That pout. That pout.
Eames would do any number of questionable things to ease that pout even a little. Eames would steal something priceless, something mad; he’d drive a car off a cliff (and he doesn’t even drive); he’d hurl himself in front of a racing team of horses. Eames would lie to his ever-loving Aunt Phaedre. He — god, yes — he would even mount a revival of the dreadful full-frontal literally-masturbatory one-act he did at the Edinburgh Fringe the summer he was nineteen and eager to show the world his cock and his first-ever tattoo.
"Hey, no," says Eames now, tipping Arthur’s chin up with two fingertips. That plump shelf of lower lip, protruding ever so slightly: how can it make Eames frantic? It’s unimaginable, the power of it. “Don’t — I can’t bear it, I take it all back."
Arthur resists meeting Eames’ eyes, not so easily satisfied. “It’s okay," he disclaims. “I’m sorry I brought it up."
"Nonsense, of course I will, not another word," Eames says, and slips his hand flat up the faintly stubbled blade of Arthur’s jaw, lands with fingers curved around the back of his lovely slender neck. “I was in the wrong, don’t"—
"I know it’s not your thing," says Arthur. “You don’t have to." But the lip is pulling back in, tugged by the corners of Arthur’s mouth as they twitch upwards.
"Oh, do shut up," Eames says, and ducks in close to kiss that proto-smile. “You’ve won, you can gloat freely now."
Arthur opens his mouth against Eames’, exhales his pleasure into the kiss, and then backs away with dimples at full throttle. “You won’t be sorry," he says. “I swear, Monsters University is supposed to be an amazing follow-up to the original. You can trust Pixar for sequels!"
That pout, that damnable, terrible, beautiful little pout.
(It’s a good film, as it happens. Thank god Eames didn’t offer up the one-act; he can’t shake the feeling Arthur would have taken that deal.)