the bravest i've ever been was when i ran away from you.
A Lot Of Little Lies For The Sake Of One Big Truth
Arthur/Eames, PG, prompt: " Eames lights two cigarettes at once; one for him, one for Arthur." previously entitled, "Talking Through Tin Cans".
971 words
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Arthur finds Eames at the back of the warehouse, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette. It's fall, the weather is making his lungs ache, and October is fast fading with the leaves. Plans for the Fischer job are already underway and now they're just biding their time, waiting to strike when the right circumstances arise.
Arthur closes the door behind him. Eames doesn't even start at the sound, just raises his head and glances at him quickly before shoving his hands inside his pockets. He extends his cigarette for Arthur to take, inhaling deeply, and exhaling through his lips.
"Thanks," Arthur says. He can almost smell the butane on the pads of Eames' fingers. He leans away and smokes until the cigarette burns down to the filter. Eames smirks when Arthur stubs it against the wall but he doesn't say anything, just reaches into his pockets for his pack of cigarettes and a worn, silver lighter. He lights up, lets his cigarette bob between his lips before handing Arthur another one. Eames sighs in a long exhale.
"Hey, can I get a light here?" Arthur asks. He frowns when Eames leans over to him, bracing his arm on the wall behind Arthur's head.
It's been an arduous three weeks for all of them, and Arthur's exhaustion is making him more irritable, but he doesn't shove Eames off because he doesn't want to rise to the bait, doesn't want to give Eames the satisfaction of getting on his nerves although there is something compelling in the way he angles his head just so, the light of the morning dusting the grit of his stubble.
"Here you go, love," Eames says. Arthur blinks as Eames leans even closer, touching the end of his cigarette to his. Arthur pays him close attention, mostly because he remembers a time when Eames' cologne was overbearing and obnoxious, but now in the early morning it's faded to a soft musk. Just a hint of citrus, nothing more, and something else mineral like warm skin. Arthur breathes it in along with the smoke, and when he exhales, his chest shudders. He looks up through his eyelashes, up at Eames, and Eames smiles before finally pulling away, stubbing his half-smoked cigarette on the ground.
"I thought you quit this job." Eames says.
Arthur blinks, mouth closing around his cigarette upon impulse. He thinks for a moment, looks up at the roof and the light slanting through the eaves. His face feels warm. "There's nothing quite like it. I'm good at what I do."
"You were good at other things too." Eames says. Arthur remembers this and laughs. He used to be in grad school with a lot of prospects on the table. He hadn't met Cobb yet or Eames, didn't know squat about dreamsharing. It feels like so long ago now, like something grounded in myth. Just thinking about all of it makes Arthur feel so suddenly tired.
"What about you?" Arthur says. "Still have that gambling problem?"
Eames smirks. For a moment, Arthur thinks he's going to punch him. It's possible, if Arthur were Eames he'd punch him except Eames doesn't; he just stands straighter and licks his lips, staring at his shoes and the leaves littering the ground.
"Don't be an arse, darling." he says, "I don't claim to be perfect."
Arthur scowls. "Well, you started it," he snaps, but it ends feebly and he bites the inside of his cheek. He feels petty and juvenile, standing out here smoking when everyone else is inside, working their asses off. Arthur finishes his cigarette then flicks it to the ground, watching the embers die and fizzle out. His hands are shaking, probably from the cold more than anything else. He's been cracking his knuckles lately. It's an old habit from way back when, one of the things he'd picked up from the time he spent in Europe doing odd jobs with Eames.
"You should probably head back inside."
Eames clears his throat, looks at Arthur over his shoulder, hands still dug inside his pockets. "You know," he continues cheekily, "Cobb likes it when you're in his line of sight." He smiles then, the corner of his lips twisted up, and Arthur can't gauge the emotion behind that so it takes him awhile to respond.
He sighs, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. They're close enough that their shoulders are touching and Arthur achingly remembers seeing for the first time the scar on Eames' shoulderblade from an accident on the job, remembers touching the newly healing skin with his fingers and whispering his amazement in the dark. He was twenty one and hadn't known any better. Now he's almost thirty and he feels infinitely wiser and lost. Unhappy.
"Whatever," Arthur finally says. It's a cold day for October, and it hurts when he breathes in too deeply. He stands closer so that the warmth of Eames' shoulder seeps into his clothes, under his skin. It feels stupid, really, to believe that it is, but -- Arthur doesn't move.
"You sure?" Eames says. Arthur hears the surprise in his voice, the open disbelief.
"Cobb doesn't need me all the time," he says. He believes this because it feels like the truth. Eames seems to accept it for what it is because he says nothing after that.
"Alright then," Eames says. "Do what you want."
Arthur nods. He leans in, and then away, and then in again. Eames continues to look at him over his shoulder before touching the back of his hand. It doesn't last very long because Arthur pulls away, apologetic at first and then embarrassed, ducking his head and pocketing his hands. Eames says nothing.
They stand there for a while, shoulder to shoulder. Minutes pass, maybe hours.
They lose track of time.