Fic: And, Having Writ
Title: And, Having Writ
Author:
zeto
Characters/Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2.5 K
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's. I don't own these characters.
Summary: Inception Kink Meme fill found here.
Note: Not a sequel to "A Promise Made". Sorry, lovelies. ;-; But I'm almost done with that one. Just struggling with the ending. :/
Eames is twenty eight. He has hazel eyes that sometimes seem more blue than green and more grey than blue. He's built like a brick house, with a tall frame and broad shoulders, but make no mistake, it's all muscle and sinew and long, lean limbs, wrapped into one complete package.
This is true.
Eames is not one for regret. He believes in living life to the fullest, with love and laughter. He doesn't like to dwell on past mistakes or second guess himself. When he was sixteen, he never met a beautiful boy and he never fell in love. Eames has never been in love in his life.
This. This is false.
Eames was nineteen when he fell in love. And the boy wasn't beautiful. He was simply ordinary. All brown hair and pale skin, coupled with large brown eyes. A completely normal boy. Almost boring even. Except for when he smiled. Because when he smiled, he changed. His eyes lit up and his cheeks dimpled and there was this glow about him that fascinated Eames to no end.
In the eyes of everyone, that boy was ordinary but to Eames, he was so much more.
He was everything.
Eames still remembers the nights spent sharing nervous kisses, fingers laced loosely together as they watched the sun set. He remembers the sky, all lit up with vivid purple splashes and unending golden streaks. He remembers the stars peeking out through the indigo veil of the sky. He remembers running his hand through dark, silky locks as warm lips pressed against his own, ever-so hesitant and shy. He remembers lying on the thin cotton blanket, sharing body heat as they searched for constellations, counted the stars and made wishes on the falling ones.
He remembers making his wish, eyes squeezed shut.
I wish...we could be in love forever.
He remembers sharing an ice cream cone on a hot, blazing summer day. The sky was a bright, cornflower blue and not a single cloud marred the horizon. Kids chased one another with water guns, a dog playfully splashed a little girl in the water park. Frisbees flying through the air and laughter floating out over the air.
Eames remembers the cold winter days, tucked beneath the fleece blanket on the couch. Sipping mugs of steaming, marshmallow-laden hot cocoa, enjoying the fire crackling in the hearth. He remembers the tacky Christmas movie on the telly. The one they both secretly love but are too embarrassed to admit. He remembers ripping open his present and finding the hand-knit scarf inside. He remembers Arthur gently looping it around his throat, the bold red and gold pattern clashing with his green sweater.
He remembers Arthur's slender, lithe digits undoing the bow and carefully peeling away the paper to reveal his photo framed with a smooth, mahogany frame. It's them; two small figures lying at the crest of a hill, fingers pointing at the night sky as they made their wishes. Arthur's eyes had lit up and it had sent a tiny little shiver down Eames' back, skin prickling over with warmth.
Eames remembers. And he tastes the regret.
This is true.
The worst of it though, he remembers with crystal clarity.
He remembers the fights. Not even 'the big one', though he does remember that one all too clearly. It's the little ones that get to him, when he's lying in his bed at night, staring at the ceiling, a single shaft of moonlight slanting across his covers and the wall.
He remembers coming home from school one night, after an angry phone call from Arthur. One with raised voices on both sides, that ends with him slamming his phone down on the receiver. He remembers driving home at quarter to eleven, Kansas belting out on his radio, only to find Arthur curled up in their bed when he arrives, the fruits of his labour in the kitchen gone cold. He remembers the devastation in those chocolate brown eyes when Arthur tells him that it's okay, it's only their anniversary and not a big deal, really.
He remembers lipstick smeared on his collar like a cheap souvenir or a tacky cliché from a soap opera. And Arthur's carefully-blank face when he asks Eames where the lipstick had come from. He remembers the younger man silently pleading him to lie, to make up an excuse, any excuse because the truth would just be too hard.
He remembers dialling Arthur's cellphone. The endless ringing, the standard voicemail message before the tell-tale beep.
Darling, where are you? It's late.
Hey, it's me. Could you pick some rhubarb on the way home? Call me back.
Arthur, are you coming home soon?
Mmmarthur, I missh you. I'm sorry. And before you assshk, no, I'm not drunk. At all. Not even a little teensy bit. A teensy little bit.
He remembers coming home one to day find Arthur's clothes and shoes, his cologne and ties, his comb and toothbrush all gone. Simply gone. It was as though every piece of evidence of his existence had been wiped clean from Eames' life and the only thing left had been a missive on his pillow. Except it wasn't even a missive. Just three words in elegant black ink. Scrawled on a scrap piece of paper in Arthur's hand.
Eames, good bye.
This. This is true.
He remembers crumpling the piece of parchment, balling it up in his fist, angry and fuming. Then tearing it up into a dozen tiny little pieces before regret overcomes him and he carefully tapes it back together. He remembers knocking all this things from his dresser, throwing a vase against the mirror only to have ceramic and glass shatter under the impact, raining thousands tiny glittering shards onto the carpet. He remembers pulling out the lighter from his pocket and lighting up in the house. A habit Arthur had hated and had helped him kick. He remembers the trail of cigarette butts scattered over the floor and he remembers taking that tiny snippet of paper and setting it ablaze. He remembers the scent of smoke and burning tape all too easily.
This. This is false.
Eames is twenty eight. He sits alone outside a little café, nursing his cup of cold tea. Every day he stops by the café after work and orders his Earl-Grey-no-cream-no-sugar-thanks-love.
Every day like any other, he slowly sips at his tea until it goes cold, fingers running over a worn fragment of paper, creased a thousand times over, ink faded to a light grey. He has the handwriting memorized. Each elegant curve of the 'o', the fancy loops, the sharp spike in the 's'.
Today though, today is not like any other day.
Not that Eames knows this.
After the tea is finished, he stands and tosses the paper cup into the recycling bin. Just then a gust of wind sweeps through and his scrap of paper is sent tumbling into the road, pulled from his fingers. Freezing, Eames can only stare when it lands in a puddle by the side of the road.
He chases after it, heart in his throat.
However, by the time he arrives, the parchment is ruined, the ink smeared into an illegible mess with only the capital 'e' in his name and the 'bye' still visible. Leaning down, Eames is about to pluck it up, wondering if he could blow dry it at home. Wonders if it's still salvageable.
Instead, slender, lithe digits beat him to it.
“Here,” someone murmurs, holding it out.
Eames looks up and suddenly, all the air is sucked out of his lungs.
“Arthur,” he breathes out.
“Hello Eames,” says a voice he hasn't heard in over five years but one he still knows so very well. The brown-eyed young man glances down at the piece of paper, inhaling sharply. “This...this is...”
In a flash, he's yanking the paper back and stuffing it into his pocket. “It's not what you think.”
“Isn't it?” Arthur gently asks.
Glancing off to the side to avoid Arthur's knowing eyes, Eames is startled to see a young woman with a child at her hip. He doesn't know how he had missed seeing her. She has long, dark curls cascading down her back and a quizzical smile on her crimson lips. It is the child though, that has his heart thudding dully. The boy is the spitting image of Arthur, with those laughing, dark eyes and the brunet locks and the dimples in his smile.
Eames can feel a dull ache in his chest.
The dull throb turns into a sharp spike when Arthur introduces them to Eames.
“This is Jocelyn and Trystan. Say hi, Trystan.”
The small little boy smiles shyly at Eames and offers a piece of candy, waving it at him insistently. Eames finds he has no choice but to take the sticky, ruby red jujube.
“Jocelyn, this is Eames. He's...”
“We met in college,” Eames quickly slides in when Arthur falters.
The brunette straightens up. “So this is Eames. I've heard so much about you,” she smiles warmly as she extends her hand.
Eames gives it a short shake, making sure it's the hand without the sweet stuck to his palm.
“Would you like to join us? We're just on our way to dinner. I'm sure you and Arthur have so much to catch up on.”
This couldn't possibly be any more miserable of a day. In fact, Eames is certain even a root canal would be less painful.
“Ah, no, I shouldn't. I'm...busy tonight and I wouldn't want to interrupt your dinner.”
“Oh please, it's no trouble. We'd love to have your company. Right, Arthur?” Jocelyn jabs Arthur with a careful elbow, keeping Trystan balanced with what can only be months of practice, grace and agility.
“Right,” Arthur uncomfortably chimes in, resisting the urge to fidget. He's never been one for restless movement and he's not about to start now.
And that's how Eames finds himself in front of a classy and ridiculously-expensive steakhouse known as Gotham.
Just as they are about to enter the establishment, Jocelyn pauses and pipes up in an ever-so casual voice, “Oh, you know what? I just realized, I forgot something important at home; Trystan's bottle. And you know how fussy Trystan gets without his bottle.”
“What are you talking about, Jocelyn? You just said--”
A careful stomp to this foot shuts Arthur up quite effectively.
“Arthur, I left his bottle at home,” she smiles through her clenched teeth. “Why don't you and Eames go ahead and have dinner together? It will give you a chance to get re-acquainted. It was lovely to meet you, Eames.”
With that, she's gone in a whirl of a red and black polka-dotted dress, her scarlet Fluevogs clattering against the pavement and Trystan waving his chubby little fingers, sticky with the sugar of jujubes.
Eames and Arthur are left gaping after her, more than a little confounded and speechless. It takes them a minute to get their vocal cords in proper working order again.
“Er, Arthur?”
“Yes, Eames?”
“Did your wife just...set you up with me?”
Arthur frowns, forehead knitted in confusion, before slowly speaking, “Eames, I don't know how you got the idea but Jocelyn...she's not my wife.”
“Wha—are you certain?”
The younger man laughs lightly, and Eames can feel something in his chest squeezing tightly, like a vice clamping down on his heart. “Yes, I am fairly certain I'm not married. Jocelyn is my sister and Trystan is my nephew. Actually, I haven't dated since...”
Eames' head lifts up, staring at Arthur. “Since when?”
The brunet feels his cheeks heat, and he is certain he's turned an unbecoming shade of red. In vain, he fervently wishes he could control the blood vessels in his cheeks. “Since college.”
A tiny spark flares in Eames' chest. He isn't certain what it is but he thinks if it could be anything, it possibly feels like the first stirrings of tentative hope blooming. He holds the door open and gestures for Arthur to go first.
“You mean...since me?” Eames softly asks.
Arthur doesn't answer. “Look, maybe this is a bad idea. You're busy as you said. We should just...”
“No, Arthur, wait. That night. When you left...I didn't mean...it wasn't what...” Eames stops himself, running a tired hand over his face. “This isn't coming out right. What I mean to say, is that I never meant to hurt you. I was a right arse back then.”
“Eames, I don't want to talk about that. It's over. We're over, and we can't go back to that.”
“I never got over you or forgot you,” he plows on desperately. “Do you remember that night when we counted the stars? When we made up those stories about the constellations and then we saw that shooting star? And we both shut our eyes and made our wishes. Do you know what my wish was?”
Arthur finds himself unable to look away from Eames and his hazel eyes that sometimes seem more blue than green and more grey than blue.
“I remember holding hands with you, eyes shut so tightly and the words in my head, the ones I whispered to myself, 'I wish we could be in love forever'.
I've never regretted anything in my life before except for one thing, Arthur. The night I broke your heart.”
“Do you know what I wished for that night, underneath millions of stars?”
Eames swiftly takes in a quick breath of air and holds it, heart pounding so hard, he is certain it will burst inside his chest like a supernova exploding except if it does, it will unfortunately be a lot less pretty and a lot more messy. Also, a lot more painful, he imagines.
Then Arthur speaks and Eames' brain shuts down entirely. “I wish I could spend the rest of my life with this man.”
It takes him a long moment to collect his thoughts; they're going at a million miles an hour, stumbling over one another, all starts and finishes, only half-processed and not very well put-together at all, but all of them are tinged with a touch of hope.
“Arthur. I know you said we can't go back to that. To what we had. But couldn't we start over? I can't promise to be perfect. I mean, I'm so far from it. But I'll try.”
The younger man is silent for a minute. Then two. All he can think of is that night under the stars and the piece of paper, soaked by a puddle of rain with his handwriting on it. With those two words. He can't believe Eames kept it all these years and it sends a little tendril of warmth through his body. His hand, of its own accord, searches out Eames' and laces their fingers together for an instant before pulling away.
But it's enough.
END
A/N: It's weird but...I'm finding that I just can't talk about my daily life anymore. Or maybe I just don't want to talk about it. Writing fic is much easier than contemplating what's going on in my personal life. It's like an escape, it really is. Also, title taken from one of my favourite parts from The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. <3 Admittedly though, I have many favourite parts. xD
Feedback is, as always, much appreciated.
Author:
zetoCharacters/Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2.5 K
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's. I don't own these characters.
Summary: Inception Kink Meme fill found here.
Note: Not a sequel to "A Promise Made". Sorry, lovelies. ;-; But I'm almost done with that one. Just struggling with the ending. :/
Eames is twenty eight. He has hazel eyes that sometimes seem more blue than green and more grey than blue. He's built like a brick house, with a tall frame and broad shoulders, but make no mistake, it's all muscle and sinew and long, lean limbs, wrapped into one complete package.
This is true.
Eames is not one for regret. He believes in living life to the fullest, with love and laughter. He doesn't like to dwell on past mistakes or second guess himself. When he was sixteen, he never met a beautiful boy and he never fell in love. Eames has never been in love in his life.
This. This is false.
Eames was nineteen when he fell in love. And the boy wasn't beautiful. He was simply ordinary. All brown hair and pale skin, coupled with large brown eyes. A completely normal boy. Almost boring even. Except for when he smiled. Because when he smiled, he changed. His eyes lit up and his cheeks dimpled and there was this glow about him that fascinated Eames to no end.
In the eyes of everyone, that boy was ordinary but to Eames, he was so much more.
He was everything.
Eames still remembers the nights spent sharing nervous kisses, fingers laced loosely together as they watched the sun set. He remembers the sky, all lit up with vivid purple splashes and unending golden streaks. He remembers the stars peeking out through the indigo veil of the sky. He remembers running his hand through dark, silky locks as warm lips pressed against his own, ever-so hesitant and shy. He remembers lying on the thin cotton blanket, sharing body heat as they searched for constellations, counted the stars and made wishes on the falling ones.
He remembers making his wish, eyes squeezed shut.
I wish...we could be in love forever.
He remembers sharing an ice cream cone on a hot, blazing summer day. The sky was a bright, cornflower blue and not a single cloud marred the horizon. Kids chased one another with water guns, a dog playfully splashed a little girl in the water park. Frisbees flying through the air and laughter floating out over the air.
Eames remembers the cold winter days, tucked beneath the fleece blanket on the couch. Sipping mugs of steaming, marshmallow-laden hot cocoa, enjoying the fire crackling in the hearth. He remembers the tacky Christmas movie on the telly. The one they both secretly love but are too embarrassed to admit. He remembers ripping open his present and finding the hand-knit scarf inside. He remembers Arthur gently looping it around his throat, the bold red and gold pattern clashing with his green sweater.
He remembers Arthur's slender, lithe digits undoing the bow and carefully peeling away the paper to reveal his photo framed with a smooth, mahogany frame. It's them; two small figures lying at the crest of a hill, fingers pointing at the night sky as they made their wishes. Arthur's eyes had lit up and it had sent a tiny little shiver down Eames' back, skin prickling over with warmth.
Eames remembers. And he tastes the regret.
This is true.
The worst of it though, he remembers with crystal clarity.
He remembers the fights. Not even 'the big one', though he does remember that one all too clearly. It's the little ones that get to him, when he's lying in his bed at night, staring at the ceiling, a single shaft of moonlight slanting across his covers and the wall.
He remembers coming home from school one night, after an angry phone call from Arthur. One with raised voices on both sides, that ends with him slamming his phone down on the receiver. He remembers driving home at quarter to eleven, Kansas belting out on his radio, only to find Arthur curled up in their bed when he arrives, the fruits of his labour in the kitchen gone cold. He remembers the devastation in those chocolate brown eyes when Arthur tells him that it's okay, it's only their anniversary and not a big deal, really.
He remembers lipstick smeared on his collar like a cheap souvenir or a tacky cliché from a soap opera. And Arthur's carefully-blank face when he asks Eames where the lipstick had come from. He remembers the younger man silently pleading him to lie, to make up an excuse, any excuse because the truth would just be too hard.
He remembers dialling Arthur's cellphone. The endless ringing, the standard voicemail message before the tell-tale beep.
Darling, where are you? It's late.
Hey, it's me. Could you pick some rhubarb on the way home? Call me back.
Arthur, are you coming home soon?
Mmmarthur, I missh you. I'm sorry. And before you assshk, no, I'm not drunk. At all. Not even a little teensy bit. A teensy little bit.
He remembers coming home one to day find Arthur's clothes and shoes, his cologne and ties, his comb and toothbrush all gone. Simply gone. It was as though every piece of evidence of his existence had been wiped clean from Eames' life and the only thing left had been a missive on his pillow. Except it wasn't even a missive. Just three words in elegant black ink. Scrawled on a scrap piece of paper in Arthur's hand.
Eames, good bye.
This. This is true.
He remembers crumpling the piece of parchment, balling it up in his fist, angry and fuming. Then tearing it up into a dozen tiny little pieces before regret overcomes him and he carefully tapes it back together. He remembers knocking all this things from his dresser, throwing a vase against the mirror only to have ceramic and glass shatter under the impact, raining thousands tiny glittering shards onto the carpet. He remembers pulling out the lighter from his pocket and lighting up in the house. A habit Arthur had hated and had helped him kick. He remembers the trail of cigarette butts scattered over the floor and he remembers taking that tiny snippet of paper and setting it ablaze. He remembers the scent of smoke and burning tape all too easily.
This. This is false.
Eames is twenty eight. He sits alone outside a little café, nursing his cup of cold tea. Every day he stops by the café after work and orders his Earl-Grey-no-cream-no-sugar-thanks-love.
Every day like any other, he slowly sips at his tea until it goes cold, fingers running over a worn fragment of paper, creased a thousand times over, ink faded to a light grey. He has the handwriting memorized. Each elegant curve of the 'o', the fancy loops, the sharp spike in the 's'.
Today though, today is not like any other day.
Not that Eames knows this.
After the tea is finished, he stands and tosses the paper cup into the recycling bin. Just then a gust of wind sweeps through and his scrap of paper is sent tumbling into the road, pulled from his fingers. Freezing, Eames can only stare when it lands in a puddle by the side of the road.
He chases after it, heart in his throat.
However, by the time he arrives, the parchment is ruined, the ink smeared into an illegible mess with only the capital 'e' in his name and the 'bye' still visible. Leaning down, Eames is about to pluck it up, wondering if he could blow dry it at home. Wonders if it's still salvageable.
Instead, slender, lithe digits beat him to it.
“Here,” someone murmurs, holding it out.
Eames looks up and suddenly, all the air is sucked out of his lungs.
“Arthur,” he breathes out.
“Hello Eames,” says a voice he hasn't heard in over five years but one he still knows so very well. The brown-eyed young man glances down at the piece of paper, inhaling sharply. “This...this is...”
In a flash, he's yanking the paper back and stuffing it into his pocket. “It's not what you think.”
“Isn't it?” Arthur gently asks.
Glancing off to the side to avoid Arthur's knowing eyes, Eames is startled to see a young woman with a child at her hip. He doesn't know how he had missed seeing her. She has long, dark curls cascading down her back and a quizzical smile on her crimson lips. It is the child though, that has his heart thudding dully. The boy is the spitting image of Arthur, with those laughing, dark eyes and the brunet locks and the dimples in his smile.
Eames can feel a dull ache in his chest.
The dull throb turns into a sharp spike when Arthur introduces them to Eames.
“This is Jocelyn and Trystan. Say hi, Trystan.”
The small little boy smiles shyly at Eames and offers a piece of candy, waving it at him insistently. Eames finds he has no choice but to take the sticky, ruby red jujube.
“Jocelyn, this is Eames. He's...”
“We met in college,” Eames quickly slides in when Arthur falters.
The brunette straightens up. “So this is Eames. I've heard so much about you,” she smiles warmly as she extends her hand.
Eames gives it a short shake, making sure it's the hand without the sweet stuck to his palm.
“Would you like to join us? We're just on our way to dinner. I'm sure you and Arthur have so much to catch up on.”
This couldn't possibly be any more miserable of a day. In fact, Eames is certain even a root canal would be less painful.
“Ah, no, I shouldn't. I'm...busy tonight and I wouldn't want to interrupt your dinner.”
“Oh please, it's no trouble. We'd love to have your company. Right, Arthur?” Jocelyn jabs Arthur with a careful elbow, keeping Trystan balanced with what can only be months of practice, grace and agility.
“Right,” Arthur uncomfortably chimes in, resisting the urge to fidget. He's never been one for restless movement and he's not about to start now.
And that's how Eames finds himself in front of a classy and ridiculously-expensive steakhouse known as Gotham.
Just as they are about to enter the establishment, Jocelyn pauses and pipes up in an ever-so casual voice, “Oh, you know what? I just realized, I forgot something important at home; Trystan's bottle. And you know how fussy Trystan gets without his bottle.”
“What are you talking about, Jocelyn? You just said--”
A careful stomp to this foot shuts Arthur up quite effectively.
“Arthur, I left his bottle at home,” she smiles through her clenched teeth. “Why don't you and Eames go ahead and have dinner together? It will give you a chance to get re-acquainted. It was lovely to meet you, Eames.”
With that, she's gone in a whirl of a red and black polka-dotted dress, her scarlet Fluevogs clattering against the pavement and Trystan waving his chubby little fingers, sticky with the sugar of jujubes.
Eames and Arthur are left gaping after her, more than a little confounded and speechless. It takes them a minute to get their vocal cords in proper working order again.
“Er, Arthur?”
“Yes, Eames?”
“Did your wife just...set you up with me?”
Arthur frowns, forehead knitted in confusion, before slowly speaking, “Eames, I don't know how you got the idea but Jocelyn...she's not my wife.”
“Wha—are you certain?”
The younger man laughs lightly, and Eames can feel something in his chest squeezing tightly, like a vice clamping down on his heart. “Yes, I am fairly certain I'm not married. Jocelyn is my sister and Trystan is my nephew. Actually, I haven't dated since...”
Eames' head lifts up, staring at Arthur. “Since when?”
The brunet feels his cheeks heat, and he is certain he's turned an unbecoming shade of red. In vain, he fervently wishes he could control the blood vessels in his cheeks. “Since college.”
A tiny spark flares in Eames' chest. He isn't certain what it is but he thinks if it could be anything, it possibly feels like the first stirrings of tentative hope blooming. He holds the door open and gestures for Arthur to go first.
“You mean...since me?” Eames softly asks.
Arthur doesn't answer. “Look, maybe this is a bad idea. You're busy as you said. We should just...”
“No, Arthur, wait. That night. When you left...I didn't mean...it wasn't what...” Eames stops himself, running a tired hand over his face. “This isn't coming out right. What I mean to say, is that I never meant to hurt you. I was a right arse back then.”
“Eames, I don't want to talk about that. It's over. We're over, and we can't go back to that.”
“I never got over you or forgot you,” he plows on desperately. “Do you remember that night when we counted the stars? When we made up those stories about the constellations and then we saw that shooting star? And we both shut our eyes and made our wishes. Do you know what my wish was?”
Arthur finds himself unable to look away from Eames and his hazel eyes that sometimes seem more blue than green and more grey than blue.
“I remember holding hands with you, eyes shut so tightly and the words in my head, the ones I whispered to myself, 'I wish we could be in love forever'.
I've never regretted anything in my life before except for one thing, Arthur. The night I broke your heart.”
“Do you know what I wished for that night, underneath millions of stars?”
Eames swiftly takes in a quick breath of air and holds it, heart pounding so hard, he is certain it will burst inside his chest like a supernova exploding except if it does, it will unfortunately be a lot less pretty and a lot more messy. Also, a lot more painful, he imagines.
Then Arthur speaks and Eames' brain shuts down entirely. “I wish I could spend the rest of my life with this man.”
It takes him a long moment to collect his thoughts; they're going at a million miles an hour, stumbling over one another, all starts and finishes, only half-processed and not very well put-together at all, but all of them are tinged with a touch of hope.
“Arthur. I know you said we can't go back to that. To what we had. But couldn't we start over? I can't promise to be perfect. I mean, I'm so far from it. But I'll try.”
The younger man is silent for a minute. Then two. All he can think of is that night under the stars and the piece of paper, soaked by a puddle of rain with his handwriting on it. With those two words. He can't believe Eames kept it all these years and it sends a little tendril of warmth through his body. His hand, of its own accord, searches out Eames' and laces their fingers together for an instant before pulling away.
But it's enough.
END
A/N: It's weird but...I'm finding that I just can't talk about my daily life anymore. Or maybe I just don't want to talk about it. Writing fic is much easier than contemplating what's going on in my personal life. It's like an escape, it really is. Also, title taken from one of my favourite parts from The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. <3 Admittedly though, I have many favourite parts. xD
Feedback is, as always, much appreciated.