Inception [Pavor Nocturnus]
Title: Pavor Nocturnus (Night Terrors)
Author: Cyhyraeth
Rating: NC-17
Total word count: 4,750
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Arthur/Eames, Ariadne, Cobb (James & Phillipa)
Warnings/Highlights are spoilers (if any): Angst (character death, extreme violence), sex (dirty talk, handjob)
Summary: The last thing he remembers. Several firsts, a second and a third.
It's such a blur
you didn't even see
this meant everything to me
Invisible, plans you made
deconstruct me
Tethered to the dream of you
but disappearing
xx
He doesn’t know how it starts, but he suspects it’s one of Eames’ wayward whistles, this one directed towards a particularly burly looking man surrounded by what appears to be a shady exchange. Arthur’s elbow shoots out for what feels like the hundredth time, and Eames simply replies with ‘what? He looks like a good time’ followed by a snort and another whiskey- finding humor in something Arthur doesn’t see as particularly funny. A hand clamps on his shoulder, and he looks up only to be told to ‘take this outside’. Eames is on his feet and coaxing them out the door cockily before he can even utter ‘no’.
If there’s one thing he learns, it’s that seven (...eight?) people is too much at once when your vision isn’t straight before the first punch even hits. He’s fluent in the art of fighting, but it’s something he couples with driving- along with the ideal that you shouldn’t attempt it while drunk.
Eames doesn’t agree.
Arthur can’t even feel the first few hits, too stunned by the way they have jumped right to it, though his body is flung back by the sheer force behind them and he’s already backed into a wall.
When he reacts his swings are uncoordinated, sluggish and so easily predictable, and straight away he knows this is a losing fight. He can’t even spare a glance to Eames because his head is spinning, the nausea is overriding his senses as a fist connects with his stomach and it takes everything just to not throw up right that second.
Arthur isn’t sure if he trips or if he’s forced to the ground, but his ears are ringing, dark creeps at the edges of his vision and he’s disoriented to the point where he’s unsure if he’s looking at the concrete or the sky.
The last thing he remembers is a boot coming down on his face and the crunch of his nose shattering back into his skull.
xx
The first time Arthur wakes, it's the clichéd blinding lights and confusion that's always portrayed so poorly in movies.
There are faces and voices, excited voices, and he's just too exhausted to try and piece together the surroundings- comfortable in not knowing where he is for now. There are other things to focus on, such as how his eyes hurt, his head hurts and somewhere along the line he's sure a gurgle or a groan of discomfort passes his lips.
His vision is blurry, his mind is racing and he sure as hell isn’t confident he’s actually awake. The only thing he’s sure of is the ache.
Arthur tries to swallow instinctively, but his tongue is heavy and his mouth feels like cotton. It's dry and tastes unpleasant. Sour. It’s almost like he's gone days without brushing his teeth or drinking a glass of water, and that can’t be right.
He shifts.
There's the distinct feel of plastic rubbing against the roof of his mouth and Arthur moves his jaw slowly.
Of course that aches too.
White spots fill his vision, his eyes flicker and the voices and blurred faces fade out into a warm darkness again.
xx
The second time Arthur wakes, he's able to comprehend the shapes and figures around him. It takes five, ten, twenty minutes for his mind to process the information, and he barely notices the steady beep of a heart monitor.
There's flowers on a small bedside table (an assortment, but mostly white hyacinth from a quick glance), and he lowers his gaze as his arm brushes the cool railing attached to the side of the bed.
The first thing he sees, or rather acknowledges, is Dom. The familiar tired gaze and mop of blonde is a dead giveaway. The way he's hunched forwards in his chair, his figure oozing exhaustion and worry is something he has only seen coupled with the most traumatic events Dom has ever suffered through.
Mal.
Cobb raises his gaze, and Arthur notes how his shoulders drop in relief, like a giant, unseen burden has been yanked from God knows where and the tenseness simply melts away. The dark circles under his eyes only confirm his suspicions of exhaustion.
Cobb is up on his feet in seconds, taking in a deep breath only to exhale through his nose and suddenly he's out the door in hurried steps, a cry of 'nurse!' or maybe it was 'doctor!' echoing around the room.
Arthur lolls his head to the side, trying to follow Cobb with his gaze but his neck aches and his eyes won't focus properly and fuck that hospital light is beyond irritating.
He rolls his tongue, the familiar sour taste and unclean feeling making him uneasy, but most of all it's the tube jammed down his throat that’s keeping him from swallowing which is bothering.
Worrying, even.
xx
According to the date, Arthur has been out six days, and Eames is quick to reprimand him on his laziness and to try in vain to convince him the year is 2040, sprawled in what can't have been a comfortable chair beside his bed.
Arthur scoffs. He’s propped up on pillows, pumped full of morphine for the cracked ribs he didn't know he had and yet he doesn't hesitate to give the Forger a sideways glance ('Eames, you'll ruin your posture sitting like that') before he huffs, rubbing at the iv in his wrist subconsciously.
Eames pauses, suddenly conscious of his lax position, and then he laughs brightly, a mix of relief and amusement as his stitches stretch with the pleased, lopsided smile.
xx
Ariadne drops in, all hustle and bustle and flowers and conversation, her focus unable to sit on one thing for long. He's never seen her so scattered, and it's sweet the way she's so easily flustered with tugging the curtains open.
Arthur is surprised when she nearly sits on Eames, but not when she jumps up, her potential seat clearing his throat. She flushes red and apologises, ignoring the seemingly obligatory teasing and flirtatious quip in favor of dragging her own chair over to start a lecture. ('We were all so worried about you' and 'comatose is the most relaxed I think I'll ever see you' and 'are you sure you're alright?')
Soon enough she's gone in a flurry of red coat and cheek kisses, full of apologies ('there are educational opportunities at stake!') but hurried none the less.
He can't help the small smile as she steps out of the room, and Eames gives him an interested eyebrow raise.
"You know there's nothing going on" and there isn't, he feels the need to clarify this with a clipped "really".
"More for me then, no?" and the way he says it is off putting, although it might be the shadows of bruises making his face more sinister than it really is.
Arthur isn't sure if Eames is talking about Ariadne or him, but the gaze is focused and certain. It's perplexing and irritating all the same, but he really can't deal with Eames’ mind games because thinking still hurts and he needs to rest and of course he's talking about Ariadne.
xx
“Tell James and Phillipa I said hello, then” there’s a smile in his voice, and Cobb tells him he promises, and to ‘take it easy’. “I’ve got nothing but easy” he jokes, and there’s a chuckle down the other end of the line. They haven’t done a job since the Fischer case, and why would they need to? Saito’s pay out was enough to push him into a cushy and early retirement that even hospital bills can’t deter. He’s silent and calculating when he hears the soft ‘I’ll call you later, Arthur’.
“Alright” then there’s an audible ‘click’ from the speaker and a dial tone, so Arthur sets down the phone smoothly. It’s months later, when he's home, arguably better and Eames is still haunting him at every chance he can. It’s almost endearing, in a really… really aggravating way.
(‘God, why don't you just move in?’)
(‘I'll take that as an offer, then’)
He doesn't protest when Eames moves in at the seven month mark after their hospital stay. The company is welcome, although it's mostly 'stay on the couch' and 'don't touch my things' but Eames doesn't listen anyway.
Hell, he's already made a habit of leaving the milk out and mixing his colored shirts with Arthur’s whites.
The first time Arthur pulls out a splotchy business shirt he holds it up, lips pulling into a thin line of irritation and he swears he can feel the vein in his temple pulsing.
“Really?” he pinches the bridge of his nose- fingertips pressing into the small bump of where it wasn’t quite set back in place as he calls out over his shoulder. “Colors bleed. That’s just common sense, Eames.”
“Common sense isn’t all that common, you know” it’s a smooth chuckle, and he doesn’t lift himself from his splayed position on the couch in the living room to offer the apology Arthur is expecting.
xx
“You know, I think it’s rude that you’ve been living here, eating my food and using my appliances but I still don’t know your name”
“It’s Eames, I’d have thought you’d have learned it by now” he quips matter-of-factly. There’s a pause as he sizes up the displeased stare before he rethinks his answer.
“You know” a mock on the deadpan followed by a shit-eating grin. “You’ve never asked”
Another pause, and Arthur quirks a brow expectantly.
Eames shrugs his shoulders. “It’s Julian”
“Julian?” Arthur laughs, highly amused and he exclaims “Julian Eames” like it’s the funniest joke in the world.
“I think I like Eames better.”
“Another thing we have in common, it seems. Look Arthur, we’re bonding” Eames wriggles his fingers suggestively before chuckling and Arthur hasn’t smiled like this in a long time.
xx
Arthur remembers the fight. Well, some of it. It comes in flashes that trigger sometimes when glass smashes or the one time he's watching 'New Town Killers' with Eames because 'it's good, I promise'.
He knows it’s decent, he’s seen it before.
They settle on the couch and it's as good as he remembers, maybe better with the added commentary (‘gay for pay? Why, that’s me all over’).
The enjoyment is subjective to the context.
‘Good’ is until he nearly swallows his tongue as a foot comes down at the camera, and he remembers the dizzying pain of his head hitting the concrete over and over and over. He can almost feel the skin splitting at the back of his skull, and he raises a hand to press his palm flat against the phantom ache, eyes flicking around the room. It seems to crack away, the edges of his vision oily and changing and he swears he can see shadows coming at his face in quick succession. Arthur doesn't even realise his hands are shaking until Eames is grabbing his wrists to steady them, tugging him close because the tremble is spreading through his body and how the fuck is Eames so unfazed by the visuals?
He’s reluctant to curl into the other, but he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and shit.
He lets Eames hold him.
He holds him until the quickened breaths reach a slower, more relaxed pace and the tremors are replaced by an uneasy tenseness. It’s a small improvement.
Arthur moves to lift his head, cracking open his eyes as his wrists are released slowly in favor of gentle, soothing fingers massaging the nape of his neck. He uncurls his fists from Eames’ hideous shirt, his fingers numb from the tight grip that he didn’t remember forming. The television is off, and briefly he wonders when that had happened. Pushing himself to stand, he sucks in a deep breath before raising a hand, smoothing back his hair as he speaks.
“Sorry” and his gaze settles anywhere but on Eames, “about that”.
The lack of background noise is comforting- despite the silence that’s ticking on far too long for his liking. There is an uneasy feeling twisting his stomach into knots and he’s never been this far out of his element before and why hasn’t he said anything yet.
“Well…”
He releases a soft breath as Eames eventually climbs to his feet, offering a reassuring squeeze to Arthur’s shoulder before he’s guiding him out of the lounge room and down the hall to the bedroom.
He slides to the floor beside the bed, back pressed to the edge of the mattress and Arthur slips under the covers silently, purposely hanging his arm over the bed in the thinly veiled hope that Eames will curl their fingers together.
He does, and Arthur sleeps.
xx
He has dreams.
In those dreams there is always a suffocating darkness. His lungs feel tight and he struggles to breathe, easily akin to inhaling thick smoke.
It's terrifying.
The disembodied voices speaking words he can't understand, shapes shifting in an oily darkness behind his eyelids like a sort of sinister, omnipotent presence threatening to swallow him whole.
xx
It’s a whole year after Eames has moved in before Arthur lets him share his bed, and that’s only because he notices Eames is getting cricks in his neck more often than not and well, he feels bad. Even then, for the first few nights it’s awkward and they’re making the extra effort not to touch each other.
“You could have easily bought your own bed” Arthur’s muses, gaze resting aimlessly on the ceiling, and he can feel Eames shifting beside him to get more comfortable before he utters a soft ‘Mm?’
In fact, Eames could have easily had his own apartment, house, hell… mansion. His own life, family and so many other things.
But instead he has chosen this mundane and repetitive life ‘with’ Arthur. In Arthur’s small, comfortable one person apartment on Arthur’s couch, and now in Arthur’s bed.
“I can hear you thinking from here” and Eames chuckles dryly, shrugging his shoulders before muttering a simple “I could have” and leaving it at that.
It’s two weeks before Arthur stops moving the arm that curls around his waist.
Only three days after that and he’s returning the motion. Eames has taken up burying his face in the crook of his neck and he doesn’t mind, because he can feel warmth when he smiles and it’s comforting.
xx
Sometimes in the dreams he can feel touches.
The ghosts of fingers brushing his face, a moment where he swears his hair is being pushed back by a gentle and caring palm.
xx
Their first ‘kiss’ is an accident on a job.
Their first real kiss is still, in essence, an accident. They’re laying in the silence of Arthur’s room and Eames has seemingly abandoned the habit of hiding his face in Arthur’s neck, instead content to gaze at him lazily at face-level.
Actually, it’s less of an accident and more of a mess, because Arthur can feel himself growing edgy to the constant gaze, unable to shake the notion that Eames is waiting for something. He closes his eyes, takes a steady breath and counts to three slowly before he opens them again, and he’s almost taken aback at how close they are because their noses weren’t touching a second ago.
Arthur is too quick and Eames isn’t prepared when he closes the distance, and as he tilts his head his lips mash somewhere in the space between Eames’ nose and his top lip, and he’s absolutely missed his mark.
It isn’t anything like the well-timed clash of lips from when he had to snag Eames in a dream. Not that the situation had been amazing, or even desired. Of course that was only to deter the mark’s subconscious off of his female façade as a last resort all those years ago (and he could tell the other found it at least a little amusing by the saucy wiggle of ‘her’ hips afterwards). That was part of a job and nothing more.
It’s definitely not profound or amazing or everything he’s ever imagined. It’s just... awkward. Awkward and utterly unromantic in a way that has him ducking his head with a displeased huff afterwards, his cheeks and the tips of his ears warm with embarrassment- jaw tight, eyes narrowed and thoughts full of second guesses.
Eames is hardly put-off by the stubborn motion, and it’s only seconds before he’s gently coaxing Arthur to lift his chin.
“Shall we try that again?” and Eames brushes their lips with every word, soft puffs of breath ghosting his face and in the intimate closeness Arthur just thinks ‘yes’.
Their second (third) kiss is the one he’ll remember.
xx
Sometimes in his dreams there are moments.
Moments where he can feel himself being lifted and moved against his will, turned to his side and his whole balance and grasp of reality seems to shift.
These dreams are few and far in between, and he's thankful for that.
Because it's the dreams where he's lifted that are the worst of all.
Xx
"Am I not a priority, darling?"
Arthur shushes him softly, shifting in place as he tries to focus on the movie playing, and it seems futile but damned if he’ll fall into this again.
But Eames hasn't called him darling in years and he knows that he's looking for a rise, a reaction in the form of a snide retort or an elbow to the ribs. He shifts again, jutting out his chin in defiance and even though his back is snugly pressed to Eames' chest and he can feel the warmth melting through his shirt (every soft breath on the back of his neck and fuck it's distracting) he ignores him anyway.
Well.
He ignores him until there's a warm, damp and breathy laugh that has his skin tingling. Arthur parts his lips and the air catches in his throat when there's teeth grazing his skin and then just a hint of tongue in his ear because how can he ignore that.
"Eames" his tone is beyond exasperation and there’s a derisive snort followed by lips and teeth behind his ear and-
“Julian-”
Arthur never calls Eames by his first name because it feels so unfamiliar and he’s known Eames a lot longer than he’s known Julian. It’s supposed to distract him long enough for Arthur to catch a steady breath and re-focus on the movie but Eames is busy mouthing against his neck, fisting the front of his shirt loosely as he untucks it and Arthur can feel his fingers sliding lower inch by inch.
Inhaling sharply to the light touch, he snags Eames' wrist and holds his hand still for a few moments- because he's arguably comfortable enough to sit like this and ignore the heat pooling in his groin but.
Eames growls in his ear, hot and demanding and Arthur guides his hand down to his cock despite better judgement- coaxing the Forger to palm him roughly through his slacks and he chews the inside of his lip.
Arthur lifts his free hand, curving his arm behind his head as he angles it back comfortably and slides his eyes closed in anticipation. He curls his fingers tightly into Eames' hair and there's a rough whisper of 'do you like that?' coupled with a tight squeeze that’s just on the right side of painful and it has him squirming and yesfuckyes it’s perfect.
By the time Eames has pushed his pants down far enough to grip at him properly, Arthur is already undone. He’s hooked a leg over one of Eames’ knees, his thighs spread wide and his chest heaving with short, harsh breaths because he’s alternating in rocking his hips back against the hard press of Eames’ cock against his ass and into the tight circle of the fingers wrapped around him.
“I want you fucking yourself down on me,” a ragged breath and Eames adds “moaning and coming on my stomach, fuck you’d make such a beautiful mess” the words are a slur and he feels the quiver as Eames forces his hips tight against his tailbone so brazenly, then “mn.. You should see yourself fuck my hand, Arthur” and Eames shifts, pulling him backwards so his spine is curved at an angle that isn’t far from uncomfortable. It’s a sudden, filthy murmur that’s so out of the blue but Arthur listens (and he’s surprised he comprehends the words past the tight voice and heat). He forces his eyes open, cranes his head forwards against the grip and a tremor rolls through him as his breaths judder to the sight- throat tight because the air seems too hot and thick hothothot. Eames slows down his hand to a near stop, gazing over Arthur’s shoulder heatedly even though when their cheeks brush Arthur tilts his head away from the rough scrape of stubble, sucking his bottom lip. But Eames knows how to coax him back, and he draws his attention almost too easily, makes a show of thumbing the head of his dick and Arthur’s gaze doesn’t stray far. He’s rolling careful circles with the digit and smearing the precome obscenely because he swears he can almost hear Arthur’s nails digging into the couch.
Arthur releases a rough huff of air as Eames cups his hip with his free hand, releasing him from the restricted position in favor of digging blunt nails into the exposed skin as he sucks the spot he’s found on his neck and Arthur squirms as every scrape of teeth sends his stomach clenching, the pitch of his breaths much higher than he’d care to admit.
He almost whimpers (and he denies it, later) as Eames starts pumping him again because it’s quick and utterly unforgiving and he’s so fucking close. Arthur can hear the vulgar slick of skin sliding against skin and he tries to bite back a moan but ‘ah- ahn- fuckmakeme--’ and his cock twitches against Eames’ palm as he comes, abrupt and it’s all too soon but not soon enough. It feels like hours before he comes down from the rush, and he has half a mind to elbow Eames roughly because his fingers are still curled loosely around his prick and he’s stroking almost lazily, kissing at the damp skin of his neck.
He can feel his stomach jumping and his nerves jolting to the languid strokes, so he grunts “Eames” and winces as the fingers tighten around him in acknowledgement. Arthur straightens up with a light sway, sucking in a deep breath before pushing Eames’ hand away and climbing to his feet so he can tug up his briefs and slacks. Wiping his hands on his pantleg he frowns to the state of his shirt, smoothing back his hair with a rough sigh before gazing at the movie a moment, and they’d definitely have to try again, if not because he wants to actually watch it then to build up his Eames defense, because that was absolutely pathetic.
He watches the screen a moment before turning to face the other, and his legs are still spread but now his arms are outstretched over the back of the couch and he’s gazing up at Arthur expectantly- fingers drumming on the upholstery.
Arthur parts his lips, but Eames is quick to cut in.
“I wish there was a mirror within reach so you could see how utterly wrecked you are”
Arthur can’t help the smirk at that. “Eames, if I’m wrecked then you’re fucked” and Eames laughs lowly, Arthur thinks he hears a murmur of ‘not yet’ but he’s preoccupied with crawling back onto his lap, balancing on the edge of the lounge between his thighs as he slides his palm past the waistband of his pants to finish him off.
xx
It’s days, months, years later when he feels a gentle pull in his chest. It’s like a well of gravity tugging him from nowhere.
To nowhere.
An unseen force curling it’s fingers around his lungs, heart and mind in an obscure, fractured warning. Promising something, everything and nothing all at once and-
He can’t speak, he can’t blink or breathe and Eames is sitting beside him, staring at the wall with his back pressed to the headboard of their bed like nothing is wrong at all. Like Arthur doesn’t exist.
It terrifies him more than the dreams and the suffocating emptiness. More than all the monsters hidden under his bed as a child and everything that could have been (could still be) crawling in the darkness at the edges of his vision.
It feels like hours pass, but they could have easily been minutes or seconds because he’s petrified, not breathing and the pull is almost painful, a slowly increasing pressure against his chest and if there was air in his lungs it would be forcing it out violently.
It’s a hypnic jerk. A ‘kick’.
Arthur’s sinking into bed in slow motion, but at the same time it’s too fast, like his perception of time or gravity is so insignificant because he can’t lift his arms to grab at the sheets or find his voice to scream. He feels his entire body being torn from his conscious, his skull splits and his nose shatters and the ache is all too real when his chest constricts because-
He sees Eames.
He sees Eames’ head hit the pavement and.
xx
The third time Arthur wakes up, hours pass in a matter of minutes and everything is moving so quickly he just wants to lift his hands, hold them up and let the world pass him by. To slow down for a few seconds and get a proper grasp on his surroundings, to try and remember more than what’s happened in the last hour without having to stop and seriously think about it because thinking has never been this difficult.
For a while it doesn’t feel real, but that’s ridiculous because the familiar weight of his totem between his fingers is undeniable proof- although the hospital feels like a giant case of déjà-vu. He notices the sweet familiar fragrance of the hyacinths, the sour taste in his mouth and the steady beep of a heart monitor chiming in to remind him that yes, he’s alive, and somehow it’s relieving but heart wrenching all the same.
But something is definitely missing.
He can’t place it, and he doesn’t know why his chest feels heavy thinking about it, but Cobb is here and Ariadne is here and that’s enough for now.
xx
It’s been two months since he was admitted to hospital and diagnosed comatose.
A week since the doctors told Cobb Arthur’s chances of waking were slim, and to consider other options.
Three days since they said his brain activity had increased unexpectedly, to be optimistic.
Only one day since Arthur woke up.
xx
“Look, Arthur. It’s really no-one’s fault and we're sorry this is what you've woken up to” Ariadne is almost on the verge of tears, he can tell by the crack in her voice, but she’s taking deep, calm breaths and keeping a steady grip on her emotions as Cobb clasps Arthur’s hand with his own in a way that's far from soothing, but filled with good intentions.
Arthur doesn’t want to hear another apology because he’s numb enough already.
He doesn’t know what to think, what to feel. So he parts his lips with a soft murmur of ‘Oh’ and he sees Dom’s mouth moving but anything he’s saying is white noise because did he hear that right and how could that be even remotely true.
The seconds drag on for an eternity before a hand clamps down on his shoulder and Arthur blinks in surprise, raising his gaze to meet with Cobb’s worried, exhausted one and-
“I think I’m going to sleep this off”
Arthur waves them out of the room, lips twitching but everything will be better in the morning and he’ll wake up.
He tosses the loaded die across the room, there's barely enough force behind it to send it that far but he watches it bounce pathetically off of the wall and he's too tired.
His heart aches and his head hurts and Arthur sucks in a slow, uneven breath as he tries to clear his mind and settle for sleep.
xx
It’s only been six hours since they switched off Eames’ life support.
Arthur always thought he was stronger than that.
xx