Fic: A Dream Within a Dream
Title: A Dream Within a Dream
Author: sunriseinspace
Character(s): Arthur / Eames
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing about Inception, its characters or plotlines, including any recognizable dialogue.
Summary: As far as you’re concerned, the only perk to living here is the view through the west-facing windows of your own apartment, which just happen to look into the apartment across the street.
Written for this prompt at inception_kink.
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You’re exhausted as you let yourself into your apartment, worn out after too many hours spent hunched over textbooks and laptops and reference computer keyboards. Your back hurts, your feet hurt, your head hurts, it’s really friggin’ cold outside, and, dammit, you actually managed to work through the entire night, congratulations, you dumbass.
You stagger through the apartment, discarding your bag, coat, shoes, and keys haphazardly as you go. You head to the kitchen instead of the bedroom, though, because you’re still wired with adrenaline and hungry enough to eat the ratty Chucks you kicked off somewhere near the front door (you think, you’re not actually sure - time moves strangely after 36 hours without sleep). You have a vague notion of heating some tomato soup, regardless of the fact it’s eight in the morning, when you glance out the window over the sink and get sidetracked by the view on the other side of the cold-frosted glass.
You live in a low-rent, small-but-serviceable apartment, five stories from ground level, with nothing really to recommend it aside from the largish water heater and lack of mold growing on the walls (and, really, that’s a step up from your last place). The elevator is broken, has been since you moved in two years ago, and your feet let you know how horrible this is every time you make the climb. As far as you’re concerned, the only perk to living here (aside from the rent, ‘cause, really, it’s perfect for your measly student budget) is the view through the west-facing windows of your own apartment, which just happen to look into the apartment across the street.
You don’t see the occupants too often. They travel a lot for work or something, you assume, and months can go by without a single sighting. It’s just the two of them, you’ve never seen anyone else there, though occasionally only one of the two men’ll be in residence. It always makes you sad to see only one there, rattling around the apartment aimlessly, lost without his partner there.
One of them, the dark haired one, is sitting out on the fire escape this morning. He’s wrapped up in a huge, yellowy sweater, the sleeves rolled up so they don’t fall completely over his hands. There’s a large mug within easy reach, but he completely ignores it, chin rested atop his knees and his arms wrapped around his legs. Long fingers pluck aimlessly at his toes as he just sits and watches the city slowly wake. He looks tired and cold, but content to perch on the cold metal of the fire escape. You shiver to look at him, wondering how he can stand it.
You stand for a moment, transfixed by the sight. He’s not a bad looking man, not by any stretch of the imagination, but that really is a horrible sweater and, God, isn’t it cold out there? You blink, realizing you’re rambling inanely to yourself, exhaustion having removed the filter you normally keep over your thoughts and allowing them to pelt around inside your head. Really, you need food and you need sleep, not necessarily in that order. What you don’t need is to stand like an idiot in the middle of the kitchen staring at a man who doesn’t even know you exist.
The dark haired man suddenly sits up a little straighter, his face taking on an expression of something like happiness as the window behind him slides up. Another man, blond and wonderfully built, climbs out onto the fire escape, his generous mouth curving up in an expression of supreme delight as his fingers pluck lightly at the yellow-brown knit of the dark man’s sweater. They exchange words, you see, little puffs of fog appearing and disappearing in front of their faces, and though their expressions tinge toward annoyance or sadness as the conversation progresses, an overall sense of contentment and happiness seems to lie over the scene.
You’ve moved to where your elbows are propped on the counter on either side of the sink when the blond man finally kneels down and settles himself on the cold metal of the fire escape. There’s a second or two where he leans over a presses a lingering kiss to the dark hair man’s lips (and, God, something flashes hot and sharp through your stomach, making your breath stutter). Then, carefully, he wraps his arms around his partner, lifting the slighter man easily, and settles him in his lap. And, holy crap, what a picture they make together - dark and light, pale and tan, slim and just slightly larger, cradled against each other with obvious affection - despite that awful mustard-yellow sweater.
You watch for a few minutes longer, long enough to see long, tan fingers card through dark hair and a kiss pressed softly against a temple, right where dark hair meets pale skin, before your exhaustion takes you over. You forego whatever vague idea of a meal had been lingering at the back of your mind and stagger off to your bed, fall face first onto the covers and let sleep run roughshod over your willing body.
You dream of them, the men in the apartment across the street, and wake wondering what was the dream and what was reality.
You never really figure it out, but then, it never really mattered in the first place, did it?
Author: sunriseinspace
Character(s): Arthur / Eames
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing about Inception, its characters or plotlines, including any recognizable dialogue.
Summary: As far as you’re concerned, the only perk to living here is the view through the west-facing windows of your own apartment, which just happen to look into the apartment across the street.
Written for this prompt at inception_kink.
+
You’re exhausted as you let yourself into your apartment, worn out after too many hours spent hunched over textbooks and laptops and reference computer keyboards. Your back hurts, your feet hurt, your head hurts, it’s really friggin’ cold outside, and, dammit, you actually managed to work through the entire night, congratulations, you dumbass.
You stagger through the apartment, discarding your bag, coat, shoes, and keys haphazardly as you go. You head to the kitchen instead of the bedroom, though, because you’re still wired with adrenaline and hungry enough to eat the ratty Chucks you kicked off somewhere near the front door (you think, you’re not actually sure - time moves strangely after 36 hours without sleep). You have a vague notion of heating some tomato soup, regardless of the fact it’s eight in the morning, when you glance out the window over the sink and get sidetracked by the view on the other side of the cold-frosted glass.
You live in a low-rent, small-but-serviceable apartment, five stories from ground level, with nothing really to recommend it aside from the largish water heater and lack of mold growing on the walls (and, really, that’s a step up from your last place). The elevator is broken, has been since you moved in two years ago, and your feet let you know how horrible this is every time you make the climb. As far as you’re concerned, the only perk to living here (aside from the rent, ‘cause, really, it’s perfect for your measly student budget) is the view through the west-facing windows of your own apartment, which just happen to look into the apartment across the street.
You don’t see the occupants too often. They travel a lot for work or something, you assume, and months can go by without a single sighting. It’s just the two of them, you’ve never seen anyone else there, though occasionally only one of the two men’ll be in residence. It always makes you sad to see only one there, rattling around the apartment aimlessly, lost without his partner there.
One of them, the dark haired one, is sitting out on the fire escape this morning. He’s wrapped up in a huge, yellowy sweater, the sleeves rolled up so they don’t fall completely over his hands. There’s a large mug within easy reach, but he completely ignores it, chin rested atop his knees and his arms wrapped around his legs. Long fingers pluck aimlessly at his toes as he just sits and watches the city slowly wake. He looks tired and cold, but content to perch on the cold metal of the fire escape. You shiver to look at him, wondering how he can stand it.
You stand for a moment, transfixed by the sight. He’s not a bad looking man, not by any stretch of the imagination, but that really is a horrible sweater and, God, isn’t it cold out there? You blink, realizing you’re rambling inanely to yourself, exhaustion having removed the filter you normally keep over your thoughts and allowing them to pelt around inside your head. Really, you need food and you need sleep, not necessarily in that order. What you don’t need is to stand like an idiot in the middle of the kitchen staring at a man who doesn’t even know you exist.
The dark haired man suddenly sits up a little straighter, his face taking on an expression of something like happiness as the window behind him slides up. Another man, blond and wonderfully built, climbs out onto the fire escape, his generous mouth curving up in an expression of supreme delight as his fingers pluck lightly at the yellow-brown knit of the dark man’s sweater. They exchange words, you see, little puffs of fog appearing and disappearing in front of their faces, and though their expressions tinge toward annoyance or sadness as the conversation progresses, an overall sense of contentment and happiness seems to lie over the scene.
You’ve moved to where your elbows are propped on the counter on either side of the sink when the blond man finally kneels down and settles himself on the cold metal of the fire escape. There’s a second or two where he leans over a presses a lingering kiss to the dark hair man’s lips (and, God, something flashes hot and sharp through your stomach, making your breath stutter). Then, carefully, he wraps his arms around his partner, lifting the slighter man easily, and settles him in his lap. And, holy crap, what a picture they make together - dark and light, pale and tan, slim and just slightly larger, cradled against each other with obvious affection - despite that awful mustard-yellow sweater.
You watch for a few minutes longer, long enough to see long, tan fingers card through dark hair and a kiss pressed softly against a temple, right where dark hair meets pale skin, before your exhaustion takes you over. You forego whatever vague idea of a meal had been lingering at the back of your mind and stagger off to your bed, fall face first onto the covers and let sleep run roughshod over your willing body.
You dream of them, the men in the apartment across the street, and wake wondering what was the dream and what was reality.
You never really figure it out, but then, it never really mattered in the first place, did it?