was trying to downplay his own frustrated feelings at the sight of Eames. He really hated the way they had grown closer because of the whole fake-dating thing, because it meant he had far more time and opportunity to openly gaze at Eames. Which was not helping the situation with his attraction. 

He had meant to keep the attraction on the back burner, leaving it out of sight and out of mind. Especially since Eames clearly had feelings regarding dating and taking people home to his parents, and had some unexpected feelings regarding Arthur’s family the night before. They were so entangled in friendship that Arthur wanted to push aside his own romantic feelings, for the sake of their friends, family, lives, and for each other. 

But Eames was making that extremely difficult. 

“I know, darling. That’s why I brought it,” Eames said, adjusting the sleeves of the shirt. “I figured I’d look as dashing as possible, leave your poor mum heartbroken when I have to leave like you did mine.”

“I did not leave your mom heartbroken,” Arthur scoffed. Although he wasn’t particularly sure of himself, considering what she had said to him. He knew he had sort of ruined her for anyone else that Eames had planned to bring home. The only way to one-up Arthur would be if Eames brought home a lawyer wife pregnant with Eames’ child. 

“She called me, right before we left,” Eames said, glancing in the mirror on the closet door, scrubbing a hand over his head. “Asked if I was planning on making a good impression or not.”

“She asked that?” Arthur asked, blinking. 

Eames waved his hand in the air, as if to wave off his previous words. “She said, ‘Digby, please behave yourself around Arthur’s dear family. I’d like to meet them some day.' And that’s a direct quote,” Eames said, making faces at himself in the mirror, checking himself out. 

“Oh,” Arthur said. But that was really a placeholder for all the thoughts in his brain, the ones swirling that were confused about his particular influence on Georgie. He had never met someone’s family and had them be so immediately attached, and yet he had Georgie practically proposing to him for Eames, attempting to bring him into the fold. 

“So how homophobic will this brunch be?” Eames asked, changing the subject quickly. 

“On what scale?” Arthur asked, adjusting his tie in the mirror. He grabbed his wallet and the rental car keys off of the tv stand, tucking them into his pants pocket. 

“Taylor Swift pretending like she supports queer people to actually being hate crimed,” Eames said after a moment. 

Arthur hummed, ushering Eames out the door of their hotel room. “More along the lines of the Bible as law,” Arthur said, half shrugging as they headed down towards the elevators. “My cousin once told me that she was okay with me being gay, as long as I stopped hugging her. In case the gay rubbed off on her,” Arthur added. 

That particular event was not one of Arthur’s favorite family memories, even if he could laugh about it now. His cousin, Hope, was the daughter of his particularly homophobic Aunt Cathy and Unlce Rick. The same ones who had Arthur spite kissing Eames in front of them. Their whole family riled Arthur up in ways he didn’t know was possible. 

Hope wasn’t a bad person. She seemed fairly misguided, and like she was in an unhappy marriage to her Marine husband. But she also wore Ugg boots and infinity scarves during the summer, so she was merely living up to her own stereotype. She was even a born again Christian, despite their deep Jewish roots. 

“I thought your family was Jewish,” Eames asked, frowning. 

“Some. But Uncle Rick, who married Aunt Cathy, converted to Christianity for her. Same for my Aunt’s Cheryl and Prudence, who both converted after marriage. Only my mom married a Jewish man,” Arthur said. 

There was a gap in conversation as they got into the rental car, the two of them pausing both in thought and in movement. It wasn’t until they were pulling out of the hotel garage that Eames dared open his mouth again. 

“How big is the brunch?”

“Not that big,” Arthur said, half shrugging. “It was mostly the close family last year, so I’m assuming the Aunts and most of my cousins. Their kids if they have them,” Arthur said, trying to count up the people. “Without my sister and her husband, and with Ari, probably around 25 people at most?” 

Trying to remember everyone who was going to brunch was like trying to hold onto a greased up pig. Names slipped out of his head as soon as he tried to grasp them, and it was difficult for him to remember exactly who all had bothered turning up this year. The barbeque was huge, but this brunch was their family. It was quiet, and meant to be quiet. 

Ari was the last one to cause brunch drama last year when they brought their girlfriend, Kat. Before that was when Hope turned up half drunk and yelling at her husband. And before that was when Arthur’s sister Leah had told the Aunts they were being homophobic towards Arthur and they owed him financial compensation. 

The fact that Leah had decided to become a real estate agent instead of a lawyer was sort of baffling to Arthur. 

The silence from Eames was sort of alarming, all things considered. He wasn’t necessarily a loud person, but he was fairly good at keeping a running conversation. And he was typically only quiet for a purposeful reason. 

“You alright?” Arthur asked, sparing a glance at him as he drove. 

“You have 25 people coming to a brunch, where you’re going to be hate crimed the whole time?” Eames asked, his hands clenching in his lap. “My family is very Stepford, as you Americans would say. They keep their homophobia in their hearts, not proudly in the open.”

“It’s not like I’m walking into a verbal assault,” Arthur argued. His words sounded weak to him, even as he was saying them. He knew it was a basically invalid argument, all things considered. He shouldn’t have to put up with his family. “Ari will be there today, which means that the pressure won’t be on us. Plus, we’ll be at the table with Ari and one of my other cousins, next to the table with my mom and Cheryl, Ari’s mom.” Arthur shrugged. “She’s bad about the misgendering thing, but she respects Ari. And she wants me to Queer Eye her life, so I can’t be that mad at her.”

“She does know you’re an editor, not a fashion stylist,” Eames said, laughing lightly. 

“She hears ‘gay’ and thinks ‘gay best friend’, which is far better than ‘I should hate my nephew for being alive,’” Arthur said, shrugging. He knew that passing this off as regular was bad, but he was trying to excuse his family and the hot mess he was dragging Eames into. Considering the fact that Eames wasn’t even his real boyfriend, he was certainly dragging him head first into the family drama. 

“Darling—”

“Hey,” Arthur interrupted, before Eames had the time to say something about how much he pitied Arthur and his horrible family. “You agreed to this yesterday when you said we could be permanently faking it. So you get to smile and pretend like you like my family and not pity me,” Arthur said, as if he needed to make it absolutely clear. 

“I’m not pitying you,” Eames said, shaking his head. “I merely feel that you deserve better.”

Arthur pressed his lips together at that, trying to disguise any of the emotion crossing his face. He felt annoyed at Eames, but he knew that it was merely his slightly bad mood about the brunch being projected onto him as the closest person in his vicinity. But he also felt emotional about his own predicament; he knew he shouldn’t put up with his family, and he did anyway. He was even dragging Eames into it, who was well aware of the fact that Arthur was a self-sacrificial bastard. 

“I know,” Arthur said quietly. 

“Darling, I really don’t mean to—” Eames cut himself off. He let out a huff of a breath. He was clearly also trying to not project his feelings onto Arthur, causing a spiral of arguments and anger. 

They used to spiral out of control all the time when they first became friends. They would project their anger and frustrations on each other, saying barbed and sharp words to hurt each other when they knew they shouldn’t. Then one would bring lunch to the other, and it would be patched up again. They were both smart enough not to let their own anger and frustration taint their relationship, even when they started turning on each other. 

“Can we let it go?” Arthur asked, accelerating onto the highway out of town, focusing on the road instead of the way Eames seemed tense in the passenger seat. “Tell me about that stupid email that Mal sent you instead.”

Eames huffed a breath of laughter, his body relaxing into the passenger seat, limbs sprawling in the careful way they always did. As if he was a tiger, relaxing while still coiled and ready for anything. This was the posture Arthur liked to see; the strength and the relaxation made him so much more attractive. 

“She wants three cover sketches by Wednesday, even though that’s the day after we fly back,” Eames said, rolling his eyes. He tapped his fingers against his leg absently, as if merely fidgeting to fidget. “I’m supposed to draw up some sort of serpent and snake scenario, but the notes that Mal sent.” He shook his head. “She wants something both feminine and masculine, both sharp and soft, and sparse yet fully detailed. The woman doesn’t even know what she wants.”

“Didn’t you do a snake cover a few months ago?” Arthur asked, trying to remember the last time he heard about the whole snake debacle. 

“Three months ago I designed a cover for some young adult novel about fairies . Which makes no sense,” Eames said. He shifted in his seat, reaching for his back pocket. He pulled out his pocket sketchbook, flipping through the pages. “I had to draw seven different snakes before Mal approved it last time.” 

He held up the notebook to the pages he had sketched in before, with snakes on half of the early pages. They all looked good to Arthur, who had minimal knowledge of snake anatomy and even less knowledge of what sorts of things sell on book covers. As an editor, he should probably know more, but he couldn’t be bothered. He only cared about what was inside the cover. 

“Did I tell you about Nash’s most recent draft?” Arthur asked, hands twisting his grip on the steering wheel. “I had to explain the concept of Chekhov’s gun. To a writer ,” Arthur said, his nose wrinkling in remembrance of the conversation. The frustrating elements of Nash’s writing were frequently overshadowed by his brilliance, but the fact that a man who could put together a great novel had such a terrible writing and drafting habit was astounding. 

“He didn’t know Chekhov’s gun,” Eames said flatly. 

“Couldn’t even begin to tell me what it meant.”

Eames laughed, light and free. “Even I know what that means. I use the concept when creating covers. What a daft bastard,” Eames said. 

“A daft bastard indeed,” Arthur said.

Chapter Text

The brunch was as awkward as expected. 

Although, they got to sit at the weird kids table with Ari and his other little cousin, Jared, who had shown up in all black with eyeliner. So being alternative and being queer was equal to the stupidly conservative parents. At least Jared didn’t say anything during the brunch, just quietly ate his food and rolled his eyes whenever they said something that he deemed “old.”

“As if Lady Gaga would ever do a collab with Eminem,” Ari said, smacking the table. They pushed their plate aside, as if that gave them more grounds to argue. “She is a queen, and he is a white man.”

“But he has that song with Rihanna,” Eames pointed out, as if that was anything to argue about. 

“And Lady Gaga has worked with Ariana Grande,” Arthur added, giving Ari a pointed look. “Considering your namesake, good ole Ariana is tarnishing all of the Ari’s in the world with her blackfishing and stupidity,” Arthur continued, knowing he was right. 

“Fine, but that doesn’t mean that Gaga would collab with a man,” Ari said, crossing their arms over their chest. “What would that even sound like? Why would anyone want a rap breakdown in a Lady Gaga song?” 

“This is so fucking stupid,” Jared muttered, sighing deeply. 

“Well, Jared, your mom called me a pathetic nobody when I arrived today, so let me have this,” Ari snapped back. 

Jared gave Ari a blank stare, blinking a few times. “Fuck my mom sucks.”

“Almost all of our moms suck,” Ari said. “Except Arthur’s. I’d take Debby over anyone else any day. She’s like the hippy mom who is just living her life. And she makes the best latkes, don’t tell Cathy or the others,” Ari added, the second part directed at Jared. 

“Why would I voluntarily talk to any of them,” Jared said flatly. 

“Atta boy,” Eames said, holding up his glass for a cheers. When Jared made no move, Eames tipped it up anyways, downing half of the mimosa that was in his cup. 

Arthur glanced at the cup, only half concerned. “Are you planning on getting trashed? Because my mom does bottomless mimosas. And she means it.”

“Why not?” Eames said, shrugging. “Although, I will refrain from the actual bottomless-ness. Since I’m supposed to be on my best behavior.”

“I’d love to see you on your worst,” Ari said, winking at Eames. 

Arthur shot his cousin a look, equal parts confused and offended. “You don’t even like men.”

“I don’t like cis-hetero men. And something tells me that I could probably con dear Eames here into a dress,” Ari said, winking again. 

“Stop winking,” Arthur said, kicking at their feet under the table. 

“Ow, darling, that was me,” Eames winced. 

There was a ruckus from the other tables as the kids— the many many kids— all started running out onto Debby’s back lawn. They were pulling out what looked like soft soccer nets, setting them up at either end. 

“Arthur!” Debby beckoned, waving her arms wildly to catch his attention. She nearly elbowed Aunt Cheryl in her wild attempts to catch his attention and bring him over to her table. 

“Mother calls,” Arthur muttered, shaking his head. He pushed away from the table, fully prepared to walk the firing squad over to her, when he felt a hand on his arm. He looked down at Eames expectantly, seeing the way he was grabbing him. 

“Want me to come with?” Eames asked, blinking. He looked so cute, looking up at him. His mouth was flushed red, and he was practically jutting out his bottom lip. Thoughts both dirty and completely innocent passed through Arthur’s brain rapid fire. 

“I’m alright,” Arthur said. He wished he could lean down and kiss Eames, but he resisted every urge in his body and merely let his hand slide along Eames’ shoulder as he stepped away from the table. He could feel the warmth in his fingertips as he walked away, and he tried to carry that warmth with him to his mother’s table. 

“Baby, would you mind playing soccer with the kids? You were so good in college,” Debby said, smiling brightly as he approached. “The youngest few are already so excited for soccer at school, I figured you could play with them a little bit. Give them a leg up.”

“Mom, I really haven’t played since I got hurt—”

“Nonsense!” Debby interrupted. She reached out and grabbed his hand, patting it enthusiastically. “Go play with them while you’re still young and able to.”

Normally, Arthur would not bend when it came to being asked to play soccer. He just didn’t anymore. His knee was fucked six ways from Sunday since his injury, and while he got away with regular day to day life, he could barely do squats at the gym without it aching. It healed with so much scar tissue that it was hard for him to run around like he used to. 

He approached the kids anyways, sort of enjoying the way they were shouting for him. The boys all knew him as a soccer star from the stories told about him, but almost none of them had ever actually seen him play. He was nowhere as good as what anyone said about him, but he’d revel in the kids cheering for him. 

“Wanna see something?” Arthur asked. He knew it was pointless to ask, since they’d all want to see him, but he liked their shouts of enthusiasm. 

Arthur kicked the ball up, juggling it on his knee a few times before bumping it to his right, kicking it with the edge of his foot up before kicking it once more, sending it flying into one of the soft goals. 

The kids squealed at the sight, two of them running off towards the ball. 

They split up into teams, Arthur insisting on being picked last so he could place himself on clearly the weaker team. One team was almost all of the boys, and the other almost all girls. Not that the girls couldn’t hold their own, but three of them were under the age of 7 and would barely be able to kick the ball while running, let alone be competitive in any way. He could pick up the slack and teach them as he worked. 

He could feel the eyes of Eames and Ari on him, and part of his brain was stuck thinking about what they were talking about. He wanted to know if they were talking about him, mostly. Or if Ari had decided to take this opportunity to thoroughly embarrass him in front of Eames. Not that he felt like he could be embarrassed at this stage, but that he wasn’t sure what sort of fuel he’d eventually have to deal with. He wasn’t so sure about getting in deeper with Eames, not with the trajectory of their current relationship. Not when Arthur could feel his attraction like a lump in his chest, growing bigger every day and pressing on his internal organs like some sort of parasitic cancer. 

Arthur might be slightly dramatic about the entire situation. He couldn’t help but wonder though, mostly out of fear of being judged. 

He tried doubling his focus on the kids, lifting up his second cousins to kick the ball and helping them run down the field to score against their much more aggressive counterparts. They even passed the ball to him, letting him kick it down field and run faster than any of the other kids. 

Arthur was taking the ball downfield, ready to pass it to one of the other girls running along side him, when one of his older second cousins came sliding at him. His foot collided with the ball, kicking it away, but his other foot (and then his body) slammed into Arthur’s left leg. 

The pain shot up from his ankle into his knee as he twisted and fell to the ground, a tangle of limbs with the teenage kid. It was one of Cathy’s grandkids, Travis. He was usually a good kid— kept to himself and was kind— but he was known to be competitive. 

Arthur winced, laying flat on his back and letting Travis extract himself slowly. “Hey Arthur, you okay?” Travis asked, sitting back on his heels. He waited for a second, watching over him. 

He was very much not okay, but he wasn’t going to blame Travis for this. He sort of blamed the asshole from the University of Virginia (number 22, Baker) for ending his soccer career when he was only a sophomore and playing his second game as a starter. A torn MCL and ACLand a partially torn meniscus would do that to you. Plus scar tissue from a surgery to fix his ACL and make sure that his ligaments would still hold his knee together. No one really recovered fully from that. 

“I’m fine kid,” Arthur muttered, closing his eyes against the pain of his knee. “Can you get Eames for me?”

“He’s already coming over,” Travis said, standing. He was replaced with Eames, who was kneeling down next to Arthur’s head, hands coming up to stroke the soft curls off of his forehead. 

“Darling,” Eames said, his voice colored with worry. He glanced down at Arthur’s leg, looking at it as if he expected it to be mangled and gross. It was laying there like normal, only aching incredibly bad. “Are you alright?”

“It’s fine,” Arthur said, reaching up to pat at Eames’ arm. “Can you help me up, though? I know I can’t walk on it.”

“Are you sure? I could carry you or something—”

Arthur gripped Eames’ wrist tightly, enough to have him wince slightly at the way his bony fingers were digging into his flesh. “If you carry me out of here, I will never speak to you again.”

“Alright, love, I’ll help you up,” Eames murmured, backing up slightly. 

Arthur sat up. The word love bounced around in his head, it’s significance and use diminished by the fact that it felt like hot iron was in his knee. He could feel his brain scrambling to try and think of anything but the shooting pain. All he wanted was Eames, at this point. Just his comfort.

“Gentle,” Eames murmured in his ear, looping an arm around his back and underneath his arms. He pulled gently as Arthur pushed upwards with his good leg, glad that he had done so many pistol squats to try and strengthen his other knee so it’d never get injured. 

He tried to put weight onto his leg, but he found it buckling underneath him. He gripped Eames’ shoulder tight, leaning against him so that he could sling his arm around him, using him as a human crutch. He could feel Eames’ arm around him, sliding downwards to wrap tightly around his waist. The strength of Eames was enough to have him swooning a little, even without his knee. 

“Definitely can’t put weight on it,” Arthur said. His brain helpfully started thinking about the fact that Eames referred to him as love . What did that mean? Was it a heat of the moment thing?

“Let’s move away, get you inside. Your mum went for an ice pack and your old crutches,” Eames said quietly, lips brushing against Arthur’s ear as he whispered. It sent a shiver up Arthur’s spine, and spurred some thoughts that were definitely inappropriate all things considered. 

“Fuck, this sucks,” Arthur said, glancing up at where the rest of his family was watching him. They were staring intently, some of the Aunts whispering to each other. The kids had all grouped to the side, with Travis tucked into his mom’s side at her table, his eyes blearily watching as Arthur hobbled forward. 

“We can leave right after this, go to a doctor—”

“No doctors,” Arthur said quickly, letting Eames half carry him as they made progress forward, towards the house. “Last time I went I waited in the ER for nearly three hours, only for the pain to subside before they even got to me. It’s not worth it.”

Eames only squeezed his side, lifting him even more. “But you’re in pain.”

“Nothing a little ice and rest won’t fix,” Arthur grunted, making the transition from the grass to the flagstone. 

“Darling, you’re in pain ,” Eames said, emphasizing the fact that he was currently hopping forward, not even letting his toes touch the ground. “I can’t—” Eames cut himself off. 

See you like this , Arthur thought, filling in the blank left by Eames. He knew it was hard, seeing someone he cared about injured. He figured that a few of the people at the brunch, probably felt the same way, seeing him limping forward. He was half surprised that Ari didn’t come down and help, but they were small enough for Arthur to accidentally injury merely with his body weight, so their help would have been minimal. 

“Don’t you dare go any further!” Debby yelled, coming out of the house with a pair of crutches. She waved them in the air, taking the stairs quickly down to the lower part of the lawn, rushing over to where Eames and Arthur were standing. 

“Mom,” Arthur whined, taking the crutches from her. “I’ll be fine.”

She reached up and grabbed his face with her bony hands, pinching at his cheeks almost painfully. “I watched you get hurt that day, and I will replay it and relive it every time you get hurt in front of me. It’s my job to worry about you. I’m your mother,” Debby said, looking intently into Arthur’s eyes. 

Her gaze was very intense and yet kind at the same time. She had a softness of worry with the firmness of direct action. Arthur found himself nodding and accepting his fate, shifting away from Eames so that he could tuck the crutches underneath each armpit. 

“How can I help?” Eames asked quietly, almost too quiet for Debby to hear. 

“Eamesie, can you help him inside? I’ll rearrange a chair so he can put his leg up,” Debby said, patting Eames’ arm sort of manically before dashing back into the house, her house slippers loud on the stoned patio. 

“Can you just walk behind me, make sure I don’t tip back when I go up the stairs?” Arthur said. He figured that was a job that Eames could easily do without getting in the way. He knew Eames would hover, much like his mom, and he was not about to have him hover to the point of aiding him up the steps. He had crutches, physical ones not emotional ones. 

It was hard to ignore the peanut gallery whispering as he crutched up the stairs. He was an old master at this specifically, so he made quick work, but he couldn’t help but be completely annoyed by the rest of his family. He would rather be hate crimed than deal with them staring at him, pitying him. 

If Aunt Cathy blamed his knee injury on him being gay, he would not be surprised in the least. 

“I’ve got you, love,” Eames said from behind him, reaching up and placing a hand on Arthur’s lower back as he made it up the last two steps. Eames’ hand stayed there as they went inside, Eames trailing after him. He couldn’t see Eames, but he knew he was likely glaring at the rude Aunts as they stared. 

Inside was quiet and peaceful, even if the decor was The-Bellagio-in-Las-Vegas-meets-Country-Home-Magazine. His mother had pulled an ottoman from one area towards the armchair in front of the fireplace, gesturing towards him as he crutched over. He’d let his mother be overbearing because he knew she worried. She only had him and Leah, so he knew something like this would send her reeling. 

“Baby, are you alright?” Debby asked, her bracelets clanking together as she leaned down, smoothing his hair down where his curls started to slip out of their gel. Her hands were warm and soft, carefully tucking the longest strands behind his ear. “I’ve got ice for you, since I know you’ll need it,” she added, grabbing the plastic bag full of crushed ice. She lifted his leg carefully to slide the ice underneath his knee, patting his thigh gently. 

“I’m alright, mom,” Arthur said, looking up at her. He smiled kindly, knowing that was what she wanted. “You can go back out and entertain. I’ll be okay here.”

“You sure?” Debby asked, patting his shoulder gently. 

“We can talk later,” Arthur said, nodding. 

She seemed torn, looking back and forth between Arthur and his knee a few times. “Only if you say so,” she said finally, backing away. “We can watch that documentary you told me about later, after everyone’s left.”

“Of course,” Arthur said, watching his mom cross the room and walk back outside, her fingers worrying together. He could see her slip back into her seat, with Aunt Cheryl patting her shoulder and leaning in to say something to her. 

Eames laid his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, lowering himself to the ground next to Arthur’s knee. “Darling.”

“Hey, you don’t have to sit on the ground,” Arthur said, his brow pulling down at the sight. He went to move, to gesture towards another chair, but his knee pulled strangely, twinges of pain shooting up his leg. 

“Don’t move,” Eames said, laying his hand heavily on Arthur’s thigh. He looked up at Arthur, his worry poorly hidden by a neutral expression. “Are you alright?” 

“I’ll be fine. A few days rest and everything should be okay,” Arthur said. He resisted the urge to touch Eames’ hand, covering it with his own. He only leaned back, tilting his head against the back of the chair. 

“I can’t—” Eames looked away quickly, his words slipping away. “I’ve never seen you hurt before,” he admitted, his voice small. He kept his eyes averted, his fingers pressing gently against Arthur’s thigh. He seemed unsure of himself, which was a state of being so unlike Eames. He was usually so confident, so ready and prepared. 

“I’ll be fine, Eames. I promise,” Arthur said, looking down at him. He felt strange, comforting Eames when it probably should have been the other way around. But he didn’t need comforting, he needed space and time to relax. And maybe some pain medication. 

Eames adjusted his position, sitting half against the base of the chair as he moved his hand off of Arthur’s thigh and replaced it with his head. He adjusted minutely, shifting so that he was comfortably using Arthur’s leg as a pillow. 

The gesture had Arthur thinking (and wanting) things that he couldn’t ask for, not now. He wanted so badly for this to be a gesture of something romantic, or of something far more than a simple desire to see a friend healthy. He knew Eames was just concerned about him, and as a tactile person needed some sort of physical way to ground himself and truly realize that Arthur was alright, and that he was going to be alright. 

Arthur reached down and let his hand rest on Eames’ head, fingers gently carding through his hair. He tried not to think too much as he did it, letting his head tip back and his eyes slide shut. The weight of Eames on his leg was comforting, grounding him even as his knee ached deeply. He wanted to pull Eames onto him, feel his weight pressing into him and grounding him. There was so much that he wanted: he wished Eames would drag his fingers up and down his leg, teasing him knowing that he couldn’t move with his knee; he wanted Eames to shove him against the wall and hold up his body weight, saying screw it to his leg; he wanted nothing more than for Eames to take his hand over the middle console while they were driving, holding his hand just because he wanted contact. 

“Well, aren’t you two the cutest,” Ari drawled, the sound of their shoes loud on the tiled floor. Their presence had Eames sitting up, arm replacing where his head sat, his connection to Arthur not breaking. Ari’s eyes watched this particular change, softening at whatever expression was on Eames’ face, hidden from Arthur’s gaze. 

“I’m only worried,” Eames said defensively. He splayed his hand on the inside of Arthur’s knee, as if it would protect Arthur’s joint. He seemed more affected by this than Arthur had anticipated. If his posture— the tension in his shoulders and back— was anything to go by, he was actually worried about him. 

Ari held their hands up, making sure to take a step back. “Sorry, shouldn’t have intruded. I’ll let you have your couple-y cuddle session over Arthur’s bum knee.” They headed deeper into the house, towards the kitchen. Likely in search of alcohol or more food. But at least they were gone. 

The silence that replaced their presence was just as heavy and weighty and known. Arthur wanted to pull Eames back, continuing to drag his fingers through his hair and pretend like they were really a couple, like Eames was really worried about him. 

“Eames,” Arthur said, looking down at his friend. His best friend. He wanted to pull him up, tug at his collar and get his fill of kissing him. He resisted the urge to, swallowing thickly while he looked down at him, their eye contact lasting longer than it should. 

“A few more moments, darling,” Eames murmured, adjusting so he could set his head back down. “None of my family has ever gotten— no one I care about has ever— I’m just worried,” he continued, taking a deep breath. He relaxed onto Arthur’s leg, holding him tightly. 

Arthur let himself relax under the gentle pressure of Eames’ head. He could feel himself relaxing, letting the ice burn him in the best way. He could feel his knee getting numb with the ice, which was a pleasant change from the stabbing pain. He was starting to relax, to untense. 

“Sorry, just moving back through! You two are cute!” Ari called from the other part of the room, waving their phone in their hand. “And quite photogenic!” 

Eames only shifted minutely, watching as Ari left. “Remind me why we like them?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur said, tipping his head back, his eyes closing against the ugly decor.

Chapter Text

Arthur hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep until he was awoken by his mom, resting her hand gently on his shoulder and squeezing it. He blearily opened his eyes, sitting up and shifting his knee, only to be reminded of the fact that he definitely did something to hurt it again. 

“Baby, I wanted to wake you up. Everyone else is gone,” Debby said, her voice quiet and gentle. 

“Where’s Eames?” Arthur asked, reaching down as if looking for him where he was sitting on the ground. He looked around the room, hoping he was close enough that he could lean on him, maybe get some sort of comfort as he got assistance going to the bathroom. He liked being comfortable physically with Eames, and once he got a little, he wanted more. So much more. 

“He’s in the kitchen with Ari. They stayed behind to check on you before they left. Something about a flight out tonight and not wanting to hang out with their mother,” Debby said, sitting delicately on the arm of the chair. 

“Oh,” Arthur said, only sort of disappointed that he didn’t have time alone with Eames, or truly any time alone with his mother. Not that he was in a desperate need, considering the amount of careful socialization he had already done thus far. But he was sort of hoping to get some conversation out of her besides the usual subjects broached over the phone. 

“Do you need some aspirin or something?” Debby asked, smoothing a hand over his forehead gently. She watched him carefully, her eyes knowing so much without even asking any questions. 

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Arthur murmured, trying his hardest not to think about the pain in his knee. 

She came back only moments later, tipping a few pills into his hand and giving him a glass of water. He downed this quickly, drinking the whole cup of water for his own hydration. He handed the cup back to his mom, a weird sense of deja vu passing over him as he remembered the first time he was injured. 

That was before he was truly out to his whole family. Only his mom knew at that point, and had taken to being as openly accepting as she could. It was a simpler time, before he had things like bills and a crush on his best friend to worry about. 

“You really love him,” Debby murmured, her eyes searching Arthur’s face as if it were revealing the secrets of the universe. “I didn’t know what to say when you called me telling me that you were going to bring him home as a date , but I get it. I saw it when I first met him, nearly three years ago,” Debby said, smiling down at Arthur. 

“Mom—”

“You don’t need to say anything. Even if you aren’t sure about saying you're in love with him. He loves you more than anything, and I think everyone at brunch could tell. You had Cheryl practically crying with the way that Eames ran to you on the field,” Debby said, reaching up to clutch at her necklaces. “I wasn’t sure about him until that moment. When he saw you go down, he ran to you. It was like he was trying to save you, even after it happened.”

Arthur didn’t know that. All he remembered from falling was poor Travis, thinking that he had hurt his uncle. He knew Eames had gotten there quickly, but he didn’t know that Eames had run. He couldn’t remember a single time that he had even seen Eames run for anything. He was not the kind of guy to sprint after someone for any reason. 

“You don’t have to say anything, baby. I just thought you should know how proud of you I am,” Debby said. 

“For falling and hurting myself again?” Arthur asked, confused about this particular line of conversation. 

Debby smacked him playfully. “No, silly. For finding a man who loves you as much as you love him. I didn’t think I’d find anyone who truly deserves you, but I think that you’ve found someone all on your own,” Debby said, her voice quiet. 

She stood and walked away to the kitchen, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts. 

He was stunned by what his mother said. It was something he didn’t think he’d ever hear, that anyone he brought home would live up to her expectations. To hear that Eames, being his normal self, had convinced her that they were deeply in love and that they were equally deserving of each other’s love— that was something else entirely. 

How did Eames convince her they were in love? Arthur was likely obvious with his own affections, all things considered. He was completely gone when it came to Eames, and he was certain that Eames did not feel the same. Eames was a natural flirt with a big heart, which Arthur saw on the daily. His kindness extended towards others on the regular: paying for a woman’s coffee or buying the houseless man on the street a hot lunch was just some of the things he would do regularly. 

Eames would give you the shirt off of his back if he liked you enough. And he wouldn’t agree purely for his own self serving egotistical reasons, because he likely genuinely would sacrifice his own comfort for others. He was so kind and selfless, and so in tune with Arthur. That was probably why Debby thought that they were mutually in love. Because of Eames’ kind disposition and Arthur’s own poorly concealed crush. 

It was hard to think so little of their interactions, but Arthur was trying to curb his expectations. Not that he really could suddenly decide that he wasn’t heavily attracted to Eames and sort of desperate for his attention and affection, but he was trying to let his heart drift further and further away. 

Not that their current situation was doing anything for that particular predicament. 

Arthur grabbed the crutches next to the chair and lifted himself up carefully, making sure not to put weight on his left leg. He tried it, just for a moment, and found it to be only sore rather than entirely painful like it was earlier. Which was likely due to the pain meds and the ice, but he knew that it was not going to be terrible. They had a flight to catch tomorrow afternoon, and he didn’t want to spend the whole flight with his leg in agony because of a silly slip while playing soccer with some kids. 

“Darling,” Eames said when he entered the kitchen, standing quickly from the small table, reaching out as if he could do anything to assist him. 

“Step back,” Arthur said, moving forward confidently on the crutches. When Eames didn’t step back, worry in his eyes, Arthur poked him with one of the crutches, prodding him to back off. “I mean it,” Arthur said, fixing Eames with a look. 

“And I can’t be worried?” Eames asked, holding his hands out innocently. 

“Get me a stiff drink. Then we can talk about how worried you are,” Arthur said, propping his crutches up on the edge of the table as he lowered himself into Eames’ chair, where it was already pulled out from the table. He glanced at his mom and Ari, the two of them watching in amusement. 

“I can’t believe little Artie went and fell in love,” Ari teased, reaching over to pinch at Arthur’s arm. “I thought you were going to be a robot and stay single forever.”
“Robot’s don’t have romantic feelings,” Arthur said automatically. He shook his head, sort of surprised that he even said that. 

“Okay, dork,” Ari said, rolling their eyes. 

“One of the writers I edit for was trying to convince me that robots could feel love, but no other human emotion. I had to remind him fairly consistently,” Arthur said. 

He accepted the drink that Eames handed to him without looking, only lifting it up to take a sip. He was surprised when it was a cup of soda instead of alcohol, like he had requested. It was probably from a leftover 2 litre of Coke from the party yesterday, half flat and not that appealing. 

“No stiff drinks when you’re on pain meds,” Eames murmured, sitting in the spare chair. He adjusted the chair closer to Arthur, letting his knee bump up against Arthur’s good knee underneath the table. 

“I took some aspirin,” Arthur said, knocking his knee against Eames’ hard. “That’s not enough to have me skipping some whiskey.”

“You don’t even like whiskey,” Eames said back quickly, giving him a pointed look. “Besides, drinking when no one else is makes you look like a lush,” Eames added, reaching to stretch his arm across the back of Arthur’s chair. His forearm brushed Arthur’s shoulder, calming him and making his heart race almost simultaneously.

“I really don’t mind,” Debby said, brushing her hair carefully away from her face. “As long as my baby is feeling better,” she added, reaching across the table to grab Arthur’s hand, holding it tightly. 

  “I’m fine, mom. Seriously,” Arthur said, squeezing her hand back. He knew she was going to worry about him because he actually injured his knee, but he was fine then. And he only needed a day or two of rest, not worrying eyes. 

“I think you promised some embarrassing stories,” Eames said, the tips of his fingers brushing against Arthur’s shoulder, smoothing over the soft fabric of his shirt. He grinned at Arthur, all Cheshire cat trying to lure Alice into a trap. He was a conniving bastard when he wanted to be, especially when he knew Arthur wanted him to do the opposite.  

“What about that time when Arthur bought those white swim trunks,” Ari suggested. 

“No, not that one,” Arthur protested. 

“Or when Arthur came home hungover—”

“Not that one either.”

Debby shook her head, smiling. “How about the last time you and your father went to that diner on 17th?” Debby asked, smiling. She turned to Eames to tell the story, half ignoring the glare that Arthur had fixed her with. 

“When Arthur was 7, he was obsessed with the jukebox at this diner in town. He would gather up quarters all week, and on Sundays when Arthur’s father truly had a day off, they’d go down there and get burgers and listen to whatever Arthur had picked out for the day. 

“At the time, Arthur was obsessed with the classics, like anything by Elvis or even the few classic rock hits on the machine. He rarely touched anything else, and after a few months of this, the patrons knew what was going to happen. 

  “But, one day, Arthur’s dad had suggested to play some Jimmy Buffett. It was right after his father had started working with Jimmy, and he thought it would be funny to play some of his music, get Arthur really inoculated.

“The issue was, Arthur had put in 10 quarters, like he always did. He selected ‘Cheeseburger in Paradise’ for the first song, but when he went to select the second, the button stuck on ‘Margaritaville’. So it accidentally selected ‘Margaritaville’ for the rest of the 9 songs that he had queued up left,” Debby said, smiling at this memory. 

“And we all had a great time, and that was the end of the story,” Arthur said, adding a flourish with his hands to try and encapsulate that he himself was done with the story being told. 

“And then the whole diner was forced to listen to ‘Margaritaville’ 10 times over, which resulted in the owners basically kicking the two of them out,” Debby finished, grinning from ear to ear. “Poor little Arthur came home complaining about how he had no idea, but his father said the patrons were so angry,” Debby added, shaking her head. 

“I was seven . How was I supposed to know that the button would stick?” Arthur said, gesturing helplessly towards Eames. 

Eames laughed, his fingers tracing shapes on Arthur’s shoulder absently, his body relaxing into the chair. He smiled at Arthur, a private smile, one that he saved for him and only him. It wasn’t like his big smiles, the ones he used for the public. It was small, a mere twitch of the lips and a soft crinkle by his eyes. 

“Darling, that is nowhere near as bad as the time I went for karaoke with my brothers for poor Harry’s bachelor party,” Eames said. He looked to the group, launching into the story. 

It was one of Eames’ favorite stories to tell, and it frequently got more outlandish with each telling. The original went like this: they had gone to a nearly empty karaoke bar and had queued up almost ten songs for themselves, and before they had even gotten started, a whole group of bachelorettes came in for some sort of ladies night special. So they had spent thirty minutes singing bad karaoke to a crowd of drunk women who were raving at their talent, calling them the new Oasis. 

The story that Eames told now was so very different from the first time he had heard it. 

It was originally embellished to be a group of stripper bachelorettes, then a group of American stripper bachelorettes, and then finally a group of American stripper bachelorettes in American flag bikini tops. 

Their ten songs turned into twenty, and they were compared to bands including, but not limited to: the Rolling Stones, ABBA, *NSYNC, The Who, and Queen. Sometimes Eames claimed that they received roaring applause. Other times he said that the crowd demanded an encore. 

As someone who had heard Eames sing before, he knew that he wasn’t bad. He certainly wasn’t a Freddie Mercury, but he was good enough to sing in a cover band. He had a softer voice, sort of raspy, and always sang along with songs in the car. It was hard to believe that a bunch of stripping bachelorettes would willingly throw their tops at him because of his voice alone. 

If Eames had claimed he was so hot and charming they merely started stripping in front of him, Arthur would be inclined to believe that. Eames was the kind of charismatic guy that everyone wanted to talk to at a party. 

Eames finished his story with the classic line: “To this day there is a plaque on their wall with a photo of the four of us, sitting at the top of our lungs and holding martinis.”

He always said this as if anyone was going to go check on it, visiting the tiny pub and seeing the four of them immortalized on the wall. Arthur should have asked to go to the pub while they were in England, if only to prove the entire story as false. He didn’t have the heart to burst Eames’ bubble about it. 

“No way there were topless American strippers,” Ari said, shaking their head. 

“What did dear Arthur think about all of this?” Debby asked, looking at Eames pointedly, as if this happened only weeks ago rather than years ago. 

Eames flushed under the attention, clearly not prepared for this particular question. He had likely never been asked why he did what he did in that particular scenario. “Well, it was eight years ago, before I had met Arthur. Harry’s my older brother, so he got married quite a while ago. I know that it’s not really an appropriate story, but I thought it was funny—” Eames cut himself off, looking sort of desperately at Arthur for backup. 

“I’m just busting your balls,” Debby said, reaching over and patting Eames’ hand. “I tease, I tease.”

“Oh, I knew that,” Eames said, feigning confidence. He relaxed minutely, his arm shifting to weigh heavily on Arthur’s shoulders. He was fully wrapping his arm around Arthur now, shifting in his seat so that they sat even closer together. Somehow. He was shifting around, bumping his knee against Arthur’s, listening as Ari asked Debby a question unrelated to the story in particular. 

“You alright?” Arthur whispered, turning his head so that his words were said directly into Eames’ ear. 

“Perfectly fine, darling,” Eames murmured back, squeezing his shoulder. He glanced up and down Arthur’s face, as if reading his expression instead. His eyes lingered on each of his features, categorizing him quickly. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Perfectly fine,” Arthur parroted back. He couldn’t help but smile, knowing he was probably blushing. 

“Can you two stop flirting for one moment and have a real conversation?” Ari said, completely and totally interrupting their moment. If anyone could really call that a moment, rather than two close friends being far too dramatically invested in each other’s well being. 

“The answer is no,” Arthur said quickly, smirking at his cousin. “As if you weren’t totally disgustingly cute with Remi or whoever when I went to visit you in LA a few years ago,” Arthur added, switching the subject back to Ari, taking the spotlight off of him and Eames. 

He wasn’t even trying to look like he was flirting. He was merely trying to have a private conversation. Was that what they looked like when they were merely trying to talk to each other, and only each other? Eames’ arm was around his shoulders, so perhaps that had affected their completely regular and platonic actions. Arthur was definitely overthinking this, wholly and completely. 

“I thought we weren’t going to bring them up,” Ari said defensively. 

“This feels like a conversation I shouldn’t be a part of,” Debby said, holding her hands up. She slipped away from the table, heading to the far side of the kitchen. In the room but still separated from the conversation, not “listening”, but listening . It was very Debby of her. 

“I wish I had cousins,” Eames said, leaning back in his chair. “You two have the best friendship.”

Arthur frowned at him. “You don’t have cousins? What about either of your parents, they don’t have siblings?” He thought that his dad had siblings, but he could have been mistaken. Considering their legacy, he assumed a larger family. 

“No cousins,” Eames said, shrugging. He half pouted his lip, giving Arthur a face. One that read as completely chill and aware of his own strange life, with four brothers and no cousins. Very different from Arthur’s family life. 

“Honestly, you don’t want cousins,” Ari said, smirking at Arthur. “All they do is bring up old stories that you don’t want shared, or call you homophobic slurs. Or are just plain mean. Did you hear Cassie telling that dumb boy about how she won’t stop eating at Chick-fil-A, even if it’s homophobic? What a little snot.”

“David once said my pink tie was too ‘flamboyant’. While he was wearing salmon colored shorts,” Arthur said, lifting his drink up in the air, as if to one up his cousin. 

“Well, Aunt Cathy called me a dyke and a fag in the same setence,” Ari said, smirking as if they had won some sort of competition for worst family member experience. 

Arthur scrunched his nose up, quick to jump back in. “I don’t know if that counts. Aunt Cathy is a reliable source of horrific homophobic language. Now, if Uncle Robert doesn’t stop asking me if I know the gay guy who works at his law firm one more time, I’m going to punch him. How do I explain that I do not know every gay guy?” 

“Darling, are you sure you don’t know him?” Eames asked, giving Arthur a pointed look. 

“There’s no way,” Arthur said, shaking his head. He thought about it for a second, about Birmingham specifically “Unless we’re the same age and he was out in college. Then there’s a chance I might know him.”

Ari gasped, pretending to be scandalized. “Oh, the club scene of Birmingham. So illustrious.”

“Did you do something with a certain lawyer in the bathroom at a club?” Eames asked, faking scandal. He had his mouth open in fake shock, eyes lighting with humor as he sat up, bringing himself further into Arthur’s personal space. 

He couldn’t help but blush. Partly because of the onslaught of questions, and partly because of the memories of doing things in bathrooms at clubs. He was a little free with himself when he first came out right before college, and was sneaking into places that he shouldn’t have. But he never got much past handjobs except for two memorable occasions, both after he turned 18. He was horny, but he wasn’t stupid. 

“At least you didn’t call yourself a chav and pretend like you were some sort of rap star,” Eames said. He dropped his voice into an impossibly thicker accent, smirking at Arthur, eyes full of sex. “Babes you look smokin’.”

“What the hell was that?” Ari asked, laughing their head off. They tilted their head back, leaning fully back against the chair, legs kicking sort of wildly. “You’re telling me you rapped pretending you were some sort of thug?”

“I was eighteen once,” Eames said, sort of defensively. 

Ari smacked the table, completely cracking up. “You sound like if Ron Weasley was trying to stroll the streets.”

The vision had Arthur laughing, leaning back against Eames’ arm, his dimples on full display with his very real and uncontrollable smile. He grinned at Eames, trying not to completely burst out into laughter like Ari had. 

“Your dimples are lovely,” Eames said in his chav accent, reaching out his other hand to smooth his thumb across Arthur’s cheek, thumb sliding over his dimple. 

The hot rush in his cheeks was a completely normal response. For Arthur at least. He blinked at Eames, torn between flinching away for his own good, and leaning in, letting Eames’ thumb slip into his mouth. 

He was supposed to be distancing himself from Eames. Not letting himself slip into these patterns where only his own feelings were in danger of getting hurt. He knew that Eames was probably playing pretend for Ari, really selling the concerned and love struck boyfriend, especially after earlier. He knew there was no way Eames wanted him, not when he was broken and his family was a complete disaster. He was happy to take these moments, but he was supposed to push them away, not relish in the touches. 

“Somehow you turned that into flirting. That’s straight boss moves right there,” Ari said, smacking the table, causing the two of them to break apart. “I’ve got to head to the airport, and my ride is gonna be here soon. I got that girl from high school—”

“I don’t need you to rehash the details,” Arthur interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. That was one story that he really, truly, did not want to be brought up again. Especially since the punchline was Arthur. 

“It was absolutely lovely to meet you,” Eames said, standing quickly. He reached out to shake Ari’s hand, being totally and completely formal. This was the Eames that Arthur was used to see coming out when he was acting, putting on his own customer service politeness. 

Arthur would never be ready for Eames’ flirty persona, not if he kept blindsiding him with perfectly timed touches and that look in his eyes. He sometimes looked like he wanted to eat Arthur up, and other times looked half concerned, as if he couldn’t decide whether or not to push him away or pull him close. 

“I’d stand, but—” Arthur shrugged, gesturing down to his leg. 

“Making me hug you over there,” Ari grumbled, rounding the table. They smushed their hands over Arthur’s hair, tugging it into a completely chaotic mess. “I’ll see you at Leah’s vow renewals.”

“Wait, she’s going through with that? I thought she was waiting until next year?” Arthur asked, tilting his head back, looking up at his cousin. 

Ari patted his shoulder fondly. “Maybe you should pick up a call from your own sister. She’s doing it the weekend before Halloween,” Ari said, pinching at his shoulder lightly. “Check your texts. Or your emails. Or call your sister. She decided this morning.” Ari sauntered out of the room, clearly thinking this was a perfect punchline. 

“I haven’t even checked my phone!” Arthur called after them. It was sort of pointless, because they had well and truly got the last word. 

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the sounds of the house. Arthur could hear his mother moving in the other room, having left the kitchen to do something else while they were talking. Probably dusting or rearranging the furniture for the umpteenth time. 

“So this vow renewal ceremony,” Eames said plainly.

“Yes, you’ll go,” Arthur said, as if it were obvious. Even if they weren’t doing what they were doing— pretending— he probably would have invited Eames anyways. He knew Eames and his sister got along, and there was no reason for him not to come to the vow renewal. The party would be far more fun with him, in any circumstance. 

“I’ll have to find my good suit,” Eames mused. He reached over and patted Arthur’s knee under the table, smiling gently. 

“As long as you skip the paisley tie, I think we’ll be okay,” Arthur retorted.

Chapter Text

Debby called behind them, waving frantically as they drove away from her house and towards their hotel to collect their bags.

 It was hard to leave her, in a way, because Arthur loved his mother. Every time he saw her he was reminded of his childhood, where they would drive around in her beat up old Chevy truck and go peach picking and sometimes get ice cold lemonades from the farmers stands in the middle of nowhere. Or she would let him pick out a sunhat from her closet as they had iced tea and read books on the back porch of their old home in Birmingham. 

When he looked at his mom, all he remembered was love. Even that day where she caught him with Flip, their next door neighbor, stark naked in his room. There was no hiding the fact that he was gay after that, and instead of yelling at him or beating him up, she waited until he was dressed and hugged him. She held him for what felt like hours as he sobbed, knowing that she had accepted him rather than kicked him out like some of the other gay men he knew. 

She hugged him tight before he left, holding him close and careful. “I love you more than anything,” she murmured, squeezing him. “And I love what that boy makes you feel. I can see it on your face.”

“Mom—” Arthur started. 

“I’m not putting pressure on you. I’m just letting you know that you’ve found a keeper,” Debby said, letting him go. She patted his arm, looking up at him with her soft eyes. When she wasn’t entertaining their whole family, she was really soft and gentle. This was the Debby he liked. 

The fact that both of their parents, both Georgie and Debby, had essentially given their whole blessing to the two of them remaining a couple was… complicated. It made things entirely more complicated than before. Because they were pretending to be together, and despite everything, they were not necessarily romantically interested in taking things to the next level. 

Arthur was very much interested, but making that leap without a guarantee from Eames’ side was difficult. It wasn’t something Arthur had plans on doing anytime soon. 

“Now that your mom loves me too, can we call it even?” Eames said cheekily, elbowing Arthur as they waited for their plane. He let his knee bump against Arthur’s, the casual touch grounding the two of them together. 

“Fine. But you can’t go around flirting with my mom all the time. She’s a poor old lady,” Arthur said. He had the urge to take Eames’ hand, holding it in his own. He wanted to feel his thick fingers against his and the way his rough palm slid against his smooth one. 

“Only if you stop charming my mother. Next thing I know she’ll be comparing me to you , and I get enough comparisons to my brothers,” Eames said, smirking even though Arthur knew this piece of truth was painful to him. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, even though he was trying to be kind and genial. 

“Let’s agree to only charm each other, and no more charming of family members,” Arthur suggested. He almost winced at the way he sounded sort of desperate, but the way that Eames grinned was reward enough to erase that thought from his brain. 

“I will never stop charming you, darling,” Eames said. 

Arthur half wondered how many of his friends Eames had said that to, or if Arthur was somehow special in this particular sentiment. He hated discrediting anything Eames said, but he also knew that Eames was a natural flirt. There was no telling what was genuine and what was teasing when Eames was always like that. 

“Are you going to resist talking on this flight too?” Arthur asked, glancing up to see if it was close to their boarding time yet. When he looked over at Eames, he was sort of startled by the expression on his face. He was softly watching Arthur, eyes almost sorrowful with their softness. His hands were twitching in his lap, as if waiting for something. 

“Anything for you,” Eames said quietly. The words had far more weight than their simplicity, and rather than flirting it was serious. A small moment of serious in a conversation of jabs. 

“I know,” Arthur said softly back. He reached over and patted Eames’ knee, finding it hard to control himself and his hands. He settled for this moment of inbetween, a fleeting moment rather than a more significant gesture. As if a few pats on the knee was enough to settle Arthur’s heart. 

They called their boarding group, and Arthur stood quickly, breaking the moment. He immediately started grabbing his bags, busying himself rather than looking at Eames. 

These moments were happening more and more frequently, where his emotions would well up so quickly and passionately that he could barely look at Eames. He hated the way his heart soared and beat faster as he looked at Eames, and his skin practically ached for Eames to touch him at all. He wanted to look Eames in the eyes and stare, get lost in his face and not feel ashamed to be staring at him. And in moments like this, all he wanted was to hold his hand, to feel the weight in his own and pretend, like they did back at his mom’s house. He wanted the strong arm wrapped around his shoulder and the attention on him and him alone. 

“Let me get that,” Eames said, slinging his work bag over one shoulder, letting it settle next to his own carry on. He smiled at Arthur, open and wanting, which did not help the nerves pooling in his stomach and the ache in his heart. 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I have arms, you know.”

“I know,” Eames said, half shrugging. He left it at that.

Chapter Text

Working all summer in Chicago was sort of a shit show, for Arthur personally. 

There was a reason why Arthur liked Chicago, and it was because of the brutally cold winters. He was allowed to button himself up into layers and slide heavy wool jackets around his shoulders, acting as if he was hidden away from the world where no one could see him. He could dwarf himself in layers, look bulkier than he normally was, and he frequently found an excuse to wear camel colored scarves. 

The summer was a whole other story filled with sweaty armpits and rolled up sleeves. 

“Darling, it is a hellscape in here,” Eames murmured, leaning on the door jamb. He had a short sleeve button down on, only half buttoned and showing his chest hair. Which meant that Eames was totally comfortable with himself and the atrociously salmon colored beach shirt he was attempting to pass off as work wear. 

“The AC unit went out, and Cobb won’t let us open the windows,” Arthur said, scrubbing a hand over his sweaty forehead. He had already stripped out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, his tie abandoned after lunch when it felt disgusting to have even a single bit of extra fabric on him. He sort of wished he had brought his running shorts to work, if only to change out of them as soon as possible. 

“I think your hair is losing its hold,” Eames commented, glancing at the top of Arthur’s head. 

Arthur ran a hand over his gelled hair, not surprised to feel that it had started to stick up every which way. The pieces at the nape of his neck were curling intensely, and the rest was merely attempting to escape the binds of his gel. Successfully. 

“Fuck my whole life,” Arthur murmured, looking down at the screen helplessly. “I’m trying to edit some new up-and-comer that Saito insisted I take on, and she’s a firecracker but without any restraint. And it’s actually a hellscape. And my whole appearance is falling apart.”

“I think you look absolutely dashing, if that’s any consolation,” Eames said, half shrugging. “I like your hair loose.”

  “Yeah?” Arthur asked, feeling half insecure about the whole thing.He wasn’t even wearing a nice shirt today, which made his entire self esteem drop considerably. It was adding to his already bad day. 

“I will always think you look dashing,” Eames commented, his voice quiet. He barely let the words sit in the open before he plowed on, not letting Arthur react whatsoever. “Are we stopping by your place before meeting with Mal and Cobb for drinks tonight? Because my wardrobe is perfectly adequate for drinks, but I doubt yours is,” Eames said, looking him up and down. 

Arthur was still sort of reeling from the first comment when the second one hit him. “Are you seriously insulting me after calling me dashing?”

“I said you were dashing, not your clothes,” Eames said, shrugging. He brushed something off of his chest, his fingers lingering on the skin where his shirt was unbuttoned. The tease. 

If there was a rise of color in Arthur’s cheeks, he was definitely going to blame it on the heat. Not on the dirty thoughts that passed through his mind quicker than a blink of an eye. 

“My clothes are dashing,” Arthur argued, glancing down at himself. “Only, maybe not today, with the heat and all.”

Eames laughed, wiping the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead. “The heat has you sweating and all unbuttoned, so I can’t be that mad at it.” He smirked, his classic Eamesian smirk, the one that was usually directed at those he wanted to charm the pants off of. Quite literally. 

“Which is why we’re stopping by my place so I can change,” Arthur said, feeling unsure of how to respond to the blatant flirting. He hadn’t been a subject of Eames’ flirting since they first met, since they were each occupied by someone’s attention much of the time after that. Right now, and for the past six months, was the first time the two of them had been totally and completely single at the same time. Which was strange to think about. 

And also partially why Arthur was clamming up in the face of flirting from the one guy he thought would never flirt with him again. This type of flirting— real flirting, not the half baked jabs they usually operated under— was something that had Arthur’s heart racing. 

“Darling, can we get out of this inhuman sauna of an office you have?” Eames asked, pulling his shirt away from his chest, fanning himself dramatically. “I think I might keel over and die if you don’t get a move on.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur said. The thought of leaving early had crossed his mind a few times, but it was officially in the normal range of leaving. He wouldn’t be questioned about leaving at 3 instead of 4, and he certainly wouldn’t have Saito asking him why he was escaping the heat of his office. 

“Did you drive to work today?” Eames asked, watching as Arthur packed up his laptop and various papers, tucking them away into his briefcase carefully. 

“Nope, I walked,” Arthur said. His apartment was only a few blocks away, not far enough to warrant driving and re-parking his car. It wasn’t as if he needed to, most days. He only ever really used his car for housecalls, if he had a writer who needed a kick in the butt in person. 

“Then let’s go already! I’ll drive you, like the dutiful boyfriend I’m supposed to be,” Eames said, grinning. He backed away from the doorway, giving Arthur a physical cue to get moving, so that the two of them could walk out of the doorway. 

“As a dutiful boyfriend, will you also help me figure out what to say to Nash about his absolute garbage draft? Or is boyfriend duties reserved to special events and driving me around like my own personal chauffeur,” Arthur said, gathering up his jacket and tie. 

“I’ll pass. Nash is a little shithead,” Eames said, half shrugging. “Did I ever tell you about how he came in to flirt with Mal, and she punched him in the face?”

“Yes, but I’ll gladly hear that story again,” Arthur said, following Eames out of his office and down the hallway. 

He couldn’t help but think that he’d follow Eames anywhere.

Chapter Text

Cobb’s birthday (the Cancerian freak he was) ended up being a scorcher. 

The hot day in Arthur’s office was nothing compared to Cobb’s birthday, which he insisted on having at Porter Beach, which involved driving to Indiana, which Arthur hated. Not that he was a pretentious snob for Chicago or anything, but he was not a big fan of driving more than an hour to do something they could theoretically do in town. If he wanted a lakefront birthday experience, they could have done a nice dinner at a lakefront restaurant. Not drive an hour to picnic on a crowded beach in 90 degree weather. 

“Are you regretting wearing your nice linen shirt already?” Eames asked, driving with the windows down, letting the air flow through the car. Of course he was completely unperturbed by the fact that they had to drive an hour for an outdoor birthday party in the heat. 

“No, I regret agreeing to this at all,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes. He sort of regretted his nice linen shirt, but only because it was white. And it would likely not remain white, if his previous experiences with Cobb’s birthdays remained true. 

Eames, of course, was wearing some sort of pale yellow and pink paisley shirt that was garish both to the eyes, and to Arthur’s own fashion senses. He at least paired it with matching salmon shorts, and while he looked far too colorful for Arthur, he looked good. The shorts were small, above the knee, showing off Eames’ thick legs and the dark tattoos that covered his thighs. 

There was something extremely erotic about his dark tattoos against the pale color of his shorts. Something that made Arthur want to run his fingers along them, trace the dark flowers and his strange shark tattoo. 

“It’ll be fun. And I never get to see you in shorts,” Eames said. His mind must have been on a similar wavelength to Arthur’s, except without all of the pornographic thoughts. It was sort of weird to see each other in shorts, when they frequently went to air conditioned places where pants were the norm. 

“I like shorts sometimes,” Arthur said, looking down at his own turquoise shorts. He thought they looked nice with his stupid boat shoes Eames bought him for his last birthday, which went well with this entire stupidly themed birthday. 

His phone started buzzing in his pocket, and when Arthur pulled it out, he noticed that it was his sister calling. Not just calling. Facetiming. One of Arthur’s least preferred methods of communication. 

He answered anyway. 

“Arthur!” Leah shouted before he could properly greet her. “I am going into labor.”

“And you decide to facetime me right now?” Arthur asked, incredulously. He could see Eames’ eyebrows raised in the driver's seat, trying not to react too much to this particular piece of information.

“Well, we all thought the baby was going to come in two weeks, closer to my birthday, but oh well. A Cancer baby it is,” Leah said. She was clearly in the car herself, with her husband driving her. 

“Are you really calling me on the way to the hospital? And Adam is totally okay with this?” Arthur asked, frowning at her. 

  She laughed, the phone shaking. “My contractions are nearly fifteen minutes apart, my water broke at home, and  I’m totally calm. For baby number 1, I’m having a great time. Usually people would be freaking out,” Leah said, half shrugging. 

“I’m freaking out!” Adam shouted, his voice loud over the phone. He sounded worried. 

“So are you pushing back the whole vow renewal thing then? Because of the baby,” Arthur said. He was not looking forward to flying out to Seattle in October, even if it was for his sister’s wedding/vow renewal ceremony. 

“Arthur, why the hell would I push it back? I planned it knowing that this would happen,” Leah said, smirking at him. “You just want to get out of going to a wedding.”

“I thought that’s what you were doing when the two of you eloped,” Arthur shot back. 

“We didn’t elope ,” Leah clarified, shaking her head. “We had a courthouse marriage where Adam’s brother was the witness, and I didn’t tell mom until three weeks later. That is a totally different thing.”

“No it’s not,” Arthur argued. 

“You’re just jealous because Eames hasn’t proposed yet,” Leah said flippantly. “Which, by the way, thanks for telling me. I had to hear from mom that you’ve been dating almost a year, and you met his family in England? And took him to the barbeque? How many times have I called and you just straight up lied to me about it?” 

Arthur turned the camera so that Eames was in shot, driving the car. 

“Congratulations!” Eames said cheerfully, glancing at the screen. “And I still think you eloped.”

“Thanks, Arthur, for letting me put my foot in my mouth,” Leah said. She winced her face scrunching up for a moment. “And now I’m having a contraction.”

“If it makes you feel better, it’s Cobb’s birthday today. So your baby is going to share a birthday with one Dominic Cobb: human disaster,” Arthur said, smirking at his sister. 

The one time she met Cobb, he was shitfaced at Arthur’s birthday party and had spilled his wine down the front of Leah’s shirt while hitting on both her and Adam at the same time. He was not necessarily a great guy alone. With Mal, he was fine, if not a little crazy, but alone he was worse. 

“You’re telling me that my baby is going to be that?” Leah almost screeched, clutching her belly. “That man cried for thirty minutes in the corner when you cut him off of the champagne.”

“He did the same thing at his bachelor party,” Eames chimed in, as if that information was valuable or helpful for Leah. It was a funny memory, but not necessarily reassuring in the moment. 

“Shut up,” Arthur said, training the camera back onto his face. “You’ll be a great mom, and that kid will be totally normal. Otherwise we can just send him in a spaceship and let the aliens have him.”

“You’re too kind,” Leah said, tears welling up in her eyes. “I think we’re pulling into the hospital, maybe I should put my phone away—”

“For chrissakes Leah! Put your phone away!” Adam said on the other side of the camera, his voice loud. 

The screen went dark before it popped up the notification to say the call ended. 

Arthur tucked his phone away, half shrugging. He would be thinking of his sister, of course, but they hadn’t been that close since they  had moved a plane flight away from each other. It was hard to think that they were ever living in the same house, snarking each other and shoving each other down the stairs (which had happened twice), but they never failed to get along when they called each other. Even if Leah liked to complain a lot. 

“Am I in the running for god father yet?” Eames asked, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He glanced over at Arthur and grinned, sort of cheesily. 

“Only if we get married,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes. 

“Darling, pull up directions for Vegas. I will turn this car around,” Eames said, glancing around wildly at his blindspots, as if he was ready to change lanes. “I bet Atlantic City would be closer, bring a similar wedding experience,” Eames added, changing lanes as if to get off of the freeway. 

“My mom would kill me if I got married without her there. And kill me again if she found out I married for convenience rather than love,” Arthur said. He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks at the second part, which would be a complete tell if Eames knew anything regarding his own personal feelings towards their relationship. 

“As if we would dare tease your mother with a sham marriage,” Eames said, smirking. 

Arthur only blinked at that, not really sure how to react, or how Eames was even intending his words to be meant. Did he imply a real marriage? Or was he implying that they would never get married, because he didn’t want a sham marriage? Or both? Arthur was not prepared for this particular conversation, nor the confusing turns that it was taking. He was confident that his cheeks were permanently red at this point. 

“Besides, we have Cobb’s birthday to attend, and I really need to give him the shitty bottle of wine I bought him,” Eames said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, glancing around at the road. 

“Are you serious? I also bought him wine,” Arthur said, turning towards Eames in his seat. He looked at his profile, the way he was smiling in his seat, and he let himself look. He had an excuse, since they were conversing and all. 

“I stopped off at the liquor store last night and bought a $20 bottle of wine and said fuck it. Was that not what I was supposed to do?” Eames said, glancing at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, hands pausing on the steering wheel, gripping it like normal. 

“That’s totally fine, but I also stopped by and bought a bottle of wine,” Arthur said. He reached towards his feet, grabbing the bottle he had hastily wrapped a thick ribbon around and pulled it out of his backpack. He lifted it up for Eames to glance at, watching his face. 

The sudden realization that came over Eames’ face when he glanced at the bottle was almost comical. “Darling, I think we bought the same wine for him.”

This startled a laugh out of Arthur, the noise sharp and short. “Fuck me,” Arthur said, almost doubling over as he laughed, shaking his head. “Great minds think alike.”

“And if we ever need to procure a gift as a couple, at least we know our tastes are the same,” Eames said, smiling. He grinned wide at that thought, tapping on the steering wheel again.

Chapter Text

Arthur brought out a copy of his script, balancing it on his knees as he waited for Eames across the road. He was supposed to be picking up their lunch so they could meet with Yusef, Mal, and Cobb, but he was chatting with the woman behind the counter. Knowing him, the event would take twenty minutes rather than twenty seconds, which meant that Arthur had a few minutes to glance over the final draft of Nash’s book. Which he somehow pulled together. 

He barely had his highlighter out when Eames returned, whistling jauntily. He had the brown paper bag with their lunch in one hand, and a free coffee in the other. Unless he suddenly decided that he drank coffee and would order one, despite paying for their food online. 

“From the woman inside. She said that you looked tired, and I shouldn’t keep my boyfriend up all night if he’s going to have bags under his eyes,” Eames said, thrusting the coffee at Arthur. He smiled his dopey smile, the one that was always more genuine than the rest. 

“And you didn’t correct her?” Arthur asked before taking a precarious sip. It was chocolate and coffee, which meant that Eames really was following through on his decision to win Arthur over from the depths of coffee hell. And he knew that Arthur liked chocolate. 

“Why would I? Not so bad to be fake dating the handsome editor,” Eames said, smiling. He slipped his sunglasses on, hiding his eyes away from Arthur. Not that he had anything to hide, necessarily, but it was always different not to see his full face. 

“I’m sure everyone thinks that,” Arthur commented. He shoved the manuscript back into his backpack, gesturing for Eames to drop their lunch in as well. Once he had it zipped and on his back, he looked over at Eames. 

His face, half hidden by the sunglasses, didn’t hold the soft smile that Arthur was expecting. His lips were pinched, far too expressive for their own good. But even then Arthur could barely get a good read off of his face; he wanted to see all of him, look into his eyes and see how he really felt with one glance alone. 

“Let’s get moving, shall we?” Eames asked. He didn’t bother waiting for Arthur as he started walking, setting a mild pace as they strolled down the street. 

Arthur held back the urge to grab Eames’ hand into his own. He didn’t have the time or space to complicate things any further. 

Mal, Cobb, and Yusef were already at the park when they arrived, sitting on their little picnic blankets and acting like it was totally normal to meet friends for lunch in a crowded park when it was 90 degrees outside. Arthur was practically sweating through his shirt from the walk, and he was wearing white. He couldn’t imagine how hot Mal felt in her stupidly dramatic black dress, drinking wine out of an actual wine glass. 

“I don’t think you can just drink that in public,” Arthur said, gesturing towards her glass, almost teasingly.

She waved her hand around, as if brushing off his comment. “Dear Arthur, I can do whatever I want,” she said. Her voice had so much conviction that it was hard to imagine that anyone would dare question her about dark red liquid in a wine glass. Any average person would make the correct assumption that no, she was not drinking actual wine in a public park. Mostly because of her swollen belly, protruding out from her. 

“Mal, wine before four pm? I thought you kicked that habit,” Eames said, watching as Arthur laid out the blanket from his backpack for the two of them. He glanced at Mal, winking at her. Before the pregnancy, she was 100% the kind of person to drink wine in public. 

“And I thought you’d have made a move—” Mal was cut off by Cobb pinching her side. He pretended like he was teasing her about something, but it was clear he was trying to stop Mal from saying something. 

Made a move? Like towards Arthur? Romantically? What did Mal have going through her head that she would think to say something like that? Arthur could hardly believe his ears, or even trust whatever Mal would say. 

“I told you I wasn’t going to move out of my place yet,” Eames said, looking pointedly at Mal as he sat down. He patted the spot next to him, not watching as Arthur sat next to him. He kept his eyes off of Arthur, not even glancing in his direction. 

Not that Arthur was used to Eames looking at him, but he felt like they made eye contact a lot. They shared inside jokes, smiled at each other, or even just glanced to see if the other was around. Having Eames look away, especially as Arthur couldn’t help but stare at his profile, was so strange. 

And he hadn’t heard a single thing about Eames moving out of his apartment. But at least that was the explanation for what Mal was talking about, making a move or whatever she was referencing. Having her know something that Arthur didn’t know was so new, so different. He was so used to knowing everything about Eames before everyone else. He felt his chest tighten at the thought of him keeping secrets, ones that would be important to the two of them. Like if he moved. 

“So!” Cobb said loudly, interjecting himself into the conversation as quickly as possible. “We never got to talking about the fact that Saito gave you the day off because he was going to a funeral.”

Arthur stared at Cobb for a moment, much like the rest of the group was. Unblinkingly he stared at Cobb, who had just put his foot in his mouth, and he wondered what went on in that brain of his. He was a successful lawyer, and yet he said such dumb things like what he just blurted out. 

“Nice conversation change,” Yusef said, rolling his eyes. “Can we talk about the new dream study that I’ve written? Because even a conversation about sleep is better than discussing a funeral.”

“Don’t act like you aren’t proud and a little egotistical, mate,” Eames said, digging through their lunch bag, pulling out the sandwich for Arthur and passing it to him wordlessly. He grabbed out the two pickle spears, nestled in a small container, and handed both to Arthur wordlessly. “Another article, and what are you deciding to research next?”

“Dreams,” Yusef said absently, eyes watching the exchange. He looked up at Arthur, winking at him. “If external stimulus changes dreams at all. Thought it might be interesting. Care to be a subject?” He posed this question to the group, as if any of them would enter his dream study group. 

Mal rubbed her belly absently, the protrusion really starting to stick out of her almost comically so. Before she had a baby bump, but now it looked like she was smuggling a watermelon or a basketball under her shirt. And she still had nearly a month left to go. “Would this dream study make me give birth early? Because I’d love to have this little life sucker out of me.”

“I’m sure that studying pregnant women’s brains would be fascinating,” Yusef said, stroking his goatee as if this is an actually, certifiably good idea. 

“You’re not doing tests on my wife,” Cobb said, gesturing towards him with his sandwich hand. “Leave your stupid sleep tests to those weird college kids who definitely smoke way too much pot for your results to mean anything.”

“I’ll have you know that we drug test them,” Yusef said, sort of snippy. “And they all pass with flying colors.”

Arthur watched the exchange absently, shifting to tuck his legs underneath him as best as possible. He bumped shoulders with Eames, and instead of moving away he let himself stay close. Not that anyone would notice, or even Eames would, but it was his own way of staying close and connected to him. If anyone realized, they wouldn’t know the extent of feelings that Arthur had, and that was as private as he knew he’d get at this point in his life, with this group of friends. 

Something brushed his fingers where he was propping himself up with his hand, and when he glanced, Eames was pressing his metal water bottle into him gently. It was a quiet reminder to actually drink water, which Arthur often forgot. If it wasn’t coffee, it was likely that Arthur would not remember to drink it. 

“Thanks,” Arthur whispered. He unscrewed the cap and lifted the bottle to his mouth, only thinking a little bit about the fact that he was openly drinking from Eames’ bottle. Not many people would openly share drinks, but it had been so long since he thought about it. When they were together, they shared. That was sort of the deal. 

Arthur passed it back to Eames, who immediately took a drink out of it himself. 

“Ew,” Yusef said, interrupting the flow of conversation to stare at the two of them. “Did you just share that water?”

“Yeah?” Eames said, looking at him intently. His expression said and? . He put the water back into Arthur’s backpack, glancing at Mal and Cobb as if to challenge them to say anything about it. 

“Don’t worry, Yusef, it’s something that only the closest of friends would know. Or couples,” Mal said, sipping from her wine glass. “Although Dom won’t share with me, which makes me think that sharing is beyond marriage.”

“I won’t share with you because of your lipstick,” Cobb said, pointing out the smudge on the edge of her glass. As if that would actually transfer onto his mouth. 

“Sometimes, dear, you are such a prude,” Mal said, smiling at him as if this was the highest of compliments. She reached up and swiped a finger across her lips, the lipstick staining her finger red. She then swiped her finger across Cobb’s lips, barely staining them with the lipstick. 

“And now I feel like a fifth wheel,” Yusef said, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “Arthur, do you have any friends? Ones that might want to date a scientist?” 

Arthur was just going to ignore the fifth wheel comment. He had a feeling they would freak out if he mentioned the fact that they kissed, back at Arthur’s home. Not that it would be a big deal, considering their deal and the cover they decided to take in order to protect each other. But it already felt like they knew too much. More than Arthur wanted them to know. 

“I don’t know any woman who is single,” Arthur said simply. 

“Darling, what about poor Cassie, would she like to escape the hells of Christian Alabama?” Eames asked, nudging Arthur’s shoulder with his own. He raised an eyebrow, as if that was an actually good idea rather than a total and complete long shot. 

Yusef perked up at this. “Who’s Cassie?”

Did Arthur need to explain? Or was it better purely to leave it alone? He hadn’t really brought her up to Cobb or Mal, and he certainly did not need the weird judgemental looks about his family. There was a reason why he didn’t talk much about his family to anyone, despite being close with his mom and his sister. It was too hard to explain why they were difficult people, and how the culture was so different. 

“How about ice cream later, yeah?” Eames said, completely changing the subject. “It’s too bloody hot for sitting around outside.”

Arthur was so grateful for Eames. The way he immediately knew to change the subject, dig them out of the hole he put them in. When this was all said and done, Arthur wasn’t sure how he was going to cope with moving on from Eames.

Chapter Text

“Darling,” Eames said, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “We’re at your sister’s wedding.”

“I’m aware,” Arthur said flatly, ignoring the way that Eames was twitching in the passenger seat of the car. “You’re just happy to be in Seattle.”

Eames half shrugged. “I’ve never been. It’s nice. Faking with you has taken me on more trips this year than the past three combined,” Eames said, watching the water as Arthur drove their rental car. He adjusted the collar of his suit, smoothing it down again. 

“Stop fidgeting,” Arthur said, slowing down to take a turn. He glanced at Eames out of the corner of his eye, watching as he touched his light stubble. “You look good, you know you look good, we bought matching ties for the event. What else could you want?”

“I want to make a good impression,” Eames said, pouting his lips. “Do you think the stubble is too unprofessional? Should I shave it off?”

“Eames,” Arthur said flatly, trying to catch his full and undivided attention. Which was a difficult feat. “We’re less than five minutes away, no you cannot shave, and you’ve met my sister! On multiple occasions.”

“She likes me, right?” Eames asked, sinking back in his seat. 

“Yeah, of course. Why do you ask?” Arthur asked, glancing over. Had Eames been replaced with a pod person? It was so unlike him to get nervous about anything, let alone a party. He had met Leah, they hit it off well, and he was certainly going to be the star of the show considering Arthur never brought dates to anything like this. He’d watched four of his cousins get married and had always attended stag. Any family not at the barbeque earlier would see the fact that Arthur was settling down. It would be nice. 

“I don’t want to ruin her day,” Eames said, staring out the window, musing. “What if she doesn’t want this dumb mug in her photos?”

“She knows I care about you, and she knows you mean a lot to me, so she would tell me the truth about you. And she said she loves you,” Arthur said. He could feel another three words bubble up in his chest, which he promptly stomped down. Romantic declarations at weddings were not appropriate. And Leah would never let him see it down. 

“It’s a small thing, right?” Eames asked, watching as Arthur parked outside of the church. 

“Small ceremony and a slightly larger after party. But it’s going to be pretty small and fast, considering that it’s a vow renewal and she just had her baby three months ago. I don’t even think there’s going to be dinner at the reception. I think she said pizza, to piss off every relative that she could,” Arthur said, half shrugging. 

“Ah, I forgot why I liked her so much,” Eames said, unclipping his seat belt as soon as they were parked. “It seems like all the practicality in your family went to you.”

“Do these rainbow socks look practical to you?” Arthur asked, lifting up his leg for Eames to see. “I just hide my unpracticality better. I bury it deep underneath very stern emotions and a love for rules.”

“My darling editor,” Eames said, brushing something off of Arthur’s shoulder. 

“Let’s go piss off my relatives by being gay,” Arthur said, smiling and getting out of the car. He felt better this time around, since Eames was far more prepared for this than before. He was aware of the potential F bomb being dropped, and the fact that his aunts might actually cause a riot at two gay men in a church together. 

There was a photographer taking photos out front of the party as everyone arrived, and Arthur and Eames politely paused for a moment for the photographer to take their photo. It was like being on a red carpet, except somehow more ridiculous because of the stupidly gothic church they were entering. 

It was a sea of Southern formal. All of the aunts were wearing floral, and most of the straight, heteronormative girl cousins were also wearing formal. Ari said they’d be there for the reception, not the ceremony, because of “prior engagements”. Which meant that Arthur and Eames were sort of on their own for the ceremony. 

“Baby!” Debby said, bounding over to hug Arthur and Eames, kissing their cheeks. “I am so excited to see you again.”

“Same, mom,” Arthur said, looking her up and down. She somehow went understated, with a simple green dress and a lot of gold jewelry. She looked almost regal. Which was nice, considering that Arthur thought she’d show up in a leopard print kaftan, if she had a choice. 

“And the matching ties! You two boys are the cutest,” she said, ushering them over. “You take the seats behind us,” she added, gesturing towards a pew in the front where some of the aunts were starting to settle. 

“Of course, mom,” Arthur said, following her instructions dutifully. 

Arthur had been to his fair share of weddings, and he thought they were all sort of boring. At least, the first part always was. The vows were fun and the joy in the room was always nice, but it was hard to stay engaged for Arthur. When he was alone, he never had someone with him he was considering as someone he could marry. 

Watching the ceremony with Eames had him feeling all sorts of things. 

He was thinking about the fact that he was so in love with him. He wanted to hold his hand, snuggle up to him, whisper that he loved him, all under the guise of faking it. It would be nice for all of it to be real, for the hand holding and the dates that weren’t dates to be real instead of fake. It would be nice to have someone there for him at night, when he slipped into his empty apartment. 

He could imagine himself standing there, a tiny ceremony with only their friends and his most favorite of family. He could imagine professing his love to Eames, holding his hands and looking deep into his eyes, knowing that he loved and was loved. He wanted to see the ferocity of love in Eames’ eyes, the way he attacked everything with a mix of fervor, confidence, and unbridled care for others. 

Halfway through, when Leah had started her vows, Eames reached over and took Arthur’s hand. Even though no one could see them, and no one would be looking, he slid their fingers together. He squeezed Arthur’s hand gently, prompting the tears that threatened the corner of his eyes to spill over. 

His sister was so in love with Adam. Arthur knew that from the moment that he had first seen them as a couple, and he knew that they would get married one day. Seeing them profess their love for each other had Arthur feeling much more alone and heartbroken than usual. Eames’ hand had him thinking about the fact that he had his perfect romantic partner right next to him, and he was too chicken shit to do anything about it. 

When they were filing out of the church, after watching Leah and Adam walk down the aisle hand in hand, Arthur reluctantly let go of Eames’ hand. He wanted to hold it, clutch Eames to him and never let him go, but he didn’t feel safe enough to do that in front of everyone without getting hate-crimed or having his love spilled out on the carpet with the flower petals. 

“Arthur,” Eames murmured, catching his elbow. 

“My boys!” Debby said, clasping both of them into a hug. She clutched at their shoulders, pressing them both together and to her. Her tiny frame shouldn’t have been able to grab at them how it did, and yet she was clutching them to her as if she was a strong man. 

“Mom, I just saw you earlier,” Arthur said, smoothing a hand over his mom’s back. “Before the ceremony, remember?”

“I’ve had a bit to drink since then, so I’m feeling far happier about this entire scenario,” Debby said, letting the two of them go. “Cheryl brought a flask in her bag, and we both had a swig. Nothing like tequila to get the party started.”

Eames pressed his lips together in amusement, clearly trying hard to hide his laughter. He nodded very solemnly, as if he agreed wholly and completely with everything that Debby said. 

“It’s a little early to start drinking. We haven’t even made it to the reception,” Arthur said, frowning at his mother. 

She waved her hand in the air, as if waving off his concern. “Whatever.” She noticed the photographer heading their way, heading out of the building and presumably in the car to the reception, for all the formal photos that his sister would probably want. “Wait! Photographer!”

“He has a name,” Arthur hissed, sort of embarrassed by his mother’s antics. 

“Can you take a photo of us?” Debby asked, wedging herself between the two of them, wrapping her arms around each of their waists. 

They posed nicely for the camera, flashing polite smiles as the photographer took two quick photos of them. 

“And of just the two of them!” Debby insisted, pulling away. She gestured for the two of them to slide closer together, miming what they should do with their hands as she backed away, leaving the two of them in front of the photographer. 

Eames slid an arm around Arthur’s waist, tugging him close and sliding their bodies together naturally. Arthur reciprocated, tucking his arm behind them. They smiled politely at the camera, getting another photo. 

“And now one kissing!” Debby insisted, almost clapping her hands together. 

Eames had made way too good of an impression at the Memorial day barbeque, and the fact that his mother absolutely adored him was entirely his fault. It was payback for their trip to England to visit Eames’ family, but this predicament was sort of bad for the long run. They would eventually want to date other people, and would have to break up publicly for their families. This was not a good situation to be in. 

“Stop looking like you swallowed a fish whole, darling,” Eames murmured, twisting towards him. He leaned in and kissed Arthur firmly, his plush lips pressing against Arthur’s chastely. 

Arthur kissed him back, lips parting slightly as he pressed closer, hearing the camera click twice as the photographer took the photos. He pulled away before it got weird, knowing that a simple kiss was good enough for his mother. Even if he wanted to dip in again, taste the faint trace of chapstick on Eames’ lips and feel the heat of his mouth against his own. 

He had thought about the last time he kissed Eames, at the barbeque, and how different it was. But both kisses would still haunt him, leaving him disgruntled thoughts in his dreams and a funny feeling in his chest when he looked at Eames too long. 

“You two make the most attractive couple,” Debby said, clasping her hands together in front of her. She was acting almost childlike, the way she was gleefully smiling at them as they stood together, still in each other’s space without actually doing anything particularly intimate. 

“Thank you,” Eames said, smooth despite the fact that they just kissed. For a camera.

“Are we allowed to go to the reception now?” Arthur asked kindly, not wanting to rush his mother at all. 

“Only if you promise me a dance. And tell me what gift you got your sister,” Debby said, patting both of their forearms. 

Eames leaned forward, crooking his finger as if telling her to lean forward too. When she was close, charmingly and tantalizingly close, Eames whispered. “A blender.” 

“How practical!” Debby said, tilting her head back and laughing. “That’s my Arthur, oh so practical, even in his gift giving.”
“Mom. Leah texted me to get her a blender a month ago,” Arthur said, blinking at his mother. It was a practical gift, sure, but she had asked him specifically because she liked the one at his apartment. And wedding gifts were supposed to be practical, to give the new couple things they would actually use as adults. Even if Leah already had a newborn, and they’d been together a while. 

“Sure she did,” Debby said, winking. “I’m going with Cheryl, so I hope you two lovebirds have a great ride over.” She sauntered off, raising her arm in a wave to almost everyone. 

It wasn’t until Arthur was back in the car that he felt like he could take a deep breath. “Weddings,” he said. 

“Weddings,” Eames agreed.

Chapter Text

Arthur was spared from anything that a traditional wedding would have. His sister hated speeches, hated tradition, and barely had a cake at her wedding. There was a buffet of pizza and she had taken off the long skirt of her wedding dress, revealing a shorter and more danceable skirt. She even had a hard end time; the reservation of the hall was only until 7pm, and she was not going to be there a minute longer. 

“No flower toss?” Eames asked, weaving through the tables behind Arthur, holding both of their plates while Arthur looked for the name cards. 

“It’s mostly just a party with some dancing for the next two hours,” Arthur said, half shrugging. He spotted their name cards, seated next to Ari and his mother. “I doubt my mom will even sit at this table, the socialite she is. She has to have the complete ‘mother of the bride’ experience.”

Eames set their plates down, immediately sitting in his own chair. “She’s a hoot to be around.”

“Isn’t she?” Arthur said, sitting down. “Although when I get married, I think I’ll have to have a sober wedding party. When she gets drunk she gets even more interesting.”

“Shoes off, lets-make-out interesting?” Eames asked, shoving the pizza into his face. 

Arthur winced. “More like awkwardly dances like Elaine from ‘Seinfeld’,” Arthur said, wincing at the thought. “Interested in macking on my mom?” Arthur asked, elbowing Eames playfully. 

Eames rolled his eyes in response. 

“My plan is to sit here the whole time and hope that no one bothers coming anywhere near us because they’re too invested in this DJ,” Arthur said, gesturing towards the comically 80s DJ that was commandeering the booth on the stage. He was currently playing YMCA, which had every white old person on the floor. 

“Is Ari coming?” Eames asked. He seemingly got along swimmingly with Arthur’s best cousin, which was sort of a relief. Because if Ari liked him, then he had to be a good person. Their opinion was frequently good and trustworthy. 

“I think they said they were. They flew into Seattle a few days ago for business, so there’s no reason why they wouldn’t show up,” Arthur said, tucking into his own pizza. 

They sat and watched the dance floor as they ate, Eames finishing quickly. He was tapping his foot under the table, as if he was impatient. But the reality was, he was a socialite too. He indulged Arthur at the barbeque because his family was so horrifically homophobic, but here was an even split of his family and Adam’s. There was no way that progressive Adam, who had a black dad and gay aunts, was going to have a family as horrifically out of touch as Arthur’s. 

It was almost embarrassing at this point. 

He tossed his napkin onto the table, leaning back in his chair, watching as Adam and Leah circled around each other, pointedly ignoring the strange conversation Adam’s parents were having with Debby. It seemed like a strangely tense conversation that Arthur had no desire to be near.

“A dance?” Eames asked, holding his hand out to Arthur. 

“I don’t really… dance,” Arthur said, his lips tightening. He didn’t dance around his family, with men, in any capacity whatsoever. The last time he danced was when he was a frequent of the gay club a few blocks off of campus in college. Or when he was regularly in the gay district in Birmingham. He didn’t ever go out dancing on purpose anymore.

“Darling, whatever will your family think if I don’t charm you on the dance floor?” Eames said, waggling his eyebrows. 

Arthur let himself be pulled to his feet. The eyebrow waggle was far more charming than it should be. And Arthur was not going to pass up his only opportunity to dance with Eanes. This was a moment where he took that small simmering pot of attraction from the backburner to the front, letting himself revel in it for just a few hours. 

He never liked to admit a broken facade, but he was going to let himself willingly pretend as if they were dating for real. He couldn’t help but think that way, especially when Eames was putting so much effort into charming him. 

They were dancing to some Beyonce song, loud enough to have Arthur moving his feet, but the dance floor was not anywhere near full enough to have him grinding the way he normally would to the song. He didn’t really know any dance moves that were between slow dancing and a sensual grind, which made this parent-filled wedding sort of an awkward stage for his dance moves. 

Eames leaned in, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Relax,” he said, sliding one arm around Arthur’s waist. 

On command, Arthur felt himself relaxing into Eames, copying the gentle sway of his hips and the shake of his shoulder. He was so easy for Eames, so pliable, it was almost ridiculous. He wondered if Eames knew this and acted the way he did on purpose. If Eames took charge knowing that he’d get a fully responsive and cooperative Arthur if he only commanded it. 

“You’re far better than I thought,” Arthur admitted, pulling away from Eames, if only to gain some space both physically and mentally. He couldn’t think very well with their bodies pressed together like lovers instead of friends. Even his professionalism could not withstand Eames’ oozing charm and physical presence. 

They transitioned into a slower more casual dance as a Peter Gabriel song came on. Not really slow enough for slow dancing, but slow enough to sway in each other’s arms and laugh at the way other couples were trying to dance their way through the tempo change. 

“Not much of a dancer?” Eames asked, taking Arthur’s hand in his own. He placed his hand at the small of Arthur’s back, making himself the lead. 

Arthur let himself follow, placing his hand on Eames’ shoulder gently. “Not at my sister’s vow renewal ceremony, not in front of my family. Not when they looked at me funny for wearing rainbow socks that they can’t even see,” Arthur said, glancing over Eames’ shoulder at the other couples. He was giving Eames until the end of the song. Two songs were plenty.

“Hm. We’ll have to change that,” Eames murmured, tucking Arthur closer to his body, taking them into a slightly more upbeat sway back and forth. He started singing along, under his breath, to the song. “ All my instincts, they return, ” Eames sang. 

Arthur looked at him, almost bewildered. 

“This is our song,” Eames declared. He smiled as they swayed. 

“We are not having a Peter Gabriel song as our hypothetical song,” Arthur said, making a face at the thought. 

“ In your eyes ,” Eames sang, his voice a soft harmony with Peter Gabriels. “ The light, the heat ,” Eames continued, giving Arthur a significant look. 

“ Your eyes ,” Arthur sang back, rolling his eyes. 

“Darling, that’s the spirit,” Eames said, smiling at him in a way that others would perceive as smarmy, but Arthur only saw as adorably charming. 

He knew he was smiling, the dimples prominent in his cheeks. Of course it would take Eames slow dancing and declaring “In Your Eyes” as their song to get Arthur smiling and laughing as if he was having fun. He was leaning into the dance more, letting himself relax as they exaggeratedly swayed across the floor. 

The soft tones of Eames singing along had Arthur grinning, wanting to sing along, even if he didn’t know the words very well. He barely even noticed the noises around him, or even the other dancers. He was smiling at Eames, laughing at him like they were a real couple, really dancing. 

God, it was moments like this when he wished it was all real. 

He was not supposed to get this involved with Eames. With anyone. Fuck. He was meant to sit in his editor’s office, dating progressively more and more unavailable men until he could become a lonely old gay man with a dog he cared way too much about. Because no one would be dragged into the hot mess that was his family life, and no one would be obligated to love him as he struggled with the fact that he didn’t belong and never did. 

He pushed those thoughts down, trying not to let his brain hyper fixated on those thoughts. He was meant to be having fun and enjoying Eames, not thinking about how fucked up his life was. 

“Darling, come back to me,” Eames murmured, looking at him expectantly. 

“Never left,” Arthur said quickly, the soft tones of the song fading out into some more upbeat song. It was some song that had the women jumping up and running onto the dance floor, doing some sort of dance that only they knew. 

“Let’s evacuate the dancefloor,” Eames said, taking his arm and leading the way back towards their table. 

“Was that a Cascadia reference? Or a poor choice of words?” Arthur asked, trying to keep it light hearted, instead of thinking about how hard his heart was pounding in his chest. He let himself be pulled, watching Eames’ broad shoulders as they walked back to the table. He sort of enjoyed the stretch of his shoulders in the grey suit, the way that the suit cut cleanly across his shoulders and made him look strong and proper. 

“Cascadia?” Eames asked. “I thought you were going to make a Genesis reference. Or at least another Peter Gabriel reference.”

“You were the one who said ‘evacuate the dancefloor’,” Arthur pointed out, pushing at Eames’ shoulder as he sat down. 

“I merely meant that we should leave before anything else were to happen,” Eames said primly, being purposefully obtuse. “Like your clubbing days resurfacing. Or your dear mother insisting we kiss for the camera.”

“Sorry about that,” Arthur said, screwing up his face. He looked around at the reception, at anywhere but Eames’ face. He could feel his neck heating at the thought of their kiss from earlier, far more possessive and intentional than he ever thought it could be. 

Eames knocked his knee against Arthur’s, catching his attention. “Darling, I’m not complaining. I’d kiss you in front of your mother any day.”

“Ha. Ha,” Arthur deadpanned. He tried to keep up with the joking nature of Eames’ tone, if only to hide his own feelings. He wasn’t sure what he would do if either of them suddenly started being serious about any of this. He didn’t think his heart could take it if he were serious, and Eames threw it back at him. Not that he thought Eames would, but that felt like a worst-case-scenario style event. 

“Being with you beats being alone any day,” Eames said, sipping his drink. He looked at Arthur, watching his face carefully, his brow furrowed, as if he had more to say. 

Arthur really didn’t know what to say to this. It was so rare that Eames would say something substantial like this. It could be perceived as utterly romantic (which was where Arthur’s heart was leaning) or as banally friendly (as Arthur’s brain was trying to remind him). “Who else would I be with?” Arthur responded, smiling at him. He couldn’t help but want it to be romantic. 

They were promptly interrupted by Leah, who was sliding into the seat next to Eames. “Boys!” she greeted. 

“Leah!” Eames said, reaching over to give her a side hug, smiling at her kindly. “You look so beautiful today.”

Her hair was starting to fall out of it’s clips, and her lipstick was rubbing off, and she had a flush to her cheeks, but she looked beautiful. The imperfections made her seem like her; her eyes sparkled in the light and she couldn’t keep a smile off of her face. This was the Leah that Arthur loved and remembered most fondly. 

“Adam is so lucky to get to stare at you every day,” Arthur said 

She kicked him under the table. “Shut up, you sap.”

Arthur held his hands up in defense. “I”m just trying to be nice. If I didn’t say anything, you’d be mad.”

“Fine, I’d be mad,” Leah said, leaning her elbows forward on the table. “But I’m also mad you didn’t mention you were dating Eames way earlier than you said it. I could totally see it coming,” Leah continued, looking between the two of them. 

“Was it the sparks flying between us? The chemistry that is completely irresistible?” Eames asked, leaning back and wrapping an arm around Arthur’s shoulder, cajoling him. 

Leah rolled her eyes, as if it was obvious. “All of that. But also the fact that you would touch each other all the time. Always leaning into each other, like you had a language only you two spoke and secrets that no one else could be privy to.”

“That’s just how I flirt,” Eames said, winking at Leah exaggeratedly. 

But that was the thing, wasn’t it. That everyone seemed to see them as a couple, even when they weren’t explicitly trying to be seen that way. The woman at the sandwich place over the summer, their friends, the strangers on the street. Hell, if Arthur asked Saito, he’d probably say they were together. 

Was it even pretending when everyone just assumed that they were together? And why did everyone think that they were together? In love? Was Arthur’s face giving away far more than he wanted it to? There was no way that he was simply so in love with Eames that it was creating this narrative to people on the street, that his one sided attraction was carrying the rumours of their love. 

“Arthur? Hey,” Leah said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “Thanks for the blender. Mom said it was stupidly accurate, but she gave me a set of spreading knives with rabbits as handles, so I really don’t know what her idea of a good gift is,” Leah said, rolling her eyes. 

“You asked, I delivered,” Arthur said, shrugging. 

“So poetic,” Eames teased, squeezing his shoulder. 

“So we’ve got lunch tomorrow, and I’ll text you the details. Adam and I are bringing the baby, so be prepared to cut and run at basically any moment in case she gets fussy,” Leah said, reaching across to tap the table in front of Arthur. “And you better have a gift for her. Nothing with her name embroidered in it, though. All the aunts got me embroidered things and I am not into seeing ‘Talia’ in cursive everywhere,” Leah continued. 

She stood quickly and flounced off, presumably off to another person. 

“She has so much energy,” Eames commented, letting his arm slide down Arthur’s shoulders to rest on the back of the chair, his arm still loosely around him. He slid so his head was on Arthur’s shoulder, half leaning over. “She made me tired just by talking to me. Does she have magical energy sucking powers? Is that why a woman with a three month old looks that energized?”

Arthur closed his eyes, trying not to think too hard at how physically comfortable they were with each other. “Adam’s mom is living with them right now, and apparently she’s a saint,” Arthur said, smiling. “I already know she’s going to cancel lunch tomorrow.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it in the slightest,” Eames said.

Chapter Text

Arthur woke up that morning with a text from Leah. Cancelling lunch. Let’s do something the next time you’re in town? Hang out with Ari today because I promised them dinner, and there’s no way I’m doing that either.

“Why are you awake,” Eames murmured, pressing his face into his pillow. He blindly threw his extra pillow at Arthur, hitting him in the side of the head. 

“Stop it,” Arthur said, swinging his legs off to the side. “No lunch with Leah today, but we can see each other next time we’re in the same place. I’m gonna text Ari, see what they’re up to.”

“We barely saw them at the wedding,” Eames murmured, rolling over. He kept his eyes stubbornly shut, sighing at the brightness of the room. “Why did we go out for drinks with your mom last night,” Eames said flatly. 

“Are you hungover because of all the whiskey?” Arthur asked, getting out of bed. He put the extra pillow back on Eames’ bed, right over his face. He figured he probably needed a few more minutes of uninterrupted darkness before they went on a hangover cure search. 

“Yes, darling, why the hell did you let me drink so much?” Eames complained. 

They were only out with her for maybe an hour or two, but Debby had conned Eames into doing four shots with her, on top of the drinks they already had. They never drank that much, at least not anymore, and while Debby could hold her liquor, Eames could not. 

They had rolled in at 11, after walking home from the bar, both of them too sloshed to bother driving home. Arthur just so happened to drink only vodka, and the clear liquor was so much easier for him. He’d been drinking for over 10 years, and he knew the sort of thing that his body liked and didn’t like. 

“You asked for it!” Arthur said, heading into the bathroom to get dressed for the day. He quickly texted Ari, setting his phone on the counter to wait for their response. 

“Why am I sore?” Eames complained, followed by the thud of something hitting the floor. It sounded like his body, flopping against the ground. 

“We had to walk home from the bar, remember?” Arthur said, peeking out of the bathroom, looking at where Eames was laying, face first into the carpet. “You know they don’t clean hotel carpets that well,” Arthur commented. 

“I can’t catch anything worse than what I’m feeling,” Eames murmured. He scrunched his face up, as if thinking about something. He pushed himself to a seated position, holding very still. “We walked almost three miles back here, instead of driving.”

Arthur shrugged, pulling off his sleep shirt. He quickly changed into the comfy shirt he was planning on wearing for lunch, buttoning up the loose shirt and shrugging it stylishly on his shoulders. The dark green looked good against his skin, especially once he pulled on his black jeans. It felt like such a better look, far more like himself than some of the suits he wore. He liked being playful with his clothes sometimes. 

“Can you bring me a water,” Eames murmured, his voice quiet. 

Arthur dutifully filled up a glass at the sink, carrying it out of the bathroom and pressing it into Eames’ hand. “Lemme get some ibuprofen,” Arthur said, rooting around in the side of his suitcase. He passed two pills over to Eames, watching him swallow them quickly. 

“I need to eat something. Or vomit. I can’t tell,” Eames murmured, taking slow sips of the water. He tilted his head back against the bed, looking like he seriously regretted every moment of his life up until this point. “Did you take my pants off.”

“You started stripping as soon as we entered the hotel room. I had to convince you to keep your underwear on,” Arthur said.

“Did you see anything,” Eames murmured. 

He did get an eyeful of Eames’ ass before he convinced him to pull his pants up, and Arthur was very glad that he was sober enough to remember it. Even if it was sort of weird and creepy to remember. Eames had seen him mostly naked when they played strip poker at Mal’s thirtieth birthday, while Eames cheated so he wouldn’t have to strip at all. This was simply payback. 

“Maybe,” Arthur said vaguely. 

Eames hung his head in his hands. “I thought I left the flashing thing in college.”

“You used to flash people when you were drunk?” Arthur asked, surprised by this particular nugget of information. He regretted not knowing Eames in college. He sounded like the kind of guy Arthur would definitely try and go out with. 

“I used to streak ,” Eames said, like this was a bad thing. 

Arthur laughed, throwing his head back at the utter dismay that Eames was expressing. 

He waited patiently for Eames to get ready while he texted back and forth with Ari, planning what their day was going to look like. They had apparently booked a full schedule of stupidly tourist things for the two of them to do in Seattle, since neither of them had been before, and Ari was the self proclaimed expert. 

“Have you heard of the Duck Tour?” Arthur asked, looking up from his phone where Eames was sipping water, leaning against the bathroom counter. 

“Sounds atrocious with a hangover, love,” Eames murmured, closing his eyes. “Perhaps things that don’t involve animals.”

“Sure,” Arthur said distractedly. There was that word. Love . Dropped so casually that Arthur almost expected to hear it more frequently. Why would he say it if he didn’t mean it? It was yet another thing to be filed away under Things Arthur Would Stress About. 

Their relationship had always been close, but the more that people point out their closeness, Arthur wanted to pull away. He wasn’t sure why admitting his feelings to Eames felt like this boulder he had to push up a hill, but it was hard for him not to feel like he was losing a battle with himself and protecting his biggest secret. His mind always swirled with questions about his relationship with Eames, the nature of it. He didn’t need to add more to stress about. 

“Darling, come hold my hand and make me seem like a grown up while we Uber to our car,” Eames said, making a grabby hand at Arthur. 

If he closed his eyes, let himself pretend, he could imagine that Eames was his boyfriend saying this. 

“Come here,” Arthur said, extending his hand to Eames. 

Eames quickly moved into his space, sliding their hands together. He intertwined their fingers, squeezing Arthur’s hand in gratitude. He slipped into Arthur’s space, almost plastering himself against Arthur as they walked out of their hotel and down to the lobby, waiting for their ride. 

Arthur tried really hard not to let stupid thoughts about their relationship consume him as they traveled to the rental car, and from the rental car to the lunch place they were meeting Ari at. He let Eames pick the music, silence falling over them, as Eames slipped sunglasses on and tucked his arms close to himself. He even put up with Eames switching stations when a good song came on, because Eames sort of hated the radio. 

“What the fuck ran you over?” Ari asked in greeting, standing from their seat at the saved table. They eyed the two of them, confusion crossing their face. “Did you two stay up all night fu—”

“Ari,” Arthur said, cutting them off. “Mom and Eames did shots of whiskey last night.”

“Initiation,” Ari said, nodding their head. They looked at Eames, a pitiful look on their face. “My last partner had to endure a margarita chugging contest in order to hang with my mom. They lost, obviously, which meant they had to go.”

“You broke up with them because their dog didn’t like you,” Arthur corrected, taking his seat at the table. 

“You broke up with someone over a dog?” Eames asked, huffing laughter. He didn’t take his sunglasses off, only sitting down and leaning back in his chair. He must’ve been really hungover if he would openly look like it in public. 

“I broke up with them because we were a bad fit. The dog was just a smaller part of that equation,” Ari said, glaring at Arthur. They kicked him underneath the table, connecting hard with his shin. “As if you can say anything, Mr. Pretentious Soccer Ass.”

“Thom didn’t know a single soccer player. He couldn’t even name a single team . And he knew I was on the soccer team, because we met outside of practice. He didn’t deserve my time,” Arthur argued, making a face. Bringing up his past boyfriend in front of Eames was sort of a dick move on Ari’s part, no matter how not-real he and Eames were. 

“Eames, name a soccer player and a soccer team,” Ari said, snapping their fingers at Eames. 

He grunted, pushing the sunglasses off of his forehead. “Cristiano Ronaldo, Lionel Messi, Neymar. Portland Timbers, LA Galaxy, Chicago Fire, and that stuipd fucking Red Bulls team,” Eames said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Plus the whole Championship league versus Premiere league, which I did not give a single fuck about until I met Arthur. And I lived in England,” Eames added. He looked so tired at that moment, but he answered without hesitation. 

“You probably watch soccer with Arthur, so that’s sort of unfair,” Ari pointed out. 

“I haven’t taken him to watch a game in almost a year,” Arthur pointed out, as if that changed anything. 

“He goes with Cobb,” Eames said, smoothing a hand over his head. “Can I get some bread already, try to soak up some of this alcohol in my system?”

“More water,” Arthur said, pushing the water glass over to Eames wordlessly. 

Ari scoffed, shaking their head. “Go ahead and make me jealous that I’m not all coupled up right now,” they said, rolling their eyes. “I bet you two even have matching underwear, or something super stupid.”

They did have matching underwear, but it was mostly by accident. Eames had bought underwear with sharks on it in a size too small and gave the smaller pair to Arthur and ordered a second, larger pair for himself. So they did have matching underwear. But that was neither here nor there. 

“Didn’t see you at the reception,” Arthur said, changing the subject. “Did you hook up with one of Adam’s cousins like you did at Tabitha’s wedding?” Arthur asked, pushing the menu over to Eames to look at. 

“That was one time, and it was not my fault that her husband had a very attractive cousin who was a little more queer than even she wanted to admit,” Ari said, leaning back in their chair, putting their arms behind their head. 

“You’re a real life casanova,” Eames commented, skimming the menu. “Want to come home with me to England, meet my mother, show her what Americans are really like?” Eames asked, offering her a grin. It was only a shade of his normal expression, his eyes hidden by his sunglasses. 

“Do you have a hot relative I can hook up with while I’m there?” Ari asked, raising their eyebrows. 

“I only have brothers. And they’re all married,” Eames said, sliding the menu back towards Arthur. 

“Shame,” Ari said in response. 

“Did you pick something,” Arthur murmured, spotting their waitress heading over to their table. 

“Club sandwich,” Eames murmured, back, pointing to where it was on the menu. “Would you split some fries with me, darling? I don’t know if I want a whole serving.”

“Of course,” Arthur said, grinning at him. He knew he was being a little cheesier than normal, but if Eames called him on it, he would blame it on Ari being there. He was just playing up his own feelings, letting them seem like a couple. They were totally still pretending.

Chapter Text

The wedding only spurned Arthur’s feelings of loneliness even more. 

He had two book deadlines to edit for, which pushed him harder than he typically liked. His guilt over taking so many vacation days had him working until 7 or 8pm most nights, combing through the works with a fine tooth comb and hoping that his comments weren’t too scathing to his authors. 

But when he did get to see Eames, it was hard to keep his hands off of him. He wanted to lay his head on his shoulder, hold his hand in the street, hug him for longer than appropriate. They had incorporated touching into all of their fake relationship behaviors, making it hard for Arthur, who was dangerously in love with Eames, to separate the two parts of his mind. 

Arthur had never realized how Eames initiated it until he was consciously aware of Eames’ hands on him. When they passed through doorways, his hand drifted to Arthur’s lower back. When they were sitting next to each other, Eames would tip his knee into Arthur’s under the table or lay his arm across the back of the booth, fingers brushing against Arthur’s shoulder.

And Arthur would do the same. 

He would lean into Eames while he talked, letting their arms brush between them. Or he would grab at Eames’ forearms when he was laughing his full bellied laugh, which he seemed to only do around Eames. He was so desperate for any sort of affection with Eames that he hadn’t realized how far he was going to get it. He felt like he was falling back into those patterns, getting himself mixed up between his romantic feelings and his friendship barriers. Eames wasn’t helping at all. 

“That’s when I said to her, absolutely not!” Eames said, gesturing with his left hand as he told the story of some woman asking for a caricature on the street. He moved his left arm over the top of the booth, his arm draped mostly onto Arthur’s shoulder. 

Arthur caught the look from Mal, the one that glanced from where Eames’ hand was to Arthur and back. As if she was silently asking why he was so comfortable just slinging his arm over Arthur’s shoulder. And why Arthur was letting him. 

“Her loss,” Arthur said, trying to contribute to the story. He sat forward, letting Eames’ arm slide off of him for a second. 

His reaction had Eames pulling his arm back, frowning slightly at Arthur. He tucked his arm back into his own space as Arthur leaned back, the whole movement only taking a moment. They both shifted uneasy in their seat as Dom started some boring story about people at his law firm, the two of them adjusting. 

Eames knocked his knee into Arthur’s under the table, and Arthur couldn’t help but flinch away. He was trying not to be so obvious about his own discomfort, about the way he was now hyper aware of everything that Eames did. But he couldn’t help it. 

How long had he been going about, creating this comfortability between the two of them that he was using for his own gratification? Did Eames know how desperately in love with him he was with every touch? That it only fueled his own broken heart every time that Eames grabbed his shoulder or called him darling ? 

But he couldn’t give up darling . He couldn’t. It was the one thing he was going to allow himself, because he was hopelessly in love with Eames, and he couldn’t imagine Eames calling him anything else. He so rarely heard his name from Eames’ mouth, and he was not wanting that to change. He liked being called that, even if it meant far more for him than it did for Eames. 

“You alright?” Eames murmured, ducking his head to whisper to Arthur, as if that would keep anything secret from Dom and Mal. 

“Fine, just tired,” Arthur whispered back, pressing his lips together in a half smile. He let his elbow nudge against Eames’, knowing that the physical touch spoke louder than his words. He knew that Eames’ love language was physical touch and gifts and he was just rejecting them all. He felt guilty for blocking him out that way. 

“I’ll let you pick the tape on the way back,” Eames murmured, his fingers brushing against Arthur’s thigh where his hand rested between them. He traced the seam of Arthur’s pants down the outside of his leg; the gesture was so simple and yet Arthur was practically shivering from the small amount of contact. 

“Okay,” Arthur whispered, letting himself look at Eames. 

“Lovebirds, entre deux cœurs qui s’aiment, nul besoin de paroles .” Mal said, waving her hand around her head, as if that explained any aspect of the French she just spoke. 

Arthur sometimes hated the fact that he had taken French in highschool, because he understood Mal completely. Two hearts in love need no words . To have her pick up on his own yearning, on the way they behaved with each other, felt like someone was spying on him while he was in the shower. It was a violation of his privacy, even if his own privacy was like an illusion he was attempting to maintain despite all factors. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eames asked, leaning his elbows forward on the table, grinning sort of maniacally at Mal. 

“Ask your boyfriend,” Mal said, rolling her eyes. “I need a smoke,” Mal complained. 

Dom reached over and rubbed her swollen belly, as if reminding her of the reason she had to quit to begin with. “Only a few more weeks,” Dom said, rubbing the belly with one hand, the other coming up to tug at the ends of Mal’s hair. 

“Two, to be precise,” Mal said. She picked the lime wedge out of her drink, putting it in her mouth to suck on it absently. 

“And then I’ll be an uncle again,” Eames said, smiling at Mal. 

“As if I’d let you near this child,” Cobb said, scoffing slightly. “Arthur, maybe. But I do not need your roguish attitude corrupting my child. She’s going to be French as is.”

Mal laughed, tilting her head back. “You like the women in your life to be crazy and French. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

To see his friends so jovial had Arthur feeling almost uncomfortable. He forgot how to be himself around them, not when he was pushing Eames away in a subtle way. 

But Mal’s words were ringing in his head. She implied that Eames was also in love with him, as if they were partners in this particular scenario. Which was hard for Arthur to wrap his mind around. All this time he was Arthur, and Eames was Eames, and together they were good friends who were relatively exclusive with their time. They were never an us , or having anything significant enough to become a pair. 

Arthur wanted it. That was the one thing he could hold onto.

Chapter Text

December 2nd, Mal had her baby. It was a stormy night, the wind blowing hard against Arthur’s apartment windows, his whole place almost rattling with the storm. He wanted to tuck himself into his bed and watch a shitty movie, to comfort himself over the fact that Dom and Mal were going to be parents and he had two books sent off to the publisher, waiting for final approval. 

The phone rang, causing Arthur to jump a little. He was not easily scared, but a storm could get him there. They were not the kind of thing that lasted very long in Birmingham when he was growing up, and they certainly didn’t have wind howling at all hours of the day because of a rainstorm. 

“Darling!” Eames greeted, before Arthur could say anything. “I’m coming over because the heat at my place is atrocious, and I want to sit around and wait for baby updates with you.”

“Sure, come on over,” Arthur said, half shrugging. 

The moment Eames hung up, there was a knock at the door. 

“Come in!’ Arthur called out. 

Eames strolled in, carrying a bottle of whiskey and a cheap cheesecake from the grocery store. He dumped the cheesecake on the counter, immediately heading for the cabinet to find glasses. “I am so glad you were home. That would have been awkward if you were out.”

“There’s a storm,” Arthur said, as if that explained everything. 

“A storm?” Eames asked, turning momentarily to sneak a glance at him, looking entirely too skeptical. “Darling, are you scared of a storm?”

Arthur bristled a little in defense. “I just don’t like driving in the rain.”

“Fair,” Eames murmured, uncapping the whiskey. He poured them a healthy amount in each tumblr, pushing Arthur’s towards him. “To this baby, with the hope that her uncles can bring her the guidance that her parents cannot,” Eames said, holding his glass up. 

“Cheers,” Arthur said, tipping his glass against Eames’. “But I still don’t see how we’re supposed to do a better job at raising her than her own parents.”

“It’s the sentiment,” Eames said, rolling his eyes. “Let’s watch a stupid movie and drink a lot of whiskey and hope that they call about an update later. 

Cobb had texted their group chat at almost 6pm that Mal was in labor, headed to the hospital. As the hours ticked on, and as they drank more and more of the whiskey, it seemed like this baby would never come. They were on their fourth episode of Unsolved Mysteries, and Eames was currently laying with his head in Arthur’s lap. Everything was totally normal. 

“Darling, can I sleep here if this baby doesn’t come tonight?” Eames murmured, stroking his hand along Arthur’s knee. 

Before he could answer, his phone buzzed. It was just past 11pm and there was a text from Cobb: Phillipa was born. 

“What!” Arthur said, pushing at Eames’ shoulder. Once he was free he jumped up, his drink sloshing down his shirt. “Shit!” 

Eames, clearly more sober than him, smiled as he sat up, staring down at his own phone. There was a picture of tiny Phillipa, red faced and screaming her way into the world. He wiped a tear from his eye. The smile on his face was kind, gentle. It was the face that Arthur wanted to see for the rest of his life. 

“I gotta change my shirt,” Arthur said, cursing the way that whiskey was wetting his front. “I’ll get you some PJs, you can sleep here.”

“I’m sober enough to get home,” Eames said, gesturing towards the door. 

Arthur waved away those words, walking down the hallway and towards the back of his apartment, where his bedroom was. He heard the soft footfalls of Eames trailing after him, their movement so soft and insignificant in the grand scheme of things. 

It was making Arthur feel way too brave. 

“Did you get me drunk?” Arthur asked, setting his empty whiskey glass onto the top of his dresser. He waved Eames into his room behind him, as if beckoning him in. He was becoming far too confident and he knew it, but he wanted any excuse to get Eames into his bedroom. Any excuse. 

Arthur had spent the last year tantalizingly close to Eames. Kissing him in front of his family, holding hands with him whenever they were around anyone who thought they were together. He had even accepted it when Eames draped an arm over his shoulder when they were with their friends, acting as if it were the most normal thing in the universe for the two of them to be wrapped up in each other, knees touching underneath the table. 

He was tired of pretending. Of pretending like his feelings weren’t totally and completely real. 

“Darling—” Eames started, fingers trailing along Arthur’s wrist, trying to tug him away. He looked around warily at the room, at the way Arthur sat heavily on the edge of his bed. 

“Join me. For only a minute,” Arthur said, patting the bed next to him. Hell, it was now or never. He couldn’t back down now, not when he was confident and ready. He was going to ruin his friendship tonight either way, whether he told Eames he was in love with him or not. 

How was he even going to broach that particular piece of the conversation? Blurting out that he loved him was not going to be the most productive way to show his feelings. And certainly not the most romantic. 

Eames sat down carefully next to Arthur, keeping his hands to his sides. He looked up at the ceiling, as if waiting for something to drop from it. His face was unreadable; either he was nervous as all hell, or he was really wishing he was anywhere but Arthur’s bedroom. While Arthur would have convinced himself it was the latter before, he was willing to be hopeful that it was the former. He wanted it to be the former so badly. 

“Arthur, I’m not sure—” 

“Can I say my part really quick? Before I lose my nerve?” Arthur said, resisting the urge to worry his hands together in his lap. He glanced at Eames’ profile, memorizing the way that he looked in case it was the last time he’d ever see him again. He wanted to remember this moment, of Eames’ ugly shirt and his plush lips and beautiful face. He wanted to remember everything about it. 

“Sure,” Eames said, sounding not at all like he was sure. He sounded like he was nervous, if anything. But not much could be gleaned off of a single word. And Arthur was trying really hard not to read into it. 

“I want us to be more. More than we are,” Arthur said quickly, the word love rattling around in his brain, begging to escape. Arthur didn’t allow himself to say it, not if he would come across as desperate and pitiful. 

“More?” Eames asked, glancing at Arthur, his face slightly confused but blank. 

Arthur nodded, not sure if he could trust his voice. 

He swung his leg over Eames’ hips, trying to ignore every part of him that said what they were doing was a slippery slope into hurt feelings. He was so used to playing pretend, acting like Eames was actually attracted to him. He was feeling confident enough to think that Eames wouldn’t just push him away, but he had no idea how he was actually feeling. It was the make or break moment. 

“Darling,” Eames murmured, voice thick as his hands came up, sliding around Arthur’s waist. “Are you—”

Arthur cut him off with a kiss, hands sliding into Eames’ hair. He bit at Eames’ lower lip, tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck, putting him exactly where he wanted him. Eames moaned underneath the contact, hands palming at Arthur’s ass desperately. He melted underneath Arthur’s hands, as if he couldn’t possibly push his body close enough. 

That only spurred Arthur on, and he put everything he had into the kiss. He was kissing Eames as if it was the last time he ever would, because he felt like the moment they left this bubble all would be lost. He didn’t want to lose everything before he even had it. 

It was nothing like the kisses that they had shared before. They were pretending before, but not really. They had kissed the way that people did for comfort, lips pressing together softly and gently as if saying hello and welcoming someone. They had kept it soft and gentle, their touches innocent. Arthur was tired of innocence. 

He was kissing Eames hard, almost brutally so. Arthur was trying to press as much of their bodies together, and Eames seemed content to do the same. While Arthur was clutching Eames’ shoulders, pulling his chest flush with Eames’, grinding himself down, Eames was palming at his ass and tugging his hips as close as possible. 

Arthur tugged at Eames’ hair again, liking the soft moan that the motion caused. He filed that particular information away for later, already thinking about the next time when Arthur could pull at Eames’ hair to rile him up. He wanted to hold him in place, take what he wanted before Eames came to his senses. 

“Fuck me,” Arthur murmured, sitting back a little bit. He could feel where Eames was hard underneath him, and his own cock was straining against his zipper. He dipped in to kiss Eames again before he could respond, kissing him hard. He loved the feeling of Eames' lips against his own, of his hands on his ass and his body wanting underneath him. 

Eames’ hand slid along Arthur’s thighs, thumbs tracing a line close to Arthur’s inner seam. He was teasing him, both with his mouth and his hands. With every slide of his hands, he got closer and closer to Arthur’s cock. When he finally reached for the zipper, Arthur breathed a sigh of relief into his mouth, already so ready for him. 

“Arthur, darling,” Eames murmured, tipping their foreheads together as he unzipped his pants, achingly slow. He pushed at the top of Arthur’s jeans, trying to slide them down off of his hips from where he sat perched on his lap. He could only shove the jeans a short amount, nowhere near enough to free Arthur’s cock. 

“Here,” Arthur said, moving to lift his leg off of Eames. 

“I’ve got you,” Eames said, grabbing at his leg to flip them over. 

His hand slid underneath his knees, and he grabbed tight to flip them over. As he lifted his hand slid into the sensitive spot behind Arthur’s left knee, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh. He let Arthur go only seconds later, letting him fall backwards onto his bed, landing on the soft fabrics. His hands moved to Arthur’s waistband, to pull at his jeans, pushing at his legs to straighten them. 

“Wait—” Arthur gasped, clutching at his left knee. Eames’ fingers had squeezed on the back of it where the scar tissue was, pushing on the scar tissue left over from his ACL tear. It never caused him issues during sex, and even though he knew it would be uncomfortable to kneel onto Eames’ lap, he hadn’t anticipated Eames grabbing at his knee. 

He could feel the pain in his knee as he tried to move it, shooting down to his foot. The discomfort was far too much for Arthur to bear as he was, laying flat on his back. He quickly turned to his side, pushing Eames off of him as he pressed his hands to his knee, as if that was going to make anything any better. He could feel Eames’ eyes on him, the worry. 

He was so embarrassed, the way that he was already repeating history. He could feel Eames’ eyes on him, the same eyes that had watched him so many months ago at his mother’s house. Instead of seeing the lust in his eyes, he was only worried. Almost pitiful. His plush lips, red from kissing Arthur, could not make up for the stupidly worrying eyes. 

“Are you okay?” Eames asked, his weight causing the bed to dip next to Arthur’s hip. He placed a soothing hand on Arthur’s side, trying to talk to him and provide any sort of support. 

“Fuck no,” Arthur said, wincing as he tried to straighten his leg, feeling the muscle start to cramp in his thigh. He could feel his IT band tightening, the way that the cramping was causing his muscles to flex uncomfortably around his injury. Fucking scar tissue. Fucking Travis, irritating his knee at the beginning of the summer. 

“Can I do anything—”

“Just go,” Arthur said, closing his eyes. He never wanted Eames to see him like this, not when they were just about to have sex. He was already offering an extremely vulnerable part of himself, and his knee was adding a new layer of vulnerability. He hated being weak in front of Eames, of letting so much of himself out in the open. He wanted to scream, to push him away. Anything but what was happening. 

“Darling—”

“Leave. Just go,” Arthur said, sighing. He couldn’t even bring himself to yell or be angry. He only wanted to be alone. 

Eames hand slid down his side in an aborted gesture of comfort. He didn’t say anything as he grabbed his jacket, slipping out of Arthur’s bedroom. Only moments later the telltale sign of the front door shutting echoed through the apartment. 

Even though he asked for it, Arthur didn’t want to be alone.

Chapter Text

Voicemail Transcription December 3rd. 12:04 AM

“Darling, can you answer your fucking phone? I’ve called you three times since I’ve gotten home and I want to fix things, I want to talk. I’ve resorted to leaving this sodding message because you won’t answer your phone, and I know you hate texting. Darling. Please answer. I’m sorry about your knee, and I’m sorry that I even tried anything. I want to talk to you. Call me.”

Voicemail Transcription December 3rd. 3:37 PM

“Arthur, can we talk? Please? Answer your phone. Or call me back. I really want to talk to you, to see you. I went over to yours and knocked for like ten minutes, but no one came to the door. So I assume you were out. Have fun wherever you are. Call me.”

Voicemail Transcription December 4th. 5:13 PM

“Darling, I gave you some space, and I know I might have crossed a line, but I think it was a line you crossed first. I want you to— shit almost hit a cat while I was driving. I want to talk to you. Can I come over? Can you answer your phone? I’ve texted you half a dozen times now and still haven’t received any sort of reply. Call me, darling. Please call me.”

Voicemail Transcription December 5th. 9:44 AM

“I know you’re ignoring me, but did you have to shut me out of your office too? I wanted to come by, see you when I knew I could see you. But Saito said you weren’t taking visitors, which means you won't come out all day. Can we talk? Can you stop ignoring me? If you want space, you can have it I guess. Call me when you feel ready to talk again, Arthur, because I can’t keep up this desperate bullshit just to get a shred of affection from you.”

Voicemail Transcription December 5th. 11:29 PM

“I know I promised to stop calling but— fuck I’m drunk— I really need to see you. I miss you. Call me back. No Yusef stop pulling the phone away from my hands I want Arthur and only Arthur shut up about taking me home I’m not that drunk. Arthur would let me drink—”

Chapter Text

Calling Ari was a mistake. He knew it the second that he made the call, but there was a level of desperation in his skin that had burrowed down deep into his bones, making him feel sick to his stomach whenever he thought about Eames. He couldn’t help but need to expel any of his energy, figure out if anything he was thinking was right. 

He couldn’t face Eames anymore. He was avoiding Eames at work, ducking into his office to avoid him. He made sure to work extra late, even though he was assigned to new projects in their infancy. He listened to each of Eames’ voicemails, squeezing his eyes shut thinking about that night in comparison. He was so embarrassed, he had fucked up so much. He thought of the fact that he had kissed Eames, and that they would still be friends if he had just— 

That’s where the thought always ended. He wasn’t sure what sort of action he was supposed to take to fix everything. The way they were moving, the path that the two of them were on, was not sustainable. Arthur would have inevitably confessed something, and Eames would have reacted however he would have, no matter the situation. Would he have reacted better if it were a different scenario, if Arthur wasn’t drunk, if Arthur didn’t push him away, if— if— 

He tapped his toe as he waited for Ari to answer, hoping that they could bring some sort of clarity to this entire situation. He wanted to scream his love from the rooftops, not hide in his apartment wishing that he could take it all back and go to some imaginary universe where they had never bothered starting this fake relationship. Then Eames wouldn’t have to know about Arthur’s knee, wouldn’t pity him for his family, and wouldn’t be so close. 

But Arthur yearned for the closeness. He wanted Eames to touch his hip, to grab at his skin and laugh and flirt and tease and shout with joy—  

“A call from my favorite cousin? Has my birthday come early?” Ari said, answering the phone. 

Arthur stayed silent, not sure how to say anything that was mulling around in his head. 

“So not a call for pleasure,” Ari said quickly, clearly having figured it out on their own. They made a noise over the phone, as if they were closing a laptop roughly or slamming a book shut. They were preparing for the conversation, for the fact that Arthur almost never called them. 

“I think I fucked up,” Arthur said smally, his voice so quiet over the phone. He smacked his own forehead, wanting the words to come easy. “I kissed him, I really went for it, and he grabbed my knee—” the words spilled out, coming faster than Arthur could choke them back. 

Ari didn’t say anything for a moment. “But he’s your boyfriend, so I’m not really sure what we’re going on about. Did you call me to tell me a sex story?” Ari asked, trying to lighten the mood, clearly. 

“No— fuck Ari, none of it was real. And I tried to make it real, tried to make it something that it wasn’t, and I think I fucked it up. I pushed him away,” Arthur said, leaning his head against the window of his car. He couldn’t even sit in his apartment, not without the memories of Eames flooding back to him. He closed his eyes, letting his breath fog the glass gently. 

There was silence on the line, as Ari clearly processed everything. 

“We were faking it. The whole thing. To get mom off my back, and so that I didn’t have to talk to Cassie anymore, and would stop getting married off. And his mother loves me, so I went home with him as his boyfriend, and the wedding— fuck, we went everywhere together,” Arthur said, squeezing his eyes tight, trying not to think about every moment they had spent wrapped up in each other over the past nine months. 

“Faking it? Are you crazy?” Ari said, their voice loud over the phone. 

“Not crazy,” Arthur said, letting his eyes slide open. He wished he could see the way that Ari was reacting.

“How was anything that I saw fake? The way he looked at you was in no way fake,” Ari said, sounding somehow more angry as they spoke. “Look, he was in love with you then, at the barbeque and the wedding. In love . As in, hearts were practically beaming out of his gay eyes when he looked at you. There’s no way that he was faking any of that, and neither were you.”

“Ari—”

“No. As your queer cousin and only relevant relationship guru, you cannot pass this man up,” Ari said. There was a loud noise on their side of the phone, sounding almost like a pot being dropped. “We can’t both be queer and single. Get your gay ass over to his place and fuck him like you’ve always wanted to.”

“Sheesh, get graphic,” Arthur muttered. He couldn’t ignore the way that a blush was rising in his cheeks, making his face hot. He looked out the car window at the lake, at the mass of water in front of him. He never looked at the lake, not unless he had to. It was looming in front of him, much like the task at hand. Fuck. 

“I need to get graphic to push you out of your comfort zone. The comfort zone that you’re in is the whole reason why you’re sitting at home alone, presumably in those pretentious pajamas of yours, instead of fucking that hot guy,” Ari said, sounding exasperated. 

“He’s not even your type,” Arthur said, sort of defensively. 

Ari made a frustrated noise, loud over the phone. “I am queer as a three dollar bill and I know that man is hot. Even a straight guy knows that Eames is hot. He’s hot. And while I prefer my partners to be a little more ambiguous with their gender, I can appreciate his whole ugly-chic man aesthetic.”

“Look, it’s not relevant anymore because—” Arthur cut himself off, putting his face into his hands. He couldn’t even say it. 

“Did you fuck it up bad enough you can’t apologize?” Ari said, their voice serious and quiet. When Arthur didn’t respond right away, they practically screamed into the phone. “Don’t tell me he made an advance and you fucked it up.”

“Sort of. More like my knee fucked it up,” Arthur said, shaking his head even though he knew Ari couldn’t see it. 

“Explain.”

Arthur went through the night, trying not to be too graphic considering he was talking to his cousin. He certainly was not going to give them his internal sex thoughts, or the fact that he was ready to go when his leg seized up. He didn’t need Ari to know the dirty details. Not really. Even if they wanted them. 

“And you’re telling me you threw him out,” Ari said flatly. They were clearly mad, and Arthur knew that. He knew that when he called them. 

“Yeah,” Arthur said. He was already filled with regret, practically bursting at the seams with it. He knew he had screwed up beyond belief, and while wallowing in his own self pity was bad, he was asking Ari to wallow in it with him instead of kicking him out of it. 

Calling them was the first step into being someone else. He knew that Ari would do what they needed to push him forward, giving him the happiness that he deserved. There was a reason why Ari had become a successful RA in college, and had ended up becoming the most popular architect at their firm. They were honest, brutally so, and they gave good speeches. They were the kind of person Arthur wanted to be. 

“I’m going to tell you this once, so I hope you’re listening,” Ari said, firmly and quickly. “You deserve love, and you deserve his love. Whatever part of your brain told you that the last few years of friendship were completely platonic was wrong, because there was nothing platonic about the way that he looked at you. I could only wish to be as in love as the two of you are,” Ari said, their voice even and kind. They left their words hanging in a pause, there for Arthur to listen to and absorb. 

“You really think he’d take me?” Arthur asked, staring at the water as if it was his savior. “That he’d want the baggage, the pain, the everything?” 

“No offense, Arthur, but you’re a lot easier than your brain likes to think you are,” Ari said, almost laughing. “If he’s put up with you so far, he won’t let you go now.”

Arthur felt so stupid that he needed a push to recognize that. “I gotta go.”

“Fuck his brains out!” Ari shouted, hanging up before Arthur had a chance to say anything else.

The quiet in the car was loud as Arthur turned the key in the ignition, listening to the engine start up and the radio turn on. He had it on some generic station, and listened to the last bit of whatever Taylor Swift song was popular right now. He heard the beats of the next song start up, laughing to himself as he realized what was playing. 

“In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel played loudly over the radio, spurring Arthur into action. If the world wasn’t giving him a sign, then this was the most peculiar of coincidences.

Chapter Text

Arthur knocked loudly on Eames’ apartment door, his knuckles hitting the wood roughly. He had no idea what to say when the door opened, but he was ready for anything. All he wanted was to see Eames, and he knew that the words would come quickly. 

The door swung open, revealing a bleary Eames. “You’re here.”

“I am. We need to talk,” Arthur said, feeling unsure of his own voice right now. He could feel his legs twitching, almost shaking, and he was unsure he could even stay standing for much longer, with all the nerves rattling around in his chest. 

They walked into Eames’ apartment together, standing in the middle of his small living room. It was the couch that they had shared so much food on, slept on, and once had a seance on. The coffee table still had the scorch mark from when Arthur dropped a lit match onto it, and the art books that neither of them ever flipped through. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, saying it before Eames had even turned to look at him again. He looked down at his hands, not daring to look at the way that Eames looked standing in his own apartment. “I shouldn’t have— I had no right to throw you out.”

He stayed quiet for a moment, now suddenly out of thoughts as he stood in front of Eames. He wanted to throw his arms around him, hope that his actions were enough, but he knew that they’d never be. His words were the only thing digging him out of this hole, and he hoped they were strong enough to bear the weight of what happened. 

“Is that what you came here for?” Eames asked, his voice soft. “Arthur—”

“And I am sorry if I crossed any lines that night,” Arthur interrupted, unsure that he would be able to speak again if he let Eames say anything. “But I stand by what I did. Before kicking you out. I’ve wanted to kiss you since forever,” Arthur continued, twisting his fingers together. “I know that maybe you don’t feel the same way, but I stand by my own feelings. That I want you, in more ways than you know.”

He was trying to cover all of his bases in case he was wrong. In case Ari was wrong. In case he had read their relationship so very wrong, and he was about to completely obliterate it with his feelings. But he couldn’t help but have that hope in his heart, forcing him forward. 

He stared at Eames, maintaining eye contact. He sort of hoped that the alarm in Eames’ eyes was not because he was unaware of this information. He was hoping that the expression on his face, almost unreadable and yet so full of shock, meant something good. 

“Was I not being glaringly obvious?” Eames said, throwing his hands out in exasperation. 

“What?” Arthur asked, blinking as he looked up at Eames. The thought of anything about this being “obvious” was hard for Arthur to comprehend. There was nothing about this relationship that was obvious. 

“How long have I been pining after you? Think of how long I’ve been calling you darling , dear Arthur. Have you ever thought about the fact that I call you that, and only that? And that I’d never call anyone else that, ever? Not even when I was dating other people?” Eames ranted, his voice coming quickly. He scrubbed a hand over his face, as if exasperated. 

Arthur wasn’t sure what to say. The last nine months— no five years— were running through his head at rapid speed. Every moment with Eames, every touch, every single glance. Arthur thought that they were great friends, impossibly close friends, and that was plenty for him. He liked it like that, with the two of them being inseparable. He thought that was what people did. 

“I thought—” Arthur stopped himself, afraid of saying too much or giving anything away. Not that he had much to give away at this point, but he was so terrified of saying anything to damage their relationship any further. “I didn’t think that you could possibly like me like that.”

“Darling, I am madly— not suffocatingly— in love with you. I can’t breathe with my need to say it, and yet you’re asking me if my feelings are true? They were true since I met you, and they’ve only grown truer since,” Eames said. He scrubbed a hand over his head, looking almost distraught at these words. “I—” He abruptly shut his mouth, taking a deep breath in through his nose, as if that would calm him. 

“I had no idea,” Arthur said honestly. His heart was thrumming hard in his chest, feeling as if it were going to burst out and start tap dancing right there, on the ground between them. “You must know that I love you too. That I’m in love with you,” Arthur said. He felt like this point was obvious. 

Eames’ face was so indescribably joyous in that moment. Any sort of anguish over the situation was quickly replaced with joy as he stared in wonderment at Arthur. “You never— I thought you might not—” he stammered, at a loss for words. 

“I know I don’t say it with words, but I try to show it in everything that I do. And I feel it, so heavy in my heart,” Arthur said, reaching out towards Eames. He caught Eames’ forearm in his hand, feeling his warmth and the thready pulse under his skin. 

His words caused a dam to break, the space between them quickly flushed as they stepped closer and dove into each other’s space. Eames was wrapping his arms around Arthur’s waist, pressing him close. Arthur leaned in for the kiss, the desperation evident in how harshly and passionately they pressed themselves together. Their noses bumped roughly with their need for closeness, their kiss clumsy with passion.

Arthur tugged at the ends of Eames’ hair where it curled against his neck, because he could. He knew Eames would like it. All the things he wanted to do, the ways he wanted to touch Eames and appreciate him, were now available to him. He could stroke his hand across Eames’ stubble and press his knee against Eames’ under the table. He could go beyond holding hands and acting like a couple for their families. 

“Darling,” Eames murmured against Arthur’s lips, pulling back only just so. They breathed in each other’s space, Eames tipping forward so that their foreheads pressed together. 

“Love,” Arthur murmured back, feeling himself blush at the word. 

“I want to fuck you so bad,” Eames murmured, pressing into Arthur’s space, backing him up. He pushed him onto the couch, tipping Arthur back even as his legs hit the base of the couch. 

The two of them fell back onto the couch, Eames’ weight heavy on Arthur’s hips as he leaned into him. They kissed furiously, as if they were making up for lost time through their own passion. Eames kissed like he couldn’t possibly get enough, while Arthur was only trying to get closer and closer, to eliminate any space that could possibly be between them. 

Arthur reached up and tugged at his hair again, liking the way he groaned into the kiss. He was going to like finding out exactly what made Eames tick. He already wanted to do anything, everything, with him, just to figure out what made him feel good. He wanted to map out Eames’ tattoos with his tongue, hold him down and ride him, laugh during sex because he knew Eames eventually would make him. 

They were both achingly hard fast, with their hips sliding together as they writhed on the couch. Eames let his hand slide down Arthur’s hip, hitching his leg up against his body, moaning at the new press of the angle. The weight of Eames on top of him had Arthur gripping him tightly, reaching to tug at his shirt, having a hard time moving any of his bulk. He let his hips thrust up into Eames’ as they tried to get at each other’s shirts, taking them off for more contact. 

“Fuck me,” Arthur murmured, pulling away so that Eames could hear him. 

“I’m trying,” Eames murmured back, grabbing at Arthur’s wrist. He held his hand above his head, pressing in to bite at the junction of Arthur’s neck and his shoulder. 

“Faster,” Arthur said, arching up into him. 

“We have the rest of our lives for that,” Eames said, reaching down between them to unzip Arthur’s pants, grabbing at him. 

He had only stroked him a few times before Arthur was coming between them. Unsurprisingly, Eames came quickly after him, laughing as he tried to angle himself, laying half on top of Arthur on the couch. 

“That was fast,” Arthur said. 

“Again, we have the rest of our lives, darling.”

Chapter Text

Arthur reached over and scrubbed his hand over Eames’ head, messing up his hair. He smiled at the disgruntled look that Eames gave him, his eyes screwing up trying to look at Arthur’s hand. 

“Darling?” Eames asked, both a question and a statement, asking him what the hell he was doing and politely telling him not to continue. 

The thing was, Arthur was doing it because he could. Because he could touch Eames not under the guise of a fake relationship, but instead purely because he could. It was so much different than before, when they were touching because that’s what they did, being intimate because that’s how they operated. 

He could slide his palm against Eames’ and hold his hand, tugging him down the street and laughing and looking at him with love. He could expect Eames to grab at his waist when they were in public together, grabbing at him only to hold him close. They would sit unbearably close together because they could, smile at each other because they could, and generally be disgusting. Because they could. 

“Do you think Mal is going to notice anything different?” Arthur asked, smoothing down Eames’ collar. He kept his eyes focused on Eames’ chest, worrying far too much about the others. He wanted to look up at Eames, to get the reassurance he needed, but he kept his eyes focused down. 

“Nothing has changed,” Eames said, shrugging. He grabbed Arthur’s hands, holding them in his own. “So what we’re in love? We’ve been in love with each other forever, and that’s likely not new to her.”

Arthur tried not to make a face, but he couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose at that. He sort of wanted to be different, to be so in love that they would notice the two of them had become a couple instantaneously. He wanted to be seen, and not in the way that they had been pretending, but in the very real way of letting their close intimate friends know that they were dating. 

“Darling, you know I love you, yes? So listen to me when I say that they will not notice anything different because we are so glaringly obvious,” Eames said, reaching up to gently touch Arthur’s chin, tilting his head up. “And if they aren’t picking up on us being us , then they are unbearably stupid and I doubt we should entertain their company anymore,” Eames said, grinning at him. 

Arthur darted forward and kissed him, unable to stand the fact that they were so far apart. 

His hands squeezed Eames’, the kiss quickly calming him. He could feel his whole body relax at the touch, knowing that they were so close and together and their lives so intertwined. He pulled at Eames, breaking apart from the kiss to lead him further, walking backwards away from Eames’ car and towards the restaurant. 

“I am positively dazzled by you,” Eames murmured, smirking at him in that unbearably smug way. They moved side by side as they walked over to the restaurant, their hands swinging between them. Eames kept stealing glances at Arthur, as if he wouldn’t notice him looking over. 

“You know I feel the same,” Arthur said, feeling a little shy about it. He was not as open with his words as Eames was sometimes. He couldn’t say things like that, and still blushed a little bit at the thought of something so overly dramatic and cute. 

Eames opened the restaurant door for him, leading him inside. 

They spotted the group at the booth in the back, already chatting and talking like they were two drinks in and thoroughly warmed up. They picked their way back to the table, not letting go of each other’s hands until they had to slide into their side of the booth, where Eames promptly wrapped his arm around Arthur’s shoulders, as if he couldn’t bear to be apart. 

Mal’s keen eye glanced between them quickly, ignoring the rest of the conversation between Cobb and Yusef. She squinted at the way that Eames was gently running his thumb over the ball of Arthur’s shoulder, a movement that was so small yet so important to Arthur. 

“You’re late,” Mal said, completely interrupting Yusef and Cobb. She raised an eyebrow, as if waiting for an answer from the two of them. 

“Sorry, we hit traffic on the way here,” Arthur said. 

Which was partially true. When Eames came to pick Arthur up, they ended up having sex on Arthur’s couch, making them leave half an hour later than they intended to. Could that be considered traffic, if it was sort of their fault anyways? Arthur wasn’t going to clarify what traffic meant to Mal. 

“Don’t worry, all we did was get drinks,” Cobb said, lifting his own scotch glass. “When the waiter comes back for food, you can order too.”

Mal continued to look at them skeptically. 

“Same thing as last time?” Eames murmured, ducking his head to whisper into Arthur’s ear. 

“Can we split that sandwich you got instead? I have those cookies at home, and I had lunch with Nash today, remember?” Arthur replied, letting himself be tucked into Eames’ body. He half wished they were at home, where they could at least be naked. 

Mal squinted at the two of them, crossing her arms over her chest. “Are you two,” she said, gesturing between the two of them. “There’s something going on.”

“Are we… ?” Arthur prompted, leaning forward a little bit, tilting his head in question. 

“Dating,” Mal said, pursing her lips. “Partners.”

Eames laughed, tilting his head back. “Darling, are we dating?” Eames asked, squeezing Arthur closer to him. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to the side of Arthur’s head, hiding his laughter into his hair. 

“He clearly thinks that’s hilarious,” Arthur said, letting Eames hide half behind him. He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks as he looked at Mal, trying not to back down from her. 

Cobb looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“Good observation,” Arthur said, shrugging. This had Eames laughing harder behind him, pressing his face into the back of Arthur’s shoulder. He was trying so hard to play it off, but a smile started to creep onto his lips. 

“I don’t get it,” Yusef said, tossing the little umbrella from his drink at the two of them. “Is there some joke that you haven’t made me privy to?”

Eames sat upright, clearing his throat, pressing his lips together to try and hide his laughter. He shook his shoulders, as if trying to shake his amusement off. “Darling, am I just a joke to you?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, deadpan. He smiled at Eames anyways letting himself smile fully. Eames darted forward and kissed him, pressing his lips to Arthur’s quickly. “An absolute clown,” Arthur said, smiling even harder now. 

Mal started clapping, even though that was sort of embarrassing in the bar they were in. She stood, flagging the waiter down. “A round of shots!” she called when she spotted the waiter. 

“Mal!” Cobb said, tugging on her arm, trying to get her to sit back down. She was a little bit of a mess, far too excited to be out and about after having her baby. If she was allowed, she probably would have pulled out a cigarette and sparked up in the restaurant. 

“I still don’t get it,” Yusef said, half shrugging. He looked between the two of them for a moment, eyes widening. “Wait, that’s what that whole phone call thing was about?”

Eames laughed, pulling Arthur to him, looking into his eyes. He was so happy, the little crinkle beside his eye a true testament to his joy and the realness of his smile. He tipped his forehead against Arthur’s, the two of them in their own world entirely. “I love you,” he murmured. 

“We’re being incredibly rude in front of our friends,” Arthur said in response. He smiled anyway. 

“I’m already rude in front of them,” Eames said. He kissed Arthur one more time before pulling back, letting his attention be pulled to the group rather than to Arthur. He kept him close, as if leaving him out of his reach would somehow have Arthur running away and disappearing. 

Arthur traced a heart on Eames’ knee under the table, letting his fingers linger on his leg for a moment. It was his quiet way of saying “ I love you too .”