The Entertainer

When they first meet, Arthur is but eighteen years old, fresh out of high school. Somehow, he was discovered by Dom and fell in love with the world of dreams. He’s thankful too, because honestly, his life was going nowhere, floating in half-hearted dreams of architecture and Shakespeare and maybe even economics.

He does, in a sense, fulfill that vague dream of architecture by creating beautiful, modern-looking hotels, sharp, business-like office buildings, and trying out the occasional precisely designed pagoda. He’s a decent enough architect, fantastic, actually, when it comes to designing elaborate mazes, but he finds it’s not his strong suit. Research, however, is.

When they first meet, Eames is about three years older than Arthur, give or take. His birth records are fuzzy, and all of his legal documents seem to have been strategically misplaced or lost. He has three different ID’s and six different passports and at least a dozen different bank accounts, all in different countries, none of them under the same name. It’s possible that the so-called “Eames” everyone knows doesn’t even exist, that he’s just made up along with the rest of the identities he so easily slips into.

Eames is an observer. He watches others carefully, taking in every last detail that most ordinary people would miss. It’s what he’s best at. No one is better. He knows this. It’s safe to say that he’s gotten a little cocky, that he prides himself a little too much in what he does. But it’s okay. It suits him just fine. He seems like the type to be like that anyways.

When they first meet, it’s in a warehouse in Amsterdam, and Arthur is typing away at his laptop, fingers moving so quickly over the keyboard, they’re almost a blur. Eames arrives about half an hour later than he’s supposed to, but he doesn’t get scolded by Mal or Dom, who have worked with Eames before and therefore are aware of his habits – well, some of them anyways. Arthur, however, has never met Eames, as he’s only recently begun working with Mal and Dom, and he shoots Eames a rather reproachful look as the forger walks in, all loud words and atrociously clashing clothing to match.

Dom introduces them and Arthur holds his hand out for Eames to shake, saying a crisp and polite “it’s nice to meet you.” He flinches and draws his hand back when Eames decides to kiss it instead.

“A pleasure to meet you too, darling.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything and turns back to his work, meticulously going through and highlighting some very official looking documents on his desk.

From the first moment, Eames thinks that Arthur is nothing but a kid, an amateur. He thinks that Arthur, with his pinstriped, perfectly creased suit and slicked back hair, won’t last long in this business. He thinks Arthur, with the workaholic tendencies that Eames notices right away, will burn himself out in a year or two.

Within minutes, Eames thinks he has Arthur all figured out.

(But he doesn’t)

-

They go under together for the first time a couple days later, and Eames takes the shape of a sultry little brunette, just for kicks, just because he can. The first dream layer is simple, a hotel, and they’re in Arthur’s dream, obviously; everything is so elegant and clean-cut. Mal is taking them through an explanation of the complex maze she’s built for them, as well as emergency escape routes she’s put in, just in case.

Arthur’s got a notepad out and is jotting notes, fragments of ideas, little things, and Eames peeks over his shoulder.

“Oh, Arthur, dear,” Eames drawls, twirling a brown curl around his finger. “Must you always take such fussily detailed notes on everything? Haven’t you ever heard of improvisation?”

Arthur’s posture stiffens, but he doesn’t respond. Eames takes half a step closer – they were already so close that they were practically touching anyways – and puts his chin on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Really, darling,” Eames teases, walking slender, girlish fingers down Arthur’s arm. “You must learn to loosen up a bit.”

Eames toys with Arthur’s tie.

“Stop that,” Arthur snaps, but Eames doesn’t listen. He wants to mess Arthur up as much as he can. He barely has time to react before there’s a gun at his head, and he doesn’t even have time to blink before Arthur is pulling the trigger without even looking at Eames, and Eames wakes up.

On the lawn chair next to him, Arthur wakes up as well and stands, storming out of the warehouse in a dignified and tight-lipped manner that only Arthur can pull off. What a hothead, Eames thinks, shrugging on his jacket after Mal suggests that they take a break. How uptight, Eames thinks, how rude. He decides to poke more fun at Arthur then. It’ll be fun, he thinks.

Eames thinks he can predict how things will be from here on out.

(But he can’t)

-

Arthur is wearing a lovely, charcoal three-piece suit. His hair is slicked back and there’s not a single thing out of place on his person. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Eames is wearing an equally lovely slate grey suit. He’s sitting silently in the back and watching with a soft smile. He’s clean-shaven and his hair is neat, not a single thing out of place. Very out of the ordinary.

It’s Mal and Dom’s wedding and it’s a beautiful occasion. White lilies are everywhere, because Mal thinks roses are too cliché. Dom looks nervous but excited, standing at the end of the isle, and next to him is Arthur, his best man. Eames saw Mal earlier, all dressed up in her white dress, and she looked absolutely radiant, her eyes ecstatic and auburn curls bouncing around her face as she fretted nervously about her dressing room.

The music swells up and everyone turns to watch Mal walk down the aisle, but not Eames. No, his eyes are fixated at the front, not at Dom, but at Arthur, who, for the first time since Eames can remember, is smiling. It’s not one of those sneering, sarcastic smirks Arthur likes to shoot at Eames, but a real, honest to god smile. His eyes crinkle at the edges and his lips pull up to create little dimples on either side of his face.

Eames is in awe. Arthur, he realizes with perhaps a bit too much surprise, is actually human, not just some impossibly efficient robot. Arthur smiles; Arthur feels. Eames feels this strange swell in his chest, thinking, this must be the missing piece. This must be what he’s been overlooking in Arthur. His idea of Arthur is whole now, it’s solid, it’s real. There’s nothing more to him.

(But there is)

-

Eames doesn’t expect it. Arthur doesn’t expect it either. But when it happens, it’s undeniable and neither of them can escape it.

It’s after a job in Hong Kong goes terribly wrong, and they’ve all successfully fled and hidden away inconspicuously. Eames suggests they go out to get some drinks, forget about this whole thing, and no one can disagree. They shouldn’t have failed, but they did, and now, they just need to let it go. Drinks it is.

They go to some smoky bar that Eames takes them to and it’s not long before all of them are a little looser, a little less tense. Mal, it seems, has an alcohol tolerance level higher than anyone else and she challenges Arthur to a drinking contest because he refuses to be second best to anyone, even her. Mal, of course, wins and Arthur just ends up gloriously drunk, all flushed cheeks and nonsensical laughter.

Mal and Dom wander off sometime later, bodies a little too close and eyes bright with secret desires. Eames drapes his arm over Arthur’s shoulders, putting his lips to Arthur’s ear.

“What do you say we get out of here as well?” Eames offers and had Arthur been sober, Eames is sure he would’ve gotten punched in the face for being so close to the younger man, but Arthur isn’t even close to sober, so he just nods easily and follows as Eames leads him out of the bar and into a cab. Eames slurs an address to the cab driver, his eyes on Arthur the entire time.

Arthur’s jacket is bunched up in his hand, the fabric sure to be crinkled by morning, which he’ll throw a fit over and Eames will console him with promises of a dozen new suits, if that’s what he wants, and a delicious breakfast and sexual favors. Eames’ eyes are focused on the column of Arthur’s neck, which is completely exposed, the topmost button of Arthur’s shirt undone, his tie pulled loose. His skin looks so soft, so untouched; Eames couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d wanted to.

Arthur makes the most beautiful noises Eames has ever heard, soft, gasping moans and shuddering breaths. Eames bites down at the skin just above Arthur’s collar bone, and Arthur mewls softly, hands tugging desperately at Eames’ clothing.

They’re dropped off at their hotel and it’s just a stumble of clumsy footsteps and a fumble of the hands for elevator buttons and key cards. Eames has never seen Arthur like this, so pliant, the farthest thing from the sharp angles and precise lines he usually is. He gives easily under Eames, clothes slipping off to the floor, cheeks flushed, hair mussed and curling at the ends. He’s soft and languid and panting delicious little sounds that Eames just can’t get enough of. The hitch of his breath in his throat, the part of his lips, the way his back arches off the sheets as he comes undone under Eames. He’s languorous and lazy and fluid and so not the Arthur Eames has grown used to seeing.

Eames smirks into the curve of Arthur’s neck as they fall asleep that night, thinking to himself that this is something he could definitely get used to. He’ll bring it up sometime later, most likely at an entirely inappropriate time. He thinks he knows how Arthur will respond to the offer he has in mind.

(But he doesn’t)

-

“Vous ne pouvez pas le faire.”

It’s the first thing Eames hears Arthur say in French, the first of many. He’ll later learn that, apart from speaking French to actual French people, Arthur likes to speak French when he’s feeling sexy. He likes to speak French when he’s looking to get his way. He likes to speak French when he’s trying to seduce Eames, and even when he’s not and just trying to get to Eames, because Arthur will quickly learn that it’s a surefire way of turning Eames on.

And in any other case, Eames would have been nearly throwing himself at Arthur, trying to coax another soft-spoken French phrase off of Arthur’s tongue, but the strangeness of the sentence gets to Eames before the lust has a chance to set in. He has a basic understanding of the language; he wouldn’t be the best forger in the business if he didn’t. The gears in Eames’ head work quickly to translate the sentence into English and he’s a little confused at what he winds up with.

“You can’t do this” Arthur had said in a voice that sounded frighteningly caring, almost scared, definitely worried. Eames has never heard Arthur use this tone before and wonders who he’s talking to on the other end of that phone he’s holding up to his ear. Arthur’s brow is furrowed and he’s pinching the bridge of his nose in what looks like one part exasperation and two parts troubled anxiety.

He mutters a couple more phrases in French, catches Eames’ eye, and then makes an excuse to hang up. Eames is almost sure he catches Arthur saying something along the lines of “don’t do anything stupid, please” in lilting French tones before he snaps the cell phone shut. And then his gaze is sharp again, all warmth and care gone.

“What?” Arthur snaps.

Eames blinks. He shakes his head and tries for a smile. “Nothing,” he says, “Nothing at all, darling.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and turns back to the work he was supposed to be working on in the first place, and Eames bites back the temptation to ask Arthur what’s going on. He goes over all the things Arthur could be so worked up about and can’t think of a single thing. He thinks he’ll never know who Arthur was talking to.

He will, though, because two months later, Mal will jump from the building on her and Dom’s anniversary and everything will come crashing down around them. They won’t call Dom “Dom” anymore – no, it’ll be Cobb from now on, and he’ll be on the run. Arthur will disappear along with him and Eames will wander from country to country before finally losing himself to the heat and bustle of Mombasa, not quite knowing where to put himself now that the team he’s become almost a part of has dissolved to nothing. He’ll think that he’ll probably never see those two again.

(But he’s wrong)

-

Five days after landing in LAX from Sydney, Eames is settled comfortably into a hotel room, courtesy of Saito. He’s planning on hanging around Los Angeles for a while and then seeing if he can find work somewhere else. The others all disappeared quickly after landing – Cobb went home to his kids, Ariadne flew back to Paris to continue her schooling, Yusuf to his little shop in Mombasa, and Saito to wherever his heart desired; the poor guy needed a good long break after being dropped into limbo like that. Arthur has simply disappeared. Eames doesn’t have the slightest clue as to where he’s run off to.

Five days after landing in LAX, Eames is watching TV, almost half-asleep, when a news headline the anchorman is reading catches his attention. It’s breaking news, the anchorman reports in a businesslike voice – Robert Fischer Jr. has just announced that he plans on breaking up his father’s company in favor of making something of his own.

The man goes on to tell the tragic tale of Fischer Sr.’s death, but Eames isn’t even listening anymore. He’s completely frozen to the spot. In fact, he’s really kind of in shock. It worked. The inception worked. He can’t quite believe it. They successfully planted an idea, a fully formed, completely functional idea in someone else’s head. It’s never been done before, but they did it and it worked perfectly. Suddenly, this luxurious hotel room feels too stuffy to Eames. He wants to celebrate somehow, and he certainly doesn’t want to do it alone.

(He won’t have to be)

-

Eames doesn’t know how, but he winds up in front of a particular apartment building with a sense of purpose about him. He doesn’t know why he’s standing in front of this apartment building – after all, there are many like it on the street – and he’s not quite sure where in Los Angeles he is. He can retrace his steps, though, from when he left his hotel room to stealing a car up until now, so he knows he’s not dreaming. And if he feels any doubt, the reassuring weight of his totem in his pocket provides some relief.

An old woman with an oversized purse walks out of the apartment building and Eames leaps at the chance. He holds the door open for her politely and she smiles at him warmly in thanks. She walks off and Eames slips into the apartment building, though he still doesn’t know why he’s here. He hears the faintest strains of music and follows the sound up a flight of stairs and down the hall to the last door. The feeling of purpose grows.

Eames pauses in front of the door and listens to the music seeping through to the hallway – a piano, he thinks. He raises his fist to knock, hesitates, and then knocks twice on the door with the vague idea that he knows where he is and who this apartment belongs to; it’s on the tip of his tongue but he can’t quite figure it out; it’s slipping through his fingers like sand or water or a distant and long-forgotten dream.

The music stops and Eames hears no footsteps, simply sees the shifting of shadows beneath the door and then the door opens and it’s a pair of chocolate brown eyes that greet him. Chocolate brown eyes and pale white skin, soft black locks and a well-pressed white button up shirt.

Oh.

Arthur raises an eyebrow at Eames, looking more curious than annoyed for once. His posture is more relaxed than Eames has ever seen, and his shirt is unbuttoned a few buttons to expose the most tantalizing sliver of skin. His feet are bare and he’s wearing a pair of worn out jeans and Eames is surprised, because frankly, he didn’t even know Arthur owned jeans.

“Eames,” Arthur says, as if he were expecting this all along.

He doesn’t say anything more and turns, leaving the door open for Eames, should he want to come in, which he does, so he walks easily into Arthur’s apartment, slipping off his shoes by the door. Arthur’s apartment looks every bit the opposite of what Eames expected. He expected neat and orderly, not a single thing out of place, just like everything else that is Arthur, but to be honest, it’s kind of a mess. There are books and papers and magazines stacked everywhere, and a bouquet of rolled up blueprints are leaning haphazardly against the wall in the corner. Unwashed dishes sit in the sink and a basket of laundry sits by the bedroom door, waiting to be washed. Arthur ignores it all.

The music starts up again and Eames’ attention is drawn to the elegant grand piano on the far side of the room. Arthur’s fingers skip lithely over the black and white keys, and the notes make up a melody Eames vaguely recognizes, something contemporary, something slightly jazzy, something very Scott Joplin. Eames would have expected classical from Arthur. Eames wouldn’t have expected music from Arthur at all.

He goes over and sits down on the bench next to Arthur and rests his chin on the other man’s shoulder. Arthur lets him, continues on playing without a hitch. Eames contemplates staying for a while. Arthur will let him, if that’s what he wants.

And it’s then that Eames realizes he doesn’t really know Arthur at all. He doesn’t know anything about this man that he’s spent more than ten years of his life poking fun at and flirting with and seducing and avoiding. Sure, he knows that Arthur is currently twenty-nine and dresses in only the finest clothes. He knows that Arthur likes red wine and champagne and that he’s the best point man the world of dream-sharing has ever seen. But he doesn’t know anything substantial, anything that has any meaning. He doesn’t know who Arthur’s parents are, or if he even has parents. Hell, he doesn’t even know Arthur’s last name. He doesn’t know what Arthur dreams about, or rather dreamed about when he still dreamed natural dreams. He only knows Arthur’s favorite color because of a lucky guess once, four years ago, when they’d had a little too much to drink on a hot and humid night in Venice.

I’ll buy you a mask, a red one. I bet that’s your favorite.

You’re right, you know. I think red is my favorite, or maybe it’s blue. I don’t remember. I’m getting it all mixed up. No wait, nevermind, you’re right, you’re right; it is red.

He doesn’t know anything.

(But he will)