[ At first, he expects the goading to shove Arthur away. The distance between them has been this palpable, unspeakable, awkward thing since Arthur left. Giving voice to it only makes that loss more real, so he doesn't. It's easier--so much easier--to look at that elephant in the room and give it a different face and name and intent, or pretend it isn't there altogether.
But it's all too easily acknowledged without words. He feels it every morning he wakes up alone, every time he comes back to an empty flat or hotel room, and even in every time he checks his phone to no lingering messages. He knows, even if he won't voice it. But the goading allows him to push the words away.
It would be simpler if this really had pushed the man away. If this goading actually pushed them across the line they've teetered on for days beyond real counting.
Yet, it does the opposite. Suddenly, there's Arthur in his space, right there, barely a breath's length away. Arthur, in forgiving warmth, smelling vaguely of apple trees, and very, very real.
And to Eames, in that moment where Arthur's grabbing him and pressing into him, what was once between them means everything.
But it's a too-short moment, killed all too quickly and with surgical precision as Arthur pulls away with little reluctance, and all Eames is left with is the ghost of a few seconds playing in his mind on repeat and the faintly lingering scent of spice.
Fuck.
Pragmatically, it seems Arthur is right: he can move now without the barrier between him and the rest of the world, and he can reach out now, but none of that lessens the urge to reach out, drag the man back to close that gap again, and tell that voyeuristic elephant to piss right off.
He doesn't. ]
Well, I'm thrilled to have been some assistance.
[ And yet, all the while, all he can think is: wait, that's it? ]
no subject
But it's all too easily acknowledged without words. He feels it every morning he wakes up alone, every time he comes back to an empty flat or hotel room, and even in every time he checks his phone to no lingering messages. He knows, even if he won't voice it. But the goading allows him to push the words away.
It would be simpler if this really had pushed the man away. If this goading actually pushed them across the line they've teetered on for days beyond real counting.
Yet, it does the opposite. Suddenly, there's Arthur in his space, right there, barely a breath's length away. Arthur, in forgiving warmth, smelling vaguely of apple trees, and very, very real.
And to Eames, in that moment where Arthur's grabbing him and pressing into him, what was once between them means everything.
But it's a too-short moment, killed all too quickly and with surgical precision as Arthur pulls away with little reluctance, and all Eames is left with is the ghost of a few seconds playing in his mind on repeat and the faintly lingering scent of spice.
Fuck.
Pragmatically, it seems Arthur is right: he can move now without the barrier between him and the rest of the world, and he can reach out now, but none of that lessens the urge to reach out, drag the man back to close that gap again, and tell that voyeuristic elephant to piss right off.
He doesn't. ]
Well, I'm thrilled to have been some assistance.
[ And yet, all the while, all he can think is: wait, that's it? ]