sirona_fics | [Fic] The cunning artifices of the wearer, Arthur/Eames, Inception

i_reversebang
Art Prompt Title: Sunrise
Art link: Art Master Post
Artist:

emlyn2

Fic Title: The cunning artifices of the wearer
Pairing(s): Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Word Count: ~4,300
Warnings: suit!porn

Summary: Arthur is not a petty kind of guy, he really isn't -- but a bet's a bet, and he can't wait to see Eames' gorgeous body draped to its every advantage. Besides, it would be a shame for all his beautiful choices to go to waste. He is not at all prepared for the way Eames takes to the experience.

Notes:

emlyn2, you have been a joy to write for! I've been meaning to take a forray in the depths of suit!porn, and this gave me the most perfect excuse! Thank you as always to my SuperBeta,

zolac_no_miko. Special thanks go to

hackthis and

bennet_7 for compiling and posting the How to Dress Your Man/Character: An Informal Tutorial and Costumes in Inception for the use of us writers. Title adapted from a quote by Herman Melville. I don't own any of the clothes featured here, but by god, I wish I could wear them!

Know, first, who you are; and then adorn yourself accordingly. ~Epictetus

The cunning artifices of the wearer

“Arthur, I really don’t think--”

“Eames. Did I, or did I not, win our bet?”

“I still maintain that this was not in the spirit of our agreement--”

“Eames.”

“Oh, bloody hell, okay, fine. Yes, Arthur. You won the sodding bet.”

‘There you are, then,” Arthur smirks and drapes the jacket over Eames’ grudgingly outstretched arm. “Off you go now.”

Eames throws him a venomous look, but goes into the changing room like the good boy he’s pretending to be. Arthur watches the broad planes of his back with satisfaction. The three-piece Valentino is going to drape beautifully over those square shoulders. It’s high time Eames learns to dress himself; Arthur is fed up with his eyes hurting and his teeth grinding from the horrific combinations Eames pulls out of his admittedly fantastic ass.

It’s no secret that Arthur appreciates a well-tailored suit -- he spends a significant portion of his satisfyingly large income catering to said fancy. Eames rakes in as much cash as he does, if not more, so Arthur is not going to stand by and watch this abuse of taste continue unchecked any longer. Six years is enough.

He can hear Eames mutter to himself behind the drawn curtain of the cubicle; he sounds so righteously pissed that Arthur can’t hold back a chuckle. He’s not doing this to piss Eames off (well--okay, maybe a little, that had been a seriously nice suit Eames had ruined); if anything he’s doing the frustrating man a favour. He’s a forger, for god’s sake; he needs to know how to present himself for every occasion, not just casual everyday stuff.

And yes, okay, this isn’t a completely selfless endeavour. It’s not about just proving a point, either -- Arthur has been dying to see Eames all dressed up in proper, well-fitted clothes. Even though Eames favours a looser cut, it’s not nearly enough to hide the seriously fantastic shape he keeps his body in. They’ve been working with each other on and off for a while now, but in all that time there’s yet to have been a need for anything more formal than a pair of fine linen pants and a jacket. Arthur’s stomach tightens in anticipation of seeing those gorgeous muscles draped to Eames’ every advantage.

Eames pushes the curtain away; Arthur’s head snaps around to look.

Eames’ hair has still not grown out of the military buzz the last job required. Perhaps that is why the gorgeous Valentino suit that Arthur had been so sure about looks incomprehensibly awful on him. Arthur’s mouth falls open in dismay. What the hell? That’s one of the most exquisitely tailored suits of the entire Fall/Winter ‘08 collection! The two-buttoned jacket, the tapered pants, even the high waistcoat are perfectly turned out. So why does it look like Eames is playing dress-up? It does not suit him at all. The colour goes really well with his skin; the jacket fits Eames’ shoulders to perfection, curving around his body to accentuate his long legs and narrow waist. And yet...

“It looks terrible,” Eames says, looking at himself in the mirror. “I thought you were trying to entice me to wear suits, not put me off for life!”

“I am!” Arthur protests, still fighting to understand where he could have gone so disastrously wrong. Eames makes a face at his reflection. Arthur pulls himself together.

“Okay, all right, take that thing off,” he says at last, catching the jacket as Eames shrugs it off and glaring at it as if it had personally betrayed him. “Obviously that doesn’t work. Let’s try something else.”

He goes over to the clothes rail groaning under the weight of at least thirty suits, and selects a sleek Louis Vuitton number with a notch lapel, passing it over. Eames still looks mistrustful, but Arthur sets his face, and Eames sighs in resignation. He takes it gingerly and retreats back behind the curtain.

Arthur tries to let his ruffled feathers settle, sitting back in the luxurious armchair, at the private changing rooms of the exclusive boutique he’d dragged Eames to the morning after their last, almost botched job. He sips at his glass of sparkling mineral water, breathing deeply in a bid to calm himself. Surely this one will fit just fine?

Eames trudges out of the cubicle, looking murderous. “Are you taking the piss?” he says. The Vuitton looks like something Eames found in a charity shop, made for someone shorter and bulkier than him. Eames turns towards the mirror and physically recoils.

“Off, off,” Arthur says, horrified, and tugs the jacket away himself. “I just don’t understand! It’s a beautiful suit!”

“It makes me look like I’ve rented it for the night,” Eames growls.

“I know!” Arthur agrees, because it really is that bad. “Right. Okay. Fine. Time for something different.”

“Oh, god,” Eames moans dramatically under his breath, but follows obediently.

Arthur stands in front of the rail, hands firmly planted on his hips, and glares at the rest of his options. Based on the last two abysmal choices, he dismisses the Neil Barrett and the Hermes immediately. It’s obvious this kind of minimalistic design is doing nothing for Eames’ frame. He’s going to have to get more adventurous.

“Seriously?” Eames says, but takes the wool Dolce & Gabbana suit Arthur offers him, going back behind the curtain.

Arthur is starting to get a little nervous, which is ridiculous -- his taste in fashion is excellent, has been ever since he was little, when his mother would always ask his opinion on her new clothes -- and what’s more, listen. There must be something wrong with Eames. There must be.

Eames walks out, looking uncomfortable. He keeps tugging on the narrow-spread collar and fidgeting with the top of the waistcoat; the pants look far too tight on his muscular thighs. “I feel like I’m wearing armour,” he says, standing in front of the mirror with trepidation. “Jesus Christ, I look like the old man.” The expression on his face speaks volumes as to what he thinks about that.

He does look like a stuffy old man. Arthur is aghast. “How the hell do you manage to make Dolce & Gabbana look out of fashion?” he wails, repressing the urge to run his hands through his hair in frustration.

“Oi, don’t put this on me!” Eames returns, incensed. “It’s your bloody suit’s fault!”

“Fuck. Okay. Forget about it. Redo.” Arthur marches to the clothing rail like he’s chasing down a mark. This is getting personal.

Eames stomps right behind him, shucking the jacket and crossing his arms over the vest. It’s a little tight right at the top, and it looks like it’s digging into his chest. Arthur has no earthly idea what the fuck Eames is doing to perfectly good tailoring, but he’s starting to get good and pissed off with it.

He pulls out the Armani and considers the single-button waistcoat against Eames’ abdomen, narrowing his eyes. No. He tries the other Vuitton next.

“Hell no,” Eames interjects, baring his teeth. “I’m going to look like some kind of damned prince or something--don’t say a bloody word, Arthur, I know what you’re thinking and it’s not funny.”

Arthur, who had been about to remind him that he was technically 53rd in line to the English throne, shuts his mouth and discards the suit. He skips right past the other Barrett -- he has no idea what he was thinking when he pulled that one out for Eames to try on. He considers the Prada, looks at Eames’ disgusted expression and moves it to the ‘No’ rail without a word.

“Hmm,” he says, eyeing the Cavalli next on the rail.

“Hmm,” Eames echoes, tilting his head in consideration. “All right, give it here.”

He’s back out in no time, staring at himself in the mirror. It’s... better, Arthur thinks. This one drapes down his body just right, even if the peak lapels clash a little with the size of his shoulders. Still not quite right, though--

Eames shifts. It’s so subtle, so infinitesimal, that at first Arthur has no idea what happened, just that all of a sudden Eames looks like a few million dollars. He looks taller, his shoulders a shade narrower, his bearing much more refined. Even the look in his eyes has changed -- it’s not the Eames Arthur knows, the Eames that has been bickering with him all day; hell, it’s not even the Eames that got himself spotted during his last con as a former model-turned-fashion-assistant, the one that sparked this whole debacle. It’s an Eames that doesn’t get out of bed before noon, and not for a less-than-five-figure sum; an Eames who rarely goes to said bed before four in the morning, and never alone; who drinks nothing but Cristal; who’s gorgeous and knows it; who doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, because he’s never had to.

Arthur stares, enthralled. This is Eames at his best, effortlessly shifting into character, changing and adapting until he’s unrecognisable, and yet everything a mark might dream of. Sometimes Arthur forgets just how damn good Eames is at his job; and then there’s a moment like this one, when he’s all but walloped over the head with the reminder.

It’s also so very wrong that it’s all Arthur can do not to rip the stupid suit off him and shake him until his Eames is back. The thought is so utterly unexpected, so unsettling, that he deletes it immediately.

“There we are,” he says grudgingly. “That’s one option sorted. Let’s try a few more.”

Eames shakes himself, and oh, thank fuck, his Eames is back, too-broad shoulders and too-stupid hair and so perfect Arthur can barely breathe.

This sets quite the precedent for the rest of the fitting session. In the Zegna Eames looks like some eccentric Greek billionaire. The unusual curve of the double-breasted jacket’s tails and the interesting flap under the narrow lapels create a unique silhouette, and the pants are loose yet tapered, accentuating his long legs. He looks so gorgeous that Arthur has trouble drawing air; yet he also looks untouchable, detached, like there’s a wall of glass between him and the world.

Eames turns to look at the way the jacket’s single vent falls open when he thrusts a hand in his pants’ pocket; instead of ruining the line of the jacket, it makes him look even more appealing, portrays a confidence in his looks that doesn’t even consider wondering what other people might think. It’s almost like magic, how Eames transforms himself, fits a simple suit to a certain character.

“This is--not awful,” Eames allows, sounding surprised. His accent has thickened and become more clipped, the cut-glass tones of an aristocrat born and bred -- which is what he is, even if he spends most of his time trying to forget it.

“See?” Arthur says, trying for nonchalant. He’d do whatever it takes to cling to his composure in the face of Eames’ flawless competence, even if nothing makes him hotter than a confident, capable man. “Still not quite ‘you’, though.”

“I thought we were trying on characters, not picking out a suit for me,” Eames remarks with an arched eyebrow.

“We are, yes, but Ja--” Arthur cuts himself off, cheeks flushing as he curses himself for how blatantly obvious his distraction is.

Eames turns to stare at him, arrested. “Is this about James’ christening?” he says, sounding like something is finally clicking into place.

“You are going to be his godfather; you should at least try to look presentable,” Arthur throws back, fighting down his embarrassment.

“Darling, you’ve already bought the boy his first three-piece suit; I don’t know what you want me to play dress-up for.” His grin is equal parts amused and fond. Arthur grimaces, feeling caught out.

“I just--” he trails off, frowning. Anything more will be uncomfortably, unacceptably revealing; there isn’t a way in the world to say “I want ‘you’, not a character you play” without sounding desperate -- or, god forbid, besotted. “You should set a good example, is all,” he says lamely instead.

Eames looks at him for a long moment, the unspoken ‘he’s three months old’ hanging heavy between them as Eames’ green-grey eyes bore into him; Arthur has the unsettling feeling that Eames sees right through him.

“Okay,” Eames says at last, turning back to the mirror and unbuttoning the lovely jacket slowly, showing off the gorgeous charcoal-grey shirt that goes with the suit. The tie is the same colour as the shirt, tied in a neat half-Windsor knot to suit the wide spread collar. He looks utterly delectable. Arthur feels his pants tighten when Eames slips the jacket off his shoulders with a graceful shrug, reaching up to tug the knot loose with long, clever fingers. His face is turned away, but Arthur can see his eyes glinting out of the corners, observing him slyly. The thought that Eames might be putting on a show for him sends a white-hot jolt of want straight down his spine; he inhales sharply, arousal burning fiercely, low in his belly. He can’t help his eyes narrowing to protect his swiftly dilating pupils from the light, however, so he turns away quickly and heads for the clothes rail once again, forcing his mind onto the next choice.

He almost doesn’t want to let Eames try the Varvatos smocking, especially when he thinks about the way Eames’ hands will look in those gloves, black leather sheathing his palms to divert attention to strong, agile fingers that Arthur has had way too many inappropriate thoughts about of late.

In the end, Eames takes one look at the satin lapels and curls his upper lip in distaste. Arthur is not relieved. At all. He’s annoyed, is what he is; really.

“Fine,” he says, making a good show of looking resigned. “This one, then?” He holds up the other Varvatos option, which Eames eyes with more consideration, but ultimately rejects.

“Boring,” he says flatly.

“Boring?!” Arthur echoes, looking back at the lovely cut of the jacket, the perfectly shaped pants, and shakes his head in dismay.

“Boring,” Eames confirms. He makes the same face at the Nautica navy pinstriped suit, which surprises Arthur even more, because he’d have thought it would be right up Eames’ street. How is it that his fabled instincts are so consistently wrong about Eames, when they are usually so spot-on about everything else? Arthur doesn’t like it in the slightest.

He rolls his eyes. “Would you prefer something more like this?” he smirks, pulling out the Moschino navy suit with red stitching that he’d chosen more for shits and giggles than as an actual viable option. He does not expect Eames’ eyes to light up with joy, but light they do.

“Finally!” he crows, making grabby hands as he nudges Arthur’s shoulder with his own. “You’re dreaming a little bigger at last, Arthur! I like it!” His grin is positively demonic as he whisks the suit away behind the curtain.

Arthur is not at all prepared for the way the superfine Merino wool hugs every inch of Eames’ body, the way the perfectly tailored pants cling to his long legs, the lovingly garbed curve of his ass that is afforded by the double vent of the jacket when Eames turns in front of the mirror and it flares, shifting with the movement. Arthur’s palms grow damp with the need to follow that curve, to stroke his way over one taut hipbone and down to the crease where Eames’ thigh joins his groin, make his way just that little bit lower...

He realises he’s staring when Eames whips around again and Arthur tracks the movement in the mirror behind him. He can see a part of his own reflection, lips pouting open and nostrils flaring as the view of Eames’ crotch is replaced by the view of his ass. His eyes are drawn back around to where the pants are just loose enough not to mould to Eames’ groin; at this point, it’s more annoying than it is a relief, and Arthur’s fingers itch to find out just how tightly he can get them to fit.

He closes his mouth with a snap and blinks quickly a few times; he feels his own lashes feather over his cheekbones, and hell if it doesn’t turn him on even more. Every touch right now would be a touch too much for his composure. Why the hell had he thought this would be a good idea?! This is torture, is what it is. Jesus.

Eames’ half-lidded gaze traces over Arthur’s face. “I take it you approve?” he says, voice low and husky. Arthur swallows reflexively when Eames holds his eyes and deliberately reaches up to straighten the fat Windsor knot he’s fashioned from the red-and-navy-blue striped tie.

“It’s fine,” Arthur croaks before clearing his throat and forcing himself to turn away. It looks like he’s finally on the right track; it’s somewhat of a revelation. He mentally scratches off the gorgeous Rykiel suit he’d lined up next -- the trousers are way too narrow, anyway -- as well as the most conservative Paul Smith suit that he’d been able to find. The Perry Ellis one, though...

“Here,” he says, composing himself with some effort. “Try this.”

Eames looks suspicious, but takes it away eagerly, almost disbelieving that Arthur would let him try on something so wonderfully colourful, patterned shirt and all. Arthur smiles faintly. He’s getting an inkling as to how different, how wrong his understanding of Eames has been all this time. It comes over him like a smack to the back of the head -- this is who Eames really is. He is a chameleon; he’s whatever you want him to be. He slips on roles one after the other, like well-worn suits; he sifts through the ways people perceive him and tailors himself to fit, the perfect blank canvas, no more than an approximation of himself. Arthur would bet his yearly income that Eames had done the same thing to him, years ago when they first met -- seen right through him, drawn out Arthur’s preconceptions and first impressions, and shaped his reactions to satisfy what he’d thought Arthur wanted from him. The realisation leaves him shaken, floundering as his mind rearranges to take it all in.

Yet now that Eames--trusts him? The thought’s a heady rush--he’s allowing Arthur a glimpse of the real him underneath the mask, of the true face beneath the performance. Arthur feels at once cut adrift and privileged to be witnessing this -- he’s abruptly certain that he is one of very few people to have been allowed to see this side of Eames, a snapshot of what lurks beneath the act -- the frightening intelligence, the undeniable vulnerability of letting yourself be so open with someone when the nature of your business is deceit.

It makes Arthur’s heart pump double-time, sending adrenaline surging through his veins. He feels alive in the most incredible way, now that he finally starts to understand the shift and flow of the past six years, to separate the act from the half-truths, to spot the way Eames’ unguarded thoughts have a tendency to break through when you least expect them. The puzzle that is this fascinating, infuriating man falls into place with breakneck speed as Arthur methodically strips their history down to the building blocks, finds all the ways the bits and pieces fit together -- it’s a perk of being the best point man around, and he utilises it mercilessly.

’Huh,’ he thinks to himself, looking at the results with the detached objectivity he has spent years perfecting. ‘So you’re in love with me. That’s certainly unexpected. Though not quite as unexpected as me being in love with you, too.’

He tugs at his own half-Windsor knot, loosening it and slipping the top button on his collar open; and it’s like something is loosening inside him, too, some tension that he hadn’t even been aware he was carrying lifting and floating away. He’s in love with Eames. That explains so much.

Eames picks that moment to stride out of the changing cubicle, smoothing an appreciative hand down his waistcoat and straightening the four-in-hand knot on his silk pinkish-bronze tie. He’s put the whole ensemble on, including the round-toe brown Oxfords and the black leather gloves. Arthur’s heart does something in his chest that he’d previously been sure was physiologically impossible.

Eames takes one look at him, and Arthur has the pleasure of watching his brow smooth and his mesmerising lips quirk up at the corners. Eames watches him back, fond and a little exasperated.

“Took you long enough,” he says, eyes warm, voice soft, caressing.

Arthur huffs. “Well, you didn’t make it easy for me,” he says defensively.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Eames smiles. Arthur can’t help but grin back.

Eames’ smile mutates into something dangerous, alluring. He prowls forward intently, only stopping when there’s no more than a couple of inches of space between them. Slowly, he lifts his hand and traces a leather-clad forefinger over the dimple in Arthur’s right cheek; Arthur’s breath stutters at the subtle, knowing touch, and his lips fall open. Eames’ eyes shift lower, fastening on them. He lets out a strangled moan and swoops in, kissing Arthur thoroughly, messily, desperately. Arthur’s arms are around his shoulders faster than he can think, fingers clutching at the fine wool of the rust-coloured jacket, probably wrinkling it until only dry-cleaning could restore the beautiful lines. He finds he couldn’t care less.

Eames pulls back only enough for their lips to separate, to brush together wetly as they pant into each other’s mouths. Arthur rubs the side of his nose against Eames’ softly, a tiny caress that makes Eames smile against his lips and press another small kiss to them. Arthur is dimly aware of large hands holding his hips possessively, fingers digging in ever-so-slightly under his jacket. He wants to feel those hands close over his bare skin; wants to find the bruises when he wakes up in the morning, satisfied and languid and drowsy with sex and the closeness of Eames sprawled beside him; wants to trace the blue-black marks until he memorises the shape of Eames’ fingerprints; wants to discover them all over his body at the start of every day, again and again and again.

He feels pretty languid now, kiss-drunk and happy, Eames’ warmth plastered against his front and the private room’s silk-lined wall at his back. His cock is not feeling nearly as relaxed, pressed as it is against Eames’ own hardness, distorting the lines of both their pants. Eames rocks into his hips a little, half-helpless and half-insistent, and Arthur shudders against him, legs parting a little to let Eames slip further into the space between them. The feel of him is electric, setting every inch of Arthur’s skin gloriously alive with need.

“Jesus,” Arthur mutters after he’s kissed Eames again, tasted the morning coffee on his tongue, wrangled a smothered moan from Eames’ throat. “Now is not the time or the place.”

“Regretfully, you’re quite right,” Eames rasps, sounding as dizzy as Arthur feels. He presses their foreheads together for a moment before pulling back, watching Arthur watch him as he reaches down and blatantly adjusts himself inside those beautifully cut pants.

Arthur draws in a shaky breath and turns back towards the clothes rack, in a bid to distract himself from the overwhelming need to unzip said pants and take Eames’ cock out, draw it into his mouth right then and there while Eames’ gloved hands clutch at his hair, messing up the short strands. Until Eames gives up any semblance of restraint and tugs Arthur down further, and Arthur feels the head of Eames’ cock slip down his throat. Oh, god. He has to stop thinking about it lest he spills into his pants like he hasn’t done in going on fifteen years.

He forces his eyes to run over the three options left (they’re buying the Perry Ellis suit, of course; Arthur has plans for those gloves), until he’s got it together enough to decide to disregard the stunning three-piece Bottega Veneta. He’s had his eye on it ever since he saw it on the catwalk, and he’s already put in an order for one of his own -- but it’s not really Eames. The Etro option would probably be perfect for a disguise, but it’s a leftover dig from before Arthur had worked out the mystery of Eames in his own head, and he dismisses it from his list. Which leaves...

“Last one,” he says, grinning in challenge as he holds up the Jean Paul Gautier, lets the bowler hat swing teasingly off the tip of one finger. Eames’ eyes dance with mirth as he plucks it from Arthur’s hold, but Arthur doesn’t miss the covetous glance he casts at the deliciously soft camel overcoat. I’ve got your number now, Mr Eames, he thinks to himself, settling back into the plush armchair with a sigh of satisfaction, while Eames disappears behind the curtain one last time. You’re not half as subtle as you think you are, when one knows where to look.

And Arthur does.

-----

Current Mood: happy

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

altri-uccelli.livejournal.com

This is suit!porn raised to some kind of exponent! So incredibly delicious. I love the way you explore artifice, appearance and truth here, and Arthur's slow revelation was wonderful. I definitely have strong feelings about Tom Hardy's clothes; he, like Eames, is such a chameleon, and I sometimes positively flinch at the way his dress choices hide his beauty. (That light blue shirt and the perfectly tailored navy trousers in all the This Means War shots SO spoiled me). I am totally going to read this again when the suit links are working (LJ, I know you're trying, but you are irritating the fuck out of me). Lovely work, bb. &hearts

From: