Chapter Text
Esther wants to meet Arthur, of course.
“James said it was uncanny, like looking at identical twins,” she says, when I call her and ask. “I’ve got to see this for myself.”
“Who’s J— oh.” I sigh. I seriously have no idea how Eames and Arthur manage to keep track of all the lies they tell.
The plan is for the three of us to meet up at the No Doze Diner before Esther’s evening classes. It’s this 24-hour joint that’s close to the college, so it’s always filled with students, especially around exams. But to me, it’s the place me and Arthur would stumble to after house parties in high school, when we were still too drunk to go home and it was too cold to hang around outside.
Arthur gives this laughing groan when I tell him where we’re going. “Jesus, the No Doze? Of all the places you could’ve picked, you pick the one place where I threw up on myself in public?” He tosses his car keys back and forth as we walk to his rental. “It’s been more than ten years, and I still get slightly queasy when I smell coffee and grease together.”
“Not surprising.” I snatch the keys from him mid-toss and head for the driver’s side. “And it was your own fault, drinking all those shitty cocktails.”
Arthur makes a choked noise. “You mixed those shitty cocktails!”
“Oh yeah.” I cock my head, then shrug, and get in the car. “Still your fault for drinking them, bro.”
As we drive to the No Doze, I give Arthur the rundown on Esther.
“But the biggest thing, though— don’t ask her about her family,” I say, as we pull up to the curb. “Don’t even try bringing it up, not unless she does. I don’t care how curious you are. It’s— not a good topic sometimes.”
“I know,” Arthur says, sighing. “You don’t have to keep emphasising it, I’m not some insensitive asshole.”
“Uh, yeah, you are.” I dodge Arthur’s swat with ease. “And what do you mean you know? How could you know that already?”
“Oh, it’s— you pick up on these things with practice.” Arthur looks out the window. “Hey, there she is. We probably shouldn’t keep her waiting.” He swings the door open and hops out before I can say, ‘how do you even know what she looks like?’
Esther is sitting in a booth near the door, and her face splits into a huge, amazed grin when we walk in.
“Oh my God,” she says, laughing. She leans up to accept a kiss from me and a handshake from Arthur. “Oh my God, he really wasn’t kidding, it is uncanny.”
She goes on like that for a while longer, talking about doppelganger folklore and the uncanny and Freud, with the occasional creepily accurate observation thrown in (“Your moms got a kick out of dressing you two alike, didn’t they? Until people started talking. Yeah.”). She even makes me and Arthur sit side by side, so she can sit across from us and marvel at how we look more alike than some twins she knows.
It’s all pretty typical for Esther, but Arthur seems taken aback at first - he blinks at each topic switch and half-retreats into his phone, constantly checking it and texting. After a few minutes, though, he puts his phone away and warms up, turning on the low-key charm he keeps hidden under all that frowning.
And I’m just starting to relax, thinking maybe this really is all Arthur wanted to do, when Arthur sets his coffee down and says, “So, how’d you and Jonny meet again?”
“We were in the same class, and we started talking after she asked to borrow my notes,” I say, eyeing him. “I told you that already.”
“I wanted to hear Esther tell it,” Arthur grumbles. “She tells stories better than you do.”
Esther smiles. “It’s true, we did talk after I asked to borrow his notes,” she says. “Although Jon tactfully skipped over certain facts. Such as when we first met, I was crying hysterically, and the first time we had an actual conversation, he was trying to watch porn in class.” She grins at me to take the sting out of it. I shrug and grin back, then laugh outright at the disbelief on Arthur’s face.
And his disbelief only grows when he puts two and two together, and works out that me and Esther are together, but not— you know. Together.
“Ha,” I say, elbowing him. “Who’s got antiquated ideas about relationships now?”
Arthur purses his mouth. “That seems like it could get complicated if— oh, come on, you don’t have to give me that look,” he says, when I narrow my eyes. “I’m not lecturing, I’m just making a general observation.”
“Yeah, making a general observation that’ll lead into a lecture,” I say.
“Making a general observation with no judgement whatsoever attached,” Arthur shoots back. Esther looks back and forth between us, amused. “All I’m saying is, people can change. It happens all the time. Don’t you think there’s at least the potential for things to get complicated if you don’t define the boundaries of your relationship?”
“What are you even talking about?” I say, but Esther makes a considering noise.
“That’s a fair point,” she says. “In theory, ambiguity should allow for more freedom, but—” She raises one hand, lets it drop. “The tricky part is making sure everyone involved is on the same page about what 'ambiguous' actually means.”
“Yes, exactly, thank you. See?” Arthur says to me. “That’s all I was saying. Why do you have to be so defensive all the time?”
I give him a flat look, because really?
“And, of course, because people change,” Esther continues, propping her chin up with one hand, “even if you do have that conversation at the start, you sometimes have to keep having the conversation.” She grins. “The paradox of clearly defined ambiguity.”
Arthur’s face twitches at that. He clears his throat. “So, uh— you guys do that, then?”
“Oh, yes,” Esther says. I just shrug. I mean, it's true - I’ve never spoken as honestly with anyone the way I do with Esther. But fuck Arthur’s borderline lecturing, man.
Arthur nods back at us, uncertain. “Okay. Well. That’s— good.” He looks away, gaze travelling aimlessly around the diner.
I follow his gaze - past the heads of students trying to eat and study at the same time, past the scratched Formica tables and that corner booth where Arthur projectile vomited into his lap all those years ago - over to the window— where I catch sight of Eames strolling past.
Esther does too. She sits up, smiling wide and waving. Eames comes to a stop and looks at us in surprise, like it’s a complete coincidence that we all happen to be here at once.
Arthur tries playing that game too, after Eames has taken a seat beside Esther and charmed the waitress, scoring himself some free coffee along with his bagel.
“James,” Arthur says, sitting back casually. “What’re you doing here?”
“It's the damnedest thing,” Eames says. “I was trying to locate this cafe I saw the other day, but somehow I ended up here instead.” He laughs at himself. “My sense of direction is shocking, truly.”
“Really, Eames?” I say, while staring sidelong at Arthur. “You mean Arthur didn’t invite you? I figured he invited you, with all that texting he was doing.”
Arthur meets my eyes, poker-faced, although he twitches again when Esther says, “Eames? Like the chair?”
“Exactly like the chair,” Eames says. “And, yes, before you ask, my name is indeed James Eames. I’ve long suspected my parents were not fond of me.”
He and Esther go on talking - first about chairs, then about— art, I think - while me and Arthur stare each down. It isn’t until Esther asks Eames which name he prefers going by, and Eames replies with, “I tend to go by Eames, but you may call me whatever you wish,” his voice all smooth and low, that me and Arthur break off to frown at him.
“So,” Eames says, cheerfully ignoring our looks, “what brings you three here today?”
“Like you don’t know,” I mutter, which gets me politely puzzled looks from everyone. “We’re having lunch. Obviously.”
“Having lunch and discussing the merits and pitfalls of ambiguous relationships,” Esther says. “No strings attached, that sort of thing.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Arthur tenses up.
“Ah, ambiguous relationships.” Eames rests one arm on the back of the booth, behind Esther. “My favourite kind of relationship.”
“Are they?” I say, looking at his arm. Eames doesn’t move it. “I thought your favourite kind of relationship was one where someone else pays for everything.”
Eames slants an easy smile at Arthur, who gives him a strained smile back. “Well, what can I say? Everything just seems better when it’s free.” As if to prove his point, the waitress swings by with his bagel and offers to fill up his coffee again (and everyone else’s too, after a moment).
Arthur opens his mouth, hesitates, then turns to Esther and pulls her into a conversation about her classes (and ignores the way I’m now staring at him like a hawk). But as Eames gets close to finishing his bagel, Arthur starts shooting him these intense looks. Not eye-fucking intense, thank God, but still. Intense looks. Suspiciously intense.
When Eames ignores him in favour of finishing off his bagel, Arthur says, “Do you need anything else, Eames?”
“I was considering another cup of coffee,” Eames says, before catching sight of Arthur’s stare. He turns to me with a dull smile. “Actually, come to think of it, I could do with a smoke break.”
“Okay?” I say. “Congratulations?”
“Unfortunately,” Eames says, mechanical as a robot, “it appears I’ve left my cigarettes behind. Would you be able to direct me to the nearest convenience store?”
I start to give him directions, confused, but Eames interrupts with, “I think it’d be best if you showed me the way. As I said, I’m utterly wretched at directions. Who knows, I might end up needing to hotwire a car again to make my way back.” He heads for the door without giving me a chance to reply.
“Sounds like there’s a story there,” Esther says, as I get up in a hurry.
“There is, yeah.” I shoot Arthur a dirty look, which he again pretends not to notice. “Arthur can tell you all about it.”
I jog out after Eames, catch up with him around the corner. He’s slowed down to a stroll, hands in his pockets, heading in the direction of the convenience store with no problem.
“You’re a dick,” I say. “Did you seriously do that because Arthur told you to?”
“Yes,” Eames says easily.
“Oh, fuck this.” I turn back toward the No Doze, but Eames catches me by the arm, tutting.
“Now, now,” he says. “I’m supposed to keep you out here for at least ten minutes. No more than fifteen, however, because according to Arthur, that is the threshold where it begins to look odd.”
God. I rub my forehead. “Fucking Arthur.”
“And if you’re concerned about leaving Esther to Arthur’s tender mercies, you needn’t be.” Eames smirks. “If anything, you should be more concerned for Arthur.” He leans back against the wall, watching the cars and passers-by. “Now I’m going to let go of you, and we can either stand here in silence or make idle chit-chat for ten minutes. The choice is entirely up to you.”
“What is it with you?” I say, pulling my arm away. “Why do you just do whatever he tells you to all the time? He’s not even your real fucking boyfriend.”
“Did I mention the part where he reimburses me with—”
“Ugh, God, yeah, but still. Why?”
“Why not?” Eames shrugs. “My life has considerably more perks when I’m in your cousin’s good books, and it takes no more effort than refusing him.”
“That’s how you see everything?” I say. “How much effort you need to put in versus how much trouble you’ll get in if you don’t?”
“I thought that would’ve been a philosophy that suited you.” Eames smiles when I scowl at him. “And taking things seriously is largely why everyone in your family is high-strung and prone to shouting. It’s not quite my style.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What is your style then?”
“Taking things as they come, as befits my free spirit.” Eames flutters his fingers. “I go hither and thither, where my intuition directs me, like a kite in the wind or—”
“A plastic bag in the breeze?”
“Mm, it lacks a certain poetry,” Eames says, scratching his chin, and I snort out a small laugh.
I lean back against the brick, try to people-watch like Eames is, although I don’t really get why he finds it so interesting. Eventually, two people across the road - a guy and a girl - catch my attention. They’re posing for a couple’s selfie in front of a travel agency, using the cheesy, dream big posters in its windows as a backdrop. Get out there, one poster says. Your sense of adventure travels for free, says another. It’s a big world - go explore, and It’s easy to get away from it all when you’re riding on the edge of the world.
Free. Easy. Right, sure it is. Let me just pull fuckloads of cash outta my ass and take off, like I don’t have a job I need to keep, or bills and rent to pay, or anything.
“Don’t you ever worry you’ll miss out on stuff, though?” I say, turning to Eames. “If you don’t stay— I mean, if you just go wherever with no plan?”
“I never said I was without a plan,” Eames replies. “And very few things are actually once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.” He sniffs. “In my experience, there’s more danger in putting things off indefinitely because you fear chasing one opportunity will preclude you from others.”
I frown. “You never think it’s too late to do something, then?”
“Mm, no,” Eames says, mouth pursed in thought. “Artificial limits tend to be exactly that. Artificial.”
“Right.” I look down at my feet. “Okay. So when was the first time you—” I stop when Eames’ phone pings three times in a row.
Eames checks it, then raises an eyebrow. “Well. It seems we’ve been given the all clear early.”
When we get back inside, it becomes clear why.
Esther is leaning forward, elbows on the table, grinning, while Arthur is hunched up like a turtle, looking like he’s trying to become one with the booth.
“Whatever she said to you, you deserve it,” I tell him, as me and Eames slide back into the booth. I drape an arm over Esther's shoulders. “Man, I told you. No lectures, no interrogations—”
Esther laughs. “Actually, we were talking about—”
“Nothing,” Arthur says. His eyes flick from Eames to me. “We were talking about— nothing important.”
Esther’s shoulders shake. “Right.” She schools her face into seriousness. “Yes. Nothing important.”
Later, though, as we’re standing outside saying goodbye, Esther takes Arthur by the arm, and says, “I think I understand what you were getting at, though. And I think...” She tilts her head, blows her hair away from her face. “It’s just one of those things. Of course people should have expectations. But I think those expectations should revolve more around how you expect to be treated, rather than what characteristics a person should or shouldn’t have. You know?”
“Right.” Arthur gives her a nervous smile - looking anywhere but at Eames, who’s standing by the car - then mumbles something about work. He shakes Esther’s hand again and says it was nice meeting her, tells me he’ll call me later about my car, then practically sprints away.
“He’s an interesting guy,” Esther says, watching him go. “Complicated.”
“You mean he’s fucked in the head.” I kiss her on the temple. “I’m sorry he gave you the third degree or whatever.”
Esther smiles. “Don’t be. It was a novel experience, having a concerned relative question me and my intentions. Rather sweet, in a way. And besides—” She takes my hand and laces our fingers together. “He wasn’t really asking about us.”
“You’ve got some fucking nerve, man,” I say to Arthur, as we sit side by side, watching the auto-electrician poke at my car. “Interrogating Esther when you haven’t even got a handle on your relationship with Eames.”
“There is no relationship between me and Eames,” Arthur says. “Ergo, no need for a handle.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure. That's why you got twitchier than a junkie when we were talking about defining relationships and shit.”
Arthur mutters something, but I don't catch it because that’s the moment the electrician yanks the panel cover off and hauls out a mess of wires. It’s actually kind of painful to watch.
Like, the first time I got behind the wheel of that car? It was freedom and control all at once. No more asking for rides like a dumb little kid, no more begging my dad to let me borrow his car. That car was mine - my ticket to go wherever the hell I wanted.
Now look at it. Guts hanging out, no power to move. And here I am, just sitting on my ass, waiting for someone else to fix it.
“Tell me this isn't gonna happen again,” I say, eyes still on my car.
“It’s not going to happen again,” Arthur says immediately.
It's loud in the auto shop - impact wrenches and winches going, a radio playing over it all - so Arthur has to raise his voice while he goes on about traceroutes and proxies and false flags and… Jesus, I think Arthur’s just getting loud because he actually finds this shit interesting. He’s such a fucking nerd, it’s unbelievable.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say, when it becomes clear that Arthur isn’t gonna shut up. “Like, yeah, it’s great that you deleted your internet history and all that—”
“Uh, it’s a little more complicated than—”
“—but I was talking about you,” I say. “Tell me this sort of thing isn’t going to happen again to you.”
Arthur goes silent.
“I can’t tell you that,” he says finally. He looks off to the side. “You know I can’t, not without lying.” He rubs his forehead. “Look, I don’t feel like getting into another argument about this.”
“So don’t argue,” I say. “Just tell me you’re gonna make changes to the way you do things. Tell me you’re going to be careful. Tell me you’re going to look after yourself.”
“I am careful.” Arthur stares at me like I’m nuts. “I do look after myself, I’ve been looking after myself for years.”
“Well, that’s obviously not enough anymore.” I shake my head when Arthur glares. “Look, is it because— you said you used to have a partner, right? Is it because he quit that you’ve been getting into shit?”
Arthur laughs so loudly that a couple mechanics glance over.
“Maybe you need a new partner, someone to watch your back,” I say, ignoring them and Arthur’s laughter. “Maybe— what about Eames?”
“Why do you keep bringing up—” Arthur raises his eyebrows, gives me a patronising look. “You know, maybe you’re the one with a thing for Eames. Maybe that’s why your subconscious—”
“Ha.” I give him the finger. “Nice fucking try. Why wouldn’t I bring up Eames? You trusted him to watch my ass— to watch out for my ass,” I say, at Arthur’s smirk. “And he was good at it. He saved my freaking life, man. Plus he’s— whatever, like you said. Warmer than you thought. Maybe you can trust him more than you thought too.”
“God, you and your inconvenient fucking memory.” Arthur casts an annoyed glance at the ceiling, then sits forward. “Listen to me. I have been doing this for years without anyone watching my back. I do not want or need a new partner, and even if I did, I wouldn’t approach Eames to be that person. Things are complicated enough between us—”
I start to ask what happened to there being nothing between them, but Arthur gives me a hard, sharp look.
“No, Jonny,” he says. “Drop it.”
I drop it.
For, like, a day, anyway. I mean, technically that’s still playing by the rules, right?
As I drive to the hotel that Arthur (and Eames) is staying at - taking the long way, enjoying the feel of having my car back - I come up with a list of excuses for why I need to speak to Eames alone. When I get there, however, it turns out I shouldn’t have bothered. Arthur’s locked himself in the bedroom - “Working, doesn’t want to be interrupted,” Eames tells me - leaving Eames stuck in the living room, watching shitty daytime TV and ordering room service on Arthur’s dime.
“Fun times,” I say, looking around. The room is actually a one bedroom suite, all slick angular furniture and fancy lighting, although the classy, expensive vibe is ruined by the pile of wrinkled clothes in one armchair (Arthur, I’m betting) and the plates of half-eaten dessert littering the coffee table. I turn to Eames. “Do you wanna get out of here? I can buy you a drink or— whatever, a real meal.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes at Eames’ raised eyebrow. “I need to talk to you about something. In private.”
We end up downstairs, at a corner table in the hotel bar, which is decorated in that boring, neutral-toned modern style you see in every hotel over three stars. It’s the sort of place I should aim to work at eventually, I guess. Arthur’s dead wrong about not being able to bartend for life, but I can’t work in nightclubs forever. Bartenders over forty make clubbers depressed, and not the sort of depressed where they buy tons of alcohol to make up for it.
Also depressing: the thought of working in a boring-ass place like this for the rest of my life.
Eames takes me up on that offer of a drink, and spends ages talking about wine with the waiter, while I fidget and try not to sigh too loudly.
When the waiter finally leaves, I lean forward, elbows on the table, and say, “Listen, do you know what you’re going to do after you— after going to Vegas with Arthur?”
“Scout for jobs, I suppose.” Eames settles back in his seat. “Catch whatever opportunities that arise, like the plastic bag in the breeze that I am.”
I half-smile. “But you don’t have anything locked in, right?”
Eames shakes his head.
“Okay, good,” I say, nodding. “Good.” I drum my fingers on the table. “Look, I don’t know how this is normally done - like professionally or whatever - so I’m just gonna come out and ask. Since you don’t have anything planned and you’re already going to be in Vegas… can you do me a solid and look out for Arthur?” When Eames’ eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, I rush to add, “Not the way you had to look out for me. Just, like, watching his back, you know? Can you do that?”
Eames’ expression doesn’t change. For the first time since I’ve met him, I think he’s been shocked into silence. The one time I actually want him to talk, of course.
Eventually, though, Eames raises a finger and says, “First off, you know that Arthur is an adult, yes? A highly competent, dangerous, sexy adult, even.”
Ugh.
“Yeah, I know he’s an adult,” I say, scowling, “but he’s not Superman. He’s not even fucking Batman. The fact that all this shit went down is proof of that.”
“Alright.” Eames rubs his chin. “Well, even if I were in the market for regular bodyguard work, how do you propose I keep this from Arthur?”
“Your whole schtick is making shit up,” I say. “So make something up.”
“Mm.” Eames pauses as the waiter comes back with his glass of wine. He takes a tiny sip, then another, and then another, letting the silence stretch out until I start shifting around.
“Do you want, like, money or something?” I try to remember how much engagement ring money I put away before me and Barbara split. “I guess I can pay—”
Eames snorts. “Even if I did do bodyguarding - and I do not, just to be clear - I doubt you’d be able to afford my fees.”
“Well what do you want then, man?” I go through everything I own in my head, frustrated. Judging by Eames’ beer gut, I doubt he’d be interested in my home gym equipment. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’s into video games either, so he probably wouldn’t want my PS3. And I don’t think he’d care about my old porn DVDs, since—
I pause as an idea revs to life.
I mean, it’s kind of a dick move. But I’m pretty sure it’ll get Eames on my side and keep Arthur safe, and it’s not like Arthur’s ever gonna know, so—
“Do you wanna see where Arthur grew up?” I say, leaning back and copying Eames’ relaxed pose. “Like, the wall of shitty haircuts and his childhood bedroom and all that?”
Eames’ polite expression shifts into the sly, smirking one I’m more used to seeing. “Now that is more like it.” He pulls a pen from his jacket pocket, slides a napkin over to me. “If you’ll just jot down the address here—”
“What? No way.” I push the pen back over to him. “I’m not gonna let you break into my aunt and uncle’s house. They’ll flip out for days if they come back and find the lock broken—”
Eames splutters and rears back in his seat. “I wouldn’t break the lock. What kind of rank amateur do you take me for? Do you not recall how delicately I picked your lock? You didn’t even—”
“No,” I say again. “There’s not gonna be any lock picking or tampering or whatever. I’ve got a better solution.”
“Hey, Mom,” I call out, as I let myself in through the back kitchen door.
The TV, which had been blaring the theme song for The Bold and the Beautiful, turns off abruptly.
“Jonny?” My mom sticks her head into the kitchen, eyes a little wide. There’s a beat, and then she breaks into a huge, relieved smile. “Sweetie, this is such a surprise, I wasn’t expecting you until Sunday!”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. My mom has never hung on to her anger as bad as my dad, but still. I let her wrap me up in a bear hug, let her steer me to the table where I sit, waiting while she pulls out a dozen Tupperware containers filled with leftovers and antipasto.
I told Eames to give me a couple hours, so I’m in no hurry as I take something from every container and stuff my face. It’s an automatic reaction - this is what I did every afternoon as a kid, and whenever I came back from college, too.
(Although there was this one point, just after I started college, when the food spreads dried up - my mom’s way of protesting my choice to live in the dorms instead of living at home and commuting in.
That only lasted until she saw how rarely Arthur visited, though. After that, my mom would practically empty out the fridge every time I walked through the door.)
In between mouthfuls, I check if Aunt Maria and Uncle Nick left their house keys with my mom. When she says they did, I tell her Arthur needs them, that I’m here to pick them up because he’s caught up in work calls. My mom doesn’t question it. Just goes to fetch them and hands them over, then sits down to watch me eat, all pleased and fond.
“You know what’s wonderful?” she says. “It doesn’t matter how old you get— when I see you sitting at my table like this, eating my food, I know you’re still my good boy.”
I shrug a shoulder, smiling a little.
“No, really,” my mom says. She reaches over and gives my free hand a squeeze. “I’m so lucky to have you as a son. Other mothers—” She sighs. “Like your Aunt Maria? Arthur worries her sick. What with the way he never answers her calls, and all that time he spends travelling— you remember that time he didn’t come home for over a year? Not to mention the fact he isn’t even trying to settle down.” She purses her lips. “It’s like he’s forgotten what’s important.”
I frown. She’s never— I’ve never heard her talk about Arthur this way before. Even a month ago, I would’ve gotten a kick out of hearing that someone - anyone, never mind my mom - thought Arthur was less than perfect. But now—
“I don’t think that’s true,” I say. I mean, yeah, Arthur’s shit with phone calls, but to be honest, he’d probably answer Aunt Maria’s calls more if she stopped bringing up grandkids all the time. “Arthur’s got his reasons for being away so often—” I cut myself off before she demands to know what those reasons are. “And, you know, Arthur’s job— he’s gotten to see some pretty cool stuff because of it. Things you’d never see around here.”
My mom’s expression darkens. “And that makes it alright to forget about your family? Is that what I’m hearing?”
“No,” I say, blinking. “How did you get that from—” I spread my hands. “All I’m saying is, maybe Aunt Maria worries too much. Arthur usually makes it back for Christmas or Thanksgiving—”
“Usually.”
“And he’s never forgotten anyone’s birthday or anniversary or anything. He always leaves a message or sends a present, which - let’s be real - is more than what Dad or Uncle Nick ever does.” I smile, trying to make a joke out of it, but my mom gives me a hard, flat look. I sigh. “So what if he’s not around all the time? He still cares.”
“He cares?” my mom says. “Showing up when it’s convenient, buying expensive presents every now and then—” She makes a noise of disgust. “That’s not how you show you care. You show you care by sticking around, by putting the people you love first.” She grabs my plate and takes it to the sink, even though I’m not done, leaving me holding my fork in the air like an idiot. “I thought you knew that already.”
I stare at her back, and think of my dad, checked out in front of the TV every night while my mom talks at him. I think of the way Aunt Maria and Uncle Nick talk to each other, just waiting for the other to finish so they can start a conversation about something else. How is that any better than what Arthur does? At least Arthur pays attention when he’s around.
“I meant it, you know,” my mom mutters. “I always felt so lucky, so— blessed that I never had to worry about you like that. You always answer my calls, I see you every Sunday. But now you’re—” She turns to me, twisting her fingers, her eyes pleading for— something. I don’t know what. “All these things you’ve been doing lately. Turning your back on the church, seeing that woman— I don’t understand. This isn’t the Jonny I know. What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” I say, but even as I say it, I know it’s not true. Not completely.
“Don’t give me that,” my mom says. “You wouldn’t be acting this way if nothing was wrong.”
I shake my head, but she refuses to let it go, keeps pushing at me for a reason - asking if I’m unhappy at work, if it’s my coworkers, if I’m still not over Barbara - and all I can do is keep shaking my head, saying, “No,” and “I don’t know,” over and over. I don’t have the words to explain it to her. Hell, I can’t even explain it to myself.
“How can you not know?” she demands, sitting back down across from me. “You’re not an animal, Jonny, you can’t just do things without thinking about them—”
“I said I don’t know!” I burst out. “I don't know why I’m doing all this shit, okay? I just feel like I’m always— wondering these days. It’s like—” I scrub my hands through my hair, trying to find the words that will make her understand. “Haven’t you ever just wondered? Like, haven’t you ever thought about how your life might be different if you— whatever, if you moved away from here, or went back to work, or married someone other than Dad? What if you’d done any of that instead of just this?”
My mom’s eyes widen. And for a second I think: she gets it. I got through to her. She knows what I’m talking about, she has wondered before, I can see it in her face—
And then she starts to cry.
“Mom,” I say, gut shrivelling. I cringe when she lets out a sob. “Mom, come on, don't—”
“Just this?” she says. “What is that supposed to— what’re you saying? That a life like this isn’t good enough for you? Finding someone to spend the rest of your life with, building a home where you can raise happy, healthy children—” Her voice cracks. “That isn’t worth anything to you?”
“That’s not what I said.” I look down at the table, but that doesn’t block out her crying. “I didn’t mean it like that, you’re not listening—”
“Oh, I’m listening,” my mom says, breath hitching. “You think Arthur has the right idea. You think the way he lives is better than this.”
“No,” I say, but it comes out… weak. Uncertain. My mom must hear the uncertainty because she starts crying harder, and fuck, I just want her to stop.
I try to think of something to say - something that will satisfy her, calm her down. But the only thing I can come up with is taking it back - saying I’m wrong, Arthur is wrong - and I can’t. I can’t say it. I don’t want to say it. It isn’t true.
I clench my fists beneath the table, and the keys bite into my palm, reminding me. Eames. I stand up so quickly that my knee smacks against a table leg. My mom jumps at the noise.
“I have to— I should take these to Arthur.” I wave the keys, still avoiding her eyes. I swallow. “I’ll bring them back. When we’re done.”
I leave without looking back, like the shitty son she thinks I am.
Arthur’s old house is a lot like my parents’ place - single storey, built in the sixties, lots of wood panelling - although unlike my parents, Aunt Maria likes to redecorate every few years. Somehow, though, things never change too much. I mean, yeah, they might repaint the walls or get a new lounge set, but the important stuff? That never changes.
Like, Aunt Maria’s tabletop shrine to the Virgin Mary? Still in the same corner of the living room. That ugly-ass black and gold floor lamp they got imported from Italy? Still in the corner opposite. Aunt Maria may have a new coffee table, but she still has the same old bowl of wax fruit sitting on it. (Once, when we were six, Arthur convinced me to take a bite out of the fake apple - it tasted like crap, and then we had to hide it at the bottom of the bowl so Aunt Maria wouldn’t find it.) Even the new lounge set is positioned like the old one: couch and armchairs at right angles, one armchair hiding that scorch mark on the rug (me and Arthur again, fucking around with matches).
I swear to God, I could lead Eames around this house blindfolded and not bump into anything, it seriously hasn’t changed at all.
Eames chuckles when I say as much. “Yes,” he says, “I’m quite familiar with that particular form of stagnation.”
We move from the lounge room to the kitchen, then the bathroom, then the den. I talk and talk, telling Eames stories about whatever I can remember, and it feels— not good, but relieving, I guess. As long as I’m thinking about this stuff, I’m not thinking about my mom. I keep talking right up until we get to the hallway (AKA: Arthur’s Shitty Haircuts through the Ages) because— well, the photos speak for themselves. We spend at least ten minutes there, Eames moving up and down the hall, grinning and taking photos with his phone.
But that’s nothing compared to when I lead him to the end of the hall and open the door, saying, “And this is Arthur’s room.”
Was Arthur’s room, technically, but Aunt Maria never moved a thing from it after Arthur moved out, other than to dust and vacuum. It means Arthur’s bed with the wobbly footboard (knocked loose when me and Arthur practiced roundhouse kicks on it) is still there, and his posters are still tacked up on the wall opposite, all of them slightly faded and sagging now. His desk is still by the window, bookshelf beside it, although when Arthur was living here, the desk was always covered by piles of crap (because Arthur thought he could make his mess look neater by putting things in piles), and the shelves were double stacked to hold both his books and his running trophies.
Eames sidles into the room - actually sidles in, like a cartoon - hands in his pockets, grinning so hugely I can see all his crooked teeth. He zeroes in on the bookshelf and heads for it, before coming to a dead halt in front of one of the posters: Raiders of the Lost Ark - Indiana raising his whip, ready to kick ten kinds of ass.
“Yeah, that was Arthur’s favourite movie,” I say, walking over to stand beside him. “Probably still is, I dunno.”
“Really,” Eames says. “Fascinating.” He tilts his head, smirking, and his smirk is almost an exact copy of Indiana’s. He pivots to look at Arthur’s bed behind us, then back at the poster. “Interesting choice. Interesting positioning, too.”
I frown. “What do you mean? It’s his favourite movie, why wouldn’t he have a poster of it?”
“Oh, of course, of course.” There’s laughter lurking in Eames’ voice. “But this particular poster? Indiana Jones with his chest bared, right across from his bed?” His smirk widens out into a grin again. “Tell me, what sort of posters did you have opposite your bed?”
Sports Illustrated swimsuit models. But—
I roll my eyes. Whatever. It’s just Indiana and his whip. Like, yeah his shirt’s hanging open so there’s some man tit action going on, but that’s just— I mean—
“Bro,” I say, loud and annoyed, “why do you always have to try and make everything gay?”
Eames bursts out laughing. “There’s no trying about it, I assure you. Arthur was already doing a perfectly good job making everything gay himself.” He laughs some more when I scowl at him, then goes and sprawls out on Arthur’s bed before I can tell him not to. He tucks his hands behind his head, eyes bright. “So what else did Arthur enjoy watching?”
“You can see for yourself.” I jerk my thumb at the posters, still scowling. “He liked action stuff. Cool guys doing cool shit.”
“Cool, highly attractive men doing cool things while shirtless, no doubt,” Eames says, with too much glee. “Or with their shirts gaping open, at least.”
“Man, shut up.”
So there’s Conan the Barbarian, right? But the dude’s a freaking barbarian, shirts aren’t their thing. Same deal with Hercules. And, like, the last poster is Highlander, and that guy is wearing a huge-ass fur cloak.
Except— he lost his shirt a lot in that show. Same as Hercules. Usually near rivers. Or in the rain. And—
“Oh, what the fuck,” I say, which sets Eames off into another laughing fit.
He gets over it after half a minute or so, and heaves himself off the bed to go through Arthur’s stuff. I sit down at Arthur’s desk, arms crossed, watching him closely, just in case his urge to swipe shit takes over. But Eames seems more interested in going through Arthur’s closet and his books than his medals. He pulls out the most worn-looking books - the ones with the bent, cracked spines - and skims the pages they fall open at. I can’t read them from this distance, but whatever Eames sees makes him smile like— I dunno. It’s this small, complicated smile. Kind of amused, kind of knowing. Maybe a little sad.
Eames turns to me, and now I see he’s holding Arthur’s copy of The Great Gatsby, which is so worn that the spine is being held together with tape. I sorta remember having to read that book in high school. Well, mostly I remember how crabby Arthur got - crabbier than usual - when I asked if I could copy his essay. (He let me, though. Even read it over afterwards, to make sure it sounded like I wrote it and that the parts I changed made sense.)
“Was Arthur often lonely?” Eames asks, and there’s a stillness to him that makes me blink. “In your opinion.”
“No?” I say. “I mean, he wasn’t some awkward loser who smelled like cheese, if that’s what you’re asking. He had plenty of friends, chicks were crazy over him.” I smirk. “They thought he was all gentlemanly and shit because he never tried anything with them.”
Eames doesn’t smirk back. He just hums, thoughtful. “So he was well-liked.” He leans a shoulder against the bookshelf. “However, it’s entirely possible to be surrounded by people and loved ones and still feel utterly alone, wouldn’t you agree?”
I open my mouth. Close it, frowning.
“Arthur wasn’t lonely,” I say. He might be lonely now, travelling all over the world like he does, but— “I’ve known him my whole life, I would’ve noticed if he was.”
One corner of Eames’ mouth curls up, and he tilts his head at the poster of Indiana. “You notice everything, do you?”
A warm flush crawls up my neck. “That’s just a poster. It’s small shit. I saw the stuff that mattered.”
“Small to you, perhaps,” Eames replies. “But I think it would’ve meant a great deal to Arthur, to have someone who understood even the small things.”
“You think.” I look around Arthur’s room, at all the memories Eames still has no idea about, and shake my head. “You think— what? You poke around Arthur’s place for an hour, you see his bedroom, you think you know him?” I scoff. “Come on, man. You didn’t know he was from Jersey, you didn’t know he had family here. You didn’t even suspect, so you’re obviously not as good at reading people as you think you are.”
Eames’ expression sours, even as he tries for a dismissive sniff. “A minor error.”
“Minor to you, maybe,” I shoot back, and Eames’ face sours even more.
“Well, I suppose it’s unsurprising you’d prescribe to the pedestrian notion that merely being around someone for years automatically grants you a deep knowledge of them,” he says. “Thinking otherwise would probably be unbearable for you.”
“What?” I say. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, think about it, really.” Eames draws himself up, hitching his pants up by his belt and waving the book around with his other hand. “If you follow that logic all the way through, the people who ought to know us best - barring premature death and other unfortunate conditions - are our dear parents, and how often is that true? Would you say your father knows you?” He cocks his head, his eyes like sharp little chips of glass. “Do you think your mother understands you?”
I suck in a quick breath. “Just because—” I stop, swallow against this tightness in my throat. “Just because you have massively fucked up issues with your family, it doesn’t mean the rest of us—”
“Mm.” Eames leans toward me with a narrow little smile. “How’s that for reading someone well?”
My fingers clench, and the tightness in my throat transforms into a choking ball of anger that I latch on to, because angry is better than— this. The twist in my gut and the pressure behind my eyes when I think of how badly I wanted to hear my mom say that she got it, the look on her face when I said— when I couldn’t say—
I shove myself up from the chair, and Eames straightens, shoulders pulling back, but he doesn’t back away. He just tilts his chin up, looks down the length of his nose at me, and the way he’s holding his body tells me he’s expecting a swing, is bracing himself for it, might even be looking forward to it, and I— I remember.
I remember doing this a hundred times, a thousand times - getting to my feet, going toe-to-toe in arguments with Arthur, with my dad, with any guy I thought was disrespecting me. Not thinking about it, just doing, because doing nothing wasn’t an option. This is more of the same. The same anger, the same moves, just with a different player. And I remember too: I don’t have to do this. Not with my family, and not with Eames either.
I uncurl my fingers. Breathe in deep, let it out. But there’s still that ache in my chest, one that Eames made worse, even if he didn’t put it there, and I can’t just let that slide either. It makes my voice comes out uneven as I say, “You wanna know what I think? I don’t think Arthur was lonely. But I think you’re hoping he was because you were that lonely motherfucker as a kid.”
“And why on earth would I hope for that?” Eames asks. His voice sounds light, his eyes amused, but I see it, the way the corners of his mouth twitch down for a second, like the first shudder of a car when the engine’s threatening to give out.
“Because you want an in with Arthur,” I say, stepping forward. “Because you wanna have something in common with him other than being a couple of shady criminals.” My voice steadies out for every millimetre that Eames’ smile shrinks. I shove him in the chest. “Because you’ve got feelings for him.”
Eames’ smile evaporates, then comes back patronising. “That is an embarrassingly inept attempt at deduction, honestly.” He turns away to put Arthur’s copy of Gatsby back on the shelf. “You do realise that establishing a connection based on common ground is how you work a mark?”
I squint at the back of his head. “That’s what you’re going with? You expect me to believe all this interest in Arthur and what he was like as a kid is—”
“Mere curiosity,” Eames snaps. “I’m curious, not interested.” He turns back around, arms folded across his chest. “I am here for the sole purpose of amusing myself, nothing more.”
“Right,” I say slowly. Unbelievably, a small part of me (like, a really small part) is starting to feel sorry for him. I raise my hands. “Look, whatever. I said it before, man. Arthur’s a fucking catch. It’s not surprising if you’ve— caught feels.” I grimace, but not as badly as Eames does.
“That is not what—” Eames looks away. “The matter of Arthur’s charms is— not that I’m saying they are charms, or that I find them—” He stops, nostrils flaring, and fixes me with a tight stare. “Well. Believe what you will, you’re clearly too bloody-minded to do otherwise. But amusing myself is what I came here to do, and now that objective has been achieved, it is time we departed.” He straightens his jacket and stalks out.
He's obviously expecting me to follow, like I’m the hired help or some shit, so I take my sweet ass time. I put Arthur’s chair back, smooth out the blanket and pillows, until everything is back the way it was. But still—
It feels like it’s all changed.
We drive back to the hotel in silence, although I catch Eames shooting these frustrated, disbelieving looks at me out of the corner of my eye. When I pull into the hotel driveway, he gets out of the car before I’ve even come to a complete stop.
“You’re welcome,” I call out as he stomps away. “Don’t forget, we made a deal!”
Eames flips me off without looking back.
The light turns green, and the car ahead of me inches forward. I inch forward too. Two, maybe three cars make it past before the light turns red again. I try to keep my breathing light and regular, even as the irritation crawls up my spine.
So this is my reward for trying to make sure Arthur will be safe: getting stuck in peak hour traffic. I mean, it’s perfect, really. Like, no good deed and all that.
Green. Inch forward. Yellow. Take my foot off the accelerator. Red. Stop.
My stomach growls. I haven’t had anything to eat besides a protein shake and those leftovers at my mom’s, not that I even got to finish those, since—
The ache in my stomach sharpens.
Fucking Eames, I think. Fucking Arthur.
Green, inch forward. Yellow, slow down. Red—
I hit the brake harder than I need to, and the guy behind me blasts his horn, yelling, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. Stare straight ahead while the guy rants, acting like I can’t hear him, just like everyone else around us is doing. I can feel their little side-glances, though - judging me, embarrassed for me. And as he goes on - insulting my car, my brains, the size of my dick - it gets harder and harder to remember that I don’t have to react. That I don’t have to get out and put that douchebag in his place. It gets harder to block out the voice inside me saying— God, what the fuck am I doing?
I’m just sitting here, taking this like some dickless wonder, same as I’ve been taking everything that Arthur and Eames have been throwing my way, and for what?
I mean, think about it. If I hadn’t taken Eames on that stupid ass trip down memory lane, I’d be chilling at home right now. If hadn’t listened to all the bullshit they were spouting, I’d be— I’d be doing what I’ve always done. I’d be fucking happy. I wouldn’t be thinking so much stupid shit all the time, and me and my mom, we never would’ve—
Hell, maybe I should. Go back to what I’ve always done, I mean.
I could go back to church. I could take my dad up on that offer to work with him. I could let my mom and my aunts set me up with some girl. I could have my whole life set up for me, and all I’d have to do at the end is get behind the wheel, drive on autopilot.
Why shouldn’t I?
There’s no good reason for me not to except—
Except— I’d feel like this for the rest of my life. Like I’m boxed in on every side, traffic or no traffic. And the thought is so goddamn miserable that I’m ready to put my foot down on the accelerator, ram every car out of my way, keep going until I hit a stretch of road that’s free and clear, until I can finally breathe.
The urge passes because I’m not a fucking lunatic, but the feeling— that stays, and it’s joined by this crushing pressure against my chest as I think: I don’t want to.
I don’t want to feel like this forever, but what else am I supposed to do? I mean, what else is there, unless I want to pull an Arthur and say screw my family, screw all the people who’ve been good to me my whole life, what they want doesn’t matter at all? My mom was wrong about Arthur not caring, but maybe she wasn’t wrong about everything.
There’s got to be another way. The thought hammers in my head, louder than that douchebag’s shouting. There’s got to be some kind of middle ground, some other road I can’t see because there’s too much shit in my head. If I could just find some way to clear it, I’d be able to—
I stop. Straighten up in my seat, my heartbeat kicking into high gear because there is a way.
When the light turns green again, I make a U-turn and gun it back to the hotel.
After a full thirty seconds of knocking, Arthur opens the door.
“Jonny?” He frowns, looks up and down the hallway. “What’re you doing here?” He’s dressed down - no tie, no hair gel, shirt untucked - but his expression is— off. Wary.
“Uh,” I say, thrown. “I was wondering if I could—” I clear my throat, try again. “I need to use the PASIV.”
Arthur’s frown deepens. “Why?”
“I just do.” I flex my fingers, resisting the temptation to jam my hands into my pockets. “I wanna talk to my subconscious.”
Arthur’s mouth curves around the word why again, before he seems to rethink it. He glances over his shoulder, then opens the door wider, and tugs me inside.
The coffee table has been cleared of plates, but the pile of clothes on the armchair has collapsed, shirts and pants trailing onto the floor. A pair of shoes - Eames’, judging by the retro style - has been kicked off beside it, and the grey jacket Eames was wearing when I last saw him is lying in a heap a few feet away.
Arthur motions for me to sit on the couch while he goes into the bedroom. I hear a short, low conversation - one that ends in Eames saying, “You cannot be serious,” - and then Eames sticks his head out, hands braced on either side of the doorframe. He narrows his eyes when he spots me. I give him a flat look back.
“I should probably warn you—” Arthur pauses behind Eames’ arm, PASIV in hand, but Eames doesn’t move. If anything, he looks like he’s trying to crowd Arthur in more. They stare each other down for a couple seconds, before Arthur mutters something under his breath and shoulders his way past. He forces a half-smile at me. “This might not work. You’ve seen what the subconscious can do.” And then he slips into another one of his mini-lectures, talking a little too fast about Freudian defense mechanisms and repression while he sets the PASIV up on the coffee table.
I stare at him. “I’m not repressed.”
“No, I know,” Arthur says. “What I mean is—” He trails off, all his attention shifting to something in the PASIV’s jumble of wires.
Eames humphs, still clinging to the doorframe. “What he means is, this sort of mental rummaging requires a high degree of self-awareness to be successful.” And you don’t have that, his look says.
“Self-awareness,” I say. “That’s just, what, being able to admit stuff to yourself? Admitting stuff like having fe—”
Eames gives me a split-second crazy-eyed glare over Arthur’s head.
“Okay, all set,” Arthur says, sitting back. He looks back and forth between me and Eames. “Uh. What?”
“Nothing,” we say at the same time.
One level down, Arthur dreams up my apartment.
“The fuck.” I look around. “Shouldn’t you create a place that can hold lots of projections?”
“Usually,” Arthur says, sounding distracted. He sits down on my couch. “But this sort of thing requires your subconscious to feel completely at ease. I couldn’t think of a place that would hold a crowd, but where you’d also feel totally comfortable being yourself.”
“Eames created this huge underwater bubble,” I say. “That felt pretty comfortable.”
Arthur’s mouth tightens. “Yeah, well, I’m not Eames.”
“No shit.” I eye his sudden stiff posture. “Did I, like… interrupt something? Before?” I point upward.
“No,” Arthur says. “What makes you think—” He goes still.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Arthur says, even as his distant, wary expression returns. “I was just— thinking.” He leans back, one arm draped over the back of the couch. “How’s the car?”
“Good.” I push away the memory of my almost freak out at the wheel. “Running great.”
“Mm.” Arthur drums his fingers against the couch, watching me closely. “Hey, do you remember that time you pretended to be me in high school? You wanted to get with— what was her name, Laura? Lara? But she had this thing for me, so you pretended you were me, and—”
“Wait, what?” I say. That’s not what happened. I mean, Lara did have a thing for Arthur, and I did pretend to be him, but not because I was into her - she was too scrawny, not the type I’ve ever gone for. The only reason I did it was to get her off Arthur’s back, let her down easy-like, because Arthur was too chickenshit to do it himself, you know?
(It didn’t work.)
Arthur doesn’t seem to notice my confusion and just keeps talking, asking me if I remember this thing or that person from when we were kids. Some of it’s right, but most of it isn’t, and while part of me is worried that all the PASIV drugs have burned holes in Arthur’s brain after all—
“What’re you even doing, man?” I say. “That’s not how any of that went. And how the fuck am I supposed to feel at ease when you’re interrogating me like this?”
Arthur blinks. “Oh, it is you.”
“Are you high?” I squint at him. “Who else would I be?”
“I thought maybe— I was checking. That you weren’t a projection.” Arthur stares into space again, then gets up abruptly. “You should sit. Relax. I’m gonna—” He turns away without finishing that sentence and starts pacing around, living room to kitchen, examining everything like he’s casing the joint.
“Shouldn’t we go somewhere else?” I say, when it dawns on me that Arthur doesn’t plan on stopping any time soon. “Find some projections?”
“No.” Arthur opens a cabinet and peers inside, then runs his fingers along the underside of the counter. “No, I told you, for this to work, you need to be—”
“Uh, yeah, I can think of plenty of places where I feel comfortable,” I say, as I head for the door. “And none of them include having to watch you act like a crazy tweaker.”
I undo the latch, grab the doorknob, and twist. It doesn’t budge. I press the push-button lock a couple times, rattle the knob, but the door stays locked.
“The fuck is with this?” I look back at Arthur.
“I don’t know.” Arthur’s face is blank. He spreads his hands. “I did warn you this might not be successful. The mind always works to protect itself from unwelcome truths.”
“No.” I shake my head, frowning. “That’s not— that can’t be right.” I think about the Barbara projection saying all that shit, even though I didn’t want to hear it. And now I do want to hear, so—
I point at the door, eyes narrowing. “Are you doing this?”
Arthur’s only response is to turn and march straight into my bedroom.
“Hey,” I say, following him in. My irritation spikes up when I find him going through my stuff - he’s pulling my drawers open, shoving clothes aside, picking things up from the shelves and squinting at them, then tossing them aside—
“Hey!” I stalk over as Arthur picks up the box - the one I kept Aunt Val’s DVD in - and snatch it out of his hands, shoulder checking him. “What are you, some kind of animal now? You can’t treat other people’s shit like this.”
Arthur catches himself against the shelf, looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “This is a dream, Jonny. This isn’t actually your stuff.”
“That’s not the point,” I snap. “It’s my subconscious stuff, and when I say don’t touch my stuff, I expect you not to fucking touch it.”
“God, what is with you lately?” Arthur reaches for the box again, and I jerk back, out of his reach.
“What’s with me?” I say. “What’s with you? I ask if I can use the PASIV to— to sort some shit out, and you’re fucking with it. What’s your problem?”
“Other than you being unreasonable? Nothing.” Arthur turns back to my shelves. I grab his wrist before he can touch anything.
“Bullshit,” I say. “It’s Eames, isn’t it? It’s Eames and— whatever you guys were getting into before I came.” When Arthur scowls, I let his arm drop, annoyed. “Fine, don’t answer. I don’t care. But if all you’re gonna do is get in the way, why don’t you kick yourself out and—”
“The dream will collapse if I do,” Arthur grits out, “and you’re not trained, you can’t come down on your own.”
“Jesus, then bring Eames down here!” I say, throwing my hands up. The box rattles loudly in my grip. “You two can get back to whatever it was, and I can go talk to my projections on my own, problem solved.” I pause when Arthur’s jaw clenches. “What? You don’t want that?”
Nothing but stubborn, sulky silence from Arthur.
I frown as all the little pieces start snapping together: Eames not wanting to let Arthur get past, his glare when I almost mentioned his feelings, Arthur rushing to set the PASIV up—
“You’re hiding?” My eyebrows shoot up so high it feels like they’re gonna join my hair. “You’re stopping me from working my shit out because you’re too much of a pussy to deal with yours? What the fuck, man.”
Arthur’s face goes blotchy red. “I’m a pussy?” He shoves forward until we’re nose to nose. “I’m not the one who has to get my mom and dad’s approval before I’ll decide on anything. I’m not the one who’s kept my entire life on hold for years because I’m too scared to go my own way or try thinking for myself—”
“Yeah,” I say hotly, “you’re just scared of Eames.”
“My goodness,” a very cheerful, very English voice says. “What on earth could be so frightening about little old me?”
I swing around. Eames is standing there, hands braced against the doorframe, just like he was in the real world. Beside me, Arthur locks up, face going pale. You know that phrase ‘deer in headlights’? Yeah, I’ve never actually seen someone look like that until now.
“When did—?” Arthur gapes. “You have no right to just— how long have you been listening?”
Eames ignores him in favour of giving me a little wink. “Everything alright?”
“As good as it can be,” I say, “with your fake boyfriend here locking us in and stopping me from getting answers.”
“Ah, well, that was a bit of a misstep, going to Arthur,” Eames says, wincing. “If you want a colour-coded spreadsheet or a killjoy to shut down the party, you call Arthur. If you want a confused mind sorted out, you come to moi.” He ambles over and perches on the edge of my bed, gives the mattress a little pat. “Come on then. Lay back and tell me all about it. It’s not quite a psychiatrist’s couch, but it’ll do.”
“Thanks,” I say, searching his face for any of the irritation he was showing before. There isn’t any. “But I’m good.”
“Have it your way.” Eames shrugs. “I can do this just as easily with you standing up as I can with you laying down.” He smiles slyly at me. “I’m versatile.”
Arthur steps forward. “Seriously, Eames,” he says, voice low. “Get out. Right now.”
Eames doesn’t react at all to that, and I tilt my head, thinking.
“You’re not him, are you?” I say. “You’re a projection. Mine or his?” I jerk my chin at Arthur, who comes to a halt, blinking.
“Oh, I’m perfectly happy to be shared,” the projection says.
I roll my eyes. “You’re his.”
“That's somewhat debatable at the moment,” Eames replies, and there's an edge to his smile now. He still hasn't looked over at Arthur.
Arthur’s face tightens. “Okay, that's enough. Either you leave now—” He makes a flicking gesture, and a gun appears in his hand. He levels it at Eames, his mouth a grim line.
“What? Hell no.” I shove his arm away and down. “This is like the first helpful thing you’ve done since we came down.”
“That’s very kind of you to say,” Eames says, looking like he gives zero fucks about almost being shot in the face, while Arthur glowers.
“It's not your projection,” he says. “You're not going to get any answers from it about your subconscious.”
“Yeah, but it’s your projection of Eames, and Eames actually listens when I talk.” The second the words leave my mouth, the truth of it hits me like a Mack truck. Aside from Esther, the only person who’s always listened is Eames, and how fucked up is that?
We both look at Eames, who’s looking at me with gentle sympathy. If I had any doubts about him being a projection, they're gone now. Eames has given me a lot of different looks, but never one like that.
“Not everyone appreciates being truly seen and heard,” he says. “It can be… disconcerting.” As if to prove his point, he nods at the box I’m still holding. “What’s in there?”
I tuck it under my arm without thinking. “Nothing.”
Eames tsks. “Now that was the utterly wrong response to give if you wanted to deter my curiosity. A better response would’ve been something like, ‘Eh, just boring shit’.” He says it in my accent, and mimes opening and closing the box casually. “The key is nonchalance.”
I crack a smile. Can’t help it.
Arthur looks back and forth between us, all his paranoid anger suddenly gone. He looks like the little kid who’s been picked last at football - shoulders hunched, quiet and miserable. I drop my eyes to the box.
Opening it shouldn’t be a big deal. The real box— it’s nothing important. I hardly ever open it, except when I’m cleaning and need to pack something else away. But this is a dream. There could be anything in this box, and Arthur is standing right there.
This restless itch starts up under my skin, joined by a queasiness in my gut. To shake it off, I start straightening out the mess Arthur made, keeping the box tucked under my arm. I wouldn’t put it past Eames to make a grab for it, projection or not. Neither Arthur or Eames say anything at first, but after I finishing folding my clothes and move on to sorting out the stuff on my shelves, Arthur’s sad-eyed look dissolves into something a lot more familiar.
“For God’s sake, what’re you doing?” he snaps. “I told you already, this isn’t your real fucking room.”
“Yeah, and like I told you, I don't give a shit,” I snap back automatically, until something— this flicker of relief in Arthur’s eyes stops me - reminds me. I shake my head, taking a step back. “Nah. No. I said it before, I’m not doing this anymore. And fuck you for trying to make me.”
Arthur’s mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. I eye him, then give Eames a nod, and head out into the lounge room, leaving Arthur to his goldfish-with-a-concussion impression.
Footsteps follow behind me, then stop when Arthur bites out, “And where the hell are you going?”
“Away,” Eames replies, mild. “That’s what you wanted, no?”
In the silence that follows, I set the box down on the coffee table and sit back on the couch.
Nothing happens.
I wait a few more seconds, just in case, then reach out and lift the lid, bracing myself for— I don’t know. Something, or maybe someone - maybe Barbara - to come climbing out like that creepy chick from The Ring.
But it’s just. Stuff. The exact same stuff I keep in the real box. There’s Aunt Val’s DVD. Half a dozen wristbands from some really good club nights with my boys. A payslip from the bar I worked at in… 2005, Jesus. Pens from college orientation. Some things Barbara left behind - hair ties, a bottle of nail polish, one earring.
I take everything out, line it up along the edge of the coffee table, but that doesn’t help. I move things around - order everything oldest to newest, group them up by people - but there’s nothing. No new ideas come to me, I don’t feel any different. Looking at it all, the most I feel is— hell, it’s not even a feeling, it’s more like a memory of a feeling. This echo of satisfaction, all faded now.
“I don’t want you to go away,” Arthur says, so suddenly that I blink and look around. He’s still in my bedroom. “I want to— try. With you. But I don’t know how, I don’t—” He lets out a shaky, humourless laugh. “God, I don’t even know how to say any of this to you.”
“Perhaps you should simply say that.” Eames’ voice is gentle. “It’s honest, at least. It’d be a start.”
“I can’t say that, I’d sound like an idiot,” Arthur replies. “He’d— laugh.”
“Perhaps,” Eames says again. “But perhaps he wouldn’t. And which would you prefer - knowing what he truly thinks of you and where you stand with one another, or simply pretending you do?”
Arthur doesn’t reply.
I look down at my small collection. Some of it, like Aunt Val’s DVD, I remember deciding to keep. (The Christmas she handed them out— that had been a good one. I’d landed steady shifts at the club, gotten a decent apartment, and my parents were finally off my back about finishing college. Good shit all around.) Most of it, though— I can’t remember when I put this stuff away. I can barely remember why.
So why am I hanging on to it all?
I frown. Scoop everything back into the box and carry it back into the bedroom. Arthur is standing in the same spot, staring at my bed. The Eames projection is gone. I have to say Arthur’s name three times before he looks up, and when he does, the words die in my throat.
The look on Arthur’s face— I’ve never seen it before.
I drop my gaze to the floor. “I was thinking, we should probably go,” I say. It’s all I can think to say. I go to put the box back on my shelf, then stop. I mean, what’s the point? It’s not the real thing, and even if it was— I set it down on the end of my bed. “Unless you’ve got something else you need to do?”
“I—” Arthur looks back at where Eames was sitting. “No,” he says. “Let’s wake up.”
We wake up.
I lay on the couch for a minute, staring up at the blank white ceiling and its fancy recessed lighting, while Arthur goes about removing his IV line, then mine, his expression faraway. Somewhere beyond him, there’s this clinking I’ve gotten used to hearing: Eames making a cup of tea.
“Successful fishing expedition?” Eames asks from the kitchenette as I sit up.
“I guess so. Maybe,” I say. “I found something, anyway.”
“Splendid,” Eames says. “Congratulations.” His tone is light as air, but he won’t take his eyes off his tea, stirring it in too-tight circles. Arthur is coiling up the IV lines just as tightly, although he keeps darting glances at Eames’ back.
I look back and forth between them while the silence balloons into a massive ball of awkward.
I clear my throat. “So… I’m gonna take off. Thanks for—” I gesture at the PASIV. “But I just remembered I’ve got some other stuff I need to take care of.”
“You sure?” Arthur says, but it sounds kind of— whatever. Half-hearted. Behind him, Eames’ shoulders tense up. “You don’t have to leave if you don’t—”
“Nah,” I say, one eye on Eames. “Nah, I’m good.”
I want to tell Arthur it’ll be fine, he’s got this - as long as he isn’t a total pussy about it, anyway - but I can’t exactly do that with Eames standing, like, six feet away, even if he does have his back to us. So I punch Arthur in the shoulder and pump my fist instead, hoping the message gets through.
Judging by the way Arthur stares at me, it doesn’t.
I nod at Eames, give Arthur my best meaningful look.
Arthur squints, his mouth puckering around a ‘what’ or maybe a ‘what the fuck’.
I roll my eyes. Talk to him, I mouth. I point at Eames, open and close my fingers like a duck’s beak, and follow it up with a thumbs up.
Arthur’s eyes widen. He shakes his head, then stops, back going ramrod straight as Eames turns around, and I take the opportunity to peace out, waving goodbye over my shoulder.
As the door closes, I see Arthur take a deep breath and turn to face Eames.
I get back into my car and drive. No destination in mind, I just— drive. Drive and think. Think and drive. It’s the tail end of peak hour, but I avoid the main roads anyway, sticking to small side streets. The last thing I want right now is to be stuck in traffic again.
The sun goes down, night creeps in, and I just keep on driving. Every time I find myself heading in the direction of my apartment, I turn the steering wheel to the right. I do this over and over - home, away, home, away - travelling in a crooked zigzag across town, until I find myself cruising past the No Doze Diner.
I slow down. Pull up to the curb, switch off the engine. The neon ‘open 24/7’ sign glows, familiar and inviting, but even though I’m still hungry as hell, I just sit there, listening to the tick-tick-tick of the engine cooling down.
And in the quiet, the thought sneaks up on me again: what am doing?
I can’t do this forever. The tank’s running low. I could fill up and drive around some more, but what’s the point? I’m gonna have to head home eventually. I’ll have to go back to work. I’ll have to face my family, my mom, and all her demands that I go back to church, go back to being the Jonny she knows. Go back and back, forever going fucking back.
I slump down in my seat, exhaustion sweeping through me.
Don’t you want more from life than this, Arthur asked me, and I do. I want more from this life, I want more from myself, but how? Seriously, how? Trying to use the PASIV to find out was a wash. And if my own subconscious can’t show me what I want, then who the fuck can? No one, that’s who.
Maybe this is just the way my life’s meant to be. It’s like what they’re always saying at church, everyone’s got their cross to bear, right? Well, maybe this is mine. Not wanting this life, and just… living with it anyway.
I close my eyes, rest my head against the steering wheel. Give myself to the count of ten. Ten seconds, and then I’ll go back home and— back to everything else, too.
one. two. three.
It’s just. The thing is— I still don’t want to. I can’t.
four. five. six.
I can’t, not after everything I know now, not after everything I’ve experienced with Esther, with Arthur— hell, even with Eames.
seven. eight.
But if I can’t live this life and there’s nothing I else I want, then where am I supposed to go from here?
nine.
I’ve got nothing.
ten.
I open my eyes. Raise my head, breathe deeply. It doesn’t make me feel better, but it doesn’t make me feel any worse either, so. That’s good, I guess. I force myself to sit up, to reach for the ignition key.
I take one last look around, and as my fingers brush the key, I catch sight of the travel agency, with its breezy posters and stupid slogans. Get out there. Your sense of adventure travels for free. It’s a big world - go explore. It’s easy to get away from it all when you’re riding on the edge of the world.
Now, though, with the street all quiet and dark, the posters don’t seem as stupid or annoying. Or maybe it’s because, with only the diner’s neon and one streetlight to see by, I find myself focusing on different words.
Get out. Go explore. Get away.
I can’t stop staring at them, even though I know— I mean, it’s still pretty dumb, right? It’s trust fund gap year bullshit. That’s for when you don’t have a job, no responsibilities or shit keeping you in place. That time’s passed for me.
But then there’s— like, what Eames said. About most limits being artificial and all that.
Then again, it’s all good for Eames to say that, he gives zero shits about the law or working a real job or anything. His solution for paying the bills would probably be forging a passport and fucking off to another country. For normal people, it’s not that easy.
I rub my thumb against the steering wheel, squinting at the ads for flights, cruises, package deals. Four-figure prices, most of them, but some three-figure ones, too.
Not that easy, but. Not impossible either.
I wrap both hands around the steering wheel. Gaze at the road, dark and stretching out before me, then start the engine.
Yeah. Not impossible.