It was like dreaming.
Eames expected Cobb to pick Arthur's side. Those two had worked together for longer, after all. Arthur followed Cobb into the most impossible dreams, always pointing to the safest way out. Cobb was Arthur's mentor and also his friend. Eames understood that. Then, even when Cobb never called him again, he thought it was okay. Eames knew his people and he worked, dreaming or awake, like he always did. And he could even say he missed Arthur if they didn't keep running into each other.
The first time, only five weeks after their fistfight, when Eames spotted Arthur in the same terminal, he thought, wasn't that the meanest coincidence ever? It wasn't. In fact, it was exactly like dreaming. One minute you're there, wide awake, lying down and trying to shut out all the little things that kept you from resting. And in the next you suddenly realize you're somewhere else. Lost inside a place you didn't really know, yet with this sensation you knew you had already felt once. Eames knew that that wasn't the ordinary dream kind, though. Those were the kind of dreams that could be dissected, manipulated, built piece by piece, forged, broken and torn apart. And he was trapped down there, playing the mark who only could fight so far to prevent his secrets from been stolen away.
Not that Arthur had said or asked anything of him. They were at the Verona airport and Eames glimpsed Arthur from the other side of the terminal, before he walked through a maintenance closet's door. Then, Eames waited. He didn't have to wait for too long, really. And that was much like their beginning, yes. Still, it felt worse.
Because when Arthur finally called out his name, his voice harsh, broken, after Eames sucked him off against the closed door, Eames couldn't even allow himself to wonder how Arthur's lips could taste like. He already knew. Eames had memorized its shape. He remembered how Arthur used to moan against his tongue, every time Eames sucked his lower lip. And even if he did miss kissing Arthur more than anything, Eames didn't even dare to try. He just waited, listening to Arthur gasp, breathing hard above him, holding a handful of Eames' hair. He waited for Arthur to say nothing. Not a thanks, not a let's please pretend this didn't happen. Arthur just buttoned his waistcoat and shirt that Eames had opened to suck Arthur's nipples, fixed his tie and zippered his trousers, before leaving Eames alone in the closet.
Eames felt Arthur's come burning on his tongue. And it tasted bitter.
What a funny little thing love was, Eames found himself thinking, three weeks later. He's halfway across the world, performing a forgery for a powerful Chilean politician's wife. He impersonated the man's mistress, a young, petite brunette, so their extractor could steal his secret. It ended okay and Eames was trying to get some sleep in his hotel when he suddenly realized he wouldn't be able to. Yes, he had spent most of his last days under, but it was completely different and Eames liked his sleep. And he blamed Arthur, of course.
Because, though Eames was miles away from being just fine, the first weeks after their 'breaking up', if he could even call it that, were almost bearable. Then, Verona had happened. Bloody Shakespeare should be laughing his arse out of his grave. The problem, then, was very simple: Eames had started to feel hope, again.
Now, all those days he had spent kissing and fucking every single person who gave him a chance made him feel shallow. Arthur had turned Eames into a really bad cliché and it would be funny if wasn't so fucking tragic. Because now Eames couldn't sleep. He felt extremely stupid, a little pathetic, a bit betrayed and a lot pissed off. He opened his eyes and scrutinized the room's ceiling, his mind all on Arthur. Arthur, the one who gave back his dreams and now had stolen away his sleep. It wasn't a very fair trade, was it? Eames asked himself, eventually giving up as his head started to pound, taking a mildly strong sedative.
He dreamt about the first time he died on a job. Which wasn't pretty accurate, really, since Eames hadn't known Arthur back then and yet, there Arthur was. In the dream, Eames was playing a distraction so the rest of his team could get the job done and because of that he had jumped into the middle of a fistfight with some kind of projection. It was a dream about a dream and Eames didn't know how he knew that projection was, in fact, Arthur even before he stopped punching him, shoving his skull against the floor. Yes, Eames knew that one was Arthur and still he only stopped hitting him when he felt the sticky blood on his hands and glanced down at Arthur's ruined face. Eames recognized the shape of his lips, the curve of the broken nose and he stared into glassy, empty eyes until he was ambushed and mercifully taken down.
Eames woke up, soaked in a cold sweat and immediately reached for his poker chip, almost dropping it in his rush. Eames rubbed and pressed the totem, hard, against his chest, begging his heart to, please, calm the fuck down. And Eames didn't know what scared him the most. The idea he could be unconsciously starting to hate Arthur or that he's just damned to love him forever. Either way, it wasn't really fair.
Eames was back in Mombasa a month later. He worked a few jobs, slept with a few people and burned half of his gains at a poker table. Eames could even say he was going through a nasty stroke of bad luck, but the truth was that despite his soft spot for gambling, Eames didn't believe in luck. Or fate, coincidences and destiny, for that matter.
Yet, the next time they met, they met in a hospital.
The thing was simple, too. People talked. People talked a lot and Eames just happened to be there to listen to them. And apparently Cobb's latest job hadn't ended so well and now, he was looking for an architect. People talking over other people's losses wasn't exactly uncommon, but Eames couldn't think of one single reason Cobb would need an architect. Being an extractor had never stopped him from building before, after all. Still, Eames didn't give the news too much attention. A few days later, however, he heard differently. Eames heard that Cobb's last job was, in fact, a completely messy, bloody disaster. He heard Cobb and his team had had to run away from the mark's real security. Then, Eames heard that one of Cobb's team was caught and yet had managed to escape, though not before he was badly injured. And of course this one was Cobb's point man.
Eames didn't stick around to hear the rest. Took him an hour to find out who Cobb's mark was, where and how in hell it had happened. He made a few calls and he stole a car. Eames never really was into cars. Yet he drove without taking one single break because for eleven freaking whole days Arthur had been right there, only four hours away, just down the main road. On the run, he knew it had always been every man for himself. Eames knew that. Eames practically could say he had invented the goddamn system. Still, if Cobb had somehow managed to show up in front of Eames, he would feel seriously tempted to smash that blond head of his into the closest wall.
Arthur was okay, all things considered. Most of his injuries, cuts and bruises spread over his arms and face, were almost healed. Only a broken ankle that would take a few more weeks of bed rest. Arthur wasn't registered under his real name, of course, so Eames had to work a little magic to steal his patient's file, so he could add something in the spot where it read next of kin.
When the nurse announced, her voice cheerful, that his cousin Tom was there to see him, Eames saw Arthur's eyes growing wide. Then Eames noticed how his face suddenly relaxed, before turning a deep purple. He fought back a laugh, because, though it was funny, it was kind of tragic, too. Arthur glared at Eames' laughing face, but only when the nurse left the room, with an excuse to check on another patient, Arthur snapped at Eames to leave him the fuck alone. Eames gazed at Arthur for a few seconds, then let out a deep sigh, because he was feeling so relieved Arthur was okay he couldn't even get mad for Arthur's stick-up-my-arse attitude. Not that Eames hadn't wished he could be welcomed with a little bit more enthusiasm, but this was Arthur they were talking about. Eames slid his hand over his own face and hair and bowed his head. He tried to think, to choose his words more wisely. Still, there was only one thing he could think about saying. The picture which been haunting him.
"I had this dream about you, you see. A month ago, I guess. I saw you dying there, Arthur, and I was-"
Eames stopped, feeling like the biggest bloody idiot on the face of the Earth. It would be really interesting to observe Arthur's reaction once Eames reached the point where he explained that he was the one who, by the way, had killed Arthur. Well, at least Arthur would have his point proved. There wasn't a future for them. Not even in Eames' dreams, apparently. Eames shook his head and thought he should leave before it got worse, as it always did.
Then "Hey," Arthur called out and Eames couldn't help but hope, because that was just a thing he did. "Look at me."
And Eames noticed Arthur wasn't really smiling, but his face seemed definitely softer than before.
"I'm okay," Arthur assured him and Eames sighed, disarmed and hurt, because how could Arthur possibly be okay? Eames couldn't understand that, he didn't want to. Even if it was so simple, it was impossible for Eames to accept that maybe, maybe he was the only who truly regretted whatever they had become.
"You're okay." But Eames repeated Arthur's words, without knowing whether he was saying it for himself or to Arthur. "You're okay." And again, this time sinking one of his hands inside his jacket pocket to touch his totem, rubbing it through his fingers and yet, unable to tell if it was a good or a bad thing he wasn't dreaming. "Guess I should go, then." Eames looked down at Arthur, forcing himself to smile. "Feel better, Arthur."
He turned his back to leave, but Arthur's voice stopped him a second before his hand could reach for the doorknob.
"Eames?"
He turned back, but he didn't say anything. Eames just couldn't trust his voice. So he waited. Arthur's face was serious, just like when he was thinking about a breach in a plan, trying to solve it before it was too late. And Eames knew Arthur wasn't thinking about them. Because it was already too late for them. Still, when Arthur finally decided to speak up, Eames thought he did hear an almost imperceptive tone of anxiety in his voice and Eames shook his head, because, now, really?
"Can you get me out of here?" Arthur asked, then, softly. And Eames nodded, sighing.
It was easier than it seemed. Arthur felt better enough to be moved and as Eames helped him to get inside the car, which was covered in dust and mud from the road, he expected Arthur to make a comment about it, to criticize him, for old times' sake, maybe. But Arthur just sat, buckled up and said nothing. Eames didn't say anything either as he drove them to the next city, just to be sure. He had left Mombasa in such a hurry there was a real probability he had left a trail which could easily lead directly to them. And Eames couldn't risk Arthur, especially not in his current condition. Eames found them a nice, small hotel and rented a room for the week. Once he had helped Arthur to the bed, though, Eames hesitated. What should he do? Should he stay? Get himself a room next door? Leave Arthur the fuck alone?
But Arthur wasn't paying attention to him. He was just staring at nothing, a hand playing with the sheet. Eames cleared his throat and Arthur glanced up at him, but stayed silent.
"Do you want me to get Cobb for you?" Eames asked then, only because he knew he would go mad trying to figure out what Arthur could possibly want.
But "No," and Arthur shook his head, turning his eyes back to staring at nothing. Eames groaned under his breath and a few minutes later, he tried again.
"Do you... want to talk about it?" Because Arthur wasn't exactly giving him too many options.
"Talk about what?" And Arthur did sound like Eames had gone mad.
Eames threw his hands up. "Cobb? Your ankle? I don't know, Arthur. The bloody weather?"
And Arthur let out a laugh, which didn't even sound like a laugh, more like a throaty, tired noise. "It doesn't look like it's going to rain today," he added, looking up at Eames.
And Eames smiled at him weakly in return, already knowing he just couldn't deal with that. Not with Arthur acting almost nice to him. It was torture. Eames expected to be yelled at, to be criticized, he'd expect even for Arthur just choosing to thank him for the ride before he asked Eames to leave, please. He definitely hadn't expected this. For Arthur to act like he was comfortable being in the same room with a man he had fucked for over a year. A man he kissed and worked and fought with. The problem, Eames realized, was Arthur wasn't acting like himself. The problem was Arthur was acting just like something had finally broken inside him and he was relieved, because now he knew it couldn't cause him any more damage.
And of course it didn't have anything to do with them. Because Eames knew they'd reached the bottom floor ages ago. He knew it was bad they had started at all, really bad what they had become and indescribably bad that Eames still felt some hope they could ever set things right. Again, Eames felt like he was trapped in a dream. Because as a dream never starts, a dream never really ends, either. You just woke up before things got better or worse and most times, it wasn't even your choice. Like now.
And as far as Eames knew, Arthur had never been injured in reality on a job before and though being caught should have scared him a little, it didn't explain why Arthur was acting like he was conformed with the whole situation. It wasn't him. Because if Arthur ever noticed something wrong, he wouldn't cross his arms and hope for the best. He would do something about it. Eames knew this because it was what had happened to them. Arthur had watched Eames and noticed something was wrong with him. He had watched Eames following a job which ended badly, at Eames rubbing his totem, at Eames acting like everything was going to be alright when he knew it wasn't and Arthur had done something about that.
Now, on the other hand, Arthur was acting like he had finally looked into the abyss and knowing he couldn't do anything about it, he had just sat down and was waiting for something to happen. Arthur acted like he was expecting to be told what to do and Eames just couldn't deal with that. Arthur wasn't someone you told what do, because Arthur always knew what to do.
Eames knew something bad had happened on Cobb's job, but Eames didn't know if Arthur even wanted to be helped. That's why he chose to play the coward card and ambushed Arthur with the one single piece he couldn't fit by himself.
"Why is Cobb looking for an architect?" And Eames watched as Arthur sighed hard, resting his head against the pillows Eames had piled behind his back.
"He says he won't build any more." Arthur wet his lips, like an old habit and Eames found himself trying to ignore those wet lips.
"Why not?" he asked, trying to stay on topic.
Arthur sighed again and shook his head. Eames frowned, remembering that. He and Arthur had had a pretty nasty fight right after a talk which started exactly with Arthur sighing and shaking his head. Eames tried to remember what they had fought over, but he knew he couldn't. Back then everything sounded like a bloody good excuse. And Eames thought how strange it was for him to remember only the sigh and the head shake, like those things were something bigger, not just small, clumsy details. He knew it didn't have some bigger meaning, but it would be nice to not fight Arthur again. Not right now, at least. It was what he expected, but it wasn't what he wanted. Eames knew he couldn't deal with Arthur acting nicely, but he could try. This time, Eames decided he wouldn't push Arthur.
It worked. Eventually, Arthur closed his eyes for a few seconds and when he opened them, Arthur glanced down, directly at his broken ankle. Eames frowned, incapable to read Arthur even after months of practicing. Maybe, Eames thought, it wasn't meant for him to understand, not now. Apparently, Arthur agreed.
"It's complicated," Arthur murmured in reply, his voice small and hurt.
Eames breathed and sat on the edge of the bed, but Arthur didn't seem to notice. He put a hand on the back of Arthur's neck, forcing Arthur to look back at him. Eames could smell the scent from his skin, almost feel the warmth of his breath. Arthur's eyes were unsettled.
"Yeah." And Eames just couldn't help it, not this close, not after driving for four hours straight just to be sure Arthur was okay. Eames broke the distance between them, pressing his forehead against Arthur's. "I bet it is."
And Eames expected to be shoved away at any second. To have a firm, steady hand on his chest followed by an Eames, don't. It didn't come. They just sat there, only breathing, their foreheads touching for what felt like minutes. Eventually, Eames sensed a gentle hand on his shoulder and he shut his eyes, already missing the warmth of Arthur's skin, the closeness, everything. What Eames felt, though, was Arthur's nose brushing against his.
He opened his eyes to find Arthur's and Eames could barely register what was going on when the tip of Arthur's tongue touched his lower lip, a jolt of ice and fire piercing through his body. Eames closed his eyes one more time. Because though he already knew the taste, had memorized the shape and heard the sounds, but he wanted all of it over again. He wanted all the same, all the new. Eames held Arthur with one free arm around his waist and Arthur tilted his head, reaching for a better angle, opening his mouth beneath Eames'. Eames felt Arthur's hand on his face, Arthur's tongue sliding hot and wet against his. Their lips slowly touched. Discovering it. Remembering it. Arthur dug his fingers into Eames' hair, tugging him closer. Eames gasped between the kisses, running without air. But Eames had missed it for so long he couldn't bring himself to stop, not then, not ever. It was Arthur who broke the kiss, fisting Eames' hair and looking deep into his eyes, breathing hard and fast against Eames' opened mouth.
"God, I want to fuck you." Arthur's voice sent a shiver down Eames' spine and he tried to kiss Arthur again, but Arthur held him in place. And he repeated, like Eames was deaf or stupid or something. "I want to fuck you right now."
Eames avoided his eyes, trying to keep at least one line of coordinated thought. He took his hands off Arthur's waist and neck to put them on his shoulders, digging his fingers into his skin, already hot under his hands.
"Your ankle, Arthur," Eames said, because someone had to say it. He gazed up and had a brief vision of Arthur's dirtiest smile before he felt his hair being pulled again, Arthur pressing their lips together one more time. Once they broke it, Arthur breathed against Eames' mouth again, his voice harsh and deep and ready.
"Can't you ride me?"
And Eames couldn't think of one single reason to disagree. Breathing hard, he helped Arthur take off his clothes, putting a pillow under his immobilized leg. Inside the bathroom's cabinet, Eames found supplies and Arthur was already waiting for him with a hand around his own cock as Eames returned to the room. Arthur closed his eyes and he pumped his cock once when Eames started to undress himself. Eames climbed into bed, dropping little kisses down Arthur's neck and chest, sucking one of his nipples. Eames held the flesh between his teeth before letting go and doing the same to the other one. When he heard Arthur grunting, he shoved Arthur's hand off his cock with a smirk.
"Let's keep our hands on the mattress, shall we?" Eames teased, lifting his body so he could grab both of their cocks with one hand, keeping a nice, slow rhythm. It didn't take long till Arthur started to breathe hard, both of his hands gripping the sheet. Eames gave their cocks a firm, long squeeze, making Arthur gasp for air, his body starting to twitch under his. "Huh, easy there, Arthur," Eames' voice was filled up with unmistakable amusement. "You haven't started to handle me, yet."
Arthur's glare pierced him and Eames listened as Arthur swore under his breath. He laughed, releasing them, lowering his head so he could suck the tip of Arthur's cock. Eames heard Arthur hissing through his teeth and his smirk grew wider. Eames reached to grab for the condom and lube, pumping Arthur a little more before unrolling the condom on him, running his lubed fingers all over Arthur's cock. Eames lifted one of his legs over Arthur's waist, positioned his knees carefully, stretching himself with his slippery fingers. He never took his eyes off Arthur. Eames watched as Arthur kept track of the fingers coming in and out of his body. He noticed as Arthur's own fingers twitched over the mattress and smiled, warning him again.
"Arthur, do you want me to tie you down, perhaps?"
Arthur clutched the rumpled sheet so hard Eames was surprised he didn't tear off the fabric. He was ready. They both were. Eames grasped Arthur's cock, finding an angle and lowered his body down, taking it just a little, then pulling back up before sinking in again. Eames flexed his legs, wincing, feeling it burn and he held a breath, trying to relax. He bit his lower lip as he took half of Arthur's cock inside him.
"Eames, fuck-" Arthur screwed his eyes shut and Eames smirked.
"We're impatient today, aren't we?"
Eames watched Arthur's cheeks flush, his breath uneven and loud. And though Arthur obviously was dying to put his hands on Eames' hips, to shove Eames down on him, Eames knew he wouldn't dare. Arthur only sank his fingers into the mattress, feeling Eames lowering his body slowly, so slowly on his cock, until Eames took it all. Arthur let a strangled noise out, opening and locking his eyes onto Eames, begging him to fuck move already.
Eames obliged him. He grabbed his own cock and started to pump it as he fucked himself on Arthur's. Eames kept a steady rhythm, trying not to make any harsh moves, watching out for Arthur's ankle. Eames felt his own cock becoming hard as a warm feeling rose up through his body. Eames shoved himself against Arthur's cock one more time, taking him all at once and he winced as he saw Arthur grabbing the bedpost to prevent himself from touching Eames. He felt pity for Arthur and started to move faster, his legs beginning to ache as his vision became blurry. Eames squinted down as Arthur's eyes were losing focus, too, his mouth babbling incoherent little noises, and Eames had to control his own breathing, because he was getting closer as well.
Then, when Arthur let out a loud moan, his entire body arching up, Eames immediately stopped moving. Arthur's cock buried deep in him, Eames put a hand on Arthur's chest and looked down at him.
"Do you wanna come?" Eames asked, stroking his own cock as he spoke, keeping Arthur still. Arthur tried to answer, but only incomprehensible noises came out of his mouth. Eames observed as Arthur shut his eyes again, trying to catch his breath back, and smirked. "What? I'm sorry, 'can't hear you, darling."
Arthur struggled and Eames thought how he must admire Arthur's self-control, because if it was him, Eames knew he would have started begging ten minutes ago. Eames felt Arthur's heartbeat beneath the palm of his left hand, the pulsing of his own cock in his right. He saw Arthur parting his lips again.
"Y-yes," Arthur finally managed it, voice steady as it could be, knuckles white against the bedpost.
Eames panted as he spoke. "Tell me, Arthur, how do you want to come? You wanna come inside me?" Eames pulled back off Arthur's cock just a little, then sank all the way back down. "Huh? Is that what you want?"
Arthur let a deep groan out and Eames was pretty sure Arthur couldn't care less about how or where, as long Eames did something, anything about it and did it right freaking now. Eames smiled smugly at the view. He loved that. Eames loved to drive Arthur completely out of control. Eames shifted his body a bit, stroking himself harder and faster. Then, with a noise from the back of his throat, a half-moan, Eames came all over his hand and Arthur's belly.
When he regained control of his breathing again, Eames glanced up and found Arthur staring at him, his lips slightly parted, his own orgasm so touchable it hurt. Eames ran three sticky fingertips from Arthur's stomach to Arthur's face and he shoved them into his mouth. And Arthur sucked, cleaning his fingers, then sucking them a little more. Eames breathed, tired, shaking and delirious, and he asked.
"Do you wanna come in my mouth?"
Arthur's pleading, painful cry was all the answer Eames needed. He slid himself off Arthur, rolled the condom off and pushed Arthur's uninjured leg so he could have more room. Eames looked up at Arthur as he grasped the base of his cock, tasting the tip and licking the pre-come, making Arthur arch his back like he had been electrocuted. Eames lifted Arthur's leg a bit more and, mouth on his cock, he started to fuck Arthur with the same three fingers Arthur had just sucked. Eames took all of Arthur's cock in his mouth, his fingers sinking deeper inside him. And Arthur was so close he wasn't even able to give Eames a decent warning before coming impossibly hard into his mouth. Eames choked a little, swallowing what he could, then licking all the remains off Arthur's inner thighs and stomach.
Eames admired Arthur when he was done. Arthur's eyelids half-closed, the red of his cheeks slowly fading, his chest rising up and down evenly. Though Eames wouldn't get tired of watching Arthur undone like this, he couldn't help but wonder if he would get the chance to do that again. Because when Eames was alone, missing Arthur was hard, yes, but the worst part was knowing that even if he had the choice to forget about Arthur, like it was some kind of on/off switch, he probably wouldn't have the balls.
Though Eames never was the death wish type, he admitted that maybe he could be just a little bit of a masochist in Arthur's case. Eames wet his lips, tasting his and Arthur's come on his tongue. He knew what he wanted was to lift his body up and kiss Arthur's lips just one more time, but he didn't dare. Instead, Eames spoke the first thing to come to his mind.
"You didn't tell Cobb about it, did you?"
And for a second or two, Eames thought Arthur had fallen asleep but, as an afterthought, the reply came.
"Told him about what?"
And Eames knew the answer would sound stupid even before it left his mouth.
"Us." He snorted, trying to make it less than it really was. "That we keep seeing each other."
Arthur observed him just for a second before shaking his head. Eames was half-grateful Arthur didn't choose the moment to announce something mood-killer like don't be ridiculous, it has been two times, only. Or even a there isn't an us, Eames. Still, Eames knew those were the kind of things Arthur probably would end up thinking anyway.
"No," Arthur then responded, his voice still deep and harsh. "He doesn't really talk much about what he does in his free time and neither do I."
Eames tried to choke back a laugh, but it escaped. Arthur frowned back at him.
"What?" Arthur inquired and for a second Eames thought the orgasm must have burned some of Arthur's little gray cells. Usually, Arthur just tried to ignore whenever Eames laughed near him.
"Nothing." Eames shook his head. "It's just quite comfortable to know you still think of me as a hobby." And he hadn't answered that way to piss Arthur off. Eames just missed that part so much as well. The talking, the teasing. Every time he just tried to make Arthur laugh. "It's really charming. In some objectified sort of way, of course."
Arthur avoided his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. His breathing had almost settled down, then. Eames shifted on the bed, stealing a pillow for himself, lying down on Arthur's side. He eyed Arthur, who didn't look back, or tried to reply. Eames couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or not. Probably wasn't.
Eames felt the need to sleep starting to wash over him and, judging by Arthur's heavy eyelashes, so did he. But Eames didn't want to fall asleep and wake up just to find out it was all over, like in the good old dream fashioned way. He reached for one of Arthur's hands, lying on his chest, and covered it with his own.
"You and I won't be having this discussion again, right?" Eames asked, not because he wanted to know the answer. Eames just knew he didn't really have a choice.
And Arthur looked hurt, and only hurt, when he faced Eames back.
"No." Still, Arthur did clutch Eames' fingers between his. "No, we won't."
(End of Part III)