Fic: Serenne Where the Sunflowers Grow
Title: Serenne Where the Sunflowers Grow
Author:
zeto
Characters/Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Word Count: 800+
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these characters.
Summary: Arthur hurts but Eames can't do anything to help him.
It is raining.
Arthur hardly notices as he sits on a wet park bench, hands buried in his hair, dripping crimson water down his cold, clammy fingers..
It is a testament as to how lost he is, when it takes him over a full minute to realize someone is holding an umbrella over his head. On any other day, no one would be able to get within five feet of him with his awareness, much less get an umbrella over his head.
It is no ordinary day.
He slowly lifts his head up, heedless of the wet locks dripping into his eyes. His lips barely move, the faintest word spilling out, “Eames...”
“You're sopping wet, darling. Why don't we get you back inside, hm?” The Forger suggests quietly.
If Eames notices the scarlet rivulets, he doesn't say anything
It alarms him, to see Arthur looking so small and lost. To see him vulnerable and fragile. This is not the Arthur he is used to. And he's quite certain he does not like it.
The younger man gives the barest shake of his head. “I—can't.”
Eames isn't surprised by his reply. Ever since the phone call Arthur had received earlier, he had been acting strange. All stilted actions and half-broken replies.
Heedless of his own clothing, he sits down next to Arthur instead, folds up the umbrella. And they sit in the rain, letting the minutes slip by, with only the rain for a companion.
“Her name,” he says so quietly that Eames almost doesn't hear it, “ is...was Serenne. Her favourite flowers were sunflowers, so wherever we were, we would plant them. Watch them grow, even in the most barren of places. Serenne where the sunflowers grow, I used to say. Used to.”
If Eames notices the crack in his voice, he doesn't say anything.
Later, when they are back in their apartment, Eames carefully divests him of his soggy, stained clothing, helps him into the shower, himself still fully clothed and just. Wraps his arms around Arthur as the scalding water drenches them both and they simply stand under the stream and lose track of time.
Afterwards, Eames guides him out, gently pats him dry with a white towel and settles him into their bed. With tender hands, he wraps a fleece blanket around Arthur. Arthur barely even reacts.
When Eames presses a mug of steaming tea into his hands, he finally breaks the silence again.
“I'm not...I don't need this--”
“I know, darling,” replies the older man, trying for a smile. “You're the best in the business. I've seen you take out men more than double your size. You could probably break necks with your pinky.”
His smile fades before it even fully forms.
“I just...I need this,” Eames finally admits, voice a bare whisper.
Arthur takes a sip of his drink, staring at the leaves pooling at the bottom. He can feel Eames' eyes on him, those compelling blue-grey eyes, swirled with green, lanced with pain. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything except drink his tea and stare at the leaves, looking for his future.
Time seems to drag on, the minutes ticking away ever so slowly.
Arthur wants to tell Eames to go away. Except he doesn't.
He wants to be left alone. Except he doesn't.
He does and he doesn't. No, he doesn't know what he wants anymore.
Except perhaps to wake up from this bad dream.
Except it's not.
Eames wants so badly to reach out, envelop the younger man in his arms, shield him from all the hurts of the world but there are some things even he is incapable of rectifying.
After a few long moments, he gives in to his urges and takes back the mug, setting it on the night table as he climbs onto the bed. Sliding his arms around Arthur, he merely holds him, pressing his forehead against the back of the younger man's neck. And he just breathes.
Takes in the familiar scent of his lover. Smoky cherry like the cigarillos Arthur favours, mixed with the scent of his cologne, a cool blend of juniper berries and evergreen.
They don't talk about it. That night. Was it only yesterday? It seems like forever ago. In the rain. The crimson-stained clothing. The way Arthur had seemed so small and fragile. Needy and hurting, but unwilling to admit it. Unwilling to ask. Silently grateful for Eames knowing without the words ever being voiced.
If Eames happens to read about the mysterious deaths of a couple of small-time criminals known for raping and killing young girls in the local newspaper, well, he doesn't say anything.
The only clue, as to the identity of the killer, is a single sunflower at the scene of the crime.
Only Eames knows the secret behind the sunflower.
END
A/N: I'm not terribly happy with this one. It feels incomplete, but this Writer's Block is just annihilating me. I don't know how to fix this block. I've tried all sorts of methods. Random writing, listening to all sorts of music, watching Inception (again, for the third time), reading the Shooting Script, looking at pictures of the ever-so-lovely JGL, reading other people's works in the fandom and other fandoms like SPN, sleeping, etc. I don't understand this block. It's not like my previous block where I just had no drive. I have all these ideas, this drive to write but I just. Can't. Ask me for prompts, for fic ideas and I've got dozens. But I can't seem to get any of the ideas written for myself.
That said, dear reader, I hope you enjoyed this fic regardless. Thanks for reading. :)
Author:
zetoCharacters/Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Word Count: 800+
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these characters.
Summary: Arthur hurts but Eames can't do anything to help him.
It is raining.
Arthur hardly notices as he sits on a wet park bench, hands buried in his hair, dripping crimson water down his cold, clammy fingers..
It is a testament as to how lost he is, when it takes him over a full minute to realize someone is holding an umbrella over his head. On any other day, no one would be able to get within five feet of him with his awareness, much less get an umbrella over his head.
It is no ordinary day.
He slowly lifts his head up, heedless of the wet locks dripping into his eyes. His lips barely move, the faintest word spilling out, “Eames...”
“You're sopping wet, darling. Why don't we get you back inside, hm?” The Forger suggests quietly.
If Eames notices the scarlet rivulets, he doesn't say anything
It alarms him, to see Arthur looking so small and lost. To see him vulnerable and fragile. This is not the Arthur he is used to. And he's quite certain he does not like it.
The younger man gives the barest shake of his head. “I—can't.”
Eames isn't surprised by his reply. Ever since the phone call Arthur had received earlier, he had been acting strange. All stilted actions and half-broken replies.
Heedless of his own clothing, he sits down next to Arthur instead, folds up the umbrella. And they sit in the rain, letting the minutes slip by, with only the rain for a companion.
“Her name,” he says so quietly that Eames almost doesn't hear it, “ is...was Serenne. Her favourite flowers were sunflowers, so wherever we were, we would plant them. Watch them grow, even in the most barren of places. Serenne where the sunflowers grow, I used to say. Used to.”
If Eames notices the crack in his voice, he doesn't say anything.
Later, when they are back in their apartment, Eames carefully divests him of his soggy, stained clothing, helps him into the shower, himself still fully clothed and just. Wraps his arms around Arthur as the scalding water drenches them both and they simply stand under the stream and lose track of time.
Afterwards, Eames guides him out, gently pats him dry with a white towel and settles him into their bed. With tender hands, he wraps a fleece blanket around Arthur. Arthur barely even reacts.
When Eames presses a mug of steaming tea into his hands, he finally breaks the silence again.
“I'm not...I don't need this--”
“I know, darling,” replies the older man, trying for a smile. “You're the best in the business. I've seen you take out men more than double your size. You could probably break necks with your pinky.”
His smile fades before it even fully forms.
“I just...I need this,” Eames finally admits, voice a bare whisper.
Arthur takes a sip of his drink, staring at the leaves pooling at the bottom. He can feel Eames' eyes on him, those compelling blue-grey eyes, swirled with green, lanced with pain. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything except drink his tea and stare at the leaves, looking for his future.
Time seems to drag on, the minutes ticking away ever so slowly.
Arthur wants to tell Eames to go away. Except he doesn't.
He wants to be left alone. Except he doesn't.
He does and he doesn't. No, he doesn't know what he wants anymore.
Except perhaps to wake up from this bad dream.
Except it's not.
Eames wants so badly to reach out, envelop the younger man in his arms, shield him from all the hurts of the world but there are some things even he is incapable of rectifying.
After a few long moments, he gives in to his urges and takes back the mug, setting it on the night table as he climbs onto the bed. Sliding his arms around Arthur, he merely holds him, pressing his forehead against the back of the younger man's neck. And he just breathes.
Takes in the familiar scent of his lover. Smoky cherry like the cigarillos Arthur favours, mixed with the scent of his cologne, a cool blend of juniper berries and evergreen.
They don't talk about it. That night. Was it only yesterday? It seems like forever ago. In the rain. The crimson-stained clothing. The way Arthur had seemed so small and fragile. Needy and hurting, but unwilling to admit it. Unwilling to ask. Silently grateful for Eames knowing without the words ever being voiced.
If Eames happens to read about the mysterious deaths of a couple of small-time criminals known for raping and killing young girls in the local newspaper, well, he doesn't say anything.
The only clue, as to the identity of the killer, is a single sunflower at the scene of the crime.
Only Eames knows the secret behind the sunflower.
END
A/N: I'm not terribly happy with this one. It feels incomplete, but this Writer's Block is just annihilating me. I don't know how to fix this block. I've tried all sorts of methods. Random writing, listening to all sorts of music, watching Inception (again, for the third time), reading the Shooting Script, looking at pictures of the ever-so-lovely JGL, reading other people's works in the fandom and other fandoms like SPN, sleeping, etc. I don't understand this block. It's not like my previous block where I just had no drive. I have all these ideas, this drive to write but I just. Can't. Ask me for prompts, for fic ideas and I've got dozens. But I can't seem to get any of the ideas written for myself.
That said, dear reader, I hope you enjoyed this fic regardless. Thanks for reading. :)