We're All a Little Crazy
Part 2/2
We're All a Little Crazy (Part 2)
“I want sex,” Eames tells Yusuf three days later in India. Yusuf is pouring things into a pot of boiling water and mixing them together with a concentrated expression.
“I’m not helping you with that. Call Arthur or something.”
“Yusuf, I can’t do that,” Eames says sadly.
“Why not?” he wonders as he measures out something that looks similar to cinnamon into the mixture. “You’re sleeping together, aren’t you?”
“We are…sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember.”
Eames throws him an annoyed glance. “No. We were drunk the first night, and every night since then has sucked. Kind of.”
“You were drunk?”
“Would you stop repeating everything I say?”
“I’m just repeating the important parts. I want to make sure I have the right information when I tell the others about this,” Yusuf grins.
Eames shoves his head into his hands. “I swear to God, Yusuf, if you ever tell anyone what I’m telling you, I’ll inject you with your own drugs, torture you out of a dream, and kill you in real life.”
Yusuf nods. “Yeah, sure, what happened with you and Arthur?”
“I just want sex,” Eames frowns.
“Is he not putting out? Arthur isn’t a slut, or so I tell myself.”
Eames narrows his eyes. “What makes you think he’s a slut?”
Yusuf holds up his hands in a calm-down manner. “I’m just saying. The fact that he’s even attempting to sleep with you shows how low his standards are. What do you have on him?” Yusuf jokes, grinning.
“Well,” Eames says, “he did choke on a sausage the other day.”
Yusuf chokes as well. “Pun not intended?”
“What pun?”
“Oh, Jesus. No wonder your sex life is so screwed up. Does he call you ‘Daddy’ as you pour candlewax down his back and beat him with chains?”
“We haven’t gotten that far.”
“Wait,” Yusuf tilts his head. “Have you or have you not had sex with Arthur?”
“Once, I think,” Eames concedes. “We get really into it, you know, with the kissing and biting and, fuck, that thing he does with his tongue-”
“-I don’t need the details,” Yusuf interjects.
“But, yeah. No, we haven’t. He’s very threatening in bed.”
“Oh, I get it now,” Yusuf nods understanding.
“What?”
“Three things. First, it’s obviously Arthur’s fault. He’s demanding and threats can be scary things when inhibitions are lowered, like during sex. Secondly, Arthur’s fucking scary when he wants to be. It’s probably a subconscious thing on your part. And last, try this.” He shoves a spoon of dark brown sludge towards Eames’ mouth.
“Oh Christ. That’s food? I thought you were making a new drug.”
“It’s macaroni and cheese, Eames,” Yusuf replies blandly.
Eames sniffs the spoon. “What is that?” He points to a dark chunk that hasn’t been dissolved completely.
“Allspice.”
He tastes the concoction, despite not seeing one macaroni noodle, his face morphing from confusion, to horror, to just plain distaste. “Bollocks. That is absolutely wretched. Please, Yusuf, if you do die during this job and are reincarnated, don’t follow your dreams to become a chef. Not even the worst person in the world should have to endure this as torture.”
“Ha bloody ha,” Yusuf glares. “You’re a dick.”
“Arthur told me that same exact thing during pre-sex.”
“I’m starting to think that the lack of intercourse in your life isn’t completely Arthur’s fault.”
Both men sob, Eames with sadness at the thought that anything could be his fault, and Yusuf in glee with the realization that his pasta tastes un-fucking-believable.
* * *
“You haven’t slept with Eames?” Ariadne asks over a cup of the best coffee in the world. She whimpers as she takes another sip. “Did you know Dom made this? Isn’t it superb?”
Arthur tastes the dark drink and shrugs. “I’ve had better, honestly. And I have, I’m sure of it. Does it count if your ass doesn’t hurt the next day?”
Ariadne actually considers this. “One, just because you’re not sore afterwards doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Some people are gentle and caring-” Arthur has visions of Eames checking his ass the morning after. “-and two, why do you assume you were on the bottom? You seem like a top, to me.”
Arthur grasps Ariadne’s shoulders. “Thank you.”
“I think I might get it.”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t like the loss of control. You like the idea of sex, because sex is amazing,” Arthur nods in agreement, “but you don’t like the idea of losing control.”
Arthur tightens his lips. “Maybe. Eames is a dick.”
“Obviously,” Ariadne rolls her eyes.
“He won’t shut up during sex.”
“I thought you haven’t had sex.”
“You know what I meant. He’s so fucking violent and shoves things down my throat and makes up excuses to keep me from orgasm, and he’s just a-”
“-Mhm,” she says noncommittally. “God, Arthur, have you seriously tried this coffee?” Ariadne shudders and makes a noise that could almost be constituted as a tiny orgasm.
Arthur pauses in his rant. “You really want in Dom’s pants, don’t you?”
“In his pants, his dreams, under his skin. I want all of him in me and on me until all I’m breathing is him,” Ariadne tells him wide-eyed.
Arthur pushes his chair back a bit. “Seriously? Dom?”
“Eames? Seriously?”
“Point taken.”
“I really want him,” Ariadne says again. “I want to have babies with him.”
“You don’t like kids,” Arthur reminds her.
“I don’t like other people’s kids,” she corrects. “Who’s to say that I wouldn’t love my own?”
“And who’s to say that isn’t complete bullshit?”
Ariadne scowls. “Perhaps I should be reconsidering this.”
“Hey,” Dom’s voice drifts through the open door. Ariadne and Arthur turn.
“Never mind,” she mouths at Arthur. “Yes?” she says sweetly to Dom.
“How is the coffee?”
“Good, great, fantastic, thank youyou’reamazing,” Ariadne sputters.
Arthur rolls his eyes and thinks about facepalming if it weren’t so blatantly cliché.
“Good, that’s good,” Dom says cautiously. “I wanted to talk to you about the architecture of the job. We may have to change a few things.”
“Yeah, ok, I can do that, just gonna go into a dream with you and create beautiful things. That sounds great.”
Arthur slams his head onto the table.
“Yeah, ok,” Dom pulls out his now vibrating phone. “Shit. Gotta take this. The nanny’s calling.”
The door shuts behind him.
“I feel like I just got vajected by a child,” Ariadne says bitterly.
“Vajected?” Arthur mouths.
“Vajected,” Ariadne repeats. “The female version of cockblocking.”
“Were you really considering having sex in front of me?”
“I’ll need to figure out a way to get his kids out of the equation,” she continues, oblivious.
“Sometimes I wonder why we’re friends,” Arthur says blandly.
“We’re not going to be friends anymore if you don’t help me get rid of his parasites,” Ariadne tells him plainly. “You need to stop wasting your time groveling over Eames and his obvious dickishness and assist me in getting into Dominick Cobb’s pants. You’re my friend. Act like it.”
Arthur nods glumly and takes another sip of Ariadne’s coffee, hoping to figure out what she finds so amazing about it.
Instead, he gets a face full of a snarling architect. “Mine,” she says, possessively holding the cup to her chest.
Arthur mutely nods, and promptly goes back to feeling sorry for himself.
* * *
“We need to talk.”
“Oh bloody hell darling. Are you breaking up with me?”
Arthur frowns. “No, no. Just…we should talk about this.”
Eames grimaces. “Is this the part where you say, ‘it’s not you, it’s me’?”
“I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to blame you all the way,” Arthur says honestly.
“Oh, that’s funny,” Eames points, “because I think this is your entire fault.”
“How the hell is it my fault?” Arthur spits bitterly.
“Do you have any idea how demanding you are, darling?”
“If you’d give me what I want, I wouldn’t have to be. And you act more like a jerk in bed compared to any jerking you actually do!”
“See? That right there! You incorrigible! You do realize that when you cockblock me, you’re also cockblocking yourself?”
“I don’t need you to get laid,” Arthur says evenly.
“Then why bother?” Eames replies just as calmly.
“Maybe we should take a break.”
“Maybe?”
“We should. This isn’t working. I just need….I need space, Eames. This,” he gestures wildly, “isn’t working.”
“Fine. Whatever you want, darling,” Eames insipidly says.
Arthur is silent. “…Yeah, sure. Sorry.”
“Yeah.”
Arthur’s jaw twitches, and he turns on his heel and walks off without another word.
Eames’ fist slams into the wall. “Fuck.”
* * *
“Can you hand me the mustard?” Yusuf requests.
Ariadne slides the bottle over to him. “What are you making?”
“Brownies,” he says, like it should be obvious.
“Brownies? What the hell kind of brownies have mustard in them?” Ariadne asks because that should be obvious.
“It’s not actually in the brownies. It’s part of the frosting. It’s supposed to give it a natural spiced flavor.” Yusuf smells the batter, and nods to himself. “It’s like those chefs who put herbs into desserts.”
“But they’re able to make it taste good. I had crème brûlée with rosemary. It was easily one of the best things I’ve ever tasted, and that includes any dream meals.”
“I’m going to change your mind, my dear.” Yusuf holds out a spoon of the now cooling frosting. “Here.”
Ariadne looks at it warily and takes a small bite. “This,” she chokes out, “is disgusting. Why do you do this Yusuf?”
Yusuf glowers. “You and Eames are dicks.”
“We’re realists.”
“Pessimistic.”
“Honesty is the best policy.”
“Fuck you.”
They both laugh.
* * *
The team sits around a table in the workroom, going over last minute notes.
“Yusuf,” Eames catches the chemist’s attention, “would you be a love and tell the squinty-eyed dickface at the head of the table that some of us want to get out of here before midnight?”
“Arthur. How much longer?”
“I’m done, Yusuf. You can tell the egotistical foreign jackass that if he wanted to leave earlier, nothing was stopping him since he had no importance to this meeting, anyways.”
“I resent that, Arthur. I’m a foreigner, too. Ariadne?”
“I’m not your fucking middleman.”
“…Ok.”
Dom grimaces. They think. He might be just looking normal. “You two really need to fuck and get it over with.”
Everyone else in the room gasps. Yusuf snaps his fingers. “Oh no he di-int.”
“Oh yes he di-id,” Ariadne answers.
“Fucking American wanker.”
“Bullshitting British bastard.”
“Oh, alliteration. Does poetry make you feel less alone at night?” Eames bites.
“I hope this job fucks you over, Eames.”
“I’m sure you’ll be the one to make that happen.” As soon as the words escape his mouth, Eames knows he’s gone too far.
The room is silent. The chemist and architect look very uncomfortable, and Dom looks slightly guilty.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“…You know what it means.”
“No, Eames, I don’t. Educate me.”
“Eames,” Yusuf whispers.
“I’m just saying, if you’re going to go on a job distracted over something like this, then it’s probably going to have a tendency to go like the Fischer job,” Eames lamely explains.
Arthur swallows. “Dom?”
Dom flinches. “You know I trust you with my life, Arthur, but-”
Arthur nods. “I see. Sorry. Again.” He clenches his fingers, and then turns towards the table to collect his notes. “We’re too far into the job to back out. I’ll set things up differently so you,” he motions to Eames, “will run less of a risk of getting fucked over by me.”
The quiet click of the door sounds like a gunshot, and is easily the melancholiest sound in the world.
* * *
Anything that can go wrong on the job, does. Eames and Arthur only speak when absolutely necessary, to each other and everyone else. Their mark is sick, so the dream structure is shaky to begin with. The projections are on full alert due to Dom’s projection of Mal, which is only there for a split second, but it’s long enough for Ariadne to notice and glance at her feet. Arthur curses and shoots Dom.
Things only get worse when Eames is found and tortured out of the dream. The shell of his body, riddled with gashes, amputated fingers, and a sucking chest wound, remains slouching against the wooden plank he’s nailed to.
It’s a gruesome sight, and Arthur is the first to find it.
After willing his stomach to settle, he turns the corner, sees Ariadne, and nods at her.
“We need to get out. It’s not safe for us to go any further.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Arthur shoots her, and then himself.
When they awake in the basement, Eames is already gone, Dom is sitting worriedly in his seat, and Yusuf looks confused.
“I need to find Eames,” Arthur tells the group, uttering the words softly.
Ariadne stays behind to explain the situation to Dom and Yusuf.
* * *
Arthur ends up at the apartment, rain pouring and soaking through his suit, causing his lanky frame to shake.
He’s not sure if it’s just because of the cold, though.
When the door opens, Eames isn’t as disgruntled as Arthur expects, and that right there is what causes the tears to well.
He launches himself at the forger, attaching their lips together with a ferocity that scares them both.
“Sosorry fuck forgivemesorry don’tleaveme thoughtIlostyou,” he mouths against Eames’ neck. He swiftly undoes the button on the other’s pants, and palms his growing hardness.
Eames groans and gently pushes Arthur off of him. “Arthur, stop.” Arthur bites at his neck and begins sucking, his tongue soothing the wound. “Darling, you need, Christ, you need to stop.”
“I need you. I’m sorry,” Arthur’s voice breaks. He pulls away and looks at Eames.
“Hey, it’s okay.”
“No, I fucked you over. You were right. I’m so-”
Eames holds his finger to Arthur’s lips. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. I fucked up. We all fucked up. The situation was fucked from the beginning. You can’t blame yourself,” Eames comforts.
“I can still smell it,” Arthur whispers.
“What?”
“Your blood, death, the natural smell of you. I can’t get it out of my mind.”
Eames kisses him. “I’m right here. I promise. I’m okay. I’m alive. I’m real.”
Arthur squishes his eyes shut and tears leak out the corners.
“Use your totem, darling.”
Arthur fumbles as he pulls out the loaded red die, and he tosses it onto the table.
He sobs when he sees the number, and collapses against Eames’ chest. Eames rubs soothing circles into his back.
“I’m sorry I was a demanding ass,” Arthur apologizes.
“I’m sorry I was so full of myself,” Eames responds.
“We’re both pretty stupid, huh?”
“And forever will be,” Eames agrees. “We both have things to work on.”
“But we can do it. We’re Arthur and Eames. We don’t give up.”
“No. We don’t.”
Arthur presses a kiss to Eames’ lips. “To us,” he mouths.
“To us.”
They don’t have sex that night, instead choosing to lie pressed together under the covers of the bed, both tracing patterns onto each other’s skin.
They’re not prepared for the next day, but they’re prepared to face it together.