fic: reticence
Title: reticence
Author: iri_descent
Team: ANGST
Prompt: overwhelmed
Word count: 3320
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: err, some allusions to violence/murder of minor characters
EAMES, SEVEN YEARS PRE-INCEPTION
A man known as Eames, though not originally named as such, flinches; an abrupt flare of pain skittering around his skull despite the analgesics. Distractedly, he raises a bandaged hand to his temple; gently prods at a blossoming bruise and the stitches cutting through his right eyebrow.
“-double-crossing dickheads. Should have known those two were dirty, their references were too fucking good to be true,” Freddy is saying, slender hand trembling ever so slightly around a glass tumbler that glimmers golden in the dim lighting of the restaurant.
He tugs self-consciously at the cuffs of his shirt, trying ineffectually to conceal his wrists; rubbed raw with rope burn like Eames’ own.
A hot spike of fury ripples through Eames, instinctive and incandescent.
Freddy is perceptive enough to sense it but apparently misidentifies the cause because he sighs, exhaling wearily into his whisky. “Look, Eames, I’m really fucking sorry that they got to you before I could-”
(Eames remembers, calmer now; an erratic twitching in his lower eyelid the only possible giveaway.)
He waves his fork dismissively, snorts contemptuously; “Well, considering you were, you know, unconscious in the back of a car, you useless piece of shit-”
Freddy smiles at that, tired and uncertain, and Eames cannot help but count that as a slight but significant victory. He continues cautiously, prodding at his garden salad, “Besides, our esteemed former colleagues didn’t find much before they were ripped apart by my projections.”
(He remembers knots chafing at his skin, the muzzle of a pistol, the wetness of his eyelashes; King and Henderson braying with laughter, enacting that hackneyed rigmarole of betrayal and backstabbing.)
“All this to extract your bloody name,” Freddy murmurs in disbelief, spearing a roast potato delicately and scrutinising it with almost clinical distaste. “You had better be fucking royalty, or something.”
(He remembers the satisfaction of shooting them both point-blank; disregarding the animal fear in their glassy eyes. Because they had hoped, like all humans, that they might somehow escape or be spared. And then he had depressed the trigger; watched blood spray and bone shatter.)
Eames grunts, short and sharp, “To be honest, I buried it so damn deep that I can’t remember myself.”
At last, at long fucking last; Freddy shakes his head helplessly, shoulders quivering, sudden laughter resonant and vibrant in spite of the swell of noise around them.
Eames grins and steals the last roast potato from his plate, neglecting to clarify that the statement had in fact been perfectly, uncharacteristically, truthful.
six weeks later.
It is snowing, light and lazy; dandruff drifting down from a dreary and overcast sky.
A man known as Eames but presently operating under a more convenient alias quickens his pace, striding through slushy, deserted streets towards a particular pub; the most popular in this crumbling, crestfallen city.
The con is firmly in place, though it will be several more weeks before their team is ready to translate training exercises and scheming into reality and dreaming.
Inception.
Even the word itself carries a certain quality of mystery, of awe, of trepidation. He shivers but not for lack of warmth, turns up the corners of his parka collar against the whispering wind.
If they manage to pull this off, the future of dreamshare would be revolutionised; moving beyond petty theft of sordid secrets into murkier, darker territory - of being able to change minds, conceivably even redirect the flow of history.
To a select few, of course; for the stakes are high and the fallout higher, if they should fail.
At times, Eames experiences a sliver of doubt, a shudder of disgust, a shred of despair at the hypocrisy of what he does; meddling with an unwilling subconscious when he takes such lengths to preserve and protect his own. His gloved fingers reach up to trace the scar at his right eyebrow contemplatively.
The thing is, Inception will happen with or without him; as inexorable as a freight train hurtling towards its destination. They have the technology and the means - for there must be dreamers out there capable of juggling the weight of responsibility and expectation and of course, the vested interest of financiers.
It is only a matter of time, luck and competence.
As always, it is the thought of not being a part of it that compels him to continue.
***
Tonight, cradling a glass of translucent liquid and a plate of dark grainy bread slathered in butter, he thinks of his mother.
Memories of her are blurred at best, no matter how hard he tries to grab at them; sorted into discrete pockets of time rather than a continuous spectrum of experiences. It is odd, for she is still very much alive - safely sequestered away in a nondescript town in the Welsh countryside, thirty years wedded to the same arthritic, cantankerous man but both mellowed now like a well-aged wine.
(He remembers, wryly, a time when mellowness was a far-off dream, a fervent yet unanswered prayer; a time marked by stereotypically smashed antique vases and sobbing sisters and slammed doors and shouting, always always always the shouting)
They would bake together. Not often, for there was a legion of hired help for mundane things like that, but sporadically; weekends and school holidays; just the two of them, alone in the world.
Eames would be allowed to perch on the pantry counter, carefully distributing ingredients into their appropriate and precise quantities (teaspoons, tablespoons, cups; conversions and calculations running through his mind) as she recited aloud from a stout and dusty tome; a family heirloom of baked secrets.
The unequivocal favourite was rye bread; black, thick, hearty and created from the most inexplicable amalgamation of constituents; bran, molasses, shallots, chocolate, fennel and caraway seeds.
She would run her floury fingers, nails trim and manicured, down his cheek, fond and proud and perhaps a touch wistful saying tell me, my darling, how much apple cider vinegar?
Eames (then not known as such, though that is neither here nor there), five and ferocious, would beam one quarter cup, mother; struggling somewhat with pronunciation, accent still oscillating indecisively between his native tongue and the rich and lilting brogue of his best-loved nanny.
He had not known, then, that such a moment was ephemeral, transitory; merely a brief respite.
If he had, would he have held onto her cool palms, soft and white from a life free of toil or bloodshed, just a little tighter, just a little longer?
Might he have savoured the process of bread making - memorising the caress of her hands as they kneaded dense dough, rather than impatiently swinging his legs, licking residual butter from his thumb and thinking only of the finished product - the raised oval loaf, crisp around the edges and caramelised dark by the ancient, rattling oven; the sole inconsistency in their otherwise immaculate and modernised kitchen with its gleaming floors and steel fixtures.
Eames (no longer five but foreseeably more ferocious, palms rough and brown from a life rooted in toil and bloodshed) likes to think so, sucking meditatively on his fifth cigarette, nostalgic but not homesick.
But he will never know for sure.
***
“Eames? Eames?” A hand digs into his forearm, long nails curling into flesh.
He snaps open his eyes, “Bloody hell, Larissa, yes, I’m awake, yes, thank you.”
Kuznetsova retracts her grip hastily, rubbing at her nose sheepishly, “Sorry. Sorry. I just. You weren’t rousing and I thought that Rourke’s new compound might be having an adverse effect.”
He sighs, reaching over to remove the cannula from his wrist. “No, no, that’s fine. It was my fault. Just dozed off in between, I guess. I’m not getting much sleep these days.”
She hums; a noncommittal sound that may be intended as agreement, sympathy or neither, deftly spooling his IV line back into the silver case. “Seems like a common problem. I’m certainly no better off, and I caught Fitoussi drooling all over his paperwork just this morning.”
He shrugs, forcing out a laugh. “Just stress. Or nerves.”
“Yes,” she concedes, though her eyes narrow, speculative and shrewd. “Perhaps.”
***
He has a sister; tough, scrawny, talkative. She struggled with her first breaths outside their mother’s womb and never quite stopped struggling from then on. Not even after her lungs fully developed and her frail wails became robust and demanding; her tiny blue body writhing in the hospital cot.
It has been ten years since he saw her last. She was thirteen and tempestuous, he was seventeen until midnight and stubborn in his selfishness.
It had been raining; thick drops splattering against the already saturated window panes. All around them, the house had been silent, inhabitants asleep; the only pinpoint of light from the desk lamp in his room.
She had sat cross-legged on his rumpled bed as he threw a few clothes and toiletries into a duffel bag, fisting her hands into sheets that were emblazoned with superheroes he used to believe in. She had not said take me with you but it was etched into the curves of her grimy and tear-streaked face, so alike his own.
He misses her most, which is an outcome he did not account for or anticipate.
***
A stranger enters the pub on the twentieth night of vodka and rye bread, dream death and tedium; shapeless under a bulky overcoat, black knit cap pushed down low over his forehead and fleece neck warmer pulled up over his nose.
He looks ridiculous, for though it is snowing, it is not that cold to warrant quite so many layers.
The bartender huffs out an indulgent laugh; muttering something impolite and unjust about tourists and their strange hankering to travel to climates they cannot handle.
As the man approaches the bar, Eames is only able to distinguish his eyes - small, dark, framed by unruly brows and a network of creases. Unnervingly swift, they flicker over to where he is sitting; curious but detached. Eames does not avert his gaze but ensures that it turns vacuous and vacillating; glazed over with too much alcohol and too little self-control.
Curling his lip, whether in amusement or disdain Eames cannot tell, the man looks away.
“You are allowed to shed your various vestments now that you’re inside, mate,” the bartender smirks affably, resting his forearms upon the countertop, leaning in slightly. He arches an eyebrow intentionally at Eames, who is eavesdropping more out of habit than design.
Eames lets himself smile, milder than usual; harsh edges tempered by wisps of inebriation.
The man rolls his eyes, though he must be smiling too for the puffy skin around his eyes crumples - crinkling along deep crevasses and meandering channels. Despite his reservations, Eames is thoroughly distracted; fascinated that one so young should have quite so many furrows and fissures; spreading along his features like cracks zigzagging across parched, rain-starved earth.
Obligingly, the man pulls down his neck warmer to his chin, revealing white teeth and dimples and a rash of two-day old stubble around his jaw.
It may be hyperbolic (an exaggeration born of too much alcohol and too little self-control) but that smile could fell fucking civilisations.
***
His mother used to sing to him when he was restless or ill, warnings interwoven into lullabies; a single refrain reiterated more often than others; guard your heart, guard your heart, guard your heart.
***
The man (for it is a man, though his appearance suggests boyishness) sheds his overcoat, squirms out of one woollen jumper only to reveal another, and slides gracefully onto the stool next to Eames.
After a moment’s consideration and a discreet word to the bartender he turns to him, legs straddling the stool in a relaxed sprawl and smile widening.
Eames pauses chewing on a coarse hunk of bread; waits for the pointless pleasantries and thinly-veiled flirtation, the coquettish smirks and repeated licking of lips. He has grown wearily accustomed to these attempts at ingratiation and insinuation but deflects each with good-natured disinterest, affecting apology when in actuality all he feels is apathy.
Whatever he is expecting, it does not come.
Rather, the man murmurs a monotonous greeting and turns back to his own glass of vodka. In fact, it is the bartender who seems to entice the words from his pale lips; asking question after question, probably glad of the opportunity to talk to someone besides the taciturn regulars and listless drunks.
The man answers readily enough, quiet and composed, occasionally turning to Eames as if wishing to include him in their conversation. Eames always smiles back, stiff and somewhat awkward, but does not speak; a strange skittishness clamming up his throat.
His gloves nudge against Eames’ fingers, red and chapped with windburn, as they reach for their next round of shots. They down it at the same time, in tune to the bartender’s lazy encouragement.
Eames surreptitiously glances at where the man’s neck should be, currently hidden beneath fabric; imagines that his Adam’s apple would bob as he swallows.
***
Eames and his sister spent their entire childhoods in breathless, dreadful, grim expectation - waiting, waiting, waiting for their parents to divorce.
And yet, in the end, they didn’t.
Eames, fifteen by now and frenetic, had wanted to shake them both; screaming in that hysterical manner that would have had his mother tut-tutting about raging teenage hormones: you can’t you can’t you can’t keep doing this to us.
And yet, in the end, they did.
***
Eventually Eames runs out of plausible reasons to remain; pleasant as it is to listen to the subdued strains of conversation and muted outbreaks of laughter; the bartender’s voice gravelly and guttural, the stranger’s voice low, droning and exact in its articulation.
He knocks back his drink, doles out crisp bills and jangling coins, slips on his own gloves and parka.
When he pulls open the door leading outside, shivering at the gust of frigid air that rushes in to kiss his face, he is acutely aware of a body standing behind him, too close. It is the man from the bar, mouth slack with one too many shots and fingers crushed around a crimson carton of Pall Malls.
They step outside together; the man fumbling in his pockets and Eames pointedly staring at the pavement, attempting to reassure himself that all the man wants is a smoke or a reprieve from the babble of the pub.
(But he doesn’t quite believe it; for there is an edge of danger, of predatory intent, simmering beneath that seemingly innocuous façade.)
They lapse into comfortable silence, rocking back and forth on their heels and stamping their feet for lack of anything else to do. In the far recesses of his mind, Eames knows that leaving now is the sensible and prudent option; he should walk away, without a backwards glance.
But he does not, for reasons that should best remain unexplored; something long dormant stirring in the depths of his belly.
“Cigarette?” the man offers, syllables slurred and sibilant. There is already one dangling from his peeling lips, unfiltered, slim and white.
“Oh. Err. No, thank you,” Eames replies ruefully, blinking stalactites from his eyelashes, stomach twisting with that relentless knee-jerk yearning for nicotine. “I’m trying to quit, actually.”
He realises it is the first thing they have said to one another, and almost laughs at the inanity of it all.
“Is that right,” the man hums thoughtfully; cupping a hand around the flickering flame, sheltering the tarnished silver lighter from the whipping wind. “I apologise, then.”
He shuffles over to Eames’ left, so that the smoke will blow downwind, away from where they stand.
It is a considerate gesture; unnecessary, certainly, but considerate all the same.
Eames stifles a sigh, undone by his own pathological need to prevaricate. How now will he inhale the second-hand smoke, imbibe it into his own greedy lungs?
The man presents an interesting study (and he is aware of it; of course he is; how could he not be?) - the stark sallowness of his skin juxtaposed against the darkness of his eyes and clothes, the red glow of the cigarette end, the hollows under his blood-shot eyes speaking of fatigue, insomnia or insufficient nutrition.
Appreciatively, Eames stores all these observations in a cache contained within his consciousness; for later consideration and contemplation, for a swell of early morning creativity.
For he collects faces; whether they are attractive or plain, complex or infuriating, uninspiring or asymmetrical. He collects, hoards and re-examines them covetously from time to time - brush strokes lingering over the shell of an ear, charcoal-dusted fingertips rubbing shadows into the hollow of a clavicle, repeatedly imitating a certain expression or mannerism in a mirror till he is satisfied that he has mastered it.
Even though he must be able to feel the fierce intensity of Eames’ stare prickling at his skin, the man chooses not to acknowledge it; instead tilting his head back, hazy smoke rings unfurling from pursed lips.
They spiral up into the wintry night sky, dissipate into nothingness.
***
“Will you be here tomorrow, too?” the stranger asks him on the stroke of twelve, apparently in effortless nonchalance though his gaze is direct; mild and appraising. His nose is raw, pink from the chill, and he scuffs his boots against a hard shelf of ice, just once, in what Eames supposes to be a half-hearted attempt at bashfulness.
The slumbering city around them is buried in dirty white; soothing in its soundlessness.
Eames wonders absentmindedly in that instant, what it would feel like to be the only two beings left in the world. It is a humbling thought, albeit utterly irrational.
The man smiles tentatively but remains mindful of the space between them; as if concerned that Eames might bolt if he moves forward too quickly.
Minute tremors ripple through his frame and Eames wants, bizarrely, to seize his gloved hands and rub some heat back into those numb fingers; to map the bumps of his scalp and discover the colour of his hair (it would be dark, logically but not necessarily) beneath the knitted cap; to whisper his own artificial name and hope for a reciprocal response, be it true or false.
How naïvely simplistic, how fucking clichéd. He exhales heavily, tendrils of fog coiling from his parted mouth in whimsical mimicry of cigarette smoke.
How disappointingly predictable.
Even the wind seems to be waiting, waiting for his answer.
So he nods and smiles back, the inadvertent lies tumbling glib and gilded from his scratchy tongue.
***
In the days to come, Eames will quantify their star-lit and ethanol-infused encounter in the following manner: a quarter cup of regret, viscous and syrupy like molasses; one tablespoon of missed opportunity, gritty and salty; half a teaspoon of self-loathing, as spicy and pungent as the strongest of caraway seeds and finally; two cups of overpowering and abiding relief, bittersweet like the darkest of chocolate.
In the weeks to come, Eames will occasionally reflect on that night. Though nebulous, it continues to nag at him, an insistent and uneasy tug at the back of his mind. He will remember the stage, ordinary enough; a smoky pub in the midst of a ubiquitous and decayed metropolis. He will deliberate over the actors: himself, on the cusp of twenty-seven and soon to be an uncle to a child he will never meet; a bartender with an even temperament and haphazard sense of humour; a stranger with wrinkles that belied his age, a mesmerising smile and an amusing aversion to the cold.
In the months to come, what Eames will choose to forget (or to be fair; will be unable to recall in the first place, memories addled by alcohol) is that he had thought, as his fingers had brushed against soft polyester gloves, as they had stood an equable distance apart in a snow-silent world; fleeting panic clutching at his vodka-warm throat; my heart, fuck, my heart.
Author: iri_descent
Team: ANGST
Prompt: overwhelmed
Word count: 3320
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: err, some allusions to violence/murder of minor characters
EAMES, SEVEN YEARS PRE-INCEPTION
A man known as Eames, though not originally named as such, flinches; an abrupt flare of pain skittering around his skull despite the analgesics. Distractedly, he raises a bandaged hand to his temple; gently prods at a blossoming bruise and the stitches cutting through his right eyebrow.
“-double-crossing dickheads. Should have known those two were dirty, their references were too fucking good to be true,” Freddy is saying, slender hand trembling ever so slightly around a glass tumbler that glimmers golden in the dim lighting of the restaurant.
He tugs self-consciously at the cuffs of his shirt, trying ineffectually to conceal his wrists; rubbed raw with rope burn like Eames’ own.
A hot spike of fury ripples through Eames, instinctive and incandescent.
Freddy is perceptive enough to sense it but apparently misidentifies the cause because he sighs, exhaling wearily into his whisky. “Look, Eames, I’m really fucking sorry that they got to you before I could-”
(Eames remembers, calmer now; an erratic twitching in his lower eyelid the only possible giveaway.)
He waves his fork dismissively, snorts contemptuously; “Well, considering you were, you know, unconscious in the back of a car, you useless piece of shit-”
Freddy smiles at that, tired and uncertain, and Eames cannot help but count that as a slight but significant victory. He continues cautiously, prodding at his garden salad, “Besides, our esteemed former colleagues didn’t find much before they were ripped apart by my projections.”
(He remembers knots chafing at his skin, the muzzle of a pistol, the wetness of his eyelashes; King and Henderson braying with laughter, enacting that hackneyed rigmarole of betrayal and backstabbing.)
“All this to extract your bloody name,” Freddy murmurs in disbelief, spearing a roast potato delicately and scrutinising it with almost clinical distaste. “You had better be fucking royalty, or something.”
(He remembers the satisfaction of shooting them both point-blank; disregarding the animal fear in their glassy eyes. Because they had hoped, like all humans, that they might somehow escape or be spared. And then he had depressed the trigger; watched blood spray and bone shatter.)
Eames grunts, short and sharp, “To be honest, I buried it so damn deep that I can’t remember myself.”
At last, at long fucking last; Freddy shakes his head helplessly, shoulders quivering, sudden laughter resonant and vibrant in spite of the swell of noise around them.
Eames grins and steals the last roast potato from his plate, neglecting to clarify that the statement had in fact been perfectly, uncharacteristically, truthful.
six weeks later.
It is snowing, light and lazy; dandruff drifting down from a dreary and overcast sky.
A man known as Eames but presently operating under a more convenient alias quickens his pace, striding through slushy, deserted streets towards a particular pub; the most popular in this crumbling, crestfallen city.
The con is firmly in place, though it will be several more weeks before their team is ready to translate training exercises and scheming into reality and dreaming.
Inception.
Even the word itself carries a certain quality of mystery, of awe, of trepidation. He shivers but not for lack of warmth, turns up the corners of his parka collar against the whispering wind.
If they manage to pull this off, the future of dreamshare would be revolutionised; moving beyond petty theft of sordid secrets into murkier, darker territory - of being able to change minds, conceivably even redirect the flow of history.
To a select few, of course; for the stakes are high and the fallout higher, if they should fail.
At times, Eames experiences a sliver of doubt, a shudder of disgust, a shred of despair at the hypocrisy of what he does; meddling with an unwilling subconscious when he takes such lengths to preserve and protect his own. His gloved fingers reach up to trace the scar at his right eyebrow contemplatively.
The thing is, Inception will happen with or without him; as inexorable as a freight train hurtling towards its destination. They have the technology and the means - for there must be dreamers out there capable of juggling the weight of responsibility and expectation and of course, the vested interest of financiers.
It is only a matter of time, luck and competence.
As always, it is the thought of not being a part of it that compels him to continue.
***
Tonight, cradling a glass of translucent liquid and a plate of dark grainy bread slathered in butter, he thinks of his mother.
Memories of her are blurred at best, no matter how hard he tries to grab at them; sorted into discrete pockets of time rather than a continuous spectrum of experiences. It is odd, for she is still very much alive - safely sequestered away in a nondescript town in the Welsh countryside, thirty years wedded to the same arthritic, cantankerous man but both mellowed now like a well-aged wine.
(He remembers, wryly, a time when mellowness was a far-off dream, a fervent yet unanswered prayer; a time marked by stereotypically smashed antique vases and sobbing sisters and slammed doors and shouting, always always always the shouting)
They would bake together. Not often, for there was a legion of hired help for mundane things like that, but sporadically; weekends and school holidays; just the two of them, alone in the world.
Eames would be allowed to perch on the pantry counter, carefully distributing ingredients into their appropriate and precise quantities (teaspoons, tablespoons, cups; conversions and calculations running through his mind) as she recited aloud from a stout and dusty tome; a family heirloom of baked secrets.
The unequivocal favourite was rye bread; black, thick, hearty and created from the most inexplicable amalgamation of constituents; bran, molasses, shallots, chocolate, fennel and caraway seeds.
She would run her floury fingers, nails trim and manicured, down his cheek, fond and proud and perhaps a touch wistful saying tell me, my darling, how much apple cider vinegar?
Eames (then not known as such, though that is neither here nor there), five and ferocious, would beam one quarter cup, mother; struggling somewhat with pronunciation, accent still oscillating indecisively between his native tongue and the rich and lilting brogue of his best-loved nanny.
He had not known, then, that such a moment was ephemeral, transitory; merely a brief respite.
If he had, would he have held onto her cool palms, soft and white from a life free of toil or bloodshed, just a little tighter, just a little longer?
Might he have savoured the process of bread making - memorising the caress of her hands as they kneaded dense dough, rather than impatiently swinging his legs, licking residual butter from his thumb and thinking only of the finished product - the raised oval loaf, crisp around the edges and caramelised dark by the ancient, rattling oven; the sole inconsistency in their otherwise immaculate and modernised kitchen with its gleaming floors and steel fixtures.
Eames (no longer five but foreseeably more ferocious, palms rough and brown from a life rooted in toil and bloodshed) likes to think so, sucking meditatively on his fifth cigarette, nostalgic but not homesick.
But he will never know for sure.
***
“Eames? Eames?” A hand digs into his forearm, long nails curling into flesh.
He snaps open his eyes, “Bloody hell, Larissa, yes, I’m awake, yes, thank you.”
Kuznetsova retracts her grip hastily, rubbing at her nose sheepishly, “Sorry. Sorry. I just. You weren’t rousing and I thought that Rourke’s new compound might be having an adverse effect.”
He sighs, reaching over to remove the cannula from his wrist. “No, no, that’s fine. It was my fault. Just dozed off in between, I guess. I’m not getting much sleep these days.”
She hums; a noncommittal sound that may be intended as agreement, sympathy or neither, deftly spooling his IV line back into the silver case. “Seems like a common problem. I’m certainly no better off, and I caught Fitoussi drooling all over his paperwork just this morning.”
He shrugs, forcing out a laugh. “Just stress. Or nerves.”
“Yes,” she concedes, though her eyes narrow, speculative and shrewd. “Perhaps.”
***
He has a sister; tough, scrawny, talkative. She struggled with her first breaths outside their mother’s womb and never quite stopped struggling from then on. Not even after her lungs fully developed and her frail wails became robust and demanding; her tiny blue body writhing in the hospital cot.
It has been ten years since he saw her last. She was thirteen and tempestuous, he was seventeen until midnight and stubborn in his selfishness.
It had been raining; thick drops splattering against the already saturated window panes. All around them, the house had been silent, inhabitants asleep; the only pinpoint of light from the desk lamp in his room.
She had sat cross-legged on his rumpled bed as he threw a few clothes and toiletries into a duffel bag, fisting her hands into sheets that were emblazoned with superheroes he used to believe in. She had not said take me with you but it was etched into the curves of her grimy and tear-streaked face, so alike his own.
He misses her most, which is an outcome he did not account for or anticipate.
***
A stranger enters the pub on the twentieth night of vodka and rye bread, dream death and tedium; shapeless under a bulky overcoat, black knit cap pushed down low over his forehead and fleece neck warmer pulled up over his nose.
He looks ridiculous, for though it is snowing, it is not that cold to warrant quite so many layers.
The bartender huffs out an indulgent laugh; muttering something impolite and unjust about tourists and their strange hankering to travel to climates they cannot handle.
As the man approaches the bar, Eames is only able to distinguish his eyes - small, dark, framed by unruly brows and a network of creases. Unnervingly swift, they flicker over to where he is sitting; curious but detached. Eames does not avert his gaze but ensures that it turns vacuous and vacillating; glazed over with too much alcohol and too little self-control.
Curling his lip, whether in amusement or disdain Eames cannot tell, the man looks away.
“You are allowed to shed your various vestments now that you’re inside, mate,” the bartender smirks affably, resting his forearms upon the countertop, leaning in slightly. He arches an eyebrow intentionally at Eames, who is eavesdropping more out of habit than design.
Eames lets himself smile, milder than usual; harsh edges tempered by wisps of inebriation.
The man rolls his eyes, though he must be smiling too for the puffy skin around his eyes crumples - crinkling along deep crevasses and meandering channels. Despite his reservations, Eames is thoroughly distracted; fascinated that one so young should have quite so many furrows and fissures; spreading along his features like cracks zigzagging across parched, rain-starved earth.
Obligingly, the man pulls down his neck warmer to his chin, revealing white teeth and dimples and a rash of two-day old stubble around his jaw.
It may be hyperbolic (an exaggeration born of too much alcohol and too little self-control) but that smile could fell fucking civilisations.
***
His mother used to sing to him when he was restless or ill, warnings interwoven into lullabies; a single refrain reiterated more often than others; guard your heart, guard your heart, guard your heart.
***
The man (for it is a man, though his appearance suggests boyishness) sheds his overcoat, squirms out of one woollen jumper only to reveal another, and slides gracefully onto the stool next to Eames.
After a moment’s consideration and a discreet word to the bartender he turns to him, legs straddling the stool in a relaxed sprawl and smile widening.
Eames pauses chewing on a coarse hunk of bread; waits for the pointless pleasantries and thinly-veiled flirtation, the coquettish smirks and repeated licking of lips. He has grown wearily accustomed to these attempts at ingratiation and insinuation but deflects each with good-natured disinterest, affecting apology when in actuality all he feels is apathy.
Whatever he is expecting, it does not come.
Rather, the man murmurs a monotonous greeting and turns back to his own glass of vodka. In fact, it is the bartender who seems to entice the words from his pale lips; asking question after question, probably glad of the opportunity to talk to someone besides the taciturn regulars and listless drunks.
The man answers readily enough, quiet and composed, occasionally turning to Eames as if wishing to include him in their conversation. Eames always smiles back, stiff and somewhat awkward, but does not speak; a strange skittishness clamming up his throat.
His gloves nudge against Eames’ fingers, red and chapped with windburn, as they reach for their next round of shots. They down it at the same time, in tune to the bartender’s lazy encouragement.
Eames surreptitiously glances at where the man’s neck should be, currently hidden beneath fabric; imagines that his Adam’s apple would bob as he swallows.
***
Eames and his sister spent their entire childhoods in breathless, dreadful, grim expectation - waiting, waiting, waiting for their parents to divorce.
And yet, in the end, they didn’t.
Eames, fifteen by now and frenetic, had wanted to shake them both; screaming in that hysterical manner that would have had his mother tut-tutting about raging teenage hormones: you can’t you can’t you can’t keep doing this to us.
And yet, in the end, they did.
***
Eventually Eames runs out of plausible reasons to remain; pleasant as it is to listen to the subdued strains of conversation and muted outbreaks of laughter; the bartender’s voice gravelly and guttural, the stranger’s voice low, droning and exact in its articulation.
He knocks back his drink, doles out crisp bills and jangling coins, slips on his own gloves and parka.
When he pulls open the door leading outside, shivering at the gust of frigid air that rushes in to kiss his face, he is acutely aware of a body standing behind him, too close. It is the man from the bar, mouth slack with one too many shots and fingers crushed around a crimson carton of Pall Malls.
They step outside together; the man fumbling in his pockets and Eames pointedly staring at the pavement, attempting to reassure himself that all the man wants is a smoke or a reprieve from the babble of the pub.
(But he doesn’t quite believe it; for there is an edge of danger, of predatory intent, simmering beneath that seemingly innocuous façade.)
They lapse into comfortable silence, rocking back and forth on their heels and stamping their feet for lack of anything else to do. In the far recesses of his mind, Eames knows that leaving now is the sensible and prudent option; he should walk away, without a backwards glance.
But he does not, for reasons that should best remain unexplored; something long dormant stirring in the depths of his belly.
“Cigarette?” the man offers, syllables slurred and sibilant. There is already one dangling from his peeling lips, unfiltered, slim and white.
“Oh. Err. No, thank you,” Eames replies ruefully, blinking stalactites from his eyelashes, stomach twisting with that relentless knee-jerk yearning for nicotine. “I’m trying to quit, actually.”
He realises it is the first thing they have said to one another, and almost laughs at the inanity of it all.
“Is that right,” the man hums thoughtfully; cupping a hand around the flickering flame, sheltering the tarnished silver lighter from the whipping wind. “I apologise, then.”
He shuffles over to Eames’ left, so that the smoke will blow downwind, away from where they stand.
It is a considerate gesture; unnecessary, certainly, but considerate all the same.
Eames stifles a sigh, undone by his own pathological need to prevaricate. How now will he inhale the second-hand smoke, imbibe it into his own greedy lungs?
The man presents an interesting study (and he is aware of it; of course he is; how could he not be?) - the stark sallowness of his skin juxtaposed against the darkness of his eyes and clothes, the red glow of the cigarette end, the hollows under his blood-shot eyes speaking of fatigue, insomnia or insufficient nutrition.
Appreciatively, Eames stores all these observations in a cache contained within his consciousness; for later consideration and contemplation, for a swell of early morning creativity.
For he collects faces; whether they are attractive or plain, complex or infuriating, uninspiring or asymmetrical. He collects, hoards and re-examines them covetously from time to time - brush strokes lingering over the shell of an ear, charcoal-dusted fingertips rubbing shadows into the hollow of a clavicle, repeatedly imitating a certain expression or mannerism in a mirror till he is satisfied that he has mastered it.
Even though he must be able to feel the fierce intensity of Eames’ stare prickling at his skin, the man chooses not to acknowledge it; instead tilting his head back, hazy smoke rings unfurling from pursed lips.
They spiral up into the wintry night sky, dissipate into nothingness.
***
“Will you be here tomorrow, too?” the stranger asks him on the stroke of twelve, apparently in effortless nonchalance though his gaze is direct; mild and appraising. His nose is raw, pink from the chill, and he scuffs his boots against a hard shelf of ice, just once, in what Eames supposes to be a half-hearted attempt at bashfulness.
The slumbering city around them is buried in dirty white; soothing in its soundlessness.
Eames wonders absentmindedly in that instant, what it would feel like to be the only two beings left in the world. It is a humbling thought, albeit utterly irrational.
The man smiles tentatively but remains mindful of the space between them; as if concerned that Eames might bolt if he moves forward too quickly.
Minute tremors ripple through his frame and Eames wants, bizarrely, to seize his gloved hands and rub some heat back into those numb fingers; to map the bumps of his scalp and discover the colour of his hair (it would be dark, logically but not necessarily) beneath the knitted cap; to whisper his own artificial name and hope for a reciprocal response, be it true or false.
How naïvely simplistic, how fucking clichéd. He exhales heavily, tendrils of fog coiling from his parted mouth in whimsical mimicry of cigarette smoke.
How disappointingly predictable.
Even the wind seems to be waiting, waiting for his answer.
So he nods and smiles back, the inadvertent lies tumbling glib and gilded from his scratchy tongue.
***
In the days to come, Eames will quantify their star-lit and ethanol-infused encounter in the following manner: a quarter cup of regret, viscous and syrupy like molasses; one tablespoon of missed opportunity, gritty and salty; half a teaspoon of self-loathing, as spicy and pungent as the strongest of caraway seeds and finally; two cups of overpowering and abiding relief, bittersweet like the darkest of chocolate.
In the weeks to come, Eames will occasionally reflect on that night. Though nebulous, it continues to nag at him, an insistent and uneasy tug at the back of his mind. He will remember the stage, ordinary enough; a smoky pub in the midst of a ubiquitous and decayed metropolis. He will deliberate over the actors: himself, on the cusp of twenty-seven and soon to be an uncle to a child he will never meet; a bartender with an even temperament and haphazard sense of humour; a stranger with wrinkles that belied his age, a mesmerising smile and an amusing aversion to the cold.
In the months to come, what Eames will choose to forget (or to be fair; will be unable to recall in the first place, memories addled by alcohol) is that he had thought, as his fingers had brushed against soft polyester gloves, as they had stood an equable distance apart in a snow-silent world; fleeting panic clutching at his vodka-warm throat; my heart, fuck, my heart.