lights will guide you home, and ignite your bones (1/2)
title: lights will guide you home, and ignite your bones
pairing: arthur/eames
rating: R
word count: ~12 300
WARNINGS: prolonged chronic illness (pancreatic cancer) and eventual major character death, suffering
notes: title from fix you by coldplay. de-anoning for this prompt (contains spoilers for ending) at inception_kink . concrit welcome.
It is just past six when Eames returns home from his morning run, iPod blaring hard rock and sneakers filthy with mud and grass. Argus, their three-year old German Shepherd, trails behind him into the dimly illuminated kitchen, tongue lolling and tail wagging furiously, exhausted but euphoric.
The kitchen is empty; there is no boiling kettle, no evidence of breakfast, no rustling newspapers and certainly no grumpy Arthur.
He bounds up the stairs two at a time, muscles complaining at the sudden exertion, calling out, “Still asleep, you lazy sod?”
Unexpectedly, the rumpled bed is empty (blankets kicked into disarray) but he does find Arthur slumped against the bathroom wall, knees drawn to his chest and head tilted back upon the tiles. The stale odour of sour vomit is unmistakable.
“Fuck, Arthur, how long have you been sitting here?”
“Not long. And calm down, it’s just my stomach playing up.”
“Three weeks of abdominal pain and nausea is not some pissy little stomach bug,” Eames frowns, remembering how reluctant Arthur had been to go to hospital even with a bullet embedded in his thigh after a particularly nasty encounter with Cobol. “Have you been to the doctor yet? Because if you haven’t, I swear to god I’ll-”
“I have, but they all say I’ve got dyspepsia or irritable bowel,” Arthur objects, wincing as another paroxysm of pain shivers up his quivering spine. “And load me up with more fucking painkillers. I don’t need drugs. I have Yusuf for that.”
“He’ll be pleased to know you value him so highly,” Eames murmurs dryly, brushing back the sweat-slick strands of hair plastered to Arthur’s forehead. His skin is cool and clammy to touch.
“Shut up,” Arthur grunts, lacking much of his customary bite, “I just want a proper diagnosis. Oh, fuck.”
He bends over near double, burying his face in his lap. Eames rubs his back soothingly, brow furrowed. Considering that Arthur’s tolerance for pain is inhumanly high, to find him in such a condition is all the more disquieting.
“You are going to the clinic today, even if I have to drag you there kicking and screaming,” he mumbles into the nape of a shuddering neck, broad palms kneading into the taut muscle of his shoulders.
It is a testament to how bad the pain must be that Arthur growls (all for show) but does not protest.
***A week later, Eames is sitting in a sterile and tastefully-decorated doctor’s office, fingers reflexively drumming a harsh staccato beat into his thigh. He wonders, abstractedly, how the fuck they managed to end up at this point. Their lives are ones of danger and mind-theft and dreams beyond wildest imagination, not CT scans and grocery shopping and the horrible, mundane inevitability of illness and taxes.
(They are meant to be invincible, god damn it.)
Arthur, enveloped in a heavy scarf (he has been wearing a lot of them lately) and one of Eames’ old jumpers, has metamorphosed into Arthur: Point Man. Spidery handwriting races along the pages of his current moleskine as he jots down notes and medical terms attentively. He asks pertinent questions, he is composed, he is willing to comply with treatment, and he is in a state of peak physical fitness. All in all, Arthur is an ideal patient.
Only Eames notices that the tell-tale lines around his mouth are tighter.
Eames just sits there, stolid and uncomfortable in the hard-backed-and-too-small chair, an observer rendered helpless and hapless in the face of nature and genetics and sheer ill-fortune. Because no matter how good, how unbelievably kick arse, you may be - sooner or later your health is going to knife you in the gut and gently remind you that you’re its sorry bitch, fucker. Whilst kicking you in the balls for good measure, most likely.
There is a pot plant in the corner. It is ugly.
The clock on the wall ticks on. Their consultation has passed the thirty minute mark.
Words loiter in the hand-sanitizer-scented air, thrown up between Arthur and his sympathetic yet professional doctor.
Cancer.
I-Am-So-Sorry-To-Have-To-Tell-You-This.
Metastasis.
Inoperable.
Tail of the pancreas.
Cancer. Radiotherapy. Unprecedented-At-Your-Age. Cancer. Prognosis. Cancer. Experimental Trial. Cancer.
CancerCancerCancerCancerCancer.
If you repeat it fast enough and long enough, the word loses its meaning.
It doesn’t sound as harmful, as devastating, as inescapably final.
Or so Eames tells himself.
***They discuss their options and intentions (quietly, calmly, matter-of-factly) during the drive back home.
Eames’ knuckles grip white on the steering wheel. Their groceries for the week jostle around in the back, disregarded. Arthur’s hand rests on Eames’ knee, fingers digging into the worn material of his jeans, a gesture that belies his otherwise impassive exterior.
That evening Eames stumbles out the door into the chilly winter air with Argus loping at his heels, iPod left behind on the kitchen counter and sneakers hastily laced up. He runs hard and fast and out of rhythm. Soon his side will cramp up in stitches and his scarred left shin will begin to ache.
Arthur watches him till he is out of sight, crunching down on a pill for the pain.
Alone in the house, he paces for a good hour with a tumbler of whisky in hand, writing and rewriting the future in his mind and mentally composing a list of things that will need to be set in order. Cobb will need to know. God, the man might even cry, Arthur muses peevishly, unreasonably uncharitable.
When Eames returns, extremities frozen numb and somewhat less wound up, he discovers Arthur (fully clothed) in the overflowing bathtub; he is frolicking in the foam and downing more whisky, seeming to have graduated from glass to bottle.
“Um,” he begins inanely, torn between amusement and alarm.
“Shut up and get in,” Arthur commands imperiously, not as drunk as one might initially assume.
In moments of extreme stress, Arthur sometimes resorts to irrational and vaguely worrying bouts of recklessness and instability. Eames blames it on all that exposure to Cobb over the years. Then again, it is probably healthier that he expresses his issues through the medium of inebriation and bubble baths rather than bottling them up behind a thin-lipped smile and smouldering eyes as he is usually inclined to do.
Probably.
Possibly.
Hopefully.
In any case there is no arguing with him when he is like this so Eames acquiesces genially enough, also still clothed.
They talk through the night about everything and nothing, flicking soapsuds at one another and sharing the dismal residues of the bottle between them. There is more water on the tiled floor than in the tub and Arthur-the-neat-freak will be so fucking pissed in the morning but Eames can’t quite care right now, caught up in the unspoiled brilliance of the moment.
He peels the dense sodden scarf from around Arthur’s icy neck, pressing delicate ethanol-flavoured kisses to the salty and soapy hollow of his throat. The skin there is already bruised and discoloured by bite marks and Eames attempts to hide a smile because that explains the latest penchant for scarves and mufflers.
Arthur squirms away, bright-eyed, but pulls Eames up, hand fisted in the front of his vest.
They smash together in a muddle of teeth and tongues, spit and friction.
Eventually they manage to tumble into bed (naked, saturated clothes abandoned on the bathroom floor, towels discarded en route) and finally fall asleep, entwined around one another.
***Six months.
It is an arbitrary timeframe, indeed, but a timeframe nonetheless.
Because Eames had thought this (they) would be forever.
***Arthur starts his first four-week cycle of palliative chemotherapy on a Tuesday.
Twenty-four hours following the initial IV infusion, he develops flu-like symptoms, low-grade fever and extreme fatigue. He spends three days in bed, covers pulled up over his head, curled into a compact ball. On the sixth day he feels better and Cobb is allowed to visit with James and Phillipa in tow, bearing an assortment of flowers, cards, chocolate and balloons.
The kids scramble all over the clean white sheets of their bed, grubby fingers and squirming bodies; vying to show Uncle Arthur their latest finger paintings and inquiring after his health with such earnest, guileless concern that sudden heat prickles at Eames’ eyes, wretched and unwanted.
He is in the kitchen having a beer with Cobb (exchanging anecdotes about retirement and gardening, deliberately tiptoeing around the subject of illness and expenses) when he hears two different strains of laughter floating down the stairs. The first is shrill and unabashedly unrestrained; the second is mellow, deeper and slightly breathless.
Eames huffs out a reflexive laugh around the rim of the chilled bottle despite himself.
Cobb bumps against his shoulder companionably, mirroring his smile.
Memories of Mal linger in the pollen-suffused air, unacknowledged but ever-present.
On the seventh day Arthur has to have another infusion and the entire fucking cycle repeats itself.
The next morning, Eames runs ten kilometres in thirty-five minutes. Argus is nearly frantic with glee, sinew and muscle rippling beneath his thick tan and black coat. He runs and runs and runs, sweating out fury and resentment and despair: lungs aflame, throat parched, legs quivering, head pounding, heart stuttering.
It helps.
Not enough, but he’ll take what he can get.
***Eventually Arthur has to stop dreaming, not only out of consideration for his own flagging health and escalating fatigue but also to preserve the integrity of the team.
It nearly breaks him.
Eames watches him pack away his personal PASIV device, hands re-enacting a fluid and much-practiced sequence; the cloth rag perfunctorily ghosts over the vials and plastic tubing of the IV lines, the LED timer display and the activation trigger. There is something deeply intimate in the routine, sacred and awe-inspiring.
When Arthur clips the briefcase shut, he lets out a shaky breath - the only outwardly visible tell. Eames slips away before his presence can be noticed, palms smarting from the pressure of his nails biting into the flesh.
He calls anyone that matters (Ariadne, Cobb, Yusuf, Victoria, Tadashi, Pearson, Dayas) at various times over the next few days, informing them that he too will be taking an indefinite leave of absence from dreamsharing and its enticements. The call to Cobb is more out of courtesy than necessity - he already knows.
None of them attempt to offer their condolences or platitudes, for which he is grateful.
“Look, you didn’t have to,” Arthur tells him unhappily later that night, arms folded over his chest, chewing agitatedly on his lower lip. He has worried away the chapped skin; a new layer shines under the bright lights of the kitchen, glossy and raw.
“But I wanted to,” Eames replies gravely, spectacles fogging up as he unloads the steaming dishwasher.
Arthur wrinkles his nose, accepting a stack of mismatched mugs. “Ew.”
“Hey, I was being romantic just then, you insensitive bastard.” He aims a half-hearted swipe at Arthur’s arse, somewhat relieved that they are able to effortlessly fall back on the tried and tested route of easy-going banter and camaraderie.
“But Eames,” Arthur stage-whispers as he sidesteps the blow easily, dimples particularly prominent, eyes comically wide and alight with purported innocence, “We’re manly men.”
“And manly men don’t do romance?” Eames arches an eyebrow, pinning him against the counter top, thumbs resting on the bony ridge of hip bone peeking out above the elastic waistband of his track pants.
“Got it right in one,” he nods solemnly, lips quirking. “And people say you’re not smart.”
“Excuse me? Who are these mysterious people, pray tell.”
“Any point man worth his salt knows not to give away his informants,” Arthur intones primly, smile beatific, as if reciting from a manual. As he experimentally pushes against Eames, testing the hold, the neck of his woollen jumper shifts.
Momentarily distracted, Eames runs his hands gently along the length of an exposed clavicle, following bones that stick out like the wingspan of a large seabird.
As much as he tries to mask it beneath layered clothing and thick scarves, up this close his drastic loss of weight and muscle is readily apparent. He is thirty bloody pounds lighter than he should be; every single angle is sharpened, every dip is hollowed, every bone is noticeable.
Arthur remains warily silent, grudgingly tolerant of the scrutiny, but his smile falters ever so slightly; a flash of insecurity that disappears so swiftly that it may not have happened at all.
***They don’t talk about dreaming after that.
But every so often as he empties the recycling bin, Eames will find crumpled up scraps of newspaper or magazine articles pertaining to dreamsharing, chemistry, architecture or even neurology. They are all painstakingly and extensively annotated with suggestions, thoughts, queries, recommendations, references to other relevant articles.
He retrieves each and every one, smoothing out the creases carefully between his fingers.
***Arthur has to consume 4000 calories every day, just to maintain his dwindling body mass.
This is broken up into several small meals and snacks every two hours, regimented according to highlighted timetables and specified to nutritionist requirements.
The problem is, of course, that Arthur’s gastrointestinal tract has no regard for pretty timetables or doctor’s recommendations. Since the onset of chemotherapy, it has essentially been throwing a persistent and belligerent hissy fit.
Once, in an outburst borne of frustration and sleep deprivation, Eames may have directly addressed Arthur’s abdomen, ordering it to man up and do its job, motherfucker. It wasn’t his proudest moment but Arthur had reacted remarkably well. Or rather - far too well, judging by the peals of raucous laughter (giggling, even) and thigh-slapping.
Eames knows he will never live the moment down but it is hard to deny Arthur much when his mouth keeps bowing up into a wide grin and his eyes crinkle at the corners and he buries his flaming face in his hands because he is actually, honestly, crying with mirth.
To further complicate the struggle of sustaining an adequate diet amidst the bouts of nausea, vomiting and cramps, there is also a multitude of medications to consider - antimetabolites, analgesics, anti-emetics, pancreatic enzyme replacements, vitamins.
(The pharmacist filling out the script smiles at him sympathetically, shadows under her brilliant blue eyes; Eames clenches his fists and smiles right back, thinking no, no, don’t look at me like that.)
At first, the only substances Arthur can keep down for an extended period of time are milk, bananas and tinned peaches.
Eames thanks god, quite sincerely, for milk, bananas and tinned peaches.
Eventually, his intake progresses to include dry toast, oatmeal and electrolyte-laced ice lollipops. Every addition from then on is a small but significant victory. On the frighteningly infrequent days when Arthur actually feels hunger, he tries to eat as much as he can - capitalising on his otherwise non-existent appetite.
And even then, despite all their efforts, some days Arthur simply vomits it all right back up - retching and gagging till he is trembling all over and barely able to remain upright, saliva and tears dripping down his chin.
Eames rubs between his scapulae tentatively, pushes back the sweaty strands of hair from his eyes and valiantly tries to suppress the growing tide of nausea in his own stomach.
(He rinses and spits, scrubbing furiously at his teeth, Why the fuck am I doing this again?
Because the chemo may ease the pain, slow the metastasis, shrink the tumour, prolong your survival-
To which Arthur snorts irritably though his eyes do soften, barely perceptible, Or do nothing at all.
Yes, Eames concedes, flushing the toilet, Or that.)
On such days Arthur curls up against Argus on the couch, flicking through reruns of Bewitched and sipping Gatorade to replenish the lost fluids and electrolytes. Eames sits by his side, a bowl of mashed potato (mixed with butter, eggs, non-fat milk - whatever the hell he can find, essentially) in one hand, coaxing, “Come on, seriously, you have to eat something for today.”
“I’m just going to bring it back up again,” Arthur mutters wearily, head pillowed against Argus’ warm bulk.
“You won’t,” Eames says quietly, though they both know he doesn’t quite believe it. “Just try. Please.”
It is unfair of him to use that as leverage because Arthur does try, every single fucking minute of every single fucking day. For a sickening moment, he is certain Arthur will refuse, will tell him to piss off, but instead he compresses his lips; he sits up and reaches for the plastic spoon.
Eames doesn’t offer to help though he is hyper-aware that his stiff fingers are cramping around the bowl, the weight of his gaze no doubt unsettling in its intensity. His jaw is clamped so tight that when he remembers to unlock it, the insides of his cheeks are scalloped to the pattern of his teeth.
They stay like this, unaware that the reruns of Bewitched have morphed into a marathon of I Dream of Jeannie and that Argus has wandered off bored, Arthur slowly forcing down one mouthful every half hour and Eames holding the bowl for him, limbs tingling with pins and needles.
It works.
It works.
***Three days before Arthur begins his second course of chemotherapy, they pile rugs and a packed lunch into Eames’ beaten-up ten year old pickup truck. They drive for kilometres, Arthur lulled to restless sleep by the motion of the rumbling engine and Argus shivering with anticipation in the back.
“Wher’re we goin’?” he wakes up intermittently (or rather: every ten minutes) to mumble crabbily.
“Go back to sleep,” Eames orders, squinting at the road ahead, headlights cutting through shrouds of pre-dawn fog.
“I don’t like surprises,” is Arthur’s next remark, bleary and peevish.
“You were the infuriating are-we-there-yet kid in your family, weren’t you?” Eames sighs exasperatedly, although it comes out far more fond than anything else.
He chews on his lower lip meditatively at this conundrum, amused to realise that his jagged edges are perhaps being worn soft by this odd, haphazard domesticity.
“Ha ha,” Arthur is grumbling, punching his pillow into a better shape and pulling the quilt back up under his chin. “Wake me up when the sun is actually rising, bitch.”
Eames does, because Arthur’s sheer pleasure at watching the tendrils of pink light flare over the misty horizon is delightful to behold. They roll down the windows because it is not too cold and sing riotously along to the crackling radio with Arthur belting out any boy-verses and Eames supplying the backup whistling and girl-verses, pointedly not looking at one another because that’s just sappy and they are manly men, don’t you know?
But when Arthur croons, “Home is wherever I’m with you,” he leans over and pinches Eames’ cheek, really fucking hard.
And when they stop on the side of the road to stretch their cramped legs (nibbling on toasted cheese sandwiches and watching Argus sniff surreptitiously at the buttresses of a massive oak tree) Eames tugs Arthur toward him, fingers winding around his skinny wrists and licking the crumbs from his palms.
“Ah, home,” he hums into Arthur’s mouth, their breath coalescing, “Yes, I am ho-oh-ome.”
***They are given six months but Arthur continues to breathe for longer than that.
Eames knows, knows without needing to be told, that for as long as he is able Arthur will fight for life - defying predictions, statistics, expectations and the limitations of his own feeble and disloyal body.
Because that’s simply the sort of stubborn, resilient, magnificent bastard that he is.
And yet.
There are times when he will impulsively reach out to interlace Arthur’s bony fingers between his own just to have Arthur smile and squeeze them absentmindedly.
Eames wants to say I needed to feel the warmth of your skin.
There are times where he will change into his running gear but neglect to leave the house. When Arthur blinks awake at half past seven to see him perched at the edge of the bed, he will slur how was your run?
Eames will smile a secret half-smile, tousling Arthur’s hair and saying It was great. I watched something beautiful.
There are times when Eames will sandwich Arthur between his arms as they sleep, watching the rise and fall of his rib cage with almost rapt concentration. Sometimes Arthur’s eyes will snap open, dangerous and alert, entire body tensing before he realises where he is. Then he will snort and push Eames away with mock disgust, grousing about the overwhelming heat and need for personal space.
Eames wants say I’m just watching you breathe.
There are times when he will hook two fingers into the belt loops of Arthur’s trousers, tugging gently, as insistent as a child tugging a mother’s skirt. Arthur will always turn back to face him, puzzled and indulgently amused, head cocked to one side inquiringly. Eames will kiss him then - a slow, deep, languorous roll of tongues and teeth which occasionally descends into something filthier and more primitive, with Arthur pulling him towards the bedroom whilst impatiently saying, fuck, Eames, I do feel okay, please, I promise and Eames unable to do more than acquiesce yeah, okay, okay.
There are times when Eames thinks that Arthur seems ready to be done with his earthly, sickly body - ready to return to dust and ash. It is painfully apparent in the way he pushes the bland food around his plate, in the way that he stares longingly out an open window, sunlight caught in his thinning hair and the sky reflected in his eyes.
Eames wants to say I don’t want you to leave, selfish as that may be.
Indeed, perhaps he is only staying because of Eames.
Eames does not know how to reconcile himself to that knowledge.
But, fuck, he doesn’t try and convince Arthur otherwise.
***Their existence settles into a patchy sort of predictability: groceries and drug dispensaries, oncologists and veterinarians, Cobb children and the occasional waylaid visitor from across the ocean, support group meetings and credit card receipts, early morning runs and weekly infusions of Gemcitabine at the local clinic where the other pancreatic cancer patients (significantly older, jaundiced, bellies distended with fluid) pat Eames’ knees with their gnarled, veiny hands and show Arthur wrinkled photographs of gap-toothed grandchildren.
Too soon, it becomes a way of life.
At times it is difficult to recall what they were, or indeed who they were, before - back in the days when their lives did not revolve around pamphlets and pills, weight loss and worry, counselling and chemotherapy.
***
People ask about Arthur’s health all the time; how is he, is he coping, has he gained weight, is the treatment working, has the cancer metastasised to his liver or lungs yet, is he willing to see visitors.
Very rarely do they bother to ask Eames And how are you doing?
***Some days, Arthur is unrulier than a bratty child - bitchy and petulant and moody, made more irritable by the spasms of pain and illness and despondency rattling his bones, refusing to eat because everything tastes like metal and obstinately overtaxing himself almost to the point of collapse.
Some days, Eames is snappish and short on patience - unwilling to accept Arthur’s impending mortality and his own desperate helplessness. He will want to throw tantrums and teacups at the nearest wall, an insidious and monotonous voice in his head intoning I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I don’t want to do this.
These days are the worst: crippled with guilt, tainted with self-loathing, overcast with resentment.
***“Your clothes’re gettin’ wet,” Arthur slurs tiredly, obligingly tipping his head forward for Eames to slather a decent dollop of shampoo into the wet-spiked tufts of his hair. The fragrance of fruit and honey is overwhelming now, sickly sweet in its artificiality.
“I don’t mind,” Eames grins swiftly, truthfully, idly caressing the shell of his ears and the nape of his slippery neck. Arthur shudders at the touch; a tremor snakes down the arc of his sudsy spine, fine trail of hairs standing on end. “Consider it retribution for all those times I’ve made you come in your pants with my dazzling sexual prowess.”
Arthur does smile at that, ducking his head down as if to hide it - amused, disbelieving, possibly even a little embarrassed. There is a daub of lather on his chin, his hair is plastered to his scalp, and his eyes are circled with dark rings and crow’s feet.
Even so, he is still as wondrous as he once was when wielding guns and grenades, executing successful extractions with mere seconds left on the clock, constructing complex worlds and paradoxical architecture from null and void or crisply enunciating his findings about a target, pen dancing between his fingers and chair legs tantalisingly off balance.
Defenceless, Eames is rendered momentarily dumbfounded - blindsided by tumultuous understanding.
(Because Arthur is still Arthur, ill or dying or healthy or otherwise, and sometimes Eames is an obtuse prat.)
He leans in, elbows digging into the sides of the tub, soap and foam seeping into his shirt cuffs, and presses his lips to Arthur’s in a kiss that is softer and purer and far more tentative than they have been used to for a long time. Arthur blinks, kittenish, a low and startled noise wrung from the back of his throat; Eames knows that he registered the difference.
“What was that for?”
“Wanted to,” Eames shrugs obliquely, flicking shimmering soap bubbles from his fingers, discomfited but determined not to give into the temptation of dropping his gaze or deflecting the issue. “I just, um. Felt like I haven’t been all that-”
He falters, verbs and vowels fizzling on the tip of his tongue.
Because Arthur is beaming at him, drenched and shivering and so preposterously happy. And, bugger it all to hell and back, how did Eames ever believe that he couldn’t handle this, couldn’t handle him?
The tears are falling before he can help it and fuck, fuck, fuck, he tries to blink them away casually, dismissively, in an admittedly futile attempt to salvage at least some paltry scrap of dignity. But it seems that he can’t, or won’t, stop; the dull, heavy, inescapable grief in his chest is overflowing through his eyes.
Arthur moves toward him wordlessly, lukewarm water sloshing against the sides of the tub. He wraps his scrawny arms around Eames’ neck and lets him bawl into a soapy shoulder.
Eames cries and cries and cries some fucking more, reduced to a blubbering and disgusting mess of snot and tears and spit. He cries till he can’t breathe, ribs aching with the sheer effort and breath rasping harsh and wet. He cries till he can’t see, eyes stinging with salt and nose rubbed red and raw. He cries till he has nothing left inside, head pounding and throat constricting tight, emotionally drained and physically exhausted.
All the while, Arthur silently strokes his hair and awkwardly pats his back.
It is probably the most embarrassing, humiliating, uncomfortable moment of his adult life.
But when Arthur brushes away the crystallised tracks of salt from his cheeks and kisses the tip of his nose, Eames clears his clogged throat self-consciously and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can live with that.
***With each cycle of chemotherapy the fatigue, joint aches and nausea worsen. Consequently, Arthur begins to spend more and more time tucked under downy covers, forehead furrowed and breathing deep.
On certain days he is only able to get out of bed for two to three hours, at the most.
Accordingly, navigating stairs is out of the question but when Eames offers to carry him down (perfectly serious, though his lips twitch ever so slightly) Arthur gives him a particularly vicious glare and the finger too for good measure, indignantly burrowing back under the blankets with a novel and his reading glasses.
Eames chuckles unapologetically and slithers in beside him, close but not too close, feet nudging and shoulders barely brushing. Shards of bright summer sunshine splinter through the wide open windows and billowing drapes, drenching the room in a mottled amber glow.
They spend an entire day in bed, lazily reading or dozing or talking about nothing of import, voices hushed and secretive for no fathomable reason. Whilst Arthur sleeps, Eames ambles downstairs to fetch crackers, soft cheese and an entire box of ice lollipops from the freezer, socks skidding on the chilly tiles.
Feeling left out, Argus follows him up the stairs and clambers up onto the bed too - disrupting the amiable tranquillity by pushing his damp nose in their palms, whiny and insistent. He licks at Arthur’s cheek, covetously.
Not to be outdone, Eames licks his other cheek, a flat stripe of tongue on stubbled skin.
Arthur actually shrieks, clutching at his face with such outrage that Eames nearly falls out of bed laughing.
***
When Eames shuffles out of the bathroom after a blisteringly hot shower, zipping up his slacks and cinching the belt back around his waist, he finds Arthur perched on the broad brim of the windowsill dressed only in underwear and a flimsy striped shirt, lean legs splayed and hair spattered bronze by the halo of afternoon light silhouetting his frame.
He looks on quietly from the doorway, appreciative but discreet, conscious of intruding into something that Arthur may not want anyone else to witness. He is fumbling with the buttons of the shirt, brows drawn fiercely together in exasperation, fingers clumsy and uncoordinated.
“All right?” Eames ventures eventually, placidly continuing to towel at his dripping hair in what he trusts to be a convincing attempt at nonchalance.
As expected Arthur’s eyes flicker towards him, instantly attentive and almost guarded. He wets his lips deliberately, a quick streak of spit across skin, opens and closes his mouth in the same breath.
Reaching a decision, Eames takes a few steps towards the window, purposeful and measured, tossing the towel upon the wrinkled bed sheets. Arthur tracks the movement thoughtfully, settling back against the glass, toes dangling a few inches above the wooden floorboards.
(chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy, Google informs him, is peripheral nerve damage that may present as numbness of the fingers and toes, loss of sensation or touch, burning, tingling-
He exits the browser abruptly, sips his cooling tea.)
“Let me?” he murmurs when he is close enough, gingerly reaching for the first button at the dip of his throat. He wonders if Arthur will push his hands away, rear back, retreat in on himself.
Rather he remains silent, nibbling on his lower lip, eyes blank and frown ambiguous.
At each buttonhole, Eames presses his mouth to the skin beneath the whispering fabric; he trails feathery kisses down Arthur's sternum and navel, dusted with dark hair. At some point he remembers to look up and is rewarded with the sight of Arthur tight-lipped and wide-eyed, head tipped back against the iridescent panes of glass.
Eames grins up at him and mouths at the bulge of his crotch, mindful to refrain from staining the dark material of his boxer-briefs. Arthur palpably jerks, tugging at Eames’ damp hair either in warning or entreaty.
“You teasing little shit,” he hisses, strangled and pitchy, waiting for Eames to straighten up to reach his mouth. “You have the worst fucking timing, I swear.”
Eames laughs into the kiss which is incongruously tender, lingering and melancholic, “We can spare an hour before we’re missed, if you like.”
Arthur huffs out an incredulous and despairing sigh, hot air ghosting over Eames’ lips, “As appealing as the thought is, we are not turning up to the birthday party of our eight-year old godson suggestively dishevelled and smelling of sex.”
“Shame,” Eames drawls, though he hadn’t really anticipated otherwise. He runs his palm along the length of one slim thigh, fingers tangling in whorls of dark hair, reverently outlining a raised ridge of scar tissue. Rolling his eyes, Arthur spreads his legs for Eames to step further into the space between them, dropping his heels to rest at the base of his spine. “It’d give all those nosy parents something to titter about, hm?”
Arthur mhm’s noncommittally, not quite paying attention. Eames follows his preoccupied line of sight and realises that they are essentially, however inadvertent, holding hands against the sun-warmed glass.
On a whim, he readjusts his weight and grip; he entraps Arthur’s right hand in both of his, pressing his thumbs firmly into the palm and massaging the scarred flesh there in strong, circular motions. Arthur squirms reflexively, thighs tensing and toes worming into the waistband of Eames’ slacks.
(Now? Arthur’s frightfully competent doctor inquires, gently touching the tip of his callused forefinger.
No, he replies steadily, impassive but not unkind.)
He slides his thumbs back and forth between the tendons on the dorsal surface of Arthur’s hand, traces the pale lines of his palmar creases, licks along the conspicuous network of veins traversing his forearm. Even when Arthur groans, strained and guttural, Eames ignores it ruefully - concentrating single-mindedly on the task at hand.
Finally he brushes his mouth against the tight skin overlying Arthur’s knuckles, sucking wetly at each joint, watching with open fascination as his features shift ever so subtly: a twitch in the clenched line of his jaw, a delicate tremble of eyelids, the ragged bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows noisily.
“Eames,” he says at last, still so calm that it is almost an affront. Eames wants, in that fleeting and galvanising instant, to pull Arthur into his lap and whittle away at his many layers and intricacies until he is unreservedly honest in his needs, shameless in his wants, truthful in his nakedness. “Eames.”
Eames stops, agreeably enough, though he does drag his blunt nails along the softer and hairless skin of Arthur’s inner thigh, just to observe the way his breath stutters, the way his hips buck, the way his shiny mouth falls open.
***That night, they stumble in through the door connecting the garage to the house in a blur of activity: shrugging off coats and bags, placing lovingly packaged hunks of birthday cake in the fridge and freeing the vibrant helium balloons that Phillipa had insisted on tying around their wrists.
Even hours later Eames is acutely aware of the heady thrum of arousal festering under his skin, the uncomfortable and restrictive friction of his clothing and of course Arthur, omnipresent and distracting and always in the peripheries of his vision. For all his outward composure, he had not fared much better - incessantly picking at the skin around his cuticles, crossing and uncrossing his arms and legs the entire drive home, toying with his phone.
And yet - they affect indifference and obliviousness, falling into that timeworn comfort zone and safety net of hedging and circling around one another, bustling around the kitchen and living room, busying themselves with last-minute chores and schedules for tomorrow.
It would be laughable, if it weren’t so infuriating.
But when Arthur leans his elbows against the kitchen counter to watch him water the potted ferns, forearms glimmering in the half-gloom and the top buttons of his collared shirt undone, Eames thinks this is fucking ridiculous, what are we - gawky teenagers? and bridges the gap to kiss him messily, tasting vestiges of Miles’ homemade lemonade, cocoa-tinged red velvet cake and cream cheese frosting.
He tries to lick it all out of Arthur’s mouth, running his tongue over sharp teeth and the slick insides of his cheeks. There is a slight scuffle as they scrabble at one another awkwardly, yanking erratically at clothing and hair: a flurry of knobbly knees and hazardous elbows, chafing skin and wandering hands.
As Arthur grazes flyaway kisses to his hairline and the sensitive arch of his ears, Eames shrugs the shirt from his shoulders; he unbuttons it in the same manner he had buttoned it up, trading kisses for buttons. The colour is high in Arthur’s cheeks and a slow, lovely flush spreads down his bare chest and up his unsteady thighs, bleeding together at his navel. His trousers have been hurriedly shucked down to his calves; his legs are matchstick-thin, muscle tone and definition long lost.
Their fingers are interlaced again, unfamiliar but not unpleasant, the span of their hands nearly identical. Carefully, Arthur tightens his grip - as if testing a theory. Eames does not wince, even when the pressure veers into discomfort.
“Now?” he queries softly, hesitantly squeezing back.
Though veiled in shadow, Arthur’s blossoming smile is unmistakable - harsh, white, bittersweet, tremulous, beautiful.
He nods shakily, just once.
***Arthur’s younger brother visits one day, pulling up into their driveway at some unearthly hour in a screech of rubber tyres and Guns N’ Roses blaring obnoxiously loud over the stereo.
He is a replica of Arthur, so much so that it forces all the breath out of Eames when he ungraciously wrenches open the front door in his boxers and a holey old t-shirt, half expecting a jetlagged Yusuf (who was supposed to arrive two days ago but is probably embroiled in a den of iniquity somewhere) or one of their inquisitive but well-meaning neighbours brandishing yet another casserole.
Not this: a healthy Arthur-look-alike, with freckles, shaggy hair and a messenger bag slung around his hunched frame. The only immediately noticeable difference is that he is taller, by a sparse handful of inches.
“Mr. Eames,” the Arthur-clone begins without preamble, in lieu of an actual introduction.
“Uh,” Eames manages, in an impressive show of early morning eloquence.
Even in sleepiness he catalogues the pitted scars on the other man’s knuckles, the taut muscle of his arms, the stability of his stance (feet in line with his shoulders, weight distributed evenly) and the stiffness in his posture.
A fighter, then. Perhaps even ex-military.
Seemingly following his train of thought; Arthur’s brother (because there can be no other logical conclusion) smirks but offers no explanation.
He has dimples, too. It is altogether rather disconcerting.
“Oh. Hey.” Arthur peers owlishly around the doorframe, laundry basket in one hand. If he is at all taken aback, it does not show. “Come in. How’d you find us, anyway?”
“Cobb,” he replies crisply, brushing past Eames with a civil if curt nod. Eames hastily mumbles a greeting, offhandedly attempts to flatten his bed-hair and wonders, dazedly, whether terseness is a hereditary characteristic.
He retreats to the kitchen, pretending to brew tea and hunt for biscuits whilst actually covertly spying on the brothers, now seated amicably on the couch. Despite initial impressions, Arthur’s brother is remarkably animated once engaged in conversation: hands flapping in the air, tousled curls falling repeatedly into his eyes, boisterous laughter ringing out more frequently than Arthur’s own sedate equivalent.
When the window of believable-amount-of-time-needed-to-steep-tea elapses, Eames squares his shoulders and slips back into the living room laden with trays, chinaware and platters like the whipped pseudo-house-husband he is.
It is easy enough to join in their small-talk, to ask polite questions without prying. In any case, Arthur’s brother is remarkably cagey for a supposed civilian; he offers little to no personal information and redirects the threads of conversation back to fairly generic topics: politics, world events, the stock market, and so on.
Eames lets the words and inflections wash over him, soothing and melodious, an odd twinge of affection curling his toes in their socks. Warm and reassuringly solid by his side, Arthur alternates between contributing ambivalent answers (yes, no, uh huh, why, oh really) and waggling his eyebrows at Eames as if to say Count your blessings, fucker; you could have ended up with the talkative twin.
Being an only child, he finds the push and pull of sibling dynamics utterly bizarre. Arthur and his brother have not spoken for months and yet here they are, conversing and joking, comfortable in their temperate regard for one another.
When an appropriate opportunity presents itself Eames unobtrusively glides away, ostensibly under the guise of hunting for more biscuits or refilling the teapot or, fuck it, hanging out the washing.
After Arthur’s brother leaves in a cloud of dust and AC/DC, he emerges somewhat sheepishly from the safety of the study, having completed three crossword puzzles and created a flotilla of origami boats from the waste paper in the recycling bin. Arthur shakes his head in dry disapproval though the symmetrical dimples give him away, as always.
Just for the hell of it he presses his thumb to one dimple and fingers in the groove of the other, gradually squashing Arthur’s lips and cheeks together. Arthur scowls out of habit but makes no real effort to move away.
Eames ponders the frank injustice of being able to remain really, really ridiculously good-looking even with fish-lips and chipmunk cheeks.
“Look, he brought us this,” Arthur continues blithely, apparently unfazed at his face being treated as a nostalgic substitute for play-doh. Belatedly, Eames notices the small clay pot cupped possessively in his hands.
A single orchid spike sits snug in the soil, fragile and pale green.
“They’re my favourite,” he beams, dimples deepening beneath Eames’ fingertips.
He tries very hard not to mind that Arthur is cooing (incomprehensibly enough) over a ruddy potted plant because, really, that’s just stupidly insecure.
***“I don’t want any more chemo,” Arthur says, drowsy but resolute.
They are lying in bed, facing one another but a comfortable hand span apart because sometimes they are too fractious to touch. It is five-oh-three and the sky is dark and overcast, rippling through with lightning.
In precisely ten minutes Eames will tumble out of bed, struggle groggily into his ratty singlet and running shorts, strap the iPod to his bicep and wash his face perfunctorily, rubbing the sleep out of his eyelashes. He will be out the door at quarter past with Argus faithfully at his side no matter the weather, for Eames is as much a creature of habit and discipline as Arthur.
Perhaps even more so.
Once upon a time, in precisely twenty minutes Arthur would have sat up alert and awake, arching into an easy and contented stretch. In his morning routines, he used to be unpredictable - occupying himself with anything from yoga or lounging in front of the television to research and conference calls with colleagues on the other side of the world.
These days he stays in bed, cocooned within fleece blankets and flannel pyjamas, grumbling disconsolately when Eames clatters back in at six, sweaty and muddy, to tickle him awake.
“I don’t want any more chemo,” Arthur repeats, though he must know Eames is awake. The lightning illuminates his gaunt features, his luminous eyes. “It’s not helping.”
“Okay,” Eames hears himself say, voice hoarse and sandpaper-rough. “Okay.”
Arthur’s eyelids flutter shut.
Eames watches him breathe for eight and a half more minutes, mapping the curve of his cheekbones with the coarse pad of his thumb.
(part two)
pairing: arthur/eames
rating: R
word count: ~12 300
WARNINGS: prolonged chronic illness (pancreatic cancer) and eventual major character death, suffering
notes: title from fix you by coldplay. de-anoning for this prompt (contains spoilers for ending) at inception_kink . concrit welcome.
It is just past six when Eames returns home from his morning run, iPod blaring hard rock and sneakers filthy with mud and grass. Argus, their three-year old German Shepherd, trails behind him into the dimly illuminated kitchen, tongue lolling and tail wagging furiously, exhausted but euphoric.
The kitchen is empty; there is no boiling kettle, no evidence of breakfast, no rustling newspapers and certainly no grumpy Arthur.
He bounds up the stairs two at a time, muscles complaining at the sudden exertion, calling out, “Still asleep, you lazy sod?”
Unexpectedly, the rumpled bed is empty (blankets kicked into disarray) but he does find Arthur slumped against the bathroom wall, knees drawn to his chest and head tilted back upon the tiles. The stale odour of sour vomit is unmistakable.
“Fuck, Arthur, how long have you been sitting here?”
“Not long. And calm down, it’s just my stomach playing up.”
“Three weeks of abdominal pain and nausea is not some pissy little stomach bug,” Eames frowns, remembering how reluctant Arthur had been to go to hospital even with a bullet embedded in his thigh after a particularly nasty encounter with Cobol. “Have you been to the doctor yet? Because if you haven’t, I swear to god I’ll-”
“I have, but they all say I’ve got dyspepsia or irritable bowel,” Arthur objects, wincing as another paroxysm of pain shivers up his quivering spine. “And load me up with more fucking painkillers. I don’t need drugs. I have Yusuf for that.”
“He’ll be pleased to know you value him so highly,” Eames murmurs dryly, brushing back the sweat-slick strands of hair plastered to Arthur’s forehead. His skin is cool and clammy to touch.
“Shut up,” Arthur grunts, lacking much of his customary bite, “I just want a proper diagnosis. Oh, fuck.”
He bends over near double, burying his face in his lap. Eames rubs his back soothingly, brow furrowed. Considering that Arthur’s tolerance for pain is inhumanly high, to find him in such a condition is all the more disquieting.
“You are going to the clinic today, even if I have to drag you there kicking and screaming,” he mumbles into the nape of a shuddering neck, broad palms kneading into the taut muscle of his shoulders.
It is a testament to how bad the pain must be that Arthur growls (all for show) but does not protest.
***A week later, Eames is sitting in a sterile and tastefully-decorated doctor’s office, fingers reflexively drumming a harsh staccato beat into his thigh. He wonders, abstractedly, how the fuck they managed to end up at this point. Their lives are ones of danger and mind-theft and dreams beyond wildest imagination, not CT scans and grocery shopping and the horrible, mundane inevitability of illness and taxes.
(They are meant to be invincible, god damn it.)
Arthur, enveloped in a heavy scarf (he has been wearing a lot of them lately) and one of Eames’ old jumpers, has metamorphosed into Arthur: Point Man. Spidery handwriting races along the pages of his current moleskine as he jots down notes and medical terms attentively. He asks pertinent questions, he is composed, he is willing to comply with treatment, and he is in a state of peak physical fitness. All in all, Arthur is an ideal patient.
Only Eames notices that the tell-tale lines around his mouth are tighter.
Eames just sits there, stolid and uncomfortable in the hard-backed-and-too-small chair, an observer rendered helpless and hapless in the face of nature and genetics and sheer ill-fortune. Because no matter how good, how unbelievably kick arse, you may be - sooner or later your health is going to knife you in the gut and gently remind you that you’re its sorry bitch, fucker. Whilst kicking you in the balls for good measure, most likely.
There is a pot plant in the corner. It is ugly.
The clock on the wall ticks on. Their consultation has passed the thirty minute mark.
Words loiter in the hand-sanitizer-scented air, thrown up between Arthur and his sympathetic yet professional doctor.
Cancer.
I-Am-So-Sorry-To-Have-To-Tell-You-This.
Metastasis.
Inoperable.
Tail of the pancreas.
Cancer. Radiotherapy. Unprecedented-At-Your-Age. Cancer. Prognosis. Cancer. Experimental Trial. Cancer.
CancerCancerCancerCancerCancer.
If you repeat it fast enough and long enough, the word loses its meaning.
It doesn’t sound as harmful, as devastating, as inescapably final.
Or so Eames tells himself.
***They discuss their options and intentions (quietly, calmly, matter-of-factly) during the drive back home.
Eames’ knuckles grip white on the steering wheel. Their groceries for the week jostle around in the back, disregarded. Arthur’s hand rests on Eames’ knee, fingers digging into the worn material of his jeans, a gesture that belies his otherwise impassive exterior.
That evening Eames stumbles out the door into the chilly winter air with Argus loping at his heels, iPod left behind on the kitchen counter and sneakers hastily laced up. He runs hard and fast and out of rhythm. Soon his side will cramp up in stitches and his scarred left shin will begin to ache.
Arthur watches him till he is out of sight, crunching down on a pill for the pain.
Alone in the house, he paces for a good hour with a tumbler of whisky in hand, writing and rewriting the future in his mind and mentally composing a list of things that will need to be set in order. Cobb will need to know. God, the man might even cry, Arthur muses peevishly, unreasonably uncharitable.
When Eames returns, extremities frozen numb and somewhat less wound up, he discovers Arthur (fully clothed) in the overflowing bathtub; he is frolicking in the foam and downing more whisky, seeming to have graduated from glass to bottle.
“Um,” he begins inanely, torn between amusement and alarm.
“Shut up and get in,” Arthur commands imperiously, not as drunk as one might initially assume.
In moments of extreme stress, Arthur sometimes resorts to irrational and vaguely worrying bouts of recklessness and instability. Eames blames it on all that exposure to Cobb over the years. Then again, it is probably healthier that he expresses his issues through the medium of inebriation and bubble baths rather than bottling them up behind a thin-lipped smile and smouldering eyes as he is usually inclined to do.
Probably.
Possibly.
Hopefully.
In any case there is no arguing with him when he is like this so Eames acquiesces genially enough, also still clothed.
They talk through the night about everything and nothing, flicking soapsuds at one another and sharing the dismal residues of the bottle between them. There is more water on the tiled floor than in the tub and Arthur-the-neat-freak will be so fucking pissed in the morning but Eames can’t quite care right now, caught up in the unspoiled brilliance of the moment.
He peels the dense sodden scarf from around Arthur’s icy neck, pressing delicate ethanol-flavoured kisses to the salty and soapy hollow of his throat. The skin there is already bruised and discoloured by bite marks and Eames attempts to hide a smile because that explains the latest penchant for scarves and mufflers.
Arthur squirms away, bright-eyed, but pulls Eames up, hand fisted in the front of his vest.
They smash together in a muddle of teeth and tongues, spit and friction.
Eventually they manage to tumble into bed (naked, saturated clothes abandoned on the bathroom floor, towels discarded en route) and finally fall asleep, entwined around one another.
***Six months.
It is an arbitrary timeframe, indeed, but a timeframe nonetheless.
Because Eames had thought this (they) would be forever.
***Arthur starts his first four-week cycle of palliative chemotherapy on a Tuesday.
Twenty-four hours following the initial IV infusion, he develops flu-like symptoms, low-grade fever and extreme fatigue. He spends three days in bed, covers pulled up over his head, curled into a compact ball. On the sixth day he feels better and Cobb is allowed to visit with James and Phillipa in tow, bearing an assortment of flowers, cards, chocolate and balloons.
The kids scramble all over the clean white sheets of their bed, grubby fingers and squirming bodies; vying to show Uncle Arthur their latest finger paintings and inquiring after his health with such earnest, guileless concern that sudden heat prickles at Eames’ eyes, wretched and unwanted.
He is in the kitchen having a beer with Cobb (exchanging anecdotes about retirement and gardening, deliberately tiptoeing around the subject of illness and expenses) when he hears two different strains of laughter floating down the stairs. The first is shrill and unabashedly unrestrained; the second is mellow, deeper and slightly breathless.
Eames huffs out a reflexive laugh around the rim of the chilled bottle despite himself.
Cobb bumps against his shoulder companionably, mirroring his smile.
Memories of Mal linger in the pollen-suffused air, unacknowledged but ever-present.
On the seventh day Arthur has to have another infusion and the entire fucking cycle repeats itself.
The next morning, Eames runs ten kilometres in thirty-five minutes. Argus is nearly frantic with glee, sinew and muscle rippling beneath his thick tan and black coat. He runs and runs and runs, sweating out fury and resentment and despair: lungs aflame, throat parched, legs quivering, head pounding, heart stuttering.
It helps.
Not enough, but he’ll take what he can get.
***Eventually Arthur has to stop dreaming, not only out of consideration for his own flagging health and escalating fatigue but also to preserve the integrity of the team.
It nearly breaks him.
Eames watches him pack away his personal PASIV device, hands re-enacting a fluid and much-practiced sequence; the cloth rag perfunctorily ghosts over the vials and plastic tubing of the IV lines, the LED timer display and the activation trigger. There is something deeply intimate in the routine, sacred and awe-inspiring.
When Arthur clips the briefcase shut, he lets out a shaky breath - the only outwardly visible tell. Eames slips away before his presence can be noticed, palms smarting from the pressure of his nails biting into the flesh.
He calls anyone that matters (Ariadne, Cobb, Yusuf, Victoria, Tadashi, Pearson, Dayas) at various times over the next few days, informing them that he too will be taking an indefinite leave of absence from dreamsharing and its enticements. The call to Cobb is more out of courtesy than necessity - he already knows.
None of them attempt to offer their condolences or platitudes, for which he is grateful.
“Look, you didn’t have to,” Arthur tells him unhappily later that night, arms folded over his chest, chewing agitatedly on his lower lip. He has worried away the chapped skin; a new layer shines under the bright lights of the kitchen, glossy and raw.
“But I wanted to,” Eames replies gravely, spectacles fogging up as he unloads the steaming dishwasher.
Arthur wrinkles his nose, accepting a stack of mismatched mugs. “Ew.”
“Hey, I was being romantic just then, you insensitive bastard.” He aims a half-hearted swipe at Arthur’s arse, somewhat relieved that they are able to effortlessly fall back on the tried and tested route of easy-going banter and camaraderie.
“But Eames,” Arthur stage-whispers as he sidesteps the blow easily, dimples particularly prominent, eyes comically wide and alight with purported innocence, “We’re manly men.”
“And manly men don’t do romance?” Eames arches an eyebrow, pinning him against the counter top, thumbs resting on the bony ridge of hip bone peeking out above the elastic waistband of his track pants.
“Got it right in one,” he nods solemnly, lips quirking. “And people say you’re not smart.”
“Excuse me? Who are these mysterious people, pray tell.”
“Any point man worth his salt knows not to give away his informants,” Arthur intones primly, smile beatific, as if reciting from a manual. As he experimentally pushes against Eames, testing the hold, the neck of his woollen jumper shifts.
Momentarily distracted, Eames runs his hands gently along the length of an exposed clavicle, following bones that stick out like the wingspan of a large seabird.
As much as he tries to mask it beneath layered clothing and thick scarves, up this close his drastic loss of weight and muscle is readily apparent. He is thirty bloody pounds lighter than he should be; every single angle is sharpened, every dip is hollowed, every bone is noticeable.
Arthur remains warily silent, grudgingly tolerant of the scrutiny, but his smile falters ever so slightly; a flash of insecurity that disappears so swiftly that it may not have happened at all.
***They don’t talk about dreaming after that.
But every so often as he empties the recycling bin, Eames will find crumpled up scraps of newspaper or magazine articles pertaining to dreamsharing, chemistry, architecture or even neurology. They are all painstakingly and extensively annotated with suggestions, thoughts, queries, recommendations, references to other relevant articles.
He retrieves each and every one, smoothing out the creases carefully between his fingers.
***Arthur has to consume 4000 calories every day, just to maintain his dwindling body mass.
This is broken up into several small meals and snacks every two hours, regimented according to highlighted timetables and specified to nutritionist requirements.
The problem is, of course, that Arthur’s gastrointestinal tract has no regard for pretty timetables or doctor’s recommendations. Since the onset of chemotherapy, it has essentially been throwing a persistent and belligerent hissy fit.
Once, in an outburst borne of frustration and sleep deprivation, Eames may have directly addressed Arthur’s abdomen, ordering it to man up and do its job, motherfucker. It wasn’t his proudest moment but Arthur had reacted remarkably well. Or rather - far too well, judging by the peals of raucous laughter (giggling, even) and thigh-slapping.
Eames knows he will never live the moment down but it is hard to deny Arthur much when his mouth keeps bowing up into a wide grin and his eyes crinkle at the corners and he buries his flaming face in his hands because he is actually, honestly, crying with mirth.
To further complicate the struggle of sustaining an adequate diet amidst the bouts of nausea, vomiting and cramps, there is also a multitude of medications to consider - antimetabolites, analgesics, anti-emetics, pancreatic enzyme replacements, vitamins.
(The pharmacist filling out the script smiles at him sympathetically, shadows under her brilliant blue eyes; Eames clenches his fists and smiles right back, thinking no, no, don’t look at me like that.)
At first, the only substances Arthur can keep down for an extended period of time are milk, bananas and tinned peaches.
Eames thanks god, quite sincerely, for milk, bananas and tinned peaches.
Eventually, his intake progresses to include dry toast, oatmeal and electrolyte-laced ice lollipops. Every addition from then on is a small but significant victory. On the frighteningly infrequent days when Arthur actually feels hunger, he tries to eat as much as he can - capitalising on his otherwise non-existent appetite.
And even then, despite all their efforts, some days Arthur simply vomits it all right back up - retching and gagging till he is trembling all over and barely able to remain upright, saliva and tears dripping down his chin.
Eames rubs between his scapulae tentatively, pushes back the sweaty strands of hair from his eyes and valiantly tries to suppress the growing tide of nausea in his own stomach.
(He rinses and spits, scrubbing furiously at his teeth, Why the fuck am I doing this again?
Because the chemo may ease the pain, slow the metastasis, shrink the tumour, prolong your survival-
To which Arthur snorts irritably though his eyes do soften, barely perceptible, Or do nothing at all.
Yes, Eames concedes, flushing the toilet, Or that.)
On such days Arthur curls up against Argus on the couch, flicking through reruns of Bewitched and sipping Gatorade to replenish the lost fluids and electrolytes. Eames sits by his side, a bowl of mashed potato (mixed with butter, eggs, non-fat milk - whatever the hell he can find, essentially) in one hand, coaxing, “Come on, seriously, you have to eat something for today.”
“I’m just going to bring it back up again,” Arthur mutters wearily, head pillowed against Argus’ warm bulk.
“You won’t,” Eames says quietly, though they both know he doesn’t quite believe it. “Just try. Please.”
It is unfair of him to use that as leverage because Arthur does try, every single fucking minute of every single fucking day. For a sickening moment, he is certain Arthur will refuse, will tell him to piss off, but instead he compresses his lips; he sits up and reaches for the plastic spoon.
Eames doesn’t offer to help though he is hyper-aware that his stiff fingers are cramping around the bowl, the weight of his gaze no doubt unsettling in its intensity. His jaw is clamped so tight that when he remembers to unlock it, the insides of his cheeks are scalloped to the pattern of his teeth.
They stay like this, unaware that the reruns of Bewitched have morphed into a marathon of I Dream of Jeannie and that Argus has wandered off bored, Arthur slowly forcing down one mouthful every half hour and Eames holding the bowl for him, limbs tingling with pins and needles.
It works.
It works.
***Three days before Arthur begins his second course of chemotherapy, they pile rugs and a packed lunch into Eames’ beaten-up ten year old pickup truck. They drive for kilometres, Arthur lulled to restless sleep by the motion of the rumbling engine and Argus shivering with anticipation in the back.
“Wher’re we goin’?” he wakes up intermittently (or rather: every ten minutes) to mumble crabbily.
“Go back to sleep,” Eames orders, squinting at the road ahead, headlights cutting through shrouds of pre-dawn fog.
“I don’t like surprises,” is Arthur’s next remark, bleary and peevish.
“You were the infuriating are-we-there-yet kid in your family, weren’t you?” Eames sighs exasperatedly, although it comes out far more fond than anything else.
He chews on his lower lip meditatively at this conundrum, amused to realise that his jagged edges are perhaps being worn soft by this odd, haphazard domesticity.
“Ha ha,” Arthur is grumbling, punching his pillow into a better shape and pulling the quilt back up under his chin. “Wake me up when the sun is actually rising, bitch.”
Eames does, because Arthur’s sheer pleasure at watching the tendrils of pink light flare over the misty horizon is delightful to behold. They roll down the windows because it is not too cold and sing riotously along to the crackling radio with Arthur belting out any boy-verses and Eames supplying the backup whistling and girl-verses, pointedly not looking at one another because that’s just sappy and they are manly men, don’t you know?
But when Arthur croons, “Home is wherever I’m with you,” he leans over and pinches Eames’ cheek, really fucking hard.
And when they stop on the side of the road to stretch their cramped legs (nibbling on toasted cheese sandwiches and watching Argus sniff surreptitiously at the buttresses of a massive oak tree) Eames tugs Arthur toward him, fingers winding around his skinny wrists and licking the crumbs from his palms.
“Ah, home,” he hums into Arthur’s mouth, their breath coalescing, “Yes, I am ho-oh-ome.”
***They are given six months but Arthur continues to breathe for longer than that.
Eames knows, knows without needing to be told, that for as long as he is able Arthur will fight for life - defying predictions, statistics, expectations and the limitations of his own feeble and disloyal body.
Because that’s simply the sort of stubborn, resilient, magnificent bastard that he is.
And yet.
There are times when he will impulsively reach out to interlace Arthur’s bony fingers between his own just to have Arthur smile and squeeze them absentmindedly.
Eames wants to say I needed to feel the warmth of your skin.
There are times where he will change into his running gear but neglect to leave the house. When Arthur blinks awake at half past seven to see him perched at the edge of the bed, he will slur how was your run?
Eames will smile a secret half-smile, tousling Arthur’s hair and saying It was great. I watched something beautiful.
There are times when Eames will sandwich Arthur between his arms as they sleep, watching the rise and fall of his rib cage with almost rapt concentration. Sometimes Arthur’s eyes will snap open, dangerous and alert, entire body tensing before he realises where he is. Then he will snort and push Eames away with mock disgust, grousing about the overwhelming heat and need for personal space.
Eames wants say I’m just watching you breathe.
There are times when he will hook two fingers into the belt loops of Arthur’s trousers, tugging gently, as insistent as a child tugging a mother’s skirt. Arthur will always turn back to face him, puzzled and indulgently amused, head cocked to one side inquiringly. Eames will kiss him then - a slow, deep, languorous roll of tongues and teeth which occasionally descends into something filthier and more primitive, with Arthur pulling him towards the bedroom whilst impatiently saying, fuck, Eames, I do feel okay, please, I promise and Eames unable to do more than acquiesce yeah, okay, okay.
There are times when Eames thinks that Arthur seems ready to be done with his earthly, sickly body - ready to return to dust and ash. It is painfully apparent in the way he pushes the bland food around his plate, in the way that he stares longingly out an open window, sunlight caught in his thinning hair and the sky reflected in his eyes.
Eames wants to say I don’t want you to leave, selfish as that may be.
Indeed, perhaps he is only staying because of Eames.
Eames does not know how to reconcile himself to that knowledge.
But, fuck, he doesn’t try and convince Arthur otherwise.
***Their existence settles into a patchy sort of predictability: groceries and drug dispensaries, oncologists and veterinarians, Cobb children and the occasional waylaid visitor from across the ocean, support group meetings and credit card receipts, early morning runs and weekly infusions of Gemcitabine at the local clinic where the other pancreatic cancer patients (significantly older, jaundiced, bellies distended with fluid) pat Eames’ knees with their gnarled, veiny hands and show Arthur wrinkled photographs of gap-toothed grandchildren.
Too soon, it becomes a way of life.
At times it is difficult to recall what they were, or indeed who they were, before - back in the days when their lives did not revolve around pamphlets and pills, weight loss and worry, counselling and chemotherapy.
***
People ask about Arthur’s health all the time; how is he, is he coping, has he gained weight, is the treatment working, has the cancer metastasised to his liver or lungs yet, is he willing to see visitors.
Very rarely do they bother to ask Eames And how are you doing?
***Some days, Arthur is unrulier than a bratty child - bitchy and petulant and moody, made more irritable by the spasms of pain and illness and despondency rattling his bones, refusing to eat because everything tastes like metal and obstinately overtaxing himself almost to the point of collapse.
Some days, Eames is snappish and short on patience - unwilling to accept Arthur’s impending mortality and his own desperate helplessness. He will want to throw tantrums and teacups at the nearest wall, an insidious and monotonous voice in his head intoning I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I don’t want to do this.
These days are the worst: crippled with guilt, tainted with self-loathing, overcast with resentment.
***“Your clothes’re gettin’ wet,” Arthur slurs tiredly, obligingly tipping his head forward for Eames to slather a decent dollop of shampoo into the wet-spiked tufts of his hair. The fragrance of fruit and honey is overwhelming now, sickly sweet in its artificiality.
“I don’t mind,” Eames grins swiftly, truthfully, idly caressing the shell of his ears and the nape of his slippery neck. Arthur shudders at the touch; a tremor snakes down the arc of his sudsy spine, fine trail of hairs standing on end. “Consider it retribution for all those times I’ve made you come in your pants with my dazzling sexual prowess.”
Arthur does smile at that, ducking his head down as if to hide it - amused, disbelieving, possibly even a little embarrassed. There is a daub of lather on his chin, his hair is plastered to his scalp, and his eyes are circled with dark rings and crow’s feet.
Even so, he is still as wondrous as he once was when wielding guns and grenades, executing successful extractions with mere seconds left on the clock, constructing complex worlds and paradoxical architecture from null and void or crisply enunciating his findings about a target, pen dancing between his fingers and chair legs tantalisingly off balance.
Defenceless, Eames is rendered momentarily dumbfounded - blindsided by tumultuous understanding.
(Because Arthur is still Arthur, ill or dying or healthy or otherwise, and sometimes Eames is an obtuse prat.)
He leans in, elbows digging into the sides of the tub, soap and foam seeping into his shirt cuffs, and presses his lips to Arthur’s in a kiss that is softer and purer and far more tentative than they have been used to for a long time. Arthur blinks, kittenish, a low and startled noise wrung from the back of his throat; Eames knows that he registered the difference.
“What was that for?”
“Wanted to,” Eames shrugs obliquely, flicking shimmering soap bubbles from his fingers, discomfited but determined not to give into the temptation of dropping his gaze or deflecting the issue. “I just, um. Felt like I haven’t been all that-”
He falters, verbs and vowels fizzling on the tip of his tongue.
Because Arthur is beaming at him, drenched and shivering and so preposterously happy. And, bugger it all to hell and back, how did Eames ever believe that he couldn’t handle this, couldn’t handle him?
The tears are falling before he can help it and fuck, fuck, fuck, he tries to blink them away casually, dismissively, in an admittedly futile attempt to salvage at least some paltry scrap of dignity. But it seems that he can’t, or won’t, stop; the dull, heavy, inescapable grief in his chest is overflowing through his eyes.
Arthur moves toward him wordlessly, lukewarm water sloshing against the sides of the tub. He wraps his scrawny arms around Eames’ neck and lets him bawl into a soapy shoulder.
Eames cries and cries and cries some fucking more, reduced to a blubbering and disgusting mess of snot and tears and spit. He cries till he can’t breathe, ribs aching with the sheer effort and breath rasping harsh and wet. He cries till he can’t see, eyes stinging with salt and nose rubbed red and raw. He cries till he has nothing left inside, head pounding and throat constricting tight, emotionally drained and physically exhausted.
All the while, Arthur silently strokes his hair and awkwardly pats his back.
It is probably the most embarrassing, humiliating, uncomfortable moment of his adult life.
But when Arthur brushes away the crystallised tracks of salt from his cheeks and kisses the tip of his nose, Eames clears his clogged throat self-consciously and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can live with that.
***With each cycle of chemotherapy the fatigue, joint aches and nausea worsen. Consequently, Arthur begins to spend more and more time tucked under downy covers, forehead furrowed and breathing deep.
On certain days he is only able to get out of bed for two to three hours, at the most.
Accordingly, navigating stairs is out of the question but when Eames offers to carry him down (perfectly serious, though his lips twitch ever so slightly) Arthur gives him a particularly vicious glare and the finger too for good measure, indignantly burrowing back under the blankets with a novel and his reading glasses.
Eames chuckles unapologetically and slithers in beside him, close but not too close, feet nudging and shoulders barely brushing. Shards of bright summer sunshine splinter through the wide open windows and billowing drapes, drenching the room in a mottled amber glow.
They spend an entire day in bed, lazily reading or dozing or talking about nothing of import, voices hushed and secretive for no fathomable reason. Whilst Arthur sleeps, Eames ambles downstairs to fetch crackers, soft cheese and an entire box of ice lollipops from the freezer, socks skidding on the chilly tiles.
Feeling left out, Argus follows him up the stairs and clambers up onto the bed too - disrupting the amiable tranquillity by pushing his damp nose in their palms, whiny and insistent. He licks at Arthur’s cheek, covetously.
Not to be outdone, Eames licks his other cheek, a flat stripe of tongue on stubbled skin.
Arthur actually shrieks, clutching at his face with such outrage that Eames nearly falls out of bed laughing.
***
When Eames shuffles out of the bathroom after a blisteringly hot shower, zipping up his slacks and cinching the belt back around his waist, he finds Arthur perched on the broad brim of the windowsill dressed only in underwear and a flimsy striped shirt, lean legs splayed and hair spattered bronze by the halo of afternoon light silhouetting his frame.
He looks on quietly from the doorway, appreciative but discreet, conscious of intruding into something that Arthur may not want anyone else to witness. He is fumbling with the buttons of the shirt, brows drawn fiercely together in exasperation, fingers clumsy and uncoordinated.
“All right?” Eames ventures eventually, placidly continuing to towel at his dripping hair in what he trusts to be a convincing attempt at nonchalance.
As expected Arthur’s eyes flicker towards him, instantly attentive and almost guarded. He wets his lips deliberately, a quick streak of spit across skin, opens and closes his mouth in the same breath.
Reaching a decision, Eames takes a few steps towards the window, purposeful and measured, tossing the towel upon the wrinkled bed sheets. Arthur tracks the movement thoughtfully, settling back against the glass, toes dangling a few inches above the wooden floorboards.
(chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy, Google informs him, is peripheral nerve damage that may present as numbness of the fingers and toes, loss of sensation or touch, burning, tingling-
He exits the browser abruptly, sips his cooling tea.)
“Let me?” he murmurs when he is close enough, gingerly reaching for the first button at the dip of his throat. He wonders if Arthur will push his hands away, rear back, retreat in on himself.
Rather he remains silent, nibbling on his lower lip, eyes blank and frown ambiguous.
At each buttonhole, Eames presses his mouth to the skin beneath the whispering fabric; he trails feathery kisses down Arthur's sternum and navel, dusted with dark hair. At some point he remembers to look up and is rewarded with the sight of Arthur tight-lipped and wide-eyed, head tipped back against the iridescent panes of glass.
Eames grins up at him and mouths at the bulge of his crotch, mindful to refrain from staining the dark material of his boxer-briefs. Arthur palpably jerks, tugging at Eames’ damp hair either in warning or entreaty.
“You teasing little shit,” he hisses, strangled and pitchy, waiting for Eames to straighten up to reach his mouth. “You have the worst fucking timing, I swear.”
Eames laughs into the kiss which is incongruously tender, lingering and melancholic, “We can spare an hour before we’re missed, if you like.”
Arthur huffs out an incredulous and despairing sigh, hot air ghosting over Eames’ lips, “As appealing as the thought is, we are not turning up to the birthday party of our eight-year old godson suggestively dishevelled and smelling of sex.”
“Shame,” Eames drawls, though he hadn’t really anticipated otherwise. He runs his palm along the length of one slim thigh, fingers tangling in whorls of dark hair, reverently outlining a raised ridge of scar tissue. Rolling his eyes, Arthur spreads his legs for Eames to step further into the space between them, dropping his heels to rest at the base of his spine. “It’d give all those nosy parents something to titter about, hm?”
Arthur mhm’s noncommittally, not quite paying attention. Eames follows his preoccupied line of sight and realises that they are essentially, however inadvertent, holding hands against the sun-warmed glass.
On a whim, he readjusts his weight and grip; he entraps Arthur’s right hand in both of his, pressing his thumbs firmly into the palm and massaging the scarred flesh there in strong, circular motions. Arthur squirms reflexively, thighs tensing and toes worming into the waistband of Eames’ slacks.
(Now? Arthur’s frightfully competent doctor inquires, gently touching the tip of his callused forefinger.
No, he replies steadily, impassive but not unkind.)
He slides his thumbs back and forth between the tendons on the dorsal surface of Arthur’s hand, traces the pale lines of his palmar creases, licks along the conspicuous network of veins traversing his forearm. Even when Arthur groans, strained and guttural, Eames ignores it ruefully - concentrating single-mindedly on the task at hand.
Finally he brushes his mouth against the tight skin overlying Arthur’s knuckles, sucking wetly at each joint, watching with open fascination as his features shift ever so subtly: a twitch in the clenched line of his jaw, a delicate tremble of eyelids, the ragged bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows noisily.
“Eames,” he says at last, still so calm that it is almost an affront. Eames wants, in that fleeting and galvanising instant, to pull Arthur into his lap and whittle away at his many layers and intricacies until he is unreservedly honest in his needs, shameless in his wants, truthful in his nakedness. “Eames.”
Eames stops, agreeably enough, though he does drag his blunt nails along the softer and hairless skin of Arthur’s inner thigh, just to observe the way his breath stutters, the way his hips buck, the way his shiny mouth falls open.
***That night, they stumble in through the door connecting the garage to the house in a blur of activity: shrugging off coats and bags, placing lovingly packaged hunks of birthday cake in the fridge and freeing the vibrant helium balloons that Phillipa had insisted on tying around their wrists.
Even hours later Eames is acutely aware of the heady thrum of arousal festering under his skin, the uncomfortable and restrictive friction of his clothing and of course Arthur, omnipresent and distracting and always in the peripheries of his vision. For all his outward composure, he had not fared much better - incessantly picking at the skin around his cuticles, crossing and uncrossing his arms and legs the entire drive home, toying with his phone.
And yet - they affect indifference and obliviousness, falling into that timeworn comfort zone and safety net of hedging and circling around one another, bustling around the kitchen and living room, busying themselves with last-minute chores and schedules for tomorrow.
It would be laughable, if it weren’t so infuriating.
But when Arthur leans his elbows against the kitchen counter to watch him water the potted ferns, forearms glimmering in the half-gloom and the top buttons of his collared shirt undone, Eames thinks this is fucking ridiculous, what are we - gawky teenagers? and bridges the gap to kiss him messily, tasting vestiges of Miles’ homemade lemonade, cocoa-tinged red velvet cake and cream cheese frosting.
He tries to lick it all out of Arthur’s mouth, running his tongue over sharp teeth and the slick insides of his cheeks. There is a slight scuffle as they scrabble at one another awkwardly, yanking erratically at clothing and hair: a flurry of knobbly knees and hazardous elbows, chafing skin and wandering hands.
As Arthur grazes flyaway kisses to his hairline and the sensitive arch of his ears, Eames shrugs the shirt from his shoulders; he unbuttons it in the same manner he had buttoned it up, trading kisses for buttons. The colour is high in Arthur’s cheeks and a slow, lovely flush spreads down his bare chest and up his unsteady thighs, bleeding together at his navel. His trousers have been hurriedly shucked down to his calves; his legs are matchstick-thin, muscle tone and definition long lost.
Their fingers are interlaced again, unfamiliar but not unpleasant, the span of their hands nearly identical. Carefully, Arthur tightens his grip - as if testing a theory. Eames does not wince, even when the pressure veers into discomfort.
“Now?” he queries softly, hesitantly squeezing back.
Though veiled in shadow, Arthur’s blossoming smile is unmistakable - harsh, white, bittersweet, tremulous, beautiful.
He nods shakily, just once.
***Arthur’s younger brother visits one day, pulling up into their driveway at some unearthly hour in a screech of rubber tyres and Guns N’ Roses blaring obnoxiously loud over the stereo.
He is a replica of Arthur, so much so that it forces all the breath out of Eames when he ungraciously wrenches open the front door in his boxers and a holey old t-shirt, half expecting a jetlagged Yusuf (who was supposed to arrive two days ago but is probably embroiled in a den of iniquity somewhere) or one of their inquisitive but well-meaning neighbours brandishing yet another casserole.
Not this: a healthy Arthur-look-alike, with freckles, shaggy hair and a messenger bag slung around his hunched frame. The only immediately noticeable difference is that he is taller, by a sparse handful of inches.
“Mr. Eames,” the Arthur-clone begins without preamble, in lieu of an actual introduction.
“Uh,” Eames manages, in an impressive show of early morning eloquence.
Even in sleepiness he catalogues the pitted scars on the other man’s knuckles, the taut muscle of his arms, the stability of his stance (feet in line with his shoulders, weight distributed evenly) and the stiffness in his posture.
A fighter, then. Perhaps even ex-military.
Seemingly following his train of thought; Arthur’s brother (because there can be no other logical conclusion) smirks but offers no explanation.
He has dimples, too. It is altogether rather disconcerting.
“Oh. Hey.” Arthur peers owlishly around the doorframe, laundry basket in one hand. If he is at all taken aback, it does not show. “Come in. How’d you find us, anyway?”
“Cobb,” he replies crisply, brushing past Eames with a civil if curt nod. Eames hastily mumbles a greeting, offhandedly attempts to flatten his bed-hair and wonders, dazedly, whether terseness is a hereditary characteristic.
He retreats to the kitchen, pretending to brew tea and hunt for biscuits whilst actually covertly spying on the brothers, now seated amicably on the couch. Despite initial impressions, Arthur’s brother is remarkably animated once engaged in conversation: hands flapping in the air, tousled curls falling repeatedly into his eyes, boisterous laughter ringing out more frequently than Arthur’s own sedate equivalent.
When the window of believable-amount-of-time-needed-to-steep-tea elapses, Eames squares his shoulders and slips back into the living room laden with trays, chinaware and platters like the whipped pseudo-house-husband he is.
It is easy enough to join in their small-talk, to ask polite questions without prying. In any case, Arthur’s brother is remarkably cagey for a supposed civilian; he offers little to no personal information and redirects the threads of conversation back to fairly generic topics: politics, world events, the stock market, and so on.
Eames lets the words and inflections wash over him, soothing and melodious, an odd twinge of affection curling his toes in their socks. Warm and reassuringly solid by his side, Arthur alternates between contributing ambivalent answers (yes, no, uh huh, why, oh really) and waggling his eyebrows at Eames as if to say Count your blessings, fucker; you could have ended up with the talkative twin.
Being an only child, he finds the push and pull of sibling dynamics utterly bizarre. Arthur and his brother have not spoken for months and yet here they are, conversing and joking, comfortable in their temperate regard for one another.
When an appropriate opportunity presents itself Eames unobtrusively glides away, ostensibly under the guise of hunting for more biscuits or refilling the teapot or, fuck it, hanging out the washing.
After Arthur’s brother leaves in a cloud of dust and AC/DC, he emerges somewhat sheepishly from the safety of the study, having completed three crossword puzzles and created a flotilla of origami boats from the waste paper in the recycling bin. Arthur shakes his head in dry disapproval though the symmetrical dimples give him away, as always.
Just for the hell of it he presses his thumb to one dimple and fingers in the groove of the other, gradually squashing Arthur’s lips and cheeks together. Arthur scowls out of habit but makes no real effort to move away.
Eames ponders the frank injustice of being able to remain really, really ridiculously good-looking even with fish-lips and chipmunk cheeks.
“Look, he brought us this,” Arthur continues blithely, apparently unfazed at his face being treated as a nostalgic substitute for play-doh. Belatedly, Eames notices the small clay pot cupped possessively in his hands.
A single orchid spike sits snug in the soil, fragile and pale green.
“They’re my favourite,” he beams, dimples deepening beneath Eames’ fingertips.
He tries very hard not to mind that Arthur is cooing (incomprehensibly enough) over a ruddy potted plant because, really, that’s just stupidly insecure.
***“I don’t want any more chemo,” Arthur says, drowsy but resolute.
They are lying in bed, facing one another but a comfortable hand span apart because sometimes they are too fractious to touch. It is five-oh-three and the sky is dark and overcast, rippling through with lightning.
In precisely ten minutes Eames will tumble out of bed, struggle groggily into his ratty singlet and running shorts, strap the iPod to his bicep and wash his face perfunctorily, rubbing the sleep out of his eyelashes. He will be out the door at quarter past with Argus faithfully at his side no matter the weather, for Eames is as much a creature of habit and discipline as Arthur.
Perhaps even more so.
Once upon a time, in precisely twenty minutes Arthur would have sat up alert and awake, arching into an easy and contented stretch. In his morning routines, he used to be unpredictable - occupying himself with anything from yoga or lounging in front of the television to research and conference calls with colleagues on the other side of the world.
These days he stays in bed, cocooned within fleece blankets and flannel pyjamas, grumbling disconsolately when Eames clatters back in at six, sweaty and muddy, to tickle him awake.
“I don’t want any more chemo,” Arthur repeats, though he must know Eames is awake. The lightning illuminates his gaunt features, his luminous eyes. “It’s not helping.”
“Okay,” Eames hears himself say, voice hoarse and sandpaper-rough. “Okay.”
Arthur’s eyelids flutter shut.
Eames watches him breathe for eight and a half more minutes, mapping the curve of his cheekbones with the coarse pad of his thumb.
(part two)