The Consequences of Trust (Part 7)
Warnings: Suicide Themes
Author's notes: If you for some reason haven't been informed, there is a companion WIP to this piece from Eames point of view.
A huge thank you to anatsuno for translating into French for me. My words would have come out butchered and something unintended if I had just used an online translator. She's a doll, really.
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. They are not mine, I just like to play with them.
_______
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
There’s only so much a man can take. This phrase seems to have been dictating Arthur’s life lately. He feels worn thin, ragged around the edges. He’s just a shell waiting at the bottom of the sea for something large to come and claim him, take him away. It’s not that easy though.
Eames, who is here, is not taking him away. Instead he seems to hold Arthur in place, reminding him, every minute of the day, what happened to shatter his life. All Eames wants to do is to fix him, it seems. But Arthur doesn’t think he can be fixed. Every worried glance and pity filled frown stabs at his soul. He didn’t used to be this weak, and he doesn’t understand why he is now. Why can’t he just move on?
Eventually he agrees to go under with Eames. Maybe it’s due to some small hope that Eames will be successful, that he will indeed fix him from the inside. Maybe Arthur hopes he’s wrong about not being broken and the clever forger knows something about his inner turmoil that he himself doesn’t. Him giving in, going under, is more likely because he just doesn’t have the energy to fight anymore. Eames is capable of cracking his professional veneer on his best days, sure, but Arthur always put up one hell of a fight. That was part of the fun; it was a challenge seeing who would give in first.
Surrendering shows how desperate he is to escape his reality now, because he is scared witless. He is so frightened of going into dreams again that his hands tremble at the thought. He can’t know if Eames will hurt him again, or his he will hurt himself. He can’t know if his subconscious has devolved into the hostile chaos he feels it may have. The turmoil that eats at him every waking or sleeping moment could be waiting to confront them upon entering.
When Arthur finally concedes he’s confused to find out that Eames wants him to enter his dream, and not Arthur’s. Arthur had thought Eames would want to root around in his mind, find the source, like he was performing an extraction. But no, Eames wants Arthur to follow him somewhere that Eames has thought up. He’s confused, but a little relieved.
They’re walking through a park. It’s empty, sprawling, and idealistic. It’s the kind of park that only exists at edges of civilization, on the cusp of forests or blending into the edges of untouched fields. It’s nothing like the parks Arthur is used to, growing up in cities where greenery is surrounded in concrete like a firefly trapped in a children’s jar. He’s instantly uncomfortable with the mercurial nature of it; it could shift at any moment and overwhelm them. It could be claimed again by unrelenting natural force. The idea that nature is conquered is something he’s always enjoyed about planned parks. The idea of things out of his control make him uneasy. Being lost in the elements is something he tries very hard not to think about.
So he stares at Eames. He concentrates on following him through the park, to wherever they are heading. He doesn’t know the destination so he lets Eames get ahead. It gives him just a moment’s worth of decision, space to turn back, if he doesn’t like what he sees. But there is nothing in this wilderness, in the vast expanse of green hills, nothing that he can differentiate as being significant.
When Eames stops like he’s found what he’s looking for, Arthur is perplexed. He doesn’t see anything new, at least not until he finds Eames’ eyes down-turned at a spot in front of him. The soil is disturbed in a distinctly rectangular shape. The geometry of it gives him fleeting solace.
“What is this?” He asks Eames. Eames pauses, takes a breath before answering like he’s unsure of himself.
“This is where I buried you. Bury you every time I dream.”
The grave opens; a pit of darkness, of barren nothingness. Arthur can feel despair seep into the cold chill of the air. It’s like Eames’ mind is shivering. He doesn’t understand what this is supposed to mean.
“I couldn’t leave you. I couldn’t just leave your body. It was just a dream, but I couldn’t bear it. I had to, to do something.” Eames’ response is distressed. He’s saying it as if he’s talking to Arthur’s ghost. Like he’s justifying himself to someone who will never be able to understand or respond.
“You buried me?”
“It’s, quite literally, the least I could do. I should have never let you think I didn’t care. I should never have killed you like that, Arthur.”
Arthur feels his chest clench with that admission, like the words are wrapping themselves around his heart and strangling it. He wants to go back to when he thought nobody could hurt him like this. He wants to go back to back to the way it was before, But Eames had ruined it, he had shattered the delicate glass of naivete Arthur had apparently protected himself in. It’s the honest truth when he blames him with his next words.
“But you did.” Arthur can taste the bitterness lacing the statement. He feels the bile rise in his throat.
“Yes. And I don’t even want your forgiveness. I don’t deserve that. But I can’t bear to see you like this. You don’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve any of this.”
Arthur is choking down his sickness, his anger, trying so hard to control himself when Eames touches him. Eames’ hand traces over his face delicately, like Arthur will break, like Arthur is made of porcelain. Then Arthur remembers the pain again of his shattered bones, the injury that never really existed, the death that he never really died. He can feel the heavy misery of months alone, lost in his mind. Eames steps closer until their faces are inches apart. He stares into gray eyes and can feel Eames’ breath on his face, tentative and light. Arthur’s breath leaves him and emotions crash over him like waves: expectation, fear, anger, need.
Eames mutters an apology and kisses Arthur briefly. It’s glimpse of affection that Arthur’s mind can’t process. It doesn’t make sense that Eames cares at all. Arthur has gotten so used to the idea that he hadn’t cared, that no one did. He’d resigned himself to the knowledge that he couldn’t trust anyone, not really.
Suddenly he’s angry. It’s just like Eames to come in and fuck with him, to ruin everything he knows with a simple gesture. It’s unfair that Eames has so much power over Arthur’s state of mind. Arthur is angry for letting himself be weak to Eames’ motives, whether or not they are well intentioned.
Their time in the dream ends abruptly and Arthur finds himself staring at the ceiling of their hotel room. He can’t bring himself to move. He wants to hate Eames so much for this, but really all he hates is himself. Everything is so confusing. He’s not used to not being able to figure things out. It’s his goddamn job: to figure things out, to dissect things, to make them work. It’s his job to find the holes, to bring things together, to know everything. It was his job. It was his life.
Eames is removing the needle from his arm with gentle fingers. His touch sears into Arthur’s flesh. He watches at Eames runs an alcohol pad over his skin and packs the PASIV away, a defeated slump set in his shoulders. Eames is giving up. Eames is giving up on him, and now he will leave Arthur alone again. He will leave because Arthur is broken and Eames tried. He tried and failed.
He should leave. He should just go. He should just let Arthur wither away into himself. Arthur cannot put himself back together. Eames cannot put him back together. Eames should just go so Arthur can end this for real this time. He should leave him in piece so Arthur can stop feeling so much pain. This time he’ll remember to take an antihistamine beforehand. This time he’ll take more pills, not just the leftovers in the bottle. He’ll tie a bag over his head just to be sure.
Arthur turns to the wall, tucking himself in a ball as if to protect himself from the world. It’s not the world he has to protect himself from, but the position is instinctual. Eames walks away, taking the PASIV with him.
***
They don’t really talk. Eames doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t quite stay, not in the same before, where he was taking care of Arthur. Now he’s like a ghost: hovering at a distance, careful to not interfere for fear of being discovered, keeping watch. He only ever leaves for fifteen minute intervals to fetch food, or get supplies. Arthur is not thankful for this.
For three days Eames watches him with a look of sadness so deep-set that Arthur can’t bring himself make eye contact anymore. He doesn’t eat, but Eames doesn’t try to make him. It’s as if Eames has stopped doing anything other than making sure he’s not gone long enough for Arthur to do something about his state of being alive. All of Arthur’s weapons are at his apartment. He has no pills. He could strangle himself with the bedsheets, but the idea of asphyxiation with out the ability to break his own neck puts a stop to that. It’s too slow. The idea of being caught blue, with bulging eyes and broken blood vessels is also unappealing. He thinks maybe he should be happy he still has a shred of dignity left, but then he just thinks he’s being pathetic and vain when he so very clearly has an out.
He doesn’t even register the knock at the door. His survival instincts at the moment are zero. In his normal state he would have had his gun in hand and a cautious ear to the wall (never the door if you don’t want to be shot, or your face bashed in if they kick it.) As it is he only realizes someone else is in the room because the air shifts with heavy tension.
“Cobb?”
Eames and Dom are having a conspiratorial conversation, complete with furtive glances and tense hands run through hair. Cobb glances up at the mention of is name. He gives a grim smile. Eames chews on his fingers like he’s nervous. Arthur has no idea why Cobb is here. Eames made it perfectly clear that he would be fine never seeing the man again seeing as how he nearly dropped everyone into limbo during the Fischer job.
Arthur knows that Eames doesn’t appreciate others gambling with his life. Arthur never blamed him for that. Eames seems to think that Arthur followed Dom around like a lap dog, but really Dom had been relatively fine up until the very last months before the Cobol job. Dom was a great extractor, always had been. Arthur had been excited to work with him when he was finally going rogue, on the wrong side of the law.
After inception Dom had went back to his children, had given up the illegal extraction business. It helped that Dom stepped out of the game: confrontations never had to happen. He and Eames could continue working together without conflict. Last Arthur heard, Dom was only doing private consultations and militarization, mainly to people Saito referred, and teaching architecture at an art college on the side.
Dom is looking at him with a particularly calculating gaze. His hands are in his pockets like they always are when he’s thinking. Arthur wonders if he still carries Mal’s totem. Arthur knows every squint in Cobb’s arsenal and he knows that this one is Cobb appraising him, taking in every detail of his appearance and actions. Arthur doesn’t even bother to fake it. Why should he?
It’s not like Cobb can judge him. Arthur has seen the man at his worst, when Cobb was clutching a cocked gun near his head like it was a life line as he’d spun that top over and over. He’s seen the desperation in Cobb’s eyes. The only difference between them is that Cobb still had the will to fight. Cobb had his children to get back to. Arthur has nothing.
After the brief appraisal Cobb seems to make up his mind Arthur sees the weariness he had gotten used to, before inception, creeping back into his features. He approaches carefully, like Arthur is some kind of wild animal or temperamental child. He crouches with hands still in pockets and stares at his feet when he speaks so softly that Arthur can barely hear him.
* “Tu ne vois donc pas le monde ? Tu ne vois pas comme tout en fait partie ? Il est là, à tes pieds. Il suffit que tu fasses un pas en avant. Souviens-toi simplement que lorsque tu ne contrôles pas tout, le monde continue quand même. Si tu t'y promènes, il te révélera sa beauté. Il t'ouvrira grand les bras.”
Arthur’s resolve breaks at hearing Mal’s words, at the memory, whispered to him again after so many years. She had taught him what trust was, what letting go was. She had taught him how to let good things happen to him instead of fighting everything tooth and nail. Tears well in his eyes and then turn to rivers streaming down his cheeks as he sobs openly. He clutches his head in his hands and leans forward, heedless of the mucus and spit running from his face an as he bawls.
He doesn’t know how long he cries for but when he comes back to his senses he feels exhausted. His face feels swollen and sticky. Cobb is sitting next to him, arm wrapped around his shoulders; he realizes he’s shaking uncontrollably. He looks up, the room distorted through his tears, and sees Eames fidgeting, shifting his weight on his feet as he chews on his nails. It looks as if Eames is going to come out of his skin, like he’s barely hanging on to control.
“Arthur, come with me to California,” Cobb says.
Arthur drops his hands from his head. He leans back into the sofa, resting his head on the back of it, exhausted. He closes his eyes and tries to clear his thoughts. He barely left his apartment these last months. He hasn’t left the hotel since they arrived. He hasn’t been on a plane since he got to Paris. But what could it hurt? He has nothing left to lose. He’d nearly died by his own hands just over a month ago.
“Yeah, ok,” he breaths. Cobb’s arm wraps tighter around his shoulder, which makes him uncomfortable. For all the he and Cobb were friends, intimate gestures are foreign. Arthur, at the moment, would be happy if nobody ever touched him again.
“Cobb, may I speak to you.” Eames asks. Arthur is relieved when Cobb’s arm snakes away. He presses himself into the corner of the sofa, sinking as far into it as he can. Cobb gets up and Eames ushers him into the suite’s dining nook. Arthur doesn’t bother to eavesdrop. His mind is racing at the thought of going to California. What did he just agree to?
***
“What are you doing?”
Arthur hovers in the doorway, watching wearily as Eames paces back and forth across the room, gathering strewn clothing and scattered belongings into bags. Eames looks up at him, face distorted with something akin to grief across it. He doesn’t know what Eames and Cobb spoke of, but Eames has been on edge since.
Eames schools his look into something placid and takes a breath. He deftly folds a garish shirt into his bag. It was obvious that something was bothering Eames but he speaks with a neutral voice.
“Packing, darling.”
“You’re coming with?”
Offense flickers briefly across Eames’ face. Eames is being entirely too open with his emotions and Arthur wonders what the deal is with Eames lack of control. Eames is particular about only showing what he intends to. Arthur had caught him flashing emotions like he can’t control them since Eames broke him out of the hospital.
“Of course I am, Arthur. I’m not leaving you again.”
Arthur tries packing a the few articles of clothing Eames had managed to somehow obtain from his apartment. After haphazardly folding one shirt his gives up. He just doesn’t care. He shoves the rest of his belonging in the case messily and lays on the bed.
He’s nervous about the trip. He’s surprised to find that he’s somewhat relieved that Eames is coming with though. He has no idea what he’s going to do in California, but he’ll be with a friend. Cobb knows grief and pain. And he’ll get to see the kids. That might actually be good for him. He hasn’t seen them since Mal’s funeral.
Then he starts thinking about Mal’s funeral, her death, and tears well up in his eyes again. He buries his face into the comforter of the bed and lets the tears slide down over his nose. He wishes Mal were here. He misses her, the way she was before something in her turned dark. She had a way of making everything seem like it would all turn out for the better.
But she’s not here. He’s going to California to visit the home where she was once happy. He doesn’t know what Cobb has in mind, but he thinks that anything has to be better than what he’s doing now. His eyes slip shut and he drifts to sleep, the salt of his tears leaving stains on his skin.
________
English Translation
Don’t you see the world? Don’t you see how it holds everything in it? It’s open at your feet. All you have to do is take a step. All you have to do is let yourself remember that even when you aren’t in control, the world will continue on. If you walk through it, it will reveal its beauty. It will open its arms to you.
back to the story
Author's notes: If you for some reason haven't been informed, there is a companion WIP to this piece from Eames point of view.
A huge thank you to anatsuno for translating into French for me. My words would have come out butchered and something unintended if I had just used an online translator. She's a doll, really.
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. They are not mine, I just like to play with them.
_______
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
There’s only so much a man can take. This phrase seems to have been dictating Arthur’s life lately. He feels worn thin, ragged around the edges. He’s just a shell waiting at the bottom of the sea for something large to come and claim him, take him away. It’s not that easy though.
Eames, who is here, is not taking him away. Instead he seems to hold Arthur in place, reminding him, every minute of the day, what happened to shatter his life. All Eames wants to do is to fix him, it seems. But Arthur doesn’t think he can be fixed. Every worried glance and pity filled frown stabs at his soul. He didn’t used to be this weak, and he doesn’t understand why he is now. Why can’t he just move on?
Eventually he agrees to go under with Eames. Maybe it’s due to some small hope that Eames will be successful, that he will indeed fix him from the inside. Maybe Arthur hopes he’s wrong about not being broken and the clever forger knows something about his inner turmoil that he himself doesn’t. Him giving in, going under, is more likely because he just doesn’t have the energy to fight anymore. Eames is capable of cracking his professional veneer on his best days, sure, but Arthur always put up one hell of a fight. That was part of the fun; it was a challenge seeing who would give in first.
Surrendering shows how desperate he is to escape his reality now, because he is scared witless. He is so frightened of going into dreams again that his hands tremble at the thought. He can’t know if Eames will hurt him again, or his he will hurt himself. He can’t know if his subconscious has devolved into the hostile chaos he feels it may have. The turmoil that eats at him every waking or sleeping moment could be waiting to confront them upon entering.
When Arthur finally concedes he’s confused to find out that Eames wants him to enter his dream, and not Arthur’s. Arthur had thought Eames would want to root around in his mind, find the source, like he was performing an extraction. But no, Eames wants Arthur to follow him somewhere that Eames has thought up. He’s confused, but a little relieved.
They’re walking through a park. It’s empty, sprawling, and idealistic. It’s the kind of park that only exists at edges of civilization, on the cusp of forests or blending into the edges of untouched fields. It’s nothing like the parks Arthur is used to, growing up in cities where greenery is surrounded in concrete like a firefly trapped in a children’s jar. He’s instantly uncomfortable with the mercurial nature of it; it could shift at any moment and overwhelm them. It could be claimed again by unrelenting natural force. The idea that nature is conquered is something he’s always enjoyed about planned parks. The idea of things out of his control make him uneasy. Being lost in the elements is something he tries very hard not to think about.
So he stares at Eames. He concentrates on following him through the park, to wherever they are heading. He doesn’t know the destination so he lets Eames get ahead. It gives him just a moment’s worth of decision, space to turn back, if he doesn’t like what he sees. But there is nothing in this wilderness, in the vast expanse of green hills, nothing that he can differentiate as being significant.
When Eames stops like he’s found what he’s looking for, Arthur is perplexed. He doesn’t see anything new, at least not until he finds Eames’ eyes down-turned at a spot in front of him. The soil is disturbed in a distinctly rectangular shape. The geometry of it gives him fleeting solace.
“What is this?” He asks Eames. Eames pauses, takes a breath before answering like he’s unsure of himself.
“This is where I buried you. Bury you every time I dream.”
The grave opens; a pit of darkness, of barren nothingness. Arthur can feel despair seep into the cold chill of the air. It’s like Eames’ mind is shivering. He doesn’t understand what this is supposed to mean.
“I couldn’t leave you. I couldn’t just leave your body. It was just a dream, but I couldn’t bear it. I had to, to do something.” Eames’ response is distressed. He’s saying it as if he’s talking to Arthur’s ghost. Like he’s justifying himself to someone who will never be able to understand or respond.
“You buried me?”
“It’s, quite literally, the least I could do. I should have never let you think I didn’t care. I should never have killed you like that, Arthur.”
Arthur feels his chest clench with that admission, like the words are wrapping themselves around his heart and strangling it. He wants to go back to when he thought nobody could hurt him like this. He wants to go back to back to the way it was before, But Eames had ruined it, he had shattered the delicate glass of naivete Arthur had apparently protected himself in. It’s the honest truth when he blames him with his next words.
“But you did.” Arthur can taste the bitterness lacing the statement. He feels the bile rise in his throat.
“Yes. And I don’t even want your forgiveness. I don’t deserve that. But I can’t bear to see you like this. You don’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve any of this.”
Arthur is choking down his sickness, his anger, trying so hard to control himself when Eames touches him. Eames’ hand traces over his face delicately, like Arthur will break, like Arthur is made of porcelain. Then Arthur remembers the pain again of his shattered bones, the injury that never really existed, the death that he never really died. He can feel the heavy misery of months alone, lost in his mind. Eames steps closer until their faces are inches apart. He stares into gray eyes and can feel Eames’ breath on his face, tentative and light. Arthur’s breath leaves him and emotions crash over him like waves: expectation, fear, anger, need.
Eames mutters an apology and kisses Arthur briefly. It’s glimpse of affection that Arthur’s mind can’t process. It doesn’t make sense that Eames cares at all. Arthur has gotten so used to the idea that he hadn’t cared, that no one did. He’d resigned himself to the knowledge that he couldn’t trust anyone, not really.
Suddenly he’s angry. It’s just like Eames to come in and fuck with him, to ruin everything he knows with a simple gesture. It’s unfair that Eames has so much power over Arthur’s state of mind. Arthur is angry for letting himself be weak to Eames’ motives, whether or not they are well intentioned.
Their time in the dream ends abruptly and Arthur finds himself staring at the ceiling of their hotel room. He can’t bring himself to move. He wants to hate Eames so much for this, but really all he hates is himself. Everything is so confusing. He’s not used to not being able to figure things out. It’s his goddamn job: to figure things out, to dissect things, to make them work. It’s his job to find the holes, to bring things together, to know everything. It was his job. It was his life.
Eames is removing the needle from his arm with gentle fingers. His touch sears into Arthur’s flesh. He watches at Eames runs an alcohol pad over his skin and packs the PASIV away, a defeated slump set in his shoulders. Eames is giving up. Eames is giving up on him, and now he will leave Arthur alone again. He will leave because Arthur is broken and Eames tried. He tried and failed.
He should leave. He should just go. He should just let Arthur wither away into himself. Arthur cannot put himself back together. Eames cannot put him back together. Eames should just go so Arthur can end this for real this time. He should leave him in piece so Arthur can stop feeling so much pain. This time he’ll remember to take an antihistamine beforehand. This time he’ll take more pills, not just the leftovers in the bottle. He’ll tie a bag over his head just to be sure.
Arthur turns to the wall, tucking himself in a ball as if to protect himself from the world. It’s not the world he has to protect himself from, but the position is instinctual. Eames walks away, taking the PASIV with him.
***
They don’t really talk. Eames doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t quite stay, not in the same before, where he was taking care of Arthur. Now he’s like a ghost: hovering at a distance, careful to not interfere for fear of being discovered, keeping watch. He only ever leaves for fifteen minute intervals to fetch food, or get supplies. Arthur is not thankful for this.
For three days Eames watches him with a look of sadness so deep-set that Arthur can’t bring himself make eye contact anymore. He doesn’t eat, but Eames doesn’t try to make him. It’s as if Eames has stopped doing anything other than making sure he’s not gone long enough for Arthur to do something about his state of being alive. All of Arthur’s weapons are at his apartment. He has no pills. He could strangle himself with the bedsheets, but the idea of asphyxiation with out the ability to break his own neck puts a stop to that. It’s too slow. The idea of being caught blue, with bulging eyes and broken blood vessels is also unappealing. He thinks maybe he should be happy he still has a shred of dignity left, but then he just thinks he’s being pathetic and vain when he so very clearly has an out.
He doesn’t even register the knock at the door. His survival instincts at the moment are zero. In his normal state he would have had his gun in hand and a cautious ear to the wall (never the door if you don’t want to be shot, or your face bashed in if they kick it.) As it is he only realizes someone else is in the room because the air shifts with heavy tension.
“Cobb?”
Eames and Dom are having a conspiratorial conversation, complete with furtive glances and tense hands run through hair. Cobb glances up at the mention of is name. He gives a grim smile. Eames chews on his fingers like he’s nervous. Arthur has no idea why Cobb is here. Eames made it perfectly clear that he would be fine never seeing the man again seeing as how he nearly dropped everyone into limbo during the Fischer job.
Arthur knows that Eames doesn’t appreciate others gambling with his life. Arthur never blamed him for that. Eames seems to think that Arthur followed Dom around like a lap dog, but really Dom had been relatively fine up until the very last months before the Cobol job. Dom was a great extractor, always had been. Arthur had been excited to work with him when he was finally going rogue, on the wrong side of the law.
After inception Dom had went back to his children, had given up the illegal extraction business. It helped that Dom stepped out of the game: confrontations never had to happen. He and Eames could continue working together without conflict. Last Arthur heard, Dom was only doing private consultations and militarization, mainly to people Saito referred, and teaching architecture at an art college on the side.
Dom is looking at him with a particularly calculating gaze. His hands are in his pockets like they always are when he’s thinking. Arthur wonders if he still carries Mal’s totem. Arthur knows every squint in Cobb’s arsenal and he knows that this one is Cobb appraising him, taking in every detail of his appearance and actions. Arthur doesn’t even bother to fake it. Why should he?
It’s not like Cobb can judge him. Arthur has seen the man at his worst, when Cobb was clutching a cocked gun near his head like it was a life line as he’d spun that top over and over. He’s seen the desperation in Cobb’s eyes. The only difference between them is that Cobb still had the will to fight. Cobb had his children to get back to. Arthur has nothing.
After the brief appraisal Cobb seems to make up his mind Arthur sees the weariness he had gotten used to, before inception, creeping back into his features. He approaches carefully, like Arthur is some kind of wild animal or temperamental child. He crouches with hands still in pockets and stares at his feet when he speaks so softly that Arthur can barely hear him.
* “Tu ne vois donc pas le monde ? Tu ne vois pas comme tout en fait partie ? Il est là, à tes pieds. Il suffit que tu fasses un pas en avant. Souviens-toi simplement que lorsque tu ne contrôles pas tout, le monde continue quand même. Si tu t'y promènes, il te révélera sa beauté. Il t'ouvrira grand les bras.”
Arthur’s resolve breaks at hearing Mal’s words, at the memory, whispered to him again after so many years. She had taught him what trust was, what letting go was. She had taught him how to let good things happen to him instead of fighting everything tooth and nail. Tears well in his eyes and then turn to rivers streaming down his cheeks as he sobs openly. He clutches his head in his hands and leans forward, heedless of the mucus and spit running from his face an as he bawls.
He doesn’t know how long he cries for but when he comes back to his senses he feels exhausted. His face feels swollen and sticky. Cobb is sitting next to him, arm wrapped around his shoulders; he realizes he’s shaking uncontrollably. He looks up, the room distorted through his tears, and sees Eames fidgeting, shifting his weight on his feet as he chews on his nails. It looks as if Eames is going to come out of his skin, like he’s barely hanging on to control.
“Arthur, come with me to California,” Cobb says.
Arthur drops his hands from his head. He leans back into the sofa, resting his head on the back of it, exhausted. He closes his eyes and tries to clear his thoughts. He barely left his apartment these last months. He hasn’t left the hotel since they arrived. He hasn’t been on a plane since he got to Paris. But what could it hurt? He has nothing left to lose. He’d nearly died by his own hands just over a month ago.
“Yeah, ok,” he breaths. Cobb’s arm wraps tighter around his shoulder, which makes him uncomfortable. For all the he and Cobb were friends, intimate gestures are foreign. Arthur, at the moment, would be happy if nobody ever touched him again.
“Cobb, may I speak to you.” Eames asks. Arthur is relieved when Cobb’s arm snakes away. He presses himself into the corner of the sofa, sinking as far into it as he can. Cobb gets up and Eames ushers him into the suite’s dining nook. Arthur doesn’t bother to eavesdrop. His mind is racing at the thought of going to California. What did he just agree to?
***
“What are you doing?”
Arthur hovers in the doorway, watching wearily as Eames paces back and forth across the room, gathering strewn clothing and scattered belongings into bags. Eames looks up at him, face distorted with something akin to grief across it. He doesn’t know what Eames and Cobb spoke of, but Eames has been on edge since.
Eames schools his look into something placid and takes a breath. He deftly folds a garish shirt into his bag. It was obvious that something was bothering Eames but he speaks with a neutral voice.
“Packing, darling.”
“You’re coming with?”
Offense flickers briefly across Eames’ face. Eames is being entirely too open with his emotions and Arthur wonders what the deal is with Eames lack of control. Eames is particular about only showing what he intends to. Arthur had caught him flashing emotions like he can’t control them since Eames broke him out of the hospital.
“Of course I am, Arthur. I’m not leaving you again.”
Arthur tries packing a the few articles of clothing Eames had managed to somehow obtain from his apartment. After haphazardly folding one shirt his gives up. He just doesn’t care. He shoves the rest of his belonging in the case messily and lays on the bed.
He’s nervous about the trip. He’s surprised to find that he’s somewhat relieved that Eames is coming with though. He has no idea what he’s going to do in California, but he’ll be with a friend. Cobb knows grief and pain. And he’ll get to see the kids. That might actually be good for him. He hasn’t seen them since Mal’s funeral.
Then he starts thinking about Mal’s funeral, her death, and tears well up in his eyes again. He buries his face into the comforter of the bed and lets the tears slide down over his nose. He wishes Mal were here. He misses her, the way she was before something in her turned dark. She had a way of making everything seem like it would all turn out for the better.
But she’s not here. He’s going to California to visit the home where she was once happy. He doesn’t know what Cobb has in mind, but he thinks that anything has to be better than what he’s doing now. His eyes slip shut and he drifts to sleep, the salt of his tears leaving stains on his skin.
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English Translation
Don’t you see the world? Don’t you see how it holds everything in it? It’s open at your feet. All you have to do is take a step. All you have to do is let yourself remember that even when you aren’t in control, the world will continue on. If you walk through it, it will reveal its beauty. It will open its arms to you.
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