Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening | Robert Frost
and miles to go before i sleep
Arthur/Eames, PG-13, prompt: " Arthur gets deaged mentally to 16 or so. Even though he hasn't met Eames yet, being 16, he still inherently trusts him."
I took the liberty of making him just a tad bit older. Yeah. Mad props to my bb bronson I wish I could quit you.
2453 words
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He sees him sometimes, in the way Arthur angles his head or picks up his pen - the slant of his handwriting is the same, although his letters have a less acute angle. He drinks his coffee, black, no sugar, turning his cup counter-clockwise before picking it up. The crease in his forehead is still there whenever he pauses a moment to think.
Arthur is still Arthur.
Eames just doesn't recognize him.
*
He remembers the day of the phonecall, the squelch of rain under his shoes as he climbed up the stairs to Arthur's apartment. The morning was foggy and overcast, the streets thick with rushhour traffic. Cobb was in the kitchen drinking coffee at the table and Yusuf had his back turned to the door. They stopped talking when he arrived, clothes soggy and breath coming up in rapid pants, one hand, slick, clutching the doorframe.
"Where is he?"
In the living room, Arthur sat, sullen, picking at the thread sticking out of his jeans. He had a grey sweater on with the words Columbia University written across the chest in faded blue letters. He looked up when the three of them walked into the room but there was no recognition in his eyes even when Eames spoke his name and asked him how old he was.
"Seventeen," he said, and then paused to look around. "Am I allowed to call my mother?"
*
It's been two weeks since then, and Eames is saddled with a responsibility he knows he does not deserve. Both Cobb and Yusuf assume they have a history together. And they're right to a certain extent, they share a history, but that was long ago before Eames escaped to Mombasa and left a postcard on Arthur's doorstep. Four years is a long time to be in hiding, but it takes only a little thing to bring a person back.
Cobb calls to periodically check up on them. A few days ago when Eames was out buying cigarettes, Arthur left and took the bus back to New Jersey. He was gone for a fortnight and it was through trial and error that Eames found him, visiting his mother's grave in Redbank, blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
"Mrs. Wilson said she's been dead ten years," Arthur said without looking up. He was sitting cross legged on a patch of grass, his shoulders narrow and angular, his hair, in the most terrible state Eames has ever seen it, unwashed and lank. Eames touched his shoulder and Arthur didn't jerk or pull away, didn't stiffen.
"Were you here all night?"
Arthur nodded.
Eames didn't know what else to say so he waited for Arthur in the car, rolling down the window to breathe in the cold air. He wanted to smoke but turned the radio on instead, watched from the rearview mirrow as Arthur climbed to his feet and folded his blanket over his arm, stroking the headstone before walking away .
They stopped for food on the drive back, greasy fries and hamburgers wrapped in foil that settled heavily in their stomachs, washed down with fizzy drinks.
As New York loomed into view, Eames checked to see how Arthur was doing in the backseat. He wasn't surprised to find him already asleep.
*
Eames watches him, sometimes. How can he not? There are innumerable things he wants to ask this Arthur, this Arthur whose face is so familiar but then again not, this Arthur whose mind has regressed but whose body, with its lean grooves and curves, has remained in tact and Eames remembers fairly well from arguments that end in fisticuffs. Four years.
Arthur pads around the apartment in jeans and sweaters, eating everything in the fridge and curling up on the sofa during sombre afternoons, watching the History Channel with his legs dangling from the armrest, raising his head in that sloppy boyish way charactertistic of teenagers when he asks Eames what's for dinner.
He is stubborn and moody and leaves his clothes coiled, snake-like, on the bathroom floor for Eames to pick up in the morning. He stomps around the hall at night and leaves doors and cabinets open and blasts pop tunes on the stereo. This is the Arthur Eames never knew, the one who cut his own hair with a pair of craft scissors because it was all the rage during ninth grade, the one who laughs at racist jokes and wrinkles his nose when he's in deep thought, the one who isn't afraid to tell the truth.
*
It's September and the leaves are turning. Eames buys Arthur new clothes because Arthur hates how stiff the dress shirts make him feel. Eames had asked him, once, and on a whim, to try them on. Just this once, he said, and Arthur complied begrudgingly after making Eames promise to take him out for pizza.
Arthur swiveled out of the walk-in closet that afternoon with his arms raised to the sides, waiting for Eames to fasten his cufflinks, outfitted in his best Zanetti. Eames smoothed down his hair and buttoned him up, ran his palms along the wrinkles that creased Arthur's shoulders. A flicker in his eye and a sly tilt of his head - with the correct posture, it's almost foolproof.
But it still isn't good enough.
*
With still no word from either Cobb or Yusuf, Eames is starting to feel abandoned. He can't take jobs when he has Arthur to look after and the lack of mobility is making him restless.
Arthur doesn't try running away anymore. His attempts to get rid of Eames has slowed down to a trickle and every day he becomes more withdrawn. Maybe it's the pervading sense of doom in the air that is weighing them down both. Arthur understands the gravity of the situation but only to a certain extent. It's harder on Eames who has seen him at his best, armed to the teeth with guns and explosives, a loaded die in his front pocket - a holdover from his first foray into gambling that weekend in Morocco four years ago.
"Were we ever friends?" Arthur asks one night when Eames staggers punch-drunk into the door, washing his face in the kitchen in sink. His elbow hurts from where he'd knocked it into the wall.
"I mean," Arthur says, "Why are you here instead of Cobb or that other guy? It doesn't make any sense. Do they hate you or something, is that why you're stuck with babysitting duties?" He smirks, and Eames wants to punch him for his cheek but he's got more restraint than that. It's been a buildup of little things lately. Arthur is getting far too close for comfort, hovering all the time, wearing shirts that promise smooth stripes of skin, watching him back as Eames watches him.
"You don't know anything." Eames tells him. He puts his head under the tap and feels the cool slide of water down the sides of his neck. A chair scrapes behind him. He doesn't turn around to look.
"No one ever tells me a thing." Arthur says. "You people treat me like I'm some kind of idiot! You think I don't know. You - none of you possibly know what it feels like to wake up in a body that isn't - that's -" He makes a frustrated noise and a chair clatters to the floor. This time, Eames does turn around to look. The room is empty and he pushes the chair back against the table. He follows the sound of angry footsteps into the hall and stops just in time for Arthur's door to slam in front of his face.
Eames doesn't knock. He goes to the living room and sinks against the sofa, staring at the ceiling for five long minutes before turning on the TV. The news is on. Eames thinks maybe he needs to get a hold of something other than Yusuf's answering machine. But what he really needs right now is a good sleep, the kind of sleep that, after some years, he doesn't have to wake up from.
*
"I know what you are to me." Arthur says.
Eames throws an arm over his face. It's too early or else too late for this, he thinks, and rolls over to his stomach. His back hurts. The guest room needs a new mattress.
Arthur climbs up the side of the bed, making the mattress dip and Eames roll toward him. His breath is warm on Eames' cheek, making the rest of his body tighten.
"We used to fuck, didn't we? It makes sense. I mean, I see how you look at me. Don't think I haven't noticed."
"How do I look at you?" Eames says, leaning up on his elbows. A quick glance at the bedside clock tells him it's only 6:15 in the morning.
"Like you want to fuck me." Arthur looks down at his lap and picks at the weave of his pants. "Well? Did I get it right?" He's grinning smugly.
"That's an outrageous assumption to make, don't you think?"
"How is it outrageous?" Arthur frowns, crowding Eames againt his side of the bed. He smells like sleep and sweat, Fruit Loops and milk. Eames wants to cup the back of his head and pull him down under the covers, lick the skin of his belly.
Instead, he sits up and picks his cigarette pack from the bedside table. "Listen to yourself. Do you know how ridiculous you sound?"
"I found a picture."
Eames freezes, cigarette dangling between his lips. He stares at Arthur whose eyes are defiant in a way that's easy to recognize. Arthur flips through a moleskin before tapping his finger on a page and turning it over.
"This is you, isn't it?" He leans back and waits for Eames' reaction.
Eames stares at the picture wordlessly before tossing it aside, scoffing. "It's from a long time ago, you idiot. That picture proves nothing. I didn't even know that picture was being taken at the time." He lights his cigarette, sighing in relief when the familiar warmth sinks into his bones.
"Maybe," Arthur says. "But why do I have it? What's it doing in my planner?"
Eames shrugs. "I didn't know you that well, Arthur. You could've been lusting after me for all I know."
Arthur snorts.
"Is it so hard to believe?" Eames asks, tamping his cigarette against the crowded ashtray on the table. He turns, bed creaking, sheets tangled around his waist.
"I don't know what you're trying to prove here - "
"- I'm not trying to prove anything."
"Then get out of my bed then, I want to sleep."
"Is that what you really want?" Arthur asks him. He doesn't stutter, doesn't blink, and when he crawls over to Eames and climbs his lap, Eames just sighs and closes his eyes.
Arthur kisses him, not with the same ferocity, but with an undercurrent of shyness, like he's testing his limits, moving his hips against Eames' until Eames thrusts back, feebly at first, and then faster, twining his fingers in Arthur's hair and curving his hand against the small of his back.
When they part, Arthur's mouth is swollen, wet, and his eyes are half-lidded. He's grinning, panting and rolling his hips sweetly, watching Eames' face break as the heat builds and builds in his belly.
When Eames comes, he grabs a fistful of Arthur's hair and kisses him deeply. Arthur kisses back, once, twice, moaning against his mouth and clutching his shoulders, thighs trembling until he quiets down, shuddering, dropping his head on Eames' chest.
Arthur falls asleep. Eames telephones Cobb in the kitchen and then steps into the shower to thaw out.
*
"Dinner's here," Eames says from the doorway. He doesn't wait for Arthur to respond and starts unwrapping the food on his own, unloading spicy rice onto plates and scooping spoonfuls of curry into his mouth. Arthur pads into the kitchen a few minutes later, scratching his chin and wearing an old college shirt.
He eats at the table, leaning against one elbow while Eames sips his tea at the counter, pretending not to watch him.
Eames heads in shortly after, slipping out of his clothes and sliding under the covers, bloated but unsatisfied, mouth still tasting faintly of coffee and dinner. He's half alseep when the sheets rustle behind him and Arthur climbs into bed and touches his shoulder.
It's a cycle that repeats itself every three or four days. When Arthur sighs and presses his chin to Eames' shoulder, Eames knows exactly what he wants. He hasn't been able to deny this Arthur anything. It's those dark eyes of his, blown, and open, and the way he says please in the dark, tucking his face into Eames' neck and panting wildly.
Arthur is loud when he fucks. Eames licks the salt off Arthur's upper lip as Arthur smiles against his mouth, sliding his hands down the broad width of Eames' back as Eames' rolls on top of him, between his legs. They hardly ever talk when they do this; Eames feels ashamed enough for wanting it as much as Arthur does.
Every wet slide of Eames' tongue down Arthur's thigh makes Arthur buck and moan. He is so easy to please, so easy to read, coming undone with the barest touch of Eames' hand on his cock.
"It's my birthday tomorrow," Arthur says, curling against Eames and running his fingers down Eames' arm. Their breathing slowed to a lull, Eames closes his eyes and doesn't miss the irony in all of this.
He presses a kiss to the back of Arthur's neck. He sighs. "I know," he says.
*
It's Christmas and the ground outside is covered in soft, feathery snow. Eames still doesn't hear from either Cobb or Yusuf and wonders if they stopped trying like he has. He feels a sick thrill crawl up his spine as the days drag, long and breathless, and he and Arthur do nothing but fuck in the apartment.
Sometimes, Eames sees him, in the furrow of a brow or the way he holds a cigarette - although still with an air of juvenility about the whole thing, the tension coiled between his fingers. Arthur grows out his hair, and Eames watches him tuck it behind his ears, blowing it out of his face when he leans down and it gets in the way.
"You should cut it," Eames tells him one day, touching the downy strands and curling it around a finger.
"I like it this way," Arthur says, moving out of his reach. "Don't you?" He tilts his head to the side and Eames hesitates before nodding his head feebly.
"Of course." Eames says.