AN: Here's chapter four, hope you like it. Thanks once again to all me readers, commenters, story alerters, and etc. Your feedback is much appreciated.
"Oh, ere thou trust in him, beware/His heart is as cold as stone,/Know that his vows are writ in air,/I their deceit have known" – Don Giovanni, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
"Eames! Let me out!"
Arthur pounded desperately against the coffin lid, yelling as loudly as he could.
"Eames, please!"
"Be with you in a minute darling, I'm getting the shovel!" Eames called cheerily.
"Oh fuck no," Arthur whispered weakly, then renewed his pounding on the coffin lid. "Eames! Eames!"
Silence outside of the coffin answered him. Arthur tried to kick against the lid, panic beginning to seize him.
"Calm down darling, I haven't even started burying you yet," came Eames's amused tone, and Arthur yelled, "For god's sake Eames, let me out of here!"
There was the sound of a shovel being stuck into the dirt and then a thump as Eames sat down on top of the coffin. "And why on earth would I do that?"
"Because I'm still alive!" Arthur protested weakly, pounding his fist against the coffin once.
"Aha, and so was I when you buried me. I was moving, and you still buried me. If I'm going to kill you, you deserve the same."
Arthur closed his eyes for a second; the coffin was rapidly heating up with stale air. "But why are you killing me? For revenge?"
"Oh no darling, I love you, I don't want to kill you because you killed me. I told you I wasn't mad about that. I'm killing you because you haven't been playing along with me," Eames said, and Arthur opened his eyes, his brow furrowing.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Eames sighed. "You haven't exactly been warm to me, dear," he whined like a petulant child. "I've been completely affectionate to you and you haven't given me anything in return."
"That's because you're undead!" Arthur cried. "I can't stand you touching me because you're cold and lifeless and dead and—" He stopped, his eyes squeezing tightly shut.
He could almost feel the darkness in Eames's voice as Eames said, "Just because I'm undead doesn't mean you're free from me, love. You're mine until death do us part, and death doesn't seem to want to interfere." This last part was said with a laugh.
Arthur shuddered despite the heat and bit his lip, trying to restrain himself from screaming at Eames that this was all so, so wrong, that the Eames he knew was long dead, that this wasn't him, this wasn't how this worked, this—
"Fine," Arthur said weakly.
"What was that?" Eames asked, poorly hidden glee in his voice.
Arthur closed his eyes again, his head hurting. "Fine," he said, his voice stronger. "You win. I'll play along, behave, whatever, act like you're still—alive. Just let me out of here. Please," he added, his voice begging.
There was a moment of silence, then: "Promise?"
"Yes, I fucking promise, Eames," Arthur said, opening his eyes.
"No need to get snippy about it darling," Eames said, prying open the lid of the coffin. "I just want your word."
Arthur bolted from the coffin, only stopped from running straight for the car by Eames's strong, cold grip on his arms. He smiled and pulled Arthur into a kiss, a freezing cold kiss. Arthur wanted his Eames back so much that he felt his desire burning up inside of him and he found himself kissing back feverishly, fervently, trying urgently to bring warmth back into those dead lips, trying to make the man feel like something, dammit, trying to bring his Eames back from the dead. Eames accepted his kisses hungrily, and they fell, entwined, to feed on opposite desires.
Arthur couldn't sleep. He lay awake once again, petrified to sleep because of the monstrosity next to him. He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes too hard again, causing white dots to appear in his vision. He desperately needed sleep. It had been getting so bad over the past week—even before he'd been buried alive what? Four hours ago?—that he'd almost started hallucinating, imagining things that weren't there. That explained the footprints. That had to explain the footprints. Arthur's eyes slipped out of focus, and he barely managed the energy to focus them again. If he didn't force himself to sleep soon, he'd just collapse one day, and that was something he definitely didn't want to do around Eames.
He got out of the bed and stumbled to the nearest armchair in the room, feeling behind it to get the case stored there, and put it on the table. He opened it numbly, his brain shouting the singular need for sleep, and then hooked the IV into his arm and depressed the button.
Arthur knew he was dreaming. He knew because this was the memory of when he'd first started seeing Eames, but this was not how it had been. It hadn't been some romantic soiree in an elegant bar after a successful job, it had been a frazzled mess in a diner the morning after a botched extraction when they all thought they were going to die at the hands of their employers and Arthur had bribed the waitress to allow him to bring in a bottle of wine because Eames and Ariadne looked like they needed it and he needed some himself, and Cobb wasn't complaining. The elegant bar changed and Arthur was in that same diner, Cobb seated to his left, Eames directly across from him and Ariadne next to Eames in the booth—well their projections—and everything was the same, with the same glum looks, haunted eyes, and smell of greasy food. But no, it was different, because he had a wine cooler in front of him now and he had had white wine that day because it had been before he'd stopped drinking, before he'd been afraid of intoxication, before the incident with Eames. But this was a dream, so he had a wine cooler and his die fell on random numbers when he threw it and Eames was his Eames but he wasn't and he kept repeating "You look terrible darling" like he had been that day and things were not quite the same as the memory.
Arthur closed his eyes, his brain trying to process too many things at once. There was too much noise and the people next to him were going through stale dialogue he'd heard before, and he knew what Eames would say next.
I don't mind the sun sometimes
The images it shows
I can taste you on my lips
And smell you in my clothes
Cinnamon and sugary
And softly spoken lies
You never know just how you look
Through other peoples' eyes
"You look terrible, darling."
Arthur opened his eyes to look at Eames, who gave him a half-hearted smile.
"You're so nice to him," Ariadne said, smiling but tired. "I think that's the tenth time you've said that."
"Fifteenth," Arthur said, fulfilling his role in the dialogue.
Eames looked away but his smile grew a little wider, obviously pleased that Arthur had been counting. "You should have already retired, Cobb," he said suddenly, looking at Cobb.
"This was supposed to be the last time," Cobb answered.
"Sentimentality will make you go soft," Arthur said, taking a sip of his wine cooler.
"You're such a mercenary, Arthur," Ariadne said.
Arthur shrugged and Eames said, "Of course he is, Ariadne, his guard always goes up when his life's in danger. In fact, I don't think he ever puts it down."
Cobb shook his head with a smile. "I've known Arthur for a long time, he puts his guard down, just not when people are paying attention."
A smile touched Arthur's lips involuntarily—that was one way to put it. Eames caught his gaze and smiled warmly, and Arthur found himself smiling back, just like he had that day. They were all in danger of dying anyway, why not let his armor slip a little bit? The conversation turned again and Eames resumed talking to Cobb, Arthur inserting his lines when necessary. He knew that soon Cobb and Ariadne would leave and he would be alone with his Eames again, and everything would be as perfect as it had been that day.
They were all in love with dying
They were doing it in Texas
They were all in love with dying
They were doing it in Texas
They were all in love with dying
They were doing it in Texas
Arthur looked around the diner with his brow furrowed as the music skipped; this wasn't part of the memory. Suddenly the room grew dark and it started to rain as the music changed.
I can't use what I can't abuse
And I can't stop when it comes to you
Arthur turned back to the table and realized simultaneously that Cobb and Ariadne were gone and that Eames had changed clothing. Before, he'd had on the same hideous shirt and suit as he had on that day, but now he looked sleek in a black silk shirt, gray vest and white tie.
"You look terrible, darling," Eames said with a soft smile.
"As do you," Arthur answered, and took a sip of his wine cooler. He immediately spat it back onto the table; the bottle was filled with blood. "What the hell…" He looked at Eames, who wore the same smile as before, unperturbed by Arthur's experience. Disturbed, Arthur pushed the bottle away from himself and pulled Cobb's abandoned wine over, refilling it from the wine bottle. As he took a sip of it, the alcohol sweet on his tongue, Eames said, "I thought you didn't drink anymore, darling."
Arthur froze, the wine glass still pressed to his lips. Oh fuck no. He set the glass down, retaining his grip on it to stop his hand from shaking.
"Eames…"
Eames's smile slipped from warmth into darkness. "Yes dear?"
"What the fuck are you doing in my dream." It came out too flat to be a question.
"Well darling, you left the case lying out in the open and I thought I'd stop in and see what you were dreaming about." His smile widened. "I'm so glad to see it was me."
"It wasn't about you, it was about—" Arthur gasped as the wine glass broke in his hand, sharp shards of glass cutting his fingers and drawing blood. He hadn't realized the angry pressure he'd been applying to it.
"Oh darling," Eames said, taking Arthur's hand in his own cold, pale ones. He slowly kissed each one of Arthur's fingers, sucking the blood off, and Arthur shivered and pulled away. But Eames refused to relinquish his grip.
He kissed Arthur's palm softly, tenderly, and then intertwined his hands with Arthur's more lithe one, all the while looking at Arthur with intensity in his gaze. "You can't kiss it and make it better, Eames. It doesn't work with cuts and it doesn't work with our relationship," Arthur said coldly. The more Eames played with his hand the more twisted his stomach felt.
"There's nothing wrong with our relationship," Eames stated flatly. "Or rather there wouldn't be if you just cooperated with me."
Arthur looked away from him, biting his lip, and shook his head.
"You know it's true," Eames said.
"No," Arthur said, eyes flashing as he looked at Eames again. "You are dead. There is no relationship anymore."
"Clearly I'm not if I'm still here."
Arthur's hand twisted so he had a grip on Eames's wrist, fingers to the inside of it, feeling for a pulse. They both waited in breathless silence for a minute, and then Arthur released Eames's hand, saying, "Clearly you are if you don't have a pulse."
"Then what am I, Arthur? You have a logical mind, how does it cope with this?"
"It—It doesn't. I don't know." Arthur ran a hand over his hair, fighting the urge to begin violently cleaning the table.
Eames studied him for a minute and then, his lips twisting into a smile, took the bottle of wine and poured it onto the table. Arthur gripped the edge of the Formica top, his knuckles white.
"You desperately want to clean that up, don't you darling? It's driving your neurosis crazy," Eames said, smiling at Arthur, and Arthur glanced back at him.
"Fuck you."
"If you're up for it."
Arthur gave him a look and then carefully took his hands off the table, focusing on fixing his cufflinks so he wouldn't drive himself crazy looking at the mess of the table. Being under pressure in a situation like this, especially when Eames was involved, made his OCD and neurotic side come out in full force.
"Come on darling, you know you want to clean the table. It's okay if you do it."
"No it's not, I'd be proving you right."
Eames shook his head with a smile. "You mean when I said you can't control yourself and you need to be taught otherwise?" He reached for Arthur and Arthur immediately shrank back into the booth. Eames smirked. "Still afraid of our last lesson, aren't we darling?"
"That wasn't a fucking lesson, it was torture!" Arthur exclaimed. He pressed both of his hands to his forehead, his elbows on the table. He was literally shivering, and not just because of the icy cold in the diner. Eames terrified him.
"It was a lesson in controlling yourself when it came to alcohol," Eames said, "and you learned from it, didn't you? You haven't touched anything harder than a wine cooler in almost a year."
Arthur's fists clenched but he refused to look at Eames. "And we almost broke up because of it. And you…what you did…" His nails were starting to draw blood from his hands. "And it wasn't right, what the hell gave you the right to control me like that?"
Eames flashed him a smile. "You're mine. You agreed to that when you stayed with me through everything, even my unsavory appetites. And I tried to be better. Why do you think I cheated?"
"Because you're a lying asshole."
"No, love, because I knew I would be too much for you to handle alone, so I found other people who could share part of the burden." Eames's voice had grown soft, and when Arthur dared to look at him, he looked—well, human. Arthur removed his head from his hands and sat back in the booth, giving Eames a calculating look. No no, he couldn't have any hope, in this twisted dream or in the real world it was too much to hope. But when Eames smiled at him he looked like his Eames, not the beast that had come back from the grave. And when Eames leaned forward across the table, leaning on his forearms with an affectionate smile, Arthur couldn't help the small smile that touched his lips. Eames pulled Arthur into an identical position to his own, retaining Arthur's hands, and then leaned over the table and kissed him.
And it was warm and soft and kind and great and perfect and Arthur leaned deeply into it, feeling like he was home. But then the lights went out and he pulled away and suddenly Eames was nothing and there were maggots in Arthur's mouth and he couldn't breathe and—
The lights came back on and everything was back to normal. Arthur shoved Eames away and sat back in the booth, his chest heaving.
"You're a monster," he breathed.
Eames smiled and took a sip of his wine. "And your point is?" he asked lazily.
Arthur shakily reached into his discarded suit jacket and pulled out his silver cigarette case and lighter, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. The first drag was like heaven.
Eames watched Arthur closely as he took another drag and blew the smoke out, indulging in the one stress reliever left to him. "What have I told you about smoking?" he asked Arthur.
"Fuck you," Arthur responded, blowing smoke rings. "We're in a dream, I'm not afraid of you."
Eames looked at him for a minute, eyes blank, and then plunged his hand into Arthur's chest.
You burn and burn to get under my skin
You've gone too far now I won't give in
You crucified me but I'm back in your bed
Like Jesus Christ coming back from the dead
Arthur screamed, Eames's hand reaching deeper into his chest until he pulled his heart out with a tearing sound. He thunked the heart onto the plate in front of him and then reached into his own chest, pulling his heart out. He dropped it in front of Arthur, who stared at him with hollow eyes, horrified.
"Eat," Eames said, and then picked Arthur's heart up and took a bite out of it.
Arthur stared at him in numb shock, his brain shutting down. He placed a hand on his chest and yes, there was a giant hole where his heart should have been. Eames was now ferociously taking bites out of his heart, licking his lips as he cast a glance at Arthur.
"Eat," he demanded, and guided Arthur's numb hands to his own still beating heart. Arthur looked at Eames's heart in his hands, pounding softly even though Eames's real heart no longer beat. Eames tipped Arthur's hands up gently, making Arthur raise the heart to his lips and slowly take a bite.
The heart tasted like raw, rotting meat, and blood, and Arthur gagged and nearly spat it back out. But Eames was watching him to make sure he ate it so he swallowed and took another bite. Eames resumed eating Arthur's heart, and they ate in silence for a few minutes, Arthur resisting the urge to vomit. Finally he had to drop the heart, a wave of nausea rolling through him, and Eames stopped eating, looking at him with the sly eyes of a cat. "Is there a problem, darling?" he asked, voice falsely polite.
Arthur looked at his bloody hands, neatly folded atop the table. "I can't…" he whispered weakly, afraid to look at Eames. "I just want to wake up."
"Then why did you create a dream for yourself?"
"I wasn't thinking, I haven't slept in weeks, days…"
"Darling, we're just living off of love here, aren't we?" Eames asked, gesturing at the hearts, and Arthur looked up at him—his smile was goading Arthur.
"Fuck you," Arthur said through gritted teeth, and grabbed a knife off the table and thrust it into his chest.
Eames started laughing as Arthur pulled the knife out, still in the dream. "Oh sweetheart," he said, his eyes sparkling with laughter, "you didn't really think that would work, did you? I have your heart."
Arthur stared at him for a second, mouth slightly open. "And I have yours," he said, and stabbed Eames's heart with the knife. Eames screamed and reached across the table for him but slipped away from him, plunging the knife into the heart repeatedly until Eames shuddered and fell still, stretched across the table. Arthur sat in stunned silence for a minute, breathing heavily. Then suddenly the diner began shaking, things started falling, and he woke up as Eames ripped the IV out of his arm.