[FIC] Silent Film - R - 702
Title: Silent Film
Author: koushi
Pairing: Eames/Robert
Rating: R
Word count: 702
Disclaimer: I do not own Inception or any of its characters.
Prompt: Written for the prompt, cuckolding: Robert thinks he's ok with it but he's not, emotional h/c.
Warnings: Cuckolding, angst.
Robert glanced up at the clock. 4:30 AM and he hadn’t slept a wink.
The last few nights had been no different. Despite his fervent attempts to ward off the thoughts chanting in his head, he found them winning over each time. It was easier that way, succumbing to the negativity. It was dark and inky-oddly comforting. Immersed, he could distance himself from the realities. The most harrowing of which being that he didn’t remember what Eames tasted like. When they kissed, there was always the scent of someone else on his lips.
His eyes would occasionally start drooping, but then he’d shake himself awake. It was a test of will, a game he’d played with himself since he was a child. Get good marks this quarter and mother will come home. But instead it was he who had to make the visits, laying flowers next to her headstone. Get admitted to a top tier business school and father will smile at you. But instead he twitched his mustache in that way he always did and said acridly, “Good to see that the Fischer name is still hard currency.”
Wait up for him tonight, and he’ll stay for good, he promised himself one last time. He knew there was nothing out there to validate his superstitions, but still Robert held on faithfully. It never hurt to try, did it?
Oh, but it did. Every glimmer of hope extinguished by a lipstick-tinged collar in the wash, a phone number written on a napkin, a caller who sat in awkward silence and peeped “wrong number” before the line went dead. He tried to tell himself it was okay, tried to will it away, but every sign was a reaffirmation of just how little he meant to Eames.
“It’s work,” Eames would say with that falsely reassuring smile. “Our clients are very demanding; you know how it goes.” And Robert would smile back, even though he knew he couldn’t forge confidence nearly as well as Eames. When they fucked, he wondered if Eames could see him or if he looked right past him. When they held each other, post-coitus, Robert wondered how many miles away his thoughts lay.
Being insignificant was nothing new to him exactly. Time and time again he was relegated to a supporting role, a forgotten face cast off by the limelight. But this was the first time he’d slipped. Slipped and let himself truly believe that this time things would be different, that trusting someone wasn’t just the express route to crushing disappointment.
When the lock turned at the door, Robert was already powdered and prepped like an classic Hollywood starlet, complete with plastic smile, ready to again grace the silver screen. He had become an expert at donning that mellifluous get-up by now, with a familiarity that rivaled Eames’ best disguise. “How sweet you are, Robert,” his mother had always said. And here he was, saccharin, a sugar-coated cyanide pill.
He was at the door when it opened, to Eames standing there on the dimly lit step with an uncharacteristic sheepishness. His bottom-down shirt and trousers were soaked, a probable result of the rain shower earlier in the night.
“You’re going to catch pneumonia out there, Eames,” Robert said, motioning him to come in.
Instead Eames pulled out from behind his back a humble bouquet wrapped in green tissue paper, the kind you’d buy at the 24-hour drug store in a cheap attempt to mollify an inconsolable significant other. Half of the rose petals were already darkened and wilting, probably the last one they had left. The bottom of the pile.
“Happy Anniversary.”
Robert... Robert thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He stepped forward and kissed Eames, who tasted like nothing but the rain. Pulling away suddenly in surprise, he studied his love’s face, wiped clean of all remnants of the masquerade.
As Robert’s eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm for the first time in months, Eames smiled wearily, mustering an apologetic look that said, “I’m trying.”
Robert took him by the hand with his own trembling fingers and guided him into their home, letting the front door shut behind them. I know… I know.
Author: koushi
Pairing: Eames/Robert
Rating: R
Word count: 702
Disclaimer: I do not own Inception or any of its characters.
Prompt: Written for the prompt, cuckolding: Robert thinks he's ok with it but he's not, emotional h/c.
Warnings: Cuckolding, angst.
Robert glanced up at the clock. 4:30 AM and he hadn’t slept a wink.
The last few nights had been no different. Despite his fervent attempts to ward off the thoughts chanting in his head, he found them winning over each time. It was easier that way, succumbing to the negativity. It was dark and inky-oddly comforting. Immersed, he could distance himself from the realities. The most harrowing of which being that he didn’t remember what Eames tasted like. When they kissed, there was always the scent of someone else on his lips.
His eyes would occasionally start drooping, but then he’d shake himself awake. It was a test of will, a game he’d played with himself since he was a child. Get good marks this quarter and mother will come home. But instead it was he who had to make the visits, laying flowers next to her headstone. Get admitted to a top tier business school and father will smile at you. But instead he twitched his mustache in that way he always did and said acridly, “Good to see that the Fischer name is still hard currency.”
Wait up for him tonight, and he’ll stay for good, he promised himself one last time. He knew there was nothing out there to validate his superstitions, but still Robert held on faithfully. It never hurt to try, did it?
Oh, but it did. Every glimmer of hope extinguished by a lipstick-tinged collar in the wash, a phone number written on a napkin, a caller who sat in awkward silence and peeped “wrong number” before the line went dead. He tried to tell himself it was okay, tried to will it away, but every sign was a reaffirmation of just how little he meant to Eames.
“It’s work,” Eames would say with that falsely reassuring smile. “Our clients are very demanding; you know how it goes.” And Robert would smile back, even though he knew he couldn’t forge confidence nearly as well as Eames. When they fucked, he wondered if Eames could see him or if he looked right past him. When they held each other, post-coitus, Robert wondered how many miles away his thoughts lay.
Being insignificant was nothing new to him exactly. Time and time again he was relegated to a supporting role, a forgotten face cast off by the limelight. But this was the first time he’d slipped. Slipped and let himself truly believe that this time things would be different, that trusting someone wasn’t just the express route to crushing disappointment.
When the lock turned at the door, Robert was already powdered and prepped like an classic Hollywood starlet, complete with plastic smile, ready to again grace the silver screen. He had become an expert at donning that mellifluous get-up by now, with a familiarity that rivaled Eames’ best disguise. “How sweet you are, Robert,” his mother had always said. And here he was, saccharin, a sugar-coated cyanide pill.
He was at the door when it opened, to Eames standing there on the dimly lit step with an uncharacteristic sheepishness. His bottom-down shirt and trousers were soaked, a probable result of the rain shower earlier in the night.
“You’re going to catch pneumonia out there, Eames,” Robert said, motioning him to come in.
Instead Eames pulled out from behind his back a humble bouquet wrapped in green tissue paper, the kind you’d buy at the 24-hour drug store in a cheap attempt to mollify an inconsolable significant other. Half of the rose petals were already darkened and wilting, probably the last one they had left. The bottom of the pile.
“Happy Anniversary.”
Robert... Robert thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He stepped forward and kissed Eames, who tasted like nothing but the rain. Pulling away suddenly in surprise, he studied his love’s face, wiped clean of all remnants of the masquerade.
As Robert’s eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm for the first time in months, Eames smiled wearily, mustering an apologetic look that said, “I’m trying.”
Robert took him by the hand with his own trembling fingers and guided him into their home, letting the front door shut behind them. I know… I know.