[Fic] Arthur/Eames -- Dreaming in Color
Title: Dreaming in Color
Series: Inception
Pairing/Characters: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Total length: 3,041
Warnings: violence, sex, dreamsharing
Summary: His dreams, the ones of true sleep, are nothing like his dreams on the job. Being on the clock, working your way through a dreamland is nothing like letting the landscape stretch out before you, endless with possibilities.
Author's Note: I wrote this the... week after I saw Inception? Originally it was for my 'napping' square in Mundane Bingo, but alas, that didn't work out. I think I've saved it so long because after the initial urge to read ALL THE INCEPTION fics passed, I was overwhelmed with the hundreds of fics where Arthur has a very monotonous dreamscape. Which hey, might be true. Probably is true, but I was so taken with the idea of Arthur hating to be the dreamer because it's hard for him to keep it simple. So, though I'm sure I've been proved wrong time and time again, I might as well post this.
.
It only happens on the job, which is how Arthur knows that it's actually Eames and not just a half thought out overly-mischievous projection that Arthur, in his delirium, had subconsciously thought up. Arthur had stopped dreaming when he was fourteen, seven years after being introduced to dream-sharing. He hadn't missed it at first. Dreaming, after all, is something you don't usually notice. It's a cobweb of a thought clinging to a sleepy, freshly woken mind. It's something that your brain strains to remember, but eventually forgets in the end, because when it gets down to it, dreams aren't exactly vital to your day to day life.
But they're addicting, dreams. Something that you don't realize you'll miss until after it's gone, and after so long working as a dream thief, the bleak, empty darkness of true sleep is strange. The silence is hostile, the blank slate of nothingness downright disturbing, and when Arthur eventually jolts from his dreamless slumber, it leaves him feeling panicked, exhausted, restless- as if he hasn't actually slept at all.
So he hooks himself up to the PASIV each night, unashamed as he slips the needle into his vein and dreams-
+
His dreams, the ones of true sleep, are nothing like his dreams on the job. Being on the clock, working your way through a dreamland is nothing like letting the landscape stretch out before you, endless with possibilities. During a job, there is study, reflection. There are meticulously crafted landscapes, perfect down to the exact detail, skirting along the edges of true creation so the mark doesn't notice that something is amiss. There are carefully thought out loop holes and escape routes, and you have to put a ridiculous amount of attention into making the place seem real, ignoring the dream's siren call to reach out and make the grass a violent shade of purple, or making it possible to fly.
With real sleep, you can let go of all that. You can lie back and see what the world would look like with a different spectrum of colors, what music would sound like if you alter the pitches, change up the treble and the bass.
And with the PASIV, the dreams become more real than they ever were. Real enough that upon waking, you can remember them with a startling kind of clarity, right down to the exact shading of light or the few cat hairs clinging to some girl's sleeve. It's still not enough for Arthur to choose it over reality, after all, there's always something not quite right in a dream. Maybe you'll take a bite of spider sushi within the dream, let the subtle flavors of the sauces curl affectionately across your tongue and it will taste a little bit off because in reality, you've never touched sushi in your life. But the appeal of the dream is enough that Arthur does at least acknowledge why some people would.
When he's on a job, working a heist he tries to keep his own brand of dreaming to a minimum. He'll crash on a chair in whatever nondescript warehouse they're working at that week, and he'll eye the PASIV from across the room and refuse the needle's call.
But sometimes, sometimes, when a heist stretches on too long or when the research takes weeks and months rather than days, he'll have to give in, have to reach out and plug himself into the machine, because he's never known how to deal with the bleak mindscape of sleep without dreaming.
And it's on those kind of heists that it starts happening.
+
The first time it happens, Arthur thinks that he's honest to god, actually dreaming. That the lithe blond woman pinned beneath him is just a very pretty portion of his subconscious, that her panting mouth against his ear is another phantom call of the dream, that the feel of her- tight and wet around his cock, is just his hormones skittering about his brain in a lackluster dance of delight.
And then her form shifts and blends, blond hair bleeding into a sandy shade of brown- smooth cheek roughening beneath his lips as stubble gathers at his touch. Her thin lips -and oh, he hadn't had enough imagination with that- swell, become full and cock-sucking and chapped and his heart thumps a delighted rhythm against his ribcage, pleased with the change of events. His eyes are closed, have been since the moment she'd rocked down onto him, her mouth slack with pleasure. He doesn't need to open them, doesn't need to look to know what he'll find, doesn't need to see that smirking mouth or those dark eyes to know who his subconscious has grown him, but he does anyways.
Eames is lovely like this, his eyes dark with pleasure- forehead damp, beads of sweat clinging to his brow and trickling down that gorgeous neck. His lips are quirked up into a smirk, his laughter breathless and mocking as he leans down, sucking a vicious kiss into the pale skin of Arthur's throat and it's good, so good that Arthur doesn't even blink at this change, moving with Eames and showing no sign of surprise or confusion beyond a faint frown when he thinks incredulously, why the hell haven't I dreamt this before?
The pace the blond girl had set stutters, slides slowly to a halt and Arthur groans fuckfuckEamesmove against the rasp of stubble pressed to his mouth- and after a moment or so of utter stillness, Eames starts moving again, pressing back onto Arthur's cock and grinding until a whine comes unbidden from Arthur's throat. It makes Eames laugh, condescending and affectionate, makes him whisper "Don't be so hasty, love" into Arthur's mouth, and it's hard because Arthur doesn't know how he got Eames' character so perfect. The perfection is glittering up at him with every move Eames makes, with every smirk and smug grin he flashes, and Arthur thinks that maybe he should try to let his subconscious to be this creative when it comes to the actual jobs, because with this amount of potential, maybe he should have tried to be a forger.
With that thought, his own form flickers, and for just that one second Eames is fucking back onto himself, breath catching in his throat when the shape of Arthur's cock changes inside of him and he whimpers-
And then the moment is through and Arthur is himself again, but Eames, the projection of Eames, is staring down at him in something like awe, as if wishing that he could dig himself even further into Arthur's head and actually see what he's thinking.
Eames is still moving, but slower again, and Arthur rocks his hips a bit- just to jolt the projection back into awareness.
That seems to do the trick, because Eames is moving again, his renewed pace faster than his old one and much faster than the nameless blonde's before that. It doesn't seem to matter that there's no lube, no condom, that he'd gone from fucking up into some girl's wet cunt to having his cock up Eames ass in an effortless transition. It doesn't matter because this is a dream, just some half-forgotten impulse hidden away in the very back of his head where not even he can see, just a dream-
It doesn't stop him from noticing things though, like the way Eames' breathing comes just a bit faster when he's closer to orgasm. He's quiet, panting and whimpering just the slightest, occasionally muttering sweet nothings and pet names against Arthur's cheeks, his lips, the delicate skin of his neck. Arthur wonders just how good his imagination is. If Eames would actually sound like this in reality.
Above them, around them, Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture swells, the sounds of the orchestra filling the dreamscape and he thinks he hears Eames groan, disappointed, and he has enough time to rock up into him twice before he's coming, jolting back to reality in the same instant and he shouldn't feel bad, because it's not like the projection had even needed to come-
Arthur waits for a moment, lets the quiet sounds of the warehouse seep back into his brain as he works on quieting his breathing before someone notices. He wants to kick himself, because the slacks that he's wearing are expensive and there's come slicking the insides of his thighs-
When he finally works up the nerve to roll to his feet, the projection's strange disappointed groan is already fading from his mind and he doesn't think to wonder why the seat next to his is vaguely warm.
+
When Eames smirks at him the next day, filthy and pleased and wicked- well, it's only then that he starts to wonder.
+
The second time it happens, Arthur is less sure of its authenticity. There's no one in the room with them, no false patrons of the city to stare at Eames in distrust so he can't rely on his subconscious. It had been a man this time, a redhead with spindly pale arms and long legs that tucked around his hips like they were meant to be there. A man, probably twenty something- younger than Arthur, with pretty green eyes and pale shoulders that were suspiciously absent of the typical redhead's curse of freckles. They'd already fucked, of that Arthur's pretty sure, because there's a condom in the rubbish bin and his ass is feeling vaguely tender. They're just lounging around the bed, the redhead clutching a cigarette between thin fingers, smoke escaping past his lips to caress Arthur's cheek.
Arthur knows it's a dream, because the smoke smells like cherries rather than nicotine. Also, the plumes reflect purple in the dim apartment light. He's about to ask the man- something with an A, he thinks, because he vaguely remembers the man from a train ride in Boston, remembers being interested in the tattoos and that particular shade of red- if he fancies another go, or if maybe he can get a blowjob before he wakes up.
"Your dreams are always so colorful, darling," is what Eames says, lounging next to Arthur in the spot the redhead had been in, cigarette still hanging from his fingers. He brings it to his lips and takes a drag, the sun bathing the tattoos curling up his arm with light. Arthur doesn't really know what to say, knows that he's suspicious of this projection, so he smirks and says mildly, "Someone once told me that I mustn't be afraid of dreaming bigger."
Eames smile is blinding as it widens, and Arthur can already taste his delight, even before he leans forward and breathes, "Glad the lesson stuck then, pet," against his lips.
+
The third and fourth times pass in a blur. They both occur during the second week of the Will-Hurst job, when everyone's exhausted and sloppy, aching from too much study, not enough sleep, and too many long nights slumped around the planning table.
Arthur's nights start to blur after the first 72 hours that he goes without sleep, and it's only when Ariadne snaps and tells Yusuf to drug him that he actually manages a full six hours of uninterrupted dream time. He can barely remember that particular dream- it had passed in a haze of purple and blue sunshine, of cloudy yellow skies, and a lingering smell of apples that had haunted him even after he'd woken up.
He knows that Eames had been there though, recalling snatches of half conversations and smug grins, the way the transparent, neon light had muddied the conman's bronze skin and how he'd licked down Arthur's chest, smirk in place as he'd flicked through various forges- a dozen different smirks and a dozen different heads between his thighs before Eames had finally settled back into his own skin just as his tongue touched the very tip of Arthur's cock.
The fourth time was just two days later, a bleak Thursday with skies the color of bruised elbows and streets run wet with ankle-deep rainwater. Cobb had found some information that would change their operation as they knew it, and they'd all had celebratory drinks in the warehouse until they'd collapsed in various states of inebriation around the room. Arthur doesn't even remember hooking up the PASIV, but he remembers the dream, all skin on skin and the echo of moans against his teeth, the air colored with rainbows and the walls and floors furnished in the richest of colors. He remembers the way Eames had grinned at him, the way he'd kissed endearments into every inch of Arthur's skin, how he'd slipped his hands up under his shirt with a kind of reverence that faintly, Arthur doesn't think he deserves. He'd woken up the next morning with a needle biting into his wrist and a sledgehammer pounding inside his skull.
Eames had come out of the bathroom five minutes later, eyes still bleary with sleep, lips red and wet and Arthur's breath had caught in his throat, because Eames looked exactly like he had in the dream just seconds ago-
Arthur doesn't use his PASIV for a week, only breaking it out again after the job is over, once he's free to sleep in his own apartment. His dreams are suspiciously lacking. The people he sleeps with in his dreams keep their skins; the blonde women moaning in perfect feminine appreciation, and the men whimpering beneath him, docile and sweet, without a hint of smug smirks.
Arthur tries to pretend that he's not disappointed.
+
The fifth time happens nearly six months after the third and fourth, after Cobb has tracked him down in Florence, reeling him in with details about a heist so brilliant that it surpasses even the Inception job. Arthur pretends to be disinterested for all of two minutes before agreeing, flying to South America before he can even think to reconsider.
Ariadne looks happier, and she grins when she flashes him the ring on her finger, explaining that they'd met about four months ago, when she and Eames had pulled a heist on their own. Needless to say, the mark had won that particular one.
Eames is the same, smirking and taunting on schedule, even if his face is drawn and pale. His forges are messier, though somehow, Arthur doubts anyone else can tell the difference. They look okay, but there's always a detail off-- hair too frizzy, voice too quiet, and it's so bad that Arthur has to point the issues out five separate times before Eames starts noticeably trying harder.
The job is in fact, bigger than the inception job, though it's mostly the same thing. Cobb could have more aptly defined it as another inception job, rather than saying it's bigger than the last. The only thing that makes it harder is the mark, significantly more wealthy and powerful than Fischer, surely trained to resist dream infiltrations.
They spend four and a half weeks researching and planning, and Arthur feels like he hasn't slept in days.
He's been forgoing the PASIV, avoiding sleeping in the new warehouse when he can, and when he can't, he sleeps as far away from the machine as possible. Finally, after their latest failure to procure sufficient enough information on the mark's brother, Arthur reaches for the needle.
He's in the dream before he feels himself falling, and it's an older man this time, closer to Eames age, and he's got sandy brown hair and a five o'clock shadow. The dream slip slides into motion and he's already crowded up against a wall, legs wrapped around a tanned waist, a cock up his ass and he thinks, shit-
"Fuck Eames, why do you even do this?" he asks, voice shaking as the man -as Eames- slams into him. Eames whimpers against his throat and doesn't answer, though he at least has the courtesy to drop the illusion. They rock together- too desperate, too fast, and it's over too quickly; drowning the room in silence.
Their breathing mingles and for the first time, Arthur notices that this dream is normal, that there's no trace of strawberry ceilings or kiwi floors, that there's real sunshine shining through the windows, not blue or red or green. He realizes that he might just miss it, and in the space of a breath, the room goes dark and the Northern Lights flare into existence against the ceiling. Eames chuckles against his neck, tumbling them down onto the bed, and his hand is rough with calluses when he brushes his palm and the pads of his fingers against the curve of Arthur's cheek.
"Why, darling?" he asks, and his voice is a mixture of sad and satiated, oddly insecure and Arthur wonders what Eames has been doing all these months, since he hasn't been able to hang around and dream-hop around Arthur's mind and-
Eames nuzzles into his neck, and it feels better than a kiss, more intimate and Arthur thinks that he might like it, this easy affection between them and he's forgotten the question when Eames finally admits, "Because dearest, you dream in color."
He doesn't explain that he also does it for the chance to see Arthur like this, for the chance to curl up next to the man and share morning breath, for the chance to see Arthur's imagination- to see firsthand that it isn't because Arthur's a bad architect, but because he's too good of one. His imagination isn't suited to the dreary world of their jobs, can't be contained and would likely get them killed if he was truly the architect. A ray of sunshine the color of watermelons would give them away, or swirls of silver and gold instead of smog would wind through New York City and the mark's subconscious would tear them apart. Eames doesn't mention that he does this because his own dreams had become monotonous, gray and dull after that first visit into Arthur's mind. He doesn't mention any of these things, but when Eames nuzzles into him, affectionate and happy, Arthur hears them anyways.
Series: Inception
Pairing/Characters: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Total length: 3,041
Warnings: violence, sex, dreamsharing
Summary: His dreams, the ones of true sleep, are nothing like his dreams on the job. Being on the clock, working your way through a dreamland is nothing like letting the landscape stretch out before you, endless with possibilities.
Author's Note: I wrote this the... week after I saw Inception? Originally it was for my 'napping' square in Mundane Bingo, but alas, that didn't work out. I think I've saved it so long because after the initial urge to read ALL THE INCEPTION fics passed, I was overwhelmed with the hundreds of fics where Arthur has a very monotonous dreamscape. Which hey, might be true. Probably is true, but I was so taken with the idea of Arthur hating to be the dreamer because it's hard for him to keep it simple. So, though I'm sure I've been proved wrong time and time again, I might as well post this.
.
It only happens on the job, which is how Arthur knows that it's actually Eames and not just a half thought out overly-mischievous projection that Arthur, in his delirium, had subconsciously thought up. Arthur had stopped dreaming when he was fourteen, seven years after being introduced to dream-sharing. He hadn't missed it at first. Dreaming, after all, is something you don't usually notice. It's a cobweb of a thought clinging to a sleepy, freshly woken mind. It's something that your brain strains to remember, but eventually forgets in the end, because when it gets down to it, dreams aren't exactly vital to your day to day life.
But they're addicting, dreams. Something that you don't realize you'll miss until after it's gone, and after so long working as a dream thief, the bleak, empty darkness of true sleep is strange. The silence is hostile, the blank slate of nothingness downright disturbing, and when Arthur eventually jolts from his dreamless slumber, it leaves him feeling panicked, exhausted, restless- as if he hasn't actually slept at all.
So he hooks himself up to the PASIV each night, unashamed as he slips the needle into his vein and dreams-
+
His dreams, the ones of true sleep, are nothing like his dreams on the job. Being on the clock, working your way through a dreamland is nothing like letting the landscape stretch out before you, endless with possibilities. During a job, there is study, reflection. There are meticulously crafted landscapes, perfect down to the exact detail, skirting along the edges of true creation so the mark doesn't notice that something is amiss. There are carefully thought out loop holes and escape routes, and you have to put a ridiculous amount of attention into making the place seem real, ignoring the dream's siren call to reach out and make the grass a violent shade of purple, or making it possible to fly.
With real sleep, you can let go of all that. You can lie back and see what the world would look like with a different spectrum of colors, what music would sound like if you alter the pitches, change up the treble and the bass.
And with the PASIV, the dreams become more real than they ever were. Real enough that upon waking, you can remember them with a startling kind of clarity, right down to the exact shading of light or the few cat hairs clinging to some girl's sleeve. It's still not enough for Arthur to choose it over reality, after all, there's always something not quite right in a dream. Maybe you'll take a bite of spider sushi within the dream, let the subtle flavors of the sauces curl affectionately across your tongue and it will taste a little bit off because in reality, you've never touched sushi in your life. But the appeal of the dream is enough that Arthur does at least acknowledge why some people would.
When he's on a job, working a heist he tries to keep his own brand of dreaming to a minimum. He'll crash on a chair in whatever nondescript warehouse they're working at that week, and he'll eye the PASIV from across the room and refuse the needle's call.
But sometimes, sometimes, when a heist stretches on too long or when the research takes weeks and months rather than days, he'll have to give in, have to reach out and plug himself into the machine, because he's never known how to deal with the bleak mindscape of sleep without dreaming.
And it's on those kind of heists that it starts happening.
+
The first time it happens, Arthur thinks that he's honest to god, actually dreaming. That the lithe blond woman pinned beneath him is just a very pretty portion of his subconscious, that her panting mouth against his ear is another phantom call of the dream, that the feel of her- tight and wet around his cock, is just his hormones skittering about his brain in a lackluster dance of delight.
And then her form shifts and blends, blond hair bleeding into a sandy shade of brown- smooth cheek roughening beneath his lips as stubble gathers at his touch. Her thin lips -and oh, he hadn't had enough imagination with that- swell, become full and cock-sucking and chapped and his heart thumps a delighted rhythm against his ribcage, pleased with the change of events. His eyes are closed, have been since the moment she'd rocked down onto him, her mouth slack with pleasure. He doesn't need to open them, doesn't need to look to know what he'll find, doesn't need to see that smirking mouth or those dark eyes to know who his subconscious has grown him, but he does anyways.
Eames is lovely like this, his eyes dark with pleasure- forehead damp, beads of sweat clinging to his brow and trickling down that gorgeous neck. His lips are quirked up into a smirk, his laughter breathless and mocking as he leans down, sucking a vicious kiss into the pale skin of Arthur's throat and it's good, so good that Arthur doesn't even blink at this change, moving with Eames and showing no sign of surprise or confusion beyond a faint frown when he thinks incredulously, why the hell haven't I dreamt this before?
The pace the blond girl had set stutters, slides slowly to a halt and Arthur groans fuckfuckEamesmove against the rasp of stubble pressed to his mouth- and after a moment or so of utter stillness, Eames starts moving again, pressing back onto Arthur's cock and grinding until a whine comes unbidden from Arthur's throat. It makes Eames laugh, condescending and affectionate, makes him whisper "Don't be so hasty, love" into Arthur's mouth, and it's hard because Arthur doesn't know how he got Eames' character so perfect. The perfection is glittering up at him with every move Eames makes, with every smirk and smug grin he flashes, and Arthur thinks that maybe he should try to let his subconscious to be this creative when it comes to the actual jobs, because with this amount of potential, maybe he should have tried to be a forger.
With that thought, his own form flickers, and for just that one second Eames is fucking back onto himself, breath catching in his throat when the shape of Arthur's cock changes inside of him and he whimpers-
And then the moment is through and Arthur is himself again, but Eames, the projection of Eames, is staring down at him in something like awe, as if wishing that he could dig himself even further into Arthur's head and actually see what he's thinking.
Eames is still moving, but slower again, and Arthur rocks his hips a bit- just to jolt the projection back into awareness.
That seems to do the trick, because Eames is moving again, his renewed pace faster than his old one and much faster than the nameless blonde's before that. It doesn't seem to matter that there's no lube, no condom, that he'd gone from fucking up into some girl's wet cunt to having his cock up Eames ass in an effortless transition. It doesn't matter because this is a dream, just some half-forgotten impulse hidden away in the very back of his head where not even he can see, just a dream-
It doesn't stop him from noticing things though, like the way Eames' breathing comes just a bit faster when he's closer to orgasm. He's quiet, panting and whimpering just the slightest, occasionally muttering sweet nothings and pet names against Arthur's cheeks, his lips, the delicate skin of his neck. Arthur wonders just how good his imagination is. If Eames would actually sound like this in reality.
Above them, around them, Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture swells, the sounds of the orchestra filling the dreamscape and he thinks he hears Eames groan, disappointed, and he has enough time to rock up into him twice before he's coming, jolting back to reality in the same instant and he shouldn't feel bad, because it's not like the projection had even needed to come-
Arthur waits for a moment, lets the quiet sounds of the warehouse seep back into his brain as he works on quieting his breathing before someone notices. He wants to kick himself, because the slacks that he's wearing are expensive and there's come slicking the insides of his thighs-
When he finally works up the nerve to roll to his feet, the projection's strange disappointed groan is already fading from his mind and he doesn't think to wonder why the seat next to his is vaguely warm.
+
When Eames smirks at him the next day, filthy and pleased and wicked- well, it's only then that he starts to wonder.
+
The second time it happens, Arthur is less sure of its authenticity. There's no one in the room with them, no false patrons of the city to stare at Eames in distrust so he can't rely on his subconscious. It had been a man this time, a redhead with spindly pale arms and long legs that tucked around his hips like they were meant to be there. A man, probably twenty something- younger than Arthur, with pretty green eyes and pale shoulders that were suspiciously absent of the typical redhead's curse of freckles. They'd already fucked, of that Arthur's pretty sure, because there's a condom in the rubbish bin and his ass is feeling vaguely tender. They're just lounging around the bed, the redhead clutching a cigarette between thin fingers, smoke escaping past his lips to caress Arthur's cheek.
Arthur knows it's a dream, because the smoke smells like cherries rather than nicotine. Also, the plumes reflect purple in the dim apartment light. He's about to ask the man- something with an A, he thinks, because he vaguely remembers the man from a train ride in Boston, remembers being interested in the tattoos and that particular shade of red- if he fancies another go, or if maybe he can get a blowjob before he wakes up.
"Your dreams are always so colorful, darling," is what Eames says, lounging next to Arthur in the spot the redhead had been in, cigarette still hanging from his fingers. He brings it to his lips and takes a drag, the sun bathing the tattoos curling up his arm with light. Arthur doesn't really know what to say, knows that he's suspicious of this projection, so he smirks and says mildly, "Someone once told me that I mustn't be afraid of dreaming bigger."
Eames smile is blinding as it widens, and Arthur can already taste his delight, even before he leans forward and breathes, "Glad the lesson stuck then, pet," against his lips.
+
The third and fourth times pass in a blur. They both occur during the second week of the Will-Hurst job, when everyone's exhausted and sloppy, aching from too much study, not enough sleep, and too many long nights slumped around the planning table.
Arthur's nights start to blur after the first 72 hours that he goes without sleep, and it's only when Ariadne snaps and tells Yusuf to drug him that he actually manages a full six hours of uninterrupted dream time. He can barely remember that particular dream- it had passed in a haze of purple and blue sunshine, of cloudy yellow skies, and a lingering smell of apples that had haunted him even after he'd woken up.
He knows that Eames had been there though, recalling snatches of half conversations and smug grins, the way the transparent, neon light had muddied the conman's bronze skin and how he'd licked down Arthur's chest, smirk in place as he'd flicked through various forges- a dozen different smirks and a dozen different heads between his thighs before Eames had finally settled back into his own skin just as his tongue touched the very tip of Arthur's cock.
The fourth time was just two days later, a bleak Thursday with skies the color of bruised elbows and streets run wet with ankle-deep rainwater. Cobb had found some information that would change their operation as they knew it, and they'd all had celebratory drinks in the warehouse until they'd collapsed in various states of inebriation around the room. Arthur doesn't even remember hooking up the PASIV, but he remembers the dream, all skin on skin and the echo of moans against his teeth, the air colored with rainbows and the walls and floors furnished in the richest of colors. He remembers the way Eames had grinned at him, the way he'd kissed endearments into every inch of Arthur's skin, how he'd slipped his hands up under his shirt with a kind of reverence that faintly, Arthur doesn't think he deserves. He'd woken up the next morning with a needle biting into his wrist and a sledgehammer pounding inside his skull.
Eames had come out of the bathroom five minutes later, eyes still bleary with sleep, lips red and wet and Arthur's breath had caught in his throat, because Eames looked exactly like he had in the dream just seconds ago-
Arthur doesn't use his PASIV for a week, only breaking it out again after the job is over, once he's free to sleep in his own apartment. His dreams are suspiciously lacking. The people he sleeps with in his dreams keep their skins; the blonde women moaning in perfect feminine appreciation, and the men whimpering beneath him, docile and sweet, without a hint of smug smirks.
Arthur tries to pretend that he's not disappointed.
+
The fifth time happens nearly six months after the third and fourth, after Cobb has tracked him down in Florence, reeling him in with details about a heist so brilliant that it surpasses even the Inception job. Arthur pretends to be disinterested for all of two minutes before agreeing, flying to South America before he can even think to reconsider.
Ariadne looks happier, and she grins when she flashes him the ring on her finger, explaining that they'd met about four months ago, when she and Eames had pulled a heist on their own. Needless to say, the mark had won that particular one.
Eames is the same, smirking and taunting on schedule, even if his face is drawn and pale. His forges are messier, though somehow, Arthur doubts anyone else can tell the difference. They look okay, but there's always a detail off-- hair too frizzy, voice too quiet, and it's so bad that Arthur has to point the issues out five separate times before Eames starts noticeably trying harder.
The job is in fact, bigger than the inception job, though it's mostly the same thing. Cobb could have more aptly defined it as another inception job, rather than saying it's bigger than the last. The only thing that makes it harder is the mark, significantly more wealthy and powerful than Fischer, surely trained to resist dream infiltrations.
They spend four and a half weeks researching and planning, and Arthur feels like he hasn't slept in days.
He's been forgoing the PASIV, avoiding sleeping in the new warehouse when he can, and when he can't, he sleeps as far away from the machine as possible. Finally, after their latest failure to procure sufficient enough information on the mark's brother, Arthur reaches for the needle.
He's in the dream before he feels himself falling, and it's an older man this time, closer to Eames age, and he's got sandy brown hair and a five o'clock shadow. The dream slip slides into motion and he's already crowded up against a wall, legs wrapped around a tanned waist, a cock up his ass and he thinks, shit-
"Fuck Eames, why do you even do this?" he asks, voice shaking as the man -as Eames- slams into him. Eames whimpers against his throat and doesn't answer, though he at least has the courtesy to drop the illusion. They rock together- too desperate, too fast, and it's over too quickly; drowning the room in silence.
Their breathing mingles and for the first time, Arthur notices that this dream is normal, that there's no trace of strawberry ceilings or kiwi floors, that there's real sunshine shining through the windows, not blue or red or green. He realizes that he might just miss it, and in the space of a breath, the room goes dark and the Northern Lights flare into existence against the ceiling. Eames chuckles against his neck, tumbling them down onto the bed, and his hand is rough with calluses when he brushes his palm and the pads of his fingers against the curve of Arthur's cheek.
"Why, darling?" he asks, and his voice is a mixture of sad and satiated, oddly insecure and Arthur wonders what Eames has been doing all these months, since he hasn't been able to hang around and dream-hop around Arthur's mind and-
Eames nuzzles into his neck, and it feels better than a kiss, more intimate and Arthur thinks that he might like it, this easy affection between them and he's forgotten the question when Eames finally admits, "Because dearest, you dream in color."
He doesn't explain that he also does it for the chance to see Arthur like this, for the chance to curl up next to the man and share morning breath, for the chance to see Arthur's imagination- to see firsthand that it isn't because Arthur's a bad architect, but because he's too good of one. His imagination isn't suited to the dreary world of their jobs, can't be contained and would likely get them killed if he was truly the architect. A ray of sunshine the color of watermelons would give them away, or swirls of silver and gold instead of smog would wind through New York City and the mark's subconscious would tear them apart. Eames doesn't mention that he does this because his own dreams had become monotonous, gray and dull after that first visit into Arthur's mind. He doesn't mention any of these things, but when Eames nuzzles into him, affectionate and happy, Arthur hears them anyways.