Prompt Post No. 6

[inception_anon]

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[Fill 6/9] En haut et en bas

[anonymous]

It's so determinedly cavalier, Arthur's insistence that they fuck right then and there, like pretending nothing had happened would somehow rewind their lives back to years and years ago, gliding backward through time, when Mal asked for crateloads of blood oranges to feel the tang in her mouth, and carded her fingers through Arthur's hair, when she told him to go to sleep, and the bottle of wine sat half full on the tabletop in the Cobbs' living room, and Eames remembers that Mal's hand was warm and dry when it shook his own, and she pursed her lips as she smiled, like she was happier than she could let on. Eames feels his throat close up.

"Arthur," he says, lying back, "it's going to be all right."

"How can it be all right?" asks Arthur. "How can it ever be all right?"

"Because moving on isn't about leaving them behind," says Eames. "It's about taking them with you. Taking Mal with you, into the life she left for you. What you have to do is hold her inside of you-- and you'll forget the details, you can't help that, like the way she signed her name, the smell of her skin at the nape of her neck, but details aren't what matters. Maybe she smelled like milk, maybe sugar, maybe ink, but what you remember is that you liked to breathe it in."

"She moved like," says Arthur, "she moved like water, Eames. Like honey. After dinner she would want to dance, and she wouldn't even put any music on, just the sound of cicadas outside, and the clink of Dom washing the dishes in the sink, and she was like a ball of light when I put my hand on her back. And I felt like I was perfect when I danced with her, because why else would someone like her let me wrap my arms around her? And Dom would be there to meet her when she turned around, and I stood against the table and I drank my wine, and they danced like there was no one else alive on Earth."

"You'll remember that," says Eames, promises, "you'll remember the important things. Don't worry. Like the way you put your hand on her stomach and first felt the baby kick against the touch-- or the way she balanced her papers on her knee as she made notes in the margins-- the important things, you'll never forget. What you do forget, you can always invent."

"How do I know," asks Arthur, "if what I'm inventing is anything like her?"

"Because you knew her," says Eames. "Because you know that Mal was beautiful because she was good, and you know that you loved her, and that she loved you, Arthur. Just keep that inside of you, and know that you're carrying Mal with you. Do it for yourself, and do it for Mal-- do it for Cobb, because he's in too many pieces to do it himself right now."

Arthur shifts onto his stomach, face buried halfway into the sheets.

"Almost every time we went under," he says, "I would worry about something or another. About the sedative, about the dosage-- I would always worry. Like the time when you came over. Like that time she laughed and smoothed down my hair, you remember-- but do you know, she would do it every time I worried, and she would tell me to go to sleep, and I loved her, Eames. I loved her so much."

"I know," says Eames.

"It's just," says Arthur, "so hard."

"I'm here," says Eames, and when he turns to look, Arthur is a heap of hair and hunched shoulders, barely a dent on the bed, his spine a faint arc through his shirt. He stretches an arm out over Arthur's shoulders, brushing through his hair, running his thumb across Arthur's cheek, feeling the cool of his skin.

"Fais dodo," says Eames, "petit chou."

And Arthur shudders, just once, a long quiet shiver that runs down his entire body, and finally, like he's been waiting for permission, a hot flood of tears spills out over Eames' hand.

"God," says Arthur, and then he says, "Mal."

Eames remembers this because that's the moment that he falls in love.

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