i know that i'm the worst (so i act like i'm the best)
Title: I Know That I'm the Worst (So I Act Like I'm the Best)
Author: dreadly
Beta: gelbwax <3333
Team: ANGST, CRY BLOOD AND PROSPER.
Prompt: Smile, Fall, Touch
Word count: 1100
Rating: PG
Warnings: n/a (I don't think there should be any -- but contentment with death [no death!fic] and angst)
Notes: Thank you to Marina & The Diamonds for the inspiration for the title (tweaked it a little).
When Arthur was younger his mother would take him to the lake by their house. The way that the world looked underwater was the way that everything had felt like to him, when he was too small to do anything worth bragging, but was expected to understand why. He didn’t understand it then, but he does now. The lake was his favorite memory, the collection of different times were muddled into one in the file cabinet in his brain, and it’s one of the only things he lets himself smile at.
Sometimes, when Arthur is winding down after a long, hard job, that involved incompetent extractors, and all-too-willing and imaginative forgers, he draws up a bath to experience that feeling again. He’s weightless in the water, holding onto nothing because it feels nice to lose control without the chance of going too far.
The bath water is always warm, on the verge of too hot, because he’s always liked to be feel his skin peeling off in that pleasant way. Most people call him sick for this, for Arthur, it’s just what he does, it’s part of who he is.
This time it’s too much, but not enough all at once.
::::::
Drowning is different than willing yourself to not resurface, Arthur quickly figures out. There’s something odd about the way that panic courses through his veins as soon as he hits the water, the way that his instant reaction is to fight for the chance to live. He’s never really been the type to fight for his life if he hadn’t needed to, but there was seldom chances in his life to fight at all.
Internally, his body is going through a panic, his muscles screaming to move, his bones willing to break to get that one last chance to experience something again. Externally, Arthur is calm, he is collected, he is ready for this, because he knows his fate.
Fighting something like this will only make it harder on himself, will only make the fight in him die quicker. He doesn’t see the point in fighting something inevitable, so he doesn’t.
It’s possibly the freest he’s ever truly felt.
It’s gratifying in a bittersweet, honeysuckle way.
::::::
He’d like to say that he had one of those ‘life flashing before his eyes’ kind of moments, but it never comes. This is either because he knew his fate all along, or because nothing in his life was really worth remembering.
If he wanted to think about it (which he doesn’t), he knows that it’s an even mixture of both.
He thinks about the apartment that he woke up in this morning and left with no clue of what was going to happen today. He felt like something was off, sure, but this could be something as small as his pen writing not evenly enough for his liking. The apartment is small, but he doesn’t need much to live on when it’s just him. There’s that book sitting on the counter that he will never get to finish, and the thought strikes him more than the thought of him actually leaving does.
“That’s pathetic,” he scoffs to himself, but it’s warbled by the currents of the ocean.
He’d like to think that someone would miss him when he’s gone, as he knows that he doesn’t have much time left, but all he can think of is his pet fish, Marcus, and that’s not what he was hoping for.
::::::
Sometimes Arthur wishes that life itself, was infinite.
But then he remembers everything bad that has died, and retracts the thought.
He’s just going to be added to the list.
::::::
He starts to lose coherent thought about a minute and a half in, only this is an estimate because he’s not really sure if he ever really grasped it. His muscles have finally stopped screaming at him to move, and have instead tried to grasp any little piece of oxygen that they can.
By how his lungs feel like they’re going to burst, he gathers that they’re not very successful.
Suddenly, too suddenly to be death, but not quite anything else, he feels something grab his arm forcefully.
‘Shark’, he wants to shout, but then he remembers that they don’t have hands, and the thought gets dismissed as the water turns back.
Release.
::::::
He supposes that if he was sixteen, and found comical relief. . .well, relivable, he probably would’ve said something like “Am I in heaven right now?” and would’ve smiled charmingly.
Obviously, Arthur knows that he’s still alive, he can feel his heart beating steadily in his chest, can feel the way that his breath leaves and enters his lungs.
He’s not really sure if he’s disappointed yet.
“You’re awake.”
Arthur looks over at who’s in the chair, and he isn’t surprised when he sees that it’s Eames.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice raspy from lack of use.
Eames looks horrible in the most beautiful way possible; Arthur had decided that it was nearly undeniable that the man would always be attractive to him. But when he wants to entertain himself, he’ll convince himself the contrary.
“How do you feel?”
Arthur shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, because he really doesn’t.
Eames makes a noncommittal noise in his throat and pushes forward some water. “The nurse told me to give you this when you woke up,” he doesn’t quite meet Arthur’s eyes.
He takes the drink with wobbly fingers, and takes small sips. “What happened?”
“We were on a boat, and you tumbled over the edge,” Eames says, but there is an edge to his voice that Arthur doesn’t quite recognize.
It takes him a moment to realize that it’s regret. “How?”
He looks uncomfortable, and shifts, restless, in his chair. “I don’t know.”
“You do.”
Eames doesn’t say anything for a while, and the silence that fills the room isn’t filled with tension, but instead with promise. It unnerves Arthur more than he knows the former ever would, and he’s almost shaking with anticipation (and probably from what happened) by the time that the older man is willing to meet his gaze again.
“It was a joke,” he replies, and his eyes shift away from his own. Arthur is suddenly struck by how much he misses the look of them, brown against blue-green, something that normally doesn’t fit, but somehow does with them. “It was stupid.”
He doesn’t have to say for Arthur to realize what exactly Eames means: that it’s his fault that he almost died, that he’s now in the hospital.
He should be screaming, he should be telling Eames to get as far away from him as possible, to leave and to never look back, but there is something in his chest that makes him want to come closer.
Arthur isn’t one to act on carnal instinct, but he thinks that it’s probably time to start.
“Stay.”
::::::
When Arthur wakes up the next morning, he’s alone.
He doesn’t know why, but he smiles.
Author: dreadly
Beta: gelbwax <3333
Team: ANGST, CRY BLOOD AND PROSPER.
Prompt: Smile, Fall, Touch
Word count: 1100
Rating: PG
Warnings: n/a (I don't think there should be any -- but contentment with death [no death!fic] and angst)
Notes: Thank you to Marina & The Diamonds for the inspiration for the title (tweaked it a little).
When Arthur was younger his mother would take him to the lake by their house. The way that the world looked underwater was the way that everything had felt like to him, when he was too small to do anything worth bragging, but was expected to understand why. He didn’t understand it then, but he does now. The lake was his favorite memory, the collection of different times were muddled into one in the file cabinet in his brain, and it’s one of the only things he lets himself smile at.
Sometimes, when Arthur is winding down after a long, hard job, that involved incompetent extractors, and all-too-willing and imaginative forgers, he draws up a bath to experience that feeling again. He’s weightless in the water, holding onto nothing because it feels nice to lose control without the chance of going too far.
The bath water is always warm, on the verge of too hot, because he’s always liked to be feel his skin peeling off in that pleasant way. Most people call him sick for this, for Arthur, it’s just what he does, it’s part of who he is.
This time it’s too much, but not enough all at once.
::::::
Drowning is different than willing yourself to not resurface, Arthur quickly figures out. There’s something odd about the way that panic courses through his veins as soon as he hits the water, the way that his instant reaction is to fight for the chance to live. He’s never really been the type to fight for his life if he hadn’t needed to, but there was seldom chances in his life to fight at all.
Internally, his body is going through a panic, his muscles screaming to move, his bones willing to break to get that one last chance to experience something again. Externally, Arthur is calm, he is collected, he is ready for this, because he knows his fate.
Fighting something like this will only make it harder on himself, will only make the fight in him die quicker. He doesn’t see the point in fighting something inevitable, so he doesn’t.
It’s possibly the freest he’s ever truly felt.
It’s gratifying in a bittersweet, honeysuckle way.
::::::
He’d like to say that he had one of those ‘life flashing before his eyes’ kind of moments, but it never comes. This is either because he knew his fate all along, or because nothing in his life was really worth remembering.
If he wanted to think about it (which he doesn’t), he knows that it’s an even mixture of both.
He thinks about the apartment that he woke up in this morning and left with no clue of what was going to happen today. He felt like something was off, sure, but this could be something as small as his pen writing not evenly enough for his liking. The apartment is small, but he doesn’t need much to live on when it’s just him. There’s that book sitting on the counter that he will never get to finish, and the thought strikes him more than the thought of him actually leaving does.
“That’s pathetic,” he scoffs to himself, but it’s warbled by the currents of the ocean.
He’d like to think that someone would miss him when he’s gone, as he knows that he doesn’t have much time left, but all he can think of is his pet fish, Marcus, and that’s not what he was hoping for.
::::::
Sometimes Arthur wishes that life itself, was infinite.
But then he remembers everything bad that has died, and retracts the thought.
He’s just going to be added to the list.
::::::
He starts to lose coherent thought about a minute and a half in, only this is an estimate because he’s not really sure if he ever really grasped it. His muscles have finally stopped screaming at him to move, and have instead tried to grasp any little piece of oxygen that they can.
By how his lungs feel like they’re going to burst, he gathers that they’re not very successful.
Suddenly, too suddenly to be death, but not quite anything else, he feels something grab his arm forcefully.
‘Shark’, he wants to shout, but then he remembers that they don’t have hands, and the thought gets dismissed as the water turns back.
Release.
::::::
He supposes that if he was sixteen, and found comical relief. . .well, relivable, he probably would’ve said something like “Am I in heaven right now?” and would’ve smiled charmingly.
Obviously, Arthur knows that he’s still alive, he can feel his heart beating steadily in his chest, can feel the way that his breath leaves and enters his lungs.
He’s not really sure if he’s disappointed yet.
“You’re awake.”
Arthur looks over at who’s in the chair, and he isn’t surprised when he sees that it’s Eames.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice raspy from lack of use.
Eames looks horrible in the most beautiful way possible; Arthur had decided that it was nearly undeniable that the man would always be attractive to him. But when he wants to entertain himself, he’ll convince himself the contrary.
“How do you feel?”
Arthur shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, because he really doesn’t.
Eames makes a noncommittal noise in his throat and pushes forward some water. “The nurse told me to give you this when you woke up,” he doesn’t quite meet Arthur’s eyes.
He takes the drink with wobbly fingers, and takes small sips. “What happened?”
“We were on a boat, and you tumbled over the edge,” Eames says, but there is an edge to his voice that Arthur doesn’t quite recognize.
It takes him a moment to realize that it’s regret. “How?”
He looks uncomfortable, and shifts, restless, in his chair. “I don’t know.”
“You do.”
Eames doesn’t say anything for a while, and the silence that fills the room isn’t filled with tension, but instead with promise. It unnerves Arthur more than he knows the former ever would, and he’s almost shaking with anticipation (and probably from what happened) by the time that the older man is willing to meet his gaze again.
“It was a joke,” he replies, and his eyes shift away from his own. Arthur is suddenly struck by how much he misses the look of them, brown against blue-green, something that normally doesn’t fit, but somehow does with them. “It was stupid.”
He doesn’t have to say for Arthur to realize what exactly Eames means: that it’s his fault that he almost died, that he’s now in the hospital.
He should be screaming, he should be telling Eames to get as far away from him as possible, to leave and to never look back, but there is something in his chest that makes him want to come closer.
Arthur isn’t one to act on carnal instinct, but he thinks that it’s probably time to start.
“Stay.”
::::::
When Arthur wakes up the next morning, he’s alone.
He doesn’t know why, but he smiles.