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Arthur imagines that being the substitute for your best friend's dead wife is a lot easier when you don't know about it. But then, Arthur's self-awareness has always been as much a curse as a blessing.
So here he is, with Cobb's fingers burning a brand on his hips, Cobb's teeth nibbling at his neck, Cobb's cock pressing against his own. They're on the floor of the hotel, too hyped up on another impossible extraction successfully completed to make it to the bed. Arthur reaches up, goes to pet Cobb's hair and stops mid-way, realising that that is one of those things that he mustn't do, and settles on scratching his nails down Cobb's shoulder blades instead. Cobb winces but Arthur suddenly doesn't care.
Instead he thrusts up and Cobb moves with him and they twist and spar and the carpet rubs against Arthur's back and he knows he'll regret not making it to the bed but all that matters is finally, finally, Cobb is sinking into him and the burn is just the right amount of pain and pleasure that it doesn't take either of them long to get off, to roll away from each other and stare up at the ceiling, shy with each other in a way they never were when Mal was alive.
“I thought we weren't doing that again,” Arthur says after a moment. He knows he shouldn't, but he's the Point Man, and pointing out the things Cobb shouldn't be doing has become second nature.
Cobb's whole body twitches. “Are you complaining?”
Arthur looks over at him, surprised by the coldness in Cobb's voice. “We're both consenting adults,” he says, as neutrally as he can, though he thinks it's the things that are not being said that Cobb responds to.
“Yeah. We are.”
Cobb gets up and heads to the mini-bar, not bothering to put on any clothes. And god help him, but Arthur lays there with his hands behind his head and admires the view.
Cobb turns back, a sly smile on his face as he starts mixing drinks. Arthur takes it in. It isn't often that he gets to see the playful side of Cobb, not anymore, and he isn't about to do anything to break the mood.
There are many sides of Cobb that he misses. Since Mal killed herself it's been a bit like staring through the wrong end of a kaleidoscope, aimless patterns whirling around and never quite settling into anything recognisable.
But he doesn't try to talk about it, not since the first time which earned him a badly bruised jaw. Not since the time he'd pointed out that Mal had meant a lot to him too and that Cobb wasn't the only one grieving.
Cobb comes back and kneels in between Arthur's legs, handing Arthur a glass of something impossibly blue.
“What's in this?” Arthur asks.
“A little bit of everything.”
Cobb takes a drink and doesn't keel over, so Arthur does the same. It's strong, he'll give it that much, but it doesn't taste too bad and Arthur lets himself drink a little more.
He doesn't know what they're doing anymore. There's an edge to every job that is bound to spill out, get one or both of them killed, if only in the dream world. People will start to notice. There'll be arguments fraught with the need to grab and punch as much as kiss and suck. He can feel it already, when their discussion turns a little too heated, a little too close to the surface of all the things they are avoiding and which still keep popping up. Like Mal's projection, which Arthur doesn't think Cobb realises he's seen more than he's let on.
But instead of saying any of this, instead of probing at a still festering wound, Arthur leans back, his body arching up as his touches the floor and looks over at the perfectly made bed. He then turns to Cobb and raises an eyebrow. They don't usually get to the bed. They certainly don't usually stay in the same room after a blissed out fuck.
Cobb takes a long drink and Arthur waits. Patience is one of his better virtues.
“Come on,” Cobb finally says, standing and extending a hand to Arthur, “the bed looks a hell of a lot more comfortable than the floor.”
Arthur keeps the happy jig he wants to perform firmly in his mind and lets Cobb pull him up and gently manoeuvre him towards the bed. They crawl on top of the covers together, bodies occasionally touching. It's far more intimate than any sex they've ever had.
Cobb slips inside the covers first and after a moment Arthur follows. The sheets feel soft and a little cold against his skin and he startles slightly as Cobb's warm hands pull him close.
“I'm sorry,” Cobb says after a moment.
“For what?” Arthur asks, because he can't seem to stop himself, even though he knows the answer already.
“I can't give you what you want. What you deserve.”
Arthur nods, slowly, his head resting against Cobb's chest. He knew that all along, knew it from the moment that Cobb kissed him the first time – fast and possessive and so very distant.
“It's enough for now,” Arthur says. Because it is. Or maybe just because he wants to be the person who picks up the Mal shaped pieces of Cobb's heart and puts him back together again.
Maybe just because he loves Cobb, though he's never been in love with him.
“Okay,” Cobb says, because Arthur logic may be flawed, but it's never meant to hurt.
Cobb turns out the light and tries to sleep but doesn't dream and all Arthur does is dream and dream and when a new day dawns neither of them are well-rested but they're better than they were the day before.
One day that will be enough.