And They Call Her Cinderella

Saturday, November 17, 2012
11:36 p.m.

Novembers in New York are quite chilly.

Eames and Arthur had decided to go out. This was a snap decision, which was made when Eames saw that a new bar had opened near his apartment (Arthur protested for almost five whole minutes but after a small kiss from Eames, he consented).

Besides the cafe, the men had never really gone out in public together. It was new, and very exciting. As they walked, hand-in-hand, down the sidewalk together, Eames made jokes and blew his breath into the air (and made jokes about his blowing his breath in the air) and Arthur laughed freely. He felt free. Finally, after the years he'd been sitting alone on his sofa, he had found someone to help him up.

The two only stayed at the bar for a short period of time, maybe a couple of hours. Arthur drank more than Eames did, to the older man's surprise, and as he slowly got more and more tipsy he seemed to relax that much more. But along with that relaxation was something else, something in Arthur's eyes that Eames didn't like so much.

Eames pried the keys from Arthur's hand and drove them home himself.

Arthur sat in the passenger seat, slightly giggly but much more tired.

When they arrived back at Arthur's apartment, they immediately took to the bedroom. Arthur flopped, face-down, on the bed and Eames lied beside him. Once Arthur had turned back over, and they had taken off their shoes and coats and gotten more comfortable, Eames took Arthur's hand in his own and began to speak.

"You know," he said, "my mum always said that drinking brought out people's inner selves. I decided tonight that she was right, though-"

Arthur interrupted. "What happened to your mom?"

Eames looked over at him and saw that the smaller man wasn't looking at him, but at the ceiling. He cleared his throat before answering. "When I was fourteen, she started having headaches. Really bad ones. For the longest time she wouldn't go to the doctor, but then she finally did, and we found out that she had brain cancer. I won't say its full name, it's long and obnoxious, but it wasn't good."

Arthur turned then to look at Eames.

"The doctors gave Mum only a few years to live, at most. But she stayed with us for eight. She did radiation and chemo at a hospital here in the States. That's why we moved here. She did good. Really good. She joked with us and smiled a lot, even when I knew she felt like shit and was tired and in pain. She always had a smile on her face."

Arthur squeezed Eames' hand, but Eames didn't look at him. He didn't see that Arthur's eyes were filling.

"When I was twenty-two, I got a call from Dad. I was in college then, studying to get a degree in business. He said that things were really bad. Mum had taken a turn for the worse. Those were his exact words. So I dropped what I was doing and went to see her. She was at home with Dad at that point. She knew she wasn't getting better and didn't want to die in a hospital. I was really close with her. I was always closer to her than I was to Dad. I told her everything, and she listened. She was a really good lady."

Arthur opened his mouth. "I'm sorry." He said the words quietly, afraid that if he spoke any louder Eames would hear the tears in his voice.

Eames turned his gaze back to Arthur and saw the tracks that were being made down his face. He knew that the tears weren't only for his mother. "What is it, love?" he asked, and he stroked Arthur's face. "What's wrong?"

Arthur leaned into Eames' touch and began his story.

"The girl in the pictures on the bookshelf in the living room is my sister, Annabeth." He stopped for a second to collect himself before continuing. "She was an angel. Energetic and sassy, but incredibly kind. When she was nine, she was diagnosed with leukemia. Very progressive. I was fifteen at the time. She was my only sibling. My little sister. I protected her, y'know? I was supposed to protect her. But that was the one thing I couldn't protect her from.

"The doctors said that there wasn't much they could do. They did radiation and chemotherapy. Put her on some experimental drugs that didn't do shit for her. If anything they just fucked her up even more. Annabeth was already small; she wanted to be a ballerina, and she had the perfect frame for it. The chemo made her so sick and tiny. Some nights, when she was home after the treatments, she would lay in bed and cry because of how sick she felt and how much she hurt. And I couldn't do anything for her, because just touching her made the pain worse sometimes. So I just sat next to her bed and tried not to let her cry.

"Eventually, it seemed like she was getting better. Of course, she would never be healthy. It was leukemia for Christ's sake. But she had a few years, the doctors said. That was when she was twelve. Nineteen days later she passed away. I knew better, I was an adult, but I couldn't help but get angry. I was so angry. I blamed the doctors and my parents, but mostly myself. I still blame myself.

"I dream about her sometimes," Arthur said. "How she would be if she were still alive. I see her dancing in front of huge audiences. She couldn't dance when she was sick. In my dreams she's healthy and," he paused, "perfect."

Eames kissed Arthur's lips, then leaned up and whispered a name, one that Eames hadn't been called in many years, into the young man's ear.