Chapter Text
“Thank you,” Amy says, when Eames finally relents. She presses a kiss to his cheek. “I owe you one.”
Mal and Dom Cobb are hosting a small house party this Saturday, and apparently Eames and his sister are going together. Amy really likes Mal but finds Mal’s husband’s friends incredibly boring. Eames likes Mal too, but he does not feel like socialising this weekend (or, really, any weekend). He only goes so Amy will have someone to whisper cutting remarks to rather than suffer in silence.
---
Now they’re at the Cobbs’ doorstep, fashionably late as befits an actress and a… whatever Eames is, nowadays. A bum, he thinks, bitterly, even though his fancy clothes for the occasion belie the thought.
Mal greets them with hugs and glasses of sparkling white wine. Then she leads them into the living room, where she starts to introduce them to the guests who have already arrived. Eames reluctantly shakes the hand of someone called Nash, a colleague of Dom’s who leered at Amy when he first was introduced to her, then leered some more when he heard she was an actress. Eames knows Amy will have some choice things to say about this ‘Nash’ as soon as they’re reasonably alone.
Just to look anywhere but at Nash’s ugly mug, Eames throws a glance in the direction of the sofa set. And is immediately distracted, because there’s an impeccably dressed figure sitting alone in the sofa, and it looks like… no, it can’t be. But it is. Arthur.
---
Eames hasn’t seen Arthur in about a month, now. Arthur just straight off stopped showing up at the crummy bar, stopped replying to Eames’ texts and stopped letting Eames into his flat. Eames could still have reached him at his work, he supposes, but he respected the backbone Arthur suddenly seemed to have grown and didn’t try.
And now they’re at the same little social gathering.
Eames has always been good at compartmentalising, and this was two areas of his life that he never ever intended to meet. The thought of Mal or his sister finding out what he’s been doing to Arthur the past months is utterly mortifying. They think Eames is better than that. Eames should be better than that.
There’s no getting out of it; soon Mal will lead Eames and Amy over to the sofa to introduce them to Arthur. When that happens Arthur’s reaction will most likely be priceless, but Eames finds – right then and there – that there’s a limit to how much he is willing to torment the other man, insufferable closet-case or no.
There’s not much Eames can do now, though. Trying to avoid an introduction will probably just draw extra attention. The only thing Eames really can do is give Arthur fair warning of what’s coming.
With this as his objective he ambles off to the left, as if some bric-a-brac on the coffee table had caught his attention. Rounding the coffee table slowly, Eames gets a good look at Arthur before Arthur can see him.
Arthur looks like shit. He’s pale, with bloodshot eyes (but the dark circles under his eyes inexplicably seem lighter than Eames has ever seen them). He’s staring unseeingly out the window, but when Eames steps into his line of sight he slowly turns his head to him. The simple motion seems to take all of his strength.
---
Eames thought Arthur’s reaction when he saw him would be priceless. It isn’t; it’s horrifying. If Arthur was pale before it’s nothing to what he gets now – he doesn’t just turn white, he turns vaguely green. His lower lip, startlingly pink now in his sheet of a face, starts to tremble. Then his hands start to shake wildly in his lap.
He and Eames stare at each other for three long seconds. Then Arthur rises, on legs that seem to barely hold him up, and bolts from the room.
The other people in the room look up, surprised, at Arthur’s sudden rush. Together they watch as Arthur staggers into the doorway to the entry hall, hitting it shoulder first, and disappears through it without a glance back. In stunned silence they hear him struggle to get the flat door open, and then the ‘bang’ as it slams shut behind him.
The whole room is still and silent, shocked. Then Dom, of all people, rushes out after Arthur. For a moment Eames had contemplated running after him himself, but with Dom already out there with him Eames would probably do more harm than good. Pretty shaken up himself, Eames sits down on the sofa and tries to push the image of Arthur’s gobsmacked face out of his mind.
---
After a several more seconds of shocked silence, people awkwardly start their conversations back up. But they all fall silent again when Dom comes back up into the flat, alone, a few minutes later.
“Don’t worry, he’s fine,” Dom says to the room at large. “He’s in a cab home.”
A sense of relief billows through the room at that, but it doesn’t quite reach Eames in the sofa. It doesn’t seem to reach Mal either, because she is on Dom at once, her eyes worried.
“A cab?” she asks, in a hushed tone.
Eames rises from the sofa and takes a few steps closer to them, under the guise of looking out one of the windows. In the periphery of his vision Dom shrugs, wearily.
“I was of half a mind to call an ambulance again, but he insisted I shouldn’t.”
An ambulance? Again? What has really happened to Arthur since Eames saw him last?
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll do something… stupid?” Mal asks, her French accent more pronounced when she’s worried.
“Nah,” says Dom, shaking his head a little. “Arthur’s just tired. He said he just needed to get home and sleep.”
Idiot, Eames thinks. Of course he’d say that to get you off his back.
But then again, Eames knows more about Arthur than Dom does. Eames is the only person in this room, possibly in the world, who knows that Arthur isn’t ‘just tired’. Guilt surges through Eames’ body.
Mal seems to have a similarly sceptical reaction to what Dom’s just said, though. She’s grabbing Dom by the arm, and her brows are deeply furrowed. When she speaks again she has lowered her voice even further. The only words Eames can make out are ‘nervous breakdown’.
That definitely doesn’t make Eames feel any better. He’s just decided to take the risk of stepping even closer to hear when someone walks up to Dom and Mal, breaking off their whispered conversation. It’s Nash, Dom’s despicable colleague, the one who leered at Amy before.
“What are you two conspiring about?” he slurs, already too drunk for the first hour of a party. “We need more booze, and as the hosts you should comply!”
Mal and Dom share one last worried look before they follow Nash to the alcohol cabinet.
---
“I’m sorry, Amy,” Eames says. “I’ve got to go. I just got a text from a friend. It’s an emergency.”
His sister looks him over, searching for signs that this isn’t just an attempt at getting out of the party while still having her ‘owe him one’. Apparently he looks shaken up enough for her to buy into his lie.
“Okay,” she says. “Go. I’ll live. Go.”
Eames goes, and when he steps out on the street he almost puts his foot in puke.
Arthur’s? he wonders, feeling sick himself.
He sidesteps the vomit as he walks out on the street to hail a cab.
---
Eames taps his leg impatiently as the cab glides through half-dark New York streets. He fiddles with his phone, occasionally sending Arthur a new text: variations on R u alright? and Pls say something. Arthur doesn’t text back.
Thoughts are spinning in Eames’ head. Apparently Arthur didn’t grow a backbone overnight four weeks ago; he grew a nervous breakdown. And if Dom called an ambulance for him, that means he broke down at work. Probably sitting at the desk that Eames fucked him over, four and a half weeks ago.
Eames can imagine it all too well: Arthur, overworked as always, accidentally throwing a glance at the spot on his desk where Eames had dropped a leaking condom a few days earlier, and everything becoming too much for him. So much too much that Dom had to call an ambulance.
Maybe Arthur wasn’t even at home when Eames stood outside his flat, ordering him to let him in; maybe he was at a hospital. If that’s the case Eames dearly hopes that no helpful nurse decided to check Arthur’s BlackBerry for him.
Eames hasn’t felt this worried, or for that matter this anything, since he decided that he’d gotten over Henri and stopped letting himself have feelings. Now shame, guilt and self-disgust mixes together into a sickening cocktail, and for the first time ever Eames thinks he has some inkling of how Arthur might feel on a regular basis. The thought is not heartening.
Eames rushes out of the cab as soon as it pulls up at Arthur’s building, without waiting for the driver to count out his change.
---
Eames knows the code to Arthur’s building, but he doesn’t have a key to his flat. He eyes its lock resentfully, thinking of the picklocks in his drawer at home. You don’t bring picklocks to a fancy house party.
Unable to get the door open himself, he pushes the doorbell button. He can’t hear the result; the walls and doors in this building do hardly let any sounds through. This also means that Eames can’t call Arthur’s BlackBerry to see if he really is at home.
The thought of Arthur’s phone makes Eames realise that it’s time to try and give Arthur ‘fair warning’ again. He whips out his own phone and starts typing.
Its me at ur door. U dont have to open if u dont want, I just want to know where u r.
He doesn’t get any reply this time either.
---
Eames has rung the doorbell five more times, sent three more texts and hammered on the door as hard as he can twice when a strange idea strikes him: if he takes the time to write a grammatically correct message, then maybe Arthur will understand how worried he really is. He carefully composes his next message, the one that’ll magically get Arthur to reply.
Mal says she’s afraid you’ll do something stupid. Please just promise me you won’t and I’ll leave. Please.
The moment he clicks ‘send’, Eames realises that this isn’t the message he wants to send at all.
She didnt say it to ME, mind, i just overheard, he rectifies quickly, clicking ‘send’ once more.
Half a minute passes, during which Eames sits slumped against the outside of Arthur’s door. But then, wonder of wonders, Eames phone lights up and gives a ‘ping’. The screen reads “1 new message, The Closet-Case’s Fancy Phone”. Eames clicks ‘open’.
I think I already might have.
Eames has to look the message over three times before he comprehends what he’s reading, but when he does, his reaction is instant. He shoots to his legs again and turns to the door again.
“ARTHUR!” he roars, pounding on the door. “Open up! NOW!”
---
Eames has taken a step back, ready to try and kick the heavy door in, when he hears the sound of a lock turning.
The door opens. And there Arthur stands, bloodshot eyes drowsing and hair in disarray. It looks like he’s raked his hands through it over and over.
“My doctor gave me sleeping pills,” he says. His voice is utterly without inflection. “I think I might have taken a few too many.”
“Arthur!” Eames half yells. “How many did you take? Did you try to kill yourself?”
“I just wanted to sleep,” replies Arthur, his monotone voice drifting off. “I just wanted to sleep…”
His knees buckle under him, and Eames drops his phone to grab Arthur under the arms before he falls. Arthur’s eyes snap open again.
“I think I need to… lie down…” he says.
Eames knows he won’t be able to hold Arthur up much longer, especially if he’s to call an ambulance. So he gently lowers Arthur’s body to the floor, taking the other man’s head in his lap.
“Oh, kitten,” he says distractedly.
With one hand he’s shaking Arthur by the shoulder, trying to make him stay awake; with the other he’s groping for his phone on the floor, hoping it didn’t break from its fall.
It didn’t. A disproportionate wave of relief washes over Eames as he pushes 9-1-1 on the number pad.
---
Arthur keeps his eyes half open during Eames’ call to the emergency agency, as if listening interestedly. But as soon as the call is over he closes his eyes again.
Eames slaps him across the face.
“Don’t fall asleep!” he says. He can hear the panic in his own voice. “Arthur!”
Arthur’s eyes open the slightest bit again. It’s easy to see that doing so costs him a lot.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper. “You hate me.”
Eames has no reply ready, but he doesn’t need to give one; Arthur is already asleep again. Eames scoops him up in his arms and rushes down the steps, out to where the ambulance should soon be. Must soon be.
---
Every new nurse asks who Eames is, taking notes on their clipboards.
“A friend,” Eames replies over and over, happy that he is, for once, wearing clothing that befits the friend of an investment banker.
As far as he can tell no one suspects that he’s actually the gay lover of the man who has overdosed on sleeping pills. He wants to tell Arthur this in a mocking tone, and the realisation that he might never get the chance is a knife to his chest.
Dear God. Has he come to care for Arthur?
As Arthur is wheeled into the emergency room, a new realisation hits Eames: I left Arthur’s flat unlocked. He’d be angry about that. Arthur being angry would be a good thing, Eames decides, because Arthur being angry means Arthur being alive.
---
It’s a long wait outside the ER, and Eames has more than enough time to think through all his interactions with Arthur. Why didn’t he see this coming? How couldn’t he tell how bad things really were for Arthur? He has half a psychology master, for goodness’ sake.
He tries to think of other things, even letting his thoughts wander much closer to Henri than he has let them for over a year now, because right now any distraction will do…
‘Stop beating yourself up,’ says the Henri in Eames’ head, his sky-blue eyes sympathetic. ‘You’re doing the right thing, now.’
‘Don’t patronise me,’ Eames replies, shoving the imaginary Henri back into the recesses of his mind. I’ll beat myself up all I want.
---
Eames must have dozed off, because he jerks awake when someone speaks to him. It’s a nurse, saying something in a kind voice.
“I’m sorry, what?” Eames manages to blurt out.
“He’s sleeping, now, but he’ll wake up,” the nurse repeats.
Eames looks up at her uncomprehendingly.
“He’ll live,” she clarifies, putting her hand on Eames shoulder and giving it a small squeeze.
And Eames utterly breaks down.