Like Spinning Plates, Pt. 1/2b
***Inception***
Arthur is awoken in the middle of the night, judging by the darkness in the room, and the reason he’s awake is because there’s a hand on his shoulder - cold hand, almost icy - and the hand shakes him gently, calling his name in a quiet whisper.
“Eames?” he whispers, turning his head around to the person, and he suddenly realizes he’s still lying on the floor, his own vomit dried and sticky on his clothes. He feels awful, dirty, disgusting. Some part of his brain is terrified that Eames sees him like this - fallen hard, and pathetic.
Then it gets cold in the room in a matter of seconds, so cold Arthur can feel a chilly breeze on his face.
“No, it’s not Eames, darling” the voice above him says, the voice Arthur will always recognize in a million, the voice he’s hoped and wished so hard not to hear ever again. He screws his eyes shut, mortified, refusing to look up and see the person he’s come to hate more than anything in his life, who he’s hoped he had left behind years ago.
“What, Arthur, dear, aren’t you happy to see me, darling?” And his voice is the same, cocky and arrogant, with the note of smugness. “What an attitude!”
He doesn’t open his eyes, afraid to do so, and he instead counts in his mind to ten, then to twenty, willing it to stop, willing Edward to disappear.
He doesn’t. Arthur’d be surprised if he did.
“Open your eyes, Arthur, don’t be shy” Edward whispers into his ear, making his whole body shudder. When he doesn’t obey, the jolt of pain rushes through him, sharp and intense, and the voice hisses in his ear “Look. At. Me. Arthur.”
And he looks, unable to bear the pain, tearing him apart.
Edward hasn’t changed a bit, not even a little, even though Arthur was thirteen the last time he saw him. Edward is still tall, muscular, redheaded and devilishly handsome, the same cocky smile tugging at his lips, same bang of red hair hanging over his eyes, so Arthur can’t really see his eyes, but he knows Edward can see him.
“Why are you here, Edward?” Arthur chokes out finally.
“Edward? Why don’t you call me Eddie anymore?
“You damn well know that! Now why are you here, Edward”
“You tell me, darling” Edward replies, making emphasis on the last word, and Arthur remembers why he’s always hated it when Eames called him that. He never really thought about that, always putting the reason in the back of his mind, but now it comes out as if it’s been here all the time - the reminder of Edward, and, unfortunately, almost everything about Eames is a reminder of Edward. “Seems like you need me now more than ever, or you wouldn’t be lying on the floor in the pool of your own vomit, would you?”
“I never needed you” Arthur growls out, looking up at Edward from the floor, making pathetic attempts to get up, but his body refuses to listen to him, his head throbbing with pain. “Not now, not ever”
“Lies you’ve been telling yourself, dear Artie” Edward smirks and everything about him is so smug and haughty and impossible that Arthur is overwhelmed with rage and hatred and, god, he’s shaking with emotion, hating and wishing to be able to kill that piece of shit-
“Piece of shit?!” Edward says quietly, dangerously, and of course he can fucking read his thoughts, how could Arthur forget that, “That’s how you think of me now, after all I’ve done for you?!”
He sounds deadly calm, quiet and dangerous, ominous, and the air around them is suddenly electrified, full of tension and fear and cold, and Arthur swallows past the bile in his throat, his heart racing, because no, for the life of him, he never ever wants to get Edward mad or angry, because he knows what can happen, he knows it all too well.
“No, no, I’m sorry, Edward, I’m sorry, alright?” he hastens to say, and he thinks he sees the blackness of Edward’s eyes behind his fringe. “Just… why have you come back?”
He almost tears up, asking that question.
Edward grins charmingly. “I’ve never left, darling”
And it’s so much like their last conversation, that Arthur has to remind himself again and again that it’s not happening, it’s not real, Edward’s not here, he’s not here -
“Then why are you talking to me, Artie dear?”
“Please, Edward” Arthur chokes out, and his eyes do water, but he’s way past caring now. “Please. Go away”
Edward scoots closer, his face unreadable mask.
“Why are you talking like that? Is it that Eames person, influencing you way too much?” He hisses, his every word strikes Arthur like a hammer. “You think you’ve become so cool, got a fancy degree and fancy apartment, a job on the wrong side of the law and it changes you that much? Well, listen to me, Artie, but you fucking haven’t. You’re still the pathetic repressed teenager I know, whatever you might have thinking of yourself this far.”
He makes a pause and whispers, his voice echoing in the deadly quiet apartment.
“You think you don’t need me anymore? You think you’re all grown up and independent now that you don’t need to cry on my shoulder anymore? You think you replaced me with Cobb or Mal, or Eames or whatever? Well, think again”
There’s dreadful silence, only Arthur’s heavy panting and the sound of his heart beating in his ears.
He feels like shit, absolutely fucking despicable and disgusting. He clung to the wall helplessly, feeling like he’s under fire of these icy words, like he’s pinned to the wall, in the corner with nowhere to run or hide.
Edward, nevertheless, seemingly isn’t about to stop anytime soon.
“You think your father died and you’re suddenly all independent and healthy and free of your own shit, lie his death solved all of your pathetic problems. Like if you just put all those memories in the back of your head and pretend it never happened to you, everything would be all right. Well, no fucking way, Arthur, hate to break it to you but life’s not like that. You’re still repressed and so deep in the closet some people can’t even hear you, and the fact that your father died never stopped you from wanting men, never stopped you being less of a sick queer!”
It feels like his intestines are being pulled out of him and then used to smother him. He suddenly feels like vomiting again, even though his stomach was empty. He screws his eyes shut so tightly they sting, and he prays to god and all the saints he knows to please, please, make it stop, make it stop, make Edward disappear, and let Arthur die and never feel anything again, please -
And just like that it stops. Arthur feels rather than hears the absence of Edward, and as soon as he opens his eyes to make sure, he is sick all over the floor again.
This time he forces himself to get up and go to shower, the wild mix of emotions tearing him apart, making his head hurt. The shock has faded and Arthur is left with the realization that it has started all over again, Edward appeared in his life when Arthur least of all needed it, and thing will turn from bad to worse in a matter of nothing now.
The hot water runs down his body, his face, his hair, and he feels anger, hurt, fear, and guilt. He isn’t sure where the last one came from, though, but he supposes he has to get used to the feeling now.
He shuts down the water, dries himself, cleans up the floor.
He is afraid to go to sleep, actually, but he figures it’s stupid and he has to sleep anyway, so he just grits his teeth and lies down, putting the blanket over his head, tucks himself in.
He’s asleep in less than a minute.
***Inception***
Eames comes the next day, when Arthur is still lying in bed, feeling sore and sick and too lazy to get up. Eames knocks on the door several times and Arthur panics, his first thought being that it’s Edward coming back, and then he figures Edward wouldn’t knock, and Edward isn’t fucking real, so he gets up and opens the door.
He must look as shitty as he feels, because Eames frowns on seeing him.
“You look like shit” Eames feels the need to state the obvious before making his way inside, not waiting for Arthur to invite him. He brushes Arthur on his way through the doorframe and Arthur flinches at the touch.
He suddenly realizes he doesn’t know what to say to Eames. He doesn’t know why he even called him in the first place. Now that Eames is here, he’s shifty and uncomfortable and nervous.
“So” Eames begins, having settled on the coach and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He lightens one and takes a deep drag before continuing. “Care to explain, darling?”
And Arthur is angry again, not even sure why - because of the fact he’s got nothing to explain, doesn’t know how to do it without making a complete psychopath out of himself, or because Eames called him darling again, just like Edward always did.
Part of him is angry just because of Eames sitting there in front of him, calm and collected and sensible - all of the things Arthur is not, right now. Part of him is angry just because Eames is… well, Eames. He doesn’t even know how to explain it to himself.
God, he’s such a mess.
He sits down beside Eames, quirks a questioning eyebrow and then pulls out a cigarette for himself. After several days of constant throwing up it feels weird in his mouth. He inhales, resting on the back of the coach. With a corner of his eye, he sees Eames watching him, the calculating bastard.
“So?” Eames prompts him again. Arthur suppresses the urge to glare at him.
He feels like a fifteen-year-old all of a sudden. He swallows. There’s a million things he could say to Eames now, all of them, but isn’t stupid, isn’t brave enough to do so.
“Well, I didn’t really ask you to come here, did I?” Arthur finally say, settling sown for defensive.
Eames winces like he has a particularly bad toothache and he licks his lips absent-mindedly. Arthur’s eyes follow the curve of his full lips, and he automatically mirrors the action.
God damn Eames, making him feel that way, making him want things h isn’t supposed to want.
“Now, now, Arthur, can’t we just skip this part when you try to pull this shit on me that both you and I know I won’t buy and get straight to the point, please?” Eames says, staring him down, his eyes cold and calculative like he sees right through Arthur. His eyes are slightly narrowed, his face unreadable. “Because I did not just fly ass-thousand miles to you for this”
“Where’ve you been?” Arthur asks, desperately trying to get Eames off the topic.
“In Russia. Moscow. Shitty country and even shittier people. Good vodka, though. Oh, and definitely good girls. Very flexible, if you know what I mean” He leers smugly, and Arthur is suddenly full of disappointment, like the hopes he didn’t even know he had were crashed to the ground.
“What have you been doing there?”
“A job. Not really exciting. But then again, nothing’s really exciting enough anymore, after the thing we pulled with Fischer’s mind” Eames says, exhaling smoke. Arthur is mesmerized with the sight of his pink lips again. Eames continues, his gaze boring a hole in Arthur. “Nice try, Artie dearest, though you should know better than to try and distract me this easily. Now quit this shit and tell me what’s happened to you that provoked the late-night calls to me, full of tears and despair, hmm?”
Arthur flushes, embarrassed.
“They were not full of - how dare you - you know what, I don’t need this from you, whatever you must be thinking of yourself know, that you’re some hero of something - coming here and saving me like some damsel in distress, you can forget it! Do you hear me? I don’t want anything from you, you can go and do whatever you want, Eames!”
“Now that’s a reaction” Eames says calmly his eyebrows raised. “Now, please, tell me what crawled up your ass and died so I can put on my doctor gloves, put it up and examine”
And just as Arthur opens his mouth to start a new rant, another voice says right behind him.
“I see he’s not so bad, after all, darling”
Arthur freezes, feeling his heart skip a beat and then start to race twice faster.
No, no, nononono, please, please, it can’t be happening now, it can’t, oh god -
“You must get really hard on those lips, huh?” Edward says, coming closer and past Arthur, stepping to Eames, who sits on the coach, not seeing anything, not hearing -
“I wouldn’t blame you for jacking off to him, my boy, believe me, the guy’s hot as hell and he knows it all too well. Hence the effect he has on you”
Arthur stays like that, mouth half-open, eyes wide, face pale. Edward keeps coming up to Eames and then he leans down and puts a hand on Eames’ face, traces his fingers up and down Eames’ cheekbone, caressing.
“Yeah, I’d definitely fuck him hard if I were you”
Eames’ expression changes and now he frowns, seemingly having notices Arthur’s tense pose.
“Arthur? Arthur! What’s wrong?” Eames says, but Arthur doesn’t listen to him, he watches, petrified, as Edward bows down and gently kisses Eames on the cheek.
Eames doesn’t notice anything.
Arthur stands there, mouth open, watching helplessly as Edward runs his fingers up and down Eames’ face. Eames stands up, frowning and saying something, looking worried and concerned and it’s so rare that Arthur sees that expression on his face, but he can’t pay attention now, because Edward smirks smugly at him and then licks a long hot stripe along Eames’ left cheek, his tongue leaving a wet trail of saliva.
Arthur throws up.
He can’t stop, just keeps vomiting, his body shaking and convulsing, his head throbbing like there are tiny hammers inside, and he falls on his knees, praying for it to stop, to please, stop.
He feels a hand on his shoulder and tries to shake it off, but the hand is warm and he feels the heat radiating from it, so he assumes it’s Eames, not Edward, so he lets the hand stay, and it makes him feel just tiniest bit less fucked-up.
Eventually it stops. It seems like ages for Arthur, before his body stops convulsing, but in reality it must have been hardly two minutes and by the time it stops he feels broken, shaken, empty inside, as if all of his internal organs were pulled out of him without anesthesia, his throat dry and torn and there’s a taste of bile in his mouth.
He leans back on the wall, letting his head drop back, closing his eyes, panting heavily, his hair plumped to his forehead with sweat. There’re warm fingers on his face, touching him gently, moving a wet strand of hair from his face, softly and as if he might break.
“Arthur, god, what was that?” Eames whispers softly, and Arthur opens his eyes to look at him, and yeah, Eames is there, sitting on his knees beside him, looking worried and even scared, and there’s so much warmness and tenderness in his eyes that Arthur feels something twist in his belly.
Behind Eames stands Edward, his arms crossed on his chest, leaning against the wall, looking at Arthur with coldness and something dark and dangerous radiates from him.
For a moment Arthur thinks he has seen Edward’s eyes behind his fringe - absolutely black, without a trace of whiteness in them.
“Darling, please, talk to me” Eames pleads, sighing quietly.
Arthur swallows.
He tells Eames: There’s something wrong with me
And: I’m sick, Eames
And: I need you to listen to me, please.
Then he starts talking.
***
Part 1/2c