All I Need is Somebody Like You - Part Two
All I Need is Somebody Like You - Part One (includes warnings, art, etc)
by kezley (click for bigger and more art)
Eames
Movement
He is filled with regret, that he did something while drunk that he shouldn't have. That he did something with Eduardo, who was also drunk, that he should've avoided. But instead of addressing the issue, instead of knocking on Eduardo's door and apologizing, Eames leaves. He asks Saito for a leave of absence, which is granted far too easily, and he disappears.
Which really means he goes to LA to find Arthur. To see, is Arthur what he really wants? And was he, Eames, just fucking with Eduardo, in all senses of the word, because he could? He becomes a stalker, following Arthur around LA. He watches Arthur with Cobb's family and he realizes that it's worse than he thought. Maybe he was using Eduardo, maybe they were using each other, but it doesn't matter.
Arthur is happy.
Eames used to think that it was he who made Arthur happy, but it seems, after all these years, he was wrong. It was he who needed Arthur, not the other way around. It was he who wanted to have a life with Arthur, who, Eames now realizes, already had plans. It doesn't stop the ache in his chest, but it helps alleviate the guilt he didn't even realize he had until now.
He decides that he's allowed to get drunk. He wants to forget about Arthur, about dream sharing, about the whole fucking inception job that has now completely destroyed his life. He sits on a barstool in an anonymous bar somewhere in LA. He thinks, I could call Caffrey up, he's good for a distraction and maybe a job's what I need. And then he remembers that Neal's working for the FBI. He could call Mozzie, but Mozzie would just tell him to grow up. He could call one of his numerous friends or are they just contacts now?
But he doesn't. He calls Eduardo. In the middle of the night in Tokyo. Eduardo answers on the second ring.
"Hello?" He sounds groggy.
Suddenly Eames doesn't know what to say.
"Eames?" Eduardo sounds more awake with just one word.
"Uh."
Silence, then, "Eames, are you drunk?"
"And in LA."
More silence. Then, "LA as in Los Angeles?"
"Yeah." Eames does another shot, he doesn't even know what he's drinking anymore.
Eames can almost hear Eduardo face-palming. "What are you doing in LA?"
"Wanted to see Arthur. Eduardo, he's so happy. He's so happy without me. I don't know what to do?" Eames knows he sounds pathetic. He knows he sounds stupid. He's not usually like this when he gets drunk. Then again, he's never been known to stalk Arthur before, either.
There's silence, muffled noises. "Eames, please stop drinking."
"Eduardo," is all Eames can get out.
More silence, then something garbled, and then he hears Eduardo telling him to hand the phone to a bartender. He wonders, how did I get so drunk. Why the fuck did I think this was such a good idea. But there are no answers.
He doesn't remember being bundled into a cab, but he must have been. He doesn't remember the hotel lobby. Or even booking a room, but he had to, because this is a hotel room. He passes out on the bed, fully dressed, with the complete knowledge that he's going to wake up with the worst headache in the history of all hangovers.
It is the first time in a very long time that Eames dreams. Though he's not sure if he's dreaming or instead hallucinating. He dreams about space shuttles, about floating along in the clouds and he dreams about Eduardo. Not Arthur, but Eduardo. When he wakes up the next morning, he sits up in bed and wonders why Arthur let him get so drunk, why he allowed Eames to sleep in his clothes. And then Eames realizes he's alone.
He looks down at his clothes, they're a mess. He thinks, he could call room service of this hotel that he is somehow staying in. Or he could go back to sleep. He manages to get his shoes, trousers and shirt off, then crawl under the covers. The bed is nice, but it's not home. He doesn't even know where home is anymore. He stares up at the ceiling, but he can't sleep. He tosses and turns, his mind whirling and then he remembers seeing Arthur.
He gets out of bed, padding across the hotel room to the minibar. He looks at the tiny bottles of drinks, trying to decide where to start. He never gets any further than picking up a small bottle of rum because the door to his hotel room flies open. He sets the bottle back in the minibar and turns slowly around. He's not sure who he'll see and it's not until he's half around that he remembers calling Eduardo. Drunk off his arse in some LA bar.
Standing in the doorway is Eduardo. He looks like he hasn't slept and considering how long it takes a private jet to get from Tokyo to LA, Eames imagines he probably hasn't.
"Why are you here?" he asks.
Eduardo gives him an odd look, something he can’t decipher through his hangover. "You called me."
Eames shrugs, staggering back to the bed as Eduardo walks into the hotel room. The door shuts loudly behind him.
"You called me," Eduardo says, but the emphasis is clearly different.
Eames mumbles something, he doesn't even know what he's saying.
"Why me?"
This time the words push through Eames' fog-filled head. "Because ... Because I ..."
"Stop," Eduardo says, finally. He walks over to Eames, fingers brushing against the many tattoos scattered over his body. "Just. You need a shower."
Eames gives in. He lets Eduardo push him toward the truly luxurious bathroom. He's already close to naked and once Eduardo gets the water running, Eames has stepped out of his underwear. To his credit, Eames thinks, Eduardo doesn't even flinch. Instead, he turns to leave and suddenly Eames remembers why he got drunk. He remembers the ache in his chest when he woke up.
"Don't," he says.
Eduardo looks at him, confused. "Don't what?"
"Don't leave." Eames forces the words out. "Join me." There's none of his airy flirtation, none of his teasing tone. It is all desperation and when Eames catches the look on Eduardo's face, it's clear he understands.
Eduardo doesn't hesitate, which fills Eames with relief. He gets into the shower, the hot spray splashing over him. Moments later Eduardo steps in. Eames feels a flush of relief; the reason for it is clearly Eduardo, but he doesn't know why. He feels Eduardo's hands along his shoulders, trailing down his back. Eduardo steps closer and Eames resists the urge to lean back into him. Instead, he makes -- or lets, he isn't sure which -- Eduardo come to him.
Eames does not pull away when Eduardo's arms slide around him, but nor does he break. He'd like to, maybe a cry a little and relieve the stress that’s built up inside him. But he's never been that kind of person, not as a child and certainly not as a man. It's not that he values his dignity, he's pretty sure he hasn't much of that left anyway, it's just he's never reacted that way and he's not about to start now.
They both stand under the spray, Eduardo's head resting against Eames'. His arms around Eames' chest, holding onto him. The headache seems to ease, but what replaces it is exhaustion and he tries not to sag in Eduardo's arms. It's hard, he knows, to finally understand that Arthur's never coming back. Eduardo's lucky, he already knew the outcome. But Eames, no, he still clung to that impossible hope that Arthur would see the error of his ways. That Eames could make Arthur understand just how important he was. It's all gone now, leaving Eames nothing but memories.
Eduardo is talking. "I've changed my mind," he's saying and Eames feels like he's coming into the conversation late.
But Eduardo doesn't mind when Eames asks, "About what?"
"You told me you could be Mark. I don't want you to, not anymore." The words sound easy and confident, but they clench at Eames' chest.
He doesn't move, but he wants to pull away. "Why not?" The words sound clipped.
"Because you were right." Eduardo's nuzzling Eames' neck, kissing the spot where it meets his shoulder.
Eames is sure he's missing something. "I was?" He's so seldom right about these things ... whatever it is that Eduardo's talking about.
"You said it wasn't a good way to let go and you were right," Eduardo says, his mouth against Eames' ear.
Silence, except for the water, and Eames is thinking hard. He remembers the conversation and he wonders why now, of all places, Eduardo would bring it up. And then it hits him, like a shock and he almost jerks. Oh, of course, he thinks. Arthur. Mark. California. LA is not Silicon Valley, but that's not the point.
"You shouldn't ..." Eduardo starts, then trails off.
Eames wants to turn, but doesn't. "Shouldn't what?"
"Let him ruin your life." Eduardo's voice is barely audible against the noise of the shower.
Eames does turn. "You shouldn't, either."
"I know." Eduardo replies and Eames thinks oh. Then, oh right. And then he kisses Eduardo, because he understands.
Home
Eames cannot fight the vague sense of unease that comes over him when the phone rings. He's been back from LA for almost a week, but something's nagging at him. It's not Eduardo, no, everything is the way it should be in that respect. Better than he'd hoped, really. Especially after the arse he'd made of himself back in the city of angels.
It's something else and it all comes to a head with the phone call.
"Hullo?" Eames says, distracted by an email on his computer. A message from Eduardo, about dinner. He smiles to himself, until he hears the voice on the line. And then it's oh, that's what all this unease was about.
"Eames?" The voice is achingly familiar.
He swallows. "Arthur."
"Cobb said he saw you in LA, why didn't you stop by. We'd love to have seen you." Arthur's voice is painfully cheerful, as if he doesn't even have to work at it.
Eames has no idea how to respond and suddenly finds he wants Eduardo, who is at work. Well, six floors below Eames' office suite. He stares at the email from Eduardo and thinks, I could just reply right now. Easily. He doesn't move.
"I was busy." It's a lie, sort of. He was busy, with misery and depression and learning how to say goodbye.
There's a little huff of something, sadness maybe, on the line. "It's been a few years, Eames. You could've called."
And there it is. This time Eames doesn't hesitate to send Eduardo the email.
Eduardo,
Arthur calling. Wants to know why I didn't visit when I was in LA. He's a bloody idiot.
Eames
"You have no idea," Eames finally says, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice.
Silence from Arthur, then, "What's that supposed to mean?" There's an edge to Arthur's voice and Eames can almost see that pinched look on his face.
"It means ..." And then Eames' confidence is failing him, which is stupid because Eames is many things and none of them are weak.
"Eames ..." There's a tiny bit of worry creeping into Arthur's voice.
Eames swallows hard. "If I said I needed you, what would you do?"
"For a job?" Arthur replies, obviously confused.
It's that precise moment, when Eames realizes that Arthur really doesn't understand at all, that Eduardo walks into the office. Eames lifts his gaze up and meets Eduardo's. He's holding his phone close to his ear, fingers curled so tightly that his knuckles are white.
"Eames, did you need me for a job?" Arthur repeats the words in his ear.
Arthur's voice startles him and he turns away from Eduardo, slumping more in the chair. "No Arthur, not a job. I have one of those."
"Then what could you possibly need me for?"
Eames thinks that if he was the kind of man who broke, this would be the exact moment his heart would crack in two. Every cliche he can think of is running through his head, but his mind stops on the visual of his heart under one of Arthur's perfectly shined shoes, slowly being crushed. It kills him.
"There was a time when I didn't need a reason," he says, quietly.
He feels Eduardo walk across the room the moment the words are out of his voice. He knows that Eduardo can read between the lines, that he can guess what Arthur's half of the conversation is.
"That was a long time ago, Eames." Arthur's voice is dismissive, almost bored.
Eames feels shaky, like he's just woken up from too long in the dream world. He grips the arm of his chair in one hand, the other still on his phone. He doesn't know what to say now, except that this is obviously goodbye.
"It's all on you, Arthur," Eames finally says. He watches as Eduardo leans around him, fingers on the keyboard. He starts a new email.
I'm here.
Obviously, Eames thinks and then he realizes what Eduardo means. It rocks him, a little, because of all the things Arthur was in life, he wasn't ever really there for Eames. Even when they were at the same place at the same time.
"What's all on me?" Arthur's voice is filled with confusion and probably hurt as well, but Eames cannot bring himself to care. Or maybe he's caring so much it's just crushing him.
He swallows, leaning forward and typing three words under Eduardo's two.
I need you.
"If you have to ask, darling, then what we had must not have meant much to you after all." He can't remember the last time he used that pet name for Arthur. The pet name for anyone, really. He left that version of himself in the dream world of inception.
There is silence from Arthur. But from Eduardo, there's comfort. His fingers against the back of Eames' neck as he sits on the edge of the desk. Eames ducks his head slightly, closing his eyes and trying to will himself to hang up. But before he can, Arthur replies.
"I never meant to hurt you."
Eames flinches. "A little too late for that, darling," he replies, but the word hurts his heart. Eduardo's fingers move against the back of his neck, rubbing at the muscles that bunch so tightly together.
"You should've said ..." Arthur trails off.
Eames thinks, would it have mattered? He already knows the answer.
"And you could've called me. I know you're happy, Arthur. Don't let me get in the way of your life." The ache he's tried so hard to fill seems to be gaping open again. He's gasping, for air, for the strength to finish this conversation.
"Eames ... I'm sorry." And maybe Arthur means it, but Eames doesn't care. Not any more.
He swallows, gently twisting away from Eduardo, who does not protest. "Goodbye, Arthur." It was nice being in love you with, he thinks, even though all that's left is a broken heart.
"I ... Eames ..." Arthur says, but Eames cannot take it any longer. He looks at the phone, then Eduardo, and then he hangs up.
Eames can tell Eduardo wants to say something, to comfort Eames, but it's clear he doesn't know what to say. Eames busies himself, shutting his email client, then Firefox, before turning the whole computer off.
"Eames," Eduardo says softly and Eames turns.
"You said you're here," Eames half-whispers. "Come away with me," he asks, even though he knows that the project is almost finished, that Eduardo probably has to stay.
Eduardo doesn't even pause in his reply. "Let me get my coat."
Eduardo
Anyone in the world
When you return to Proclus Global, it's as though nothing's changed. In a way, that's true. The launch of the media site and Proclus' new social image is still only a few short weeks away and there's plenty of work to do. But at the same time, everything's changed. You don't even have an extra key in your wallet, but yours now works on Eames' door, as his works on yours. You don't need to knock, just walk in.
That's not to say that you don't still hurt over Mark, or that Eames will ever be over Arthur. Your relationship is not a normal one, though it's healthier than what you were trying, hoping, to do in your dreams. But, you remind yourself, it doesn't need to be normal. After all, Eames barged into your life in such a strange way that you don't really mind.
It’s easier with him, not having to talk about everything. To have to explain, for the hundredth time, why you're working when you have so much money. Why you're hiding here in Japan. Why you hate the name Zuckerberg. Eames already knows everything there is to know about you and when it should be worrying, it's instead comforting. You don't need to pretend to be someone else. You can be Eduardo Saverin, graduate of Harvard, who has more baggage than most people. And Eames seems to love you, regardless.
When you first walked into your apartment, you'd noticed that everything from your New York place was here. But as the days, weeks, and months pass into a year, you begin to understand that what you have is not important to you. There are things you keep, like your diploma and everything else from graduation. There are photo albums, from when you were a child and from Harvard.
But there are even more things you throw out. Boxes and boxes of papers, in a storage locker in the basement of your building in New York, were moved to Tokyo, at no expense to you. They end up in the shredder in the basement at Proclus' headquarters. The Harvard chapter of your life is over and, you think as you watch the shredder eat four years of your life, perhaps the Facebook one is over as well.
You wish you could drop all the papers from the deposition into the shredder. Sometimes you even want to print out a copy of your Facebook account and shred it, too. But of course you can't. You still use it, you haven't forgotten all the apps you helped create, the people who use them and who rely on you for help and, occasionally, money. You can't get away from Facebook, not completely, but it doesn't matter. You could set your status to 'in a relationship' because you are, because you can, now. But you don't. You won't. Facebook is not integral to your life, not anymore.
You've been at Proclus for almost a year and so much has happened. To you and around you. You rarely spend any nights alone, much more comfortable curled up in Eames' bed with him. Or on the couch in his apartment. You loathe going home, like tonight. He's working late, an emergency meeting about a new client. You were on the elevator when you got the text. There was a car waiting, as usual, but you choose the subway. People swirling around you as you texted back and forth.
Don't wait up, he said. Come to my apartment when you get home, was your reply. Mostly, though, you want to go to his. To crawl in bed and smell Eames all around you. Your flat is neat and clean, and not just because the company provides excellent cleaning services. It's really because you've all but stopped living here.
You're still in your suit, several hours later, when the door to your apartment opens. You're sitting on the couch, the TV's on. You don't look over, you know it's Eames. He walks into the hall, shutting the door behind him.
"Eduardo?" He sounds tired, you think.
You shift, but don't get up. "In here."
He walks into the living room and then over to the couch. He leans over the back of it, kissing the side of your face. You tip your head back a little, turning it slightly so you can kiss him properly. There used to be a time in your life when you refused to let yourself be happy. It's harder now, but Eames knows all your secrets. It no longer bothers you that he read your file and neither does it matter that he has all these secrets.
You think, in time, you'll probably learn them. It occurs to you that of all the people in the world who could understand what happened to you, you ended up living down the hall from the one person who seemed to understand you the most. The best. You sometimes wonder if this was Saito's plan all along.
"You've been sitting watching telly since you got home?" he asks.
You don't reply, just nod.
Eames reaches around, grabbing the remote and turning off the TV. "C'mon," he says, walking around the couch and holding out his hands for you.
You take them, letting him pull you up off the couch. He pulls you close, kissing you and you kiss him back.
"You should ..." He stops and you look at him.
"I should?" you ask, running your hands down the front of his shirt.
Eames struggles with his thoughts for a moment and suddenly you know what he's going to say.
You lean in, pressing your mouth against the corner of his.
"Yes," you whisper, lips brushing against his. "Yes, I want to move in."
His arms come around your shoulders, pulling you impossibly close. You push your hand up, fingers in his hair. You get lost in the kiss, only breaking away when you have to breathe. You rest your forehead against Eames'.
Eventually you pull away. Eames suggests bringing some of your stuff over and you do. Pictures, a few of the books you've collected since you've been here. A large plant. Between the two of you, you carry three boxes of your belongings to Eames' apartment. You briefly consider calling it a flat, but you think he'd laugh at you.
When you walk to the bedroom, you realize that half your wardrobe is already here. You and Eames undress in comfortable silence. You walk to the window, which looks out over parts of the city. You think about your apartment in New York, about all the things you don't miss. All the things you thought you'd long to see again and find that you don't need. You feel Eames' arm around your waist and you lean into him.
"Come to bed, love," he says, softly and you think, with a sudden swell of emotion, that this is the first time he's ever used a term of endearment with you.
Eames
And you choose me
Waking up next to Eduardo provides comfort that Eames didn't even know he needed. They don't see each other as often, even though they've moved the rest of Eduardo's belongings into Eames' flat. Eduardo's doesn't stand vacant for long, of course. A young British boy moved in, his name is Alex and he's doing some sort of internship. Rumor has it that he has ties to MI6, but no one's talking and Eames doesn't care enough to seek out the boy's file. He'd only done that once, with Eduardo.
He presses a kiss against Eduardo's shoulders, then slowly eases out of bed. They both have to be in early, and they'll take the company car, but Eames knows Eduardo needs his sleep. Their new social network has proven to be quite popular. Perhaps not on the scale of Facebook, but Eames knows, as do most people, that its purpose wasn't to be a rival. Instead, he thinks as he puts the kettle on, it's goal was to connect clients of Proclus with each other and that's exactly what it does.
A few minutes later, Eduardo staggers in. He looks exhausted, but smiles when he sees Eames. He crosses the kitchen, kissing Eames softly before fumbling around for the mugs. Eames fills two infusers with English Breakfast tea and is silently pleased to have gotten Eduardo out of the coffee drinking habit.
They have toast and eggs for breakfast, talking about the day ahead. It's almost routine now. Eduardo will shower first, then Eames. Exactly an hour later, they'll head downstairs, most likely with Sam and Quorra. They'll take the company car, which waits outside the building for them, into work. They repeat the process day after day and Eames has long since stopped expecting to be bored.
There was a time, before inception and before Arthur, where staying in one place would be too much for Eames. And, when he and Arthur were more apart than together, restlessness had taken Eames over, which was how he ended up in Mombasa in the first place. But now he can barely remember what that restlessness felt like. He does, of course, remember what it felt like to come home to Arthur. It was everything he wanted in a relationship and then it became everything he couldn't have.
Now, when he looks at Eduardo, he again sees everything he wants. It's not tied up neatly, there are strings that weigh them both down, but they seem to work through and around them. Eduardo may have no secrets, but Eames does. And he's promised himself that as soon as their project rush slows down, he will confess his sins and share his secrets with Eduardo. There have been very few people in his life Eames felt comfortable with confession. Yusuf was one of them, and still remains one, despite the considerable distance between them.
Arthur, another, though there are secrets even Arthur doesn't know. And now, new secrets he need not ever know. His mum, when she was still alive, knew everything there was to know, including who Eames lost his virginity to and what exactly it was that he was (and wasn't) doing with his life. And then Eames met Eduardo and wanted to confess everything.
The project is finally declared a success six months after launch, which means he and Eduardo have been together for over a year. It staggers him, a little, to realize so much time has passed. Eames' flat has turned into home for both of them. His secrets are right there, ripe for the picking, but yet to be revealed. But Eames is not unprepared and he has a plan, which involves a romantic dinner.
Of course, it doesn't happen that way. They get home from the office party, to celebrate the public opening of their social network, late. They both have the week off, as do most of the staff, and Eames is pleased Eduardo doesn't protest when he opens a bottle of champagne. Still wearing their dress clothes, they sprawl out on the couch. Eduardo reaches for the remote, turning the TV on.
He flips through the channels before landing on NHK. A glass of champagne later, Eames starts laughing. Eduardo sits up, looking over at him.
"What?" he asks, forcing the corners of his mouth down to hide his smile.
Eames grins. "I used to love this show, as a kid."
Eduardo turns back to the tv. On the tv a rather strange looking man steps out of a blue phone booth. "This show?"
Eames nods and settles back against the couch. "Doctor Who,” he murmurs, surprised it's still on.
"Do they even make phone booths anymore?" Eduardo asks, amusement evident in his voice.
Eames laughs again. "It's called a TARDIS."
"A ... what?" Eduardo asks.
Eames pulls Eduardo to him, wrapping an arm around him. "Just wiki it tomorrow." He presses a kiss against Eduardo's temple.
They're quiet for almost an hour, watching Doctor Who. The show ends and another episode begins. Eames turns down the volume a bit, taking a breath.
"When you first walked into my flat, you asked about the Duchamp," Eames starts, slowly.
Eduardo nods, but says nothing.
"I told you it was a reproduction. I lied." He waits for Eduardo to say something, but he doesn't. "It's real."
After a moment Eduardo says a quiet "Yes!"
Eames looks at him, confused. "What?"
"I knew it was the real thing," he replies with a grin.
Eames arches an eyebrow. "How?"
"I don't know. It just ... didn't look fake enough to be a reproduction." Eduardo grins again.
Eames laughs softly and then clicks the tv off. "It was given to me by a good friend named Neal. It was a goodbye gift."
Eduardo shifts in Eames' arms, resting his head against Eames' shoulder. Eames holds him close, trying to think of how to explain inception. But Eduardo starts talking before Eames can start.
"Did you and he ...?" he asks.
Eames nods.
Eduardo gets up, setting his empty champagne flute on the coffee table. He holds out his hand to Eames, who takes it.
"How long?"
Eames stares out the window and then at Eduardo. "One week."
Eduardo arches an eyebrow.
"It was one hell of a week. He was later arrested." Eduardo gives him another look. "FBI," Eames replies with a shrug.
Eames drops his hand into one of Eduardo's and they make their way through the flat, shutting off lights before reaching the bedroom. They undress quietly, comfortable silence filling the spaces between them.
Eduardo crawls into bed and Eames crawls over him, settling their bodies against each other. Now, he thinks, might be a good time. But, no. It's not that he's not ready, he's been ready for months. It's that if Eduardo's going to leave him because of inception, he might as well make a go of it.
They fuck in the dark, with only the lights from outside filtering into the room. Eames' mouth against Eduardo's jaw, his mouth. They've long since stopped using condoms, testing being a regular part of the Proclus procedures for continuing employment. It's just an added benefit and Eames thinks that even sex with Arthur wasn't ever this good. It's not that Eduardo's some great lover, but that's never what Eames looked for.
Eduardo is everything he wants, considerate, but never holding back unless asked. And rarely does Eames ask. They push and shove at each other, nails dragging along skin. Sometimes Eames will wake up with red marks along his chest, left by Eduardo's teeth. It makes him feel owned and loved, both of which he enjoys.
On this night, the sex is exceptional, even by Eames' ridiculous standards that no one ever lives up to, not even himself. Eduardo on his back like the first time, Eames over him, inside him. This is not about anything other than love, which Eames finds to be cliche, but also refreshing. He's been around, far more than he likes to think about, but he knows the difference between sex and this. What he has with Eduardo is something more, it's stronger and keeps him here, though he knows there's nowhere else he'd rather go.
Eames' fingers around Eduardo's cock, pulling in time with his thrusts. Kissing him, then his neck, down to his chest. Lips against his nipples, trying to get Eduardo to moan, to arch his back. And it works, it always works. Eduardo's hands along Eames' back, his hips. One hand in his hair, twisting and pulling, just hard enough to demand attention, but not hard enough to hurt. Eduardo's legs around Eames, their bodies moving together. Eduardo comes first, Eames' name tumbling off his lips. Eames comes almost immediately after, his mouth pressed against Eduardo's, whispering his name. He says it because he can, because he wants to. It is love, he knows this now. It wasn't something he knew he wanted until it was right in front of him.
They clean up, settling under the covers. Eduardo, though an inch taller, curls up against Eames' side. He rests his head against Eames' chest, with Eames' arm around him. This, Eames knows, this is the perfect opportunity. He should do it now. Confess or whatever it is he needs to do. If Eduardo is the person Eames thinks he is (hopes he is), then he won't leave. He won't push Eames away. But if it's not, this is the only way Eames will know.
"Eames?" Eduardo asks, softly.
Eames stares up at the ceiling and then at Eduardo. "I have something to tell you,” he says, softly.
Eduardo shifts, closer still.
"I told you, about Cobb and what he did as an extractor." Eduardo nods, but does not interrupt. "My last job, and how I met Saito, was the opposite."
It takes Eduardo a moment, but he gets it. "You planted an idea in someone."
Eames nods. "It was called inception."
"Did it work?" Eduardo asks carefully.
Eames runs his fingers through Eduardo's hair, then against his face. "Fischer Morrow ceased to exist so I'd say that yes, it did."
After what seems like forever, Eduardo finally speaks. "Tell me about inception," he says, voice a half whisper.
And, so, Eames does.
by kezley (click for bigger and more art)
Eames
Movement
He is filled with regret, that he did something while drunk that he shouldn't have. That he did something with Eduardo, who was also drunk, that he should've avoided. But instead of addressing the issue, instead of knocking on Eduardo's door and apologizing, Eames leaves. He asks Saito for a leave of absence, which is granted far too easily, and he disappears.
Which really means he goes to LA to find Arthur. To see, is Arthur what he really wants? And was he, Eames, just fucking with Eduardo, in all senses of the word, because he could? He becomes a stalker, following Arthur around LA. He watches Arthur with Cobb's family and he realizes that it's worse than he thought. Maybe he was using Eduardo, maybe they were using each other, but it doesn't matter.
Arthur is happy.
Eames used to think that it was he who made Arthur happy, but it seems, after all these years, he was wrong. It was he who needed Arthur, not the other way around. It was he who wanted to have a life with Arthur, who, Eames now realizes, already had plans. It doesn't stop the ache in his chest, but it helps alleviate the guilt he didn't even realize he had until now.
He decides that he's allowed to get drunk. He wants to forget about Arthur, about dream sharing, about the whole fucking inception job that has now completely destroyed his life. He sits on a barstool in an anonymous bar somewhere in LA. He thinks, I could call Caffrey up, he's good for a distraction and maybe a job's what I need. And then he remembers that Neal's working for the FBI. He could call Mozzie, but Mozzie would just tell him to grow up. He could call one of his numerous friends or are they just contacts now?
But he doesn't. He calls Eduardo. In the middle of the night in Tokyo. Eduardo answers on the second ring.
"Hello?" He sounds groggy.
Suddenly Eames doesn't know what to say.
"Eames?" Eduardo sounds more awake with just one word.
"Uh."
Silence, then, "Eames, are you drunk?"
"And in LA."
More silence. Then, "LA as in Los Angeles?"
"Yeah." Eames does another shot, he doesn't even know what he's drinking anymore.
Eames can almost hear Eduardo face-palming. "What are you doing in LA?"
"Wanted to see Arthur. Eduardo, he's so happy. He's so happy without me. I don't know what to do?" Eames knows he sounds pathetic. He knows he sounds stupid. He's not usually like this when he gets drunk. Then again, he's never been known to stalk Arthur before, either.
There's silence, muffled noises. "Eames, please stop drinking."
"Eduardo," is all Eames can get out.
More silence, then something garbled, and then he hears Eduardo telling him to hand the phone to a bartender. He wonders, how did I get so drunk. Why the fuck did I think this was such a good idea. But there are no answers.
He doesn't remember being bundled into a cab, but he must have been. He doesn't remember the hotel lobby. Or even booking a room, but he had to, because this is a hotel room. He passes out on the bed, fully dressed, with the complete knowledge that he's going to wake up with the worst headache in the history of all hangovers.
It is the first time in a very long time that Eames dreams. Though he's not sure if he's dreaming or instead hallucinating. He dreams about space shuttles, about floating along in the clouds and he dreams about Eduardo. Not Arthur, but Eduardo. When he wakes up the next morning, he sits up in bed and wonders why Arthur let him get so drunk, why he allowed Eames to sleep in his clothes. And then Eames realizes he's alone.
He looks down at his clothes, they're a mess. He thinks, he could call room service of this hotel that he is somehow staying in. Or he could go back to sleep. He manages to get his shoes, trousers and shirt off, then crawl under the covers. The bed is nice, but it's not home. He doesn't even know where home is anymore. He stares up at the ceiling, but he can't sleep. He tosses and turns, his mind whirling and then he remembers seeing Arthur.
He gets out of bed, padding across the hotel room to the minibar. He looks at the tiny bottles of drinks, trying to decide where to start. He never gets any further than picking up a small bottle of rum because the door to his hotel room flies open. He sets the bottle back in the minibar and turns slowly around. He's not sure who he'll see and it's not until he's half around that he remembers calling Eduardo. Drunk off his arse in some LA bar.
Standing in the doorway is Eduardo. He looks like he hasn't slept and considering how long it takes a private jet to get from Tokyo to LA, Eames imagines he probably hasn't.
"Why are you here?" he asks.
Eduardo gives him an odd look, something he can’t decipher through his hangover. "You called me."
Eames shrugs, staggering back to the bed as Eduardo walks into the hotel room. The door shuts loudly behind him.
"You called me," Eduardo says, but the emphasis is clearly different.
Eames mumbles something, he doesn't even know what he's saying.
"Why me?"
This time the words push through Eames' fog-filled head. "Because ... Because I ..."
"Stop," Eduardo says, finally. He walks over to Eames, fingers brushing against the many tattoos scattered over his body. "Just. You need a shower."
Eames gives in. He lets Eduardo push him toward the truly luxurious bathroom. He's already close to naked and once Eduardo gets the water running, Eames has stepped out of his underwear. To his credit, Eames thinks, Eduardo doesn't even flinch. Instead, he turns to leave and suddenly Eames remembers why he got drunk. He remembers the ache in his chest when he woke up.
"Don't," he says.
Eduardo looks at him, confused. "Don't what?"
"Don't leave." Eames forces the words out. "Join me." There's none of his airy flirtation, none of his teasing tone. It is all desperation and when Eames catches the look on Eduardo's face, it's clear he understands.
Eduardo doesn't hesitate, which fills Eames with relief. He gets into the shower, the hot spray splashing over him. Moments later Eduardo steps in. Eames feels a flush of relief; the reason for it is clearly Eduardo, but he doesn't know why. He feels Eduardo's hands along his shoulders, trailing down his back. Eduardo steps closer and Eames resists the urge to lean back into him. Instead, he makes -- or lets, he isn't sure which -- Eduardo come to him.
Eames does not pull away when Eduardo's arms slide around him, but nor does he break. He'd like to, maybe a cry a little and relieve the stress that’s built up inside him. But he's never been that kind of person, not as a child and certainly not as a man. It's not that he values his dignity, he's pretty sure he hasn't much of that left anyway, it's just he's never reacted that way and he's not about to start now.
They both stand under the spray, Eduardo's head resting against Eames'. His arms around Eames' chest, holding onto him. The headache seems to ease, but what replaces it is exhaustion and he tries not to sag in Eduardo's arms. It's hard, he knows, to finally understand that Arthur's never coming back. Eduardo's lucky, he already knew the outcome. But Eames, no, he still clung to that impossible hope that Arthur would see the error of his ways. That Eames could make Arthur understand just how important he was. It's all gone now, leaving Eames nothing but memories.
Eduardo is talking. "I've changed my mind," he's saying and Eames feels like he's coming into the conversation late.
But Eduardo doesn't mind when Eames asks, "About what?"
"You told me you could be Mark. I don't want you to, not anymore." The words sound easy and confident, but they clench at Eames' chest.
He doesn't move, but he wants to pull away. "Why not?" The words sound clipped.
"Because you were right." Eduardo's nuzzling Eames' neck, kissing the spot where it meets his shoulder.
Eames is sure he's missing something. "I was?" He's so seldom right about these things ... whatever it is that Eduardo's talking about.
"You said it wasn't a good way to let go and you were right," Eduardo says, his mouth against Eames' ear.
Silence, except for the water, and Eames is thinking hard. He remembers the conversation and he wonders why now, of all places, Eduardo would bring it up. And then it hits him, like a shock and he almost jerks. Oh, of course, he thinks. Arthur. Mark. California. LA is not Silicon Valley, but that's not the point.
"You shouldn't ..." Eduardo starts, then trails off.
Eames wants to turn, but doesn't. "Shouldn't what?"
"Let him ruin your life." Eduardo's voice is barely audible against the noise of the shower.
Eames does turn. "You shouldn't, either."
"I know." Eduardo replies and Eames thinks oh. Then, oh right. And then he kisses Eduardo, because he understands.
Home
Eames cannot fight the vague sense of unease that comes over him when the phone rings. He's been back from LA for almost a week, but something's nagging at him. It's not Eduardo, no, everything is the way it should be in that respect. Better than he'd hoped, really. Especially after the arse he'd made of himself back in the city of angels.
It's something else and it all comes to a head with the phone call.
"Hullo?" Eames says, distracted by an email on his computer. A message from Eduardo, about dinner. He smiles to himself, until he hears the voice on the line. And then it's oh, that's what all this unease was about.
"Eames?" The voice is achingly familiar.
He swallows. "Arthur."
"Cobb said he saw you in LA, why didn't you stop by. We'd love to have seen you." Arthur's voice is painfully cheerful, as if he doesn't even have to work at it.
Eames has no idea how to respond and suddenly finds he wants Eduardo, who is at work. Well, six floors below Eames' office suite. He stares at the email from Eduardo and thinks, I could just reply right now. Easily. He doesn't move.
"I was busy." It's a lie, sort of. He was busy, with misery and depression and learning how to say goodbye.
There's a little huff of something, sadness maybe, on the line. "It's been a few years, Eames. You could've called."
And there it is. This time Eames doesn't hesitate to send Eduardo the email.
Eduardo,
Arthur calling. Wants to know why I didn't visit when I was in LA. He's a bloody idiot.
Eames
"You have no idea," Eames finally says, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice.
Silence from Arthur, then, "What's that supposed to mean?" There's an edge to Arthur's voice and Eames can almost see that pinched look on his face.
"It means ..." And then Eames' confidence is failing him, which is stupid because Eames is many things and none of them are weak.
"Eames ..." There's a tiny bit of worry creeping into Arthur's voice.
Eames swallows hard. "If I said I needed you, what would you do?"
"For a job?" Arthur replies, obviously confused.
It's that precise moment, when Eames realizes that Arthur really doesn't understand at all, that Eduardo walks into the office. Eames lifts his gaze up and meets Eduardo's. He's holding his phone close to his ear, fingers curled so tightly that his knuckles are white.
"Eames, did you need me for a job?" Arthur repeats the words in his ear.
Arthur's voice startles him and he turns away from Eduardo, slumping more in the chair. "No Arthur, not a job. I have one of those."
"Then what could you possibly need me for?"
Eames thinks that if he was the kind of man who broke, this would be the exact moment his heart would crack in two. Every cliche he can think of is running through his head, but his mind stops on the visual of his heart under one of Arthur's perfectly shined shoes, slowly being crushed. It kills him.
"There was a time when I didn't need a reason," he says, quietly.
He feels Eduardo walk across the room the moment the words are out of his voice. He knows that Eduardo can read between the lines, that he can guess what Arthur's half of the conversation is.
"That was a long time ago, Eames." Arthur's voice is dismissive, almost bored.
Eames feels shaky, like he's just woken up from too long in the dream world. He grips the arm of his chair in one hand, the other still on his phone. He doesn't know what to say now, except that this is obviously goodbye.
"It's all on you, Arthur," Eames finally says. He watches as Eduardo leans around him, fingers on the keyboard. He starts a new email.
I'm here.
Obviously, Eames thinks and then he realizes what Eduardo means. It rocks him, a little, because of all the things Arthur was in life, he wasn't ever really there for Eames. Even when they were at the same place at the same time.
"What's all on me?" Arthur's voice is filled with confusion and probably hurt as well, but Eames cannot bring himself to care. Or maybe he's caring so much it's just crushing him.
He swallows, leaning forward and typing three words under Eduardo's two.
I need you.
"If you have to ask, darling, then what we had must not have meant much to you after all." He can't remember the last time he used that pet name for Arthur. The pet name for anyone, really. He left that version of himself in the dream world of inception.
There is silence from Arthur. But from Eduardo, there's comfort. His fingers against the back of Eames' neck as he sits on the edge of the desk. Eames ducks his head slightly, closing his eyes and trying to will himself to hang up. But before he can, Arthur replies.
"I never meant to hurt you."
Eames flinches. "A little too late for that, darling," he replies, but the word hurts his heart. Eduardo's fingers move against the back of his neck, rubbing at the muscles that bunch so tightly together.
"You should've said ..." Arthur trails off.
Eames thinks, would it have mattered? He already knows the answer.
"And you could've called me. I know you're happy, Arthur. Don't let me get in the way of your life." The ache he's tried so hard to fill seems to be gaping open again. He's gasping, for air, for the strength to finish this conversation.
"Eames ... I'm sorry." And maybe Arthur means it, but Eames doesn't care. Not any more.
He swallows, gently twisting away from Eduardo, who does not protest. "Goodbye, Arthur." It was nice being in love you with, he thinks, even though all that's left is a broken heart.
"I ... Eames ..." Arthur says, but Eames cannot take it any longer. He looks at the phone, then Eduardo, and then he hangs up.
Eames can tell Eduardo wants to say something, to comfort Eames, but it's clear he doesn't know what to say. Eames busies himself, shutting his email client, then Firefox, before turning the whole computer off.
"Eames," Eduardo says softly and Eames turns.
"You said you're here," Eames half-whispers. "Come away with me," he asks, even though he knows that the project is almost finished, that Eduardo probably has to stay.
Eduardo doesn't even pause in his reply. "Let me get my coat."
Eduardo
Anyone in the world
When you return to Proclus Global, it's as though nothing's changed. In a way, that's true. The launch of the media site and Proclus' new social image is still only a few short weeks away and there's plenty of work to do. But at the same time, everything's changed. You don't even have an extra key in your wallet, but yours now works on Eames' door, as his works on yours. You don't need to knock, just walk in.
That's not to say that you don't still hurt over Mark, or that Eames will ever be over Arthur. Your relationship is not a normal one, though it's healthier than what you were trying, hoping, to do in your dreams. But, you remind yourself, it doesn't need to be normal. After all, Eames barged into your life in such a strange way that you don't really mind.
It’s easier with him, not having to talk about everything. To have to explain, for the hundredth time, why you're working when you have so much money. Why you're hiding here in Japan. Why you hate the name Zuckerberg. Eames already knows everything there is to know about you and when it should be worrying, it's instead comforting. You don't need to pretend to be someone else. You can be Eduardo Saverin, graduate of Harvard, who has more baggage than most people. And Eames seems to love you, regardless.
When you first walked into your apartment, you'd noticed that everything from your New York place was here. But as the days, weeks, and months pass into a year, you begin to understand that what you have is not important to you. There are things you keep, like your diploma and everything else from graduation. There are photo albums, from when you were a child and from Harvard.
But there are even more things you throw out. Boxes and boxes of papers, in a storage locker in the basement of your building in New York, were moved to Tokyo, at no expense to you. They end up in the shredder in the basement at Proclus' headquarters. The Harvard chapter of your life is over and, you think as you watch the shredder eat four years of your life, perhaps the Facebook one is over as well.
You wish you could drop all the papers from the deposition into the shredder. Sometimes you even want to print out a copy of your Facebook account and shred it, too. But of course you can't. You still use it, you haven't forgotten all the apps you helped create, the people who use them and who rely on you for help and, occasionally, money. You can't get away from Facebook, not completely, but it doesn't matter. You could set your status to 'in a relationship' because you are, because you can, now. But you don't. You won't. Facebook is not integral to your life, not anymore.
You've been at Proclus for almost a year and so much has happened. To you and around you. You rarely spend any nights alone, much more comfortable curled up in Eames' bed with him. Or on the couch in his apartment. You loathe going home, like tonight. He's working late, an emergency meeting about a new client. You were on the elevator when you got the text. There was a car waiting, as usual, but you choose the subway. People swirling around you as you texted back and forth.
Don't wait up, he said. Come to my apartment when you get home, was your reply. Mostly, though, you want to go to his. To crawl in bed and smell Eames all around you. Your flat is neat and clean, and not just because the company provides excellent cleaning services. It's really because you've all but stopped living here.
You're still in your suit, several hours later, when the door to your apartment opens. You're sitting on the couch, the TV's on. You don't look over, you know it's Eames. He walks into the hall, shutting the door behind him.
"Eduardo?" He sounds tired, you think.
You shift, but don't get up. "In here."
He walks into the living room and then over to the couch. He leans over the back of it, kissing the side of your face. You tip your head back a little, turning it slightly so you can kiss him properly. There used to be a time in your life when you refused to let yourself be happy. It's harder now, but Eames knows all your secrets. It no longer bothers you that he read your file and neither does it matter that he has all these secrets.
You think, in time, you'll probably learn them. It occurs to you that of all the people in the world who could understand what happened to you, you ended up living down the hall from the one person who seemed to understand you the most. The best. You sometimes wonder if this was Saito's plan all along.
"You've been sitting watching telly since you got home?" he asks.
You don't reply, just nod.
Eames reaches around, grabbing the remote and turning off the TV. "C'mon," he says, walking around the couch and holding out his hands for you.
You take them, letting him pull you up off the couch. He pulls you close, kissing you and you kiss him back.
"You should ..." He stops and you look at him.
"I should?" you ask, running your hands down the front of his shirt.
Eames struggles with his thoughts for a moment and suddenly you know what he's going to say.
You lean in, pressing your mouth against the corner of his.
"Yes," you whisper, lips brushing against his. "Yes, I want to move in."
His arms come around your shoulders, pulling you impossibly close. You push your hand up, fingers in his hair. You get lost in the kiss, only breaking away when you have to breathe. You rest your forehead against Eames'.
Eventually you pull away. Eames suggests bringing some of your stuff over and you do. Pictures, a few of the books you've collected since you've been here. A large plant. Between the two of you, you carry three boxes of your belongings to Eames' apartment. You briefly consider calling it a flat, but you think he'd laugh at you.
When you walk to the bedroom, you realize that half your wardrobe is already here. You and Eames undress in comfortable silence. You walk to the window, which looks out over parts of the city. You think about your apartment in New York, about all the things you don't miss. All the things you thought you'd long to see again and find that you don't need. You feel Eames' arm around your waist and you lean into him.
"Come to bed, love," he says, softly and you think, with a sudden swell of emotion, that this is the first time he's ever used a term of endearment with you.
Eames
And you choose me
Waking up next to Eduardo provides comfort that Eames didn't even know he needed. They don't see each other as often, even though they've moved the rest of Eduardo's belongings into Eames' flat. Eduardo's doesn't stand vacant for long, of course. A young British boy moved in, his name is Alex and he's doing some sort of internship. Rumor has it that he has ties to MI6, but no one's talking and Eames doesn't care enough to seek out the boy's file. He'd only done that once, with Eduardo.
He presses a kiss against Eduardo's shoulders, then slowly eases out of bed. They both have to be in early, and they'll take the company car, but Eames knows Eduardo needs his sleep. Their new social network has proven to be quite popular. Perhaps not on the scale of Facebook, but Eames knows, as do most people, that its purpose wasn't to be a rival. Instead, he thinks as he puts the kettle on, it's goal was to connect clients of Proclus with each other and that's exactly what it does.
A few minutes later, Eduardo staggers in. He looks exhausted, but smiles when he sees Eames. He crosses the kitchen, kissing Eames softly before fumbling around for the mugs. Eames fills two infusers with English Breakfast tea and is silently pleased to have gotten Eduardo out of the coffee drinking habit.
They have toast and eggs for breakfast, talking about the day ahead. It's almost routine now. Eduardo will shower first, then Eames. Exactly an hour later, they'll head downstairs, most likely with Sam and Quorra. They'll take the company car, which waits outside the building for them, into work. They repeat the process day after day and Eames has long since stopped expecting to be bored.
There was a time, before inception and before Arthur, where staying in one place would be too much for Eames. And, when he and Arthur were more apart than together, restlessness had taken Eames over, which was how he ended up in Mombasa in the first place. But now he can barely remember what that restlessness felt like. He does, of course, remember what it felt like to come home to Arthur. It was everything he wanted in a relationship and then it became everything he couldn't have.
Now, when he looks at Eduardo, he again sees everything he wants. It's not tied up neatly, there are strings that weigh them both down, but they seem to work through and around them. Eduardo may have no secrets, but Eames does. And he's promised himself that as soon as their project rush slows down, he will confess his sins and share his secrets with Eduardo. There have been very few people in his life Eames felt comfortable with confession. Yusuf was one of them, and still remains one, despite the considerable distance between them.
Arthur, another, though there are secrets even Arthur doesn't know. And now, new secrets he need not ever know. His mum, when she was still alive, knew everything there was to know, including who Eames lost his virginity to and what exactly it was that he was (and wasn't) doing with his life. And then Eames met Eduardo and wanted to confess everything.
The project is finally declared a success six months after launch, which means he and Eduardo have been together for over a year. It staggers him, a little, to realize so much time has passed. Eames' flat has turned into home for both of them. His secrets are right there, ripe for the picking, but yet to be revealed. But Eames is not unprepared and he has a plan, which involves a romantic dinner.
Of course, it doesn't happen that way. They get home from the office party, to celebrate the public opening of their social network, late. They both have the week off, as do most of the staff, and Eames is pleased Eduardo doesn't protest when he opens a bottle of champagne. Still wearing their dress clothes, they sprawl out on the couch. Eduardo reaches for the remote, turning the TV on.
He flips through the channels before landing on NHK. A glass of champagne later, Eames starts laughing. Eduardo sits up, looking over at him.
"What?" he asks, forcing the corners of his mouth down to hide his smile.
Eames grins. "I used to love this show, as a kid."
Eduardo turns back to the tv. On the tv a rather strange looking man steps out of a blue phone booth. "This show?"
Eames nods and settles back against the couch. "Doctor Who,” he murmurs, surprised it's still on.
"Do they even make phone booths anymore?" Eduardo asks, amusement evident in his voice.
Eames laughs again. "It's called a TARDIS."
"A ... what?" Eduardo asks.
Eames pulls Eduardo to him, wrapping an arm around him. "Just wiki it tomorrow." He presses a kiss against Eduardo's temple.
They're quiet for almost an hour, watching Doctor Who. The show ends and another episode begins. Eames turns down the volume a bit, taking a breath.
"When you first walked into my flat, you asked about the Duchamp," Eames starts, slowly.
Eduardo nods, but says nothing.
"I told you it was a reproduction. I lied." He waits for Eduardo to say something, but he doesn't. "It's real."
After a moment Eduardo says a quiet "Yes!"
Eames looks at him, confused. "What?"
"I knew it was the real thing," he replies with a grin.
Eames arches an eyebrow. "How?"
"I don't know. It just ... didn't look fake enough to be a reproduction." Eduardo grins again.
Eames laughs softly and then clicks the tv off. "It was given to me by a good friend named Neal. It was a goodbye gift."
Eduardo shifts in Eames' arms, resting his head against Eames' shoulder. Eames holds him close, trying to think of how to explain inception. But Eduardo starts talking before Eames can start.
"Did you and he ...?" he asks.
Eames nods.
Eduardo gets up, setting his empty champagne flute on the coffee table. He holds out his hand to Eames, who takes it.
"How long?"
Eames stares out the window and then at Eduardo. "One week."
Eduardo arches an eyebrow.
"It was one hell of a week. He was later arrested." Eduardo gives him another look. "FBI," Eames replies with a shrug.
Eames drops his hand into one of Eduardo's and they make their way through the flat, shutting off lights before reaching the bedroom. They undress quietly, comfortable silence filling the spaces between them.
Eduardo crawls into bed and Eames crawls over him, settling their bodies against each other. Now, he thinks, might be a good time. But, no. It's not that he's not ready, he's been ready for months. It's that if Eduardo's going to leave him because of inception, he might as well make a go of it.
They fuck in the dark, with only the lights from outside filtering into the room. Eames' mouth against Eduardo's jaw, his mouth. They've long since stopped using condoms, testing being a regular part of the Proclus procedures for continuing employment. It's just an added benefit and Eames thinks that even sex with Arthur wasn't ever this good. It's not that Eduardo's some great lover, but that's never what Eames looked for.
Eduardo is everything he wants, considerate, but never holding back unless asked. And rarely does Eames ask. They push and shove at each other, nails dragging along skin. Sometimes Eames will wake up with red marks along his chest, left by Eduardo's teeth. It makes him feel owned and loved, both of which he enjoys.
On this night, the sex is exceptional, even by Eames' ridiculous standards that no one ever lives up to, not even himself. Eduardo on his back like the first time, Eames over him, inside him. This is not about anything other than love, which Eames finds to be cliche, but also refreshing. He's been around, far more than he likes to think about, but he knows the difference between sex and this. What he has with Eduardo is something more, it's stronger and keeps him here, though he knows there's nowhere else he'd rather go.
Eames' fingers around Eduardo's cock, pulling in time with his thrusts. Kissing him, then his neck, down to his chest. Lips against his nipples, trying to get Eduardo to moan, to arch his back. And it works, it always works. Eduardo's hands along Eames' back, his hips. One hand in his hair, twisting and pulling, just hard enough to demand attention, but not hard enough to hurt. Eduardo's legs around Eames, their bodies moving together. Eduardo comes first, Eames' name tumbling off his lips. Eames comes almost immediately after, his mouth pressed against Eduardo's, whispering his name. He says it because he can, because he wants to. It is love, he knows this now. It wasn't something he knew he wanted until it was right in front of him.
They clean up, settling under the covers. Eduardo, though an inch taller, curls up against Eames' side. He rests his head against Eames' chest, with Eames' arm around him. This, Eames knows, this is the perfect opportunity. He should do it now. Confess or whatever it is he needs to do. If Eduardo is the person Eames thinks he is (hopes he is), then he won't leave. He won't push Eames away. But if it's not, this is the only way Eames will know.
"Eames?" Eduardo asks, softly.
Eames stares up at the ceiling and then at Eduardo. "I have something to tell you,” he says, softly.
Eduardo shifts, closer still.
"I told you, about Cobb and what he did as an extractor." Eduardo nods, but does not interrupt. "My last job, and how I met Saito, was the opposite."
It takes Eduardo a moment, but he gets it. "You planted an idea in someone."
Eames nods. "It was called inception."
"Did it work?" Eduardo asks carefully.
Eames runs his fingers through Eduardo's hair, then against his face. "Fischer Morrow ceased to exist so I'd say that yes, it did."
After what seems like forever, Eduardo finally speaks. "Tell me about inception," he says, voice a half whisper.
And, so, Eames does.