Originally written/posted: March 2011
Fandom: Inception (2010)
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: R
Warnings: Mentions of suicide, self-harm that could be read as a suicide attempt, internalized ableism, drug/alcohol abuse, and the reminder that these themes were written by a 15 year old.
Word Count: 3,059 words
Notes: I have no idea what this is, lol. The themes this fic was trying to tackle were probably mishandled, severely, but oh well. You live and you learn.
Arthur was calm and collected, he was a level headed guy who knew where life was going to take him and he had everything planned accordingly. He even had three back up plans (helpfully titled a, b and c) and even then he had a back up plan for the back up plans. Nothing in his life was ever out of order, and he liked it like that.
Or, at least, that was until he saw his very British, very, very drunk boyfriend sitting on the rooftop of their 27th floor apartment building in Versailles. His heart was racing and he just wanted to fucking punch something, even though he hadn’t jumped yet, but Arthur could see that he had every intention of doing so.
It wasn’t the first time that Eames’ had threatened something like this. Eames was suicidal, but only on one particular day, this particular day, he was slightly crazy (but Arthur seemed to be the only one who noticed) and had a knack for pushing Arthur over the limits of his grasp on sanity. Arthur didn’t know if he did it just to see if he actually cared or if it was because he actually, truly had wanted to kill himself.
Arthur was betting that he didn’t, though, because Eames would’ve jumped by now.
He would’ve jumped years ago.
The Year Before
Arthur had just come back from a rough day at the warehouse with Ariadne, Yusuf and Cobb (who, because the kids were older now, understood that their father needed to work, and he didn’t feel so guilty for leaving them much anymore). Eames had been given the day off because Yusuf had said that he had found him puking in the bathroom. Arthur didn’t buy that story for a minute, he knew Eames, and he knew his tendency to drink on this particular day, but knew he’d be okay until he got home.
Or he hoped, at least.
In the years prior, Eames had waited until night time to actually begin the drinking, but this year, Arthur knew, might be different. It was a milestone, a whole ten years since the accident, and he didn’t know what to expect. And what he didn’t was to find their apartment completely trashed, beer bottles thrown, the beer staining the white walls, chairs were thrown carelessly around the living room and kitchen, and there was a knife — luckily with no blood on it. Arthur would’ve really lost it then — resting on the kitchen counter.
There was no sight of Eames anywhere.
Arthur tried not to panic, he honestly did, but it was hard when it was your boyfriend, that was a complete and mindless idiot when it came to doing something that was logical and practical. He ran an unsteady, shaking hand through his hair before hesitantly walking deeper into the apartment. He checked the spare bathroom, there was nothing in there but a few blood specks and the curtain rod that was on the floor.
It was wet.
Eames had definitely attempted to take a shower.
He turned away from the bathroom, and then walked into the spare bedroom. The picture wasn’t much better, but at least Eames wasn’t lying dead on the bed. He took that as a good sign, and then walked into their master bedroom. Arthur’s and Eames’ clothes were sprawled across the floor, the sheets where sprung across on of the chairs in the room, that was titled onto it’s side, and there were books and DVDs, and countless other items that were thrown from their place. There wasn’t an sign of Eames, either.
He ventured into the bathroom, and saw much of the same picture, and sighed, thinking that he was going to have to call the police like last year, but then he saw it. He saw him. The window was open, the white linen curtains were flowing in the Italian night, and there was Eames, completely naked, cuts on his tanned skin, scars running down the length of his body from previous attempts and Arthur was, well, to put it simply: horrified.
He walked carefully, to the window, because he knew Eames when he was like this, and he knew that his boyfriend was incredibly drunk, and that he was mindless and careless, and would jump, no questions asked if Arthur had startled him.
And they weren’t dreaming, and Eames would die. Arthur would’ve gone completely mad if Eames had died.
He obviously wanted to prevent that as much as he could.
“Daniel,” He said cautiously, because this was Eames, and Eames always answered to his given name at a time like this, because he was mourning, in his own sick and twisted way, and while it broke Arthur’s heart to see him like this, he knew him better than anyone else possibly ever could.
Eames’ head snapped, looking over at Arthur with regret-filled, distrustful eyes. And then, they softened a little, but not by much, and it’s not like Arthur exactly expected them too. He cautiously takes a step forward, and Eames’ let’s out a yelp.
“Don’t,” He snarls, and Arthur knows he doesn’t mean to be as mean as he’s being, but it still frightens him.
“Daniel, it’s just me,” He says, because it’s a repeat of last year and he know’s how this goes. Eames didn’t know who ‘me’ was, because he was drunk and when he was drunk, it was easier to forget, what day it was and who Arthur was, and everything else that was bothering him.
Eames had shaken his head. “No, you’re not anyone.” He whispered, so, so brokenly, that it made Arthur want to cry, and sob, and do everything that he couldn’t because he didn’t want to upset Eames anymore than he already was. “You…you’re not even real.”
Arthur gulped, because he was real, he was, and he wanted Eames to realize that, he wanted Eames to know that he was here, and he was as real as they came, but his voice was shot because to hear those words leave his mouth, just confirmed the fact that each year, he was getting worse, bit by bit.
“Daniel,” He says, and then looks over at Eames, and once he’s not looking at Arthur, he dives for his arm, pulling him back into the room, watching Eames’ tumble and their might be some bruises, but at least Eames won’t end up part of the sidewalk.
He closes the window, and then looks down at Eames’ on the floor, who’s sobbing, and he knows that it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, that he should be angry with him, for doing this, for making Arthur worry like he was, but he couldn’t find it in him to be angry. He only felt upset, knowing that Eames continued to beat himself up like this, even when Arthur had told him, that he would be there for him, that he would hold him while he cried, that he just simply was.
But Eames never listened, and now it was time to pick up the pieces, sow them back together so when they fell apart again, they wouldn’t shatter more than they already had. He picked Eames up, even though Eames’ was a much bigger man than he was, and sat him on the bed.
He shot a glance to Eames, and sternly told him to stay put while he went to go get something to clean his cuts, that were no doubt self inflicted.
It was the same, every goddamn year, and every goddamn year, Arthur had been close to completely losing it.
But he never did, because this was when Eames needed him most, and even though he knew that Eames needed to be screamed at, he didn’t have the heart to do it when he wasn’t able to think or walk straight, when he was pouring his heart out in the choked sobs that were narrowly escaping his mouth.
So he kept putting it off. It was only natural that it would end up exploding.
But this year isn’t like last year, because last year and every year before that, it had been in their window, and now he was dancing along the outskirts of the fucking rooftop and that fucking frightened Arthur more than anything that Eames had done ever had.
He had been the cool and collected forger, the one that had never once lost his cool grasp on anything. He was an expert at acting like something didn’t bother him, he was an expert of acting like nothing was wrong, that he was easily amused and collected.
But Arthur knew better.
He knew, back then, that bit by bit, that his resolve and good-natured laughing and teasing weren’t anything but a mask. They hadn’t meant that Eames was completely happy, but they hadn’t meant that he had been completely faking it, either. He was a complicated man, and Arthur had liked complicated things, back when he could actually handle them.
But now, he was older, he was less naive and more practical, he was logical and cool and calm and collected. He was everything that Eames had attempted to be, but never could actually succeed at becoming.
He looks up, and see’s Eames, drunk on emotion and booze, throw his head back and give out a yell that he’s never heard before, and it broke something in Arthur that made him snap. He ran frantically into their apartment, pushing past the people that had gathered on the street, and took the fire escape to the roof.
He knew that Eames wouldn’t jump unless someone gave him a reason, and he was afraid if he had left him up there with the bystanders talking to him, that he’d find his reason. It would only be a matter of time before one of them set him off. So he took the steps three at time, thanking the high heavens that he had been blessed with longer-than-average legs.
It seemed to take forever for him to get there, like time was standing still and he wasn’t really moving, because he was sure that Eames would jump faster than Arthur would be able to get there if he couldn’t save him. So Arthur pushed more than he ever had, he willed himself to run faster than he ever had. He hadn’t wanted Eames to make the final blow against himself.
He finally reached the door, and opened it, releasing the handle quick like it was on fire, and it was, because he was scared and nervous, and he just wanted all of this shit to stop, but it was Eames, and he knew it wouldn’t until he calmed down.
He bursts through the door, and looked around, finally being able to breathe a sigh of relief when he saw Eames still on the roof. He takes cautious steps forward, because Eames is on the edge of the roof, and he knows if he startles him he’ll either take the jump or fall and he doesn’t want that. That’s what he’s trying to prevent, he tells himself, and takes another cautious step forward.
“Daniel,” He says, and it’s a repeat of last year, the way Eames’ head snaps, the way his eyes go dead and cold the instant he uses his name, the way his shoulders slump so much that he can see the new cuts on the top from where he had self inflicted himself.
Something flares in his chest, but he ignores it, because he had gotten angry the first time this had happened, and it hadn’t ended well. He simply looks into Eames’ eyes, challenging him silently, willing him to make the next mood, but he knows Eames.
Eames doesn’t want to die.
Eames just wants to know that someone still cares about him after the accident, that he isn’t alone.
Arthur doesn’t mind reminding him, but he does mind him standing at the fucking edge of the building, entertaining himself with the thought of jumping over the edge.
“Arthur,” He sneers, and Arthur’s frozen for a moment, because he’s never acknowledged that Arthur’s real, that he’s really there, that he’s not just a hallucination, a projection from his mind.
“Daniel,” He’s desperate for Eames to just give this up and let him take him in his arms and to just console him, but he know’s Eames, and he knows that he won’t let himself do that until Arthur forces him too.
He smirks, and simply throws a mischievous, drunken wink in his direct. “Oh Arthur,” He slurs, probably trying to purr, but he’s drunk on too many things at once to correctly say something. “Why the fuck are you here?”
Arthur snaps, then, because he can’t take it anymore. He’s been patient long enough, it’s only natural that he snaps.
Right?
So he looks at Eames in the eyes, and says the words that he never thought he’d say to Eames. “She doesn’t want you to do this to yourself Eames, she wouldn’t fucking want this.” Arthur snaps, loudly. Eames falters, falling over, luckily toward Arthur and not toward the sidewalk 27 stories below.
Eames looks up, so vulnerable, and hurt, so fucking empty and dead, and then snarls like he’s never heard him before. “She didn’t want me to push her either, now did she? But I went and screwed that lot up.”
Arthur shook his head. “It was an accident,”
Eames smirks, wickedly. “Just like I would if I happened to ‘fall’,” He pauses, using ridiculous air quotes at this, being so drunk that it looked like he was just waving his arms in anger, and he might’ve been doing just that. “would be an accident too, now wouldn’t it, hm?”
“You don’t want to die.”
“You don’t know that.”
Arthur nods, then, because he’s sure now. He’s so, so sure. “I do know that, Eames,”
“How?” Eames challenges, stepping forward, and Arthur has him right where he wants him, and he takes a step forward.
Eames doesn’t move. “You would’ve already jumped if you had really wanted too.”
For a second, it looks like he’s going to bolt, jump over the edge and end this for them both, but he doesn’t. He stands still, and Arthur lunges for him.
When they get back into their apartment, after dealing with the cops, he sat Eames down on their bed and started the routine that he always did. He’d clean Eames’ cuts, take a shower with him, and then he’d lie down in bed with him and let him cry, cry, cry, until he was so exhausted that he fell asleep, forgetting about the reason why he was even upset in the first place.
They were on their bed, now, having already showered, and Arthur was stroking his hair, resisting the urge to cry, because though Eames’ breaths were even, he wasn’t asleep, yet.
“Arthur,”
“I’m here,” He whispers, and pulls Eames’ closer, knowing that’s what he needs, but would never admit to needing.
“M’ sorry,” Eames slurs and he sounds like he actually does mean it, but Arthur knows that Eames is only saying that because he’s drunk, because he knows that he’s hurt Arthur, and himself, and he’s aware of the complete wreck he is.
In the morning, he won’t remember anything. Whether he chooses not to remember, or actually can’t, Arthur will never know.
He’s almost sure it’s the former.
“I know.” And he is, actually sorry, Arthur’s sure.
“I’m really, really sorry,” He slurs and then takes a breath. “You’re the best, Arthur, you’re the best, best, best.”
And this, is when Arthur can barely take it, when Eames is so fucking wasted on booze and dried tears and emotion that’s clearly taking it’s toll that he starts complimenting him. It makes him feel wrong, and disgusting, and it’s then that he really has to hold back on the urge to cry.
Luckily, he resists.
“I know, just go to sleep, okay? We can talk in the morning.”
Eames nods against his shoulder, and then falls asleep.
They never do actually get around to talking, but it’s a nice thought.
The next day, Eames was normal. He doesn’t apologize for acting like he does, because he did enough of that last night, and Arthur’s not too sure that he’s ever realized that he even does it, either. He simply smiles at Arthur, says ‘good morning’ and inquires as to why he has new cuts on his body.
Arthur simply shrugs and then smiles sadly at Eames, but Eames never seems to notice how sad he is, or maybe he does and he just doesn’t say anything. He walks up to Eames’ and presses a kiss to his shoulder, pulling him in close and then wraps his arms around Eames’ torso.
“I’m not sure, maybe you fell,” He inquires, and Eames nods, because he’s either in denial or doesn’t remember, and he seems to take that as an answer.
“I guess you’re right,” He says, as he always does, and kisses Arthur’s temple, before suggesting with a grin: “Love?”
Arthur nods, and follows him to the bedroom, and Arthur could leave, he honestly, really could. He could leave and pack up his bags and be done with this for once and for all. But he doesn’t, he never does, because as intolerable as Eames is on that day, on the one day out of the year where he’s completely mental, Arthur loves him more than he could ever love anyone else.
And he might hate him, he might wish that Eames would finally just comes to terms with what had happened eleven years ago, but Eames never offers any answers and Arthur never pushes.
They got to the bedroom and make love, like they always do.
Only Arthur knows why there’s tears coating his lashes, Eames, oblivious, kisses them away, thinking that they were sweat.
In the shower, later, Arthur cries, cries, cries, because Eames might never change and Arthur might never push him too.
fanficition cove 
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