It goes on, and Eames has trouble keeping track of time as the days begin to blur into each other. They're much the same: breakfast of some oatmeal or similar hot cereal along with water and anemic fruit, usually a mottled banana. Boredom for a few hours, off-set by talking through the hole in the wall, doing calisthenics or looking through the photos provided by Rossiter for forging.

The man doesn't understand that forging is more than just *looking* like a person; that a good forgery involves knowing the nuances and tics and characteristics of the subject. At this point, Eames could forge Rossiter, but is holding back on that for the right moment.

Somewhere around mid-day, he and the others are herded out to the stone theater to Dream. Eames and Arthur have theorized that they're in some old hospital; possibly something from Stalin days, left-over and forgotten. Certainly nothing they've seen outside of the Pasiv dates from the last few decades.

They Dream.

Usually Rossiter is the Dreamer, but sometimes it's Ariadne.

They experience hallucinations, side-effects, distorted realities and twisted Dreams.

Rossiter won't admit that the whole *point* of kidnapping, of having this team is to test different Seds, but Eames knows now that it is, because the witch doctor always checks them afterwards.

That pisses him off royally, to realize they're nothing more than guinea pigs, and all the talk of learning Building and Forging runs secondary to the trials. Arthur figured it out after the first two Dreams, but at the moment there's nothing they can do to fight it.

Yet.

They get a quick physical from the doctor each time and go back to their cells to recover, which means going through puking at times, or sleeping, or having the DTs or simply being stoned for a while.

Eames doesn't mind being stoned too much actually. Arthur is hilarious when he's high, and Ariadne does an incredible imitation of Brian Johnson, snarling out an a cappella version of Back In Black and making the lyrics bounce off the walls.

Stoned is better than buzzed. When they're wired on some amphetamine additive, Eames can hardly keep still, slamming himself off the walls and jumping on his cot until it or he collapses. Arthur strips naked and does push-ups and sit-ups, smoothly pushing his way past a thousand in an hour, if he bothered keeping count, sweat rolling off his hard, lean body.

Eames likes to watch that, but can't, because his own twitchiness makes it too difficult to lie still on the floor for long. He suspects Ariadne watches from the hole on the other wall, but he can't always see her.

If they manage to stay awake for dinner, it's usually some glop of a stew, fishy some days, burnt beef on others, nothing that requires utensils. They get paper bowls and plates; bottled water, nothing that can be used as a weapon.

It's boring and terrifying all at the same time, and a slow, ancient weakness is rising up inside Eames; a need he generally keeps in check but can't quite master at the moment, not the way they're being kept here, at arm's length.

Monophobia. Stupid name for a stupid condition that started back with all the hellish crap when he was a kid. The label makes him sneer, but there are times that the drugs push back all those reasonable assurances in his head, and Eames curls up as close to the hole in the wall as he can, just to see Arthur.

Just to know he's not . . . alone.

Then comes the day when they get the Red sed.

They go in; Rossiter's jumpy, but his sed capsule is clear as usual, so Eames realizes he's nervous about what the rest of them are getting, which makes Eames a bit twitchy himself. He looks at Arthur, who nods; he's spotted the new color as well.

Ariadne resentfully lies down and holds out her arm, and Eames can see how scarred her wrist is getting. They've been Dreaming nearly every day now, and he knows pretty soon they'll be past the point of being able to reach REM sleep on their own if they don't stop.

"What's in the sed?" Arthur asks.

Rossiter shrugs. "Sleep and find out, Point Man."

Ariadne's out already; she'll be designing. Arthur goes next, so Eames settles back, wondering what the two of them will come up with—it's been interesting so far.

Under, and he feels the rush through his veins, hot and throbbing and so very, very RED; whatever is in the sed is hitting like a velvet cricket bat. Eames looks around, bracing himself for anything.

The room is huge and dark, filled with bouncing, twirling bodies, and Eames only has a second to realize it's a dance floor. The pillars are curvy, the flashing lights pulse in time to the music, and the projections are all moving to the beat of some vaguely familiar disco tune. Eames begins to bounce along, feeling himself grin as warm lovely heat floods through him—whatever this shit in the sed is, it's leaving a lovely burn all the way from his temples to his groin, and he's starting to feel randy.

00oo00oo00

Arthur doesn't want to think about the music—this particular song is one of the banes of his middle school years—but the crush of people along the dance floor are blocking some of the sound. Light is glittering everywhere, and he likes that instead of being the usual sparkles, Ariadne has shaped them into hearts that are now sliding over arms and legs and breasts . . .

He feels warm, and begins to hunt for his team, weaving in and out of groups, like a sleek human version of a ferret, looking up periodically, and finding himself periodically caught in the relentless rhythm of the music.

Rossiter is on the edges of the crowd, at a table, looking around; Arthur knows the man hasn't seen him yet, and avoiding him seems prudent. He feels a hand land on his shoulder and turns to see Eames standing there. Before Arthur can say anything, Eames yanks him into a bearhug. "Darling!"

Eames is hot and sweaty and Arthur should be annoyed as *fuck* at being manhandled, particularly in the middle of a crowd of projections, but somehow the fuse of his anger doesn't quite . . . ignite. For one thing, Eames is so damned thrilled to see him, and for another, being hugged feels good too.

Arthur begins to let go; Eames doesn't.

"We're being watched. Let me go," Arthur orders tersely, and he senses the reluctance in the other man's arms. Arthur feels bad for him, and instead of backing up, he merely stares Eames in the eye. "Where's Ari?"

Eames blinks, manages a smile. "Back over by the bar, in a red dress. Nice little bit of a thing."

They're in each other's personal space, but this is a Dream, so Arthur goes with it and doesn't worry about Eames' breath in his face. "You feel . . . weird?"

He watches Eames look around at the gyrating projections and then back at him, and in the sparkling light Arthur can see sweat along his hairline and a wolfish gleam in his eyes.

"Not precisely weird," Eames rumbles, and pulls Arthur out of the way as a shrieking couple of projections come spinning by. "Look, let's get over to our girl and see what's what."

Arthur nods and brushes past Eames; the Englishman is radiating heat and hormones in a heady pheromone bouquet. Arthur bites the inside of his cheek to steady himself and pushes gently through the crowd. None of the projections look frightening, in fact, most look pre-occupied with each other, and the music is becoming slower and sultrier.

He doesn't want to think about what the sed is, but it seems clear enough now, and Arthur searches for Ariadne, all too aware of the changing Dreamscape and what is says about her dosage.

She's standing at the end of a curved bar made of polished marble, and Eames is right: the satiny slip of a ruby dress is tiny and perfect on Ariadne. Arthur feels the urge to grab her up and . . . hug her.

Hug her, yes—the idea has a HELL of a lot of appeal right now, and part of Arthur's mind knows it's because of the sed and the other part knows damned well is has nothing to do with the sed, oh no the urges were there long BEFORE the sed—

"Like my club?" Ariadne laughs up at them both. She's bright-eyed and pert, and slightly flirtatious. Arthur looks at her and remembers he's seen her naked; the realization makes him flush all over.

"Very nice, moppet," Eames teases. "Could use a few more uninhibited types, but I'm not complaining. You feel all right?"

"Oh I'm feeling pretty good," Ariadne admits, moving to huddle closer to them both. The press of the crowd makes that easy, and Arthur feels the heat shimmering off of her. Both she and Eames are practically combustible right now, and Arthur aches, wanting to touch them both.

Then Eames looks at him, and Ariadne looks at him, and the atmosphere crackles with energy so erotic that Arthur has to fight not to moan.

"Hey!" Rossiter is pushing towards them now, and without thinking, without discussion they join hands. Arthur isn't sure how he feels about the way Eames' warm fingers weave with his, but Ariadne's fingers feel small and strong and wriggly.

Rossiter is agitated, and by now some of the projections are looking the same way, but the room is starting to shift, and Arthur lets Ariadne tug him along, the three of them riding a bizarre little section of glittering floor tile that's moving faster and faster under their feet.

"Disco surfing, are we?" Eames shouts, keeping his balance. Arthur smirks at that, enjoying the sight of Rossiter's frustration as he falls further and further behind.

They're back in their cells.

00oo00oo00

The wrong cells, but Ariadne isn't in the mood to argue. Actually, the mood she's in would best be defined as 'aroused as hell' to 'desperately horny' and to compound the frustration she's now in the middle cell—Arthur's usual spot.

"God, what the hell was IN that sed?" she mutters, undoing the top few snaps of her suit and wiggling at little as she lies on the floor. Eames is an arm's length to her right through the wall, and Arthur an arm's length to her left through the wall, but what Ariadne really wants is to have them next to her.

Or under her.

Or ON her at this point.

"Felt like a nice dose of Viagra with a cherry on top," Eames offers. "Given how I'm still sporting."

"Jesus, TMI," Arthur calls from the other side.

"Oh and you're not?" Ariadne hears the chide in the Englishman's voice. "I happen to know you haven't tossed off since we've been here, so you've got to be more than randy, pet. Nobody can have as much testosterone as you and not suffer the consequences, Arthur."

"Did anybody ever tell you that you need to be punched in the mouth, Eames? Because if not, let me be the first," Arthur growls.

Ariadne smothers her giggles into her palms for a moment and then asks, "And you have, Eames?"

"Of course I have," he retorts. "I'm normal in the grand scheme of hormones."

"What about me?"

"Ah well, girls are different," Eames murmured in a tone she likes, all warm and sexy. "It's not always obvious when you're rubbing the kitten's nose now is it?"

"Like . . . now?"

She can't believe she's doing it, but Ariadne's worked her arm out of her sleeve and into her jumpsuit, down the length of her body.

It feels good bordering on wonderful as she strokes her stomach and slips her fingers further down.

Both men are silent, and when Ariadne closes her eyes, she realizes that's not quite true. She hears Arthur breathing loudly.

"Sorry," Ariadne murmurs, lightly touching herself. It's a little cramped in the suit, but she's not about to risk undoing it and having Rossiter catch her.

"Don't be, angel," Eames groans, and the sound of his voice, husky and uneven tells Ariadne that she's not alone in her sensual pursuit. "Oh God, I'm not!"

So she rubs, hard, caught up not only in the sweet aching rise of her own pleasure as it grows over the minutes, but also in the clear and audible evidence that she's not alone. Ariadne can hear Eames of course, and on the other side, Arthur's breathing is louder, more ragged and uneven. She licks her lips, and that brings an almost pained moan from him.

Faster; Ariadne is feeling desperate now, swept up in an energy driven by everything welling in her—desire, fear, fury, sweet, sweet lust for those two bodies so close and yet so unavailable to her. The long slow wail rises in her throat, and she arches her hips up, rocking now, riding the crest of her own orgasm as it shudders through her. Dimly she hears Eames grunt, hears the rhythmic scrape of his jumpsuit against the floor and more telling than that, the deep, guttural growl that pours through the other opening in the wall where Arthur is.

She opens her eyes to see him, one arm braced against the wall, his lean face contorted in pleasure, and before he's done coming, Ariadne slides over, her mouth devouring his as the cold cinderblocks frame their tongue-tangled kiss.

A moment later, Ariadne rolls over and moves to the little window where Eames is looking at her in sweet adoration. She kisses him too and they laugh in each other's mouths before breaking apart.

The three of them say nothing, and sleep well, dreaming deeply and naturally.