He sank down in an alleyway as the drug reached his bloodstream and let out a content sigh, almost a moan. His head dropped back against the hard wall behind him. For once, he wasn't worried about anything. Not the stains that were surely on his suit, not Eames. He could almost see his problems floating away as he smiled.
Arthur had started when Eames left.
He had gone back to Mombasa after the inception job, saying he'd be back when (not if, the cocky bastard) they needed him, but Cobb was finally home with his children, and the team knew Eames didn't really mean it. Cobb wouldn't be taking risky jobs anymore, and Ariadne was studying in Paris. He lived in a small flat in Paris, but frequently flew to visit Cobb.
He had thought that Eames liked him, but all he had ever done was flirt.
For the first few days, he was upset, but that was to be expected. Other than that, he coped.
And then the dreams started. Most were nightmares, but they all had one thing in common: Eames. Somewhere in his mind, he knew they were backlash from inception, but he was convinced that the reason he woke up screaming in the middle of the night, fumbling for his loaded die, was because Eames left.
After the first week of the dreams he wasn't supposed to be able to have, he'd taken to drinking. He'd never drank anything more than a glass of scotch or wine before, a lesson he'd learned the hard way, but now he drank anything strong.
That only helped for a while, and then he was searching for something stronger.
He was at a club, desperate, when he found it.
His new friend, speed.
He'd been reluctant at first, but now nothing compared to the feeling. He kept going back for more, always more.
As it became a regular habit, he started to lose weight. He tried to keep his appearance up when he got together with Cobb and Ariadne for jobs, but he knew they noticed.
His suits started to be stained and wrinkled, his shoes dirty. His cheekbones stood out more these days, and his hair had lost it's shine. He was far too pale, but the thing that scared him the most was his eyes. They were sunken in and dull, surrounded by dark circles that no amount of sleep could get rid of, not that he was sleeping much.
He knew by the shock on their faces that his smiles never quite reached them.
If he was asked, he said he was fine, just tired.
It took one simple job to push Cobb over the edge. Just a simple extraction, the wife wanted to know if her husband was cheating on her, but they went under in Arthur's mind first to check the dreamscape for any kinks. It would have been fine, but his stupid mind was stuck on Eames.
He walked by a projection of the man and stopped for a second too long, in shock, letting a tear slide down his face. He frantically wiped it away, but he caught Ariadne and Cobb whispering and shooting him concerned looks, and knew they saw.
Cobb was worried, Arthur's suits were too loose now, and they all hung on him. He looked like some part of him was dead. So they did the only thing they could think of – called in help.
He had flown in as soon as he could. He was waiting in Arthur's apartment when the younger man got home from work. He was on the balcony having a smoke when he heard the door open.
Arthur walked in, saw the man, and froze. Without a second thought, he bolted.
The Brit had turned, hearing the door slam, but he was too late. He cursed and got up to find Arthur.
He was gone.
He had jumped in a cab, telling the driver to step on it. He was now back outside a club, the club, and headed into the back alley, tracking down the dealer. He tied the knot around his arm, the end held in his teeth as he grasped the syringe. He jabbed the needle into his arm with a slight wince, slender fingers pressing down. As the drug injected into his arm, he let out a low moan. He needed more.
Somewhere in his mind, a voice sounding suspiciously like Eames told him to stop as he entered the club and drained a glass of absinthe. A younger man stumbled up, pressing his lips to Arthur's. "The green fairy told me to." He slurred, hand pressing something small into Arthur's. He looked down, saw the white pills.
"Say no, or join us, Alice." Someone whispered as they passed. Before he could think twice, he threw his head back, swallowing two of the pills with a shot of something that burned his throat delectably.
He moved through the club, feeling the heavy bass beating in time with his heart. Every couple steps, someone was on him, touching, kissing, dancing.
To anyone sober, it was an orgy. To Arthur, an Eames-free paradise.
And then he wasn't moving anymore. His cheek was pressed against something cold – tile? – and he could feel hot liquid pooling under his face. He couldn't remember how he got there, couldn't remember anything. A dream? He reached for his totem carefully. He struggled to breathe, forcing air into his lungs. Lightheaded, his eyes drifted shut and his hand dropped against the ground.
Suddenly there were hands on him, warm and soothing.
"Dammit, Arthur! Don't you dare leave me!" A distinctly British voice shouted. The note of panic didn't make it to his ears. The voice registered as familiar, but he couldn't place it.
He blinked blearily, and the face swam into view, one feature at a time.
The slicked back honey brown hair.
The grey blue eyes.
The strong jaw.
And those plump lips. God, those lips.
Could it be… "Eames?" Arthur choked out.
Convinced it was a side effect, a hallucination, he smiled.
"I missed you. It's nice to see you one last time."
As he started to black out, he hear the man speak.
"What have I done to you?"
He felt arms scoop under him and lift him up, and then his vision went black.
He woke up in a strange bed, not surprising after the night he had had. What was surprising was the fact that he was in different clothes, ones much too big for him. The room smelled eerily familiar.
His head pounded as he lifted it off of the bed, trying to look around. He discovered that he was in a sketchy looking apartment that was badly decorated, and all the clashing colours made his headache worse. He dropped it back on the pillow, curling up with a sigh. He felt something on his face and jolted up before realizing there was a bandage wrapped around his head.
"What happened?" He muttered to himself.
The itch, no, burn in his arm hit him. He needed a fix, and he needed it now.
He pushed up off the bed and moved towards his own clothes, folded neatly on a chair, when the pounding in his head returned, almost knocking him off his feet. He was on the ground within seconds, clutching his head with an agonized moan.
He tried to swallow and focus so he could think clearly, but his mouth felt like it was full of sand, his hands were shaking constantly, and the want for the drug was burning through his veins.
"Arthur." The voice in the doorway attracted his attention. "You're finally awake. You've been out for a couple of days." Eames gave him a cautious smile.
The burn in his arm was back, reminding him of where he wanted to be. He forced himself up to face Eames, who was still standing in the doorway.
A look of disbelief crossed his face. Eames left him, didn't he? Why was he back?
"What's going on?" He heard concern in the man's voice. It shouldn't make him angry, but it did.
"You wouldn't understand. Now if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be." Arthur replied coldly, temper flaring up.
"Where, shooting up in some dirty alley? Don't lie to me, Arthur." The sarcasm and anger was so evident that he turned around and swung at Eames, but he had forgotten what he had been doing for the past few months.
Eames easily dodged and caught Arthur's wrist, but the younger man was furious and shook him off.
Eames' ever-present smirk was still there, but he was fighting to keep it on. If Arthur, the always-composed one, was losing his temper, then something serious was going on.
"You bastard!" Arthur yelled, so angry he wasn't seeing properly. "You can't just leave and then come waltzing back into my life at your fucking leisure and try to control me! You left me, remember? You've already ruined me enough, you son of a bitch! Can't you be satisfied with that?" If he wasn't so angry, so hurt, he would have seen the forger flinch, the smirk slide off his face.
He screamed at Eames, screamed every curse he knew until his throat ached and there were tears coursing down his face.
He slumped against the wall, one arm holding him up. The fight was gone from him, and his next words were so quiet that Eames had to carefully step towards him to hear them.
"Eames, I can't handle myself without you. I'm a wreck. After you left, I didn't know what to do. I tried to escape, but the PASIV wasn't an option. You were always one of my projections, and it hurt too much to see you. Drinking and sleeping with anything that moved didn't help. Only the drugs made me forget about you. Anyways, why are you even back? It'll just be harder to cope when you leave again." Arthur let out a soft noise.
"I came back because Cobb called me. They're worried about you."
A choking noise fought its way out of Arthur's throat and echoed around the room. After a second, he looked back up. The cold look in his eyes made Eames stumble back in shock. He didn't do anything as Arthur crossed the room and grabbed his clothes. It was only when the smaller man returned, back in his crisp suit, tie fastened around his neck, hair somehow slicked back again, that Eames snapped back to reality.
"Don't go." He begged quietly.
He was sure that Arthur was back to being calm and collected, as always, but he didn't know that the point man had stood at the bathroom sink, splashing cold water on his face to get rid of the tears and the feelings. He had managed to avoid looking in the mirror except for when he attempted to tame his hair. He looked like shit, and even he knew it.
Now he paused, hand on the doorknob. He knew if he turned and saw the look on Eames' face, he would never leave. Eames took advantage of the pause, lunging forward and wrapping his arms around Arthur. He felt the point man instinctively struggle, so he released him slightly, only keeping one arm around him. He used his free hand to rub Arthur's shoulders and back softly like he would with a wounded animal (and isn't that all he is?).
"Please." Was all he could get out before he felt the lump in his throat swell up. He bit his lip, holding his tears in. Arthur's back was pressed against his chest, and as comforting as it was, he was sure those were Arthur's ribs sticking out.
He felt sick with worry, but he forced himself to focus. He had a lot to make up for. Might as well start now.
"I left because I didn't want to hurt you." He started, but was cut off by Arthur trying to protest. "Ironic, isn't it? My going halfway around the world only hurt you more than my staying would have." He stopped, letting out a dark chuckle that did nothing but scare both of them.
Still convinced that Arthur would bolt, ht kept one arm tight around him, but rested his forehead against the barely-taller man's shoulder blade. He pressed a light kiss against the back of Arthur's neck, and his hand subconsciously gripped the man's side in need.
If he hadn't been touching him, he never would have noticed the way that Arthur tensed up.
"Eames, no. Don't. I can't do this." He said softly, but Eames heard a familiar note of warning in his voice. He knew Arthur wouldn't hesitate to hurt him if he so chose.
Sadly, he dropped his hands to his side and backed up in defeat. Arthur turned and looked at him. Eames avoided his gaze on purpose, scared of what he would see, when he heard the point man whisper an apology. He looked up hopefully, but instead saw that Arthur's mask was back up.
He had lost his chance.
He stood still long after Arthur had left and shut the door behind him softly.
He reached for the poker chip again, but found it was still reality.
"Some bloody great reality this is." He muttered angrily.
Eames finally left the room, heading for his liquor cabinet. He grabbed the first bottle he saw.
He spends the next few days sprawled on the couch, piss drunk and ignoring every phone call, waiting for the only one that mattered.
Arthur had no idea how he made it home.
He assumed he took a cab or something, but he couldn't remember.
Momentarily concerned, he rolled his dice once, twice, three times. It landed on a three every time. Reality. He dropped it on the table with a sigh, resting his head in his hands.
"Shit." He muttered softly.
His hands started shaking again, so he got up to head to the bathroom.
He stripped on the way, trailing clothes behind him. He turned the water up as hot as it would go, but could barely feel the burning. No amount of scrubbing can get the smell and feel of Eames off of his skin. He screamed as loud as he could to get his mind to stop.
Eventually he gave up and got out of the shower, skin raw and stinging as he dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist. For once he didn't bother fixing his hair, just so he could avoid looking in the mirror.
He ended up sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by shards of a glass and a puddle of water. His shaking was getting worse, and it had slipped out of his hand. He needed a fix, and desperately wanted to go back, even just to spite Eames, but he wanted to prove he could go without it.
He tried to convince himself he's doing this for him, but some part of him knew it was for the other man.
If he weren't stronger, he'd go running back to Eames and straight into his bed. Instead, he spent the night curled up in his own bed, twisted in the sheets. He fell asleep, and tears were still running down his cheeks as his nightmares started.
Again, he woke up covered in a sheen of cold sweat, screaming his lungs out and reaching for his gun. When he realized that no one was there, he laid back down, trying to breathe normally. He stayed like that, clutching his gun against his chest, until the sun rises.
His next few weeks were spent fighting the withdrawal. He had night terrors, dropped everything constantly, had to take multiple showers to get rid of the sweat, and forced himself to eat, even though it almost always came back up. Even he knew he was too skinny now.
He had taken to writing in a little book he found sitting forgotten in a drawer. Normally he wrote down the dreams, if you could call them that, but sometimes there were letters to Eames, and sometimes he wrote down why he was quitting it, just to keep himself going.
Arthur started to feel better, and thought he was over the worst – until he realized he wasn't even close to being over it.
He was in the shower the first time he blacked out. He didn't know what happened, one minute he was standing, scrubbing ferociously at his arms, the next he came to, crumpled against the bottom of the shower and partially on the floor. His head was killing him. He passed it off as a onetime thing, but he wrote it down in his little journal anyways.
He kept convincing himself it was nothing until suddenly it was serious.
He was in the living room, trying to find something he hadn't read a thousand times to distract him when he fell, hitting his head against the corner of the coffee table. He was out for a few minutes, and he realized Eames kept floating through his mind during the black out.
It took him a while to get his shit together and check for blood when he came to. He only found a bit, but was terrified.
He had never been this scared in his life, not even when he was getting shot at after a bad job.
So he picked up his phone and dialed the familiar number. His hands started to shake as it rang and he dropped the phone. He decided putting it on speaker was a better option.
"Yes, Darling?" Eames answered, slurring his words together. Of course he was drunk.
"Ch-Ch-Charlie?" Arthur got out, and then he collapsed to the floor, sobbing.
Eames instantly sobered up. "Arthur, what's going on?" Panic was evident in his voice.
"Something's wrong with me. I keep having nightmares I shouldn't be able to have. Sometimes they're me being held down while everyone I lo-care about is killed in front of me."
Eames was scared. "That's not all, is it?" He was almost afraid to ask.
"N-no. I keep blacking out, I thought it was fine but I just hit my head really hard and it hurts and I'm so tired Eames, I just want to go to sleep." He rambled hysterically, his voice rising with each word he gets out between sobs.
"Pet, you need to stay awake." Eames replied sharply. "Do you need me to come over? I can be there right away."
"No. But I don't want to be alone. I can't do this anymore, Eames. My gun is looking pretty friendly right now." He sounded like a lost child, and unconsciously whimpered. Eames' heart clenched.
"Arthur, love." He said softly, speechless. He was begging. "Please, don't do that to me. Don't make me lose you again. Stay awake. I need you."
He hung up, dashing for his car.
On the way he called Cobb, driving through stop signs and red lights.
"I need Arthur's address." He barked once the extractor answers. Normally Cobb's reply would involve a comment about sexual harassment, but something in Eames' voice made him hold it back.
"Saito, hold on. Eames needs help." He said faintly, his voice muffled through his hand over the phone. Eames could hear Saito reply something that was probably a joke, but Cobb didn't laugh. He heard a keyboard clicking away.
"925 rue Napoleon, flat 3b. Eames – is Arthur in trouble?" He asked, and Eames could hear the concern for the extractor's best friend.
Eames was speeding now that he knew where to go. "I honestly don't know, Cobb. I'll call you back when I do." He answered softly before he hung up.
He cut off another car and turned quickly, almost there. Suddenly he heard sirens.
"Fuck." He muttered, but still pulled over.
"Sir, you are going 80 in a 40 zone." The police officer said in French, clearly sure Eames was drunk. He probably looked like he was.
"Please, my partner, he's sick. I need to get to him." Eames pleaded, also in French. To his shock, there were tears in his eyes. The officer must have sensed his desperation, as he was let go without a warning.
"Merci." He replied gratefully before driving away.
He knew it had been too long, but he still had to try. Within minutes he was there, pounding up the stairs. When Arthur didn't answer the door, he forced it open.
He found the point man crouched against a wall, shaking, eyes clouded over in panic with his Glock resting against his temple.
"Arthur. Oh god, Arthur. Please, I'm here now. It's okay."
Once Eames had hung up, Arthur fought to stay awake, to stay alive, but it was too much. With the last of his strength, he crawled to his gun and then leaned back against the wall, cradling it like a child.
He didn't know how long it had been since the phone call, but he heard pounding on the door and then the door burst open. This gave him the extra energy he needed to bring the gun up to his temple, finger on the trigger.
Then the intruder spoke.
"Arthur."
It was all he needed to convince him to stop. "Eames." He sobbed and dropped the gun.
Eames rushed across the room to him and took in the circles under his eyes, the fear written across his face, his shaking hands and the bruise blooming on his forehead before his arms were wrapped around the fragile man as he held him close and breathed him in.
Arthur was surprised to find himself crying in relief as he leaned into Eames, but even more surprised when the forger let out a choked sob.
"I was worried it was too late, oh god, Arthur." Eames mumbled, tightening the embrace. "I love you." He added in a small voice, as if it wasn't meant to be heard.
"Eames." He whispered. "I love you too."
And then his lips were on the other man's, and the kiss was sloppy and tasted like tears and cigarettes and was perfect.