He searched everywhere. He could not find it. His totem, his precious chip, the very thing that kept him sane. He turned his whole apartment upside down, searching every corner of this damn place. The gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach was becoming stronger. He tries to clear his head. He growls in frustration, grabbing the lamp and it flickered at he pulled it out from the plug. He threw it across the room and screamed, almost like he was in pain.
"Depression is a very hard thing to deal with, now, Eames." The doctor had said, just five hours ago. He listened but could barely comprehend the words. Everything the doctor said came out from the other end, because he didn't care, because nothing mattered to him anymore. Eames stood and walked out of the office, without any intention of where he was going. "I could help!" The doctor shouted from the other end of the hall. "We want to help you, Mr. Eames."
He knows a lot about people even more than a professional physiatrist. He saw the wrinkles and the doctors tired eyes; he needed more help than him. It was probably a problem at home. He found out his wife was cheating on him, or a family relative had passed, or maybe he finally found out his teenage son was gay – he saw his family picture on his desk. Someone had once said doctors helped their patients more than they could help themselves. The doctor has lost his mind and he was trapped, refusing to see the truth.
Unlike him, Eames knows a lot about people. If you could have a small conversation, a few couple minutes, and he would know almost everything about you. He could even guess what troubled you and ninety-nine percent of the time, he could get it right. The one percent barely exists in his mind because it is the only thing that he wants to suppress. The only thing, he does not want to know anything about.
He spent his nights in a bar just two blocks from his rented apartment. He doesn't remember it at first, the first night he came down here. He felt like something pulled him there, trying to remember what memory he had here. But nothing came to him, so he visited the bar every night, still trying. Until that night - this night, where everything changes and wished he was somewhere else.
He looks young and Eames doesn't remember the last time he saw his hair in his face. He's not wearing a suit. He wears a nice jacket, a shirt and a pair jeans. Somehow, in the crowded bar, his eyes immediately found his. His mouth gaped and he blinked. Eames wants to run, head back to his apartment and bury in sorrows in a drink. But he won't do that. He would rather sit and talk to him, rather than to have him see him weak.
He walks over, his shoulders back and Eames' lips tug at their edges. He wants to look strong, imagining Eames as a little bratty kid, instead of the fifty foot man he really is. Eames doesn't fail to see past the façade. He knows once he sat down he couldn't push him down; instead he sat there with a fear in his eyes. "It's a pleasure to see you again, darling."
He remembers everything he shared with him. The first moment he laid eyes on him. The first time they fucked and the first words that came out of his mouth when he told him they couldn't see each other anymore. The anger and the grief he had for weeks, was still there. Attempted to be buried but failed to accomplish. Arthur was in his head every moment of every day, he could not control that.
"It's a pleasure to see you as well, Eames." He says, putting both hands on the table. His dark brown eyes see Eames', for the first time in a long time. "But please, don't call me 'darling'."