A/N: Soooooooo...it has been FOREVER since I've uploaded anything. I've just been creeping around the fandoms, reading stories (but not commenting). I feel horrible. I need to make up for it by starting something new.
So (again), this isn't going to be a long story. A few chapters. I've recently discovered Inception (I've seen the movie, a few times), but only recently did I find the fandoms. (Eames/Arthur all the way. It's just...yes. Hot. Yesyesyes.)
Disclaimer: I don't own Inception. Or Tom Hardy. Or Joseph Gordon-Levitt. If I did, they'd be tied to my bed with their shirts ripped open and belts unbuckled and...ahhhh. I'd be happy.
Second Disclaimer: I don't own Edith Piaf or her music, either. Listen to it all. It's beautiful.
Arthur is eight.
As a child, Arthur is the second youngest of three (or second oldest, depending on who you ask), with a brother three years older, and a sister four years younger. His brother is Marcus. His sister is Erica. They both look like their father, with golden hair and dark eyes and quiet personalities.
(He's not sure if it really counts, anymore, calling himself a middle child, because they're all dead. And sometimes he wonders if he himself isn't dead, as well. Dead, dead, dead, dead.)
He has dark hair, chopped unevenly because his mom can't afford to take him to a barber. His dad can, but there's no reason to ask. His eyes are brown. His body is lean, verging on unhealthy.
("You look like your dad. You have his eyes. And his dimples," his mom mumbles after she arrives home half-drunk one evening. His father's eyes are blue. Arthur tells a joke to see him smile. To see the dimples. His father glares. His mother cries.)
There are three basic rules in the household.
Don't speak. (Arthur speaks. His dad is silent. His mom cries.)
Don't leave without permission. (Arthur leaves. His dad is silent. His mom cries.)
Don't complain. (Arthur does, but he does it silently. His dad enforces this rule the most. His mother still cries.)
He looks like neither of his parents, and for the first five years of his life his siblings wreak havoc upon him by convincing him he's adopted simply because an extra person on an airplane ticket means that one of the seats is free (it was easy to believe this; five people in a two and a half bedroom house with only two people working (his brother and father, surprisingly.))
("But we've never gone on a trip," Arthur mentions. His sister laughs.)
("You've never gone on a trip," she corrects.)
It takes his mom forty minutes to calm him down and convince him to not run away. He asks why she cares about him if he was adopted. She scrubs a hand through her hair. "You're mine," she tells him, and offers no more explanation. He nods, as if this is explanation enough. She sings.
As a child, Arthur is loud, rambunctious, obnoxious, and easily entertained by the shrieks of horror that escape the guest's mouths as his temporary pet snake leaves its confines to slither unholy-like around the ankles of second cousins, rich aunts, old uncles, and snooty grandparents.
He sticks by the excuse that it escaped, when his parents ask. He fails to mention that the confinement was simply his room, and he left the door open so the reptile might chance discovering the rest of the house.
(Later, with Inception and Cobb and Mal, he'll realize he's good at setting traps like that; where he only has to set out the pieces and the marks take themselves down by putting things together.)
As a child, Arthur tears things up and rips things down and throws tantrums to get what he wants. Most of the times he doesn't actually care about the object; he just wants attention.
(The cliché doesn't come upon him until he's seventeen and trying to babysit the neighbor's kids for extra cash to pay for his brother's medical bills after he crashes the only car on his way home from his girlfriend's. Arthur says nothing on the bus ride home from the hospital. He simply sets some blankets on the couch and fills a glass with water, which he places on the coffee table where his brother's crutches are propped.)
His mom prepares a game and invites his siblings to play with them. His father changes the channel on the television and doesn't speak.
As a child Arthur is paid no more attention to than the mustard stain on the arm of the couch. It's still there from when his dad throws the plate at the door his mother had closed on her way out. His sister tries to clean it, but instead seems to have pushed it further into the seams. His brother's blood still resides there, from the popped stitches, and even though it's not visible, he can still see it. The beer and gin and tequila aren't in the house, but Arthur can still smell them. (He knows it belongs to his mom. He's never seen his dad drink.)
(He doesn't sit on that side of the couch, not anymore.)
As a child, Arthur hears and sees and tastes the distress between his father and mother. It's blatantly obvious, yet he wonders if his siblings are witnessing the same thing. (They are.) He hears the plates shattering, the screams escalating, the resounding slaps, the pleaded "forgive me's". He sees the fine China scattered across the floor (some of it partially swept under the rug, which he'll discover the next day in the heel of his foot. He'll cry and listen as his mother hums lullabies while gently wiping the dripping snot from his upper lip. He won't look at her, but he knows she's crying, too, whispering that he's hers. He's hers. He's hers.) He tastes the tears and snot that run down his face and into his mouth to combine with the saliva. It's gross and uncomfortable and awkward and makes him wail harder.
("Jesus Christ! Maybe you could shut up so the kid wouldn't be such a fucking disgrace!")
("Don't patronize me about my actions you goddamn hypocrite.")
("Fucking bit-")
As a child, Arthur is a witness.
A/N: As always, reviews are loved.
Peace and love.