you crawled out of the sea, straight into my arms (2/2): reposted
(part one)
They reach an archway, guarded by two thick-set Arthurs. Eames steps through it, the gun to his scapula nudging him forward, and somehow knows that this must be the antechamber, the inner sanctum, the holy of holies.
Stagnant air and dust motes ripple around him. It is almost as if he has stepped into an alternate dimension; a room within a room. Inside, it is far larger than its outward appearance would imply, and even the décor is strikingly different to the bland consistency of the fortress.
It is a library, with a high-arched ceiling and sunlight sloping through wide windows. There are desks and armchairs and tables (littered with parchment and paintbrushes, notebooks and nibs) and, of course, books. Thousands of them; neatly stacked upon hundreds of towering wooden shelves and racks.
Eames glances up at the ceiling, in passing curiosity, and nearly trips over. Because there is an enormous mural spanning the entire length and breadth of the domed ceiling - a mural that depicts a shadowed warehouse; lawn chairs and silver briefcases just visible in the gloom. And there they are:
Cobb gesturing at a whiteboard, articulate and adamant.
Mal, seated and sipping from a steaming mug, knees drawn up to her chest, a soft smile curving about her lips.
Arthur, tipping back in his chair, nibbling at the tip of his ballpoint pen.
Yusuf, glasses reflecting the mid-afternoon glare, hunched over rainbow test tubes and a Bunsen burner.
Ariadne, diligently listening, though there is a model building in her palms.
And.
Eames; lazily slouched in the chair beside Arthur’s, closing the gap between them to murmur something into the shell of his ear; some sibilant secret or crude joke or inspired observation.
Arthur is raising an eyebrow, the barest hint of dimples in his smile.
***There is a man seated in the centre of the library, poring over a hand-painted chess set, methodically moving the pieces on the board although he has no opponent. His thinning hair is liberally flecked with grey and he is wearing horn-rimmed spectacles. The veins on his hands are very apparent as he moves the black queen diagonally three spaces.
“Who is he?” Eames murmurs, though he already knows. Of course he knows; how could he not?
“The Oldest of us all; the Chronicler.”
“What does he want with me?” Eames asks, warily. His fingers itch and he has to ball them into tight fists to prevent himself from striding over and …
What?
Hitting him? Hugging him? Shaking him? Killing him?
“Oh, you’re to be our next sun sacrifice,” Arthur replies quietly, deadpan, opening his eyes very wide.
He stares and holy fuck, the Arthur with the Glock grins at him. And then, just like that, he is gone - briskly tramping out of the library, shoulders shaking ever so slightly, leaving Eames gaping in bemused disbelief.
The man (Arthur, bloody hell, Arthur) looks up briefly, weathered face distinctly unimpressed, before turning back to his chess.
As first encounters or impressions go, it is not particularly positive.
Thank god Eames is optimistic, huh?
***“Will you listen to my story?” he finally manages to croak, one drizzling morning, heart hammering in his throat.
Arthur nods, politely enough, but his eyes are faraway and dismissive, book split open on his lap. He reads the same books religiously and zealously, every single day. Eames does not quite understand, but from the suspicious, covetous manner in which Arthur clutches the tattered, dog-eared volumes to his chest whenever Eames so much as steps within two metres of him; they are infinitely and irreplaceably precious.
Eames talks till he is hoarse.
Arthur sits, mute and detached, fingers nervously folding scraps of paper into delicate origami creatures and gaze resolutely fixed upon the scrawled pages of the book which Eames recognises as being written by Arthur’s own hand.
They are separated by two decades worth of life experience and knowledge.
The distance seems unbridgeable.
***Eames opens his eyes, immediately aware of footsteps on creaking floorboards. Try as he might, it is not possible to sleep down here. The most he can do is rest his tired, aching eyes for a few hours, affecting slumber. The others seem not to notice this discrepancy; this oddity. Maybe they believe that they sleep when in fact they don’t.
Arthur; the one who first found him on the shore; is standing by a nearby bookshelf, fingers lightly caressing the spines of the books, featherlike and hesitant.
- fingertips skim the back of Eames’ knuckles, featherlike and hesitant.
(he stiffens; memories of another life clawing at his chest)
“Will you tell Arthur?” the Arthur by the bookshelves asks abruptly, without turning around. He does not specify which Arthur he means, but Eames knows because the way they say the oldest Arthur’s (the real Arthur’s) name is different - awed, respectful, hushed.
“No,” Eames replies deliberately, tasting the word on his lips. “Should I?”
Arthur almost smiles, candle light throwing his angular features into sharp, ghastly relief. “No.”
He sits down in the worn chair next to Eames’, fingers reverently cradling one of the tomes. There is something unravelling in his bottomless eyes; something that could be frank curiosity or embryonic desire. He looks away quickly and Eames does the same, both embarrassed and perhaps somewhat disconcerted.
The Glock sits on the table between them, a peace offering.
As this Arthur raise a hand to brush the hair out of his eyes, Eames notices ink creeping out from beneath those neatly rolled-back cuffs. Tattooed vine leaves, stark against the pale skin, slither up his wrist.
Enthralled, but not wanting to appear so, Eames watches him covertly. Arthur reads on, yellowed pages crackling in the sticky silence, occasionally asking for clarification on a certain term or situation. He seems particularly intrigued by Cobb, in a bizarre mimicry of reality, and there is obvious sorrow etched into his brow when he reads the story of Mal.
He is so young, so unguarded. He is how Arthur once was; before all the deception, thievery and flagrant disregard for the law. He is how Arthur would have been, if he had not followed Cobb into the depths of despair.
The stump of beeswax burns down inexorably, mild scent of honey and musk lingering in the stale air. Eames’ eyelids droop, consoled by the rustle of parchment and flickering orange flame. When morning whispers over the barren horizon, Arthur has disappeared though Eames did not notice him leave.
The pistol remains on the table, unprepossessing in the brightness of day. After some thought, Eames tucks it into the waistband of his trousers. The polymer frame sits snug against the small of his back.
***Tired of being ignored and restless from sitting still for so long, Eames decides to act.
He cautiously eases out a thick volume from one of the many flights of shelves and begins to read aloud, giving voice to memories and dreams and people they once both knew and loved. This story tells of when Arthur met Eames; aged seventeen and in Auckland. It is a tale of pristinely blue sky and first kisses. Eames knows it by heart.
His voice drifts in the room, buffeted from ceiling to floor by the somnolent air, low and melodious and gentle.
Arthur unfalteringly continues ignore him, though a muscle jerks in his jaw as Eames turns the pages over and over. Eames is not worried. It is only a matter of time and pride. You see, he has a gift, not unlike a snake-charmer or horse-whisperer; though it would be laughable to compare Arthur to either of these.
When Eames closes the book and looks up, Arthur is sitting right beside him, brows furrowed in consternation and gaze keen and intent.
“Read it again,” he demands, in a decent impersonation of a petulant child.
So Eames does, revelling in the solid press of Arthur at his side, the scent of his skin, the spill of his salt-and-pepper hair, the way he worries his lower lip with his teeth, the haphazard spattering of freckles across his cheekbones.
“Who are you?” Arthur asks eventually, as if seeing Eames for the first time.
Eames tells him.
Arthur waves a hand irritably, flippantly. “No, no. I know you’re not. You can’t be. I want to know what you are really.”
Eames just stares, because, to be fair, what else can he do?
“Well. Why are you here, then?”
Eames tells him.
Arthur rolls his eyes.
***From then on, their scant interactions expand to encompass snippets of hastily-snatched conversation and snapshots of shared activity. Some days (or is it years?) Arthur will invite Eames to play chess or read aloud from one of the many tomes in the library or model while he paints.
Some days (years) Arthur won’t invite Eames to join him; preferring to go about his everyday business alone. Eames does not mind. He curls up into his sagging chair, cat-like, and lets the rustling of pages lull him into a state of numbed consciousness, mind slowing down to a listless crawl.
It is as simple as that.
Not bound by the conventions of normal courtesy or social etiquette; they speak to one another when they want, if they want, how they want.
For instance: “Your hands are cold.”
This is muttered as an after-thought, as their hands accidentally brush over a particularly intense game of chess. Eames is winning, which seems to displease Arthur greatly.
Arthur stares at him like he is an idiot and Eames almost chuckles, because it appears that some things never change.
“I have always been cold; I do not remember a time when it was otherwise.”
And that’s that.
Mostly, Arthur remains soundless and Eames watches him, comforted by the staid routine of this. He does not venture beyond the warm and secure confines of the library, content to spend his time idly sketching Arthur or staring up at the mural or rereading his favourite segments from a well-known and much-thumbed-through book.
Eventually, sunshine loses its allure. These days, he prefers to cocoon himself in shadow and must, brooding over the Glock in his palms, fingers tracing along its muzzle and barrel.
There is something he has to do. Something important, some reason for his existence, some reason for the gifted gun. It scratches at his skin, querulous and vexed.
But he just can’t remember.
***Once in a blue moon (quite literally; since the moon alternates between shades of copper and cobalt, though occasionally, as if undecided, it lingers between both and is tinged a rich purple) Arthur will approach Eames first. Timid, almost shy, he will lick at his dry lips and ask:
“Will you tell me your story, again?” And then, whispered, “Please.”
Trite as it may be, Eames lives for those moments.
***One day, Arthur - the one with the tattooed vine leaves and longer curling hair - ushers him out the fortress into the dim mist of early morning. Another Arthur (this one about thirty, scarred and sinewy) stands shrouded under a nearby portico, openly suspicious, pianist hands wrapped around a double-barrelled shotgun.
“Arthur? What-” Eames falters, bleary and unfocused, eyes unused to such light. Oddly, indescribably, he suddenly yearns to return to the safe, uncomplicated warmth of that hidden library, to sink into a chair (his chair) and watch the interplay of light and shadow as it illuminates Arthur frowning over his chessboard, Arthur reading a book even though he knows them all from memory, Arthur bent over a piece of parchment, brushstrokes steady and sure.
“Go,” Arthur interjects, gesturing towards a looming cliff, craggy and obdurate. The other Arthur frowns, deeply uncomfortable, shuffling from foot to foot. His fingers are hovering over the trigger. Eames, vestiges of training and self-preservation stirring in the depths of his aching soul, instinctively reaches for the gun still concealed beneath his jacket.
“I don't-”
“Go. Now,” he repeats; unyielding. “We will stall the others.” The other Arthur appears unhappier at that, but nods in reluctant confirmation.
“All right,” Eames says because that is obviously what is expected of him. But there is still a dull, dank fog clouding his judgment. He can’t quite comprehend what this new and unchartered development might mean.
Belatedly, he realizes (startled, horrified, disgusted) that Limbo has taken its toll on him, too. He is slower and fleshier; sluggish and lethargic, unable to think or act with any sense of urgency. But now as Arthur touches him on the shoulder impatiently, as if awakening from a deep dream-sleep; he senses it - the anticipation and resolve thrumming through his veins. He knows, without knowing how he knows, that it is time.
So, Eames presses the borrowed Glock (warm from his skin) back into young, wonderful, simulated Arthur’s palm wordlessly. He could say sorry and thank-you and goodbye but in the end, a smile and nod seems more appropriate.
Arthur smiles back and the dawning sunlight catches the dimples in his cheeks.
He begins to walk.
***Arthur is waiting for him by the foot of the cliff. The real Arthur; the Arthur with silvering hair at his temples and occasional lapses of memory, the Arthur who carries cracked chess pieces in his capacious pockets and can, age and arthritis be damned, maim a man in several dozen different ways if he so desired.
Eames does not dare suppose that this Arthur might be his, does not dare believe that he might have a claim on this complex, baffling man.
But he can hope.
***They climb.
***The sky is pristinely blue.
It is the same blue of an Auckland spring sky, many years ago now; the sky under which Arthur had first kissed him, frighteningly young and insistent, flushed from the thrill of successfully executing his first significant job alone, without Cobb or Mal or Miles. Eames (five years older, already jaded) had gently pushed the boy away, stunned and unwilling. Obsidian eyes had shuttered and he had fled, murmured apologies and mortification lost on the wind. White-knuckled and wide-eyed, Eames had been sure Auckland would be their first and last job together.
He had been spectacularly wrong, as he sometimes is in matters to do with Arthur.
They had met again, not more than two weeks later, in snow-entrenched Belarus, this time with Cobb and Mal.
I intend to keep kissing you, Arthur had informed him solemnly in the midst of a swarming crush of dancing bodies; unquestionably under age and revelling in it. Cobb, wholly oblivious, had been pitching an idea to their latest sponsor but Mal was watching them from across the bar, lips pursed in either resignation or disapproval.
Even if I won’t kiss you back? Eames had asked, amused at such childish fancy and oddly regretful that Arthur, gifted far beyond his years, should be so hopelessly unrealistic.
The second kiss, tremulous and whisky-soaked, had been answer enough. After the job, Eames had moved on as he always had, indifferent to the entire matter. He thought it (whatever it was) to be nothing more than a passing preoccupation, an adolescent crush; something they might laugh about several years down the track, most likely at Arthur’s wedding.
He had said as much to Mal when she had accosted him in the midst of preparing dinner, waving around a kitchen knife and slipping back into French in her agitation, carrying on about corrupting young minds and Arthur being only a child. She had listened, patiently, and then simply shaken her head at him, murmuring; you are getting in over your head, Charles, to ever assume anything about that boy. He is not as you think he is.
But Eames had always believed, unshakably, that Arthur would, or rather, must marry. He would have the fairy-tale of Mal and Cobb; a devoted spouse, dream house and brood of adorable and precocious offspring with her eyes and his hair. Eames was more than content to be the doting, if somewhat unconventional, bachelor uncle who would arrive unannounced at Christmas, bearing gifts for the children and news of the dreamsharing world for the adults.
He had decided, long ago, that he would be always involved in their lives, but at a respectful distance.
Was that too much to hope for?
Because Arthur, like Cobb, was meant for the straight and narrow path; the path of taxes and a respectable career, of tucking fretful children into bed and having his shirts ironed the night before work and dinner parties on the weekend.
Or so Eames had thought. He had been wrong, again - a revelation that had been both entertaining and perturbing.
Over the years, Arthur had kept true to his word. Eames had, too. Each kiss, Arthur had drawn back a little more disappointed, a little more miserable. Each kiss, Eames had stumbled a little further into the bewitchment but had remained unwilling (unable) to accept the prospect of an alternate future from the one he had carelessly presumed.
He had never reciprocated, and Arthur had never stopped trying. Even after the Fischer job, Arthur had kissed him, brief and wistful, in the men’s washroom before hurrying out to catch his connecting flight to Boston.
Because for all their purported distaste for one another - in spite of the thinly-veiled insults and simmering tension - Arthur and Eames are more alike than even they care to admit.
It should not be surprising that they are drawn together, unavoidably.
***Arthur, the Arthur of Limbo, is watching him unobtrusively, concerned but not curious. His hands are cold in Eames’ own; prematurely gnarled and knotted like the bark of a hoary oak. Eames squeezes his fingers experimentally and Arthur’s blossoming smile is wondrous to behold; tentative and temperate.
Eames kisses him right then and there, under the brilliant midday sun, surrounded by sandstone and pebbles and lichen. Slow and measured, he presses his mouth over Arthur’s again and again, returning each and every kiss he had received so callously and Arthur had given away so freely. Those scoured, well-known lips taste of salt and he is trembling beneath Eames’ desperate grasp, not as lean or agile or murderous as he was in youth but maybe more beautiful.
Is that possible? Perhaps it no longer matters, but Eames wonders all the same.
While Arthur does not pull away, neither does he kiss back. It is only to be expected. Certainly, Eames is thankful for this much latitude (much more than he deserves), but cannot help but notice the sly humour in, for once, being cast as the pursuer, not the pursued.
***“Why?” Arthur asks suddenly, unexpectedly, as they attempt to clamber over a near vertical rock face; voice ragged from the cold and brittle with fatigue.
Why, indeed. Is it not the eternal question? Why me? Why now? Why ever? Why us? Why bother?
Eames smiles, leaning in to kiss him one last time, debt finally repaid. He breathes in the scent of honey and musk and gun powder that clings to Arthur’s skin, his clothes, his eyelashes, his mouth. And then, as the sun reaches the highest point in the sky, he whispers the truth into Arthur’s clammy, creased forehead.
Perhaps Arthur hears him, perhaps he does not. In any case, it does not matter.
But in their next reincarnation, he will be sure to kiss Arthur first.
***Some hours or months later, they reach the pinnacle of the cliff.
The air is thinner up here and they are both exhausted and finding it harder to breathe. Their boots crunch on shingle and shell. Here and there, tufts of vividly green grass attempt to valiantly struggle out from beneath the crags and fissures. A turbulent and fast-swelling breeze nips at any exposed skin, sighing promises into the napes of their necks.
Ignoring the half-hearted protests, Eames forces Arthur to sit down on the rock shelf, ordering him to concentrate on breathing; in and out, in and out. Perhaps he is condescending in his anxiety because Arthur wheezes out a rare insult, defiant and scathing. Eames grasps at it covetously, starved of banter and mockery, nostalgic for scraps of the people they once were. He apologizes, fluently, and the effect is magical - Arthur relaxes, wary but appeased.
The relief must distort his features, for Arthur is quick to add, “Don’t look so smug, Mr. Eames. You are not forgiven.”
There is sunlight liberally speckled through his dark, silver-streaked hair and colour high up in his faded cheeks. It is the first time Eames has been acknowledged by name; recognized as an entity rather than a fabrication or conjuration.
The rugged ridge is warm and reassuringly solid beneath his outstretched palms.
“I know.”
***They stand side by side, shoulders just brushing, breath puffing out in little white clouds of condensed water vapour. Arthur tries to smile; ashen and uneasy. His fingers are icy, just like Eames’.
“What happens next?”
Death? Paralysis? Stagnation? Rebirth?
“What do you think?”
A dislodged pebble clatters over the precipice, into the unknowable abyss.
An accusing, reproachful glare. “Don’t you know?”
Far, far below; water (rushing, roaring, ravenous) crashes against jagged and unforgiving rock formations, creating a cacophony of spray and salt and sediment.
A nonchalant shrug, unhurried and purposefully ambiguous. “Do you want to know?”
The wind seems to be a weeping into their tousled hair, a desolate lament. He wonders whether, at last, this question is the one Arthur will find worth answering.
“Yes.”
The sky is pristinely blue.
They jump.
They reach an archway, guarded by two thick-set Arthurs. Eames steps through it, the gun to his scapula nudging him forward, and somehow knows that this must be the antechamber, the inner sanctum, the holy of holies.
Stagnant air and dust motes ripple around him. It is almost as if he has stepped into an alternate dimension; a room within a room. Inside, it is far larger than its outward appearance would imply, and even the décor is strikingly different to the bland consistency of the fortress.
It is a library, with a high-arched ceiling and sunlight sloping through wide windows. There are desks and armchairs and tables (littered with parchment and paintbrushes, notebooks and nibs) and, of course, books. Thousands of them; neatly stacked upon hundreds of towering wooden shelves and racks.
Eames glances up at the ceiling, in passing curiosity, and nearly trips over. Because there is an enormous mural spanning the entire length and breadth of the domed ceiling - a mural that depicts a shadowed warehouse; lawn chairs and silver briefcases just visible in the gloom. And there they are:
Cobb gesturing at a whiteboard, articulate and adamant.
Mal, seated and sipping from a steaming mug, knees drawn up to her chest, a soft smile curving about her lips.
Arthur, tipping back in his chair, nibbling at the tip of his ballpoint pen.
Yusuf, glasses reflecting the mid-afternoon glare, hunched over rainbow test tubes and a Bunsen burner.
Ariadne, diligently listening, though there is a model building in her palms.
And.
Eames; lazily slouched in the chair beside Arthur’s, closing the gap between them to murmur something into the shell of his ear; some sibilant secret or crude joke or inspired observation.
Arthur is raising an eyebrow, the barest hint of dimples in his smile.
***There is a man seated in the centre of the library, poring over a hand-painted chess set, methodically moving the pieces on the board although he has no opponent. His thinning hair is liberally flecked with grey and he is wearing horn-rimmed spectacles. The veins on his hands are very apparent as he moves the black queen diagonally three spaces.
“Who is he?” Eames murmurs, though he already knows. Of course he knows; how could he not?
“The Oldest of us all; the Chronicler.”
“What does he want with me?” Eames asks, warily. His fingers itch and he has to ball them into tight fists to prevent himself from striding over and …
What?
Hitting him? Hugging him? Shaking him? Killing him?
“Oh, you’re to be our next sun sacrifice,” Arthur replies quietly, deadpan, opening his eyes very wide.
He stares and holy fuck, the Arthur with the Glock grins at him. And then, just like that, he is gone - briskly tramping out of the library, shoulders shaking ever so slightly, leaving Eames gaping in bemused disbelief.
The man (Arthur, bloody hell, Arthur) looks up briefly, weathered face distinctly unimpressed, before turning back to his chess.
As first encounters or impressions go, it is not particularly positive.
Thank god Eames is optimistic, huh?
***“Will you listen to my story?” he finally manages to croak, one drizzling morning, heart hammering in his throat.
Arthur nods, politely enough, but his eyes are faraway and dismissive, book split open on his lap. He reads the same books religiously and zealously, every single day. Eames does not quite understand, but from the suspicious, covetous manner in which Arthur clutches the tattered, dog-eared volumes to his chest whenever Eames so much as steps within two metres of him; they are infinitely and irreplaceably precious.
Eames talks till he is hoarse.
Arthur sits, mute and detached, fingers nervously folding scraps of paper into delicate origami creatures and gaze resolutely fixed upon the scrawled pages of the book which Eames recognises as being written by Arthur’s own hand.
They are separated by two decades worth of life experience and knowledge.
The distance seems unbridgeable.
***Eames opens his eyes, immediately aware of footsteps on creaking floorboards. Try as he might, it is not possible to sleep down here. The most he can do is rest his tired, aching eyes for a few hours, affecting slumber. The others seem not to notice this discrepancy; this oddity. Maybe they believe that they sleep when in fact they don’t.
Arthur; the one who first found him on the shore; is standing by a nearby bookshelf, fingers lightly caressing the spines of the books, featherlike and hesitant.
- fingertips skim the back of Eames’ knuckles, featherlike and hesitant.
(he stiffens; memories of another life clawing at his chest)
“Will you tell Arthur?” the Arthur by the bookshelves asks abruptly, without turning around. He does not specify which Arthur he means, but Eames knows because the way they say the oldest Arthur’s (the real Arthur’s) name is different - awed, respectful, hushed.
“No,” Eames replies deliberately, tasting the word on his lips. “Should I?”
Arthur almost smiles, candle light throwing his angular features into sharp, ghastly relief. “No.”
He sits down in the worn chair next to Eames’, fingers reverently cradling one of the tomes. There is something unravelling in his bottomless eyes; something that could be frank curiosity or embryonic desire. He looks away quickly and Eames does the same, both embarrassed and perhaps somewhat disconcerted.
The Glock sits on the table between them, a peace offering.
As this Arthur raise a hand to brush the hair out of his eyes, Eames notices ink creeping out from beneath those neatly rolled-back cuffs. Tattooed vine leaves, stark against the pale skin, slither up his wrist.
Enthralled, but not wanting to appear so, Eames watches him covertly. Arthur reads on, yellowed pages crackling in the sticky silence, occasionally asking for clarification on a certain term or situation. He seems particularly intrigued by Cobb, in a bizarre mimicry of reality, and there is obvious sorrow etched into his brow when he reads the story of Mal.
He is so young, so unguarded. He is how Arthur once was; before all the deception, thievery and flagrant disregard for the law. He is how Arthur would have been, if he had not followed Cobb into the depths of despair.
The stump of beeswax burns down inexorably, mild scent of honey and musk lingering in the stale air. Eames’ eyelids droop, consoled by the rustle of parchment and flickering orange flame. When morning whispers over the barren horizon, Arthur has disappeared though Eames did not notice him leave.
The pistol remains on the table, unprepossessing in the brightness of day. After some thought, Eames tucks it into the waistband of his trousers. The polymer frame sits snug against the small of his back.
***Tired of being ignored and restless from sitting still for so long, Eames decides to act.
He cautiously eases out a thick volume from one of the many flights of shelves and begins to read aloud, giving voice to memories and dreams and people they once both knew and loved. This story tells of when Arthur met Eames; aged seventeen and in Auckland. It is a tale of pristinely blue sky and first kisses. Eames knows it by heart.
His voice drifts in the room, buffeted from ceiling to floor by the somnolent air, low and melodious and gentle.
Arthur unfalteringly continues ignore him, though a muscle jerks in his jaw as Eames turns the pages over and over. Eames is not worried. It is only a matter of time and pride. You see, he has a gift, not unlike a snake-charmer or horse-whisperer; though it would be laughable to compare Arthur to either of these.
When Eames closes the book and looks up, Arthur is sitting right beside him, brows furrowed in consternation and gaze keen and intent.
“Read it again,” he demands, in a decent impersonation of a petulant child.
So Eames does, revelling in the solid press of Arthur at his side, the scent of his skin, the spill of his salt-and-pepper hair, the way he worries his lower lip with his teeth, the haphazard spattering of freckles across his cheekbones.
“Who are you?” Arthur asks eventually, as if seeing Eames for the first time.
Eames tells him.
Arthur waves a hand irritably, flippantly. “No, no. I know you’re not. You can’t be. I want to know what you are really.”
Eames just stares, because, to be fair, what else can he do?
“Well. Why are you here, then?”
Eames tells him.
Arthur rolls his eyes.
***From then on, their scant interactions expand to encompass snippets of hastily-snatched conversation and snapshots of shared activity. Some days (or is it years?) Arthur will invite Eames to play chess or read aloud from one of the many tomes in the library or model while he paints.
Some days (years) Arthur won’t invite Eames to join him; preferring to go about his everyday business alone. Eames does not mind. He curls up into his sagging chair, cat-like, and lets the rustling of pages lull him into a state of numbed consciousness, mind slowing down to a listless crawl.
It is as simple as that.
Not bound by the conventions of normal courtesy or social etiquette; they speak to one another when they want, if they want, how they want.
For instance: “Your hands are cold.”
This is muttered as an after-thought, as their hands accidentally brush over a particularly intense game of chess. Eames is winning, which seems to displease Arthur greatly.
Arthur stares at him like he is an idiot and Eames almost chuckles, because it appears that some things never change.
“I have always been cold; I do not remember a time when it was otherwise.”
And that’s that.
Mostly, Arthur remains soundless and Eames watches him, comforted by the staid routine of this. He does not venture beyond the warm and secure confines of the library, content to spend his time idly sketching Arthur or staring up at the mural or rereading his favourite segments from a well-known and much-thumbed-through book.
Eventually, sunshine loses its allure. These days, he prefers to cocoon himself in shadow and must, brooding over the Glock in his palms, fingers tracing along its muzzle and barrel.
There is something he has to do. Something important, some reason for his existence, some reason for the gifted gun. It scratches at his skin, querulous and vexed.
But he just can’t remember.
***Once in a blue moon (quite literally; since the moon alternates between shades of copper and cobalt, though occasionally, as if undecided, it lingers between both and is tinged a rich purple) Arthur will approach Eames first. Timid, almost shy, he will lick at his dry lips and ask:
“Will you tell me your story, again?” And then, whispered, “Please.”
Trite as it may be, Eames lives for those moments.
***One day, Arthur - the one with the tattooed vine leaves and longer curling hair - ushers him out the fortress into the dim mist of early morning. Another Arthur (this one about thirty, scarred and sinewy) stands shrouded under a nearby portico, openly suspicious, pianist hands wrapped around a double-barrelled shotgun.
“Arthur? What-” Eames falters, bleary and unfocused, eyes unused to such light. Oddly, indescribably, he suddenly yearns to return to the safe, uncomplicated warmth of that hidden library, to sink into a chair (his chair) and watch the interplay of light and shadow as it illuminates Arthur frowning over his chessboard, Arthur reading a book even though he knows them all from memory, Arthur bent over a piece of parchment, brushstrokes steady and sure.
“Go,” Arthur interjects, gesturing towards a looming cliff, craggy and obdurate. The other Arthur frowns, deeply uncomfortable, shuffling from foot to foot. His fingers are hovering over the trigger. Eames, vestiges of training and self-preservation stirring in the depths of his aching soul, instinctively reaches for the gun still concealed beneath his jacket.
“I don't-”
“Go. Now,” he repeats; unyielding. “We will stall the others.” The other Arthur appears unhappier at that, but nods in reluctant confirmation.
“All right,” Eames says because that is obviously what is expected of him. But there is still a dull, dank fog clouding his judgment. He can’t quite comprehend what this new and unchartered development might mean.
Belatedly, he realizes (startled, horrified, disgusted) that Limbo has taken its toll on him, too. He is slower and fleshier; sluggish and lethargic, unable to think or act with any sense of urgency. But now as Arthur touches him on the shoulder impatiently, as if awakening from a deep dream-sleep; he senses it - the anticipation and resolve thrumming through his veins. He knows, without knowing how he knows, that it is time.
So, Eames presses the borrowed Glock (warm from his skin) back into young, wonderful, simulated Arthur’s palm wordlessly. He could say sorry and thank-you and goodbye but in the end, a smile and nod seems more appropriate.
Arthur smiles back and the dawning sunlight catches the dimples in his cheeks.
He begins to walk.
***Arthur is waiting for him by the foot of the cliff. The real Arthur; the Arthur with silvering hair at his temples and occasional lapses of memory, the Arthur who carries cracked chess pieces in his capacious pockets and can, age and arthritis be damned, maim a man in several dozen different ways if he so desired.
Eames does not dare suppose that this Arthur might be his, does not dare believe that he might have a claim on this complex, baffling man.
But he can hope.
***They climb.
***The sky is pristinely blue.
It is the same blue of an Auckland spring sky, many years ago now; the sky under which Arthur had first kissed him, frighteningly young and insistent, flushed from the thrill of successfully executing his first significant job alone, without Cobb or Mal or Miles. Eames (five years older, already jaded) had gently pushed the boy away, stunned and unwilling. Obsidian eyes had shuttered and he had fled, murmured apologies and mortification lost on the wind. White-knuckled and wide-eyed, Eames had been sure Auckland would be their first and last job together.
He had been spectacularly wrong, as he sometimes is in matters to do with Arthur.
They had met again, not more than two weeks later, in snow-entrenched Belarus, this time with Cobb and Mal.
I intend to keep kissing you, Arthur had informed him solemnly in the midst of a swarming crush of dancing bodies; unquestionably under age and revelling in it. Cobb, wholly oblivious, had been pitching an idea to their latest sponsor but Mal was watching them from across the bar, lips pursed in either resignation or disapproval.
Even if I won’t kiss you back? Eames had asked, amused at such childish fancy and oddly regretful that Arthur, gifted far beyond his years, should be so hopelessly unrealistic.
The second kiss, tremulous and whisky-soaked, had been answer enough. After the job, Eames had moved on as he always had, indifferent to the entire matter. He thought it (whatever it was) to be nothing more than a passing preoccupation, an adolescent crush; something they might laugh about several years down the track, most likely at Arthur’s wedding.
He had said as much to Mal when she had accosted him in the midst of preparing dinner, waving around a kitchen knife and slipping back into French in her agitation, carrying on about corrupting young minds and Arthur being only a child. She had listened, patiently, and then simply shaken her head at him, murmuring; you are getting in over your head, Charles, to ever assume anything about that boy. He is not as you think he is.
But Eames had always believed, unshakably, that Arthur would, or rather, must marry. He would have the fairy-tale of Mal and Cobb; a devoted spouse, dream house and brood of adorable and precocious offspring with her eyes and his hair. Eames was more than content to be the doting, if somewhat unconventional, bachelor uncle who would arrive unannounced at Christmas, bearing gifts for the children and news of the dreamsharing world for the adults.
He had decided, long ago, that he would be always involved in their lives, but at a respectful distance.
Was that too much to hope for?
Because Arthur, like Cobb, was meant for the straight and narrow path; the path of taxes and a respectable career, of tucking fretful children into bed and having his shirts ironed the night before work and dinner parties on the weekend.
Or so Eames had thought. He had been wrong, again - a revelation that had been both entertaining and perturbing.
Over the years, Arthur had kept true to his word. Eames had, too. Each kiss, Arthur had drawn back a little more disappointed, a little more miserable. Each kiss, Eames had stumbled a little further into the bewitchment but had remained unwilling (unable) to accept the prospect of an alternate future from the one he had carelessly presumed.
He had never reciprocated, and Arthur had never stopped trying. Even after the Fischer job, Arthur had kissed him, brief and wistful, in the men’s washroom before hurrying out to catch his connecting flight to Boston.
Because for all their purported distaste for one another - in spite of the thinly-veiled insults and simmering tension - Arthur and Eames are more alike than even they care to admit.
It should not be surprising that they are drawn together, unavoidably.
***Arthur, the Arthur of Limbo, is watching him unobtrusively, concerned but not curious. His hands are cold in Eames’ own; prematurely gnarled and knotted like the bark of a hoary oak. Eames squeezes his fingers experimentally and Arthur’s blossoming smile is wondrous to behold; tentative and temperate.
Eames kisses him right then and there, under the brilliant midday sun, surrounded by sandstone and pebbles and lichen. Slow and measured, he presses his mouth over Arthur’s again and again, returning each and every kiss he had received so callously and Arthur had given away so freely. Those scoured, well-known lips taste of salt and he is trembling beneath Eames’ desperate grasp, not as lean or agile or murderous as he was in youth but maybe more beautiful.
Is that possible? Perhaps it no longer matters, but Eames wonders all the same.
While Arthur does not pull away, neither does he kiss back. It is only to be expected. Certainly, Eames is thankful for this much latitude (much more than he deserves), but cannot help but notice the sly humour in, for once, being cast as the pursuer, not the pursued.
***“Why?” Arthur asks suddenly, unexpectedly, as they attempt to clamber over a near vertical rock face; voice ragged from the cold and brittle with fatigue.
Why, indeed. Is it not the eternal question? Why me? Why now? Why ever? Why us? Why bother?
Eames smiles, leaning in to kiss him one last time, debt finally repaid. He breathes in the scent of honey and musk and gun powder that clings to Arthur’s skin, his clothes, his eyelashes, his mouth. And then, as the sun reaches the highest point in the sky, he whispers the truth into Arthur’s clammy, creased forehead.
Perhaps Arthur hears him, perhaps he does not. In any case, it does not matter.
But in their next reincarnation, he will be sure to kiss Arthur first.
***Some hours or months later, they reach the pinnacle of the cliff.
The air is thinner up here and they are both exhausted and finding it harder to breathe. Their boots crunch on shingle and shell. Here and there, tufts of vividly green grass attempt to valiantly struggle out from beneath the crags and fissures. A turbulent and fast-swelling breeze nips at any exposed skin, sighing promises into the napes of their necks.
Ignoring the half-hearted protests, Eames forces Arthur to sit down on the rock shelf, ordering him to concentrate on breathing; in and out, in and out. Perhaps he is condescending in his anxiety because Arthur wheezes out a rare insult, defiant and scathing. Eames grasps at it covetously, starved of banter and mockery, nostalgic for scraps of the people they once were. He apologizes, fluently, and the effect is magical - Arthur relaxes, wary but appeased.
The relief must distort his features, for Arthur is quick to add, “Don’t look so smug, Mr. Eames. You are not forgiven.”
There is sunlight liberally speckled through his dark, silver-streaked hair and colour high up in his faded cheeks. It is the first time Eames has been acknowledged by name; recognized as an entity rather than a fabrication or conjuration.
The rugged ridge is warm and reassuringly solid beneath his outstretched palms.
“I know.”
***They stand side by side, shoulders just brushing, breath puffing out in little white clouds of condensed water vapour. Arthur tries to smile; ashen and uneasy. His fingers are icy, just like Eames’.
“What happens next?”
Death? Paralysis? Stagnation? Rebirth?
“What do you think?”
A dislodged pebble clatters over the precipice, into the unknowable abyss.
An accusing, reproachful glare. “Don’t you know?”
Far, far below; water (rushing, roaring, ravenous) crashes against jagged and unforgiving rock formations, creating a cacophony of spray and salt and sediment.
A nonchalant shrug, unhurried and purposefully ambiguous. “Do you want to know?”
The wind seems to be a weeping into their tousled hair, a desolate lament. He wonders whether, at last, this question is the one Arthur will find worth answering.
“Yes.”
The sky is pristinely blue.
They jump.