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Just A Little Longer (2/4)
MASTERPOST
PART I
Thursday night, Arthur is at a breaking point.
His week was swallowed by echoes of pens scratching paper late at night and the Styrofoam cups of disgusting coffee that always seem to need refilling. He’s spent four days absorbed in debate team meetings and controversial political speeches. Thursday, Arthur felt like he could recite entire chunks of the Roe vs. Wade courtroom transcript. When he slept, the stray two or three hours, he dreamt of test tube babies and angry Christian slogans.
The report he turned in on Monday was promptly followed by prepping for a debate on the political, social, economic, and scientific aspects of abortion, arguing pro-choice. That Thursday evening, he has two hours left to go over his notes and get ready for the debate going on later that night. Thus, the breaking point.
He’s sitting in the far edge of his room, against the wall, smoking a strawberry flavored cigarette that Mal passed him through Yusuf after he exhausted his supply. His notes are scattered all over his bed and another set of notes scattered on the floor. At the center of the circle of notes, sits Robert Fischer, Arthur’s debate teammate.
Robert’s talking but Arthur’s just listening to his voice, fluent and unyielding. It’s soft edged but firm with conviction and sharp edged words tumble through it effortlessly. It’s comforting but only because Arthur likes knowing he won’t have to carry the team.
When Fischer stops talking, Arthur feels less like a brick has replaced his sternum. His relief is completely real. “You are fucking amazing.”
Fischer purses his lips, trying to hide the smile but the red rushing to his cheeks doesn’t escape Arthur in the least. With any other kid, it wouldn’t matter but Robert has cheekbones that would make Greek gods jealous. His entire face was carved by nihilistic angels, designed to disguise a new kind of insubordination. And Fischer’s eyes give Arthur the impression that whenever Fischer does rebel, politicians and corporate executives will weep like forgotten prostitutes in squalid motel rooms.
“That trophy is ours, Rob. We are going to put the hurt on those sons of bitches.”
Fischer smiles now, wide and amused. He meets Arthur’s gaze through it, in a way that makes Arthur’s throat tight. “Yeah, we are.”
--
Throughout the whole night, Arthur only feels fear sting his chest for a second, when a judge jumps on them for rebuttal on a question about Dubay vs. Wells and he couldn’t remember, mind blocked by Melaine McCulley quotes. But when he’s about to conceit defeat, Fischer slaps his buzzer and answers in one smooth, long flow.
Arthur was impressed, to say the least.
After that, Arthur steps up his game and before he knows it, it’s more of a competition between him and Fischer to answer first and eloquently than it was with the actual competitors. Arthur finds out that Robert is as vigorous and merciless as he suspected.
At the end, they split the prize, posing for photos with the trophy between them, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders. In their subsequent interviews for the school newspaper, Robert quotes the Fourteenth Amendment like he wrote it and Arthur--
Arthur is more than impressed.
--
Which is why it’s not exactly a surprise when Fischer kisses him. Arthur had figured it was bound to happen. They’ve been stressing for three days about woman’s rights and they know more about the female anatomy than they never needed to but it paid off, so of course it happened. Of course they got drunk and ended up like this. Well, drunk-ish, they’re drunk, maybe not shitfaced, but past tipsy.
Fischer invited Arthur to his room, which is closer from the lecture hall than his own. Which has beers--a lot, apparently and they deserve the celebratory drink. The past three days, all they’ve seen is each other, from early morning to late night. Victory feels good with beer, warm in his belly. And it wasn’t like either of them was being coy, exactly. Not that Arthur really minds, because Fischer is sort of pretty and there isn’t a problem with that. He doesn’t have a problem kissing Fischer.
Arthur doesn’t mind the way Fischer clips him against the dresser and pushes his mouth against his. He doesn’t mind the taste of mint and victory and beer. Granted, it’s a little gross but Arthur imagines he must taste the same so it’s okay.
Fischer curls his hands into Arthur’s hair, pulling until Arthur opens his mouth and their tongues meet, rough and needy and pretty sloppy but that might be the beer. It’s okay that Arthur is kissing Fischer even thought they barely know each other. Arthur’s drunk-ish. Arthur being drunk-ish is okay because he’s been buried nose deep in uteri lately. So, right now, he kinda wants to be buried nose deep in the nearest warm body.
Besides, on top of all their other shit, Arthur --- oh.
“Wait, wait, hold on a sec.” Arthur pushes Fischer off, panting lightly.
Fischer’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes are wild, dilated. His lips are wet and swollen, panting in ways that only make Arthur dizzier. “What is it?”
“I’m sick, remember? I have a cold.”
Fischer laughs, shaking, “Yeah, so what?”
And that’s all Arthur needs to pull Fischer against him, this time slow-like.
And Arthur doesn’t have a problem.
It’s fine for a bit, having fun with long kisses and hands that roam occasionally. They kiss and push and groan softly into each other’s mouth, tasting the roof, tracing the ridges, gulping breaths and trying to stay put together. Fischer kisses with tongue, almost conservatively but Arthur kisses with teeth and pent-up aggression. They experiment for a bit but having built a rhythm, their lips move in off-center waves, smacking in ways that make Arthur’s chest hot. Fischer’s hands roam up and down Arthur’s back, rushing shivers down his body. Arthur keeps his thumbs trained on Fischer’s cheekbones, controlling and feeling.
It’s when Fischer’s fingers find their way to the buttons of Arthur’s shirt. Robert moves down, pushing his lips against Arthur’s collar, licking delicately. Arthur wraps his arms around Robert’s neck, fingering Robert’s hair and moaning appreciatively. It’s when Fischer bites him that Arthur snaps out of the lustful haze (Arthur’s never been a biter) and belated realization dawns on him.
This time, he really pushes Fischer off. “What are you doing?”
Fischer wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist again, “I told you, I don’t care if you’re sick.” He goes to kiss him again but Arthur stops him.
“How does that have to do with you taking my clothes off?”
Fischer takes a step back, paling. “What are you talking about?”
Arthur pushes him away further, buttoning shirt back up. “What makes you think I want you to take my clothes off, Robert?”
Fischer’s flush fades, his eyes narrowing. “That’s usually how these things progress.”
“Not with me they don’t.” Arthur buttons his collar and undoes his tie, “I don’t know what kind of people you run with, but I am not going to fuck you.”
“Wait, are you being serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Fischer rolls his eyes, “C’mon, don’t be such a kid.”
“There’s nothing kiddish about not sleeping with someone I’ve only known for two weeks. Who, then turns out to be a douche.”
“Arthur. You can’t fucking just leave me here. At least give me a hand.”
“Fuck yourself, Fischer. Just because we won you think you can fuck me?”
Fischer glances around, then back at him, “What about Eames?”
“What about Eames! Eames has nothing to do with this.”
Robert’s leer is glacial now, “Fuck you, Arthur. We all saw you dancing with him last week.”
“What the fuck does dancing have to do with anything? I danced with Mal, too.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
Arthur’s starting to get the feeling that he’ll have to take a swing at Robert to get out of this. “I didn’t say you were an idiot. What the fuck is your problem?”
“You’re my problem right now, Arthur. Everyone knows you fucked Eames. It’s not a goddamn secret.”
Arthur is stonewalled by this, “Who the fuck said that?”
Fischer takes his moment of confusion to push himself back into Arthur’s space. He rubs his erection on Arthur’s thigh, breathing into his neck, whimpering, “So why can’t you fuck me?”
Disgusted, Arthur shoves him off and swings. A left hook throws Fischer back over his bed, across the room. A string of blood appears at the corner of his mouth. He shoots a glare at Arthur, the kind that speaks curiosity and malice, maybe even premeditation. Arthur can’t help the twitch in his fingers, weaponless. “Fuck you, Fischer. You’re such a fucking creep. Don’t talk to me anymore. I’m switching debate partners. The next time you come near me, I’ll rip your pretty fucking eyes out of your skull with a goddamn fork.”
Arthur barely has the presence of mind to grab his tie, slipping off his shoulder, and storms out in a murderous rage. The halls are angry white with a few people but he shoves his way through. He pounds out the hallway and down the stairs until he can’t hear Fischer calling him back anymore. When he’s finally outside, he’s almost thankful for the harsh wind. It stings his cheeks and stabs shivers through his clothes but it clears his head.
He’s starting to have coherent thoughts again. What a fucking creep. Shit, it’s cold. Where’s my jacket? Fuck. I’m not going back to that asshole for a jacket. I rather freeze. Shit.
He crosses the campus in swift strides and barely makes it in for curfew: Fuck, it’s cold.
-
In this dream, it’s always the pain that gets him. It’s never so much the actual content of the dream, but the vivid pain. It always finds a way to crawl into is veins and pull and scratch until he wakes up. He’s been having this dream since junior high and yet. It always starts the same and it’s always the pain that pulls him out of it.
He’s walking, barefoot, for what feels like miles through hot, coarse desert road. The concrete is merciless and burns through the arches of his feet. The shirt he’s wearing melts right onto his back, from the heat of the sun. It sticks to his skin and melts and melts until all he has left is his blistering skin, bursting open. The wounds sting and bleed fruitlessly. The blood slithers down his arms and each of his bumpy ribs, curving with viscosity. With every breath, his mouth squeaks in protest, his throat wheezes with dehydration.
He walks down the road, trying to reach the horizon. As he gets closer, he can hear the sound of waves rocking against a shore. Behind him is only the blurry, acute heat.
Every time he takes a step, his arches burn and the soles send shooting pains up his calf and straight to his femur. It’s sharp and unyielding, growing in strength as he marches. He always gets to the part where the skin of his feet rips open and every step he takes is accented with the soft squelch of his blood. Whenever he turns, the blood of his footprints boils under the heat until it’s gone.
It gives him no choice but to keep walking.
He walks to the end of the road, and it always just stops there with a cliff hanging open at the end, he's only got two options at this point. He can turn around and walk back the same way. Or he can jump. But every time, before he can make a decision, the game changes. A hand springs out and grabs onto the ledge, dragging itself up. Arthur steps away from it, as a body follows an arm follows that hand. Those wretched, broken knuckles. Tall stands a being, reaching out to embrace Arthur. His touch is chilled, so he allows it. But the ice freezes of his hands burns his skin. It reaches inside and burns his veins and when he can’t move from such numbing pain, the being splits him open.
He sinks his crooked jaws into the bones of Arthur’s back, gnawing through layers of ice and peeling off melted, sizzling skin until he reaches the soft, chewy spine. Nose deep in his bodily organs, the shadow breathes in sharp hisses. Arthur falls to the ground and is kicked onto his numbed back. His bones crack and leak marrow in the heat. Grinning through white teeth stained purple black, he spits on Arthur’s chest.
He reaches out and grabs Arthur’s neck with sharp claws. They dig and rip into his skin and Arthur’s heaving chest can’t heave anymore--not in this heat, there's so much sweat and the stench of blood is overpowering--and he passes out from the pain but he wakes up in real life. When he looks for the scars, the blood, the wounds all he finds is smooth skin and his chest can heave again. Arthur throws up in the bathroom and goes back to class.
-
It was his last class of the day that he fell asleep in, and he had that dream, meaning either he’s got or already has a fever. Mild or fierce, his temperature has increased, so he’s having the dream. He toughs it out, though. There’s only an hour left and he can skip debate and go straight to bed.
It seems walking across the campus without a jacket twice in so many days has only had the predicted outcome. But he won the debate team a trophy so they wont be too mad if he skips one meeting and takes a nap. Arthur wishes he could say as much for Cobb.
Class ends and the bell rings and Arthur walks back to his room in a haze. Inside, he slips off his shoes and jacket and shirt, tie, socks. He changes into a pair of black pajama bottoms in a fog. The pillows is cool against his skin and it feels distractingly good. Arthur is slipping on sleep when his phone rings, sharp and violently, the ringtone he set for Cobb.
The ring is muddled and distant through his pile of clothes on the floor. He reaches for it blindly, making no real effort to get it in time. It doesn’t matter though, because when it stops, it only takes three seconds before it starts ringing again. Cursing, Arthur finally brings the phone to his ear, answering, “What is it, Dom?”
“Hey, are you busy?”
“Yes. Fuck off.”
Dom laughs, “Come down to the parking lot of your dorm, yeah? I’m outside. I brought you coffee.”
Arthur’s eyes snap open, “Where are you?”
“You’re in Fuller Hall, right? I’m right outside. Silver Chrysler. Hurry, yeah? It’s getting cold.”
Arthur sits up, pulling on the nearest tee shirt at the foot of the bed. It might be Yusuf’s but he’s not as worried about that. “You’ve been driving? God, you maniac! For how long?”
Dom coughs, sickening on his end, “Yes. For, maybe, half an hour. There’s a highway--”
“You were on the highway? You’re such a stupid fuck. Don’t move, I’ll be right down.”
Arthur pockets his phone and pulls on his jacket. He sticks his feet in his slippers and runs out of the room, barely having the presence of mind to close the door behind him. He flies down the stairs, fighting waves of nausea he knows will hit him once he’s sure Dom is okay.
At the last landing, he pushes the door open and storms out into the parking lot. He sees Dom’s car right away, parked a few spaces away from where Arthur is standing. Arthur crosses the lot and swings the driver’s seat door open. Dom is slouched against his seat, his head tipped back. When he appears, Dom rolls his head and looks up at Arthur through tired eyes. “Hey, Arthur?”
Arthur scowls. Dom looks fine, if not happy. “What happened?”
Dom ignores him and sits up a little, “Help me out.”
Arthur moves to grab Dom around the waist, pulling him out of the car. Dom stands, leaning against the car. Arthur takes the keys from the ignition and closes the door. He doesn’t bother to ask where Dom lifted this car and he doesn’t want to know the answer. Dom laughs at him, pained. “What did you do?” Arthur demands.
Dom reaches out and pulls Arthur to him. Arthur stumbles a little but catches himself against the car. He’s caught between being pissed and worried. “Dom, just tell me.”
“Shh,” Dom whispers, smiling rather loosely.
Dom grabs his other hand pulls it up to his chest, pressing Arthur’s hand against his shirt, lightly. Arthur can feel the expanse of his chest as he breathes and finds the shirt is wet and warm and Dom smells gross. Disgusting even, like copper. Arthur’s eyes widen. He slides his hand inside Dom’s jacket, exploring. Dom is wearing a black shirt but Arthur can tell the entire shirt is soaked and it isn’t long before he finds the tell-tale rip in the shirt. He pulls back and looks down, his palms are stained with blood. “You fucking asshole. What happened?” Then instincts kick in, “Shit, where you followed?
Dom shakes his head, “Let’s go inside.”
Arthur wraps an arm around Dom’s waist and grips his hip to keep him steady. Dom throws an arm around Arthur’s shoulder and presses his nose against Arthur’s neck. The walk back takes longer than Arthur would’ve liked. Still, he can’t be sure where Dom is injured but if he’s lost so much blood that his shirt is soaked, then he probably shouldn’t move at a lightning speed. Somewhere along the second staircase, Dom’s forehead slides down onto Arthur’s temple and it’s cold and lessens the impending nausea but it scares Arthur to think about Dom at the preliminary stages of shock.
In the room, Arthur sets Dom on the bed and tears off his jacket and tosses it on the desk. His hands are covered in blood, so he grabs the shirt he’s wearing and wipes them clean. Dom watches, faintly entertained. Arthur steadies him and then heads to the bathroom. He grabs his first aid kit, a roll of paper towels and his rattiest bath towels. He reaches behind the mirror and pulls out some antibiotics and the crappy painkillers he hid there before he knew Yusuf was a drug runner and probably had better stuff.
When he gets back to him, Dom is gripping the edges of the bed like he might fall forward. Arthur grabs a pair of scissors and rips Dom’s shirt down the middle. He slips both the shirt and jacket down Dom’s shoulders, only to be sicked by what he finds.
Dom’s chest is scarred, as it has been since they were kids, but. Now he’s got a laceration wrapping around his chest, bleeding profusely. “Jesus, Dom, what the hell happened!”
Arthur stands and grabs a bath towel, pressing it against Dom and keeping pressure to stop the bleeding. Dom hisses but Arthur doesn’t let up. Dom tips his head back, smiling, “Knife fight. Isn’t that nuts?”
Arthur rolls his eyes, Dom always gets a little psycho when he loses blood. He’ll have to wait until he cleans him up to get a straight answer. When the bleeding stops for the majority, Arthur cleans his chest up until he can see the wound clearly. It’s a gash, really, from his third rib to the curve of his back. It’s jagged and long but nothing too deep. Arthur can only see red and pink so he figures any deeper and it would have been a hospital problem. Arthur gives him weak painkillers, antibiotics and makes Dom talk to him to keep him awake. Mostly about the color of the ocean and the new girl he’s dating, Celeste.
Arthur cleans him up and presses gauze around his ribs. He’s considered stitching Dom up but he gets loud when he’s in pain and Arthur can’t have that in such a crowded place. He considered the cabin, but then dispelled that thought, Dom would never make it across the campus, the courts and the woods without passing out.
When he’s done, Arthur finds himself covered in blood. Dom is clean and falling asleep, so he goes to wash his hands. The vanilla hand soap makes him puke twice. After that, he washes off the soap with warm water, just to set back the nausea. Arthur realizes that he’s gotten Yusuf’s shirt covered in blood and as he peels it off and throws it away, vows to buy him a new one.
He marches back to the room and wakes Dom up. “Hey.”
Dom’s eyes open just a slit, “What?”
“I’m going to sleep, move over.”
“No.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, “Don’t be a douche.”
Dom frowns a little, “It hurts. Climb over. I’ll be the little spoon.”
Arthur hesitates but climbs over, careful not to stir Dom. “You hate being the little spoon.”
Dom waves a hand, gesturing to the gauze, “Not a lot of other options. You could have slept on your roommate’s bed.”
“One set of blood stained bed sheets are enough, thanks.”
Dom sighs, low and morose, even though he knows Arthur hadn’t meant it that way. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
Arthur pulls Dom’s back to his chest and wraps an arm around his waist, carefully swung low not to hurt him. “You want to tell me what happened?”
Dom sighs, kicking Arthur’s shin absently. “I took a job and it went bad.”
Arthur pulled away, glaring at the back of his neck. “You went on a job without me?”
The sudden movement brought a dizziness on Arthur and his head dropped on Dom’s shoulder before he could stop himself. “Well, obviously, I learned my lesson--dude, shit.” Dom hisses and pulls away from Arthur, then hisses again at the movement of his ribs.
“Arthur, was that you’re forehead?”
Arthur grunts in response, laying back on the pillow and trying to put space between the two of them. It appears that Arthur’s fever has gone up in the last hour. Dom twists his hand and feels around for Arthur’s face. He grabs his chin and tugs it experimentally before moving onto his cheek, his temple, and finally--his forehead. Dom curses, pulling his hand away. “You have a fever, you shit head. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Arthur shrugs, carelessly. “Some cocksucker was bleeding to death in my room. Kinda monopolizes the topic of discussion.”
Dom can’t twist around without reopening a slowly closing wound, making him pretty useless. “I fucking hate you sometimes.”
“Go home then, aforementioned cocksucker.”
“Go die, you asshole.”
“Fuck you,” Arthur mutters back, without any real bite.
“Not tonight, dear. I have a hole in my side.”
Arthur has no retort so they settle back into the silence. It’s dark in the room, Arthur had cut the lights as soon as Dom had started falling asleep. Arthur presses his forehead against Dom’s shoulder but keeps his distance, he doesn’t want to think about how cold Dom’s skin is. The silence is comfortable, it suggests they sleep and sleep.
Arthur has been sleeping in the same bed as Dom for a few years. It’s never been anything other than brotherly. Being so far away from home makes Arthur sick and Dom knows that, so this more of a reminder of home than anything else.
Dom suddenly tenses, “Arthur.”
Arthur hums, “What?”
“Did you have that psychotic dream yet?”
Arthur considers lying, “Yeah, earlier today.”
“How far did you get?”
Arthur knows Dom doesn’t want to know, but he’s asking so, “It was ripping my throat out.”
Dom curses, “Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah, I know.” Arthur never likes telling Dom about the dream. It bothers Dom for Arthur’s psyche, but Arthur knows it only bothers him more if he doesn’t answer.
Dom hesitates now, “Are you--did you take cold medicine?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Liar,” Dom knows better.
“I will. Later. Let’s get some sleep.”
Dom is exhausted from bleeding and quipping so he just sighs and agrees. “Later, you will.”
-
This time, the sleep is dreamless. Which Arthur sort of expected because of all the stress that Dom just put him under and the amount of energy he demanded from himself. Still, he wakes up to Dom, shaking him by kicking his shins.
Arthur shoves his shoulder, “What?”
“Someone is at the door. I think your roommate forgot his key.”
Arthur groans and someone knocks on the door again. He fumbles in the dark to move around Dom without hurting him. Still, Dom is an unrelenting asshole and trips him on his way out. Arthur stumbles but catches himself on the dresser. “Fucker,” he mumbles when Dom laughs.
Moving to the door, Arthur opens it and hisses at the bright hallway light. Yusuf frowns at him from the other side, “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”
Arthur turns away from him and opens the door, heading back to the bed. Dom sits up, all slow moment and gritting jaw. Arthur crawls around him and says, “Yusuf, this is Cobb, he’s an asshole. Cobb, this is Yusuf, he’s my roommate.”
Laying his head back on the pillow, Arthur relaxes into the ghost warmth of Dom’s body on the bed. The covers, twisted in his grip, tangled underneath his body. All he hears is the first strings of introduction between Dom and Yusuf before his eyes sting themselves shut and he gives in.
-
The third time he wakes up, he feels substantially better. In between all the fatigue that’s rolling off his shoulders, he can feel the someone’s weight on the bed, but keeps his eyes closed as he wakes up. There’s a hand on his forehead, over what feels like a wet rag.
He can hear the clacking of Yusuf’s keyboard and Cobb talking about the upcoming March Madness. When he opens his eyes, the lights are dimmed but burn a little. Cobb is sitting next to him, at the edge of the bed. He raises a hand to his head and feels for Dom’s hand to see what he’s holding. It might be an ice pack. Arthur would just like some specificity. “Hey, douchebag.”
Cobb turns and smiles at him, relieved almost. He laughs, “Feeling better, are we?”
Arthur nods and Yusuf turns around and grins at him. “Good to hear. You’d better get up and get ready. It’s almost eight and Eames will be here any minute now. And if you think for a second that you having a fever is going to stop him, then you severely underestimated his stubbornness.”
Cobb grins at this, turning back to Arthur, “Oh, yes. Yusuf told me all about your date with Eames.”
“You told him?” Arthur glares at Yusuf.
He shrugs helplessly in response, “He’s very convincing.”
Arthur sits up, pushing Cobb away as he continues, “Yeah, he told me. And he’s right, I’m very convincing. But I’m more interested in hearing what happened with you and Robert Fischer last night.”
Arthur glances between Cobb and Yusuf, looking for an exit. He’d come back last night pissed and flustered and had refused to tell Yusuf what happened. Yet, he feigns ignorance, “Last night?”
Cobb nods, “I want to know why you went to his place after the debate last night. Why you came back pissed, without your jacket in the winter and why Robert Fischer showed up at breakfast with a split lip this morning. You want to tell me what happened.” It strikes Arthur cruel how Cobb’s last sentence isn’t a question.
Arthur closes his eyes and pretends not to listen to them, but there’s a pressure in his belly building and it’ll start hurting if he doesn’t pee soon. So instead of answering, Arthur stands and grabs a clean bath towel, disappearing into the bathroom. “I better shower if Eames is going to be here soon..”
Arthur knows better than to think that will fix it. He’s just turning to the water when the door clicks open and Cobb walks in. Arthur knows he locked it but a lock has never stopped Cobb before. He hasn’t put a shirt on, probably in fear of hurting the gash. The bandages are clean but wrinkled with bright red specks where the wound is the deepest. He leans against the door frame and watches Arthur expectantly.
Arthur keeps his ground, glaring at Cobb for a full two minutes before Cobb slides a hand into his jeans pocket and pulls out the red die. “I found this on the floor. It’s nice work to the untrained eye, but I know a loaded die when I see it. I was almost proud of the work but then it occured to me why you would need a loaded die. Do you want to tell me what you’ve been getting yourself into?”
Arthur scowls, “Why don’t you tell me what happened to you? Why would you take a job without me?”
“I don’t know if you noticed, Arthur, but you’re incapacitated for work. You live ten fucking miles out of the city and it’s either this or the military. I would prefer to keep you in a place where fuckers aren’t going to shoot at you and you’re out here, gambling with drug runners, “ his voice is rising with every word, “and punching pretty rich boys in the jaw. Eames has a reputation, Arthur. Fischer’s family could probably have you killed. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Do you want to get shipped out? I wouldn’t put it above your asshat of a mother.”
Arthur sniffs, starting down at the shower tiles, running with water. Cobb’s voice is overpowering to the water’s roar, so it’s not like he can pretend he didn’t hear any of that. Arthur thinks about this for a minute, but he already knows he’s going to tell him everything. “Close the door.”
Cobb slips in and slams the door behind him. Arthur takes the die and toys with it in his palm while he talks, spilling truth after truth until the die slips from his hand. When he’s done talking, he picks up the die.
It landed on five.
-
When Arthur steps out of the bathroom, less than twenty minutes later, he’s fully dressed in a pair of navy blue slacks and a white button-up with the sleeves rolled up. In the room, Yusuf turns when Cobb wolf whistles from his position on top of the dresser. Arthur rolls his eyes when Yusuf starts cat calling him too, but cannot suppress the blush that reaches the back of his neck.
“Well, hello, beautiful.”
Arthur spins around and sees the door is open and Eames is standing there, grinning lecherously. Behind him, Arthur hears Cobb jump off the desk and walk up. Arthur can feel the tension coiling in Cobb’s shoulders from where he’s standing. Cobb always had a thing about Arthur dating guys in the business.
“Arthur,” Cobb asks.
Arthur turns to face Cobb and says everything in a calm voice, “It’s fine, Cobb. I am going. It’s not like if I stayed, you would be up for a party anyway. Stay here, rest. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
As they exit, Yusuf flashes Arthur a thumbs-up and Cobb sneers maniacally but nothing stops Eames from leading Arthur out of the room with a hand on the small of his back. They walk to the car in relative silence and when Eames asks who the blond kid was, all Arthur replies is, “Cobb” and Eames doesn’t ask again.
They reach their location and are seated immediately in a private, quiet table. It takes Arthur a minute to realize they’ve got the best table in the house. The waiters bow and never meet their gaze and Arthur is finding it increasingly difficult not to feel like a mob wife. They haven’t even order the appetizers when a waiter arrives, holding a bottle of champagne.
Arthur raises an eyebrow at Eames, questioning his motives. Eames ignores him and addresses the waiter, “What’s this?”
The waiter gestures to a man across the room, “Compliments of Mr. Saito.”
Eames smiles graciously and bows his head, then raises a glass in greeting to the man across the room. The man, dressed far too well to just be another associate, raises the glass in turn and drinks with Eames from across the room. The waiter leaves and Arthur is itching to ask when Eames cuts him off, serving him champagne.
“I know this looks like I’m trying to get you drunk, Arthur, but I’m not. Just have a glass or face the wrath of the most honorable man I know. I assure you that under normal circumstances, I would in no way force liquor on you. That is gauche and as you can tell I am a gentleman, through and through,” Eames offers Arthur the glass, grinning mischievously.
But after an off-balanced day with Cobb and the fever dream, alcohol is precisely what Arthur would like at the moment. He accepts the drink and together, they finish the bottle. The entire dinner passes in polite conversation. Arthur drinks expensive champagne glass after glass and it’s not until they’re standing outside the restaurant that he realizes how much he actually drank, and it all rushes to his head.
He’s not drunk, not even drunk-ish. Eames is leading with a hot hand on his back, towards the car again and the night is over, stolen under stiff waiters and distractingly enjoyable meals. “Well, that was over quicker than expected.”
Arthur’s talking out of his mouth but it sounds far away a bit and he doesn’t mean to sound so disappointed, but he does and some things can’t be helped. “Are you taking me home now, then?”
Eames looks at Arthur over the vague light from the car’s dashboard, in the headlights of passing cars. Arthur can feel the heat growing in his chest and he doesn’t want the moment to pass but he can’t be disappointed when Eames says, “Actually, I want to show you something. Alright?”
Arthur isn’t loose, but the tension in his shoulders is gone. He’s thinking clearly at clear speeds and he can’t think of a reason not to agree, “Yeah, alright.”
Eames flips through half-alright songs on the radio and Arthur laughs when he makes jokes about pop stars. He can’t think of a reason not to. They drive into the outer edges of town until Arthur only just recognizes the streets. When Eames slows the car to a stop, he’s parked at the side of the road. He kills the engine and turns to Arthur, “Wait there.”
Arthur watches curiously as Eames rounds the car and opens the door for him, “Your Majesty.”
Arthur snorts at him but still follows him out. Eames leads him out, with an arm thrown around his shoulders. They walk about half a block before Arthur can see what Eames wanted to show him. It’s a bridge.
It’s not particularly large or assertive in design, but it overlooks a highway and its glowing in headlights, and completely alone. Arthur stops when he sees the spot, “You want to take me out there where no one can hear my screams over the traffic?”
Eames turns to laugh at him, “I promise not to kill you so violently.”
Eames slips his fingers around Arthur’s wrist, pulling him towards the bridge, along the sidewalk. Arthur lets himself be lead into the center of the bridge and Eames threads his free fingers into the chain link fence. Arthur turns his back to the highway and leans against the railing, but still doesn’t pull his wrist out of Eames’ grasp.
Eames grins in the flood of headlights and picks Arthur’s wrist up, rubbing the pads of his thumbs over the bones. Arthur watches, entranced. Eames speaks again, his low drawl is clear, cutting through the noise, “D’you know why I brought you here?”
Arthur purses his lips in thought, then nods in gesture to the traffic, “To murder me with an audience.”
Eames smiles, and pulls Arthur’s hand up to his lips, brushing over the knuckles. “No, love. Take a look around.”
Arthur does just that, glancing at back where they came from, to the highway behind him, the smear of red lights going forward as the cars past under the bridge and finally rests his eyes on Eames. “What is it?”
Eames rolls his eyes, “Look up, you prawn.”
Arthur tips his head back, laughing, and then sees what Eames means. Over the top of the horizon, the moon is a thin sliver. In the echoes of engines and the harsh exhales of Eames’ chest, Arthur zeroes in and he can hear his own heartbeat. It’s pounding against the edge of Eames’ fingernail and the moon is bursting out against the dark, He watches it for a minute, forgetting his purpose.
“Did you bring me here because of the moon?”
“No.”
“What is it then?”
Arthur turns back to him and Eames smiles, “It’s nothing, actually. I just wanted to see the line of your neck in this light.”
Arthur scoffs, “You are impossible,” but he can’t hide the smile that quivers his lower lip.
Eames’ eyes glint, “I try,” and then, without thinking it through, he adds, “…around you, at least.”
Arthur’s feet shift on their own accord, straightening up against Eames. “And what was the verdict?”
Eames shakes off the glint, “On what?”
The cold of the metal railing slips through the fabric of Arthur’s shirt. He left his jacket in the car, but it isn’t cold here. “On the line of my neck.”
Eames shrugs, stepping closer into Arthur’s space and rubbing his palm. Eames’ fingers are cold inside the warmth but Arthur can’t think of a reason to pull away. “I’m not sure. I think I need a closer look.”
Arthur laughs now, ducking his head to hide the dimples he knows will appear. Eames’ shoes scratch against the worn concrete, shifting closer. Arthur’s dimples hide again and he looks up, prepared to meet Eames halfway on this. The headlights pass over and over, blinding and then disappearing into a red blur behind the chain link fence on the other side of the bridge. The cavity between them is closing, in small predatory leers.
Arthur is little surprised at himself by how much he wants to kiss Eames there. Eames’ fingers slip through the chain link and reach out to hold Arthur’s hip. The wind whistles sharply inside Arthur’s chest.
It takes him a minute but then Arthur realizes it‘s not the wind. His phone is ringing deep in his pocket. Eames swears and pulls away, forgetting about Arthur’s hip and fingers hiding into the inside of his own pocket. He looks shaken, as if in a deep trance.
Arthur answers the phone now, without checking the caller ID, “What the fuck could you possibly want?”
“You left your jacket in my room.”
Arthur snaps the phone shut, cursing the navy skies black. “Son of a bitch.”
Eames is leaning against the fence now, both hands braced against it. He laughs, an honest chuckle, “I take it you don’t react well to being interrupted?”
“Not really, no.”
Arthur sighs but doesn’t move to put together their previous position, trying to stave off the wave of anger brought on by Fischer’s call. Eames stares out onto the traffic for a bit and Arthur watches the blur of red. He fingers the broken concrete on the ledge, ripping years old paint and pondering.
Before he can decide anything conclusive, Eames’ phone rings. It’s not sharp, but it is obnoxious and Arthur can’t help that scoff that follows it. Eames grins through his hand as he answers, “Eames here… hey, Mal. No, I’m busy…” he laughs here, “Yes, with Arthur… no, not doing that… or that… blimey, I hope we do that,” Eames grin lasciviously in Arthur’s direction.
Arthur snickers to himself, picking apart the paint on the railing.
“I don’t know… perhaps? Let me ask.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow and Eames leans in to tell him that Mal found a party, sounds good, if you want to go. That we should definitely go. Arthur looks at Eames through the slits of his peripheral vision and nods. “Yeah, let’s go.”
-
Eames’ fingers don’t wrap around Arthur’s wrist the next time he leads him out of the car. They slide into Arthur’s palm and tug. Arthur follows, willingly and doesn’t let the shy smile on Eames’ lips go unnoticed.
They move up the stairs in slow motions, Arthur is trying to drag this out. He wants this good night kiss before they reach Dom again. He knows the tension in his shoulders will come back and he doesn’t want Mr. Saito’s very brilliant champagne to go to waste.
Eames’ fingers brush Arthur’s knuckles every other stair, at a steady pace. Arthur lives on the third floor. They make it to the door of Arthur’s room with minimal interruption. It’s late on a Friday night so the halls are empty because everyone will be at a party around now. They’re only here now to abandon the Oxford shirts and grab Yusuf and Co. before heading off to this house party.
At the door, Eames leans against the frame and watches Arthur curiously. There’s a ruckus inside the room, combinations of laughter and shouts. He can’t help but think about last week, at the cabin, dancing with Eames.
Eames brings Arthur’s hand up again, touching his lips against the third knuckle in a humble kiss. Arthur raises an eyebrow, for lack of else to do. Eames grins cheekily, “Just in case I don’t get a good night kiss.”
Arthur means to correct that, but the door swings open and they snap apart. In the doorway, Ariadne glances between the two of them and their hands regrettably. “Did I interrupt something?”
Arthur tries not to resent her for it.
PART III
PART I
Thursday night, Arthur is at a breaking point.
His week was swallowed by echoes of pens scratching paper late at night and the Styrofoam cups of disgusting coffee that always seem to need refilling. He’s spent four days absorbed in debate team meetings and controversial political speeches. Thursday, Arthur felt like he could recite entire chunks of the Roe vs. Wade courtroom transcript. When he slept, the stray two or three hours, he dreamt of test tube babies and angry Christian slogans.
The report he turned in on Monday was promptly followed by prepping for a debate on the political, social, economic, and scientific aspects of abortion, arguing pro-choice. That Thursday evening, he has two hours left to go over his notes and get ready for the debate going on later that night. Thus, the breaking point.
He’s sitting in the far edge of his room, against the wall, smoking a strawberry flavored cigarette that Mal passed him through Yusuf after he exhausted his supply. His notes are scattered all over his bed and another set of notes scattered on the floor. At the center of the circle of notes, sits Robert Fischer, Arthur’s debate teammate.
Robert’s talking but Arthur’s just listening to his voice, fluent and unyielding. It’s soft edged but firm with conviction and sharp edged words tumble through it effortlessly. It’s comforting but only because Arthur likes knowing he won’t have to carry the team.
When Fischer stops talking, Arthur feels less like a brick has replaced his sternum. His relief is completely real. “You are fucking amazing.”
Fischer purses his lips, trying to hide the smile but the red rushing to his cheeks doesn’t escape Arthur in the least. With any other kid, it wouldn’t matter but Robert has cheekbones that would make Greek gods jealous. His entire face was carved by nihilistic angels, designed to disguise a new kind of insubordination. And Fischer’s eyes give Arthur the impression that whenever Fischer does rebel, politicians and corporate executives will weep like forgotten prostitutes in squalid motel rooms.
“That trophy is ours, Rob. We are going to put the hurt on those sons of bitches.”
Fischer smiles now, wide and amused. He meets Arthur’s gaze through it, in a way that makes Arthur’s throat tight. “Yeah, we are.”
--
Throughout the whole night, Arthur only feels fear sting his chest for a second, when a judge jumps on them for rebuttal on a question about Dubay vs. Wells and he couldn’t remember, mind blocked by Melaine McCulley quotes. But when he’s about to conceit defeat, Fischer slaps his buzzer and answers in one smooth, long flow.
Arthur was impressed, to say the least.
After that, Arthur steps up his game and before he knows it, it’s more of a competition between him and Fischer to answer first and eloquently than it was with the actual competitors. Arthur finds out that Robert is as vigorous and merciless as he suspected.
At the end, they split the prize, posing for photos with the trophy between them, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders. In their subsequent interviews for the school newspaper, Robert quotes the Fourteenth Amendment like he wrote it and Arthur--
Arthur is more than impressed.
--
Which is why it’s not exactly a surprise when Fischer kisses him. Arthur had figured it was bound to happen. They’ve been stressing for three days about woman’s rights and they know more about the female anatomy than they never needed to but it paid off, so of course it happened. Of course they got drunk and ended up like this. Well, drunk-ish, they’re drunk, maybe not shitfaced, but past tipsy.
Fischer invited Arthur to his room, which is closer from the lecture hall than his own. Which has beers--a lot, apparently and they deserve the celebratory drink. The past three days, all they’ve seen is each other, from early morning to late night. Victory feels good with beer, warm in his belly. And it wasn’t like either of them was being coy, exactly. Not that Arthur really minds, because Fischer is sort of pretty and there isn’t a problem with that. He doesn’t have a problem kissing Fischer.
Arthur doesn’t mind the way Fischer clips him against the dresser and pushes his mouth against his. He doesn’t mind the taste of mint and victory and beer. Granted, it’s a little gross but Arthur imagines he must taste the same so it’s okay.
Fischer curls his hands into Arthur’s hair, pulling until Arthur opens his mouth and their tongues meet, rough and needy and pretty sloppy but that might be the beer. It’s okay that Arthur is kissing Fischer even thought they barely know each other. Arthur’s drunk-ish. Arthur being drunk-ish is okay because he’s been buried nose deep in uteri lately. So, right now, he kinda wants to be buried nose deep in the nearest warm body.
Besides, on top of all their other shit, Arthur --- oh.
“Wait, wait, hold on a sec.” Arthur pushes Fischer off, panting lightly.
Fischer’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes are wild, dilated. His lips are wet and swollen, panting in ways that only make Arthur dizzier. “What is it?”
“I’m sick, remember? I have a cold.”
Fischer laughs, shaking, “Yeah, so what?”
And that’s all Arthur needs to pull Fischer against him, this time slow-like.
And Arthur doesn’t have a problem.
It’s fine for a bit, having fun with long kisses and hands that roam occasionally. They kiss and push and groan softly into each other’s mouth, tasting the roof, tracing the ridges, gulping breaths and trying to stay put together. Fischer kisses with tongue, almost conservatively but Arthur kisses with teeth and pent-up aggression. They experiment for a bit but having built a rhythm, their lips move in off-center waves, smacking in ways that make Arthur’s chest hot. Fischer’s hands roam up and down Arthur’s back, rushing shivers down his body. Arthur keeps his thumbs trained on Fischer’s cheekbones, controlling and feeling.
It’s when Fischer’s fingers find their way to the buttons of Arthur’s shirt. Robert moves down, pushing his lips against Arthur’s collar, licking delicately. Arthur wraps his arms around Robert’s neck, fingering Robert’s hair and moaning appreciatively. It’s when Fischer bites him that Arthur snaps out of the lustful haze (Arthur’s never been a biter) and belated realization dawns on him.
This time, he really pushes Fischer off. “What are you doing?”
Fischer wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist again, “I told you, I don’t care if you’re sick.” He goes to kiss him again but Arthur stops him.
“How does that have to do with you taking my clothes off?”
Fischer takes a step back, paling. “What are you talking about?”
Arthur pushes him away further, buttoning shirt back up. “What makes you think I want you to take my clothes off, Robert?”
Fischer’s flush fades, his eyes narrowing. “That’s usually how these things progress.”
“Not with me they don’t.” Arthur buttons his collar and undoes his tie, “I don’t know what kind of people you run with, but I am not going to fuck you.”
“Wait, are you being serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Fischer rolls his eyes, “C’mon, don’t be such a kid.”
“There’s nothing kiddish about not sleeping with someone I’ve only known for two weeks. Who, then turns out to be a douche.”
“Arthur. You can’t fucking just leave me here. At least give me a hand.”
“Fuck yourself, Fischer. Just because we won you think you can fuck me?”
Fischer glances around, then back at him, “What about Eames?”
“What about Eames! Eames has nothing to do with this.”
Robert’s leer is glacial now, “Fuck you, Arthur. We all saw you dancing with him last week.”
“What the fuck does dancing have to do with anything? I danced with Mal, too.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
Arthur’s starting to get the feeling that he’ll have to take a swing at Robert to get out of this. “I didn’t say you were an idiot. What the fuck is your problem?”
“You’re my problem right now, Arthur. Everyone knows you fucked Eames. It’s not a goddamn secret.”
Arthur is stonewalled by this, “Who the fuck said that?”
Fischer takes his moment of confusion to push himself back into Arthur’s space. He rubs his erection on Arthur’s thigh, breathing into his neck, whimpering, “So why can’t you fuck me?”
Disgusted, Arthur shoves him off and swings. A left hook throws Fischer back over his bed, across the room. A string of blood appears at the corner of his mouth. He shoots a glare at Arthur, the kind that speaks curiosity and malice, maybe even premeditation. Arthur can’t help the twitch in his fingers, weaponless. “Fuck you, Fischer. You’re such a fucking creep. Don’t talk to me anymore. I’m switching debate partners. The next time you come near me, I’ll rip your pretty fucking eyes out of your skull with a goddamn fork.”
Arthur barely has the presence of mind to grab his tie, slipping off his shoulder, and storms out in a murderous rage. The halls are angry white with a few people but he shoves his way through. He pounds out the hallway and down the stairs until he can’t hear Fischer calling him back anymore. When he’s finally outside, he’s almost thankful for the harsh wind. It stings his cheeks and stabs shivers through his clothes but it clears his head.
He’s starting to have coherent thoughts again. What a fucking creep. Shit, it’s cold. Where’s my jacket? Fuck. I’m not going back to that asshole for a jacket. I rather freeze. Shit.
He crosses the campus in swift strides and barely makes it in for curfew: Fuck, it’s cold.
-
In this dream, it’s always the pain that gets him. It’s never so much the actual content of the dream, but the vivid pain. It always finds a way to crawl into is veins and pull and scratch until he wakes up. He’s been having this dream since junior high and yet. It always starts the same and it’s always the pain that pulls him out of it.
He’s walking, barefoot, for what feels like miles through hot, coarse desert road. The concrete is merciless and burns through the arches of his feet. The shirt he’s wearing melts right onto his back, from the heat of the sun. It sticks to his skin and melts and melts until all he has left is his blistering skin, bursting open. The wounds sting and bleed fruitlessly. The blood slithers down his arms and each of his bumpy ribs, curving with viscosity. With every breath, his mouth squeaks in protest, his throat wheezes with dehydration.
He walks down the road, trying to reach the horizon. As he gets closer, he can hear the sound of waves rocking against a shore. Behind him is only the blurry, acute heat.
Every time he takes a step, his arches burn and the soles send shooting pains up his calf and straight to his femur. It’s sharp and unyielding, growing in strength as he marches. He always gets to the part where the skin of his feet rips open and every step he takes is accented with the soft squelch of his blood. Whenever he turns, the blood of his footprints boils under the heat until it’s gone.
It gives him no choice but to keep walking.
He walks to the end of the road, and it always just stops there with a cliff hanging open at the end, he's only got two options at this point. He can turn around and walk back the same way. Or he can jump. But every time, before he can make a decision, the game changes. A hand springs out and grabs onto the ledge, dragging itself up. Arthur steps away from it, as a body follows an arm follows that hand. Those wretched, broken knuckles. Tall stands a being, reaching out to embrace Arthur. His touch is chilled, so he allows it. But the ice freezes of his hands burns his skin. It reaches inside and burns his veins and when he can’t move from such numbing pain, the being splits him open.
He sinks his crooked jaws into the bones of Arthur’s back, gnawing through layers of ice and peeling off melted, sizzling skin until he reaches the soft, chewy spine. Nose deep in his bodily organs, the shadow breathes in sharp hisses. Arthur falls to the ground and is kicked onto his numbed back. His bones crack and leak marrow in the heat. Grinning through white teeth stained purple black, he spits on Arthur’s chest.
He reaches out and grabs Arthur’s neck with sharp claws. They dig and rip into his skin and Arthur’s heaving chest can’t heave anymore--not in this heat, there's so much sweat and the stench of blood is overpowering--and he passes out from the pain but he wakes up in real life. When he looks for the scars, the blood, the wounds all he finds is smooth skin and his chest can heave again. Arthur throws up in the bathroom and goes back to class.
-
It was his last class of the day that he fell asleep in, and he had that dream, meaning either he’s got or already has a fever. Mild or fierce, his temperature has increased, so he’s having the dream. He toughs it out, though. There’s only an hour left and he can skip debate and go straight to bed.
It seems walking across the campus without a jacket twice in so many days has only had the predicted outcome. But he won the debate team a trophy so they wont be too mad if he skips one meeting and takes a nap. Arthur wishes he could say as much for Cobb.
Class ends and the bell rings and Arthur walks back to his room in a haze. Inside, he slips off his shoes and jacket and shirt, tie, socks. He changes into a pair of black pajama bottoms in a fog. The pillows is cool against his skin and it feels distractingly good. Arthur is slipping on sleep when his phone rings, sharp and violently, the ringtone he set for Cobb.
The ring is muddled and distant through his pile of clothes on the floor. He reaches for it blindly, making no real effort to get it in time. It doesn’t matter though, because when it stops, it only takes three seconds before it starts ringing again. Cursing, Arthur finally brings the phone to his ear, answering, “What is it, Dom?”
“Hey, are you busy?”
“Yes. Fuck off.”
Dom laughs, “Come down to the parking lot of your dorm, yeah? I’m outside. I brought you coffee.”
Arthur’s eyes snap open, “Where are you?”
“You’re in Fuller Hall, right? I’m right outside. Silver Chrysler. Hurry, yeah? It’s getting cold.”
Arthur sits up, pulling on the nearest tee shirt at the foot of the bed. It might be Yusuf’s but he’s not as worried about that. “You’ve been driving? God, you maniac! For how long?”
Dom coughs, sickening on his end, “Yes. For, maybe, half an hour. There’s a highway--”
“You were on the highway? You’re such a stupid fuck. Don’t move, I’ll be right down.”
Arthur pockets his phone and pulls on his jacket. He sticks his feet in his slippers and runs out of the room, barely having the presence of mind to close the door behind him. He flies down the stairs, fighting waves of nausea he knows will hit him once he’s sure Dom is okay.
At the last landing, he pushes the door open and storms out into the parking lot. He sees Dom’s car right away, parked a few spaces away from where Arthur is standing. Arthur crosses the lot and swings the driver’s seat door open. Dom is slouched against his seat, his head tipped back. When he appears, Dom rolls his head and looks up at Arthur through tired eyes. “Hey, Arthur?”
Arthur scowls. Dom looks fine, if not happy. “What happened?”
Dom ignores him and sits up a little, “Help me out.”
Arthur moves to grab Dom around the waist, pulling him out of the car. Dom stands, leaning against the car. Arthur takes the keys from the ignition and closes the door. He doesn’t bother to ask where Dom lifted this car and he doesn’t want to know the answer. Dom laughs at him, pained. “What did you do?” Arthur demands.
Dom reaches out and pulls Arthur to him. Arthur stumbles a little but catches himself against the car. He’s caught between being pissed and worried. “Dom, just tell me.”
“Shh,” Dom whispers, smiling rather loosely.
Dom grabs his other hand pulls it up to his chest, pressing Arthur’s hand against his shirt, lightly. Arthur can feel the expanse of his chest as he breathes and finds the shirt is wet and warm and Dom smells gross. Disgusting even, like copper. Arthur’s eyes widen. He slides his hand inside Dom’s jacket, exploring. Dom is wearing a black shirt but Arthur can tell the entire shirt is soaked and it isn’t long before he finds the tell-tale rip in the shirt. He pulls back and looks down, his palms are stained with blood. “You fucking asshole. What happened?” Then instincts kick in, “Shit, where you followed?
Dom shakes his head, “Let’s go inside.”
Arthur wraps an arm around Dom’s waist and grips his hip to keep him steady. Dom throws an arm around Arthur’s shoulder and presses his nose against Arthur’s neck. The walk back takes longer than Arthur would’ve liked. Still, he can’t be sure where Dom is injured but if he’s lost so much blood that his shirt is soaked, then he probably shouldn’t move at a lightning speed. Somewhere along the second staircase, Dom’s forehead slides down onto Arthur’s temple and it’s cold and lessens the impending nausea but it scares Arthur to think about Dom at the preliminary stages of shock.
In the room, Arthur sets Dom on the bed and tears off his jacket and tosses it on the desk. His hands are covered in blood, so he grabs the shirt he’s wearing and wipes them clean. Dom watches, faintly entertained. Arthur steadies him and then heads to the bathroom. He grabs his first aid kit, a roll of paper towels and his rattiest bath towels. He reaches behind the mirror and pulls out some antibiotics and the crappy painkillers he hid there before he knew Yusuf was a drug runner and probably had better stuff.
When he gets back to him, Dom is gripping the edges of the bed like he might fall forward. Arthur grabs a pair of scissors and rips Dom’s shirt down the middle. He slips both the shirt and jacket down Dom’s shoulders, only to be sicked by what he finds.
Dom’s chest is scarred, as it has been since they were kids, but. Now he’s got a laceration wrapping around his chest, bleeding profusely. “Jesus, Dom, what the hell happened!”
Arthur stands and grabs a bath towel, pressing it against Dom and keeping pressure to stop the bleeding. Dom hisses but Arthur doesn’t let up. Dom tips his head back, smiling, “Knife fight. Isn’t that nuts?”
Arthur rolls his eyes, Dom always gets a little psycho when he loses blood. He’ll have to wait until he cleans him up to get a straight answer. When the bleeding stops for the majority, Arthur cleans his chest up until he can see the wound clearly. It’s a gash, really, from his third rib to the curve of his back. It’s jagged and long but nothing too deep. Arthur can only see red and pink so he figures any deeper and it would have been a hospital problem. Arthur gives him weak painkillers, antibiotics and makes Dom talk to him to keep him awake. Mostly about the color of the ocean and the new girl he’s dating, Celeste.
Arthur cleans him up and presses gauze around his ribs. He’s considered stitching Dom up but he gets loud when he’s in pain and Arthur can’t have that in such a crowded place. He considered the cabin, but then dispelled that thought, Dom would never make it across the campus, the courts and the woods without passing out.
When he’s done, Arthur finds himself covered in blood. Dom is clean and falling asleep, so he goes to wash his hands. The vanilla hand soap makes him puke twice. After that, he washes off the soap with warm water, just to set back the nausea. Arthur realizes that he’s gotten Yusuf’s shirt covered in blood and as he peels it off and throws it away, vows to buy him a new one.
He marches back to the room and wakes Dom up. “Hey.”
Dom’s eyes open just a slit, “What?”
“I’m going to sleep, move over.”
“No.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, “Don’t be a douche.”
Dom frowns a little, “It hurts. Climb over. I’ll be the little spoon.”
Arthur hesitates but climbs over, careful not to stir Dom. “You hate being the little spoon.”
Dom waves a hand, gesturing to the gauze, “Not a lot of other options. You could have slept on your roommate’s bed.”
“One set of blood stained bed sheets are enough, thanks.”
Dom sighs, low and morose, even though he knows Arthur hadn’t meant it that way. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
Arthur pulls Dom’s back to his chest and wraps an arm around his waist, carefully swung low not to hurt him. “You want to tell me what happened?”
Dom sighs, kicking Arthur’s shin absently. “I took a job and it went bad.”
Arthur pulled away, glaring at the back of his neck. “You went on a job without me?”
The sudden movement brought a dizziness on Arthur and his head dropped on Dom’s shoulder before he could stop himself. “Well, obviously, I learned my lesson--dude, shit.” Dom hisses and pulls away from Arthur, then hisses again at the movement of his ribs.
“Arthur, was that you’re forehead?”
Arthur grunts in response, laying back on the pillow and trying to put space between the two of them. It appears that Arthur’s fever has gone up in the last hour. Dom twists his hand and feels around for Arthur’s face. He grabs his chin and tugs it experimentally before moving onto his cheek, his temple, and finally--his forehead. Dom curses, pulling his hand away. “You have a fever, you shit head. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Arthur shrugs, carelessly. “Some cocksucker was bleeding to death in my room. Kinda monopolizes the topic of discussion.”
Dom can’t twist around without reopening a slowly closing wound, making him pretty useless. “I fucking hate you sometimes.”
“Go home then, aforementioned cocksucker.”
“Go die, you asshole.”
“Fuck you,” Arthur mutters back, without any real bite.
“Not tonight, dear. I have a hole in my side.”
Arthur has no retort so they settle back into the silence. It’s dark in the room, Arthur had cut the lights as soon as Dom had started falling asleep. Arthur presses his forehead against Dom’s shoulder but keeps his distance, he doesn’t want to think about how cold Dom’s skin is. The silence is comfortable, it suggests they sleep and sleep.
Arthur has been sleeping in the same bed as Dom for a few years. It’s never been anything other than brotherly. Being so far away from home makes Arthur sick and Dom knows that, so this more of a reminder of home than anything else.
Dom suddenly tenses, “Arthur.”
Arthur hums, “What?”
“Did you have that psychotic dream yet?”
Arthur considers lying, “Yeah, earlier today.”
“How far did you get?”
Arthur knows Dom doesn’t want to know, but he’s asking so, “It was ripping my throat out.”
Dom curses, “Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah, I know.” Arthur never likes telling Dom about the dream. It bothers Dom for Arthur’s psyche, but Arthur knows it only bothers him more if he doesn’t answer.
Dom hesitates now, “Are you--did you take cold medicine?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Liar,” Dom knows better.
“I will. Later. Let’s get some sleep.”
Dom is exhausted from bleeding and quipping so he just sighs and agrees. “Later, you will.”
-
This time, the sleep is dreamless. Which Arthur sort of expected because of all the stress that Dom just put him under and the amount of energy he demanded from himself. Still, he wakes up to Dom, shaking him by kicking his shins.
Arthur shoves his shoulder, “What?”
“Someone is at the door. I think your roommate forgot his key.”
Arthur groans and someone knocks on the door again. He fumbles in the dark to move around Dom without hurting him. Still, Dom is an unrelenting asshole and trips him on his way out. Arthur stumbles but catches himself on the dresser. “Fucker,” he mumbles when Dom laughs.
Moving to the door, Arthur opens it and hisses at the bright hallway light. Yusuf frowns at him from the other side, “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”
Arthur turns away from him and opens the door, heading back to the bed. Dom sits up, all slow moment and gritting jaw. Arthur crawls around him and says, “Yusuf, this is Cobb, he’s an asshole. Cobb, this is Yusuf, he’s my roommate.”
Laying his head back on the pillow, Arthur relaxes into the ghost warmth of Dom’s body on the bed. The covers, twisted in his grip, tangled underneath his body. All he hears is the first strings of introduction between Dom and Yusuf before his eyes sting themselves shut and he gives in.
-
The third time he wakes up, he feels substantially better. In between all the fatigue that’s rolling off his shoulders, he can feel the someone’s weight on the bed, but keeps his eyes closed as he wakes up. There’s a hand on his forehead, over what feels like a wet rag.
He can hear the clacking of Yusuf’s keyboard and Cobb talking about the upcoming March Madness. When he opens his eyes, the lights are dimmed but burn a little. Cobb is sitting next to him, at the edge of the bed. He raises a hand to his head and feels for Dom’s hand to see what he’s holding. It might be an ice pack. Arthur would just like some specificity. “Hey, douchebag.”
Cobb turns and smiles at him, relieved almost. He laughs, “Feeling better, are we?”
Arthur nods and Yusuf turns around and grins at him. “Good to hear. You’d better get up and get ready. It’s almost eight and Eames will be here any minute now. And if you think for a second that you having a fever is going to stop him, then you severely underestimated his stubbornness.”
Cobb grins at this, turning back to Arthur, “Oh, yes. Yusuf told me all about your date with Eames.”
“You told him?” Arthur glares at Yusuf.
He shrugs helplessly in response, “He’s very convincing.”
Arthur sits up, pushing Cobb away as he continues, “Yeah, he told me. And he’s right, I’m very convincing. But I’m more interested in hearing what happened with you and Robert Fischer last night.”
Arthur glances between Cobb and Yusuf, looking for an exit. He’d come back last night pissed and flustered and had refused to tell Yusuf what happened. Yet, he feigns ignorance, “Last night?”
Cobb nods, “I want to know why you went to his place after the debate last night. Why you came back pissed, without your jacket in the winter and why Robert Fischer showed up at breakfast with a split lip this morning. You want to tell me what happened.” It strikes Arthur cruel how Cobb’s last sentence isn’t a question.
Arthur closes his eyes and pretends not to listen to them, but there’s a pressure in his belly building and it’ll start hurting if he doesn’t pee soon. So instead of answering, Arthur stands and grabs a clean bath towel, disappearing into the bathroom. “I better shower if Eames is going to be here soon..”
Arthur knows better than to think that will fix it. He’s just turning to the water when the door clicks open and Cobb walks in. Arthur knows he locked it but a lock has never stopped Cobb before. He hasn’t put a shirt on, probably in fear of hurting the gash. The bandages are clean but wrinkled with bright red specks where the wound is the deepest. He leans against the door frame and watches Arthur expectantly.
Arthur keeps his ground, glaring at Cobb for a full two minutes before Cobb slides a hand into his jeans pocket and pulls out the red die. “I found this on the floor. It’s nice work to the untrained eye, but I know a loaded die when I see it. I was almost proud of the work but then it occured to me why you would need a loaded die. Do you want to tell me what you’ve been getting yourself into?”
Arthur scowls, “Why don’t you tell me what happened to you? Why would you take a job without me?”
“I don’t know if you noticed, Arthur, but you’re incapacitated for work. You live ten fucking miles out of the city and it’s either this or the military. I would prefer to keep you in a place where fuckers aren’t going to shoot at you and you’re out here, gambling with drug runners, “ his voice is rising with every word, “and punching pretty rich boys in the jaw. Eames has a reputation, Arthur. Fischer’s family could probably have you killed. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Do you want to get shipped out? I wouldn’t put it above your asshat of a mother.”
Arthur sniffs, starting down at the shower tiles, running with water. Cobb’s voice is overpowering to the water’s roar, so it’s not like he can pretend he didn’t hear any of that. Arthur thinks about this for a minute, but he already knows he’s going to tell him everything. “Close the door.”
Cobb slips in and slams the door behind him. Arthur takes the die and toys with it in his palm while he talks, spilling truth after truth until the die slips from his hand. When he’s done talking, he picks up the die.
It landed on five.
-
When Arthur steps out of the bathroom, less than twenty minutes later, he’s fully dressed in a pair of navy blue slacks and a white button-up with the sleeves rolled up. In the room, Yusuf turns when Cobb wolf whistles from his position on top of the dresser. Arthur rolls his eyes when Yusuf starts cat calling him too, but cannot suppress the blush that reaches the back of his neck.
“Well, hello, beautiful.”
Arthur spins around and sees the door is open and Eames is standing there, grinning lecherously. Behind him, Arthur hears Cobb jump off the desk and walk up. Arthur can feel the tension coiling in Cobb’s shoulders from where he’s standing. Cobb always had a thing about Arthur dating guys in the business.
“Arthur,” Cobb asks.
Arthur turns to face Cobb and says everything in a calm voice, “It’s fine, Cobb. I am going. It’s not like if I stayed, you would be up for a party anyway. Stay here, rest. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
As they exit, Yusuf flashes Arthur a thumbs-up and Cobb sneers maniacally but nothing stops Eames from leading Arthur out of the room with a hand on the small of his back. They walk to the car in relative silence and when Eames asks who the blond kid was, all Arthur replies is, “Cobb” and Eames doesn’t ask again.
They reach their location and are seated immediately in a private, quiet table. It takes Arthur a minute to realize they’ve got the best table in the house. The waiters bow and never meet their gaze and Arthur is finding it increasingly difficult not to feel like a mob wife. They haven’t even order the appetizers when a waiter arrives, holding a bottle of champagne.
Arthur raises an eyebrow at Eames, questioning his motives. Eames ignores him and addresses the waiter, “What’s this?”
The waiter gestures to a man across the room, “Compliments of Mr. Saito.”
Eames smiles graciously and bows his head, then raises a glass in greeting to the man across the room. The man, dressed far too well to just be another associate, raises the glass in turn and drinks with Eames from across the room. The waiter leaves and Arthur is itching to ask when Eames cuts him off, serving him champagne.
“I know this looks like I’m trying to get you drunk, Arthur, but I’m not. Just have a glass or face the wrath of the most honorable man I know. I assure you that under normal circumstances, I would in no way force liquor on you. That is gauche and as you can tell I am a gentleman, through and through,” Eames offers Arthur the glass, grinning mischievously.
But after an off-balanced day with Cobb and the fever dream, alcohol is precisely what Arthur would like at the moment. He accepts the drink and together, they finish the bottle. The entire dinner passes in polite conversation. Arthur drinks expensive champagne glass after glass and it’s not until they’re standing outside the restaurant that he realizes how much he actually drank, and it all rushes to his head.
He’s not drunk, not even drunk-ish. Eames is leading with a hot hand on his back, towards the car again and the night is over, stolen under stiff waiters and distractingly enjoyable meals. “Well, that was over quicker than expected.”
Arthur’s talking out of his mouth but it sounds far away a bit and he doesn’t mean to sound so disappointed, but he does and some things can’t be helped. “Are you taking me home now, then?”
Eames looks at Arthur over the vague light from the car’s dashboard, in the headlights of passing cars. Arthur can feel the heat growing in his chest and he doesn’t want the moment to pass but he can’t be disappointed when Eames says, “Actually, I want to show you something. Alright?”
Arthur isn’t loose, but the tension in his shoulders is gone. He’s thinking clearly at clear speeds and he can’t think of a reason not to agree, “Yeah, alright.”
Eames flips through half-alright songs on the radio and Arthur laughs when he makes jokes about pop stars. He can’t think of a reason not to. They drive into the outer edges of town until Arthur only just recognizes the streets. When Eames slows the car to a stop, he’s parked at the side of the road. He kills the engine and turns to Arthur, “Wait there.”
Arthur watches curiously as Eames rounds the car and opens the door for him, “Your Majesty.”
Arthur snorts at him but still follows him out. Eames leads him out, with an arm thrown around his shoulders. They walk about half a block before Arthur can see what Eames wanted to show him. It’s a bridge.
It’s not particularly large or assertive in design, but it overlooks a highway and its glowing in headlights, and completely alone. Arthur stops when he sees the spot, “You want to take me out there where no one can hear my screams over the traffic?”
Eames turns to laugh at him, “I promise not to kill you so violently.”
Eames slips his fingers around Arthur’s wrist, pulling him towards the bridge, along the sidewalk. Arthur lets himself be lead into the center of the bridge and Eames threads his free fingers into the chain link fence. Arthur turns his back to the highway and leans against the railing, but still doesn’t pull his wrist out of Eames’ grasp.
Eames grins in the flood of headlights and picks Arthur’s wrist up, rubbing the pads of his thumbs over the bones. Arthur watches, entranced. Eames speaks again, his low drawl is clear, cutting through the noise, “D’you know why I brought you here?”
Arthur purses his lips in thought, then nods in gesture to the traffic, “To murder me with an audience.”
Eames smiles, and pulls Arthur’s hand up to his lips, brushing over the knuckles. “No, love. Take a look around.”
Arthur does just that, glancing at back where they came from, to the highway behind him, the smear of red lights going forward as the cars past under the bridge and finally rests his eyes on Eames. “What is it?”
Eames rolls his eyes, “Look up, you prawn.”
Arthur tips his head back, laughing, and then sees what Eames means. Over the top of the horizon, the moon is a thin sliver. In the echoes of engines and the harsh exhales of Eames’ chest, Arthur zeroes in and he can hear his own heartbeat. It’s pounding against the edge of Eames’ fingernail and the moon is bursting out against the dark, He watches it for a minute, forgetting his purpose.
“Did you bring me here because of the moon?”
“No.”
“What is it then?”
Arthur turns back to him and Eames smiles, “It’s nothing, actually. I just wanted to see the line of your neck in this light.”
Arthur scoffs, “You are impossible,” but he can’t hide the smile that quivers his lower lip.
Eames’ eyes glint, “I try,” and then, without thinking it through, he adds, “…around you, at least.”
Arthur’s feet shift on their own accord, straightening up against Eames. “And what was the verdict?”
Eames shakes off the glint, “On what?”
The cold of the metal railing slips through the fabric of Arthur’s shirt. He left his jacket in the car, but it isn’t cold here. “On the line of my neck.”
Eames shrugs, stepping closer into Arthur’s space and rubbing his palm. Eames’ fingers are cold inside the warmth but Arthur can’t think of a reason to pull away. “I’m not sure. I think I need a closer look.”
Arthur laughs now, ducking his head to hide the dimples he knows will appear. Eames’ shoes scratch against the worn concrete, shifting closer. Arthur’s dimples hide again and he looks up, prepared to meet Eames halfway on this. The headlights pass over and over, blinding and then disappearing into a red blur behind the chain link fence on the other side of the bridge. The cavity between them is closing, in small predatory leers.
Arthur is little surprised at himself by how much he wants to kiss Eames there. Eames’ fingers slip through the chain link and reach out to hold Arthur’s hip. The wind whistles sharply inside Arthur’s chest.
It takes him a minute but then Arthur realizes it‘s not the wind. His phone is ringing deep in his pocket. Eames swears and pulls away, forgetting about Arthur’s hip and fingers hiding into the inside of his own pocket. He looks shaken, as if in a deep trance.
Arthur answers the phone now, without checking the caller ID, “What the fuck could you possibly want?”
“You left your jacket in my room.”
Arthur snaps the phone shut, cursing the navy skies black. “Son of a bitch.”
Eames is leaning against the fence now, both hands braced against it. He laughs, an honest chuckle, “I take it you don’t react well to being interrupted?”
“Not really, no.”
Arthur sighs but doesn’t move to put together their previous position, trying to stave off the wave of anger brought on by Fischer’s call. Eames stares out onto the traffic for a bit and Arthur watches the blur of red. He fingers the broken concrete on the ledge, ripping years old paint and pondering.
Before he can decide anything conclusive, Eames’ phone rings. It’s not sharp, but it is obnoxious and Arthur can’t help that scoff that follows it. Eames grins through his hand as he answers, “Eames here… hey, Mal. No, I’m busy…” he laughs here, “Yes, with Arthur… no, not doing that… or that… blimey, I hope we do that,” Eames grin lasciviously in Arthur’s direction.
Arthur snickers to himself, picking apart the paint on the railing.
“I don’t know… perhaps? Let me ask.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow and Eames leans in to tell him that Mal found a party, sounds good, if you want to go. That we should definitely go. Arthur looks at Eames through the slits of his peripheral vision and nods. “Yeah, let’s go.”
-
Eames’ fingers don’t wrap around Arthur’s wrist the next time he leads him out of the car. They slide into Arthur’s palm and tug. Arthur follows, willingly and doesn’t let the shy smile on Eames’ lips go unnoticed.
They move up the stairs in slow motions, Arthur is trying to drag this out. He wants this good night kiss before they reach Dom again. He knows the tension in his shoulders will come back and he doesn’t want Mr. Saito’s very brilliant champagne to go to waste.
Eames’ fingers brush Arthur’s knuckles every other stair, at a steady pace. Arthur lives on the third floor. They make it to the door of Arthur’s room with minimal interruption. It’s late on a Friday night so the halls are empty because everyone will be at a party around now. They’re only here now to abandon the Oxford shirts and grab Yusuf and Co. before heading off to this house party.
At the door, Eames leans against the frame and watches Arthur curiously. There’s a ruckus inside the room, combinations of laughter and shouts. He can’t help but think about last week, at the cabin, dancing with Eames.
Eames brings Arthur’s hand up again, touching his lips against the third knuckle in a humble kiss. Arthur raises an eyebrow, for lack of else to do. Eames grins cheekily, “Just in case I don’t get a good night kiss.”
Arthur means to correct that, but the door swings open and they snap apart. In the doorway, Ariadne glances between the two of them and their hands regrettably. “Did I interrupt something?”
Arthur tries not to resent her for it.
PART III