(no subject)
eames/arthur (inception)
r
written for this prompt in the inception_kink meme.
Arthur’s eyes flutter open. For a moment there’s nothing but a deafening silence that fills his ears. Like that constant rush of salt water is slowly suffocating his eardrums.
It takes a moment, his eyes adjusting to the pale pink and orange morning light that bathes across the bedroom, his ears allowing bits of noise inside, piece by piece. When his ears are fully open, the room is still almost silent. Only this type of silent feels thinner, filled with gusts of air and the soft sound of Eames snoring against the back of his neck. When they first started doing this - ArthurandEames - Arthur remembers countless of sleepless nights due to the older man’s snoring. Now he can’t get to bed without the newly soothing sound, as well Eames arms wrapped around his middle, large chest across his back so Arthur knows he’s always breathing.
On the nightstand sits three items: a clock to tell the date and time, Arthur’s die and Eames’ poker chip.
When Cobb had found out, mistakenly, that they were both endangering their sanity for a few days together underneath, he had blown up in a way that Arthur had never seen before. Not even when he was relaying the events of Mal’s death for the first time. His eyes were narrowed sharply, an extended finger pressing into Eames’, and not Arthur’s, chest. He didn’t even look at Arthur until he was on his way out the door and then, he only stared at him for a moment over his shoulder, voice grave as he said, “You know how easy is it to lose yourself down there, Arthur. I can’t believe you would put yourself through that.”
After years of knowing Cobb, Arthur knows that he meant, “How could you put me through this again?” and he felt infinitely full of sorrow, waited a few days, and called Cobb with an apology ready on his lips. His mentor simply said, “It’s alright,” and there was a sinking pause, the sound of Philipa and James laughing and playing in the background before Cobb cleared his throat and said, “Just promise me you won’t forget, Arthur. Just promise me you’ll always come back up.” And Arthur promised.
Arthur rolls his die. He rolls it once, twice, three times, four times, until he knows he’s still dreaming but he’s trying to get to the die to fall in sync with Eames’ deep breaths. He gets up to number fourteen when the snoring stops and there’s a heavy hand wrapped around his upper arm. It’s a silent signal to stop and Arthur can’t help the grin that spreads across his lips as he rolls the die just one more time before letting his hand fall back onto the mattress.
He rolls onto his back, Eames accompanying this new position by moving slightly to sit up on his side, his inked chest still pressed against Arthur’s arm, only now he looms over the younger man and Arthur’s reminded just how much larger he is.
Eames wipes at his eyes. He yawns. He blinks. He stretches one arm up to the ceiling and yawns once more. His eyes flicker from wall to wall. His eyes land on their totems sitting right next to one another and for a minute, Arthur swears, his face falls. But Eames recovers quickly and continues his morning wake-up routine with a glance to the clock and a faux-wounded look across his face.
“Jesus, love,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “It’s eight in the morning.”
They make eye contact and it’s moments like these that Arthur remembers in here, in their world, his smile never seems to waver.
“I can’t sleep past eight, you know that, Eames.”
Eames gives him a look that’s sheer disbelief before he says, “You’re just trying to send me to an early grave with all this staying up late and getting up early business.”
There’s a twitch in the corner of Arthur’s lips. He places his hand on the back of Eames’ neck and pulls him down for a small kiss, just a press of their lips together so each of them know that the other is really still there. When they break apart, lips mere centimeters apart, Arthur says, “Never. I could never send you to an early grave.”
Eames’ lips turn into his signature grin, only it’s softer and more genuine when it’s directed at Arthur, or that’s what he likes to tell himself. Because Eames does it to him, he’s not looking to get anything out of Arthur’s pockets.
They don’t converse for the rest of the morning. They spend in an hour in bed, Eames’ hand in Arthur’s unkempt curly hair as he braces the mattress with the other, looming over the point man as he thrusts in and out at a pace that signifies they have all the time in the world. And Arthur comes twice before Eames comes once but Arthur fixes the balance by blowing him in the shower.
It’s Sunday, which means it’s Eames’ day to make breakfast and he makes the two of them four-egged omelets with a side of banana and nutella crepes. On their first date he surprised Arthur with the fact that he wasn’t completely lost in the kitchen and if Arthur wasn’t so competent himself, he would bestow all of the cooking duties onto Eames. The forger making the meal means that Arthur is left washing the dishes and he loads the dishwasher within minutes, turning to join Eames back on the couch for some light conversation when his eyes catch the calendar on the refrigerator.
It’s Sunday, which means they’ve been in limbo for a solid seven days, and in order to not end up like Mal or Cobb, they keep their stints short, which means at the end of seven days, it’s time to climb back into reality.
Arthur isn’t even aware that he’s been staring at the Eames’ drawn sad face on the block dedicated to Sunday until there are pair of arms wrapped around his waist and a heavy chin pressed into his shoulder. He smiles sadly and places his arms over Eames, eyes never drawing away from their calendar which is a mess of “built this today!” and “leaving tomorrow :(”s. Eames doesn’t say anything. Just keeps his hold on Arthur as they comfortably stand in their large kitchen before Arthur breaks the silence and says,
“Sometimes…Sometimes I wonder what forever here feels like.”
In limbo, Arthur’s looser. He wears t-shirts and jeans instead of suits, he doesn’t make a fuss about his hair and he isn’t constantly constructing the words that march out of his mouth. More often than not, in limbo, he says whatever’s on his mind. Which he knows is careless and unwise, especially in cases such as this; cases in which Eames tightens his arms around Arthur’s body as if he’s somehow sheltering his mind from straying away from the thought that “this world is not real”.
He lifts his chin and presses his lips to Arthur’s temple. It’s a long, dry, kiss, heavy with fear before he says, “Please don’t think like that, darling,” and Arthur knows Eames well enough to know that on the inside he’s terrified.
Their fingers stay interlaced as they each grab their totems and stuff them in their pockets. They pad on their shoes and head out the door to their spacious apartment, walking across the hall to elevator that’s always waiting for them. Eames presses the button the leads them to the roof and while waiting, soft elevator music fills their ears. Arthur smiles over at Eames and the older man returns the favor, squeezing Arthur’s hand as the elevator doors slide open, revealing the rooftop of their fifty floored apartment building.
It’s a gorgeous skyscraper. The outside is made completely out of glass. If there were projections strolling around, they could peek inside their apartment anytime they liked. When Arthur built it - because Eames doesn’t build, he just doesn’t - he had told Eames, “No secrets,” and Eames and had nodded and said, “Never ever.”
Neither of their palms become sweaty as they step across the rooftop. The content looks on their faces don’t waver as the tips of their shoes brush against the edge of the roof. Their balance doesn’t quiver as they step onto the edge of the roof, fifty stories above the concrete ground.
From their spot on the roof, the two of them, hand in hand can see every inch of their world for miles. It isn’t much - a small house here and there, a bakery, a shop that sells suits but is perpetually closed, a field of endless grass with an apple tree and a swing in the middle - but it’s absolutely, breathtakingly, perfect. And Arthur tightens his hand around Eames’ as his eyes flicker from the sight before to the man to his right.
Eames smirks. “We’re going to have to start getting a little creative, sweetheart. Jumping off the roof is getting just a tad bit old isn’t it?”
Arthur lets out a laugh. He kicks his leg over the edge as if he’s about to jump, but his foot catches the edge of the roof.
“Next time you pick the location then, alright?”
“Yes, well. Better build me a bridge then.”
“I’ll build you the most fantastic bridge in the world.”
This time, Eames laughs. He secures their fingers tighter around one another before he keeps his eyes locked on Arthur’s and tells him, “I love you.”
Arthur, without thinking and just like breathing responds with, “I love you too,” before they both, as if choreographed, or simply because of routine, take the plunge.
r
written for this prompt in the inception_kink meme.
Arthur’s eyes flutter open. For a moment there’s nothing but a deafening silence that fills his ears. Like that constant rush of salt water is slowly suffocating his eardrums.
It takes a moment, his eyes adjusting to the pale pink and orange morning light that bathes across the bedroom, his ears allowing bits of noise inside, piece by piece. When his ears are fully open, the room is still almost silent. Only this type of silent feels thinner, filled with gusts of air and the soft sound of Eames snoring against the back of his neck. When they first started doing this - ArthurandEames - Arthur remembers countless of sleepless nights due to the older man’s snoring. Now he can’t get to bed without the newly soothing sound, as well Eames arms wrapped around his middle, large chest across his back so Arthur knows he’s always breathing.
On the nightstand sits three items: a clock to tell the date and time, Arthur’s die and Eames’ poker chip.
When Cobb had found out, mistakenly, that they were both endangering their sanity for a few days together underneath, he had blown up in a way that Arthur had never seen before. Not even when he was relaying the events of Mal’s death for the first time. His eyes were narrowed sharply, an extended finger pressing into Eames’, and not Arthur’s, chest. He didn’t even look at Arthur until he was on his way out the door and then, he only stared at him for a moment over his shoulder, voice grave as he said, “You know how easy is it to lose yourself down there, Arthur. I can’t believe you would put yourself through that.”
After years of knowing Cobb, Arthur knows that he meant, “How could you put me through this again?” and he felt infinitely full of sorrow, waited a few days, and called Cobb with an apology ready on his lips. His mentor simply said, “It’s alright,” and there was a sinking pause, the sound of Philipa and James laughing and playing in the background before Cobb cleared his throat and said, “Just promise me you won’t forget, Arthur. Just promise me you’ll always come back up.” And Arthur promised.
Arthur rolls his die. He rolls it once, twice, three times, four times, until he knows he’s still dreaming but he’s trying to get to the die to fall in sync with Eames’ deep breaths. He gets up to number fourteen when the snoring stops and there’s a heavy hand wrapped around his upper arm. It’s a silent signal to stop and Arthur can’t help the grin that spreads across his lips as he rolls the die just one more time before letting his hand fall back onto the mattress.
He rolls onto his back, Eames accompanying this new position by moving slightly to sit up on his side, his inked chest still pressed against Arthur’s arm, only now he looms over the younger man and Arthur’s reminded just how much larger he is.
Eames wipes at his eyes. He yawns. He blinks. He stretches one arm up to the ceiling and yawns once more. His eyes flicker from wall to wall. His eyes land on their totems sitting right next to one another and for a minute, Arthur swears, his face falls. But Eames recovers quickly and continues his morning wake-up routine with a glance to the clock and a faux-wounded look across his face.
“Jesus, love,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “It’s eight in the morning.”
They make eye contact and it’s moments like these that Arthur remembers in here, in their world, his smile never seems to waver.
“I can’t sleep past eight, you know that, Eames.”
Eames gives him a look that’s sheer disbelief before he says, “You’re just trying to send me to an early grave with all this staying up late and getting up early business.”
There’s a twitch in the corner of Arthur’s lips. He places his hand on the back of Eames’ neck and pulls him down for a small kiss, just a press of their lips together so each of them know that the other is really still there. When they break apart, lips mere centimeters apart, Arthur says, “Never. I could never send you to an early grave.”
Eames’ lips turn into his signature grin, only it’s softer and more genuine when it’s directed at Arthur, or that’s what he likes to tell himself. Because Eames does it to him, he’s not looking to get anything out of Arthur’s pockets.
They don’t converse for the rest of the morning. They spend in an hour in bed, Eames’ hand in Arthur’s unkempt curly hair as he braces the mattress with the other, looming over the point man as he thrusts in and out at a pace that signifies they have all the time in the world. And Arthur comes twice before Eames comes once but Arthur fixes the balance by blowing him in the shower.
It’s Sunday, which means it’s Eames’ day to make breakfast and he makes the two of them four-egged omelets with a side of banana and nutella crepes. On their first date he surprised Arthur with the fact that he wasn’t completely lost in the kitchen and if Arthur wasn’t so competent himself, he would bestow all of the cooking duties onto Eames. The forger making the meal means that Arthur is left washing the dishes and he loads the dishwasher within minutes, turning to join Eames back on the couch for some light conversation when his eyes catch the calendar on the refrigerator.
It’s Sunday, which means they’ve been in limbo for a solid seven days, and in order to not end up like Mal or Cobb, they keep their stints short, which means at the end of seven days, it’s time to climb back into reality.
Arthur isn’t even aware that he’s been staring at the Eames’ drawn sad face on the block dedicated to Sunday until there are pair of arms wrapped around his waist and a heavy chin pressed into his shoulder. He smiles sadly and places his arms over Eames, eyes never drawing away from their calendar which is a mess of “built this today!” and “leaving tomorrow :(”s. Eames doesn’t say anything. Just keeps his hold on Arthur as they comfortably stand in their large kitchen before Arthur breaks the silence and says,
“Sometimes…Sometimes I wonder what forever here feels like.”
In limbo, Arthur’s looser. He wears t-shirts and jeans instead of suits, he doesn’t make a fuss about his hair and he isn’t constantly constructing the words that march out of his mouth. More often than not, in limbo, he says whatever’s on his mind. Which he knows is careless and unwise, especially in cases such as this; cases in which Eames tightens his arms around Arthur’s body as if he’s somehow sheltering his mind from straying away from the thought that “this world is not real”.
He lifts his chin and presses his lips to Arthur’s temple. It’s a long, dry, kiss, heavy with fear before he says, “Please don’t think like that, darling,” and Arthur knows Eames well enough to know that on the inside he’s terrified.
Their fingers stay interlaced as they each grab their totems and stuff them in their pockets. They pad on their shoes and head out the door to their spacious apartment, walking across the hall to elevator that’s always waiting for them. Eames presses the button the leads them to the roof and while waiting, soft elevator music fills their ears. Arthur smiles over at Eames and the older man returns the favor, squeezing Arthur’s hand as the elevator doors slide open, revealing the rooftop of their fifty floored apartment building.
It’s a gorgeous skyscraper. The outside is made completely out of glass. If there were projections strolling around, they could peek inside their apartment anytime they liked. When Arthur built it - because Eames doesn’t build, he just doesn’t - he had told Eames, “No secrets,” and Eames and had nodded and said, “Never ever.”
Neither of their palms become sweaty as they step across the rooftop. The content looks on their faces don’t waver as the tips of their shoes brush against the edge of the roof. Their balance doesn’t quiver as they step onto the edge of the roof, fifty stories above the concrete ground.
From their spot on the roof, the two of them, hand in hand can see every inch of their world for miles. It isn’t much - a small house here and there, a bakery, a shop that sells suits but is perpetually closed, a field of endless grass with an apple tree and a swing in the middle - but it’s absolutely, breathtakingly, perfect. And Arthur tightens his hand around Eames’ as his eyes flicker from the sight before to the man to his right.
Eames smirks. “We’re going to have to start getting a little creative, sweetheart. Jumping off the roof is getting just a tad bit old isn’t it?”
Arthur lets out a laugh. He kicks his leg over the edge as if he’s about to jump, but his foot catches the edge of the roof.
“Next time you pick the location then, alright?”
“Yes, well. Better build me a bridge then.”
“I’ll build you the most fantastic bridge in the world.”
This time, Eames laughs. He secures their fingers tighter around one another before he keeps his eyes locked on Arthur’s and tells him, “I love you.”
Arthur, without thinking and just like breathing responds with, “I love you too,” before they both, as if choreographed, or simply because of routine, take the plunge.