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Any other night, Arthur would have been pissed about having such bright lights next to his window. The huge sign that said MOTEL filled the room with a purple glow that would have been somewhat soothing if it didn't remind Arthur of the dreams he used to have when he was younger. And those he had when he dreamed alone, when he wasn't bothered by creating something that seemed real enough to fool someone. It didn't help, of course, that Eames was laying in bed beside him.
Arthur's eyes were fixed on the ceiling. There wasn't much to see, really. The plain white turned purple under the sign's light didn't offer anything of interest, only someone with a lot in their minds would look at it for as long as Arthur had. He hoped Eames wasn't thinking the same thing if he was looking at him. He should try to appear more relaxed in spite of the circumstances, try to look as if Eames's body so close to his in a bed of all places didn't affect him as much. He closed his eyes, and opened them again, he was too on edge to even pretend he was tired. If Arthur lowered his gaze to look at the furniture of the room, eerie in the semi-darkness, he would also see Eames' body next to his. Turning to his left was out of the question since he would be looking straight at Eames, probably finding the other man gazing back. He could also find him with his eyes closed, Arthur supposed, but it was unlikely. Almost impossible, in the way the room felt filled with electricity.
For a moment, Arthur decided to turn to his right and give his back to Eames. Relax his muscles, close his eyes again and count as high up as he could before falling asleep. Before he even started to move, though, it felt like a bad idea. It felt like running away, hiding. Of what he didn't know for sure, but he knew Eames did. And so the cycle began once again. Thinking that there was something between them, knowing that Eames knew better than him, wanting to get away because he hated not having the upper hand, and feeling like if he did he would ruin whatever it was between them.
Arthur noticed he was frowning at the ceiling and made a conscious effort to stop. He had always been too expressive with his eyebrows. Eames used to mock him for it, imitating him or smiling and watching his face until Arthur realized he was being too expressive in public again.
Arthur was expecting Eames's comment about it. He knew he was looking at his profile from his side of the bed, he could feel it. Eames would say something about the frowning, that Arthur did it all the time. That he needed to relax. And then Arthur would say that it wasn't any of his business, and think to himself that he knew that he wasn't like that all the time. He really wasn't. And he would say it to Eames, that he wasn't so worried all the time, but the one time he answered that, Eames replied that he would like to see it and Arthur hadn't known what to do.
There was so much silence in the room. Outside, it was a different thing: cars, people talking, laughing. It wasn't very late, it's just that the last job had been utterly exhausting and they had a plane to catch the following morning. If Arthur had anticipated feeling so awake as soon as he was covered in the same sheets as Eames, he would have suggested watching a movie or something. It seemed so bizarre that people were out there getting drunk or watching movies or kissing when Arthur and Eames were wide awake laying on a bed in silence.
The room was too silent, Arthur kept thinking. He also kept wishing to know how to make it better without feeling like he was addressing something. Arthur had expected Eames to joke about them sharing a bed, or talk about their teammates, or just ramble until he fell asleep.
He had expected a hand on his arm, on his chest, or in his own. A brush of lips over his, or his jaw, or his neck. He had been expecting, anticipating, Eames telling him to look and listen to him explain what was going on. And then Arthur would stop feeling unsure and worry about everything that would come because he would know they were on the same page. Eames would show him, with his eyes and his whispers, that he really meant all he had said in the past and that Arthur shouldn't be afraid of believing him.
But there was only silence, soft fabric caressing his skin and a burning feeling on the left side of his face where he supposed Eames' gaze was resting.
And then he heard Eames sigh, felt the mattress dip slightly and he thought, here it comes. Here it comes. The caress, the grasp, the kiss. The Arthur, the darling? , maybe the dreaded yet pathetically hoped for I love you. Arthur licked his lips and forced his eyes away from the ceiling and to his left. His muscles were tense and he was already taking in every single detail that would tell him something about Eames's motives, but his heart was beating too fast and his fingers ached to touch too much to do it properly.
Eames was propped on one elbow, examining Arthur in the same way the other was doing it. The purple light from outside made it difficult to see the colors that made Eames who he was in that moment, his hair, his eyes, the tone of his skin. Arthur wanted to memorize it, but couldn't. It didn't make him feel frustrated, not really, not in the way he felt when Eames was wearing another body and they exchanged meaningful glances that felt somewhat ungenuine. That night, it felt intimate, Arthur thought, as his eyes got used to the lightning and he could distinguish his features better. Eames was close and was looking at him, only at him, and he hadn't made any move yet in spite of the fact that he must have known, Arthur thought, that there no way Arthur would say no.
Eames was smiling down at him. Arthur wasn't sure if it was a fond smile, or a mocking one, or a smirk. He didn't know what it said, not in that light, not from that close.
"What?" he asked.
Eames looked at the window then, away from Arthur's face.
"How's your arm?" Eames asked, still not looking at him. Earlier that day Arthur had hurt himself as they ran from some of the mark's men. It wasn't worth mentioning, really.
"Okay."
"Does it hurt?"
"Not really," Arthur said as he noticed Eames looked as if he was planning something.
Eames looked back at him again, without a smile this time. Arthur licked his lips and Eames didn't follow the movement, his eyes set on the other's.
"Why don't you just ask?"
Arthur frowned, noticed he was frowning and schooled his features before Eames could comment. The right corner of Eames' mouth turning up very briefly made Arthur relax just a little.
"What do you want to know, Arthur?"
Eames seemed to loom over him, he felt small and vulnerable under the covers next to Eames's flexed arm and handsome face. He fought back the urge to close his eyes, to turn around, to grab his shoes and run away. He felt like he wasn't ready for that conversation to happen, and yet he wanted nothing more than Eames lowering his face just a little closer to his.
He didn't know exactly what he wanted to know. Do you mean the things you say to me when we're alone? All the invitations to your hotel suites were only for a fuck? When the receptionist told us there was only one bed available, did you feel as scared as I did? Are you scared of us, Eames?
"What do you want?" Arthur whispered, making a conscious effort to appear calm and collected enough while avoiding making it didn't look forced under the circumstances.
Eames's eyes traveled over his features and he sighed softly again.
"To understand you, to make you understand," he whispered, "I don't know how. I feel like I've known you since forever but I can't figure out how to make you see what I see."
Arthur could have snorted because Eames always seemed to believe he was much more direct than he actually was. At least Arthur knew he was prone to overthink and worry. He wanted to point it out to lighten the mood, so that the air didn't feel as tense and forget a bit about how their bodies were so close, but Eames reached slowly, tentatively, towards him.
His hand stilled in the air, hovering over Arthur's shoulder. Eames was looking directly at Arthur's face, looking for signs of permission, or the opposite. Arthur wasn't sure of what he found, but his hand moved towards his jaw and caressed it. So softly, so gently, that Arthur sighed and had to close his eyes, not for an urge to run but because he was afraid of showing how desperate he was for Eames's touch.
The mattress moved as Eames got closer, and the fingers on his jaw transformed in a palm. And then he sensed Eames breathing close to his face and soft lips and stubble on his cheek. One kiss, two kisses, three. Short, but warm and soft. The first on his temple, the other on his cheek, and the next on the corner of his lips.
Arthur opened his eyes and saw Eames looking at him with an almost bizarre amount of uncertainty. It was the kind of look he had seen in him when they were younger and didn't know how to hide their fear very well, when they had to test new Somnacin mixes or when a job sounded almost too dangerous for the payment to be worth it. Arthur raised a hand himself, this time, and cupped Eames's jaw, feeling bolder than he had felt in a very long time. He just couldn't bear the thought that Eames felt as scared of exploring what was going on between them as Arthur himself did. What are you scared of? One of the people who know you best breaking your heart? Old enemies getting creative on their revenges? All this being a side effect of walking inside our minds together so much?
When Arthur started caressing his jaw, a new look took over Eames's eyes. This time, it reminded Arthur about how he looked when in spite of the unknown drugs and the risky jobs he remembered that it was all worth it. The dreaming and the forging, the stealing and the running. It was dangerous and scary but it makes you feel free, invincible. Like it's worth taking a shot at it because you might never get a chance to do it again, because in spite of all the danger and fear it's what you love the most.
Eames turned his head to the side and kissed his palm. Once, twice. He looked at him again and reached out to Arthur's hip with the hand belonging to the arm which wasn't supporting his weight under the covers. It rested on his hipbone, his thumb caressing a small patch of skin over Arthur's waistband. Arthur pulled him without hesitating his own hand traveling from his jaw to the back of his neck.
Arthur had always thought that kissing Eames would go over like this: He would be a little tense at first, Eames would pull back a little to check if what they were doing was okay, maybe even joke to lighten up the mood or to veil self-consciousness. And Arthur would smile over his lips and say that he was perfect, that they were perfect, and that he was sorry they didn't do that sooner but he had been worried they wouldn't work out and ruin everything.
Instead, Arthur grabbed Eames by the shoulders to get him closer than ever before, to feel the softness of the shirt he used to go to sleep on the places his own had lifted, his strong arms supporting his weight by his sides, his legs in between his own. Arthur hugged him as he kissed him, to make their chests be flush together and caress the muscles in his back. It was desperate and kind of rough at first and messy, and Arthur loved it.
Eames whispered something on Arthur's neck, a few moments later, in between soft bites and kisses. Arthur didn't understand, he could only shiver and groan at the hot and wet feeling of the lips on his skin. He didn't know what Eames had said, but he could ask him later. He would look at him straight in the eye after they fucked and asked him what he had said on his skin, if he had always meant what Arthur assumed he was joking about, if he loved him as much as he did.
As Eames marked his neck and rubbed on his hip, Arthur watched the ceiling. The white turned purple because of the sign outside. He smiled, closed his eyes and hugged Eames's waist more tightly.