Fic: Back In Black | ROCK BAND AU | Arthur/Eames | PG-13 | Part II
Back In Black
PG-13
Arthur/Eames
Part 2 (Part 1 is here.)
Based on the prompt ROCK BAND AU at inception_kink
Disclaimer: Chris Nolan owns Inception, nobody owns rock n' roll. I actually have near zero knowledge of how to play a musical instrument, let alone any of the ones listed below. Apologies in advance if I offend actual rock musicians.
ii. Living It Up While You're Going Down
The album title comes under some dispute. Cobb wants to call it Kick-Ass, but he gets shot down.
“Polite stores will have the covers censored,” argues Saito.
“And it’s already the title of a Mark Millar graphic novel,” adds Ariadne.
“Only geeks at Comic Con will give a damn!” fumes Cobb.
“They made it into a movie while you were in rehab,” says Arthur.
Eventually they settle on Kicking It Old School. Saito flies off to Shanghai to settle the preparations for their tour, and the album goes into editing. The band has a celebratory dinner, after which Cobb goes shopping for new stuff for his children, and the rest of them go out for drinks. Arthur would have stayed in all night to fiddle with Totem IV, but Ariadne talked him into coming. Ariadne, they have discovered, is very good at talking Arthur into doing things. Eames is considering keeping her on full-time.
Normally they would go somewhere low-key, but Ariadne’s never been in a celebrity nightspot before so they try the Limbo, which is the nearest one they can think of. “It’s not that I don’t see celebrities, I write for lots of them,” she is saying as they enter, “but they never take me anywhere, ‘cos I’m just the lyricist. Well, there was that one time Orianthi and I hung out in Berkeley, that was pretty cool, only then they cut my song from the new album so I guess she felt awkward whenever she saw me after that. Oh my god, is that Jude Law?”
“Table for four,” says Arthur to the hostess, who doesn’t bat an eyelid on being confronted by half the original Kick.
They take a table near the bar. Ariadne’s still giving an animated commentary on their fellow patrons, and her excitement is infectious. Even Arthur cracks a grin from time to time, looking more relaxed than he has in days of recording. Their drinks come, and Eames takes a long draught of his. Tonight will be a good night, he feels.
“Hey,” says Ariadne, “did Robert Fischer just walk in?”
Eames nearly spills his drink on a passing waiter.
*
The music industry loves a story like Robert Fischer’s. On his twenty-first birthday, the young heir to the Fischer energy empire told his father that he was going to New York to write songs and make great music, screw the inheritance, no day but today. Fischer Sr had his son disowned in a fit of apoplexy that would indirectly contribute to his fatal heart attack years later, leaving Robert Fischer with a lifetime of unresolved daddy issues.
In the meantime, Fischer Jr - with nothing but the clothes on his back and the guitar on his shoulders - was hitchhiking his way across the country in a journey so epic it would put a Miley Cyrus music video to shame. In New York he lived in abject poverty, driving taxis by day and composing furiously by night. This state of affairs continued for a year and a half, until the day a music producer got into Fischer’s taxi and heard, on what he thought was the radio, a song that changed his life.
It wasn’t the radio; rather, it was Fischer’s recording of a personal composition called ‘Pinwheel’, which he played endlessly in his taxi in the hope of getting inadvertent constructive criticism from his passengers. The producer did not realise until much later that the dreamy young man in the driver’s seat might well be the origin of this amazing song. When that happened, there was a dramatic search sequence through the taxi companies of New York, terminating in a bewildered Fischer signing his first contract with a major label. New York loved him. And then, so did the world.
This is what everybody knows about Robert Fischer. When they met in Melbourne, Eames discovered some additional things about the beautiful tragedy that is Robert Fischer in person. Like how he’s got cheekbones so sharp that you catch yourself when running your thumb along them, in case you cut yourself. Or how everything he does is infused with a sort of calm anguish, so much so that just watching him sleep can make you despair of life slightly.
In short, that week-long affair with Robert was a really depressing thing to do. Eames figures he did it because everyone else in the band was already so depressed. The things people do for solidarity.
*
“Eames,” says Fischer genially. “Been a while. May I?” He gestures at the table.
“…of course. Lovely,” mumbles Eames. Arthur is wearing an expression like a hatchet blade.
“Good to see you,” goes on Fischer, pulling up a chair. “How come you never called?”
“And have you met our new drummer!” says Eames loudly. “Yusuf, Robert, Robert, Yusuf. And this is our Ariadne, she’s a rising lyricist, has worked with the best, brilliant future and so forth, say hello Ariadne - ”
“Yes, um, hello,” says Ariadne, shaking Fischer’s hand and staring at Eames in confusion. “Love your music, Mr Fischer.”
“Do call me Rob,” says Fischer. “And of course the last member of your party needs no introduction. I have heard such a lot about you, Arthur - may I call you Arthur?”
“Knock yourself out,” says Arthur.
Everyone turns to stare at him.
“I’m afraid I can’t pay you the same compliment, Rob,” Arthur continues. His body language is deceptively relaxed, but Eames can see that the whiskey in the glass he has in his lap is quivering. “I haven’t heard a thing about you. All I know is based on…pure conjecture.”
Eames tries to hide behind the menu.
“So,” says Ariadne a shade too brightly, “what brings you here, Rob? Business?”
“Oh no,” laughs Fischer, “I’m taking a break. Got a world tour coming up in a month, those are exhausting.”
“World tour!” exclaims Yusuf. “Congratulations!”
“Yes,” says Arthur, “it’s amazing how far a pretty face and a nifty origin story will get you.”
Yusuf’s mouth drops open.
Fischer regards Arthur coolly across the table. “Indeed. So many things are overrated nowadays. Like talent. And, oh, imagination.”
Eames locks eyes with Ariadne, whose face is broadcasting OHNOHEDIDNOTJUST.
Arthur puts his glass down on the table. “Implying I have no imagination, Rob?”
“So I’ve heard from some,” returns Fischer. He slides a glance at Eames. “Of course - pure conjecture. As, I am sure, was the slight on my talent.”
They continue staring at each other. The rest of the table remains frozen in horror.
“Well, let’s not leave things up to conjecture, shall we?” says Arthur briskly. “How long are you in town for, Rob?”
“My flight doesn’t leave till four,” replies Fischer. “I’d say we have a couple hours to play with.”
“Superb,” says Arthur. “There’s a multi-storey carpark two blocks down from here, open rooftop, great view, you know it?”
“I do know it. Midnight?”
“Midnight. Bring your gear.” Arthur snaps his fingers at the gaping waitresses. “Check, please.”
Fischer pushes back his chair. “Been a pleasure,” he says to Yusuf and Ariadne. To Eames: “See you.” He leaves.
“What is going on?” demands Ariadne. “Did you just challenge Fischer to some kind of duel? Aren’t there laws against duels?”
“This isn’t the eighteenth century, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Arthur snaps to his feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go lock and load.”
*
“Saito,” babbles Eames, “Saito, you have got to come back now.”
Saito sounds irritable over the phone. “Mr Eames, I am in the middle of some very important business with the Hong Kong media authorities.”
“Arthur,” shouts Eames, “just challenged Robert Fischer to a duel!”
“I’m on the next flight,” says Saito.
*
Eames maintains Arthur started it.
Their first real gig was at a club in Brooklyn. It was called ‘Club Foot’. Eames privately thought this was ridiculous, but he didn’t say so because the owners were Friends of Mal. Nearly all their contacts in those days were Friends of Mal.
Cobb was having a nerve attack during their final rehearsal, nitpicking on everything and everyone - Eames for not coming in fast enough on that bar, Nash for overdoing the snares on that number. Most of it, however, was directed at Arthur.
“There’s something missing!” he kept shouting. “Something in your playing, it’s just not there!”
“If we could put a little definition on ‘something’, that might help,” retorted Arthur dryly.
Cobb grabbed his hair in handfuls and attempted to lift himself by his follicles. “I don’t know! The feeling’s just not coming through! This is music, Arthur, not precision engineering!”
“All right, that will be enough for now,” Mal was saying. She had one hand on Cobb’s back, rubbing in soothing circles. “Relax, boys. I will call you back when it is your turn to go on.”
She walked Cobb out, talking to him in a low voice. Nash tossed his drumsticks at the wall in annoyance and stormed upstairs to get a drink. This left Eames in the cellar with Arthur, who was standing by the wall dangling his guitar by one hand and staring at the graffiti.
“Cheers, love,” tried Eames, “Cobb’s just throwing a wobbly from nerves, he doesn’t mean a thing by it - ”
Arthur cut him off. “He’s right. Something’s missing.”
Eames waited.
“I’m doing everything correctly,” went on Arthur after some time, “but it’s not enough, I can feel it isn’t. We’re going on in ten minutes and I need to bring it but I don’t know how.”
Eames shrugged. “You need to loosen up, mate.”
“I am trying - ” began Arthur, and then he stopped and simply stared at Eames.
“Arthur,” ventured Eames after several seconds of staring had gone down, “if you’re going to keep this up I will end up doing something to your - ”
“I would like to raise the disclaimer,” said Arthur, very quickly, “that what I am about to do is in a purely professional capacity.” And then he slung his guitar behind him, crossed the room, grabbed Eames’ face in his hands and kissed him.
Arthur kissed like he’d studied it from textbooks, precise and thorough and practically annotated, which was both adorable as fuck and not to be stood for. Eames pushed back, tongues clashing, really pushed, and then something clicked and sparked and caught fire and now Arthur was licking up into his mouth, hands fisted in his collar, technique gone from academic to devastating, and if they weren’t going to stop for breath soon Eames was really going to -
Arthur broke off two seconds before Mal walked in to say “You’re up in five,” then pause, look them over and say with amusement, “or do you need more time?”
“No,” said Arthur, breathing hard, “we’re good to go.” Then he grabbed his guitar and fled up the stairs from Mal’s quirked eyebrow.
Over the weekend, the agents started calling.
*
Their first real concert, Arthur turned to Eames, licked his lips, made a vague gesture and said: “Do you mind - ?”
“For you?” said Eames. “Any time.”
*
The New Orleans Arena; the suit now Arthur’s stage trademark, cufflinks rubbing cold against the back of Eames’ neck.
The Rose Garden, Portland; Eames: “You’re a fucking paradox, you are - ” and Arthur laughing into his mouth and saying yeah, that’s an idea.
The London O2; on the hydraulic lift seconds before the opening riff of ‘Paradox City’, Nash rolling his eyes: “Jesus, get a room, people.”
Festival Hall, Melbourne; Arthur stepping back, hands raised between them: “Really, Eames, is that what you’re looking for? A little more imagination? Well. Your loss.”
Then, three years of nothing.
*
“So, all those years of making out,” demands Ariadne, “and you never - ?”
“No,” says Eames. “We never. At least, I don’t think so. There were all your usual tour-parties-turned-drunken-orgies and so forth, but I’m fairly sure he sat those out.”
“What you’re saying,” concludes Ariadne, “is that this band has produced eleven hit singles, five of them Grammy-nominated, based on seven years of Arthur’s unresolved sexual tension.”
“Whoa,” breathes Yusuf. “Now that is suffering for your art.”
They watch in horror from the couch as Arthur storms through the suite carrying Totem IV, trailed by frantic PAs. “But Arthur, you can’t get the roof on such short notice! The license applications will take at least three working days!”
“Fuck licensing,” is all Arthur has in response. “And if my amp isn’t on that roof in ten, you’re all fired.”
“And what about Fischer?” demands Ariadne.
“There were extenuating circumstances,” says Eames vaguely. “This is the sort of thing you understand when you’re older.”
Ariadne flips him the bird.
Cobb wanders into the middle of the chaos, carrying his shopping. “What the hell is going on?”
“Arthur challenged Robert Fischer to a duel,” explains Yusuf.
“Oh.” Cobb puts the shopping down. “I didn’t see that one coming.”
“Will you please talk some sense into him?”
“Arthur must fight his own battles.” Cobb sits down in the armchair and assumes a grave expression. “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”
Eames throws his hands up in despair.
*
To give them credit, the team Saito assembled is impressive. In twenty minutes they are being driven over to the carpark, where a path to the rooftop has already been cleared. They are escorted to the lifts, Arthur striding ahead with Totem IV and the rest of the band trailing nervously behind him. The lift doors open and Arthur marches in. Everyone else makes to follow, but Arthur turns on them such a glare that they all fall back.
“…we’ll take the next one,” says Cobb.
Arthur gives him a curt nod and hits the ‘close door’ button. Eames makes a split-second decision and charges forward, slipping in between the doors just as they close.
“Reminds me,” he says brightly, “of the time we filmed the MV for ‘Elevator Music’. We were going up and down in these all day, Nash complained his ears kept popping.”
Arthur turns his glare on him. “What do you want, Eames?”
Eames begins: “While it is very flattering that the two of you would duel over my humble self - ”
“Don’t overrate yourself,” says Arthur, “not everything is about you.”
“And then?” demands Eames. “Is it about you, then? What are you trying to prove?”
Arthur doesn’t say anything. Eames tries again.
“The thing is. The thing is - yes, I fucked up. With Fischer. Because Mal was gone and Cobb wasn’t going to make it and you’d turned into some sort of android and seriously, Arthur, seven years? And he was lovely, and, well, not actually the first, but that’s not the point, the point’s that all this time - ”
“God, Eames,” Arthur grits out in exasperation, “how can anybody talk so much without actually saying anything?”
“I mean…” Eames trails off lamely. “See, Fischer and the rest of them, that’s one thing. But you - we - that was professional. That’s a higher level.”
“Fuck you,” says Arthur. “You were the only unprofessional thing I ever did.”
Eames has to think very hard on what he’s saying next.
“I think,” he says finally, “if you’re trying to prove to Fischer that you have something he doesn’t, you needn’t really bother. Because you have it. You’ve had it all this while.”
The lift doors open.
“Too late,” says Arthur, and steps out onto the roof.
“Arthur,” says Fischer pleasantly. He and his people have already set up on the other side.
“Robert,” replies Arthur. The other lift comes up, admitting their own people. The next few minutes are tense as Arthur and Fischer walk around, setting up, tuning their guitars, watching each other. Eventually they come to a halt.
“Ready when you are,” says Fischer, still pleasant.
Arthur is not looking in the least pleasant. Keeping his eyes on Fischer, he lowers his hands to the strings. And then he plays.
He plays one pure, clean lick, then stops and looks up at Fischer. Arthur’s got his back to him, but Eames has the feeling that Arthur is watching him using Fischer as a mirror, however warped that sounds.
Fischer cocks his head to one side, props a foot on his amp. He plays the same lick back at Arthur, and at the last note his fingers slide and then it’s on.
If you watched a video of Arthur playing without sound, it would be the most boring thing in the world. Arthur March is famous for walking onstage in a suit and then not doing much in it. He has no stunts in his arsenal. He doesn’t duckwalk, windmill, or play his guitar behind his back using a toothpick just because he can. Sometimes, if a particular riff has him excited, he stands on one foot. It’s dull viewing.
But turn the sound up and his stillness becomes lethal. He’s no longer motionless, he’s coiled; an entire body of force channelled into the pure precision of ten fingers on wood and wire. His hands, moving faster than the blink of an eyelid. And then when he looks up and through you, that look, the one that says this is my sound, I could stop your heart with my sound and I wouldn’t even break a sweat doing it. And finally, that smile. That smile. Sure, the fans worshipped Cobb like a god. But Arthur - he’s always had the devil in his fingers.
And it’s like being back in that cellar a decade ago and hearing it for the first time, that maddening stream of genius that Arthur’s fingers are effortlessly ripping out of those strings; only now Fischer is swallowing this and building on it and throwing it back at him, and Arthur catches and his fingers stroke along the whammy bar, and the sound of it hits them, the listeners, like a high-power twist drill between the eyes. Arthur makes his guitar scream, and Fischer’s guitar screams right back him, slicing through the air above the rooftop and building to an impossible climax that will never arrive.
And this, of course, is the moment the police choose to invade the rooftop and pull the plug.
*
“Sir,” the officer is saying briskly, “you are charged with disturbing the peace. We are going to have to detain you overnight in our facilities.”
Arthur is not resisting arrest. He is, in fact, looking positively beatific for a man facing the prospect of a night in the clink.
“You don’t want to be doing this,” their assistant manager is saying angrily. “Do you even know who you’re dealing with?”
“Don’t know, don’t care, lady.” The officer spins Arthur around and proceeds to frogmarch him to the lift.
Cobb decides to intervene. “Officer, you do realise that we are the Kick.”
“The who?”
“No,” says Cobb in minute exasperation, “not the Who, the Kick. Totally different bands. Like I was saying, we are the Kick. And the man you are trying to arrest is Arthur March.”
“I don’t care if he’s the goddamn lovechild of Elvis and Madonna,” snaps the officer, “he’s coming down to HQ with me.”
Cobb gives him the Conspiratorial Squint at full power. In his younger days when the world was weeping over his angelic smile, the effect would have been devastating. The Cobb of today, however, looks like a slightly portly werewolf, and so it comes across as vaguely myopic.
“It’s okay, Dom,” says Arthur. He is still beatific. “Saito will fix it.”
“Saito’s not even here!”
“Yeah, but he’ll fix it,” says Arthur vaguely. “Please make sure they pack Totem properly.”
“You will absolutely regret this!” the assistant manager yells after them. “Our lawyers will be sueing the shoe leather off your descendants way into the next century!”
Fischer is marched into the lift alongside Arthur. “Hey,” he says. “Good game.”
“Quite,” says Arthur. “I would have kicked your ass, too.”
“We’ll see about that next time,” says Fischer.
“Yeah,” says Arthur as the doors close on them. “It’s a date.”
*
Eames would very much have liked to be there when Saito marched into the police station, guns blazing, to retrieve his investment with lordly disdain. However, he was grounded.
“You can’t ground us!” says Eames plaintively. “We’re your clients, not rebellious fifteen-year-olds!”
“Something which I am having great trouble trying to believe!” thunders Saito over the phone, which is on loudspeaker. The band winces as one musician. “Now lie low, Mr Eames. If any of you sets one toe outside that hotel room I am cutting it off, insurance be damned.”
*
Eames wakes with a start. He’s not sure why. He’s fallen asleep on his bed without taking his shoes off. Arthur is sitting in the armchair opposite him, one foot elegantly propped on the other knee, fingers steepled, expression carefully blank.
Eames peers at him blearily, then at the floor. There is an embroidered cushion lying innocuously half under the bed.
“You threw that at me, didn’t you?” says Eames accusingly. “Just so you could wake me up without leaving the chair.”
Arthur merely raises an eyebrow at him. He’s been in a guitar duel, arrested, and bailed out by a furious Japanese agent, and he hasn’t a single hair out of place. Eames really has to hand it to him.
The clock says it’s 4.18a.m. “Clearly we overestimated Saito,” says Eames. “If it took him this long just to get you out of jail.”
“I went to see Robert off at the airport,” says Arthur.
Eames gapes at him.
“Killing time in a holding cell is a fantastic bonding experience,” continues Arthur fluidly. “Turns out we have a lot in common. Besides guitars, and you.”
“Look,” begins Eames, “whatever he told you, you ought to take with a pinch of - ”
“He knows a lot about me,” cuts in Arthur. “Apparently you don’t talk about much else.”
“ - or you could take him at his word,” finishes Eames lamely. “He told you that?”
“He said you went on at such length, he started to find the subject of me boring,” says Arthur. “So when he met me in real life, my exciting personality was a happy surprise.”
“…I did try to tell you,” mumbles Eames.
“Of course you did,” says Arthur, rising to his feet. He comes to stand over Eames, arms crossed in a critical fashion. “Except you fucked up. And Cobb, he fucked up too after Mal. And Nash, with the drugs - and I don’t know about Yusuf, but I’ll bet Totem IV he’s been there, done that. Everyone, except me. As rock stars go I’m a terrible specimen.”
“This is the most number of words you have said to me in a decade,” says Eames. “And counting.”
“Well,” says Arthur. He places both hands on the bedspread, leaning into Eames’ space. Eames’ mouth goes dry. “This,” whispers Arthur, “is me, fucking up.”
He kisses Eames.
“Unprofessional,” says Eames after some time. “It looks good on you.”
“What can I say?” Arthur removes his tie. “I learn from the best.”
*
Eames comes awake, slowly this time. Arthur’s not there. The table lamp is on, he realises, and drags himself up to see what’s happening.
Arthur is sitting at the table, writing furiously. His acoustic is propped against the chair leg. He hasn’t even bothered to get dressed.
“What time is it?” mumbles Eames.
“Did I wake you?” says Arthur, not even looking up. His hand is speeding across the paper like it’s a fretboard; without stopping, he picks up the guitar and plays a swift string of chords. “Yeah. I did wake you. Sorry.”
Eames cranes to see the pages. “’Penrose Steps’? How long is it now?”
“I think we’re at seventeen minutes.” Arthur taps his chin with the pencil, then picks out a couple of notes on the guitar thoughtfully. It’s fascinating, the way the burnished wood lies against the plane of his stomach.
“Can’t it wait till morning, love?”
“Eames,” says Arthur, “I have been working on this for at least three years. No, actually, for more than seven. It is my Bohemian Rhapsody, my Desolation Row, my November Rain. And if I don’t finish the damn thing tonight I swear I will shoot myself at dawn. You want me to live, don’t you?”
“Yes,” says Eames. “That would be very nice.”
“Great,” concludes Arthur. “Save my life and shut up.”
Eames lies back and watches him write till morning.