fiction: tonight, tonight
( tonight, tonight ) pg-13, ~4200 words, Arthur/Cobb
warnings: implied character death, semi-dark, a lot of really long run on sentences
For one reason or another, Cobb believes that Arthur has died in reality. He goes more than a little crazy believing this.
Written for this prompt from inception_kink ! Beta'd by the lovely plingo_kat who is the only person apart from me who knows of the other way this ends, mainly because she started the idea and I latched on to it like a dark horse. <3
The pain seizes his chest. It’s like a hand grasping blindly around in there, leaving destruction in its wake and Cobb finds it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to do anything but feel. It’s like physically losing a body part; the pain is so wretched that trying to do anything else, trying to focus on anything other than the enormity of the pain is near impossible.
A hand tries to pull him back to the world, tries to calm him down, the palm smoothing down his back and a voice speaks to him in low volumes- he can discern that it’s Eames in the lilt he uses, but he can’t make out any of the words, he can’t fucking hear it, can’t fucking understand anything going on but the raw pain inside of him, threatening to boil over.
He clenches his eyes shut, trying to keep out everything but all it does is knock him off kilter; the world feels as though it’s crumbling beneath his feet, his balance thrown off, equilibrium disturbed and his knees give out from underneath the weight of his agony. He sways, stumbling, arm held out to find some stability, a wall, a chair, a person- Arthur, provides his mind, slotting in the correct word- but a more solid figure slips into the empty space by his side, a built arm wrapping around his waist, full lips against the shell of his ear murmuring non-distinct words again. He still can’t comprehend them; they’re just all syllables, phonetics.
He feels more than hears himself cry out, because he can’t keep it in anymore, and it’s a terrible sound that reverberates off the walls, like an earthquake.
The arm around him pulls away to lead him gently down from vertical to horizontal, as if that will somehow relieve him. Fingers start carding through his hair in an attempt to soothe but he flinches heavily under the tender gesture until it stops and he gasps, suddenly guilty on top of the burning pain. He wants to thank Eames for being such a friend, show his appreciation but all he can do is grip violently at the man’s bicep, gasping breaths in and out.
It’s horrifying to realise that this pain is the worst he’s felt, even more intense than he last time he lost someone, lost his wife, lost Mal- oh God, Mal. He remembers sitting on that window ledge for hours on hours, clutching at the frame in panic, screaming and crying in his loss, looking down at the tiny, tiny splatter of his beautiful wife’s mangled body until the red and blue lights arrived to remove it and he’s shouting down at them, voice echoing through the city landscape, to get the fuck away from her, not to touch her because she’s his wife, he’s beautiful Mallorie, oh Christ.
Then there are forceful hands grabbing his arms, pulling him back through the window and he struggled as best he could, fighting it before a voice told him to stop it, calming and reassuring, and through that white hot pain in his heart, he realised that that voice belonged to- oh.
It belonged to Arthur.
He howls again, lurching off the horizontal surface Eames had gingerly placed him on, hand clutching at his own throat, nails biting into the skin as he keeps screaming. Maybe if he keeps going, releases everything from his mouth, he won’t hurt anymore and oh fuck, oh Christ.
All he can think of is Arthur. Behind closed eyes he can see himself talking, making a joke that makes his point man’s lips curl up in the corners, trying hard not to smile outright and he remembers thinking that it was adorable how professional Arthur always tries to be, even when it’s just the two of them. He sees his hands move, remembers that he’s moving to pull Arthur into a kiss, maybe slide his fingers through slick, dark hair but Arthur’s expression morphs from amused into surprised and panicked, and it’s all slow motion from then on in his mind, though it was only a good four seconds.
Arthur puts his hands up first before he could, looking as if he was going in for the kiss but they collide with his shoulders, pushing him with enough force that he stumbles back cleanly, knees buckling, back hitting the floor as the sound of shattered glass resonates through the empty structure, burying a bullet right into Arthur’s temple, blood splattering out the other side like a myriad of red crystals, each one sparkling like something precious and Eames is shouting at him, running like wildfire, sticking close to the ground. His fingers check Arthur’s pulse points quickly, neck then wrist as if in case but Cobb doesn’t need to watch the farce because the look on Eames’ face is already decided and they both know what Arthur is now.
He shouts, screams, oh Christ and Arthur, Arthur, trying to get up, scrambling to get closer, back to him but Eames gets to him first, fitting an arm around him, pulling away from the bullets raining after them, shot after shot, bits of concrete and it’s debris flying into the air as it bites into the ground, but all he can see is Arthur’s body lying there, blood pooling beneath his head and he shouts again, cries out.
Fingers pry at his hands, pulling them away from clawing at his own neck, choking himself but the pain feels so physical, like if he tried hard enough, he could get to it and get it out but Eames is shouting at him now, soothing tones like a morning breeze turned into raging winds, cutting into his consciousness. Hands are squeezing his shoulders, pushing him back down, and he opens his eyes, vision all out of focus because tears are still there, streaking his face and he just can’t stop screaming. He can’t.
The hands move from his shoulders, up, cupping his face gently, fingertips fitting under his jaw and lips press against his, swallowing down his agony and it surprises him. He freezes, eyes going wider until all the tears leave and his vision clears enough to see Eames’ blue eyes stare down intently into his. He watches the other man pull away, lips moving, saying something and he shakes his head, he still can’t hear it all too well and Eames looks at him sadly, eyes glancing down.
Before he can follow the gaze, he feels a prick in his arm, not his wrist, but the hollow of his elbow. A hand comes up to rest over his eyes, world blacking out, and Eames leans close, whispering words into his ear, each one sounding like numbers; five, four, three- he blacks out completely.
When he wakes up, his mind is clear.
He sits up to find that he’s in his hotel bedroom with its creamy yellow walls and caramel sheets with gold threads. He’s still dressed, save for his shoes, bare feet staring at him innocently.
Its blue black outside like a new bruise and the only lighting is from the silver moon. He feels a little off-kilter, like everything’s too normal, like he’s forgotten something important and he prods at his mind just a tiny bit before the floodgates open and he remembers everything.
Oh Christ.
Cobb feels his chest tighten, his breaths starting to get laboured, he can feel himself going into a panic attack. He checks his wrist for any sign of a hole, a prick of the needle attached to an IV line but finds nothing. He reaches into his pocket for his totem, the little brass top, and turns to his nightstand for a flat surface to spin it on.
He watches it with intensity, watches it spin on the polished, wooden surface, breath held as it spins and spins, wobbling before coming to a spiral stop. His breath leaves him in a cry and with rage, he pushes everything off the surface for another chance. He twists the goddamn thing again because this can’t be happening, no, no, no.
The top falls and falls again, no matter how many times he twists it and he throws it away, across the room, it’s useless to him now. What he needs is a die, a particular die, a red loaded die that he knows rolls twos every time.
He screams at the room, listens to it rebound off the walls and curls up in the bed, sheets tangling with his body as he sobs into the pillow, alternating between chokes and shouts. He can’t keep living like this, just can’t keep living when all the ones he ever loves are dying, falling like little chess pieces in this game of life.
An idea springs into his head, small but big, and he goes to his nightstand, opening up the second draw to find his beloved Beretta, a dark knight in shining armour. Just because it doesn’t seem like a dream, doesn’t mean he can’t be in one.
What if Mal was right, what if he really is dreaming? What if she is waiting for him and Arthur too? Waiting in reality for him to kill himself, to wake up already?
What if the answer really is death?
He shakily holds the gun to his head, feels the cool barrel kiss his temple and lets out a shaky breath, finger flexing on the trigger.
There’s a thump outside of his room, in the living room, and then he remembers that he’s staying in a suite, and who else does he share suites with but Arthur? He scrambles off the bed, tripping and falling from the tangle of sheets, but the gun is still held tightly in his hand as he opens the door.
A figure stands to the side in the dark, turning to him and Cobb holds his gun up, aiming for a kill shot.
“Arthur?” he rasps, voice raw, and the figure steps into the light, shaking his head.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, boss,” says Eames, looking worse for wear. He’s still dressed, but he’s clothes are all rumpled, hair a mess, dark shadows beneath his eyes, holding a glass of scotch in one hand.
“What are you doing here, Eames!” he shouts, looking around for another presence. “Arthur,” he starts, “Arthur! Where is-”
“Keep calm,” says Eames, holding his hands out, trying to placate him, “You know where Arthur is.”
“Shut up!” he screams, “It’s not- he’s not!” He’s babbling like crazy and it takes Eames three long strides to reach him, hands catching his shaking ones, folding them to his chest and prying the gun from his fingers. Eames croons at him, making soothing sounds but Cobb shakes his head, pulls away from him, turning around, tears already falling again and he just- he needs to get away from this.
Eames calls out to him, hands scrambling at his arms, trying to get a grip but he pulls away harder, moves faster until he’s bursting out of the room, running up the hallway towards the exit, spiralling up stair after stair; higher and higher until he reaches the roof of the hotel, breathing in the cold air like a it’s a wakeup call to his face.
The night sky looks even more intense at this height, so much closer with the barely there stars twinkling at him as the moon, in its thin crescent, waves at him. The wind greets him hard in a heavy gust as if to push him back in and he fights it, takes step after step forward until he reaches the ledge, able to stare down at the commotion of the non-sleepers gambling away their lives in lights, speed and money.
He laughs out loud into the wind, cutting through it with his irony that he’s standing at the ledge of a hotel, close to what he did almost a year ago. He grows colder by the second as the wind rages on, starting to shiver and he can see his wife on the other side. She’s holding a hand out to him, smiling whimsically, sitting on the other building’s ledge with Arthur by her side, looking down as he fingers the concrete underneath him, smiling softly as if he knows the inside joke.
He wants to jump the space between them, take that leap of faith, hold them close to his chest, never let go, breathe in their scent and believe that they’re real, that they’re still alive with him.
Cobb looks down at the gaping space below.
Then back up before closing his eyes.
He can still see them.
Mal nudges Arthur, turning to him and smiling that sweet smile she only gives him, the one that speaks volumes of her love and pride for him, and he bumps shoulders with her before looking up at him, still smiling.
“Mal told me this riddle,” says Arthur, finger still rubbing against the ledge. “She said it’s a riddle you love.”
“Because he made it up,” giggles Mal, the sound like wind chimes brushing against each other. Arthur laughs too, throws his head back and lets loose like he hasn’t done in a long time, exposing the gorgeous length of his neck and Cobb’s fingers itches to touch it, even for one last time.
“You’re waiting for a train,” starts Arthur, turning to Mal, who nods her head and he stands up. He takes a deep breath, looks down at street then looks back up at Cobb, all the while still smiling.
“A train that will take you far away,” continues Mal, grasping onto Arthur’s hand to stand, heels clacking soundlessly against the ledge.
“You know where you hope this train will take you,” says Arthur, turning to Mal, eyes fluttering closed when she puts a loving hand to his cheek, relaxing into it, “but you can’t be sure.” A moment goes where time freezes, the wind stops, noises halt and it’s just the three of them sharing this instant before it rushes back into speed and Arthur turns back to him, Mal doing the same, their hands locked together.
“But it doesn’t matter, does it, Dom?” asks Mal, lifting a foot into the air.
“Now tell me why it doesn’t matter!” shouts Arthur, doing the same.
Cobb puts a hand out as if to stop them, as if to save them, but they’re too far away, he can’t reach them and he knows he shouldn’t answer, knows what happens if he does but it comes out anyway, “Because you’ll be together- NO!” He watches them take the leap together, completely synchronised and cries out with all the pain in his heart, ripping his throat raw.
“Cobb!” someone shouts from behind him and it’s deathly familiar, too familiar and he refuses to open his eyes, refuses to turn around, opting instead to watch Mal and Arthur fall into their death behind closed lids.
Hands shake him from behind. “Cobb! Dammit, wake up! What is wrong with you?”
He closes his eyes tighter, knows that even if they’re open or close, he’ll still feel the same, still know the truth.
He can’t trust himself anymore.
Arms wrap around his shoulders, hauling him back from the ledge, hands turning him around to pull him into a warm embrace, away from the slicing wind and he realises he’s violently shivering, lips feeling numb as do his fingers. Out of curiosity he opens his eyes to look at them and catches instead the sight of the slight round jaw, thin lips, a slender nose.
He looks up, eyes wide at Arthur looking down at him in concern.
“It took me a while to find you, do you know that? Suddenly in the middle of the night, Eames bursts through the room saying that you’ve gone insane, that you woke up screaming in your room. That when you came out looking a mess, you pointed a gun at him, yelling at him for being in the suite even though you were the one who suggested for him and I to swap so I could help Yusuf with the Somnacin. That you were calling for me, going on about something, crying, running away from him- everything he told me made me panic, made me think you’ve finally lost it.
“Then when I finally find you, it’s to see you standing on the ledge, shouting into the night! What were you thinking! Do you think I like finding you on ledges, seconds from falling, so that I can save you? God, Dom.”
Cobb makes a sound, it’s a slight whimper, closing his eyes against the sound of Arthur’s voice, the warm breath against his jaw. He opens them again to still see Arthur there, eyebrows furrowed together and he raises a hand up to trace them. “You’re not real, are you?”
Arthur frowns, crinkling his forehead. “What are you talking about? You’re awake, Dom. Did you check your totem?”
“I did,” he whispers, “I turned it again and again, and every single time, it fell. It fell, Arthur.”
“It’s meant to because it won’t be reality if it didn’t.”
“But you died. I watched you take a shot to the head. Eames was there. He pulled me away from you,” he says, fingers pulling back so he can look at them. Arthur catches his hand, curling his own around the freezing fingertips. “He pulled me into the backroom, went out by himself. I was alone in the room without you and I panicked. When he came back, he tried to calm me down, but I kept going. He injected me with something and I fell asleep. When I woke up in the hotel, you still weren’t there.”
Arthur frowns deeper. “None of that happened, Dom. We were at the warehouse all day until you fell asleep reading notes. Eames and I had to carry you back to the hotel and...” He goes quiet, lips thinning out in concentration and Cobb can even hear his mind going miles a minute.
“When was the last time you dreamt?”
“You know I don’t dream anymore,” he reprimands but Arthur shakes his head.
“Just because you haven’t dreamt in a long time, doesn’t mean you can’t actually dream anymore. Because you’re so used to going under into induced dreams and waking up in controlled environments you can’t tell the difference when you go under into natural dreams and wake up in natural environments. You get confused, Dom, what you had was a dream. You were dreaming.” Arthur brings their foreheads together and uses his other hand to drag fingers through Cobb’s hair, giving him time to process all that.
“But how can,” he starts, eyes fluttering close at the gesture, “how can I know if that’s true?”
“You remember what you did before the dream, right?” asks Arthur, smiling against his cheek, “Before you fell asleep you were reading the notes I gave out in the meeting before that. We had Chinese for dinner before that meeting, and before I ordered Chinese, you blew me in your little makeshift office with everyone still in the warehouse.”
Memories flash before his eyes, the image of Arthur throwing his head back, biting his bottom lip as he came, groaning at the mess on Cobb’s face before licking it all off. He remembers taking Arthur’s fortune cookie because he loved looking at the shape, almost missing the fond smile Arthur gave him. He remembers Arthur and Eames bickering over the validity of Eames’ idea when they know it was good, then joining forces when Ariadne chimes in with a better one. He remembers adjourning the meeting, picking up the folder and taking it to the chair, going through page after page before it fades.
“See?” says Arthur, pressing a kiss to his lips. “This is real, Dom. I’m still here, still alive. Please try to talk to everyone before standing on anymore ledges, okay? I... You scared me. Now come back to the room, it’s freezing cold up here.”
Arthur starts to pull them towards the door but he pulls back. “I just- one thing, Arthur, please, before we leave.”
“Anything,” breathes Arthur, looking worried.
“Roll your die,” he says, “I don’t care if I’m dreaming as long as you’re real.”
Arthur smiles sadly at that and reaches into the pocket of his slacks, producing his red die. He rattles it in the shell of his fingers before dropping it into his outstretched palm- two.
Cobb sighs in relief and steps close, pulling Arthur into a heart clenching hug that feels more like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline, all desperate. He feels Arthur pocket his totem before grasping at his back in a one-armed hug. He doesn’t expect anything more.
Pulling away from the hug, he curls an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, slumping against him, suddenly so damn tired, emotionally and mentally drained. Arthur doesn’t say anything, just silently supports him, guiding the both of them back to the suite.
As they manoeuvre the stairs, reaching their floor, Arthur speaks up, murmuring to the empty space ahead of him, “Would you really miss me that much?”
He glances at Arthur from the corner of his eyes and sees cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment but other than that, there isn’t any regret or guilt that indicates Arthur thinks that Cobb shouldn’t be feeling this way.
“I’d miss you more than I could bear, Arthur.”
“More than… her?” Arthur whispers, turning his head away, this time in shame.
“There is no way to measure the immensity of how much the both of you mean to me. I saw you standing there with her, Arthur, you both jumped. I couldn’t- I, what I felt when she…. It couldn’t- I wanted to jump too.”
They reach the suite, Arthur producing the keys from his pocket which makes Cobb suspect that he and Eames had swapped back for the night. But Cobb isn’t ready to go in yet. He wants Arthur to understand what he means, understand this torrent inside of him.
Pulling away to stand on his own, he slips in front of Arthur, grasping the younger man’s shoulders, forcing eye contact. “You have to understand that I love Mal, with all my heart, all my being--but. But we had our time together. Right now, this minute, this very second, I love you with everything that I am, Arthur.” He pulls Arthur in for a kiss, sighs. “Please don’t forget.”
Arthur kisses him back, whispers against his cheek, voice barely there, “Just this minute, this very second?”
“Any second, all the seconds, every second,” he amends.
“Okay,” breathes Arthur, nodding. “Okay.” He opens the door to the suite and gestures for Cobb to walk in first, and he does. Facing the same room he panicked in earlier on seems surreal like a made up memory. His Beretta is lying harmlessly on the kitchen bench and he walks up to it, slides it back into his hand, gripping it like it’s an old friend.
Arthur comes up from behind him, fingertips lightly brushing against his shoulder. “Dom?” he asks, sounding just a little worried.
Cobb shakes his head, passes the gun to Arthur before making his way to the bedroom. Hesitates in opening the door as if this would end here, that this dream would crumble, and he forces the thought out of his head, turns the knob.
Nothing happens when he pushes the door open, and the sight that greets him isn’t any different as to when he left it. Still, he takes a good look at it from the door, studies it in detail- this room he was just in, about an hour ago, has a different feel from then and now. He notices the mess he made, the jumble of things lying on the floor beside the nightstand, the sheet are lying, half on the bed and half on the floor, and at his feet lays his totem.
He crouches to the ground to pick it up, holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger, and pauses in getting back up. The polished floorboards gleam at him in winks and he licks his chapped lips, fingers moving to position the top above its smooth surface. Taking a deep breath, he spins the top, watches it hit the boards, revolving in nine perfect revolutions before wobbling and as it’s coming to a stop, a red die bounds along beside it, a definite two to the top’s definite stop.
Cobb looks up at Arthur, hand still poised in the air from letting go of the die, and feels guilty. He scoops up his top in the cradle of his fingers, standing up, and gestures for Arthur to pick up his own.
“Pick it up for me,” says Arthur, giving him a stern look and Cobb shakes his head.
“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can,’” says Arthur, lips quirking to the side into a self-decrepitating smile. “I trust you. It used to be yours. Now tell me why it only rolls twos.”
“Because,” starts Cobb shakily, “because it will always be the two of us. Because we’ll be together, always.”
Arthur closes the gap between them, lips insistent upon his and Cobb clutches helplessly at the lapels of his jacket, opening his mouth under the firm tongue, top falling from his fingers to clink up against the red die.
warnings: implied character death, semi-dark, a lot of really long run on sentences
For one reason or another, Cobb believes that Arthur has died in reality. He goes more than a little crazy believing this.
Written for this prompt from inception_kink ! Beta'd by the lovely plingo_kat who is the only person apart from me who knows of the other way this ends, mainly because she started the idea and I latched on to it like a dark horse. <3
The pain seizes his chest. It’s like a hand grasping blindly around in there, leaving destruction in its wake and Cobb finds it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to do anything but feel. It’s like physically losing a body part; the pain is so wretched that trying to do anything else, trying to focus on anything other than the enormity of the pain is near impossible.
A hand tries to pull him back to the world, tries to calm him down, the palm smoothing down his back and a voice speaks to him in low volumes- he can discern that it’s Eames in the lilt he uses, but he can’t make out any of the words, he can’t fucking hear it, can’t fucking understand anything going on but the raw pain inside of him, threatening to boil over.
He clenches his eyes shut, trying to keep out everything but all it does is knock him off kilter; the world feels as though it’s crumbling beneath his feet, his balance thrown off, equilibrium disturbed and his knees give out from underneath the weight of his agony. He sways, stumbling, arm held out to find some stability, a wall, a chair, a person- Arthur, provides his mind, slotting in the correct word- but a more solid figure slips into the empty space by his side, a built arm wrapping around his waist, full lips against the shell of his ear murmuring non-distinct words again. He still can’t comprehend them; they’re just all syllables, phonetics.
He feels more than hears himself cry out, because he can’t keep it in anymore, and it’s a terrible sound that reverberates off the walls, like an earthquake.
The arm around him pulls away to lead him gently down from vertical to horizontal, as if that will somehow relieve him. Fingers start carding through his hair in an attempt to soothe but he flinches heavily under the tender gesture until it stops and he gasps, suddenly guilty on top of the burning pain. He wants to thank Eames for being such a friend, show his appreciation but all he can do is grip violently at the man’s bicep, gasping breaths in and out.
It’s horrifying to realise that this pain is the worst he’s felt, even more intense than he last time he lost someone, lost his wife, lost Mal- oh God, Mal. He remembers sitting on that window ledge for hours on hours, clutching at the frame in panic, screaming and crying in his loss, looking down at the tiny, tiny splatter of his beautiful wife’s mangled body until the red and blue lights arrived to remove it and he’s shouting down at them, voice echoing through the city landscape, to get the fuck away from her, not to touch her because she’s his wife, he’s beautiful Mallorie, oh Christ.
Then there are forceful hands grabbing his arms, pulling him back through the window and he struggled as best he could, fighting it before a voice told him to stop it, calming and reassuring, and through that white hot pain in his heart, he realised that that voice belonged to- oh.
It belonged to Arthur.
He howls again, lurching off the horizontal surface Eames had gingerly placed him on, hand clutching at his own throat, nails biting into the skin as he keeps screaming. Maybe if he keeps going, releases everything from his mouth, he won’t hurt anymore and oh fuck, oh Christ.
All he can think of is Arthur. Behind closed eyes he can see himself talking, making a joke that makes his point man’s lips curl up in the corners, trying hard not to smile outright and he remembers thinking that it was adorable how professional Arthur always tries to be, even when it’s just the two of them. He sees his hands move, remembers that he’s moving to pull Arthur into a kiss, maybe slide his fingers through slick, dark hair but Arthur’s expression morphs from amused into surprised and panicked, and it’s all slow motion from then on in his mind, though it was only a good four seconds.
Arthur puts his hands up first before he could, looking as if he was going in for the kiss but they collide with his shoulders, pushing him with enough force that he stumbles back cleanly, knees buckling, back hitting the floor as the sound of shattered glass resonates through the empty structure, burying a bullet right into Arthur’s temple, blood splattering out the other side like a myriad of red crystals, each one sparkling like something precious and Eames is shouting at him, running like wildfire, sticking close to the ground. His fingers check Arthur’s pulse points quickly, neck then wrist as if in case but Cobb doesn’t need to watch the farce because the look on Eames’ face is already decided and they both know what Arthur is now.
He shouts, screams, oh Christ and Arthur, Arthur, trying to get up, scrambling to get closer, back to him but Eames gets to him first, fitting an arm around him, pulling away from the bullets raining after them, shot after shot, bits of concrete and it’s debris flying into the air as it bites into the ground, but all he can see is Arthur’s body lying there, blood pooling beneath his head and he shouts again, cries out.
Fingers pry at his hands, pulling them away from clawing at his own neck, choking himself but the pain feels so physical, like if he tried hard enough, he could get to it and get it out but Eames is shouting at him now, soothing tones like a morning breeze turned into raging winds, cutting into his consciousness. Hands are squeezing his shoulders, pushing him back down, and he opens his eyes, vision all out of focus because tears are still there, streaking his face and he just can’t stop screaming. He can’t.
The hands move from his shoulders, up, cupping his face gently, fingertips fitting under his jaw and lips press against his, swallowing down his agony and it surprises him. He freezes, eyes going wider until all the tears leave and his vision clears enough to see Eames’ blue eyes stare down intently into his. He watches the other man pull away, lips moving, saying something and he shakes his head, he still can’t hear it all too well and Eames looks at him sadly, eyes glancing down.
Before he can follow the gaze, he feels a prick in his arm, not his wrist, but the hollow of his elbow. A hand comes up to rest over his eyes, world blacking out, and Eames leans close, whispering words into his ear, each one sounding like numbers; five, four, three- he blacks out completely.
When he wakes up, his mind is clear.
He sits up to find that he’s in his hotel bedroom with its creamy yellow walls and caramel sheets with gold threads. He’s still dressed, save for his shoes, bare feet staring at him innocently.
Its blue black outside like a new bruise and the only lighting is from the silver moon. He feels a little off-kilter, like everything’s too normal, like he’s forgotten something important and he prods at his mind just a tiny bit before the floodgates open and he remembers everything.
Oh Christ.
Cobb feels his chest tighten, his breaths starting to get laboured, he can feel himself going into a panic attack. He checks his wrist for any sign of a hole, a prick of the needle attached to an IV line but finds nothing. He reaches into his pocket for his totem, the little brass top, and turns to his nightstand for a flat surface to spin it on.
He watches it with intensity, watches it spin on the polished, wooden surface, breath held as it spins and spins, wobbling before coming to a spiral stop. His breath leaves him in a cry and with rage, he pushes everything off the surface for another chance. He twists the goddamn thing again because this can’t be happening, no, no, no.
The top falls and falls again, no matter how many times he twists it and he throws it away, across the room, it’s useless to him now. What he needs is a die, a particular die, a red loaded die that he knows rolls twos every time.
He screams at the room, listens to it rebound off the walls and curls up in the bed, sheets tangling with his body as he sobs into the pillow, alternating between chokes and shouts. He can’t keep living like this, just can’t keep living when all the ones he ever loves are dying, falling like little chess pieces in this game of life.
An idea springs into his head, small but big, and he goes to his nightstand, opening up the second draw to find his beloved Beretta, a dark knight in shining armour. Just because it doesn’t seem like a dream, doesn’t mean he can’t be in one.
What if Mal was right, what if he really is dreaming? What if she is waiting for him and Arthur too? Waiting in reality for him to kill himself, to wake up already?
What if the answer really is death?
He shakily holds the gun to his head, feels the cool barrel kiss his temple and lets out a shaky breath, finger flexing on the trigger.
There’s a thump outside of his room, in the living room, and then he remembers that he’s staying in a suite, and who else does he share suites with but Arthur? He scrambles off the bed, tripping and falling from the tangle of sheets, but the gun is still held tightly in his hand as he opens the door.
A figure stands to the side in the dark, turning to him and Cobb holds his gun up, aiming for a kill shot.
“Arthur?” he rasps, voice raw, and the figure steps into the light, shaking his head.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, boss,” says Eames, looking worse for wear. He’s still dressed, but he’s clothes are all rumpled, hair a mess, dark shadows beneath his eyes, holding a glass of scotch in one hand.
“What are you doing here, Eames!” he shouts, looking around for another presence. “Arthur,” he starts, “Arthur! Where is-”
“Keep calm,” says Eames, holding his hands out, trying to placate him, “You know where Arthur is.”
“Shut up!” he screams, “It’s not- he’s not!” He’s babbling like crazy and it takes Eames three long strides to reach him, hands catching his shaking ones, folding them to his chest and prying the gun from his fingers. Eames croons at him, making soothing sounds but Cobb shakes his head, pulls away from him, turning around, tears already falling again and he just- he needs to get away from this.
Eames calls out to him, hands scrambling at his arms, trying to get a grip but he pulls away harder, moves faster until he’s bursting out of the room, running up the hallway towards the exit, spiralling up stair after stair; higher and higher until he reaches the roof of the hotel, breathing in the cold air like a it’s a wakeup call to his face.
The night sky looks even more intense at this height, so much closer with the barely there stars twinkling at him as the moon, in its thin crescent, waves at him. The wind greets him hard in a heavy gust as if to push him back in and he fights it, takes step after step forward until he reaches the ledge, able to stare down at the commotion of the non-sleepers gambling away their lives in lights, speed and money.
He laughs out loud into the wind, cutting through it with his irony that he’s standing at the ledge of a hotel, close to what he did almost a year ago. He grows colder by the second as the wind rages on, starting to shiver and he can see his wife on the other side. She’s holding a hand out to him, smiling whimsically, sitting on the other building’s ledge with Arthur by her side, looking down as he fingers the concrete underneath him, smiling softly as if he knows the inside joke.
He wants to jump the space between them, take that leap of faith, hold them close to his chest, never let go, breathe in their scent and believe that they’re real, that they’re still alive with him.
Cobb looks down at the gaping space below.
Then back up before closing his eyes.
He can still see them.
Mal nudges Arthur, turning to him and smiling that sweet smile she only gives him, the one that speaks volumes of her love and pride for him, and he bumps shoulders with her before looking up at him, still smiling.
“Mal told me this riddle,” says Arthur, finger still rubbing against the ledge. “She said it’s a riddle you love.”
“Because he made it up,” giggles Mal, the sound like wind chimes brushing against each other. Arthur laughs too, throws his head back and lets loose like he hasn’t done in a long time, exposing the gorgeous length of his neck and Cobb’s fingers itches to touch it, even for one last time.
“You’re waiting for a train,” starts Arthur, turning to Mal, who nods her head and he stands up. He takes a deep breath, looks down at street then looks back up at Cobb, all the while still smiling.
“A train that will take you far away,” continues Mal, grasping onto Arthur’s hand to stand, heels clacking soundlessly against the ledge.
“You know where you hope this train will take you,” says Arthur, turning to Mal, eyes fluttering closed when she puts a loving hand to his cheek, relaxing into it, “but you can’t be sure.” A moment goes where time freezes, the wind stops, noises halt and it’s just the three of them sharing this instant before it rushes back into speed and Arthur turns back to him, Mal doing the same, their hands locked together.
“But it doesn’t matter, does it, Dom?” asks Mal, lifting a foot into the air.
“Now tell me why it doesn’t matter!” shouts Arthur, doing the same.
Cobb puts a hand out as if to stop them, as if to save them, but they’re too far away, he can’t reach them and he knows he shouldn’t answer, knows what happens if he does but it comes out anyway, “Because you’ll be together- NO!” He watches them take the leap together, completely synchronised and cries out with all the pain in his heart, ripping his throat raw.
“Cobb!” someone shouts from behind him and it’s deathly familiar, too familiar and he refuses to open his eyes, refuses to turn around, opting instead to watch Mal and Arthur fall into their death behind closed lids.
Hands shake him from behind. “Cobb! Dammit, wake up! What is wrong with you?”
He closes his eyes tighter, knows that even if they’re open or close, he’ll still feel the same, still know the truth.
He can’t trust himself anymore.
Arms wrap around his shoulders, hauling him back from the ledge, hands turning him around to pull him into a warm embrace, away from the slicing wind and he realises he’s violently shivering, lips feeling numb as do his fingers. Out of curiosity he opens his eyes to look at them and catches instead the sight of the slight round jaw, thin lips, a slender nose.
He looks up, eyes wide at Arthur looking down at him in concern.
“It took me a while to find you, do you know that? Suddenly in the middle of the night, Eames bursts through the room saying that you’ve gone insane, that you woke up screaming in your room. That when you came out looking a mess, you pointed a gun at him, yelling at him for being in the suite even though you were the one who suggested for him and I to swap so I could help Yusuf with the Somnacin. That you were calling for me, going on about something, crying, running away from him- everything he told me made me panic, made me think you’ve finally lost it.
“Then when I finally find you, it’s to see you standing on the ledge, shouting into the night! What were you thinking! Do you think I like finding you on ledges, seconds from falling, so that I can save you? God, Dom.”
Cobb makes a sound, it’s a slight whimper, closing his eyes against the sound of Arthur’s voice, the warm breath against his jaw. He opens them again to still see Arthur there, eyebrows furrowed together and he raises a hand up to trace them. “You’re not real, are you?”
Arthur frowns, crinkling his forehead. “What are you talking about? You’re awake, Dom. Did you check your totem?”
“I did,” he whispers, “I turned it again and again, and every single time, it fell. It fell, Arthur.”
“It’s meant to because it won’t be reality if it didn’t.”
“But you died. I watched you take a shot to the head. Eames was there. He pulled me away from you,” he says, fingers pulling back so he can look at them. Arthur catches his hand, curling his own around the freezing fingertips. “He pulled me into the backroom, went out by himself. I was alone in the room without you and I panicked. When he came back, he tried to calm me down, but I kept going. He injected me with something and I fell asleep. When I woke up in the hotel, you still weren’t there.”
Arthur frowns deeper. “None of that happened, Dom. We were at the warehouse all day until you fell asleep reading notes. Eames and I had to carry you back to the hotel and...” He goes quiet, lips thinning out in concentration and Cobb can even hear his mind going miles a minute.
“When was the last time you dreamt?”
“You know I don’t dream anymore,” he reprimands but Arthur shakes his head.
“Just because you haven’t dreamt in a long time, doesn’t mean you can’t actually dream anymore. Because you’re so used to going under into induced dreams and waking up in controlled environments you can’t tell the difference when you go under into natural dreams and wake up in natural environments. You get confused, Dom, what you had was a dream. You were dreaming.” Arthur brings their foreheads together and uses his other hand to drag fingers through Cobb’s hair, giving him time to process all that.
“But how can,” he starts, eyes fluttering close at the gesture, “how can I know if that’s true?”
“You remember what you did before the dream, right?” asks Arthur, smiling against his cheek, “Before you fell asleep you were reading the notes I gave out in the meeting before that. We had Chinese for dinner before that meeting, and before I ordered Chinese, you blew me in your little makeshift office with everyone still in the warehouse.”
Memories flash before his eyes, the image of Arthur throwing his head back, biting his bottom lip as he came, groaning at the mess on Cobb’s face before licking it all off. He remembers taking Arthur’s fortune cookie because he loved looking at the shape, almost missing the fond smile Arthur gave him. He remembers Arthur and Eames bickering over the validity of Eames’ idea when they know it was good, then joining forces when Ariadne chimes in with a better one. He remembers adjourning the meeting, picking up the folder and taking it to the chair, going through page after page before it fades.
“See?” says Arthur, pressing a kiss to his lips. “This is real, Dom. I’m still here, still alive. Please try to talk to everyone before standing on anymore ledges, okay? I... You scared me. Now come back to the room, it’s freezing cold up here.”
Arthur starts to pull them towards the door but he pulls back. “I just- one thing, Arthur, please, before we leave.”
“Anything,” breathes Arthur, looking worried.
“Roll your die,” he says, “I don’t care if I’m dreaming as long as you’re real.”
Arthur smiles sadly at that and reaches into the pocket of his slacks, producing his red die. He rattles it in the shell of his fingers before dropping it into his outstretched palm- two.
Cobb sighs in relief and steps close, pulling Arthur into a heart clenching hug that feels more like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline, all desperate. He feels Arthur pocket his totem before grasping at his back in a one-armed hug. He doesn’t expect anything more.
Pulling away from the hug, he curls an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, slumping against him, suddenly so damn tired, emotionally and mentally drained. Arthur doesn’t say anything, just silently supports him, guiding the both of them back to the suite.
As they manoeuvre the stairs, reaching their floor, Arthur speaks up, murmuring to the empty space ahead of him, “Would you really miss me that much?”
He glances at Arthur from the corner of his eyes and sees cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment but other than that, there isn’t any regret or guilt that indicates Arthur thinks that Cobb shouldn’t be feeling this way.
“I’d miss you more than I could bear, Arthur.”
“More than… her?” Arthur whispers, turning his head away, this time in shame.
“There is no way to measure the immensity of how much the both of you mean to me. I saw you standing there with her, Arthur, you both jumped. I couldn’t- I, what I felt when she…. It couldn’t- I wanted to jump too.”
They reach the suite, Arthur producing the keys from his pocket which makes Cobb suspect that he and Eames had swapped back for the night. But Cobb isn’t ready to go in yet. He wants Arthur to understand what he means, understand this torrent inside of him.
Pulling away to stand on his own, he slips in front of Arthur, grasping the younger man’s shoulders, forcing eye contact. “You have to understand that I love Mal, with all my heart, all my being--but. But we had our time together. Right now, this minute, this very second, I love you with everything that I am, Arthur.” He pulls Arthur in for a kiss, sighs. “Please don’t forget.”
Arthur kisses him back, whispers against his cheek, voice barely there, “Just this minute, this very second?”
“Any second, all the seconds, every second,” he amends.
“Okay,” breathes Arthur, nodding. “Okay.” He opens the door to the suite and gestures for Cobb to walk in first, and he does. Facing the same room he panicked in earlier on seems surreal like a made up memory. His Beretta is lying harmlessly on the kitchen bench and he walks up to it, slides it back into his hand, gripping it like it’s an old friend.
Arthur comes up from behind him, fingertips lightly brushing against his shoulder. “Dom?” he asks, sounding just a little worried.
Cobb shakes his head, passes the gun to Arthur before making his way to the bedroom. Hesitates in opening the door as if this would end here, that this dream would crumble, and he forces the thought out of his head, turns the knob.
Nothing happens when he pushes the door open, and the sight that greets him isn’t any different as to when he left it. Still, he takes a good look at it from the door, studies it in detail- this room he was just in, about an hour ago, has a different feel from then and now. He notices the mess he made, the jumble of things lying on the floor beside the nightstand, the sheet are lying, half on the bed and half on the floor, and at his feet lays his totem.
He crouches to the ground to pick it up, holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger, and pauses in getting back up. The polished floorboards gleam at him in winks and he licks his chapped lips, fingers moving to position the top above its smooth surface. Taking a deep breath, he spins the top, watches it hit the boards, revolving in nine perfect revolutions before wobbling and as it’s coming to a stop, a red die bounds along beside it, a definite two to the top’s definite stop.
Cobb looks up at Arthur, hand still poised in the air from letting go of the die, and feels guilty. He scoops up his top in the cradle of his fingers, standing up, and gestures for Arthur to pick up his own.
“Pick it up for me,” says Arthur, giving him a stern look and Cobb shakes his head.
“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can,’” says Arthur, lips quirking to the side into a self-decrepitating smile. “I trust you. It used to be yours. Now tell me why it only rolls twos.”
“Because,” starts Cobb shakily, “because it will always be the two of us. Because we’ll be together, always.”
Arthur closes the gap between them, lips insistent upon his and Cobb clutches helplessly at the lapels of his jacket, opening his mouth under the firm tongue, top falling from his fingers to clink up against the red die.