Chapter Text
By the time Arthur is twenty-six, he has amassed a respectably - no, alarmingly large fortune.
He likes to think that his story is a fairly simple one - cruising through through primary school, skipping high school in favor of CalTech, dropping out when he realized he could teach himself the courses faster than the professor could, and setting about to make the most amount of money with the least amount of effort. The method of which just happened to be utterly illegal. But hey, money is money. Now there’s just one problem to left to solve - what to do with it. He’s figured out that he wants to stay in London for now, which rules out things like private islands and Scottish castles, but he hasn’t gotten much further than that. He’s tried the sprawling mansion, the upscale penthouse, and just flat-out living in hotels for weeks on end. The mansion brought back memories, the penthouse was too large, and the hotels were too crowded.
For a man with more money than most drug lords, he is definitely having a hard time finding a place to live.
All until one day, when he’s got his single suitcase in hand, pushing through the rotating door of yet another hotel. He glances over and sees the luggage carts - great brass-and-velvet contraptions with arching arms, loaded to the top with suitcases. A woman in a mink coat is arguing with some unfortunate lobby boy in front of one. She stabs a pastel-yellow nail at her lurid monster of a suitcase, and then turns back to the boy, mouth flapping. Arthur looks down as his own suitcase, then back at the cart, and stops dead in his tracks, in the middle of the marble lobby floor. He looks at the luggage cart, stacked high with bags. He looks back at his own suitcase.
That’s it. He doesn’t need a house, or a castle. He just wants something like a permanent hotel room - a bed and a bathroom he can call his own. A… a flat. A smile begins to break out across his face, and the next thing he knows, he’s striding right back out of the rotating doors and pulling out his mobile to search for the nearest flats.
Arthur’s amazed that the idea didn’t strike him sooner. Flats just seemed so... pedestrian. Now that he thinks of it, though, it's the perfect idea. He doesn’t make a habit of holding onto possessions. All he really has is a suit, two pairs of shoes, two pairs of sweats, a handful of socks and underwear, a few toiletries, and his computer. Everything else he needs is in his head, and he takes pride in that. He doesn’t mind sharing a space, either. After all, he is living on borrowed time. It would be good to live somewhere that someone was already occupying. That meant he wouldn’t have to fill an empty house with possessions. Possessions meant attachments.
Attachments - well, those come with all kinds of messy complications that Arthur is entirely happy to avoid.
A few hours later, Arthur is sitting across from a flat manager, trying to make his request understood.
“I’m sorry, but you said you want one - one room?”
The poor man looks baffled, and his eyes keep sweeping over the perfectly pressed collar of Arthur’s Westwood as if trying to corroborate visual evidence with the testimony.
“Yes,” Arthur replies patiently. “Just a room and a bathroom. Sharing is fine, and the price isn’t a problem, but I do expect it to be reasonable."
The manager struggles to comprehend his odd request for just a moment more before composing himself. He coughs. “I think I can arrange that for you. We’ve recently had a new opening for a flatmate. It’s a lovely two-bedroom flat, one full bath, and right by Chadwell Heath Station. It’ll be nine hundred pounds a month, for your half of the rent. The man living there right now is quite a friendly fellow. He wouldn't be a problem at all. He has got late hours though. Would you like to meet him, sir?”
Arthur isn’t fooled - he’s done his research and knows that this is a good thirty-eight percent higher than it ought to be for the area. He can hardly blame the manager for taking advantage of an opportunity, though, and it hardly makes a difference to him. He simply gives a curt nod. “Of course.”
It turns out Arthur’s potential future flatmate, a man by the name of Richard Harding, isn’t going to be home until four in the morning. The manager, of course, assumes that he would rather wait until tomorrow to meet Mr. Harding, but Arthur says that four am is perfectly fine. The manager looks a little disconcerted, but he clearly remembers the handsome rent he’ll be getting out of Arthur, and agrees easily. He pulls out a notepad and scrawls down an address.
“Alright. 202C, Warrington Road, Dagenham. I’ll be there at four to introduce you to Mr. Harding and answer any questions.”
Arthur takes the paper. “Excellent. I will see you there, then.”
He brings his messenger, but leave his suitcase, and hails a cab, intending to wander about for the rest of the day.
As the cab speeds off, Arthur watches the streets zoom by through the window like a child. It never bores him, London. The reason Arthur loves it is that it’s an algorithm in itself. Between the constant flow of people and automobiles, the unevenly drawn streets, and the barrage of sounds and sights coming from every which way, the city is thriving with data that eddies and drips into its every crevasse.
Ever since he first saw pictures of London as a child, Arthur has been enthralled by the city. In real life, it did not disappoint. He’s been to New York, to Tokyo, to the big names and small ones alike, but London draws him back every time.
It’s fascinating to Arthur, to try and understand the inner workings of the city. Everything that happens has a reason for happening, and he can’t help but to be enthralled by the strings of data that stretch between everything he can see and hear. His area of expertise is computers and code, not cities and people, but sometimes he thinks they’re not very different at all.
Moseying down South Bank, he catches sight of a theatre. A steady stream of people are flowing into the doors. He finds a man looking just the right kind of suspicious, exchanges a few words, and a handful of notes later, he’s swindled his way into a ticket and is easing down the aisle. A few rows down, he catches sight of a girl with wavy chestnut hair and a lacy grey top, with an open seat to her left. He would guess that she’s saving the seat for someone, but her fixed stare on the program, slightly leftwards lean away from the man on right, and closed-off posture suggests that she is here alone. He slides his way past a couple of knees to the seat and pauses politely.
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
She looks up from her program too quickly to have been reading it. She’s pretty, in a fox-like way, with wide-set amber eyes and a little upturned nose. She smiles a little hesitantly before shaking her head.
He slides into the seat with a charming smile, and then offers his hand. “Michael.”
She take his hand with a smile. “Christina.”
The next two hours pass in dimly-lit, pleasantly boring conversation. Miss Christina is a nice distraction. She asks if he’s from Manchester, probably trying to be clever by analyzing his accent. He’s a little disappointed that she didn’t pick up on the Liverpool he was really going for, but says yes anyway. It turns out she’s a travel agent, who helps out the hordes of tourists that stream towards the city in summer months. She loves how fascinated they are with everything they see, and it just reignites her passion for the city every time. Her workload is significantly lightened now, as it’s September, and they’ve all gone home, and if he doesn’t mind, what does he do? He says something like banking, and invents a few stories about his job to entertain her. It entertains him, though, how she tries to be a charmer, and just barely manages. Between the girl and the show, it’s enough to occupy his time
As they’re exiting, he makes no move to extend their time together, and he can sense her dismay. He’s amused when she blurts out at the last second, “If you haven’t got plans for the evening… would you like to grab a drink?”
Arthur looks at her for a moment. Of course she would be the earnest type. “No, thank you,” he says without a hint of apology. Just as her face falls in ill-disguised disappointment, he turns on his heel and vanishes into the crowd.
That’s another reason he likes the city. So many people to play with, so many lives to look into. It’s a buffet of humanity, and Arthur has a healthy appetite.
It’s nearing dark, and the cold is starting to set in. He still has two hours until the flat appointment, so he decides on one of his favorite bars, Jules and Jaccarino. It attracts all types, especially with its Tuesday night specials, and a relaxed atmosphere that belies the artistry that the drinks are made with. Jules is in that perfect niche that isn’t below the upper-class of London, but isn’t too far above any plebeian looking for a good night out. Arthur doesn’t come here enough to be counted a regular, but when he does, he knows what to expect.
He orders the first drink he sees. It doesn’t matter. He finds a stool at the end of the granite counter, and spends the next hour or so ignoring it. By 10 pm, the bar is pretty packed for a weekday. The din of conversation and clinking glasses fills up the room, the golden lamplight reflecting off the granite. He watches the couple who are clearly not having a good date, and the silent man in the fedora who orders a steady stream of vodka. He watches the bartenders tend to them all.
At some point, when he’s maybe two-thirds finished with his drink (alcohol doesn’t do Arthur any good, and he doesn’t fancy getting into the habit of it), he notices that the bartender has filled the the fedora man’s shot glass with something that definitely didn't come from the U’luvka decanter. Incredibly, the patron doesn’t seem to care, or even notice. He just tosses it back and swallows with a blank stare. Arthur inwardly raises an eyebrow.
The next time the bartender passes the counter in front of him, Arthur murmurs, “It’s a shame you switched out the vodka.” The man pauses, and then turns to look at him.
“Why?”
“I was wondering how much he could have before he passed out.”
The bartender laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I wouldn’t be able to tell you, but he’s had the most I’ve ever seen. I’m fairly sure I could get convicted of manslaughter if I gave him another." He leans a little on the counter between them, with his very nice arms propped up casually by the elbows. The top three unbuttoned buttons of his shirt pull slightly. "As long as he keeps paying the same rate for water as vodka, I’ll stick to it.”
Arthur smiles a bit as he leans back. "Sly.
The bartender chuckles, "Or perhaps I'm not interesting in finding a man on the floor of my bar. Dead, that is."
Arthur smiles, acutely aware that he’s just bordering on genuine. “Good reason.”
The bartender laughs. "I'm Eames,” he says. “You?”
"Arthur."
Fuck. It just slips out.
The bartender nods, his eyes practically navy in the warm light. "Enjoy your drink, Arthur," and glides to the next customer.
Arthur regards his two-thirds drained glass and imagines the 20.6 grams of alcohol coursing through his bloodstream. Damn him and his pathetic tolerance. He entirely understands the science of it - his genetics, his body mass index, his exceptionally slow rate of alcohol metabolism, but in the end, the fact that he’s a complete lightweight still gets on his nerves.
Arthur doesn’t like being drunk. He doesn’t really do drunk. Especially public drunkenness. He supposes that he could always buy a bucket of wine and get blackout drunk in a hotel room.
However, the last time he did that, he’d blackout-coded a virus that had replaced the presidential portraits on the government websites of sixteen countries with the singing face of Rick Astley. Now that had been a good one.
Of course, he’d fixed it a few days later, when he got tired of the news coverage. Moral of the story: he may like messing with people, but he wasn’t twelve anymore.
Arthur sighed. No getting drunk, and no getting laid. It must be a complete disgrace to the long and illustrious history of bar goers. Logically, Arthur knows he could buy his own damn bar and an eight-story apartment complex with a side of fifty escorts and be done with it. He immediately dismisses the notion, though. Arthur can essentially have whatever he wants, so he doesn’t feel the need to figure out exactly why he doesn’t want to do something.
He just doesn’t do it.
Plus, games are only games if you play by some of the rules, and the “posh Londoner businessman” look doesn’t really include “buy an eight-story apartment complex” in the instructions. That would just be overkill.
Arthur ignores the bartender and his navy eyes and dirty-blond scruff and definitely does not consider ordering a vodka for the hell of it.
Instead, Arthur watches the fedora man for the rest of the night. He’s really the only (other) interesting person in the place, parked alone in a leather armchair. Arthur’s morbidly fascinated by how the man has managed to down near twenty drinks, despite the latter few being sparkling water, and not so much as glance towards the bathroom.
A few girls try to talk to Fedora Man, but his sparse responses leave them scurrying. Some time later, the man’s mobile goes off. He pulls it out with a scowl, but when he flicks it open, a surprising softness settles across his features.
He stands, immaculately cut suit drawing more than a few glances. Then, he carelessly drops a few bills on the table before pocketing his phone and slipping out the door.
Arthur watches him go. Apparently, his disappointment in the only interesting person leaving the bar apparently shows on his face.
“It’s a shame.”
From behind him, the blond bartender is leaning into the counter with a knowing smile.
Arthur schools his expression into stoicism. He doesn’t have a problem with it, certainly, but that’s not what he’s looking for tonight. He has an appointment, and as entertaining as the thought might be, showing up wrapped around an unsuspecting bartender might not exactly hit it off with his new flatmate.
“Why so?” he asks coolly.
“You’re not the only one I’ve had to inform tonight that Mister Alec is taken.”
“As am I,” he replies before he can consider it.
He can’t think of a better way to discourage him for further flirting, though, so it may just be for the best.
The man doesn’t seem fazed at all, so Arthur tacks on, “You know him?
He is curious, after all.
The bartender shrugs. “He stops by every so often,” he says. “I would have probably forgotten about him if he didn’t manage to set records every time he does.”
Arthur allows himself a small chuckle. From across the bar, another bartender calls, “Eames, Cosmo!”
The bartender-Eames turns around and gives the girl a nod. “On it, Ari.”
He sets about making the drink, practiced hands dispensing ice and vodka and triple sec.
“So,” he says, as he swiftly pours a measure of liquor into the mixer, “I’ve been meaning to ask, why do you only have one drink whenever you visit?”
Arthur is surprised that Eames remembers him. He’s quite sure the last time he visited the bar was at least three weeks ago. “One is enough. I don’t fancy the intoxication or the hangover,” he says, meeting Eames’s eyes for a moment before Eames looks back down towards the mixer.
Eames screws the lid back on and nods as he begins to vigorously shake the cylinder. “I can’t argue with that,” he says affably.
Arthur does not get entranced by his biceps as his arms pump up and down. Really, he doesn’t. He is simply appreciating them;, but there’s only so much one can appreciate before it gets obvious.
Instead, they both end up spending a silent twenty seconds watching the shaker. Arthur isn’t exactly fascinated by the metal object, and Eames is perfectly capable of holding onto it without watching it, but there’s really nowhere else for them to put their eyes at this point.
Eventually, though, Eames stops shaking and unscrews the lid and continues to assemble the drink with military efficiency. By the time he’s garnishing the glass with a twist of orange, Arthur is fairly sure he’s memorized the grooves in his fingernails. The odd thing is, while the silence would be painfully awkward in any other situation, it’s not here. Here, it’s just Eames making a cocktail and Arthur watching him make it.
Eames doesn’t try to prod Arthur for any more information, and seems utterly content at his job. Arthur doesn’t see that very often, not in London. The tourists are faking it, the businessmen are faking it, hell, the natives are faking it. Eames is so calm, so relaxed, that Arthur can’t help but respect that just a little.
When he’s done, it seems only natural for Eames to look up at him, smile, and say, “Enjoy the rest of your drink,” before sweeping off to slide the drink over to his patron on the other side of the island. There, Eames leans forward on his elbows, and presumably engages the other patron. Arthur can see the crinkle of his eyes and lift of his grin from the side of his face as he speaks. He’s a professional.
Arthur goes back to his drink.
Eames
Eames likes to think of himself as a damn good expert in people; working as a bartender for the nine years tends to do that to a person. He can synthesize a picture of people based off how frequently they visit, how long they stay, what they order, and of course, what they say. A bar is a perfect exhibit of people from all walks of life, and Eames is happy to cater to them.
He practically owns Jules and Jaccarino. Technically, Saito owns it, but then again, Saito owns half the establishments in London. Eames doubts Saito knows shit about barkeeping, but he’s hired just the right subordinates to do that for him. After all, Saito seemed to have figured out early on that Eames had a keen eye for people.
As a kid, Eames had come with his mum to work after school. While she waitressed, he would hide in the storeroom, reading books. Sometimes, the nicer bartenders would let him fetch a bottle from a low shelf for them. He remembers doing that job with the utmost pride. After a while, he’d started memorizing the names and locations of each bottle in the storeroom, as well as the number in stock. The bar manager had been delighted and amused to have the small boy totter up to him at the end of each day to report what they were running low on.
Once he hit secondary school, his mum switched to Saito’s restaurant next door. With his mother out of sight, he started to illegally work more shifts. Eames had picked up the habit of quietly predicting what each customer would order and how much they would tip with uncanny accuracy. Someone must have told Saito, though.
One Wednesday night, he had been called out to talk to the Boss. Teenaged Eames had been scared shitless. It was to his great surprise that instead of kicking him out, Saito had handed him his card and told him to go home.
“Your mother is being taken care of at the steakhouse. She will not be needing your contributions. Do not come on weekdays anymore. Your job is to finish school now. If you’re still interested after you’re done, give me a call and perhaps we can find a place for you here.”
Sure enough, Eames found himself working full-time at Jules three years later. In addition to bartending, Eames runs interviews and “audition” shifts. He reports back to Saito on who was good or not, and Saito signs his checks. It’s a good arrangement.
He supposes that his ability to read people didn’t exactly help on the real life relationship front, though. He had thought that Nash was right for him. They had been living together for seven months already when he came home early from work and found Nash and some faceless girl shagging on the sofa.
The worst part was, he was prepared to forgive him if he had just asked. It didn’t bother him that Nash was bi. Hell, he would have happily joined in if Nash had said the word. But instead, Nash had froze, looking guilty, and then irritated. He'd snarled at Eames to get the hell out.
When he had come back several hours later, he found Nash packing his things. He had tried to reason with him, tried to tell him that things could still be okay, that he didn’t mind. Nash had just shook his head. He’d had enough of Eames, he’d said, and then he was gone. Just like that.
That night, he’d downed six shots of vodka, went to sleep, and just like that, it was all over all too soon. Another lover, another failure, another hairline fracture in his heart.
As he always did, Eames found himself moving on. He still felt that sour strain inside sometimes when he saw other couples together, or when he mindlessly flirted with a stranger, but he didn’t dwell on it. After all, as a bartender, Eames was no stranger to heartbreak, both that of his own and that of others.
Sometimes, though, he wondered if there was some sort of limit to the getting-over one could do before giving up.
The moment the suited man walked into his bar, Eames had him pegged as the repressed-businessman type. The spiffy suit, leather messenger, and perfect posture practically screamed it. He had been pleasantly surprised, though. The man ordered the first thing that he’d recommended, sipped it without complaint, and proceeded to occupy the corner stool for the next two hours. Besides the whole one-drink part, it was a nice change of scenery.
Suited men like him were akin to potted ferns. Silent and unmoving, but an improvement to the atmosphere nevertheless.
The man was pleasant at first, even cracking a few jokes. Eames had tried to get him to loosen up and perhaps order another drink or two, but he seemed set on his single drink. Then Eames had gone for a little flirting (he’d have to be blind to miss that lingering look) and he’d clammed up, though. Odd, but for all Eames knew, he could be a closeted bigot. So, he'd gently backed off and all was well.
As the night goes, Eames feels the comfortable routine of mixing and chatting begin to soothe his rattled nerves. He hadn’t felt prepared to go to work today, especially since it was special night Tuesday, but he hadn’t had the heart to call up Yusuf to sub for him again, as it was finals week at Imperial College. But now, he was realizing that it had probably been a good idea to come to the bar.
Back in the storeroom, when he's fetching a gin, Ariadne slips in and puts a hand on his shoulder.
"You okay?” she murmurs with concern.
He gives her a smile. “I think so. You know how it is with breakups. I’ll be fine.”
“Well,” she says, “if you ever need anything, you know I’m here for you, right? Movie night, life counseling, lunch, a quick shag...”
Eames fakes a scandalized gasp. “How could you betray Yusuf like that?”
She broke her serious countenance with a laugh. It really wasn’t as bad as it seemed, though, considering they had met on Tinder with some very memorable first words. Hooking up had been a running joke between the two of them ever since they had met and become good friends.
She sobers after a moment. “You know though, right? Breakups can be tough, and Yusuf and I really want you to be okay. Please just tell me if you want help with anything, alright?”
Eames smiled at this. “Of course. You’re the best, Ari.”
And with that, she gave him a slap on the back and left. When he emerged from the storeroom with the gin, it really did feel like everything would be okay again.
It turns out to be a pretty good night. A crowd of his regulars turn up, he hopefully prevents Alec from getting his stomach pumped, and rakes in a healthy earning for a Tuesday night. Which, he thinks gloomily, will be very helpful in paying rent now that Nash is gone.
By the end of the night, he’s ready for some rest. Bartending might be invigorating, but it’s certainly not a restful job either. He’s ready for a very late dinner (he despises eating at work, so he’s feeling a little weak by now). At 2:30 am, he gently shoos out the remaining patrons and cleans up the bar. At 4:02, he’s walking up the curb outside his flat. At 4:04, he’s unlocking his front door to his distinctly not-empty flat.
He’s about to turn around and check if he opened the right door when-
“Eames!” cries the manager, surging forward to slap his back jovially. Oh no, Eames can’t help but think foggily. This must be something about the rent. Shit, it isn’t due today, is it?
That is, until he registers the suited person standing behind the manager. Upon looking again, Eames discovers that he is suit-man. Suit-man. One-drink-suit-man is in his flat.
He inwardly sighs. Just his luck. He does try to keep business and personal life separate, but it’s not like very easy when his job is to know people, many of whom proposition him while he’s at work. A privilege he had been considering taking regular advantage of, until...
The man looks entirely unruffled. Dammit, there was one thing that Eames was looking forward to doing with Nash gone, and hardly a week had passed before his chance was destroyed. True, he could just go back to someone else’s place, but really, he deserved at least one sex marathon night in his own flat.
“Mr. Harding, this is-”
“Michael. Michael Stroud,” suit-man says pleasantly, stepping forwards to offer his hand.
“Eames Harding,” Eames says as he bemusedly shakes it. Perhaps suit-man’s single martini is starting to kick in, three hours later, because this is not the curt man that that Eames had served this night. He’s fairly sure he wasn’t called Michael, either.
“Yes,” the manager interjects cheerily. “If you haven’t any trouble with it, he’ll be your new flatmate. Is that alright with you?”
Eames would usually grin charmingly, make a witty comment about so-long-as-he-likes-80s-rock, and agree to sign the contract he can see in the manager’s hands. But Eames is really just so tired, and so tired of ass-kissing all night, that what ineloquently falls out of his mouth instead is, “Er.”
This seems to worry the manager, because it’s not like Eames at all to hesitate. Eames has gone through nearly a dozen flatmates over the past few years, and hasn’t once turned one down (except for the one who had the positively awful body odor).
“Mr. Stroud’s a fine gentleman,” the manager rushes to add, “I’m sure the two of you will get on like a house on fire, and-”
“Of course, of course. Just hand over the contract already.” Eames sighs.
Arthur smiles charismatically. “I wouldn’t want to keep you up any later.”
Eames hasn’t even got the energy to wonder why the man’s up for this at four in the morning. He just scrawls his signature on the contract, and hands it back to the manager. He’s so tired at this point he wouldn’t care if Arthur - or Michael - were a mass-murderer. All he wants is for the night to be over, and it somehow doesn’t even cross his mind that a faster way to get rid of them both would be to say no.
The manager is delighted, and in just a few minutes, the contract is signed and set. He pats Eames on the back, shakes Ar-Mi-dammit, suit-man’s hand, and promptly trundles out the front door with the promise of getting his luggage over from the rent office in a few minutes.
Eames turns back to Michael, unsure of how to behave. He’s always lighthearted and smooth around his customers, and Michael is one of his customers, but he’s also his bloody flatmate now, and he doesn’t really know what to do about it and dear god he needs to get a grip and just pull through tonight.
He says, “Uh, I’ll show you your room, if you’d like,” (of course he’d like to see his goddamn room, you idiot) and turns to walk down the hall. Michael follows him with a murmur of thanks.
Eames flicks the light on as Michael emerges into the room behind him. The spare room hasn’t been touched in months, and Eames thinks that Michael can probably tell. There’s just a bare mattress, (thankfully intact) grey-striped wallpaper, a rickety desk, a couple of wall sconces, and a powdery layer of dust over it all. Michael looks oddly pleased with it, though, so Eames won’t complain.
“So, that’s it. All yours. Uh, I’m sorry, there’s only one bathroom, it’s right down the hall, first door on the left.”
“Lovely,” Michael says. “Thank you.” He makes to set down his messenger on the bed.
Eames is saved from the impending awkwardness (he should know how to deal with awkwardness after a lifetime of bartending, but apparently a 20-hour workday gets rid of all that) when there’s a knock on the door. The manager is back.
“Your luggage,” he says, handing a modest suitcase to Michael. He pauses in the doorway, looks them both up and down as if checking that they haven’t gotten in to a fistfight in their first few minutes together. Finding them unscathed and in one piece, he sunnily bids them goodnight.
Eames doesn’t get the chance to say goodbye though. He’s just grappling with the fact that he is in his flat alone with his new flatmate, Michael, who has one single fucking suitcase, who is apparently intending to move in right here and now, who is also Arthur, who is fucking suit-man from the bar. Who has taken off down the hallway with one single suitcase in hand.
Eames doesn’t know how much stranger tonight can get.
He sighs, and follows him down the hall.
Eames is incredibly relieved to find that he does indeed have a clean set of sheets in the spare room’s closet. He also digs out a reasonably clean pillow with a pillowcase because apparently Arthur doesn’t pack his one singular suitcase with pillows either. He’s trying to feel at least a bit irritated at this man for barging into his life at four in the morning, but he’s simply too mystified and exhausted to. Arthur is painfully pleasant, smiling and saying thank you. Eames almost wishes that he was the curt, dry Arthur he was at the bar, because this Michael honestly unnerves him more. At last, Michael kindly assures Eames that everything is wonderful, and Eames edges away with forced nonchalance.
Dear god, this is embarrassing.
He goes to the bathroom and makes quick work of washing up, just in case Michael will need it soon. As he brushes, he lets his thoughts wander in the comfortable ambient noise. That guest room has housed a lot of people, he thinks. It’s been the rich American university student’s room, the sickly accountant’s room, the well-dressed druggie’s room, and now it’s Michael’s room.
Michael, whose Jekyll-and-Hyde personality Eames thinks he might just be imagining, and his one and only suitcase that has to be filled with either diamonds or cocaine for this to make any sense. It’s just another flatmate, another person, he thinks tiredly. It’ll be fine.
Eames’s business isn’t to worry about people. It’s to make them drinks, listen to their stories, and get their tips. To occasionally live with them and even more rarely, love them. Arthur is a just person, so it’ll be okay, like it always has been. This is nothing new, he thinks. People are his business, his very area of expertise.
Before he goes to bed, he sets his phone alarm for eight in the morning so he can properly introduce himself to Michael the next day. He can imagine it already.“Hi, Michael. My name is Eames, but you probably learned that last night at the bar when I was hitting on you harder than a teenage boy at summer camp. I’m your new nocturnal flatmate. I probably earn less in a month than you spend on tie clips. Please keep your pet tigers on a leash in the house.”
When his head hits his pillow, he blacks out almost immediately. That night, he falls asleep to his mantra of I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine, running through his head, except this time, right before he drifts off, his brain quietly adds, he will be fine.