Work Text:
Arthur lived in a very nice place now. He had a phase a few months ago when all he could do was look at pictures of available apartments, and somehow his search led him to this tiny one-floor house with attic space that was way out in the woods. He supposed it could be a cabin, but he knew the neighbors were closer then he realized but were hidden behind a thick layer of trees. He didn't really have an intention of buying the place—not practical, his work was in the city and the location set him an hour back into his commute. Also what single person needed a house? He couldn't even remember what was wrong with his old apartment...
He didn't even remember buying this house let alone unpacking all his things, but he had been obsessively house-hunting so he was sure the process just blurred in his mind.
He walked through the rooms admiring his things and relearning his environment. His stuff looked awkward and grubby in the house. He could tell what furniture belonged to him and what came with the place. The mismatched sofas in the living room, the dinette set with the extra chair. He supposed he should expect to host family dinners with his new space.
The bedroom was plain. His clothes were hanging in the closet, unruffled as expected. The bed was made. He had a family picture on the bedside of his mother, his cousin—Ariadne who was practically raised as his sister—and of course himself; they were all smiling. And then there was this ugly painting on the wall. It was unfamiliar and must've come with the house but he still felt like he had never seen it before.
He stared at it. It looked Rembrandt-y...all dark, a portrait of a man draped in shadows. It was excellent but had no place in the bedroom and just felt awkwardly out of place. He reached for it and took it down. He leaned it against the wall and decided to move it to the attic later.
He shivered feeling a draft in the house. He pulled on a sweater and walked to his back porch and stared at the trees swaying in the wind.
Arthur came home from work, feeling exhausted. He worked at an advertising firm. He had been told once, that he had no imagination, and he was aware that that was the image most people have of him, but would you believe it that he was one of their best graphic designers? Arthur considered himself a stickler for detail and meticulously researched his clients. He knew how to design a unique type face that said everything you could ever need to know about a company without ever actually having to read the words.
Though being truly honest, the two that made him look amateur but only because they were that good were the Cobbs. Dom and Mal Cobb, recently married had a ridiculous amount of whimsy and romance for this work. Mal had this quote—Aimer, ce n'est pas se regarder l'un l'autre, c'est regarder ensemble dans la même direction—Tattooed on her shoulder in her first published typeface. See, romantics.
And while he respected the two—he, loved them even— no one was capable of driving him nuts more than them. He spent the whole day listening to them discuss the Proclus project. He thought this was an old client, but apparently Mal was still completing their portfolio book. He thought she was being particularly slow about this which was unlike her. This project should have been done months ago.
Mal had just smiled him, her eyes unfocused. Arthur wondered if she was alright.
Arthur microwaved a quick dinner and made some coffee which he took out onto his back porch. He really didn't know why he had been so drawn to the woods. He had only ever lived in the city. He felt like a tourist in his new home, like he was on vacation. What he was doing right now, it felt nice, but he felt like soon he would have to return to the noise of the city, the loud neighbors and paper thin walls. The high rent for a quality home, the delicious food from food carts, the people, the energy...what was he doing with his life?
Arthur let the sun set on him, not wanting to wake up and do all this over again the next day. Maybe he should call Ariadne. He bet she would love this place, even though she was just as much a city dweller as he was, she was more adventurous, and she loved to climb trees.
He'd call her tomorrow.
He went to his room and was startled when he saw painting that had come with the house that he failed to move to the attic but had successfully taken down from the wall all the same, perched properly back in its original place opposite of his bed. At least he thought he had taken it down, had he not?
The sun had set, the lights in his room were dim and the big dark painting looked like a black hole in his wall directly across from his bed. He could imagine lying awake with that thing just staring at him. He frowned and removed it from the wall again and this time, moving it into the hallway. He made it that far and figured he might as well pack it away properly and forget about it. He didn't like the painting; he didn't want to see it ever again. He grabbed the drop down rope and the ladder to the attic fell at his feet. He hauled the painting up. He turned on the light and saw that the attic was quite crowded. The owner must not have taken much with him as there seemed to be a lot of clothes packed away in chests. The luggage looked nice, old school but only in the way someone trying to mimic wealth of an older generation gone by. He left the painting leaning against a nice large full body mirror and fought the urge to paw through the items. He was curious if he could find photos but he was tired and it was a little creepy to have so many personal items of a stranger up here.
Back in the painting-less comfort of his bedroom, he was frustrated that sleep did not come easily.
"Someone must really love this painting." Arthur opened his eyes at the deep and accented voice. It sounded sarcastic and…English?
He blinked not sure where he was until he recognized his plain ceiling. He sat up and saw a man facing away from him touching the frame of the ugly painting, which was back on the wall.
"Fuck!" He cried and nearly fell off the bed.
The man turned and Arthur wasn't sure what he was expecting but the man was quite handsome...not that it made any of this alright and he felt stupid for noticing at all.
“Good morning, Darling,” The man greeted with a smirk.
"Who the fuck are you?" Arthur snapped. He reached for his bedside table. All he had was the photo of his family and a flashlight hidden within the drawer. He grabbed the flashlight and was prepared to throw it.
"Not a morning person, I take it?" The man said amused. He turned away from Arthur but only pulled out cigarette and a box of matches.
Arthur just waited, not sure what he should do. The man was not playing by the rules. Shouldn't he be threatening Arthur, making his demands, or at least explaining his presence at all by now? He contemplated making a run for it while the man lit his cigarette, but he was frozen by the unexpectedness of it all.
"Looks like we're roommates, Darling, so let's try to start this on a less hostile note."
"Get the fuck out!" Arthur cried.
The man just stared at him with a measuring look and Arthur felt uncomfortable. “You don’t…hmm. I’ve never had to explain this to anyone before.” He gave Arthur a heavy gaze which somehow managed to make Arthur feel like he was the offending party. Arthur tightened his grip around the flashlight. He would throw it if he had too.
“Explain why you’re breaking into my house?” Arthur snapped.
Eames chuckled. “I was right, you are a cheeky sod. Well, I’ll let you figure this one out yourself and if you have questions, Darling, just give a shout.” The man turned to walk out the door but then turned back to Arthur and pinned him with a hard but almost playful look. "And I quite like that painting there.” He winked and then was gone.
Arthur no longer felt like a deer in headlights and stumbled from his bed, sheets getting caught in his feet. He rushed towards his bedroom door and as he looked down the long hallway he didn't see the man anywhere, not a trace.
Arthur stared up at the attic drop down which was where it should be, up and out of the way. The strange man must have used it to get the painting but Arthur hadn't heard it all. Maybe he was too tired to hear it but all the same, something about the man wasn't right. If it wasn't for the painting still on his wall when Arthur knew damn well he had placed it in the attic, he would have thought this was all a dream.
He moved quietly to his living room with the open concept kitchen and didn't see the man. He looked back at the attic and wondered. Did he have a squatter?
Arthur called 911 on his commute to work. It was a nice woman...the same woman he had talked to that time he got into a car accident; he recognized her voice which brought back memories of that night. His cousin had been driving; she lost control of the wheel. Arthur had his face slammed with an airbag but the two of them had lived. Ultimately, he felt the most stable to call for help. The operator had been so kind.
Work was weird again. Dom and Mal were planning another trip to France. They had gone a few months ago and He thought they had used up all their vacation days, but then again they were the best and maybe their boss gave them leniency. It was just weird. Mal wanted to hit the same spots again.
"Oh, you would love France, Arthur. You've got a Romantic heart. If Dom would let me, I'd take you with us to the countryside."
"Not a chance." Dom kissed her cheek. "Sorry, Arthur."
Arthur stood in the entry way of his home. He never heard back from the police and his home appeared undisturbed for the most part. Maybe he truly had imagined the man. He dropped his keys into the basket by the door and removed his coat. He walked to his kitchen not sure what he wanted to do. He turned around half expecting the man to be there but on further inspection, Arthur realized he was truly alone. He decided to call Ariadne. He was beginning to feel like he was going mad.
"Hello?" Ariadne answered. His phone was broke and made everyone's voice sound like they were speaking through a tin can, but he could still tell She didn't sound well. She sounded like she needed him as much as he needed her.
"Ariadne?" He said.
There was silence on the other end.
"Ariadne, it's me," he said again. "Do you want to come over? I haven't seen you in a while."
"Is this a joke? Please stop calling me," she sounded horrible, worse than the beeping that repeated when she hung up.
He stared at the phone. They didn't fight often and not contemptibly but she could push his buttons like no other and he supposed the same was true for her. He called again, but she didn't pick up. She must still be mad about the accident. He hadn’t been driving that night of the accident but she had come out to the club to pick him up because he was drunk. He hadn't expected her anger to still be there and he thought they had moved past it.
'Alright! Christ, I'm not a baby,' he snapped. 'Just take the fucking keys.'
He had gotten so drunk. He made an ass of himself.
He called Ariadne again and got her voice mail. "Ariadne, it's me again. I'm sorry. I really am. Please call me back. We can talk. I really need to talk to you." He lowered the phone feeling shitty.
He couldn't understand why he was feeling alone. He had friends, not just Ariadne, who was his cousin, and Dom and Mal, who were his work family but there were other people Arthur sometimes saw on his downtime he felt confident in calling his friends such as Yusuf and Nash, the two weirdoes. Arthur liked to dance on the weekends, get drunk and have fun. Why was he feeling like he was sinking into a hole.
He groaned and rubbed his head. He moved to the sofa and when he sunk in to it he noticed the coffee table was different.
"What now?" He groaned to the empty house. “Are you moving your stuff into my house?”
"Don't mind me." Arthur jumped at the voice. The man was back. Arthur turned and saw him enter from the hallway observing the new furniture. He whistled a quick jaunty tune and sat on the chaise in the corner of the room.
"You've been living in the attic this whole time?" He asked.
"Not quite the words I would use." The man said. "But I've been around."
"You’re a squatter," Arthur groaned.
"Forever and always, Darling," he said. He leaned against the chaise and peered down at Arthur. "Eames," he said and held out his hand.
Arthur stubbornly crossed his. "This is my house." He felt unnerved that this man had been living here this entire time. When Arthur was not here, this man had been moving about his home, moving things. He had been in Arthur's bedroom when he had been sleeping...Arthur had entered the attic and nearly pawed through his things. Had this 'Eames' been there, hiding? Was Arthur one measly shirt way from discovering his face peering up at him in the poor lighting? "I called the cops."
"I'm sure you did." Had they come and he hid?
"I'll call them again," he said. He sat up from the sofa and glared at Eames.
"Arthur, Darling, really?" He sighed. “Must we play these games?”
"You know my name, have you been going through my stuff?" He snapped. He had important documents: his social security number, his passport, his birth certificate. He still had his paperwork from his stint in the hospital after the accident. This man, the things he could do to Arthur's life.
He ran to the phone and called 911 again.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"Hello, my name is Arthur and..."
"Sir, I'm going to need you to speak up," the operator said.
"I live on concord drive—"
"Hello?" The operator snapped. “Sir this line is for emergencies.”
Arthur was about to try again when the phone was pulled from his grip and placed back in its cradle. He turned and glared at Eames who stared down at him intently.
"I do know your name, Arthur Broderick Wolfe, you were born in 1986 of April 15th, your mother's maiden name is Kulpowski, your social security is ***-**-**** and your favorite color is blue and if this was another life. You bet your ass there would be an Arthur Broderick Wolfe living it up in Ibiza right now, but as it stands I'm in no position to steal anything from you."
"How do you know all that?" He asked stunned.
"Everyone's favorite color is blue, and like I said, I've been around."
"You're incredibly creepy," he said nervously. "What position are you in that is keeping you from ruining my life?"
Eames just looked deeper at Arthur. "Everything you need to know about me is in the attic.
Eames had stubbornly stayed seated in the chaise and Arthur only stared at him for a few moments not wanting to let the man out of his sights. Eames simply raised an eyebrow in challenge and Arthur slowly came to his feet.
He quietly but quickly made his way up the attic ladder, glancing Down The hallway to make sure that Eames didn't come upon him with a knife or a gun.
The attic was still cluttered with what Arthur now knew to be Eames' belongings. There were so many things and upon his search he found more paintings of different styles. Was this a Monet? Arthur didn't know art that well but there was a ballet dancer in soft colors which made him think Monet. He half expected to find some Picasso's with a collection like this. Was this Eames fellow an art collector? Or better yet an art thief? He felt anger boil in his stomach at the thought of being dragged down with Eames. The man was obviously up to no good if he had taken residence in Arthur's attic and snooped through his documents.
He left the paintings alone and fully intended to go down to the station house after all this was over. He rifled through a suit case of clothes and fished through hideous suit after hideous suit in the wardrobe. These clothes felt so dated, and everything was so dusty. Eames hadn't been taking very good care of his things, he suspected. Arthur finally came upon a suitcase and shuffled through the paper work. Passport, Arthur looked at his photo. Eames didn't photo well and the picture looked practically yellow now. Arthur read the places he had been, he was stamped for America but Arthur already knew he wasn't from here because of his accent. France, Turkey, Italy, Austria, and Spain so many places he had traveled to. He flipped to the page that had information on it. His name was Theodore Eames, He was a British citizen and born in 1937.
1937?
That was impossible. If he was born then, that would make him at least 73? Arthur dropped the passport. It was obviously a joke. He looked for more paper and found a couple of blank checks under a Donald Thorp's name and another collection of checks under Carlton Stratton's name. Arthur looked confused and caught a glance at something moving out of the corner of his eye.
Eames was standing by the ladder with his hands in his pocket. Arthur looked away quickly. Forged checks, the passport, and the paintings. It was starting to come together but Arthur wanted to hear it from him.
He held out the checks for Eames to take which he moved forward to do so. He looked at the checks with a surprisingly fond expression.
"Those are fake, aren't they?" He asked.
"Yes," Eames murmured. "Forged. Made them myself."
"You an art thief of some kind?" Arthur asked.
"Forger, darling," he Eames smirked. "You thought they were real, thank you."
"Oh my god," Arthur groaned, though he was thankful that they weren't the originals. "I can't believe I'm harboring a criminal."
Eames chuckled. "When I sent you up here, I actually had another discovery in mind."
He crouched beside Arthur seemingly aware of his jumpiness. He eased beside him and picked up his passport.
"Did you look at this?" He asked.
Arthur nodded. “Let me guess. Forged too."
Eames shook his head. "No this one is real. I keep my fake one in a different suit case." He smirked. "Checkout the dates."
"They're wrong," Arthur said. He eyeballed the 73 year old Theodore Eames.
"No, I was born in 1937. I died in 1972."
"Seriously?" Arthur asked.
Eames nodded.
"Nuh uh, no way," Arthur said suddenly. "I don't believe in ghosts."
"If I wasn't dead, could I do this?" Eames said. He stepped backwards and faded from sight. Arthur went stiff.
"Eames?" Arthur tried to peer over the boxes as if expecting Eames to be crouched.
"Over here," Eames said.
Arthur turned around and found that Eames stood directly behind him.
"What the...?" Arthur said. "How'd you do that?"
"I told you, I'm dead," Eames said. "Believe me?"
Arthur shook his head and then shrugged. "I don't know. This is too much. I gotta be dreaming."
"Come on, Darling. What's it going to take?" He asked.
Arthur walked away from him, still uncomfortable. He thought about all the paranormal TV shows on TV. He didn't exactly watch them but he knew every ghost encounter happened when the ghosts weren't visible. He told Eames as much who just rolled his eyes at him.
"I don't think I can do that, darling, but give me your hand instead," he demanded.
Arthur held out his hand. "What are you going to do?"
Eames didn't answer. Instead he bit his lip and focused intensely on Arthur's outstretched hand. Arthur could feel his warmth and his calluses before he could feel nothing at all. Eames' hand once cradling Arthur's now went straight through his.
Arthur gasped. His brain was slow on the uptake. He blinked and then gazed at Eames. "Okay, I believe you."
Eames was a dead man.
Arthur turned to glance at Eames who was shuffling the pots and pans loudly in Arthur's kitchen. He was attempting to make tea. He was using Arthur's tea, tea Arthur bought with his own money.
"How do you still drink if you're dead?" He asked. He had never heard of a ghost cooking, let alone making tea. Weren't they too busy scaring people to drink? Or maybe, just too dead.
"Just because I'm dead, doesn't mean I still can't enjoy tea. This is a terrible brand, by the way."
Arthur caught a glimpse of the packaging, it was generic. Arthur wasn't a big tea drinker and bought them with his mother in mind should she visit.
"You’re not exactly how I imagined a ghost would be," he said. Eames had his mug and turned to face Arthur, sipping it gently with a smug look on his face.
"Think of ghosts often then?" He asked, curiously.
"No just TV, Hollywood I guess," Arthur answered.
"Ah, and they always get their notes right, I bet," he said.
"I’m smart enough not to expect bed sheets I just didn't expect you to be so real," he said.
"I am real," he took another sip.
"You know what I mean." They fell into an awkward silence, awkward for Arthur, at least. Eames was damn hard to read. He looked for the entire world comfortable like he wasn't a dead man drinking a cup of generic-brand tea in another man's kitchen.
"I don't suppose you come across many ghosts, but I suppose now you know I’m not here to scream boo at unsuspecting home owners."
Arthur blushed and then smirked. "So you recognize this place as my home?"
Eames just stared at him.
"Stop putting that ugly painting up in my bedroom."
Eames laughed and then placed a hand on his chest. "You wound me, darling. I consider that one of my finer works."
Arthur gave him an Incredulous look. “I still can't believe you painted that.”
Eames nodded and placed his mug down. "And all the others in the attic."
"That...I swore that was a Rembrandt," Arthur gasped. He had felt smart for thinking that, as well. He had to take an art history class in college and knew enough to recognize a particular artist's style. He thought of the other paintings in the attic and marveled at their differences to each other.
"So you're a painter?" He asked and then mumbled, "Or was?"
“Yes, it was a hobby of mind, though I don't believe either of my parents thought I'd make any money from it.”
“You're passing your art off as someone else’s to make money,” Arthur explained. “That makes you also a criminal.”
Eames shrugged. “Well, I didn’t end up selling them, did I?”
Arthur nodded. “No, you didn’t.”
Arthur didn’t call the police. He also let the painting stay on the wall, much to Eames’ amusement.
Arthur figured he would get off on the right foot with the ghost, even if he hated that painting. Eames continued to pop in and out over the days and for that Arthur was thankful and only a little bit nervous. Thankful that he had moments alone and nervous in that he didn’t know where Eames went or if he went anywhere at all and wasn’t just hanging around invisible.
Work was much the same. A foggy daydream he had to trudge through. Every evening when he was home drinking his coffee on his back porch, he thought he should tell Ariadne about the ghost, or even Mal as she had a superstitious mind.
Sometimes Eames joined him on the porch with his tea and would sit on the other porch chair, relaxing his ghost body out like he wasn’t actually dead or sometimes just stand behind Arthur in the entrance way staring at the trees or Arthur, he didn’t know.
At night, Arthur stared up at the dark smudge that was the painting against his bedroom wall in the darkened room.
Eames was an art forger who sold his paintings. But he died before he could sell this one and the others that he had assembled around the house. Arthur sat up and squinted at the painting, trying to make out a sliver of the portrait’s face.
Eames had wanted to sell this and instead it was just hanging in Arthur’s bedroom. He bit his lip and entertained the thought of selling the painting for him. What would Eames think of that? if he hadn't died, Eames would have been able to do this himself but now Arthur could do it for him.
Arthur couldn’t let it go. It excited him that he could get rid of the painting and also that it was what Eames had intended to do anyway. He broached the topic with the man one day. They were both out on the back porch. It was silent; Arthur didn’t have loud neighbors, save for the noise of the leaves brushing against each other in the wind.
“I could sell your paining,” He said confidently.
“Hmm? What was that, Darling?” Eames asked tiredly.
“Your Rembrandt painting,” Arthur said. “I could sell it.”
“Why would you want to do that?” He asked.
“You were going to sell it,” Arthur explained. “But you died. I can do it for you.”
Eames spared him a sad glance and smiled. “You won’t be able to sell it.”
“I probably could,” Arthur said. “I’ll just need your notes on the painting. I could sell it to someone.”
Eames shook his head. “Oh, Arthur.”
Arthur got to work right away on the painting. Eames didn’t give him his notes, but Arthur poked through his things in the attic anyway. He called it revenge since Eames made himself at home in Arthur’s house.
He found a folder full of details about the original painting. It was apparently lost for the last seventy years. There was a black and white photo that looked like it had been photocopied one too many times and it was hard to make out. Arthur figured Eames might have some freedom with this painting than he would otherwise but he didn’t bother to ask.
He also began mapping out potential clients to sell the painting to and the closest art museum to get an appraisal.
“How well of a forger are you?” He asked. Actually going to the museum had sent the thrill of a crime down his spine. He was never a law breaker but he did have a ghost with unfinished business staying at his home that he might get rid of.
“The best,” Eames replied. He was watching Arthur as the yellow pages. “You’re really going through with this?”
“Yes,” Arthur said. “You still think I can’t do it.”
“I don’t know why you care so much. Is it that you hate that painting so much?” He asked.
Arthur gave him an annoyed look.
“I have others,” Eames said.
“Then I’ll sell those too,” Arthur said. “I’ll sell as many as it takes.”
Eames looked at him surprised. “Takes to do what, Love?”
Arthur blushed. “Don’t call me that.”
“Alright,” He conceded. “Takes to do what, Darling?”
Arthur snorted. “Stop it.”
Eames just raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing, Arthur?”
“Helping you with your unfinished business,” Arthur said. “You can’t move on until you finish what it is that is holding you here on earth, right? Isn’t that how it goes?”
Eames turned away and shook his head. “What a romantic notion.”
Arthur didn’t let it deter him.
When Arthur came back from work feeling exhausted, he was privately happy to see Eames in the kitchen. He walked towards him and left his bag on the counter.
Eames turned and handed him a coffee fixed as he would have made himself. Arthur took a sip and sighed. The coffee entered his bones rejuvenating him. The room seemed to grow brighter by the second.
“Thank you,” He said.
“Cheers,” Eames said with his own mug of tea, which he raised above his head with a nod to Arthur and took a sip.
Arthur led them out to the porch and collapsed on his usual chair.
“I hate work,” He moaned. “I feel like I’m going through the motions.”
“What do you do, Darling?” He asked.
Arthur didn’t bother to tell him off and hid a quick blush with his mug. “I work for an advertising firm as a graphic artist. I make logos and shit.”
“Fascinating,” Eames said, his eyes perking up. “I never would have guessed you had a creative bone in your body.”
Arthur choked on his drink. “Excuse me. I’m very talented.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” He purred. “I just never guessed it would have been with art.”
Arthur looked away. “I like working with computers. I like words…Graphic art is more than just pictures. Its letters and designing a type. It’s like giving a company a face. When you think of a company, its face is what I design for it. The logo, the colors, everything.”
“You can make or break a company, can’t you, Darling,” Eames said with amusement.
“Shut up,” Arthur sighed. “It used to be my life. Now I’m just bored all the time.”
“Why don’t you take a vacation,” Eames encouraged. “Stay home tomorrow.”
Arthur was about to fight him on that but then paused. He should take a break. He was so tired and could barely focus at work. Everything felt so repetitive and empty. He nodded. “Okay.”
“Good,” his ghostly friend purred.
“Boo.”
Arthur’s eyes snapped open and saw that Eames was sitting beside him on his bed.
“Rise and shine, Darling,” He crowed.
Arthur threw a pillow at his head which Eames raised his hands to deflect. While Arthur was use to seeing Eames pick up things, clearly as he made them both drinks and rearranged his furniture, he still half expected the pillow to fly through him.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.
Arthur found a deck of cards in an empty drawer and allowed Eames to teach him a few games. Eames had deft hands when it came to cards. Arthur couldn’t help but focus on them as he shuffled the cards and then splayed them out on the floor between them.
Arthur probed him with questions and found out that Eames grew up in London to a wealthy family but loved to rebel and got caught up in a white collar gang of hooligans. They were the type of punks who instead of stealing cars or smashing windows, were forging checks and spending checks that bounced.
He explained how he got into Art forgery when he was in college and got a job painting copies of famous paintings and selling them for a store. It was public knowledge that those paintings were copies but Eames grew talented and hungry enough to take it to the next level. He had a painting in the Louvre, though it wasn't his name attached to it.
Arthur told Eames in return, the bits about him not found in his important paperwork. He told him about his cousin, Ariadne, who loved music and was in a band that played at the local clubs when she could scramble a gig together. Ariadne was also interested in Art, he explained, but only liked to draw buildings.
“We had legos as a kid and she would spend all her time building extravagant cities,” He said fondly. “We don’t really get along anymore.”
Eames nodded and then shuffled the cards again. “New round.”
At some point, Arthur let Eames go to the kitchen to make them coffee and tea, while Arthur shuffled through his iPod. He let it rest on the speakers and soft acoustic playing began to fill the air.
He mouthed along with the lyrics while waiting for Eames to return: "love of mine someday you will die and I'll be close behind, I'll follow you into the dark..."
He was slightly startled when Eames waved Arthur's mug in front of his face. "Thanks," he mumbled and they moved out to the porch.
“You want to know something weird. I don't have the foggiest memory of buying this place,” He said. “I just woke up one day and here I was.”
“That’s generally how it goes,” Eames said softly looking out at the trees.
“I suppose,” Arthur agreed, though he privately thought most people had a plan when they bought their new homes. “I remember wanting to buy a house and that I was looking, everything else is just foggy. Maybe I’ve been letting work get too me longer than I thought. days are blurring together.”
Eames glanced at him. “Yeah, that’s it.”
Arthur sighed, feeling like he was talking to a wall.
“Is this what depression feels like?" He asked. Arthur thought of his car accident and how Ariadne suffered from it. She couldn't even forgive him. He didn't know if Eames had the answer to that question. For a ghost, he seemed fairly evenkey, nice even, like Casper: Eames the friendly Ghost. He shook his head not wanting to go down that rabbit hole about depression. Today was supposed to be a nice day. "Don't answer that...But what about you and this place?” He asked leaning towards Eames. “Why here?”
“I wanted the quiet,” He said. “No one bothers you out here. I figured I would have a better shot at keeping my activities private.”
“Yeah,” Arthur said looking out at the trees that hid the other homes from them. “Sometimes it’s like I have no neighbors. I never hear them. It’s like I live in the neighborhood by myself. They have to be there, right? I’m not alone.”
“You were never alone, Darling,” Eames smirked.
Arthur chuckled. “How come I never noticed you right away?”
“You were too busy to see me,” Eames said.
Arthur tried to reflect back on all the times he sat on his laptop trying out sketches for a client or the many times he sat on the porch just gazing out. He wondered if Eames sat beside him then, invisible and lonely.
Arthur sent Eames a fond smile; somehow the conman had grown on him. Arthur figured, he would most certainly miss Eames when he moved on.
Arthur was growing frustrated at the phone calls he was making. He was beginning to think his phone was dying, his sound was so bad. He felt like he was speaking through a tin can.
“It’s a very rare Rembrandt!” He shouted over the static.
“No hablan Inglés.” It sounded like Spanish.
Arthur sighed and hung up the phone.
“I’m getting nowhere!” He yelled frustrated at the ceiling.
“Take a seat, Darling,” Eames said from the sofa. “And be a dear and stop shouting in my ear.”
Arthur glared at him.
“My phone is broken,” He complained. Eames wrapped an arm around him and pulled him against him. Again Arthur marveled at how solid Eames was for a ghost and he hopelessly thought that maybe Eames wasn’t dead. He closed his eyes and felt pathetic.
Arthur watched Eames as he moved about the house. He was familiar with it and Arthur supposed he should be. The man was quite the busy-body and seemed incapable of sitting still. He picked things up a lot just to give his hands something to fiddle with.
“Eames, stop moving around, you're making me dizzy.” The other man glanced at him before moving towards him. They touched more now that Arthur knew he wouldn't necessarily go through him. “Do you always have to be doing something?”
“Eternity gets awfully boring, love,” he said.
“What's it like,” he asked. He wasn't sure if Eames would answer or if Arthur stumbled upon the big taboo question for ghosts, but Eames seemed only pause to gather his thoughts.
“You know when you're sleeping, like in a dream, you feel like you have all the time in the world,” Eames explained. “It's like that. Just one long boring dream.”
“That's almost poetic,” Arthur smirked.
“Cheeky,” Eames teased. He pinched Arthur’s dimple and Arthur hated that he enjoyed the brief touch. “Don't be so smug, love, everybody dies.”
Arthur felt pathetic all the time now. He might be in love with Eames. Maybe that was why he couldn’t sell a painting. He was sabotaging himself and Eames so that Eames would stay with him. Arthur only felt alive now when Eames was around.
He ditched the porch sitting for sitting in the dark in his bedroom seriously pondering what he should do. There was no future with a dead man. He knew that, he understood that, but it didn’t stop him from wanting him.
He crushed his face into his arms and then fell backwards into the bed. He needed to stop being selfish. He needed to let Eames go.
“Arthur?” Eames knocked on his door. “I can tell something is wrong.”
“Go away!” He cried, hoping Eames would end it there and wishing that he would open the door and take him into his arms. “Just go away.”
“Please don’t tell me that, Love,” Eames said. “Just let me in.”
The door began to turn as if it hadn’t been locked and Arthur started to panic.
“No!” He got up and slammed his weight against the door. “Just leave me alone.”
“Why would I do that?” Eames asked when he realized Arthur was just on the side of the door.
He rested his head against it, allowing the ghost’s muffled voice to wash over him.
“Why would I leave you alone when I love you?” Eames asked. Arthur gasped. “And I know you love me.”
Arthur felt his face flush. “Why would you say that? How could you possible know that?”
“I can see it in your eyes,” Eames explained. “Open the door.”
"Why haven't you phased through it?" He asked.
"I want you to let me in," Eames explained.
Arthur unlocked the door and opened it to see Eames looking at him concerned. Arthur moved into Eames' space and was relieved to feel him so solid as Eames responded by wrapping his arms around him.
“Why do you push me away?” He asked.
“Eames,” Arthur moaned. “We can’t do this.”
“Of course we can,” Eames encouraged. He kissed Arthur. He relaxed into his embrace against his better judgement. Eames’ body was so warm.
“No, Eames, please. We can't do this,” he said when their kiss broke.
“Why not?”
“Because you're dead,” Arthur said.
“Oh, Arthur,” Eames rubbed his hand over his face distressed. “Don't you understand, love? Don't you get it?”
Arthur furrowed his brow. “Get what?”
“Your phone is not broken, Arthur. I haven't brought the furniture down from the attic or put the painting in the room. When was the last time you went grocery shopping but why are your cabinets always full? When was the last time you paid your bills, but this place has lighting?”
“I went…the kitchen is…” He looked to the floor confused. “What are you saying?”
“Work, it's so repetitive, like déjà vu. You can’t leave this house. Every time you step out that door, you start cycling through your memories.” Eames explained and Arthur agreed silently. That was how he felt. He gave Eames a scared look.
“And your cousin? Why haven't you seen your cousin if you're as close as you say?”
“Because we’re fighting, Eames. I told you that.” He said. He remembered when he had called her. She had hung up so quickly.
He blinked furiously and pushed Eames away. He stumbled passed him, out into the hallway and ran to the front door. He wanted to leave—to get out of his suffocating house and away from Eames who said things he didn't want hear. Nothing sounded better right now than to get into his car and drive to the city. Maybe he'd go to Ariadne’s place and make her forgive him.
He paused at the doorway and took in all the fog that swallowed up the driveway. He stepped forward and stared horrified. He couldn't see beyond it.
“You’re too drunk, Arthur,” Ariadne’s voice called at him. She had followed him out of the bar. “Come on, let me drive you home.”
“I'm fine,” he said. He stumbled to his car and wobbled a bit.
Ariadne stood before the car, blocking him and glared furiously at him. “If you start that car, I will never forgive you,” she snapped.
Arthur paused, feeling like an idiot. He rubbed his eye blearily and tossed her the keys.
"Alright! Christ, I'm not a baby," he muttered than much louder. "Just take the fucking keys."
"You're such an asshole, Arthur," Ariadne snapped.
He stumbled to the other side of the car and crawled in with more effort than should be necessary. Ariadne was already buckled and waiting for him.
They had been driving for a while, the road dark and empty. Ariadne was tired though Arthur hardly cared. He was smashed and just wanted to sleep. He tiredly focussed on the lights on the road in front of them coming towards them. He didn't register something was wrong right away until Ariadne swore and through her shoulder into the steering wheel trying to turn the car.
The car hit them and Arthur felt his head slam into the side of the window before and airbag exploded before him forcing his head back, slamming into the next rest.
He moaned.
All was still but for the man in the other car who was groaning. Arthur unbuckled his seatbelt and stumbled out of the car. He saw that Ariadne wasn't moving and he quickly fumbled for his cellphone feeling alertness rip through his drunken stupor.
Ariadne had woken up two days later. Arthur was released yesterday, his concussion having passed and all was left was the healing of a few bruises and a pounding headache. He was more concerned about Ariadne.
She blearily opened her eyes and he sagged in relief.
“Thank god you're alright,” he said.
She groaned and Arthur held her water cup for her. “I feel like shit.” She said, her voice like sandpaper, and Arthur commiserated.
He went home feeling happy that she was finally awake. He needed her to be okay. He couldn't live with himself if she had died because she had come to pick his drunk pathetic self up. With life seeming to get back on track after that accident and the knowledge that his cousin was out of the woods, he didn't appreciate that his headache seemed to have gotten worse. However, He was use to migraines. He stumbled towards his bedroom, feeling woozy, and collapsed on the bed. He thought maybe he should've stayed in the hospital as a wave of nausea hit him.
That was his last thought as darkness fell over him
Arthur blinked feeling like he did when he returned from work, tired and his brain staticky. He blinked away the memory. That was how he died. He had insisted on leaving the hospital early, because he thought he was fine especially compared to Ariadne who had been in a coma. He felt tears well up in his eyes. He was dead.
He stumbled back into the kitchen and was thankful not to see Eames there, though the back porch door was open. Arthur considered that he could never hear any of the animals, never a bird chirp, never a dog’s bark. Everything was always so quiet here because he was dead.
And then he considered his cousin who hadn't spoken to him since the accident. She hadn't blamed him. Ariadne knew he was dead. He had been haunting her.
His eyes fell on the phone that always sounded strange when he used it. He took in his home and realized the new furniture that had began appearing recently was too modern to have been stashed in the attic with Eames’ things.
“Some one else lives here now,” he said when he walked outside. Eames was sitting on his chair and nodded.
“They've been going through our things. I guess they liked the painting,” he said.
“You knew I was…dead,” Arthur said.
Eames nodded.
“And that I couldn't sell the painting because I was…am...” He felt a lump in his throat that wouldn't go away.
“Love,” Eames said and held out a hand for Arthur. He sat beside him on the chair And ket Eames wrap his arm around him. “When I saw you lying in your bed that day, I knew it. I knew what had happened to you. I had been here for so long alone, I felt excitement when I saw you,” he spoke apologetically. “I'm sorry.”
Arthur nodded. They sat there in the others arms, staring out. Arthur's tears had dried and for a short moment he accepted this, though he didn't know if his peace would last.
He squeezed Eames and asked, “Now what? What do we do?”
“Now we sleep.”