Closer, Darling
One
When he first started he thought everything was lines and angles. Points on a line, paths through space, boxed corners, and level surfaces. Crisp and clean. The things that made perfect sense.
It wasn’t until his first real dream—real?—collapsed and he “did it wrong” that it became somewhere near clear that his pressed and ironed personality was out of place here.
The next dream was “still wrong.” The one after that was “all wrong.” The next was “completely wrong.” It was the fifth one that he deemed his last.
“You know how to do it wrong. You just have to learn not to do that.” That was reiterated until he thought he would rather breathe his last breath than hear it again.
He knew how to build skyscrapers. He knew how to design bridges.
That’s not what we’re doing.
Of course it is.
Maybe he was doing it wrong, he offered when another dream was asked of him. The patient answer of mentoring silence almost infuriated him.
He obviously didn’t know what he was doing, so why hire him? Why work with him?
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
The sixth dream ended of his own accord.
“That was closer.”
They were the worst three words he had ever heard.
That was not closer, he fumed. The lines had been crooked, the points scattered, the angles vertical. That wasn’t perspective. That was trash. His personal angles were slipping and there stood his employer, his acceptably sanctioned friend, smiling. Smiling a smile that said that’s the point. The one that reminded him dreams were all about strange and incomprehensible heights. Reminded him of the written existence of the rules he refused to follow, refused to acknowledge without a disgusting cringe.
He didn’t come back for another week, and when he did it was straight lines, right angles, a new job, and, by the way, this is Eames.
From then on it was “unintentional” kicks, “closer, darling”s, and the lewdest flirting he has ever suffered through.
It was the names that earned fits from him and smiles from Dom. Pet had his points disseminated, love had his perspective warped, and darling had his lines bending into arches.
“Closer, darling.”
It was the approval Dom wasn’t verbally offering put into words that ripped the needle from his arm and had him gone for another three days. His die, the weighted anchor to this world, fell on the desk in an offering of abandonment because this isn’t my place, because I can’t do it, because I give up. Because I can’t work with him.
It was wolf grins and “I missed you, darling” when he came back.
The dreams went back to snapping cords and falling walls.
He had to find imagination. That was the job he was tasked with from unfittingly perfect teeth and extra Rs.
They were building ideas, he would insist. Bending physics had no place here.
That wasn’t what he was asking, love.
Imagination wasn’t unlimited, his voice seethed as tacit correction. It was blocked by gravity, it was barred by reality.
That’s the point.
Maybe he was doing it wrong.
“Closer, darling.”
The first time he purposely read their rulebook he hid it behind annoyance. He didn’t do a good job. Not if the clicking tongue and exasperated “further, darling” was anything he was willing to take as criticism. He hid that acceptance even worse with a glare and pale knuckles.
A building fell to disarray.
“Closer, darling”
He went back to ignoring their disregard for angles and lines.
It’s not a disregard. They were perfectly aware of the mathematics of the thing. It was clear as day, but in the face of creation and dreaming, how could they resist?
He resisted.
He was boring.
You aren’t bored.
How would he know?
And it was an emphasis not unlike darling, not completely different from the finish of Dom’s mazes, the curving stairwells of Eames’ mansions.
How could he possibly know when closer wasn’t there?
The second time he tried to break the norm he succeeded in masking it with clean and straight and right. The second time he got no answer. He wasn’t closer, he wasn’t further.
He tore the dream down.
He got a smile.
It was never about building. It was about creating.
They’re the same thing.
No, they’re not.
If he built a fountain, a sculpture, if he applied science to gardening or erected a staircase, he would be creating something in the world.
He knew the smile, he knew the answer.
He was closer.
He started paradoxes next and they were neat enough for him. They told him there was nothing tidy about a paradox. He showed them the Penrose Steps and suddenly it was “neat trick, darling” and “I know, sweetie.”
It wasn’t until dearest was thrown in like a treat (though they never knew why) that the buildings shattered instead of bent. It wasn’t until they were against one of the melting walls and the wolfish smile came back with a wince of skin shoved on bricks. It wasn’t until his least favorite words were breathed through that grin that he realized the simple genius of crushing its existence with his own mix of lips and teeth.
And, really, they were only his least favorite words when they weren’t dripping with crooked British vowels.
Closer, darling meant better.
Closer, darling meant keep going.
Closer, darling meant dream bigger.
Closer, darling, he would learn, meant kiss me, Arthur.
It wasn’t until his first real dream—real?—collapsed and he “did it wrong” that it became somewhere near clear that his pressed and ironed personality was out of place here.
The next dream was “still wrong.” The one after that was “all wrong.” The next was “completely wrong.” It was the fifth one that he deemed his last.
“You know how to do it wrong. You just have to learn not to do that.” That was reiterated until he thought he would rather breathe his last breath than hear it again.
He knew how to build skyscrapers. He knew how to design bridges.
That’s not what we’re doing.
Of course it is.
Maybe he was doing it wrong, he offered when another dream was asked of him. The patient answer of mentoring silence almost infuriated him.
He obviously didn’t know what he was doing, so why hire him? Why work with him?
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
The sixth dream ended of his own accord.
“That was closer.”
They were the worst three words he had ever heard.
That was not closer, he fumed. The lines had been crooked, the points scattered, the angles vertical. That wasn’t perspective. That was trash. His personal angles were slipping and there stood his employer, his acceptably sanctioned friend, smiling. Smiling a smile that said that’s the point. The one that reminded him dreams were all about strange and incomprehensible heights. Reminded him of the written existence of the rules he refused to follow, refused to acknowledge without a disgusting cringe.
He didn’t come back for another week, and when he did it was straight lines, right angles, a new job, and, by the way, this is Eames.
From then on it was “unintentional” kicks, “closer, darling”s, and the lewdest flirting he has ever suffered through.
It was the names that earned fits from him and smiles from Dom. Pet had his points disseminated, love had his perspective warped, and darling had his lines bending into arches.
“Closer, darling.”
It was the approval Dom wasn’t verbally offering put into words that ripped the needle from his arm and had him gone for another three days. His die, the weighted anchor to this world, fell on the desk in an offering of abandonment because this isn’t my place, because I can’t do it, because I give up. Because I can’t work with him.
It was wolf grins and “I missed you, darling” when he came back.
The dreams went back to snapping cords and falling walls.
He had to find imagination. That was the job he was tasked with from unfittingly perfect teeth and extra Rs.
They were building ideas, he would insist. Bending physics had no place here.
That wasn’t what he was asking, love.
Imagination wasn’t unlimited, his voice seethed as tacit correction. It was blocked by gravity, it was barred by reality.
That’s the point.
Maybe he was doing it wrong.
“Closer, darling.”
The first time he purposely read their rulebook he hid it behind annoyance. He didn’t do a good job. Not if the clicking tongue and exasperated “further, darling” was anything he was willing to take as criticism. He hid that acceptance even worse with a glare and pale knuckles.
A building fell to disarray.
“Closer, darling”
He went back to ignoring their disregard for angles and lines.
It’s not a disregard. They were perfectly aware of the mathematics of the thing. It was clear as day, but in the face of creation and dreaming, how could they resist?
He resisted.
He was boring.
You aren’t bored.
How would he know?
And it was an emphasis not unlike darling, not completely different from the finish of Dom’s mazes, the curving stairwells of Eames’ mansions.
How could he possibly know when closer wasn’t there?
The second time he tried to break the norm he succeeded in masking it with clean and straight and right. The second time he got no answer. He wasn’t closer, he wasn’t further.
He tore the dream down.
He got a smile.
It was never about building. It was about creating.
They’re the same thing.
No, they’re not.
If he built a fountain, a sculpture, if he applied science to gardening or erected a staircase, he would be creating something in the world.
He knew the smile, he knew the answer.
He was closer.
He started paradoxes next and they were neat enough for him. They told him there was nothing tidy about a paradox. He showed them the Penrose Steps and suddenly it was “neat trick, darling” and “I know, sweetie.”
It wasn’t until dearest was thrown in like a treat (though they never knew why) that the buildings shattered instead of bent. It wasn’t until they were against one of the melting walls and the wolfish smile came back with a wince of skin shoved on bricks. It wasn’t until his least favorite words were breathed through that grin that he realized the simple genius of crushing its existence with his own mix of lips and teeth.
And, really, they were only his least favorite words when they weren’t dripping with crooked British vowels.
Closer, darling meant better.
Closer, darling meant keep going.
Closer, darling meant dream bigger.
Closer, darling, he would learn, meant kiss me, Arthur.