baby, it's cold outside

Harry Potter: the sky was made for us tonight (part two)

papered — Sat, 19 Jan 2013 05:26:00 GMT

the sky was made for us tonight (part two)
please see part one for summary, a/n, etc.

In the morning, Draco had to deal with the mess he’d made the night before. It wasn’t difficult to wave his wand and carry all the debris into the garbage can, but it was an unwelcome reminder of last night. Then, despite getting about two hours of sleep and feeling like he’d been run over by a truck, Draco dragged himself to work. He probably could have called in sick, but he didn’t particularly feel like sitting at home with his thoughts.

The next few days passed too slowly for Draco’s liking, one day stretching endlessly into the next. He stopped going to Madam Paccat’s – he had no wish to run into Potter again – and spent more time than he would admit moping around his house. When the weekend arrived again, he forced himself to get dressed and go out, determined to find a different tea shop to frequent.

By the time he finally found one a thirty-minute walk away, it was three hours later and Draco was cold and hungry. Stomping into the tiny store, he ordered an Earl Grey.

It tasted terrible. The witch at the counter had added sugar and milk without asking him, and Draco nearly choked on the sweetness of the first sip. Throwing the entire thing into the garbage can, he put on his cloak, grabbed his scarf, and trudged miserably home.

After that, he didn’t bother going out for tea anymore.

The worst part was, Draco knew why he was upset. If the entire thing had just been one big joke, Draco had no doubt he would have been angry, but then he would have thought of a way to get his revenge and gotten over it. The part that upset him the most was that he’d actually liked Harvey. Liked him enough to flirt with him, to ask to see him again - and then it had turned out that Harvey had been Potter all along.

Except Harvey had been nothing like the Potter he remembered. Sure, they hadn’t agreed on a lot of things, but it had been teasing, playful, nothing at all like the antagonism he’d come to associate with Potter over the years – and trying to think of Harvey and Potter in his head as the same person gave him a headache.

November came and went, and the first week of December brought with it the first snowfall of the year. It was just a quarter of an inch, if even that, and most of the snow melted before it actually hit the ground, but it brought with it the sense that winter was really here and that Christmas was right around the corner.

Work remained fairly busy, for which Draco was grateful – it kept him occupied. He left the house early most days – too early to ever run into Potter on his way to the Ministry – and by the time he got home, it was usually dark enough that he could pretend he didn’t see the other man even if Potter did happen to be coming in at the same time.

He settled into a routine, of sorts. For the first time in a while, he didn’t think about Potter or Harvey.

And so of course, Potter, who’d always had the worst timing, had to choose then to reappear in Draco’s life. He came to ring Draco’s doorbell, about a month after their last meeting, and this time, he was armed with chocolate chip cookies.

If Draco had checked the peephole properly and had known who it was, he probably wouldn’t have answered. As it was, it had been a long day, and he hadn’t really thought Potter would have the guts to show up at his door again anytime soon. In hindsight, considering what Potter was famous for, perhaps that had been a bit of a misguided assumption.

Potter, too, looked stunned. “Um, hi. I didn’t think you would open the door,” he confessed.

Draco briefly considered yelling at him and then slamming the door in his face, but the initial rage had passed, and now he was just tired. He sighed. “Do you really think that bringing me baked goods is going to make up for anything?”

“I know it won’t. But that doesn’t meant I shouldn’t try,” Potter said, expression determined. “Draco, please. I know that I should have left as soon as you showed up at the tea shop that day, but then you sat down next to me, and we started talking and you weren’t the Draco Malfoy I remembered. You were opinionated and stubborn, but you were also funny and charming and I actually liked you.” He paused, looking as if he was trying to find the right words. “I know I probably shouldn’t have kept in contact after that, but then I couldn’t help myself. I thought – I wanted to get to know you better.”

“That’s not an excuse, Potter.” Draco said.

“I know. I know it doesn’t. But I wanted you to know.” Potter swallowed audibly, then carefully met Draco’s gaze. “When you kissed me that day – I didn’t pull away because it was you. I pulled away because you didn’t know it was me. And I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me now, after everything that’s happened, but. I need to tell you – I didn’t mean to lie to you. And… I still feel the same way.” His eyes were ridiculously green. “Please. I’m just asking for a chance.”

The terrible thing was, Draco believed him. He believed that Potter was sincere, and that the other man meant what he was saying. Despite Draco’s original attempts to convince himself that Potter had merely been trying to play him the fool, he knew at the bottom of his heart what type of person Potter was. He was a Gryffindor through and through.

And it was terrible, because if he’d gone on thinking that Potter was a great big liar, he would’ve been able to cling onto his rage, but believing him meant that some small, unwilling part of Draco was starting to forgive him. Because when it came down to it, Draco had never had a lot of friends, and he’d genuinely liked Harvey. Who turned out to be Potter.

With a nearly inaudible sigh, Draco let the door swing open and turned around to get himself a drink. By the time he turned around, Potter was still gaping like a surprised goldfish outside his door.

“I… can come in?” he asked, voice unusually tentative.

“What are you waiting for, a written invitation?” Draco grumbled. “Shut the door behind you.”

“Oh. Okay,” Potter said, still looking unnaturally cautious as he did as Draco asked. He came to sit on the couch next to Draco, maintaining a few feet between them as if Draco was a tiger he didn’t want to spook.

Draco rolled his eyes, and took another sip of his drink. “You can get yourself something to drink in the kitchen.”

“Oh no, I’m fine!” Potter insisted vigorously, then proceeded to continue sitting while awkwardly alternating his gaze between Draco’s coffee table and the plate of cookies still clutched in his hand.

Draco let it continue for about ten minutes, just to watch Potter stew, before walking over to the kitchen himself. He came back with a filled mug, which he handed to Potter. The plate, he took and placed on the coffee table.

Potter took a sip, and his eyes widened. “Eggnog? Really?” He took another, longer sip. “I didn’t know this was something wizards drank too!”

“Don’t be stupid, Potter. It’s a Muggle drink.”

“Then how come you have it?” Potter frowned at him. “I thought you never went into Muggle London?”

“I don’t.” Draco stole one of the cookies. “I made it.”

“What?” Potter seemed to go temporarily mute with surprise, as if trying to process the idea of Draco Malfoy making eggnog. Finally, he took another sip from his mug. “It’s good,” he said. “Better than the store-bought kind I get.”

“Of course,” Draco said smugly. To his surprise, this conversation wasn’t going as badly as he’d thought it would. He took another cookie, then forcibly relaxed into his couch, letting his shoulders lose some of the tension he’d been carrying since Potter had walked in.

They ended up talking about inconsequential but safe topics like work and holiday traditions, and Draco was almost surprised to find that he didn’t develop any urges to murder Potter in his seat as they talked. Being told Harvey was Potter was one thing, but Draco was coming to discover that some part of him still expected Potter to be a completely different person. Realizing otherwise was going to take some time, but it was probably going to be less unpleasant than he’d imagined.

Potter, for his part, slowly lost the deer-in-the-headlights look, his expression gradually growing more relaxed as he sipped at his drink. He didn’t end up staying long, but by the time he left, there was a tentative something in the air that Draco wasn’t sure exactly how to describe.

All he knew was that while it wasn’t quite forgiveness, but it something close.

~

The week leading up to Christmas involved having Potter show up at his home at every other opportunity. Draco grumbled and complained and whined manfully about it at every chance, but it would be a lie to say he wasn’t enjoying Potter’s company.

Some small, stubborn part of him still felt like it was too soon to let the past go completely, but a bigger part of him was tentatively hopeful. It was a crazy idea – having something with Potter, of all people – but crazy or not, there was something warm unfurling in the pit of his stomach that he suspected had little to do with eggnog.

It helped that it turned out Potter was a rather excellent baker (not that Draco would admit it out loud), and he frequently brought over steaming plates of sweet things Draco found hard to resist.

“Look,” Potter asked one evening after he’d come over to share a plate of freshly made banana muffins. “What are you doing on Christmas Day?”

Draco shrugged. “Not much. I always visit my mother for dinner on Christmas Eve, but I usually come back after.”

Potter seemed to hesitate for a fraction of a second before nodding, as if making up his mind about something. “I was wondering. If you’re not busy do you want to come over to my house?” he asked quickly. “I mean, I don’t have anything planned either, but I’m going to be baking all day, and it would just be nice to have someone to share it with.”

“You don’t see Granger or Weasley for the holidays?” Draco hadn’t asked, but he’d been curious – he’d always assumed those three were still joined at the hips, but with the exception of Granger that one time, he hadn’t caught sight of the other two thirds of the trio.

“I normally do, but they’re going out of town until past Christmas this year. They’ll be back for New Year’s, but until then, I’ll be on my own,” Potter explained. He fiddled with the hem of his sweater. “You haven’t answered my question.”

He suddenly met Draco’s eyes, and Draco realized abruptly that he’d been wrong. He’d been so angry when he’d found out that Harvey had merely been a disguise, had been so certain that any hint of the man he’d met in the tea shop was gone – but no, he’d been missing it all along. Harry had changed his hair, his face shape, even his height – but there was one feature Harry had never changed at all.

Harry’s eyes were the exact same green that Draco remembered.

“I’d like that,” he said carefully, and watched as Potter tried but failed to hide his pleased expression. “You know,” he continued, munching on a muffin. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you, Potter.”

“Mmm, of course not,” Potter said agreeably, but Draco saw the small, hopeful tug at the corner of his lips.

~

On Christmas Eve, Draco went to bed early. He’d Flooed to the holiday manor his mother was spending her winter at earlier to drop off her gift, and the dinner the house elves had whipped up had been delicious. Having drunk a little more than usual, he’d collapsed in bed and gone straight to sleep when he’d gotten home.

He woke, hours later, to searing heat.

At first, Draco thought he was dreaming – but no, there were flickers of red and orange, visible even behind closed eyelids. Abruptly awake, he reached for his wand, thinking that somehow, his room was on fire.

It wasn’t.

Draco revelled in a single moment of sheer relief before he realized what the colours had been. They were the shadows cast by licks of flame, being reflected onto his bedroom wall. Through his window.

Jumping to his feet, Draco looked out his window and realized with a start that no, his house wasn’t on fire – but the next one over was. Potter’s.

Pulling open his window, the wave of heat nearly knocked him over. Any hope that the fire had just been an accident died – he’d read about this in the books his father used to send him. No regular fire could be this hot. This was a magical fire, undoubtedly set on purpose.

“Potter!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, trying to see through the windows, but all he could see were smoke and flames.

Without conscious thought, he was running downstairs and out of his house, heedless of the fact that he was in pyjamas and slippers. He wasn’t the only one who’d come out – there were some figures on the other side of Potter’s house, and here, on this side, a family of four had also appeared, the father looking concerned while one of the children hid behind the mother’s legs.

No one was calling for the Aurors, Draco realized with a sense of sudden desperation. Other than Draco, no one else here knew that Harry Potter lived in this house. All of them were undoubtedly assuming that this was an accidental kitchen fire, a fire that the house owner would be able to get under control soon.

“Aguamenti!” the mother said, confirming Draco’s suspicions. She looked confused when the jet of water from her wand had no effect on the growing flames.

“It’s magical fire,” Draco yelled at her. “Call the Aurors, please!”

He watched long enough to see the woman running for her front door before he cast a Deflammation Spell on himself, followed by a cooling charm and a Bubble-Head Charm to help with the smoke.

“What are you doing?” her husband asked, sounding horrified. “You can’t go in! Your spells aren’t going to hold up against magical flame!”

He was right, but what other choice did Draco have? Leaving Harry to his own devices wasn’t an option – and for all Draco knew, Harry might be injured or knocked out. “I’m going after a friend,” Draco told the man grimly.

Then, taking a deep breath, he ran towards the fire.

~

The door was barely attached to its hinges. Draco felt the heat of the flames against his sides as he squeezed into the house, and had to jump back to avoid a falling beam. It was stiflingly hot inside, and he could feel the sweat on his face despite the cooling charm.

“Harry!” he called, trying to see through the smoke. “Harry, can you hear me? Are you here?”

There was no reply. Grimly, Draco realized that the fire had already traveled up the staircase to the second floor where Harry’s bedroom was undoubtedly located. With the liberal use of self-levitation spells, he managed to get himself up the stairs. “Harry? Where are you?”

There was a muffled thud from the last room, and Draco followed the sound without hesitation.

The relief he felt when he finally caught sight of the other man was staggering. Harry had his back to the wall and there was a long, painful-looking welt along his left arm, but otherwise, he seemed to be doing better than Draco had imagined.

“Harry!” Draco called again, and the other man finally lifted his head. Draco could see the shock in his eyes when he registered who it was.

“Draco!” Harry sounded horrified. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

“Saving your arse, of course,” Draco snapped. His arm, when he wiped it over his face, came away wet with sweat. “A little gratitude wouldn’t hurt.”

“Hurry up and get out of here before it’s too late!”

A lick of flame flickered a little too close, and Draco jumped out of the way a second too late. He felt the resulting welt already starting to form, but he ignored it. “Did you think I went to all the trouble of getting up here just to leave you?”

“Since when were you the type to go on suicide missions?” Harry asked, and then renewed his own Bubble-Head Charm.

“It’s not a suicide mission, you pillock,” Draco snapped, ignoring the part of him that knew very well how dangerous this was, and how, if it had been anyone else, he probably would have waited outside until the Aurors arrived. He didn’t have time to contemplate any epiphanies though. This wasn’t the time. “Now hurry up and get out of there.”

Harry looked at him. “I can’t,” he said. “Look up.”

Draco did, and felt his heart stop for a moment.

There were a series of flaming beams balanced precariously against one another. All of them looked like they might fall any second, and the movement of any one of them would lead to a cascade of falling beams which would effectively seal the room off.

If that happened, Harry had no chance of getting out alive.

“Hurry up!” he said, the panic abruptly welling inside him. They were running out of time. Despite the danger, until now, Draco had honestly thought that they would get out of this alive – because it was Harry, and Harry always got out alive. But the sight of the perilously balanced beams sent a wave of fear through him: fear for Harry that he hadn’t wanted to admit he could feel. “Get out before they fall.”

Harry shook his head resolutely. “I can’t. If I try to cross, I’ll have to move the door over, and then it’ll fall for sure.”

“There’s still a chance.”

“If I cross, it’ll fall. If this room collapses, the next room probably will too, and likely this entire floor. And you’re still here.”

Draco felt the ridiculous urge to laugh bubbling out of him. His eyes felt too dry, his throat, like sandpaper. “So, what? You’re just going to wait here until the beams fall anyway, and die?”

“You still have time to get out,” Harry said, not meeting his eyes, and Draco was hit with the sudden, terrible realization that Harry thought he was doing this for him. He thought he was buying Draco time to escape.

If Draco had never come up in an attempt to rescue him, then chances were, Harry would be trying to run, risks be damned. But now, to ensure Draco could escape, he was going to stay behind and sacrifice himself – like he always did.

“Why are you doing this?” he yelled, something painful clawing at his chest. “Why are you so stupid, Potter? Why do you always have to be the hero?”

“Because I’m in love with you, you idiot.” Harry said defiantly, as if that explained everything.

And maybe it did. “What if I love you too?” Draco shot back without thinking. The words burst out of him, finally free.

“What?” Harry stared at him. “No you don’t. That’s the whole point, remember? You don’t even like me. You’re still angry with me.”

“What? Are you stupid, Potter? If I was still angry, do you think I would have let you come over to my house?”

“No, but that’s different!” Harry protested. “That’s just you… tolerating me.”

It was completely ridiculous that they were having this conversation in a burning house that could fall on top of them at any moment. Draco refused to be a part of such stupidity.

There was only one choice. Coming to a decision, Draco swallowed hard and met Harry’s eyes.

Then, he plunked himself down on the floor.

“Draco, have you gone insane,” Harry hissed. “What are you doing? We don’t have time for this. Get out of here before it’s too late!”

“Let’s get one thing straight, Potter. I’m not leaving unless you are too. So you can stand there and wait until the beams fall, and we’ll both die. Or, you can try to get out of that room, in which case we’ll at least have a chance of making it out of here in one piece.”

Harry stared at him. Draco stared right back, not letting himself flinch.

A second passed. With the fire and smoke around them, it felt like a small eternity.

“You’re completely crazy,” Harry finally said, his voice shaking, but something in his expression had changed, and Draco knew he’d won. “Alright, get back. I’m going to make a run for it.”

“On three,” Draco said, sliding to his feet. “I’ll levitate the door out of the way, you run. Okay?”

“Okay.” Harry nodded. There was no time to catch their breath. “One. Two.”

“Three!”

Several things happened at once. The door flew up and out of the way, the edge hitting a wall. The vibrations sent the beams crashing to the floor and the ceiling collapsing in. The room Harry had just been in sealed itself off, and Harry landed with a breathless oomph in Draco’s arms, nearly knocking them both off balance.

By some miracle, the room Draco had been standing in didn’t collapse.

“We did it,” Harry breathed.

And then Draco was grabbing his hand and dragging him in the direction of the staircase. Not that there was much left of it by now – Draco very much doubted it would be able to hold both of their weight.

“Look, the Aurors are here,” Harry said, pointing. And he was right – there was a large window directly across from the bottom of the staircase, and from it, Draco could see small figures in Ministry robes roaming around the lawn, trying to get the fire under control.

Around them, the house creaked ominously.

“The window,” Draco decided.

“What?”

“We’re going to have to get out through the window – I think the house is going to collapse. We won’t make it to the door in time.”

Harry swallowed. “Okay,” he said simply, and tightened his grip on Draco’s hand.

Then, simultaneously, they jumped.

It was only because of how small Harry’s staircase was that they managed to make the distance at all. Seconds after they were airborne, the step they’d been standing on collapsed behind them. For a moment, Draco was certain they wouldn’t make it, that they would land in flames instead – but in the next moment, they were crashing through glass and rolling onto Harry’s lawn, scraped and bruised but alive.

They were safe now. The magical fire was contained within the house itself – it wouldn’t spread, not even to the lawn.

“Harry!” One of the Aurors was calling, but whoever he was, his voice sounded distant to Draco’s ears. His knees felt weak.

“Draco?” Harry was speaking, sounding frantic. He seemed to be trying to pat Draco down for injuries, but Draco wasn’t exactly cooperating. “Draco, can you hear me?”

And then, before Draco could muster up the breath to reply, Harry continued. “Oh god, what’s wrong? You’re hurt, aren’t you?” He waved his arm wildly at someone. “Excuse me! We need a healer here! My friend’s hurt, he came into my house to help me, I think he’s in shock!”

Draco reached up and grabbed his hand, making him drop his arm. “Harry. I’m completely fine,” he said.

“What? No, that’s the adrenalin talking, you’re just not feeling anything yet. It’s going to hit you in a –”

Draco put his finger on Harry’s mouth and felt, rather than heard, him fall abruptly silent. “Shhh. I’m not in shock, I promise.” He smiled, almost involuntarily. “I’m the mediwizard here, remember?”

And then he replaced his finger with his mouth and pressed their lips together.

Harry was still for a second, but then he was kissing Draco back with a vigour that seemed to surprise them both. His arms came up to grasp at Draco’s shoulders, and Draco let himself be pulled forward, leaning in without conscious thought until they were chest to chest and heart to heart.

“I’m not angry,” he said breathlessly when they finally pulled back for air. “I was, but I’m not anymore. I haven’t been – not since you came over with the cookies.”

“Really?” Harry croaked out.

“I promise.” He laughed a little, aware of how ridiculous and over-dramatic this seemed, but for a shining moment, Draco felt wild and fearless, as if he could do anything, say everything.

So he did. “Go out with me.”

Somewhere behind them, the healers had arrived, but Draco ignored them, focusing his attention on Harry.

Harry stared at him for a moment, and then he started to laugh too. “I’d love to,” he said. And then he kissed Draco again.

He tasted like fire and heat and his ridiculous herbal tea, and in that moment, Draco believed that everything was going to work out.

Epilogue: New Years Eve

“I can’t believe you two are dating now,” Granger said, looking at them.

“I don’t want any details, ever,” Weasley was saying, his face screwed up in an expression of disgust. “I mean, Harry, mate, I support all your relationship choices and everything, but if you tell me anything, I might have to go Obliviate myself.”

“Have I mentioned this thing Harry does with his tongue?” Draco said, just to be contrary. “He really –”

“Malfoy!” Weasley howled, as Harry gave Draco a horrified look and turned beet red. “Draco, please, shut up,” he hissed.

Draco preened, and took another sip of his champagne.

There was still thirty minutes until midnight. The four of them were sitting in Granger’s living room, watching the Muggle screen with the moving pictures she’d somehow managed to hook up, and Draco didn’t really understand what was happening but the screen was filled with little Muggles yelling excitedly.

Granger stretched. “I’m just going to take some of these into the kitchen,” she said, gesturing to the dinner plates they’d left scattered on the coffee table.

“I’ll help,” Harry said, moving to stand, but Hermione shot him a look.

“You just got discharged from the hospital three days ago – I don’t care what you say about being okay, you need time to recover.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Just sit here with Draco – Ron can help me.”

Neither Draco nor Harry had sustained any life-threatening injuries, but they’d both had to be treated for fairly severe smoke inhalation despite the Bubble-Head charm. The two of them had ended up spending Christmas day unconscious at St. Mungo’s.

Luckily, by the time they’d woken up, there had been an Auror around to tell them that the perpetuator had already been arrested – in fact, she’d been caught almost immediately after Draco and Harry had been taken to the hospital. Apparently, the particular spell that had been cast to create the magical fire had required the caster’s close presence.

Draco hadn’t recognized the name of the arsonist, but according to the Auror, she’d been the sister of a criminal who had been killed while resisting arrest last year. It had been the first case Harry had been put in charge of.

“Yeah, I’ll help,” Weasley said agreeably, standing up and gathering the remainder of the plates. They disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Draco and Harry alone in the living room.

Draco kept his eyes peeled on the Muggle moving pictures, but casually, he reached over, grabbed Harry’s hand, and laced their fingers together one by one. Harry’s grip tightened in response. They kept their fingers intertwined, even after Granger and Weasley had returned.

They still had a lot of talking to do, Draco knew. The last few days had been a whirlwind of activities – being discharged, fending off the media, helping Harry settle into Draco’s home now that Harry’s own house was unliveable for the time being – and they’d barely had any time to sit down and figure things out.

But for now, Draco was okay with that. They had time. The talking could wait until later.

The countdown was going to start soon – there wasn’t long left to go now. The announcer said something Draco didn’t catch, but all the little Muggles on the screen cheered loudly.

“Happy New Year,” Harry whispered, breath just a trickle of air against Draco’s cheek. Draco’s responding smile was entirely involuntary.

Happy New Year indeed.

Harry Potter: the sky was made for us tonight (part one)

papered — Sat, 19 Jan 2013 05:22:28 GMT

it's been an entire year of unfinished stories and unwritten prompts, but I will do better in 2013.

written for hd_hols2012, and reposted now that the reveals are over.

the sky was made for us tonight (part one)
Harry Potter: Harry/Draco
PG-13, ~11370 words
In which Draco moves into his own place, but his neighbour - and the people he meets - are not quite what he expects.
warning(s): unintentional deception, angst, EWE, wallowing, and pining.
a/n: written for astridfire, for hd_holidays 2012. originally posted here. thank you so much to meiface for all of her support and ideas and handholding. ♥

“You have got to be kidding me,” said Draco Malfoy in horror.

From a few feet beside him, Potter continued to sputter, sounding somewhat like a drowning rat.

Draco was too shocked to make a disparaging comment about it. “Potter?” he asked instead. “What are you doing here?”

It had been a good three years since he’d been anywhere near Potter. Oh, he was aware, as was most of the wizarding world, that Potter had disappeared for a year after the defeat of Voldemort, only to reappear and go straight into the Auror training program, but compared to his Hogwarts days, he’d gotten uncannily good at staying out of view of the paparazzi. No one knew where he lived, what he did in his free time, or if he was seeing anyone. Of course, the Daily Prophet released articles at least twice a month about how Potter had been sighted at this new coffee house and that fancy Italian restaurant with so-and-so, complete with dark and blurry photos, but no one could really be sure if it was him.

It took another minute before Potter was recovered enough to speak. “What do you mean, what am I doing here? I live here!” he said finally, sounding unreasonably indignant. “What are you doing here?”

“You live here?” Draco repeated with mounting horror.

Setting foot again in London after being gone for a few years, it had taken Draco nearly half a year to find a decent place to live. It wasn’t that there was a lack of vacancies or anything, but growing up in Malfoy Manor unfortunately meant that one ended up being very particular about the sort of place one deemed “liveable”. Personally, Draco didn’t think he was being all that unreasonable. He was well aware that Malfoy Manor, built nearly two centuries ago under the instructions of Abraxas Cygnus Malfoy, was an architectural masterpiece, with every spiral staircase and marble arch built to perfection. He certainly didn’t expect any house to rival the grandness of his childhood home.

But Draco wanted something elegant. He wanted something with a wide balcony from which he could see the city, and he wanted the living room to be positioned so that the sun would stream through the windows and light up the rooms in the mornings. French windows were a plus.

After six months, five disgruntled realtors (four of them fired), and two shouting matches, Draco had finally become the proud owner of No. 5 Atolis Way.

But then Potter had to show up, and he didn’t look like he planned to go anywhere anytime soon.

“How can you live here?” he asked, because this situation was plainly ridiculous. Potter had a perfectly good Manor house sitting around waiting for him – what was he doing here, interrupting Draco’s life? “Why aren’t you at Grimmauld Place?”

Potter frowned at him. “Grimmauld Place? I haven’t lived there in years. It’s not even practical.” He shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable. “And the reporters leave me alone here because they don’t know where I am.”

“Yes, but why did you have to move here?”

“I liked the French windows.”

“Merlin, this cannot be happening.”

Potter had the nerves to roll his eyes. “Christ, Malfoy, don’t be such a drama queen. It’s hardly the end of the world.”

No, it wasn’t the end of the world, but it had taken Draco months to find the perfect place, only for Potter to waltz in and ruin his life.

“Why are you even living here, Malfoy? This is practically Muggle London.”

“No it’s not,” Draco said crossly, just to be disagreeable, but Potter was right. The houses on this street had been built so that the front doors faced wizarding London, but the back overlooked Muggle London. He’d chosen the location on purpose – it was mostly a residential area, and had seemed like it would be quiet and private. Few wizards would ever come to this area unless they lived here themselves, and any Muggles who strayed too close would suddenly recall an urgent matter they had to take care of.

Potter frowned. “You better not tell anyone that I live here!”

“As if,” Draco scoffed. “If anything, you’re going to be the one to do something stupid and attract the Daily Prophet’s attention again, and I’m going to get dragged into it.” And then, just to be annoying, he sneered and added, “Maybe I should call up Rita Skeeter and make her a deal. Information on the whereabouts of Harry Potter, as long as she leaves me alone.”

Potter momentarily turned an amusing shade of red, but then, to Draco’s disappointment, he suddenly laughed. “You are still such a twat, Malfoy. You know you wouldn’t do that – you’re my neighbour now. Drawing attention to me would only bring the paparazzi down on you too.”

Draco scowled, because unfortunately, the other man was right. “You better not disturb my privacy, Potter,” he said instead.

He was not going to let Potter bother him. All he had to do, he decided, was ignore Potter’s existence. He’d been doing it for the last few years, after all – it couldn’t be too difficult to continue.

~

Draco spent his weekends getting to know his new neighbourhood. Starting in at his new position at St. Mungo’s meant that he didn’t have a lot of free time, but he’d discovered a gym, some excellent restaurants, and a tailor all within a twenty-minute walk away – the hole-in-the-wall Italian place a few blocks away had been a particularly good find. He still had to find a grocery store though. For now, he’d been stopping at one on the way home from work.

He ignored the logical little voice in the back of his head telling him that he could always do the reasonable thing and ask Potter.

His greatest discovery was, probably, the tea shop just a few blocks away. From the outside, it looked rather abandoned – the windows were rather grimy, and the sign on the door proclaiming Madam Paccat’s Tea Shop was tilted and worn down. Draco would have walked right by without a second glance if not for the fact that he saw two very well-dressed witches enter the establishment just as he was passing by.

Curiosity getting the best of him, Draco walked up and cautiously pushed open the door.

The inside of the shop was nothing like the outside. The place was much larger than the storefront would have suggested, and not only was it clean, it was also bright and cheerful. Eccentric, mismatching tables were scattered around the store, and Draco was surprised to see that almost every single one was occupied. There was even a cozy-looking loveseat by the window, which seemed to be overlooking a view of snowfall despite the fact that it was rather foggy outside. Celestina Warbeck’s voice wailed happily over the wizarding wireless network.

“Can I take your order?” came a voice from the counter at the back, and Draco looked up to find a plump, middle-aged witch looking expectantly at him. Her apron was bright orange and clashed horribly with her red hair.

“A cup of Earl Grey please,” Draco said, walking up.

“Anything to eat with that, my dear?” She motioned towards the giant printout stuck on the wall to her left, proclaiming Winter Specials!.

Draco ordered a slice of pumpkin pie as well, then paid the woman – Madam Paccat, he assumed. It wasn’t until he was waiting to the side for his order that he realized there was an unusual number of eyes on him.

The couple sitting at the table closest to him were looking at him curiously, while a group of younger witches in the corner were whispering and giggling while peering at him from behind their hands. Draco looked away stiffly, but then one of them got up and approached him.

“Excuse me, sir, I couldn’t help but notice – but are you really Draco Malfoy?”

Even if he wasn’t Harry Potter, the wizarding world was still interested in what had become of the son of Lucius Malfoy. Being out of the country for a while had diverted people’s attention, but Draco wasn’t exactly someone hard to recognize.

“I’m sorry, Miss, you have the wrong person,” he said, keeping his voice civil but insistent. He turned and faced the counter so that his back was to the rest of the shop until his order was ready, at which point he levitated his food with a flick of his wand and turned to look for a seat. There were two empty tables, but both were made to seat two or three and Draco had a suspicion that a nosy witch or wizard might try to join him if he were to sit there.

Instead, he looked over at the one table whose occupant was not peering curiously at Draco. The table itself was unusual – made out of wood but carved into the shape of a squirrel – and the man sitting at it looked to be about Draco’s age. He barely glanced at Draco, and was reading what looked like a Muggle newspaper.

Making a decision, Draco walked over to him. “Would you mind if I shared your table?” he asked. The man lowered the paper, his eyes widening as he looked at Draco. For a moment, Draco wondered if he would say something about who Draco was, but then he merely nodded and shifted his belongings over.

Draco sat. Settling himself down, he took a small sip of his tea and sighed involuntarily.

“This is perfect,” he said out loud, and the man next to him laughed.

“Good, isn’t it? This is my favourite tea shop in the neighbourhood,” he said, finally speaking up. There was something vaguely familiar about his voice, but Draco was too busy taking his second sip to really think about it.

“Do you come here a lot?” he asked finally, putting down his cup to take a bite of his pie. It was equally good.

“Um, yeah, practically everyday. I’m addicted,” the man said ruefully. “Is this your first time here? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

Draco hummed happily. “I recently moved into the area,” he explained. And then, on impulse, he stuck out his hand. “I’m Draco Malfoy.”

The man seemed to hesitate for a second, but then he shook Draco’s hand and smiled. His grip was firm. “Har – I’m Harvey. Harvey Smith.”

Harvey had medium-brown hair and a fairly generic sort of face, but up-close, his eyes were unusually green. Most people Draco knew with green eyes had flecks of blue or grey or hazel mixed in, but Harvey’s were just a true green. It made the colour jump off his face a little, in a way that drew attention and became the first thing someone would notice.

He wasn’t bad-looking, Draco decided. Eyes aside, his features might be a bit plain, but he had the sort of face that came to life when he smiled.

Harvey coughed.

Realizing that he was staring, Draco quickly cleared his throat. “So, what are you drinking?” he asked, peering into the other man’s cup.

“It’s a tea blend with bergamot, cinnamon, and herbs,” Harvey said, taking a sip with flourish. He laughed at the expression on Draco’s face. “What? Don’t like bergamot?”

“I’m fine with bergamot. And cinnamon, for that matter. But herbal blends?” Draco wrinkled his nose. “That’s not even proper tea.”

“You make it like tea, you drink it like tea, and it’s good for you. Why wouldn’t I consider it a tea? Besides, it’s good.” Harvey took another long, exaggerated sip. “Have you even tried any?”

“Of course I have,” Draco said, which was actually a big fat lie, but he wasn’t about to admit it now. “And it was awful.”

“Mine’s not awful,” Harvey insisted, and then, looking determined, pushed his cup towards Draco. “Here, try some.”

Draco stared blankly at the practical stranger who was trying to make him drink undoubtedly disgusting concoctions and then his lips were curving without his permission at the utter ridiculousness of the situation. “Are you crazy? No, I don’t want any.” He pushed the cup back. “And the whole point of tea is that it’s made from the tea plant. Herbs are not tea.”

“We’ll just have to agree to disagree then.” Harvey said, grinning.

Draco smiled back involuntarily. “So, Harvey,” he said, sitting back in his seat. “Aside from frequenting tea shops, what do you do with your life?”

They talk for longer than Draco had intended. He learned that Harvey worked as an Auror, had graduated from a school in the United States (but had lived in London as a kid, which was why his accent was British), and spent his free time drinking too much tea.

Draco, in return, found himself talking about his own life – how he’d decided to leave England after the war and study in France instead for his medical training, and how he’d recently come back to London to work. “I’m working mostly at St. Mungo’s now, but I’ll be the on-call mediwizard for the Hollyhead Harpies during Quidditch season,” he explained.

By the time Draco finished his (third) refill of tea, he realized that it had been over an hour since he’d first walked in.

“I should probably get going,” Harvey said, looking at the clock in surprise. “I didn’t realize what time it was.”

“Me too.” Draco stood up, leaving a generous tip in the box at the corner of the table as he pulled on his cloak. “It was nice to meet you, Harvey Smith.”

Harvey smiled. “You too.”

Draco discovered, quite abruptly, that while he would undoubtedly run into Harvey again at some point, he didn’t want to leave their next meeting up to chance. On impulse, he added, “Since I’m new here, maybe you can show me around the neighbourhood some time.”

“Oh,” Harvey said. “Um, sure. Okay. Why not.” He looked a little uncertain, but Draco, taking his tentative agreement as encouragement, pressed on.

“How about dinner some time? You can show me your favourite places to eat.”

“Oh, well, there’s a brunch place nearby that I go to a lot on weekends, but I guess we can go for dinner? I mean, I’m not sure what time it’s open until, but it’s probably fine – I mean, I don’t think they would close early or anything –”

“Sounds great,” Draco said, and found himself trying to hide a smile at Harvey’s babbling. He hadn’t seemed flustered at all past the initial small talk earlier, and his apparent nervousness now was funny, somehow. “Weekend, you said? I still need to do the last of my furniture-shopping this week, but I’m free next weekend. How about Saturday night, six o’clock?”

“Er, yeah, okay. The restaurant isn’t that far from here, but I don’t know if you’ll be able to find it?”

“Let’s just meet outside here, and we can walk over together.” Draco looped his scarf around his neck and tied the front. “See you then.”

“Bye, Draco.”

The warm feeling in his stomach – just the tea, surely – accompanied Draco all the way home.

~

Draco ran into Harvey a handful more times before they were scheduled to meet for dinner. He supposed it wasn’t unusual, with both of them going to the same tea shop now, but he still found the frequency they ran into each other a little surprising. Sometimes, they would sit down and talk, while other times, they would only have time for a hello before one of them had to run.

The second time, Harvey made him drink some of his herbal brew. Draco gagged and complained the entire way through, but secretly, he didn’t think it was too bad.

The fourth time, Harvey wasn’t alone.

That in itself wasn’t the surprise. The surprising part was the fact that Draco actually knew his companion.

“Draco!” Hermione Granger said, sounding shocked. She also seemed strangely panicked, but Draco just chalked that up to her being odd.

“Granger,” he said, giving her a small nod. Granger, who’d gone on to work in the social justice department at the Ministry, had played a big role in getting his mother declared innocent of the crimes certain people had only been too eager to slap on her. They’d had their share of friction at first, with Draco unwilling to believe that she would ever actually try to help anyone with the last name Malfoy, and her, frustrated by his attitude, but eventually they’d gotten past most of their childhood grievances and had settled into a courteous if stilted relationship.

“Oh! Do you live around here too?” She asked. “This is my friend, he’s new to the area, so I thought I’d show him the –”

Harvey cleared his throat loudly, cutting her off. “It’s alright, Hermione. I, um. I actually know Draco already.”

“What?” Granger looked between Draco and Harvey with wide eyes.

“Yes, we’ve met,” Draco said. He looked at Harvey. “I thought you’d been living here for a while already?”

“Er, yeah, that’s right. Of course.” Harvey nodded vigorously. “I moved here in the fall, just a few months ago, but Hermione meant, relatively, of course, that I’m fairly new compared to a lot of people here.” He seemed to be turning an odd shade of pink, although Draco couldn’t determine why. “Not as new as you, of course.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I meant,” Granger said quickly.

There was definitely something odd going on here, but not sure how to question it without directly asking, Draco let it go.

The moment Granger excused herself to look for the washroom, however, he leaned forward. “So, how do you know Granger?” he asked Harvey, who seemed to be examining the table with great fascination.

“Um, you know. Just. Mutual friends and things.”

“What?” Draco narrowed his eyes. “Wait, does that mean you know Potter too?”

“Who?” Harvey asked, a touch too loudly. The couple sitting next to them turned to look at them, and Harvey flushed, sinking into his seat.

Draco, however, was still staring at him. “What do you mean, who? Are you saying you don’t know who Harry Potter is?”

“No no, of course not. Famous bloke, how could I not know him,” Harvey babbled. “What I meant was, I don’t know him. Of course. I know Hermione from, ah, work. Yeah, I know some of her coworkers.”

“Oh,” Draco said, frowning. There was still something suspicious going on that he couldn’t put his finger on, but before he could figure out how to question Harvey further, Granger reappeared.

“Well, it was nice running into you again, Draco. Harvey and I actually have lunch plans with some friends – we have some catching up to do, don’t we, Harvey?” She gave Harvey a pointed glance before continuing. “Anyway, we’ll see you around?”

“Of course,” Draco said smoothly. “Harvey – are we still on for dinner this weekend?”

Granger’s eyes widened as she glanced back and forth between Draco and Harvey.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Harvey said, gathering his jacket and sounding a little choked. He coughed loudly. “Sorry, just… coming down with a cold.”

Draco watched them go until they disappeared from sight, then sipped at his tea. He wondered what all the blushing and stuttering had been about.

~

Harvey wasn’t the only one acting odd. Potter, Draco noticed, was also acting excessively weird.

Not that Draco really interacted with Potter – in fact, he’d made an effort to pretend he didn’t see Potter even when he caught sight of him – but lately, Potter was actually greeting him when they saw each other on their way to work in the mornings. And when Draco just raised an eyebrow at him instead of replying, he seemed flustered, for some reason. One day, he’d even dropped his keys.

It all came to a head one evening when, having just gotten home from a long shift, the doorbell rang just as Draco was settling into his couch with a cup of tea and considering how much he didn’t feel like making food.

Wondering who could be showing up at this hour, he tightened his grip on his wand – it was doubtful that anyone with ill intentions would ring the doorbell, but it didn’t hurt to be safe – and peered through the peephole.

Then, flinging open his front door, he glared at Harry Potter. Who was standing on his porch.

“Potter,” Draco ground out. “What are you doing here.”

“Hi Malfoy!” Potter chirped, sounding cheerful and entirely out of character. “I was baking pie earlier for dessert, and ended up making more than I should have.” He whipped his hands out from behind him, revealing a large plate. “I thought I’d bring some over to share. It’s pumpkin.”

Draco stared at him and wondered if Potter had actually gone insane. “Why?”

“Well, I had extra. And I just thought it would be nice. As a… a welcome-to-the-neighbourhood thing!”

“Are you trying to poison me?”

“What? No, of course not. Here, look,” he said, breaking off a piece of the pie and putting it in his own mouth. “See? No poison.”

“What is wrong with you?” Did Potter even realize how weird this was? Sure, they weren’t mortal enemies any longer, but Draco barely tolerated Potter’s presence – surely he’d made that clear from the moment he’d moved in. They certainly didn’t have the type of relationship where Potter brought over baked goods. “Just get off my lawn before someone sees you.”

“Not until you accept these,” Potter insisted, and Draco, realizing the futility of arguing with Potter over something this pointless, sighed internally.

“Fine,” he said, taking the plate. “Goodbye, Potter.”

And then he shut the door in Potter’s face.

He spent an hour casting every spell he could think of on the pie just to see if there was anything wrong with it before he cut up a slice. Transferring it to a plate, he cautiously took a bite.

His eyes widened as he chewed. It was good – surprisingly good. He’d had no idea Potter could even bake, never mind bake well. Making himself a cup of tea to go with it, he settled himself down on his couch again, sighing as he dug in.

Draco would never admit it to anyone, but it was so good that he finished the entire pie in about half an hour.

~

When the weekend of the dinner finally arrived, Draco was surprised to find how much he was looking forward to it. It had been a long week at work, with medical emergencies cropping up more than usual, and Draco had found himself staying overtime more days than not. It wasn’t like he had a lot of friends to spend free time with either – he’d lost contact with the few people he’d still talked to when he’d left England without telling anyone. Last he heard, Pansy was married to some Romanian aristocrat now, and Goyle had moved out of the country.

And so it was with a certain amount of anticipation that he arrived outside Madam Paccat’s ten minutes before schedule. The sky was already dark, and with the end of October just around the corner, the weather was getting depressingly cold. Luckily, Draco’s cloak and boots had been made with self-heating charms woven into the material, and his scarf and gloves, which his mother had sent him last Christmas (both cashmere, of course) kept him nice and toasty.

It was clear, when Harvey arrived a few minutes later, that he was not nearly so prepared. Gloveless, scarfless, and bootless, he seemed to be trying to stuff his hands into the opposite sleeve of his giant puffy jacket as he walked. His face was pink from the cold.

“Draco!” he said, running over the rest of the way. “Sorry, did I make you wait long?”

“Where are your gloves?” Draco asked, ignoring his question entirely.

“What? Oh, um. My friend got me a pair a few months ago, but I lost one, and then the other one shrank in the washing machine.” Harvey looked sheepish. “I guess I keep forgetting to get a new pair.”

“Washing machine?” Draco repeated blankly.

“Oh! It’s a Muggle thing, for doing your laundry. But sometimes, they shrink things, or change the colour of your clothing if you don’t wash it right.”

“Why would you do that? Why don’t you just use a spell, like normal wizards do?” Draco asked, exasperated. “You know what? Never mind. Here.” Pulling off his gloves, he stuffed them in Harvey’s general direction. “Put these on before you get pneumonia.”

“What? No, I couldn’t,” Harvey protested. “What about you?”

“I’m not the one without scarves or boots. Honestly, how have you survived all these years?” Seeing that Harvey was opening his mouth again, Draco shook his head. “Just put them on. I insist. And the faster we get to the restaurant, the faster both of us can get out of the cold.”

For a moment, he thought Harvey was going to object again, but then he ducked his head. “Thanks,” he said quietly as he pulled them on. “The restaurant’s just over that way.”

The restaurant turned out to be more like a diner – and what Harvey had failed to mention beforehand was that it was located in the Muggle half of the neighbourhood.

“Are you sure the food here is edible?” Draco asked, wrinkling his nose down at the menu.

Harvey laughed. “Don’t be such a snob, Malfoy. The store might not look like much, but I promise, the food is good. Try the burgers – they’re the best.”

Draco had serious doubts about anything here being the “best”, but he dubiously ordered the four cheese burger, which came with curly chips. Harvey got something called an American burger and a large chocolate mint milkshake.

“Here, try it,” he said, pushing the milkshake in Draco’s direction.

“I don’t think so, Smith.” Draco pushed it back.

“You should always try everything once,” Harvey insisted, bringing the cup close to Draco’s face. “Come on, just a sip. Trust me, you’ll like it.”

“You should try everything once? What kind of bad advice is that?” Draco grumbled, but sighed, bracing himself before taking a sip.

He blinked. And took another sip.

“See?” Harvey crowed. “You like it. I knew you would.”

“No, I don’t. Just because it’s not terrible doesn’t mean I like it,” Draco said, which was a lie, because it was, in fact, delicious. He stared at it for a moment, wondering if he could get away with taking another sip.

“Right, of course,” Harvey laughed, and grabbed an empty cup from the side of the table. “Here, I’ll split it with you.”

“I’m only drinking this because there’s way too much sugar in this for you to drink by yourself,” Draco said, sighing happily into his cup.

He couldn’t decide at first if he was happy or annoyed when his burger too, ended up delicious, but then he was too busy eating to be irritated. Harvey kept stealing curly chips off his plate, which was ridiculous because his own burger also came with chips.

“Oi, eat your own chips!” he said, slapping at Harvey’s fingers with his free hand. Harvey just laughed and stole another one.

“Yours are crispier,” he insisted, licking at his fingers.

“You have terrible manners,” Draco informed him, and proceeded to steal one of Harvey’s chips in return.

Harvey looked at him for a moment, his face the picture of surprise, before he burst into laughter.

They ate quickly but ended up staying longer to talk. When the waitress started giving them pointed looks and brought over the bill without their asking for it, Harvey grinned. “Maybe we should go soon.”

Draco nodded, reaching into his pocket. He realized the problem a second later.

“What wrong?”

“I don’t have Muggle money,” he confessed, feeling a little embarrassed. “I didn’t think we were coming to Muggle London –”

“Hey, don’t worry, it’s on me,” Harvey said easily, leaving some bills on the table. “You can get it next time.”

Next time, Draco thought, and didn’t mind the idea at all.

They walked back in the direction of Madam Paccat’s, chatting about inconsequential things on the way. It was pitch black out now, but there were streetlamps lighting their way every few feet. Draco couldn’t help but notice the way they made the shadows fall across Harvey’s face, contouring his cheekbones.

Dragging his eyes away, he realized that they were only a few blocks away from the tea shop now. “I’m just on Atolis Way,” Draco said. “Which direction are you going?”

“Oh, er. That way,” Harvey said, motioning vaguely in the opposite direction. “I should probably get going.”

Draco had been about to ask if Harvey wanted to come over for a cup of tea – he found himself oddly reluctant to let the evening end – but took the hint. “Thank you for showing me the diner, and for dinner – it was lovely.”

“I’m glad you liked the food. And oh!” Harvey pulled the gloves off his hands and tried to push them into Draco’s fingers. “I should probably give these back. Thanks for letting me borrow them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco said. “It’s even colder now. Wear them home.”

“But what about you?”

“I’ll be home in no time, and I have at last five other pairs in my house. Clearly you need them more than I do.”

“Okay then. If you’re sure.” Harvey hesitated for a second, but continued. “Good night, Draco.”

“Good night,” Draco echoed, and following another, strange impulse – he seemed to be having a lot of those lately, where Harvey was concerned – he leaned over and pressed his lips to Harvey’s cheek.

Or so he’d intended – except Harvey turned to smile at him at precisely that moment, and his kiss lands on chapped lips instead.

They both froze for a second, but neither pulled back. Draco had the fleeting, incomprehensible thought that this was like the plot in one of those terrible romance novels Pansy used to pretend she didn’t read – and then he was leaning in kiss Harvey properly with the sudden, certain knowledge that he wanted this, that he’d noticed Harvey’s eyes that first day in more than just an abstract, off-hand way.

Harvey kissed him back, hard, his tongue licking into Draco’s mouth, and Draco felt himself melting into it. Unconsciously, he reached up, arms looping around Harvey’s neck to brace himself, and then –

– abruptly, Harvey pulled back. “Oh god,” he said, looking frantic. “What am I doing.”

Okay, not the reaction Draco was expecting. That had definitely not been a one-sided kiss. “Hey, what’s wrong? It’s okay –”

“No, it’s really not. Merlin, this is a mess,” Harvey said, eyes wide. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “I can’t believe I did that.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “What, do you already have a boyfriend or something?”

“What? No, of course not, I would never do that,” Harvey said immediately, which reassured Draco greatly. It still didn’t explain what was going on though, but before Draco could ask, Harvey was stepping back.

“I’m so sorry, I have to go,” he said, looking like he wanted to flee.

“What? Harvey, stop,” Draco said, reaching out for him. “What are you talking about? I need you to explain yourself, because you’re not making any sense. Did I… do something wrong?”

“No no, it’s not you, I swear.” Harvey stopped, visibly taking a deep breath. “I’m really really sorry, but I can’t do this right now. I promise it’s not your fault, and I promise I’ll explain everything soon but… I just need some time right now, okay?”

“Okay,” Draco echoed blankly, even though he had no idea what was going on.

“I’m so sorry,” Harvey repeated. “I should really go now.”

He turned and practically ran, disappearing into the dark before Draco could think of anything else he could say. “What the hell?” Draco said out loud to the empty street. Everything had seemed to be going so well. It didn’t make any sense.

It was a long time before Draco started walking home.

~

A week passed.

Draco wasn’t sure what he was expecting. From their interactions, Harvey hadn’t seemed the type to run from confrontation, but enough time had passed that Draco was no longer sure if anything was going to come of the situation at all. He’d continued visiting Madam Paccat’s on a regular basis, reasoning to himself that there was no logical reason to avoid Harvey, but it was clear from the fact that he hadn’t seen Harvey once in the last seven days when they used to practically trip over each other at the tea shop that Harvey was avoiding him.

And so what Draco didn’t expect, is for his doorbell to ring a few minutes past midnight one night, just as he was getting ready to turn in. He didn’t expect the sight of Harvey standing on his front porch, looking like he hadn’t slept in two days.

“Harvey,” he said, keeping his tone even. The other man looked nervous, but for once, Draco didn’t feel like reassuring him. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, I know it’s late,” Harvey said. “But… I have something I need to explain. Can I come in?”

Draco opened his door in invitation, and it didn’t occur to him until Harvey was seated in his living room that he’d never given the other man his exact address. “How do you know where I live?” he asked, one hand inching towards his wand just in case.

“I know it’s not going to make any sense, but that’s part of what I need to explain,” Harvey said, carefully not meeting Draco’s eyes. “I know I was terrible the other night, but. There’s something I have to tell you. Something I should have told you as soon as we met at the tea shop.”

“Yes?” Draco asked. Everyone had their secrets, but he couldn’t think of anything that would reasonably explain Harvey’s reaction the last time they’d seen each other.

Harvey visibly hesitated. The silence stretched.

Draco sighed. “Look. It’s nice that you’re here to try and explain things, but it’s really late. And I’m confused – I’ve been confused all week. I would’ve thought you didn’t feel the same way, but you kissed me back.” He paused, trying to voice his thoughts clearly. “The point is. If you’re here to tell me you weren’t interested after all, that’s fine, but in that case, you should just say so and leave. I have an early shift tomorrow.”

“No, Draco, that’s not it,” Harvey said, looking even more distressed. “That’s the problem. The problem is, I do like you – more than I should – but this isn’t right. I – I can’t ask you not to be angry with me, but I just want to say beforehand that – I was serious. Getting to know you properly, dinner, and the kiss, all of it – I meant it all. And I still mean it.”

Before Draco could ask him what on earth he was talking about, Harvey took a deep breath. Visibly steeling himself, he pointed his wand at his own face. “I’m so sorry. Homo Revelius!”

Draco watched, half in fascination and half in horror. It was like watching the top layer of a familiar painting being wiped off, only to reveal a completely different picture underneath. Harvey’s hair colour was the first to change, the brown slowly melting into a jet black, and then his face was growing narrower, his lips slightly wider. His brows darkened, and on his forehead, a familiar scar appeared.

The entire transformation took about a minute.

Draco found himself staring at Harry Potter with a sense of blank horror. It took him a second to regain his voice, and then the words were tripping their way out of his mouth. “What the hell is going on here, Potter? Why were you pretending to be Harvey? What have you done with him?”

“I – what? No, Draco, you don’t understand. I am Harvey.”

“No, you’re not. You can’t be,” Draco said, even as there was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Harvey’s initial reaction to him, his green eyes, the odd meeting with Granger – it was all starting to make a terrible amount of sense. Except – “You’re nothing like him.”

Potter flinched at that, but unlike at their last meeting, he stood firm. “Draco, I’m so sorry. But we’re the same person.” He paused, as if gauging Draco’s reaction, before continuing in a rush. “After having to move twice because the reporters found out where I lived and started waiting outside my door, I moved here and decided I was going to put on a glamour every time I left my house. And it worked – people left me alone because they didn’t know who I was, and it was fine because no one really tried to talk to me when I didn’t look like myself.”

“So, what? I moved here and you decided it would be a great big joke to play on Draco Malfoy?” Draco sneered. “You know what? Never mind. I don’t care. Just get out of my sight, Potter.”

“No, I swear, I never meant to deceive –” Potter started, sounding desperate, but Draco didn’t have any patience left. It had taken a moment for the disbelief to pass, but that was quickly fading into anger. And he wasn’t just angry – he was furious. For a single, blinding moment, Draco felt like he could pass out from the rage.

“Well, you did, so fuck you and your noble intentions,” he said, aware that he was dangerously close to shouting. “Now get out.”

He jabbed his wand in the other man’s face and watched with vicious delight as a gust of wind opened the front door, picked up Potter, and deposited him outside. The door slammed with a deafeningly loud bang after him, but it did nothing to make Draco feel better.

He stormed around his kitchen and living room, throwing his teacup against the opposite wall. It crashed to the tiles into a hundred pieces, but Draco ignored it, sweeping knickknacks off the table and onto the floor instead. His hands were shaking, and beneath the rage, he could feel the exhaustion settling in. It doesn’t matter, he told himself, bluntly vicious because it was the only thing he could believe right now. He was lying about everything all along, but it doesn’t matter, because I don’t care.

Draco collapsed on his couch, chest heaving, feeling like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His house suddenly felt impossibly cold, despite the wards maintaining the temperature, but he didn’t bother getting a blanket. Instead, he curled up onto the seat, staring at a spot on the opposite wall and determinedly not thinking about anything.

He didn’t fall asleep for a long time.

part two.

Inception: you are the place I rest my head

papered — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 23:10:29 GMT

you are the place I rest my head
Inception: Arthur/Eames
PG, 2014 words
café!AU. In which Arthur and Eames are uni students, and Eames works at the uni coffee shop.
a/n: pointless sappy sap. this is café!AU and uni!AU, and pretty much every cliché ever. happy new year, guys. ♥

01.

Eames meets Arthur for the first time on a Monday evening.

Winters in New York are always bitterly cold, and that, combined with the 10cm of snow and pouring rain outside, means Eames is fairly certain that the university café he works at won't be getting much business today.

"Why are we even both on shift?" Ariadne complains from beside him. "It's not like we have anything to do."

"At least we're getting paid," Eames says. "You should just work on your Sudoku book."

She gets out the massive collection of Sudoku problems she'd been carrying around lately, and Eames follows suit, reaching into his own bag for the papers he still needs to proofread. As much as he loves his other job as a first year English TA, paper-marking isn't the most exciting activity. He's lucky Yusuf wouldn't care that they're doing other things during work hours, he knows, and he's just spreading everything out behind the counter when the bells attached to the front door suddenly jingle.

The man who walks in is dripping water all over the linoleum floors. He's carrying a briefcase in one hand and a broken umbrella in the other, and his three-piece suit is soaked through with rain. Tendrils of his previously slicked back hair has escaped the confines of his hair gel, and as Eames watches, another curl comes loose.

He looks up, catches Eames' eye, and gives a small smile. "A green tea latte please."

There's a dimple resting high in his left cheek, and Eames thinks he falls a little in love.

*

He finds out his name is Arthur, he's a business grad student who's almost done with school, and he just went for a job interview that didn't actually end up happening because of the weather.

Eames would like to say he learns all of this information by holding a charming little conversation with Arthur as he gets Arthur's drink ready, but in reality, it's more like Ariadne who's holding the conversation while Eames tries not to stare too much.

There's a small lull in the conversation, and Ariadne shoots him an odd look when Eames doesn't say anything.

"Could you point me to the washroom?" Arthur says after a moment, having taken off his suit jacket and hung it on a chair to dry.

"Sure, it's just right there to the left."

Ariadne waits until Arthur's disappeared and the little IN USE sign flicks on before impatiently turning to Eames. "Right. What's wrong with you today?"

"What?" Eames says vaguely. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Arthur! He's lovely! Why didn't you introduce yourself?"

"Oh." It only occurs to Eames now that he'd barely said a word the whole time. "Well. I was just. Distracted. Making his drink, that is."

"Oh, my god," Ariadne says suddenly, staring at him with wide, shining eyes. "Oh my god. You like him, don't you?"

"What? No, I-"

"I'm right, aren't I? I must be," she continues before Eames can form a coherent response. "You're not shy around new people, and you're good at talking, but you're always like this when you have a crush - you go mute." She claps her hands together, and the glee in her voice is quite frankly alarming.

There's probably no point trying to hide it from her, but that doesn't meant Eames has to be happy about how quickly she figured it out. "Keep your voice down," he hisses at her, just as he hears the washroom door unlock.

Arthur walks back out a second later, and instead of sitting down at the table where he'd placed his suit jacket and briefcase, he walks right up to the counter instead.

"Is that mine?" he asks Eames.

"What?" Eames says intelligently, before he realizes he's still clutching the drink he's made in his hands. "Uh, yes, I'm sorry - this is yours."

Ariadne snickers a little beside him, and Eames is going to kill her later.

"I didn't catch your name earlier," Arthur says, still talking to him.

"I'm Eames," Eames chokes out. "And uh, enjoy your drink!"

"Thanks," Arthur says wryly, and his lips curve a little as he walks back to his table.

Eames hangs onto the counter with sweaty palms and wonders what's wrong with him.

*

Unfortunately, Ariadne is right.

Eames does have a set behavior pattern. Normally, people like him just fine. He's loud and cheerful and extroverted, and growing up, he's never had any problems making friends. But it's become apparent in the last few years that when it actually matters, when he meets someone he actually likes, Eames stops talking.

It's not that he's shy or goes "mute", as Ariadne puts it. It's more like, he thinks of something witty he would normally say, and instead of just saying it, he ends up repeating it in his head over and over again like an actor learning his lines, analyzing every little word to make sure he isn't going to inadvertently say something dumb. By the time he's satisfied that what he would've said is dumb-proof, the moment would have passed, and Eames wouldn't have said anything at all.

It's a terrible disease, and Eames has no idea how to go about curing it.

*

02.

Arthur comes by every day for the rest of the week.

The suit may have been a one-time thing, but Arthur still walks around in dress shirts and dark wash jeans that look practically ironed.

Eames spends a lot of time quietly dying behind the counter, while Ariadne gives him subtle - and not-so-subtle - jabs in the ribs.

Besides, he's not entirely silent, no. He and Arthur always greet each other hello and goodbye, and on most days, there are small exchanges in the middle as well. There would usually be a few other customers as well, and Ariadne would take it upon herself to leave Eames and Arthur alone while she takes orders. It's true that Eames might be a bit quiet, but he knows how to ask questions, and Arthur seems happy enough telling Eames about his day or talking about the job position he's applying for.

When he tells her this, Ariadne just rolls her eyes at him and calls him hopeless.

Eames supposes he kind of is.

*

The next week, Ariadne gets a cold.

Which means that when Arthur comes by again, Eames has to try and behave like normal human being on his own.

By some miracle, he manages to unclog his throat enough to actually start a proper conversation. He thinks it's partly because his brain's had some time to adjust to the daily exposure of Arthur, and also because some part of him realizes that this is probably going to be his only chance to talk to Arthur alone.

"How was your weekend?" he manages with a small smile as he hands Arthur his usual drink.

Arthur looks surprised at the question, but then he suddenly dimples. "It was good. I mostly stayed home, but I got a lot of work done. How about you?"

"Yeah, me too, I have a term paper coming up," Eames says, relaxing a little. This was just small talk - he could do this.

"So, Ariadne tells me you're an English major," Arthur says, taking a sip of his latte.

"I'm in my last year," Eames explains. "I'm hoping to teach English abroad or something next year."

"Oh, I know someone who did that last year. Do you know where you want to teach?" Arthur asks, leaning in a little. His dark eyes are warm and focused only on Eames, and after that, Eames finds that it's really not that hard to keep talking after all.

An hour goes by quickly. Arthur finishes his drink, and Eames excuses himself for a second, escaping to the back. When he comes back, he has a small hot chocolate in his hands.

"On the house," he says, sliding it over the counter. Arthur gives him a certain look, and Eames wonders for a second if he'd been too presumptuous, somehow - and god, who knows, maybe Arthur's allergic to hot chocolate or something and Eames' mortally offended him by offering him some. He panics, wondering if he should snatch the drink back, but then Arthur is reaching for the cup. His fingers are warm when they brush against Eames'.

"Thank you. I should get going, but I'll take this with me," he says, smiling, and Eames feels his heartbeat trip over itself.

He watches Arthur pull on his dove-grey coat and knit scarf, and manages to give him a small wave as he heads to the door.

As Arthur pulls it open though, he pauses. "Eames. I'll just leave that cup with you, shall I?" he says, gesturing to the now-empty paper cup he'd sipped his latte from, the one that's still sitting in front of Eames on the counter.

"What?" Eames asks blankly. He doesn't get it. Of course Arthur would leave his used cup behind - why wouldn't he? He opens his mouth to ask, but he doesn't know how to phrase the question, and by the time he's figured it out, Arthur's already left.

He doesn't have time to think about it, because a couple chooses that moment to walk in, both of them still shivering from the cold. Eames hurries to take their order and get their drinks to them, directing the girl to the washroom when she asks.

It's not until later, when he's closing up for the night and discarding all the used cups that he sees something he didn't notice earlier.

Scrawled on the paper cup Arthur had been using is a ten digit number and three words.

Call me. :) -A

*

03.

Eames kisses Arthur for the first time on a Saturday evening.

It takes him a week after Arthur leaves his number to actually call. That's seven days of Arthur not coming in to the café every evening (later, he will tell Eames it was because he wanted Eames to decide for himself, that he didn't want to make things awkward if it turned out Eames hadn't been interested after all), seven days of not exchanging stutter-y pleasantries or hearing about how Arthur's day went as he makes Arthur's latte. That's long enough for Eames to recognize the clench in his stomach whenever a customer-that-isn't-Arthur walks in as disappointment.

They go to a small but cozy Italian restaurant just off campus for their first date, and they share chocolate cake afterward. Arthur fights him for the last forkful (Eames put up a good fight but lets him have it in the end), and later, Eames walks Arthur back to his res even though it's freezing outside.

Arthur gives him a sly smile and asks if he wants to go up for a drink, and Eames knows what that means, but he shakes his head no, because that's not what he wants - or rather, that's not just what he wants. He wants to take Arthur out for dinner again, and go to the movies, maybe even introduce him to his friends, and he doesn't want Arthur to get the wrong idea.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he says instead, and leans over to press a chaste kiss to Arthur's left cheek. But then (and Eames will never know if it was an accident or if Arthur did it on purpose) Arthur turns his head to the right at just the right moment, and their lips meet instead.

Eames freezes for a second, but then Arthur huffs a small laugh against his mouth, warm and amused, and there's nothing Eames can do but kiss him back.

It's a messy kiss. They don't know how to fit together yet, Arthur's hands are icicles around his neck, and Eames' left foot has possibly lost feeling from the cold, but Arthur tastes like coffee and sugar and dreams against his tongue, and Eames thinks to himself that this is the happiest he's been in a long time.

123111

Harry Potter: Of Career Fairs and Miniature Owls

papered — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 03:54:00 GMT

Of Career Fairs and Miniature Owls
Harry Potter: (pretty much gen) Harry Potter, Scorpius Malfoy, Albus Severus Potter, Draco Malfoy; mentions of AS/S
PG, 4258 words
It's Hogwart's 10th Annual Career Fair, and Harry's been assigned to Scorpius Malfoy. As always, things don't go as he plans.
A/N: originally posted here. written for interhouse_fest 2011, for prompt #123:

It's work experience week. Each 6th year Hogwarts student will spend a week with a randomly chosen ministry worker who is a parent of another student in the 6th year. Harry gets Scorpius and Draco gets Albus. Scorpius asks questions constantly and writes everything down. Albus is bored and thinks it's all a waste of time.

Harry stared in despair at the owl perched on his desk.

The owl stared back for a few seconds before giving a woeful hoot and pushing over a stack of reports with an extended talon.

“How am I supposed to explain to Malfoy that I turned his son into an owl?” Harry asked, throwing his hands up in the air as he collapsed into his chair.

“I dunno, mate,” Ron said, equally helplessly. “Want me to ask Hermione?”

“Merlin no, she’ll kill me herself, never mind that it’s Malfoy’s kid.”

Ron gave him a sympathetic shrug. “Well, it wears off at least, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, in like, twenty hours.”

“Well, you’ll just have to hide him until then,” Ron said with a decisive nod.

Harry groaned and buried his face in his arms as the owl gave another hoot and started pecking at Harry’s desk.

~

It all started that morning, when Harry had gone to Hogwarts for the annual sixth year Career Fair. Albus had been chattering excitedly about the event for months, asking Harry if there was any way for him to be paired with a parent in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Unfortunately for Albus, the pairings were completely random and magically drawn out of a hat a day prior to the Career Fair. Harry himself wouldn’t even find out which sixth year student he’d been assigned to until he arrived.

Which was how he ended up stepping into the greeting room – beautifully set up by Hermione, no doubt – at his assigned time and coming face to face with a miniature version of Draco Malfoy.

“I’m Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter,” mini-Malfoy said, shuffling a lined Muggle notebook and a self-inking quill into one hand so that he could stick out the other formally. He had a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses perched on his pointy nose and his hair is shockingly blond. Also, he was tiny - at least half a head shorter than Albus, who isn’t exactly a giant himself. Harry wanted to coo at him, even if this was Malfoy’s son, and if Harry screwed anything up, mini-Malfoy would probably go home and tell his father all about what a tool Harry Potter was.

Mini-Malfoy coughed delicately.

Realizing with a start that quite a few seconds had passed and he hadn’t made any sort of response, Harry quickly grasped the offered hand and stuttered out a greeting.

The interview that followed was somewhat of a disaster. Mini-Malfoy studiously wrote down every useless word Harry said, but even though Harry has been in his department for more than a decade, he still had no idea how the legal technicalities or paperwork trail or any of the topics mini-Malfoy asked about worked. After all, Harry had never exactly been the office type, and after Voldemort, no one had really expected him to be. In reality, most of Harry’s job consisted of going after the bad guys whenever they popped up. That said, unlike his father, mini-Malfoy at least had the decency not to point exactly how much of a useless disaster the interview is.

In fact, he seemed rather disappointed. Even the aristocratic repression undoubtedly bred into him from birth couldn’t hide the slump of his shoulders and the way he looked deflated, somehow, as if someone had stuck a pin in him when Harry wasn’t looking.

Which was why Harry opened his mouth and made, in hindsight, the stupidest offer he’d made yet.

“Do you want to come in with me to the Auror Office and see what it’s like in person?”

He knew it was a bad idea as soon as the words left his mouth – after all, students were supposed to stay on Hogwarts grounds unless they had explicit permission from the Headmistress – but he couldn’t regret it when mini-Malfoy immediately perked up.

“Really? Now?” he asked, eyes lighting up the way Albus’ did whenever someone mentioned Quidditch, and Harry tried to tell himself that it wasn’t adorable at all.

“Yeah, why not,” he said, failing to hold back a grin. The fireplace Harry had used to get to Hogwarts would be unlocked for the rest of the day, which meant they could Floo directly into the Auror Office without any problems. As he grabbed a pinch of Floo powder and threw it into the flames, Harry checked the time. It was still early, barely mid-morning. They would be back in three to four hours, tops – no one would even know they’d been gone. Everything would be fine.

Famous last words, as it turned out. When had things ever gone smoothly for Harry?

~

The first hour went great. Harry took mini-Malfoy – and he should probably stop calling him that – around the whole office, introducing him to other Aurors who were currently in. Scorpius took great delight in questioning Euan Abercrombie, the secretary and official paperwork filer of the office.

During the second hour, Ron flooed back into the office and did a double take at the sight of Scorpius. “Are you sure he should be here, mate?” he asked. “Hermione’s going to have your hide if she finds out you took him without permission.”

“It’ll be fine – I’ll get him back before anyone notices,” Harry said, waving away his concern. “And what are you doing back so early? Who were you assigned to?”

“I got Louisa Ackerley – some Ravenclaw?” Ron shrugged. “She had this massive list of questions she wanted me to answer, and she said I could go when I was done.”

“I’m done here,” Scorpius announced, shuffling to Harry’s side and finally looking up from his notebook. Judging from the amount of scribbling on there, Euan seemed to have answered most of the questions Harry hadn’t known the answer to. “Can we go look at your office?”

“Er, I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Harry began, but relented almost immediately at the badly hidden crestfallen expression on Scorpius’ face. “Fine, we can go.” He ignored the amused look Ron shot him. “But only if you promise not to touch anything,” he added quickly. The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes had sent up several shipments of enchanted artefacts a few days ago related to a case Harry had been working on, and most of them were still scattered around his office.

“Okay, okay,” Scorpius said, bouncing on his toes a little. Harry thought to himself that it was utterly unfair that someone like Malfoy would have ended up with such an adorable kid.

Of course, that was when disaster struck. Harry should’ve known – from experience, if nothing else – that regardless of any extracted promises, the lure of enchanted artefacts would’ve been too much for any overly curious teenager to stand.

Scorpius managed to look and not touch for all of five minutes before he caught sight of the dragon-egg shaped crystal Harry had placed on the table in the corner of his office. “What does this do?” he asked, eyes wide, and he reached for it before Harry could stop him.

“Don’t!” Harry yelled, but his warning came too late.

There was a blinding flash of light, and instinctively, Harry shut his eyes. When he stopped seeing white being his eyelids, he carefully looked down.

His heart sank.

Where Scorpius had previously stood was the tiniest owl Harry had ever seen.

It was about half the size Pigwidgeon had been originally, and its fluffy dark feathers were mingled with tufts of blond. Also, there was an odd marking by its eyes – the kind usually seen on the Animagus forms of people who wore glasses. As Harry stared at it, the owl gave a small hop and a pitiful hoot.

It couldn’t be.

But even as he tried to come up with alternate possibilities, he knew that there were no other plausible explanations.

Flinging open his door, Harry took a deep breath. Then he yelled as loudly as he could for Ron.

~

Harry stared at the owl some more as he paced back and forth in his office. “How exactly am I supposed to hide him for a whole day without anyone finding out Scorpius’ missing?”

“What if you call up McGonagall now and tell her you’re taking Malfoy off school grounds for a while?” Ron said. “She’ll probably agree – it’s not like she has a reason not to, yeah? Then he at least has an excuse for being off grounds for the rest of the day.”

“Right, that’s a good idea,” Harry said. “I’ll go do that right now.” Walking over to the fireplace, he paused, then turned back and cupped the owl fluttering around his desk in his palms, ignoring its little indignant squawk. “Ron, can I leave him in your office while I make the Floo call?”

“Only if you come get him as soon as you’re done,” Ron said. “Shacklebolt’s supposed to come by in a little bit to brief me about my next case.”

“Deal.” Harry passed over the feathery bundle with a sigh. “Thanks, mate. I owe you one.”

“Don’t worry about it – just get out of this without Hermione finding out, because you know she’ll yell at me too.”

Headmistress McGonagall raised an eyebrow at his request, but otherwise didn’t protest. “We haven’t had many requests to take students off grounds, but I don’t see why Mr. Malfoy can’t take a tour of the Auror Office if you’re fine with it,” she said. “I’ll have someone go let him know.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to do that,” Harry said, and then quickly backtracked when the headmistress gave him a strange look. “What I mean is, I can let him know myself – it’ll be a surprise.”

“If you insist, Mr. Potter. Please remember that Mr. Malfoy should be sent back before the end of the day,” McGonagall said sternly. Harry thanked her in what he hoped was a natural and non-awkward manner before the fireplace went dark.

“McGonagall said it’s fine,” Harry told Ron with a sigh. “He should turn back by tomorrow morning. Now all I have to do is hide him until then.”

~

As it turned out, hiding an owl that was actually a Hogwarts student for twenty hours was harder than it sounded.

Things went fine for the first four hours. Scorpius spent most of his time fluttering around Harry’s office after Harry cleared all the enchanted artefacts into a giant box, which he stuffed under his desk. At one point, Scorpius managed to get himself stuck between two shelves, but Harry had quickly gotten him out before anything else could happen.

The peace didn’t last long though. During the fourth hour, there was a loud outburst in the hall, and then Harry’s office door magically flung open with a bang.

“What have you done with my son?” came Draco Malfoy’s dulcet tones, and Harry groaned while frantically making a grab for Scorpius, who was perched on the back of his chair. Unfortunately, Scorpius chose that moment to take flight and relocate to the top of the bookshelf, and Harry overreached. His chair rolled backwards and hit the wall with a resounding bang, sending Harry crashing the floor just as Malfoy stepped into his office.

“What are you doing there?” he demanded when he saw Harry sprawled on the carpet. “Where’s Scorpius? What have you done to him?”

“I fell,” Harry managed, biting back the urge to say something more insulting as he stood with a wince. “And what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about trying to contact my son, only to be told by McGonagall that you took him out hours ago!” Malfoy scanned the office as if Harry had his son hidden behind the furniture. “Where is he?”

“Er,” Harry said, glancing nervously at Scorpius, who’d discovered Harry’s supply of owl treats and was slowly working the bag open with his beak. “Scorpius is busy with uh. An Auror training exercise.”

“A training exercise?” Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Oh no, not at all!” Harry said, an idea forming. “We put all of our new recruits through it for practice, and I thought, since Scorpius is graduating in a year, he might be interested in a preview.”

“Really, now.” Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “Well, I demand to see my son immediately.”

“Well actually, you can’t. The training happens in a simulated magical environment, and the participant has to stay in it until it’s over. There’s no way anyone can get in or out during that time unless it’s an emergency.” This part was actually true of the real training. “You won’t be able to see him until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Malfoy asked. “Are you kidding me, Potter? Do you think I’m that gullible? You want me to believe you put my son in an unstoppable, simulated environment that’s going to last overnight?”

“For Merlin’s sake, what do you think I’m going to do to Scorpius, kill him and hide his body?” Harry asked, throwing up his arms for emphasis. “I’m an Auror, Malfoy – I’m not going to harm your son. The simulation is only until later today, although it might be late by the time he gets out since he just went in.” He put on what he hoped was a convincing scowl. “I only said tomorrow because I figured Scorpius would want to go back to Hogwarts and sleep first once he gets out.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said, and seemed to deflate a little. “Fine.” He narrowed his eyes. “But if I don’t hear from Scorpius tomorrow morning, you’ll regret it, Potter.”

Harry waved him in the direction of the door, giving an internal sigh of relief as Malfoy turned to leave. Unfortunately, at that moment, Scorpius decided to launch himself at Malfoy’s hair.

“What the hell,” Malfoy said, whipping out his wand.

“Don’t!” Harry said, grabbing his arm before he could irreparably curse his own son. “It’s just my owl.”

Malfoy sniffed haughtily. “Control your pet, Potter – although it figures that something you own would attack any guest who walks through the door.” He shot a parting sneer over his shoulder before finally leaving Harry’s office.

Harry scowled at the door for a moment before using a levitating charm to float Scorpius off the bookshelf and back onto his desk. Scorpius gave him an unimpressed hoot, ruffling his feathers in annoyance.

“This is all your fault,” Harry told him glumly. “Why did you have to go and touch that crystal?”

Scorpius pecked his hand in response.

~

That should’ve been the end of hard questions related to Scorpius. His excuse to Malfoy had been impulsive, but it made sense and should, theoretically, hold. Unless there was some reason his dorm mates decided to tattle (unlikely – Ravenclaws were probably too smart to make an enemy of a roommate without a good reason), no one would know Scorpius wouldn’t actually be in his dormitory tonight.

What he hadn’t counted on was questions from Albus, of all people.

Harry had just gotten back to the flat he’d bought after his divorce with Ginny when he heard his son’s voice coming from the fireplace.

“Hang on, I’ll be right there!” he called out, settling Scorpius on the spare perch next to Hedwig’s before rushing to the living room. “Albus! How was the Career Fair? Did you have fun?”

“Er, not really,” Albus said with a glum sigh. His expression was gloomy. “I got assigned to Mr. Malfoy.”

Harry stared. “You were with Draco Malfoy?” The assignments were supposed to be random – what were the chances?

“Yeah, him,” Albus said morosely. “Did you know he works as an Unspeakable? I had some questions about his job, which he refused to answer, and then I asked him to tell me about his typical day and current projects, but all I learned was that every single thing to do with Unspeakables is classified. It was the most boring interview ever.” He huffed. “Also, it means I have nothing to write my report on.”

“What a prat,” Harry said sympathetically. “If you want, I can look up some public information for you.”

“Yeah, that would be great, Dad, thanks. And er, by the way, I heard Scorpius was assigned to you?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Uh. Scorpius told me this morning.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. This line of questioning, he hadn’t been expecting. “I didn’t realize you and Scorpius were on speaking terms, Albus.”

“Er, yeah, we kind of are.” Albus mumbled, looking uncomfortable. “Um, dad. Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“What is it?” Harry shifted in his seat, wondering where this was going.

“Scorpius and I. We, uh. We’ve actually been talking for a while.”

“Oh, so you’re friends?”

“Yeah! Yeah, we are.” Here, he mumbled something else Harry couldn’t quite catch.

“Speak up, Albus, I can’t hear you. And I’m proud of you – I know how hard it can be to look past the prejudice sometimes, but not all Slytherins are bad.”

“I know, Dad. This is, er, kind of related. Scorpius and I - we’re kind of. Well. That is. We’re dating.”

“What?” Harry wondered if someone has hexed him with a hallucination charm without his noticing.

“You’re not mad, are you?” Albus rushed on, looking stricken. “I wanted to tell you earlier, I swear, but I didn’t know how, and you and Uncle Ron have always hated Scorpius’ father and – I just didn’t know how to bring it up without disappointing you.”

“Of course I’m not mad, Albus.” Harry took a deep breath. This was not the time to freak out. “You know I’ll always support you no matter what. This is just… a big surprise.” Another thought occurred to him. “Wait, what about Rose?”

“What about her?”

“I thought you liked her?”

“Dad! No!” Albus gave him a horrified look. “She’s like a sister!”

“Okay, okay, my mistake,” Harry said quickly. “But yeah, Scorpius was assigned to me. Is… something wrong?”

“Nothing wrong, I guess.” Albus gave a small shrug. “It’s just that Scorpius was supposed to meet me in the library after dinner today so that we can study for Ancient Runes, but he never showed up. I don’t know what happened.”

Harry felt guilt twist in his stomach. “Well, I’m sure he was just detained.”

“No, I think I’ve upset him.” Albus wrung his hands worriedly in a gesture oddly reminiscent of Hermione. “He seemed kind of distant yesterday – I’m worried that he’s mad at me.”

“I’m sure that he’s not, Albus.” Harry sighed. He couldn’t leave it like this. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but actually, Scorpius was really busy today.”

“Busy?”

“I actually brought Scorpius to the Ministry so he could see the Auror Office, and he wanted to do a training exercise. He was really tired afterwards though, so I sent him back to Hogwarts to get some rest. He probably forgot about your appointment.” Harry smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging manner. “I’m sure you’ll see him tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay. If that’s all, I guess I was just worrying for nothing,” Albus said, perking up. “Thanks a lot, Dad.”

“Anytime.” Harry kept the smile on his face until Albus’ face disappeared from the flames before let it drop with a sigh. He should probably feel guilty about lying to his son, but telling more people what happened was definitely a bad idea. Besides, Albus would just worry.

He went to check on Scorpius one more time. The owl was already asleep, although he opened one eye and gave Harry a sleepy hoot when Harry ran a finger over his feathery head.

“You better change back tomorrow,” Harry told him solemnly before heading to bed himself.

~

Harry was woken the next morning by a loud crash.

Rushing out half-dressed with wand in hand, he stopped at the sight of Scorpius Malfoy sitting next to the area where Harry kept the owl perches, looking thoroughly confused. The racket had woken Hedwig, who clicked her beak in annoyance and flew down to give Scorpius a sharp peck on the arm before returning to her perch.

“Ow,” Scorpius said, rubbing at his arm. “What’s going on? Where am I? I thought… wasn’t I in the Auror Office?”

“Do you know what happened?” Harry asked cautiously.

Luckily, it seemed like Scorpius could remember nothing from his time as an owl. Harry hesitated, wondering briefly if he should explain what had actually happened, before sticking to his story. The less people who knew, the better.

”Ah – er, don’t you remember? You wanted to try a training exercise.”

“A training exercise? Why don’t I remember what happened then?”

“It’s um, due to the memory charm we added to the environment. For secrecy.” Harry swallowed. “You know, because you’re still a Hogwarts student, and technically the exercises are for Auror trainees, and, uh. We can’t have you telling anyone what you did.”

“Oh. Okay,” Scorpius said after a pause. He seemed slightly skeptical, and for a second, Harry was worried that he remembered something – but then Scorpius looked down at himself and began straightening his clothing. “I suppose I’d better get back to Hogwarts then. Breakfast is starting soon.”

“Er, yes, about that.” Harry cleared his throat, hoping he looked more convincing than he felt. “All students taken off school grounds were technically supposed to be returned there last night, but because of… circumstances, you were out all night.” Harry paused, considering his words. “It would be really… helpful if you didn’t mention that to anyone though.”

“Got it,” Scorpius said, not even blinking at his request. “Can I floo back from here?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He watched as Scorpius threw a pinch of powder into the fireplace, and breathed a sigh of relief when the blond disappeared in a swirl of green.

~

“So. No one found out then?” Ron asked later, his feet propped up on Harry’s coffee table.

It was a Friday evening – which meant their small group of friends would be showing up any minute for their weekly dinner. Ron had come around early to check up on the owl situation.

“No, it all worked out,” Harry was happy to report. “I sent Scorpius back this morning, and he didn’t suspect anything either.”

“I have to say I’m surprised, mate! I thought Hermione would bust us for sure.”

As if summoned, the fireplace turned green for a second, and Hermione swept into the flat, still in her teaching robes. “You wouldn’t believe the day I had!” she said, sweeping Ron’s feet off the table and ignoring his yelp as she dropped the pile of markings she had to do after dinner on it instead. “Are Neville and Luna here yet?”

“Not yet,” Harry said. “Neville actually owled earlier to say they might be a little late today, so we should get started without them.”

Hermione hummed, nodding as she disappeared into the kitchen.

“So happened at school?”

“Some Gryffindors decided it would be a good idea to plant dungbombs in the Slytherin table’s food, of all things! Those long-lasting ones your brothers invented last month, Ron – it was disgusting. We had to clear everyone out of the Great Hall and I spent all of my breaks cleaning up that mess. Oh, and on top of that, Filius came down with the Dragon Pox, so I said I would deal with any Ravenclaw House-related duties this week.” She paused. “Harry, don’t you have any food in here?”

“Don’t bother with the fridge, Hermione, I took it all out already,” Harry told her. “Chicken and ham pie is cooking in the oven – although I just put it in so it might take a while. There’s salad washing in the sink, and some boiled potatoes in the pot. The roast beef is already done.”

“I’m glad to see you’re finally using those cooking spells I taught you,” Hermione said approvingly. “And oh, you know what else happened? I volunteered to help Madam Pomfrey run some of the health and nutrition groups, and we were covering Cibus Revealeus –”

“What’s that?” Ron asked around the bite of roast beef he’d snuck.

“It’s supposed to give you a list of everything you’ve eaten in the last forty-eight hours. It’s useful, see, for patients, when they forget whether or not they’ve taken their potions, or when you’re trying to monitor your food intake. Anyway, Scorpius Malfoy’s been eating owl treats, of all things, even though he swears that’s never happened – but the spell never lies! It was the most bizarre thing.” Hermione popped her head out of the kitchen. “Harry, do you have any wine left?”
“Uh, yeah, in the top cupboard,” Harry stuttered out.

“Oh, there, I see it,” Hermione said, grabbing the bottle and some wine glasses before coming back into the living room. She settled herself on the couch next to Ron. “So what’s going on? Are you two okay?” She looked back and forth between Harry and Ron. “Why are you so red, Ron? Did you two break out the Firewhiskey before I got here?”

“Nah, he just choked on some roast beef – he’ll be fine,” Harry said before Ron could open his mouth. He grabbed the wine bottle out of Hermione’s hands and poured them each a cup.

“To the end of another crazy week,” Hermione said, raising her glass.

Ron clinked her glass with his own, and then they both turned to Harry expectantly.

After a small pause, Harry followed suit with a laugh.

Inception: love you like a love song (4/?)

papered — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 08:52:52 GMT

love you like a love song (4/?)
inception: arthur/eames
pg, 2427 words
AU. In which Arthur is a university student, and Eames is that really famous actor who happens to be starting at the same university.

previously!

~

The next two weeks are quiet.

Despite his full calendar, Arthur's not an overly social person, and even though he has a lot of acquaintances, he only has a few close friends. Before Eames had showed up and started barging in on him every time he had a break, things had been pretty uneventful - and it goes back to being that way now that Eames leaves him alone.

Ariadne's expressions keep alternating between mild reproach or vague concern around him, both of which Arthur valiantly ignores.

It's not a bad thing, he reminds himself. He has so much work to do, and it's a good thing that he has more time. Midterm period is almost upon them, and clubs have mostly put events on hold. Even the dance club is taking a two-week break to give everyone a chance to cram, although certain rooms have been booked for a few hours each day for anyone who wants to practice.

Arthur studies, sleeps, studies, occasionally eats (when Ariadne nags at him), and studies some more until it feels like his head is going to explode. And then he drags himself over to the dance club to take his mind off things.

Today, the practice rooms seem to be empty except for Dom, one of the dance club executives whom Arthur is tentatively friends with. Smiling a little, Arthur is about go in with a greeting on his lips when he suddenly catches sight of Eames as well, standing at the back and nearly blending into the shadows of the room. Arthur can't help but think that the bags under Eames' eyes area little heavier than usual, but that might just a trick of the light. Changing course abruptly, some impulse sends Arthur ducking to the side of the doors instead, so that he has an uninterrupted view while he himself stays hidden.

"When you want to open out to fan, you have to change your hold before the end of the basic steps so that the girl knows you're going into fan next," Dom is saying as he makes vaguely incomprehensible gestures in the air. Arthur watches him demonstrate, his reflection visible in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors along one of the walls. "Usually, you follow the fan with the hockey stick, and then back to natural top - that's the routine Mal's been doing - but there's some variations you can do as well."

Eames repeats the steps, brows furrowed in concentration as he occasionally asks a question about the feet positioning, and Arthur watches with an increasing sense of shame as he realizes that Dom is walking Eames through the cha cha steps. Apparently, Eames had been serious about needing some help after all, and it hadn't just been an excuse to irritate Arthur some more as he'd automatically assumed.

It's not always about you.

He watches Eames repeat the steps a few more times before forcing himself to step away from the doors. Ducking into the washroom a few doors down, Arthur splashes some water on his face and straightens his shirt. His face looks strangely pale in the mirror, but otherwise he looks normal, not confused and uncertain and guilty like he feels.

What else had he been wrong about?

He needs to talk to Eames, Arthur thinks.

The problem is, now that he's actively looking for the other boy, Eames is nowhere to be found. Arthur doesn't see him in the student union building, or during lunch, or even back at the dorms. (Arthur had even tried knocking on his door once, but no one had answered.) The only time he has caught a glimpse of Eames is in dance class, and even then, Eames always just happens to be on the opposite side of the room as him. He's always laughing and joking with his dance partners, never sparing Arthur a glance.

Which is why when Arthur dashes out of his room one morning for the elevator - he's got the binders he's still trying to shove into his bag in one hand and his study notes in the other - and sees that Eames is already in it, he freezes.

Eames must misinterpret his shock, because he snorts. "Don't worry, I don't have anything catching," he says, shifting over to make room for Arthur to squeeze in next to him, and Arthur wants to explain or apologize or something, but he doesn't know how to start.

"What?" Eames asks, when Arthur continues to stare at him with his half-mouth open.

"I just. Um. I wanted to ask if you wanted to practice your cha cha some time," Arthur manages to stutter out awkwardly. His face burns immediately after, because of all the things he could've said, couldn't he have come up with something less embarrassing?

Eames looks surprised for a split second before his expression goes blank. "There's no need to take up your time - I'm sure I'll manage on my own."

"Oh. Okay," Arthur says on autopilot. And then the elevator door opens on the first floor and Eames is gone.

He barely pays attention during Econ. Afterward, Arthur walks numbly to his usual table behind the cafeteria. "I think I screwed up," he says when he finds Ariadne there, and let's her fold him into a hug.

"What you have to do, is try again," Ariadne declares later as she scoops a spoonful of frozen yogurt from the small tub in her hands and brings it to her mouth.

"I know, but how?" Arthur buries his face in his hands. "He hates me right now. Besides, you think I haven't been trying to talk to him? I can't find him anywhere though - it's like he just disappears whenever we're not in dance class."

"Then just talk to him in dance."

"I don't know if I can," Arthur admits. "

"Oh, so you're just going to quit?" Ariadne's single raised eyebrow is quite impressive.

"No, of course not, but I -"

"Good," Ariadne says in satisfaction. "No buts, Arthur! Don't over-think it."

Arthur sighs. If only it was so simple.

As it turns out though, opportunity strikes faster than Arthur would have expected.

"I'm sorry, Eames, but I can't right now - I have an appointment in twenty minutes," Mal is saying just as Arthur walks by at the end of class. "Do you want to come to class a little earlier next time? I'll show you the whole sequence then."

"Can I make an appointment with you another time?" Eames says with a small frown. "My theatre class runs until right before dance starts."

Arthur wasn't planning to stop, but some impulse has him turning so that he's facing Eames and Mal instead of heading to the door. "I can help Eames with whatever he needs," he blurts out, before he can think too closely about what he's doing. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ariadne give him an approving nod before leaving.

He sneaks a cautious glance at Eames, who doesn't look too pleased at his offer.

Mal, on the other hand, brightens immediately. "Oh, that's a wonderful idea! You don't mind if Arthur shows you instead, Eames, do you?"

For a long second, Eames looks like he might back out after all - but then he gives an almost inaudible sigh and a small nod instead. "Of course not," he says, and he sounds more reserved than Arthur has ever heard him, but at least it's not a refusal.

"When do you have free time?" Arthur asks as he follows Eames out the building. "I have class until five every day, debate from 8 to 10 on Mondays, and USoc meetings every other week, but I have breaks, and I have some free time on weekends-"

"Tomorrow at seven?" Eames interrupts abruptly.

"Yeah, that's fine," Arthur says, trying to keep his relief from showing. "I'll meet you in the practice rooms?"

Eames nods and walks off before Arthur can say anything else.

It doesn't end up being as awkward as Arthur had feared. Eames is quiet and tense, but as Arthur demonstrates the foxtrot routine, he follows along without any obvious signs of anger or annoyance. Before he knows it, an hour has passed, and Eames is helping him lock up the CD player in the cupboard.

Because Eames hadn't been overly hostile all evening, Arthur takes a chance. "Do you want to meet again next week?" he asks after a fortifying breath. "I- we could go over some cha cha, if you want. Or if you're okay with that already, we can review tango or rumba or something." He pauses for a second to gauge Eames' response, but Eames' expression is entirely blank and Arthur finds himself continuing before he can think about what he's saying. "That is, unless you're busy. I mean, we can switch to another time if you want, or we could just ... well, we don't have to meet or anything, obviously -"

"Arthur," Eames says finally, cutting him off. "Stop. Just, stop talking for a second."

"Okay," Arthur mumbles. He can feel himself starting to turn red. God, why could he never keep his mouth shut when it mattered?

"Just tell me one thing. Why are you doing this?"

"Um, what do you mean?" Arthur asks.

"It's obvious that you don't want anything to do with me. So why are you offering? What's in it for you?"

"What? No! I'm not doing this to get any-" Arthur stops and makes himself take a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Look, Eames. The truth is, I know I didn't give you a chance before. I was wrong, and I'm sorry about everything. I just want to make it up to you."

Eames sighs, and he pinches the bridge of his nose as if he has a headache. His expression is tired when he replies. "That's very nice of you and all, but you don't get to just decide that whenever you feel like it, Arthur."

"I'm not deciding - I'm asking," Arthur says quickly. "I was wrong. Will you let me make it up to you?"

Eames looks at him contemplatively, as if Arthur is a puzzle he doesn't know how to solve. "Okay," he says finally, his voice quiet. "We can meet next week if you want."

Arthur gives him a tentative smile, and feels something lift in his chest when Eames inclines his head in response.

Next week, they go over tango. Waltz the week after, and pasodoble the week after that. Arthur knows that it would make sense to invite Ariadne some time - after all, with ballroom dancing, there's only so much they can do to practice without a partner - but he keeps putting it off. Hardly anyone else comes by to practice at this time, and as strange as it sounds, he likes being able to spend time alone with Eames every week. Their friendship is still tentative, he knows, but he thinks Eames is relaxing a little more each time. He'd even teased Arthur once last week, when Arthur had insisted on drilling one sequence over and over after making a minor mistake the first time.

It feels like they're making progress - on both improving their steps and resolving their issues.

"Want to grab some dinner?" Arthur asks on impulse as they're leaving one week.

"Sure," Eames says after a brief pause, and Arthur can't help but smile. Eames chooses the place, and they end up in one of the small, mostly-empty restaurants in the basement of the student union building. Arthur has never actually eaten at any of the on-campus restaurants before, not when a meal would cost twice as much here than in the cafeteria upstairs, but he figures once or twice wouldn't hurt.

"I don't eat in the cafeteria much - too many people," Eames says, as if sensing his thoughts. "People come around with cameras and I end up not being able to eat. This place is nice though, and there's not as many students."

It was true. The only other diners were two middle-aged women who looked like professors and a handful of grad students on the other side of the room. No one gave them a second glance as they were seated.

They talk aimlessly until the food comes. Arthur finds out that Eames is part of the drama club, and that they're putting on Romeo and Juliet for charity for Christmas.

"Not exactly the most cheerful play, I know, but they alternate between comedies and tragedies, and they did a comedy last year, " Eames explains.

The food arrives then and they both dive in. Arthur hums appreciatively as he takes a bite of his jambalaya rice bowl, deciding right then and there that the extra cost is totally worth it.

"Good?" Eames asks with a laugh, taking a bite of his own Cajun chicken burger.

Arthur nods, suddenly realizing that he's starving.

It's dark by the time they get out. The wind is chilly, and Arthur pulls his jacket tighter around himself as they walk back to the dorms.

"Don't you have a scarf or something?" Eames asks.

"I lost mine last winter and never ended up getting another one," Arthur says, trying not to shiver. Eames looks warm in his big puffy jacket, he thinks enviously. "Come on, let's walk faster."

He breathes a sigh of relief as the dorm building comes into sight. "Thanks," he says gratefully when Eames pulls open the door for him, and blows on his fingers while waiting for the elevator.

"Well, good night then," Arthur says when they finally get up to the fourth floor. His hands have warmed up enough that he can feel his fingers again.

"Wait," Eames says as Arthur is digging his keys out of his pocket.

"Yeah?"

"I - my friend's throwing a party this weekend. Saturday. You want to come along?"

"Um, sure," Arthur replies, surprised. This is the first time Eames' invited him anywhere since they started going over dance every week.

"Great. I'll let you know the time later," Eames says. He smiles suddenly, eyes crinkling, and it's not the tentative smiles Arthur has gotten used to the last few weeks, but one of those 100-watt ones that Arthur hasn't seen directed at him since he'd first met Eames.

"Good night, Arthur."

Arthur gives him a small nod in return, and feels the flutter of something foreign in the pit of his stomach.

~

tbc.

Inception: love you like a love song (3/?)

papered — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 08:49:39 GMT

love you like a love song (3/?)
inception: arthur/eames
pg-13, 2800 words
AU. In which Arthur is a university student, and Eames is that really famous actor who happens to be starting at the same university.
a/n: for the prompt "fall" at ae_match. originally posted here.

previously!

~

The thing about Arthur is, he's stubborn. Once he's made up his mind about something, it's unlikely for him to change his mind again. Fortunately, he usually has a long list of all the reasons why he's stubborn about that particular matter. Unfortunately, that list isn't always logical or rational - or, at least, so Ariadne insists as she nags at him after yet another less-than-productive conversation with Eames, during which Eames had tried to hit on Arthur no less than five times and Arthur had masterfully shut him down each time.

"I just don't get it. Why do you hate him so much?" Ariadne asks, shoving a large spoonful of pasta into her mouth.

"I don't hate him. He's just annoying."

"Okay, maybe hate is a little strong, but you're always so hostile. I don't know, but it's not like you, Arthur." She frowns at him as she chews, and Arthur sighs as he closes his laptop. He can tell this isn't going to be a conversation where he's going to be able to do his architecture homework at the same time.

"I'm only hostile because he comes around to annoy me at every opportunity."

"But the thing is, he isn't." She shrugs. "Obviously, I wasn't there the first time you guys met, so I can't say, but all the other times? He's been flirting with you."

"Exactly," Arthur says, rolling his eyes. "The same way he flirts with anything else that moves."

"Yeah, so you say, but you don't see him asking anyone else out for coffee."

Arthur sighs loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Didn't we have this conversation already the other day? Why do you care so much, Ari?"

Ariadne looks at him in a way that makes him feel like a terrible person. "Because I'm your friend, Arthur, and I care, and it's my job to call you out on things." She pauses to take a spoonful of yogurt. "Besides, when was the last time you went on a date? It's been at least a year and a half since you broke it off with Lance."

Arthur stares at her. "How is that even relevant to what we were talking about?"

"Oh please, even if you're too busy pretending to be irritated by him, you know Eames is totally your type."

"He is not," Arthur says in outrage. "I don't even have a type!"

"Your last four boyfriends were all dark-haired, built like a brick house, and looked like thugs." Ariadne looks smug. "Also, don't think I didn't notice how you didn't argue the pretending-to-be-irritated part."

"My exes did not look like thugs, for god's sake," Arthur says in exasperation. "Lance was in pre-law!"

Ariadne waves a dismissive hand at him. "Whatever! My point is, Eames is hot, he's asking you out, and all you do is be rude to him." All of a sudden, she looks serious. "He seems like a nice enough person, but you just seem determined to believe the worst about him. And even if you're honestly not interested, you could be nicer about turning him down. Right now, you're being kind of cruel." She aims a reproaching look at him, the one he's always had trouble ignoring. "Promise me you'll try, at least?"

Arthur sighs heavily. "Fine. I promise."

He grudgingly admits, if only to himself, that Eames does have a marked resemblance to his last few boyfriends, but that doesn't mean anything's going to happen. Aside from the fact that he doesn't have time to date right now, Eames is Eames. He's rich and famous and charming and there are people falling over themselves to please him, and Arthur doesn't need that kind of egoism in his life right now.

Ariadne probably has a point though. He supposes he can make an effort.

In an effort to make an effort, Arthur does his best not to completely shoot Eames down the next time Eames tries to ask him out for a drink. It's hard work, because Eames seems to get on Arthur's nerves without even having to try.

"I don't have time for dates right now," he elaborates instead of his customary answer of "no, leave me alone", and Eames blinks at him for a second in surprise before a look of delight spreads over his face.

Arthur valiantly ignores this.

"And what's been keeping you so busy, pet?"

"Unlike you, some of us actually have to study, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, forcibly ignoring the endearment and keeping his tone mild through sheer will. He taps his fingers against the side of the elevator, wondering how it could possibly take so long to go up four floors. He really should've taken the stairs.

"What exactly do you major in?" Eames seems genuinely curious, which is the only reason Arthur manages to reply rather than tell him to mind his own business.

"I'm double-majoring in English and Architecture, minoring in Econ." It occurs to him abruptly that he has no idea what Eames is here to study. Luckily, Eames tells him without Arthur actually having to ask.

"No wonder you're so busy," he says with a low whistle. "I'm just doing English Lit with a Theatre minor, and that's already keeping me busy."

In Arthur's opinion, Eames doesn't seem to be very busy at all, considering how many parties he seems to attend on a weekly basis, but remembering his promise to Ariadne, he keeps his mouth shut and merely nods instead.

When the elevator doors finally slide open, Arthur grabs his bag, gives Eames a small nod, and steps out before Eames can say anything else. Disaster averted. He's digging for his keys in the bottom of his bag when Eames' voice comes from down the hallway.

"By the way, I never said I was asking you on a date, darling. Bit presumptuous of you, don't you think?" He pauses while Arthur tries to not gape at his audacity. "Funny how you assumed that, isn't it? But if you're interested, you know where to find me." Eames smirks, and before Arthur can think of a suitable retort, he's shut the door of his room behind him.

"Arrogant bastard," Arthur mutters under his breath, finally managing to get his own door open. Getting inside, he barely resists the urge to slam it shut behind him like a petulant teenager.

The whole thing just proves to Arthur that Eames is every bit as annoying and egotistical as he'd initially thought - and he would probably be a lot more vocal about this to Ariadne if it isn't for the fact that the very next day, he gets his paper for his Modern Critical Theories class back.

He gets a C+.

The professor gives some general feedback on it before moving on to the discussion group, but Arthur can't tear his eyes away from the red ink at the bottom of his page. C+. The last time he'd gotten anything less than an A- on a report was back in first year, and that was only because first year Biology had been mandatory and Arthur had never done a proper lab report before in his life. This is different. This is fourth year, and this is for a core course, and this is going to completely screw up the GPA he's been working so hard for.

Ariadne pats him on the back and is suitably sympathetic, but her comment that "it's normal to not always get an A, you know" is not appreciated. Arthur manages to glare at her for about a minute before she gives him her yogurt as a peace offering. Arthur deflates and takes it. It's peach flavoured, his favourite, and he takes a big spoonful into his mouth with a sigh. "This isn't over, you know," he says as he swallows. "I'm going to office hour tomorrow to talk to the professor."

It goes horribly.

The professor tells him that while he'd submitted an excellent paper and his references were flawless, he'd apparently "misinterpreted the given topic", and all things considered, he's "lucky to be getting a C+". Considering that the topic wasn't discussed during lecture beforehand, Arthur would think that it would be perfectly normal for every student to interpret it any way they like - and plus, isn't that the point of higher level courses? So that you can actually give your own opinions, rather than conform to the instructor's interpretations?

But the professor refuses to budge, or negotiate, or give Arthur any sort of extra credit to redeem himself with no matter how many times he explains him reasoning. Arthur stares at her blankly as she ushers him out of her office forty minutes later with the claim that it's time for her lunch break. It feels bitterly unfair that the paper he'd spent so long working on is going to drag down his entire grade, and he's just wasted a good portion of his own lunch break trying to explain himself to an instructor who doesn't even seem to care. Maybe it's stupid to get this upset over a grade, but he feels a little like crying.

He bumps into someone on his way out of the building, and his paper, still clutched in his hands, go flying.

"Watch where you're going," he snaps, his voice sounding strained to his own ears.

"Arthur?" comes a familiar voice.

Of all the people who could've run into him, of course it had to be Eames. Knowing that he must look a mess, Arthur keeps his eyes on the ground, leaning down to pick up his papers. "Hey," he says brusquely.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Eames asks, dropping to his knees to help him gather the rest of the papers, which is exactly what Arthur doesn't want because that puts Eames at eye-level with him.

"It's nothing," Arthur says, swallowing the lump in his throat. He's not going to make a fool of himself. Not in front of Eames. He's going to gather his things, and then go to his next class without making a scene. "I have to go," he mumbles, turning to leave before Eames can ask anything else.

Except a hand on his arm stops him from leaving. "Arthur? Are you sure you're okay?" Eames asks, his grip unnaturally strong, and Arthur hates the concern in his voice, hates the way Eames has the worst timing ever and always manages to make him feel humiliated and angry and out-of-control.

"Let me go," he says sharply, grasping at the anger and pushing everything else away. It's the least embarrassing thing he feels right now, and he needs it to get through a conversation with Eames if he doesn't want to end up looking completely pathetic. "Just leave me alone."

"Hey, I was just trying to help," Eames says, a hint of hardness in his voice. "It wouldn't hurt you to occasionally show some gratitude, you know."

"Yeah, well, I don't need your help, thanks."

Eames stares at him for a second. "Look, what exactly is your problem?" he finally says. "Do you make a habit of insulting people who try to do something nice for you?"

"Maybe I just don't want anything to do with the likes of you," Arthur snarls, biting out the first retort he can think of.

He regrets it the second it comes out of his mouth, and in the abrupt silence that follows, Arthur knows that he's managed to cross some line. Before he can figure out how to take it back though, Eames' face goes frighteningly blank. Dumping the papers he'd picked up into Arthur's arms, he leaves without saying another word.

Ignoring the sudden guilt gnawing at his stomach, Arthur goes to his next class - he's going to be late as it is. Whatever just happened with him and Eames, he can figure it all out later, he tells himself. It's all going to be fine.

Later doesn't happen until nearly three days later. Arthur's always up at the crack of dawn and doesn't get back to his dorm until almost midnight, and although that's never stopped him from running into Eames before, Eames must be avoiding him or something because he abruptly stops seeing the other boy around. It's not until he's cutting through campus after his French elective that he sees Eames coming out of the student union building. For once, he's alone rather than surrounded by a gaggle of admirers.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur approaches him, making an attempt to have a smile on his face in case Eames looks up and catches his eye. He knows he needs to apologize - he'd been out of line the other day, and after all, Eames had only been trying to help. When he gets there though, the words stick in his throat. Arthur's always been crap at saying sorry, and since he hasn't had time to obsessively rehearse this in his head earlier, he has to figure out now how to say it properly.

Except Eames doesn't bother to slow down at the sight of him. In fact, he barely looks at Arthur.

"Hey, Eames, wait-" Arthur calls out, wondering if Eames has somehow managed to miss him despite being a foot away. Before he can consciously think about it, he reaches out and grasps Eames' arm to catch his attention - but then Eames is looking at him and shaking his head in disbelief.

"Oh, just fuck off, will you?" he says crudely before Arthur can say another word.

"Wait, what?" Arthur replies dumbly, taken aback despite himself.

When he finally comes to a full stop, Eames' face is dark, without a hint of his usual smile. "Look, Arthur. Whatever your problem is, I'm sick of it. I've been trying to be friendly this whole time, but all I get from you is attitude. And you know what? Fine." He sneers, the expression twisting his face into something ugly. "Unlike some people, I'm not exactly desperate for friends here."

Arthur had come to apologize, he really had, but Eames, as usual, manages to wind him up from zero to a hundred in less than half a minute, and the words come spilling out before he can stop himself. "Sure, friendship. I'm sure that's what all the girls who are throwing themselves at you want."

"You think I don't know that? You think I can't tell that they only want a piece of me because I'm famous?" Eames' voice goes deceptively soft, but his eyes are narrowed and there's a muscle twitching in his jaw. "You think you're so much better than them, Arthur, but at the end of the day, you're no different."

"Excuse me?" Arthur says, something cold unfurling in his chest.

"Oh, please. You think I couldn't tell? You were perfectly friendly until you found out who I was, and then you turned into a complete tosser. But you don't even know a single thing about me."

The worst thing is, Eames is right. Arthur has been a dick to him, and if it had been anyone else, Arthur's sure his conscience would have stopped him by now. As it is, he's been ignoring it just because it's Eames, and the rest of the world is unfairly in love with him - like that fact is some sort of justification for his own behavior. Some small part of Arthur has realized that all along, and being confronted with it now, he just feels sick, the unreasonable rage from before draining away and leaving him with just the shame in the pit of his stomach.

"I know that you're an egotistical dick, and all you ever try to do is annoy me," he says, digging himself deeper into the hole. His voice lacks conviction to his own ears, but even now, Arthur doesn't know how to back down gracefully.

"Oh what grounds? The tabloids? And sorry to break the news, Arthur, but it's not always about you." Eames sighs, and all of a sudden, he just looks tired. "You know what? Whatever, I don't care. You want me out of your hair, so I'll stay out of your way." He pauses, and Arthur notices the dark circles under his eyes for the first time. "But do me a favour and just leave me alone, Arthur.

There's a small crowd gathering by the benches a few feet away - not so close that their exchange would have been overheard, but close enough that surely it's obvious that they're not exactly having a friendly conversation. Eames looks over at them for a second before seeming to close in on himself. With an audible exhale, he roughly shrugs off the hand Arthur's still got on his arm before walking away.

Arthur watches him go.

~

next.

Inception: love you like a love song (2/?)

papered — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 08:44:59 GMT

love you like a love song (2/?)
inception: arthur/eames
pg, 1766 words
AU. In which Arthur is a university student, and Eames is that really famous actor who happens to be starting at the same university.
a/n: for the prompt "biased" at ae_match. originally posted here.

previously!

~

Arthur most definitely does not plan to knock on Eames' door, oh no. The first thing he does is crumple the note up and stuff it into the bottom of his bag (but only because he can't find a garbage can right now). As far as Arthur's concerned, there's no reason for him and Eames to interact again.

The second thing he does is rush off to architecture lecture. Because he's late.

After the three-hour lecture, Ariadne follows him out of the classroom, already chattering away. It's the only class they share, since Ariadne's a year younger than him and has different core courses. She'd managed to challenge the material for third year architecture at the start of term though, and so she'd ended up in the same lecture as Arthur.

They go to the student union building for lunch, where it's unusually crowded and the Subway line's twice as long as usual. Arthur's just managed to get to the front and is in the process of ordering when the girl behind the counter suddenly freezes.

"Um, hello?" Arthur says, resisting the impulse to wave a hand in front of her face. "I asked for no onions, please."

She still doesn't respond, and it takes Arthur a second longer to realize that she's staring over his shoulder.

"Oh my god, it's him," comes Ariadne's awed whisper from beside him. Excited whispers have broken out along the line.

With a sudden dread, Arthur's contemplating the wisdom of turning around when a hand lands on his shoulder.

"Arthur!" comes the English-accented voice from behind him. "Fancy running into you here!"

"Eames," Arthur bites out.

"Oh, were you ordering?" Eames asks, as if that's not completely obvious already. He smiles graciously at the girl who's still gaping at him from behind the counter, and Arthur watches in disgust as she practically swoons. "Be a dear and add the BLT combo to that? I'll pay for everything."

"I can pay for myself, thank you very much," Arthur cuts in heatedly. "And you can line up at the back like everyone else, Mr. Eames."

"Oh no, it's no trouble at all!" the girl says, seeming to finally wake from her stupor. "Such an honor to meet you, Mr. Eames!"

"Just call me Eames," Eames says to her with another one of his 1000-watt smiles, and Arthur is struck with the urge to punch him in his perfectly-formed nose.

"Let's go," he says to Ariadne, throwing down a $10 bill and grabbing his sandwich when it's finally made (and the lettuce and tomatoes are practically falling out, since the girl had been too busy making eyes at Eames instead of looking down at what she was doing) before storming away.

"You know Eames? He knew your name! How did this happen?"

"He'smyneighbour," Arthur mumbles into his Subway, determinedly not meeting Ariadne's eyes.

"What? I didn't catch that. Arthur, will you stop hiding in your food and answer my question?"

Arthur sighs. "I said he's my neighbour."

"What? Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"He's an arrogant dick," Arthur says, taking a vicious bite out of his Subway.

"And you know this, how?" Ariadne narrows her eyes. "Tell me everything! And don't leave anything out!"

Arthur sighs and dutifully tells her everything that had occurred. When he gets to the part about the note stuck on his door, Ariadne makes an incoherent sound.

"He likes you," she says, seemingly delighted.

Arthur doesn't understand her enthusiasm. "Yeah, I can see that - the same way he likes everyone with a pulse. He's a dick, Ariadne."

"But you only talked to him for a minute! Isn't that a bit soon to be making judgments?"

He hates it when she's reasonable. "Trust me, I can tell. Besides, weren't you the one telling me yesterday that he's a player?"

"Yeah, but that's probably all rumors. You can't just trust the paparazzi."

Arthur shrugs and takes another violent bite out of his Subway.

Part of the reason Arthur is so busy is because he's in about half a dozen clubs. Not that he really has time for them, but it's his last year at the university, i.e. his last chance to join all the ones he wants - and having that as a mantra during club promotion week meant that he'd signed up for far too many things. That, on top of all the student societies and clubs he'd already been a part of, means that he really has no time.

Wednesday evenings from 8 to 10 are for ballroom dancing classes down at the old History Center on the far side of campus. Dropping his bag off in his room as quickly as he can, he grabs his dance shoes before taking off at a sprint, knowing that he's late already. Arthur had been talked into joining during his second year of university - and by "talked into", what he really means is that he'd been perfectly happy left to his own devices when Ariadne had come along and forced him to sign up for the dance club with her. After the horror of those hip hop classes his mother had put him through during his formative years, Arthur had been surprised to find that he actually enjoyed ballroom - and more than that, he's actually good at it.

As he dashes into the auditorium-converted-into-a-ballroom, the instructor pauses to look at him. "Ah, look who's finally arrived!"

Arthur gives her an apologetic look as he slots himself into his usual spot across from Ariadne. "I'm sorry I'm late, Mal. I lost track of time."

"Are you always such a teacher's pet?" an amused voice comes from behind him, as Mal goes back to explaining the next step of the routine.

No way, he can't be here, Arthur thinks, sure that he's misheard as he whirls around - but no, there Eames is, standing a little to his left and looking far too pleased with himself.

Before Arthur can do more than glare though, Mal turns on the CD player and tango music fills the air. Lifting his hands automatically up into the proper position - left hand raised for Ariadne to place her hand on and right hand ready to wrap around her upper waist - Arthur scowls as he leads them through the routine. "What's he doing here," he hisses, nodding at Eames and the girl who's giggling in his arms as they sweep into a turn.

"He joined the dance club, obviously," Ariadne says, looking indecently happy at the thought.

"Yeah, but why is he in this class? Shouldn't he be with the newcomers?"

Ariadne looks at him blankly. "He knows how to dance already, Arthur - he was on Strictly Come Dancing all the time between his filming," she says accusingly, as if it's somehow unusual that Arthur can't recite every piece of information there is on Eames' previous work.

"How am I supposed to know that?" Arthur asks, and he would have complained some more, except Mal turns off the music and says things like no no, you must all point with your toe when you come out of your natural twist turns and I need a volunteer to demonstrate with me, come up here, Arthur!, and after that, Mal has them drilling some more and changing partners and Arthur doesn't get a chance to ask Ariadne anything else until the end of class, at which point he's genuinely exhausted. As everyone's heading out, he goes up to Mal to ask what the practice room schedules are going to be like for this term, but by the time he gets there, Eames is already there.

"I really appreciate you letting me test out of the newcomer level, Mal," Eames is saying.

"Well, you seem to be keeping up without any problems."

"It's been lovely so far." Eames gives her a beatific smile, and that alone should have put Arthur on alert. As it is, he doesn't realize that Eames had even noticed his presence until Eames continues, "Besides, I'm sure Arthur here won't mind giving me some pointers if I have any problems later."

To Arthur's horror, Mal nods. "That's a good idea, Eames. Arthur's very good, and he shouldn't have any problems catching you up if you need it - you don't mind, Arthur, do you?"

Considering how much time Mal had put in to help Arthur with extra drilling during practice hours the previous year, Arthur couldn't very well refuse her anything. Holding back a sigh, he nods.

"Is there a reason why you're incapable of leaving me alone?" he asks Eames later, as they're finally leaving the ballroom.

"It's called being friendly, darling."

"Well, you can be friendly with someone else then," Arthur says irritably. Ariadne is waiting for him at the building exit and she waves as he and Eames get closer. Arthur quickens his steps as he zips his jacket up all the way to the neck, and he's sweeping past Eames to join her when a hand on his arm stops him.

"Wait, weren't you going to help me with my dance steps?"

Arthur counts to ten slowly in his head, and then takes a deep breath. "You don't need any help, and you know it."

"How would you know? We only covered tango today. I might need your help with the cha cha." He says cha cha the same way other people might say hot kinky sex, and Arthur shakes his head in disgust.

"You were on a dance show. I doubt there's anything being taught that's not review for you." He realizes his mistake as soon as he says it, but by then it's too late.

Eames looks completely delighted with himself. "Arthur! You kept up with me? Darling, why didn't you tell me you were a fan?"

"Don't flatter yourself." Arthur bites back the instinct to explain that he only knows because of Ariadne - he doesn't want to sound too defensive. "Unlike you, some of us still have to study after this, so I'm leaving now."

"Arthur, wait, don't be so -"

"Good bye, Mr. Eames." Arthur says through clenched teeth. Eames still hasn't let go of his arm, but he pulls himself out of Eames' grip, and this time, Eames doesn't resist.

"What happened back there?" Ariadne says when he finally joins her. She looks back at Eames. "Is he okay? Did you say something? He looks kind of upset."

Ha, as if. "It's nothing. Let's just go," Arthur says, and determinedly doesn't look back as he pulls Ariadne along with him.

~

next.

Inception: love you like a love song (1/?)

papered — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 08:40:19 GMT

hi guys! sorry for the long disappearance... this was originally written for ae_match back during the summer, but a.) I never finished it (clearly I am not meant to write wips), and b.) I never posted it here. so I guess this is a repost + whatever new chapters I manage to come up with.

love you like a love song (1/?)
inception: arthur/eames
pg, 1632 words
AU. In which Arthur is a university student, and Eames is that really famous actor who happens to be starting at the same university.
a/n: for the prompt "overwhelmed" at ae_match. originally posted here.

"Oh my god," Ariadne says loudly as she plops herself down into the chair next to Arthur's, scattering a stack of his papers as she throws her bag onto the library table. Arthur shoots her a dirty look, which she cheerfully ignores. "Did you hear? Eames is coming to our university. He's arriving any minute."

"Who's Eames?" Arthur asks half-heartedly (only because he knows that she'll tell him anyway and he might as well play along), not looking up from his English paper on the effects of solidarity on the events of the Seattle General Strike of 1919 and the Komagata Maru incident. He has exactly seven hours to perfect his outline and draft before he has to submit it online, at which point he has to work on his lab prep.

"You don't know Eames?" Ariadne asks, outrage permeating every syllable of her words. The librarian from across the hall shoots her an unimpressed look, and Ariadne quickly lowers her voice. "It's Eames. As in, the lead actor in the Forging Dreams series? He's been in those movies since he was like, ten, and now that the series is over, he's taking a break from acting to go to university."

"Mhmm," Arthur says, not particularly interested or impressed. "Is that the guy you were talking about on the phone last time? The one who was dating that Playboy girl?"

"Hey look, you remembered!" Ariadne seems disproportionately delighted. "Well, rumor is, he gets around a bit, so he doesn't exactly have the best reputation. Doesn't make him any less hot though."

Arthur stares at his concluding paragraph. Why did it sound so awkward? "If he's that great, why aren't you out there greeting him on arrival?"

"Are you kidding? There's like, a million fangirls outside the administration building right now, waiting for his car to pull up. If I tried to go, I'd just get trampled."

"Hmm," Arthur says, non-committal, trying going over his references one more time.

"Fine, fine, you're not interested, I get it," Ariadne says, throwing up her arms in an exaggerated fashion. "So how long are you staying here then?"

"Uh, until the library closes?"

"What? Arthur, term just started two weeks ago. How much work can you have?"

Arthur sighs. "Ariadne, this is my last year here, and I'm doing a double major on top of a minor - which means I'm probably taking three more courses than the average fourth year student." He presses the heel of his palms to his eyes in a futile effort to stave off the impending headache. "And on top of that, you know they voted me in as the Undergrad Society treasurer this year, which means I have to be at every single one of their weekly meetings. I'll be lucky if I get time to sleep this year."

"I'm sorry, I know you have lots to do," Ariadne says, and Arthur's exhaustion must have finally come through because her voice softens. "I'll stop nagging you for now - but don't forget to eat, okay?" She frowns. "You have to take care of yourself, you know. Do you want me to bring you food later?"

"There's no eating in the library - and plus, don't you have a dinner date with Robert?" Arthur gives her a small smile. "Don't worry, I'll get my own food later. You go on ahead."

By the time the librarian kicks Arthur out at half past eleven (okay, not exactly "kick out" - because all the university librarians pretty much know and love Arthur - more like, "ask him nicely to leave"), Arthur's managed to finish his English draft, wrap up his lab prep, do the necessary research for his elective project, and get a good head start on next week's speech for the Debate Society. As he staggers towards his dorm room, all he wants to do is pull off his shoes and collapse into bed.

Unfortunately for Arthur, it looks like the entire university has decided to camp out in front of his dorm building. Also, there are two police officers standing guard by the entrance.

There are two fourth year dorm buildings at the university - one near central campus, and another about a fifteen-minute walk away. Most people prefer the former, since it's closer to the lecture halls, the rooms are bigger, and the building itself is bigger, meaning it's a lot easier to hold parties and social events in the lounge. Arthur though, had applied for the second building. It's located on a pretty obscure part of campus, and therefore more or less quiet on most nights. In the face of his overwhelming schedule, Arthur had figured that would be the better choice.

Which means the crowds surrounding his building makes even less sense. It takes him far too long to actually get to the main door, and even longer to convince the police officers that yes, he actually lives in this building, and yes, he has his dorm papers to prove it - except he doesn't have them on hand right now because they're upstairs, in his room.

"What's going on anyway?" Arthur asks, trying to keep his irritation out of his voice when they finally let him pass. The front lock clicks open with a beep as he waves his key pass at the sensor.

"Just some private security issues," one of them says vaguely, waving for him to go through.

Taking the elevator up to the fourth floor, Arthur readjusts the pile of books in his arms before reaching for his room key. As he's opening his own door, he hears a laugh from the other side of the hall.

The fourth year dorm buildings are organized so that there are only two rooms on each floor - one on each side of the elevator. The other room on Arthur's floor happens to be unoccupied - apparently, administration had assigned a student there originally, but she'd turned out to be superstitious and hadn't wanted to live on the fourth floor.

It sounds like someone else had moved in after all. For a second, Arthur contemplates being social for once and going over to say hello, but the pile of books in his arms is starting to feel like a ton of bricks. With a sigh, he pushes open his own door, drops his books and bag on the floor, and proceeds to kick off his shoes.

"Um, hello?" A voice says from behind him.

Whirling around fast enough to make himself dizzy, Arthur turns. And stares.

At first glance, the guy standing outside his door is really stunningly attractive.

He remains fucking stunningly attractive at second glance, and every subsequent glance after that.

The guy looks to be about the same height as Arthur, but whereas Arthur is shaped a bit like a beanstalk, this guy has shoulders three times as wide and biceps to match. He's dressed in a white undershirt and sweatpants, and his lips are kind of obscene. If Arthur weren’t ridiculously tired, his heart would be working in overdrive by now.

Instead, Arthur manages a small smile. "Hi there. Did you need something?"

"I've been assigned to the other room on this floor, and I just wanted to drop by and say hello," the guy says, and Arthur's definitely not imagining the flirtatious curve to his lips as he blatantly looks Arthur up and down.

"Welcome to the building then. I'm Arthur." Arthur holds out a hand. "You're starting term now? Are you transferring in from somewhere?"

Arthur is contemplating the intelligence of inviting him in for a coffee when the guy reaches out and grips his hand in a lingering handshake. "I'm Eames," he says, and instantly, any positive thoughts Arthur might have had drains out of him.

"You're Eames?"

"Er, yes?" Eames smiles tentatively. "Is that a problem?"

He has a delicious British accent that would normally make Arthur weak in the knees, but at the moment, Arthur kind of just wants to punch him. "Tell me, are you the reason why it took me over half an hour to get past the security downstairs?"

"Probably?" Eames has the nerve to laugh. "Look, I'm really sorry about that, darling, but it's really not my -"

"I'm not your darling," Arthur says sharply, cutting him off.

Eames stares at him for a second before chuckling, as if the situation is somehow amusing. "You do know that most people would be happy to have me as their neighbour?"

"Well, I'm not most people," Arthur retorts, and he can't help the sinking disappointment in his chest as he thinks, oh, he's one of those types. Ariadne's rumors had been right after all. He'd barely known Eames for a few minutes, and already, Eames seems a self-centered dick.

Eames has the grace to look a little regretful, but Arthur's had enough. "Well, if you don't mind, Mr. Eames, I need to get to bed," he says, and then he shuts the door before Eames can say anything else.

With a tired sigh, he sinks down into his chair, burying his face in his arms for a minute before forcing himself to rearrange his notes so that they're organized for tomorrow. By the time he's done, it's a quarter to one, and Arthur has 8AM classes in the morning.

Shoving Eames firmly out of his mind, Arthur crawls into bed. He falls asleep before his head hits the pillow.

The next morning, as Arthur rushes out the door, forgets his architecture textbook, and comes back to retrieve it, he notices a post-it note stuck to his door.

Arthur,

I’m sorry about last night – can we just do this over again? Knock on my door some time when you’re free. We can go for coffee. ;)

E

~

next.

Inception: this and that of you and me

papered — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 19:01:08 GMT

for Cathy (kitschful); written for the prompt "passage of time" for h_j. this is so very late, but I hope it's something like what you wanted. :')

this and that of you and me
Inception: Arthur/Eames
PG-13, 3660 words
Five years of Valentines.

1. the first year

The first time Arthur meets Eames, it's in Vienna, on February the 14th.

They don't know each other, not officially anyway. Eames isn't exactly new to the dreamshare scene, but apparently knows the importance of keeping his mouth shut, so there's not a lot of information about him - but Arthur's the point man for a reason. Which, of course, means that he knows pretty much everything someone can know about Eames without actually interacting with him. He knows that Eames is ex-military, has fake passports and credit cards under the name of "Jonathan Holmes", and was staying in Glasgow before he was contacted for this job. He knows that they're both after the same mark but on opposing extraction teams with contradictory goals.

He is, as Arthur finds out, also the singularly most annoying person Arthur has had the displeasure of meeting in a long time.

It's a tricky job, and one thing leads to another but Arthur somehow finds himself in a fistfight with Eames the second level under. Eames has a nasty right hook and Arthur ends up with a black eye and a split lip, but when the timer runs out, he's managed to handcuff Eames to a desk, break into the mark's subconscious safe, and tuck the needed information safely away, so he counts that as a victory.

~

2. the second year

When Dom said they would be working with a forger on the next job, Arthur had assumed that he would be bringing in their regular contact - after all, it's not like forgers are common or anything in their line of work. What Dom fails to tell him beforehand is that Alicia Kingston is apparently still holding a grudge from the last time Dom had worked with her and she'd ended up with a broken hip - and also, she's thinking of retiring. Either way, she's not going to work with them.

"Arthur, it's you!" Eames says as he waltzes into the room. He's wearing a multicolored pinstripe dress shirt with his suit pants and a ridiculously bright grin, and it's not even 9AM yet. Arthur kind of wants to throw up on him.

"You," Arthur says.

Dom beams. "I didn't know you two knew each other!"

"We don't," Arthur replies at the same time Eames says, "We got ... acquainted on the Darvill job," with all the suggestive insinuation to give the wrong idea.

"You mean you punched me in the eye after you tried to steal the information out from under my nose," Arthur says, deceptively casual.

"Oh, don't be like that, darling! It was only after you shot me in the leg," Eames replies, his tone light and unconcerned as if they're talking about the weather.

Arthur takes vindictive pleasure in the way Dom looks between the two of them and blanches.

The mark is eighteen, the son of a paranoid multibillionaire, and has more security than the average royalty of a small country. Their opportunity appears on Valentine's Day, when Lawrence Winston Ignatius the Third sneaks out of his father's mansion to spend time with his girlfriend. Arthur dresses up as a taxi driver and conveniently drives back and forth along the adjacent street until he gets hailed, at which point he drives the mark to the next intersection where Eames and Dom are in place to jump into the back of the cab.

Lawrence makes a valiant attempt to get away as soon as he realizes that something is going on, but it doesn't exactly take much to subdue a teenager with more bones than muscle mass. Eames takes the chloroform-soaked cloth out of his pocket and presses it to Lawrence's face, and Arthur waits until he's gone still to pull into the secured underground car park.

It should have been a run-of-the-mill extraction - which, of course, means that complications happen, unexpectedly hostile projections show up, etcetc, and the cat gets let out of the bag. Luckily, Dom is close enough to the safe that he's already well on his way to getting the needed information. Unluckily, the projections Arthur have been keeping an eye on all go nuts.

"Fuck," Arthur says, giving up on subtlety as he reaches for his gun.

He gets the closest three before they can get any closer, but the fourth topples before he can shoot, leaving a familiar figure behind it. "Aren't you glad to see me?" Eames asks, blowing nonexistent smoke off the tip of his gun in an exaggerated and ridiculous manner.

Before Arthur can comment though, Eames is sweeping past him. "Better go," he says, nudging at Arthur's shoulder as he gestures to the angry-looking crowd making their way closer.

They run. Arthur is good at running - it's practically a job requirement - and Eames keeps up effortlessly at his side, his legs eating up the distance easily. They race down two corridors, up a spiral staircase, through three rooms filled with paintings that look like they should belong in museums, and down another hallway.

"Have dinner with me after this?" Eames asks as they're passing through the kitchen where rogue projections armed with knives stare menacingly at them.

"What?" Arthur says, sure that he's misheard as he pauses to shoot at the ones getting too close for comfort. He turns to look at the other man, a comment on the tip of his tongue - but before he can say anything else, he hears it: the strains of Edith Piaf filling the whole room and signaling that time is almost up.

"Think Dom's gotten the safe open by now?" Eames asks.

"I'd think so." Arthur checks his watch. "It's been, what, half an hour?"

"Good." Eames smiles crookedly. "I'll meet you outside our hotel at seven o'clock then, Arthur," he says with a smile, and then he shoots himself out of the dream while Arthur is still gaping at him.

Arthur stares. He doesn't mean to, but he does.

"Is that Zegna?" he exclaims, throat abruptly dry as he takes in the peaked lapels and full Windsor and the way the striped pants showcase Eames' legs to perfection. Until now, he'd never seen Eames in anything but obnoxiously bright patterns and distastefully loud colors.

Eames laughs, and Arthur abruptly flushes as he realizes how obvious he's being.

"Finally impressed you, have I?" Eames says while looking delighted with himself. "Here," he said, gesturing to the waiting cab before Arthur can further embarrass himself. "Let's not keep the driver waiting too long. I hope you like Japanese."

Dinner turns into an extended dessert period (during which Eames eats his banana split in a truly obscene manner), which turns into post-food drinks, which somehow ends with the two of them stumbling out of the elevator on the floor of Arthur's hotel room, Eames' hand almost unnaturally warm on the small of Arthur's back.

Arthur's not drunk - more like pleasantly buzzed - and he lets himself be guided into his room easily. Eames' smile is predatory as he pushes Arthur back onto the king-sized bed, and Arthur is suddenly intensely aware of how much bigger Eames is. They're both about the same height, but Eames is all broad shoulders and muscled biceps and it's never been more obvious than it is now, with Eames pressing him into the mattress. Eames climbs onto the bed himself, crawling between Arthur's legs, and there, with Arthur's thighs bracketing his hips, he pulls off his (deliciously form-fitting, his brain supplies automatically) suit jacket and starts to unbutton his shirt.

The intensity of the desire that crawls up his spine surprises even Arthur himself.

"Hurry," he says, the word slipping out of him before he can stop himself, and watches Eames' eyes go dark.

Eames finishes pulling off his shirt, then pulls Arthur upright so that he can kiss him. Arthur leans into it, a little breathless but reveling in the heat of it as he makes quick work of his own clothing. Feeling impulsive, he presses the heel of his right hand to the tent in Eames' trousers.

Eames shudders against him, going boneless for a second before suddenly pulling back. "Arthur, are you sure?" he asks, seeming to hesitate for the first time that evening.

If asked a day ago, Arthur would never have imagined willingly ending up in a situation like this with Eames, of all people - but faced with it now, the answer comes easily. Arthur gives him a long, slow smile and reaches down to unzip his own trousers in response.

Eames gives a low moan, and reaches down to help him.

They don't talk much for the rest of the night.

In the morning, Arthur wakes with a suppressed groan to the sight of Eames still asleep and drooling into the pillow next to him. He just looks at him for a few minutes, eyes tracing over the hopelessly messy hair and the sweep of Eames' forehead. A part of him is surprisingly content while another can't believe last night actually happened. With a sigh, Arthur stares at the ceiling, trying to prepare himself and figure out the most appropriate thing to say later when he hears a small sound from beside him and realizes that Eames' eyes are already open.

"'Morning," Eames says, apparently still barely awake. His voice is husky and thick with sleep, but when he smiles at Arthur, his eyes are sincere, like there's nowhere else he wants to be. With a big yawn, he rolls over and stretches.

"Good morning," Arthur manages in reply, his work-in-progress speech suddenly stuck in the back of his throat as he catches sight of the tattooed chest he'd spent so long getting to know last night. Fighting back a flush, he manages to tear his eyes away.

Eames chuckles, as if knowing exactly what he'd been thinking. Rather than tease though, he sits up instead, his stomach growling a little as he does.

"Have breakfast with me?" he asks. The curtains are still open, since neither of them had bothered to get it closed last night. Eames' hair catches the sunlight, the strands turning a golden brown as he lazily reaches back to scratch at his neck, and Arthur finds that he doesn't want to say no.

~

3. the third year

For once, Arthur doesn't have a job on Valentine's Day.

He's going to take the day to himself, he decides. He's going to sleep in, and then make himself from breakfast, eat while watching TV on the 40" flat screen he'd bought but never really had a chance to enjoy, take a walk, read one of the books on his bookshelf, maybe even go out to the French place around the corner for lunch. He has the day free, and he's going to relax, and he's going to enjoy himself, and...

... and Eames is in Dubai, finishing up a job.

Arthur rolls over in bed and stares blankly at the ceiling. The clock reads 7:35.

Dubai, where Arthur could easily have chosen to spend his off-time, because it's not like he doesn't have the money or resources to follow Eames there - but instead, he'd come back to his dusty, abandoned apartment in Los Angeles, because it's not like it's a big deal or anything, it's not like he and Eames are dating - and they don't need to spend all of their free time in the same cities as each other.

Even if they more or less had, over the last year.

Arthur gives the ceiling another minute of consideration before sighing and untangling himself from the blankets. He checks the clock: 7:39. It seems like he's just not made for sleeping in after all.

He's planning to make breakfast, except it turns out that his fridge is empty - and of course it is, he hasn't lived in this apartment for at least a year - so he reaches for the stack of takeout menus in the left drawer by the dishwasher instead. There's lots of options - dim sum from Hon's House Of Noodles, the Italian bakery with the delicious paninis just a ten minute drive away, a full English breakfast from the place two blocks down... but none of them does delivery, and Arthur doesn't particularly feel like getting dressed and making himself presentable.

Which is how he ends up eating pepperoni pizza at 8:30 in the morning.

Halfway through his third slice, his phone rings.

"Darling," Eames' voice says through the speaker, and Arthur refuses to admit that just the sound of it has him feeling a little better. "What are you doing right now? Missing me yet?"

"Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"Oh, don't be like that. What are you wearing right now?"

Arthur rolls his eyes and prepares to deliver a scathing retort when he hears a shuffling sound from outside his door.

"Hang on a second," he hisses into his phone, immediately alert as he sits up and grabs one of the handguns he'd hidden around the apartment. As far as he knows, only two other people know the location of his Los Angeles apartment. One of them is his mother, and the other one is on the phone with him right now. The fact that whoever's outside his door is apparently just standing around instead of knocking immediately has Arthur suspicious. Clients and business associates usually call - it's only the kidnappers and assassins who show up at his door.

Preparing to fling the door open, drag whoever it is inside, and threaten them until they give up who hired them, Arthur takes a moment to peer through the peephole first.

And then he flings the door open and glares.

"Did I scare you, darling? Forgive me," Eames says with a winning smile, then thrusts the bouquet of red roses in Arthur's face.

"What are you doing here? What happened to Dubai?" Arthur glances around and sees one of the curtains down the hall move. "Come in before the neighbours see you," he hisses.

"We finished up early," Eames says with a shrug, settling himself down on Arthur's couch without invitation. "Do I smell pizza? I'm starving."

Arthur shoves the rest of the box at him, trying to seem annoyed, but he can't even pretend to himself that he's not ecstatic about this development. With an involuntarily loud sigh, he goes to find a vase for the roses instead.

"What's wrong?" Eames asks. It's an innocent enough question, but it hits a nerve.

I'm too invested in you, Arthur thinks, but just shrugs in response. He's overthinking and being ridiculous, possibly. "Let's just go out for breakfast properly," he says instead, aiming for a smile. "How do you feel about Italian?"

"What about we go out for lunch instead?" Eames says, finishing the last of his slice as he pushes away the pizza box. Arthur looks at him blankly for moment, but then Eames is standing up and pulling Arthur close and maneuvering them so that they're heading for the hallway where the rooms are, and his intentions have never been more obvious. "It's been a while since I've seen your bedroom, pet - aren't you going to show me around?"

"That is the worst line I've ever heard," Arthur says, trying to sound unimpressed, but he's smiling a little as he lets Eames casually wrap an arm around his waist. "But if you try hard enough, maybe you can convince me that food can wait until lunchtime."

"Sounds like a challenge," Eames grins, wide and easy. "And you know how much I adore challenges."

They don't end up quite making it to lunch.

~

4. the fourth year

Eames almost dies on Valentine's Day.

Arthur had never exactly believed that he and Eames would live to a ripe old age, considering their line of work, but he'd never expected something as trivial and normal as a car accident to wind Eames up in the hospital either. The girl who had hit him was just a student, barely twenty, and she'd been running late for her date with her boyfriend. She hadn't noticed Eames cutting across the street outside Arthur's apartment building until it had been too late.

Dom has to leave by eight to get back to his kids, but Ariadne stays with him overnight and waits with him in the uncomfortable plastic chairs outside the room they've placed Eames in. A nurse stops by to remind them that visiting hours are over, but she must see something in Arthur's expression, because she walks away before forcing them to actually leave.

"You know Eames isn't going to go down like this," Ariadne says encouragingly. "Don't give up, Arthur."

"I'm not," he says, and he means it - he would never, because had their positions been reversed, he knows Eames would never give up on him.

Around dawn, the doctor comes and tells them that the surgery went well. Eames is going to make it. He'd have to stay in bed for a while, and he had some nasty broken bones, but he's going to be just fine.

"Darling," Eames says when Arthur walks into his room. His voice is hoarse and he's still hooked up to so many monitors, but the relief that careens through Arthur is enough to make him dizzy. He has to stop for a moment to steady himself on the side table before settling heavily into the empty chair beside the bed.

"If you ever do anything so careless like let yourself be hit by a car again, I'm going to kill you," he tells Eames after a moment of silence. His voice comes out unsteadier than he would have liked.

Something softens in Eames' eyes. "I'll do my best, darling," he says, followed by "everything's okay now," like he actually means it, and when he reaches out, Arthur lets him thread their fingers together one by one.

~

5. the fifth year

The fifth year, Arthur finds a book on his desk at the warehouse they're working from, next to a bouquet of red carnations.

Love Poems, it says, just simple black script against a cream cover, subtitled Romantic Poetry Through The Ages, and Arthur doesn't need to see the sticky note on the back to know that it's from Eames.

Eames has apparently always had a fondness for poetry. Arthur didn't discover this fact until after Eames had moved in with him though, and the only reason he finds out at all is because Eames insists on writing out lines from Browning and Wilde and occasionally, Tennyson, with sets of fridge magnets (ones that actually contain words like "thee" and "whence" which he orders off Ebay). Arthur likes to pretend it's one of Eames' less endearing qualities, but secretly, he actually finds it kind of sweet.

"Oooo, is that from Eames?" Ariadne asks, standing on her toes to try and read the title, but Arthur lifts the book above her head and waits until she finishes pouting and goes back to her building models before flipping over the cover.

Skimming through the pages quickly, he catches a flash of orange near the beginning that has him slowing down and turning back. There, on the table of contents, one poem is marked with a star. Sonnet 43, Elizabeth Barrett Browning*.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways, it starts, and if that isn't some sort of declaration, Arthur doesn't know what is.

He reads through the rest of the poem with something warm unfurling in his chest, spreading out and growing like something ready to take flight. "Where's Eames?" he asks out loud when he finally gets to the end. His voice sounds oddly loud to his own ears.

"He said he was getting coffee, wasn't he?" Ariadne shrugs. "Just the place around the corner."

She's looking at Arthur with open curiosity, but this time, she's going to have to live with it. With a decisive nod, Arthur puts the book down and strides out of the room without bothering to make any excuses.

He runs into Eames just downstairs, where Eames happens to be juggling five cups of coffee with the help of a paper cup-holder. "Arthur!" he says in delight when he sees him. "Did you come chasing after your caffeine? Here, yours is the cup on the corner."

Eames is wearing a truly disgustingly yellow shirt with his favourite gray trousers, and Arthur can't help the wave of sudden, undeniable fondness just at the sight of him. Rather than take the offered cup, Arthur grabs the entire paper tray from him instead. Carefully, so that he doesn't spill any, he puts the whole thing on the ground.

"Arthur? What's going on?" Eames asks with a frown, and then his eyes are widening comically as Arthur closes the distance between them. But all the same, his hands come up automatically to draw Arthur in. "What are you doing? Arthur? Wait, are you trying to hug me--"

"Eames. Just shut up," Arthur says finally, and with a small laugh he can't hold back, he's leaning in to kiss him. Eames freezes a little out of surprise, but then he's kissing back with a quiet oh. He tastes like coffee and cigarettes and something familiar, his grip a steady pressure against Arthur's shoulders, and Arthur thinks to himself that everything's going to be just fine.

("I can't believe you kissed me in public," Eames says afterwards, sounding immensely satisfied with himself.

"It was hardly public," Arthur scoffs. "There was no one else around."

"Yes, but someone could have walked by. Or one of the others could have come downstairs."

"Eames, shut up," is Arthur's brilliant and well thought out reply.

Eames does so, but when Arthur gives him a sideways glance as they walk upstairs with everyone's coffees in hand, Eames' smile is brighter than the sun.)

*Sonnet 43, by Browning

052911 - 062611

Inception: come on baby (let me get your heart racing)

papered — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 04:59:42 GMT

this idea was originally going to be for a kpop fic (qmi at the makeup counter!), but then I realized I'm probably never going to actually write it. so I recycled it for inception instead? I feel like the tone is a little different though - more kpop-y, somehow (because in my head, kpop writing has this very specific tone that I can't describe, and also, I'm rambling.) tl;dr: what is this, idek! but I hope you enjoy it anyway. :D :D

come on baby (let me get your heart racing)
inception: arthur/eames [pre-slash]
g, 2170 words
AU. in which Arthur is graduating, Ariadne is insistent about shopping, and Eames works at the makeup counter.

"Oh, this is so exciting, I can't believe you're actually graduating!" Ariadne gushes loudly into his left ear as she squeezes his arm. Arthur barely holds back the roll of his eyes, and pointedly ignores the way his mother is dabbing at the corner of her eyes in the kitchen, busy pretending she's making lunch and not blatantly eavesdropping on the two of them. "When's the ceremony? Make sure you get your tickets early so I can come! And what about grad photos, you have to take those, right? Oh my god, what are you going to do?"

"May 25th, they’re not going to run out of tickets, yes, and what do you mean by what am I going to do? I'm going to show up and take them, of course."

Ariadne frowns at him. "You can't just show up, they're grad photos for university! You're going to have them hanging on your wall next to your marriage photos for the rest of your life, you have to look nice!"

Arthur sighs, having had a decade and a half to get used to her fits of excitement. "All we need is to bring a white-collared dress shirt to wear under the graduation gown, and it's only a 15-minute shoot," he informs her. "You'll get your turn next year."

Ariadne looks slightly scandalized. "Yes, but what about your hair! We need to something about it - and you are going to wear makeup, aren't you?"

Arthur stares at her like she's grown a second head. "Ariadne. I'm a guy. Guys don't wear makeup."

"They do for grad photos!" Ariadne insists. "You want to look nice, don't you? Especially you – you should do something about your eyebags. And your skin is so red and dry and everything."

"What do you mean especially me? And my skin is fine!" Arthur insists loudly, because damn it, he is not going to wear makeup, but a little voice in the back of his brain reminds him that this is his best friend of too-many-years, and telling her 'no' when she has her mind set on something is next to impossible.

"Don't be stupid, you need to take care of it properly," Ariadne shoots back. "You're probably getting all this dry skin because you're not using the proper face wash," she continues, skillfully evading any attempts on his part to fling her off his arm and ignoring the murderous look Arthur gives her. "What happened to the ones I bought you last Christmas? Have you even been using them?” She makes an outraged face. “I bet you haven't! Do you know how much that set cost? You should at least give it a try!"

Before Arthur can point out that there's no need to ask rhetorical questions, his mother comes out of the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches in hand. "Oh please, you two, don't fight - and Arthur dear, just listen to Ariadne," she says, turning unsympathetic laughing eyes on him. "You know she's right."

It's utterly unfair that even his mother takes Ariadne's side.

Ariadne beams. "Excellent! Now that we've cleared everything up - you're going to the mall with me this weekend so we can figure out what you need," she announces, as if Arthur had already agreed to her ridiculous idea. Before Arthur can correct her on her delusions, she gives an excited squeal and flounces off.

Arthur stares at her retreating back in despair.

Saturday morning finds Arthur at the department store with Ariadne firmly guiding him towards the cosmetics counters.

"Did we have to come here?" Arthur hisses, feeling like all the sales associates are just staring at them. He doesn't understand how anyone can shop under this much pressure. "Couldn't you just have picked something up for me?"

"Don't be silly - you need concealer, and they need to color-match you in person," Ariadne says, scanning the area. "Mal works here and she's awesome, you'll see. She should be here somewhere..."

Thankfully, before she manages to find whoever she's looking for, the store-wide intercom goes off, announcing to all the customers that selected perfumes are on 25% off for the next thirty minutes.

Arthur hides his delight as Ariadne looks wistfully in the direction of the perfume counters further down - and at the hordes of girls making a beeline in that direction. "I - oh, I know I shouldn't, but Arthur, do you mind if I...?" she trails off.

Girls, Arthur thinks, are completely insane. In this case though, it works out in his favour, so he can't really complain. "Go right ahead!" he says brightly while internally celebrating his good fortune. "Take as long as you want, and I'll be right here when you get back."

This, of course, is a great big lie, but Ariadne doesn't need to know that.

She looks uncertain. "Are you sure? You have an appointment later today, don't you? I should help you first, or at least find Mal so you guys can get started..."

"Ari, don't worry about it. You don't even know if your friend is working today. Besides, the sale's only for half an hour, isn't it?" He gives her a smile, perhaps just a touch too gleeful.

"Okay okay, I'll be right back," she says with a grin. "You stay right here so I can find you, okay?"

Arthur nods and waits until she's turned the corner before making a mad dash towards where he thinks the exits were.

Except the makeup floor, as it turns out, is like a labyrinth, formed so that only the female half of the population can figure out where they're going, Arthur thinks glumly as he makes another turn and finds himself face to face with yet another Clinique counter. Or maybe it's the same one he's already seen twice.

He could ask someone for directions, except so far, he's been avoiding the sales associates (who all seems to be wearing ten pounds of makeup) because they all look like they're just waiting to pounce on him. Thank god they all have to stay behind their counters.

He's just about ready to admit defeat when he catches sight of what looks like a store employee carrying a large box in his arms. A male store employee.

"Excuse me!" Arthur says quickly, trying not to run after him. The guy must hear him though, because he stops and turns around.

It occurs to Arthur that he'd stopped the only employee who seems to actually be busy on this floor (and that box doesn't look exactly light), except the man just shifts his weight and smiles at him. He has blue eyes, Arthur immediately notices. "Yes? How can I help you?"

"Er, hello. Sorry for stopping you – I know you’re probably busy, but I was just wondering if you could point me to the exit." Arthur shrugs, suddenly feeling sheepish. "I think I'm kind of lost."

He feels like kicking himself as soon as the words are out of his mouth, because how stupid is it to get lost in a department store? Why couldn't he have just shut up after asking for directions?

The man merely laughs though, and the sound makes something warm unfurl in the pit of Arthur stomach. "I know what you mean - this floor's a little confusing. How about his?" He motioned to the box in his arms. "Just let me drop this off at my counter first, and then I'll show you the way out?"

Arthur nods gratefully, following him.

"So, what brought you here today?" The man - Eames, his nametag says - asks. "Birthday present for your sister? Girlfriend?"

"What?"

"We don't get that many guys on their own on this floor," Eames explains, smiling. “Usually, they’re looking for something for a gift.”

"Oh! Um, my best friend dragged me here, actually." Arthur sighs. "I have grad photos coming up, and she wanted to play dress-up with me."

Eames looks amused. "Graduating? What do you study?"

"I'm an architecture major, minoring in econ."

"Really? I have a friend doing that too, although he graduated a few years ago." They turned another corner with Eames leading the way. "Did you manage to get what you came for today then?"

"Uh, actually, not really. Ariadne got distracted by the perfume sale, so I was trying to escape before she comes back," Arthur explains with a small smile.

Eames grins at him. "Well, if you want, I can help you out before you go?"

"You?" Arthur says loudly before he can stop himself, cheeks coloring as he realizes how he must sound.

“I do work at the cosmetics counter, you know,” Eames says, a touch defensively. “I know it’s mostly girls here, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.”

"Oh no no, I'm sorry,” Arthur says in a rush. “Really, that came out wrong. I was just surprise – I mean. That is, I wasn't trying to imply you couldn't do you job or anything.” Words stumbling to a halt, he wishes the ground would swallow him up. “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.”

To Arthur's relief, Eames cuts him off with a quiet laugh. "It’s fine, really - don’t worry," he says with an easy shrug. Finally reaching his counter, he put the box down on the floor before turning to Arthur. "And you don't have to or anything, obviously. I just thought it might be nice if you could leave with what you came for."

Eames does look a lot less intimidating than most of the sales associates he'd come across today. Besides, if he left now, Ariadne would probably just bring him back again next weekend. "Yeah, okay," Arthur says uncertainly, and watches as Eames whips out several testers and a bag of brushes onto the counter. "Sure. Why not."

When Ariadne comes back fifteen minutes later, she finds Arthur paying for a new concealer and hair gel with a dazed look on his face.

"This is your best friend then?" The guy behind the counter says, all deep voice and lovely British accent.

"I'm Ariadne," she says, sticking her hand out as she reads his nametag. "Thanks for taking care of Arthur here."

Arthur turns to her, protest undoubtedly at the tip of his tongue - but then Eames laughs, says "No worries, darling, it was my pleasure," and Ariadne watches in fascination as Arthur goes bright red.

Eames seems to hesitate a little as he hands Arthur his change, but Arthur is too busy imitating a tomato to meet his eye. "Thanks," he mumbles, stuffing his receipt into his wallet.

Ariadne is waiting until they're out of sight to bombard Arthur with questions, but before they can turn the corner to leave, she hears her name again from behind.

"Wait, Ariadne," Eames says, waving her back. "Could you come back for a second?"

"Hang on," she says to Arthur, running back to the counter. "Hey, what's going on?" she asks.

"Look, your friend, Arthur - is he dating anyone?" Eames asks, running a hand through his hair and looking nervous while stuffing a generous sample of the new facial cream in her direction.

"Wait, I. what?" Ariadne says, turning to look back at Arthur.

"No, don't look, he'll know we're talking about him," Eames says urgently. "Just pretend we're talking about the sample, okay? I was going to ask him, but ... I'd just met him, and I didn't want to come off like a creep." He looked down at the counter, avoiding her eyes. "And then as soon as he walked away, I started regretting it."

Ariadne barely manages to hold back her laugh. "To answer your question, no. He's not seeing anyone right now." She leans in conspiratorially with a helpless grin. "Why? Want me to give you his number?"

Eames freezes for a second before nodding emphatically, shoving a pen and a sheet of paper at her. "God, yes." He smiles, relieved, at her. "Thanks love, I owe you one."

"No problem," Ariadne says, scrawling down some digits before picking up her sample and favouring him with a knowing look. "I'll see you around, Eames."

("What was that about?" Arthur asks later as they step out of the store into the afternoon sun. He sounds a little jealous, but all things considered, she’s sure he’ll get over it. It's a gorgeous day, with the sky a lovely cornflower blue. Summer is just around the corner.

"Oh, it was nothing," Ariadne says with a laugh, a spring in her step as she swings her sample bag in the air. "Nothing at all.")

Inception: you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake (3/5)

papered — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 23:36:30 GMT

hahaha guys, I'm so sorry; this took so long. *___* even taking into account corrupted files and writer's block, this shouldn't have taken this long, but that's just another reason why I should never write wips.

I have many mixed feelings about the writing here, but if I don't get this out now, I'll probably just sit on it forever, so here it is. so many thank yous to weatherfront for listening to my rambly emails and letting me bounce ideas off her - and to jibrailis, who offered her help as well (which I may still take up later ♥ - it's just that this chapter is so late already ahahaha), and to everyone on my flist for listening to my whining. you are all fantastic. ♥

you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake (3/5)
inception: arthur/eames
pg, 4211 words
eames wakes up five years in the future.

previous.

Ariadne contacts them about a job, and they go, because it's Ariadne. She's quite a well-heard-of figure by now in the dreamsharing world, although she took some time off to start on her PhD. Sometimes, Eames wonders why she even wants a PhD, considering she's probably going to spend the rest of her life in dreamshare, and Eames is quite certain everyone else in their dubious and very illegal business couldn't care less as to people's academic backgrounds.

The job takes them to Marseille, and Eames has the delight of hearing Arthur dust off his actually-quite-impressive French. Unfortunately, as far as Eames is concerned, that's about the only perk of the job.

It's not a difficult extraction overall. The landscape might have to be a little unusual, but Ariadne has that covered, and their extractor seems comfortable enough. The problem is, Eames is supposed to forge the mark's daughter. Unfortunately, she passed away in a car accident just a month ago.

It's not the first time Eames has had to forge a dead person. It's much more difficult because he doesn't have anyone to observe, but he's done a dead grandmother and a brother, the former on two separate occasions. In all those cases though, the deceased has been dead for a few years, at least, and it's easier that way because the memories are usually less precise in the mark's mind, and little idiosyncrasies can be explained away without too much difficulty.

This time though, she's only been gone a month. To her father, that would barely be any time at all. He would remember her exactly the way she was, and Eames wouldn't have any room for little hiccups. If his forge fails, the entire job would probably fall through.

They have a little over two weeks to prepare, and uncharacteristically, Eames spends all his time at his desk. There's no one to really tail, although he'd followed the mark and some of the daughter's friends around for a day at the beginning before concluding that they were going to be of no help. Instead, he pores over academic transcripts and government records and twitter history, jotting down notes and making associations and trying to reconstruct this girl in his head from words and numbers alone. It's terribly imprecise work - impossible, another might say - and as always is the case with forging the dead, he'll have no idea whether or not his forge will be anything like the actual girl until they're on the job.

At the end of each day, Laurent, their extractor, usually leaves first, followed by Ariadne, who requires some sort of food intake every four to five hours. Arthur tends to leave around half past nine, at which point he will insist that it's time for dinner for both of them. Eames had gone along the first three days, but by day four, his research feels shakier than ever, and he can't afford the time to be tired or hungry or restless.

"You go ahead first, darling," he says, giving Arthur a half-smile. "I have a little more to finish up first, but I won't be too long."

Which is a blatant lie, because two and a half hours later, he's still at his desk, and a steady migraine has been developing for the past half an hour. With a sigh, he puts down his pen and buries his face in his hands, trying to massage away some of the headache.

Behind him, the warehouse door clicks open. "What happened to I won't be too long, Mr. Eames?"

It's only quick reflexes that have him catching the paper bag Arthur tosses at him - which turns out to be an order of fish burger and fries. Arthur settles himself down into a chair, giving him a small smile when he looks up in surprise, and Eames' stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly and make its presence known.

Humming happily into his bite of burger, Eames shrugs. "The research's just not coming together as smoothly as usual."

"Because she's dead?"

"Partly. The thing is, it's still too soon. The memories are too clear for the father, but I don't have a person I can observe." He pushes some of the papers on his desk forward. "All I have are records, and it's hard to build a person out of that."

"And there's no one else you can forge?" Arthur asks, leaning over for a closer look.

"Unfortunately not. Lefebvre's an only child and estranged from his parents. We know he's not the most social fellow, and he divorced his wife twenty years ago. His daughter is the only way in."

Arthur nods, eyes still on the paper. "I downloaded some files from the daughter's computer earlier that I can send you, if you want."

Eames looks up in surprise. He'd tried to remotely gain access to the data from the computers in Lefebvre's house the first day without success, but computers had never exactly been Eames' area of expertise. "Thank you, that would be very helpful," he says. "I would have asked you for intel earlier, but I figured you wouldn't have anything on the daughter." He stretches out his protesting back with a sigh. "I didn't think you needed it for your part of research."

"I don't," Arthur says simply. And before the implications can sink in, he stands up, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles from his suit. "Coming?" he asks, heading for the door.

Oh, Eames thinks, and follows him.

~

On the Friday of the last weekend before the job, Eames finds himself directed out of the warehouse without being given a choice about it.

"You're coming with me, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, his hands warm on Eames' shoulders, and Eames lets himself be guided partly out of surprise.

"You do know I still have hours of research left to do," he says conversationally 20 minutes later (which is kind of a lie, because there's not much else he can do at this point, and he's fairly certain Arthur knows this), when he finds himself ushered to a table at Chez Jeannot after listening to Arthur ask the maitre'd about a reservation. The restaurant is surprisingly cozy, and Eames settles into his seat with a sigh.

Arthur ignores him in favour of looking at the menu, eyes flicking quickly through the pages. "What are you having?" he asks finally, raising an eyebrow at the way Eames is apparently examining the patterns on the ceiling.

Eames shrugs, nonchalant. French has never been a favoured language of his, and he doesn't particularly feel like squinting his way through the menu. "Choose for me, darling," he says, taking the time to relax back into his seat instead.

He's expecting something good, considering it's Arthur, who is as picky (or detail-conscious, as Arthur likes to insist) with his food as he is with everything else. What he doesn't expect is for his filet mignon to be completely delicious, cooked medium rare just the way Eames likes it. The meat is juicy and covered in red wine sauce, and Eames sinks his teeth in with exaggerated delight. Across from him, Arthur laughs, shaking his head at Eames as he cuts neatly into his chicken pastilla.

Dessert is mille feuille, while Arthur has pain au chocolat. They talk about irrelevant things: traveling and philosophy and the last book Arthur read, and before Eames really notices, two hours have passed and the restaurant is slowly but steadily emptying out.

When the bill comes, Eames reaches for it, but is intercepted before he quite makes it. "My treat," Arthur says, reaching into his wallet for his credit card, and Eames lets him.

They take a taxi back to the hotel afterward, where they go their separate ways. As Eames steps into the shower, he can't help but think that it's a little odd suddenly having the whole room to himself after months of sharing, but it's one thing to share when there's only one bed in the flat, and quite another to purposefully book the same room for two, so they'd ended up with different rooms a few doors apart. Scrubbing himself clean, he pulls on the sweatpants he'd brought along before collapsing onto the bed with a sigh.

It's not until he's drifting off to sleep that it occurs to him that if it had been anyone else, Eames would've called the evening a date.

~

The job is a success, but not without a few complications.

Lefebvre seems a little hesitant at first, but eventually buys into Eames' forge like they'd hoped and leads them to the safe where the information they want is hidden. Eames manages to get it open with a few clicks, at which point he quickly rips into the envelope for the papers he has to commit to memory.

Unfortunately, at this point, the rogue projections break in. Sadly for Eames, Laurent is busy playing the concerned bodyguard, and Arthur should be dealing with the projections around the perimeter. He's on his own.

Eames keeps his eyes on the papers, because as long as he gets through this, the job is done - although the fact that he's probably going to get torn apart while he's busy reading isn't going to be fun, he thinks with a wince as a projection throws an ashtray at his head. It crashes into the wall right by his ear. Jumping to his feet, Eames dashes into the next room and slams the door shut behind him, abandoning the strappy heels on his feet while he's at it but keeping the forge.

It doesn't delay things for long though. A second projection kicks down the door and throws a bottle of wine while a third advances with a butler's knife and Eames dodges again with a small sigh, but not before he feels the spray of glass against his arm. Two pages left.

There are more projections now crowding in the doorway, and Eames is just considering the wisdom of locking himself into the adjacent bathroom - it'll give him a few extra minutes, but he'll have nowhere to run when they break in - when Arthur appears, gun in hand and looking barely out of breath.

"Do hurry up Mr. Eames, we don't have all day," he says a minute later, and there's a crooked half-smile on his face like there aren't motionless projections littered all over the floor.

Eames throws his head back with a laugh, an uncontrollable fondness welling up inside him. Looking back down at the papers in his hands, he finishes rereading the last two paragraphs just as the timer runs out.

~

Eames has always considered himself a bit of a vagabond, flying to a different city every few months just for a change of scenery and living out of hotels even though he has some sort of property in five different countries, so it's a bit of a surprise that he finds himself thinking it feels nice to be home after barely two and a half weeks in Marseille. In fact, it's surprising to realize that he's come to think of his London flat as home at all, considering the fact that before the last few months, he's only stayed here a month and a half at the most out of every year.

Just because there's no job and they're back in London doesn't mean things stay uneventful for long though.

It's about a week later when Eames wakes for no apparent reason in the middle of the night. Blinking into the darkness, it takes him a minute to realize that Arthur is tossing and turning beside him, blankets kicked off and brow heavy with a sheen of sweat.

A nightmare, Eames thinks. He himself hasn't had one in about a decade now. “Arthur,” he says, tentatively reaching forward to shake the other man awake.

Arthur opens his eyes, but doesn't seem to be quite aware of the fact that he's awake. His face is unnaturally pale, and Eames can see the sweat matting his hair. There's a glassy look in his eyes when he looks up, as if he's seeing something else entirely.

Eames hesitates. He'd assumed that Arthur, like everyone else in their business, didn't have natural dreams anymore, but clearly he'd been wrong. Instead of giving in to the urge to swear, he reaches out and pulls Arthur close instead, still half-expecting resistance, but Arthur lets him without protest. Up close, Eames can feel the slight tremble of his body. “Hush now, it's alright, darling,” he says, keeping his voice soothing.

“Eames,” Arthur finally says shakily, his voice unsteady, and Eames, knowing better than to say it had just been a dream, tells him instead, “It's fine, it's all over now.” Arthur doesn't reply, but the fine tremors don't go away. He loosens his hold slightly in case he's making Arthur uncomfortable, but to his surprise, Arthur pulls closer again almost involuntarily, his grip tightening around Eames' shoulder.

He's never seen Arthur this out-of-sorts before, not even after Eames had woken up without his memories, or that time years ago when Arthur had ended up shot in the left hip in Harbin. Then, Arthur had been panicked, angry, in unimaginable pain - but Eames has never had to deal with this plainly frightened Arthur he doesn't recognize. A part of him realizes he'd never thought Arthur even capable of being like this. Despite the last few months and the knowledge that some version of himself must have inspired emotional attachment in Arthur, the instinctive part of him still thinks of Arthur as the most frighteningly independent person he knows. The Arthur in his head has always been untouchably perfect, needing no one but himself - which doesn't make him without warmth or incapable of camaraderie, but he's airtight and impervious to Eames in all the ways that matter.

Looking at the figure slowly shaking apart beside him though, Eames can't help but think that maybe, the Arthur in his head has never really been Arthur after all.

Eames doesn't know how long they sit there, but the sweat has cooled against Arthur's skin by the time Eames pulls him up. “Come to the kitchen, Arthur, I'll make you a cup of tea,” he says firmly, not about to be refused as he pulls the other man along. Arthur makes a token protest, but Eames ignores him, knowing that Arthur is never going to get back to sleep without calming down properly.

He makes a pot of steaming Earl Grey, handing Arthur a cup first before turning to fix his own. When he turns back, Arthur is watching him, the look in his eyes unidentifiable to Eames.

“Is the tea alright?” Eames says, knowing it's an inane thing to say but not knowing how else to get Arthur responding.

Arthur nods, but doesn't reply out loud. When he finally speaks, all he says is, “You used to do this before too, you know.” His eyes follow Eames around the room, unwavering.

Eames might have found that comment disconcerting a while ago, might have been discomfited by the reminder that Arthur knows parts of him he himself can't remember, but that fact feels a little less important now. He shrugs inelegantly instead. “Do you dream often?” he asks, settling himself down into the chair opposite Arthur.

Arthur shrugs. “Not particularly. They come around occasionally though, and they're usually nightmares.” He keeps his tone light, as if he's merely commenting on the weather. To the untrained eye, he would be convincing - his hands are steady now as he takes a sip of his tea, his demeanor seemingly unconcerned.

Eames has made a career out of people-watching though, and it's obvious Arthur is trying his best to downplay the whole thing. For a moment, Eames considers going along with it - but then he sighs and puts down his cup. "Arthur. Are you sure you're all right?" he says simply, meeting Arthur's gaze and not looking away.

Arthur stares back for a heartbeat before he audibly exhales, tension draining out of him as he slouches down in his chair. "I will be," he says quietly, sounding tired, and this time, Eames can tell he's telling the truth.

They sit in not-quite-comfortable silence for a while, Arthur apparently lost in his thoughts and Eames taking the moment to watch Arthur, before the tick of the kitchen clock reminds them both that it's still the middle of the night. Eames stands, pouring the rest of his tea down the drain. "Are you coming back to bed?"

He's expecting Arthur to decline - he knows that if the situation were reversed, he himself would want some space - but to his surprise, Arthur stands up with a sigh. "I suppose I'd better. It's not like I'll be able to get anything done," he says, putting his empty mug down by the sink.

They don't talk about it after that, but when Eames stumbles into the kitchen the next morning after sleeping in, he finds bacon and egg in the basket from the diner around the corner on the table, complete with breakfast tea and a scribbled note.

Out doing research. Be back by lunch time.

Thanks.

-A

~

Eames' birthday falls on the second week of July.

To tell the truth, he'd sort of forgotten about the occasion himself, except he's examining the calendar one day to see if they can fit in the offer for a job in Durham when he realizes that his birthday is only a few days away.

Eames doesn't know quite what he expects. He doesn't have any past experience to rely on, but Arthur doesn't seem like the type to do big celebrations. They've been busy lately with jobs and research, and so Eames is sort of just expecting a day off to sit around and do nothing – maybe lunch out or something at the most. Which is why he's a little stunned when, on the morning of his birthday, Arthur wakes Eames up early, pushes him into the car, then proceeds to drive them both to the beach.

There's nothing close by, and Arthur has apparently chosen a less popular beach farther away, so it takes a good two hours to get there, but it's worth it because when they do, the weather is gorgeous and the waterline continues on for as far as the eye can see. Eames thinks he can make out a group of people far off in the distance, but they're barely visible and practically on the other side of the beach. For all intents and purposes, they're the only ones here.

“Take off your shoes,” Arthur says suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.

Eames turns to him, sure that he's misheard.

Arthur had traded in his usual Ferragamo loafers with regular dress shoes that morning, and Eames watches in astonishment as the other man proceeds to take off his footwear until he's barefoot in the sand. Having lived with Arthur these last few months, it's become clear that there's more to him than the prim-and-proper point man, but it's still surprises Eames to see Arthur so relaxed in an environment like this.

Arthur gives a crooked smile at his expression, dimple tucked high in his left cheek and hair blown out of the place by the wind. He seems younger here, somehow, his limbs loose and lazy as he gestures for Eames to do the same. Eames gives a put-upon sigh on purpose, knowing that Arthur can see right through him as he peels off his own shoes and socks and throws them in the general direction of the car.

The sand, warmed by the sun, is pleasantly squishy between his toes.

For lunch, it turns out that Arthur has packed them a picnic basket. Eames seems to be lacking words a lot today, because once again, he just gapes as Arthur pulls out a big plastic box from the trunk of the car. He recognizes the wine-red napkins from his favourite overpriced sandwich shop, which is located a good 45 minutes away from their flat.

“Oh, Arthur,” he says without thinking, something in his stomach warming without his permission at the knowledge of Arthur going to all this trouble for him. Arthur ducks his head a little as he hands Eames his usual short rib sandwich, as if embarrassed, and Eames can't help the sudden wave of fondness he feels.

The sandwich is as delicious as he remembers, the bread thick and substantial and the caramelized onions and emmental cheese simply melting on his tongue. He eats it slowly, savouring every bite and ignoring the way Arthur is shaking his head and laughing at him. For dessert, they have fresh peaches. Eames has no idea where Arthur bought them, but they're just the perfect ripeness. He moans a little when he bites into one, the sugary tang exploding over his tongue. A little bit of juice trickles down his forefinger, and Eames follows it with his tongue, determined not to let a single drop escape.

When he looks up, he finds Arthur looking at him, expression intense. Suddenly feeling embarrassed at how messy he's being next to Arthur's impeccable eating manners, he quickly finishes the rest of his fruit, cleaning the pit in his mouth before spitting it out.

By the time he's done, Arthur has looked away.

After lunch, Eames insists on lying in the sand for a while, uncaring of the fact that he's getting it all over himself. Arthur makes a token protest but follows suit beside him without too much complaint, and it occurs to Eames that Arthur is indulging him. He entertains himself with that thought for a while, laughing a little at the unlikely idea while keeping his eyes closed and letting the sun warm his face.

"What," Arthur says with a long-suffering sigh.

"Nothing at all." Eames takes another deep breath before sitting up, one hand raised to block the sun from his eyes. “Wait, darling, you're burning,” he says with a laugh, nodding at the way the tip of Arthur's nose is turning slightly pink before reaching for the bottle of sunscreen. He manages to place a generous dollop in the center of Arthur's face before Arthur snatches the bottle from him with a scowl and proceeds to spread it out with quick, deft strokes.

When he's done, Eames sticks out his own face in an exaggerated manner. "You're not going to return the favour?" he asks in mock hurt, then rubs at his shoulder when the sunscreen bottle hits him. "Ow, that hurts."

"Don't be an infant," Arthur says, rolling his eyes, but he's smiling just a little, as if he can't keep his mouth from twitching up, and Eames isn't fooled at all.

They wander around aimlessly for a while, just watching the waves lap at the shoreline and breathing in the salt in the air. Eames feels... not happy, exactly, but it's something close. He can't help but feel lighter, somehow, as if some weight he hadn't previously been aware of has been lifted off his shoulders and now he's this close to lifting off the ground and floating away like a hot air balloon.

Arthur leans towards him to say something, but his voice is lost in a sudden breeze and Eames is left with just the image of him – leaning close with eyes at half mast, the shadow of his dark lashes against his eyelids and the slightest hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

He's fucking stunning like this, and all Eames wants to do is close the distance between them and kiss the breath out of Arthur.

The thought freezes him in his tracks, and he swallows, throat suddenly dry. Finding Arthur attractive is no surprise - or at least, it shouldn't be. Maybe it's the unexpectedness of it though, the way the idea of it has snuck up to him this time (because Eames had consciously stopped considering the possibility of anything happening with Arthur since the question of emotional attachment had come up). Whatever it is though, Eames has the abrupt, worrying impression that there's something intrinsically different about his own train of thought now.

"Eames?" Arthur asks, interrupting him, and Eames drags himself out of his thoughts. He’s expecting a raised eyebrow or a frown, but Arthur’s just looking at him, expression puzzled and open and something about it makes Eames almost reach out for him.

"Sorry darling, say that again?" he says instead, catching himself at the last minute and pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind. He flashes Arthur as charming a smile as he dares, hoping that it’s enough to distract.

He’s fairly certain it doesn’t work, but Arthur repeats himself as requested, and the moment passes.

Eames isn't naive enough to think that that - whatever that was - is over, but the sun is warm on his back and Arthur is a solid presence at his side. Later, he'll think about this moment again and wonder what's changed, but for now, they're out here celebrating his birthday, and that's good enough for Eames.

to be continued.

Inception: we were born and raised in a summer haze

papered — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 05:58:02 GMT

hahaha what is this, I don't even know. T___T I was expecting for my next update to be for you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake, but I have been terribly stuck on that fic (and fic in general, really) for a while. I suppose this is an exercise in writing? clearly I am very out of practice though, because this short thing took far too much time and I deleted way more than I actually kept, ):. writing is hard sometimes, ;~~;. thank you to mei and ivy for listening to me whine about this all day.

we were born and raised in a summer haze
inception: arthur/eames [preslash]
g, 700 words
in which Eames is a photographer and Arthur is his new model.

The first time Eames meets Arthur, he's having a horrible day.

The main model for the Ferragamo shoot is running late, the stylists have somehow misplaced half the clothing, and Eames has two more appointments back-to-back after this that he can't be late for but he can't start the shoot because there is no model.

He has someone call HQ to complain about this, and it turns out that no, the model isn't just late, the model isn't coming at all because they've somehow double-booked and Fischer is probably on a plane to Milan as they speak.

So when Dom Cobb shoves a young man in front of Eames and says they can use him as the model instead, Eames doesn't ask too many questions.

"Arthur Dunhill," the man says, his eyes dark and serious. He holds out a hand, and Eames grasps it distractedly, too busy running appraising eyes over him. He's younger than Eames expected, but he's tall with angular features and a slim, almost delicate figure. He's no Fischer, but he'll do, Eames thinks critically, before shoving him at wardrobe and makeup.

He comes out fifteen minutes later with hair teased into a voluminous mess and dressed to perfection in a striped ensemble, finished off with a dark grey trenchcoat.

"Lights a little more to the center please," he says, waiting as the girl hovering by the edge of the shoot does as he asks.

Arthur's inexperience is quite obvious to a seasoned photographer like Eames - and Eames vaguely wonders how he ended up as a backup for a company like Ferragamo - but he follows instructions to a T and is easy to direct. "A little more intensity, darling, and less tension at the mouth, there we go," Eames says, keeping his voice coaxing as he snaps a few dozen shots.

It all wraps up soon enough, and Eames notes with relief that he still has twenty-something minutes left until he's due across the city for the Cartier shoot. Grabbing his equipment, he steps out of the building while pulling on his coat, and is trying to see if there's a free taxi anywhere when he becomes aware of the figure standing beside him, probably waiting for the same.

Eames has no idea how Arthur had managed to get out as quickly as he had, but he has regular clothing on again and his face is once more makeup-free. "It was a pleasure working with you, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, smiling a little, and there's a dimple tucked high in his left cheek. Eames has seen too many beautiful people in his line of work and he hadn't thought Arthur particularly remarkable earlier, but out here away from the studio, he looks different somehow, all frayed hoodies and loose limbs. His expression is relaxed - natural - and it's cliché but Eames suddenly wishes he hadn't packed his equipment way so that he can capture the way the afternoon sunlight hits Arthur's hair, turning it a golden-brown.

Realizing that he'd been staring, Eames looks away. "You as well," he says quickly. "I've never seen you around before though."

"I've mostly been modeling part-time," Arthur replies with an easy shrug, then motions to the yellow cab that had just pulled up to the pavement. "Taxi's here - you can go first."

"Thanks," Eames says gratefully, checking his watch again - fifteen minutes left - as he pulls open the back door and puts his equipment in first. He's getting in himself when Arthur suddenly steps forward.

"Wait," he says with a crooked smile, then holds out a small white business card. "Please, take this."

Eames does so with a nod, and then he's stuffing it into his pocket and slamming the door shut while he gives the address to the driver, and Eames will tip him triple if they could get there within the next fifteen minutes, please.

It's not until he's digging out his pockets so that he can send his clothing to the dry cleaner's over the weekend that he takes out the card again and sees the personal number scrawled on the back in black sharpie.

Eames laughs and picks up his phone.

032711

also, just wanted to relink to my help_japan thread over HERE, where I'm offering fic for inception and merlin fandom. ♥. I think bidding is open for a few more days, so if you haven't had a chance to check out everyone's offers yet, please do head on over. thanks so much, guys.

help japan!

papered — Mon, 14 Mar 2011 18:15:42 GMT

help_japan

my thread is up here, and I'm offering fic of at least 1000 words for inception (arthur/eames) or merlin (merlin/arthur). starting bid at $5.

this is not an update!

papered — Sat, 05 Mar 2011 22:09:22 GMT

um, hi guys! This is just to let you all know that the third part of you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake has been coming along very slowly and taking much longer than I'd originally anticipated. The plotline is in my head, but I've been a little blocked lately when it comes to actually writing it out, so I'm sorry about that. That said, I am definitely still working on it, and I just wanted to say thank you to everyone for being patient with me.

♥!

eta march 6th; I really should have put off writing the above paragraph until today, because I woke up this morning to find that the document I've been writing in has somehow corrupted and is probably irrecoverable. I will spare you guys the frustrated keyboard-smashing, but basically, I will be trying to rewrite what I had on top of what I said yesterday. this might take a little while, ;___;

Inception: you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake (2/?)

papered — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 22:20:33 GMT

first of all, thank you so much for all of your lovely feedback on the last chapter - I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. ♥

also - I lied, this story is not going to be a two-parter after all. I'm sort of working out how everything will go as I write, so the length of each chapter will probably stay around 2500 words (ie. not very long), but it's more likely that this fic will end up four or five parts.

you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake (2/?)
inception: arthur/eames
pg, 2678 words
eames wakes up five years in the future.

previous.

Eames has always been a little charmed by Arthur.

It's not like he's hopelessly in love or anything, god no – he's just a little attached, one could say. Physically, Arthur is undeniably attractive, all long lines and sharp angles, and Eames is repeatedly entertained by his snide comments and unexpectedly sly smiles. He's always been attracted to wit and intelligence – qualities that Arthur possess in excess – and, well. In his line of work, it's not easy finding someone who you trust not to sell you out, but someone who's also competent enough that you won't be inadvertently putting a target on their heads by forming ties with them.

Arthur – well, Arthur is the best at what he does. They've worked on and off together for years now, and they're on level ground. Eames has no desire for a relationship – that's a possibility he's never even entertained since getting into his current business – but Arthur's fit and sharp and, with a little cajoling, clearly willing to be persuaded into something with no strings attached. As far as Eames is considered, that's perfect.

Except five years down the line, something's obviously happened, and judging from Arthur's reaction to everything, it's pretty clear that whatever they are, it's definitely more than just friends-with-benefits. In fact, it looks pretty damn long-term, and the thing is – Eames doesn't know what to do with relationships. He can flirt better than anyone and he's certainly no stranger to sex, but he hasn't bothered with anything more for years.

Relationships can become a liability far too easily – and the proof of it is right in front of him.

If someone had informed Eames ahead of time that all this was going to happen, Eames would have predicted that past the initial shock of it, Arthur would be fine. It would be stressful, but that's the thing about Arthur - no matter what you throw at him, he'll always seem unfazed and take it all in stride. This is something Eames has come to take for granted. If someone fucks up and a job goes to hell, Arthur will be there to watch his back, hands steady even as all of their careful planning falls apart.

But this Arthur - this Arthur is different. This Arthur is softer around the edges, and looks at him with plainly worried eyes. This Arthur is a careful mix of the steely resolve and vulnerability. His tongue is as sharp as Eames remembers, but sometimes he grips Eames' shoulder just a little too desperately. Sometimes, when he thinks Eames doesn't notice, he looks at Eames as if searching for something precious.

Eames can't tell whether or not Arthur finds what he's looking for.

~

Arthur calls Dom, then Yusuf, then a few of his other trusted contacts, but no one seems to have any answers for them. Yusuf is insistent that none of his experiments should have induced amnesia, or had any effects on memory at all, for that matter, but he promises to look into everything again.

Eames is agitated, then worried, then frustrated – but slowly, over the course of a month, he learns to take it in stride. It still bothers him, of course, that he can't remember anything that's happened to him in the last five years, but he's a practical man. Yusuf says he's working on it, and there's nothing Eames can accomplish by going into hysterics.

Which isn't to say life isn't weird. His older self (except not really, it's just him, isn't it? He is his older self.) may have learned to live with Arthur over the years, and they've apparently established some sort of routine in their daily lives, but it's not something Eames is familiar with. Arthur is careful, of course, to not cross any personal boundaries, but even Arthur is only human, and some awkwardness is inevitable.

They keep touching to a minimum, but they still share the same bed. Arthur had offered to sleep in the living room at first, but considering that there's no quick solution in sight, it seems both unfair and foolish to Eames to have Arthur sleep on the less-comfortable couch when the bed is clearly big enough for two.

He says as much, and Arthur agrees, if a little warily. The first night, Eames falls asleep after some turning and tossing, but when he wakes up to use the washroom in the middle of the night, he finds the other side of the bed empty, and Arthur sitting with a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Eames pauses, hidden from sight by the shadows of the hallway.

If this was five years ago, he would have joined Arthur without a second thought. As it is, he doubts the other man would want his company right now.

Eames goes back to bed alone.

This continues for a little over a week. Eames doesn't wake up in the middle of every night, but it's clear as day that Arthur is looking steadily worse every morning. By the eighth day, the bags under Arthur's eyes have seemingly tripled in size, and even the caffeine pills he knows Arthur has been taking more often than advised doesn't seem to have any effect.

When they go to sleep that night, Eames stares at the ceiling for a full ten minutes before sighing and turning to pull Arthur close – because he's not a monster and it's obvious that Arthur isn't adjusting to the situation quite as well as he'd like to pretend he is. Arthur stiffens under his touch, but Eames ignores it, wrapping an arm loosely around Arthur's waist. He lets their bodies tangle together before pulling the blankets up to cover them both.

Arthur relaxes in increments until he's pliant in Eames' arms.

~

One thing Arthur is insistent on is that they stop taking jobs until Eames gets his memory back. Eames knows that Arthur has a point, that he doesn't remember a lot of possibly-critical information, but it also means that he's bored out of his mind with nothing to do.

He spends his free time painting, and then cooking all three meals each day because Arthur is apparently incapable of going near the kitchen without setting the whole flat on fire. Eames doesn't mind though – it's not like there's anything else he can do, and it keeps him occupied, if nothing else.

He'd gone out to a bar exactly once, at the very beginning, but the expression on Arthur's face when Eames had automatically flirted with the cute bartender had stopped him short. He might not feel whatever it is Arthur feels, but he's not a complete bastard and, at the very least, Arthur is a friend.

So now he stays in his (their) apartment, and it's possible that sixty-year-old Mrs. Patterson from two suites over has a more exciting life than him.

Arthur must have sensed Eames' dangerous levels of boredom, because before Eames can actually expire from it, he's presented with two tickets to Paris. "Holiday. Ariadne's invited us," Arthur says by way of explanation, and honestly, Eames doesn't really care a whit about the details as long as they're going out to do something.

They stay for two weeks. Ariadne hasn't changed much in the last five years, it seems – she enthusiastically ushers them in, and barely an hour has passed before she's psychoanalyzing them without hesitation. To distract her, Eames' suggests going out for dinner. Effectively derailed, Ariadne changes the topic to the new Italian place she'd discovered, and Eames spends dinner listening to her cheerfully give him all the gossip he's missed out on. Arthur is mostly quiet, but he looks relaxed, and more than once, Eames catches his lips pulling up into a half-smile.

By the time they finally make their way back, it's late, but Ariadne eagerly shows Eames around her modestly-sized flat nonetheless. Her rooms are sparsely but interestingly decorated, and it's clear that she's done well for herself.

"You have pets!" Eames says when she shows him her desk, looking at the two tiny goldfish swimming around the small tank next to a stack of books.

Ariadne beams as she comes over to stand beside him. "Aren't they cute?" she coos. "I got them two years ago. The one making strange faces at you is Eames, and the other one's Arthur."

Goldfish!Eames blows a stream of bubbles at them before chasing after goldfish!Arthur. Eames stares at the way his namesake flicks his tail from side to side in his pursuit, and wonders if Ariadne is trying to tell him something.

~

Life goes on.

A month drags into two, and then three. Eames calls Yusuf every week for updates, on the off-chance that he's discovered something, but the replies are always negative. Eames is a pragmatic man, and he knows that even if Yusuf does end up providing some sort of explanation for everything, it doesn't mean that he'll be able to fix anything. If all signs point to him not getting his memories back – well then, he'll just have to live with it.

He finally manages to cajole Arthur into relenting on the job front after a few more weeks, on the argument that there's no guarantee he's going to recover his memory any time soon, and they can hardly sit around twiddling their thumbs until then. Besides, he's not an invalid – he just needs to be updated on what he's missed.

Their first job is an easy one – typical corporate espionage – and it goes off without a hitch. Eames watches in satisfaction as a Mr. Jones from Company X unhesitatingly leads them to a safe containing the information Company Z has hired them to obtain. The money gets wired to them two hours later.

After that, Arthur sighs and lets him selectively choose their jobs.

At some point, it occurs to Eames that he's settled in. He doesn't know when exactly he goes from always feeling slightly out of place to being relatively adjusted to it all, but it's so gradual a transition that he doesn't even realize until Arthur asks him to bring back Chinese takeout one day, and Eames orders Arthur's favoured Hainan chicken rice without even thinking about it.

A few months ago, he hadn't even known that Arthur liked Chinese food.

When he gets back to the flat, he finds Arthur curled up on the couch with his laptop resting on his legs and the indistinct murmur of the TV in the background. Arthur looks up distractedly at his entrance, giving him an absent smile as his eyes turn back to the computer screen.

"Just give me a second," he says, and Eames nods in assent, settling himself down next to Arthur before proceeding to dig through the takeout boxes for his beef noodle stir-fry. He flicks through the channels as he eats, but there's nothing interesting on. Unconsciously, he finds his gaze wandering back to the man beside him instead.

Arthur's brows are furrowed in concentration as his fingers fly across the keyboard, but the rest of him is as relaxed as Eames has ever seen him. He's wearing faded jeans – Arthur in jeans!, Eames' brain thinks gleefully – and a worn t-shirt, and his legs are tucked beside him in a position that Eames is convinced can't be as comfortable as Arthur is making it look. He doesn't even have socks on, and Eames has a sudden urge to stretch out Arthur's legs and put them across his own lap.

Eames has no idea where that stray thought comes from.

To distract himself, he leans over so that he can see the laptop screen. "What are you doing?" he asks, blinking at the Excel screen, because they're in-between jobs and there's certainly no research to do.

"Just keeping track of some contacts," Arthur says, still not looking up. "Hang on, I'm almost done."

"Well, hurry up then, your chicken is going cold."

After dinner, Eames insists on a Doctor Who marathon, mostly because there's not much else to do and he has five years' worth of episodes to catch up on. Arthur makes a token protest, but Eames isn't fooled – he sees the smile Arthur hides behind his hand when he thinks Eames isn't looking.

Arthur falls asleep first, about six episodes in (which is admittedly longer than Eames had thought he would last), and his head somehow winds up against Eames' left shoulder. For a second, Eames considers moving him, but he might wake Arthur in the process, and besides, it's not uncomfortable for him or anything.

He doesn't know when he himself drifts off, but the next thing he knows, he's lying sideways on his couch, there's a blanket wrapped around his body, and there's daylight streaming through the windows into the living room. Also, his back hurts.

"Ow," he says as he sits up, stretching out his arms above him to try and work out the knots in his shoulders. He thinks he smells coffee from the kitchen, but before he can go investigate, Arthur shows up and hands him a cup of Earl Grey – two sugars, a splash of milk: exactly how he likes it.

Eames hums happily into the cup. "You're too kind, darling," he says appreciatively, the endearment falling from his mouth without a second thought, and the only reason he realizes is because Arthur visibly stiffens.

Eames puts down his tea, and wonders if he should apologize. He's been calling Arthur a broad assortment of endearments for years and years now – at first, just to annoy the other man, but by now it's become second nature – but it should have occurred to him that it would be different now, for this Arthur. To Eames, it's just a habit, but it would've actually meant something to this Arthur, when this Eames – the Eames that he's not – had said it, and it's undoubtedly insensitive of him to keep calling Arthur all these things he doesn't actually mean.

"I'm sorry –" he starts to say, but before he can continue, he's cut off.

"It's fine," Arthur says, voice quiet. "Don't worry about it."

What does that even mean? "No, Arthur, listen to me," Eames insists, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have said that. It slipped out, but I'll stop from now on –"

"Eames." Arthur just stares at him for a moment, as if looking for something Eames can't see, before something in his expression softens. "It's been months – chances are, we're going to have to learn to live like this. So it's okay. Do you know what I'm saying?"

Eames doesn't, not entirely, but he thinks he understands the gist of it, so he nods hesitantly.

Arthur smiles suddenly. "Besides, you've been calling me all that since two weeks after you met me. You shouldn't have to change, especially when I don't mind."

"You know that I wouldn't mind if you did mind, right?" Eames asks, because he needs to get his point across. Their whole situation so far has been about compromise, but Eames can compromise too – it doesn't always have to be Arthur.

Arthur nods. "Rest assured, Mr. Eames, if I had any problems with anything, you would be the first to know," he says, dimpling just a little, and Eames knows Arthur well enough to know that the other man isn't being entirely truthful, but it's good enough for now.

"Well then. Breakfast, I think?" Eames says, deliberately changing the subject as he stands up and wanders towards the kitchen. "You haven't burned anything down while I was sleeping, have you?"

"Screw you," Arthur says, glaring, but follows him into the other room, and Eames, who's always known how to look for the little details, can hear the amusement in his voice.

next.

012411 - 020711

Inception: you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake (1/?)

papered — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 07:01:04 GMT

so uh. I've been working on this Eames-wakes-up-five-years-in-the-future fic on and off for a while now, and it was originally supposed to be remula's christmas fic, but I think it's clear by now how much success I've had with getting this done within a decent amount of time.

I normally don't like doing wips because I have this horrible horrible track record of not finishing any of them (also, because I don't plan my fics out properly and so a few thousand words in, I realize that I should have set up the beginning differently, and if it's already been posted, it's too late for me to change it) - but if I don't get this first part out, I have a feeling that I'll just sit on this until it rots on my laptop. the plan is hopefully, to post this part, so that I can then stop OCDing over it and work on subsequent parts. SO YES. title is blatantly stolen from soco's hurricane.

you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake (1/?)
inception: arthur/eames
pg, 2163 words
eames wakes up five years in the future.

When Eames goes to bed, he's alone. In between jobs with nothing pressing to do, he's back in his bedroom in his London flat for once, idly contemplating if he should head out for a holiday somewhere while he has the time (Cannes is nice this time of the year, he knows – or maybe Prague) as he falls asleep.

When he wakes, it's the middle of the night. Also, there's someone next to him.

It's only years of training that stops Eames from stiffening, because the last thing he needs is for the person beside him to realize that he's awake. Mind on overdrive, he tries to figure out what the hell is going on. With the lights off and curtains completely drawn, it's almost pitch dark in the room, and he can't really make out anything about the person beside him. There's a distinct lack of pounding in his head though, which rules out alcohol being involved. The only feasible explanation is that he'd gone and picked someone up at a bar last night - but the fact that he never brings strangers back to his actual flat aside, Eames is pretty sure that's something he would have been able to recall.

Carefully reaching for the gun he always keeps under the bed, he's just managed to grab it with his right hand without moving too much when the body next to him shifts.

"Eames?" comes a voice from the vicinity of his left shoulder.

"Arthur?" Eames asks after a long pause, because he would recognize that voice anywhere. Sitting up, he quickly reaches for his totem, letting the familiar ridges confirm that this is reality first before clicking on the bedside lamp. When light floods the room, he's greeted with the sight of a half-asleep figure.

Arthur barely has his eyes open, and there are lines on his right cheek from where he'd been pressing it into the pillow. "Eames? What's going on?" he asks, voice thick with sleep. He's wearing what looks like Eames' spare set of pajamas, although Eames can't fathom any situation where Arthur would willing wear something mustard yellow. At the moment though, Arthur doesn't seem to mind. He looks comfortable, and his hair is everywhere, the messiest Eames has ever seen it.

Now that the initial adrenalin rush has passed, the sight makes an oddly warm feeling swell in the pit of Eames' stomach.

"Darling," he says gently. "Not that I'm complaining or anything, but what are you doing here?"

"What are you talking about?" Arthur says, obviously trying to sound irritated, but the effect is quite ruined by the fact that he yawns halfway through the question and his eyes are half closed. "Look, Eames, it's like three in the morning. Can we talk about whatever it is when we're both awake?"

Eames considers protesting for a moment, because he's fairly certain that the fact he can't remember what Arthur's doing here is something that needs to be discussed rather urgently. But he's secretly a little delighted by the small line that's appearing on Arthur's forehead as he frowns at Eames, and so he finds himself agreeing instead.

He sinks slowly back into the bed, pulling the covers over them both. To his surprise, Arthur immediately turns towards him and throws an arm around his waist. Eames relaxes automatically, almost without his permission, because even if he has no idea what the hell's going on, his subconscious seems quite certain in the fact that because it's Arthur, nothing horrible is going to happen.

Sighing a little, he carefully lets their legs tangle together. He falls asleep again to Arthur's warm breath against his shoulder.

~

The next time he wakes, it's to a pair of lips pressing against his own.

"Good morning," Arthur's voice says, and then Eames is being kissed within an inch of his life. He lets out a small moan involuntarily, feels Arthur smile against his lips, and because Eames is weak in the face of temptation, he lets himself kiss back, just for a minute.

Arthur sighs quietly against him, warm and pliant and lovely in his arms. With what feels like enormous self-restraint, Eames places his hands lightly on Arthur's shoulders and pushes, just a little. Feeling Arthur pause, he takes advantage of the other man's confusion to ease himself back.

"Eames?" Arthur asks. He looks a little questioning, but comfortable and assured - like he belongs here in Eames' life instead of having appeared in the middle of the night.

Eames open his mouth, then pauses as he wonders how he's going to word this. "Darling. What are you doing here?" he asks finally. It's blunt but it gets the point across.

Arthur stares at him. "I live here."

Eames laughs. "No you don't, don't be silly."

"Eames. I've been living here for almost a year."

Eames look at him, disbelieving. "You can't be living here - this is my apartment." He would say more, but then he catches sight of Arthur's expression and the words dry up in his throat.

Arthur's staring at him like he can't believe what Eames is saying. There's a long terrible pause, during which Arthur just looks at him and Eames can't help but feel like the room has become noticably colder.

"Is this your way of telling me you don't want this relationship to continue anymore?" Arthur says eventually, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet in a way Eames has never heard before. It throws him off balance, because it's so unlike the always-composed Arthur he knows to show any sign of uncertainty.

Something tightens in his chest. He's more confused than ever, but his every instinct is telling him that something is horribly wrong - because anything that makes Arthur look like that could never be right. Eames has been in a dangerous profession for years now, and his gut feelings have never led him astray yet.

"Arthur," he says, making sure to keep his voice soothing and unthreatening. "I think you're misunderstanding me. I literally don't know how you're here. You can't have been living here for a year, because I think I would remember if I'd let you borrow my flat."

There's another pause.

"Eames. I'm not borrowing your flat - we've been living here together." Arthur says. He has a small frown on his face, but as much as what Arthur is saying makes no sense, it's secondary to the relief Eames feels at seeing that terrible uncertainty gone from Arthur's expression.

"Then why don't I remember any of this?"

"I'm taking you to the hospital," Arthur says, brows knit with worry. Before Eames can protest, Arthur is getting up, and Eames watches as Arthur opens the closet to pull out a crisp white shirt and a charcoal suit Eames doesn't own. In one fluid movement, he trades Eames' spare pajamas for the shirt, buttoning it up without looking before he selects a dark red tie Eames certainly does recognize.

"Isn't that my tie," Eames says, more a statement than a question. It should be the last thing he's noticing, all things considered, but it's worth it for the pleasure of watching the slight flush appear on Arthur's cheeks.

"Eames, get dressed," Arthur says, ignoring the question as he pulls the strip of material effortlessly into a half-Windsor.

Eames does so.

~

The hospital turns out to be entirely useless.

It probably has something to do with the fact that Eames can't actually answer their questions honestly when they ask him about what he remembers. He almost laughs when they ask if there's been anything stressful happening in his life lately - after all, he can't exactly tell them that his job involves forging into strangers and killing himself every time he wants to wake up. His life is the definition of high-stress.

When he and Arthur leaves three hours later, they're no closer to an answer than they were at the start of the day.

Arthur looks almost frantic. He'd spent the entire way back talking, asking Eames if he remembers this or that, and every time Eames is forced to admit that he has no idea what Arthur is talking about, Arthur's grip on the steering wheels tightens a little more. Now that they're back in the flat, he's pacing the living room like a caged animal, anxiety obvious. Eames is again struck by how very different this Arthur is from the one he remembers, how much freer he is in expressing himself - or just expressing himself around Eames, it might be more accurate to say.

Except maybe different isn't the right word, because for every way that Arthur's different, there's ten ways he's familiar. It's not that Eames isn't worried. It's just that - maybe if Arthur was a different person altogether, it would be easier to focus on how he himself is feeling. But this Arthur has all the same mannerisms, all the habits and idiosyncrasies Eames remembers. When he frowns, his forehead wrinkles up exactly the way Eames' Arthur does, and irritation still makes his eyes flash. It's not that Eames isn't worried, but in the face of this Arthur who is familiar in all the ways that matter, his own concerns feel secondary, somehow.

"Arthur," he says, putting a hand on Arthur's arm the next time the other man walks by, and ignores the way Arthur stiffens at his touch. "You're making me dizzy. Just sit down for a second."

"I met you in Copenhagen. We were both working the Sylvester job but on opposite sides, and the first time I saw you, you shot me in the shoulder." Eames meets Arthur's eyes. "Does any of that sound familiar to you?"

"You forgot the part where you complimented my ass," Arthur says wryly, and Eames gives an internal sigh of relief.

"Of course I did, sweetheart - those trousers are my favourite." He gives Arthur his most charming smile, and is gratified to see Arthur relax a little.

It's a slow process, but they work their way through the timeline, with Eames recounting his life in bits and pieces until they come to the point where Eames' memories end.

"You don't remember anything past the inception job?" Arthur pauses for Eames' nod before continuing. "That was five years ago."

"What do you mean, five years ago?"

"What year is it, Eames?"

"2010."

Arthur looked at him carefully. "It's 2015, Eames."

For the first time since he'd woken up that morning, Eames feels a jolt of shock. "That can't be right."

Arthur grabs the newspaper off the coffee table and tosses it at him, his action seemingly careless, but his eyes never leave Eames.

"Then where the fuck have I been for the last five years?" Eames runs a hand through his hair, then sits down heavily on the couch. "This can't be right. I swear it feels like yesterday, Arthur."

Arthur doesn't reply immediately, but the hand he puts on Eames' shoulder is warm and solid. "I'll call Dom and Yusuf, ask them if they've ever heard of anything like this happening. Maybe it's a chemical - I know you did some testing for Yusuf. That was almost three months ago, but it might be a delayed reaction."

Eames nods, not sure what else he could say, although it occurs to him now that it's strange for Arthur's first reaction to be to take Eames to the hospital rather than call his contacts. "Why didn't you call Dom first?"

"Dom?" Arthur looks at him, seemingly puzzled for a second. Eames sees the moment when understanding crosses his expression, and again, can't help the stray thought that he'd never been able to read Arthur like this before. "Eames, Dom is more or less retired now. We see him a couple of times a year, but he's busy with his kids – James and Philippa are both in school now."

Eames supposes that would makes sense, considering how the inception job had wrapped up - he'd just never really considered how things would naturally evolve five years down the line.

He resists the urge to bury his face in his palms, taking a deep breath instead. It helps, a little, and if nothing else, they have a course of action now. Hopefully, Yusuf had just screwed something up with his chemicals, in which case Eames was going to kick his butt later, and everything would be fine.

Sitting up decisively, he ignores the pool of dread still sitting in the pit of his stomach. "Well then, that's settled. What do you say we go for some food? We still haven't had lunch, and I'm starving."

He doubts he's fooling Arthur with his smile, but Arthur takes the cue just like Eames had known he would.

"After you, Mr. Eames," he says, gesturing to the door, and lets Eames lead the way to the fish and chips place two blocks down.

next.

101310 - 012411

Inception: baby, it's cold outside

papered — Sat, 25 Dec 2010 22:33:45 GMT

MERRY CHRISTMAS everyone! ♥ this is for the lovely amazingly_me, who gave me the most adorable prompts ever.

baby, it's cold outside
inception: arthur/eames
pg, 1240 words
Arthur and Eames work on a Christmas tree farm.

When you work on a Christmas tree farm, there's usually only two ways your life can go.

Arthur prefers to think that his response is the perfectly logical one. No matter what anyone else says, he doesn't hate Christmas - he just has a healthy dose of dislike towards it. It makes perfect sense, really, if you think about - he's exposed to Christmas so much that by the time Christmas actually comes around, he's so sick of it that all he wants to do is lock all the doors, block out the sound of any crazy carolers, and curl up in bed with a nice book and a cup of coffee. Regardless of what Eames says, it doesn't make him the Grinch or anything. He's just not a big fan of Christmas.

The other response, of course, is to defy all laws of logic and end up absolutely loving Christmas, nevermind the fact that you work on a Christmas tree farm and your whole life is Christmas. You end up being the really obnoxious, Christmas sweater-wearing, gingerbread-cookie-making person who spends the entire month of December humming carols and wrapping presents with obnoxiously-colored wrapping paper and listening to Kylie Minogue singing Santa Baby and other equally intolerable songs on the radio.

... Okay, fine. Yes, he's describing Eames.

~

On Christmas Eve, Arthur doesn't finish his shift until half past seven. He's technically only supposed to work until five, but it's the holiday season, and he'd drawn the short end of the stick, and apparently there are crazy people in the world who are still buying trees on Christmas Eve.

He trudges over to Eames' apartment afterward, because in a moment of weakness last week, he'd agreed to have dinner with him. He regrets it now though, because it started snowing two hours ago, and Eames lives a half-hour walk away, and Arthur doesn't have an umbrella.

By the time he gets to Eames' apartment, he's freezing and dripping water.

Eames, who'd apparently been wandering around in his apartment in a Santa hat, answers the door with a delighted smile. "Darling, you're here!" he says, pulling Arthur in and shutting the door behind him. "I was just getting dinner ready."

"I'm dripping all over your welcome mat," Arthur tells him. "Also, you look ridiculous."

Eames beams at him and hands him a stack of towels plus a change of clothing. Arthur lets himself be pointed towards the washroom, where he miserably rubs at his hair before glaring at the t-shirt Eames has given him. It's a mustard yellow and way too big at the shoulders, and Arthur looks like he's drowning in it. The drawstring pants fit okay though, and he gives his image in the mirror another self-conscious glance before venturing out.

He immediately regrets it. Eames' living room is full off Christmas decorations. There are plates of cooling gingerbread men laid out on the kitchen counter, the radio is on, and it hurts Arthur's eyes a little to look at the tree.

"There you are," Eames says, bringing out two plates filled with ham and mashed potatoes and a platter of cheese chunks. "Honey-baked ham," he says in response to Arthur's raised eyebrow, motioning for him to sit.

The food is stupidly delicious. By the time Arthur's cleared his plate (twice), and polished off the freshly baked banana bread for dessert, he's stuffed and only too happy to collapse on Eames' couch and not move for a few hours, even if he hates the reruns of A Charlie Brown Christmas that's always on TV.

It's nearing midnight when Arthur sighs and forces himself to stand up, knowing that if he doesn't leave now, he's never going to manage to drag himself away from the warm cocoon of Eames' couch.

"You should just stay over, you know," Eames says, watching him.

Arthur shakes his head. "I should go, really." He feels strangely reluctant, and admits, if only to himself, that obnoxious Christmas decorations aside, it's been a surprisingly nice evening.

"I'll get you your clothing then - I think your shirt is dry already," Eames says, standing up too. "You can keep the pants until later."

He disappears into the next room, and reappears again a few minutes later, handing Arthur his blue button-down. Arthur takes it, and is about to make use of the washroom again when Eames grasps his arm.

"Mistletoe," Eames says, pointing above their heads. "You're not going to deny me a kiss before you leave, are you? Not during my favourite holiday?"

Arthur has every intention of denying him, but then he remembers how ridiculously delicious dinner had been, and Eames had probably spent hours making it. There's a strange, warm feeling in his stomach, and fine, Arthur can give Eames his stupid Christmas tradition just this once.

Before Eames can complain any more, he leans over and presses his lips to Eames'.

When he pulls back a moment later (simultaneously too long and not long enough), his own heartbeat is quicker than usual and Eames is looking at him with wide eyes. It occurs to Arthur too late that Eames had probably meant a kiss on the cheek. Flushing, he begins to pull away, but Eames' hands have wrapped around his waist without him noticing.

"Arthur," Eames breathes, voice soft and slightly stunned, and Arthur stills.

They stare at each other for a second. Eames' eyes are unreadable, and Arthur is wondering what the hell the appropriate response would be when Eames leans closer, slowly, clearly waiting to see if Arthur would pull away.

Arthur stays exactly where he is.

Their second kiss is longer than the first one. Eames is tentative, obviously still trying to gauge Arthur's reaction. Arthur lets him for about ten seconds before he thinks fuck this, and leans closer to kiss Eames properly.

Eames makes a small sound at the back of his throat. He tastes like eggnog and banana bread, and without thinking, Arthur navigates them back until Eames is pressed against the wall. Skimming his hands against the edge of Eames' t-shirt, he pulls back, question in his eyes.

Eames grins at him, and the atmosphere shifts suddenly as something playful appears in his expression. "Darling, I'm flattered," he says, raising his arms so that Arthur can slide his shirt off.

The radio is still on, and it abruptly occurs to Arthur that he's making out to Christmas music, and it's all Eames' fault. "I hate you," he mumbles, pulling off Eames' undershirt as well. Eames, the bastard, just laughs at him, so Arthur slides a hand down his jeans to shut up him.

Very effective, Arthur thinks in satisfaction as Eames makes another choked sound. "Maybe we should move this to the bedroom," he says smugly.

Eames is only too happy to comply.

~

Arthur wakes up the next morning to find Eames' arm thrown haphazardly across his waist and their legs tangled together. Also, he's lying on a wet spot.

"Merry Christmas, darling," Eames says from the vicinity of his left ear.

"Move over," Arthur says in response, shifting them back until he's satisfied.

Eames laughs. "You know, maybe next year, I can even talk you into putting up a Christmas tree," he says happily, and Arthur can't decide if he wants to kick him or kiss him.

So he does both.

"Ow," Eames says, far too brightly, then happily proceeds to kiss him back.

122310 - 122510

Merlin: eyes I've met in dreams

papered — Sat, 25 Dec 2010 00:16:55 GMT

my first merlin fic, after all the lurking in merlin fandom. written for this picture prompt for symphonied. merry christmas, bb. ♥

eyes I've met in dreams
merlin: merlin/arthur
pg, 2250 words
modern!au. in his waking hours, Arthur is the heir to Pendragon ImmunoGen, one of the biggest biotech companies in the world. in his dreams, he's just a masters student.

i.

When Arthur is fifteen, he meets a boy.

His name is Merlin, and he's a bit of a impossibility, dropping into Arthur's life with all the grace of a whirlwind and destroying any organization and structure Arthur has worked to preserve. If he's honest, Arthur can't say he minds: Merlin is loud and insistent and doesn't know when to be quiet, but something about his earnest smiles send Arthur's breath hitching in his chest and his heart stuttering into double-time.

The only other person who knows about Merlin is Morgana.

She laughs the first time she finds out, shaking her head at him in a way he doesn't understand. "So when do I get to meet this friend of yours?" she asks.

Arthur shrugs, noncommittal, and Morgana gives him one of her looks.

"Don't think I can't tell that you're not telling me something, Arthur," she says.

There's plenty Arthur hasn't told her. He hasn't told her about the way Merlin is different - the way he can make things happen, how his eyes can turn to molten gold at will. He doesn't tell her about that time Merlin pulled him into Arthur's dorm room and pressed him into the wall, or how Arthur discovers that day that Merlin's kisses are like every other part of him - clumsy and wild and sweet.

Most importantly, Arthur doesn't tell her that he's only seen Merlin in dreams.

Having uncannily realistic dreams isn't something that's new to Arthur. It's been a part of his life for as long as he can remember. While other children ran to their parents' room in the middle of the night, frightened by hazy monsters in disjointed nightmares, Arthur's dreams have always been unnaturally clear and real. When Arthur dreams, there aren't any leaps in logic or things that later seems impossible. Everything is connected, if not logical, and afterward, Arthur always remembers every detail.

It's like life continues and events are unfolding even when he is sleeping. Maybe it is all just in his head; maybe it is not.

ii.

Arthur is six, the first time he tells his father about his dreams.

In his childish naivety, he'd believed that dreams like this were normal, that everyone had them. He hadn't known any better, and so hadn't realized something was wrong until he'd found himself at a therapist's office.

Arthur hadn't liked the therapist very much. She'd insisted that he tell her more about the people he dreamed about, then tried to prescribe him medicine. Before long, he quickly figured out that it was simplest if he simply claimed that he didn't remember his dreams anymore.

Uther, too relieved that his son was apparently back to normal, never questioned Arthur about it again. Arthur learns never to give him reason to.

iii.

In his waking hours, Arthur is the heir to Pendragon ImmunoGen, one of the biggest biotech companies in the world. "Heir" sounds old-fashioned and outdated, but the truth is, that's exactly what he is. Uther Pendragon had built up an empire out of nothing, and as the only son, it's Arthur's job to take over when his father retires. He studies business and computer science in university and spends his summers interning at his father's company. Since graduating last year, Arthur's worked at the company full-time.

In his dreams, Arthur is a masters student. His focus is Medieval and Renaissance Literary Studies, and he will reluctantly admit that he has a slight obsession with romantic poetry. He's written multiple essays during his undergrad career on exactly why he thinks William Blake is the greatest poet ever, which always horrifies Merlin because Merlin is certain that no one can outdo John Keats. Merlin is also, obviously, deluded. Arthur's pretty sure that Merlin used to have a poster of Keats on his bedroom wall as a kid, which means any point Merlin makes is automatically invalid.

His father is an absent figure in his life, and Arthur doesn't really hear from him outside of Christmas holidays. He spends his summers with Merlin, roadtripping across the country, and they go everywhere Arthur's car can take them. It means eating at unhealthy diners and cramming themselves in the backseat when they can't find a motel, and sometimes, Arthur gets to watch as Merlin shapes clouds and constellations into dragons and unicorns. Most of the year is spent in the tiny on-campus apartment they share. Merlin stops Arthur from freaking out too much about his thesis and living on an iv drip of caffeine, and Arthur is there to open the door when Merlin locks himself out again for the sixth time. It works out.

It doesn't bother Arthur too much that he's essentially living two lives each day. Maybe it would be unusual for anyone else, but he's grown used to it over the years.

Occasionally, he wonders if Merlin exists in real life too. For years, he'd even researched to see if he could find anything, but he couldn't exactly ask for Uther's help, and all he'd ended up with were dead ends. Arthur hadn't given up, exactly, but eventually had to admit defeat. He'd learned already by then that world was simply too big for someone without any contacts or connections.

iv.

He's at a Christmas business party, one of those formal, awkward ones where every other biotech company has representatives attending. He's the inevitable center of attention, being the son of the CEO of the largest one yet. It doesn't help that Morgana, as his date, has decided to wear the most flimsy dress in the world, the plunging back drawing all sorts of admiring glances. Arthur has the odd urge to give her his jacket or something, but he knows that Morgana would just laugh at him if he tried.

The evening is more or less like every other company party he's attended, and Arthur leaves with a small, generic-looking package in his hands - a result of the annual Secret Santa-styled gift exchange. The daughter of one of their sponsors had originally organized it, and it had become a tradition of sorts over the years. Tossing it carelessly into the backseat of his car, he waits until Morgana has gotten in as well before pulling out of the parking lot.

"You should at least open it, you know," Morgana says disapprovingly. "Gwen always goes to a lot of trouble to organize the gift exchange."

"I do open it," Arthur replies with a shrug. He does - at some point, anyway. Usually months later, but it's not like it means anything. The gifts are always uselessly extravagant items, designed to show off the wealth of the giver. One year, he'd gotten the most expensive Swiss chocolates money could buy; another year, imported tea from Japan that Arthur never actually drank. "But if you're so insistent, you can open it now."

He can almost hear Morgana's eyeroll, and is a little surprised to hear her tearing into the wrapping paper - he hadn't expected her to actually bother with it. There's a short silence.

"Well?" Arthur asks lightly. "What is it this year? Cufflinks? Pens? Paperweights made from gold?"

"It's - a book," Morgana says, sounding puzzled. "Life and Works of William Blake."

Arthur freezes. "What?"

"Why on earth would someone send you this? You don't even read poetry," Morgana continues, not sensing his shock. At least, not until Arthur pulls over suddenly on the side of the street in a death-defying move, ignoring the honking from behind him.

"Give me the book," he says, ignoring Morgana's swearing at being thrown off-balance.

The volume is a familiar weight in his hands, even though he's technically never held it before. Arthur remembers it clearly though - has spent hours pouring over the book that had eventually become his main reference for his masters thesis. There was no way someone had just randomly decided to give him this.

"Arthur?"

"Who is this from?" he asks, voice sounding strange to his own ears.

"There's no card, but the tag says M. Emrys."

Merlin. It had to be. He turns to Morgana, suddenly desperate. "Do you know him? Where can I find him?"

"No, I don't - I've never heard of him. Arthur, what's going on? Who is it?"

Arthur thinks about explaining, just for a second, but even he realizes how crazy he would sound. "It's nothing," he says instead. "I just. I really need to find him."

Morgana looks at him for a second, eyes unreadable. Arthur doesn't know what she sees, but she finally nods. "I'll ask Gwen for you," she says. "She would know most of the people involved in the exchange."

"Thanks," Arthur says, looking away. He knows that Morgana won't leave the unanswered questions for long, but he can deal with all that later.

He has to be certain first.

v.

When he finally meets Merlin in his waking hours, Arthur is twenty-four.

It turns out that M. Emrys is a childhood friend of Gwen's. He's a grad student who has nothing at all to do with the biotech industry, and he'd only been part of the gift exchange because Gwen needed a date for the party. All attendees participated by default, to make sure the numbers would work out correctly.

Arthur is also scheduled to meet him for coffee in an hour, and right now he's nervously pulling at his outfit, wondering if he's overdressed. Would Merlin remember him? Would Arthur come off as crazy? Was it even Merlin, for god's sake?

He arrives at the cafe fifteen minutes early. It's horrifically crowded, the lineup snaking around the tables, and Arthur is wondering how he's going to find an empty table at this rate when he realizes that there's already a familiar figure sitting by the window.

Throat dry, he walks closer, knowing with every step that this is it. He would recognize that lanky figure anywhere.

"Excuse me," he says finally, carefully, when he's close enough. His knees feel like jello, but his voice comes out steadier than he'd expected, and he stretches out his hand. "I'm Arthur Pendragon. Do you -"

The figure turns in his seat, and Arthur has to stop because his throat is dry and he's forgotten everything he was going to say. His heart is pounding out a staccato against his ribcage and some part of him is still disbelieving that this is really happening.

"Hi Arthur," Merlin says, seemingly not nervous at all, and his smile is bright with recognition. His hair is messy, longer than Arthur remembers it, and his eyes catch the daylight as he grins. "I'm Merlin, but you know that already." Rather than shake Arthur's hand, he pushes a second white cup Arthur hadn't originally noticed into it instead. "Here, sit down! Have a drink."

Arthur numbly takes it and obeys. Not knowing what to say, he brings the cup to his lips.

The first sip warms him to the core, and he closes his eyes for a second. Earl Grey latte, his favourite - made exactly the way he likes it with soy milk instead of regular 2%.

"So, Arthur," Merlin says carefully, and Arthur thinks that maybe he was wrong after all about the other man not being nervous. There's a slight inflection to Merlin's voice, the one that's always there when he's uncertain and thinking of saying something possibly inappropriate. "I was just wondering."

Taking another sip, Arthur feels a sudden rush of relief. Dream or not, this is still Merlin, and Arthur knows him better than anyone. He has nothing to be afraid of. "Yes?"

Merlin pauses again, then leaps blindly forward the way he always does with everything. "How do you feel about John Keats?"

Arthur stops dead for a second, taken aback - and then he can't control the wide grin that breaks out on his own face. "I don't know, Merlin," he says, taking a chance and stretching out the name like he'd always done when he's teasing. "He's okay, I suppose. He's got nothing on Blake though."

"Hey," Merlin sputters, definitely not expecting the unreserved answer, and his indignation is so comical that Arthur wants to laugh. "Keats is just so much better, okay. In every way."

Arthur raises an eyebrow at him. "I don't know, you'll have to try and convince me, Merlin," he says with a shrug. "Although I realize that might be a difficult task for you."

"God, you're still such a prat," Merlin mutters under his breath, but his eyes are amused, and his hair catches the sunlight as he takes a sip of his own drink, turning certain strands a golden brown. He's gorgeous, and Arthur thinks about quantifying this moment, giving it a name so he can come back to it again and again in the future. Then he laughs at himself, because maybe there isn't a word for this yet, for old friends who've just met, and maybe that's exactly the point.

Merlin looks up then, catches him watching, and Arthur would be embarrassed, except Merlin smiles - one of those brilliant, dazzling smiles of his - and Arthur thinks in that moment that he doesn't need a name for this. Everything's going to be just fine.

(Am I dreaming? Arthur asks later, curled up again in Merlin's too-small bed. Merlin just laughs in response, then stretches, pillowing his head on Arthur's bare chest.

His breath is warm against the hollow of Arthur's throat.)

082010 - 122410

Inception: darling we were meant to be

papered — Fri, 10 Dec 2010 20:07:02 GMT

darling we were meant to be
inception: arthur/eames
pg, 1184 words
in which arthur is the chemistry TA and eames is the student who comes to every single office hour. except... not really.

a/n: this is for meiface, who asked for arthur and eames and tutoring, among other things, :'). happy holiday, mei! I hope you like this, even if I have to apologize in advance for the ridiculous pacing of this whole thing, ;~;.

The fantastic thing about office hours during most of term, Arthur thinks as he works his way through another reference paper for his thesis, is that none of the students can be bothered to actually show up. Of course, it means that in the week leading up to exam period, his office is like a madhouse, and he has hysterical students asking the questions they should have asked a month ago coming out of his ears. But for the rest of the term, even the keeners would rather stick around after class to ask their questions to the professor instead of waiting for TA office hours. Which is perfectly fine with Arthur, since it means he has two hours every Tuesday and Friday where he's paid to sit in the office the university had assigned him and basically work on his own research.

Or at least, that had been the case up until two weeks ago.

"Arthur," comes a voice from his door, and there's only one person he knows who can say his name precisely like that, British accent curling over every syllable. Looking up, Arthur sees the familiar figure lounging against his doorframe. Speak of the devil.

"What can I do for you today, Mr. Eames?" he asks, keeping his tone level as he shuffles his own papers out of the way. Eames is strikingly attractive, there's no denying that - but he's also wearing a pink polo (his popped collar grates on Arthur's nerves) and khaki shorts and basically reminds Arthur painfully of the quintessential fratboy. Arthur valiantly reminds himself of this as he tries not to notice the way the corner of a tattoo is peaking distractingly out from under the undone top button.

"You could come have a drink with me after your office hours are over," Eames says, and before Arthur can figure out the most appropriate answer to that, Eames drops his messenger bag unceremoniously onto the ground and settles himself into the other chair. "But for now, you can tell me about next week's assignment."

"Mr. Eames, I've already explained the assignment to you when you came to my office three days ago. In detail."

Eames gives him what Arthur has deduced must be Eames' most charming smile - he concludes this because it is actually fairly effective, and he does always feel somewhat charmed when Eames decides to employ it. "Arthur, that was before the professor gave yesterday's lecture on phenol and aniline formation. It was very enlightening; I have a new perspective now - and more specific questions, of course."

Without waiting for a reply, he reaches over to dig through his bag. With a sigh, Arthur leans forward and steels himself as Eames produces a piece of slightly crumpled paper and points to the third problem.

As it turns out, Eames' question is actually surprisingly intelligent, and completely unlike what Arthur has come to expect from most second year general science students. Grabbing a spare piece of paper, Arthur looks up to doublecheck that Eames' attention is on him before beginning to sketch out the mechanism.

-

"So, how about it then?" Eames casually asks afterwards. Reaching down, he slides the piece of paper Arthur had been drawing on into a side pocket of his binder before swinging his bag back across his shoulders in one smooth movement.

"How about what?" Arthur says, raising an eyebrow.

"A drink, remember?"

It would be a lie to say that he's not interested. But Eames is a student, for god's sake. And don't forget about how that polo shouldn't be allowed to exist, his brain reminds him. Arthur deliberately schools his face into a blank expression. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Mr. Eames."

Rather than be discouraged, Eames just rolls his eyes. "Don't be such a wet blanket, Arthur - it's Friday, and you're done with office hours anyway." His expression turns beseeching. "Come on, there's a pub right around the corner. My treat for taking up your time today."

"You don't need to buy me a drink for coming to office hour, you know. It's kind of my job," Arthur says, but finds himself getting up and following Eames out anyway. "Just one drink," he says insistently when he catches sight of Eames' delighted expression.

-

Three drinks later, Arthur is laughing uncontrollably at something ridiculous Eames has just said, even if he can't actually pinpoint exactly why it's so funny. He feels relaxed and loose-limbed, and a little as if he might melt into his seat. Eames is laughing too, his broad shoulders shaking and his eyes warm. His lips are stretched wide into a grin as he suddenly reaches out to wrap an arm around Arthur's waist.

Arthur lets him.

-

Two weeks later, he finds himself waking up in Eames' on-campus apartment curled up in Eames' not-quite-big-enough bed, and his head is pillowed comfortably on Eames' tattooed shoulder. Arthur's legs are tangled in what seems to be a small mountain of blankets, and for the life of him, he still can't explain how his life turned out like this.

Eames chooses that moment to shift and blindly press a kiss against the side of Arthur's face. "Morning, darling," he says, voice still thick with sleep, and Arthur decides that he really can't complain.

(Two weeks after that:

"Eames?" Yusuf says, when Arthur unthinkingly brings up his - well, boyfriend now, he supposes (as much as thinking about it makes him flinch sometimes because he's dating someone he's TAing and he's grading most of the midterms and finals, not to mention assignments, and if the university finds out, there could be so many fraternization issues, god. At least there's only a week left in the term - although now that he thinks about it, he hasn't actually marked any of Eames' work yet. This leads Arthur to conclude that for once, he's just ridiculously lucky and Eames' assignments and exams must have all gone into the 10% of the total marking that's done by the professor). "You know Eames?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Arthur asks, poking at his salad. "He is a student in the class I'm TAing, you know. But wait, you know Eames?"

Yusuf chokes on his burrito and Arthur has to pound him on the back for a few minutes. "Arthur," he says when he finally manages to recover. "No, he isn't. You do know that Eames is a grad student too, right?"

"Excuse me?"

"He's the other TA for 4th year organometallic chem."

Arthur stares at him like he's grown an extra head. "... you mean that same course you're TAing?"

"Mhmm," Yusuf chirps happily, then cheerfully finishes his burrito.)

(And even later:

"Darling, I swear I was going to tell you, but you can forgive me, can't you? You were always walking around the student lounge with those glasses on - not to mention the dimpling - and I had to get your attention somehow." Eames gives Arthur his most charming and cajoling smile. His expression is deceptively innocent.

"I am going to shoot you," Arthur says.)

120610 - 120710

Inception: fluff meme drabbles - ie. in which my titles are longer than my fics

papered — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 11:31:24 GMT

not much writing from me lately, but here are two drabbles I scribbled down for round 2 of bookshop's fluff meme. thank you to everyone who left me comments at the meme - you are all so sweet. ♥

you're the one I've been dreaming of, you see
inception: arthur/eames. g, 332 words. originally here.

When he walks into his dark hotel room, there is an unexpected, human-shaped lump on the bed.

Eames has his gun out in a second, but he keeps his footsteps light because the last thing he needs is for whoever it is to realize he's here. He makes it almost to the edge of the bed when the lump shifts. Eames stops but holds his gun steady.

"Eames?" comes a very very familiar voice.

"Arthur?" Eames says incredulously, lowering his gun as he clicks on the lamp. The sight he's greeted with makes him smile.

Arthur's eyes are more closed than open, and his hair is an utter mess, curling around his head like a bird's nest. He frowns sleepily at the sudden brightness, small lines forming on his forehead as he tries to glare at Eames. "Turn off the light," he says, voice rough with sleep.

Eames is charmed. "Darling, what are you doing here?" he asks gleefully as he gets undressed. "Aren't you supposed to be in Vienna?"

"Job finished early," Arthur mumbles into the pillow, then swats a hand in Eames' direction like Eames is an annoying fly he can get rid of. "Talk tomorrow, sleep now," he says in what he evidently thinks is a commanding tone, but it just delights Eames even more.

"Admit it, you missed me, didn't you," he says, not even trying to hold back the smile in his voice as he slips on the drawstring pants he'd packed.

"Shut up, come to bed," Arthur grumbles, head buried under what looks like a small mountain of blankets. Eames laughs out loud, then complies because there's nothing he'd like to do more. Slipping under the covers, he turns off the light. Arthur mumbles something about how Eames is freezing, but he presses closer all the same, pliant and lovely against him.

Eames tangles their legs together, presses his lips once to Arthur's cheek ("Goodnight, darling.") and falls asleep to the sound of Arthur's steady breathing.

~

take my love in real small doses
inception: arthur/eames. g, 274 words. originally here.

The first time they kiss, it's embarrassingly awkward. They have no idea how to fit together - Eames' grip on his shoulder is almost painfully tight and Arthur tilts his head a little too much and the angle is all wrong. Eames tastes like cigarettes and sweat and a hint of the bitter coffee from earlier, and when Arthur pulls back, they just stare at each other for a minute, both at a loss for words.

Arthur is considering his chances of getting the hell out of here with some of his dignity intact when Eames suddenly breaks the tension with a chuckle. His voice is a smooth, rich slide that sends a shiver down Arthur's spine, and the corner of his eyes are crinkled with laughter. Leaning forward, he presses their foreheads together. "Shall we try that again, darling?" he says, eyes warm as his breath tickles the corner of Arthur's lips, and Arthur nods dazedly.

Their second kiss isn't miraculously perfect, but there's a definite improvement. Their teeth still clink a little when they meet and Arthur winces involuntarily, but Eames doesn't let him pull back, wrapping an arm more firmly around Arthur's waist instead.

They don't get much farther than a few kisses that night. Both having changed into pajamas, they fall into Arthur's bed together, but Eames just throws a leg over Arthur's hip, pulling him close until Arthur learns to relax into his touch. Let's take our time with this, sweetheart, he says, voice just a quiet purr, and when Arthur nods, he can feel the way Eames' lips form into a smile against the expanse of his throat.

~

here's to more fluff in the world. ♥

Inception: you don't know what it's been like (meeting someone like you)

papered — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 14:06:36 GMT

what is this, I don't even know. APOLOGIES IN ADVANCE for everything, T____T.

you don't know what it's been like (meeting someone like you)
inception: arthur/eames
pg-13, 1005 words
prompt: Eames' love of patterns includes his boxers. Smiley faces, hundred dollar bills, rocket ships, dinosaurs, paisley, lipstick mouth prints, tweed pattern, flames, zebra stripes, rainbows, Union Jack, just anything ridiculous, and Arthur is all WTAF IS WRONG WITH YOU. And Eames is like, UM, OKAY, IT'S JUST UNDERWEAR, and to spite Arthur he wears a pair of really form-fitting black boxer-briefs one day and Arthur is like HNNNNNNNNGH *_____*

"Fuck," Eames says, and steps forward so that there's absolutely no space between their bodies and Arthur is pressed against the wall of his bedroom. And then he kisses Arthur.

Eames' kisses are exactly like him: hot and reckless and getting a little wilder with every second. Arthur gasps into it, and it feels a little like he's burning up. He can feel Eames' long fingers making quick work of the buttons of his shirt. His jacket and waistcoat are strewn somewhere on the floor of his living room, he knows, and they'll probably wrinkle by the time he gets around to picking them up, but he really can't bring himself to be too upset when Eames has just reached up to pull the shirt off his shoulders and then finally there's glorious skin-to-skin contact.

They crash into the bedside table and Arthur's pile of neatly-stacked books go flying, but he doesn't really care right now when all his focus is on getting Eames' jeans off. Eames laughs against his lips when Arthur finally manages, his fingers hot against the bare skin of Arthur's waist, and Arthur feels the heat coil tighter in the pit of his stomach.

Feeling reckless, he reaches down to slip a hand past the elastic of Eames' boxers, and is gratified to hear the responding moan.

~

That is how Arthur would have expected things to go.

This is, instead, what happens.

~

Arthur finally manages to get Eames' jeans off, and is reaching to slip his hand down the waistband of Eames' boxers when he gets sidetracked.

"Are you kidding me," he asks flatly after a pause. "This cannot be real."

Eames is still panting a little, but he looks up. "Arthur?" His hair is a mess, his expression a little wild, and Arthur is so ridiculously turned on by the look in Eames' eyes that he almost lets it go.

But then he looks down again and just. No. This needs to be talked about. "Eames, what is wrong with your boxers."

By now, Eames has recovered a little. He looks down at himself, a little bewildered, and doesn't do anything to assure Arthur that this is somehow a joke. "Darling, what are you talking about?"

Arthur really should let this go, considering that his slacks are still uncomfortably tight, but he already has Eames' attention. "You actually own rainbow boxers."

"They match my other paisley shirt!" Eames says automatically, in a way that makes it clear to Arthur that yes, Eames has actually thought about this.

"That is the most hideous piece of clothing I've ever seen in my life," he says in reply.

Eames gives him a fond look. "I can't believe you stopped us in the middle to comment on my boxers." His expression suddenly turns lecherous. "Besides, if it offends you so much, why don't you remove it yourself?"

The idea, Arthur admits, has merit. Something in his expression must have conveyed his thoughts, because Eames laughs out loud and lets himself fall back onto Arthur's bed before lifting his hands in invitation.

Arthur follows through with record speed.

~

From that point on, Eames seems to take special delight in showing off his collection of ridiculous boxers. There's smiley faces and lipstick mouth prints and paisley patterns and honest to god zebra stripes, and Arthur wonders how Eames is even real.

Eames just smiles delightedly at his reaction each time. "I love how hung up you are about underwear, sweetheart."

However, Arthur does take great pleasure in getting the monstrosities off Eames as quickly as he can each time, so he supposes he can't complain too much.

(He might even rip a few pairs in his eagerness. A few of the more hideous pairs. You know, just by accident.)

~

They've just finished another extraction in Florida. It didn't take long, but before that Eames was gone for two weeks in Geneva, and before that Arthur had been roped into a one month job with Dom in Caracas.

It's been over a month and a half. When they finally get to the hotel room they're sharing, Arthur barely has time to pull the door closed behind them before he finds himself pressed against the closest flat surface. Pulling off his own clothing as quickly as he can, he reaches out next for Eames. Not one to wait passively, Eames leans forward to fist one hand in Arthur's hair and give him a bruising kiss, the other hand reached down to help with the undressing.

Arthur looks down, lips curved into a small smile and a comment about Eames' newest boxers already on the tip of his tongue - because he hasn't seen it yet but he has no doubt that it'll be hideous. He's in for a surprise though, because what he sees stops him in his tracks instead.

The form-fitting black boxer-briefs look tight - really tight - and Arthur feels himself flushing hot and going breathless. Fuck, he thinks.

"Fuck," he says out loud.

"That's the idea." Eames shoots him a lewd grin, and slowly presses a thigh between Arthur's legs, his hand shifting down to rest suggestively on Arthur's hip. Instantly, whatever blood left in Arthur's brain rushes down to the lower half of his body, and he can't help canting his hips forward.

Eames still has that cocky half-smirk on his face, the one that says he knows exactly how much Arthur wants this. Arthur doesn't care. "Off, now," he manages to say, followed by a quieter "Eames" that comes out more pleading than he'd intended.

Eames' expression softens, just a little, but there's still an edge to his smile that has Arthur shivering involuntarily. "I'll take care of you, darling," he says, voice smooth like dark chocolate as he guides them backwards. When they get to the bed, he hooks a leg behind Arthur's and pushes Arthur onto the fresh sheets before leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of Arthur's mouth.

Arthur lets himself go.

fic started: September 27, 2010
fic finished: September 29, 2010

ETA; ♥ to you all. :)

Inception: in our bedroom after the war

papered — Wed, 22 Sep 2010 03:28:33 GMT

my first inception fic, guys - I can't believe I'm doing this. it usually takes me a lot longer to get settled into a fandom before I even think about writing anything, but there's just something about this fandom. written for a prompt over at inception_kink, :3.

also, thank you to meiface for TEACHING ME ABOUT COFFEEMAKERS, which I don't own and never use because I am a tea-drinker at heart.

in our bedroom after the war
inception: arthur/eames
pg-13, 2712 words
prompt: a role reversal where Arthur is the one pining after Eames.

You've always known that he's not actually serious.

All the flirting and casual endearments, the way he practically undresses you with his eyes sometimes - all of that is just a part of who he is as an individual, and has nothing to do with who he is in relation to you. He greets you with beatific smiles that twists at something inside your chest, but he smiles at every other pretty face he comes across just the same. You've never been stupid, or self-deluded - you know he doesn't mean it, that you won't be enough, so it's better to draw the lines from the start and hold yourself at arm's distance.

It's too bad that you've never been exactly reasonable about things when it comes to Eames.

So inevitably, you give in. After years and years of keeping yourself in check, you close your eyes one day and let yourself say yes, let him lead you to his hotel room after the job in Chicago and peel off your suit layer by layer until all that's left is Eames' fingers on your chest and Eames' mouth pressed hot against the junction of your throat and Eameseameseames.

~

The worst part is, it feels like he means it.

Eames is almost painstakingly careful, brushing kisses down your throat as he presses you into the bed, body a firm weight against your own. The heat in his eyes make something curl in the pit of your stomach, and you try but fail to make yourself hold back the sound that bursts out of your throat. Eames looks delighted at your reaction, and leans down to mouth at the expanse of your chest. Darling, he says, voice honey-smooth as his calloused fingers curl surprisingly gently around your shoulders, and every effort you've been making to remember that this means nothing goes down the drain. You let yourself go and arch into him instead, shamelessly wanting more, more of his kisses and smiles and touches (more of him). He obliges by sliding a leg between your own and pressing up, and you let him take you apart piece by piece until there are fragments of you strewn all around the hotel room.

In the morning, you watch the long line of his legs disappear as he casually pulls on his jeans, listen to him say, sorry darling, but I have to go - I'll catch you later? as he packs up his suitcase and moves on to the next job, leaving you behind like dust in the wind. You turn your face into the pillows and pretend you don't hear him, that you're not already missing the warmth of his body pressed against your own. Is it heartbreak, you wonder, if you knew what you were getting into right from the beginning?

~

You manage to avoid him for all of a month before Dom calls you all in for a job again. You're prepared to make an excuse, to lie and say that you're already busy with something else, but when it comes down to it, you've never been able to refuse Dom anything when he needs you, so you agree.

You don't know exactly what you're expecting, but whatever it is, it's something other than Eames smiling and laughing and reading things over your shoulder like he's always done. If you don't think about it, it's like everything is exactly the same, and you can't decide if that makes you more relieved that there won't be any awkward confrontations or angry that you made no difference at all.

It's a simple job. The Mark is young, his mind, unmilitarized, and he doesn't stand a chance against Dom's team.

Afterward, Ariadne drags everyone out to the closest club for celebratory drinks. That's the idea, anyway, except two drinks later, most of the team has either disappeared or joined the dance floor, and it's just you and him again, him with his hooded eyes and dangerous smiles. You're no dancer, but the beat of the music feels like it's pulsing through your veins, and you wish you could look away but all of a sudden you want him so badly that it feels a little like it's killing you.

So of course, when he leads you into a washroom stall with his palm burning into the small of your back, you can't even pretend to resist. He pushes you against the door and kisses you first, and this time it's brutal and controlling but that's exactly what you want. His fingers leave bruises against your sides, and you know that you'll look at the marks later when you're alone and it'll be a reminder of all the reasons this isn't enough.

You know this, just like you know that the smart thing to do right now would be to push Eames away, to get the hell out of here while you still have your dignity left. But (and let's be realistic here) this is Eames, and you've never been good at self-preservation when it comes to him. So you let him pull you close instead until you're chest to chest and heart to heart, let him whisper sweetheart into the hollow of your throat and kiss you until your mouth is swollen.

~

The time after that, it happens in Tokyo. Then Melbourne, and Casablanca, and Copenhagen and Shanghai. It becomes a routine, of sorts. After every job in every city, Eames is there at the end of the day, sometimes following you out and other times casually sidling up to snake an arm around your waist after you've left the facility you've been working in. The others are too observant not to notice, but apparently choose not to the comment on it. You're grateful for that, you think.

He's not yours. You know this every time he traces nonsensical patterns on your chest or mouthes kisses up your spine, but you let him anyway, because you won't ever admit it out loud but sometimes, you think to yourself that you're stupidly in love with his wild eyes and shocking lack of inhibition. Maybe you're a masochist and maybe this is going to kill you someday, but you'd rather have pieces of him like this than not have him at all. It's your choice, you think. You choose to let him do this, and maybe it's not such a big deal after all. And you'll just keep on going like this, keep holding on and letting him in until -

until one day it's not your choice at all.

It happens in Vancouver. Another city, another job, and there's nothing marked different about this one to put you on your guard. When it's time to leave, you bid everyone farewell, tell Ariadne that you'll drop by her place when you're in Paris next week. Something like anticipation is buzzing under your skin, leaving you oddly restless, and when you leave the building, the cool air hits you like a wave. You're expecting Eames to be right behind you, but when he's not, you shrug it off, because it's no big deal. He'll catch up with you later, like he always does.

Your suit provides no insulation against the January weather, and the evening wind chills you to your very bones. It's not until you're back in your empty hotel room that you realize your eyes are stinging.

~

The next time you see him, he's wearing a scarf. It covers the entire expanse of his throat, and Ariadne teases him about her fashion choices rubbing off on him - and really, she was flattered he wanted to imitate, but didn't it make more sense for him to wait until they were somewhere other than the always-warm Taiwan?

Eames laughs it off and says something charming in reply.

Later, he corners you in the washroom and gives you a handjob that ruins your trousers and has you weak in the knees for hours afterward.

Later still, when the job is complete, you leave as you always do with suitcase in hand. Eames is behind you this time, but so is Yusuf and Saito as they discuss Yusuf's latest research on the chemical property of some new compound you don't know the details of. There's an unexpectedly strong gust of wind as you all step out, and the force of the rushing air sounds a little like a whistle. As it blows your hair askew, you think you see a hint of dark purple through the white of the material around Eames' neck.

~

You start turning down Dom's jobs. Not all of them - not the extract-and-go jobs you can do with just the two of you, or even the more complicated ones that requires Yusuf's newest solution or Ariadne's careful planning or Saito's endless bank account. Just the ones where you need a thief or forger.

The others notice. Of course they do - you're being so fucking obvious about it that you'd be ashamed if you weren't too drained to care. Dom tries to talk to you about it once, but you know him well enough to know exactly how to evade his questions, and considering how he's not exactly the type to enjoy heart-to-hearts, it's not too difficult to close the subject. Ariadne is harder to avoid when she corners you one day, but you do your best until she shakes her head and tells you that for two people who are supposedly so brilliant, you're both behaving like complete idiots.

You do see him, once. For closure, you tell yourself when you can't stand it any longer. With your connections, it's not hard to figure out what Eames is up to, and you follow him into a bar in Dubai late one night with a hat low on your head. Maybe he sees you and maybe he doesn't - it doesn't really matter, because either way, he doesn't acknowledge you. You watch as he settles himself down, hears his three shots of vodka, love to the bartender behind the counter. He seems tired, dark bruises under his eyes a sharp contrast to his pale face, but the smile he gives her is exactly the way you remember, so so familiar down to the crinkle of his eyes, and you almost give it all up, almost go up to him and say please and I don't care anymore and I miss you.

And then a curvy brunette finds her way to the seat next to him, a suggestive hand settling on his arm. Her nails are long and painted firetruck red, visible from even across the room. Eames laughs lightly at something she says, and you leave, slipping out of the bar with your face down so that you blend seamlessly into the shadows.

The heaviness in your chest feels like the persistent pulse of blood behind a bruise.

~

The months pass.

You don't know what you expect. For things to just continue like this, you suppose, day after day, as unrealistic as it might seem.

You know that what you don't expect is for your doorbell to start ringing at 4AM in the morning one day. You quickly pull on a shirt, and it's probably just your neighbour's seventeen year old son drunk again and ringing at the wrong door, but you reach for the knife you keep by your bedside table anyway, just in case.

What you don't expect is the sight of Eames slouched against the adjacent wall, tired bags under his eyes and looking as if he hadn't shaved in two days, and you still think he's the most beautiful thing you've seen in a long time.

"Arthur," he says, voice slightly hoarse. "Can I come in?"

You open your mouth to ask what he's doing here, but the syllables stick in your throat and all that comes out is a raspy breath. For a second, you consider refusing him, but then you wonder who you're trying to kid. Letting the door swing open, you step back and let him follow you into your apartment.

You carefully don't meet his eyes as he settles hiself onto your couch. He's wearing an outrageous paisley shirt that clashes horribly with your living room decor and everything else he has on, and it reminds you of a time when you would have happily given him grief for it. The thought sends something sad surging through your chest.

The silence stretches on. To occupy yourself, you head into your kitchen to make coffee, studiously ignoring the way his eyes follow you as you go. As you dump the grounds into the coffeemaker, you realize that you can't seem to stop your hands from shaking.

"Christ, Arthur," comes Eames' voice suddenly from right behind you, and you drop the spoon you're holding. "Just. Stop for a second. Please."

He grasps your shoulders when you turn around to face him, and it's the first time he's touched you in months. His fingers burn into your skin, and you let him lead you back to the couch, coffee forgotten. He looks at you carefully with tired eyes, fatigue on every line of his face, and suddenly you feel exhausted and bared like someone's reached inside your chest and stripped away whatever last shields you had left.

"Eames," you say, and goddamnit he can still do this to you, still make you a little weak at the knees. "What do you want from me, Eames?"

His face crumples a little at the sound of his name. "I'm a fucking idiot," he says brusquely, followed by a softer "Please." Even now, you can't stand hearing the misery in his voice, and before you know it you're reaching for him and pulling him towards you.

"God, Arthur," he says, sounding wrecked even with his head buried in your shoulders, and his voice is soft as he breathes a confession into the junction where your spinal column meets your shoulders. "I'm fucking in love with you."

Your heart stutters. He's still talking, voice slightly muffled by your shirt, something about I'm sorry and I don't have any right but give me one more chance, please, but it's like you can't hear anything past the admission.

"Eames," you say again, cutting him off, and he falls silent immediately, almost as if he's afraid of what you're going to say.

You think about everything you could say. Everything from god I missed you and you're such an idiot to you have no right and I can't believe you're doing this again and finally, if you don't mean it this time, I'm never going to recover.

And then you leave words to the wind and lean in to kiss him instead.

He freezes for just a moment, his mouth a perfect o beneath yours for a split second before he makes a soft sound - broken in the middle - and kisses you back. By the time you pull back, your lips feel swollen and he's panting a little. Your grip on his shoulders must be painful by now, but all he does is wrap his arms around your waist and bury his face into the hollow at the base of your throat.

"Darling," he says, voice hoarse, and the word sends a pang of nostalgia through you, strong enough to almost knock you over.

You could draw this out, you think. You know you were the one in the wrong, and that you could talk about it all if you wanted, recount every heartache and painful second, and he'd listen and torment himself and apologize for it all, because that's what Eames is like.

But you don't want to. Not right now, not when all you want to do is hold onto him for a while. You're not delusional enough to think that you can both just carry on like this, but you think to yourself that the talking can wait until later.

So you kiss him again. His stubble rubs against your chin, and you smile a little, knowing he'll be able to feel it against his lips.

When he presses you into the covers later and promises you that everything is going to be okay, you believe him.

fic started: September 20, 2010
fic finished: September 22, 2010

in another world, I think I'd miss you if we never met (4/?)

papered — Mon, 06 Sep 2010 14:11:09 GMT

very long a/n: sorry for the delay, guys! among other rl things, I've been completely distracted lately by the loveliness that is paperlegends (big bang for merlin fandom) and the number of stories getting posted now that september is here. (I would babble here about how great I think merlin/arthur is, but I would be going horribly off-topic.)

just so that everyone's clear though: sadly, I don't predict future chapters coming out at any faster a pace. ): part of the reason for this is, like I've mentioned in the chapter 1 a/n, the point of my posting up this story isn't so that I can finish up what I didn't manage to write last year - the logic was more along the lines "I have pieces of a story, I might as well post them up since they're no good sitting on my computer". unfortunately, I failed to remember that while I was writing this last year, instead of writing in a chronological order, I skipped over what I mentally labeled "connecting bits" and just wrote the more interesting stuff-happens scenes instead. so you can see why my plan to just dump everything I have so far isn't going to work out. instead, I'm actually trying to write in the majority of the necessary events between "big scenes" as I'm posting, and taking into account my travel plans/writing-speed lately, this usually ends up taking forever.

the point of this very-long a/n isn't to annoy you all, but rather, to let you guys know what's happening so that hopefully no one's surprised/disappointed when updates on this slow down even more. I'm still going to try my best to write what I can, of course, but just wanted to keep everyone updated. ♥ (thank you all for the lovely reviews, btw - they're the best encouragement I can ask for. <3)

without any further ado:

in another world, I think I'd miss you if we never met (4/?)
super junior m: zhou mi, kyumi
pg-13, 2530 words in chapter 4
one day, zhou mi wakes up in a world where he was never part of super junior m.

-- previous.

When Zhou Mi went to bed, he was in his room in the SJM dorms, lulled to sleep by Donghae's quiet snores the next bed over.

When he woke up, he found himself in a strange room.

It was strange in that it looked nothing like the room he shared with Donghae, and yet there was something oddly familiar about his surroundings. His first thought was, predictably, I must be dreaming, because what else could is possibly be? And yet he knew he’d always been more prone to dreams where everything was frustratingly vague. This time, the details of his surrounding were far too clear. He could feel the fabric of the clothing he was wearing against his skin and the stretch of the socks he’d forgotten to take off the night before around his feet, and as the minutes ticked by, it was all starting to feel too terrifyingly real to be a dream.

He stood up in one swift moment, determined to figure out what was going on.

The room he was in was cramped and sparsely furnished. There was a small desk pushed up right next to the bed he was in, spanning most of the length of the room. Books were neatly stacked up on it (Advanced Composition and Music Theory among other titles he could see) next to a silver laptop and a worn-looking wallet. Sitting on the side closer to the bed was a cell phone – an old model he doesn’t recognize – and a pair of reading glasses. A backpack was propped against the door, and on the floor by the bed sat a pair of outrageously yellow cow slippers.

A pair of extremely familiar-looking slippers. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, they looked exactly like the pair his friend had given him as a joke on his twentieth birthday.

Pushing down the odd sense of déjà vu, he turned to the other side of the room. A tiny bookshelf was in the corner, CDs and textbooks crammed into any free space. On top of the shelf was an array of photo frames. Zhou Mi squinted at the blurry figures for a second before moving closer.

As the faces came into focus, Zhou Mi froze.

His parents and grandparents smiled back at him.

What the hell was going on. The initial panic he’d tried to quell came back with a vengeance, and in a flurry of movement, he grabbed the cell phone from the desk, flipping it open and once again ignoring the sense that something was disturbingly familiar. Without any conscious thought, his fingers pressed the series of digits corresponding to Kyuhyun’s number and were hovering on the “call” button when Zhou Mi stopped. Swallowing hard, he deliberately erased the digits he’d just entered before typing in Han Geng’s number instead.

Hello, you’ve reached Han Geng. I’m sorry, but I can’t take your call right now -

Siwon was next, followed by Ryeowook, Donghae, even Henry, Each number yielded either a voice message or endless ringing.

Where was everyone? As far as Zhou Mi could remember, they had individual photoshoots that morning and not an interview – so even if one person was busy, someone else should have been able to pick up. With no other choice, Zhou Mi swallowed his growing confusion and hesitantly dialed Kyuhyun’s number again.

It rang once, twice, three times before someone picked up.

“Yeoboseyeo?” came the familiar voice, slightly tinny through the earpiece, and Zhou Mi felt the relief flood through him.

“Kui Xian,” he breathed, not quite able to keep his voice from shaking. “It’s me. Zhou Mi.”

He knew it was an unnecessary statement on his part even as he said it, because there was no way Kyuhyun wouldn’t be able to recognize his voice, but there was some odd sort of reassurance in establishing his own identity.

A pause. “Zhou Mi?”

There was something odd about the inflection of his name on Kyuhyun’s lips, but Zhou Mi disregarded it, heart still pounding as he continued, words tumbling out of his mouth like a tidal wave. “Thank god, Kui Xian, I’m so glad you’re there. I… don’t know what’s going on, but something’s wrong – I know I went to sleep in my own bed last night but I woke up a few minutes ago, I don’t know where I am or how I got here and –” He made himself pause, taking in a deep breath. He thought he could make out the faint sound of Kyuhyun’s breathing. “Are the other members there with you right now? I tried calling, but no one was picking up. Where’s Geng?”

There was no immediate reply, and Zhou Mi wondered if the call had been cut of. “Kui Xian? Hello? Are you still there?”

“Um, hi,” came Kyuhyun’s voice after another beat, slightly hesitant. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” He sounded puzzled, and his voice was off somehow - polite, Zhou Mi realized suddenly, the way Kyuhyun was when he ran into reporters or SM Entertainment executives or strangers. Zhou Mi hadn’t heard it directed at him since the days when they’d first met.

“Kui Xian? Why are you taking like that?” The panic was back. “Stop joking around, okay? I’m being serious here. Is there anyone else with you right now?”

There was another long silence.

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea who I’m talking to. Who are you?”

Zhou Mi dropped the phone.

~

He realized soon enough that no, he wasn't in some stranger's room where the stranger in question had randomly decided to put up photos of Zhou Mi's family members. The roomfelt familiar because it was familiar – it was the exact replica of the tiny apartment he used to live in when he’d first moved to Beijing from Wuhan, before Korea and SM Entertainment. Except he wasn’t sure “replica” was the right word to use – that implied a reproduction or a copy, whereas Zhou Mi had the most unsettling feeling that he actually was in his old apartment. A look out the kitchen windows had proven him correct: the locksmith’s tiny stand was exactly where he remembered it to be, across the street and next to the noodle house run by the middle-aged lady who used to give him extras whenever he’d eaten there.

It almost felt like he’d somehow stepped back five years in time, except the towering skyscrapers a block down from the noodle house certainly wasn’t something he remembered being there before. And skyscrapers certainly didn’t build themselves overnight.

Zhou Mi had no idea what on earth was going on. Either Kyuhyun was playing some practical joke of epic proportions on him – which seemed a little too farfetched, all things considered – or something was seriously wrong.

Running back into the room he’d woken up in, he plugged in the cable by the desk and turned on the laptop.

~

Super Junior M debuted on April 8th, 2009 as Super Junior's third subgroup. There were six members: Han Geng, Siwon, Ryeowook, Donghae, Kyuhyun, and Henry. They were the first international group to have members of both Chinese and Korean descent, and although there was controversy in the beginning regarding Henry being a new member, the other members had been quick to show their support. Before long, Henry's charm and talent had won everyone over. The group had rapidly risen to popularity and had gone home with most of Asia's newcomer awards that year. They'd just released their first mini-album a few months back, and their fanbase was as strong as ever.

It had taken Zhou Mi a quick trip to baidu to learn all this. The next few hours had been spent visiting fansites for every scrap of detailed information he could find.

He’d tried to visit his own baidu page, along with that Qmi site he’d always affectionately followed in his free time, but both had only led to messages stating that the pages he was looking for could not be found.

It was this more than anything else that convinced Zhou Mi that something was wrong. No one would have been capable of pulling off a prank this elaborate – no one would have gone this far.

But what exactly had gone wrong? Zhou Mi mentally recounted his facts. When he’d gone to bed last night, everything had been fine. He’d fallen asleep in his own bed in the right room in the right dorm – and had woken up this morning to discover that not only was he halfway across the city, Kyuhyun (and possibly the entire world) apparently had no recollection of him.

He sat back down on the bed, breath coming out in a heavy whoosh as he stared at his hands. No matter how he thought about this, the entire situation just made no sense. People didn’t just miraculously teleport around the city. Boybands didn’t just forget they had another member.

There seemed to be no logical course of action (and of course not, Zhou Mi thought half hysterically – why would it ever occur to him to prepare for a situation like this?) but even so. He needed some kind of confirmation that he wasn’t just going crazy.

He had to be sure.

~

Super Junior M lived in an apartment near the outskirts of Beijing, away from the busiest streets and central tourist spots. It gave them some semblance of privacy, at least. It had never really bothered the members that they were farther away from the heart of the city - it wasn't like any of them could go out anyway - but for Zhou Mi, who now had to take public transportation all the way there, it took the better half of the morning.

By the time he’d woven through the crowd of fangirls camped near the building and punched in the access code to unlock the front door (that seemed to have stayed the same, at least), it was already nearing eleven o’clock. Zhou Mi was on his way to the elevator when he was stopped by the security guard.

For a second, his heart leapt - he recognizes me, he thought, a sudden hope flaring in his chest – but that quickly died as he realized that in all the times Super Junior M had lived here, not once had the guard actually approached them, opting to sit in his makeshift “office” and smile his greetings.

His fears were confirmed when the guard looked at him, no flicker of recognition in his eyes. “Who are you, and how did you get in,” the man asked gruffly, his stern expression brooking no room for excuses. Zhou Mi had always thought the security guard was rather unsuited for his job with his kindly appearance and rounder figure, but with the image he was presented with now, he could see why the man had been hired.

“I’m here to visit Super Junior M,” Zhou Mi said, stuttering out the first thought that crossed his mind and internally berating himself for not having thought up a more plausible explanation earlier.

The guard looked at him carefully. “Do they know you’re coming?”

“Um. I don’t think they do, but Kyuhyun gave me the access code a while ago. I was going to call but I forgot.” Zhou Mi tried to look convincingly sheepish while his mind raced to doublecheck that the information he was spewing out made sense.

“And you’re … Kyuhyun’s friend?”

Zhou Mi was about to nod when something warning bells went off in his head, and he caught himself just in time. Super Junior M could hardly leave the dorms, with fangirls hounding them at every opportunity. It made no sense to say he was Kyuhyun’s friend, simply because Kyuhyun hadn’t had time to make friends in Beijing. “Oh no,” he said quickly, realizing from the narrowing of the guard’s eyes that he’d taken longer than he should have in replying. “I’m Han Geng’s friend – I met the rest of the members through him.”

The guard scrutinized him for a moment longer before finally letting him go. Making his way into the elevator, Zhou Mi gave a large exhale of relief before pressing the button to close the door.

A soft ding signaled that he’d reached the tenth floor. Zhou Mi took a left turn, heartbeat quickening as he approached the familiar-looking door at the end of the hall. As he lifted a hand to knock, he suddenly realized that it was highly unlike that anyone would even be in the dorms at this time.

A few knocks indicated that his guess had been correct.

Throat dry, he turned to the high-security keypad installed on the side of the door. Praying that the room code too had stayed the same, he punched in the familiar 12-digit number and turned the handle with baited breath.

The lock opened with a soft click.

At first glance, things were more or less as Zhou Mi remembered it, with minor changes here and there. The photo he’d hung up by the living room was no longer there, as were the half-finished lyrics he’d left stacked on the coffee table, but Donghae’s shoes were still littered hazardously by the doorway and the fridge remained covered in Ryeowook’s colorful post-it notes. Video game consoles were precariously placed onto a chair, and Zhou Mi found himself moving them onto the table automatically – Kyuhyun would never let them hear the end of it if someone accidentally sat on them.

He was looking through the individual rooms, noting the way roomates had changed when the sound of keys in the lock froze him in his steps. The sound of familiar chattering and laughter was unmistakable. For a second, Zhou Mi wondered if it would be a good idea to try and actually hide. Frantically looking around the rooms and coming up with either behind the couch or in one of the closets, he shook his head – the former would be too obvious, and he would never be able to sneak out of the dorms unnoticed if he went with the latter. Taking a deep breath, he waited instead.

And then the next moment, the door opened and six boys spilled into the room, still talking, the sounds of Chinese and Korean mixing into one big jumble. Zhou Mi stood there, feeling as if his limbs had been paralyzed as he took in Han Geng and Siwon and Henry and Ryeowook and Kyuhyun, whose arm was thrown casually around Donghae’s shoulder.

As if feeling his gaze, Kyuhyun suddenly looked up. His eyes widened momentarily in surprise as he took in the sight of Zhou Mi standing in the middle of the living room before narrowing. “Hyung,” he said loudly, voice cutting across the talking and grabbing everyone's attention. Any sign of the amusement that had been in his expression just seconds ago had disappeared. “I think we have a visitor.”

-- tbc.

in another world, I think I'd miss you if we never met (3/?)

papered — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 02:49:24 GMT

in another world, I think I'd miss you if we never met (3/?)
super junior m: zhou mi, kyumi
pg-13, 2542 words in chapter 3
one day, zhou mi wakes up in a world where he was never part of super junior m.

-- previous.

Han Geng came to get him later.

It might have been minutes or a hours, Zhou Mi wasn’t sure. All he knew was that by the time he was back in the apartment, he’d lost feeling in his fingers.

“How can you be so stupid?” Han Geng asked, leading him into the washroom and pulling his hands under the tap. The warm water scalded his skin. “I don’t know what you two argued about this time, but it’s always like this whenever you and Kyuhyun argue. You know you’re going to make up in the next few days anyway – why do you always do this to yourself?”

“I kissed him,” Zhou Mi said, the words falling out before he could stop himself. He waited for Han Geng’s eyes to widen, for the inevitable condemnation. He wasn’t sure exactly what he expected, but what did it matter anymore? This wasn’t just another argument, no – the difference was that Kyuhyun was never going to forgive him this time.

Han Geng looked a little surprised, then looked at him questioningly. “And then? What happened?”

Zhou Mi stared at him in incomprehension. “Ge. I’m telling you I kissed Kui Xian and you’re asking me what happened?”

Han Geng gave him an exasperatedly patient look. “What do you want me to say?”

Zhou Mi’s eloquent response was his blank expression.

“What did you expect, for me to yell at you?”

To be honest, that was the least of what Zhou Mi had expected – but apparently he really didn’t know Han Geng as well as he'd thought after all. “So, you're... okay with this?” he asked cautiously, not sure what was going on anymore.

Han Geng sighed. “I’m not going to lie and say that everything will be okay. Because I don’t know that – you know how things are.”

Zhou Mi’s heart sank, but Han Geng continued.

“If this gets out to the rest of the members, it might be hard for a while. But then again, it’s probably not as bad as you’re making it out to be – and you never now until you try. As long as this doesn’t get out to the media though, I think we’ll be okay.”

“Did Heechul tell you beforehand already?” Zhou Mi said weakly, heart beating again.

“Tell me? About what?”

Zhou Mi waved his hand in the air vaguely. “This. All this.”

“Wait what, he knew?” Han Geng asked, surprised. “How does he know?”

“He figured it out that one week he was here.”

“How did he figure it out in six days when I didn’t know for sure until you admitted it just now?” Han Geng sighed, sounding exasperated. “He’d never going to let me hear the end of this.”

Zhou Mi managed to give him a small smile.

It took him an entire three days after that to find Kyuhyun alone. It seemed as if every time he saw the younger man, Kyuhyun was surrounded by other members. Even when he went into Kyuhyun's room the other day, Zhou Mi had found Ryeowook sitting with him and Donghae sprawled out on the carpet listening to music.

When he finally did find Kyuhyun by himself, the other man seemed firmly absorbed in a stack of papers. Pulling up a chair beside him, Zhou Mi sighed. “Kui Xian, can we talk?” he asked quietly.

Kyuhyun didn’t look up from what he was reading. “Sorry, but I’m kind of in the middle of something right now,” he said, voice tight.

Zhou Mi suppressed the irrational urge to reach forward and wrench the papers out of Kyuhyun’s hands – but his brain couldn't help asking what was so important that Kyuhyun wouldn’t even look at him. Instead, he reached out and put a hand on Kyuhyun’s arm. The other man tensed immediately under his touch.

“Please,” he said, ignoring the flare of hurt in his chest. “This is important.”

Kyuhyun exhaled loudly before finally dropping the papers onto the table beside him. “Yes?” he asked, looking up expectantly.

Zhou Mi felt his stomach seize up. He took in a deep breath. “I. Just wanted to explain. About the other day.”

Kyuhyun shook his head. “Really, there’s no need. You had one too many sips of alcohol – we all know how low your tolerance is – and weren’t in your right mind. Let’s just agree that it was a big mistake, nothing more, and forget about it. What else is there to say?”

Zhou Mi’s stomach dropped. For a moment, he was tempted - Kyuhyun was giving him a way out. If he agreed, then things would eventually go back to normal. But how long would he be able to keep up the pretense this time?

“Kui Xian,” he said after a long pause. “I didn’t drink that night.”

Kyuhyun stared at him. “Stop it,” he said flatly after a moment. “Stop it, take that back.”

“No,” Zhou Mi said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m not going to lie to you, Kui Xian.” He swallowed hard. “I. I’m attracted to you. I’ve known that for months. And even if I’m sorry for springing that kiss on you, I’m not going to apologize for liking you. I can’t take that back.” Another pause. “A-and you had to have known – you’ve been avoiding me all week.”

Kyuhyun stared at him.

Zhou Mi waited.

The younger man finally shook his head. “Do you even know what you’re saying right now,” he asked, no hint of inflection in his voice.

Zhou Mi flinched.

“When are you going to get it into your head, Zhou Mi? What you’re saying – it’s impossible, why won’t you get it? It’s wrong.”

“Why,” Zhou Mi whispered, even when he knew that he should just stay silent.

“Why? You know why. What else do you want me to say?” Kyuhyun shook his head. “It wasn't meant to be this way, Zhou Mi.”

He’d already given his all – what was there to lose? “But I love you,” Zhou Mi choked out, hoping against hope (even if his mind was calling him a fool) that that would make some sort of difference.

There was bitterness in Kyuhyun’s eyes when he looked up. “I’m sorry, Zhou Mi, but just. I thought you were my friend – one of my best friends, even. Why did you have to be like this?” He laughed humourlessly, the sound tugging at Zhou Mi’s heart strings.

“Kui Xian,” Zhou Mi said, biting down on his lips. “Please. I – Don’t do this to me.” Not knowing what else he could say, he reached out instead, as if to put his hand on Kyuhyun’s arm, but his fingertips had barely grazed the material of Kyuhyun’s shirt when the younger man pulled away.

“Stay away from me from now on,” Kyuhyun said roughly, then turned and swept out of the room.

He’d been so eager to leave that he’d even forgotten his papers, Zhou Mi thought, his own laugh choking him.

Avoiding Kyuhyun was a lot easier than he'd thought – possibly because Kyuhyun was obviously avoiding him as well. Zhou Mi had taken to hiding out in his room a lot – what else was new, he thought half-bitterly, shaking his head at himself – while Kyuhyun apparently did the same. Whenever they ran into each other, Zhou Mi would feel himself freeze up, while Kyuhyun would just turn away and keep going as if he hadn’t seen Zhou Mi.

It hurt, even if Zhou Mi couldn’t quite admit it out loud.

The other members noticed, of course. Han Geng had come to talk to him immediately, having figured out what must have happened, but Zhou Mi had tiredly told him that he didn’t want to talk about it right now (or ever, for that matter, if Zhou Mi had a choice about it). Donghae and Ryeowook, with their worried gazes and probing questions, were harder to deal with, but Zhou Mi had put them off (for the time being, at any rate), claiming that he just needed a little time to himself right now.

“Ge, are you and Kyuhyun fighting?” Henry had asked, and Zhou Mi had just nodded, not sure what else he could say.

Siwon chose the subtler route, popping into Zhou Mi’s room one night when everyone else was still downstairs. “Hyung,” he’d said, tone concerned but earnest. “You know I’ll always be here if you ever want to talk, right?”

Zhou Mi had given him a forced smile before sending him away, his heart clenching all the while. What would you think of me if you knew what I’ve done? he wondered. He didn’t want to know how Siwon would react if he ever found out about everything.

Performances were still alright – they knew the steps and lyrics so well by now that everything had long become automatic – but interviews were the worst. There was no way to switch up their order without raising questions, and so Kyuhyun and Zhou Mi were inevitably seated right next to each other. While Kyuhyun seemed to have no problems keeping up a convincing façade, Zhou Mi wasn’t quite as good an actor. Although the other members tried their best to cut in and diffuse tension as much as they could, every time they went onstage, Zhou Mi couldn’t help but feel as if their internal conflict was obvious for the world to see.

He hated it. He hated their whole group was falling apart from the inside because of his actions – his selfish, foolish actions. Even more than that, he hated that Kyuhyun wouldn’t even look at him.

If he was honest with himself, it wasn’t even about being in love. It was true that he missed Kyuhyun because he liked him, but even more than that – he missed Kyuhyun as a friend. He’d grown reliant to the younger man in the last few years, too used to having a sarcastic comment whispered in his ear to keep him from falling asleep on air and impromptu video game matches that Zhou Mi always lost.

When he finally couldn't stand it anymore, Zhou Mi took to going out instead. He knew that it wasn't a good idea, and that if he was ever recognized, their manager would never let him hear the end of it - but anything was better than the stifling atmosphere of their dorm. He didn't go far - just to the small park a couple blocks from their building. It was a quiet place - sometimes there were elderly people exercising in the morning, but no one was likely to recognize him. Despite his hectic schedule, Zhou Mi wasn't a big sleeper - he'd always been a morning person, and after what had happened with Kyuhyun, he'd taken to waking up even earlier to hide out in the park until daily schedules started.

It was on one such morning, when he was trying to finish up another song on the abandoned park bench when something - he wasn't sure what, exactly - caused him to look up. To his surprise, there wasn't anyone nearby except for an old lady who was cutting across the grass a few meters away from him. She was a tiny thing, her back hunched over as she tried to block the slight breeze with her shawl and shuffle the numerous plastic bags she was carrying at the same time. She must've been at the marketplace early to get the day's groceries, Zhou Mi thought, suddenly thinking of his own grandmother's habits.

On impulse, he stood up. "Excuse me!" he called out, raising his voice so that he would be heard. "Excuse me, but do you need any help with that?"

For a second, he thought he hadn't been heard - but then she slowed down and looked up at him. "Would you really?" she asked, her voice sounding a little raspy as she struggled with the bags again. "I'm afraid things got a little heavier than I was expecting."

"Of course," Zhou Mi, running up to pick up her bags. They were actually surprisingly heavy, even for Zhou Mi, and he wondered how she'd managed to make it this far. "Do you live close by?" And then, not wanting to scare her, he quickly added, "I can carry it for you until we get to your apartment or something and then I'll leave."

The old woman laughed, a soft croaking sound. She had unusual eyes, Zhou Mi noticed - they were so dark they were almost black. "What a nice boy you are," she said, giving him a half-smile. "If you would just help me to the other side of the park, I'll be fine after that."

"Of course," Zhou Mi agreed easily, heading in the direction she'd pointed out. He made sure to stay just a few steps ahead of her, so that she could see what he was doing.

When they reached the other side, Zhou Mi gave her a smile and handed her bags back. "There you go! Are you sure you don't need more help?"

She looked up at him instead of answering his question. "You really are a good person, aren't you," she said, her eyes meeting his, and her gaze was unexpectedly piercing. "I think... for your help today, I'll throw in a wish."

Zhou Mi looked at her blankly. "What?" he asked uncertainly, wondering if this was her idea of a joke.

"A wish, my boy. Anything you want," she said, ignoring any hesitance on his part.

He definitely hadn't misheard that second time. Giving her a weak smile, he mentally wondered if she was aware of what she was saying. "You want me to make one?" he asked instead. "Anything?"

She nodded.

Well. He'd helped her with her bags already - humoring her once more wouldn't hurt. "I wish things would go back to the way it was," he said simply, the first thought that rose in his mind. "Is that good enough?"

"If you're sure that's what you want, Zhou Mi," she said, turning to go at his nod. As she did so, Zhou Mi had the oddest feeling that her eyes had changed colors - but her back was already to him as she walked down the street.

There was a sudden breeze, and Zhou Mi thought he heard the sound of talking. Looking up, he saw that the morning senior exercise group had showed up and were slowly making their way down the other side of the park. Looking down at his watch, he sighed - if he didn't want to be found gone, he'd have to head back to the dorms soon. He had a long day ahead.

By the time he looked down the street again, the old lady from earlier had disappeared.

It never occurred to him that he'd never told her his name.

-- tbc.

Super Junior: donghae's guide on how to proclaim your love

papered — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 01:16:01 GMT

donghae's guide on how to proclaim your love
super junior: kihae
pg-13, 5215 words
kibum is a fairly unknown actor, still new to the scene and trying to make it big. so he's a little puzzled as to why he seems to have his own personal paparazzi - one who follows him around everywhere he goes and tries to talk him into private interviews.

a/n: written for mei's birthday, and based off this inception prompt but applied to kihae. :3 also, a million thank yous to ceri for all of her cheerleading and editting - without her, this would have taken me twice as long to write.

"What the hell is going on," Kibum said as looked out the darkened window of the company car.

He was supposed to go in for the promotional photoshoot for the new drama he was in today, and Kibum would have understood why it was a big deal if it had been a group shoot. After all, some of his fellow actors - like Kim Heechul, for example - were actually fairly famous; he could understand why the media would have been all over that.

As it was, today was for individual shots, and it had been decided that each of them would be photographed in a different location, for "a more exciting atmosphere", or so the director had said. Kibum played a supporting character - big enough to have a role in the plotline, but small enough that his character wasn't actually strictly necessary. Kibum couldn't complain though - considering who he was working with, he knew he'd been lucky to get the role. If he got enough attention from this, he'd definitely be able to get a bigger and better role for his next job.

... which didn't explain why there seemed to be at least half a dozen reporters waiting outside the photoshoot location with cameras at the ready.

"Maybe they got your location mixed up with Heechul's," Sungmin suggested from beside him, a smirk in his voice. Kibum aimed an unamused look at his manager, knowing that Sungmin was secretly laughing at him.

"Whatever, let's get it over with," he said, swinging open the car door abruptly and stepping out.

Immediately, the cameras were upon him, the flashes nearly blinding him as Sungmin herded him in the right direction. Unfortunately for him, Kibum was stopped just in front of the sidedoor he had been about to step through by a photographer who didn't look much older than him. He was about the same height as Kibum, with slightly rumpled-looking hair and a smile that seemed wide enough to be too big for his face. He was attractive, Kibum noted, although he probably would've been a lot more appreciative if said man wasn't currently blocking the door.

"Hello Kibum-sshi, my name is Lee Donghae!" the photographer chirped, and Kibum temporarily revised his opinion of the man's attractiveness - the amount of enthusiasm and energy in his voice made Kibum want to hit him in the face. "My friend and I are here from the The Weekly Heartthrob, and we'd love to have you for an interview after this if you're free."

"Sorry, but I'm not," Kibum said, trying to be as polite as possible under the circumstances, but it still came out brusquely. Sungmin tactfully chose that moment to push Donghae aside and pull the door open. Slipping into the building, Kibum swallowed a small sigh of relief.

"Don't worry about it too much - you can think of that as practice for when you become famous and every reporter in Korea is hounding you," Sungmin told him cheerfully, and Kibum only bit back a scathing retort because the stylists for the shoot chose that moment to descend upon him with makeup palettes and clothing for him to change into.

That should have been the end of the matter, except it wasn't. Donghae was still there when he came out of his shoot. He was also there the next time Kibum was grabbing a coffee between filming, and the time after that, when Kibum was doing shoot for a CF completely unrelated to his drama.

"Why won't he leave me alone," he complained later, as he laid face-down on Sungmin's couch with his eyes closed.

"I think it's cute," Sungmin told him unhelpfully, not looking up from the latest episode of The Bachelor he'd loaded onto his computer. "Plus, you should be thankful - The Weekly Heartthrob is one of South Korea's most popular entertainment magazines for the teen and young adult demography, and Eunhyuk and Donghae are their top reporter-photographer pair. The fact that they're paying attention to you means other media outlets are more likely to be interested in you. Haven't you noticed that you've been getting more coverage than usual lately?"

Kibum had noticed, and thought that he could probably be forgiven for not being happy about never being left alone anymore. "How do they even know what my schedule is?" he asked, frustrated.

Sungmin shrugged. "They must have a source somewhere. It is a little odd though - I've been extra careful with your schedule lately. They must be really good at what they do."

"What's it going to take to make them stop?"

Sungmin laughed as if he'd just said something hilarious. "They're never going to stop, you know - that's what happens when you get famous. But..." Here, he paused, looking thoughtful. "If you want them to tone down a little, it might actually be a good idea to give them an interview like they want."

Kibum lifted his head up enough to stare at him. "How is that going to help? It'll just encourage them, if anything."

"No, you're not getting the point," Sungmin said. "Basically, right now, you're this mysterious persona that no one really knows about - and now that Donghae's gotten people's attention on you, everyone wants to know more. If you just feed them some information - enough to satisfy them a little - then people will be less curious and the media will leave you alone for a while."

Kibum looked at him dubiously. "Just so you know - if you're wrong, I'm going to make you regret it later."

Sungmin just grinned and shot a peace sign at him. "Trust me, it'll be fine. I'll just schedule it for next week then - you wrap up early on Friday."

~

So according to Eunhyuk, Donghae was behaving exactly like a creepy stalker - the kind people called the police on - but it wasn't exactly his fault, okay. Because seriously, had Eunhyuk even laid eyes on Kim Kibum? The other man had just appeared in the acting scene a year and a half ago, and when Donghae had seen him at an award show that very first time and taken in the muscled figure and gorgeous smile, Eunhyuk had had to practically drag him away.

Going home that night, he'd immediately looked up all and any information the internet had on Kim Kibum. Not that there had been much. There was basic information, of course, and a list of works he'd been involved in - but all in all, it had been obvious that Kibum was still very new to the scene.

The other man getting involved in a drama with Heechul had been like a gift that had fallen into his lap - because after Heechul (whom Donghae had known for years and years) had finished laughing himself stupid at Donghae's little crush, he'd somehow managed to get his hands on Kibum's daily schedule. And had given it to Donghae, after extracting promises of eternal devotion Donghae was only too happy to give.

Suddenly, his attempts to keep track of Kibum got a million times easier. From there, it hadn't been too difficult to plant himself in front of Kibum and get himself noticed. The fact that it had been negative attention had bothered him a little, because he rather thought Kibum hadn't been too pleased to see him - but he thought to himself that he could definitely work on that part.

So of course, when Lee Sungmin contacted him out of the blue a few days later and said that Kibum was interested in doing an interview with him, Donghae nearly fell over in his excitement.

~

Next week came quickly. Before Kibum knew it, he had been herded into a small office at The Weekly Heartthrob and was a being enthusiastically greeted. "I'm so happy to have you here," Donghae said, giving him wide grin and pumping his hand enthusiastically. Kibum had to admit that his cheerfulness was slightly infectious - it was hard to stay nonchalant in the face of such eagerness, even though Kibum had no idea why Donghae even cared about an interview with Kibum.

Finally getting his hand back, Kibum looked around the room curiously. "So where's Eunhyuk then? I thought he was the reporter?"

Donghae paused, looking suddenly nervous as he replied. "Er - something came up for him today, so I'm just going to be doing the interview."

Kibum shrugged, not sure what to make of this abrupt change in demeanor. "Sure, whatever. I'd like to get started then if you don't mind - I don't have a lot of time today."

As far as interviews went, it was fairly standard. Donghae seemed slightly jittery for reasons Kibum couldn't fathom, and it wasn't exactly Kibum's business anyway. Instead, he focused on getting this over with as soon as possible. He'd always been the quiet type, and as a result, had never been a big fan of interviews, especially individual ones - there was just too much attention on him alone. When the hour was finally up, he gave an internal sigh of relief, and was preparing to make his excuses and leave when the door to the office suddenly banged open and Kim Heechul flounced in.

Before Kibum could say a word in greeting, Donghae jumped up. "Hyung!" he said, surprise written clearly on his face. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard my favourite dongsaeng was interviewing my co-star, so I decided to pop in," Heechul said airily.

Kibum finally got a chance to open his mouth when Heechul turned to him. "Heechul-sshi," he said, his greeting more reserved.

Instead of sitting in the spare chair, Heechul settled himself onto Donghae's table. "So how's the interview going?" he asked.

"We were just wrapping up," Kibum explained, motioning to the company car already waiting for him outside.

"So soon?" Heechul asked, and his eyes shot a quick look at Donghae.

"He agreed to a one-hour one," Donghae explained, voice slightly subdued, and Kibum got the uncanny feeling that he was missing something here.

"One hour! That's far too short for any sort of decent interview - you'll definitely have to do a follow up," Heechul said decisively, then smirked. "I have an idea - how about Kibum and I do a dual interview with you?"

"What," Kibum said, staring at Heechul. The whole point of doing this was so that he could avoid the paparazzi for a while - there was no way he was going to willingly submit himself to a followup. "Sorry Heechul-sshi, but that's not going to be possible - my schedule's kind of full." He shot Heechul a look that he hoped was apologetic enough, wondering what the redhead was trying to do.

Heechul waved a perfectly manicured hand dismissively in his face. "Oh please, don't be like that! I'm sure Sungmin will find some way to schedule you in - just tell him I said I'd love to do a dual interview." He paused for a second, his lips suddenly curving into a smirk. "Actually, I have a better idea. Since you're so busy, Kibum-sshi, why don't we do an interview over dinner? Even you have to eat - we won't be taking up much extra time."

Kibum swallowed back the automatic "wait, you know Sungmin?" that had been at the tip of his tongue in favour of staring at Heechul as if he'd grown a second head.

Before he could outright refuse, Donghae turned to him with the most ridiculous pleading expression Kibum had ever seen. "Would that be alright, Kibum-sshi? I'd really appreciate it if you could do that - you and Heechul-hyung would make such a great story together."

Kibum mentally sighed. Donghae was hard to refuse, especially when he was aiming those ridiculous puppy eyes at him. But regardless, he hated interviews, and so there was no way he was agreeing to this. Opening his mouth, he had every intention of giving a polite no - except for some reason, without his explicit permission, of course slipped out instead.

He immediately opened his mouth again to correct himself, except Donghae was already jumping up and beaming as if he'd been handed the world on a platter, and something about his expression made Kibum's throat dry up. Which was kind of ridiculously - really, this whole thing was ridiculous, because Kibum still didn't understand where all of Donghae's enthusiasm was coming from. It was true that an interview with Heechul was a big deal, but it was obvious that those two knew each other on more than just a professional level. It shouldn't have been hard for Donghae to score an interview with Heechul. The only reason that made sense was that Donghae must be excited about interviewing Kibum - except that made no sense either, because as far as Kibum was concerned, he didn't think himself to be that interesting of a person.

"Well, it's all set then. Let's say 7PM, Wednesday evening at Shangri-la? I'll book us a table in the private rooms." Before Kibum could agree or disagree, Heechul checked his watched in an exaggerated manner, exclaimed loudly that he was late, then disappeared out the door.

Donghae turned to him, then ducked his head in a slightly embarrassed manner that Kibum mentally insisted he didn't find cute at all. "I guess I'll see you Wednesday then, Kibum-sshi," he said with a bow as he backed out of the room.

"What the hell is wrong with Kim Heechul," Kibum raged at Sungmin afterward. "He just stormed in in the middle of my interview, signed me up for an interview I didn't suggest or volunteer for, then left before I could say a word. Seriously, what the hell?"

Sungmin shrugged, looking a little embarrassed for no reason Kibum could fathom. "Heechul-hyung's a little special," he said. "It's best to go along with him. Plus, it'll be good publicity for you! You know any interview with Kim Heechul is going to sell out."

Kibum was too distracted by the first bit of that sentence. "Wait, did you say hyung? Do you know Heechul or something?"

"Oh, we've been going to the same salon for ages - I ran into him a few years back when I was going in for a pedicure and we ended up chatting."

Kibum shook his head in disbelief, and would have given Sungmin more grief about having never mentioned this at all, when Sungmin suddenly grinned in a way Kibum found slightly ominous. "What," he asked, not sure if he wanted to know.

"Oh, I was just thinking that a dinner interview is actually a pretty good idea." Leaning in, Sungmin lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Come on, don't you think that Lee Donghae is pretty cute?"

"What," Kibum asked, having not expected that at all. He stared at Sungmin, denial on the tip of his tongue even as he wondered if Sungmin was somehow psychic.

"Oh, you know. Cute, single - totally your type," Sungmin said airily. "And have you seen his arms? He totally works out."

Biting back the immediate urge to ask how Sungmin knew about the single bit (god, he must be really going crazy), he crossed his arms, looking the very picture of unamused. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he told Sungmin. "Also, you are a psychopath."

Sungmin just grinned. "Oh, so you're not interested at all then?"

"No. I'm not."

"So if I were to ask him out the next time I see him, you wouldn't have any complaints?"

Damn it, he hated Sungmin and how well the other man knew him sometimes. "No, no complaints," he bit out.

Sungmin laughed out loud. "You always were crap at lying to me, Kibummie," he called over his shoulder as he picked up his file and left the room, leaving Kibum wordless in his wake.

Wednesday evening found Kibum in front of the Shangri-la building. Taking the elevator up to the restaurant itself, he shifted uncomfortably, looking at himself in the reflective surface of the walls. He felt ridiculously overdressed with the dress shirt and expensive black slacks he had on, but Sungmin had taken one look at his original outfit, reeled in horror, and spent the next half an hour picking out the clothing he should wear.

A waiter took him to the private room, where Donghae was already waiting. The other man stood up at his arrival, and if Kibum's honest, he has to force himself not to stare. Donghae had gone the casual route and traded in the formal-wear for a simple white tee and a pair of slightly worn jeans that fit perfectly in all the right places. Sungmin had been right about the working out, he couldn't help thinking, then gave himself a mental shake. "Donghae-sshi," he said instead, hoping his voice sounded normal.

"I'm glad you made it, Kibum-sshi!" Donghae said with a smile. "Here, sit down sit down! I got us some wine - have a drink while we wait!" He checked his watch. "Heechul-sshi shouldn't be too long now."

Kibum accepted the glass with a small smile, and ignored the way their knees brushed as he slid across into the opposite seat.

If all had gone to plan, everything should have worked out fine - except by the time it was 7:20, Heechul still hadn't shown up.

Kibum shook his head, feeling a small headache building. "I don't think Heechul-sshi's going to be showing up after all," he said, voicing what he was sure they'd both been thinking for the last five minutes. Looking at the distracting way Donghae was worrying his lips, Kibum knew he had to get out of here (he was going to kill Sungmin later for putting the idea in his head in the first place) before he did something ridiculous. Standing up abruptly, he reached for his bag, ready to make his excuses.

"Wait," Donghae said first, jumping up so quickly his knee crashed into the table. He didn't even wince though, his attention entirely focused on Kibum. "Where are you going?"

Kibum shrugged in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. "There isn't much point doing this if he's not here, is there?"

"No no, what are you talking about, it's great that he's not here!" Donghae said, before his eyes widened and he quickly backtracked. "I mean, obviously it would be better if he was here, but this doesn't mean we can't do the interview! Plus, you're here already - how about we just eat dinner first and give Heechul-sshi some more time to show up? If he's still not here when we're done, we can just move on to the interview." Here, he paused, a hopeful look on his face. "Please, Kibum-sshi? As a favour to me?"

Christ, this was getting ridiculous, Kibum thought as he sat down heavily, trying not to look at the way Donghae's face transformed into a delighted smile. Pouring himself another glass of wine, he quickly took a gulp as he watched Donghae motion for the waiter to come take their order. It was going to be a long evening.

Two hours and an entire bottle of wine later, Kibum had the sneaking suspicion that he'd been slightly overenthusiastic in his attempt to Not Think about Donghae's stupid smile. The room was looking suspiciously shaky around him, and he detachedly observed that the wall behind Donghae's head seemed to be spinning.

"Kibum-sshi?" Donghae's voice said, seemingly from right by his ear. "Are you feeling alright?"

Kibum aimed a smile in his general direction. "I feel great!" he said, his words slurring a little in his attempt to make a point of it. "Never better!"

"Oh my god, you're drunk," Donghae said, sounding horrified.

"No I'm not!" Kibum insisted loudly.

"Oh my god," Donghae repeated, then looked around wildly as if hoping for divine intervention. "Um. I should get you home, I guess." He waved for the bill, then stood up to come to Kibum's side of the table. "Please, Kibum-sshi, you need to get up."

"I told you I'm fine!" Kibum said, even louder, in case Donghae hadn't heard him the last time, but allowed Donghae to coax him into a standing position anyway. From there, he promptly staggered, stumbling into Donghae as his legs suddenly decided to fail on him.

Donghae pulled him back up again surprisingly easily, and Kibum decided that Sungmin had definitely been right about the working out after all. "Where are we going?" he asked as he found himself led out of the restaurant.

"Could you tell me the your manager's cell number?" Donghae asked, looking a little desperate, although why, Kibum really couldn't fathom.

"Sungmin?" he asked, laughing a little. "He's not home, he has a late meeting with management today. What do you want to tell Sungmin, anyway?" He peered at Donghae's face closely, trying to detect any lies. "You know you can tell me anything you would tell him, right? You trust me, don't you?"

"I- of course I do, but I need someone to come take you home," Donghae stuttered.

"But I don't want to go home! I haven't given you your interview yet!" Kibum frowned. "You still want your interview, don't you?"

Donghae seemed to flail a little under his gaze. "Um, yes yes, of course. Er, I can interview you there, if you want to, but we really need to get you home first, Kibum-sshi."

"Oh. Okay," Kibum said, satisfied now that he knew what was going on. "Okay! I'll tell you my address, but you can't tell anyone else, okay?" He gave Donghae's a conspiratorial look. "It's a secret, you see - because I have this photographer from The Weekly Heartthrob who's been stalking me anywhere I go, and I can't let him find out." He paused, the frowned. "Except I'm not sure why, because he's actually really cute..."

"What?" The other man squeaked. "You think he's cute?"

"Really really cute," Kibum said insistently, and was going to attempt to show how much by stretching his arms out as far out as he could - except he lost his balance halfway through and stumbled again.

Donghae sighed helplessly. "Alright, Kibum-sshi," he said, tugging Kibum upright again. "I'm going to hail a taxi, and then you can tell me your address - which I promise I'll keep secret - and then we can get you home."

~

By the time Donghae managed to get Kibum inside his flat, it as a good hour later, and his arms were tired from almost entirely supporting Kibum's weight. The other man had a relaxed smile on his face, a far cry from his usual serious expression, and Donghae thought with a mental sigh that it made Kibum look even more handsome, if that was even humanly possible.

And, if he hadn't interpreted it wrong, Kibum had admitted to thinking he was cute too, he thought, his heart jumping a little. It was just too bad that Kibum was too drunk right now for Donghae to figure out if he meant it. Still, he would take what he could get.

Helping Kibum to his bedroom after getting Kibum to brush his teeth, he awkwardly pulled off the other man's shoes, then firmly decided to leave everything else on. Pulling the covers over Kibum's body, he couldn't help but smile a little at the sight. "I'll see you some other time then, Kibum-sshi," he said with a sigh, then turned to leave.

Except a hand grabbed his arm and stopped him before he could take a step.

"Donghae, are you going to leave me alone?" Kibum complained, sitting up with a disgruntled expression on his face, and Donghae's heart leapt a little at the way there was no honorific behind his name.

"You should sleep, Kibum-sshi - you wouldn't want me to stay if you were sober," he said instead with a little sigh, knowing that it was true.

"How would you know?" Kibum demanded. "I'll have you know that I do want you to stay, and I'm very sober right now!" He gave a uncharacteristic grin and god, he was gorgeous, Donghae thought, knowing that his thought processes were steadily degrading the longer he spent in Kibum's company but unable to stop hiself.

But the fact that Kibum was confident he wasn't drunk just proved how very drunk he was. It didn't matter what Kibum said; in this state, Donghae couldn't stay - it would just be taking advantage.

Opening his mouth to explain again, Donghae was surprised when Kibum suddenly gave Donghae's arm a sharp tug, pulling him forward and off-balance. Stumbling, he fell forward onto the bed with a soft oomph!.

His brain chose that moment to start up a mantra of oh my god I'm lying on top of Kim Kibum, and Donghae froze.

Kibum, however, had no such reservations. Instead of letting go, he pulled closer instead, and before long, Donghae found himself awkwardly encircled by Kibum's arms.

"Oh my god," he said weakly.

"I'm going to sleep now," Kibum announced, then promptly closed his eyes, his arms still wrapped around Donghae so that Donghae couldn't pull free.

Needless to say, Donghae didn't get a single wink of sleep that night.

~

Kibum woke with a hangover from hell and a warm body against his side.

Wait, did I pick someone up at a bar last night? he wondered, trying to remember. Whoever it was, their hair was tickling the side of his face. As far as he could remember, he hadn't actually gone anywhere after filming. He hadn't even had anything on his schedule. Except...

... for the dinner meeting with Donghae and Heechul for that dual interview. The one Heechul had never shown up to.

Everything came rushing back with disgusting clarity.

Oh my god. He hadn't actually gotten so drunk he'd needed to be brought home, had he? Kibum stiffened, and immediately regretted it as the person who he had his arms wrapped around tensed up too.

"Kibum-sshi?" came a familiar voice from the vicinity of Kibum's neck, and Kibum mentally groaned. God, he had. He really really had.

Letting go as quickly as he could and ignoring the way his body felt cold all of a sudden, he forced himself into a sitting position. Opening his mouth, he stopped again, wondering what he could possibly say in a situation like this. "Donghae-sshi," he said finally, the name coming out raspy, then paused to swallow. "I. Really can't apologize enough for my behavior last night."

"No no, it's fine -" the other man started, but Kibum cut him off.

"It was utterly unprofessional of me, and you should've have had to deal with that." His cheeks burned at the thought of his own actions - Donghae must've thought he was a total nutjob - and the pounding in his head didn't help. "I'll make up for the missed interview last night as soon as possible, and I'm so sorry for all this trouble." He paused, looking up as a thought suddenly occurred to him. "I - you still want an interview, don't you?"

Donghae gave a small laugh. "Of course I do, Kibum-sshi. Don't worry about it - it happens to all of us. But. There is one thing I'd really like to ask." Donghae avoided his gaze, seemingly staring at a spot on the wall instead.

"Yes?" Kibum replied, suddenly nervous - but no matter what Donghae asked, he pretty much owed it to the other man to answer any questions.

"I just wanted to know. Did you mean what you said last night? About... your opinion of me." Donghae still didn't meet his eyes, a light blush staining his cheeks.

Considering everything Donghae could've asked, this was the last thing Kibum had expected, and he gaped at Donghae like an idiot for a good minute - long enough for Donghae to open his mouth again, as if to take back his question. But all things considered, he hardly had anything to lose now, did he? It wasn't like Donghae could ever be interested after the spectacle he's made of himself. "What if I did?" Kibum asked tiredly.

"Because. Well. If you meant it. I think. I'd like it if we could do dinner again. Just... the two of us." Donghae ducked his head in an embarrassed manner, blushing bright red as he continued to avoid Kibum's gaze, and Kibum was left speechless again for the second time in five minutes.

Because for reasons Kibum couldn't even fathom, Donghae wanted to see him again.

There was a moment of silence, and apparently Kibum had taken too long to reply, because Donghae started babbling again. "Not that you have to, of course. Only if you're free - and only if you want to - but if not, that's okay too, I understand. Or, -"

"Donghae -"

"- if you'd rather do coffee or something instead, that's okay too, anything you want is -"

A slow smile unfurled on his lips at the realization that he was being given a second chance. "Donghae," he said again firmly, and when the other man didn't seem to hear him, he made up his mind and shut Donghae up in the first way he could think of.

Donghae's eyes were wide, and the pressure of his slightly chapped lips against his own made him smile.

Pulling back, Kibum let the smile spread across his face. "Please. I'd love to have dinner with you," he said.

~

Two weeks later.

Love Match made in Heaven?
by The Weekly Heartthrob reporter Lee Eunhyuk

Up-and-coming actor Kim Kibum was spotted in Celebrity, one of the city's most exclusive clubs, last night with our very own photographer, Lee Donghae, on his arms. Other club-goers that night included Kim Heechul and manager Lee Sungmin. Inside sources report that the happy duo seemed very much interested in each other, talking and laughing over drinks, and there may have even been some making out involved. Check out page 5 for more details, including the hottest photos from last night!

Donghae buried his face into his arms with a small groan, letting the magazine flutter to the floor.

Kibum picked it up and flipped through it with a smirk. "Well, at least they only got the kissing photos," he said with a shrug. Which, all things considered, was something to be thankful for.

Donghae didn't seem reassured. "I am going to kill Hyukkie later," he said out loud. "And Heechul-hyung."

Kibum laughed as he stood up, grabbing his jacket from the chair on the way. "I'm going to have to run now if I don't want to be late for filming," he said, pressing his lips to Donghae's cheek briefly. "I'll see you for dinner later? I'll come pick you up." Donghae made a small sound of agreement.

He stepped out into the fresh autumn morning and pulled the door shut behind him, smiling as he looked up at the blue blue sky. It was going to be a good day, he could tell - and, he mused, he may have thank you calls to make to The Weekly Heartthrob and his co-star later.

-- ♥ happy birthday, mei.