Simple Math [standalone]
Title: Simple Math
Author: my_0wn_madness
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None, really. Sex, addiction and angst.
Characters: Arthur/Eames
Summary: He wanted to get married, to start over, to have a second chance, to not do this anymore. To not wake up with a sigh and feel gravity binding him to this world. To not wake up to dull colors, to shadows that seemed to extend too far. To not go to sleep knowing that it would have to end too soon.
Word Count: 8,872
Disclaimer: Inception is not mine in any way, shape or form. Sad day. The title comes from Manchester Orchestra.
Author's Notes: I have no idea what this is. I wrote the majority of it in one sitting and it came out to be about 6,000 words. (Can you imagine what I could actually accomplish if I actually sat down and did shit every day?) I was going to post it as it was, but it really wouldn't leave me alone. So I kept adding and editing over the past week and I'm still not entirely sure how pleased I am with it, but I think I like it enough to post it. Also I'm not entirely sure of what else I would add. I listened to Manchester Orchestra's 'Simple Math' while writing 90% of this and it's a great song, I highly recommend it. I hope you enjoy :)
After every job, Arthur went home alone. Well, in all honesty, he never really went "home", per se, not since they had been forced to avoid the states and, in consequent, his small apartment in Los Angeles. No, "home" after every job was, more often than not, a single hotel room that was never booked under his actual name. Home was usually filled with modern and aesthetically appealing, though quite heartless furniture. With a luxurious comforter spread across a bed far too big for even his lanky form, complimenting whatever rich and warming color happened to be splashed across the wall. Though the lack of creases across its perfect, plush surface was only perfection in the fact that it was unloved, untouched, untainted. Lonely.
The only welcome he received when he entered his temporary home was a complimentary mint and a plastic, printed sign that said something like 'Thank you for letting us serve you. We hope you enjoy your stay.' Sometimes, Arthur had the urge to add his name after the last sentiment, just so it seemed more personal.
But, then again, the hotel never was welcoming Arthur. It was welcoming Thomas, Neil, Adam, Howard, Vincent, James. Never Arthur.
It was reality, his die told him so, and there was nothing Arthur could do about it except just accept it. Which was exactly what he had done. After all, he had chosen this lifestyle. He had known that signing on as Cobb's right-hand man had meant signing away any sort of comfortable life that he would ever almost have. He had known, right then, that he would never be able to come home and have someone greet him with a smile, a kiss, dinner, an "I'm glad you're home". An "I missed you". An "I'm glad you're safe."
Arthur had been faced with the clichéd decision: His career or basically everything else in his life. He had chosen his career. He had chosen Cobb, whom he was loyal to until the very end. And, even when he found himself drinking expensive wine by himself in his empty hotel room, tired eyes just barely watching a scripted story of a life that he could have had, he didn't regret it.
He especially didn't regret it when he spent hours in Cobb's room, his arm wrapped tightly around the other man's shoulders because he knew that this lifestyle wasn't the hardest on him.
After every job, Arthur went home alone, said good bye to Cobb in the hallway and watched briefly as the other man entered a separate hotel room. He slipped the key card through the lock and stepped into his temporary home. He no longer noticed the empty silence, the untouched bedspread, the perfect position of everything, the impersonal greeting.
After every job, Arthur went home alone. Except for the job that introduced him to a man named Eames.
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Eames was the type of man that Arthur had no idea he was attracted to until he saw him. The Forger presented himself in an obscure posture-one shoulder dipped, the other proudly pushed back-and his hand was warm and firm when he offered it. Eames dressed himself in hideous clothing, a horrible show of fashion sense that made Arthur's lips cringe whenever he saw. Paisley, shapely patterns, pastel colors, ill-fitted shirts with sleeves that made Arthur want to demand that Eames never take off his jacket, even if it was the color of mustard while his pants were… silver? Not even gray, but silver. The only acceptance Arthur was willing to give those horrible slacks was that they matched Eames' eyes.
Eames' eyes. They left Arthur breathless when he first clutched Eames' hand, and he forgot who he was for a moment. James, Thomas, no Arthur, but even as he said it with a voice that was barely there, there was some part of him that felt it was unnecessary. It was as if Eames knew. Just with that gaze, those irises that were a sharp gray mixed with a bright green, Arthur was convinced that Eames knew his name, knew everything about him.
And from the way those full, pink and taunting lips curled upwards, Arthur felt that Eames knew just how caught off guard he was.
Arthur first noticed the ink peeking out from beneath Eames' shirt sleeve about an hour later, when Eames splayed his hands across their work table and hunched over, nodding as Cobb instructed him just what he was to do while portraying their mark's brother. After that, Arthur wasn't able to pay attention to the folder in his hands or the words that Cobb was directing towards him because he was too busy trying to fill in the rest of the tattoo in his mind. His dark eyes glanced frequently to the ink curling up the preview of the muscles of Eames' bicep, just so he could imagine the rest of the tattoo that he couldn't see.
Arthur received only one night alone to stare blankly at the television screen to envision it. The day after, all of Eames' attention was directed towards him.
There were comments that made Arthur raise an eyebrow and look anything but amused. There were lingering promises of touches, like Eames' hand close to his own as they examined the layout their architect had come up with. There were gazes held for just a moment too long that made Arthur's heart stomp on his ribcage.
It was that evening, just as everyone was leaving, that Eames' fingers finally brushed along his shoulder blade. The touch caused Arthur to freeze, caused his cheeks to heat up because it had been so long since anyone had touched him in such a way, and his knuckles almost immediately turned white from how hard he gripped the strap of his messenger bag.
"What are you up to tonight?" The words were low, husky, accented and perfect beside Arthur's ear, each syllable seducing his skin and it made him roll his shoulders back to disguise a shudder.
His dry lips formed the word, "Nothing", but he didn't hear it. Not over the blood pounding in his ears.
Eames' hand then splayed against his back and slipped down to his arm, his fingers gently curling around the sleeve of his jacket. "Then let me buy you a drink, hn?"
Arthur did. And it didn't stop there, especially not with the way Eames kept touching his lower back whenever men and women from the bar would try to approach them. That touch, that subtle and light possession, made Arthur weak in the knees each time, made him want to curl his fingers in the collar of Eames' horribly colored jacket and pull him close to kiss those wet lips.
That was exactly what he did once he led Eames up to his temporary home and, christ, did those lips feel as perfect as they looked. They tasted of cigarettes, alcohol and something Arthur had never tasted before, and it made him moan quietly. Eames wasted no time in wrapping his arms tightly around Arthur's body and closing the gaps between their frames and it was uncanny how perfectly they fit together. Where Eames had muscle, Arthur's body easily caved and dipped to fit it tightly and there were too many layers between them, to many layers suffocating his burning and itching skin.
It wasn't long before Arthur found out that the tattoo on Eames' bicep was a swirling design of sorts and that it was among several painted upon the smooth skin. But he didn't care as Eames pushed him down, ruining the flawless, untouched surface of the comforter like he had thrown a pebble into a glass lake.
Arthur clung to Eames like he hadn't held anyone in a long time and Eames fucked him the hardest he had ever been fucked. It made his pale skin break out into a sweat, beads dripping from his temples and matting his hair to his cheeks and forehead. It made him pant and groan, his lips wet and bruised from their contact with Eames' own lips, tongue and teeth. It made him senseless to everything except Eames, the way Eames' skin shifted beneath his trembling fingers, the way Eames pressed his forehead to Arthur's cheek, the way Eames' sounds were husky, low and among rasping and mindless curses and chants of Arthur's name.
After he came between them and after Eames' body arched into a beautiful shape, one that Arthur traced with his weak fingertips, Arthur didn't try to push him away. Eames didn't try to pull away.
He stayed the night and Arthur slept effortlessly. He woke the next morning to a gentle knocking on his door and pried himself from Eames' arms, quickly grabbing a towel from the bathroom to wrap around his body before he answered. Cobb was there, arms crossed and smirking. "You still have to work today, just so you know."
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Eames followed them to Paris after their job ended. Cobb told Arthur that he could stay with Eames, that he'd be fine without him, but Arthur immediately declined and rested his head upon Cobb's shoulder. Loyal to the very end.
This time, they rented a one bedroom apartment, only Arthur's signature wasn't alone on the lease. There was something that made him smile upon seeing the name Bryant Matheson beside his Adam Walker. Cobb rented an identical flat next door and they all three agreed to take a few weeks off, especially since their last job had paid handsomely.
Living with Eames was easy and it didn't take long for Arthur to grow use to Eames getting up about an hour before him every morning, to the coffee and the other man reading the newspaper in the kitchen, to Eames eventually setting it down with a chuckle and murmuring, "I don't even read French. Not past 'bonjour'." He became so familiar with the presence of someone comforting and warm behind him with everything he did. He became so familiar with Eames' horrible handwriting informing him whenever the other man ran to the store while he was sleeping, with the way Eames would always bring back things that Arthur had recently mused about craving, with the way Eames would smile whenever Arthur thanked him. The way Eames laughed. The way Eames watched him. The way Eames moved. The way he sat, the way he walked, the way he drank, the way he ate, the way he'd lick his lips when he was horny.
It wasn't long before Eames knew just how to make Arthur's knees buckle with a special touch to the back of his neck.
It was so easy, so effortless and something that Arthur, no matter how long it took him to admit to himself, loved. It was only moments later that Eames rolled over in their bed and pressed close to his back, his fingertips lazily stroking the smooth skin of Arthur's waist as he drawled tiredly, "I want to see the world with you, darling."
The next afternoon, they settled upon their bed, the PASIV between them, and Arthur watched Eames' dark, soft eyes before he pressed the button and sent them across the continent.
They woke in Florence, in a landscape that Arthur had seen only once in person and had seen several times over on the internet. The colors were vibrant, just like the photographs, and from their place upon a sidewalk bench, the buildings were squeezed together, the road was stone, the flowers decorating the windows were red, pink, yellow. Behind them, the water of the lake was a brilliant blue across the surface that rippled beneath the breeze. The sky above them was a similar color, though whiter with the shine of the sun.
Eames was laughing beside Arthur. A light, easy sound that was carried away with the gentle wind and Arthur didn't realize he was smiling until he looked at the other man. Until Eames leaned forward, his eyes sparkling, and kissed his lips slowly, whispered, "Your dreams are beautiful."
Arthur touched the back of Eames' hand and murmured in return, "Come on. We only have an hour."
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They woke the next day in New Zealand.
The day after that, in Australia.
Then, the day after that, Eames fucked Arthur against the side of Notre Dame. Arthur woke with a jolt as the timer wore out and pulled the IV shakily from his arm. Once Eames did the same, Arthur immediately closed the PASIV and rolled over, pressed his lithe body to Eames'. He shook as those hands curled around his ass and they kissed, lips harsh, greedy and leaving nothing untouched.
The glow of the sun setting spilt across his bare chest as he lowered himself onto Eames, over and over, and his blown pupils never once abandoned Eames' dark eyes. He groaned dizzily once he came, his shoulders caving forward as he twitched and curled his fingers tightly around Eames' wrists. Arthur barely managed to keep himself upright as Eames came inside him.
Once Arthur fell into Eames' hold again, those broad arms secured him in place and they didn't move for hours. Not to eat, not as the light behind their curtains darkened to black. At that moment, Arthur was convinced that nothing could make him pry himself from Eames, from the scent of sweat and cinnamon and warm, from what he had been deprived of for so long.
At that moment, Arthur was convinced that, never again, would he have to choose between his career and everything else.
At that moment, Arthur was convinced that he was a little in love with Eames. Only a little, though. After all, they hadn't known each other for very long.
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The streets of Paris were much duller than the vivid colors that painted the landscapes of their dreams, but they had agreed to get some real fresh air. Wandering in reality-Arthur checked briefly before they left-was more tiring than he remembered and his bleary eyes were constantly blinking against the crisp air. His step was a bit off, a little unsure, like he was no longer used to not being able to control the sidewalk beneath their feet. But Eames' hand was in his, warm and firm, anchoring him to the waking world and guiding him safely along.
His stomach growled in protest, reminding him that he had only eaten one tangible meal each day over the past week. So Eames bought him a chocolate scone and bought himself a strawberry one before they settled in the warm, afternoon grass of a nearby park. Around them, the French chatter was easy to drown out, easy to categorize as white background noise, especially when Eames' thigh pressed against his as they ate.
After their scones were devoured, Eames withdrew a box of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and plucked one out for each of them. With the first drag, Arthur inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs before he slowly leaned back and spread his body in the grass. He exhaled slowly, all of the tension and discomfort in his body fading with the smoke, and he thought about where he wanted to take Eames next. He thought about going back to Italy and standing in the center of St. Peter's Basilica. About Norway and staring out at the seemingly endless sea. About springs in Japan. About Moscow. About Brazil. About the Caribbean.
"Will you show me your place?"
The words cracked his eyes open and he saw Eames still sitting up beside him, arms draped lazily over his bent knees. Arthur smiled warily and brought the cigarette to his lips, taking another drag. "Where I live? There's nothing brilliant about it," he murmured quietly, words drifting out on smoke. "Wouldn't you rather go somewhere else?"
The laughed that dripped from those marvelous lips was lovely. Eames inhaled from his cigarette, the tip glowing briefly with the motion, before he slowly moved and laid beside Arthur, his body turned in the slightest as if to shield Arthur from the things around them. His jaw tilted up proudly as his lips puckered and blew out the lazy smoke.
"Everything is brilliant, darling," he whispered and propped himself up on one elbow, his face now hovering close to Arthur's. Arthur could taste the nicotine on his words, "Absolutely everything and sometimes, you need to tilt your head to see it."
Arthur was left breathless yet again. His stained lips were parted as he just stared at Eames, dark eyes fixed and bleeding into those warm, gray-green irises. There was something about those words that chilled the blood in his body and constricted his lungs, leaving him near death and hanging onto those smiling lips. They were effortless, Eames had spoken as if he was discussing the weather, but there was such a weight to them. Or such a relief and Arthur couldn't tell which.
He couldn't do anything, not for a long moment. And once he gained feeling in his fingers again, he reached up with his free hand and curled his fingers around the back of Eames' head, pulling him down for a cancerous kiss.
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Arthur opened the door to his apartment in Los Angeles the next evening. He introduced Eames to the part of his life that he had left behind but somehow still couldn't let go-that much was obvious in the fact that he continued to pay his rent and a housekeeper, even when he wasn't sure when he'd be home. If he'd ever be home again.
He hovered beside the door frame as Eames stepped in and looked around, feet aimlessly leading him into the living room. Just as Arthur decided to let him wander on his own, Eames turned around and said playfully, "Aren't you going to give me the tour?"
"I'm sure you're fully capable of looking around yourself." Even as he said this, Arthur padded towards Eames.
"But I want to look around from your view. I want to hear what happened, I want to hear what I missed."
Instead of laughing and telling Eames that he missed far more than what was within this apartment, he smiled faintly, curled his fingers around Eames' arm and used his other hand to motion towards his sectional couch that curled around his coffee table. He told Eames the tale of when he and Cobb would watch old movies and play drinking games, eventually falling mindlessly in fits of laughter upon the very same couch. He then lifted up the rug in the same room and showed Eames the wine spill on the plush, cream carpet. Told him that black carpet was more appealing because, damn, life would be so much easier then.
He showed Eames the kitchen, the stove where he taught Cobb how to cook the dinner that Cobb had wanted to surprise Mal with for their anniversary. He opened the cupboards and showed Eames the pan that the other man had nearly burned as a result of this lesson. His fingertips then slid over the glass of the built in wine cabinet, each rack filled with one of his favorite bottles. Arthur was grateful when Eames leaned in and kissed his head before suggesting they move on once his throat caught and he found it difficult to swallow, much less speak.
There wasn't much to show in the bathroom, so they moved to the bedroom and Arthur couldn't help the wave of nostalgia that swept over him. His bed was unkempt, its gray comforter bunched in the middle of the mattress. There was a half-empty glass of water sitting on his nightstand and the clock read 5:43 AM, the exact time that he said good bye years ago. His closet was open, revealing a lovely row of tailored suits and a dresser that held his less prestigious clothing, such as a few pair of jeans, t-shirts, underwear, the like.
He didn't speak as Eames left his side and wandered around, his curious eyes darting around and Arthur's stomach felt bottomless.
He missed home. No matter how detached he had grown, he missed the American accent, missed the polluted, California air, missed the horrible traffic. But, perhaps more than anything, home reminded him of when life was easy, when Cobb would laugh at anything. Home reminded him of Mal, how beautiful she was, how much she adored his wine cabinet. Mal and Cobb, when they were so perfect, so happy, and he had been perfectly content with staying alone as long as it meant that they would be his best friends.
Eames had been right. His home was absolutely brilliant.
"How many girls did you bring back here?" Eames' tone was genuinely curious as he turned back to Arthur, accusation absent in his words.
Arthur smiled weakly. "None."
"Boys?"
"None. My relationships didn't go past college."
That was, after all, when Cobb and Mal had shown him the PASIV. That was the exact moment he had chosen his career over anyone else.
"So." There was that light tilt to Eames' voice, the one that always accompanied his complacent smirk and, sure enough, that was there too, playing across his crooked lips as he approached Arthur. "You mean to tell me that no one has taken advantaged of you on this bed?" At that, his arms coiled around Arthur's body, fingers brushing against the hem of his pants.
Arthur predictably melted towards Eames and shuddered, his spine arching in encouragement as he murmured with a voice lower than before. "That's correct."
Once their clothes were discarded on the floor of Arthur's bedroom, Arthur fell boneless beneath Eames as those familiar fingers licked up the inside of his thighs and left his skin trembling in their wake. His skin set to fire as they slipped into him, one, two, three and worked him in a way that Arthur was sure to never get sick of. After all, how could he when he was writhing, shaking and desperate within about a minute each time?
Eames' wet fingers left him needy and open and instead moved to grip his side harshly, turning him onto his stomach. The treatment sent a hot shudder down his spine that rippled across his skin. His shaking fingers folded themselves tightly in the bed sheets beneath him and, as he breathed shallowly, he inhaled the scent of his old cologne. He inhaled the scent of lazy mornings, of what he used to know, and he had only a moment to wonder what would have happened if this had been reality years ago. If he was younger, if Eames was younger, and if they had met back then. If Eames, years ago, had actually pressed his spine firmly into his mattress, would Arthur have chosen his career?
The thought dropped to the floor of his mind and shattered like glass once he felt Eames' cock press into him. And he thought no more of that, not for awhile, not as his eyes rolled back and he writhed against the strong hold shoving him into his bed. Not as Eames' nails scraped down his back and he threw his head back and arched. Not as the motion sent Eames into his prostate over and over and caused his eyes to clench shut, caused his red and bruised lips to part and release a ruined, breathless sound. Not as he came hard into Eames' hand, not as he woke up just moments later.
Not until the PASIV was packed away and they were grounded back in their dreary reality, where he laid ritually in Eames' arms upon their bed. Not until they hadn't moved for hours after waking. Not until neither of them spoke, neither of them feeling the need to rupture the silence, and Arthur knew.
He knew that, if Eames had been in his life years ago, he wouldn't have chosen his career.
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That was when Arthur's natural dreams began to decrease in number, in direct correlation with the number of hours he slept each night. He spent more nights perched on the side of the bed, holding a glaring contest with the red numbers on his clock that tauntingly counted the minutes that he was awake.
His body was heavy, his eyes were heavy, his mind was heavy and he wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep. Just sleep and dream. He wanted to stay in Eames' arms, the two of them going wherever they pleased whenever they pleased without trouble, problems, anything. Just them. Bliss, it was always so blissful when they dreamed, it was so brilliant so vivid and, sometimes, Arthur wanted Eames to propose to him in dreams. He wanted to get married, to start over, to have a second chance, to not do this anymore.
To not wake up with a sigh and feel gravity binding him to this world. To not wake up to dull colors, to shadows that seemed to extend too far. To not go to sleep knowing that it would have to end too soon.
One particular night, Arthur knew that Eames was awake as well because he heard the covers rustle every two minutes. Sure enough, there was a warm hand on his back, but Arthur's dark eyes didn't leave the clock. He just breathed a bit mindlessly, "Remind me again."
Eames inhaled deeply and didn't respond, instead sat up and hooked his chin over the firm curve of Arthur's shoulder. His fingertips drifted lazily and comfortingly down Arthur's arm as he whispered tiredly, "Of what, love?"
It was a moment before Arthur let his body relax into Eames', his form folding against the other man's. Eames' skin was warm, always warm, and the best feeling in the world. "That everything is brilliant," he responded with a fading voice as he closed his weary eyes.
"Everything is brilliant, darling." As Eames spoke, he tilted his head and brushed his lips against Arthur's ear, as if hoping to engrave the words so Arthur would always remember. His hand splayed across Arthur's shoulder and slipped down the pale skin that was illuminated in the glow of the clock. "Everything, love, especially you. You are brilliant, darling, and I want to give you everything."
"You've already given me everything." Arthur's voice was broken. "Everything I wasn't supposed to have, everything I didn't choose to have. Everything I gave up years ago."
Eames shook his head and kissed gently along the clean-shaven skin of Arthur's jaw. "No, darling. The world is for you. It is brilliant for you."
Arthur's throat constricted and his eyes burned. He reached up and curled his fingers tightly in Eames' hair, just holding him and anchoring him so close, and, for that moment, he believed those words.
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The hours they spent dreaming became months down below, especially when Arthur insisted that they stayed under for hours of each day. One hour became two, became three, became five, became seven, became their full night of sleep. And somewhere inside, Arthur knew it was dangerous, that something wasn't right with the way he could barely breathe with a threatening sob whenever they woke up, but he didn't care. Dreaming became his drug because, down there, he didn't feel an impending and nearing break in his life.
For awhile, at least.
Eventually, he did. Eventually, whenever is totem landed on dreaming, he knew that it would end soon enough.
But an addict never quits, not even when the drug isn't enough for them anymore.
It began to show in his dreamscapes, and Eames noticed.
"Darling," Eames whispered in his ear as they stood on a dock facing the Mediterranean Sea. His fingers slid through the dark of Arthur's hair, "Darling, what's wrong?"
Arthur didn't bother to ask how Eames knew. The water they were staring at was colorless, lifeless, a still sheet of gray glass seeming to expand on forever. The sky was such a similar color that it was rather difficult to tell just where the horizon was. The air was still. He didn't want to look behind him because he was just barely holding himself together and didn't dare to see what kind of mess his mind had made of the shoreline.
When Arthur glanced sideways, he saw that Eames' clothing provided the only color amidst the dreary landscape.
His dark eyes slowly trailed up the other man's collar, the preview of a tattoo, neck, sharp jaw, contrastingly soft lips, nose, to his eyes. Those irises were so green against the grayscale background and Arthur's eyes burned with exhaustion. His body felt weak, like the blood in his veins had solidified into lead and he just wanted to crumple on the rotting wood of the dock. He wanted to fall through, to drown and maybe he wouldn't wake up. Maybe this was reality because this was how he felt in reality; this was just what he wanted to escape from, just what his dreams were supposed to cure.
His totem weighed heavy in his pocket but he didn't bother to check. He wasn't entirely sure he cared.
"Hey," Eames' voice was careful and slowly sharpened his vision to focus again. His throat felt thick at the concerned look tainting those eyes; it didn't look right. He wished he could wipe it away. "Maybe we should stop doing this, hn?"
Eames took Arthur's face into his hands, thumbs tracing and trying to rub away the dark circles beneath the younger's dreary eyes. Arthur didn't say anything. He just reached forward and curled his fingers in Eames' shirt and part of him couldn't believe that this was what his dreams had become. He used to dream beautifully, wonderfully and his landscapes were spectacles, wonderful worlds to disappear in, to lose himself in, to kiss in, to hold hands in, to be absolutely careless in. Beautiful.
And his dreams had become worse than reality. Arthur was sure if he turned around, he'd see shadows that extended far past their boundaries, far past the shadows of reality. He'd see the shadows of his mind, see what he had become and he didn't want to.
He didn't want Eames to.
Eames pressed his cheek to Arthur's, the slight hint of his stubble scratching against Arthur's clean-shaven jaw. A small breath passed through Eames' lips and touched his ear, making him shiver just very subtly before he melded his body with the other man's. Eames was warm. Always warm and Arthur didn't realize until then that he was shivering.
He knew that Eames was right. This had to stop.
Everything had to stop because this wasn't reality. He knew that even when they were pulled from this nightmare, even when they found themselves waking and stirring on their bed, that not even that was reality.
And, eventually, it had to stop. It had to stop and they would have to move on.
The idea was the lead that not only lined his veins, but also lined his bones, made his skeleton droop and bend and Eames was the only reason he was still standing.
"Darling-" Eames' fingers slid to his shoulders and gently guided his body to turn, so he could face the sea again, "-Darling, look."
One of the hands left his shoulder and extended, pointing towards the lifeless water beneath the wooden dock. It took Arthur a moment to follow the path of Eames' pointing index finger, but he soon saw it.
Beneath the shadows of the seemingly thick water, swam something of a bright cerulean color. It was a fish, a Coy by the look of it. Its body was blue while its fins were a bright yellow. Its tail curled, propelling it along slowly before it gradually dove further down, disappearing beneath the shade of the water.
It was near impossible to breathe and Arthur wanted to dive in after the fish, to follow it, to see if there were more like it.
But he instead turned back towards Eames. He was still trembling as he looked more closely at the other man's shirt, seeing that it was mainly blue. Cerulean, with pale yellow accents.
When Eames kissed him, slowly, thoroughly, Arthur refused to let go with his fingers curled violently in the cloth of Eames' shirt. "Your dreams are still so beautiful, Arthur."
Arthur woke from that dream gasping for breath, water gathering in the corner of his bloodshot eyes.
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The next night, his body refused to remain still. His veins cried out for Somnacin, his mind reeled and his lips quivered. His eyes refused to close for less than a moment's time, and he paced, paced, paced, until Eames forcefully pulled him down onto the couch and wrapped those strong arms around his quivering form.
"I know, love," Eames whispered, his voice trembling and as weak as Arthur felt. Eames' hands rubbed along his bare shoulders and arms, spreading warmth and satisfying the itch that pulsed throughout Arthur's thin body. "But it's better this way."
Arthur's lip began to bleed with how hard he was biting it, wanting it to sit still. He waited. He waited, staring into the darkness and listening to the sound of their rigid breathing, waiting for this dream to crack as well. Because, while his die told him reality, while Eames swore reality, he knew that this was about to snap, about to end.
He buried his head in Eames' neck, feeling the other man's skin broken with a cold sweat. He wasn't alone.
But he knew he was going to be soon.
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Arthur's hand was numb and cold to the touch, his tendons protruding from his translucent skin and trembling in Eames' strong hold. Nausea churned in his stomach perpetually, taking a threatening hold over his body and with every motion, that grip tightened, tightened, tightened until Arthur couldn't breathe. But the thing was he couldn't sit still. Not even for a moment, not in the hours that they had spent sitting on the couch, side by side, hand in hand.
It was a horrible dilemma, not being able to remain still with his antsy limbs, starving veins, and not being able to move too much, lest nausea suffocated him.
He just wanted it to stop. It was agonizing, worse than being shot, stabbed, bled out in a dream and too many times did he reach into his pocket and drop his die to the couch. Eames never watched the result but he could guess when Arthur groaned and just tightened his numbing hold on his hand.
"Eames," Arthur finally breathed, his voice shattered glass.
"Yes, darling," Eames whispered immediately, his voice the most fearful Arthur had ever heard it.
Arthur parted his lips to plead for it, to plead for relief, to plead for the PASIV. But he couldn't. The plea came out as a dry breath and he just looked sideways, staring at Eames. The early morning light flooded through the cracks of their curtains and backlit the other man's sculpted jaw line, highlighting the stubble on his jaw. Shadows covered those bright irises as fear and concern blurred the sharp crystals within them.
When Arthur parted his lips once more, he wanted to tell Eames that he was brilliant.
But he couldn't say that either.
"I know," Eames murmured, his voice attempting warmth beneath its instability. He had said this so many times over the past couple of days and Arthur believed the words, even when he wanted to snap through frustration and demand that Eames didn't, that Eames had no idea. But Arthur knew that he did.
Nausea swept through his muscles, causing them to constrict as his body instinctively tried to curl in on himself, to reject the awful feeling. He grit his teeth and held onto Eames' hand tighter, because it was all he had left.
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Eventually, words between them became sharper and distances grew further. Arthur's body soon grew tolerant to the pain of withdraw, but his mind didn't. His mind had permanently positioned itself on edge and just waited to strike, waited for any trigger to be pulled so it could fire. And Eames was always there to take the heat. He was always there for Arthur's words to cut and bruise and, at first, Eames didn't retaliate. He didn't even recoil because he knew addiction, he knew its horrors, the way it could turn anyone into a monster, and he didn't blame Arthur one bit.
Eames never once blamed Arthur. But soon, it was something he just couldn't take day in and day out and Arthur couldn't blame him either.
One afternoon, Eames just left. For the first time since they had moved in together, Eames just breathed, "Fuck this," and left. He said he'd be back, but didn't say when. Didn't say where he was going. Didn't say what he was doing.
He had hid the PASIV.
He didn't come back until that night, around eleven. His hideously yellow jacket smelt of cigarettes and alcohol. His wallet was two hundred dollars richer.
Arthur waited up for him but didn't say anything when he entered. Neither of them did. Neither of them said anything until they went to bed together, until they slipped beneath the covers without touches and kisses, until they laid with a space between them and their backs facing each other.
"Good night," was all they said.
And Arthur knew it was almost over. That should have been a relief, but it wasn't. Nothing was a relief anymore.
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Arthur hadn't realized it, but the few weeks that they meant to take off turned into months. And there was something in the back of his mind that had always known that the end was approaching, that this home, just like the ones before, had to become a thing of the past. But that didn't make him feel any less shakable, any less vulnerable once Cobb appeared at their door way, saying that he had a job for them to take. A two-person job because the company wasn't willing to pay for anymore than that. Yes, he had asked.
An Extractor. And a Point Man. That was it.
At first, Arthur wanted to decline. He wanted to stay here, to start over, to get a second chance, but he had chosen his path for this life. He had chosen his career and that was something that he couldn't change, no matter how much he wanted to. Loyal to the very end.
They had two days to pack up and head out.
Once Arthur closed the door behind Cobb, he didn't know what to do with himself. It had finally happened and his throat hurt with a threatening scream, his eyes burned behind his closed lids and his lips ached with how far downwards they were curled. His fist shook with the urge to shatter something, a window preferably, something that seemed so permanent, but was really so easy to break.
When he finally opened his eyes, he saw Eames watching him from the couch, his gray eyes wary and red.
Arthur knew that this was his fault. He had been careless, delusional, and had lost himself. It was almost shameful how easily he had lost himself in a dream because that's all this had been. These past months had been something impossible, something he could never have, but something he wanted so badly. And now he was waking up, crashing back to reality with a mind-bending pain and this was nothing like the depression that weighed down on his body when he woke up from their PASIV trips, nothing like the withdraw from escaping from reality. No, this was crushing and his knees were shaking beneath the relentless mass even though he knew it had to happen.
He and Eames didn't speak. Soon, he wasn't sure if he was looking at Eames any longer because the man's outline blurred as his eyes reddened. His-their-entire apartment blurred around him and he told himself over and over that he needed to move on. That this was a nice break, if not an entirely cruel preview of what he could have had, and now he needed to get on with his life.
That no one could have it all. And it was greedy of him to think that he was the exception.
Arthur shakily moved to their bedroom. His steps were by memory because he still couldn't see through his watering eyes, and he knew that he had grown far too familiar to this.
But that didn't stop him from clinging to Eames a few minutes later when their bodies moved together, sweat gathering on their skin. Their orgasms were weighed down with the knowledge that this was over. They didn't need to say it, but they both knew that it needed to end. That they needed to end.
But that didn't stop them from laying together for hours into the night and into the next morning. Never sleeping.
"Everything is brilliant," Eames whispered with a cracked tone around four. "Remember that."
They didn't get up and pack until they had only three hours before they needed to leave.
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On the first airplane, Arthur wrote 'Everything is brilliant' in the inside cover of his Moleskine.
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On the next airplane to Moscow, Cobb's warm fingers brushed against the back of Arthur's hand. Arthur swallowed tightly but didn't look away from the clouds drifting lazily by the window, his fingers shaking as they slowly lifted beneath Cobb's touch.
"I'm sorry," Cobb whispered, voice close to his ear. Arthur believed him. "I really am."
Arthur had spent the past hours swallowing the choking feeling in his throat. He had spent them forcing his face into a cool mask that didn't hint at his screaming insides. He had spent them blinking unnecessarily to ban the stinging feeling behind his irises and, just like that, just at that soft and familiar tone, all of that effort fell to pieces. His lips twitched and he closed his eyes, his eyelashes matting with the tears that he still refused to let take hold and pressed his cheek to Cobb's shoulder.
His best friend still smelt like he did years ago. A musky, spicy scent that immediately sent the tension in Arthur's shoulders away and didn't judge as a few of the tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.
He managed to sleep-not dream, but actually sleep-the rest of the plane ride, his head cradled on Cobb's shoulder. Every so often, Cobb would brush any rebellious hairs from his forehead before kissing his scalp.
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The first few nights after that job, he didn't go home alone. Cobb wouldn't let him. Arthur wasn't sure of how the other man came to know of nights full of anything but sleep, but he didn't care, especially not when his carefully constructed guard dropped behind closed doors and he felt like he was cracking. Each night it began in the hotel bathroom, which he entered and locked once his hands fell out of their steady façade. The eyes he stared at in the reflection of the bathroom mirror were black, lined with light purple skin and he had to admit that he looked better-the rings around his eyelashes were lighter because he was sleeping again, because he only spent the minimal time beneath the PASIV's influence. He was recovering slowly, very slowly, and when he gripped the edge of the bathroom sink, his hands clung desperately to the marble as they trembled.
The tremor spread up the veins in his forearms, to his shoulders, down his chest and it was soon difficult to stand. He was ice, thinning by the second and cracking beneath pressure and his insides burned, deprived of what they were convinced they needed. His mind was ablaze in a similar fashion and, when he closed his eyes, he saw those brilliant irises, those bright and dilated pupils, those inviting lips. He tilted his head back, his lips quivering and he saw what he wanted.
He saw the colorful coy in his lifeless sea.
Arthur didn't want to open his eyes again, not even as he carefully let go of the counter and reached for the knot of his tie. He wasn't entirely sure when it happened, but his dizzy mind jolted as his knees hit the tile of the bathroom floor. His fingers were unreliable in loosening his tie, but his main focus was trying to get closer to Eames behind his eyelids. He felt so cold without the other man's warmth, without his skin, without-
Brilliant.
"Brilliant," he whispered, his voice foreign to his ears and just as vulnerable as he felt. "Brilliant." He clung to the word like he had clung to Eames' body. Like it was the only thing he could hold onto now, like it was the word that would lead him back to the fish in the sea.
There was a soft knock on the bathroom door. A jerk of the locked knob.
Arthur opened his eyes to see that his hand had curled around the lock and turned it. His fingers were extended when the barrier between him and Cobb disappeared and he was grateful when those familiar fingers laced between his own. When Cobb dropped carefully to his knees and pulled Arthur close, pulled him as close as Eames used to, and just held him.
Cobb's skin wasn't as warm as Eames'. But Arthur still adhered to him like he was Brilliant.
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Curiosity finally took hold about a year later.
He fully intended to uncover the details of their mark's child life but Arthur's fingertips paused before they even began, hovering of his keyboard. He chewed his lower lip and his fingers trembled with excited interest and he couldn't help it; he veered his attention for the night.
It wasn't easy. It took him hours and hours, bringing him to about 4:30 the next morning before he finally found what he was looking for.
Bryant Matheson. Mombasa.
Arthur brought his exhausted and quivering fingers to his dry lips. Something flooded his insides, something that was nearly overwhelming and forced him to breathe deeply for a few long moments.
And he couldn't help but smile shakily because he knew if Eames didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be.
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When Arthur first heard Eames' name during the Fischer job, about a month later, his stomach turned violently and he had to control his voice when he revealed Eames' location.
When Arthur first saw Eames during the Fischer job, his knees went weak and he needed to leave the room.
Just to remind himself that there was a reason it had ended with Eames. That he couldn't let himself go so drastically again. That he couldn't be rash about this, that he had nearly broken as the consequent of not thinking this through before.
He didn't return to the room for a good twenty minutes. He tried to stop his body from shaking as aggressively as it was, though the effort was in vain because when he saw Eames again, hunched over the table just like he had been the first time Arthur had ever met him. His nerves snapped to attention and set his body on edge all over again. It was all all over again, everything all over again. The teases and taunts, the near touches, the gazes that lasted far too long to be comfortable. It all made Arthur younger again, back to when all he wanted to do was to open Eames' shirt and see just what the hell that tattoo was.
Though, now, he wanted to open Eames' shirt to see if he had gotten anymore.
The tremor crawling beneath Arthur's skin didn't subside until several days later, when they fell asleep on the longest plane ride in the world.
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After that job, Arthur went home alone. Only, that time, he really did return home. Everything in his Los Angeles apartment looked just as he had remembered, just as he had dreamt it over a year ago. The day light spilt in familiar highlights and shadows across the walls, over his couch and table, across his television. Everything was set in order, just like it had been at every hotel that he had ever stayed at. But this time, he knew that this stuff was his to fix to his liking if he desired. Everything here was his Arthur's. Arthur's for as long as he wished, not Thomas', Neil's, Adam's, Howard's, Vincent's, James' for only a few nights.
Arthur toed off his shoes and set his luggage down in the living room for the time being. Cobb was home, too. Finally home with his children, where he deserved to be.
He wasn't alone.
And Arthur couldn't help but let his mind wander to the last time he had been here. With Eames. Eames. Eames had been stalling at the baggage claim just a bit ago and, when he passed, their eyes had met for a brief moment. Only a small moment, but the gaze was lingering, haunting, and those crisp eyes were still sharp in Arthur's mind eye. He saw them whenever he closed his eyes. He saw the way they used to look at him during those months. He saw the way they'd crinkle whenever those beautiful lips would curl upwards, reveal those crooked teeth and allow a laugh to pass. He just saw Eames, saw what he had, what he could have had forever and when he opened his eyes, there was no one.
It was something familiar. After all, no one could have it all.
Just as Arthur turned to pick up his things, there was a knock at his door. Curiosity tilted his brow before he carefully stepped back towards the door and opened it.
His eyes were open, he swore they were, but he saw those sharp eyes, the skin slightly crinkled in their corners to accompany a subtle smile, one that was always on display with a rare uncertainty. He saw Eames, standing in his doorway with his bags from the airport.
Just like that, his skin crawled as his heart jumped and clung to his throat.
"I thought," Eames started after a long moment, "that perhaps we could talk. Since Cobb is with the family and you are finally home. And since you and I…" He hesitated, and Arthur remembered the swollen veins in Eames' eyes, back when he did all he could to help them through their addiction until he just couldn't any longer. Until neither of them could any longer.
"Are a bit different now," he finally finished. He gave a gentle nod of his head as his lips tilted upwards in the very slightest.
It didn't occur to Arthur that Eames must have followed him. He swallowed, trying to force his heart back into his ribcage, and paused, his mind desperately trying to repair his rapidly weakening defenses. Maybe it was the way Eames' hair highlighted beneath the California sun, or maybe it was the way that Arthur could see the beginning of the tattoo along Eames' collar where the shirt dipped. And maybe it was the way Eames' presence just sent Arthur into things he's never felt before but, at that moment, he didn't see a reason to close the door.
So he stepped back and welcomed Eames into his home. After Eames went to drop his stuff in the bedroom, Arthur crouched briefly on the floor and rolled his die. His body was unsteady as he read reality and scooped the totem back up, pocketing it.
Running his trembling fingers through his hair, Arthur told himself he needed to be careful. That he couldn't let history repeat itself.
But when Eames returned, looking beautiful with that careful smile on his lips, Arthur told himself that things were different this time. Things were easier. Things were more similar to the way they were so many years ago.
Eames watched him closely, irises crisp and clear as they examined him as if they hadn't just pulled off their most spectacular job. Eames eyed him like he was new, but something so familiar. And that was exactly what he was, exactly what Eames was to him. He was the fire across his wet skin, the imaginary trips around the world, the addiction to the point of uncontrollable bodies. He was sweat, curling lips, smoke, promises, tension, the break.
And at the same time, he wasn't. At the same time, Arthur was just meeting him for the first time.
Eames finally came close, close like he used to, until he slowly threaded his fingers through Arthur's like that was where they always belonged. He still smelt of cinnamon and warmth and still tasted of cigarettes and something that Arthur could never accurately describe, unless he simply said 'Eames'.
"Did you remember?" Eames whispered quietly against his lips and Arthur smiled. Smiled wider than he had for so long.
"I did," he breathed.
After that, Arthur never returned home alone. And everything was brilliant.
Author: my_0wn_madness
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None, really. Sex, addiction and angst.
Characters: Arthur/Eames
Summary: He wanted to get married, to start over, to have a second chance, to not do this anymore. To not wake up with a sigh and feel gravity binding him to this world. To not wake up to dull colors, to shadows that seemed to extend too far. To not go to sleep knowing that it would have to end too soon.
Word Count: 8,872
Disclaimer: Inception is not mine in any way, shape or form. Sad day. The title comes from Manchester Orchestra.
Author's Notes: I have no idea what this is. I wrote the majority of it in one sitting and it came out to be about 6,000 words. (Can you imagine what I could actually accomplish if I actually sat down and did shit every day?) I was going to post it as it was, but it really wouldn't leave me alone. So I kept adding and editing over the past week and I'm still not entirely sure how pleased I am with it, but I think I like it enough to post it. Also I'm not entirely sure of what else I would add. I listened to Manchester Orchestra's 'Simple Math' while writing 90% of this and it's a great song, I highly recommend it. I hope you enjoy :)
After every job, Arthur went home alone. Well, in all honesty, he never really went "home", per se, not since they had been forced to avoid the states and, in consequent, his small apartment in Los Angeles. No, "home" after every job was, more often than not, a single hotel room that was never booked under his actual name. Home was usually filled with modern and aesthetically appealing, though quite heartless furniture. With a luxurious comforter spread across a bed far too big for even his lanky form, complimenting whatever rich and warming color happened to be splashed across the wall. Though the lack of creases across its perfect, plush surface was only perfection in the fact that it was unloved, untouched, untainted. Lonely.
The only welcome he received when he entered his temporary home was a complimentary mint and a plastic, printed sign that said something like 'Thank you for letting us serve you. We hope you enjoy your stay.' Sometimes, Arthur had the urge to add his name after the last sentiment, just so it seemed more personal.
But, then again, the hotel never was welcoming Arthur. It was welcoming Thomas, Neil, Adam, Howard, Vincent, James. Never Arthur.
It was reality, his die told him so, and there was nothing Arthur could do about it except just accept it. Which was exactly what he had done. After all, he had chosen this lifestyle. He had known that signing on as Cobb's right-hand man had meant signing away any sort of comfortable life that he would ever almost have. He had known, right then, that he would never be able to come home and have someone greet him with a smile, a kiss, dinner, an "I'm glad you're home". An "I missed you". An "I'm glad you're safe."
Arthur had been faced with the clichéd decision: His career or basically everything else in his life. He had chosen his career. He had chosen Cobb, whom he was loyal to until the very end. And, even when he found himself drinking expensive wine by himself in his empty hotel room, tired eyes just barely watching a scripted story of a life that he could have had, he didn't regret it.
He especially didn't regret it when he spent hours in Cobb's room, his arm wrapped tightly around the other man's shoulders because he knew that this lifestyle wasn't the hardest on him.
After every job, Arthur went home alone, said good bye to Cobb in the hallway and watched briefly as the other man entered a separate hotel room. He slipped the key card through the lock and stepped into his temporary home. He no longer noticed the empty silence, the untouched bedspread, the perfect position of everything, the impersonal greeting.
After every job, Arthur went home alone. Except for the job that introduced him to a man named Eames.
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Eames was the type of man that Arthur had no idea he was attracted to until he saw him. The Forger presented himself in an obscure posture-one shoulder dipped, the other proudly pushed back-and his hand was warm and firm when he offered it. Eames dressed himself in hideous clothing, a horrible show of fashion sense that made Arthur's lips cringe whenever he saw. Paisley, shapely patterns, pastel colors, ill-fitted shirts with sleeves that made Arthur want to demand that Eames never take off his jacket, even if it was the color of mustard while his pants were… silver? Not even gray, but silver. The only acceptance Arthur was willing to give those horrible slacks was that they matched Eames' eyes.
Eames' eyes. They left Arthur breathless when he first clutched Eames' hand, and he forgot who he was for a moment. James, Thomas, no Arthur, but even as he said it with a voice that was barely there, there was some part of him that felt it was unnecessary. It was as if Eames knew. Just with that gaze, those irises that were a sharp gray mixed with a bright green, Arthur was convinced that Eames knew his name, knew everything about him.
And from the way those full, pink and taunting lips curled upwards, Arthur felt that Eames knew just how caught off guard he was.
Arthur first noticed the ink peeking out from beneath Eames' shirt sleeve about an hour later, when Eames splayed his hands across their work table and hunched over, nodding as Cobb instructed him just what he was to do while portraying their mark's brother. After that, Arthur wasn't able to pay attention to the folder in his hands or the words that Cobb was directing towards him because he was too busy trying to fill in the rest of the tattoo in his mind. His dark eyes glanced frequently to the ink curling up the preview of the muscles of Eames' bicep, just so he could imagine the rest of the tattoo that he couldn't see.
Arthur received only one night alone to stare blankly at the television screen to envision it. The day after, all of Eames' attention was directed towards him.
There were comments that made Arthur raise an eyebrow and look anything but amused. There were lingering promises of touches, like Eames' hand close to his own as they examined the layout their architect had come up with. There were gazes held for just a moment too long that made Arthur's heart stomp on his ribcage.
It was that evening, just as everyone was leaving, that Eames' fingers finally brushed along his shoulder blade. The touch caused Arthur to freeze, caused his cheeks to heat up because it had been so long since anyone had touched him in such a way, and his knuckles almost immediately turned white from how hard he gripped the strap of his messenger bag.
"What are you up to tonight?" The words were low, husky, accented and perfect beside Arthur's ear, each syllable seducing his skin and it made him roll his shoulders back to disguise a shudder.
His dry lips formed the word, "Nothing", but he didn't hear it. Not over the blood pounding in his ears.
Eames' hand then splayed against his back and slipped down to his arm, his fingers gently curling around the sleeve of his jacket. "Then let me buy you a drink, hn?"
Arthur did. And it didn't stop there, especially not with the way Eames kept touching his lower back whenever men and women from the bar would try to approach them. That touch, that subtle and light possession, made Arthur weak in the knees each time, made him want to curl his fingers in the collar of Eames' horribly colored jacket and pull him close to kiss those wet lips.
That was exactly what he did once he led Eames up to his temporary home and, christ, did those lips feel as perfect as they looked. They tasted of cigarettes, alcohol and something Arthur had never tasted before, and it made him moan quietly. Eames wasted no time in wrapping his arms tightly around Arthur's body and closing the gaps between their frames and it was uncanny how perfectly they fit together. Where Eames had muscle, Arthur's body easily caved and dipped to fit it tightly and there were too many layers between them, to many layers suffocating his burning and itching skin.
It wasn't long before Arthur found out that the tattoo on Eames' bicep was a swirling design of sorts and that it was among several painted upon the smooth skin. But he didn't care as Eames pushed him down, ruining the flawless, untouched surface of the comforter like he had thrown a pebble into a glass lake.
Arthur clung to Eames like he hadn't held anyone in a long time and Eames fucked him the hardest he had ever been fucked. It made his pale skin break out into a sweat, beads dripping from his temples and matting his hair to his cheeks and forehead. It made him pant and groan, his lips wet and bruised from their contact with Eames' own lips, tongue and teeth. It made him senseless to everything except Eames, the way Eames' skin shifted beneath his trembling fingers, the way Eames pressed his forehead to Arthur's cheek, the way Eames' sounds were husky, low and among rasping and mindless curses and chants of Arthur's name.
After he came between them and after Eames' body arched into a beautiful shape, one that Arthur traced with his weak fingertips, Arthur didn't try to push him away. Eames didn't try to pull away.
He stayed the night and Arthur slept effortlessly. He woke the next morning to a gentle knocking on his door and pried himself from Eames' arms, quickly grabbing a towel from the bathroom to wrap around his body before he answered. Cobb was there, arms crossed and smirking. "You still have to work today, just so you know."
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Eames followed them to Paris after their job ended. Cobb told Arthur that he could stay with Eames, that he'd be fine without him, but Arthur immediately declined and rested his head upon Cobb's shoulder. Loyal to the very end.
This time, they rented a one bedroom apartment, only Arthur's signature wasn't alone on the lease. There was something that made him smile upon seeing the name Bryant Matheson beside his Adam Walker. Cobb rented an identical flat next door and they all three agreed to take a few weeks off, especially since their last job had paid handsomely.
Living with Eames was easy and it didn't take long for Arthur to grow use to Eames getting up about an hour before him every morning, to the coffee and the other man reading the newspaper in the kitchen, to Eames eventually setting it down with a chuckle and murmuring, "I don't even read French. Not past 'bonjour'." He became so familiar with the presence of someone comforting and warm behind him with everything he did. He became so familiar with Eames' horrible handwriting informing him whenever the other man ran to the store while he was sleeping, with the way Eames would always bring back things that Arthur had recently mused about craving, with the way Eames would smile whenever Arthur thanked him. The way Eames laughed. The way Eames watched him. The way Eames moved. The way he sat, the way he walked, the way he drank, the way he ate, the way he'd lick his lips when he was horny.
It wasn't long before Eames knew just how to make Arthur's knees buckle with a special touch to the back of his neck.
It was so easy, so effortless and something that Arthur, no matter how long it took him to admit to himself, loved. It was only moments later that Eames rolled over in their bed and pressed close to his back, his fingertips lazily stroking the smooth skin of Arthur's waist as he drawled tiredly, "I want to see the world with you, darling."
The next afternoon, they settled upon their bed, the PASIV between them, and Arthur watched Eames' dark, soft eyes before he pressed the button and sent them across the continent.
They woke in Florence, in a landscape that Arthur had seen only once in person and had seen several times over on the internet. The colors were vibrant, just like the photographs, and from their place upon a sidewalk bench, the buildings were squeezed together, the road was stone, the flowers decorating the windows were red, pink, yellow. Behind them, the water of the lake was a brilliant blue across the surface that rippled beneath the breeze. The sky above them was a similar color, though whiter with the shine of the sun.
Eames was laughing beside Arthur. A light, easy sound that was carried away with the gentle wind and Arthur didn't realize he was smiling until he looked at the other man. Until Eames leaned forward, his eyes sparkling, and kissed his lips slowly, whispered, "Your dreams are beautiful."
Arthur touched the back of Eames' hand and murmured in return, "Come on. We only have an hour."
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They woke the next day in New Zealand.
The day after that, in Australia.
Then, the day after that, Eames fucked Arthur against the side of Notre Dame. Arthur woke with a jolt as the timer wore out and pulled the IV shakily from his arm. Once Eames did the same, Arthur immediately closed the PASIV and rolled over, pressed his lithe body to Eames'. He shook as those hands curled around his ass and they kissed, lips harsh, greedy and leaving nothing untouched.
The glow of the sun setting spilt across his bare chest as he lowered himself onto Eames, over and over, and his blown pupils never once abandoned Eames' dark eyes. He groaned dizzily once he came, his shoulders caving forward as he twitched and curled his fingers tightly around Eames' wrists. Arthur barely managed to keep himself upright as Eames came inside him.
Once Arthur fell into Eames' hold again, those broad arms secured him in place and they didn't move for hours. Not to eat, not as the light behind their curtains darkened to black. At that moment, Arthur was convinced that nothing could make him pry himself from Eames, from the scent of sweat and cinnamon and warm, from what he had been deprived of for so long.
At that moment, Arthur was convinced that, never again, would he have to choose between his career and everything else.
At that moment, Arthur was convinced that he was a little in love with Eames. Only a little, though. After all, they hadn't known each other for very long.
|.|.|
The streets of Paris were much duller than the vivid colors that painted the landscapes of their dreams, but they had agreed to get some real fresh air. Wandering in reality-Arthur checked briefly before they left-was more tiring than he remembered and his bleary eyes were constantly blinking against the crisp air. His step was a bit off, a little unsure, like he was no longer used to not being able to control the sidewalk beneath their feet. But Eames' hand was in his, warm and firm, anchoring him to the waking world and guiding him safely along.
His stomach growled in protest, reminding him that he had only eaten one tangible meal each day over the past week. So Eames bought him a chocolate scone and bought himself a strawberry one before they settled in the warm, afternoon grass of a nearby park. Around them, the French chatter was easy to drown out, easy to categorize as white background noise, especially when Eames' thigh pressed against his as they ate.
After their scones were devoured, Eames withdrew a box of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and plucked one out for each of them. With the first drag, Arthur inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs before he slowly leaned back and spread his body in the grass. He exhaled slowly, all of the tension and discomfort in his body fading with the smoke, and he thought about where he wanted to take Eames next. He thought about going back to Italy and standing in the center of St. Peter's Basilica. About Norway and staring out at the seemingly endless sea. About springs in Japan. About Moscow. About Brazil. About the Caribbean.
"Will you show me your place?"
The words cracked his eyes open and he saw Eames still sitting up beside him, arms draped lazily over his bent knees. Arthur smiled warily and brought the cigarette to his lips, taking another drag. "Where I live? There's nothing brilliant about it," he murmured quietly, words drifting out on smoke. "Wouldn't you rather go somewhere else?"
The laughed that dripped from those marvelous lips was lovely. Eames inhaled from his cigarette, the tip glowing briefly with the motion, before he slowly moved and laid beside Arthur, his body turned in the slightest as if to shield Arthur from the things around them. His jaw tilted up proudly as his lips puckered and blew out the lazy smoke.
"Everything is brilliant, darling," he whispered and propped himself up on one elbow, his face now hovering close to Arthur's. Arthur could taste the nicotine on his words, "Absolutely everything and sometimes, you need to tilt your head to see it."
Arthur was left breathless yet again. His stained lips were parted as he just stared at Eames, dark eyes fixed and bleeding into those warm, gray-green irises. There was something about those words that chilled the blood in his body and constricted his lungs, leaving him near death and hanging onto those smiling lips. They were effortless, Eames had spoken as if he was discussing the weather, but there was such a weight to them. Or such a relief and Arthur couldn't tell which.
He couldn't do anything, not for a long moment. And once he gained feeling in his fingers again, he reached up with his free hand and curled his fingers around the back of Eames' head, pulling him down for a cancerous kiss.
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Arthur opened the door to his apartment in Los Angeles the next evening. He introduced Eames to the part of his life that he had left behind but somehow still couldn't let go-that much was obvious in the fact that he continued to pay his rent and a housekeeper, even when he wasn't sure when he'd be home. If he'd ever be home again.
He hovered beside the door frame as Eames stepped in and looked around, feet aimlessly leading him into the living room. Just as Arthur decided to let him wander on his own, Eames turned around and said playfully, "Aren't you going to give me the tour?"
"I'm sure you're fully capable of looking around yourself." Even as he said this, Arthur padded towards Eames.
"But I want to look around from your view. I want to hear what happened, I want to hear what I missed."
Instead of laughing and telling Eames that he missed far more than what was within this apartment, he smiled faintly, curled his fingers around Eames' arm and used his other hand to motion towards his sectional couch that curled around his coffee table. He told Eames the tale of when he and Cobb would watch old movies and play drinking games, eventually falling mindlessly in fits of laughter upon the very same couch. He then lifted up the rug in the same room and showed Eames the wine spill on the plush, cream carpet. Told him that black carpet was more appealing because, damn, life would be so much easier then.
He showed Eames the kitchen, the stove where he taught Cobb how to cook the dinner that Cobb had wanted to surprise Mal with for their anniversary. He opened the cupboards and showed Eames the pan that the other man had nearly burned as a result of this lesson. His fingertips then slid over the glass of the built in wine cabinet, each rack filled with one of his favorite bottles. Arthur was grateful when Eames leaned in and kissed his head before suggesting they move on once his throat caught and he found it difficult to swallow, much less speak.
There wasn't much to show in the bathroom, so they moved to the bedroom and Arthur couldn't help the wave of nostalgia that swept over him. His bed was unkempt, its gray comforter bunched in the middle of the mattress. There was a half-empty glass of water sitting on his nightstand and the clock read 5:43 AM, the exact time that he said good bye years ago. His closet was open, revealing a lovely row of tailored suits and a dresser that held his less prestigious clothing, such as a few pair of jeans, t-shirts, underwear, the like.
He didn't speak as Eames left his side and wandered around, his curious eyes darting around and Arthur's stomach felt bottomless.
He missed home. No matter how detached he had grown, he missed the American accent, missed the polluted, California air, missed the horrible traffic. But, perhaps more than anything, home reminded him of when life was easy, when Cobb would laugh at anything. Home reminded him of Mal, how beautiful she was, how much she adored his wine cabinet. Mal and Cobb, when they were so perfect, so happy, and he had been perfectly content with staying alone as long as it meant that they would be his best friends.
Eames had been right. His home was absolutely brilliant.
"How many girls did you bring back here?" Eames' tone was genuinely curious as he turned back to Arthur, accusation absent in his words.
Arthur smiled weakly. "None."
"Boys?"
"None. My relationships didn't go past college."
That was, after all, when Cobb and Mal had shown him the PASIV. That was the exact moment he had chosen his career over anyone else.
"So." There was that light tilt to Eames' voice, the one that always accompanied his complacent smirk and, sure enough, that was there too, playing across his crooked lips as he approached Arthur. "You mean to tell me that no one has taken advantaged of you on this bed?" At that, his arms coiled around Arthur's body, fingers brushing against the hem of his pants.
Arthur predictably melted towards Eames and shuddered, his spine arching in encouragement as he murmured with a voice lower than before. "That's correct."
Once their clothes were discarded on the floor of Arthur's bedroom, Arthur fell boneless beneath Eames as those familiar fingers licked up the inside of his thighs and left his skin trembling in their wake. His skin set to fire as they slipped into him, one, two, three and worked him in a way that Arthur was sure to never get sick of. After all, how could he when he was writhing, shaking and desperate within about a minute each time?
Eames' wet fingers left him needy and open and instead moved to grip his side harshly, turning him onto his stomach. The treatment sent a hot shudder down his spine that rippled across his skin. His shaking fingers folded themselves tightly in the bed sheets beneath him and, as he breathed shallowly, he inhaled the scent of his old cologne. He inhaled the scent of lazy mornings, of what he used to know, and he had only a moment to wonder what would have happened if this had been reality years ago. If he was younger, if Eames was younger, and if they had met back then. If Eames, years ago, had actually pressed his spine firmly into his mattress, would Arthur have chosen his career?
The thought dropped to the floor of his mind and shattered like glass once he felt Eames' cock press into him. And he thought no more of that, not for awhile, not as his eyes rolled back and he writhed against the strong hold shoving him into his bed. Not as Eames' nails scraped down his back and he threw his head back and arched. Not as the motion sent Eames into his prostate over and over and caused his eyes to clench shut, caused his red and bruised lips to part and release a ruined, breathless sound. Not as he came hard into Eames' hand, not as he woke up just moments later.
Not until the PASIV was packed away and they were grounded back in their dreary reality, where he laid ritually in Eames' arms upon their bed. Not until they hadn't moved for hours after waking. Not until neither of them spoke, neither of them feeling the need to rupture the silence, and Arthur knew.
He knew that, if Eames had been in his life years ago, he wouldn't have chosen his career.
|.|.|
That was when Arthur's natural dreams began to decrease in number, in direct correlation with the number of hours he slept each night. He spent more nights perched on the side of the bed, holding a glaring contest with the red numbers on his clock that tauntingly counted the minutes that he was awake.
His body was heavy, his eyes were heavy, his mind was heavy and he wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep. Just sleep and dream. He wanted to stay in Eames' arms, the two of them going wherever they pleased whenever they pleased without trouble, problems, anything. Just them. Bliss, it was always so blissful when they dreamed, it was so brilliant so vivid and, sometimes, Arthur wanted Eames to propose to him in dreams. He wanted to get married, to start over, to have a second chance, to not do this anymore.
To not wake up with a sigh and feel gravity binding him to this world. To not wake up to dull colors, to shadows that seemed to extend too far. To not go to sleep knowing that it would have to end too soon.
One particular night, Arthur knew that Eames was awake as well because he heard the covers rustle every two minutes. Sure enough, there was a warm hand on his back, but Arthur's dark eyes didn't leave the clock. He just breathed a bit mindlessly, "Remind me again."
Eames inhaled deeply and didn't respond, instead sat up and hooked his chin over the firm curve of Arthur's shoulder. His fingertips drifted lazily and comfortingly down Arthur's arm as he whispered tiredly, "Of what, love?"
It was a moment before Arthur let his body relax into Eames', his form folding against the other man's. Eames' skin was warm, always warm, and the best feeling in the world. "That everything is brilliant," he responded with a fading voice as he closed his weary eyes.
"Everything is brilliant, darling." As Eames spoke, he tilted his head and brushed his lips against Arthur's ear, as if hoping to engrave the words so Arthur would always remember. His hand splayed across Arthur's shoulder and slipped down the pale skin that was illuminated in the glow of the clock. "Everything, love, especially you. You are brilliant, darling, and I want to give you everything."
"You've already given me everything." Arthur's voice was broken. "Everything I wasn't supposed to have, everything I didn't choose to have. Everything I gave up years ago."
Eames shook his head and kissed gently along the clean-shaven skin of Arthur's jaw. "No, darling. The world is for you. It is brilliant for you."
Arthur's throat constricted and his eyes burned. He reached up and curled his fingers tightly in Eames' hair, just holding him and anchoring him so close, and, for that moment, he believed those words.
|.|.|
The hours they spent dreaming became months down below, especially when Arthur insisted that they stayed under for hours of each day. One hour became two, became three, became five, became seven, became their full night of sleep. And somewhere inside, Arthur knew it was dangerous, that something wasn't right with the way he could barely breathe with a threatening sob whenever they woke up, but he didn't care. Dreaming became his drug because, down there, he didn't feel an impending and nearing break in his life.
For awhile, at least.
Eventually, he did. Eventually, whenever is totem landed on dreaming, he knew that it would end soon enough.
But an addict never quits, not even when the drug isn't enough for them anymore.
It began to show in his dreamscapes, and Eames noticed.
"Darling," Eames whispered in his ear as they stood on a dock facing the Mediterranean Sea. His fingers slid through the dark of Arthur's hair, "Darling, what's wrong?"
Arthur didn't bother to ask how Eames knew. The water they were staring at was colorless, lifeless, a still sheet of gray glass seeming to expand on forever. The sky was such a similar color that it was rather difficult to tell just where the horizon was. The air was still. He didn't want to look behind him because he was just barely holding himself together and didn't dare to see what kind of mess his mind had made of the shoreline.
When Arthur glanced sideways, he saw that Eames' clothing provided the only color amidst the dreary landscape.
His dark eyes slowly trailed up the other man's collar, the preview of a tattoo, neck, sharp jaw, contrastingly soft lips, nose, to his eyes. Those irises were so green against the grayscale background and Arthur's eyes burned with exhaustion. His body felt weak, like the blood in his veins had solidified into lead and he just wanted to crumple on the rotting wood of the dock. He wanted to fall through, to drown and maybe he wouldn't wake up. Maybe this was reality because this was how he felt in reality; this was just what he wanted to escape from, just what his dreams were supposed to cure.
His totem weighed heavy in his pocket but he didn't bother to check. He wasn't entirely sure he cared.
"Hey," Eames' voice was careful and slowly sharpened his vision to focus again. His throat felt thick at the concerned look tainting those eyes; it didn't look right. He wished he could wipe it away. "Maybe we should stop doing this, hn?"
Eames took Arthur's face into his hands, thumbs tracing and trying to rub away the dark circles beneath the younger's dreary eyes. Arthur didn't say anything. He just reached forward and curled his fingers in Eames' shirt and part of him couldn't believe that this was what his dreams had become. He used to dream beautifully, wonderfully and his landscapes were spectacles, wonderful worlds to disappear in, to lose himself in, to kiss in, to hold hands in, to be absolutely careless in. Beautiful.
And his dreams had become worse than reality. Arthur was sure if he turned around, he'd see shadows that extended far past their boundaries, far past the shadows of reality. He'd see the shadows of his mind, see what he had become and he didn't want to.
He didn't want Eames to.
Eames pressed his cheek to Arthur's, the slight hint of his stubble scratching against Arthur's clean-shaven jaw. A small breath passed through Eames' lips and touched his ear, making him shiver just very subtly before he melded his body with the other man's. Eames was warm. Always warm and Arthur didn't realize until then that he was shivering.
He knew that Eames was right. This had to stop.
Everything had to stop because this wasn't reality. He knew that even when they were pulled from this nightmare, even when they found themselves waking and stirring on their bed, that not even that was reality.
And, eventually, it had to stop. It had to stop and they would have to move on.
The idea was the lead that not only lined his veins, but also lined his bones, made his skeleton droop and bend and Eames was the only reason he was still standing.
"Darling-" Eames' fingers slid to his shoulders and gently guided his body to turn, so he could face the sea again, "-Darling, look."
One of the hands left his shoulder and extended, pointing towards the lifeless water beneath the wooden dock. It took Arthur a moment to follow the path of Eames' pointing index finger, but he soon saw it.
Beneath the shadows of the seemingly thick water, swam something of a bright cerulean color. It was a fish, a Coy by the look of it. Its body was blue while its fins were a bright yellow. Its tail curled, propelling it along slowly before it gradually dove further down, disappearing beneath the shade of the water.
It was near impossible to breathe and Arthur wanted to dive in after the fish, to follow it, to see if there were more like it.
But he instead turned back towards Eames. He was still trembling as he looked more closely at the other man's shirt, seeing that it was mainly blue. Cerulean, with pale yellow accents.
When Eames kissed him, slowly, thoroughly, Arthur refused to let go with his fingers curled violently in the cloth of Eames' shirt. "Your dreams are still so beautiful, Arthur."
Arthur woke from that dream gasping for breath, water gathering in the corner of his bloodshot eyes.
|.|.|
The next night, his body refused to remain still. His veins cried out for Somnacin, his mind reeled and his lips quivered. His eyes refused to close for less than a moment's time, and he paced, paced, paced, until Eames forcefully pulled him down onto the couch and wrapped those strong arms around his quivering form.
"I know, love," Eames whispered, his voice trembling and as weak as Arthur felt. Eames' hands rubbed along his bare shoulders and arms, spreading warmth and satisfying the itch that pulsed throughout Arthur's thin body. "But it's better this way."
Arthur's lip began to bleed with how hard he was biting it, wanting it to sit still. He waited. He waited, staring into the darkness and listening to the sound of their rigid breathing, waiting for this dream to crack as well. Because, while his die told him reality, while Eames swore reality, he knew that this was about to snap, about to end.
He buried his head in Eames' neck, feeling the other man's skin broken with a cold sweat. He wasn't alone.
But he knew he was going to be soon.
|.|.|
Arthur's hand was numb and cold to the touch, his tendons protruding from his translucent skin and trembling in Eames' strong hold. Nausea churned in his stomach perpetually, taking a threatening hold over his body and with every motion, that grip tightened, tightened, tightened until Arthur couldn't breathe. But the thing was he couldn't sit still. Not even for a moment, not in the hours that they had spent sitting on the couch, side by side, hand in hand.
It was a horrible dilemma, not being able to remain still with his antsy limbs, starving veins, and not being able to move too much, lest nausea suffocated him.
He just wanted it to stop. It was agonizing, worse than being shot, stabbed, bled out in a dream and too many times did he reach into his pocket and drop his die to the couch. Eames never watched the result but he could guess when Arthur groaned and just tightened his numbing hold on his hand.
"Eames," Arthur finally breathed, his voice shattered glass.
"Yes, darling," Eames whispered immediately, his voice the most fearful Arthur had ever heard it.
Arthur parted his lips to plead for it, to plead for relief, to plead for the PASIV. But he couldn't. The plea came out as a dry breath and he just looked sideways, staring at Eames. The early morning light flooded through the cracks of their curtains and backlit the other man's sculpted jaw line, highlighting the stubble on his jaw. Shadows covered those bright irises as fear and concern blurred the sharp crystals within them.
When Arthur parted his lips once more, he wanted to tell Eames that he was brilliant.
But he couldn't say that either.
"I know," Eames murmured, his voice attempting warmth beneath its instability. He had said this so many times over the past couple of days and Arthur believed the words, even when he wanted to snap through frustration and demand that Eames didn't, that Eames had no idea. But Arthur knew that he did.
Nausea swept through his muscles, causing them to constrict as his body instinctively tried to curl in on himself, to reject the awful feeling. He grit his teeth and held onto Eames' hand tighter, because it was all he had left.
|.|.|
Eventually, words between them became sharper and distances grew further. Arthur's body soon grew tolerant to the pain of withdraw, but his mind didn't. His mind had permanently positioned itself on edge and just waited to strike, waited for any trigger to be pulled so it could fire. And Eames was always there to take the heat. He was always there for Arthur's words to cut and bruise and, at first, Eames didn't retaliate. He didn't even recoil because he knew addiction, he knew its horrors, the way it could turn anyone into a monster, and he didn't blame Arthur one bit.
Eames never once blamed Arthur. But soon, it was something he just couldn't take day in and day out and Arthur couldn't blame him either.
One afternoon, Eames just left. For the first time since they had moved in together, Eames just breathed, "Fuck this," and left. He said he'd be back, but didn't say when. Didn't say where he was going. Didn't say what he was doing.
He had hid the PASIV.
He didn't come back until that night, around eleven. His hideously yellow jacket smelt of cigarettes and alcohol. His wallet was two hundred dollars richer.
Arthur waited up for him but didn't say anything when he entered. Neither of them did. Neither of them said anything until they went to bed together, until they slipped beneath the covers without touches and kisses, until they laid with a space between them and their backs facing each other.
"Good night," was all they said.
And Arthur knew it was almost over. That should have been a relief, but it wasn't. Nothing was a relief anymore.
|.|.|
Arthur hadn't realized it, but the few weeks that they meant to take off turned into months. And there was something in the back of his mind that had always known that the end was approaching, that this home, just like the ones before, had to become a thing of the past. But that didn't make him feel any less shakable, any less vulnerable once Cobb appeared at their door way, saying that he had a job for them to take. A two-person job because the company wasn't willing to pay for anymore than that. Yes, he had asked.
An Extractor. And a Point Man. That was it.
At first, Arthur wanted to decline. He wanted to stay here, to start over, to get a second chance, but he had chosen his path for this life. He had chosen his career and that was something that he couldn't change, no matter how much he wanted to. Loyal to the very end.
They had two days to pack up and head out.
Once Arthur closed the door behind Cobb, he didn't know what to do with himself. It had finally happened and his throat hurt with a threatening scream, his eyes burned behind his closed lids and his lips ached with how far downwards they were curled. His fist shook with the urge to shatter something, a window preferably, something that seemed so permanent, but was really so easy to break.
When he finally opened his eyes, he saw Eames watching him from the couch, his gray eyes wary and red.
Arthur knew that this was his fault. He had been careless, delusional, and had lost himself. It was almost shameful how easily he had lost himself in a dream because that's all this had been. These past months had been something impossible, something he could never have, but something he wanted so badly. And now he was waking up, crashing back to reality with a mind-bending pain and this was nothing like the depression that weighed down on his body when he woke up from their PASIV trips, nothing like the withdraw from escaping from reality. No, this was crushing and his knees were shaking beneath the relentless mass even though he knew it had to happen.
He and Eames didn't speak. Soon, he wasn't sure if he was looking at Eames any longer because the man's outline blurred as his eyes reddened. His-their-entire apartment blurred around him and he told himself over and over that he needed to move on. That this was a nice break, if not an entirely cruel preview of what he could have had, and now he needed to get on with his life.
That no one could have it all. And it was greedy of him to think that he was the exception.
Arthur shakily moved to their bedroom. His steps were by memory because he still couldn't see through his watering eyes, and he knew that he had grown far too familiar to this.
But that didn't stop him from clinging to Eames a few minutes later when their bodies moved together, sweat gathering on their skin. Their orgasms were weighed down with the knowledge that this was over. They didn't need to say it, but they both knew that it needed to end. That they needed to end.
But that didn't stop them from laying together for hours into the night and into the next morning. Never sleeping.
"Everything is brilliant," Eames whispered with a cracked tone around four. "Remember that."
They didn't get up and pack until they had only three hours before they needed to leave.
|.|.|
On the first airplane, Arthur wrote 'Everything is brilliant' in the inside cover of his Moleskine.
|.|.|
On the next airplane to Moscow, Cobb's warm fingers brushed against the back of Arthur's hand. Arthur swallowed tightly but didn't look away from the clouds drifting lazily by the window, his fingers shaking as they slowly lifted beneath Cobb's touch.
"I'm sorry," Cobb whispered, voice close to his ear. Arthur believed him. "I really am."
Arthur had spent the past hours swallowing the choking feeling in his throat. He had spent them forcing his face into a cool mask that didn't hint at his screaming insides. He had spent them blinking unnecessarily to ban the stinging feeling behind his irises and, just like that, just at that soft and familiar tone, all of that effort fell to pieces. His lips twitched and he closed his eyes, his eyelashes matting with the tears that he still refused to let take hold and pressed his cheek to Cobb's shoulder.
His best friend still smelt like he did years ago. A musky, spicy scent that immediately sent the tension in Arthur's shoulders away and didn't judge as a few of the tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.
He managed to sleep-not dream, but actually sleep-the rest of the plane ride, his head cradled on Cobb's shoulder. Every so often, Cobb would brush any rebellious hairs from his forehead before kissing his scalp.
|.|.|
The first few nights after that job, he didn't go home alone. Cobb wouldn't let him. Arthur wasn't sure of how the other man came to know of nights full of anything but sleep, but he didn't care, especially not when his carefully constructed guard dropped behind closed doors and he felt like he was cracking. Each night it began in the hotel bathroom, which he entered and locked once his hands fell out of their steady façade. The eyes he stared at in the reflection of the bathroom mirror were black, lined with light purple skin and he had to admit that he looked better-the rings around his eyelashes were lighter because he was sleeping again, because he only spent the minimal time beneath the PASIV's influence. He was recovering slowly, very slowly, and when he gripped the edge of the bathroom sink, his hands clung desperately to the marble as they trembled.
The tremor spread up the veins in his forearms, to his shoulders, down his chest and it was soon difficult to stand. He was ice, thinning by the second and cracking beneath pressure and his insides burned, deprived of what they were convinced they needed. His mind was ablaze in a similar fashion and, when he closed his eyes, he saw those brilliant irises, those bright and dilated pupils, those inviting lips. He tilted his head back, his lips quivering and he saw what he wanted.
He saw the colorful coy in his lifeless sea.
Arthur didn't want to open his eyes again, not even as he carefully let go of the counter and reached for the knot of his tie. He wasn't entirely sure when it happened, but his dizzy mind jolted as his knees hit the tile of the bathroom floor. His fingers were unreliable in loosening his tie, but his main focus was trying to get closer to Eames behind his eyelids. He felt so cold without the other man's warmth, without his skin, without-
Brilliant.
"Brilliant," he whispered, his voice foreign to his ears and just as vulnerable as he felt. "Brilliant." He clung to the word like he had clung to Eames' body. Like it was the only thing he could hold onto now, like it was the word that would lead him back to the fish in the sea.
There was a soft knock on the bathroom door. A jerk of the locked knob.
Arthur opened his eyes to see that his hand had curled around the lock and turned it. His fingers were extended when the barrier between him and Cobb disappeared and he was grateful when those familiar fingers laced between his own. When Cobb dropped carefully to his knees and pulled Arthur close, pulled him as close as Eames used to, and just held him.
Cobb's skin wasn't as warm as Eames'. But Arthur still adhered to him like he was Brilliant.
|.|.|
Curiosity finally took hold about a year later.
He fully intended to uncover the details of their mark's child life but Arthur's fingertips paused before they even began, hovering of his keyboard. He chewed his lower lip and his fingers trembled with excited interest and he couldn't help it; he veered his attention for the night.
It wasn't easy. It took him hours and hours, bringing him to about 4:30 the next morning before he finally found what he was looking for.
Bryant Matheson. Mombasa.
Arthur brought his exhausted and quivering fingers to his dry lips. Something flooded his insides, something that was nearly overwhelming and forced him to breathe deeply for a few long moments.
And he couldn't help but smile shakily because he knew if Eames didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be.
|.|.|
When Arthur first heard Eames' name during the Fischer job, about a month later, his stomach turned violently and he had to control his voice when he revealed Eames' location.
When Arthur first saw Eames during the Fischer job, his knees went weak and he needed to leave the room.
Just to remind himself that there was a reason it had ended with Eames. That he couldn't let himself go so drastically again. That he couldn't be rash about this, that he had nearly broken as the consequent of not thinking this through before.
He didn't return to the room for a good twenty minutes. He tried to stop his body from shaking as aggressively as it was, though the effort was in vain because when he saw Eames again, hunched over the table just like he had been the first time Arthur had ever met him. His nerves snapped to attention and set his body on edge all over again. It was all all over again, everything all over again. The teases and taunts, the near touches, the gazes that lasted far too long to be comfortable. It all made Arthur younger again, back to when all he wanted to do was to open Eames' shirt and see just what the hell that tattoo was.
Though, now, he wanted to open Eames' shirt to see if he had gotten anymore.
The tremor crawling beneath Arthur's skin didn't subside until several days later, when they fell asleep on the longest plane ride in the world.
|.|.|
After that job, Arthur went home alone. Only, that time, he really did return home. Everything in his Los Angeles apartment looked just as he had remembered, just as he had dreamt it over a year ago. The day light spilt in familiar highlights and shadows across the walls, over his couch and table, across his television. Everything was set in order, just like it had been at every hotel that he had ever stayed at. But this time, he knew that this stuff was his to fix to his liking if he desired. Everything here was his Arthur's. Arthur's for as long as he wished, not Thomas', Neil's, Adam's, Howard's, Vincent's, James' for only a few nights.
Arthur toed off his shoes and set his luggage down in the living room for the time being. Cobb was home, too. Finally home with his children, where he deserved to be.
He wasn't alone.
And Arthur couldn't help but let his mind wander to the last time he had been here. With Eames. Eames. Eames had been stalling at the baggage claim just a bit ago and, when he passed, their eyes had met for a brief moment. Only a small moment, but the gaze was lingering, haunting, and those crisp eyes were still sharp in Arthur's mind eye. He saw them whenever he closed his eyes. He saw the way they used to look at him during those months. He saw the way they'd crinkle whenever those beautiful lips would curl upwards, reveal those crooked teeth and allow a laugh to pass. He just saw Eames, saw what he had, what he could have had forever and when he opened his eyes, there was no one.
It was something familiar. After all, no one could have it all.
Just as Arthur turned to pick up his things, there was a knock at his door. Curiosity tilted his brow before he carefully stepped back towards the door and opened it.
His eyes were open, he swore they were, but he saw those sharp eyes, the skin slightly crinkled in their corners to accompany a subtle smile, one that was always on display with a rare uncertainty. He saw Eames, standing in his doorway with his bags from the airport.
Just like that, his skin crawled as his heart jumped and clung to his throat.
"I thought," Eames started after a long moment, "that perhaps we could talk. Since Cobb is with the family and you are finally home. And since you and I…" He hesitated, and Arthur remembered the swollen veins in Eames' eyes, back when he did all he could to help them through their addiction until he just couldn't any longer. Until neither of them could any longer.
"Are a bit different now," he finally finished. He gave a gentle nod of his head as his lips tilted upwards in the very slightest.
It didn't occur to Arthur that Eames must have followed him. He swallowed, trying to force his heart back into his ribcage, and paused, his mind desperately trying to repair his rapidly weakening defenses. Maybe it was the way Eames' hair highlighted beneath the California sun, or maybe it was the way that Arthur could see the beginning of the tattoo along Eames' collar where the shirt dipped. And maybe it was the way Eames' presence just sent Arthur into things he's never felt before but, at that moment, he didn't see a reason to close the door.
So he stepped back and welcomed Eames into his home. After Eames went to drop his stuff in the bedroom, Arthur crouched briefly on the floor and rolled his die. His body was unsteady as he read reality and scooped the totem back up, pocketing it.
Running his trembling fingers through his hair, Arthur told himself he needed to be careful. That he couldn't let history repeat itself.
But when Eames returned, looking beautiful with that careful smile on his lips, Arthur told himself that things were different this time. Things were easier. Things were more similar to the way they were so many years ago.
Eames watched him closely, irises crisp and clear as they examined him as if they hadn't just pulled off their most spectacular job. Eames eyed him like he was new, but something so familiar. And that was exactly what he was, exactly what Eames was to him. He was the fire across his wet skin, the imaginary trips around the world, the addiction to the point of uncontrollable bodies. He was sweat, curling lips, smoke, promises, tension, the break.
And at the same time, he wasn't. At the same time, Arthur was just meeting him for the first time.
Eames finally came close, close like he used to, until he slowly threaded his fingers through Arthur's like that was where they always belonged. He still smelt of cinnamon and warmth and still tasted of cigarettes and something that Arthur could never accurately describe, unless he simply said 'Eames'.
"Did you remember?" Eames whispered quietly against his lips and Arthur smiled. Smiled wider than he had for so long.
"I did," he breathed.
After that, Arthur never returned home alone. And everything was brilliant.