[Inception fic] burn it all and start from ash
For this prompt on the kink meme: community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/4946.html
Title: burn it all and start from ash
Fandom: Inception
Disclaimer: Characters and setting aren't mine, thanks.
Author: saintdogstreet
Pairings/Warnings: Arthur/Cobb. Language, sexual situations, child abuse and other nasties. Bit dark.
This is the world, Arthur, his mother says to him, the real world. The pretend world. The dream world and nightmare world and wake-me-up-when-it's-over world.
Arthur isn't sure what she means, if she's talking about their grey clapboard house at the end of Hatter St. or the house in her head or the puddles of gasoline on each step. She wants to burn the staircase down. She wants to renovate. She wants new stairs, stairs that go up and stairs that go down and stairs that go nowhere at all.
She's standing barefoot on the top step, wearing a flannel shirt with paint clinging to it, her hair uncombed around her face and thick shadows under her eyes. She's ripping matches out of a book one by one and letting them drop, unlit, to the carpet. Arthur's on the first floor, looking up to her, and he's not sure he's going to be able to get to her before she remembers she needs to light them to properly burn down the world.
**
It's been a long fucking day, Arthur thinks.
The glass of scotch in his hand is cold but growing warmer, slowly, sharing his body heat. He's still wearing everything right down to his shoes when he pads across the bathroom floor, kneeling and adjusting the faucets on the bathtub until the temperature's just right. Tired as he is, he can't bring himself to just strip off his layers from his skin and leave them crumpled and abandoned on the tile floor. Too much has instilled in him the need for order, to know just how and where each and every thing was.
He sets the scotch down by the sink and starts undoing buttons one by one, folding each piece of himself up neatly as he sheds it. Noisily, the tub fills. It's not quite enough to drown out his thoughts, but it's getting there.
The Weiss job had gone wrong in just about every possible way it could. He hates himself a little for that, for all the ways he'd fucked up and nearly damned everything. Everyone. He knows that they all did a shoddy job, really, all fucked up in small and spectacular ways, and that it wasn't just one mistake on his part (this time). But. . .
He turns the water off as it begins lapping at the overfill, clear blue-green in the sterile hotel light. It's one of Saito's hotels, so Arthur is certain they're all safe from vengeful marks, for the moment. There's that done, at least. He steps into the water, warmth up to his shins, and then sinks mercifully down, bringing his scotch with him. The glass is almost empty but now that he's in the water there's no fucking way he's getting back out.
Arthur is secure and self-loathing in his knowledge of his own mistakes. He knows what he did wrong and what he's going to need to do to make sure it never (never ever) happens again.
Unfortunately, his list of mistakes doesn't seem to quite match up with Cobb's. Arthur's not quite sure when everything started becoming his fault, maybe after the inception job. Maybe before that. At any rate, he's getting sick of Cobb getting angry with him. Getting up-close-and-personal and in-your-face and inches away, snarling, gesturing with his hands close enough to hit, all heat and flush and dark cologne.
Cobb's muscles are always taut as a coiled snake when he pounces on Arthur like that, but he's nowhere near that controlled. More like something wild, something feral, something caged and fighting it.
Arthur sinks deeper into the water and closes his eyes.
Cobb is still unsteady from all that went down in the inception job, Arthur knows. Still not quite sure on his feet, after Mal. After everything with Mal. Still trying to get it back together. And Arthur gets it, he really, truly does. Mental off-balance is nothing new to him.
And maybe it's just because Cobb has known Arthur the longest, and just doesn't know the rest of the team well enough to lash out at yet. Maybe that's why Arthur gets to bear the brunt of all of Cobb's screwed-up guilt and anger and unsteadiness. But if this is some kind of special fucked-up best friend's privilege, right now, Arthur's not quite sure he wants the honour.
Arthur finishes his scotch, lets it burn down the back of his throat. He's tired, bone-deep, brain-deep tired. He hasn't slept without a needle in him in a while. The careful voice in his head warns him that if he falls asleep in the bath he'll drown, and it's the kind that he won't wake up from.
The jangling of the doorknob from his bedroom makes his muscles go rigid and his eyes fly open. The door opens on well-oiled hinges and before Arthur can vault out of the bathtub and grab the nearest gun Cobb's voice calls out, "Arthur?"
There are footsteps crossing the bedroom to the open door of the bathroom, and Arthur warns too late, "Cobb, wai--"
**
This is the world, Arthur, his mother explains patiently, turning the fishbowl slightly in her hands. The water sloshes upwards but doesn't spill. This is his world, his whole entire world. Poor little fishy. Swimming circles in his small, small world. Glass walls all around him and he can't get out, can he? No, no, no. Just him and his distorted view of the not-world, the other-world, the real-world. All around him and far away and closing in. Little fishy who's never seen the ocean.
She's looking at the wallpaper, then, at the windows, at the dark insides of the clapboard walls of the house on Hatter St. that she never leaves. Never ever. She's leaving cloudy fingerprints on the curves of the fishbowl. The light hits it and sparks and Arthur watches his goldfish swim in slow circles in her hands.
Before he can say anything his mother is tipping the bowl over, letting the water spill out over the cigarette-burn scarred table. The little orange fish rides the tide down, landing on his side on the wood, gills flaring in the air. The water puddles thinly around him. He struggles, tail thrashing, mouth gasping open over and over and over again. His round eyes don't have any expression and Arthur thinks they look afraid.
He reaches out for the fish and his mother grabs his wrists, yanking him back, squeezing hard enough to bruise. She doesn't let go and together they sit and watch the fish slowly suffocate.
It takes a while.
They watch it until it stops moving, until it's dead dead dead and then his mother finally lets him go, fingernails scratching his arms as she does.
When Arthur was young, younger, he wanted a dog. Or a cat. Something soft with a wet tongue and expressive eyes. Something that would love him.
He dreamt of his mother lighting fire to its fur and watching it burn, high-pitched human screams coming from its toothy loose-lipped animal mouth. Running and running and not out-running the flames. Struggling on the floor. Burning away fur and face and skin and leaving behind nothing but black bones and the smell of cooked meat.
He should've known better than the stupid goldfish.
This is the world, Arthur, his mother says, running her fingers down the dead fish's shiny scales with interest. This is what it is.
**
Cobb freezes in the doorway. The seconds hang awkwardly in the air as he stares at Arthur, Arthur folded loosely into the tub, tumbler hanging from his fingertips, Arthur naked and drifting apart. Beneath the restless water his skin looks like its melting. Distorted.
Arthur has to hold himself rigidly still to keep from fidgeting. He can feel his breath quicken, heartbeat thudding lickety-split inside him.
Cobb clears his throat and takes a step back, one hand gripping the edge of the door frame.
He meets Arthur's eyes for an instant, Arthur who is staring at him, waiting for him to look him in the face. Then he looks away.
"Didn't your mother ever teach you to shut the door?" Cobb asks, voice brusque.
"Generally speaking, they lock the padded cells from the outside," Arthur says, and he's not quite snapping.
Arthur doesn't usually say things like that, doesn't usually talk about himself and he especially doesn't usually talk about his mother. But Arthur is tired. And angry. And sick of everything. Maybe wants to say something to gnaw at Cobb, knock even farther off-kilter on his unsteady footing, or maybe he just has so much inside of him right now if he doesn't let it out it'll rend him into pieces.
Cobb looks confused. "What?"
Arthur sighs, "My mother was. . . she wasn't. . . well."
His voice is strained in the damp air. He looks away from Cobb, looks down at his own warped body in the water.
"I'm sor--" Cobb begins, and Arthur cuts him off.
"Don't."
Cobb nods. "I didn't know."
"I didn't tell you. I don't tell a lot of people." And maybe that last bit is just to wound.
Cobb snorts. "You ever tell anybody?"
He answers his own question before Arthur can. "Of course not." His voice is soft. "Wouldn't want to ruin that perception of Perfect Arthur, nothing's-wrong-with-you, would you?"
Maybe he's not trying to hurt, maybe this is Cobb just trying to pull pieces together and see what they make, trying to puzzle Arthur out. Thinking out loud. But the anger is hot and quick in Arthur, catching in his throat and burning his cheeks and making his fingers curl.
Arthur stands up slowly, water shifting loudly around him. He sets the scotch glass down on his way up and slowly unfolds into standing. The water drips off him and winds its way down the back of his neck, between his shoulders, down the back of his knees, off his face and over his stomach and down his fingertips. It beads into little diamonds on his damp skin and chills suddenly in the air. He's cold.
"You think I'm perfect?" he asks, slowly. Cobb is staring at him, staring at his wet skin, at the water bleeding off of him. Goosebumps crawl across Arthur and he's cold.
Cobb doesn't say anything.
"You think I'm perfect?" Arthur asks again, and he steps out of the tub. He walks towards Cobb, leaving thick wet footprints on the tiles.
He stops when he's right next to him, right in his personal space, can smell his cologne and beneath it his own heady Cobb-smell. Can feel his heat. His quick breath on Arthur's face.
Arthur feels light-headed and reckless and the anger is making him off-balanced. His mouth is dry.
Cobb doesn't look like he has a fucking clue what to do.
"Do you think I'm, perfect, Cobb?" Arthur asks, and he puts a wet hand on Cobb's jacketed shoulder.
**
This is the world, Arthur, his mother says, not looking at him. She's looking out at the blue blue blue sky, at the brown lawn two stories below her. This is my world, my dream world, the world no one else can see. And it's real real real, realer than you or me.
Her toes are curling on the shingles. The wind is snapping her hair around and flattening her clothes against her. She's wearing one of his dad's old shirts, hanging down past her wrists, and nothing else. Arthur's uncomfortable looking at her but if he looks away she might disappear forever.
I had a dream last night, Arthur, a dream where I could fly, she says. He creeps closer to her, slowly, quietly. Arthur is very good at being quiet and unnoticed.
I don't think I've woken up yet.
Her cigarette falls from her fingertips and goes tumbling over the side, disappearing from view, a flash of bright orange and then Arthur can't see it anymore.
She takes another step towards the edge.
**
Arthur's fingers twist into Cobb's lapel. He's not sure what he's doing, what he wants, if he's going to hit Cobb or. . . He doesn't know.
Cobb is watching him steadily, making no effort to break Arthur's grip or push him away. Arthur's lips curl back a little in a tiny snarl and he shoves Cobb. He's got both hands on his shoulders now and he's propelling him back. Even walking backwards, even nearly-tangled-together like this, they've both got enough grace not to stumble, though the physics of the real world try to drag them down.
Arthur is half-charging and not at all thinking and he keeps moving forward until the backs of Cobb's knees hit the bed. He pushes him down and Cobb half-sits and half-falls, looking up at him with dangerous eyes. Arthur is breathing hard.
"I'm not," Arthur says, and his voice is quiet and fierce.
"No," Cobb agrees. He's no stranger to imperfection.
It's been a long fucking day. It's been a long fucking life, and it's all a little too much.
"I'm not fucking perfect," Arthur says, and he's trembling. Wet and naked and cold. Raw and wrung-out and falling apart. "I make mistakes. You know I do. God, you know I do, Cobb, you know I'm not, because you keep fucking telling me. "
He's a patchwork Frankenstein of neuroses and his sorry fucking childhood, under a clever facade of peeling paint, a polished carapace around broken parts, and he breaks a little more on a regular basis and stitches himself back together again. He's fucked-up and broken and breaking and his mother's son. Sometimes he can't tell what's real and what's just a dream (and it's never just a dream) and he spends all day rolling a loaded die. Sometimes he thinks he's going crazy.
Arthur isn't perfect, Arthur is a fucking mess.
"I understand, Cobb, I know. I know when I've made a mistake, and I know what's at stake. I know what we could lose when I fuck up. And I know that I am going to fuck-up, sometime. I'm not perfect because I couldn't save her and one day, I won't be able to save you. I know."
You can't save your mother and you can't save Cobb and when did that damn tragedy start to repeat itself? And when did you start comparing Cobb to your mother?
Are you implying I have some sort of complex? he accuses his brain.
Cobb reaches up with one hand, and its touch against his cheek is feather-light and almost all in his head.
"Tell me," he says. Demands. Pleads.
"They took her away when I was sixteen," Arthur says. "They took me away. And I don't. . . she. . . I tried to take care of her. I tried. I always tried."
"She liked to burn things," Arthur says.
There are little white scars on Arthur's skin, cigarette kisses. Long, thin scars that wind their way into almost recognizable patterns, artist's brushstrokes from a dozen different cigarette lighters. A thick bow from where his mother had taken the grate off the stove and held his arm down to it. There had been a click-clicking noise and then the gas had lit up in bright perfect blue flames and then there had still been nothing, for just a second, as a thousand neuro-receptors had sluggishly sent little electrical arcs of data to his brain. And then the pain had hit. Arthur had screamed, then. Screamed and struggled and burned.
When Arthur is in dreams, his skin is clean and smooth.
"Arthur," Cobb says. Oh, Arthur. Beautiful, imperfect Arthur. "It's not your fault."
Arthur's heard that one before. He smothers a laugh.
"What happened. . . that's not your fault. And the Weiss job, that's not your fault, either." His hand is firmer against Arthur's cheek, now, warmth against his cold wet skin. The carpet's gone damp beneath his bare feet. Even in the midst off all this, a part of him has to fight the need to go back and wipe away every sopping footprint, erase every trace of mess. Of himself.
Standing above Cobb like this almost feels like a dream. The physics aren't quite right. Gravity and inertia all seem wrong.
And then Cobb's hand slides around the back of his neck, brushing against the short tips of Arthur's hair, and pulls his head down. And then suddenly, inexplicably, his lips are on Arthur's and he's kissing him. Cobb's lips are dry and they move slowly and they smell/taste/burn a little like black coffee and a long, long day.
Arthur aches to feel his red die, the familiar tiny concave pips. He wants to roll it, not just once, but over and over. Arthur can calculate in his head the odds for every toss.
Cobb's other hand slides up to the opposite side of Arthur's face, and he draws him closer, tilts his head just a little and then-- Oh. Oh. The numbers fly out of Arthur's head.
Kissing Cobb is. . . is. . . it doesn't matter. Arthur moves forward, climbing onto the bed, half-straddling Cobb. Cobb's suit is rough against Arthur's naked skin and he's getting it damp. He pushes Cobb back and Cobb lets himself fall.
Cobb turns his head but doesn't pull back, mouths still next to each other and close enough to taste one anothers' breath but far enough to breathe. His stubble scuffs against Arthur's lips.
"I'm sorry," Cobb whispers into Arthur's skin. Apologizing for the Weiss job and everything that's ever happened before that. His hands have slid down from Arthur's neck to the rippling muscles in his back. Arthur's hands are pressing palms-flat into the duvet, bracing himself above him. He's got one knee slid between Cobb's.
Cobb kisses him again, harder, faster. Mouth open and Arthur follows suit and Cobb licks Arthur's lips, traces his teeth, skims Arthur's own tongue. Wet and warm and Arthur's head is dizzy and it's a bit like zero gravity.
There's a keening noise deep in his throat that comes from nowhere and escapes before he can catch it and euthanize it, something desperate and wanting. His cock is hard, brushing against the inseam of Cobb's trousers, and he grinds forwards and down a little. Cobb's back arcs and his fingers scrape against Arthur's back. Arthur claws his fingers into the silk comforter of Saito's hotel room and swallows Cobb's moan.
**
This is the world, his mother says. This is the world that's in my head and out there and coming in. This is the world I make, Arthur, make it any way I want. This is the world that breaks beneath my hands. Arthur, Arthur this is this world and that world and every world and every world's the same. They're all the same, Arthur. They all go up in flames.
His mother is painting. She runs off the canvas and onto the walls, onto the creaking weathered floorboards. Over the windows, and the light comes in in twisted colours.
Eldritch castles and eyeless dogs and huge slimy things with scales and sharp eyes that writhe on the ground and bleed out. People Arthur doesn't know and places he's never been. Streets that lead back to where they started and walls with floors and ceilings on the same end and cages that can't be broken out of. Buildings with their insides on the out and their outsides under them and staircases that lead up and up and up and nowhere at all. Men with too many fingers who sob and birds with not enough wings that drown in colourful seas. Fences and sailing ships and jungles and tea cups and ammunition and those things that have no names. And flames flames flames.
Sometimes paint isn't enough and she takes lighters to the walls, draws crenelations in brown burns. Collapsing cities painted in shades of scorch.
His mother creates things, things that can never be, things that frighten him. Frightfully beautiful things. Horrible, impossible, lovely things.
The paintings get covered in soot. The canvas burns, curling blackly up on itself. The smell of burning paint never really leaves Arthur's mind.
It's not real, his mother whispers. They aren't real they aren't real they aren't real. I'm not real. This isn't the world. This isn't the real world.
She brings the cigarette lighter down to the edge of her shirt and the cloth catches fire.
**
Perfectly fucked-up Arthur, in-control Arthur, falling-apart Arthur is grinding his hips against Cobb's, bucking arhythmically. Cobb is gasping beneath him, mouth scraping against Arthur's throat. Arthur's naked cock is rubbing up against the cotton in a hurting wonderful kind of way.
Cobb's teeth sink into the soft spots of Arthur's skin, bruising and denting, and Arthur's breath catches and then frees itself with a whimper. Hot and hard and right beneath him, Cobb thrusts upwards.
His fingers slide down Arthur's back, digging into Arthur's ass as he jerks forward particularly hard. Then his hands drag their way back up, leaving wakes of heat behind them. They tangle into Arthur's hair, yanking his neck back and stinging.
Cobb pulls until Arthur is arching, back curved sharply vertical, pulse thrumming sharply in his bent throat. He follows him up, the zipper on his jacket and the round little plastic buttons on his shirt digging into Arthur's chest. Arthur struggles, a bit, fights for control and loses. Cobb shifts and twists and pulls and then Arthur is under him, on his stomach, breathing hard into the blankets. Cobb is pressing up against his back.
Arthur squirms, fighting with Cobb harshly enough to hurt, until he's belly-up.
"Easy," Cobb says, bending down until his lips sweep against Arthur's ear. He's holding Arthur's wrists loosely in his hands, pinning them to the bed. "Easy, Arthur. It's alright."
Arthur's breath is rapid and harsh, his heart clamoring inside of him and his pulse rushing like undertow.
Cobb lets go of his hands and just touches him. Brushing his fingers down Arthur's face, light enough to be imaginary. Dragging down over Arthur's throat, pulse lightning-quick beneath them. Arthur whines again, can't help himself.
Cobb leans down and kisses him, murmuring, "Easy, Arthur, it's okay," right before their lips meet so the last syllable disappears into Arthur's mouth. This kiss is soft and slow and Cobb moves his whole body into it, Arthur straining up to match him. His mouth is still warm and still tastes like coffee and Arthur searches it with his tongue, mapping, memorizing the feel of it.
Cobb's hands move to Arthur's hips and he holds him tightly, points of pressure from each fingertip. He bites Arthur's lip as he pulls away and draws his mouth down every inch of his body, down his breastbone and stomach and further, until his mouth is parallel to his hands.
Arthur closes his eyes for a moment, squeezes them shut until spectral lights blossom across the insides of his eyelids. He blinks and opens them wide and stares at the ceiling as Cobb moves over him with his tongue.
He licks down him once, twice, and Arthur's already hard enough to hurt. He makes another noise, something low and twisting and hard-up.
Cobb pulls his mouth away and that's enough to drive Arthur completely fucking crazy. He twists his hands into the duvet.
"What do you want, Arthur?" Cobb asks, looking up at him.
What does he want? What does he want?
Everything, Arthur thinks. I'd settle for that.
That's not an answer though and Arthur struggles to find words.
"You," he says, gasps, and that's not what he means. Or at least, that's not what he meant to say.
"You. . . I want. . . fuck me," Arthur gets out, "Just. . . fuck me."
Cobb hesitates, and they're not really set up for this, not even perfectly-prepared Arthur is ready for his boss/friend/person thing to come into his hotel room and fuck him. And he doesn't exactly have lube lying around but fuck it, he'll make do.
He shoves Cobb away a bit so he can climb off the bed, and the expression on the extractor's face is confused with just an edge of hurt. It disappears though as Arthur sinks to his knees, carpet rough against him.
He undoes the button on Cobb's fly with precision, because if there's one thing Arthur knows, it's clothes. He enjoys the smooth noise of the zipper sliding down and the little harsh intake of breath Cobb gives above him even more.
He doesn't undress Cobb all the way, just slides his pants down his hips.
Silk, he thinks when he gets to Cobb's boxers. Nice.
He pulls them down with splayed hands, enjoying the drag of his skin-cloth-skin.
And then he leans forward and takes the head of Cobb's cock into his mouth. He tastes. . . warm, is all Arthur can really think. And then he tastes that strange familiar tang of skin. He slides his eyes closed.
Cobb can't seem to find a place to put his hands, they're running through Arthur's hair, tangling and letting go and flying away, brushing against his shoulders.
Arthur rolls his tongue around him, pushes forward and takes him deeper, and then when he hears Cobb moan he pulls back and lets him go.
"Fuck," Cobb swears above him. "Jesus."
"C'mon," Arthur orders, settling back on the bed and dragging Cobb forward by his hips.
He takes a deep breath and settles back. Somehow Cobb gets Arthur's legs hooked over his shoulders. He slides two of his own fingers into his mouth and licks. Arthur bites his lip as he watches.
Cobb draws his hand out and slides it between them, and Arthur feels Cobb touch him tentatively. His fingers graze the edges of him and then slowly, so fucking slowly he works him open, slides a finger in. Another, moves them inside of him, and Arthur tastes blood as he bites into his lip.
And then Arthur is ready, or Cobb is ready, or neither of them are but they're going for this anyways and Cobb slips his fingers out and pushes his cock in. He starts out slow, every muscle trembling, and Arthur bucks his hips and demands more.
Harder. And it hurts and feels so damn good. Cobb moves into him faster, and some primal way they find a rhythm, match each others' thrusts. Clothes rubbing against naked skin. Cobb is gripping one of Arthur's legs and Arthur's bruising and both of them are making harsh breathless low sex-noises. The sound of skin is noisy in the quiet room but Arthur's not listening, he's watching Cobb. Watching Cobb's face and Cobb meets his eyes, looks at him, stares into him, and there's something there that Arthur didn't expect to see.
And sometime quickly like that they come.
It's the impetus of a kick out of dream and something achingly lovely that Arthur can't put a name too, can't wrap his tongue around. It's something he can't explain and can't describe and can only feel. It's almost like getting everything and Arthur he. . . he. . .
**
He wakes up to heat, to warmth, to cologne and familiar Cobb-scent. Cobb's arm is heavy around him and Arthur shifts carefully beneath it.
Arthur's totem is sitting quietly on the nightstand in the glowing red numbers of the alarm clock. He reaches out and picks it up, shakes it in his hand.
He stops himself before it flies from his fingers, squeezes his hand into a fist and lets the hard corners of the plastic dig into his palm. He hesitates.
Arthur sets the die carefully on the table without letting it roll. He's not sure he wants to know.
**
This is the world, Arthur, his mother says, and burns it to the ground.
Title: burn it all and start from ash
Fandom: Inception
Disclaimer: Characters and setting aren't mine, thanks.
Author: saintdogstreet
Pairings/Warnings: Arthur/Cobb. Language, sexual situations, child abuse and other nasties. Bit dark.
This is the world, Arthur, his mother says to him, the real world. The pretend world. The dream world and nightmare world and wake-me-up-when-it's-over world.
Arthur isn't sure what she means, if she's talking about their grey clapboard house at the end of Hatter St. or the house in her head or the puddles of gasoline on each step. She wants to burn the staircase down. She wants to renovate. She wants new stairs, stairs that go up and stairs that go down and stairs that go nowhere at all.
She's standing barefoot on the top step, wearing a flannel shirt with paint clinging to it, her hair uncombed around her face and thick shadows under her eyes. She's ripping matches out of a book one by one and letting them drop, unlit, to the carpet. Arthur's on the first floor, looking up to her, and he's not sure he's going to be able to get to her before she remembers she needs to light them to properly burn down the world.
**
It's been a long fucking day, Arthur thinks.
The glass of scotch in his hand is cold but growing warmer, slowly, sharing his body heat. He's still wearing everything right down to his shoes when he pads across the bathroom floor, kneeling and adjusting the faucets on the bathtub until the temperature's just right. Tired as he is, he can't bring himself to just strip off his layers from his skin and leave them crumpled and abandoned on the tile floor. Too much has instilled in him the need for order, to know just how and where each and every thing was.
He sets the scotch down by the sink and starts undoing buttons one by one, folding each piece of himself up neatly as he sheds it. Noisily, the tub fills. It's not quite enough to drown out his thoughts, but it's getting there.
The Weiss job had gone wrong in just about every possible way it could. He hates himself a little for that, for all the ways he'd fucked up and nearly damned everything. Everyone. He knows that they all did a shoddy job, really, all fucked up in small and spectacular ways, and that it wasn't just one mistake on his part (this time). But. . .
He turns the water off as it begins lapping at the overfill, clear blue-green in the sterile hotel light. It's one of Saito's hotels, so Arthur is certain they're all safe from vengeful marks, for the moment. There's that done, at least. He steps into the water, warmth up to his shins, and then sinks mercifully down, bringing his scotch with him. The glass is almost empty but now that he's in the water there's no fucking way he's getting back out.
Arthur is secure and self-loathing in his knowledge of his own mistakes. He knows what he did wrong and what he's going to need to do to make sure it never (never ever) happens again.
Unfortunately, his list of mistakes doesn't seem to quite match up with Cobb's. Arthur's not quite sure when everything started becoming his fault, maybe after the inception job. Maybe before that. At any rate, he's getting sick of Cobb getting angry with him. Getting up-close-and-personal and in-your-face and inches away, snarling, gesturing with his hands close enough to hit, all heat and flush and dark cologne.
Cobb's muscles are always taut as a coiled snake when he pounces on Arthur like that, but he's nowhere near that controlled. More like something wild, something feral, something caged and fighting it.
Arthur sinks deeper into the water and closes his eyes.
Cobb is still unsteady from all that went down in the inception job, Arthur knows. Still not quite sure on his feet, after Mal. After everything with Mal. Still trying to get it back together. And Arthur gets it, he really, truly does. Mental off-balance is nothing new to him.
And maybe it's just because Cobb has known Arthur the longest, and just doesn't know the rest of the team well enough to lash out at yet. Maybe that's why Arthur gets to bear the brunt of all of Cobb's screwed-up guilt and anger and unsteadiness. But if this is some kind of special fucked-up best friend's privilege, right now, Arthur's not quite sure he wants the honour.
Arthur finishes his scotch, lets it burn down the back of his throat. He's tired, bone-deep, brain-deep tired. He hasn't slept without a needle in him in a while. The careful voice in his head warns him that if he falls asleep in the bath he'll drown, and it's the kind that he won't wake up from.
The jangling of the doorknob from his bedroom makes his muscles go rigid and his eyes fly open. The door opens on well-oiled hinges and before Arthur can vault out of the bathtub and grab the nearest gun Cobb's voice calls out, "Arthur?"
There are footsteps crossing the bedroom to the open door of the bathroom, and Arthur warns too late, "Cobb, wai--"
**
This is the world, Arthur, his mother explains patiently, turning the fishbowl slightly in her hands. The water sloshes upwards but doesn't spill. This is his world, his whole entire world. Poor little fishy. Swimming circles in his small, small world. Glass walls all around him and he can't get out, can he? No, no, no. Just him and his distorted view of the not-world, the other-world, the real-world. All around him and far away and closing in. Little fishy who's never seen the ocean.
She's looking at the wallpaper, then, at the windows, at the dark insides of the clapboard walls of the house on Hatter St. that she never leaves. Never ever. She's leaving cloudy fingerprints on the curves of the fishbowl. The light hits it and sparks and Arthur watches his goldfish swim in slow circles in her hands.
Before he can say anything his mother is tipping the bowl over, letting the water spill out over the cigarette-burn scarred table. The little orange fish rides the tide down, landing on his side on the wood, gills flaring in the air. The water puddles thinly around him. He struggles, tail thrashing, mouth gasping open over and over and over again. His round eyes don't have any expression and Arthur thinks they look afraid.
He reaches out for the fish and his mother grabs his wrists, yanking him back, squeezing hard enough to bruise. She doesn't let go and together they sit and watch the fish slowly suffocate.
It takes a while.
They watch it until it stops moving, until it's dead dead dead and then his mother finally lets him go, fingernails scratching his arms as she does.
When Arthur was young, younger, he wanted a dog. Or a cat. Something soft with a wet tongue and expressive eyes. Something that would love him.
He dreamt of his mother lighting fire to its fur and watching it burn, high-pitched human screams coming from its toothy loose-lipped animal mouth. Running and running and not out-running the flames. Struggling on the floor. Burning away fur and face and skin and leaving behind nothing but black bones and the smell of cooked meat.
He should've known better than the stupid goldfish.
This is the world, Arthur, his mother says, running her fingers down the dead fish's shiny scales with interest. This is what it is.
**
Cobb freezes in the doorway. The seconds hang awkwardly in the air as he stares at Arthur, Arthur folded loosely into the tub, tumbler hanging from his fingertips, Arthur naked and drifting apart. Beneath the restless water his skin looks like its melting. Distorted.
Arthur has to hold himself rigidly still to keep from fidgeting. He can feel his breath quicken, heartbeat thudding lickety-split inside him.
Cobb clears his throat and takes a step back, one hand gripping the edge of the door frame.
He meets Arthur's eyes for an instant, Arthur who is staring at him, waiting for him to look him in the face. Then he looks away.
"Didn't your mother ever teach you to shut the door?" Cobb asks, voice brusque.
"Generally speaking, they lock the padded cells from the outside," Arthur says, and he's not quite snapping.
Arthur doesn't usually say things like that, doesn't usually talk about himself and he especially doesn't usually talk about his mother. But Arthur is tired. And angry. And sick of everything. Maybe wants to say something to gnaw at Cobb, knock even farther off-kilter on his unsteady footing, or maybe he just has so much inside of him right now if he doesn't let it out it'll rend him into pieces.
Cobb looks confused. "What?"
Arthur sighs, "My mother was. . . she wasn't. . . well."
His voice is strained in the damp air. He looks away from Cobb, looks down at his own warped body in the water.
"I'm sor--" Cobb begins, and Arthur cuts him off.
"Don't."
Cobb nods. "I didn't know."
"I didn't tell you. I don't tell a lot of people." And maybe that last bit is just to wound.
Cobb snorts. "You ever tell anybody?"
He answers his own question before Arthur can. "Of course not." His voice is soft. "Wouldn't want to ruin that perception of Perfect Arthur, nothing's-wrong-with-you, would you?"
Maybe he's not trying to hurt, maybe this is Cobb just trying to pull pieces together and see what they make, trying to puzzle Arthur out. Thinking out loud. But the anger is hot and quick in Arthur, catching in his throat and burning his cheeks and making his fingers curl.
Arthur stands up slowly, water shifting loudly around him. He sets the scotch glass down on his way up and slowly unfolds into standing. The water drips off him and winds its way down the back of his neck, between his shoulders, down the back of his knees, off his face and over his stomach and down his fingertips. It beads into little diamonds on his damp skin and chills suddenly in the air. He's cold.
"You think I'm perfect?" he asks, slowly. Cobb is staring at him, staring at his wet skin, at the water bleeding off of him. Goosebumps crawl across Arthur and he's cold.
Cobb doesn't say anything.
"You think I'm perfect?" Arthur asks again, and he steps out of the tub. He walks towards Cobb, leaving thick wet footprints on the tiles.
He stops when he's right next to him, right in his personal space, can smell his cologne and beneath it his own heady Cobb-smell. Can feel his heat. His quick breath on Arthur's face.
Arthur feels light-headed and reckless and the anger is making him off-balanced. His mouth is dry.
Cobb doesn't look like he has a fucking clue what to do.
"Do you think I'm, perfect, Cobb?" Arthur asks, and he puts a wet hand on Cobb's jacketed shoulder.
**
This is the world, Arthur, his mother says, not looking at him. She's looking out at the blue blue blue sky, at the brown lawn two stories below her. This is my world, my dream world, the world no one else can see. And it's real real real, realer than you or me.
Her toes are curling on the shingles. The wind is snapping her hair around and flattening her clothes against her. She's wearing one of his dad's old shirts, hanging down past her wrists, and nothing else. Arthur's uncomfortable looking at her but if he looks away she might disappear forever.
I had a dream last night, Arthur, a dream where I could fly, she says. He creeps closer to her, slowly, quietly. Arthur is very good at being quiet and unnoticed.
I don't think I've woken up yet.
Her cigarette falls from her fingertips and goes tumbling over the side, disappearing from view, a flash of bright orange and then Arthur can't see it anymore.
She takes another step towards the edge.
**
Arthur's fingers twist into Cobb's lapel. He's not sure what he's doing, what he wants, if he's going to hit Cobb or. . . He doesn't know.
Cobb is watching him steadily, making no effort to break Arthur's grip or push him away. Arthur's lips curl back a little in a tiny snarl and he shoves Cobb. He's got both hands on his shoulders now and he's propelling him back. Even walking backwards, even nearly-tangled-together like this, they've both got enough grace not to stumble, though the physics of the real world try to drag them down.
Arthur is half-charging and not at all thinking and he keeps moving forward until the backs of Cobb's knees hit the bed. He pushes him down and Cobb half-sits and half-falls, looking up at him with dangerous eyes. Arthur is breathing hard.
"I'm not," Arthur says, and his voice is quiet and fierce.
"No," Cobb agrees. He's no stranger to imperfection.
It's been a long fucking day. It's been a long fucking life, and it's all a little too much.
"I'm not fucking perfect," Arthur says, and he's trembling. Wet and naked and cold. Raw and wrung-out and falling apart. "I make mistakes. You know I do. God, you know I do, Cobb, you know I'm not, because you keep fucking telling me. "
He's a patchwork Frankenstein of neuroses and his sorry fucking childhood, under a clever facade of peeling paint, a polished carapace around broken parts, and he breaks a little more on a regular basis and stitches himself back together again. He's fucked-up and broken and breaking and his mother's son. Sometimes he can't tell what's real and what's just a dream (and it's never just a dream) and he spends all day rolling a loaded die. Sometimes he thinks he's going crazy.
Arthur isn't perfect, Arthur is a fucking mess.
"I understand, Cobb, I know. I know when I've made a mistake, and I know what's at stake. I know what we could lose when I fuck up. And I know that I am going to fuck-up, sometime. I'm not perfect because I couldn't save her and one day, I won't be able to save you. I know."
You can't save your mother and you can't save Cobb and when did that damn tragedy start to repeat itself? And when did you start comparing Cobb to your mother?
Are you implying I have some sort of complex? he accuses his brain.
Cobb reaches up with one hand, and its touch against his cheek is feather-light and almost all in his head.
"Tell me," he says. Demands. Pleads.
"They took her away when I was sixteen," Arthur says. "They took me away. And I don't. . . she. . . I tried to take care of her. I tried. I always tried."
"She liked to burn things," Arthur says.
There are little white scars on Arthur's skin, cigarette kisses. Long, thin scars that wind their way into almost recognizable patterns, artist's brushstrokes from a dozen different cigarette lighters. A thick bow from where his mother had taken the grate off the stove and held his arm down to it. There had been a click-clicking noise and then the gas had lit up in bright perfect blue flames and then there had still been nothing, for just a second, as a thousand neuro-receptors had sluggishly sent little electrical arcs of data to his brain. And then the pain had hit. Arthur had screamed, then. Screamed and struggled and burned.
When Arthur is in dreams, his skin is clean and smooth.
"Arthur," Cobb says. Oh, Arthur. Beautiful, imperfect Arthur. "It's not your fault."
Arthur's heard that one before. He smothers a laugh.
"What happened. . . that's not your fault. And the Weiss job, that's not your fault, either." His hand is firmer against Arthur's cheek, now, warmth against his cold wet skin. The carpet's gone damp beneath his bare feet. Even in the midst off all this, a part of him has to fight the need to go back and wipe away every sopping footprint, erase every trace of mess. Of himself.
Standing above Cobb like this almost feels like a dream. The physics aren't quite right. Gravity and inertia all seem wrong.
And then Cobb's hand slides around the back of his neck, brushing against the short tips of Arthur's hair, and pulls his head down. And then suddenly, inexplicably, his lips are on Arthur's and he's kissing him. Cobb's lips are dry and they move slowly and they smell/taste/burn a little like black coffee and a long, long day.
Arthur aches to feel his red die, the familiar tiny concave pips. He wants to roll it, not just once, but over and over. Arthur can calculate in his head the odds for every toss.
Cobb's other hand slides up to the opposite side of Arthur's face, and he draws him closer, tilts his head just a little and then-- Oh. Oh. The numbers fly out of Arthur's head.
Kissing Cobb is. . . is. . . it doesn't matter. Arthur moves forward, climbing onto the bed, half-straddling Cobb. Cobb's suit is rough against Arthur's naked skin and he's getting it damp. He pushes Cobb back and Cobb lets himself fall.
Cobb turns his head but doesn't pull back, mouths still next to each other and close enough to taste one anothers' breath but far enough to breathe. His stubble scuffs against Arthur's lips.
"I'm sorry," Cobb whispers into Arthur's skin. Apologizing for the Weiss job and everything that's ever happened before that. His hands have slid down from Arthur's neck to the rippling muscles in his back. Arthur's hands are pressing palms-flat into the duvet, bracing himself above him. He's got one knee slid between Cobb's.
Cobb kisses him again, harder, faster. Mouth open and Arthur follows suit and Cobb licks Arthur's lips, traces his teeth, skims Arthur's own tongue. Wet and warm and Arthur's head is dizzy and it's a bit like zero gravity.
There's a keening noise deep in his throat that comes from nowhere and escapes before he can catch it and euthanize it, something desperate and wanting. His cock is hard, brushing against the inseam of Cobb's trousers, and he grinds forwards and down a little. Cobb's back arcs and his fingers scrape against Arthur's back. Arthur claws his fingers into the silk comforter of Saito's hotel room and swallows Cobb's moan.
**
This is the world, his mother says. This is the world that's in my head and out there and coming in. This is the world I make, Arthur, make it any way I want. This is the world that breaks beneath my hands. Arthur, Arthur this is this world and that world and every world and every world's the same. They're all the same, Arthur. They all go up in flames.
His mother is painting. She runs off the canvas and onto the walls, onto the creaking weathered floorboards. Over the windows, and the light comes in in twisted colours.
Eldritch castles and eyeless dogs and huge slimy things with scales and sharp eyes that writhe on the ground and bleed out. People Arthur doesn't know and places he's never been. Streets that lead back to where they started and walls with floors and ceilings on the same end and cages that can't be broken out of. Buildings with their insides on the out and their outsides under them and staircases that lead up and up and up and nowhere at all. Men with too many fingers who sob and birds with not enough wings that drown in colourful seas. Fences and sailing ships and jungles and tea cups and ammunition and those things that have no names. And flames flames flames.
Sometimes paint isn't enough and she takes lighters to the walls, draws crenelations in brown burns. Collapsing cities painted in shades of scorch.
His mother creates things, things that can never be, things that frighten him. Frightfully beautiful things. Horrible, impossible, lovely things.
The paintings get covered in soot. The canvas burns, curling blackly up on itself. The smell of burning paint never really leaves Arthur's mind.
It's not real, his mother whispers. They aren't real they aren't real they aren't real. I'm not real. This isn't the world. This isn't the real world.
She brings the cigarette lighter down to the edge of her shirt and the cloth catches fire.
**
Perfectly fucked-up Arthur, in-control Arthur, falling-apart Arthur is grinding his hips against Cobb's, bucking arhythmically. Cobb is gasping beneath him, mouth scraping against Arthur's throat. Arthur's naked cock is rubbing up against the cotton in a hurting wonderful kind of way.
Cobb's teeth sink into the soft spots of Arthur's skin, bruising and denting, and Arthur's breath catches and then frees itself with a whimper. Hot and hard and right beneath him, Cobb thrusts upwards.
His fingers slide down Arthur's back, digging into Arthur's ass as he jerks forward particularly hard. Then his hands drag their way back up, leaving wakes of heat behind them. They tangle into Arthur's hair, yanking his neck back and stinging.
Cobb pulls until Arthur is arching, back curved sharply vertical, pulse thrumming sharply in his bent throat. He follows him up, the zipper on his jacket and the round little plastic buttons on his shirt digging into Arthur's chest. Arthur struggles, a bit, fights for control and loses. Cobb shifts and twists and pulls and then Arthur is under him, on his stomach, breathing hard into the blankets. Cobb is pressing up against his back.
Arthur squirms, fighting with Cobb harshly enough to hurt, until he's belly-up.
"Easy," Cobb says, bending down until his lips sweep against Arthur's ear. He's holding Arthur's wrists loosely in his hands, pinning them to the bed. "Easy, Arthur. It's alright."
Arthur's breath is rapid and harsh, his heart clamoring inside of him and his pulse rushing like undertow.
Cobb lets go of his hands and just touches him. Brushing his fingers down Arthur's face, light enough to be imaginary. Dragging down over Arthur's throat, pulse lightning-quick beneath them. Arthur whines again, can't help himself.
Cobb leans down and kisses him, murmuring, "Easy, Arthur, it's okay," right before their lips meet so the last syllable disappears into Arthur's mouth. This kiss is soft and slow and Cobb moves his whole body into it, Arthur straining up to match him. His mouth is still warm and still tastes like coffee and Arthur searches it with his tongue, mapping, memorizing the feel of it.
Cobb's hands move to Arthur's hips and he holds him tightly, points of pressure from each fingertip. He bites Arthur's lip as he pulls away and draws his mouth down every inch of his body, down his breastbone and stomach and further, until his mouth is parallel to his hands.
Arthur closes his eyes for a moment, squeezes them shut until spectral lights blossom across the insides of his eyelids. He blinks and opens them wide and stares at the ceiling as Cobb moves over him with his tongue.
He licks down him once, twice, and Arthur's already hard enough to hurt. He makes another noise, something low and twisting and hard-up.
Cobb pulls his mouth away and that's enough to drive Arthur completely fucking crazy. He twists his hands into the duvet.
"What do you want, Arthur?" Cobb asks, looking up at him.
What does he want? What does he want?
Everything, Arthur thinks. I'd settle for that.
That's not an answer though and Arthur struggles to find words.
"You," he says, gasps, and that's not what he means. Or at least, that's not what he meant to say.
"You. . . I want. . . fuck me," Arthur gets out, "Just. . . fuck me."
Cobb hesitates, and they're not really set up for this, not even perfectly-prepared Arthur is ready for his boss/friend/person thing to come into his hotel room and fuck him. And he doesn't exactly have lube lying around but fuck it, he'll make do.
He shoves Cobb away a bit so he can climb off the bed, and the expression on the extractor's face is confused with just an edge of hurt. It disappears though as Arthur sinks to his knees, carpet rough against him.
He undoes the button on Cobb's fly with precision, because if there's one thing Arthur knows, it's clothes. He enjoys the smooth noise of the zipper sliding down and the little harsh intake of breath Cobb gives above him even more.
He doesn't undress Cobb all the way, just slides his pants down his hips.
Silk, he thinks when he gets to Cobb's boxers. Nice.
He pulls them down with splayed hands, enjoying the drag of his skin-cloth-skin.
And then he leans forward and takes the head of Cobb's cock into his mouth. He tastes. . . warm, is all Arthur can really think. And then he tastes that strange familiar tang of skin. He slides his eyes closed.
Cobb can't seem to find a place to put his hands, they're running through Arthur's hair, tangling and letting go and flying away, brushing against his shoulders.
Arthur rolls his tongue around him, pushes forward and takes him deeper, and then when he hears Cobb moan he pulls back and lets him go.
"Fuck," Cobb swears above him. "Jesus."
"C'mon," Arthur orders, settling back on the bed and dragging Cobb forward by his hips.
He takes a deep breath and settles back. Somehow Cobb gets Arthur's legs hooked over his shoulders. He slides two of his own fingers into his mouth and licks. Arthur bites his lip as he watches.
Cobb draws his hand out and slides it between them, and Arthur feels Cobb touch him tentatively. His fingers graze the edges of him and then slowly, so fucking slowly he works him open, slides a finger in. Another, moves them inside of him, and Arthur tastes blood as he bites into his lip.
And then Arthur is ready, or Cobb is ready, or neither of them are but they're going for this anyways and Cobb slips his fingers out and pushes his cock in. He starts out slow, every muscle trembling, and Arthur bucks his hips and demands more.
Harder. And it hurts and feels so damn good. Cobb moves into him faster, and some primal way they find a rhythm, match each others' thrusts. Clothes rubbing against naked skin. Cobb is gripping one of Arthur's legs and Arthur's bruising and both of them are making harsh breathless low sex-noises. The sound of skin is noisy in the quiet room but Arthur's not listening, he's watching Cobb. Watching Cobb's face and Cobb meets his eyes, looks at him, stares into him, and there's something there that Arthur didn't expect to see.
And sometime quickly like that they come.
It's the impetus of a kick out of dream and something achingly lovely that Arthur can't put a name too, can't wrap his tongue around. It's something he can't explain and can't describe and can only feel. It's almost like getting everything and Arthur he. . . he. . .
**
He wakes up to heat, to warmth, to cologne and familiar Cobb-scent. Cobb's arm is heavy around him and Arthur shifts carefully beneath it.
Arthur's totem is sitting quietly on the nightstand in the glowing red numbers of the alarm clock. He reaches out and picks it up, shakes it in his hand.
He stops himself before it flies from his fingers, squeezes his hand into a fist and lets the hard corners of the plastic dig into his palm. He hesitates.
Arthur sets the die carefully on the table without letting it roll. He's not sure he wants to know.
**
This is the world, Arthur, his mother says, and burns it to the ground.