Rough Trade, 2/2 cont'd
&
It takes him three connections and more than twenty-four hours before he arrives in Brisbane, with a vague sense of surprise. He wasn't aware his flight had any purpose to it -- only that he'd needed to get as far away as possible from Eames and Cobb and New York.
Now he's in Brisbane and he doesn't really know what to do with himself.
He hails a taxi outside the terminal. Gives the driver the first and only address to come to mind. They're there in less than half an hour.
Arthur gets out. The house is unsurprisingly small. It's white and a little shabby-looking. There's a young woman kneeling in the front garden with a trowel, and a little boy crouched next to her. Arthur recognizes his sister-in-law and nephew.
She looks up as he approaches, shielding her eyes from the sun. It's late afternoon in Australia; the sun is beating on his back. He regrets wearing a coat.
“Hi,” he says, stopping. “Um. I'm looking for ...”
He glances back round at the taxi, uncertainly. This is stupid, really. What the hell is he even doing here?
“I'm ... never mind,” he says. He shakes his head, backs up a step and turns away. “Sorry. Never mind.”
“Wait,” she says, as he starts to walk back to the cab, hands in his pockets. “Arthur.”
He stops and turns back to face her. She gets to her feet, brushing off her knees and smiling, a pretty smile that shows off her straight white teeth.
“You're David's brother,” she says.
“I ... yeah.”
She steps out of the garden, walks up and gives him a hug. It takes Arthur entirely by surprise. He only just thinks to hug her back and she laughs, delighted.
“He's going to be so happy to see you! Is it a surprise?”
“Yeah,” says Arthur. “I guess so.”
“He's not home yet, he will be soon. He's going to be thrilled. Noah!” she says to the little boy. “Look! This is your Uncle Arthur.”
The toddler is still crouched in the garden, now stabbing at the dirt with the trowel his mother dropped. He looks up, and he's got David's dark hair and features, but Emily's wide smile, lighting up his whole face.
“He likes strangers,” says Emily. “Not that you're a stranger. You're family.”
She accepts Arthur immediately and wholly. They go into the house, and she gives him a brief tour, since there's not much to see. Noah disappears and reappears, each time bringing a new toy and offering it silently to Arthur, who takes each one and thanks him, bemused. He likes the backyard, which is wide and leafy. There's a hutch containing three chickens, and a teddy bear-like creature curled in the cradle of a tree trunk which Emily tells him is a brush-tailed possum.
“It's so cute,” Arthur says, surprised, automatically associating the word possum with rat-like creatures and scaly tails. He's on the other side of the world and everything's all different.
Emily laughs, and tells him they're not so cute when they're scurrying round your roof at night. She adds that she works in wildlife rescue, and Arthur wonders to himself how the hell they afford anything.
“We don't have much room,” she says, leading Arthur back inside, and he interrupts at once:
“Oh, no, I don't mean to -- I'll book a hotel, it's fine.”
“Don't be silly, you're family,” she says distractedly, taking Noah's toy offerings out of his hands and putting them away in a basket. “You can have the bedroom, David and I will be fine on the air mattress.”
“Really, I don't mean to put you out,” Arthur says. “I'll be okay on the air mattress. Thank you,” he adds, bewildered, when Noah reappears with a stuffed horse to give to him.
“He's certainly taken to you,” Emily observes. “Do you like children?”
“I don't know,” Arthur says honestly. “I can't remember the last time I was around one.”
“Well, he's easy to please. He's like your brother, easy-going. Everything rolls off him.” She tousles Noah's hair in passing.
For the past twenty-four hours Arthur has been running on high stress, feeling sick every time he shut his eyes and thought about the wedding reception. Now, finally, he starts to relax. This place is small and cramped and simple, not a touch of luxury about it, and it's like he's on a whole different planet where the world spins backward and nothing is stressful and possums look like teddy bears, and he's been here fifteen minutes and it feels more like home than his apartment ever has.
When David gets home, he looks first shocked and then delighted to see Arthur there. He gives Arthur a long, tight hug, as though to ascertain he's really there.
“You actually took time off work,” he says, disbelieving.
“I said I would,” Arthur reminds him.
“How long are you staying?”
“I don't know yet.”
And he doesn't. He'd sent Cobb a hasty voicemail message from the airport, a babble of words he can't even remember now, I'm so sorry but I need time off right now I just can't come back to work yet and I hope you understand.
But he's in Australia, not New York, not with Eames or Cobb, and maybe the rules are different here and Arthur is allowed to be happy. So he stays for two weeks.
&
Once Arthur has adjusted to the vast difference in time, he and his brother spend evenings sitting in the backyard, drinking beer and watching the stars come out. Before now, the last time Arthur saw stars was on an overnight flight to Chicago.
Nothing could ever make him understand what made his brother decide to drop out of college, but he's starting to see what David likes about Australia. It's different from Manhattan. Slower. More relaxed. And there's Emily. Arthur always just assumed that she'd been a fling, that David had married her when he knocked her up because it was the right thing to do and David was a good guy like that, but he's wrong. They're so in love. Noah was probably the happiest accident that could have ever happened to them, because it's so obvious that he is the light of their lives, apart from each other. They're like Cobb and Mal, people Arthur can picture growing old together, never tiring of each other's company. They don't have much -- they consider take-out a special treat -- but they have each other and Noah and that's more than enough.
And Arthur's so jealous.
But it hurts less, on this side of the world.
David watches the stars. Arthur watches the possums. They scurry along the branches of the gum tree in the yard. Arthur likes them. He's never liked animals before. He supposes he never slowed down long enough to pay any of them attention until now.
Arthur's pretty sure his brother knows something is wrong, but he doesn't pry. Mostly they just reminisce, about a childhood that's nothing but a blur to Arthur now, memories David cherishes and Arthur doesn't even remember, but suddenly wishes he did.
“What do you think of Emily?” David asks unexpectedly one night, picking at the label on his beer bottle.
“She's lovely,” Arthur says. “Does she have a sister?”
David laughs. Then, still smiling, he squints sidelong at Arthur.
“Would you be interested if I said she did?”
Arthur looks down at his own beer bottle. He shakes his head.
“I kind of have someone,” he mutters. “Back home.”
“What's his name?”
Arthur wonders when he became so transparent. A quick glance assures him that his brother's smile is gentle, not mocking.
“Eames,” he says, after a pause.
“What's he like?”
“Funny,” Arthur says, and reconsiders. “Different. Kind of a dick. Kind of nice, though, too.”
“Are you together?”
“I don't -- know.” Arthur's voice breaks slightly. He feels like curling into a ball, like a child. He hunches over, and his voice is ragged and small and weak as if he's crying. “Dave, I think I'm gay.”
He hears the creak of David's lawn chair as his brother leans over, squeezes his shoulder with one hand. His voice is steady. “It's okay, Arthur. You're allowed.”
“I'm not, really,” Arthur manages to say, and then it's all spilling out. Joshua and their dad and faggots don't get into Harvard and meeting Eames and feeling better for the first time and he's not attracted to men but women just don't make him feel the same way Eames does, and playing at a relationship like little kids playing house and then maybe not playing anymore and then the wedding reception and Cobb, oh, God, Cobb. It's a big heaving jumble of words and noxious, choking shame, and Arthur will be shocked if David can make any sense of it at all, because it still doesn't entirely make sense to him.
But David listens. He lets Arthur unload all of this on him and soaks it all in patiently, until Arthur can't speak anymore, just tapers off and stares up at one of the possums scaling the gum tree and catches his breath, wishing he could take it back.
“I think,” David starts, after a long pause, then stops and thinks for a moment. “Dad was pretty misguided, Arthur.”
“What are you saying?”
“Do you know why he pushed you so hard?”
“He wanted me to be like him,” says Arthur, wearily.
“Yeah,” says David, “but more than that. He wanted you to be happy, Arthur. Money made Dad happy and he wanted you to have it good like that, too. He wanted both of us to have it good, but I wanted to draw and be an artist, that's why he paid for my art classes, because he knew that's what made me happy. You were more like him. And Dad didn't know a lot about this stuff -- he thought if you were gay, it would make your life so much harder, because nobody would accept you. And he thought it was something you could choose. That's why he pushed you so hard to be straight.”
“I didn't choose this,” says Arthur. “I wouldn't have. I wish with all my fucking heart that a woman could make me feel the same way, but I don't think anyone else could.”
“I know,” says David patiently. “I guess all I'm trying to say is, Dad wanted you to be happy more than anything else. He'd hate to think he pushed you into this miserable life, Arthur. If this guy, this Eames, if he makes you happy? I think Dad would be okay with that.”
“I can't be with him,” Arthur mutters, looking down at the ground again. “Not now that Cobb knows.”
“Cobb, your boss Dom Cobb? Isn't he your friend? He seems like a nice guy.”
“He's not my only boss,” says Arthur. “And I don't see Maurice Fischer being thrilled about having a faggot in his office. You should hear what he did to his son.”
“It's not up to him,” says David. “He's not allowed to fire you for being gay. And if he tries to screw you over, so what? You hate that job, and you could do anything else, with your resume. Just ... do what makes you happy, Arthur. Success is overrated.”
Arthur takes all of this in dazedly and thinks about it. It's not up to anyone else who he's allowed to like. Maybe ... all this time, he's had it backwards; trying to derive happiness from the things that make him miserable, and drawing misery from the few things that make him happy.
“How did my little brother get so wise?” he asks, managing a small, crooked smile.
“It comes of having a wife,” David says, smiling down at his drink.
&
Australia is perfect, but Arthur realizes he has to leave when he finally checks his PDA. He expects a barrage of text messages from Eames, and hasn't had the nerve to check until now.
He finds two voice mails and five emails from Cobb, and ... nothing from Eames.
No texts. No emails. No missed calls.
Arthur has made a terrible mistake.
David drives him to the airport and they embrace, briefly, outside the terminal.
“Don't leave it so long next time,” David says. “You should come for Christmas. It's in the middle of the summer here, it's nice.”
“Maybe I will,” Arthur says, and he actually means it. He has a family. It feels good.
He's in New York, home, twenty-four hours later, and since it's the morning, he goes to his office first. Cobb looks startled when Arthur knocks on his open door to announce his presence, the same way Mal looked at the reception.
“Arthur!” he says, getting to his feet, but before he can say anything else, Arthur cuts him off.
“I quit.”
Cobb looks even more stunned. “You quit?” he says, as if to make sure. Arthur takes a deep breath and nods.
“I quit. I'm giving my two weeks'.”
Cobb's eyebrows draw together in a sudden frown. “Well, I don't accept your resignation.”
“You have to,” Arthur blurts out, taken aback.
“Not if this is about that wedding. You're not as cowardly as that, Arthur.”
“Oh.” Arthur hovers momentarily, then crosses the room and takes a seat on the other side of Cobb's desk. Cobb sits, too. “No. It's not about that. I'm ... I'm with Eames. And ...” This may be the most difficult thing he's ever spit out: “I'm not ... ashamed of that.”
“Oh,” says Cobb. “Because ... you know that doesn't bother me.”
Arthur swallows. “I know.”
Now Cobb looks concerned. “Then what is this about?”
“I don't like this job,” Arthur says. “I never have. I like the money, but I can't do this anymore, Dom, I'm burnt out.”
“Oh.” Cobb starts to nod, still frowning. “What will you do next?”
“I don't know,” Arthur admits. “Take a break for awhile, I guess. Then maybe go into financial analyzing or something. Something different.”
“Well,” says Cobb, “you'll always have a good reference from me. And just let me know if you ever change your mind.”
“Thank you.”
Cobb extends a hand over the desk and Arthur shakes it, feeling a great weight lift from him.
“I have something else I have to do,” Arthur says, getting to his feet. “Can I go, or do you want me to stay and get some work done?”
“What did you need to do?”
“I have to find Eames and tell him I'm sorry.”
“Go and do that,” says Cobb.
“Thanks,” Arthur says again, and leaves.
&
When he knocks on Eames' door and tries the doorknob, he finds it unlocked. Eames is kneeling in the kitchenette, surrounded by boxes, packing away his cutlery drawer.
“You're packing,” Arthur says, surprised.
“Yep.” Eames doesn't even look up. “Sick of this old place.”
“Can I come in?”
Eames gets to his feet, brushing dust off his knees. “What did you want?”
“To apologize,” says Arthur. “So. Well. I'm sorry.”
“Not accepted. Now piss off.”
“I wanted to give this another shot,” Arthur says, trying to be dogged. “I missed you and I didn't mean what I said, I just panicked. I want to be with you, Eames.”
Eames walks closer, closing the gap between them, until he is standing very close.
“I told you if you jerked me around one more time, I'd be done,” he says flatly. “Well. I'm done, Arthur. There's only so much bullshit I can take. I'm done.”
“Okay,” says Arthur. He clears his throat, which suddenly seems to be uncomfortably tight, and has to blink a few times, looking aside. “Okay. Ah. That's fair. So, uh--”
“Arthur,” Eames says suspiciously. “Are you crying?”
“Sorry.” Arthur turns away slightly, brushing briskly at his eye and clearing his throat again. His voice is hoarse. “It's just, I had all this shit I wanted to say to you and I can't even remember any of it now, stuff like how I was an asshole, and I quit my job today because I want to be a different person -- I want to feel better, the way I do when I'm with you, and I was too scared to admit that you made me happier than I've been ... ever, I've never been happy, Eames, I didn't even know what happy was until we decided to have a relationship.” His throat-clearing turns into a cough, because there seems to be a thick lump in his throat and he can hardly speak around it, and tears are falling freely now. “I'm just really tired and I want to stop being someone I'm not, now, and I don't really know what I am, I'm not attracted to other men, and I just don't like women as much as I want to be able to, you're the only person I've ever felt anything real for. But I know, I know I fucked up, and you gave me fair warning, so I'm just -- gonna go now,” and he's gasping out the words by now. “I'm sorry. Thanks for everything, really. I'm just ... gonna go.”
He does. Eames watches him, and doesn't say anything.
Arthur makes it all the way to the sidewalk outside the building, still wiping shakily at his eyes, when Eames' voice hails him from behind. He starts to turn, and Eames is saying, “Look, I must be even more of an idiot than you are--”
Then he's got Arthur by the arms and he's kissing him. Arthur leans into him dizzily. It's not their best kiss by far, or their most comfortable, because Arthur's lip is trembling and his cheeks are wet, but Eames is kissing him; they're on the sidewalk in daylight and people are around and Eames is kissing him and Arthur doesn't care. He doesn't care at all.
“You have one more chance,” Eames says, when he pulls away.
“Move in with me,” Arthur says.
And Eames says, “That's a good start.”
&&&
Arthur works for a private equity firm. He is a pretty good cook now that he has someone to cook for, and he works about fifty to sixty hours a week, which is a pretty reasonable compromise for someone with Arthur's drive. And if he sometimes needs some help balancing his work with his life, well, that's what Eames is there for.
He's almost thirty-three and has no plans to get married any time soon, and that's just fine. His salary is considerable and that's fine too, because that way he can afford for him and Eames to visit their families and go on vacations now and then, whenever Arthur needs a break from work. He's not gay and he's not straight either; he doesn't have to put a label on it because he just likes Eames and that's all there is to it.
Because Eames may be impatient sometimes, he may be rough and he may like to push Arthur, but as it turns out, he is also quite tender and loving, as far as partners go. Arthur wouldn't know; he's only had one real partner.
It's almost Christmas. When Arthur gets home from work Eames is already there, hunched over his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose as he marks test papers by lamplight. Arthur joins him, sliding the glasses away from his face and leaning down for a kiss.
“Oi, I need those,” Eames says, when Arthur's pulled away. He takes them back and wipes them carefully on his shirt. “How was work?”
“Good. Boring, but good-boring. You?”
“Just three more days,” Eames sighs, “and then two whole weeks off from the little terrors.”
He complains, but Arthur knows he's full of shit, because he loves his job, more than Arthur ever could love his, and his students like him. “Tell you a secret,” Eames had said once, back then. “I went for the full-time position because I was hoping you'd think me worth staying with if I had a real job.” And Arthur had replied frankly, “I quit so you'd stay with me.”
“I took care of the cooking tonight, so you don't have to,” Eames calls after him, when Arthur goes into the bedroom to dump his briefcase. “Chinese food's on its way. Dialled the number myself and everything.”
“You're a better cook every day,” Arthur calls back, starting to shed his suit in favour of something more comfortable.
“And I was thinking,” Eames says, startling him, because he's suddenly appeared in the doorway. “We could put your brother and his family up in a hotel while they're here, don't you think?”
“They're family,” Arthur says distractedly, working his tie loose. “You don't put family up in a hotel. Especially not at Christmas.”
“I know, but they'll be here a whole week, and I'm just not sure I can keep my hands off you.”
He's joined Arthur to help him take his clothes off, and Arthur smiles.
“We can be quiet.”
“I can be quiet,” Eames agrees. “You, I'm not so sure about.”
Arthur's smile becomes a grin, because it's a fair point. Eames is still his own personal thrill ride -- he's not a gentle lover, even when he thinks he is -- and even though they've had three years now to figure out what works, they never seem to fall into an exact pattern; except that the sex still is and always has been incredible.
“So we send them to the tourist traps during the day,” he says. “Problem solved.”
“Mm. I like the way you think,” Eames says, leaning in, but Arthur pushes him back a step.
“Not now. Dom and Mal will be here soon.”
Eames pouts, but he sits on the edge of the bed to watch Arthur change. Arthur can tell, by the twitchy silence emanating from him, that something's on his mind.
“A student came out to me today,” he says finally. “Says if he comes out to his parents, they'll throw him out. He's worried about his career, as well.”
“Oh?” says Arthur. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him my boyfriend got his MBA at Harvard and has a successful job, and he's the gayest thing I've ever met. What? It was a joke!” Eames says insistently, when Arthur throws a scowl at him and leaves the room. Eames pursues him. “Really, I wanted to see if you have any advice. I'll see him again tomorrow in psych, and I think you can relate a bit better.”
“Tell him ...” Arthur starts, and trails off. He has to think about it for a minute. In the meantime he goes into the kitchen, finds a bottle of wine and starts looking for four wine glasses. Eames waits behind him.
Finally, he says: “Tell him success is secondary to happiness. If he can find what makes him happy, everything else will follow naturally. And he doesn't have to tell anyone, but if people find out, it's not the end of the world. He should never sacrifice himself for what other people want, anyway.”
Eames drapes an arm over Arthur's chest, presses a kiss to his neck and rests his chin on Arthur's shoulder. It's casual and intimate, the kind of thing that makes Arthur want to stand here and stay put forever.
“Yeah,” Eames murmurs. “That sounds just about right.”
Codas all linked here