Sequel: And You Lied to the Angel ›
And They Call Her Cinderella
Chapter Five.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
2:43 a.m.
The two men were lying in Arthur's bed. They had sat on the sofa for two hours, simply talking. Eames mostly asked Arthur questions about himself (how old was he? Why was he a history teacher? What was his favorite thing about teaching? What were his hobbies? etc.), and Arthur could see, though his eyes were sparkling and his lips were smiling, that Eames didn't want to talk about himself. Not yet.
At around midnight, after many yawns had escaped through Arthur's lips, Eames suggested that they move to the bedroom. Again Arthur was taken aback by the older man's almost brash personality. He was, however, growing incredibly tired, and eventually consented to the change of scenery (he was too exhausted even to worry when Eames lied down beside him).
For awhile longer they had spoken. Eames even let slip that his father had been a carpenter (for Arthur had asked how on Earth Eames knew his finished bookshelf was mahogany; the man hadn't even thought before answering, and he was glad for the darkness of the bedroom, which concealed his cheeks that were flushed with chagrin).
But Arthur fell asleep (in the middle of a sentence, no less!), and Eames was left alone with the steady sound of his breathing and his own thoughts.
Eames stared at the young man, his head propped up by his arm, who looked even younger in sleep. His features were softened and all signs of stress were erased. He wanted to reach out and touch Arthur's face, but worried it might wake him (and also that it might kill whatever it was they had started if it did wake him). So he kept his hand on the bed between them, and his eyes traced over Arthur's face.
He didn't know how long he looked at Arthur (it was more than two hours), nor could he recall that afternoon, after he'd slept for almost 12 straight hours, the thoughts that had raced through his mind as he did so (they were, for Eames, fairly innocent and exceedingly gentle). When next he looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table, the red numbers said: 4:24 a.m. He let out a deep sigh, not wanting to leave though he knew he had to.
Eames very carefully untangled his legs from Arthur's, which had somehow over the course of the last couple of hours wrapped themselves with his. Arthur hardly made a sound as Eames climbed out of the bed. He continued sleeping peacefully, breathing in and out slowly.
He walked around the bed to stand next to Arthur's sleeping form. Before he knew what he was doing, he ran his finger's through the young man's already disheveled dark hair. He smiled to himself when Arthur didn't stir.
"Sweet dreams, darling," he whispered. And then he left.
2:43 a.m.
The two men were lying in Arthur's bed. They had sat on the sofa for two hours, simply talking. Eames mostly asked Arthur questions about himself (how old was he? Why was he a history teacher? What was his favorite thing about teaching? What were his hobbies? etc.), and Arthur could see, though his eyes were sparkling and his lips were smiling, that Eames didn't want to talk about himself. Not yet.
At around midnight, after many yawns had escaped through Arthur's lips, Eames suggested that they move to the bedroom. Again Arthur was taken aback by the older man's almost brash personality. He was, however, growing incredibly tired, and eventually consented to the change of scenery (he was too exhausted even to worry when Eames lied down beside him).
For awhile longer they had spoken. Eames even let slip that his father had been a carpenter (for Arthur had asked how on Earth Eames knew his finished bookshelf was mahogany; the man hadn't even thought before answering, and he was glad for the darkness of the bedroom, which concealed his cheeks that were flushed with chagrin).
But Arthur fell asleep (in the middle of a sentence, no less!), and Eames was left alone with the steady sound of his breathing and his own thoughts.
Eames stared at the young man, his head propped up by his arm, who looked even younger in sleep. His features were softened and all signs of stress were erased. He wanted to reach out and touch Arthur's face, but worried it might wake him (and also that it might kill whatever it was they had started if it did wake him). So he kept his hand on the bed between them, and his eyes traced over Arthur's face.
He didn't know how long he looked at Arthur (it was more than two hours), nor could he recall that afternoon, after he'd slept for almost 12 straight hours, the thoughts that had raced through his mind as he did so (they were, for Eames, fairly innocent and exceedingly gentle). When next he looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table, the red numbers said: 4:24 a.m. He let out a deep sigh, not wanting to leave though he knew he had to.
Eames very carefully untangled his legs from Arthur's, which had somehow over the course of the last couple of hours wrapped themselves with his. Arthur hardly made a sound as Eames climbed out of the bed. He continued sleeping peacefully, breathing in and out slowly.
He walked around the bed to stand next to Arthur's sleeping form. Before he knew what he was doing, he ran his finger's through the young man's already disheveled dark hair. He smiled to himself when Arthur didn't stir.
"Sweet dreams, darling," he whispered. And then he left.