John had totally, totally, been holding out on Rodney.

Arthur sketches the impossible. Eames does some manscaping. It's just another job, until it isn't.

"Can we lock her up forever?" asks John, dead serious.

"That's what I was thinking," agrees Rodney fervently.

John has to work hard to stay awake so he can enjoy the whole thing: Rodney's blunt-nailed fingertips skating across John's skin, the gentle sweet tickle of it, soothing and comforting and a whole lot of things John had thought he was past desiring after about age ten.

"Didn't we all read this one in the 70s? It's earthy and all the cartoon people are fat." Coda fic for How Not to Fly, set not long after the end of that story.

Death and life, hope and hopelessness, aren't just for the Pegasus galaxy. Eventually, inevitably, it's going to happen on Earth. John and Rodney, loss and family and what it means to be home.

Eames probably would have been pleased with a sandwich, but Arthur's got a knack for making Eames happy in surprising ways.

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.

~ Dr. Seuss

Arthur and Eames are on the verge of giving up mind crime when Cobb convinces Arthur to be his point man on one last job — which rather inevitably goes wrong. Eames is pulled into the mess as Cobb’s simple heist spirals into an attempt on inception. It’s time to stop trespassing on the dreams of others; building a home takes two sets of hands.

Eames would gladly welcome comparisons to other dashing bearded men, but Eames rarely gets what he wants when it comes to Arthur.

Arthur's one of the bright lights of the conservatory, but he's sharing the stage with a star about to go supernova.

"Music is the silence between the notes" ~ Claude Debussy; or, life is what happens when you're busy wishing you could be in a practice room.

Set very shortly after "Ach, des Knaben Augen".

Arthur’s face shifts from interrogatory focus to something soft and slack and longing, almost within a bare second.

Arthur loves Daniel, he truly does; but it’s Eames. There’s no point in drawing a comparison. It’s not apples and oranges. It’s apples and Goethe, apples and Rachmaninoff.

"I'm next," Eames says. "If you don't smother me in blankets and tape me together my voice will be no use to you either. I'll probably sing in French instead of German or something equally disastrous."

When Eames travels, the thought of Arthur travels with him.

The story of ‘happily ever after.’

This isn't an old theory assignment; that much was clear from the instant Eames pulled it out, folded unevenly, from where it had been pressed between the pages of Thayer's dreary Beethoven tome.

Being a freshman piano performance major at a prestigious New England conservatory is difficult enough without landing the school's star baritone as your singer, and inevitably, your hopeless crush.

"Yeah," Joe says, calling his bluff but unable to keep from smiling, "yeah, I'm hoping you'll be my first off-screen dude-on-dude kiss."

Eames’ cheeks go faintly pink, and for a long moment there’s nothing to listen to but the thumping of the headboard next door, the shouting.

Arthur breaks all the rules of American high school films, as though he’s never even heard of John Hughes, and Eames can’t decide if, given the choice, he wouldn’t rather just become Arthur instead of having the chance to be with him.

“You’re the first person to pull off inception,” Mal says, to Eames, not bothering to mask her own delight, “and you did it with your penis!”

Political science pundits predict that, if Lang and Kent outlast their freshman year of college, their odds of permanently dementing young journalists-in-the-making are far better than initially expected.