the sea is a good place to think about the future.
The Ocean at Night is Darker Than the Highway
Robert/Eames, PG-13 for the prompt: " They get trapped on a desert island together. Or an elevator. Or just any confined space somewhere where they are (temporarily) trapped and have to spend time together." CRACK.
for bronson.
3547 words
--
When it becomes apparent that they're going to be stranded for a substantial amount of time on an island off the coast of Bora Bora, Robert sighs, flings his cellphone over his shoulder and picks up a fallen tree branch from the ground to use as a walking stick. He doesn't really need a walking stick but he feels like he ought to use something heavy, pointy, and vaguely imposing to fight off whatever creatures might be lurking in the jungle.
"Snakes," the man called Eames supplies helpfully, nodding his head.
Robert blows the hair out of his face and rolls his eyes in Eames' direction. He draws a line between them on the beach using the pointed tip of the branch, his loafers squelching with puddles of saltwater.
"This is my side of the island," he says slowly, "And that is your side."
Eames shrugs, his lips quirking. He slides his hands inside his pockets, rocking on his heels. He doesn't have any shirt on - he's tied it around his waist - and Robert thinks his tattoos are terrible, tastless. His nose twitches in irritation.
"I think I fancy a sunbathe," Eames declares, and then, winking at Robert, strolls towards his side of the island to sprawl on his back like a starfish. Robert huffs, shakes his head, toes off his shoes carefully and starts building a fort out of piles of leaves and branches.
*
It, of course, can only end in tragedy. And it does end in tragedy. It is sheer madness to attempt to build something out of nothing when Robert has hardly created anything for himself. His hands are sore and raw barely half an hour later and he whines when he slips and grazes his bare foot on a particularly sharp rock.
"Are you all right, love?" Eames calls from the other side. He has sunglasses on. Sunglasses. When did he-
"I'm fine!" Robert yells back even though his foot starts bleeding. Profusely. Huh. When did that happen? "Mind your own business, please!"
Eames nods, holding up a thumb.
Robert loosens his tie and fastens it around the open wound. He should probably disinfect it but the distance between the tree he is sitting comfortably under and the water is daunting (about 20 feet). The sun is high in the sky, hot, making his head swim.
Robert fells asleep, listening to Eames singing loud and off-key from his side of the island. He thinks he smells chicken roasting, but that could just be the effect of the heat.
When Robert comes to, it’s raining and his makeshift fort is destroyed beyond recognition. It’s not like it was a strong fort to begin with - fashioned from vines and branches he’s picked up from the ground held together by his belt ($425) and a length of rope he found lying around that he hates to think where it’s been.
He runs for shelter but the shade of thick leaves under his head is a poor substitute for a roof. He is soaked through the bone before the hour is over, shivering and sneezing, cursing his lack of foresight to take survival lessons or something in a similar vein. He’s going to die, he thinks to himself, wiping the dirt off his face ruefully and watching the blood on his foot soak through his tie. Believing himself to be fainting from bloodloss, he throws an arm over his eyes and lets out a long, pitiful moan.
“Oh for the love of god!” He hears a voice say. He keeps his eyes clenched shut. Maybe if he stays still long enough, something amazing will happen, like a miracle, or a helicopter laden with thick blankets and a heater appearing out of nowhere. Maybe a nice cup of warm chocolate like his mother used to make for him when she’d been alive. But none of these things happen. Instead, Robert is unceremoniously carried over a shoulder like a tattered sack of barley and brought over to the other side of the island where a rather impressive fort is standing.
There also happens to be a warm, crackling fire. “How did you-” he begins to say but Eames tosses a shirt in his direction, shutting him up when it hits him square in the face and knocks him on his back. Robert sniffs. “Thanks,” he says after a moment, eyeing Eames warily. Never trust a man without his shirt on or a good pair of shoes, you never know when they might attack.
Eames grunts and moves dry leaves around on the ground, stoking the fire where Robert notices a bird roasting for the first time. It still has its eyes on, dark, beady, and Robert swears that they are staring into the very depths of his soul, in challenge, in mockery.
“I was in the military for a while,” Eames explains, grabbing Robert’s ankle without warning and propping it on his knee. Robert opens his mouth to protest but Eames’ touch is suprisingly gentle for a man his size, for a man whose hands and face appear a little frayed around the edges. He leans back on his palms and watches as Eames wipes the blood off his foot with the torn sleeve of his jacket.
“You have the survival instincts of a lemur,” Eames says, clicking his tongue after he’s finished. “I had a brilliant time watching you trying to build that little hut of yours.” He laughs at Robert’s irritated look and clearly he is a man of no breeding. “Eat up Mr. Fischer, you’ll need your strength.”
“For what?” Robert dares to ask. Eames just smiles, crooked teeth, and hands him what Robert assumes is the rest of the bird. He swallows, contemplating throwing the poor excuse for sustenance into the sea, but then his stomach growls and his mouth is wet so he takes a huge gulp of air before tearing his teeth into the hardened meat.
“This tastes terrible.” he says, spitting a mouthful on the ground. He looks up and Eames’ brow is twitching and for a moment Rober fears for his life, imagining the thick arms wrapping around his back, those strong hands curled around his neck.
“I apologize if it isn’t gourmet,” Eames says testily, snatching the bird back. He eats hungrily, messy with his hands and mouth, but still with enough presence of mind to leave Robert with the giblets. The meat hangs off the bones, forlorn and undercooked, and Robert thinks sullenly of his personal chef, Henri LaFontaine, whom he had fired just last week for putting too much salt into his Moroccan lamb tagine.
“You slobbered all over it,” he says as a final attempt to get the last say, but instead of Eames punching him or ending his life in some violent way, he just laughs, throws himself on the pile of leaves on the ground and cups a hand over Robert’s ankle, rubbing the sore, aching skin.
The hand stays there, warm, even after Robert finishes dinner, and rolling over to his side, they assume the head-to-foot alignment.
*
Robert wakes up to the sun stinging his eyes and the smell of something strong and citrusy assaulting his nose. He glares up at Eames automatically, sitting up and groaning when his back pops in protests. Eames shoves a bright, yellow fruit his way, the size and shape of a grown man’s fist.
“It’s indigenous to tropical countries,” Eames assures him. “Eat up.” In the broad light of the morning, his skin shines in patches, tanned and slick with sweat. The bristles of his stubble catch in the light when he sits cross-legged next to Robert.
“So this rescue operation,” he says conversationally, “how long did you say it was going to take?”
Robert takes a tiny bite out of the fruit. It’s better than last night’s dinner, not exactly filling but the juice is sweet and succulent, running down the sides of his lips. He licks his fingers clean, mouth sticky and syrupy, flushing when he turns to Eames and catches him watching him very closely.
“My watch functions as a tracking device. They’ll find me in no time. Usually, it takes less than twenty four hours.” He bites on the pad of his thumb, grinning, smug.
Eames nods his head. “Where’s your watch, then?”
“I.” Robert opens his mouth, closes it.“Shit.” He rummages through his pockets, coming up empty handed.
“You really are useless, aren’t you?” Eames snorts, shaking his head as he climbs to his feet and stretches his arms, the muscles on his back rippling as he moves. He crouches over the fire crackling feebly in the corner, pants riding low on his hips and offering a pale stripe of skin to any prying eyes.
“I resent that,” Robert says, standing too but on wobbly feet, wincing at the pain that sears his foot. “I’m not completely useless.”
“No, you sort of are, actually,” Eames says, “If you weren’t so bloody good-looking I’d have left you to drown. To be quite honest, that’s you’re only redeeming quality. You’re spoiled, you have an awful personality, but you have a lovely arse and I would like to kiss you if you would let me.”
Robert snorts. “Pfft.” When Eames says nothing in return, creasing his forehead, Robert swallows thickly at the lump in his throat. “Oh my god, you’re serious aren’t you? As if I’d let you kiss me anyway. Look at you: those tattoos make you look like you belong in a biker gang-”
“I actually was, at some point in my life, but I wasn’t too keen on the leather-”
“And, and, you have ugly teeth! Your mouth is crooked, your nipples are the size of pennies. And there!”
“My nipples are the size of--” Eames laughs, throwing his head back uproariously, “Pennies? Is that the best you can do?”
“Fuck you.” Robert hisses, tossing a nearby shell washed up on the shore over Eames’ head. Eames ducks, evading it smoothly, and Robert marches back to his side of the island where it is colder, quieter, and there is no food. His chin wobbles a little bit when a cool breeze blows through him, making him shiver in his dress shirt. But he won’t ask for help. Fischers, after all, never ask for help.
*
The night is colder than Robert expects, the wind howling in from the North. Or East. He’s lost all sense of direction, jaws knocking together as he struggles to chase the feeble warmth of his own body heat, digging his nose into his arm. He looks longingly at the warm fire burning brightly in Eames’ side of the island, Eames’ back illuminated by the harsh moon, bare and coated with sweat. He knows he shouldn’t be staring but he’s been doing it the entire afternoon.
Eames rolls onto his back and looks at him, eyebrows raised in the dark. There’s barely ten feet of grass and beach separating them but to Robert the distance is insurmountable.
“Are you cold, Mr. Fischer?” Eames asks, voice taking on a high, mocking lilt. Robert doesn’t answer and instead stares out into the sea where the waves roll and lick at the shore. He sniffs, resting his cheek on his elbow. He’s tired, sore, and all he wants is to go back home to his SoHo apartment and crawl under the bedsheets. Robert sneezes, twice, and rubs miserably at the tip of his nose, wrapping his arms around his knees and ignoring the knocking of his teeth.
It’s Eames who finally walks over to his side, tugging him by the wrist and practically dragging him across the sand towards the fire. “You shouldn’t act like a child, Fischer. If you want to survive the wilderness we have to work as a team.”
“I don’t want to be in your team.”
“There are no other teams left. You’ll have to make do with me.” Eames pushes Robert’s hair from his face, sticky with sweat and gritty with sand. “There’s no one else here, just me,” he says softly, and smiles, ineffectual, before pushing Robert down onto the leaves.
“Don’t worry,” Eames rolls his eyes. “I won’t touch you in your sleep or do anything to compromise your integrity.” He chuckles at the panicked look in Robert’s face. “I’ll keep you warm, Fischer. I harbor no ill intentions.”
“I’ll sue your pants off,” Robert warns him when Eames scoots behind him to align their bodies, Robert’s back pressed to Eames’ chest.
“Yes, well,” Eames says, snorting out a laugh. “In what court?”
But Eames is right: he keeps Robert warm, his arm a heavy, solid weight across Robert’s waist. Robert makes a noise of protest - not a squeak, he promises - when Eames pushes his nose up his neck, the rasp of his stubble tickling his skin.
“Sleep now, pet,” Eames says, and something inside Robert loosens at the gentle command. He falls asleep, enveloped in Eames’ body heat, dreaming of sun-soaked beaches and clear blue skies.
*
He wakes hours later, uncomfortably and itchy, with his nose buried in Eames’ chest, staring blearily at a bronzed plane of skin embellished with tattoos. He pulls back violently, aghast, but Eames, still asleep, grabs him quickly and tightens his arms around his waist.
Heart pounding rapidly in his ribcage, Robert stays very still. Eames is warm, almost too warm, and Robert starts to feel the familiar stirrings of arousal. It doesn’t help that Eames grunts against his forehead, mouth wet, open, his knee wedged between Robert’s thighs.
Robert moans, clenching his eyes shut, and it is through sheer force of will that he manages not to come, even when he scoots closer to Eames and pumps his hips a little, rubbing himself against Eames’ knee.
Later that day when Eames is collecting dried branches and foraging for fruit, Robert rubs one out between the trees, pants coiled around his ankles.
“You look flushed,” Eames says when Robert finishes and wanders back to their makeshift fort. He puts a hand over Robert’s forehead, furrowing his brows in concern. “Are you hungry?”
Robert shakes his head, laughing nervously and clearing his throat. He pulls his zipper up, pressing his lips together, looking away.
“A little hot, that’s all,” he says, and when Eames smiles, flicking him in the ear, Robert chews on his lip and wonders if it’s too soon to masturbate again.
*
There is no cuddling the next night. Or the night after that. With Robert’s foot starting to heal, he has no excuse to sidle up to Eames and demand things of him, his warmth, his food, but mostly just his warmth and the broad expanse of his skin touching Robert’s own.
Robert feels almost weakened by the lack of physical contact lately and tries his best to keep himself as close to Eames as possible. Whenever they gather food or laze around on the beach, lying side by side on the sand under the cool shade of a tree, Robert slides over to Eames and presses their arms together. Eames raises both his eyebrows but doesn’t comment even when Robert sometimes feigns distress or heatstroke and flings himself surreptitiously in Eames’ direction.
Of course, sometimes Eames misses catching him, but on the rare occasions he does, he carries Robert over to their fort - warmer now, more homely - and tends to him with broad, easy touches. Eventually they lose track of days and Robert starts to wonder if they’ll ever get out of here alive. He’ll die first, he knows, because he isn’t made to withstand harsh conditions. He wonders what Eames will do to his body when he dies and how long Eames will survive after he is gone, but then sometimes when he looks at him, at Eames folding his pants over his knees as he invades the water with his makeshift spear, he feels something tight lodge in his throat, something that isn’t fear or lust or nervousness, and suddenly, he can’t bear the thought of Eames dead.
*
It happens the night after the first storm. The strong winds rip apart their fort and they sit huddled against each other against the onslaught of rain. It doesn’t last long, but it’s enough to leave them shaken, clutching at each other desperately, clothes wet and biting their skin. Eames is the one to make the first move, turning his face towards Robert and touching their mouths awkwardly.
It’s early in the morning, the mist in the air making their bones rattle, and Robert trembles deep inside his chest but with a certain nervous desire surging up his spine, making the air clap with electricity around them.
Eames pushes him onto his back and presses hot kisses up his neck, open-mouthed and wet. He slides Robert’s shirt over his shoulder, licking at the flushed, red skin, pulling back to pant harshly against his collarbone. “Just so we’re clear,” he says, voice raspy, “you aren’t going to sue my pants off for this, are you?”
Robert laughs, and even to his own ears it sounds unfamiliar, as if belonging to a complete stranger. He winds his arms around Eames’ neck, rolling his hips up to meet Eames’ own. Eames moans, arms shaking, and digs his teeth into Robert’s shoulder, leaving an angry, red mark.
He finishes Robert off with rough, unmeasured strokes, spitting into his palm and sweeping his tongue around the head of Robert’s cock. Robert comes, twitching, thrusting his hips weakly against Eames’ face and Eames swallows every drop, licking his lips and wincing at the bitter taste rising in his throat.
Robert slides a trembling hand between their bodies, curling his fingers around the Eames’ cock.
“When we get out of here,” Eames whispers, nipping on Robert’s earlobe, tugging the skin lightly with his teeth. “We’re going to do this properly. On a bed. On sheets made of fucking gold.”
Robert snorts. “Gold? Can you afford that?”
“No,” Eames says, “but you can.”
He smiles and it’s infectious and Robert smothers his next words in a long, fierce kiss, pumping Eames until he comes, hard and sticky on Robert’s stomach.
Eames rolls back on top of him, nipping playfully at his throat, and because Robert has notoriously good luck it is the exact same moment he sees the family helicopter touching down on the beach.
Robert’s head of security steps out, holding up a megaphone. “Mr. Fischer!” he says enthusiastically and Eames rolls away from Robert, sitting up. The sudden loss of contact startles Robert and he blinks as a group of people flock towards him, wrapping him in towels, fussing over him with overblown ooohs and aahs.
“That man,” Robert says when he’s seated in the helicopter, gesturing towards Eames. “He’s coming with me.”
*
Robert doesn’t see Eames, not for awhile after they part at Heathrow. After Robert has fully recovered, healed of mosquito-bites and sunburn and general Eames-sickness, life goes on as usual. Business never sleeps after all.
From time to time, Robert catches himself thinking about Eames, his tanned back, his warm hands but he counts them as moments of weakness, when, after a night of too much Pinot Noir, he slides a hand under the covers to stroke himself, trying his best to replicate the touch of Eames’ broad, calloused hand.
*
Two months later, Robert finds his SoHo apartment filled to the brim with roses. He drops his suitcase by the door, unfastening his coat and hanging it on a hook. He misses the hook by a rough margin.
Every corner of the apartment is filled with roses, vivid red and stark against the white interior. The smell makes Robert’s nose twitch and he whirls around when, a second later, someone rings the doorbell.
He answers it.
“Package for Robert Fischer,” a muffled voice says behind a thick bouquet of roses, and when Eames’ clean shaven face looms behind it, Robert’s heart nearly stops.
“You,” he stutters. “What are you-”
“Sheets of gold,” Eames tells him, nodding. He winks and pushes the roses into Robert’s arms, walking past him and making his way to the master bedroom, the only room in the apartment not populated by disruptive blindingly red flora.
“I hate roses,” Robert says just to be difficult, watching as Eames spreads faux-gold sheets on the bed. It clashes horribly with the furniture and Robert rolls his eyes even though his palms are starting to sweat in something worse than nervousness: anticipation.
“Shut up,” Eames says. His eyes are soft when he grabs Robert by necktie, winding the material around his fist to better kiss Robert until he quiets down. Robert moans and quiets down. And when Eames pushes him down the bed, Eames makes good on his promise.
They do it properly. Three and a half times.