Note)) Thanks for the reviews! This is a bit dark. But i was in the mood because of my music and Edgar Allen Peo's short stories (a bunch). I warn those readers that aren't really liking the dark stories that has one self cutting themselves.
Hope you like it and i don't like using betas so bare with me.
White light from the sun is blinding. The hot sand engulfed their feet with a warm comfort. The endless dream was perfect for them both. They both agreed that they would love to stay here for as long as they could. But Arthur felt the feeling fade. He can't live like this, not after Mal. He sat in the edge of the bed, holding himself. Endless morning. Eames loves the morning. Arthur never really understands why. Maybe it was the way the light hit the salty water. Glittery. Keeps you in a daze. He got off the bed quickly and moved towards the large window that was facing the beach. He can't live like this. Even if it's for Eames, He just can't. He found himself scratching his arm. He stared at his nails sink trough the skin. He didn't stop. He kept going. It felt real. It felt better. He draws blood. The long scratches begun to bleed and the drops fell to the hardwood floor.
That's when it all started. Eames noticed them right away of course, but Arthur shrugged it off, saying that he was really itchy. Arthur, then, thought of different places to do it. Behind his thighs, arm, his neck (Eames thought it was his fault). Arthur, every time when they finished, takes a walk to through the woods into a clearing. He had sharpened a rock before and hid it somewhere in the forest. Eames was clueless. He didn't know what he was going through. Eames loves it. Being able to hold his lover without the constant problems. Of course, Arthur doesn't blame him.
One day, Arthur was staring out the window when he felt arms around his waist. Eames nuzzled his head on Arthur's shoulder.
"What are you thinking about, darling?" Eames whispered.
"I'm… thinking of what am I going to do after this…" Arthur said. Eames backed away slightly.
"What… What are you talking about?" He stuttered out. Arthur turned around to face Eames, his face was blank and Eames couldn't see behind it. Not this one. The blank stare was excruciating to Eames. He felt that Arthur was off since a week ago. Arthur grabbed hold of Eames hands, pulling him closer. He creased a cheek, shushing him but Eames just stared, unsure if Arthur is playing a joke (Which is out of the question right away.) or he snapped and gone mental.
"Eames..." But that was all Arthur said. Eames grabbed Arthur's wrist.
"No, Arthur, what's wrong.. I-" He stopped, slowly turned to see Arthur's wrist. A small gasp escaped his lips. Arthur pulled his arms away, backing away in the process. From the back pocket he pulled out a small knife. "Arthur, wait, you have to think about what you're doing..." He took few steps toward him.
Arthur shook his head. "No, I already have. I'm done. I thought I could handle this lifestyle but, Eames, I can't."
The next thing happened too fast, Arthur positioned the knife on the right side of his neck. He pushed into his skin quickly and slit his own throat. Eames cried his name. Of course, it felt real. That pain, the taste of the blood.
Then he woke up.