it's only true if you say it.
Arthur was cold.
Not just in this instance, but he seemed to have been flung into a state of perpetual coldness. For months now, all he felt was cold.
It was better than feeling nothing, he would tell himself.
He half yearned for a wool blanket, or even an extra pair of socks, but he knew that it wouldn't help. He knew that only the arms of a lover, a half of a whole, would ever make him warm again.
He would hold the glock in one hand, die in the other. Every time he'd hope that it would roll anything but a three, so he could shoot himself and wake from this nightmare.
He played and replayed scenarios in his mind countless times; he'd wake, Eames would already be up and walking, teasing him about this and that, perhaps this time about being tardy for an engagement.
Three. He tried again.
The first time they kissed, they were on the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, in their hotel room after a long day. Arthur remembered how surprised he was when Eames didn't push him away, let alone clock him once in the face.
The second time they kissed was far less romantic, if you could call the first time romantic in the first place. A hasty kiss goodbye outside the airport in Wroclaw so the team wouldn't see wasn't Arthur's idea of romance.
Mind you, nothing about Eames was Arthur's idea of romance.
But he was better than an idea.
He was real.
The third time they kissed lead to their first time together. Arthur could still remember the heat radiating from Eames's body in their cold hotel room in Oslo, and how he knew that he never wanted to have anyone else in his arms ever again.
He could see it in the way that Eames slept soundlessly that he felt the same way.
The fourth time they kissed, Eames asked him if they were in love. Arthur simply stepped back, cocked his eyebrow in a very Arthur-like way, and asked him what he meant.
"Well, I think my question is quite straight-forward, darling."
"That doesn't make it any less ridiculous."
"I beg to differ."
Arthur sighed.
"What does it matter if we're "in love" or not? It never bothered you before." he used finger quotations and a head-bob that made him feel like a sixteen year old girl.
"I don't know." Eames always spoke his mind, whether he had something on it or not.
"Well let's solve this riddle." Arthur moved closer to Eames, putting his hands on his chest and running them downwards, feeling the material of his shirt on the palms of his hands. "Do you like me?"
"Not a bit." Eames shook his head.
"Well that helps, because I don't like you much either." Arthur ran his hands back up to the top of his shirt, and made his way seamlessly to the buttons on his shirt."Do you like-"
Eames wouldn't let him finish before catching his mouth in a deep kiss; tongues fighting one another for dominance. Eames broke the kiss with a nip to Arthur's lips, and directed him towards the bed.
Eames had Arthur in a one-armed embrase, stroking his shoulderblade with his thumb. He held a cigarette between his other fingers. Arthur leaned against his lover's torso and held onto the warm arm that anchored him to reality. He tried mindlessly to synchonize their breathing together, mimicing the rise and fall of Eames's chest with his own. Eames butted out the cigarette and kissed Arthur on the top of his head before saying "Well, I guess that answers that question."
"I suppose you're right."
"Well?"
"Well what?" Arthur turned his head awkwardly to meet Eames's eyes.
"Well, come on. Say it."
"Say what?"
"You know. the whole 'I love you' bit." He frowned matter-of-factly. "You are a secret romantic, I know it. You're dying to say it already. So..."
"So?"
"Well get on with it. I need to get to bed sometime tonight."
Arthur turned his head back down to get comfortable again. "I'm not the hopeless romantic you were wishing for." He half shrugged. "I don't see the point if we both know, anyway."
"Now that's a load of bull." Eames scratched his chin absent-mindly. "And you know it."
Arthur said nothing.
"It's only true if you say it." Eames murmered.
Arthur rolled over to meet his eyes. "Is it really that important to you?"
Eames was silent. He broke the gaze to look out the window.
Arthur rolled back over, and pulled the blanket over them.
"Good night, then."
"Good night." Arthur paused, and added in a low, soft voice, "And I love you, too."
Three. He tried again.
Arthur dreamed one night. He hadn't dreamed since god- knows-when without help from the PASIV, but that night, Arthur dreamed.
He dreamed of an average morning, reading an average story in the newspaper in his average apartment drinking his average coffee. Everything was content. The moment the bedroom door swung open, however, the morning went from average to spectacular, the story in the newspaper riveting, apartment superb and coffee sublime. All because Eames, his love, his other half, woke up lazily, scratching his eye.
"Morning, love."
This dream was rudely interrupted by a knock to his door.
When Arthur answered his door, hair slightly tussled, sleep barely out of his eyes, the confusion was apparent in his face as he saw Cobb on the other side of the frame.
"Dom, this is a ... surprise. Why didn't you call?" Not that he didn't appreciate the visit from an old friend.
"Arthur..."
Cobb didn't need to finish. Arthur already knew what he was going to say.
"There's been ... Eames is gone."
All the warmth left that very moment.
Three. He tried again.
Arthur was cold.
Not just in this instance, but he seemed to have been flung into a state of perpetual coldness. For months now, all he felt was cold.
It was better than feeling nothing, he would tell himself.
He would hold the glock in one hand, die in the other. Every time he'd hope that it would roll anything but a three, so he could shoot himself and wake from this nightmare.
He played and replayed scenarios in his mind countless times; he'd wake, Eames would already be up and walking, teasing him about this and that, perhaps this time about being tardy for an engagement.
Three. He tried again.
This time, Eames had already brewed coffee; he turned to Arthur and told him he looked well-rested.
Three. He tried again.
As the die left his hand, he felt something warm. It was a foreign feeling, after being cold for so long. He looked up to the window. It was bright and hazy, but in the back of Arthur's mind, he knew.
Eames held Arthur's hand and pulled him up into a long, soft embrace. Arthur could feel the knot in his chest loosen as he cupped Eames's strong jaw to draw him in.
When they broke apart, Arthur wasn't sure if it was him or Eames that spoke next, but he knew they felt the same way.
"Come back to me."
Arthur didn't look down to the die and pulled the trigger instead.
A/N : This fic is based off of the picture "it's only true if you mean it" on Deviantart by Osaka-Reaper