Fic: A Letter Unsent
Title: A Letter Unsent
Author:
zeto
Characters/Pairing: pre-slash (Arthur/Eames)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these characters.
Summary: Years and years before the best Point Man in the business ever existed, there was a boy. His name was Arthur, and this was a letter he wrote all those years ago.
He's sitting alone in his hotel room, elegant fingers caressing the fine crystal snifter. He sips the amber liquid and it smoothly runs down his throat, warm and silky. It settles in his belly, infusing him with heat.
Cognac.
On the table beside him is a single piece of parchment. The page is creased and wrinkled; a direct result of years of handling. The black ink on the pages is faded but still clear.
He doesn't even have to look, the words are long memorized.
Dear Strange Boy,
I have decided that our strange encounter was merely a by-product of my overtaxed and stressed out mind. Maybe some tiny little part of me was trying to remind me of the essentials in life. Trying to remind me of the things I'd lost sight of: Be happy and be yourself.
I really do hope you are real though, and not some hallucination dreamt up by my lack of sleep and lack of proper food. Yes, I do know coffee and a granola bar is not a proper meal. But neither is tea and a scone, even if the scone did taste quite good.
I want to know you. I want to ask you if you've ever read anything by William Wordsworth or Percy Bysshe Shelley. Have you ever opened a copy of The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám? I want to ask if you prefer watching the sun rise on a clear, crisp winter dawn or the sun set over the shimmering ocean on a warm summer evening? Have you ever seen a shooting star? And made a wish upon it? I did once. A long time ago. Now I don't even remember what the wish was. Or if it even came true. Maybe it did. I hope so.
I feel like I've been touched. A little mad in the head, ever since we spoke. It's like my head is in the clouds and there's no way down from there. I keep thinking about the things you said, the words we exchanged, the words we didn't.
I still can't believe I gave you my number. Will you call? Will you not? Surely I will go loony with the waiting. Even if you did call, what would I say? I have all these words, all these thoughts. And I want to share them with you but I don't know how. I keep them all inside myself, and they're waiting. Maybe you can free them.
You are a most unusual boy. You were always smiling and cheerful, bringing a joy to the room with such ease and finesse. You, who tastes of Earl Grey tea and cherries. You, who smells of laughter and sunshine. And I cannot forget you.
I don't think I'd ever want to forget you.
Yours truly,
Arthur
The crackling blaze in the hearth licks at the logs, radiant in the dark of the room.
He sits, silent, and he wonders.
What ever happened to that boy he was all those years ago? How did he end up here? He had said he didn't ever want to forget, but Arthur is afraid deep down, despite reading the letter over and over throughout the years, he already has forgotten.
Forgotten.
Everything he ever was.
To become everything he's ever hated.
END
Some days, I like to think that letter is addressed to a young Eames that Arthur met all those years ago. Some days I like to think it's addressed to someone else altogether.
Feedback is, as always, much appreciated.
Author:
zetoCharacters/Pairing: pre-slash (Arthur/Eames)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these characters.
Summary: Years and years before the best Point Man in the business ever existed, there was a boy. His name was Arthur, and this was a letter he wrote all those years ago.
He's sitting alone in his hotel room, elegant fingers caressing the fine crystal snifter. He sips the amber liquid and it smoothly runs down his throat, warm and silky. It settles in his belly, infusing him with heat.
Cognac.
On the table beside him is a single piece of parchment. The page is creased and wrinkled; a direct result of years of handling. The black ink on the pages is faded but still clear.
He doesn't even have to look, the words are long memorized.
Dear Strange Boy,
I have decided that our strange encounter was merely a by-product of my overtaxed and stressed out mind. Maybe some tiny little part of me was trying to remind me of the essentials in life. Trying to remind me of the things I'd lost sight of: Be happy and be yourself.
I really do hope you are real though, and not some hallucination dreamt up by my lack of sleep and lack of proper food. Yes, I do know coffee and a granola bar is not a proper meal. But neither is tea and a scone, even if the scone did taste quite good.
I want to know you. I want to ask you if you've ever read anything by William Wordsworth or Percy Bysshe Shelley. Have you ever opened a copy of The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám? I want to ask if you prefer watching the sun rise on a clear, crisp winter dawn or the sun set over the shimmering ocean on a warm summer evening? Have you ever seen a shooting star? And made a wish upon it? I did once. A long time ago. Now I don't even remember what the wish was. Or if it even came true. Maybe it did. I hope so.
I feel like I've been touched. A little mad in the head, ever since we spoke. It's like my head is in the clouds and there's no way down from there. I keep thinking about the things you said, the words we exchanged, the words we didn't.
I still can't believe I gave you my number. Will you call? Will you not? Surely I will go loony with the waiting. Even if you did call, what would I say? I have all these words, all these thoughts. And I want to share them with you but I don't know how. I keep them all inside myself, and they're waiting. Maybe you can free them.
You are a most unusual boy. You were always smiling and cheerful, bringing a joy to the room with such ease and finesse. You, who tastes of Earl Grey tea and cherries. You, who smells of laughter and sunshine. And I cannot forget you.
I don't think I'd ever want to forget you.
Yours truly,
Arthur
The crackling blaze in the hearth licks at the logs, radiant in the dark of the room.
He sits, silent, and he wonders.
What ever happened to that boy he was all those years ago? How did he end up here? He had said he didn't ever want to forget, but Arthur is afraid deep down, despite reading the letter over and over throughout the years, he already has forgotten.
Forgotten.
Everything he ever was.
To become everything he's ever hated.
END
Some days, I like to think that letter is addressed to a young Eames that Arthur met all those years ago. Some days I like to think it's addressed to someone else altogether.
Feedback is, as always, much appreciated.