Inception [You Forget]
Title: You Forget
Author: Cyhyraeth
Rating: T
Total word count: 500
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Arthur, Eames (situational one-sided)
Warnings/Highlights are spoilers (if any): Angst (implied character death)
Summary: You hate that somewhere deep in the back of your mind you can’t shake the thoughts that he’s happy, better off without you.
“I’ll keep in touch, Arthur” he flashes you that smile, and you pick at your clothes uncomfortably before smoothing your hair back, offering nothing but a nod of acknowledgement.
Forcing conversation is not your forte, but he waits for a goodbye anyway.
You deny him one. Instead, he shifts, an aura of unease before he walks out the door, and you watch him with disinterest.
No, you don’t watch him, not exactly. You watch the suitcase he’s dragging, the backs of his shoes and the subtle way the cuffs of his pants fold with each step. It takes one… two… three… four seconds for him to step outside.
You release a breath and pinch the bridge of your nose as the door closes with a hollow ‘click’. That’s when you raise your gaze and turn your head to the side, scanning over the calendar idly as if it will provide you with comfort or perhaps speed up time in some obscure manner.
April 3rd, 2011.
You already know the date, so why do you even care to check?
You don’t care, because Eames will be back. He’s always come back before, and this time isn’t any different. You haven’t hurt him and he hasn’t hurt you. So you patiently wait.
You’re use to waiting, and you don’t mind.
Then you do mind. You mind a lot because.
‘Eames. Leave a message at the tone’
The first few times you call him the number goes to (the rather uninspired) voicemail.
Days turn to weeks turn to months turn to years. Your breaths have stopped hitching every time your phone vibrates, and you don’t rush for the mail when it arrives. You stop expecting a call or a letter.
When you decide to call again a voice tells you the number is disconnected. Your throat tightens and you can’t help but think how could he forget me.
It’s only a single moment and a monotone recording but you stay angry for years, because you realise he’s hurt you. He’s hurt you and you hate him for that.
In fact.
You hate that somewhere deep in the back of your mind you can’t shake the thoughts that he’s happy, better off without you. Hell, he’s probably got a beautiful woman on each arm and an expensive cigar between his lips every time you think of him, because the world is a cruel and unusual place.
No.
That’s stupid, because you think of him too much sometimes and there aren’t enough women in the world.
You stay angry, but you miss him. You miss the way he curls his arms around you when you can’t sleep, you miss sharing showers and you miss his brilliant ideas. For a while you wonder if he misses you, too.
Eventually, you forget.
You forget.
But what you don’t know is that he loved you, through subtle hints, careful touches and quiet mornings just huddled under the blankets. You don’t know he regrets never saying so.
There is a lot you don’t know about Eames.
His favourite colour, his first name. The fact there are only two significant dates he ever waited for and cared about.
The day you’d realise, and the day he’d die.
May 26th, 2011.
You never realise.
Author: Cyhyraeth
Rating: T
Total word count: 500
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Arthur, Eames (situational one-sided)
Warnings/Highlights are spoilers (if any): Angst (implied character death)
Summary: You hate that somewhere deep in the back of your mind you can’t shake the thoughts that he’s happy, better off without you.
“I’ll keep in touch, Arthur” he flashes you that smile, and you pick at your clothes uncomfortably before smoothing your hair back, offering nothing but a nod of acknowledgement.
Forcing conversation is not your forte, but he waits for a goodbye anyway.
You deny him one. Instead, he shifts, an aura of unease before he walks out the door, and you watch him with disinterest.
No, you don’t watch him, not exactly. You watch the suitcase he’s dragging, the backs of his shoes and the subtle way the cuffs of his pants fold with each step. It takes one… two… three… four seconds for him to step outside.
You release a breath and pinch the bridge of your nose as the door closes with a hollow ‘click’. That’s when you raise your gaze and turn your head to the side, scanning over the calendar idly as if it will provide you with comfort or perhaps speed up time in some obscure manner.
April 3rd, 2011.
You already know the date, so why do you even care to check?
You don’t care, because Eames will be back. He’s always come back before, and this time isn’t any different. You haven’t hurt him and he hasn’t hurt you. So you patiently wait.
You’re use to waiting, and you don’t mind.
Then you do mind. You mind a lot because.
‘Eames. Leave a message at the tone’
The first few times you call him the number goes to (the rather uninspired) voicemail.
Days turn to weeks turn to months turn to years. Your breaths have stopped hitching every time your phone vibrates, and you don’t rush for the mail when it arrives. You stop expecting a call or a letter.
When you decide to call again a voice tells you the number is disconnected. Your throat tightens and you can’t help but think how could he forget me.
It’s only a single moment and a monotone recording but you stay angry for years, because you realise he’s hurt you. He’s hurt you and you hate him for that.
In fact.
You hate that somewhere deep in the back of your mind you can’t shake the thoughts that he’s happy, better off without you. Hell, he’s probably got a beautiful woman on each arm and an expensive cigar between his lips every time you think of him, because the world is a cruel and unusual place.
No.
That’s stupid, because you think of him too much sometimes and there aren’t enough women in the world.
You stay angry, but you miss him. You miss the way he curls his arms around you when you can’t sleep, you miss sharing showers and you miss his brilliant ideas. For a while you wonder if he misses you, too.
Eventually, you forget.
You forget.
But what you don’t know is that he loved you, through subtle hints, careful touches and quiet mornings just huddled under the blankets. You don’t know he regrets never saying so.
There is a lot you don’t know about Eames.
His favourite colour, his first name. The fact there are only two significant dates he ever waited for and cared about.
The day you’d realise, and the day he’d die.
May 26th, 2011.
You never realise.