[December 3rd] Of Wonder, Of Night
Of Wonder, Of Night
PG
Author : indysaur | Artist : steam_pilot
The unfortunate truth is that Eames finds himself lying half-buried under a growing drift of snow because, somewhere along the road, he decided he was self-sufficient.
It's not upsetting to realize that he isn't. He could use it as a mantra, maybe. If you repeat a sad thing to yourself enough, inoculation takes hold.
It's very cold. Eames had been walking for a long time. The sun has risen five times and fallen four, and is falling again. It shares the sky with the moon, turning out flinty light.
Better to die here than as a captive. Better. Fucking Siberia. Fucking Russians.
He blinks, snow weighing upon his lashes. It will be hard to find me. The world is still very big, and I am only one man.
It might be Christmas today, he thinks.
****
In November, he had accepted a job and been more than a little surprised to arrive in Ulan Bator to find Arthur.
"Look at this," Eames had said.
"Mr. Eames," Arthur replied, smirking. "Please, contain yourself."
When the opportunity arose to infiltrate a tyurma, Eames volunteered himself. "I've always wanted an epaulet tattooed on my shoulder."
Arthur sneered, but when it came time, he drove him to the border. "Eames," he said. "This is a stupid plan."
"The sheer number of times we've had this discussion is beyond the pale."
"If you step out that door, I wash my hands of this." Arthur didn’t look away from the road.
Eames only turned up the volume on the radio. "Listen," he said. "Carols already."
****
Arthur’s face when he drove away: Eames wishes he could have seen it, but Arthur hadn’t lingered.
****
Eames’ fingers feel wet, then cold, then like nothing at all.
He concentrates on breathing. He’s so lost in the sound of it that it takes him minutes to register that there are hands on him, and a voice, fighting past the roar of Eames’ inhalations, exhalations.
Arthur, whose face is paler than Eames has ever seen it. Dark circles under his eyes. Red lips yellow where teeth bite down. He presses at the pulse at Eames’ neck, at the tip of Eames’ nose, checking for frostbite.
“Eames,” Arthur says. “Do you think you can drink something?” He pulls Eames half up into his lap, letting him sprawl there. He rests Eames’ head against his shoulder and brings a Thermos of something steaming to Eames’ lips.
Eames forces a few swallows down. He imagines he can hear Arthur’s heartbeat. The swish and thump.
Arthur works Eames’ gloves off, massages each finger between his own bare palms, heat searing through Eames’ deadened nerves. Eames hisses but Arthur ignores him, squeezing purposefully. He brings Eames’ hands to his mouth and exhales upon them. He touches his lips to fingertips. “Goddamn you, Eames.”
“Arthur,” Eames says.
Arthur has his cheek against Eames’ temple. The humid warmth of his breath. “As if I wouldn't find you,” he says--a bright star, hung in the north.
