Inception: Kobayashi Maru (Arthur/Eames, R)
About once a year (sometimes once every two or three years) I write something that I think is beautiful. That I'm proud to say, "Yeah, I did that." I'm pretty sure that this story is the one I've been waiting fourteen months for.
Inception
Arthur/Eames
R
Kobayashi Maru
"Eames is in Mombasa."
Arthur knows that those four words are nothing more to Cobb than a location.
A factual reply.
Cobb knew Arthur would know where Eames is. He asked because he knew Arthur would have an answer. Coordinates. Potentially an address. Probably a phone number. But Arthur doesn't have any of those things.
Despite whatever rumors may abound, Arthur is neither prescient nor omnipotent. He doesn't have all the answers; he doesn't even have most of the answers. He is simply very good at obtaining very specific facts and data, and to this particular question, Arthur happens to be in possession of the right answer.
Cobb nods; Arthur goes back to work.
He focuses intently on the preliminary dossier Saito's people have created on Robert Fischer. It's a good start, an excellent start, but it's barely the tip of what Arthur is going to have to come up with. So Arthur looks for the cracks and crevices, the gaps in the timeline and the people who pop up repeatedly, not because he hasn't gone through this file six times already but because now his attention is splintering and he has to work just that little bit harder to keep himself on task.
Arthur went to Mombasa once and stayed at a house in Kizingo. It had a wraparound porch and palm trees and an enormous double hammock in a backyard surrounded by a high white fence.
The city itself was beautiful, right on the Indian Ocean and full of beaches and sun.
The weather was prohibitively hot, but he hadn't minded.
Apparently "Mombasa" comes from the Arabic "Manbasa."
In Swahili, the other official language of Kenya, Mombasa is called "Kisiwa Cha Mvita" which means "Island of War."
Go figure.
Everything ends. Sometimes it ends with a bang. A shot to the head, a snap of the neck, a knife to the gut. Sometimes things end much more quietly. With a whimper or a muffled noise. Sometimes the ending comes with nothing more than the sound of an IV being extracted from a wrist, a lead being wrapped up and the clasps on a very expensive protective case closing with a snap.
"Arthur."
"Eames."
They are nothing if not professionals. Eames may live by an incredibly flexible moral code, and Arthur may adhere strictly to the moral code he's constructed despite stealing for a living, but there is no such thing as a halfway crook.
When Eames arrives at the warehouse in Paris, Arthur doesn't avoid him. He doesn't flush or fluster or scowl, he acknowledges the arrival. The new dynamic. He makes the required small talk.
"Lovely day outside," Eames says.
Arthur removes his left cufflink and begins to roll up his sleeve. "I hadn't noticed."
Eames makes an amused sound. "No, I don't suppose you would."
Arthur removes his right cufflink and rolls up his other sleeve to his elbow.
Eames' stubble is the same as ever. The bright eyes and pink mouth are just as alluring.
Perhaps more so considering how long Arthur's deprived himself of them.
Arthur can admit these things. He always could.
He is not a dense man.
"You look gorgeous, as always." Eames' smile is honest, simple. If the action pains Eames at all, it doesn't show.
Arthur takes in the green tweed. The pink paisley.
Eames' fashion sense has always appalled him. It's one part old money that doesn't give a fuck and two parts I am gorgeous enough that I don't need to apply to myself to the sort of sartorial practices that everyone else employs.
It's indescribably aggravating.
"I wish I could say the same about you," Arthur replies.
Eames' mouth quirks at the corners, but the amusement doesn't reach his eyes. "Just the same as ever I see."
"Some things don't change," Arthur says before he turns back to his desk.
He could use a cup of coffee.
Their first kiss was behind a warehouse in Prague. It was autumn and the weather was lovely; crisp and clear and radiant. The sky was blue like it only is in paint spectrums and dreams, and the air was perfect in the way that's never too cold and never too hot.
Eames was attempting to quit smoking again. They were talking about music and art and sports: Jay-Z and Tchaikovsky, Matisse and Magritte, Chelsea... and Chelsea.
Eames was chewing on a toothpick.
Arthur hated that habit even more than the smoking.
Eames was making some sort of argument about something that Arthur doesn't remember anymore. Arthur was focusing on the fucking toothpick. After the fifth time Eames had taken the toothpick out of his mouth to twirl it between his fingers, Arthur knocked it out of his hand and then grabbed Eames' wrist and yanked him forward.
Eames stumbled into his arms, punching him the shoulder gracelessly, and their mouths collided messily and off-center.
It was still a kiss.
Arthur doesn't mind Yusuf using him to tweak the Somnacin compound. He minds the part where every time he wakes up from the kick he's on the floor, his lower back is sore and Yusuf and Eames are standing around, gazing down at him with smiles on their lips.
Yusuf's smile is broad, easy-going. Amused.
Eames' smirk holds something else. Probably schadenfreude.
The fourth time Arthur ends up on his back, the left front leg of the chair actually comes off. Yusuf seems much more alarmed for the chair than Arthur. "You broke it," he says in dismay.
Arthur rolls his eyes. "And I'm fine, thanks for asking."
"Of course you are fine," Yusuf says dismissively. "You are like the Man of Steel; the chair not so much so. I will get you another."
Yusuf hurries off, and Arthur pushes himself into a sitting position that puts him at eye level with Eames' knees.
The right knee of Eames' brown glen-plaid trousers with the blue stripe is so threadbare Arthur can actually see the tanned skin of Eames' knee.
He has no idea why he feels so scandalized.
Instead he looks up at Eames, his mouth in a thin line. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"You have no idea how much," Eames says, offering Arthur a hand up.
The first time they had sex was in St. Petersburg.
Arthur was on top. Literally.
He pinned Eames down by his wrists and fucked himself on Eames cock, rode them both into the mattress. It was beautiful and perfect and sweaty and sticky and filthy. They were so fucking filthy. It was just what Arthur had always wanted:
Eames undone.
Eames unable to quip and retort. Eames willing to beg and plead and take.
No games, no flirtation, no facades, just raw and exposed.
And that is what he got.
Eames made the most obscene noises in bed; he babbled nonsense in English and French and a few particularly scintillating phrases in Latin that would've made Arthur roll his eyes if he wasn't so busy leaving bruises and half-moon shaped indentations on Eames' wrists.
Eventually Eames rolled him over and promised to make him scream. Promised to suck Arthur's condescension out through his cock and make him feel naked every time Eames looked at him.
It worked.
At least for a while.
At one point Arthur ended up on the floor and rather than bothering to haul Arthur back up onto one of the Corinthia Nevsky Palace Hotel's absurdly comfortable beds, Eames crawled onto the floor and ordered Arthur to fuck him, to make him pay for every flirtation, every innuendo, every sly insinuation.
So Arthur did.
He fucked Eames into the carpet and gave him the worst rug burn Arthur'd ever seen.
And then Arthur pulled out at at the last minute. He stripped off the condom and came all over Eames' stomach, rubbed the white spatters into the dark ink that demarcated Eames' skin and then stood up on unsteady legs and went to take a shower.
He never made it to said shower, but he did at least try.
Despite how it may appear, Eames is not liberal with his endearments. He is not careless with his affections and he does not give undue praise. He is sharp and attentive and horrifically observant. If you fuck up, he will know, and he may not say anything, but he will remember.
When they're attacked by Fischer's projections in the first level, Arthur has a moment where he contemplates conjuring up a samurai sword so he can commit seppuku.
Cobb's wrath is understandable, appropriate.
Eames materializing by Arthur's side with a grenade launcher is not quite so understandable, but still appropriate.
The fact that he calls Arthur "darling" for the first time in thirteen months, two weeks and six days is not quite so much so.
For a moment Arthur wants to reach out and grab Eames' bicep, spin him back around, haul him close and demand that he say it again.
All relationships are about narcissism. Especially sexual relationships. I like you because you like me. Amiableness, personality, sense of humor are all very good, and given time will hopefully replace this narcissism, but the foundation of a relationship is all about me me me.
I love how you love me.
In Arthur's dream the hotel is exquisite. The windows pristine, the furniture all dark and flawless wood, the bathrooms spotless and white. Arthur has a certain style about his work; a certain panache to what he does.
There's nothing wrong with knowing what you like. What you want. What you need.
When Eames lies down on the floor of Suite 529 Arthur kneels down beside him.
He wants to make a joke about being on top. About how much better Eames looks on his back. About how Eames is wearing far too many clothes for what they used to do on hotel floors.
There's a moment when he thinks Eames might be thinking the same thing.
Instead, Eames warns him to be careful.
Instead, Arthur tells Eames to go to sleep.
What happened was...
They're standing by the baggage claim carousel at LAX. Arthur is waiting for the second PASIV case to arrive. Cobb leaves; Fischer is collected by a Town Car driver. Saito is met by a very prim young man wearing a suit Arthur's been eying from this season's Dunhill collection.
Ariadne gives him a small smile before she vanishes into the ether with Yusuf.
And Eames, Eames is gone.
Arthur should be used to this by now.
By the time all is said and done, Arthur is alone.
He walks out into the glaring Los Angeles morning and takes a deep breath. Heat, pollution, poverty, the Pacific Ocean, money, greed, a desperate yearning for attention and recognition.
If you spend enough time in Los Angeles you can discern these things in the air.
Eames is in the queue for a taxi. Arthur joins him.
"Did you want to share one?" he asks.
Eames licks his lips. Arthur imagines he can still taste Eames on his tongue, feel Eames' hands on his back, Eames' mouth on his shoulder. "No, I don't think so," he says.
Arthur can feel the muscle jump in his temple. "Okay."
"Quite."
Eames produces a pair of sunglasses from somewhere and slips them on.
Arthur can see himself reflected in them.
This is neither the time nor the place for what he's about to do.
Then again, it's never been the time or the place for him.
That was always the problem. "Do you want to talk about this?"
Eames' lips twitch and an arched eyebrow peeks over the silver frame of his Ray-Bans. "Do you want to talk about this?" he repeats. "Exactly what 'this' do you wish to talk about, Arthur? Please, enlighten me. Philosophy, religion, theology, paradoxes, hypocrisy, name your choice."
Arthur opens his mouth and nothing comes out.
Eames' smirk is dangerously close to a sneer. "That's what I thought," he says as a yellow cab with a crushed bumper pulls up to the curb.
A young woman with a nose piercing and holding a clipboard looks up at them.
"Where're you going?" she asks, pen poised over her clipboard and waiting for an answer.
What happened was them.
They happened.
Or to be a bit more specific, they didn't happen.
At least not properly.
It's very hard to appreciate what you have if you don't know you have it.
Arthur has a loft in downtown L.A. by the criminal courts, MoCa and the Disney Concert Hall. The loft is enormous, all windows and space and light. Arthur's privacy is protected by a reinforced steel sliding door, plexiglass windows, specialized security that he installed himself and the curtains he had custom-made for his twenty foot ceilings.
Mrs. Markel from the second floor is leaving just as Arthur is dropped off by his cab. "It's so lovely to see you, dear," she says to him, blinking at him myopically and holding the door as he tries to deal with all of his bags.
Mrs. Markel calls Arthur "dear" because she doesn't know his name.
No one in this building does.
All his mail is addressed to James Dean.
Arthur never expected anything from Eames. If they were in the same city, they could get together if they wanted. If they weren't in the same city, Arthur didn't think much of it. There were no drawn-out conversations over the phone -- Arthur hates the phone, it's an awkward instrument. There were no obscene text messages, no joint vacations, no date nights. But there was dinner, and drinking, and breakfast in bed, and bar nights and Gregory Peck marathons on Turner Classic Movies. There was room service and foot rubs and the night that Arthur woke up with his face mashed into a pillow in Eames' lap and Eames stroking his hair while he watched Bonnie and Clyde at 4: 29 in the morning. But it was never serious. At least no one ever said it was serious.
Sometimes things have to be spelled out or they get missed.
It takes Arthur twelve days to become uncontrollably bored. He's cleaned the loft; he's cleaned his guns. He's reorganized his DVDs and added album art to all of the songs on his iPod (3,295). He's reactivated his Netflix account and watched all of season three of Mad Men. He's been to Anto and ordered six new shirts and to Turnbull & Asser for three new suits, including the Dunhill he saw Saito's aide wearing.
He's earned it.
Arthur assumes Eames is probably drunk under a roulette table somewhere in Monaco. Not that it matters. That's done. Eames made that very clear. He always did like Monaco though.
They did a job there together once. It was a long time ago, when Mal was alive and Arthur didn't mind Eames replacing everything in his wardrobe with linen suits as long as he got his clothes back before they left.
Arthur goes to visit Cobb not because he's checking in on him or because he's coming down from the inception high and feeling maudlin and antsy, but because as James' godfather Arthur made a promise to Mal.
"I was thinking about taking a job," Arthur says as Phillipa adjusts the pink plastic crown she's placed on his head for tea.
Cobb smirks as he picks up a plastic teacup with blue flowers on it. "You look bored."
"I didn't say I was bored."
"No, you didn't," Cobb admits.
Cobb, on the other hand, looks anything but bored.
For the first time in a long time he looks alive and not like a hollowed-out shell.
"What does Eames think?"
Arthur jerks when Phillipa pokes him in the ear. "What does Eames have to do with it?"
Cobb's forehead wrinkles. "I just thought since," he pauses. "Aren't you two back together?"
"We were never together in the first -- "
Arthur's cut off by James racing in wearing a red cape tied around his neck. He flings himself onto Arthur's lap and kicks Arthur in the shin.
Arthur winces; Cobb grins.
"Why don't you bring Uncle Eames to see us anymore?" Phillipa asks.
"Eames!" James says excitedly. He scrambles upright on Arthur's lap, using Arthur's tie as leverage and nearly garroting Arthur in the process. "Eames! Eames! Eames!"
Arthur looks at Cobb. "Subtle."
Their first disagreement was over a party. It was utterly ridiculous.
Arthur was working in Montserrat when Eames called.
"Why are you calling?" Arthur said by way of greeting.
"Well, hello to you, too." Eames laughed.
Eames had the most infectious laugh. Warm and intimate and not what Arthur needed in the middle of a job. "I'm working."
"I know you are, but the fine people at Chimera Publishing will still be there next week. I want you to come to London."
Arthur rubbed his mouth with the tips of his fingers. "Eames, working."
"The Duke and Duchess are having a party. I am required by genetics to attend and I'm tired of them thinking you're an apparition from my hedonistic days at Winchester. Say you'll come."
Arthur stared at the phone in his hand. Since when did Eames talk about his family? Since when did he ever even see them? And what did that have to do with Arthur? "This must be a bad connection. You want me to meet your family?"
There was a moment of silence like it was a bad connection. As though the call had been dropped. And then Eames spoke up. "So you're declining the invitation."
There was a sharp edge to Eames' voice.
Arthur put it down to the distance. "Yeah. Yes, I am. But thanks anyway."
To alleviate Arthur's restlessness, Cobb puts him in touch with Saito.
Saito sends a plane to pick Arthur up from LAX.
Arthur packs for Tokyo and instead finds himself in Ayrshire, Scotland.
When a Land Rover drops Arthur off at the entrance of what could only be called a castle, he stands there for several moments, suit jacket over his arm and luggage at his feet, staring up at the stone behemoth before him.
When the door opens with a bang, Arthur immediately reaches for the gun he put in his luggage, because even he wasn't going to sit on a plane for fifteen hours with a Glock handle digging into his lower spine.
"Isn't it the most insane thing ever?" Ariadne's wearing a wool sweater and green Wellingtons with mud on them. Her hair is piled on top of her head and she's grinning from ear to ear.
"We're in Scotland," Arthur says, bemused.
"Yeah, Saito bought this place because he's decided he wants to try fly fishing now."
Arthur picks up his bag and shakes his head. "This isn't a place, this is a separate country."
Ariadne smiles. He's missed her smile. "It's called Blairquhan Estate," she says. "I can't believe he bought a place that comes with its own name."
It's disingenuous to say that Arthur didn't have any intentions when he first started sleeping with Eames, but he could generously say that he had good intentions.
The problem with good intentions, however, is that, like flowers, they die.
They are four for dinner and have quail and local produce prepared by Saito's cook, Mrs. Maxwell. Mrs. Maxwell and her family have been the caretakers of Blairquhan for generations and Saito sees no reason to replace them.
Ariadne regales them with tales of her exorbitant post-inception spending, which apparently comes down to paying off her school loans and investing in a new MacBook Pro, a collection of Escher drawings and a tour of Grecian temples that she's planning to take next month.
"I feel like it'll be good to get a different perspective on my spaces," she says about her upcoming excursion to Athens. "And then I want to tour the Geary houses in California and go to Mumbai. The way that all those people live so close together. There has to be some sort of trick to that sort of mass population in such a small space. It could be useful."
"I would be happy to fund your trips," Saito says.
Ariadne laughs. "You're already paying for those trips."
"Yes, but it could be a business expenditure."
"A tax-deductible one," Yusuf says, spearing several green beans.
"I would consider it more of an investment in your future."
"You mean an investment that could benefit your future the next time you hire me," Ariadne says triumphantly.
"I would consider it an investment that could benefit us both," Saito says graciously.
Arthur just sips at his wine, a lovely Pinot Noir. He's not particularly hungry at the moment.
"It is just like old times," Yusuf says.
"Not quite," Arthur says automatically.
He's thinking of Cobb. Not Eames.
"You started without me? I think I'm hurt."
Every hair on the back of Arthur's neck stands up and a headache he didn't know he had pounds in his skull as though attempting to break out of his cranium.
Arthur's back is to the dining room entrance, so he has to to turn around. Has to look to see Eames standing under the rosewood archway wearing what has to be one of the most exquisite coats Arthur's ever seen.
"Wow," Ariadne says, saving Arthur the trouble of embarrassing himself. "You look amazing. What happened to you?"
Eames smirks as he pulls a spare chair up between Ariadne and Yusuf. "I've missed you, too," he says, unbuttoning a three-quarter length green wool coat and draping it over the back of the chair before dropping down and stealing a green bean from Ariadne's plate.
"You are matching." Yusuf makes no attempt to hide his astonishment.
In fact, he reaches over and touches the shoulder of Eames' dark suit. "What is this? It is very nice."
"Ozwald Boateng," Eames says with a shrug.
"What is Ozwald Boateng?"
"Not what," Saito corrects. "Who."
"He's a designer," Arthur says. "He does bespoke. His work is very cutting edge."
"It's all right," Eames says with a shrug.
"All right," Arthur parrots. "Are you serious? Do you have any idea what you're wearing?"
Boateng isn't necessarily Arthur's style; he prefers a more sedate color palette, but the talent is undeniable.
"We used to drink together," Eames says, swiping Yusuf's glass of water. "He sends me stuff sometimes."
"So when you are not being dressed by your friends, you look like a homeless person by choice," Yusuf says.
Eames laughs. "I suppose that's one way to look at it, yes."
Arthur white-knuckles his wine glass and keeps drinking.
Under the table he extracts a tiny red die from his waistcoat pocket and rubs the pad of his thumb against the white circles etched on the sides.
After Arthur refused to escort Eames to his parents' party in London, Arthur didn't hear from him for almost a month.
It was one of the longest periods of time Arthur could remember, but that was neither here nor there.
After Arthur finished in Montserrat he retreated to his pied-à-terre in Paris. He spent his mornings at the Musée d'Orsay and his afternoons walking through arrondissement des Gobelins looking at the high-rise architecture. In the evenings he would read Le Monde in various parks and determinedly not kick the yapping dogs that liked to sniff at his ankles and put their wet noses against the hem of his trousers.
It was a Tuesday when Eames showed up at the museum.
Arthur was in galerie Lille looking at the Rodin.
"I prefer the Bartholomé myself," a familiar voice said behind him.
When Arthur turned around, not only was Eames there, but he was clean-shaven and wearing a perfectly constructed black suit that made Arthur's palms sweat. "What are you wearing?" Arthur said by way of greeting.
Eames smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Zegna."
Arthur swore under his breath.
Hideous clothes on a beautiful person did nothing to make them less attractive; it was just a beautiful person in hideous clothes. And yet Eames' plaid collars and paisley, green tweed and mustard-colored diamond prints were far and away preferable to Eames wearing something Arthur would own himself.
Eames in something tacky and horrific would always be easier to brush aside than Eames in Yves Saint Laurent, Burberry Prorsum or god forbid, Ozwald Boateng.
Boateng and Eames would be a perfect marriage of personality, color and taste.
Eames in Ozwald Boateng would be like somebody injecting Arthur with a vial full of Viagra.
The Zegna was bad enough.
They didn't leave Arthur's flat for four days and then that was only because they ran out of condoms.
The Scotland job is not inception, therefore the job is simple.
Arthur has no idea when political espionage and fraud became the simple part of his life.
Arthur still doesn't understand what their second argument was about. He doesn't remember what he said, he doesn't remember what he did, he just remembers that perfect storm of hurt and anger and disappointment on Eames' face.
But that's how life goes.
People won't remember what you said; people won't remember what you did; but they will always -- always -- remember how you made them feel.
Maya Angelou was right.
They're on a train. Yusuf, Eames, Ariadne and Arthur. It's the ScotRail that will to take them from Aberdeen to Edinburgh. First they had to take Saito's Land Rover from Ayrshire to Glasgow and then they had to grab a train from Glasgow to Aberdeen.
They are now sharing a car with the MP from Aberdeen.
There are some concerns that Mrs. Pamela Lawrence has been unduly influenced by outside factors: namely the very hefty sum paid by a Chinese company that would like to export a vast amount of their product to Scotland, lead content be damned.
All those years ago when Mal and Dom and Eames and Arthur went to Monaco, when Phillipa was small and James didn't exist, Mal and Arthur had drinks at the Hotel Monte Carlo.
The hotel was beautiful, the view of this part of the Riviera amazing. They were partaking of an exorbitantly priced bottle of Clos Du Mesnil 1995 that would've been wasted on Eames and Dom, and as the sun set Mal leaned conspiratorially across the table and smiled with too many teeth. "Do you know what it means to be a lover, Arthur?"
Arthur looked at Mal, smirked, and then reached out and pulled her champagne flute over to his side of the table. "I think you've had enough."
"I'm serious," she said. "You and Eames. You are in love, yes?"
Arthur could feel the blood drain out of his face. "We're not in love," he said automatically.
Mal gave him the most piercing look he'd ever had the misfortune to experience.
Arthur pushed the flute back across the table, but Mal ignored it, so he looked away.
"Arthur," she said, her voice soft, coaxing.
He sighed, but met her gaze anyway.
"You do not know," she said after a moment.
She sounded surprised. Disappointed.
Corporate espionage is not simple.
Sometimes Arthur is inexplicably stupid about little things. It's hard enough when his stupidity just affects him, but when there are people with guns who would very much like to put a double tap through Eames' skull and by extension, Arthur's skull and Ariadne's skull and Yusuf's skull, that's a lot harder to take.
It doesn't matter whether it's in a dream-state or in the real world, it's still stressful.
And while the MP from Aberdeen may not be militarized, the six younger brothers she grew up with are certainly close enough to an organized army to cause discomfort.
Arthur wakes up gasping for air. Drowning is really not his favorite method of dying.
His fingers are cramped and it takes him a minute to realize it's because he's got a death grip on Eames' forearm. "I didn't know you cared," Eames' tone is light, but his eyes are dark, worried.
"I do," Arthur blurts out.
Eames stares.
"I do have it," Arthur adds hastily. "The information. I have it."
"Ah," Eames says. "Of course."
Arthur thinks he just did something inexplicably stupid again. "Eames," he begins, only to be stopped by Eames prying Arthur's fingers from his arm.
"Well, if that's all I'm needed for, I'll just be off then."
Eames has left the car before Arthur can even figure out what happened.
"You should not let him leave in this manner," Yusuf warns.
Arthur didn't even notice him sitting there. Three feet away. With the PASIV case on his lap. And a sedated Pamela Lawrence at his side.
"What do you expect me to do?" Arthur says.
His words should be sharp, no-nonsense; instead he sounds confused and lost.
Even to his own ears. Especially to his own ears.
After their fourth disagreement -- no, it was a fight. It was most definitely a fight. After their fourth fight Eames stopped calling. And Arthur, well, Arthur didn't like the phone anyway.
Saito drives Arthur to Glasgow Airport.
Eames disappeared the moment the job was finished, but both Yusuf and Ariadne have decided to stay on at Blairquhan for a few more days. Apparently Yusuf has developed his own appreciation for fly fishing and Ariadne thinks Scotland is a fabulous place to do revisions for her course work.
"He cares for you very much," Saito says before they're even off the property.
"I know," Arthur admits. There's no point in acting ignorant.
"And you care for him, too."
"Yes." It feels strange to say it out loud when he's never even said it to himself, but that doesn't make it any less true.
"Then you must make amends."
"I know."
"Do not know: do."
Arthur laughs despite himself. "Okay, Yoda."
Saito's smile is all white teeth. "You mock, but he is very smart for a green puppet."
Arthur didn't get it before, but he gets it now.
Arthur takes Saito's plane to London. It's on his way home, sort of. He has an address for Eames in Hampstead, but the curtains are wide open and he can see a film of dust on an antique sideboard and a cheap IKEA table.
Arthur breaks in because he can. Picking a lock is hardly his most serious crime.
There's mail all over the floor behind the door. Arthur steps over it and directly into the foyer. There are pictures on the wall. More pictures than Arthur ever would've expected. There are a man and woman who feature prominently in the photos. Arthur assumes those are Eames' parents. But there are also photos of Eames.
Lots of photos of Eames.
There's Eames missing two front teeth and holding a puppy with an ecstatic expression on his face. There's teenage Eames with a bloody nose and grass stains, flanked by four other boys and holding something that might be a rugby ball.
There are pictures of Eames with women and men, old and young, every race imaginable.
Arthur's so busy staring at a photo of what he thinks is Eames as a baby in a bathtub, that he almost misses the photo right below it of him. Of them.
Mal had taken it in Monaco the day after they'd had their little conversation at the Hotel Monte Carlo.
They'd been walking through the city, the four of them, because the mark was fucking his mistress back at the hotel and with Monsieur Durand's penchant for Viagra they had at least a few hours to kill.
Arthur remembers they'd had to take the photo several times because Eames was pawing him, or Eames was pinching him, and finally Arthur had twisted Eames' left arm behind his back and grabbed his right hand and held Eames in front of him and slightly to his left where he could see him, and then Eames had just turned his face and kissed Arthur on the cheek.
Mal burst out laughing. Dom chuckled. Eames grinned and Arthur rolled his eyes.
And this is the photo that Mal took.
This is the photo that Arthur takes with him when he leaves. Frame and all.
Being a lover is about compromise.
How Arthur ends up at the London residence of the Duke and Duchess of ___________ is pretty damn simple. He finds the information and gets a black cab to South Kensington. He rings the doorbell and is greeted by the sound of yapping dogs.
He takes a step back.
The door is opened by a sixty-something woman with white hair and Eames' eyes. Arthur just spent two hours in Eames' house, looking at photos of his family, looking into his linen closet and bedroom and bathroom and kitchen cupboard.
Arthur would know Eames' mother anywhere.
"Yes?" she says in a clipped accent. "May I help you?"
Her haircut is short, stylish, and she raises an eyebrow when Arthur doesn't say anything.
Arthur opens his mouth and then pauses when he realizes his ankles are being inspected by a rather portly bulldog. "Rufus," the woman scolds. "Stop that at once."
Rufus sits down on his haunches and looks up at Arthur woefully. Arthur looks back at Rufus and then up at Eames' mother. "My name is Arthur," he says. "I'm looking for your son Eames."
Eames gets his smirk from his mother. That much is clear when she looks Arthur up and down rather obviously.
"Well, that explains that," she says. "Please come in, Arthur. We've been expecting you."
Being a lover is about work.
Eames is not in London.
In the two weeks that Arthur stays with the Duke and Duchess -- pardon, Patricia and Geoffrey -- Eames does not call, visit or write. However, Arthur does learn how to make Eames' favorite roasted chicken dish.
Arthur learns that Eames spoke French before he spoke English. He learns that Eames broke his left leg when he tried to fly when he was eight and that he dislocated his shoulder when he was thrown from a horse when he was fourteen.
Arthur learns about Eames' love of Star Trek, Doctor Who, the color green and his first cousins: Diana, Peter, Emma, Neal and Susannah, who all drop by to vet him.
They tell Arthur point blank that he's being vetted.
Arthur spends his days on the phone with his contacts and on the internet emailing anybody who he thinks might know where Eames is. That's when he's not drinking tea or lager or wine or scotch whiskey and eating too many cookies.
Saito offers to put his people on it. Arthur points out that he is Saito's people.
Being a lover is about wanting the best for the person you're with.
It's about proving that you are that best.
Eventually, Arthur leaves London, but he promises to come back soon. With Eames. Even if he has to drag him by his hair.
He goes to Paris, but Ariadne has no idea where Eames is.
Which is the same thing she's told him every day and twice on Sunday.
She sends him to Mombasa.
In Mombasa, Yusuf introduces Arthur to a rather motley assortment of people whom Eames might call friends. They all eye Arthur with great curiosity, and some, with blatant hostility.
But none of them have seen Eames either.
Yusuf sends him to St. Petersburg.
Apparently Eames has always professed a special fondness for the city.
Arthur doesn't bother to tell Yusuf that this is the city where he first fucked Eames.
Or that this is the city where Eames first fucked him.
He doesn't mention that in St. Petersburg Arthur discovered the sensitive spot on Eames' shoulder that makes him moan or that in the bathroom of Room 317 of the Corinthia Nevsky Palace Hotel Eames asked Arthur to touch himself while Eames watched. That Arthur jacked off to his own reflection in the bathroom mirror while Eames sat on the counter by the sink and told Arthur he was the most beautiful thing that Eames had ever seen.
That Eames pressed up against Arthur's back and wrapped his hand around Arthur's; that he ordered Arthur to watch while Eames touched him.
That Arthur almost collapsed when he came and Eames held him up.
That Eames refused to let him go.
Except Eames isn't in St. Petersburg either.
Being a lover is not about being selfish. Being a lover is not about you. It is about us.
Arthur knows Eames isn't in Monaco. He knows this. It doesn't stop him from going anyway.
It doesn't stop him from stalking around the town trying to find the exact location that matches the photo he liberated from Eames' home. He walks around for four days, but he can't find it because views change and cities change, and at one point Arthur is coming around the corner looking left when he should look right and he runs into a woman and drops the photo.
The glass shatters.
The woman apologizes profusely.
Arthur assures her that these things happen. That the frame can be replaced. All he cares about is the photograph, which he rescues. He turns it over in his hands, feeling a real photo and not a digital re-creation on computer paper. Mal loved real photos; she refused to go digital.
His breath catches at what's written on the back of the photo in black Sharpie.
A relationship is built on us.
Arthur gets home on a Thursday.
For five weeks he has traveled around the world trying to find Eames. He has exhausted himself, his resources, a fair amount of his bank account and sanity and at least six pilots that Saito has put at his disposal along with one of his Gulf Stream jets.
Mrs. Markel is standing outside the front door, holding a handbag that's larger than she is. When she sees Arthur she smiles beatifically. "Enjoying yourself, dear?"
Arthur thinks about the garment bag digging into his left arm, the rolling suitcase attached to his right hand and the exhaustion pounding behind his eyelids. "Of course," he says.
"So glad to hear it," she says. "I worry about you, you know."
Arthur pauses in trying to juggle his luggage to extract his keys from his pocket. "You don't have to worry about me," he says.
Mrs. Markel gives him a smile. "Not anymore."
Arthur nods absently as he finally manages to open the door to the building.
There is no food in Arthur's loft; no Geoffrey with a large decanter of whiskey or Patricia with a cup of tea. There's no Ariadne dragging him out to the cafe on the corner because he can't lock himself in her apartment all day, and did he at least change his suit from yesterday?
He can just imagine how stifling the air is going to feel.
Maybe he should check into a hotel tonight.
He's not expecting to roll back his front door and find his loft in shambles, clothes on the floor, Prince blaring from his stereo, all four of his ceiling fans whirring away rapidly and Eames cooking in his kitchen.
The place looks like a tornado hit it.
Eames looks up and grins. "Darling, you're home."
Arthur drops all of his luggage on the floor. "Where the hell have you been?" he demands.
Eames holds up a finger, tastes some of whatever's cooking on the stove and then sets the spoon down on Arthur's counter. He doesn't even use the spoon rest, but he does turn off "I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man" on the iPod.
"Where do you think I've been?" Eames gestures to the room at large.
Arthur yanks the door shut behind him. Or he attempts to, but it's a shockingly heavy door -- that's why he got it in the first place -- and he nearly dislocates his shoulder.
Eames wipes his hands on a tea towel, leans back against the counter and crosses his legs at the ankles, watching dispassionately as Arthur strides towards him.
He's wearing a simple black t-shirt and dark jeans. There are no holes, no colors, no fraying hems, no garish logos and no discernible labels.
Arthur's hands are twitching with adrenaline, his heart beating in his throat. "I have been looking everywhere for you," he says, his voice shaking with anger.
Eames' face is blank. A perfect poker face. "Have you now? Well, here I am."
"This isn't a fucking joke!" Arthur shouts.
Eames' hand wraps around Arthur's fist before he even realizes that he's swung. Arthur's breath is coming hard and fast; he can't get enough air.
"It is not a joke," Eames says, lowering Arthur's hand to his side before letting him go. "I agree."
Arthur rubs his mouth with the tips of his fingers. "I went everywhere looking for you," he says helplessly. "I went to your house. I went to your parents. Ariadne. Yusuf. Mombasa. St. Petersburg. Monte Carlo."
"I know."
"And your mother said you're not to --"
Arthur stops himself because something just occurred to him. "You know," he repeats.
Eames licks lips and shifts against the counter. "I know."
Arthur holds up a finger. He needs a time out. A big time out. "Hold on." He turns away, unbuttoning his suit jacket. He stalks towards the kitchen table, removes his jacket and hangs it over the back of one of the perfectly upholstered steel chairs. He unbuttons his waistcoat and hangs that up as well.
After those fifteen buttons -- thank you, Jil Sander for being excessive this season -- his breathing returns to normal. He checks the tiny red die in his pocket, removes his cufflinks, sets them down on the table and then he turns back to Eames and walks towards him, rolling up his sleeves as he advances.
Eames eyes him warily.
"Let's start over again," Arthur suggests. "I've been looking all over the world for you and you know this."
Eames nods.
"How do you know this?"
"My mum told me."
"You've talked to your mother?"
"She's my mum; of course I talk to her."
"Did you talk to her when I was there?"
Eames scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah."
Arthur rubs his forehead. "Is she the only one?"
"The only one what?"
"Who knows that you've been here while I've been on a wild goose chase?"
Eames winces. "Ah, no. Definitely not the only one."
Arthur can feel the scowl on his face. "Who else?"
Eames shakes his head. "You don't want me to tell you that; it'll only end with you threatening homicide and me finding it endearing."
"Who. Else?"
Eames rolls back his shoulders and begins to tick off names. "Cobb, Ariadne, Saito, Yusuf, my father, Neal, Diana, Emma, Peter, Susannah, Mrs. Maxwell. My old nanny. Your third grade teacher. Mrs. Markel -- lovely woman by the way, said she had a threesome with the real James Dean."
Arthur opens his mouth once, twice, and then he looses something perilously close to a deranged laugh. "So I've been chasing a ghost because everybody thinks I'm an unworthy asshole and they decided to let me suffer."
Eames smirks. "No, not everyone. Phillipa and James are on your side."
"Are you?"
Eames rolls his eyes. "Always."
Arthur cups Eames' cheek with his hand, rubs his thumb along the cheekbone, the corner of his mouth.
He can feel the warm air when Eames exhales. "You have been rather dense, you must admit. Even for you."
"For me?"
"You are a brilliant man, but you are terrible at this relationship business."
Arthur would defend himself, but it's pointless. "You're right."
"I'm right," Eames repeats slowly and then pauses. "Yes, of course I'm right," he says, smiling broadly.
"You don't have to gloat."
"I have you, of course I'm going to gloat about it shamelessly. If you wanted someone subtle you wouldn't be with me, now would you?"
Arthur frowns, and then he kisses Eames because he needs to. It's as simple as that.
Except Arthur's too fast and Eames isn't ready. Their mouths collide and it's sharp, brutal and off-kilter, everything and nothing like their first kiss.
It's better now because Arthur knows what the hell he's got.
Eames hands splay across his chest because they're caught between their bodies, and Arthur holds onto Eames with both hands, fingers digging into his lower back and cupping the nape of his neck.
Eames moans, his leg trapped between Arthur's thighs and Arthur licks his way into Eames mouth, slipping past every time he didn't pay attention to what Eames was trying to say and every time he thought that this wasn't important.
This isn't just important; it's vital.
It's the most important thing he has, may ever have.
"It's okay," Eames murmurs against Arthur's jaw.
"No, it's not," Arthur admits, mouthing the side of Eames' neck.
When he nuzzles behind Eames' left ear, Arthur can hear him sigh, can feel the shudder.
Eames' neck gives Arthur a complex. It always has.
On a torso sharply delineated by tattoos, Eames' neck is completely flawless. It's a long, clean expanse of skin where the tendons pull when Eames cocks his head to the side. It's impossible to ignore. Impossible not to want to touch. Taste.
When they were together, before all of this, Arthur could spend hours kissing Eames' neck and Eames would make these noises, these beautiful noises that Arthur wanted to capture and keep locked away forever.
Now all Arthur wants is to leave bruises all over Eames' neck, teeth marks and long red scratches at the nape, blatant proof that Eames is someone's property.
His property.
"I am not your property," Eames sounds aggrieved.
Arthur lifts his head. He did not say that out loud. Did he? "Pardon?"
Eames smirks. "Pardon?" he mocks, "You've been spending entirely too much time with my mum. That's probably why she can't shut up about how lovely you are."
"Your mom likes me?"
"My mum adores you," Eames corrects. "If she were a bit younger we might have to have a bit of a chat about her staying away from my man."
"I'm your man?"
"Is that a question?"
"Yes." A beat. "No." Another beat. "Yes."
"Well, if you don't know, who does?"
Arthur thinks this over. "What does it mean if I'm your man?"
Eames' eyes soften. "It means that sometimes I have to protect you from yourself."
Arthur nods. "And is that what this was?" he gestures around the room. Why is there a shirt hanging from one of the fans and how has it not flown off yet?
"Is that what you think it was?"
"No," Arthur says. "No, this was something else."
"So what was it?"
"A wake-up call."
Eames sucks on his lower lip. Arthur has to reach out and touch. He smiles when Eames nips at the pad of his thumb. "So are you awake now?" Eames says.
"Absolutely."
Eames exhales dramatically. "Well thank fuck for that, because I've been locked up in here for five weeks making you suffer -- albeit it very enjoyably -- and am gagging for a holiday. What do you think? St. Petersburg is lovely this time of year."
Arthur pulls something from the left pocket of his trousers. "We could go there," he agrees before showing Eames a shiny, creased piece of photo paper. "Or we could go back here."
Eames stares at the picture in Arthur's hand.
"You stole my photo," he says accusingly.
"Our photo," Arthur corrects
Patches of color appear high on Eames' cheeks. "Our photo."
"I guess you'll just have to take another."
"Will you be naked in this one?"
"Depends," Arthur says, pulling away from Eames and then thinking better of it and tugging him along by the hem of his shirt toward the stove. "What're we having for dinner?"
"Well, I'm having you, naked, in your bed. Twice. Probably three times. And then a brief respite followed by more sex. And then I might have a sandwich."
Arthur lifts the lid on the pot Eames was tinkering with. It smells like heaven in kelly green Le Creuset. "Throw in two bowls of this and a promise to clean up the mess you've made of my loft and you have a deal," he says.
"I see you're learning how this relationships thing works."
Arthur leans into the touch when Eames strokes his hairline. "I'm trying," he says.
When Eames grins, it reaches his eyes. "That's what counts."
-end-
Beta work by the most irreplaceable maurheti with pickiness and approval by lazlet.
Backstory of Eames as the son of old money provided courtesy of Chris Nolan and lazlet. Blairquhan Estate provided by maurheti.
The idea of this story came to me when I was running on the treadmill and watching the Star Trek: Reboot. For the three of you who haven't seen the reboot, the Kobayashi Maru is a no-win situation training test. It's designed to get people accustomed to failure. To being unable to fix something despite their best efforts. Their best intentions. Kirk ends up beating the program by hacking the system and rewriting the test. Being in a relationship is like that: sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do to get what you need.
Anybody who recognizes the paraphrased Mobb Deep 'Shook Ones Pt. II' lyric gets a cookie.
This is Ozwald Boateng's blog. His website is being revamped before Fashion Week, but trust, his shit is amazing.
Inception
Arthur/Eames
R
Kobayashi Maru
"Eames is in Mombasa."
Arthur knows that those four words are nothing more to Cobb than a location.
A factual reply.
Cobb knew Arthur would know where Eames is. He asked because he knew Arthur would have an answer. Coordinates. Potentially an address. Probably a phone number. But Arthur doesn't have any of those things.
Despite whatever rumors may abound, Arthur is neither prescient nor omnipotent. He doesn't have all the answers; he doesn't even have most of the answers. He is simply very good at obtaining very specific facts and data, and to this particular question, Arthur happens to be in possession of the right answer.
Cobb nods; Arthur goes back to work.
He focuses intently on the preliminary dossier Saito's people have created on Robert Fischer. It's a good start, an excellent start, but it's barely the tip of what Arthur is going to have to come up with. So Arthur looks for the cracks and crevices, the gaps in the timeline and the people who pop up repeatedly, not because he hasn't gone through this file six times already but because now his attention is splintering and he has to work just that little bit harder to keep himself on task.
Arthur went to Mombasa once and stayed at a house in Kizingo. It had a wraparound porch and palm trees and an enormous double hammock in a backyard surrounded by a high white fence.
The city itself was beautiful, right on the Indian Ocean and full of beaches and sun.
The weather was prohibitively hot, but he hadn't minded.
Apparently "Mombasa" comes from the Arabic "Manbasa."
In Swahili, the other official language of Kenya, Mombasa is called "Kisiwa Cha Mvita" which means "Island of War."
Go figure.
Everything ends. Sometimes it ends with a bang. A shot to the head, a snap of the neck, a knife to the gut. Sometimes things end much more quietly. With a whimper or a muffled noise. Sometimes the ending comes with nothing more than the sound of an IV being extracted from a wrist, a lead being wrapped up and the clasps on a very expensive protective case closing with a snap.
"Arthur."
"Eames."
They are nothing if not professionals. Eames may live by an incredibly flexible moral code, and Arthur may adhere strictly to the moral code he's constructed despite stealing for a living, but there is no such thing as a halfway crook.
When Eames arrives at the warehouse in Paris, Arthur doesn't avoid him. He doesn't flush or fluster or scowl, he acknowledges the arrival. The new dynamic. He makes the required small talk.
"Lovely day outside," Eames says.
Arthur removes his left cufflink and begins to roll up his sleeve. "I hadn't noticed."
Eames makes an amused sound. "No, I don't suppose you would."
Arthur removes his right cufflink and rolls up his other sleeve to his elbow.
Eames' stubble is the same as ever. The bright eyes and pink mouth are just as alluring.
Perhaps more so considering how long Arthur's deprived himself of them.
Arthur can admit these things. He always could.
He is not a dense man.
"You look gorgeous, as always." Eames' smile is honest, simple. If the action pains Eames at all, it doesn't show.
Arthur takes in the green tweed. The pink paisley.
Eames' fashion sense has always appalled him. It's one part old money that doesn't give a fuck and two parts I am gorgeous enough that I don't need to apply to myself to the sort of sartorial practices that everyone else employs.
It's indescribably aggravating.
"I wish I could say the same about you," Arthur replies.
Eames' mouth quirks at the corners, but the amusement doesn't reach his eyes. "Just the same as ever I see."
"Some things don't change," Arthur says before he turns back to his desk.
He could use a cup of coffee.
Their first kiss was behind a warehouse in Prague. It was autumn and the weather was lovely; crisp and clear and radiant. The sky was blue like it only is in paint spectrums and dreams, and the air was perfect in the way that's never too cold and never too hot.
Eames was attempting to quit smoking again. They were talking about music and art and sports: Jay-Z and Tchaikovsky, Matisse and Magritte, Chelsea... and Chelsea.
Eames was chewing on a toothpick.
Arthur hated that habit even more than the smoking.
Eames was making some sort of argument about something that Arthur doesn't remember anymore. Arthur was focusing on the fucking toothpick. After the fifth time Eames had taken the toothpick out of his mouth to twirl it between his fingers, Arthur knocked it out of his hand and then grabbed Eames' wrist and yanked him forward.
Eames stumbled into his arms, punching him the shoulder gracelessly, and their mouths collided messily and off-center.
It was still a kiss.
Arthur doesn't mind Yusuf using him to tweak the Somnacin compound. He minds the part where every time he wakes up from the kick he's on the floor, his lower back is sore and Yusuf and Eames are standing around, gazing down at him with smiles on their lips.
Yusuf's smile is broad, easy-going. Amused.
Eames' smirk holds something else. Probably schadenfreude.
The fourth time Arthur ends up on his back, the left front leg of the chair actually comes off. Yusuf seems much more alarmed for the chair than Arthur. "You broke it," he says in dismay.
Arthur rolls his eyes. "And I'm fine, thanks for asking."
"Of course you are fine," Yusuf says dismissively. "You are like the Man of Steel; the chair not so much so. I will get you another."
Yusuf hurries off, and Arthur pushes himself into a sitting position that puts him at eye level with Eames' knees.
The right knee of Eames' brown glen-plaid trousers with the blue stripe is so threadbare Arthur can actually see the tanned skin of Eames' knee.
He has no idea why he feels so scandalized.
Instead he looks up at Eames, his mouth in a thin line. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"You have no idea how much," Eames says, offering Arthur a hand up.
The first time they had sex was in St. Petersburg.
Arthur was on top. Literally.
He pinned Eames down by his wrists and fucked himself on Eames cock, rode them both into the mattress. It was beautiful and perfect and sweaty and sticky and filthy. They were so fucking filthy. It was just what Arthur had always wanted:
Eames undone.
Eames unable to quip and retort. Eames willing to beg and plead and take.
No games, no flirtation, no facades, just raw and exposed.
And that is what he got.
Eames made the most obscene noises in bed; he babbled nonsense in English and French and a few particularly scintillating phrases in Latin that would've made Arthur roll his eyes if he wasn't so busy leaving bruises and half-moon shaped indentations on Eames' wrists.
Eventually Eames rolled him over and promised to make him scream. Promised to suck Arthur's condescension out through his cock and make him feel naked every time Eames looked at him.
It worked.
At least for a while.
At one point Arthur ended up on the floor and rather than bothering to haul Arthur back up onto one of the Corinthia Nevsky Palace Hotel's absurdly comfortable beds, Eames crawled onto the floor and ordered Arthur to fuck him, to make him pay for every flirtation, every innuendo, every sly insinuation.
So Arthur did.
He fucked Eames into the carpet and gave him the worst rug burn Arthur'd ever seen.
And then Arthur pulled out at at the last minute. He stripped off the condom and came all over Eames' stomach, rubbed the white spatters into the dark ink that demarcated Eames' skin and then stood up on unsteady legs and went to take a shower.
He never made it to said shower, but he did at least try.
Despite how it may appear, Eames is not liberal with his endearments. He is not careless with his affections and he does not give undue praise. He is sharp and attentive and horrifically observant. If you fuck up, he will know, and he may not say anything, but he will remember.
When they're attacked by Fischer's projections in the first level, Arthur has a moment where he contemplates conjuring up a samurai sword so he can commit seppuku.
Cobb's wrath is understandable, appropriate.
Eames materializing by Arthur's side with a grenade launcher is not quite so understandable, but still appropriate.
The fact that he calls Arthur "darling" for the first time in thirteen months, two weeks and six days is not quite so much so.
For a moment Arthur wants to reach out and grab Eames' bicep, spin him back around, haul him close and demand that he say it again.
All relationships are about narcissism. Especially sexual relationships. I like you because you like me. Amiableness, personality, sense of humor are all very good, and given time will hopefully replace this narcissism, but the foundation of a relationship is all about me me me.
I love how you love me.
In Arthur's dream the hotel is exquisite. The windows pristine, the furniture all dark and flawless wood, the bathrooms spotless and white. Arthur has a certain style about his work; a certain panache to what he does.
There's nothing wrong with knowing what you like. What you want. What you need.
When Eames lies down on the floor of Suite 529 Arthur kneels down beside him.
He wants to make a joke about being on top. About how much better Eames looks on his back. About how Eames is wearing far too many clothes for what they used to do on hotel floors.
There's a moment when he thinks Eames might be thinking the same thing.
Instead, Eames warns him to be careful.
Instead, Arthur tells Eames to go to sleep.
What happened was...
They're standing by the baggage claim carousel at LAX. Arthur is waiting for the second PASIV case to arrive. Cobb leaves; Fischer is collected by a Town Car driver. Saito is met by a very prim young man wearing a suit Arthur's been eying from this season's Dunhill collection.
Ariadne gives him a small smile before she vanishes into the ether with Yusuf.
And Eames, Eames is gone.
Arthur should be used to this by now.
By the time all is said and done, Arthur is alone.
He walks out into the glaring Los Angeles morning and takes a deep breath. Heat, pollution, poverty, the Pacific Ocean, money, greed, a desperate yearning for attention and recognition.
If you spend enough time in Los Angeles you can discern these things in the air.
Eames is in the queue for a taxi. Arthur joins him.
"Did you want to share one?" he asks.
Eames licks his lips. Arthur imagines he can still taste Eames on his tongue, feel Eames' hands on his back, Eames' mouth on his shoulder. "No, I don't think so," he says.
Arthur can feel the muscle jump in his temple. "Okay."
"Quite."
Eames produces a pair of sunglasses from somewhere and slips them on.
Arthur can see himself reflected in them.
This is neither the time nor the place for what he's about to do.
Then again, it's never been the time or the place for him.
That was always the problem. "Do you want to talk about this?"
Eames' lips twitch and an arched eyebrow peeks over the silver frame of his Ray-Bans. "Do you want to talk about this?" he repeats. "Exactly what 'this' do you wish to talk about, Arthur? Please, enlighten me. Philosophy, religion, theology, paradoxes, hypocrisy, name your choice."
Arthur opens his mouth and nothing comes out.
Eames' smirk is dangerously close to a sneer. "That's what I thought," he says as a yellow cab with a crushed bumper pulls up to the curb.
A young woman with a nose piercing and holding a clipboard looks up at them.
"Where're you going?" she asks, pen poised over her clipboard and waiting for an answer.
What happened was them.
They happened.
Or to be a bit more specific, they didn't happen.
At least not properly.
It's very hard to appreciate what you have if you don't know you have it.
Arthur has a loft in downtown L.A. by the criminal courts, MoCa and the Disney Concert Hall. The loft is enormous, all windows and space and light. Arthur's privacy is protected by a reinforced steel sliding door, plexiglass windows, specialized security that he installed himself and the curtains he had custom-made for his twenty foot ceilings.
Mrs. Markel from the second floor is leaving just as Arthur is dropped off by his cab. "It's so lovely to see you, dear," she says to him, blinking at him myopically and holding the door as he tries to deal with all of his bags.
Mrs. Markel calls Arthur "dear" because she doesn't know his name.
No one in this building does.
All his mail is addressed to James Dean.
Arthur never expected anything from Eames. If they were in the same city, they could get together if they wanted. If they weren't in the same city, Arthur didn't think much of it. There were no drawn-out conversations over the phone -- Arthur hates the phone, it's an awkward instrument. There were no obscene text messages, no joint vacations, no date nights. But there was dinner, and drinking, and breakfast in bed, and bar nights and Gregory Peck marathons on Turner Classic Movies. There was room service and foot rubs and the night that Arthur woke up with his face mashed into a pillow in Eames' lap and Eames stroking his hair while he watched Bonnie and Clyde at 4: 29 in the morning. But it was never serious. At least no one ever said it was serious.
Sometimes things have to be spelled out or they get missed.
It takes Arthur twelve days to become uncontrollably bored. He's cleaned the loft; he's cleaned his guns. He's reorganized his DVDs and added album art to all of the songs on his iPod (3,295). He's reactivated his Netflix account and watched all of season three of Mad Men. He's been to Anto and ordered six new shirts and to Turnbull & Asser for three new suits, including the Dunhill he saw Saito's aide wearing.
He's earned it.
Arthur assumes Eames is probably drunk under a roulette table somewhere in Monaco. Not that it matters. That's done. Eames made that very clear. He always did like Monaco though.
They did a job there together once. It was a long time ago, when Mal was alive and Arthur didn't mind Eames replacing everything in his wardrobe with linen suits as long as he got his clothes back before they left.
Arthur goes to visit Cobb not because he's checking in on him or because he's coming down from the inception high and feeling maudlin and antsy, but because as James' godfather Arthur made a promise to Mal.
"I was thinking about taking a job," Arthur says as Phillipa adjusts the pink plastic crown she's placed on his head for tea.
Cobb smirks as he picks up a plastic teacup with blue flowers on it. "You look bored."
"I didn't say I was bored."
"No, you didn't," Cobb admits.
Cobb, on the other hand, looks anything but bored.
For the first time in a long time he looks alive and not like a hollowed-out shell.
"What does Eames think?"
Arthur jerks when Phillipa pokes him in the ear. "What does Eames have to do with it?"
Cobb's forehead wrinkles. "I just thought since," he pauses. "Aren't you two back together?"
"We were never together in the first -- "
Arthur's cut off by James racing in wearing a red cape tied around his neck. He flings himself onto Arthur's lap and kicks Arthur in the shin.
Arthur winces; Cobb grins.
"Why don't you bring Uncle Eames to see us anymore?" Phillipa asks.
"Eames!" James says excitedly. He scrambles upright on Arthur's lap, using Arthur's tie as leverage and nearly garroting Arthur in the process. "Eames! Eames! Eames!"
Arthur looks at Cobb. "Subtle."
Their first disagreement was over a party. It was utterly ridiculous.
Arthur was working in Montserrat when Eames called.
"Why are you calling?" Arthur said by way of greeting.
"Well, hello to you, too." Eames laughed.
Eames had the most infectious laugh. Warm and intimate and not what Arthur needed in the middle of a job. "I'm working."
"I know you are, but the fine people at Chimera Publishing will still be there next week. I want you to come to London."
Arthur rubbed his mouth with the tips of his fingers. "Eames, working."
"The Duke and Duchess are having a party. I am required by genetics to attend and I'm tired of them thinking you're an apparition from my hedonistic days at Winchester. Say you'll come."
Arthur stared at the phone in his hand. Since when did Eames talk about his family? Since when did he ever even see them? And what did that have to do with Arthur? "This must be a bad connection. You want me to meet your family?"
There was a moment of silence like it was a bad connection. As though the call had been dropped. And then Eames spoke up. "So you're declining the invitation."
There was a sharp edge to Eames' voice.
Arthur put it down to the distance. "Yeah. Yes, I am. But thanks anyway."
To alleviate Arthur's restlessness, Cobb puts him in touch with Saito.
Saito sends a plane to pick Arthur up from LAX.
Arthur packs for Tokyo and instead finds himself in Ayrshire, Scotland.
When a Land Rover drops Arthur off at the entrance of what could only be called a castle, he stands there for several moments, suit jacket over his arm and luggage at his feet, staring up at the stone behemoth before him.
When the door opens with a bang, Arthur immediately reaches for the gun he put in his luggage, because even he wasn't going to sit on a plane for fifteen hours with a Glock handle digging into his lower spine.
"Isn't it the most insane thing ever?" Ariadne's wearing a wool sweater and green Wellingtons with mud on them. Her hair is piled on top of her head and she's grinning from ear to ear.
"We're in Scotland," Arthur says, bemused.
"Yeah, Saito bought this place because he's decided he wants to try fly fishing now."
Arthur picks up his bag and shakes his head. "This isn't a place, this is a separate country."
Ariadne smiles. He's missed her smile. "It's called Blairquhan Estate," she says. "I can't believe he bought a place that comes with its own name."
It's disingenuous to say that Arthur didn't have any intentions when he first started sleeping with Eames, but he could generously say that he had good intentions.
The problem with good intentions, however, is that, like flowers, they die.
They are four for dinner and have quail and local produce prepared by Saito's cook, Mrs. Maxwell. Mrs. Maxwell and her family have been the caretakers of Blairquhan for generations and Saito sees no reason to replace them.
Ariadne regales them with tales of her exorbitant post-inception spending, which apparently comes down to paying off her school loans and investing in a new MacBook Pro, a collection of Escher drawings and a tour of Grecian temples that she's planning to take next month.
"I feel like it'll be good to get a different perspective on my spaces," she says about her upcoming excursion to Athens. "And then I want to tour the Geary houses in California and go to Mumbai. The way that all those people live so close together. There has to be some sort of trick to that sort of mass population in such a small space. It could be useful."
"I would be happy to fund your trips," Saito says.
Ariadne laughs. "You're already paying for those trips."
"Yes, but it could be a business expenditure."
"A tax-deductible one," Yusuf says, spearing several green beans.
"I would consider it more of an investment in your future."
"You mean an investment that could benefit your future the next time you hire me," Ariadne says triumphantly.
"I would consider it an investment that could benefit us both," Saito says graciously.
Arthur just sips at his wine, a lovely Pinot Noir. He's not particularly hungry at the moment.
"It is just like old times," Yusuf says.
"Not quite," Arthur says automatically.
He's thinking of Cobb. Not Eames.
"You started without me? I think I'm hurt."
Every hair on the back of Arthur's neck stands up and a headache he didn't know he had pounds in his skull as though attempting to break out of his cranium.
Arthur's back is to the dining room entrance, so he has to to turn around. Has to look to see Eames standing under the rosewood archway wearing what has to be one of the most exquisite coats Arthur's ever seen.
"Wow," Ariadne says, saving Arthur the trouble of embarrassing himself. "You look amazing. What happened to you?"
Eames smirks as he pulls a spare chair up between Ariadne and Yusuf. "I've missed you, too," he says, unbuttoning a three-quarter length green wool coat and draping it over the back of the chair before dropping down and stealing a green bean from Ariadne's plate.
"You are matching." Yusuf makes no attempt to hide his astonishment.
In fact, he reaches over and touches the shoulder of Eames' dark suit. "What is this? It is very nice."
"Ozwald Boateng," Eames says with a shrug.
"What is Ozwald Boateng?"
"Not what," Saito corrects. "Who."
"He's a designer," Arthur says. "He does bespoke. His work is very cutting edge."
"It's all right," Eames says with a shrug.
"All right," Arthur parrots. "Are you serious? Do you have any idea what you're wearing?"
Boateng isn't necessarily Arthur's style; he prefers a more sedate color palette, but the talent is undeniable.
"We used to drink together," Eames says, swiping Yusuf's glass of water. "He sends me stuff sometimes."
"So when you are not being dressed by your friends, you look like a homeless person by choice," Yusuf says.
Eames laughs. "I suppose that's one way to look at it, yes."
Arthur white-knuckles his wine glass and keeps drinking.
Under the table he extracts a tiny red die from his waistcoat pocket and rubs the pad of his thumb against the white circles etched on the sides.
After Arthur refused to escort Eames to his parents' party in London, Arthur didn't hear from him for almost a month.
It was one of the longest periods of time Arthur could remember, but that was neither here nor there.
After Arthur finished in Montserrat he retreated to his pied-à-terre in Paris. He spent his mornings at the Musée d'Orsay and his afternoons walking through arrondissement des Gobelins looking at the high-rise architecture. In the evenings he would read Le Monde in various parks and determinedly not kick the yapping dogs that liked to sniff at his ankles and put their wet noses against the hem of his trousers.
It was a Tuesday when Eames showed up at the museum.
Arthur was in galerie Lille looking at the Rodin.
"I prefer the Bartholomé myself," a familiar voice said behind him.
When Arthur turned around, not only was Eames there, but he was clean-shaven and wearing a perfectly constructed black suit that made Arthur's palms sweat. "What are you wearing?" Arthur said by way of greeting.
Eames smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Zegna."
Arthur swore under his breath.
Hideous clothes on a beautiful person did nothing to make them less attractive; it was just a beautiful person in hideous clothes. And yet Eames' plaid collars and paisley, green tweed and mustard-colored diamond prints were far and away preferable to Eames wearing something Arthur would own himself.
Eames in something tacky and horrific would always be easier to brush aside than Eames in Yves Saint Laurent, Burberry Prorsum or god forbid, Ozwald Boateng.
Boateng and Eames would be a perfect marriage of personality, color and taste.
Eames in Ozwald Boateng would be like somebody injecting Arthur with a vial full of Viagra.
The Zegna was bad enough.
They didn't leave Arthur's flat for four days and then that was only because they ran out of condoms.
The Scotland job is not inception, therefore the job is simple.
Arthur has no idea when political espionage and fraud became the simple part of his life.
Arthur still doesn't understand what their second argument was about. He doesn't remember what he said, he doesn't remember what he did, he just remembers that perfect storm of hurt and anger and disappointment on Eames' face.
But that's how life goes.
People won't remember what you said; people won't remember what you did; but they will always -- always -- remember how you made them feel.
Maya Angelou was right.
They're on a train. Yusuf, Eames, Ariadne and Arthur. It's the ScotRail that will to take them from Aberdeen to Edinburgh. First they had to take Saito's Land Rover from Ayrshire to Glasgow and then they had to grab a train from Glasgow to Aberdeen.
They are now sharing a car with the MP from Aberdeen.
There are some concerns that Mrs. Pamela Lawrence has been unduly influenced by outside factors: namely the very hefty sum paid by a Chinese company that would like to export a vast amount of their product to Scotland, lead content be damned.
All those years ago when Mal and Dom and Eames and Arthur went to Monaco, when Phillipa was small and James didn't exist, Mal and Arthur had drinks at the Hotel Monte Carlo.
The hotel was beautiful, the view of this part of the Riviera amazing. They were partaking of an exorbitantly priced bottle of Clos Du Mesnil 1995 that would've been wasted on Eames and Dom, and as the sun set Mal leaned conspiratorially across the table and smiled with too many teeth. "Do you know what it means to be a lover, Arthur?"
Arthur looked at Mal, smirked, and then reached out and pulled her champagne flute over to his side of the table. "I think you've had enough."
"I'm serious," she said. "You and Eames. You are in love, yes?"
Arthur could feel the blood drain out of his face. "We're not in love," he said automatically.
Mal gave him the most piercing look he'd ever had the misfortune to experience.
Arthur pushed the flute back across the table, but Mal ignored it, so he looked away.
"Arthur," she said, her voice soft, coaxing.
He sighed, but met her gaze anyway.
"You do not know," she said after a moment.
She sounded surprised. Disappointed.
Corporate espionage is not simple.
Sometimes Arthur is inexplicably stupid about little things. It's hard enough when his stupidity just affects him, but when there are people with guns who would very much like to put a double tap through Eames' skull and by extension, Arthur's skull and Ariadne's skull and Yusuf's skull, that's a lot harder to take.
It doesn't matter whether it's in a dream-state or in the real world, it's still stressful.
And while the MP from Aberdeen may not be militarized, the six younger brothers she grew up with are certainly close enough to an organized army to cause discomfort.
Arthur wakes up gasping for air. Drowning is really not his favorite method of dying.
His fingers are cramped and it takes him a minute to realize it's because he's got a death grip on Eames' forearm. "I didn't know you cared," Eames' tone is light, but his eyes are dark, worried.
"I do," Arthur blurts out.
Eames stares.
"I do have it," Arthur adds hastily. "The information. I have it."
"Ah," Eames says. "Of course."
Arthur thinks he just did something inexplicably stupid again. "Eames," he begins, only to be stopped by Eames prying Arthur's fingers from his arm.
"Well, if that's all I'm needed for, I'll just be off then."
Eames has left the car before Arthur can even figure out what happened.
"You should not let him leave in this manner," Yusuf warns.
Arthur didn't even notice him sitting there. Three feet away. With the PASIV case on his lap. And a sedated Pamela Lawrence at his side.
"What do you expect me to do?" Arthur says.
His words should be sharp, no-nonsense; instead he sounds confused and lost.
Even to his own ears. Especially to his own ears.
After their fourth disagreement -- no, it was a fight. It was most definitely a fight. After their fourth fight Eames stopped calling. And Arthur, well, Arthur didn't like the phone anyway.
Saito drives Arthur to Glasgow Airport.
Eames disappeared the moment the job was finished, but both Yusuf and Ariadne have decided to stay on at Blairquhan for a few more days. Apparently Yusuf has developed his own appreciation for fly fishing and Ariadne thinks Scotland is a fabulous place to do revisions for her course work.
"He cares for you very much," Saito says before they're even off the property.
"I know," Arthur admits. There's no point in acting ignorant.
"And you care for him, too."
"Yes." It feels strange to say it out loud when he's never even said it to himself, but that doesn't make it any less true.
"Then you must make amends."
"I know."
"Do not know: do."
Arthur laughs despite himself. "Okay, Yoda."
Saito's smile is all white teeth. "You mock, but he is very smart for a green puppet."
Arthur didn't get it before, but he gets it now.
Arthur takes Saito's plane to London. It's on his way home, sort of. He has an address for Eames in Hampstead, but the curtains are wide open and he can see a film of dust on an antique sideboard and a cheap IKEA table.
Arthur breaks in because he can. Picking a lock is hardly his most serious crime.
There's mail all over the floor behind the door. Arthur steps over it and directly into the foyer. There are pictures on the wall. More pictures than Arthur ever would've expected. There are a man and woman who feature prominently in the photos. Arthur assumes those are Eames' parents. But there are also photos of Eames.
Lots of photos of Eames.
There's Eames missing two front teeth and holding a puppy with an ecstatic expression on his face. There's teenage Eames with a bloody nose and grass stains, flanked by four other boys and holding something that might be a rugby ball.
There are pictures of Eames with women and men, old and young, every race imaginable.
Arthur's so busy staring at a photo of what he thinks is Eames as a baby in a bathtub, that he almost misses the photo right below it of him. Of them.
Mal had taken it in Monaco the day after they'd had their little conversation at the Hotel Monte Carlo.
They'd been walking through the city, the four of them, because the mark was fucking his mistress back at the hotel and with Monsieur Durand's penchant for Viagra they had at least a few hours to kill.
Arthur remembers they'd had to take the photo several times because Eames was pawing him, or Eames was pinching him, and finally Arthur had twisted Eames' left arm behind his back and grabbed his right hand and held Eames in front of him and slightly to his left where he could see him, and then Eames had just turned his face and kissed Arthur on the cheek.
Mal burst out laughing. Dom chuckled. Eames grinned and Arthur rolled his eyes.
And this is the photo that Mal took.
This is the photo that Arthur takes with him when he leaves. Frame and all.
Being a lover is about compromise.
How Arthur ends up at the London residence of the Duke and Duchess of ___________ is pretty damn simple. He finds the information and gets a black cab to South Kensington. He rings the doorbell and is greeted by the sound of yapping dogs.
He takes a step back.
The door is opened by a sixty-something woman with white hair and Eames' eyes. Arthur just spent two hours in Eames' house, looking at photos of his family, looking into his linen closet and bedroom and bathroom and kitchen cupboard.
Arthur would know Eames' mother anywhere.
"Yes?" she says in a clipped accent. "May I help you?"
Her haircut is short, stylish, and she raises an eyebrow when Arthur doesn't say anything.
Arthur opens his mouth and then pauses when he realizes his ankles are being inspected by a rather portly bulldog. "Rufus," the woman scolds. "Stop that at once."
Rufus sits down on his haunches and looks up at Arthur woefully. Arthur looks back at Rufus and then up at Eames' mother. "My name is Arthur," he says. "I'm looking for your son Eames."
Eames gets his smirk from his mother. That much is clear when she looks Arthur up and down rather obviously.
"Well, that explains that," she says. "Please come in, Arthur. We've been expecting you."
Being a lover is about work.
Eames is not in London.
In the two weeks that Arthur stays with the Duke and Duchess -- pardon, Patricia and Geoffrey -- Eames does not call, visit or write. However, Arthur does learn how to make Eames' favorite roasted chicken dish.
Arthur learns that Eames spoke French before he spoke English. He learns that Eames broke his left leg when he tried to fly when he was eight and that he dislocated his shoulder when he was thrown from a horse when he was fourteen.
Arthur learns about Eames' love of Star Trek, Doctor Who, the color green and his first cousins: Diana, Peter, Emma, Neal and Susannah, who all drop by to vet him.
They tell Arthur point blank that he's being vetted.
Arthur spends his days on the phone with his contacts and on the internet emailing anybody who he thinks might know where Eames is. That's when he's not drinking tea or lager or wine or scotch whiskey and eating too many cookies.
Saito offers to put his people on it. Arthur points out that he is Saito's people.
Being a lover is about wanting the best for the person you're with.
It's about proving that you are that best.
Eventually, Arthur leaves London, but he promises to come back soon. With Eames. Even if he has to drag him by his hair.
He goes to Paris, but Ariadne has no idea where Eames is.
Which is the same thing she's told him every day and twice on Sunday.
She sends him to Mombasa.
In Mombasa, Yusuf introduces Arthur to a rather motley assortment of people whom Eames might call friends. They all eye Arthur with great curiosity, and some, with blatant hostility.
But none of them have seen Eames either.
Yusuf sends him to St. Petersburg.
Apparently Eames has always professed a special fondness for the city.
Arthur doesn't bother to tell Yusuf that this is the city where he first fucked Eames.
Or that this is the city where Eames first fucked him.
He doesn't mention that in St. Petersburg Arthur discovered the sensitive spot on Eames' shoulder that makes him moan or that in the bathroom of Room 317 of the Corinthia Nevsky Palace Hotel Eames asked Arthur to touch himself while Eames watched. That Arthur jacked off to his own reflection in the bathroom mirror while Eames sat on the counter by the sink and told Arthur he was the most beautiful thing that Eames had ever seen.
That Eames pressed up against Arthur's back and wrapped his hand around Arthur's; that he ordered Arthur to watch while Eames touched him.
That Arthur almost collapsed when he came and Eames held him up.
That Eames refused to let him go.
Except Eames isn't in St. Petersburg either.
Being a lover is not about being selfish. Being a lover is not about you. It is about us.
Arthur knows Eames isn't in Monaco. He knows this. It doesn't stop him from going anyway.
It doesn't stop him from stalking around the town trying to find the exact location that matches the photo he liberated from Eames' home. He walks around for four days, but he can't find it because views change and cities change, and at one point Arthur is coming around the corner looking left when he should look right and he runs into a woman and drops the photo.
The glass shatters.
The woman apologizes profusely.
Arthur assures her that these things happen. That the frame can be replaced. All he cares about is the photograph, which he rescues. He turns it over in his hands, feeling a real photo and not a digital re-creation on computer paper. Mal loved real photos; she refused to go digital.
His breath catches at what's written on the back of the photo in black Sharpie.
A relationship is built on us.
Arthur gets home on a Thursday.
For five weeks he has traveled around the world trying to find Eames. He has exhausted himself, his resources, a fair amount of his bank account and sanity and at least six pilots that Saito has put at his disposal along with one of his Gulf Stream jets.
Mrs. Markel is standing outside the front door, holding a handbag that's larger than she is. When she sees Arthur she smiles beatifically. "Enjoying yourself, dear?"
Arthur thinks about the garment bag digging into his left arm, the rolling suitcase attached to his right hand and the exhaustion pounding behind his eyelids. "Of course," he says.
"So glad to hear it," she says. "I worry about you, you know."
Arthur pauses in trying to juggle his luggage to extract his keys from his pocket. "You don't have to worry about me," he says.
Mrs. Markel gives him a smile. "Not anymore."
Arthur nods absently as he finally manages to open the door to the building.
There is no food in Arthur's loft; no Geoffrey with a large decanter of whiskey or Patricia with a cup of tea. There's no Ariadne dragging him out to the cafe on the corner because he can't lock himself in her apartment all day, and did he at least change his suit from yesterday?
He can just imagine how stifling the air is going to feel.
Maybe he should check into a hotel tonight.
He's not expecting to roll back his front door and find his loft in shambles, clothes on the floor, Prince blaring from his stereo, all four of his ceiling fans whirring away rapidly and Eames cooking in his kitchen.
The place looks like a tornado hit it.
Eames looks up and grins. "Darling, you're home."
Arthur drops all of his luggage on the floor. "Where the hell have you been?" he demands.
Eames holds up a finger, tastes some of whatever's cooking on the stove and then sets the spoon down on Arthur's counter. He doesn't even use the spoon rest, but he does turn off "I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man" on the iPod.
"Where do you think I've been?" Eames gestures to the room at large.
Arthur yanks the door shut behind him. Or he attempts to, but it's a shockingly heavy door -- that's why he got it in the first place -- and he nearly dislocates his shoulder.
Eames wipes his hands on a tea towel, leans back against the counter and crosses his legs at the ankles, watching dispassionately as Arthur strides towards him.
He's wearing a simple black t-shirt and dark jeans. There are no holes, no colors, no fraying hems, no garish logos and no discernible labels.
Arthur's hands are twitching with adrenaline, his heart beating in his throat. "I have been looking everywhere for you," he says, his voice shaking with anger.
Eames' face is blank. A perfect poker face. "Have you now? Well, here I am."
"This isn't a fucking joke!" Arthur shouts.
Eames' hand wraps around Arthur's fist before he even realizes that he's swung. Arthur's breath is coming hard and fast; he can't get enough air.
"It is not a joke," Eames says, lowering Arthur's hand to his side before letting him go. "I agree."
Arthur rubs his mouth with the tips of his fingers. "I went everywhere looking for you," he says helplessly. "I went to your house. I went to your parents. Ariadne. Yusuf. Mombasa. St. Petersburg. Monte Carlo."
"I know."
"And your mother said you're not to --"
Arthur stops himself because something just occurred to him. "You know," he repeats.
Eames licks lips and shifts against the counter. "I know."
Arthur holds up a finger. He needs a time out. A big time out. "Hold on." He turns away, unbuttoning his suit jacket. He stalks towards the kitchen table, removes his jacket and hangs it over the back of one of the perfectly upholstered steel chairs. He unbuttons his waistcoat and hangs that up as well.
After those fifteen buttons -- thank you, Jil Sander for being excessive this season -- his breathing returns to normal. He checks the tiny red die in his pocket, removes his cufflinks, sets them down on the table and then he turns back to Eames and walks towards him, rolling up his sleeves as he advances.
Eames eyes him warily.
"Let's start over again," Arthur suggests. "I've been looking all over the world for you and you know this."
Eames nods.
"How do you know this?"
"My mum told me."
"You've talked to your mother?"
"She's my mum; of course I talk to her."
"Did you talk to her when I was there?"
Eames scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah."
Arthur rubs his forehead. "Is she the only one?"
"The only one what?"
"Who knows that you've been here while I've been on a wild goose chase?"
Eames winces. "Ah, no. Definitely not the only one."
Arthur can feel the scowl on his face. "Who else?"
Eames shakes his head. "You don't want me to tell you that; it'll only end with you threatening homicide and me finding it endearing."
"Who. Else?"
Eames rolls back his shoulders and begins to tick off names. "Cobb, Ariadne, Saito, Yusuf, my father, Neal, Diana, Emma, Peter, Susannah, Mrs. Maxwell. My old nanny. Your third grade teacher. Mrs. Markel -- lovely woman by the way, said she had a threesome with the real James Dean."
Arthur opens his mouth once, twice, and then he looses something perilously close to a deranged laugh. "So I've been chasing a ghost because everybody thinks I'm an unworthy asshole and they decided to let me suffer."
Eames smirks. "No, not everyone. Phillipa and James are on your side."
"Are you?"
Eames rolls his eyes. "Always."
Arthur cups Eames' cheek with his hand, rubs his thumb along the cheekbone, the corner of his mouth.
He can feel the warm air when Eames exhales. "You have been rather dense, you must admit. Even for you."
"For me?"
"You are a brilliant man, but you are terrible at this relationship business."
Arthur would defend himself, but it's pointless. "You're right."
"I'm right," Eames repeats slowly and then pauses. "Yes, of course I'm right," he says, smiling broadly.
"You don't have to gloat."
"I have you, of course I'm going to gloat about it shamelessly. If you wanted someone subtle you wouldn't be with me, now would you?"
Arthur frowns, and then he kisses Eames because he needs to. It's as simple as that.
Except Arthur's too fast and Eames isn't ready. Their mouths collide and it's sharp, brutal and off-kilter, everything and nothing like their first kiss.
It's better now because Arthur knows what the hell he's got.
Eames hands splay across his chest because they're caught between their bodies, and Arthur holds onto Eames with both hands, fingers digging into his lower back and cupping the nape of his neck.
Eames moans, his leg trapped between Arthur's thighs and Arthur licks his way into Eames mouth, slipping past every time he didn't pay attention to what Eames was trying to say and every time he thought that this wasn't important.
This isn't just important; it's vital.
It's the most important thing he has, may ever have.
"It's okay," Eames murmurs against Arthur's jaw.
"No, it's not," Arthur admits, mouthing the side of Eames' neck.
When he nuzzles behind Eames' left ear, Arthur can hear him sigh, can feel the shudder.
Eames' neck gives Arthur a complex. It always has.
On a torso sharply delineated by tattoos, Eames' neck is completely flawless. It's a long, clean expanse of skin where the tendons pull when Eames cocks his head to the side. It's impossible to ignore. Impossible not to want to touch. Taste.
When they were together, before all of this, Arthur could spend hours kissing Eames' neck and Eames would make these noises, these beautiful noises that Arthur wanted to capture and keep locked away forever.
Now all Arthur wants is to leave bruises all over Eames' neck, teeth marks and long red scratches at the nape, blatant proof that Eames is someone's property.
His property.
"I am not your property," Eames sounds aggrieved.
Arthur lifts his head. He did not say that out loud. Did he? "Pardon?"
Eames smirks. "Pardon?" he mocks, "You've been spending entirely too much time with my mum. That's probably why she can't shut up about how lovely you are."
"Your mom likes me?"
"My mum adores you," Eames corrects. "If she were a bit younger we might have to have a bit of a chat about her staying away from my man."
"I'm your man?"
"Is that a question?"
"Yes." A beat. "No." Another beat. "Yes."
"Well, if you don't know, who does?"
Arthur thinks this over. "What does it mean if I'm your man?"
Eames' eyes soften. "It means that sometimes I have to protect you from yourself."
Arthur nods. "And is that what this was?" he gestures around the room. Why is there a shirt hanging from one of the fans and how has it not flown off yet?
"Is that what you think it was?"
"No," Arthur says. "No, this was something else."
"So what was it?"
"A wake-up call."
Eames sucks on his lower lip. Arthur has to reach out and touch. He smiles when Eames nips at the pad of his thumb. "So are you awake now?" Eames says.
"Absolutely."
Eames exhales dramatically. "Well thank fuck for that, because I've been locked up in here for five weeks making you suffer -- albeit it very enjoyably -- and am gagging for a holiday. What do you think? St. Petersburg is lovely this time of year."
Arthur pulls something from the left pocket of his trousers. "We could go there," he agrees before showing Eames a shiny, creased piece of photo paper. "Or we could go back here."
Eames stares at the picture in Arthur's hand.
"You stole my photo," he says accusingly.
"Our photo," Arthur corrects
Patches of color appear high on Eames' cheeks. "Our photo."
"I guess you'll just have to take another."
"Will you be naked in this one?"
"Depends," Arthur says, pulling away from Eames and then thinking better of it and tugging him along by the hem of his shirt toward the stove. "What're we having for dinner?"
"Well, I'm having you, naked, in your bed. Twice. Probably three times. And then a brief respite followed by more sex. And then I might have a sandwich."
Arthur lifts the lid on the pot Eames was tinkering with. It smells like heaven in kelly green Le Creuset. "Throw in two bowls of this and a promise to clean up the mess you've made of my loft and you have a deal," he says.
"I see you're learning how this relationships thing works."
Arthur leans into the touch when Eames strokes his hairline. "I'm trying," he says.
When Eames grins, it reaches his eyes. "That's what counts."
-end-
Beta work by the most irreplaceable maurheti with pickiness and approval by lazlet.
Backstory of Eames as the son of old money provided courtesy of Chris Nolan and lazlet. Blairquhan Estate provided by maurheti.
The idea of this story came to me when I was running on the treadmill and watching the Star Trek: Reboot. For the three of you who haven't seen the reboot, the Kobayashi Maru is a no-win situation training test. It's designed to get people accustomed to failure. To being unable to fix something despite their best efforts. Their best intentions. Kirk ends up beating the program by hacking the system and rewriting the test. Being in a relationship is like that: sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do to get what you need.
Anybody who recognizes the paraphrased Mobb Deep 'Shook Ones Pt. II' lyric gets a cookie.
This is Ozwald Boateng's blog. His website is being revamped before Fashion Week, but trust, his shit is amazing.