Uhm...yeah, this is pretty much AxE rambling with a crappy ending and very little plot that probably doesn't deserve a place on . Most likely won't be continued, and will most likely be disliked by the general majority.
Enjoy!
The funeral was a small affair, with only a handful of figures clad in sombre black around a hole in the ground.
Three of the figures were stood together, and yet they still managed to look disjointed from each other as well as everyone else. The young woman of the group was clasping a hand of each of the two men stood either side of her, leaving no hand free to wipe her eyes, which were streaming silently. Her lips were pink and trembling, her dark hair loose and tumbling down over her shoulders – the wind was playing with it in a failing bid to distract her.
The man to her right was seemingly lost in thought, remembrance, his lips pressed together and sucked in to his mouth as he stared at the box being lowered in to the ground. He work a long black coat and leather gloves, and he looked very tired.
The man to the left of her had very little emotion on his face at all. His head was cocked a few degrees to the side as he surveyed the scene in front of him. And yet, whilst he seemed so unattached, he didn't notice that everyone had left until there was a tug on his hand.
"Arthur," The dark-haired girl sniffed. "You coming?"
The other man was stood a little way off, watching. Arthur glanced at him first, and then to the girl. "Yeah. Gimme a second?"
Although he was addressing the girl, both she and Arthur glanced to the man stood a little way off for confirmation. He nodded. "Take however long you need, Arthur."
Arthur gave a grateful nod. "Thank you, Dom."
"Alright then." The girl sniffled once more, wiping her eyes. She gave Arthur's hand a squeeze. "See you in a bit."
She gave him a lingering look, her mouth turning down in the corners once Arthur turned away from her. She walked over to the other man and they both began walking side by side back the way the rest of the little funeral party had gone.
Once Arthur was sure he was alone, or at least that everyone was out of earshot, he crouched by the grave, very careful not to get his suit trousers dirty. He looked down in to the uncovered hole, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he spoke.
"You're a bastard, Eames. A real bastard."
It was hot and the air smelt of spice and sand. Everything seemed to be a shade of orange or reddish brown, even as the sun set in the sky. Even the backstreets were teaming with life here – lanterns being hung outside doorways and markets opening up out of nowhere. Thick, intoxicating smells floated from concealed cooking pots, adding to the natural spice of the air.
Arthur walked quickly, managing to slip through the crowds without being jostled or jostling in return. He was walking at quite a pace, only enough for it to be a subtle contrast to the people moving around him. Even in the claustrophobic heat he was wearing a dress shirt and waistcoat; but his sleeves were rolled up and there was sweat on his brow. A few strands of hair were hanging over his eyes, which were focused on something in front of him, gaze unwavering.
A figure up ahead disappeared out of sight around a corner and Arthur broke in to a run.
As soon as he began moving quickly the crowd seemed to grow thicker, impossible to negotiate. It appeared to take forever for him to round the same corner as his target, and when he did he only caught the briefest glimpse of that target pushing his way in to the first building on the left. Arthur sidestepped the woman blocking the entrance with a grace that suited him well; he began up the stairs as he saw the man disappear in to a room leading off from the landing.
When Arthur reached that room the wooden shutters were flapping with having been thrown open. He didn't hesitate on the windowsill and jumped on to the flat roof garden below, hitting the ground running. Jumping the railings on to the coarse canopy of the market stall below was effortless, but the landing took more skill. He bounced and fell to one knee on the ground – people yelping in surprise and berating him in their smooth dialect – but pushed onwards, now running full pelt down this much emptier street.
This street opened out on to a road and the figure he was pursuing had already crossed it, not halting the traffic in the slightest. Arthur headed in to the road, dodging and weaving angry vehicles as best as he could. He was gaining on him now – these alleys he'd been lead in to were empty and on a gentle slope, and Arthur knew he was faster than the man he was chasing when it came down to pure speed.
He caught him just as the man slipped inside a derelict building. Arthur grabbed his wrist and a fistful of jacket, twisting the man's arm behind his back and using this grip to shove him face-first against the wall.
"I've got you, you slimy piece of shit. No more running." Arthur was panting, but there was a satisfaction to it, and even more so in the set of his mouth and eyes.
"Violence and swearing. That's no way to greet a dead man, darling." And Eames was managing to laugh through his breathlessness, genuine mirth creasing his eyes as he looked at Arthur over his shoulder.
Arthur turned him around, holding Eames against the wall by his collar and punching him, hard. Eames grunted as his head smacked against the wall, stunned for a moment. He slowly seemed to come to life again after a second, shaking his head once to clear it and sucking on his split bottom lip. The forger spat blood, wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. Arthur glared at him, silently seething, and there was still a smirk twisting Eames' bloodied mouth.
"You're sick." Arthur managed to sneer after a long, heated silence. He let go of Eames, taking a few steps away and turning his back on him; he couldn't stand looking at the smirking face anymore. "What is this? The fifth fucking time-"
"And you always manage to find me." Eames' tone was fond, if slightly sarcastic. Arthur really didn't care, either way. "How many people were there at the funeral this time?"
"More than usual." Arthur muttered. "And you didn't tell Cobb this time, huh? He asked me whether or not I thought you were really dead this time – how the fuck is a guy supposed to answer that? Actually, it's just messed up that he should even feel the need to ask in the first place!"
"What did you say?" Eames asked, his tone wary and the question urgent enough to make him want to retract it straight after.
"I said I didn't know." Arthur replied, obviously disgusted with himself. "But I did. I knew."
"Of course you did." The danger of his little secret being found out was averted, and Eames was back to being smug and nonchalant and utterly detestable. "That's you, Arthur. Mr. Know It All."
There was silence for a long moment, in which Arthur glared at his dust-covered shoes and Eames stared at the uncomfortably dishevelled Point Man.
"You know what?" Arthur formed each word with enough conviction to put a visible scare in to Eames – the forger raised an eyebrow in a display of an attitude he couldn't wholeheartedly back up. "I'm done. I'm going, and I've decided I don't care how many times you fake your own death after this. I don't give a shit, and I don't want to have to lay eyes on you ever again."
Arthur was halfway out of the darkening doorway when Eames grabbed his forearm with a calloused hand. "You have no idea what it's like-"
"That's bullshit." Arthur snapped and Eames winced, knowing he'd picked exactly the wrong words. He let go of Arthur's arm, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. "I know exactly what it's like because I've been there every step of the way. Do you know how much of the money I earn on extraction jobs I spend on phone bills, because you've rang me from God-knows-where, needing to talk?"
"Do you remember what it was like," Eames placed each word like a footstep on a tightrope, and Arthur tried to ignore the shake in his voice. "When Cobol was after you and Cobb?"
"Because it's easily forgettable, yeah?" Arthur muttered, turning to look at Eames with as much disgust as he could muster whilst unable to properly see the other man's face – the light outside was fading fast. They'd obviously ended up in an unused, remote part of the small rural town.
"You know what I meant." Eames chastised. "Well...take that feeling and multiply it by a hundred. With all that I do...with who I am and the situations I get myself in to-"
"Gambling debts. One night stands with people who enjoy revenge. More gambling debts-"
"And worse." Eames cut Arthur off in such a way that the dark-haired man fell silent with intentions of staying so. The forger tested this quiet for a moment before continuing in a voice that made Arthur want to shudder. "Cobol are tame compared to who's after me, love. Tame as kittens. And that's why I have to keep doing this-"
"Liar." Arthur muttered, discovering just how much of an aversion to silence he really had. "You like the thrill of it. Being able to make a whole new life for yourself whenever you want."
"I do it to keep the handful of people on this planet I actually care about out of harm's way." Eames mumbled against his thumb, which he'd pressed to his bottom lip and then inspected to gauge how much it was bleeding.
"Bullshit – unless that handful of people is made up of you, you and-"
"Will you shut the fuck up for one moment?"
"Why don't you try to make me?"
Then they were fighting again. Arthur's fist whistled past Eames' ear after an almost non-existent dodge, and Eames rammed his shoulder in to him. Arthur stumbled, but regained his footing too quickly for Eames to avoid Arthur's foot hitting the inside of his knee; Eames fell, but he grabbed Arthur and pulled him down with him. They rolled, sending up clouds of dust and sand as they grappled. But Eames was physically stronger, more muscular. He soon had Arthur pinned, his forearm pressing down on the point man's neck and effectively stopping him from talking.
Everything went still, and the only noises left to fill the air were heavy breathing and cicadas.
The sky outside was the deepest blue and set with stars, but the moon cast light in through the window with its broken shutters, sending bands of light across both of their faces. Trying not to let Eames' superior position phase him, Arthur just glared. Glared enough to be able to see a flicker of pain in Eames' eyes – the cockiness was all gone, not even a trace of it left. If he'd known silence would be this effective, Arthur would have tried it sooner.
But then Eames was kissing him and for a split second he forgot about everything apart from those lips.
A moment and no longer, then Arthur was shoving Eames off of him, scrambling to his feet and brushing himself down. Eames sat up; strips of moonlight through the shutters cast a bar of light across his eyes, and one across his mouth; the forger's expression was defensive. Arthur had forgotten the capacity Eames' eyes had for showing hurt.
"It's not like that's the first time we've fucking kissed. What's wrong-"
"I didn't come all this way to kiss you." Arthur growled. "Eames, I swear to God, I've had enough-"
"Then come with me and I'll stop." Eames got slowly to his feet, like he was backing away from a wild animal capable of lashing out and killing him at any moment. He had his hands held out in front of him in a placating gesture, and they were trembling. "That's all there is to it."
Arthur rocked unsteadily on his feet, only a subtle sway although it felt like he'd been shoved hard in the chest. His mouth was gaping in a way that Arthur himself could've only described as unsightly, and his heart had decided to go for a quick run around his ribcage.
"That's what this is all about?" He asked, finally, after a silence that had made his ears start ringing. He hadn't even noticed the cicadas had shut up. "Me?"
Eames didn't reply. He merely straightened up, put his hands in his pockets, waited. His defensiveness remained, and yet there still managed to be enough goddamn hurt in his eyes for Arthur to feela tug somewhere beneath his ribcage.
"Eames," Arthur said simply; it was all he could muster.
Something tightened in Eames' jaw.
"Eames," Arthur repeated, and then something seemed to crumble and a few more words came tumbling out. "Fuck, Eames, what am I supposed to do? Give up...give up..."
Everything? He didn't have enough for it to be called everything.
"What would we do? I've never...I never thought that you...were that serious about..."
"We could do whatever we wanted. New lives, new places – we could still play the Extraction game, if we wanted. No limitations." Eames' voice had a new quality to it, something that made Arthur feel cold, shiver in a way that wasn't entirely pleasurable.
"I was right. You do do it for the thrill." Arthur muttered – no, more of a whisper. "It's not about me at all. You're just...getting lonely."
Eames seemed to snap out of his reverie, looking at Arthur as if he'd only just realised the point man was standing there. For a moment he just breathed, wide-eyed and trying to remember what they'd been talking about. But then he was back. He always came back.
"It's rich, isn't it?" His voice was almost a purr. "Me, someone who can be whoever they want to be in dreams, be with whoever they want...suffering from a lack of company."
"I'm not good company."
"Neither am I, darling."