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The sun seems to have taken a vengeful vow to scorch to death all living inhabitants of South America, namely Venezuela, the day Mr Arthur Jones meets Eames. He shakes the man’s hand watching him carefully as sweat drips down his chest onto his filthy tank top. The man looks like he is from some sort of cheap porno, ripped and wet with mussed-up hair and grubby hands. Arthur almost expects him to declare an outrageous figure for fixing his car that Arthur has no means of paying for except with…
“It’s bloody hot.” The man declares, through frankly ridiculously pouty lips that move equally as lavishly when he speaks.
“You’re British,” Arthur states dumbly, exchanging one obvious fact for another and deciding that the accent probably fits in well with the fantasy. The man grins at him lopsidedly.
“Hey, Luka! I thought you said this guy was a genius.” But it all seems to be in jest as the man folds an arm around Arthur’s shoulder and guides him further into the warehouse. Luka appears and greets him with a friendly smile.
“Oh, he is. In fact, he’s the one who managed to get a hold of the PASIV.” He gestures between them. “Mr Jones meet Eames. Eames, Mr Jones.”
They refrain from shaking hands again, which Arthur is glad of since it is far too hot for those sorts of pleasantries and human contact is not his favourite thing at the best of times. He does, however, nod politely at Eames in acknowledgement.
“Mr Eames.”
The man laughs, all wide and open with crooked teeth. “Eames is fine thanks. I’ll skip every formality I can.”
“I should have gathered that from your choice of attire,” Arthur says before he means to but again Eames does nothing but smile.
“It’s to blend in more than anything else pet. I’ve been staking out Jorman’s local haunt, trying to get a feel of when the next big shipment of snow will be passing through.” He pauses to inspect some photos pinned to a notice board. “I think I am beginning to detect slight changes in patterns, that might hint at something happening. Nothing certain yet.”
Arthur nods and takes out his Moleskine. “What do we know?”
Dreamsharing is still fresh and exciting and new. The repercussions have yet to rear their ugly heads and the young pioneers of the subconscious world feel all but invisible. Arthur is a rare exception. He is wary and tentative. Not that he shows it.
It is not because he fears it. He would not be here if he did, if anything it is because he likes it too much and Arthur, the born sceptic, never trusts anything that feels too good to be true.
The freedom it presents, the endless possibility of it; there is simply nothing like it. Arthur knows he is hooked. Knows he could not back out now if he tried. Could not turn his back and repress the memory and get a nine-to-five or whatever it is other people do.
Yet still, a ticking remains in the back of his mind, a constant reminder that sooner or later the bad will arrive to balance out the good.
Perhaps this is what makes Arthur stand out so quickly. His wariness gives him an edge that other people do not consider. His fiery scepticism tones down the most outrageous plans into something doable. He takes the insane dreams of the others and makes concrete of them.
“But you have no imagination, darling,” Eames tells him after Arthur shoots down another of his ideas.
“Imagination is not the problem, Eames.” He replies. “Getting the information and getting out alive is.”
Eames tuts and kicks a cola-can over the hard floor. Eames, Arthur thinks, is a very emotive person. It is probably why the other people in the team seem to like him so much. He gives and gives and gives. Arthur in comparison is a stone wall.
The job is strange. Most of the jobs at the start were. Those lucky enough to be in dreamsharing circles had not yet found out the best way to profit from it and many wanted at first to do good with it, even if that largely meant stealing from the rich to give to the poor. For this job, they are attempting to find information to intercept a sizable shipment of cocaine that will also allow the authorities to catch the ringleader, Jorman. Luka informed them that certain intelligence services are willing to pay a lot for the information.
However, Arthur has reasons besides money to be here. He has been trying to set up as many contacts as possible to establish himself as a man who will continue to get offered jobs as they undoubtedly improve and become more refined. He also needs some firearms.
Arthur watches Eames with the team. There are only five of them. Luka, the organiser, Caitlin, Lisbet, and Eames. Caitlin seems to have strengths in world-building, though struggles to control her projections. Lisbet handles the chemicals and is the local expert and translator, she can also handle herself well in a dream. Eames seems to be an ideas man and his dreams reflect this. They carry a vibrancy that makes Arthur feel both lightheaded and unsettled. He also packs a lot of muscle and Arthur cannot help but think that he will be the only other useful one in a fight.
Lisbet caresses one luxurious finger down Eames’s arm and asks about his tattoos. There are a lot to choose from. Dark swirls cover his arms and Arthur had never thought the things attractive before but now finds himself chaotically spinning in a full U-turn, wondering if they would suit him. They are art reformed. Eames tells another joke, the punchline ricocheting through the warehouse. The others laugh wholeheartedly as Eames lifts his head to smile at Arthur.
When Eames meets Arthur, who he at the time refers to as Jones, he is taken aback immediately by the fact the man is wearing a suit in 36-degree heat. The suit, albeit thin, makes Eames sweat more just by looking at it. He represses any embarrassment he may feel in his dressed-down outfit and certainly does not think of how clammy his palm must feel against Jones’s delicate hand. He comments on the heat, wanting to know how the other man can stand to wear so many clothes but instead discovers he is American, which perhaps explains his better heat tolerance, but not entirely to Eames’s satisfaction.
The second thing that strikes Eames is how young the man looks. Eames strips him down with his eyes when he is not looking. If it were not for the suit and the way he holds himself, Eames would have guessed Jones was only around eighteen. He certainly looks like the kind of lad Eames would have fancied when he was in secondary school. He tells himself that there is no way he can fancy this obvious jailbait at his big age now.
And yet…
The man carries a notebook and reveals little about his own personality. He is extremely competent and picks holes in every single one of Eames’s plans, much to Eames’s irritation. However, there is something about him. Something smart, something that suggests he is already ahead of the game, that he knows something the rest of them do not. That he will outlast and outlive them.
And Eames wants in.
The next time they work together. Arthur is freshly turned twenty-two and feeling more self-assured than he ever has. That is until Eames walks in wearing a mustard patterned shirt and navy suit trousers. He looks serious, hair slicked to the side in a dramatic side part. He still carries an air of ridiculous around with him in the pattern of his shirt but the sneakers and worn t-shirts and tank tops, that Arthur got so used to in their month together, are gone. Arthur almost chokes.
The new look infects his face. He looks more closed off. He still smiles and jokes but there is something different this time. He is more measured, there is a distance between what he shows and what Arthur imagines he is feeling.
Arthur rubs the sleeves of his jumper self-consciously. He dressed down particularly for today, only wearing an oatmeal wool sweater and black jeans. Perhaps he had hoped the more casual look would help him inhibit a more casual persona – a persona that would no doubt be more likeable than his usual uptight figure.
“You look different when you are not trying to blend in with the local drug dealers.” Arthur comments and Eames quirks an eyebrow up instead of his usual cheeky grin.
“You can’t think I always dress like that?” He asks incredulously but Arthur decides not to reply, giving him a doubtful look before forcing a smile and filling him in on his research.
Arthur’s eyes scour him, and Eames can feel his new, well-crafted persona flicker momentarily. He can sense that Arthur has noticed the change in him immediately and Eames can only hope that the embarrassment does not show on his face. He even wildly attempts to suggest to Arthur he always dresses this way.
At first, Eames had considered a classier suit style, but it looked too forced on him like he was trying too hard. He also worried that the suit’s fit was not right, and everyone would know that he had skimped out on the tailoring.
To make matters worse, Arthur looks adorably snug in a jumper and jeans and Eames feels a sense of unease in being the most dressed up in the room. Nevertheless, he pulls out his leather-bound notebook and takes notes of what Arthur tells him, listening carefully and applying a professionalism to his work that he has yet to do.
“Good work, Jones,” Eames says patting him on the back. Arthur bristles and Eames immediately withdraws his hand.
“Just call me Arthur now, dear.” Arthur says, stumbling over the ‘dear’ as if he is not entirely sure how it got there.
“Right,” Eames says, unsure, “just Arthur, got it.”
Arthur wants the world to swallow him whole. He has no idea why he decided to try out a pet name, it makes him want to vomit. He had been so absorbed in the idea that surely this was not the same Eames he had met last time, with a professional outlook and a bloody notebook for chrissakes, that he allows himself to lapse into a sort of role play, except for the fact that Eames is obviously just a very versatile actor and Arthur looks like he is trying to take the piss.
He runs a hand through the curls that sit a little too low over his forehead and sits back down at his desk where he cannot make any more of a fool of himself.
God, he hopes this job goes quickly.
The job of course does not go quickly nor smoothly. Its premise is simple enough, gather information on the rival business and find an exploitable weakness. Arthur is finding that this is beginning to become the formula for a majority of jobs now. The world of business has found out about dreamshare and they are providing a steady income for the criminals who facilitate it. He does not mind; it is good work and the more he does, the faster and more efficient he gets. He is even beginning to make a bit of a name for himself in certain circles.
Saul is the leader in this particular operation, his brooding, calculating face stirring Arthur to work just as much as his inherent disposition. Between the two of them, they had organised this team, both flexing their contacts, Arthur connivingly making note of every name Saul mentions. It was Saul in the end who mentioned Eames.
‘We’re going to need a good conman.’
‘Eames is as good a thief as any.’
Eames has a creative mind, or so he likes to think. He understands people and motivations, weaknesses, and strengths. He is less of a planner and more a stream of ideas.
Arthur is creative in a different sense, a regimented sense so to speak. He plans. The figurative piles of his research stack higher than himself and even when that is all done, he sorts through every eventuality, every hypothetical fiction that he can think of. It is creativity. It must be.
Then when every unexpected piece of shit hits the fan anyway, he turns into something else. Eames watches in fascination as Arthur leads them through a paradoxical staircase, shoving their tails off the edge with the unexpected flare of a showman. There is a shift in gravity, and they walk up a wall to an air vent. Arthur climbs in first and Eames is about to make a lewd comment about the swaying of Arthur’s arse in his face when Arthur growls,
“I swear to God Eames if you start objectifying me.”
“Would never think of it, darling.” Eames chuckles. “Though it is a crime in itself to not tell you how fantastic you look in those suit pants.”
They fall through the vent and come out near a sleek black car. Saul signals them.
“Get in!” He yells. “Arthur, what are we doing now?”
“We still have time; Simmons did not take the bait and sent his men after us but only Eames and I are out of play. He’s not aware he’s dreaming. You and Aryn need to keep it that way and draw the projections East side while Eames and I break into the safe.“
“This was not the plan at all,” Saul murmurs taking a sharp left.
“Actually, this might be better than the original plan.” Eames grins. “Bloody hell, Arthur couldn’t you have mentioned you could find the safe before I came up with this ridiculously complex shit.” Arthur smiles back at him, almost demurely.
“Oh, I don’t, this is where it gets interesting.”
The end result is something akin to chaos, but they get the information and with time to spare. When Eames comes around Arthur is already at his laptop, typing furiously before slamming the thing down and beginning to pack away.
Aryn wakes with Saul, rubbing her arms tentatively. “You owe us, Arthur.”
“Did we get it?” Asks Saul.
“All of it, now let’s go before Simmons wakes up. I’ll wire you the money once I have it.” They leave the dentist’s office and split.
Eames once again follows Arthur. He is wearing a dark grey suit today, with a tie and waistcoat for added measure. It seems that their first day was the most dressed down he could let himself get.
They end up at a bar and both hesitate before ordering whisky. Eames thinks Arthur cannot be older than twenty-one and he has never met a twenty-year-old who drinks whisky.
“I’m twenty-four actually,” Arthur corrects later on in the evening, “cursed with a baby-face unfortunately.”
Eames nods sagely, already a little drunk. “Good age to be.” Arthur snorts.
“Alright Grandad, you’re only twenty-six.”
Eames stares at him. “And how the hell do you know that?” He asks without the malice that he believes he perhaps should have used. They live in a dangerous world and information like that should not be easily found.
Arthur only grins. “You forget, Mr Eames, background is my job.”
They end up finding their next job together and board planes mere hours apart, much to Arthur’s unease. He changes at the stop off and takes a train instead, arriving a day later than Eames who looks smug to get there first.
“Well, someone has to be thorough,” Arthur grumbles, stretching out like a cat to reveal the crumples in his shirt.
They work together easily, already used to the presence of one another and Arthur almost allows himself to enjoy it. That is until Eames has a moment aside with the man who is calling himself the ‘extractor’ and Arthur, who returns later in the night, finds them under together. He wants to trust Eames so badly, wants to believe every smile and line on his face but the ticking in the back of his mind speeds up erratically.
He researches Edmund, the extractor from South Africa. The man is a con like Eames and Arthur feels the hot water rising. He leaves before daylight breaks.
Eames recognises a kindred spirit in Edmund and when the man tells him he believes him capable of doing magnificent things within a dream Eames is eager to follow.
“We are both actors you see. We say one thing and mean another. We pretend to be people we are not. In the dreamscape this opens up a whole new realm of possibilities.”
He watches in fascination as Edmund’s figure shifts before his eyes. Eames feels his mouth slacken as he finds himself staring back at his own face
“Tell me what is wrong with it. It’s not perfect I can feel it.” Edmund asks through Eames’s body. Eames shakes himself out of his awe and considers the man in front of him, thoughtfully, unsure.
“Well, the voice is off for starters and I think perhaps the eyes… or is it the jaw?” He laughs in amazement. “It’s hard to tell when it’s yourself, my ego might just be getting in the way.”
Edmund nods and changes again, this time it is Arthur’s deep brown eyes staring back at him. Eames stumbles back.
“How about this?” He says, imitating American and letting the shape of Arthur’s vocal cords do the rest of the work.
Eames contemplates the figure in front of him. Edmund has dressed Arthur in one of his more casual combinations of shirt and sweater vest and he looks lovely. Eames scratches the back of his head and allows himself to think out loud.
“It’s more than just the physical appearance though, isn’t it? I used to dream of other people all the time, though the likelihood is I probably did not project their features completely accurately.” He circles the fake Arthur. “You could have the size a little off and still make me think this is Arthur in a dream if you were able to act enough like him. I want his voice, his words, his movements.”
Edmund smirks. “I’m up for the challenge,” he says. Then walks towards a desk, taking out a mobile phone and walking back to Eames. “The date is set, our mark will be go at two pm, Tuesday. Eames would you be able to swipe his wallet?”
Eames claps his hands once. “That’s very impressive. Though the way you move is not like him at all. The man slinks around like a cat, but his posture is still completely correct. Also, the intonations were off in his tones. That is not the way he says my name.” Eames blurts out before he has time to realise that, somewhere along the line, he has memorised that sound.
“That’s helpful, thanks,” Edmund says, morphing back into himself. “Maybe he might be a good one for you to try, here.” He guides Eames to a mirror and talks through his process. “It’s less about visualisation and more about feeling your way into them. It doesn’t stick unless you really feel it.”
And Eames does, he thinks of Moleskines and suits and floppy curls and the way he becomes electric under pressure. He is one step ahead and he knows it, he has always known it. He wants to know everything, and he is ready to put his all in to be the best. When Eames looks up, Arthur’s face stares back at him and grins.
Arthur searches through contacts and finds out who has started calling themselves extractors. Sure enough, Edmund makes the shortlist. He reaches out to the people who have documented this change and makes some more calls.
“I’d be wary of him,” Lucia tells him down the phone, “he takes a shine to people, like some sort of corrupt talent scout.”
“And this is bad because?” Arthur asks, already leaving the hotel and flagging down a taxi.
“Because then his little proteges go missing.”
“This didn’t come up in any research I did.” Arthur snarls, more to himself than to her.
“Why would it? Criminals keep low profiles anyway. People do not report them missing.”
“But I contacted the last two teams he worked with.” He protests, uselessly.
“It’s not every time, that would be suspicious. Not all of them go missing anyway. He keeps them onside; they owe him after he teaches them something new.”
“Jesus Christ.” Arthur scrapes a hand over his face. “Thanks, Lucia.”
He takes a train back to Hannover, glad that he did not go too far.
Eames wanders around in Arthur’s body. He feels simultaneously fantastic and pervasive as if he is intruding somehow. Which, he guesses, he is. Edmund’s eyes follow him around the mirrored room, catching every minute movement.
“You are a natural,” he smiles.
Eames looks at himself. His head held not overtly high but in a way that holds authority, that demands respect. His shoulders are slung back and in this finer body, he feels more delicate. When he places his hands in his pockets, he looks modest and unimposing. He twirls on his heels, feeling both fast and light. Arthur’s limbs are practically gangly in opposition to his own and the way in which he moves seems to make so much more sense to Eames now.
He does not mean to spring around like a cat. He just has the youthful thin body to make him look like one.
In the corner of his eye, he catches Edmund’s reflection in the mirror and for a second he sees malice. Arthur’s face is stern and alert and looks more believable than any of the other expressions he had tried. Eames barely ponders what that means before Edmund asks him what exactly his thought processes are behind every little detail.
“It’s phenomenal, Eames,” he congratulates, “how are you doing it?”
When Eames wakes up, he realises that all of Arthur’s belongings have gone from the office and something cold settles in his stomach. He shakes Edmund’s hand and thanks him before they both separate to their respective hotel rooms.
Eames’s mind is cursed by two things that night. The first being how he had felt in Arthur’s body. The balance of grace and grave competence combined with that thronging electricity that had him itching to grab for a gun in his waistband. Secondly, the look of something akin to jealously Edmund had given him when he resided under Arthur’s skin.
Phoebe takes over Arthur’s duties when they all conclude that he has bunked.
“Anyone know what I am actually trying to do here?” Phoebe huffs as she begins sorting through files, already more haphazard than her predecessor. “I thought reliable was his middle name.”
“He must have sensed something was up,” Eames comments as Edmund gives him the side-eye. Phoebe and Sean are both with Edmund and the loss of Arthur by his side makes Eames feel outnumbered and uneasy. “Is there any sign the mark has clocked us?”
“I don’t see how,” Edmund replies, sternly.
They carry on, without Arthur, and every night Edmund and Eames go under for a private session on forging. On the third night, Eames is so involved in attempting to keep his forge up under duress that he does not notice Edmund leave. When he wakes it is to find each wrist handcuffed to the chair’s arms. The cold, haunting metal of a gun barrel pressed squarely against his forehead.
“I’m sorry Eames, you are just too good and from your record I very much doubt you will stay and join my little team forever.” He looks almost sincere. “Can’t have people better than me running around on the other side.”
“What other side?” Eames splutters. “What are you talking about? Surely, there are easier ways to settle this. Put the gun down, come on now.” He pulls at the handcuffs, testing his movement. His legs are still free, so he envisions kicking Edmund down and stomping on his sneering face. The likelihood of the gun going off before he has a chance to do so makes his throat dry.
Edmund’s face only hardens further. “If you are not on my team you are competition, Eames. The way this world is going, competition is going to become a very dangerous thing. It’s not just pissed off marks that want our heads but other dreamsharers. Shame, really.”
“Fuck, alright.” Eames huffs, he has been in worse scrapes than this but not all that many topside and the gun against his temple is starting to make his head spin. “What if I agree to join your band of merry men. We recruit the best and stay on top of all the competition. How’s that sound?”
“Unfortunately, I’ve already made up my mind,” Edmund says, finger inching closer to the trigger. “This is the best solution.”
“Hang on a-“ He begins but stops midway as the crashing sound of a bullet causes the air to stiffen all around him. At first, he does not even feel it but then there is blood running down his chest and- and the dead weight of Edmund flopped over him, blood spewing out of his forehead.
Arthur carelessly tosses the body off Eames. For a terrified second he wonders if the bullet may have passed cleanly through Edmund. But underneath Eames is alive, choking in raggedy breaths. Arthur finds the keys and carefully unlocks Eames’s handcuffs, placing a comforting hand on his arm and trying to gauge whether or not Eames is going into shock. Eames who stands dumbly rubbing his wrists as Arthur wraps the body in a large sheet of plastic and then drags it to the car, Eames eventually helping to share the weight. They drive in silence until the body and gun are disposed of and Arthur has Eames back in his hotel room.
“You left,” Eames says, and Arthur feels something tear in his chest. Eames is perched on the end of the bed, his frame looking smaller than it ever has, his hands clasped together over his knees.
“I didn’t trust Edmund and when I found you two under together-“ He leaves the sentence hanging uncomfortably. The sun is just about to break the night and Arthur wants them both to get out of here now but fights the instinct to hurry Eames into packing.
Eames huffs a dry, cynical laugh. “You realised you didn’t trust me either.”
“We’ve only worked together twice before; this is not an attack on you.” Arthur contends. “You are both conmen, after all.”
“I think we met when we were too young.” Eames declares, ambiguously. “What was it now, a year ago?”
“Venezuela? Yes, around a year ago.”
“I was too impressionable,” Eames says, and Arthur rather wishes he would stop talking in cryptic riddles. He sighs as he sits next to Eames on the bed, he is frankly knackered from all the travelling and the physical labour that comes with disposing of a body. He lies back and stares at the ceiling.
“If it makes you feel any better, I dropped Jones because you went by only one name and I decided that sounded better. That’s pretty impressionable.” But now Eames is partially blocking his view of the ceiling and giving him such a peculiar look that Arthur cannot help but carry on talking at his own expense. “Jones is not my real last name or anything anyway. I just picked it ‘cause I found out it was David Bowie’s real last name and that sort of dumb trivia amused me.”
Eames, at least, smiles at that. “Oh, you pretty thing.” He murmurs lowly, dropping back down beside Arthur.
They lie in silence for a while, Arthur painfully aware that they should get moving but the moment feels too delicate for him to say so.
“You came back, even though you thought I was an untrusty conman who would sell you out.”
“I never said that.”
“It was implied in the fact that you left.”
Arthur stares at Eames’s profile, the planes of his face and the ink on his shoulders, bare once again in a tank top. “The job just felt dangerous. That is all.”
“So why did you come back?” Eames asks, again pulling himself up to his elbows, the black lines moving sensuously with him.
“I heard Edmund was an unsavoury character and decided that however unsavoury you are, you were not on his level.”
Eames hums at that, “Us unsavoury folk do prove to be useful from time to time.”
Eames goes underground for a while after that. He practices forgery, perfects the art of mimicry, and begins to think of all the delightful possibilities.
Arthur, meanwhile, stays in Europe. He goes to Paris and is mistaken for a student with his floppy hair and comfortable knitwear. He meets domestic dreamers who are actually students and budding architect Dominick Cobb.
“So, you’ve been doing this for how long?” Dom asks sceptically as he watches Arthur insert the needle into his arm.
“Long enough,” Arthur replies curtly, “and let’s not forget I am the one with the PASIV you so desperately wanted to try.”
They dream together often after that. Dom is a phenomenal architect in the dreamspace, and Arthur often wakes up feeling dizzy with it all. He teaches Dom his favourite paradoxes and Dom teaches him perfect mazes. They work together well.
Dominick’s mentor Miles introduces them to his daughter Mallorie and the three begin their work in dreams together.
“Miles taught me a lot of how to use dreams to practice architecture,” Mal explains as they stroll across le Pont de Bir-Hakeim. “But I get the feeling you use it for far more than that, Arthur.”
Arthur only smiles. He is here to learn and refine his skills and perhaps find people who will be willing to construct the layout of dreams. He is decidedly not here to recruit people into the criminal underworld. In the end, Cobb pulls that trigger himself.
“I want to try extraction.” He says to Arthur one morning, Mal wrapped around his arm like a good luck charm.
“Where did you hear about that?” Arthur enquires nonchalantly.
“Oh, come now, mon cheri.” Mal chides. “We both know you are younger than us, you cannot possibly hope to treat us like children.”
“Extraction is illegal.” Arthur states. “And the punishment is ten years plus.”
His warnings fall on deaf ears.
Eames receives a call at two am. Bleary-eyed he picks it up and smiles slowly at the gentle cadences of Arthur’s American English.
“Hey, so I hear you’re near Paris and I have some eager newborns with amazing talent wanting to dip their toes into extraction. I also hear you’ve been working on some incredible new skill and I’d love to see it in action. When can you be here?”
“You do know I’ve answered the phone, darling?” Eames chuckles. “You don’t need to say everything in one go. And I regret to inform you but for once your information is wrong, I’m in London.”
Arthur huffs at that. “Bloody Europeans. Do you even know how long it takes to drive out of Texas? Take it from me, you are near Paris, it’s just a quick swim across the channel.”
“All right, all right I get your point dear.”
“So, when will you be here?” Arthur repeats tiredly.
“Well, I might have to pop out to Marks and Spencers for some new swimming trunks so perhaps the day after tomorrow, well today technically.”
Arthur’s sigh makes Eames feel gleeful. “So, Wednesday then? God, I forgot what a nuisance you are.”
“My, my Wednesday already, this week has flown by.”
“Can I retract my offer? Your secret skill can’t be worth this.” And Eames can practically hear him roll his eyes.
“As part of your research have you interviewed my previous partners? Sexual partners, I mean. Because they may have given you the wrong impression of my secret skills.” Eames says, rushing the final words before the hang-up tone inevitably rings in his ear.
The four of them occupy the dream space together. They are in Arthur’s mind because he has the best-behaved projections, a fact that warranted a gold star sticker from Eames. Cobb and Mal have already implemented their architecture and Eames has given Arthur the nod of recognition of their talent. Now it is Eames’s turn.
He places a mirror in front of himself as he begins explaining the concept.
“It’s much like manipulating the dream in any other sense except it revolves around your own physical form. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.”
Then suddenly Arthur sees his own reflection in the mirror and Eames has disappeared. The other Arthur looks slightly bemused for a second but shrugs it off as he turns to face them.
“Ta-da!” He cheers and then Arthur watches in astonishment as Eames undergoes a second transformation. This time his appearance does not change, though his movements and voice do. He glances seriously at all of them and mutters something about lack of research and incompetent architects.
“Fantastic.” Gasps Cobb, approaching Eames in awe. Mal inspects him closely, glancing between the two Arthurs for comparison.
“Incroyable.” She murmurs. “Eames you must have put a lot of practice into this.”
Arthur frowns and wonders why Eames had to choose him of all people to imitate. It looks too real, too convincing, Eames inhabits him without fault. Arthur feels like he has been laid bare for a close examination, and completely without his consent. He tries, fruitlessly, to remind himself he has no moral ground for allowing himself to feel violated as he so often violates the minds of others’, but it does not help.
“That could be very useful.” He eventually says, without inflection, once he realises everyone is looking to him for his opinion.
They wake up. Arthur goes on a walk, masquerading as a coffee run and tries not to recognise the similarities in the way Eames holds himself in real life and the way Eames holds himself when he is pretending to be Arthur. In a way completely dissimilar to when they first met.
Eames is close to shooting himself in the head when he deciphers the look of horror on Arthur’s face. Why on earth did he have to fall back on this particular forgery? Yes, granted it was his first and most practised, but obviously it had sent alarm bells ringing in Arthur’s mind and Eames hated to think why.
Reluctantly, he thought it must be between two reasons: either Arthur was completely unsettled by his own face staring back at him or, and more likely, Arthur was completely unsettled by the thought of Eames practising this forgery to perfection.
He is such a fucking idiot sometimes.
Arthur bolted as quickly and politely as possible once they were topside and Eames could not even blame him. Cobb’s bombardment of questions is not the welcome distraction Eames hoped it might be and eventually he excuses himself, Mal’s ever perceptive eyes stalking him as he leaves the room. He runs down the stairs, missing the last two after every turn and hurling straight into Arthur holding a holder of four hot drinks.
“Shit- fucking ow! Fuck- Eames!” Arthur exclaims as the liquid hits his chest, soaking his shirt and suit jacket. Eames desperately fumbles to regain control of the cups and follows Arthur to the bathroom as he throws off his jacket.
“Arthur, shit, I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”
Arthur pulls the wet fabric, so it sits away from his chest. Then he laughs.
“Jesus, yes I’m fine. I’ve handled worse than hot coffee.” He says as he undoes the buttons of his shirt. Eames holds the remaining drinks in his hand and watches, somewhat mesmerised as Arthur’s deft fingers move down his chest, revealing planes of glistening slightly reddened skin.
“No third-degree burns then?” Eames asks hopelessly. Hopelessly, hopelessly...
Arthur smiles at him as he shucks off the shirt. “Perhaps first or second but I think we narrowly escaped third.” He splashes cold water on his chest and sighs in relief as Eames watches, transfixed on the knots of his spine covered by interlocking cogs of different degrees.
“You didn’t use to have a tattoo.” He says without meaning to, suddenly realising that along with his previous forgery stunt he is making himself out to be the world’s biggest stalker. Arthur raises an eyebrow at him as he inserts himself even further into the sink. The curve of his spine and arse so delectable that Eames instinctively begins thinking of hail Mary’s to compensate.
“When have you seen me shirtless?”
Eames finally puts the coffees down and scratches the back of his neck. “Never darling, don’t worry, your purity is still intact. I just didn’t notice it on the first job.” Arthur, the terrible person that he is, still appears confused, so Eames continues to dig holes for himself. “It was Venezuela, it was hot, you were wearing a thin shirt. You could see through it. I would have noticed it.”
Arthur’s confused expression melts away immediately. “God, I was only kidding. Can you not tell?”
“Evidently not, otherwise I wouldn’t have outed myself with the perviest sentence ever.” They both laugh and Eames stores away the sound of it. For research purposes of course.
The extraction they work with Dom and Mal is relatively easy, low danger and low thrill but it is the most beautifully executed thing Arthur has ever done. When he wakes up, he cannot stop grinning.
He leaves Dom and Mal in Paris after that, unsure as to whether they will take up criminal extraction or do something ordinary like settle down and have kids. They have only been dating for two months but Arthur can no longer imagine them apart. He decides his presence gives way to the former and so removes himself from the equation. If they end up in the dreamsharing underworld by their doing that is fine, he simply does not want to be the person that enables it.
Arthur finds a job in Dubai and after reading through the file immediately calls Eames back.
“This job will be ten times easier with a forger.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere darling.”
“That was not flattery, that was a fact.” Arthur protests.
Perhaps it is because he is aware of the way Eames must have studied him for the forgery, or perhaps it is simply because he has become hypersensitive to Eames’s presence, either way, Arthur begins to notice things.
He is making coffee for everyone, not because he usually does these sorts of errands but because the boy who typically makes it keeps making it wrong. Arthur has his coffee black and the boy seems to not understand the concept of enough coffee grounds that Arthur can feel his body buzz and also the right amount of cold water that Arthur can drink it within twenty minutes.
He is midway through making Eames’s, plenty of milk and a generous spoon of sugar because evidently Eames prefers tea and does not enjoy coffee when it tastes too much like coffee when he pauses. Throughout this job, and perhaps the former with Mal and Dom, Eames has been having his coffee black. Arthur pours the mug away and starts again.
It is other little things as well. The way Eames rests his ankle on his knee, a move that for some reason Arthur has conned as his signature. The way Eames holds himself and writes notes in his notebook. Arthur inspects the notebook one evening to find it is mainly filled with doodles and visually confounding spider diagrams. He does not understand why he bothers except, except… something niggles him in the back of his mind, an idea he does not want to even contemplate.
Though what really sets Arthur’s whole mind aflame is during the job. They are hiding from projections in a back alley when Eames’s wide figure folds around him.
“Don’t be mad,” Eames mumbles, leaning in to very nearly press his lips to Arthur’s. His large, calloused hand cupping Arthur’s cheek and Arthur can do nothing but sink into it. He feels the ghost of Eames’s breath on his lips and with every exhalation he yearns to close the distance. It is hot and riddled with a tension Arthur cannot begin to describe. He is trapped in a cocoon of Eames’s body and scent and goddamn it he is going to do something stupid if this carries on much longer. He closes his eyes and tries to press down the rising panic in his chest. The ticking in the back of his mind crescendos. “It’s just a distraction. You’re our dreamer.”
Arthur is twenty-five now, actually twenty-five and not just pretending to be, which means Eames is twenty-nine. Arthur has not seen Eames for six months now, at least. Mal and Cobb have had their first child and moved to the states. Arthur was surprised to see that in the end, they chose both extraction and normal life. He wonders about the balance of it, wonders how they get their relationship to flow so smoothly.
Dreamshare is no longer new. People have died now. People prefer to live in their dreams. People do not realise when they have woken up. Arthur believes he was right to be wary. Arthur still chases the thrill.
They go down two levels and Arthur makes sure the timing is perfect, he presents himself as the guinea pig for the new compound, he rigorously tests its stability. Chemists are more involved than they used to be, they alter and mess with the somnacin to create different effects, each boasting more possibilities than the last. Arthur does not believe any of them until he has thoroughly tested it in the most scientific method affordable.
He still curates the wild dreams of extractors into actual plans and smooths out all the details. He has his research and his huge databank of rolling information on everything he deems important and yet still when faced with a cocky extractor, his mind goes blank at the question, “So what is it exactly, that you do?”
And it is not that he does not know, hell he could write a list of every goddamn thing he does yet, unfortunately, it has yet to fall under a cutesy neat name like ‘extractor’, ‘architect’, ‘forger’, or ‘chemist’. He wants to scream and is about to (probably) make a fool of himself when a familiar voice says,
“Is that any way to talk to the man running point on your whole operation?”
Eames grins and Arthur cannot help but grin back.
Arthur borrows the wording; he resents the fact he got it from Eames but nevertheless, there is a certain ring to point man that he likes. It is better than his previous ideas of ‘producer’ or ‘organiser’ at any rate. There is also the appeal that he is, at the moment, the only point man around and once the term cottons on, he is the most sought after as well.
It is not like he is any better at his job than he was before. It is merely that people did not see the correlation between him and jobs that went smoothly until they started asking ‘so who ran point on that one?’
Arthur is twenty-five and the very best at what he does.
Eames has not had a dreamsharing job in a while and quite frankly he misses it. He acknowledges that this is the price he pays for also indulging in being a con artist and thief topside and additionally specialising in a role that is not essential to every dreamshare job. But regardless of that he itches for his next hit. He allows himself to visit Yusuf’s dream den once, and then once turns into twice, and then twice into thrice. The fourth time he arrives Arthur is standing in the room examining the sleeping bodies with mild distaste.
“Hello, Mr Eames.” He says, sharp and beautiful in his three-piece suit and tie. Contrastingly, Eames is wearing only a white t-shirt and khakis seeing as they are comfortable, and he had been expecting a lie-down. “I hear you are looking for a job?”
Eames feel like he notices a change in Arthur’s manner. He is less stoic now, more willing to give to others emotionally. Eames even thinks he hears Arthur tell the architect that she is doing a great job. He can hardly believe his ears.
Arthur slicks his hair back; Eames registers he has done so for a while but cannot pinpoint when. He misses the curls but admits that it does make Arthur seem more physically striking. Unlike Eames’s side part, Arthur pulls all of his hair back. He is as sleek and streamline as a bullet. It suits him.
“Do you have a totem?” Arthur asks out of the blue. Eames shakes his head. “They’re Mal’s idea, they help you keep track of reality, I would suggest one especially if you are going to start frequenting dream dens more often.”
Eames resents his tone but does not comment on it. “Come on then, what is a totem?”
Arthur shows Eames his, it is a loaded die and Eames, for all his creativity, gets stuck in casino mode and crafts a special poker chip, inscribed with ridges and words only he recognises. He reluctantly shows Arthur and Arthur smiles as if he knows something he wishes he did not.
He studies Arthur, perhaps as he has always studied him without realising. Arthur is one of the most popular men in dreamshare now if you look at the top tier of experts. He does not work with amateurs if he can help it and he is often partnered with Cobb. Eames hears from the chemist that they are a phenomenal team to work with and suppresses the pang of jealousy.
He wants to know what makes Arthur tick. What makes this man, whose main job seems to be research, so goddamn popular and how can Eames get the same influx of job requests as him. He is a brilliant forger he knows he is, so he cannot make sense of the discrepancy between them.
He follows Arthur from one job to the next, even though neither necessarily require a forger. Slowly, they begin to rub up against each other. The friction begins to burn.
“Of course, you’ll be helpful even if we don’t need a forger. You were good in dreamshare before all these labels,” Arthur explains to him. “Now people want everyone to be in a box, there’s less fluidity.”
“I thought you would have liked that. More efficient, more robotic.”
Arthur scowls at him. “Less creativity.”
Eames makes a joke that is a little too harsh, a little too cruel about Arthur outsourcing creativity and Arthur does not take him to his next job.
“We have a full team, no need for a spare part.”
This is what marks the beginning of their rivalry. If Eames could go back this would be the moment he would change.
Arthur is not angry because Arthur does not hold grudges. At least that is what he tells himself. And that is why he is decidedly not trying to get Cobb to choose a different forger other than Eames to take on this next job.
“I hear Madden is causing quite the stir with her forgeries in Europe.” He comments but Cobb is not having it.
“Why are you so against Eames? You are the one who introduced us.”
Arthur barks a laugh. “That was years ago.”
“So?” Mal interrupts voice like velvet, smug in the knowledge that Arthur struggles to lie to her. “What has happened since?”
Arthur scrapes a hand over his jaw, three days of stubble have set in and he is already itching for a shave. “The man is an ass. It’s quite obvious that he’s been using me for a while now to get jobs. At first, I thought the mimicry was either coincidental rubbish or flattery and now I realise it was just a ploy to advance his network.” He huffs in annoyance.
“I will have to disagree with you there, mon cher.” Mal sighs. “You are both big names nowadays, but you are good at entirely different things. Yin et yang and so on. You don’t need to compete.”
However, when Eames arrives in a full-on suit carrying a fucking briefcase, Arthur bristles for attack.
They bicker throughout most of the job as Cobb watches on astounded, opening and closing his mouth with no idea as to how to quell the situation. He tries once but the unanimous, “Shut up, Cobb!” he receives from both men is enough to make him wary to try again.
Arthur pokes holes in every single one of Eames’s ideas and watches gleefully as the pinpricks of water become outright floods.
“Right, so scrap that then.” Cobb yawns, rubbing out whatever Eames had written on the board as Eames scowls at him.
Eames in return fires back at Arthur by pointing out his negligible ideas and once more shunting him for his lack of imagination. And Cobb – in his haze of memories of his thankfully now divorced parents shouting at each other – writes, ‘Find imagination’. Which earns him death glares from Arthur and a low chuckle from Eames.
Eventually, Arthur, because he is still a goddamn professional, succumbs and turns one of Eames’s ideas into a solid plan that they can move with. Eames grins at him maliciously.
“I told you-“
“No, you did not. This is not the plan you told me. This is me extrapolating the few pieces of manageable real-life sense from your here there and everywhere ideas and forming an actual plan we can run with.”
Cobb bangs his head against the desk.
“Never again.”
Eames is not sure why their fighting escalates as it does. He does not understand why, where they once worked so well together, they are now tripping over themselves trying to obscure the other from reaching their goal.
He guesses there has always been an underlying tension between them and it was soon going to manifest in one way or another. He thinks of crowding Arthur against a backstreet wall and briefly considers if there were better options.
They have extracted the information when suddenly Arthur drops out of the dream well before cue. Eames spends a minute or so looking for where he may have gone. His heart stills as he vaguely recognises the distant cry of his own name and wastes no more time before shooting himself.
He and Cobb wake to carnage. Arthur is fighting off two men while another lies half sprawled over Arthur’s toppled lawn chair. Lagunov, the man who was supposed to be on guard, and the mark, have both been shot dead. Eames gingerly touches his face and looks at the crimson staining his fingers, though he can feel no injury. He hears a shot, and his heart does not start again until he sees one of the intruders crumple to the ground. Arthur has the other man down in seconds and is pressing a perfectly polished shoe to his throat as he asks, calmly, voice dripping with cold harsh venom, “Who sent you?”
But there is no time to reply as the sound of cars come screeching round the corner.
“Too slow.” Arthur shoots him and turns to Cobb in alarm. “We need to get you out.” Eames notices only then that Arthur is holding his trademark Glock in his left hand as his right lies loosely at his side.
They run out the back of the building, closing every door behind them. Eames’s motorcycle is the only vehicle they have available.
“Eames,” Arthur looks at him, as seriously as he ever has done. “Get Cobb to safety. Don’t come back for me, I will handle it.”
“Fuck off, you’re not doing the hero sacrificing themselves-“
“Eames.” Arthur’s voice brings him back down, there is an unspoken plea in his eyes that Eames cannot ignore. Then Arthur mouths, “Mal’s pregnant.” And Eames gets on his bike and makes Cobb stop protesting and drives them down to the city. He drops Cobb off as soon as he can and breaks every highway code to get back to the abandoned factory as soon as possible.
Arthur is not where he left him, and he cannot even dream himself up a bigger gun. There is gunfire on the top floor and Eames races up the stairs only to bump into Arthur racing down them. We have to stop meeting like this, Eames thinks but does not say.
“What the fuck-“ Arthur starts before dragging Eames by his collar back down, “Never mind.”
The sounds of an explosion ricochet above them and they just about make it out before the stairwell collapses on top of them.
Arthur wants to hold onto the back but eventually gives in and wraps his good arm around Eames’s waist. He supposes, in the end, it is more dignified than accidentally flying off. Eames takes them back to his hotel room where Arthur calls Cobb and makes him listen to very specific instructions to get back home safely. Then he collapses on the hotel bed as red seeps through his blazer sleeve.
“Where the fuck did you get explosives from?” Eames asks, pacing the room nervously.
“Always on me,” Arthur murmurs in reply, ready for Eames to shut up so he can go to sleep.
But Eames does not let Arthur sleep. Eames forces him upright and releases the tourniquet Arthur made with his tie then tentatively takes off his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. He guides Arthur to the bathroom and takes out his first aid kit.
“Shit, Arthur.” He says examining, the bullet hole that lies bang in the middle of Arthur’s upper arm. “We might have to get you to the hospital. This must-have torn through a lot of muscle. I think it’s hit the bone.”
“Just remove the bullet and sew me up, Doc.” Arthur attempts a mock salute, but he feels so dizzy he is not sure how it comes across. Eames is definitely frowning at him.
“Jesus, okay. I’ll get some vodka.”
Eames, quite frankly, wants to cry. Arthur has lost a lot of blood and the evidence of that is smeared all over his hotel suite. As well as the blood covering Arthur himself. He still cannot believe he saved Cobb before Arthur or did not think to put them both on the bike and hope one of them could figure out how to ride it.
“I swear to God, Arthur, if you die in my bathroom.”
“S’not your bathroom.” He murmurs head lolling to the side. He looks pale and sad and Eames is sure every wince and cry of pain hurts Eames equally as much. Once the bullet is removed and the stitches are in place, Eames meets Arthur’s eyes and does not let them go as he takes off Arthur’s trousers and places Arthur under the shower. He waits for the water to heat up as Arthur leans slackly against the tiled wall, his left arm wrapped around his knees.
Gently, he begins to wash the blood off his arm and torso, face, and hair. Eames finds that Arthur has bruises on his legs and ribs as well as what looks like a relatively minor gash from a bullet that has grazed his thigh. Eames rinses his hair and watches in worry as the water runs red.
“You didn’t tell me you had a head injury.”
Arthur vaguely reaches a tentative hand to his head. “Pistol whip.”
“Fuck Arthur, you couldn’t have mentioned this?”
“It’s just a concussion.”
Eames stops the water and parts Arthur’s hair to find the injury.
“Christ, Arthur what the fuck happened while Dom and I were out?”
Arthur murmurs something barely audible and all Eames manages to catch is, either ‘fuck you’ or ‘for you’. He thinks that the former is infinitely more likely.
Arthur sits numbly, passively letting Eames lift and move him around, check his pupils are reacting to light. He looks shattered and vulnerable and still so beautiful it makes Eames’s heart ache. He is about to dress Arthur in some of his own sweatpants when Arthur staggers towards the bed.
“Are you struggling to stay awake or do you just want to rest?” Eames asks concerned as he wraps a hand around Arthur’s bare waist.
“My heads fine, I just… please.” He says and so Eames lifts him gently and places him down, wrapping the duvet around him. Most of the vodka is gone, a mix of pain relief and antiseptic and Eames finishes the rest himself.
He pulls a chair in front of the door and stands guard through the night, leaving his post every half hour to check on Arthur.
Arthur gets a motorbike. He is laying low for a few months, hanging round in a nice, detached house near the Cobbs and remotely eliminating every threat he can think of. His arm pains him frequently, and though by some miracle the bullet managed to not completely shatter the bone, the fracture needs time to heal and the muscle is in quite a sorry state.
He ended up stuck in hospital for a week with his head injury after Mal drove him, yelling in French the whole time about how idiotic Eames and Cobb were for not taking him. Apparently, the doctors agreed with her as it turned out he not only suffered from a fracture in his arm but a (thankfully linear) fracture in his skull.
Despite this, he is happy to be around when the Cobbs welcome their second child, darling James, and he pretends to not be affected by the collection of cuddly toys from Eames.
In fact, he tries to think of Eames as little as possible because it is all too complicated. Mal chides him, of course, but he cannot help it. Something about it just hurts him too much.
He buys a bike because he is in a place long enough to enjoy it. He rides until his arm pathetically gives in and then he rides one-handed on the way back. It is not the rest the doctor prescribed but it is Arthur’s only dose of the thrill that stops him going stir crazy.
At night he remembers himself in Eames’s bathroom, bloodied and delirious and he wonders if he told him.
‘It’s all for you, it has only ever been for you.’ Because he remembers thinking those words, but he cannot be sure if he said them. He is not even sure he can recognise their exact meaning.
He sits in the garden with Mal, baby James sucking happily at her breast.
“You should call Eames. Did you ever thank him in the end? I am very cross he did not take you to hospital but he did help you.”
“Of course, I did, but then he was pawing me off to Cobb and on the other side of the world before I could get my head straight.” Arthur sighs. “Besides, what would I even tell him?”
“That you don’t want to fight anymore. That you don’t care if he copies you to steal your edge.” She looks at him meaningfully. “That you are his friend.”
“I’d be a fool to.” Arthur sighs, swirling the last dregs of beer in his bottle. The evening sun reflects through it and catches James’s attention who squeals in delight. Arthur likes Mal’s garden, it is peaceful. “As for the copying, I think I got it wrong. He’s an actor. He picks up things and adopts them. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Mal hums contemplatively. “What is his totem, mon cher?”
Arthur tries to not think of a red loaded die next to a red poker chip and swings his head back to look at Mal in mock disgust.
“Arrêter de me donner des idées.” Stop giving me ideas.
Arthur is twenty-nine when Mal dies. Some part of him wishes he were thirty. That the tragedy had held off for another year when he might feel better equipped to deal with it. Dom calls him on a plane.
“Mal killed herself. I’m going on the run, please Arthur.”
And Arthur remembers Mal in all her beauty, sun shining behind her as she carries James in one arm and holds Philippa’s hand in the other. ‘You take care of him, mon cher. You bring him back like you always do.’
The Cobbs rarely took illegal jobs after the fiasco with the Ukrainians in the factory, especially as they now had two children to think of, but when they did Arthur was almost always involved.
‘You are the original point man, non?’ Mal had said. ‘If anyone will keep us safe, you will.’
And Arthur tries, he tries his very best, but the Cobbs are too in love with dreaming and as they stop taking extractions they try experimenting more on their own.
“They think I killed her.”
“And did you?”
Cobb does not reply, and Arthur drinks in his expression and draws his own conclusions.
He tries to keep his memories of Mal sealed behind a locked door as he tirelessly works to put her husband back together. They take jobs because it is what they are best at and Cobb thinks that with the right amount of money he may be able to convince Marie to fly his children out. Arthur tries not to pick holes in this plan, the impracticalities of keeping children on the run, but says nothing to the man who is scrambling at straws.
They are ambushed by Woodruff, leader of Cobol Engineering, and Arthur has bad feelings about the job from the start. Cobb agrees to extract Proclus Global’s expansion plan and hires Nash despite Arthur’s arguments.
“The guy isn’t ready for this type of job. It’s too big, we need a reliable architect.”
But his arguments fall on deaf ears and the next thing Arthur knows is that they are in their mark’s helicopter, promising the impossible.
“Cobb, we should walk away from this,” Arthur says. Cobb does not listen. They walk straight into it.
He feels like an exposition reel talking to Ariadne, the architect Cobb has pilfered from Miles.
“She reminds me of you.” He says to Cobb. “Except I never wanted to bring you two into this world.”
But Cobb is on a mission, made noble by his children and Arthur feels the ticking get louder as Cobb continues to add risk when he mentions Eames.
“Eames? No, he’s in Mombassa, it’s Cobol’s backyard.” Though as Arthur searches through the files, he begins to see that Eames might be their only hope. They need an ideas man who understands people like no other.
“Hmm, Arthur.” Eames purrs. “You still working with that stick in the mud?”
Cobb, who has never bloody appreciated Arthur, tells him, “Well, he’s good at what he does, right?”
Eames stares at him, unflinching. “He’s the best.”
Arthur and Eames have not worked together for what must be over a year now. Arthur cannot help but feel a little starstruck when he sees him. Eames looks as handsome at twenty-four as he does at thirty-three, still perfectly in shape and packing enough muscle that Arthur cannot help but imagine his strong arms caging him in.
They nod at each other.
“Eames.”
“Arthur.” He drawls the word sinfully and Arthur leaves immediately to pull himself together.
He seems to have settled on his style now. He wears patterned shirts, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a frankly garish gold watch and slacks that come in an array of styles from neatly pressed to crumpled. Arthur cannot take his eyes off him.
He asks for specificity in Eames’s plans, not to piss him off but because the whole thing just feels like a terrible idea. Sometimes he feels a little headless as he discusses plans with Cobb and Eames, trains Ariadne in dream architecture and paradoxes, and becomes subject to Yusuf’s somnacin experiments.
One day, when Yusuf tips him out of his chair and he falls, landing squarely on the arm that still sometimes gives him some pain, Eames is standing over him, leaning against a table, arms crossed, grinning smugly. His smile flickers as Arthur winces and storms off.
Arthur cannot wait for this to be over.
With everything that is going on, Arthur barely has any time for what he normally prides himself on, thorough background research. He uses what Saito has given them, but this barely touches the surface. If they had more time, if this were a job that he had planned for, they would have extracted some information from a top goon in Fischer Morrow before even contemplating inception.
Additionally, Arthur would have preferred more time to closely examine what effects their mind meddling might have. As far as Arthur knows, Cobb has likely done this before and from what he guesses, the results were disastrous.
He likes Saito, but as with everyone else, he does not trust him and while the rest of the team seem happy to dissolve a huge energy conglomerate without so much as a thought to the global consequences, Arthur’s perhaps unique set of morals do not allow him to play ignorance.
Saito has the bias of the competitor. Of course, Arthur knows that Fischer Morrow becoming a global superpower headed by self-serving billionaires is in no way a good thing. Yet he cannot help but think that Proclus Global, now rid of their main competition, will soon be on a similar projection.
But there is not enough time and in all the fucking hecticness of it, Arthur misses the most important thing and Cobb counters with his worst risk yet.
There was no paper trail, there was nothing obvious to suggest Robert had been militarised. It did not matter. Arthur had missed something and along with Cobb’s fucking secrecy, it could cost them all their sanity. And obviously, Ariadne had come last minute. Beautiful, intelligent, whole life a-fucking-head of her, Ariadne, who should not have been brought in, in the first place.
Perhaps worst of all is the anger in Eames, Eames who is risking it all because of what?
“So, you knew about these risks and didn’t tell us?” Didn’t tell me?
Cobb deflects to the militarisation.
“You had no right,” Arthur replies. He turns to Yusuf. “And you?”
“I trusted him.” Yusuf squeals.
“You trusted him?” Mal trusted him too. “Oh, he’d done it before. What, with Mal? Because that worked so good?” Arthur is going to tear him into shreds.
“So, you led us into a war zone with no way out?” Eames rebukes and Arthur wants to get down on his fucking knees and beg for forgiveness. It should have shown in the research.
Cobb convinces Eames that he has no choice but to carry on, that they all have no choice but to carry on and Arthur is still burying daggers into him when Cobb throws him the mask.
“You, come on.”
You gave us no choice.
Eames watches as Arthur defends the warehouse solo. Watches the straight, professional line of his spine even in his dressed down leather. He thinks about just getting in the car, he really does.
He is walking up to Arthur before he realises. The man is risking his mind for chrissake and it does not look like anyone else is offering a helping hand.
“You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.” And he purposefully does not meet Arthur’s eye after, hoping that the other man understands.
I don’t blame you. I forgive you. I’m still on your side.
Arthur watches Eames strut by in a blonde in pleather as he explains to Ariadne the ‘Mr Charles’ scheme. Eames the sleek beautiful flirt. Eames who once upon a time had crowded him against a wall and moved their lips so devastatingly close together.
“Quick, give me a kiss.” And Ariadne pecks his lips and blinks slowly and demurely.
Perhaps he can flirt after all.
By some insane stretch of the imagination, they get out alive. Arthur watches intently as Eames wakes and he smiles. They all meet up later, all apart from Cobb who has finally got what he needs. It is a risk Arthur would not usually take, but he assesses that nothing will come of it, as long as Robert remains unsuspicious.
They make for a bar, but Yusuf and Ariadne decide they want to stop for food first. Arthur and Eames give each other looks and direct them to the nearest food stand.
“Dreaming starves you,” Yusuf says around a mouthful of hotdog. “All I had on the plane were some tiny canapes.”
“Don’t forget all those gallons of champagne,” Arthur says dryly, eyeing up the nearest bar.
“Hah-bloody-” Yusuf pauses, “why do I feel like I have déjà vu?”
“Hurry up and eat your food I want a pint.” Eames whines.
“You two go ahead, order me some fancy cocktail,” Ariadne says smiling.
Arthur glances unsurely to Eames who is already jay-walking his way to the bar. Arthur follows. They find a booth and Eames brings a round of beers, leaves then returns with a more spectacular looking drink with an ombre effect.
“I think I fancy that more than a beer.” Eames jokes as he sets it down. Arthur meets his eye and sighs heavily.
“I’m sorry I fucked up. I’m sorry I put you in danger like that.”
“Arthur…”
“No, Eames. It was my mistake and it nearly cost us everything. I mean I blame Cobb and Ariadne’s unyielding curiosity for her involvement and Yusuf got paid off, but you- you were just there. And I don’t even know why, and you nearly paid for it with everything and fuck- I just wanted- I just- I’m sorry okay?”
Eames’s eyes are blazing right through him. Grey and blue and green infiltrating every part of his soul.
“You don’t need to apologise for Cobb anymore,” Eames says sternly. “You’re free of him, for now.”
“I’m not apologising for him. I’m apologising for the fact that my oversight meant that we were being attacked by militarised projections.”
“Which we can deal with easily. If it were not for the fact that dying lead us to limbo instead of waking up it would have been okay and the fact that if you had known maybe finding out if Robert was militarised would have been more of a priority.”
“Eames, that’s not the point.”
Eames rubs his fingers through his scruff of facial hair and lets out a long withering sigh. “Yes, it is. I need you to know-“
Then Ariadne and Yusuf arrive, and the topic moves completely.
They drink a lot. They need to after the ordeal. After the first two pints, Eames cannot seem to be able to take his eyes off Arthur for more than ten seconds. They purposefully do not discuss the job but then when it finally is mentioned, the floodgates open and they are unable to stop themselves.
“Honestly, mate, I would revoke your driving licence if I could,” Eames says slapping Yusuf’s back heartily.
“You’re forgetting how much I was being shot at,” Yusuf grumbles.
“I don’t know why you’re complaining,” Arthur says, glancing at Eames. “You’re not the one who had to fight off projections in a fucking rotating hallway.”
“I mean that sounds pretty awesome to me.” Ariadne smiles, sipping at her unnaturally blue drink.
Yusuf’s frown deepens. “It was pretty awesome on my side as well; I flipped and landed a car. It was some real fast and furious kind of shit.”
“I’m sure it was,” Eames interjects. “Shame you couldn’t fend them off with a few more flips instead of flying off the bridge too soon.”
Arthur is very carefully nursing his drink and staring down into it like it might tell him something he cannot figure out himself. Eames longs to know what he is thinking.
“Look, Eames, you know I’m fond of you but if you keep pushing this, I will spike your drink and you will not enjoy it. There were a lot of shooty men, and I didn’t want any more of us to get shot and end up in limbo.”
Ariadne giggles and then hiccups after she inhales her drink. “Shooty men.” She repeats. Yusuf eyes her balefully.
“Alright, alright I’m sorry I’m not having a go. We didn’t know what we were getting into- wait fuck off you did, you bastard.”
“Eames,” Arthur warns, and Eames sits back down and unclenches his fist.
“Wait, Arthur how the heck did you drop us without gravity?” Ariadne asks, subtly changing the subject.
Arthur closes his eyes. He had been proud of himself for all of an hour but now he is over it, intent on focusing on his mistake it seems.
“Tied you all up with a wire and hauled you to the lift. Set some charges then when I felt the beginning of the rumble as Yusuf hit the water, I exploded the lift downwards, stimulating the free fall without gravity.” He explains plainly, opening his eyes to stare at his drink again.
“Fuck, how the hell did you think of that?” Ariadne asks in awe, Arthur smiles at her affectionately.
“Well, I was limited by what I had and then I guess it was just rudimentary physics.”
Ariadne and Arthur are smiling at each other and Eames wants to break their eye contact. Wants to tell Arthur he is sorry for saying he could not think of an original idea if he fucking studied original ideas for the rest of his life.
They finally stop talking about the job. Which Arthur is wholeheartedly glad of seeing as he wanted to drink mainly to get away from that particular shitshow. However, he is irritated when somehow Yusuf and Ariadne turn the topic of conversation to him and Eames.
“I’m surprised you haven’t spent any of this time bickering.” Ariadne comments. They have all somehow ended up drinking tequila sunrises and everyone, but Arthur, has the little umbrella tucked behind their ear. Yusuf chuckles.
“They don’t always bicker you know. Sometimes Arthur comes and rescues Eames from the inescapable fate of dream dens.”
“What’s a dream den?” She asks and Arthur by default nearly answers. Frowning, he stops himself after realising he has gotten a bit sick of doing all the explaining. Eames educates instead and adds,
“And he didn’t rescue me, I was never going to get hooked like that.”
“You didn’t have a totem.” Yusuf comments and Eames growls back at him.
“And you would have been a terrible friend for letting me get hooked.”
Yusuf shrugs nonchalantly. “I didn’t much like you then. Not after I realised you kept stealing my somnacin.”
“So, Arthur, you rescued Eames from Yusuf’s cruel vengeance.”
“I had my contacts and he’s the best forger out there. It was an investment.” Arthur says, feeling hot and uncomfortable. Eames's eyes meet his and Arthur frowns instinctively as he wonders if he has said something wrong.
“So, it wasn’t a coincidence?” Eames asks lowly, perhaps too quiet for the others to hear. “You did come to save me from life as a dream addict.”
Arthur is still frowning, he is also swaying a little, or is he nodding? He cannot be sure. When did he finish his second tequila sunrise?
“As I said, a good investment.” He manages.
“When did you start bickering then?” Ariadne asks, all too loudly. “Was it after you married?”
Arthur rolls his eyes and slumps backwards. Eames is still looking at him intently but, in this state, he cannot even begin to decipher what the hell that look is supposed to mean.
“We’ve always been competitive, one might say.” Eames drawls not taking his eyes off Arthur.
“Since Venezuela?” Arthur replies a deflection rather than any real reply.
Eames chuckles darkly. “Before, I’d say.” Arthur is confused. He has no idea what that means, vaguely thinks he probably does not want to know. Not right now.
Ariadne leans on his shoulder. Her soft hair brushing against his face. “Will you take me to Venezuela?” She asks.
He smiles. “Sure.”
Eames reckons that he is the soberest of them all. Ariadne, being tiny, is the drunkest. Yusuf, who Eames can easily drink under the table, is next. Then it is between him and Arthur and Arthur seems to be losing this round. He probably has not eaten today, Eames thinks, examining his slim figure.
He watches carefully as Ariadne leans on Arthur in the booth. Their heads so close together, the contact seeming effortlessly natural. Inside a fire burns so strongly that Eames is going to end up with bruises on his thighs from the way he is gripping them. Something has happened between them. He can sense it in the ease of their movements. Arthur is never this amiable with just anyone and normally shuns all physical contact. Or at least he has objected to physical contact instigated by Eames.
Some part of his mind is still reeling from the idea that Arthur came to offer him a job, not because he needed him, but because he was worried for Eames. Because he knew he had not dreamt for a while and thought he could help. Now Eames comes to think of it the rest of the team were surprised when he had brought a forger on board. It makes sense. Perhaps he had known it before and just not wanted to indulge himself in such an idea.
But why would that be an indulgence? Why do you want him to feel like that for you?
Eames shakes his head of the thoughts and goes to get another round when Arthur stands up.
“I’m sick of this bar can we go somewhere else?”
The place where they end up at is more of a club than a bar, fit out with lights and blaring music. Eames struggles to hear himself think and wonders if perhaps this is a good thing. That perhaps Arthur had the same idea.
They order more fruity drinks and Ariadne playfully tucks a palm tree cocktail stick behind Arthur’s ear, hand lingering on his face before she laughs and spins. Arthur laughs too, putting a steadying hand on her back when she stops her faux pirouette. Eames’s teeth clamp down on his straw, sealing the tube entirely.
They are going to go home together. He is sure of it. Arthur, he recalls, has a rule about sleeping with co-workers but Arthur is set alight with alcohol and post-inception high and will probably throw his professionalism out of the window.
“Don’t get jealous now.” Yusuf jeers, clapping him on the arm. “You’ve had years to make your move. Don’t be mad that she got there first.”
Eames leaves after two more drinks. He leaves and filled with angered recklessness books a plane back to Mombasa.
When Arthur comes back from the rather long wait at the bar Eames is gone. He asks Yusuf where and why Eames has left and tries not to be hurt that he did not say goodbye.
Arthur walks Yusuf and Ariadne to their respective hotels because some part of him still feels like he is responsible for their safety. Though by the time he gets to Ariadne’s it is four in the morning and he finds himself dead on his feet. Ariadne, being a grad student, is doing rather well and she looks at Arthur sympathetically as he stares at the hour-long walk back to his hotel.
“Stay here if you want.” She offers, shrugging her shoulders noncommittally.
“No, it’s alright I’ll find a cab.” He yawns, looking at the desolate streets. “Fucking L.A.”
“Arthur,” Ariadne smiles, “it’s okay you can stay here.”
They take the elevator to the fourth floor.
“I can’t believe what you did with the elevator kick.” Ariadne comments, investigating her reflection in the mirrored wall.
“I should have thought of it, pre going under but I didn’t think it would come to that.” He sighs. “We were supposed to have so much more time. Another fuck up on my part.”
Ariadne looks up at him sternly. “Arthur you weren’t to know. I should have told you about how fucked Cobb was, I wanted him to tell you.”
“Oh, I knew Cobb was fucked. That’s on me.” He stares at the elderly couple waiting to get in the lift. “How long have we been here for?”
They get off at floor seven to allow the couple and their suitcases to use the lift and take the stairs.
Ariadne’s room has a double bed and an armchair.
“I’ll take the chair,” Arthur announces, pulling off his jacket and already loosened tie.
“Not the bed?” Ariadne asks with a smirk. Arthur feels guilt wash over him.
“I don’t sleep with co-workers as a general rule.” He looks up and Ariadne is frowning slightly. “Oh fuck, I’m sorry I kissed you like that. I shouldn’t have I just, you’re remarkable and Eames did it to me once, and I thought we were going to all lose our minds.”
Ariadne gives him one of those looks that makes Arthur believe the fact she is older than she looks. “Ah Eames, that makes sense.” She laughs. “And don’t apologise to me you dimwit. I kissed you. I fancy you as well and maybe I fancied a drunken fumble but I’m a big girl and can handle rejection.”
Arthur laughs too. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you were head over heels for me or anything.”
“That’s fine as long as we don’t talk about this balls-up of a conversation again.”
“I’m hoping I don’t remember it.”
They end up sharing the bed in the end, mainly because Ariadne cannot stop laughing at Arthur curled up in the armchair.
“You look like a cat!” She barks. “Oh, come here I don’t bite and there’s plenty of room.” Arthur is still frowning. “Don’t worry you won’t corrupt my innocence.”
When they wake up mid-afternoon, they stare at each other confusedly for a few seconds before checking they are still dressed.
“What the fuck was in all those cocktails?” Arthur growls clutching his head.
“I don’t know but after Eames left you finished his, then,” She pauses, eyes avoiding him guiltily. “Well then, I kept giving you mine to finish. I was too wasted and close to throwing up.”
“Devious thing you are,” Arthur replies. The ceiling spins occasionally and the accompanying thumping in Arthur’s brain makes him feel close to throwing up.
Ariadne inhales slowly then asks. “What is the deal? With you and Eames?”
“Your curiosity not satiated by digging into Cobb’s past?” Arthur moans. Ariadne swings her legs off the bed, wobbles momentarily and closes the curtain at the window. Arthur sighs in relief and moves his hand away from his face.
“That is the problem with my curiosity. It never is.” She shrugs, the smallest hint of insecurity dripping off her shoulders.
“I’ll exchange some water and aspirin for a few answers.”
“Deal.”
Eames wakes up thinking of Arthur peering over the sleeping bodies in the dream den and cancels his flight to Mombasa. He realises he must stop being a coward one day and this day will do as well as any. There is a slight pounding in his head, residue from the night before but nothing that he cannot easily ignore. He paces the hotel suite. He sits on his bed, legs crossed. He lies down, searches for answers on the ceiling. He sits at the chair and tries to write something down on the hotel parchment. He gets as far as, ‘Dear, Arthur,’ before staring at the two commas in bewilderment.
What the hell has his life come to?
He leaves the hotel in search of coffee and simply hopes he will unravel his feelings on the journey. Sitting outside a quaint café he sips on his mocha and thinks fondly of the coffees Arthur used to make him. The times when he would slip two sugars in instead of one and more than Eames’s suggested ‘dash’ of milk. He still had not grown to the taste of coffee at the time and felt like Arthur, with his harsh black undiluted rocket fuel, was simply trying to undermine him. Arthur could be cruel if he wanted to, Eames knew this. In hindsight, he thinks back to the secretive smile Arthur gave him as he handed Eames his cup as if he simply knew it was what Eames really wanted to ask for.
He wonders over the years how many of Arthur’s secretive smiles he has mistaken for malicious smirks.
“Guess there’s only one way to find out.” He murmurs, downing his mocha and leaving the café.
He arrives at Arthur’s hotel an hour later. He had meandered back and forth for a while, suddenly paranoid that he might have a tail and frowning at the idea of Arthur giving him that brutal look of disappointment when he inevitably realises. He does not think that would lead to a productive conversation.
Crossing and uncrossing his ankles, Eames sits in the hotel lobby speculating at what exactly he is going to say. He knows which room is Arthur’s, just as he knows where Arthur’s hotel is because Arthur is the point man. Because he manages the whole job, and he is their rendezvous if afterwards they get found out and hunted down.
Before he consciously realises, he is running up the stairs, even though he knows Arthur is on the eighth floor. Panting, out of breath, fire in his lungs, his mind feels like a bath of boiling water. Vague thoughts rising and popping at the surface before he can grab a hold of them.
Eames runs entirely on feeling. He needs to do this. He needs to set it all straight and finally face the music.
At last, when he is there, right there, outside Arthur’s door, doubt finally catches up to him and he hesitates for a second before knocking twice. No answer. He knocks again, a friendly rat-a-tat-tat.
“Arthur?” He calls out. “Arthur, it’s Eames. I need to talk to you.”
There is still no answer. Eames slumps against the door, the gold-plated numbers cold against his sweaty forehead.
“Arthur, darling, I know you might be in a terribly hungover state but open the door pet.”
After five minutes of waiting, Eames calls his phone and listens for the ring. As he is pressing his ear against the door, he suddenly remembers Ariadne’s head resting gently against Arthur’s shoulder and growls, snapping his phone shut and storming back down the stairs.
“You two are so alike,” Ariadne observes, circling the rim of her coffee cup.
“I guess we are.” Arthur smiles, contemplatively. “We learned, or rather, borrowed a lot of things from each other.”
They lie on their sides, facing one another. Arthur feels half a decade younger.
“You know you’re just the head to his tails, right?”
Arthur splutters a laugh, “God, if I really was like Eames, I would say the most inappropriate thing right now.” Ariadne laughs too.
“I completely forgot the phrase, but you know what I mean.”
“Two sides of the same coin?” Arthur raises a speculative eyebrow at her. She makes a clicking sound with her tongue.
“Right on.”
They lie there in silence, drinking their hot coffees and thinking. Ariadne eventually interrupts it by heaving herself off the bed in an exaggerated manner and telling him she is going to get a shower and that he better not leave before saying goodbye. Arthur salutes her and promises he would not dream of it.
He listens to the running water and searches the blemishes on the white ceiling. He rolls his totem in his pocket.
“Two sides of the same coin.” He murmurs to himself, pensively, feeling the dimples of the die in his palm. “A red die and a red poker chip.” He thinks of Mal. “Yin et yang.”
An abrasive continuous knock has Arthur jumping out of bed and reaching for his gun. He raps on the bathroom door.
“Ariadne? Stay in there.” He warns her before startling once more at the sound of his name called out by an all too familiar voice.
Eames is not angry. He just needs to talk. Eames is not angry. He just needs to talk. Eames is not angry. He just- “Arthur!” The tone of his voice surprises even himself. “I know you’re in there.”
Arthur edges the door open and stares at Eames. “Jesus, Eames what’s happened? Are you okay?”
Eames, because he is decidedly not angry, barges in past the slighter man. He turns on his heel and drinks in the sight of Arthur, hair ruffled from sleep, shirt crumpled, and still as gorgeous as he has ever been. He watches as the other man places his Glock back on the side and glances towards the bathroom.
“Don’t worry, it’s just Eames scaring the shit out of me.” He calls out. “Why are you here, Eames?”
Eames grinds his teeth together and licks his upper lip once. “Could say the same for you.” He glances at the unmade bed behind him.
“What the hell does that matter?” Arthur bites back. “I’m guessing this means you’re not sweating because you’ve been chased down.”
“No, we’re fine don’t you worry your pretty little head-“
“Cut the crap, Eames.” Arthur’s eyes are sharp and hot on Eames’s face. “Why are you here?”
“When did you get that cog tattoo on your back?” Eames blurts out before he can think of anything else to say.
Arthur moves his head forward incrementally to enhance the power of his stare. “What the fuck have you been drinking?”
They are engaged in a battle to the death. Circling, unmoving, completely focused on one another. There is nothing else, not right now.
“Was it at the same time you decided to drop Jones from your name?” Eames snarls.
“Might have been near the time you decided to buy a notebook.”
“You don’t have a fucking monopoly on notebooks you prat.”
Arthur’s eyebrows draw inextricably close together as his whole face darkens. “Like you don’t have a fucking monopoly on tattoos you ass.” And then he laughs a maniacal sound as dark as his expression. “My God, I can’t believe you’re twisting this back onto me. I didn’t steal parts of your personality to further my career, Eames.”
“Well, why did you do it then?” Eames questions already lost on whatever the fuck Arthur is talking about but trying to keep face. “Because you wanted me to like you?”
“Ah, yes because everyone fucking liked you, didn’t they? It was always, Eames is so funny, Eames is so inappropriate, isn’t he fucking gorgeous.” Arthur is pacing now, Eames watches as he moves his arms erratically, spinning webs with his fingers. “Because getting you to like me just had to be the goal.”
“Okay, so why? Petty jealousy? I never had you pinned as the-“
“Jealous type? Because I’m not fucking jealous, Eames least of all of you.”
“Arthur, I’ve completely lost track of what point anyone here is supposed to be making-“
“The point is, Eames,” Arthur bellows, in his most commanding point man voice, “is that you’re right. I dropped Jones because you only called yourself Eames. I got a tattoo after I saw Lisbet running her fingers down your arm. I dressed down in sweaters and jeans before I saw you dressed up. I bought a motorbike. I tried being nicer to people, more open, more friendly. I slicked my hair back and started wearing patterned ties, even paisley. Not to mention the fact that I did that fucking distraction kiss move on Ariadne.” Eames watches his face go red as the words flood out, watches as he begins to pant from the exertion of tearing the contents of his heart out. Eames watches and still cannot make himself understand.
“And to make it all worse,” Arthur continues, he is almost yelling now, “I barely even realised I was doing it and I blamed it all on you.”
Eames slumps onto the bed and holds his head in his hands. “Darling, you lost me ten paces back.”
“I-God, fuck,” Arthur rubs his face with his hands, “I’ve got to go, shit. Sorry, Ariadne!” Then he grabs his jacket and leaves in a flash.
Ariadne comes out of the shower moments later smiling meekly in a bathrobe, hair wrapped up in a turban.
“Sorry, I’ve been sat on the toilet for ages waiting for you to finish.” She laughs awkwardly. “Sat on the toilet seat I mean.”
Eames leaves her in peace after he cannot fathom any reason to be angry at her.
He leaves and makes his sorry way back to Arthur’s hotel room.
Arthur paces the way back to his hotel at great speed. The normally hour-long walk flying by in a blur as some unknown force pushes Arthur through it.
He presses the button for the elevator and decides he cannot be bothered to wait for it to come down from the eleventh floor. Instead, taking the stairs up all sixteen flights to arrive at room 819. He packs furiously and somewhere between the sweat he may even feel a tear or two chase its way down his cheeks.
He is an idiot. The world’s biggest fool. He has fucked it up. He let his mouth spill out things he did not even consciously think of and now everything is broken. He cannot recover from this. He is unable to save face.
And worst of all, he cannot confront it. Cannot face even the idea that Eames might feel like he does. Knows for a fact that he cannot feel as strongly. It would never work. Perhaps he always knew it would never work and that is why he never allowed himself to admit- admit what? Admit that he has been admiring Eames since he met him. That he-
“Oh, fuck it!” Arthur growls as he rips open the door. Much to his surprise, a body that was leaning against said door falls atop of him.
Eames lets out a cry as he slams down into Arthur, sending them both cascading down.
“Eames!” Arthur shouts. “What the actual ever-living fuck are you doing now?”
Eames, to his full credit, manages to scramble off Arthur relatively quickly, reaching out a hand in a rather dazed state to help Arthur up.
Arthur clasps his hand, and they are both hot from running and Arthur is twenty-one again with floppy hair, dressing in linen suits because if he came in anything else the team might mistake him for a paperboy. Eames is gorgeous and filthy in a barely white tank top and smiling at him crookedly, commenting on the outstanding heat. Arthur is mesmerised by his accent, the way the words roll off his plush, slightly chapped lips.
Arthur is still staring at those same lips eight years later.
“Look, I’m sorry I came in angry I had no right, and I didn’t even mean to. I was just jealous. You can sleep with Ariadne you can sleep with whoever the fuck you want. I don’t have a claim on you.” Eames’s words are falling over themselves trying to get out of his mouth, but Arthur barely recognises them as he stands in a daze wondering if it has always been this simple. “I thought I was jealous, envious of you for however long. You looked so put together, so yeah. I took the suits, the notebook, the posture, the way you sit so goddamn cockily, swinging back on your chair like your invincible.
“I pretended to like black coffee until I actually did. I made myself a forgery of you and wore it in real life because you had the respect, the queues of people waiting to work with you. Like you had it all planned out from the very start which I actually think you did. But then,” Eames heaves a breath, “then you had a loaded die, and it was so fucking sentimental, but I got a poker chip and maybe I should have realised then that I wasn’t jealous of you. I didn’t want to be you. I still wanted to wear awful shirts instead of professional ones, still wanted to be extravagant. I just-“
Eames steps backwards into the corridor, there is nowhere else for him to go. He runs his hand through his loose hair and stares wildly at the floor. “Jesus Christ. Why is this so hard?”
Arthur moves his gaze from his lips to his eyes, silently begs Eames to look up. He takes a tentative step towards him, crosses the threshold of his room. He listens for a ticking noise in the back of his head but can only hear the murmur of electricity from the hallway light. His next step is more assured, he takes another. The sound of Eames’s ragged breathing intertwines with the electrical buzz. Arthur places a hand on Eames’s chest and Eames’s eyes finally meet his.
He recognises the crash of skulls as their lips collide. He stumbles as they fall back into the room, slamming the door. Arthur presses him against it, squeezes the life out of him as he uses his entire body weight to trap him there. Their lips tear at each other, teeth clashing, hands clawing desperately for purchase. Arthur grabs a handful of that same loose hair and tilts Eames’s head back, gaining more access to his mouth. Eames’s hands cover his hips, pulling him impossibly close.
They fight, they yell and separate then collide once more. Eames picks him up and they crash against the wall, plaster embedded in his spine. Arthur’s skin is painfully hot and Eames all but tears his shirt away. He feels dizzy and lightheaded as Eames mouths and bites at his neck, ferocious and beautiful.
Eames flings him onto the bed. Arthur cries out as Eames twists his arm and kisses down the tattoo on his spine.
“Let me guess,” Eames growls in between kisses, “this has something to do with you making all the cogs work in harmony.”
Arthur twists and frees his arm, using his legs to swing Eames under him.
“Don’t forget, they look cool.” He bites back, attacking Eames’s mouth again with everything he has.
Eames cards his fingers through Arthur’s curls.
“I feel quite bereft at the fact you hide these adorable curls away.” He muses, plaintively. Arthur hums back, half-hidden in the cleft of Eames’s shoulder, eyes closed and perfect.
They lie naked on Arthur’s hotel bed which they may or may not have slightly broken. Eames pulls the white sheet up further to cover Arthur’s bare shoulders. He watches the man’s figure rise and fall as he flirts with the precipice of sleep.
“How can you look so innocent after showing yourself to be such a minx in bed?” Eames queries gently, still stroking his hair.
“Not all of us can look like rough and ready pornstars, twenty-four-seven, Mr Eames.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Tough shit.”
Arthur laughs contently and Eames, Eames cannot stop fucking smiling.
Later in the evening, they get dressed or at least try to, as the majority of their clothes seem to have been deprived of buttons or torn in two. Arthur raises a brow as he holds up some of his shirts against Eames’s wider frame before lending him the baggy navy t-shirt he usually sleeps in. Eames gratefully takes the threadbare piece of fabric, made incredibly soft from wear.
It feels intimate, intimate in a different way to what they did hours before. Between each stitch of cotton is laced the raw scent of Arthur, the knowledge that when the man pads out of bed for that all-important morning coffee this is what slings loosely off one shoulder.
“I never bought into fancy pyjamas,” Arthur explains, a light pink gracing the top of his cheeks. “This is just comfy.”
They go to a decidedly plain restaurant for dinner and gorge themselves on red meat and wine.
“I didn’t sleep with Ariadne,” Arthur says whilst they wait on the bill. “I got too drunk after you left, apparently she kept parring her drinks off on me.” He chuckles.
Eames wrings his lip through his teeth. “It’s fine if you did, Arthur, honestly I-“
“Eames.” Arthur’s eyes dig into him, his voice is authoritative, stern. “I didn’t sleep with her.” He laughs self-consciously and places his hand on the back of his neck. The neck that is littered with red and purple bruises. Eames smiles wickedly. “Okay, I guess technically, I did sleep with her but only after we established nothing was going to happen. It was just too far to get back to my hotel in the state I was in.”
“Oh, I know how far the walk is. I’ve done it twice today.”
“You came to my hotel first?” Arthur asks.
“Well,” Eames pauses, “yeah.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
Eames smiles as earnestly as he can. “Don’t be an idiot.”
They pay the bill and leave. Walking down the sunset streets of Los Angeles, Eames feels a tension rise from somewhere in the arches of his feet until it reaches the back of his neck. They walk side by side, incrementally close to touching but not quite. Arthur stops by a liquor store.
“Should I get us some whisky?” He asks, already walking in.
Eames waits outside and breathes as deeply as he can. His lungs expand to bursting point and then release. “Get a grip.” He lights a cigarette and is holding it gingerly between his lips when Arthur comes out. He holds the paper bag triumphantly.
“Thought this should make things easier.” He says, smiling, dimples appearing at each side of his face. Eames is so fond of that smile he would happily kill himself for it. This is dangerous territory. A voice in the back of his head warns.
“Make what easier?” He feels slow and uncomprehending. Arthur draws in a sigh and not so subtly inhales Eames’s second-hand smoke.
“We need to talk about this.”
“I thought we had talked about this.” Eames protests.
“Eames.” That stern voice again. “I think overall I managed to declare that I was not jealous of you and I kissed Ariadne and you said that you thought you were jealous of me, but you still want to be extravagant.”
Eames stares at him. At the straight look of his brows, the deep set of his eyes, the beautiful cheeks and jaw and bones. He slows to a stop and takes Arthur’s fine hand in his.
“But we understand each other, don’t we? We may not have said it, but you kissed me and there is an underlying understanding.” He feels panic rise in his gut. “Isn’t there?”
Arthur’s smile is sad, and Eames feels all his resolve break apart into millions of jagged pieces.
“Eames.” This time it is a plea. “I need more than that.”
A shutter falls somewhere in Eames’s mind and for all his scrambling to pull it back up he is unable to stop the words falling from his mouth. He barks a laugh.
“Arthur, we’re career criminals. I’m a conman and a thief. This is new and fresh and exciting, but I can’t be making you promises that I can’t keep. What do you want me to say? That I want us to settle down somewhere, kick the whole thing in and just be happy in domesticity with one another? You know that won’t work. Hell, you’re more likely to go stir crazy than me. That I love you and have loved you since the day I met you? Do you want us to get married? Become the next Mal and Dom, because we all know how that went-“
Arthur’s fist collides so suddenly with Eames’s cheek that he goes down like a log.
“You bastard.” He spits and walks away.
Eames sits on the pavement. He sits there for a while.
Two months later and Arthur turns thirty. He barely notes the day but lets himself be sung to by his family over the phone and once again promises this will be the year, he will be home for Christmas. He slumps down on the leather sofa in his Stockholm apartment, mobile still in hand. He thinks of false promises and storming away on the first flight and running from city to city until he finally stops to catch his breath.
He remembers staring at himself in hotel bathrooms, glaring white light illuminating his skin. Fingers tracing over the bite marks and scratches, the purple ovals left by fingerprints. Clutching the sink and dousing his face with water as if it would disparage the memories of Eames’s hot weight above him. Eames’s lips on his, his tongue, his mouth. His hands scouring Arthur’s body for an answer.
An answer that Arthur could never give.
He realises slowly that he did not walk away from Eames that night because he was wrong, but because he was so excruciatingly right. Arthur had not avoided his feelings for years because he always thought him and Eames would work well together. He had done so because he knew it was a fantasy. Because they were two men hell-bent on riding out the wave until it destroyed them.
They would not be like Dom and Mal because they were nothing like them. They were never going to buy houses together and have kids and look out for catchment areas. They were cast in flames and the world would burn if they ever stopped for too long.
Arthur heaves in a ragged breath and remembers what had hurt the most. He packs his bags and leaves.
Eames is going to kill himself. He is going to kill himself chasing down a man purely for the chance that said man might smile at him again. That or break his nose. At this point, Eames is not going to be fussy.
He sits in hotel rooms, holding Arthur’s navy t-shirt, immersing himself in the soft fabric and clutching onto the fading scent of him. He feels more hopeless than he thought himself capable of. Hopelessly, hopelessly…
However, he keeps moving. His next source takes him to Amsterdam where he contemplates getting high in a café and writing some awful poems so that he has something to present to Arthur, rather than just himself. Instead, he goes to the Van Gogh museum because he is there, and Eames has worked himself to the bone trying to find a man who is notorious for his hiding skills and he needs to rest for just a second.
Trundling around the museum until his back aches, Eames sits and stares at the Wheatfield with Crows until the brushstrokes start to blur and move. At first, he is so absorbed in the brush work that he does not realise someone has sat beside him. Does not recognise the tense shoulders and the rod-straight spine. Barely looks over when a fine hand comes to rest on his knee. And Eames does not need to look. He simply picks up the hand and plants a kiss on the white knuckles.
“I’ve been thinking.” Arthur muses.
“Of course, you’d find me even though I’ve been breaking my back to find you,” Eames replies disjointly, he smiles and releases Arthur’s hand. They do not break eye contact with the painting.
“I’ve been thinking,” Arthur repeats, unperturbed. “That there is no reason we would have to be like Mal and Dom. There is no reason why either of us should have to make any of those promises.”
Eames hums in reply. “So, we carry on being our downright morally grey selves, ey?”
“And we make room for each other.”
They sit in silence. Eames can feel the steady thrum of Arthur’s mind next to him.
“It hurt, what you said that night.” The other man admits, but there is little accusation in his voice.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I think because,” Arthur pauses, Eames can hear his small intake of breath, gearing himself up for what he is about to say, “because there’s a solid chance I did start loving you from the moment I met you. In Venezuela that is.” He laughs and looks to the ceiling. “Ah, so the world didn’t end then, that’s good.”
Eames chuckles. He stares at the line of Arthur’s neck, not yet ready to meet his eyes. “I was definitely jealous of you the first time we met.”
“I thought you said you only thought you were.”
“Not then, at that time I really was.” Eames sighs reminiscently. “Luka had been going the whole week, banging on about what a genius you were and then when you arrived and looked about twelve, I wanted to punch you.”
“I lied about my age.”
“Yeah, I figured that one out on your 26th birthday. Slivery git, you always knew how old I was.”
“It was my job.”
“You made it your job.”
Arthur hums in response. “I guess I did.”
A couple walks by and stands in front of them, so they finally turn to face each other. It feels like looking into the sun, Eames cannot help but squint at the sheer intensity of it.
“That’s another thing I maybe stole from you, the title point man.”
“I’d say you came up with that one yourself, I merely gave you the inspiration.”
“Much to my chagrin.” Arthur smiles and Eames remembers exactly why he was willing to give two months of his life scouring cities and using up favours from every contact he could think of.
“You really have led me on a merry chase.”
Eames watches as his smile becomes meek and he casts his eyes downwards. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think you’d be all that eager to follow me after I broke your nose.” His finger gently comes to touch the bridge of Eames’s nose and stroke down it. Eames closes his eyes and relaxes into the touch. “Did it hurt?”
“You could’ve done worse.”
Arthur breathes a little shakily. He is wrapped up in his woollen pea coat jacket, with beige cashmere underneath. Eames wants to bury himself in all the layers, smell Arthur’s expensive cologne and immerse himself, completely.
“I didn’t mean I wanted promises.” Arthur sighs. “I just wanted to know how you felt.”
Eames hears himself chuckle darkly. The couple has moved now so he can look away from Arthur. He can look back to the painting and give his eyes a rest from the sun. Instead, he stares into the full glory of Arthur’s rays, basks in them like it is the first day of spring. “I realised that, I also realised I threw it back in your face. Sorry about that.”
“Sorry for breaking your nose.”
“Should we get out of here?”
“Yes, please.”
They end up back at Eames’s hotel room, purely because it is nearest. Eames offers to get a bottle of something alcoholic on the way back, but Arthur shakes his head mildly and tells him that it is not required. When the hotel room door shuts with a concluding thud, they come together liquidly, melting into one another’s arms, Arthur’s head tucking neatly behind Eames’s shoulder as they embrace.
Eames draws in the scent of him. His hair gel, his shampoo, his cologne. And Eames wants. He wants so much it breaks him apart. Moments later they are swaying, neither sure who may have started it yet flowing with the rhythm naturally.
“Are you asking me for a dance, Mr Eames?” Arthur whispers, not moving back to talk. Eames feels the breath of his words on his neck and tips him back in one graceful swoop.
“To music, only you and I can hear, darling.”
“This isn’t a dream is it?” Arthur asks, his eyes wide and vulnerable. His face, soft, pliable, open. Eames smiles down at him and pulls him back up into a spin. When Arthur falls back against him, he sighs contemplatively. “I’ve yet to meet a dream I wanted to stay in so much.”
“You’re not dreaming,” Eames assures softly as they continue to sway. “Feel the rhythm, feel the music.” He moves his hips more obviously and Arthur moves in time against him. Eames watches as he closes his eyes so beautifully slowly and begins to add his head to the sway as Eames begins to guide them around the room. He gradually introduces a box step, and a playful smirk appears on Arthur’s face as he effortlessly follows.
“Slow, quick, quick.” He murmurs. “My, my, Mr Eames. I didn’t know this was a waltz.”
“I didn’t know you could dance,” Eames says, close enough to kiss his ear though by some will power he manages to refrain.
Arthur hums as he takes over as the lead, placing his hand delicately on Eames’s waist. Eames watches in fascination as the man visualises the steps and the room's dimensions on his eyelids. Gracefully, taking them around the small space, leading Eames out into the occasional spin. He starts to hum to himself and Eames does not recognise the tune, is not sure if he is supposed to or if it something Arthur is making up just for them.
When they stop, chests close together, Arthur’s impeccable posture drawing him up ever so slightly above Eames, Arthur releases a shuddering breath and lets his arms fall back down to his sides.
“Eames?”
“Arthur.”
He looks so peaceful. Eyes closed, pink lips slightly parted. Eames moves his hand to cup the side of his face, feels the soft delicate skin under his palm. Arthur leans into it like a cat. Eames cannot take his eyes off him. The sun shines too brightly.
“I love you.” Arthur opens his eyes as slowly as he closed them. The last golden streaks of sunlight fly around his head.
“An angel.” Is all Eames manages to say before he can no longer delay kissing him. Both hands now cradling his face like a fragile doll.
Though in essence, it is the same act that occurred in Arthur’s hotel room back in the Hollywood city of Los Angeles, here in Amsterdam under the tender strings of sunset, it feels completely different. Eames cannot believe just how soft all of Arthur feels. Cannot get over the sensation of the other man’s skin underneath his fingertips. However, he finds himself unmoved by greed or desperation. In fact, he finds himself in no rush whatsoever.
They pull sleeves of coats and jackets from one another. Run fingers down buttons until skin meets skin and Arthur is placing light kisses on the ink that sprawls down Eames’s chest and arms. He kneels as he undoes Eames’s trousers, though it is Eames who is thanking the heavens. He kisses Eames’s hip and down his thigh, unhurriedly bringing the fabric down as he goes.
For a second, Eames feels almost embarrassed at the hardness of his cock, obviously tenting his underwear. It is as if such vulgarity would not be appropriate in as tender setting as this. But then Arthur is mouthing at him through the cotton of his underwear and all thoughts of embarrassment melt away.
He carries Arthur to the bed, Arthur giggling as if he has never experienced anything so ridiculous. Eames inwardly winces as he remembers the first time he carried a bleeding Arthur to bed. He licks a long stripe down Arthur’s chest listening intently to the sharp intake of breath as he does so. Their eyes meet as Eames strips him of the remainder of his clothes. Then he allows his eyes to rake down the body in front of him.
“God,” he purrs, full of sin, “you are more exquisite than any art in any museum.”
Arthur chuckles, ears tinted pink. “That’s pure blasphemy.”
“Let me prove it.” Eames challenges, stroking a finger down the tender inside of Arthur’s thigh. “Let me appreciate every square centimetre of you until you scream that it must be true.”
Arthur shivers yet still meets him dead in the eye to accept the challenge.
“That is unless I have you screaming first.” He smirks and flips them over with the same expert ease that he displayed in Los Angeles.
Arthur wakes to the light curtains fluttering around the open window. He feels around dozily for another warm body but finds nothing but an empty mattress. A slight panic rises in his throat and he is about to call out before he notices a man’s silhouette on the balcony. Smiling, he wraps himself in the white bedsheet and moves to join him.
“Good morning,” Eames murmurs slyly as Arthur buries himself into Eames’s back, wrapping his arms around his waist.
“Hmmf.”
Eames laughs. “Do you need for me to get you a coffee so you can begin functioning?”
“Hmmf,” Arthur repeats, hiding his ridiculous grin in between Eames’s shoulder blades.
Arthur sits, cross-legged, the sheet still draped around his body in a lackadaisical manner. Eames places the mug of hotel coffee in his hands, careful eyes watching him as he takes his first sip.
“You used to smile at me in a certain way when you delivered me my extra white, extra sweet coffees,” Eames states, scraping a hand through his sleep tousled hair. He looks vulnerable and Arthur figures this conversation may be going in a more serious direction than the opening statement suggests. “I used to think you were giving me that smirk, you know the one that meant ‘you are inferior and we both know it’.”
“I don’t have a smirk for that.” Arthur protests.
“No, I guess that is just your general demeanour.” Eames teases, not quite moving fast enough to dodge the pillow Arthur shoots at him. “What I mean to say, darling, is what did that smile actually mean?”
Arthur shrugs non-committedly. “A smile is sometimes just that, a smile. Though I guess it may have been a knowing one.”
“So, you were not taking the piss?” Eames presses, giving Arthur an indecipherable look.
“No, I was not taking the piss. I was just making you coffee the way I thought you liked it.” Arthur says, suddenly nervous that more rested on his answer than he understood. Eames huffs a partial laugh and runs his fingers through his hair once more.
“Okay, right one more question and then I’ll stop badgering you.” Eames’s eyes are so beautiful, Arthur almost forgets to listen. Though his hard expression draws Arthur out of his wistful state. “How exactly is it that you managed to get shot, at the factory, when Mal was pregnant with Phillipa?”
Arthur feels a leaden weight sink from his throat to his stomach. He inhales a tetchy breath, scratching the morning stubble that now lightly dusts his jaw.
“I’ve only been shot in a factory once you can loosen yourself on the specifics.”
He half-heartedly wants Eames to make a joke about specificity but Eames’s burning stare only intensifies. The grip on Arthur does not loosen.
“Well, one of the men knocked me out of my chair, kicking me out of the dream.” He sighed. “They had a gun to Lagunov’s head and were asking me who I was working for. It took a second to readjust from the dream and they were speaking in Ukrainian, so I didn’t gather straight away what they were getting at. The mark was already dead.”
He remembers sitting on the cold floor, gun to his head, gun to Lagunov’s. Rising panic hiding behind his steely stare as he watched the men like exhibits in a zoo. He watched as Lagunov’s brains unnaturally sprayed out from the back of his head, watched in horror as the man turned the gun to Eames who was still asleep, goddamn it.
“Why are you asking me about this?” Arthur exhales, moving his head to rest in his hands. “It feels like a lifetime ago. We were younger than we knew.” He purposefully coats his words in honey, tries to slip the charm into Eames’s ear, tries to stop him in his enquiry. He moves his head up, holds his chin in his hand. Looks at Eames with as much saturated sweetness as he can. For a second it seems to work, Eames crawls towards him on the bed, a purely heavenly sight. He plants a kiss on Arthur’s knuckles, on his chin and jaw then finally a chaste kiss on his lips.
“Don’t shave today, I want to see you with a few days stubble.” He croons, stroking a finger down Arthur’s jawbone.
“Oh, I’ve tried that before.” Arthur laughs, happy to engage in the change of subject. “Coincidentally, after you grew yours out. I shaved it on the fourth day, got sick of it rather quickly.”
“I want you to look as dishevelled as is possible.” He smiles, “if you don’t mind, of course.”
“If that’s what gets you going.” Arthur jokes, jabbing Eames in the ribs with a finger. Eames takes his hand and pulls it up to kiss. His eyebrows are drawn together again, and his jaw holds a familiar tension. Arthur resigns himself to answering Eames’s question.
“Please, Arthur, I need to know.” He is still holding Arthur’s hand and Arthur turns and folds himself into Eames. It is easier to talk when those piercing eyes are not staring into his soul.
“They shot Lagunov before I could do anything.” He begins again. “They shot him and the whole place echoed with the sound. There were three men, the one who shot Lagunov, the one who was holding a gun to my head and the third who stood guard at the door. I swung out the legs of the man in front of me took his gun and shot the one who had shot Lagunov. We fought and I got shot in the arm somewhere between then and when you woke up when my foot was on one of the men’s necks.”
“That is not when I woke up,” Eames says, sternly. “I woke up when you were fighting with two men, the third slumped over your chair.”
“Eames, it was a long time ago.”
“Tell me the truth.”
So, Arthur tells him. Arthur goes back to the start to when he is kicked out of the dream. He explains the way the man who had killed Lagunov turned his gun to Eames’s sleeping figure and began counting down from ten. He explains how he scrambled for his gun that had fallen under his chair. He tells of how he had shot the man in front of him and flung himself over Eames as the second man fired his shot.
“And I shot back at him, but the gun was still in my right hand and the aim was off. I drew their fire away from you and Cobb and was fighting with them when you woke up.”
Arthur does not turn to look at Eames but there is a certain tenseness in the arms that hold him that makes Arthur’s breathing slow.
“Eames?”
The room is silent, filled with all but their breathing and the slight murmur of city bustle beneath them. The air is crisp from the balcony door being open all morning and the chill prickles at Arthur’s skin, standing the faint hairs on his arms to attention. He feels the need to make a joke, to break the stillness. Eames’s inanimation behind his is disconcerting and Arthur cannot figure out what the other man might be thinking. Eventually, when the quiet is ringing too loudly for Arthur to bear, he turns in Eames’s arms and stares into his crestfallen face.
Eames smiles a half-smile as Arthur gently touches his cheek. Arthur who feels vulnerable both in his nakedness and his story startles when Eames wraps his large hand around Arthur’s right bicep.
“Let me see,” Eames says, examining the scar from where Arthur’s arm was torn in two. “I can’t believe it.” His other hand moves to cradle the back of Arthur’s head. “Mal phoned me, you know? I had never heard her so angry before. Full blown French rage. She said you’d fractured your skull, and you would take months to heal and berated me for not taking you to hospital.”
Arthur shrugs, he wants to pull his arm away, wants his heart to slow down just a beat. However, Eames’s grip remains firm. “You don’t need me to tell you about Mal’s penchant for the dramatic.” He sighs. “I couldn’t just let you die. You were asleep.”
“And then I did the courtesy of leaving you there.”
“I asked you to.” Arthur’s muscles relax. “You came back.”
Eames’s eyes wait patiently for Arthur to look at him directly. “That’s twice now you’ve saved my life.”
“Who’s counting?” Eames laughs and Arthur waits for him to speak.
“I would do the same for you. I know I have not quite shown it in the same way.” He gestures to Arthur’s arm. “But I would, I promise.” He holds Arthur’s hands in his own, encompasses them gently.
“You did, you came back for me.”
They sit in quiet for a while. Then they hold each other until the melancholic feeling fades and Eames suggests they go out for lunch. Arthur showers and lets himself be dressed in Eames’s clothes even though he could easily get one more day’s wear out of yesterday’s outfit. The symmetry of it pleases him.
However, Eames is practically cackling as he dresses Arthur in a brightly patterned shirt that is two sizes too big. Arthur growls and swaps the offending shirt for a threadbare jumper of Eames’s that he deems far less offensive and pretends not to notice his own worn-down t-shirt crumpled in Eames’s suitcase.
This seems to please Eames nonetheless as he whispers wicked things in Arthur’s ear as his hand slips up the jumper to caress Arthur’s skin.
“You tuck your shirts in so tightly, that with a waistcoat and jacket makes it far too hard to reach this.” He winks as his fingers dip below the waistband of Arthur’s trousers to cup his hipbone.
“Get out!” Arthur yells, playfully pushing Eames away. “You sound like you’ve been literally trying to get in my trousers for years.”
“Only in my mind, love.”
“You’re dreadful.”
They sit down at a homely little café, taking a table outside so Arthur can stare out at the picturesque architecture on the other side of the canal. Eames orders smoked ribeye and poached egg on sourdough and Arthur orders something equally pretentious with bechamel sauce and foam of Dutch cheese. Eames drinks English breakfast tea as Arthur reads his newspaper.
“The inception really worked.” He exclaims, baffled even by their own work. “He really is dissolving everything. God, I’m going to have to keep a close eye on Saito now.”
“The world is not your burden, pet.” Eames frowns at him over his steaming mug.
“No, but this is.” He sighs. “We did this, Eames. And if it weren’t for Cobb there was no way I would have gone ahead with it the way we did.”
“You wouldn’t have gone ahead with it at all.”
“You never know,” Arthur smirks, shaking out the paper. “I do need a challenge every now and then.”
“And we all know how partial you are to aiding the greater good.”
“Goes without saying.”
Their food arrives and it looks just as ostentatious and garnished as they expected. They smile at each other knowingly and eat.
“Okay, so I feel I better spit it out.” Eames concedes, wiping his face with his napkin and pushing his empty plate away.
Arthur looks at the plate pointedly. “I’d rather you didn’t.” They laugh and Eames takes Arthur’s hand across the table.
“You have such fine hands.” He looks to the water of the canal and pauses. “Arthur, darling. I don’t think I finished what I meant to say in L.A. and well, what I meant to say was that, while I did copy some traits of yours it wasn’t really because I wanted to be you.” He puts his other hand over his chest. “I’m a conman, a thief, and more than all that, I’m a forger. It’s what I do. The problem is I didn’t realise why I was doing. It wasn’t that I wanted to be you, I just wanted… you.”
Arthur cannot help but let out a laugh. Maybe it is because they have had too many serious conversations recently. Maybe it is something else entirely. Eames stares at him, bemused and indignant at the response.
“I’m trying to tell you, I love you, you bastard.” He guffaws, slapping Arthur’s hand.
“Hand on heart, Mr Eames.” Arthur teases.
“Shut it, you prat.”
Arthur snorts and does not stop laughing until Eames tosses him over his shoulder and threatens to throw him into the canal. They cause quite the scene, but then again, when have they not?
Nine months later and they are sitting having dinner with Ariadne in Paris. Eames never felt like he had much of a chance to get to know her over the inception job, but Arthur has since been incredibly fond of her. In turn, Eames is fond of the way Arthur keeps tabs on her and is always there to advise and help. More recently, he has pilfered her from a job with characters he deems unsavoury, (characters Eames would have been likely friends with, in a past life).
They sit drinking wine and eating pasta. The restaurant is lit up in oranges and yellows, a small affair with a completely French menu. Arthur and Eames sit beside one another, and it has not escaped Ariadne’s notice that throughout the night their chairs have gradually sidled up closer together.
She feels her heart pang at the secretive glances they share, and the wordless private communication they use to talk when they think she is not looking. Ariadne asks after Cobb and Arthur gives his usual pleasant reply.
“Can I ask you something else?” She says, twirling her wine glass nervously. Arthur’s eyes turn sharp as he answers.
“Depends what it is.”
Ariadne laughs and reassures them both it is nothing bad. “I’m actually looking for relationship advice.”
It is Eames’s turn to laugh, heartedly and warm. His hand is resting on Arthur’s thigh and he turns to smile at him when Arthur places his own hand over it.
“Can’t say I expected that one, love.”
“Well, I think I’m seeing some parallels to how you two oblivious buffoons started off.”
Arthur frowns at the insult, cheeks reddened by alcohol, candlelight dancing across his face. Eames restrains himself from kissing away that scowl, which would undoubtedly cause the other man to blush further.
“How can we help?” Asks Eames politely.
“I’m struggling with whether or not she might like me, or if she even swings that way.”
“If you like her, you should tell her.” Arthur sighs, finishing his wine. “Trust me, it will be a lot easier.”
“Oh, because you’re so good at clearly telling people how you feel.” Ariadne teases, giving him a critical look. Arthur shrugs, laissez-faire and magnificent.
“I’ve learned from my mistakes.” He leans his head against Eames. “I would like to say it’s been worth it.”
“Charming.” Huffs Eames.
“Anyway,” Ariadne grumbles, “since we already know how bloody perfect and in love you are, can we focus on me for a second?”
They share a guilty look, and both move their hands to sit atop of the table.
“Do you want me to look her up? I could probably find out if she’s ever had a-“
“Gay encounter?” Ariadne grins.
Arthur smiles self-consciously back. “Precisely.” He finishes.
“Okay, as Arthur goes for the point man approach, what makes you think she might like you?” Says Eames.
“It’s little things, touches, laughs, I don’t know how to explain it, it’s just a feeling.” Ariadne sighs twirling her wine once more. “Not enough to make me believe it though. I mean I think the biggest thing is that, well you know these scarves I wear,” she gestures to the one she has slung over her chair, “she started wearing them too, and just giving me these looks.”
Arthur and Eames look to one another, lips pursed until one of them cracks and they are both leaning on each other as their cackling laughter racks through them.
“Oh, you really did come to the right people.” Eames muses, hand over his stomach. Arthur still has not managed to contain himself. Ariadne does not think she has ever seen him laugh so much.
“What?” She asks, feeling a bit lost. “What does that mean? Do you think she likes me?”
Arthur presses a hand over his mouth in an attempt to impede his amusement. Eames wraps an arm around his shoulder. They meld together perfectly.
“Well, you know what they say,” Eames grins, “mimicry is the shoddiest form of flirting.”