Practice! I mean, no! I am cruel to be kind! You forced my hand!
OMG ARTHUR IS SUCH A BOY MAKE HIM STOP FOR REAL
I WILL ACCEPT YOUR PLAY, YES. AND ALSO THAT COOKIE YOUR ICON IS OFFERING ME. SO ADORABLE!
There's no real moment, when it finally happens. Just Arthur, tired from too many late nights with too many cold research notes, and Eames, grinning, holding a cup of lukewarm coffee and wearing what is probably the ugliest shirt in existence. Arthur laughs, and rubs at his eyes, and laughs some more, because whatever that monstrosity is that Eames is wearing, it looks ridiculously soft, and he's got no doubt that it's warm from the heat of Eames' skin, and Arthur knows if he buried his face in it, it would smell like Eames, like faint cologne, the thunderstorm that's brewing in the distance. Like cheap cigarettes and weak tea. Like the things Arthur dreams about, when he's wrapped up in his own blankets and all alone.
Eames doesn't hand him the cup of coffee so much as he wraps Arthur's fingers around it, the corner of his mouth tugged down when Arthur shivers, again, because the clouds are thick over the sun and the warehouse will not get warm. Arthur cannot get warm. "Arthur," Eames says, very seriously, his fingers still wrapped around Arthur's, "I think you've finally lost it."
"Yeah," Arthur answers, still smiling. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Arthur does know when to admit defeat. "You could insult my mother and I would find it less offensive than your shirt," he adds, because it's true. He still curls the fingers of his free hand in the hem of it, though, and Eames smiles like maybe he gets what this is.
Eames smiles like, finally, and Arthur really... Arthur really can't argue with that.
He uses his grip on Eames' shirt to tug him forward, and finally, finally close the fucking distance.
no subject
OMG ARTHUR IS SUCH A BOY MAKE HIM STOP FOR REALI WILL ACCEPT YOUR PLAY, YES. AND ALSO THAT COOKIE YOUR ICON IS OFFERING ME. SO ADORABLE!
There's no real moment, when it finally happens. Just Arthur, tired from too many late nights with too many cold research notes, and Eames, grinning, holding a cup of lukewarm coffee and wearing what is probably the ugliest shirt in existence. Arthur laughs, and rubs at his eyes, and laughs some more, because whatever that monstrosity is that Eames is wearing, it looks ridiculously soft, and he's got no doubt that it's warm from the heat of Eames' skin, and Arthur knows if he buried his face in it, it would smell like Eames, like faint cologne, the thunderstorm that's brewing in the distance. Like cheap cigarettes and weak tea. Like the things Arthur dreams about, when he's wrapped up in his own blankets and all alone.
Eames doesn't hand him the cup of coffee so much as he wraps Arthur's fingers around it, the corner of his mouth tugged down when Arthur shivers, again, because the clouds are thick over the sun and the warehouse will not get warm. Arthur cannot get warm. "Arthur," Eames says, very seriously, his fingers still wrapped around Arthur's, "I think you've finally lost it."
"Yeah," Arthur answers, still smiling. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Arthur does know when to admit defeat. "You could insult my mother and I would find it less offensive than your shirt," he adds, because it's true. He still curls the fingers of his free hand in the hem of it, though, and Eames smiles like maybe he gets what this is.
Eames smiles like, finally, and Arthur really... Arthur really can't argue with that.
He uses his grip on Eames' shirt to tug him forward, and finally, finally close the fucking distance.