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It’s late November in Japan, and Saito is holding a semi-formal soiree at his manor house. There are several hundred people spread out around the estate mingling and eating caviar, and Saito had graciously invited the team members involved in the inception job (“I understand there is a lot of work involved... I would like to offer you a chance to relax,” he’d said). Cobb had tried to refuse, citing something about not fraternizing with clients, but Ariadne had been ecstatic about the prospect of wearing a kimono and drinking sake all night, so they’d all agreed to go.
Arthur had removed himself from the buzz of the crowd and had found a quiet study full of things he’s only ever seen in museums before. He presently meanders around the room, transfixed by the things Saito spends his money on in private.
His gaze wanders over the shelves and he lets his thumb slide across the spines of all these old books. He knows he should be out in the main hall socializing, but he’d kill to spend a day in one of Saito’s libraries -- to pick through the obscure Japanese literature and appreciate the hundreds of small sculptures littered through the shelves.
Arthur’s so busy looking at an old edition of Don Quixote that he doesn’t hear Eames come up behind him until he feels hot breath on his ear. He quickly returns the book to its place and turns, narrowing his eyes when he sees who’s joined him.
“Arthur,” Eames says, and makes a tsk noise with his tongue. “Such ingratitude.”
Arthur scowls.
“I wasn’t stealing anything,” he counters, but Eames is already distracted by a large leather chair with great metal studs across the top, so he lets it go. He’s about to leave and get back to the party when Eames gasps softly behind him. He’s running his hands over an ornate chess board, pieces carved from rich, dark bud rosewood. Arthur has to admit it’s nice.
“This takes me right back,” Eames says, almost fondly, and Arthur rolls his eyes.
“To the misspent days of your youth, stealing heirlooms for fun and profit?”
It’s Eames’s turn to narrow his eyes, but there’s a sparkle behind them.
“I’ll have you know I was on the chess team as a lad. Could beat anyone under the table, too.”
“Yeah, right--”
“I could beat you.”
Arthur scoffs but Eames is staring at him, deadly serious.
“Is this a dream?” Arthur asks facetiously. “Because I could swear I just heard you challenge me to a game you have no chance of winning.”
Eames grins and pulls up the leather chair he was eyeing earlier. “So you’ll play.”
Arthur does not want this to be happening... He shouldn’t even be in here, much less touching Saito’s artifacts -- but this is Eames and Eames just challenged him to chess, and there’s no way Arthur’s letting a win this easy pass him by. He has a chess app on his phone and frequently plays against the hardest difficulty -- he’s totally got this. He drags an antique ottoman next to the chess board and sits down facing Eames.
It’s on.
The game begins slowly; they both move pawns forward, and Arthur is already planning out his strategy -- he’s going to take down some pawns to simplify the board then try to box in Eames’s queen with his remaining pieces. He’s caught up in his own thoughts and perhaps misses several wicked looks Eames shoots his way.
When Arthur moves a pawn from B5 to knock over Eames’s own pawn at A4, he’s not expecting Eames to seem genuinely happy about it. He’s expecting Eames to undo and discard his own tie even less, but there it is.
“What are you doing?” Arthur asks, but reaches up to loosen his own tie (it’s the middle of winter and Saito’s manor is very well-heated).
Eames looks at Arthur like he’s missed the joke.
“This is strip chess,” he says, without a hint of jest. “Did I forget to tell you? So sorry.”
Arthur stares.
“This is ridiculous,” he says, but doesn’t make any move to get up and leave. If he leaves (especially now that Eames has revealed the real game), he will lose, and Arthur’s not prepared for that.
Eames just smiles and moves his knight to H3.
The game continues, but the pace picks up. Arthur has knocked over two more white pawns and one of Eames’s rooks, and he feels confident about where the game is headed. Eames has stripped off his own dinner jacket, both shoes, and one sock, and when he knocks over one of Arthur’s pawns, Arthur reluctantly removes his tie (he tells himself it won’t get much farther than this anyway, and besides, the lack of tie allows for better airflow to his brain... or something).
When Arthur takes one of Eames’s knights and another pawn, he starts to wonder if Eames is letting him win in order to get naked. Eames unbuttons and discards his shirt and Arthur pretends he’s not staring at the way the low light in the room makes Eames’s bare chest look soft and warm. Arthur licks his lips and reaches to loosen his tie but clutches at his empty collar, so he undoes one button instead.
Eames smiles slowly and peers up at Arthur from under his eyelashes, then knocks over one of Arthur’s bishops. Shit -- Arthur’s losing focus -- he could have avoided that but he’s distracted by Eames’s arm as he reaches across the board, dark tattoos a stark contrast against his tanned skin. He shrugs off his jacket and Eames smiles at him again. Arthur keeps his face carefully passive, but he can feel his ears turning pink.
“This is ridiculous,” he says again, and moves his surviving bishop to E5. He almost doesn’t want to capture anymore of Eames’s pieces -- he’s down to just his pants and one sock, and Arthur’s not sure if winning at chess will also include winning at not being naked in a secluded room with Eames. It doesn’t help that Eames seems to have picked up his game more and more with each passing move -- Arthur’s losing pieces left and right, and carefully removing clothing as time goes by. He’s not overly modest, necessarily, but he is undoubtedly aroused (and unbelievably annoyed by that fact), and Eames doesn’t need anymore fodder to irritate him with at work.
Eames takes one of Arthur’s pieces almost every move now, and Arthur dutifully discards both shoes, a waistcoat, a dark green jumper, a dress shirt, and an undershirt.
“Christ, how many bloody layers have you got on?” Eames asks at one point, incredulous, disturbed, and frustrated all at once.
“More than enough to beat you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur shoots back, but he’s naked from the waist up now, and he can feel sweat beading at the base of his neck. He’s not sure how convincing he sounds.
Eames loses a knight and stands up to drop his pants. Arthur is going to murder whoever made Eames’s boxer-briefs, because they fit far too well and that is not helping his current situation in the least. When Eames sits back down again, Arthur could swear he’s a foot or two closer, but he doesn’t remember the chair being moved. He must be insane (he must be -- why else would this be happening to him?).
He’s almost completely lost his concentration now, and it doesn’t even really matter because it’s clear Eames is going to win the chess game. Arthur’s original strategy had faltered as soon as Eames’s shirt had come off, and now it seems he’s the one being boxed in -- Eames is sidling closer and closer every time he thinks Arthur’s isn’t looking. Arthur is looking, though; he’s practically ogling. He’s seen Eames without a shirt on before (the man practically repels clothing. He always seems like he could be naked at any second, even if he’s fully clothed), but never this close, and never this hot. Arthur will be sure to tell Saito about all the money he could be saving by lowering his heating bill in the winter -- there’s no reason for it to be this warm.
Eames reaches slowly across the board -- far slower than he needs to -- and moves a pawn to C6 to knock out Arthur’s last rook. He’s got a filthy smile on his face and Arthur feels like his heart is going to punch a hole in his chest at any second. He can’t speak around the lump that’s formed in his throat, but it doesn’t matter because he can’t think of any words anyway. He undoes his belt and pushes his pants down to his ankles quickly, ducking to hide the full-body flush that’s threatening to appear, then reaches out and moves a random chess piece to F4. He doesn’t even know if it’s a legal move, but his brain is going to explode if he doesn’t get out of this mess soon.
He looks up when there’s a firm hand on his knee and Eames is right there on his knees in front of Arthur, sliding his fingers up the side of Arthur’s leg and licking his lips in the most sinful way, and Arthur can’t look away.
“Checkmate...” Eames says, voice low and rough and Arthur has never heard him sound like this. It’s ridiculous. He’s going to go home and masturbate for hours and it’s all Eames’s fault. Eames flicks over Arthur’s king then leans in to kiss his chest lightly as his hand dips up under Arthur’s briefs and gropes at his ass. The ottoman is in the way, so Arthur sinks to his knees on the floor in front of Eames, and gets stubble scratching up his chest the whole way down.
“Eames...” Arthur whispers, but Eames silences him with his mouth. Eames kisses desperately, like he could be in fatal danger at any moment and needs to make the best of every touch and breath and lick. Arthur’s going to burst into flames any second, his skin is so hot.
Naturally, because the world hates Arthur, Cobb chooses that moment to bust into the room without knocking. It takes him half a second to notice Eames and Arthur on the floor, both naked besides underwear (and one of Arthur’s socks), Eames groping Arthur’s ass with one hand down his briefs, and Arthur sucking on Eames’s neck like his life depends on it.
Cobb drops his coffee. The china mug clatters but lands on the rug and is unharmed, but the coffee spills everywhere, including all over Cobb’s shoes.
Arthur jerks away from Eames like he’s been burned, then thinks better of it and leans back to grab the pile of his clothes from the floor beside the chess board and holds them in front of himself. He’s a rather unattractive shade of crimson, and Eames is looking pretty pink, himself. Cobb stares mutely for a few minutes, gaze shifting to the recently used chess board to his naked colleagues, then he picks up his coffee mug and leaves the room without a word.
Eames snickers but Arthur is horrified and wastes no time pulling on his clothes. He’s going to murder everyone, starting with himself, but first he’s going to escape this soiree gracefully then go back to his hotel room so he can release this ridiculous tension Eames has caused. Then he’ll deal with explaining this away to Cobb.
“I’m in room 427,” Eames says then, softly, and Arthur glances down at him, still sprawled on the floor with no clothes on. Arthur hesitates, then picks up his black king from the board and drops it on Eames’s chest.
“Looks like our game is still on,” he says with a sly smirk, and leaves Eames alone in the dark study.