Arthur felt like he didn't know where he came from. He'd just look away and feel like he was run over. He was slightly misanthropic. He'd let people try to dissect him, but he'd glare and look away. He was an intellectual. He loved reading classic stories, listening to jazz or classical music, and dressing his best.

So whenever he heard that voice, felt his hands, smelt him, he felt off.

He'd get clammy and get even more uptight. He didn't know why he'd flush whenever anything that had to do with sex rolled of Eames' tongue.

Eames was secretly a hopeless romantic. But then again, he fell in love with anyone who gave him the slightest bit of affection. Eames loved teasing Arthur. He loved seeing new facial expressions. He knew Arthur for years, when they were introduced to eachother by Cobb. And the whole time he got to know him, he never looked away. Arthur was always a person of intrigue, someone you wanted to decipher.

He found the whole thing thrilling. Eames was fickle, noncommittal, brave. He didn't know fear. And he loved a good laugh and smoke. And then he saw Arthur shirtless in his apartment.

After their last job, they bought a small apartment in New York. Cobb and Arthur stayed mostly in the west coat of the states, while Eames stayed in London, and Ariadne in Paris. But when they wanted to, they all flew in to New York to spend time together, and take some extraction missions. So then Cobb had to take a break, and Ariadne went to Germany for two months. And it was only Eames and Arthur.

Arthur stepped out of the shower at seven in the morning. It's the only time he found solace. Eames was always planning trips for the two, and always dragging him everywhere. He asked questions insistently, and was always so happy. He found it exhausting. Eames was a heavy sleeper, so he didn't care as to what he did at that time in the morning. Arthur walked into the room they shared in small boxer briefs, toweling his head- and as he pulled it over his hair and eyes, he saw a smirking Eames staring directly at him.

Arthur, the prude, as Eames called him, turned on his heel and fled as he covered himself. His cheeks were pink. Eames had eyes that really stared into you. They were grey and never wavered. They could be intimidating when he was angry, gorgeous when he was sad, beautiful when he was happy, and unbearable when he stared at you with lust. Arthur felt jitters in his stomach and sighed, his forehead in his hand.

"Cmon love, where'd ya go? I was just getting a show-" Arthur threw the towel at his face. Eames ducked and smirked as he rose back up from bending his knees.

"Your are a goddamn creeper." Arthur said playfully, but despite his annoyance. Eames stuck his tongue out at him childishly, but came closer to the almost naked man.

"Well with what you're working with, its no surprise even a man as impeccably stunning as myself, would be quite taken with the likes of you-" Arthur shut the door in his face and sunk to the floor, his back on the door. He glared at the floor, but he felt a smile tug on his face.

"I can prove to you what a creeper I am, darling; I'll wait here until you admit defeat and run into my arms-" Again he was cut off.

"Well , I'd rather crawl through the window in what I'm wearing than open this door."

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks." Eames laughed. Eames was undeniably turned on, even by their playful conversation, but mostly by what a gorgeous body Arthur hid under his three-piece suits.

"Alright Eames, I have to get out now." Arthur finally said, impatiently.

"So you admit defeat?"

"No, but I have my ways of making you admit yours." Arthur said quietly. Eames stood up.

"Do you now? Darling, as much as I find you a threat to anyone else, you don't intimidate me. Come outta there and show me then." Arthur stepped out, the towel around his waist, and Eames took him all in with his eyes.

"My eyes are up here, Eames. And what was that empty threat you try to insinuate earlier?" He smirked as Eames tried to think of whatever the hell insinuate meant. Eames suddenly ran his fingers through his own hair, and licked his lips. Arthur felt himself suddenly shrink back into the wall, as arousal and all the suppressed feelings in himself began to rise.

The brit's gaze seemed to intensify greatly, and just putting his hand on Arthur's shoulder made him jump. Eames pinned him against the wall, put his lips against his jaw, and trailed it down to his neck. Then he rested his hand on his shoulder, the other on his thigh. He was pressed against him, and felt water drip from Arthur's nearly dry head. Their foreheads were touching, and Arthur never felt more excited and nauseous at the same time.

"This is me seducing you, love. What are you going to do about it?" Eames was oozing sex appeal, and Arthur couldn't look away, and his composure broke as he grabbed Eames' face and drew him into a fierce kiss. Eames bit on his bottom lip and slipped his tongue inside. His hand pulled the towel off him, and he felt his chest, and put his hand into his briefs. Eames felt his own cock rise as he saw Arthur's face ripe with pleasure. He began to suck on him slowly at first, and began to bob his head faster, never more hornier and excited.

It was actually happening, Eames kept thinking. Eames never revealed it to anyone, but he harbored feelings for Arthur for years. They always fought, played together, sometimes spoke seriously in eachothers company- they were always together. Though they got on eachother's nerves- they were inseparable. Arthur was always pulling back as Eames pushed on, unafraid.

Eames loved Arthur. He found him to be the most sweetest, delicate man under his professional, collected semblance. He was the only one who saw it.

And when he entered Arthur, he had the biggest flutter in his heart, and though he felt so dirty, so raw, with the man he loved under him, he still felt like they were those two boys fighting, with Cobb as the mediator. He felt like they were one. It was strange for Eames to think it, bu he did. Because under all these layers upon layers of tension, they were always smiling at one another, always thinking about eachother.

And when he came, he whispered, "I fucking love you darling," and rolled over, panting just slightly. Arthur closed his eyes and let it sink in. Eames, after hearing nothing but their own breathing, turned onto his stomach and looked at Arthur, who was thinking.

"I don't care if you don't love me back," He said loudly, then softly, "you can pretend if you want. For the night, atleast." And under scrutiny of Arthur's eyes, Eames turned onto his back and laid his head on Arthur's chest.

Even if it was an escape for Arthur, he never wanted him to slow down and stop.

Even if he had to pretend. Even if nothing existed, if absolutely nothing existed between the two, Eames didn't mind being used by him.

And everytime they had sex, he always told him that he loved him, and that it didn't matter what he thought or said. He just felt Arthur hold him greatly.

Eames always noticed the little things Arthur did, showing affection every now and then. They weren't just sex-buddies. Atleast, Eames hoped not. Eames continued to love every flaw in him, because in his mind, they were completely beautiful, in its own offhanded way. And he never looked at Arthur any different. They still played their little games, they still were best friends, companions, and partners. But Eames yearned, subconciously, that he'd love him back.

And he kept trying.

They'd fly to New York, have sex, and then sleep. And on his birthday, when Eames was in London on his own, feeling depressed as he drank out of his flask, he'd find Arthur standing in the rain, waiting to get in. And Eames would kiss him all over his face, and hug him, and tears would slip out from under Eames, and Eames would laugh as he cried because crying never really suited him, and Arthur would be as quiet as he always was, and take Eames' hand in his, and go to the room together.

And though Eames found himself so lonely, as he would be in another country from his lover, he'd vow to never leave Arthur as lonely as Arthur left him.

And Eames would continue to find Arthur through all his running, all his traveling, all his escaping. And Arthur would never be surprised, almost as if he was hoping to be found. He'd be staring at him with his calm eyes, so demure, so pure, the side of Arthur that Eames was happy to know was all his own.

Arthur wouldn't know what to do with himself. He didn't want to love anyone, and he felt that Eames' love was wasted. He'd wish so many bad things on everyone. He trusted no one. Eames would never leave him alone. He wanted to be alone. He didn't hate Eames. Maybe he was scared. He just couldn't take that leap of faith. He found himself drinking in a hotel room alone all the time. And then he'd wish Eames was there with him.

Arthur felt so much more alive with him, however.

Arthur was always so empty inside. He was a misanthrope, after all. He didn't have a family. Eames and Cobb and Ariadne were the only people who knew when his birthday was. Arthur kept himself to himself, and felt invisible to everyone and everything. And he hated himself sometimes. Because when he would see Eames beautiful blue-gray eyes, and his toothy grins, and his tears, and laughs, an his hugs, his kisses- and everything would feel so thrilling, and he knew he was alive then. He was happy.

So when he was in New York, waiting for Eames to arrive to the apartment, he'd never felt more excited. He'd wait to see those penetrating eyes. He never felt more vulnerable under his gaze. He'd wait to wrap his arms around him, and breathe in his scent. And he'd know that Eames wasn't that one-night stand anymore.

Eames was forever.

Eames was a lifetime.

And when he recieved that call from a weak-sounding Eames, he rushed to the hospital, distraught. And when he saw Eames unconcious, IVs in his arm, bandages around certain places, gashes healing, bruises, broken bones jutting out, he wanted to break something. He punched the wall, as tears slid down his cheeks.

Because if there was anything more dangerous than loving Eames, it was losing him.

And he sat there in the daytime, and slept there in the nighttime, and smiled when he would wake up, and tear when he'd sleep again. And he'd hold his hand, and he'd watch him and wish more than anything, and he'd pray to the god he thought might not even exist, that out of anything in his life, anything at all, he'd let Eames live. And he'd watch Eames struggle with his breath sometimes, and at other times he'd watch him try and lift his head. He'd hope with him, and when he couldn't do it, he'd look out the window blankly and hold Eames as he sobbed.

And he felt shattered when they told them Eames might stay in a wheelchair, might not recover. And he fell for Eames a long time ago, he'd realize, that night they told them the news. He'd been denying it, supressing it, hiding it. He'd been running, scared and worried. He was scared, he didn't want to give in to his happiness.

He was in love with Eames, undeniably and truthfully in love with the cocky bastard that used to call him a prude and a jackass. And when Eames wouldn't wake for a long time, he'd run through all their memories together and laugh and cry and he'd take one of Eames' cigarettes, what he once considered a 'nasty habit', and try and smoke it just to remember him.

And then when Eames woke up and told him that he still loved him, at three in the morning, Arthur laughed and told him he loved him too. That he always loved him, and that he was sorry, so sorry, for the things he did and said. And Eames would shake his head and laugh, calling him darling and kissing his forehead.

And Eames would sometimes shake from pain in his bed, and Arthur would hold him and they'd stay up together, talking and kissing and talking some more.

"Marry me, Arthur?" Eames said jokingly, one night.

"No, you fucking psycho." Arthur smiled right at him, one of those dashing smiles saved only for him.

"I can honestly say, you're the only psycho I'll be with. I know that much." He smiled, that hopeful, earnest smile.

"Don't make early promises."

"We can own a nice, small house together." Eames said modestly, something so uncharacteristic of him.

"Don't be afraid to dream bigger, darling. Let's own a ranch." Arthur grinned, mocking him again.

"Let's do it then. Mr. and Mr. Eames." Eames smiled, and tears would fall from his eyes then, and Arthur would cry too, and they were so confused that they could cry for anything.

They were supposed to be men, Eames would remind him with a childishly determined look on his face. And Arthur would just glare, but his lips would be smiling, and he'd plant little kisses along his jaw like he liked it.

It was torture to watch Eames lieing there, writhing in pain, but when Eames finally brought home, Arthur fucked him senseless, and then it was his turn to lay on his side, staring at his lover as they were both out of breath, before telling him how much he loved the stupid, sexy, cocky, british arsehole.

And Eames would burrow his face in his neck and they would realize that the world wasn't just so horrible as they always thought it was, and maybe that they were the only humans in the world that were meant for eachother, but they wouldn't care too much because they weren't philosophers, they were just too boys in love.

-
I hope that was cohesive, and romantic and interesting enough. I liked writing it. At first I was going to make it a sexy story, but then I just found myself trailing into this semi-angsty, semi-dramatic plotline that spun off the top of my head. I hope some people enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. Also, I don't really write "sexy" scenes so this turned out interesting. I just love the dynamic between Eames and Arthur in all the fanfiction I read on this website, so this just was out of love and inspiration.

I don't know, I'm rambling. The most honest reviews are happily welcomed. Let me know if I can change anything. Thank you anyone, and everyone.