please don't go
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1616
Summary: Saying goodbye.
Warning: Character death.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Eames is in the airport, getting ready to leave for his summer internship in California, when he gets the phone call.
"Eames," Ariadne breathes into his ear, tinny and too far away. "It's Arthur," she says. "It's Arthur, they think he's going," she's crying into the phone, and Eames doesn't even remember running back through security and out of the airport, but he guess he does because he suddenly realizes he's in the backseat of a cab, fingers balled and white against black leather interior.
The cab weaves through traffic dangerously but Eames doesn't even notice it as he tilts his cheek into the cool window and loops through memories. The day he met Arthur, introduced by mutual friends. Three years later, when Arthur asked him to a dance, biting his lip shyly and refusing to make eye contact. Their first kiss, under the docks. Their one year anniversary, a day-trip to Chicago. When Arthur first got sick. When Arthur went into remission. When Arthur relapsed. When Arthur threw the vase of flowers Eames had brought him into the wall, sobbing while he pulled chunks of his newly grown hair out of his scalp and let them fall to the floor and told Eames they were over, they had to be, because...well. And the months after that, where Arthur wouldn't allow Eames inside his house while he turned skeletal and depressed within it.
Eames throws money at the cab driver without bothering to ask for any back when they pull up to the hospital, throwing himself out of it and sprinting into the ominous white building. He hurries through the correct combination of hallways and elevators, his heart pounding like an infuriated fist against his breastbone in a taunting rhythm you're-too-late, you're-too, you're-too-late, you're-too. He pulls around the final corner and there's Ariadne, Arthur's fraternal twin, curled up knees-to-chest on a bench in the hallway. He doesn't know if he runs or walks or just fucking teleports down the corridor. Ariadne stands to greet him.
"He's--we weren't able to wake him yesterday morning. They, they think this is it," she forces out, eyes round as saucers, dark and leaking. "I think--I had to call you Eames--I think, I know, he's waiting for you," she says. Eames feels his stomach wring itself into all the different knots he learned in Outdoor Survival class. He pivots to go into Arthur's room and is met by Arthur's mother, standing solid in the doorway.
Arthur's mother has always detested Eames and his slouchy jeans and his slouchy sweaters and his smoking habit and his relationship with her son. The woman is nearly a foot shorter than him but he feels small under her gaze as she tilts her chin up and fixes him with a searing glare. Her face is much more wrinkled than Eames remembers it being six months ago, and he swears he sees wetness in the grooves beneath her eyes. She beckons him closer and fearfully he treads. "You listen to me," she demands, and what she lacks in volume she makes up with in conviction. "My son is tired, tired of fighting, you hear me? He's suffered enough." She blinks rapidly and clears her throat. She looks him up and down. "I need you to be strong for my Arthur. He doesn't want to hear you cry. I need you to say goodbye." Eames wants to argue, shout, kick and scream at things, but he knows in the deepest chamber of his heart that she is right. So he nods weakly and averts his eyes. She steps aside.
Eames is staggered by what waits for him inside--Arthur, looking like he's sleeping, but it's not Arthur. It's some skinny, bony, waxy thing, some cheap imitation of Arthur with no color in his cheeks and no purpose in his posture. But it is Arthur, neck crooked and drool at the corners of his mouth, it is Arthur and Eames will always, always go to Arthur.
He fumbles for Arthur's hand, but it's not enough; he pulls Arthur's whole arm to him, leans over the bed, pushing his chest against Arthur's shoulder. "I'm here, darling, I'm here," he says. He reaches up and strokes across the black stubble that covers Arthur's scalp. Eames tries to speak several times before he's actually able to swallow around the hard, rubber ball of horror in his throat. He lifts Arthur's limp hand to his mouth and presses his lips to the miniature mountains that are Arthur's knuckles. He closes his eyes. "I love you so much, Arthur. I haven't been able to say that in so long, you know, but it never stopped being real. More real than...than anything else I'll ever know," he confesses softly. "I know you're tired, darling, I know you're so exhausted, I can't even imagine--" his voice breaks and his nostrils flare with the effort to surpress the urge to sob. "I know you've tried so hard." A quiet minute passes where Eames just sucks in breath against Arthur's hand like he's been a suffocating man all these months he hasn't touched the other boy.
"Do you remember, Arthur, when we went to Kirkwood park in the middle of winter, and there were still all those ducks on the frozen pond, and we were like, what are they doing here, in the middle of winter? Why haven't they gone somewhere warmer?" Eames turns Arthur's hand over in his and presses the hollow of his eye into Arthur's pale palm. "Be a bird, Arthur," he chokes. "Fly south, darling, fly. Go somewhere warmer." He can't help the first tear that escapes from under his sealed eyelids. "I'll...I'll meet you in the spring," he whispers, "my bird." He takes a rattling inhale, and then he's weeping; great, fat tears a rushing exodus of sadness from Eames' heart that just roll down his face and sink back into his skin. "I'm s-sorry," he stutters. "Just, it's okay, my darling, my lovely, lovely Arthur," he inclines his body and his hand in Arthur's short hair slips down to his neck and grips there, anchoring onto the lax body. "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur," he repeats. "It's okay to go. I'm here. Don't be afraid," he adds the last part just as much for himself as he does for Arthur.
He stays there, rocking back and forth slightly, clinging to all these parts of Arthur that will never be enough for over an hour until Arthur's mother comes in and touches his shoulder. He gathers himself, the hardest thing he's ever done, and leaves the room. He flings himself into the bench outside in the hallway next to Ariadne and soundlessly leans his shoulder against hers. "He's really going, isn't he?" she asks in a hushed, wounded voice, staring straight ahead. And Eames can't bring himself to verbalize an answer; he just nods.
Hours pass and they all hardly say a word, hardly look at each other. A nurse tries to urge them down to the cafeteria but nobody moves. Ariadne gets up and goes to sit with her brother, pulling the stool up to the head of the bed and pressing her cheek to Arthur's faintly expanding chest. Eames and Arthur's mother sit on opposite sides of the bench, but they are too tired to upkeep the hatred between them.
They hear it, when Arthur leaves. That shrill, unkindly scream that accompanies the drag of inescapable flat, red line. For all the anticipation of this precise moment, it still shocks Eames down to the molecules in the marrow of his every bone. His panic comes to an electric crescendo in his veins as he bursts into the room to the sight of Ariadne curled up over her twin, shaking badly and crying. "He's gone," she wails, loud and raw and so painful. Eames brings his fingers up to his lips to still their trembling. "I could feel him going," she draws out in ragged breathes. Arthur's mother rushes to her daughter and grips her shoulders, bends her face into Ariadne's hair. Eames just stands there.
The nurses scuttle in, and upon observing the DNR on Arthur's chart, cast their pitying looks and shut off the monitors and machines before subtly exiting the room.
After several minutes where Eames stands rooted to his spot, just looking at Arthur, who, so fresh in his death, looks the same he did those hours ago when Eames said goodbye. Arthur's mother straightens up and whisks herself out of the room, but she can't hide the tears tracking down her stricken face as she goes. Eames goes to Ariadne.
"My brother, my twin," she moans into Arthur's shirt. "Don't leave me, all alone, Arthur," she's babbling hysterically. "Please don't go, please don't go."
"Ari," Eames murmurs, lays a broad hand on her back and crouches down, tipping his head against her stomach. "Come away, so they can, so the doctors can--"
"No!" she shrieks. "My half, my other half Eames, I could feel it, like a light that went out," she gasps. "He's my other half," her voice disintegrates and ebbs into solemn misery.
And Eames moves his hand down from her quaking spine to take one of hers. He brings it down to his mouth, and lays a kiss to the back of it. "Mine too," he whispers.
Words: 1616
Summary: Saying goodbye.
Warning: Character death.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Eames is in the airport, getting ready to leave for his summer internship in California, when he gets the phone call.
"Eames," Ariadne breathes into his ear, tinny and too far away. "It's Arthur," she says. "It's Arthur, they think he's going," she's crying into the phone, and Eames doesn't even remember running back through security and out of the airport, but he guess he does because he suddenly realizes he's in the backseat of a cab, fingers balled and white against black leather interior.
The cab weaves through traffic dangerously but Eames doesn't even notice it as he tilts his cheek into the cool window and loops through memories. The day he met Arthur, introduced by mutual friends. Three years later, when Arthur asked him to a dance, biting his lip shyly and refusing to make eye contact. Their first kiss, under the docks. Their one year anniversary, a day-trip to Chicago. When Arthur first got sick. When Arthur went into remission. When Arthur relapsed. When Arthur threw the vase of flowers Eames had brought him into the wall, sobbing while he pulled chunks of his newly grown hair out of his scalp and let them fall to the floor and told Eames they were over, they had to be, because...well. And the months after that, where Arthur wouldn't allow Eames inside his house while he turned skeletal and depressed within it.
Eames throws money at the cab driver without bothering to ask for any back when they pull up to the hospital, throwing himself out of it and sprinting into the ominous white building. He hurries through the correct combination of hallways and elevators, his heart pounding like an infuriated fist against his breastbone in a taunting rhythm you're-too-late, you're-too, you're-too-late, you're-too. He pulls around the final corner and there's Ariadne, Arthur's fraternal twin, curled up knees-to-chest on a bench in the hallway. He doesn't know if he runs or walks or just fucking teleports down the corridor. Ariadne stands to greet him.
"He's--we weren't able to wake him yesterday morning. They, they think this is it," she forces out, eyes round as saucers, dark and leaking. "I think--I had to call you Eames--I think, I know, he's waiting for you," she says. Eames feels his stomach wring itself into all the different knots he learned in Outdoor Survival class. He pivots to go into Arthur's room and is met by Arthur's mother, standing solid in the doorway.
Arthur's mother has always detested Eames and his slouchy jeans and his slouchy sweaters and his smoking habit and his relationship with her son. The woman is nearly a foot shorter than him but he feels small under her gaze as she tilts her chin up and fixes him with a searing glare. Her face is much more wrinkled than Eames remembers it being six months ago, and he swears he sees wetness in the grooves beneath her eyes. She beckons him closer and fearfully he treads. "You listen to me," she demands, and what she lacks in volume she makes up with in conviction. "My son is tired, tired of fighting, you hear me? He's suffered enough." She blinks rapidly and clears her throat. She looks him up and down. "I need you to be strong for my Arthur. He doesn't want to hear you cry. I need you to say goodbye." Eames wants to argue, shout, kick and scream at things, but he knows in the deepest chamber of his heart that she is right. So he nods weakly and averts his eyes. She steps aside.
Eames is staggered by what waits for him inside--Arthur, looking like he's sleeping, but it's not Arthur. It's some skinny, bony, waxy thing, some cheap imitation of Arthur with no color in his cheeks and no purpose in his posture. But it is Arthur, neck crooked and drool at the corners of his mouth, it is Arthur and Eames will always, always go to Arthur.
He fumbles for Arthur's hand, but it's not enough; he pulls Arthur's whole arm to him, leans over the bed, pushing his chest against Arthur's shoulder. "I'm here, darling, I'm here," he says. He reaches up and strokes across the black stubble that covers Arthur's scalp. Eames tries to speak several times before he's actually able to swallow around the hard, rubber ball of horror in his throat. He lifts Arthur's limp hand to his mouth and presses his lips to the miniature mountains that are Arthur's knuckles. He closes his eyes. "I love you so much, Arthur. I haven't been able to say that in so long, you know, but it never stopped being real. More real than...than anything else I'll ever know," he confesses softly. "I know you're tired, darling, I know you're so exhausted, I can't even imagine--" his voice breaks and his nostrils flare with the effort to surpress the urge to sob. "I know you've tried so hard." A quiet minute passes where Eames just sucks in breath against Arthur's hand like he's been a suffocating man all these months he hasn't touched the other boy.
"Do you remember, Arthur, when we went to Kirkwood park in the middle of winter, and there were still all those ducks on the frozen pond, and we were like, what are they doing here, in the middle of winter? Why haven't they gone somewhere warmer?" Eames turns Arthur's hand over in his and presses the hollow of his eye into Arthur's pale palm. "Be a bird, Arthur," he chokes. "Fly south, darling, fly. Go somewhere warmer." He can't help the first tear that escapes from under his sealed eyelids. "I'll...I'll meet you in the spring," he whispers, "my bird." He takes a rattling inhale, and then he's weeping; great, fat tears a rushing exodus of sadness from Eames' heart that just roll down his face and sink back into his skin. "I'm s-sorry," he stutters. "Just, it's okay, my darling, my lovely, lovely Arthur," he inclines his body and his hand in Arthur's short hair slips down to his neck and grips there, anchoring onto the lax body. "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur," he repeats. "It's okay to go. I'm here. Don't be afraid," he adds the last part just as much for himself as he does for Arthur.
He stays there, rocking back and forth slightly, clinging to all these parts of Arthur that will never be enough for over an hour until Arthur's mother comes in and touches his shoulder. He gathers himself, the hardest thing he's ever done, and leaves the room. He flings himself into the bench outside in the hallway next to Ariadne and soundlessly leans his shoulder against hers. "He's really going, isn't he?" she asks in a hushed, wounded voice, staring straight ahead. And Eames can't bring himself to verbalize an answer; he just nods.
Hours pass and they all hardly say a word, hardly look at each other. A nurse tries to urge them down to the cafeteria but nobody moves. Ariadne gets up and goes to sit with her brother, pulling the stool up to the head of the bed and pressing her cheek to Arthur's faintly expanding chest. Eames and Arthur's mother sit on opposite sides of the bench, but they are too tired to upkeep the hatred between them.
They hear it, when Arthur leaves. That shrill, unkindly scream that accompanies the drag of inescapable flat, red line. For all the anticipation of this precise moment, it still shocks Eames down to the molecules in the marrow of his every bone. His panic comes to an electric crescendo in his veins as he bursts into the room to the sight of Ariadne curled up over her twin, shaking badly and crying. "He's gone," she wails, loud and raw and so painful. Eames brings his fingers up to his lips to still their trembling. "I could feel him going," she draws out in ragged breathes. Arthur's mother rushes to her daughter and grips her shoulders, bends her face into Ariadne's hair. Eames just stands there.
The nurses scuttle in, and upon observing the DNR on Arthur's chart, cast their pitying looks and shut off the monitors and machines before subtly exiting the room.
After several minutes where Eames stands rooted to his spot, just looking at Arthur, who, so fresh in his death, looks the same he did those hours ago when Eames said goodbye. Arthur's mother straightens up and whisks herself out of the room, but she can't hide the tears tracking down her stricken face as she goes. Eames goes to Ariadne.
"My brother, my twin," she moans into Arthur's shirt. "Don't leave me, all alone, Arthur," she's babbling hysterically. "Please don't go, please don't go."
"Ari," Eames murmurs, lays a broad hand on her back and crouches down, tipping his head against her stomach. "Come away, so they can, so the doctors can--"
"No!" she shrieks. "My half, my other half Eames, I could feel it, like a light that went out," she gasps. "He's my other half," her voice disintegrates and ebbs into solemn misery.
And Eames moves his hand down from her quaking spine to take one of hers. He brings it down to his mouth, and lays a kiss to the back of it. "Mine too," he whispers.