the prompt was: five items of jewelry he gave her. Because, hard as it might possibly be, someone noticed the only time Ariadne wore jewelry was in the hotel layer, and well... fangirls don't need an excuse.
Metamorpheus
.hong kong.
She stands in front of the hotel closet, examining the mirror. The dress is a heavy polyester blend that swishes and drapes, somehow dark and purple and rust all at once. Vivienne said it made her skin look alabaster. Ariadne didn't remind her roommate that as a master's candidate in architecture, she was fully aware of what alabaster looks like and this is not it.
She struggles to buckle the straps of her shoes, slips on the gold bracelets and finds the necklace. Vivienne said it was perfect for this wedding reception because 'it hangs temptingly between her breasts', a Vivism for gives the groomsmen an excuse to look at cleavage. Of course, this is not a wedding reception, and Ariadne only cares for one man's opinion.
This is not a wedding reception, and Ariadne was not invited.
Arthur doesn't like this job. He's managed half an hour on a Tokyo train with Cobb, but this is a party and Tai-Long Cho's girlfriend is the daughter of a prominent Triad boss. It takes him three days to accept that Ariadne will have to come so Li-Hua will not go looking for her boyfriend. The first two days were spent researching exactly how many young men leave Hong Kong earlier than planned after expressing 'too much' interest in her.
Ariadne wonders if she should do something about her hair. This is a party, large and extravagant enough that a man like Cho can go out for a cigarette, come back an hour later and still not miss the toast. The stone pendant warms against her skin.
There's a knock. She checks to see who it is out of habit, not at all surprised that it is the point man, dressed to the nines and then some. She opens the door and drinks in the sight of him. Honestly, she could drown like this and happily.
Arthur, it seems, is not nearly so enamored of her attire. He barely looks.
Dmitri at least lets loose a low whistle and says something in Russian before complimenting her in English. The glare Arthur gives him is positively glacial, so he makes his excuses and heads for the lift.
The necklace. Take it off.
Her protests trail away when she sees him holding out the replacement. There are at least a hundred fine gold links meshed together like Midas himself chose one of her scarves to adorn her.
She almost doesn't feel the pendant slide away. Arthur's necklace is heavy and hard, like reality, and she wonders if she might turn to gold.
Better.
If she did, it might be enough.
.
.london.
London is dark and wet and it's no wonder Dickens spent more time writing about it than walking through it. She ends up wearing the brightest scarves she has just to counter the depressing weather.
Covent Garden is a wealth of sights and sounds and she thinks it might be the one place that still remembers color. Arthur, in his slate grey suit, stands out here. She much prefers this to losing him in the dim dreariness afflicting the rest of the city.
She doesn't notice her summer pink scarf slithering away into the pocket of some Artful Dodger.
Oi!
Ariadne turns to look because the voice is practically at her elbow. Arthur has a boy by the collar, struggling to escape.
Give it back.
Now hang on a tick, you can't just-
She spots a familiar flush of color spilling out of his coat.
My scarf! It flies free like a magic trick, so she and Arthur don't give chase when the thief slips out of his jacket and into the crowd.
I thought this was supposed to be a nation of shopkeepers, mutters Arthur. Not a breeding ground for criminal inclinations.
Eames would be offended by that comparison, she giggles.
Arthur doesn't even bother responding.
It seems rude to reach for her totem in the middle of a café with Arthur sitting right there, but she's really not sure what she's supposed to do. A red leather box could hold anything from binary explosives to a computer chip, just like a safe, but you don't want to show those off in public.
But if she's not supposed to open it, then he wouldn't have given it to her here and now, and she certainly wouldn't be getting little tastes of anxiety from the way he is watching her stare at it.
The lid flicks open, and it's not a detonator or even a precisely accurate watch.
The knowing eyes of an iconic leopard, curled possessively around a crimson cabochon, glint mischievously.
You can't be giving this to me, she gasps.
Why not?
Without even going into the paradoxical architecture that is our relationship, this is Cartier.
Yes, it is. What do you mean paradoxical?
She ignores him. You don't believe in empty gifts, which means you expect me to wear this-
Often, he adds.
Often!
With all the scarves you own, I thought a brooch would be perfect. Unless you don't like it. Do you like it?
Why are you giving it to me? If we were any other two people in the world, we'd be dating by now. But we're not so we're not, so you explain to me where you get off buying classic Cartier for a coworker you've kissed once.
He considers this, turns it over in his mind, reading her frustration and her fear and comes to a conclusion. He carefully pins the cat to the cream colored cotton covering her neck. Then he reaches around and presses her lips to his.
It's like an explosion of stillness, far too many feelings clawing at her for escape and she won't move a cell, because what if Arthur stops? She remembers another box, given to another girl, and the curse of Hope inside it.
Twice, he corrects, fingers lingering in her hair, and turns to ask the waitress to bring the cheque.
.
.kyoto.
Ariadne doesn't get Noh. She thinks she knows why other people, like the mark's boyfriend, might enjoy it, but this is not her idea of a dinner-and-a-show show. She collects details like flowers and soon the theatre is complete in her head. She doesn't know how well-versed projections can be in dance.
Of all the things to do in Kyoto, she doesn't understand why anyone would watch a story instead of living it. And Kyoto is such a wondrous story. It doesn't bother her in the least she has to memorize it for work.
Arthur plays the rich indulgent boyfriend so well she never once forgets it's not real.
He pays for a Gordian orgy of silk and brocade and the women packing them in rice paper titter behind their sleeves when he suggests she wear the blue one out.
She discovers Arthur can't sleep for more than four hours at a time without 'help' and it probably wouldn't be any different honestly, if he were a lawyer or a doctor. He says he spends the rest of the time meditating, which is generally more resting than relying on peaceful dreams.
There's one afternoon of tourist-tea ceremony, he feeds her sea urchin without telling her what it is, then gives her dozen boxes of wagashi to make up for it.
She absolutely hates Kyoto by the time they board the plane and do the job. She knows she enjoyed every single day there because Arthur was being charming and romantic. It twists inside her, a tight knot of hurt and longing, because clearly he knows how 'romance' works and she doesn't deserve any.
They land, and when she sees her suitcases, she seriously considers just letting them spin on the carousel forever and ever. If she walked away now, they would never find her again. The kimono, the paper fan, the darling little glass wind chime, the talisman from the temple, she'd never see them again because there's a fake name and someone else's address on the tag.
Arthur though… he would find her. If he wanted to.
Like right now. He's pushing a cart loaded with their bags and he handles the gimpy thing as expertly as his own gun. She doesn't say no to sharing a cab.
Job's done, he starts.
Yeah. So what now?
I give you this and hope you take it the right way.
Inside the masses of tissue paper is a simple hairpin topped with one little flower. Gently, tenderly she thinks, he pulls her hair away from her neck and makes a sloppy bun that falls away when the wheel hits uneven pavement.
.
.athens.
He takes her to Greece, for no reason other than we can. She wonders if they are laying low because they're not as good as she thought they were. It must be fairly easy hiding a girl named Ariadne next to Athens.
She's not sure she can believe him when he says he just thought she would like Greece. She's spent more time deconstructing ancient Roman architecture, which, despite being an amalgam of Grecian and Etruscan engineering, was worth more credit. Now she imagines concrete to the Romans was like the little needle in her wrist. To be able to ignore the rules governing all the architecture they knew, and discover what they were truly capable of building... she doesn't think anything can compare.
There is no mention of going to see the Labyrinth at Knossos, which is just as well, because she doesn't want to hear more about girls named Ariadne and the shit they put up with for love.
Instead they climb the steps to the Parthenon, and Arthur actually has to dab sweat off his face, which delights her more than it really should. She tosses a quick meaningless prayer to Athena, goddess of wisdom and military strategy, since it is Arthur and she doesn't like the idea of arrows, even in the hands of a god.
They go to the Monastiraki market on Sunday, because Ariadne can not pass up the chance to wade through hundreds of people in search of interesting bargains. She happily attaches herself to a brilliant scarlet scarf and she brightens when she notices Arthur has a stupid grin teasing the corners of his mouth as she gives the little girl her money. She spots it once more when she picks up a twist of purple that is all fringe, and again when she drops it for a loop of cerulean blue silk, and then when she stood contemplating canary yellow cotton. She looks through all the stalls and stores and spread blankets and doesn't buy anything else, just to spite him.
She wears her new scarf the next day, and a corner catches on someone's purse as she walks by. It unravels quickly, as if in the hands of fate; nearly a third is undone by the time she realizes. She wads it up and stuffs it into her bag, messy tangle of life and all. When they return to their room, she takes it out with a sigh, and tries to snap off the loose thread with her fingers.
Use this. Arthur holds out a pocket knife.
I have no idea how to do this, so I don't know why I'm bothering. It doesn't occur to her until after the words have left her mouth that she might not be talking about her scarf. She can't face him now, so she throws it on the table and crawls under the covers, knowing he won't join her.
In the morning, a slim plait of storybook red is tied around her wrist, and a tightly muscled arm is wrapped around her waist.
.
.paris.
He didn't propose. She never expected him to, but it annoys her anyway. A man gives a girl a ring that magically fits her ring finger best, and he's not even there to see her put it on. It was on his pillow, the pillow he slept on when he did sleep, four shapes in silver connected one to the others like some sickly good luck plant. She put it together quickly, and tried to find something significant in the way the bands flowed around each other, some hidden meaning meant for her alone.
There isn't one. It's just a pretty little token for a pretty little girl, even if she is smarter than the average bear.
She takes it off, because clearly it's more about the puzzle than the promise; as if in agreement, the rings slide into disarray. She puts it back together, like Humpty Dumpty and if this is the meaningful message he's trying to give her, she is never letting him back in her apartment again, and she's telling the landlady he put cigarette burns in her wallpaper.
She wonders when she became an addictive personality. First it was the dreaming. Now it's the dreamer. It figures Yusuf would forget to mention if there are side effects to his drugs.
A manual would have been really nice.
Dear User it would go. Now that you're regularly injecting yourself with drugs meant to separate your conscious mind from your body and draw it into someone else's dream, there are a few things you should be aware of. (For a list of drugs you should not ingest, see Appendix A.)
Don't assume the man in your dreams is the man of your dreams. None of these men are going to treat you like a princess. Certainly not the one that kissed you.
Don't think too much; knowledge isn't just power, it's change. And changing things can get you shot, stabbed, trapped in raw subconscious or consistently screwed by the ghost of girlfriends past.
An idea is like a virus. If you get it in your head he feels the same way, it will eat at you until there is nothing left. You will build whole worlds and impossible structures only because he asks you to. Soon pure creation won't be enough unless he gives his approval. You'll be breaking international laws and violating human rights, and for no other reason but I want to be with him. And when you're just a shade, trapped in a half-formed world, he won't look for you, not even to glance over his shoulder.
A manual would have been really nice. She should write one. How to Fly with Wax and Somnacin she'll call it. And when she gets to the part about falling...
She wakes up with a desperate gasp. There is no ring on the pillow. Instead, Arthur is looking at her in concern.
You alright?
I'm fine. She catches the sparkle of sunlight on her hand. Really.
His expression clearly says he doesn't believe her. He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and tilts her face up as if he can search her memories through her eyeballs.
No one died. I just... I dreamt that I was a moment you came to regret.
He frowns at that, and she can't help a soft laugh.
There's a reason people wake up, she reminds him. This is mine.
Did this a while back for an inceptionkink prompt. I think I got rid of all the lj tags. I could be wrong. And, if anyone was wondering, I knew all the major Greek myths and most of the minor by the time I was twelve, and no I didn't have any friends, and yes having a brain is so much better than a heart or the noive even though no I haven't done anything new in months.
If you can spot all the mythological references, you can has a cookie.