It’s a Friday night and Arthur’s at home.
Well, his new apartment that doesn’t really feel like home yet, you know? But this is it. Home.
Years ago, Arthur would’ve been out with friends on a Friday night. Actually, if things had been different, he probably would be out right now—except he’s used to the married life, where Friday nights morphed into nice dinner, into wine and dim lights, into really, really good sex.
Okay, so married Friday nights eventually evolved into mostly silent dinners marked by “How was work?”s and hums and lights out at 11 PM. But hey. Marriage.
His brain momentarily wanders to Eames, wonders if he’s having sex, if he’s eating alone, if he’s having sex while eating? (What the actual fuck, his brain supplies.)
No, no. Eames is living his life, and Arthur is living his. (Okay, so he’s not really living, but he so will. Live. Soon.)
Arthur sighs and heads to the bedroom, knowing his Friday night is over. He clambers underneath the dark brown covers, hoping that Eames is having just as hard of a time being alone—not because he wants to be vindictive, but because it would be even more painful if he was the only one hurting in this.