Mirror, Mirror

Arthur wandered around the labyrinth of dusty streets and ridiculously narrow alleys. The derelict, triple-gallery buildings reminded him of New Orleans but with an Arabic twist. Shifting his way through the light crowds, he passed numerous ramshackle stalls selling things that seemed totally misplaced, like Persian rugs and apples alongside each other, battered red shoes and spindles of vividly coloured wool.

He wasn't exactly sure where he was heading and he unbuttoned the top button of his crisp shirt as the heat started to become slightly intolerable. He was about turn a corner when brown blur plummeted down in front of his eyes and exploded at his feet.

The projections around him froze in place, becoming suspicious. Arthur briefly inspected the shattered pieces of a clay pot and looked up, squinting due to the sunlight.

Three stories above him, with his legs dangling over the side of the building, sat Eames with a smirk on his face, the cornflower blue sky spread out behind him.

"You took your time," Eames shouted.

"Had to make sure the room was secure," Arthur called back. He indicated to the pot fragments. "I assume that it wasn't supposed to hit me."

Eames gave a boyish shrug. He waited for the projections to return to a placid state then leaned back and pulled a large bundle up from behind the wall he sat on.

"Step back," Eames instructed and he pushed the bundle off the wall, which rapidly uncoiled in to an unsophisticated, rope ladder with plaited rungs. A look of incredulity crossed Arthur's pointed features before he tested the ladder's strength. It seemed secure enough and he ascended it quickly, reaching the flat rooftop in less than a minute.

"You couldn't have just put in a door and some stairs," Arthur said as he hauled himself over the side, panting slightly. "Wouldn't that have been more practical?"

"I could have but I would like to have a chance to teach you the basics before your subconscious gets pissed and rips me to shreds." Arthur raised his eyebrows in concordance and began to pull the ladder up from the ground.

A delayed thought bloomed in Eames' mind and he narrowed his eyes. "You had to make sure the room was secure?" he said with disbelief. "Arthur, we are hiding out on subantarctic island that is accessible only by a boat from Madagascar. The only people around here are the budding biologists in Port-aux-Français who, by the way, think we're idiots."

"That's because you told them we were on our honeymoon."

Eames chuckled.

"And there is no point in taking any unnecessary risks." Arthur dumped the ladder in a neat roll on the ground and stood beside Eames, surveying the scene.

The village was reminiscent of Old Town in Mombasa, Arthur guessed, based on Eames' description of the place. It was a hodgepodge of Eastern and Portuguese architecture, along with colourful, flat-roofed buildings with fretwork balconies. Most of the town was encircled by a wild, green jungle except for the east side, which was hugged at the edges by a thin snake of glimmering gold sand and a magnificent sea.

"This is nice," Arthur murmured and he closed his eyes, revelling in the warm sunlight.

Eames gave a short hum of agreement. "You should come to Mombasa one day," he said, trying to sound casual. "Appreciate it fully."

Arthur reopened his eyes, focusing on the sea. "Maybe," he replied distantly. "So, are you going to tell me how forgery work or not?"

This was the reason for their current dream-sharing experience. Eames, who was in a fairly foul mood due to the bitterly cold weather locking them away in their small cabin, had been sketching portraits for new identities he could assume in dreams.

After three hours of trying to coax more than a few words and grunts out of Eames, Arthur became inquisitive about the nature of Forgery. However, Eames flat-out refused to discuss his art unless they used the last few droplets of Somnacin to enter a dream that was hot and based on somewhere that, in his words, 'actually sees more than seven spells of sunshine a year.'

"Well," started Eames cautiously, "You're not going to like this, but it does involve deceiving to yourself and working from memory."

Arthur's head snapped around to look at Eames. "Are you serious?"

"Look, it's just more straight-forward to start with representation when it comes to forgery." Eames was aware of how Arthur's body had tensed up, so he continued in a calm, eloquent tone. "You adopt a physical presence instead of creating a new one. You are going to dwell on the memory of a person and then anticipate it in your imagination, if you can actually do that. You then bring this idea out and lay it out before the view of others."

"And the lying?"

"Self-deception is endemic. Most people spend time in a bubble of self-image that is falsely self-induced. We'd be buggered without it." Eames cracked a smile to himself. "It's a painful experience to be confronted by our flaws and failures. We have to preserve our potentially fragile self-esteem somehow."

Arthur, keeping his face neutral, focused on the azure-green waters of the ocean with its sparkling waves crashing lazily upon the sands. Arthur didn't want to admit that watching Mal unravel still disturbed him. The notion of him losing his secure grasp of reality chilled him to the core of his bones and they both knew by introducing memories and lies into the dream was the first and fastest way to lose that grasp.

"If you don't want to continue, that's fine," said Eames gently. "We'll just go down to the beach or something. But I will never let what happened to Mal happen to you, I swear."

Arthur pushed down a flair of irritation, annoyed that he could be so transparent. He turned his head to look at Eames, whose expression was concerned and protective. Arthur held Eames' gaze for a moment and then he nodded. He wanted to learn, and if he was here, he was warm.

Eames kept his eyes on Arthur's face for a little longer than necessary before swivelling himself off the wall.

"Besides," said Eames blithely, "I've done this for years and I'm okay."

Arthur followed him to a triptych of large, highly polish mirrors that had appeared in the centre of the flat roof. Eames indicted for him to stand in front of them.

"Forgery itself is based in the mechanics of suppression," he began. "It's an act of self-deception and outward deception. You are the criminal and the victim."

"Paradox."

"Precisely." Eames walked behind the mirrors. "So, for example," Arthur blinked at the new light, sweet female voice, "You've been out drinking and you reach the point were you know you are not fit to drive."

A youngish woman with garnet-coloured tresses and startling green eyes materialised, looking exquisite in a gauzy pink gown. Her succulent lips broke out into a bright, toothy smile and she winked her right eye.

"This is an anxious and an unhappy thought," she said, weaving her hands through the air and circling Arthur and the mirrors as she spoke. "The mind then plots something along the lines of, 'If I believe I am unfit to drive, I shall be ashamed and upset, so I had better not believe it: let me tell myself that it is not true.'"

"Have you done that many times?" asked Arthur dryly as she vanished behind the mirrors once more. An unfamiliar, masculine laugh rose in the air and a tall, elderly man with a neat white beard emerged on the other side. He leaned lazily against the side of the mirror.

"You need to know the truth, very precisely, in order to hide it more carefully. Not as two different moments of temporality, but in the unitary structure of one and the same. And this is where mirrors come in handy."

Arthur watched the man's wrinkled hand stretch across to centre mirror, the reflected image showing Eames' own arm slither across the glass, and knock the back of his knuckles on the shiny surface. Arthur glanced back to Eames, who had reverted back to his own form. He sent Arthur a soft smile.

"You keeping up?"

Arthur nodded and Eames moved to be behind him, placing his hands on his shoulders.

"To start with, there's you, the truth. The mirror is the lie and the image is the fusion of both. When the forging process is complete, this is reversed. The mirror becomes truth and you are the lie. When you see the new image, you will need to look away. And if you look back at the mirror, you will see your own body and that's when your subconscious mind will realise it's a lie and the illusion will collapse."

"You see," Eames leaned forward and whispered in to Arthur's ear, "Mirrors can see in to your heart of hearts."

Eames withdrew himself, smirking at Arthur's look of bewilderment. He pulled up a wicker chair and sat to the side of Arthur and the mirrors.

"What you are going to do now is focus on the memory of a person. Once you have conjured up their physical appearance, focus their essence, everything about them that makes them unique and allow that image fill you up."

As Arthur fixed his eyes his mirrored twin, Eames spoke again.

"And pick someone who elicits positivity because when you start with forgery, if there is a hint of negativity, your subconscious will be motivated to try to protect you."

Furrowing his brow, Arthur looked at Eames. "How come?"

"Well, you are manipulating yourself, aren't you. We raise fewer cavils if we enjoy what is being related to us. It's like with urban legends and such. People have a surprising willingness to accept stories of miracles as a result of the 'agreeable passion' for surprise and wonder. There is a pleasant incentive and the part of the mind you are lying to will accept it more easily."

"So forgery has its roots in emotion?"

Eames made a tipping gesture with his right hand.

"Pleasure and pain provide motivations for believing things, but not reasons. We don't intentionally plan to believe something we know not to be true, we just find ourselves believing things which, has our emotions not been involved, we would have the good sense to doubt."

"You can mislead yourself but without the intention to deceive."

"Exactly. It becomes an act of seduction. But really, at the absolute basic, it's just about believing you are the other person."

With a nod, Arthur returned his to gaze back on to his reflection. Everything Eames had said was running through his mind like a continuous ribbon being pulled. He started to conjure up memories of his father, trying to recall everything he could about him, feelings admiration and respect flickering around, whilst willing for his reflection to change shape. However, conflicting thoughts slowly trickled in to his head as it dawned on him that he was literally doing what he had been trying to achieve during his late teens early twenties.

Eames silently studied Arthur with a neutral expression. He wasn't expecting Arthur to succeed first time but he was aware of how desperate the Point Man wanted to get it right. Like him, Arthur wasn't fond of failure. He observed Arthur's cheeks tense and his lips harden, getting thinner and thinner with each passing minute. When a crease engraved itself between Arthur's eyebrows, Eames broke in gently.

"Who you trying to be?"

"It doesn't matter. It didn't work."

"You're not giving up are you?" asked Eames with a slight teasing smile.

"No," Arthur shot back immediately and he pushed his fingers through his hair. "Of course not."

Arthur inhaled deeply and tried again. His mind rifted through various people and those he had strong positive emotions towards. For his second attempt, closed his eyes and dwelled on Ariadne. Her image burned so bright in his mind and his friendly affection for her filled him up as he thought about her quirks. He was sure he had it this time. He opened his eyes and saw only himself. He waited a little longer, telling himself over and over that he was Ariadne, wanting desperately to see the young architect in front of him.

Time passed and Arthur's stoic face tinged with pink. Eames appreciated that Arthur was putting so much effort in, but he had been hoping that the experience would be fun for Arthur, a chance to let go, rather that be something that so obviously frustrated him. He rose up out of his chair.

"Alright. Let's try something else, shall we?" Eames said softly. He moved behind Arthur once more and he moulded his chest in to Arthur's spine. He nestled his chin against the curve of Arthur's neck and said, "Fix your attention on my reflection."

In the mirror, Arthur's dark eyes met Eames' twinkling gaze. Arthur became aware that their breathing was in sync, their chests slowly rising and falling together in unison and the exasperation he had been feeling oozed out of him.

"Why don't I be your muse for a bit, hmm? See if you can be me."

Eames moved back to the sidelines.

For the third time, Arthur steadied his mind. With Eames near by, he didn't so much as concentrate on his appearance, but rather he felt it. He gently clutched on to the very basic idea of what Eames was. He was his opposite. Where Eames zigged, Arthur zagged. Their natures were totally paradoxical. They were everything the other wasn't.

A cosmic duality, constantly clashing against one another.

And yet, they worked. They worked so perfectly that any separation would always be an impractical one. They flowed in to one another so well that it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

If Eames grieved, if he was hurt, Arthur's heart broke for him, as if that pain was his own.

When he was content, Eames acted as though sunshine flowed in his veins.

A warm, obvious notion slipped over Arthur and a smile tugged at his lips. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before now.

Eames was always going to be a part of his being. They were two sides of the same coin. Nothing was ever going to change that.

New colours in the left mirror caught his eye. He glinted over image and quickly swivelled his eyes back to the central mirror and gaped at his altered reflection.

He was Eames.

He was Eames and he was Arthur.

With a short little laugh of disbelief, Arthur tilted his head a few times, watching the image of Eames mimic his actions. He stroked his new torso that was clad in a muted candy pink shirt. He had even added the gold watch that constantly adorned Eames' wrist and a wallet chain hooked on the belt buckle of a pair of tweed trousers.

Arthur was awed.

Captivated by his new appearance, he moved closer. He watched himself bring up his hands up to his face and caress the stubbly surface, pushing the flesh on his cheekbones up and down with his fingers. He wrinkled his nose a few times and flared his nostrils before stroking the soft creases that edged his slate blue eyes. He rose his eyebrows up and down, watching the lines on his forehead appear and reappear. He tugged on the voluptuous, pink lips and it made Arthur think of the spongy texture of marshmallow. He smiled and grimaced and smiled again, observing the dimples that emerged in his cheeks. He ran his tongue across his teeth and then expelled it from his mouth and his own firm, American voice filled his ears.

"Do you mind doing that to my face?"

Arthur whipped himself around and reeled back. His own body stood near the chair Eames had been sat in. It wasn't his demeanour though. It was far too relaxed.

"Eames," Arthur began but his hand flinched to his neck, startled by his new English accent. Whatever he had been about to say was swallowed up in his throat. He couldn't speak, totally overwhelmed. He was inside Eames' body, controlling its movements and Eames was doing the exact same thing with his.

Arthur saw himself laugh, full-throated and warm. "Well, there couldn't be two Eames'," he joked. "I don't think even the dream world could handle that." Arthur watched himself come towards him and stroke his collar. "Love the shirt, darling."

Arthur finally removed his hands from his throat and glanced down at them, flexing them, feeling the fit. "This is…" he began. "It's…" Arthur was still stuck for words. They were each other.

"Yeah, it's always a bit strange the first time," said Eames airily. "I am impressed though. You actually listened to me for once." His forged self was faultless. He considered his form with curiosity, wondering what exactly had propelled Arthur to create such a perfect forgery. Without thinking, Eames began to place his hands in his back pockets.

"Don't you dare."

Eames dropped his hands to his sides. "Sorry. Bad habit."

"Since I wouldn't want you to fall back on that habit, Eames, can we return to normal?"

Eames smiled. "You already have."

Arthur looked down to see his own body. The enchantment was broken. He brought his hands to his face, feeling its familiar contours and looked in the mirror to check.

Eames had also switched back to normal. "You acknowledged that you were a lie. Just as good." He glanced at his watch. "We've about a minute left." Eames sighed and looked around his dream, wishing he didn't have to return to reality so soon.

Arthur trailed his fingers along his smooth cheek to his mouth. He missed the cushiony texture of the full, thick lips that he had belonged to him for a few minutes. He wanted to touch those lips again.

As he thought of this, Eames started laughing. For a ridiculous second, he thought that Eames must have been thinking he had lip envy.

"What are you laughing at?" Arthur asked.

Eames shook his head. "Nothing," he replied, a silent laugh shaking his shoulders and smirks escaping the corners of his closed mouth.

"Tell me."

Eames giggled a moment longer. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes."

"All right." He paused, took a deep breath and held Arthur's gaze. "I just started thinking about shape-shifting in fairytales and thought, 'Wouldn't it be funny if I had to told you that the only way to transform back was with a kiss?'"

Arthur's face went blank.

"I was joking, obviously," Eames said quickly. "You know how fairytales work, frog turns back in to a prince, the princess wakes up and lives happy ever after. In the modern versions anyway…" Eames stopped rambling, distracted.

Arthur had his usual solemn expression but something new was tainting it. Something was ticking over and over in Arthur's mind and he wasn't bothering to hide it.

Eames wondered if he had gone too far. He was about to offer an apology and ask him if he was okay when Arthur stepped towards him and gently cupped his hands around his face.

Arthur swept his eyes over Eames' face as if a veil had been lifted and he was seeing his face for the very first time. Tenderly, he stroked the coarse skin with his thumbs, delicately sliding his left thumb over Eames' cupid bow and back to his cheek.

Eames felt himself sinking down in Arthur's eyes. He was becoming lost in the deep, rich brown sea. After a long moment of silence, Eames finally managed to croak, "What are you doing?"

Arthur leant forwards and gently pushed his lips on to Eames' mouth. It was soft and warm, just like he had expected.

Taken aback, it took Eames a couple of seconds to respond. He started to return Arthur's kiss and was about to raise his hands so he could caress Arthur's lower back when his eyelids fluttered open and he found himself back in their icy fortress, with Arthur by his side.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read.

I'm so glad I finished this. I spent ages rewriting it. It was going to be a drama and it just didn't work and I couldn't think of an ending for ages and I was watching The Princess and the Frog and I was just like 'ahaaa!' So I went back and made it fairytale-esque.

Always appreciate feedback. Thanks again xx

Disclaimer: I own zip.