Prompt Post No. 6

[inception_anon]

* * * Round 6 is now closed to new prompts. * * *

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[Fill 4/9] En haut et en bas

[anonymous]

-

It rains on the day of the funeral. They slog through the wet pools of autumn leaves, and they stare into the six-foot hollow in the ground, as some preacher that Marie Miles knows says something about perishable mysteries and trumpets and the victory and sting of death. Stephen Miles is holding an umbrella for him. Cobb is holding an umbrella for his mother-in-law, and the children are back at the house with a babysitter.

Eames is holding an umbrella for Arthur, and watching the splash and glide of raindrops off Arthur's far shoulder. He should have brought a bigger umbrella. Absently, as people file by the grave to toss roses onto the lowered coffin, Arthur twists the stem in his hands.

"She liked red roses best," says Arthur. "Even though we told her--"

He cuts himself off as he moves to the front of the line. And he stoops as low as he can without kneeling, like he doesn't want the rose to travel so far before it hits the dirt, like he wants to lay it on the coffin instead of dropping it there.

Then it's Cobb's turn, but he's rooted to the ground, looking at the swirl of mud at the bottom of the pit.

"Dom," says Arthur. "Dom."

Cobb starts, and his hand hovers over the grave. Slowly, his fingers unclench, one by one, and when the rose finally falls, he jerks forward like he wants to catch it again.

"A reading," says the preacher, "from the Book of Revelations."

Eames blinks one eye open when the preacher gets to Death will be no more, because he feels a breeze by his side that wasn't there before.

Arthur is gone.

-

Seventh call in thirty minutes and Arthur finally picks up.

"Hey," says Arthur, vowels trailing indistinctly out of the slurred greeting. "Where are you?"

"Where are you?" asks Eames. "Why did you run off all of a sudden?"

"I'm at the Marriott," says Arthur. "Downtown. Come see me."

"Arthur," says Eames, with a suspicion that borders on certainty, "are you drunk?"

"Room 622, the door will be open," says Arthur. "If you don't come, I might die."

"What?" asks Eames, but Arthur has hung up already.

He takes a cab to the hotel, snipes at the driver, and flings away a wad of bills as he jumps out. He would call 911 just to be sure that Arthur hasn't already done whatever massively idiotic thing he is about to do, but he isn't sure if he's wanted in Los Angeles or not.

He finds Arthur on the floor, curled on his side at the foot of the bed, surrounded by a jumble of empty bottles.

"Christ, Arthur," says Eames. "Did you empty the whole bloody mini-bar?"

"I left the wine," Arthur mumbles into the carpet, "because wine is for celebrating."

"Let's get you up," says Eames, and drags Arthur into a sitting position, propped up against the bedframe. "You're going to have one hell of a hangover, but you're not going to die."

"I wouldn't be so sure," says Arthur. "That vodka came after the bottle of sleeping pills."

"The sleeping pills?" repeats Eames, and feels his spine run cold with panic. "You took-- Arthur, what did you-- a bottle, how many-- do you want to die?"

"It was a pretty bad idea," says Arthur. "But now you have to keep me up all night, Eames. All night long."

Arthur smiles, a bleary sort of smile as sloppy as the wreck of his tie, the crumple of his trousers, and he tangles a fist in the front of Eames' shirt. But Eames wrenches himself away, and this time, he does call 911, dialing as he stands to look for the rubbish bin.

Before he can get to the final digit, Arthur is up and on him, knocking the phone out of his hand, blocking his way.

"Don't," says Arthur.

"I can't just keep you up," says Eames, "you fucking idiot! Where's the bottle? How many did you take?"

But the rubbish bin beneath the desk is empty, and so is the one in the restroom. Eames tears through the suite, opening drawers, checking under furniture. Arthur hesitates, hovering just behind him, then hands him his phone.