Tender, Part 3/3

[raise_a_glass]

Part 2

Eames had stayed until an orderly had showed up to move Arthur to his room. Alone with his thoughts, Arthur had let the seriousness of everything that had happened wash over him. It was unreal, really, thinking of what was to come. His whole life was going to change. It would be inevitable, after what they had planned. But, he realized, it needed to change.

He also took the opportunity to limp into the small bathroom attached to his room and check out the damage in the mirror. It was... bad. Angry bruises covered his face, ringed his throat. He felt another retroactive wave of shame that Ariadne had seen him like this, that Cobb had. Though Cobb had seen it before. Not from Eames, though. It had never been this bad before from Eames.

I love you, Eames had said. For the first time.

Arthur looked down at his hand, as if he could still feel the echo of Eames’ lips on his knuckles.

He’d never felt like this before.

Mark had said those words all the time.

Mark had also never needed to be drunk when he got angry. Anything could set him off, anytime. Not that that... excused Eames, really. Arthur knew that it didn’t. Somewhere deep down, he knew it.

But it was different. He knew that, too. Maybe... maybe because he believed that Eames loved him.

It was almost a revelation in and of itself. But he did. He believed that Eames loved him. He felt it.

He’d never believed it when Mark had said it. He’d never acknowledged the disbelief consciously, of course, but looking back now, he could admit it. And... he hadn’t loved Mark, either.

All the more reason, he knew, why they had to do as Ariadne had suggested. They had to... to save themselves. To save each other.

* * *

The next day, Eames had shown up first thing to bring Arthur home. It had been an uneasy night for both of them, Arthur was sure, as they’d each been pre-occupied with what was to come, and how they were going to go about it. But they were both, in a way, eager to do it as well. The hope of changing things, of making them better, was pushing them forward, through the fear and apprehension.

They sat at the kitchen table to discuss the logistics. Cobb had once told Arthur about how Ariadne had helped him come to terms with letting go of Mal, and about how one of the ways she’d done that was by invading his dream of his memories of her. He suggested to Eames that they follow the same model that Cobb had had: an elevator with different relevant memories on each ‘floor’. It seemed the most straight-forward. Eames agreed. He also insisted on going first. He said it was only fair, after everything he’d done to Arthur, that he be the one to take the initial plunge. Arthur, still nervous despite the hope and determination he was feeling, couldn’t find it in himself to argue. They also agreed that they shouldn’t rush into it. They would take a couple of days to plan, to select the memories that would be the most revealing, the most telling.

And so the next couple of days passed almost in a blur, each of them wrapped deep in their own thoughts. But it already felt like something vital had changed, that some critical shift had already occurred in their relationship. Arthur felt more at ease, more at home with Eames than he ever had before. Their willingness to put themselves through this undertaking for each other had already changed things, Arthur could feel it. The temptation was there, he knew, to leave it at that. To trust that that would be enough. But... they could also both feel that real, lasting change would only come if they followed through. Neither of them suggested chickening out. Because that’s what it would have been, if they’d opted not to do it. Chickening out. And neither one of them were cowards.

Arthur called Ariadne and told her what they were doing. He suspected that Eames had done the same. She was too graceful to be smug about it, but she made no secret of how happy she was that they were doing it. She even offered to be there, should they want someone to be a mediator, of sorts. Not to share the dreams themselves, of course, but to help them talk through it afterwards. Arthur had honestly felt tempted, but in the end he knew they had to deal with this with each other. Ariadne had agreed to that easily enough, but had also promised to keep her phone close that day, should they need anything.

He also called Saito to thank him for the private room, though of course he could have paid for one himself, and Yusuf, to assure him he was okay. Ariadne had made him feel guilty for having closed himself off from the others like he had. But... he wasn’t used to the idea of having... having people that could be called friends, rather than just colleagues. And that’s what they were, he was coming to realize. Friends.

Cobb was more... complicated. Cobb was his friend, of course, and had been for years. But he didn’t know if either of them would have actually called it friendship, would have admitted to it, before now. He and Eames were hardly the only people who had issues to deal with.

He didn’t call Cobb, not quite ready to deal with him, but he did send him an e-mail, explaining to him what Ariadne had suggested and what they planned to do. He didn’t plan to check for a reply until after they were done.

When they were ready, or at least as close to it as they were ever going to get, they settled down on their bed, the PASIV nestled between them. Arthur took a deep breath, scared of what he was going to see, but... but eager, too, to gain more insight into Eames, into the man he loved. Eames looked at him, linking their hands together, the PASIV IVs dangling from their wrists. Arthur could only imagine how nervous he must be feeling. It would be his turn soon enough. Eames smiled, but Arthur could see the uncertainty beneath it.

“Ready, darling?” Eames asked. Arthur nodded and Eames pressed the button, sending them under.

Arthur opened his eyes and he was standing in an elevator, Eames standing next to him, their hands still linked. The doors opened and they stepped out.

Arthur immediately recognized the setting of Eames’ photograph. The young family. Christmas Eve. The two of them stayed in the background, watching the scene unfold. A man Arthur didn’t recognized snapped a picture and then lowered the camera, laughing. The woman on the couch stood up.

“Okay, okay, come on, let’s have dinner now,” she laughed. Her husband stood up as well, shooting her a dirty look, though he’d looked happy enough a moment ago.

“Yeah, whatever,” he muttered, as the two children stood up, moving towards the dining room, though they both looked back at their parents uncertainly. Eames’ mother looked back at the man with the camera, smiling brightly.

“I made the yams how you like them, George, with the marshmallows on them,” she said.

“Why, thank you, Evelyn. You always spoil me,” the man, who Arthur assumed must be the uncle Eames had mentioned, replied with a grin.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Eames’ father sneered, moving over to a liquor cabinet and taking out a bottle of whiskey, and then retrieving a glass from the coffee table that had been pushed out of the way for the picture. Arthur saw that there was already an empty bottle on the table, and easily recognized the unsteadiness of the man’s movements. He was drunk.

“Like father, like son,” Eames said bitterly. Arthur squeezed his hand.

They followed everyone into the kitchen, where Eames’ mother set about bringing all of the food and dishes to the table, while his father refilled his glass, and also poured one for his wife. Arthur shot a sideways glance at Eames.

“Yup, her, too,” he said tightly. “Both of them were heavy drinkers... for as long as I can remember.” Arthur nodded in acknowledgement. They watched quietly as the family began eating. Every time Eames’ mother spoke to his uncle, his father’s face got darker, his own contributions to the conversation growing shorter and more clipped. And both of their glasses were emptied and refilled at a rate that was almost alarming. The children could obviously sense the tension in air. They both ate quietly, shooting their father furtive, frightened glances.

“Alright, that’s it!” Eames’ father suddenly roared, slamming his fist down on the table. Arthur flinched at the sudden violence, and he saw the children do the same. “If you’re going to fuck my brother, the least you can do is not flirt with him right in front of me! Fucking whore!”

“What are you talking about? Of course I’m not fucking him! And I’m not flirting, I’m just being friendly!” Eames’ mother yelled back. The children cringed down in their seats, looking for all the world like they wanted to slip down and hide under the table. Arthur’s heart broke at the fear evident on their faces, on young Eames’ face. Eames’ father rose to his feet, his legs banging the table and causing some silverware to fall to the floor.

“I’m not blind or stupid! I can see what’s going on right in front of my face you slut!” he yelled. Eames’ uncle rose to his feet as well, scowling.

“Look, I don’t know what you think is going on here, but I think it’s for the best if I just go. Thank you for a lovely dinner, Evelyn,” he said.

“Oh, George, you don’t have to go! He’s just being an asshole,” she said, glaring daggers at Eames’ father.

“No, I think that’s a great idea. Get the fuck out of here and don’t come back! Just because she’s a slut who’ll spread her legs for anyone doesn’t mean you aren’t to blame, too, fucking your own brother’s wife!” Eames’ father yelled.

Arthur blinked in shock. The words echoed ones he’d heard from Eames time and time again. Who knew how many times Eames had had to listen to his father scream them at his mother while he was growing up? He’d never given Eames cause to think he was unfaithful to him... but if he’d learned to be so distrusting, and to be so vicious in that distrust, from his father, well, that certainly put a new perspective on it.

“Fuck you,” Eames’ uncle snarled before storming out of the room. A moment later the sound of a door slamming reverberated through the house.

“Are you happy now?” Eames’ mother hissed, before drinking deeply from her glass. Her face was flushed with anger and drunkenness. “You drove your own brother away. Fucking asshole.” Eames’ father advanced on her with terrifying speed, knocking the glass from her hand before punching her in the face, knocking her to the floor. The children cried out, scrambling from their seats to go cower against the wall, huddled together. Arthur felt his stomach turn over as he watched the children watch their father beat their mother into a bloody pulp on the kichen floor, her screams and cries mixing sickeningly with the sound of flesh impacting flesh. He had to turn away.

Eames was watching the scene unfold as if transfixed, his face drawn and pale. Arthur reached a hand up to turn his face towards him until their gaze met. Eames’ eyes were red and shining.

“Jesus, Eames,” Arthur muttered. He pulled him into a fierce hug. “Are we finished here?” He felt Eames nod against his shoulder and they wordlessly drew apart and headed back towards the waiting doors of the elevator. Eames pressed the button for the next floor and when the doors parted, Arthur saw the same living room again, though it looked a bit different. No Christmas decorations, for one thing. And the young Eames sitting on the couch watching TV was a few years older, maybe fourteen or fifteen. As they watched, Eames’ mother emerged from the kitchen, a glass of whiskey in her hand and wavering a little on her feet. Young Eames scowled a little at her appearance.

“Now, honey, don’t forget, if daddy asks, I was home all day, right?” she slurred. Young Eames shot her a dirty look.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want to get pulled into your mess. And I don’t like lying to Dad,” he said crossly.

“Aww, don’t be like that, baby. Do it for me? It’ll be the last time, I promise!” she said, pouting.

“That’s what you said last time,” young Eames snapped. “If you want to go running around with Uncle George, find someone else to cover for you!”

“What was that?” a new voice asked. Mother and son both froze, eyes widening. She turned to look, and Eames’ father was standing in the doorway, face smudged with dirt and a lunchpail in one hand. Arthur guessed he was returning from work. Though the glassiness in his eyes suggested that he’d made a stop at a pub along the way.

“N-nothing, honey,” Eames’ mother said, smiling nervously. She drank from her glass.

“Don’t fucking ‘nothing’ me, you stupid bitch! I heard what he said! You saw George today, didn’t you? Fucking whore!” Eames’ father screamed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she yelled, suddenly looking more angry than afraid. “And you’re one to talk, anyway! I saw you with Sylvia last week!”

“Fuck you, that’s none of your business!” Eames’ father yelled, advancing on her. A vicious punch to her stomach had her doubling over, her glass dropping to the floor, splashing whiskey over the carpet. She screamed as he followed that with a knee to the face, driving her to the floor. He proceeded to kick at her as she pleaded for him to stop, screaming obscenities at her the whole time. Young Eames jumped up from the couch, looking at them helplessly for a moment, his face stricken, before he fled the room.

Arthur turned to Eames. If anything, he’d grown even more pale. He grabbed Arthur’s hand and pulled him back towards the elevator.

“She was having an affair?” Arthur ventured. Eames nodded sharply.

“Her and him, both. They were always cheating on each other,” he said tightly. Arthur nodded thoughtfully. Growing up with such a model, it would only be natural for Eames to assume his partner would be cheating on him.

“We... we can stop. I think I’ve seen enough,” he offered quietly, but Eames shook his head, grim determination on his face.

“All or nothing, right, love?” he said.

When the elevator doors opened again they stepped out into a pub. Most of the patrons were older, working-class blokes, grim-faced as they tossed back their drinks, conversation at a minimum. Eames led him over towards the bar and Arthur spotted young Eames, now around eighteen, seated there with his father.

“Another round over here!” Eames’ father called to the bartender before turning back to his son. His face was flushed with drunkenness and there was a flush in young Eames’ face as well. Arthur wondered how long they’d been there drinking together. The bartender set down shots of whiskey in front of them. Eames’ father raised the glass as if offering a toast.

“Here’s to being young and single, son. That bitch wasn’t good enough for you anyway,” he said. Young Eames returned the toast and they both threw back their drinks.

“I just can’t believe she cheated on me like that, Dad. I trusted her,” young Eames said, his voice slurred.

“Well, that was your first mistake. Don’t ever trust a woman. Fucking heartless whores, all of them,” his father sneered.

“But I thought she was different!” young Eames said.

“They’re all the same!” his father barked, slamming a hand down on the bar. A few people looked their way but apparently it wasn’t too unusual because they turned back to their own business quickly enough. “They’ll try to fool you, sure, but they’re all the fucking same. Slutty fucking whores, just like your mother.” He signaled the bartender again, who brought them fresh shots. “It’s just too bad you didn’t teach her a fucking lesson, like she deserved,” he growled. Young Eames shot his father a look.

“I couldn’t do that, Dad. I loved her...,” he said. His father sneered in response.

“You’re a man, aren’t you? Maybe if you’d shown her who was boss right from the start she would have behaved herself a bit better.”

“I don’t know....”

“Trust me, they’re going to fucking screw you over no matter what, the least you can do is make them suffer for it a bit....”

Arthur turned to Eames, his eyebrows raised.

“Is he seriously encouraging you to... to beat your girlfriend?” he asked. Eames nodded grimly.

“Shelley Baxter. My first serious girlfriend. She cheated on me with one of her exes,” he said. Which would have done wonders cementing his trust issues, Arthur thought wryly. And then his father had told him he should have beat her to keep her in line, while also teaching him to drown his sorrows in alcohol. He shook his head. So many things were slotting into place. “One more stop,” Eames sighed, leading Arthur back to the elevator.

The doors opened up on a modest flat, and they walked out into the middle of an argument between young Eames, another couple of years older, and a young woman with blonde hair.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Jeremy and I are just friends!” she was yelling.

“Like fuck you are, I’m not blind!” young Eames screamed. “I saw you flirting with him, you slut!”

“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this!” she seethed, stalking towards the door. “You’re drunk and you’re being an asshole. I’ll come back when you’re ready to act like a reasonable human being!”

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, you bitch?” young Eames yelled, reaching out to grab her arm and yank her backwards. She cried out and almost fell.

“You’re hurting me!” she yelled.

“Good!” young Eames shouted, before slapping her across the face, hard enough to split her lip. They stood frozen for a moment, staring at each other in shock. “Fuck,” young Eames breathed. “Fuck, Mary, I’m sorry....” She yanked away from him and he let her go.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said icily. “We’re through.” She stormed out of the flat. Young Eames stood quietly for a moment, staring after her, before stalking into the kitchen and returning with a bottle of whiskey. He sat down on the couch and started drinking, staring off into space.

“That was the first time I hit somebody I was dating,” Eames said quietly. “I... couldn’t believe it had happened. I lost control because I was angry and paranoid and drunk, and what did I do? I drank some more,” he continued bitterly. “And the more I drank... the more often it happened. The more often it happened... the more I drank. Vicious cycle, as they say.” He took an unsteady breath, rubbing wearily at his face. “The last thing I had ever wanted was to be like him. And I turned out exactly like him.”

Arthur shook his head vehemently.

“The very fact that you felt guilty about it proves that you’re not like him, Eames,” he said. “The fact that you’re willing to do this proves it, too. He may have taught you a lot of bad habits, but you’re nothing like him.” Eames shot him a look out of the corner of his eye.

“I think... I think that if this is going to work, then I have to accept that I am like him, in some ways. Trying to deny it all these years hasn’t exactly gone well,” he said dryly. Arthur scowled, but couldn’t deny that Eames had a point. “I need to accept the flaws that I got from him, from both of them. And... and I need to cut back on the drinking.” He nodded firmly to himself. “If I don’t have that fuelling the anger and the jealous paranoia, it’ll be a lot easier to deal with it.” He glanced down at his watch before looking at Arthur with a relieved smile. “Time’s up.”

Arthur blinked awake, lying on their bed. He looked at Eames as the other man sat up.

“Well, that was pretty excruciating,” Eames laughed, rubbing his face. “But... enlightening for you, I hope.”

“Definitely,” Arthur said. “I’m... I’m sorry you had to go through that growing up. I can’t imagine what it must have been like.”

“The past is the past,” Eames said firmly. “And I’m not going to let it control me anymore. That’s the point of all this, isn’t it?” Arthur nodded. “Your turn, now. Do you want to take a break first?” Arthur took a deep breath, steeling himself.

“No. Let’s get this done,” he said. Eames nodded. He made the necessary adjustments to the PASIV and then lied back down. A press of the button and they were under again.

* * *

The elevator doors opened onto a meticulously clean and elegant dining room, where a man, a woman, and a young boy of about eleven or twelve that Eames recognized as Arthur were sitting eating a meal. The atmosphere was... oppressive. They ate in silence, barely acknowledging each other’s presence, until the woman turned to the boy.

“Did you get your history assignment back today?” she asked, her voice cold. Young Arthur started a bit in surprise and she frowned disapprovingly.

“Yes, Mother. I got a 95,” he replied. Her frown deepened.

“Only a 95? What happened to the other 5 marks?” she demanded. Eames raised his eyebrows.

“I... I don’t know...,” young Arthur replied, clearly uncomfortable.

“Don’t stammer, it’s so unbecoming,” she snapped, reaching out to slap his face. Eames flinched.

“Yes, Mother. I’m sorry,” young Arthur replied, looking down at his plate. His cheek was a vivid red.

“Did you have the highest mark in the class?” Arthur’s father asked, speaking up for the first time. Young Arthur seemed to try to sink down into his seat.

“No, Father. Two people got higher marks than I did,” he replied quietly. Arthur’s father shook his head.

“And why’s that?” he asked.

“Because I didn’t try hard enough,” young Arthur replied, clearly reciting an expected response.

“That’s right,” his father said. “I won’t have a useless idiot for a son. You’d better get your act together.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stop slouching,” Arthur’s mother hissed, reaching out to yank harshly on his arm until he was sitting up straight. “No better than a barnyard animal. You’re hopeless. What did I ever do to deserve you?” she complained bitterly. “You can forget about having dessert tonight. Or breakfast tomorrow, either. Useless wastes of space like you don’t deserve it. God.”

“I’m sorry, Mother. I’ll try harder.”

“Lot of good it’ll do you. You can’t ever do anything right. Completely useless.” She shook her head, turning her attention back to her food.

Arthur turned to head back to the elevator without a word, his body radiating tension. Eames trailed behind him.

“They always like that?” Eames asked once they were back inside, his eyes wide. He could barely believe what he’d just witnessed. “So... disapproving?”

“Yes,” Arthur said. He took a deep, shaky breath. “They... never wanted children. I was an accident. And I guess they figured that if they were going to be stuck with a child anyway, the least that child could do was be perfect. Nothing... nothing I did was ever good enough, though.” He smiled bitterly. “Not for lack of effort on my part.” Eames nodded, drawing the obvious conclusions. Arthur had always been one of the most fastidious people he’d ever known, something he’d often teased him about. His perfectionism had suddenly taken on a new, more sinister light.

The elevator doors opened onto a kitchen next, just as elegant and meticulously kept as the dining room had been. Young Arthur, now a young teenager, stood by the counter, a makeshift icepack held against his eye. Eames glanced at Arthur, the question unspoken.

“My father hit me,” Arthur said. “I... can’t even remember why. Some grade wasn’t good enough, probably.” He shrugged, and Eames frowned at his casual acceptance of being the recipient of violence. And then shook his head at how much of a hypocrite he was. But Arthur had learned from such a young age that being hit was normal. It made so much more sense that he’d put up with so much from Eames. He grimaced.

A man in his late fifties or early sixties came into the kitchen, causing young Arthur to jump in surprise and nearly drop the icepack.

“There you are. I was getting worried that you’d forgotten our appointment. Hey... what happened?” the man said, frowning.

“Nothing,” young Arthur said, too quickly. The man clucked his tongue sympathetically, moving forward to take the icepack and inspect the developing bruise.

“What was it this time?” the man asked, gently pressing the icepack back against young Arthur’s eye, one hand on his shoulder, holding him steady. There was... something about the way he was touching him that Eames didn’t like.

“It doesn’t matter,” young Arthur said, deflating a bit. “I deserved it.” Eames flinched at the flatness in his voice.

“Now, now, I’m sure that’s not true,” the man said reassuringly. “C’mon, we’re already late on starting our session. I have some math problems with your name on them.” He steered young Arthur out to the dining room, where some textbooks and papers were neatly laid out. Eames and Arthur followed.

“Tutor?” Eames asked. Arthur nodded.

“Mr. Clark. He was a retired teacher who lived in our neighbourhood. One of my parents’ efforts to get my grades perfect, since I couldn’t manage to do it on my own,” Arthur replied. He looked skittish as they watched his younger self and the tutor seat themselves at the table, the tutor pulling his chair way too close for Eames’ liking.

He had a bad feeling about where this was going.

They watched as the tutoring session proceeded, Eames feeling more and more ill as he watched Mr. Clark touch young Arthur at every opportunity, putting his hand on his shoulder, brushing a bit of hair out of his eyes, even rubbing his thigh as he gave him an encouraging comment. And he watched young Arthur beam and soak up the attention as if he was starving for it. Which he would have been, Eames realized. His heart jumped up in his throat when Mr. Clark actually brushed his lips against young Arthur’s ear. Young Arthur flushed, drawing away and staring at the man in confusion.

“You’re a very handsome boy, you know,” Mr. Clark said softly, running his fingers through young Arthur’s hair. Eames fists clenched at his sides.

“What?” young Arthur asked uncertainly. Mr. Clark smiled at him. Eames wanted to punch his teeth in. He realized suddenly that the man bore a bit of a resemblance to Jeremy Sutton, their mark in the London job. He felt even sicker.

“You’re so sweet, you don’t even know it,” Mr. Clark laughed. “You... you like me, right?” Young Arthur nodded quickly. “Well, I like you, too. And there are things that two people who like each other can do to prove that they like each other. Your parents went out for the evening, right?”

“Um, yeah,” young Arthur replied, clearly confused. Eames had to reach out and grab his Arthur’s hand. Arthur squeezed back, but wouldn’t look at him, apparently transfixed by the scene playing out before them. Eames wanted to tell him that they could stop, that he had seen enough, but... but maybe Arthur needed to get it out. He wondered suddenly if he’d ever told anyone else, if he was the first.

“Good, good,” Mr. Clark breathed. “I’m going to teach you, okay?” Young Arthur nodded, obviously eager to please what was probably the only person in his life who showed him approval. Eames felt sick. “First, I want you to get down on your knees....”

Eames fought not to be ill as they watched the rest of the scene unfold. He kept an iron grip on Arthur’s hand the whole time.

Back in the elevator, Eames watched as Arthur rubbed his face and took several deep, shaky breaths.

“It started when I was fourteen, and continued for the full two years that he was my tutor,” he said. “He was... my first. I never... really understood why he wanted me, when my parents had no use for me. I just knew that I was glad that somebody did. So... I did whatever he wanted. Even if it hurt. Even if it made me feel... dirty. I didn’t want him to stop liking me.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Eames said. “You were so young. And the way your parents treated you... you were vulnerable. He was a bastard for taking advantage of you. Damn, if I could get my hands on him,” he fumed. Arthur chuckled humourlessly.

“You can’t. I heard that he committed suicide when I was in university.” Knowing he was dead didn’t make Eames feel any better.

“You have to know it wasn’t your fault,” Eames said. Arthur took another deep breath.

“Yeah, in my head I know that. Just like how in my head, I know that my feelings about... about sex are kind of messed up, largely thanks to him. But as I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, knowing and feeling and being able to do something about it are all different things.” He turned to look at Eames full on for the first time since Mr. Clark had shown up. He looked shaken, but determined. “Nobody else knows about him. Not Cobb or anyone else. I... I actually kind of feel like a weight’s been lifted off my chest.” He smiled shakily, reaching out to take Eames’ hand. “I just have one more to show you.” Eames pulled Arthur to him, enveloping him in a fierce embrace. Arthur had learned at such a young age to accept pain from the important people in his life, to take it as the price he needed to pay for their approval, for their love. He felt sickened at the role he had played in perpetuating it.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Arthur. I never even imagined...,” he said quietly. Arthur nodded against his shoulder, clinging to him for a moment before pulling away.

“One more,” he said again.

The elevator doors opened onto a small bedroom. A younger Arthur, though not that much younger than the one standing next to Eames, was stiffly pulling the sheets from the bed. His face was badly battered, Eames realized, his stomach lurching, though he’d cleaned himself up a bit. And there was blood on the sheets.

Another man appeared and stood in the doorway for a moment, watching with a smirk on his lips. He was a bit older, probably in his early thirties. Eames disliked him on sight.

“Why don’t you leave that for later? I want to go out for dinner,” the man said. Younger Arthur tensed noticeably but continued his task.

“I’d rather get it taken care of,” he replied. “I... I don’t want to sleep on these tonight.”

“Why not?” the man asked, amused. Younger Arthur shot him a sideways glance, his mouth a thin line.

“They’re... dirty,” he said. The man laughed, walking further into the room.

“Well, if you hadn’t made such a fuss, they wouldn’t have gotten dirty,” he said.

“I know,” younger Arthur said. Eames frowned.

“I know you wanted it, anyway, so I don’t know why you felt the need to make a fuss,” the man continued. He snaked his arms around younger Arthur’s hips. Arthur stiffened, pausing in his movements. “You always want it. Such a little whore,” the man whispered, his lips ghosting along the back of Arthur’s neck. His hands dipped down to rub at the front of his pants. Younger Arthur dropped the sheets he was holding, his hands falling down to cover the other man’s.

“Mark...,” he said. Of course, Eames thought. “I... I thought you wanted to go out for dinner.”

“That was before you were tempting me with your luscious body,” the man, Mark, laughed.

“I... I think we should go. I can finish this later, like you said,” younger Arthur said, his eyes going towards the door, towards escape. Mark’s grip tightened until he winced.

“What?” Mark said, his voice low. Deadly. Eames grit his teeth, glancing to the side at his Arthur, who was watching with an unreadable expression on his face.

“It’s just... I’m still kind of... of sore....,” younger Arthur said. Eames had never heard him sound so uncertain. So young. Mark spun him around to face him, holding his arms tightly.

“Do I have to teach you a lesson again, so soon?” Mark asked. Younger Arthur shook his head.

“No, of course not!” he said, but Mark was shaking his head at him, unimpressed. He shoved Arthur back at the bed. He stumbled a bit and then sat down hard on the bare mattress. Mark started to un-button his belt and younger Arthur’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Oh, I think I do. You clearly haven’t learned anything,” Mark bit out, anger darkening his features. He pulled his belt free and Eames expected him to drop it to the floor and continue undressing, but his eyes widened when he saw the man fold it over in his hand instead.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

“Mark... don’t...,” younger Arthur said, shaking his head in denial, his eyes transfixed on the belt.

“You brought this on yourself, you stupid slut,” Mark said, advancing on him, the belt raised in the air.

Eames had to look away as Mark beat the younger Arthur with a viciousness he could barely wrap his mind around. Even the sound of it was sickening, the heavy slap of the leather on skin, Arthur’s cries of pain that gave way to desperate whimpers as it went on and on and on, Mark’s grunts of exertion. He looked at his own Arthur, who was watching it all unfold with hooded eyes, to reassure himself that it wasn’t real, that it wasn’t actually happening.

But it had happened. This had actually happened to Arthur.

A mocking voice in the back of his head wondered if it really was that much worse than some of what he had done to Arthur.

Never again, he vowed to himself.

Finally, it stopped. Or at least, Eames thought it did.

He was wrong.

Mark tossed the blood-streaked belt aside and leaned down to fist his hand in younger Arthur’s hair, pulling him up. Arthur was limp, practically insensible, his body shaking and covered in bloody welts. Mark pulled him until he slipped from the mattress down to his knees on the floor. And then his hand did go for his zipper.

Eames cringed inwardly as he watched Mark force his cock down younger Arthur’s throat. He fucked his face almost as brutally as he’d beat him, Arthur’s body pinned between him and the mattress. When he was done he stepped back, finally letting Arthur slump down to the ground. He looked down at him almost like one would a particularly interesting science specimen.

“Now, you’ll know better next time, right, baby?” he asked. With obvious effort, younger Arthur nodded his head from where he was huddled on the floor. Mark sighed, examining the blood on the mattress, on the carpet, on Arthur. “Look at this mess. Why do you make me do this? Clean this up. And clean yourself up, you look disgusting.” And with that he was gone.

Eames turned to his Arthur, his heart in his throat. Arthur met his gaze evenly before turning back to watch his younger self struggle to pull himself to his feet and limp from the room.

“I ended up vomiting and passing out in the shower,” he said. “So Mark called an ambulance. I was in the hospital for four days. When I got out, Mark and all his things were gone from our apartment.” He glanced at Eames, a wry smile twisting his lips. “Cobb and his Glock put the fear of God into him.” Eames couldn’t help a bark of laughter that was maybe a little hysterical.

“Seriously?” he asked.

“Seriously,” Arthur said. “If he hadn’t done that... I don’t know if I ever would have left him,” he added quietly. “I... I really believed him. Believed that I deserved it.”

“You don’t,” Eames said fiercely. “Arthur, love, you don’t ever deserve to be hurt like that. I’m... I’m so sorry for every time that it was me who did that to you. And not just the... the times that I hit you, but when... when I raped you. You... you know it was rape, right, Arthur?” He knew that all the damage done by Mr. Clark must have been re-enforced by Mark, making Arthur believe he had no right to refuse sex to his partner. Arthur frowned a little, staring at the bloody mattress, apparently struggling with something in his mind. Then he turned to Eames with a determined look.

“Yeah... yeah, I know it was,” he said evenly.

“And it’s never going to happen again, I swear to you, Arthur,” Eames said. A small smile appeared on Arthur’s lips.

“I know that, too,” Arthur said.

And then they woke up.

* * *

For a long time they sat on the bed, pillows nestled behind their backs, hands linked between them.

“So what now?” Eames finally asked.

“I... don’t really know,” Arthur admitted. Right then he didn’t really want to think of anything beyond that moment. But he knew they had to. “I guess we should talk more. Just... knowing these things about each other isn’t going to magically make the problems disappear. But we have a point to start from now. I... I understand more about why you do the things you do, and I hope you can say the same for me.” Eames nodded. He pulled Arthur’s hand up to his mouth, kissing his knuckles like he had in the hospital. Arthur smiled, warmth spreading in his chest.

“We’re going to make this work, love,” Eames said. “Neither one of us is going to let our pasts control us anymore. We can help each other.” Arthur nodded. Eames let out a content sigh. “Well, I guess we should call Ariadne, let her know that we’re okay. She’s probably glued to her phone.” Arthur chuckled in agreement.

“You call Ariadne. I’m going to call Cobb,” he said. Eames raised his eyebrows. “Don’t worry, I’m going to make sure he knows there’s no need for him and his Glock to put the fear of God in you,” he said lightly. Eames sniffed.

“I’m not afraid of Cobb,” he said airily.

“Of course not,” Arthur agreed with a smile. Eames rolled his eyes. “But seriously. I think... I think maybe I can make him understand now. Because now I understand, at least a little.” Eames nodded. He kissed Arthur’s knuckles one more time before letting go, but instead of pulling away he only leaned in closer, his lips meeting Arthur’s in a tender, lingering kiss that quickened Arthur’s pulse and stole the breath from his lungs.

“I love you,” Eames murmured against his skin. Arthur leaned his head against Eames’, breathing in his scent.

Things weren’t perfect, but they were better. And there was every reason to believe that they would keep getting better.

He was... happy. And he believed that Eames was happy, too.

“I love you, too.”