we are vagabonds, we travel without seatbelts on
Title: We Are Vagabonds, We Travel Without Seatbelts On
Author: beanarie
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Arthur, Eames
Summary: A snapshot from Eames's relationship with lung cancer. Inspired by a prompt on inception_kink because of course it was. Title taken from "Here I Dreamt I Was An Architect", and is that not the most Inception-y sounding thing in Christendom.
Eames loses weight and any trace of a tan in the Spring. The coughing won't stop. When the fevers won't, either, Arthur forces him into the car. Some feel-good public radio nonsense is playing. A report about breeding efforts for arctic chipmunks in the Yukon. Or something. His head rests against the passenger side window while Arthur drives.
"You're being bizarre and melodramatic," he tells Arthur. "I'll be right as rain in a few days."
Arthur brushes his knuckles against Eames's cheek. "Even more likely if we get you some antibiotics," he says calmly.
The doctor does not give Eames a prescription. He sends him to a lab technician. Then another doctor, and then a surgeon, and so on. Finally they've had enough of speaking to each other and decide to start speaking to him.
Two hours later, he's sitting by himself in a bar.
A chin falls onto his shoulder. He brings his arm up to curl around Arthur's neck.
"I'm determined not to lose you," Arthur says.
Eames glances at his drink. "It's adorable how much power you think you exert over the universe, Arthur, but really. We may not have a choice."
"Bullshit," Arthur says, squeezing him around the waist as if to hold him there. When Eames catches their reflection in the mirror, Arthur looks as though he's falling apart inside.
It's somewhat unfair of him to steal Eames's shtick like that.
~
Eames has been throwing up for hours with no relief. Arthur draws a bath, helps him inside. Twenty minutes go by while Eames tries to simply breathe. Finally it's quiet.
Eames is nearly asleep. His hand sliding up and down Eames's back, Arthur knows that the day has stripped him of everything but honesty, so he asks the question.
"Why can't our friends help?"
"Just not her. Please, Arthur."
"Not her," Arthur repeats, confused.
"You're asking me to be a fucking saint and I can't do that. I'm too bloody tired. Please." He coughs, a rattling bark that always lasts too long. "Please."
Arthur's eyes are wet. It's the begging. He wasn't expecting anything like that. "I never wanted Ariadne."
"Oh, God," Eames tells the toilet. "I cannot talk about this."
"Eames, Jesus Christ."
"I want you to be happy after, I do. Please just let me have you now. Don't-don't make me watch."
"Eames, look at me. Stop this. For you to go, I have to let you go. And I'm not doing that."
One hand is on either side of his face and Arthur is, he's holding Eames there with his hands.
"I'm not," he repeats.
~
The memory of that final moment in the bath is almost, but not quite, enough to dispel the cold feeling of shame that suffuses his bones when he wakes. He watches Arthur just long enough to decide that Arthur isn't stirring, then he takes the car. The note he places on the kitchen table reads, "The next time this happens, I'll not only kill you, I won't be back."
He drives until his vision blurs, then he pulls over and stretches out on the hood to watch the clouds change shape. Briefly he considers calling for a tow, but discards the idea. He isn't sure what they'd have to say about the fact that he has no shoes on.
Besides, he left home without taking his mobile.
It's dark by the time he joins Arthur in the den. There is a cup of tea next to Arthur's coffee on the end table. It's gone tepid, but it tastes fine.
After forever, Arthur clears his throat.
"I'm the saint," he says.
The statement is too ridiculous and unexpected for Eames to do anything other than stare and say, "I'm sorry?"
"I never wanted her."
Eames stands up.
"And she never wanted me, either." Arthur's voice has risen, willing him to understand. But he doesn't. He needs this to be spelled out. "It was you, Eames."
"Nonsense," he says. But is it?
"She hasn't been doing too well. She's fallen for you. I think. It's the prevailing theory."
"Huh," he says eloquently, reclaiming his seat. "Really?"
Arthur shrugs. "Women love the accent."
They both find the blank black screen of the television strangely hypnotic for a while.
"You're sure now."
Arthur chuckles. His fingers wrap around the back of Eames's neck. "Okay, you're just milking it at this point."
His laugh turns into a cough, which breeds.
He lets his head lean against Arthur's chest because he is very tired. Right now he has no direct memory of driving back to the house. That should be at least a little distressing, but he can't bring himself to care. It is so damn low on his list of priorities.
"Are we okay?" Arthur asks.
He stiffens, suddenly remembering that he was not running from Ariadne.
That makes Arthur realize it as well. "Shit," he says. "I'm sorry. Really."
Feeling his resolve crumble, Eames reminds himself how it felt to be split open, with no protection, no filter. Nothing. "You extracted me."
"I'm sorry."
"Wanker."
Arthur lightly runs his fingers over Eames's bare scalp. If anyone else tried that, he would duck away, possibly throw a punch. "Promise to talk to me and I promise not to be underhanded about learning your secrets."
I don't like promises, Eames says, or he means to. He falls asleep instead.
Author: beanarie
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Arthur, Eames
Summary: A snapshot from Eames's relationship with lung cancer. Inspired by a prompt on inception_kink because of course it was. Title taken from "Here I Dreamt I Was An Architect", and is that not the most Inception-y sounding thing in Christendom.
Eames loses weight and any trace of a tan in the Spring. The coughing won't stop. When the fevers won't, either, Arthur forces him into the car. Some feel-good public radio nonsense is playing. A report about breeding efforts for arctic chipmunks in the Yukon. Or something. His head rests against the passenger side window while Arthur drives.
"You're being bizarre and melodramatic," he tells Arthur. "I'll be right as rain in a few days."
Arthur brushes his knuckles against Eames's cheek. "Even more likely if we get you some antibiotics," he says calmly.
The doctor does not give Eames a prescription. He sends him to a lab technician. Then another doctor, and then a surgeon, and so on. Finally they've had enough of speaking to each other and decide to start speaking to him.
Two hours later, he's sitting by himself in a bar.
A chin falls onto his shoulder. He brings his arm up to curl around Arthur's neck.
"I'm determined not to lose you," Arthur says.
Eames glances at his drink. "It's adorable how much power you think you exert over the universe, Arthur, but really. We may not have a choice."
"Bullshit," Arthur says, squeezing him around the waist as if to hold him there. When Eames catches their reflection in the mirror, Arthur looks as though he's falling apart inside.
It's somewhat unfair of him to steal Eames's shtick like that.
~
Eames has been throwing up for hours with no relief. Arthur draws a bath, helps him inside. Twenty minutes go by while Eames tries to simply breathe. Finally it's quiet.
Eames is nearly asleep. His hand sliding up and down Eames's back, Arthur knows that the day has stripped him of everything but honesty, so he asks the question.
"Why can't our friends help?"
"Just not her. Please, Arthur."
"Not her," Arthur repeats, confused.
"You're asking me to be a fucking saint and I can't do that. I'm too bloody tired. Please." He coughs, a rattling bark that always lasts too long. "Please."
Arthur's eyes are wet. It's the begging. He wasn't expecting anything like that. "I never wanted Ariadne."
"Oh, God," Eames tells the toilet. "I cannot talk about this."
"Eames, Jesus Christ."
"I want you to be happy after, I do. Please just let me have you now. Don't-don't make me watch."
"Eames, look at me. Stop this. For you to go, I have to let you go. And I'm not doing that."
One hand is on either side of his face and Arthur is, he's holding Eames there with his hands.
"I'm not," he repeats.
~
The memory of that final moment in the bath is almost, but not quite, enough to dispel the cold feeling of shame that suffuses his bones when he wakes. He watches Arthur just long enough to decide that Arthur isn't stirring, then he takes the car. The note he places on the kitchen table reads, "The next time this happens, I'll not only kill you, I won't be back."
He drives until his vision blurs, then he pulls over and stretches out on the hood to watch the clouds change shape. Briefly he considers calling for a tow, but discards the idea. He isn't sure what they'd have to say about the fact that he has no shoes on.
Besides, he left home without taking his mobile.
It's dark by the time he joins Arthur in the den. There is a cup of tea next to Arthur's coffee on the end table. It's gone tepid, but it tastes fine.
After forever, Arthur clears his throat.
"I'm the saint," he says.
The statement is too ridiculous and unexpected for Eames to do anything other than stare and say, "I'm sorry?"
"I never wanted her."
Eames stands up.
"And she never wanted me, either." Arthur's voice has risen, willing him to understand. But he doesn't. He needs this to be spelled out. "It was you, Eames."
"Nonsense," he says. But is it?
"She hasn't been doing too well. She's fallen for you. I think. It's the prevailing theory."
"Huh," he says eloquently, reclaiming his seat. "Really?"
Arthur shrugs. "Women love the accent."
They both find the blank black screen of the television strangely hypnotic for a while.
"You're sure now."
Arthur chuckles. His fingers wrap around the back of Eames's neck. "Okay, you're just milking it at this point."
His laugh turns into a cough, which breeds.
He lets his head lean against Arthur's chest because he is very tired. Right now he has no direct memory of driving back to the house. That should be at least a little distressing, but he can't bring himself to care. It is so damn low on his list of priorities.
"Are we okay?" Arthur asks.
He stiffens, suddenly remembering that he was not running from Ariadne.
That makes Arthur realize it as well. "Shit," he says. "I'm sorry. Really."
Feeling his resolve crumble, Eames reminds himself how it felt to be split open, with no protection, no filter. Nothing. "You extracted me."
"I'm sorry."
"Wanker."
Arthur lightly runs his fingers over Eames's bare scalp. If anyone else tried that, he would duck away, possibly throw a punch. "Promise to talk to me and I promise not to be underhanded about learning your secrets."
I don't like promises, Eames says, or he means to. He falls asleep instead.