La Vie En Rose (V)
Part 5
Fandom: Inception
Characters: Arthur, Eames
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, mentions of anorexia/starvation
La Vie En Rose (Continued)
Calibri;mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
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mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA">Arthur is still twenty-five. Still twenty-five and still in the grocery store and still standing awkwardly with a loaf of Wonder Bread and a packet of Kraft cheese singles in his hands.
He apologizes again for his clumsiness (“Nonsense, dear. Don’t apologize for being human.”) and goes to pay for his food.
It’s eleven o’clock and raining and Arthur is walking across the street with a mile left until he reaches the apartment (not his, doesn’t feel like home, he thinks he wants that) when the bag soaks through and a simple adjustment of his hands causes it to rip into unattractive pieces while the food tumbles into the nearest puddle.
(“Shit.”)
And, in just a snap of the fingers, Murphy’s Law has taken effect. He bends down to collect the items (dizzy, dizzy, dizzy) and on the trip back up, everything blurs for a few seconds.
(Just got up too fast. Blood rush. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’ll be fine.)
The blare of the car horn is just unexpected enough that it causes Arthur to start, and then fall over into a heap. He holds his head in his hands and groans. (Hurts hurts hurts ohgodmyhead makeitstopplease.)
There’s a brief commotion as the driver of the vehicle steps out.
(“Darling! Darling, it’s Arthur. Arthur, Arthur, are you hurt? Laissez-moi vous aider. Let me help you.”)
Mallorie from the store frets over him in French and Dominick halfheartedly pulls her back to allow Arthur a chance to breathe and leave (escape, get out of there before he says something stupid or calls her ‘mom’ because she looks like her and she’s French, but she’s not her and she’s still French. And Dominick, he wants to call him Theodore (not dad, though. Never dad.) because the glare is similar (except for that goddamned squint) and he’s quiet and not French and stiffly postured and he’s reminded of home (not home, but as close as he’s ever been (no, scratch that. Marcus. Home. Marcus, Marcus, Marcus. He wants Marcus.)))
(“I’m fine,” he repeats, mumbles, but apparently she can’t hear him because she’s now dragging him towards the car.)
(“Mal, Lord. Leave the man alone. It’s one thing to grope a man in front of me, but to do it in public?”)
(She laughs wholeheartedly. “I’m sure a fine young man such as Arthur has been groped before. Beau cul.” She winks. “And you shouldn’t be complaining about exhibitionism, mon amour. Not when your pare-”)
(“Sssh! We don’t speak of that. Ever.”)
(“Arthur, dear, you must come home with us! S'il vous plaît! All skin and bones and pas de viande. What is this? Êtes-vous végétarien? No meat in your diet? Do you even eat?”)
(“I do eat.”)
(“Processed bread and cheese don’t count,” Dom pipes in.)
(“I do eat.”)
(“Crackers and water don’t count.”)
He wants to cry, scream, hit something in frustration, so he’s does the next best thing. He laughs. Hollow and empty and tears are stinging the corners of his eyes and he’s laughing. Mallorie and Dominick are frowning slightly, and Mallorie sets her hand on his knee.
(“I almost liked it more when you were frowning, cher.”)
And he’s still laughing because the situation is just so fucked up. He can see his whole family in them and they aren’t his family and yet…yet they’re acting like they are.
(“Get in the car.” He should say no, but he can’t. Can’t deny the woman (or the man, for that matter).)
(“You don’t know me.”)
(“You’re Arthur.”)
Yes, yes. He’s Arthur.
(“I wish I could adopt you,” Mallorie jokes.)
(Dominick scowls. “I’m considering a divorce.”)
(“Nonsense, darling. Keep driving. Where do you live?”)
(Arthur points to the next cross street. “There.”)
And that should be the end of that, but it’s not. She’s walking him to his door and waiting as he unlocks it and before he can say goodbye, she’s stepping into the apartment.
(“Oh, um,” Arthur articulates.)
(“Dear, you didn’t think we’d just leave you, did you? Dom, honey, go find the poor man some medication. You have medication?” Arthur stares. “Pour votre tête? For your head? Yes?”)
(“Uh, yeah. Aspirin. Underneath the sink.”)
(“Dom! Aspirin?”)
There’s a brief scuffle, and Dominick is back in the living room holding out a glass of water and three pills for Arthur. He’s silent as he surveys them, hums noncommittally, and swallows them down.
(“What is this?” the woman asks.)
She’s holding up one of Arthur’s sketches, the one of a forest of trees. He tried to make them look like they’ve been burned down, with smoke still wafting from the ground.
(“Did you draw this?” Dominick inquires.)
(“Uh, yeah. I, um, I did. It’s not very good.” He’s not sure why he’s ashamed. It’s a good picture. He knows it. It’s one of Marcus’s favorites.)
(“It’s beautiful,” Mallorie purrs.)
(“It’s very nice,” her husband agrees. “A little dreary, but it has a sort of…dark beauty.”)
(Mallorie spies his pencils, the colors he doesn’t use (blues and purples and yellows and reds) and grabs a bright green. “Would…would it be alright if I did something? Small, it’ll be small. In the corner, perhaps?”)
(Anything for her, yes, please, whatever you want. “Sure.”)
She studies the picture, nods to herself, and briskly works. She shows the drawing to Dominick, who says nothing, and passes it to Arthur.
It’s nothing special. A few green lines at the bottom of the sketch. And he then sees what they are. Sprouts. New growth. Life continued.
(“It’s terrible. Je suis désolé.”)
(“No. It’s…It’s just…thank you.”)
(Thank you for caring and for being there and for taking advantage of my insecurities.)
She smiles large and Dominick smiles and Arthur can’t help but to be infected and he smiles, too.
(“What do you do?” Dominick (Dom, Dom, call him Dom) asks.)
(“Nothing. I sketch. Listen to music.”)
(“What music?” Mallorie (Mal, Mal, mom, Mal) wants to know.)
(“Classical, mainly. Foreign. French (Mal lights up at this). Edith Piaf, a lot. I think that’s what’s in the stereo.”)
She waltzes over to the entertainment system to turn it on and press play, and the soothing sounds of Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien fill the small room. She twirls to look at Dom (lovingly, so lovingly and he promises himself he won’t get between that) and then at Arthur (and it’s not love, but it’s pretty damn close).
(“Dominick Cobb. Come dance with me,” she orders.)
He does. They do. And Arthur watches them sway together as he leans against the countertop, Dom’s steps slightly awkward and Mal’s voice floating through the room as she sings along.
(“Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.”)
I have no regrets, Arthur thinks. He tilts his head and offers the smallest of upturned lips.
New growth. New life.
A new beginning.
Arthur is twenty-five and still doesn’t know who he is, but he’s ready to find out.
Part 6