Paradoxical Season, Endless Winter

Cold, sharp wind caressed your face.

Winter was just about to begin, you noted. It was your favorite season; there had been a reason why, actually, but you had long forgotten what it was. Promises from previous eras whispered into your brain, but you couldn't decipher what they said; and you didn't like the feeling that told you there was more than that, there was more than you knew, so you focused on the light gray sky, just too characteristic of the season. The buildings were systematic, faceless people passed by, silent cars drove constantly—there was a parasitic security lodged inside your chest, but you could care less.

"I'm sorry, darling, have you waited too long?"

You looked up from your favorite seat at the park bench to see a man smiling brightly, warmly like summer, but his face glowed with the cold dry atmosphere. His English accent spoke you of promises, too, and a hand offered you coffee with an acquainted confidence.

"Do I know you?" you sounded less polite than he intended to, but, again, you could care less.

"Hm?" the man analyzed you all over again, smile fading slowly. He seemed to realize his mistake and laughed lazily. "I'm so sorry, I mistook you for a friend," the Englishman apologized, taking a sit by your side. "Was supposed to meet him here. What's your name?"

You had to think hard. That was one question that should be easy to think of an answer to, but, somehow, you felt it had been a long time since someone had asked for your name. So you thought a little more under the Englishman's inquiring, unwavering gaze until a name finally poured out from your lips.

"Arthur."

Your companion smiled and offered you the coffee again. "Would accept this as an apology?"

"Isn't it for your friend?" you narrowed your eyes, head slightly, almost imperceptibly tilted to the side, ignoring the fact the man didn't give you his name.

"I'm guessing he..." the man trailed off, looking for words, finally unlocking his gaze. "He must've forgotten we were supposed to meet."

"That's impolite of him."

"Sure is, darling," he smiled almost carelessly, watching as you accepted the Mocha. "But I'm sure he'll eventually remember and come to meet me."

Silent fell upon both of you, comfortable and constant, but a strange feeling took place in your chest. There was something missing, something you hadn't realized until his voice filled your ears. There was something more, you knew it, but you didn't like that sensation.

"Would you mind keeping me company until he comes, Arthur?" he asked gently, slowly. His features spoke of calm, but, for some reason, you knew there was more behind his mask—you knew he had a strong persona he put up, and you knew there was impatience somewhere in his voice. So you nodded. You didn't intend to, but you agreed, because the way he pronounced your name was different. Something was off about the warmth he hid inside his eyes when he looked at you and smiled. "Thank you, pet."

There was silence again.

He started whistling a tune that was so familiar.

"What's this song again?" you inquired in a whisper, more to yourself than to the Englishman.

"You'll remember if you try a little harder, Arthur," he looked at you with a grin and a raised brow, on which there was a scar. He looks at you teasingly, expectantly. Your lips grinned back automatically, as if they were accepting the challenge, even though you didn't know what the challenge was about; again, something familiar warmed up your chest with feelings of doubts and insecurity.

A snowflake landed on the back of your hand, and soon enough others began falling from the sky. He looked up and snorted, "You sure like paradoxes, don't you, Arthur?"

You mimicked his action; the sky was blue and cloudless, spring-like, but there was snow anyway. He's right, the view brought an acquainted feeling to you, like the song and the Englishman; a warm feeling of joy when winter came, something that made you feel like it was spring whenever it snowed. You remember memories you're not certain if are really memories or dreams, on which there is a small apartment warmed and lit only by a fireplace, the scent of Mocha and one of your favorite books, Memoirs of a Police Sergeant, resting on your lap. Someone else is there, keeping loneliness away, a crooked smile at you.

"Do I know you?" you ask him again, forcing your brain to work, but everything is blurred.

"You'll remember," he said again.

His lack of answers doesn't bother you as much as you think it should, and your frown goes away as moments pass by and you're sure you won't remember, even though you're trying so hard. But he says you'll remember, and you trust him.

"Here," he hands you a book. "It may help you."

Captains of the Sand, you read. You know this book; an important person had given you a copy once, a long time ago. You remember—it's a Brazilian novel, just like Memoirs of a Police Sergeant, because the person who had given you those books enjoyed the tropical weather there. You can't recall exactly the voice that told you how beautiful the country was, but you remember his words, because you had always been better with systematical signs such as letters and words than with abstract imagination. You smile, fond of your memories. The song the Englishman was humming before also played quietly on the background of your memory with the words your important person said.

Oh.

Non, je ne regrette rien.

"Brazil is a beautiful place," you hear the Englishman saying, careful with each syllable. "Beautiful beaches, beautiful skies," he smiles. "Beautiful women."

"Yeah," you say with slight, minimum annoyance showing through, fondness and realization altogether quieted down on your voice. "So I've heard."

"But they couldn't be compared to you, Arthur. No need to get jealous," he laughs, and you look at him, almost sheepishly, because it was so, so familiar. And you sigh. "We should go to Brazil."

"I'm not jealous," you say, tasting the nostalgia with your tongue, a smile creeping back on your lips. "You know I hate how it gets hot in the Brazilian summer, don't you," you take his hand and the loaded dice off your pocket. "Eames."

His eyes—Eames' eyes brightened up, his grayish-blue irises showing off the enthusiasm as he took your hand to his lips, pressing them lovingly to your skin. "It's time to wake up, darling."

"Just as long as we don't go to Brazil," you cupped his face, tracing his eyes, nose, lips, hair, his everything with your eyes, letting all the affection sink in.

"Everything you want, Arthur."

A/N: So. Yeah. I love limbo!fics and I thought, hey, why not? Hope you liked it!

And about Memoirs of a Police Sergeant and Captains of the Sand, well, I'm Brazilian, so, again, why not? Tried to think about possible books Arthur would be fond of, but... yeah, not feeling inclined to think too much today, so I settled down with classic Brazilian books. Oh, and this is possibly a sequel to Le Quattro Stagioni (think I should've said it from the beginning, sorry), but it's up to you.

Reviews, please? Haha~