Ficlet: The Evening Beam
Title: The Evening Beam
Author: stungunbilly
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: Mild/ PG
Disclaimer: Chris Nolan owns these characters.
Warnings: Predicated by a Byronic quotation.
Word Count: 1029
Summary: Those who love storms can still be blessed by peace.
A/N: The last one I posted was salt; this is the sweet. Originally posted to fill an inception_kink meme request.
The Evening Beam
by stungunbilly
The air is still in the way it always gets before a storm while Arthur carries the dishes from the patio to the kitchen. The clouds have gathered quietly while they ate their rice and beans and mopped them up with the tortillas Eames makes from scratch because Arthur loves them. When he comes up to Eames at the sink, he's still got a tiny bit of salsa at the corner of his mouth, and Eames can't help but lean in and lick him clean.
When they were first together, Arthur would have pulled away at a move like that. But six years in and three since their mutual vows, he just sighs happily and leans into Eames, offering his face to be cleaned like a cat. It twists something inside Eames, a kind of longing for this happiness to last forever.
"I'll do the dishes, Will," says Arthur, "you go on out and watch the sunset." He takes the dish brush from Eames and starts in on the plates efficiently, not flinching at the flecks of soap on his old worn t-shirt. There are times Eames misses the three-piece suits, but Arthur in soft cotton, so relaxed his bones seem liquid, is something he could never tire of seeing.
He tucks a dark curl behind Arthur's ear and kisses it, purring at little just to set Arthur to work faster and meet him outside. It never fails, and Arthur shivers, glancing promisingly at his husband before renewing his focus on his work. After a moment, Eames leaves him to it.
There is an old sea chest in the living room that they use for a coffee table, and Eames pulls one of their colorful presents from Ariadne out of it before heading for the front porch. Fifteen different shades of wool in uneven but enthusiastic knit-work make a huge, gorgeously-patterned afghan. What Ariadne lacks in crafting skills she makes up for in her brilliant eye for design. More importantly, the enormous thing is *warm*.
Their house is in a rural part of upstate New York, and now in the beginning of autumn the trees are turning variegated shades of gold and red and orange, responding to the chill in the air and the turn of the earth. Only a few other houses share the tiny access road, the closest a quarter of a mile away in its own patch of early evening sun. Eames settles himself in the wooden porch swing he'd made for them four years ago, ready to see once more the pageant of colors in the sky as the sun sets over the low hills surrounding their home.
The black clouds hovering in the east are moving more quickly now, a breeze picking up. The crimsons and pinks of the sunset contrast vividly with the storm colors, and the richness soothes something in Eames' heart that always longs for dramatic displays. He loves storms, the noise and wildness of them, the unrestricted howling of thunder and the way the air quivers with impulses he can feel in the animal senses of his body.
The swing creaks soothingly and he rocks, wrapped in wool and memories of the first time he'd shown the swing to Arthur. It'd been raining, and Arthur had been screaming at Eames and looked ready to punch him, accusing him of cheating and wanting to leave and various other ideas he'd been nurturing somewhere deep in his locked heart. Where he'd been for the last six hours was the topic of this wholly unexpected rant, and so Eames had grabbed him by his dangerous hand and dragged him out on the porch in the pouring rain to show him the swing he'd been sneaking off to work on for the last two weeks.
“There,” Eames had shouted back, furious and insulted and desperately in love. “That is your rival. And I'm so eager to leave you that I made us porch furniture. Congratulations on figuring me out, now kindly sod off while I go meet my dozens of paramours at the airport.”
And Arthur had been utterly bewildered. His face had wrinkled up in what was an unfairly adorable expression of confusion as he stared at the swing as if it were some kind of dream anomaly. He had, at least, stopped ranting and accusing, and Eames had suddenly known that he would do anything, anything at all for him, build him a castle or take up Judaism or promise to never ever look at another man again as long as he lived, just to see his face in all its shades of wonder.
“Darling,” he'd said then, and dropped to one knee. “Please promise to yell in jealous rage only at me, for as long as we both shall live, and I will stay with you when you are old and disgusting, and feed you baby food from small jars and change your bed linens when you are sick and make you so happy until then that you won't mind getting old.”
Now Arthur comes out onto the porch shivering in his light clothes, a California boy who thinks he belongs on the East coast, but never remembers to wear a jumper. He glances at the clouds but makes a beeline toward Eames, creeping in under the edge of the blanket Eames lifts for him, wrapping both Eames and the wool around himself with a contented sigh. The edge of the afghan curling against Arthur's neck happens to be a peacock blue, and it makes Eames happy to see him in such a color. One day, he'll convince his love to wear something truly shocking, bright red or pink or yellow, and he'll know that Arthur is finally, perfectly his.
Until that day, he will do what he does now, and pull Arthur close against the growing chill, listening to the thunder rolling across the land from a safe haven in a beautiful corner of the world.
"Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray."
Lord Byron
Author: stungunbilly
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: Mild/ PG
Disclaimer: Chris Nolan owns these characters.
Warnings: Predicated by a Byronic quotation.
Word Count: 1029
Summary: Those who love storms can still be blessed by peace.
A/N: The last one I posted was salt; this is the sweet. Originally posted to fill an inception_kink meme request.
The Evening Beam
by stungunbilly
The air is still in the way it always gets before a storm while Arthur carries the dishes from the patio to the kitchen. The clouds have gathered quietly while they ate their rice and beans and mopped them up with the tortillas Eames makes from scratch because Arthur loves them. When he comes up to Eames at the sink, he's still got a tiny bit of salsa at the corner of his mouth, and Eames can't help but lean in and lick him clean.
When they were first together, Arthur would have pulled away at a move like that. But six years in and three since their mutual vows, he just sighs happily and leans into Eames, offering his face to be cleaned like a cat. It twists something inside Eames, a kind of longing for this happiness to last forever.
"I'll do the dishes, Will," says Arthur, "you go on out and watch the sunset." He takes the dish brush from Eames and starts in on the plates efficiently, not flinching at the flecks of soap on his old worn t-shirt. There are times Eames misses the three-piece suits, but Arthur in soft cotton, so relaxed his bones seem liquid, is something he could never tire of seeing.
He tucks a dark curl behind Arthur's ear and kisses it, purring at little just to set Arthur to work faster and meet him outside. It never fails, and Arthur shivers, glancing promisingly at his husband before renewing his focus on his work. After a moment, Eames leaves him to it.
There is an old sea chest in the living room that they use for a coffee table, and Eames pulls one of their colorful presents from Ariadne out of it before heading for the front porch. Fifteen different shades of wool in uneven but enthusiastic knit-work make a huge, gorgeously-patterned afghan. What Ariadne lacks in crafting skills she makes up for in her brilliant eye for design. More importantly, the enormous thing is *warm*.
Their house is in a rural part of upstate New York, and now in the beginning of autumn the trees are turning variegated shades of gold and red and orange, responding to the chill in the air and the turn of the earth. Only a few other houses share the tiny access road, the closest a quarter of a mile away in its own patch of early evening sun. Eames settles himself in the wooden porch swing he'd made for them four years ago, ready to see once more the pageant of colors in the sky as the sun sets over the low hills surrounding their home.
The black clouds hovering in the east are moving more quickly now, a breeze picking up. The crimsons and pinks of the sunset contrast vividly with the storm colors, and the richness soothes something in Eames' heart that always longs for dramatic displays. He loves storms, the noise and wildness of them, the unrestricted howling of thunder and the way the air quivers with impulses he can feel in the animal senses of his body.
The swing creaks soothingly and he rocks, wrapped in wool and memories of the first time he'd shown the swing to Arthur. It'd been raining, and Arthur had been screaming at Eames and looked ready to punch him, accusing him of cheating and wanting to leave and various other ideas he'd been nurturing somewhere deep in his locked heart. Where he'd been for the last six hours was the topic of this wholly unexpected rant, and so Eames had grabbed him by his dangerous hand and dragged him out on the porch in the pouring rain to show him the swing he'd been sneaking off to work on for the last two weeks.
“There,” Eames had shouted back, furious and insulted and desperately in love. “That is your rival. And I'm so eager to leave you that I made us porch furniture. Congratulations on figuring me out, now kindly sod off while I go meet my dozens of paramours at the airport.”
And Arthur had been utterly bewildered. His face had wrinkled up in what was an unfairly adorable expression of confusion as he stared at the swing as if it were some kind of dream anomaly. He had, at least, stopped ranting and accusing, and Eames had suddenly known that he would do anything, anything at all for him, build him a castle or take up Judaism or promise to never ever look at another man again as long as he lived, just to see his face in all its shades of wonder.
“Darling,” he'd said then, and dropped to one knee. “Please promise to yell in jealous rage only at me, for as long as we both shall live, and I will stay with you when you are old and disgusting, and feed you baby food from small jars and change your bed linens when you are sick and make you so happy until then that you won't mind getting old.”
Now Arthur comes out onto the porch shivering in his light clothes, a California boy who thinks he belongs on the East coast, but never remembers to wear a jumper. He glances at the clouds but makes a beeline toward Eames, creeping in under the edge of the blanket Eames lifts for him, wrapping both Eames and the wool around himself with a contented sigh. The edge of the afghan curling against Arthur's neck happens to be a peacock blue, and it makes Eames happy to see him in such a color. One day, he'll convince his love to wear something truly shocking, bright red or pink or yellow, and he'll know that Arthur is finally, perfectly his.
Until that day, he will do what he does now, and pull Arthur close against the growing chill, listening to the thunder rolling across the land from a safe haven in a beautiful corner of the world.
"Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray."
Lord Byron