(no subject)
I wrote this for the kink meme a while ago, but I want to keep it here. I think I like it. The prompt, which I will totally edit in later, was something along the lines of Arthur dreams in black and white, Eames dreams in color.
Then I named it Dreams In Color after a song, because I was too sleepy to realize that was part of the prompt verbatim. Anyway.
Dreams In Color
Arthur/Eames
so, so G
It only happens when he's tired. Or when he's overwhelmed. Or when things get too routine and he doesn't think hard enough about constructing the dreamspace.
Sometimes no one even notices. Sometimes they're thirty minutes in before it dawns on Arthur that Eames is casting side long glances his way and Arthur remembers that real life doesn't look like this.
Sometimes, if the color is important, if he needs to get it right, Ariadne will touch him at the elbow or Cobb will nudge him and incline his head at the rest of Arthur's made up world.
If he concentrates enough, if he closes his eyes and blocks everything out, he can make the colors bleed in around the edges until all the space is filled up and bright and normal.
It doesn't bother him. He's not embarrassed by it or ashamed. He's just always been kind of muted. It is what it is.
And maybe he always expected Eames to give him shit about it, blame his obvious lack of imagination, but he never has. Arthur supposes that he's never lacked for ammunition in that department.
Yusuf absolutely gives him shit about it.
Awhile ago, back when they were all getting used to being inside each others respective psyches, Arthur absentmindedly constructed an hour long training session in nothing but varying shades of grey.
When they noticed, Ariadne was sweet. "No one else does it, right?" she said, like it was something special.
Eames, never that great with eye contact to begin with, looked away, even though Arthur knew for a fact that he had been aware of this particular quirk longer than any of them, save for maybe Cobb.
"Don't dogs dream in black and white?" Yusuf asked.
Arthur didn't answer. Instead he closed his eyes and when he opened them again it was to a world made infrared. Arthur had suspected he could do it, but he hadn't known for sure.
Yusuf laughed.
Eames face ran hotter than anyone else's. Arthur hadn't known that either.
***
Arthur's worn out and Eames wanders by, seemingly without purpose until he changes course to stand directly in front of Arthur's makeshift desk.
Eames rubs at an eye while Arthur waits for him to speak. "Can I borrow you for a moment? I wanted to go over the-" Eames stops. "Just how tired are you?"
Arthur shrugs. Usually he's better at hiding that sort of thing, or at least cutting off lines of questioning about it, but right now he can't be bothered.
"Come and sleep with me, darling," he says, because apparently that kind of thing never gets old when you're Eames. "I believe we could both use a change of scene."
Arthur's not opposed. He likes that he can get things done while he catches up on his shut eye. It's one of Arthur's favorite things about his profession of choice, how it offers the very best in multitasking.
"You or me?" Arthur asks as he follows Eames to the center of the room.
Eames looks up briefly from where he's rolling up his sleeve. "You."
This isn't one of those times when Arthur forgets to dream in color. Nor is he unaware that the space they're existing in is colorless. He just doesn't waste the energy trying.
Eames looks around before he lights a grey cigarette with a grey lighter. Eames can talk at length about smoking in dreams, all the joy of it and none of the carcinogens.
"Well, this is relaxing, isn't it?"
Arthur doesn't know what he means. It's just a coffee shop. A boring coffee shop. There are scattered files on their shared table. Arthur's imagined himself up some coffee in a paper cup, Eames a cup of black tea.
"I can fix it if you want," Arthur says.
Eames looks down at his hand where color starts to edge in at his fingertips. "Don't," he says sharply.
The color recedes, but Eames doesn't look up from his hand. Arthur can see the dark shadows of his eyelashes against his cheeks. "Don't," he says again, softer this time. "I like it."
Arthur doesn't know what to say to that either, just, "Okay."
When Eames meets his eyes, Arthur smiles. Eames bites at the corner of his lip and Arthur calls up a pointless memory of how red it get when he does that. His mouth stays resolutely grey, a shade deeper than his face and lighter than his eyes.
Eames taps his fingers on a file. "Now about that mark."
Then I named it Dreams In Color after a song, because I was too sleepy to realize that was part of the prompt verbatim. Anyway.
Dreams In Color
Arthur/Eames
so, so G
It only happens when he's tired. Or when he's overwhelmed. Or when things get too routine and he doesn't think hard enough about constructing the dreamspace.
Sometimes no one even notices. Sometimes they're thirty minutes in before it dawns on Arthur that Eames is casting side long glances his way and Arthur remembers that real life doesn't look like this.
Sometimes, if the color is important, if he needs to get it right, Ariadne will touch him at the elbow or Cobb will nudge him and incline his head at the rest of Arthur's made up world.
If he concentrates enough, if he closes his eyes and blocks everything out, he can make the colors bleed in around the edges until all the space is filled up and bright and normal.
It doesn't bother him. He's not embarrassed by it or ashamed. He's just always been kind of muted. It is what it is.
And maybe he always expected Eames to give him shit about it, blame his obvious lack of imagination, but he never has. Arthur supposes that he's never lacked for ammunition in that department.
Yusuf absolutely gives him shit about it.
Awhile ago, back when they were all getting used to being inside each others respective psyches, Arthur absentmindedly constructed an hour long training session in nothing but varying shades of grey.
When they noticed, Ariadne was sweet. "No one else does it, right?" she said, like it was something special.
Eames, never that great with eye contact to begin with, looked away, even though Arthur knew for a fact that he had been aware of this particular quirk longer than any of them, save for maybe Cobb.
"Don't dogs dream in black and white?" Yusuf asked.
Arthur didn't answer. Instead he closed his eyes and when he opened them again it was to a world made infrared. Arthur had suspected he could do it, but he hadn't known for sure.
Yusuf laughed.
Eames face ran hotter than anyone else's. Arthur hadn't known that either.
***
Arthur's worn out and Eames wanders by, seemingly without purpose until he changes course to stand directly in front of Arthur's makeshift desk.
Eames rubs at an eye while Arthur waits for him to speak. "Can I borrow you for a moment? I wanted to go over the-" Eames stops. "Just how tired are you?"
Arthur shrugs. Usually he's better at hiding that sort of thing, or at least cutting off lines of questioning about it, but right now he can't be bothered.
"Come and sleep with me, darling," he says, because apparently that kind of thing never gets old when you're Eames. "I believe we could both use a change of scene."
Arthur's not opposed. He likes that he can get things done while he catches up on his shut eye. It's one of Arthur's favorite things about his profession of choice, how it offers the very best in multitasking.
"You or me?" Arthur asks as he follows Eames to the center of the room.
Eames looks up briefly from where he's rolling up his sleeve. "You."
This isn't one of those times when Arthur forgets to dream in color. Nor is he unaware that the space they're existing in is colorless. He just doesn't waste the energy trying.
Eames looks around before he lights a grey cigarette with a grey lighter. Eames can talk at length about smoking in dreams, all the joy of it and none of the carcinogens.
"Well, this is relaxing, isn't it?"
Arthur doesn't know what he means. It's just a coffee shop. A boring coffee shop. There are scattered files on their shared table. Arthur's imagined himself up some coffee in a paper cup, Eames a cup of black tea.
"I can fix it if you want," Arthur says.
Eames looks down at his hand where color starts to edge in at his fingertips. "Don't," he says sharply.
The color recedes, but Eames doesn't look up from his hand. Arthur can see the dark shadows of his eyelashes against his cheeks. "Don't," he says again, softer this time. "I like it."
Arthur doesn't know what to say to that either, just, "Okay."
When Eames meets his eyes, Arthur smiles. Eames bites at the corner of his lip and Arthur calls up a pointless memory of how red it get when he does that. His mouth stays resolutely grey, a shade deeper than his face and lighter than his eyes.
Eames taps his fingers on a file. "Now about that mark."