Change

Mess.

For the first time in his life he was a mess and he was making a mess and he couldn't stop himself.

Arthur was stood in his bedroom, his bottom half fully clothed. He just needed to find the right combination for his torso. He felt like he was facing the most agonising decision of his life.

Shirts, sweaters, trousers and waistcoats were smattered all across the neatly made bed and tossed all over the floor. Silk ties in various colours slithered everywhere and hooked on to picture frames, several suit jackets hung limply.

He plucked out a pale, blue shirt from his wardrobe. He considered it, though he wasn't really seeing anything. His vision had been blurred for days. Nothing existed beyond the shade of blue he was lost in. The only thing he could feel was pulp of his heart. Everything else was numb.

Mal was gone. She was gone. He was never going to speak to her again. Never going to hug her. Never dream-share. Or call her tell her how wonderful she looked before she went out. Or make her a drink. Or just sit besides her, feeling her presence.

There was an odd prickle at the back of his neck, alerting him that he was being watched and he broke out of his thoughts.

He turned and he saw that Eames had materialised at the doorframe. Arthur blinked quickly a few times, jolted and confused to find him there before his foggy, grief-addled mind reminded him that Eames was staying with him. He wanted to apologise for forgetting that Eames existed, say sorry for creating such chaos but the lump in his throat wouldn't let him speak.

Instead, he ran his eyes over the older man. Eames, who had been projecting serenity for the past few days, was dressed in various shades of black. He was unnaturally crisp and neat. It was unbearable. How come he had managed to get dressed so easily?

Finally Arthur said, "I have no idea what to what to wear."

Eames sent him a soft, sad smile.

"We have to go soon," replied Eames in a steady voice.

Arthur nodded and looked back down at the blue shirt. It suddenly became too casual and inappropriate. How could he have been so amazingly stupid to consider wearing it. He tossed it on the other discarded shirts.

He started flicking through his wardrobe and took out a black long-sleeved shirt. If Eames was wearing black, he could too.

"What do you think?" He held up the shirt against his naked torso. "Eames? Do you think…because it's sombre?" He looked at it again. Black was so miserable and Mal hadn't been a miserable person before she had spiralled into madness. She was lovely and light. It wouldn't be the right shirt to reflect her. He then thought about how his own pain couldn't even compare to Dom's, who couldn't even be in the same country to watch his wife be planted into the ground . And then there was Phillipa and James…

He was being so selfish.

He dropped the shirt as it burnt him and snatched up one made of russet material. With pleading eyes, he looked up to Eames, who incredibly still.

"The brown? Is that any better?"

"Arthur," said Eames, his voice firm. "It's fine, it's just a shirt."

He knew Eames was right and he knew he needed to behave better. He had to fake being held together better. He pushed the base of his thumbs onto his eyes as his face crumpled. He took two deep, steadying breaths and swapped the brown for a white shirt with pinstripes.

He glanced his eyes over it. It seemed okay. He pulled himself into it and started to rapidly button it up, only to get to the top and realise he missed one.

Frustrated, he hastily unbuttoned it, only to repeat his error again. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, using every muscle in his body not to fully collapse. He was about to mend his mistake when he felt warm fingers delicately touch with his chest.

He opened his eyes and met Eames' blue ones.

Never shifting his gaze from Arthur, Eames' fingers slowly unfastened every shirt buttons. He had never seen him so exposed. He could see the thin veil of tears in Arthur's brown eyes and the deep, unfathomable grief bubbling just beneath the surface his young face.

Eames was steady, taking his time with each single button, working his way to the top of the white shirt. He then picked up a dark red tie from the bed.

"You are going to be okay," he said, his voice strong and reassuring. Eames draped the silk material around Arthur's neck and tied it easily. "I know you feel like you are splitting apart right now, Arthur, but we do survive."

He went to Arthur's wardrobe and selected a dark grey waist coat. He held it out for Arthur, who shrugged himself into it. "After each knock, after each earth-shattering blow, we get up. We are never the same but somehow we rebuild ourselves." Eames fixed his eyes on Arthur's who stared back silently. "It's how we change."

Arthur tightened his lips slightly.

I don't need change.

Eames came towards him with his jacket.

"I know, darling," he said, slipping Arthur's arms through the sleeves and Arthur wondered if he had spoken it out loud. "I know."

Procrastination is a cruel mistress.

Actually this was the first story I wrote way back in September and it was originally Eames not knowing what to wear but didn't work. So it's been stored away for ages and ages and I thought I'd give it another whirl today. I had been watching a Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode called The Body, one of the characters is unable to find the 'right' shirt to wear, so that's where this came from.

Oooh, and if anyone is celebrating firework night tonight *fonze thumbs* have a good one. And even if your not, have a good one anyway :)

Thanks for reading xx

Disclaimer: Nothing do I own.