She couldn't explain her tie to Arthur, or his fate after inception. And she couldn't explain why her hands would shake when she picked up the golden bishop and tipped it over. The dread, and excitement when it hit the tabletop was enough to confuse Ariadne. It was just two days ago that she entered the fog of someone Else's subconscious and searched for the truth that not even Fischer knew. Two sleepless nights spent clutching her totem, tears rolling down her face. Two days, waiting for him to waltz through the door, sweep her up into his arms and promise a life of creation and inspiration.
She let it go. This was reality, her totem told her. After a week of tipping her totem every morning, a dent had developed in her bedside table. Ariadne picked up her sketchbook after a week of dreamless sleep and forced her hand to draw something that wasn't a maze. Something that wasn't filled with paradoxes and dead ends. After an hour, she had drawn something that wasn't filled with paradoxes and dead ends. Up from her pad, gazed Arthur's eyes.
This was the first time she had been outside since inception. She wasn't sure that standing out on her balcony counted, but she felt the warm breeze tickle her face and that was enough. The scenery had hardly changed. The way the Seine curled around the city entranced the young woman and somewhere in the back of her mind, she saw the city folding itself over. She blinked, and there he was. He stood at an intersection, waiting to cross, his eyes sweeping over the street. He looked up, and their eyes met. Ariadne felt her heart jump.
His legs couldn't carry him fast enough towards her apartment building. His heart was beating faster than he ever remembered and he felt sand building in the back of his throat. He climbed the four flights in as many seconds and before he could knock, the door flung open. The way she settled in his arms, he knew she had missed him too. One hand combed through her peach scented hair while the other rubbed small circles into her back. She is shaking almost imperceptibly and he gathers her up into his arms just as her knees give way.
He sits on the couch, with her in his lap and for a minute, he thinks that it just feels natural this way. The way she fits into the crook of his neck just so. Talking is something they can accomplish later. For now, they are happy with things now. Arthur praises the grand architect for this one, imperfect moment as he feels the weight of the loaded die in his pocket. He knew it would land on six, he didn't need to test it. He looks down at her forehead and plants a small kiss on it. He knows how much that first assignment affected her, and he doesn't dare bring it up just yet. Being with her should have happened while they were still in Los Angeles, and he knows it. The apology slips out of his mouth softly, like he never uttered it, but he notices her curl into him closer, and he knows he is forgiven.
She doesn't know what she is doing here, with him. But she remembered how it happened, and she will never take that fact for granted again. It feels different, this togetherness. With her fellow art students, it felt clunky, and mismatched. But with Arthur, the way they had synchronised was only so right. It was fluid, and as she closes her eyes, and opens them again, nothing changes in the in between. She could say I love you, but he all ready knows it. She could call him an idiot for ignoring her for so long, but he's suffered the consequences of his actions too. She could say that the moment was perfect, but it wasn't. The familiar sound of her totem tipping over into the same dent confirmed this.
Nothing about reality is perfect, but in a single solitary moment, the imperfections converge, and all but the other is forgotten.