You can imagine this is the Arthur that Eames sees coming towards him, striding across the patio of some over-hyped restaurant in L.A. Eames had thought he’d been doing a good job of keeping his mind off Arthur, all things considered—had convinced himself, in the six months that have gone by since they last saw each other in Rio, that he’s been embellishing on the attraction, building it up in his head, making it out to be something it wasn’t, surely—
But now here’s Arthur with his loose-hipped stride and his gunmetal suit, and Eames feels it like a ringing in his ears, something electric in his blood. The curve of Arthur’s waist beneath his waistcoat makes his mouth go dry.
“Eames,” Arthur says, sliding into the chair across from him, adjusting his trousers so he doesn’t ruin their knife-edge crease. The fabric makes a little rustle. It sounds like money.
“Arthur,” Eames says, and lets his tongue flicker over his lips.
He hasn’t been making it up, after all. He wants to peel back that little tail end of Arthur’s tie with his teeth.