Their gazes meet for the first time in one of the provincial arenas outside Rome. Unbowed despite the heavy chains around his limbs, the savage stares back at Arthur with brilliant cyan eyes, unblinking. Broad planes of skin shine in the summer heat, beautiful despite the grime of the slave market.
Arthur fiddles with his toga, transfixed. He feels like he's just found something he's been missing for his entire life, like a faint light is heralding day after a life of murky twilight. And perhaps he knows nothing of the Germans or their customs, but he's sure the imperceptible widening of the other man's eyes means something.
All too soon the slave is hustled away, disappearing into the milling crowds of provincial farmers who hope to see a bit of blood sport before returning to their monotonous lives.
Arthur stands frozen for a moment before hurrying into the crowd after him.
Plebes shrink out of his way under the severity of his stare and the authority of his patrician's garb. Even so, it takes longer then he'd like to find the slave's owner, a round man decked in gaudy purple silk and Indian lapis.
"Sir," he barks, more than a bit amused when the merchant sees him and hastily drops into an uncomfortably low bow. "I wish to purchase a slave."
"Certainly, dominus," the man fawns, taking in Arthur's perfectly folded toga and immaculate hair with a shrewd look. "A pleasure slave, perhaps? I have the finest-"
"I want the German, the one with the insolent stare." And with eyes like a clear day on the Aegean and skin like Nubian gold, he doesn't add.
"With all respect, dominus, he's hardly-"
"You presume. I want him. Fetch him for me."
The merchant wrings his hands, and unlike his earlier fawning, it's not feigned. "I would sell him to you, truly I would, but there was an accident-"
Arthur, who always walks with a measured pace, rushes to the balcony overlooking the arena. Something sours in his stomach, like fruit putrefying in the sun, and his nerves twitch like glass shattering on the tiles of the forum. He dimly thinks the merchant can't be right, that the German will still be there, his eyes as unyielding and bright as they were before.
Instead, there's a crumpled body and a dark stain seeping into the red clay of the ground. The slave's eyes, he notices, are closed. Watching the arena's attendants carry the body away, Arthur can't help but feel like he's been plunged back into shade, like dawn has turned into twilight without even a glimpse of the sun.
The merchant slinks to his side, dismissing the dead German with a frank glance. "I have many other fine slaves, dominus. If you would like to view them-"
Somehow, Arthur remembers how to speak. "Thank you, but that will not be necessary."
He leaves the market without a backwards look.
It takes more than a thousand years of failed meetings and missed connections before the two touch for the first time.
The year is 1348 and the shadow of the plague has begun its inexorable sprawl across England. While the city is awash with fire and the panicked clanging of bells, Eames's abbey is marked by a quieter, more subdued nervousness. It's foolish to take in the peasants for treatment, everyone knows it. But they must trust God. God would provide.
Father Eames walks through the abbey's stone halls at twilight, taking solace in the familiar echoes of his steps. In the great hall, now checkered with rows of pallets, one of the invalids catches his eye. The boy is deep in the throes of fever, his skin gleaming yellow in the torchlight. But despite his obvious sickness, despite the rude burlap of his hose and tunic, he has the fine features and the delicate bones of an elfin prince. His hair twists against his forehead like wisps of smoke. Eames fells his breath catch. Somehow, impossibly, he feels like he recognizes that hair. And even though Eames knows in his heart it's folly, knows what will happen, he reaches out and smoothes back an errant lock, tucking it gently behind the boy's ears.
A flea jumps from his collar to Eames's hand as he gazes down at the boy; he brushes it away absentmindedly, already thinking of the broth and blankets he will bring for the boy after the next bell.
But when he returns, the pallet is empty.
"'M sorry, Father," one of the acolytes says with a shrug. "'E passed 'round Matins."
Eames nods, unsure why he feels like he's lost something infinitely precious.
By Tuesday, the abbey is decimated. While hauling the bodies outside for burning, Eames considers carving a marking stone for the boy. He finds a small square of granite and stares at it until dusk, chisel in hand. He gives up when he realizes he never even knew the boy's name. He walks back to the devastated abbey, leaving the stone nestled in the weeds.
Speech eludes them for another four centuries.
The palace is alight with laughter, bouncing off the gleaming wooden floors and the tall glass windows, curling around the brass chandeliers.
Arthur stands amidst the gaiety, chuckling at some asinine comment as he sips champagne. His eyes flit across the room, taking in all the questionable fashion choices and scandalous dance pairings when suddenly his gaze is ensnared like a deer confronted by a tiger.
The man is standing on the other side of the dance floor but Arthur can see his eyes anyway, heady and full of promise. Their gazes remain locked as the stranger strolls over and Arthur can't help but feel his heart beat faster even as he pretends at boredom. He wants to bask in the stranger's gaze, revel in it like a cat in the sun.
He pushes these thoughts down as the man approaches, however, deigning to offer only a cool nod of acknowledgement.
The other man grins like it's an enthusiastic welcome. "Would you care to dance, mon chéri?"
Arthur nods a bit too quickly and curses himself inwardly. He mustn't give in too easily. That was not how the game was played. "I fear I must leave soon; my sister grows tired. But…" he trails off while artfully biting his lip, the very picture of regret. "I would love to at a later date?"
And the mystery man nods and slowly licks his lips, his face colored rosy and golden in the candlelight. "I will be attending Monsieur Arecenou's party in a fortnight, if you would care to dance then. Ask around for Eames."
With a small grin Arthur tucks his hands into the pockets of his lavender silk waistcoat, surreptitiously looking down to make sure that his cravat is neatly tied. He knows he has a reputation as a flirt, a man who is all sly winks to his suitors, but for the first time in a long time, he wants to do more than wink. "I shall."
Eames grins, sultry and full of promise. "Then I will see you there."
Neither Arthur nor Eames attends the party. The anger of the Parisians comes to a head, and the city is overcome with riots and bloodshed in the days that follow. The night they would've danced finds Arthur standing in a shouting crowd, looking up at a newly erected guillotine.
His sister had screamed at him that going outside was madness, especially for the sake of a man who he'd only met once. He'd left despite her entreaties, not bothering to explain that it seemed like he'd known Monsieur Eames for so much longer than an evening.
He watches from beneath his frayed hood as Eames is manhandled up the stairs and forced to his knees beneath the blade. He can just make out Eames scanning the crowd and irrationally, stupidly, tries to call out to him. But his voice is lost amidst the cacophony of jeers that fill the plaza, and the blade slices down before Eames can see him. Closing his eyes in the silence that follows, Arthur feels like he can almost taste the blood in the air.
They do finally dance together, though not for another two hundred years.
They meet on the deck of the great ship Titanic, the strains of music from the orchestra ensconcing them like a warm summer breeze. As they sway along to the hum of the violins, it seems as if the weight of the entire Atlantic night is pierced by the illumination of their smiles. Arthur shivers in the cold, and Eames lends him his coat.
If things had happened differently, Arthur would have deviously kept it, forcing Eames to come recover it the next day and chastise the man he'd danced with over lunch. They would've eaten buttered scones together and laughed. They would've shared their pasts, hopes and dreams.
It doesn't happen. The boat goes down and Eames never gets his jacket back, though he does run helplessly through the maze of empty corridors long after the last lifeboat has left, screaming Arthur's name.
He doesn't know it, but Arthur has already slipped beneath the waves, just another cold body drifting into the unfeeling depths of the Atlantic. The jacket eventually rots away into muck, though the silver pocket watch clipped to the lapel remains and settles into the detritus of the ocean floor. The inscription to T. Eames on its cover weathers the centuries, but as the watch is never found, no one ever reads it or finds the note Arthur had slipped inside.
As luck would have it, their next lifetime is very nearly a success. They grow up neighbors in a small town in Maryland. As children they share a fence, a treehouse, and countless summer nights filled with toy guns and sticky sweet peaches with juice that drips from their grinning mouths. As teenagers they remain best friends, awkward and gangly in too big suits and fedoras.
They're roommates in college, and on a cold December night, laughing as they stumble through the snow on the way back from a bar, Eames chooses to reach out and clutch Arthur's hand in his. Slightly tipsy, Arthur gazes back wide-eyed; every molecule of his body conscious of the fact that their friendship might suddenly become something more.
Suddenly sober, he swallows and lets Eames lead him back to their dorm, resolving to talk with his roommate about this strange new emotion that's unfurled in the pit of his stomach. He'll bring it up in the morning, when they're both sober, he thinks.
The next morning is Sunday, the 7th of December. The sky over Pearl Harbor fills with smoke, dark and ominous like a malignant tumor, and there's no time for talking or holding hands anymore. They meet one last time before deployment, Arthur to the Air Force and Eames to the army. Standing together on a street corner, neither can find the right words to say. Eames watches silent desperation waver like a candle flame in Arthur's eyes and mutely takes his hand.
"We'll talk," he whispers. "When this is over, we'll talk."
Not trusting himself to speak, Arthur nods.
They never do.
Arthur dies in a burning cage of metal over Berlin, his last scream lost amid the conflagration and the night sky.
Eames slumps to his knees on a beach in Normandy, watching with dumb fascination as his blood mixes with the saltwater and the cold sand, the battle raging on around him. It's possible he whispers a name into the surf before his eyes close, but if he does, there's no one is listening to hear.
They say dreams are amalgamations, cloud castles fabricated from life's driftwood. In building a dream, the dreamer rips apart their forgotten memories in savage creation, razing them to broken piles on the ground.
And like with earthquakes or fires, things are destroyed. Ruined. Leveled. The ground is flattened and laid bare. And sometimes, things, forgotten things, are uncovered. Shine through. Like gold threads in a riverbank. Like diamonds in the rough.
He's been having the dreams for months now. Hardly even dreams, but flitting bits of consciousness that ply at the edges of his vision when he's tired or daydreaming.
Sunlight glinting on a sword. Bloody sea surf. A flagstone chewed up and eaten by barley stalks.
"Are you alright?"
Eames looks up at Arthur, feigning a smile he doesn't feel. He needs to concentrate. He's never managed inception before and this job is proving to be bloody difficult. This is no time for daydreams. "Quite alright. Just having trouble remembering something."
Arthur nods and unpacks the pasiv, nonchalant. "You still up for another test? We haven't finalized the hospital level yet."
Eames nods and sits in the lawn chair, robbed of grace by his irritation. "Let's get on with it then."
The test passes uneventfully until it's time to wake up. Eames watches the snowy landscape shift and fall apart when the images begin to return, twisting through the firs and pine boughs like they belong there. Watching eyes and white linen in the sun. He opens his mouth to say something when it's all changing and crashing around him. There are more appearing every moment. A single curl soaked with sweat. He opens his mouth to scream at the miasmatic cacophony that's appeared; a jumbled mess of things that don't belong there but suddenly, inexplicably, do.
Cold waves. Candlelit silk. And eyes. A thousand watching, silent eyes, warm and dark like chocolate, like moss, wet oak in the shade, rich silt on the riverbank, an otter's pelt, gleaming agate-
His eyes fly open and he knows with a certainty that scares him and stares up at Arthur, who's kneeling above him with a concerned expression on his face. An inarticulate cry breaks from his lips and Eames surges up from the lawn chair to kiss Arthur, capturing his mouth with a desperation that's the release of the longing of a hundred lifetimes. The kiss is hot and fleeting but right, and he feels like he's coming home after too many years in exile.
It's over before it begins; Arthur jerks back, wide-eyed and panting. A silence like a chasm springs up between them.
"I'm sorry," Eames whispers. "I feel like I've wanted to do that for a thousand years."
Arthur blinks, bemused. Opens his mouth. And-
Burning night skies. A sinking ship. Steel shearing through the air. A cool hand on a fevered brow. And a million shining eyes, clear and sparkling like azure seas, like summer skies, glass in the sun, blue amethysts on a silver chain-
Arthur blinks again. And grins.
"Eames," he breathes, pulling him back in for another kiss. "If that's all you've been dreaming of for two millennia, I'd suggest you dream a little bigger."