Work Text:
I destroy things every day in the act of working and often recall a picture I had considered finished in order to rework it. - Frank Auerbach
There’s a rumor floating around that Arthur and Eames met at MoMA, when they saw each other across a crowded gallery full of Kandinsky paintings. While Eames finds this hilarious (and romantic, although he doesn’t mention that) and Arthur just thinks the whole thing is stupid, it’s pretty damn far from the truth.
This is actually how they meet:
It’s Friday night, and Arthur is in Williamsburg. This is, somehow, an oft-repeated thing, usually at the behest of Dom. He’s dating a singer, who is, of course, in a band, and they play during house parties. Hence Williamsburg.
“I hate you,” Arthur tells Dom as they come out of the Subway, Friday night happening around them.
“You don’t sound very full of hate,” Dom says. Bedford is a hive of pretentious activity and scarves, and Arthur likes to pretend that he is not a hipster and generally avoid this kind of stuff.
(He’s actually a huge hipster, but he chooses to instead claim he’s a levelheaded academic who enjoys the occasional absurdly obscure band.)
“I am so full of hate,” Arthur deadpans, and Dom grins, slinging an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur sighs and tucks his hands in his pockets, leaning into Dom just a bit. He blames it on the Fall cold, not that he and Dom are just a little bit too close. They had once, ages ago, kissed each other in Midtown when they were both drunk (although Arthur wasn’t drunk enough), and it means they’re just a little too attached at the hip. However, Dom’s as loyal as a golden retriever, and they make a good team, sticking together.
He’s also in love with Mal, which is somewhat helpful in Arthur’s everlasting quest to divorce himself emotionally from Dom, knowing that he has someone else. Dom really just needs someone to look after him and Arthur will be ok with it.
The party’s in a newly built walkup like a million others in the area, and the windows are open. There’s music and cigarette smoke pouring out of them, making the air heavy with drums and guitar. Over the top of it, as Dom knocks, is Mal’s haunting voice, singing in French.
Arthur lets himself drift from Dom when they get inside. There’s not really anyone he knows well, although he recognizes a handful of people, people he sees in the hallway between classes.
Including Dom’s shadow. Ariadne is kind of adorable, in this irreverent, scarf wearing way. She presents him with a can of Natty Bo, grinning. She says something, but all Arthur sees is her mouth moving, it’s so loud in here. Mal and the band are amplified out into the rest of the house, even though they’re playing at the back, in the kitchen.
“What?” Arthur yells, bending down to Ariadne’s height.
“I said – there’s someone you should meet!” Ariadne slips her hand into his and pulls him along, through the crowd of people artfully leaning on walls, never making an attempt to even pretend that they might want to dance to the music. This crowd is strictly ‘music is made to be listened to only’.
Upstairs is hotter than downstairs, and they head for the end of the hall. Somehow Arthur knows that Yusuf’s behind that shut door, he’s always around, passing shit out. Yusuf doesn’t even charge people after a while for his own home remedies, only the freshman who come to him with scuffed sneakers and hair in their eyes asking for weed like it’s some sort of highly criminal substance on par with Radium. Arthur has no clue where Yusuf’s money really comes from, but whatever the source is, it seems to be endless and deep.
Cobb’s already with Yusuf, but Arthur notices the third person with them as Ariadne shuts the door quietly. Music is coming in through more open windows as Yusuf finds a vein on the man sitting cross legged on the bed in front of him, slipping in a syringe with the sort of practice that comes with being either a druggie or in med school. In Yusuf’s case it’s a little of both columns.
“Arthur!” Yusuf says pleasantly when he looks up from the man on the bed. “Care to join us?”
“Yeah, sure,” Arthur says, distracted, looking at the guy opposite Yusuf, presumably who Ariadne wanted him to meet if she wasn’t busy poking and prodding at Dom. The man looks up at Arthur, and licks his lips – jesus christ he’s got lips and then some – before smirking and patting the bed next to him.
“Come join me, darling,” he says, some upper class British accent curling around his words. Arthur glares at the use of the word darling but he does go, shucking his jacket as he does, rolling up a sleeve when he sits next to the man. “I’m Eames.”
“Arthur,” followed up with a little nod of greeting. Eames is clearly sizing him up, knowing eyes watching the way Arthur clenches his fist for Yusuf.
“What is this?” Arthur asks just as Yusuf slips the needle in.
“I’m not quite sure yet,” Yusuf says, and there they go again, being guinea pigs. Yusuf has friends, he has casual acquaintances, and then he has the few of them that he tests shit out on because they put up with him.
“Lovely,” Arthur mutters, staring over at Eames. He’s still watching him, and he inches closer, this trickster glint hovering in his eyes, around the corners of his incredibly distracting lips.
“You’re gorgeous,” Eames says, and the amount of wonder in his voice means that whatever Yusuf’s given them has started to kick in.
“I’m aware,” Arthur replies, raising his eyebrows. He remembers Eames kissing him, and then nothing.
---
Arthur wakes up in a strange bed in a strange apartment. His head is also killing him, and he’s sore in more places than he thought could actually be sore. Groaning, he struggles up onto his elbows, looking around. He’s in some sparse room, in a large wrought iron bed. Besides that, a side table, and an incredibly large painting hung on the wall opposite the bed, that’s kind of it.
Well, that and the very large windows, one cracked open, letting the sounds of the city in. One of the curtains is blowing lazily around.
Pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a steadying breath in, Arthur forces himself to sit up all the way. There are clothes scattered on the ground – some of them clearly having migrated out of the closet, others tossed more haphazardly. Arthur spots his kakis and Henley, but his shoes are missing.
He doesn’t make it further than locating his phone and pulling on his boxer briefs and shirt before sounds outside of the room become apparent – someone is humming, and something is being fried. Arthur frowns, pants forgotten in wake of the noise and his body screaming at him, and cracks open the door. Yeah, that’s bacon.
The rest of the apartment is a living room (which is crammed with a couch, a TV, and just about every supply you could ever want as a painter, up to and including some seriously large canvases) and a kitchen, which is where he finds the guy from last night. Eames, like Charles and Ray, he remembers that much.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” he says, and he does actually look happy about this. He’s also outright leering at Arthur. “And a good morning to you too, love.”
“I feel like I should have put on pants,” Arthur says, running a hand through his hair when he sees Eames’, which is an absolute disaster. His own hair seems to be beyond help save possibly for a shower.
“No, please don’t ever wear pants,” Eames says, and then, “do you like peach pancakes?”
Arthur wasn’t actually sure such a thing existed.
“I – uh. Is this a habit?” He gestures around the kitchen as he stands awkwardly in the hallway.
“What? Eating? Because, yes, that is a very good habit to have.”
“No, I mean cooking breakfast for your one night stands.”
“Only the ones that give exceptionally good head.”
Well, now Arthur knows at least one thing that went on last night. He has been complemented on his skills in that area in the past, although it’s not something he exactly likes to publicize, just take a quiet sort of personal pride in.
“This is awkward,” Arthur says.
“Well, then sit down,” Eames answers, and Arthur does at the same time that Eames presents a plate of pancakes complete with syrup and powdered sugar over the top, bacon on the side. Eames steals a piece of bacon and takes a sip of coffee before he sets the mug down for Arthur.
“Uh, thanks,” Arthur says lamely, because he has no idea what else to say except possibly, after the first bite of the pancakes, oh my god it’s like an orgy in my mouth, but that’s not the kind of thing he ever says out loud, just in his head. He might let a moan slip out though, judging by the downright sinful look on Eames’ face.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying them,” Eames says, and then grabs another fork to start eating from the other side of the plate. It’s oddly intimate, especially for someone he just met, but with the sun on his back and the smell of paint and breakfast hanging in the air, Arthur can’t be bothered to care.
---
Arthur likes to hang onto details (if they’re important), to make sure that he remembers facts and small little issues that could arise in the future. This also expands to sex, and right now, he can’t remember the previous night at all, except for tiny bits of smoky memory that are slipping through his hands faster than sand. It’s like the sensation of waking up from a dream and desperately trying to hold onto it – the harder you try, the faster the sand falls.
He’s reading out on the fire escape when the door bangs open and Dom comes home. He likes doing that – announcing his presence. It’s a very Dom thing to do.
“Arthur?”
“Out here,” Arthur calls through the open window, not looking up from his book. It’s a slim little paperback on Meredith Frampton, only 56 pages long because there are only about 56 pages of Frampton in the whole world, and that’s if you make sure to use a lot of flowery adjectives and run-on sentences.
“When did you leave last night?” Dom asks, leaning out the window and stealing Arthur’s cigarettes from where they’re sitting on the sill. “Lighter?”
“In the kitchen,” Arthur says, because he managed to leave it there in his inability to get his nose out of pages 23 and 24 of Frampton. Dom vanishes and comes back a second later, setting the lighter on top of the cigarette box. “And I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“What time I left.”
“Ah, right. I – well. Whatever it was that Yusuf had –“
“Fucked up your memory?”
“Blank, like someone had taken a magnet to audio mag.”
(Dom minored in film as an undergrad just to say that he’d done it. All it really allows him to do is load cameras so old they’re from Western Germany with 16mm film and make obscure references to things like sound editing.)
“Yeah, I woke up in someone’s bed. In Soho though, so I suppose I should be glad I got to spend the night in a nice place.”
“The East Village is not bad,” Dom says, rolling his eyes. This is totally true, but Arthur has dreams of lofts and Tribeca and windows large enough to toss whole pianos out of them if you ever needed to do that kind of thing. They don’t even have room for a keyboard in their place, much less windows large enough to throw a baby grand out of.
They’re silent for a bit, Dom smoking and reading over Arthur’s shoulders for a few pages until he’s down to the filter. He snubs it out on the brick under the window, and then looks back up at Arthur.
“It was totally Eames, wasn’t it?” He asks, smirking.
“I don’t even know who he is,” Arthur says, frowning and making the page in his book with his thumb. “Not that it matters.”
“Actually, it does. He goes to school with us.”
“Oh god.” Arthur can feel his face fall. He has a strict ‘no sleeping with classmates’ rule. You don’t want to be knee deep in a symbolist theory debate in class and have one of your fuckbuddies bring up the fact that Klimt really gets across that erotic act of that one thing you can do with your tongue, only in painting format. Art students have no boundaries, except for maybe Arthur, and that’s often painful and always humiliating.
“I don’t know how you haven’t noticed him before, he’s been here for two years already.”
“Fuck.”
“You’re slipping up on your game, Arthur.”
Arthur lets his head thunk back against the brick as Dom hands him a cigarette. Arthur lights it while muttering around it.
“Want me to get the wine?” Dom asks, already halfway to standing up.
“Please do.” Fuck the fact that it’s two in the afternoon on a Saturday.
Dom ends up out on the fire escape with Arthur, two glasses of wine, and a story that Arthur wishes he could tell if only he could remember it.
---
The reason that Arthur hasn’t noticed Eames, he’s assuming, is because he’s studying art history. There are only a couple of them in the grad program, and it’s fairly insular. They even have their own library, separated from everyone else and the downtown campus, that’s a nice quiet sanctuary that Arthur spends a lot of time in. He likes researching, as much as he gets flack for it. Facts are clean, neat, and simple, laid out in black type on a white page. They make sense, the way they unravel from the first chapter to the last.
Arthur doesn’t go looking for Eames. He can’t get the little sparks of memory out of his head – Eames’ fingers in his mouth, his palms on Arthur’s back, his nails digging into Arthur’s skin – and it’s been an almost constant source of heat coiled at the base of his spine, but he doesn’t seek him out. Arthur’s never spent a lot of time in the fine arts wing, he’s not about to start.
Still, Arthur should have known better. Murphy’s law has always seen fit to play fast and loose with his life, and now is no exception.
He’s trying to wrestle a coffee table book down from the top shelf (who in fresh hell put a book this large this high up?), when he hears a familiar voice. It’s far off, somewhere outside the stacks, but Arthur knows exactly who it belongs to.
He catches the word ‘Auerbach’, which is bad, because the book he’s currently trying to pull down is, in fact, in the post war British painters section.
“Fuck me,” Arthur mutters, banging his head into the shelf just as Eames appears around the shelves. He’s got a slip of paper in his hands, a paint stained messenger bag across his chest, and a rather surprised expression on his face.
“Arthur?” Eames looks quite pleased, despite his surprise at seeing Arthur.
“Unfortunately,” Arthur says. He realizes he’s still reaching for the book and hurriedly puts his arms down, shoving his shirt back from where it’s ridden up a few inches. Eames looks mildly unhappy when that inch of skin vanishes, and Arthur fiddles with his scarf, glaring.
“How did I not know you existed before this weekend?” Eames asks, suddenly very much in Arthur’s personal space. “This is terrible.”
“Indeed,” Arthur replies dryly. Eames grins.
“Well, now that we’ve established that we go to the same university – coffee?”
“No.”
“Oh, c’mon.”
Eames is right in his personal space. There are a brief few inches between them, and Eames has an arm up on one of the shelves, leaning even closer. Arthur suddenly gets a flash like a fire bomb going off in his head – hips catch just so and Eames gasps, grinding upwards – and he opens his mouth to reply, but it dies before it even gets to his lips. Instead he takes in a deep shuddering breath, and then, he kisses Eames. In the library. In a section of the library that Arthur can’t avoid because his thesis is on Hockney.
He kisses Eames anyway. Eames makes a pleased noise at the back of his throat, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s waist and bringing their bodies flush together. The buckle on Eames’ bag digs into Arthur’s chest but he doesn’t really care, just opens his mouth to Eames, lets him in, swallowing up any noise that either one of them might make.
“Well that was unexpected,” Eames says, breathless. “I was quite sure you’d hit me over the head with a book.”
“I’d never hurt any of these books,” Arthur says, because he refuses to be ever caught without a quip back to Eames ever again. Eames rewards him with a laugh, that same deep, scratchy, smoker laugh that goes with his voice. “You’re really studying Auerbach?”
“He’s kind of an amazing genius who I want to grow up to be.” Eames still hasn’t let Arthur go, although he doesn’t care about that, because all he really wants to do at that moment is get under Eames’ skin.
“Smart man,” Arthur says, and Eames grins.
---
Arthur’s sitting on the steps of the main library in Midtown, eating sushi from Whole Foods, when Eames finds him. He looks up, chopsticks shoved in his mouth, and scowls. Eames, now that he knows him, is everything he doesn’t like – loud, obnoxious, overtly charming, someone he’s still attracted to even though he’s slept with them. Also, he dresses like the unholy love child of Brandon Flowers and Jay-Z.
“Tuna avocado?” Eames asks, sitting down next to him and reaching for a piece.
“Also, mine,” Arthur says, and snaps at Eames’ fingers with his chopsticks. Eames grins, and catches Arthur’s wrist, snagging a piece with his free hand while Arthur glares. “Why are you here?”
“Cobb told me where you were,” Eames says around a mouth of sushi. “And I thought I’d surprise you.”
“With?”
“Me,” Eames says pleasantly, spreading his arms wide to indicate himself. Arthur rolls his eyes. Eames has become this thorn in his side for the past few weeks, distracting him with his lips and his tongue, although whatever they’d done that first night hasn’t been repeated. Eames had insisted sex in the stacks, but there was no way in hell Arthur was having sex in a library.
“That’s a shitty surprise,” Arthur says, jabbing his chopsticks at Eames’ chest.
“Aw, I’m wounded,” Eames teases, and slips an arm around Arthur’s back, breathing in Arthur’s hair, pressing a kiss to his jaw. Arthur squirms, like he’s thinking about breaking out of Eames’ hold, although in the end he doesn’t go anywhere, and one of his hands creeps out to settle on Eames’ knee.
“We’re in public, Eames.”
“I know. How about this – play hookey with me and come to MoMA.”
“Huh?” Arthur asks, pulling back to look at Eames in confusion.
“Skip class, and come see the Marina Abramovic exhibit.”
“Ok, I don’t have class in the near future, and I’ve already seen it, and it’s –“
“Excellent?”
“No, a load of bullshit, like every other piece of performance art ever. I don’t need to see crazy hill country peasants humping grass in triptych motion ever again.” Eames laughs, and catches Arthur’s chin between his fingers so that he can kiss him.
“You taste like sushi,” Eames says, pressing his forehead to Arthur’s. “And if you won’t come for the Abramovic, come for the Cartier-Bresson.”
“Fine,” Arthur says, sighing. “But only because I get a sick sense of superiority every time I stroll in there and don’t have to buy a ticket and just have to flash my card.”
He can feel Eames grinning against his ear when he kisses him again.
---
It turns out, which Arthur should have known, that MoMA with Eames was like being on some other planet. He thinks about throwing Eames out into the sculpture garden – via the second story, through the plate glass windows – when he finds out that he doesn’t like anything the Eames’ ever produced.
“It’s boring,” Eames says. They’re standing in the modern furniture gallery, staring at an Eames storage unit. Arthur wants one for his apartment. “Anyone could do that.”
“I cannot believe you share a name with two of the most amazing beings to walk this Earth,” Arthur says, his mouth hanging slightly open. “You’re a disgrace to your name.”
Eames sighs and rolls his eyes.
“I bet you like Le Corbusier, too.” Eames is already wandering off, towards a bunch of London Underground posters from the 40’s – also something Arthur wouldn’t mind having in his apartment.
“Do you hold anything sacred?” Arthur asks, crossing his arms.
“Greene and Greene. Klimt. Klee. Toland.” Eames is ticking people off on his fingers, still looking at the posters. “Oh, and Margaret Bourke White.”
“That is the most random ass collection of people on the planet,” Arthur mutters, and Eames just shrugs. “I thought you like Auerbach.”
“I do. I aspire to be the man. But I have diverse tastes.”
Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and puts up with Eames insisting that they wait in line to sit across from Abramovic. Arthur wants no part of it, and they spend most of the hour and a half they have to wait talking. Or rather Eames talks and Arthur rolls his eyes and acts exasperated except for when Eames pulls out some obscure fact about a Picasso woodcut or why he prefers to work in latex paint, not acrylic or oils. Then he’s kind of insanely fascinating. Not that Arthur would admit that.
Eames is, for the most part, always in some kind of motion. He caries a poker chip around, Arthur’s noticed, and usually he’s playing with it, flipping it between his fingers or running his palms over it in his pocket. If it’s not that he’s messing with this phone, checking Tumblr and Twitter and whatever other apps he has that could possibly be updated. He touches Arthur, chews on his lips, taps his toes when he’s standing instead of walking, the list goes on. Arthur’s been watching him for weeks now, noticing all his little tells and movements, the way his hands will move just a tiny amount from time to time, like he wants a brush between his fingers.
So when Eames sits down, and actually sits, Arthur’s kind of shocked. He knows the purpose is to sit across from Abramovic and just stare, but it’s like being dunked into cold water out of nowhere, seeing Eames so still.
Arthur wanders around the large square outlined on the floor, hands in his pockets, until he finally sits down right on the tile, legs crossed, just watching. The only movement from Eames is the slight rising and fall of his chest with each breath. Arthur’s the one who starts twitching, his fingers drumming on the ground, and he sighs, digging in his bag for his Moleskine and a pencil.
Sketching is the only art that’s ever come easily to Arthur. The straighter the lines, the better he is – he loves drawing buildings when he’s bored, and he’s sketched out the brownstone across the street from his apartment a million times in a million different lights, times of day, sitting on the fire escape. People are harder, but no one seems to be moving, so Arthur draws, glancing up every once and a while to figure out how something works, something flows.
It’s only when someone slips their arms around his shoulders, resting their chin on the top of his head, that Arthur realizes Eames has moved.
“I had no idea you could draw,” Eames says quietly, and reaches out to drag his thumb across the edge of the page Arthur’s drawing on. Arthur’s suddenly very aware of Eames presence, of the way he’s practically wrapped around him, and he swallows, shutting the notebook.
“I cant really,” Arthur answers, untangling himself from Eames and standing up. Eames is grinning at him, although quietly for once.
“Yes, you actually can,” Eames says, and then, before Arthur can argue, “dinner at The Modern?”
---
Arthur is not going to ask how Eames was able to get them dinner reservations in the span of five minutes. At one of the best restaurants in the city. Arthur had been woefully underdressed (well, so had Eames), but clearly Eames knows someone at the place, which makes Arthur feel better. But only slightly.
And only until the food came, at which point he decided that Eames came hand in hand with excellent food.
“Why are we doing this?” Arthur asks after dinner. Eames looks at him in confusion.
“Walking back to the Subway?”
“No,” Arthur sighs, gesturing between them. There’s not a whole lot of space, and Arthur’s bag keeps bumping Eames’ hip. “This.”
“Oh, you mean striking up a friendship based solely on one night of sex we can’t remember but had to be amazing?”
“Yeah. That.”
“Don’t know,” Eames says. “I like you, if it counts for anything. And I guess I’m hoping it will lead to more sex, which somehow, it hasn’t. Pity.”
Arthur takes a deep breath, decides that this has obviously gone past his no fraternizing with one night stand post said night rule, and steps right in front of Eames, stopping him with hands on his hips.
“We should have sex. Uh, again. We should have sex again.”
“That’s an amazing idea,” Eames says happily. “Where ever did you come up with it?”
Arthur rolls his eyes and kisses Eames. They’re in the middle of the sidewalk on 53rd, but it’s also gone dark, the streetlights on, and most of the suits have long ago abandoned midtown for trendier neighborhoods. Eames makes an appreciative noise, holding Arthur close and desperately trying to find a way under Arthur’s shirt and vest, or past his belt.
They only jump apart when a group of girls walk by, giggling, and one of them goes for her camera. Arthur has a brief flash of a Facebook album belonging to some high schooler in Iowa with the caption real gay people! under the photo before he extracts himself from Eames, panting. Eames looks like he’d be put out, but his lips are too swollen and his cheeks too red to look anything other than totally debauched.
“Subway,” Arthur says.
“Fuck the bloody Subway,” Eames replies. “We’re getting a goddamn cab.”
Arthur has to agree that this is an excellent idea.
---
Eames’ apartment is even better now that Arthur is actually paying attention. It’s in a loft building down Wooster, far enough off of Prince that it isn’t insanely loud. They had sort of tumbled out of the cab, necked like teenagers while waiting for the elevator, and now they’ve only made it as far as the rug of Eames’ living room.
“Let’s try to remember the sex this time, yeah?” Eames asks as he pulls off Arthur’s shirt, and Arthur nods, pressing kisses up the column of Eames’ neck.
“Yes please,” Arthur agrees, and rolls his hips up to meet Eames’ when he grinds down. Arthur’s breath catches, and Eames saves him from having to breathe by kissing him again instead.
Clothes end up shucked in corners, over paint cans and canvases until Arthur is buried in Eames and they’re shuddering together, Eames braced with his hands on Arthur’s chest. Arthur can’t stop reaching out to touch Eames’ tattoos, one of his hands anchored around Eames’ bicep over the constellation there, the other over his hip, thumb pressing into the word beauty, and Arthur wants to know what they all mean – but later.
Right now he rocks his hips up into Eames again and Eames gasps and moans, low and broken and sounding like he doesn’t know how to make a single other sound in the universe, like the words have been stripped right out of him.
Right now he just memorizes all those grains of memory – the way his skin feels, the way his shoulders taper, the way his knees are red from the floor, his lips even redder from biting at them.
Right now he makes Eames come apart under his fingers and over his body, rocking and stroking and murmuring when he can get it out between just remembering how to breathe.
They end up next to each other on the ground, Arthur on his stomach and Eames tucked into his side, scattering kisses across his shoulder. Somewhere a window is open, and the sound of Friday night is spilling into the apartment.
Eames skims his fingers delicately across Arthur’s back, tracing his shoulder blades and his spine, looping his fingers around each bump of bone that shifts under his skin.
“Don’t move for a sec?” Eames asks, and Arthur grins lazily, huffing out a laugh.
“Don’t think I can,” Arthur answers, and Eames smirks.
“Well good,” Eames says, and then he drags his body upright, and Arthur watches his bare feet vanish for a bit before he comes back, straddling Arthur’s back. He nearly jumps when then there’s suddenly something cold on his back, but Eames has him pinned.
“Don’t worry,” Eames says softly, and he lets Arthur prop himself just far enough up to see Eames’ fingers (which he’s waving in Arthur’s face). They’ve got paint on them, two shades of red – one on his thumb and one on his ring finger.
“You’re painting on me?” Arthur asks, sounding incredulous, and Eames just grins. Arthur can’t really do anything but roll his eyes and go back to not moving. Eames uses his fingers and a small brush, dragging paint across Arthur’s back, and it’s soothing enough that Arthur closes his eyes, just feeling. Eames moves from his shoulder blades down across the plane of his back, curling around his hip. His fingers are solid and rough, points of heat through the cool paint, and the brush is a dragging sensation, almost tickling in a way.
Arthur’s not sure how much time they spend on the floor but eventually he becomes aware of Eames pressing a kiss to his ear, breathing in deep and smiling against his hair.
“C’mon sleepy head, up, you should see this,” Eames says, and Arthur groans, letting Eames drag his body up, even though every single muscle in his body (and some he didn’t know he had) are protesting.
Eames spends the trip to the bathroom half kissing Arthur, half leading him, until he makes him sit on the counter next to the sink, and Arthur has to crane his neck around to make sense of what Eames did to his back. When he sees it he’s not sure what to say, but he’s pretty sure he stops breathing for a moment. There’s a gorgeous tree curling up his ribs from where it has taken root around his hip. It starts as deep red, almost black, for most of the trunk, until suddenly near the leaves it burns red and orange, the leaves shining so bright, standing out against Arthur’s skin.
He has a sudden flash of memory – the painting in Eames’ room – and realizes that between that painting and this second, he’s never really seen any of Eames’ work.
Eames is standing between Arthur’s legs, and when Arthur finally manages to get his eyes off the tree in the mirror he turns his head to find Eames right there, looking at him totally neutral.
“It’s perfect.” It comes out in a rush, and a soft little smile curves up the corners of Eames’ mouth. Arthur bends to press two kisses into those little curves, and Eames catches his mouth fully, and they stay there, trading languid kisses with Arthur’s tree reflected in the mirror.
---
The grad students all get their own studio space, and Eames’ is on the top floor of the fine art building, down a hall and shoved in a corner. Eames quite enjoys it – he’s got a glass ceiling in a building that’s almost 200 years old, he claims inspiration. Arthur has to admit that from an architectural perspective it’s really fucking cool.
Arthur pops out his headphones as he shoulders open the door from the stairs, passing other studios and computer labs as he goes, his Toms pattering on the floor. Eames wears obnoxious sneakers that squeak on the tile, and Arthur makes fun of him for it.
Eames has something that sounds disturbingly like Mal’s band blaring when Arthur opens the door, and he has to crank the volume way down on the speakers before he even tries to make Eames even think about paying attention to him. That could be hard anyway – Eames is up to his elbows in paint, working on one of his giant canvases that that’s the same height as him.
Arthur pulls out Eames’ iPhone to scroll through the songs – yeah, it’s Mal’s band, he recognizes some of the song titles.
“Somnambulance and Moreau?” Arthur asks. Eames looks over his shoulder at him like he hadn’t noticed that anyone else was in the room. Totally possible, really. Eames was crazy focused when he was working.
“Huh?” He asks as Arthur sets the iPhone back in the speaker hookup.
“Somnambulance and Moreau,” Arthur repeats as he walks over to Eames, staring over his shoulder at what he’s working on.
“Oh, yeah, the band finally figured out a name. Crap, isn’t it?” Eames says, smirking.
“Yeah, it is,” Arthur says, and reaches out to drag his fingers down the side of the canvas, safely away from paint. He’d recognize what Eames is doing anywhere – it’s a twisted tree, done in Eames’ style of fast, straight brush strokes. “I like this.”
“Oh?” Eames asks, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Such high praise from you.”
“Very funny,” Arthur says, bumping Eames with this hip. Eames reaches over and wraps an arm around Arthur’s shoulder, pressing a kissing into Arthur’s hair as he looks at the painting. “But yeah, it’s very Auerbach of you.”
“Oh, don’t say that, I might be tempted to fuck you right here, over my drafting table,” Eames says, laughing, and Arthur just snorts out a laugh, scooting a bit more into Eames’ side.
“How about we go get coffee instead?” Arthur asks, looping an arm around Eames’ waist.
“Yeah,” Eames says with a little nod, a little smile, before he brushes orange paint from his thumb down Arthur’s nose, “that’d be good.”