Fic: Little Beasts (we can't punch ourselves awake)
Title: Little Beasts (we can't punch ourselves awake)
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Notes: For this
prompt , based on the poem Little Beast by Richard Siken. Please read it even if you don't read this fic; it's beautiful. Thanks to sorrynotsorry for the advice. I seem to re-write their history every time. Section titles, fic title, and summary all taken from the poem.
Summary: I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time. - Siken
1. my hands no longer an afterthought.
So you meet Arthur on a job, in a restaurant. Arthur’s freelancing, and just the act of calling him makes you feel a little wild, a little out of control. You’ve worked with pointmen, but none that stride into a shithole roadstop with excellent ribs wearing a suit and looking perfectly at home amidst cowboys and bikers and you.
The words you’ve heard, the radio whispers, were that Arthur’s a third of a whole, that it’s Arthur and the Cobbs that you want. They always get the job done. They’re perfect.
You don’t want the Cobbs - you’ve met them, and you’ve met Arthur once then too, but not like this. Not just Arthur, alone, the two of you over American barbeque in Killeen, Texas.
He throws a folder down. “He’s the one you want.” Arthur says, no preamble.
“It’s lovely to see you again, too,” you say, and don’t bother standing because Arthur is already sliding into a seat. Then he smiles at you.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
You’re unprepared for that, white teeth. “This one’s going to be dangerous, you know,” he says, smile still on his face. Reckless.
So you meet Arthur that night, in a roadside motel, on clean but rough sheets. His long fingers touch everywhere, and you think back to your last introduction, where his hands were covered in blood, when you died, and shook hands.
It was just a dream, then.
2. sweetheart
Cobb takes him back, reclaiming Arthur after Mal, and he gets more streamlined. More efficient. And more ephemeral. You don’t get smiles and dares, and eventually, you get nothing. Cobb takes everything.
You try anyway, of course, brushing knuckles when handing him things, licking your lips, pressing him against the wall every chance you get. He doesn't fight back.
“What’s happened, Arthur?” you ask in the minutes before the kick.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to, Eames,” he says.
“An explanation, then, darling” you say, fangs bared. You need it.
“I don’t owe you shit,” he says.
He’s right.
You wake up.
3. trying to define a room he is outside of.
It doesn’t last, though, and you’re good at waiting. Eventually, you will meet Arthur again. Each time is an introduction.
You are mercurial - you must be. Eames is an idea, a man for hire, boxed up and sold.
You can be whatever he wants, but he never asks. Arthur is always Arthur, but you don’t know what that means, quite yet. Arthur doesn’t seem to either, and each time he is different - tired, bright, or sharp. But his hands, his hands betray him - they are always pale and strong and precise. Those hands are steady each time he moves them over your arms to pull you into him.
He’s on loan to you, each time, so you only get what you can take, the mementos you can tuck away. Postcards, matchbooks, poker chips, candlesticks. You steal them all to build memories.
Nothing is exchanged, least of all names.
4. his skin barely keeping him inside.
You’ve wanted him every time you've met.
He only wants you when you're caught.
The dream world is dangerous - things become hyper-real. Arthur’s suits become warning signs, tiger stipes, and the movement of his limbs is enough to rush the blood into your scalp, the back of your neck, your cock.
On a job, he must hunt. The mark runs and it’s Arthur’s job to bring him back.
“Stay here,” he orders, and he stalks.
You don’t. You can’t help it, because you’ll never be this - your skin is too malleable, you are too shifty. You follow, and watch him. He grins up at you when he nabs his prey.
The dream world is dangerous because things become possibilities. In a dream he could be yours. There he exists as a whole, not a third of a pair that is down to one. Asleep, his eyes glitter with violence.
Awake, you must open him up and slip inside, just to see what this animal skin feels like over yours.
You’re not gentle, but neither is he.
5. his body underneath his shirt.
You liked Mal, you did. She was clever, smart, beautiful, and deadly.
You just wish she would leave.
Arthur sometimes dreams, and you think he always dreams of her. It’s odd, the Somnacin should have beaten all capacity for REM out of your brains long ago, but there he is, eyes rolling under closed lids, mouth moving. It’s rare that you get to see this.
When he wakes up he’s always years older and smashes your mouths together, and you grab at his wrists, covered in tiny marks. Veins collapsed. You’re an anchor, a weight that holds him down as your other hand snakes over his chest.
There are lines that cross you both and you’ve memorized the story behind each scar.
He is waiting for a train.
6. a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, a bottle of pills.
You take, too. You know you ask for too much.
Arthur is sleek like a greyhound and you watch his muscles move in the world, and in dreams. Each step is controlled. He isn’t like a machine - he’s organic, bred for this rather than built for it.
You can’t stay away, because of how his ties fit, the scar on his clavicle, how he drives (still reckless, the last bit of it in white knuckles on steering wheels). Just like the job, he invites dangerous - handguns and Somnacin and you. These are the things he wants.
“You won’t break,” he says, fingerbones tracing sinew, “and that’s why I’m here.”
“And that’s why you don’t stay, then?” you ask, trapping his hand in yours.
Arthur shrugs, bare shoulder against your chest. “You don’t need me.”
That is how you sleep, with the heaviness of eventuality.
If he stops giving, if you stop asking, well. Neither of you can stop the dreams.
Your hands lock with his in the winter and you build each other summer.
7. Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.
It is a series of little moments but most of them are dreams. It’s like getting metal slugs and not the quarters you asked for from a bank, but being told to make do.
You’ll take it, the chases, the intricate seductions, and the buildings. Arthur makes you castles sometimes, if you ask softly. A contrast to the blood spilt over the years, the feeling of glass in your mouth when you die in a dream.
And you have seen Arthur die so many times, but he’s never seen the reverse. He won’t, refuses, and always saves the last bullet for you.
(It’s hard to build guns in the middle of a shootout).
It’s not always a kindness.
This is how you’ve said good-bye: your hands around his throat, a metal bar to the head, underwater where he kicked and jerked and never closed his eyes.
You are filled with apologies each time, but he never takes them. Doesn’t want them.
You try, though, you always try.
“So we meet again,” you will say, and he will take your hand.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Notes: For this
prompt , based on the poem Little Beast by Richard Siken. Please read it even if you don't read this fic; it's beautiful. Thanks to sorrynotsorry for the advice. I seem to re-write their history every time. Section titles, fic title, and summary all taken from the poem.
Summary: I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time. - Siken
1. my hands no longer an afterthought.
So you meet Arthur on a job, in a restaurant. Arthur’s freelancing, and just the act of calling him makes you feel a little wild, a little out of control. You’ve worked with pointmen, but none that stride into a shithole roadstop with excellent ribs wearing a suit and looking perfectly at home amidst cowboys and bikers and you.
The words you’ve heard, the radio whispers, were that Arthur’s a third of a whole, that it’s Arthur and the Cobbs that you want. They always get the job done. They’re perfect.
You don’t want the Cobbs - you’ve met them, and you’ve met Arthur once then too, but not like this. Not just Arthur, alone, the two of you over American barbeque in Killeen, Texas.
He throws a folder down. “He’s the one you want.” Arthur says, no preamble.
“It’s lovely to see you again, too,” you say, and don’t bother standing because Arthur is already sliding into a seat. Then he smiles at you.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
You’re unprepared for that, white teeth. “This one’s going to be dangerous, you know,” he says, smile still on his face. Reckless.
So you meet Arthur that night, in a roadside motel, on clean but rough sheets. His long fingers touch everywhere, and you think back to your last introduction, where his hands were covered in blood, when you died, and shook hands.
It was just a dream, then.
2. sweetheart
Cobb takes him back, reclaiming Arthur after Mal, and he gets more streamlined. More efficient. And more ephemeral. You don’t get smiles and dares, and eventually, you get nothing. Cobb takes everything.
You try anyway, of course, brushing knuckles when handing him things, licking your lips, pressing him against the wall every chance you get. He doesn't fight back.
“What’s happened, Arthur?” you ask in the minutes before the kick.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to, Eames,” he says.
“An explanation, then, darling” you say, fangs bared. You need it.
“I don’t owe you shit,” he says.
He’s right.
You wake up.
3. trying to define a room he is outside of.
It doesn’t last, though, and you’re good at waiting. Eventually, you will meet Arthur again. Each time is an introduction.
You are mercurial - you must be. Eames is an idea, a man for hire, boxed up and sold.
You can be whatever he wants, but he never asks. Arthur is always Arthur, but you don’t know what that means, quite yet. Arthur doesn’t seem to either, and each time he is different - tired, bright, or sharp. But his hands, his hands betray him - they are always pale and strong and precise. Those hands are steady each time he moves them over your arms to pull you into him.
He’s on loan to you, each time, so you only get what you can take, the mementos you can tuck away. Postcards, matchbooks, poker chips, candlesticks. You steal them all to build memories.
Nothing is exchanged, least of all names.
4. his skin barely keeping him inside.
You’ve wanted him every time you've met.
He only wants you when you're caught.
The dream world is dangerous - things become hyper-real. Arthur’s suits become warning signs, tiger stipes, and the movement of his limbs is enough to rush the blood into your scalp, the back of your neck, your cock.
On a job, he must hunt. The mark runs and it’s Arthur’s job to bring him back.
“Stay here,” he orders, and he stalks.
You don’t. You can’t help it, because you’ll never be this - your skin is too malleable, you are too shifty. You follow, and watch him. He grins up at you when he nabs his prey.
The dream world is dangerous because things become possibilities. In a dream he could be yours. There he exists as a whole, not a third of a pair that is down to one. Asleep, his eyes glitter with violence.
Awake, you must open him up and slip inside, just to see what this animal skin feels like over yours.
You’re not gentle, but neither is he.
5. his body underneath his shirt.
You liked Mal, you did. She was clever, smart, beautiful, and deadly.
You just wish she would leave.
Arthur sometimes dreams, and you think he always dreams of her. It’s odd, the Somnacin should have beaten all capacity for REM out of your brains long ago, but there he is, eyes rolling under closed lids, mouth moving. It’s rare that you get to see this.
When he wakes up he’s always years older and smashes your mouths together, and you grab at his wrists, covered in tiny marks. Veins collapsed. You’re an anchor, a weight that holds him down as your other hand snakes over his chest.
There are lines that cross you both and you’ve memorized the story behind each scar.
He is waiting for a train.
6. a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, a bottle of pills.
You take, too. You know you ask for too much.
Arthur is sleek like a greyhound and you watch his muscles move in the world, and in dreams. Each step is controlled. He isn’t like a machine - he’s organic, bred for this rather than built for it.
You can’t stay away, because of how his ties fit, the scar on his clavicle, how he drives (still reckless, the last bit of it in white knuckles on steering wheels). Just like the job, he invites dangerous - handguns and Somnacin and you. These are the things he wants.
“You won’t break,” he says, fingerbones tracing sinew, “and that’s why I’m here.”
“And that’s why you don’t stay, then?” you ask, trapping his hand in yours.
Arthur shrugs, bare shoulder against your chest. “You don’t need me.”
That is how you sleep, with the heaviness of eventuality.
If he stops giving, if you stop asking, well. Neither of you can stop the dreams.
Your hands lock with his in the winter and you build each other summer.
7. Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.
It is a series of little moments but most of them are dreams. It’s like getting metal slugs and not the quarters you asked for from a bank, but being told to make do.
You’ll take it, the chases, the intricate seductions, and the buildings. Arthur makes you castles sometimes, if you ask softly. A contrast to the blood spilt over the years, the feeling of glass in your mouth when you die in a dream.
And you have seen Arthur die so many times, but he’s never seen the reverse. He won’t, refuses, and always saves the last bullet for you.
(It’s hard to build guns in the middle of a shootout).
It’s not always a kindness.
This is how you’ve said good-bye: your hands around his throat, a metal bar to the head, underwater where he kicked and jerked and never closed his eyes.
You are filled with apologies each time, but he never takes them. Doesn’t want them.
You try, though, you always try.
“So we meet again,” you will say, and he will take your hand.