'Cause boys don't cry
[Locked to elegantinmind || Futility!Verse.]
[They needed something to relax, to get them out of the sleepy little Kent house. It had been Eames who came up with the idea to go under, build somewhere sunny and bright, Mumbai where they could mill about in the stifling heat and be at peace with themselves. He's not the greatest of architects, Eames always loses a little too much detail for it to be convincing, but he'd smiled at Arthur with his eyes crinkling at the side as they'd laid side by side on the bed, tucked their hands together before pressing the compression down.
But when they get down to the dream itself, it's very far from the sprawling urban territory of India. Everything is muted grey, rain drizzling lightly on dark concrete ground. It's littered where they stand, breeze picking up empty lager cans and crisp packets and twisting them along. It's London, that much is clear from the picture painted in front them. The bridge is just off in the horizon, obscured by a grungy block of flats. The whole place looks like a badly gone to seed estate. And Eames is -
Eames is standing just behind Arthur staring down at himself with muted horror. He's wearing faded jeans, white trainers, and a tank-top that's slowly going dark with the rain. There’s a faked gold watch on his wrist, black rubber bands nestling at the other, a faded club stamp on his hands. His tattoos curl out from underneath the shirt and across his arms, but they're lacking the muscle definition he carries now, and what he does have is the kind of scrappy as fuck fighter that he might have been. Even his face, when he looks up, confused and a little worried, is younger, whole demeanour slighter.] What -.
[They needed something to relax, to get them out of the sleepy little Kent house. It had been Eames who came up with the idea to go under, build somewhere sunny and bright, Mumbai where they could mill about in the stifling heat and be at peace with themselves. He's not the greatest of architects, Eames always loses a little too much detail for it to be convincing, but he'd smiled at Arthur with his eyes crinkling at the side as they'd laid side by side on the bed, tucked their hands together before pressing the compression down.
But when they get down to the dream itself, it's very far from the sprawling urban territory of India. Everything is muted grey, rain drizzling lightly on dark concrete ground. It's littered where they stand, breeze picking up empty lager cans and crisp packets and twisting them along. It's London, that much is clear from the picture painted in front them. The bridge is just off in the horizon, obscured by a grungy block of flats. The whole place looks like a badly gone to seed estate. And Eames is -
Eames is standing just behind Arthur staring down at himself with muted horror. He's wearing faded jeans, white trainers, and a tank-top that's slowly going dark with the rain. There’s a faked gold watch on his wrist, black rubber bands nestling at the other, a faded club stamp on his hands. His tattoos curl out from underneath the shirt and across his arms, but they're lacking the muscle definition he carries now, and what he does have is the kind of scrappy as fuck fighter that he might have been. Even his face, when he looks up, confused and a little worried, is younger, whole demeanour slighter.] What -.