Light My Candle
Title: Light My Candle
Author: fallslowoften
Beta: The very lovely readthemedia
Word Count: 2,055
Rating: PG-13 for self-harm and Playboy
Pairing/s: Arthur/Eames
Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort.
Disclaimer: Not mine, etc.
Summary: Arthur, a good little Catholic boy, is gay and homophobic at the same time. Eames is his downfall; at least, that’s the way Arthur sees it.
***
“Arthur, I love you.”
The room spins. Arthur stands there with fists clenched, breathing quickly, forcing himself not to move.
“Please, please say you love me too. I’m in love with you, Arthur.”
“No you’re not!” he cries childishly, clapping his hands over his ears and shutting his eyes. The world is crashing down around them, the walls burning down and black smoke choking the air, but he feels his hands pried away by thick fingers and suddenly Eames is holding them in his own, whispering, “I am, I am, I am. I know you loved me first.” And it’s so soothing.
He opens his eyes and instantly he’s dizzy with want. He wants to do unspeakable things to this man. He loves him so, so much. And Eames is just as wrong as he is.
I am a horrible person, he thinks as he lets Eames hold him close to his chest. I am wrong and unnatural and I’m going against nature and God hates me. I’m a sinner. A worthless sinner. A sob escapes his lips and Eames tips his head up with two fingers and kisses him, and it feels so right.
Another man.
What is wrong with me?
The flames reach them, consume their skin. The smoke invades their airways and then a huge roar of fire engulfs them in a wave of pain.
Arthur wakes up in a cold sweat.
***
The first time, he’s fourteen. It’s a lazy summer and his best friend Toby has invited him round. They close the blinds, lock the door, and turn out all the lights save their torches, because Toby says he has a surprise for both of them.
Arthur squints in the dark at what Toby’s taking out from his bedside drawer. “I stole it from my dad’s bedroom,” he says proudly. “It’s only for adults, but fourteen’s a pretty grown-up age.”
Switching on his torch, Arthur stares down at it. It’s a magazine, and as Toby excitedly flips the pages he sees picture after picture of naked women.
He supposes Toby’s just curious. He’s looking at those stupid blonde models, looking at their lush curves and the soft hair between their legs, and he’s wondering why anyone apart from a doctor would want to look at them. He certainly doesn’t find them attractive.
***
He must be punished.
A small flame in the darkness of his bedroom. He slides apart the gap between his T-shirt and jeans, exposing cool skin. Rubs a thumb over his hip.
The lighter hurts even more than the matches did.
Good, he thinks.
***
“Eames, could I have one of those?”
The forger looks up. His hair is slicked back, and today his shirt is the colour of salmon. Oddly, it suits him. He strolls over to Arthur and passes him a mini muffin, and for a moment their hands touch.
It’s like electricity; like fire coursing through his body. Eames pulls back, a question on his lips, but decides against it and walks away.
Arthur drops his gaze. He’s not sure whether he likes all of this touching, the pet names, the sticky eyes across the room. He knows it feels good. But there’s this voice ringing in his head, a constant scolding: should-not-should-not-should-not. What he feels is wrong. It doesn’t exist.
“Cobb, can you pass me the Browning folder?” asks Eames. Cobb chucks it over his shoulder as if it’s weightless, and it lands with a spin at Eames’s feet. He bends down to pick it up, his back arching, his trousers taut over his rear end. Arthur watches him silently.
Bend with your knees, he thinks. Always look before you cross the road. Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.
***
Arthur’s eight years old. His father turns the Bible pages for him and he reads happily, swinging his legs underneath the table. He reads a passage and frowns. “Daddy,” he asks, running his finger along the passage in question, “what does this one mean?”
He can hear his father grow uncomfortable. “It means that two men should not marry, or kiss like I kiss Mummy, or hold hands.” His father spins his chair around and places his hands on his shoulders. “Artie, there are some people in this world who choose to sin against the Bible. There are men who decide to do unholy things together. They are terrible sinners. Do you understand?” he asks, eyes wide with wisdom.
“Yes, Daddy.” Arthur beams back at him, nodding furiously.
His father gives him a smile and prompts, “And what will happen to them?”
“They will be struck by God, Daddy!” He swings his legs again and chirps, “And they shall all go to Hell!”
***
And they shall all go to Hell.
Arthur quietly excuses himself from the main room of the warehouse and slips silently into the bathroom. He stares into the mirror, hands trembling. Stares at his reflection, at his wandering eyes, at his hungry lips, at the bulge in his trousers which definitely should not be there.
You can still make things right, Arthur, he tells himself. You can still find the right girl, marry a nice woman with lovely eyes, just like your father wanted.
But he knows he can’t.
He remembers when he was fourteen and flipping through his first Playboy. Seventeen and playing Seven Minutes In Heaven with his girlfriend. Even then, he didn’t feel a thing.
Not like this.
Not like when Eames touches him and he feels like dancing around the room to Hall & Oates. Not like when their eyes meet and his cheeks go red and his heart beats faster. Not like when he sits in his bedroom at night, jerking back and forth into his hand, thinking of shiny dark hair and a salmon-coloured shirt.
I loathe you. He punches the mirror and it shivers.
Curling against the corner of a stall, he pulls out the lighter and castigates his sin.
***
The second time, he’s seventeen. His girlfriend is pressed up against him and they’re in a dark closet at a nameless party. 7 Minnets in Hevn is scrawled on the door. Her lips are smushed up against his like wet fish. Her lipgloss stinks of strawberries.
“Come on, Artie,” she croons, running her fingers through his hair. “Loosen up.” Her hand travels between them and cups around his crotch. She frowns.
“Why aren’t you happy to see me?” she purrs. Her braces chink against each other when she talks. Her eyes are absolutely, positively lovely.
Yes, why?
He pushes away from her and steps out of the closet, runs away into the brightness of the corridor. They break up the next day, and Arthur spends a week poring over the Bible, trying to find some reassurance that what he feels is okay.
***
“Arthur.”
He looks up. Cobb’s gone home, Yusuf’s gone to buy more chemicals, and Ariadne’s visiting a friend. Eames stands in front of his desk, his head cocked to the side, concerned. “Are you alright?” he asks softly. His voice is like music.
No, Arthur wants to say. I’m a sinner and a degenerate and I wish I wasn’t. I am not alright, and I’m never going to be alright. I am all wrong. But he just nods stiffly and keeps his eyes to the files he’s reading.
“Now, why is that so hard to believe?” Eames yawns and takes a seat on the edge of the desk. “You haven’t even called me an idiot today. I know something’s up.”
“Rest assured, you’re the last person I’d tell,” Arthur says flatly, dragging his eyes away from the thigh on the desk in front of him.
Rolling his eyes, Eames chuckles. “Well, darling, nobody else has thought anything of it. I asked the others and they all think you’re fine. I just wanted to make sure.”
Arthur sighs and lets his head rest in his hands. “Just good old Christian guilt, I guess,” he says.
“Oh, I’ve had plenty of that,” replies Eames, a faraway look in his eyes.
Putting his files back in the drawer, Arthur gets up. “Now, why is that so hard to believe?” he mocks.
“I know, I know. But the past ten years have been hell.” Eames glances away, out the window. His voice is quiet, regretful. “I came out to my parents when I was twenty, and they still haven’t forgiven me.”
The words take a long moment to register in Arthur’s brain, and then heat screams through his body in ways he’d never felt before. His fists clench.
You’re an abomination too and I love you.
The lighter feels heavy in his pocket. Eames is standing before him with a funny look on his face, like he’s about to say something, but then Arthur suddenly spins on his heels and runs to the bathroom, his heartbeat and his conscience crashing about in his ears.
“Bloody homophobes,” mutters Eames under his breath, and he watches Arthur go. Unbeknownst to him, he slowly starts to follow in his direction.
When he hears the scream, he runs.
***
“I hate you.” This time, the mirror shatters. He leaves his hand by the impact site, letting the shards slice tiny cuts in the skin, because he deserves everything he’s getting. “I hate you!” he screams.
Suddenly Arthur realizes that he’s not even talking to himself anymore. He slams his head back against the wall and throws his stare skywards. “I hate you, dearest wonderfullest Lord of everything that’s good,” he snaps. “I hate you. I can love who I want. You’ve no right to keep me from falling in love. Get over yourself, you big fat know-it-all.”
His hand throbs with pain. “But I have to be punished for what I’ve done under your wing,” he adds bitterly. He brings out the lighter one last time, rolls up his sleeve, closes his eyes, flicks the flame open -
“Arthur, for God’s sake, don’t!” His head snaps up.
It’s Eames, standing in the doorway, looking very awkward. “Well, um, for my sake,” he amends.
He takes three long strides forward and he’s wrapping his arms around Arthur before he has a chance to speak. “I love you, darling, please don’t,” he breathes.
I love you, darling, please don’t.
I love you, darling, please don’t.
A stream of sunset light widens through a chink in the frosted glass window.
Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.
Eames loves him.
Eames has no regrets.
Why should he?
“I love you.” The words fall from Arthur’s lips before he has a chance to stifle them. More follow, dropping like stones into the cold air. “I’ve always loved you.”
Eames nuzzles his nose into the smoothness of Arthur’s hair. “Do you want to go get dinner?”
Arthur laughs. “I just told you I’m gay for you and you’re acting rather matter-of-fact about it,” he remarks, curling his palms around Eames’s neck, breathing in the warmth of his body.
“Well, darling, I’m still in shock!” chuckles Eames. He leans away from a moment, smiles like it’s the first time his eyes have opened, and then his lips are on Arthur’s in a deep kiss and it is absolutely, positively perfect.
The lighter is lying in wait on the counter, but Arthur doesn’t care. He’s okay with all of this touching, the pet names, the sticky eyes across the room, their hands in each others’ hair as their lips loosen and their tongues meet. He knows it feels good. There’s this voice ringing in his head: GoArthurGoArthurGoArthur! What he feels is perfect, existent, right.
“The Italian place on the corner?” asks Eames. Arthur grins and slides his arm around his back.
With a nonchalant swipe of his fingers, he picks up the lighter. Examines it from a distance, takes in its hellish glint, everything that’s ever brought him down. He chucks it over his shoulder as if it’s weightless, and it lands with a spin over the drain. Eames’s eyes are misting over and he exits to get their bags, his trousers tight against his legs. Arthur watches him silently.
Bend with your knees, he thinks. Always look before you cross the road. Love is equal and boundless; nobody can ever take that away.
Author: fallslowoften
Beta: The very lovely readthemedia
Word Count: 2,055
Rating: PG-13 for self-harm and Playboy
Pairing/s: Arthur/Eames
Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort.
Disclaimer: Not mine, etc.
Summary: Arthur, a good little Catholic boy, is gay and homophobic at the same time. Eames is his downfall; at least, that’s the way Arthur sees it.
***
“Arthur, I love you.”
The room spins. Arthur stands there with fists clenched, breathing quickly, forcing himself not to move.
“Please, please say you love me too. I’m in love with you, Arthur.”
“No you’re not!” he cries childishly, clapping his hands over his ears and shutting his eyes. The world is crashing down around them, the walls burning down and black smoke choking the air, but he feels his hands pried away by thick fingers and suddenly Eames is holding them in his own, whispering, “I am, I am, I am. I know you loved me first.” And it’s so soothing.
He opens his eyes and instantly he’s dizzy with want. He wants to do unspeakable things to this man. He loves him so, so much. And Eames is just as wrong as he is.
I am a horrible person, he thinks as he lets Eames hold him close to his chest. I am wrong and unnatural and I’m going against nature and God hates me. I’m a sinner. A worthless sinner. A sob escapes his lips and Eames tips his head up with two fingers and kisses him, and it feels so right.
Another man.
What is wrong with me?
The flames reach them, consume their skin. The smoke invades their airways and then a huge roar of fire engulfs them in a wave of pain.
Arthur wakes up in a cold sweat.
***
The first time, he’s fourteen. It’s a lazy summer and his best friend Toby has invited him round. They close the blinds, lock the door, and turn out all the lights save their torches, because Toby says he has a surprise for both of them.
Arthur squints in the dark at what Toby’s taking out from his bedside drawer. “I stole it from my dad’s bedroom,” he says proudly. “It’s only for adults, but fourteen’s a pretty grown-up age.”
Switching on his torch, Arthur stares down at it. It’s a magazine, and as Toby excitedly flips the pages he sees picture after picture of naked women.
He supposes Toby’s just curious. He’s looking at those stupid blonde models, looking at their lush curves and the soft hair between their legs, and he’s wondering why anyone apart from a doctor would want to look at them. He certainly doesn’t find them attractive.
***
He must be punished.
A small flame in the darkness of his bedroom. He slides apart the gap between his T-shirt and jeans, exposing cool skin. Rubs a thumb over his hip.
The lighter hurts even more than the matches did.
Good, he thinks.
***
“Eames, could I have one of those?”
The forger looks up. His hair is slicked back, and today his shirt is the colour of salmon. Oddly, it suits him. He strolls over to Arthur and passes him a mini muffin, and for a moment their hands touch.
It’s like electricity; like fire coursing through his body. Eames pulls back, a question on his lips, but decides against it and walks away.
Arthur drops his gaze. He’s not sure whether he likes all of this touching, the pet names, the sticky eyes across the room. He knows it feels good. But there’s this voice ringing in his head, a constant scolding: should-not-should-not-should-not. What he feels is wrong. It doesn’t exist.
“Cobb, can you pass me the Browning folder?” asks Eames. Cobb chucks it over his shoulder as if it’s weightless, and it lands with a spin at Eames’s feet. He bends down to pick it up, his back arching, his trousers taut over his rear end. Arthur watches him silently.
Bend with your knees, he thinks. Always look before you cross the road. Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.
***
Arthur’s eight years old. His father turns the Bible pages for him and he reads happily, swinging his legs underneath the table. He reads a passage and frowns. “Daddy,” he asks, running his finger along the passage in question, “what does this one mean?”
He can hear his father grow uncomfortable. “It means that two men should not marry, or kiss like I kiss Mummy, or hold hands.” His father spins his chair around and places his hands on his shoulders. “Artie, there are some people in this world who choose to sin against the Bible. There are men who decide to do unholy things together. They are terrible sinners. Do you understand?” he asks, eyes wide with wisdom.
“Yes, Daddy.” Arthur beams back at him, nodding furiously.
His father gives him a smile and prompts, “And what will happen to them?”
“They will be struck by God, Daddy!” He swings his legs again and chirps, “And they shall all go to Hell!”
***
And they shall all go to Hell.
Arthur quietly excuses himself from the main room of the warehouse and slips silently into the bathroom. He stares into the mirror, hands trembling. Stares at his reflection, at his wandering eyes, at his hungry lips, at the bulge in his trousers which definitely should not be there.
You can still make things right, Arthur, he tells himself. You can still find the right girl, marry a nice woman with lovely eyes, just like your father wanted.
But he knows he can’t.
He remembers when he was fourteen and flipping through his first Playboy. Seventeen and playing Seven Minutes In Heaven with his girlfriend. Even then, he didn’t feel a thing.
Not like this.
Not like when Eames touches him and he feels like dancing around the room to Hall & Oates. Not like when their eyes meet and his cheeks go red and his heart beats faster. Not like when he sits in his bedroom at night, jerking back and forth into his hand, thinking of shiny dark hair and a salmon-coloured shirt.
I loathe you. He punches the mirror and it shivers.
Curling against the corner of a stall, he pulls out the lighter and castigates his sin.
***
The second time, he’s seventeen. His girlfriend is pressed up against him and they’re in a dark closet at a nameless party. 7 Minnets in Hevn is scrawled on the door. Her lips are smushed up against his like wet fish. Her lipgloss stinks of strawberries.
“Come on, Artie,” she croons, running her fingers through his hair. “Loosen up.” Her hand travels between them and cups around his crotch. She frowns.
“Why aren’t you happy to see me?” she purrs. Her braces chink against each other when she talks. Her eyes are absolutely, positively lovely.
Yes, why?
He pushes away from her and steps out of the closet, runs away into the brightness of the corridor. They break up the next day, and Arthur spends a week poring over the Bible, trying to find some reassurance that what he feels is okay.
***
“Arthur.”
He looks up. Cobb’s gone home, Yusuf’s gone to buy more chemicals, and Ariadne’s visiting a friend. Eames stands in front of his desk, his head cocked to the side, concerned. “Are you alright?” he asks softly. His voice is like music.
No, Arthur wants to say. I’m a sinner and a degenerate and I wish I wasn’t. I am not alright, and I’m never going to be alright. I am all wrong. But he just nods stiffly and keeps his eyes to the files he’s reading.
“Now, why is that so hard to believe?” Eames yawns and takes a seat on the edge of the desk. “You haven’t even called me an idiot today. I know something’s up.”
“Rest assured, you’re the last person I’d tell,” Arthur says flatly, dragging his eyes away from the thigh on the desk in front of him.
Rolling his eyes, Eames chuckles. “Well, darling, nobody else has thought anything of it. I asked the others and they all think you’re fine. I just wanted to make sure.”
Arthur sighs and lets his head rest in his hands. “Just good old Christian guilt, I guess,” he says.
“Oh, I’ve had plenty of that,” replies Eames, a faraway look in his eyes.
Putting his files back in the drawer, Arthur gets up. “Now, why is that so hard to believe?” he mocks.
“I know, I know. But the past ten years have been hell.” Eames glances away, out the window. His voice is quiet, regretful. “I came out to my parents when I was twenty, and they still haven’t forgiven me.”
The words take a long moment to register in Arthur’s brain, and then heat screams through his body in ways he’d never felt before. His fists clench.
You’re an abomination too and I love you.
The lighter feels heavy in his pocket. Eames is standing before him with a funny look on his face, like he’s about to say something, but then Arthur suddenly spins on his heels and runs to the bathroom, his heartbeat and his conscience crashing about in his ears.
“Bloody homophobes,” mutters Eames under his breath, and he watches Arthur go. Unbeknownst to him, he slowly starts to follow in his direction.
When he hears the scream, he runs.
***
“I hate you.” This time, the mirror shatters. He leaves his hand by the impact site, letting the shards slice tiny cuts in the skin, because he deserves everything he’s getting. “I hate you!” he screams.
Suddenly Arthur realizes that he’s not even talking to himself anymore. He slams his head back against the wall and throws his stare skywards. “I hate you, dearest wonderfullest Lord of everything that’s good,” he snaps. “I hate you. I can love who I want. You’ve no right to keep me from falling in love. Get over yourself, you big fat know-it-all.”
His hand throbs with pain. “But I have to be punished for what I’ve done under your wing,” he adds bitterly. He brings out the lighter one last time, rolls up his sleeve, closes his eyes, flicks the flame open -
“Arthur, for God’s sake, don’t!” His head snaps up.
It’s Eames, standing in the doorway, looking very awkward. “Well, um, for my sake,” he amends.
He takes three long strides forward and he’s wrapping his arms around Arthur before he has a chance to speak. “I love you, darling, please don’t,” he breathes.
I love you, darling, please don’t.
I love you, darling, please don’t.
A stream of sunset light widens through a chink in the frosted glass window.
Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.
Eames loves him.
Eames has no regrets.
Why should he?
“I love you.” The words fall from Arthur’s lips before he has a chance to stifle them. More follow, dropping like stones into the cold air. “I’ve always loved you.”
Eames nuzzles his nose into the smoothness of Arthur’s hair. “Do you want to go get dinner?”
Arthur laughs. “I just told you I’m gay for you and you’re acting rather matter-of-fact about it,” he remarks, curling his palms around Eames’s neck, breathing in the warmth of his body.
“Well, darling, I’m still in shock!” chuckles Eames. He leans away from a moment, smiles like it’s the first time his eyes have opened, and then his lips are on Arthur’s in a deep kiss and it is absolutely, positively perfect.
The lighter is lying in wait on the counter, but Arthur doesn’t care. He’s okay with all of this touching, the pet names, the sticky eyes across the room, their hands in each others’ hair as their lips loosen and their tongues meet. He knows it feels good. There’s this voice ringing in his head: GoArthurGoArthurGoArthur! What he feels is perfect, existent, right.
“The Italian place on the corner?” asks Eames. Arthur grins and slides his arm around his back.
With a nonchalant swipe of his fingers, he picks up the lighter. Examines it from a distance, takes in its hellish glint, everything that’s ever brought him down. He chucks it over his shoulder as if it’s weightless, and it lands with a spin over the drain. Eames’s eyes are misting over and he exits to get their bags, his trousers tight against his legs. Arthur watches him silently.
Bend with your knees, he thinks. Always look before you cross the road. Love is equal and boundless; nobody can ever take that away.