All I Need is Somebody Like You - Part One

[parka_girl]

Title: All I Need is Somebody Like You
Fandom: The Social Network/Inception
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Eduardo/Eames
Disclaimer: This is not real, this never happened. I don't know them and this is all fiction. Made up stuff.
Notes: Spoilers for both movies, the piece of art mentioned in the fic can be found here. Thanks to metafic for the beta, thanks to fangie_yin for the encouragement. There are several other fandoms mentioned in this fic, if you don't catch them all, don't worry about it (they were mostly there for my amusement). This is for thesocialbbang.

The art is by chosenfire28 (below) and kezley (on second part).



by chosenfire28

Eduardo
Change or lack thereof
You graduate from Harvard because you want (and need) the degree. You could get another degree, you could find a job, you could live off the money from the Facebook lawsuit. You could wear business suits and live in New York City in an expensive apartment overlooking Central Park. You could move to Miami or LA or London. You could live in Berlin or Moscow. You could have an office in all the major cities in the world, or maybe half of them. The problem isn't what you could do, it's that you have no idea what you want to do. Ideally, you could use your degree to get ahead in life. The only thing is, you don't need money anymore and you want the one thing (the only thing) you can't have.

You want Mark.

The problem, of course, is that you can't have Mark. He's off limits, not just because he's straight (and maybe you were, or maybe you didn't realize you weren't, but that doesn't matter now), but because he hates you. And, if you're honest, you kind of hate him. He did not destroy your life, though he did briefly ruin your relationship with your father (though you've sorted that out). What he did destroy was your faith in humanity, the idea that people who do something together -- who collaborate (you hate that term, but it's the best one) -- should share the end product. The endgame, whatever. It's not your fault that you did what you thought was best for the company. It is not, at all and in any way, your fault that Mark chose to ignore you. Nor is it your fault that Mark screwed you over -- not just with Facebook, but with your friendship.

In the end, it wasn't about the company. You didn't even care about the money, though you would never turn it down. It was about Mark. It was about the fact that he was your best friend, not your only friend, but the one you trusted. You looked out for him and you thought, you'd hoped, that he would've done the same for you. There were signs, with the whole bullshit with the twins, that maybe the Mark you wanted wasn't the one who actually existed. But you pretended not to see that side of Mark. You clung to the geeky boy who didn't mind having a best friend who was just as nerdy, but tried covering it up by wearing suits to class.

You didn't think he'd care, but in the end, it was like he never noticed you at all. It was like you were just someone passing through his life. Mark often forgot that actions had consequences and you were there to remind him that hey, that's a huge mistake you're making. Or, no, try it this way and you'll avoid these problems. And now, still only a few years removed, you watch him making mistake after mistake. There is no one at Facebook who can see through him, no one to stop him from making mistakes. And maybe that's how he wants it, maybe that's what he likes. And it's in this way that you can rationalize (completely and utterly) the fact that he wanted you out of his life. You were never going to agree with everything he wanted to do, you would always be that filter between Mark and the real world.

Of course it never lasted, it wasn't going to. It couldn't. He had too much at stake and you weren't important enough to be part of that. Sean Parker, the bastard who you want to hate but who did so much for Mark, took your spot. He and Mark are still friends, they hang out together, they do the stuff you and Mark should be doing. But you weren't a celebrity, you weren't smooth and suave. You were just Eduardo, the Jewish kid from Brazil who wears suits to class and has that psycho girlfriend you didn't even really like in the first place. Maybe you were trying to make Mark jealous, maybe you were already moving on. But none of that matters, not anymore.

Moving across the universe
What you do with your money has always been your business. You fumble along after the lawsuit. You actually work on Facebook apps, because if you can't get away from the site, you might as well embrace it. Of course it's not fulfilling. In fact, it's the exact opposite of fulfilling. But you do it because otherwise you'll be sitting around on your ass eating junk food and feeling sorry for yourself. Not that you don't already do that, but at least now you can do something else as well. You feel better, once you're working, even though every time you look at Facebook, you wince inwardly and your heart breaks a little more. You live in New York, until you can't take it. Until it reminds you of everything you could've, should've, been. Everything you let Mark take away from you.

You travel until you end up in the East. You visit Singapore, you even rent an apartment. But you don't stay. Indonesia. Even China. You stay four months in Hong Kong. Eventually, and you don't know why, you go back to New York. You move into a smaller apartment, you don't spend any money, and you try hard to find something to do. It barely works. You still spend time helping all your contacts back in Asia with their Facebook apps. You barely use Facebook, but you have one and that's how they find you, though later you think maybe they already knew everything about you.

The profile of the woman who sends you the message states that she lives in Japan. It also tells you that she works for a company called Proclus Global. You've never heard of it, so you google. It's an energy conglomerate, the largest in the world. You don't even wonder why you've never heard of it, you've lost touch with this part of the world. You keep reading, using your Harvard alum email address to get access to expensive databases. They tell you about the company’s only other rival, Fischer Morrow. You read about the death of its founder, how the son of the founder, Robert Fischer, decided to start his own business. You're not surprised to find out that he's doing something in conjunction with Facebook.

You message the woman back and tell her that sure, you'd like a meeting. You're both stupid enough and curious enough to do it, but you no longer care if it's legitimate or someone trying to extort some of your millions (billions). The message comes back almost immediately. Check your email, it says. You do, you see a plane reservation for that night. One seat, first class. You don't even pack your bag, just pull on your best suit and go to the airport. You're escorted through security and then you're on the plane. A flight attendant asks you if you'd like something to drink, you order wine. When she brings it, you ask who owns the airline. She flashes you a stunning smile when she says it's owned by Proclus Global.

Four glasses of wine later, you're asleep. The next thing you know, you're landing in Japan. Tokyo. There's a man in a smart-looking suit holding up a sign with your name on it. He walks outside with you and you step into a limousine. Inside is a tall, handsome man in one of the most expensive suits you've ever seen. If you weren't so completely blown over by jet lag, you'd be jealous.

"You must be Eduardo." He says, his English crisp through his Japanese accent.

"I am." You reply carefully.

He hands you a bottle of water and you sip it quietly.

"We noticed that you did some digging on Proclus." You almost detect amusement in his tone.
You nod, wanting to ask how he knew, but you don't. "Impressive, yes?"

You nod again. "You seem to be the only game in town," you manage to say.

"We are." The man suddenly holds out his hand. "My name is Saito and I run Proclus Global."
His hand is soft and warm in yours as you shake it back. "Mr. Saverin, we'd like to offer you a job."

You drop his hand in shock. "A job?"

Saito nods, he's smiling at you.

"Why me?" You're less shocked now, more curious.

Saito holds your gaze as he replies. "You have the most to offer us."

He will say no more and you're left staring at him, then out the window. Tokyo slides by you and you realize you don't even know what time it is. You don't really care, because you're tired and overwhelmed. The car stops in front of a hotel and you glance over at Saito.

"You'll find everything you need on the fifteenth floor." He produces an envelope from his pocket and hands it over to you.

The hotel is lavish, excessively so, but at the same time it's tasteful. It's so unlike New York that you momentarily wonder if you're actually still in New York and this is some sort of elaborate dream. Of course, unlike every other dream you've had, no one seems to know your name. You open the envelope as you walk toward the elevator, your room is indeed on the 15th floor. You try not to stare at everyone as you walk through the lobby. You stop in front of the elevator and look up. It's old fashioned and instead of digital numbers that light up for each floor, there's an arrow pointing at the numbers.

10. 9. It stays a long time on the ninth floor. Then 8-7-6-5-4-3. Another long stop on the third floor, then two, one, lobby. The doors open up and two absolutely stunning women get off. You step on and a young man asks you for your floor.

"Fifteen,” you say, forcing the word out.

You wonder how you must look. Rumpled from the flight, tired from jet lag and carrying no luggage. Perhaps you're going upstairs to meet a client, or maybe you're going upstairs because you're paid to. At least that's what you think the boy in the elevator must be thinking. Or would be thinking, if he even looked at you, which he doesn't. The elevator dings a minute or two later and you glance up. Fifteen. You step off, looking at the number on your key. Room 1547.

You walk down the hall, getting lost and turned around once each, but then you spot it. It's a corner room and when you open the door, it takes your breath away. You've always appreciated nice things, especially since you can now afford them. The room is more like a penthouse than a hotel room, which is odd because this definitely isn't the top floor. You step in further, letting the door shut behind you.

There's bright sunlight streaming through the windows and you're suddenly exhausted. You glance at the clock and it's somehow late afternoon. Around five. You're too tired to be hungry and too exhausted to do anything other than sleep. You barely manage to make it out of your clothing before you pass out on the bed.

The beginning
The hotel is your home for two weeks. The first week is filled with interviews, with tests you don't understand and finally, on Friday, you think you're going to get sent home. You don't, and instead Saito takes you out to dinner. You dine in what you assume is a traditional Japanese restaurant, but you really have no idea. You're joined by Saito's wife and beautiful daughter, though it's obvious to everyone, even Saito, that this family is not what it seems to be, at least on the surface. You're far too familiar with this type of situation and so you can easily pretend everything's fine.

Saito's wife and daughter, you never caught their names, return home, leaving you alone with Saito. He looks across the table at you and you fight the urge to blush; it's as if he's undressing you. Ducking your head, you sip at the scotch you ordered after dinner. Then, suddenly, Saito speaks.

"I did not bring you here to be an accountant or some sort of assistant. This company is not going anywhere, Mr. Saverin." Saito's voice is stern and you look up, but say nothing. "What I want from you is help."

"Help?" You try not to stammer.

He nods. "Our company dominates the global energy market, but we have no idea what it is our consumers want." He pauses, and then continues. "Energy-wise, we know of course. But everywhere else? We're lacking. And you, on the other hand, understand what it is that people want."

You laugh, suddenly. "I'm sorry, are you confusing me with Mark Zuckerberg?"

Saito arches his eyebrow at you. "If we wanted a child to do a man's job, we would not have come to you."

There's a long, awkward pause and you have no idea how to fill it. But then you don't have to, because Saito's talking again.

"We've been watching your work in Asia." He stands, signaling the waiter over. He orders you both another drink, though you've barely finished your first one. "We're very impressed with your success and your determination to help your clients out however you can."

You open your mouth to reply, but Saito holds up a hand.

"We will allow you to continue you helping them. You will be able to use all of Proclus Global's resources to continue this work as you see fit." Saito stops when the waiter returns. You have absolutely no idea what to say.

"And for you?" You manage to ask.

Saito smiles. "For us, you will help create a social image for Proclus."

"On what platform?" You ask, slightly suspicious you know where this is going.

His answer surprises you, but only a little. "All of them, of course. But we also require your assistance with a new project we're just beginning."

You stare at Saito, suddenly interested, even more than with the bribe he all but offered you.

Saito takes a long drink of his sake and looks at you. "You and a programmer we've hired will work on creating a social network for the company."

"A programmer?" You try to think of all the people you know, but there's no one.

Saito nods. "You will be working with Sam Flynn."

You look at Saito for a moment and then your eyes go wide. "You mean ... from ENCOM?"

A smile spreads across his face. "Yes."

You almost ask how they got that to work, but then again, you'd be surprise if there was anything Saito, and Proclus Global, couldn't do. Your dinner/meeting with Saito doesn't last much longer, just long enough for you to agree, and you do.

As the driver takes you back to the hotel, you think there was never a chance you were going to go back to New York. To your life of doing little and feeling sorry for yourself. Though you're not entirely sure you'll be able to stop the latter.

The second week you live in your hotel is spent getting settled into an office. You meet your coworkers, well, sort of. You meet Sam and his girlfriend who seems to be just as good a hacker. Other than a receptionist, whose name you don't have yet, the three of you are the only people on your floor.

The Friday of your second week, Saito tells you he has a more permanent place for you to live. It's an apartment near the headquarters, where your new office is. He hands you the key, telling you that Sam and Quorra live down the hall from you, it's only later that you learn that everyone in the building works for Proclus Global, and that the building is owned by them.

He leaves you at the front of the building and you watch him drive off. You turn, walking up to the front door. You look at the key in your hand, it's just like the keycard for your office, with your name and picture on the front. You slide it into the box by the door and then it clicks open. You step in and the first thing you notice is that the building has a lot of security. The second thing you notice is the security guard behind a desk. He is not, you realize, a doorman, but he is definitely security.

"Good evening, Mr. Saverin,” the man says, nodding at you. It's all you can do to nod back.

Your room is on the fifth floor. There's no one in the elevator with you, no one to ask what floor you live on, and no one for you to make forced conversation with. You're grateful for the silence. As you exit, you notice the cameras, but ignore them. The hall is quiet, you can't hear any sounds from the other apartments, but that isn't surprising, especially on a Friday night.

The floors are marble, the walls are some sort of stone and the building feels sort of cool to the touch, but you don't mind. You've been feeling detached since you arrived, so you're completely fine, if a little weirded out, by all of this. Just as you reach your door, another opens. You turn and look down the hall. Stepping out of a room not far from yours is a slightly scruffy looking man, probably in his mid-thirties.

He looks nothing like anyone you might be attracted to, which is probably why you can't help staring. He catches your eye, making you shiver slightly, and then disappears downstairs. For the first time and probably not the last, you wonder what the fuck you've gotten yourself into. But then you think about what's left for you back home and while you might miss your parents, you're definitely ready to let go of most of that life. You won't let your Facebook clients go, you refuse to, but other than that ... life would be so much better if you could just forget about Mark.

Eames
It's a new life
After the inception job, he feels listless. He'd wanted, of course, to keep working, but now he doesn't know what to do. He had more money than he knew what to do with -- for the first time in forever. He could go home, he could pay off his debts, he could do nothing for the rest of his life. He wasn't inclined to do any of them, save paying off the debts, which he did right away. And after that? Well, Eames wasn't quite sure.

The problem with being both rich and a criminal is that there wasn't any excitement left. He didn't need to steal anything, he didn't need to break into houses or museums or forge poker chips just to get by. He didn't need three houses nor did he even really need just one. He didn't know what he wanted to do with his life, which had always been a problem. But he thought this time it would be okay, because as much as they fought, he'd always had Arthur.

Except, of course, Arthur went home with Cobb.

That wasn't in Eames' plans, if someone had asked him, and no one had. Yusuf had returned home, though he did ask Eames if he was coming back. Eames had shrugged, what could he say? He'd always known Arthur would follow Cobb to the ends of the Earth, but he didn't expect that would also mean walking out of his life. But apparently Arthur didn't care about their history, about all the effort Eames had put into maintaining their relationship.

He was at the end of his rope, contemplating flying to Mombassa and taking Yusuf up on his offer of eternal bliss in the dream world, when Saito called. And when Eames said called, he really meant showed up at his shabby flat in London with a hired car that took him to the airport. That's how he started working for Saito. He didn't need an interview, didn't even need a job description. Eames wasn't known as an extractor and he wasn't expected to be one. What he did was more complicated, though not corporate espionage, he wouldn't do that again.

Mostly he helped Saito create prototypes -- green buildings, wind turbines, old fashioned nuclear power plants -- and then acted the part. It was so much easier in dreams than on computer mock-ups and Eames could be whoever Saito needed him to be. It paid well and Eames liked knowing where he was going to wake up the next morning. It wasn't as if Saito didn't take good care of him -- because he did.

Eames had a flat in a building that was owned and staffed by Proclus Global and, of course, all his neighbors worked for the company. He didn't have to see them, if he didn't want to. Sometimes he'd chat up Quorra, just to see Sam squirm, but mostly he kept to himself. It was easier, in case he needed to run. Not that he wanted to run, he was perfectly content in Japan, working for Saito.

If by perfectly content you meant lonely, restless and slightly heartbroken. Not that he'd admit to any of those, but when he'd had too much to drink, it was all he could think about. What did Cobb have that Eames didn't have? Why would Arthur choose that life over everything they had together? It was on these late nights, drunk or not, that Eames would venture out. If you knew where you were going, and Eames did, there were places where dream sharing was as ubiquitous as any other type of culture in Japan.

Eames was very good at giving people what they wanted, and while he charged his normal rates, he didn't actually need the money. He had an offshore bank account that he was sure Saito knew about, but wouldn't touch. And that's where he kept the money he earned doing things that weren't quite legal. He never really missed his old life, even if he dressed like it, but he missed the adventure.

Unsettled and alone
The first time he sees Eduardo, not in person and but in the photographs and profiles Saito's team put together, Eames finds there's something about the boy that stirs emotions within him that he'd forgotten he had. Maybe it's the suit (Arthur wore suits, though perhaps not as well) or maybe it's the fact that he literally has the weight of the world on his shoulders and seems not to care. But regardless, he makes it a point to suggest that, perhaps, Eduardo should live on the same floor as his flat -- and that of Sam and Quorra.

It's not a bad plan and his reasoning is sound, but he has his own motives. There is a hole in Eames' life, a giant gaping ache in the shape of Arthur. And there's something about Eduardo that makes Eames think that maybe he'd understand. Not that he's going to try to seduce Eduardo (like he did with Arthur), though he wouldn't say no, but he feels like they have something in common. It occurred to Eames as he started to read one of the profiles labeled 'Eduardo Saverin: Private Life' that perhaps he was going about things the wrong way.

Not that it stopped him. By the time he finished the profiles, and there were several, he knew most everything about Eduardo's life. He felt bad, in a way, because he realized that what they had in common was possibly the worst feeling someone could endure. Eames knew he was an arse, he knew this and embraced it. But he firmly believed that what that Zuckerberg kid did to Eduardo was lower than anything he'd ever done to any of his ex-lovers.

Not that Eames had a Facebook account, but if he had, he would've deleted it immediately. Instead, he debated having Sam launch a DDOS attack against the site. But even that didn't serve any real purpose, except to satisfy some need to avenge Eduardo -- who he hadn't even met yet. And then he, of course, met Eduardo. It was brief and Eames didn't even say anything, but he saw a look in Eduardo's eyes that told him everything he needed to know.

Three weeks later (Eames told himself that he likes to work slow) he made his move. And it was less a move than more of a forceful play. He'd walked down the hall and knocked on Eduardo's door. It opened immediately and Eduardo looked at him, bleary and wearing only pajama pants. Eames tried to keep his gaze from straying, but found it hard.

"Can I help you?" Eduardo asked.

Eames let a smirk slip across his face. "I think that should be the other way around."

"You're Eames, aren't you?" Eduardo asked and Eames realized the smirk wasn't working.

He dropped it, leaving a soft smile on his face. "I am."

"Sam told me to avoid you."

Eames laughed, glancing at the door to Sam and Quorra's flat. "Did he."

"He did." Eduardo slid his hand through his hair and Eames wondered, though only briefly, if either of them had any idea what was going on.

"And?"

Eduardo studied him and Eames felt, not for the first time, slightly embarrassed about his style. Or lack thereof, according to Arthur.

"Why don't you come in," Eduardo finally said, much to Eames' surprise.

It was a weird apartment. Clean and neat, but not in the same way Arthur liked their house to be. Their former house. The one he sold because Arthur informed him, via a notarized letter of all things, that he wouldn't be needing it anymore.

On the table was an expensive bottle of scotch. Without offering or Eames asking, Eduardo walked to the bar on the far side of the room and grabbed another tumbler. He poured some scotch into that glass, then more into his own, before handing the second glass to Eames.

"Do you have a first name?" Eduardo asked.

Eames shrugged, "Eames works just fine."

Eduardo nodded without replying. He walked over to the window, glancing out at something Eames couldn't see. He took a long sip of the scotch and Eames took the opportunity to shed his jacket. He hung it on the back of a chair and walked over to where Eduardo was standing.

"You said you could help me," Eduardo finally said, without turning from the window.

Eames leaned on the back of the chair. "I need to be honest with you."

Eduardo turned from the window and looked at him. "Something makes me think that this will be hard for you."

"I know everything there is to know about you," Eames replied, ignoring the barb.

Eduardo frowned at him, but didn't answer.

"The chicken, for example," Eames replied.

There was a soft gasp of surprise. "The depositions are sealed."

"I know." Eames kept all tracks of smirk out of his voice. "If Saito didn't know everything about you, he wouldn't have hired you."

Eduardo studied him. "And how do you know all of this?"

"I have access to most things at Proclus," Eames replied, deciding the details could be figured out later.

Eduardo set his glass on the table. "And what is it that you do for the company? For Mr. Saito."

"Have you heard of dream sharing?"

There was sudden silence in the room and Eames wondered if, after all of this, it was his job that would be his undoing. But no, Eduardo's eyes just went round.

"Once. Once when I was at Harvard, there was this kid. Nash or something, no one believed a word he said. But he went off, one summer, to Japan I think. And he never came back." Eduardo stared hard at Eames.

"What I do for Proclus is create worlds where clients, people who wish to invest in us or just learn about the company, can explore places that don't exist yet."

Eduardo picked his glass up again, downing it fast. He coughed, just once. "And what does that have to do with me?"

"You've lost someone. Not, I mean, maybe it's like a death, but someone who meant a great deal to you. I did, too. I can offer you a way to, well, get it back." Eames replied, picking his words carefully.

"It? You mean him," Eduardo said skeptically, the word 'him' slipping almost effortlessly off his lips.

Eames shook his head. "Technically, no. He'll never ... It doesn't work like that."

"Then tell me, Mr. Eames, how does it work."

He took a long look at Eduardo. All the pain etched on his face, Eames knew was on his own. It wasn't fair, he thought, that someone so beautiful should suffer so much. And if he could convince Eduardo that being someone else in the dream world was a good idea, then maybe he could help them both.

"You never asked what my speciality was," he replied, purposefully cryptic.

Eduardo rolled his eyes, but didn't move. "And what is it, specifically, that you do."

"I become whoever you want me to be," Eames replied softly.

Eduardo gaped at him, shock obvious. "Out. Get out of here. If you think I want you to pretend to be Mark, you're out of your fucking mind."

Eames felt like he'd been punched in the gut, but for some reason he found the only thing to do was to leave. And he did so, grabbing his coat as he left. It was only when he was unlocking his own door that he realized he was still holding the glass of scotch in his hand. He finished it, then flung it to the ground, watching it shatter before pushing the door to his flat open and walking inside.

The Return
One month was all it took for Eduardo to come knocking on his door. Eames had thought it wouldn't happen, that he'd gone about it the wrong way. But then one evening, a Friday night when they both should be out, but weren't, the knock came.

"You can really become anyone?" Eduardo asked, his voice tinged with a tiny bit of lost little boy.

Eames only nodded, then stepped back and let Eduardo into the flat. He watched as Eduardo looked around. Eames' flat was messy, but pleasantly so. There were no dirty clothes on the floor, no magazines on the coffee table. But there were bookshelves, overflowing. There were notebooks and an easel next to a table with assorted paints. There were mirrors, next to the TV, on the back of the bedroom door, on the front of the linen closet. Eames knew what his flat looked like and he didn't care.

Eduardo walked around the room before stopping in front of a framed drawing. "Is this a Duchamp?"

Eames looked at him, startled.

"Didn't expect the pretty boy to know his artists?" Eduardo replied with a smirk of his own.

"It's ... No, I suppose not," Eames finally replied.

Eduardo stepped in, looking at it closely. "It looks like ..."

"It was a gift, from a friend. It's a fo -- reproduction." Eames said. The man who'd given it to him said to keep it safe. It was, in fact, the original, but Eduardo didn't need to know that.

"Oh," Eduardo replies, studying the drawing closely. Eames finds the urge to tell Eduardo the truth almost irresistible.

Even Arthur doesn't know that the Duchamp is real. Before he met Arthur, he'd met Neal. Young and impossible to please, but gifted. They spent one week together, during what Eames later discovered was one of the worst years of Neal's life. But at the time he hadn't noticed, or maybe hadn't wanted to. When Neal left, the drawing was on the kitchen table. There was no note, no goodbye. Just Neal vanishing.

It took Eames a year, several hundred dollars and a lot of calls to Mozzie before he figured out that the Duchamp was real. By that time he was already with Arthur and deep into the world of dream sharing crime. The last he'd heard from Neal, some FBI agent who’d been chasing Neal for years had finally caught up with him. He hadn't tried hard to find out and Mozzie hadn't been too forthcoming with information. Eames didn't care enough to keep pressing and then the inception job came along.

He looks over at Eduardo. "Tokyo has its share of art, if you're so inclined." Eames wonders if that sounds too much like a date, but Eduardo only shrugs.

Eduardo walks over to the couch and leans against the arm. "Tell me what it is you think I want."

"Are you sure you want to know?" Eames asks.

Eduardo doesn't say anything, but he does nod.

"Mark. Your best friend."

Eduardo almost flinches at the name. "You know too much about me and I know nothing about you."

"I used to be a forger. I can become anyone you want me to be in a dream." He pauses, trying to gauge Eduardo's reaction. "I used to live in London."

Eames knows he's leaving out basically, well, everything and judging by the look on Eduardo's face, it's clear he knows it, too.

"I suppose it's only fair,” he murmurs, though Eames isn't quite sure what he means. He can't ask, either, because Eduardo's talking again. "Show me."

"I'm not prepared ..."

Eduardo laughs, but it's not out of amusement. "Don't lie to me. You've been waiting for me to knock on your door. I don't know what it is you want from me, but I'm willing to try anything once."

Which was not exactly what Eames had in mind, but it certainly did make things easier. "All right. Come with me." His apartment was bigger than most on this floor and his extra bedroom was set up with a PASIV, custom made with designer drugs from Yusuf.

Eduardo follows and this is when Eames realizes that Eduardo has no idea what he's getting into. He doesn't care, of course, or at least that's what he's telling himself. He sits on the edge of the bed, motioning Eduardo to set on the other side of the PASIV.

"You put this needle in your arm, lie down, then we go to sleep," Eames says, leaving out all the important facts.

Eduardo looks skeptical. "I'm not tired."

"You don't need to be," Eames replies, unwinding the two needles and IV lines from the case.

Eduardo rubs his wrist. "How will I know when to wake up?"

"I'm setting the time for two minutes."

Eduardo frowns. "That's not very long."

"It feels longer when you're under." Eames knows he's not being fair to Eduardo, but figures if Eduardo's serious, then he might as well throw him in.

They don't say anything else. Eames puts the needle in his wrist, watching as Eduardo does the same. He nods, once and Eduardo holds his gaze before nodding back. They both lie back, their legs hanging off the edge of the bed. Eames reaches out and presses the button, then they're asleep.

Eduardo
The Dream
When you open your eyes, you're back at Facebook. Except you don't recognize any of these people. You turn around and wonder, what the fuck am I doing here. You look at your hands, your feet, you touch one of the desks. Everything's so real, but you don't ever want to come here again. You promised yourself you never would. No one looks at you and so you turn around again. Coming face to face with Eames.

"What the fuck,” you gasp out, knees going weak.

Eames reaches out, touching your shoulder, but you flinch away.

"Don't,” you mumble and you're remembering. Eames' apartment, the PASIV device. This is a dream. You want to puke, but you don't. You look at back at Eames, he's watching you.

"I can wake you up,” he says, but doesn't look too thrilled at that prospect.

You don't know how to answer. "Who are all these people?"

Eames smile slightly. "My projections."

"Projections?" You walk over to one of them, he looks at you, then past you.

Eames follows you, though not closely. "You're the dreamer, which is why we're at the Facebook offices. But I'm filling the dream with people from my subconscious. Projections."

"Oh." It's all you can come up with to say. You walk down the hall, toward the main office. Toward the conference room where you were all but fired.

Everything is exactly how you remember, which is probably because you're recreating this from your memory. You reach out and touch the glass, it's cool against your hands. You look down and you're wearing a suit, not the same one, because this one is nicer and you're still the same as in reality. You're not the young, naive best friend any more.

"Eames. You said you could be him,” you say, without turning around.

Silence and then, in Mark's voice, "I can be."

You whirl around and there's Mark. You walk over to him, touching his clothes. Real, not real, it's so hard and confusing. You think, I can't handle this now. You lift your hand up, like you've always wanted to do, and touch his face.

"How far do you want to go, Eduardo?" The words aren't Mark's, but it's Mark's voice.

You swallow hard. "How far?"

"You can do anything you want to him." Mark grins and fuck, you think, you want him so bad and this is killing you.

"Anything?" you reply.

Mark nods and so you punch him, hard. He doubles over, gasping. Suddenly you realize that that actually hurt him.

"Shit, fuck." You watch as Mark becomes Eames again. "I'm sorry." You kneel down in front of him. "Shit."

Eames is shaking his head. "No, it's fine. I didn't tell you, pain feels real in a dream but you'll be fine when you wake up."

"So you're ..."

"Not going to wake up with a black eye, no," Eames replies.

You look around you, but you don't want to see Mark again just now. "You said you could wake us up, if you wanted. How?"

Eames looks away. "I could kill you, then myself."

You stumble backward, jamming your hip against the corner of a desk. And, through the fog of confusion, you think that fuck, it really does hurt. "Kill me?"

Eames nods, looking back at you. "It wakes you up."

You don't understand this, but then it doesn't matter, does it? You sit on the edge of the desk you ran into, touching your hip. Eames walks over to you, obviously concerned, which kind of freaks you out.

"I'm fine," you reply as he touches your hip, right where the bruise is.

"I'm sorry," he says, finally.

You arch an eyebrow at him, but don't push him away. "For?"

"Not being honest with you." His voice is soft and you try not to shiver.

You shake your head. "It's fine. If ... If I'd known, I mean, really known, I probably wouldn't have agreed."

Eames smiles, just slightly.

"How much time do we have left?" you ask.

Eames glances at his watch. "15 minutes, give or take."

You're about to ask what you should do now when a man comes out of nowhere and pushes you and Eames apart. You stare at him. He's in a suit, like you, well dressed and well kept. But he's far from relaxed. The look on Eames' face is a mix of terror and love, you think.

"Arthur," Eames says.

"There's someone else in here with us?" you ask, panicking all of a sudden.

Eames shakes his head as Arthur turns around to look at you. "He's a projection."

"Of whom?" you ask.

"Someone I used to know." Eames replies, trying to push Arthur away, but it's not working.

Then, suddenly, Arthur speaks. "Someone you used to know? Really? Didn't what we had together mean anything to you!"

Suddenly you're no longer part of this conversation. You watch as Eames turns away from you, as if he’s forgotten you're there, and looks at Arthur.

"You're not real, Arthur. And you left me. You left me for Cobb!" he shouts.

You slip off the desk, walking away, backward, but you can't keep your eyes off of them. You think, this is what Eames meant, when he said he lost someone. They are still yelling when the timer goes off. You disappear and then wake up, lying on the bed in Eames' apartment.

"I'm sorry," Eames says when his eyes open.

You pull the IV out. "For?" Even though you know why.

"Arthur."

You shift, tilting your head toward Eames. "He was ... He was your Mark?" you ask.

"Kind of. He and I ... We were together for a bloody long time and then he left," Eames says softly.

You sit up, looking over at Eames and you think, now you know something about him. You want to ask why Arthur left, why he could leave Eames. You also find yourself wanting to reach out, to touch him. You do, fingers against his hand, then you pull back.

"I could use a drink," you reply and Eames looks a bit embarrassed as he sits up.

You don't talk as you follow Eames back into the living room. You rub your wrist where the needle punctured the skin, but there's barely any mark at all. You take the bottle of beer Eames hands you and lean against the counter.

Eames watches you and it almost makes you blush. "We don't have to do it again."

"I want to," you say, the words slipping out of you and you know you mean them.

You stand there for a long time, not saying anything and drinking your beer. Eventually you make your excuses and go back to your apartment. When you sleep, you don't dream about Mark. Instead you dream about Eames. About his fingers and his accent. You dream about dreaming and dying and when you wake up, you're sweating. You don't remember the last time you felt any sort of desire for someone who wasn't Mark, and yet down the hall is someone you won't say no to.

Past versus Present
The next time you go see Eames, he does everything properly. There's no changing into Mark, no Facebook. He shows you how to build worlds inside your dreams, how to deal with projections. How to destroy and create everything and anything. He also warns you, about the loss of real dreams, about limbo, about going in alone and about memories.

Sometimes he lets you populate the dreams with projections. Occasionally Mark wanders into them, sometimes Chris and Dustin. Even your parents, from time to time. But no one bothers you, not really. But then again, neither you nor Eames spend too much time with each other, either inside the dreams or outside of them.

Inside, you are around Eames but not with him. You listen to him, you watch him, and you learn. Outside, you do your job. You spend time with Sam and Quorra. You flirt awkwardly with the secretary, whose name is Cho, named after the Harry Potter character. You enjoy your work and sometimes you forget about Facebook, about Mark.

But not completely, because Facebook is slowly taking over the world. There are rumors that Robert Fischer's new company is going to be a co-sponsor of Facebook, who've never had a strong sponsor before. They've turned down offers from everyone else, but it seems that Fischer's new company has something to offer that no one else does.

You can tell it bothers Eames and Saito, though you don't really know why. You've tried asking around the office, but save for a few people, no one knows. And those other people, if they do know (and you think they do), they're not saying. You wish you were actually friends with Eames, instead of just sneaking down to his apartment to try out the PASIV. Because you know he knows and you also know he's not telling you.

But you put it out of your mind, focusing on your work with Sam. You're almost finished with your social network, accessible only to business customers of Proclus Gobal. And while Proclus has a strong grip on the energy market across the globe, there are still plenty of people who are using smaller, more local companies. Most individuals don't even know they're Proclus customers, and it won't matter until this new network, until Proclus' social image, is finally launched.

You worry, at first, that you won't be needed once everything's public, but Saito has assured you, Sam, and Quorra, along with the team of programmers you've picked up along the way, that you will be needed -- and even if you weren't, the company would take care of you. It's reassuring to know that you won't have to go back to the world you used to know, that you used to love and that now you hate.

Sometimes, though, you can't forget. That's not the only time you go see Eames, but it's one of the times. Like now. You're a bit tipsy from descending into a bottle of vodka you didn't even like, but you wanted to forget Mark's face. It was on the TV, he was shaking hands with Robert Fischer and they were talking about the future of the Internet. You wanted to throw things at your TV, but you didn't, so you got drunk instead.

You pounded on Eames' door, but there was no answer. You looked at the doors along the hall. There were six of them. You, Eames, and Andrea, who worked in accounting, live on your side of the hall. Sam and Quorra, along with Ben from public relations, and Taji whose job had something to do with engineering, live on the opposite. You were the only person home this Friday night. Andrea and Ben had gone with Saito on a trip to London, Sam and Quorra were still at work and Taji, well, he'd been in the Middle East for a month now. But it didn't matter, because the only person you wanted to see was Eames.

You needed to escape, to hide. You were having trouble forgetting and even more than reliving, you wanted to escape from Mark. You're finding that you're tired of thinking about him, about the ache in your heart, the longing you cannot quell. Maybe, you think, you'll ask Eames to be Mark again and finally do what you wanted since he first explained how this worked. You slump down in front of his door, falling into some sort of drunken stupor.

"Eduardo! Eduardo?" you hear your name through the haze and you force your eyes open.

"Drunk," you mumble and you see Eames, looking down at you. He looks no better than you feel.

He bends down, pulling you up. He smells like whiskey and cigarette smoke, which is odd because he doesn't smoke and most places in Tokyo don't allow smoking. But you don't think about it too much, instead you just lean heavily on him.

"I want you to be Mark so I can fuck you," you say once the door to Eames' apartment is shut.

You think you must shock him, because you find yourself leaning against the wall and not Eames.

"What?" he replies, looking far less drunk now.

You turn away for a moment, then back at him. "I need to move on. Maybe if you become Mark, I can fuck you and then just, let go."

Eames doesn't say anything for a long time and then you get an idea. You haven't seen Arthur that often, but every time the projection shows up, you see how he looks at Arthur, how Arthur the projection looks at Eames.

"You could teach me to be Arthur, you could move on, too," you say, wondering why you never thought of this before.

"Eduardo, you're drunk," Eames manages to say.

Of course you're drunk, you wouldn't be here unless you were drunk. You want to dream share, you want to do this before you chicken out and you say as much. Eames just looks at you with what you're pretty sure is pity in his eyes, but you don't care.

"I know you loved him," you mumble into the glass of water he's forced on you. You're sitting in the living room now, both of you. He's perilously close to you on the couch. You look over. "Love, I mean love him. I loved Mark. I was stupid and I thought that he understood and he didn't. Did you know that he fired me? Except he didn't have the fucking balls to do it. They made me sign some bullshit piece of paper that took away all my shares of the company. Well, not all, but close enough."

You stop and you want to scream and shout about how wronged you feel, but you don't. Instead you tip your head back, against the couch, and close your eyes. You curl your fingers around the glass, still cool against your skin. And then Eames starts talking.

"You're right," he begins, quietly. "Arthur left me for ... not our employer, really, because that was Saito. But ... Cobb was someone we did jobs for, dream sharing ones. They weren't always legal and Cobb liked to, well had to really, work outside the lines. I always though when this last job was over, that Arthur and me, that we'd go back to the way things used to be." Eames stopped.

"History just doesn't matter anymore, does it," you say, cracking an eye. Eames nods, though he's not looking at you.

Eames sighs. "It won't work, you know."

You sit up a bit. "What won't?"

"Dressing me up like him, fucking him. You won't move on."

You frown. "What makes you say that?"

"Personal experience." Eames’ voice is dark, dangerous.

You decide you're sobering up enough to ask real questions. "Eames, why do you have a PASIV in your apartment."

"I like to dream," is all he says in reply.

You sit all the way up, setting your glass on the coffee table. "I thought you said we shouldn't use memories."

Eames looks over at you. "I learned a lot from Cobb. Did you know that they said he killed his wife? And she used to show up in his dreams. She killed Arthur a couple of times. Cobb always said don't bring your memories into your dreams and I thought, well, if Cobb can do it, so can I."

You stare at him, realizing that you don't know him at all and yet you completely understand him. "I'm glad that I didn't know about dream sharing until now."

Eames gives you a sharp look. "Why?"

"Because I wouldn't want to end up like you." You realize, now, your mistake. You wish you could give Eames what he's looking for. You're desperate to have him be Mark for you, but the longer you spend thinking about it, the more ridiculous and stupid you feel. Why did you ever think this was a good idea? You'd love to blame Eames for showing up at your door, but you can't. It's not his fault you sought him out again. It's not his fault that you keep going back.

"I don't want you to be like me," Eames finally says, which is not the reaction you expected.

You stare at him, half off the couch now. "What?"

"Do you know where I was tonight?" he asks, even though of course you don't. He doesn't even wait for your answer. "There’s clubs in Tokyo, there are these clubs in every city. For a large sum of money, some miserable bastard like you can go to these clubs and get another miserable bastard like me to be whoever you want me to be. Sometimes it's a long lost lover, sometimes it's nothing more than kinky role play." He stares hard at you. "Do you think I want you to end up like this?"

You balk, lean back and away from him. But you're not really scared, just startled and suddenly on unsure footing. "Why do you do it?"

"It's easier than being myself," Eames replies, running his hand through his hair, messing it up.

You really have no idea what to say. When you look at Eames, you see someone completely different than when you first showed up at his door. You see someone just as lonely, just as fucked up as you are -- actually, even more so. You were just pining after Mark, but Eames. He had everything you wanted and then had it taken away. The pity he felt for you, you want to feel for him. But it's not what you feel. You discover, somehow, that you want to fix this. You can't fix this, you figure you're both going to be broken for the rest of your lives, but at least you can try.

It happens before you can stop yourself and, looking back, you think that's for the best. You shift forward, to him. Eames' eyes are on you and it's almost like he can see what you're going to do before you do it. You lean in and then you kiss him. You are not inexperienced, with boys and with girls. But Eames, he is something entirely different. You twist your fingers in his hair as you kiss him, crawling onto his lap. He slides his hands under your t-shirt, against your back, fingernails dragging against your skin.

You grind down against him and you think, this is not Mark. This won't ever be Mark. And then, this is better than Mark ever could be. You know that, because Eames is not Mark and you resolve to never ask him to be Mark again. You tip your head back, Eames' lips against your jaw, then your neck. You pull away and tug your shirt off, watching as he takes off his own. You are taller than he is, but not by much, but you're skinnier and you fit against him. He pushes you up, off him and neither of you talk while he pulls you into his bedroom.

He's flat on his back, you're above him and you want to ask, can I fuck you, but you don't. You just kiss him, knees on either side of his hips. He arches his back as you drag your fingers along his cock. You don't remember undressing, well, you do, but it's a blur of Eames' hands on your jeans, tugging them down. Your fingers on the fly of his pants, pushing them down off his hips. Your bodies twist together, sweat-slick, and you keep getting distracted by his scars and tattoos.

This is not like the boy in the back of the club or the girl you fucked in college. Eames is not careful, he is not gentle and yet it's clear that he wants you. You bite at his mouth, fingers tugging at his cock. You think sex, this is sex, but this is not enough. You do not think of anything other than Eames' hands or the way he tells you what to do without speaking a word. You don't deserve to share these intimacies with him, even though you've shared dreams. Even though he knows you and now you know, understand, appreciate, him.

Eames fucks you because you're not brave enough to ask if you can fuck him. It is delicious. He uses foreplay, but only the barest amount, which is fine because you are filled with want more than anything else. He touches you roughly, thrusting into you without hesitation. You like that about him. As you lie under him, not on your knees like your other boyfriends, you look up and you think that you like everything about him. That you could possibly love him, if you let yourself try.

You arch up, pulling him down. Your cock against his stomach as you thrust your hips in time with his. He does not touch your cock, but you don't care. He thrusts faster and you squeeze around him. He moans and you think, this is good. You slide a hand down, between your bodies and around your cock. You pull at it, awkward and crushed but you don't care. And then Eames' hand is around yours and it's all crashing together and then he comes, hard inside you and you come soon after, gasping for air.

Part Two