ifeelbetter | Two Steps Towards Make Believe

Title: Two Steps Towards Make Believe
Author:

ifeelbetter
Warning: Someone described this as "insomniac porn" on Delicious. This is because I too am one of the afflicted and I really do believe an Eames pillow would cure ANYONE.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Word Count: 3,525
Summary: Sleep has never come easily to Arthur. That's why he's so surprised that it comes easily when he's got his head on Eames's shoulder.
Notes: Written for this prompt in the third round of the

inception_kink kink_meme. The title comes from a Charlotte Sometimes song. I'm going on vacation starting tomorrow-ish so I might not have a chance to transfer the various things (of distinctly varying degrees of quality) I've written over at the kink_meme. I'm actually quite proud of this guy, though, so I wanted him up before I left. And, yes, I did just use a gendered pronoun for my fic. And, yes, that was weird.

[edit: Forgot to mention! Because my mind is like a sieve! But! There's been fanart for this fic! By the talented, lovely, and genius

lamboyster. GO SEE. Or, actually, read this first and then it will even make sense!]

Arthur has always had trouble with sleep. When he was a child, he'd been the type to lay in the dark, staring up at the shadows on his ceiling and imagine all the impossible things they could be, making himself terrified. In college, he'd driven countless roommates away with late night pacing.

It was what had appealed to him about the job in the first place. He was sitting on a bench in an empty park in the middle of the night, confident in himself because people who can't sleep often find other ways to fill all that waking time and he'd gone to the gym enough in the wee hours of the morning to know that he was lean and strong under his Oxford button-down shirt. That, and he thrilled a little to be edging closer to living dangerously. His mother would have been scandalized by that admission.

Cobb just sat next to him that particular evening and laid out his offer. Arthur had listened--he'd been scouted for a few dozen very lucrative jobs in all sorts of avenues; scores like his don't go unnoticed.

But Cobb had the ace up his sleeves: he mentioned the dreamlessness. He meant it as a warning.

Arthur had cocked his head then. If it could take away his dreams, maybe it could change the way he slept in other fundamental ways too. Maybe he wouldn't need to sleep at all, outside of the job. Maybe it could just be something a tube up his arm made him do sometimes and he wouldn't have to worry about it any more.

That was that. He went home with Cobb, Mal made up the guest bedroom. He was the best in the business by the end of the year.

But sleep didn't come any easier. He could clock in the necessary hours at work sometimes but it would be months between the lengthy jobs he liked, the complicated ones that meant he could get his full ten-hours without having to actually go to sleep himself.

He reckoned that it was the best he could expect, though. Then he worked on resigning himself to it.

That was why he was so surprised to find himself blinking awake on a sofa in a warehouse in Madrid, his head leaning against Eames's shoulder.

He never fell asleep without a lot of effort. He often counted sheep into the quadruple digits. He never napped.

Yet, here he was, just after four in the afternoon, waking from a nap.

"Sleep well?" Eames asked. He was reading a book. He folded over the top corner of the page he was on and closed it. Arthur couldn't see the cover but it looked trashy. Like the sort of pot-boiler you buy in an airport.

"...yes," said Arthur, sitting up. He was amazed that he wasn't lying.

"Excellent," said Eames, stretching. "Now, I'm afraid I must be going." He stood.

"Oh," said Arthur. He frowned. He couldn't think of a reasonable objection besides you're the best pillow I've ever had which, when he thought about it, wasn't all that reasonable.

"You look like you need some proper sleep," Eames told him, pulling on his coat. Arthur wondered whether he'd just been sitting there, waiting for him to wake. Whether he'd made him late for something important. Whether he had just been too nice to shove Arthur away and this was what "beating a hasty retreat" looked like.

"Right. Proper sleep," Arthur repeated. The problem was, of course, that he'd never slept as properly as he just had before in his entire life.

Eames gave him a funny look so he pulled himself together and went back to work.

But it stayed in the back of his mind.

* * * * * *

He decided it must have been a fluke. Or some kind of sign of maturity. Probably a fluke.

He did a series of experiments: moving pillows, closing curtains, wearing eye-masks and the like. He even bought a stupid sound canceling machine, lugged it up the three floors to his apartment in Paris, and tried to ignore the idiotically false sounding waves for six hours before he attacked it with his alarm clock.

Sleep still gave him trouble, then. Still no sign of the end of this "phase" like his mother had promised him all those years ago.

But then it happened again.

They were on their way back from a job in Lyon, traveling by train. They'd dropped in and out of Victor Laslow's dreams between Charlon-sur-Saone and Beaune. The job was ridiculously easy (yes, he was stepping out on the missus) and they were back in their seats in Coach before the conductor had come back around for another sweep.

But it was a while before they reached Paris. Eames dropped off to sleep first. His head was lolling back, his mouth slightly open. Arthur was watching the countryside pass by, counting telephone poles in his boredom.

Then he was being shaken gently on the shoulder. His face was pressed into Eames's shoulder and Eames's arm had somehow ended up draped around him, pulling him closer.

And he really didn't want to wake up.

He had never had that thought before in his life. I just want to keep sleeping. It was brand new territory.

When he and Eames were standing outside the train station, trying to flag a taxi, he contemplated his situation. One time is a fluke, twice is a coincidence. Scientific inquiry demanded that he try a third time, to see if it really was a pattern.

"Result!" Eames shouted and Arthur remembered that they were trying to get a taxi. He had completely forgotten, wrapped up in his own thoughts. He hadn't even noticed it had begun to drizzle lightly, gently pattering on the roof of the cab Eames was standing next to, gesturing towards the open passenger door.

Once they were inside, Arthur tried to formulate a plan for sleeping on Eames's shoulder again. But, you know, in a subtle way.

He needn't have bothered. It wasn't even a ten-minute cab ride but he still found himself drifting off, head tilting dangerously towards Eames.

When he woke up, Eames had shifted slightly so that not only was his arm around Arthur but Arthur had ended up pressed against his entire torso, very nearly sitting on his lap. It was a close thing.

That was the first time the implications of the sleeping experiment occurred to him. He decided to shelve that issue, though, in favor of scientific inquiry.

* * * * * *

The week after that, he followed Eames to Barcelona. He pretended he was interested in the job and Eames raised an eyebrow (it was an incredibly dull job) but didn't say anything. And it was easy in Barcelona -- there was all the sunlight and lounging on patios and Arthur found many opportunities to slip in beside Eames while he was napping.

He tried to time it so that he woke before anyone noticed or Eames shifted too much and noticed him there. It didn't work, though, because he was still making his estimates based on the way he used to sleep, when the shortest amount of time was the only reasonable expectation. He ended up overdoing it and often only waking when someone called his name or shook his shoulder.

"You can crash on my couch," Eames said one afternoon, when Arthur had sat on the floor at the foot of his patio chair and fallen asleep with his head leaned back against Eames's ankle. "If your hotel is so bad."

Arthur blinked, trying to follow the logic. If your hotel is so bad. Ah, he thought Arthur was having trouble sleeping because of an uncomfortable bed. That would be a good excuse.

"Yes, it's awful," he lied carefully. He knew he wasn't always good at white lies. He leaned his head further back so that he could see Eames's face. "Thanks."

Eames's face was hard to read. Sometimes Arthur forgot how beautiful he was. He imagined that must be what the janitors in the Louvre must think about the Mona Lisa. They passed it every day, it must seem commonplace to them. Then, sometimes, with a certain slant to the light, they must just stop in their tracks and remember how impossible the beauty of the painting was.

Beyond Eames, he could see the brilliant blue of the ocean, merging perfectly with an equally blue, cloudless sky. Ocean air suited Eames and the tan didn't hurt either.

"Don't mention it," Eames said but there had been too long of a pause between sentences. He was slotting his sunglasses into place, though, so Arthur couldn't read anything in his eyes. He just saw more Barcelona, more blue.

* * * * * *

The sofa had been a terrible idea, Arthur decided. It was just as hard to sleep there as in his own room or in any other room, in any bed, in the world. Maybe harder because he was far past the quadruple digits in sheep and he still hadn't fallen asleep.

He sat up, stretching his legs.

Maybe pacing would work. He stood, trying to not creak the wooden floorboards as he moved. His roommates in college had had a lot to say about the creaking of floorboards and the last thing he wanted in the entire world was to make Eames develop a similar distaste for sleeping near him.

He walked down the hallway, making a careful mental tally of where not to press his feet when he returned. But then he'd reached the door at the end of the hallway, the one beyond the bathroom.

Of course Eames didn't bother to close his door when he slept.

Arthur had fully intended to retrace his steps, to pace the hallway aimlessly. But he was paused in the doorway and somehow couldn't pull himself away from the frame, couldn't push himself back.

Eames had come up with a completely reasonable explanation for Arthur falling asleep on him in ridiculous ways and places before. Perhaps he could manage it again in the morning? If Arthur just slid in beside him. He wouldn't even have to touch him, really. He could just--

This was the problem, really. He'd have never considered a ridiculous step like this before he knew how lovely an Eames-induced nap could be. And if a nap could send Arthur into contortions of happiness, what would a full night's sleep be?

That was the thought that decided it. He'd have to trust that one of them would be clever enough to explain this away in the morning. He climbed into the bed next to Eames and was asleep within a couple of breaths.

* * * * * *

Arthur woke with a snort. He'd been dreaming. He hadn't dreamed in over a decade. He looked down at the pillow under his head. Apparently, he'd been dreaming and drooling.

Arthur felt foggy and that wasn't normal. He'd never woken foggy before. He had always been crisp and edgy when he woke, never fuzzy around the edges. He felt like a cat, like he could curl up and purr.

He frowned. Eames wasn't there. Even that thought wasn't enough to shake him out of this fuzziness, though. He crawled out of the bed slowly and had another first-time thought: I'd rather stay in bed.

Eames was in the kitchen, standing by the stove. He looked up when Arthur entered, scratching the back of his neck and yawning. His eyes lingered over Arthur. If he had been more awake, Arthur would have felt embarrassed by the heat of it.

"Pancakes?" Eames said casually.

Arthur made a humf noise and went directly for the coffee-pot. Eames pulled a mug out of one of the cabinets and handed it to him. He leaned back against Eames's fridge and drank with his eyes closed, waiting to see if caffeine would sharpen the world back into its usual state.

"I'm surprised you don't sleep in Armani," said Eames.

Arthur smiled. He could see the trajectory of the conversation in his head, how he was supposed to bristle and make a comment about garish yellow and Eames's shirt collection or something similar. Eames would then smirk and the teasing would volley back and forth, like a tennis match.

Only he felt too loose to bother. He just liked the sound of Eames's voice.

"I didn't know you even owned a pair of sweatpants," Eames added.

"Maybe they're Armani sweatpants," Arthur said, still not opening his eyes. "This coffee is fantastic."

There was silence except for the sizzle of the pans on the stove. Arthur could imagine how someone might live entirely differently if they felt like this every morning.

"I'm going back to Paris today," said Eames finally. Arthur opened his eyes for that. Eames had a plate in his hands, holding it out to Arthur.

"You have a job?" Arthur asked, taking the plate. He followed Eames into the next room, out onto the patio.

"It's Ariadne. She has a plan, she says. Cobb's helping her," Eames said, putting his own plate down on a small table. "I told her I'd get a message to you."

The unspoken part of that was clear. I won't tell. Eames was offering to keep this, whatever it was, private.

"Thanks," said Arthur. The pancakes were amazing. He couldn't really stop a sound in the back of his throat, something low and appreciative.

Eames was watching him again but Arthur couldn't really be bothered. Obviously, he was going to follow Eames back to Paris.

That was really all he wanted.

* * * * * *

"Where are you staying?" asked Cobb, looking over the top of his folder at Eames.

"Don't you have a place here?" Ariadne asked, putting down her blueprint.

Eames wrinkled his nose. "I avoid Paris whenever possible."

Arthur tried not to move too abruptly when he looked up. "You could crash on my couch," he said.

Cobb snorted. "Don't do it, Eames," he warned.

"What's wrong with Arthur's place?" Eames asked, not moving his eyes from Arthur's face.

"He's the worst insomniac I've ever met," Cobb explained. "That's how I recruited him, actually. It was the promise of some shut-eye, guaranteed by the PASIV."

Arthur dropped his gaze from Eames's, not wanting to watch him understand. So much for the experiment.

"Really?" Eames asked.

"He can't be all that bad," said Ariadne. She turned to Arthur. "I saw you nap that one time."

Cobb's eyebrows rose dramatically. "A nap? Never."

Ariadne insisted. "No, really, like a week before they left for Barcelona, I saw him and Eames asleep on the coach." She looked entirely too pleased with the memory.

Cobb's eyebrows stayed raised. "I'd have to see it to believe it."

"Thanks for the offer, Arthur," Eames said. He'd crossed the room while the other two were talking and was standing by Arthur's elbow. "Let's see if I can handle an insomniac."

Arthur still didn't look up, definitely didn't meet Eames's eyes.

* * * * * *

Eames didn't say anything about it for the rest of the day and stayed silent when he trailed behind Arthur on the walk back to his flat that evening.

He watched Arthur as he pulled out the sofa bed and made it carefully with a set of perfectly folded sheets from a linens closet down the hall. He sank easily into one of Arthur's armchairs, like he'd lived there his whole life, and propped his feet up on Arthur's coffee table.

"Shoes," said Arthur pointedly. Eames rolled his eyes, toed off his shoes, and put his stockinged-feet back on the coffee table.

"Do you need anything?" Arthur asked and could see a salacious comment forming in Eames's head. "To sleep. Do you need anything else to go to sleep, Eames?"

Eames cocked his head to the side, abandoning the dirty joke he always had on standby. "No, I'm all set."

Arthur went down the hall to his own bedroom, trying not to think about Eames.

An hour later, he was still trying not to think about Eames and definitely wasn't asleep.

But, Eames knew now. He wouldn't write this off, he'd think that Arthur was...well, Arthur was using him. And he knew it now, right? So it couldn't hurt to--

He was out of his bed before the thought had finished forming. Anything was better than staring at his ceiling.

When he got to the living room, Eames's eyes were open. He was looking right at him though he knew he hadn't made a sound walking down the hallway. These were his floorboards, after all. He knew how to not make them creak.

Eames sighed and stood. He walked over to Arthur who had frozen.

"Look, pet, if we're doing this business again, we're doing it in the master bedroom, alright?" he said, turning Arthur around. "I'm not sharing a sofa bed with you."

The logic was sound so Arthur let himself be spun around and marched back the way he had crept. And it was nice not to be secretive about it, to just wind his arms around Eames, to settle in solidly.

He could feel himself drop off to sleep and it wasn't the precarious thing it had always been. He had always had to tread carefully or the falling would drop away and he'd be left with nothing but the countdown till dawn. Instead, he just drifted lazily away, aware of the skin and the warmth and the breath around him.

"You're going to be the death of me," Eames mumbled, just before he toppled over the edge of sleep. He said it into Arthur's hair, his words like a light breeze.

* * * * * *

After four nights like that, Arthur felt too happy, too warm all the time to bother ironing his shirt in the morning. And he completely forgot his tie.

Cobb frowned at him when he got to the warehouse, a few minutes behind Eames. (He'd stopped for coffee--he no longer was satisfied by the pre-ground, generic coffee in his cupboard.) Cobb had the rest of the team hooked up to the PASIV. Arthur had never been late before, not in the entire time he'd worked with him.

Arthur shrugged and tried to look apologetic but mostly looked smug. He knew it and he couldn't help it. And he took the empty chair next to Eames, shifting it slightly so that his arm brushed up against Eames. He even smiled as he dropped into sleep.

* * * * * *

Then, a week later, Eames was there when Arthur woke up. He was watching him intently, his eyes filled with something that Arthur couldn't quite place.

But morning had turned into Arthur's favorite time of the day in the past week so he couldn't manage much besides a stupidly happy smile. He had learned to completely adore the fuzziness that comes after a full night's sleep.

"Look, pet," said Eames, seriously, "this has to stop."

That woke Arthur up completely.

"I'm sorry, I really am," Eames said, and Arthur realized that he'd been moving a hand across his shoulder and he hadn't noticed, hadn't minded at all. "I wish I could help you, I thought I could. But--there's only so much I can take, alright?"

Arthur blinked.

"There! That's what I'm talking about!" Eames said. "You can't just be all--" and, though he was chastising Arthur for it, he traced a finger down his face incredibly gently. The touch was too lovely and Arthur couldn't help smiling even more when it touched the tip of his lip.

Eames groaned and put his face in the pillow.

"I'm--sorry?" Arthur said, more question than statement. Eames groaned again, muffled by the pillow.

And something clicked into place in Arthur's head, the shelved issue from the beginning of the experimental process resurfacing.

"Eames," he said, carefully. Eames didn't seem inclined to move, though, so Arthur decided to give him a little incentive. "I think we need to explore why my subconscious enjoys sleeping with you."

Eames turned his head to look at Arthur. He looked like he wanted to hit someone.

"I am not participating in anymore of this Victorian bullsh--" he started to announce angrily when Arthur slid against him, pressing their lips together and then pressing further, into Eames's mouth.

"Yes, let's definitely explore why your subconscious enjoys sleeping with me," he said, breathlessly, when Arthur finally pulled away for a breath.

* * * * * *

A well-rested Arthur tended to not mind rolling his sleeves up and was willing, in the hottest months of the summer, to be seen in swimming trunks on a beach. He shrugged off scuffs on his fancy Italian leather shoes and hardly ever minded when Eames put his shoes on his coffee table.

It turned out that loosening up meant that there were days, occasionally, when Arthur didn't bother to get dressed at all.