Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You know you’re always welcome to come stay at ours,” Robert says over the phone, since he and Arthur can no longer meet in person this summer given that Robert is currently interning-slash-vacationing somewhere in New Zealand—and living the life, apparently, if his Instagram stories are to be believed, particularly the ones Arthur can no longer watch without feeling even more distinctly sorry for his own situation. That being: spending most of his days cooped up alone in his apartment, sketching under the lukewarm air of an old half-broken fan, making rice-cooker meals and trying desperately to find a job. Honestly, the occasional calls that Robert does pick up, probably mostly out of nostalgia for the glory days of their long friendship, seem to be the extent of Arthur’s social interaction these days.

Robert is still talking. “Seriously,” he’s saying, “my mom loves you, you can really just head over whenever you want. Or if you don’t want to deal with my family—‘cause let’s face it, who does—we’ve got a vacation house that’s like a forty minute drive out of the city, oh, and there’s this really nice beach house, right over the water, that they literally never use, so you might as well—” 

“Rob,” Arthur cuts him off, “don’t get me wrong; I really appreciate this, but like—how do I put this—I’d rather chop off my own dick and eat it before becoming indebted to your dad.” 

Robert laughs, like he thinks Arthur’s telling a joke or something. “Okay, okay. Don’t say I didn’t try to help.” Arthur hears his keys jangle in the background, and he tries not to imagine what this particular one of Robert’s many apartments probably looks like. He’s bitter regardless. He sips his watery coffee as Robert continues. “Anyway, how goes the job search?” 

“Terrible. I’d rather fucking die than work retail again, but unless there’s some new position that opens up, I guess, it’s all I’ve got,” he groans. He’s been staring at the same webpage for a good fifteen minutes now, like if he focuses hard enough he can will a new opportunity to rise before him.

“What? You’re, like, the smartest person I know,” Robert says emphatically. “You’d be totally wasted on retail.” 

Arthur tries not to audibly groan again. He loves Robert, he really does—the guy had his back through four terrible years of undergrad—but sometimes he says shit like this, and Arthur doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say in response. 

“Yeah, well, I’d love to do some nice resume-padding research internship like you, but I literally cannot spend that kind of time on something that doesn’t pay.”  

“Aw, I’m sorry. Come on, man, there’s gotta be—oh, wait wait wait!” There’s shuffling on the other end, and something in Robert’s voice makes Arthur sit up a bit straighter, hope blooming in his chest.

“Okay, I know this friend of a friend who owns this, ugh, I don’t remember what you call it exactly, but like, some kind of avant-garde art show, I think? Anyway, it’s right in town, and last I heard, I think they were looking for a layout director or floor planner or—something. I don’t know, uh, lemme see if I can find his card—”

“Really?” Arthur asks. “God, that would be perfect. Can you—”

“Found it!” Robert’s voice comes, sounding far away, like he’s actually gotten up to go physically retrieve something, which might be the nicest thing anyone’s done for Arthur in a long time. “Okay, I’m sending you a pic.” 

“Thank you. I owe you my life,” Arthur replies, only half-kidding, as he pulls up his text messages, turning his phone sideways so he can peer at the photo Robert’s sent him. It’s a plain white business card, with block letters designating—

“Dom Cobb? What is that? Sounds like a deranged scarecrow,” Arthur snorts.

“That,” Robert says pointedly, “could be your future employer. There’s an address on the card, right? Look it up!” 

Arthur does. He pulls his five-year-old laptop onto his knees and Googles the address, all while absently listening to Robert ramble on about jet-lag and the lamb chops he had for dinner. The site loads, and it only takes one look at the name of the establishment for Arthur to drop his head into his hands.  

“Rob,” he says, cutting him off again. “Rob. Robbie. Listen to me. This is a fucking haunted house.” 

There’s a long pause. “Well, it’s art.” 

“It is not!” Arthur exclaims, throwing his hands up. “It’s just a tourist trap for dumb guys who think they’re brave or something. And it’s probably got a worse rate of drunk customers than Walmart.” 

“Yeah, but you’re not exactly gonna be doing customer service,” Robert reminds him. “Look, they want an architect, and you’re amazing. And it’s privately owned, and I’m sure the pay’s decent.” 

“Ugh, I hate when you’re right. Okay, I’ll call him in the morning.” 

“Good. You got this! They can’t not hire you.” 

Arthur laughs, for what feels like the first time in a long while. “Yeah. Thanks. No, for everything. I mean it.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Call me back when you’ve got the job.” 

Dom Cobb, who sounds nice enough over the phone, invites him to come in so they can look over his resume and portfolio. Arthur figures he literally doesn’t have anything else to do, and so he makes his way downtown to the Great Ghastly Mansion of Terror. He swears he’s in the wrong place for the longest time, because the place is designed in-character from the outside and virtually indistinguishable from an actual dilapidated warehouse. Arthur stands alone in the creepy-ass empty parking lot for a good fifteen minutes before deciding that, hey, if he gets killed, this isn’t the worst way to go, and then he’s inside, and he doesn’t know what he was expecting . 

A figure approaches him from the other side of the room, graceful and quite frankly terrifying in the harsh mood lighting. She crosses the room in elegant strides, extending a hand to him. “Ah! Welcome!”

“You must be—Mrs. Cobb?”

“Please. Call me Mal.” Her smile somehow comforts him more than he can really say. He takes her hand and shakes it, her grip solid and warm in his. “Right this way, my dear.” 

The makeshift interview is long and exhausting, at least from Arthur’s side. Cobb and Mal seem to pore over every part of his portfolio, and, to be honest, Arthur’s just happy to finally have someone at least look like they’re giving a shit about his work. They ask him the typical questions: his strengths and weaknesses, what insights he’d bring to the table, why he wants the job. It’s going decently well, until Cobb asks him about his related experience.

He freezes, because this is the only part of his resume that isn’t quite as perfect as he’d like. He didn’t qualify for any kind of scholarship during his undergrad years, because his family has money; they just aren’t willing to spend it on him. So he took whatever job that could pay, and that meant anything that was hiring, and that meant never having the time to work on anything that’d look pretty on an architecture grad student’s resume. “Um, all my previous work experiences are listed. I also spent a few weeks helping out with a professor’s project, but it wasn’t really formal, so...” 

“That’s great to hear,” Dom Cobb says, “but we’re really looking for someone with a bit more professional experience.” 

Arthur feels his toes go numb.

 “I can assure you, sir, that I—” 

“I’m sorry,” Cobb says. “You do have a lot of potential, but just know that this is a very competitive position.” It’s not outright rejection, but he’s looking at Arthur with a face full of such pity that it makes Arthur want to drop all of this and storm out right now, except that it would possibly be the most petty and least professional thing he’s ever done. He doesn’t quite recognize the feeling washing over him, sending an exhausting cold through his body; he just knows that he’s tired. Tired of dead ends, locked doors; tired of being trapped in some endless maze without an exit, where he’s tried every path in front of him and they all lead to the same wall in his face. 

He sets his jaw, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Alright. Thanks for your time.” 

“Wait.” Mal puts a hand on her husband’s arm. She looks at Arthur curiously. “How acquainted would you say you are with horror films?”

He stares at her.

“I’ve seen plenty.” 

She smiles at him again, and this time, it looks like she’s putting together the pieces of some invisible puzzle in her mind. The outcome, whatever it is, seems to please her.

“Then, I have an idea.” 

“Hey!” Robert picks up on the fourth try, right as Arthur’s about to give up and turn in for the night.  “Sorry, I was working on something. You got the job?”

“No, not exactly,” Arthur replies, and he wonders if he sounds half as tired as he feels. “Well, I got a job.” 

“Huh?” 

“They couldn’t take me since I didn’t have enough related experience.” 

“Seriously? How the hell are you supposed to get experience if they won’t—hang on, I’m gonna call him—”

“Don’t. Really. Don’t bother. It’s not gonna change anything.” He rests his head on the back of his couch and wonders how long he could just lie there before his body physically decays. 

They’re both quiet for a minute, before Robert continues. “Well, you said you got a job, right? That’s really good news! What—"

 “Cobb’s wife wants me to be an actor in the haunted house.” 

 A pause. Then, incredulously, “What?” 

“Yeah. She probably heard me screaming internally, ‘cause she asked to hear me scream and growl and whatever, and I guess I just naturally sound like a tortured soul, because she offered me a job.” 

“You’re kidding.” 

“I’m not. It’s better than minimum wage, I guess, but like, barely. But it’s not retail, and their hours are pretty flexible, and they said they don’t care if you go on your phone behind the scenes and stuff. I signed on the spot.” 

“No way. Arthur—”  

“I know, I know,” he says, getting up and pacing anxiously. “It’s not ideal. But it’s all I got, so.” 

“So?” 

“So. I start on Tuesday. It’s just for these couple of months.”  

“I don’t know…” 

“It’s fine. I appreciate this, really.” He grins drily, trying to dredge up as much optimism as he can find in his voice. “Besides, how bad can it be?” 

Arthur’s watched enough terrible TV movies to know that those are famous last words. But he doesn’t really know what he was thinking when he jumped into this both feet first, except that, maybe beyond the whole issue of money, something in him had leapt at the opportunity—after all, he’d tried all the conventional paths to success, and none of them lead him anywhere. Perhaps all he had to do was something, anything that broke the shitty, dreary mould of his daily life, that might actually set his life on course for, well, anything but this.

Or maybe he just honestly thought he’d die if he had to work another customer service job. 

He’s lucky. He’ll be working in the maze, of course, which Dom Cobb calls the “scare floor,” clearly lifted from Monsters Inc., but Arthur’s not exactly in a position to say something about it. The most interaction he’ll have to make with the actual customers is a few jump scares and the occasional creepy chant or manic chase, and for the most part, they’ll be trying to get away from him, not bother him with inane questions that are way above his pay grade. He tries to imagine how liberating that must be. 

“...and this is Yusuf, our costume and makeup guy,” Dom Cobb finishes, nodding at a figure in the corner. Yusuf turns to greet them, and Arthur almost physically jumps into the air, because Jesus Christ, that is terrifying. Half is his face is done up like he’s a zombie, flesh splitting and rotting and dripping. Arthur focuses his eyes on the makeup-less half, trying not to visibly make a face. Yusuf just grins, waving good-naturedly in response.

“You guys will be together on the floor, so I’ll give him a chance to show you the ropes later,” Cobb tells him. “I gotta take off in a bit, so I just want to make sure you get the ground rules from me.” 

“Okay,” Arthur nods. 

“Just remember—a lot of stuff can go down in the maze. People don’t always react how you expect. Sometimes it’s hilarious, sometimes you’re not not sure what the hell’s going on in their heads—but we have to keep up the illusion, so whatever happens, just stay professional and don’t break character.” 

“Got it.” 

“Do you swear on your mother’s life?” Dom Cobb asks, sounding a hundred percent serious.

“Sure,” Arthur says, because he’s only spent approximately a day and a half in the presence of his new employer, and he already knows that at this point, it’s easier just to agree with him and keep his mouth shut.

“Great.” Cobb claps him on the back. “You’re gonna do great.” 

So that’s how it started. Crouching behind trap doors, squinting constantly, and screaming at couples, tourists, drunk college kids, and the occasional self-proclaimed horror enthusiasts who’ve dragged their friends there to show off their bravery and end up shrieking the loudest at every jump scare.

It’s a maze, and a well-designed one, if not a bit overkill; it looks like some show-off architect decided to throw in every unnecessary interior structure known to man, and then added another twenty or so hallways for the fun of it. It’s dark and cramped backstage, as they have a tendency to call it, but there’s enough space for efficient movement. The labyrinth is the main attraction, really, full of complex clues and puzzles, concealed trapdoors, winding twists and dead ends, and of course, the added distraction of having several fully-grown adults running around in bloody makeup screaming at you occasionally is only an extra novelty. Arthur doesn’t get haunted houses, he really doesn’t—doesn’t understand the kind of people who’d pay to go to them, nor the kind of people who’d create them, nor the kind of people who’d work in them, until by some twisted fate he became one.

Eames is not a fan of the summer. At least when it’s cold outside, he could put on extra layers, but when it’s hot out, no one’s willing to put up with him if he goes out nude again. This year seems to be particularly bad: it’s fucking sweltering, and he doesn’t think he can do anything for the next several months except sit in the cooly air-conditioned bubble of his apartment and catfish people on Facebook.

 “Absolutely not,” declares Ariadne, who’d swept into his apartment that morning (she just lets herself in now, huh?) and deemed Eames’ current state of living a rather sad one. “I can’t let you live like this! We’re going out tomorrow.” 

“Good god, woman, it’s thirty-eight fucking degrees out there,” he groans, fanning himself. “Besides, what’s left that you still want to do? You’ve dragged me to that godforsaken amusement park enough times, and—” 

“First of all, I don’t speak celsius, and secondly, you really liked it,” she counters. “And third, if it’ll make you happy, I’ll find somewhere that’s indoors, so you don’t have to sweat or whatever.” 

“Fine. The things I do for this friendship.” He sighs dramatically, flopping face-down onto the couch. 

“You mean the things I do. My back hurts from carrying all our conversations. Anyway, this means you agree, right?” 

“Sure, sure.” He nods. “This better not be some artisanal pottery class or something like you pulled last time.” 

“It will not be,” she promises. 

Arthur used to dislike being in the dark, but that was before he began practically living in it. At this point, his morning coffee run is really the only part of the day he gets to see the sun; he spends the rest of it either lounging around at home, too tired to really do anything, or at work, hunched over in the cramped spaces of one of the maze’s many secret tunnels, listening for footsteps and music cues, aimlessly refreshing his inactive social media, and mostly lamenting his entire existence. 

“How can you do this?” he asks Yusuf one day. They’re both in the back room they use for breaks between runs, only it’s not really a break room, because it’s still window-less and improperly lit, and Arthur is genuinely starting to suspect that Dom Cobb has a secret plan to make all of his employees develop a perpetual squint to rival his own.

“What do you mean?” says Yusuf.

“I mean,” Arthur grumbles, sipping a tepid 7-up because they can’t fucking seem to stock anything else, “I’ve been here a week, and I already think I’m becoming but a withered husk of my former self.” 

“Yeah, it can be hard to get used to,” Yusuf says nonchalantly. “But isn’t it worth the satisfaction when they get scared?”  

“Is it?” 

“I mean, at least it keeps us entertained.” Yusuf shrugs, raising his soda can like it’s a wine glass. 

It’s one thing to glean some twisted schadenfreude from watching customers fall on their asses, but to Arthur, it’s more of an emotional catharsis just to scream at strangers with absolutely no consequences. “You’re not wrong,” Arthur concedes, but even as he says it, he’s still not entirely sure what he’s doing here. 

“Ariadne,” Eames says. The building before him looks like some abandoned warehouse that’s been poorly painted over with a fading moss color. “If this is some convoluted plot to murder me, loot my home, sell my organs, and take all my possessions for your room decor, you should tell me now before it gets messy.” 

“If I wanted to kill you,” she retorts, “I would’ve done it a long time ago.” 

He decides not to entertain that thought. 

He turns back to the building and glares at its offending walls. “What on God’s green earth—”

“It’s supposed to look like that, idiot. Haven’t you ever been to a haunted house before?” 

“A haunted house?” He shouldn’t be surprised, given the kind of entertainment Ariadne tends to like, but still. “Alright, that’s it. You’re barking.”

“Come on. Clairie said she’s been here before, and it’s good, and we never hang out enough, anyway!” 

“Oh please, we both know Clairie, wonderful as she is, has no taste. After all, she’s dating you—” He dodges her kick to his shin, laughing. “Alright, fine, lest you think I’m no fun, or worse, that I’d actually get scared by something like this, let’s just get this over with.” She pulls a face at him as they go inside. 

“I can’t believe you’ve done this,” he grumbles, surveying the dim lobby area. The place is poorly lit and looks shabby, complete with rusted chandeliers and fading paint, and he’s genuinely unsure if that’s a design choice or if they just can’t afford a renovation.

“Oh please, you’re gonna like it. This place has a 4.8 on TripAdvisor,” she says.

“Your numbers are meaningless to me.”  

She rolls her eyes, grinning. “Come on, man, mazes are my thing. You cannot deny me this experience.” 

“Alright, alright.” He crosses his arms, frowning. “Hold on, it’s a maze?” 

“Yeah! Don’t worry, I wouldn’t take you to a shitty amusement park haunted house; this place is legit. We go in, we have an hour to find our way out, and there’s a whole story to it. It’s almost like an art show—”

“Now you’re just insulting art.” 

“Oh, shut up, you snob. Anyway, listen, it’s about some guy who killed his wife, and her ghost is, like, haunting the place to seek vengeance—”

“So it’s every horror film plot ever.”  

“—and he’s hired us to deal with her! But she’s trapped us inside, and we have to get out!” Ariadne looks at him expectantly, and he relents, quirking up one side of his mouth into a pseudo-smile. “Okay, now that you look appropriately excited,” she continues, “I’m getting our tickets.” 

A tall, blond, suit jacket-clad man (how? It’s summer) confirms their booking and leads them inside. The first room is a small office, complete with an ornate wooden desk and mannerist paintings in ornate frames on its four walls. “This is the beginning of the maze,” the man, who had introduced himself as the owner, tells them. “There are hidden doorways and clues in most of the rooms, but please don’t damage any of the props. Or touch the actors. They’re just here to scare you; no one’s going to cause you any actual bodily harm.” Eames tunes him out as he keeps talking, in favor of examining the tiny but extravagant office, scarcely big enough to fit maybe four to five people. 

“I’m going to have to take your phones so you can’t cheat, but we have security cameras watched by staff in order to time the scares,”—the blond man gestures at a flashing red dot in the corner of the room—“so simply wave if you have any serious issues. And you’ll get one flashlight between the two of you,” he finishes, pulling a black device out of his bag and handing it to Ariadne. 

She turns it on, shining it against her palm. “That’s pretty dim.” 

“Yes, well, we’ve had a couple incidents with people flashing lights in our actors’ faces, and it wasn’t good. Anyway,” he clears his throat. “If you haven’t got any questions, I’ll head out now and start the timer. Good luck!” 

“Isn’t it cool?” Ariadne asks as the man shuts the door behind him. They’re cast into darkness, shadows falling only from the flashlight in Ariadne’s hand and a single flickering chandelier that swings down from the arched ceiling.

“It’s tacky is what it is,” Eames mutters, moving around to inspect the scene. He’s got to admit that it does look pretty well put-together, sort of like a movie set, if it were completely dark and abandoned.

“Hey! Think about all the people who probably worked really hard designing this,” she counters, investigating the large desk at the center of the room. “Also, would you stop picking stuff up, I feel like you’re going to set something off.” 

“Isn’t that the point?” He shoots back, squinting at the carvings on the bottom of a heavy candelabrum. “Besides, I dunno. I just don’t see the entertainment value of simply shocking people into screaming. It’s not exactly rocket science. Plus, the only actors who’d work in a place where it’s always dark and you have to keep your face covered probably—” 

“What’s this?” she says suddenly, interrupting him before he can make a snide comment about the potential hotness (or lack thereof) of haunted house employees. She pulls out the false bottom of a drawer, revealing a smaller compartment underneath. A note, covered in the fakest looking splatters of blood Eames has ever seen, tells them to find the exit behind one of the paintings.

“Well,” Eames says, surveying the room, “looks like our puzzle has begun.” 

“Hey, I think this panel slides this way? Wait, I think this might be the way to the next room—Eames?”  

Took these two long enough, Arthur thinks, trying not to scratch his nose because the girl’s probably close enough to hear his movements. She puts her hand against the door, and he holds his breath, mentally preparing himself despite the fact that he’s done this dozens of times by now. 

“You sure?” comes the man’s voice from the other side of the room.

“Yeah? Wait, let me see if it—” 

She pushes against the panel slightly, and Arthur takes his cue, shoving it the rest of the way open and—

“HOLY FUCK!” The girl screams as he leaps out towards her, falling backwards and scrambling to crawl away from him on all fours. He staggers towards them, doing his best Maniacal Laughter, backing the pair of customers into a corner.

Now let’s see if they’re smart enough to—

“Oh joy, the real door’s on this side,” comes that British lilt again, far too casual for a man who should’ve been given a heart attack by the absolutely show-stopping performance Arthur’s just put on, and as he pulls on the inconspicuous lever, another panel slides open behind him. 

“Then—fucking—stop blocking it and run, asshole!”  

The man obliges, stepping aside to reveal the low corridor, scarcely tall enough for people to crawl through single file, and as the girl scrambles away into the next room, the man turns for half a second, giving Arthur a brief but full view of him: salmon pink shirt, buttoned way too low, brown hair sweeping in a mess across his forehead, plush lips pulling into a dazzling grin so out of place right now that it almost makes Arthur stop in his tracks and ask, what the hell is wrong with you? 

The man smirks, shooting Arthur a mock salute. “Ta, darling. See you around,” he calls, his voice far too playful, before crouching down to enter the tunnel, giving Arthur an uncalled for, but not entirely unwanted, eyeful of his ass.  

Arthur grumbles, feeling distinctly put out. He didn’t consider himself someone who particularly cared for the outcome of his job—he does what he has to do, follows the rules, clocks out, comes back the next morning. He didn’t really care too much about whether customers enjoyed the place or not. He wasn’t the owner; he didn’t have any emotional investment in the success of the Mansion of Terror. Yet his innards twist with displeasure at the pretty boy’s nonchalance, like that shit-eating smirk on his face is a direct attack on Arthur’s person.

Fine, dick, he thinks, pulling a new mask—now a rubbery one that resembles a green, skinless monster—over his head, we’ll see if I can’t make you scream for your life yet. He crawls back through the secret trapdoor, rounding the wall and coming up behind where the two customers have finally stopped running in another room.

“You think we lost him?” the girl is saying, breathless. 

“I think,” the man replies, “that they’ve got a complex series of trapdoors and back passageways for their staff, so no, it’s literally impossible for us to lose him.”

“That’s reassuring,” the girl mutters. “Have we been in this room before? They all look the same…” 

“Well, it is a maze, so I suppose that’s the point,” the man muses, and Arthur hears his broad weight meandering around the room. Then there’s a knock against the trapdoor from the outside, and it startles Arthur so much he himself nearly jumps.

“Reckon there’s somebody back here,” the man’s saying. “We’ve come round from the other room, so the tunnel probably leads here, and this is the only place they could put a door that would face the side we’ve come from.” 

Not necessarily, Arthur thinks bitterly. A better floor planner—

“You back there, love?” It takes him a moment to realize that the man is talking to him. “Ready to give another go at frightening us?”  

Arthur grits his teeth. Okay, asshole— 

“Stop flirting with the fucking ghost, you’re going to get us killed,” the girl demands, and Arthur rolls his eyes at that, because as far as he can see, the fear of death is clearly not something God himself could instill in this madman. Still hunched over under the low panels, he makes his way around to the other side of the room, because on god he’s going to at least try to catch this asshat by surprise.  

“Footsteps,” says British Guy, “He’s moving.” He raises his voice. “Unhappy I found you out, pet?”  

Not on your life, Arthur thinks, and scares them anyway.  

After all, regardless of this suddenly arisen distraction, he does have a job to do.

He finds Yusuf crouching where their routes overlap. 

“This guy’s a bit of an arse, huh? Makes our job no fun if they can’t react at least a little. The disrespect—” 

Arthur says nothing, trying not to give away how restless he’d become. 

“Well, looks like their time’s almost up,” Yusuf says, his grin illuminated by the low light of his smartphone. “Time for your favorite part.” 

They turn the corner to a long corridor, so dark that he can’t tell where it ends. For a moment Eames lets himself gets lost in the fantasy, of being a thief or some vigilante, facing down a hallway without end.

Without warning, the door behind them swings shut, the unmistakable click of a lock momentarily trapping them in a well-constructed and breathless space of uncertainty.

“Fuck!” Ariadne pushes against the door, but it won’t open, of course not. They’re cut off between the wall at their backs and the gaping black expanse of the hallway before them, and despite the ample open space, the silence feels oddly suffocating.

“Calm down, that just means we’re going the right way,” he begins, but is cut off by her whipping around frantically, slapping him in the face with her ponytail.

“Do you hear that?” she whispers.

He stops, and he does, and he feels a little put out that she noticed before he did. Footsteps.

“Yes, I hear it. They’re probably sneaking around back there as usual, so let’s just—” 

There’s a sudden, low, chillingly haunting growl, and as he feels Ariadne’s fingers digging into his forearm, a neon-lit figure emerges around the corner that’s just becoming visible at the end of the hallway and, oh, fuck, that is actually frightening. The low music starts to rise into a rapid crescendo as the figure turns towards them, a sharp, sudden beat accentuating the instant his face comes into view: an angry, glaring, distorted mask, a furious red scar burning down his head and neck, glowing unnaturally in the dark of the room. Black robes obscure his entire body from the shoulders down, so for a moment he has to double check that it isn’t just a disembodied scowl charging at them—no, it’s a man, quite literally sprinting directly towards them, a giant machete glinting in his hands, and oh shit, bloody—they aren’t supposed to corner us are they?

But then the guy’s right in front of them, definitely within striking range, raising the weapon as Ariadne grasps his arm and shrieks and cowers—and Eames reels back too, startled, because shouldn’t that be a natural instinct when someone comes at you with a bloody knife the size of his fucking thigh? But to be honest, he wouldn’t remember much of this moment at all, only the sounds of deranged laughter, pumping bass, his friend’s screams, and his heart thumping with some unknown mix of adrenaline and excitement.

Without warning, the music stops. 

The ghoul stops, too, blade raised high above his head, and Eames simply blinks at him as he takes a few steps back, dropping his arms to his sides.

Then, and again without warning, the ghoul reaches back and peels his own mask off, and it isn’t a ghoul at all, but a man who looks to be pretty much Eames’ age, if not a little younger, raven hair matted to his forehead with a thin sheen of sweat, the harsh light from the hallway suddenly seeming to go soft on his features, all high cheeks and worn edges, and—oh, no, he thinks, because suddenly his heart is pounding for another reason altogether.

The man, the slightest crease of a frown lining his lips, shakes his hair loose, and that single, small motion is enough for Eames to realize that, right now, he might be a little in over his head. Bright fluorescent lights suddenly snap on above them, and the room seems to wobble for a second as he gapes up (and when did he get on the floor?) at the man stood in front of him.

“Um…?” Eames starts, his mouth dry. He feels the man’s gaze scan him up and down, and as a small smile begins to form on the dark-haired man’s face, Eames feels suddenly like he’s made a grave mistake.

“Your sixty minutes are up.”

“What?” 

The man narrows his eyes at him, then says slowly, “Didn’t you read the terms? You only get one hour to escape. We have to let the next group in now.”  

Eames blinks at him. Sexy Ghost Man manages to look triumphant and exasperated at the same time. 

“Oh!” Ariadne says, handing the flashlight to the raven-haired man. “That was really good. Thank you.”

Eames tries to say something, because he’d really love to keep up the suave persona he thinks he might have been able to establish in the maze, but his mind fails him miserably. It feels like every part of his body is consumed by distraction, each focusing on a different aspect of the person before him: now his hands, fingers curved around the handle of his weapon, now the soft lines around his eyes, now the self-satisfied raise of his eyebrows at what must be Eames’ worst deer-in-headlights expression. 

“Hope to see you visit again,” the ghost says, seeing them out, and if Eames were a stronger man, he might have lingered a moment longer.

“And you’re the one who didn’t even want to go in in the first place,” Ariadne crows.

 “You talk as if I enjoyed myself,” Eames shoots back. They’re back in his flat, him on his couch while she helps herself to a cup of his tea in his kitchen.

She snorts ungracefully. “Sorry, what was it you said about people who work in haunted houses?” 

“That they have no goddamn right to look that good,” he grumbles, hopefully out of her earshot.

“I could hear you shaking in your ugly ass boots, my man,” she says, wandering back into his living room with a cup of his most expensive black tea. “You should’ve just asked for his number! Or at least a name.” 

“Right, because it was totally the time and place for that. ‘Hey yeah, machete prick? Wanna go out?’ Plus, I thought you’d pissed yourself when he came at us.” 

“Oh, sure, let’s act like it’s my fault you’re an absolute wimp,” she says. “This is why I have a girlfriend and you have a strike on your record for public nudity.” She glances sideways at him. “You know, I kind of want to finish the maze. Lots of people go back a second time if they can’t finish them in one go.” 

“Really now?” 

“Absolutely. I can’t rest ‘til we’ve finished it.” She sips her tea, gesturing vaguely in his direction. “And until you’ve done something about whatever you’ve got going on there.” 

“Eames, what the hell are you doing?”  

The man in question is standing in the middle of his apartment, eyes glued to a single yellow post-it note he has held in front of his face.

“I realized I don’t have my phone number memorized,” he says.

“And?” 

“And they don’t let us take our phones in there, so how the hell else am I supposed to—” 

“Oh, for god’s sake,” she groans. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?” 

 “Yes.” He whirls around to face her. “Alright, Ariadne, do me a huge favor, would you?” 

“What?” 

“You wouldn’t mind giving me some alone time to, say, charm the pants off a certain haunted house actor, would you?” 

She makes a face at him, somewhere between amused and horrified. “You want me to be in there alone? Why don’t you just go on your own?”

“No! That’s weird and creepy!” And it’s true; as determined as Eames may be about this, he’s genuinely afraid of coming off as having any but the purest intentions.

“Just know that I’m doing this for you,” she says, relenting, because she’s tired of being the only one ever picking up this complete mess, and because this would probably do a world of wonder for him. “You owe me, loser.” 

The second time they’re inside, Eames takes a closer look at the actual rooms. It’s the same layout, of course, but most of the props and decorations have been moved around or replaced since the last time he was there. He parks himself in front of the same wrong door that Ariadne had pulled open the first time they were there, and when he’s sure he can hear someone other than himself breathing, he yanks it open with so much ferocity that the figure crouching behind it flinches back rather than jumping forward. He’s in an entirely different outfit from the last time Eames was there, but he has no doubts it’s the same person.

“Fuck,” the man curses under his breath. Collecting himself, he draws up level to Eames’ face, continuing in his low baritone: “So, you’re back.” 

“Oh yes,” says Eames. There’s a beat of awkward silence, and he scrambles for something to say. What was casual, yet also memorable? He settles on, “Looks like your corpse isn’t going to be the only thing rising tonight,” with a wink for extra flair. 

Sexy Ghost Man groans loudly, although it could also be interpreted as a spooky moan. “Really?” Then, in a deep growl: “This is no time for jokes, mortal.” 

“Please, I’d much rather have a friendly discussion than have you continue to try in vain to scare me,” Eames replies. “The sooner you admit that you haven’t got a half-decent chance in hell of spooking me, the sooner we can learn to get along.”

Sexy Ghost Man looks visibly ticked off by this. “You seemed to think a little differently at the end of our last night together.”

“Ooh, so you noticed. I’m sorry for leaving you here, love, I really didn’t think you’d get so—” he gestures at the other man’s gory body paint and the rotting fake limbs protruding from his stomach. “You really are wasting away, darling. Missed me that much?” 

Sexy Ghost Man (although he seems to be some kind of rotting living corpse tonight, but Eames will stick with the name he’s already christened him in his mind) glares at him but surprisingly remains in character. “It’s my job to remove the filth from this household,” he declares, staring ferociously at Eames, and Eames thinks he could listen to him talk like this, low and bordering on suggestive, in his ear all day. 

“Mm, I’m sure you’re doing a great job. They should really give you a raise around here, don’t you think? Must not be easy getting around with your insides so thoroughly rearranged. You must have had a divine evening.” He pats one of the rubbery stubs coming off the man’s shoulder. “Look at all these arms. Think it’s enough to hold me?” 

“Oh, you’re definitely hard to handle,” the man mutters under his breath, his glare deadly and piercing in the shadowy light.

“Still, as wonderful as your performance was, you’ll have to do a bit more to get a real rise out of me, darling.” Eames winks again in what is hopefully a charming manner, although he really isn’t sure if the other man can even see it in the dark.

Part of Arthur’s mind wants to tell this guy to just piss off, because he’s got better things to do than get mocked by him, but if he sees this as a game, then like hell is Arthur about to lose. “I’m sure.” This counts as staying in character, right? Cobb has never said anything about directly talking to the customers beyond the few creepy lines they usually repeat, but Arthur’s really not looking to find out the hard way if that’s something he can get in trouble over.

“Don’t get me wrong, you do look exceedingly terrifying. Tell me, did it hurt? When you crawled out of hell? Because you’re insanely hot—” 

“Spare me the trouble,” Arthur says, “and just scream.” 

“Please, darling. I’d let you hurt me any day.” 

Does this guy just have something for these costumes or what? Is that why he’s back? He’s a monsterfucker? The thought alarms and disturbs Arthur, although not any more than the man’s shirt, now a deep purple with splashes of bright blue.

“I might have to take you up on that one,” Arthur says, raising his axe. 

Eames watches him do so, and if he’s oh-so-subtly checking out the way the toned lines of his forearm move as he hikes the heavy weapon up over his shoulder, well—no one can blame him, really.  

“This is the part where you run away,” says Sexy Ghost Man, and Eames thinks—wants to believe—he can hear the smile in his voice.

“Oh, but before that, do you maybe—” 

There’s a crash in the next hallway, followed by shrill screaming, and then Ariadne’s barreling into the room, shrieking, “THERE’S A FUCKING DEAD BODY—”   

She runs into his side, hollering her head off, and he has to yell back to match her volume: “Oh, piss off! You said twenty minutes!” 

“They dropped a corpse on my head!” 

 “Fuck’s sake, it’s a doll—”

“Eames. You are my friend, and I love you, and I want you to get some, but I physically cannot do this.” She’s panting, hands on her knees, clearly winded from running as fast as she could away from whatever death contraption they had ahead. 

He turns, thinking he can maybe still salvage the situation, but the dark-haired man is already gone, far too fast for Eames to even see which door he’d disappeared through. 

“Well?” Ariadne drops a hand on his shoulder. “How were the fruits of my sacrifice?” 

“Well.” 

She groans audibly. “Did you at least get his name?” 

“Well.” 

“Are you kidding?” She throws her hands up. “You didn’t even get a name? You’re so hopeless—” 

“No! How am I supposed to just ask for that—” 

“Oh, I don’t know, normal people just say ‘hi, what’s your name?’”  

“Please, normal people don’t know what they’re doing,” says Eames, because it’s true, and even if he kind of panicked and couldn’t hold a proper conversation, he’s sure he at least managed to get some of that charm in. He thinks. Maybe. 

“Oh, relax, I’m sure he’ll show up again,” Ariadne consoles him, moving on to try halfheartedly to put together the torn pieces of a map that had tripped them up the last time around. But the Sexy Ghost Man—whose name Eames should really learn so he doesn’t have to call him that in his head—does not appear before them for the rest of the night. They face a curly-haired zombie who chases them up two flights of stairs, screeching about brains, and a woman in all white who stood so still that Eames and Ariadne don’t even realize she’s in the room until she pulls a knife on them, but no sign of the guy who’s the whole reason Eames even tagged along this time. 

The woman shows them out this time. They barely made it farther than last time, given that Eames spent a good chunk of their allotted hour trying to flirt with the undead, but she smiles and thanks them for coming, and it’s all such a good experience that Ariadne really thinks they should try again.

So they go back a third time. 

Ariadne screams, of course, and at this point, Eames is honestly starting to feel a little bad about this plan, because this can’t be good for her throat. Or her heart. But then they head into a new hallway they haven’t gone down before, and Sexy Ghost Man emerges straight from a coffin, draped in rags and covered head to toe in what’s clearly supposed to be dried blood, and they’re all breathless for very different reasons.

“I must say, dear, you look absolutely spiffing tonight,” Eames says, trying to keep a straight face.

“Ugh, I’ll let you flirt,” Ariadne whispers to him. “Don’t forget you owe me big time,” she adds with a glare, before disappearing into another dark room. 

Eames turns back to the man before him. “So what are you supposed to be? Some kind of undead?” 

“I am the guardian of the catacombs, most loyal servant of his house,” the man replies, in a voice so low and chilling that anywhere else Eames thinks it’d have him on his knees and shivering within seconds. 

“So, what, they reanimated your corpse? Guess you’re just too good to be put six feet under.” 

“No, idiot, I’m a vampire,” the guy says in a normal voice, which is somehow still capable of making warmth pool in the pit of Eames’ stomach. 

“Oh, fascinating,” says Eames. “I do suppose you must know a lot about sucking.”

“Not all vampires suck blood,” comes the reply. “I’m here to take your soul.”

“I don’t think that’s quite how it works—” 

“Watch your mouth, mortal,” says Sexy Ghost Man, and there’s a flurry of fabric as he rushes towards him, and Eames retreats erratically, feeling his shoulders hit a bard wall at his back, and the man before him draws up close to him, cornering him between a bloodied arm and the pillar to his other side, and god, that should be absolutely terrifying, but the rush of thrill that runs fast and liquid through his heart to his extremities is similar to but quite distinct from fear.

The man’s breath is warm, so close he can feel it on his neck, hear every rustle of his robes as they pool on the floor around him. “Don’t worry, I can’t touch you,” the man whispers. “Those are the rules. Of being a vampire, of course,” he adds after a moment’s pause. 

“That’s quite unfortunate,” Eames breathes, wondering if the other man can hear his heart thudding. “Were you hoping to get a reaction out of me with this, darling?” He asks, just a hint of jest in his voice. “I can assure you, nothing you do in here is going to make me scream like the rest of your silly visitors, if that’s what you’re going for.” The actor is still right up against him, blocking any path for escape, and suddenly, all of Eames’ carefully constructed plans for properly asking him out evaporate in a rapid spiral of adrenaline.

It’s too dark to gauge the look on the other man’s face, but he does marvel at the way the highlights of makeup on his cheekbones catch just a little under the blacklights, illuminating the rough outlines of his skin. “We’ll see about that,” he breathes, his voice barely ghosting over Eames’ ear. “You don’t want to hear about all the different ways I could leave you begging for mercy,” he adds, and Eames wants to ask if that’s supposed to mean something more, but the Sexy Ghost Man is already pulling back, looking almost embarrassed.

“Please darling, you could take me apart with just one blow,” Eames grins, and he hears the other man laugh—genuinely—for the first time.

“Holy shit,” Ariadne says when they regroup outside. “Never again. There were two of them, and one of me, and I honestly thought I was going to die—whatever, just tell me you got his number so we never have to go in there again.” 

“I,” Eames says. He cringes visibly. “Well, you see—”

“You didn’t!” she cries, leaping to her feet dramatically. “I should’ve seen this coming!” 

“You don’t understand.” Eames feels his head spinning, because he can’t quite grasp whether Sexy Ghost Man is singling him out or if he’s just trying to do his job. But if the man’s annoyance at Eames’ blasé attitude leads them to this, Eames thinks maybe something really good can come from this. “Alright. I’ll try again next—” 

“Again?” Ariadne facepalms visibly, and he has to admit he’s starting to feel a little bad. “Look, I support you a hundred percent, and you should know that, but maybe you shouldn’t blow all your cash on this.”  

“Alright, just—once. I’ll give up after, swear it.”  

She looks at him with some concern. 

“Okay, as long as you’re paying.” 

The fourth time, they actually make it out of the maze within the hour. It’s the same layout every time, after all, even if the actual jump scares vary, and there are only so many times two idiots can get tripped up by the same dead ends and fake doors. By now they’ve figured out all the proper passageways from the decoys, pull the right sequence of levers on the first try every time, and to Arthur’s surprise (and inexplicable bitterness), they both look genuinely happy when he offers to take their photo to go on the Wall of Victors (which is really just a recognition of the people with enough time and money on their hands to do something like this). 

“Congratulations,” he tells them, hoping he doesn’t sound as dead as he feels (and, presumably, looks, since the makeup just makes him look pale as all hell under the light). Obnoxious British Guy keeps looking like he wants to say something, and Arthur isn’t trying to scare him off, but they end up not exchanging a word. He thanks them for coming, they smile and wave, and it’s all said and done. Simple as that. 

Arthur thinks the couple will probably stop coming back now they’ve properly completed the maze, and that means the eternal absence of Obnoxious British Guy from his frankly otherwise boring work environment. Shame, he thinks, it was starting to get fun. 

“Would you hold still?”

Yusuf has about fifteen different makeup and paint palettes strewn around him as he surveys the current state of Arthur’s face. They’re changing up the scares again, which means that Yusuf gets to experiment with a different set of costume ideas for the both of them, and for all the curly-haired man’s excitement, Arthur can only think about how much harder it’s going to be to get this stuff off his face every night. 

“Sorry, but I really feel like you’re about to stab my eyes out,” Arthur says, squirming as Yusuf attacks his eye area with a pointed brush. 

“Really? I’m a professional,” Yusuf shoots back, sounding mildly offended. “And your job is to sit here and look pretty. Or, well, ugly.” He gives Arthur a look full of pride and perhaps some mischief. “You’re going to be the most hideous monster in the land, my dear Arthur,” he sing-songs to himself, touching up the black paint on Arthur’s cheeks. 

“Thanks. It’s always been my life’s dream to make little children cry.” 

Yusuf regards him, a concerned-looking expression on his face. “Something’s not right,” he says. 

“What?” 

“You look too…” he gestures incomprehensibly. “Hot. You look too hot.” 

“What?”  

Yusuf shakes his head in frustration. “This isn’t by any means sexy, so why the hell is it sexy?” 

“What the hell do you mean?” 

“I mean,” Yusuf says, heaving a dramatic sigh, “that when I put fake blood on you, you look like a hot soldier spy who’s just carried twelve civilians on your back out of a burning building. Once we get that torn coat on you, you’re gonna make someone ask you to choke them, for the love of god.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense. No can even see my face in there.”  

“Oh please.” Yusuf rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty sure I just figured out the motivations of that one guy who never seems to give half a shit about this place, but has been here, what? Five times?”  

“Four,” Arthur corrects him, then quickly regrets it. 

“I see,” Yusuf replies, and finishes applying the makeup without another word. 

“You’re back,” Arthur blurts out before he can stop and realize that that wasn’t necessarily in character. “Alone?” The brunet just smirks at him, spreading his arms as if to say, yours truly, my dear.

Arthur’s almost impressed, because clearly this guy is incapable of reacting to anything, and yet he seems to enjoy going to haunted houses so he could—what? Hunt the actors for sport? Does he have any idea how much it costs to book out this whole maze? Presumably he did, seeing as he’d done so, but Arthur couldn’t fathom what kind of motive this guy—a guy who clearly barely got ruffled by the most earth-shattering, terrifying contraptions they could come up with—could have in spending what must be a fortune , plus a good amount of his time, to visit repeatedly. 

“So, where’s your little girlfriend?” Arthur growls, slipping back into character. He doesn’t get the machete tonight, but he can do a good enough job giving off murdery vibes without it. 

“First of all, she’s gay and dating someone else,” the man says, “but I’m flattered you think I’m in her league.” Arthur swears he sees him wink, but it might just have been a trick of the light, caused by the overbearing strobe lights illuminating the other man’s face in fleeting flashes. He’s distracted, anyway, too busy fighting down an unfamiliar yet not uncomfortable feeling at his words, at the sliver of colored light catching on his moving lips, at the realization that the pretty, albeit obnoxious, man who kept showing up at Arthur’s workplace seemingly without reason, only to lead him on an outlandishly merry chase and come back again a few days later, has been single all along, and although Arthur isn’t optimistic enough of a person to entertain his sneaking suspicions, he feels oddly ecstatic at the same time.

Obnoxious British Guy gives him a long look, still talking. “Second of all, please, if she came back in here one more time, I think we’d have to carry her out on a stretcher.” 

“Considerate of you.”  

“Yeah, well, more time for us to get along, right darling?” 

Arthur turns on his heel and walks away. He can hear the guy calling for him, something like oh, come on, darling, don’t be that way, which is somehow both frustrating and hilarious. He spends the rest of the hour following this guy around as he breezes through the maze like he could do it with his eyes shut (although, given the number of times he’s been there, Arthur would be more surprised if he didn’t have all the pathways memorized). Arthur keeps thinking that if he can just sneak up behind him, get him while he’s distracted working on a lock or something—but he tries that strategy multiple times, once even nearly falling onto the brunet as he reads a passcode taped under a table, but Obnoxious British Guy brushes off his every attempt with the same smirk-and-wink combination, and by the end of the night, as Arthur watches Yusuf thank the customer and lead him out, he feels distinctly put out by the fact that, as much as he’s already tired of this fucking job, he’s really starting to look forward to the challenge.

“Tell me, Arthur,” Yusuf asks him one day in the break room, not even looking up from his phone, “What is it exactly between you and our uncharacteristically hot recurring customer?” 

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Arthur says without missing a beat. 

“Ah,” says Yusuf, who’s got his phone balanced between his hands, two thumbs frantically engaged in shooting down some kind of digital monster, “but you do know who I’m talking about.” 

“It’s not my fault he’s goddamn hard to miss,” Arthur grumbles, thinking about the blue-eyed man who, in bothering Arthur nearly every other damn day, has somehow made his miserable job a whole lot more tolerable.

“Hard to miss? Is that so?” Yusuf puts down his phone, which must indicate that they’re about to have a Serious Talk, which Arthur would really rather avoid. “You do seem rather fixated on him whenever here’s here.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? He just keeps coming back, even though the maze clearly isn’t entertaining him. Dunno what’s going on in his head,” he adds, pulling a drink from the minifridge, as if he’s going to drown his turbulent emotions in a can of soda. He would if he could.

“Arthur,” Yusuf says, several shades of Serious, “are you really not seeing this?” 

“Seeing what?”  

“There’s only one reason a guy like that would keep coming back.” 

Arthur pops the soda can tab angrily. “To piss me off?” 

Yusuf’s eyebrows seem to disappear into his hair. “You don’t seem all that mad when I see you. You certainly don’t try to avoid him. In fact, I’d say you go out of your way—”  

“Well, obviously, if he’s going to distract me at work like this, I’ve got to at least try to get something out of him for all the hours I have to put up with him.” 

“So you admit his presence distracts you.” 

Arthur thinks he’s going to choke. “Not in that way, dumbass. He’s just obnoxious.” 

“If you say so,” says Yusuf, in a tone that suggests that he doesn’t believe him in the least. Yusuf wonders briefly if Arthur realizes that they work in the same place, and that the Mansion of Terror provides enough hidden spots to be an eavesdropper’s paradise, intentional or not. “So your plan is, what, finally scare him so he’ll leave? So you’ll feel like you won something?” 

“What’s it to you?” Arthur asks, and Yusuf thinks, because I have to watch you hopelessly pine over him every damn day while convincing yourself you’re just being competitive. He keeps his mouth shut.

“Doesn’t matter. Look, Arthur, if you want to finally show him what’s scary, you’ve got to catch him off guard first.” 

“You think I haven’t been trying?” 

“That’s exactly what I think, actually,” Yusuf says, earning himself a deathly glare. He looks like he could gouge my eyes out with a spoon. Maybe that’s why they offered him a job on the spot. “You always pull the same tricks. You want to shock him? Try giving him a taste of his own medicine.” 

“And what’s that? Obnoxious jokes?”  

“I believe it’s called flirting,” Yusuf informs him, because honestly, as ruthlessly competent as Arthur can be, he can also really be a mess. “You want to fuck him up? You need to flirt back.” 

“A vampire again tonight, is that right?” Eames has been trying to predict the pattern of the other man’s costume rotations, so he can come up with suitably funny lines for their every meeting, but it seems to be generally random. “So you’re back to guarding the catacombs?” 

“I don’t comprehend your meaningless banter. I have always been here,” says the vampire, because of course, suggesting that he’s ever been anything else would give away the fact that he’s, you know, just an actor. All their conversations, as a result, seem to fall in some strange temporal space, and maybe that’s why Eames can’t ever make any progress getting to know him. 

“Were you waiting for me to come again? Aw, darling, you shouldn’t have,” Eames says, trying to raise and wiggle his eyebrows at the same time, and managing to look a bit like he’s eaten a supremely sour grape. 

“Waiting to harvest your soul, maybe.” 

“Not all vampires suck blood, huh?” asks Eames. 

“Right,” says the man, his eyes the only glimmer in the darkness of the room. “Some vampires suck dick.” 

He’s gone before Eames can figure out how the hell he’s supposed to react to that.

Eames loses track, eventually, of how many times he’s even gone to the Mansion of Terror. He knows his recurring appearance comes off shady as hell, but now that they’ve started this strange cat-and-mouse game, he can’t quite bring himself to stop. Besides, what he really wants isn’t to prove that he’s incapable of being scared; it’s just the other man’s name and number, which he can never quite work up the courage to ask for. It’s so much simpler, he reasons, to drop a cheesy, unfunny line, taunt the other man until he pretends to attack, continue to lie in close orbit of what he wants, close enough to live and breathe all of it, just an arm’s length away. 

If he’s going to be honest with himself, that’s how he’s always lived, isn’t it, circling around the things he wants, never daring to move closer. Besides, he figures, he’s got no real proof that anything beyond this is something the other man wants. This works, he thinks, even if he has no idea where it’s taking them.  

One night, he goes to visit—as has somehow become the norm for him—and gets turned away at the entrance. “Sorry, we’re closed,” the owner tells him as he approaches, running a hand through his uncharacteristically messy hair. 

It’s not until then that he notices the police car, sirens off, lights still flashing dual-colored circles around the dark parking lot. 

“Did something happen?” he asks, unable to stop himself. His heart seems to be doing funny things in his ribcage, like he’s already beginning to react to a jump scare that hasn’t occurred.

“Um, just a couple of drunk customers,” the man responds, sounding exhausted. “We shouldn’t have let them in, but then there was a fight, and we’ve had to call the police.” Eames watches the owner’s hands alternate between gesticulating and fidgeting awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with them. “It’s fine, we have it under control now, but we’re gonna be closed for the weekend. Sorry,” he adds as an afterthought, like he really has much bigger fish to fry than dealing with Eames at the moment, before rushing off. 

Eames stands alone in the dark parking lot, the glowing sign from the Mansion of Terror bearing down on him like a hollow spotlight. He knows he’s supposed to leave, but since when has he ever been good at doing what he’s supposed to do?  

So he pokes his nose where it doesn’t belong, and makes his way around the side of the building, trying to catch a glimpse of what’s going on. The bluish light reminds him mildly of the first time he came here, and the sense of near-nostalgia it stirs in him only makes him continue on, until he spots something that makes him slow in his tracks, coming to a stop at the edge of where the shadows from the building mask his movement. He feels, somehow, like he’s stepped into another dimension, where their roles have been reversed.

It’s him. The raven-haired man whose chilling voice, slender frame, quirk-of-the-lips smile, and die-hard competitiveness had had Eames coming back time and time again, had taken up a space so certain and defined in his mind that Eames really can’t imagine where he’d be if he never met him. He’s visibly hurt, with real blood drying fast on his lips, jagged lines of scrapes down his arms, a bruise blooming angrily on his face. 

 But it’s not the injuries that make Eames’ heart sink and rise and expand again, it’s how shaken he looks, and Eames can’t quite reconcile that with the man he’d gradually come to know over the last several weeks, a man with as many different tricks and plans as the roles he was limitlessly capable of playing, tasks he seemed always to be efficiently stringing together. He’s seen this man give his all at everything, even a job as wild and hectic as this one, and now, as Eames watches the helpless look creep over his face, he knows that out of all the times he’s been here, right now is a moment he can’t simply walk away from.

All things considered, getting beaten up by two tall, buff, drunk-out-of-their-minds frat boys wasn’t really Arthur’s idea of an ideal Friday night. Maybe he should’ve seen this coming, he thinks grumpily, holding the frozen water bottle Cobb had pulled from the break room freezer to his swollen cheek. He’d refused to let them call an ambulance, even though his knees, palms, and split lips were now bleeding profusely, his head hurt like hell, and he felt like he’d been bruised across every inch of his body. Still, despite his possible mild concussion, he was conscious enough to worry about the cost of getting transported to the hospital, and after finally managing to convince Cobb and a fussing Mal that he was fine, I’ll just get home and sleep it off, he had staggered alone out the side door to sit pathetically on the steps, waiting for Cobb to finish dealing with the cops so he could get a ride home, given that neither of them thought he could make it to the subway without passing out on the pavement.

The August night heaves gusts of hot air across his face; the ice in his hand sits weighty and unnatural against his bruised skin. He calls Robert, not really because he wants to talk to him, just because he just doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do. He figures it would make it better to have someone to listen, but he’s not quite sure where to turn—and there’s no answer. Of course not. It’s the middle of the workday in Wellington, and as much as Arthur might resent it, he knows that they both have an undying devotion to their ambitions first, and that their friendship was always grounded in mutual support but never intimacy. Robert’s going places, and as nice as he is about it, this friendship is undoubtedly dragging him down. 

He sets down his phone, wondering if he should even be trying to find someone to talk to at all, because he really feels like he’s about to burst at the seams and doesn’t think he could contain it if he opened his mouth. When did this happen, he thinks. When did he become so—lonely and unhappy, untethered and unconnected? When did he lose touch with anyone that he felt like he could turn to, anyone that he thought could reassure him at all?

He can’t talk to Yusuf about it, because they work together, first of all, and Arthur doesn’t need to air his emotional dirty laundry in front of someone he’d still have to spend the next month screaming at people with. Not only that, but Yusuf’s emotional capacity, or at least the extent to which he reveals it in front of Arthur, seems to be limited to enthusiastically showing everyone photos of his cat. The same goes for the rest of the people he’s met at the Mansion of Terror; Dom and Mal have been incredibly kind to him, without a doubt, but he’s not about to dump his emotional baggage on his boss. 

Come to think of it, there isn’t anyone who really knows anything about him anymore. After his family decided to essentially let him fend for himself in the city, he’d mostly kept to himself; he and Robert talked sometimes, of course, but his friend has a tendency to forget most things he doesn’t have written down on his jam-packed planner. He’d long since forgotten what it felt like to have someone care beyond an occasional half-focused phone call, someone it simply felt natural to confide in, to come back to after a day like this—the very idea of a home, he thought. When had he lost sight of that? 

He scrolls aimlessly through his list of contacts, feeling suddenly strangely helpless and alone. There’s a list of names in front of him, all of which he recognizes, none of which he really knows. How had he not noticed, until he’d gotten too used to it to feel it, that there was no one left in his life that he genuinely knew? How could it not have occurred to him, that all this time, all this fucking time, that he’d gotten too caught up in some second-hand notion of success to realize what was missing in his life? That all he wants, then and now and ever since he can remember growing up and moving out, ever since he’d started living alone in a city he didn’t recognize, was just someone to be home with—someone to lean on, someone real and solid and there—someone, just one person to say—

“Are you okay?” 

He turns so fast he thinks he nearly gives himself whiplash, because Christ, he thought he was alone out here, and there’s a figure he’s far too used to seeing in the dark moving towards him in the soft yellow light. 

“What?” he says, dumbly.

“Sorry,” comes a familiar lilt. Obnoxious British Guy himself stands before him, in all his sandy-haired, incoherently dress-coded glory, and something in the tender look he gives him makes Arthur want to break down on the spot.

“No, no, you’re fine. I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I told Cobb and Mal it was okay, but they said we had the cops to deal with and everything, so we just closed for the night.” 

“Why are you—please, don’t apologize for that,” Obnoxious British Guy says, sounding impossibly sincere. “God, no—love, what happened?” 

Arthur sucks in a breath. “Nothing, just some—some dumb guys who thought they were funny, I guess. There were two of them, and their girlfriends, I think, and they were just being loud and rowdy and talking about how the place was boring and telling the girls not to be scared because they’re obviously bigger and stronger than any stupid monster, and then I just came out during the coffin bit and one of them straight up socked me in the face.” The brunet doesn’t say anything, just moves to sit by him on the steps, and the candor in his motions almost makes Arthur want to reach out to him, curl up against his side, try to feel for something he’s been so detached from for years and years of his life. “I hit him back, obviously,” he continues. “I don’t just let some asshole beat me up and go down without a fight. Eventually the others got down here and hauled the guys out.” 

“I’m sure,” Obnoxious British Guy says. “If you look roughed up, I’d hate to see the other guys.” 

“Oh yeah,” Arthur replies, trying not to sound proud. “I’m pretty sure I broke the first guy’s arm.” He wasn’t fighting as dirty as he could have been, since he was trying his best not to damage any props, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know how to. 

He thinks, belatedly, that this might not be the best thing to say to someone that he’s maybe somewhat loathe-to-admit-it infatuated with, but the other man just grins. “Wonderful,” he says. “So glad to know you’re not all talk and no substance. You know, you look right terrifying with a murder weapon in your hand, especially now that I know you’re fully capable of using it.” 

Arthur doesn’t quite laugh, but he does blow some air out of his nostrils, which is kind of the same thing. “Thanks. You never seemed so scared of it, though.” 

“Well, I didn’t think I had a reason to be. Though I must say, darling, you certainly scared me tonight. No machete necessary,” the man responds. He places a hand on the cold cement between them, bridging a gap Arthur hadn’t quite dared to. “You never answered my question,” he says quietly. “Are you okay?” 

“Yes,” Arthur says, then pauses. “No. I don’t know.” He draws a breath noisily. “Physically, yeah, I’m fine. I’ve been roughed up worse than this, don’t worry.”  

“Oh, I fully believe you on that one,” the other man replies. “But you should maybe consider heading to the hospital—” 

“It’s fine, really. I just. Wasn’t really expecting something like that to happen, I guess.” 

The man says nothing, which, somehow, is enough. Arthur’s done a good amount of listening the past few days, weeks, months, years. He lent an ear as his friends vented, complained, wept, because what else was he good for? 

“And it’s just,” he continues, “I don’t know. I didn’t expect to like this job, and I don’t, not really. I mean, I’m developing a perpetual squint and hunchback, probably, and I think I’m going to develop a fear of the sun at this rate. But—I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t even apply for this. It just feels like I keep doing whatever I need to do to get by—you know, just have to get through this week, then I can move on to better things—only it’s every week. And the cycle never ends, and I’m just. I’m just stuck. Working jobs I don’t like, thinking that my next step is just out of reach, but I never get there.” And he doesn’t know why he’s telling a near-stranger this, but it feels strangely good to say it and he doesn’t quite know how to stop. “God, I used to think I could be someone.” He tilts his head back. The sky is pitch black and empty. “Guess not everyone can get lucky.” 

It’s quiet. Arthur listens for the low heave of the other man’s breath, crickets in the trees, cars whizzing past on a distant highway. Condensation pools around the cold water bottle, dripping onto his stinging palms.

After a while, the other man says, “I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have been such an arse if I—” 

“No, but, the thing is, it was actually kind of good for me. Like, I don’t know, trying to get a reaction from you, or just trying to see what kind of shit you’d pull when you showed up, it actually gave me something to care about in my job, you know?” Something unfamiliar bubbles up in his throat. He looks away. “People probably think this is a fun job, but when it’s just doing the same stuff over and over, trying to make enough to pay off your bills, it’s. It’s not. It’s just tedious, and it was hard to give a single shit about half the people that came through here, but—I don’t know. It was easy to care about you and what you did. Even if half the time it was being fucking annoyingly nonchalant about all my hard work.” 

“And that’s the thing, isn’t it? You are working hard. You are. That’s enough.” He sounds so sincere Arthur almost wants to believe him. 

“I don’t know. Most days it feels like what I’m doing is pretty pointless.” He shrugs, casting his gaze to the starless sky. “Not just work. Just—anything. Whatever it is, shit goes wrong, people are better than me, and when it’s all over, I’ve got no one to turn back to. Whatever, it doesn’t really matter.” And it doesn’t, he realizes, because maybe, maybe, he just hadn’t noticed when it became not entirely true. When a new rhythm hummed into his dark, hunch-backed days, a new something that he genuinely cared about, that got him excited and stupidly over-competitive, that made him smile long after it was gone. Something— someone, who appeared in his life and suddenly, without warning, became, inexplicably, the most reliable constant he could lean on; someone who barged his way into Arthur’s life with a smirk and a dumb joke and a hand resting halfway between them, hair mussed and arms wide open. 

It was strange and implausible, and so incredibly cheesy and impossible for something of the sort to happen to someone like him. It felt, incredulously, like an absolute miracle. Like something Arthur didn’t know he was capable of receiving.

“Oh, darling,” his miracle says. “If it matters to you, then it does to me.”  

Arthur laughs, then, shortly at first, then suddenly and loudly as the feeling rapidly washes over him, dousing him in sizzling cool relief. “This is insane. I don’t even know your name,” he says. But somehow you’re the only damn person that matters, he adds, not aloud, but thought with enough intensity that the other man could maybe hear.

Obnoxious British Guy grins, all soft lips and white teeth. “Well then, let me rectify that immediately.” He extends a hand. “Oliver Eames. My friends just call me Eames.” 

“Oh. That’s such a posh name.” A pause, then, “I’m Arthur.” 

“Arthur,” says Eames, like he’s testing out a new outfit, and the way his lips curl around the name makes Arthur’s entire body feel light for a second, and isn’t that just the most stupidly romantic thought he’s ever had?

He smiles, unsure of what to say. “Well I’m glad we know each other now, because calling you Obnoxious British Guy in my head was starting to get a bit tedious.” He regrets that as soon as it leaves his mouth, because what the hell, Arthur, calling someone obnoxious is a great way to get them to like you. 

“You think I’m obnoxious?” Eames asks, grin never leaving his face. 

“Only at first,” Arthur blurts, trying to fix his fuck-up, but Eames’ grin only grows.

“That’s quite alright. I must say, I wasn’t the most keen on you when we first met either, darling,” he says, and Arthur thinks of the restless anticipation that built up in him every night, as he wiped off Yusuf’s makeup job like a mask that didn’t quite hide him; he thinks of the way his gaze chases Eames’ smile, of how raw and bare he felt every time he faced him, like the other man saw something in him he couldn’t touch to keep. He thinks, fleetingly, of everything that had brought him here, of the helpless, trapped feeling that was slowly dissipating from his chest. He thinks of the maze, of the maze that’s his workplace and his life, of the dead ends and lost opportunities that had left him here, here to what he thought was rock bottom. But if there’s one thing Arthur has learned in over a month of working at a haunted house, it’s that there’s always a way out: some are simply less conventional than others. 

“You spent what must be thousands of dollars to see me in five minute increments.”

Eames laughs, too, a soft, reassuring sound. “You’re right. Over time, I think I’ve grown rather fond,” he murmurs, leaning ever closer to Arthur. “Besides,” he adds, barely more than a whisper, “it was worth it just to hear you say that outrageously unsubtle line about vampires.”

It’s insane, frankly, Arthur thinks, that he’s so emotionally frustrated that he’ll kiss a man he’s barely met (which isn’t quite the case, anyway—they’ve known each other long enough), with a bandage in one hand and a melting makeshift ice pack in the other, on the gritty cement steps of an abandoned warehouse-turned-haunted-house, with both fake and real blood staining his clothes. But he’ll do it, because as directionless as his life has been lately, he thinks that there might finally be one thing he understands, one thing he knows he wants. There’s a tense silence between them, Eames’ gaze never leaving his, and right as Arthur thinks he’s finally going to get over himself and just do it, he hears footsteps approaching behind him.

“Arthur?” Cobb rounds the corner, stops, and looks between the two of them. 

Arthur pulls away, feeling suddenly embarrassed. He doesn’t know what it is, but that moment felt like one of the only things in his life he got to have for himself, and he doesn’t think he likes the idea of just taking and doing whatever he wants. “Um,” he stammers. “Sorry, I was just.” 

“We were just talking. Didn’t mean to be a bother,” Eames says smoothly. He lays a warm palm gently on Arthur’s wrist, taking care to avoid his wounds, then says, quietly so Cobb can’t hear, “Get home safe, love.” 

“Thank you,” Arthur says, because what else is there to say?

Eames is halfway home when he realizes that he still doesn’t have anything but a name. 

“Bloody—Ari’s going to kill me,” he mutters to himself, and briefly considers turning back.  

That’s not going to happen, of course, but Eames is nothing if not dedicated. He could’ve sworn they had a moment back there, out on the shitty steps with probably a million ants climbing up their legs, and something in him violently does not want to give that up. 

He’ll give himself one more shot.

That night, he dreams of an endless maze that leads to a balcony over a turbulent sea, a mask that hides far too much, and a man whose eyes betray something primal as he moves into the light.

“Really?”

“Yes.” 

“Eames—”  

“I just want you to be there when I finally get my shit together,” Eames declares. It’s been over a week, and Eames has avoided the haunted house, which he considers a serious exercise in self-restraint. He figures Arthur probably wouldn’t be around, anyway, if he’s even still working there, given the extent of his injuries. But this morning, when Ariadne had invited him out to get “lunch or something, whatever floats your boat,” he’d informed her that he was going back to the Mansion of Terror once and for all, and she was very much welcome to come along.

“I’m just saying, this cannot be healthy,” she quips, tossing her light scarf around her shoulders, the way she tends to do when she’s getting ready to go outside. 

“If I can’t get it right this time,” he says, following her out the door, “then God himself must be trying to stop me.” 

Ariadne, clearly, has lost her touch with mazes, because she looks even more skittish than the last time they were here, which, now that Eames thinks about it, was a good month ago. Fortunately for the wellbeing of his ears, she screams less, but she’s taken to relentlessly teasing him instead, and he doesn’t know which is worse. “Please God, spare me from this tiny gremlin,” he mutters, hoping she won’t hear, and of course she does, swatting Eames with the rubber snake she’d been examining, even though there was no plausible way it could be a clue. 

They’re so caught up in this that they almost don’t pay attention as they round a corner, and before Eames can even register what’s going on, all at once, there’s a growl, a scream, a loud mechanical whrrr, a sharp thwack, a gasp, and then the sound of Ariadne’s voice exclaiming, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry—”  

“Christ, Ari, what kind of violent shit have you gotten into since the last time I saw you?” Eames asks, almost impressed at her strength. Arthur’s standing there, holding a hand over his face, where the rubber snake had apparently made harsh contact with his mouth. 

“Oh, shut up, Eames! I didn’t mean to; I’m so so sorry—” 

Arthur just shakes his head, raising the fucking chainsaw he was carrying. “I said, get out,” he yells, glowering, and Eames would commend his dedication to his craft, if he weren’t worried that he might be getting injured a bit too often. 

“Are you bleeding, love?” 

“No,” Arthur lies, gingerly feeling the wound that had been nearly healed, only to be bust open again by the full force of a frightened tiny person with a fake snake.

“I don’t know what your rules are about breaking character, but you’re actually bleeding, and that’s not a good look, darling,” Eames continues, trying to take a step towards him, but the murderous look on Arthur’s face makes his feet still, and for the first time since he started visiting this haunted house, Eames is scared. Scared he’d overstepped, scared he wasn’t supposed to be here, scared that he’d put all of this on the line and all he’d done was make a fool of himself—no, worse, far worse, be a bother to Arthur, distract him on his job, only compound the troubles that lined the frowns of his face.  

He thinks he should say something, try to fix whatever he’d knocked apart, but fear is an entirely different feeling from the galloping rush that once ran through his veins; the fear grips him, drains him from the bottoms of his soles, lodges itself between his flesh and bone until he forgets how to speak entirely. Then the woman in the gown is there, apologizing to both of them, and as she leads them out, all Eames can think is that the universe must be fucking conspiring against him.

“Alright, I took care of it,” Cobb says as he comes into the break room, where Arthur, for the second time in less than two weeks, is nursing a bleeding lip. 

He looks up, concerned. “What?” 

“I told them they weren’t welcome at this establishment anymore. Look, you’ve been talking about this guy harassing you at work for a long time now, and the girl whacked you in the face; I have to put a stop to that. As hard as this might be to believe, I do care a lot about protecting my employees—we need to take the rules seriously, especially considering what happened last week.” 

“Oh my god,” Arthur says, and he feels himself starting to panic, and he’s not really sure why. “Oh my god, Dom, no. He’s not—I was just being—”  

The panic finds a target, and it’s a sudden, jolting realization that he’s actually gone, that he isn’t coming back, and against everything, despite everything, because of everything, Arthur wants him to come back. He doesn’t have a number, an address, he doesn’t have anything but a name, and, fuck, somehow, the thought of never seeing him again, the thought of the force in his life that was Eames receding back into a stranger that he’d never know, the thought grips at him relentlessly, threatening to choke him out. 

“Dominic!” Mal exclaims, admonishing. “Don’t you see what you are doing? You are obstructing the path of young love!” 

“What? How is that—you know, that guy was around the other night Arthur got hurt, too, even though I told him he had to leave—” 

Mal ignores him completely. “Why are you just sitting there?” she asks, turning to Arthur. “He may be leaving already! This is your last chance—Go and get your man!” 

“Look, you have a name at least, right?” 

“A first name! What, you think I’m going to Facebook stalk every person named Arthur in the area? Not only is that creepy as shit, but—”

“Oh my god,” Ariadne groans, as if this whole mess, from getting them there to getting them banned, wasn’t all her doing. “You’re hopeless. Okay, look, you showed up to this guy’s workplace nearly every day for like a month, and he didn’t get creeped out by you, and if you can put in that kind of effort and get something out of it, you can do it again, okay? I’ll even help you Facebook stalk him, because I feel bad for your sorry ass.” 

“I appreciate that, but forget it," says Eames. "He’ll probably get into trouble because of me, and I doubt he wants to deal with that.”  

“Eames, you can’t just—” she has to quicken her pace to catch up with him. “You can’t just walk away!” 

“There’s nothing for me here, alright?” He stops, looks at her, and watches a strange mix of emotions flit across her face. “Look, I tried, the universe said it wasn’t meant to be, and that’s how it is.” He keeps walking. 

“That is not,” she grits out, “how it works. At all. Eames, you’ve put in a lot—” 

“Too much, and it didn’t get me anywhere. There’s gotta be a time to quit, alright?” They’re approaching the gate now. “Thank you for all of this, Ari, really.” 

“You should at least—” 

“Wait!” 

They both turn, and Eames feels an unfamiliar feeling bloom in him, like flowers sprouting up along his throat. It’s Arthur, now without his mask but still donning his costume, tripping over the hem of his robes as he runs towards them across the empty lot.

Ariadne turns to him slowly, her eyebrows nearly flying off her face. “So, I’m gonna head back first.” She claps a hand on his shoulder. “Let me know how it goes between you two,” she says, winking, before taking off.

“Wait. Eames. I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you go without—without—” He breaks off, and they lapse into a momentary silence.

“You doing okay?” Eames says finally. “You—are you hurt, I mean.” 

“I’ve been worse,” Arthur says. His gaze drops for a moment, before returning with the same fiery intensity that Eames, almost without realizing, has grown far too used to looking forward to. “I just wanted to say. Thank you. For, um, being there, last time, and, you know, everything before that.” He laughs shortly. “As it turns out… I may not be entirely opposed to—you know. Spending more time together. And not having to be in character the whole damn time.” 

“Oh, love, is this what I think it is?” 

“So, um, would you be opposed? I mean, to, uh, getting to know each other better, I guess, somewhere where it isn’t dark and ominous all the time.” 

Eames is trying, really trying, to contain his grin, but it kind of feels like his face is going numb and splitting at the center, and he’s absolutely certain he looks like a maniac, but by god, there’s something about Arthur’s small shrug and the dimples forming at his cheeks that makes him so, so giddy, like maybe for the first time he can remember he’s actually gotten something right. “Yes! Yes, I mean, no, no, I’m not opposed. Not in the slightest.” 

“That’s… that’s great.” Arthur is clearly failing to keep a straight face, and Eames doesn’t blame him.  

“Oh, here,” he says, fishing out a yellow post-it note from his pocket. It’s crumpled but legible, and he looks like an absolute lunatic, but Arthur smiles so brilliantly as he takes the paper with Eames’ scrawled number, he really can’t bring himself to care how they look at the moment. 

“You really did come prepared,” Arthur laughs. “Okay, I’ll text you, and maybe we can actually hang out like normal people for once.” He takes out his phone, then stops, looking past it at Eames like he doesn’t really know what he’s seeing. “You know, you could’ve just asked to see me instead of running the maze all those times.” 

“Yes, well, I’ve never quite been good at taking the easy way out, have I?” 

“Then it’s a good thing you like mazes.” Arthur runs a hand through his hair, looking relieved, and Eames can’t stop himself from fixating on every minuscule detail, like the kind of Renaissance painting that made people believe in the divine. It feels like morning, like waking up from a long dream, like looking down and seeing that everything he had ever wanted was in his hands the whole time.

“We both know I don’t come here for the maze,” he says, drawing closer.

“You know, I swore I’d make you scream by the end of this,” Arthur recalls, his voice rough with something akin to passion, and Eames thinks he didn’t know it was possible to have wanted this so much and for so long.

“Mm. Is that a promise for later?”  

“Well, I’d say that depends on you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies, and he doesn’t wink at him, but Eames hears the smirk in his voice, and that’s all it takes.

“Oh, yes, love,” says Eames. “I think I’m only beginning to learn what you’re capable of.”