So, final chapter, I'm not sure how it turned out but, well, this is where I thought the story would lead.
a huge 'thank you!' to all of you who had reviewed~❤
Arthur had stopped going to the hospital.
First week on, everyone seemed worried as well as curious; as days flew by, they were convinced that Arthur - oh, the-always-calm-and-collected-Arthur - had gotten over his grief and given up whatever hope he was holding previously. They even saw those dimples again, from time to time.
They thought he was alright.
He wasn't, he was smoking too much, his face turned into a mask of gloom when there's no one around, and he either crawled into bed drunk or spent seven hours staring at the ceiling.
Arthur had the PASIV back a week ago. Cobb looked a little uncertain when he handed the device to his point man. Arthur had raised an eyebrow at this, "I'm not gonna dream-share with him again, you know."
"Glad to hear it," replied the extractor, a hint of suspicion in his voice. Arthur didn't blame him.
With the existence of the sleek silver suitcase, Arthur found it harder to fight the temptation of immersing into a dream and seek consolation from a projection, even just for a few hours. No, Arthur wouldn't do this, he's a professional, he would never allow personal feelings to override reason. The point man shoved the device into the safe, locked it up, only to reluctantly reopen it and took the PASIV back out.
Just an hour, he thought, as he began setting up the device, five minutes in reality, won't do any harm.
He was in no mood of 'imagining something new' (as Cobb would put it), so he found himself standing in the living room of their rented apartment, the windows were wide open, green curtains flapping in an enjoyable breeze. He smiled at the hideous fabric; Eames' taste was always a mystery to him.
Arthur walked briskly into the bedroom. He remembered now, it was 5 August 2009; Eames got a flu and had to stay in bed for two days. Eames was a terrible patient, always whining and complaining, "I'm having a headache, sweetheart, help me" ("How about I rip that aching head off for you, Mr. Eames." Arthur so replied), "I want chocolate ice-cream, darling - no I'm not five years old, hey, don't stare at me like that, I'm a patient and I deserve to be treated with love and patience.", and, "Darling, please don't dump me because of my unfortunate illness" plus a standard puppy-dog look. Arthur was one millimeter away from losing his mind, one more word drop from the forger's lips and he would not be responsible for his behavior. Ironically, by the time Eames was jumping around again, Arthur got sick. Eames couldn't stop smirking until Arthur kicked him in the stomach.
The mattress dipped a little when Arthur crawled into bed and approached the Eames-shaped lump. The British man somehow managed to wrap himself in a blanket cocoon. "Eames," he whispered, the other man stirred, "wake up."
He heard him yawn, Eames turned to face him, bleary-eyed, "Hullo, love." he said, fighting the tangled blankets, trying to sit up, "what time is it?"
Arthur's breath hitched, he swallowed, "I don't know, four or five I guess." Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, bathing the bedroom in a warm glow. Eames studied his face for a minute, "Are you alright, darling?"
"Yes." Arthur intended to sound nonchalant, but his shaky voice betrayed him. Eames looked both confused and amused, "Hey, hey, darling, it's just a flu, I won't die – not so soon, I'm not going to the grave without you."
Arthur hit him with a pillow, "Idiot," he gritted out, "that's not what I'm talking about."
"Very well then, what's that you are – "
Arthur silenced him with a kiss, Eames groaned in surprise when Arthur shoved him flat on his back. His lips were hot and soft and wet as Arthur remembered, and Eames tasted like…nothing, he was only a projection.
"I miss you." he confessed before he could stop himself, they were both panting, Arthur closed his eyes, he could feel Eames' lips curving against his, "Now I'm sure you're not my Arthur," he announced, skimming Arthur's chin with a finger, "my Arthur would shoot himself before telling me he misses me. Who are you?"
"Shut up, Mr. Eames." he hissed, buried his face in the crook of Eames' neck, "I hate you when you start talking."
Eames sighed, "If I don't know any better, love, I'd say you are about to cry." That's it, as Eames placed a soft kiss on his cheek, the worst thing in the world happened.
Arthur wept his heart out.
—
He woke up angry and frustrated. The device was still humming softly on the floor beside the couch; Arthur yanked the tube out and just lay there, blinking tears away. What was he thinking? Breaking down in a projection's arms was probably the silliest thing he'd ever done. Arthur felt like shooting someone, more specifically, himself. The dream had made things worse. He found himself shivering for no apparent reason. Arthur packed up the PASIV and headed out of his apartment.
This has to stop.
He swung his rental into the hospital's parking lot an hour later. It was already past visiting hour but Arthur was a 'cas à part'. Nurses drifted past him like soundless ghosts, deliberately ignoring him. Arthur strode into Eames' room, and immediately began setting up the device. He crawled into bed, pressed himself against Eames, he was thinner, muscles slack due to lack of movement, but his body was still warmer than Arthur's. The point man carefully slid the needles into their veins, before pressing the central button.
Dreams engulfed him.
—
He was back in that tiny cabin. The sky, as always, was heavy with clouds. The PASIV case was already waiting for him on the small round table. Not wanting to waste any time, Arthur settled in the wicker chair and pulled a tube out hurriedly. The wind was rattling the windows; he took a deep breath, slid the needle into his waiting vein and went deeper.
The warehouse, Arthur blinked, and sat up from the lawn chair. The sun was about to set, everything was soaked in a warm, orange glow. Arthur slowly got on his feet to survey the whole place. There was no one around, but there were used paper cups scattered on the long table, some of them were still half full. Arthur tentatively touched one of them, the coffee was lukewarm. Ariadne's backpack was carelessly left on another lawn chair. "Eames?" he called out, his voice echoed hollowly in the vast space.
He went deeper.
Next layer down, he wandered in a busy airport, seeking in vain for a familiar face among swarms of travelers. He wished this was a joke, that Eames would mysteriously appear behind him and tease him for the rest of eternity. Arthur plopped down on a blue plastic chair and buried his face in his hands.
Deeper.
A hospital. Arthur recognized it as the one Ariadne designed for the Fischer job. He was alone, accompanied only by heavy silence. Out there, the snow-covered peak was hidden by mist.
Deeper.
London, a theater, rain, traffic lights.
Deeper.
Gunfire, blood, a basement, the smell of alcohol mixed with gasoline.
Deeper.
Arthur lost track of how far he went, layers after seemingly endless layers. Please, just promise me this, don't lose yourself. Cobb's voice was ringing in his ears, but was soon drowned by another voice, Arthur's own voice, the sound of his subconscious. Find Eames, it insisted, find him, bring him back. Eames, Eames, Eames.
Dreams were linked in a strange, confusing way. It seemed that he could travel vertically, using the PASIV, or he could traverse a small park in downtown Los Angeles and found himself in the middle of a desert. Does 'infinite' mean that there would be countless vertical layers, each containing thousands of parallel dreams? Arthur pushed this horrifying thought aside and dived deeper.
He came to a deserted train station, a rather small one, in the middle of nowhere. The air was damp and still, filled up with the smell of grass and dirt. Arthur sat down on a bench and loosened his neck tie, waiting for desperation to catch up with him.
"I'm tired," he whispered, and his words evaporated in the blazing sun.
—
Later, he couldn't tell if he were drifting in dreams or memories.
He revisited the house in which he grew up; the cemetery where his grandfather was buried; his favorite bookstore, and the local museum.
The next second he was sitting beside Mal in Art History class, who was busy chatting with a brown-haired girl. She could always borrow Arthur's notes at the end of the semester, so why bother wasting time listening to that boring old guy? Arthur stood up abruptly, feeling sick. Mal looked up at him, startled. "You alright?" she asked.
Arthur rushed out of the classroom, the dreamscape began to crumble. All of a sudden Mal was behind him. "Arthur," she cooed, in that unique, lilting voice. He turned to face her, just in time to see that crooked smile and the sharp knife in her hand.
—
Arthur jolted awake, panting and shivering, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. When his heartbeat finally returned to normal, he pulled himself out of bed and just stood in the middle of the dimly-lit bedroom, trying to clarify his mind.
The sound of breaking glass made him jump. Someone swore loudly, Arthur almost chocked on his heart. He rushed to the kitchen; a man was crouching beside the stove, clumsily tidying up the mess he'd just made.
Arthur froze on his track, as though his legs had suddenly turned into marble. Eames, he felt his lips move, but nothing came out, but the British man seemed to hear his unsaid words, "Oh, morning, love," he chirped gleefully, "I've made us omelets, let's forget about the fact that I've just broken the -"
Arthur shoved him backwards, pinned him to the wall, their lips crushed together, too hard to be called a kiss. He didn't realize he was sobbing until Eames broke the kiss and said "hey, hey, darling, what's wrong?"
Arthur didn't even know where to begin, hundreds of thousands of words clogged in his throat, suffocating him. He wanted to say don't you remember, or, listen, you're in a coma, or, this is a dream, we have to find a way back to reality, but Eames was so warm, solid and real. Arthur couldn't bring himself to care about anything else.
"I found you," he finally managed, more tears trickled down his cheek, he brushed them away angrily, "God, I found you."
Eames frowned in confusion, "but I've always been here, my love," he chuckled, patting Arthur's back comfortingly, "where else can I be?"
"Actually, you were, I thought you were, I mean, no, never mind." Arthur shook his head, melted into the other man's arms, feeling exhausted.
"Ah, you had a night mare, didn't you, darling?"
Arthur closed his eyes, his loaded die was in his pocket, but he no longer cared if this was a dream, "a really bad one."
"Hmm," Eames tightened his arms, "it's alright now, love, I'm going to make you coffee, after breakfast you'll completely forget about it, I promise."
"Yes," he agreed, feeling the warmth of happiness fill up his chest as the morning sunlight spilled into their kitchen, "It's alright now."
End
Thank you for reading!
and special thanks to greeneye and sartes, who helped me figured things out and patiently endured my constant harassment:)