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Eames knew something was wrong when the city buildings around him started to crumble; the dream was collapsing. Eames felt his gut flip as the world he had built slowly disintegrated around him. The colors faded first, then the projections became brittle things blown away by the wind. He was trapped with no kick to ride out. It was an agonizing half an hour before the roof caved in on him.
Eames huffed and pressed his face into the pillow. He and Arthur had enjoyed a lazy Sunday the day before and waking up would mean it was over. He reached for Arthur but found the bed empty. Confused, he opened his eyes and glanced around their bedroom, but Arthur was nowhere to be found. Eames had a strange feeling that something was off and slowly got out of bed, listening for the familiar sounds of Arthur in the apartment.
Everything was silent and eerily still. Arthur was gone, and upon closer inspection, the entire apartment seemed to be covered in a veil of dust. Eames ran back to the bedroom, digging in his bedside drawer where he always stashed his totem. When his hand didn’t find the familiar chip, he upended the drawer, scattering its contents across the floor.
It wasn’t there. Fear gripped Eames as he frantically searched his pockets. It was a dream. It had to be. But when did it start? The room around him started to change, crumbling like an ancient building, grey light starting to shine through the cracks in the plaster.
Eames broke out in a cold sweat. He was in limbo. The realization sent ice through his veins. Eames squeezed his eyes shut, trying to grab vague memories of being on a job, dropping to the third layer and everything going to shit. Eames took a shuddering breath and forced himself to think rationally.
Arthur would come for him, he was sure of that. But how long would it take? He was stuck here for what could be years, centuries even. He tried to remember how much time was left when the dream collapsed but came up blank.
A sudden noise shook Eames from his thoughts, a low, foreboding grow that vibrated through the building. Eames jumped and focused on the sound of distant, heavy footsteps that were getting closer. He was supposed to be alone, wasn’t he? This was his limbo after all. His and his alone. Everything he had ever heard said that you had to be sharing a dream to end up in limbo together.
There was a bone rattling impact, and wall near him splintered, showering him with bits of wood and plaster. Eames didn’t hesitate; he took off at a dead run, debris biting into his bare feet as he slid around the corner and out the front door. He headed for the stairwell, taking them two at a time; he could hear whatever it was crashing into walls as it came after him.
Eames burst out of the stairwell and was shocked into stillness at the silence that filled the featureless hallway in front him. It should have been the gleaming marble and brass of his building’s lobby. His chest heaved as he listened for his pursuer. When he heard nothing, he cautiously made his way down the hall towards the shadows at the other end, hoping for a door.
Eames shook his head. He had forgotten he was dreaming. “It’s your dream. You are in control,” He repeated to himself. He slowed his breathing and pictured a calm open field with soft grass, gentle breezes and warm sunlight.
He felt the breeze before he opened his eyes. He could see oceans of green grass all around him, rippling like waves. In the center was a large tree, huge and gnarled with age, its leaves on fire with red and gold.
Eames made his way towards the tree and found a spot between the raised roots where he sat, hands on his knees, as he tried to collect his thoughts.
“What was that thing?” he asked the empty air. In everything he had ever learned about limbo, had never said anything about being attacked by an unseen foe--or of any other dangers or monsters. Eames felt shaken and off-kilter. Even with the surrealness of the dilapidated apartment, he still had forgotten he was dreaming. His memories of the job were hazy, and he seemed to have fewer and fewer as time went on. He remembered Arthur though. During the prep for the job, he had been snappy and on edge, the job wearing hard on him. Eames had become used to prickly Arthur after years of marriage, but it still nagged at him, deep in his brain, that Arthur might be unhappy with him or that he had done something wrong.
Eames shook the thoughts out of his head and started thinking of ways to keep his memories, something to tie him to reality. He willed canvas and paints to appear and started painting memories, anything he could think of. His childhood pet, the german shepherd Gina, smiling with her mismatched eyes, tail in constant motion. Arthur asleep in their bed, his hair mussed, a pillow clutched to his chest. He painted their wedding day: Arthur in grey, Eames in navy, on a lovely stone bridge in Italy.
Before long, he had amassed a pile of paintings, and he needed a place to store them. Somewhere safe. Eames remembered a design Arthur had drawn years ago, a cathedral wrapped in glass. It would help to stand as a reminder to him of who was waiting for him up top. He did his best to recreate it, making the beams cut crystal so they shed prisms on every surface.
He worked for weeks painting in his glass building, watching as a forest sprouted and grew around it when he felt it needed shade. He estimated that it had been a month when began in the surrounding forest. Birds seemed to fly away with panic as something moved through the trees.
Eames felt dread settle in his stomach as he put away a painting of Arthur sunning on the beach. He couldn’t tell anymore if the painting was a memory or fantasy, but he painted it all the same. He moved outside when he heard the creak and pop of trees splitting. He thought he had seen the last of what he had dubbed “the Beast.” Over the weeks, he had convinced himself that the attack in his apartment was imagined.
Eames took off running when the trees around the clearing began to shiver. He needed to lead the Beast away from his memories. He wasn’t sure why he needed to do this, but it was imperative.
He looked back but couldn’t see what was causing the mayhem behind him. It was invisible, whatever it was, and it was coming closer. He ran as fast as he could and began creating a maze of stone around him, trying to lead the Beast deeper and deeper. The closer to the center he came the more the stone walls morphed into weathered and faded buildings, crumbling as quickly as they appeared.
Once he thought he had lost the Beast, Eames leaned against the cool wall to catch his breath. Without warning the wall behind him crumbled, and his world went dark, a deafening roar echoing in his ears.
Eames woke with a star,t hissing as shards of glass cut his palms. He looked at his hands and found them already scuffed and bleeding. Sitting up, he looked around to find his beautiful cathedral in ruins and his paintings torn and burning. Tears stung his eyes as he crawled across the broken glass to try and save the painting of Arthur sleeping.
“You don’t deserve him,” whispered a raspy voice. Looking around, Eames found no source for the voice. “He never loved you. You were convenient.”
“Stop it. I don’t know who you are, but I can’t believe you did this.” Eames gestured to the crumbled building around him.
“You did this. You destroyed this like you destroy everything.” Eames covered his ears but couldn’t block out the voice. “None of that was real. It was all a dream you made up. As if someone like Arthur could ever truly love you. He used you, and you let him.”
“You lie. Arthur loves me.” Tears flowed freely as Eames tried to ignore the hiss in his head.
“You know it’s true.”
“No, it’s a lie! You lie!” Eames cried, stumbling to his feet. He needed to get away. Glass cut his feet as he ran into the woods. The voice mocked him still. Eames ran, trying to get away, but the voice followed him everywhere. He collapsed to his knees and let loose an anguished roar. The voice was in his head, he realized. He couldn’t get away from himself, no matter how hard he tried.
He built an obsidian tower that rose up into the clouds above the stone city he had created, the dilapidated building rotting away.
It had been weeks, but the voice was still there, whispering, reciting to him everything he feared. Eames knew he was dreaming but could no longer see the point in trying to get out. He knew the voice was right; he had nothing waiting for him. He was a disease. People were better off without him.
“What about Arthur?” he asked out loud.
“You were just a casual fuck to him. He has never really wanted you. Everything was just a dream you created to have what you know you don’t deserve and could never have.” The voice wasn’t a rasp anymore but his own.
That night he created a projection of Arthur, but it didn’t feel right so he made is disappear. The next night he tried again. And the night after that. Sometimes it was close enough for him to lose himself for a moment, long enough for him to find pleasure between satin sheet or for him to get lost in the smell of Arthur’s skin. Other times the projection would be cruel and tell Eames all the things he already knew, somehow they were even more painful falling from Arthur’s lips. That their life was a farce and that it had never happened. He had never loved Eames. Those nights, darkness took over and he tried not to think about the things he did, how he would sob for hours in the gore and destruction.
Eames figured he had finally lost it. After what felt like years, he had finally lost all concept of time. Day and night came at his whim, the seasons changed when he wanted. In his calmer moments, he would paint the sky in vibrant colors, finding blessed silence in the act. He eventually created Gina to keep him company. Every now and then she would catch a scent and take off to explore the woods around the abandoned city. He figured she was hunting whatever wildlife he had created out there. He never went back to the cathedral. Those memories were just his own delusions, and it would be too painful to see them now. Instead Eames created his dream apartment in the smoked glass of the tower, He didn’t feel the need to eat, but sometimes he would make pancakes even though he couldn’t remember why he liked them. Some days he lounged on the roof, dangling his feet in the canal of bubbling water running through it.
Sometimes he tried to remember movies he enjoyed, but his memory of his real world was getting spotty. He created projections to talk to and then would dissipate them. Ariadne was his favorite. She was always a good listener, and she would give him a sweet smile and affirmation after he confessed his pain. Sometimes he could convince himself that she was really stroking his hair as he quietly wept.
One day he went out on his roof for a smoke--going out side was a hard habit to break even after all this time, and he found Arthur standing there clad in a dark blue suit that was more perfectly fit and detailed than Eames could imagine. Gina sat proudly wagging her tail in front of him like she had brought Eames a treasure. She gave a quiet boof and whine before looking back at Arthur.
“Eames,” Arthur started. He seemed so real that it hurt.
Eames didn’t know how to react, so he didn’t respond until Arthur, his projection, sat next to him.
“Pretty innit?” He gestured to the painted sky, still not able to look at this Arthur, this agonizingly perfect creation. His mind must be finding new ways to torture him.
“Yes.” Arthur looked out at the clouds. Eames hazarded a glance and saw sadness behind Arthur’s eyes. “But you’ve had enough time here, Eames. It’s time to go home. To get back to reality.”
Eames turned towards him more fully with a sad smile. “Oh.” Sadness ghosted over Arthur’s face, and a flicker of hope lit in Eames’ chest that maybe this was the real Arthur. He found himself reaching towards Arthur’s face but yanked his hand back. Arthur was never really his, and he didn’t deserve to touch him.
“You’re real, You are real. Are you real?” Eames mumbled, keeping his hands in his lap and trying to create distance. When Arthur reached for him, Eames couldn’t stop himself from flinching away. The disappointment in Arthur’s eyes broke his heart a little more. Why couldn’t he dissipate this projection like the others?
“Yes, I’m real.” Arthur looked confused but spoke carefully, “ “Eames? Do you know you are in limbo?”
Eames nodded slowly but was shocked when Arthur’s face crumpled and he took a trembling breath. “Then wyh--I was--am--so scared- why didn’t you wake up?”
Eames could see the gears turning in Arthur’s brain, and it was confusing him that Arthur would react this way.The Arthurs he created never mentioned the real world unless they were spitting scorn at him. “Didn’t know you cared that much, love,” he confessed with a rueful smile, “I’m surprised you came after me at all. To be totally honest, I didn’t expect you to risk limbo for me.”
“How the fuck can you think that?” Eames was taken aback by the venom in Arthur’s voice.
“After all we went through? Eames, how can you think that I wouldn’t care whether or not you were in limbo? I would lose you. Jesus fucking Christ. Eames, not being okay with losing you —losing us—is kind of the basis of what we are.”
“Darling,” Eames started slowly, “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m afraid you have me at a loss here. We’re coworkers, and I would trust you with my life, of course, but you don’t even like me that much…” Eames looked away with a shrug.
“Eames, we have been married for over four years,” Arthur said, tears welling up in his eyes.
Then Eames knew there was no way this Arthur was real. “Oh, darling,” he sighed. “I really thought you were real for a second.” Eames turned back to the sky and painted it purple and blue, trying to distract himself and calm the pain in his chest.
“I’m getting better at this I suppose, my projections,” Eames said wistfully. “If I can fool myself for all this time, it won’t be long before I won’t be able to tell the difference.”
It was a scary thought for Eames, that he could really become lost in his fantasy and lose what control he still had left in limbo. Somehow he had created a projection without even knowing it.
Eames couldn’t stay, so he stood to leave, making sure not to look back at Arthur. He shouldn’t try for things he could never have anymore. In the end it was just too painful.
Eames didn’t sleep that night. He tried to create a new projection of Arthur, too see if he could, but it just wasn’t right. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t make one as perfect as the one earlier. Each time something was wrong, and he would dissipate the projection angrily. Hours later, he accepted defeat and let his latest projection make him dutch pancakes. He took them to the roof so that he could try to relax. Hoping the phantom was gone.
As soon as Eames stepped out the door, the projection he created disappeared. Confused, Eames looked around, finding the other Arthur staring back at him. Eames couldn’t stop the miserable grin spreading on his face. He made a damn good projection.
“I am getting better!” he said suddenly full of insane glee, putting the plate of pancakes on a table that materialized. Eames leaned back and fell into a comfy chair before throwing Le Monde at Arthur. “Why are you on the ground, darling?”
Eames summoned a chair for him to sit in. Arthur hesitated, looking at the chair with curiosity. Eames frowned until Arthur took a seat.
Eames offered Arthur breakfast and created a huge spread of food on the table. “I can make anything for you, love.”
Arthur visibly shivered and was silent for a moment before answering. “Pancakes.”
Eames changed the spread to two plates of pancakes. “Good choice, pet. These are my favorite.”
They ate in companionable silence, both deep in thought. The night before, while Eames created Arthur after Arthur, he had felt the presence of memories at the edge of his mind but had been unable to make them tangible. Like when you feel the phantom of a ring long after it’s been taken off; you know something was there; but you can’t see it now. The only evidence it was ever there was the feel against your skin. This projection seemed familiar and special, but he couldn’t point out why. It left him feeling slightly unhinged and possibly mad. This Arthur wasn’t the first projection to stay more than a day. Early on there were some projections that seemed real and would stay with him for weeks until he convinced himself it was wrong and sent them away.
“You remind me of him,” Eames said suddenly, startling Arthur.
“Of whom?”
“The first projection. He also stayed for more than a day, and I thought he was real at first, too…” Eames thought back fondly to that ‘lazy Sunday.’ It was his ultimate dream, he and Arthur living happily together.
“How did you know he wasn’t?” Arthur asked, looking a little jealous.
Eames smiled sadly and began to whistle Non Regrette Rien. “He whistled it all the time. Plus the dreamlike quality of it all. We lived together. You made pancakes, and I painted. It was a happily ever after that I never deserved, and therefore it couldn’t possibly be real. It was too perfect. It’s like someone picked my brain for my desires and made them come true. It was like a forge, but reality is rarely that perfect.” Eames chuckled and gestured with his knife. “We had a bloody lazy Sunday together. That wasn’t possible for us.”
Eames wasn’t sure if Arthur was still listening. He seemed focused on his hands. “It was impossible.” Eames sighed.
After breakfast, Eames left Arthur to his thoughts and spent some time painting. He felt Arthur’s eyes on him, and he tried to ignore it. This projection was really good, and Eames had to be wary of being tricked again. He moved to sit on the edge of the building and offered Arthur a spot next to him.
Arthur shook his head and returned his focus to his hands. After a few moments, Eames turned back to find Arthur in a state of distress, his breathing ragged as he worried his ring finger. After a few moments, a gold band appeared, and he seemed to relax. Eames watched him compose himself, surprised by the unusual behavior. Eames’ projections had never become anxious without mirroring Eames’ feelings.
“Let’s go downstairs,” Arthur suggested, offering Eames his hand after a long moment.
The air was heavy as they descended the tower in silence. Eames let Arthur lead him to the ruins of his glass cathedral. Eames was shocked at the state it was in. “Bloody hell! I don’t remember it being this bad!”
“What is this place to you, Eames?” Arthur asked, clearing debris away from a burned pile of paintings.
“I built it. It was the first place I went after the impossible dream.” Eames was in shock. Memories flashed behind his eyes, painting in the warm sun under the glass ceiling, panic, glass shattering. Running from something monstrous.
Arthur moved to take him in his arms, and Eames melted into his embrace. “These are memories Eames. I swear I will find one that will prove to you that I am real. I know it’s here because it’s my memory too. We made it together.”
Eames couldn’t process what Arthur was saying, so he stayed with his head on the other man’s shoulder, shivers running down his spine. Something deep inside him echoed with longing.
Arthur finally stepped away and began searching through pile after pile of destroyed paintings. In some, you could still see the subjects, but others were nothing but a frame. Eames was silent as Arthur continued to search for most of the day. Eames was still having flashes of memories; sometimes he heard a familiar raspy voice telling him to stop Arthur from showing him a lie. Eames ignored the voice and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the last time he was in the cathedral, the invisible thing crashing through the wall, the black out, the voice in his head. It was all starting to come together when Arthur let out a happy cry, pulling a painting from under what used to be a glimmering beam.
“Eames… This is real.” Arthur turned the painting towards him, and Eames felt a spark of something like hope in his chest. It was a painting of the two of them, standing on a bridge hand in hand. Arthur seemed scared but came closer. “We never had a lazy Sunday, Eames.”
Eames closed his eyes. Memories broke through his mental dam, flooded back nearly knocking him off his feet. “Oh darling...” Eames sobbed.
Eames sat the painting down and took Arthur’s hand in his. It felt right when a matching gold band appeared on his finger. When he looked up, they were standing on the bridge in Venice, sunlight reflecting on them from the water below. He looked over the edge, and suddenly the ground was much farther away. Arthur leaned in and kissed him gently, taking his breath away. “Let’s go home, darling.” Eames Whispered when they parted. He had been so lost. He was ready to be found again.
Arthur smiled and pulled him into another kiss.”Yes, let’s go home.”
Hand in hand they jumped.
“I don’t understand, Eames. Why did you forget us?” Arthur asked, bare chest resting against his as they lay in bed. Their real bed, in their real apartment.
“There was a monster there that destroyed the memories I tried the hardest to save.” Eames said simply, “Though the monster was me all along. It was my insecurities and fears. They tried to take everything from me, and for a while I let them.” Eames tightened his arm around Arthur’s waist.
“Well, they failed in the end,” Arthur said, resolute. “Eames, I want you to know I would never leave you. I know we started off rocky, but that was my fault. I didn’t want to let you in, and I’m so sorry for that. I love you, and I am not going anywhere.”
“I believe you. You came after me in limbo, after all.” Eames smiled as Arthur’s lips brushed against his. He was home. He had everything he could dream o,f and nothing was going to take it away again.