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 -- only used if absolutely needed, avoid at all costs, etc) 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 do something crazy, something so much unlike himself that it scared him. And even though Eames hadn’t jumped yet, 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 he had a knack for pushing Arthur over the limits of his very loose 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 (because the kids were older now, they 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.
(He hoped this to be true, he willed it and wished it, too).
In the years prior, Eames had waited until nighttime 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 expect was to find their apartment completely trashed, beer bottles thrown carelessly around the room, the beer was staining the white walls and carpet, 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, because he knew how this would end up shattering the situation, but it was hard when it was your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who was a complete and mindless idiot when it came to doing something that was logical and practical when he was in the right state of mind, the one who went positively postal when he wasn't. He ran an unsteady, shaking hand through his hair before hesitantly walking deeper into the apartment, he didn't know what to expect. 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, or naked, or both. 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 from where they usually were and were blanketing the floor where there were no clothes. One of the chairs in the room was titled onto it’s side, and there was fucking blood on it; books and DVDs, and countless other items that were thrown from their place cluttered the room. There wasn’t an sign of Eames either, and his heart clenched painfully in his chest.
He didn't have much hope, knowing that the chances that Eames was actually still breathing were slim. He's done it, he thinks, he's finally done it and Arthur feels like a fucking fool letting him even leave their apartment this morning, for not telling the team that they needed this day off.
He ventured into the bathroom, and saw much of the same picture, and he started going through the frantic plans that he had made last year: he'd have to call the police, tell them about Eames' history with doing violent things this time of the year, and then begin the torturous search for his crazed boyfriend. And then he saw it -- him. The window was open, the white linen curtains 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 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. That he was mindless and careless, and would jump no questions asked if Arthur had startled him enough.
And they weren’t dreaming, and Eames would die, he would die the same death that Mal had nearly seven years ago, and it had hurt enough then.
When Mal had died, it hurt more than Arthur could bare, and he wasn't even her husband, or her son, he was just her friend, someone who he called when he needed to hear some advice. They weren't terribly close, but they got along, and she showed him more than Arthur had ever known, Cobb and Mal had.
Arthur would’ve gone completely mad if Eames had died, and thinking about it now, he could almost understand why Cobb went postal, why he began questioning everything that was once set in stone; unable to move.
He obviously wanted to prevent that as much as he he possibly could.
“Daniel,” He said cautiously, because this was Eames, and Eames always answered to his given name at a time like this. He knew that 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 was violent in theory, but he was never violent when it came to Arthur. Not when he grew too frustrated to breathe properly, when his eyes clouded dark with anger, his fingers shaking from his pulse flowing too quickly -- too much -- through his veins. Eames wasn't violent to anyone else but himself, because whether the man wanted to admit it or not, the only person that he could get joy in destroying was himself.
And Arthur too, had been denying it since now.
Eames, as much as he was a self-loather was also a coward, and he hadn't taken the steps before to fix the problem -- Arthur hoped that this wouldn't be the final string to break off of the man's resolve.
Eames’ head snapped, looking over at Arthur with regret-filled, distrustful eyes. And then they had softened a little, but not by much, and it wasn't like Arthur exactly expected them to. He cautiously took a step forward, and Eames’ let out a yelp that makes his stomach drop to his toes.
He would never get used to that sound.
“Don’t,” He snarled, and Arthur knew he didn't mean to be as vicious as he was being, but it still frightened him; Eames was most possibly the most terrifying person in the world, especially when he was as drunk as he was.
“Daniel, it’s just me,” He said, and it was a bit like deja-vu, knowing that he had said the same exact words to him last year. 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.
But it was also harder to forget the monster that still tore at Eames' heart, the thing that ripped his soul out so fast, much too fast. Eames was a forger in nature, not only in dreams. He was easy with lies about himself and his feelings, and even though he barely used it against Arthur, it still hurt to know that he felt the need to be fake with anyone outside of dreams.
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 knew that he was -- he had checked five times on the way home, to make sure that this was a dream, and he had checked two more times in the living room when he saw no trace of this insufferable man --, and he wanted Eames to realize that, he wanted Eames to know that he was here. He wanted to let him know that 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 said, and then looked 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 there might be some bruises, but at least Eames won’t end up part of the sidewalk.
Eames made the most horrible sound, caught somewhere between a mewl and a choked, dry sob and pushed himself off of the floor, flying at at the clothes scattering the room. Arthur ignored him because he knew that this was what best for him, even if it shattered his heart to think that for the moment, he was causing Eames more pain.
He closed the window, and then looked down at Eames’ on the floor, who was sobbing, holding an old shirt that Eames used to wear all of the time, but rarely touched anymore. And he knows that it shouldn’t hurt as much as it did, 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 was only upset knowing that Eames continued to beat himself down 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.
Eames was sadistic and pessimistic, he was self-loathing and unforgiving of everything that had happened around the accident, and he knew that getting Eames to give Arthur an inch would require giving up a hundred miles.
Eames never listened to anything that Arthur ever said when it came to that, 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 -- he prided himself on his wiry strength --, and sat him on the bed.
He didn't even look at Eames as he made his way into the bathroom to get the necessary supplies to clean his wounds. He knew that it would hurt Eames to not look at him when he needs to be looked at the most, but experience had told him that looking at Eames while he was like this was far worse than looking at all. For the most part, Arthur wasn't scared that the man would move, mostly because he knew the hard part was over, that he was exhausted and whatever he had gotten into, the amount of alcohol that he had consumed was fading.
He made his way back over to Eames when he had the first aid kit in hand, still avoiding eye contact as he cleaned off his self-inflicted cuts.
This was a repeat of last year, and every year the little bomb inside him had ticked closer to exploding, every year he had been so much closer to going insane.
He never did and he knew that he never will, 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 properly.
Eames was shivering, pouring his heart out in the choked sobs that were narrowly escaping his mouth. Arthur wanted nothing more than to wrap Eames up like a burrito in a blanket and hold him, to tell him that everything would turn out okay, that it would soon pass.
Arthur ignored him, and eventually he ended up exploding too.
*
PRESENT DAY
But this year wasn'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 the guy that wouldn't even break a sweat. He was an expert at being completely unpredictable, an expert at never once acting like he cared about anything, he was an expert of acting like nothing was wrong, that he was a fucking hero when it came to everything, who could handle anything that anyone had ever thrown at him.
(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. That they were slowly crumbling like the rest of his sanity was. He saw how dark Eames' eyes got, how his fingers twitched for something that wasn't readily available, the downward slant of his mouth when no one was watching. They hadn’t meant that Eames wasn't completely happy, but they hadn’t meant that he wasn't been completely faking it either. He was a complicated man, and Arthur had liked complicated things, back when he convinced himself that he could actually handle them.
(He couldn't).
But now that he was older, he was less naive and more practical, he was logical and cool and calm, passive and had a face-of-stone when needed. He was everything that Eames had attempted to be, but never could actually succeed at becoming.
He looked up and saw 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. It was frantic and loud, heartbreaking and adrenaline-inducing, it was animalistic but oddly domestic, it was terrifying. He ran into their apartment building as fast as his feet would take him, 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. Eames wasn't coward enough to do it on his own, but he knew that if someone gave him more than he could take, he'd do anything to escape from it. And with an intoxicated mind that was straddling the lines of death, he would in theory, rather go forward than take a step back. 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 longer than it should have for him to get there, like time was standing still and he wasn’t really moving. Inside he was panicking, sure that Eames would jump faster than Arthur would be able to get there. So Arthur pushed more than he ever had, he made himself 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 jumping out at him, clawing. 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 was able to breathe a sigh of relief when he saw Eames still on the roof, shirt unbuttoned but he was otherwise mostly unharmed, save the bleeding cuts on his arms. He took cautious steps forward; Eames is on the edge of the roof, and he knows if he startles him he’ll either take the jump or fall accidentally. That was what he was trying to prevent, he told himself, and he took another cautious step forward.
“Daniel,” He said. And it was a repeat of last year, the way Eames’ head snapped, the way his eyes went dead and cold the instant he uses his name, the way his shoulders slump so much that he can see the new cuts that he hadn't saw before.
Something flared in his chest, but he ignored it, because he had gotten angry the first time this had happened and it hadn’t ended well. He simply looked into Eames’ eyes, challenging him silently, willed him to make the next move, but he knows Eames.
Eames doesn’t want to die.
Eames just wanted to know that someone still cared about him after the accident, that he wasn't alone. It didn't matter how many times Arthur told him how much he loved him, how he'd do anything for him, nothing mattered when he was too drunk to think, too drunk to feel.
Arthur didn't mind reminding him, but he did mind him standing at the fucking edge of the building, entertaining himself with the thought of jumping over the edge.
“Arthur,” He sneered, and Arthur was frozen for a moment, because he had never acknowledged that Arthur’s real, that he was really there, that he wasn't just a hallucination, a projection from his mind.
“Daniel,” He was desperate for Eames to just give the gun and let him take him in his arms, to console him, but he knew Eames, and he knew that he won’t let himself do that until Arthur forces him too.
He smirked, and simply threw a mischievous, drunken wink in his direction. “Oh Arthur,” He slurred, probably trying to purr, but he was drunk on too many things at once to correctly say something. “Why the fuck are you here?”
Arthur snapped then, because he can’t take it anymore.
He looked at Eames, meeting his eyes, and said the words that he never once let himself even think to say before. “She doesn’t want you to do this to yourself Eames, she wouldn’t fucking want this.” Arthur snapped, loudly. Eames falters, falling over, luckily toward Arthur and not toward the sidewalk a gut-wrenching twenty-seven stories below.
Eames looked up, so vulnerable and hurt, so fucking empty and dead, and then snarled 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, willing the man to just fucking listen to him for once. “It was an accident,”
Eames smirked wickedly. “Just like I would if I happened to ‘fall accidentally’,” He paused, 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 nodded then, because he was sure now. He was so, so sure. “I do know that, Eames,”
“How?” Eames challenged, stepping forward, and Arthur has him right where he wants him, and he matched his movements.
Eames didn't move.
“You would’ve already jumped if you had really wanted too.”
For a second, it looked like he’s going to bolt, jump over the edge and end this for them both, but he didn't. He never did, because he probably never would.
He stands still, and Arthur lunges for him.
*
When they got 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 then, having already showered, and Arthur was stroking his hair, resisting the urge to cry. He couldn't though, because Eames’ breaths were even, but he definitely wasn’t asleep yet.
“Arthur.”
“I’m here,” he whispered, and pulled Eames’ closer, knowing that was what he needed but would never admit to needing.
“'m sorry,” Eames slurred and he sounded like he actually did mean it, but Arthur knew that Eames was only saying that because he was drunk. He knows that he had hurt Arthur and himself, and he was aware of the complete wreck that he was.
In the morning he won’t remember anything. Whether he chooses not to remember or actually can’t, Arthur will never know.
He was almost sure that it was the former.
“I know.”
And he was actually sorry, Arthur was sure.
“I’m really, really sorry,” he said and then took a shaky breath. “You’re the best, Arthur, you’re the best, best, best.”
And that was when Arthur could barely take it, when Eames was so fucking wasted on booze, and dried tears and emotion that it was clearly taking it’s toll. When he started complimenting him. It made him feel wrong and disgusting; it was then that he really had to hold back on the urge to cry.
Luckily he resisted this time.
“I know, just go to sleep, okay? We can talk in the morning.”
Eames nodded against his shoulder, and then fell asleep.
They never did actually get around to talking, but was a nice thought.
*
The next day Eames was normal. He didn't apologize for acting like he did, because he had done enough of that last night, and Arthur wasn't to sure that he ever realized that he even did it either. He simply smile at Arthur, says ‘good morning’ and inquires as to why he has new cuts on his body.
Arthur simply shrugged and then smiled sadly at Eames, but Eames never seemed to notice how sad he is, or maybe he did and he just doesn’t say anything. He walked up to Eames’ and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, pulling him in close, wrapped his arms around Eames’ torso.
"What happened?" He asked, his hands were flying over his body, pointing out the cuts and bruises that Arthur had mended to.
“I’m not sure, maybe you fell,” he inquired, and Eames nodded, because he was either in denial or didn't remember, and he seems to take that as an answer.
“I guess you’re right,” he said after skipping a beat, as he always did, and kissed Arthur’s temple, before suggesting with a grin: “love?”
Arthur nodded, and followed 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. He could leave and never look back, probably never feel nothing because he wouldn't let himself. But he didn't, he never did, because as intolerable as Eames is on that day, on the one day out of the year where he’s completely mental, Arthur loved him more than he could ever love anyone else.
And he would have hated him if he were able to, he may have wished that Eames would finally just come to terms with what had happened all those years ago, but Eames never offered any answers and Arthur never pushed.
They had gotten to the bedroom and they made love like they always do.
Only Arthur knew why there’s tears coating his lashes, and Eames, oblivious, kissed them away, thinking that they were sweat.
In the shower, later, Arthur cried, cried, cried, because Eames would probably never change and Arthur would probably never push him to.
