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Summary
Eames can't get the taste of Arthur out of his mouth.
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Bookmark Notes:
There isn't anything to describe it, and there's no reason for it to linger, for Eames to be on a flight somewhere, nowhere, simply a flight away from Arthur, and for him to touch his mouth to hold it in, somehow, to try to keep the taste like it'll keep the feeling intact. Like it's a guarantee for it to happen again. Like there's any guarantee. As if every time he leaves there's any promise he'll be back and that Arthur will be waiting for him.
They don't make promises. They can't.
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Bookmark Notes:
Eames has never been in love before, not really. He's been in love with the way a woman looks in a dress, has been in love with the curve of someone's neck, in love with a laugh, but he's never been in love with a person, never looked at the entire whole and not found anything to hate.
Arthur isn't perfect. Arthur tries to be, but he isn't, not even close, and Eames wants him so much that it makes his teeth hurt, makes him ill, sitting at a roulette wheel half a world away and wanting to touch the small of Arthur's back, wanting to listen to Arthur cut him down to shards.
He's never been in love before, and he'd like to think that's the way it's going to stay, that he can just coast through life, entirely incapable of love, and take people and discard them and have it all be clean, no mess of an affair, simply sex and companionship and laughter.
He doesn't think it's going to work out that way, this time. This time, he doesn't know what he will do when it ends, when Arthur figures him out as well as he has Arthur figured out, when Arthur figures him out and realises there's nothing he has to offer.
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Bookmark Notes:
youcouldmakealife/imogenedisease