Just A Little Longer (1/4)
Apr. 7th, 2011 08:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ofvanityInfo @ MASTERPOST
It’s Cobb’s fault.
Arthur knows blaming Cobb is generally selfish and irresponsible, but he doesn’t care. Because this time it’s Cobb’s fault. No matter what angle you study it from, it all ends up with Cobb. Cobb and his menacing squint and the soft firmness in his voice. The slow yet tantalizing rise in his tone. Fuck him.
If Cobb had given him some breathing space or stopped acting like he needed a fucking chaperon for the fucking thing--which he realizes now how the job actually did sound like a get-away driver--Arthur could have gotten himself out of it, probably. Granted, he should have listened when his Mom said she would ship him off, but it’s hard to picture a threat stopping Dom. Let alone, Arthur. Now he’s fucking stuck here, but maybe he was kinda asking for it. She did say boarding school, and where is he now?
Arthur brings the phone to his ear, waiting for someone to answer. Then he hears Dom’s groggy voice, “What?”
“This is your entire fault,” Arthur spits and hangs up.
He doesn’t expect Cobb to call him back, so instead Arthur tosses his phone aside and fingers the knot of his tie, pulling it loose. He settles back into the pillows, crossing his arms behind his head. The room is empty and cold, despite the obvious settling of unfamiliar possessions: Arthur’s roommate. There are several assorted chemistry and calculus books strewn around the room, with notebooks and a laptop in the far right corner. Above his bed is the periodic table, obnoxiously large and looming, covered in notes in red pens. The thought of meeting the tightly organized, chemistry obsessed bastard strikes Arthur as sobering. He sighs deeply and closes his eyes.
Tomorrow is his first official day here, the Academy whose complicated name he already forgot, the first day of the second semester. He’s only been here by himself for a total of seventeen minutes and he was already bored to death. He considers the merits of smoking a cigarette out the window but figures his mother can stage his death just as easily as he can hold off. Instead, he pushes his fingers through his hair a few times, massaging a tentatively growing headache and brushes off any fatigue.
There’s unpacking to do.
-
Arthur doesn’t exactly meet Yusuf on the best of terms. After an entire day of searching for classes, getting shoved in hallways and being asked the same questions over and over, Arthur just really needs a smoke. The nicotine patch on the inside of his arm isn’t doing him any good and if he could just get the flame going, the actual stinging air, then he might feel a little better. Also, he skipped breakfast, and what the actual fuck, he wants waffles.
Thirty seconds into entering the room, he claws off his jacket and opens the cuffs of his shirt to scratch off the patch and toss it in the nearest garbage can. Before he can cross the room to the window, he realizes he isn’t alone.
Yusuf is in the corner, farthest from the bed, engulfed in white light from the computer screen. The clacking of Yusuf tapping away on the keys stops suddenly. Yusuf spins in the chair rapidly, but doesn’t seem surprised in the slightest by Arthur’s presence. They stare at each other for a moment, before Arthur says, “Hello. I’m Arthur, mind if I smoke?”
Yusuf raises his gaze, “Not at all, Arthur. Yusuf.”
Arthur, crossing to the window, glances back at him, “What?”
“My name,” he replies lamely. “My name is Yusuf. Since you asked.”
Arthur curses under his breath, lighting the cigarette under his flame. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. But don’t let me interrupt your work, I’ll be quiet and shit, you do what you have to.”
Yusuf isn’t one to be told twice and returns to work, clacking away mindlessly. Arthur pretends not to see the slightly annoyed glint in his eyes.
He opens the window and takes a long drag off the cigarette, letting the heat expand rapidly into his chest and lungs. Relief floods him and he sighs deeply. Dangling the cigarette between his lips, he checks his phone’s voicemail. There’s two from Cobb and one from his mother. Arthur deletes Cobb’s messages, not interested in Cobb’s shit and listens to the message from his mother.
On the recording, she starts with sniffles and says rapidly, “Arthur, honey, I know you probably hate me right now.” Arthur scoffed under his breath at the thought. “But you needed to learn your less-lesson.” It strikes Arthur that she’s crying. Suddenly frustrated with himself for pitying her caterwauling over a recorded message, he turns his phone off and tosses the cigarette out the window.
Arthur glances at Yusuf and sees him in deep concentration, with eyebrows furrowed and keys clacking. He almost feels guilty for a second, for automatically assuming his roommate would be some know-it-all degenerate or a pretty boy with lips eager to wrap themselves around Arthur’s dick.
Acting on an impulse, Arthur says, “Hey.”
The keys don’t stop for a second. “Hmm?” Yusuf hums.
Arthur hesitates, having not thought it through, “Uh, I’m sorry if I seem like an asshole. I’m not. I just...”
Yusuf’s face splits in a grin, the harsh light of the laptop screen makes his teeth look like pearls. “‘Salright, Arthur. I like you already.”
Feeling better by fractions, Arthur throws himself into schoolwork.
And doesn’t resurface for the week. It was hard at first, getting accustomed to an entire new way of learning at the Academy, but doesn’t mind after a few days. He eats his meals with Yusuf and a few of his friends, but spends most time in the library, fingering the knot of his tie. He gets absorbed in a brutal, yet terribly exciting law class and joins the debate team administered via the same instructor. He even gets paired with a competent debate partner, Robert Fischer. For a week, he is sprinting to catch up. And when he does, he walks at a leisurely pace.
On Friday night, he’s in the dorm room alone when Yusuf struts in. He passes a politely ridged greeting but makes no other effort. Yusuf tosses a stack of books on the desk and his bag on the floor, thumping with weight against the hardwood floors.
Prior to this, Yusuf and Arthur had been tip toeing around each other majority of the time. It wasn’t dislike, but formality. Today, however, Yusuf has decided that this will not stand. Upon entering the room, he calls out to him, “Oh, Arthur!”
Instead of replying with an escalating comment, Arthur raises an eyebrow in question.
Yusuf grins widely, mischief glinting in his eyes. “We’re going out tonight.”
Arthur almost laughs, “I can’t. I have been bombarded with homework.”
Yusuf laughs, “It’s the weekend. You’ll do it later.”
“No, I won’t.”
Yusuf tugs off his shirt and tosses it onto his bed, rummaging for another. “You will, Arthur. Get changed. Actually, don’t. Just fix yourself up. The uniform looks good on a guy like you.”
“I’m not going.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
“It’s late already--not that I’m going--where would we go and get back in time for curfew?”
Yusuf disappears into the closet, putting on another shirt. He ducks his head out of the closet for a second to say simply, “Who said anything about coming back for curfew?”
Arthur’s mouth is a sudden tight line. “No.”
Yusuf reemerges, his pants entirely different, hopping around the room to change his socks. Arthur is still on the bed, with his American Law book in his lap and notebooks eagle-spread open all over the bed. Yusuf sits on the floor, tugging on his shoes. “Look, Arthur. Let me teach you something else about this school.”
Arthur shifts the book on his lap and pulls it up to his chest. “Do teach me, Master.”
Yusuf grins at the name he’s become accustomed to and says, “Look. This, as you may or may not have noticed, is an all-boys school.”
Arthur’s eyes widen with sarcasm. Yusuf chortles, standing off the floor, fully dressed. “I know that’s surprising. But what makes this hell hole bearable is the lonely fact that across the lake, is the all-girls sister school.”
Unsurprised by the cliché, Arthur asked, “Your school has a lake?”
“Our. Our school has a lake.” Yusuf corrects. “Yes, there is a lake and a school full of young brimming women with tight eager--” Yusuf’s face splits in a shit-eating grin, “well, I’ll let you find out.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow, “So you want me to get an STD?”
Yusuf walks forward and takes the book out of Arthur’s lap. “Eh, no. I want you to realize that in order to survive here, you have to learn to have fun at least once a week... with condoms.”
Arthur narrows his eyes, but before he can say anything, Yusuf continues. “And as it happens that I know just the place.”
-
Twenty minutes later, Yusuf shoves Arthur out of the room. Having no real desire to actually participate in this event, Arthur takes Yusuf’s advice and merely changes into a new pair of slacks and redoes his tie. Yusuf adds his assistance only by rubbing a stray pen mark off his chin.
Leaving the room, Arthur encases his hands in his pockets and follows Yusuf soundlessly down winding hallways. They go out the back doors, leading to the game grounds and cross every single field. Arthur starts to wonder where exactly Yusuf is taking him. It’s when they pass the thin layer of woods and greenery that Arthur voices the concern, “Yusuf, where are--”
“Don’t sweat it, Artie. Just let me do this.”
Arthur does.
They pass through the woods and walk for another five minutes before Arthur sees their destination. A small cabin placed at the edge of the clearing, surrounded by the lake. A few feet away is the pier, where two or three boats are tied up. Across the lake, barely visible in the dark and distance is the horizon of another set of woods. Woods, Arthur presumes, that lead through to the Academy for Wayward Ladies or some gender bullshit like that.
Yusuf leads Arthur up to the front door of the cabin, mottled by the light reflecting of the lake’s water. He raps his knuckles against the wood in low, loud knocks. A compartment slides open and they are met with dark eyes, “Password.”
Yusuf starts whispering a series of numbers under his breath. Arthur barely catches them. It goes on for quite a bit of numbers and finally Yusuf grins, “Zero.”
The compartment slams shut abruptly. Yusuf rolls his eyes, “You’ll have to excuse him, he gets so insufferable when he starts in with the melodrama.”
The door swings open as Arthur asks, “Who does?”
“Yes, Yusuf, who?”
Arthur turns to see a small brunette girl, around 16, has answered the door. Her hair is tied high up on her head and she’s got to stand on the tips of her toes to hug Yusuf. He apologizes, “Sorry. I thought it was Eames.”
“Gee,” she deadpans, “Thanks.”
Yusuf grins, shuffling in with Arthur at his heels. Arthur glances around, confused. The cabin is empty except for a few chairs and a deck of cards lay meticulously on a table, pushed to the corner of the room. Yusuf follows Arthur’s line of sight, “Oh, ignore that. That’s nothing.”
Yusuf tugs on his sleeve and introduces him to the small girl, “This is Ariadne. Ari, this is Arthur. He’s new, just started this week. Also, he’s in.”
Arthur smiles and shakes her hand, “Hi.”
She smiles in return but raises an eyebrow at Yusuf. “Hello, Arthur. It’s nice to meet you. I’m assuming that you haven’t met his brother?”
Arthur wrinkles his brow, “Brother?”
Yusuf grips Arthur’s shoulder and attention, “That’s what they call us. The Brothers. We’re not related, though. Thankfully.”
“Why do they call you that?”
Ariadne slips her arm over Yusuf’s shoulder, smirking malevolently, “I’m sure you’ll realize it soon. Come on, let’s go downstairs.”
She leads Arthur and Yusuf to the edge of the room and pulls up a floorboard by a small nick. Once the first is gone, she grabs another and lifts easily. Much to Arthur’s surprise, seven of them lift out of the ground at one, attached to each other. A set of stairs visible underneath. She steps in first, followed by Arthur and Yusuf last. There is only a few stairs and then Arthur stops next to Ariadne, taking in the sight.
The room before him is scattered with about twenty-odd people, all of which are dressed formally. At the far wall, there is a two or three tables fairly crowded with people. Along the opposite wall, there is people sitting and drinking on chairs. A coffee table littered with ash trays and cigarette butts in the middle of them. The walls are painted pale beige with rosewood floors. In every corner are lamps, reflecting soft light. From some unknown corner, soft jazz plays for the people dancing in the center of the room.
Arthur raises an eyebrow at Yusuf, who appears next to him, mildly impressed.
Yusuf grins, “I thought you might like it.”
Ariadne nods to Yusuf and then heads toward the group of people sitting around the coffee table. He watches her go, noting her frame and build. She looked 16 at first, but Arthur is beginning to suspect she’s actually much younger than that. Or, older. Arthur can’t help the thoughts, not with the dress she’s wearing.
Yusuf leads him to the generally unpopulated tables to their left. Set on a white tablecloth, is an arrangement of food and drinks. Cheese and meat with a far side of small pastries. At the edge closest to him, Arthur sees a row of condom packages. A piece of paper lays the top of the row, reading, “FUCK RESPONSIBLY, YOU TWATS.”
Next to the condoms are rows of cups. Some are blue and some are red, with a multitude of sharpies surrounding them. Arthur grabs a red cup while Yusuf chats with someone else. He drinks and from it and is met with decent vodka, albeit cheap tasting. Arthur shrugs and drinks from it again. When Yusuf turns his attention to him again, he says, “You feelin’ lucky?”
Arthur raises an eyebrow but follows as he is led to the opposite side of the room. As they approach, Arthur realizes what they are. They’re craps tables. The groups of people surrounding them are gambling. Behind the house side, there is a guy dressed in a tux. The black jacket and bow tie don’t hide his build in the slightest, he looks like the kind of man you wouldn’t want to get caught anywhere with. Which, Arthur supposes, serves the point for anyone tempted to cheat.
Arthur eyes them warily but then realizes something, “Yusuf.”
Yusuf, trying to decide where to place his bet, hums a question. “Hmm?”
Arthur drinks from the cup again, warming up to the taste. “Isn’t this illegal? Very illegal and worthy of expulsion?”
“Darling, if you really cared about the legality of things, you wouldn’t be holding that cup.”
Arthur turns his back to the table and sees a boy about his age with blue eyes and vague remnants of light brown hair immediately turned off by the smug look on his face, Arthur raises the cup to his lips and drinks in defiance. “I never said I had a problem with it. I was merely stating a fact.”
The boy swaggers over, holding a red cup in his hand as well. Wrapped around is smooth writing that reads Eames. As he approaches him, Arthur takes note of his chiseled jaw, the dip of his hollowed cheeks and rough cheekbones. “Well your inflection was implying something else.”
Arthur cuts back without thinking, “I imply nothing. You infer.”
Arthur watches Eames’ eyes glint mischievously, as if Arthur has just said something brilliant.
Yusuf turns and throws an arm around Arthur’s shoulder. “That’s enough, boys,” he glances down at the drink in Arthur’s hand and slaps his face with his palm. “Oh, fuck. Arthur.”
Without taking his eyes off Eames, who seems to be under the impression that they are competing in a staring competition, Arthur grunts at Yusuf, “What?”
Yusuf lifts the cup out of his hand lightly. “Please tell me you’ve only just started drinking this.”
Eames raises an eyebrow, smug and amused. Arthur can feel his teeth gritting inside his jaw. “No, I’ve been drinking it for a few minutes. Why is that relevant?”
Eames takes his eyes off Arthur now, seemingly satisfied, and looks straight at Yusuf. Then laughs in rough chuckles from deep in his chest. “That’s very sloppy of you, Yusuf.”
Arthur can’t help but feeling victorious, even though he knows it’s childish, that Eames looked away first. Still, his attention is diverted by Yusuf, who is tugs that drink away from Arthur’s prying hands and says soberly, “I’m so sorry; I thought I would get back to you in time to tell you. But I forgot. I’m sorry.”
Arthur’s brow wrinkles, he’s not in the particular mood for this. “What is it?”
“It is GHB,” Eames announces. “The red cups have GHB. The blue are the normal ones.”
Arthur turns his eyes on Yusuf, now fierce and demanding. “What the fuck.”
Yusuf grimaces, “Terribly sorry. I didn’t think you would get to it before me.”
Arthur narrows his eyes, “I’ve been drinking GHB and vodka for ten minutes?”
Yusuf nods, but waves his hand, “But you haven’t drunk too much and as far as I can tell, you don’t look like a light weight, so you should be okay for another half hour. Then, uh. Well, then. Have you ever done anything like this before?”
Arthur blinks at him, astounded. “I, uh, did coke once?”
“Only once?” Eames challenges.
Arthur turns to glare at him, “Drugs are tedious and time consuming.”
Yusuf pulls Arthur back to look at him. “Okay, listen to me. You’ve got about half an hour before you start feeling the effects. And for that I’m terribly sorry. I can’t give you caffeine, for obvious reasons. So you’re going to have to wait out the high.”
Arthur’s teeth grind inside his jaw, clamped shut. “And what happens when I start to feel the effects?”
-
Even after Yusuf had explained the effects to him, Arthur was caught off guard. The world frayed and bent around the edges of his vision until the room pulsed delightfully. An hour went by rapidly. Or maybe a minute. It was getting progressively harder to give a fuck.
He wasn’t lost, he was just a little caught up. The jazz was soft and thick in his head, melting velvet coils in the depths of his drumming ears. Unfathomably comfortable, he wandered to the table and drank sweet liquor out of a blue cup while Yusuf was off somewhere. He thought no one else was looking.
Well, except for that Eames guy that keeps looking at him like he’s a liability. But Arthur was a little busy, pretending to be composed and generally not giving a fuck. Instead, he watches the couples dancing for a minute. If he were so inclined, Arthur could probably distinguish the pianist but it’s not something he’s worried about.
He’s more worried about getting wood in front of the girl approaching him. Her curled hair frames her elegant cheekbones. Her bright eyes are the sharpest blue Arthur has ever seen, and they contrast beautifully against the red of her parted lips. Her body is encased in a black dress, cut low in the neck, clinging to her every curve and bringing attention to the shape of her neck and leanness of her thighs, long and teasing at the cut of the dress. The crowd of dancers parts for her like she is their queen.
Arthur just barely resists the urge to bow in front of her when she stands before him. He’s taller than her but just by a few inches so they’re mostly at eye level. She takes his hand wordlessly and then picks the drink out of it and sets it on the table behind him. Her fingers are nimble and all he can do is watch, petrified.
“Mal,” is all she offers.
His mind comes back to him, “Arthur.”
Her lips flicker half a smile, “Let’s dance.”
Arthur flinches a little, “I don’t dance.”
She laughs now; shaking her head, “I wasn’t asking,” then pulls him onto the floor without hesitation.
Arthur considers resisting for an instant but the warmth of her hand is too compelling.
The song itself is soft like raindrops. A low piano and trumpet playing a candied rhythm. Mal wraps herself around Arthur, all drastic lines and long curves. He closes his palms on her hips at first, but when they’ve been on for a few seconds, she pulls them around her waist. They move in slow, calculated steps only picking up pace as the tempo does. He spins her slender wrists; the pulse point is calm and soothing. Her hips move, gently bending to his lead.
Arthur has never loved his mother more in his life. She forced him to take a series of dance courses as a child.
As the tempo decreases again, she brings herself back to their center, staring into his eyes. Arthur feels the rush of blood to his brain and is dizzy for a moment. Stroking the blades of his shoulders she speaks again. Her accent reminds Arthur of crystallized sugar, “Do you know why I chose you to dance with?”
Arthur shrugs, “My rugged good looks?”
She huffs a laugh, her breath smells like cinnamint, “You’re a bit pretty for my taste.”
Arthur isn’t sure how to respond, so he doesn’t. But it shows on his face. She smiles, brushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear, “Don’t worry. You’re just not my type. But you know whose type you are?”
Arthur raises an eyebrow, “Whose?”
Her grin turns wicked and she responds, “Dip me.”
Arthur follows her command, holding her weight for long seconds. She ghosts her fingertips over the hollows of cheekbones. Her voice is quiet in his ear, so not even the nearby eavesdropping couple can hear, “If he thinks that I’m working you, he’ll try to put a stop to it.”
Before he can respond, she’s pulling herself up in a swirl of curly hair. When she presses against his chest again, her hands are cold at the back of his neck. “It worked,” she breathes hot in his ear and blood rushes through his body as he shudders. Blood rushing black heat into his core.
“What worked?” he asks, thrilled to hear the crunch of melting sugar cubes.
“In about ten seconds, Eames is going to come over here and ask to cut in. He hates it when I dance with other boys but I’ve danced all night and not once with him. I believe this time, it’s isn’t me he wants to dance with.”
Arthur’s eyebrows twitch but he has no time to answer when before he feels a firm hand on his shoulder, stroking the blade in preamble. Arthur turns and is mildly surprised to see Eames. Mal’s fingers tug his collar and release. The tips of his own fingers twitch to mimic her actions. Eames’ voice is deep and disorienting. His accent is more like the revving of a motorcycle as it cuts through super highways. “Mind if I cut in?”
Arthur almost answers but then realizes Eames isn’t asking him. Mal smiles graciously and parts with a wink in Arthur’s direction. Eames’ hands are calloused and warm when they take Mal’s place.
The song ends but another starts in. The piano is softer now, a subtle accent to the low drawl of some crooner. Arthur’s fingers clench around Eames’ hand as he allows himself to be lead. It’s different dancing with Eames, but somehow calmer, smoother. Pleasure licks the edges of his lips.
Moving in basic steps, Arthur can feel the heat of Eames’ hand on the small of his back--through his shirt. Pushed together, Arthur goes out of his way not to meet Eames’ eyes. Dancing with Mal, a pretty, charming girl is one thing. But the firm weight of Eames’ eyes will unravel him.
“I’m Eames, by the way.”
“I remember,” Arthur offers.
“Really? I don’t think I caught your name.”
“It’s Daniel,” Arthur can’t help the sarcastic compulsion.
“Is it?” Eames eyes him warily.
Arthur nods curtly, twisting his hand in Eames’ slightly. His heart is beating a little faster than usual and there is a cold sweat, forming at his fingertips. Arthur doubts it’s the GHB.
Eames doesn’t miss a beat, “You’re Arthur, aren’t you?”
“Aren’t you a sharp one,” Arthur deadpans.
“As a razor.” Eames replies nonchalantly. “Though I hear you’re quite the cutting tool yourself.”
Arthur stiffens in his shoulders just a bit, “Careful not to hurt yourself.”
“Concerned for my well being?” Eames prompts.
Arthur fixes him with a quick glare, ”More like the well-being of my laundry, Bloodstains are a bitch.”
Eames laughs at this, like it amuses him. It’s a low, dry drawl that reverberates in Arthur’s chest. Arthur doesn’t reply but moves against Eames’ body. A thought strikes him, “Why do they call you and Yusuf brothers?”
Eames is taken back by the temerity of the question, and his grin falters. “I hardly see how it concerns you.”
Arthur’s palm twitches from where it’s pressed against Eames’ but he doesn’t pull away. Eames’ fingers are calloused and rough but they touch Arthur’s skin in light, tentative ways. The buttons of their shirts meet at the bottom of the bellies and clink like toasting champagne glasses. Arthur chews his lip absently, looking anywhere that wasn’t Eames, “Fair enough.”
Eames presses his hand deeper into Arthur’s back, demanding his attention. It works, Arthur turns his gaze back to Eames’ dim gray eyes. In them, he sees a peace offering. The comment wasn’t meant to sound ill-mannered, but was only for the sake of privacy. When he realizes this, Arthur releases his lip, the swollen flesh drowning in a red flush. Eames glances at his mouth but offers no other signs of interest.
Arthur can feel the expanse of Eames’ lungs as he breathes but can’t seem to remember the courtesy of personal space. With Eames’ body pressed against him, hips moving in meaninglessly fluent steps.
Before he can think about what it means to ask this, Arthur says, “You want to get some fresh air?”
Eames slows his movement and his expression changes, something Arthur can’t really identify but deducts as some variation of surprise. Eames nods though and Arthur doesn’t need to be told twice. Blood pushes hot through his veins, his body itching. He takes Eames’ hand in a much more intimate way and leads him up the stairs and floorboards. Blood vibrates through his ears but all he can feel is the heat of Eames’ breath on the back of his neck and the rush of heat in his chest when they’re finally alone.
-
The sky is dark with only vague stars outside. But the moon reflects abstract shadows through the trees and bounce light everywhere off the lake’s reflection. Eames’ eyes are silver and glacial, while Arthur’s are dark, pupils blown wide. They walk to the edge of the peer, Eames’ hand resting on Arthur’s back.
At the edge of the peer, Eames grabs onto Arthur’s elbow to keep him from toppling over the edge. Arthur feels his shirt melt like paper from the onset fever. He’s too lightheaded to bother, though and the air out here smells brilliant.
“Do they call you brothers because you run an illegal nightclub together? Or because you run all drugs at this school?”Arthur asks, lazily glancing over his shoulder.
Eames laughs again, deep but quiet. “Yusuf said you were clever. I should have listened.”
Arthur tugs his collar, feeling restricted by the hesitation on Eames’ face to continue. But he does, “We don’t run all the drugs, we do have competitors. We do run the best of them, though. Drugs, that is. Yusuf has supreme talent.”
Arthur tips his head back in laughter, exposing his neck. There is a delicious leisure crawling between his muscles. It smells like the air and tastes sweet in his lungs, and Arthur thinks he’d like nothing more than a warm bed right now, with the expanse of his chest resting against Eames’ heat, Eames’ body. Arousal is spiking his belly and Arthur cannot be bothered to contain it. Eames takes his moment off guard to pull him farther away from the edge of the pier.
Arthur turns to face him, challenging, “Now who’s concerned?”
Eames flashes a grin, “It is in my experience that people drowning is bad for business.”
“You wouldn’t jump after me if I fell?”
“I would. Hence the people dying. As in multiples.” Eames looks away,
Arthur raises a skeptical eyebrow, “You would jump in after a stranger?”
Eames looks back at him and his smile sobers, “You don’t feel so strange to me.”
Arthur’s blood ripples through his fingers. He pushes a hand through his hair, “Mind if I smoke?”
Eames shakes his head and turns back to the lake, “Not at all.”
Arthur can hear it in his voice, the same depth that’s tugging at his thirsty stomach. He fingers the pack and lights up with Eames following the flex of his fingers. Arthur inhales and blows it away, in the direction of the lake. Eames takes it from his hand and takes a slow drag. It’s long and erotic through his plush lips.
Before he can’t stop himself, Arthur says, “You have serious DSLs.”
Eames grins widely again, lecherously even. A smug infatuated look crosses his face, “Care to test that theory?”
Arthur bites against his lip--blood trembling against his agitated veins--hoping Eames will read into it. Eames turns into his personal space, a hand spreading warmth on his left flank. When he speaks it’s quiet and intimate against his neck, “Something tells me that this is all the GHB talking but I can’t decide whether or not you took enough to know what you’re doing.”
“How noble of you,” Arthur purrs, moving his right hand to slide the buttons of Eames’ jacket open.
Eames presses his forehead against Arthur’s, laughing. “That’s hardly helpful to my decision.”
Arthur slides his hands against Eames’ torso, feeling taut muscle through his shirt. Arthur is actually panicking a little, but it doesn’t matter so much with Eames’ mouth so close to his. “That wasn’t exactly the direction I was heading in: helpful. I was thinking more towards lending a hand where it’s needed.” He brushes his nose against Eames’ cheek, tilting to reach the plush of his lips. “And testing my theory.”
Eames pulls away all of a sudden and cold air rushes at Arthur all over. “That’s quite enough.”
Arthur grits his teeth, swaying a little without support.
Eames blows smoke away, starring over the dark horizon.
The moment is gone now. Arthur steadies himself, pushing his cold fingers through his throbbing scalp. He’s thoroughly annoyed now, and suddenly, a little more than nauseous from the smell of the lake. “Yusuf said you were insufferable. I should have listened.”
Eames whips around, the cigarette dangling from his lips,. “He said I’m insufferable?”
Arthur nods, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Eames throws the smoke into the lake and is upon Arthur at once, grabbing the back of his neck fiercely. Eames pulls Arthur against him, his free hand dangerously low on Arthur’s back. Eames breathes over his mouth with cigarette smoke, speaking through his hissing teeth, “He’s fucking wrong. Ask me what I really am.”
Arthur is not amused. Arthur’s dick, however. “What are you?”
Eames loosens his grip to caress, but Arthur doesn’t move away. “I’m irrevocable. So you’d better make sure you’re sober enough to know what you’re doing when I pick you up for our date Friday.”
-
The morning after, Arthur wakes up tangled in the sloppy heat of his bed. The sheets were a mess, wrapped around his hand and bent awkwardly underneath his belly. His shirt is gone, but he’s still wearing the same pants he was yesterday, only now they’re a wrinkled mess. His face is lined with pillow case and when he shifts, he can feel the worst case of morning wood he’s had in a long time. He lays there for a while, willing the arousal away but it’s nothing particularly surprising when he can’t.
A glance around the room and Arthur figures Yusuf will be at breakfast or lunch or whatever meal is appropriate for the time of day. Going to the shower is his best option right now, he’s late for anything else that might be going on on the grounds and he doesn’t feel like talking to people anyway. Plus, he’s horny. He stumbles to the bathroom on wobbly legs, hardly faltering to grab a towel off the vanity.
He turns the water as hot as he can and lets the room fill with steam. In the mirror, all he sees is pasty white skin and dark eyes. It doesn’t bother him, though. The water is soothing, beating against his skin in controlled waves. It rolls down his skin, roaring in his ears. It’s not a particularly bad morning, just fuzzy.
Which is why he nearly bashes his forehead into the tile pattern when the memories of last night rush back.
He scrambles to get rid of the hard on, turning the hot water off all together and rushing pelts of cold water down his back. Arthur shivers into the water, but it makes him gnash his teeth in self-conviction and takes his mind off what he did and that’s all that is really important to him.
When he’s done showering, he wraps the towel around his waist and hunts around the room for clean clothes. Once he’s dressed, Arthur lets himself think about the night before. And how wonder how he’d gotten back to the room. And why he woke up half naked. When he can produce no explanations--none the he likes, at least-- he gives up.
He’s opens his lap top and tries to focus on school work. He has a report due Monday on Roe vs. Wade and needs to finish his part of the work before meeting with his partner, Robert Fischer. His efforts are quickly discarded, however, when Yusuf enters the room, holding a tray loaded with a variety of breakfast foods. Arthur watches him set it down next to him and grin sheepishly. Arthur raises an eyebrow but accepts the gesture, “You didn’t have to bring this. You could have just said sorry for accidentally drugging me.”
Yusuf smiles, “I was just covering all my bases. I couldn’t exactly know how you were gonna react, so.”
Arthur nods, turning to the food. He pops a strawberry in his mouth and talks through it, “So... why didn’t you tell me you were a drug runner?”
Yusuf falls back on his bed and pulls his book-bag up, “Probably because I’m not...”
Arthur rolls his eyes, drinking some orange juice, “I’m sorry, allow me to be specific. Why didn’t you tell me that you are a drug manufacturer?”
Rummaging through his bag, Yusuf’s laughter settles into a grin, “It’s not that big a deal, Arthur. Honestly, it’s just something that worked itself into my life.”
Arthur scoffs through a mouth full of food, “How does that just work itself out?”
Yusuf shrugged, “Eames brought me supplies one day. I made him drugs with ‘em. I brought Eames the drugs one day. Eames made me money with ‘em. It was pretty much a win-win scenario. It was a temp thing at first but then it became about refining my skills and experimenting. Now, it’s just something I do when I’m bored. Eames has enough chemists now, I oversee their process and correct details and make them when I have time. And it keeps my wallet pretty thick. Also, the repetitive process clears my head when I can’t think. Win-win.”
Arthur nods, chewing pancake. “So Eames got you into it?”
Yusuf laughs now, with belated amusement. “What the fuck, Arthur.”
Arthur feigns ignorance, “What?”
“Come the fuck on, man. I know you want to know about him, I saw you two mind-fucking on the dance floor. Just, if you want to know, at least have the nerve to ask.”
Arthur chews the inside of his cheek, considering whether or not he should lie. But, really? He shares a room with Yusuf and if he can’t tell him, who can he tell? “Alright. Can you tell me about Eames?”
Yusuf opens a history book and thumbs through it, “No.”
“But you just said--”
“No, I said you should have the nerve to ask. I didn’t say ask me. You should ask Eames, on your date Friday.”
Arthur groans, scrubbing his face with his hands, “Fuck, I hoped I dreamt that part.”
Yusuf snorts, “Yeah, you dreamt up that quality sexual tension. I wish my product was that good. How was it by the way?”
“How is sexual tension usually?”
“Not what I was talking about, man.”
“Oh.” Arthur flushes a little, “The drug. It was good, actually. I mean, I was dizzy and lightweight. It was pretty relaxing and I only started getting a little bit anxious towards the end.”
Yusuf flips pages in the book, “Hmm. How was the horniness? Excessive?”
Arthur shakes his head, “No, it was slight, it felt completely natural. I had the worst morning wood, though. Yuck, man.”
Yusuf’s eye flick up, “Really? That’s odd. I’ll look into it. Though, I suppose that might just be you.”
Arthur turns back to the food, polishing off the strawberries and trying to sound nonchalant. “So who told you about the date?”
Yusuf waits a few beats, reading off the page in front of him and muttering about the switch to Italian vernacular during the Dark Ages. “I... uh, Eames told me... and Mal... last night, right before we left. Can you pass me my laptop, it’s on the dresser.”
Arthur stands and does so, then flopping on the bed next to Yusuf, taking the book and passing him the laptop. “So... he just made some proclamation like I’m some goddamn conquest.”
“Ugh, you’re such a chick. Go talk to him if you really want to know what the deal is. He’s at the cabin now.”
“Oh yeah, what’s the deal with that? Does he live there or--?”
“What did I just say?”
--
After breakfast, Arthur combed his hair back, pulled on a change of clothes and headed out. It was early morning but the sun was gone and there was a light chill. Hardly enough to make him regret not wearing a jacket. But in a few minutes, it would be. At the edge of the woods, he forced down genuine anxiety, reminding himself he was there for a reason and this business needed to be handled. Arthur trudged up to the cabin rapped his knuckles on the door.
He waits a few minutes before knocking again. This time, the door swings open and he’s greeted by a guy that looks vaguely familiar. He nods Arthur in and slams the door shut behind him. The cabin is dark except for the hole that leads to the basement, uncovered and glowing with light.
“I’m looking for--”
“Downstairs, sir.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow but heads down the stairs, swallowing more second thoughts. When he reaches the bottom, he is instantly pulled aside and groped vehemently. It takes him a minute to realize the curt movements mean he’s being patted down. He’s then released and shoved towards the center of the room.
“Arthur! What a pleasant surprise.”
He turns and is greeted by Eames, approaching him with a wide-armed embrace. Before Arthur can object, Eames drowns him in a brawn arms. In his ear, Eames speaks in a hushed, unfocused voice, “I need to get you out of here, follow my lead and don’t ask questions until we’re out.”
Arthur almost objects but then registers what Eames just instructed him. Eames turns back to the other side of the room and says, “Gentleman, if you’ll excuse me, there is a personal matter that needs sorting.”
Arthur barely catches a glance in the opposite direction of the room before Eames shuffles him up the stairs. All he manages to see is a blur of men crowded around the craps table. Arthur trips over himself but barely has time to collect himself because Eames just kept pushing him. Upstairs, the vaguely familiar guy barely bats an eye at Eames shoving Arthur out the door.
When they’re finally outside, Arthur was certifiably fuming. He fixes his off-center shirt and adjusts the waist of his pants, “What the hell was that!”
Eames clasps his hands and brings them to his chest. “I’m sorry about that. You dropped by in the middle of something, which I don’t mind, really, it’s just I can’t haven them seeing you and getting ideas.”
Arthur breathes deeply and tries to roll the tension off his shoulders. He finds it difficult to appreciate being manhandled by a couple of thugs. He doesn’t even want to know what the hell Eames is talking about, and he’s seen enough mafia movies to know that he shouldn’t ask or get face full of front door.
Eames steps forward, a hand on Arthur’s wrist to get his attention, “Are you alright, Arthur? They didn’t hurt you did they?”
Arthur pulls his wrist away and shakes his head. The cold slips through the thin fabric of his shirt, sending chilled shivers down his spine. “I just wanted to talk to you about last--last-t night-t,” his teeth betray him.
Eames shrugs off his leather jacket and pulls it across Arthur’s shoulders, without waiting for approval. Not that Arthur’s objection would have stopped him. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
In passing, he brushes Arthur’s hair accidentally and frowns, “Is your hair wet?”
Arthur pushes his hands away but leaves the jacket, for warmth and not because of what it smells like. Eames is wearing a black button-down, that’s open at the throat and rolled up at the sleeves. Arthur sees the muscles of his forearm flex against the cold, but doesn’t return the jacket.
Eames continues scolding him, putting his hands on him all over again “You’re such a prat, you know that? You’re going to catch a cold with your hair wet in this chill.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, “I’m fine. Take your jacket back--you look colder than I do.”
Eames presses his hands against the chest of the jacket to keep Arthur from taking it off. “No, keep it on. At least while you’re around me. Otherwise, I’ll have to wrap myself around you to keep you warm.”
Arthur huffs, “Fine, whatever.”
“Thank you. So what is it that you wanted to talk about?”
Arthur pushes his arms through the sleeves and looks down at his shoes. “I wanted to talk to you about our date.”
Eames reaches out and grabs Arthur’s wrist again, “About how you can’t wait any longer and wish to ravish me now on the shore of the lake?”
“No, I--”
“In the woods, then?”
Arthur fights the initial urge to laugh and settles on taking his wrist back from Eames yet again. He tentatively meets his gaze, “Actually, I wanted to apologize for how I acted last night. I was having adverse effects on the drug and I’m going to have to cancel the date in light of that.”
Eames pulls Arthur’s wrist, clenching his fingers around the bones for a minute, “Hmm,” he hums in amusement. That sanctimonious grin is playing on his lips again. His full, flush lips.
Arthur twists his wrist in Eames’ grip and continues, “Yes--I’m not usually like that and following the course of actions that I took while under the influence isn’t exactly on my actions item list. I mean no offense or anything, you’re a decent guy, I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about what kind of--”
“Hold on, hold on there, love. Let me get this straight. The one time you indulge in your actual desires and come onto a bloke that you clearly fancy, you decide it’s too radical a move and should therefore be reversed? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of cutting loose? Actually, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of living your life?”
“That’s not even what this is about. I didn’t even mean to take the drug. I am not the kind of person--”
“That takes risks? That lets themselves have any fun? Yes, I was starting to gather that for myself, thanks.”
Arthur is approaching the point of exasperation, “You don’t even know me, you--”
“Hence the date. To get to know you. Do keep up.”
Arthur feels the anger bubbling in his stomach. Eames is just pushing him now to see how far he’ll go. “Eames, I’ll say it again. Real slow so you can understand: I’m not going to date you.”
Eames quirks an eyebrow and leans into Arthur’s space, “Are you sure you’re telling me that? And not just trying to convince yourself? Because I can convince you to take a chance without all this passive aggressive nonsense. It’s pretty simple. Lesson one: Just let go. Can you let one tiny little piece of your life up to your unabashed inhibitions? Come on, roll the proverbial die, Arthur.”
Arthur opens his mouth to bite back but Eames cuts him off again, “Actually. Wait, you can roll a real die,” he sticks his hand in his pocket and then opens his palm to reveal a red die.
Distracted by the absurdity, Arthur asks, “Why the hell do you have a die in your pockets?”
Eames grins wolfishly and Arthur remembers the men downstairs, crowded around the craps table. Arthur rolls his eyes, “You cheat your own associates? What kind of bullshit is that?”
Eames shrugs, “Just a bit of fun. Stop changing the subject. Now, roll the corporeal die and if it lands on an odd number, we have a date. Anything else, I’ll leave you be. Sound good?”
Arthur narrows his eyes, menacingly in ways he learned in the years he’s spent with Cobb, “No.”
“Well, tough. You roll it or I roll it.”
Arthur looks into Eames’ eyes, watching the playful gaze turn into a genuine challenge. He doesn’t for a second believe that Eames isn’t completely legitimate on his threats. If Arthur doesn’t roll it himself, Eames will probably cheat him. He grabs the die and shakes it minimally and drops it on the ground. He doesn’t take his eyes off Eames, who raises his eyebrows in amusement. “Shall we see the results, then?”
“Yeah, okay.”
They both move slightly and Arthur is the first to cast his eyes down. The back of his neck tingles as he flushes and Eames laughs, a throaty, happy cackle. “It landed on a five, Arthur. A deal is a deal.”
“No, you can’t just--”
“I’m rejecting it, by the way.”
Arthur is taken back, surprised, “What?”
Eames smiles, “I reject your apology and your offer to help you let me down real gentle like. But now that we have a date, well, there’s no need for it anyway. I was just making sure we were on the same page.”
Arthur’s chest tightens, “It wasn’t something for you to reject. I’m telling you now that we--”
“I’ll pick you up on Friday, say seven thirty?”
“No, Eames, I am--”
“Eight it is then. But any later and we probably won’t even make it dinner,” Eames’ motorcycle voice rumbles and Arthur has to pretend he can’t feel the deep vibrations of it.
“Eames--”
“Now that that’s settled, I’ve got to head back inside, do you mind?” he moves to take back the leather jacket.
Arthur shrugs it off and pushes it back to him. “I’m not going on a date with you.”
“He lied,” Eames adds, matter-of-factly.
Arthur huffs as the other starts walking away, “You’re such an arrogant bastard. I don’t know if you noticed, but I was on GHB last night, so how are you so sure that I even want to date you?”
Eames turns just before the door, “That’s funny, “he muses aloud, “I don’t seem to recall asking.”
With that, he enters the cabin and closes the door behind him. Arthur almost goes up to the door and kicks it in but he refuses to admit Eames is under his skin. Especially to Eames. Instead, he crouches and picks up the red die. It’s cold in his hands but he sticks it in his pocket and huffs off.
Twisting his fingers around the die in his jean’s pocket, he’s mostly talking to the cold, “Fuck this.”
-
When he fumes all the way back to their room, all Yusuf does is glance at him before announcing, “Eames called. Says you should dress business casual on Friday.”
Arthur crashes onto his bed, curdles underneath a blanket and opens a nearby law book. The walk back took longer than expected and Arthur got to the point he felt like the cold was creeping in between the goose-flesh on his body. Regardless, he’s got that report due Monday on Roe vs. Wade and Eames and his ridiculous antics will have to wait.
Yet, when he covers his face, his hands are warm and he smells leather.
But he keeps them there. And he keeps the die in his pocket.
PART II
It’s Cobb’s fault.
Arthur knows blaming Cobb is generally selfish and irresponsible, but he doesn’t care. Because this time it’s Cobb’s fault. No matter what angle you study it from, it all ends up with Cobb. Cobb and his menacing squint and the soft firmness in his voice. The slow yet tantalizing rise in his tone. Fuck him.
If Cobb had given him some breathing space or stopped acting like he needed a fucking chaperon for the fucking thing--which he realizes now how the job actually did sound like a get-away driver--Arthur could have gotten himself out of it, probably. Granted, he should have listened when his Mom said she would ship him off, but it’s hard to picture a threat stopping Dom. Let alone, Arthur. Now he’s fucking stuck here, but maybe he was kinda asking for it. She did say boarding school, and where is he now?
Arthur brings the phone to his ear, waiting for someone to answer. Then he hears Dom’s groggy voice, “What?”
“This is your entire fault,” Arthur spits and hangs up.
He doesn’t expect Cobb to call him back, so instead Arthur tosses his phone aside and fingers the knot of his tie, pulling it loose. He settles back into the pillows, crossing his arms behind his head. The room is empty and cold, despite the obvious settling of unfamiliar possessions: Arthur’s roommate. There are several assorted chemistry and calculus books strewn around the room, with notebooks and a laptop in the far right corner. Above his bed is the periodic table, obnoxiously large and looming, covered in notes in red pens. The thought of meeting the tightly organized, chemistry obsessed bastard strikes Arthur as sobering. He sighs deeply and closes his eyes.
Tomorrow is his first official day here, the Academy whose complicated name he already forgot, the first day of the second semester. He’s only been here by himself for a total of seventeen minutes and he was already bored to death. He considers the merits of smoking a cigarette out the window but figures his mother can stage his death just as easily as he can hold off. Instead, he pushes his fingers through his hair a few times, massaging a tentatively growing headache and brushes off any fatigue.
There’s unpacking to do.
-
Arthur doesn’t exactly meet Yusuf on the best of terms. After an entire day of searching for classes, getting shoved in hallways and being asked the same questions over and over, Arthur just really needs a smoke. The nicotine patch on the inside of his arm isn’t doing him any good and if he could just get the flame going, the actual stinging air, then he might feel a little better. Also, he skipped breakfast, and what the actual fuck, he wants waffles.
Thirty seconds into entering the room, he claws off his jacket and opens the cuffs of his shirt to scratch off the patch and toss it in the nearest garbage can. Before he can cross the room to the window, he realizes he isn’t alone.
Yusuf is in the corner, farthest from the bed, engulfed in white light from the computer screen. The clacking of Yusuf tapping away on the keys stops suddenly. Yusuf spins in the chair rapidly, but doesn’t seem surprised in the slightest by Arthur’s presence. They stare at each other for a moment, before Arthur says, “Hello. I’m Arthur, mind if I smoke?”
Yusuf raises his gaze, “Not at all, Arthur. Yusuf.”
Arthur, crossing to the window, glances back at him, “What?”
“My name,” he replies lamely. “My name is Yusuf. Since you asked.”
Arthur curses under his breath, lighting the cigarette under his flame. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. But don’t let me interrupt your work, I’ll be quiet and shit, you do what you have to.”
Yusuf isn’t one to be told twice and returns to work, clacking away mindlessly. Arthur pretends not to see the slightly annoyed glint in his eyes.
He opens the window and takes a long drag off the cigarette, letting the heat expand rapidly into his chest and lungs. Relief floods him and he sighs deeply. Dangling the cigarette between his lips, he checks his phone’s voicemail. There’s two from Cobb and one from his mother. Arthur deletes Cobb’s messages, not interested in Cobb’s shit and listens to the message from his mother.
On the recording, she starts with sniffles and says rapidly, “Arthur, honey, I know you probably hate me right now.” Arthur scoffed under his breath at the thought. “But you needed to learn your less-lesson.” It strikes Arthur that she’s crying. Suddenly frustrated with himself for pitying her caterwauling over a recorded message, he turns his phone off and tosses the cigarette out the window.
Arthur glances at Yusuf and sees him in deep concentration, with eyebrows furrowed and keys clacking. He almost feels guilty for a second, for automatically assuming his roommate would be some know-it-all degenerate or a pretty boy with lips eager to wrap themselves around Arthur’s dick.
Acting on an impulse, Arthur says, “Hey.”
The keys don’t stop for a second. “Hmm?” Yusuf hums.
Arthur hesitates, having not thought it through, “Uh, I’m sorry if I seem like an asshole. I’m not. I just...”
Yusuf’s face splits in a grin, the harsh light of the laptop screen makes his teeth look like pearls. “‘Salright, Arthur. I like you already.”
Feeling better by fractions, Arthur throws himself into schoolwork.
And doesn’t resurface for the week. It was hard at first, getting accustomed to an entire new way of learning at the Academy, but doesn’t mind after a few days. He eats his meals with Yusuf and a few of his friends, but spends most time in the library, fingering the knot of his tie. He gets absorbed in a brutal, yet terribly exciting law class and joins the debate team administered via the same instructor. He even gets paired with a competent debate partner, Robert Fischer. For a week, he is sprinting to catch up. And when he does, he walks at a leisurely pace.
On Friday night, he’s in the dorm room alone when Yusuf struts in. He passes a politely ridged greeting but makes no other effort. Yusuf tosses a stack of books on the desk and his bag on the floor, thumping with weight against the hardwood floors.
Prior to this, Yusuf and Arthur had been tip toeing around each other majority of the time. It wasn’t dislike, but formality. Today, however, Yusuf has decided that this will not stand. Upon entering the room, he calls out to him, “Oh, Arthur!”
Instead of replying with an escalating comment, Arthur raises an eyebrow in question.
Yusuf grins widely, mischief glinting in his eyes. “We’re going out tonight.”
Arthur almost laughs, “I can’t. I have been bombarded with homework.”
Yusuf laughs, “It’s the weekend. You’ll do it later.”
“No, I won’t.”
Yusuf tugs off his shirt and tosses it onto his bed, rummaging for another. “You will, Arthur. Get changed. Actually, don’t. Just fix yourself up. The uniform looks good on a guy like you.”
“I’m not going.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
“It’s late already--not that I’m going--where would we go and get back in time for curfew?”
Yusuf disappears into the closet, putting on another shirt. He ducks his head out of the closet for a second to say simply, “Who said anything about coming back for curfew?”
Arthur’s mouth is a sudden tight line. “No.”
Yusuf reemerges, his pants entirely different, hopping around the room to change his socks. Arthur is still on the bed, with his American Law book in his lap and notebooks eagle-spread open all over the bed. Yusuf sits on the floor, tugging on his shoes. “Look, Arthur. Let me teach you something else about this school.”
Arthur shifts the book on his lap and pulls it up to his chest. “Do teach me, Master.”
Yusuf grins at the name he’s become accustomed to and says, “Look. This, as you may or may not have noticed, is an all-boys school.”
Arthur’s eyes widen with sarcasm. Yusuf chortles, standing off the floor, fully dressed. “I know that’s surprising. But what makes this hell hole bearable is the lonely fact that across the lake, is the all-girls sister school.”
Unsurprised by the cliché, Arthur asked, “Your school has a lake?”
“Our. Our school has a lake.” Yusuf corrects. “Yes, there is a lake and a school full of young brimming women with tight eager--” Yusuf’s face splits in a shit-eating grin, “well, I’ll let you find out.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow, “So you want me to get an STD?”
Yusuf walks forward and takes the book out of Arthur’s lap. “Eh, no. I want you to realize that in order to survive here, you have to learn to have fun at least once a week... with condoms.”
Arthur narrows his eyes, but before he can say anything, Yusuf continues. “And as it happens that I know just the place.”
-
Twenty minutes later, Yusuf shoves Arthur out of the room. Having no real desire to actually participate in this event, Arthur takes Yusuf’s advice and merely changes into a new pair of slacks and redoes his tie. Yusuf adds his assistance only by rubbing a stray pen mark off his chin.
Leaving the room, Arthur encases his hands in his pockets and follows Yusuf soundlessly down winding hallways. They go out the back doors, leading to the game grounds and cross every single field. Arthur starts to wonder where exactly Yusuf is taking him. It’s when they pass the thin layer of woods and greenery that Arthur voices the concern, “Yusuf, where are--”
“Don’t sweat it, Artie. Just let me do this.”
Arthur does.
They pass through the woods and walk for another five minutes before Arthur sees their destination. A small cabin placed at the edge of the clearing, surrounded by the lake. A few feet away is the pier, where two or three boats are tied up. Across the lake, barely visible in the dark and distance is the horizon of another set of woods. Woods, Arthur presumes, that lead through to the Academy for Wayward Ladies or some gender bullshit like that.
Yusuf leads Arthur up to the front door of the cabin, mottled by the light reflecting of the lake’s water. He raps his knuckles against the wood in low, loud knocks. A compartment slides open and they are met with dark eyes, “Password.”
Yusuf starts whispering a series of numbers under his breath. Arthur barely catches them. It goes on for quite a bit of numbers and finally Yusuf grins, “Zero.”
The compartment slams shut abruptly. Yusuf rolls his eyes, “You’ll have to excuse him, he gets so insufferable when he starts in with the melodrama.”
The door swings open as Arthur asks, “Who does?”
“Yes, Yusuf, who?”
Arthur turns to see a small brunette girl, around 16, has answered the door. Her hair is tied high up on her head and she’s got to stand on the tips of her toes to hug Yusuf. He apologizes, “Sorry. I thought it was Eames.”
“Gee,” she deadpans, “Thanks.”
Yusuf grins, shuffling in with Arthur at his heels. Arthur glances around, confused. The cabin is empty except for a few chairs and a deck of cards lay meticulously on a table, pushed to the corner of the room. Yusuf follows Arthur’s line of sight, “Oh, ignore that. That’s nothing.”
Yusuf tugs on his sleeve and introduces him to the small girl, “This is Ariadne. Ari, this is Arthur. He’s new, just started this week. Also, he’s in.”
Arthur smiles and shakes her hand, “Hi.”
She smiles in return but raises an eyebrow at Yusuf. “Hello, Arthur. It’s nice to meet you. I’m assuming that you haven’t met his brother?”
Arthur wrinkles his brow, “Brother?”
Yusuf grips Arthur’s shoulder and attention, “That’s what they call us. The Brothers. We’re not related, though. Thankfully.”
“Why do they call you that?”
Ariadne slips her arm over Yusuf’s shoulder, smirking malevolently, “I’m sure you’ll realize it soon. Come on, let’s go downstairs.”
She leads Arthur and Yusuf to the edge of the room and pulls up a floorboard by a small nick. Once the first is gone, she grabs another and lifts easily. Much to Arthur’s surprise, seven of them lift out of the ground at one, attached to each other. A set of stairs visible underneath. She steps in first, followed by Arthur and Yusuf last. There is only a few stairs and then Arthur stops next to Ariadne, taking in the sight.
The room before him is scattered with about twenty-odd people, all of which are dressed formally. At the far wall, there is a two or three tables fairly crowded with people. Along the opposite wall, there is people sitting and drinking on chairs. A coffee table littered with ash trays and cigarette butts in the middle of them. The walls are painted pale beige with rosewood floors. In every corner are lamps, reflecting soft light. From some unknown corner, soft jazz plays for the people dancing in the center of the room.
Arthur raises an eyebrow at Yusuf, who appears next to him, mildly impressed.
Yusuf grins, “I thought you might like it.”
Ariadne nods to Yusuf and then heads toward the group of people sitting around the coffee table. He watches her go, noting her frame and build. She looked 16 at first, but Arthur is beginning to suspect she’s actually much younger than that. Or, older. Arthur can’t help the thoughts, not with the dress she’s wearing.
Yusuf leads him to the generally unpopulated tables to their left. Set on a white tablecloth, is an arrangement of food and drinks. Cheese and meat with a far side of small pastries. At the edge closest to him, Arthur sees a row of condom packages. A piece of paper lays the top of the row, reading, “FUCK RESPONSIBLY, YOU TWATS.”
Next to the condoms are rows of cups. Some are blue and some are red, with a multitude of sharpies surrounding them. Arthur grabs a red cup while Yusuf chats with someone else. He drinks and from it and is met with decent vodka, albeit cheap tasting. Arthur shrugs and drinks from it again. When Yusuf turns his attention to him again, he says, “You feelin’ lucky?”
Arthur raises an eyebrow but follows as he is led to the opposite side of the room. As they approach, Arthur realizes what they are. They’re craps tables. The groups of people surrounding them are gambling. Behind the house side, there is a guy dressed in a tux. The black jacket and bow tie don’t hide his build in the slightest, he looks like the kind of man you wouldn’t want to get caught anywhere with. Which, Arthur supposes, serves the point for anyone tempted to cheat.
Arthur eyes them warily but then realizes something, “Yusuf.”
Yusuf, trying to decide where to place his bet, hums a question. “Hmm?”
Arthur drinks from the cup again, warming up to the taste. “Isn’t this illegal? Very illegal and worthy of expulsion?”
“Darling, if you really cared about the legality of things, you wouldn’t be holding that cup.”
Arthur turns his back to the table and sees a boy about his age with blue eyes and vague remnants of light brown hair immediately turned off by the smug look on his face, Arthur raises the cup to his lips and drinks in defiance. “I never said I had a problem with it. I was merely stating a fact.”
The boy swaggers over, holding a red cup in his hand as well. Wrapped around is smooth writing that reads Eames. As he approaches him, Arthur takes note of his chiseled jaw, the dip of his hollowed cheeks and rough cheekbones. “Well your inflection was implying something else.”
Arthur cuts back without thinking, “I imply nothing. You infer.”
Arthur watches Eames’ eyes glint mischievously, as if Arthur has just said something brilliant.
Yusuf turns and throws an arm around Arthur’s shoulder. “That’s enough, boys,” he glances down at the drink in Arthur’s hand and slaps his face with his palm. “Oh, fuck. Arthur.”
Without taking his eyes off Eames, who seems to be under the impression that they are competing in a staring competition, Arthur grunts at Yusuf, “What?”
Yusuf lifts the cup out of his hand lightly. “Please tell me you’ve only just started drinking this.”
Eames raises an eyebrow, smug and amused. Arthur can feel his teeth gritting inside his jaw. “No, I’ve been drinking it for a few minutes. Why is that relevant?”
Eames takes his eyes off Arthur now, seemingly satisfied, and looks straight at Yusuf. Then laughs in rough chuckles from deep in his chest. “That’s very sloppy of you, Yusuf.”
Arthur can’t help but feeling victorious, even though he knows it’s childish, that Eames looked away first. Still, his attention is diverted by Yusuf, who is tugs that drink away from Arthur’s prying hands and says soberly, “I’m so sorry; I thought I would get back to you in time to tell you. But I forgot. I’m sorry.”
Arthur’s brow wrinkles, he’s not in the particular mood for this. “What is it?”
“It is GHB,” Eames announces. “The red cups have GHB. The blue are the normal ones.”
Arthur turns his eyes on Yusuf, now fierce and demanding. “What the fuck.”
Yusuf grimaces, “Terribly sorry. I didn’t think you would get to it before me.”
Arthur narrows his eyes, “I’ve been drinking GHB and vodka for ten minutes?”
Yusuf nods, but waves his hand, “But you haven’t drunk too much and as far as I can tell, you don’t look like a light weight, so you should be okay for another half hour. Then, uh. Well, then. Have you ever done anything like this before?”
Arthur blinks at him, astounded. “I, uh, did coke once?”
“Only once?” Eames challenges.
Arthur turns to glare at him, “Drugs are tedious and time consuming.”
Yusuf pulls Arthur back to look at him. “Okay, listen to me. You’ve got about half an hour before you start feeling the effects. And for that I’m terribly sorry. I can’t give you caffeine, for obvious reasons. So you’re going to have to wait out the high.”
Arthur’s teeth grind inside his jaw, clamped shut. “And what happens when I start to feel the effects?”
-
Even after Yusuf had explained the effects to him, Arthur was caught off guard. The world frayed and bent around the edges of his vision until the room pulsed delightfully. An hour went by rapidly. Or maybe a minute. It was getting progressively harder to give a fuck.
He wasn’t lost, he was just a little caught up. The jazz was soft and thick in his head, melting velvet coils in the depths of his drumming ears. Unfathomably comfortable, he wandered to the table and drank sweet liquor out of a blue cup while Yusuf was off somewhere. He thought no one else was looking.
Well, except for that Eames guy that keeps looking at him like he’s a liability. But Arthur was a little busy, pretending to be composed and generally not giving a fuck. Instead, he watches the couples dancing for a minute. If he were so inclined, Arthur could probably distinguish the pianist but it’s not something he’s worried about.
He’s more worried about getting wood in front of the girl approaching him. Her curled hair frames her elegant cheekbones. Her bright eyes are the sharpest blue Arthur has ever seen, and they contrast beautifully against the red of her parted lips. Her body is encased in a black dress, cut low in the neck, clinging to her every curve and bringing attention to the shape of her neck and leanness of her thighs, long and teasing at the cut of the dress. The crowd of dancers parts for her like she is their queen.
Arthur just barely resists the urge to bow in front of her when she stands before him. He’s taller than her but just by a few inches so they’re mostly at eye level. She takes his hand wordlessly and then picks the drink out of it and sets it on the table behind him. Her fingers are nimble and all he can do is watch, petrified.
“Mal,” is all she offers.
His mind comes back to him, “Arthur.”
Her lips flicker half a smile, “Let’s dance.”
Arthur flinches a little, “I don’t dance.”
She laughs now; shaking her head, “I wasn’t asking,” then pulls him onto the floor without hesitation.
Arthur considers resisting for an instant but the warmth of her hand is too compelling.
The song itself is soft like raindrops. A low piano and trumpet playing a candied rhythm. Mal wraps herself around Arthur, all drastic lines and long curves. He closes his palms on her hips at first, but when they’ve been on for a few seconds, she pulls them around her waist. They move in slow, calculated steps only picking up pace as the tempo does. He spins her slender wrists; the pulse point is calm and soothing. Her hips move, gently bending to his lead.
Arthur has never loved his mother more in his life. She forced him to take a series of dance courses as a child.
As the tempo decreases again, she brings herself back to their center, staring into his eyes. Arthur feels the rush of blood to his brain and is dizzy for a moment. Stroking the blades of his shoulders she speaks again. Her accent reminds Arthur of crystallized sugar, “Do you know why I chose you to dance with?”
Arthur shrugs, “My rugged good looks?”
She huffs a laugh, her breath smells like cinnamint, “You’re a bit pretty for my taste.”
Arthur isn’t sure how to respond, so he doesn’t. But it shows on his face. She smiles, brushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear, “Don’t worry. You’re just not my type. But you know whose type you are?”
Arthur raises an eyebrow, “Whose?”
Her grin turns wicked and she responds, “Dip me.”
Arthur follows her command, holding her weight for long seconds. She ghosts her fingertips over the hollows of cheekbones. Her voice is quiet in his ear, so not even the nearby eavesdropping couple can hear, “If he thinks that I’m working you, he’ll try to put a stop to it.”
Before he can respond, she’s pulling herself up in a swirl of curly hair. When she presses against his chest again, her hands are cold at the back of his neck. “It worked,” she breathes hot in his ear and blood rushes through his body as he shudders. Blood rushing black heat into his core.
“What worked?” he asks, thrilled to hear the crunch of melting sugar cubes.
“In about ten seconds, Eames is going to come over here and ask to cut in. He hates it when I dance with other boys but I’ve danced all night and not once with him. I believe this time, it’s isn’t me he wants to dance with.”
Arthur’s eyebrows twitch but he has no time to answer when before he feels a firm hand on his shoulder, stroking the blade in preamble. Arthur turns and is mildly surprised to see Eames. Mal’s fingers tug his collar and release. The tips of his own fingers twitch to mimic her actions. Eames’ voice is deep and disorienting. His accent is more like the revving of a motorcycle as it cuts through super highways. “Mind if I cut in?”
Arthur almost answers but then realizes Eames isn’t asking him. Mal smiles graciously and parts with a wink in Arthur’s direction. Eames’ hands are calloused and warm when they take Mal’s place.
The song ends but another starts in. The piano is softer now, a subtle accent to the low drawl of some crooner. Arthur’s fingers clench around Eames’ hand as he allows himself to be lead. It’s different dancing with Eames, but somehow calmer, smoother. Pleasure licks the edges of his lips.
Moving in basic steps, Arthur can feel the heat of Eames’ hand on the small of his back--through his shirt. Pushed together, Arthur goes out of his way not to meet Eames’ eyes. Dancing with Mal, a pretty, charming girl is one thing. But the firm weight of Eames’ eyes will unravel him.
“I’m Eames, by the way.”
“I remember,” Arthur offers.
“Really? I don’t think I caught your name.”
“It’s Daniel,” Arthur can’t help the sarcastic compulsion.
“Is it?” Eames eyes him warily.
Arthur nods curtly, twisting his hand in Eames’ slightly. His heart is beating a little faster than usual and there is a cold sweat, forming at his fingertips. Arthur doubts it’s the GHB.
Eames doesn’t miss a beat, “You’re Arthur, aren’t you?”
“Aren’t you a sharp one,” Arthur deadpans.
“As a razor.” Eames replies nonchalantly. “Though I hear you’re quite the cutting tool yourself.”
Arthur stiffens in his shoulders just a bit, “Careful not to hurt yourself.”
“Concerned for my well being?” Eames prompts.
Arthur fixes him with a quick glare, ”More like the well-being of my laundry, Bloodstains are a bitch.”
Eames laughs at this, like it amuses him. It’s a low, dry drawl that reverberates in Arthur’s chest. Arthur doesn’t reply but moves against Eames’ body. A thought strikes him, “Why do they call you and Yusuf brothers?”
Eames is taken back by the temerity of the question, and his grin falters. “I hardly see how it concerns you.”
Arthur’s palm twitches from where it’s pressed against Eames’ but he doesn’t pull away. Eames’ fingers are calloused and rough but they touch Arthur’s skin in light, tentative ways. The buttons of their shirts meet at the bottom of the bellies and clink like toasting champagne glasses. Arthur chews his lip absently, looking anywhere that wasn’t Eames, “Fair enough.”
Eames presses his hand deeper into Arthur’s back, demanding his attention. It works, Arthur turns his gaze back to Eames’ dim gray eyes. In them, he sees a peace offering. The comment wasn’t meant to sound ill-mannered, but was only for the sake of privacy. When he realizes this, Arthur releases his lip, the swollen flesh drowning in a red flush. Eames glances at his mouth but offers no other signs of interest.
Arthur can feel the expanse of Eames’ lungs as he breathes but can’t seem to remember the courtesy of personal space. With Eames’ body pressed against him, hips moving in meaninglessly fluent steps.
Before he can think about what it means to ask this, Arthur says, “You want to get some fresh air?”
Eames slows his movement and his expression changes, something Arthur can’t really identify but deducts as some variation of surprise. Eames nods though and Arthur doesn’t need to be told twice. Blood pushes hot through his veins, his body itching. He takes Eames’ hand in a much more intimate way and leads him up the stairs and floorboards. Blood vibrates through his ears but all he can feel is the heat of Eames’ breath on the back of his neck and the rush of heat in his chest when they’re finally alone.
-
The sky is dark with only vague stars outside. But the moon reflects abstract shadows through the trees and bounce light everywhere off the lake’s reflection. Eames’ eyes are silver and glacial, while Arthur’s are dark, pupils blown wide. They walk to the edge of the peer, Eames’ hand resting on Arthur’s back.
At the edge of the peer, Eames grabs onto Arthur’s elbow to keep him from toppling over the edge. Arthur feels his shirt melt like paper from the onset fever. He’s too lightheaded to bother, though and the air out here smells brilliant.
“Do they call you brothers because you run an illegal nightclub together? Or because you run all drugs at this school?”Arthur asks, lazily glancing over his shoulder.
Eames laughs again, deep but quiet. “Yusuf said you were clever. I should have listened.”
Arthur tugs his collar, feeling restricted by the hesitation on Eames’ face to continue. But he does, “We don’t run all the drugs, we do have competitors. We do run the best of them, though. Drugs, that is. Yusuf has supreme talent.”
Arthur tips his head back in laughter, exposing his neck. There is a delicious leisure crawling between his muscles. It smells like the air and tastes sweet in his lungs, and Arthur thinks he’d like nothing more than a warm bed right now, with the expanse of his chest resting against Eames’ heat, Eames’ body. Arousal is spiking his belly and Arthur cannot be bothered to contain it. Eames takes his moment off guard to pull him farther away from the edge of the pier.
Arthur turns to face him, challenging, “Now who’s concerned?”
Eames flashes a grin, “It is in my experience that people drowning is bad for business.”
“You wouldn’t jump after me if I fell?”
“I would. Hence the people dying. As in multiples.” Eames looks away,
Arthur raises a skeptical eyebrow, “You would jump in after a stranger?”
Eames looks back at him and his smile sobers, “You don’t feel so strange to me.”
Arthur’s blood ripples through his fingers. He pushes a hand through his hair, “Mind if I smoke?”
Eames shakes his head and turns back to the lake, “Not at all.”
Arthur can hear it in his voice, the same depth that’s tugging at his thirsty stomach. He fingers the pack and lights up with Eames following the flex of his fingers. Arthur inhales and blows it away, in the direction of the lake. Eames takes it from his hand and takes a slow drag. It’s long and erotic through his plush lips.
Before he can’t stop himself, Arthur says, “You have serious DSLs.”
Eames grins widely again, lecherously even. A smug infatuated look crosses his face, “Care to test that theory?”
Arthur bites against his lip--blood trembling against his agitated veins--hoping Eames will read into it. Eames turns into his personal space, a hand spreading warmth on his left flank. When he speaks it’s quiet and intimate against his neck, “Something tells me that this is all the GHB talking but I can’t decide whether or not you took enough to know what you’re doing.”
“How noble of you,” Arthur purrs, moving his right hand to slide the buttons of Eames’ jacket open.
Eames presses his forehead against Arthur’s, laughing. “That’s hardly helpful to my decision.”
Arthur slides his hands against Eames’ torso, feeling taut muscle through his shirt. Arthur is actually panicking a little, but it doesn’t matter so much with Eames’ mouth so close to his. “That wasn’t exactly the direction I was heading in: helpful. I was thinking more towards lending a hand where it’s needed.” He brushes his nose against Eames’ cheek, tilting to reach the plush of his lips. “And testing my theory.”
Eames pulls away all of a sudden and cold air rushes at Arthur all over. “That’s quite enough.”
Arthur grits his teeth, swaying a little without support.
Eames blows smoke away, starring over the dark horizon.
The moment is gone now. Arthur steadies himself, pushing his cold fingers through his throbbing scalp. He’s thoroughly annoyed now, and suddenly, a little more than nauseous from the smell of the lake. “Yusuf said you were insufferable. I should have listened.”
Eames whips around, the cigarette dangling from his lips,. “He said I’m insufferable?”
Arthur nods, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Eames throws the smoke into the lake and is upon Arthur at once, grabbing the back of his neck fiercely. Eames pulls Arthur against him, his free hand dangerously low on Arthur’s back. Eames breathes over his mouth with cigarette smoke, speaking through his hissing teeth, “He’s fucking wrong. Ask me what I really am.”
Arthur is not amused. Arthur’s dick, however. “What are you?”
Eames loosens his grip to caress, but Arthur doesn’t move away. “I’m irrevocable. So you’d better make sure you’re sober enough to know what you’re doing when I pick you up for our date Friday.”
-
The morning after, Arthur wakes up tangled in the sloppy heat of his bed. The sheets were a mess, wrapped around his hand and bent awkwardly underneath his belly. His shirt is gone, but he’s still wearing the same pants he was yesterday, only now they’re a wrinkled mess. His face is lined with pillow case and when he shifts, he can feel the worst case of morning wood he’s had in a long time. He lays there for a while, willing the arousal away but it’s nothing particularly surprising when he can’t.
A glance around the room and Arthur figures Yusuf will be at breakfast or lunch or whatever meal is appropriate for the time of day. Going to the shower is his best option right now, he’s late for anything else that might be going on on the grounds and he doesn’t feel like talking to people anyway. Plus, he’s horny. He stumbles to the bathroom on wobbly legs, hardly faltering to grab a towel off the vanity.
He turns the water as hot as he can and lets the room fill with steam. In the mirror, all he sees is pasty white skin and dark eyes. It doesn’t bother him, though. The water is soothing, beating against his skin in controlled waves. It rolls down his skin, roaring in his ears. It’s not a particularly bad morning, just fuzzy.
Which is why he nearly bashes his forehead into the tile pattern when the memories of last night rush back.
He scrambles to get rid of the hard on, turning the hot water off all together and rushing pelts of cold water down his back. Arthur shivers into the water, but it makes him gnash his teeth in self-conviction and takes his mind off what he did and that’s all that is really important to him.
When he’s done showering, he wraps the towel around his waist and hunts around the room for clean clothes. Once he’s dressed, Arthur lets himself think about the night before. And how wonder how he’d gotten back to the room. And why he woke up half naked. When he can produce no explanations--none the he likes, at least-- he gives up.
He’s opens his lap top and tries to focus on school work. He has a report due Monday on Roe vs. Wade and needs to finish his part of the work before meeting with his partner, Robert Fischer. His efforts are quickly discarded, however, when Yusuf enters the room, holding a tray loaded with a variety of breakfast foods. Arthur watches him set it down next to him and grin sheepishly. Arthur raises an eyebrow but accepts the gesture, “You didn’t have to bring this. You could have just said sorry for accidentally drugging me.”
Yusuf smiles, “I was just covering all my bases. I couldn’t exactly know how you were gonna react, so.”
Arthur nods, turning to the food. He pops a strawberry in his mouth and talks through it, “So... why didn’t you tell me you were a drug runner?”
Yusuf falls back on his bed and pulls his book-bag up, “Probably because I’m not...”
Arthur rolls his eyes, drinking some orange juice, “I’m sorry, allow me to be specific. Why didn’t you tell me that you are a drug manufacturer?”
Rummaging through his bag, Yusuf’s laughter settles into a grin, “It’s not that big a deal, Arthur. Honestly, it’s just something that worked itself into my life.”
Arthur scoffs through a mouth full of food, “How does that just work itself out?”
Yusuf shrugged, “Eames brought me supplies one day. I made him drugs with ‘em. I brought Eames the drugs one day. Eames made me money with ‘em. It was pretty much a win-win scenario. It was a temp thing at first but then it became about refining my skills and experimenting. Now, it’s just something I do when I’m bored. Eames has enough chemists now, I oversee their process and correct details and make them when I have time. And it keeps my wallet pretty thick. Also, the repetitive process clears my head when I can’t think. Win-win.”
Arthur nods, chewing pancake. “So Eames got you into it?”
Yusuf laughs now, with belated amusement. “What the fuck, Arthur.”
Arthur feigns ignorance, “What?”
“Come the fuck on, man. I know you want to know about him, I saw you two mind-fucking on the dance floor. Just, if you want to know, at least have the nerve to ask.”
Arthur chews the inside of his cheek, considering whether or not he should lie. But, really? He shares a room with Yusuf and if he can’t tell him, who can he tell? “Alright. Can you tell me about Eames?”
Yusuf opens a history book and thumbs through it, “No.”
“But you just said--”
“No, I said you should have the nerve to ask. I didn’t say ask me. You should ask Eames, on your date Friday.”
Arthur groans, scrubbing his face with his hands, “Fuck, I hoped I dreamt that part.”
Yusuf snorts, “Yeah, you dreamt up that quality sexual tension. I wish my product was that good. How was it by the way?”
“How is sexual tension usually?”
“Not what I was talking about, man.”
“Oh.” Arthur flushes a little, “The drug. It was good, actually. I mean, I was dizzy and lightweight. It was pretty relaxing and I only started getting a little bit anxious towards the end.”
Yusuf flips pages in the book, “Hmm. How was the horniness? Excessive?”
Arthur shakes his head, “No, it was slight, it felt completely natural. I had the worst morning wood, though. Yuck, man.”
Yusuf’s eye flick up, “Really? That’s odd. I’ll look into it. Though, I suppose that might just be you.”
Arthur turns back to the food, polishing off the strawberries and trying to sound nonchalant. “So who told you about the date?”
Yusuf waits a few beats, reading off the page in front of him and muttering about the switch to Italian vernacular during the Dark Ages. “I... uh, Eames told me... and Mal... last night, right before we left. Can you pass me my laptop, it’s on the dresser.”
Arthur stands and does so, then flopping on the bed next to Yusuf, taking the book and passing him the laptop. “So... he just made some proclamation like I’m some goddamn conquest.”
“Ugh, you’re such a chick. Go talk to him if you really want to know what the deal is. He’s at the cabin now.”
“Oh yeah, what’s the deal with that? Does he live there or--?”
“What did I just say?”
--
After breakfast, Arthur combed his hair back, pulled on a change of clothes and headed out. It was early morning but the sun was gone and there was a light chill. Hardly enough to make him regret not wearing a jacket. But in a few minutes, it would be. At the edge of the woods, he forced down genuine anxiety, reminding himself he was there for a reason and this business needed to be handled. Arthur trudged up to the cabin rapped his knuckles on the door.
He waits a few minutes before knocking again. This time, the door swings open and he’s greeted by a guy that looks vaguely familiar. He nods Arthur in and slams the door shut behind him. The cabin is dark except for the hole that leads to the basement, uncovered and glowing with light.
“I’m looking for--”
“Downstairs, sir.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow but heads down the stairs, swallowing more second thoughts. When he reaches the bottom, he is instantly pulled aside and groped vehemently. It takes him a minute to realize the curt movements mean he’s being patted down. He’s then released and shoved towards the center of the room.
“Arthur! What a pleasant surprise.”
He turns and is greeted by Eames, approaching him with a wide-armed embrace. Before Arthur can object, Eames drowns him in a brawn arms. In his ear, Eames speaks in a hushed, unfocused voice, “I need to get you out of here, follow my lead and don’t ask questions until we’re out.”
Arthur almost objects but then registers what Eames just instructed him. Eames turns back to the other side of the room and says, “Gentleman, if you’ll excuse me, there is a personal matter that needs sorting.”
Arthur barely catches a glance in the opposite direction of the room before Eames shuffles him up the stairs. All he manages to see is a blur of men crowded around the craps table. Arthur trips over himself but barely has time to collect himself because Eames just kept pushing him. Upstairs, the vaguely familiar guy barely bats an eye at Eames shoving Arthur out the door.
When they’re finally outside, Arthur was certifiably fuming. He fixes his off-center shirt and adjusts the waist of his pants, “What the hell was that!”
Eames clasps his hands and brings them to his chest. “I’m sorry about that. You dropped by in the middle of something, which I don’t mind, really, it’s just I can’t haven them seeing you and getting ideas.”
Arthur breathes deeply and tries to roll the tension off his shoulders. He finds it difficult to appreciate being manhandled by a couple of thugs. He doesn’t even want to know what the hell Eames is talking about, and he’s seen enough mafia movies to know that he shouldn’t ask or get face full of front door.
Eames steps forward, a hand on Arthur’s wrist to get his attention, “Are you alright, Arthur? They didn’t hurt you did they?”
Arthur pulls his wrist away and shakes his head. The cold slips through the thin fabric of his shirt, sending chilled shivers down his spine. “I just wanted to talk to you about last--last-t night-t,” his teeth betray him.
Eames shrugs off his leather jacket and pulls it across Arthur’s shoulders, without waiting for approval. Not that Arthur’s objection would have stopped him. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
In passing, he brushes Arthur’s hair accidentally and frowns, “Is your hair wet?”
Arthur pushes his hands away but leaves the jacket, for warmth and not because of what it smells like. Eames is wearing a black button-down, that’s open at the throat and rolled up at the sleeves. Arthur sees the muscles of his forearm flex against the cold, but doesn’t return the jacket.
Eames continues scolding him, putting his hands on him all over again “You’re such a prat, you know that? You’re going to catch a cold with your hair wet in this chill.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, “I’m fine. Take your jacket back--you look colder than I do.”
Eames presses his hands against the chest of the jacket to keep Arthur from taking it off. “No, keep it on. At least while you’re around me. Otherwise, I’ll have to wrap myself around you to keep you warm.”
Arthur huffs, “Fine, whatever.”
“Thank you. So what is it that you wanted to talk about?”
Arthur pushes his arms through the sleeves and looks down at his shoes. “I wanted to talk to you about our date.”
Eames reaches out and grabs Arthur’s wrist again, “About how you can’t wait any longer and wish to ravish me now on the shore of the lake?”
“No, I--”
“In the woods, then?”
Arthur fights the initial urge to laugh and settles on taking his wrist back from Eames yet again. He tentatively meets his gaze, “Actually, I wanted to apologize for how I acted last night. I was having adverse effects on the drug and I’m going to have to cancel the date in light of that.”
Eames pulls Arthur’s wrist, clenching his fingers around the bones for a minute, “Hmm,” he hums in amusement. That sanctimonious grin is playing on his lips again. His full, flush lips.
Arthur twists his wrist in Eames’ grip and continues, “Yes--I’m not usually like that and following the course of actions that I took while under the influence isn’t exactly on my actions item list. I mean no offense or anything, you’re a decent guy, I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about what kind of--”
“Hold on, hold on there, love. Let me get this straight. The one time you indulge in your actual desires and come onto a bloke that you clearly fancy, you decide it’s too radical a move and should therefore be reversed? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of cutting loose? Actually, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of living your life?”
“That’s not even what this is about. I didn’t even mean to take the drug. I am not the kind of person--”
“That takes risks? That lets themselves have any fun? Yes, I was starting to gather that for myself, thanks.”
Arthur is approaching the point of exasperation, “You don’t even know me, you--”
“Hence the date. To get to know you. Do keep up.”
Arthur feels the anger bubbling in his stomach. Eames is just pushing him now to see how far he’ll go. “Eames, I’ll say it again. Real slow so you can understand: I’m not going to date you.”
Eames quirks an eyebrow and leans into Arthur’s space, “Are you sure you’re telling me that? And not just trying to convince yourself? Because I can convince you to take a chance without all this passive aggressive nonsense. It’s pretty simple. Lesson one: Just let go. Can you let one tiny little piece of your life up to your unabashed inhibitions? Come on, roll the proverbial die, Arthur.”
Arthur opens his mouth to bite back but Eames cuts him off again, “Actually. Wait, you can roll a real die,” he sticks his hand in his pocket and then opens his palm to reveal a red die.
Distracted by the absurdity, Arthur asks, “Why the hell do you have a die in your pockets?”
Eames grins wolfishly and Arthur remembers the men downstairs, crowded around the craps table. Arthur rolls his eyes, “You cheat your own associates? What kind of bullshit is that?”
Eames shrugs, “Just a bit of fun. Stop changing the subject. Now, roll the corporeal die and if it lands on an odd number, we have a date. Anything else, I’ll leave you be. Sound good?”
Arthur narrows his eyes, menacingly in ways he learned in the years he’s spent with Cobb, “No.”
“Well, tough. You roll it or I roll it.”
Arthur looks into Eames’ eyes, watching the playful gaze turn into a genuine challenge. He doesn’t for a second believe that Eames isn’t completely legitimate on his threats. If Arthur doesn’t roll it himself, Eames will probably cheat him. He grabs the die and shakes it minimally and drops it on the ground. He doesn’t take his eyes off Eames, who raises his eyebrows in amusement. “Shall we see the results, then?”
“Yeah, okay.”
They both move slightly and Arthur is the first to cast his eyes down. The back of his neck tingles as he flushes and Eames laughs, a throaty, happy cackle. “It landed on a five, Arthur. A deal is a deal.”
“No, you can’t just--”
“I’m rejecting it, by the way.”
Arthur is taken back, surprised, “What?”
Eames smiles, “I reject your apology and your offer to help you let me down real gentle like. But now that we have a date, well, there’s no need for it anyway. I was just making sure we were on the same page.”
Arthur’s chest tightens, “It wasn’t something for you to reject. I’m telling you now that we--”
“I’ll pick you up on Friday, say seven thirty?”
“No, Eames, I am--”
“Eight it is then. But any later and we probably won’t even make it dinner,” Eames’ motorcycle voice rumbles and Arthur has to pretend he can’t feel the deep vibrations of it.
“Eames--”
“Now that that’s settled, I’ve got to head back inside, do you mind?” he moves to take back the leather jacket.
Arthur shrugs it off and pushes it back to him. “I’m not going on a date with you.”
“He lied,” Eames adds, matter-of-factly.
Arthur huffs as the other starts walking away, “You’re such an arrogant bastard. I don’t know if you noticed, but I was on GHB last night, so how are you so sure that I even want to date you?”
Eames turns just before the door, “That’s funny, “he muses aloud, “I don’t seem to recall asking.”
With that, he enters the cabin and closes the door behind him. Arthur almost goes up to the door and kicks it in but he refuses to admit Eames is under his skin. Especially to Eames. Instead, he crouches and picks up the red die. It’s cold in his hands but he sticks it in his pocket and huffs off.
Twisting his fingers around the die in his jean’s pocket, he’s mostly talking to the cold, “Fuck this.”
-
When he fumes all the way back to their room, all Yusuf does is glance at him before announcing, “Eames called. Says you should dress business casual on Friday.”
Arthur crashes onto his bed, curdles underneath a blanket and opens a nearby law book. The walk back took longer than expected and Arthur got to the point he felt like the cold was creeping in between the goose-flesh on his body. Regardless, he’s got that report due Monday on Roe vs. Wade and Eames and his ridiculous antics will have to wait.
Yet, when he covers his face, his hands are warm and he smells leather.
But he keeps them there. And he keeps the die in his pocket.
PART II
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2011-04-07 01:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-07 01:41 pm (UTC)