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Jun. 1st, 2011 12:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phenylic SPAM POST
- anything goes!
- HAD LUNCH? let's hear about it
- FASTING? let's hear about it
- .GIF DUMP? have at it
- PICK-UP LINE YOU'VE NEVER HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO USE? let 'em loose
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AND GO.
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AND GO.
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sigh no more
Date: 2011-06-02 05:11 am (UTC)day at the beach
When he has time off, when he isn't running for his life, when his nerves calm down and he isn't looking over his shoulders every two seconds, Eames paints.
In the mornings, he sets up his easel right next to the window overlooking the beach. He takes a step back, glancing at his work with a critical eye before picking up a brush. His first strokes are slow and deliberate, a warm-up building up to the steady rhythm of drag-and-pull as each wave becomes more tangible and distinct, and the expanse of sand becomes slowly littered with footsteps and small rocks.
He paints with a purpose, to remind himself of the humility of things--the way the water yields to the winds and the sand to the people. It makes him feel unbearably small, and he revels in it. He paints until the sun sits high and the shadows are shrink to their minimum. He paints and paints, until he forgets the aches of his last job, until he feels settled in himself, until his strokes slant ever so slightly to the right, and his skies always have the faintest tinge of pink.
And sometimes, Arthur joins him.
Arthur stands in his doorway, wearing the same white shirt he always does on days like these. The buttons are undone, and Eames can just reach out and run his fingers down the smooth plane of Arthur's chest to his stomach until he feels the muscles twitch under his touch. So he does.
"Hello," Eames says as Arthur leans in and rests his forehead against Eames'.
"Morning," says Arthur. "How's it going?"
"Good," Eames replies. "It's good."
Re: sigh no more
Date: 2011-06-02 12:04 pm (UTC)and the expanse of sand becomes slowly littered with footsteps and small rocks.
i love this line, the idea
He paints until the sun sits high and the shadows are shrink to their minimum. He paints and paints, until he forgets the aches of his last job, until he feels settled in himself, until his strokes slant ever so slightly to the right, and his skies always have the faintest tinge of pink.
and this!
to his stomach until he feels the muscles twitch under his touch. So he does.
and this!
and the dialogue!
Re: sigh no more
Date: 2011-06-02 04:04 pm (UTC)