Fic: All is Violent, All is Bright 9/11
Fic: All is Violent, All is Bright 9/11
Title: All is Violent, All is Bright 9/11
Author: sparrow_hubris
Team: ANGST
Prompt: innocence
Word count: 2,046 this part
Rating: PG-13 - NC-17 (This part PG-13)
Warnings: Underage 15/17, Apocalypse & general destruction, Violence,
Mentions of death, violence towards animals (hunting: prev parts )
Betas
sneaqui
Summary: Apocalypse AU / a.k.a bb!Survival / a.k.a. cockblockalypse!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
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Spring creeps over Vancouver like ivy, crawling out as they days become longer. The snow melts quickly, leaving mud and puddles in its wake. The hike to their traps is no less cumbersome in the mud than in the snow, but the animals have emerged from their winter hideaways and so daily checks are necessary.
Arthur has never been fond of mud, the way it clings to his shoes and the bottoms of his pants like viscous lemmings bent on trapping his feet to the ground. He feels soiled and disheveled. The moisture penetrates everything, and they have to be careful to air out their shoes so as to not develop trench foot. He’s thankful that he has several pairs to alternate between but makes a note to look for more shoes the next time they scavenge.
The last few weeks with Eames have been uneventful, for which Arthur is actually thankful. Most of the awkwardness between them has slowly disappeared. His nightmares seem to have disappeared, since he’s only had one in the last two weeks or so. He still dreams of Eames but has been able to somehow convince his sleeping body to face his back to Eames’ chest. He has not woken up grinding on his friend.
Controlling his thoughts in the daytime is more difficult. It takes nearly all of his energy direct his thoughts away from focusing on the way Eames’ lips look, plush and inviting, imagining them pressed against the hollow of his own neck. He fights every urge to let his fingers linger over the growing expanse of Eames’ exposed skin as the weather warms. He is hyper aware of Eames’ proximity at all times, wishing for Eames to get closer, to brush against him in an electrifying contact of their bodies. Arthur dreads it as well, not trusting himself to control his own reactions. He’s caught in a limbo of warring emotions inside, while outwardly pretending that everything is okay.
Arthur slips up often. During a hike, he holds on a little to long when he nearly trips, and Eames catches his hand to steady him. He finds himself staring at Eames, simply watching the way he moves, fluidly but with a sense of determination. Arthur notes the way Eames’ shoulders hunch forward and his neck stretches long when he’s thinking, chewing on a nail or rolling a leaf-stem between his lips. Arthur notices that Eames’ shoulders pull back when he’s made a joke. Arthur finds himself smiling at the smallest things, unable to help the way his lips automatically turn up when Eames grins at him or does something nice. He stumbles over his words when he finds himself revealing too much. He tries to change the subject, and Eames lets him though he often gives Arthur a confused, knowing look.
Arthur can’t help himself sometimes, he reaches out to place a palm on Eames’ lower back as he moves behind him to reach for something. Eames flinches away a little but doesn’t say anything. Eames will give Arthur a pained look whenever he catches Arthur staring. He lets Arthur get away with it, excuse it as zoning out though.
The weather has been getting nicer, so it’s easier for Arthur to slip away at night and wander the woods. Sometimes it’s just to calm himself, to clear his head in the dark, silent, woods. Sometimes he jerks off with his palm pressed against the rough bark of a tree and Eames’ name caught on his tongue as a whisper.
Whenever he gets back, he slips off his shoes, stows his knife and curls up next to Eames, taking in Eames’ heady scent, willing himself to sleep without dreams. Every morning Arthur starts the whole process again, suppressing his feelings, picking his words carefully, controlling his wandering hands.
One day, Eames is telling Arthur a funny story, and when Arthur laughs and tips his head to Eames’ shoulder, he runs his hand down Eames arm without thinking. He feels Eames tense beside him. Snatching his hand away, Arthur rights himself, spine rigid and ears burning hot with embarrassment. Eames doesn’t let it go this time, like he has every other time Arthur has slipped up.
“You gotta stop touching me like that, mate,” Eames says, voice strained in an attempt to be delicate.
Arthur knows Eames must be hiding his disgust.
“Sorry,” Arthur blurts as he stands quickly. He rubs his hands down his pants and tries to come up with more to say but finds he has nothing. He’s horrified by his actions.“Sorry,” he huffs out again, and before he says something stupid, he walks away.
“Hey! Hey, Arthur, sorry, mate. I didn’t mean it like that!” Eames calls after him, but Arthur ignores him. It doesn’t matter what Eames says, Eames has been holding his tongue, Arthur knows, and he shouldn’t have to do that. Arthur should be able to control himself. He grabs a gun on his way out of camp and heads into the woods. Hunting, or at least hiking, will help to calm him down.
Arthur’s shoes slip through the moss and mud as he stalks through the woods. He doesn’t see any animals, but he guesses that’s to be expected since he’s not being particularly stealthy. He’s a little too worked up to care. After about an hour of hiking, he’s finally ready to take responsibility for his actions. Arthur has been trying hard to keep his feelings hidden, he could have tried harder to keep his feelings hidden. He doesn’t want to push Eames away. Without Eames, Arthur doesn’t know what his life would be like; he can’t picture it now. So he makes a decision and locks away everything inside of himself. He promises himself that he won’t touch Eames again. If he’s having a hard time, he’ll walk away, he’ll get his head on straight. Eames deserves that much.
It’s nearly nightfall by the time Arthur returns to camp. Eames is stirring food over the fire, and he looks tense, worried even. When he hears Arthur approach he looks up.
“Jesus, Arthur, I’m sorry I …”
Arthur cuts him off. “No, it’s my fault. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Can we just forget about it?”
Eames looks at him with a scrutinizing gaze. He looks like he wants to say no, that he wants to talk about it which Arthur really does not want to do. After a moment, Eames finally acquiesces with a nod. Dinner is mostly silent, and that night, Arthur goes back to keeping his distance from Eames.
Arthur’s struggle to not touch and not stare is agonizingly difficult. He has to catch himself all the time. It’s worse than before. It’s worse because last time Eames hadn't said anything, and a little part of Arthur had held some hope that he could have more, even though deep down he knew he couldn’t. This time Eames had asked him to stop.
Their every interaction becomes strained. Eames withdraws, becomes more irritable, almost distraught at times. It’s as if he can tell that Arthur still wants to touch him. For the first time in a long time, Arthur wishes that there were more people, so that Eames could go find friends that didn’t make him uncomfortable. So that Eames could be happy somewhere else instead of stuck here with him. Every time Arthur stops himself from touching Eames, Eames’ face furrows in frustration, so Arthur tries harder. He keeps his distance completely, keeping a few feet between them whenever he can.
Arthur grows frustrated. He snaps angrily at everything. Trying to curb is behavior takes so much effort. They fight over everything. Stories that used to entertain him infuriate him. They’re full of lies, and it reminds him once again that Eames never wanted to be close enough to share, to be honest and open. Eames snaps back, trying to make fun at first, and lighten the mood, but with venom as time goes on. Arthur condescends, and Eames dishes sarcasm right back.
Finally, after a screaming match over something insignificant, Eames snaps. “Fuck it,” he says. “I’m leaving. You’re being a prat lately, and I can’t take anymore.”
Arthur snaps his jaw shut, and his stomach seizes up like he’s been kicked. He doesn’t know why he didn’t expect this. It is what he’s been trying to do isn’t it? Drive Eames away?
Eames is pacing like a caged animal, the muscle in his jaw jumping beneath his skin. Arthur doesn’t know what to say, because as much as he thought he wanted this, Eames saying it hurts like knife being driven through his heart.
Arthur watches dumbly as Eames hastily shoves supplies into a bag, wanting to stop him. Clenching his fists into tight balls, he grits his teeth and stands silently. This is for the best, he keeps telling himself. But the mantra doesn’t stop his racing heart and the bitter taste of regret in his mouth.
Arthur half hopes that Eames’ anger will burn off by the time he’s done packing. That Eames’ resolve will dissipate and he will sit down with a sigh, and they’ll talk it out. But Eames grabs his rifle, hauls his pack onto his shoulder and walks out of camp without so much as a goodbye. Arthur is left staring after him helplessly.
It’s not even evening before Arthur feels the twinge of loneliness. The air is heavy and cool as it settles over camp. Selfishly, Arthur thinks that the bed will be cold tonight. He would be grateful that the weather is warming if he could be grateful for anything right now. He wonders where Eames will go. Probably back to wherever he was holed up before. Eames had said that he didn’t want Arthur to know where his old place was, in case anything like this ever happened. Arthur hates that he proved Eames right.
It takes two weeks for Arthur to admit that pushing Eames away was a mistake. He knew it was terrible the very instant Eames decided to leave, but he had though he could make himself get over it. He’s finding that he can’t. The first two nights are okay. Arthur is able to tell himself that it’s a good thing. He tries convincing himself that it feels like a relief to have a night off from Eames. But every night it gets harder. Every night he goes to bed alone. Every night he wishes Eames were there.
The days aren’t any better. Arthur sighs out a bored melody that he hasn’t heard in ages, just to break the silence. Busying himself doesn’t take his mind off of everything he should have done differently. The thing that breaks him is the sketch he finds in the book Eames had been reading. Arthur picks it up on a whim, reading to keep his mind occupied. Reading this book because it had been Eames, at least temporarily. And then, in the half page at the end of chapter four, he finds a sketch of himself. It’s gestural, loose lines of varying weight, but at the same time it’s intimately detailed. The profile is soft grey punctuated with deep dark lines indicating the angle of his jaw. It’s beautiful.
Arthur wishes he had known Eames was sketching him. He wishes he had known that Eames had been staring at him like this, obviously studying him. He wonders what he gave away in those moments where he was oblivious to Eames’observation.
What if what Eames saw is what pushed him away? Because the drawing is so open. Arthur can see the happiness plain as day on his own face. It’s clear that care went into this drawing because it’s nearly finished. Eames spent time perfecting this. Eames wouldn’t spend so much time studying something he hates would he?
A burst of hope floods his system like warm syrup. He knows what he has to do. He has to find Eames. Suddenly Arthur is stricken with the a strong sense of déjà vu. He shakes his head to clear the stray thought away. Tomorrow he’ll go into the city. He doesn’t care if it takes weeks to do it. He will find Eames.
part 10