Five Stages.
He removes the needle from his arm and throws it somewhere near the PASIV, unordered, untidy, impractical, but Arthur doesn't really care. It's the mental strain that catches up, when the third attempt turns into the fourth, the fifth, the sixth. Even though it's a job, it's just a job it still feels like evading reality. Running from something. His mind aches a dull throb, it's been three weeks into the job, there's only so many opportunities to sedate the Mark.
He dimly registers another wire being flung across the floor, and an exhausted sigh. It was Eames. The others had left awhile ago, well, been killed. Arthur guessed they hadn't waited, this was a sleep first re-group later operation. "I'm all for trying, but this is proving to be bloody impossible," the scepticism isn't new, not even from Eames, but despite his fair share of frustrations Arthur wants to contradict it.
"We just have to keep trying, we lasted a lot longer in this round". It's a half hearted disagreement.
"Yes but how many more 'rounds' is it going to take to do this, we're supposed to be some of the best,"
"We'll get there," his voice is a monotone but with an odd sense of conviction. They would get there. The Mark was a high up businessman - weren't they all? - he was supposedly notorious behind closed doors for his harassment of women, corporate fraud - while thought this was nothing new, this particular one was placing himself on the radar. He had a wife, three kids, two mistresses, countless hookers, various narcotics addictions (which they were manipulating to their fullest extent), and after years of corporate scandals, and deals, and frauds a rather precarious set of morals. While the narcotics helped with putting him under, the cunning, education, sharp edges of his mind which coke or vicodin wouldn't blunt in a dream came to full force. They were on edge, a breaking poin-
"Thur, Arthur," Arthur blinked. Eames is a few inches away, waving a hand in front of his face. "You're completely out of it, right, bed," and he drags the smaller man up. Arthur didn't complain, did he really zone out for… ten minutes?
They are staying in a hotel, much better than a warehouse, or a plane. The Mark is away, Arthur doesn't have time to think about where he went. Cobb must have dealt with him in one of his flashes of brilliance that are regaining their colour now that Mal is gone. Eames helps him to his room, he's speaking about wine, some fancy wine that Arthur knows he wouldn't care for. He face-plants his bed, turning his head to the window in order to breath.
It's just a small kiss goodnight, and in his sleep Arthur's face breaks out into a contented smile.
"We've tried hotels, business meetings, promotional events, his house. Hookers, mistresses, colleagues, rivals, family, nothing seems to be keeping him distracted in the dream." Cobb paces back and forth. The other's watch him, Arthur feels more rested.
"We could try clubs, where he gets drug access, they would distract him," Arthur suggests.
"But that would also make him incredibly unstable, and he's already a hard man to predict," Eames argues.
"I really don't see what option we have, the deadline is in a week, we've tried everything but that, we have nothing left to go on," he waits for someone to disagree. No one does. Arthur looks to Cobb, he can almost see the gears and cogs of a plan forming in his mind.
"Arthur, if you could get us the exact information on his nightlife, hookers, what he likes, his dealer, the amount he takes, the exact feel and place of the venue, it could work. Eames, you'd need to impersonate a prostitute like his mistress, its Anya he's most fond of right now. Ariadne work with Arthur, get an exact picture of the club before you start to build traps, nothing fancy, exit doors, air vents. Yusuf the same compound would do," Cobb stops, to anyone who doesn't know him it will look like he's drawn a blank. But Arthur can see it, see the cogs and wheels turning and spinning and spindling a dream-world, knitted together beautifully. "While you all do that, I'll having to plant the idea… a weak spot…" and Arthur watches as the dream-world Cobb sees in his mind trembles, shudders slightly because where in a club would you keep the secrets? The place to plant the idea?
"The same place you'd keep the finest whiskeys, he only goes to up market places," Arthur looks directly at Cobb while the others stare bemused. The relationship between the two men has always puzzled them.
"I'll need you to help plan the idea, keep the place as natural as possible," Cobb replies. Arthur gives a curt nod.
The bar is made of mahogany, and it was varnished two years ago but it still feels smooth and smells fresh. The lighting is more like a jazz club, the music is moderate, there are strippers and hookers but they're more covert. It's a warm up club, before you hit the town. There's a mirror behind the bar. The light shades are cream. There's stairs leading up to private rooms. There are two bartenders-
"Arthur," Arthur's head snaps up, it's Cobb. Only he looks different, more concerned? But Arthur's only been sitting here… how long?
"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice is clipped, precise, because he is working.
"Are you alright?" there's almost a helpless tone to the way Cobb asks. Arthur frowns.
"I'm researching, for The Mark, are you alright?" he asks.
"Fine, just, you've been here awhile and everyone's went to bed," Cobb points out awkwardly. Oh.
"Sleep would be good," Arthur says, the tiredness suddenly slams into him through his upper back and shoots around his body. He is exhausted. Arthur stands, stretches, and he and Cobb walk to the door. They'd been renting out a hotel room as their base. Money is never an object.
"Just get some rest, we have a busy day tomorrow," Cobb says, and Arthur still can't shake the feeling there's something seriously wrong. He just feels too drained to take it in.
"Yeah I will, night Dom," he gives a half wave, before climbing the stairs to his room. He makes to the third floor, knowing Eames is on this level. They scattered their room numbers, no need to deliberately attract attention as a group. He knocks on the door. It opens after the third knock.
"I thought you were going to stay down there all night," Eames remarks, sleepy but smirking. Arthur smiles.
"I lost track of the time," Eames raises his eyebrows.
"You don't say," the clock reads two am. "So are you set for tomorrow? Can't allow for any slips, you know the bar was varnished two years ago, not three, it creates such a different feel to it, the lighting is like a jazz club, the music is moder-" he's shut up by a kiss. It's a passionate kiss, with excitement rippling through Arthur's body, radiating from his naval. An excitement, because he's missed this. Three weeks this job as deprived him.
They kiss, they fuck, they love, they lie together. Time moves in waves and lurches, a glance than can last an hour, a kiss that's over in a second. The room is a bubble, the world is the length and width of these four walls, the sea is a cream carpet, and the islands are made of a sea of golden and burgundy bordered cotton, silk and taffeta. The bed posts are mahogany.
It's not that the others don't know if their relationship, but the professional boundaries are very precise. Exhausted at last they fall into a half slumber, it's 6am. They will have to wake in four hours. There's a clawing panic in Arthur's chest, a 'no don't sleep' sort of feeling. But it passes, it comes and goes like a wave. The sea is calm. He shuts his eyes, Eames warm body next to him. It's six am.
He opens his eyes.
It's ten am.
They're quiet because they're nervous. There's a feeling of dread in Arthur's stomach, not a large one, just one that's enough to make it's presence known. They're in another hotel, just a few streets away. It's modern, it's supposed to be Avant-Guard, but to Arthur that will always be a door, at a forty five degree angle, in a wall. The Mark lies on the bed, passed out already having partied until eight am. The PASIV lies unassuming on the couch, Yusuf will monitor. Cobb is talking but Arthur can't bring himself to listen.
Time lurches.
The needle is in his arm.
It's still noisy, even through the music is classy, and the conversation is light. The laughs are hearty, there's a dull throbbing chatter of people. Arthur is standing by the bar, dressed in a suit. The Mark is surrounded by women, he can still spot Eames though. Well Eames impersonation. He has a perfect mixture of the mistress's poise, and voice, and manner - enough to be familiar - yet the overtly coquettish manner needed to discern a difference.
He's shoved slightly, and it's then he notices Cobb. Arthur takes it as a lead to follow. The club is big, he hasn't spoken to Ariadne although he could swear she is the one in green. He sees the stairs leading up to the private rooms, the air vents, the back doors.
But they're going to the cellar. It's a disgustingly clichéd recess of the mind. Cobb doesn't need to try, the door opens. The Mark is still distracted. They travel down the stairs. It's a lot darker, and a lot colder, and the music seems so far away. The door has shut behind them, but suddenly Arthur doesn't feel too safe. His hand trails against the stone wall on the descent, occasionally he catches spider webs. "Are you sure you can find it in this light Dom?" he asks. He's in the centre of the room. He can feel his teeth beginning to chatter, forty watt bulbs hang from the ceiling. The cold seeps into his bones. It's dim, but it's enough to see the stacks and stacks of bottles. A chair, a table.
The safe isn't down here.
The defeat howls in Arthur's chest. It occurs to him that Dom didn't answer. He looks around, where is Dom? Is this one of Ariadne's exits? The music upstairs can only just be made out, along with a dull rumble of chatter. It doesn't feel as near as it is.
"There isn't a safe Arthur," his voice is different, it doesn't sound like business, Cobb sounds sad. Arthur whips around, Cobb emerges from one of the shelves. He's not wearing his blue suit, it's changed to black, how? Wait, there isn't a safe? Arthur touches his head, why is he so confused?
"Why is there not a safe? Is it something else?" he asks. What else could it be.
"No, Arthur you're in a dream," he says.
"No shit Dom," Arthur laughs, but it's out of nerves, this stopped being normal… Arthur doesn't recall anything normal about this dream, except Eames.
"You could have executed that better," Ariadne emerges, but she's in a black dress, a hat, heels, not the lavish green thing he swore he'd seen her in earlier.
"Ariadne? But the Mark, we need to make sure he's distracted," Arthur can't really believe it, these people are professionals yet they're willing to mess up a heist like this for what? A cheap prank? A… it occurs to Arthur that he has no idea what they're doing.
"The Mark isn't real Arthur, he's a projection," Ariadne says softly.
"Of course he is, we're in a dream," Arthur exclaims impatiently, his headache's returning, and he still feels so tired. Did that make sense?
"Yes, we're in a dream, but we're in your dream Arthur," Arthur looks at Dom.
"How are we in my dream? We were all in that hotel room, you saw the Mark go under," the faded sound of music is gone, in fact it's stopped completely.
"No I didn't, that was your projection of me," Dom explains.
"Just shut up, what the fuck are you trying to do, turn me insane? Like Mal?" Arthur snaps, it's an anger he couldn't predict, but once it was unleashed he wonders why he never felt it. It flows through him. Cobb winces.
"You feel like you're running from something, you're always tired, you've been feeling off for days, you're mentally exhausted." His voice is practical.
"I'm fine!" Because he doesn't quite want to lose this yet.
"You feel like you're breaking apart," Arthur breathes deeply and just like that, his posture breaks, his anger seeps through the cracks.
"How do you know?" he asks. His voice sounds lost, miserable. Someone puts their arms around him. It's Eames. "You should be distracting the Mark." Arthur say's, although he isn't sure if there is a Mark anymore.
"There isn't a Mark darling." Eames replies, Cobb and Ariadne have gone silent. "You don't even know his name," Arthur shuts his eyes, and lets that process.
The Mark has never had a name.
This place suddenly feels oppressive. A cold cellar. A recess. The order, the richness within the room had long been abandoned for the whirlwind choas, upstairs. What contained that? A fabricated city of a few square miles. This world was delicate, created on a spindle. Practical, purposeful, so must like him it hurt.
"Come home" Ariadne pleads.
What is home? Arthur asks himself.
"I'm dreaming?" he asks, the words cause the room to erupt as bottle's smash, and shelves fly. Arthur doesn't react when Ariadne and Cobb are crushed by a shelf. Were they real?
Time seems to slow. It comes in waves. He turns to face Eames, the man's expression is sad. "Why am I dreaming?" Arthur asks him? A bottle smashes a little too close to his head for comfort. Eames kisses him. It's long, it's passionate, the desperation is gone. The world is the width and length of the cellar, they're the middle of the storm, perfect still.
"Good morning Darling," he hears Eames whisper. Arthur doesn't remember getting crushed by a wall.
Arthur opens his eyes. It's bright. He's in a living room, with closer inspection it's his own. It's warm, he's in his ratty apartment in Spain he uses to evade authorities. Why is he here? He removes the needle and places it neatly by the PASIV. He's still so tired. Ariadne and Cobb stand before him. "What's going on?" he asks. "Is this real?" he asks.
"Check your die," Cobb remarks. Arthur does. He is awake in reality. He stands, and almost falls over, Cobb catches him. "Careful, you've been under for a long time," and this time Arthur looks at Cobb, really looks. The older man's eyes are filled with worry, concern, while Ariadne hangs back as if she's scared.
"Why was I dreaming?" he asks them.
"You don't remember?" Ariadne asks shocked, but Cobb shakes his head. Arthur leads on his kitchen counter.
"You remember," his voice is expressionless. "The drugs you were on to keep you under were heavy, that's why you were so foggy."
"Where's Eames?" Arthur asks, then he stops. It comes back. He liked to work alone, high risk, higher cost, dreaming bigger… it was a game. Two months ago, it had been two months since he'd came back to find out Eames had been killed. A job went wrong in the worst way, guilt coiled in Arthur's chest because he remembered not being able to talk him out of it.
Then came the hiding. The denial. He'd hid here, it had taken him a day through the grief to work out he could just construct his own dream world. Simple two layers, to make it look like they were on a job, it was old times, in fact he could even bring the gang back together just to feel more at home. Feel safe.
"He's dead." The words stick to his throat, come out like mush, yet they've never been clearer. They draw Arthur out, lie him vulnerable in front of the others. He starts to shake, or maybe he was already shaking.
"You've been under for a month and a half, well you must have awoke a few times. You never seemed to realise though… we tried to get through to you," Cobb said.
"We?" Arthur asks.
"Me, Ariadne, Yusuf, even Miles tried," the silent stretches. The head is stifling. "I want you to live with Miles and I for awhile," it's not a question. Arthur doesn't answer. The night is spent mostly in silent. Cobb makes him soup, but Arthur isn't used to real food yet. Ariadne leaves at twelve, eventually even Cobb drops off. Arthur can't sleep yet, his body yearns and writhes as it's deprived. He's too methodical to believe this isn't reality, even Cobb the distracted visonary could tell the difference. He can still pretend.
He's under strict orders. No PASIV. Of course they can't watch him forever. He flies out tomorrow with Cobb, until then… just a few hours.
He's in the flat, the sun is setting, it is England. "Are you coming to bed darling, or will I have to make you?" Arthur turns his gaze to the man on the bed. The noise is dim outside, they are alone. Eames smiles the same smirk. He holds him, kisses him, fucks him, loves him. He feels the same, tastes the same. They laugh and chat, the night envelopes them and the world is the tiny bedroom with the French windows in the city of London. Moonlight streams through the gap in the curtain, there's a gentle breeze, and they lie exhausted in each other's arms. He watches Eames breathe.
The grief is for tomorrow.
Reality is for tomorrow.
Acceptance is for tomorrow.
Just now he lives, and kisses, and loves in a way he doesn't know if he will again.
Time passes in gentle waves.