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This story does not have a happy ending. Arthur always knew it wouldn’t. That’s why, when he thinks about it, he starts from the end and makes his way to the beginning; that way, he always finishes at the best part.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Arthur. I know, I know what it’s like to want to keep him in your mind, but that’s not him. You know it’s not. That’s just a shade of who he was. You have to move on.”
Arthur knows. God, he knows. The Eames that he keeps locked away in his mind, it can never be Eames, the real one, whose imagination was so vast that Arthur couldn’t emulate it, not if he had a thousand lifetimes. Arthur is impeccable with details, so the Eames he carries with him looks like him; the hands that touch his burning skin is calloused in all the right places, the smile that dresses his mouth just the right amount of amused. But it's not Eames -- fuck, Eames, who is was so complex and brilliant and beautiful and -- impossibly, achingly bright, brighter than anyone he’s ever met in his life, more than anyone he’ll ever meet in his life -- and Arthur’s clutching his chest where it’s so tight he can’t breathe, sobs being torn from his throat again, because he can’t imagine how many years he’ll have to go on pretending that it’s okay that he’s lost him when it’s not, when it never will be.
“You don’t understand, Cobb,” Arthur says, chest heaving, fingers clawing.
“I do,” Cobb responds, and Arthur gives him a desperate look, like he needs to be saved.
“Then how can you tell me to let him go?”
Cobb can’t speak then, and Arthur wails through the unending pain carving out his heart.
Arthur’s not even there when Eames dies.
That’s the worst part. He wakes up that morning and sends Eames a text and when he doesn’t get one back, he doesn’t think anything of it. Eames gets busy -- he does, too, and they both know that sometimes they can’t get to the phone.
Arthur doesn’t get one last confession, two men in love clutching their phones to their ears while they say their goodbyes. He doesn’t get to hold Eames’ body and lie to him and tell him that he’s going to be alright, that he’ll be there when he wakes up. He doesn’t get a letter, or a voicemail, or parting words through a messenger.
His last text from Eames is on the plane xx dont forget to record master chef xx.
Arthur doesn’t know how he dies. He doesn’t know who killed him, so he can’t get revenge. He doesn’t know why he died, so he can’t investigate. He doesn’t know any of the details of the job that Eames went on, or who he was working with, or who they were working for.
All he knows is that Cobb calls his phone, tells him that the team on the MacElroy job is dead, and that the bodies can’t be retrieved.
All he knows is that he starts crying that night and doesn’t stop.
Arthur throws a knife, and it digs into the wall behind Eames.
"Christ, Arthur, most people throw a lamp or some plates when they're intending to threaten," Eames drawls out sarcastically. Arthur can see the way his fists are clenched, twitching with the anger that he knows rests underneath the surface. It's condescending; Eames tries so hard to cover up that rushing fury, allows Arthur to be the one to exhibit it all, just so he can pat him on the head and ask if he's gotten all of that childish rage out of his system.
Arthur reaches out for the next nearest object, but it's one of his moleskins, so when it hits Eames in the chest, he barely flinches.
"Fuck you, Eames, you told -- we made a promise that whenever we went out on jobs, we have to tell the other person all of the details. You fucking promised me!"
And yeah, maybe he is acting a bit childish, but there's a neverending fear that he'll wake up one day and Eames won't be there. It lodges deep into his ribcage during the Fischer job, when he sees how cruel Eames' eyes could get when they are full of fear, and it never leaves.
Eames knows this. It's in the way he softens, the anger dissipating from his tense frame. It's in the way he's hesitant when he approaches Arthur. It's in the way he draws him into his arms, reminding him that he's not gone yet.
"I'll be careful, love. It's because it's a government job -- it's confidential. I'll see you on Friday, and we'll get some ice cream, yeah?"
Arthur finds a sharp bark of laughter through the tightness of his throat, and he punches Eames' side. "Fuck you," he says, though the heat behind it is gone, and Eames kisses a dimple into existence.
"That can be arranged, darling."
“It’s -- gorgeous,” Arthur says, and he’s a bit stunned. Eames smiles wryly, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s waist.
“Please, darling, don’t sound so shocked. I’m not sure I can handle much more of your apparent doubt in my abilities.”
“I’m impressed, Mr. Eames,” Arthur teases, cheeks dimpling, and Eames practically coos. They walk through the sculpted hallways, shoes tapping on gorgeous hardwood, fingers tracing post-war modernist paintings. Arthur strangles an ecstatic squeak when Eames opens up a false wall to reveal a gorgeous gun shelf, and wrinkles his nose in disgust when Eames leads him into the walk-in closet. "I'm not letting you keep any of those shirts," he tells Eames.
"Yes, you will," Eames answers smoothly, and when he pulls Arthur by the hand to the impeccably organized office space, the walls lined with Arthur's architectural drawings and moleskin notebooks, Arthur agrees.
“What are we?”
“Hm?”
“Don’t ‘hm’ me, Eames. Are we dating? Are we just hooking up after jobs or whenever it’s convenient? What is this?”
“Oh, don’t be so juvenile, darling.”
Arthur purses his lips. Eames reaches out to curl his fingers around Arthur’s wrist. With a quick tug, they’re close, and Arthur can feel Eames’ voice vibrating against his skin.
“We’re lovers, aren’t we?”
Eames words are coy and calm and cool, just like the smile drawing his lips upwards, and Arthur is left breathless.
He’s heard about Eames. Everyone’s heard about Eames. He’s the man with a million faces; the best forger in the business. Physical forgeries are excellent, but his real talent is in dreamsharing, where his forges are so perfect, so impeccably constructed, that it’s rumored Eames could recreate someone to themselves and make them believe they’re the fake.
It’s a ridiculous notion, but it’s interesting nonetheless. Arthur can’t deal with ridiculous, but interesting piques his curiosity enough to forego preconceived judgement.
When Eames looks at him, Arthur wonders what he sees. He wonders if he sees a man worthy of being on a job with him -- hopes he does, at least, because Arthur has worked his fingers to the bone to get to where he is.
Eames shakes his hand and smiles. It’s charming and warm and guarded, just enough to throw Arthur for a loop.
“My name is Eames,” he says, and his voice slips under Arthur’s skin and stays there for the next fifteen years.
“I’m Arthur. It’s good to meet you, Mr. Eames,” he responds, and Eames’ smile gets an edge brighter.
“Pleasure’s all mine.”
It’s in that moment when Arthur falls in love.
Here’s the problem: never believe in missing bodies.
Arthur’s knuckles are aching, bones bruised where they meet a strong jaw. The die in his hand is cool, weighted in just the right way that makes his throat tighten and eyes sting.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, darling.”
Arthur buries his face in his palm, the harsh whine of ragged breath embarrassing to his own ears as he tries to muffle a cry in his wrist. He’s known this story would never end happily; it never does, not where he’s concerned, not where Eames fits in.
And yet -- here Eames is, alive, tired and battered and weary, more worn than Arthur has ever seen him, but alive, heartbeat jumping underneath pressing fingers.
He clings to Eames’ shirt, a lifeline where a sea had been drowning him for months.
“You fucker,” is all he manages to say, and Eames’ relieved laughter swallows him whole.