Inception Reverse Bang Fic: Undercurrent
Apr. 9th, 2011 10:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azuremewTitle: Undercurrent
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
the_azure_blue
Artist:ruins_of_sodom
Artist's Post: HERE
Word Count: 7,000
Pairings/Characters: Eames/Robert, appearance by Browning
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: graphic sex, violence, disturbing imagery, dark themes
Summary Due to all of his forgeries, Eames loses his identity. At a rather climatic moment, Robert realizes this and tries to help. Although he knows nothing about dream sharing, he knows one thing, that Eames trusts him, but will it be enough?
Author's Note: This . . . piece . . . was . . . INSANE. But we made it! Through time zones and illness and LJ being a pain in the butt, WE MADE IT. HUZZAH. No, seriously, guys, thanks to everyone involved. You know who you are, and we love you to pieces for your epic madness and extraordinary passion. It's inspiring. Special thanks to my lovelies, y'all know who you are and how important you are to me and this project. Soundtrack post tells who is responsible for the lyrics. If you can't read them, blame me. <3
Soundtrack is HERE
Undercurrent
One
It is hard to believe that we are where we are. I do not mean in the immediate. I stand here, far from you, beyond our loft door, down the stairs, out the front, and across the street. It is raining, and yet I here I am, back pressed along the wall, barefoot, tie on the floor to leave two buttons undone.
Breathing hard, I cannot . . . Eames . . .
I glance to our building, expectation of your pursuit, but it does not come. Paranoia settles, and I walk. Far from here, I run away.
It is four in the afternoon, and the doors swing open. I stand in the makeshift place for my father's decay, the smell of ammonia has already started to wipe clean what memories once lay. Uncle Peters footsteps are hard against the floor, weighed down by pressure, yet he stands tall. I hear him the distance, barely make out his voice, consciousness clung to the world out there rather than trapped here.
Just as my father, far gone.
But such reality brings us both back, strung high by cords that bury deep into flesh. His action is my reaction; sudden in his decline, I can only be subtle in mine. The chaos that brews around us is too much, so overwhelming that one more would be too much. So I remain, distant, closed off -
But you, you see me.
Four blocks away, I pass by the restaurant we spent our first date. The dinner had been rich and tender, the dessert decadent, and the wine aged to perfection. Although in being so, I cannot remember what had lay on the table, what clothes you had worn, or the conversation. Only after stays clear upon my mind, what had mattered the most beyond the common ground, the undercurrent that drew us together in passing and would not let go.
Rather than fight it, we drowned.
I breathe a sigh and turn around. My clothes are darker than they should be, wet with the evening rain. It clings, and I understand what it is to be uncomfortable. I run full sprint at the street crossing, knowing what it is like.
It is a month since you first saw me, weeks since we first spoke. My father lies in a metal box to be buried beside my mother and keep some form of fiction the public prefers. You have left a week before to attend the final documentations with Port and Dunn, and Uncle Peter stands already in Los Angeles for the preparations. I stand alone, a shade, hollow and sick. There is little that I have to do, but with his passing, knowing the days to come makes me ill. Each step is difficult, and I am grateful of this form of transport instead, to be unseen amongst strangers.
Then I see you. The world stops, I swallow thick the mucus sudden in my throat.
You, not seeing me, it is almost a relief in our passing. Even if I do miss the smell of your cologne.
The door swings open, and I return to the present, spun full circle from a waltz I walk with two, left feet. You no longer wait with ardent desire, so I cry for it: “Eames!” I search you out, my own fears of rejection surfacing. I understand, I know . . .
The bathroom lies empty, pristine. The cabinet untouched. The metal case closed and overbearing. I breathe. “Eames, where are you . . .”
“Right here,” you say, flat in tone, lost of its vibrancy, strange enough that I nearly jump out of my skin Behind me, you stand, bare as before, your eyes red.
“Oh, I am sorry,” I reply and move closer, inching because it aches with a stilted fear that clings to each muscle, turns cold to the bone. “Please, forgive me, have me . . .”
I am frozen again, in the past, as you reach out to me, grab hold of me. It hurts me.
A conversation goes off without a hitch, and I want to celebrate. My shoes are on the ground, one to the side, uncaring. The silk unravels next, fallen just as the shoes. Two buttons, and I hear the scuffle of footsteps. My hand pauses at the third.
You stand across from me, austere and ragged, I see the quivers beneath the curves, held back by muscles that do not want to snap. It brings chills to my spine, stiffens it to an ache. “Robert,” you say. “Robert, come here, yeah? Let me hold you . . .” You take a step forward, and I back. “What's wrong, darling? Is it my voice? I apologize. I have not slept since leaving here. I could not stop thinking of you, you see. The job, it . . .” Your lips press as my back does to the door. “Robert, please.”
“Are you high?” is my first reaction, and yours is to grab me. Fingers lace around the arm, lock and constrict. “Eames,” I manage to choke out, fear sudden along my body, I grow taut. “Please.”
“No, no, not the drug, Robert. I just need you. I need you.” Tighter still, my arm flares in sharp pains. I wince, and that moment of frailty is used. Your breath is hot against my neck, breaking vessels beneath skin printed by your teeth. My scream is unheard as you rub against me, smearing beads of come along my black slacks. “I need you, Robert,” you beg after although I am crying for you to let go. “I need to be inside of you.”
Your cock is hard and incessant, filling the depths to a rhythm that has me breathless in pain-wrecked moans. My eyes sting, but I hold onto the sheets and let you plunge into me, tearing through tight muscles that cling to you. Your bites, though infrequent, leave the reflected impressions that echo throughout my body. Red marks on what canvas that will turn purple, black and blue with aches that I will wear proud.
For now, though, I yell, “Fuck, Eames, fuck . . .” as come leaks all over my legs from orgasm.
Still, you do not join me. Not until the resounding, deeper pain tears into my inner thighs at your large hands taking muscle in fistfuls. It stings less than a surface connection, but bears the same result. My hands wrap around your wrists to pull away, unable to sound coherent words as I sob. The memory flashes before me, and I wonder if this is our becoming.
It is not until we lie in the bed together, your body fully in mine, that I hear your tears, too.
After the flood, there is the calm. The currents stop pushing us against rocks, and we are tangle in a bittersweet morning. My fingers move along the stubble of your chin, take in each curve and line, and you mumble in a voice still in the haze. I wonder if it is me that you recognize or someone else's face.
It does not matter, I find, when your eyes open and see only me.
“Morning,” I whisper and kiss your forehead. Two inches backward, and the palm takes control to halt and pull into your sour breath and warm tongue. Pulled away, and the wet hits my nose again.
“We,” you breathe, uncertain. “We need to talk.”
You tell me the lies, the deceit, the plans and the idea buried deep inside of my head. I am clothed without my shoes, but even as you admit that your return was not for admirable reason, I do not run out the door. “It was then, not now,” you confess, a mug of coffee, black, in your hand. “Do you believe me?”
I smile, “Yes.” Men have done worst things, lost themselves entirely, but you . . . I ask, “What can I do?”
“You?” I hear the disbelief, that you want to laugh. “Sorry, love, but this is for someone like Cobb or Arthur to handle.” You rise and set the cup down, head to the bedroom, not wanting to fight. “I will figure it out,” your voice trails. “You should carry on with the business, yeah?”
“No,” I trail, follow you. There are a leather-bound journal and silver-framed glasses that I sometimes wonder is your way of ciphering the few dreams you possess, or others in fact. Even myself, I begin to consider, but that does not matter. “We are going to figure this out together.”
My legs, sprawled over yours keep you down, but I doubt you will move. You are frozen there, not use to such desire. This is the first time I have been forward, and I think this is the first time any man has been so with you. Always the one in control, you do not know how to react. Your brows raise at my soft caress, but eventually, you nod consent at seeing the bruising bloomed upon my collarbone.
Two
The first time, I lie on the bed, an hour after you prepare. Metal box open, the mechanics of it all is perplexing, a dream itself if I try to comprehend. It is your hand that keeps the trembling, uncertainty, of doing this. The stories I have heard about dream sharing stays away.
“I will be the dreamer,” you tell me. “You will come in as the subject, and I will meet you there.” Your fingers are warm against my balmy skin, the needle cold as it presses in. “It feels like ice, darling, but only for a moment.” Your promises are soft and reassuring, like the kiss upon rivulets that stain skin, first white then pink into deep purple and red. “I shall see you there.”
Endless, endless, are our minds. Infinite, the shadows woven to the night. They creep along and pull at our fears, regret, and pain. Lost we become in the depths. Alone upon the paved road. Lying still, unable to breathe, it almost becomes clear . . . “Eames . . .”
“Right here.”
Shadows fold back, long forgotten by more present concerns. I sit in the office of Fischer Morrow, at the desk that was to be mine. The rest of the building is vacated for the rest of the night. Papers are not stacked high or left in boxes. It is another, long night left to myself so that I can catch up, prove to my father, to Uncle Peter . . .
A knock ends this thought, and I turn to the door, “Come in.”
“Mr. Fischer,” you say upon entry. “Robert,” you add at the close. “Do you know what is going on?”
“Yes,” I murmur. This, it has nothing to do with tonight. You, you do not belong here, and I search the room, find more pieces that do not quite fit. “I think so.” The books, the kinds of pens that I use. “I'm dreaming.”
Time runs out, and you lie next to me. The world is a little hazy, like a memory I cannot quite recall, but bits and pieces are there. You are there. I turn to see your smile, those eyes optimistic again. You reach out and brush the side of my cheek to the chin. “What?” I ask.
“You did good,” you tell me. Three words rather than what you want to say, knowing my experience with dreams, my knowledge. I know.
The next you are less careful. Within an open street, vast by nameless faces, each staring at you, you ask me, “Robert, what are you afraid of?” Your hands hold mine, to remind them that you are not here to hurt me. The soothing note keeps them at bay.
“Water,” I whisper. “Endless, it can sweep around us, drown us in depths unknown. I still remember that meeting. It was raining out, and the cab . . .” They circle us, pull out weapons, guns, and I bring you close, bury my face. “Eames . . .”
Your fingers comb through my hair, but it stops, the weight along my scalp. “I love you.”
They fire.
Time is taken away from this work. We pack up our things, leave our cellphones, and drive. The road takes us to the highway and then an exit you choose simply from being tired. I lie back, next to you, to the sound of static from the radio, city changes blurring it again. In the corner of my eye, I see a glowing sign and pick it out because of one word: vacancy, bright and inviting.
While you turn on the television, I go out for some ice and sweets from the vending machine. It is at the turn that I see the pool, unattended and empty as the motel, one of many along this strip. Quietly, I set the bucket on a bench and walk the metal line between teal, ceramic tile and concrete.
The water comes sudden, unexpected, as I find myself thrown back to thoughts, contemplations. It is cold but comfortably so, but I flail about miserably until arms wrap around me. “Eames,” I scowl. “You idiot. Do you have any idea . . .”
“Shhhhh . . .” you bite my ear and reach beneath my trousers. “Trust me.”
It tastes of chlorine, stings my throat into coughs, but all is lost in this war with you. I let go in fear of drowning but realize soon we are far from such tragedy. I wrap around the side railing, the steps for my fingers to dig as yours fist my cock. Each breath is harsh as I try to hold back my moans, but in your entry, I no longer find reason.
The thrusts are as loud, sending ripples and splashes as you moan into my shoulder. Plastic and metal presses into my stomach, along the ribs as you work your way into me. “Robert,” you whine, nearing climax. Your hands along mine manage to pull white knuckles loose for grounding.
Away from me, I float, naked and silent until I remember my clothes, the watch, everything ruined, but you collecting them under one breath leaves me uncaring.
One week later, and you teach me about death. “Her hand can be cold, slow, and painful or quick,” you recall, having gone through it, over and over. “Pain, it is in the mind, so you can suffer long if it is not done right.” In your hand is a gun, the metal bright. “But when it is over, you will wake up.”
You pull the trigger.
I follow. The heat of the barrel last that I remember. It burns in my mind, this desire . . .
Such heat is not forgotten as you disappear again. I feel it burning into an ache that neither stops by alcohol or work. Rather, it fills with knowledge, knowing more about you, what you do.
At my feet is a book, black and bound with white pages blank except for the scrawls upon waking. Black ink for first thoughts, red for reference, and blue for final thoughts, it reminds me of the notes taken in college. On one of the shelves is a dictionary I dare not mention the purchase of. Of dreams, the meanings, of Carl Gustav Jung and Sigmund Freud. There are Post-It Notes that mark each moment of interest.
Every idea starts somewhere, stems from something. I wonder how well you knew, to cultivate what you told me. But there are no paper trials, so I wait.
Days pass, and I wait. By twenty-four hours, I am able to resume my research and talk to prospective partners again. The first week, I break from my appointments and wait by the phone. It is all you can give me, that satisfaction of knowing you are okay by a single call. Four rings, I do not even get to pick up and tell you I miss you, I love you . . .
Four rings, and I have none. I wait by the door, inhaling half-finished cigarettes to calm my nerves. The smoke does more than the nicotine, the coughing allowing in-take, the taste of your lips tainted by the nasty habit upon my lips. I start to wonder if I should contact someone and wait. The thought of others taking you away so solid in my head that I toss and turn from nightmares. Calls are made without answering. Messages without returns. By the end of the week, I search your belongings for names I remember.
None become available to me.
The door opens days after, and in the foyer, your shoulder bag falls. It wakes me, and I meet you in the living room, nearly catch you. “Eames . . .” I whisper and lift your body up, an arm over mine.
“Robert,” you murmur. “This is not right.”
“It will be,” I return. Conviction holds in my voice to keep it still as I lie you onto the bed and go to the door for the PASIV. It lies in the center of clothes, worn shirts and other belongings. Your breathing is heavy to the rise and fall of your chest, crushing the lungs. “What happened?” I ask at the click.
“I do not remember.”
“What do you remember?”
Eyes close, and you recall, “Dark fields of rice blaze in the night. We could barely breathe. Our point man was shot first. Then the extractor.” Tighter still, I brush my fingers along knuckles. A firm grasp takes hold before he adds, “It was my fault. I was to become the mark's wife, but her eyes . . .”
The needle shows no response, nor does my kiss to hush his salty voice. “Shh . . .” I coo. “I will find you.”
It's five o'clock in the afternoon. Rush hour. New York City, I believe. Everyone is out of their glass prisons, moving in a vast catalyst that his humanity. It is always amazing to watch. I take a break from my work and follow the stream out through the lobby. 5th Avenue and Burke. So many people. Pinstripe suits and fitted skirts. Pearls and Rolex watches. Cellphones bring messages from far away places, leaving the body's natural responses to react from ebb and flow to not cause congestion. Muscle memory. I think on one person in particular, his description not mattering as much as the conversation. I imagine that he is me, and the other is you. We are talking about dinner tonight, to remain civil in our skins as we waltz through public streets, no one suspicious of the secret truth in our eyes.
Then I see him, the first note of someone different, a memory within the dream. My uncle is amongst the strangers although we have not spoken in almost a year. Shock brings me swiftly to him, then anger as I grab his hand, “What is the meaning of this?”
“Robert,” he stops, blinking. “What are you doing here?”
“You never returned my calls . . .” My voice cools, levels out to nothing, naturally how I react these days to him. “What is this?” He knows. “Some sort of sick joke?”
“Joke? Robert, I was on my way to Fischer Morrow, to sign documents for Port and Dunn. Do you not remember? Your father's funeral arrangements --”
“Were over a year ago,” I cut off, but then a second presence halts our argument. “Excuse me.” The crowd does not ease, a sea of endless faces that makes it utterly difficult to follow, but who can forget her? The golden blonde hair, that face, that dress. My hand shoots out like an anchor, and she the earth because I know. How, is unknown, but I know . . . “Eames?”
I am wrong. She jerks away, halting the projections and forgeries alike. They stare with her, and I whisper, “Oh, I apologize, miss. I thought . . .” Deep breaths, softly spoken, “I thought that you were someone else.”
It seems to be enough, for the stream of consciousness continues, as if I never caused the ripple. I try to remain as such, below the perceptions of a man I know is trained to sense, to know, someone else is there. I believe that it is because you sense that it is me, are willing to accept it, and search out with that confidence.
The city is vast, endless, and I barely able to know where to go, except for the finer details. They are pieces that I recognize in you, that you in me, an understanding that binds us together further. We are creatures of habit, but we hold it closer, keep a repeat, a ritual, that broken might have startling consequences. Like changing a man completely, ending an empire, you have the same, secrets that if changed would change you, and I find them in a warehouse similar to the one I was taken to.
Your defenses are left wide open door unlocked, exposed so that I can slip by. A calling, I think – Eames, what is it that you want to show me?
Barren, it is in various forms of decay except for a three-way mirror, oak and pristine. You stand in front of it, wearing your tailored, grey blue suit I remember from all those months ago. Your hair slicked back, you are in perfect form except for one detail. I can see it faintly. There are cracks along your skin, like a layer falling away, breaking to become someone else, or to reveal someone else. Quiet, I watch you dab at a silver, aged compact and apply foundation. It covers the flaws, fixes the seams, but I wonder. I want to know more and step closer, wanting so much to see what you are hiding, but someone stops me.
I try to pull away, but two hands now. “Eames!” Four. “Daniel!” Six. They tear at my jacket, pull at my hair, scrape skin, while you stand there, so distant. My screams are silent to your deaf ears, unheard until the moment familiar arms wrap around my torso. “Uncle Peter . . .” I choke, my lungs too constricted to properly speak. “Please . . .”
Your projection is different from my own, my knowledge, these memories I cannot speak with you, utter the truth that though I confide in him, my only family, there are layers, too.
But it is enough, that singular tell, the change in voice, awakens the stiff nerves in your body. “Robert,” you respond quietly, and in steps, mere seconds, you are near, distant only because of other bodies in our way. “Robert!” you push, shove them, but one knows, and there is a knife.
“No!” I close my eyes to avoid it, as death takes you away, but it cannot be. You crash to the ground, and the world shakes. It falls apart.
The dream is collapsing, and I, nowhere to go. Suddenly, I am thrown back, taken flight to crash to the ground. Loud yells escape the people, the last fetters of to you. Even in your escape, you manage to keep some control, although it is chaotic, a cacophony of noise.
“Robert, you son of a bitch,” one yells.
“Bloody hell,” another, followed by cursing about my intrusion.
They are all the same. Though their voices might be different, the message remains profound. I am not welcome. I try to find sanctuary, to find somewhere to hide until time runs out, but some begin to converge, take action in emotion instead of pure, vocalized anger. One catches my wrist, another my shirt again. “Eames!” I cry out, hoping that somewhere inside of this hollow display still lingering with your presence, you will stop. “Please, for fuck's sake.” It hurts, and I am not a virus. They should not fight me, but even so they drag me down to the ground. My head collides with concrete over and over until warmth is felt against my scalp.
I groan, lost in the tempest surrounding, and let it drag me until you pull me forth.
“Robert.” Times up, but you hold me still, continue to thrash me about like an angry, madman. Your eyes lost of any of that light, clouded, not quite yourself. “What the hell were you thinking? Bastard!” His strength pulls me up, high enough this time that the needle slips out. Blood trickles, but I have more important sensations. The weight of my body sinks into the bed as you push me in. His knuckles press against my chest enough to sting, likely bruise by morning. “Robert,” you repeat. “You idiot.”
I fight, futile and frantic, my first responses muscle memory of times before. It does nothing, and I lie there helpless to the actions of another man. My own defenses slip, eyes close as I try to think of something else. Anything. This is not you, I tell myself. This is not you. But I can smell your cologne, the aftershave, and hear your voice. “Sorry,” I begin instead through gritted teeth, trembling lips. Repeated over and over even after I am still, the weight gone.
Physically so, but it takes a moment, minutes actually, to open my eyes tightly shut, seeing stardust that clouds my vision, unclench my hands, let the blood run into my white knuckles. I wait until there is the rustle of fabrics beyond the door near. You are taking a shower, or plan on it without an invitation.
Three
You sit across from me the next morning having slept on the couch. Exhausted, achy, I feel the same having tossed and turned without your weight. The black coffee sits on the table, but you do not take a sip. You barely move to recognize me, the salt and pepper shakers seemingly taking more presence and with them. At least until I sit opposite to you. “Robert . . .” you whisper, shakily. Your hand stretches out to me, “Bloody hell, your neck . . .”
Retracts, but I catch it in my steel grip. “Give it a few days to heal,” I lie, knowing it'll be longer. “I have already contacted the office, my meetings, they know where I need to be.”
“No,” you pull away. “I'm calling Cobb, and Arthur. They'll . . .” you stand up, certain. “They'll know what to do.”
“Bullshit they will,” I follow you to the bedroom. “They might have experience, sure, but none of them know you like I do.” Stop you before reaching the closet, to the bags, your things. My hand grabs your arm, and while you try to fight me, I am stronger now than I was before.
I have reason.
You turn to face me without your consent, my hands locked around your chin. “I love you, Eames. You might not be able to say it here, but I can, for us both, because I know. I know.” Because I caused this collapse in you. This, it is all my fault.
Another month later, and you lie on the bed, staring, “Are you sure?”
“As sure as I was five minutes ago when you asked,” I smile. Your sleeve rolls up to expose the dots that mark your arm in red, swollen puffs. These last, few days have been exhausting in our preparation, both mentally and physically, but even so I bend down and kiss it, run my tongue along the veins, the joint to a sharp exhale. “I'm not afraid. You should believe this.” The needle slips in. “You were the one that showed me how.”
It has been said a dozen times before, in a ritual I do not mind repeating. Whatever it takes, I tell myself while I lie next to you, let you drift of to sleep. In these shadows, I will not have you to guide me through. Not your hand, but your presence, knowing, somewhere. “I will find you.”
That man I remember all that time before. The one that watches, studies, and connects. The mind, it thinks it is all for the research, but somewhere beneath the surface intentions lies deeper desires. That is why you came back. That is . . .
Gun shots. Screeching tires. The smell of death in the air. All this through darkness, veiled by canvas, desensitized except for your touch. I grasp onto it for some security. It is against my heart, breathing hard, floods my vision in a red haze of nausea that knots in my stomach. Kidnapper. Protector. Eames. Mixed signals.
More important alive.
Better off dead.
Turns sharp send our bodies flying. Metal presses through leather and cloth, bruising skin as your weight crashes into me. “Robert,” you whisper. “Get out of here.”
“No,” this, it is not you.
Sudden, the door opens, and I am launched out, as if it might save me. In the corner of my sight, I catch a glimpse and scream, “Eames!” A train comes barreling through the central line, hits dead center, shreds metal and gore too fine to call a twisted wreckage.
Falling, I cover my face as I dodge back into reality. The sidewalk pavement now the fine, smoothed concrete of our loft’s home.
“That is,” I murmur once the shakes stop and swallow the stained mucus from blood released by a bitten tongue. “That is quite the defense.”
We are not through.
The streets, they wind unexpectedly. Sharp turns. Dead ends. A wide opening spills into traffic. Huddled masses, shoulder-to-shoulder. You could get lost here, and I almost do. At the crosswalk, you take an opening that I cannot follow. I breathe heavily in my pause and cry out, “Eames!”
You do not hear me. You never do.
By the next space, you are too far away, but I continue onward into the landscape forbidden to people like me. Marks. Targets. Upon hit, we should fall to the ground and die. There should be no mourning of our passing, no notice of our change, or care in our resurrection. The alchemy is of your hands, but these dreams are yours alone, I to be but a moment, temporary.
Yet I was not. At that thought, the sand becomes more fine, cools into fog just as obscuring. Buildings more modern stand strong and brilliant, shimmering in the night once day. Cobblestone lies beneath my feet, and in front of me, I see the mailbox. The name unheard of before, and forgotten by my waking, I feel the urge to intrude, as if summoned by another and the need to have me here.
These are not my dreams. They are memories. Yours.
An office far back holds few furnishings, the papers scattered along the bureau taking more presence. I run my fingers over them, the profiles and photographs, snapshots crystal clear next to letters and documentation blacked out, censored. My hospital records, attempted suicide. Psychiatric evaluations. Medications. It is no wonder you held me so gentle before my sleeves unrolled to dreams, a chance to be taken away.
Most bold are those of me, my father, Uncle Peter. Notes scrawled on paper.
I pull away. This is not you. Or rather, I realize at the touch of the wallpaper, that it was at one point, another time, long ago, lost in layers of time. My finger scrapes along a crack, tearing it away with this belief. I find no doubt as your projections continue their routine paths outside.
It peels away to a motel room. Rusted window, I feel the smooth glass along my finger tips and run across it. There, on the bed, I see your journal, and beside it the silver-framed spectacles. “Eames,” I whisper. “What are you trying to tell me?”
The sky turns dark from my questions, thunder calling my attention; I turn to see this is no longer the cobblestone cityscape but an empty wasteland, no man's land except for your own. At the edge of my perspective is the hotel sign, faded with paint chipping and bulbs burned out. No cars line the parking lot, not a single person in sight, not even you. Only me, yet I hear it off in the distance. “No.” Cars racing across asphalt, gun shots. I cover my ears. “This is not happening. You will not have to hide this from me.” My lips tremble, but I whisper, “I love you.”
Slowly, I listen and hear your warning. Loud and clear, you use what I am scared of the most to protect yourself, still more terrified than I. My hand opens up to catch the raindrops, let it pool into pages. As I watch, it turns. The catalyst of you and me creates an alchemy, the impossible except for in these dreams.
From the sky pours fragments of memories, tiny pieces of paper, like dots to be connected into one, great composition. If I listen carefully, I can hear it, these words on paper you never let me see. Original and pure, you hide them because once, like me, your ideas were not accepted so easily.
“Can I see the journal?”
“What?” Your hand takes mine. “No.” Holding me back . . .
“Eames . . .”
You take a long drag of your cigarette and hand it to me. I am wrong about before. It catches on, and I press my lips to the paper while you comb your fingers though my hair. “Before I joined the military, I wrote. Quite frequently, in fact. Poetry occasionally, short stories, and this idea in my head that I thought someday could get published, you know? Possibly in scripts. My father did not fancy the idea that much. He had it all planned on. After school, I served, and after that it was off to help with investigations and the sort. He was proud upon his deathbed of me - lung cancer,” you laugh, but I can hear the haunted undercurrent pass beneath it, wrap its dark tendrils. “And eventually, I stopped because the job doesn’t leave much room for anything else.”
“Including me,” I murmur before a puff. The cigarette is gone from my lips and replaced by yours, your tongue claiming it and me. The thought drifts away, like a far off memory, attached to others of my past, rather than my future, here.
“I love you,” you whisper, and I taste salt on my lips.
It is all that I need to hear.
Formless, silent and still. Apathy hangs in the air, like fog thick and gray. Motionless, stagnant. It calms me, filling my airways an odorless drug. Cold, I do not tremble. It is more like numb, moving passed the point of feeling. Uncaring.
Endless, I squint to focus through, to see the mirrors. Water beneath my feet, reflections framed in brass echo nothing, glass as large as windows, small as decanters to hold clear, tasteless liquid.
I fear breaking it all, so I walk stilted, my lips pressed shut, sealed. Until I reach a scene on repeat, the room so vibrant that I could be standing there. The smell of ammonia fills my nostrils, I cough and cover my mouth. Rhythmic beeps communicate through wires connected to a bag of bones, the flesh nearly fallen in decay. “Father,” I murmur, too caught in the observation to move, but it feels so real, as if I touch it, I could slide through, complete. Time will turn back. The idea is as exciting as it is horrifying.
In the distance, I hear someone speaking. It is an associate of my uncle’s. From behind, I see the gathered confidants, lawyers, and their assistants. One in particular, you, sit there with your legal pad and pen. “Eames . . .” I whisper, and realize then, spin around to see me, standing there, by the window before my father thrashes about in a half-lucid babble, the fever taken most of his mind, his body, his life.
Shutting my eyes, I turn again to find you, but you are gone. The moment is gone, the mirror a reflection infinite from the one across from it except for the pristine perfect image. Chiseled chin, sharp as you adore, high cheekbones stained in tears, blue-gray eyes turning red, I am here, alone.
I cannot find you.
A little deeper, at least I think I am. These paths are unspoken, tread too lightly to form. Circles, perhaps, or a continuous line. After hours, minutes, moments, I mutter, “Fine.” Irritation sparks red across metallic surfaces, conviction solid as the knife I hold in my hand. “Do you remember when we first woke up together?” I ask. “You told me death will bring you back, but pain . . . it is in the mind, lasting . . .” my voice it falters, my hand trembles, but still my palm is open, the edge clean as it cuts.
Nothing.
Teeth grit. Seconds after, I spit salt in my phlegm, “Fuck you,” to cover the loss in my fingers, white. Another cut, deeper, catches more than the surface. It digs, releasing blood that spills freely. “Eames.”
But someone else steps from behind the mirrors. “Robert,” my uncle says, uncertain at first. “Robert, what are you doing?” Sudden in realization now, he runs over, swift and to his knees. A hand clamps over the limp hand, to break off the circulation. He sees how weak it is. “Robert, what have you done . . .”
“Stop this.”
“Stop – what are you speaking of, Robert?” He shakes his head, but I can see it. The cracks. The shades in his eyes. “You are delirious, son.”
I see you, and reach up to dab your cheek with warm, wet blood. It smears into a cake-like substance, powder turned wet, and Uncle Peter's skin more tan. “I am not. I know you are afraid. You cannot stand the thought of losing me, but I, I am not going anywhere Eames. I am not a forgery, or a projection, or a shade. I am real, and I will love you for whomever you are.”
Trust, it is difficult to find, but as I sit here, holding your shaken shell, what hope is left lies in my hands. I brush away the dust and kiss your forehead. It breathes reminders into the embers left. “Robert . . .” you whisper, your voice finally yours, though it is weak, tired.
My fingers, they snare the last words, closing your cracked lips. “Do not apologize. Never.” These are the lives we have forged out of soft clay. The dust, it falls off you, hair gray as the suit.
Rain falls upon us, starts to wash away the layers. Warm and red, I remember that I am dying. “Come back,” I murmur. “Come back so that you can live again as the man you are instead of those you pretend to be.” Second chances are so rare, but I hold you and know, you will return to me.
You wake to my lips against yours, heated breath surrounding before one, final kiss. I continue further, passed the stubble along your cheek that I love how red it makes my skin to the chin that tickles my balls when you have my cock deep in your throat. Your neck is not slender, but I do not mind; it reacts just the same, a gasp of air as I suck deeper shades than the tanned canvas.
The shirt falls always quickly to each side of your chest, my fingers brushing against the curved plane of your breast to twist the nipple. Sharpness, I have found, is an equal pleasure, and your moans are lovely when delicate, needy. It is almost enough to continue until you come, but you beg for me, “Robert,” your desire evident. “Please.”
I pull out the needle and trace my tongue over the small wound, sucking upon the blood and bitter liquid. It trails down my throat and curls into my brain, latching onto dreams. Surreal, momentarily, the ache is painful, but you nevertheless writhe below my teeth as they drill greedily for such mirth. These thoughts, they are ours, and mine, you know.
Author:
the_azure_blueArtist:
ruins_of_sodomArtist's Post: HERE
Word Count: 7,000
Pairings/Characters: Eames/Robert, appearance by Browning
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: graphic sex, violence, disturbing imagery, dark themes
Summary Due to all of his forgeries, Eames loses his identity. At a rather climatic moment, Robert realizes this and tries to help. Although he knows nothing about dream sharing, he knows one thing, that Eames trusts him, but will it be enough?
Author's Note: This . . . piece . . . was . . . INSANE. But we made it! Through time zones and illness and LJ being a pain in the butt, WE MADE IT. HUZZAH. No, seriously, guys, thanks to everyone involved. You know who you are, and we love you to pieces for your epic madness and extraordinary passion. It's inspiring. Special thanks to my lovelies, y'all know who you are and how important you are to me and this project. Soundtrack post tells who is responsible for the lyrics. If you can't read them, blame me. <3
Soundtrack is HERE
One
It is hard to believe that we are where we are. I do not mean in the immediate. I stand here, far from you, beyond our loft door, down the stairs, out the front, and across the street. It is raining, and yet I here I am, back pressed along the wall, barefoot, tie on the floor to leave two buttons undone.
Breathing hard, I cannot . . . Eames . . .
I glance to our building, expectation of your pursuit, but it does not come. Paranoia settles, and I walk. Far from here, I run away.
It is four in the afternoon, and the doors swing open. I stand in the makeshift place for my father's decay, the smell of ammonia has already started to wipe clean what memories once lay. Uncle Peters footsteps are hard against the floor, weighed down by pressure, yet he stands tall. I hear him the distance, barely make out his voice, consciousness clung to the world out there rather than trapped here.
Just as my father, far gone.
But such reality brings us both back, strung high by cords that bury deep into flesh. His action is my reaction; sudden in his decline, I can only be subtle in mine. The chaos that brews around us is too much, so overwhelming that one more would be too much. So I remain, distant, closed off -
But you, you see me.
Four blocks away, I pass by the restaurant we spent our first date. The dinner had been rich and tender, the dessert decadent, and the wine aged to perfection. Although in being so, I cannot remember what had lay on the table, what clothes you had worn, or the conversation. Only after stays clear upon my mind, what had mattered the most beyond the common ground, the undercurrent that drew us together in passing and would not let go.
Rather than fight it, we drowned.
I breathe a sigh and turn around. My clothes are darker than they should be, wet with the evening rain. It clings, and I understand what it is to be uncomfortable. I run full sprint at the street crossing, knowing what it is like.
It is a month since you first saw me, weeks since we first spoke. My father lies in a metal box to be buried beside my mother and keep some form of fiction the public prefers. You have left a week before to attend the final documentations with Port and Dunn, and Uncle Peter stands already in Los Angeles for the preparations. I stand alone, a shade, hollow and sick. There is little that I have to do, but with his passing, knowing the days to come makes me ill. Each step is difficult, and I am grateful of this form of transport instead, to be unseen amongst strangers.
Then I see you. The world stops, I swallow thick the mucus sudden in my throat.
You, not seeing me, it is almost a relief in our passing. Even if I do miss the smell of your cologne.
The door swings open, and I return to the present, spun full circle from a waltz I walk with two, left feet. You no longer wait with ardent desire, so I cry for it: “Eames!” I search you out, my own fears of rejection surfacing. I understand, I know . . .
The bathroom lies empty, pristine. The cabinet untouched. The metal case closed and overbearing. I breathe. “Eames, where are you . . .”
“Right here,” you say, flat in tone, lost of its vibrancy, strange enough that I nearly jump out of my skin Behind me, you stand, bare as before, your eyes red.
“Oh, I am sorry,” I reply and move closer, inching because it aches with a stilted fear that clings to each muscle, turns cold to the bone. “Please, forgive me, have me . . .”
I am frozen again, in the past, as you reach out to me, grab hold of me. It hurts me.
A conversation goes off without a hitch, and I want to celebrate. My shoes are on the ground, one to the side, uncaring. The silk unravels next, fallen just as the shoes. Two buttons, and I hear the scuffle of footsteps. My hand pauses at the third.
You stand across from me, austere and ragged, I see the quivers beneath the curves, held back by muscles that do not want to snap. It brings chills to my spine, stiffens it to an ache. “Robert,” you say. “Robert, come here, yeah? Let me hold you . . .” You take a step forward, and I back. “What's wrong, darling? Is it my voice? I apologize. I have not slept since leaving here. I could not stop thinking of you, you see. The job, it . . .” Your lips press as my back does to the door. “Robert, please.”
“Are you high?” is my first reaction, and yours is to grab me. Fingers lace around the arm, lock and constrict. “Eames,” I manage to choke out, fear sudden along my body, I grow taut. “Please.”
“No, no, not the drug, Robert. I just need you. I need you.” Tighter still, my arm flares in sharp pains. I wince, and that moment of frailty is used. Your breath is hot against my neck, breaking vessels beneath skin printed by your teeth. My scream is unheard as you rub against me, smearing beads of come along my black slacks. “I need you, Robert,” you beg after although I am crying for you to let go. “I need to be inside of you.”
Your cock is hard and incessant, filling the depths to a rhythm that has me breathless in pain-wrecked moans. My eyes sting, but I hold onto the sheets and let you plunge into me, tearing through tight muscles that cling to you. Your bites, though infrequent, leave the reflected impressions that echo throughout my body. Red marks on what canvas that will turn purple, black and blue with aches that I will wear proud.
For now, though, I yell, “Fuck, Eames, fuck . . .” as come leaks all over my legs from orgasm.
Still, you do not join me. Not until the resounding, deeper pain tears into my inner thighs at your large hands taking muscle in fistfuls. It stings less than a surface connection, but bears the same result. My hands wrap around your wrists to pull away, unable to sound coherent words as I sob. The memory flashes before me, and I wonder if this is our becoming.
It is not until we lie in the bed together, your body fully in mine, that I hear your tears, too.
After the flood, there is the calm. The currents stop pushing us against rocks, and we are tangle in a bittersweet morning. My fingers move along the stubble of your chin, take in each curve and line, and you mumble in a voice still in the haze. I wonder if it is me that you recognize or someone else's face.
It does not matter, I find, when your eyes open and see only me.
“Morning,” I whisper and kiss your forehead. Two inches backward, and the palm takes control to halt and pull into your sour breath and warm tongue. Pulled away, and the wet hits my nose again.
“We,” you breathe, uncertain. “We need to talk.”
You tell me the lies, the deceit, the plans and the idea buried deep inside of my head. I am clothed without my shoes, but even as you admit that your return was not for admirable reason, I do not run out the door. “It was then, not now,” you confess, a mug of coffee, black, in your hand. “Do you believe me?”
I smile, “Yes.” Men have done worst things, lost themselves entirely, but you . . . I ask, “What can I do?”
“You?” I hear the disbelief, that you want to laugh. “Sorry, love, but this is for someone like Cobb or Arthur to handle.” You rise and set the cup down, head to the bedroom, not wanting to fight. “I will figure it out,” your voice trails. “You should carry on with the business, yeah?”
“No,” I trail, follow you. There are a leather-bound journal and silver-framed glasses that I sometimes wonder is your way of ciphering the few dreams you possess, or others in fact. Even myself, I begin to consider, but that does not matter. “We are going to figure this out together.”
My legs, sprawled over yours keep you down, but I doubt you will move. You are frozen there, not use to such desire. This is the first time I have been forward, and I think this is the first time any man has been so with you. Always the one in control, you do not know how to react. Your brows raise at my soft caress, but eventually, you nod consent at seeing the bruising bloomed upon my collarbone.
The first time, I lie on the bed, an hour after you prepare. Metal box open, the mechanics of it all is perplexing, a dream itself if I try to comprehend. It is your hand that keeps the trembling, uncertainty, of doing this. The stories I have heard about dream sharing stays away.
“I will be the dreamer,” you tell me. “You will come in as the subject, and I will meet you there.” Your fingers are warm against my balmy skin, the needle cold as it presses in. “It feels like ice, darling, but only for a moment.” Your promises are soft and reassuring, like the kiss upon rivulets that stain skin, first white then pink into deep purple and red. “I shall see you there.”
Endless, endless, are our minds. Infinite, the shadows woven to the night. They creep along and pull at our fears, regret, and pain. Lost we become in the depths. Alone upon the paved road. Lying still, unable to breathe, it almost becomes clear . . . “Eames . . .”
“Right here.”
Shadows fold back, long forgotten by more present concerns. I sit in the office of Fischer Morrow, at the desk that was to be mine. The rest of the building is vacated for the rest of the night. Papers are not stacked high or left in boxes. It is another, long night left to myself so that I can catch up, prove to my father, to Uncle Peter . . .
A knock ends this thought, and I turn to the door, “Come in.”
“Mr. Fischer,” you say upon entry. “Robert,” you add at the close. “Do you know what is going on?”
“Yes,” I murmur. This, it has nothing to do with tonight. You, you do not belong here, and I search the room, find more pieces that do not quite fit. “I think so.” The books, the kinds of pens that I use. “I'm dreaming.”
Time runs out, and you lie next to me. The world is a little hazy, like a memory I cannot quite recall, but bits and pieces are there. You are there. I turn to see your smile, those eyes optimistic again. You reach out and brush the side of my cheek to the chin. “What?” I ask.
“You did good,” you tell me. Three words rather than what you want to say, knowing my experience with dreams, my knowledge. I know.
The next you are less careful. Within an open street, vast by nameless faces, each staring at you, you ask me, “Robert, what are you afraid of?” Your hands hold mine, to remind them that you are not here to hurt me. The soothing note keeps them at bay.
“Water,” I whisper. “Endless, it can sweep around us, drown us in depths unknown. I still remember that meeting. It was raining out, and the cab . . .” They circle us, pull out weapons, guns, and I bring you close, bury my face. “Eames . . .”
Your fingers comb through my hair, but it stops, the weight along my scalp. “I love you.”
They fire.
Time is taken away from this work. We pack up our things, leave our cellphones, and drive. The road takes us to the highway and then an exit you choose simply from being tired. I lie back, next to you, to the sound of static from the radio, city changes blurring it again. In the corner of my eye, I see a glowing sign and pick it out because of one word: vacancy, bright and inviting.
While you turn on the television, I go out for some ice and sweets from the vending machine. It is at the turn that I see the pool, unattended and empty as the motel, one of many along this strip. Quietly, I set the bucket on a bench and walk the metal line between teal, ceramic tile and concrete.
The water comes sudden, unexpected, as I find myself thrown back to thoughts, contemplations. It is cold but comfortably so, but I flail about miserably until arms wrap around me. “Eames,” I scowl. “You idiot. Do you have any idea . . .”
“Shhhhh . . .” you bite my ear and reach beneath my trousers. “Trust me.”
It tastes of chlorine, stings my throat into coughs, but all is lost in this war with you. I let go in fear of drowning but realize soon we are far from such tragedy. I wrap around the side railing, the steps for my fingers to dig as yours fist my cock. Each breath is harsh as I try to hold back my moans, but in your entry, I no longer find reason.
The thrusts are as loud, sending ripples and splashes as you moan into my shoulder. Plastic and metal presses into my stomach, along the ribs as you work your way into me. “Robert,” you whine, nearing climax. Your hands along mine manage to pull white knuckles loose for grounding.
Away from me, I float, naked and silent until I remember my clothes, the watch, everything ruined, but you collecting them under one breath leaves me uncaring.
One week later, and you teach me about death. “Her hand can be cold, slow, and painful or quick,” you recall, having gone through it, over and over. “Pain, it is in the mind, so you can suffer long if it is not done right.” In your hand is a gun, the metal bright. “But when it is over, you will wake up.”
You pull the trigger.
I follow. The heat of the barrel last that I remember. It burns in my mind, this desire . . .
Such heat is not forgotten as you disappear again. I feel it burning into an ache that neither stops by alcohol or work. Rather, it fills with knowledge, knowing more about you, what you do.
At my feet is a book, black and bound with white pages blank except for the scrawls upon waking. Black ink for first thoughts, red for reference, and blue for final thoughts, it reminds me of the notes taken in college. On one of the shelves is a dictionary I dare not mention the purchase of. Of dreams, the meanings, of Carl Gustav Jung and Sigmund Freud. There are Post-It Notes that mark each moment of interest.
Every idea starts somewhere, stems from something. I wonder how well you knew, to cultivate what you told me. But there are no paper trials, so I wait.
Days pass, and I wait. By twenty-four hours, I am able to resume my research and talk to prospective partners again. The first week, I break from my appointments and wait by the phone. It is all you can give me, that satisfaction of knowing you are okay by a single call. Four rings, I do not even get to pick up and tell you I miss you, I love you . . .
Four rings, and I have none. I wait by the door, inhaling half-finished cigarettes to calm my nerves. The smoke does more than the nicotine, the coughing allowing in-take, the taste of your lips tainted by the nasty habit upon my lips. I start to wonder if I should contact someone and wait. The thought of others taking you away so solid in my head that I toss and turn from nightmares. Calls are made without answering. Messages without returns. By the end of the week, I search your belongings for names I remember.
None become available to me.
The door opens days after, and in the foyer, your shoulder bag falls. It wakes me, and I meet you in the living room, nearly catch you. “Eames . . .” I whisper and lift your body up, an arm over mine.
“Robert,” you murmur. “This is not right.”
“It will be,” I return. Conviction holds in my voice to keep it still as I lie you onto the bed and go to the door for the PASIV. It lies in the center of clothes, worn shirts and other belongings. Your breathing is heavy to the rise and fall of your chest, crushing the lungs. “What happened?” I ask at the click.
“I do not remember.”
“What do you remember?”
Eyes close, and you recall, “Dark fields of rice blaze in the night. We could barely breathe. Our point man was shot first. Then the extractor.” Tighter still, I brush my fingers along knuckles. A firm grasp takes hold before he adds, “It was my fault. I was to become the mark's wife, but her eyes . . .”
The needle shows no response, nor does my kiss to hush his salty voice. “Shh . . .” I coo. “I will find you.”
It's five o'clock in the afternoon. Rush hour. New York City, I believe. Everyone is out of their glass prisons, moving in a vast catalyst that his humanity. It is always amazing to watch. I take a break from my work and follow the stream out through the lobby. 5th Avenue and Burke. So many people. Pinstripe suits and fitted skirts. Pearls and Rolex watches. Cellphones bring messages from far away places, leaving the body's natural responses to react from ebb and flow to not cause congestion. Muscle memory. I think on one person in particular, his description not mattering as much as the conversation. I imagine that he is me, and the other is you. We are talking about dinner tonight, to remain civil in our skins as we waltz through public streets, no one suspicious of the secret truth in our eyes.
Then I see him, the first note of someone different, a memory within the dream. My uncle is amongst the strangers although we have not spoken in almost a year. Shock brings me swiftly to him, then anger as I grab his hand, “What is the meaning of this?”
“Robert,” he stops, blinking. “What are you doing here?”
“You never returned my calls . . .” My voice cools, levels out to nothing, naturally how I react these days to him. “What is this?” He knows. “Some sort of sick joke?”
“Joke? Robert, I was on my way to Fischer Morrow, to sign documents for Port and Dunn. Do you not remember? Your father's funeral arrangements --”
“Were over a year ago,” I cut off, but then a second presence halts our argument. “Excuse me.” The crowd does not ease, a sea of endless faces that makes it utterly difficult to follow, but who can forget her? The golden blonde hair, that face, that dress. My hand shoots out like an anchor, and she the earth because I know. How, is unknown, but I know . . . “Eames?”
I am wrong. She jerks away, halting the projections and forgeries alike. They stare with her, and I whisper, “Oh, I apologize, miss. I thought . . .” Deep breaths, softly spoken, “I thought that you were someone else.”
It seems to be enough, for the stream of consciousness continues, as if I never caused the ripple. I try to remain as such, below the perceptions of a man I know is trained to sense, to know, someone else is there. I believe that it is because you sense that it is me, are willing to accept it, and search out with that confidence.
The city is vast, endless, and I barely able to know where to go, except for the finer details. They are pieces that I recognize in you, that you in me, an understanding that binds us together further. We are creatures of habit, but we hold it closer, keep a repeat, a ritual, that broken might have startling consequences. Like changing a man completely, ending an empire, you have the same, secrets that if changed would change you, and I find them in a warehouse similar to the one I was taken to.
Your defenses are left wide open door unlocked, exposed so that I can slip by. A calling, I think – Eames, what is it that you want to show me?
Barren, it is in various forms of decay except for a three-way mirror, oak and pristine. You stand in front of it, wearing your tailored, grey blue suit I remember from all those months ago. Your hair slicked back, you are in perfect form except for one detail. I can see it faintly. There are cracks along your skin, like a layer falling away, breaking to become someone else, or to reveal someone else. Quiet, I watch you dab at a silver, aged compact and apply foundation. It covers the flaws, fixes the seams, but I wonder. I want to know more and step closer, wanting so much to see what you are hiding, but someone stops me.
I try to pull away, but two hands now. “Eames!” Four. “Daniel!” Six. They tear at my jacket, pull at my hair, scrape skin, while you stand there, so distant. My screams are silent to your deaf ears, unheard until the moment familiar arms wrap around my torso. “Uncle Peter . . .” I choke, my lungs too constricted to properly speak. “Please . . .”
Your projection is different from my own, my knowledge, these memories I cannot speak with you, utter the truth that though I confide in him, my only family, there are layers, too.
But it is enough, that singular tell, the change in voice, awakens the stiff nerves in your body. “Robert,” you respond quietly, and in steps, mere seconds, you are near, distant only because of other bodies in our way. “Robert!” you push, shove them, but one knows, and there is a knife.
“No!” I close my eyes to avoid it, as death takes you away, but it cannot be. You crash to the ground, and the world shakes. It falls apart.
The dream is collapsing, and I, nowhere to go. Suddenly, I am thrown back, taken flight to crash to the ground. Loud yells escape the people, the last fetters of to you. Even in your escape, you manage to keep some control, although it is chaotic, a cacophony of noise.
“Robert, you son of a bitch,” one yells.
“Bloody hell,” another, followed by cursing about my intrusion.
They are all the same. Though their voices might be different, the message remains profound. I am not welcome. I try to find sanctuary, to find somewhere to hide until time runs out, but some begin to converge, take action in emotion instead of pure, vocalized anger. One catches my wrist, another my shirt again. “Eames!” I cry out, hoping that somewhere inside of this hollow display still lingering with your presence, you will stop. “Please, for fuck's sake.” It hurts, and I am not a virus. They should not fight me, but even so they drag me down to the ground. My head collides with concrete over and over until warmth is felt against my scalp.
I groan, lost in the tempest surrounding, and let it drag me until you pull me forth.
“Robert.” Times up, but you hold me still, continue to thrash me about like an angry, madman. Your eyes lost of any of that light, clouded, not quite yourself. “What the hell were you thinking? Bastard!” His strength pulls me up, high enough this time that the needle slips out. Blood trickles, but I have more important sensations. The weight of my body sinks into the bed as you push me in. His knuckles press against my chest enough to sting, likely bruise by morning. “Robert,” you repeat. “You idiot.”
I fight, futile and frantic, my first responses muscle memory of times before. It does nothing, and I lie there helpless to the actions of another man. My own defenses slip, eyes close as I try to think of something else. Anything. This is not you, I tell myself. This is not you. But I can smell your cologne, the aftershave, and hear your voice. “Sorry,” I begin instead through gritted teeth, trembling lips. Repeated over and over even after I am still, the weight gone.
Physically so, but it takes a moment, minutes actually, to open my eyes tightly shut, seeing stardust that clouds my vision, unclench my hands, let the blood run into my white knuckles. I wait until there is the rustle of fabrics beyond the door near. You are taking a shower, or plan on it without an invitation.
You sit across from me the next morning having slept on the couch. Exhausted, achy, I feel the same having tossed and turned without your weight. The black coffee sits on the table, but you do not take a sip. You barely move to recognize me, the salt and pepper shakers seemingly taking more presence and with them. At least until I sit opposite to you. “Robert . . .” you whisper, shakily. Your hand stretches out to me, “Bloody hell, your neck . . .”
Retracts, but I catch it in my steel grip. “Give it a few days to heal,” I lie, knowing it'll be longer. “I have already contacted the office, my meetings, they know where I need to be.”
“No,” you pull away. “I'm calling Cobb, and Arthur. They'll . . .” you stand up, certain. “They'll know what to do.”
“Bullshit they will,” I follow you to the bedroom. “They might have experience, sure, but none of them know you like I do.” Stop you before reaching the closet, to the bags, your things. My hand grabs your arm, and while you try to fight me, I am stronger now than I was before.
I have reason.
You turn to face me without your consent, my hands locked around your chin. “I love you, Eames. You might not be able to say it here, but I can, for us both, because I know. I know.” Because I caused this collapse in you. This, it is all my fault.
Another month later, and you lie on the bed, staring, “Are you sure?”
“As sure as I was five minutes ago when you asked,” I smile. Your sleeve rolls up to expose the dots that mark your arm in red, swollen puffs. These last, few days have been exhausting in our preparation, both mentally and physically, but even so I bend down and kiss it, run my tongue along the veins, the joint to a sharp exhale. “I'm not afraid. You should believe this.” The needle slips in. “You were the one that showed me how.”
It has been said a dozen times before, in a ritual I do not mind repeating. Whatever it takes, I tell myself while I lie next to you, let you drift of to sleep. In these shadows, I will not have you to guide me through. Not your hand, but your presence, knowing, somewhere. “I will find you.”
That man I remember all that time before. The one that watches, studies, and connects. The mind, it thinks it is all for the research, but somewhere beneath the surface intentions lies deeper desires. That is why you came back. That is . . .
Gun shots. Screeching tires. The smell of death in the air. All this through darkness, veiled by canvas, desensitized except for your touch. I grasp onto it for some security. It is against my heart, breathing hard, floods my vision in a red haze of nausea that knots in my stomach. Kidnapper. Protector. Eames. Mixed signals.
More important alive.
Better off dead.
Turns sharp send our bodies flying. Metal presses through leather and cloth, bruising skin as your weight crashes into me. “Robert,” you whisper. “Get out of here.”
“No,” this, it is not you.
Sudden, the door opens, and I am launched out, as if it might save me. In the corner of my sight, I catch a glimpse and scream, “Eames!” A train comes barreling through the central line, hits dead center, shreds metal and gore too fine to call a twisted wreckage.
Falling, I cover my face as I dodge back into reality. The sidewalk pavement now the fine, smoothed concrete of our loft’s home.
“That is,” I murmur once the shakes stop and swallow the stained mucus from blood released by a bitten tongue. “That is quite the defense.”
We are not through.
The streets, they wind unexpectedly. Sharp turns. Dead ends. A wide opening spills into traffic. Huddled masses, shoulder-to-shoulder. You could get lost here, and I almost do. At the crosswalk, you take an opening that I cannot follow. I breathe heavily in my pause and cry out, “Eames!”
You do not hear me. You never do.
By the next space, you are too far away, but I continue onward into the landscape forbidden to people like me. Marks. Targets. Upon hit, we should fall to the ground and die. There should be no mourning of our passing, no notice of our change, or care in our resurrection. The alchemy is of your hands, but these dreams are yours alone, I to be but a moment, temporary.
Yet I was not. At that thought, the sand becomes more fine, cools into fog just as obscuring. Buildings more modern stand strong and brilliant, shimmering in the night once day. Cobblestone lies beneath my feet, and in front of me, I see the mailbox. The name unheard of before, and forgotten by my waking, I feel the urge to intrude, as if summoned by another and the need to have me here.
These are not my dreams. They are memories. Yours.
An office far back holds few furnishings, the papers scattered along the bureau taking more presence. I run my fingers over them, the profiles and photographs, snapshots crystal clear next to letters and documentation blacked out, censored. My hospital records, attempted suicide. Psychiatric evaluations. Medications. It is no wonder you held me so gentle before my sleeves unrolled to dreams, a chance to be taken away.
Most bold are those of me, my father, Uncle Peter. Notes scrawled on paper.
I pull away. This is not you. Or rather, I realize at the touch of the wallpaper, that it was at one point, another time, long ago, lost in layers of time. My finger scrapes along a crack, tearing it away with this belief. I find no doubt as your projections continue their routine paths outside.
It peels away to a motel room. Rusted window, I feel the smooth glass along my finger tips and run across it. There, on the bed, I see your journal, and beside it the silver-framed spectacles. “Eames,” I whisper. “What are you trying to tell me?”
The sky turns dark from my questions, thunder calling my attention; I turn to see this is no longer the cobblestone cityscape but an empty wasteland, no man's land except for your own. At the edge of my perspective is the hotel sign, faded with paint chipping and bulbs burned out. No cars line the parking lot, not a single person in sight, not even you. Only me, yet I hear it off in the distance. “No.” Cars racing across asphalt, gun shots. I cover my ears. “This is not happening. You will not have to hide this from me.” My lips tremble, but I whisper, “I love you.”
Slowly, I listen and hear your warning. Loud and clear, you use what I am scared of the most to protect yourself, still more terrified than I. My hand opens up to catch the raindrops, let it pool into pages. As I watch, it turns. The catalyst of you and me creates an alchemy, the impossible except for in these dreams.
From the sky pours fragments of memories, tiny pieces of paper, like dots to be connected into one, great composition. If I listen carefully, I can hear it, these words on paper you never let me see. Original and pure, you hide them because once, like me, your ideas were not accepted so easily.
“Can I see the journal?”
“What?” Your hand takes mine. “No.” Holding me back . . .
“Eames . . .”
You take a long drag of your cigarette and hand it to me. I am wrong about before. It catches on, and I press my lips to the paper while you comb your fingers though my hair. “Before I joined the military, I wrote. Quite frequently, in fact. Poetry occasionally, short stories, and this idea in my head that I thought someday could get published, you know? Possibly in scripts. My father did not fancy the idea that much. He had it all planned on. After school, I served, and after that it was off to help with investigations and the sort. He was proud upon his deathbed of me - lung cancer,” you laugh, but I can hear the haunted undercurrent pass beneath it, wrap its dark tendrils. “And eventually, I stopped because the job doesn’t leave much room for anything else.”
“Including me,” I murmur before a puff. The cigarette is gone from my lips and replaced by yours, your tongue claiming it and me. The thought drifts away, like a far off memory, attached to others of my past, rather than my future, here.
“I love you,” you whisper, and I taste salt on my lips.
It is all that I need to hear.
Formless, silent and still. Apathy hangs in the air, like fog thick and gray. Motionless, stagnant. It calms me, filling my airways an odorless drug. Cold, I do not tremble. It is more like numb, moving passed the point of feeling. Uncaring.
Endless, I squint to focus through, to see the mirrors. Water beneath my feet, reflections framed in brass echo nothing, glass as large as windows, small as decanters to hold clear, tasteless liquid.
I fear breaking it all, so I walk stilted, my lips pressed shut, sealed. Until I reach a scene on repeat, the room so vibrant that I could be standing there. The smell of ammonia fills my nostrils, I cough and cover my mouth. Rhythmic beeps communicate through wires connected to a bag of bones, the flesh nearly fallen in decay. “Father,” I murmur, too caught in the observation to move, but it feels so real, as if I touch it, I could slide through, complete. Time will turn back. The idea is as exciting as it is horrifying.
In the distance, I hear someone speaking. It is an associate of my uncle’s. From behind, I see the gathered confidants, lawyers, and their assistants. One in particular, you, sit there with your legal pad and pen. “Eames . . .” I whisper, and realize then, spin around to see me, standing there, by the window before my father thrashes about in a half-lucid babble, the fever taken most of his mind, his body, his life.
Shutting my eyes, I turn again to find you, but you are gone. The moment is gone, the mirror a reflection infinite from the one across from it except for the pristine perfect image. Chiseled chin, sharp as you adore, high cheekbones stained in tears, blue-gray eyes turning red, I am here, alone.
I cannot find you.
A little deeper, at least I think I am. These paths are unspoken, tread too lightly to form. Circles, perhaps, or a continuous line. After hours, minutes, moments, I mutter, “Fine.” Irritation sparks red across metallic surfaces, conviction solid as the knife I hold in my hand. “Do you remember when we first woke up together?” I ask. “You told me death will bring you back, but pain . . . it is in the mind, lasting . . .” my voice it falters, my hand trembles, but still my palm is open, the edge clean as it cuts.
Nothing.
Teeth grit. Seconds after, I spit salt in my phlegm, “Fuck you,” to cover the loss in my fingers, white. Another cut, deeper, catches more than the surface. It digs, releasing blood that spills freely. “Eames.”
But someone else steps from behind the mirrors. “Robert,” my uncle says, uncertain at first. “Robert, what are you doing?” Sudden in realization now, he runs over, swift and to his knees. A hand clamps over the limp hand, to break off the circulation. He sees how weak it is. “Robert, what have you done . . .”
“Stop this.”
“Stop – what are you speaking of, Robert?” He shakes his head, but I can see it. The cracks. The shades in his eyes. “You are delirious, son.”
I see you, and reach up to dab your cheek with warm, wet blood. It smears into a cake-like substance, powder turned wet, and Uncle Peter's skin more tan. “I am not. I know you are afraid. You cannot stand the thought of losing me, but I, I am not going anywhere Eames. I am not a forgery, or a projection, or a shade. I am real, and I will love you for whomever you are.”
Trust, it is difficult to find, but as I sit here, holding your shaken shell, what hope is left lies in my hands. I brush away the dust and kiss your forehead. It breathes reminders into the embers left. “Robert . . .” you whisper, your voice finally yours, though it is weak, tired.
My fingers, they snare the last words, closing your cracked lips. “Do not apologize. Never.” These are the lives we have forged out of soft clay. The dust, it falls off you, hair gray as the suit.
Rain falls upon us, starts to wash away the layers. Warm and red, I remember that I am dying. “Come back,” I murmur. “Come back so that you can live again as the man you are instead of those you pretend to be.” Second chances are so rare, but I hold you and know, you will return to me.
You wake to my lips against yours, heated breath surrounding before one, final kiss. I continue further, passed the stubble along your cheek that I love how red it makes my skin to the chin that tickles my balls when you have my cock deep in your throat. Your neck is not slender, but I do not mind; it reacts just the same, a gasp of air as I suck deeper shades than the tanned canvas.
The shirt falls always quickly to each side of your chest, my fingers brushing against the curved plane of your breast to twist the nipple. Sharpness, I have found, is an equal pleasure, and your moans are lovely when delicate, needy. It is almost enough to continue until you come, but you beg for me, “Robert,” your desire evident. “Please.”
I pull out the needle and trace my tongue over the small wound, sucking upon the blood and bitter liquid. It trails down my throat and curls into my brain, latching onto dreams. Surreal, momentarily, the ache is painful, but you nevertheless writhe below my teeth as they drill greedily for such mirth. These thoughts, they are ours, and mine, you know.
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no subject
Date: 2011-04-11 04:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-11 01:07 pm (UTC)Thank you, darling. <3 As always, it was a pleasure poking you.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-11 12:30 pm (UTC)i can feel the love and the struggle
no subject
Date: 2011-04-11 01:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-12 04:20 pm (UTC)Generally speaking, I have to say that this fic is a huge improvement over some of your other more recent stuff. I think having a beta really helped in terms of clarity, pacing, SPAG errors that would otherwise be distracting, etc.
It was a good read.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-12 06:55 pm (UTC)A lot of stuff has been hit and miss. I'm glad this wasn't one of those, that my feeling distant, unknown, didn't get to me. Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-13 04:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-13 04:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-13 04:30 am (UTC)I like your idea of Eames writing a lot, stories, poetry. I believe being a forger has a lot to do with imagination.
His headspace, man. It's such a mess but you carried it beautifully. <3
no subject
Date: 2011-04-13 07:32 pm (UTC)YAY! I do love writing the crazy ones, lol. Seriously, though, Eames was a lot of fun, and I wouldn't have thought about disassociation from forgery without that prompt. It's neat. I've always seen forger not as the kind that imitates but creates, although it's still strange in my head with all the water metaphors instead of fire since forges use heat to mold metal, etc. But that's just me being odd again. <3
no subject
Date: 2011-04-16 12:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-18 03:03 pm (UTC)