the end has finally found us.
Little House of Savages
Arthur/Eames, R, prompt: " dealing with falling for each other, not really knowing what to do, screwing things up in the process of trying to have a relationship." also written for bronson, the most fabulous person in the world. ♥ This is not told in chronological order. I don't know how it happened, swear I wasn't trying to be "edgy". ): Alternate title for this was Desperate Romantics but I thought it sounded too BBC/ROMCOM. Any and all mistakes here are my own.
4057 words
--
They don't take the news very well.
"So she's really gone, is she? Jumped off a ledge?"
Arthur nods.
The telephone rings again and they both stand there and look at it.
"It's probably Dom," Eames says, "wanting to know if we can make it to the funeral."
"We should pick it up," he continues.
Arthur looks at him, shoulders tense, forehead creased in concentration. Eames doesn't know whether to feel proud that he's able to hold himself together, to laugh or just walk away.
He pads to the kitchen table in his socks and sits beside Arthur, speechless, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and pushing it toward him.
Arthur frowns, but the clench of his jaw loosens. "This isn't funny."
"I know." Eames sighs. "I just thought..." He swallows and forces himself to hold his glance. Eames touches Arthur's knee under the table and Arthur twitches but doesn't pull away.
"The funeral is this weekend," says Arthur.
--
They don't live together, strictly speaking, but Eames owns a spare key that Arthur never gave him and often makes it a point to turn up every few days when he's got nothing on his plate.
Eames buys the gaudiest tree he can find a few days before Christmas. It sits in the living room, drooping to one side, strung up with tinsel and paper angels, shedding pine needles all over the carpet. It clashes horribly with the lacquered furniture but Arthur is never home enough to take notice.
Neither of them is around for the holidays, although before the New Year, Eames flies back from Phnom Penh to pay Arthur a visit. He orders Chinese takeaway in greasy red boxes which they eat using plastic forks at the kitchen table, Arthur on his computer and Eames watching the the 7 o'clock news.
The streets outside are cold and banked in snow and nothing is on TV except cartoons and holiday-themed movies. Arthur goes to bed first at 10 in the evening. Eames washes his face in the bathroom and follows after him, finishing his coffee and wiping his hands on the rag that hangs by the fridge.
The light from the hall seeps under the door. Eames takes off his pants, then his shirt and crawls under the covers, sighing deeply when his head sinks against the pillows. He strokes Arthur's hair which is limp and full of dried-up hairgel, nosing the soft skin behind his ear.
"A late Merry Christmas to you darling," Eames murmurs.
Arthur rolls away from him and gestures vaguely at the closet. "Your present's in there." he sniffs, worming his way deeper into the blankets, away from Eames. "Now leave me alone. I'm trying to sleep."
"All right," Eames says, pulling back. "Good night."
"Good night," says Arthur after a pause.
--
They don't stay very long, only for the weekend, due to the depth of Cobb's grief, and partly because Eames booked them for an early flight back to the States.
Eames hates funerals as much as he hates weddings. He never knows what to say in them and often feels a disproportionate amount of guilt between making excuses for his absence and getting piss drunk.
They stand in Miles' porch, armed with duffel bags. It's still raining outside and there's a cab in the street waiting to take them to the airport.
Arthur puts a hand on Cobb's shoulder, promising to call him as soon as he can. Cobb nods and says nothing and Eames picks at the weave of his jacket, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. He used to think that Arthur had a thing for Cobb that tends to manifest itself in times like this. Often times it's easier to believe the bad over the good because it feels more honest in a way. Arthur could want anyone, other people, Dom maybe, but not Eames. It made sense.
Cobb watches them go, huddling into his bathrobe with his hands tucked under his arms.
Under the flimsy umbrella they share, Arthur grasps his elbows, shivering, and Eames suddenly remembers him on the night of Cobb and Mal's wedding reception, smoking cigarettes on the veranda in his tux with that little spot of vehemence on his cheek.
"Come on," Eames says, nudging him in the side when Arthur glances over his shoulder at Cobb. "We should go."
Arthur turns to frown at Eames, who shrugs one shoulder a little sheepishly. Eames' hand wanders away from his side to the bend of Arthur's elbow.
For a split second, Arthur stiffens but Eames is surprised when Arthur doesn't shake him off.
--
It is, at the very least, less disruptive than insomnia but more severe than an allergy.
It feels perverse, almost illegal somehow, to think of him, a minor betrayal when Eames touches himself under the sink and grits his teeth to muffle the noise.
They're in Austria on a job together, getting ready to abandon headquarters.
It is late and there'd been some drinking, toasts to a job well done, and for once, Arthur's hair looks soft and touchable, thick where it grows in tufts at his back of his neck. There is a tiny dot below his left ear, right where his pulse is, a pale brown speck, like a drop of paint.
Eames looks down at him and shoves his hand inside his pockets. They've finished packing up now and every nook and cranny is clean, devoid of evidence they'd been here at all.
"I guess this is it then," Eames says. "The end of a good thing." He sighs, looking down at Arthur who nods his head absently and collapses on his elbows on the couch; his eyes are lowered, squinting at Eames through the the light filtering in from the street. It shines down on both of them from outside, the deep blackness of Arthur's hair.
"Eames," Arthur says suddenly.
Eames blinks and snaps to attention.
"Yes?" he says.
"Will you be alright here? I'm leaving, I have a flight to catch."
Eames shrugs and sits on the edge of the desk, leaning back on his palms. "Of course, darling," he grins, "Don't you worry your pretty little head. I'll be alright. I'm a big boy now, I can take care of myself without you."
Arthur snorts, picks up his briefcase and coat, and Eames watches as he disappears down the hall without another word, out of sight.
--
"Don't do that. You're going to spill beer on the couch." Arthur says, one afternoon. They're both in the living room, both snowed in during the holidays with nothing to do. The windows are fogged over, frozen shut.
Eames shrugs and puts his feet up on the coffee table, stretching and dropping a peanut into his mouth. "It's just a couch." he says and takes a swig of his drink.
"This is a four thousand dollar sofa upholstered in Italian silk." Arthur tells him, not looking up from his computer. "This is not just a couch."
"It is just a couch," Eames says. "And all of this," he gestures to the entire living room, "this is just stuff. And it's become more important to you than anything. Personally, I find the value you place on inanimate objects ridiculous. Relationships are the most important components of life, Arthur. You should invest in people instead."
"People make each other miserable." Arthur says.
"You make me miserable." Eames mutters, rolling his eyes. He takes Arthur's laptop and places it on the coffee table, next to the ashtray and Arthur's untouched cup of coffee.
"You make me miserable too," Arthur says snittily, reaching for his computer. Eames grabs his wrist and smiles when Arthur's brows furrow, touching Arthur's jawline with his fingers.
"But not all the time right?"
Arthur raises a brow. "No," he admits after a pause. "Not all the time." He sinks back against the cushions, his jaw tense, arms folded across his chest. "Now can I have my computer back? I was working on something."
Eames waves him off and puts his feet on Arthur's lap. "Work on these, darling. They need a massage."
He wiggles his toes. A beat passes and Arthur looks at him, lips twisted up. Then Arthur shakes his head and he laughs.
--
They have no room for domestic whimsy, Arthur thinks, simply because they have no time. Arthur isn't one to fool around, and he'd rather spend his down time alone, but then there is the complication of Eames who turns up when you don't need him, and the warm heat of his mouth and hands.
It's November, seven months down the road, and they fought again for the fourth time this week, and drove each other away. But fights are for couples and they aren't even that. They're just two people who happen to be sleeping together with regularity. Sometimes Eames spends weekends at the apartment, sometimes they meet in hotels in Europe for quick, hard fucks. They work together, they're colleagues, two consenting adults, not even friends, hardly what normal people considered a couple.
Arthur pulls the blanket over his head and listens to Eames, in the kitchen, making coffee, then microwaving something, then closing a cabinet; and then there's nothing for awhile, and the TV turns on to the news.
Arthur frowns. They should've kept it casual, he thinks. He should've not let this gone on longer than it already has. He should've taken Cobb's advice and accepted the job in Frankfurt instead of just sitting around, wasting his time on petty jobs. He feels like a smalltime crook. He forgot to be happy. He would've been happy in Frankfurt, he thinks, away from everything else, away from Eames. He should not have hit Eames last night. Eames should've not stormed out.
They should be in here, in the same room, in bed. The two of them, sprawled on top of the covers, smoking.
Why isn't that happening right now?
--
The wedding is in Marseille where most of Mal's family is based. It's a garden wedding, flowers and paper streamers strewn all over the veranda and enough wine to go around.
Everyone has dressed up for the occasion except for Miles who walks around in the same brown tweed jacket that he often wears to work, puffing on his pipe and shaking people's hands.
Eames arrives laughably late to the festivities but makes it in time to hear the tail end of Arthur's speech. Congratulations to the both of you, and people clap and some of them whoop when Cobb grabs Mal by the waist and kisses her open-mouthed.
Eames stands in the veranda with a glass of bourbon, watching all of it unfold from a distance. Cobb and Mal seem happy enough with their arms draped around each other, kissing and attending to their guests.
The sound of their laughter floats all the way down to the veranda and Eames smirks, sniffing out a laugh, before taking a short sip of his drink.
--
"You're late."
Eames doesn't turn around. He finishes his drink and shrugs his shoulders, grinning when Arthur comes to stand next to him.
"I was around for your speech though, love. No worries." He raises his empty glass in toast, winking, but Arthur ignores him and lights a cigarette, taking long, deep drags. He closes his eyes when he exhales and Eames thinks he looks good like that, with his hair slicked back and his velvet tux blending into the night.
"So what are your plans, now that Dom is a married man?"
Arthur flicks his eyes up at him, then away, leaning his elbows on the metal railing. He finishes his cigarette before answering, stubbing it under the heel of his shoe. "My life doesn't revolve around Cobb, Eames. I have other prospects lined up for me."
"Oh?" Eames laughs. "Is that right?"
Arthur shoots him a look.
"I'm just worried about you, darling. You seem..." Eames shrugs and waves a hand in the air, thinking of the appropriate word. Finally, he gives up. "You will be all right, won't you?"
Arthur gives him that look again that lets Eames know he will be all right, regardless of what Eames might think and Eames laughs and leans on the railings, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.
It's a beautiful evening. The band is starting up and somebody's just started a conga line.
They stand there on the veranda and Eames watches shadows from the overhead lamp descend on Arthur's face. Arthur lights up another cigarette and the two of them chainsmoke for awhile, leaving cigarette butts half-smoked and smouldering on the floor of veranda.
They lose track of time and the air around their faces softens with smoke and cold air, but as always, Arthur is the first one to leave.
--
The party is breaking up when Eames steps back inside.
The band members are packing away their instruments in sparkling blue cases and Mal is in a corner of the room, rubbing her feet. The room is empty. A stack of wedding presents sit next to her on the table.
Mal looks up and smiles when Eames pulls out a chair.
"I thought you'd gone, Mr. Eames." she says, propping her feet on Eames knee, wiggling her toes through the sheer material of her stockings. "Where have you been all night? Dom was looking all over for you."
Eames shrugs, curling a hand around Mal's ankle, rubbing her heels with his thumbs. "I'm not made for weddings, Mrs. Cobb." he says to her, grinning, remembering her from two years ago as the French girl Dom used to be so smitten with.
Mal laughs with her whole body, and it's so elegant the way she throws her head back and leans against her seat, the bend of her elbows, the dark sweep of her hair.
"You know," she says, grinning. "I used to think I wasn't made for weddings, either."
--
Saturday morning, Arthur wakes up late after a long strange sleep of bad dreams.
The apartment is empty. Arthur drinks a giant glass of orange juice in the kitchen, determined to wash out the taste in his mouth. He reaches on top of the fridge behind the old radio where he keeps a stash of cigarettes hidden then lights one, paces the room, glaring at the thin, bright, almost winter-sunlight that streams in through the kitchen window.
He sits at the breakfast table. The chair creaks in the silence. Arthur stubs his cigarette on a beer can that Eames has left last night and then throws a coat on. He hobbles outside in the freezing wind, hands dug inside his pockets, trying his best not to let his chin wobble.
--
It's easy to get along with people at dinner parties because you don't really have to say anything. Eames compliments a handful of women, nods his head appropriately and laughs when he is needed to laugh. He weaves his way through the crowd and wanders out the balcony, pulling the cold night air into his lungs.
"Eames," says Arthur behind him. "We're supposed to be working."
"Ah, darling, we meet again," Eames grins, taking the flute of champagne from Arthur's hand. He takes a small sip and taps Arthur on the cheek when he frowns. Arthur bats his hand away.
"Oh, don't be such a stick in the mud, Arthur." Eames rolls his eyes. "I don't understand how Cobb can put up with all of this, honestly, all of you." He gestures at Arthur vaguely, eyes settling on his bowtie. "I like the outfit, by the way." He pulls on the bowtie but Arthur just stands there, stonefaced and slaps his wrist.
"Mal's showing up again." Arthur says.
"What?"
"In Cobb's subconcious," Arthur continues. "She's showing up again."
"You think he'll be alright?" Eames asks.
Arthur shrugs. It's the first time Eames has ever seem distressed. With Arthur it's the little details, the set of his jaw, the rigidity of his posture. Arthur sighs. "I don't know."
Eames nods, sits on the balcony railing, pulls Arthur closer to stand between his knees.
Arthur doesn't protest, even when Eames wraps his arms around his waist and presses his face against his stomach. Eames glances up at him and Arthur's face is hard to read in the half-dark, inscrutable and still.
"He'll be alright," Eames says. "Don't worry."
"I'm not worried." Arthur says abruptly.
"Yeah," Eames says. "Yeah, all right."
--
"I said I was sorry," Eames says. The bed sinks behind Arthur. "I don't know how long you intend to keep this up, darling, but quite frankly it is driving me up the wall. I know that is the desired effect but." He curls a hand on Arthur's hip. "I miss you, Arthur."
Arthur is quiet except for the occasional shift of his body on the bed. Eames pokes and prods and peers at him, then drops his head back on the pillows with a sigh.
"I'm heading out. I need cigarettes." Eames says. "Call me if there's anything you want me to pick up. Like, I dunno, painkillers or something."
He pats Arthur on the head, gets up, closes the door. When he is gone, Arthur rolls onto his back. He stares at the ceiling and closes his eyes to sleep.
--
When it comes down to it, Eames knows Arthur will always choose Cobb over him.
He's upped and left again, gone to pay Cobb and the kids a visit, the third one this month. Eames knows he doesn't have a say in it, that he has no right to feel jealous because it isn't like he's been completely faithful or honest, either. His mouth and tongue burn with the whiskey, sears his throat. He licks the front of teeth, staring into his glass and at the dark skinned woman eyeing him from across the bar.
Maybe that's what Arthur wants -- to be the man who pushes the buttons, unseen, the great orchestrator of everything. Cobb's reliable right hand man, his unfailing white knight.
Fine, Eames thinks angrily, slamming his glass against the table, let him have his way.
Eames shrugs into his jacket, slaps a few bills on the counter before hobbling out the door. This is, in a way, the most pathetic thing Eames has ever done for anyone in his life. But it's also the most poorly-conceived. He falls asleep in the cab ride to the airport. The roads are steeped in ice and he pays the cabbie two hundred dollars, promising another two hundred when they get there.
At the terminal, Eames reaches for the poker chip in his pocket. He grips it for good luck.
--
"I thought you were going to kill me." Eames laughs in bed. "I thought, I'm going to die. Arthur's going to shoot me now that I've put the moves on him. This is it." He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed and leans on one elbow, watching Arthur lean over and toe off his shoes. Eames curls his hand around Arthur's ankle and peels his sock off for him, massaging his feet with his thumbs.
Arthur raises a brow.
"Let's get pancakes." Eames says in a burst of inspiration.
"It's midnight." Arthur says, dropping his head back on the pillows. His toes curl when Eames presses kisses to the inside of his knee.
"I wish I could just take a picture of you, right now." Eames says. He settles between Arthur's legs, resting his cheek against Arthur's collarbone, kissing the side of his neck.
"Your hair is down for once." Eames says, reaching up to curl a lock of it around his finger. "It's nice. I like you like this, pliant, warm, off-guard."
"You just want to get into my pants." Arthur says, snorting, but his eyes are soft and he meets Eames' open-mouthed kiss halfway.
"Yeah, well," Eames sniffs, nosing him on the cheek. "There is that."
Arthur laughs and his whole body shakes in small vibrations. "Typical." he says. He rakes his fingernails through Eames' hair and musses it up.
--
It's warm in Paris despite it being already October.
Eames has just returned from Mombasa at Cobb's insistence. He isn't too keen on the whole prospect of working with a team of people assembled for one last job that Cobb believes will be his saving grace, but there's a fat paycheck involved and it isn't like his hands are full in Mombasa anyway, in between swindling people for their money and gambling away his fortune.
On the plane to Paris, Cobb tells him he's being nonobjective for refusing to work with Arthur.
The more Eames thinks about this nonobjectivity, the more he wants to laugh and tell Cobb about the real score. Instead, he grips his knee and looks out the window. The sky is a bright blue up in the air and Eames thinks of the tiles of Arthur's bathroom and the time they fucked in the shower, when Eames slipped and hit his head, hard, on the sink and Arthur drove him to the hospital at six in the fucking morning in sweatpants and a bathrobe and squeezed his hand after he'd gotten his stitches.
He wonders if Arthur ever managed to get rid of the beer stain on the couch.
--
It's in Marseille, of course, the same place Cobb and Mal tied the knot five years ago in her father's house. Cobb's grief is heavy and he bears it on his shoulders like a cross. They gather around Mal's coffin like a flock of crows in their tailored suits, their head bowed in prayer, their hands clasped behind their back.
The priest makes the sign of the cross.
In Miles' kitchen, Eames puffs a cigarette then takes a look at it before throwing it in the sink. It sizzles for a second and then goes out.
He scuffs a loafer on the floor, swearing, while Arthur stands silently by the window, waiting for the storm.
When it comes, it comes with a low rumble. The sea of mourners outside run to find shelter, arms raised above their heads. Rain comes down hard.
This is how they will remember her.
--
It's 3 in the morning when Eames arrives at Cobb's doorstep. He rings the doorbell six times and Arthur steps out bleary-eyed in a bathrobe, his face creased in pillow marks.
"What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were in Scotland?"
Eames shrugs. His tongue feels thick in his mouth and his head is swimming. He grips the wall for support.
"We have a whole life to live together," Eames says, shoving both hands inside his pockets. "but it can't start until you come home." He wishes, not for the first time, that he didn't feel so desperate, that he didn't feel like such child appealing to Arthur's sympathy.
Arthur looks out into the street, shading his eyes with his hand. The street is empty. The lamps glow a deep orange. Arthur sits down on the front porch steps, tucking his hands underneath him.
"Did you sleep with him?" Eames asks. He goes to sit next to Arthur. "Well, did you?"
Something flashes across Arthur's face but it's gone in the blink of an eye. "Did you?"
"What do you think?"
Eames suspends disbelief for a second. He shrugs one shoulder then smiles, weak, winding an arm around Arthur's back and pulling him close. He touches their temples together, reaches to muss Arthur's bedhead and is surprised when Arthur lets him.
"No," Eames says, and it hurts his throat to laugh. "I trust you."
"Good," Arthur says after a pause. "because I didn't. Sleep with him," he adds with great emphasis. Eames puts a hand on top of Arthur's.
"Good," Eames says. "Didn't think you did, anyway. He still loves his wife, you know."
Arthur throws him a look. Eames shrugs and laughs.
They sit in Cobb's front porch until the sun comes up and their clothes are cold and damp with melted snow.
Eventually, Arthur invites Eames inside. Arthur's hand hovers on the kitchen sink but finally he pulls out two cups from the dishdrawer and fills it with hot water.
"Sugar?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder.
"Two please," Eames says.