Time is a Crooked Bow
Ariadne knew what it was like to build her own empires. She never thought, no, never in all her years, that she could create and use her imagination to fabricate worlds in her dreams. She'd sigh when she thought about it. Her fingers would tremble when she saw the rain, and she'd shut the windows and wrap herself in the sheets.
She'd sometimes wish Arthur was home. She wished they were a team again.
She'd wish she was that twenty-one year old girl in college with hopes and aspirations, and then she'd hate the rain because a long time ago, Arthur would be in those same sheets with her.
Ariadne would look at her daughter, and she'd remember that she loves Arthur. She loves him. He would call her pretty and he'd smile, even if it wasn't the big grins she was used to giving, she would find her home in him. Something she was scared to find, at first. And she'd find solace in the summer, because she'd run around in her crop top and shorts and lay in the sand with Arthur, the only thing that made her heart pulse.
Ariadne would have dreams that involved blood and fingernails, and she'd wake up and wash her face and would find herself calling Cobb again because he couldn't deal with it if he'd let someone else slip away. And she felt like she was being pulled through the sand and seaweed, and she couldn't get a grasp of what was the floor anymore. And if Ariadne happened to see Cobb's lingering pale green eyes, as his fingers lay on her wrist feeling her erratic pulse, she wouldn't stop herself when she'd move forward to discover the space between the two.
Ariadne felt her marriage was a sham but she clung onto it desperately, she needed it. She needed stability. She'd tear whenever she ate Raisin Bran because she'd remember how Arthur would wake her up every morning to warn her about her daily intake of fiber. She'd laugh and remember why she loved him all over again. She'd hide her tears from everyone, and whenever she found Cobb she'd fall into him haphazardly, and she'd laugh with him until real tears came.
Ariadne would spend summers on the beach waiting for Arthur, who would come every now and then and again, and sometimes he'd wait a few weeks and blame it on the business, and she'd smile and try to remember why she loved him, and sometimes her mind would be hazy. She'd blame it on the sun and bathe in it until the harsh rain and snow would come and wash away all feelings.
Arthur didn't know that all it took was one look to paralyze him. They fought alot, mostly because of Eames' insecurities and Arthur's habitual running. Arthur wasn't running from Eames. Eames was his escape, but sometimes he needed to be able to breathe again instead of falling in love again every time Eames kissed his eyes and squeezed his hands.
Eames didn't know what love was. He roamed countless hearts, draining them and tossing them aside. He sometimes found himself bitter and in need of a rich taste on his tongue, but never did he imagine settling down.
And they never did. Eames would hum the song of emptiness, something he knew well. And the rain wouldn't have that same profound effect it did on the days he drew his soul from the earth and the skies and the beauty around him. And he'd tried to weave something new all together to comfort him, but he'd sigh and he'd think how he wasn't the architect. That was Arthur's wife.
Eames would smoke cigarettes and blow them into Arthur's sleeping face and wish he knew what he was dreaming about. And Arthur would wake up coughing, and Eames would giggle and whisper, "Morning love," while Arthur would yell at him about second-hand smoking. Then Eames would wonder what was wrong with himself. And when Arthur was away for weeks, sometimes months at a time, he'd feel his anger and frustration and he'd go out drinking again.
Eames would always be second best.
And the first time he'd ever found someone worth anything, someone who didn't leave him or betray him or use him, someone tangible, someone human, he couldn't have him. Eames was worn out. He'd never be first in his eyes.
Arthur cradled the girl in his arms, avoiding Ariadne for most of the day. She had recieved his unexpected visit and had to rush Cobb out the house and welcome her husband, the man she loved, back home. She was losing track of him, and he was losing track of himself. Arthur would look at her, and when they slept in the same bed, they never felt any farther. She still heard the call from those warm summer nights beneath the stars, and he felt the radiance of being with Eames in his balcony, overlooking buildings, hearing pitter patter of rain, and the drift of smoke above his eyes.
And in between them, was a small girl with a huge weight on her tiny shoulders, and a huge smile on her face.
And when she woke up coughing in the middle of the night, tossing and turning, Arthur would remember that one time when Eames woke up, and he felt like he was suffocating, and Arthur put his arms around him, the huge guy he is, and their breath mingled in the tight space as they calmed down in each other's presence.
And when they calmed her down, Arthur would look across and see Ariadne's soft expression, the tangles in her hair splayed out across the bed, and she'd giggle at his own expression,
and his heart would warm for the moment, and he'd grab her hand and hold it, and sometimes he'd feel like this was supposed to happen, and Eames wouldn't be on his mind so much.
Eames didn't shave for a month. Eames felt the stubble where it should have been smooth. He had a musky smell and his eyes were glazed over, alcohol the only presence in his life.
He hadn't heard from Arthur in months. Eames had decided, at the beginning of October, that not everyone was supposed to be with someone else. Not everyone had a soul mate. Maybe some people were supposed to be alone. He was wearing thin, and he was stuck in that empty room again, and there wasn't a day or night, there wasn't those same feelings that had changed him, so long ago.
And he wished Arthur never called him beautiful, because all he felt like now was layers of decaying skin over bones.
He wish he never took his interest in him. He wish he didn't find his polite way of speaking, that American accent, the crinkles near his eyes when he laughed, when he actually laughed, so adorable.
He wished he never wanted to delve through Arthur's layers, and pick at him like an experiment. And he wish he wasn't so damn interesting, and so damn considerate, and so snarky but sweet, and so calm and peaceful. So beautiful.
He would sometimes feel disgusting, and then he'd realize it was love, that supposed pure honest love, digging a hole in his heart.
Arthur didn't write.
Arthur didn't update him on those random facts that Eames found boring, but listened to anyways.
He didn't worry about him and remind him to eat healthy. He didn't buy those god forsaken Raisin Bran cereal boxes anymore- the bloody things were awful, in Eames' mind. But he never payed any attention to the little things about Arthur. He only saw the big picture.
Maybe Eames didn't cross his mind at all. And Eames wanted to do something, anything. But he found his passive aggressive ways way more aggressive than he would hope to think, and he'd smoke all day, read a bit, drink and socialize and die inside.
Arthur didn't know what to do. He'd slept with Ariadne a while ago, and since then she couldn't let him leave on another 'business trip'. But he found that he couldn't either. He'd sometimes wish Eames could have caught him, yelled at him, hit him, hated him. Because he deserved it. But they were still pining for eachother, and giving up inside, but still that thin string grasped their small hearts with a undying fire. And Arthur would't stop feeling guilty to both of them.
The only thing he knew, and the only thing he woke up to every morning, was the thought that he was with someone who loved him, and the guy he loved was home alone every day.
And he knew he'd rather stay here then ever face any of it again. And he would feel time stretch and wear and he'd wish he could just be left alone. He felt moral responsibility here, and he tried to make her a replacement. And he knew everything he was doing, but he couldn't help but feel these things necessary. But nothing was necessary anymore, nothing was right.
And when he recieved his first call from Eames in months, he was crying on the other line. And Arthur felt his wretched heart tear into a million and one pieces, and each piece rightfully belonged to Eames. And he booked the night flight to him.
Eames felt the curse of cigarettes, the only thing that was constant in his life, dirty his lungs. He felt himself loose weight, and he didn't think anything, anyone, could affect him so much. Smiles weren't so endearing anymore, and the light in his eyes had faded to a murky blue. He'd felt like he was standing on the roof of a building, and he wasn't falling, but he was dangling, only having a sense of what hell felt like.
And Eames never stopped loving the bastard. He was his pet, his darling, and he thought this as he felt the bitter taste of nicotine dissolve with that black coffee he had. Nothing was right.
If he could change to anyone he wanted to in his dreams, why couldn't he wake up from a dream as someone else?
Arthur pounded on his door, and again he stood there wet. He didn't smile. His eyes were glued to the shadow in front of him, and Eames found a smile in him, a last one, before he kissed him and dragged him inside. His kisses were decadent, delicate, but demanding. His eyes hollow, his skin smooth, but his heart never changed, and Arthur wanted to say the same for himself, but he wasn't so sure anymore. Yet he knew he loved him despite everything else. It was almost as time had never passed that night, but as strong as their love was, their secrets made them more sickeningly in love.
Arthur felt tears well up inside him, and his chest shake, but Eames smiled and whispered something in his ears, something bitter.
And Arthur never felt more distant from the man he loved in his entire life. And they slept on opposite sides of the bed, that night, but they were still facing each other.
I know this wasn't as good as the first chapter, but I still like this one. It shows how things are slowly changing, and how Arthur can't expect Eames to love him unconditionally.
If you enjoyed, reviews/critiques are happily accepted, and I shall continue to develop whatever this is. Let me know if there are any mistakes! Thank you anyone & everyone!
And sorry there was basically no dialogue, but next chapter will be filled with it. I have new ideas rolling in my mind. :D
