#a;main

@thepointman

Of all the clever retorts Eames expects to come out of Arthur’s mouth, that is not one of them. He stares, dumbfounded, the words ringing in his ears, disbelief clear on his features even as Arthur tries to somehow amend his words.

If Eames was listening correctly -- which he’s not at all positive he was -- Arthur just suggested that they should be engaged.

He blinks and frowns, brows pinned, his head slowly beginning to shake even before he has words to retaliate with. He’s not letting Arthur shirk off that thought without some elaboration. He doesn’t care if it was an instantaneous response, one fired back without consideration -- it’s one of the only times Eames has managed to force Arthur’s hand without allowing him ten minutes of contemplation to carefully choose his words, and he’s going to milk it for all he can.

“That is not what you meant,” Eames says, jabbing a finger at him, even though he can feel the anger dying down, replaced with confusion and puzzlement and a strangely overwhelming feeling of anticipation, for what he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even remember what they were fighting about, because all he’s thinking of now is the idea of being engaged to Arthur. Being married to Arthur. Being Arthur’s husband.

Sure, the thought has crossed his mind. How could it not have, given all the years they’ve been together? They’ve been friends and enemies, lovers and boyfriends, something more and something less all at once. Arthur is his world -- that’s not hard to admit. Eames hasn’t even so much as looked at someone else in what feels like a lifetime. Every hole in his life Arthur seems to fill, seamlessly and naturally, like he’s meant to fit there. Eames doesn’t ever want to turn over in the middle of the night to any sight other than a zombified Arthur sleeping soundly next to him.

But marriage is so permanent. Marriage is vows and promises Eames doesn’t know if he can make. Marriage is compromise and hardship and sacrifice, and Eames has spent his whole life building walls so that he doesn’t have to bend for anyone else. He knows what it feels like to be vulnerable; to lay yourself down for someone only for them to tread all over you without a second thought. But Arthur? Eames thinks that for Arthur, he’d gladly take that risk.

The thought used to terrify him.

Now it feels like something else entirely.