Disclaimer: I don't own Inception.
Arthur's gone.
Or so he's told.
Words are a peculiar thing, never more apparent than when they're being misused. What Arthur had done, if all the condolences were to be believed, was he had gone- dashed off, dust cloud blooming, like a man running out on his restaurant bill. Like the beautiful little robin who will not wait for the binoculars to be clumsily retrieved and flits away almost cruelly. Gone implies you were a fool to think otherwise - that the transience should've been expected as an inevitability. There's an implicit blame in it, almost.
Only half-mad, sunken-eyed Cobb of all of them, tragic figure that he is (and who cared for Arthur so, so much) has the balls to say Dead. Killed. The strength behind those words means that Cobb is the only one whose eyes he can meet.
Silly little fancy that it is to Eames, Arthur never seemed like the dying type. Pointman or no, professional caution or no, Arthur has - had- a psychological steeliness about him, a hopeful yet ruthless kind of optimism. It was his job to point out the problems, but of the pair of them it was always Arthur who hoped, who had said of Mal that he'd never thought she'd go through with it, meaning he'd wished different and prayed that alone could affect things. Who would not tolerate professional mishaps in people but was prepared to make excuses for any number of personal failings in them.
Neither of them were what you'd call romantic, and that's perhaps a drawback now, because the act of sitting reading over old lists and reminders, jotted impressions printed down the margins of textbooks - none of this is quite what it would be if he had love letters - or love emails - to pore over instead, or photos of the two of them together doing that silly smile lovers share. Whatever Eames had with Arthur must've been characterised by little moments in real-time, the kind which slip through the cracks as they happened, only to resurface crystal sharp where they'll do most damage.
Arthur's love letter was maybe in the way he stroked slow hands down Eames's ribs when they kissed. In a hundred windows of a hundred dreamed offices, Eames has craned his neck to glimpse the sight of the two of them, Arthur far-off, brow furrowed, him, grinning at his own reflection - it's nearly as good as a photo.
Wherever Arthur has 'gone', Eames hopes it's better than any dream, and the champagne is dangerously expensive.