Zugunruhe
Pairings: Eames/Arthur
Original prompt: Sorry about this fic, sorry I wrote it-- tell me about the story where I sully Richard Siken's good name.
Summary: The things that they are too afraid to want.
Notes: I'M DOING PRETTY WELL WITH THIS HIATUS THING, I promise, this was written before, fldnlfj;eanr why am I making excuses about this WHY WON'T THE HIATUS END ;___;
In Paris they don't feel at home. They are fitful with their sleep. Eames wonders what it would be like to forget to pay the rent, what it would feel like to be shoved onto the edge of life together.
"We need to leave Paris," he says, tilting his head off the pillow.
"No," says Arthur. "Kiss me."
+
The trouble with Paris; when they're in Paris, they know who they are.
Look, here is the cafe where you left halfway through our meal, and you wouldn't let me in the door when I chased you back home. Here is the streetlight that you kissed me under, when the first fall of snow caught you off your guard. Here is where you slipped your gloved hand into mine, and I would have braved frostbite just to feel you from closer up.
Here is where you called me names, shades of profanity until you spat, Eames, like it was the worst of all the invectives. Here is where I held you against the damp shadow of the wall, stroked you through your trousers until you shuddered and said my name again. Here is where we watched the river. Here is our Paris.
The trouble with Paris is that Paris knows who they are. Darling, convince me otherwise.
+
This could be Amsterdam:
Their windows are lined with flowerpots, bite-sized terracotta gardens. Arthur is angling a watering can over them when Eames walks in, and the sun is blinking through the cloud of his hair, the line of his shoulderblades soft beneath his shirt.
Eames has just enough time to toss his keys onto the counter before Arthur is on him, all hungry hands and mouth.
"Only jobs we can do together," says Arthur. "From now on."
"I promise," says Eames.
Arthur goes bright as a lighthouse, calling him home. It's a beautiful thing. Eames says it again, I promise, just to see the boy smile.
+
This could be Tangier:
He wants to unwind into looseness in the dusk of a hotel bar. Wants to let the alcohol simmer through him. But he thinks of his flight and he knows that he can't, and so Eames slides in between his sheets, denting the new-snow calm of the linen.
When his phone rings beside him he blinks and sees two o'clock, he blinks and sees Arthur's name.
"Were you asleep?" asks Arthur. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."
"It's alright," says Eames. "Cheers to a job well done. I'll see you around."
He can hear the music pound where Arthur is, the shrill laughter of the faceless.
It takes Arthur a while to answer, but when he does, he says, "I wanted to hear your voice."
Eames closes his eyes. The words are warm as brine. He lets them lap against his heart, nudging at his pulse, before he speaks.
"Where are you," he says. "I'm coming," he says.
+
This could be New York:
In the crowd across the street from the Christmas display, Eames tells Arthur to hold on tight in case they lose each other. Arthur laughs in long wisps of steam.
The naive American opulence of it all is charming, he thinks. They watch the snowflakes blink in and out to the music, feel themselves shiver with the bells echoing down the street. Eames is a bit deaf still, when the last of it dies away, so he doesn't hear what Arthur mouths into his cheek.
But he knows the shape of every syllable. He listens to Arthur's lips.
You, Arthur is saying. I love you.
+
But in Paris all the monuments harbor slivers of who they are. The gate to our building, darling. Here is where you waited, suitcase in your hand.
You in a glittering blue-flame rage, rare and so precious in your fury, and I had to run out into the street because I would have kissed you if I didn't. I came back smelling like scotch and you were sitting at the curb. You said you were going to leave, your suitcase was packed, keep the toothbrush and the receipts and the low-fat milk in the fridge, you said.
I was too drunk to know what it meant, and you waited until I figured it out. Until I knew that you wanted me to stop you. I knew you'd never ask.
And I stopped you, with my paws and my claws, with the ache in my jaws as I devoured you. Please don't leave, I said. I gave you the chance to beg like you were only giving in.
Later, you said something, but by then you knew I was asleep.
This is how they live in Paris.
+
In Paris he turns to Arthur and asks, "Don't you think we should leave?"
"I'm too afraid to leave," says Arthur.
"Aren't you afraid of Paris?" he asks. "Aren't you afraid of who we are here?"
Of the cobblestones you stumbled over, your fingers catching in my sleeve, and I held you up and you looked at me and knew that I was about to say something stupid. I'm sorry. It's just that right then, you looked like you needed me. Arthur stretches against him, skin melting beneath his touch.
"I am," says Arthur. "But I'm frozen with the fear."
And maybe he's right to be.
+
This could be Florence:
Arthur hands him cotton to dab at his wrist with. The IV lines snake onto the spool and Eames glances at the time. They have enough of it.
"Same account?" asks Arthur.
"What," says Eames, "no celebration?"
"Doesn't seem so wise," says Arthur. "Local law enforcement got word from Quito yesterday. They'll be on us."
"Right, then," says Eames. "I'm off to the Cayman Islands for a bit."
Arthur is startled enough to look up at him, and he says, "Shouldn't go around telling people your hideouts."
"No," says Eames, "but I was wondering if you--"
"What?" asks Arthur, and Eames feels like he's been caught doing something terrible, like killing a man, or telling the truth.
"Nothing," says Eames, because in Florence he doesn't know what he wants.
+
This could be Kigali:
Eames feels dry with dust inside, choking him to the throat. He could crumble beneath it, he thinks.
"I had fun," says Arthur. "Didn't you?"
Fun is breaking the speed limit. Fun is getting someone else to pay the bill, a waitress who's willing to scrawl her number onto a packet of sugar, who will be angry with you when you call her a second time.
"Eames," says Arthur, "don't look like that, please."
He threads his fingers through the back of Eames's head, presses a kiss against his closed mouth.
"You knew it wasn't ever going to work," he says. "Not with us, it wasn't."
+
This could be Washington:
He's doubled over with the pain, hands cupped around his nose. Arthur undoes his fist, his eyes bright, and some of the passersby drag their feet as they pretend not to stare.
"Fuck you," says Arthur. "Don't ever come anywhere near me."
Arthur walks away like he's running away, and somewhere in the station, something is delayed. Eames thinks he could do it all over again.
I don't get to apologize because I don't get anything, he shouts after Arthur, in a world where he can straighten up and face the rubble. Blood down his face and all.
+
At least in Paris, Arthur always comes padding back like he wants to lick clean the wounds he's made. His tongue a peace offering. In Paris we have each other. In Paris you never leave.
And maybe Arthur is right to be afraid, because for every Amsterdam, there's a Florence. They're as likely to land in Tangier as in Kigali, and they can't tell New York and Washington apart from a distance. Paris, they have. Paris they know.
Paris knows them. In Paris, when I apologize, you get this look. Like you're coming apart.
I wonder what it is that you find worthwhile in Paris. You must have an Amsterdam of your own. In Guangzhou, am I a better man? Maybe I do not hold inside the things I mean to tell you. Maybe I am brave enough not to stifle your mouth with mine, when you are about to say something important and I am frightened.
But you must have a Florence of your own, a Kigali, a Washington. Maybe in Brisbane you never learn my name. Maybe in Edmonton I tell you, This doesn't mean anything. Maybe in Edmonton, you're glad to hear it.
+
In Paris they drape their dripping clothes over the radiator. Raindrops drum against the window, and it fogs up with steam from the inside. Their third-floor flat hangs over a sidewalk. Umbrellas patter past.
We have to leave Paris, thinks Eames, and then Arthur kisses him and pulls him down onto the bed.
In Paris he licks all the seams of Arthur's body open. Arthur shudders and hooks his heels together, and in the flat downstairs, someone turns on a radio and Carla Bruni whispers a song into the rain.
L'amour, she says, pas pour moi.
"Tell me what she's singing," says Eames, into the hollow of Arthur's throat.
"I don't know," says Arthur. "I don't speak French."
In Paris, Eames listens to Arthur gasp out his name and he thinks, There is somewhere else we have to be.
Original prompt: Sorry about this fic, sorry I wrote it-- tell me about the story where I sully Richard Siken's good name.
Summary: The things that they are too afraid to want.
Notes: I'M DOING PRETTY WELL WITH THIS HIATUS THING, I promise, this was written before, fldnlfj;eanr why am I making excuses about this WHY WON'T THE HIATUS END ;___;
In Paris they don't feel at home. They are fitful with their sleep. Eames wonders what it would be like to forget to pay the rent, what it would feel like to be shoved onto the edge of life together.
"We need to leave Paris," he says, tilting his head off the pillow.
"No," says Arthur. "Kiss me."
+
The trouble with Paris; when they're in Paris, they know who they are.
Look, here is the cafe where you left halfway through our meal, and you wouldn't let me in the door when I chased you back home. Here is the streetlight that you kissed me under, when the first fall of snow caught you off your guard. Here is where you slipped your gloved hand into mine, and I would have braved frostbite just to feel you from closer up.
Here is where you called me names, shades of profanity until you spat, Eames, like it was the worst of all the invectives. Here is where I held you against the damp shadow of the wall, stroked you through your trousers until you shuddered and said my name again. Here is where we watched the river. Here is our Paris.
The trouble with Paris is that Paris knows who they are. Darling, convince me otherwise.
+
This could be Amsterdam:
Their windows are lined with flowerpots, bite-sized terracotta gardens. Arthur is angling a watering can over them when Eames walks in, and the sun is blinking through the cloud of his hair, the line of his shoulderblades soft beneath his shirt.
Eames has just enough time to toss his keys onto the counter before Arthur is on him, all hungry hands and mouth.
"Only jobs we can do together," says Arthur. "From now on."
"I promise," says Eames.
Arthur goes bright as a lighthouse, calling him home. It's a beautiful thing. Eames says it again, I promise, just to see the boy smile.
+
This could be Tangier:
He wants to unwind into looseness in the dusk of a hotel bar. Wants to let the alcohol simmer through him. But he thinks of his flight and he knows that he can't, and so Eames slides in between his sheets, denting the new-snow calm of the linen.
When his phone rings beside him he blinks and sees two o'clock, he blinks and sees Arthur's name.
"Were you asleep?" asks Arthur. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."
"It's alright," says Eames. "Cheers to a job well done. I'll see you around."
He can hear the music pound where Arthur is, the shrill laughter of the faceless.
It takes Arthur a while to answer, but when he does, he says, "I wanted to hear your voice."
Eames closes his eyes. The words are warm as brine. He lets them lap against his heart, nudging at his pulse, before he speaks.
"Where are you," he says. "I'm coming," he says.
+
This could be New York:
In the crowd across the street from the Christmas display, Eames tells Arthur to hold on tight in case they lose each other. Arthur laughs in long wisps of steam.
The naive American opulence of it all is charming, he thinks. They watch the snowflakes blink in and out to the music, feel themselves shiver with the bells echoing down the street. Eames is a bit deaf still, when the last of it dies away, so he doesn't hear what Arthur mouths into his cheek.
But he knows the shape of every syllable. He listens to Arthur's lips.
You, Arthur is saying. I love you.
+
But in Paris all the monuments harbor slivers of who they are. The gate to our building, darling. Here is where you waited, suitcase in your hand.
You in a glittering blue-flame rage, rare and so precious in your fury, and I had to run out into the street because I would have kissed you if I didn't. I came back smelling like scotch and you were sitting at the curb. You said you were going to leave, your suitcase was packed, keep the toothbrush and the receipts and the low-fat milk in the fridge, you said.
I was too drunk to know what it meant, and you waited until I figured it out. Until I knew that you wanted me to stop you. I knew you'd never ask.
And I stopped you, with my paws and my claws, with the ache in my jaws as I devoured you. Please don't leave, I said. I gave you the chance to beg like you were only giving in.
Later, you said something, but by then you knew I was asleep.
This is how they live in Paris.
+
In Paris he turns to Arthur and asks, "Don't you think we should leave?"
"I'm too afraid to leave," says Arthur.
"Aren't you afraid of Paris?" he asks. "Aren't you afraid of who we are here?"
Of the cobblestones you stumbled over, your fingers catching in my sleeve, and I held you up and you looked at me and knew that I was about to say something stupid. I'm sorry. It's just that right then, you looked like you needed me. Arthur stretches against him, skin melting beneath his touch.
"I am," says Arthur. "But I'm frozen with the fear."
And maybe he's right to be.
+
This could be Florence:
Arthur hands him cotton to dab at his wrist with. The IV lines snake onto the spool and Eames glances at the time. They have enough of it.
"Same account?" asks Arthur.
"What," says Eames, "no celebration?"
"Doesn't seem so wise," says Arthur. "Local law enforcement got word from Quito yesterday. They'll be on us."
"Right, then," says Eames. "I'm off to the Cayman Islands for a bit."
Arthur is startled enough to look up at him, and he says, "Shouldn't go around telling people your hideouts."
"No," says Eames, "but I was wondering if you--"
"What?" asks Arthur, and Eames feels like he's been caught doing something terrible, like killing a man, or telling the truth.
"Nothing," says Eames, because in Florence he doesn't know what he wants.
+
This could be Kigali:
Eames feels dry with dust inside, choking him to the throat. He could crumble beneath it, he thinks.
"I had fun," says Arthur. "Didn't you?"
Fun is breaking the speed limit. Fun is getting someone else to pay the bill, a waitress who's willing to scrawl her number onto a packet of sugar, who will be angry with you when you call her a second time.
"Eames," says Arthur, "don't look like that, please."
He threads his fingers through the back of Eames's head, presses a kiss against his closed mouth.
"You knew it wasn't ever going to work," he says. "Not with us, it wasn't."
+
This could be Washington:
He's doubled over with the pain, hands cupped around his nose. Arthur undoes his fist, his eyes bright, and some of the passersby drag their feet as they pretend not to stare.
"Fuck you," says Arthur. "Don't ever come anywhere near me."
Arthur walks away like he's running away, and somewhere in the station, something is delayed. Eames thinks he could do it all over again.
I don't get to apologize because I don't get anything, he shouts after Arthur, in a world where he can straighten up and face the rubble. Blood down his face and all.
+
At least in Paris, Arthur always comes padding back like he wants to lick clean the wounds he's made. His tongue a peace offering. In Paris we have each other. In Paris you never leave.
And maybe Arthur is right to be afraid, because for every Amsterdam, there's a Florence. They're as likely to land in Tangier as in Kigali, and they can't tell New York and Washington apart from a distance. Paris, they have. Paris they know.
Paris knows them. In Paris, when I apologize, you get this look. Like you're coming apart.
I wonder what it is that you find worthwhile in Paris. You must have an Amsterdam of your own. In Guangzhou, am I a better man? Maybe I do not hold inside the things I mean to tell you. Maybe I am brave enough not to stifle your mouth with mine, when you are about to say something important and I am frightened.
But you must have a Florence of your own, a Kigali, a Washington. Maybe in Brisbane you never learn my name. Maybe in Edmonton I tell you, This doesn't mean anything. Maybe in Edmonton, you're glad to hear it.
+
In Paris they drape their dripping clothes over the radiator. Raindrops drum against the window, and it fogs up with steam from the inside. Their third-floor flat hangs over a sidewalk. Umbrellas patter past.
We have to leave Paris, thinks Eames, and then Arthur kisses him and pulls him down onto the bed.
In Paris he licks all the seams of Arthur's body open. Arthur shudders and hooks his heels together, and in the flat downstairs, someone turns on a radio and Carla Bruni whispers a song into the rain.
L'amour, she says, pas pour moi.
"Tell me what she's singing," says Eames, into the hollow of Arthur's throat.
"I don't know," says Arthur. "I don't speak French."
In Paris, Eames listens to Arthur gasp out his name and he thinks, There is somewhere else we have to be.