
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/233128.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Inception_(2010)
  Relationship:
      Arthur/Eames_(Inception)
  Character:
      Eames_(Inception), Arthur_(Inception), Ariadne_(Inception), Dom_Cobb,
      Robert_Fischer
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Apocalypse, Community:_ae_match, Alternate_Universe_-
      Apocalypse, Underage_Character, Teenagers, Violence, Death_References,
      team-angst, Challenge_Response, Alternate_Universe_-_Dystopia
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-08-02 Completed: 2011-10-03 Chapters: 11/11 Words: 27615
****** All Is Violent, All Is Bright ******
by lezzerlee
Summary
     Apocalypse AU / a.k.a bb!Survival / a.k.a. cockblockalypse!
     In post-apocalyptical Vancouver, young Arthur learns how to survive
     ... with Eames.
Notes
     Thanks to night_reveals for the beta on this story!
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Arthur’s stomach growls angrily as he trudges through fallen branches near the
edge of the forest. It’s been two days since he’s eaten anything, winter
leaving nothing but bitter pine needles and soggy bark to chew on. He hasn’t
seen a rodent in days, let alone trapped one, and he’d eaten the last of his
opossum days ago.
He knows that he needs to venture into the city to scavenge for supplies, but
the skeleton of civilization is dangerous to navigate. There are pockets of
whatever chemicals and dangers were released from the destruction still lurking
in the ruins. Even with the crumbling cascade of buildings creating rubble to
hide behind, the streets leave him in the open, vulnerable to attack. There are
many predators left, ones willing to venture into the streets searching for
food, and it’s much easier to hide between trees, darting and climbing away
from danger, than it is finding a spot in a building that won’t fall on top of
him to moment he steps foot inside.
He’d lost Greg that way, this summer, trying to hide from a wandering grizzly
bear before it caught sight of them. The bears will wait for days if they sense
prey. They’ll wait until their target is too starved to do anything but emerge
to the threat of deadly teeth in order to find water or food. He and Greg had
sprinted to the nearest building, scrambling inside the broken walls. Greg had
fallen through the fragile boards of the floor, twisted body landing on the
cement of the basement thirty feet below. He’d gone through two levels but was
still alive, crying out in pain and choking on his own blood. Arthur couldn’t
do anything to help. There was no way down, and even if Arthur could reach him,
no way to haul his friend up. If he had rope he might have had a chance, but
really he was too small to lift Greg. Arthur still didn’t quite break one
hundred forty pounds and Greg weighed so much more.
He spent the night quietly trying to console his friend into silence as to not
draw the attention of smaller predators, ones that could weave their way inside
the decaying building. In the morning Greg had fallen quiet, though Arthur knew
he wasn’t dead. Listening to the ragged breathing and fearful whimpers bounce
off the concrete below, Arthur stayed another night. The morning after, when
Greg wouldn’t respond to his calls and his chest fell still, Arthur finally
left, a ball of acid eating at his stomach. He hadn’t been sure if it was guilt
or hunger. It was probably both.
He remembers hunting lessons with his dad as they cleaned their rifles,
discussing what he should do if he encountered something like a bear or a wolf
while out in the forest. He’d been told to make himself as big as possible,
create as much noise as possible, use sticks and pans or a gun. “You have to be
scarier than they are,” his father had said. At the time he had thought it was
truly possible, that he could somehow be mightier than any beast that he might
encounter.
He smiles wryly at the memory as he repairs the fletching on a few of his
arrows. He knows now that the pretending to be bigger method doesn’t really
work. Every creature is desperate for food, and he thinks that the bears have
somehow grown much larger than he remembered ever seeing them as a kid. Maybe
it’s because he doesn’t have his father’s solid presence to give him strength.
His best bet is to avoid them, his second is a well placed projectile to a
vital organ. At least with coyotes or cougars that’s the case — a bullet still
won’t take down a charging bear.
He has a camp out in the forest, stocked with fabric and supplies. His food box
is empty but he does have a water retrieval system that’s mostly meant for
summer since the rainy winter has never left him wanting for it. He also has
paper for sketching that is filled with buildings drawn from memory, ones that
will never exist again, no one left to build them. Every once in a while he
ventures into the library to pick through what’s left of the unburned books. He
can only carry one at a time, the room in his pack saved for food, ammunition,
and any other practical things he can manage to find.
Arthur stalks through the streets, rifle propped up against one shoulder and
bag loosely hanging from his other. He’s already crossed the bridge into the
the city from his area in the North, hoping as he navigated the holes and
exposed rebar that it didn’t fall anytime soon. He’s not sure he could manage
rowing across the inlet by himself when he needed to venture into the city for
supplies. It would tack on an extra day of travel time as well. There is no way
he can walk his way around, to enter by land. Not with how little food he can
carry in his pack and still have room for what he finds later.
As he treads his way through the ruined city streets, his eyes dart back and
forth, looking for trouble and looking for buildings he hasn’t searched yet. He
has to venture farther into the city each time he makes the trek. He’ll have to
camp somewhere tonight, and he vigilantly looks for a spot he could tuck away
in as he makes his way towards the city’s center.
A few quick searches inside houses he hasn’t hit before has only turned out few
extra blankets and some pants that won’t fall off his narrow hips. He needs new
shoes, but ones that fit are rare. He hasn’t found any unspoiled food yet
today. He’s passing by the oil refinery and has to shrug his heavy coat off.
The complex caught fire just over two weeks ago and still burns, releasing heat
and acrid smoke into the air. It’s somewhat pleasant against the wet cold of
winter, but in order to be near it he has to wear his mask and goggles.
As he’s making his way along the abandoned streets, he keeps his eyes open for
trouble. There are few survivors, here and there, camps of them even, but they
aren’t friendly to outsiders. They’re not willing to take on the extra burden
of feeding another body and will readily kill him for his supplies.
Arthur picks his way along, gas mask making his face hot an clammy as hot
breath bounces back on his face. He’s not finding much until suddenly a rat
scurries from beneath the rubble in front of him. Immediately he chases after
it, digging a small slingshot out his pocket and wishing he had a box with him
to capture it. It’s hard to aim through the goggles he wears and he wishes the
smoke wasn’t so thick so he could pull them off.  He’s careful not to disturb
anything that looks like a support structure as he chases after the rat.
Finally he has it cornered up against a fragmented wall when someone comes
tumbling over the bricks scaring the rat away as they collapse in a heap of
limbs and fabric. Arthur yelps with surprise before gathering his wits about
him enough to lose the measly slingshot and aim his rifle instead.
“Bollocks,” exclaims the person as they scramble off the ground. Arthur’s aim
doesn’t waver as he waits for what is apparently a young boy to get to his
feet. The boy freezes when he realizes Arthur is there, holding a gun aimed
squarely at his chest.
“Whoa, whoa, take it easy, mate,” his muffled voice says as he raises his hands
in a placating gesture. Arthur doesn’t budge. “I got no problem with you, I’m
just looking to get out of here, yeah?” Arthur can’t tell exactly what accent
he has due to the kid’s gas mask, but there definitely is one.
“Fucking kid! I’ll skin you alive!” Someone shouts from behind the wall.
The kid flinches, shoulders tensing before he suddenly lunges forward and grabs
Arthur’s wrist before Arthur can properly react or defend himself. He yanks
Arthur at a dead run behind him and Arthur follows, helplessly pulled along. He
shouldn’t be following but doesn’t want to stick around and meet whomever was
screaming threats.
The kid leads him for a good six blocks before Arthur has the sense to try and
break free from his grip. He’s winded and a little confused, heart is racing,
veins pulsing with adrenaline at the fast escape. He tugs his arm away and
stops, shoving his goggles and mask off to get a cool breath of air now that
they’re farther away from the refinery.
The kid pulls off his mask, grinning, full lips stretched wide over his teeth.
He slings his rifle across his shoulders casually and Arthur suddenly notices
the tattoos that wind down his arm. Arthur realizes that the kid is more his
age than he first thought, probably older. He’s in a tank top, despite the
winter, and wears chains hanging from his neck. Arthur doesn’t really pay
attention to what the chains have on them, he’s a little too angry at the
moment and he’s still sucking gulps of air into his burning lungs.
“Sorry about that. Not a good person to run into, didn’t want to leave you
behind.” The kid smiles again and Arthur sees that his teeth are slightly
crooked but very white.
“You …  asshole,” Arthur hisses when he can finally breathe. “You fucking
scared off my dinner!”
“I’m really sorry, mate. I was in a bit of a scrape though, couldn’t be
helped.”
“Who the fuck was that?”
“No one, someone who doesn’t like me much.”
Arthur’s brows furrow in frustration and his stomach growls at him again. He
feels a bit lightheaded after the running. He hasn’t had enough to eat to
sustain that kind of physical activity. The kid looks truly apologetic upon
hearing the angry noises coming from Arthur’s body.
“C’mon,” he says. “I know of a place.”
 
[Top: Young Arthur scowls in a painter's fume mask with a rifle perched on his
shoulder. In the background, industrial buildings burn. Bottom: Young Eames
grins as he pulls off his military gas mask, he has a rifle strewn casually
over his shoulders.]
art by datingwally
Chapter End Notes
     Big thanks neomeruru for helping me out with details of Vancouver.
     I'm sure I messed things up anyway.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter by sparrow_hubris_(lezzerlee)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Arthur would be amused at the phrase, the kid making it sound like he’s taking
him to his favorite restaurant. But he’s really too hungry to muster up a sense
of humor. He follows though, the promise of food outweighing his mistrust for
the moment. His stomach feels like it’s eating itself away.
They walk in silence for a while, warily watching their surroundings, and
Arthur realizes they’re deeper into the city than he’s ever traveled on foot
before. A pang of fear courses through his veins at the thought of losing his
way in the burned out streets, but his stomach growls again and he pushes the
worry away as he wonders where he’s being led.
“M’name’s Eames.” The kid says as they pick their way through the rubble,
circling around the massive craters in the center of the city. Arthur thinks
about not answering, still unsure exactly what he’s doing following a stranger
into the city. Eames could be a cannibal for all he knows, leading him along
with the promise of food, only to kill him and turn him into dinner later. But
Eames seems genuine, so far as Arthur can tell, and so he answers thinking that
if he acts like a dick, Eames will leave him behind.
“I’m Arthur,” he says quietly.
“Arthuurrr,” Eames drawls, rolling the end of this name over his tongue like
he’s tasting it. “I like it. It’s classic.”
His voice is deep, smokey even, and Arthur thinks that Eames must be older than
him after all. His own voice still cracks embarrassingly when he sings, or gets
startled. Arthur scowls, wondering if Eames is making fun of his name. He knows
it’s dated; he had been teased plenty of times in grade school. But Eames
doesn’t say anymore than that so Arthur lets go of the retort he had ready:
what kind of name is Eames?
They finally seem to arrive where Eames is leading him. They’re outside a
rather miserable looking set of what probably used to be nice houses. There are
still solid brick chimneys, but the roofs are completely collapsed; the wood of
the walls is charred and fragile, barely standing upright. The trees that lined
the road are are gnarled husks, reaching out like dark fingers into the empty
sky.
“Wait here,” Eames says. Then he’s off, making his way inside the skeletal
frame of a house. Arthur stays, watching the street for danger. After some
time, enough to make Arthur fidget, Eames emerges with his backpack drooping
heavily and an armful of canned food.
He sighs when he hands the cans he’s holding over to Arthur. “Last of that
stash. Bit of a hoarder this one was, but I’ve been coming here often.”
Arthur takes the cans and puts them in his own bag. He’s very confused as to
why Eames is giving him food. He wouldn’t do the same if their positions were
switched. Arthur knows just how rare finding unspoiled food is, so he doesn’t
turn down the offer, though he would not risk his own life being charitable to
someone he doesn’t even know.
Arthur shoulders his pack and starts to head back towards the refinery. He has
a method to searching houses, a grid he’s planned out so that he can easily
remember which ones still have useful supplies and which ones are completely
tapped of all resources.
“Hey, wait up.” Eames says, and Arthur sees that he’s shrugging on a military
jacket. Arthur can see faded yellow and red and knows it’s German surplus. It
hugs his shoulders snugly. It’s obvious that the jacket is something Eames has
owned a long time, probably before the bombing. “Where are you headed?” Eames
asks. Arthur is roused from his moment of staring.
“I have to find some supplies,” Arthur answers. He thinks that it’s a stupid
question. Where is anyone headed nowadays if not to find food, or clothing, or
weapons?
“What are you in the market for? I could keep my eye out for it,” Eames offers.
Arthur looks at him skeptically.
“I’m fine on my own, thanks,” He says, and he starts to turn away. He doesn’t
need Eames tagging along, privy to supply stashes, or taking half of anything
they find. Arthur really can’t risk it, even if Eames did give him some of his
food supply.
“Humor me, please. I haven’t seen anyone, besides that arsehole who was chasing
me, in months. Especially not someone my age. So, what are you looking for?”
Arthur sighs. Eames has a point. Arthur also hasn’t seen anyone in months and
it is kind of nice to be reminded that he’s not the only one out here. The
world is depressing enough, but he still holds out some hope that people will
come back, or he’ll run into a group that is friendly. It’s unlikely, but
Arthur has to hope that he won’t always be alone. Not that he can’t handle it
though. He’s been fine since the summer on his own. He’s survived, even if his
only escape from the hardship of life now is books he’s read repeatedly and
drawings of buildings destroyed by the blasts.
“I need waterproofing for my shelter,” he supplies. It really is a mistake to
let Eames tag along, but he hasn’t had any voice besides his own in his head
for a long time. And he finds that Eames’ accent is surprisingly pleasant. It
really wouldn’t be too much trouble to hang out with Eames for a day.
“Right, waterproofing. Anything else?” Eames seems pleased by Arthur’s
decision, giddy almost with his offer to help.
Arthur rubs at his wrist nervously, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket and
lists out a few things he’s been searching for lately: shoes, plastic,
ammunition, and fishing supplies. Eames seems to be listening intently. When
he’s finished his list they head back towards Gastown, trekking around the
craters. Arthur doesn’t continue with his grid, not with Eames here, so he
starts somewhere new. It goes against everything he believes to break the
system, one that had been working so well up until now. He memorizes the area
they search, placing it in a new grid, one he can plot out later.
Eames doesn’t stop talking the entire way there. “Have you ran into any
zombies?” he asks, wrists hanging loosely across the rifle draped on his
shoulders. “I haven’t. I thought all apocalypses were supposed to have zombies,
or at least motorcycle gangs.”
“You watch too many movies,” Arthur says.
“Wouldn’t that be great though? If it actually happened? Nobody thought this
could happen, so why not the walking dead?”
“People thought this could happen,” Arthur replies. “That’s what the whole cold
war was, people thinking about the other side bombing them.”
“Yeah but that’s The States, mate.” Eames says. “Who would bomb Canada?”
Arthur doesn’t have a good answer for that.
“Maybe it was aliens,” Eames says. “Maybe they came down to catalogue the
world, saw what a shite-hole humans made of it, and decided to get rid of it.
Like wiping a stain out of the universe. I bet they took all the dolphins with
them, saving the smartest species, and left the rest of us here to die. But
then, something went wrong, they miscalculated or something, and the whole
world wasn’t obliterated, just some of it was destroyed.”
Arthur smiles despite himself at Eames’ ridiculous, rambling theory. He
recognizes a bit of Hitchhiker’s Guide in there, but doesn’t point it out.
Eames is obviously excited about having someone to talk to. Arthur doesn’t want
to ruin it for him. He can even admit that it’s nice having someone around, for
a few hours, even if said person is prone to wild and improbable theories.
It’s late morning the next day when Arthur decides to head back. They had both
slept fretfully on the hard, uneven ground next to a demolished building.
Arthur needs to cross the bridge before dark, not trusting himself to navigate
the gaps in its crumbling form at night. He has most of the holes memorized,
but it’s stupid and unnecessary to take the chance. If he heads back now, he’ll
have the afternoon to organize and maybe do some repairs.
He has to shake Eames off somehow. He doesn’t want to lead him back to his
camp. Eames seems like a nice guy, had shared his food and helped gather
supplies, but Arthur doesn’t trust him. He can’t take the risk of Eames finding
his camp and everything he keeps there. If Arthur is out hunting, Eames could
come and steal whatever he wanted. Arthur has no idea where Eames has been
living, and the likelihood of ever running into him again is slim. If Eames
took off with his most valuable supplies, he wouldn’t be able to find him.
He can’t come up with anything sufficient, and Eames seems content to keep
following him, so he decides that being blunt will be the best approach. He
works up the courage to lay everything out like it is. It’s been entertaining,
but he really does have to go home before nightfall.
“Listen,” Arthur says, swallowing hard. “It’s been nice … talking and all. But
I’m going to my camp now.” Eames looks at him, smile still stuck on his face,
not understanding yet. “I’m going to my camp, and you aren’t coming.” Eames’
face drops and Arthur tries not to think he looks like a kicked puppy.
“What’s wrong …” Eames starts to say, but Arthur cuts him off.
“Look, it’s not that I don’t like you or anything. But I like being on my own,
okay? I don’t really need you hanging around and distracting me.”
“Distracting you? I thought we were having a good time.” Eames tries to punch
Arthur in the shoulder in a friendly gesture, but Arthur pulls away angrily.
“I don’t need friends, okay? I don’t need you, and I don’t want you following
me. So fuck off, all right?”
Eames stares at him. The air grows charged and Arthur knew it would be like
this. He didn’t want any of this and he wishes Eames hadn’t run into him at
all.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispers trying too dissolve the tension away with an
apology. But Eames just narrows his eyes like he’s trying to pick Arthur apart.
“All right, mate. I get it,” Eames says after an agonizing moment, throwing his
hands up in surrender. He turns quickly to walk away before Arthur can say
more.
Chapter End Notes
     Thanks to night_reveals for the beta!
     Big thanks neomeruru for helping me out with details of Vancouver.
     I'm sure I messed things up anyway.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter by sparrow_hubris_(lezzerlee)
Chapter Notes
     Thanks to night_reveals for the beta!
Arthur tries to convince himself that he did the right thing. He doesn’t know
Eames and he can’t risk everything he’s worked for just to have company. Even
if Eames turned out to be a friend, it’s entirely likely that one of them will
get hurt and Arthur can’t afford to take care of someone. He doesn’t how Eames
has been surviving and doesn’t want to be endangered by Eames doing something
stupid. Greg had at least been on the same skill level as Arthur. They grew up
camping together. They were both in competition against each other, even if
Arthur was the better archer.  For all Arthur know, Eames might not even know
how to properly use the rifle he was carrying.
But trying to convince himself he’s made the right choice doesn’t make Arthur
feel all that better. Eames was a little imaginative sure, a little talkative,
but Arthur had enjoyed being around him. The pack on his shoulders is heavy,
reminding him of how generous Eames had been.
Walking back to his camp takes Arthur most of the evening and he thinks about
Eames the entire way back. When he finally arrives he drops his pack down with
a sigh, glad to be rid of it’s weight, and collapses onto his makeshift
bedroll, exhausted from the journey. He’s disappointed to find that his guilt
isn’t shrugged off as easily as the pack.
Throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the light, he thinks about how he
could have handled this whole situation better. He could have put it more
nicely and stayed calm. It was stupid to get angry and tell Eames to fuck off;
now if he ever runs into Eames again, he’ll have to worry about possibly
getting jumped. Maybe he won’t be so mad, Arthur thinks. He did split what they
found fifty-fifty so Eames didn’t come away with nothing from their search. But
it’s stupid to create conflict as well. It’s just one more thing to worry about
but Arthur can’t do much about it now, and he’s exhausted, so he tries to push
his worries away and rest.
Arthur is about to drift into welcome sleep when he hears something moving,
twigs snapping, and the scrape of something brushing against trees in the
distance. Panic floods his veins as he jumps up to get his gun. In his
exhaustion he has let his guard down, a stupid mistake; it’s the evening,
perfect time for predators to hunt. He waits to see what’s coming his way,
whether he has to run or has to fight. Arthur hasn’t had to deal with a
scavenger in a while. He’s ready to fire, hoping he can hit whatever it is on
the first shot and not waste precious ammo, when Eames comes waltzing out of
the trees.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Arthur screams before he remembers it could
draw unwanted attention. He lowers his voice into a low hiss instead. “How the
fuck did you find me?”
“Arthur, mate, you need some practice at covering your tracks,” Eames says,
smiling smugly as he approaches.
“I cover my tracks just fine,” Arthur retorts angrily, because he does. He’s
careful. He erases his footprints, he backtracks, he watches his surroundings
diligently, and he doesn’t leave food around for predators to catch wind of.
Eames has somehow managed to find him despite that and Arthur is angry that he
was caught off guard.
“Yes, well, I’m used to tailing people,” Eames smirks.
“What, like a spy or something?” Arthur snaps. “You think you’re fucking James
Bond?” His heart is racing and he can’t seem to make his breathing even out.
His camp is compromised and he doesn’t know what to do about it right now.
“Not exactly,” Eames’ expression pull tight, his smile turning dark. Arthur’s
grip on the rifle tightens, but Eames smile flashes friendly again quickly. “I
brought you something,” he says cheerfully.
Eames shrugs off his pack, which doesn’t seem heavy but looks full, and starts
to dig something out. Arthur has no idea what Eames could have in there and
he’s a little nervous to find out. Still reeling from the fact that Eames
followed him here, and warning bells in his mind sounding loudly, he’s half
expecting Eames to pull a weapon, which would be foolish since Arthur is still
clutching his rifle. Arthur’s brain is stuck in a cycle of planning an escape,
what he can grab when he runs, what he can leave behind. He really doesn’t want
to leave everything he’s worked so hard to gather, but his position is
compromised now and he’ll have to find some new place to live that’s safe.
“Arthur, are you paying attention?” Eames voice cuts into his thoughts. “I said
take this, mate.”  Eames shoves something towards him and for an absurd moment
Arthur thinks it’s a wrapped present. It’s blue with purple tied around it,
splotchy like faded wrapping paper. A sudden flash of memory —Christmas at his
grandmother’s when he was seven years old; his dad gave him a fishing set,
wrapped in blue— springs to Arthur’s mind and he freezes. He comes to his
senses a moment later, realizing that it’s actually a bundle of plastic with a
cord tying it up.
“You said you needed waterproofing,” Eames says, when Arthur takes the gift.
It’s a blue tarpaulin that’s in fairly good condition.
“I, uh …” Arthur says intelligently, because he doesn’t know how to handle the
fact that not only did Eames listen to him days ago, but he had given him yet
another useful item Eames could be using for himself. Arthur doesn’t quite know
how to handle this generosity, and he can’t even think straight enough to say
thank you. He can’t believe Eames is even here.
Eames seems to not mind that Arthur is at a loss for words. He walks right by
as Arthur stands, dumbfounded, still clutching the bundled tarp. When Arthur
finally finds the wherewithal to turn around, he sees Eames poking around his
stuff. Another flare of panic courses through him and he rushes back to his
camp.
Arthur thinks Eames might be inventorying everything, storing away information
on what Arthur has that Eames himself might find useful. But when he gets close
he finds that Eames is focusing on the frivolous items Arthur keeps. He pokes
through the stack of books, and the scattering of random photographs Arthur has
collected just because he likes looking at happy memories even if they aren’t
his own. When Eames comes across the drawings, he stops. Sifting through them,
Eames starts pulling some of the better ones out.
“These are really good,” Eames says, and Arthur blushes. He shouldn’t feel this
happy at such a small compliment, especially since he should still be angry at
the intrusion into his home. It’s nice hearing that he has talent especially
from someone other than his dad or his art teacher. Arthur hadn’t really had
any time to develop his skills formally, and had to make due with his memories
of the city, and book, as reference.
“Thanks,” Arthur says, finally finding a proper response. Realizing he’s still
holding the tarp, he goes to set it down.
“Do you want to be an architect?” Eames asks as he thumbs through more
drawings.
“I, uh, I don’t know. I never really thought about it,” Arthur lies. He’s known
he wanted to be an architect ever since his teacher brought in an Ezra Stoller
book during Arthur’s freshman photography class. He wasn’t that great at
photography; it just didn’t appeal to him. So he tried to recreate the
photographs in drawings, letting the dark lines of charcoal and graphite make
beautiful images instead of chemicals and film.
That memory makes something bitter twist in the back of his throat. He had
known what he wanted to be. He had found a direction in his studies, focusing
on physics and geometry and trigonometry, all to aid in something he could see
himself excelling in. He had even looked at information on some colleges, even
if he was three years from graduation. It’s something he was passionate about.
Something that will never happen now.
“It doesn’t really matter, not like it’s useful anymore,” he grits out, trying
to tamp his memories, his dreams, back down.
“Sure it is, mate,” Eames smiles. “Somebody has to rebuild the world.”
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter by sparrow_hubris_(lezzerlee)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It’s clear, hours later, that Eames doesn’t intend to leave. Arthur wonders if
he came here to drop off the tarp and then head back into the city, but Eames
seems content to stay and look through Arthur’s camp, idly asking questions
about some of Arthur’s possessions. Arthur is still weary, not knowing Eames’
motives, but he finds himself relaxing with the casual conversation. Eventually
their discussion circles back to the blast; it’s inevitable, the bombing being
such a central factor in each of their lives.
“How did you survive?” Arthur asks.
“Dumb luck, really.” Eames says. “I was out running an errand for … a friend.
Wasn’t in the city when it all happened.”
Arthur scowls, but lets the lie go. He wouldn’t necessarily be comfortable
sharing his own life story as well. It’s possible that something much worse
happened that allowed Eames to survive. Arthur has seen enough to know that’s
likely the case.
“Why’d you come back then?” Arthur asks instead.
Arthur stayed outside the city for a reason, not wanting to be in the middle of
when the survivors eventually turned on each other. Tension coursed through the
groups, back when the city seemed like the safer place to stay, splitting them
apart into smaller packs that fought against each other for resources and
territory. He didn’t want to be a part of that, didn’t want spend his energy
fighting when he could be finding food. He had left to set up camp in the
forest.
“No where else to go,” Eames answers plainly. Arthur understands; even though
he tried to avoid the city after the violence broke out, he did have to stay
close enough to it to get supplies. Staying across the inlet has it’s
advantages. Very few people venture across the unstable bridges; those who stay
in the city area of North Vancouver don’t often venture into the woods. He’s
isolated, which keeps him safe.
It seems reasonable that Eames wouldn’t want to stay in the outlying areas
though. Not everyone has the survival skills Arthur has, and finding supplies,
especially where less people lived before everything was destroyed, can be
difficult.
Eames settles, sitting on a plastic crate Arthur had picked up, thumbing
through one of Arthur’s half-burned books. Arthur doesn’t quite know what to do
with himself with Eames around, but his stomach answers for him by grumbling
loudly and he remembers that the reason he met Eames at all is because he went
looking for food. He digs out a can of beans from his pack, opening the lid
carefully with a knife — he really needs to find a manual can-opener.
Arthur could just eat his food cold from the can, but a fire will keep him warm
and a hot meal sounds like the best thing in the world after his grueling
adventure through the city. He sets some of his wood pile in a fire pit,
lighting it carefully and stoking the flames until they’re large enough to be
left unattended. He then finds a pot and dumps half the can of beans into it.
Rationing it and only eating a quarter of the can would be the best action, but
he’s too hungry to limit himself right now.
Arthur sets the pot on the edge of the containment wall he’s built around the
pit. He’s trying to build a makeshift grill so that he can cook above the fire
eventually, but it’s not completed yet. Without the grill his food cooks
unevenly and he has to keep turning the pot so the edges of his food don’t
burn. The smell of cooking beans makes his stomach tighten angrily, impatient
with the wait, and he tries to block it out by asking Eames more questions.
“You’re English,”Arthur says. It’s the first thing that stuck in his head after
Eames took his gas mask off when they met.
“Astute observation, Arthur,” Eames laughs sarcastically.
“When did you … ?” Arthur gesticulates, trying to indicate the city while
simultaneously controlling his annoyance at Eames’ tone.
“When I was ten,” Eames answers, apparently understanding Arthur’s unrefined
waving. “Dad got a new job, packed us off to dear ol’ Canada here.”
Arthur could ask about Eames’ family, the statement being an obvious segue, but
then he’d probably have to talk about his own. Bringing those memories up is
too painful; it’s been less than a year since his dad died and he doesn’t want
to think about it.
“You miss it?” Arthur asks instead.
“Arthur, look around us. Of course I miss it compared to this.” Eames waves his
hand in a circle in the direction of the city, mimicking Arthur’s gesture from
before.
Chagrined by giving Eames an opening for sarcasm, Arthur goes silent for few
moments while he turns the cooking pot. He can’t think of any more questions to
ask, he doesn’t really care, and his beans are now starting to boil so he pulls
them from the fire to cool. Feeling eyes on him, he glances up to find that
Eames is staring.
Arthur averts his eyes quickly. He had thought Eames was still reading, or
searching through his possessions again, but apparently that’s not the case. He
feels exposed under Eames’ cool gaze so he fumbles with his dinner as a
distraction, shoveling in a mouthful before it’s properly cooled. The tip of
his tongue burns, damaging some of his taste buds. Gasping and, opening his
mouth wide to exhale over the food, he rolls it over his tongue to cool. Eames
chuckles and Arthur frowns as soon as he can properly close his mouth to chew.
Arthur eats his dinner quickly since he can barely taste it with his damaged
tongue. Usually he saviors the first meal after a supply run, but Eames is
still glancing up at him him intermittently, and Arthur hasn’t offered any of
his the food. Again he feels guilty, but Eames isn’t his family or his friend.
He doesn’t have to share.
Eames doesn’t seem too put-out by Arthur’s lack of manners. He pulls something
wrapped out from his bag and begins munching on half of it. It is probably a
stale granola bar or a Pop-Tart. After he’s finished eating, Arthur tries to
start conversation again because he feels awkward just sitting with Eames.
“What else do you miss?” Arthur asks. He hopes the question is generic enough
that they don’t get into family issues, or something similarly heavy. It
doesn’t feel like something Eames can throw back at him as well. To guide the
direction of the conversation he adds, “I miss pop like you wouldn’t believe.”
Eames groans a little with empathy. The sound is deep and warm, and Arthur’s
gut clenches involuntarily upon hearing it. “I miss sticky toffee pudding, with
proper custard on top. You couldn’t even get that here, before all this I mean,
but I miss it. That was my favorite dessert.”
“I miss poutine.” Arthur says, face going a bit slack as he thinks about the
savory, filling quality of his favorite food.
“Gross, mate.” Eames’ face scrunches in distaste.
“Shut the fuck up, it’s delicious!” Arthur nearly screeches. “I mean, how can
you go wrong? It’s fries, which are amazing on their own. They have to be
slightly crispy though, so when you add gravy and cheese it doesn’t get soggy.
It’s the best! My favorite is the veggie gravy. My dad liked the beef kind
better, but I could eat both. And, oh God, when the cheese is fresh and squeaks
when you chew it; God I miss cheese. I think I could eat my body-weight in
poutine right now.”
“Stop, stop, mate,” Eames laughs.  “I don’t even like the stuff and the way
you’re going on about it; you’re making me hungry.” Eames doesn’t say it with
any malice, but Arthur winces at the comment anyway, thinking about the beans
he hadn’t offered Eames.
“You can have the rest of this can if you want. I don’t eat a whole can at a
time.” Arthur goes to grab the half can of food left but Eames stops him.
“No, it’s yours, mate.”
“But you found it. You gave it to me.”
“It was a gift. Don’t worry about it.”
Arthur’s at a loss. He had felt a little guilty before about not offering Eames
food, but now, with Eames insisting that it was a gift, he feels so much worse.
The half-filled can feels heavy in his hand, like lead weight, mocking him.
“Just take the damn food.”
Eames gives him a scrutinizing look and Arthur again feels exposed under his
stare. Arthur feels about three times smaller than he actually is as Eames
looks at him like that. Arthur knows that if Eames refuses, he’ll feel awful
the rest of the night. He should have been polite; Eames has been nothing but
nice to him ever since they met.
“All right,” Eames finally relents. “If you insist.”
Arthur reaches over to give Eames the can, trying to act casual. Eames takes
the proffered beans with a smile. Arthur is taken, yet again, at how white
Eames’ teeth are, how they light up his face when he flashes them. Arthur’s a
little entranced by it. It’s been so long since he’s laughed, or smiled, or
seen someone else do the same. He doesn’t really notice he’s still holding onto
the can until Eames gives him a funny look when he tries to pull it away.
Dropping the can quickly, Arthur snatches his hand away and gives an awkward
smile before he turns around to ready his bed.
Eames doesn’t bother warming the beans, instead scooping them out, as is, with
the spoon Arthur had left in the can. Realizing that Eames can’t travel back to
the city tonight and that he doesn’t have anywhere for Eames to sleep, Arthur
starts to gather up his spare fabric, as many of big pieces he can find, to
make a second bed near the fire.
He can’t just let Eames freeze during the night. The tarp that Eames brought
him will keep him dry for a long time and Arthur can’t just shrug that
generosity off again. Eames can stay the night, and in the morning he’ll be on
his way back home. Maybe Arthur can offer some of his less necessary supplies
to Eames in exchange.
When Arthur looks up from his thoughts, Eames is picking at the food. He’s only
eaten half of what’s left, it seems, before he sets it down. Arthur wonders if
Eames wasn’t hungry after all. He guesses it doesn’t really matter. He offered
and Eames accepted, that’s what counts. With nothing left to do, Arthur sits on
his own bed and pulls out the book he’s been reading: Good Omens. Eames wanders
over the bed Arthur has made for him and sits down.
“That’s a good one,” Eames says after dipping his head sideways to read the
cover.
Arthur nods. He kind of relates to Crowley. It is a little weird though, to be
reading a story about the apocalypse with the city—and who knows how much of
the rest of world—burned out around him. But it’s one of the few fiction books
he has.
Eames picks up a singed copy of 1984 from among the random assortment, and sits
down on his bedding. “You have a strange collection,” he says. “Cook books,
theoretical mathematics, The Cat Who Moved A Mountain?"
“I just pick up what I can find,” Arthur replies.
“Well it’s better than the lot of romance novels my mom used to keep.”
“I have a couple of those as well.”
“Do you now? Well, I’ll have to check them out.” Eames chuckles. “Where did you
find all these?”
“The library.”
“No shit. Never would have thought. The library …”
Arthur rolls his eyes, but he can’t help corners of his lips tugging up. They
read until it’s too dark to see, with the light from the fire finally dying
down. Arthur stokes the coals once more so that they’ll at least burn through
the night. He wraps himself in his blankets, bundled up tight against the
frigid night air, and drifts off to sleep.
When Arthur wakes in the morning his eyes immediately dart to Eames’ bed. It’s
empty. He sits up in dismay, still slightly groggy from sleep, looking to see
if anything is missing. He should have known not to sleep with Eames here.
Arthur gave Eames the perfect opportunity to rob him blind. He’s already
mentally kicking himself when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye.
When Arthur spins around, he finds Eames is sitting on the crate again, eating
the rest of the open can of beans. The sense of relief that washes over Arthur
punches the air from his lungs in breath. He thought that Eames had taken off,
possibly with something important, like his gun or ammo, and is glad to find
that’s not the case. A remaining sense of paranoia remains though, from the
fact that Eames is still here.
Eames doesn’t seem intent to leave. He’s eating slowly and reading more of
Arthur’s book, hanging the spoon from his lips like a lollipop between bites.
Arthur isn’t staring at the way his lips pillow around the metal and the way
his fingers barely hold the handle.
When Arthur is able to stand, Eames looks up. “Morning, sunshine,” he grins.
Arthur doesn’t respond and resists the urge to return the smile. He digs
through the new food find something for breakfast. He pulls out canned pumpkin
and opens it. This time he only eats a quarter of the can, saving the rest. To
store the remainder, he searches for Tupperware in his collection of dishes and
when he finds one, deposits the fruit inside. The plastic seals in the smell of
the food. It’s still not safe to keep open food near his shelter though, so he
slips on his boots to take the dish to an area he keeps outside his camp.
It wasn’t a smart idea to let Eames keep part of the beans out last night, and
he berates himself for the oversight. Invading animals are not something he
wants to deal with. There are raccoons, skunks and—of course—bears that can
completely destroy his camp. Thinking about the animals reminds him that he
should go trapping and hunting. Now that he has some food in him, it won’t seem
like such an insurmountable task.
Eames eyes him as he returns to the camp. “Feel better?” he asks and with a
leer.
“What?” Arthur responds, confused by the question.
“You were gone a while. Figured you were off you know.” The gesture Eames makes
is obscene. Arthur flushes red, white-hot embarrassment causing his brows to
furrow into an angry scowl.
“I was storing the open food, you ass. Can’t keep it in camp, you know.”
“Whatever you say, mate,” Eames laughs, clearly not believing Arthur’s story.
“I’m not judging.”
Arthur busies himself preparing his trapping and hunting gear. Even if he was \
out jerking off, it’s none of Eames’ business. And Arthur wasn’t anyway. He
pockets extra bullets for his rifle and readies his bow, making sure he has his
glove and bracer.
“Hunting trip, yeah? Mind if I tag along?” Eames has somehow moved to Arthur’s
side without him noticing and Arthur nearly jumps when Eames speaks. Forcing
his nerves to settle, he looks over his shoulder to find Eames trying to
suppress a pleased smile. He’s obviously amused by making Arthur jump. Arthur
swallows thickly and nods. Leaving Eames here is not something he is willing to
do and if Eames isn’t heading back home, he’ll have to tag along for the hunt.
Arthur thrusts a bag of his trapping gear into Eames’ hands. With two people
Arthur will be able to keep his eye out for large game as well as set snares
for smaller animals. It might actually be convenient having Eames around for
this today; it will take him half the time to do both tasks. “Don’t fucking
drop this.” he says.
They set off for the long hike into the woods. Eames doesn’t stop talking. Now
that he has someone to speak to, it seems he doesn’t ever want to stop. Arthur
would mind if they were farther in, Eames possibly scaring off prey, but they
have a fair distance to travel before they’ll likely run into any animals and
the trek can be boring on his own.
“It’s weird, yeah? I always thought that the future was going to be like that
book you have, all government watching everything you do and making sure you
fit in their plan and all. I mean cell phones already tracked everywhere you
went. People complained about it, then they would go and use it for check-ins
that tell exactly where they went anyway. But I really thought it was going to
be like that, with microchips under your skin and your life narrowed down to
ones and zeroes.”
Arthur nods absently. He’d never really thought that far in the future he
realizes. He’d thought about upcoming goals, college, but nothing past that too
far. Even Architecture was just a dream. He didn’t even know if he wanted a
family someday; not that he’ll ever have one now.
“So what did you do, before all this?” Eames asks. “Art? School?” He kicks a
fallen pine cone out of his path.
“School, yes, and art, and sports …” Arthur says, but Eames cuts him off before
he can finish.
“What sports?”
“Archery mostly.” Arthur steps up a rocky incline, shrugging his shouldered
rifle back so it doesn’t get caught as he uses a tree for balance.
“Archery’s a sport?”
“There’s competitions, and trophies and stuff. So, yeah.”
“But there’s no running and athleticism, like soccer or something. It’s not
really a sport sport.”
“There is when you do something like the archery biathlon, which is cross
country skiing and shooting. But archery is an Olympic sport anyway, you know.”
“Oh, yeah. The Olympics just allowed anything in though, didn’t they? What with
curling, and ballroom dancing.”
Eames's eyes are pointed down towards his feet as he navigates the terrain,
when Arthur glances back at him with a raised eyebrow. “Hey, you try any of
those sports and tell me how easy they are. Dancing is fucking hard. So is
curling,” Arthur snorts.
“Whatever you say, mate,” Eames replies, looking up with an easy smile.
Arthur leaves the conversation there. They’re far enough into the forest now
that they should keep talking to a minimum. Eames seems to pick up on that fact
when Arthur stops responding to questions and begins setting up his snares.
Hopefully he’ll catch a rabbit; even a squirrel would be welcome prey.
They trudge through the woods for most of the afternoon, setting up wire snares
and a few conibear traps. He has some foothold traps, but he doesn’t like
putting the animals through more pain than necessary. At least snares hurt
less, and Arthur can put the animal out of its misery quickly when he comes
back.
Arthur would prefer just shooting his dinner, but it’s unrealistic to depend
solely on hunting for food. Running into game is infrequent. If he had the
leisure of spending a whole week hunting, without worrying about running out of
canned food, or water, or animals raiding his camp, he might be able to bring
in a deer or two. But he can’t be away that long, so trapping is his best bet.
When they’re done, and are on the way back to his camp, Arthur asks Eames about
his past. “So what did you do, before?”
Eames laughs but doesn’t miss a beat before answering, “I was in the circus,
mate, training for the trapeze. But I wasn’t good enough to perform yet, so
they had me mucking out the animal cages and doing odd jobs while I worked up
to it.”
“I thought you said you were James Bond.” Arthur smiles, because Eames’ story
is such bullshit, but he finds it amusing anyway.
“No, that’s what you said. I never said that.” Eames points his finger
accusingly at Arthur as he grins. “I said I tail people. Training you know,
following my teacher around everywhere to get in his head. He’s a method
performer.”
“You are so full of shit. You can’t be a method performer for trapeze. It’s not
like he’s being an actor.”
Eames shrugs but doesn’t defend the accusation. They walk for a while in
silence, picking their way back through the trees. “What do you think
happened?” Eames asks when they’re nearly to Arthur’s camp.
“What do you mean? It was bombed.” Arthur’s not trying to be sarcastic, but it
comes out that way anyway.
“No, I mean, who. Why?”
“I don’t know. It could be any number of reasons,” Arthur shrugs. “Were you
alone when it happened? Where’s your family?”
Fuck, Arthur thinks as soon as he’s asked the question. He could kick himself
for bringing up the subject. In his haste to turn the conversation towards
Eames he’s brought up the one thing he doesn’t want to think about.
“I don’t have family,” Eames says flatly.
“But you said your dad moved you out here. Did they die before the blast or
something?”
Jesus fuck, Arthur thinks again because he’s blurting out the most
inappropriate questions. It’s tactless, but he can’t take it back.
“Not exactly.” Eames looks slightly agitated when he answers. Then it dawns on
Arthur, a reason why Eames would be alone when the attack went down.
“Did you run away or something?”
Eames pauses, like he’s trying to decide if he should say anything at all. His
expression is guarded and slightly pained. Arthur’s chest tightens with regret,
wishing he could take his question back. “Yeah, mate. It’s how I’ve survived
all this. Learned to take care of myself, you know? Lived on the streets
awhile.”
Arthur doesn’t have a response for that. He stares ahead as he walks, searching
the trees for movement and thinking about what life on the street must have
been like. He wonders why Eames ran from his parents. He can’t imagine leaving
his dad. They’re all each other had.
“Did you have a good reason to run?” Arthur asks, voice low and soft.
“Yeah,” Eames sighs, but doesn’t elaborate. Eames stares at the path in front
of them, shoulders tense. He’s not looking up at Arthur between steps anymore.
Arthur wants to ask more, he wants to know everything about why Eames ran, he
wants to understand, but he lets it go. Eames is already upset enough.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says instead, pausing in the path.
“For what?” Eames laughs bitterly as he adjusts his bag. “I get it, you’re
curious. No harm done.”
“No. I’m sorry your family sucked, you know? Sorry you had to run away.”
Eames looks up at him with that intense gaze again, the one that makes Arthur
feel laid bare, like Eames can see right through him. He’s only known Eames for
two days and he already feels like Eames has figured him out.
They continue to walk quietly for a little while, leaving the conversation
behind with every step they take. Eventually, Eames is the one who tries to
start a conversation again, about something inane, but Arthur isn’t really
listening anymore. He keeps imagining what it was like for Eames on the street.
He deals with this type of life because he has to, because there is nothing
else, and he knows he had a good life before. This is just a lot of the same
for Eames, worse maybe, which Arthur thinks is horrible. Nobody deserves a life
like that.
When they get back to camp, they busy themselves for the rest of the day.
Arthur strains his water supply through nylons to get the debris out and stores
it in some jars and pitchers he’s scavenged. He’ll boil it later to kill most
of the bacteria. Eames helps him after watching Arthur do one bucket. By the
time they're done with all of them, it’s starting to get dark.
The hunting trip took a while, even with Eames’ help, and suddenly Arthur
realizes how hungry he is from the hike. He goes off to retrieve the pumpkin
from the Tupperware outside camp and brings it back, wishing he could open
something new. However, he doesn’t want the opened food to spoil, even if it is
cold enough for the weather to be a natural refrigerator. He cooks enough for
both him and Eames this time.
They sit and eat in silence for a while before Eames asks, “What about you?
Where’s your family?”
Arthur shifts uncomfortably. It was inevitable that Eames would ask, he knows.
He brought up the subject in the first place. Arthur owes Eames an answer.
“My mom died when I was five. It was just me and my dad after that. My...my
dad, and a friend of mine, were on a camping trip when the blasts happened. We
could see the smoke from the fires; it was so huge. So we survived by luck too,
I guess.”
“So, where are they now?” Eames hesitates in asking, his face pinching as he
fiddles with his spoon. Arthur thinks it’s a fair question with the ones he
asked earlier.
“He, uh …” Arthur swallows before continuing, “we were fine for months. Then my
dad got injured, broke his leg when we were out hunting by falling into a
ravine. It was pretty bad, the bone …”
It’s hard for Arthur to repeat the events, he chokes a little on the words. “It
was a compound fracture, and it got infected, and we didn’t have any
antibiotics. Greg and I got him back to camp, but when the infection set in, it
got so bad he couldn’t move. It just got worse, until he couldn’t eat anymore,
couldn’t even stay awake. His body … he was so thin, and so sick. Then one
morning he was gone.”
Eames reaches out to grasp Arthur’s hand, to comfort him as tears begin to
stream down Arthur’s face. The memories of watching his father die flood his
mind. He can clearly remember the sweat-slick pallor of his father’s fevered
skin, the smell of the infection, the sound of labored breathing. It haunts his
dreams some nights.  Pushing past the memories he tries to continue.
“Then it was just me and Greg, but …”
Arthur can’t. The words get stuck in his throat and he turns his head away,
trying to block out the images of his friend slowly dying as he could do
nothing to help him. Eames doesn’t push for more. He just sits, clutching
Arthur’s hand reassuringly as they sit by the fire.
***
Eames stays for weeks. They fall into a rhythm around each other. Each morning
they eat a little breakfast then they go off to check their traps. Sometimes
they head farther into the forest to hunt, but usually have to rely on the
occasional rabbit, opossum, or raccoon for their food.
Eames always talks, weaving false tales about his past, or making up strange
scenarios they may encounter in the future. He’s always planning for something
crazy to happen, like roving gangs of cannibals, or a surviving military convoy
rolling through. Arthur hopes that nothing that exciting ever actually happens.
Arthur teaches Eames how to sets snares properly; the conibears are fairly
straightforward but the snares take some practice to perfect. He also teaches
Eames how to dress a kill, making sure to cut the skin away cleanly as to not
contaminate the meat with parasites. He shows Eames how to check the liver for
disease and remove the entrails without bursting the intestines—just like his
dad taught him. They have to be careful of contracting parasites, of not
letting the meat spoil and curing it properly. Without much salt to preserve
the meat, they have to eat their kill before they eat any of the canned food
and they have to smoke it as much as possible without the help of a proper
shed.
Eames doesn’t like killing the animals when they find them alive in the snares
but Arthur makes him do it, at least a couple times, so Eames knows what to
expect. Eames said he used to kill rats and stuff for food, but snapping a
small rat’s neck isn’t quite the same as putting down a fluffy rabbit.
The look on Eames face the first time heard the a rabbit scream made Arthur
want to reach out and hug him. He never wanted to put Eames through something
like that again, but he knew that Eames was better off knowing how to safely
trap and hunt. As Eames knelt over the bloody carcass, staring and looking
sickly pale, Arthur placed a firm hand on Eames’ shoulder and told him that he
did just fine.
The screaming and the blood still set Arthur’s nerves on edge, but he had to
learn to deal with it and Eames has to learn also. They haven’t found any
proper fishing gear yet, so a daily catch isn’t going to happen. Maybe if they
plan another excursion in to the city they’ll get lucky. The nets Arthur has
tried are more difficult and time consuming than he can afford when trapping
works better.
It’s nice, having someone around. Arthur’s forgotten how easily things get
accomplished with two sets of hands. Eames is always chatting, drowning
Arthur’s doubts with reassurances or occupying his thoughts with trying to
figure out when Eames is being serious or not instead of worrying about
everything constantly. Eames gives him something to focus on. It makes the days
go by faster. And Arthur is a little reluctant to admit it, but it’s nice
having Eames at night now that it’s the end of winter; they can huddle closer
together to keep warm. Arthur remembers when he, his dad, and Greg would do the
same. Plus if they head to the city, it’ll be faster to search for supplies
with Eames.
They’re washing the dishes as best they can in a stream, and Eames is telling
him about his childhood as a performance artist, juggling or doing card tricks
for audiences in some London park, pickpocketing unknowing spectators when he
switched off with a friend. Arthur’s not sure if he believes this story either,
but it sounds at least more plausible than some of Eames’ other tales. Arthur
doesn’t want to interrupt and resolves to bring up scavenging with Eames in the
morning.
The sun is bright when Arthur wakes. He’s cold, colder than usual since Eames
and him started sleeping closer together as winter dragged on. Usually that
means Eames has woken up first and started breakfast, but Arthur doesn’t smell
food.
He sits up, stretching his arms out to work the sleep out of his system.
Looking around for Eames, he crawls out of his bed. Arthur doesn’t see him
anywhere. Eames could be off relieving himself or something, jerking off maybe.
Arthur doesn’t think anything of it.
So he goes to gather some meat from the food stash and starts the fire back up
to heat breakfast. He has their rations heated quickly, but Eames still hasn’t
returned. Arthur starts to get a niggling feeling of worry on the back of his
neck. There’s no reason why Eames should be gone this long, unless he was
injured. Arthur tries not to think of anything worse.
He eats his portion of the breakfast and packs Eames’ ration away. He stores it
away from camp again, even if Eames comes back. He knows something isn’t right,
can feel it in his gut. Gathering his rifle and bow, Arthur sets off into the
woods to check the traps. He wants to wait for Eames, but leaving a captured
animal out means he’s likely to lose it to another predator scavenging his
trap.
The hike seems so much longer without Eames’ stories to entertain him. The
trees are silent, the wind the only noise besides Arthur’s heavy footsteps. It
takes a while to check each trap, and Arthur comes back empty handed. He’s half
expecting, hoping even, to see Eames’ sitting next to the campfire, reading
another book with an apology waiting for why he’s missed the hike. But when
Arthur gets back, Eames isn’t there.
Anger flares inside Arthur’s. Where the fuck are you? he thinks, and This isn’t
fucking funny, Eames. Because maybe it’s a bad joke, maybe Eames is waiting out
in the woods to spring on Arthur and startle him. But it seems really unlikely.
In just the few weeks they’ve stayed together, Eames hasn’t seemed one for
practical jokes. Stories, sure, but not pranks.
Then a devastating thought hits Arthur. Maybe this was Eames’ plan the entire
time. To lull Arthur into a sense of safety while smuggling useful supplies
away to a place where he could grab them quickly and take off. But when Arthur
searches through his camp he finds nothing missing.
Eames has simply disappeared.
Chapter End Notes
     Thanks to night_reveals for the beta!
     Big thanks neomeruru for all the help with Vancouver as well as
     sending me inspiring pictures of poutine. Thanks to la_fours for a
     wondrous description of why poutine is delicious. Thanks to
     eternalsojourn for suggesting Eames' favorite dessert from her trip
     to England.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter by sparrow_hubris_(lezzerlee)
Chapter Notes
     Thanks to night_reveals for the beta!
The next day, Arthur tries not to think about every scenario in which a
predator could have attacked Eames when he went off for his morning piss. He
tries not to think about Eames somehow getting lost on a walk and wandering in
circles, deeper and deeper into the forest where he’d die of exposure when the
night gets too cold. Arthur tries not to think of wandering bandits running
into him, killing him, and leaving the body in the forest.
The second day after Eames disappears, Arthur doesn’t check the traps. Instead
he searches around the camp, walking in a spiral circle out into the forest,
praying he won’t find a corpse. He doesn’t. He makes it a few miles out, half a
day wandering the woods, and he doesn’t find anything.
The third day after Eames is gone, Arthur decides that Eames simply left.
That’s the best explanation Arthur has. It’s the only explanation that doesn’t
leave his stomach in knots. Eames just left. Maybe he was tired of Arthur.
Maybe he just wanted to fuck with Arthur’s head. Maybe Eames is just a giant
asshole.
After searching the camp again, Arthur realizes that Eames’ gun and pack are
missing. It confirms it in his mind; Eames is a huge asshole and good riddance.
Arthur doesn’t need him and he didn’t even want him around in the first place.
But that’s a lie. It’s been three days and he already misses Eames. He misses
the jokes, the stories, and the partnership. He misses the way Eames smiles at
him. Arthur had tried for so long to convince himself that he doesn’t need any
friends after Greg died. Then Eames had to go and shatter his defenses.
When Arthur goes to bed that night, he shivers from the cold. It’s not even the
worst of winter yet. The fire seems like it’s not enough without Eames’ body-
heat next to him and he wonders how he’ll make it through. The night seems
silent without Eames’ heavy breathing. All Arthur can think about is how alone
he feels and how dangerous it can be for Eames to be off on his own. Eames
managed to survive before, and now he knows how to hunt and trap, because
Arthur taught him, but that doesn’t make Arthur worry any less.
He sighs and wraps the blanket around him tighter. He could go looking for
Eames, but he doesn’t even know where to start. Eames had never told him where
he was living before. Wandering the city without any kind of lead would be
dangerous. Arthur doesn’t know if Eames is really worth the the effort. If
Eames left on purpose, how would he react if Arthur just showed up? What was
Eames motivation for following him back to his camp before anyway? Friendship?
It’s obvious that’s not the case, or else Eames wouldn’t have just left without
saying anything.
Arthur tosses and turns all through the night, unable to shut his brain off.
The next two days are long and tedious. He checks his traps in the morning,
strains his water, and repairs broken supplies. Reading is too stagnate and he
finds that he has to do something physical to not want to scream from
frustration.
In the evening, all he has is his thoughts. Fuck Eames, Arthur thinks, for
allowing him to get used to having a companion. He used to be fine spending a
entire day alone, doing nothing. But now the monotony of the day is too much
without the sound of Eames’ voice. Agitation makes Arthur restless; soon he’s
completed every task he can think of, besides hunting for big game or
scavenging.
Arthur could go into the city again, though. He’s about due for more food and
could always use ammo. He decides that’s what he’ll do tomorrow. He’ll go on a
supply run, hoping it will make him feel better, hoping that he can forget
about Eames. Or maybe, he’ll run into Eames. It’s a long shot, but he can hope.
On that thought, Arthur drifts into sleep, still, still alone, but at least he
doesn’t wake through the night, thoughts finally calmed with the new goal in
sight.
***
The sun is bright in the sky, like it always is with no solid walls, or a roof
over his head. It’s early, the crisp morning air not yet warm enough to melt
the layer of frost that settles in the early morning hours. It’s the perfect
time to wake up; it’s early enough that Arthur will have plenty of time to get
to the city and still search houses today, making the trip shorter, but not so
early he will be freezing for most of the walk.
Arthur still shivers from the cold when he stretches, the blanket falling away
from his body. He feels so much better now that he has a plan. Getting over
Eames should be easy, so long as he keeps himself occupied. He’ll find more
things to do, things that take more time to complete, like building his grill.
Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, Arthur contemplates what he wants for
breakfast. Nothing is open and his meat will last, so he can choose anything.
It’s always his favorite day when he can pick a new can of food.
“Morning, sunshine!”
Arthur yelps and Eames bursts into a fit of laughter as Arthur tries to calm
himself. All of Arthur’s blood is rushing through his veins and after the
initial shock, he’s impossibly angry. This is the second time Eames has caught
him completely off guard.
“What the fucking-fuck?” Arthur screams, shoving the blankets completely off to
scramble to his feet. He rushes towards Eames and grabs a handful of his shirt,
shoving him off the crate Eames is perched on. Eames just continues to laugh,
raking in loud breaths between his fits.
“All right, all right. Calm down, Arthur,” Eames says, catching his breath.
“Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”
“What the fuck are you doing here? Where the fuck were you?” Arthur balls his
fists at his sides The wave of emotion that hits him is confusing. One second
he wants to break Eames’ nose, to punish him for making him worry. The next
second he wants to wrap his arms around Eames’ waist and never let go. Arthur’s
mind keeps looping over the same thoughts. Eames is alive, he thinks
gratefully. He’s back.
“Don’t look so worried, Arthur. Everything is fine,” Eames says as he picks
himself up off the ground and brushes pine needles from his clothes.
Arthur shoves his hands through his hair, pulling the curls away from his face
in frustration and paces back and forth. “I was fucking worried, okay? You
can’t … you can’t just disappear like that!”
Eames amusement drops, his expression turning hard. He grabs Arthur’s wrist, to
stop him from walking in circles. “Hey, hey. It was just a short trip, nothing
to fret over, yeah?”
“You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” Arthur hisses, snapping his wrist from
Eames’ grasp. “What was so important that you had to just take off without
saying anything?”
Eames gaze falls to the ground, and the muscles of his jaw jump beneath his
skin. Arthur turns away and again fights the urge to deck Eames. When he’s
calmed enough to look at him again, Eames is giving him the most apologetic
look he can muster.
“I’m sorry, mate. I just went to go get some supplies.” Eames is voice is
strained. It’s obvious he is laying the olive branch, choosing not to give in
to anger.
“Supp … ?” Arthur looks around and there are four, new, full bags sitting on
the ground by the crate. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped.”
“No offense, but you are one paranoid kid, and if you ever decide to turn on
me, I have no doubt you’d take everything I had, and then some, to survive. I
figured it was smart to keep where I lived secret, just in case.”
Arthur scowls at the implication that he would turn on Eames. But when he
thinks about it more, he has to admit that it’s a smart idea. He probably would
take anything he needed from Eames, if he had the chance — if they weren’t
friends.
“So why did you come back?” Arthur says flatly, crossing his arms over his
chest protectively.
“Your place is nicer,” Eames grins, ignoring Arthur’s tone.
“Yeah, I don’t doubt that. But what am I supposed to do if you turn on me?”
“You’ll just have to trust that I’m a nice guy,” Eames replies. They stand
there awkwardly for a few moments, letting the comment hang in the air. Arthur
is the first to break the silence.
“So, what did you bring?”
Eames face lights up and he goes to sift through the bags. He pulls out cans of
food first, a fair amount for the both of them. Eames continues to pull new
items out: a bed-roll, blankets, jackets, clothes, and finally some paints and
a large paper pad.
“You paint?” Arthur asks, pulling the pad toward him and flipping it open. The
pages are splashed with color, each in a different style. Arthur recognizes
impressionism, surrealism, and even baroque, his art history class paying off
as he turns through the pages.
“I don’t have any canvasses,” Eames says as he puts some of the supplies away.
“So they’re not as good as they should be.”
Arthur flips through more of the work. The paintings are raw, lacking proper
precision and time spent on them, but it’s obvious that Eames is talented
capturing different styles. Eames continues to unload as Arthur looks through
the rest of the paintings and Arthur forgets that he’s angry at Eames at all.
***
They don’t have to go scavenging in the city for a while after Eames came back
with food, so they fall back into their routine of checking traps, purifying
water, and doing odd tasks, like laundry.
Now that Eames brought his own supplies, they create worlds together; Arthur
draws the landscape, cities, houses, and Eames populates the streets and adds
color. At first they started with sections of Vancouver that they both
remembered, but moved on to fantasy worlds later. All of their paper becomes
filled with skyscrapers and castles, men, women, and children. Dragons, tigers
and griffins populate the same space as modern geometric houses or Italianate
mansions. When they run out of proper paper, they start to decorate the blanks
of book pages.
They’ll often draw late into the night, shoulder to shoulder next to the fire.
It’s comforting to Arthur having Eames near, touching as they talk. Sometimes,
they’ll fall asleep that way, right next to each other and wake up huddled
close. Arthur tries not to think of what it means to feel so happy to have
Eames touch him, or how much he wants it. He tries not to dwell on how
comforting it feels to lay awake mornings and feel Eames’ breath on his neck.
Because, if he thinks too hard on it, he might ruin it. This is the first time
Arthur’s been not miserable in months. It’s the first time he’s actually been
happy in a year. It’s the first time, since his dad died, that he feels safe.
When they do go scavenging, they make a point of finding art supplies. If they
have room in their pack, they’ll take paint, markers, and pens. It gives them
something to do, to bide their time. It’s something for them to talk about, to
dream about, to lose themselves in. It’s something to look forward to after a
long day of hauling traps or building a stronger shelter. When they scavenge,
it becomes second nature for Arthur to think of Eames anytime he finds clothes
to share, food to eat, or discovers something that’s just interesting to see.
Arthur loves finding something Eames will enjoy. Sweets always get Eames
excited; Arthur found five candy bars on their last trip. Eames made them last
for three weeks, savoring little portions after every dinner.
They’re due for another foray into the city, and Arthur keeps it in his mind to
find a treat for Eames, if he can that is; they’re not guaranteed to find
anything. Most of the city has been picked over pretty well by now. Arthur
hopes that in the spring they’ll be able to plant a garden. They’ll need to
grow their own food soon, in order to have enough to eat. One of Arthur’s
cooking books, from the library, mentions seasonal vegetables, so he can plan
what to grow, and when, but Arthur’s never had a green thumb. He hopes he and
Eames can help make it work. Making a mental note to look for more seeds he
also thinks of more they need, like medical supplies. They always need medical
supplies. They don’t have any antibiotics and are running low on bandages and
antiseptic.
They pack up, rifles in hand, and head out. The journey across the bridge seems
much shorter with Eames. The scavenging goes faster. Arthur has taught Eames
his method of searching in a grid, to memorize the places they’ve already hit.
They continue to use it, though Eames often makes them break out of every once
in a while because he has a feeling on this one or that one just looks cool.
They’re wandering off the grid due to one of these feelings when they come
across a pharmacy. It’s nearly completely collapsed, but Eames finds a large
enough hole that he thinks he can get inside.
“I told you, I had a feeling about this one,” Eames says as he hands Arthur his
rifle to hold. “I’m going in.”
Eames hands Arthur his rifle and slips the pack off his shoulders. Prying some
boards loose around the blocked entrance, Eames clears the hole to get inside.
Arthur chews on his lip nervously but resigns himself to the task of lookout
while Eames goes searching for precious medications. The building seems stable
enough, the roof is already partially collapsed, but seems to be holding out.
Seeing the grim look on Arthur’s face, Eames tries to reassure him. “You worry
too much, Arthur. It’ll be fine, trust me.”
Arthur does. He does trust Eames, now. Arthur has seen Eames wriggle his way in
and out of the smallest spaces to search for things. Somehow, Eames manages to
make it into spaces that Arthur, who is smaller, can’t find his way through. If
anyone can get supplies out of this mess of a building, it’s Eames. So Arthur
sighs and Eames turns, makes his way to the small hole and twists his shoulders
in an elaborate arch, ducking his head to slip inside. The moment Eames
disappears from view, Arthur’s stomach balls up with nervous tension. It’s only
been a minute, he’s sure, but it feels already feels like forever.
Arthur sits amongst the rubble, dropping the pack and rifle onto the grown. His
toes flex to bounce his leg up and down and he draws his knees to his chest.
After a few moments he stands again, brushing his hands through his hair
nervously and paces. He wonders if he should go in, tell Eames that they don’t
need whatever is in there, even though they do. He kicks a few pebbles away as
he spins on his heel, pacing back.
An ominous groan emerges from the rubble. The telltale splintering of wood
signifying the collapse of support beams rips through the still air. Arthur can
practically feel the shift inside. He can hear the debris falling, loosened
particles trickling to the ground. His heart skips a beat, then two. He can’t
breathe.
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck!” Arthur starts for the entrance, but a section of the roof
sags violently, shifting the rest of the structure’s frame. “Eames!” He screams
as he stops in his tracks. Hearing no response, he starts forward again.
The entrance has shifted with the rest of the building, closing off the gap to
get in. Or out, Arthur thinks. His mouth goes dry at the thought. Eames is
trapped.
“Say something? Eames!” He calls again, running his hands along the wall as he
stumbles around the building, looking for another way in. “Eames!”
The only answer is the rumbling collapse of the roof. Arthur staggers back from
the debris, falling back on his wrists as a thick cloud of dirt filling the
air. Coughing from inhaling the dust, Arthur scrambles to his feet. “Eames!” He
chokes out, and his eyes are streaming, from the dust, from the terror lurching
through his body.
“Eames, Eames, Eames!” He cries out in a panic. He darts through the rubble,
listening for signs of life. “No! No! Please, Eames!” Arthur sobs. He falls to
his knees throwing bricks and shingles to the side, desperately digging for his
friend. All he can picture is Eames crushed beneath, gasping his last breaths
of life like Greg did when he fell. All he can see is his friends, Eames, Greg,
covered in blood. There’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing he can do to help.
“Eames!” He screams, but no one answers.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter by sparrow_hubris_(lezzerlee)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Arthur is vaguely aware that’s he’s screaming. He can’t hear it; it’s like his
senses are detached or directed through a tunnel stretching far in front of
him. He can’t even see through the tears in his eyes. But his throat is raw,
his lungs heaving, so he must be screaming.
All he can think is  it can’t be happening again. Not again!
He shouldn’t have let this happen. Arthur doesn’t take chances like this
because this is how people die. Arthur knows this and he shouldn’t have let
Eames go in, no matter how much they needed the supplies. He should have tested
the structure’s stability, should have noticed how unsafe it really was. Just
like he shouldn’t have let Greg run ahead of him into that house before.
Because Greg is fucking dead and now Eames is too. But some little part of
Arthur’s mind can’t accept that fact, not yet, so he is screaming Eames’ name
and clawing through the rubble. His fingers are a bloody mess, nails ripped
back and the delicate skin of his fingertips cut from the sharp edges in the
rubble. He doesn’t feel the pain. He can’t dig fast enough, can’t lift the
heavy boards of the roof, trying to get to Eames.
“Eames!” He keeps crying over and over again before his words devolve into
unintelligible wails. A hacking cough erupts from his body, the dust from the
destruction catching in his lungs. Ignoring it, he continues his frantic
digging through the debris. “Eames, fuck. God!”
Images of his dad flash in his head: the bone, the rotting flesh, the fever-
sweat. Even if he could dig Eames out, he might not be able to save him. The
antibiotics, the bandages, and antiseptic they were here for, wouldn’t
guarantee that he could treat Eames’ injuries. Arthur can see his dad, how they
tried to wash the wounds, how they tried to stave off the infection. He
remembers it so vividly he can still smell it. Arthur nearly vomits, retching
dryly to the side, but he continues to dig. He can’t seem to stop himself.
Then hands are pulling him back, gripping his shoulders and dragging him away.
Vicious anger floods him and he struggles to get away, to get back to digging
Eames out. Arthur fights; he screams to be let go. He struggles to free himself
but the hold is too strong. Finally he realizes that whoever is pulling him
back is saying his name. It takes him a long moment to recognize the timber of
the voice, the deep, resonant accent that it so familiar to him now, as it
repeats his name.
“Arthur, it’s ok. Arthur, Arthur calm down.”
It’s still another second before recognition fully sets in. Arthur stares in
disbelief, hands clutching at Eames' jacket like they don’t believe that the
form beneath his hands exists. There’s blood smeared on Eames’ coat where he’s
running his hands along the fabric, pulling Eames closer. When his mind finally
accepts that it is Eames and that Eames is alive, Arthur is overwhelmed with
relief, flooded with a mix of too many emotions and he grabs Eames by the back
of the neck and pulls him into a desperate kiss. It’s too hard, just his lips
pressed firmly against Eames’, and Arthur’s face is wet and messy from his
tears. He isn’t paying attention to that; all Arthur knows in this moment is
that Eames is alive. Eames is safe, here in Arthur’s arms and Arthur never
wants to let go.

[Young_Arthur_kisses_Eames_desperately,_while_crying._Eames_is_surprised,_but
clutches_at_Arthur_anyway.]
art by datingwally

Eames doesn’t try to pull away, but he’s stiff in Arthur’s embrace. Arthur
continues to press their lips together until he needs to breathe. Finally
relenting to the knowledge that Eames is fine, Arthur comes back, his mind
clearing, and he suddenly realizes what he’s doing. Frantically he tries to
push away, but Eames wraps his arms tighter around Arthur’s waist, trapping him
against the heat of Eames’ body. Arthur sighs and buries his face into Eames’
shoulder, not fighting to get away because he doesn’t have the energy.
“It’s okay,” Eames says as they stand, wrapped in each other’s arms.
Arthur is trembling; all of his adrenaline and fear is coursing through his
body in waves that make his nerves jump. They stay standing together for a
while, until Arthur’s tremors disappear and his breathing evens out. Finally
Eames pulls back and presses their foreheads together. He lets out a long
exhale before tipping his head back and looking into Arthur’s eyes, searching
for something. When Eames is apparently satisfied with what he sees, Eames
gives a tight smile and rubs his hands down the length of Arthur’s arms until
he’s holding Arthur’s wrists. Eames pulls Arthur’s hands into his own and lifts
them to inspect the wounds from Arthur’s distraught digging. Eames’ face
distorts in a pained grimace and he worries his bottom lip with his teeth.
“How?” Arthur asks, unable to articulate his thoughts more. Eames looks up at
him again at the question. “How did you get out?”
“Employee door in the back. Took some effort getting open, thought I wouldn’t
make it out in time. I accidentally hit a support structure when I was moving
shelving out of the way.” Eames continues to inspect Arthur’s hands. Arthur
frowns. Eames almost died, and here he is, worrying over him because Arthur
lost it. Arthur should be the one asking if Eames is okay, making sure Eames
isn’t injured.
“I grabbed some antiseptic.” Eames says as his thumb is tracing a circle over
Arthur’s palm soothingly.
Arthur laughs, a single unbelieving snort. “Of course you did,” he laughs. “Of
course you managed to grab stuff before … ” Arthur chokes up before he can
finish the sentence all of his relieved humor draining away. The vision of
Eames buried underneath the rubble is still fresh in his mind.
Eames smiles grimly in response, pulling an assortment of pill bottles and
packaging from the deep pockets of his cargo pants. He transfers everything to
their packs before he drags Arthur to sit so he can dress his wounds. When
Eames wipes away the blood and dirt with an alcohol pad, Arthur hisses at the
stinging pain. His hands are a mess.  Eames bandages them when he’s done
cleaning, frowning as he wraps the wounds up.
Watching Eames work, Arthur sees that he’s covered in dust, plaster and
splinters of wood caught in his hair. Arthur wants to say something, to
apologize for kissing him. He doesn’t even know where that came from. Thinking
about it, he flushes with embarrassment, diverting his gaze when Eames looks
up. But Eames doesn’t say anything, isn’t looking at Arthur like he’s grown a
new head or anything, so Arthur doesn’t know if he should bring it up. Maybe
Eames is just ignoring it and being polite. He could have freaked out, he could
have stormed off, or punched Arthur, or made fun of him, but he didn’t. He
hasn’t mentioned it and Arthur appreciates that; he appreciates that Eames is
willing to ignore his temporary loss of sanity.
When Eames is done patching Arthur up, they decide to look for a place to crash
for the night. Neither of them are in the mood to search through anymore
buildings. They find a suitable spot, protected from the wind, and pull out a
bedroll. They only packed one, so accustomed to sleeping near each other now,
and Arthur suddenly feels very self-conscious. He wonders if Eames will feel
awkward sleeping next to him because of this kiss so he shifts on his feet in
hesitation as Eames lays down, pulling the blanket up. Eames lifts the corner
though, looking at Arthur expectantly, and Arthur relaxes a little and climbs
in. Eames wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist, pulling him into his chest.
Arthur breathes in Eames’ scent, pressing his face into Eames’ shoulder.
“I thought I lost … I thought that you were dead,” he whispers. For a moment he
thinks Eames didn’t hear him, or that Eames is already asleep, but then Eames’
arms squeeze him a little tighter.
In the morning they unwind from their embrace. Arthur had held on to Eames all
night, clutching him as if he’d disappear if Arthur let go. He woke a few
times, panicky, but calmed when he realized that Eames was still there, that he
was safe.
After a quick breakfast, they hit a few more houses and buildings, but Arthur
feels extra paranoid, and they skip any structure that seems even remotely
unstable. Eames doesn’t argue like he usually would. When they do go in, Arthur
takes the lead. He feels the obligation to check things first, to see for
himself that everything looks safe. They end up with considerably less supplies
than desired when they head back home.
They’d removed the traps before they left on their trip and will need to reset
them, but by the time they get back they’re both exhausted. Dutifully, they put
their new supplies away, then they start a fire and relax for the evening.
Arthur is warming some food as Eames sits and stares into the flames. He’s been
quiet the entire day, lost in his head it seems. The fleeting darkness that
Arthur has seen sometimes in Eames’ eyes has returned. Arthur glances up at him
every once in a while, worried but unwilling to ask. Eames hasn’t said
anything, and Arthur has no idea what he’s thinking.  Eames might just be a
little shocked from nearly dying. Or he could be thinking about the kiss.
Arthur doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t want to say anything unless Eames does,
so he lets Eames stare. He lets Eames work out whatever is on his mind.
They go to bed and Eames still pulls Arthur close, so at least he doesn’t seem
uncomfortable towards Arthur, even if there’s a slight awkwardness to their
sleeping arrangement. Arthur’s glad that Eames isn’t freaking out, but he can’t
get rid of the anxious feeling in his stomach. And worse than that, he doesn’t
even know what he himself thinks of the whole situation.  Why did I kiss him?
He wonders, because as far as he can remember he’s never even thought about
doing something like that before.
It’s a few days before Eames is even acting like himself. Even though Arthur
thought it wouldn’t, life goes back to normal as they go back to their routine.
They don’t speak about what happened. They don’t talk about Eames nearly dying,
and they certainly don’t talk about Arthur’s reaction. Instead, they place the
traps and check them daily. They monitor the water supply. They dress game,
preserve meat, ration food, fix broken supplies and reinforce their structure.
They draw, and talk, and joke. Everything is exactly the same as it is before.
Everything is the same, except for the dreams.
Chapter End Notes
     Thanks to night_reveals for the beta!
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter by sparrow_hubris_(lezzerlee)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The first time Arthur wakes from the nightmares he doesn’t know where he is or
what’s going on. He’s thrashing, tangled in the folds of his blankets and
clawing at anything he can grab. He’s trying to get away from something and
when he finally comes to, Eames is next to him with scratches on his arms, and
a look of sheer terror on his face that makes Arthur’s already racing heart
skip a beat. Eames never looks scared like this. Eames always seems like he can
handle anything, like how calm he was when he had almost died, but Arthur looks
at him and Eames seems at frozen in uncertainty, frightened, with brows knit
tightly together and mouth slightly agape. Arthur reaches out to reassure Eames
that he’s back, that he’s lucid, and that it’s over. He doesn’t know what’s
happened, but he needs Eames to stop looking at him like that. So when Eames
sighs in relief, he puts his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, and holds him there
until Arthur's heart stops racing and his sweat is drying on his skin, and he
finally calms. They stay sitting for a while until exhaustion settles in
Arthur’s bones and he starts to tremble from adrenaline withdrawal and the
cold. Eames pulls him back into the covers and they lay down to sleep again.
Arthur doesn't even remember what the dream was about.
The next time Arthur wakes from a dream he has come in his shorts. His heart is
racing with a different kind of adrenaline, and his skin is slick with sweat,
but not the cold, clammy kind that comes with fear. He hasn’t had a wet dream
in years. Morning wood is a daily occurrence, he’s used to that, but wet dreams
aren’t something he’s had to deal with since he was thirteen. Extracting
himself delicately from the bed so as to not wake Eames, he goes to change into
fresh boxers. He’d just washed the ones he was wearing not even two days ago,
so he’s a little miffed at soiling them. Slipping on a new pair, he tries to
remember the dream but it only comes back to him in bits and pieces. He
remembers dreaming of Eames, how his lips felt pressed against Arthur’s own and
how his hands had felt, calloused but soft as they rubbed down his arms. Arthur
remembers how Eames had pulled him to his body while sleeping that night,
holding Arthur and letting Arthur hold him back. This time, in the dream,
Arthur was grinding back into Eames’ hips and pressing himself into Eames’
erection.
With the fresh pair of boxers on, he climbs back into the bed, warm from Eames’
body heat. He maintains a careful distance though, unable to shake off the
ghostly imprint of the kiss from his lips. He can’t get back to sleep. After
some tossing and turning, Arthur decides to get up and go for a walk to clear
his head. He leaves a note in case he’s not back by the time Eames wakes.
Wandering the woods does help him clear his head. Arthur tries to figure out
what his new dreams mean, why he seems to be bouncing from fear to desire, but
can’t quite come up with any reason other than stress. Watching Eames almost
die was traumatic, so it’s only normal for him to have odd reactions to the
memories, right? Arthur decides that the dreams will stop when he gets over his
emotional turmoil.
When he gets back to camp he feels much better. The woods are always so
calming. They’re quiet and the trees box him in, blocking out distractions.
There’s something comforting about being surrounded by something reliabile and
lasting. He likes the the fact that trees stay in the same place for hundreds
of years, growing, sustaiing life.
But the dreams don’t stop, or fade over the next few days. Arthur wakes in
states of extreme arousal or fear. When it’s the nightmares, Eames sits with
him, murmuring stories into his hair to calm him, to wipe the terror from his
mind and put him back to sleep. When it’s the wet dreams, Arthur gets up to
change or sit by himself. He needs to get a handle on this because he doesn’t
have the energy to wash his clothes so often, and he’s tired of waking up in
the middle of the night. He's tired of feeling so out of control.
A few days later, it begins to snow. Arthur hates the snow; it’s miserable and
wet and makes everything unnavigable. They can’t check the traps or collect
water. They can’t do much of anything until it melts away. Then they’ll have
things to repair because wet snow is heavy and Arthur knows that the roof will
be damaged when he inspects it later. Thankfully snow doesn’t last long in
Vancouver. If it did, Arthur would go stir crazy, unable to stretch his legs on
a walk, or without chores to complete. As it is, he and Eames struggle to
occupy themselves by playing cards and drawing.
After four days of snow, Arthur can barely contain his pent-up energy. He
fidgets all the time, standing and sitting and moving things around. He re-
organizes three times before Eames yells at him to sit down and read or
something.He tries, but can’t get into it; he needs a new book. His mind
wanders over task lists and plans for their camp but soon he’s bored with that.
Then he starts thinking about Eames. They’ve been living together for a while
now and, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t know all that much about
Eames. He knows some things Eames likes, and the stories he likes to tell, but
he doesn’t really know much about Eames’ history beyond him living on the
streets after running away from home.
“Tell me something about yourself,” Arthur says as he tinkers with the hinge on
a trap that keeps jamming. Eames looks up from carving something out of wood
with an amused smile.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, whatever. Just, something new.”
“All right?” Eames voice is hesitant.
“What was it like to be a kid in England?” Arthur prods.
“Like being a kid anywhere else really: friends, bicycles, video games.”
“You’re being vague.” Arthur says with irritation. Apparently Eames’ past makes
him uncomfortable, but Arthur isn’t asking for anything illicit or personal,
just something, any little thing.
“And you’re being antsy. Can’t even handle a little snow?”
“I don’t like just sitting around.”
“I can see that.”
Arthur bristles with frustration. This shouldn’t be a big deal, he thinks.
“Fine. Fuck you,” he says dismissively. “Don’t tell me anything. I just thought
we’d kill time. I don’t know that much about you, really.”
Eames expression turns dark, his lips pursed together and shoulders tensing up.
His eyes crinkle in a slight squint of anger he seems to be trying to control
and when he speaks, his words are clipped. “There’s not a lot to know.”
Arthur scowls and stands. “Whatever, forget it,” he huffs, then stalks off to
find something else to do. It shouldn’t bother him so much that Eames doesn’t
share. He knows, from what little they’ve talked about, that Eames’ life was
hard. Remembering it might be painful. But Arthur’s not asking to know about
all the horrible things from Eames’ past. He’s just trying to learn something
about him, anything at all. It hurts a little that Eames won’t share when
Arthur has opened up so much. Eames knows Arthur’s personal stuff. He know
about Arthur’s his dad, his mom, and about even Greg. Superficial things are
all Arthur knows, like what food Eames likes. They’ve only known each other a
few months, but it still hurts that Eames is so closed off.
Arthur has another nightmare that night.
In the dream he’s standing on the edge of a tall building, looking out onto the
city below. His feet are bare and he can feel the loose gravel layering the
roof’s surface dig sharply into his skin. The sun is low in the sky, just above
the horizon. It’s glaring brightly, directly in his sight-line, obscuring his
view. There is a catwalk, a narrow bridge spanning from his building to the
next that has no railing. The distance to the other side seems impossible to
walk, the wind whipping through his hair strong enough to throw him off
balance.
[Arthur,_in_a_dream,_stands_on_the_edge_of_a_building,_looking_across_a_narrow
bridge,_facing_the_sun.]
art by datingwally
 
There’s something across the bridge that he needs to get to.
Dazedly, Arthur steps out onto the bridge, slowly sliding his foot forward
along the smooth metal surface. It’s cool against his skin. He knows he has to
cross, but he hesitates, wary of the plummeting distance below. He steps back
and plants himself firmly on the rooftop again.
Arthur. The name is like a whisper, carried on the wind. He doesn’t know if it
comes from across the bridge or from directly behind him.
“Eames?” He calls out, wishing that the sun would set so he could see across
the building tops. There is no answer to his call, just the wind licking
through his curls, blowing them in his face.
Arthur steps out onto the bridge again, tentatively shuffling farther across
the divide. Panic courses through his veins like ice-water. He could fall. He
could die. But he needs to find Eames. Right? He needs to find Eames?
The catwalk seems so narrow as he inches farther out. Arthur makes it about ten
feet out above the streets below, between the buildings, before the wind picks
up. A gust threatens to toss him over the side and Arthur crouches down to
steady himself. Reluctantly he looks back over his shoulder, trying to decide
if he should turn back or continue on. As Arthur presses his palms flat on the
surface of the bridge, keeping his center of gravity as low as possible, he
feels it shudder.
Every muscle in Arthur’s body tenses as the vibrations intensify. He goes to
turn back, but when he spins he sees small chunks of brick fall from the walls
of the building. The entire structure flickers like a hologram, shuddering and
breaking apart. A corner of the roof breaks away, cascading to the ground
below.
For a split second Arthur thinks, the whole thing is going to fall, and then
his feet are carrying him across the bridge. His body reacts without thinking,
sprinting as the bridge shatters behind him. Arthur can’t see the other side
through the sun’s glare, hoping, trusting instinctively that the bridge stays
straight as he tries to escape the collapse.
Arthur … Arthur.
He hears his name called, an extended whisper in the winds, barely audible
above the thunderous impact of falling debris. Arthur runs faster than he could
imagine towards the call, but the bridge is crumbling too fast. The
disintegration licks at his heels as he runs.
Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, the whisper calls, taunting him.
Finally he can see the other side, the silhouette of a solid building in front
of him. Drawing on the last of his energy, he dashes forward, ready to dive
onto the rooftop. But the fracture of the bridge is too fast and he feels the
ground give out, feet scrambling in open air as the concrete falls away below
him.
Arthur tumbles, unable to grab onto anything that will keep him from plummeting
to his death. As he sails through the air, chunks of concrete and brick
suspended around him, he hears the voice call to him and braces for impact.
Arthur … Arthur.
“Arthur … Arthur. Arthur, wake up!”
Arthur gasps as he come awake, eyes flying open. Eames is at his side, gently
shaking his shoulder. Taking a few gulping breaths, Arthur tries to regain his
bearings. He’s not falling; he’s on solid ground and in his bed. It was just a
dream. With wide eyes, he looks towards Eames.
“There you are,” Eames sighs with relief.
“F - fuck, what?” Arthur breathes, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to wipe
away cobwebs, remnants of the dream.
“Another nightmare,” Eames answers. “Are you okay, Arthur?”
“Yeah, yeah I think so.”
“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” Eames asks jokingly, but the tremble
in his voice betrays his concern.
Arthur doesn’t have an answer, memories of the dream slipping away, so he
doesn’t say anything. Instead he collapses back onto the bed. He feels the
phantom sensation of falling, like when he would try to go to sleep after a day
at the amusement park riding roller coasters. Eames lies down at his back and
runs a hand soothingly down his spine. Arthur presses back into Eames’ touch,
relaxing bit by bit as Eames strokes him. After a while he’s able to drift into
dreamless sleep.
***
“What’s up with you?” Eames asks in the morning as they prepare breakfast.
Since the snow doesn’t seem to be disappearing, Arthur had trudged the short
distance to their food storage and brought back a few days’ worth of food.
“I don’t know,” Arthur responds as he stirs peaches into the oatmeal they had
found on their last trip into the city. “I think it’s stress.”
“Stress?”
“Yeah. I don’t think I deal well with losing people,” Arthur admits. Eames
nods, not pointing out the fact that Arthur didn’t lose him, that he’s fine.
Sometimes, Arthur notices, Eames just seems to understand.
They draw for most of the day. Arthur sketches a dream city with bridges
spanning across alleyways and impossible staircases for fire escapes. Eames
adds shadowy figures that perfectly inhabit the confusing spaces.
As evening approaches, the wind picks up, carrying with it an icy chill. By
nightfall the temperature has dropped dramatically. Wordlessly, they both move
the bed closer to the fire-pit and grab some extra fabric, before crawling
under the blankets. Huddling together, they go to sleep.
***
Arthur is standing in his bedroom. Posters of The Clash and Foo Fighters hang
on the wall next to prints of modern architecture. He blinks, gazing around the
room. Drawings litter his desk and he can faintly smell his deodorant on the
dirty clothes in the corner. His blue, plaid comforter is thrown carelessly
across his bed and he goes to straighten it, to make his bed for the day. Arms
wrap gingerly around him from behind when he drags his fingers along his
blanket.
Leaning back into the warmth of the body behind him, Arthur can feel lips moves
along his neck, pressing lightly against his hairline. “You’re not supposed to
be in here,” Arthur says with a smile. He only receives an amused hum in
response. “Eames,” Arthur laughs.
Arthur spins in Eames’ embrace and nuzzles his nose against Eames’ throat,
smelling the musk of his skin. He licks along Eames’ pulse and Eames laughs as
if he’s ticklish. He sucks harder, making Eames hum under his lips.
There’s snow falling steadily outside the window and the glass fogs over. The
room suddenly feels unbearably hot, humid, and sticky. Arthur always remembers
his room being so cold. Eames runs his hands along Arthur’s bare back. Arthur
doesn’t even pause to wonder why he’s unclothed, why Eames is as well, not with
Eames pressing against him, leaning down to lick into Arthur’s mouth. Suddenly
his knees hit the edge of the bed. He didn’t realize they had been moving;
maybe they hadn’t been, maybe they simply appeared next to the bed. Arthur lets
Eames tip him back onto the mattress and he sinks into the soft blanket. Eames’
tongue is relentless, searching inside his mouth, playing over his teeth.
Arthur moans when Eames presses his weight down on top of him.
Sucking kisses along Eames’ neck, he grinds his hips up into Eames’ body.
Eames’ knee thrusts between his legs and makes him gasp and push for more
contact. The friction is maddening, so deliciously good, but ultimately not
enough. He wants more; he wants Eames’ skin on his skin, wants to feel the
weight of Eames’ erection, the warmth of his cock pressed to his own. Eames’
hand smooths down his side, playing over Arthur’s ribs before slipping into the
band of his underwear. He gasps when Eames’ fingertips brush over the sensitive
dip of his pelvis before moving lower towards the junction of his legs. Eames
hums against his mouth with pleasure when Arthur rolls his hips, arching off
the bed.
Arthur feels like he can’t breathe. Everything is too hot, like he’s covered,
smothered, and his lungs can’t process the heat of the air between them. Sweat
breaks out across his skin and he moans into Eames’ mouth. Eames rocks his hips
back and forth, grinding against Arthur’s sensitive prick. Eames takes his
breath away with filthy kisses, and the heat rises, warmer and warmer until
Arthur’s lungs burn with the need for oxygen. Arthur is frantic as he tries to
break away, tries to escape, to get some air. Eames doesn’t let him. Eames is
an immovable mass of muscle above him, soft, sticky skin and taut muscles
underneath his fingers.
Eames is moving against him relentlessly, demanding, taking Arthur’s pleasure
with every twitch of his hips, every smooth swipe of tongue in his mouth, every
caress of large hands down his skin. Arthur feels like he’s going to die, like
at any moment he’ll expire in a limbo, trapped between ecstasy and hysteria. He
wants nothing more than to succumb to it, to give in to it, to give into Eames.
He could die in this embrace, pinned beneath the smooth undulation of Eames’
hips. He could let Eames take his very last breath with a kiss, could fade into
blackness, comforted by the weight on top of him.
At the last moment, before Arthur blacks out, Eames pulls away and cold air
rushes in like an icy avalanche, cascading down the wet ridges of his throat to
settle in the smallest crevices of his lungs. He chokes on on it, feeling the
air crystallize into fragmented needles, swelling and solidifying inside his
chest. It’s too much and he tries to scream, tries to cough out the frozen
mass, but can’t. His hips thrust forward, searching for the warmth of Eames’
body again.
Arthur comes awake, eyes fluttering open and a moan on his breath. His hips
roll forward and he can feel the press of his erection against the heat of
Eames’ body next to him. The space underneath the blankets is searing hot. His
head is uncovered, not like when he want to sleep, and the cool breeze whips
around his face. Arthur coughs with the pain of the cold air in his lungs. He
feels wet, exhausted, tense with the need to come. Realizing that he’s still
grinding against Eames, unable to help the twitch of his hips, he forces
himself to stop. Arthur ducks his head back under the blankets, scooting back
down to escape the cold. His eyes begin to focus in the darkness underneath the
cloth, his breathing heavy enough that he can feel it bounce back to him off of
Eames’ face. When he looks to see if Eames is awake, his body goes stock still.
Eames is panting lightly, lips parted beautifully like an invitation. Arthur
wants to dive forward and press his lips to them, but he can’t. He can’t make
himself move, because Eames’ eyes are open. Eames is awake.
Chapter End Notes
     A huge thank you to night_reveals, metacheese & herinfiniteeyes for
     beta-ing!
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter by sparrow_hubris_(lezzerlee)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Arthur pulls away, tossing off the blankets and stumbling out of bed. “Fuck,
fuck, fuck,” he curses over and over again. The wind is brisk, bitter cold
against his exposed skin. He grabs for his coat and pants and slings them on as
quickly as possible.
“Arthur. Arthur, wait.” Eames throws the blanket off himself as well, sitting
up. But Arthur is already pulling on his boots, not bothering to tie them
before he jogs away. He’s nearly sick with embarrassment, stomach churning. He
can feel the bile rise in his throat as he trips through the snow, and chokes
it down. Arthur is already a hundred feet away before he thinks about what a
terrible idea it is to wander off in the dark without a weapon. His pants are
already soaked through from the snow. That and he doesn’t have a shirt on
beneath his coat. But he can’t go back, not with Eames there, not after getting
caught like that.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Arthur thinks. He doesn’t want to go back, but
he knows he has to. He’ll freeze out here, or worse. But he can’t quite find it
in himself to face Eames yet.
He has been afraid that this is what would happen, that Eames would find out
about his dreams. Eames has been great about the nightmares but this is
different. Arthur doesn’t understand why this is happening. He recognizes that
he cares for Eames, a lot. The pharmacy incident had left no doubt of that.
Arthur also recognizes that Eames is beautiful in a way that he really hasn’t
considered before. Not anything real, anything more than a crush on someone
unobtainable. Eames has a strength about him that Arthur envies. His eyes are
kind and intelligent. The way Eames looks at him with those gray-blue irises
that expand and contract as he thinks makes Arthur feel like Eames really sees
him, that he knows more than he should. Arthur feels like he’s incapable of
hiding from Eames.
He tries though, to hide it, because Eames is his friend and he doesn’t want to
ruin that. He doesn’t know if Eames would ever reciprocate them. Just because
Arthur’s feelings are changing towards Eames, it doesn’t mean that Eames will
be okay with that; Eames might hate him for it. He might leave. Arthur doesn’t
know what he would do if that were to happen.
Arthur’s shoulders slump in defeat. He knows what he has to do. He has to
bottle away his emotions. He loves Eames. He wants Eames, but keeping Eames
means Arthur has to control himself. He doesn’t want to push Eames away because
he can't tame his libido. With a shiver, Arthur turns and heads back to camp.
When he gets back, Eames is pacing. His face is a tense mask of anger and
worry. Arthur can see Eames visibly relax when he catches sight of Arthur
approaching. Even at this distance, Arthur can practically hear Eames’ sigh of
relief.
“Fuck, Arthur. You can’t do that. You can’t just take off in the dark. You
didn’t even take a gun!”
“I know,” Arthur murmurs, chagrined. “I’m sorry. I just … I’m sorry. Can we
pretend this all never happened? I didn’t mean to … to … it was just a dream. I
didn’t know what I was doing.”
An indecipherable emotion washes over Eames’ face before he smiles nervously.
“Yeah,” Eames says. “I can forget about it. Just don’t take off like that
again.”
Arthur nods and swallows thickly. He can control himself. He will.
They don’t talk about it again, but tension hangs in the air for days. Eames
seems uncomfortable, almost melancholy as they carefully avoid each other.
Arthur makes sure he’s aware of every signal he gives Eames. He makes sure to
only touch Eames in platonic ways. It’s hard though. He realizes now just how
tactile their relationship has been now that he’s actively trying to alter his
behavior. Arthur keeps a careful distance between them at night, not wanting to
risk a repeat of the wet dream episode. It feels so cold not being able to
press himself up against Eames.
He hates it.
Arthur hates that he wakes up shivering in the morning. He hates the aborted
movements he has to make when he’s about to sling his arm around Eames’
shoulders as they laugh. He hates not being able to touch Eames without it
possibly meaning more. Eames seems equally put off by it all, but he doesn’t
say anything about Arthur’s awkwardness towards him.
After some time things go back to being mostly normal. Arthur doesn’t feel
instantaneous guilt whenever he leans into Eames as they joke. He can squeeze
Eames’ shoulders in a tight hug like they used to. Arthur still dreams though,
so he keeps a distance between them at night. It kills him a little, being so
close and unable to touch.
Arthur’s desire increases as winter comes to an end. He realizes just how happy
Eames makes him. He so badly wants everything they had before. He wishes he
could have the same easy relationship they used to have. He wants Eames’ arms
wrapped around him at night. He wants it so much that he tells himself he
doesn’t notice the way he gradually scoots closer to Eames as they sleep.
Arthur inches his way into Eames’ space looking for any sign that Eames is
becoming uncomfortable. He doesn’t see one, but he can’t be sure he’s not lying
to himself.
Finally, one night, Arthur is lying awake, thoughts drifting to Eames like they
always seem to do. He’s suddenly stricken with the uncontrollable urge to press
himself against Eames as he sleeps. He wants to feel Eames’ warmth directly
against his skin. Before he notices it, he’s reaching out slowly to touch
Eames’ hair. Arthur brushes it lightly from Eames’ forehead, biting his lip
nervously at the thought of getting caught again.
When Eames doesn’t wake, Arthur gets bolder. He scoots closer and closer as he
lightly pets Eames’ hair. He freezes when Eames stirs, but Eames only mumbles
something contentedly and presses his head to Arthur’s hand. Arthur moves
closer and wraps his arm lightly over Eames’ waist. Eames wakes for a moment
and Arthur goes stock still, waiting to see what he does. This is the breaking
point. Arthur knows he’s screwed because this is what he wants and all Eames
has to do is push him away, to reject him.
Eames is half awake but smiles lightly and reaches to pull Arthur closer. Eames
buries his face in Arthur’s neck and sighs sleepily. Arthur relaxes, a wave of
relief washing over him, and Arthur smiles into Eames’ hair. He tightens his
grip, feeling happy, feeling at home again, and he drifts into sleep.
In the morning they wake still wrapped in each other’s arms. It feels perfect
and Arthur never wants to let go. Eames smiles at him softly as they lie
together, not saying anything. They both don’t seem to want to get up.
Eventually their stomachs force them to get out of bed. The day goes better
than Arthur could have hoped. They’re finally getting back to where they were
before: companionable, light touches, and easy smiles.
They don’t talk about what happened, but they do go back to cuddling every
night. Even if it’s nothing more, Arthur is happy just to have someone, to have
a friend. He tells himself that he can live like this. He tells himself that
what he and Eames have now is better than nothing at all. Arthur will get over
wanting more with time.
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you to herinfiniteeyes for the beta!
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter by sparrow_hubris_(lezzerlee)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Spring creeps over Vancouver like ivy, crawling out as they days become longer.
The snow melts quickly, leaving mud and puddles in its wake. The hike to their
traps is no less cumbersome in the mud than in the snow, but the animals have
emerged from their winter hideaways and so daily checks are necessary.
Arthur has never been fond of mud, the way it clings to his shoes and the
bottoms of his pants like viscous lemmings bent on trapping his feet to the
ground. He feels soiled and disheveled. The moisture penetrates everything, and
they have to be careful to air out their shoes so as to not develop trench
foot. He’s thankful that he has several pairs to alternate between but makes a
note to look for more shoes the next time they scavenge.
The last few weeks with Eames have been uneventful, for which Arthur is
actually thankful. Most of the awkwardness between them has slowly disappeared.
His nightmares seem to have disappeared, since he’s only had one in the last
two weeks or so. He still dreams of Eames but has been able to somehow convince
his sleeping body to face his back to Eames’ chest. He has not woken up
grinding on his friend.
Controlling his thoughts in the daytime is more difficult. It takes nearly all
of his energy to direct his thoughts away from focusing on the way Eames’ lips
look, plush and inviting, imagining them pressed against the hollow of his own
neck. He fights every urge to let his fingers linger over the growing expanse
of Eames’ exposed skin as the weather warms. He is hyper aware of Eames’
proximity at all times, wishing for Eames to get closer, to brush against him
in an electrifying contact of their bodies. Arthur dreads it as well, not
trusting himself to control his own reactions. He’s caught in a limbo of
warring emotions inside, while outwardly pretending that everything is okay.
Arthur slips up often. During a hike, he holds on a little to long when he
nearly trips, and Eames catches his hand to steady him. He finds himself
staring at Eames, simply watching the way he moves, fluidly but with a sense of
determination. Arthur notes the way Eames’ shoulders hunch forward and his neck
stretches long when he’s thinking, chewing on a nail or rolling a leaf-stem
between his lips. Arthur notices that Eames’ shoulders pull back when he’s made
a joke. Arthur finds himself smiling at the smallest things, unable to help the
way his lips automatically turn up when Eames grins at him or does something
nice. He stumbles over his words when he finds himself revealing too much. He
tries to change the subject, and Eames lets him though he often gives Arthur a
confused, knowing look.
Arthur can’t help himself sometimes, he reaches out to place a palm on Eames’
lower back as he moves behind him to reach for something. Eames flinches away a
little but doesn’t say anything. Eames will give Arthur a pained look whenever
he catches Arthur staring. He lets Arthur get away with it, excuse it as zoning
out.
The weather has been getting nicer, so it’s easier for Arthur to slip away at
night and wander the woods. Sometimes it’s just to calm himself, to clear his
head in the dark, silent, woods. Sometimes he jerks off with his palm pressed
against the rough bark of a tree and Eames’ name caught on his tongue as a
whisper.
Whenever he gets back, he slips off his shoes, stows his knife and curls up
next to Eames, taking in Eames’ heady scent, willing himself to sleep without
dreams. Every morning Arthur starts the whole process again, suppressing his
feelings, picking his words carefully, controlling his wandering hands.
One day, Eames is telling Arthur a funny story, and when Arthur laughs and tips
his head to Eames’ shoulder, he runs his hand down Eames arm without thinking.
He feels Eames tense beside him. Snatching his hand away, Arthur rights
himself, spine rigid and ears burning hot with embarrassment. Eames doesn’t let
it go this time, like he has every other time Arthur has slipped up.
“You gotta stop touching me like that, mate,” Eames says, voice strained in an
attempt to be delicate.
Arthur knows Eames must be hiding his disgust.
“Sorry,” Arthur blurts as he stands quickly. He rubs his hands down his pants
and tries to come up with more to say but finds he has nothing. He’s horrified
by his actions.“Sorry,” he huffs out again, and before he says something
stupid, he walks away.
“Hey! Hey, Arthur, sorry, mate. I didn’t mean it like that!” Eames calls after
him, but Arthur ignores him. It doesn’t matter what Eames says, Eames has been
holding his tongue, Arthur knows, and he shouldn’t have to do that. Arthur
should be able to control himself. He grabs a gun on his way out of camp and
heads into the woods. Hunting, or at least hiking, will help to calm him down.
Arthur’s shoes slip through the moss and mud as he stalks through the woods. He
doesn’t see any animals, but he guesses that’s to be expected since he’s not
being particularly stealthy. He’s a little too worked up to care. After about
an hour of hiking, he’s finally ready to take responsibility for his actions.
Arthur has been trying hard to keep his feelings hidden, he could have tried
harder. He doesn’t want to push Eames away. Without Eames, Arthur doesn’t know
what his life would be like; he can’t picture being alone anymore. So he makes
a decision and locks away everything inside of himself. He promises himself
that he won’t touch Eames again. If he’s having a hard time, he’ll walk away,
he’ll get his head on straight. Eames deserves that much.
It’s nearly nightfall by the time Arthur returns to camp. Eames is stirring
food over the fire, and he looks tense, worried even. When he hears Arthur
approach he looks up.
“Jesus, Arthur, I’m sorry I …”
Arthur cuts him off. “No, it’s my fault. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Can
we just forget about it?”
Eames looks at him with a scrutinizing gaze. He looks like he wants to say no,
that he wants to talk about it, which Arthur really does not want to do. After
a moment, Eames finally acquiesces with a nod. Dinner is mostly silent, and
that night, Arthur goes back to keeping his distance.
Arthur’s struggle to not touch and not stare is agonizingly difficult. He has
to catch himself all the time. It’s worse than before. It’s worse because last
time Eames hadn't said anything, and a little part of Arthur had held some hope
that he could have more, even though deep down he knew he couldn’t. This time
Eames had actually asked him to stop.
Their every interaction becomes strained. Eames withdraws, becomes more
irritable, almost distraught at times. It’s as if he can tell that Arthur still
wants to touch him. For the first time in a long time, Arthur wishes that there
were more people, so that Eames could go find friends that didn’t make him
uncomfortable. So that Eames could be happy somewhere else instead of stuck
here with him. Every time Arthur stops himself from touching Eames, Eames’ face
furrows in frustration, so Arthur tries harder. He keeps his distance
completely, keeping a few feet between them whenever he can.
Arthur grows frustrated. He snaps angrily at everything. Trying to curb is
behavior takes so much effort. They fight over everything. Stories that used to
entertain him infuriate him. They’re full of lies, and it reminds him once
again that Eames never wanted to be close enough to share, to be honest and
open. Eames snaps back, trying to make fun at first, and lighten the mood, but
with venom as time goes on. Arthur condescends, and Eames dishes sarcasm right
back.
Finally, after a screaming match over something insignificant, Eames snaps.
“Fuck it,” he says. “I’m leaving. You’re being a prat lately, and I can’t take
anymore.”
Arthur snaps his jaw shut, and his stomach seizes up like he’s been kicked. He
doesn’t know why he didn’t expect this. It is what he’s been trying to do isn’t
it? Drive Eames away?
Eames is pacing like a caged animal, the muscle in his jaw jumping beneath his
skin. Arthur doesn’t know what to say, because as much as he thought he wanted
this, Eames saying it hurts like knife being driven through his heart.
Arthur watches dumbly as Eames hastily shoves supplies into a bag, wanting to
stop him. Clenching his fists into tight balls, he grits his teeth and stands
silently. This is for the best, he keeps telling himself. But the mantra
doesn’t stop his racing heart and the bitter taste of regret in his mouth.
Arthur half hopes that Eames’ anger will burn off by the time he’s done
packing. That Eames’ resolve will dissipate and he will sit down with a sigh,
and they’ll talk it out. But Eames grabs his rifle, hauls his pack onto his
shoulder and walks out of camp without so much as a goodbye. Arthur is left
staring after him helplessly.
It’s not even evening before Arthur feels the twinge of loneliness. The air is
heavy and cool as it settles over camp. Selfishly, Arthur thinks that the bed
will be cold tonight. He would be grateful that the weather is warming if he
could be grateful for anything right now. He wonders where Eames will go.
Probably back to wherever he was holed up before. Eames had said that he didn’t
want Arthur to know where his old place was, in case anything like this ever
happened. Arthur hates that he proved Eames right.
It takes two weeks for Arthur to admit that pushing Eames away was a mistake.
He knew it was terrible the very instant Eames decided to leave, but he had
thought he could make himself get over it. He’s finding that he can’t. The
first two nights are okay. Arthur is able to tell himself that it’s a good
thing. He tries convincing himself that it feels like a relief to have a night
off from Eames. But every night it gets harder. Every night he goes to bed
alone. Every night he wishes Eames were there.
The days aren’t any better. Arthur sighs out a bored melody that he hasn’t
heard in ages, just to break the silence. Busying himself doesn’t take his mind
off of everything he should have done differently. The thing that breaks him is
the sketch he finds in the book Eames had been reading. Arthur picks it up on a
whim, trying to keep his mind occupied, choosing this book because it had been
Eames', at least temporarily. And then, in the half page at the end of chapter
four, he finds a sketch of himself. It’s gestural, loose lines of varying
weight, but at the same time it’s intimately detailed. The profile is soft
grey, punctuated with deep dark lines indicating the angle of his jaw. It’s
beautiful.
Arthur wishes he had known Eames was sketching him. He wishes he had known that
Eames had been staring at him like this, obviously studying him. He wonders
what he gave away in those moments where he was oblivious to Eames’
observation.
What if what Eames saw was what pushed him away?  Because the drawing is so
open. Arthur can see the happiness plain as day on his own face. It’s clear
that care went into this drawing because it’s nearly finished. Eames spent time
perfecting this. Eames wouldn’t spend so much time studying something he hates
would he?
A burst of hope floods his system like warm syrup. He knows what he has to do.
He has to find Eames. Suddenly Arthur is stricken with the a strong sense of
déjà vu. He shakes his head to clear the stray thought away. Tomorrow he’ll go
into the city. He doesn’t care if it takes weeks to do it. He will find Eames.
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you to sneaqui for the beta on this chapter.
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter by sparrow_hubris_(lezzerlee)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Three days in the city and Arthur hasn’t seen a trace of Eames. He knew it
would be difficult, if not impossible, but he had to hope that he would find
some sign of Eames somewhere. He tried to remember any of the small things
Eames had been honest about, if he had been honest about anything
The walk past the burned-out oil distillery brings back memories of their first
days together. He thought he had hated Eames then, that Eames was a nuisance.
He remembers how beautiful Eames had looked, lit by the bright, burning orange
glow, the angles of his face accented with dancing shadows. Had Arthur known
that at the time and chose not to think about it? Did he think Eames was
beautiful that day?
Arthur wanders Dunbar, checking houses idly. He thinks Eames mentioned that his
boss lived in this area, and the neighborhood is nice. Homes like this always
had food, or were built well enough to still be intact. There were signs of
raiding, which isn’t surprising, but Arthur thinks it would be a good place to
bunker down in the burned-out city.
The neighborhood will take days to search. He doesn’t know if Eames would
really go to his boss’ old house. He has to start somewhere, though. He’s
making his way through Memorial Park, which is deserted and blanketed in brown
grass, probably from not being watered, when the hairs on his neck stand on
end. He subtley checks over his shouler, eyes bushes along the park's edge.
He angles to the right and makes his way to an abandoned preschool. It’s eerie
without kids playing and adults hovering nearby to wrangle them. It should give
him cover, though. He can use it as an obstacle, put it between him and whoever
is watching him. As he walks, he casually shifts his rifle into a better firing
position, trying not to alert his tail that he's onto them.
He’s made it all the way to the trees near the road, close to the school, when
a kid steps out from behind the building, pointing a shotgun directly at his
chest. Arthur stops in his tracks, realizing he’s raised his own gun
instinctively. The kid is skinny, smaller than Arthur, but not by much. Arthur
thinks he could take him in a fight, not that he’d get the chance with guns
already involved. They stare each other down.
“The pack,” the kids says, crystal eyes shimmering in the soft, overcast light.
He looks like he’s about to cry, but his face is stony, gaunt and too skinny.
His fingers tremble as he holds the shotgun, and Arthur breifly hopes that he
doens't accidentally pull the trigger.
Arthur nods his head no. The kid doesn’t look like he has it in him to shoot
and Arthur is not about to give up any supplies if he doesn’t have to. It's a
gamble. The kid couldn't have survived this long without having some nerve, but
killing rats, racoon, or former pets is not the same as killing a person. The
kid tenses, eyebrows knitting together in frustration.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.” The kid's' Adam's apple bounces in his
throat on a nervous swallow.
Arthur stares, daring the kid to shoot. He’s no longer certain the kid is
bluffing, but he has just as much a chance at taking the boy out if it comes to
it. He’s focused, trying to urge the boy to back down. They can end this as a
draw, both go their own ways. Arthur doesn’t want to kill anyone either.
Arthur is so focused on the kid he doesn’t sense it coming. The blow sends pain
shooting through his shoulder blades and he stumbles forward. He doesn't
recover quickly enough and his legs are swept out from under him and he finds
himself face down on the dead grass, dirt in his mouth.
He reaches for his dropped gun but before he can grab it someone kicks him in
the ribs, hard. It’s enough to make Arthur yelp in pain and double in on
himself. His lungs contract fitfully and he can’t breath. He tries again to get
his gun, but the boot strikes him a second time.
Arthur’s vision goes black and starry. His eyes are bleary with tears when the
fog of pain fades, and what he sees when his vision clears doesn’t makes sense.
The attack has stopped and there is a flurry of movement around him. Someone is
screaming, but he can't make sense of what they are saying.
“Fuck off,” someone growls, and it sounds distinctly like Eames.
Arthur looks up and sees that the boy with the gun is still there, but has
pointed it towards the commotion. There is a person sprawled on the ground and
Eames is standing over it with his rifle aimed at their head. Time seems to
stand still as Arthur stares and struggles to breathe.
Whimpering catches his attention and he looks to the side to see a young girl
clutching herself, tears streaked down her pale face. The situation doesn't
feel unreal, feels like a bad dream. Maybe Arthur is dreaming, because Eames is
there. But the pain reminds him that this is reality. Fighting the urge to
cough he tries to assess the situation. When he looks up his stomach drops.
He can see it, the look in Eames’ eyes. The darkness that Arthur has seen
surface before is full blown and murderous. A chill runs down his spine, which
sends a sharp shock of pain shooting through his lungs.
Eames will kill this kid.
“Eames,” Arthur gasps out. “Eames, don’t!”
Arthur’s seen Eames kill now: rabbits, opossum, deer. This is different. Eames
hand is steady, not tremble of trepidation as he aims his gun.
The girl is sobbing now, genuine fear in her eyes. They’re only kids too; she’s
younger than the other two. “Dom,” she says. “Dom, let’s go. Dom, c’mon!”
“Shut up, Ari,” the blond boy on the ground growls.
Eames hasn’t lowered his gun, but the intensity of his stare is cracking as
time drags on. He glances worriedly back towards where Arthur is huddled on the
ground. Arthur catches his eyes. He shakes his head sharply, willing Eames to
back off.
The adrenaline of the fight is wearing off, the pain increasing. Arthur might
have a broken rib; it’s at least bruised. The endorphins pumping through his
body from the injury won’t last long. They need to get back to camp before he
becomes completely immobile.
“Eames, please,” Arthur nearly begs.
Eames’ gaze softens and his brows furrow, worried but less angry. He lowers his
rifle slightly and steps back, closer to Arthur. The move puts him farther away
from Arthur's backpack. It looks like it physically pains Eames to back away,
to give any room for the others to get the upper hand.
The other boy, the brunette with the shotgun, is shaking and still pointing the
muzzle directly at Eames. He seems unwilling to lower it, eyes darting between
the blond and Eames in fear. The girl tries to calm him down.
“Robbie. Robbie, don’t. Let’s go.”
She places her hand on the muzzle of the gun, lowering it for him. The kid is
still shaking, obviously unsure of what to do. Eames eyes the blond, seeming to
decide whether to risk one last fight for the pack or to come to Arthur’s aid.
After a long, tense moment he backs farther away from the trio. Dom scrambles
to his feet, dragging Arthur’s pack with him. He backs tentatively away, still
afraid that Eames will shoot him, to join the other two. The girl grabs
Robbie’s wrists, pulling him away. They all back up until they are a reasonably
safe distance away. Then they sprint off.
Arthur has lost the food he gathered and a good carrying bag, but at least he’s
alive. At least Eames is alive—and here. That thought is nearly overwhelming.
He wanted to find Eames, had tried so hard, and as soon as he needed him, Eames
had appeared. It was as if Eames had been watching him the entire time.
Eames doesn’t relax until the trio is out of sight. When he finally lowers his
gun, he turns to Arthur, chewing on his bottom lip nervously. There are bags
under Eames’ eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping well, and the distressed
expression mars the features of his face.
“You alright?” Eames asks as he crouches down. The hand he places on Arthur’s
shoulder is warm. Arthur nods, but his short, gasping breaths betray his
injuries. Eames’ frown deepens. “Come one, lets get you up,” he says as he
slides an arm under Arthur’s and gently lifts him to his feet.
They’ve walked for blocks silently before Arthur finally speaks. “Where are we
going?” he asks.
“Back to camp,” Eames replies.
“I came to find you,” Arthur admits.
Eames expression is guarded as Arthur looks at him, his arm wrapped tightly
around Eames’ neck. The distortion of his view from being so close together
makes Eames' expression darker somehow and Arthur buries his face into Eames'
shoulder to block it out. He tries not to focus on the pain.
More time passes in silence, save for Arthur’s labored breathing. It takes
twice the usual amount of time to make it to the bridge. The sun is already
setting by the time they’ve crossed.
“We have to stop.” Arthur pleads, grimacing in pain. The ache has grown
steadily as they made their way through the city.
“Can’t do that,” Eames says. “We won’t make it back before dark and we can’t
camp here. I don’t want to be out longer than we have to, not with you
injured.”
Arthur nods in understanding. It’s dangerous for them here. But his lungs burn;
it takes so much effort to walk. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“Mmmm?” Eames hums.
“For saving my life. Where did you come from anyway?”
Eames looks away sheepishly. He works his bottom lip with his teeth for a
moment before turning back. “I was tailing you.”
Arthur nods. For some reason that makes perfect sense. Eames had first found
Arthur by doing the same thing. It also pisses him off that Arthur couldn't
sense him, yet again. Eames shifts his weight to hitch Arthur higher and the
movement makes him flinch.
“Sorry,” Eames says.
Hours later, they finally make to their camp. Eames deposits Arthur on the bed
as gently as possible then goes to grab some water. Arthur takes the offered
cup thankfully when Eames holds it out. Arthur is exhausted, but he’s been
dying to talk to Eames for so long. He doesn’t know where to start.
He’s in too much discomfort to really focus on a conversation anyway. Eames
finishes the fire and comes to sit next to him in the bed, crossing his legs
and gently moving Arthur’s head onto his lap. Puzzled, Arthur looks where Eames
face is tipped down over him.
“How are you feeling?” Eames asks as he threads his fingers through Arthur’s
hair lightly. It’s so gentle, so unlike any way Eames has touched him before.
Arthur closes his eyes as Eames pets his hair.
“Hurts,” Arthur whispers.
“Can you breathe okay? It’s not sharp inside, is it? Doesn’t feel like it’s
stabbing?” Eames face distorts in worry again. It looks extremely odd from
Arthur’s upside-down position.
Arthur shakes his head no. It extremely painful but the sensation is stretched
across his ribs, not a dagger of pain. Eames nods. “Good. He got you pretty
good, hopefully your ribs are just bruised. They could be broken, but if
there’s no sharp pain then hopefully nothing is going into your lungs.”
“You sound like you know from experience.”
Eames expression darkens again and he looks away. “I do,” he says with the kind
of finality that leaves no room for questions. Arthur doesn’t push. Eames
continues to run his fingers through Arthur’s hair as Arthur drifts into fitful
sleep, exhausted from the journey.
Arthur is unable to get comfortable in any position. He sleeps a little, but
ends up floating in and out of a semi-lucid state. Eames is there every time he
wakes, getting him water, and playing with his hair until he falls back asleep.
Finally, towards morning, he’s able to sleep steadily.
Waking up to the smell of cooking food is glorious. Arthur attempts to stretch,
forgetting his injury for a moment. He gasps when his ribs flare with pain.
“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t move, okay? I’ll help you up.” Eames is at his side
before he knows it, with his palms underneath Arthur’s shoulders to help lift
him. Arthur grits his teeth and blinks his watery eyes. Eames runs a hand down
his back, avoiding the side where his was kicked. If Arthur could press into
the touch he would. It feels perfect.
Eames moves away too quickly, to stir the cooking food before it burns. “You’re
going to be useless for at least a week or two. Breathing is going to be hard
for a few days, and movement, and sleeping. But you’ll loosen up soon. You just
won’t be able to do any hard labor. No lifting.”
Arthur groans. He hates being useless. He hates staying still.
Eames grins at him, a spoon help up in his hand as he crouches by the fire.
“Try not to be a baby about it, yeah? I know how you get when you're cooped up,
but there’s nothing to be done about it, except let yourself recover.” He
points the spoon accusingly towards Arthur before using it to stir the food
again.
“Who died and made you doctor?” Arthur jokes.
“You, nearly,"Eames quips. "Anyway, I wish we had ice, but nothing can be done
about that. You have to take deep breaths every once in a while, to get air
into your lungs, stretch them.”
Arthur scowls at the idea. The short breaths he is taking now hurt enough. He
can’t imagine trying to expand his lungs beyond that. He tries a bigger breath,
just to test it out, and grimaces from the tight pull of sore muscle over his
bruised bones.
“I know it sounds unappealing, but you’ll catch pneumonia otherwise, and we
don’t have the meds for that.”
Arthur nods his understanding. Eames’ extensive knowledge about the nature of
ribcage injuries has him curious. He wants to ask about it, but remembers the
look Eames had last night. For the time being he’s just happy Eames is using
the word we, like he still lives here. It makes Arthur hope that Eames will
stay.
Eames walks over with the finished breakfast and hands Arthur a bowl.
Swallowing isn’t he easiest task either. Neither is changing, or walking too
far, or pissing, or even sitting for that matter. Everything hurts.
Eames helps as much as he can, but even he can’t help keep Arthur from
accidentally bumping into things, or stretching too far, or laughing. In fact,
Eames is the cause of most of the laughing. At least he has the good sense to
feel bad about it for a moment when Arthur whines.
They fall into a new routine of Eames taking care of Arthur. He goes off to
check the traps, but only every other day. He cooks, gathers water, and cleans.
He helps Arthur out of bed, helps him dress, and helps him walk to relieve
himself. Arthur’s not actually an invalid though, so he doesn’t let Eames help
him piss or anything, though Eames probably would if he had to. It makes Arthur
feel a strange mix of joy and annoyance. He hates being helpless, but he kind
of likes the attention.
It’s easy between them when they aren’t fighting, and Arthur doesn’t know why
he tried so hard to push Eames away. Eames wouldn’t do any of this if he didn’t
care. Arthur regrets making Eames upset. He didn’t deserve that, not even for
keeping his past hidden.
But Eames’ past still bothers Arthur a lot. Everything he learns about Eames
makes him want to know more. He’s seen the violence held inside of him. Eames
has obviously been in some rough situations. Arthur just wants to understand.
They’re sitting together by the fire one night when Arthur finally decides to
be straightforward with Eames. “Tell me something true,’ Arthur says. Eames is
starting a fire and when he looks up, his eyes shine within the dark shadows
under his brow. Arthur can see the trepidation behind them, the start of a lie
forming. “Something important,” Arthur clarifies. “I don’t really know anything
about you.”
Eames hesitates. Maybe Arthur is is asking too much too soon. But Eames scrapes
his thumbnail along his lip nervously and starts to speak.
“I wasn’t exactly a good person, Arthur.”
“I know. You said you stole things, stuff like that. I got that you were kind
of a bad boy.”
“No, that’s not what I’m getting at,” Eames pauses, gathering his words. “I ran
with a bad crowd. I … did things.”
“Like what?”
“You know how I told you I was out of town on the day of the blast?”
Arthur nods. Eames continues, “I was delivering drugs to a client for my boss.”
“So you were an actual criminal?”
Eames nods solemnly. Arthur mulls that over in his head, trying to process the
information. Then he remembers the fight, remembers the way Eames looked at
that blond kid on the ground.
“You would have killed that kid, wouldn’t you?” he asks and searches Eames
eyes, pleading for honesty.
Eames hold his gaze for a moment before dropping his eyes to the ground and
nodding. “They hurt you,” he whispers. His foot taps a nervous rhythm in the
dirt and he shuffles something through his fingers. Arthur can’t figure out
what it is. Eames looks back up with the most open expression Arthur has ever
seen from him. He looks so worried and Arthur realizes that he’s waiting for
something. Then it hits him: Eames is waiting for Arthur to reject him.
“Hey, hey,” he says as he grabs Eames’ hand in his own, stilling the movement.
Eames clutches at whatever he was playing with. “Thank you.” Eames doesn’t
relax, so Arthur tries again. “Eames, thank you. You protected me.”
“I never wanted you to know me like that, you know.”
“Like what?”
Eames doesn’t answer directly but continues on, “I had a fresh start when I met
you. You didn’t know anything about me, and I didn’t have to be judged by what
I used to do.”
Arthur wants to say that he wouldn't have judged Eames, but he doesn’t. He
didn’t even want to deal with Eames at first, he doesn’t know how he would have
reacted early on.
“I don’t care what you did, Eames. It can’t be bad enough to make me not care
about you, to not be your friend.”
Eames looks at him seriously again, weighing Arthur’s words. Arthur gives him
the most sincere look he can manage. Eames bursts into laughter.
“That is not a good look for you, mate.”
Arthur smiles automatically, reacting to the grin plastered on Eames’ face.
“What? I’m trying to be serious here!”
“You look constipated.”
“I’d punch you in the arm if it wouldn’t hurt me more at this point.”
“I am truly terrified of your recovery if you’re going to threaten me with
physical violence every time I make fun of you.”
A bitter thought flits through Arthur’s head. That’s the only way I will get to
touch you once I’m not injured anymore. Eames is being affectionate while
Arthur is helpless, but he knows that won’t last. Eames picks up on the shift
in mood immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Arthur lies and looks away. Eames flicks his ear.
“None of that, mate. It’s honesty hour. What’s wrong?”
Arthur hesitates, looking down at his lap, then he speaks quietly. “Do I make
you uncomfortable?”
“What do you mean?”
Arthur frowns. “You told me not to touch you.” Eames looks horrified and Arthur
scrambles. “I mean, I can stop touching you and not be an asshole about it. I
was being a dick, and I promise I can stop. I’m just … I don’t want to make you
uncomfortable. I don’t want you to leave again.”
“Woah, Arthur, calm down,” Eames says, grabbing Arthur’s head between his
hands. Arthur snaps his mouth shut. “I never wanted you to stop touching me.”
“But you said.”
“That’s not what I meant, mate.”
Arthur scowls in confusion and jerks his head away from Eames’ hold. “What did
you mean then?” They sit in silence for a few minutes, while Eames gathers his
thoughts. What he says next is not anything Arthur expected.
“I like you, Arthur.”
Arthur sits dumbly, staring at Eames in shock. “What?”
“I like you, and I didn’t … I didn’t want you to like me.”
“What?” Arthur says again.
“I’m not good for anyone. I have a lot of shite-issues and you are all I have.
I don’t want to lose you because you find out that who I was and you realize
that I’m not what you want.”
Arthur doesn’t know what to make of any of this. How could he not want Eames?
Eames is everything to him.
“You know, you never let me decide that for myself. You never told me anything
about you.”
Eames frowns expression going guarded again, still holding onto his secrets.
“There is nothing good about my past, okay? I’m not my past,” he hisses.
“There’s nothing that relates to now. There’s nothing that relates to you, or
us, or anything anymore.”
“Eames. There won’t be an us if you aren’t honest with me. This … all this will
get worse, and I’ll end up hating you anyway.”
Eames looks at him like Arthur has wounded him, like the words have left him
naked, vulnerable. The anger and fear Eames' hides is sitting just below his
skin and Arthur wants to tear it out and throw them into the fire, destroy it
once and for all.
“Maybe you should hate me,” Eames says.
“Fuck that, Eames!” Arthur yells, then flinches because his ribs throb. With a
lower voice he continues, “what makes you think like that? You saved me. We’ve
been living together for months. I don’t hate you, and I don’t think I can.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Because you won’t let me! You don't trust me.”
They’re at a stalemate. It’s the same one they’ve been at before, but now their
entire future together is on the line. They can’t go back from here. Arthur
can’t pretend he doesn’t want more from Eames, and Eames can’t pretend he
doesn’t notice.
Eames wants me. He said so himself, Arthur thinks. That’s the hope he has to
hang onto. He swallows the thick lump in his throat and decides that he’s going
to be the one who has to do something. Eames will continue to hide from him if
he doesn’t. Arthur pushes himself from sitting and kneels in front of Eames,
startling him.
Arthur cups his hands around Eames’ face and slowly presses a kiss to Eames’
lips. When he pulls away he looks squarely into Eames’ eyes. “We can’t do this
anymore,” he says. “I want you. I want you to stay with me. But you can’t be
here if you aren’t honest with me. We can’t work as friends, or as anything
else, if you hide everything from me.”
That’s all Arthur can say. He can’t promise that things will work between them
if Eames is honest. But he sure as hell knows it won’t if Eames isn’t. He also
doesn’t know what will happen to them in the future either. But he wants to
try. “Please,” he whispers.
Eames sighs into Arthur’s hands. He looks like he wants to run away, but then
Arthur can see when Eames makes a decision, the change in his posture. A hand
wraps around the back of Arthur’s head, fingers toying with the curls of his
hair. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll try.” Then Eames draws him closer, pressing their
lips together again.
Arthur is overwhelmed because this is what he’s been wanting ever since the
first time he kissed Eames. He’s so desperate for it, for more, for everything,
that he presses into the kiss harder. Arthur runs his tongue along the seam of
Eames’ lips and Eames parts them for him. Eames groans at the intrusion and it
stirs something in Arthur. He demands more, stealing Eames’ breaths and
clutching at his shoulders. Eames pulls away, gently holding Arthur back as to
not hurt his ribs.
“Stop,” he says. “We can’t do this.”
Arthur whimpers.
“Shhh, no. I mean … I want to Arthur. But I don’t think I can control myself if
we do this, and you’re injured. We can’t do this now.”
Eames runs the pad of his thumb along Arthur’s lip; it’s an intimate, tender
gesture. Arthur wants to anyway, though he knows it is a bad idea. Finally he
nods.
“Why don’t we go to bed, yeah?” Eames says.
They undress, Arthur carefully with Eames’ help, and climb underneath the
covers before the chill night air can seep into their skin. Arthur presses
himself into Eames’ arms, his nose buried in Eames’ neck. He strokes a hand
over Eames’ side, reveling in the smell of him as Eames cards a hand through
his hair.
It takes all the willpower Arthur has to keep the kisses light, to keep from
doing something stupid and injuring himself more. But it feels so good to be
able to finally touch Eames how he wants to. They finally drift off to sleep
after hours of kissing lazily, stopping every once in a while before it can go
farther. Despite his sore ribs, it’s the best night of sleep Arthur has had in
a very long time.
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you so much to night_reveals for the beta on this chapter.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter by sparrow_hubris_(lezzerlee)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Arthur wakes to light kisses trailing down the sensitive skin of his stomach.
He’s ticklish and the muscles of his abdomen twitch as butterfly-soft pressure
moves over them. Sighing with residual sleepiness, Arthur arches into the press
of lips, stretching his back up off the bed and loosening his muscles.
When he yawns, a tongue slides into his mouth, interrupting it and stealing his
breath. He deepens the kiss, searching with his own tongue, exploring over
teeth and soft palate until he needs oxygen more than he can stand.
“Good morning,” Arthur says, smiling as he pushes Eames away.
Eames is propped on one arm above him, smiling down. “Good morning,” he says in
a sleep roughened voice.
The gruffness of it makes Arthur’s cock witch and he raises a hand to brush
disorderly tufts of hair from Eames’ face. Eames bends down to steal another
kiss as his hand splays over Arthur’s side, massaging absently as his tongue
searches the depths of Arthur’s mouth.
Eames shifts his hips, pressing into Arthur and eliciting a throaty moan in
reaction. Arthur can feel Eames grin against his lips. Eames rolls his hips
again, applying sweet pressure to Arthur’s morning erection which makes Arthur
moan in response. He thrusts his own hips off the bed as much as he can against
Eames’ weight.
“How did you get so heavy?” Arthur gasps when he sucks in a breath of air.
“You love it,” Eames responds.
He seals his lips over Arthur’s again, shutting him up. The kissing turns more
urgent as they grind themselves together. Finally Arthur can’t take it anymore;
he breaks the kiss, murmuring, “Eames, please,” into the small gap between
their lips.
Eames growls against him, leveling one last peck to Arthur’s lips before he
moves lower, biting and sucking at his neck, the dip of his collarbone, his
nipple, his navel, and the juncture of his hip. Arthur gasps and writhes,
sensitive and ticklish to Eames’ attention.
Eames sucks him into his mouth and Arthur’s eyes squeeze shut as he’s
overwhelmed with the slick, wet suction around his cock. He must make a noise
because he feels Eames laugh around him, sending vibrations down the length of
his erection to settle at the base. Eames continues to suck, picking up the
pace only to slow it down, swirling his tongue around the sensitive head of
Arthur’s cock before engulfing him down to the base again.
Arthur can feel the pressure build, can feel his balls draw up in anticipation.
“Eames,” he chokes out. “I don’t think … I’m not going to last. Please.”
Eames dips down one last time, pressing his tongue along the veins of Arthur’s
shaft before he pulls off with a wet pop. Instead of coming up for another kiss
like Arthur expects, Eames spreads Arthur’s legs farther, pushing them back and
up. It forces Arthur’s hips up and off the bedding. Arthur groans when he feels
Eames’ tongue lick a wet stripe up from his tailbone to his balls. Eames sucks
at the base of his cock before dipping back down to swirl around the sensitive
ring of his asshole.
“Ah … ah,” is all Arthur can manage to articulate as Eames works him over.
Eames’ tongue presses in firmly, urging Arthur to relax. Eames backs off,
licking lines over the twitching muscle before poking back in.
It seems like an eternity of teasing, licking, sucking before Arthur finally
feels the press of a slicked finger slipping inside of him. He is so loose that
there is nearly no resistance at all, and he whimpers because it’s not enough.
Looking down between his own legs, Arthur finds Eames staring up at him,
smiling fondly, wickedly, and possessively. Arthur vaguely wonders how Eames
can fit all of those emotions in to one expression. He can’t think on it long
because Eames is adding another finger, slipping it in to stretch him more.
It’s still not enough. Arthur is ready and he wants more. Looking down at Eames
again, he tries to form words around his tongue that has become too thick and
heavy in his own mouth. “Eames, enough,” he finally manages. “I … ah … ah … I
need. I need more.”
Eames, the bastard, is tonguing the stretch of Arthur’s muscle around his
fingers. His other had cups over Arthur’s cock and Arthur attempts to push up
into it, demanding more pressure. Eames relents, pulling his fingers free which
makes Arthur shudder. His hole grasps, twitches with loss.
Eames licks at his own palm, applying as much spit as possible before wrapping
his hand around his own cock. He reaches for the bottle of lube they have and
pours just enough straight unto Arthur’s hole. Arthur watches as Eames lines
himself up before pressing in slowly. The slide is delicious and Arthur hums
his approval, bearing down to let Eames sink in with one smooth stroke.
Eames’ eyes flutter shut and he lets out a little gasped curse. He stays still
for a moment, letting Arthur adjust, before he falls forward. He catches
himself on his arm just before he can crush Arthur with his weight. Capturing
Arthur’s mouth in another kiss, Eames begins to rock slowly, sliding in and out
of Arthur at an excruciatingly slow pace.
It’s lazy, and wonderful, and perfect. Arthur wants it to never end; he wants
Eames to fuck him all day, slowly. But the pressure, the need to come builds
until he can’t take it anymore and he reaches behind Eames’ legs, grabbing at
his ass and urging for a quicker pace.
Eames thrusts harder, his panting leaving Arthur’s neck wet and hot. Arthur
turns his head to the side, to capture the lobe of Eames’ ear between his
teeth. Every time Eames pushes in, Arthur lets out a little whimper of
pleasure, of encouragement. He’s close, so close, but his cock is trapped
between his stomach and Eames with not enough friction to bring him to climax.
He reluctantly releases Eames’ ear and pushes him up a little to grab at his
own prick. He tugs lightly at it as Eames continues to drive into him. Eames
looks down at him fiercely, lost in the pleasure of the moment. It’s a feral
look which causes Arthur to bite down on his lip instinctively. Eames snaps his
hips harder and wraps his own hand around Arthur’s cock, jerking in sync with
Arthur’s own hand.
Eames’ pace falters and the muscles in his face lock up for a brief moment
before going slack as he shouts over his orgasm. Arthur can feel the hot spill
of Eames’ come inside him. Eames tries to keep the pace, pushing through his
oversensitivity to fuck Arthur into orgasm, but he can’t. Arthur stops him with
a touch to his thigh. Eames reluctantly pulls out, but grabs Arthur’s wrist,
removing Arthur’s grip on his own cock. He bends down and sucks at Arthur again
as he slips two fingers into Arthur’s wet asshole.

Arthur moans without reservation, loud and strained and needy. Eames searches
inside him, trying to find his prostate, but Arthur is coming from the grip of
Eames’ throat and the press of his lips around his cock, before Eames can find
it. Arthur shudders as Eames drinks his come and laps at his dick.
He smiles before he comes back up to kiss Arthur, wiping his hand on a scrap of
cloth they keep beside the bedding. Eames uses the cloth to clean Arthur up,
wiping and kissing intermittently. When he’s done he flops down beside Arthur
and sighs happily.
“We doing this today? Or are we putting it off again?”
Arthur smiles, and turns to look at Eames. He strokes a hand down Eames’ sweat
dampened skin. “No, the weather is good. Today is good.”
It’s been a year since Arthur went looking for Eames. A year since his injury
and the strained confession of feelings. It has not been easy. Eames still has
a hard time sharing his past, but they work through it. Arthur hasn’t found
anything about Eames that he could hate him for, and he doesn’t understand why
Eames is still so reluctant to share. But every time Eames does, it gets
easier.
It’s amazing too, so amazing, because every day Arthur wakes to Eames by his
side. He’s able to reach out and touch, to kiss Eames the way he wants. He can
stare all he wants, without having to feel bad about it anymore. They do
everything together, and it works, because they work well together.
But a year means that their supplies have run low. The city is picked over and
as much as they’ve tried, they haven’t been able to grow enough of a garden to
support themselves. They’ve saved as many portable things they can, and have
decided to head south. Maybe they will run into populated territory; they don’t
know. But at least the weather will be better. They’ll be able to live if they
can grow things, or if they can find another city that isn’t empty of food.
Arthur must be making a face again, because Eames reaches over to brush the
hair from his eyes. “It’ll be okay,” he says.
“I know,” Arthur answers, and he smiles. He knows everything will be alright as
long as he has Eames.
Chapter End Notes
     Thanks to night_reveals for the beta!
  Works inspired by this one
      [Podfic]_All_is_Violent,_All_is_Bright by kansouame
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
