Moments Chapter 2
She loves it when she wakes up before him. It does not happen often; he likes to let her sleep in, likes waking up with her tucked against his chest, likes watching her sleep peacefully for a few minutes before starting his morning routine.
She wakes with a weight on her side, a warmth against her back, her hand intertwined with another, and smiles. She slips out from under Arthur's arm slowly and silently, turning onto her back and watching him sleep. She takes in his stubble, brushes her palm over his cheek, admires its roughness. Stubble is very not-Arthur-like, but she thinks that he looks quiet handsome with it.
She runs her hand through his soft, messy hair, rubs a silky lock in between her fingers, admires his horribly wrinkled white t-shirt. She knows that no one else gets to see him like this. This is her Arthur, comfortable enough to be imperfect and unkempt around her, and she does not have to share him with anyone.
. . .
He likes staying at her apartment in Paris. He has one here, too, and a few others in other countries. Their refrigerators and cupboards are empty, the hot water turned off, the electricity disconnected. They are all furnished beautifully, mostly in dark woods, but decorated sparsely; no pictures, no photographs, no letters or birthday presents or personalized mugs. These things he keeps in a lock box in a bank in NYC, another city that he has an apartment in. When there he goes to the bank, gets his lock box, and takes these things home. Decorates it with them. His apartment in Paris is not only clean, but sterile, empty, lifeless.
Ariadne's apartment is messy, but not disastrous. There are books and art prints and photographs everywhere, mostly of buildings or corners of buildings or details of bridges. The couch is broken in, the television used, dirty dishes sit in the sink, wrappers in the trash, mail on the counter, dirty clothes in a corner on the floor waiting for laundry day. The toothpaste is almost empty, the milk carton is open, the bed is only half made; the sheets thrown back into position but not tucked or straightened. Her apartment feels lived in, feels alive, feels like a home. Is starting to feel like his home. There are a few photographs of them, of her, of others. She has a mug that she painted in third grade. She bought him one with a black tie on it.
. . .
He likes to play pool. Billiards, on a full championship table, specifically. It seems fitting, she thinks; the soft yellows lights, the angles of the pool table, Arthur in tan slacks with rolled up sleeves and an unbuttoned collar. She watches him lean over and aim down the cue. He's winning, but she does not mind. Eames has his cards and, when he's had a few and has forgotten the pointlessness of chance, roulette. She has her chess and, with Philippe and James, checkers. Arthur has his billiards.
. . .
AN: I'm liking this fic a bit more than my other one, you know, with plot. I'm just feeling this style right now and am disappointed with how the other one's going. Anyway, enjoy. I'm busy busy at work during the week, but should have some time to write on Friday.