Fic + Art: All is Violent, All is Bright 7/11
Title: All is Violent, All is Bright 7/11
Artist: datingwally Author:
sparrow_hubris
Team: ANGST
Prompt: innocence
Word count: 3,330 this part
Rating: PG-13 - NC-17 (This part R)
Warnings: Underage 15/17, Apocalypse & general destruction, Violence, Mentions of death, violence towards animals (hunting: prev parts )
Betas:
night_reveals ♥ metacheese ♥ herinfiniteeyes
Summary: Apocalypse AU / a.k.a bb!Survival / a.k.a. cockblockalypse!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
______
The first time Arthur wakes from the nightmares he doesn’t know where he is or what’s going on. He’s thrashing, tangled in the folds of his blankets and clawing at anything he can grab. He’s trying to get away from something and when he finally comes to, Eames is next to him with scratches on his arms, and a look of sheer terror on his face that makes Arthur’s already racing heart skip a beat. Eames never looks scared like this. Eames always seems like he can handle anything, like how calm he was when he had almost died, but Arthur looks at him and Eames seems at a loss, frightened, with brows knit tightly together and mouth slightly agape, frozen in uncertainty. Arthur reaches out to reassure Eames that he’s back, he’s lucid, and that it’s over. He doesn’t know what’s happened, but he needs Eames to stop looking at him like that. So when Eames sighs in relief, puts his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, and holds him there until his heart stops racing and his sweat is drying on his skin, Arthur finally calms. They stay sitting for a while until exhaustion settles in Arthur’s bones and he starts to tremble from adrenaline withdrawal and the cold. Eames pulls him back into the covers and they lay down to sleep again.
Arthur doesn't even remember what the dream was about.
The next time Arthur wakes from a dream he has come in his shorts. His heart is racing with a different kind of adrenaline, and his skin is slick with sweat, but not the cold, clammy kind that comes with fear. He hasn’t had a wet dream in years. Morning wood is a daily occurrence, he’s used to that, but wet dreams aren’t something he’s had to deal with since he was thirteen. Extracting himself delicately from the bed so as to not wake Eames, he goes to change into fresh boxers. He’d just washed the ones he was wearing not even two days ago, so he’s a little miffed at soiling them. Slipping on a new pair, he tries to remember the dream but it only comes back to him in bits and pieces. He remembers dreaming of Eames, how his lips felt pressed against Arthur’s own and how his hands had felt, calloused but soft as they rubbed down his arms. Arthur remembers how Eames had pulled him to his body while sleeping that night, holding Arthur and letting Arthur hold him. This time, in the dream, Arthur was grinding back into Eames’ hips and pressing himself into Eames’ erection.
He frowns at that, because what the fuck? Arthur didn’t think he was gay. He didn’t think much of anything though, since no one had held his interest for long. He think of Joline who he dated for a while in grade nine; he had liked the way she kissed. But he’s never really thought of guys like this before.
With the fresh pair of boxers on, he climbs back into the bed, warm from Eames’ body heat. He maintains a careful distance though, unable to shake off the ghostly imprint of the kiss from his lips. He can’t get back to sleep. After some tossing and turning, Arthur decides to get up and go for a walk to clear his head. He leaves a note in case he’s not back by the time Eames wakes.
Wandering the woods does help him clear his head. Arthur tries to figure out what his dream meant, why he had it, but can’t quite come up with any reason. Except maybe that he’s stressed. Watching Eames almost die was traumatic, so it’s only normal for him to have odd reactions to the memories, right? Arthur decides that the dreams will stop when he gets over his emotional turmoil. When he gets back to camp he feels much better. The woods are always so calming. They’re quiet and the trees box him in, blocking out distractions. There’s something comforting about being surrounded by reliability; trees stay in the same place for hundreds of years.
But the dreams don’t stop, or fade over the next few days. Arthur wakes in arousal or fear. When it’s the nightmares, Eames sits with him, murmuring stories into his hair to calm him, to wipe the terror from his mind and put him back to sleep. When it’s the wet dreams, Arthur gets up to change or sit by himself. He needs to get a handle on this because he doesn’t have the energy to wash his clothes that often and he’s tired of waking up in the middle of the night. He’s also tired of wondering what it all means, that every time he dreams of Eames - dreams of Eames touching him - he wakes with wet shorts.
A few days later, it begins to snow. Arthur hates the snow; it’s miserable and wet and makes everything unnavigable. They can’t check the traps or collect water. They can’t do much of anything until it melts away. Then they’ll have things to repair because wet snow is heavy and Arthur knows that the roof will be damaged when he inspects it later. Thankfully snow doesn’t last long in Vancouver. If it did, Arthur would go stir crazy, unable to stretch his legs on a walk, or without chores to complete. As it is, he and Eames struggle to occupy themselves by playing cards and drawing.
After four days of snow, Arthur can barely contain his pent-up energy. He fidgets all the time, standing and sitting and moving things around. He re-organizes three times before Eames yells at him to sit down and read or something.He tries, but can’t get into it; he needs a new book. His mind wanders over task lists and plans for their camp but soon he’s bored with that. Then he starts thinking about Eames. They’ve been living together for a while now and, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t know all that much about Eames. He knows some things Eames likes, and the stories he likes to tell, but he doesn’t really know much about Eames’ history beyond him living on the streets after running away from home.
“Tell me something about yourself,” Arthur says as he tinkers with the hinge on a trap that keeps jamming. Eames looks up from carving something out of wood with an amused smile.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, whatever. Just, something new.”
“All right?” Eames voice is hesitant.
“What was it like to be a kid in England?” Arthur prods.
“Like being a kid anywhere else really: friends, bicycles, video games.”
“You’re being vague.” Arthur says. Apparently Eames’ past makes him uncomfortable, but Arthur isn’t asking for anything illicit or personal, just something, any little thing.
“And you’re being antsy. Can’t even handle a little snow?”
“I don’t like just sitting around.”
“I can see that.”
Arthur bristles with frustration. This shouldn’t be a big deal, he thinks. “Fine. Fuck you,” he says dismissively. “Don’t tell me anything. I just thought we’d kill time. I don’t know that much about you, really.”
Eames expression turns dark, his lips pursed together and shoulders tensing up. His eyes crinkle in a slight squint of anger he seems to be trying to control and when he speaks, his words are clipped. “There’s not a lot to know.”
Arthur scowls and stands. “Whatever, forget it,” he huffs, then stalks off to find something else to do. It shouldn’t bother him so much that Eames doesn’t share. He knows, from what little they’ve talked about, that Eames’ life was hard. Remembering it might be painful. But Arthur’s not asking to know about all the horrible things from Eames’ past. He’s just trying to learn something about him, anything at all. It hurts a little that Eames won’t share when Arthur has opened up so much. Eames knows Arthur’s personal stuff. He know about Arthur’s his dad, his mom, and about even Greg. Superficial things are all Arthur knows, like what food Eames likes. They’ve only known each other a few months, but it still hurts that Eames is so closed off.
Arthur has another nightmare that night.
In the dream he’s standing on the edge of a tall building, looking out onto the city below. His feet are bare and he can feel the loose gravel layering the roof’s surface dig sharply into his skin. The sun is low in the sky, just above the horizon. It’s glaring brightly, directly in his sight-line, obscuring his view. There is a catwalk, a narrow bridge spanning from his building to the next that has no railing. The distance to the other side seems impossible to , the wind whipping through his hair strong enough to throw him off balance.
There’s something across the bridge that he needs to get to.
Dazedly, Arthur steps out onto the bridge, slowly sliding his foot forward along the smooth metal surface. It’s cool against his skin. He knows he has to cross, but he hesitates, wary of the plummeting distance below. He steps back and plants himself firmly on the rooftop again.
Arthur. The name is like a whisper, carried on the wind. He doesn’t know if it comes from across the bridge or from directly behind him.
“Eames?” He calls out, wishing that the sun would set so he could see across the building tops. There is no answer to his call, just the wind licking through his curls, blowing them in his face.
Arthur steps out onto the bridge again, tentatively shuffling farther across the divide. Panic courses through his veins like ice-water. He could fall; he could die. But he needs to find Eames. Right? He needs to find Eames?
The catwalk seems so narrow as he inches farther out. Arthur makes it about ten feet out above the streets below, between the buildings, before the wind picks up. A gust threatens to toss him over the side and Arthur crouches down to steady himself. Reluctantly he looks back over his shoulder, trying to decide if he should turn back or continue on. As Arthur presses his palms flat on the surface of the bridge, keeping his center of gravity as low as possible, he feels it shudder.
Every muscle in Arthur’s body tenses as the vibrations intensify. He goes to turn back, but when he spins he sees small chunks of brick fall from the walls of the building. The entire structure flickers like a hologram, shuddering and breaking apart. A corner of the roof breaks away, cascading to the ground below.
For a split second Arthur thinks, the whole thing is going to fall, and then his feet are carrying him across the bridge. His body reacts without thinking, sprinting as the bridge shatters behind him. Arthur can’t see the other side through the sun’s glare, hoping, trusting instinctively that the bridge stays straight as he tries to escape the collapse.
Arthur … Arthur.
He hears his name called, an extended whisper in the winds, barely audible above the thunderous impact of falling debris. Arthur runs faster than he could imagine towards the call, but the bridge is crumbling too fast. The disintegration licks at his heels as he runs.
Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, the whisper calls, taunting him.
Finally he can see the other side, the silhouette of a solid building in front of him. Drawing on the last of his energy, he dashes forward, ready to dive onto the rooftop. But the fracture of the bridge is too fast and he feels the ground give out, feet scrambling in open air as the concrete falls away below him.
Arthur tumbles, unable to grab onto anything that will keep him from plummeting to his death. As he sails through the air, chunks of concrete and brick suspended around him, he hears the voice call to him and braces for impact.
Arthur … Arthur.
“Arthur … Arthur. Arthur, wake up!”
Arthur gasps as he come awake, eyes flying open. Eames is at his side, gently shaking his shoulder. Taking a few gulping breaths, Arthur tries to regain his bearings. He’s not falling; he’s on solid ground and in his bed. It was just a dream. With wide eyes, he looks towards Eames.
“There you are,” Eames sighs with relief.
“F - fuck, what?” Arthur breathes, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to wipe away cobwebs, remnants of the dream.
“Another nightmare,” Eames answers. “Are you okay, Arthur?”
“Yeah, yeah I think so.”
“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” Eames asks jokingly, but the tremble in his voice betrays his concern.
Arthur doesn’t have an answer, memories of the dream slipping away, so he doesn’t say anything. Instead he collapses back onto the bed. He feels the phantom sensation of falling, like when he would try to go to sleep after a day at the amusement park riding roller coasters. Eames lies down at his back and runs a hand soothingly down his spine. Arthur presses back into Eames’ touch, relaxing bit by bit as Eames strokes him. After a while he’s able to drift into dreamless sleep.
***
“What’s up with you?” Eames asks in the morning as they prepare breakfast. Since the snow doesn’t seem to be disappearing, Arthur had trudged the short distance to their food storage and brought back a few days’ worth of food.
“I don’t know,” Arthur responds as he stirs peaches into the oatmeal they had found on their last trip into the city. “I think it’s stress.”
“Stress?”
“Yeah. I don’t think I deal well with losing people,” Arthur admits. Eames nods, not pointing out the fact that Arthur didn’t lose him, that he’s fine. Sometimes, Arthur notices, Eames just seems to understand.
They draw for most of the day. Arthur sketches a dream city with bridges spanning across alleyways and impossible staircases for fire escapes. Eames adds shadowy figures that perfectly inhabit the confusing spaces.
As evening approaches, the wind picks up, carrying with it an icy chill. By nightfall the temperature has dropped dramatically. Wordlessly, they both move the bed closer to the fire-pit and grab some extra fabric. They strip before crawling under the blankets. Huddling together, they go to sleep.
***
Arthur is standing in his bedroom. Posters of The Clash and Foo Fighters hang on the wall next to prints of modern architecture. He blinks, gazing around the room. Drawings litter his desk and he can faintly smell his deodorant on the dirty clothes in the corner. His blue plaid comforter is thrown carelessly across his bed and he goes to straighten it, to make his bed for the day. Arms wrap gingerly around him from behind when he drags his fingers along his blanket.
Leaning back into the warmth of the body behind him, Arthur can feel lips moves along his neck, pressing lightly against his hairline. “You’re not supposed to be in here,” Arthur says with a smile. He only receives an amused hum in response. “Eames,” Arthur laughs.
Arthur spins in Eames’ embrace and nuzzles his nose against Eames’ throat, smelling the musk of his skin. He licks along Eames’ pulse and Eames laughs as if he’s ticklish. He sucks harder, making Eames hum under his lips.
There’s snow falling steadily outside the window and the glass fogs over. The room suddenly feels unbearably hot, humid, and sticky. Arthur always remembers his room being so cold. Eames runs his hands along Arthur’s bare back. Arthur doesn’t even pause to wonder why he’s unclothed, why Eames is as well, not with Eames pressing against him, leaning down to lick into Arthur’s mouth. Suddenly his knees hit the edge of the bed. He didn’t realize they had been moving; maybe they hadn’t been, maybe they simply appeared next to the bed. Arthur lets Eames tip him back onto the mattress and he sinks into the soft blanket. Eames’ tongue is relentless, searching inside his mouth, playing over his teeth. Arthur moans when Eames presses his weight down on top of him.
Sucking kisses along Eames’ neck, he grinds his hips up into Eames’ body. Eames’ knee thrusts between his legs and makes him gasp and push for more contact. The friction is maddening, so deliciously good, but ultimately not enough. He wants more; he wants Eames’ skin on his skin, wants to feel the weight of Eames’ erection, the warmth of his cock pressed to his own. Eames’ hand smooths down his side, playing over Arthur’s ribs before slipping into the band of his underwear. He gasps when Eames’ fingertips brush over the sensitive dip of his pelvis before moving lower towards the junction of his legs. Eames hums against his mouth with pleasure when Arthur rolls his hips, arching off the bed.
Arthur feels like he can’t breathe. Everything is too hot, like he’s covered, smothered, and his lungs can’t process the heat of the air between them. Sweat breaks out across his skin and he moans into Eames’ mouth. Eames rocks his hips back and forth, grinding against Arthur’s sensitive prick. Eames takes his breath away with filthy kisses, and the heat rises, warmer and warmer until Arthur’s lungs burn with the need for oxygen. Arthur is frantic as he tries to break away, tries to escape, to get some air. Eames doesn’t let him. Eames is an immovable mass of flesh above him, soft, sticky skin and taut muscles underneath his fingers.
Eames is moving against him relentlessly, demanding, taking Arthur’s pleasure with every twitch of his hips, every smooth swipe of tongue in his mouth, every caress of large hands down his skin. Arthur feels like he’s going to die, like at any moment he’ll expire in a limbo trapped between ecstasy and hysteria. He wants nothing more than to succumb to it, to give in to it, to give into Eames. He could die in this embrace, trapped underneath the smooth undulation of Eames’ hips. He could let Eames take his very last breath with a kiss, could fade into blackness, comforted by the weight on top of him.
At the last moment, before Arthur blacks out, Eames pulls away and cold air rushes in like an icy avalanche, cascading down the wet ridges of his throat to settle in the smallest crevices of his lungs. He chokes on on it, feeling the air crystallize into fragmented needles, swelling and solidifying inside his chest. It’s too much and he tries to scream, tries to cough out the frozen mass, but can’t. His hips thrust forward, searching for the warmth of Eames’ body again.
Arthur comes awake, eyes fluttering open and a moan on his breath. His hips roll forward and he can feel the press of his erection against the heat of Eames’ body next to him. The space underneath the blankets is searing hot. His head is uncovered, not like when he want to sleep, and the cool breeze whips around his face. Arthur coughs with the pain of the cold air in his lungs. He feels wet, exhausted, tense with the need to come. Realizing that he’s still grinding against Eames, unable to help the twitch of his hips, he forces himself to stop. Arthur ducks his head back under the blankets, scooting back down to escape the cold. His eyes begin to focus in the darkness underneath the cloth, his breathing heavy enough that he can feel it bounce back to him off of Eames’ face. When he looks to see if Eames is awake, his body goes stock still. Eames is panting lightly, lips parted beautifully like an invitation. Arthur wants to dive forward and press his lips to them, but he can’t. He can’t make himself move, because Eames’ eyes are open. Eames is awake.
part 8
Artist: datingwally Author:
sparrow_hubris
Team: ANGST
Prompt: innocence
Word count: 3,330 this part
Rating: PG-13 - NC-17 (This part R)
Warnings: Underage 15/17, Apocalypse & general destruction, Violence, Mentions of death, violence towards animals (hunting: prev parts )
Betas:
night_reveals ♥ metacheese ♥ herinfiniteeyes
Summary: Apocalypse AU / a.k.a bb!Survival / a.k.a. cockblockalypse!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
______
The first time Arthur wakes from the nightmares he doesn’t know where he is or what’s going on. He’s thrashing, tangled in the folds of his blankets and clawing at anything he can grab. He’s trying to get away from something and when he finally comes to, Eames is next to him with scratches on his arms, and a look of sheer terror on his face that makes Arthur’s already racing heart skip a beat. Eames never looks scared like this. Eames always seems like he can handle anything, like how calm he was when he had almost died, but Arthur looks at him and Eames seems at a loss, frightened, with brows knit tightly together and mouth slightly agape, frozen in uncertainty. Arthur reaches out to reassure Eames that he’s back, he’s lucid, and that it’s over. He doesn’t know what’s happened, but he needs Eames to stop looking at him like that. So when Eames sighs in relief, puts his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, and holds him there until his heart stops racing and his sweat is drying on his skin, Arthur finally calms. They stay sitting for a while until exhaustion settles in Arthur’s bones and he starts to tremble from adrenaline withdrawal and the cold. Eames pulls him back into the covers and they lay down to sleep again.
Arthur doesn't even remember what the dream was about.
The next time Arthur wakes from a dream he has come in his shorts. His heart is racing with a different kind of adrenaline, and his skin is slick with sweat, but not the cold, clammy kind that comes with fear. He hasn’t had a wet dream in years. Morning wood is a daily occurrence, he’s used to that, but wet dreams aren’t something he’s had to deal with since he was thirteen. Extracting himself delicately from the bed so as to not wake Eames, he goes to change into fresh boxers. He’d just washed the ones he was wearing not even two days ago, so he’s a little miffed at soiling them. Slipping on a new pair, he tries to remember the dream but it only comes back to him in bits and pieces. He remembers dreaming of Eames, how his lips felt pressed against Arthur’s own and how his hands had felt, calloused but soft as they rubbed down his arms. Arthur remembers how Eames had pulled him to his body while sleeping that night, holding Arthur and letting Arthur hold him. This time, in the dream, Arthur was grinding back into Eames’ hips and pressing himself into Eames’ erection.
He frowns at that, because what the fuck? Arthur didn’t think he was gay. He didn’t think much of anything though, since no one had held his interest for long. He think of Joline who he dated for a while in grade nine; he had liked the way she kissed. But he’s never really thought of guys like this before.
With the fresh pair of boxers on, he climbs back into the bed, warm from Eames’ body heat. He maintains a careful distance though, unable to shake off the ghostly imprint of the kiss from his lips. He can’t get back to sleep. After some tossing and turning, Arthur decides to get up and go for a walk to clear his head. He leaves a note in case he’s not back by the time Eames wakes.
Wandering the woods does help him clear his head. Arthur tries to figure out what his dream meant, why he had it, but can’t quite come up with any reason. Except maybe that he’s stressed. Watching Eames almost die was traumatic, so it’s only normal for him to have odd reactions to the memories, right? Arthur decides that the dreams will stop when he gets over his emotional turmoil. When he gets back to camp he feels much better. The woods are always so calming. They’re quiet and the trees box him in, blocking out distractions. There’s something comforting about being surrounded by reliability; trees stay in the same place for hundreds of years.
But the dreams don’t stop, or fade over the next few days. Arthur wakes in arousal or fear. When it’s the nightmares, Eames sits with him, murmuring stories into his hair to calm him, to wipe the terror from his mind and put him back to sleep. When it’s the wet dreams, Arthur gets up to change or sit by himself. He needs to get a handle on this because he doesn’t have the energy to wash his clothes that often and he’s tired of waking up in the middle of the night. He’s also tired of wondering what it all means, that every time he dreams of Eames - dreams of Eames touching him - he wakes with wet shorts.
A few days later, it begins to snow. Arthur hates the snow; it’s miserable and wet and makes everything unnavigable. They can’t check the traps or collect water. They can’t do much of anything until it melts away. Then they’ll have things to repair because wet snow is heavy and Arthur knows that the roof will be damaged when he inspects it later. Thankfully snow doesn’t last long in Vancouver. If it did, Arthur would go stir crazy, unable to stretch his legs on a walk, or without chores to complete. As it is, he and Eames struggle to occupy themselves by playing cards and drawing.
After four days of snow, Arthur can barely contain his pent-up energy. He fidgets all the time, standing and sitting and moving things around. He re-organizes three times before Eames yells at him to sit down and read or something.He tries, but can’t get into it; he needs a new book. His mind wanders over task lists and plans for their camp but soon he’s bored with that. Then he starts thinking about Eames. They’ve been living together for a while now and, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t know all that much about Eames. He knows some things Eames likes, and the stories he likes to tell, but he doesn’t really know much about Eames’ history beyond him living on the streets after running away from home.
“Tell me something about yourself,” Arthur says as he tinkers with the hinge on a trap that keeps jamming. Eames looks up from carving something out of wood with an amused smile.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, whatever. Just, something new.”
“All right?” Eames voice is hesitant.
“What was it like to be a kid in England?” Arthur prods.
“Like being a kid anywhere else really: friends, bicycles, video games.”
“You’re being vague.” Arthur says. Apparently Eames’ past makes him uncomfortable, but Arthur isn’t asking for anything illicit or personal, just something, any little thing.
“And you’re being antsy. Can’t even handle a little snow?”
“I don’t like just sitting around.”
“I can see that.”
Arthur bristles with frustration. This shouldn’t be a big deal, he thinks. “Fine. Fuck you,” he says dismissively. “Don’t tell me anything. I just thought we’d kill time. I don’t know that much about you, really.”
Eames expression turns dark, his lips pursed together and shoulders tensing up. His eyes crinkle in a slight squint of anger he seems to be trying to control and when he speaks, his words are clipped. “There’s not a lot to know.”
Arthur scowls and stands. “Whatever, forget it,” he huffs, then stalks off to find something else to do. It shouldn’t bother him so much that Eames doesn’t share. He knows, from what little they’ve talked about, that Eames’ life was hard. Remembering it might be painful. But Arthur’s not asking to know about all the horrible things from Eames’ past. He’s just trying to learn something about him, anything at all. It hurts a little that Eames won’t share when Arthur has opened up so much. Eames knows Arthur’s personal stuff. He know about Arthur’s his dad, his mom, and about even Greg. Superficial things are all Arthur knows, like what food Eames likes. They’ve only known each other a few months, but it still hurts that Eames is so closed off.
Arthur has another nightmare that night.
In the dream he’s standing on the edge of a tall building, looking out onto the city below. His feet are bare and he can feel the loose gravel layering the roof’s surface dig sharply into his skin. The sun is low in the sky, just above the horizon. It’s glaring brightly, directly in his sight-line, obscuring his view. There is a catwalk, a narrow bridge spanning from his building to the next that has no railing. The distance to the other side seems impossible to , the wind whipping through his hair strong enough to throw him off balance.
There’s something across the bridge that he needs to get to.
Dazedly, Arthur steps out onto the bridge, slowly sliding his foot forward along the smooth metal surface. It’s cool against his skin. He knows he has to cross, but he hesitates, wary of the plummeting distance below. He steps back and plants himself firmly on the rooftop again.
Arthur. The name is like a whisper, carried on the wind. He doesn’t know if it comes from across the bridge or from directly behind him.
“Eames?” He calls out, wishing that the sun would set so he could see across the building tops. There is no answer to his call, just the wind licking through his curls, blowing them in his face.
Arthur steps out onto the bridge again, tentatively shuffling farther across the divide. Panic courses through his veins like ice-water. He could fall; he could die. But he needs to find Eames. Right? He needs to find Eames?
The catwalk seems so narrow as he inches farther out. Arthur makes it about ten feet out above the streets below, between the buildings, before the wind picks up. A gust threatens to toss him over the side and Arthur crouches down to steady himself. Reluctantly he looks back over his shoulder, trying to decide if he should turn back or continue on. As Arthur presses his palms flat on the surface of the bridge, keeping his center of gravity as low as possible, he feels it shudder.
Every muscle in Arthur’s body tenses as the vibrations intensify. He goes to turn back, but when he spins he sees small chunks of brick fall from the walls of the building. The entire structure flickers like a hologram, shuddering and breaking apart. A corner of the roof breaks away, cascading to the ground below.
For a split second Arthur thinks, the whole thing is going to fall, and then his feet are carrying him across the bridge. His body reacts without thinking, sprinting as the bridge shatters behind him. Arthur can’t see the other side through the sun’s glare, hoping, trusting instinctively that the bridge stays straight as he tries to escape the collapse.
Arthur … Arthur.
He hears his name called, an extended whisper in the winds, barely audible above the thunderous impact of falling debris. Arthur runs faster than he could imagine towards the call, but the bridge is crumbling too fast. The disintegration licks at his heels as he runs.
Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, the whisper calls, taunting him.
Finally he can see the other side, the silhouette of a solid building in front of him. Drawing on the last of his energy, he dashes forward, ready to dive onto the rooftop. But the fracture of the bridge is too fast and he feels the ground give out, feet scrambling in open air as the concrete falls away below him.
Arthur tumbles, unable to grab onto anything that will keep him from plummeting to his death. As he sails through the air, chunks of concrete and brick suspended around him, he hears the voice call to him and braces for impact.
Arthur … Arthur.
“Arthur … Arthur. Arthur, wake up!”
Arthur gasps as he come awake, eyes flying open. Eames is at his side, gently shaking his shoulder. Taking a few gulping breaths, Arthur tries to regain his bearings. He’s not falling; he’s on solid ground and in his bed. It was just a dream. With wide eyes, he looks towards Eames.
“There you are,” Eames sighs with relief.
“F - fuck, what?” Arthur breathes, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to wipe away cobwebs, remnants of the dream.
“Another nightmare,” Eames answers. “Are you okay, Arthur?”
“Yeah, yeah I think so.”
“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” Eames asks jokingly, but the tremble in his voice betrays his concern.
Arthur doesn’t have an answer, memories of the dream slipping away, so he doesn’t say anything. Instead he collapses back onto the bed. He feels the phantom sensation of falling, like when he would try to go to sleep after a day at the amusement park riding roller coasters. Eames lies down at his back and runs a hand soothingly down his spine. Arthur presses back into Eames’ touch, relaxing bit by bit as Eames strokes him. After a while he’s able to drift into dreamless sleep.
***
“What’s up with you?” Eames asks in the morning as they prepare breakfast. Since the snow doesn’t seem to be disappearing, Arthur had trudged the short distance to their food storage and brought back a few days’ worth of food.
“I don’t know,” Arthur responds as he stirs peaches into the oatmeal they had found on their last trip into the city. “I think it’s stress.”
“Stress?”
“Yeah. I don’t think I deal well with losing people,” Arthur admits. Eames nods, not pointing out the fact that Arthur didn’t lose him, that he’s fine. Sometimes, Arthur notices, Eames just seems to understand.
They draw for most of the day. Arthur sketches a dream city with bridges spanning across alleyways and impossible staircases for fire escapes. Eames adds shadowy figures that perfectly inhabit the confusing spaces.
As evening approaches, the wind picks up, carrying with it an icy chill. By nightfall the temperature has dropped dramatically. Wordlessly, they both move the bed closer to the fire-pit and grab some extra fabric. They strip before crawling under the blankets. Huddling together, they go to sleep.
***
Arthur is standing in his bedroom. Posters of The Clash and Foo Fighters hang on the wall next to prints of modern architecture. He blinks, gazing around the room. Drawings litter his desk and he can faintly smell his deodorant on the dirty clothes in the corner. His blue plaid comforter is thrown carelessly across his bed and he goes to straighten it, to make his bed for the day. Arms wrap gingerly around him from behind when he drags his fingers along his blanket.
Leaning back into the warmth of the body behind him, Arthur can feel lips moves along his neck, pressing lightly against his hairline. “You’re not supposed to be in here,” Arthur says with a smile. He only receives an amused hum in response. “Eames,” Arthur laughs.
Arthur spins in Eames’ embrace and nuzzles his nose against Eames’ throat, smelling the musk of his skin. He licks along Eames’ pulse and Eames laughs as if he’s ticklish. He sucks harder, making Eames hum under his lips.
There’s snow falling steadily outside the window and the glass fogs over. The room suddenly feels unbearably hot, humid, and sticky. Arthur always remembers his room being so cold. Eames runs his hands along Arthur’s bare back. Arthur doesn’t even pause to wonder why he’s unclothed, why Eames is as well, not with Eames pressing against him, leaning down to lick into Arthur’s mouth. Suddenly his knees hit the edge of the bed. He didn’t realize they had been moving; maybe they hadn’t been, maybe they simply appeared next to the bed. Arthur lets Eames tip him back onto the mattress and he sinks into the soft blanket. Eames’ tongue is relentless, searching inside his mouth, playing over his teeth. Arthur moans when Eames presses his weight down on top of him.
Sucking kisses along Eames’ neck, he grinds his hips up into Eames’ body. Eames’ knee thrusts between his legs and makes him gasp and push for more contact. The friction is maddening, so deliciously good, but ultimately not enough. He wants more; he wants Eames’ skin on his skin, wants to feel the weight of Eames’ erection, the warmth of his cock pressed to his own. Eames’ hand smooths down his side, playing over Arthur’s ribs before slipping into the band of his underwear. He gasps when Eames’ fingertips brush over the sensitive dip of his pelvis before moving lower towards the junction of his legs. Eames hums against his mouth with pleasure when Arthur rolls his hips, arching off the bed.
Arthur feels like he can’t breathe. Everything is too hot, like he’s covered, smothered, and his lungs can’t process the heat of the air between them. Sweat breaks out across his skin and he moans into Eames’ mouth. Eames rocks his hips back and forth, grinding against Arthur’s sensitive prick. Eames takes his breath away with filthy kisses, and the heat rises, warmer and warmer until Arthur’s lungs burn with the need for oxygen. Arthur is frantic as he tries to break away, tries to escape, to get some air. Eames doesn’t let him. Eames is an immovable mass of flesh above him, soft, sticky skin and taut muscles underneath his fingers.
Eames is moving against him relentlessly, demanding, taking Arthur’s pleasure with every twitch of his hips, every smooth swipe of tongue in his mouth, every caress of large hands down his skin. Arthur feels like he’s going to die, like at any moment he’ll expire in a limbo trapped between ecstasy and hysteria. He wants nothing more than to succumb to it, to give in to it, to give into Eames. He could die in this embrace, trapped underneath the smooth undulation of Eames’ hips. He could let Eames take his very last breath with a kiss, could fade into blackness, comforted by the weight on top of him.
At the last moment, before Arthur blacks out, Eames pulls away and cold air rushes in like an icy avalanche, cascading down the wet ridges of his throat to settle in the smallest crevices of his lungs. He chokes on on it, feeling the air crystallize into fragmented needles, swelling and solidifying inside his chest. It’s too much and he tries to scream, tries to cough out the frozen mass, but can’t. His hips thrust forward, searching for the warmth of Eames’ body again.
Arthur comes awake, eyes fluttering open and a moan on his breath. His hips roll forward and he can feel the press of his erection against the heat of Eames’ body next to him. The space underneath the blankets is searing hot. His head is uncovered, not like when he want to sleep, and the cool breeze whips around his face. Arthur coughs with the pain of the cold air in his lungs. He feels wet, exhausted, tense with the need to come. Realizing that he’s still grinding against Eames, unable to help the twitch of his hips, he forces himself to stop. Arthur ducks his head back under the blankets, scooting back down to escape the cold. His eyes begin to focus in the darkness underneath the cloth, his breathing heavy enough that he can feel it bounce back to him off of Eames’ face. When he looks to see if Eames is awake, his body goes stock still. Eames is panting lightly, lips parted beautifully like an invitation. Arthur wants to dive forward and press his lips to them, but he can’t. He can’t make himself move, because Eames’ eyes are open. Eames is awake.
part 8