Fanfic: The Dream is Fraying - Inception
Title: The Dream is Fraying
Author: napalmiris
Fandom: Inception
Pairing/Character: Saito/Fischer
Rating: R
Length: 1248
Warnings: m/m, angst
Summary: After the events of the film, Saito's guilt becomes too much and he visits Fischer.
Disclaimer: They belong to Nolan - I just like playing with them.
Notes: Wow, my first completed fic in like, eight months. Something about Nolan always inspires me, I guess.
The change is gradual, but marked. His stock goes up a hundred and ten percent in a matter of months and future projections are going nowhere but up.
Yet Saito sits through the board meetings, the slides and the presentations and feels nothing.
The papers remark on Fischer’s odd behavior. They question his sanity and make jokes with political cartoons, eyes too big and lips too red as he fumbles through arbitrary decisions and ruins his father’s legacy beyond recognition. Saito feels pangs of guilt he never expected, never would have had if it weren’t for . . .
Every night he dreams of being in his artificial palace, skin wrinkling and spotting, hair thinning and falling out. Decades in the hours between dusk and dawn until he wakes up, disoriented, feeling his face and body to make sure it’s not real.
Almost a year after they planted the idea in Fischer’s mind, and his company is on the verge of bankruptcy. Saito’s never been richer.
___
The skies open up with rumbling thunder and flashes of lightning. Saito stands outside the skyscraper until the pelting rain soaks him to the core. It reminds him of many things, of a cab ride that ended in him shot and the beginning of a purgatory he’ll never escape.
He asks the secretary if he can see Robert Fischer, her eyes staring blankly before punching in the numbers. Half an hour later he’s allowed to go up, the elevator sliding past countless floors until the ding marks his arrival.
Saito is ushered into a boardroom with a ceiling tall as a cathedral’s. A mahogany table large enough to seat three dozen men sits empty in the center, a relic of affluence. A figure stands in front of the floor to ceiling window, the dim, grey sky mirrored on the surface of the table. Fischer turns, his hands behind his back. His smile is a twitch of lips that can’t reach his eyes.
“Mr. Saito. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Saito walks over, each footstep squeaking on the floor with his soaking, three-thousand dollar Italian leather shoes. “You as well, Mr. Fischer.” They shake hands. Fischer’s eyes squint and search Saito’s face. “Have I . . . seen you before?”
“Anyone with a copy of Time or Forbes would know my face.” Saito smiles and hopes Fischer will buy it. Fischer nods, only slightly embarrassed. “Of course. Congratulations, by the way. I hear you’ve been doing quite well.”
“Thank you.”
Fischer walks in front of the window, his gaze returning to the washed-out skyline. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the state of my own company. I . . . suppose it’s seen better days.” Fischer grimaces and turns back to Saito. “What do you want, Mr. Saito?”
The guilt rips through him full force, throbbing with an invisible bullet wound that will never heal. “I want to offer you a job.”
___
They go to dinner and discuss the future. Fischer is reluctant to sell off his company, but they both know he has no other choice. Saito offers him five times what it’s worth, a grand gesture not lost on the young Fischer, who looks at him equal parts relief and regret.
They eat and drink, Fischer giving a tight-lipped toast before swallowing down the white wine. Saito keeps an eye on him as the evening progresses, watches the bottle go from full to half empty, his own glass warm from not touching it.
Fischer’s face is flushed, and he keeps rambling about his father. Saito nods and pretends like he has no idea what he’s talking about.
When Fischer starts crying, Saito pays for the dinner and escorts him out. He clings to Saito like a lifeline, like he’ll somehow drown in his own misery if he lets go for even a moment.
The cab drive finds Fischer half asleep and curled next to Saito, jolted awake every few minutes with panic in his eyes. They arrive at a hotel, chic and high-end but discrete. The man at the front desk doesn’t so much as bat an eye when Saito asks for a room with one bed, and after the expense is put on his tab he slips him a hundred just to make sure.
Saito has no idea what he’s doing. He goes to this place when the monotony and his wife and his responsibilities become too much. He’s had women from every corner of every country laying where Fischer is now, sprawled out on the bed and staring up at him. But unlike those women, Saito feels something for Fischer, an obligation tinged with shame. Fifty years trapped in a dream world with nothing to do but think and create, where plans and schemes mean nothing and you just are. Saito had more than enough time to consider what he had done, the consequences of his actions. How little it truly matters in the grand scheme of things.
Loosening his tie, Saito joins Fischer on the bed. Lies beside him and watches his blue eyes scan the ceiling like the stucco holds an answer.
“What have I done.” Whispers Fischer, a single tear sliding down his temple. Saito sighs and wipes the tear away. “I’m sorry.” He says, almost too low for Fischer to hear. Fischer turns his head and looks at Saito, but there’s no recognition there. No blame, no anger. Just desperation.
Saito kisses him because it’s all he can do. Confessing would crush Robert into a thousand pieces, dust and blood passing through Saito’s fingers. More pain than the man could contain, so he runs his lips along Robert’s jaw, his throat. He takes his time and unbuttons his shirt, licks along the heated, perfect skin. Robert’s breathing becomes labored, harsh, body arching into Saito when he finally removes pressed, tailored slacks. Saito presses open-mouthed kisses to the inside of Robert’s thighs, savors every gasp and whimper.
By the time Saito finally grasps Robert, the man is writhing, quietly pleading and clutching the sheets hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Like everything else Saito takes his time, his grip firm as he slides it up an down, drawing out the pleasure as long as he can. Robert spreads his legs, hands abandoning the sheets to grip the one Saito has wrapped around him. Their eyes meet, and in that moment, in the span of a blink, Saito’s revealed himself.
The moment passes as soon as it came, and Robert is moaning Saito’s name and throwing his head back, body tensing and warmth spilling over Saito’s fingers.
Saito goes to the bathroom and retrieves a hand towel, runs it under a warm tap and returns to the bed. He gently runs the cloth over Robert’s skin, like the cleansing of a body before a burial.
Only when he feels a hand touch his face does Saito realize he’s crying. Robert stares at him, but that moment of recognition is gone. Empathy has taken its place, and if Robert only knew why he feels for Saito in this moment, it would destroy them both.
Saito leans into the hand, then lets himself be pulled forward, until Robert is kissing the tears off his cheeks, a final press of his lips to Saito’s that jolts him out of his despair.
They spend the rest of the night wrapped around one another, waking from nightmares that are too real into a world they want to forget.
Sue ikki
mi hatenu yume no
hotsure kana
This final scene I'll not see
to the end . . . my dream
is fraying.
Author: napalmiris
Fandom: Inception
Pairing/Character: Saito/Fischer
Rating: R
Length: 1248
Warnings: m/m, angst
Summary: After the events of the film, Saito's guilt becomes too much and he visits Fischer.
Disclaimer: They belong to Nolan - I just like playing with them.
Notes: Wow, my first completed fic in like, eight months. Something about Nolan always inspires me, I guess.
The change is gradual, but marked. His stock goes up a hundred and ten percent in a matter of months and future projections are going nowhere but up.
Yet Saito sits through the board meetings, the slides and the presentations and feels nothing.
The papers remark on Fischer’s odd behavior. They question his sanity and make jokes with political cartoons, eyes too big and lips too red as he fumbles through arbitrary decisions and ruins his father’s legacy beyond recognition. Saito feels pangs of guilt he never expected, never would have had if it weren’t for . . .
Every night he dreams of being in his artificial palace, skin wrinkling and spotting, hair thinning and falling out. Decades in the hours between dusk and dawn until he wakes up, disoriented, feeling his face and body to make sure it’s not real.
Almost a year after they planted the idea in Fischer’s mind, and his company is on the verge of bankruptcy. Saito’s never been richer.
___
The skies open up with rumbling thunder and flashes of lightning. Saito stands outside the skyscraper until the pelting rain soaks him to the core. It reminds him of many things, of a cab ride that ended in him shot and the beginning of a purgatory he’ll never escape.
He asks the secretary if he can see Robert Fischer, her eyes staring blankly before punching in the numbers. Half an hour later he’s allowed to go up, the elevator sliding past countless floors until the ding marks his arrival.
Saito is ushered into a boardroom with a ceiling tall as a cathedral’s. A mahogany table large enough to seat three dozen men sits empty in the center, a relic of affluence. A figure stands in front of the floor to ceiling window, the dim, grey sky mirrored on the surface of the table. Fischer turns, his hands behind his back. His smile is a twitch of lips that can’t reach his eyes.
“Mr. Saito. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Saito walks over, each footstep squeaking on the floor with his soaking, three-thousand dollar Italian leather shoes. “You as well, Mr. Fischer.” They shake hands. Fischer’s eyes squint and search Saito’s face. “Have I . . . seen you before?”
“Anyone with a copy of Time or Forbes would know my face.” Saito smiles and hopes Fischer will buy it. Fischer nods, only slightly embarrassed. “Of course. Congratulations, by the way. I hear you’ve been doing quite well.”
“Thank you.”
Fischer walks in front of the window, his gaze returning to the washed-out skyline. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the state of my own company. I . . . suppose it’s seen better days.” Fischer grimaces and turns back to Saito. “What do you want, Mr. Saito?”
The guilt rips through him full force, throbbing with an invisible bullet wound that will never heal. “I want to offer you a job.”
___
They go to dinner and discuss the future. Fischer is reluctant to sell off his company, but they both know he has no other choice. Saito offers him five times what it’s worth, a grand gesture not lost on the young Fischer, who looks at him equal parts relief and regret.
They eat and drink, Fischer giving a tight-lipped toast before swallowing down the white wine. Saito keeps an eye on him as the evening progresses, watches the bottle go from full to half empty, his own glass warm from not touching it.
Fischer’s face is flushed, and he keeps rambling about his father. Saito nods and pretends like he has no idea what he’s talking about.
When Fischer starts crying, Saito pays for the dinner and escorts him out. He clings to Saito like a lifeline, like he’ll somehow drown in his own misery if he lets go for even a moment.
The cab drive finds Fischer half asleep and curled next to Saito, jolted awake every few minutes with panic in his eyes. They arrive at a hotel, chic and high-end but discrete. The man at the front desk doesn’t so much as bat an eye when Saito asks for a room with one bed, and after the expense is put on his tab he slips him a hundred just to make sure.
Saito has no idea what he’s doing. He goes to this place when the monotony and his wife and his responsibilities become too much. He’s had women from every corner of every country laying where Fischer is now, sprawled out on the bed and staring up at him. But unlike those women, Saito feels something for Fischer, an obligation tinged with shame. Fifty years trapped in a dream world with nothing to do but think and create, where plans and schemes mean nothing and you just are. Saito had more than enough time to consider what he had done, the consequences of his actions. How little it truly matters in the grand scheme of things.
Loosening his tie, Saito joins Fischer on the bed. Lies beside him and watches his blue eyes scan the ceiling like the stucco holds an answer.
“What have I done.” Whispers Fischer, a single tear sliding down his temple. Saito sighs and wipes the tear away. “I’m sorry.” He says, almost too low for Fischer to hear. Fischer turns his head and looks at Saito, but there’s no recognition there. No blame, no anger. Just desperation.
Saito kisses him because it’s all he can do. Confessing would crush Robert into a thousand pieces, dust and blood passing through Saito’s fingers. More pain than the man could contain, so he runs his lips along Robert’s jaw, his throat. He takes his time and unbuttons his shirt, licks along the heated, perfect skin. Robert’s breathing becomes labored, harsh, body arching into Saito when he finally removes pressed, tailored slacks. Saito presses open-mouthed kisses to the inside of Robert’s thighs, savors every gasp and whimper.
By the time Saito finally grasps Robert, the man is writhing, quietly pleading and clutching the sheets hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Like everything else Saito takes his time, his grip firm as he slides it up an down, drawing out the pleasure as long as he can. Robert spreads his legs, hands abandoning the sheets to grip the one Saito has wrapped around him. Their eyes meet, and in that moment, in the span of a blink, Saito’s revealed himself.
The moment passes as soon as it came, and Robert is moaning Saito’s name and throwing his head back, body tensing and warmth spilling over Saito’s fingers.
Saito goes to the bathroom and retrieves a hand towel, runs it under a warm tap and returns to the bed. He gently runs the cloth over Robert’s skin, like the cleansing of a body before a burial.
Only when he feels a hand touch his face does Saito realize he’s crying. Robert stares at him, but that moment of recognition is gone. Empathy has taken its place, and if Robert only knew why he feels for Saito in this moment, it would destroy them both.
Saito leans into the hand, then lets himself be pulled forward, until Robert is kissing the tears off his cheeks, a final press of his lips to Saito’s that jolts him out of his despair.
They spend the rest of the night wrapped around one another, waking from nightmares that are too real into a world they want to forget.
Sue ikki
mi hatenu yume no
hotsure kana
This final scene I'll not see
to the end . . . my dream
is fraying.