Oooh if this is a writing prompt, I'll give it a go!
[ - - - ]
"The thing about advice is that it's not a one-size-fits-all thing." Armando shrugged while giving the man before him a quick once-over. He was a handsome fellow, Diego Madrigal—a carbon-copy of señor Bruno in his prime, but brighter, more assured, more likely to cause a wave of broken hearts with a wink.
As such, Armando didn't know whether to be flattered or incredulous that Diego had gone to him for... dating advice. Well, he supposed he could give him something substantial; he couldn't let down someone asking for help now, would he?
Let it be known that Armando Alcaraz never turned down a poor soul's woes regarding matters of the heart.
"But then again," he continued, "There's always something, right? So what are we working with, hmm? Any insecurities? Any perceived deficiency in the art of romance? Alright, those are personal; don't bother answering.
"Back to basics, then. Alright, say you've caught the eye of the man of your affections. You know that feeling when your body moves faster than your brain and bam, you're sweating all over, you've caught foot-in-mouth disease, and your self-esteem takes a nose-dive? Embrace it, man. Know the signs, learn when they come, and you'll know just how to keep all of them from happening.
"Usually I just take a deep, long breath. Something about oxygenating the brain or some scientific whatever. It works, I tell you! I'm just shit at explaining! Hey, you want advice or not? Good.
"Compliment something they look like they took hours fixing—their hair, newly-shined shoes, how they styled their clothes, et cetera. Any idiot can wax poetic over someone's eyes or whatnot but the real deal is making your date feel good about themselves. Simple as that. Don't go all gung-ho about it too; anyone'll see right through it. Just play it cool. Be somebody they can be comfortable with. Be someone they like being around and like being themselves around.
"Take it from me, parce. I had to go through a shitty point in my life to understand half of what I'm telling you. No, I won't talk about it.
"Yeah, alright, I know it all sounds vague. Like I said, it's not a one-size-fits-all thing. One song isn't everyone's favorite, y'know? So, you got all that? Lovely. Oh, one more thing. If shit goes wrong, I didn't tell you a damn thing, you hear? I'll take waiving my responsibility as payment for all this."
Frederica woke up to the notorious beeping of her alarm clock and the mumbles of a clearly disgruntled Shiki, who had slung her arms around her waist.
She had suddenly been standing at the door to her flat last night, shivering. „I am feeling lonely...I don't want to be alone at home...~“, she had declared in a worryingly monotone voice, before she scuffled in and threw herself face down onto her friends' bed, fully dressed and everything. Frederica didn't really mind. She liked having Shiki around and they were assigned to a job with the rest of LiPPS on the next day anyway, so it was somewhat practical as well.
The blonde idol wouldn't have had the heart to just let Shiki walk off on her own like that anyway, therefore she spontaneously allowed her to stay overnight. Otherwise she would have worried about the „Mad Scientist“ wandering about the streets in the night. Of course she had wondered what had made the usually relaxed Shiki so upset, that she would go and seek refuge at her place. She could only assume that the reason was Shiki's mother, but she knew better than to blatantly ask her. She knew better than to mention „that woman“, so she let it slide and even let the other idol just sleep on one half of her bed, seeing how tired she seemed and went off to sleep on the other half, where Shiki had joined her shortly afterwards, clinging tightly to her.
Frederica turned the alarm off and gently patted Shikis head: „Heeey Sleepyhead, time to get up...~“
Shiki however grunted and kept her eyes demonstratively closed. „I dun' wanna...lemme sleep...“, she merely declared. The french girl chuckled softly and stretched, before wriggling out of the others' grasp, standing up and re-adjusting her nightgown, while trying to change Shikis mind. „But you know that we have an important job today...and you wouldn't let the others wait, riiight?~ You know, how much Mika hates it, when we are late, riiight?~♪ “ Shiki however only answered with a grunt and pulled the blanket over her head, so that only the tangly mess of auburn hair peeked out. Frederica sighed and walked over to the corner of the room that she used as kitchen. „You know“, she offered to the fellow idol. „I could make some nice hot Café au lait that will make everything s~o much better~♪“ She smiled softly, when she heared the sheets behind her ruffling. „We could even make a game out of it...I will put a 'special ingredient' into the coffee and you tell me what it is, okay?~♪ “, she continued, before she turned the coffee machine and and started to prepare a small breakfast for the two of them.
For a while the room fell silent, aside from Frederica humming her little „theme song“ and the rattling of tableware, but as time went by, Shiki looked up and sniffed, curious. „Is this a joke?~“, she complained, while still sounding a bit sleepy. „That's cinnamon. Thats waaay too easy...I hoped you would give me at least a tiny challenge...~ You should try something exceptional...like tabasco~“. Frederica sighed theatrically: „Fufu, it seems I am no match to you, Shiki...and by the way, mixing tabasco and coffee sounds a bit gross.“, she added, giggling. Shiki kept still for a bit before she started anew. „Fre...?“ „Hm?“ „...you know...that's my favourite smell...“ Frederica turned around, confused. „What is? Cinnamon...?“ „Nah...all of this...here. Warmth...Coffee...your scent...it smells like home.“ Frederica smiled softly, as she put two steaming cups on a nearby table. „Wanna have a cup then? Its fresh and hot...~♪“ „ „...alright.“
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Inception (2010)
Relationship: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Characters: Arthur (Inception)Eames (Inception)
Additional Tags: Stuck in Limbo
Word count: 829
Summary:
He's stuck down there. And there's no way out. No escaping.
It’s a dream.
You’re not here.
I’m not really here.
You're not real.
He's going to forget anyway.
A/N: If you expect suffering, you might just be mistaken. Just this once. So don’t get used to it too much :P Enjoy!
Keep reading under the cut or on AO3.
It’s a dream.
You’re not here.
I’m not really here.
It’s a dream.
It’s not real.
You’re not real.
There’s this mantra, this chant in his head, replaying over and over and over again. A broken record he’s slowly becoming sick of. It doesn’t change a single thing, the fact that he knows. The world around him isn’t real but it doesn’t change a single fucking thing because he doesn’t know how to escape.
God, he’s tried, tried so many times.
Ever since he realized. (And when was that? It’s getting harder to remember things, lately.)
But no matter how many times he kills himself, he always wakes up in his bed, drenched in sweat and nauseous. Except it’s not his bed and it’s not his house, and the person sleeping beside him is not real, no matter how real he seems. He knows, he doesn’t need to check his totem for this.
(Oh, but he did check, hundreds, thousands of times. And it’s always a dream.)
He knows where he is. Unconstructed dream space. Can’t really be anything, anywhere else. Prison without a way out. There’s no escape, he knows that now, and so one day he stops trying. The projection of the person he loves seems to approve of his choice.
There was a time, he thinks dimly, when he tried - and failed - not to get attached. Not in here. But this second body was so familiar, so welcoming, that he thought why not, and gave in.
Keeping track of the time is hard, so eventually he stops this too. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe he doesn’t really want to know how much time has passed. Maybe not anymore. And he can’t really remember his own name, not anymore. Or the name of the person he loves. It’s strange, for he knows they both use them - their names - everyday. Yet, when he tries to remember there’s nothing there. Just unease and blank spaces, and fear. He wonders if there ever comes a day when he can’t remember that he’s dreaming. It’s probably not long until it happens. And maybe it’s better that way, maybe it’s better to finally stop feeling this agony, this longing for the life long lost. He’s going to forget anyway.
For there’s no hope left.
All he’s got left is the dream.
And the arms of the person he loves opens for him every night, and when he stops thinking, he can’t tell the difference anymore.
‘’You must wake up’’ the person he loves tells him one night, a long, long time after he’s stopped counting. He blinks, startled, and for a moment doesn’t know what’s this all is about. But then, the person he loves looks straight into his eyes and through them to his soul. And suddenly he remembers.
That it’s all just a dream. A life-long, too realistic dream. He probably isn’t even that old up there, in reality. He probably never even had time to get old. And the person he loves - the real one - waits for him there, and he’s probably worried sick. Because he always worries too much.
There’s something under his pillow, maybe it’s been here all along. Something he’s forgotten about. He gropes for it blindly, never looking away from his love’s gaze. His fingers find a familiar shape, familiar weight, familiar texture. He squeezes it and knows. His totem is a silent warning. It’s not real. He’s only dreaming.
‘’Why now? After all these years, why now?’’ he asks because there are no other words to speak. The person he loves sits up, still looking at him - into him - and then he’s on him, covering him with his body, pressing it to the mattress.
‘’Eames,’’ says the person he loves, his voice stern and serious. ‘’It’s time for you to wake up. Wake up now.’’
And Eames does.
He opens his eyes to the blinding light and scorching heat, and broken air-conditioning.
He wakes up to a startled gasp and muffled curse and exhale of relief.
Then someone - and Eames knows it’s the person he loves, the real one, the one and only Arthur and not some projection - takes his hand and squeezes it, and he feels that Arthur is trembling, ever so slightly. Arthur is so alive and real, that it takes Eames’ breath away.
‘’You’re so fucking reckless, Mr. Eames, I hope you know this.’’
And there’s so much fondness in his voice that Eames wonders how, in the name of everything that is holy, he could have forgotten how the real Arthur sounds, how he smells, how he feels under his touch.
He cracks a smile, and Arthur squeezes his hand just a bit tighter.
‘’I love you too, darling.’’
And he does, he really does love him. He doesn’t need to check his totem to see if this is real.
Vanitas doesn't like to be touched. Not without consent, not without knowing of one's intent of touching him. He has to know, he has to be in control, or else it'll drive him mad.
Touch for so long has been a threat. Brought nothing but pain. Touch is still something to be terrified of because it only does harm. Even after hours spent on trying to persuade himself that it's all in the past now. Some things doesn't go away that easily. They cling to the back of his head, and usually he forgets they are even there, he forgets he still has issues. (How utterly stupid of him, isn't it?)
And then there’s Noe. Noe who constantly abuses his boundaries, who just itches for more physical contact.
The first few times were almost unbearable, the wave of dread and panic and terror washing over him. Of course, Noe had no idea of the effect his seemingly harmless actions had on Vanitas, and Vanitas wasn’t going to enlighten him in this matter. So it went on like this, until one day he (almost) got used to it. Almost, for Noe’s touch started to bring just a mild discomfort.
Vanitas can live with it just fine.
Now he sits on the windowsill in their hotel room, watches Noe as he drowsily gets out of his bed, and thinks that maybe a day will come when Noe’s touch means only comfort and safety.
It’s the middle of the night and I can’t really see straight anymore, so I made notes on my dreamhusbands WIP, and honestly it’s the most accurate description for like majority of my fics:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Paris. Paris. Paris.
It has always been about Paris and Noé has always known. But above all, it has always been about Vanitas. There is no Paris without him, no cobblestone and no colours, no Parisian cafeterias, no moon and early mornings.
It has always been about Paris, because this is where Vanitas always will be – in every alleyway, on every rooftop, in every step that echoes between tenements.
