To Fall Away (1/1)
She tipped the pasta into the sauce, and stirred, glancing at the counter where three bowls were set out. Where chopped basil sat, waiting to serve as a garnish.
“Laptop away,” she told Arthur, who was reading the newspapers online, and making notes in his Moleskine.
They’d all mocked him for his resolute failure to embrace the digital age, for refusing to use Delicious or even the bookmarks in his browser, but he just tucked his notebook into his pocket and smiled a half-smile. The notebook of Hemingway he told them both once, when he was drunk, and they were lying in a sprawl of limbs on their bed, and Eames wondered if they all had their ways of clinging to history, to physical form, to meaning, because of what they did.
Eames sipped his wine, leaning against the kitchen counter, and felt a rush of contentment as he surveyed Ariadne’s dark head bent over the supper, and Arthur’s over his work. An unorthodox life, their ménage a trois, but a surprisingly successful and happy one.
He stood up straight. “Shall I pour you a drink, my darlings?”
“Please,” said Arthur, sliding his laptop into its case.
“Just water for me,” said Ariadne, sprinkling basil over the bowls of pasta.
“It’s that chenin blanc we had last week.” Eames poured wine into a glass for Arthur, the liquid glugging satisfyingly in the bottle. “That you raved about.”
“I’m fine, Eames.” Ariadne set the plates on the table, and sat down, snapping the napkin taut across her knees.
There was something hanging in the air that Eames couldn’t identify, as though the domesticity of their supper was about to yield under the weight of something bigger.
“Ari?” She looked at her plate, and her mouth was drawn into the shape she made when she had a delicious secret, like a particularly exotic pudding in the fridge, or a new toy for their toybox.
Arthur was looking at Ariadne, too, faint whisper of suspicion in the line of his brow.
“Can we just eat?” She lifted her fork, and picked up a piece of penne, sliding the pasta between the tines.
“Ariadne?” Arthur’s frown deepened. “Is everything okay?”
She set her fork down, a deliberate, economical movement, and there was a softness to her smile that Eames had never seen before. “I’m pregnant.”
It felt like a blast of light and heat thundering along his veins, and Eames was out of his seat, and pulling her from hers, before he even fully realised what he was doing.
“My darling.” He lifted her up, and twirled her around, and the laugh came fizzing from deep in his gut, and she was solid in his arms. “What a marvellous, marvellous adventure we shall have.”
He turned his head to look for Arthur, because they should all be folded together in one of their impossible warm shapes, but Arthur was missing, and Arthur hadn’t moved, was still sitting above his pasta with his fork in his hand.
Eames dropped Ariadne’s feet to the floor, and the smile slid from her face.
“Sweetheart?” It was Eames who broke the silence. He wasn’t sure if Ariadne could.
“You’re sure?” Arthur said. “You’re not just-“ He swallowed, and Eames almost smiled at his squeamishness. He wouldn’t fuck Ariadne when she had her period, couldn’t even mention it without two raw red spots appearing above his cheekbones.
“I took a test,” Ariadne said. “Two tests, actually. To be sure.” She was clearly doing her best, because it wasn’t like they’d ever discussed this, except for ways to make this not happen, but Eames could hear the faintest tremor of disappointment in her voice.
He recognised the set of Arthur’s shoulders, though. Implacable and unyielding, and he was suddenly afraid that the edifice of love that they’d made was about to collapse, girders and stanchions slipping into the sea.
“Love?” he said. “Why don’t you take your supper into the sitting room, and Arthur and I will talk as men do?”
She nodded, jerkily, and picked up her bowl and her glass, and this was the worst thing about being three instead of two.
Eames sat down and took Arthur’s hand between his own, running his thumb just underneath Arthur’s knuckles. Arthur bowed his head. “I can’t-“
“Can’t what, my love?” He brought Arthur’s hand to his mouth, and kissed it, warm skin against his lips.
“Kids.” Arthur sounded desperate, somehow, voice stretched to breaking point. “I can’t.”
“One kid. Our kid.” Eames could see them laughing in the park, making cocoa over the stove in fuzzy socks, hanging Christmas stockings, installing a paddling pool on the lawn outside their house.
“Well, it can’t be ours. It can only be yours or mine.” Arthur snorted a laugh, and there was so little humour in it that it stung. “But that’s not even-“
Eames squeezed his hand, and slid his fingers up Arthur’s wrist, feeling the beat of his pulse under the skin. “So what is?”
Arthur ripped his hand from Eames’s. “Will you just stop fucking touching me?” He pushed his chair back, and stood up, looking tall in the small kitchen. Eames stood up slowly, holding his hands up, but Arthur stepped backwards, until his back was pressed against the counter.
“Arthur?”
“I have no desire to be a father.” His tone was stiff, as formal as Eames had ever heard it.
“Not entirely your call, my love.” Eames cocked an eyebrow. “Can’t very well tell Ari what to do with her own body.”
He watched Arthur’s knees buckle under him at that, at the man who had shared his bed for the past eighteen months slide down the cabinets until he was sitting on the floor. The floor they’d fucked on, made each other come on, and it was like he’d never known Arthur at all.
“Oh, Christ.” Arthur’s voice was thick with misery.
Eames sat down on the floor himself, watching Arthur run his fingers through his hair, and there was a cold feeling gathering in the pit of his stomach, because this wasn’t feckless irresponsibility he was looking at, so much as a wellspring of anguish.
“Can you tell me what the matter is, old thing?” But Eames wasn’t a stupid man, and Cobb wasn’t the only one with a past, and the pieces were starting to click into place, like Arthur’s life was a game of slots and Eames was about to hit the jackpot.
Arthur’s lips were pressed together. “I can’t be a father.”
“There are a lot of shitty fathers out there,” Eames began, and was rewarded by the sound of a breath hitching in Arthur’s throat. “Men who use their fists, or their words, or their cocks to brutalise their children. Men who shame, instead of love. Men who chastise, instead of praise.”
He crawled across the floor, stopping before his hands touched the cuff of Arthur’s pants. “Believe me when I say that you won’t be one of those. Believe me when I say that our child will be safe in your care. Body, mind, and spirit.”
He stretched out a hand, rested it against Arthur’s shin. “Please believe me, love.”
Arthur reached for him and Eames went to the side of him, slid his arm across Arthur’s rigid shoulders, and tilted Arthur’s head against his chest.
“He used option three.” Arthur’s voice was muffled against his shirt, and it took a moment for Eames to realise what he meant, for the wave of anger and horror and sadness to hit, but it slammed into him like a train when it came.
“I’m so sorry.” He rocked Arthur against himself, and dropped a kiss onto his hair. Arthur was nearly in his lap now, warm and vital and safe, and his own face was wet with tears. “I’m so very, very sorry, Arthur.”
Arthur rested his chin on Eames’s shoulder, leaned his head against Eames’s so that their ears were touching.
“I can’t bear the thought-“ His voice was clear. Precise.
“You won’t.” Eames ran his hand down Arthur’s back. “I promise that you won’t hurt our child.”
“Your child,” said Arthur. “Or mine.”
“Ours,” Eames said, firmly. “In all the ways that matter a damn.”
“Laptop away,” she told Arthur, who was reading the newspapers online, and making notes in his Moleskine.
They’d all mocked him for his resolute failure to embrace the digital age, for refusing to use Delicious or even the bookmarks in his browser, but he just tucked his notebook into his pocket and smiled a half-smile. The notebook of Hemingway he told them both once, when he was drunk, and they were lying in a sprawl of limbs on their bed, and Eames wondered if they all had their ways of clinging to history, to physical form, to meaning, because of what they did.
Eames sipped his wine, leaning against the kitchen counter, and felt a rush of contentment as he surveyed Ariadne’s dark head bent over the supper, and Arthur’s over his work. An unorthodox life, their ménage a trois, but a surprisingly successful and happy one.
He stood up straight. “Shall I pour you a drink, my darlings?”
“Please,” said Arthur, sliding his laptop into its case.
“Just water for me,” said Ariadne, sprinkling basil over the bowls of pasta.
“It’s that chenin blanc we had last week.” Eames poured wine into a glass for Arthur, the liquid glugging satisfyingly in the bottle. “That you raved about.”
“I’m fine, Eames.” Ariadne set the plates on the table, and sat down, snapping the napkin taut across her knees.
There was something hanging in the air that Eames couldn’t identify, as though the domesticity of their supper was about to yield under the weight of something bigger.
“Ari?” She looked at her plate, and her mouth was drawn into the shape she made when she had a delicious secret, like a particularly exotic pudding in the fridge, or a new toy for their toybox.
Arthur was looking at Ariadne, too, faint whisper of suspicion in the line of his brow.
“Can we just eat?” She lifted her fork, and picked up a piece of penne, sliding the pasta between the tines.
“Ariadne?” Arthur’s frown deepened. “Is everything okay?”
She set her fork down, a deliberate, economical movement, and there was a softness to her smile that Eames had never seen before. “I’m pregnant.”
It felt like a blast of light and heat thundering along his veins, and Eames was out of his seat, and pulling her from hers, before he even fully realised what he was doing.
“My darling.” He lifted her up, and twirled her around, and the laugh came fizzing from deep in his gut, and she was solid in his arms. “What a marvellous, marvellous adventure we shall have.”
He turned his head to look for Arthur, because they should all be folded together in one of their impossible warm shapes, but Arthur was missing, and Arthur hadn’t moved, was still sitting above his pasta with his fork in his hand.
Eames dropped Ariadne’s feet to the floor, and the smile slid from her face.
“Sweetheart?” It was Eames who broke the silence. He wasn’t sure if Ariadne could.
“You’re sure?” Arthur said. “You’re not just-“ He swallowed, and Eames almost smiled at his squeamishness. He wouldn’t fuck Ariadne when she had her period, couldn’t even mention it without two raw red spots appearing above his cheekbones.
“I took a test,” Ariadne said. “Two tests, actually. To be sure.” She was clearly doing her best, because it wasn’t like they’d ever discussed this, except for ways to make this not happen, but Eames could hear the faintest tremor of disappointment in her voice.
He recognised the set of Arthur’s shoulders, though. Implacable and unyielding, and he was suddenly afraid that the edifice of love that they’d made was about to collapse, girders and stanchions slipping into the sea.
“Love?” he said. “Why don’t you take your supper into the sitting room, and Arthur and I will talk as men do?”
She nodded, jerkily, and picked up her bowl and her glass, and this was the worst thing about being three instead of two.
Eames sat down and took Arthur’s hand between his own, running his thumb just underneath Arthur’s knuckles. Arthur bowed his head. “I can’t-“
“Can’t what, my love?” He brought Arthur’s hand to his mouth, and kissed it, warm skin against his lips.
“Kids.” Arthur sounded desperate, somehow, voice stretched to breaking point. “I can’t.”
“One kid. Our kid.” Eames could see them laughing in the park, making cocoa over the stove in fuzzy socks, hanging Christmas stockings, installing a paddling pool on the lawn outside their house.
“Well, it can’t be ours. It can only be yours or mine.” Arthur snorted a laugh, and there was so little humour in it that it stung. “But that’s not even-“
Eames squeezed his hand, and slid his fingers up Arthur’s wrist, feeling the beat of his pulse under the skin. “So what is?”
Arthur ripped his hand from Eames’s. “Will you just stop fucking touching me?” He pushed his chair back, and stood up, looking tall in the small kitchen. Eames stood up slowly, holding his hands up, but Arthur stepped backwards, until his back was pressed against the counter.
“Arthur?”
“I have no desire to be a father.” His tone was stiff, as formal as Eames had ever heard it.
“Not entirely your call, my love.” Eames cocked an eyebrow. “Can’t very well tell Ari what to do with her own body.”
He watched Arthur’s knees buckle under him at that, at the man who had shared his bed for the past eighteen months slide down the cabinets until he was sitting on the floor. The floor they’d fucked on, made each other come on, and it was like he’d never known Arthur at all.
“Oh, Christ.” Arthur’s voice was thick with misery.
Eames sat down on the floor himself, watching Arthur run his fingers through his hair, and there was a cold feeling gathering in the pit of his stomach, because this wasn’t feckless irresponsibility he was looking at, so much as a wellspring of anguish.
“Can you tell me what the matter is, old thing?” But Eames wasn’t a stupid man, and Cobb wasn’t the only one with a past, and the pieces were starting to click into place, like Arthur’s life was a game of slots and Eames was about to hit the jackpot.
Arthur’s lips were pressed together. “I can’t be a father.”
“There are a lot of shitty fathers out there,” Eames began, and was rewarded by the sound of a breath hitching in Arthur’s throat. “Men who use their fists, or their words, or their cocks to brutalise their children. Men who shame, instead of love. Men who chastise, instead of praise.”
He crawled across the floor, stopping before his hands touched the cuff of Arthur’s pants. “Believe me when I say that you won’t be one of those. Believe me when I say that our child will be safe in your care. Body, mind, and spirit.”
He stretched out a hand, rested it against Arthur’s shin. “Please believe me, love.”
Arthur reached for him and Eames went to the side of him, slid his arm across Arthur’s rigid shoulders, and tilted Arthur’s head against his chest.
“He used option three.” Arthur’s voice was muffled against his shirt, and it took a moment for Eames to realise what he meant, for the wave of anger and horror and sadness to hit, but it slammed into him like a train when it came.
“I’m so sorry.” He rocked Arthur against himself, and dropped a kiss onto his hair. Arthur was nearly in his lap now, warm and vital and safe, and his own face was wet with tears. “I’m so very, very sorry, Arthur.”
Arthur rested his chin on Eames’s shoulder, leaned his head against Eames’s so that their ears were touching.
“I can’t bear the thought-“ His voice was clear. Precise.
“You won’t.” Eames ran his hand down Arthur’s back. “I promise that you won’t hurt our child.”
“Your child,” said Arthur. “Or mine.”
“Ours,” Eames said, firmly. “In all the ways that matter a damn.”