ennui.

Jun. 21st, 2011 12:04 am
ofvanity: (fischer)
[personal profile] ofvanity


Hi, darlings. Let's talk. Or not talk. It's around midnight, I'm buzzing with boredom and andrenaline and I was just scrolling through the nonsense that is our fandom. Don't mind the misspelling and bullshit, this is the second time this week that I'm crashing and I want to write this before I go through withdrawal again. It's quite distracting. 

HI, INTERNET. I live in Chicago, Internet. Chicago, Internet, IS AN AWFUL CITY. Because it hates me. And all of us Chicagoans. IT'S SO HUMID. I AM DYING OF HUMIDITY. WHICH, I'm just complaining, when I'm walking in between the fucking sky scrapers, the city is stunning. Stunning. 

I'm doing this, so excuse me for a sec.

-
This is the fifth time. Every night this week, Eames has slumped his shoulders against the wall of his hotel room, helpless and desperate for something carnal and reckless. Eames crawls to his hotel room, concussing himself on the doorway and angry. The job is stupid, ridiculous and fucking reckless, the violence should burn inside his ears, it should make him bleed through his nose and break his cranial bones. There is risk, Eames could die for this mark, Eames will die. In dreams, death is like thunder, pain is in the mind, but Eames has always dreamed of a painful death. Bad men always die. Sinners always burn.

This is the fifth night, he folds his fingers inside Arthur and presses his desperate bites into the edges of his ribs. Five nights in a row, sex and sex and sex. It's always sex with Arthur. Violence with Arthur. But Eames, he doesn't want this. Eames doesn't want to be reckless and violent, break his teeth and spit gore and clumps of flesh and blood onto the pavement. Eames has a penthouse in Manhattan, a house in Liverpool, an apartment in Caracas. Everyone he goes to has little carnations growing in the windowsills, dead or alive. 
 
Eames wants to care for carnations. To run away from Cobb and all his emotional stress, bearing heavy on the entire team's shoulders. How many times has he died at the hand of Mal's visceral hunt? How many times has she sliced her scalpel hands into his mouth and chest, cheating at chess? Only a few, he tells himself. It's fine, Cobb, I know how to take a hit.
 
In England, in Kent, there is a church at the end of the block where Eames prays to God on Christmas Eve. He's not a Christian. He sits at the church and pretends to pray, losing all hope in the world where people believe they're not alone. In London, he lies on concrete of his roof and cuts his face into the pavement, until his nose bleeds and there is grime rubbing between his teeth.  The carnations always die when he leaves, but that's fine because he can revive them. Life caught inside the creases of his palm.
 
This is the fifth night that Arthur has pushed his way in, with his whorish nails, stripping red down his back and moaning and begging. Arthur with his sharp suits and polished shoes, fuck me into oblivion, Eames. Arthur is begging and forcing, kill people for me Eames. Deprive them of carnations and beliefs and have the fucking audacity to preach righteousness. Look at me, Eames, I'm a child, tempting you into sin. 
 
 
Arthur looks up at him from between long lashes and red lips, begging for nothing, for something to pass the time. 
 
Eames is desperate, his heart is thudding loudly through the hallways, walking away from this job and this man, this unsavory death reaching out from beneath the soles of his feet. His carnations in Toronto still have a few days left and maybe for once, he can go back to something that's alive.
 
"No."
-
 
I was going through the meme, or something, idek. And for the 3825960th time, someone said, Eames can't refuse Arthur anything. And for once, I felt like Eames should refuse Arthur everything. Unbetaed. I've been having a tough week.
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December 2011

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