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Arthur had always had laser focus. When he had been a child, he had been single-minded in his pursuit of all objectives. Undistractable. Maybe it had been an issue in relationships, Arthur admitted. Maybe more than one ex had, on his or her way out the door, accused him of being unable to devote the proper time and attention to anything other than his job (and had accused him of being unbearable in his refusal to make anything other than his job his top priority). Arthur hadn’t cared about any of that. His laser focus had gotten him an early graduation from high school, a full ride to college, a dazzling career in government intelligence in which he’d had top security clearance, and then an equally dazzling career as an excellent, wily, most-wanted dream criminal, all before the age of thirty.
A relationship had never gotten him anything.
And then what happened was: Arthur met Eames. Eames, around whom Arthur’s storied laser focus absolutely, positively crumbled.
It was humiliating to him, but from the moment he’d met Eames, he’d been distracted. And it took nothing for Eames to accomplish it. Arthur was pretty sure that Eames had once successfully distracted Arthur by deciding to breathe too loudly. But, frustratingly, if Eames was there—in the room—on a job—in the same country—then Arthur was distracted, was thinking about him, was wondering about him, was hating him furiously.
Once they’d happened to be in the same airport, merely passing through, but Arthur had felt the weight of Eames’s presence tugging at him in the periphery, his focus on the next flight, the next gate, slipping, and then he had turned and Eames had been watching him, looking endlessly amused, because Eames probably knew very well what his effect on Arthur was.
Eames had convinced Arthur to have a drink with him during the layover. One drink turned into four as the snowstorm that had been threatening descended upon the city and flights were delayed and delayed some more. When, eventually, they had had to part ways, Arthur had found himself bewildered by how much time had passed and he had barely noticed. It had been like being in a dream, like the suspension of the normal functioning of time. If Arthur hadn’t known better, he would have thought Eames was a wizard.
Eames was a wizard in one respect, of course, and that was in his incredible talent to turn himself into someone else. Arthur tried not to be too open-mouthed in admiration of this, tried to pretend it didn’t impress him when Eames slipped in and out of personas in dreams. Arthur would have liked to do it himself, but he’d tried, and he was dismal at it. You’re no good at forgetting yourself, Mal had told him. You’re too focused on who you are.
Focused on who he was. That was Arthur to a T. Until he’d met Eames. And then he’d seemed to focus entirely on Eames.
Right now, at this moment, it was Eames’s fingernails Arthur was focusing on. They were long and red and one of them was tapping impatiently against the shiny lacquered hotel bar Arthur had dreamed up. Eames was half in forge mode and half out of it, his regular features with dark red lipstick and smoky eye makeup, his hands tipped by the fire engine red acrylic nails favored by the mark’s mistress, his body with a tight black cocktail dress sheathed around it. There was too much for Arthur to be distracted by in that package, so he was focusing on the fingernail tapping against the bar as they waited. The mark wasn’t behaving himself. The extractor was stubborn and wouldn’t listen to Arthur. Arthur was proving a point by refusing to help. Eames was waiting for the whole fuck-up to get itself sorted out.
Eames said abruptly, “Darling, what is it with you and hotel bars? Really?”
Arthur was startled by the question. He looked from Eames’s fingernails to his face. “Nothing,” he said. “The dream called for a hotel bar.”
“The dream called for a seductive assignation. When asked to design seductive assignations, you always go with ‘hotel bar.’ I always ask myself why that is.”
Arthur scowled. “Don’t play the psychologist. Hotel bars are easy to dream up. Generic. One looks like all the others.”
Eames ignored him, the way Eames did. “Do you have a lot of seductive assignations in hotel bars?”
“No,” snapped Arthur, even though he kind of did. When you didn’t really do relationships, and you traveled as much as Arthur did, mainly you met people in hotel bars.
Eames smirked like he knew how much Arthur was lying about and tapped his fingernail on the bar.
Arthur said, “Do you have to do that? It’s annoying.”
Eames stopped tapping, instead holding his hand up and studying the fingernail. “The thing about a fingernail like this is…” Eames frowned at it closely, then continued, “I’m sure it leaves the most vicious scratches down one’s back.” Eames looked innocently over at Arthur. “Do you think that’s the point?”
Arthur was not thinking about scratching his nails down Eames’s back. Or Eames scratching his nails down Arthur’s.
Arthur said, “Get rid of those fucking fingernails. They’re annoying.”
“You don’t like long red fingernails. Check. Tell me, darling: What do you like?”
“Focus,” Arthur said. “I like focus.”
Eames actually laughed at him. “You know, I don’t even think you’re lying about that,” he said fondly.
Arthur wanted to ask why he would be lying about that, except that’s when the dream started collapsing around them.
***
Months later, Arthur, packing up the PASIV after a job well done, was subjected to a young eager architect saying to him, “Hey, you’re friends with Eames, right?”
“No,” Arthur denied shortly.
“Oh,” said the architect, face falling. “I thought you knew him.”
“I know him. We’re not friends.”
“Whatever,” said the architect, like that was just semantics. “Did you hear what happened to the last job he did, out of Rio?”
Arthur’s movements slowed. “That job’s not done. They weren’t doing the extraction for another week.”
The architect gave him a look, like it was curious that Arthur knew that. “Well, while you were being fussy and checking to make sure everyone had come out of the Somnacin okay, I got a text from Joelle and she is pissed.” The architect held up the phone so Arthur could see.
Joelle was the extractor Eames had been working with. Arthur had met her only once, and been unimpressed. Her text to the architect was fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Arthur drew his eyebrows together. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
The architect shrugged. “Don’t know. Thought maybe you had heard from Eames about it. That’s why I was asking.”
“No,” Arthur said. “Eames is fine. No problems. Check your bank account, I’ll send the shares out as soon as I’m clear of the country.”
Arthur turned and walked out of the warehouse calmly, PASIV in hand, and pretended that his heart wasn’t pounding out of his chest. He got into his rental car and drove it away from the warehouse but he could barely focus on the traffic rules and instead he pulled over and texted Eames. You okay? It was an out-of-the-blue text, and Eames would probably have no idea what to make of it. Or Eames would know exactly what to make of it, which might almost be worse.
At any rate, Arthur got to the airport and got on his plane and tried not to worry about the fact that Eames hadn’t texted back. There was no need to worry about that. They were separated by multiple time zones. And it wasn’t like they really ever texted each other anyway. Eames was probably so bewildered he didn’t even know how to respond.
Arthur tried to focus on distributing the shares properly and almost sent three hundred thousand dollars to entirely the wrong bank account. The extractor would not have been pleased.
***
Arthur dragged himself to the hotel where he had planned to hide for the night and showered and crawled into bed and told himself to focus on falling asleep. There was no reason to be lying awake staring at the ceiling worrying about Eames. Just go to sleep, he told himself firmly.
And then, an hour later, Fuck it, and got out of bed and threw on jeans and a t-shirt and went downstairs to the bar. Anything was better than lying in his bed worrying, like an idiot.
It was late, and the bar was mostly deserted. A couple practically sitting in each other’s laps was purring at each other over martinis at a corner table. A woman at the end of the bar looked up at him as he slid into the seat three seats down but went back to the book she was reading, apparently not interested.
Not that Arthur was looking for a seductive assignation.
The bartender was down near where the woman was, doing something with glasses. He said to Arthur, “Be right with you,” and went back to what he was doing.
Arthur leaned his head in his hands and pinched at the bridge of his nose and sighed. Somewhere in the background the hotel was piping in nondescript piano music.
“What can I get you?” asked the bartender.
Arthur lifted his head to answer.
Eames beat him to it. “He’ll have a glass of pinot noir.” Eames slid into the seat next to Arthur. “I’ll have a scotch, neat.”
The bartender looked at Arthur, probably to see if he consented to this choice of drink.
Arthur couldn’t consent to anything because he was too busy gaping at Eames, so the bartender eventually went away.
Eames looked at Arthur and smiled. He looked exhausted, and the smile looked like it took the last vestiges of energy out of him. Arthur had the ridiculous impulsive desire to cuddle him close and tell him just to go to sleep.
“What the fuck,” Arthur said very eloquently.
“Indeed,” said Eames. “I could say the same to you.”
“Say the same to me? Why? What have I done that’s shocking? You’re fucking stalking me or something. How’d you know I was here?”
Eames held up his phone, where Arthur’s text sat on it.
“Nothing about that text told you which hotel I would be in tonight,” Arthur said. “Nothing about that text told you which city I would be in.”
“Darling,” said Eames tiredly. “As if I don’t know where you are at all times.” The bartender put Eames’s scotch down in front of him and Eames contemplated it. “At most times,” he amended, and took a sip.
“What happened on your job?” Arthur asked, ignoring that. “I heard bad things.”
“I thought you must have. I thought that was the reason behind your text. Joelle’s an imbecile.”
“I told you she was.”
Eames gave him a look. “You think everyone’s an imbecile, pet, I can hardly give credence to every one of your proclamations on that front.”
“Whatever,” said Arthur, as a dazzling comeback, into his glass of pinot noir.
Eames leaned his elbow on the bar, propped his head in his hand, regarded Arthur. “Were you worried about me?”
“No,” Arthur denied.
“Then why did you send that text?”
“I thought you might have some good gossip.”
Eames smiled. “And I know how much you love gossip, petal.”
“Why are you here?” asked Arthur. “You could have just texted me back, you know.” And then he wouldn’t have had to worry all flight.
“Darling.” Eames leaned forward. “Do you know what today is?”
“Tuesday,” said Arthur. “In this time zone.”
Eames chuckled. “No, I mean the date.”
“February 14,” said Arthur.
“Right,” Eames replied slowly, looking at him curiously. “Do you know what February 14 is?”
Arthur wondered wildly what Eames was talking about. “Is it your birthday?” he asked uncertainly.
“No. Darling. Honestly. Sometimes I just…It’s Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh,” said Arthur. That made sense. That wasn’t a date that was ever really relevant in Arthur’s life. “Okay.”
Eames gave him a smile that made Arthur feel like he’d just downed a shot. His stomach went warm and tingly and his head swam a little bit. Eames said, “Alright, gorgeous, I can see I have to spell this out for you.” Eames suddenly turned Arthur’s chair so Arthur was facing him, put his hands familiarly on Arthur’s hips, like they’d been made for just that purpose, said, “I was wondering if you would like to be my valentine.”
Arthur stared at him, feeling oddly short of breath. He’d never been anyone’s valentine before. “What does that entail?” he asked.
Eames gave him a crooked smile. “Let’s start with sex.”
***
Afterward, Arthur lay on his back with Eames’s right hand caught between Arthur’s two hands, studying Eames’s fingers closely.
“Mmph,” Eames said into his pillow. “I got a manicure just for you. I know how you have strong opinions on fingernails.”
“I don’t,” Arthur said, but kissed the fingernail on Eames’s index finger anyway. Then he looked at Eames. “You got a manicure for me? You knew you were going to come and see me?”
Eames turned his head so Arthur could see him, smiled at him. “Eventually. Best to always be prepared. Then my job went all to hell, and you sent that text, and it was Valentine’s Day, and I knew where you were.”
“How’d you know I’d be in the hotel bar, though?” said Arthur.
“Lucky guess. It’s where you like to go for seductive assignations. And, I hoped, to worry tenderly over me.”
“Fuck you,” Arthur said, and shoved him playfully.
Eames laughed. “If you weren’t in the bar, I was going to pretend to be room service to get in here.”
“I probably would have shot you.”
“Probably,” Eames agreed.
“And what if I had had somebody in here with me?”
“Then I probably would have shot them,” said Eames, and rolled his way on top of Arthur.
Arthur let Eames’s weight slowly adjust over him, letting it press him into the mattress. He said, “Tell me what happened on the job with Joelle.”
“Now, darling,” said Eames, disentangling his hand from Arthur’s and putting it to good use. “That can wait until later. For now: focus.”