Just A Little Longer (3/4)
Apr. 7th, 2011 08:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ofvanityMASTERPOST
PART I
PART II
The party is at a house, two or three miles away from the school. Ariadne, Mal, Cobb and Yusuf pile themselves in the backseat of Eames’ car. Ariadne ended up sitting in Mal’s lap and Cobb and Yusuf looked absolutely giddy. The ride is full of bad music and Eames glancing at Arthur every little bit, smiling and gesturing to Mal and Cobb in the rearview mirror.
It only took Arthur a few minutes to catch on. Mal is leaning over Ariadne and laughing with her hand on Cobb’s arm. Before they enter the house, he asks Cobb to borrow his cell phone.
“What for?” Cobb is squinting at him.
Arthur rolls his jacket onto his shoulders, “I don’t have signal.”
“Who’re you going to call? Everyone you know is right here.”
Mal, standing behind him, snorts in laughter. She’s got her hand on his shoulder, leading him into the house and that’s what gets Cobb to toss him the phone. Yusuf and Ariadne disappear into the house, Mal and Cobb following him.
Arthur stays back, dialing the phone. Eames leans against the car, nodding in askance. Arthur shakes his head, listening to the phone ring on the other line. It rings a few more times and then someone answers. “Hello?”
“Hey, Celeste. It’s Cobb.”
“Dom, hey baby. “
Arthur resists the laughter and clears his throat, “Hey, are you busy?”
“Not at all. What’s up?”
“Listen, I think we should break up.”
Eames’ eyebrows shoot up into his hair and he starts laughing quietly. Arthur restrains a smile and cuts off the girl babbling on the other end. “I know it hasn’t been that long, Celeste. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and it’s just not going to work out. I’m sorry it had to be this way.”
“Is this a joke?” she’s shrieking into Arthur’s ear.
Arthur rolls his eyes, “It’s not a joke, Celeste. I’m sorry. Don’t call me again.”
Arthur hangs up and pockets the phone, grinning at Eames. He nods at the house, asking whether or not they should go in. Eames laughs and shakes his head in approval.
The party is a living, breathing mass inside the house. Everywhere are students from their school, drinking and humping and grinding on the dance floor, in closets, on the couches. It only takes thirty seconds for the group to get separated in the tidal wave. Yusuf and Ariadne get lost in the crowd, heading towards the kitchen. Mal and Cobb disappear in the people on the dance floor and Eames pulls Arthur out of the breathing mess to a porch.
Somewhere inside the mess, he managed to grab a pair of beers. They sip them on the balcony and Eames asks Arthur what the call was about.
Arthur shrugs, “I’ve always kind of made it my personal objective to keep Cobb an honest man. Between getting away from Mal and grilling me about how dinner went, he won’t have time to care about Celeste. And I know that he doesn’t. Not with how he’s looking at Mal.”
Eames nods, sipping his bear. Behind him, there is a pounding techno beat that shakes the house. “Is he your brother or something?”
Arthur laughs, leaning over the balcony railing, with his forearms rested on it. “No, he’s just an old friend.”
Eames stands next to him, fingering the mouth of the bottle, loosely. “Oh, alright then. “
Arthur glances over his shoulder and squints at the bright light that frames Eames. From inside the house, someone has started a strobe light. In between the flashes, Arthur quirks his head, “Are you blond?”
Eames grimaces and runs a hand through his hair, self-consciously. “No. I mean, I am, but not naturally. It’s all the chlorine from the pool. I despise it. “
Arthur looks at him like he’s grown a second head, “Why are you spending so much time in a pool?”
Eames glances up at him, “I’m on the swim team.”
Arthur turns, raising an eyebrow, “You’re on the--what?”
Eames looks away, blushing slightly. “I’m on the swim team. At the Academy.” Then adds quickly, as if to restore his cred, “And the rugby.”
Arthur is even more shocked, “You actually go there?”
“Did you think I didn’t?” A thought strikes Eames and he continues, “Did you think that I was just some creep hanging around your school?”
Arthur smirked, a little embarrassed. “Well, that and sold drugs. I mean.”
Eames guffawed at him, moving to lean over the railing next to him. “So you agreed to a date with a creepy old guy that hangs around your school and sells drugs?”
“I didn’t actually agree to it, you rolled the corporeal die or whatever,” Arthur rolled his eyes.
“Well, it’s been quite a long night and I haven’t heard a complaint,” Eames prompts.
Arthur glances at him, only slightly because the strobe light behind him is unreasonably annoying, “I suppose not.”
A beat passes between them in silence, or as silent as it could get with the yawning house bursting open with bass and treble. Eames grins down at his hands and Arthur pretends not to notice. After another beat, Eames bumps his shoulder against Arthur’s. Arthur glances at him again, bottle halfway to his lips. “What is it?”
Eames nods towards the house, “Dance with me.”
Arthur looks at him now that the strobe light has been turned off but is distracted by something just inside the house. He nods his head in direction of the house, “You mean like them?”
Eames stands and looks into the building. Through the glass doors of the porch, Mal and Dom are at the edge of the crowd, grinding chest to chest, foreheads stacked against each other. Mal is laughing coyly and Dom looks ravenous. Their beat is off but at the rate they’re going--Mal’s leg wrapped around Dom’s, pulling him into her space, Dom’s hands riding high on her thigh and low on her back, guiding their juke--Arthur thinks the least of their worries is the music. Watching them, he finds himself a bit breathless.
“Well,” Eames announces, clearing his throat. “How long have they known each other?”
Arthur brings himself back to the porch, “An hour, or two, give or take.”
Eames looks vaguely impressed, “Your friend is fast. Granted, so is Mal.”
Arthur shakes his head in disapproval but laughs anyway. Eames turns back to him and takes Arthur’s beer, setting down on the railing next to his own. “C’mon, then. Let’s dance.”
“I’m not dancing like that with you.” Arthur straightens, pocketing his hands.
“Ah, the ever present guard.” Eames grabs Arthur’s wrist, slipping his fingers into the pocket to reach, “Just one dance. I’ll be a perfect gentleman. Well, I’ll be gentle at least. Or...” he hesitates, “do you not know how to?”
Arthur rolls his hand off his wrist, “I can dance, I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“How far would we be without a multitude of bad ideas in this world?”
Arthur looks away, considering it. “Probably striving in technology that is only available now through science fiction and multi-million dollar movie budgets. In any case, you’re not convincing me.”
“Oh, c’mon. One dance, Arthur,” and then he’s tugging him inside the house. “And I think you’ll recall that resistance is futile.”
The push through the crowd, swallowing them whole and find a space near the center. Arthur objects, talking loudly in Eames’ ear. Eames shakes his head and replies only by raising a finger, and mouthing, “One.” As in one dance.
“One song,” Arthur compromises. Techno beats like this are usually short and this song is already halfway through.
Eames shrugs but grins, “Alright.”
People around them bend to make space and Arthur lets Eames pull himself against him. His hands appear low at Arthur’s hips and his breath is hot at his neck. Somewhere between Eames, pressed against his waist and the beat pounding in his chest, one song becomes three.
The first is a slow beat, compared to the others. They move in rigid swings against each other but as the tempo picks up, Eames’ rolls against him and Arthur was never one to step down from a challenge. There’s nothing particularly attractive about watching the people in front of him dance as he pushes against Eames, but the others watch them with shameless leers. It only progresses as the second song starts in, somewhere blurred in between their skin. It’s demanding and quick but Eames moves against him in patient, passive moves.
Arthur tells himself that it’s misplaced paranoia that makes him turn around to face Eames while they dance, but it’s the lack of real contact. The songs had blurred--probably a mix, Arthur decides he should have suspected that at a house party--and he stops moving to turn and face him, pushing a leg between his knees and wrapping his arm around the other’s neck. Eames turns into him, his hands reach higher on his hips, “Arthur--”
“Shut up.” Arthur cuts off his warning, “It’s one dance.”
There’s bass in his ears, only the noise of crowd and beating down into his chest and Eames is moving in ripples, pulsing with motion and sweat and breath. Arthur can feel the scratch of Eames’ hands dry at his hips, the beads of sweat running on the inside hollow of his throat. Eames is so close and solid and he moves to press his forehead against Arthur’s, clutching his skin. Arthur can’t so much hear the music as he can feel it. He can’t hear the crowd or the yawning house, only his breathing and the steady rustle of their clothes as they move in beat. And Eames. He can feel the weight of Eames against his chest, moving slowly, breathing into the curve of Arthur’s neck and touching the space between his waistband and his shirt, gently at least.
And he only has a split second of realization before the heat is gone, replaced with the cold air of the room. He only has a split second of the chill running down his back and the dizziness of being pulled out Eames’ gravitational pull.“Arthur!”
The hand that pulled him away is small and lovely and Arthur turns to meet Mal with unfocused eyes and she’s shouting over the music but it sounds worse than it should. Over the music he can only pick out a few words, and then she’s got her hand around his wrist and tugs him through the crowd. They don’t part for her and Arthur is disoriented enough without stumbling through people until they’re outside of the house.
When they reach the front lawn, Arthur doesn’t need her to explain anymore because the ring of students chanting in tongues is pretty tell-tale. Arthur pushes through the circle with a sudden rage that they part for him. But when he gets too the center, he realizes he’s too late. Cobb is landing his final punch on Fischer’s angel face and standing up when Arthur reaches them,
“Dom, what are you doing?” Mal stumbled out of the crowd and rushes to him, panicked.
Cobb is seething with anger when he meets Arthur’s eyes and Arthur’s own resolve softens, understanding Dom’s intentions. He throws an arm around Mal’s shoulders and leaves Fischer, groaning on the floor, bloodied. Cobb reaches down all of a sudden and picks something off the ground. It’s Arthur’s jacket, that he left at Fischer’s. He pulls it on and then walks to stand in front of Arthur.
He’s opening his mouth to speak when Arthur reaches out and puts his hand on Dom’s ribs, where the gauze is soaked through. Arthur sets his jaw, watching Cobb visibly bite the inside of his cheek, and clenches his fingers around the ribs. “You tore it open, asshole.”
Dom’s gaze is dark, there’s no real light out here but it cuts to Arthur without malice, “You are my brother. And I would anything do for you, even if it means providing violence on your behalf,” then his gaze turns behind Arthur, “Is that understood.”
Arthur glances behind him to find Eames there, eyebrows raised as though amused. But instead of provoking anything, he answers in the least sarcastic way he can manage, “Yes, sir.”
Yusuf and Ariadne appear and break the silence, dismissively. “Let’s get out of here before things get worse.”
Arthur nods, “Yes, lets.” He throws Yusuf a pleading look and he knows Yusuf gets it because he glances at Arthur’s hand on Dom’s ribs and Mal, wrapped dangerously close. Yusuf grabs Ariadne and Mal and walks off with them, arms thrown over each of their shoulders.
When they’re out of ear shot, roaring in laughter, Arthur shoves Dom with the palm of his free hand. Dom wavers but doesn’t move too much. “Take my jacket off, you’re going to get blood all over it. Eames, go start the car and look for a anything plastic that might stop the bleeding.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Arthur sighs, impatiently. “Cobb is injured. Very seriously injured and chose to not give a shit in favor of punching Fischer in the face a few times.”
Cobb shoves the jacket at Arthur’s chest, “God, I hope I broke that fucker’s ribs.”
Arthur scowls, tentatively removing his hand from Cobb’s shirt. He turns around and shows it to Eames, but doesn’t meet his gaze, there’s blood on his hand and it’s Cobb’s and he’s supposed to wear that on the inside, “Look, he’s got a serious injury. Please, now, get to the car and try to find something that will control the bleeding. Let’s try to keep this quiet, okay? There is no reason for the girls to find out, they might panic. Yusuf knows but he hasn’t offered any real help, which is fine. I don’t need help, Cobb does. I just need something to stop the bleeding and then I need you to take me home. Actually, I mi--”
“Arthur, stop.” Eames cuts him off, gripping his shoulders.
Arthur snaps his gaze up and tries not to look put off. He should have expected that Cobb would come along to the party if they were going with other people, he should have expected Cobb to get violent after what Arthur told him about Fischer, he should have. “Can you stop for a minute?”
“What is it?” he doesn’t mean to snap but it’s better than his voice cracking and that’s all he has to say for himself.
“I have a first aid kit at the cabin, full of good equipment. Yusuf can get your friend some pain killers and Mal can stitch him up. Besides, worse comes to worse, I can call in a favor with some powerful people.”
Arthur sets his jaw, “No, no, I don’t need you to do that. I don’t need--”
“I don’t care what you need, I want to do it.” Eames voice is final and snaps Arthur out of his haze. Thirty seconds ago he was dancing with Eames and now he’s got Dom’s blood in his hands, and Eames brings him back into alignment. Arthur meets his eyes and remembers what needs to be done.
He nods curtly, “Okay. Bring the car around the front and ask Yusuf to brief Mal on the issue. We’ll need to go straight to the cabin.”
Eames’ mouth flickers a smile but then he’s gone, following orders. Arthur turns back to Dom and glares at him, “That’s three shirts you’ve ruined today.”
-
Mal, as it turns out, has experience stitching wounds closed. It’s not as alarming as it is disconcerting, at least to Arthur and Cobb. When asked, Eames refuses to elaborate where this skill came from and Mal just smiles a little Mona Lisa smile. Yusuf continues his tight-lipped campaign and Ariadne shrugs. Mal moves the needle with a vulgar precision, only wincing when she sees blood. Cobb grits his teeth and sets his jaw every time that the needle sinks into his skin, but offers no other signs of pain.
Usually, whenever Arthur stitches Cobb up, he screams and writhes and punches the nearest object--usually Nash--but this time it’s Mal doing it. Arthur suspects that Dom is sucking it up like a good little patient because it’s Mal. Granted, Arthur’s only ever stitched Cobb up twice.
But then, after a bit, Cobb relaxes. Arthur is pretty sure it has more to do with the Valium that Yusuf brought him, but it could just as easily be the way Mal is palming the flat planes of his stomach. It’s not until that Mal’s knuckles scrape at the top of Cobb’s belly button that Arthur decides to leave them to it.
They were watching Mal stitch him up, sprawled on the couches in the basement of the cabin. Yusuf had disappeared post-Valium delivery with Ariadne. Eames was sitting at the base of the stairs, wringing a white rag in his hands to get the blood off. Arthur has long since conceded in the battle against it, the gray shirt he's wearing is officially ruined. He just adds it to Cobb’s debt.
The ride over had been pretty rough, Eames had cut through a path in the woods to reach the cabin faster and they did, but it was messy and turbulent. It was also pretty nerve-wrecking. Ariadne was having a fit in the back with Yusuf trying to calm her down and Mal was trying to clot the blood with Cobb’s shirt and Arthur was just trying to keep his head steady while Eames sped through the streets, then through rough terrain.
Arthur makes his way over and sits down next to Eames, sighing. Eames glances over at him for a second and then continues what he’s doing. After a few more wrings, he admits defeat and tosses the rag off to the side. Arthur bumps his shoulder and starts in with his apology, “I’m sorry about this.”
Eames looks over at him now and gives him a long-suffering sigh. “I told you, I wanted to to do this for you.”
Arthur shrugs, “That doesn’t change that you didn’t have to.”
Eames looks off for a bit, thinking and then says, “I’ll tell you what. Accompany me to the Valentine’s Dance next week and we’ll call it even.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow, “You want me to go where with you?”
Eames grins, “Valentine’s dance. It’s here, at the Academy.”
Arthur’s brow furrows, “Why do you want to go to a high school dance?”
Eames’ grin turns wicked, “To parade you around on my arm, of course. And so I can take you back behind the school and--”
“Fuck!”
Arthur shoots up, immediately alarmed, “What is it?”
Mal turns to face them, “No, it’s nothing too bad, I just, I need more iodine.”
Cobb nudges her with his knee so quickly, Arthur almost misses it. As if an afterthought, Mal adds, “And gauze tape,” she is nudged again, “And gauze.”
Eames, having not caught Cobb’s encouragement, stands and brushes dirt off his slacks, “Alright, I’ll head to the nearest drugstore. Arthur?”
Cobb cuts in here, nudging Mal to do the same, “Yeah, yeah, take Arthur.”
Arthur turns to him with a scowl and a raised eyebrow as if to say Did you really just miss that? Eames looks confused, “What?”
Arthur turns his expression to Mal who smiles in a coquette manner. Cobb looks away from him, inspecting the work of the stitches. Arthur sighs, “Alright, let’s go. Where’s the nearest store?”
Eames shrugs, “Cutting through the forest, four or five kilometers. We’ll need a change of clothes, though. Or, at least you will.”
“Forget it, I’ll stay in the car and you’ll get the stuff.”
“Alright,” Eames grabs his keys from the coffee table next to Mal’s equipment. He kisses her cheeks and whispers something to her in French that makes her blush.
Eames moves back to Arthur and they ascend. In the car, Arthur asks what Eames whispered to her. Eames smiles at the windshield and says, “I told her to mind his stitches when they start shagging.”
Arthur looks out through the trees in the forest to hide his laughter.The terrain gets rough towards the edge of the clearing and Eames gets quiet, focusing. When they reach the road, Arthur leans back and smells leather. He glances at Eames who is gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.
“Something on your mind, dear?” Arthur prompts playfully.
Eames bursts into laughter, glancing at Arthur with bright eyes. “I never can tell what to expect from you. One minute you’re looking at me with disdain and then you say I have serious--what was it?--oh, dick sucking lips.”
Arthur pointedly doesn’t laugh, “I thought I dreamt that.”
Eames smiles, “You thought I was a dream?”
Arthur rolls his eyes, “That’s not what I said.”
Eames’ grin doesn’t falter a bit, “But it’s what you meant.”
Sinking into the leather, he says, “Seriously, what’s the matter? Besides the fact that your date was hijacked.”
Eames’ smile falters this time, “Nothing, just. Have you considered the possibility that your friend may need a transfusion? He’s bleeding pretty badly--”
“Eames,” Arthur warns, the humor is gone from his voice.
“Arthur, he could need it.”
“I know, Eames, jeez. He’s just going to have to suck it up. Rub some dirt in it. I know Cobb, he’ll handle it just fine.”
Eames is silent for for a beat, then starts again. “I told you, I could have him properly taken care of.”
“Eames, no.”
“Why not, darling?” He’s frustrated now and Arthur would like nothing more than to drop the subject.
“I already owe you enough. You don’t have to keep doing me favors.”
“It can be a gift.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, and when he speaks, it’s with finality. This conversation is over, “It can’t, Eames. No.”
Eames slows to stop at a red light and looks over at Arthur, glaring out the window. “Very well. You win.”
He reaches out to cup Arthur’s jaw and when Arthur turns into his hand to scold him, he pulls back as if stung. “What the fuck, Arthur?”
Arthur scowls anyway, as Eames starts in with a string of curse words and an overbearing rant about when it is appropriate to tell your date you have fever. A very high fever, at that. The rest of the car ride zooms by, Eames is suddenly revitalized by Arthur’s condition. He drags him out of the car and into the store. “Eames, I’m fine, this is seriously unnecessary. You’re being ridiculous.”
His protests fall on deaf ears, Eames is already whistling for the pharmaceutical attendant. They’re standing in the cold and flu aisle and Eames wont let his grip falter for a bit around Arthur’s wrist. He whistles again, sharper. “Oi! Can I get some attendance here? Paying customer and all, let’s hurry it up.”
Arthur rugs on his grip experimentally and isn’t surprised to find it practically deadlocked. “Eames, don’t make a scene. It’s not enough that I’m covered in blood?”
Eames turns and smiles at him. “You’re right. I’m sorry, where are my manners? Here, take my jacket. Zip it up and you’ll be as good as new.”
Arthur almost objects, because he’s not a fucking girl for Eames to always be giving him his jacket, but he’d rather not have someone call the cops on him or something. He takes the jacket and Eames only lets his hand slip long enough for them to maneuver the zipper. Just on time, a very harassed-looking pharmaceutical attendant comes storming down the aisle. Her face splits into a fake cheery grin and she only glances at them before she starts, “May I help you, sirs?”
Eames harasses her into giving them her expert medical opinion (What university did you go to? John Hopkins, I hope. No? Pity. I’m sure they would have liked you, you’re so charming.) Then he subsequently insults her hair and her shoes and her job before he asks her to bugger off, please. She glares at him for a second, like she’s going to fight back, but then thinks better of it. She storms off and mutters under breath instead.
Eames grins at her and then slips his hand into Arthur’s, leading him down the aisles. A few people toss them unfocused looks and a thought strikes Arthur. He speaks before he can think better of it, “Fischer thinks we’re fucking.”
Eames gives him a half-glance and a snort, turning into the First Aid kit aisle. In his other hand, there’s a bottle of some Robitussin or some nonsense like that. “Fischer can fuck a duck.”
Arthur doesn’t smile, “That’s not my point. Fischer said that everyone knows we are fucking. That we fucked.”
Eames looks at Arthur, sparing him attention. “Arthur, I think you’ll find that Fischer talks a lot of shit. What comes out of his mouth isn’t exactly credible evidence. What are you doing hanging around Fischer, anyway?”
Arthur ignores him, “Why do people think that?” He pulls his hand out of Eames’ grip.
Eames sighs, turning back to him, pocketing his now free hand. “I don’t bloody well know, do I? I can’t control what people think they know.”
Arthur takes a step back, “Eames, what happened last Friday?”
“What, don’t you remember?”
Arthur glances away and back to Eames, setting his jaw. “No, I don’t.”
Eames’ expression turns hard suddenly. “Nothing happened, Arthur. I didn’t take advantage of you, if you really don’t remember. We danced, we talked on the pier, you tempted the hell of me in those slacks. I went inside and sent Yusuf to collect you. Jesus Christ. I’m a lot of things, Arthur, but rapist is not fucking one of them.”
Arthur steels his face, “That’s not what I said.”
Eames turns away from him and starts down the aisle. “But it’s what you meant.” He disappears, turning into another aisle and Arthur just stand there, dumbfounded.
He grabs his phone and speed dials Yusuf. When he answers, Arthur automatically feels guilty for assuming Yusuf wouldn’t tell him something like that happened. Yusuf is out of breath, “--it’s Arthur. What is it?”
“Yusuf, I--uh, why are you out of breath?”
Yusuf laughs, short and clipped and there’s a voice on the other line. “No reason, what’s the matter?”
“Hey, uh, did anything happen last Friday?”
“Oh dear god, Arthur do you have amnesia? What is your--?”
“I’m fine, you moron. I just can’t remember much and Eames said something--I just need to know what happened last Friday.”
“Oh, uh. Nothing. I found you on the pier, you asked me if I had any quarters on me for the pinball machine and I decided to take you home. You tried to get me to play soccer. And climb a tree. And harmonize a Whitney Houston song. Uh, then you kinda passed out. It was all very eventful.”
“I meant between me and Eames.”
“Oh. He said you looked really good in those slacks. Something about the line of your neck--” more voices on the other line, “But that’s it. Is that all?”
Through his blush and shame, all Arthur says is “Yeah,” and Yusuf hangs up.
It takes him twelve minutes to find Eames. He’s in the parking lot, leaning against the car and smoking a cigarette. It smells dull and heavy and Eames sees Arthur but doesn’t spare him a second glance. For a minute, they stand there and Arthur feels like an asshole until Eames talks, “You missed it.”
“What did I miss?”
Eames brings up his other hand with the carton of cold and flu medicine. “I stormed out without paying for this.”
Arthur laughs, the coil in his throat is unraveling. “No one stopped you?”
Eames scoffs, flicking ash off his cigarette. “There are those who tried.”
Arthur laughs again, lighter than before but it’s desperate and sounds wrong in his throat. “Listen, I, uh.”
Eames turns now, eyebrows raised, expecting a full apology and Arthur delivers. “I’m sorry I implemented that you weren’t trustworthy. I don’t know why I let Fischer get the better of me and I apologize, truly. I just--It’s just that... I don’t know you very well and y’know, it is called the date rape drug.”
Eames chuckles, breathing in smoke through his lips. He nods like he’s agreeing then steps forward and opens his arms for Arthur’s embrace. Arthur narrows his eyes, feeling ridiculous for being wary of Eames. This embrace is a peace offering in nature.
He slides his hands over Eames’ shoulder blades in the hug and doesn’t think about that leather smell and the nicotine that suddenly smells better than his crappy cigarettes. Eames’ weight against him relaxes the knots in his stomach. When they break apart, Eames looks around nervously and says, “Let’s get out of here, there might be police cars racing to apprehend me as we speak.”
Arthur laughs but he gets in the car and they’re backing out of the space when Eames throws a ridiculously shy smile in his direction and asks, “So was that a yes on the Valentine’s Dance?”
Arthur fails to suppress his stupid, schoolgirl blush but answers with a steady voice and pretends not to notice the twisting glee in Eames’ face, “Yeah.”
-
Cobb leaves. He gets dressed in the shadows and crawls out of Arthur’s dorm at one in the morning. He almost breaks his leg climbing down the stairs in the dark. He hops in the car he brought with him, stolen from a nearby hardware store and drives. Arthur’s first aid kit rests on the passenger seat. He guns the car down desolate roads at 60 and drives into a field. He sets the car on fire and then jumps into Nash’s car. They had agreed to meet there. Nash doesn’t ask why Cobb deems it necessary to set it on fire.
When the sun rises, Arthur finds a note on the pillow next to him.
I know, I know. It’s entirely my fault. I’ll see you next week.
C
He calls Cobb and doesn’t get an answer. He calls Nash and someone answers but there’s a scuffle on the line and then it goes dead. He glances at the bed next to him and finds Yusuf is gone, as he has been all weekend, working. Or so he says. Arthur turns his phone off and rolls over to sleep. If Cobb wants to reach him, now he can’t.
Regardless, Arthur has Young Entrepreneurs of America club in half an hour and his alarm rings to remind him of such. He gets up and stumbles into the shower. He changes and heads for YEA and flips his key chain through his fingers. He strolls through the cafeteria and fingers a muffin on his way to class.
At the top of the stairs, outside of the classroom, he finds Mal leaning against the wall. Her hair is straight today, sleek over the buttons at the top of her uniform shirt. She’s got her eyes closed but when he leans against the wall next to her, she glances at him and closes her eyes again. He swallows a mouthful of muffin then awkwardly fits and arm around her shoulder. She opens her eyes, lashes fluttering, smiling in that way she always does.
“He does that a lot, doesn’t he?”
Arthur shrugs, “When he thinks he’s overstayed his welcome.”
“Are you always here to pick up the pieces?” Mal slips her fingers through his hand hanging open at her shoulder.
Arthur bites the muffin, chewing for time. “Only when the pieces are beautiful French girls.”
Mal chuckles, leaning back into his arm. “Does that happen often?”
She’s prying, Arthur knows but there’s no real harm or insecurity behind it. He chews some more and says, “No. Only once before. And that time I was picking up his pieces not hers. And some asshole’s teeth off his lawn.”
Mal quirks a curious eyebrow and Arthur shrugs, “Easy girl with a jealous ex-boyfriend. And me, providing violence on Cobb’s behalf. Or, my brother’s behalf apparently.”
Mal smiles, “You know, Fischer was talking like a big man that night. I would have punched him, too, if he was talking like that about my brother.”
“Really?” Arthur laughs, slipping his arm out to manhandle the muffin with both hands. “Would you have broken his nose and fractured his ribs, too? Hospitalize the bastard? Maybe shatter his jaw?”
“The worse Dom did was fracture his nose and bruise a few ribs.” She scrunches her nose in defense, “Besides, Fischer was asking for it.”
Arthur fingers the muffin a bit before pulling a piece off and chewing it. “Yeah, I know. Cobb already fed me the story. It doesn’t exactly excuse assault and battery, but hey,” he gestures to the muffin, ”Want some?”
Mal reaches over and plucks a piece off his muffin. Before it reaches her mouth, she stops, “Does this have nuts in it?”
Arthur nods, “It’s banana nut.”
Mal’s shoulders droop and she drops what she was holding back in his palm, “Nevermind then, I’m allergic.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know. I’ll throw it out, it’s not that good anyway.”
Mal rolls her eyes at him, “Don’t. Finish it, I already ate breakfast.”
Arthur shakes his head, crossing the hall to toss it in a nearby waste basket. “No, I don’t really want it. We should probably head inside anyway.”
As if on cue, the door opens and Ariadne sticks her head out, “Hey Mal--oh, hi, Arthur. Uh, you guys should probably get in here. I’m not liable for my actions if I’m the only one beating Fischer into the ground.”
Arthur raises and eyebrow but Mal shrugs, extending her hand to lead them into the classroom. He pulls her hand around his waist and throws another around her shoulders. Mal leans into him and he can smell mint with touches of lavender and something else he can’t place, but it doesn’t bother him. Mal is the poster child for mystery if Arthur’s ever seen one.
The meeting passes with minimal argument which is earnestly unexpected with Fischer making dangerous jokes in the back. Instead of sticking around for it, Mal, Ariadne and Arthur slip out as quick as possible. Mal has one strike and Ariadne has two. At three, they are forbidden from co-ed clubs and grounded to their side of the lake. Arthur watches them cross the official bridge over the lake and grits his teeth for first period.
-
It’s only been a couple of hours without Mal or Ariadne to distract him when Arthur feels like ripping someones lungs out. He’s been to four classes but Fischer is in three of those. He only has three classes left, but Fischer is in two of those, too. And if Arthur has to hear one more passive aggressive remark, he’s going to lose his shit.
Instead of going to lunch, he heads to the back of the school to smoke. Yusuf tipped him off that this was a good spot to get away with it, if he really wanted to risk it and Arthur really does. Usually, the nicotine patch will keep him steady until he can get back to his room, but today is special. Arthur smokes because of the smoke, not because of the drug itself, it’s the fire and the inhalation.
He throws his bag to a nearby spot and lights up. His cigarette today is menthol and they’re his fucking favorite. He closes his eyes and exhales, the smoke blows across and smells thick and strong. His shoulder hunch subconsciously and he leans back into a body.
“Hello, gorgeous.”
Arthur jumps away from the voice, right in his ear, hands twitching for a weapon. (Arthur likes knives. They’re personal and sharp and feel smooth and powerful under his hand. They take skill. They take class to handle appropriately. They make Arthur dizzy with excitement.)
He turns and finds Eames behind him, smirking lightly with a cigarette dangling between his lips. His shoulders sag again and he shoves Eames with the open palm of his hand. “Fucking bastard.”
Smiling, Eames twists Arthur’s hand into his own so they’re clamped together. Arthur pulls away, annoyed at himself for letting his guard down. He glares at Eames and pulls his hand back again only to be met with equal force and no success. Arthur huffs and goes back to his cigarette.
He flicks ash off the end and inhales, instantly distracted from Eames’ shenanigans. The grip on his hand opens and Eames slots their fingers together, threading them. “Hey.”
Arthur turns and Eames’ face has lost all humor. His voice is quiet and tentative and it disconcerts Arthur but he blames that on the nicotine rush. “Is this not alright?”
Eames is frowning, searching Arthur’s face for conformation; for approval. He brings their hands up to emphasize his query, “Is this not alright with you?”
Arthur gets it now and it struck by the sheer irony of the question. He smiles a little, mostly to himself. “You’re seriously going to ask me if it’s okay when you’ve been holding my hand on your own accord for days now?”
Eames breaks into a slow grin, “I suppose you’re right.”
His grip slacked further--as though he’s convinced Arthur won’t slip right out--and their hands drop between them. Eames’ thumb roams over his knuckles and Arthur smokes to hide the genuine smile.
-
It becomes a routine of sorts. Everyone plays a part. Arthur wakes up and Yusuf is gone. Arthur gets dressed and Cobb doesn’t answer his phone. Arthur goes to a club and Ariadne titters happily. Arthur goes to the Discipline Office and Mal is talking herself out of trouble with an alarming ease. Arthur goes behind the school and Eames offers him a cigarette.
They smoke and the Administration never seems to notice. Eames says people used to come back here all the time to smoke but it stopped after a while and soon, he was smoking alone. He has no clue why, really. Arthur doubts as much.
They smoke and swear that one day, they’ll quit. They smoke and walk around the school. Or just stand and talk, more or less. They start grin at each other in hallways. Eames is late to class to catch a glimpse of Arthur’s dimples. Arthur isn’t late but he’s winded every once in a while. Yusuf, in his post-lunch AP Chemistry class pretends--albeit, unconvincingly--not to notice.
It takes only two days for Arthur to realize they’ve become friends.
And on Thursday, Eames is pissed. Arthur can see it in how he’s frowning and flexing his fingers, like he wants to hit something. He can see it but all he can think to do is share his cigarette. They sit on the ground and Arthur lets him slip an arms around his waist. Then Arthur realizes they’ve become more.
It’s only been a couple of days but that’s it. Arthur only needed a couple of days around Eames to relax. Familiarize himself with the territory. Then Arthur lets Eames hold him against the brick wall and press first kisses to his open mouth.
It happens once and after deliberation, Arthur decides he likes it. Very much, even. He takes the initiative to make sure it happens again.
-
Arthur pulls him in for a kiss and he pushes Eames against the wall. He forgets all about his cigarette and tastes the nicotine on Eames’ tongue, instead. They move in slow concentration, kissing with ease. It’s not perfect but mostly organized. Eames’ lips are like the barrel of a gun, dangerously inviting. Arthur sucks and moves in wet practiced waves. They’ve got plenty of time.
When Arthur needs to breathe, he noses Eames’ cheek and sucks lightly on his jaw. He leaves a mark, high on his neck. It’s soft enough that it will fade within a few hours but high enough that a collared shirt won’t hide it.
Before they know it, the bell rings and under any other circumstance, Arthur would stay but he has an important test next period. He kisses Eames and almost gets lost in the heat. Winded, he barely breathes against his mouth when Eames puts a hand on his sternum and pushes him back. He clears his throat and swallows, “You, uh, have a test.”
It’s only a kind of relevant test and Arthur kisses him again. It starts simple but opens into something darker until he’s breathing heavy against him with urgency, and there’s that heat pulling at his stomach, “My grade can take a hit.”
Eames doesn’t reply, pressing his tongue against Arthur’s in a tentative slide. He reaches the roof of Arthur’s mouth and licks lightly and the late bell rings. Arthur breaks off and swears, throwing his crappy cigarette away and reaching for his messenger bag on the floor.
He’s moving to leave and Eames pulls his tie in for a last kiss.
Arthur runs to class and uses that as an excuse for being winded. When Yusuf asks him why his lips are swollen, though, he hasn’t got an excuse. Instead, he makes it a priority to find himself some ChapStick.
-
Regardless of any exclusivity, Arthur left a mark on Eames and forgot that news travels pretty fast. By the time Arthur gets to debate that Friday, Ariadne is jumping up and down with joy. Arthur slides into his chair next to her and tries not to grin every time she tells him something mildly related to Eames. Or something he related to Eames in his head.
After debate team adjourns, Arthur and Ariadne head to the library with their new debate topic. Ariadne turns out to be an extremely competent partner, with the exception that they can’t go back to each other’s dorms. Yusuf is distracting for Ariadne and Mal is just distracting for anyone with eyes.
They camp out at the library until late and the librarian kicks them out. They skipped dinner so Ariadne complains but Arthur makes it up to her by sneaking her into their room. She’s a surprisingly good climber and beams proudly when she lands inside.
They sit on the floor with a movie on the TV Yusuf snuck in and Ariadne falls asleep on Yusuf’s shoulder. They wake her and she changes into a pair of Arthur’s pajama pants. Yusuf laughs, “It’s ridiculous that your clothes fit her. You need to eat more often, man.”
Exhausted from a particularly exhausting day, Arthur rolls over and just falls asleep. His fever has gone down to a regular temperature over the course of week, which is why it surprises him when he finds himself walking through the desert, burning in the heat.
The sun is beating down on his back and the blood is running and squelching and the bones on his feet are cracking and breaking with pressure. It hurts like no dream ever but he keeps walking, parched with cracked lips. He reaches the end of the road and his skin is ripping open, the ocean’s mist feels like heaven with pockets of fresh air in the vortex stench of gore. The jagged edges of the cliff drop off and Arthur thinks he’s going to try and head back and see what happens.
As he’s stepping back, the hand reaches out and clambers up. The being is smaller than before, he smells like leather and when he reaches out to touch Arthur, it’s intimate. A hand pulls his clothes off to touch his skin. The being is gentle in his touches, soothing almost and Arthur can’t help arch into it. The blood smears in places but he’s not freezing or burning him. It’s like mercy.
The being tracks his hands, cool with sweat, all across Arthur’s back and the blisters start closing, clearing away. The being heals every inch of skin he can reach, then holds Arthur’s wrist with loose coercion. At the edge of the cliff, the ocean roars closer than ever and the mist is on his skin now, threading through his hair in wisps of air. Their hands are clasped together loosely and the being turns to him and asks, “Will you jump with me?”
Arthur wakes with a start, scrambling for a weapon. (The school probably has a policy against weapons but Arthur has had a switchblade tucked into his pillowcase since he was 12 and going to a strange place where he has to sleep next to people he doesn’t know wasn’t exactly motive to stop doing so, zero tolerance policies aside.)
He reaches for it but stops when he realizes it’s Ariadne, waking him to say goodbye because she has to sneak back across the lake. It’s just getting light outside but nobody will be awake yet, it’s Saturday. Arthur nods and kisses her cheek and waves to Yusuf, who says he’s going to walk her back to the school. Arthur nods, watching them leave.
They close the window behind them and Arthur relaxes into the bed. The room is quiet and it’s spinning a little. His skin is warm and flushed with arousal. Arthur slides his pajama bottoms just past his thighs and strokes himself slowly, wondering if he should really be doing this, thinking about Eames this way.
But he closes his eyes and sees Eames, with his kiss swollen lips and hooded eyes. He feels the phantom tell-tale heat against his hip. Precome leaks and he spreads it, pursing his lips in concentration. Arthur moves his hands in a slow slide until he’s arching into it and he’s breathing is labored. He thinks of Eames, moaning softly through a kiss. Eames, between his legs, lips wrapped around his cock, wet and red with need. Eames under him, Eames over him, Eames saying his name with breathy revving.
Arthur strokes faster with unsteady hands, heat crawling all over his body and curling his toes. Eames’ hands, touching him everywhere, sliding slick against slapping skin, and he comes with the realization that the being in his dream spoke like a motorcycle cutting through a superhighway. His body tremors as he spills all over his hand and his stomach.
When he can think again, his chest bubbles with laughter and exertion, but twenty minutes later, he gets up to shower and his hands are still shaking.
-
When he’s finished showering, he wraps a towel around his waist and hangs another around his neck. He steps into the room only to leap back in surprise. (Arthur has stopped carrying knives, and one day, he’ll regret that.) Cobb is lying on his bed, lounging like a fucking king, He doesn’t even open his eyes, tossing a light greeting. “Hey, Arthur.”
Arthur rolls his eyes at him but grabs some clean clothes and changes in the damp heat of the bathroom. He figures Cobb had to show while he was in the shower and let himself in. When he gets back to him--all of five minutes later--he finds Cobb fast asleep on his bed, laying cautiously on his side.
Arthur throws his wet towel at Cobb’s head but otherwise leaves him be. Cobb is here, at around seven in the morning, meaning he’s been driving for a while so he’s probably exhausted. He’s also here before noon, meaning he needs something from Arthur and judging by the black bag hanging behind the door--with what Arthur can only assume are Cobb’s Sunday Best--he probably wants Arthur to help him pick an outfit. Or stash a dead body. Either or.
Arthur sprawls his work over the desk and buries himself in it. There’s no point in waking Cobb up, he’ll get bitchy. Meanwhile, he’s got homework in AP African History, so he’s got to get to it before he dives into Law and Calculus.
A few hours go by and Yusuf doesn’t come back, which Arthur more or less expected to happen. He finished all but Calculus, but he can leave it for another day. He doesn’t even bother pretending to watch TV, just approaches Cobb. He shakes him awake easily and then doesn’t leave him be until he sits up.
Cobb rubs sleep from his eyes. “What time is it?”
Arthur checks his phone, “Almost noon. What are you doing here? You don’t have a hernia you’d like me to operate on or anything, right?”
“No,” Cobb laughs into a yawn, “I came for the dance thing tonight. I mean, it’s pretty lame and shit, but Mal asked me to go with her. Have you seen her eyes? That mouth? I didn’t stand a chance.”
Arthur moves to sit next to him. “You’re still super fucking early, though.”
Cobb shrugs, “I figured it would be easier for you to choose my outfit ahead of time instead of just picking apart whatever I wear later. I’m fucking dead, though, I was hoping you’d let me sleep while you criticized my fashion sense,” he yawns again and adds as an afterthought, “or lack thereof.”
“Psh, now you care,” Arthur settles his back against the wall, “You never gave a shit before.”
Cobb settles next to him, and glances at Arthur but doesn’t say anything for a beat. When he does, Cobb smiles in with a full, youthful grin that almost scares Arthur. It’s with a grin that Arthur has only ever seen once before, when Cobb was twelve and holding his new-born baby sister. “Nice job getting rid of Whatsherface.”
In lieu of pressing the real issue, Arthur asks to see how the stitches are healing. Dom’s random praise is explanation enough. Arthur makes note of getting to know Mal more, it appears she’ll be sticking around for a while.
PART IV
PART I
PART II
The party is at a house, two or three miles away from the school. Ariadne, Mal, Cobb and Yusuf pile themselves in the backseat of Eames’ car. Ariadne ended up sitting in Mal’s lap and Cobb and Yusuf looked absolutely giddy. The ride is full of bad music and Eames glancing at Arthur every little bit, smiling and gesturing to Mal and Cobb in the rearview mirror.
It only took Arthur a few minutes to catch on. Mal is leaning over Ariadne and laughing with her hand on Cobb’s arm. Before they enter the house, he asks Cobb to borrow his cell phone.
“What for?” Cobb is squinting at him.
Arthur rolls his jacket onto his shoulders, “I don’t have signal.”
“Who’re you going to call? Everyone you know is right here.”
Mal, standing behind him, snorts in laughter. She’s got her hand on his shoulder, leading him into the house and that’s what gets Cobb to toss him the phone. Yusuf and Ariadne disappear into the house, Mal and Cobb following him.
Arthur stays back, dialing the phone. Eames leans against the car, nodding in askance. Arthur shakes his head, listening to the phone ring on the other line. It rings a few more times and then someone answers. “Hello?”
“Hey, Celeste. It’s Cobb.”
“Dom, hey baby. “
Arthur resists the laughter and clears his throat, “Hey, are you busy?”
“Not at all. What’s up?”
“Listen, I think we should break up.”
Eames’ eyebrows shoot up into his hair and he starts laughing quietly. Arthur restrains a smile and cuts off the girl babbling on the other end. “I know it hasn’t been that long, Celeste. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and it’s just not going to work out. I’m sorry it had to be this way.”
“Is this a joke?” she’s shrieking into Arthur’s ear.
Arthur rolls his eyes, “It’s not a joke, Celeste. I’m sorry. Don’t call me again.”
Arthur hangs up and pockets the phone, grinning at Eames. He nods at the house, asking whether or not they should go in. Eames laughs and shakes his head in approval.
The party is a living, breathing mass inside the house. Everywhere are students from their school, drinking and humping and grinding on the dance floor, in closets, on the couches. It only takes thirty seconds for the group to get separated in the tidal wave. Yusuf and Ariadne get lost in the crowd, heading towards the kitchen. Mal and Cobb disappear in the people on the dance floor and Eames pulls Arthur out of the breathing mess to a porch.
Somewhere inside the mess, he managed to grab a pair of beers. They sip them on the balcony and Eames asks Arthur what the call was about.
Arthur shrugs, “I’ve always kind of made it my personal objective to keep Cobb an honest man. Between getting away from Mal and grilling me about how dinner went, he won’t have time to care about Celeste. And I know that he doesn’t. Not with how he’s looking at Mal.”
Eames nods, sipping his bear. Behind him, there is a pounding techno beat that shakes the house. “Is he your brother or something?”
Arthur laughs, leaning over the balcony railing, with his forearms rested on it. “No, he’s just an old friend.”
Eames stands next to him, fingering the mouth of the bottle, loosely. “Oh, alright then. “
Arthur glances over his shoulder and squints at the bright light that frames Eames. From inside the house, someone has started a strobe light. In between the flashes, Arthur quirks his head, “Are you blond?”
Eames grimaces and runs a hand through his hair, self-consciously. “No. I mean, I am, but not naturally. It’s all the chlorine from the pool. I despise it. “
Arthur looks at him like he’s grown a second head, “Why are you spending so much time in a pool?”
Eames glances up at him, “I’m on the swim team.”
Arthur turns, raising an eyebrow, “You’re on the--what?”
Eames looks away, blushing slightly. “I’m on the swim team. At the Academy.” Then adds quickly, as if to restore his cred, “And the rugby.”
Arthur is even more shocked, “You actually go there?”
“Did you think I didn’t?” A thought strikes Eames and he continues, “Did you think that I was just some creep hanging around your school?”
Arthur smirked, a little embarrassed. “Well, that and sold drugs. I mean.”
Eames guffawed at him, moving to lean over the railing next to him. “So you agreed to a date with a creepy old guy that hangs around your school and sells drugs?”
“I didn’t actually agree to it, you rolled the corporeal die or whatever,” Arthur rolled his eyes.
“Well, it’s been quite a long night and I haven’t heard a complaint,” Eames prompts.
Arthur glances at him, only slightly because the strobe light behind him is unreasonably annoying, “I suppose not.”
A beat passes between them in silence, or as silent as it could get with the yawning house bursting open with bass and treble. Eames grins down at his hands and Arthur pretends not to notice. After another beat, Eames bumps his shoulder against Arthur’s. Arthur glances at him again, bottle halfway to his lips. “What is it?”
Eames nods towards the house, “Dance with me.”
Arthur looks at him now that the strobe light has been turned off but is distracted by something just inside the house. He nods his head in direction of the house, “You mean like them?”
Eames stands and looks into the building. Through the glass doors of the porch, Mal and Dom are at the edge of the crowd, grinding chest to chest, foreheads stacked against each other. Mal is laughing coyly and Dom looks ravenous. Their beat is off but at the rate they’re going--Mal’s leg wrapped around Dom’s, pulling him into her space, Dom’s hands riding high on her thigh and low on her back, guiding their juke--Arthur thinks the least of their worries is the music. Watching them, he finds himself a bit breathless.
“Well,” Eames announces, clearing his throat. “How long have they known each other?”
Arthur brings himself back to the porch, “An hour, or two, give or take.”
Eames looks vaguely impressed, “Your friend is fast. Granted, so is Mal.”
Arthur shakes his head in disapproval but laughs anyway. Eames turns back to him and takes Arthur’s beer, setting down on the railing next to his own. “C’mon, then. Let’s dance.”
“I’m not dancing like that with you.” Arthur straightens, pocketing his hands.
“Ah, the ever present guard.” Eames grabs Arthur’s wrist, slipping his fingers into the pocket to reach, “Just one dance. I’ll be a perfect gentleman. Well, I’ll be gentle at least. Or...” he hesitates, “do you not know how to?”
Arthur rolls his hand off his wrist, “I can dance, I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“How far would we be without a multitude of bad ideas in this world?”
Arthur looks away, considering it. “Probably striving in technology that is only available now through science fiction and multi-million dollar movie budgets. In any case, you’re not convincing me.”
“Oh, c’mon. One dance, Arthur,” and then he’s tugging him inside the house. “And I think you’ll recall that resistance is futile.”
The push through the crowd, swallowing them whole and find a space near the center. Arthur objects, talking loudly in Eames’ ear. Eames shakes his head and replies only by raising a finger, and mouthing, “One.” As in one dance.
“One song,” Arthur compromises. Techno beats like this are usually short and this song is already halfway through.
Eames shrugs but grins, “Alright.”
People around them bend to make space and Arthur lets Eames pull himself against him. His hands appear low at Arthur’s hips and his breath is hot at his neck. Somewhere between Eames, pressed against his waist and the beat pounding in his chest, one song becomes three.
The first is a slow beat, compared to the others. They move in rigid swings against each other but as the tempo picks up, Eames’ rolls against him and Arthur was never one to step down from a challenge. There’s nothing particularly attractive about watching the people in front of him dance as he pushes against Eames, but the others watch them with shameless leers. It only progresses as the second song starts in, somewhere blurred in between their skin. It’s demanding and quick but Eames moves against him in patient, passive moves.
Arthur tells himself that it’s misplaced paranoia that makes him turn around to face Eames while they dance, but it’s the lack of real contact. The songs had blurred--probably a mix, Arthur decides he should have suspected that at a house party--and he stops moving to turn and face him, pushing a leg between his knees and wrapping his arm around the other’s neck. Eames turns into him, his hands reach higher on his hips, “Arthur--”
“Shut up.” Arthur cuts off his warning, “It’s one dance.”
There’s bass in his ears, only the noise of crowd and beating down into his chest and Eames is moving in ripples, pulsing with motion and sweat and breath. Arthur can feel the scratch of Eames’ hands dry at his hips, the beads of sweat running on the inside hollow of his throat. Eames is so close and solid and he moves to press his forehead against Arthur’s, clutching his skin. Arthur can’t so much hear the music as he can feel it. He can’t hear the crowd or the yawning house, only his breathing and the steady rustle of their clothes as they move in beat. And Eames. He can feel the weight of Eames against his chest, moving slowly, breathing into the curve of Arthur’s neck and touching the space between his waistband and his shirt, gently at least.
And he only has a split second of realization before the heat is gone, replaced with the cold air of the room. He only has a split second of the chill running down his back and the dizziness of being pulled out Eames’ gravitational pull.“Arthur!”
The hand that pulled him away is small and lovely and Arthur turns to meet Mal with unfocused eyes and she’s shouting over the music but it sounds worse than it should. Over the music he can only pick out a few words, and then she’s got her hand around his wrist and tugs him through the crowd. They don’t part for her and Arthur is disoriented enough without stumbling through people until they’re outside of the house.
When they reach the front lawn, Arthur doesn’t need her to explain anymore because the ring of students chanting in tongues is pretty tell-tale. Arthur pushes through the circle with a sudden rage that they part for him. But when he gets too the center, he realizes he’s too late. Cobb is landing his final punch on Fischer’s angel face and standing up when Arthur reaches them,
“Dom, what are you doing?” Mal stumbled out of the crowd and rushes to him, panicked.
Cobb is seething with anger when he meets Arthur’s eyes and Arthur’s own resolve softens, understanding Dom’s intentions. He throws an arm around Mal’s shoulders and leaves Fischer, groaning on the floor, bloodied. Cobb reaches down all of a sudden and picks something off the ground. It’s Arthur’s jacket, that he left at Fischer’s. He pulls it on and then walks to stand in front of Arthur.
He’s opening his mouth to speak when Arthur reaches out and puts his hand on Dom’s ribs, where the gauze is soaked through. Arthur sets his jaw, watching Cobb visibly bite the inside of his cheek, and clenches his fingers around the ribs. “You tore it open, asshole.”
Dom’s gaze is dark, there’s no real light out here but it cuts to Arthur without malice, “You are my brother. And I would anything do for you, even if it means providing violence on your behalf,” then his gaze turns behind Arthur, “Is that understood.”
Arthur glances behind him to find Eames there, eyebrows raised as though amused. But instead of provoking anything, he answers in the least sarcastic way he can manage, “Yes, sir.”
Yusuf and Ariadne appear and break the silence, dismissively. “Let’s get out of here before things get worse.”
Arthur nods, “Yes, lets.” He throws Yusuf a pleading look and he knows Yusuf gets it because he glances at Arthur’s hand on Dom’s ribs and Mal, wrapped dangerously close. Yusuf grabs Ariadne and Mal and walks off with them, arms thrown over each of their shoulders.
When they’re out of ear shot, roaring in laughter, Arthur shoves Dom with the palm of his free hand. Dom wavers but doesn’t move too much. “Take my jacket off, you’re going to get blood all over it. Eames, go start the car and look for a anything plastic that might stop the bleeding.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Arthur sighs, impatiently. “Cobb is injured. Very seriously injured and chose to not give a shit in favor of punching Fischer in the face a few times.”
Cobb shoves the jacket at Arthur’s chest, “God, I hope I broke that fucker’s ribs.”
Arthur scowls, tentatively removing his hand from Cobb’s shirt. He turns around and shows it to Eames, but doesn’t meet his gaze, there’s blood on his hand and it’s Cobb’s and he’s supposed to wear that on the inside, “Look, he’s got a serious injury. Please, now, get to the car and try to find something that will control the bleeding. Let’s try to keep this quiet, okay? There is no reason for the girls to find out, they might panic. Yusuf knows but he hasn’t offered any real help, which is fine. I don’t need help, Cobb does. I just need something to stop the bleeding and then I need you to take me home. Actually, I mi--”
“Arthur, stop.” Eames cuts him off, gripping his shoulders.
Arthur snaps his gaze up and tries not to look put off. He should have expected that Cobb would come along to the party if they were going with other people, he should have expected Cobb to get violent after what Arthur told him about Fischer, he should have. “Can you stop for a minute?”
“What is it?” he doesn’t mean to snap but it’s better than his voice cracking and that’s all he has to say for himself.
“I have a first aid kit at the cabin, full of good equipment. Yusuf can get your friend some pain killers and Mal can stitch him up. Besides, worse comes to worse, I can call in a favor with some powerful people.”
Arthur sets his jaw, “No, no, I don’t need you to do that. I don’t need--”
“I don’t care what you need, I want to do it.” Eames voice is final and snaps Arthur out of his haze. Thirty seconds ago he was dancing with Eames and now he’s got Dom’s blood in his hands, and Eames brings him back into alignment. Arthur meets his eyes and remembers what needs to be done.
He nods curtly, “Okay. Bring the car around the front and ask Yusuf to brief Mal on the issue. We’ll need to go straight to the cabin.”
Eames’ mouth flickers a smile but then he’s gone, following orders. Arthur turns back to Dom and glares at him, “That’s three shirts you’ve ruined today.”
-
Mal, as it turns out, has experience stitching wounds closed. It’s not as alarming as it is disconcerting, at least to Arthur and Cobb. When asked, Eames refuses to elaborate where this skill came from and Mal just smiles a little Mona Lisa smile. Yusuf continues his tight-lipped campaign and Ariadne shrugs. Mal moves the needle with a vulgar precision, only wincing when she sees blood. Cobb grits his teeth and sets his jaw every time that the needle sinks into his skin, but offers no other signs of pain.
Usually, whenever Arthur stitches Cobb up, he screams and writhes and punches the nearest object--usually Nash--but this time it’s Mal doing it. Arthur suspects that Dom is sucking it up like a good little patient because it’s Mal. Granted, Arthur’s only ever stitched Cobb up twice.
But then, after a bit, Cobb relaxes. Arthur is pretty sure it has more to do with the Valium that Yusuf brought him, but it could just as easily be the way Mal is palming the flat planes of his stomach. It’s not until that Mal’s knuckles scrape at the top of Cobb’s belly button that Arthur decides to leave them to it.
They were watching Mal stitch him up, sprawled on the couches in the basement of the cabin. Yusuf had disappeared post-Valium delivery with Ariadne. Eames was sitting at the base of the stairs, wringing a white rag in his hands to get the blood off. Arthur has long since conceded in the battle against it, the gray shirt he's wearing is officially ruined. He just adds it to Cobb’s debt.
The ride over had been pretty rough, Eames had cut through a path in the woods to reach the cabin faster and they did, but it was messy and turbulent. It was also pretty nerve-wrecking. Ariadne was having a fit in the back with Yusuf trying to calm her down and Mal was trying to clot the blood with Cobb’s shirt and Arthur was just trying to keep his head steady while Eames sped through the streets, then through rough terrain.
Arthur makes his way over and sits down next to Eames, sighing. Eames glances over at him for a second and then continues what he’s doing. After a few more wrings, he admits defeat and tosses the rag off to the side. Arthur bumps his shoulder and starts in with his apology, “I’m sorry about this.”
Eames looks over at him now and gives him a long-suffering sigh. “I told you, I wanted to to do this for you.”
Arthur shrugs, “That doesn’t change that you didn’t have to.”
Eames looks off for a bit, thinking and then says, “I’ll tell you what. Accompany me to the Valentine’s Dance next week and we’ll call it even.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow, “You want me to go where with you?”
Eames grins, “Valentine’s dance. It’s here, at the Academy.”
Arthur’s brow furrows, “Why do you want to go to a high school dance?”
Eames’ grin turns wicked, “To parade you around on my arm, of course. And so I can take you back behind the school and--”
“Fuck!”
Arthur shoots up, immediately alarmed, “What is it?”
Mal turns to face them, “No, it’s nothing too bad, I just, I need more iodine.”
Cobb nudges her with his knee so quickly, Arthur almost misses it. As if an afterthought, Mal adds, “And gauze tape,” she is nudged again, “And gauze.”
Eames, having not caught Cobb’s encouragement, stands and brushes dirt off his slacks, “Alright, I’ll head to the nearest drugstore. Arthur?”
Cobb cuts in here, nudging Mal to do the same, “Yeah, yeah, take Arthur.”
Arthur turns to him with a scowl and a raised eyebrow as if to say Did you really just miss that? Eames looks confused, “What?”
Arthur turns his expression to Mal who smiles in a coquette manner. Cobb looks away from him, inspecting the work of the stitches. Arthur sighs, “Alright, let’s go. Where’s the nearest store?”
Eames shrugs, “Cutting through the forest, four or five kilometers. We’ll need a change of clothes, though. Or, at least you will.”
“Forget it, I’ll stay in the car and you’ll get the stuff.”
“Alright,” Eames grabs his keys from the coffee table next to Mal’s equipment. He kisses her cheeks and whispers something to her in French that makes her blush.
Eames moves back to Arthur and they ascend. In the car, Arthur asks what Eames whispered to her. Eames smiles at the windshield and says, “I told her to mind his stitches when they start shagging.”
Arthur looks out through the trees in the forest to hide his laughter.The terrain gets rough towards the edge of the clearing and Eames gets quiet, focusing. When they reach the road, Arthur leans back and smells leather. He glances at Eames who is gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.
“Something on your mind, dear?” Arthur prompts playfully.
Eames bursts into laughter, glancing at Arthur with bright eyes. “I never can tell what to expect from you. One minute you’re looking at me with disdain and then you say I have serious--what was it?--oh, dick sucking lips.”
Arthur pointedly doesn’t laugh, “I thought I dreamt that.”
Eames smiles, “You thought I was a dream?”
Arthur rolls his eyes, “That’s not what I said.”
Eames’ grin doesn’t falter a bit, “But it’s what you meant.”
Sinking into the leather, he says, “Seriously, what’s the matter? Besides the fact that your date was hijacked.”
Eames’ smile falters this time, “Nothing, just. Have you considered the possibility that your friend may need a transfusion? He’s bleeding pretty badly--”
“Eames,” Arthur warns, the humor is gone from his voice.
“Arthur, he could need it.”
“I know, Eames, jeez. He’s just going to have to suck it up. Rub some dirt in it. I know Cobb, he’ll handle it just fine.”
Eames is silent for for a beat, then starts again. “I told you, I could have him properly taken care of.”
“Eames, no.”
“Why not, darling?” He’s frustrated now and Arthur would like nothing more than to drop the subject.
“I already owe you enough. You don’t have to keep doing me favors.”
“It can be a gift.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, and when he speaks, it’s with finality. This conversation is over, “It can’t, Eames. No.”
Eames slows to stop at a red light and looks over at Arthur, glaring out the window. “Very well. You win.”
He reaches out to cup Arthur’s jaw and when Arthur turns into his hand to scold him, he pulls back as if stung. “What the fuck, Arthur?”
Arthur scowls anyway, as Eames starts in with a string of curse words and an overbearing rant about when it is appropriate to tell your date you have fever. A very high fever, at that. The rest of the car ride zooms by, Eames is suddenly revitalized by Arthur’s condition. He drags him out of the car and into the store. “Eames, I’m fine, this is seriously unnecessary. You’re being ridiculous.”
His protests fall on deaf ears, Eames is already whistling for the pharmaceutical attendant. They’re standing in the cold and flu aisle and Eames wont let his grip falter for a bit around Arthur’s wrist. He whistles again, sharper. “Oi! Can I get some attendance here? Paying customer and all, let’s hurry it up.”
Arthur rugs on his grip experimentally and isn’t surprised to find it practically deadlocked. “Eames, don’t make a scene. It’s not enough that I’m covered in blood?”
Eames turns and smiles at him. “You’re right. I’m sorry, where are my manners? Here, take my jacket. Zip it up and you’ll be as good as new.”
Arthur almost objects, because he’s not a fucking girl for Eames to always be giving him his jacket, but he’d rather not have someone call the cops on him or something. He takes the jacket and Eames only lets his hand slip long enough for them to maneuver the zipper. Just on time, a very harassed-looking pharmaceutical attendant comes storming down the aisle. Her face splits into a fake cheery grin and she only glances at them before she starts, “May I help you, sirs?”
Eames harasses her into giving them her expert medical opinion (What university did you go to? John Hopkins, I hope. No? Pity. I’m sure they would have liked you, you’re so charming.) Then he subsequently insults her hair and her shoes and her job before he asks her to bugger off, please. She glares at him for a second, like she’s going to fight back, but then thinks better of it. She storms off and mutters under breath instead.
Eames grins at her and then slips his hand into Arthur’s, leading him down the aisles. A few people toss them unfocused looks and a thought strikes Arthur. He speaks before he can think better of it, “Fischer thinks we’re fucking.”
Eames gives him a half-glance and a snort, turning into the First Aid kit aisle. In his other hand, there’s a bottle of some Robitussin or some nonsense like that. “Fischer can fuck a duck.”
Arthur doesn’t smile, “That’s not my point. Fischer said that everyone knows we are fucking. That we fucked.”
Eames looks at Arthur, sparing him attention. “Arthur, I think you’ll find that Fischer talks a lot of shit. What comes out of his mouth isn’t exactly credible evidence. What are you doing hanging around Fischer, anyway?”
Arthur ignores him, “Why do people think that?” He pulls his hand out of Eames’ grip.
Eames sighs, turning back to him, pocketing his now free hand. “I don’t bloody well know, do I? I can’t control what people think they know.”
Arthur takes a step back, “Eames, what happened last Friday?”
“What, don’t you remember?”
Arthur glances away and back to Eames, setting his jaw. “No, I don’t.”
Eames’ expression turns hard suddenly. “Nothing happened, Arthur. I didn’t take advantage of you, if you really don’t remember. We danced, we talked on the pier, you tempted the hell of me in those slacks. I went inside and sent Yusuf to collect you. Jesus Christ. I’m a lot of things, Arthur, but rapist is not fucking one of them.”
Arthur steels his face, “That’s not what I said.”
Eames turns away from him and starts down the aisle. “But it’s what you meant.” He disappears, turning into another aisle and Arthur just stand there, dumbfounded.
He grabs his phone and speed dials Yusuf. When he answers, Arthur automatically feels guilty for assuming Yusuf wouldn’t tell him something like that happened. Yusuf is out of breath, “--it’s Arthur. What is it?”
“Yusuf, I--uh, why are you out of breath?”
Yusuf laughs, short and clipped and there’s a voice on the other line. “No reason, what’s the matter?”
“Hey, uh, did anything happen last Friday?”
“Oh dear god, Arthur do you have amnesia? What is your--?”
“I’m fine, you moron. I just can’t remember much and Eames said something--I just need to know what happened last Friday.”
“Oh, uh. Nothing. I found you on the pier, you asked me if I had any quarters on me for the pinball machine and I decided to take you home. You tried to get me to play soccer. And climb a tree. And harmonize a Whitney Houston song. Uh, then you kinda passed out. It was all very eventful.”
“I meant between me and Eames.”
“Oh. He said you looked really good in those slacks. Something about the line of your neck--” more voices on the other line, “But that’s it. Is that all?”
Through his blush and shame, all Arthur says is “Yeah,” and Yusuf hangs up.
It takes him twelve minutes to find Eames. He’s in the parking lot, leaning against the car and smoking a cigarette. It smells dull and heavy and Eames sees Arthur but doesn’t spare him a second glance. For a minute, they stand there and Arthur feels like an asshole until Eames talks, “You missed it.”
“What did I miss?”
Eames brings up his other hand with the carton of cold and flu medicine. “I stormed out without paying for this.”
Arthur laughs, the coil in his throat is unraveling. “No one stopped you?”
Eames scoffs, flicking ash off his cigarette. “There are those who tried.”
Arthur laughs again, lighter than before but it’s desperate and sounds wrong in his throat. “Listen, I, uh.”
Eames turns now, eyebrows raised, expecting a full apology and Arthur delivers. “I’m sorry I implemented that you weren’t trustworthy. I don’t know why I let Fischer get the better of me and I apologize, truly. I just--It’s just that... I don’t know you very well and y’know, it is called the date rape drug.”
Eames chuckles, breathing in smoke through his lips. He nods like he’s agreeing then steps forward and opens his arms for Arthur’s embrace. Arthur narrows his eyes, feeling ridiculous for being wary of Eames. This embrace is a peace offering in nature.
He slides his hands over Eames’ shoulder blades in the hug and doesn’t think about that leather smell and the nicotine that suddenly smells better than his crappy cigarettes. Eames’ weight against him relaxes the knots in his stomach. When they break apart, Eames looks around nervously and says, “Let’s get out of here, there might be police cars racing to apprehend me as we speak.”
Arthur laughs but he gets in the car and they’re backing out of the space when Eames throws a ridiculously shy smile in his direction and asks, “So was that a yes on the Valentine’s Dance?”
Arthur fails to suppress his stupid, schoolgirl blush but answers with a steady voice and pretends not to notice the twisting glee in Eames’ face, “Yeah.”
-
Cobb leaves. He gets dressed in the shadows and crawls out of Arthur’s dorm at one in the morning. He almost breaks his leg climbing down the stairs in the dark. He hops in the car he brought with him, stolen from a nearby hardware store and drives. Arthur’s first aid kit rests on the passenger seat. He guns the car down desolate roads at 60 and drives into a field. He sets the car on fire and then jumps into Nash’s car. They had agreed to meet there. Nash doesn’t ask why Cobb deems it necessary to set it on fire.
When the sun rises, Arthur finds a note on the pillow next to him.
I know, I know. It’s entirely my fault. I’ll see you next week.
C
He calls Cobb and doesn’t get an answer. He calls Nash and someone answers but there’s a scuffle on the line and then it goes dead. He glances at the bed next to him and finds Yusuf is gone, as he has been all weekend, working. Or so he says. Arthur turns his phone off and rolls over to sleep. If Cobb wants to reach him, now he can’t.
Regardless, Arthur has Young Entrepreneurs of America club in half an hour and his alarm rings to remind him of such. He gets up and stumbles into the shower. He changes and heads for YEA and flips his key chain through his fingers. He strolls through the cafeteria and fingers a muffin on his way to class.
At the top of the stairs, outside of the classroom, he finds Mal leaning against the wall. Her hair is straight today, sleek over the buttons at the top of her uniform shirt. She’s got her eyes closed but when he leans against the wall next to her, she glances at him and closes her eyes again. He swallows a mouthful of muffin then awkwardly fits and arm around her shoulder. She opens her eyes, lashes fluttering, smiling in that way she always does.
“He does that a lot, doesn’t he?”
Arthur shrugs, “When he thinks he’s overstayed his welcome.”
“Are you always here to pick up the pieces?” Mal slips her fingers through his hand hanging open at her shoulder.
Arthur bites the muffin, chewing for time. “Only when the pieces are beautiful French girls.”
Mal chuckles, leaning back into his arm. “Does that happen often?”
She’s prying, Arthur knows but there’s no real harm or insecurity behind it. He chews some more and says, “No. Only once before. And that time I was picking up his pieces not hers. And some asshole’s teeth off his lawn.”
Mal quirks a curious eyebrow and Arthur shrugs, “Easy girl with a jealous ex-boyfriend. And me, providing violence on Cobb’s behalf. Or, my brother’s behalf apparently.”
Mal smiles, “You know, Fischer was talking like a big man that night. I would have punched him, too, if he was talking like that about my brother.”
“Really?” Arthur laughs, slipping his arm out to manhandle the muffin with both hands. “Would you have broken his nose and fractured his ribs, too? Hospitalize the bastard? Maybe shatter his jaw?”
“The worse Dom did was fracture his nose and bruise a few ribs.” She scrunches her nose in defense, “Besides, Fischer was asking for it.”
Arthur fingers the muffin a bit before pulling a piece off and chewing it. “Yeah, I know. Cobb already fed me the story. It doesn’t exactly excuse assault and battery, but hey,” he gestures to the muffin, ”Want some?”
Mal reaches over and plucks a piece off his muffin. Before it reaches her mouth, she stops, “Does this have nuts in it?”
Arthur nods, “It’s banana nut.”
Mal’s shoulders droop and she drops what she was holding back in his palm, “Nevermind then, I’m allergic.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know. I’ll throw it out, it’s not that good anyway.”
Mal rolls her eyes at him, “Don’t. Finish it, I already ate breakfast.”
Arthur shakes his head, crossing the hall to toss it in a nearby waste basket. “No, I don’t really want it. We should probably head inside anyway.”
As if on cue, the door opens and Ariadne sticks her head out, “Hey Mal--oh, hi, Arthur. Uh, you guys should probably get in here. I’m not liable for my actions if I’m the only one beating Fischer into the ground.”
Arthur raises and eyebrow but Mal shrugs, extending her hand to lead them into the classroom. He pulls her hand around his waist and throws another around her shoulders. Mal leans into him and he can smell mint with touches of lavender and something else he can’t place, but it doesn’t bother him. Mal is the poster child for mystery if Arthur’s ever seen one.
The meeting passes with minimal argument which is earnestly unexpected with Fischer making dangerous jokes in the back. Instead of sticking around for it, Mal, Ariadne and Arthur slip out as quick as possible. Mal has one strike and Ariadne has two. At three, they are forbidden from co-ed clubs and grounded to their side of the lake. Arthur watches them cross the official bridge over the lake and grits his teeth for first period.
-
It’s only been a couple of hours without Mal or Ariadne to distract him when Arthur feels like ripping someones lungs out. He’s been to four classes but Fischer is in three of those. He only has three classes left, but Fischer is in two of those, too. And if Arthur has to hear one more passive aggressive remark, he’s going to lose his shit.
Instead of going to lunch, he heads to the back of the school to smoke. Yusuf tipped him off that this was a good spot to get away with it, if he really wanted to risk it and Arthur really does. Usually, the nicotine patch will keep him steady until he can get back to his room, but today is special. Arthur smokes because of the smoke, not because of the drug itself, it’s the fire and the inhalation.
He throws his bag to a nearby spot and lights up. His cigarette today is menthol and they’re his fucking favorite. He closes his eyes and exhales, the smoke blows across and smells thick and strong. His shoulder hunch subconsciously and he leans back into a body.
“Hello, gorgeous.”
Arthur jumps away from the voice, right in his ear, hands twitching for a weapon. (Arthur likes knives. They’re personal and sharp and feel smooth and powerful under his hand. They take skill. They take class to handle appropriately. They make Arthur dizzy with excitement.)
He turns and finds Eames behind him, smirking lightly with a cigarette dangling between his lips. His shoulders sag again and he shoves Eames with the open palm of his hand. “Fucking bastard.”
Smiling, Eames twists Arthur’s hand into his own so they’re clamped together. Arthur pulls away, annoyed at himself for letting his guard down. He glares at Eames and pulls his hand back again only to be met with equal force and no success. Arthur huffs and goes back to his cigarette.
He flicks ash off the end and inhales, instantly distracted from Eames’ shenanigans. The grip on his hand opens and Eames slots their fingers together, threading them. “Hey.”
Arthur turns and Eames’ face has lost all humor. His voice is quiet and tentative and it disconcerts Arthur but he blames that on the nicotine rush. “Is this not alright?”
Eames is frowning, searching Arthur’s face for conformation; for approval. He brings their hands up to emphasize his query, “Is this not alright with you?”
Arthur gets it now and it struck by the sheer irony of the question. He smiles a little, mostly to himself. “You’re seriously going to ask me if it’s okay when you’ve been holding my hand on your own accord for days now?”
Eames breaks into a slow grin, “I suppose you’re right.”
His grip slacked further--as though he’s convinced Arthur won’t slip right out--and their hands drop between them. Eames’ thumb roams over his knuckles and Arthur smokes to hide the genuine smile.
-
It becomes a routine of sorts. Everyone plays a part. Arthur wakes up and Yusuf is gone. Arthur gets dressed and Cobb doesn’t answer his phone. Arthur goes to a club and Ariadne titters happily. Arthur goes to the Discipline Office and Mal is talking herself out of trouble with an alarming ease. Arthur goes behind the school and Eames offers him a cigarette.
They smoke and the Administration never seems to notice. Eames says people used to come back here all the time to smoke but it stopped after a while and soon, he was smoking alone. He has no clue why, really. Arthur doubts as much.
They smoke and swear that one day, they’ll quit. They smoke and walk around the school. Or just stand and talk, more or less. They start grin at each other in hallways. Eames is late to class to catch a glimpse of Arthur’s dimples. Arthur isn’t late but he’s winded every once in a while. Yusuf, in his post-lunch AP Chemistry class pretends--albeit, unconvincingly--not to notice.
It takes only two days for Arthur to realize they’ve become friends.
And on Thursday, Eames is pissed. Arthur can see it in how he’s frowning and flexing his fingers, like he wants to hit something. He can see it but all he can think to do is share his cigarette. They sit on the ground and Arthur lets him slip an arms around his waist. Then Arthur realizes they’ve become more.
It’s only been a couple of days but that’s it. Arthur only needed a couple of days around Eames to relax. Familiarize himself with the territory. Then Arthur lets Eames hold him against the brick wall and press first kisses to his open mouth.
It happens once and after deliberation, Arthur decides he likes it. Very much, even. He takes the initiative to make sure it happens again.
-
Arthur pulls him in for a kiss and he pushes Eames against the wall. He forgets all about his cigarette and tastes the nicotine on Eames’ tongue, instead. They move in slow concentration, kissing with ease. It’s not perfect but mostly organized. Eames’ lips are like the barrel of a gun, dangerously inviting. Arthur sucks and moves in wet practiced waves. They’ve got plenty of time.
When Arthur needs to breathe, he noses Eames’ cheek and sucks lightly on his jaw. He leaves a mark, high on his neck. It’s soft enough that it will fade within a few hours but high enough that a collared shirt won’t hide it.
Before they know it, the bell rings and under any other circumstance, Arthur would stay but he has an important test next period. He kisses Eames and almost gets lost in the heat. Winded, he barely breathes against his mouth when Eames puts a hand on his sternum and pushes him back. He clears his throat and swallows, “You, uh, have a test.”
It’s only a kind of relevant test and Arthur kisses him again. It starts simple but opens into something darker until he’s breathing heavy against him with urgency, and there’s that heat pulling at his stomach, “My grade can take a hit.”
Eames doesn’t reply, pressing his tongue against Arthur’s in a tentative slide. He reaches the roof of Arthur’s mouth and licks lightly and the late bell rings. Arthur breaks off and swears, throwing his crappy cigarette away and reaching for his messenger bag on the floor.
He’s moving to leave and Eames pulls his tie in for a last kiss.
Arthur runs to class and uses that as an excuse for being winded. When Yusuf asks him why his lips are swollen, though, he hasn’t got an excuse. Instead, he makes it a priority to find himself some ChapStick.
-
Regardless of any exclusivity, Arthur left a mark on Eames and forgot that news travels pretty fast. By the time Arthur gets to debate that Friday, Ariadne is jumping up and down with joy. Arthur slides into his chair next to her and tries not to grin every time she tells him something mildly related to Eames. Or something he related to Eames in his head.
After debate team adjourns, Arthur and Ariadne head to the library with their new debate topic. Ariadne turns out to be an extremely competent partner, with the exception that they can’t go back to each other’s dorms. Yusuf is distracting for Ariadne and Mal is just distracting for anyone with eyes.
They camp out at the library until late and the librarian kicks them out. They skipped dinner so Ariadne complains but Arthur makes it up to her by sneaking her into their room. She’s a surprisingly good climber and beams proudly when she lands inside.
They sit on the floor with a movie on the TV Yusuf snuck in and Ariadne falls asleep on Yusuf’s shoulder. They wake her and she changes into a pair of Arthur’s pajama pants. Yusuf laughs, “It’s ridiculous that your clothes fit her. You need to eat more often, man.”
Exhausted from a particularly exhausting day, Arthur rolls over and just falls asleep. His fever has gone down to a regular temperature over the course of week, which is why it surprises him when he finds himself walking through the desert, burning in the heat.
The sun is beating down on his back and the blood is running and squelching and the bones on his feet are cracking and breaking with pressure. It hurts like no dream ever but he keeps walking, parched with cracked lips. He reaches the end of the road and his skin is ripping open, the ocean’s mist feels like heaven with pockets of fresh air in the vortex stench of gore. The jagged edges of the cliff drop off and Arthur thinks he’s going to try and head back and see what happens.
As he’s stepping back, the hand reaches out and clambers up. The being is smaller than before, he smells like leather and when he reaches out to touch Arthur, it’s intimate. A hand pulls his clothes off to touch his skin. The being is gentle in his touches, soothing almost and Arthur can’t help arch into it. The blood smears in places but he’s not freezing or burning him. It’s like mercy.
The being tracks his hands, cool with sweat, all across Arthur’s back and the blisters start closing, clearing away. The being heals every inch of skin he can reach, then holds Arthur’s wrist with loose coercion. At the edge of the cliff, the ocean roars closer than ever and the mist is on his skin now, threading through his hair in wisps of air. Their hands are clasped together loosely and the being turns to him and asks, “Will you jump with me?”
Arthur wakes with a start, scrambling for a weapon. (The school probably has a policy against weapons but Arthur has had a switchblade tucked into his pillowcase since he was 12 and going to a strange place where he has to sleep next to people he doesn’t know wasn’t exactly motive to stop doing so, zero tolerance policies aside.)
He reaches for it but stops when he realizes it’s Ariadne, waking him to say goodbye because she has to sneak back across the lake. It’s just getting light outside but nobody will be awake yet, it’s Saturday. Arthur nods and kisses her cheek and waves to Yusuf, who says he’s going to walk her back to the school. Arthur nods, watching them leave.
They close the window behind them and Arthur relaxes into the bed. The room is quiet and it’s spinning a little. His skin is warm and flushed with arousal. Arthur slides his pajama bottoms just past his thighs and strokes himself slowly, wondering if he should really be doing this, thinking about Eames this way.
But he closes his eyes and sees Eames, with his kiss swollen lips and hooded eyes. He feels the phantom tell-tale heat against his hip. Precome leaks and he spreads it, pursing his lips in concentration. Arthur moves his hands in a slow slide until he’s arching into it and he’s breathing is labored. He thinks of Eames, moaning softly through a kiss. Eames, between his legs, lips wrapped around his cock, wet and red with need. Eames under him, Eames over him, Eames saying his name with breathy revving.
Arthur strokes faster with unsteady hands, heat crawling all over his body and curling his toes. Eames’ hands, touching him everywhere, sliding slick against slapping skin, and he comes with the realization that the being in his dream spoke like a motorcycle cutting through a superhighway. His body tremors as he spills all over his hand and his stomach.
When he can think again, his chest bubbles with laughter and exertion, but twenty minutes later, he gets up to shower and his hands are still shaking.
-
When he’s finished showering, he wraps a towel around his waist and hangs another around his neck. He steps into the room only to leap back in surprise. (Arthur has stopped carrying knives, and one day, he’ll regret that.) Cobb is lying on his bed, lounging like a fucking king, He doesn’t even open his eyes, tossing a light greeting. “Hey, Arthur.”
Arthur rolls his eyes at him but grabs some clean clothes and changes in the damp heat of the bathroom. He figures Cobb had to show while he was in the shower and let himself in. When he gets back to him--all of five minutes later--he finds Cobb fast asleep on his bed, laying cautiously on his side.
Arthur throws his wet towel at Cobb’s head but otherwise leaves him be. Cobb is here, at around seven in the morning, meaning he’s been driving for a while so he’s probably exhausted. He’s also here before noon, meaning he needs something from Arthur and judging by the black bag hanging behind the door--with what Arthur can only assume are Cobb’s Sunday Best--he probably wants Arthur to help him pick an outfit. Or stash a dead body. Either or.
Arthur sprawls his work over the desk and buries himself in it. There’s no point in waking Cobb up, he’ll get bitchy. Meanwhile, he’s got homework in AP African History, so he’s got to get to it before he dives into Law and Calculus.
A few hours go by and Yusuf doesn’t come back, which Arthur more or less expected to happen. He finished all but Calculus, but he can leave it for another day. He doesn’t even bother pretending to watch TV, just approaches Cobb. He shakes him awake easily and then doesn’t leave him be until he sits up.
Cobb rubs sleep from his eyes. “What time is it?”
Arthur checks his phone, “Almost noon. What are you doing here? You don’t have a hernia you’d like me to operate on or anything, right?”
“No,” Cobb laughs into a yawn, “I came for the dance thing tonight. I mean, it’s pretty lame and shit, but Mal asked me to go with her. Have you seen her eyes? That mouth? I didn’t stand a chance.”
Arthur moves to sit next to him. “You’re still super fucking early, though.”
Cobb shrugs, “I figured it would be easier for you to choose my outfit ahead of time instead of just picking apart whatever I wear later. I’m fucking dead, though, I was hoping you’d let me sleep while you criticized my fashion sense,” he yawns again and adds as an afterthought, “or lack thereof.”
“Psh, now you care,” Arthur settles his back against the wall, “You never gave a shit before.”
Cobb settles next to him, and glances at Arthur but doesn’t say anything for a beat. When he does, Cobb smiles in with a full, youthful grin that almost scares Arthur. It’s with a grin that Arthur has only ever seen once before, when Cobb was twelve and holding his new-born baby sister. “Nice job getting rid of Whatsherface.”
In lieu of pressing the real issue, Arthur asks to see how the stitches are healing. Dom’s random praise is explanation enough. Arthur makes note of getting to know Mal more, it appears she’ll be sticking around for a while.
PART IV
