Entrance of the Gladiators - Inception - Cobb/Eames
Title: Entrance of the Gladiators
Pairing: Cobb/Eames
Word Count: 1424
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Circus AU written for an inception_kink prompt for cobb_eames's Prompt Filling Friday.
Summary: Everybody knows that the clown has been in love with the ring-master for years.
It's a bloody cliche, that's the problem. One of the problems, anyway, Eames isn't foolish enough to pretend that it is the only one.
'The sad clown'. There are a thousand cheap paintings on the subject.
It's unoriginal and boring and he always tries to be a little more inventive than that. His life is more than a sad print, but these days it isn't. Sitting in front of the mirror, applying his face paint just like he does every night, he isn't staring at the reflection of Cobb in the corner. Nor, for that matter, is he admiring the tall black top hat perched on top of Cobb's head. And he isn't jealous of the way that Arthur gets to talk to him and tease a smile onto his face.
Acrobats. Everybody always loves the acrobats.
The white paint is cold at first as he smothers it over his face, hiding away every speck of tanned skin. The colours will follow later, once the base is ready. He picks up a magazine sitting next to his mirror and leans back, reading old gossip as the paint dries on his face.
"Are you almost ready to go?" Cobb asks, suddenly at his elbow. Eames looks up, eyebrows raised, whitened face turned to the light. "The audience is about to be let in."
"Five minutes," Eames answers. "Give me five minutes."
A pat on his shoulder, hand lingering, and then Cobb is off to check on the other performers, on the lion tamers and dare-devils and dancing girls. Their back-stage tent is alive with familiar tension: they do this every single night, but it's always new. There is always the potential for trouble, always the chance that something might go wrong.
He picks up his brush and unscrews the cap of his red tub of face paint, ready to give himself a mouth. There is a clink and a rattle as Ariadne comes to sit with him, her hula-hoops in hand. She isn't on for another half an hour, always popping out when the audience are flagging half-way through the performance, but she's ready in advance. Show-off and suck-up.
"You should tell him," Ariadne advises, and Eames frowns despite his painted smile. "Seriously. He probably knows already."
"Knows what?" When in doubt, feign ignorance. As a clown, it is easy to get away with it.
"That you're in love with him." She nudges his leg with her foot, and the baggy material of his trousers wobbles. "Everyone else thinks it's funny, Eames. They joke about it."
He knows. He isn't deaf, so - yes - he knows perfectly well that he gets to be the butt of the back-stage jokes. It doesn't matter that he is the one that helped Cobb to build this show, and it doesn't seem to matter that he is the one that designed more than half the acts. He is this show's imagination, but once he puts on his make-up that ceases to be important to everyone. He becomes the punchline.
"I don't laugh," Ariadne promises, voice low and sweet.
He stares into the mirror and watches the clench of his jaw. "I really need to finish getting ready," he tells her, because he can hear the chatter of the crowd now and the rattle of the music and he knows that it will be his grand entrance soon. If he isn't careful, he'll smear his paint.
"Fair enough," Ariadne says, getting to her feet. "But keep it in mind."
It isn't as if he spends a lot of time thinking about anything other than telling Cobb - they travel a lot, and time on the road means time with his thoughts. When he is bored, he can imagine all the various ways that he could break the sorry news. He thinks about being thrown out of the show, or he thinks about kissing Cobb and smearing paint against their skin.
It hardly matters.
The show goes on.
*
Afterwards, make-up mostly cleaned away, the core group retreats to Cobb's caravan where they share beers and tease each other for the night's mistakes: Ariadne dropped a hoop and one of Saito's lions had tried to take Cobb's hat. Every night has its own mishaps, and it's the kind of thing that they celebrate together, cramped into a trailer that is far too small for them all. Ariadne sits on Yusuf's, their fire-eater's, lap, and Robert lies on the top of the bunk-bed to create more space.
"You were great tonight, Eames," Ariadne says, smiling at him with glitter still on her face. "Knocked it right out of the park."
"Less creepy than usual," Arthur agrees.
"You must be the only circus-act I know with a fear of clowns," Eames complains.
"That bit where you were clinging to Cobb's leg, refusing to leave?" Robert grins to himself on the top bunk. "Cobb's face was priceless."
"Warn me next time you decide to go off-script," Cobb says, nudging him in the ribs.
"It's not his fault he's in love with you," Arthur explains - and, dead-pan as always, he sounds too serious. Eames finds himself looking for an excuse to leave early.
Yet he feels Cobb's arm around his shoulders and then fingers against his jaw, turning him to face him - smiling lips against his own, the welcome push of pressure, wolf-whistles from Ariadne. Barely lasts a second before Cobb is gone again, happy crinkles around his eyes as he grins.
Just a joke.
It's all true and it's all just a joke and Eames wonders when his life became as angst-riden as a teenage poem.
The party doesn't last long, due to past visits from the police for noise pollution, and Eames is as normal as can be while they are all there. He babies Ariadne and bickers with Arthur and doesn't think about the feel of Cobb's lips against his own, doesn't dwell on it, can't. He says goodnight when people gradually begin to trail away, and lingers until it is just himself and Cobb.
His heart is racing. He pretends he doesn't know why.
"Are you alright?" Cobb asks, as he sits on the edge of his bed, both of them side-by-side. "You've been a little out of it tonight."
Eames draws in air through his nose and shakes his head. "You shouldn't kiss me. Not like that."
Cobb's face twitches through a series of expressions, but he lands on a confused frown. "It was just a joke, Eames."
"I know." And that's the whole point - Eames is the clown and yet he can't put up with jokes against himself, not like that, not about that. He watches as it dawns on Cobb, taking in the slight rise of his eyebrows, his surprise. Shock. Standing up, he wonders if he'll soon find himself looking for a new production to join.
Before he can walk to the door, however, Cobb's hand wraps around his wrist, with no force behind the grasp at all. He leaves it weak so that Eames could break away if he wanted to. "I didn't know," Cobb says, as if that might make anything better.
Eames smiles and wonders if he looks half as bitter as he feels. "I think you're just about the only one who can say that."
Cobb stretches to stand beside him, and he doesn't let go of Eames's wrist, as if he is physically trying to keep him tethered here. Eames could overpower him if it comes to a physical fight, he's always been certain of that - and yet they always get on, always act as if they share thoughts. Even Cobb's bursts of temper are easy to ignore.
He expects Cobb to say something to him, to explain the importance of their friendship, and he is prepared to drown him out - but then there are lips against his mouth once more, nothing playful about it. It might be tentative and gentle and more than a little unsure, but it isn't a joke. Cobb isn't smiling.
Eames's hands spring to the side of Cobb's neck and to his hipbone, holding onto him in case he dared to pull back. He might be a fool as well as a clown, but he wants this to last - he's been dreaming for far too long.
*
At the next night's show, the clown clings to the ringmaster's leg when he is told to leave the ring. The audience laughs, the music plays, and Cobb pats the top of Eames's hat, promising that he can come back later.
Eames gives him a flower for his kindness. It doesn't squint water.
Pairing: Cobb/Eames
Word Count: 1424
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Circus AU written for an inception_kink prompt for cobb_eames's Prompt Filling Friday.
Summary: Everybody knows that the clown has been in love with the ring-master for years.
It's a bloody cliche, that's the problem. One of the problems, anyway, Eames isn't foolish enough to pretend that it is the only one.
'The sad clown'. There are a thousand cheap paintings on the subject.
It's unoriginal and boring and he always tries to be a little more inventive than that. His life is more than a sad print, but these days it isn't. Sitting in front of the mirror, applying his face paint just like he does every night, he isn't staring at the reflection of Cobb in the corner. Nor, for that matter, is he admiring the tall black top hat perched on top of Cobb's head. And he isn't jealous of the way that Arthur gets to talk to him and tease a smile onto his face.
Acrobats. Everybody always loves the acrobats.
The white paint is cold at first as he smothers it over his face, hiding away every speck of tanned skin. The colours will follow later, once the base is ready. He picks up a magazine sitting next to his mirror and leans back, reading old gossip as the paint dries on his face.
"Are you almost ready to go?" Cobb asks, suddenly at his elbow. Eames looks up, eyebrows raised, whitened face turned to the light. "The audience is about to be let in."
"Five minutes," Eames answers. "Give me five minutes."
A pat on his shoulder, hand lingering, and then Cobb is off to check on the other performers, on the lion tamers and dare-devils and dancing girls. Their back-stage tent is alive with familiar tension: they do this every single night, but it's always new. There is always the potential for trouble, always the chance that something might go wrong.
He picks up his brush and unscrews the cap of his red tub of face paint, ready to give himself a mouth. There is a clink and a rattle as Ariadne comes to sit with him, her hula-hoops in hand. She isn't on for another half an hour, always popping out when the audience are flagging half-way through the performance, but she's ready in advance. Show-off and suck-up.
"You should tell him," Ariadne advises, and Eames frowns despite his painted smile. "Seriously. He probably knows already."
"Knows what?" When in doubt, feign ignorance. As a clown, it is easy to get away with it.
"That you're in love with him." She nudges his leg with her foot, and the baggy material of his trousers wobbles. "Everyone else thinks it's funny, Eames. They joke about it."
He knows. He isn't deaf, so - yes - he knows perfectly well that he gets to be the butt of the back-stage jokes. It doesn't matter that he is the one that helped Cobb to build this show, and it doesn't seem to matter that he is the one that designed more than half the acts. He is this show's imagination, but once he puts on his make-up that ceases to be important to everyone. He becomes the punchline.
"I don't laugh," Ariadne promises, voice low and sweet.
He stares into the mirror and watches the clench of his jaw. "I really need to finish getting ready," he tells her, because he can hear the chatter of the crowd now and the rattle of the music and he knows that it will be his grand entrance soon. If he isn't careful, he'll smear his paint.
"Fair enough," Ariadne says, getting to her feet. "But keep it in mind."
It isn't as if he spends a lot of time thinking about anything other than telling Cobb - they travel a lot, and time on the road means time with his thoughts. When he is bored, he can imagine all the various ways that he could break the sorry news. He thinks about being thrown out of the show, or he thinks about kissing Cobb and smearing paint against their skin.
It hardly matters.
The show goes on.
*
Afterwards, make-up mostly cleaned away, the core group retreats to Cobb's caravan where they share beers and tease each other for the night's mistakes: Ariadne dropped a hoop and one of Saito's lions had tried to take Cobb's hat. Every night has its own mishaps, and it's the kind of thing that they celebrate together, cramped into a trailer that is far too small for them all. Ariadne sits on Yusuf's, their fire-eater's, lap, and Robert lies on the top of the bunk-bed to create more space.
"You were great tonight, Eames," Ariadne says, smiling at him with glitter still on her face. "Knocked it right out of the park."
"Less creepy than usual," Arthur agrees.
"You must be the only circus-act I know with a fear of clowns," Eames complains.
"That bit where you were clinging to Cobb's leg, refusing to leave?" Robert grins to himself on the top bunk. "Cobb's face was priceless."
"Warn me next time you decide to go off-script," Cobb says, nudging him in the ribs.
"It's not his fault he's in love with you," Arthur explains - and, dead-pan as always, he sounds too serious. Eames finds himself looking for an excuse to leave early.
Yet he feels Cobb's arm around his shoulders and then fingers against his jaw, turning him to face him - smiling lips against his own, the welcome push of pressure, wolf-whistles from Ariadne. Barely lasts a second before Cobb is gone again, happy crinkles around his eyes as he grins.
Just a joke.
It's all true and it's all just a joke and Eames wonders when his life became as angst-riden as a teenage poem.
The party doesn't last long, due to past visits from the police for noise pollution, and Eames is as normal as can be while they are all there. He babies Ariadne and bickers with Arthur and doesn't think about the feel of Cobb's lips against his own, doesn't dwell on it, can't. He says goodnight when people gradually begin to trail away, and lingers until it is just himself and Cobb.
His heart is racing. He pretends he doesn't know why.
"Are you alright?" Cobb asks, as he sits on the edge of his bed, both of them side-by-side. "You've been a little out of it tonight."
Eames draws in air through his nose and shakes his head. "You shouldn't kiss me. Not like that."
Cobb's face twitches through a series of expressions, but he lands on a confused frown. "It was just a joke, Eames."
"I know." And that's the whole point - Eames is the clown and yet he can't put up with jokes against himself, not like that, not about that. He watches as it dawns on Cobb, taking in the slight rise of his eyebrows, his surprise. Shock. Standing up, he wonders if he'll soon find himself looking for a new production to join.
Before he can walk to the door, however, Cobb's hand wraps around his wrist, with no force behind the grasp at all. He leaves it weak so that Eames could break away if he wanted to. "I didn't know," Cobb says, as if that might make anything better.
Eames smiles and wonders if he looks half as bitter as he feels. "I think you're just about the only one who can say that."
Cobb stretches to stand beside him, and he doesn't let go of Eames's wrist, as if he is physically trying to keep him tethered here. Eames could overpower him if it comes to a physical fight, he's always been certain of that - and yet they always get on, always act as if they share thoughts. Even Cobb's bursts of temper are easy to ignore.
He expects Cobb to say something to him, to explain the importance of their friendship, and he is prepared to drown him out - but then there are lips against his mouth once more, nothing playful about it. It might be tentative and gentle and more than a little unsure, but it isn't a joke. Cobb isn't smiling.
Eames's hands spring to the side of Cobb's neck and to his hipbone, holding onto him in case he dared to pull back. He might be a fool as well as a clown, but he wants this to last - he's been dreaming for far too long.
*
At the next night's show, the clown clings to the ringmaster's leg when he is told to leave the ring. The audience laughs, the music plays, and Cobb pats the top of Eames's hat, promising that he can come back later.
Eames gives him a flower for his kindness. It doesn't squint water.