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The wind is cold and Arthur’s fingers have turned numb. It makes the climb a little difficult but provides a useful distraction from the spikes of adrenaline currently rushing through his veins and the low pounding of blood in his skull. The metal barrier seems flimsy now, somehow less substantial on this side of it than when one stands on the inside staring out at the river, but Arthur’s not surprised. He’s aware of perspective.
The grip on his shoes is barely enough to maintain contact with the ground against the slippery metal, and there’s a small fear of this going wrong.
Before he’s ready.
He carefully lowers himself down onto the ledge with a sense of purpose that, up until the moment he made his decision, he hasn’t felt for a very long time.
This morning, he awoke. He got out of bed, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He had a reason, and it was that reason that has brought him to this point; back pressed flat against the bridge’s barrier, gazing at the pulsing mass of water below.
Arthur is going to die tonight.
He’d pencilled it in his diary. The ink had been dark black and had soaked through the delicate pages onto the other side, but it wasn’t an issue, because Arthur has no need for the days after today.
He can’t remember where he left the diary. Set it down in a daze. It doesn't matter. The time and date and place are etched into his brain, filed neatly in the compartment of things not needed anymore. Here also lies the faces of family and colleagues he will never see again, lists of birthdays and anniversaries that will never come, a collection of corrosive memories that burn like acid when touched.
But this isn’t a story about reasons. This is a story of consequences.
He shuffles along, feels the wind cut close against his chest and an icy feeling fighting for dominance over the numbness. Across the river, he can see the city’s skyline. It’s beautiful in a fatalistic sort of way.
Suddenly, Arthur’s exposed hand meets a warm, solid mass and he recoils sharply, losing his carefully planned balance and spinning wildly out over the abyss. His heart lurches, his feet are no longer secure and for a second he is sure it’s too late.
But then the warm things grabs his arm, hauls him back, even closer so they’re pressed together. He remains frozen, coming to terms with his continued existence, gripping tightly to an unknown presence. A person. A man.
A jumper.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” the man says.
Arthur looks up at him, relocates to a safer distance, observes and notices. The man isn’t nervous. He’s confused, and Arthur wonders if that’s a reflection of himself.
“Sorry.” He decides is an appropriate thing to say.
“No need to apologise.” The man replies easily, although his eyes are not meeting Arthur’s. Instead, they are fixed on something invisible, intangible, on the horizon. “I don’t mind if I’m not alone.”
“I do.” Arthur says too quickly and the man snaps his gaze around to study him.
“I was here first.” It’s almost a challenge.
Arthur nods because it’s true. The man was here first. This was something Arthur hadn’t planned for, and this realisation burns through his chest as a stark reminder of the unpredictable chaos of living.
He blinks. Feels sick. Wants it to be over.
“Go on, then.” He mutters, and the man does not respond, he just stares. Then he laughs. It’s too loud. A little forced; unfamiliar even to itself, as if the man hasn’t laughed for a long time. Not genuinely.
“You’re not like the others. They say the opposite.” He smirks, twisting his body around in a gesture of comradeship. Arthur huddles in on himself and refuses to be familiar.
“I know what they say.” Arthur snaps angrily, even though he doesn’t. Because no one is around to tell him not to.
“So why are you here?” The man asks conversationally.
The question is unexpected and, for a worrying moment, Arthur isn’t sure why he’s here.
“Does it matter?”
“Only for procrastination.”
“I’m not procrastinating.”
“I am.”
This surprises him. Against his will, Arthur finds himself interested in another human being.
“Then why are you here?” he asks directly.
The man looks thoughtful, “If I’d known I’d be meeting you tonight, I would have made you a copy of my note. It explains everything.”
“Everything.” Arthur muses, “That’s a lot.”
“That’s what I thought.” The man agrees.
A silence falls over the scene. It’s so dark Arthur can’t see all the people responsible for the humming noises of life in the city. They could all be a figment of his imagination. Part of him hopes this is the case.
“I’m not scared.” The man tells him. There is no emotion in his voice, but this just accentuates all the emotion behind the statement.
“I’m not sure how to be anymore,” Arthur finds himself admitting, “I’m just tired.”
The man breathes out a shaky laugh, “Yes. Tired.”
He seems to be trembling, his fingers are delicately clutching the steels bars and his jaw is moving in endless, random repetitions.
Arthur feels the strain, feels the anxiety. His time is running out. Dawn will come and illuminate their positions like floodlights in a prison.
But it seems wrong to do it and leave this man behind. He wonders if he should try and convince the other man not to jump. There’s obviously some doubt existing in his mind, so should Arthur try to save him?
He says impulsively, “Don’t do it.”
The man raises an eyebrow. “You don’t do it.”
Arthur glares at him. They've reached an impasse all too suddenly. He acknowledges his own hypocrisy and tries again.
“If you don’t really want to go through with it, then you shouldn’t.”
Again, the man laughs. “What I want is no longer of much importance.”
Arthur grimaces, rubs an icy hand over his face. His plan has been screwed up.
“Tell me why.” Arthur orders the other man.
“No.”
The blunt refusal is irrationally hurtful.
“Fine.” Arthur mutters. He turns away, creating distance between the two of them. It feels safe. Feels secure. This man is dangerous.
This man could stop him tonight.
Arthur has pinned his whole sanity on this moment. Endless months of struggle will climax here, just as planned. A date in a diary. It can’t be any other way. To his anxious mind, it seems this man has been conjured for a purpose. A purpose Arthur can’t – refuses not to – accept.
This man could save him.
“Jump with me.” The man says after a while. His voice is heavy and sad and a little bit familiar, as if Arthur has heard the same rhythm constructing his own thoughts.
“Together?” Arthur whispers, “I hardly know you.”
“What more do you want?” The man retorts, “I’m here. I’m alive. What more can there be?”
Arthur feels the despair, like a flash flood, “I don’t know. There has to be… more. To this. To everything.” He makes vague gestures with his hands as he tries to convey an abstract desire. The man is biting his lip, his eyes cast down.
“I don’t want everything.” the man breathes.
And they are silent.
Arthur thinks. Logic has not been his ally over the past few days, and yet here it is at the most crucial moment in his life.
“I’m not jumping to die,” He says finally, “I’m jumping to live, because this existence I lead now is not life. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I can’t think about anything but this. It seems the whole world is pushing me onto this ledge, and I’m going along with it because it’s easier than fighting.”
The man slowly raises his head. He burns, but the intensity does not hurt Arthur. Rather, it fuels him.
“I don’t want relief. I don’t want vengeance. I don’t want recognition, or lamentation or freedom. I want… nothing.”
Arthur’s voice is weak, but it doesn’t matter. No one is listening anyway. No one except a very sad man, standing next to him on a bridge.
“Before tomorrow, I will be dead.” Arthur says dumbly.
The man nods. He reaches out a hand and curls it around Arthur’s. His fingers are warm and reassuring.
Arthur doesn’t look down. Instead he feels out the edge of the ledge with his foot, and shuffles forward. The man takes a step with him.
“I don’t want to know your name.” Arthur has to raise his voice over the crashing of the water below. “I don’t want you to exist, because I don’t want you to jump with me. I want you to be okay.”
The man smiles, “Something tells me I will be.”
Arthur’s lips curl up slightly at the edges in response.
The river is angry. It thrashes against the rocks and rears upwards, struggling to capture the pair before they’re ready.
The man is warm. Arthur is not… but he’s not as cold as he was before.
“I want you to be okay.” He repeats, feeling dizzy. The words mean something.
“I’m not leaving you now.” The man states softly, in lieu of a response.
“But I want you to be okay!” Arthur’s throat constricts, he’s afraid. Not for himself. For this man.
“I’m not leaving you.” It’s said forcefully, the man grips his hand tighter.
Arthur stares at him. The man stares back, open and honest and terrified. This is not the composed façade that stopped Arthur from falling in the first place. This is human. This is alive.
He’s a good actor, Arthur thinks. But aren’t we all?
With a jolt, Arthur realises this is the first time he’s had physical contact with another human being in months, and he entwines their fingers tighter as an unconscious reflex. The man looks unbearably focused. His eyes are searching Arthur’s soul and he’s not recoiling from what he finds. He’s not judging, he’s not criticising or pitying, he’s just… accepting. It’s a comforting thought; that Arthur could ever look at another person and have them understand. He thought he was too far gone, but this man is here with him, right at the edge. He’s not leaving. He’s staying with Arthur until the last possible second.
But this man doesn’t deserve this. He’s too valuable to be crushed by the heavy weight of water and of depression. Arthur wants to preserve this man, because on the edge, now, he is perfect. He’s beautiful and he should not be destroyed along with Arthur.
“Fine.” Arthur says unexpectedly, and he doesn’t understand the meaning of the word. He softens, steps back, pulls the man with him.
He doesn’t even hesitate as they return to the other side of the barrier, each helping the other over until the ground beneath them feels solid once more and the water’s fear is suppressed by a blanket of safety.
The man turns to him. The cold brushes against his skin, but there is a rekindled fire smouldering inside.
“Not tonight?” He asks, uncertain.
“No.” Arthur replies, with certainty.
The man’s face breaks out in a large smile and the lights from the bridge highlight the faint flush over his cheekbones as proof of his living. For Arthur, this is enough.
They walk away from the bridge, hands still clutched together, and Arthur finds himself feeling hopeful. It’s foreign, but not unwelcome. Far out, at the precipice of the horizon, the warm strokes of dawn paint the skyline gold, like honey.
It’s a new day.
~~~
Years later, that night has faded from memory.
All that remains are the consequences.
As they eat breakfast together, Eames slides a small diary across the table towards Arthur. It’s old and half-ruined by ink.
“I thought I should probably return it.” He says quietly, “I found it in the park, and saw what you’d written.”
Arthur stares at him, dumbfounded as the connotations flood his calmed mind, “You knew?”
“I couldn’t let you kill yourself.” Eames strokes the back of Arthur’s hand with a single finger, “I knew what it was like to feel like that and I just… well, I hoped I might get there in time.”
“You were never going to jump.” Arthur accuses him.
And Eames only smiles, “Neither were you.”