Inception - Quiet In My Town (4/6)
Title: Quiet In My Town (4/6)
Author: osaki_nana_707
Word Count: 4,516
Pairings/Character: ArthurxEames, OC
Rating: PG-13 (this part)
Warnings: language, mentions of death, mentions of sex, alcohol use
Summary: When Arthur falls off the grid, Eames finds him taking care of a teenage boy that apparently is his brother.
4.
At one in the morning, Eames stirred from sleep to find Arthur hunched in front of the coffee maker, as if trying to decide whether to brew a pot or not.
"What are you doing?" Eames asked, though he could guess.
Arthur jumped a little. He glanced over his shoulder at Eames, arms folded around him and said, "I… I don't know… I just couldn't sleep…"
"Bad dream?" Eames teased, but the smile left his face when Arthur looked away from him, mumbling. "Arthur?"
"I don't know," Arthur said again, but clearly he did know. "I mean… I haven't used the PASIV in months, so I guess dreaming naturally again was inevitable…"
Eames crawled off of the couch, stretching his aching muscles, and again he was reminded that the couch was not the place he wanted to be sleeping. "What happened in the dream?"
Arthur moved defensively away from Eames as he approached. "Nothing… I… don't remember."
He had a feeling that wasn't true, but he didn't try to force it out of him.
It was weird how he always felt like he was walking on eggshells in Arthur's place nowadays, waiting for enough pieces of the puzzle to fill in the picture but never simply asking for any. He didn't know why, but the idea of bringing up whatever it was that was torturing them would cause all the chaos inside to come spilling out. Eames wasn't sure he could ride those waves.
"He was doing so well," Arthur said then, and it took Eames a moment to realize what he was talking about. "I mean… for months, I couldn't get him to say a word to me, and you're here for a couple of days, and he's actually talking and… smiling at me… I didn't think it was fucking possible, and I thought for a minute that maybe things would be okay… but then I… I fucked it up somehow…"
It was softer and more vulnerable than Eames had ever heard Arthur. For a moment, he wasn't even sure it was Arthur. He shoved his hand into the pocket of his sweatpants and checked his totem just to be sure.
"I don't think it was anything you've done, darling," Eames said gently, cupping Arthur's cheek. Arthur sank into the touch until he realized what he was doing and then pulled away.
"I ah… um… I don't know," Arthur said again, even though it didn't exactly make sense, digging around in the bottom cabinet under the coffee maker until he produced a bottle of whiskey. "I just… it had to have been something I did because he didn't get upset until I said anything." He dropped some ice cubes into a glass and poured the whiskey over the top of them.
"Are you sure drinking is the best way to solve the problem?" Eames asked.
"No, no, I-I just need something to help me get to sleep," Arthur mumbled and then knocked back the drink. "I've come to the conclusion that when I'm upset, the solution is always to get gloriously drunk and forget about it."
Eames snorted, grabbing a glass for himself as well. "Is that what your intention was in Germany? Were you upset that night?"
Arthur laughed, pouring Eames a glass and said, before he could stop himself, "I wasn't drunk that night."
Eames stared for a moment, and Arthur looked as though he had paled considerably. "You weren't drunk that night?"
"I was… uh… well, I wasn't sober, but I wasn't blackout drunk, no," Arthur replied, suddenly finding the sink very interesting.
"Really," Eames said over his glass, "because you certainly said that you were the next morning."
"I… I know… I'm sorry, but-"
"You lied."
"…I did…" Arthur said shamefully.
"Well, then," Eames said after swallowing a mouthful of whiskey, "that's a bit of a relief."
"A relief?" Arthur asked, clearly confused.
"Yeah, I mean, I was beginning to think that nobody would fuck me unless they were blackout drunk. That kind of idea is a real blow to the self-esteem. I feel much better now."
"Are you being sarcastic or are you actually not phased?" Arthur asked.
Eames shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted. "I probably should be angry, but I'm really not. Drunk or sober, you told me that you didn't want to do it again the next morning and said it shouldn't have happened before… so, I guess it doesn't matter if you had alcohol as an excuse or not. Check me off on a list of many regrets, I suppose."
That hurt to say more than Eames had expected it to, squeezing his heart unpleasantly.
Arthur went stony faced, but his eyes were a bit more telling than usual. Eames thought he almost saw guilt. Almost.
"So, ah, Arthur," Eames continued, changing the subject, "what exactly happened to your parents anyways?"
Arthur hopped up onto the counter, taking long swallows at his drink. "There was a fire."
"Owen wasn't injured?"
"He was at the movies apparently," Arthur said. "My mom had the tendency to fall asleep when she was smoking, so ah… she probably set the bed on fire."
"You do that too," Eames said before he could help it.
Arthur stared at the wall, and the regret on his face was palpable as he said, barely above a whisper, "I know."
"So, Owen found the house just burned to the ground?" Eames asked.
"I don't know," Arthur said. "He never told me. All I know is that 911 was called by the neighbor across the street and it was mostly just the bedroom that was on fire, but both of them were charred beyond recognition."
"…Why do you hate them, Arthur?"
Eames was afraid he might be opening a can of worms he shouldn't, but he couldn't take it back after he'd said it.
"I have my reasons," Arthur mumbled and knocked back the rest of his glass. "Pour me another, would you?"
Eames did.
"So, what was up with your brother calling you a faggot anyway?" Eames asked.
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I don't know, Eames. I know him about as well as you do, okay? I told you that I hadn't seen him since he was four."
"Why did you leave when you were sixteen?"
"Could you please stop asking me questions? Jesus, how do you function so well after just waking up?"
"We don't all need eleven cups of coffee to stay alive during the day, darling."
Arthur was silent for a while after that, only speaking up to ask Eames to pour him another glass. After the fourth one, he was starting to slur.
"Do you want to go under on the PASIV?" Eames offered. "Getting the somnacin in your system should keep you from dreaming naturally if they bother you that bad."
Arthur frowned into his glass. "I can handle it." He went to hop off the counter then but stumbled, and Eames had to catch him.
"You're not hurt, are you?" Eames asked when Arthur didn't let go or attempt to move away.
Arthur's fingers gripped into Eames's shirt, but he didn't move other than that.
"Arthur?" Eames asked, and he looked up at him, eyes wide and young and lost and very un-Arthur-like.
Arthur rose to his full height, arms lacing around Eames's shoulders for support, and they were breathing each other's air, and Arthur was so close that Eames could see the caramel flecks in the brown of his eyes.
"I'm not afraid of you," Arthur slurred.
"I never accused you of such a thing," Eames replied, hushed, like the words were forbidden.
"I should be afraid of you," Arthur whispered, matching the soft tone of Eames's voice.
"Why?" Eames asked, and he could feel himself leaning closer, could feel the tips of his lips right there, and…
Owen started shouting.
"No… no, no, no…" Arthur mumbled, pressing his hands over his ears and backing away from Eames. "No, just shut up, shut up! Why do you always do this? Why? Please… just stop…"
Eames didn't know whether to go to Owen or to tend to Arthur who was crouching in the corner and looking about ready to start shouting too. Surely most of Arthur's problem was the alcohol, but still…
He looked like he was about to fall apart.
…but Owen was already falling apart.
"I'll be right back," Eames told Arthur and ran to Owen's room to find he'd actually fallen out of the bed and was tangled in his sheets, screaming and crying. "Hey, hey," he said, going to lift the boy off the floor.
"STOP IT!" Owen shouted, swinging at him, but thankfully Eames could handle his alcohol and managed to dodge it. "STOP-Don't…" Slowly, realization came over him, and with the realization came a look of shame. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" he said, wiping at his tears with his fingers.
There was a crashing from the hallway, and when Eames ran to see what it was, he discovered Arthur had tripped over a cord from a lamp in his drunken stumbling to find out what was happening.
Eames pressed his hand to his forehead with a sigh and one at a time got both brothers by an arm and dragged them into Arthur's room.
They all slept in Arthur's bed, each brother with an arm around him for protection but never touching each other.
When Eames woke up, Owen was gone from his side, but Arthur was still there, head pressed against his chest, mumbling incoherently in his sleep.
Eames ran his fingers through Arthur's hair, a little greasy from lack of washing, and Arthur shifted slightly from the touch and then shot awake, looking frantically for the source before settling on Eames.
"We didn't-" Arthur said.
"No, we didn't," Eames replied with a snort. "You got drunk and started acting weird, and the sprog started screaming, and it was easier to keep watch over both of you by putting you both here. Your bed is unbelievably comfortable by the way."
"I'm sorry…" Arthur said awkwardly. "Where's Owen?"
"I don't know. I just woke up myself."
Arthur crawled out of the bed and Eames followed suit, even though he very much would have preferred to just go back to sleep. He felt exhausted from playing babysitter.
They found Owen in the living room, in the corner, playing with a lighter.
"Doing all right there, sprog?" Eames asked casually.
Owen looked up at him but didn't say anything. He made eye contact with Arthur and the two of them just stared at one another for a few moments.
"I can uh… I can make some pancakes…" Arthur offered awkwardly.
"…okay…" Owen said.
Well, at least they were back on speaking terms, Eames thought.
"…Do you… uh… do you want to help me out?" Arthur asked.
Owen got up off the floor, tossing the lighter onto the coffee table. "Okay…"
Eames watched in wonder as they both set up the kitchen for breakfast, how they both ignored the open bottle of whiskey still sitting on the counter and the lamp still overturned in the hallway and the fact that they hadn't spoken to each other in days and… well, maybe that was how brothers were supposed to be.
"Do you want eggs?" Owen asked, opening the refrigerator.
"Only if they're fried," Arthur replied. "I hate scrambled eggs."
"All I can make is scrambled," Owen said.
"Well, uh-I'll make the eggs. You can fry the bacon."
"Okay."
Did I do something right last night by forcing them to be together? Eames thought but didn't verbalize.
"Eames," Arthur said, turning around to give him the eye. "Are you going to just stand there or are you going to help?"
"Ah, what do you need me to do, darling?"
"Darling?" Owen asked, smirking a little.
"It's a British thing," Arthur supplied again.
"He's never called me 'darling'," Owen said with a shrug.
"That's because you are 'sprog'," Eames replied, ruffling his hair. "I'll make blueberry pancakes. I'm quite good at it actually."
Arthur handed Eames a spatula. "Prove it."
Eames huffed. "I'm no amateur, love."
The three of them prepared breakfast, and Eames showed them how to fantastically flip pancakes just using the frying pan. He was so glad that he'd taught himself how to do it when he saw both boys smile while watching (Owen's wide and open while Arthur's was more subtle). Arthur's eggs were runny and yet somehow still good, and Owen made his bacon perfectly (after burning two pieces by accident-Arthur helped him after that).
As they all sat down to eat, Eames was reminded again of how domestic he'd felt with them days before when things had been good. Apparently things were back to being good, but how long would it be before it went bad again?
"So…" Arthur said as he picked up the dishes and Eames put the leftovers into the fridge. "What are you guys planning on doing today?"
"I don't know," Eames shrugged. "Why?"
"I don't know. I was just thinking maybe we could get the fuck out of this apartment for a few minutes. It's summer. Do you want to go to the beach?"
"I've never been to the beach," Owen said.
"Splendid! Let's go to the beach then," Eames said, grinning.
"I don't have a swimsuit," Owen said.
"I didn't pack one either, so we'll just buy some on the way," Eames said.
"Yeah, but first you can help me wash the dishes," Arthur added as he filled the sink with sudsy water, "and we need to get sunscreen too. I'm not going to deal with a couple of moaning lobsters."
"I'll have you know I tan like a bronze god," Eames said, bumping his hip against Arthur's so he'd move to allow him to help. Arthur just swallowed and acted like he was being ridiculous, though there was definitely a tint of pink on his cheeks.
Eames of course picked out the loudest pair of swim trunks he could find (a magenta and orange pair covered in tropical flowers), but when Arthur opened his mouth to complain he reminded him that he could have worn a speedo and that shut him up immediately (though Eames wasn't sure if it was because he hated or liked the idea). Owen awkwardly picked out a cheap pair of navy blue ones with a white tie at the waist and white stripes on each side. Arthur had a black pair that he looked entirely too good in.
The beach was packed full of people, as expected in the summer, and Owen stared in wonder from the back of the taxi as they got closer. Arthur had packed towels and bottles of sunscreen and even a big umbrella, and Eames had packed a cooler with wine (and sodas for the boy). It took them twenty minutes before they could even find a spot, but Eames declared it to be perfect as soon as they were there.
Arthur shucked off his t-shirt and started smearing his chest and shoulders with sunscreen, and Owen stared at the ocean in awe.
"It's bigger than I ever could have imagined," he said quietly.
"It's almost like you could just sail on forever, huh," Eames said, planting a bottle of sunscreen in his hand.
"It's like you could just sail right off into the sky," Owen replied dreamily. Eames had never seen him so at peace around other people.
Owen chose not to take off his shirt, and all it took was one slightly panicked look to keep Arthur and Eames from pressing why. Eames had shrugged and told him that he'd get black dye all over his skin from the cheap shirt but to go have fun anyway, and the boy did, sheepishly making his way towards the sea, dodging excited children and a group of college kids playing Frisbee until he was ankle deep in water and then waist deep.
Eames kept his eye on the boy as much as possible, choosing to stay out of the water for the moment and instead building a sand castle just because he could.
"I never took you for a sculptor, Eames," Arthur said from his spot on his towel. The muscles in his back were particularly tempting with the fact that he'd already broken into a sweat, making his shoulders glimmer enticingly, and there was something about the fact that he was still wearing his aviator sunglasses that made Eames tingle all over.
"Everything is creation, love," Eames said, using a plastic shovel he had not stolen but secretly borrowed from the toddler a few spots over to swirl the sand in a winding path. "I could do a statue of you if you like."
"Not interested."
"A guy like you not wanting people to worship your beauty? I'm surprised," Eames teased.
"I think you're mistaking me for you, Eames, and whatever 'beauty' you think I have is definitely all in your head."
"You don't think you're attractive?" Eames asked, pressing a shell into the side of one of his towers.
"No, I don't."
"Now… I know you own a mirror. Have you just failed to use it?"
"I don't like looking in the mirror," Arthur replied, rolling onto his back. It was almost like he was mocking Eames by saying something like that and then showing off that delicious chest.
"Why?" Eames asked, baffled. "You're like a fucking model! You could be in GQ magazines today. All they would need to do is see you in one of those tailored pinstriped suits you like so much and-"
"Shut up. Eames."
Apparently it was a touchy subject.
"You don't have some sort of eating disorder, do you?" Eames asked.
"Eames."
Eames abandoned his sand castle (well really it was more of a fortress-fortresses were more exciting anyway), and scooted over toward Arthur. "What is it that you don't like about yourself?" he asked, tracing a bead of sweat on Arthur's brow with a fingertip.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"I'm just curious. You're making me feel ugly over here."
Arthur sighed as if he was dealing with a stubborn child, and even though Eames couldn't see his eyes from behind the shades, he was sure he was rolling them. "I'm just not as narcissistic as you apparently think I am, okay? Everyone's a little disgusted with themselves."
"You certainly package yourself nicely for someone who hates the way they look," Eames said, and he realized that he was stroking Arthur's cheekbone with his thumb and the point man was doing absolutely nothing to stop him, like he didn't notice. He had to have noticed…
Arthur licked his lips, and Eames knew he was staring at him even through the black lenses. "I just…" he said and paused because his mouth seemed to have gone dry, "It's complicated."
Eames broke the eye contact before he did something he'd regret and looked out towards the ocean. After a little searching, he spotted Owen standing in the froth of the sea looking uncomfortable as a sun-bleached blonde and tanned young man around his age talked excitedly at him, waving around the hand that wasn't tucking a surfboard under his arm. Owen glanced back at the two of them then and made eye contact with Eames and started making his way over, the tanned boy trailing behind him. Eames made sure to distance himself from Arthur just a little, even if he did feel saddened when he was no longer touching his skin.
"Mr. Eames," he said, circling around the sand fortress to stand in front of him. "This guy is um… his name's Brandon, and he said he wanted to teach me how to surf, but I need some money so I can rent a surf board. Is that okay?"
"Ah…" Eames started.
"My wallet's in the cooler," Arthur said lazily, waving his hand in the general direction he assumed the cooler was.
"Oh… thanks…" Owen said awkwardly and dug inside until he found the wallet, digging out just enough. "Um… okay then."
"Who are they?" Brandon asked as they started on their way.
"That's my brother and his 'friend' from work," Owen said, using air quotes.
"Oy! Don't you use bloody air quotes when talking about me or I'll start using air quotes when I call you my friend!" Eames shouted after them, shaking his fist, and he saw both boys start to laugh.
"Oh just fucking relax, jeez," Arthur mumbled. "If you're such a tanning god, why don't you just tan for a while?"
Eames pouted a little. "I'm surprised you're not offended that he thinks we're fucking."
"He can think whatever he wants to think. That doesn't make it true," Arthur said, lifting his sunglasses up. "Fuck, I forgot how hot it was out here."
"Go for a refreshing swim?" Eames suggested.
"I'm not a strong swimmer."
"So you're just going to lie there and sweat?"
"Why not?"
"If you die of heat stroke, I'm not saving you."
"You're lying," Arthur snorted.
He was right. Eames didn't have to take that sitting down though. He took Arthur by the wrists and pulled him to his feet, and Arthur was immediately trying to struggle against his grip, heels of his feet digging in the sand as Eames pulled him along while laughing hysterically. Arthur complained and shouted and wriggled but Eames had a stronger grip and before long they were in the water.
"Eames, I don't-" Arthur stammered, and Eames realized that by the time they were neck deep in the water that Arthur was terrified. "I don't know how to swim-"
Well, that explained why he was afraid.
"It's all right, Arthur," Eames chuckled, wiping wet hairs out of his eyes. "I'm here, and I'm not going to let you drown. I've got you, all right?"
"I wouldn't be out here if it weren't for you!" Arthur nagged.
Eames dunked him.
Arthur came back up flailing in horror until he caught onto Eames and hung on for dear life. "You bastard! I hate you, you bastard!" he shouted, voice reaching a whole new octave, and really if he hated Eames so much would he have wrapped his legs around his waist like that?
"Arthur, you can fucking stand here. It's not even that scary," Eames informed him. "You're not going to die as long as I'm here."
…and the air shifted.
That sounded like a much more serious promise than he'd intended it to be. He wasn't sure whether it disturbed him that it was so serious or that he meant every word.
"See?" Eames said after he felt Arthur relax his grip slightly. "It's fine. You're fine… Jesus, Arthur, I would have thought you'd need to know how to swim when you were in the military."
"I can swim if I have to," Arthur grumbled. "I'm not a strong swimmer."
He removed his legs from Eames's waist and floated there with his arms around his neck for a long moment.
…and then Eames dove.
When he came back up, Arthur was sputtering and choking, clinging to Eames even though he was the one who'd taken them both under, and maybe Eames did it because he liked having Arthur wrapped around him like a spider monkey.
"You're a douche," Arthur said when he recovered and spit salt water in his face.
Eames resisted the urge to tell him that he loved him, even though it would have been the perfect moment.
They ended up staying at the beach all day, though Arthur avoided the water like the plague as soon as Eames pulled them out (and he took his sweet time with that because it was just hilarious). Owen actually picked up on surfing rather quickly and Eames didn't see him alone for most of the day. He seemed to have gotten in with a group of tanned beach bums and appeared to actually be having a good time. It was nice to see.
Somehow Eames convinced Arthur to help him build another sand fortress, and it turned out Arthur could be quite dramatic with his sand architecture. They didn't get to finish it though because the little girl came and got her shovel back (and Arthur scolded him for taking it in the first place).
By the time the sun had gone down, the two of them were lounging on their own towels, passing the bottle of wine back and forth since they hadn't bothered to bring glasses. Owen's friends had gone home (in fact, they were mostly alone, with only a few scattered couples still lingering further down the beach), so he stood in the sea foam, watching the surf like he could stare at it forever and never get bored.
"I'm glad that we did this," Eames said, handing the bottle to Arthur.
"I'm glad you didn't drown me," Arthur replied, taking a long chug off of the bottle before handing it back. "My hair will be white by tomorrow because of you."
"I'd never let you drown."
"…I know…" Arthur said, and he was cracking a drunken smile. He seemed to have gotten over it for the moment, though Eames knew he'd probably bring it up again in the future.
"Are you drunk yet?" Eames asked.
"I'm relaxed," Arthur said slowly, and when he lifted his arms to express such thoughts with movement, he tipped to the side and fell, head falling to Eames's shoulder.
"So, yes then," Eames said, snaking an arm around him and rubbing his shoulder.
"How're we gonna get home?" Arthur lamented, waving the bottle around uselessly. "I can't drive, 'n you can't drive, 'n I don't think Owen has his license. We're gonna have to leave the car, Eames!"
"Darling, we took a taxi here."
"Oh. Well, then, okay then."
Owen looked over his shoulder at them and raised his eyebrows, and Eames took another long swallow out of the bottle as if to convey his point that Arthur was drunk. Owen seemed to understand and shouted to him, "Hey, Eames!"
"What is it, sprog?" Eames called back.
"If we got a boat and sailed off, do you really think we'd make it to the stars?" he asked, pointing at where the water met the sky. "I know it seems impossible but-"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Eames laughed. "Anything is possible!"
…and Eames couldn't help but believe himself. He couldn't help but think that they could leave the earth behind them and sail off into space, away from all of the sadness and fear held deep inside the brothers.
…but there was no sailing into the sky that night.
Eames ended up cradling Owen in his arms most of the night when Owen was awakened by horrible nightmares again, and Eames swore he heard Owen whimper, "Please… don't touch me."
"No one's going to hurt you," Eames whispered uselessly.
It was all he could think of to say.
Author: osaki_nana_707
Word Count: 4,516
Pairings/Character: ArthurxEames, OC
Rating: PG-13 (this part)
Warnings: language, mentions of death, mentions of sex, alcohol use
Summary: When Arthur falls off the grid, Eames finds him taking care of a teenage boy that apparently is his brother.
4.
At one in the morning, Eames stirred from sleep to find Arthur hunched in front of the coffee maker, as if trying to decide whether to brew a pot or not.
"What are you doing?" Eames asked, though he could guess.
Arthur jumped a little. He glanced over his shoulder at Eames, arms folded around him and said, "I… I don't know… I just couldn't sleep…"
"Bad dream?" Eames teased, but the smile left his face when Arthur looked away from him, mumbling. "Arthur?"
"I don't know," Arthur said again, but clearly he did know. "I mean… I haven't used the PASIV in months, so I guess dreaming naturally again was inevitable…"
Eames crawled off of the couch, stretching his aching muscles, and again he was reminded that the couch was not the place he wanted to be sleeping. "What happened in the dream?"
Arthur moved defensively away from Eames as he approached. "Nothing… I… don't remember."
He had a feeling that wasn't true, but he didn't try to force it out of him.
It was weird how he always felt like he was walking on eggshells in Arthur's place nowadays, waiting for enough pieces of the puzzle to fill in the picture but never simply asking for any. He didn't know why, but the idea of bringing up whatever it was that was torturing them would cause all the chaos inside to come spilling out. Eames wasn't sure he could ride those waves.
"He was doing so well," Arthur said then, and it took Eames a moment to realize what he was talking about. "I mean… for months, I couldn't get him to say a word to me, and you're here for a couple of days, and he's actually talking and… smiling at me… I didn't think it was fucking possible, and I thought for a minute that maybe things would be okay… but then I… I fucked it up somehow…"
It was softer and more vulnerable than Eames had ever heard Arthur. For a moment, he wasn't even sure it was Arthur. He shoved his hand into the pocket of his sweatpants and checked his totem just to be sure.
"I don't think it was anything you've done, darling," Eames said gently, cupping Arthur's cheek. Arthur sank into the touch until he realized what he was doing and then pulled away.
"I ah… um… I don't know," Arthur said again, even though it didn't exactly make sense, digging around in the bottom cabinet under the coffee maker until he produced a bottle of whiskey. "I just… it had to have been something I did because he didn't get upset until I said anything." He dropped some ice cubes into a glass and poured the whiskey over the top of them.
"Are you sure drinking is the best way to solve the problem?" Eames asked.
"No, no, I-I just need something to help me get to sleep," Arthur mumbled and then knocked back the drink. "I've come to the conclusion that when I'm upset, the solution is always to get gloriously drunk and forget about it."
Eames snorted, grabbing a glass for himself as well. "Is that what your intention was in Germany? Were you upset that night?"
Arthur laughed, pouring Eames a glass and said, before he could stop himself, "I wasn't drunk that night."
Eames stared for a moment, and Arthur looked as though he had paled considerably. "You weren't drunk that night?"
"I was… uh… well, I wasn't sober, but I wasn't blackout drunk, no," Arthur replied, suddenly finding the sink very interesting.
"Really," Eames said over his glass, "because you certainly said that you were the next morning."
"I… I know… I'm sorry, but-"
"You lied."
"…I did…" Arthur said shamefully.
"Well, then," Eames said after swallowing a mouthful of whiskey, "that's a bit of a relief."
"A relief?" Arthur asked, clearly confused.
"Yeah, I mean, I was beginning to think that nobody would fuck me unless they were blackout drunk. That kind of idea is a real blow to the self-esteem. I feel much better now."
"Are you being sarcastic or are you actually not phased?" Arthur asked.
Eames shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted. "I probably should be angry, but I'm really not. Drunk or sober, you told me that you didn't want to do it again the next morning and said it shouldn't have happened before… so, I guess it doesn't matter if you had alcohol as an excuse or not. Check me off on a list of many regrets, I suppose."
That hurt to say more than Eames had expected it to, squeezing his heart unpleasantly.
Arthur went stony faced, but his eyes were a bit more telling than usual. Eames thought he almost saw guilt. Almost.
"So, ah, Arthur," Eames continued, changing the subject, "what exactly happened to your parents anyways?"
Arthur hopped up onto the counter, taking long swallows at his drink. "There was a fire."
"Owen wasn't injured?"
"He was at the movies apparently," Arthur said. "My mom had the tendency to fall asleep when she was smoking, so ah… she probably set the bed on fire."
"You do that too," Eames said before he could help it.
Arthur stared at the wall, and the regret on his face was palpable as he said, barely above a whisper, "I know."
"So, Owen found the house just burned to the ground?" Eames asked.
"I don't know," Arthur said. "He never told me. All I know is that 911 was called by the neighbor across the street and it was mostly just the bedroom that was on fire, but both of them were charred beyond recognition."
"…Why do you hate them, Arthur?"
Eames was afraid he might be opening a can of worms he shouldn't, but he couldn't take it back after he'd said it.
"I have my reasons," Arthur mumbled and knocked back the rest of his glass. "Pour me another, would you?"
Eames did.
"So, what was up with your brother calling you a faggot anyway?" Eames asked.
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I don't know, Eames. I know him about as well as you do, okay? I told you that I hadn't seen him since he was four."
"Why did you leave when you were sixteen?"
"Could you please stop asking me questions? Jesus, how do you function so well after just waking up?"
"We don't all need eleven cups of coffee to stay alive during the day, darling."
Arthur was silent for a while after that, only speaking up to ask Eames to pour him another glass. After the fourth one, he was starting to slur.
"Do you want to go under on the PASIV?" Eames offered. "Getting the somnacin in your system should keep you from dreaming naturally if they bother you that bad."
Arthur frowned into his glass. "I can handle it." He went to hop off the counter then but stumbled, and Eames had to catch him.
"You're not hurt, are you?" Eames asked when Arthur didn't let go or attempt to move away.
Arthur's fingers gripped into Eames's shirt, but he didn't move other than that.
"Arthur?" Eames asked, and he looked up at him, eyes wide and young and lost and very un-Arthur-like.
Arthur rose to his full height, arms lacing around Eames's shoulders for support, and they were breathing each other's air, and Arthur was so close that Eames could see the caramel flecks in the brown of his eyes.
"I'm not afraid of you," Arthur slurred.
"I never accused you of such a thing," Eames replied, hushed, like the words were forbidden.
"I should be afraid of you," Arthur whispered, matching the soft tone of Eames's voice.
"Why?" Eames asked, and he could feel himself leaning closer, could feel the tips of his lips right there, and…
Owen started shouting.
"No… no, no, no…" Arthur mumbled, pressing his hands over his ears and backing away from Eames. "No, just shut up, shut up! Why do you always do this? Why? Please… just stop…"
Eames didn't know whether to go to Owen or to tend to Arthur who was crouching in the corner and looking about ready to start shouting too. Surely most of Arthur's problem was the alcohol, but still…
He looked like he was about to fall apart.
…but Owen was already falling apart.
"I'll be right back," Eames told Arthur and ran to Owen's room to find he'd actually fallen out of the bed and was tangled in his sheets, screaming and crying. "Hey, hey," he said, going to lift the boy off the floor.
"STOP IT!" Owen shouted, swinging at him, but thankfully Eames could handle his alcohol and managed to dodge it. "STOP-Don't…" Slowly, realization came over him, and with the realization came a look of shame. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" he said, wiping at his tears with his fingers.
There was a crashing from the hallway, and when Eames ran to see what it was, he discovered Arthur had tripped over a cord from a lamp in his drunken stumbling to find out what was happening.
Eames pressed his hand to his forehead with a sigh and one at a time got both brothers by an arm and dragged them into Arthur's room.
They all slept in Arthur's bed, each brother with an arm around him for protection but never touching each other.
When Eames woke up, Owen was gone from his side, but Arthur was still there, head pressed against his chest, mumbling incoherently in his sleep.
Eames ran his fingers through Arthur's hair, a little greasy from lack of washing, and Arthur shifted slightly from the touch and then shot awake, looking frantically for the source before settling on Eames.
"We didn't-" Arthur said.
"No, we didn't," Eames replied with a snort. "You got drunk and started acting weird, and the sprog started screaming, and it was easier to keep watch over both of you by putting you both here. Your bed is unbelievably comfortable by the way."
"I'm sorry…" Arthur said awkwardly. "Where's Owen?"
"I don't know. I just woke up myself."
Arthur crawled out of the bed and Eames followed suit, even though he very much would have preferred to just go back to sleep. He felt exhausted from playing babysitter.
They found Owen in the living room, in the corner, playing with a lighter.
"Doing all right there, sprog?" Eames asked casually.
Owen looked up at him but didn't say anything. He made eye contact with Arthur and the two of them just stared at one another for a few moments.
"I can uh… I can make some pancakes…" Arthur offered awkwardly.
"…okay…" Owen said.
Well, at least they were back on speaking terms, Eames thought.
"…Do you… uh… do you want to help me out?" Arthur asked.
Owen got up off the floor, tossing the lighter onto the coffee table. "Okay…"
Eames watched in wonder as they both set up the kitchen for breakfast, how they both ignored the open bottle of whiskey still sitting on the counter and the lamp still overturned in the hallway and the fact that they hadn't spoken to each other in days and… well, maybe that was how brothers were supposed to be.
"Do you want eggs?" Owen asked, opening the refrigerator.
"Only if they're fried," Arthur replied. "I hate scrambled eggs."
"All I can make is scrambled," Owen said.
"Well, uh-I'll make the eggs. You can fry the bacon."
"Okay."
Did I do something right last night by forcing them to be together? Eames thought but didn't verbalize.
"Eames," Arthur said, turning around to give him the eye. "Are you going to just stand there or are you going to help?"
"Ah, what do you need me to do, darling?"
"Darling?" Owen asked, smirking a little.
"It's a British thing," Arthur supplied again.
"He's never called me 'darling'," Owen said with a shrug.
"That's because you are 'sprog'," Eames replied, ruffling his hair. "I'll make blueberry pancakes. I'm quite good at it actually."
Arthur handed Eames a spatula. "Prove it."
Eames huffed. "I'm no amateur, love."
The three of them prepared breakfast, and Eames showed them how to fantastically flip pancakes just using the frying pan. He was so glad that he'd taught himself how to do it when he saw both boys smile while watching (Owen's wide and open while Arthur's was more subtle). Arthur's eggs were runny and yet somehow still good, and Owen made his bacon perfectly (after burning two pieces by accident-Arthur helped him after that).
As they all sat down to eat, Eames was reminded again of how domestic he'd felt with them days before when things had been good. Apparently things were back to being good, but how long would it be before it went bad again?
"So…" Arthur said as he picked up the dishes and Eames put the leftovers into the fridge. "What are you guys planning on doing today?"
"I don't know," Eames shrugged. "Why?"
"I don't know. I was just thinking maybe we could get the fuck out of this apartment for a few minutes. It's summer. Do you want to go to the beach?"
"I've never been to the beach," Owen said.
"Splendid! Let's go to the beach then," Eames said, grinning.
"I don't have a swimsuit," Owen said.
"I didn't pack one either, so we'll just buy some on the way," Eames said.
"Yeah, but first you can help me wash the dishes," Arthur added as he filled the sink with sudsy water, "and we need to get sunscreen too. I'm not going to deal with a couple of moaning lobsters."
"I'll have you know I tan like a bronze god," Eames said, bumping his hip against Arthur's so he'd move to allow him to help. Arthur just swallowed and acted like he was being ridiculous, though there was definitely a tint of pink on his cheeks.
Eames of course picked out the loudest pair of swim trunks he could find (a magenta and orange pair covered in tropical flowers), but when Arthur opened his mouth to complain he reminded him that he could have worn a speedo and that shut him up immediately (though Eames wasn't sure if it was because he hated or liked the idea). Owen awkwardly picked out a cheap pair of navy blue ones with a white tie at the waist and white stripes on each side. Arthur had a black pair that he looked entirely too good in.
The beach was packed full of people, as expected in the summer, and Owen stared in wonder from the back of the taxi as they got closer. Arthur had packed towels and bottles of sunscreen and even a big umbrella, and Eames had packed a cooler with wine (and sodas for the boy). It took them twenty minutes before they could even find a spot, but Eames declared it to be perfect as soon as they were there.
Arthur shucked off his t-shirt and started smearing his chest and shoulders with sunscreen, and Owen stared at the ocean in awe.
"It's bigger than I ever could have imagined," he said quietly.
"It's almost like you could just sail on forever, huh," Eames said, planting a bottle of sunscreen in his hand.
"It's like you could just sail right off into the sky," Owen replied dreamily. Eames had never seen him so at peace around other people.
Owen chose not to take off his shirt, and all it took was one slightly panicked look to keep Arthur and Eames from pressing why. Eames had shrugged and told him that he'd get black dye all over his skin from the cheap shirt but to go have fun anyway, and the boy did, sheepishly making his way towards the sea, dodging excited children and a group of college kids playing Frisbee until he was ankle deep in water and then waist deep.
Eames kept his eye on the boy as much as possible, choosing to stay out of the water for the moment and instead building a sand castle just because he could.
"I never took you for a sculptor, Eames," Arthur said from his spot on his towel. The muscles in his back were particularly tempting with the fact that he'd already broken into a sweat, making his shoulders glimmer enticingly, and there was something about the fact that he was still wearing his aviator sunglasses that made Eames tingle all over.
"Everything is creation, love," Eames said, using a plastic shovel he had not stolen but secretly borrowed from the toddler a few spots over to swirl the sand in a winding path. "I could do a statue of you if you like."
"Not interested."
"A guy like you not wanting people to worship your beauty? I'm surprised," Eames teased.
"I think you're mistaking me for you, Eames, and whatever 'beauty' you think I have is definitely all in your head."
"You don't think you're attractive?" Eames asked, pressing a shell into the side of one of his towers.
"No, I don't."
"Now… I know you own a mirror. Have you just failed to use it?"
"I don't like looking in the mirror," Arthur replied, rolling onto his back. It was almost like he was mocking Eames by saying something like that and then showing off that delicious chest.
"Why?" Eames asked, baffled. "You're like a fucking model! You could be in GQ magazines today. All they would need to do is see you in one of those tailored pinstriped suits you like so much and-"
"Shut up. Eames."
Apparently it was a touchy subject.
"You don't have some sort of eating disorder, do you?" Eames asked.
"Eames."
Eames abandoned his sand castle (well really it was more of a fortress-fortresses were more exciting anyway), and scooted over toward Arthur. "What is it that you don't like about yourself?" he asked, tracing a bead of sweat on Arthur's brow with a fingertip.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"I'm just curious. You're making me feel ugly over here."
Arthur sighed as if he was dealing with a stubborn child, and even though Eames couldn't see his eyes from behind the shades, he was sure he was rolling them. "I'm just not as narcissistic as you apparently think I am, okay? Everyone's a little disgusted with themselves."
"You certainly package yourself nicely for someone who hates the way they look," Eames said, and he realized that he was stroking Arthur's cheekbone with his thumb and the point man was doing absolutely nothing to stop him, like he didn't notice. He had to have noticed…
Arthur licked his lips, and Eames knew he was staring at him even through the black lenses. "I just…" he said and paused because his mouth seemed to have gone dry, "It's complicated."
Eames broke the eye contact before he did something he'd regret and looked out towards the ocean. After a little searching, he spotted Owen standing in the froth of the sea looking uncomfortable as a sun-bleached blonde and tanned young man around his age talked excitedly at him, waving around the hand that wasn't tucking a surfboard under his arm. Owen glanced back at the two of them then and made eye contact with Eames and started making his way over, the tanned boy trailing behind him. Eames made sure to distance himself from Arthur just a little, even if he did feel saddened when he was no longer touching his skin.
"Mr. Eames," he said, circling around the sand fortress to stand in front of him. "This guy is um… his name's Brandon, and he said he wanted to teach me how to surf, but I need some money so I can rent a surf board. Is that okay?"
"Ah…" Eames started.
"My wallet's in the cooler," Arthur said lazily, waving his hand in the general direction he assumed the cooler was.
"Oh… thanks…" Owen said awkwardly and dug inside until he found the wallet, digging out just enough. "Um… okay then."
"Who are they?" Brandon asked as they started on their way.
"That's my brother and his 'friend' from work," Owen said, using air quotes.
"Oy! Don't you use bloody air quotes when talking about me or I'll start using air quotes when I call you my friend!" Eames shouted after them, shaking his fist, and he saw both boys start to laugh.
"Oh just fucking relax, jeez," Arthur mumbled. "If you're such a tanning god, why don't you just tan for a while?"
Eames pouted a little. "I'm surprised you're not offended that he thinks we're fucking."
"He can think whatever he wants to think. That doesn't make it true," Arthur said, lifting his sunglasses up. "Fuck, I forgot how hot it was out here."
"Go for a refreshing swim?" Eames suggested.
"I'm not a strong swimmer."
"So you're just going to lie there and sweat?"
"Why not?"
"If you die of heat stroke, I'm not saving you."
"You're lying," Arthur snorted.
He was right. Eames didn't have to take that sitting down though. He took Arthur by the wrists and pulled him to his feet, and Arthur was immediately trying to struggle against his grip, heels of his feet digging in the sand as Eames pulled him along while laughing hysterically. Arthur complained and shouted and wriggled but Eames had a stronger grip and before long they were in the water.
"Eames, I don't-" Arthur stammered, and Eames realized that by the time they were neck deep in the water that Arthur was terrified. "I don't know how to swim-"
Well, that explained why he was afraid.
"It's all right, Arthur," Eames chuckled, wiping wet hairs out of his eyes. "I'm here, and I'm not going to let you drown. I've got you, all right?"
"I wouldn't be out here if it weren't for you!" Arthur nagged.
Eames dunked him.
Arthur came back up flailing in horror until he caught onto Eames and hung on for dear life. "You bastard! I hate you, you bastard!" he shouted, voice reaching a whole new octave, and really if he hated Eames so much would he have wrapped his legs around his waist like that?
"Arthur, you can fucking stand here. It's not even that scary," Eames informed him. "You're not going to die as long as I'm here."
…and the air shifted.
That sounded like a much more serious promise than he'd intended it to be. He wasn't sure whether it disturbed him that it was so serious or that he meant every word.
"See?" Eames said after he felt Arthur relax his grip slightly. "It's fine. You're fine… Jesus, Arthur, I would have thought you'd need to know how to swim when you were in the military."
"I can swim if I have to," Arthur grumbled. "I'm not a strong swimmer."
He removed his legs from Eames's waist and floated there with his arms around his neck for a long moment.
…and then Eames dove.
When he came back up, Arthur was sputtering and choking, clinging to Eames even though he was the one who'd taken them both under, and maybe Eames did it because he liked having Arthur wrapped around him like a spider monkey.
"You're a douche," Arthur said when he recovered and spit salt water in his face.
Eames resisted the urge to tell him that he loved him, even though it would have been the perfect moment.
They ended up staying at the beach all day, though Arthur avoided the water like the plague as soon as Eames pulled them out (and he took his sweet time with that because it was just hilarious). Owen actually picked up on surfing rather quickly and Eames didn't see him alone for most of the day. He seemed to have gotten in with a group of tanned beach bums and appeared to actually be having a good time. It was nice to see.
Somehow Eames convinced Arthur to help him build another sand fortress, and it turned out Arthur could be quite dramatic with his sand architecture. They didn't get to finish it though because the little girl came and got her shovel back (and Arthur scolded him for taking it in the first place).
By the time the sun had gone down, the two of them were lounging on their own towels, passing the bottle of wine back and forth since they hadn't bothered to bring glasses. Owen's friends had gone home (in fact, they were mostly alone, with only a few scattered couples still lingering further down the beach), so he stood in the sea foam, watching the surf like he could stare at it forever and never get bored.
"I'm glad that we did this," Eames said, handing the bottle to Arthur.
"I'm glad you didn't drown me," Arthur replied, taking a long chug off of the bottle before handing it back. "My hair will be white by tomorrow because of you."
"I'd never let you drown."
"…I know…" Arthur said, and he was cracking a drunken smile. He seemed to have gotten over it for the moment, though Eames knew he'd probably bring it up again in the future.
"Are you drunk yet?" Eames asked.
"I'm relaxed," Arthur said slowly, and when he lifted his arms to express such thoughts with movement, he tipped to the side and fell, head falling to Eames's shoulder.
"So, yes then," Eames said, snaking an arm around him and rubbing his shoulder.
"How're we gonna get home?" Arthur lamented, waving the bottle around uselessly. "I can't drive, 'n you can't drive, 'n I don't think Owen has his license. We're gonna have to leave the car, Eames!"
"Darling, we took a taxi here."
"Oh. Well, then, okay then."
Owen looked over his shoulder at them and raised his eyebrows, and Eames took another long swallow out of the bottle as if to convey his point that Arthur was drunk. Owen seemed to understand and shouted to him, "Hey, Eames!"
"What is it, sprog?" Eames called back.
"If we got a boat and sailed off, do you really think we'd make it to the stars?" he asked, pointing at where the water met the sky. "I know it seems impossible but-"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Eames laughed. "Anything is possible!"
…and Eames couldn't help but believe himself. He couldn't help but think that they could leave the earth behind them and sail off into space, away from all of the sadness and fear held deep inside the brothers.
…but there was no sailing into the sky that night.
Eames ended up cradling Owen in his arms most of the night when Owen was awakened by horrible nightmares again, and Eames swore he heard Owen whimper, "Please… don't touch me."
"No one's going to hurt you," Eames whispered uselessly.
It was all he could think of to say.