Time is a crooked bow.

Arthur never felt the days slip by him, but he never felt them start or end either. Nowadays, Arthur never felt most things. He'd crawl with desires on some days, and other days he felt like laying on barbed wire and watching the stars. And he still felt the desires, and he'd try to forget them and let those slip away. And he'd sometimes leave the house that wasn't exactly a house sometimes, and he always knew where to find him.

And it was never Ariadne's fault.

She was the most pleasant, gorgeous, wonderful wife you could have. Arthur didn't know how many years it was anymore, but he still wanted to go back into that dreamworld again. He would sometimes lay in the bed and his fingers would slip themselves in her hair, and he'd imagine himself pulling on it hard, making her shriek, just to hear something again.

But he loved her, somewhere deep in side him, maybe.

Arthur didn't think of that word anymore. He just tried to run away as far as he could in the comfort of his own space. He felt like he was stuck in an empty room. Everyone had that fatal flaw. Ariadne was stuck in a dreamworld, while Arthur was trying to find his. And he knew so much that he didn't love her the way she loved him. And it never crossed his mind at all. He just fell into that complacent little crater he dug himself into.

Ariadne wasn't perfect either. She found the longing she had for Arthur just as strong as the longing she had for Cobb. And she repressed it in her because she didn't want the perfect little lies to end. She fed into them and she'd smile at those few instances Arthur actually called out to her. They weren't what they used to be.

Then Arthur escaped from her. She didn't find it too surprising, but that never meant it didn't feel like an icepick on her heart, frozen-over. And she'd call Cobb in the middle of the night. She knew he'd be awake. Out of anticipation or depression, she never wanted to ask.

And Arthur made it his sole mission to find him. He went to England, and while it was raining in Paris all the time, atleast it rained under the sunlight. So whenever Arthur saw a puddle shining orange and yellow, he'd look into it like it was the manifesto of the everythings hes been through. He didn't understand it, and it was so beautiful he found himself stepping in it, at a weak attempt to destroy something beautiful.

Eames was scared. He was so scared. He'd sleep every night, as much as an insomniac could sleep, and he'd wake up and be scared to look in the mirror. He didn't know who exactly he was. He could become anyone he wanted to be. He hated himself so fucking much. He'd grip onto the days it rained, because then he'd get the chance to lay and see the fog and watch the drops and hear them and have a reason not to move at all.

Eames wasn't so sure what he did. He found a year go by, and another go by with remorse, and the last one would be the worst, because Arthur married Ariadne and he tried to be happy but instead of smiles falling into place, tears found their way, and they fell so slowly, he'd think.

Eames was a recluse, suddenly. He'd remember his fingers, itching to touch him. And their eyes and breathe would mesh into one, because he'd fallen into him and wouldn't stop staring and his fingers would trail from the tip of him down to his core and then he'd wake up and realize it was a dream.

He'd feel incandescent then. He'd have these dreams on the only nights he could sleep, with a dream in his waking mind. And he'd curse because why would God, whoever the fuck he was, make him sleep to those nightmares?

But he'd be grateful somehow, because even if it was a dream, it was more then he'd ever expect to recieve from him in real life.

And then Arthur found him, watching the fucking rain again. And he'd be smoking a cigarette, never a hit, and he'd have his little cupcake with a candle, and he'd blow it out just as Arthur burst the door open. And Arthur was panting and glaring and he looked as pale as if a truck had hit him. And he walks slowly over to the phone and finds it disconnected.

And Arthur wishes him a happy birthday, and Eames wants his face to hit the floor as hes falling, but instead he finds it nestled into Arthur and they stand there, in a comfortable silence.

Arthur whispers to him that he called him twenty times, and Eames told him he couldn't take it if he had to see the phone plugged in and hear nothing on the other end.

And it was years since they last felt eachother. And it was years, and they felt like they were old men by that time, but they weren't even done with their twenties yet. And they knew, everytime, what they were getting themselves into.

And they'd slip into it together, and they wouldn't care who was married, who was dying, who was in love, nothing crossed their minds anymore. They'd drink and laugh and they would both talk about how depressed they were, and Arthur would blame it all on him, and Eames would smile and agree wholeheartedly. And they'd drink some more and Eames would wish he was a girl, so maybe he could end up as pregnant as Ariadne was. And then Arthur would say he wouldn't want him any other way.

They'd found themselves in a different sort of light. Arthur was more loose, relaxed, maybe it was a bit of the old Eames in him. And Eames was a bit more grown, still his playful and young self, but just slightly more worn. And they found it more sexier. And they found it more beautiful.

And they'd lay in bed naked and they wouldn't care if the whole world found them to be two disgusting humans acting habitually, feeding off the exact perfection that they hated. Because though Arthur and Eames respectively hated themselves, they loved eachother regardless.

And Eames wanted to see Ariadne and Arthur's kid, and he'd wish it was his own, and he'd be jealous that Ariadne had that side of Arthur that Eames couldn't ever have. And Eames would feel his veins boil, and he'd say he would want a smoke, but Ariadne would know. And she'd let him go, and he'd come back two weeks later demanding to see the little girl.

And Eames was slowly fading back. His memories didn't hold him together anymore, and he didn't have much hope. Because he'd realized that no matter how much of himself he gave to Arthur, he'd still never have him completely. Arthur would negate that completely, but they all knew. Arthur would kiss every part of him anyways.

And as soon as it had began, the dalliance had come to an end.

And it would come back together again, because as much as they hated eachother, and hated themselves, and as much as they stopped their own happiness right in its making, they couldn't be without eachother.

And with every kiss they'd feel their deaths approaching them, one minute at a time. But nothing mattered. Eames and Arthur knew, everyone knew.

And when it would snow, Eames couldn't hear the sharp sound of the droplets hitting the floor.

And when it was that blazing sun, he couldn't even leave his apartment.

And then he'd wait for the rain, because he'd feel those fingers reach and give him the cigarette he'd wait for. And then the kisses came, and the passion would flood back, and the laughter and the smiles would be real for those few months. And they'd seperate and come back, and they'd leave eachother, but come back; it was almost as if their hearts were connected by a small string, that string that had seen every part of their relationship. It'd pull on them with desire, it'd thin with pain and tears, and it'd still hold up.

And then sometimes they'd feel nothing at all, nothing at all. But they couldn't, wouldn't ever let it go.

I don't know what to think of this exactly. I enjoyed it, I like writing these bittersweet stories. This was a rushed project, I guess. I was heavily influenced by the song, "Armchairs," by Andrew Bird. That's also where I got the title of this. If there are any errors/things misunderstood, honest reviews are accepted. Thank you anyone and everyone.

If I get enough feedback, I'll expand on this because I started thinking; so how does Ariadne feel? And does Arthur still love Ariadne? And does Eames want to keep doing this?

And if I don't get much feedback, I'll probably write more to this anyways, because now I've got myself worked up. (: