Part 3

Eames goes back to a dingy room in the red light district above some hooker's. He lies on a narrow bed. His jumper smells like Arthur, why is that, because it's his, oh fuck, how's he going to give it back, that'll be awkward, but is it if creepy if he keeps it, purely because it's warm, that is, and he's probably focusing on the wrong thing here because Arthur is in love with him. Arthur is in love with him. He repeats the sentence in his head because it's something strange, something indescribable, something he doesn't understand. Arthur, uptight amazing stick-in-the-mud sexy OCD Arthur, who makes him coffee and groans when he touches him and gets angry all too easily and shoots him through the heart, he loves him. And Eames doesn't love him back. He thinks.

"Fuck you, Arthur," he whispers, and knows he's going to dream about him tonight.

The next morning is pretty awkward. Well, things are going to be awkward between two people who spent last night thinking of each other. It's Cobb's job to notice things, and he notices the subtle differences in his colleagues. The quietness, the indifference, the way they don't come into work together. Also, Eames isn't wearing Arthur's clothes, or at least the same clothes as the day before, they're pointedly ignoring each other, Arthur's giving Eames these hard looks of anger and longing when he thinks he's not looking, and Eames is doing a similar thing, but there's probably more lust there. So, well, it is pretty obvious that some shit went down last night.

"Everything alright?" Cobb asks.

"Fine," says Arthur.

"Spiffing," says Eames.

For some reason, Cobb doesn't believe either of them.

"Well, it obviously isn't," he says.

"Now what makes you say that?" Arthur asks weightily.

"Because you two aren't eyefucking for once."

Arthur clenches his jaw and Cobb knows he'll never get anything out of him, so he pulls a very reluctant Eames into the kitchen.

"What is going on?" Cobb demands.

Eames just shrugs.

"Dammit, Eames," Cobb cries, "We've got a job to do here, in case you hadn't noticed. We all need it to come through. We can't be compromised by your and Arthur's personal shit."

He sighs and fixes Eames with an angry squint.

"This is why you don't bring relationships into work."

"Well, I think you did it with Mal," Eames bites back.

"That was different."

"Really? How?"

"I was serious about Mal. We weren't just messing around. I love her."

And Eames is angry, because what right does he have to judge him, to say that him and Arthur are just fucking and that's it, that their screwed-up relationship doesn't mean anything, because fuck, it does, it means a lot, even if it makes no fucking sense.

"Arthur loves me!" he cries indignantly.

Then he realises that he sounds far too in love for a man who's not in love, and Arthur probably heard that, and his stomach twists.

"So what the fuck is wrong with you?" Cobb asks, exasperated, "If he loves you, what's the problem?"

Eames looks down, because he doesn't know, he doesn't know.

"Eames," Cobb says meaningfully, waiting for an explanation.

"I – just – I fucked up, OK?"

It's possibly the worst explanation of his life, apart from maybe There were people and they did things to me, but he really wants to put that night in Liverpool behind him.

"Oh," Cobb says stiffly, his voice full of blame, "Let me guess. You thought it was just sex but he really fell for you?"

And Eames wants to hit him then, really he does, because he's right about him.

"You're right," Cobb says harshly, "You did fuck up."

And he's right, of course he is, because Eames walked away from Arthur, and he should have stayed and said something, but he didn't and now Arthur's hurt and things can't be the same again, not ever.

"So now," Cobb says, his voice level, "You're going to just do this job, you're going take your money, and then you're going to leave. And you never need to have anything to do with Arthur again."

Eames just nods, because soon this will all be over and he'll run away to one part of the world and Arthur will run away to another and they won't see each other again. And they'll still matter to each other, it'll still mean something when they hear each other's names, when they can't sleep and they think of the things they should have done, but it'll hurt less, it'll go numb with time, until they're just a smudge in each other's lives, a few months of something they didn't understand and has gone now.

Arthur dies in Eames' arms. He's done his job and he's meant to get to the bridge so they can ride the kick back, but he never gets to the bridge. He's dashing down a back alley and suddenly there's a gunshot from the rooftop and he isn't quick enough. There's a bullet in his stomach and cold terror in his heart as he crashes to the ground. He lies there and stares up into a sunless sky. There's a red stain blossoming across his shirt and seeping across the pavement like a quiet rumour, and he's dreaming, he knows he is, but it doesn't make the pain any less real.

He's dying, he's dying, and he's never going to smile again, he's never going to see another sun, he's never going to walk in a crowd of people amongst all their tiny meaningless lives, he's never going to kiss Eames. And it doesn't matter that he's dying, because people do it all the time, like growing up or going to work or falling in love, and it's nothing special, it's just something people do. And sometimes things don't work out and you go unwanted, unkissed, and you die alone in an unfamiliar backstreet, wishing that someone loved you. And no-one really cares.

Eames finds him. He's done his job and he gets to the bridge so they can ride the kick back, but Arthur's not there. He knows something's wrong, because this is Arthur, uptight stick-in-the-mud OCD Arthur, who's devastatingly logical and doesn't make mistakes. So he goes after him. He gets there in ten minutes, and he runs the whole way. And oh God, he's fucking covered in blood, and Eames thinks he's dead but he's not, not yet, and fuck, poor darling, he's gasping for air.

"Arthur!" he cries, he sounds far too in love for a man who's not in love, "Oh fuck, Arthur."

And he runs to him and kneels by his side and holds him in his arms.

"Oh God," he murmurs, "Fuck, that's, oh shit, Arthur…"

And this isn't real but it fucking feels real and the man who loves him is dying in his arms. Arthur looks up at him and manages a small, hurt smile.

"Hello," he says, his voice cracked and pained.

It breaks Eames, seeing that.

"Ssh," he says, putting a finger to Arthur's lips.

And he kisses Arthur, because he can't not kiss him, he puts a hand to his face and kisses his forehead and says, "I'm sorry."

"It's not – your fault," Arthur breathes, "I – made a mistake. Doesn't matter."

And Eames is crying, because it does matter, it fucking does, because this means something, he just doesn't know what yet.

"Yes it does," he says, "I fucked up, I know I did, I'm sorry darling, oh shit, you're so, I don't, God…"

Arthur grasps at him, fingers curling around the collar of his shirt, and he loves Eames, he still does, he loves him impossibly. And it doesn't matter that he's dying, because Eames is here with him and soon this will all be over, but Arthur will still love him, even after, because he just knows he won't be able to stop.

Then the familiar music echoes around them and they've missed it, they've missed the kick. Eames pulls a gun out of his jacket at pushes it into Arthur's hand.

"Kill me," he says.

Arthur somehow holds the gun against Eames' chest, next to his heart. He looks straight at him, and Eames nods. And this is the end, only it's not somehow, but the world is darkening and he can't remember why.

"Kiss me," he says.

So Eames leans down and pushes a hand into Arthur's hair and kisses him, and it's like the world just stops for a moment, and Arthur kisses a regret into Eames' lips and then he pulls the trigger. I love you,he thinks, and that's his last thought, because then the darkness closes over him, and he dies.

They wake up. It's a bit of an anti-climax really. You can't exactly top dying in your lover's arms. There's something wonderfully overwrought and melodramatic about the whole thing. Very Romeo and Juliet. When Arthur finds he's actually still alive, it's almost a disappointment. Because being alive means he's leaving Amsterdam today to go God knows where. Because being alive means he'll just be onto the next job, then onto the next, as he always is, alone and over again. Because being alive means Eames doesn't love him.

"Are you alright?" Cobb asks, looming over him like some weird looming thing.

"Ugh… yeah?" Arthur says, feeling his stomach and finding it neither punctured with a bullet nor covered in blood, "Yeah, I'm OK."

"You missed the kick," says Cobb, who seems to not take Arthur being fine as a reason to stop looming over him.

"Yeah…" Arthur says vaguely.

"What happened?"

"Cobb – can you just… give me a moment?" Arthur says, because his head hurts and he can't be dealing with loomy Cobb and his searching questions right now.

Cobb nods and moves away, patting Arthur on the shoulder. Arthur's eyes hurt because there's so much light, and he rubs his eyes and groans, because he'll never get used to dying.

"Look Cobb, I already told you, we just got held up," Eames says, oh God, Eames.

"I want to hear that from him," says Cobb tersely.

"What do you think happened? Oh what, you think I killed him?"

"I told you not to let your personal life get in the way of the job," Cobb says angrily, "How am I supposed to take this?"

Arthur pushes himself up to a sitting position, blinking and bleary-eyed. Eames is sitting on a chair, looking pretty wrecked, and Cobb is frowning angrily at him, arms crossed.

"Arthur will tell you the same thing I did," says Eames.

"What?" Arthur asks.

Eames looks at him, eyes tinged with sadness and the weight of what he's done.

"There were too many projections," he says, "We couldn't get to the bridge in time."

"Is that true?" Cobb asks.

Eames bites his lip, and Arthur knows what he has to say.

"Yes," he says.

Cobb looks from Eames to Arthur, and he knows there's something more to it, but he just sighs and says grudgingly, "Well, we pulled it off alright. Good work." And he goes off somewhere to pack up the equipment or something. Arthur runs a hand over his face and manages a small smile.

"You OK?" he asks.

"I'm good, considering you're making a habit of shooting me."

Arthur breathes out, a half-laugh, and looks at Eames.

"Can't get rid of you that easily, I guess."

"I'm leaving today," Eames says, and it's abrupt and bloodless.

Arthur looks down.

"Yes. Of course you are."

He tries to ignore the stab of sadness in his stomach, but he can't stop it. Because Eames kissed him. He kissed him and died in his arms. And nothing's changed.

Eames comes to get his things from Arthur's apartment. It's awkward, like getting his stuff back from an ex he's just broken up with. Not that he's ever done that before. He's a one night stand, not a boyfriend. Arthur's left all of Eames' things neatly on the sofa, because he wants this to be quick, for Eames to just take his shit and go. And that's what happens.

"Thanks," says Eames, bundling everything into his bag.

"No problem," says Arthur, who's trying to look busy in the kitchen by moving various utensils from one counter to the other because he can't think of anything else to do, "Um, you don't have my jumper, do you?"

"Oh, sorry, er, I can go and get it now?"

"No, it's fine."

Eames looks at him, an unspoken question.

"It doesn't fit me anyway," Arthur says hastily.

Eames nods and shoulders his bag.

"Well, goodbye, I guess," he says.

"Yeah."

Eames steps towards him and reaches a hand out, gripping his shoulder, and why is this so hard, letting him go, how does he just walk away from someone like Arthur, someone who he used to think was condescending and complex and cold, someone who's shot him through the heart twice, someone who loves him.

"Thank you," Eames says, "It's… it's been good."

"Yeah."

Eames wants to pull him close and kiss him goodbye, but he doesn't. He's already done that. He shouldn't have.

"Goodbye, Mr Eames," Arthur says.

"Goodbye, Arthur."

And his voice is too soft and Arthur's eyes are too soft and they're just standing there looking at each other until Eames lets go and turns away from him. And then he leaves. Arthur has only ever fallen in love once. It's impossibly hard. He shuts the door behind Eames, and then he leans against it and cries. It seems so pathetic, but he doesn't really care. His heart's broken.

Eames walks back to his dingy rented room in the autumn rain. He packs his things, (which means he crams them into his stuffed suitcase), he pays the landlady, he walks to the train station, he looks at the timetable, he tries not to feel hollow inside. He buys a ticket to Berlin. There'll be a job going there, because he knows a guy who knows a guy and there's always something for him if he asks nicely. He stands by the train tracks and he knows it's real but it doesn't fucking feel real because he's numb, muted, empty. It doesn't hurt, it's just the dead ache of loss. He's incomplete. It's wrong. He shouldn't be here, shouldn't be running away, shouldn't be alone. It's like white noise, this nothingness.

He gets on the train. He sits by the window opposite a smartly dressed young woman reading the newspaper. Normally he would have hit on her, but not today. Today he leans his head against the window and looks at the sprawling city outside, at the crowds of people and all their tiny meaningless lives, and thinks about Arthur. How can he not think about him? He remembers Arthur when they first met, all cold and condescending and callous. He remembers Arthur when Eames annoyed him, all cutting comments and furious frowns and I hate yous. He remembers Arthur when he was a hot mess under Eames' hands, all groans and gasps and fuck me, Eames. He likes remembering that best.

It takes him a few minutes to realise that the young woman is staring at him.

"Are you alright?" she asks, her voice accented and anxious.

"Ugh… hmm?" Eames manages.

"You have been talking for the past few minutes."

"Oh, sorry. What did I say?"

"You were saying… 'fuck, I love you'," she says, embarrassed.

And that's it, that's it. Eames' life changes because of a stranger on the train.

"Oh, Christ!" he cries, "You're right, how could I not know, all this time, all this time I loved him and I didn't even know, how did I not know, that gorgeous idiot, I love him, oh God, I fucking love him, you wonderful woman, thank you, thank you."

He grabs the woman's shoulders and kisses her soundly on the cheek. She looks truly horrified, but Eames doesn't care, because he's in love, oh God, he really is, and he needs to get off this train right now, he'll run all the way to wherever the hell Arthur has got himself if he has to, because he loves him.

"When's the next stop?" he asks, grinning like a madman.

The train pulls into a station then and he has no idea which one it is but it doesn't matter. He gets up and runs to the doors, then realises he's forgotten his suitcase, runs back and gets it, runs to the doors again, blows a kiss to the young woman because he's a charming English eccentric, darling, and leaps off the train.

He's brimming with eagerness and happiness, but there is the small matter of working out where Arthur actually is. He looks up at the departure boards and he doesn't know what on earth he's looking for, but he reads through the destinations and there's one name that stays in his head, and he knows that that's where he has to go.

He gets the next train to Paris. He has no idea what he's doing, he's just hopeful and in love and it's like running blindly into a motorway and trusting that you won't get hit. Arthur was right; he does like Paris. The sounds, the sights, the smells. He speaks French like a true Englishman and a war with France is always traditional, but still, he likes Paris.

Problem is, Paris is a big place, and people are only small. He probably should have thought about this before, but how the hell is he going to find Arthur? Eames doesn't know what in God's name he should do, which is happening quite a lot recently, so he goes to the tourist information centre (which is what he guesses a centre d'information touristique is) and flicks through the leaflets, trying to find he doesn't know what, inspiration, an idea. He finds it in a leaflet for the Musée du Louvre. The Louvre. The most visited art museum in the world, over 60,000 square metres big, housing around 35,000 objects. With a fucking massive metal pyramid right in front of it. Eames thinks of a stolen glance at a sketchbook, of triangles within triangles within triangles, of endlessness. Arthur loves paradoxes.

Eames finds him. It takes forever, because the map on the back of the leaflet is awful and how can he be expected to read French signs and he ends up accosting a man with a moustache and just shouting, "Louvre!" at him until he points him in the right direction and he finally gets there.

Arthur's there. Oh heck, he's actually there, he's far away and in a crowd but Eames knows it's him. He's standing there, sketchbook resting on one arm, eyes flitting between the pyramid and the page. And oh God, Eames looks like he's been dragged backwards through about eighteen hedges because he's been dashing about train stations and side streets, and he tells himself not to be so paranoid, because he's bloody gorgeous, but oh what's he going to say to Arthur, and what if he doesn't want him, he didn't think about that, and seriously, he's freaking out like a bloody schoolgirl, he needs to pull himself together and get the fuck over there.

Arthur's focused, fixed on his work, and Eames shuffles up in his tatty trenchcoat, dragging his suitcase along, and Arthur doesn't notice him until he's standing next to him, and he looks a right state, even more so than usual, somewhere between awkward and shy and hopeful all at once.

"Hello," he says, like it isn't a big deal.

It is a big deal.

"Eames?" Arthur says, sounding more angry and confused than anything else, "What? What are you doing here?"

Eames doesn't know how to say it, how to tell him, and the words just fall out of his mouth.

"Arthur, I'm sorry," he begins, and it's a crap beginning and he knows it's just going to go downhill from here in, "I've been a prick, a complete, utter, top-notch prick, and I know I fucked up, several times, and I left you, again, several times, but Arthur, you're amazing, you just – you do these things, and oh, darling, I'm mad about you."

Arthur blinks at him, because he's talking very fast and making very little sense and what the fuck is he actually trying to say.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Eames decides he should probably say something a bit simpler.

He says, "I'm in love with you."

Because he is.

Arthur says, "What?"

And he looks at Eames like he's actually gone insane.

Eames steps closer to him and gently touches his face with the back of his hand.

"I'm in love with you," he says softly.

"You – but – you – what?"

Arthur really doesn't seem to be getting this. Jesus, what does Eames have to do, declare his love through song?

"Arthur," he says meaningfully, "I've never wanted to be with anyone for more than one night, for more than one thing, and then I go. But with you, I just – I want to stay with you. And if I go, I always come back. I always come back to find you, Arthur, because you mean something to me. And I want you, Arthur, for more than one night, I want you for as long as you'll have me, I –"

"Eames, just – stop talking and kiss me," Arthur says, grabbing the collar of his coat and pulling him in.

He shuts him up with a kiss. It's long and soft and his sketchbook is kind of in the way and Eames' arms are around his waist and why have they not been doing this every day since they met each other, because it's slow and sweet and fucking fantastic and Jesus Christ, they are doing this again, amongst other things. Arthur pulls away and leans his forehead against Eames', their breath mingling in the winter air.

"So this is it, OK?" he says, stroking at Eames' hair, "Oh God, Eames, I will kill you, I love you so fucking much, don't go again."

"I won't. I promise."

And Arthur somehow manoeuvres himself to put his sketchbook down and puts his hands either side of Eames' face and he smiles. Eames never forgets that, the first time Arthur smiles at him one cold afternoon in Paris. It's real and adorable and full of promise. And Eames knows that this is it, this is what he wants, him and Arthur together, because it's flawed and a bit screwed up but it's beautiful.

"I fucking love you," says Arthur.

"Oh darling," says Eames, "I love you too."

Thank you all for reading this. This is not the end! I've also written a sequel, called Paris Je T'Aime.