Inceptionfic: The First Breath You Take After You Give Up
Title: The First Breath You Take After You Give Up
Pairing/Rating: Arthur/Eames, R
Word count: 917
Genre: Angst, romance
Warnings: For *angst*. No triggers that I'm aware of.
A/N: Written for (spoilers at links) these two prompts at the inception_kink. Betaed by avocado_love. My thanks to hairbrush for supplying me with a title (a song by Them Crooked Vultures).
"See you on Friday," Eames says with a soft smile and a quick peck to Arthur's jaw.
"See you on Friday," Eames says with a soft smile and a quick peck to Arthur's jaw before slipping on his shades and hurrying to the cab. Arthur grimaces and shuts the door after him, wiping at the wet spot on his cheek.
During the next four days Arthur tries to call Eames ten times, and Eames never picks ups. Afterwards, he wonders if he should've known then.
The sun is high and shining through the living room windows, making the air stuffy and too warm to be comfortable. Arthur sits in a shadowy corner in a cool leather armchair and pretends to read. The house is abnormally quiet.
--
Arthur is watching television with a midnight snack when he hears the front door open. Eames's familiar footsteps shuffle across the hallway, stopping in the living room doorway. There's a two-second pause that makes Arthur's heart clench nauseatingly. Then Eames is leaning over the back of the sofa and whispering sweetly into his ear in a sing-song voice, "Honey, I'm home."
Arthur smiles.
It's a bright, windy afternoon and Arthur sits on the balcony, thumbing the book Eames had once given him. Asimov. "Perhaps you'll grow an imagination," Eames had said, eyes crinkled with laughter. Arthur had given him the finger, but tucked the book safely into his "To Be Read" pile. Arthur's sure it was warm and sunny that day, but in his memory the house is cold and dark.
He startles when he hears a crash from the kitchen, followed by Eames's sheepish, "Oops!"
"I'm so sorry darling, you can't possibly even know..." The rough vowels and consonants of Eames's voice curl around Arthur like smoke.
"Neither can you," thinks Arthur.
Light from the setting sun burns orange across their sheets.
The kitchen counter is cool against his skin as he clings to the thickness of Eames's shoulders, relishes in the feel of strong hands grasping at his hip-bones, the burn of Eames moving inside him, the half-stifled moans that he's not sure are from him or Eames. Arthur ignores the prickling behind his eyelids and concentrates on the familiar feel of Eames's muscles bunching under his touch.
"You can't keep doing this." Eames's voice is soft in the darkness of their bedroom. He traces a palm down Arthur's spine and presses a gentle kiss to his shoulder. Arthur hums softly and refuses to turn around. The following silence feels heavy.
Some days they barely speak. Arthur wanders through the house like he's lost something while Eames looks on with a mutinous expression, judging. Neither of them say anything - Arthur because he has nothing to say, Eames because Arthur doesn't want him to.
Most of the time Arthur ignores the heavy weight in the pit of his belly and tells himself he's happy. Happier, at least. There are days though, when the ache keeps welling up and the desire to just hurt Eames and scream at him is almost overwhelming.
A lazy weekend spent mostly in bed. Tracing the most recent of Eames's tattoos, Arthur thinks he loves the feel of Eames's arms around him so much he could cry.
"I love you," Arthur whispers. Eames frowns in his sleep and switches sides.
Arthur wants to ask Eames if it was worth it, but he knows he won't get an honest answer.
It's dark and cool in their bedroom, their bodies sticky with drying sweat. Eames's palm is rough and dry where it rests on the curve of Arthur's hip. Eames is a solid warmth along Arthur's side, and Arthur can feel the soft flutter of Eames's breath in his hair, his heart-beat a steady thrum beneath Arthur's ear. Eames strokes Arthur's skin with his thumb and mutters, "You need to stop." Arthur shuts his eyes.
"This isn't what I'd want," Eames says.
"You can't know," says Arthur and rolls away from him. "You aren't him."
When he opens his eyes, he's alone.
"I miss you," he whispers into the empty room.
He reaches for the gun on the bedside table.
--
When he wakes up, he's still in the bedroom. He removes the cannula and lies on the tidily made bed and reaches his right arm across the mattress, seeking a familiar body that hasn't been present for weeks. "I miss you," he mouths again, but no sound comes out. His throat feels swollen shut.
There's a gaping hole in his heart.
When he gets up, it's getting light again. He crosses the hallway and ignores the piles of mail on the floor, accumulated over the past weeks. The kitchen is littered with dirty dishes and left-overs, reminders of Arthur's hasty breaks to sustain himself between hours spent dreaming.
There's a tidy stack of condolence-cards on side table in the living room next to an official-looking folder, and Arthur tastes bile in his mouth. He doesn't know what to do with himself.
He ends up back in the bedroom, the wardrobe doors wide open, staring at the rows and rows of clothes that aren't his. He touches each piece of clothing, trailing his fingers across fabrics gently, remembering how they felt when they were draped over firm muscle and soft skin.
His chest feels three times too small.
Arthur pulls out a thick, grey sweater and clutches it like a lifeline. He crawls under the covers and buries his face into the soft wool, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent like he's drowning.
For the first time in two months, he lets himself cry.
Pairing/Rating: Arthur/Eames, R
Word count: 917
Genre: Angst, romance
Warnings: For *angst*. No triggers that I'm aware of.
A/N: Written for (spoilers at links) these two prompts at the inception_kink. Betaed by avocado_love. My thanks to hairbrush for supplying me with a title (a song by Them Crooked Vultures).
"See you on Friday," Eames says with a soft smile and a quick peck to Arthur's jaw.
"See you on Friday," Eames says with a soft smile and a quick peck to Arthur's jaw before slipping on his shades and hurrying to the cab. Arthur grimaces and shuts the door after him, wiping at the wet spot on his cheek.
During the next four days Arthur tries to call Eames ten times, and Eames never picks ups. Afterwards, he wonders if he should've known then.
The sun is high and shining through the living room windows, making the air stuffy and too warm to be comfortable. Arthur sits in a shadowy corner in a cool leather armchair and pretends to read. The house is abnormally quiet.
--
Arthur is watching television with a midnight snack when he hears the front door open. Eames's familiar footsteps shuffle across the hallway, stopping in the living room doorway. There's a two-second pause that makes Arthur's heart clench nauseatingly. Then Eames is leaning over the back of the sofa and whispering sweetly into his ear in a sing-song voice, "Honey, I'm home."
Arthur smiles.
It's a bright, windy afternoon and Arthur sits on the balcony, thumbing the book Eames had once given him. Asimov. "Perhaps you'll grow an imagination," Eames had said, eyes crinkled with laughter. Arthur had given him the finger, but tucked the book safely into his "To Be Read" pile. Arthur's sure it was warm and sunny that day, but in his memory the house is cold and dark.
He startles when he hears a crash from the kitchen, followed by Eames's sheepish, "Oops!"
"I'm so sorry darling, you can't possibly even know..." The rough vowels and consonants of Eames's voice curl around Arthur like smoke.
"Neither can you," thinks Arthur.
Light from the setting sun burns orange across their sheets.
The kitchen counter is cool against his skin as he clings to the thickness of Eames's shoulders, relishes in the feel of strong hands grasping at his hip-bones, the burn of Eames moving inside him, the half-stifled moans that he's not sure are from him or Eames. Arthur ignores the prickling behind his eyelids and concentrates on the familiar feel of Eames's muscles bunching under his touch.
"You can't keep doing this." Eames's voice is soft in the darkness of their bedroom. He traces a palm down Arthur's spine and presses a gentle kiss to his shoulder. Arthur hums softly and refuses to turn around. The following silence feels heavy.
Some days they barely speak. Arthur wanders through the house like he's lost something while Eames looks on with a mutinous expression, judging. Neither of them say anything - Arthur because he has nothing to say, Eames because Arthur doesn't want him to.
Most of the time Arthur ignores the heavy weight in the pit of his belly and tells himself he's happy. Happier, at least. There are days though, when the ache keeps welling up and the desire to just hurt Eames and scream at him is almost overwhelming.
A lazy weekend spent mostly in bed. Tracing the most recent of Eames's tattoos, Arthur thinks he loves the feel of Eames's arms around him so much he could cry.
"I love you," Arthur whispers. Eames frowns in his sleep and switches sides.
Arthur wants to ask Eames if it was worth it, but he knows he won't get an honest answer.
It's dark and cool in their bedroom, their bodies sticky with drying sweat. Eames's palm is rough and dry where it rests on the curve of Arthur's hip. Eames is a solid warmth along Arthur's side, and Arthur can feel the soft flutter of Eames's breath in his hair, his heart-beat a steady thrum beneath Arthur's ear. Eames strokes Arthur's skin with his thumb and mutters, "You need to stop." Arthur shuts his eyes.
"This isn't what I'd want," Eames says.
"You can't know," says Arthur and rolls away from him. "You aren't him."
When he opens his eyes, he's alone.
"I miss you," he whispers into the empty room.
He reaches for the gun on the bedside table.
--
When he wakes up, he's still in the bedroom. He removes the cannula and lies on the tidily made bed and reaches his right arm across the mattress, seeking a familiar body that hasn't been present for weeks. "I miss you," he mouths again, but no sound comes out. His throat feels swollen shut.
There's a gaping hole in his heart.
When he gets up, it's getting light again. He crosses the hallway and ignores the piles of mail on the floor, accumulated over the past weeks. The kitchen is littered with dirty dishes and left-overs, reminders of Arthur's hasty breaks to sustain himself between hours spent dreaming.
There's a tidy stack of condolence-cards on side table in the living room next to an official-looking folder, and Arthur tastes bile in his mouth. He doesn't know what to do with himself.
He ends up back in the bedroom, the wardrobe doors wide open, staring at the rows and rows of clothes that aren't his. He touches each piece of clothing, trailing his fingers across fabrics gently, remembering how they felt when they were draped over firm muscle and soft skin.
His chest feels three times too small.
Arthur pulls out a thick, grey sweater and clutches it like a lifeline. He crawls under the covers and buries his face into the soft wool, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent like he's drowning.
For the first time in two months, he lets himself cry.