Imaginary, Part IV
They manage to finish the job without anyone dying any more than necessary, and Eames and Arthur part ways but not, Eames is grieved to say, on the best of terms and without having had sex even once.
Eames couldn’t avoid Arthur after that even if he wanted to, if he thought he could stand it away from him for longer than a stretch of a few months at a time. He rather suspects Arthur is trying, though, so it really is fortunate that there are so few forgers and so few excellent point men in the world.
And Arthur really is excellent, soon becomes the best. Eames never learns how he got into the business because Arthur is still the only person he’s ever met who can hide things from him well, though he surmises that Mal and Cobb were involved somehow. How stingy of them, then, to not share their shiny new point man with the class earlier.
But then Mal dies and Cobb goes off the bend for a while there. After the Fisher job, Eames knows he’s changed, though he doesn’t know if he’s grown or broken. He needs a fucking vacation, and Morocco does have that romantic appeal (Eames, purveyor of oldies and goodies, has always loved Casablanca.)
It’s in Morocco that Arthur finds him. “We need to talk,” he says, backed by the white-hot light framed by Eames’ doorway. “Ominous words,” Eames would ordinarily say, but he’s done playing games for the time being, so all he does is step aside and close the door behind Arthur.
It’s ridiculous how much it feels like they’re war buddies, a world of history between them. Eames gives himself three months where the closest he gets to a layer is layer cake, and then he knows the dreams will pull him back in again. He needs those three months, though. He wonders if Arthur feels the same.
“Eames,” Arthur says finally. “When did you start incepting?”
Well that’s not what he’d been expecting. When you disappeared, Eames doesn’t say. I slept but I never dreamed, and then I found out that there was this thing called PASIV that would make me, and I thought maybe if I could do that I could see you again. Funny how that turned out.
“Oh, you know.” He shrugs. “Spend time in enough unsavoury circles and eventually you hear things. I knew a guy.”
Arthur looks at him, tight-lipped, before nodding shortly. “And before then? What were your dreams like?”
Eames jolts. He doesn’t think Arthur’s telepathic, but then it is such an awkward topic to bring up. He’s just decided on a lie, something harmless, generic, when Arthur interrupts.
“Never mind. I think I can tell you. Although - god, stop me if I’m wrong.” He licks his lips, and for once Eames is too shocked to leer at him. “When I was young, I used to dream every night. They weren’t like ordinary dreams - I’ve had those since then - much more detailed, and I didn’t forget them in the morning.
“I used to meet a boy in those dreams. Fight with him. His name was Peter.”
Eames goes cold all over.
“When I was fifteen and dreaming he kissed me. It took me a long time to come to grips with the fact that I was okay with that. Too long. He was never in my dreams after that.
“Eames,” Arthur says, “Is your name Peter?”
“No.” And the word is already out before he can think about it, too soon to stop Arthur’s face from closing up and Jesus, how did he ever think he was hard to read? “But that’s what you always called me. Because when we first met, you thought I was Peter Pan, remember?” he continues desperately, words tripping over each other in a race to the door, to keep Arthur here, with him, where they can finally have this conversation.
There’s a stretch of stark African stucco between them with nothing in it but the sound of their harsh breathing as they stare at each other, full of wonder and disbelieving. Then Arthur throws his briefcase into the corner, which is fair because Eames hadn’t even realized he was still holding it and in the corner it can receive all the attention it deserves, which is none. See? It’s forgotten already because Arthur, beautiful, secretive Arthur who’s always been a little less than real to him has his hands on his face, his mouth on his, and suddenly he’s the realest thing Eames has ever encountered.
Arthur pulls back, gets distracted from what he wanted to say by Eames’ mouth, and starts biting at it again. “I’ve always,” he gasps between kisses, “wanted these lips. You have amazing lips.” Eames groans and shoves Arthur against the wall, holds him there with his entire body because he wants to feel all the places where they touch, and he wants all the places on their bodies to be touching. He’s willing to settle for just their fronts though, at least until they can get their hands on a PASIV device and create a body double. Arthur gasps and clenches his fingers at Eames’ neck, scratching tiger stripes into the stubble there and Eames has no choice but to grab his ass and pull his entire body upward, grinding down when Arthur snarls at him.
Sex with Arthur isn’t fantastic, it’s religious.
“Are we going to talk about this?” Eames says later, when they’ve both beat a strategic retreat to the bedroom, although by now it’s too late to do anything other than nurse their impressive rug burn. Eames has some on the inside of his thigh, which he is frankly refusing to think out until later. When he’s less blissed out.
Arthur raises his head blearily. “Really? You want to do the feelings thing? Do I need to check my token?” Eames using his finely honed fighting ability in an undignified tickle fight, albeit a very sexual one, and it’s a moment before he can gasp out, “I’ll have you know that I am very in touch with my feelings. I’m a forger. Feelings is what I do.”
“Yeah, other people’s feelings. You don’t like having to deal with your own,” Arthur shoots right back, which is so wonderful of him that Eames feels almost light-headed and has no choice but to kiss those words (lies, all lies) right out of Arthur’s mouth.
All things considered (it turns out they find a use for the bed other than temporary nursing station after all), it’s a while before Eames can broach the subject again. “But no, I’m serious,” he insists. “Why didn’t you just say you remembered me?”
Arthur gives him a very ironic look, somehow implying by tilt of eyebrow that he wants to beat Eames over the head with one of his ridiculously large designer shoes, were he not worried that doing so would kill more of Eames’ sparse brain cells than he can afford to lose. “I hope you remember that you’re not exactly blameless in that regard yourself.”
Eames sputters. “Well I’m sorry if I didn’t handle the sudden appearance of the teenage fantasy I was madly in love with with more poise!”
The look Arthur gives him implies the same thing as the earlier one, but somehow times two.
“ … Oh,” Eames says, feeling stupid.
“Quite.” After a moment, Arthur repeats, “’Madly in love with’?”
Eames groans and burrows his head in a pillow. “Oh god, shut up.”
He gets a glimpse of Arthur’s face before the pillow valiantly comes to his rescue from humiliation. He’s smiling like Eames hasn’t seen since they were kids, creases at his eyes and dimples at his mouth. (Arthur also has dimples on his ass, a fact Eames was extremely gratified to find out.) Eames thinks about his job, about the risks he’s going to have to take in a few months, how deep he’s going to be demanded to go now that he’s proven he can.
It’s okay. He’s been avoiding work because he knows, even if he doesn’t like to admit it, that he’s afraid of going too deep now, that one day he’ll be buried alive in a dream. Now, though, he knows Arthur in real life is incomparable to dream Arthur. He’ll shovel himself out with that knowledge, no matter how deep they try to bury him.
Eames smiles back into the pillowcase.
… WHAT IS WITH THE FLUFF AT THE END THERE, I FEEL LIKE I SHOULD BE ASHAMED.
Also anyone who wants to see Eames’ maroon suit, I can send you a link ;)