so hard to die - arthur x eames

Chapter 1 - He drew me in

Once, a man said, taking his last, shuddering breath, on death's doorstep, "I am not a coward, but I am only so strong. So hard to die."

Arthur wasn't a poet, or an author, and couldn't manipulate words in any way, shape or form. He wasn't a creative man - that was Cobb's job. He was an extractor, not a poet, but reading this sentence said by a man so close to death that he could hardly speak, it made him wonder.

Was it so hard to die? Arthur racked his brain, trying to remember the day he had died. It couldn't been weeks, months, years - he didn't know. All the days had blurred into one.

Is it so hard to die? Arthur thought again. No. It wasn't hard to die. What was hard were the weeks, months, years he had spent alone after it.

Closing his book, he sat down and stretched his legs. In the first few non-days (it was charitable to call them days - every moment he spent in this body was as disgusting as the next. Days are hours in which you make memories, but in this new life he had been given, all he wanted to do was forget), he had almost enjoyed his life as a ghost, drifting through his old, trivial life, unseen by all the people he had known and loved. He had laughed, unbelieving, when all the people he had been friends with, just stared at him, unseeing, unfeeling. Carrying on without him.

Even then, Arthur had been a man of principle, not emotion. He hadn't stayed long, after that. All he'd done was walk away. It was a kind of torture, in a way. A way of punishing him for him for his crimes, of which he was sure there had been many.

That had been so long ago, though, that he hardly remembered it, except for one thing. Ariadne had gone on without him in his life. Unseeing, unfeeling. He had liked her. He liked her smile, and how she was the smartest person he knew, apart from himself. They had kissed, once. But she couldn't see him.

Back when Arthur was a child, still experiencing life every day, trying to work out how to live properly, he had read in a book that after you die, everything becomes different. The dynamics change, and you change from a player of the game of life to merely an observer. Life will flow past you like a river, never-ending, and you can do nothing but watch it flow.

But there was something else. One of the only things that stuck out from the hazy sea of memories that had been his past life.

Only his soulmate could see him.

It was a strangely comforting thought, that even beyond the grave, the one he loved would still be able to spend time with him, talk to him, love him. He didn't believe it, of course. Not then, not now.

But, maybe, just maybe, there was a part of him that had hoped.

***

No matter how sad he was, or how far into self-pity his mind was dragged, one thing remained. God, this was such a boring afterlife.

What was there to do? Once you got past the whole, oh, what, I'm dead, thing, what could you do when you were simply erased from this life?

Back in the distant world of when he was alive, he always had always enjoyed going for drinks with his friends. Strangely, he had enjoyed his work, too. It had given him a sense of purpose. But here, there was nothing to give him purpose. So he just wandered aimlessly, sometimes exploring places he had always wanted to go when he was alive, but mostly just sleeping. Technically, he didn't need to sleep (or eat or drink), but he liked it. It filled up the non-days.

Eames. Now, there was a guy he hadn't heard from in a while. And good riddance. Fucking son of a bitch. If he could just find him, he would get his hands around his throat, and squeeze until his eyes popped and his stupid, lifeless body fell to the ground. Where the hell was he? He couldn't believe that after all they'd been through, the knife had been stabbed. Right in the centre of his back.

Many years had passed since he'd heard from him, and Arthur was surprised he had even thought of him, on this morning. The sun was shining, radiant, the colour of autumn leaves when they had just begun to change. The gentle light reflected off of the puddles that adorned the street outside the pub, where he was currently resting. Everything seemed perfect. Which was why he was surprised that he was thinking of Eames. The light, the day, the feel of the sunlight on his face - it was perfect. Everything Eames was not.

He was beautiful, which made it even worse. He had drawn Arthur in - with his smug smile and his dry jokes and his way of smiling at Arthur, despite them hating each other. Arthur's heart squeezed remembering the jokes they had shared. His glare had never been able to get through to Eames. That was something he had liked about him. The way he was untouchable, as if he didn't care what the world thought and never had done.

He had drawn him in - and Arthur got stuck. Which was why it came as such a shock when Eames did what he did. That was why his heart contracted when he thought of the hatred needed for Eames to do what he did.

Arthur wasn't a poet, but he had some knowledge of how these things worked.

Which was why, on that beautiful morning, when the rays of light were piercing through the cotton candy clouds in such a perfect way, Arthur vowed revenge.

He was going to find Eames, and he was going to kill him. And he would kill him in exactly the same way as Eames had killed him.

Poetic, was it not?