A/N: This is a prequel to Bros Before Hos (but should probably be read second or you'll ruin the, admittedly not surprising, 'plot twist' in that), because some people mentioned they liked the hint of background I set in that story. So, here is said backstory. This should be read as one part, but is too long to be posted that way. Again, this is not angst, still missing the tag for melancholy. Also, neither Inception or it's characters belong to me, and I know nothing about the military. Or the American or British school system. So please forgive me. Unbeta'd, so any mistakes are my own and spell-checks for not informing me.
Eames' parents were probably going to disown him. Up until now, he had done everything they had asked him to do. He came from old money, ancient money, and had spent all his schooling years at the same strictly Church of England boarding school. He seemed to cause no trouble, be a model student, while underneath it all he learned to pick pockets, drink and gamble like only the bored and rebellious aristocracy can. He had been accepted into, and practically begged to attend, every prestigious university his parents had enrolled him into. And yet here he was, days after his graduation, waiting impatiently in line, to join the British army. He was old enough now that he did not have to rely on his parents money to get him by.
"Eugene Peralli?" The man behind the desk asked, and Eames winced as he stepped forward. It had been years since anyone besides his parents or their acquaintances had called him by his real name. To everyone else, he was simply Eames, a variation on his mothers maiden name.
He stepped forward. "Yes, that's me." He said, and then the man proceeded to explain to him all that would be required to complete the position he was applying for. Eames took great care to avoid the man's face. Because of his years of practice, both in his educational pursuits, and his less-legal past-times, Eames had learned to read faces to such an extent that he could tell if a man was lying by little more than a simple glance. While this was a great skill when it came to both gambling and psychology, in his day to day life it became a bit of a burden. Being able to tell when a person was lying to you made them very hard to trust in the long run. It also made you quite cynical.
Eames nodded at all the right places, and eventually the man behind the desk finished speaking and passed Eames a number of forms, which he filled out as quickly as possible. The man stood an shook his hand. "Welcome to the British army, Mr Peralli."
-00000-
Eames slipped his hands over his now-short brown hair and ran a critical eye over his new uniform. He'd never been one for much colour when it came to clothing, but if he had to spend too long in this outfit, he was sure that once he'd left the army he would never wear anything colourless again. He had only been in the military for a few days, but already he was being called to his Sergeant's quarters for a 'very important meeting.' He hoped he wasn't being kicked out already. His parents hadn't disowned him, sure he would come to his senses, but he wasn't too keen on going back there.
Besides, he'd only slightly ogled his fellow soldiers arse. The man had been staring at Eames' lips for hours anyway. Probably reminded him of some bird he'd left behind when he joined up.
Eames arrived at the Sergeant's door and knocked loudly before entering. The Sergeant was younger than he expected, dark hair, dark eyes and tanned skin, but his face had a hardened look about it, one which Eames associated with too much life too quickly, and had worked for a long time to perfect.
"Mr Peralli?" The Sergeant asked, and Eames nodded. "I have been informed that you have only recently joined the armed forces. Is this correct?"
"Yes sir." Eames replied, remembering to keep his voice and face neutral. The other man would not know how curious he was about the whole situation.
"Mr. Peralli, a new field of research and training had just been brought to my attention, and I have been asked to gather volunteers to take part in various experiments in regards to these new developments. I have chosen you because you are new to everything here, and so are not settled into any routine which may be disturbed by a change in divisions. Are you willing to take part?"
Eames knew better than to ask questions. The details would be filled in as he went along. So he simply nodded.
"Good." The Sergeant said, smiling tightly at Eames. "So. Mr. Peralli," he asked. "What do you know about dreams?"
-00000-
The first year was hard, but Eames wouldn't lose it for the world. Though it certainly changed him. His transfer from the 'public' side of the armed forces landed him in the newly-discovered field of dreamsharing, and it was this technology that would shape the rest of his life.
However, while Eames could see plenty of potential uses for the PASIV device, the army used it solely for training exercises. To teach their recruits how to kill and maim each other without any consequences. Eames would never forget his first foray into the world of shared subconscious. He was dragged, bound and blindfolded, into dark and dingy room and thrown onto the floor. He was then freed from his constraints where he was shown his fellow recruits whom he had been introduced to only a day before. A gun was then shoved forcefully into his hand, and Eames was told to shoot his fellow recruits, or be shot himself. Eames opened fire, and then was then taken out from behind. He woke up sweating and shaking, eyes searching frantically for anything that had just happened. It was then that he had been informed that he had been dreaming.
Killing, and being killed never got easier. But over time Eames and his fellow recruits began to develop ways to distance themselves from what was going on around them whenever they were thrown into a training exercise. They also learned the hard way how to tell the difference between dreams and reality, after one of their own shot himself thinking it was the only way he could wake up. There were things that could only be accomplished in a dream. The recruits in the PASIV experiments developed a game. Who could come up with the most inventive ways of killing each other. So far, Eames was winning, with a situation which seemed like a bastadisation of both Lord of the Rings and Deltora Quest. It had been the first time fantasy creatures had been seen in the dreamscape. And Orcs were not neat killers. It was a sick and twisted game. But whatever helped them cope, they would try. Humans are great adaptors.
And of course, there were consequences. Later in his life, Eames discovered that almost all of his fellow recruits had gone insane. By the time he was 33, he was one of only three survivors of the military's original PASIV experiments. No one could kill on a daily basis and not come out scarred.
And on a personal level, the new training changed Eames. He filled out, both physically and mentally. He started to openly question authority, instead of doing it behind closed doors, or in gambling circles. He adopted flirting as a defence mechanism, and projected himself loudly into every space he entered. He began to detest the drab colours he was forced to wear. He learned to forge handwriting and documents, run a con, and take part in other less-than-legal activities, all behind the higher-ups backs. Eames slipped out of his old identity and into a new one.
-00000-
Eames surveyed the new country with expressionless grey eyes. He had not been that happy when he had been told he was to be transferred over to the American army. However, it was saving him from possibly a lifetime of kill or be killed. Both the British and American militaries had decided, after a year of the same usage for a device as remarkable as the PASIV, that its repertoire was to be expanded. And Eames had been chosen by his government for these new experiments because he was the one who wondered aloud the most about alternate uses for the PASIV.
The other five soldiers he had arrived with had already made their way inside the military training centre. Eames, however, remained standing still in the centre of the airport that had been dropped at, taking stock of his surroundings. A year of being shot at from behind made one slightly paranoid, and Eames always made sure to look around for escape routes when he arrived somewhere new.
Across the airstrip he could see a figure fast approaching. Judging from the figure, she too was military personal. American as well, because the lads he came over with very rarely held themselves at attention, and never did when there were no superior officers around. As the woman approached, Eames ran a quick once-over on her. Short, but strong, thin, cropped black hair, pale skin, brown eyes, slightly more attractive than average. And she was an Officer.
Eames grinned hugely at her when she came to stop in front of him. She did not relax her stance, and Eames wanted nothing more than to ruffle her feathers a little. She reminded him a bit too much of himself, before he joined the army - trying desperately to please those around him, to be seen following the rules, but with a hint of fun underneath he could never quite hide. Eames knew it was no way to live, and wanted to help her accept herself. Well, that, and he enjoyed messing with people.
The woman saluted but Eames did not return it. Instead, he reached out his hand, which she warily shook. Eames then brought their clasped hands up to his face, and brushed the back of her hand with his lips. "It's a pleasure to meet you, my dear." He said, and gave her one of the most charming smiles he could manage.
She did not batter an eyelid. Simply slipped her hand from his, and said, in clipped tones, "Mr. Peralli, I assume? They told me you were a charmer." But left the sentence hanging, as if to imply she did not believe it.
"I can assure you, ma'am, none of the stories are true." Eames drawled, smile still firmly affixed. "Except for the one where I slept with my superior officer." Here, he ran his eyes up and down her frame, with exaggerated slowness, "And I would dearly love to do it again."
The woman returned Eames' evaluative gaze, eyes flicking up and down his body, and resting firmly on his face. Then she said, without humour, "Well, then, I guess we will have to find one of the men to oblige you."
Eames let out a loud bark of laughter, smiling truly this time, flashing his crooked teeth. The woman flashed a grin back, before inclining her head towards the training centre. "Come on then, Mr. Peralli," she said, voice still betraying nothing but cool indifference, but amusement still evident in her eyes, "or we'll be late for briefing."
Eames followed her towards the building in front of them. "I thought you Americans were big on the whole 'don't ask, don't tell' thing." Eames mused
"Oh, we are." The woman replied. Eames could not see her face, but he could hear the smile in her voice now. "But I won't tell if you don't."
Again, Eames laughed. He was really starting to warm up to this place. "I like you, Officer..?" He said, gesturing with his hands for her to fill in the blanks.
"Smith." She said, grinning at him now. "But just call me Jane."
-00000-
Eames soon decided that Jane was the only American in his team that was worth knowing. And on the job she was still slightly too strict for him be around too much. He spent most of his time with his fellow English soldiers, or in the dreamscape.
It had not disappointed.
The possibilities the dreamscape presented had surpassed even his own vast imagination.
He had been shocked the first time he had gone under with one of his new American team-mates, to find himself surrounded by projections of the man's subconscious, in the form of people. All those that Eames had begun his training with kept their projections locked away in corners of the dream world. It had made it very difficult for the recruits to practice killing each other if the projections got to them first. Also, it made for an easy way for Eames to tell whether he was in one of his own dreams. It was the only time he was alone.
The American whose dream he had entered into could not understand why Eames would want to keep his subconscious locked away. It had not seemed healthy to him, not to mention, unnatural - the lack of them gave him the creeps when he dropped into Eames' mind. But Eames found the presence of projections constricting. It would limit his experimentation if he was constantly being killed. So he made a point of only going into either his own subconscious, or that of one of the British boys he had come over with.
But it was the dreamscape Eames truly loved. In his own mind, he could do anything. He could build entire cities in moments, watch the streets unfold before him, the buildings rise from the ground, lights flaring in what had once been empty space. It was beautiful, almost like magic, and Eames used it to visit places he had only dreamed of going to. He swore to himself that after all this was over, he would visit all these places in real life.
He learned to use his ability to run a con in real life to run something more important in the subconscious; steal secrets. After a while, there was very little Eames, or those he worked with, could not discover from diving into another mans dreams. He was sure that this ability could one day be a very dangerous weapon. Eames was not sure how he felt about pioneering something like that.
And, most importantly to his mind, Eames learned that in a dream, he could literally become another person. It was exhilarating, and everything Eames could ever want. Ever since he had left school, he had been trying to distance himself from the person he'd been while there. As a child, Eames had always been eager to please, and as he grew older, this turned into a fear of being cast out by his parents before he had been old enough to look after himself. As such, he had spent all his school years being quiet and attentive in class, stuffing his real personality deep inside himself, only letting it out in spurts while around friends. He had been given so much responsibility as a child, being the eldest and heir of a landed family, that he had never openly done anything he wanted to. As soon as he left, however, Eames had done everything in his power to distance himself from that person. He had changed his speech patterns, his style, the personality he let show, but his face had always reminded him of the obligation he had to his parents.
The PASIV let Eames become a free man.
-00000-
Technically, the experimentation and development Eames was undergoing in America meant he was taking part in scientific research, rather than military training. As such, he and his fellow soldiers were allowed weekends off to do whatever they wanted. So far, however, Eames had not taken up the opportunity to get to know America. But by the time his 20th birthday rolled around, he was dying for a proper tea.
Which was how Eames found himself wandering the streets of downtown New York, looking for a place to get a decent pot of tea. He knew that, when it came to big cities, the nicer places were the ones the locals had found in back streets, rather than the flashy, mainstream tourist traps. So Eames wandered into a back alley and entered the little cafe he found there.
It was mostly empty, and Eames weaved his way through tightly-packed tables to the counter, where he ordered his tea, while he cast his eyes around the other patrons of the cafe. There was an elderly couple sitting in the centre of the room, chatting quietly over cups of coffee and the paper, and a group of twenty-somethings all tapping away at laptops, while every now and again taking sips of something that looked black and strong. It was all delightfully cliché, and Eames had to smile serenely.
Then Eames' gaze fell onto the boy in the corner. He looked to be around 17, but with a face and build that could've looked older if his hair was done differently. Right now, though, it had settled into dark, loose curls that framed his pale face. He was reading something that, from a distance, looked like it could be assigned reading for the school he obviously attended, his long fingers curled delicately around it's cover. His uniform signalled to Eames that he went to some pretentious prep school, but the way he wore it, all buttoned up and straight, seemed to indicate that he was only at the school because his parents wished him to be. He was not drinking anything, just reading, and Eames supposed he was here simply for the peace and quiet to read. Or, he amended, to avoid the other kids at his school. Because while there was no questioning that he was beautiful, Eames was just as certain that the beautiful boy was perfectly miserable.
The young girl behind the counter tapped Eames on the arm to gain his attention before setting the tea down next to him. He reached absentmindedly for the cup, almost knocking it over, before making his way over to the boy in the corner. He wasn't right for someone so lovely to be so sad and lonely. Eames couldn't bare to see it. The boy deserved so much more.
He looked up slowly as Eames approached, face impassive, but deep, brown eyes guarded. Eames knew that the boy was ready to bolt should he make any sudden movements. So he smiled in his best imitation of a shy grin, and the boy's mouth twitched back. Eames saw a hint of a dimple. God, how he wanted to make the boy laugh.
Eames stopped in front of the table, legs brushing the checkered table-cloth, and stuck out his hand. "I'm Eames." He said. "No first name, not even a real last name, but it's what everyone calls me. May I sit down?"
The boy's eyes darted across Eames face and body, probably checking for any indication Eames would pounce, before nodding, just once, his lips curving into a polite smile, showing off those dimples that Eames was desperate to see more of. He then spoke, in a voice slightly too deep than what he looked like he would have, just two words. "I'm Arthur."
Eames was sure he'd fall in love.
-00000-
Eames was fascinated with Arthur. And he wasn't ashamed to admit it. The boy was a walking paradox, so many intricacies in his personality that even a man as accomplished at reading people as Eames could spend years just scratching the surface. He had been right when he had assumed Arthur was miserable at his school, but it wasn't because he was bullied. No, Arthur was just sick of school, the same people every day, the same lessons and the same scenery. But the order, the routine, Arthur loved. And Eames couldn't understand. How could you be bored of the sameness, but love the routine? It made no sense.
He and Arthur met every weekend at the cafe. Arthur just because he wanted a friend, someone to talk too. And Eames, because he was falling in love.
Arthur was a very easy person to love, and Eames was very open to the feeling, in every shape or form it offered. Arthur could go from a sad, kicked puppy look to practically bursting with excitement in a matter of moments. Eames could tell that one day, Arthur would be perfectly adept at controlling his facial expressions, but now, his youthful face couldn't hide everything he thought, and Eames loved making that face light up with joy, dimples that were too rarely shown to be viewed by the world.
Arthur leaned back in his chair as he spoke, and there were many times that Eames wished he could nudge the legs slightly, make Arthur lose his composure, so that Eames could take his eyes off him for a moment. When Arthur was around, he found it hard to do anything else. Often, at the end of the day, Eames left behind a cold, untouched tea.
Eames talked about his childhood, what it was like growing up in a landed family, and how he learned to gamble and con on the side. In turn, Arthur told him about his own life. Born in the Upper East Side of Manhattan, Arthur's family, too, were rich. But instead of having a distant, disapproving, but ultimately caring family, Arthur's parents treated him with a cool indifference one would expect to be directed at a distant relative who had turned up one day begging for money. In some ways, Arthur was a classic case of a child starved of love, but he was not particularly rebellious or angry towards his parents. Instead, Arthur took out his anger at a shooting range.
After a year and a bit in the military, Eames was a fair shot. But when Arthur took him to the place he relieved tension, Eames didn't stand a chance. Arthur was deadly, spot on with almost every shot. But he hesitated, for just a second, and Eames knew that, in a tight spot, that would land him in a world of trouble. So he made sure to help Arthur lose that hesitation.
Arthur talked about books and scientific theories and maths. Everything that popped into his mind. Things that, in the real world, Eames couldn't care less about. But it was Arthur who talked about them, and Eames loved the way he got excited about them. Eames could've loved anything, simply because Arthur did.
And for his part, Eames made Arthur laugh. It was as wonderful as he had assumed it would be. Arthur lit up when he laughed, and Eames felt happy to know that he had made the boy who was so miserable when he had first met him, smile. It was a marvellous thing, making other people happy. And even if he wasn't totally in love with Arthur, he had developed a protectiveness of the boy, and always felt a swell of pride when he made his day just that bit more enjoyable.
Arthur, the beautiful, sad boy from the cafe became a real, living, breathing person. And Eames loved him.
-00000-
Eames could tell something was wrong the moment he walked into the cafe. Arthur didn't smile when he approached the table, and was taking great pains to avoid eye contact, staring resolutely at his own hands or at the coffee machine resting on the counter behind Eames. Seeing as Eames had only recently worked up the nerve to look Arthur in the eyes while talking to him, he trusted that Arthur would not lie to him now, he found the lack of eye-contact the most upsetting.
They sat in almost silence for ten minutes. This unsettled Eames. He was not used to things being so quiet, and Arthur was not responding to any of his questions or jibes in more than monosyllabic answers. The boy was nervous and jittery, shooting glances at Eames while the other man drank his tea. And Eames was troubled by it. He didn't like to see Arthur like this.
"What's wrong, Arthur?" He asked.
Arthur jumped at the direct question, as if being caught out doing something wrong. But then he sighed, and didn't even bother to deny Eames' assumption that he was not all right. "Oh, Eames." He spluttered, eye darting nervously, "It's just that, well, I, umm..."
"Spit it out, Arthur." Eames encouraged, a smile on his lips and laughter tinging his voice.
Arthur went red, but smiled in response. "Yeah. Eames, I have a question to ask you. Feel free to say no, but I'd appreciate your answer, since you're probably better at these things than me..." Arthur trailed off, face reddening further, and bit his bottom lip.
Eames heart both melted and soured at the scene before him. Arthur flustered was one of the more adorable things he had seen in his life time. The boy usually radiated self-confidence. And Eames needed to see him like this sometimes to remind him that Arthur was human, and not the perfect humanoid being Eames' mind sometimes built him up to be. Besides, Eames had an idea about where this conversation was headed, and if everything panned out the way he thought it would, the answer would be yes. When it came to Arthur, the answer was always yes. "Go on."
"Well, Eames, I have a favour to ask you." Arthur continued, studiously looking anywhere but Eames' face. "It's just that, well, I have a crush. On this girl at my school. She's so perfect and beautiful and amazing, and I feel like she doesn't know I'm just there waiting for her or that she doesn't realise I'd do anything to make her laugh, go out of my way to make her happy, or that I love her. Well, you know how it is..?"
Eames knows.
"And well, Eames, I was hoping you could give me some girl advice?"
Oh, how Eames knows. And it hurts. It aches everywhere. And Arthur is looking at him with such hope in his face, that there is nothing Eames can do. "Yeah, sure mate." He replied, forcing a smile onto his face.
Arthur beamed back. "Thanks, Eames. You're a great friend."
Yeah, friend.
-00000-
Once, one of his army buddies asked why he kept returning to the cafe. To Arthur.
"Because I love him." But Eames didn't say it. He never will. He just smiled, winked, tried to joke his way out of it. He will never say it, because Arthur doesn't want his love. Arthur just wants a friend. He needs a friend. And that's what Eames will be.