The Trembling Of The Migratory Birds - Part 19: West Nalaut (ctd.)
West Nalaut (ctd.)
By the time Eames tries to put Arthur under for the first time, Arthur hasn't slept a full night in eight days.
He's beginning to see double but still manages to recognise what Eames is trying and shuts the door in his face.
Arthur ignores Eames' gentle pleas to let him help, even as he sits with his back against the smooth wooden door and listens to Eames' voice while he stares through the hut's glass floor at a group of colourful fish.
He doesn't need help. He needs time.
***
Ariadne avoids him and he doesn't blame her. He wishes she would take her frustration out on him, but he doesn't even deserve her anger right now.
He steps aside when he meets her on the jetty, fades back into his room. The sound of her door clicking shut reminds him of a gunshot.
In the night, he hears her wake up from nightmares and envies her for them. Eames is always there to comfort her after. The walls of the huts are thin, the water carries sound well.
Arthur wonders if, after that night he heard them out on the patio, Ariadne sleeps with Eames. If they do, they're discreet.
Not that it should matter if they fuck each other's brains out. He's had his chance and he blew it. With both of them.
He doesn't eat the food they send, even if it contains his favourites and smells fantastic. He's not hungry.
He stays awake, lying supine on the starched white sheets of his oversized bed, hands stretched out to the sides as though crucified. The lights around him are gentle enough that he can still see the stars when he looks out the window. In the distance, he thinks he can make out a fire on the next island's shore.
Carbolineum isn't flammable.
He smells it again, the oily, cloying reek of it and the scent memory drowns out the salt-water smell of the sea. The images come back, unbidden, the way they do every night and replay in his mind again and again until he falls into an unrestful, too light sleep.
***
Eames gets Arthur under when Arthur, his body refusing to take even one more step, falls asleep in the giant sun-shaded lounge-chaise out on the deck one afternoon.
He's still alert enough in the dream to take Eames by surprise and overpower him. Arthur ties Eames up against the metal frame of a large bed, brushes a kiss against the tattoo on Eames' chest and shoots himself in the head.
When Eames wakes up five minutes later, he's cursing. Arthur has already locked himself inside his room.
***
Eames tries four more times.
Arthur overhears him talk about it with Ariadne, which is how he finds out that Ariadne doesn't agree with Eames' method. By the time Arthur hears Ariadne say the word therapist, he's shutting down again and walks down the beach faster in order to avoid their voices. Despite nightfall, the sand is still warm between his bare toes.
It's easier to take these walks at night when everyone sleeps. He's always been a nocturnal beast, but it has never served him as well as it does now.
He can't run from the memory of Ariadne's and Eames' conversation, though, no matter how hard he tries.
He doesn't need a therapist. He needs fucking amnesia.
Amnesia.
Amnesty.
And sleep. God, he needs sleep. But of course, with Eames seizing every opportunity he can to get Arthur under and do what every sane person in the dreamshare business does, sleep is dangerous.
Dreamshare psychotherapy.
Arthur laughs.
Dom never wanted it. Never offered it to Arthur, either.
He's not going to start now with Eames, not when he has the baggage of over eight years buzzing around in his head.
He's always dealt with his demons alone, never needed any help.
He'll deal with the new ones, too.
***
"Why don't you give it up, Eames?" Arthur asks. "It's not going to change anything that happened." He's tired. So tired. His entire body aches with fatigue.
Eames looks at him for a long time; rubs his hand over his neck and mouth in fast, aborted movements. These are nervous ticks, tells Eames never lets show unless pushed to the limit of his patience. Arthur realises too late that he's had his warning.
"You know what?" Eames says after an unnervingly long pause. "Sod it. I'm tired of pussy-footing around this."
He smashes his fist to Arthur's jaw. The blow has Arthur keeling over backward and Eames is on him without remorse, using Arthur's current physical and mental state, his unwillingness to fight back while Eames is still not fully healed, to overpower him with an insulting ease. Eames has the wristband with the needle wrapped around Arthur's wrist within a fraction of a second. The sharp pain of the needle breaking skin barely registers over the pain of the blow. It's too late to fight, the lull of the Somnacin flooding his veins is too strong.
Arthur opens his eyes and he's back in the hut in Russia, tied to a chair, watching projections of himself, Eames on the floor, and Ariadne in the corner. The thugs are there as well, still frozen in mid-movement while the dream shapes around Arthur’s memories.
"I didn't want to have to resort to this, but you're leaving me no choice," Eames says as he appears next to Arthur - it’s the real, angry, already beaten up Eames.
Arthur's heart begins to hammer against his ribs, he squirms against the restraints. Cold sweat collects on his scalp and upper lip.
"You're not getting out of here," Eames comments conversationally. He contemplates Arthur's projection of him on the floor. "I liked myself better before the nose was broken."
Arthur screws his eyes shut. He doesn't need to see this, doesn't want to see this. God, he's going to kill Eames when he wakes up.
"None of that now, pet," Eames says as he turns Arthur's head back to their counterparts. "Look."
Neat Freak is getting out his knife and moving toward Ariadne.
"Stop," Arthur whispers. "Eames, please."
"No," Eames replies. His voice is silk over steel. Eames' temper rarely gets the better of him, but when it does, it's a terror of precise, remorseless, clean strikes. "You'll watch how this would have gone if you hadn't been ready to have Ariadne shot." He checks the restraints, then bends close to Arthur's ear. "You wanted to deal with this alone?"
A gun is in Eames' hand suddenly and Arthur's heart stop-starts. Eames won't. He can't. "Eames, no, Eames - "
"Then deal," Eames says, raises the gun to his own head and shoots. In the corner of the hut, the projection of Ariadne begins to scream.
***
Saito finds him when Eames is having a very late lunch on the patio of the main hut. He's eating spiced soba noodles with tempura shrimp. Normally, the simplicity of the dish would please him, but his mind is stuck on Arthur and how he will handle Eames' admittedly brutal psychotherapy dream. He hopes that Arthur will see it's for his best, that Eames' intentions are good. Then again, road to hell and all that jazz.
Eames concentrates on his chopsticks, on the clicking of the polished wood, the sound of the surf and tries to keep his conscience subdued. Necessary. It was necessary.
Directing his attention to Saito proves a good enough distraction. They sit in silence for a while; Eames steals looks at Saito and is once again struck by how regal Saito looks, even relaxed and casual in a black polo shirt and khakis. A glance down shows him Saito is barefoot and that almost gives Eames a mental whiplash, no matter how casual Saito has been ever since he first came to see Eames after he woke up.
Saito quietly orders a glass of white wine and Eames watches him trace the condensation on the outside of his glass with long, slim fingers. Every gesture is elegant, refined; Saito doesn't just act it, he's not some newly rich guy, he's always had money and always will have it. Or at least, that certainty is back now. Before Suz had publicised the decryption key for the SFNX program, Saito had still been in danger of disappearing and never reappearing.
As if he catches Eames' thoughts, Saito fishes something from his trouser pocket and places it on the table.
Eames blinks at the object a few times. He has to swallow the bile that rises before he can speak again. "I never wanted to see that thing again." Memories surface and he clamps down on them with vigour. Bright side. Bright side. They're safe here. Even if Arthur never forgives him for his effort at dreamshare therapy, they are all three safe. "It's bloody useless now anyway, isn't it?"
Saito turns the slim stainless steel flashdrive in his fingers, dark eyes filled with amusement that fans around them in a cobweb of fine wrinkles.
"This is not that flashdrive. The contents were copied to this one."
"I do not even want to imagine what wanker got stuck with doing that job." Eames contemplates his suddenly very unappealing dish. His appetite has just taken a nose dive.
"Someone who deserved it," Saito tells him.
Someone like Nash if Arthur's story about his screw up with Cobol and Saito was accurate and Arthur is always accurate.
"The food is unsatisfactory?" Saito asks, noticing Eames has quit eating.
"Just," Eames pushes the plate away, "not so hungry anymore."
Saito contemplates the drive again. "All the death and pain and money that went into retrieving this and in a few weeks it will be utterly useless."
So Saito knows as well. During his time in the infirmary, Eames spent time with the tablet computer and Wi-Fi access so kindly provided by Saito and he found out that the program Saarela invented was a recipe for disaster. A small tool for global market manipulation on a big scale, the country that first got its hands on it effectively would be a new superpower, so long as it did it soon.
He had wondered the entire time what the rush was, why the clients were so keen on getting the information so quickly. He found his answer in a newspaper article in the financial section of the Wall Street Journal. By the end of this week, a new market protocol will go online and effectively render Saarela's program useless.
It’s all so damn fucked up. "Sounds like the way everything goes in life."
"Feeling cynical tonight?" Saito asks, his mouth twitching into the merest hint of a smile.
Eames plasters a fake grin on his face. "I feel cynical every night."
"Cynicism is the retreat of the wounded idealist."
"Or the rational response to experience," Eames replies. He's at ease with his self and has been for years. That's why he's eating soba noodles and enjoying conversation while Arthur tortures himself over impossible choices and Ariadne obsesses over what they could've, might've, should've done. Past is past, Eames thinks, and wallowing just leaves you covered in mud. Though he has nothing against a bit of naked mud wrestling with the right partners...
"Ah. Experience," Saito murmurs. "Useful, but not always enough. I suppose that is why Arthur recruited Ariadne."
"Cobb first."
"Mr. Cobb first," Saito agrees.
"No one made her agree."
"No."
Eames sips his drink for something to do, then sighs, because Saito knows how to play the silence game. Eames is a talker by nature. All Saito needs to do is stay quiet long enough and Eames will say something just to relieve the awful pressure of saying nothing.
"Arthur thought it was an easy extraction. Saarela didn't read as a dangerous mark on paper."
"Saarela himself wasn't, was he?"
"No. Ariadne couldn't have conned the location of that flashdrive out of him if he had been." The original flashdrive, not the one sitting on the table next to Saito's drink, or the copy he gave to Suz to upload.
"If she hadn't extracted the actual decryption key from him rather than just its location, they never would have touched him, would they?"
Eames shakes his head. There's no need to sugarcoat things with Saito. He never would utter word of this in front of Ariadne, but Saito is pragmatic enough not to blame himself for causality. "No," he says. "Most likely not. Saarela was useful and necessary to them as long as he was the only one who knew the location of the decryption key. But once Ariadne had it, once we had it, he was just a dangerous loose end, a wild card who might figure out a way to block his own program or create another, better one."
Saito nods. "So they killed him."
"And framed Ariadne." That still rankles. Even with the program out there, Ariadne is still the prime suspect in a murder investigation and might never be able to set foot into a European country under her own name and without a disguise. Not that that's a problem for Eames, but he's not callous enough to think it might not be one for her.
"That is not too far off the mark, though, is it?" Saito asks, rubbing his chin. "If she hadn't taken it from Saarela, he might still be alive now."
"She didn't pull the trigger." Eames can't help the defensiveness that creeps into his voice, even if what Saito says is the truth. Yes, she acted rashly and without a plan, but her intentions were good. She's not to blame.
"No, but if she'd waited, if everything had gone according to plan, the problem would have solved itself by the end of this week, wouldn't it? No dead Finnish genius. Neither of you would have been injured. Conditio sine qua non." Saito sounds thoughtful, not accusatory. He's just stating facts, like the businessman he is.
Nevertheless, it rankles. "We could trace the whole thing back to you, then, too," Eames says and meets Saito's gaze head on. You don't bite the hand that feeds you, but Eames can't help it. He blames it on his injuries making him more thin-skinned than usual.
"You could." Saito leans back and tales hold of his wine glass again. He swirls the content before he continues. "By all means, you should." He toasts Eames and takes a sip of wine. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. "But while I regret what happened to you, I do not blame myself for it."
"Not for me personally or for us?"
"Do not play coy, Mr. Eames. You invited yourself in."
The first and only one Eames can blame is himself. He knows that and has never blamed Saito. "Touché."
After a while, he ads, "So what about Ariadne?"
A shadow falls over Saito's face for a mere moment. "I regret her involvement the most." He rolls his shoulders and leans forward in his chair, rests his lower arms on the table. "But once again, it was not my decision that got her into it. It was Arthur's. This is where we head into chaos theory territory. Small differences in initial conditions would have yielded widely diverging outcomes. Arthur might never have called Ariadne. You might never have joined them. Ariadne could have refused Arthur's invitation. The first extraction attempt might have been successful. Saarela might have refused to tell Ariadne where the encryption key was hidden. Even if Arthur's future behaviour had been fully determined by my handing him the telephone number and by the initial job description, his actions still would not have been predictable."
Saito leans back in his chair and examines Eames.
Eames, for his part, is stunned for the moment. Stunned by how alike he and Saito think.
"So what now?" Eames asks eventually.
"Now," Saito replies and laces his fingers over his stomach, "you work for me."
"Again."
"Precisely."
"I'm not sure we're ready to - "
"You are," Saito interrupts him.
"Saito, I mean no disrespect, but it's not an offer if you don't give us a chance to refuse it."
Saito's smile spreads over his face, treacle-slow and sardonic. "You won't."
Eames leans back in his chair and attempts to project an aura of indifference. "Won't we?"
Saito smiles wider and Eames knows from that smile that Saito sees right through him. "You won't."
Eames expels the air from his lungs, accepting his fate, and asking, "Let's hear it then."
Saito looks out toward the ocean, to the moonlight reflecting off the waves. "I have plans on a neighbouring island. A resort for business partners. Imposing enough to impress them, but far enough away I won't have to deal with them in my refuge here. It seems, however, that I have lost my architect to malaria." Saito shakes has head. "What a terrible shame, he was a good man."
A pause follows, one Eames doesn't break, no matter how much he itches to find out more. Saito likes a big entrance, in life and in conversation, so he waits.
"Recent events," Saito continues with a pointed look at Eames, "have led me to believe that I should hire a new security advisor."
Eames breathes quietly, as though any noise from him might shatter the illusion.
"I believe I need to fire the project accountant as well."
"Accountant," Eames echoes weakly, trying hard to fight the laughter that is stirring in his chest.
Saito nods. "I accept only the absolute best." He looks sly and still self-amused then. "I don't suppose you know three qualified people willing to accept these jobs for the time being?"
"An accountant," Eames repeats. This time, he doesn't stop the laughter from surfacing.
Accountant.
Arthur will kill him. Slowly.
So, naturally, he says yes. Arthur, no doubt, is planning his demise for the impromptu dreamshare therapy he resorted to earlier in the day, so Eames has nothing to lose.
***
Arthur still feels shaky when he walks over the planked walkway toward the light in the dining area of the main hut. He can't say exactly what makes him guide his steps here, but he knows that he doesn't want to be alone. The cold he feels right now has nothing to do with the evening's chill.
The light from the elegant, faux 'hut' seeps out in a gentle golden glow, it looks airy and cosy at the same time. When Arthur steps closer, he hears voices.
"So they killed him."
Saito. He hadn't realised their benefactor had returned to the island, which indicates just how out of it he's been.
"And framed Ariadne."
Eames. An irrational wave of anger washes over Arthur upon hearing Eames' voice, calmly making conversation while leaving Arthur - No, stop. Focus. There was a reason why Eames did what he did. It's just a little hard to see it when he's still jittery from the images of the dream, while his muscles still burn from the phantom strain of trying to break the restraints tying him to the chair.
Arthur leans against the wall just beyond the doorway, wrestling with the impulses to join them or flee. He hates to eavesdrop, but it's impossible not to while standing so close. Voices always carry near the water and there are no competing noises to obscure the conversation.
"That is not too far off the mark, though, is it? If she hadn't taken it from Saarela, he might still be alive now."
Of course, who else would Saito be talking to about the Saarela extraction but Eames?
"She didn't pull the trigger." Arthur hears the defensiveness in Eames' voice and feels his own stir as well. It wasn't Ariadne who killed Saarela. The spooks did.
"No, but if she'd waited, if everything had gone according to plan, the problem would have solved itself by the end of this week, wouldn't it? No dead Finnish genius. Neither of you would have been injured. Conditio sine qua non."
Arthur hears a gasp and misses Eames' reply when he whirls to see Ariadne standing in the shadows. It's the first time he has actively looked at her since he confessed what happened in Irkutsk and the change between then and now couldn't be bigger. Her hand is pressed over her mouth and all colour has drained from her face.
She didn't know, Arthur realises as he watches her silent horror. She blamed herself for Saarela's death before, but the full extent of her responsibility hadn't been clear to her.
He watches her knees buckle, her lips quiver, and a mute scream of dismay seize her entire body until it radiates from every pore. Watches and then moves, because he's not selfish enough to let her suffer without doing something, no matter how he's been telling himself he should stay away from her. She needs someone in this moment, someone who hasn't been talking about her in the next room, objectively dissecting her actions in the context of the big picture she had been blind to before. His every instinct tells him to go to her, because she doesn't need words now.
She's cracking under the pressure, breaking into a thousand pieces.
He can't let her break alone.
Arthur catches her before she crumples to the ground. Her entire body trembles, much like his own did when he woke from the dream Eames forced him into earlier. He pulls her into his arms, tucks her face against his neck, and strokes her back as she begins to cry, first silent, then hiccupping, keening. He smells the regret on her, the guilt, feels it in the tears soaking his shirt as he holds her.
"I killed him," she whispers in between messy sobs. "I - "
"No, you didn't." He believes that.
"You heard Saito, if I hadn't, if I - "
"You heard Eames, too. You didn't pull the trigger." The words come easily, though they're much the same ones Eames threw at him and he rejected. Maybe saying them for Ariadne will make it easier to believe them for himself too. Maybe this is some weird cosmic joke, the proverbial clue-bat hitting him squarely over the head. It'd just be his luck.
"What does it matter? He's dead because I fucked up. I keep fucking things up, Arthur, don't you see, I - "
"In that case, he'd be dead because I invited you in. I accepted the job. I stayed in touch with you. I worked with Cobb and Cobb brought you in." He's had that thought, but he knows it's not how life works. It could have happened many other ways. It didn't. Time to live with it. "How far do you want to spin this? Chicken and egg? Kain and Abel?"
She thumps her fist against his chest, hard. "Don't mock me, you bastard."
"Ariadne," he takes her chin and rubs his thumb over her wet cheeks, then repeats what he just thought. "It could have happened many other ways too. Saarela made himself a target when he first mentioned the program online."
"But if I - "
"What? Do you think they would have kept him alive once they had their hands on the program?"
Her gaze wanders to the shoreline and he sees that he's not getting through.
"Imagine he hadn't given you the flashdrive." Arthur forces her to keep eye-contact. "The extraction failed, Ariadne. The spooks were running out of time. They would have tortured the location out of him."
"How do you know they didn't after he gave it to me?"
"Because he wasn't worth it. They knew we had it. He was just a loose end. They wouldn't have wasted time on him."
"So, Irkutsk..."
Arthur breathes against the nausea that wells up. He doesn't want to talk about Irkutsk. He wants to repress, forget it ever happened. "Same thing. We were dead either way."
"So why were you beating yourself up over Irkutsk when you're now telling me not to? No one even died in Irkutsk."
Damn her. Quick, clever, merciless Ariadne. With a clean, precise cut, she's dissected the flaw in his own logic. If he tells her she is forgiven, then he must forgive himself. No way around it.
Arthur pulls her close again, tucks his nose against her hair. He doesn't want to answer. Doesn't believe he can forgive himself, no matter how much he needs to. But... she needs this from him.
"You didn't pull the trigger," he tells her and, then, makes himself swallow and say, "Neither did I."
"Physicians, heal thyselves." Eames' voice is gentle and fond. "You're both idiots."
Ariadne locks her arms around Arthur's waist. Neither of them looks at Eames. Arthur's not sure he's ready to. He isn't going to let Eames have everything his way, though. "That must be why we hang out with you."
"Hey," Eames says. "Hey. I'm tired of being the grown-up around here. Man up. I need some TLC after all this." His tone is light, cheerfully demanding, but it's forced. Eames is afraid. Arthur just can't figure out of what.
Ariadne snorts a wet laugh. She pulls away from Arthur and looks up at Eames. "Your timing is impeccable, Eames."
Arthur tightens his arms around her and mutters, "I could argue that."
Eames' gaze meets his, curious and cautious, though, and Arthur finds himself nodding, admission that Eames is forgiven for the dream, that it may have - may - have served its purpose. He is here, arms around Ariadne's slim, warm form, and he wants Eames with them too, wants the contact he's been denying himself.
Behind them, Saito slips out of the hut, walking slowly toward his own quarters on the other side of the island. They're alone now, no more assistants, no one but the three of them.
Arthur closes his eyes, then takes a deep breath, before he gets up. He draws Ariadne to her feet slowly and keeps hold of her hand after.
She looks at him with a questioning frown, but he's committed. Man up, Eames said. It's time. He reaches for Eames, hand open, palm up.
"Come on." Ariadne resists a little and Arthur adds, "We've spent enough time apart."
***
It's different this time, unsure, gentler.
Arthur touches her reverently, pulls her shirt from her arms and while he's still busy untangling her arms from it, Eames is there, his lips against her back. Eames trails warm, dry pecks along the knobs of her spine. She laughs when - of course Eames knows how - he opens her bra with his teeth. Arthur pulls the bra away from her skin then draws it down her arms and away from her breasts, revealing them to the air and his eyes. He just looks for a long, odd moment that has Ariadne blushing. She refuses to squirm, except maybe into Eames hands, hands which are digging into her lower back muscles now. Ariadne groans in appreciation and Arthur's gaze snaps back to her face.
He's uncertain, she realises. Doesn't know if she still welcomes him after his confession, even if she has forgiven him. Ariadne breathes in. This isn't the time for a quip or she'd tell him how stupid he is being. She reaches for his hand, places a kiss to the centre of it and then guides it so his palm rests over her heart and holds it there. She bends forward to kiss him but stops just before their lips meet and looks him in the eyes. She lays it all out there, the trust, the gratefulness, the way she missed him, how worried she was about him. She may not be ready to say the L-word, nor even ready to think it, but she wants to show it.
Eames rests his cheek against her shoulderblade, stubble rasping against her skin and raising goosebumps along her arms. He's listening for her heartbeat. Back in Irkutsk, she'd thought she'd never have this again, that she'd lost them both. Her heart is ready to burst now with relief, elation, the... happiness and sorrow and lingering fear. They're all so very fragile.
They're caught in a bubble here, strangely out of time. The sunlight glitters on the waves and reflects in Arthur's eyes, turning them from dark brown to gold-flecked. The dance of shadow and light paints wave-like structures onto the arm Eames slings round her waist and ripples the tattoo on his shoulder. A warm breeze comes through the open door of the hut, bringing with it the iodine scent of the sea and the sound of the hut's straw roof ruffling in the wind. Waves lap against the hut's stilts; they whisper and lull in shades of indigo and azure and it's painfully perfect. Ariadne can't take it anymore, she has to kiss Arthur, has to wrap her arms around herself to pull Eames closer.
So she kisses Arthur, kisses Eames, watches them kiss each other. Little by little, they sink on the bed, a tangle of limbs, skin against skin.
They don't need more than that. Ariadne just wants to feel the two men breathing next to her and know that in the morning, they'll still be themselves, still be safe, and she'll wake up to feel them beside her. Arthur to her left and Eames to her right, or maybe the other way around. They'll wake up to the blue sky of a new day, of a new life, but most importantly, they'll wake up.
Maybe they'll have lazy morning sex and maybe they'll just have breakfast, but they'll do it together, alive, when it seemed so unlikely not so long ago. They're alive. They've survived.
She falls asleep to that certainty, feels Eames heart beat against her back and Arthur's breath caress her chest, with her right hand's fingers laced with Eames' and her left cupped against the vulnerable curve of Arthur's nape, and thinks, I'm not afraid anymore.
The End
Acknowledgements
The title, obviously, is derived from Pablo Neruda's beautiful poem "Triangles".
Personal note
First of all, this story would not exist without auburnnothenna and murron. These two ladies are angels. Both are the story's Godmothers. The help they offered, the times they spent chatting with me about it or listened to me whine, lent me an ear or made me a cup of tea, the speed they beta-read with, all they gave cannot be measured and there are not enough words or deeds in the world to thank them. I will try with just two words, nevertheless, coming from the very bottom of my heart: Thank you.
Second: kymericl has made gorgeous, gorgeous art for this story. Have you seen it yet?
Third: Additional thank you to dagnylilytable for checking my Russian grammar in one particular phrase. I have relied on my memory of 9 years of Russian classes for the rest and only hope I haven't butchered it too badly. If I did (the last class was 14 years ago, after all), feel free to let me know in an e-mail so I can correct it.
Fourth: Finlandia Vodka is quite excellent. The obvious choice, but if you like Vodka, give it a try.
Fifth: Try going into a sauna after having written or read this story. It's ... interesting.
Research
Just as this story wouldn't exist without Auburn and Murron, it wouldn't exist without the internet. I have done much more research, but these are the pages I bookmarked, and, hey, credit where credit is due:
General research:
Google maps and Google Streetview
London:
Heathrow Airport Website
Darlington Hotel London: http://www.darlingtonhotel.com/
Restaurant Angelus: http://www.angelusrestaurant.co.uk
Finland research and related research for the time spent in Finland:
Helsinki Airport website
Café Alvar A.
City of Seinäjoki website http://www.seinajoki.fi
http://finland.fi
http://www.pasivdevice.org/
http://www.seinajoenlentoasema.fi/
http://www.visitfinland.com
http://wikitravel.org/en/Finland
http://www.linguanaut.com/english_finnish.htm
Eames' hotel: http://www.veturitalli.info/hotelalma
Arthur's hotel: http://www.sorsanpesa.fi
http://www.medicinenet.com
http://www.osha.gov/Publications/osha3154.pdf
http://www.cyberbohemia.com/Pages/saunahealth.htm
http://www.healingcombattrauma.com/2007/08/trauma-erodes-t.html
http://ezinearticles.com/?Chair-Massage-For-PTSD&id=1840106
inspiration for the fever dream sauna: http://www.murgtal.org/var/plain/storage/images/themen/wellness/sauna_solarium/sauna/8954-3-ger-DE/sauna_gallery_custom.jpg
Extreme sauna contest in Finland (you thought I was kidding, right?): http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/news/story?id=5198604
Alvar Aalto architecture: http://file.alvaraalto.fi/search.php?id=247
Seinäjoki library: http://www.archiplanet.org/wiki/Seinajoki_Library
Ambulances in Europe: http://www.falck.com/businnes%20areas/emergency/pages/emergency_medical_services.aspx
http://www.tangoterms.com/
http://www.totango.net/terms.html
http://www.tejastango.com/terminology.html#ven_y_va
Helsinki Kauppahalli: http://www.finlandinsider.com/finnish-food-attraction.html
Russia research:
Ritz Carlton Moscow: http://www.ritzcarlton.com/en/Properties/Moscow/Default.htm
http://russian-history-blog.blogspot.com
http://www.stpeterline.ru/
http://www.ferrycenter.fi/index.php?1839
http://www.russianrails.com/
http://eng.rzd.ru/
http://moscow.ru
Trans Siberian Railway research:
http://www.easybackpacker.com/2010/09/20/transsib-1-moscow-irkutsk/
http://gregwtravels.travellerspoint.com
http://wikitravel.org/en/Trans-Siberian_Railway
http://www.waytorussia.net
http://www.transsiberianrailway.org
http://www.trans-siberia.com
http://www.transsib.de/
http://www.transsibirische-eisenbahn.de
http://www.trans-sib.de
http://www.seat61.com/Trans-Siberian.htm#Trans-Siberian_timetable
http://blog.travelpod.com
Irkutsk - Siberia research:
http://www.feliz.de/html/taiga_westsibirien.htm
http://www.irkutsk.org/
inspiration for Saito's hideaway
http://huvafenfushi.peraquum.com/PHOTO-GALLERY/default.aspx
West Nalaut Island
A final note: If you liked the story, I would love to hear from you! Or just say hi, if you feel like it. :o)
By the time Eames tries to put Arthur under for the first time, Arthur hasn't slept a full night in eight days.
He's beginning to see double but still manages to recognise what Eames is trying and shuts the door in his face.
Arthur ignores Eames' gentle pleas to let him help, even as he sits with his back against the smooth wooden door and listens to Eames' voice while he stares through the hut's glass floor at a group of colourful fish.
He doesn't need help. He needs time.
***
Ariadne avoids him and he doesn't blame her. He wishes she would take her frustration out on him, but he doesn't even deserve her anger right now.
He steps aside when he meets her on the jetty, fades back into his room. The sound of her door clicking shut reminds him of a gunshot.
In the night, he hears her wake up from nightmares and envies her for them. Eames is always there to comfort her after. The walls of the huts are thin, the water carries sound well.
Arthur wonders if, after that night he heard them out on the patio, Ariadne sleeps with Eames. If they do, they're discreet.
Not that it should matter if they fuck each other's brains out. He's had his chance and he blew it. With both of them.
He doesn't eat the food they send, even if it contains his favourites and smells fantastic. He's not hungry.
He stays awake, lying supine on the starched white sheets of his oversized bed, hands stretched out to the sides as though crucified. The lights around him are gentle enough that he can still see the stars when he looks out the window. In the distance, he thinks he can make out a fire on the next island's shore.
Carbolineum isn't flammable.
He smells it again, the oily, cloying reek of it and the scent memory drowns out the salt-water smell of the sea. The images come back, unbidden, the way they do every night and replay in his mind again and again until he falls into an unrestful, too light sleep.
***
Eames gets Arthur under when Arthur, his body refusing to take even one more step, falls asleep in the giant sun-shaded lounge-chaise out on the deck one afternoon.
He's still alert enough in the dream to take Eames by surprise and overpower him. Arthur ties Eames up against the metal frame of a large bed, brushes a kiss against the tattoo on Eames' chest and shoots himself in the head.
When Eames wakes up five minutes later, he's cursing. Arthur has already locked himself inside his room.
***
Eames tries four more times.
Arthur overhears him talk about it with Ariadne, which is how he finds out that Ariadne doesn't agree with Eames' method. By the time Arthur hears Ariadne say the word therapist, he's shutting down again and walks down the beach faster in order to avoid their voices. Despite nightfall, the sand is still warm between his bare toes.
It's easier to take these walks at night when everyone sleeps. He's always been a nocturnal beast, but it has never served him as well as it does now.
He can't run from the memory of Ariadne's and Eames' conversation, though, no matter how hard he tries.
He doesn't need a therapist. He needs fucking amnesia.
Amnesia.
Amnesty.
And sleep. God, he needs sleep. But of course, with Eames seizing every opportunity he can to get Arthur under and do what every sane person in the dreamshare business does, sleep is dangerous.
Dreamshare psychotherapy.
Arthur laughs.
Dom never wanted it. Never offered it to Arthur, either.
He's not going to start now with Eames, not when he has the baggage of over eight years buzzing around in his head.
He's always dealt with his demons alone, never needed any help.
He'll deal with the new ones, too.
***
"Why don't you give it up, Eames?" Arthur asks. "It's not going to change anything that happened." He's tired. So tired. His entire body aches with fatigue.
Eames looks at him for a long time; rubs his hand over his neck and mouth in fast, aborted movements. These are nervous ticks, tells Eames never lets show unless pushed to the limit of his patience. Arthur realises too late that he's had his warning.
"You know what?" Eames says after an unnervingly long pause. "Sod it. I'm tired of pussy-footing around this."
He smashes his fist to Arthur's jaw. The blow has Arthur keeling over backward and Eames is on him without remorse, using Arthur's current physical and mental state, his unwillingness to fight back while Eames is still not fully healed, to overpower him with an insulting ease. Eames has the wristband with the needle wrapped around Arthur's wrist within a fraction of a second. The sharp pain of the needle breaking skin barely registers over the pain of the blow. It's too late to fight, the lull of the Somnacin flooding his veins is too strong.
Arthur opens his eyes and he's back in the hut in Russia, tied to a chair, watching projections of himself, Eames on the floor, and Ariadne in the corner. The thugs are there as well, still frozen in mid-movement while the dream shapes around Arthur’s memories.
"I didn't want to have to resort to this, but you're leaving me no choice," Eames says as he appears next to Arthur - it’s the real, angry, already beaten up Eames.
Arthur's heart begins to hammer against his ribs, he squirms against the restraints. Cold sweat collects on his scalp and upper lip.
"You're not getting out of here," Eames comments conversationally. He contemplates Arthur's projection of him on the floor. "I liked myself better before the nose was broken."
Arthur screws his eyes shut. He doesn't need to see this, doesn't want to see this. God, he's going to kill Eames when he wakes up.
"None of that now, pet," Eames says as he turns Arthur's head back to their counterparts. "Look."
Neat Freak is getting out his knife and moving toward Ariadne.
"Stop," Arthur whispers. "Eames, please."
"No," Eames replies. His voice is silk over steel. Eames' temper rarely gets the better of him, but when it does, it's a terror of precise, remorseless, clean strikes. "You'll watch how this would have gone if you hadn't been ready to have Ariadne shot." He checks the restraints, then bends close to Arthur's ear. "You wanted to deal with this alone?"
A gun is in Eames' hand suddenly and Arthur's heart stop-starts. Eames won't. He can't. "Eames, no, Eames - "
"Then deal," Eames says, raises the gun to his own head and shoots. In the corner of the hut, the projection of Ariadne begins to scream.
***
Saito finds him when Eames is having a very late lunch on the patio of the main hut. He's eating spiced soba noodles with tempura shrimp. Normally, the simplicity of the dish would please him, but his mind is stuck on Arthur and how he will handle Eames' admittedly brutal psychotherapy dream. He hopes that Arthur will see it's for his best, that Eames' intentions are good. Then again, road to hell and all that jazz.
Eames concentrates on his chopsticks, on the clicking of the polished wood, the sound of the surf and tries to keep his conscience subdued. Necessary. It was necessary.
Directing his attention to Saito proves a good enough distraction. They sit in silence for a while; Eames steals looks at Saito and is once again struck by how regal Saito looks, even relaxed and casual in a black polo shirt and khakis. A glance down shows him Saito is barefoot and that almost gives Eames a mental whiplash, no matter how casual Saito has been ever since he first came to see Eames after he woke up.
Saito quietly orders a glass of white wine and Eames watches him trace the condensation on the outside of his glass with long, slim fingers. Every gesture is elegant, refined; Saito doesn't just act it, he's not some newly rich guy, he's always had money and always will have it. Or at least, that certainty is back now. Before Suz had publicised the decryption key for the SFNX program, Saito had still been in danger of disappearing and never reappearing.
As if he catches Eames' thoughts, Saito fishes something from his trouser pocket and places it on the table.
Eames blinks at the object a few times. He has to swallow the bile that rises before he can speak again. "I never wanted to see that thing again." Memories surface and he clamps down on them with vigour. Bright side. Bright side. They're safe here. Even if Arthur never forgives him for his effort at dreamshare therapy, they are all three safe. "It's bloody useless now anyway, isn't it?"
Saito turns the slim stainless steel flashdrive in his fingers, dark eyes filled with amusement that fans around them in a cobweb of fine wrinkles.
"This is not that flashdrive. The contents were copied to this one."
"I do not even want to imagine what wanker got stuck with doing that job." Eames contemplates his suddenly very unappealing dish. His appetite has just taken a nose dive.
"Someone who deserved it," Saito tells him.
Someone like Nash if Arthur's story about his screw up with Cobol and Saito was accurate and Arthur is always accurate.
"The food is unsatisfactory?" Saito asks, noticing Eames has quit eating.
"Just," Eames pushes the plate away, "not so hungry anymore."
Saito contemplates the drive again. "All the death and pain and money that went into retrieving this and in a few weeks it will be utterly useless."
So Saito knows as well. During his time in the infirmary, Eames spent time with the tablet computer and Wi-Fi access so kindly provided by Saito and he found out that the program Saarela invented was a recipe for disaster. A small tool for global market manipulation on a big scale, the country that first got its hands on it effectively would be a new superpower, so long as it did it soon.
He had wondered the entire time what the rush was, why the clients were so keen on getting the information so quickly. He found his answer in a newspaper article in the financial section of the Wall Street Journal. By the end of this week, a new market protocol will go online and effectively render Saarela's program useless.
It’s all so damn fucked up. "Sounds like the way everything goes in life."
"Feeling cynical tonight?" Saito asks, his mouth twitching into the merest hint of a smile.
Eames plasters a fake grin on his face. "I feel cynical every night."
"Cynicism is the retreat of the wounded idealist."
"Or the rational response to experience," Eames replies. He's at ease with his self and has been for years. That's why he's eating soba noodles and enjoying conversation while Arthur tortures himself over impossible choices and Ariadne obsesses over what they could've, might've, should've done. Past is past, Eames thinks, and wallowing just leaves you covered in mud. Though he has nothing against a bit of naked mud wrestling with the right partners...
"Ah. Experience," Saito murmurs. "Useful, but not always enough. I suppose that is why Arthur recruited Ariadne."
"Cobb first."
"Mr. Cobb first," Saito agrees.
"No one made her agree."
"No."
Eames sips his drink for something to do, then sighs, because Saito knows how to play the silence game. Eames is a talker by nature. All Saito needs to do is stay quiet long enough and Eames will say something just to relieve the awful pressure of saying nothing.
"Arthur thought it was an easy extraction. Saarela didn't read as a dangerous mark on paper."
"Saarela himself wasn't, was he?"
"No. Ariadne couldn't have conned the location of that flashdrive out of him if he had been." The original flashdrive, not the one sitting on the table next to Saito's drink, or the copy he gave to Suz to upload.
"If she hadn't extracted the actual decryption key from him rather than just its location, they never would have touched him, would they?"
Eames shakes his head. There's no need to sugarcoat things with Saito. He never would utter word of this in front of Ariadne, but Saito is pragmatic enough not to blame himself for causality. "No," he says. "Most likely not. Saarela was useful and necessary to them as long as he was the only one who knew the location of the decryption key. But once Ariadne had it, once we had it, he was just a dangerous loose end, a wild card who might figure out a way to block his own program or create another, better one."
Saito nods. "So they killed him."
"And framed Ariadne." That still rankles. Even with the program out there, Ariadne is still the prime suspect in a murder investigation and might never be able to set foot into a European country under her own name and without a disguise. Not that that's a problem for Eames, but he's not callous enough to think it might not be one for her.
"That is not too far off the mark, though, is it?" Saito asks, rubbing his chin. "If she hadn't taken it from Saarela, he might still be alive now."
"She didn't pull the trigger." Eames can't help the defensiveness that creeps into his voice, even if what Saito says is the truth. Yes, she acted rashly and without a plan, but her intentions were good. She's not to blame.
"No, but if she'd waited, if everything had gone according to plan, the problem would have solved itself by the end of this week, wouldn't it? No dead Finnish genius. Neither of you would have been injured. Conditio sine qua non." Saito sounds thoughtful, not accusatory. He's just stating facts, like the businessman he is.
Nevertheless, it rankles. "We could trace the whole thing back to you, then, too," Eames says and meets Saito's gaze head on. You don't bite the hand that feeds you, but Eames can't help it. He blames it on his injuries making him more thin-skinned than usual.
"You could." Saito leans back and tales hold of his wine glass again. He swirls the content before he continues. "By all means, you should." He toasts Eames and takes a sip of wine. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. "But while I regret what happened to you, I do not blame myself for it."
"Not for me personally or for us?"
"Do not play coy, Mr. Eames. You invited yourself in."
The first and only one Eames can blame is himself. He knows that and has never blamed Saito. "Touché."
After a while, he ads, "So what about Ariadne?"
A shadow falls over Saito's face for a mere moment. "I regret her involvement the most." He rolls his shoulders and leans forward in his chair, rests his lower arms on the table. "But once again, it was not my decision that got her into it. It was Arthur's. This is where we head into chaos theory territory. Small differences in initial conditions would have yielded widely diverging outcomes. Arthur might never have called Ariadne. You might never have joined them. Ariadne could have refused Arthur's invitation. The first extraction attempt might have been successful. Saarela might have refused to tell Ariadne where the encryption key was hidden. Even if Arthur's future behaviour had been fully determined by my handing him the telephone number and by the initial job description, his actions still would not have been predictable."
Saito leans back in his chair and examines Eames.
Eames, for his part, is stunned for the moment. Stunned by how alike he and Saito think.
"So what now?" Eames asks eventually.
"Now," Saito replies and laces his fingers over his stomach, "you work for me."
"Again."
"Precisely."
"I'm not sure we're ready to - "
"You are," Saito interrupts him.
"Saito, I mean no disrespect, but it's not an offer if you don't give us a chance to refuse it."
Saito's smile spreads over his face, treacle-slow and sardonic. "You won't."
Eames leans back in his chair and attempts to project an aura of indifference. "Won't we?"
Saito smiles wider and Eames knows from that smile that Saito sees right through him. "You won't."
Eames expels the air from his lungs, accepting his fate, and asking, "Let's hear it then."
Saito looks out toward the ocean, to the moonlight reflecting off the waves. "I have plans on a neighbouring island. A resort for business partners. Imposing enough to impress them, but far enough away I won't have to deal with them in my refuge here. It seems, however, that I have lost my architect to malaria." Saito shakes has head. "What a terrible shame, he was a good man."
A pause follows, one Eames doesn't break, no matter how much he itches to find out more. Saito likes a big entrance, in life and in conversation, so he waits.
"Recent events," Saito continues with a pointed look at Eames, "have led me to believe that I should hire a new security advisor."
Eames breathes quietly, as though any noise from him might shatter the illusion.
"I believe I need to fire the project accountant as well."
"Accountant," Eames echoes weakly, trying hard to fight the laughter that is stirring in his chest.
Saito nods. "I accept only the absolute best." He looks sly and still self-amused then. "I don't suppose you know three qualified people willing to accept these jobs for the time being?"
"An accountant," Eames repeats. This time, he doesn't stop the laughter from surfacing.
Accountant.
Arthur will kill him. Slowly.
So, naturally, he says yes. Arthur, no doubt, is planning his demise for the impromptu dreamshare therapy he resorted to earlier in the day, so Eames has nothing to lose.
***
Arthur still feels shaky when he walks over the planked walkway toward the light in the dining area of the main hut. He can't say exactly what makes him guide his steps here, but he knows that he doesn't want to be alone. The cold he feels right now has nothing to do with the evening's chill.
The light from the elegant, faux 'hut' seeps out in a gentle golden glow, it looks airy and cosy at the same time. When Arthur steps closer, he hears voices.
"So they killed him."
Saito. He hadn't realised their benefactor had returned to the island, which indicates just how out of it he's been.
"And framed Ariadne."
Eames. An irrational wave of anger washes over Arthur upon hearing Eames' voice, calmly making conversation while leaving Arthur - No, stop. Focus. There was a reason why Eames did what he did. It's just a little hard to see it when he's still jittery from the images of the dream, while his muscles still burn from the phantom strain of trying to break the restraints tying him to the chair.
Arthur leans against the wall just beyond the doorway, wrestling with the impulses to join them or flee. He hates to eavesdrop, but it's impossible not to while standing so close. Voices always carry near the water and there are no competing noises to obscure the conversation.
"That is not too far off the mark, though, is it? If she hadn't taken it from Saarela, he might still be alive now."
Of course, who else would Saito be talking to about the Saarela extraction but Eames?
"She didn't pull the trigger." Arthur hears the defensiveness in Eames' voice and feels his own stir as well. It wasn't Ariadne who killed Saarela. The spooks did.
"No, but if she'd waited, if everything had gone according to plan, the problem would have solved itself by the end of this week, wouldn't it? No dead Finnish genius. Neither of you would have been injured. Conditio sine qua non."
Arthur hears a gasp and misses Eames' reply when he whirls to see Ariadne standing in the shadows. It's the first time he has actively looked at her since he confessed what happened in Irkutsk and the change between then and now couldn't be bigger. Her hand is pressed over her mouth and all colour has drained from her face.
She didn't know, Arthur realises as he watches her silent horror. She blamed herself for Saarela's death before, but the full extent of her responsibility hadn't been clear to her.
He watches her knees buckle, her lips quiver, and a mute scream of dismay seize her entire body until it radiates from every pore. Watches and then moves, because he's not selfish enough to let her suffer without doing something, no matter how he's been telling himself he should stay away from her. She needs someone in this moment, someone who hasn't been talking about her in the next room, objectively dissecting her actions in the context of the big picture she had been blind to before. His every instinct tells him to go to her, because she doesn't need words now.
She's cracking under the pressure, breaking into a thousand pieces.
He can't let her break alone.
Arthur catches her before she crumples to the ground. Her entire body trembles, much like his own did when he woke from the dream Eames forced him into earlier. He pulls her into his arms, tucks her face against his neck, and strokes her back as she begins to cry, first silent, then hiccupping, keening. He smells the regret on her, the guilt, feels it in the tears soaking his shirt as he holds her.
"I killed him," she whispers in between messy sobs. "I - "
"No, you didn't." He believes that.
"You heard Saito, if I hadn't, if I - "
"You heard Eames, too. You didn't pull the trigger." The words come easily, though they're much the same ones Eames threw at him and he rejected. Maybe saying them for Ariadne will make it easier to believe them for himself too. Maybe this is some weird cosmic joke, the proverbial clue-bat hitting him squarely over the head. It'd just be his luck.
"What does it matter? He's dead because I fucked up. I keep fucking things up, Arthur, don't you see, I - "
"In that case, he'd be dead because I invited you in. I accepted the job. I stayed in touch with you. I worked with Cobb and Cobb brought you in." He's had that thought, but he knows it's not how life works. It could have happened many other ways. It didn't. Time to live with it. "How far do you want to spin this? Chicken and egg? Kain and Abel?"
She thumps her fist against his chest, hard. "Don't mock me, you bastard."
"Ariadne," he takes her chin and rubs his thumb over her wet cheeks, then repeats what he just thought. "It could have happened many other ways too. Saarela made himself a target when he first mentioned the program online."
"But if I - "
"What? Do you think they would have kept him alive once they had their hands on the program?"
Her gaze wanders to the shoreline and he sees that he's not getting through.
"Imagine he hadn't given you the flashdrive." Arthur forces her to keep eye-contact. "The extraction failed, Ariadne. The spooks were running out of time. They would have tortured the location out of him."
"How do you know they didn't after he gave it to me?"
"Because he wasn't worth it. They knew we had it. He was just a loose end. They wouldn't have wasted time on him."
"So, Irkutsk..."
Arthur breathes against the nausea that wells up. He doesn't want to talk about Irkutsk. He wants to repress, forget it ever happened. "Same thing. We were dead either way."
"So why were you beating yourself up over Irkutsk when you're now telling me not to? No one even died in Irkutsk."
Damn her. Quick, clever, merciless Ariadne. With a clean, precise cut, she's dissected the flaw in his own logic. If he tells her she is forgiven, then he must forgive himself. No way around it.
Arthur pulls her close again, tucks his nose against her hair. He doesn't want to answer. Doesn't believe he can forgive himself, no matter how much he needs to. But... she needs this from him.
"You didn't pull the trigger," he tells her and, then, makes himself swallow and say, "Neither did I."
"Physicians, heal thyselves." Eames' voice is gentle and fond. "You're both idiots."
Ariadne locks her arms around Arthur's waist. Neither of them looks at Eames. Arthur's not sure he's ready to. He isn't going to let Eames have everything his way, though. "That must be why we hang out with you."
"Hey," Eames says. "Hey. I'm tired of being the grown-up around here. Man up. I need some TLC after all this." His tone is light, cheerfully demanding, but it's forced. Eames is afraid. Arthur just can't figure out of what.
Ariadne snorts a wet laugh. She pulls away from Arthur and looks up at Eames. "Your timing is impeccable, Eames."
Arthur tightens his arms around her and mutters, "I could argue that."
Eames' gaze meets his, curious and cautious, though, and Arthur finds himself nodding, admission that Eames is forgiven for the dream, that it may have - may - have served its purpose. He is here, arms around Ariadne's slim, warm form, and he wants Eames with them too, wants the contact he's been denying himself.
Behind them, Saito slips out of the hut, walking slowly toward his own quarters on the other side of the island. They're alone now, no more assistants, no one but the three of them.
Arthur closes his eyes, then takes a deep breath, before he gets up. He draws Ariadne to her feet slowly and keeps hold of her hand after.
She looks at him with a questioning frown, but he's committed. Man up, Eames said. It's time. He reaches for Eames, hand open, palm up.
"Come on." Ariadne resists a little and Arthur adds, "We've spent enough time apart."
***
It's different this time, unsure, gentler.
Arthur touches her reverently, pulls her shirt from her arms and while he's still busy untangling her arms from it, Eames is there, his lips against her back. Eames trails warm, dry pecks along the knobs of her spine. She laughs when - of course Eames knows how - he opens her bra with his teeth. Arthur pulls the bra away from her skin then draws it down her arms and away from her breasts, revealing them to the air and his eyes. He just looks for a long, odd moment that has Ariadne blushing. She refuses to squirm, except maybe into Eames hands, hands which are digging into her lower back muscles now. Ariadne groans in appreciation and Arthur's gaze snaps back to her face.
He's uncertain, she realises. Doesn't know if she still welcomes him after his confession, even if she has forgiven him. Ariadne breathes in. This isn't the time for a quip or she'd tell him how stupid he is being. She reaches for his hand, places a kiss to the centre of it and then guides it so his palm rests over her heart and holds it there. She bends forward to kiss him but stops just before their lips meet and looks him in the eyes. She lays it all out there, the trust, the gratefulness, the way she missed him, how worried she was about him. She may not be ready to say the L-word, nor even ready to think it, but she wants to show it.
Eames rests his cheek against her shoulderblade, stubble rasping against her skin and raising goosebumps along her arms. He's listening for her heartbeat. Back in Irkutsk, she'd thought she'd never have this again, that she'd lost them both. Her heart is ready to burst now with relief, elation, the... happiness and sorrow and lingering fear. They're all so very fragile.
They're caught in a bubble here, strangely out of time. The sunlight glitters on the waves and reflects in Arthur's eyes, turning them from dark brown to gold-flecked. The dance of shadow and light paints wave-like structures onto the arm Eames slings round her waist and ripples the tattoo on his shoulder. A warm breeze comes through the open door of the hut, bringing with it the iodine scent of the sea and the sound of the hut's straw roof ruffling in the wind. Waves lap against the hut's stilts; they whisper and lull in shades of indigo and azure and it's painfully perfect. Ariadne can't take it anymore, she has to kiss Arthur, has to wrap her arms around herself to pull Eames closer.
So she kisses Arthur, kisses Eames, watches them kiss each other. Little by little, they sink on the bed, a tangle of limbs, skin against skin.
They don't need more than that. Ariadne just wants to feel the two men breathing next to her and know that in the morning, they'll still be themselves, still be safe, and she'll wake up to feel them beside her. Arthur to her left and Eames to her right, or maybe the other way around. They'll wake up to the blue sky of a new day, of a new life, but most importantly, they'll wake up.
Maybe they'll have lazy morning sex and maybe they'll just have breakfast, but they'll do it together, alive, when it seemed so unlikely not so long ago. They're alive. They've survived.
She falls asleep to that certainty, feels Eames heart beat against her back and Arthur's breath caress her chest, with her right hand's fingers laced with Eames' and her left cupped against the vulnerable curve of Arthur's nape, and thinks, I'm not afraid anymore.
The End
Acknowledgements
The title, obviously, is derived from Pablo Neruda's beautiful poem "Triangles".
Personal note
First of all, this story would not exist without auburnnothenna and murron. These two ladies are angels. Both are the story's Godmothers. The help they offered, the times they spent chatting with me about it or listened to me whine, lent me an ear or made me a cup of tea, the speed they beta-read with, all they gave cannot be measured and there are not enough words or deeds in the world to thank them. I will try with just two words, nevertheless, coming from the very bottom of my heart: Thank you.
Second: kymericl has made gorgeous, gorgeous art for this story. Have you seen it yet?
Third: Additional thank you to dagnylilytable for checking my Russian grammar in one particular phrase. I have relied on my memory of 9 years of Russian classes for the rest and only hope I haven't butchered it too badly. If I did (the last class was 14 years ago, after all), feel free to let me know in an e-mail so I can correct it.
Fourth: Finlandia Vodka is quite excellent. The obvious choice, but if you like Vodka, give it a try.
Fifth: Try going into a sauna after having written or read this story. It's ... interesting.
Research
Just as this story wouldn't exist without Auburn and Murron, it wouldn't exist without the internet. I have done much more research, but these are the pages I bookmarked, and, hey, credit where credit is due:
General research:
Google maps and Google Streetview
London:
Heathrow Airport Website
Darlington Hotel London: http://www.darlingtonhotel.com/
Restaurant Angelus: http://www.angelusrestaurant.co.uk
Finland research and related research for the time spent in Finland:
Helsinki Airport website
Café Alvar A.
City of Seinäjoki website http://www.seinajoki.fi
http://finland.fi
http://www.pasivdevice.org/
http://www.seinajoenlentoasema.fi/
http://www.visitfinland.com
http://wikitravel.org/en/Finland
http://www.linguanaut.com/english_finnish.htm
Eames' hotel: http://www.veturitalli.info/hotelalma
Arthur's hotel: http://www.sorsanpesa.fi
http://www.medicinenet.com
http://www.osha.gov/Publications/osha3154.pdf
http://www.cyberbohemia.com/Pages/saunahealth.htm
http://www.healingcombattrauma.com/2007/08/trauma-erodes-t.html
http://ezinearticles.com/?Chair-Massage-For-PTSD&id=1840106
inspiration for the fever dream sauna: http://www.murgtal.org/var/plain/storage/images/themen/wellness/sauna_solarium/sauna/8954-3-ger-DE/sauna_gallery_custom.jpg
Extreme sauna contest in Finland (you thought I was kidding, right?): http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/news/story?id=5198604
Alvar Aalto architecture: http://file.alvaraalto.fi/search.php?id=247
Seinäjoki library: http://www.archiplanet.org/wiki/Seinajoki_Library
Ambulances in Europe: http://www.falck.com/businnes%20areas/emergency/pages/emergency_medical_services.aspx
http://www.tangoterms.com/
http://www.totango.net/terms.html
http://www.tejastango.com/terminology.html#ven_y_va
Helsinki Kauppahalli: http://www.finlandinsider.com/finnish-food-attraction.html
Russia research:
Ritz Carlton Moscow: http://www.ritzcarlton.com/en/Properties/Moscow/Default.htm
http://russian-history-blog.blogspot.com
http://www.stpeterline.ru/
http://www.ferrycenter.fi/index.php?1839
http://www.russianrails.com/
http://eng.rzd.ru/
http://moscow.ru
Trans Siberian Railway research:
http://www.easybackpacker.com/2010/09/20/transsib-1-moscow-irkutsk/
http://gregwtravels.travellerspoint.com
http://wikitravel.org/en/Trans-Siberian_Railway
http://www.waytorussia.net
http://www.transsiberianrailway.org
http://www.trans-siberia.com
http://www.transsib.de/
http://www.transsibirische-eisenbahn.de
http://www.trans-sib.de
http://www.seat61.com/Trans-Siberian.htm#Trans-Siberian_timetable
http://blog.travelpod.com
Irkutsk - Siberia research:
http://www.feliz.de/html/taiga_westsibirien.htm
http://www.irkutsk.org/
inspiration for Saito's hideaway
http://huvafenfushi.peraquum.com/PHOTO-GALLERY/default.aspx
West Nalaut Island
A final note: If you liked the story, I would love to hear from you! Or just say hi, if you feel like it. :o)