The Streets of Chicago Part VI
Eames was reading when Cobb came to visit him next. Old Yeller was always a classic. The guard very rudely told him to get up and “move his ass” along to the private room where Cobb was waiting. Americans, seriously.
Cobb was on the other side of the gate as Eames approached, standing beside a tall and slender young man with dark hair. Eames stopped abruptly, his breath seizing up in his chest. He would know that profile anywhere. He opened his mouth to say … something, but nothing came out, his voice unable to cross the desert in his throat.
The guard shoved his shoulder, ordering him forward, and he shuffled as fast as he could towards the gate. Arthur was already turning away, however, and walking swiftly towards the door. At Cobb's glare, the guard removed Eames' lovely anklets, and then one of his friendship bracelets. As soon as they were left alone in the legal counseling room, Eames leaned across the table towards Cobb.
“That man who was with you just as I came out-how do you know him?” He asked in a way that was truly more of a command. Cobb paused ordering his papers and raised an eyebrow at him.
“He's my paralegal, why?” Eames sat back, a sigh escaping him in a rush.
“Arthur and I are very old friends,” he explained. Cobb didn't need to know precisely who Arthur had been to Eames; that was private. “But I have not seen him for many years. Does he know you're my lawyer?” he asked curiously. Cobb shrugged, utterly unconcerned.
“He must, since he is helping with the case. If he would like to see you, shall I add him to your list of approved visitors?” Eames' eyes widened in surprise.
“You would do that?” Cobb snorted, as if Eames was asking something ridiculous.
“Of course. I raised him, after all.” Eames nearly choked.
“I beg your pardon?” he managed. Cobb paused with his cursed papers again and looked piercingly at him.
“I am his legal guardian, and I have been for quite some time. How long has it been since you saw each other?” Eames shrugged.
“Eleven years, give or take a few months,” he said. “We were mates in the orphanage were Arthur grew up. Never heard from him after I left the States, but I always wondered what happened to him.” Cobb studied the paper before him intensely, letting out a “hmm,” as Eames spoke, but in response to what Eames' said or what he read, Eames couldn't tell.
After several minutes of silence, and when Eames was giving up on a response, Cobbs said suddenly, “Well, I will let him know you are interested in meeting him.” Eames almost fell out his chair.
“Um,” he said, and cleared his throat, “thanks.” Cobb nodded like it was ordinary business to arrange for your paralegal and ward to meet with your client for personal reasons (more personal on Eames' side, but whatever). Eames looked out the window and recalled the last time he saw-or heard from-Arthur before today.
Eames stood on the front porch of the orphanage, his bags-of which there were two-set down beside him. Mrs. Hansen had given him enough cash to call a taxi to the airport, where his flight left at 11 am, and to get one from the airport to the university once he landed. It was Friday, the day before freshman began moving in, but Eames' particular circumstance granted him an exception.
He had paid for the airplane ticket himself, with money he had saved up over the past two years from his crappy gas station job. He was mighty proud of that fact. The money for his passport had also been out of his pocket. By his sophomore year at Oxford, he would be a dual citizen of America and England.
Time was drawing to a close. Arthur clung to him, his lean form wrapped tightly around his waist as he sniffled into Eames' shirt. Eames hugged him back just as fiercely; no matter how Arthur felt about Ariadne, leaving him still felt like it would destroy Eames.
“I'll write,” he said, voice strained. He had said as much many times before, but wanted to say it one more time, a promise to himself as well as to Arthur. “I swear I will. You'll know everything that happens as if you were right there with me, yeah?” Arthur sob-laughed into his shoulder, and Eames could feel his smile, right over his pulse. He imagined it would always be there, an imprinted impression of curved lips with every beat of his heart.
“Yeah,” Arthur choked in response. “If you get arrested, or almost die, I will chew you out so hard you'll be glad you're an ocean away.” Eames chuckled and squeezed him harder.
“I'll never be glad to lack your company, my friend,” he said, and Arthur snorted.
“Of course not,” he replied, and Eames pulled back to grin at him, happy with Arthur's normal snark. Arthur smiled back, the corner of his dark almond eyes crinkling, and began to speak, but the taxi pulled up right then, and he stopped. Eames glanced over at the vehicle; his one ticket out of here, to a new life, and yet, away from Arthur. He wasn't sure new beginnings were supposed to be this hard to begin.
There was no more time. Eames picked up in his bags and slung them over his shoulder, hugging Arthur one more time, breathing in his scent and committing it to memory. Other than letters, it was all he would have for awhile. He got into the taxi without a backward glance; he wouldn't leave otherwise. Nonetheless, he caught a momentary glimpse of Arthur waving goodbye in the rear view mirror as the taxi pulled away. Ariadne stood at his shoulder, her hand resting there. It was the most bittersweet moment of his life to date.
It was better than the perfect and utterly black despair that engulfed him when he realized that Arthur was never writing back.