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Eames has beautiful hands.
Arthur has seen those hands in a million different ways, doing a million different things. He's seen them wet with blood and caked with dirt. He's seen them perfectly manicured and curled around a glass of scotch. He's watched Eames flip a poker chip over and over across his knuckles, and he's seen Eames wrap those same fingers around a man's neck and squeeze. Those hands have brought death, and they've almost certainly brought pleasure, and Arthur can't stop staring.
It's starting to get a little dangerous, his obsession. He's caught Ariadne looking, glancing back and forth between him and Eames like she's right on the cusp of figuring it out. He's heard Yusuf asking Dom, when he thinks no one can hear, “They have a history together, don't they?”
And no, Arthur thinks, not really, nothing tangible enough to be called a history, but Jesus Christ, if Eames would let him...
The day before they're due to leave for Sydney, for the Fischer job, for a fucking inception that none of them are even sure is possible, Arthur is standing in the bathroom in the warehouse in Paris. He's been standing there for almost ten minutes, hands braced on the sink, staring at his reflection in the half-shattered mirror. Sometimes, when he's been dreaming for too long, it's hard for him to recognize himself in real life.
The door behind him opens and Eames steps into the bathroom. Arthur slips a hand into his pocket, checks his totem, and lets Eames catch his eye in the mirror. There's something different between them, something that changes the second they see each other. Arthur doesn't even breathe when Eames walks up behind him.
They watch each other-- they're always fucking watching each other, circling each other, neither of them willing to make the first move-- and then Eames slips an arm around Arthur, doesn't touch him except to press two fingertips against his bottom lip.
Arthur gasps.
“Jesus, Arthur,” Eames spits. He shoves both fingers into Arthur's mouth, rubs Arthur's tongue and pulls back again to wet Arthur's mouth with his own saliva. The heat of his body burns into Arthur as he leans in, brushes an almost-kiss against Arthur's ear, and whispers, “Lovely chatting with you darling, but I've got to run. What do you say we finish this conversation in L.A., hm?”
And then he's gone, turned on his heel and leaving Arthur to clutch at the sink with his knees weak and his cheeks flushed, and the taste of Eames' fingers lingering in his mouth.