RAZZLE AND DAZZLE

some musics

pyrimidine — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 18:50:41 GMT

Mixtapes I made for lemniciate's mixtape exchange! Check out the post, there's lotso good stuff there.

Prompt #1: I basically just want a superhero mix, equal parts "holy shit this is such an awesome career wheee!" and "WHY DO PEOPLE KEEP DYING AROUND ME" and angsting over relationship difficulties. You know. SUPERHERO STUFF.

hxxp://www.mediafire.com/?dok8s1dga38y9gd

STORY:

Supervillain is preparing a variety of nefarious schemes! Meanwhile, Superhero is having an awesome time kicking ass and taking names of Normal, Run of The Mill Villains. But then, Supervillain causes ruckus in Superhero's life by way of kidnapping loved ones, etc., the usual. Superhero withdraws and angsts privately before eventually coming to their senses and ~rising from the ashes~.

TRACKLISTING:

1. Madvillain - Supervillain Theme
2. MF Doom - Saliva
3. Gold Panda - You
4. The Naked and Famous - Young Blood
5. Fink - This Is The Thing
6. The Radio Dept. - It's Personal
7. Why? - Eskimo Snow
8. OK Go - All Is Not Lost
9. The Glitch Mob - We Can Make The World Stop
10. Kleerup - Hero

Prompt #2: Songs to commit crimes to. I want moody, sexy and just a little bit angry. :D

hxxp://www.mediafire.com/?37ye04jtkp52tye

TRACKLISTING:

1. The Kills - U.R.A. Fever
2. Snake River Conspiracy - Lovesong
3. Blakroc - Stay Off The F*&$#n' Flowers
4. Yeah Yeah Yeahs - 10x10
5. The Eels - Fresh Blood
6. The Dead Weather - Die By The Drop
7. Lykke Li - Get Some
8. Tobacco - Grape Aerosmith
9. MGMT - Electric Feel (Justice Remix)
10. Daft Punk - Derezzed (The Glitch Mob Remix)

pyrimidine — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 11:01:27 GMT

At Home in The Sea
~20k
PG
Notes: this is my help_japan fic for terribilita! I'm sorry it is so late :x Eternal thanks to figletofvenice, bauble, and ifeelbetter for beta-ing and being v. rational in the face of e-mails such as "WHAT AM I WRITING" and "HA HA HA HA HA WHAT ARE WORDS". They are the best, this is a fact.

I.

Eames's freelancing terms are as follows: Will only accept jobs from Dom Cobb or jobs that come through Dom Cobb. Team maximum is four. Pay 100% upfront. Everyone must already be under before he'll hook in. He gets to back out at any time if he sees fit to do so.

The list of demands is ridiculous, of course, and he acknowledges that. Hell, he might as well ask for seventeen mermaid companions and a comb made out of Satan's teeth. More than a handful of people have told him to fuck off. But the fun part -- for Eames, at least -- is that he has all the negotiating power. More than a handful of people have told him to fuck off before coming back and accepting the terms, like the world's most begrudging boomerangs. He likes to think he's passing on the hard-earned wisdom of the physical boundaries of dreaming, but the truth is that he mostly likes the paycheck.

Of course, there's always the nagging fear that he's orchestrating his own coup, but considering the low percentage of successful forgeries, at this point, it's like he's getting paid to train people how to fail. He couldn't think of any better arrangement.

Probably the single factor that eases the sting of such an unfair transaction is that Cobb is a well-known public figure in dreamshare, in as much as dreamshare has public figures. People trust him, and he trusts Eames. If Cobb weren't such an earnest bastard, then Eames would give him a hefty cut. As it is, Cobb is quite the earnest bastard, and Eames has only offered once.

He drops into the dream as a tall, almost willowy man about ten years his senior, with silvery hair and eyes to match. The narrow face borders on severe. He's made enough mistakes from when he was first becoming acquainted with less-than-legal activities and now, for the moment, anonymity is something he relishes. People don't know what's coming if they don't know what to look for.

The dream is in the exact same closet of a storage room everyone is sleeping in topside, save for the rolled-up curtain door and the sunlight that streams in. "Is this it?" he asks, unbuttoning the double-breasted jacket and shaking out his cuffs. The words come out several semitones higher than normal, but he doesn't bother to drop the accent.

"Yeah," says Cobb, staring hard at Eames with his chin tilted up. It looks like appraisal, but mostly he's trying not to laugh. "Yeah, hey, nice to see you," he picks up again as he walks toward Eames. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

They shake hands. Eames even briefly clasps his free hand around Cobb's forearm, for show. When they release, he looks around at the rest of the group: a dark haired woman slouching in a desk chair, legs crossed. A bald man in cargo shorts up against the wall behind her, and another man in slacks, with a straight back and hands in his pockets.

"So." Eames opens his arms. "Welcome to a crash course in dream forgery."

*

There's Payal, the chemist. Patrick, the architect. Arthur, the point man. All of them speak with a faintly formal air, deferring to Eames's apparent age. In all the sessions that Eames has led, no one ever even suspected that Eames wasn't actually who he looked like. The mind takes things at face-value far too often, even while being aware of all the fantastic possibilities of dreaming. Sometimes it simply isn't wired to bridge certain gaps.

Cobb stands around and chaperones as Eames begins to walk everyone through the basics. Boring, routine stuff, and the only stand out in the bunch is Arthur, simply because his ratio of effort-to-results is comically high.

"Shit," Arthur says with his own mouth, but his eyes are two different colors and the brow ridge is heavy enough to belong to australopithecus.

Payal has to lean against the wall and laugh herself hoarse. "He said 'blue eyes', not 'half-blind caveman'," she finally gasps, but her attempts at blonde hair go just as badly, and then it's the troubleshooting portion of the session. Equally as boring and routine, but at least people find unique ways to muck it all up.

"You're expecting to see your own hair, is the problem. Not consciously, of course, I know you're not doing it on purpose," Eames adds when Payal opens her mouth to deny it. "But on some root level, you know what you really look like. Try to let go of that, however briefly."

Payal catches it for about five seconds, hair like sunburned flaxseeds. "Cool," she says, beaming. Eames gives her a reserved smile in return.

"Any other nuggets of wisdom?" Arthur butts in, still looking like a gussied up swamp creature with a face full of bee stings, and a disgruntled one at that.

Eames doesn’t tell Arthur about the first time he forged, how none of his fingers matched, how his hair resembled a patchwork quilt of varying colors. The thing that no one wants to hear is that their first few dozen forgeries will look cheap, like Halloween costumes, and they'll probably be used just as often.

Instead he smirks at him and says, "Practice makes perfect. If all else fails, you could always slap on one of those charming Groucho Marx disguises."

"Forging is hardly worth the trouble, don't you think?" says Patrick. He hastily adds, "No offense intended. I'm just wondering how often you get a chance to use your skills -- I imagine they would have taken you a long time to perfect."

Surprisingly, Arthur is the one who cuts in: "Forgery is either superfluous or vital to extraction," he recites, as if reading from a textbook. "You want a simple smash-and-grab, you want a minimum number of people. But our mark grew up in a town with a population of 400, and she had her honeymoon at a hotel within city limits. That narrows projections and familiar faces down to a very small scope."

"Which means that the dream manipulation needs to be more tightly woven," Cobb picks up smoothly. "And that's why Boone is here."

Boone is apparently Cobb's made-up name for Eames. Eames fears for his future children. "No offense taken, Patrick," Eames says breezily. "And you're correct. I could have chosen another masochistic hobby that's much less time-consuming."

He lifts his shoulders in a subtle, dignified shrug. "Then again, every standard deck of cards has a joker or two, and they tend to come in handy every once in a while."

*

Arthur keeps flicking him these short glances for the rest of the week, almost like he can't help himself. By the last day before the job is scheduled, Payal and Patrick can cobble together a passable imitation of a couple that the mark met years ago on her honeymoon, while Arthur can cobble together a passable imitation of a human face that's not his own.

"But just barely," Eames says to Cobb. "Make sure he's in the background. The far background. Or perhaps you could mold the dream to him, some kind of mythical theme where the presence of a cyclops would be unremarkable."

Cobb raises his eyebrows. "Sure," is all he says before changing the subject. "So, how would you rate your teaching success? Do you think I'll have to come up with backup plans?"

Maybe Eames should cut ties with him, if he knows him well enough to correctly interpret his insults as something other than. "Most likely no need," he answers. "It'll be a three-minute conversation at most. And the honeymoon was over a decade ago, her subconscious should attribute natural aging to any discrepancies in their appearance."

Cobb nods. "You're right. Yeah, I guess that's all, then. Thanks for doing this on short notice."

Eames shakes out his cuffs and smooths a hand over his hair. "Any time, dear boy," he says.

"Maybe I will take that cut you offered me," Cobb says.

"Offer's off the table," Eames says over his shoulder as he strolls out toward the sun.

"Boone," Arthur calls, and Eames waits until he catches up. The accompanying smile is small, not quite conspiratorial but not quite overly chummy, either. It's Arthur encapsulated into a single expression, going by what Eames has gleaned over the past week.

"So you're not going to show us?" Arthur asks.

Eames blinks. "I'm sorry?"

Arthur studies him carefully. Finally, he says, "I figured your forgery would slip at some point, but it hasn't. So. Now I'm asking."

"Oh, you think -- " Eames lets his hand float halfway up to his face, an absent-minded gesture to fight the inexplicable urge to smile. "I'm flattered, but I'm afraid you're letting your imagination get the best of you." He pretends to rethink his words. "Or perhaps it's paranoia? One of the undocumented side effects of extended Somnacin use, you know."

"Side effects that only occurred in people who had their names on a hit list before any kind of Somnacin exposure," Arthur parries. But he nods and says, "Alright. Just thought I'd ask anyway."

If he was wheedling and coy about it, maybe it'd be a different story. As it is, Eames says, "I'm horribly scarred. Childhood accident," which is as good a confirmation as any. "Do refrain from trying to uncover the mystery. Think of it as a masked ball, if that helps," he says brightly. "Maybe you could pop out for a bit and purchase the Groucho Marx disguise I suggested."

Arthur smiles again, and this time it's the kind that could easily make someone forget about the circumstances -- namely that he's a mind criminal of high caliber and could probably twist Eames's fingers into pretzels. While the job of a forger is to read people, the job of a point man is to know people and to have the capability to take them apart. Most point men Eames knows have risen from the ashes of some behind-the-scenes person, the puppetmaster behind the curtain. (Though, he once knew a point man who was a former accountant. He didn't last very long.)

Arthur's curiosity is understandable, though. Hiding anything in a dream -- appearances and otherwise -- for a lengthy amount of time is nearly impossible. In most cases.

"He doesn't have that much to hide, anyway. Don't waste your energy," Cobb advises just as music begins floating through at a soft volume.

"And that's my cue. It's been a pleasure." Eames nods to everyone. The last thing he sees before he wakes up is Arthur's small smile and slightly narrowed eyes, the stance of someone who's just accepted a challenge.

*

Even in the dead of winter, Nash looks like he's freshly emerged from a sauna soak of steam and aerated amphetamines. His eyes are constantly flitting around the bar, and the ends of his hair curl damply as he swallows a beer down. Second-hand anxiety usually drags through Eames whenever he's around, but Nash has connections and is one of the few people in dreamshare whom Eames meets with on a semi-regular basis.

He tells Eames about the vague talk regarding counteractive measures for extraction, something about training projections to keep intruders out; a crude, spray-and-pray kind of deal that should be effective nonetheless. Eames mostly saves 'crude' for last minute escapes and patch-up jobs in real life. He doesn't appreciate it in dreams, simply because he doesn't like to leave a trail, let alone blaze a warpath across someone's consciousness.

"You're breaking into minds, Eames, I really don't think that leaves room for scruples," Nash laughs.

Eames waves him off. "That's too black and white. Try to think outside of the box every once in a while, yeah?"

Nash pretends to swing his beer bottle at Eames. "So hey, where've you been?" he asks. "I got in a couple days ago and you weren't around."

"Tokyo," Eames says vaguely. "Short stint, you couldn't have missed me for long."

"Shibuya?" Nash presses, and it's either a miraculous guess or --

Eames leans a fraction closer. "Do tell, Nash."

"Nah," Nash says a bit incongruously. He shrugs. "I mean, someone might be looking for you. People've been asking where you are. I figured it had something to do with Cobb, but then I also figured that he'd call you himself if that was the case." He shrugs again. "I thought maybe you should know."

Details have never been Nash's strong suit, but information comes as readily as ice melting into water, and just as helplessly, too.

"You think it's something bad?" Nash asks in an oddly innocent tone. "Because if it's something bad, man, then maybe you shouldn't be hanging out here for too long, you know?"

"Cheers," Eames eventually says after he finishes off his drink in one long pull. "I owe you one."

"You owe me a lot," Nash corrects. "Several a lots."

"We'll discuss the specifics later." Eames claps him on the shoulder and maneuvers out of the bar.

Shanghai is seeing the day's peak in foot traffic, which means that Eames blends in as one of millions of commuters rushing across sidewalks and through subway stations. Making a stop at the flat is risky, but he doesn't have anything on him except for 300 yuan and a tiny package for a tiny diorama that he purchased out of sheer curiosity. It's hardly any money and he doubts he can fashion a weapon out of minuscule pieces of cardboard, and so he bangs into the flat to collect a small rucksack of essentials.

When he opens the door again, Arthur is standing in the hallway as if having materialized solely from the intensity of Eames's dread.

"Hi," says Arthur. Arthur with that flat American accent and almost incongruously deep voice, Arthur with those sure hands, Arthur who had been so curious.

"Hello. Who are you looking for?" Eames asks with a bland pleasantness. He doesn't expect to deter Arthur so easily, but figures it's worth a try.

"I can't say you were easy to find, Mr. Eames," says Arthur. "You're very good at this, I'll give you that much."

"Excuse me?" is all Eames says.

"Cut the shit."

Eames smiles politely. "I'm sorry, but if you continue you to be belligerent, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Or else I'll be forced to call the authorities."

He moves away from the door slowly, but slams it shut the last few centimeters. Or, he tries to; it glances off Arthur's shoe instead.

"Ow," he yells. Eames fervently hopes he broke a toe or two.

When Arthur pushes the door open again, Eames grabs a small vase from the adjacent shelf and swings it at Arthur, who manages to block it with a well-placed elbow. As it shatters, his other hand connects with Eames's jaw with the sharp sound of bones against skin. Eames stumbles to the side, then bears his weight on that leg and swing-kicks Arthur back out and into the opposite wall of the hallway.

Arthur is fast, though -- Eames barely has time to straighten up before Arthur's coming at him again, jabbing at Eames's nose with two upward snaps of his arm. He makes contact both times, tempering the force just short of breaking it.

"Bugger this," Eames announces stuffily, before leaning down a little and driving his shoulder against Arthur's chest. The aim is a bit off, seeing as how his center of gravity is still freewheeling, but he hears a satisfying breath being punched out anyway.

Then he wraps his arms around Arthur's waist, lifts him bodily, and drops him onto the ground, back first. "Now," Eames pants, "who are you looking for?"

"Some paranoid asshole who beats up people trying to offer him a job," Arthur wheezes. He continues to struggle.

"Submit," Eames pushes.

"Fight back," Arthur counters. "Christ, I can't breathe, get off me."

For some reason, Eames's body shifts before he even realizes it. A millisecond later, he curses silently as he hears something he'd recognize anywhere. When he directs his gaze downward, Arthur is, as expected, pointing a gun right at Eames's crotch with the safety off.

"Ah," says Eames.

"Yeah," Arthur agrees. He's wheezing a lot less now, the little shit, and his eyes are clear while he very obviously sizes Eames up. Probably reconstructing whatever he had thought of Eames in the first place, and committing his real facial features to memory alongside a handful of derogatory commentary.

"Mr. Eames," Arthur says, and Eames flinches when the gun prods at him. "Would you like this job or not?"

"Well, I had to make you work for it somehow," Eames declares. When blood from his lip drips onto Arthur's hand, Eames wipes it off with the heel of his palm. As confessions go, it's a neat one, succinct.

Judging by the fleeting smile, Arthur appreciates this.

*

The next time his phone rings with a freelancing offer, it's not Cobb on the other end. It's Arthur.

*

II.

Eames is in a horrible sports bar, hands wrapped around a hoagie and dutifully facing the hanging flat-screen like the rest of the patrons, when his phone starts ringing and he gets grease all over his trousers trying to fish it out.

"Yeah," Eames says loudly, shoving the phone between his shoulder and ear while reclaiming custody of the hoagie.

"Hey. It's Cobb."

"How did you get this number?" Eames asks with his mouth full, mostly because Cobb hates people chewing with their mouth open.

"Arthur," says Cobb.

"How irksome."

"Because you'll have to change the number again?"

"Because by now I'm realizing that Arthur sticks to you worse than a bad case of the clap," Eames proclaims. "Alright, what is it this time?"

Cobb starts going off about something or other, hatching a plan mostly by talking out loud to himself, and Eames finds his thoughts drifting back to Arthur. Arthur keeping tabs on him isn't new, but it's the first time he's given such information to anyone else. This implication of something resembling partnership is a surprise, because drawing out any kind of identifiable loyalty from Arthur is like coaxing music out of a violin. Press too hard and you kill the sound; play too lightly and nothing but horrible whispers come out.

But what does Eames know. He played violin for a few months in primary school, then bleeted at the trombone for a while until it stood in as a weapon during an unexpected fist fight and he tried to strangle the other boy with the loop.

He drinks two more pints and leaves this story in voicemail form on Arthur's phone, because Cobb is strangely kneadable sometimes and spills Arthur's number after only a few passive-aggressive hints.

*

Arthur always finds him, is the thing. Even that month where Eames's main residence was on a fairly disreputable cruise liner that docked in the dreariest of ports, Arthur fucking found him. Maybe the 'disreputable' part had tipped him off.

He's like a thorny arse ache that Eames has to bear. When Eames agrees to jobs with most other extractors, he comes out uninjured, sane, and with enough money to purchase said disreputable cruise liner. When he agrees to jobs with Arthur, he more often than not gets killed within the dream, burns through an intense flood of adrenaline that can't be healthy, and lies awake at night as architectural paradoxes parade around in his head on loop. If he were any other greedy criminal with an overinflated sense of self-preservation, he'd be living on his own island by now, guilt-free. But, as it is, he's a greedy criminal with an overinflated sense of self-preservation who also gets bored very, very easily. He might even look forward to that thrilling, almost crazed feeling of pulling off a successful job; to Arthur giving him that wide, unencumbered smile that seems novel every time Eames sees it.

Arthur says things like, "Listen, you little asshole," and, "Thanks, have a good one," and, "But if we can somehow take a shortcut -- not that this isn't a solid idea, because it is -- but with a shortcut that goes here, then maybe -- ", and, "Bless you," no matter how many times anyone sneezes.

To Eames, Arthur says things like, "I'm glad it's bleeding, that was for cutting and running with my contact," and, "Three extra packets of hot sauce, how are your taste buds still working," and, "Not to be rude, but that's pretty stupid," and, "Are you sure you've thought this through?"

"Just because I lack your educational pedigree doesn't mean I'm a caveman," Eames says after that last one, despite having no idea about Arthur's education. "I can even count to ten. Listen: one, two, three -- "

Then, after he's underestimated the fierceness of a placid octogenarian's subconscious and they've been ripped out of the dream by a tornado, Eames says, "Alright, that doesn't count."

"I told you she grew up in Tornado Alley. Why do you always mess up the easy ones?" Arthur huffs as they jog down the hallway and out of the building, but both of them know that it was just shit luck that caught them in its grip, nothing more, nothing less.

For some reason Arthur seems very reluctant to trust him without compunction, despite Eames having given no indication of falling short. No serious indication, in any case -- Eames may cross Arthur every now and again, but part of his skill set includes being able to char bridges without burning them completely.

Eames doesn't take it personally, though, because Arthur doesn't trust anyone completely. Even Cobb. He'll stand up for people, protect them, inform them, converse with them, make them laugh, but he rarely lets anyone give anything back. Eames suspects that it's his one loose thread to hang on to, a defense mechanism for if and when he gets burned.

In any case, Eames doesn't protest, and even encourages it a little -- masks such instances as flaws that he's at fault for and acts accordingly. This is what he gives Arthur, though he suspects it's a bit like trying to shove a square block into a 5-sided hole, all with a misguided eagerness that often seems bumbling rather than helpful.

If he's being honest, Arthur is still a bit of a blind spot, really; a scotoma in Eames's vision, and there's just something he isn't seeing, hanging around his periphery and dodging out of the way whenever Eames tries to grab at it.

*

He bounces around for a while. Passes a birthday blackout drunk, gets punched in the left kidney particularly hard, ends up at a strange winter solstice celebration, loses a toenail, grows it back, loses a pinkie nail, mourns its pitifully malformed replacement, and siphons money from a sloppy laundering scheme out of a corporation based out of Belgrade for the better part of a year before they even notice anything.

Because Arthur has impeccable timing, he calls just as Eames is reheating a television dinner and wondering where to go next.

"I need help," Arthur grumps.

"Go on," says Eames, no longer fazed by such a demanding greeting.

"I need to tranq someone from an unseen location, probably about a hundred yards away," Arthur clarifies. "Unless I can find a way into the building, in which case I'll need a sedative and a way out as well."

"Wouldn't do to get trapped once you're in," Eames agrees. "And what will you do with the hefty baggage?"

"It's a delayed release. He has three bodyguards everywhere he goes; if we want to go in undetected, it has to be timed for when he gets home. Can you help or not?"

Eames shovels a congealed chunk of mac and cheese into his mouth. "I'll be there with bells on, darling. Lose the tranq, we'll live on the wild side for this one."

They agree to catch the first flight out of their respective cities before hanging up. Naturally, when the phone rings again not ten minutes later, it's Corbitt, asking for some help in lifting a prototype of some drug or other.

"Can't, I'm afraid," Eames says. "I've just agreed to lend my expertise to another person in need."

"Who?" Corbitt demands, because he's the type to take a simple first-come-first-serve policy as a personal affront.

"Arthur."

"Arthur," Corbitt repeats. "Arthur asked for help."

"Yes?" Eames confirms as he starts rooting around the flat for his wallet and passport.

"Arthur asked you for help." Corbitt snorts. "Either he's pulling one over on you, or it's part of a plan to lure you to a place where you definitely don't want to be. You piss him off lately?"

Wallet's on top of the telly. Passport is somewhere not in plain sight. "Not that I can recall," Eames replies, distracted.

"Either way, it's your dumb risk. Call me if you change your mind."

Corbitt hangs up right as Eames locates the passport in one of his trouser pockets. He tosses the phone onto the bed and flips through the stamped pages to make sure there's nothing amiss. It's only afterward that he is able to rehash the conversation with full attention, but then he's running late for his flight and doesn't give it further thought.

*

Russia is horribly, stereotypically cold, like the whole country’s been dipped into a tank of liquid nitrogen. The address manifests itself as a lonely two-storey building made of unpainted concrete which, from the looks of it, has served as a punching bag of defacement for the general populace. There are scorch marks spiking up the walls, spray paint graffiti marring the windows, and holes left behind by bullet spray. It's all quite depressing. Eames glances at it pityingly through bare tree branches that cut up the view like a broken mirror.

"Corbitt thought it was quite amusing," Eames says, squinting and pulling his beanie down more snugly.

Arthur doesn't look up. "You have this horrible habit of starting out in the middle of a story, I don't know if you're aware of that."

"I live to make things difficult for everyone," Eames says. "You just happen to be included."

"Too bad your work is actually respectable. Otherwise I wouldn't associate with you at all," Arthur says. Jet-lag sends his personality down the toilet. "So. Corbitt thought it was amusing -- ?"

Eames watches carefully for any other reaction, but Arthur keeps sharpening his knife with long strokes instead.

"He thought it was amusing, that you'd asked for help," Eames says, then adds, "from me."

"Corbitt is a dumbass," Arthur says without looking at Eames. He puts the knife away and starts army-crawling toward the chain link fence, and that's the end of that, apparently.

They successfully sneak in and dose the target with a delayed release sedative in his coffee. However, they then get cornered by an unexpected guard change and the only possible exit is illuminated with a spotlight so enormous that it could double as Broadway stage.

"Really," Arthur says in a wooden voice, staring at the spotlight as if he'll be able to extinguish it with the power of an intense glare.

"Improvise," Eames says. "Come on, get in here."

He pulls Arthur into one of the many empty rooms lining the hallway. By the looks of it, it's a security control center -- lots of video feeds from inside the compound, as well as some exterior shots. They make quick work of it, with Arthur leaning over him to tap his finger against the monitors.

"East and south wings are off limits," Arthur says. "So is the second floor -- "

" -- unless you feel alright about jumping out a window," Eames interrupts.

"I'd rather avoid any potential broken bones, but it's an option," Arthur relents. And this is what Eames likes about working with Arthur: their ability to build off each other, skipping up a scaffolding of ideas and just as quickly knocking down whatever won't work.

They've narrowed it down to two possibilities when heavy footfalls start coming closer at a steady clip. Eames looks at Arthur, arms tensed for a fight, but Arthur touches his elbow in a silent message and he relaxes them instead. Not a second later, Arthur is flicking his eyes up to the large, utilitarian air duct running overhead.

Arthur, having the slight height advantage, wordlessly hops up onto the monitors, pops out the single panel with cross-hatching, and motions for Eames to get up. He has to briefly hug Arthur for balance, but Arthur laces his hands together and hoists him up into the vent like it's nothing. Eames scoots a little ways down before looking back and seeing only light shining into empty space.

"Arthur," he whispers, breaking the silence.

Then the panel gets tossed in, and Arthur is pulling himself up with ease. He somehow folds himself up to get the panel latched again. Eames holds his breath as Arthur moves in beside him, praying that the vent won't collapse; they align their hips onto a row of rivets to hopefully hold the weight better.

And they wait.

Someone enters the room and starts fiddling around with the computers. There's a flash of static from a walkie-talkie, as well as some muted Russian. Some banging, and then an extended conversation over the walkies. When two more sets of footsteps enter the room, Eames starts cursing up a storm in his head. If he tries to crane his neck up, the back of his skull presses against metal. If he tries to look down, Arthur's nose gets mashed against his forehead.

Uncharacteristically, it's Arthur who shifts abruptly, something akin to a hypnic jerk. Eames snaps his head back up and tries to silently communicate the threat of disembowelment if Arthur makes any kind of noise, but Arthur looks almost nauseated, like he's on the verge of some kind of panic attack.

Alarm bells start clanging in Eames's head. Without thinking, he takes Arthur's hand and squeezes it so hard that he almost feel Arthur's knuckles pressing together. Arthur makes a tiny noise, but he doesn't move.

Three more walkie conversations and a long series of beeps later, Arthur still hasn't moved and Eames's legs have long since fallen asleep. He can't even feel where Arthur's knees are digging against his own anymore. There is sweat beading all over Arthur’s forehead; Eames stares at the largest one until it slides down, curving into the corner of Arthur's eye. Arthur blinks rapidly, breathing in a strangely shallow rhythm that makes Eames nervous to listen to.

He's been in closer quarters with people before -- hell, he's been buried alive with someone before, and good thing she had a thigh holster with multiple weapons -- and it's never triggered anything more than a deep annoyance and a step-by-step plan of precisely how he's going to exact his revenge. But now he's practically humming with suppressed adrenaline, every sensory point on his skin flickering to life like lights on a city grid.

There's a series of rustling noises, and then the sound of a chair rolling a short distance. Eames holds his breath as he listens to whoever it is walk around. Unmistakably, a door creaks open and the footsteps continue on.

Eames holds up two fingers. Arthur opens his eyes and nods.

The remaining two men leave within the next minute. Even after the noises fade, they still wait, just to make sure. It’s only when Eames finally relaxes the tiniest bit that he realizes how cramped his body is, strung tight from toes to fingers. Arthur now has his eyes closed again -- Eames can see it through the thin haze of light that filters through the cross-hatched panel. His lips are a straight, pale line, and he looks like he’s barely breathing.

Instinctively, Eames touches his fingers to Arthur's chest. The only reaction is that Arthur’s eyelids tremble the tiniest bit.

"Breathe," Eames tells him, in a hush of air. When Arthur squeezes his hand, he squeezes back out of instinct.

"How much longer do you think," Eames murmurs, and in the absence of immediate danger, his body is slowly processing the physics of their current situation, and how closely they're stretched out beside each other. He imagines his breath condensing on the skin of Arthur’s cheek.

Eames actually hears Arthur’s throat working. "Few more minutes," Arthur whispers back. "Just to be safe."

Eames counts, slowly. When he gets to 250, he wordlessly straightens his leg and kicks out the paneling. Arthur doesn't even startle, just rolls out and onto the ground, landing on his feet but ending up on his hands and knees.

"Jesus Christ," Eames says. He goes to the door and scans both sides of the hallway to make sure they're clear.

When he turns back, Arthur is pale, still breathing shallowly, but on his feet. His lashes stand out against the pallor of his skin. Eames finds himself reaching out about halfway in an aborted movement.

"Steady there," Eames says instead. "What is it? Oxygen deprivation?"

"I’m claustrophobic," Arthur replies, as if he hasn’t spent the better part of an hour crammed into a metal coffin.

Suddenly, irrationally, Eames finds himself angry. He wants to shout at Arthur -- and for what, he has no idea, because it’s not like there had been any other options. Instead, he rubs at his mouth.

"You’re looking at me doubtfully," Arthur points out.

"You’re forgetting that I was recently crammed inside an air duct for who knows how long," Eames says. "I think this is simply the way my head tilts, now."

"Permanently inquisitive," Arthur reiterates.

"And how," Eames agrees.

The spike in emotion is still riding high. He can’t even look at Arthur, but at least now he can acknowledge that he’s angry because he’s worried. He’s fucking worried, for Christ’s sake. For this bastard who he’s seen die hundreds of deaths, who saved his life many times over but cocks a trigger and kills him without hesitation.

He concentrates on the monitors and finds their first choice escape route has now been vacated by the guard. "The garbage chute is open for business," he says shortly, and takes off through the hallway with Arthur on his heels.

Eames doesn't look back, and is about to swing himself into the chute when Arthur says, "We just pulled off a job despite incredibly shitty circumstances, and you’re, what, worried about me being claustrophobic? You almost got killed about twelve times in a span of two hours, and you’re pissed because I didn’t tell you about my aversion to small spaces? Really?"

His tone isn’t condescending. In fact, judging by the upturned corner of his mouth, he finds the whole thing endearing.

"Glad you're getting your wind back," Eames tells him, using sarcasm to hide anything else that may show through in his voice. "Now piss off. I'm trying to make a dashing escape here."

As Eames is swinging his legs in, Arthur catches him by the sleeve. "Eames," he says, a half-smile tugging at his lips, and his tone is such a strange mix of self-deprecating and hopeful that Eames finds himself wanting to smile back, wanting to reach out and rub his thumb along the shape of Arthur's mouth until it gives way. The desire is sharp, concentrated -- panic floods him for a brief moment, but at least that's something he's good at controlling.

"Arthur," he replies simply, but Arthur doesn't continue and they end up looking at each other as if playing a game to see who will blink first.

Eames folds his arms over his chest and falls down into the darkness, effectively forfeiting.

He realizes later that he was waiting for something in that moment. Maybe Arthur was, too.

*

III.

While Eames is in Mombasa, Arthur pays him a single, unexpected visit, announced only by the creak of the bedroom door. Once Eames has been very rudely kicked out of bed, Arthur stares down at him and says, "You stole it."

"Stole what?" Eames croaks, half his face still covered by the thin, woolly blanket. He's half-convinced this is a dream, but that warm bloom of recognition in his chest at the sight of Arthur, despite his glower, is all too real.

"The security codes. The security codes that took me two months to get, and you know it took that long because you were there the entire time."

"You're behaving as if you don't have ten backups. Now we can share the knowledge between each other," Eames says. "It'll bring us closer together. I feel more intimate with you already. May I brush my teeth before continuing this conversation?"

"It's not a conversation," Arthur counters. "It's me reaming you out for once again being a completely thoughtless jackass."

Eames reaches out of his blanket cocoon to scratch his nose. "That's not true. If I were completely thoughtless, I wouldn't have left enough evidence for you to instantly know that the codes being stolen was my doing. And then you'd be on a warpath with no one to direct the anger toward."

Finally, he sits up and squints at Arthur. "Aren't you glad, now?"

A second later, he's sprawled on the floor again with some unholy pain running through the right side of his body. Studying pressure points and unconventional methods of pain is one of Arthur's hobbies. Luckily Eames gives him many opportunities to put the theoretical study into practice.

"Fuck you," Arthur says. "What the hell did you do with them anyway? Who do I need to find and strangle? If you sold duplicates as well, I'll shoot out your good knee."

"Nothing. No one," Eames chokes out.

"What do you mean, 'nothing?'" Arthur asks after a pause. "What?"

The pain is beginning to subside and he sits up once more to find that Arthur is giving him a funny look. Then he mentally backtracks.

Arthur's right to be confused. Eames only ever steals things for personal gain, but this time he'd taken the codes to indulge some strange instinct to disrupt the product of Arthur's careful, time-consuming focus, to topple over his house of cards. If he's being completely honest, he doesn't think he was ever going to do anything with them at all.

Eames is now wide awake.

"Yet," he amends. Talking his way out of this corner is far more favorable than dwelling on why, exactly, he hadn't sold the codes. "Nothing yet. I was shopping around, as you do." He rubs his eyes. "Second drawer on the left. Bin is in the corner."

Arthur heads over to the roll-top desk and retrieves the codes. "You know," he says conversationally, procuring a fancy butane lighter out of his pocket and licking the flame along the edges of the envelope, "sometimes I wonder if it'd be easier to cut all ties and hand you over to the highest bidder."

"Well, of course it'd be easier, but it would also render life terribly dull," Eames says. "To wit: if you really did travel all this way to cause me bodily harm? You could have hired someone to do that."

"I could have gotten someone to pay me for the chance to cause you bodily harm," Arthur corrects. He drops the smoldering envelope into the bin and turns around. "That better be the only copy."

"When have I ever made backups of anything?"

"You make backups all the time," Arthur says, but he walks out into the hallway as Eames stands up, leaving the blanket as a puddle on the floor.

He peeks out the doorframe as he puts on a shirt. "Feel free to stay a while," he calls, and pauses when he notices something strange.

There's a duffel sitting on the floor next to the tiny nook of a kitchen. Upon closer inspection, it remains a duffel and not an illusion. Two things are evident: his sarcasm is also prescient, and this is going to be more than a day trip.

"I hope your sofa bed works," Arthur says from where he's standing by the window, peeking past the edge of the heavy linen curtain. He doesn't meet Eames's eyes, and this is about as awkward as Arthur ever gets. Dodging an explicit request for permission is probably as much for Eames's sake as Arthur's -- he has a feeling that this visit has some significance attached to it, but he's not sure if he's ready to delve into the reasons why.

"It's passable," Eames says carefully. "Though I take no responsibility for any slipped discs or sciatica."

Arthur lets the curtain fall back into place. He nods.

*

In New York, Arthur takes the subway, always standing, always with his right hand curled up around the overhanging bar; in Rome, Arthur zips about on a scooter, feet planted flat and neatly parallel. And in Mombasa, as it turns out, Arthur rides around on a bike. The one he procures has a seat that's peeling in patches of black, but the heels of his oxfords catch easily on the rusted pedals. Most of the time he heads out early and returns, with a damp shirt and disheveled hair, when the sun is tilting through the westerly window. Occasionally, there will be two canvas bags full of multicolored fruit hanging from the handlebars.

It's not so bad, really. In general, being in the same space as Arthur takes less effort and results in less psychosis than Eames had previously imagined -- though, when he first began to entertain such thoughts at all is a mystery.

They eat at irregular times, four to five meals a day. At night, Eames does pull-ups from the doorframe until cramps make it impossible. Then he holds his arms up into a cross and lets Arthur’s feet slap against his palms in an arrhythmic beat. He'd heard a story a few months back, about Arthur pulling off some ludicrous stunt involving a motorbike and a hairpin curve, his left kneecap being the only casualty. The injured leg is still slow, but it’s flexible enough.

"How about a challenge," Eames says one day, holding a hand high above his head. In response, Arthur drops down and does a neat leg sweep instead, leaving Eames on the carpet, blinking up at the ceiling.

Sometimes it still surprises him, the ways they’re alike.

A couple weeks after Arthur's sudden appearance -- Eames's best estimate, since keeping time in constant sweltering weather and no real routine proves to be difficult --, Arthur hears from Cobb, who's emerged from some shady black market dealings that Arthur would rather not even know about, judging by his end of the conversation.

"As sorry as I am to see you leave, this is the last time my flat will be offered up as a hotel," Eames calls out as Arthur packs his things.

He's sprawled on the sofa, absently reading an article about neurological diseases. Yusuf had sent it to him, complete with annotations and loads of underlined passages. Eames barely has a working knowledge of science, but considering that most of the people in Yusuf's life are effectively dead to the world, he feels a sympathetic obligation to take a stab at sharing his interests.

"No skin off my back," Arthur says, passing by with a stack of photos. "You're probably the worst host ever."

Eames idly listens to him rustle around some more, the sounds of his comings and goings familiar by now, and is snapped out of his reading only when something jostles his feet against each other.

"Hey," Arthur says, hand still curled into a loose fist. "Thanks."

"Cheers," says Eames.

The door clicks shut and he's left alone, face titled up toward the lazy ceiling fan. It spins silently.

One moment he's reading about anosognosia, and the next he's staring over the top of the paper again as he finds that he can't recall Arthur ever giving a reason for the visit. His assumption was that Arthur had gotten tangled up in something potentially dangerous and needed to wait for it to blow over, but upon second thought, doesn't remember him saying anything of the sort.

Falling for such a simple method of evasion should be embarrassing, but Eames spends a moment basking in that wry, begrudging respect that only Arthur can coax from him.

*

A month later, Cobb comes to find him.

"Inception," Cobb starts, and Eames thinks, Arthur.

*

IV.

To Eames, there are attainable goals, and there are pursuits best left abandoned. Jobs are usually easy to categorize, but this second go around at inception is straddling the line between the two. Eames fittingly feels as if he's stuck in purgatory, spending day after day mired in the planning stages.

Everyone raises their voices at least four times a day, Cobb throws a lot of things, and Ariadne makes it a point to storm out of the warehouse often enough for it to become commonplace. It should seem like a comedy, a farce, but all the pockets of time in between the extravagant gestures is what grounds it in reality -- Yusuf staring out a window while a solution thaws, Ariadne sitting small and quiet in a dark corner as she carves out the nuances in her totem, Arthur coming and going through the night, smelling like fresh cigarette smoke every time.

As far as housing goes, the warehouse gets a bit drafty at night, but the walls soak up heat from the summer sun, simmering under a slow burn that extends well into dark. Though they do have rooms at various bed-and-breakfasts about town, only Ariadne and Saito choose to spend nights elsewhere. Yusuf and Cobb are usually up til the wee hours, testing his new version of Somnacin, while Arthur and Eames use the time to tighten up whatever plan they've laid so far.

Eames gets used to blinking his eyes open only to realize that he's fallen asleep. He gets used to rolling over and seeing Arthur stretched out on his side, legs slightly bent at the knees.

*

Having confirmed -- and reconfirmed, and then reconfirmed again, much to Eames's delight -- Yusuf's assurance that the new variation of Somnacin would leave inner ear function intact, he sends them all in to a dream to make sure that the sedative will hold steady for three levels. On the first level, they leave Yusuf, who paces around the warehouse, and Ariadne, who is waving around a dremel tool.

"I think the physics check out," Yusuf announces. "Nothing seems sluggish or out of sorts."

"Yeah," Ariadne agrees. "This dremel tool still sucks. Mirrors real life pretty well."

On the second level, they leave Cobb moving around the now-empty warehouse in his own world, as he so often does these days.

"Looks good," he says simply, hands in his pockets. He glances up at the ceilings.

"Shall I replicate it a third time?" Eames asks.

Cobb gives him a faint smile. "Nah, have fun with it."

Arthur looks wary, but Eames dreams up a quiet, sunny beach. They each walk in opposite directions and end up right back where they started, which was the plan. One of the projections holds Arthur up, however; Eames stands at a distance and watches carefully, only exhaling when Arthur starts making his way toward Eames once more.

"Who was that?" Eames prods.

"A projection," Arthur answers. He curls his toes in the sand.

"How illuminating. Was he any more forthcoming than normal, or was he speaking in tongues? Anything out of the ordinary?" Eames doesn't realize that he's fishing until after it's already done.

"I don't know, you tell me. He was saying that he thought you felt bad about leaving him alone that morning in Tampa, and told me to reassure you that he didn't mind at all." Arthur pauses and looks up. "Residual guilt, or abnormally forthcoming?"

"Probably the former," Eames concludes. "Anyone would be sad to see me go."

"I'm sure," Arthur says dryly, but his eyes relax into a smile.

Music comes tearing through the idyllic scene. Some Yngwie Malmsteen monstrosity courtesy of Yusuf. Eames shifts his gaze to the bluffs overlooking the ocean.

"Ready for a small hike?" Arthur asks. He offers Eames another small smile before turning to lead the way.

*

The flight is due to leave in twelve hours. All of them have cleaned the warehouse out, kicking aside things that can be passed off as scraps and bagging everything else up to toss later on. The whole place reeks of bleach or carbolic acid and Eames's right hand is permanently molded into the shape of a scrubber handle.

He cracks his knuckles again and tries to relax. Twelve more hours.

"Third level," Arthur prompts.

"Third level," Eames repeats, staring up at the waterlogged ceiling. He cradles the back of his head with one hand, shifting around a bit to get more comfortable. They're coming up on thirty hours no sleep. "Third level, third level. Funny, that -- you're not even going to be on the third level."

"I still need to know what's going on," Arthur says, "and, more importantly, I need you to know what's going on. It's going to be kind of pointless if the dreamer has to stop and ask for directions."

"No need to get snippy," Eames says. "You honestly can't be that torn up about the fact that you'll be sitting cozy in a hotel while the rest of us parade around in snow suits and try not to get killed by avalanches."

"It'll be unstable," Arthur says for the millionth time. "Avalanches are actually a very real possibility."

Eames turns his head, but Arthur's face is obscured by his arms. He's been carrying on this entire conversation while holding steady in a full plank on his elbows. Then he peeks past his shoulder, hair falling over his eyes, and Eames can see that he's smiling.

"A joke," Eames crows. "That was a joke. Bravo."

"Just in case everything goes to shit tomorrow, I want to let you know," Arthur says, "that I won't hold it against you."

"Your generosity never ceases to surprise me. It brings a tear to my eye, honestly," says Eames.

"Well, you pretty much single-handedly came up with the plan, so who better to blame?" Arthur shrugs as best he can.

Eames suddenly realizes that he's smiling -- that he's been smiling as he stares up at the ceiling again, sprawled and relaxed on his lumpy excuse for a mattress. "I see," he says. "Your lack of contribution was a conscious decision to avoid blame, should anything happen to go wrong."

"Yes, of course," Arthur agrees. "It took you that long to put two and two together?"

Eames huffs out another laugh. If he looks out of the corner of his eye, he can see the straight planes of Arthur's back, cast into light and shadow by the single overhanging light directly above the door.

Eames is someone who passes time by examining the fine muscle control of strangers -- the slip of their thumbs while maneuvering chopsticks, how their insteps ripple and change with their gait. It's all the same bone-to-muscle connections, sparked into movement by the same physical circuitry. Theoretically, there should be nothing significant about Arthur, or the way his body moves.

Arthur remains still, head hanging down so that his forehead nudges against his thumb knuckle. His stomach is trembling. Eames drums his fingers on his own stomach and pretends not to look.

*

Half an hour after Dom blinks his eyes open and everyone looks away in relief, they dutifully file off the plane. Down at baggage claim, Eames ducks into the bathroom and only washes his hands before reemerging. His heart beats audibly with almost every footstep, as if it's spurring on the paranoia that this is still a dream, that all the travelers around him will suddenly snap their attention to him and converge en masse.

He keeps walking. Nobody pays attention to him.

At such a fast pace, he eventually passes Arthur up. The sight of Arthur's brisk walk falls away from his periphery, but Eames can still see it in his mind, clear as anything. He could slow down, wait until Arthur falls into step beside him. He could turn around, make eye contact.

He could offer. Propose a drink.

Last time he did such a thing, however, was when he was arse over heels drunk and propositioned an off-duty policeman, who then almost arrested him for soliciting. The time before that was with someone who took offense at trying to be pulled by a man, and the two times before that turned out to be a trap to get him alone and vulnerable. There have been no other times.

Nothing memorable came from any of these instances, but they did leave a bad taste and a lingering reluctance to assume or put himself on the line for anything of the sort.

In the end, they split off after exiting through the Lufthansa Airlines doors. Arthur gets into a shuttle and Eames slips into the line for taxis, and that's that.

*

Part 2

pyrimidine — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 10:08:38 GMT

Y'all, why is this 10k? It should definitely not be 10k. The following is self-indulgent dribble, as per usual; cheesier than normal, but I had lots of fun writing it :D

Signed, Sealed, Delivered
PG
Written for this prompt, for this commercial:

SETH KAY to RAYNA EISOLD
GENERAL REASON: "neither of us are what the other person needs anymore"

The slogan on the scooter is supposed to say 'No Sad, Big Smile Break-Up Service', but for the past few months it's just been 'Nads', minus all the spaces and missing letters. Some jerk has also scribbled a huge, illustrated penis in Sharpie right next to the so-called slogan, which means that Arthur often gets mistaken for an entirely different kind of mobile service. He's also been pulled over by the cops at least four times, but once he flashes his lanyard-cum-ID-cum-business card, they usually let him go.

Well, except for that one time. Officer Roberts, of WANDA LEE to BENJAMIN ROBERTS, had lapsed into shocked recognition. But Arthur has fast reflexes. He wouldn't be doing this job if he didn't. In any case, he'd already gunned the scooter before Roberts had a chance to reach for his baton, or taser, or maybe even his gun, who knows.

Today he's in the outskirts of the city, in the van that thankfully has all its letters and is even gleaming a little, thanks to some unexpected rainfall the night before. According to the application, Kay and Eisold had been together for eight years, so Arthur prepares himself for tears and/or violence during the drive. Kay went for the 'Dust in the Wind' package, which, along with the standard break-up and rough dictation of any response from the other party, includes a clean-up service that involves returning to the shared residence and removing all the client's belongings for later reclamation at the NSBSBUS office. The initial letter delivery went well, or as well as could be expected, but Arthur has learned that first reactions are not a good indicator for subsequent encounters.

He's tense for about the first ten seconds after Rayna buzzes him in, but she's still calm and polite, just like last time, and so he allows himself to relax and look around a little. Seth Kay and Rayna Eisold live -- lived -- on the third floor of an old Victorian. It has narrow hallways, high ceilings with rounded corners, and most of the windows face the west, which is great for natural lighting. Arthur trails his fingers along the intricate wainscoting as he follows Rayna to the living room. He considers commenting on it, complimenting her on the fact that they decided to keep it instead of going for a more modern look. He ends up keeping his mouth shut instead.

"These are clothes," she says, gesturing to a couple trash bags slumped by a shelf full of vintage toys. "Um, and there's some boxes in the bedroom, if you have room."

"No problem. I have the van today, so space shouldn't be an issue," Arthur assures.

"Good," Rayna says. "Okay, yeah, good."

"Okay." Arthur smiles at her, a rote expression that barely means anything anymore. "I'll just get started here. The boxes are -- ?"

"Oh. Here," she says, stepping around the corner and nudging a few out into the hallway with her foot. "Just, you know. Odds and ends. I probably wouldn't mind if they got dropped onto the freeway by accident." She huffs out a laugh, rubs her forehead to hide her eyes, but when she looks up again her gaze is clear, with no trace of tears.

Arthur may be void of emotion by now, but he still has some tact leftover. He starts working in silence and it only takes him a few minutes to lug everything out to the van by himself. Rayna meets him on the doorstep afterward.

"All set?" she asks.

"Yeah, that's all of it. Thanks for letting me stop by."

He'd noticed some discoloration on the walls from picture frames and whatever else they had hanging up. Arthur digs out a business card and hands it to her. "Hey, if you're looking for interior repainting or anything, these guys are great. 10% off if you mention us," he adds as she takes the card.

"Thanks," she says absently.

"He seems like an asshole," Arthur offers after a pause.

Rayna just quirks her mouth at him, a thanks, but no thanks, type of expression that Arthur is used to seeing by now. "He was worth it," she says after a while.

He gets into the van and shuts the door. Before he starts the engine, he reaches into the glove compartment and retrieves his notebook. Next to KAY to EISOLD, he writes, harpooned and underlines it twice.

*

No Sad, Big Smile Break-Up Service had its humble beginnings in Arthur's on-campus apartment during college. Technically, he was unknowingly running such a company since sophomore year of high school, when he somehow gained a reputation for being a good, innocuous bearer of bad news. He could be sympathetic or stoic, whatever the situation called for. This role continued through college, and when he graduated without any prospects, it seemed as good of an idea as anything else to turn it into something lucrative. People were making tons of money selling dumb stuff on Etsy and getting sponsored from Youtube videos, so why not start a break-up service?

The difference was that back then, he was actually talking things out with people, helping them figure out what they wanted, or what was going to best for them in the long run, break-up or not. Nowadays he gets clients to fill out the 'WHAT YOU WANT TO SAY:' part of the application and runs it through autosummarize so that he has a spiel to read before handing the respondent a printed-out version of the full letter. There are branches in LA, New York, San Francisco, and Austin. But at least he makes the effort to keep the San Francisco office just between him, Yusuf, and Ariadne, for some semblance of a small and cozy entrepreneurship.

Honestly, the whole thing shapes up to be a bit dull. It might seem callous, but day-to-day exposure to anything results in some degree of detachment. Arthur rates his reaction to each break-up on a sliding scale: hallelujah, boring, or harpooned. 'Hallelujah' includes anything from infidelity to stealing. 'Boring' mostly consists of melodramatic crap that Arthur can catch on daytime television in the comfort of his own home. 'Harpooned', however, doesn't come along very often, and usually calls for a pint or two after work.

Yusuf texts right as Arthur is about halfway through a cigarette: I think i ate a piece of lint by accident

Then, two minutes later: Never mind it was a shred of coconut

Stop eating everything in sight, Arthur texts back. Yusuf just replies with a smiley face.

Bar-ing. Meet me when youre free, he sends, before flicking away his cigarette and heading into Forge & Fire.

*

As soon as Arthur steps through the door, he's greeted by a booming voice that yells, "And that right there's my favorite customer."

Arthur wordlessly holds up two fingers before taking off his jacket and sliding onto a stool. "Thanks," he says as two pints slosh their way in front of him.

Eames raises his eyebrows and smiles toothily at him before turning away to continue a conversation about the best dog tracks around the area. Arthur doesn't even realize he's staring and listening in until Yusuf snaps his fingers right by his ear and says, "Stop staring."

"I'm not," Arthur counters, leaning away and rubbing his ear. Because he wasn't.

SHEENA GILL to BRAD O'RILEY
GENERAL REASON: "He's a lying bastard who cheated on me, what more do you need?"

The problem with Eames is that Arthur can't get away from him.

Most people spend the majority of their time in two places: work, and home. Work, for Arthur, is two doors down from the bar where Eames has been employed for the past two months. Eames also lives in one of the units above the bar. Which would be fine if not for the fact that home, for Arthur, is right next door to where Eames resides. It seems narcissistic, but sometimes he thinks that if he drew a physical map of his location in proximity to Eames, it would resemble an atomic nucleus and its respective electron cloud.

Eames has incredibly loud subwoofers placed against the shared wall of their apartments; sometimes Arthur can hear him yelling on XBox Live, probably to junior high schoolers on the other end. He very obviously cuts his own hair and sings really loudly when he's drunk. When the hallway stinks like smoke, half the time it's because of Eames burning his dinner -- but the other half the time it's Arthur burning his dinner, so maybe that one doesn't count.

On the other hand, he's got most of the qualities that Arthur enjoys in a person, and he makes strong drinks and listens when Arthur talks and conveniently forgets his tab a lot of the time. When he runs into the mailman, he'll get Arthur's mail as well and slip it underneath his door. When he's not warbling Chaka Khan songs, he's whistling swingy, jazzy melodies that hit perfectly on the dissonant notes and make Arthur's spine sing with pleasure.

So in sum, Eames is a good guy. Good neighbor, good bartender, good almost-friend. Arthur might even consider dating him, were it not for the fact that Arthur is the Hermes for scorned lovers and also completely dead inside. It probably wouldn't work out.

*

When Arthur gets in on Monday morning, he's greeted with Yusuf sorting through the unclaimed 'Dust in the Wind' packages from 2010, using his specially honed method of throwing lots of stuff around instead of organizing it in any recognizable way. Ariadne is on the phone, saying, "No, I'm sorry, we don't handle divorces," with a steaming cup of coffee in front of her, filled to the brim. It's the landmark on her desk, the sun to the solar system of paperwork for NSBSBUS, paperwork for her other job at the student health center where she works as a stand-in counselor/advisor/therapist/rock, and random schoolwork for her MFA in studio art. Just looking at her workspace makes Arthur tired.

"Because divorces need to go through a court of law," she stresses as Arthur puts his stuff down. "Yes, I understand that you want to break up, but seeing as how you're married, that would constitute a divorce."

Arthur would have hung up by now, those Yelp reviews can go fuck themselves, but Ariadne only has a barest hint of impatience in her voice as she switches over to headset and uses her hands to play GIRP on her computer.

The rest of the morning passes as Arthur lays out the schedule for the week -- their peak times are pre- and post-summer months, which makes sense in a completely stereotypical way -- and helps Yusuf clean out the junk. Most of it should go to Goodwill, but Yusuf keeps a microbe plushie that he finds (The Pox) and Arthur, a rubber band ball.

Lunch consists of kale and bean sprouts -- 27 years and he still can't manage to feed himself correctly -- and trying to fend off an insistent thirteen-year-old who keeps calling, trying to get them to back out on some girl he asked to the formal.

"We don't make deliveries to schools," Arthur tells him. "Why do you have a cell phone, anyway? Go play with some sand. Take advantage of a time when your heart isn't tangled in a never-ending losing game of Frogger."

"What's Frogger?" the kid asks.

Arthur hangs up on him, then refreshes their Yelp page before a new 1-star review riddled with spelling errors pops up and he replies, "Fetus. Updating from his iPhone in class. Blame the education system."

*

Rush hour is starting to choke into motion by the time Arthur hops onto the scooter to make his way to the off-campus housing buildings in the Sunset district. Brad O'Riley lives in a batch of mid-rises that have been painted beige in a mostly failed attempt at a modern makeover.

When Arthur knocks on 207, it takes about thirty seconds for the door to open; apparently it's a studio, seeing as how the bed is fully visible from the doorway, as is the lightly tanned ankle that quickly disappears underneath the sheets.

"Hey," says the guy who opened the door. He's wearing a white tee and basketball shorts, which is the international standard for when one needs to get dressed very, very quickly.

"Hi," Arthur says, business-like. "Brad O'Riley?"

Brad's eyes drift down to Arthur's name tag before snapping back up. "No way," he gapes.

"Sheena would like to express her wishes to end the relationship," Arthur says mechanically. "The letter I am about to hand to you includes all grievances and reasons she had for this break-up. There is a blank form and self-addressed stamped envelope included, should you decide to respond at a later date, or I can take down a dictation right now."

He holds out the envelope and keeps it there until Brad finally takes it.

"This is so cold, man," he starts, but Arthur interrupts.

"The following is a summary from Ms. Gill's letter: Brad, you're a huge bastard and I should have listened to everyone else when they told me not to waste my time with you. I can't believe I took you to Ibiza, where you banged my grand-big." Arthur pauses and looks up. "Did you meet her through a sorority?"

"She was my little," Brad says. He has the temerity to look a bit sad. "I actually really liked her."

"Yeah, well." Arthur shrugs and backs away. He didn't even mean to ask. Lately, he's been breaking character a lot more. That should stop.

Brad's expression hardens. "Wait, fuck you, man, you come and deliver this shitty news and expect to walk away with a smile?"

Over the years, Arthur has gotten pretty goddamn good at jogging backwards. He uses that skill now to keep an eye on Brad while simultaneously expanding the distance between them until he can safely hop onto his scooter and putt onto the street.

*

By the time he gets back to the office, Arthur idly twangs at his new rubber band ball for half an hour before filing GILL to O'RILEY as 'boring' and calling it a day. As he heads out, Ariadne is asking Yusuf whether or not she should copy an application as-is -- "Yes, yes, the all-caps format has a certain aesthetic value, keep it." -- and he briefly wonders, as he's wont to do these days, what the hell he's doing with his life.

The thought stays with him on the walk to the supermarket, and as he stares at a brightly lit selection of cheeses, and as he walks up and down the same wine aisle three times before finally getting into the checkout line. A woman with short red hair is standing in front of him; he stares at the back of her head and involuntarily starts creating an entire imaginary relationship track record for her. Maybe fresh out of a long-term, or happier being alone after a string of shitty short-terms. Or just happier being alone, period.

Thankfully, he's interrupted from that particular black hole of theatrical fantasy when someone says, "Arthur?"

Arthur pivots a little and sees Eames standing behind him with a questioning expression.

"Eames," Arthur states. Because -- Eames. Seeing him unexpectedly always makes Arthur's reflexes sputter. "Hey."

"Hello, my favorite anti-cupid," says Eames. "Fancy seeing you around here, shopping for food like a mere mortal."

Arthur snorts. "Yeah, too bad they're all out of ambrosia today." He's heard every joke in the book regarding his job, but it seems novel coming out of Eames's mouth, overlaid by that accent.

Eames's words and the weight of the basket in Arthur's hand remind him of the fact that the only items he's buying are three bottles of Yellow Tail, a 40oz of IPA, six packets of string cheese, and a bag of baby spinach. Eames's own basket, however, contains only a gigantic handle of whiskey, four bundles of parsley, and a 96-pack of Bagel Bites. The only acknowledgement of their half-assed stab at a well-balanced food pyramid is the fact that they look everywhere but.

"The bar started opening for lunch last week, did you know?" Eames asks after a pause, effectively passing up the 'get out of this conversation free' card that pops up following a casual greeting. "We would have done it earlier, but there remained the issue of health inspections and 'getting it up to code', whatever that means."

"Yes, those pesky health inspections. So useless." Arthur shakes his head, simultaneously wincing at the fact that his main social tactic is to run with amiable conversation and warp it into something potentially mean and sarcastic. He doesn't do it on purpose, but avoiding it requires an intense vigilance that he usually doesn't have the energy nor the desire for.

Eames never seems to mind, though. He even goes so far as to laugh and say, "You're extremely entertaining, you know."

Arthur smiles back and mimes tipping his hat. "Are the bar lunches going to be along the same lines as your daily cuisine?" he asks, nodding at Eames's basket.

"And here I was, thinking we had a tacit agreement not to speak of it," says Eames. "Of our -- our Pandora's box of processed foods."

"And the only good thing in it is the alcohol, right?" Arthur huffs as he hefts the basket onto the conveyor belt.

Eames laughs again. "Well, regarding the menu, you'll just have to pop in sometime and see. There's a free sandwich in it for you," he adds. "And I promise it won't just be two Bagel Bites made into a calzone."

"Sure," Arthur says. He usually likes that word because it's somehow vague, breezy, promising, and dismissive all at once. He might actually mean it this time, though.

Eames reaches over a bit to poke around at the magazines situated above the stacks of gum and chocolates. It doesn't occur to Arthur to lean away until it's too late, it'd be too obvious, and so he inches forward along with the line instead, acutely aware of Eames's proximity. His hand lingers over the new issue of Cosmopolitan before moving on with a soft puff of laughter; Arthur can practically see the way he's smiling. He feels an inexplicable urge to look behind him and check, but then it's his turn to pay and the feeling passes.

Recently, the weather has started to turn, and the entire neighborhood is filled with a bustling, healthy vibe like some kind of eternal farmer's market nightmare. Arthur and Eames walk the three blocks back side-by-side, dodging other pedestrians, their dogs, low-hanging leaves, fire hydrants, and wayward bicyclists without much trouble. When they reach their building, Eames holds the door open for Arthur and keeps chatting over his shoulder as they climb the stairs.

"Well," he finishes, stopping at his door while Arthur walks just a few more steps down the hallway. "Cheers. Remind me to order two of those emergency beeper whatsits, just in case one of us is on the verge of death by malnutrition."

"LifeAlert," Arthur supplies. Eames snaps his fingers and nods. "Hey, I'll pay for yours as long as you do your neighborly duty and prevent my body from being eaten by cats."

"Will do." Eames nods. He glances down briefly to fit the key into the lock, the last strings of a smile still pulling at the corner of his mouth, his profile lit up by the late afternoon sunlight, and then he's gone.

Arthur steps into his own apartment, closes the door, and just leans against it for a good minute or two, coming down from some inexplicable rush.

PHILIP JOU to TYLER LUSTIG
GENERAL REASON: "this dude is a shitty friend."

Some people act like it's the 11th commandment or whatever -- "Arthur shall not seriously date anyone" --, which is something that he doesn't understand. Plenty of people don't date. And it's not like he's been completely devoid of human contact, because he barely remembers half the people he's ever hooked up with, which -- is kind of asshole-ish, actually, but for some reason reassures the world that he's a functional human being, as if being an asshole is a characteristic that makes him normal.

Romanticizing someone who handles other people's break-ups is easy. There are assumptions that he's been burned by the love of his life and his heart is just splintered kindling, or that he's basically a mobile therapist who empathizes deeply with people who get dumped, or that he's wading through the aftermath of relationships while looking for his soulmate, or that he's a sociopath, because even sociopaths need to make a living.

The truth is that he just feels like he's read the ending to every single story there is, so what's the point of slogging through whatever comes before? And if he does happen to have a thing for Eames, then --

then --

*

Ariadne is out on a job with the van, so Arthur has to take the 'Nads' scooter up and down all the roller coaster hills that lead south. Occasionally, NSBSBUS gets a client requesting a platonic friendship break-up, which usually turn out to be more interesting than most of their other ones.

Tyler Lustig looks like a perfectly typical twenty-something, still bleary-eyed at half past noon on a Saturday. He lays his forearm along the line of the doorframe and nods when Arthur asks, "Are you Tyler Lustig?"

"Philip would like to explain his wishes to end this friendship," Arthur begins, and rattles off the spiel. "The following is a summary from Mr. Jou's letter," he continues.

"You only call when you need something -- someone to listen to you, or someone to entertain you, or someone to accompany you to get food because you still don't like going anywhere by yourself. Seriously, you're going to have to learn how to go places by yourself. You've been the fairweather-est of fairweather friends, if 'fairweather' actually means 'really shitty'. I haven't even been able to get you on the phone to tell you this personally. No hard feelings, hope everything goes well for you in the future."

Arthur has been gradually trailing off ever since the start of the letter, because the hardest ones to read aren't the angry ones that drop the f-bomb after every other word; they're the ones that are matter-of-fact and declarative, the ones that have such a tone of finality that the whole thing might as well just be a gigantic full stop.

"There's more, isn't there?" Tyler prompts after an uncomfortable silence.

"No," Arthur denies.

"Read it," Tyler says challengingly.

Arthur sighs and re-grips the letter. "P.S.," he reads, "I know you're going to deny this whole thing. If you can tell me what kind of car I drive or who the last person I dated was, then maybe I'll think about changing my mind." He clears his throat and finishes: "P.P.S. That first postscript was a lie, because I know you don't know that stuff because you never fucking listen to me."

"So, how's it feel?" Tyler asks as soon as he's done, obviously having been rehearsing the response while Arthur was reading. "How's it feel to go around delivering relationship-ending messages and shitting on people you've never even met before? Do you feel good about yourself?"

"Well, honestly, right now it's not that bad. It sounds like you were a pretty crappy friend," Arthur says, because he's always been truthful when it comes to voicing his opinion.

Apparently Tyler doesn't value this kind of objective viewpoint, since Arthur barely has time to hand Tyler the letter before getting punched in the face. Physical violence is nothing new to him, but the punch comes at a weird angle that offsets his center of balance and he tips to the side. Then there's a secondary knock to his skull on his way down and the world turns suddenly shaky and dark, as if he's been rolled over some precipice of consciousness.

Days without an OSHA recordable injury: 0, scrolls across Arthur's mind before he blacks out completely.

*

"Unbelievable," Yusuf keeps saying. "Unbelievable. I can't believe it."

"Wait, so what is it again, exactly? Is it believable?" Ariadne finally asks. "Arthur, what's your middle name?"

"Elizabeth," says Arthur. His head is killing him, and the hospital lights are so bright, and his eyelids slide down a little to block out the worst of it.

They pop back open a second later, though, because Yusuf punches really hard. "Wake up, we can't have you passing out before the cops get here."

"Cops? Why cops?" Arthur feels a distant panic at the thought of encountering Officer Roberts again, he of the longstanding grudge and the many weapons.

"I figured maybe you'd want to press charges," Yusuf explains. "You don't?"

"Not really," Arthur sighs. "Nature of the beast. Almost every single one of your deliveries ends in a foot chase. And remember when that girl came at Ariadne with a Roomba?"

"Well, she didn't actually make contact, and Yusuf's never actually been caught. I think that's the crucial difference here," Ariadne says absently, looking over the rest of the form. "Seriously, middle name. At least an initial."

"A."

"That's as in 'A' for assault victim," Yusuf says. "You really don't want to press charges?"

"I want to get cleared as soon as possible so I can go home," Arthur says with weary honesty, because that really is all he wants. He wants to ball himself up in his comforter, unplug the alarm clock, and watch embarrassing TV like ABC Family or Noggin for about a week straight.

"If it's a concussion, you need someone to stay with you so they can wake you up every two hours to make sure you're not slipping into a coma or anything," Yusuf says calmly, making Arthur's fantasy dissolve into reality again.

"It's not a concussion, it's a black eye," Arthur argues.

"And an enormous bump on the back of your head," Yusuf points out. "Your head is growing another head, that's what's happening back there."

"You're due for dinner at your mom's place," Ariadne tells him, and indeed Yusuf is dressed in slacks and a disturbingly shiny shirt. "I'll stay."

"But you're supposed to come with. I flaked on you last time, and the time before that, too."

Ariadne replies and Yusuf says something else, but Arthur's eyes start to slip shut again and he doesn't really comprehend any of it. It's starting to become difficult to keep track of the conversation. "Nobody needs to stay," he says to himself.

He closes his eyes.

*

It comes as a surprise to no one that it's a concussion. Yusuf drops Ariadne and Arthur off at his building by double-parking with the hazard lights on, as if that excuses him from blocking half the street as he and Ariadne hold a leisurely conversation through the passenger window. Arthur, for his part, peels himself out of the car and sways around for a second before leaning against the open door.

The door to Forge & Fire is propped open, releasing a stream of conversation and music that makes Arthur's head pound. There's also a dark blob standing against the wall to the building, and it says, "Arthur!"

Arthur squints.

"Hello, gang," Eames starts, pushing away from the wall and tossing his cigarette away. "I was wondering when you'd show up. What's -- Christ, Arthur, what happened?"

"Hazards of being present for lots of volatile emotions," Yusuf calls. "Hey, Eames."

"He got punched and hit his head," Ariadne says simply. "I'm going to stay with him, make sure he doesn't throw up all over himself and drown in it."

"Employee of the month over here," Arthur slurs, and chuckles to himself.

His body seems to have gotten a lot more out of sync ever since leaving the hospital. He can't even blink both eyes simultaneously. This discovery morphs into a self-imposed challenge, and as Eames sidles over to speak with Ariadne and Yusuf in low voices, Arthur squints up at the flickering lights of Forge & Fire and tries to blink normally. He doesn't know how much time passes, but eventually a reservoir of sour saliva starts collecting in his mouth and he has to lean over to spit it out, but he doesn't throw up.

"Right. Arthur," Eames finally says at a normal volume, emerging from the pow-wow, "I'm staying with you tonight."

"What -- " Arthur tries to protest, but somehow zones out and comes to again when they're about five feet from the curb, with Eames's arm around his waist.

Ariadne is in the car once again. She yells something about calling him first thing tomorrow before Yusuf pulls into traffic and they disappear around the corner, probably to gorge themselves on Yusuf's mother's amazing cooking. Yusuf brings leftovers sometimes, and those are mostly the times that Arthur laments living far away from his parents.

"Oh, okay," Arthur says out loud, to no one and in response to nothing in particular.

Eames practically carries him up the stairs, which might be embarrassing but mostly Arthur is grateful for Eames's solidness at his side. Once inside Arthur's apartment, Eames deposits him on the couch before rummaging around like he lives there. A trash can finds its way into Arthur's arms, and saltines and water appear on the coffee table. He stares off into a random point in space and becomes immersed in the presence of Eames, listening to the sounds he makes as he moves about the place.

"Hey," Eames warns as he sits down next to Arthur, and the ensuing jab to Arthur's shoulder makes him jerk upright. "None of that."

"I didn't even realize I was doing it in the first place," Arthur complains. "Listen, I'm fine. I'm completely fine, I'm just exhausted and I want to sleep. Besides, I can think of thousands of other things you can be doing that are much, much more appealing than being my babysitter."

"I'm a natural night owl," Eames replies, as if that makes sense. "I can also make nature noises if you think it'll soothe you. Would you prefer rainforest or sounds of the sea?"

Arthur rolls his face into the cushion and says, "Ugh."

Eames puts the TV on Jeopardy with the volume set a bit too high, but incidentally Arthur loves the show. He hugs the trash can and answers all three Daily Doubles, but Eames gets the Final Jeopardy question correct, which earns some begrudging admiration from Arthur. During each commercial break, Arthur chews on saltines and gets more comfortable on the couch.

Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom is playing after that. About fifteen minutes in, Arthur feels okay enough to place the trash can on the floor; about halfway through, Eames gets up and comes back with a half-frozen Gatorade that Arthur bangs on the coffee table before shaking the miniature icebergs into his mouth.

He's finally allowed to go to bed at 11:00, after a quick shower during which Eames knocks on the door every five minutes. When Arthur's done, he yanks it open and says, "You would have heard it if I passed out."

"Maybe not, since you're likely to drape yourself over side of the tub in a very graceful, silent way," Eames says, "even with the head injury."

"Why the hell would you think that?" Arthur asks as he crawls onto the bed and arranges himself in a graceful, silent way. Eames just stands there and watches until Arthur realizes what happened and reaches out to turn off the light.

"Get out," he says without venom.

Eames obeys with a smile, shutting the door quietly behind him. Arthur falls asleep in what seems like seconds.

After two hours on the dot, Eames comes in, tugs down the comforter, and gently squeezes Arthur's shoulder. "Hey," he murmurs, but the bass of his voice is still prominent. "Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?"

"My face got in the way of someone's fist," Arthur answers in a mumble, eyes still closed. "Now you're forced to ask me Law & Order questions."

"What day is it?"

"April 45th."

"Maybe I'll blacken your other eye, create some symmetry here," Eames says. Arthur feels him swipe his thumb over his good cheekbone, swooping down in a backwards 'J'. "Alright, go back to sleep."

"Thanks," Arthur manages.

The comforter settles over his chest again. He goes back to sleep.

*

And if he does happen to have a thing for Eames, then --

then it's going to be like a slow wave, gathering up momentum with each moment. But all Arthur has to do is wait for it to crest and break, wait for it to wash away quietly. All he has to do is wait.

***

Morning hollers into Arthur's consciousness like a speeding bullet before exploding into daylight and birds chirping and the clicking of bike gears and buses belching through the streets. After the initial discontent about being awake passes, he cracks one eye open and gauges his mood.

He definitely doesn't think about Eames.

Instead, he thinks about getting out of bed and sitting down at his computer and scrolling through all the unread files, some of which whittle down years of love and partnership and whatever-the-hell into rows of blocky text, and facing another batch of strangers only to read them a list of reasons about why they're not good enough.

Just as he's deciding that he'd probably rather be dead than do another day of that, eerily enough, his phone buzzes with a new text from Yusuf: Arthur are you depressed

This is usually the time of year when you get depressed

I knw i should have hooked up that tin can phone line

Taking my yearly sabbatical, Arthur writes back, which Yusuf doesn't reply to, seeing as how this is the third year in a row that Arthur has taken off without previous notice and Yusuf is nothing if not good at improvisation. Plus, the weather has turned back in on itself -- April is nearly half over, and yet rainclouds and showers have returned to blanket over the city like it's mid-winter. That should call for a lull in business.

Head injuries aren't very conducive to safe driving, but he moves around and goes for a short jog and feels fine, so he ends up taking a drive down the coastline. Not too far, just a couple hours out, where the water is actually nice and not frigid, and there are beachfront houses lining the winding road.

Then he drives around aimlessly, because what the hell, what a pointless trip.

Just before he gets back onto the freeway, he notices that one of them is having an open house, and spins into a U-turn before he can rethink it. There's a curving driveway, and the backyard is separated from the beach by only a few meters. The whole place smells like saltwater. A few other couples are milling about, checking out the bay windows and stamping lightly on the hardwood floors. The house is airy and beautiful, and more than a little lonely.

"Nice house," Arthur says to the realtor, who's hanging out in the background.

"Isn't it?" she gushes. She goes into the merits of the property before offering a pamphlet that Arthur politely declines.

"Why did the owners decide to sell?" he asks instead.

"They're divorced. She's selling the house, moving back east. Would you like a pamphlet?" she asks again.

Arthur declines once more. He leaves without taking a second look around.

*

Rush hour starts bottle-necking the freeways for no good reason, and it takes him a few hours to get back home. Parking is a fucking nightmare as well. By the time he yanks the emergency brake up, he's resettled into his normal, day-to-day grumpiness and decides to head directly to the bar.

Ariadne and Yusuf are already there, perched on the stools with an empty one between them, and Arthur feels a sudden and fervent gratefulness for their presence. He takes a seat as Eames heads toward them with plates in each hand.

"Egg salad sandwich with potatoes on the side, well-done, and a muffaletta, toasted," Eames recites, placing the food onto the bar. "Arthur -- "

"The usual, thanks," Arthur cuts in, and Eames busies himself with getting the whiskey. "So what's on the agenda?" he asks, hoping no one will mention his absence.

"Oooh, someone bought a 'Landslide'," Ariadne announces as she chews. "Lawyers. Totally rolling in it."

"He's not in the mood today," Yusuf says in a horrible stage-whisper.

"Oh." Ariadne swallows. Then, instead of moving past it like she usually does, she says, "Why?"

Arthur shrugs. He takes a sip of his whiskey and tries to convinces himself that Eames isn't hanging around their side of the bar on purpose.

"I think maybe it's because you spend so much time invested in other people that you don't concentrate on anything else." Ariadne takes a gulp of her beer. "You let it get to you too much."

"Oh, god," Arthur says.

"No," Yusuf corrects, "he bottles it up until the cap pops off. That's the problem."

Sometimes Yusuf and Ariadne resemble a never-ending game of Pong. Arthur usually gets stuck in the middle and under the microscope because Yusuf seems to exist on a higher level of contentment in general, and Ariadne has taken to adulthood like a fish to water.

"Is that a euphemism?" Eames interrupts, lightening the mood. "Arthur, do you need a good wank? I can't promise sanitary conditions -- " he gestures around the bar. " -- but I can guarantee a good time."

Ariadne and Yusuf laugh as Arthur gets elbowed from both sides. As he grimaces, he accidentally catches Eames's eye; Eames holds it for a beat too long before turning to put clean glasses away.

Something akin to a rising tide swells up in Arthur's chest; he has to tamp down the impulse to grab Eames's sleeve, ask, What? What is it?

"Seeing people at their worst has ruined him," Yusuf says sagely.

"They're not at their worst," Arthur protests. "They're just being -- normal."

"He has low expectations," Yusuf explains to Eames, and something about the whole scene reminds Arthur of parent-teacher conferences. Then he turns to Arthur again and says, "Hiring a third party so you can break up with your significant other by proxy is not normal."

"It will be soon, if things keep going the way they do," Ariadne counters.

The two of them devolve into an argument about the future of break-ups and communication in general. Meanwhile, Arthur poses a silent challenge as to how many empty glasses he can rack up, then accepts said challenge and gets to work.

Ariadne is saying something about high-speed internet connections in Asia when Arthur loudly announces, apropos of nothing, "Relationships are fruit."

"Oh, no," Ariadne says.

"Fruit," Eames repeats, having apparently decided to ignore the entire other half of the bar for the night.

"You're opening a dam, Eames," Ariadne says, but Eames merely acknowledges her warning instead of heeding it.

"Fruit," Arthur confirms at a normal volume, "or any other kind of perishable."

"What's the pasta equivalent, then? Something without an expiration date," Eames clarifies.

"Nothing," Arthur says at the same time Ariadne answers, "Your dominant hand."

Eames laughs. "Fair enough."

"I'd rather go for some fast food myself," Yusuf says thoughtfully.

"Fast food is incredibly tempting and delicious, but wouldn't you need a palate cleanser after a while?" Eames suggests. "Something sweet to wash it down."

"Wow, that's really nice," Yusuf tells him.

"Corny, but I actually buy it," is Ariadne's conclusion. "It's probably the accent."

"Of course it's the accent, but don't make the mistake of underestimating the depths of my soul," Eames says.

"Sure," Arthur scoffs. "Under the chest that's hard as diamonds, there lies the heart of a passionate, misunderstood soul." He takes a gulp of his drink when Yusuf repeats, under his breath, "Diamonds?"

"And carnal," Eames adds. "A passionate, misunderstood, carnal soul."

"And carnal," Arthur agrees. "Like a chipmunk. Anyway. I think this is the part where you convince me that I'm missing out, etcetera, etcetera."

"If you're being serious, then -- I mean, you're a grown man, Arthur." Eames shrugs and starts wiping down the counter. "Whatever you might believe, or whatever you might've convinced yourself of, or whatever you might even be in denial about, all of that is your own business. I respect it."

"He's totally judging you," Ariadne translates. "You've turned a miserable human experience into a lucrative business. Who wouldn't judge you?" She rubs his back briefly as she speaks, an endearingly sweet action incongruous to her words.

"You would think that I'd be hurt by that, but considering my scruples left the building about ten years ago -- ," Arthur pauses to finish his drink, " -- I'm not."

Eames puts his elbows on the counter and leans in. "Alright, now tell me that love is a waste of time," he instructs. The tone of his voice is suddenly different, like it's only the two of them, alone.

"Love," Arthur says obediently, "is a waste of time."

Eames smiles. It's a nice smile. "I'm surprised you don't deny its existence altogether."

"I'm not stupid. People love each other all the time. Too much, maybe. Or too often." Arthur closes one eye and tilts his glass, rolling it along the bottom rim to see how the light refraction changes.

"On that note: shots," Yusuf requests, his index finger pointed up in the air.

Surprisingly, Eames brings over enough for all four of them. He also keeps refilling until Arthur loses track, first of the drinks, and then of the night altogether.

*

The next morning finds Arthur on the couch, telling himself that he has to stop waking up like this. It takes him about ten more minutes to realize that the quilt he's covered with is unfamiliar. When he finally opens his eyes, he sees a piece of paper on the coffee table, folded lengthwise and tented up on its edges.

The quilt is on loan. What kind of person doesn't have a single quilt lying around?

The letters are shaky, but only slightly. Arthur stares at the note. Then he pulls the quilt up over his face and huddles underneath. It smells like fresh laundry and a tiny bit of aftershave.

He doesn't remember anything that led up to this point, with him being in a warm cocoon courtesy of Eames's quilt, but what's clear is that Eames has officially put Arthur to bed twice, both times in a completely innocuous way. This is a fact, and one that serves as a good indicator of what kind of relationship they have, or will ever have. He's equal parts relieved and disappointed at having navigated out of the thorny, tangled mess of uncertainty. On one hand, solidifying a platonic relationship would help Arthur with whatever kind of crush he has. On the other hand, it's a platonic relationship.

Still, Arthur feels better. Marginally better, but better all the same. After all, it's nothing that he wasn't expecting.

("Where are the quilts?" Eames asked, emerging from the bedroom and banging into the doorframe on the way. "Shit. Ow."

"No quilts. Comforter," Arthur grunted.

Eames knelt down and began to clumsily untie Arthur's shoelaces. "Comforters belong on beds, not sofas," he said distractedly, "and seeing as how you're adamant about your post on the sofa, it's not going to work. You don't have any quilts at all?"

There was a thunking noise, and Arthur's right foot was free of its oppressive loafer prison. "I want to take you out," Arthur said in response. "Would you let me take you out?"

Eames's hands were busy with Arthur's other shoe. They stilled for a moment, but Arthur fell asleep before he heard an answer.)

*

----

"I checked the weather report," Yusuf says.

"And?"

"Sunny. Sunny. Sunny. Sunny. Sun--," Yusuf pauses. "Wait, I'm going for the two-week forecast now. Yeah. Sunny. Sunny. Sunny. Sunny. I think you get the point."

"Okay." Arthur exhales. "Let's plan to take one day off and do ten-hour days, four days a week, like we did last year. Thursday through Sunday. Are you okay with that?"

"Definitely. Yes." Yusuf's voice has a determination Arthur's only previously heard in zombie survivor movies. "Let's do this."

And thus, as schools all over the country release students into the normal population and the sun starts hanging on to the horizon for longer and longer, one of their busiest times of the year rolls around, because there's something about summertime that makes people question their commitments even more than usual.

It's fine. It's rote. Arthur rattles off break-up letters like he's in a spelling bee where speed counts. He weaves in and out of rush hour traffic, slams on the brakes when he sees CHP, and goes 85 miles per hour otherwise. Sometimes he even leaves the engine idling, so as to make a quicker getaway.

Afterward, he gets home, toes off his shoes, and, more often than not, he ends up hanging out with Eames in some context or another. If not in the bar, then at one of their respective apartments. The first time he successfully cooks chicken cacciatore, he brings it over to Eames's place to show off. A couple weeks later, Eames buys a Shake Weight after a shitty day, which becomes a lot less uncomfortably suggestive and a lot more hilarious after they share some beers.

One night, they have a barbecue on the roof of their building. It's uncharacteristically warm for San Francisco, but a chill starts creeping in as the sun goes down. Most of the attendees start trickling away after that, but Arthur hunches forward in his jacket and stands near the edge of the roof, just watching the fog roll in.

"This was nice," Ariadne comments from beside him. Arthur glances over at her; she's looking content, belly protruding slightly from underneath her t-shirt. "Totally worth the food coma."

"Yeah," Arthur agrees.

"So," Ariadne starts hesitantly. She raises her eyebrows, and right over her head in Arthur's line of sight is Eames, who's tending to the last of the grill.

Arthur shakes his head. "Nope."

"Over it?"

"Definitely." He nods.

"He was pretty interested in watching you eat that third hot dog," Ariadne says offhandedly.

"Because it was my third hot dog in ten minutes," Arthur says. "Speed-eating attracts all kinds of attention."

"It was pretty impressive," Ariadne admits. "Well, okay. As long as you're over it, I guess."

Arthur smiles at her. "Yeah," he says. The fog is now cottoning over any building higher than five stories. "Yeah, I am," he says again.

*

MISTER EAMES to DOMINIC COBB
GENERAL REASON: "irreconcilable differences."

Arthur changes his mind the next day, when he's scrolling through the new applications and comes across one for Eames, to someone named Dominic Cobb.

Staring at the monitor doesn't make the letters change. He feels a hot flash of jealousy, as well as a dark self-satisfaction for successfully saving himself the embarrassment and letdown before it could even happen. Eames seems rather good at compartmentalizing different slices of his life, which would explain why Arthur has never seen this Cobb guy around.

Yusuf is doing rounds at the panhandle today, which means he could easily swing by Cobb's place. In fact, he says as much when he scans over the location as the document prints, but Arthur makes up an excuse about needing fresh air and barges out the door before anyone can call him out. Indulging in less-than-advisable curiosities is one of his weaknesses.

Dominic Cobb has sky-blue eyes and dirty blond hair. He's also got a smattering of facial hair that makes him look like an aging porcupine, though Arthur suspects he's the minority in that opinion. To anyone else, Dominic Cobb probably looks like an all-American guy who belongs in a Levi's ad campaign.

"Eames is breaking up with you," Arthur announces loudly, instead of, "Hi," or, "Hello," or any other normal type of greeting.

Cobb coughs. "Right. Okay. You must be Arthur?"

"Yes, I'm here from No Sad, Big Smile Break-Up Service," Arthur says. "Eames is breaking up with you because of 'irreconcilable differences', according to his statement. Should you be inclined to respond, I have a few options available for you -- "

"That's okay," Cobb interrupts. "Yeah, no, that's fine, it won't be necessary. Thanks."

He shoots Arthur a quick smile and starts to close the door, which would officially seal this as the most amicable and succinct break-up that Arthur has ever been involved in. But for some reason, Arthur speaks up before Cobb can get the door shut: "And how long had you been seeing Eames?" he asks loudly, in spite of himself.

"Uh." Cobb wipes his hands on his pants. "I don't know. A couple months? Maybe a few months?"

"A couple or a few?" Arthur asks immediately. "Was it a casual relationship or something more serious?"

"Is this any of your business? Why are you asking these questions?" Cobb sounds curious more than anything else.

"Statistics," Arthur fibs. "For our company pamphlet."

"Shouldn't you be prepared to write my answers down, then? To double-check the numbers and analyze them later," Cobb points out.

"I'm good with memorization," Arthur says shortly. "What are you, some kind of professor?"

"Yes," Cobb says. He blinks. "Of statistics."

"Oh." Arthur feels a sudden draining of energy at the stumble. Almost as quickly as he'd gotten riled up, now he's tired and at a loss. Getting worked up over Eames and Cobb was dumb, that much is clear. The whole thing feels kind of surreal.

"So, are you going to use Prism or Graphpad?" Cobb presses. "Because both have their advantages and disadvantages, you know."

He looks thrilled about the chance to talk stats with someone. Arthur says, "Probably Excel. Nothing fancy."

"Right," Cobb says, disappointed. "Well, I'll let you get to it. Hey, thanks for stopping by."

This time, when he starts to close the door, Arthur steps backward until he's off the porch. "You're not angry?" he calls.

"Eames is a good guy," Cobb declares. Then, oddly enough, he smiles. "See you, Arthur."

Arthur sits in the car for a while. A few doors down, there's a weeping willow that almost sweeps against the street. He stares at the swaying green, then starts the engine and prepares to hit up the next appointment.

It's only when he gets to the second stoplight that he realizes he's not even wearing his nametag. Strange.

*

Between the three of them, it takes two days to clear the queue completely. At that point it's nearly time for semester-based schools to start up again, so Arthur takes an early Friday and spends most of the afternoon watching TBS, and halfway through the second King of Queens rerun, there's a knock at the door.

It's Eames, of course, holding a pan of something that smells delicious. "Scones," he announces, lifting it slightly like an offering. Being aware of a new facet of his life is strange, because Arthur doesn't know if he should acknowledge it out loud or not.

"Godsend," Arthur says, letting him in and turning the TV off.

There's still steaming coming off the pan; it curls into little wisps in the late afternoon sunlight. Eames sets the scones down on the dining table before pulling out a couple chairs. "Dig in," he invites.

Arthur obeys. The scones are way too hot, so he dances his fingers over them in lieu of starting a conversation. He can feel Eames studying him. Slightly burnt blueberries are suddenly very interesting.

"I should confess something," Eames begins. "I'm just going to jump in, here," he adds belatedly.

Arthur pauses and looks up, uncertain. "I should have known that scones stood for a preemptive apology."

"Not an apology, exactly. Just something I need to get off my chest." Eames smiles his crooked smile, the corners of his eyes relaxing into contented crinkles.

An unexpected wave of attraction, unmarred by the layers of pessimism and denial that Arthur keeps burying it under, swoops through him like a roller coaster. "Okay, I think I'm ready to hear your sins," Arthur says after a pause.

Eames clears his throat and shifts, flicking at the corner of a scone to make it whip around in short circles. Silence prickles at Arthur's ears.

Eames says, "Cobb is my mate."

"Yes, I'm aware," Arthur says slowly.

"No. He's my mate, period. We never -- I'm not dating him, and I never was."

Arthur studies him. It's like the part in a murder-mystery, when everything is about to be elucidated. But right now, Arthur is just confused. "Then what was -- ?"

"My shoddy plan of trying to gauge whether or not you actually were interested in me," Eames says baldly. "Rather childish and manipulative and cowardly, I apologize for that. But I just -- I hope you understand. Asking someone something like that face-to-face, especially a friend, is quite daunting, frankly."

Misinterpreting intentions happens to everyone at some point, which is why he spends so long trying to dissect what he just heard. Cobb, not actually dating Eames. Never was. Eames, setting up a fake application -- which would explain why it was only filled out about halfway -- to gauge Arthur's reaction? As far as interpretations go, it hits all the logical points but Arthur is still unsure.

"I guess," Arthur says as his brain comes back online. "Wait, what? I mean, thanks."

"Sorry for the runaround," Eames says hastily.

"It's not a big deal." Arthur waves him off. He rehashes the words again, and all he can come up with is, "Why?"

"Why does anybody do anything? Because they want to," Eames says. "And if two people happen to want the same thing in some kind of mutually beneficial arrangement, then."

He trails off. Arthur can already feel himself breaking just because he's facing this head on, for the first time. The power that Eames seems to exert over him is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating -- and for the first time, he wonders about the possibility of reciprocation.

He can deny it. He can say, no, you're wrong. He can bury his head in the sand until Eames takes everything back.

"I do want it," he hears himself saying. "You're right."

"Then you should let yourself do this, in my opinion." Eames smiles. "I'll be careful with you," he says jokingly, but Arthur can hear the seriousness that undercuts it.

"And if I don't return that favor?" Arthur argues. "I've spent years mixed up in break-ups. I can't promise that I'll be kind, or sensitive, or not a complete asshole in general. I can't promise I'll be any good at this."

"Not to sound even more naff, but you've already proven that you are all those things," Eames says. "It's too late to keep those secrets. You made the mistake of letting me get to know you. You, not the person you want to be."

Arthur scoffs. Eames smirks at him, but doesn't budge.

"Who do you think I want to be?" Arthur asks, curious enough to veer into a tangent.

To his surprise, Eames seems to think about this carefully, and that's it, Arthur's gone. "Someone who forfeits without second thought instead of playing, I suppose," Eames finally says. "I know I said that all of this was your own business and I had no part in it, but I changed my mind," he continues. "I had to try. So. This is me trying."

He studies Arthur, as if waiting for a response.

Funnily enough, Arthur isn't imagining the usual fanfare of break-ups and heartbreak and horrible, explosive demises. He isn't imagining who will have to deliver the news, Ariadne or Yusuf, and he isn't imagining the vacation time he'll need to take when it ends. He's not thinking about anything at all; he's simply sitting there in front of Eames, their knees inches away from touching, the pan full of scones between them.

With his heart pounding loud in his ears, Arthur pinches a scone between his fingers and takes a large, determined bite.

"What did you mean, 'actually'?" he asks, swallowing. "'Actually interested', what does that mean?"

Eames sits back and laughs. A bright sound that Arthur's heard mostly through the wall they share, but now it's here, right in front of him. When Arthur cuffs Eames's knee with his foot, Eames manages to grab his ankle and hold it still.

He leans in and says, "I want to take you out. Would you let me take you out?"

The words ping something familiar in Arthur's memory. Eames is smiling like he's sharing a private joke with Arthur, and Arthur doesn't think he'll tire of seeing that expression, ever. He's practically thrumming with energy -- and it feels like stepping off the edge of a cliff without knowing what's below, but he looks at Eames and thinks, okay. Okay, yes.

pyrimidine — Mon, 30 May 2011 19:10:55 GMT

Thing 1: how much do I love having a Monday off? So much. I love it so much. ;__;
Thing 2: here is a short little story for The Killing!

What You Need (or, 3 arrests Stephen Holder has made)
Gen
850 words

*kinda spoilery up to 1x08

i.

Mostly they pick him because he looks the part, but he tells everyone else that it's because he's a fucking genius with this police stuff, see you all bitches later. (And maybe that's a part of why they pick him, too: undercovers need some swagger to cover up anything else that might knock them sideways.)

Holder's got swagger. He's also got the sharp, angular body of a tweaker. He's cool with whatever, as long as it gets him out on the street instead of being a desk jockey all day.

His first arrest is a small time hand-to-hand, nothing big. When the training officer shows up, he looks from Holder to the arrestee and back. "Couldn't tell which was which for a second," he says with a laugh.

Holder puffs out a lopsided smile. His arrestee doesn't do shit, probably because Holder's got his face smashed up against the side of the car. Underneath the nerves and the adrenaline, there's a tiny bloom of self-satisfaction. Barely a blip, but still, it's there.

He could be good at this, maybe.

*

ii.

It's easy to hide it, in the beginning. He barely gets any sleep in the first place, so that's alright. Then he makes up some story about not being able to figure out what kind of allergens are causing the sniffles and whatever else. Allergies, or it could be a cold that's taking a long time to set in.

"It's at a point where I'm like, 'Yo, what do you need?'" Holder holds his arms out and pretends to talk to his own body. "'You need sleep? You sick? You just hungover?' Help me out here, you know?"

Weiss laughs. "Trust me, I know," he says in a defeated voice.

Holder goes back to refilling his coffee cup. "Yeah, you got two little ones at home, right? Twins?"

"Yup," Weiss confirms. "They're monsters, man. I thought I felt strung out on the job, but it wasn't nothing compared to this."

"Hey, for real." Holder points to Weiss as he takes a sip of the shitty but free coffee. "I'm definitely not jealous of you. But you work it out though, I know you do."

Weiss sighs and smiles. "Yeah, well," is all he says, but he feels validated and therefore doesn't even rethink where the conversation has been steered away from. Holder's always been okay at talking his way out, but talking his way around is what he excels at.

So, Weiss doesn't catch on. Neither does anyone else. But when he cuffs someone later that night -- the other officers call him James and seem familiar with him --, Holder gets a grimy, crawly feeling in his stomach because James stares at him, then tilts his chin up in some condescending nod of recognition.

It takes Holder all he's got not to walk over and smash James's face into the sidewalk. Doing it would be so easy; just palm the back of his head and watch his teeth crack away against the concrete.

*

iii.

Patrol claimed that they had to run some names and numbers, but mostly it looks like they're all just standing around with their thumbs up each other's asses. Holder's standing around because he doesn't have anything better to do except wait.

The squad car sags a little when he sits on the trunk. Janky piece of shit, but he can't talk because it's not like he's got his own. "You bored?" he asks Grant, who's sitting on the curb, ankles crossed and knees open.

"Fuck off," Grant snaps.

"I'm not tryin' to holler at you or nothing," Holder says. "Just looking for a little innocent conversation." The sky is nine months pregnant with clouds but it's not raining, at least not yet, and so he lights up a cigarette. "Hey, what's that game you all play now?" he continues. "Two truths and a lie?"

Grant is getting more hunched over by the minute, elbows jutting out from behind his back. The zip-ties probably hurt like a bitch the first time.

"Hit me with your best shot, little man," Holder prods.

"Didn't you get busted with crank like, two months back?" Grant sneers. "Yeah, because Evan was your hook and he's in county now, so that explains why you look like shit."

"See, you're not playing the game right," Holder says in a scolding tone. "And all this is gonna be a lot rougher for you if you don't learn."

Grant stares up at him, practically vibrating with unbridled anger, and Holder wants to laugh. He wants to berate him for getting caught dealing shitty weed. He wants to take Grant's rage and stoke it into something even bigger. He wants to ruin him.

Instead, Holder leans over and, with a small, self-satisfied grin, flicks a column of ashes right onto Grant's hair.

SRRY FR TH SPMMNG

pyrimidine — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 06:41:13 GMT

Random Generation Kill fic amnesty. This was going to be a boarding school AU because I am me and apparently that is all I write in any fandom, ever.

Morning announcements are held at 7:30am, in some kind of seminar room right next to the library. It's crowded but not stifling; the room has high ceilings and an entire wall of open casement windows. Plus, there's less than 100 students in the junior class, and the entire student body falls just short of 400.

Brad remembers facts like these from the brochure at random times, things he doubted were true when he was flipping through the welcome package back on the West coast. They were just words on a page with 2-D pictures back then, spouting some bullshit about acreage and building histories and seasonal sports, all of which were impossible to imagine when he was lying on his ratty old bed from junior high, with bare feet hanging off the edge and the smell of the ocean drifting through his window.

Still. High school is high school is high school. This might be a nicer one than Brad's used to, but that's about it. There are noticeable jagged lines among the rows of desks as people scoot closer to chat with their friends. Guys are yelling across the room at each other, girls are leaning over desks and talking more quietly. If Brad closes his eyes, he could be in homeroom right now, in Mrs. Schroeder's 1st period with the rest of the turds in his class.

The bell rings with a weird harmonious tone that Brad would associate more with a philharmonic than a high school. Right on cue, some guy goes up to the front and stands behind the podium with a bunch of papers. He's got that all-American, overachieving, wide-eyed, "I seem innocent but I'd stick a potato in your tailpipe and fuck your 90-year-old grandma if it meant that I'd get ahead in life" look about him. He probably blows Senators over the summer when school's not in.

"Welcome back, everyone. I'm Nate Fick, your prefect for this year," he announces.

Everyone else is only half-paying attention, but their conversations immediately die off within a couple seconds. Nate Fick, of course, waits with a smile. He's nice to look at, a high school girl's wet dream, but then he starts talking about mundane shit like changes in library hours and where to sign up for study hall, so Brad tunes him out and just looks. He watches as Nate makes eye contact with almost everyone; he's so busy watching, in fact, that it comes as a surprise when Nate looks directly at him for a brief moment before skipping a few people to Brad's right.

Then Nate's eyes slide back to Brad in a very subtle double take, as if he's processing the unfamiliar face. There isn't even a hitch in his announcement about where to buy readers.

"And before I hand it over to the deputy principals, I'm obligated to reiterate the strict three-strikes policy with a reminder that drinking will be monitored particularly closely." Nate smiles. What a fucking sham. He's probably the type to sneak whiskey from his dad's liquor cabinet and replace the ingested volume with water.

When the principal takes Nate's place at the podium to go over class schedules, the last Brad's attention dissolves. He slouches in his seat and mentally checks out.

*

Brad's roommate is this kid named Ray, who was probably heroin thin before puberty and came out the other side looking just a bit taller and even more drugged out. He eats a lot of candy and pops a lot of pills and babbles on about Brad just being jealous of his svelte physique. Notebooks and socks bounce harmlessly off his head and torso without complaints, which Brad can appreciate. If the first week is any indicator for the rest of the year, Ray is barely going to be in the dorms. But when he is, he shares his junk food and watches a lot of Say Yes to The Dress, and Brad likes him. It's weird.

The campus is finally becoming familiar to him. The first class of every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday is Calculus. Instead of individual desks, there's a single long table with chairs around it. Another reaffirmed fact from the brochure pops into Brad's head, the 11:1 student/teacher ratio. He thinks about school last year, when they barely had any budget and were breaking all kinds of fire codes by having thirty-five students crammed into one classroom with broken air-conditioning. In that atmosphere, Brad had just wanted to stand and tell everyone to shut the fuck up so he could learn some goddamn math. Now all he wants to do is lay out on the grass and smoke a joint.

He goes to class. He does his homework in the library. He studies. He doesn't talk to anyone, except Ray.

He spends some time wondering why the fuck he ever came here, but mostly he feels okay.

*

When Brad walks out of the library around midnight, he sees that the lights are still on at the soccer field, piping industrial-strength beams through the trees, past where Brad is standing, and all the way out to the east parking lot. The shortcut he takes to the dorms is partially covered in shadows; it looks empty, but when he walks closer, he can vaguely make out a group of people standing around in the shadows of the math building. The navy color of their uniforms blends into the dark but there's a lot of scuffling and hushed laughter, and Brad sees at least four, five white shirt collars highlighted dimly in the dark.

He can only make out one face, and that's Nate Fick's.

"Hello," Nate says easily. He's sitting with his back against the brick, knees bent up near his chest and both feet flat on the ground. His eyes are bright, rimmed with water and faintly pink. Out of everyone who's there, he's the only one that's not situated in the shadows. It's pretty ballsy of him, considering that they're all breaking curfew right now, but also because he's pinching a thin joint between his thumb and index finger.

Mike Wynn leans into the light and greets him, too: "Hey Colbert," he says with an easy smile.

"Colbert what?" Nate asks.

"Brad Colbert," Brad says slowly.

"Oh. I thought -- yeah, the other way around," Nate explains, like he's used to hanging out with people with first names like Colbert without it being a big deal. He makes some back-and-forth gesture with his hand, then waves it off. "Anyway. I'm Nate. You're new, right? I noticed you during morning announcements the first day."

There's something about the way he says it -- Brad sees him differently, just for a moment, and then it's back to some guy he doesn't know, sitting on the ground and looking up at him, a little stoned and curious at the same time.

"Yeah," Brad says. "Yeah, I'm new."

When Nate proffers him the joint, he takes it. The paper is wet between his fingertips. Brad retrieves his own lighter and efficiently licks the flame against the joint a few times to get rid of some of the spit. He feels Nate watching him as he takes a hit, then passes to Mike.

"It's some bammer weed, but it's all we've got," Mike apologizes.

"He spends a weekend visiting relatives in Humboldt County and suddenly he's an expert on all things horticultural," Poke snorts.

Another voice pipes in. "Hey, there was a dude in my class named Cerulean in junior high."

"What the hell kind of hippie school did you go to, Ray?" Brad asks. He exhales, then walks a few steps to lean against the brick without taking his backpack off.

"A beautiful one, where the students' names encompassed all colors of the rainbow." Ray swipes an imaginary rainbow in the air with one hand. "Anyway. What was I saying?"

"Landing strips," Mike supplies.

"Landing strips!" Ray repeats. "Yeah. Okay. Listen, a landing strip is the pussy equivalent of a goatee. Nobody likes that shit except for the person who's growing it."

"Ray, when are you going to learn to respect a woman's body just the way it is?" Nate chides mildly, but then he grins a little lopsided and Brad can't tell if he's serious or not.

The joint gets passed around one more time in silence before Mike makes a noise and says, "Oh, hey, I forgot. Ray, Lilley wants to know if you have more Adderall."

"Goddammit, that asshole is bleeding me dry," Ray complains. "Last time I sold him some, he spent fourteen hours editing some psycho homemade music video instead of studying for American Lit and then he cheated off me for the test."

"Academic steroids are fucked up," Poke declares. "Way to perpetuate the flawed ideals of this facist educational system."

"Poke, my man, you are the last person who I thought would throw a word like 'facist' around. I know you're just being lazy, so I forgive you." Ray pats Poke's cheek a few times. He adds, "I mean, you're just pissed because you have to work that much harder to set the curve. Some of us have to keep up, you know."

Poke slaps his hand away. "Go drop out and fail the GED already. You're a waste of a fucking scholarship, you know that?"

They all hoot. Brad accidentally catches Nate's eye as he's laughing; he looks away, but can't help glancing back a second time, only to find that Nate is still looking at him with that soft, stoned smile.

prompts?

pyrimidine — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 08:05:55 GMT

Based on bookshop's amaze-balls fluff meme:

Leave me a prompt and I'll try to write three sentences for it!* Multi-fandom is a possibility...

:D?

*Keyword = "try" D:

this post is about makeup and stuffs

pyrimidine — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 09:07:15 GMT

MARRY ME, MAKE UP FOR EVER. I love their eyeshadow because I'm a fan of the 'crazy clown' look when it comes to bright, clashing eyeshadows.

Am also a fan of ______ blended into black. That is pretty much as advanced as I can get re: eye makeup. What is the next step? I'm at a loss.

NARS Red Lizard is the perfect red. 1. It is RED. 2. It is matte. 3. Although it does slowly fade throughout the night, it does so in a uniform way so you're not going around with a half-lipsticked Harvey Dent-mouth thing.

NARS Orgasm blush makes your cheeks look byootiful.

MAC fluidline is a great liquid liner. Idk about their other products because they seem very heavy compared to other brands, but the eyeliner is A+.

LUSH's Brazened Honey facemask. Before this, I was a nonbeliever in facemasks. But now I have seen the light~~ Seriously, this stuff is great. Even after the first use, my skin looked all bright and shit. I actually looked awake, which is weird. We'll see if it lasts, but so far this stuff is like magic in a can.

Covergirl Lashblast. I love Target + their cosmetics section.

Fucking, La Mer, man. It is ridonkulously expensive but I got some small samples and it is so nice as a facewash ;___; Some people I know use bar soap for their face and I wish I could do that, but my skin is so dry and this stuff spoiled me.

What are you guys fans of?

pyrimidine — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 08:44:51 GMT

Along the same lines of the dickpunching fic, kind of...but not really...

For this prompt: You know that thing where a woman drops something down her cleavage, well Eames does it with something Arthur absolutely needs, but down his pants.

“Two broken thumbs and a fractured ankle,” Allyson states. “I’m torn between admiring his follow-through and being annoyed at the fact that my theory about him being a flake continues to be false.”

“He likes to cultivate that idea in people just to prove them wrong,” Arthur says mildly. “That’s what I used to think, anyway, but him showing up in this state seems like more of an inferiority complex-type thing.”

“I can hear you so clearly that it’s like you’re in the very same room. Funny, that,” Eames says without looking up, but then he does so because he can feel Arthur studying him. He scratches his involuntary beard -- consequence of the broken thumbs -- and says, “Get me a glass of water, will you?”

“Allyson, that useless sack of skin you hired is talking,” Arthur says.

“Do you have that medical file about which anesthetics she’s allergic to?” Allyson directs toward Eames, smoothly ignoring Arthur.

“In the printer, still. And seeing as how I only need to be useful within the dream, this useless sack of skin will be taking a nap. Call if you need me,” Eames says lightly.

He feels a strange satisfaction when Arthur smiles down at his paperwork.

*

“They managed to do a little damage, but I chanced it with the window instead,” Eames explains later.

“If you landed wrong, your femur could have stabbed up into your own organs,” Arthur tells him. “Getting impaled by your own thigh bone seems worse than whatever the Yakuza would have done with you.”

He unscrews a bottle of water and hands it to Eames, who holds it between both palms like he’s wearing oven mitts.

“Ha,” he says after a careful sip, even though it does sound plausible -- then again, Arthur likes to pull out the deadpan kind of humor every now and again.

He proffers the bottle at Arthur, who takes it back and screws the cap on before placing it on the desk. “Thank you,” Eames says.

Arthur nods absently, focused once more on his laptop. A year ago, Eames would have felt a very obvious flare of annoyance if he so much as looked at Arthur, but he now admits that they started off on the wrong foot. Nowadays they treat each other with an antagonism that seems mostly disingenuous.

(Arthur had messed up the rendezvous point and Eames had accidentally set off the C4 just a tiny bit too early -- it was both their faults, really.)

*

The upside of coming into a job while injured is that he doesn’t have to pretend to care about his presentation. As such, he’s wearing some avant garde-ish sweatshirt he found in the back of the closet that he’s pretty sure he’s never seen before, but it drapes comfortably and is a nice charcoal gray, which means it hides stains better than anything else he owns. His bottoms are track pants that are loose enough to slide up over the walking boot.

Eames is picking idly at a loose thread while Allyson is out getting sandwiches and Arthur is messing around with hacking into a server. “Arthur,” he begins, with no idea what he’s going to say next, but something’s bound to come.

“Shit,” Arthur says shortly, scrambling to sit upright. Eames stops talking and watches as he types impossibly long strings of code or whatever the hell, all while staring intently at the screen.

“What’s going on?”

“They’re booting me out of the system. Fuuuuck,” Arthur says almost under his breath. He punches in another block of letters before pausing abruptly, hands still hovering above the keys. “Okay. Okay, toss me that flash drive in my bag.”

“Oh. Right.” Eames fumbles around in Arthur’s satchel, which is pretty much an endless abyss folded into the form of an Italian leather bag.

“Hurry, please,” Arthur says, strained.

Eames uncaps the flash drive with his teeth, but ends up dropping the important end onto his stomach. “Shite,” he mutters. When he tries to pick it up, chopsticking his fingers in awkward swipes, he only succeeds in chasing it further down his torso until it’s sitting against the waistband of his sweats.

“Eames,” Arthur starts, already halfway up.

“No, hold on, hold on, I’ve got the damn thing, it just -- oh.”

Arthur repeats, “Oh.”

“It’s -- it went, down.”

“Down where?”

“My,” Eames clears his throat, “my track pants. Sorry,” he adds. “I can get it, I just need some -- is there maybe another one, because I know that your love for redundancy makes you carry triple backups of everything.”

Arthur is already stalking over. “We don’t have time for this,” he announces. Then he leans down and grabs Eames’s unelevated ankle, hefting his leg up by his own waist before yanking the sweats off one leg at a time. Surprisingly, he’s capable of pulling quite hard and the force makes Eames slide forward a bit, leaving him slouching in the chair, lower half covered only by boxer briefs.

The flash drive, against all odds, has somehow nestled itself in the crease of Eames’s hip joint. Arthur grabs it without preamble, leaning close enough for Eames to catch a hint of some very sheer cologne, and then he goes right back to the laptop and plugs it in as if nothing happened.

“All good?” Eames calls after a pause, legs still splayed out, heart pounding fast from delayed adrenaline.

Arthur doesn’t answer for a few moments, but finally says, “Yes. I think so. Hopefully the computer saved all the building layouts correctly. I’m estimating we got about 70% of it.”

“Yes, alright.” The back of the chair is making a mess of Eames’s hair, he can feel it. He’s just about to sit up when Arthur glances over; he’s leaning over the table, one forearm lined up alongside the laptop to support his weight.

“Sorry,” he says, belatedly. It might be the angle of the sun coming in through the windows, but his ears are colored a faint red. “Was that out of line?”

“Of course not. Right,” Eames breathes out, then wonders how long he’s going to be speaking in vaguely nonsensical answers.

“You can get dressed again now,” Arthur points out. “Unless you need help?”

“Well, if you’re offering,” Eames says. He waits until Arthur shakes his head, then says, “This part is always the least fun.”

“I’m surprised you’ve never been arrested for indecent exposure.”

Of course Arthur would know. Eames just grins and scoots to the edge of the chair. His thumbs still haven’t set yet, and he’s been operating on a steady undercurrent of pain for the past week, but all that narrows into a tiny focal point of negligible stress when he considers the newly realized fact that he might, just might be wildly attracted to Arthur.

pyrimidine — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 08:31:36 GMT

Sweet, I have now watched all the movies nominated for Best Picture.

**Please keep in mind that I will probably like/love 99% of movies I see, and that I'm currently excited for Battle LA to come out**

127 Hours: I love James Franco and all -- and Dave Franco as well, do yourself a favor and watch these videos of them interviewing each other -- but I was like, 90 minutes of James Franco and only James Franco? :\\\\\\ But man, this was FUCKING INTENSE AS ALL HELL. Loved it. Bonus Lizzy Caplan as well.

Black Swan: Any kind of thriller = me shitting enough bricks to build a row home. I think I watched half of this with my eyes closed. Once again, intense as all hell. Good movie, would never watch it again (which is how I feel about pretty much all of Darren Aronofsky's movies).

The Fighter: I love me some feel-good triumphant sports movies. I will be forever bummed that that movement hit its peak in the '90s with the Mighty Ducks trilogy. Anyway, Marky Mark always plays the dude who looks really hood but is actually very sensitive and wants to please everybody and is really a nice guy with that nice high-pitched voice he has. I'm a sucker for this. Loved the movie, loved Bale, loved Melissa Leo.

The King's Speech: Liked it. Could immediately tell the OST was by Alexandre Desplat. Kinda seems Oscar bait-y, but the cast just makes it so gooooood.

Winter's Bone: Happily surprised that John Hawkes got nominated for supporting actor. Quiet, kinda slow -- Jennifer Lawrence wasn't that great to me, except for the latter quarter of the movie. Kinda meh overall.

The Kids Are All Right: Meh-ish. Will forever love Julianne Moore and Annette Bening, but meh. Also, I always forget how much I like Mark Ruffalo until I see him in something (same with Adrien Brody, so The Brothers Bloom = DREAM COME TRUE). The movie left off on a really random scene with his character though.

Inception: *OMINOUS HORNS*

The Social Network: Loved it. Andrew Garfield is forever my Bambi husband. Jesse Eisenberg is forever my socially awkward cat lover. The kid from Jurassic Park is in it. It's about FRIENDSHIPS and BETRAYAL and thinking you know everything when you really DON'T.

Toy Story 3: Cried. The row of grown-ass dudes in front of me cried. Still think about that close-up on Woody's face at the end and cry. I think I loved it more for nostalgic reasons than anything else, though.

True Grit: Loved the chickadee Hailee Steinfeld. Jeff Bridges was badass as usual. Didn't even recognize Matt Damon until about halfway through the goddamn movie. Anyway, highly enjoyable. The ending felt a little tacked on, though I understand that it's how the book ends? Idk.

pyrimidine — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 10:02:16 GMT

Wrecking Ball
750 words
For cobweb_diamond's prompt at harlequincepted: First time Arthur had to borrow some of Eames' clothes.

Getting an administrative assistant’s job is easy enough for Eames. Or, to put it honestly, faking a CV and getting four people to stand in as references is easy enough for Eames. Heller Porter & Weil hire him almost immediately.

Strange as it is, sometimes a regular 8-5 job is almost soothing in short stretches. Eames wakes up in his subletted apartment, showers with disgustingly expensive products, picks out a suit from the closet that’s arranged in color gradients from light to dark -- only in blue and grey, of course, and a lone tan one for weekends --, and eats a wholesome breakfast before hopping onto the subway along with thousands of other commuters. He even has a special comb to make sure that his hair is perfect in its sidepart. It’s all very charming.

The workload is enough to keep him busy for the entire eight hours, nine if he counts the hour lunch he spends choking down a sandwich at his desk. Then he gets back on the subway and stops for some takeout before arriving back at the apartment, where he has a pick of watching primetime television, a made-for-TV movie, or porn, while juggling chopsticks with one hand and surfing unsavory websites with the other. He’s lucky to have the time and energy for a quick wank before he passes out for the night.

“Sometimes I go to happy hour,” Eames says. “Sometimes I even show up to the office hungover.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re enjoying it,” Arthur says on the other end. There’s a pause, and then: “Why do you have multiple mesh shirts?”

“I gave you permission to go through my things, not to pry into my private life.”

“Multiple,” Arthur stresses. “One would be questionable in and of itself, but multiple.”

“My interests are many and varied,” Eames says, padding barefoot to the fax machine. “I’m sending over a few documents now,” he adds, and punches in his own phone number. “Have you found what you need?”

“Yeah, this will work. I’ve contacted some people to help me out,” says Arthur. “Got the fax, thanks.”

Eames sniffs at an open container on the counter, then decides to toss it. “What did you take? Is it too much to hope for that you chose the mesh shirts?”

“Preserving an element of surprise,” is all Arthur says before hanging up.

*

A few days later, Eames is sitting in on a meeting. The seminar room has an entire wall made of floor-to-ceiling windows, which would provide for a spectacular view if not for the fact that HP&W is located downtown. All Eames can see are more skyscrapers and a lone window-washer on a cherry picker, methodically working his way across the wall.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to identify said window-washer as Arthur.

Eames leans back in his chair and sticks the end of his pen into his mouth to distort the smile that’s threatening to appear. Arthur is wearing a plain white tee and one of Eames’s old flight suits with the torso rolled down and the arms tied around his waist. Completing the ensemble are the aviators that Eames had left on his dresser, and the cap that he bought at Narita duty-free.

Eames stares and stares, distracted one moment by Arthur’s economical movements, and then the next by the loose fit of the shirt, and how the flight suit hangs just the slightest bit low on his hips. Seeing his own clothes on Arthur is fascinating in a way that he can’t quite pinpoint, though he indulges it to the fullest. He taps his pen against his teeth and thinks about the worn seam on the inside of the left knee; he wonders how hard Arthur had had to cinch the arms of the flight suit to get it to stay up.

As plans go, Eames has to admit that this is a good one. With Arthur’s photographic memory and his current position, he’ll have no problem memorizing the layout of the east end of the top floors, which is a place that Eames still can’t get access.

who did you have to pay off for the crane lift, Eames can’t help texting. He doesn’t actually care about the crane lift.

It’s hard to tell, what with the sunglasses and all, but Eames can almost swear that Arthur catches his eye, mouth curled into a smile as if he knows exactly what Eames is thinking. All of it.

pyrimidine — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 09:27:52 GMT

Victory Hold Still
2250 words

5 times Eames shows up at Arthur's place. AKA, Eames gets into a lot of bar fights. Arthur takes care of him. YES, THIS IS WHAT I'VE BEEN REDUCED TO.

1.

One night, Arthur comes home and blinks at how strongly the place smells of motor oil and gas fumes. Also, the living room lights are on, there’s a hole cut through the window screen, and Eames is sitting on the radiator with his shirt hanging open.

“Ah,” says Eames, as if he’s surprised, as if he hadn’t known this was Arthur’s apartment.

Arthur silently hangs his coat up in the shoebox-sized closet. The apartment is actually a studio, meaning that whichever way he moves, he’ll end up closer to Eames. He extracts a pack of cigarettes from the left pocket and lights one up right there by the front door, blowing the smoke up toward the ceiling light.

“Ran into a spot of trouble,” Eames says, as vague as possible.

“While doing what, boosting cars?” Arthur asks.

The only answer is a resounding rip of Velcro coming apart. Inexplicably, Eames is wearing leather fingerless gloves -- which, if Arthur thinks about it, vacillates between being off-the-charts ridiculous and making complete sense.

Eames bites at the fingertip of his glove and pulls it off with his teeth. Arthur taps ash into the empty beer bottle on the counter. “You look like a lifelong insomniac,” he points out. “Have you been sleeping at all?”

Eames still has his chin tilted down, but he flicks his gaze up to meet Arthur’s, eyes crinkling a bit. The skin around them is rubbed a tired pink, and his chin is angular in a way that’s familiar enough not to be off-putting but only just so. The lighting in the studio is pretty shitty, but Arthur can still differentiate between shadows and bruises; that patchy silhouette peeking past Eames’s open shirt is definitely the latter. His head also looks the slightest bit uneven, which means there’s swelling somewhere on his scalp.

Arthur remains silent and just continues smoking.

“I’ll be out by tomorrow,” Eames promises.

“By all means,” Arthur says with faint sarcasm, spreading his arms wide. It’s more practical to act like he’d actually been considering kicking Eames out.

Eames smiles. Without another word, he drops the gloves and heads into the bathroom, where the water starts up almost immediately.

There’s only one towel in there. Arthur finishes his cigarette while resolutely not thinking about how Eames will probably handle that situation.

*

2.

When Arthur picks up the phone, he’s expecting a reserved greeting and maybe some news of a job, but what he gets is blasting guitars and a rough, unfamiliar voice demanding, “Is this Arthur?”

“Who’s calling?” Arthur frowns. He has three phones on him at any given time: one for ‘business’, one for ‘personal’, and one for ‘hardworking normal citizen who gets soliciting calls like any other normal citizen’. This call is coming through on the first one, when it should be on the third.

“The Viper Lounge,” the guy says, which is when Arthur recognizes the music as a White Snake song. “Listen, there’s some crazy guy here who says he knows you. Name’s Eaves or Jeeves or something, but he gave me this number. You gotta come get him out of here, man, he’s fucking nuts.”

Arthur stares at his computer screen, where his e-mail window is still maximized: eames going to the states. short notice -- will probably be there by tonight.

Sometimes Arthur worries that wiring Yusuf ridiculous amounts of money every month in return for information on Eames’s whereabouts is overkill, but phone calls like this reassure him that it’s the right thing to do.

Arthur suddenly feels empathy for all the parents in the world. He snaps back into motion and exits out of the computer browser. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t think that’s my responsibility.”

“Well, your friend just went outside and is probably going to get his ass beat. Is that your responsibility?”

“He can hold his own, I’m sure,” Arthur dismisses. “Thank you, good night.”

He’s as sure about this statement as he ever can be about anything -- the nature of his job has made him wary of absolutes a long time ago, but the thought of Eames losing a bar fight is almost laughable.

Still, after he hangs up, he tosses his phone from one hand to the other, then decides to head down there anyway. Google tells him that The Viper Lounge is only three blocks away, so Arthur shrugs on a jacket and starts the walk.

When Eames has a purpose or goal, he’s the guy sitting on three-day stakeouts, forgoing all kinds of hygiene and eating only dry oatmeal for sustenance. During jobs, he’s a veritable waterfall of ideas, and even though well more than half of them have to be thrown out because lack of experience by the rest of the team or just because the idea is absolutely insane, Arthur’s secure in the knowledge that Eames is pretty brilliant when it comes down to it.

The downside of this is, if Eames doesn’t have anything to do, he gets bored. Very, very bored.

By the time Arthur gets to The Viper Lounge, the crowd is in full swing, judging by what he can see through the windows. The glass is all fogged up, but Arthur can still pick out a man at the bar who’s holding an icepack to his head. He’s standing on his own and laughing with people. Going by that fact, Eames must be in good enough shape for a decathlon.

Instead, Arthur’s foot nudges something soft when he shuffles closer to the window. That something grunts, “Arthur.”

Arthur blinks down at the prone body on the sidewalk. “What the hell. Eames?” he finally says, and his voice comes out flat when he’s actually pretty blown away.

“I recognized your shoes,” Eames coughs. Then he rolls over, effectively using Arthur’s foot as a pillow. He grins up at Arthur and the streetlights glint off his teeth, which are stained with a transparent sheen of red.

“It’s way too late for me to pretend I didn’t see you, isn’t it?” Arthur asks after another pause.

“We both know you’re too much of a Good Samaritan to even entertain that option,” Eames points out.

With his lungs practically bursting from things unsaid and sighs not exhaled, Arthur eases his foot out from underneath Eames’s head. Eames turns and spits onto the asphalt. In the shadows, it looks like a dark inkblot.

*

3.

Arthur cleans the blood off, then pokes at the wound and says, “For ex-special forces, you sure as hell can’t throw a punch.”

“But I can take one,” Eames breathes out, mouth spreading into a grin. “Isn’t that what matters, in the end?”

Arthur considers this. “Still much less efficient than being able to throw a punch.”

“Your perspicacity is astounding,” Eames states, and his voice is akin to a cat’s purr, with an undercurrent of something raspier that scrapes its way out of his throat.

Arthur stares at him dead in the eye, ignoring the urge to swallow. After a few seconds, he shifts his focus and concentrates on slowly applying the butterfly tape. Eames looks away as he does so, and it’s easy for Arthur to steal quick glances at Eames’s lashes, the freckles that echo over his cheeks before fading away. His skin is warm under Arthur’s hands.

“So, what is it, a testosterone dump?” Arthur asks in a low voice, mostly because close proximity seems to call for it. “Are you some kind of masochist who likes getting the shit kicked out of them? Or maybe you're just a horrible fighter outside of dreams.”

Eames simply says, “Just keeping sharp.”

In reality, it’s probably a predictable combination of Eames’s tendency to experiment with people’s boundaries and his exponentially declining hand-to-hand skills when too much alcohol gets involved. Eames is rarely the type to yell and actively provoke someone. He much prefers to do it slyly, digging his nails in and pulling at whatever weakness he can grab a hold of. Then people feel like they’ve been played, in addition to insulted, and Eames is usually too drunk to even try to block the incoming hits.

Fittingly, he’s also the type to pick at scabs before they’re ready to come off.

“That’s going to scar,” Arthur says as Eames worries at a weeks-old wound on his cheek.

“It’s not going to be anywhere near as bad as the one on your elbow,” Eames says, “so take comfort in that.”

All things considered, Arthur is relatively scar-free. The only exception to that is the thin, raised line about four inches long that bisects the inner crease of his elbow. He’d cut it open on some barbed wire and an ER doctor had stitched it up, but the wound had reopened a few days later when he’d gotten into some deep shit in rural China. By the time he’d gotten back to Guangzhou, the infection had been giving off a noticeable scent.

Eames wasn't there, which means he’s either heard the story or catalogued the scar's existence to memory.

When Arthur looks at the clock, its digits swim in his vision for a bit. 3:23 a.m. He gets up from the couch, tosses away all the garbage, and then heads to the kitchen. “Here,” he calls, opening the freezer and tossing Eames a bag of peas.

“Good to know you’ve fully grown in to Cobb’s mothering tendencies,” says Eames.

“I'm not the one needing to be cleaned up like an infant,” Arthur replies.

He turns out the light without bothering to warn Eames. It stays off through the night; Arthur knows his apartment well enough to walk through it in the dark, and he has no problems when switching out the bag of peas for a fresh one a few hours later.

*

4.

“Hey,” Eames says. His eyes are bright and watery, even in the low light. There’s a thick river of red running out of both nostrils and his left eye is already swelling. “Hello. We should leave now.”

“Should we,” Arthur repeats.

“Yes. I got us kicked out.”

After only a brief pause, Arthur drains the rest of his drink and slides out of the booth with no complaints. For some reason, Eames grins wide at him, then trails behind as they push their way through to the doors.

Of course there are people waiting for them outside, and of course Arthur practically walks right into someone’s fist with his face. In the end, he gets blood all over his new tie and bits of gravel have pressed permanent grooves into his shirt. He doles out several broken noses, though, and manages to fend off three people without too much effort.

Everyone scatters when a car rolls by while honking incessantly. Arthur’s staring up at the sky when Eames’s face comes into view. He looks -- troubled, which is something Arthur isn’t used to seeing so candidly.

“Sorry,” Eames says too loudly, probably still drunk. “Sorry, I’m sorry -- ”

“What?” Arthur croaks. “You’ve almost gotten me killed tons of times, you asshole. There was that one time, with the scythe, and -- seriously, you’re apologizing for a bar fight?”

Eames just touches Arthur’s lip, which feels freshly bruised. “Besides,” Arthur adds, “those were the guys I was talking shit to while you were in the bathroom, so.”

The punch to his shoulder hurts more than anything else so far. They lean on each other all the way home.

*

5.

“Certain circumstances have come to a head,” Eames is saying. The volume keeps cutting in and out. “I shouldn’t risk heading back to Britain, or several other locations...in the eastern hemisphere...for that matter,” he adds, sounding more and more distracted by the end.

It’s almost four in the morning. There are iridescent slivers lying all over the floor by Arthur’s bed, the remnants of some nature sounds CD that had been stuffed into his mailbox when he’d checked it for the first time in months. He’d tried it as a last resort, after melatonin and other OTC drugs. Chancing it with prescriptions was too risky, seeing as how the last time he took Ambien, one of the lasting effects was that his subconscious was plagued by mythical creatures with a propensity for tearing the heads off any intruders.

After Cobb and Saito had woken up and Arthur had gotten home from the most quietly fucked up flight in the history of aviation, three years worth of jetlag had seemed to hit all at once, forming some kind of black hole of sleep where the exhaustion collapsed in on itself and warped inside-out. The result has been Arthur not being able to sleep for more than a couple hours at a time, and it’s been going on for weeks.

“Eames,” Arthur nearly barks.

“Yes?” Eames replies, more alert, the word coming through loudly in the earpiece.

Arthur pauses, then says, “You’re picking at the wrong lock. And it’s already open anyway.”

The third floor window is pretty high up from the sidewalk, but it’s still easy to see the exact moment that Eames looks up and meets Arthur’s eyes without any hesitation. Even from this distance, and despite the wide smile, Arthur can recognize the tired slump of his shoulders, the way his hair is shorn close to his scalp around the sides like it always is in times of stress.

Light from the hallway spills over Eames’s feet as he opens the building door and disappears from view. Arthur turns and sits on the windowsill, waiting for Eames to come through his front door.

HOT LIKE MEXICO REJOICE PART II

pyrimidine — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 04:07:56 GMT

So, Rooney Mara. She played Erica, Mark Zuckerberg's ex-girlfriend in The Social Network, and now she's playing Lisbeth Salander in The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. AND I THINK SHE LOOKS REALLY HOT WHILE DOING SO.

Tom Hardy thanks you for your time.

pyrimidine — Sun, 02 Jan 2011 10:42:49 GMT

Part 2 of the circus/carnival/whatever AU, ha haaaaaaaa. Part 1 is here.

The circuit is supposed to swoop down past the Mississippi river in Memphis before digging back up the eastern seaboard, but there’s a crudely revised map tacked to the wall of Cobb’s trailer. A red line has them skirting along the Mississippi, only just so, hugging the water until finally crossing over at St. Louis.

Arthur taps at it. “Is this a recent change?”

“Fairly recent,” Cobb answers distractedly, trying to draw out a travel timetable. “People want to avoid any more hot weather as much as possible.”

“Right,” Arthur says, letting his skepticism draw out the word.

Cobb finally looks up and catches Arthur’s eye. “Well,” he says with careful enunciation, “if you really want to know, the Great Enigmatic Eames was lucky enough to catch the attention of both sheriffs and some gangs down South a while back.”

It’s so damn normal that Arthur can’t help smiling. “Grifting,” he guesses.

“Illegal card games,” Cobb clarifies.

“Come now, they weren’t all illegal,” says Eames’s voice.

Arthur turns to find him leaning on the doorframe, the muscles of his shoulder bunched up against the splintered wood. Strange, how seeing him in the daytime overlays the previous night. Arthur almost feels like it had never happened at all. The reality of Eames now, his face dotted with dust and beads of sweat, hands clean of the ash marks that are still caulked into the lines of Arthur’s own fingers, makes it seem even more like a dream, or maybe a vision.

“You were only providing a safe venue for them to indulge in illegal activities, none of which you knew of?” Arthur asks.

“I consider it a humanitarian gesture to have helped out those men,” Eames states.

“It takes a con man of high caliber to orchestrate things to go so spectacularly wrong, I’ll give you that much,” says Cobb. “Don’t you have something or other that needs fixing?”

Eames straightens up. “To think that I gave up my philanthropic ways for a circus troupe with shoddy, ever-failing equipment,” he declares grandly as he makes his departure. Arthur watches his silhouette pass out of sight.

“I found him in New York, running the best damn shell game I’ve seen,” Cobb says after it’s clear that Eames has gone. “He hops around a lot, from what I’d wager. I just told him to give me a month’s notice if he decides to skip out on us.”

Arthur stands still as Cobb glances down briefly, then adds, “That request stands for everyone.”

“Noted,” Arthur acknowledges.

He busies himself with studying a photograph hanging beneath the map, one of a previous incarnation of the troupe. The edges are bleached and water-stained. There are a few recognizable faces, but none of them are of Eames.

*

Lunch is some sort of soup, along with a few pieces of bread and cheese. Profits come and go, as do the quality of their meals, but Arthur doesn’t mind. He gets his food and puts his tray down across from Eames, who’s snagged the table that sits in a pinch of shade. His eyes crinkle in greeting, but they eat in silence until Eames is nearly finished with his meal.

“So, Arthur,” he says. “This gift of yours.”

Arthur chews on his bread. “You’ve refrained from asking me to read your fortune so far.”

“And I won’t ruin that streak just yet. I find it more gratifying to discover things for myself,” Eames says, “and on my own.”

“Do you, now,” Arthur says.

Eames grins, then thumbs at the corner of his mouth. The arrogance is genuine, that much is clear, but it also conveniently acts as a cover for something sharper that lurks beneath. Stage personas are a strange thing -- during the act, it’s all spotlights and dramatic gestures and appearing to be a one-dimensional shell, existing only for the pleasure of the audience. The best acts make it easy to forget that there’s anything else to them.

“Sizing me up?” Eames asks shrewdly. “Or just pretending to?”

The quick pace of the conversation comes to a brief halt as Yusuf sits down beside Eames, but Arthur picks it right back up.

“Returning the favor, actually,” he says. He abandons all pretense, despite Yusuf’s presence. “I think you’re fascinated with me. This is the wrong way of indulging that, though -- which you know, of course.”

“But of course,” Eames repeats. “I wasn’t aware of there being an instruction manual. Apologies for that.”

Both he and Yusuf chuckle as he rises to deposit his tray into the bucket of lukewarm water that serves as a sink. “You’re infuriating,” Arthur calls after him, even though he feels nothing of the sort.

“Don’t take it personally,” Yusuf says. “Although he does seem to have focused in on you.”

“Who has?” Ariadne asks, settling down onto the bench next to Arthur. “Bread and cheese, I feel like royalty,” she says to herself, but she reaches across to snatch a piece of Yusuf’s bread, anyway.

He lets her do so, then asks, “Who else?”

“Fortune-telling and luck,” Ariadne declares, cottoning on immediately. She cuffs Arthur’s arm. “You really did hit the jackpot.”

*

This time, when Eames lights the oil lamp, Arthur’s already sitting up in bed with his shoes on and laced primly. Eames glances down at them with a neutral expression.

“What is it tonight, then?” he challenges.

“Cards,” Arthur answers simply.

Eames’s eyes glitter in the half-dark. Arthur lets the misunderstanding hang in the air for a moment longer, then points to the card deck sticking out of Eames’s pocket and says, “I have eyes.”

“So you do,” Eames laughs.

They run through Texas and Omaha Hold ‘em, then a warped version of blackjack that has suspect rules smacking of Eames’s own invention. The tricks come afterward; Arthur has conned more than a few people in his lifetime and receives an eyebrow raise of approval from Eames accordingly, but Eames’s own sleight of hand is almost unbelievable. Arthur watches, rapt, at the fluidity of the misdirection and the speed at which Eames’s fingers move.

“I’d say you found your calling as an illusionist,” Arthur finally says, once Eames has moved on to simple card tricks. His heart is still pounding fast, heightened by the way Eames can draw in even an audience of one.

“They’re just stupid deceptions that anyone can learn,” Eames dismisses. There are four face-down stacks sitting on the crate, and Arthur flips over each top card to reveal an ace of every suit. “Shuffle these, will you? Lest they be stacked the next time you get the chance to arrange another card game.”

Arthur does so, and lights up a cigarette as Eames puts the deck back into his pocket. He wordlessly hands the cigarette off to Eames before getting another one for himself. The cherries burn slow, seemingly listless against the hot weather that lingers even now, and Arthur finds himself wondering if there are reasons why Eames always chooses to steal him away during the nighttime rather than in the sunlight.

When Eames speaks, his voice swims low along with the languid heat and the stillness of their camp. “I saw a mystic, once,” he says.

He tilts his chin and blows smoke rings up at the sky. Arthur watches them lasso around the moon one by one before folding away into the thick, humid air. Intuition is what makes him say, “A lot of us are shams, you know. Charlatans, emptying your pockets in exchange for lies.”

“Do you know already, then? What she said?”

“I don’t,” Arthur admits. “I mostly see fortunes for times to come, not those that have already passed. And even then, a lot of them are only in relation to myself and the subject. It’s a rather narcissistic fraction of the gift.”

There’s a rustling noise, and Arthur looks over to see Eames studying him with more candor than Arthur’s used to.

“What does it feel like?”

Arthur turns his head, looks back up at the sky. “Like dreams.” Like this, he doesn’t say.

*

Yusuf eventually comes to accept Arthur’s help when it comes to caring for the animals. He bathes the smaller ones and scrubs down their cages the best he can, with far more detail than is warranted, but it helps his mind wander and he’s thankful for that, especially when a crowd brings with them an influx of images and colors in Arthur’s head.

One day, he’s elbow-deep in soapy water when he sees Yusuf scrutinizing him.

“Am I doing something wrong?” he asks, wringing out the sponge.

Yusuf shakes his head. “No, no. I’m just thinking -- ”

“Yes?”

“You could have joined up with another troupe, or a carnival. You would have made a lot more money that way,” Yusuf says. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

Arthur just shrugs.

Yusuf laughs. “So mysterious.”

“I don’t mean to,” Arthur protests.

“Of course you don’t. I believe you. But that’s what makes you all the more,” Yusuf pauses, then says, “ethereal, I suppose.”

“Ethereal,” Arthur repeats, then breaks into a smile and tosses a dirty sponge at Yusuf’s head.

*

More and more often, Arthur dreams about reds and blacks; he dreams about being wrapped around a warm, pliant body, the threads of the mattress pressing tracks into his skin, the smear of Eames’s smile in his periphery.

pyrimidine — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 07:58:35 GMT

MOAR CIRCUS AU. P.S. I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT CIRCUSES.

It comes and goes.

That’s the strangest part, the part that’s truthful enough to make Cobb inclined to believe in Arthur’s legitimacy. He most likely would have hired him either way, since they’re overstaffed with acrobatics but short on the mystical. At least, that’s what the reviews have been saying. Arthur’s been keeping track through various newspapers around the country.

“So tell me what happens if you start your act and you don’t -- ” Cobb flutters his fingers in the air in lieu of assigning a name to what Arthur does. “ -- you know. What then?”

“I can fake it.” Arthur shrugs. “I’m good at reading people.”

He proves it that very first night, when the spotlight lands on a pale, reedy-looking woman in the third row, right next to the aisle. One of the dancers escorts her into the ring, where Arthur is waiting on the center platform. She says her name is Marie, from Talking Rock, Georgia.

“A small town, I’m guessing,” Arthur says with a wry smile. He gets far more laughter than he should be warranted.

He instructs her to put both hands in his, and then to close her eyes. The crowd is hushed and the tunnel of light shining down on him drowns out everything else besides the sight of Marie and her pale eyelids.

Arthur concentrates, but nothing comes. He’s not really surprised. If it were to happen at all, it already would have, as soon as he’d taken her hands. So instead he quickly notes the chain around her neck and the tiny cross that sit against her ribcage; the bitten-down fingernails and slightly matted texture of her hair. When the spotlight had initially lit on her, her neighbors had clapped politely, with none of the excited recognition of companions.

“There’s been a recent death in the family,” Arthur starts quietly, laying down his first stepping stone; when her throat moves in the affirmative, he skips to the next one, and continues to carefully feel his way through the dark.

*

That summer is a hot one, enough so that Arthur is thankful they travel the roads after dark, even if he’s now slow and groggy in the mornings. A drought is spiderwebbing lines through the earth wherever they go; he gets used to squinting, to dust clinging to his shirts and matting it with a soft shade of tan while his suspenders press lines of heat onto his torso. It’s tempting to slide them off, but he tries to refrain the best he can.

The troupe isn’t large by any means. Still, Arthur keeps his distance from the other performers. Bearded women, contortionists, and illusionists seem quite run of the mill if you know where to look or how to drag their secrets out. But people like Arthur cause discomfort. He understands why, of course, and doesn’t hold it against anyone.

Mostly he spends a lot of time with the animals, feeding and petting and reaching through the bars of the more dangerous ones, his breath held tight in his chest. Yusuf, the main animal tamer, almost always lets him do so, and Arthur thinks a lot of is because there’s a very real and exciting possibility of Arthur’s fingers meeting a violent end.

Every night, he looks into the dim faces of the audience and chooses someone to come into the ring. Sometimes he feels only the dry rasp of their hands in his. Sometimes he closes his eyes and sees the most fantastic things.

*

Cobb is a relatively reserved ringmaster, leaving most of the flash and glam for the performers to set for themselves. After introducing the show, he slips into the dark and up the narrow ladders so that he’s only ever a few feet away from Mal as she walks the tightrope, ready to catch her when she swings in from the trapeze. Robert, her partner, whips through the air like a bird swooping from its perch. Together they make a formidable duo, all dark hair and long limbs. Arthur has to turn away whenever Mal arches her torso out and stretches her arms, waiting, waiting -- he doesn’t know how Cobb watches.

The animals are arguably the biggest attraction, but Arthur never sticks around for the whole act. He’s been witness to too many accidents, which is why he falls out of this world from time to time. He comes back into the tent for the stunt acts that follow, though, and then it’s his own turn, a small pocket of time that could be considered a lull before the illusionist’s closing act.

The Great Enigmatic Eames saws women in half, disappears with a flash of his cape, and pulls various animals out of hats. It’s all par for the course, but he also throws in acts that Arthur has never seen before: getting strapped into a straitjacket and locked into a box before performing a quick-change with his assistant, or appearing to be a mere reflection in several mirrors placed around the ring.

Arthur studies him more carefully than he does the others, though he really shouldn’t. Premonitions are hardly correct most of the time. They could be misinterpreted in countless ways, or even meaningless. It’s a faulty gamble at best.

Still, he watches until Eames gives his final bow and the lights plunge out.

*

(“Pleasure,” Eames said.

As soon as they shook hands, Arthur felt a soundless jolt. He must have gripped tighter by instinct, because Eames made a noise and stepped forward, bringing his other hand up to bookend Arthur’s hand between his.

“You’re alright?”

“Yes,” Arthur fumbled with the word. “Yes, thank you. Sorry.”

He walked away, shaking his hand out with quick movements.)

*

Ariadne throws knives so flawlessly that almost everyone in the troupe has, at one time or another, stood as a silhouette for her to trace. Arthur has seen her wobbling back and forth on the tightrope as well -- no doubt she has a propensity for excellent hand-eye coordination. Over the past few days, she’s started to seek Arthur out, becoming more and more confident with each interaction.

They’re sitting in the partial shade of an oak tree when she says, “What do you see for me? You know. With your mystical powers.”

She laughs, but only to cover up genuine curiosity. Arthur pulls at a bunch of dead grass, freeing them from the dried dirt.

“I don’t really see scenes,” he explains. “More like -- ”

He pauses, because with Ariadne, he’d seen a palette of soft colors bleeding into darker ones, or maybe vice versa, all mixing together in swift lines. It’s rarely more specific than that. The quick transition could mean anything: movement, escape, windfall.

“Tell me,” Ariadne coaxes. She rolls over onto her stomach and props her chin up on her fists. “Please?”

Before Arthur can answer, a shadow falls over them both. The smell of cigarettes is strong in the air as Eames says, “Having a kip?”

“Arthur’s telling me my fortune,” Ariadne says boldly.

Eames squats down and exhales a column of smoke. He nods at Arthur. “Go on, then.”

“I don’t mind,” Ariadne says when Arthur glances at Eames.

“There’s,” Arthur clears his throat, “there’s a lot of colors, light and dark. They mix together pretty messily. Quick lines, stuff like that.”

“Well, what does it mean?” Ariadne prods.

“Movement, usually. Escape. Maybe you left someplace in a hurry. Or maybe it’ll happen sometime in the future.”

Ariadne hums consideringly. “You mean I’ll leave the circus?”

“Maybe,” Arthur repeats.

“What good is ‘maybe’?” Ariadne teases.

Eames pretends to cuff her head. “What good is having your fortune be set in stone?”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” Ariadne recites. Her gaze narrows and she lifts her chin a bit. “What about Yusuf?”

Arthur looks at Yusuf in the distance. “I see blue, which usually means calm or serenity. But I feel red, which -- ”

“ -- makes complete sense,” Eames finishes with a grin.

Arthur offers him a smile as well. Part of him is waiting for Eames to ask his turn, but he never does.

*

Sometimes, if Arthur’s lucky, he’ll be able to scrounge up two or three men from the audience to play cards afterward, while people are still packing up their things. Most of them tell him they don’t need help, shoo, so Arthur ends up standing around with his hands in his pockets more often than not.

“Eights full of aces,” Arthur announces, a cigarette drooping from his lips as if to point to his winning hand when he spreads it on the empty crate.

One of the men nudges his friend after they both toss in their cards. “Hell, I just thought it was a stupid circus trick.”

“I warned you against gambling with a mystic, didn’t I? I wasn’t lying,” Arthur says. “I’m all about good will and honesty.”

He flashes them a quick grin, then gets up from his makeshift seat, which is actually an overturned feeding jug that Yusuf uses. From the meager pile of bills and coins in the middle, he pockets only a few. “Compensation for the cigarettes,” he explains, because the pack tucked into his waistband is more than half empty now.

“Yeah? And is that,” the man gestures to the leftover money, “because of good will or honesty?”

“Whether or not I was conning you, reading your mind, or just plain lucky, it doesn’t really matter now, does it?” Arthur starts walking backward, his shoes crunching over bits of gravel. “Have a good night, fellas.”

When he turns around, one of them grumbles, “Some mystic. Kid looks like he should be sitting in the corner in grammar school,” and he smiles to himself in the dark.

*

One night, after everyone has gone to bed, the soft glow of an oil lamp diffuses through the sleeping caravan. When Arthur peeks his eyes open, he sees Eames’s face, half hidden in shadows.

“Hello,” says Eames.

“Can’t sleep?” Arthur asks.

Eames tilts his head in response.

He leads Arthur around to a dead stretch of road and teaches him how to breathe fire. The process involves little more than moonshine and the tidal volume of lungs, but the result is brilliant columns of orange that light up the entire field, as if a ghostly sun is blinking in and out, in and out. Arthur manages to catch only a glimpse of the scene each time -- the sprawling fields of wheat stalks, the slate grey of the road, the light sheen of sweat on Eames’s forehead.

They stumble back, drunk on the moonshine and adrenaline, and by that time the air is beginning to shimmer on the horizon. Eames goes off in search of water while Arthur weaves through the line of trailers. His feet guide him to the animals’, where inside it’s dark and silent. Combined with the high ceilings, it gives an illusion of coolness and he breathes it in deep.

Leah, the leopard, is awake and blinking at him. He walks up to her cage and curls his fingers around the bars. A faint taste of ash lingers in his mouth; he swallows it down as best he can, trying to shake off the heady feeling that settles in from being awake to experience one day sliding into the next.

He swallows again and thinks about his and Eames’s first meeting. The only thing he can compare it to is the time when he had almost fallen from the trapeze platform. He had been setting up the ropes when his foot had caught an edge and he’d slipped. By some base instinct, he had managed to throw his arms out and grab onto the other rope that had already been secured.

Hours later, he'd still felt like his heart was in his throat.

“Yes, it’s awful, isn’t it,” Arthur states out loud.

Suddenly, his neck starts prickling with the sensation of being watched, but when he whips around there’s nothing there, and the door is hanging open just as he’d left it.

PART 2

pyrimidine — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 05:57:21 GMT

Something short!

Prompt: Hipster AU

“Okay, tell me what you think of this. It’s for tonight,” Dom says on the other end.

The sentence fades away by the middle, and then there’s several pops and bumps as he presumably sets the phone down against a speaker. For the next fifteen seconds, Arthur patiently listens to a wash of white noise as he plays around with Adobe Lightroom with his free hand.

Dom’s voice abruptly comes back on the line. “Keep that in your head,” he instructs. “Here’s the next one.”

This time Arthur is listening to fifteen seconds of pink noise.

“So?” Dom asks, staticky and excited. “What do you think?”

*

Arthur doesn’t really care when people accuse him of being a hipster. In his opinion, he just happens to genuinely enjoy everything that a hipster would like. Big deal.

Sometimes it’s hard to ignore, though, especially on days that Dom has a gig. As Arthur walks up to the club, he recognizes bits and pieces of his wardrobe on the people standing in line, both guys and girls. The people sharing Arthur’s haircut is also evenly split between guys and girls. He overhears a conversation about the movies that the local indie theater is playing, and he’s seen every single one of them. When he gets in line, he sees that the last five people could pass for his quintuplet brothers.

The club is next door to what used to be a psychic’s office and is now just boarded up with plywood that's covered in layers of fliers. There are some for tonight’s show, about twenty of them all in a neat row, still glistening with fresh wheat paste. Funnily enough, Arthur’s so busy trying to place the font that’s been used to spell out ‘TOTEM’ at an angle on the upper left corner that he doesn’t even realize the background is one of his pictures until a few moments have passed.

It’s an image of the Berkeley skyline looking west, stretching all the way out to the Golden Gate. Fog had been rolling in so heavily that the city had looked like it resided in the clouds; Arthur had set his camera for the slowest shutter speed, then snapped the shot. Now it has Dom’s band’s name and venue information scrawled over the cloud formations. On the bottom right, there’s only a single letter, in a font that looks like dripping paint: E.

Arthur must be muttering threats under his breath, because one of the guys in front of him turns around and says, “Excuse me?”

“Sorry. Nothing. Just making some good old fashioned murder plans,” Arthur says.

The guy just gives him a crooked smile, like he completely understands.

*

Totem is an okay band. Dom always complains about practice being difficult to coordinate, since everyone’s busy juggling several things at once -- “And by ‘everyone’, I mean Yusuf, with that shady culinary school he’s going to. I’m pretty sure the classes are in a Winnebago parked under that overpass by the freeway.” -- and sometimes Ariadne skips out on gigs because she has fashion blog parties to show her face at, but Arthur knows that Dom loves it. All of them do. They have fun, at least, unlike a certain photographer who keeps getting ripped off by a certain douchebag who has no respect for any kind of creative commons license whatsoever.

Dom doesn’t really play guitar in the strictest sense of the word. Mostly he’s prone to tuning it so that the open strings produce some kind of minor add 9 chord. Then he taps the hollow body with different objects until the strings are ringing through the amp, which is when the rest of the band comes in one by one and the music swells and hits its climax around the nine minute mark. It’s actually nice, if Arthur’s in the mood.

Mal is standing off to the side, in a white tank and a calf-length skirt that looks like it was sent through a shredder. There’s also a crown of flowers on her head. She sways to the music, eyes closed, heel of her palm banging the tambourine in slow, half-note hits. On some level, she looks like some kind of ethereal being, awash in the blue lights; on a more real level, she kind of looks like a life-size luau doll that people stick to their car dashboards.

Yusuf’s really banging away at the crash cymbal at this point, and nodding at whatever Ariadne is mouthing to him. Her bass lines are moved up an octave, since the fretboard is too long for her to reach anything below five.

Arthur leans against the bar and sips at his beer. They’re actually sounding really good tonight.

*

He gets home around 4:00 in the morning, after late night pizza and more beers at Dom’s place. Arthur is subletting a room in a house right by frat row, although he might as well be subletting the whole house because he pretty much hasn’t seen any of his roommates in a month. Which is why he almost gets a heart attack when he opens the door to his room and sees someone sprawled on the beanbag.

“What the fuck,” Arthur states flatly.

“How was the show?” Eames asks in a cheerful voice. “Sorry I didn’t make it, but I couldn’t gather up the courage to venture near that place.”

He’s reading the newest Franzen book by the light of the streetlamp that floods in through the windows and keeps Arthur awake at night, even with the curtains drawn. Arthur just sighs and puts his glasses and keys down on the desk. Eames has a shit-eating grin on his face. Far be it from Arthur to not give him what he wants.

“The fliers were nice,” Arthur says pointedly.

“So you liked it! I felt a bit like those lowbrow street artists,” Eames muses.

“Yeah, you’re exactly like Banksy,” Arthur says. “Minus the fact that you keep stealing all my pictures.”

Eames turns his head slightly. The shadows shift to highlight the slopes of his cheekbones, and Arthur has to look away. “But you make it so easy by putting the full sizes up on your flickr,” he counters. “Also, I can’t believe you have an entire sub-folder called ‘light leaks’.”

“They looked really cool,” Arthur tries to defend himself, because they really did. “Whatever, I don’t care. How long have you been here? Go home.”

“Right,” Eames agrees surprisingly, putting the book back onto the shelf before standing up. “By the by,” he says, sticking one leg through the window and straddling the sill for a brief pause, “I’ve been switching out your Lucky Strikes for Pall Malls.” He flashes a grin before ducking under and swinging his other leg out.

“It’s not like I wouldn’t have noticed. Lucky Strikes say ‘Lucky Strikes’ on each one,” Arthur calls irritably.

Eames’s voice echoes throughout the entire block. “You really wouldn’t have, because you hang around exclusively in places that are lit with 20 watts, maximum. That’s too dark to see anything of importance,” he yells. Distantly, a cat screeches in response.

Then he sticks his head back in through the window and says, at a normal volume, “Good night, Arthur.”

“I’m going to fix that window, I swear to god,” Arthur says.

Eames laughs as he leaves. The window stays open, and Arthur leaves it that way when he finally crawls into bed.

pyrimidine — Sat, 04 Dec 2010 20:45:48 GMT

Never None The Wiser
Prompt: Pushing Daisies AU: Arthur - Ned, Eames - Charlotte. (The premise on the show is that Ned can bring dead people back to life by touching them, but if he touches them a second time, they die again for good. He's in love with Charlotte, whom he brought back to life after she died. SO THEY CAN NEVER TOUCH AGAIN, ANGST ANST. But the show was twee as all hell.

Also, there's a private detective.)

“Go see The Pie-maker,” Yusuf suggests.

Cobb swears that people’s aliases are getting weirder and weirder. “The Pie-maker,” he repeats slowly. “And he came by that nickname, how...”

“No, he’s actually a real pie-maker. He owns that little pie shop? By the dry cleaners?”

Cobb writes this down into his small notebook. “What’s it called?”

“The Funeral Pie-re,” says Yusuf.

Cobb just looks at him.

“I think he was trying to deter any customers from going in, but the pies are actually quite delicious. It’s become somewhat of an indie hit, especially because of the unwelcoming name,” Yusuf explains. He contemplates this, then says, “I don’t think he’s very happy about it.”

“Right. Could you, by any chance, tell me The Pie-maker’s real name?”

Yusuf blinks. “Sure. It’s Arthur.”

“Thanks.”

Cobb flips his notebook shut, then says goodbye to Yusuf. Luckily, there’s a bus-stop just outside Yusuf’s lab. The B16 takes Cobb all the way downtown, and he pulls the stop cord when the shop starts looming close. ‘THE FUNERAL PIE-RE’ is spelled out in the straight lines of Helvetica, situated above a black-and-white striped awning.

As soon as he hops off the bus, the last of the blinds get rolled up and a sign on the door is flipped from ‘NO’ to ‘YES’. He walks in and discovers that the place is entirely decorated in a monochrome palette of black. Black booths lining the walls, cream-colored tables, and large, reflective gunmetal floor tiling that gives the illusion that Cobb is floating on water. All in all, it reminds him a bit of a room reserved for sterile medical procedures, but it’s warm and smells amazing.

A sprawling granite counter occupies most of the space in the middle, separated from the kitchen by a short wall. When Cobb seats himself, a man in an apron walks up to him. He’s holding an order pad but he doesn’t say anything.

“Um,” Cobb says, waiting for any kind of cue. When he gets none, he tries, “Coffee?”

The man writes it down.

“And a slice of the peanut butter pie,” he adds.

The food comes posthaste. Cobb almost gets distracted, but manages to catch the man who served him before he heads off. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Arthur?”

It comes out as a question, to which the man nods and says, “I’m Arthur.”

Cobb sticks his hand out. They shake. “Nice to meet you. I’m Dom Cobb, private detective.”

“Private detective,” Arthur echoes, his expression inscrutable.

“Yes. I investigate anything from missing persons cases to murders.”

“Well, I’m neither missing nor murdered,” Arthur says, “as you can see.”

Cobb huffs out a smile. “This is true,” he agrees. “Actually, I was hoping to get your input on a case of mine, if you wouldn’t mind. Yusuf referred me to you with the hope that you’d be able to help.”

“I see,” Arthur says after a pause. “Well, I’m free on Tuesday. Is 2:00 good for you? The lunch rush should be gone by then.”

“That sounds good, I really appreciate it.” Cobb notices a second man hanging around the expansive window to the kitchen. He looks familiar in a way that Cobb can’t quite place, and it irks him like a burr sticking to his brain.

Arthur flaps a hand at him. “That’s my associate, Eames. Eames, this is Dom Cobb. Private investigator.”

“Fascinating. Pleasure to meet you,” Eames says.

“Likewise.” Dom nods at him. He recognizes him, he can swear it. To cover up how intensely he’s trying to place this Eames, he takes a huge bite of pie and almost chokes. On the other hand, Eames is all casual. He procures a blueberry from somewhere and eats it.

“Eames.” Arthur sounds long-suffering as he turns and heads into the kitchen. The two of them dance around each other for a few seconds, with Arthur appearing to cut a pie while Eames hovers close behind him.

“You’re pushing it,” Arthur says quietly, and to Cobb, it’s akin to the sound a rattlesnake would make before it strikes.

“Hold still,” Eames commands, apparently with little regard for his safety. He dips his fingers into the middle of the pie, and they emerge dripping with viscous blueberry sauce. Then he hooks his arm over Arthur’s shoulder and carefully smears it just underneath Arthur’s right eye, leaving behind a curtain of vivid color.

“Tuesday, then?” Cobb calls quickly, snapping his notebook closed once more. Judging by the tension in Arthur’s jaw, Cobb would rather not be around for when the kitchen will inevitably explode with tempers and yelling and rhubarb pie.

“Yes,” Arthur confirms. He cricks his jaw once and nods. Over his shoulder, Eames’s beaming expression is the polar opposite. “Tuesday, 2:00. Do you have any special requests?”

Cobb’s eyes dart back to Arthur, who hasn’t bothered to wipe away the sauce, which has now run down and is dripping off his chin. “Requests?” he repeats.

“For pie,” Arthur says. Paired with the butcher knife that he’s currently holding, Cobb doesn’t think he’s ever been so scared of the word ‘pie’ in his life.

“Ah. No, thank you.” Cobb slides off the stool and pats his stomach. “It was delicious, though. You’ve got talent.”

Arthur moves his lips into a ghost of a smile. “Thanks,” he says.

When Cobb has his hand on the door, he instinctively looks back and sees Eames ripping a single paper towel from a roll. Arthur accepts it without a word.

Cobb steps outside, shaking his head. This should be interesting, at least.

(Of course, what Cobb doesn’t know is that the niggling feeling in the back of his head will prove itself noteworthy once he stumbles across an obituary from three months ago. The words will all run together, because the grainy picture of Eames is all he’ll be focusing on.

He’ll call Yusuf, who will say, “I’ve heard he can raise people from the dead just by touching them. Another touch, and then they’re dead again.”

“Even if that’s true -- which it’s not, because that is ludicrous -- there must be some kind of rational explanation. You’re a scientist, you’re not curious at all?” Cobb will ask.

“There’s pursuing science, and there’s pursuing insanity,” Yusuf will laugh. “Somehow I feel that trying to pinpoint Arthur’s abilities will lead me down the road of the latter.”)

*

Eames wakes up.

The whole thing is still a novelty. He goes to sleep, and he wakes up. It’s all quite amazing. Instead of getting out of bed, he spends almost twenty minutes moving his feet around underneath the sheets just to feel the cotton pulling against his skin.

Above him, the ceiling is a bright, lime green. Arthur had helped him paint the entire apartment a few weeks ago, with no objections to Eames’s wishes that there be at least three different colors in each room. They’d also put textured wall liner along the bottom molding and the glue had made them both woozy by the time they’d finished. Coupled with the pre-dawn hours and aching arm muscles, they had ended the night lying side-by-side on the canvas tarps.

Compared to his usual black-and-white ensemble, Arthur had been covered in brilliant colors: a wing of canary yellow in his hair, the thin river of blue on his cheek. Once he’d closed his eyes, Eames had taken a brush and added some green to the expanse of his lids. Arthur had smiled, eyes still closed.

Half an hour later, Eames is showered, dressed, and ready to go. Just as he steps outside and pulls the door shut behind him, the door across the hall opens and Arthur emerges as well, looking sharp as per usual.

“Good morning,” Eames greets.

“Hello,” says Arthur.

They walk to the end of the hall and then down the staircase. Eames follows behind Arthur, keeping one hand trailing over the wall the entire time. His fingertips drag across paint, peeling wallpaper, Stucco, and skip nimbly over the corners until Arthur is unlocking the back door and flicking on the lights. As always, the shop looks immaculate, even more so because the blinds are still drawn and the tiles free of footprints.

Eames hops up onto the counter, wincing a bit at the cold granite. The kitchen tends to be drafty until the ovens get going. “So, what’s our day like?”

“My day,” Arthur says, “is filled with making pies. Your day can be whatever you would like it to be.”

He’s already distracted, crouching down in front of an open cupboard and sifting through the sacks of flour. On a whim, Eames toes off his shoes and places one sock-clad foot right on top of Arthur’s hair.

To his surprise, Arthur just props an elbow on his knee and rests his chin on the heel of his palm. He looks mildly up at Eames, who says, “Don’t worry, they’re freshly laundered.”

“That doesn’t detract from the fact that you have your foot in my hair,” Arthur points out.

Eames shrugs. Arthur is still looking up at him, sleeves already messily rolled to the elbows -- and when had that happened, they’ve only been here for about two minutes --, and Eames smiles ruefully, because he must be some kind of masochistic bastard to constantly sit here like this while the chasm between them stays as invariable as ever. They both must be.

Arthur finally shifts as if to stand up and Eames simultaneously takes his foot off and lets it swing against the dishwasher again.

“I’m going to open up -- don’t,” Arthur interrupts himself to warn Eames, who, of course, had been prepared to twist Arthur’s words into many and varied euphemisms, because jokes are always easy. Jokes and petty annoyances are their lifeboats, buoying them away from everything they never talk about. “Can you count the flour bags?” he finishes, already walking away.

“I can, and I will.” Eames watches as Arthur takes an apron off the row of hooks, ducking his head underneath the loop and tying the strings with quick, smart loops of his fingers.

Window by window, the shop becomes flooded with sunlight when Arthur leans into the booths and zips up the blinds. Eames finally hops off the counter to take inventory of their stock. He also starts an enormous pot of coffee, empties the dishwasher, rechecks the order for six pecan pies being picked up at 3:00PM, and starts bringing out ingredients onto the kitchen island. Arthur says he cooks too slowly to be efficient, but that’s only because Eames pays too much attention to too may things.

By the time he emerges from the fridge one last time, a carton of eggs in each hand, there are a few early birds at the counter with steaming cups of coffee. One of them is eating a slice of peanut butter pie as well, which makes Eames’s stomach churn seeing as how it’s not even 9:00 yet. What’s interesting is that he’s also holding a conversation with Arthur.

The coffeemaker is still percolating, making it hard to overhear from this distance. Eames puts the cartons down and moves over to the ledge that separates the counter from the kitchen.

“That’s my associate, Eames,” Arthur acknowledges, waving his hand in Eames’s general direction. “Eames, this is Dom Cobb. Private investigator.”

Eames raises his eyebrows. “Fascinating. Pleasure to meet you,” he says automatically.

“Likewise,” nods Dom Cobb, punctuating it with a bite of pie and a loud slurp of coffee.

To Eames’s left, there’s a blueberry pie about three-quarters finished. Eames picks out a blueberry and pops it into his mouth.

“Eames,” Arthur sighs. He comes back around into the kitchen, twitching the pie away and, with a knife that’s entirely too large, cutting off a tiny sliver where Eames had gouged it.

Watching Arthur’s shoulder-blades move under his shirt is one of Eames’s favorite things to do, so he stands behind Arthur and does exactly that. Behind the counter, out of Cobb’s sight, he touches one hand to Arthur’s hip, feeling only the scratchy wool of his sweater.

“You’re pushing it,” Arthur breathes.

“Hold still,” Eames manages to say. His voice has been betraying him a lot lately, so he just smiles, dips his fingers into the pie once more, and carefully, carefully smears blueberry over Arthur’s cheek, trying to emulate the paint streak he’d been thinking of that morning.

(Eames will go to sleep that night, still thinking of Arthur lolling to sleep with the rainbow of colors on his face. Standing in the kitchen, with blueberry sauce dripping from his fingers and Arthur’s cheek -- Arthur had studied Eames, eyes wide open, standing too still, and it had been a different thing entirely.)

*

Arthur stares at himself in the mirror. It’s probably just his imagination, but he thinks he sees one cheek darker than the other, still stained with the purple tint of blueberry sauce. He rubs at it. Maybe it’s the lighting.

Outside, business is winding down for the night as families finish off their desserts and couples wind down their dates. Eames is already wiping tables while mopping the floor at the same time. The actions come easily to him, as if he’s been working his entire life at the shop. He can build rapport with just about anyone who comes in, and sales have gone up ever since the day he stood outside on the sidewalk, stuffed into a costume in the shape of a pie slice as he handed out fliers.

This is Eames. Moving, talking, touching -- this is Eames. Sometimes Arthur still has nightmares about that night; the phone call, asking him to please come identify the body; the rush to get to the city morgue, and how they’d led him through the harshly lit hallways.

The strangest thing was seeing Eames being pulled out on the morgue tray. Pale and lying still, he had had his eyes closed, mouth pressed into a thin, waxy line. His skin had probably been cold as well, but Arthur hadn’t been able to confirm it. As soon as the coroner left, he had just touched Eames without thinking, without considering anything else, then Eames was warm again, opening his eyes and blinking at Arthur.

Probably not one of Arthur’s brightest decisions.

What’s the point, Arthur asks himself over and over again. What’s the point. And then Eames will sit on the counter and put his foot in Arthur’s hair and Arthur will think, this, this is --

-- and he’ll stand behind Arthur and touch him through his sweater, trace his cheekbone through the buffer of blueberry sauce, and Arthur will think, Christ, why --

-- and at night, they’ll adjourn to their separate apartments and Arthur will miss him, he’ll miss all of it.

“You’re being awfully quiet tonight,” Eames comments when Arthur comes out of the bathroom. The shop is empty and the sign has been flipped to ‘NO’.

“Just wondering what Cobb wanted,” Arthur says vaguely.

Neither of them speak for a while after that, because the consequences of someone potentially noticing that Eames, once dead, is now alive again has been an issue that’s been much easier to deal with if not dealt with at all.

Arthur focuses on wrapping the leftover pies with clingfilm and putting them away. At some point, when they’re almost done closing up, Eames walks over and flicks all ten fingers at Arthur’s face, but Arthur is prepared with an extra piece of clingfilm that he holds up. It shields him from most of the flour, though some of it dots his pants like snowflakes.

“Spoilsport,” Eames sighs.

Sometimes, at the end of the day, Arthur is tired enough to get some bad ideas in his head. Like now; he has the materials and the urge and the proximity -- it’d be easy enough to use the clingfilm and kiss Eames, just once -- but then that would be a complete, inextricable mess.

Instead, he slips on some oven mitts and pats Eames’s face. “Good night, Mr. Eames,” he says, patting hard enough that Eames’s head twitches each time. His smile grows larger as well.

(A few months later, Arthur will sneak down to the shop to make use of the whiskey stash he keeps next to the cornmeal, but Eames will already be there.

Too many swigs later, Arthur, head clad in a sherpa hat with earflaps, will lean his head on Eames’s shoulder and slur, not for the first time, “This is ridiculous.”

“Isn’t it, though,” Eames will laugh, low and gravelly and probably the best sound in the universe, as far as Arthur is concerned.

Arthur will smile to himself. “You’ll -- you’ll tell me, right, if you ever want to -- if this gets too strange, or too much, you know you can leave anytime and I won’t -- ”

“Arthur.”

“Do I owe you an apology? For doing what I did,” Arthur will keep going.

“Arthur,” Eames will say, sharper this time, and Arthur will finally fall silent.

After a while, Eames will murmur, “Of course not, you stupid bastard.” He’ll press his shoe against Arthur’s and repeat it: “Of course not. Never.”)

pyrimidine — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 04:10:20 GMT

Year of Silence
Prompt: Arthur is actually Dom's kidnap victim and has been for years, maybe since he was a teenager. He's been trained/threatened/tortured to follow Dom's every order, and he has a very good reason for rarely smiling.

The only way Arthur will be allowed to leave and go free is A) once Dom gets his kids back, or B)the inception in the film is actually one Arthur and Eames are working on Dom to convince him to let Arthur go.

Er, this doesn't make that much sense, but it was such an intriguing prompt!

It’s a typical fall day, with clear skies, a sun that warms the back of Arthur’s neck, and a breeze that makes him glad he put his coat on before he left.

He’s supposed to be getting coffee for everyone. Three drips, plus a chai. The trip will take him eight to ten minutes there and back; lines aren’t that long during midday, so add in maybe another one or two minutes. Another minute for putting in cream and sugar. Which means that Dom will start pacing around after fifteen minutes, and he’ll probably head out to look for Arthur after twenty.

All these calculations occur in his mind automatically as he walks. The cafe is looming ahead now, and he crosses the street in a light jog. Sure enough, there’s no line at the counter. Of the four wrought iron tables outside, only one is occupied, by a man reading a book.

Arthur goes inside and orders the drinks, along with an extra cup, then steps a few feet to the left to wait. His eyes flit over the autumn decor on the walls -- there are dried leaves bordering the chalkboard menu and turkey hands taped over various spots. He accidentally catches the gaze of one of the baristas -- she works on Mondays and Wednesdays, he knows this -- and she immediately turns away with a slight blush.

It doesn’t even occur to him to try to run. Not anymore. Not yet.

After he gets the drinks, he takes out a pen and methodically labels each cup with its ingredients. Two creams. One cream, one sugar. Three sugars. The extra cup is last; on that one, he writes a phone number, digits crammed along the bottom rim.

By the time he steps outside, the drinks have been nestled into a cardboard carrier. He tosses the extra cup into the trash, right by one of the outside tables.

Eames doesn’t look up.

Arthur keeps walking, glancing both ways before he crosses the street. Twelve minutes have passed. He quickens his pace.

*

Almost a decade ago, Arthur had slipped into the world of mindheist. His presence barely caused a ripple, seeing as how extractors and points and architects were growing by the dozen each day. He worked almost tirelessly, and almost never again with the same people.

The only exception to this informal rule was Eames. Forgers were rarely needed and therefore hard to come by, so Arthur had kept tabs on him since their first meeting. Communication between them was sporadic and shared jobs even more so, but at some point Arthur had looked back and realized that Eames had become the only constant in his life.

The image of Cobb in those early days is still barely a smudge in Arthur’s memory. He can’t pinpoint exactly when and where they had worked together, but he does remember Mal being there. He remembers that it wasn’t anything special at all, just another job before he moved on. Which is why it was such a surprise, then, to come home one night only to be greeted by Cobb slumped in the single armchair in the living room. Arthur had his gun drawn before the overhead lights had even swelled to full brightness.

“What the hell,” Arthur gritted out. It took him a minute to place the name. Dominic Cobb.

Cobb finally looked up. His eyes were red, and he was sitting in the chair like he’d never get up. “I need you to come with me,” he said scratchily.

Arthur clicked the safety off. Too soft of a move, it turned out, because Cobb’s response was to shoot him in the shin.

Three years ago, Mal had died and Arthur had disappeared for a little over a month. Nobody gave it second thought or examined it closely. The only exception was, once again, Eames.

*

They’re in the Pennsylvania suburbs, set up in an unfinished housing development. The unit is a corner one with skeletal walls, tarps hanging in various places, and stairs too rickety to climb. Chilly in the daytime and fucking freezing after 5:00, but at least it’s close to the highway and one exit from the Raddon and Zimmerman building.

When Arthur ducks under a tarp, he sees Cobb studying the whiteboard while Joel and Hiva are rolling out blueprints onto the drafting table.

Cobb turns around. “That was fast,” he remarks.

“Not really.” Arthur shrugs. He holds up the carrier. “Who wanted the chai?”

*

They disband a few hours later, having revised and gone over the plan enough times to have it drilled into their heads. Joel and Hiva are staying at a hostel downtown. Cobb drives himself and Arthur to the hotel and they part ways in the elevator.

“Meet up at noon, right?” Cobb asks, holding the doors open with an outstretched arm.

“Yes,” Arthur says. “Good night, Dom.”

Cobb nods. He lets the doors slide shut and Arthur resumes staring straight ahead.

He doesn’t think of it as captivity anymore. It’s just another occupied period of his life like his service in the military, where he has an obligation to devote ‘x’ amount of time before it’s over. Arthur was never good at handling the concept of delayed gratification, but he’s changed. Years of being trapped down in dream time and more than a dozen failed escapes in real life will do that, he figures.

There have been benefits to merging his best interests with Cobb’s. Such as, Arthur doesn’t wake up in a dream, screaming himself hoarse. The panic attacks are rare now. Cobb lets him go on fucking coffee runs. But the best thing might be that Arthur has been allowed his own hotel room for about six months. He feels stupidly grateful for the solitude every single day.

The watch comes off first, and then the cufflinks, the tie, and the belt. The burner phone is still taped onto the back of his knee. He rips it off without blinking.

Half an hour later, Arthur is showered and waiting for room service to bring up dinner. The TV is set on the news, muted. When the phone vibrates against the pillow, he picks it up and immediately heads into the bathroom, where the water is still running.

“Tell me again about Mal’s father,” says Eames, his voice warm and real.

Arthur presses the phone harder against his ear. He closes his eyes. “Born and raised in London. Still teaches architecture in France. He believes Cobb, and is the one most likely to support him when things get rough. I don’t know if he’d give up a whole lot to do it, though.”

Eames makes a thoughtful noise.

“You have a picture, right?” Arthur asks.

“Yes. Won’t be any trouble to imitate,” Eames says absently.

“Listen,” Arthur begins, but Eames cuts him off.

“I know it’s rude, but I’m really not going to.”

“I just need you to know,” Arthur says fiercely, “that Cobb is seriously unhinged.”

“Ah, yes, that is such scintillating news. I hadn’t quite gotten that from the kidnapping and the holding you hostage.”

Arthur switches tactics. “I can run.”

“You can’t,” Eames says sharply. “That would ruin this entire plan. Alright, Arthur? You can’t run.”

Arthur still has his eyes closed. It’s easy to flash back to the first time Eames had made a drop, in the form of a crumbled lottery ticket with seven numbers bubbled in on the grid. Arthur had discovered it in his suit pocket after getting off the subway with Dom. It was subtle enough to skate the line between significant and not, but if it was Eames -- if it was -- then he’d probably be counting on the fact that Arthur would take a gamble.

And he had, at the payphone, while Dom was talking to a potential chemist.

“Hello,” Eames had said, staticky and far away.

Arthur had gripped the silver paneling with his other hand and simply said, “Eames.”

When Arthur finally opens his eyes, the bathroom is overly yellow and saturated. He tries to blink his vision back to normal.

“Two days,” Eames reminds him. “Raddon job tomorrow, you said. Joel and Hiva will be gone by eveningtime,” he prompts.

“Yes,” Arthur confirms. Keeping everything straight is exhausting, because he doesn’t dare write anything down, ever. He can barely sleep for the information churning around in his mind. “And then we go in blind and you’re leading the cavalry into a suicide mission.”

“I’ve always admired your improvisational skills anyway,” Eames says breezily. “Ariadne and Yusuf are flying in tomorrow. We’ll come to you.”

There are, of course, an infinite number of things that Arthur can respond with. What kind of name is Ariadne. Why is Eames doing this at all. What are they going to do if Dom’s mind is too chaotic to handle. Is this finally going to be the right time to just give up the ghost and kill him. Why is Eames doing this.

What Arthur does say is, “Remind me to shoot you afterward for convincing me to try this.”

“Will do.” Eames stays quiet for a bit. “See you soon. Kill this line as soon as possible.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, please,” Arthur says, just for the sake of ending it on a note that has nothing to do with what they’re about to attempt.

He hangs up, then breaks the phone in half before flushing the pieces down the toilet. Raddon job tomorrow. And after that, who the hell knows.

pyrimidine — Thu, 28 Oct 2010 07:47:40 GMT

ALISON MOSSHART FROM THE DEAD WEATHER'S "TREAT ME LIKE YOUR MOTHER" VIDEO

“Just the two of us, then?” Eames asks as he uncoils the spools of tubing.

Steinberger shakes his head for longer than necessary. He has a lot of nervous tics like that -- sniffles a lot, blinks too hard. “Arthur is running interference.”

The name doesn’t ring a bell, though Steinberger obviously expects it to. Eames just asks, “Where?”

“First floor, with security. We set a rendezvous time, though, for ten minutes from now, just in case something goes wrong.”

Eames squints and scratches the corner of his eye. He sincerely hopes nothing goes wrong, because the sole reason he even hopped on a plane and flew to Detroit without asking for details was that Steinberger had assured him -- multiple times -- about this being an easy job. Eames needs an easy job. More than that, he needs the easy money that comes after an easy job. Jetting off to different countries after racking up wild amounts of debt had seemed like a good idea a year ago, but the problem was that eventually one was bound to end up back at the starting point, this time up shit creek and with people globally gunning for one’s head on a plate.

“I should prepare another line, then? Just in case?” he asks, then does so without waiting for an answer.

*

Of course, something goes wrong.

The mark is a lawyer, and as soon as Eames and Steinberger walk into the sprawling auditorium, the seats are filled with over-talkative projections who grill both of them with questions. Eames bats them away easily, but Steinberger, poor nervous Steinberger, starts showing all the symptoms of lying, and then it’s all downhill from there.

The entire orchestra level is about to converge on them when the door gets kicked open with a boom and the entire building shakes. A dark-haired woman strides in, wearing all black and hoisting a light automatic up near her waist. Eames barely has time to blink before bullets start flying in every direction.

“Jesus!” Eames shouts before diving for cover. Wood starts splintering in the air, mixing with the puffs of cotton getting spit up as bullets get buried into the seats. “What kind of psychotic projection is that!”

“It’s not a projection, it’s Arthur!” Steinberger shouts back.

The incongruity makes Eames pop his head up just to take a second look. In response, a flock of bullets flies in his direction and he ducks back down. After about ten more seconds, the raucous shooting finally stops and they’re able to get to their knees. Arthur is already hovering over them like some bed-headed angel wearing a leather jacket.

Eames stares up at her like he’s in love. He actually might be.

“Get up,” she pants. “We haven’t completely blown it, Edmunds is still on the way over in a cab. Mr. Eames can meet him out from by the box office and spout some story about the set having problems. Tell him the play is going to be delayed for an hour and suggest getting a quick dinner. That should be all the time we need, but keep an eye on him anyway. And Steinberger -- ” Arthur briefly lifts the hem of her leather jacket before letting it go again. “Really? Black leather? Also, these pants.”

When Eames opens his mouth, he tells himself it’s because Steinberger is about to turn into a gibbering mess. He says, “Actually, I don’t blame him. Arthur, correct? We haven’t officially met.”

“If you’re comfortable enough to be a smarmy bastard, then we’re clearly past the introduction phase. Do your job, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says. “Please.”

Her eyes flicker down to Eames’s neck, just for a second. Eames can’t tell if it’s appraisal or tamping down the urge to cut his throat.

“Right, then,” he finally says. “I apologize. The box office, you said?”

*

In the real world, Arthur still has the same long, slightly disheveled hair, as if she’d slept with it still wet, but she’s dressed much more demurely. Black slacks, a slim-fitting black button down, black pumps. The whole ensemble would be sharp but boring, if not for the fact that the soles of the pumps are painted a glossy, bright red. Eames gets a glimpse of it only when Arthur is swinging her legs off the chair before planting them on the carpet and standing.

“That was a mess,” she states.

“It was an on-the-fly job,” Steinberger defends.

“Nothing about this should ever be on-the-fly,” Arthur says. “I barely had time to cobble together his basic schedule. Let me know in advance next time, or call someone else.”

Had Eames said these words, Steinberger would probably be having a nervous breakdown, but Arthur somehow keeps her tone clipped but mild, shrugging on a blazer as she speaks. She’s most likely angry but hides it well. Eames quickly gathers his things, draping his coat over his arm and touching his forehead at Steinberger, who’s sticking around to clean up a bit before letting Edmunds wake up.

He follows Arthur out, both their footsteps muted by the plush carpeting. “That was a fucking mess,” Arthur says again as they wait side-by-side for an elevator.

“Easy, though,” Eames says.

“So easy that I didn’t have to rampage an entire auditorium with an RPK?” Arthur points out with a crooked smile. She glances at him a few times.

“Yes, that was quite impressive, I have to say,” Eames says thoughtfully. “Though probably not strictly necessary.”

“Shoot first,” Arthur says.

Eames waits. When nothing else follows, he says, “I’m guessing there is no asking questions later.”

The elevator arrives with a melodious chime. Arthur steps in as soon as the doors open, then turns to press a button. She folds her arms over her chest and tilts her head at Eames, who knows to wait for the next one without anyone having to say anything.

He does, however, stick his hand out to stop the doors from closing. “How do you feel about a drink?”

“And this will be a drink that’s going to be parlayed into,” Arthur trails off in faux confusion.

Eames just grins and goes along with it.

“I can’t believe you’re asking me this,” Arthur says wonderingly. “Although I really should have been expecting it.”

“Shoot first,” Eames echoes. “Isn’t that right? Or should I have not been so up front about it?”

“Yes, not shrouding your sexual propositions in a veil of innocence does put you ten points ahead of the rest of humanity.” Arthur twists her mouth into a sour expression, as if she’s just bitten into a lemon.

Eames laughs a bit. Then he rubs at his mouth and says, “Honestly, though -- it was an offer for just a drink, nothing more. But I understand why you wouldn't believe me.”

He finally lets his hand slip away. After another pause, the doors start closing once more. “I’ll be seeing you, Arthur,” he says.

“Of course,” Arthur mutters.

From the look on her face, Eames should be glad they’re on opposite sides of steel doors, and yet he finds himself looking forward to another dream where this Arthur, with dark hair and a penchant for automatic weapons, will burst in and save the day.

She meets his eyes, and Eames thinks he sees a flash of white teeth before the doors close.

pyrimidine — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 15:43:13 GMT

Prompt: I want them to be work partners or friends. They argue, joke, drink beer, anything. They're BAMF, and they need each other.

I made an example list of jobs that often have partners (or not, some just made me giggle):

Astronauts, pilots, paramedics, detectives, cops, bodyguards, bank workers, a journalist/photographer team, agents, treasure hunters, gamekeepers, crime scene investigators, lab partners, deminers, guards, hotel receptionists, private investigators, dispatchers for 991, cowboys, IT consultants, window cleaners...

Make 'em kick the world's big bad ass.

astronauts

“Ready to live in a jumpsuit for a few years?” Eames had murmured when the team had stood at attention for the first time together, listening to an aerospace physiologist talk to them about the toll of g-forces on the body.

Maybe Arthur had been the only one who had heard it, or maybe everyone else just had all their focus zeroed in on the physio guy; in any case, Arthur had given Eames a sidelong look and smiled.

It’s an insignificant moment, in the scheme of things. Still, this is what he thinks about now, as the crew straps everyone in. Arthur’s helmet is already secured against his seat, but he can see Eames’s profile if he looks out of the corner of his eye -- the familiar slope of his nose, a vague movement of his lips as he says something to the crew member before she shuts his helmet and the comms click on.

“Ready to float around in space for a few years?” Arthur asks quietly, and he sees a flash of teeth in his periphery as Eames’s laugh crackles into his ear.

pilots

“I feel undeniably attractive every time,” Eames says as they walk briskly through the terminal, hats and jackets on, freshly-ironed pant legs whipping against each other with each step.

“And the other times when you’re not enjoying strangers ogling you?”

“Well, I feel undeniably attractive then as well.”

Arthur snorts. Eames tips his hat at him. Arthur shakes his head and just says, “Meet me at the bar when we land.”

“Yes, I hear Kuala Lumpur is a great place for picking up lonely, undeniably attractive pilots,” Eames says.

They step on to the moving walkway, Arthur standing in front of Eames. He feels Eames brush off the shoulders of his jacket with slow, lazy swipes.

paramedics

“ -- and mayo,” Arthur says, because it’s 4am and he’s getting to the punchy part of his shift where he dissects sandwiches and expounds on what he likes or does not like. “Mayo is -- it’s hard to say, really, what I think of it, because -- ”

“Stop,” Eames interrupts. He has his elbow shoved against the base of the window and is supporting his head with his hand. Judging by the way he’s been swaying back and forth, he’s trying not to doze off. “Arthur. I feel like night shift doesn’t agree with you. Not that I don’t enjoy it, but I think,” Eames yawns out, then trails off mid-thought.

Arthur doesn’t respond. Instead, he curls the top piece of bread up, as if he’s opening Tupperware with suspicious contents.

“Eames,” he says, and Eames’s forehead almost hits the steering wheel.

Just then, their radio comes to life with many crackles and pops -- something about a car accident on the 101, CHP on the way. Arthur shoves his sandwich bag into the paper bag as Eames starts the engine and pulls out onto the street, both of them impossibly awake and ready.

journalist/photographer team

“A little more to the left. More.” Eames keeps waving his hand, his face hidden by the gigantic camera. “Little more. Okay, that’s good.”

Arthur is now half-obscured by tree leaves. “I really don’t think,” he begins doubtfully, then blinks as Eames snaps the shot.

Later, when they get back to the hotel room and Arthur is taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi, he sees a new update on Eames’s blog. It’s the picture from earlier, with Arthur holding a mic up somewhere by his chin. The tropical landscape is blurred in the background, a beautiful mix of both warm and cool colors, fully saturated and intense in a way that has become Eames’s trademark.

But the true masterpiece of the photo is that, in the foreground, the perspective makes it look like bright green leaves are spouting directly from Arthur’s head.

that is not arthur’s hair x it is a palm xx, says the caption.

private investigators

The unmistakable shadow of a person is visible from outside, even through the frosted glass. Arthur opens the door anyway, taking off his trench and hat, hanging them up on the coatrack as if there isn’t a stranger lounging in a chair not five feet away.

He makes his way behind the desk and sits down. The typewriter is exactly how he’d left it, with a paper cranked halfway through. When he flicks the desk lamp on, it throws a dim, yellow coat of light over the room, glinting off the typewriter keys.

“I’m willing to sit here all night,” Arthur finally says.

The man’s face is still in shadow, but Arthur can hear his low laugh. “You’re a hard man to find. The decals on your door -- they’re missing some letters.”

“I’m aware.”

Arthur sits back in his chair as the man abruptly stands and moves around to the other side of the desk. He settles on the edge, leaning forward a bit before looking silently at Arthur. He’s handsome in a movie star way, which means Arthur is already wary.

“Have you got a spare cigarette?” is all he says. The accent could be one Arthur’s unfamiliar with, or it could be an amalgamation of many. Or it could be a fake.

“I’ll give you one in exchange for your name,” Arthur says, already reaching into his pocket and drawing out a couple cigarettes.

“Eames,” the man says simply. He leans forward as Arthur holds out a light.

From that day on, Eames flits in and out of Arthur’s office, always loaded with information on Arthur’s cases, always willing to answer questions with that calm, even voice of his. Despite all that, Arthur rarely makes use of Eames’s tips. They check out in the end, every single one of them, but something keeps holding him back.

One night, they turn their collars up against the cold and head down to the nearest bar. It’s loud, almost raucous, but both of them remain silent as Arthur orders two whiskeys and slides a few bills to the bartender with a quick nod.

Eames swirls his drink and finally says, “You would do well to trust me, Arthur.”

“Is that so,” Arthur says.

Eames hums in the affirmative, then executes a half-turn so that he’s leaning back against the bar, elbows balanced on the edge in the picture of insolence. Even in the dim lighting, Arthur can see him blow smoke rings with careful flicks of his mouth.

Arthur stares hard at his drink.

treasure hunters

Stalagmites are rumbling up and stalactites are crashing down, as if the cave has woken up and is sinking its teeth into them. Amidst all the earsplitting noises and Eames yelling, Arthur just stands there, staring dumbly at the brick of gold in his hand.

He definitely shouldn’t have picked it up.

“What say you we get out of here?” Eames is practically screaming. “Arthur! Are you listening to me?”

He starts pushing Arthur, who stumbles along for the first few steps before finally regaining his sense of urgency. With steady hands, he shoves the brick into his knapsack, grabs Eames’s wrist, and starts leading the way out.

Later, after they’ve emerged from the now collapsed underground cave, after Arthur has saved Eames from getting squished by a large, wayward boulder, probably breaking his leg in three places in the process, they struggle out to the edge of the jungle and just lie there for a while, panting and trying to catch their breaths.

“You saved me back there,” Eames says, his voiced threaded through with teasing and awe and worry and a whole bunch of other things that Arthur can't really think about because holy shit, they almost died.

“I only did it because I knew you would haunt me if you died,” Arthur wheezes. He’s still holding Eames’s wrist, he notices, and squeezes it once.

IT consultants

The new guy, Eames, has been placed three seats down. Supposedly he’s a genius with anything Unix, but usually he’s just playing shitty, pixelated computer games like the old version of the Oregon Trail. He curses every time he fails to ford the river, and Arthur can tell whenever he’s hunting because the relentless tapping of the space bar.

Finally, at the end of Eames’s third week, Arthur pushes his chair back and says, “You can’t just shoot indiscriminately. That won’t even get you a rabbit.”

Eames keeps hitting the space bar. “I’m sorry?”

“Look.” Arthur pauses, then just gets up and goes to stand by Eames. His desk is still fairly sparse, save for a pile of interdepartmental envelopes and a calendar of Impressionist paintings tacked onto the cubicle wall.

The tapping stops. Eames says, “I just shot a bear,” and folds his hands over his stomach, covering his ID lanyard. He looks up at Arthur and smiles. “But it’s nice to meet you anyhow. Arthur, was it?”

The private investigator one was based on these wonderful pictures by fanlay

i was supposed to be productive...

pyrimidine — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 07:25:30 GMT

...keyword 'was'.

Taken from addandsubtract: name three fic ideas you think I will never, ever, ever write. in return, I will attempt to write a snippet of (at least) one of them. OR, prompt me things that are prompt-like, and I will try to write things which are hopefully fic-like. RUN, DON'T WALK.

1. It's Venice and Arthur is Romeo climbing the trellis to Juliet's room. Only he finds Eames instead.
2. ARTHUR WON'T STOP COMING ON TO EAMES! EAMES IS LIKE D: AND ALWAYS SHUTS HIM DOWN BUT ARTHUR JUST KEEPS BEING LASCIVIOUS IN EAMES' GENERAL DIRECTION, AND EAMES IS JUST LIKE GOD HOW ARE YOU SO UNPROFESSIONAL. I MEAN. SECRETLY HE LIKES IT, AND MAYBE CAN'T STOP HIMSELF FROM WISHING..... BUT HE'S NOT GOING TO BE TAKEN IN BY ARTHUR'S FANCY SUITS AND PURRED INNUENDOS, BECAUSE HE'S OBVS JUST LOOKING TO GET INTO EAMES' PANTS.
3. INCEPTION/SOCIAL NETWORK CROSSOVER???
4. Radio station AU - Eames is a radio dj, Arthur is his long suffering producer, and you know Eames tries to flirt with Arthur while he's on air.
5. wild west fic! arthur is the sheriff and eames is the outlaw.
6. UNAUTHORIZED DRUGGING WITH SEDATIVES MEANS I LOVE YOU.
7. mark/eduardo where they hurt & snark at each other all the time, and pretend that they don't care for each other (WITH NO DIALOGUE)
8. Arthur drunk dialling Eames!
9. Eames and Arthur are thrown in prison, and Eames is all worried about ~protecting Arthur's virtue~ until Arthur breaks the arm of the first guy who comes near him. And after all, Eames is all, "You can't touch me, I'm Arthur's. :D"

pyrimidine — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 08:05:18 GMT

TRUE CONFESSIONS: I kind of dig the neck-beard on JGL.

MORE TRUE CONFESSIONS: This is the sole reason I'm trying to watch Uncertainty.

Anyway, I WAS trying to watch it, but it was kind of boring the hell out of me, and also Megavideo booted me off for maxing out on viewing minutes. Also, it was seriously boring the hell out of me, what is this.

So I moved on to Dear Zachary and now I'm crying silently into a bowl of grapes. Sometimes the editing was a bit too stylistic for me, but the story was fucking heartbreaking. UGH.

pyrimidine — Fri, 08 Oct 2010 08:51:47 GMT

And then I ended up with over 5k of weird, choppy wrestler!Eames/journalist!Arthur AU. My first contribution to the 'NOTHING HAPPENS' club!

Full Nelson
5500 words

ETA: pearljamz DREW THIS WONDERFULNESS FOR THE STORY. BRB, CANNOT SEE, EYES HAVE BEEN REPLACED WITH HEARTS ♥______♥

Monday

Eames’s tattoos are horrid. That doesn’t stop anyone sitting in the bleachers from openly staring at them.

“He probably got them done illegally,” says Arthur. When he gets no response, he adds, “And chose the design while blindfolded.”

“He probably did get them done illegally,” Ariadne finally agrees, but in an entirely different tone.

Arthur glances around. Ariadne is watching with her mouth slightly open, as is Cobb, but he’s occasionally tearing his eyes away to scrutinize his own body. Mal is watching Cobb with a slight smile. She pokes him on the thigh and says, “The muscular type? You like it, really?”

“I don’t like it, really. I just think it’s admirable.”

Ariadne snorts. Arthur says, “Maybe he’s actually twenty-six, masquerading as a high school student because he couldn’t make it in real life.”

“You spin such wonderful stories, Arthur,” Ariadne says. Now she has her elbow on her knee, chin propped up on her hand, and a glazed look in her eyes.

Cobb is still watching as well, one hand wrapped around his opposite arm. In all honesty, Arthur thinks he knows how Cobb feels; despite having grown almost half a foot since freshman year, Arthur is still thin, can still fit into clothes he wore in middle school. Compared to these sweaty, grunting wrestlers -- well, the expression on Cobb’s face says it all.

At least Cobb plays soccer. Arthur collects Lomography cameras and mostly sits in his room.

A movement out in the center of the gym catches Arthur’s eye -- it’s Yusuf, waving as he rips off his headgear and jogs over to the bleachers. Arthur isn’t sure that what Yusuf does counts as wrestling, per se; it might actually be a strange combination of wrestling, judo, street-fighting, and what looks like reflexes borne from years of getting tackled by his brothers out of nowhere.

“Hey,” Yusuf pants when he comes to stop in front of them. “So, you’re good, right? You’re going to write the story?”

“I’m just covering the match,” Arthur says. “But yeah, I’ll probably come around and ask you guys for some quotes, if that’s okay.”

“Sure, sure. Let me know if you have any questions.” Yusuf flashes a grin before heading into the locker rooms.

“Okay.” Mal stands up and slings her messenger bag over her shoulder. “As much as I hate to leave this beautiful view, I have to get to the library before it closes.”

Cobb stands up as well, and then it’s kind of weird to just have the two of them remaining, so all of them file off of the bleachers and head out. As they walk, Ariadne rubs Arthur’s shoulder, then loops her arm through his.

“Good luck on the article. If you have to keep sitting in on practices, you’ll probably smell like ball sweat by the end of the week,” she says brightly, her hair immediately whipping into Arthur’s face as soon as they step outside.

What Arthur doesn’t mention is that he doesn’t have to sit in on the practices. He’s just supposed to cover the match. It’ll be a blurb on a sidebar, if anything. But he figures that watching the practices will provide him with journalistic integrity or whatever.

Journalistic integrity. Definitely.

*

Tuesday

Arthur has chosen Eames as the focus for his article because they share more than half their classes: Honors English, Ceramics, US History, and PE. During Tuesday’s PE period, Arthur trots over to the opposite sidelines during a time-out, where half of the class is waiting to rotate in to the field hockey game. Eames is standing around with a bunch of people, though none of them are talking to each other.

“Hey. Eames, right?” Arthur asks, panting slightly.

Eames rests his chin on top of his stick. “Yes,” he says. “And you’re Arthur the journalist.”

“Yeah. Listen, do you think I could ask you a few questions later? I’m writing a piece about the match you guys have coming up against St. Dominic’s.”

“Sure. No problem.” And then Eames adds, “Arthur,” which is strange because hardly anybody calls anyone by name, except for teachers.

Arthur blinks. “Thanks,” he says.

Even though no one around Eames seems remotely interested in the conversation, Arthur nods to them anyway before heading back onto the field. He ends up scoring a few goals before the next rotation. He wonders if Eames is watching.

*

Someone says, “Hey,” as Arthur’s pulling on his t-shirt. Of course, in his haste to answer, he gets sort of stuck, fists meeting only fabric instead of the armholes. After struggling for a few seconds, he finally conquers the dumb thing, and it’s only afterward that he realizes Eames had stepped forward and tugged the hem down for him.

“Sorry. Thanks,” Arthur says quickly. “What’s going on?”

“Your tee was trying to eat your head. I just saved your life,” Eames tells him.

Arthur busies himself with grabbing his backpack and shutting the locker. “Yes, thank you. Death by cotton, how embarrassing.”

“I would have volunteered myself for a eulogy, you know. Having shared those last few moments with you,” Eames says. He smiles when Arthur does. “So, hey,” he says suddenly, “when did you want to talk about the match? I’ve got some free time after school, before practice.”

“You know, I really just need a couple quotes from you about how you feel about this season, or maybe even just the match against the Colts,” Arthur hedges as he slings his backpack on. “Five, ten minutes, max. We could even do it before English.”

“It’s alright. I plan on being famous someday, so I might as well get used to long interviews while I can.”

Arthur decides to take the bait. “Oh, really,” he says skeptically. “Famous doing what?”

“Maybe I meant infamous.” Eames grins.

“No offense, but you’re kind of cheesy,” Arthur says.

“Of course you meant some offense by that,” Eames counters. “I’ll grant you the interview anyway.”

Arthur gives up. “Fine. Do you want to meet at the student center? It doesn’t close until 3, which is when your practice starts.”

Eames raises his eyebrows, which Arthur guesses is an affirmative. Then he realizes that they’ve been walking together this entire time, and that Eames is holding the door to D-building open for him.

“3:00 then,” Eames confirms. He walks up the stairs without waiting for an answer, leaving Arthur on the landing behind him.

*

As soon as the bell rings at 2:15, the hallways are awash with students and the frantic hum of end-of-the-day conversations. Everything is punctuated by lockers slamming shut and sneakers squeaking against the floors, almost as if people think they need to be louder to make up for their seven hours of imprisonment.

Arthur gets buoyed out of the building by the crowd before detaching himself and heading over to the student center. Ariadne is a speck in the distance; apparently she’s dragged her sculpture project outside and is standing in front of it with her head tilted. Even from here, Arthur can recognize her dubious posture and sunshine-yellow scarf.

Part of him is expecting Eames not to show up, because everyone he knows is either a flake or perpetually ten minutes late. He’s definitely not anticipating Eames waiting for him, sitting at one of the round tables situated right next to the windows.

“Hey,” Arthur greets as he slings his backpack onto the table.

Eames looks up from doodling what looks like a third-grader’s rendition of someone skateboarding, all heavy graphite and awkwardly shaped hands. “Hello. Ready to write a hard-hitting piece of journalism?”

“I’ll be sure to add this to my portfolio,” Arthur says dryly.

“I’ll try to be completely candid, then.”

“Please don’t. I don’t want to hear anything that you wouldn’t tell your mother.” Arthur gets his Moleskine out and flips it open. He notices Eames watching him. “Not a word about the Moleskine,” he warns.

“Fair enough,” Eames agrees after a pause, although it’s clear that he’s struggling with it.

And then Eames proceeds to launch into his life story, starting from growing up in England and moving when he was in the fifth grade, to his favorite gyro place downtown, to the time he’d gotten in trouble for eating the caramelized sugar they had made in Chemistry, to this gym that supposedly has wall-to-wall trampolines. He talks about movies he’s seen and asks Arthur’s opinion on them (Rambo will always be a classic, they both agree); he talks about noise rock and asks Arthur’s opinion on them (Arthur doesn’t even know what noise rock is); he talks about gyros, again (Arthur’s never been to that place downtown, but Eames assures him it’s heaven in your mouth).

It takes Arthur a while to realize that they’re having an actual conversation. Naturally, this is when there’s a break of silence, where Eames has a lopsided smile on his face and Arthur gets suddenly self-conscious.

“So,” he says belatedly.

Eames brightens. “Oh, wait. How far have you gotten on the English essay?”

“What, for Mrs. Dalloway?” Arthur puts his notebook aside and roots through his backpack, pulling out his blue binder, the one that’s puking up folded handouts and bits of notebook matter. “I think I’ve picked out most of my concrete details, but I haven’t really put anything together yet.”

Eames reaches for the binder, but pauses and asks, “May I?”

Arthur nods, feeling kind of awkward just watching Eames skim over his notes. “What about you?”

Eames waves him off, as if he’s asked a stupid question. “Oh, I haven’t started yet.”

“Nothing?”

“Nope.”

“It’s due on Friday,” Arthur says slowly.

Eames waves him off again. “I’ll come up with something.” He looks up when Arthur snorts. “What? You don’t believe in the power of procrastination?”

“Maybe only in your case. I believe you’re one of those people whose life is great because you don’t give it any other option,” Arthur says, a bit recklessly, but it’s true: Eames, the varsity athlete in honors classes. Eames, whose first name no one knows because nobody would even think to pose such a question to a high school Adonis (not Arthur’s words).

Eames just looks at him. “Come to the match on Friday,” he says abruptly. “You will, right?”

“What? Yes, I have to,” Arthur answers.

“Great. Listen, I have to go now, though,” Eames says, as if it’s an apology. “We’ll talk some more tomorrow though, yeah?”

He grabs his backpack, punches Arthur’s shoulder, and is gone before Arthur has even registered that the clock hanging by the empty lunch line says that it’s 3:05.

Arthur looks down at his notebook and sees the words WRESTLING ARTICLE written at the top right with a box drawn around it, and Eames written below that. That’s it.

“Dammit,” Arthur mutters to himself.

*

Wednesday

The next morning, Arthur wakes up grouchy and bleary-eyed. He’d stayed up way too late the night before, looking at archived copies of The Hawk. All the athlete highlights were about three hundred words, and pretty much all of the articles covering matches were tiny blurbs mentioning the score and maybe a single quote. There is absolutely no reason why Arthur should be thinking about this so much, and he knows it, but that doesn’t do anything to help the fact that he keeps thinking about it.

Breakfast consists of a chunk of Gouda cheese and a few Ritz crackers. He eats it as he glowers his way to school, getting to his locker just in time for the morning rush. Dom's locker is only two sets away, so he heads over there once he's dumped his books.

“Eames is kind of a douchebag,” Arthur complains.

Dom’s reply is muffled by the locker door between them. “Why?”

“He just is.”

“You could get on the debate team with skills like that,” Dom says, and then, “Ow,” when Arthur nudges the locker door so that it swings into his arm. “Seriously, didn’t you just need like, two quotes from him? If any?” he asks, finally shutting his locker and coming into view.

Arthur falls in step beside him as they walk. “I got about a million and a half. None of which has to do with wrestling.”

Dom shrugs. “Maybe he just wanted to talk.”

“But he has his own friends for that.”

“When did you get so exclusive?” Dom laughs. “This asshole front doesn’t really work on you anymore.”

“Since when?” Arthur demands, but without any heart in it.

“Since I’ve known you. Since you tried so hard to affect it,” says Dom. He turns into the Chemistry classroom, then turns back and asks, “Chimichangas for lunch?”

Arthur waves to Mal, who’s sitting down already with her bag on her desk. He would call Cobb a simpleton, but the chimichangas really are delicious. “What else?” he sighs.

*

When Arthur walks in to English, Mrs. Gardiner isn’t there but most of the students are, getting out their things and preparing for Silent Reading. Ariadne, who sits across the room in the back, waves hello; Eames, who sits one row over and two seats ahead of Arthur, has Harry Potter on his desk and is saying, “It’s leviosa, not leviosa,” tipping the chair onto its back legs, soaking it all in, being cocky in the way only a high school boy could be. Being cocky in a way that makes it hard for Arthur to look elsewhere.

“Arthur,” he calls loudly, even though Arthur is about ten feet away.

Arthur looks at him with a blank expression. “Hello, Eames,” is all he says, but Eames smiles at him for a few more seconds anyway. Apparently no one is buying into Arthur’s mood today.

When Eames faces the front of the classroom again, Arthur sits up and cranes his neck to try to catch Ariadne’s eye. She’s already looking at him, though, and makes a crude gesture with a loose fist by her mouth and her tongue poking against her cheek.

Arthur makes a face and stares down at his notebook, drawing and retracing a circle over and over until the ink bleeds through to the other side.

*

As they're filing out of the classroom, Eames catches up with Arthur and asks, “Did you write the article yet?”

“How’s your Dalloway paper going?” Arthur shoots back.

Eames raises his eyebrows. “I took you for many things, but never a grade grubber.”

“I’m just making conversation,” Arthur grumps. “Fine. How’s the season going? Are you going to give me something to work with now?”

“You’re going to be a great journalist someday.” Eames starts walking backwards when Arthur stops at his locker. “Come to practice, maybe you can pick up some things to write about,” he calls.

“Maybe you could just tell me so I can write the article already,” Arthur yells back. Once again, his heart isn’t in it. He stares at the back of his locker, having forgotten why he even opened it in the first place.

*

After elbowing his way through the lunch line with hardly any mercy, Arthur eventually emerges victorious, juggling four chimichangas in his hands. He spies Mal, Dom, and Ariadne sitting at a table, all studying him as he walks toward them.

“What’s going on?” he asks as he passes the food around.

Ariadne takes a chimichanga and does the blowjob mime again with her free hand. She’s really good at it, actually. “That’s disgusting,” Arthur informs her.

“Hey, how’s your sculpture coming along?” Dom cuts in smoothly.

“I hate it,” Ariadne says brightly. “I want to smash it and I’m pretty sure Mr. Daggar wants to smash it too. My portfolio is going to be such crap.”

“Maybe you can turn that in. Smashed abstract art,” Mal suggests. “What’s it made of?”

“Plaster and stone,” Ariadne says. She takes a vicious bite of her chimichanga. Meanwhile, Mal continues to pick hers apart layer by layer, as if she’s practicing for Anatomy dissections.

“Perfect,” she says. “The plaster would create a great dust radius. A write-up would be very easy.”

“Forget my sculpture. Let’s talk about Arthur’s sculpture. And by ‘sculpture’, I mean ‘article’. And by ‘article’, I mean ‘Eames’.”

Arthur takes a calm bite of food and squints out the window, scanning over everyone who’s eating lunch outside. Dom cracks open a soda as loudly as possible.

“Okay, I’m being serious now. What’s so difficult about this assignment?” Ariadne asks.

Arthur shrugs. “I don’t know what to write.”

“You could always talk to someone else on the team.”

Arthur shrugs again.

“Or, okay. Eames is taking Photography this semester, you know. Write about how wrestlers have varied interests and how they aren’t just like The Thing from Fantastic Four,” Ariadne suggests.

Arthur stares out the window some more, then begrudgingly takes out his Moleskine and, under Eames, writes LIKES PHOTOGRAPHY.

“It’s cute, how he’s acting like he doesn’t hear you,” says Cobb. When Arthur grunts, Cobb presses, “Don’t you have to get used to talking to people if you’re going to be a journalist?”

“I can be a newsroom journalist,” Arthur finally points out. “Report from behind a desk. I don’t even have to wear pants.”

“Will Eames be under this desk?” Mal asks.

Arthur shuts the Moleskine and placidly puts it back in his backpack.

*

Thursday

They’re playing field hockey in PE again. Eames, along with the rest of his team, is wearing an orange mesh top over his uniform, like a walking traffic cone.

“You missed practice yesterday,” he pants.

“I had an auction to bid on,” Arthur says. He dribbles the ball and tries to run it past Eames, who jams his stick out and almost trips Arthur in the process.

“On eBay?” Eames presses, as if he hasn’t committed a totally egregious foul. Ironically, Coach Parker is lecturing a small group of people about stick safety, so he’d missed it.

Arthur whacks the ball toward Evans, then comes to a stop and heaves, “Yes, on eBay.”

“Yeah?” Eames curls his hand over the top of his stick, then crosses one foot over the other, toes pressing into the grass in a neat point. He looks like he’s on a golf green instead of playing fake field hockey on a shitty track field. “What did you buy?”

Arthur gives him the side-eye. He looks genuinely interested, though, so he says, “A twin lens reflex camera.”

“Really?”

“It’s just a toy one,” Arthur says hastily.

“Still.” Eames spins his stick around its heel. “Do you have more? Do you use them often?”

“I try. 120 film is too expensive, though.”

“It really is. Heads up,” Eames says suddenly, nudging Arthur with his shoulder as other players start skirting closer to them. He keeps moving backward, pressing against Arthur with each step. The mesh shirt stinks like the bottom of a PE locker, but Arthur can still smell fresh sweat and faint cologne; he might even be able to ID the detergent Eames uses.

“This isn’t basketball,” Arthur complains. His heart is pounding fast. Eames’s cotton shorts keep brushing over Arthur’s bare knees.

“No, it’s field hockey. Far higher stakes.” Suddenly, Eames takes off up the field. “You’ll be glad to know I finished my paper,” he calls over his shoulder, leaving Arthur standing there alone, his hand on his hip, sweaty and with mud-covered socks.

*

Ariadne has to finish her sculpture, Dom and Mal need to do a write-up of the play they saw the week before, and Arthur really isn’t the type to wheedle people into doing things, so he heads to the gym by himself to watch the wrestling practice. As soon as he gets there, he runs into Yusuf, who’s just emerging from the locker room. His shoelaces are still untied.

“Yusuf, hey,” greets Arthur, hurrying to extract his notes.

“Hey. Oh, am I about to be interviewed?” Yusuf touches his chest, as if worrying about the fact that he’s not properly dressed for the occasion.

Arthur snorts. “Yeah, by this world-class journalist. Okay, how do you feel about tomorrow’s match?”

“Well, considering our record so far,” Yusuf starts, but Arthur fumbles his notes and interrupts: “Wait, what’s your record so far?”

“Seriously? Aren’t you supposed to fact-check or something?” Yusuf blinks. “Oh yeah, I forgot: who’d you end up talking to?”

“Come on, I’ve been busy,” Arthur says, evading the last question. “I’m sorry.”

Yusuf breaks into a grin. “It’s okay, I’m just breaking your balls.”

Arthur waves him off, then manages to squeeze in a few questions about their season and the new varsity line-up before he’s called to participate in a practice match.

The bleachers are sparsely occupied by the usual crowd: kids doing homework while waiting for someone to pick them up, some kind of club meeting in the lower corner, several groups of people just sitting and talking. Arthur picks his way to roughly the middle, then starts observing. He tries not to look over at Eames too often; in fact, he’s so focused on it that it takes him a while to notice that the practice seems kind of disorganized. The match to the far right consists of two guys seeing how close they can get to doing the splits. Yusuf is in the middle of the mats, doing some kind of Sumo moves. Eames and his opponent are grappling -- but only because they’re trying to grab the elastic of each other’s uniform and snap it to inflict maximum pain.

Eventually they both give up. Eames hoists himself onto his knees, then looks directly at Arthur, his headgear propped up onto the crown of his head.

“Wow,” Arthur says out loud. He waves timidly, just in case Eames actually isn’t looking at him at all.

Eames waves back, his mouthpiece jutting out like a lemon rind.

*

The truth is that Arthur has been aware of Eames for a while, but he’s interacted with him for only a fraction of that time. They don’t know each other well at all, but the fact that Eames leaves him feeling unbalanced seems par for the course. Arthur should just learn to take it in stride, it seems.

This is the reasoning he uses when, after he’s just started the walk home at the end of the day, a busted beige Corolla pulls up on the sidewalk slightly ahead of him. One of the taillights is out; the majority of the letters are missing, spelling out ‘ROLL’ along the edge of the trunk.

“This is sufficiently creepy,” Arthur says as Eames leers at him through the open passenger window.

“Do you need a ride?” Eames asks, his expression clearing. “It’s getting a bit late.”

Arthur looks up and down the street, as if gauging traffic will determine his answer. “Sure, okay,” he says.

There are empty Powerade bottles rolling around in the passenger-side footwell. A half-full one keeps lurching against Arthur’s foot as they putt away from the curb. His backpack is heavy in his lap, the seatbelt is cutting into his shoulder, and Eames’s forearm is resting on the middle compartment, inches away from Arthur’s elbow.

Eames even has one of those tree-shaped car fresheners hanging from the rearview mirror. Arthur reaches out and flicks it, just because. Then he tries to roll the window up by turning the crank on the door.

“That won’t work,” Eames tells him over the chugging guitar music. “There is no window.”

“Oh.” Arthur puts his hands back in his lap. “Okay.”

The smile that Eames gives him seems disproportionate. But, shit, this whole thing, with Eames smiling at him, and the wind coming through the window-less window to make hell out of his hair, and the sun halfway set -- for a few seconds, Arthur allows himself to wish that he had one of his cameras with him.

Then he vows to be detached from it all.

*

He puts in a valiant effort, at least. But in the end, he gets home at ten minutes to 11:00pm, full of vegetarian burritos, his eyes burning from sitting so close to the movie screen, his face hurting from smiling so much.

After receiving a lecture from his mom, Arthur goes up to his room. Everything’s the same as always, with the unmade bed and his computer whirring softly, but for some reason it all seems foreign to him. He puts his backpack down, then spends time straightening the rows of cameras on the shelf above his bed, thinking about Eames’s laugh, and how it comes so low from his throat.

*

Friday

The turnout for the match ends up being pretty depressing. There are more occupants in the visitors’ bleachers than on the home team’s, and most of the latter group are parents. Arthur is glad Ariadne is sitting next to him, even though she’s covered in plaster dust and his nose is getting itchy from all of it.

“This is...actually pretty unattractive,” she comments as they watch a couple sophomores circling the mats. “Like they’re asserting dominance that neither of them have yet.”

“It’s high school wrestling,” says Arthur. “I’m pretty sure it’s awkward most of the time.”

“Eames is pretty dominating though, huh,” Ariadne says, then does some weird, hyuck-ing laugh while knocking her knee against Arthur’s. “Did you talk to him today?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

Arthur doesn’t mention the specifics: how Eames had kept writing him notes in English, holding them in plain view of Mrs. Gardiner until Arthur was forced to snatch them out of his hand if he didn’t want to get in trouble.

But Arthur kept writing back anyway, so he can’t really blame the whole thing on Eames.

“He’s pretty cool,” Arthur adds, scanning the floor of the gym in what he knows is a horrible attempt at being casual.

Surprisingly, all Ariadne says is, “I’m sure he is,” before wolf-whistling at the sophomores, who still haven’t done anything exciting. “Get a move on, boys,” she calls. Arthur shushes her but laughs all the same.

After the match, Ariadne catches a ride home with Yusuf, leaving Arthur alone in his indecision. He makes about eight false starts to leave before doubling back to the gym again. Then he finally steels himself and waits outside the locker room, because he doesn’t really have anything to lose at this point.

When Eames emerges, showered and changed, Arthur pushes off the wall and stands up straight.

“That was terrible,” Arthur tells him, but he can’t stop smiling.

“You’re laughing at me,” Eames accuses.

“With. With you,” Arthur corrects. “It looks like you had fun, though.”

“Sure, getting my dignity squashed against old wrestling mats covered in pubic hair,” Eames says. “Yes, that was a good time.” Then he tilts his head and winces. “Can you do me a favor and check my ear? I’m thinking it might be cauliflower ear.”

“What,” Arthur says, but he does it anyway, spidering his fingers carefully over the shell of Eames’s ear, then shifting so that his hand is half-buried in sweat-damp hair. He says, “I don’t see anything,” but swipes his thumb over the curve of the helix, just in case.

“Great, let’s go then.” Eames pulls away abruptly and starts walking toward the parking lot, leaving Arthur with the creeping realization that he might have just gotten duped.

He wipes his hand on his pants and has to jog to catch up. “Can you give me a ride home?” he calls, and by the time he gets to the car, Eames has already left the passenger-side door hanging open.

“Get in, this thing turns into a pumpkin after midnight,” Eames says as he turns the engine over; at the same time, Arthur says, “I have some Netflix movies at my house if you -- ”

“What?” says Eames.

Arthur scratches his neck. “What? I mean, I have Rambo at my house, if you want to watch it. We were talking about it that one time and I realized I hadn’t seen it in a while, so.”

“The first one?”

“Of course the first one,” Arthur says, offended.

As Eames drives out of the parking lot, he says, “This is why I like you,” and Arthur tries not to read too much into it.

*

Turns out Eames hadn’t been lying when he said that he had most of the movie memorized. He recites almost half of Stallone’s lines while eating pretzels from the enormous bag propped up between them. All the lights are off, save for the glow of the TV -- like it's highlighting how fragile this situation seems, how it could be interpreted as almost fraught with potential, or completely innocuous.

After the movie is over, Arthur gets up from the couch and pads across the room to turn on the hallway light. Some of the mood dissipates under the 70-watt bulb, but Eames looks at him, eyes dark in the shadows of the living room, and asks, “Could you show me your cameras? Would that be okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Arthur finds himself saying, but it takes a minute for his body to get in sync with his words. Finally, he starts leading the way up the stairs, kicking his backpack to the side once they step in to his room.

“Of course,” Eames says to himself, touching Arthur’s whiteboard.

“Shut up,” Arthur says.

Eames makes an even louder noise of discovery. “Of course, of course,” he muses, touching random things now: hangers on the door handle, the dark grey bedspread, a t-shirt slung over the back of the desk chair, but he drops the act when he sees the cameras.

“Feel free,” says Arthur, and stands around while Eames kneels on his bed, poking through the shelves and scrutinizing each one carefully. There’s a lamp on the edge of the bottom shelf, which Eames flicks on; he lets out a short laugh when he sees that the lampshade is lined with 35mm film, lit up in shades of green and brown.

“This is brilliant,” he says, running an index finger over the film sprockets.

When Arthur remains silent, Eames cranes his neck to look over his shoulder. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Arthur says automatically, but Eames keeps studying him, so he finally says, “Just -- this sounds like the last line of some cheesy teen movie, but. You’re a lot more three-dimensional than I thought you were.”

“Don’t act like you weren’t disappointed I didn’t fit into the jock stereotype,” Eames says easily.

“Not disappointed, per se.” Arthur sits down on the edge of the bed, one leg bent up onto the mattress. “Just -- unbalanced.”

Eames shrugs. “You never really know anyone.”

“You’re right,” Arthur says quietly.

The silence seems to be pressing in all around them. “Except me,” Arthur adds, trying to steer them away from the unnamable silence. “I’m pretty much exactly how you’d expect.”

“Yes, you do have the air of someone who should be wearing horn-rimmed glasses, sitting on their fire escape in Brooklyn, reading books of short stories and smoking Pall Malls,” Eames says in an affected voice. He sits down cross-legged, bouncing on the springs of the mattress a little. “Stop waiting for me to contradict you. You know you’re more than that, you don’t need anyone to validate you.”

Eames is so candid and calm for a high schooler, it makes Arthur’s heart race just to think about it. “Maybe you should become a therapist instead of whatever infamous career criminal you’re planning to be,” he says after an eternity of picking Eames’s words apart in his head. “I’m sure there’s a business in it for you.”

“Do you feel more free, like the world is in Technicolor?” Eames grins. He’s sitting very close, now. “I did enjoy this little jaunt of helping you find yourself.”

Arthur looks out the window and wonders what time it is. Pretty late, judging by the dew on the window and how it blurs the view of the streetlights. “You seriously cannot be this laid back about everything,” he breathes.

“I’m not,” Eames says after a pause. “I’m not, but does it really matter? Arthur.”

When Eames says his name, Arthur immediately turns his head and is wholly unprepared for Eames kissing him. Dry, quick, lasting as long as the lilting pause at the peak of a sigh, but a kiss all the same.

As soon as Eames pulls away, his presence is taken over by the bright flash of a camera, maybe the only thing more blindingly intense than Eames’s wide grin. It leaves sunspots dancing in Arthur’s vision when he closes his eyes -- he squeezes them shut, hard, and listens to Eames rewind the film, clack-clack-clack.

“Your conversations are much too serious for a sixteen year old,” Eames says absently. Then, “Arthur. Open your eyes,” and Arthur can practically hear him smiling.

WRESTLING

The Hawks had a tough fight against the Colts of St. Dominic’s last Friday. Their 0-8 season has been filled with many close calls and heartbreaking losses. Going head-to-head with the Colts proved to be another stumble, with the Hawks ceding all matches in thirty short minutes.

“You win some, you lose some. Isn’t that how the saying goes?” said Eames, who refused to give his first name. This was his second match as a varsity wrestler, and he lost by technical fall, which is a point gap of fifteen. He hopes to perform better next Friday at the match against the Longhorns.

pyrimidine — Mon, 04 Oct 2010 08:19:51 GMT

I really wish I could use 'TOM HARDY HAPPENED' as an excuse for shoddy workmanship and failing life in general.

For this one, I have a feeling that they were like, YEAH, ARTSY BALCONY SHOT, MAN, GET THAT CLEANING FLUID AND ALL THOSE PAINTBRUSHES IN THERE. WHAT IS THAT, CANNED CORN? YEAH, GET THAT IN THE FRAME TOO. TOM, MAKE SURE YOU ADJUST YOUR TRUCKER HAT SO THAT THE SHADOW IS AT THE BEST ANGLE. SHIT YEAH.

PROMPT FILLS? DON'T MIND IF I DO

pyrimidine — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 22:06:48 GMT

I want to officially start a club for people who write stories about nothing/where nothing happens. WHO'S IN

Prompt: Arthur has to stitch together Eames's wound.

The first thing Arthur had done was to use his tie as a tourniquet around Eames’s elbow, slipping easy, cruel knots into the silk. As Eames had kicked the wall in response to the pain, the second thing Arthur had done was retrieve a handle of cheap vodka from a duffel and take a deep swig from it.

“I was hoping that was for me,” Eames had said, hand still clamped around the gash in his arm.

“It is,” Arthur had replied. He’d taken another swig before handing it to Eames. “Drink it,” he’d ordered, unnecessarily.

Eames is still in the process of obeying. Vodka has never been his drink of choice -- he associates the smell with blood and injury, something he’s had quite enough of at this point -- but he finds he doesn’t mind so much now, sitting safe in a hotel room and three-quarters of the way into the bottle. Meanwhile, Arthur is standing by the dresser, tinkering around with something or other.

“Arthur,” Eames says too loudly. Blood is getting all over the sheets. “Arthur, I’m bleeding.”

Arthur finally drags a chair over and sits down, tossing some kind of rolled-up tool pouch onto the bed. The sweater is off and his sleeves are rucked up past his elbows. A single shirt-tail is hanging out of his pants, which delights Eames to no end.

“I’m bleeding,” Eames says again with a grin.

“I see that,” Arthur says, and for him, this is almost indulgent. “Did you drink enough?”

Eames slurs, “I’m getting there.” It might be an understatement. The only way he’ll be more out of it is if Arthur hits him over the head with the bottle.

“I don’t need to tell you to hold still, correct?” Arthur asks. “I could just knock you out.”

“That sounds lovely, although, and forgive me for being so blunt, how do I know you wouldn’t knock me out and just leave it at that?”

“It’s a possibility,” Arthur concedes. “But leaving you to bleed to death would be taking the cheap way out.”

“And you’re anything but,” Eames finishes.

He stares openly at Arthur, who pretends not to notice as he plucks the almost empty bottle from Eames’s grip.

“Just hold still, Eames,” is all Arthur says.

He proceeds to pour the leftover contents onto Eames’s forearm, flooding the wound with 90 proof. No warning, no nothing. Eames really shouldn’t be surprised, but still -- he barks out a string of curses, feels pain throughout every inch of him as if he’s been lit aflame and fire is consuming him from the inside out.

Then the pain ramps down and fades to a dull throb, just as quickly as it had come. When Eames opens his eyes again, his forehead is clammy and Arthur is already finishing up the first stitch. There’s nothing to say, really. Eames just watches with watery eyes. Arthur looks at him and repeats, “Stay still.”

Eames coughs. “I’m not the one coming at you with a needle.”

“But you did come at me with a gun just a few minutes ago.”

Eames pats Arthur’s cheek, accidentally getting some blood on his jawline. “In a dream. And that was for your own safety, you humorless tit.”

Arthur actually smiles, but probably only because he’s so focused on the stitching that he forgets about keeping up the usual blank front. He pinches the skin with forceps, ties three knots, and snips the thread. Again. And again. Eames watches with fascination -- the easy punctures, the rhythmic clicks of the hemostats, the steadiness of Arthur’s hands.

When the wound is about halfway sewn, Eames says, “You’re quite competent.”

“Comes from practice.” Arthur glances up at him. “I was a SARC.”

“A SARC,” Eames repeats. The word feels funny in his mouth. He makes a tiny noise and shifts a little, completely forgetting about the situation at hand until Arthur lays a palm on his good arm and says, “Eames.” His voice is sharp.

“Sorry, sorry,” Eames mumbles.

“You’re going to have a nasty scar,” Arthur says quietly.

More of the vodka is washing in to Eames’s system. He keeps blanking out and coming to again, and each time he’s startled at the sight of Arthur leaning in so close, putting him back together through a single row of neat, black stitches, spiky like caltrops in Eames's skin.

“I don’t feel normal,” Eames manages to say.

“I slipped you a sedative,” Arthur says, candid and unashamed.

Eames just nods. “Ah,” is all he says. It explains the heaviness of his body, but not the way his breath is hitching like it is. Not that strange feeling in his throat.

It seems like an eternity before Arthur is moving away, packing the tools back into the pouch and applying some kind of gel onto the wound with his bare fingers. He tapes a patch of gauze on as well.

“This is lidocaine. It should numb it a little. Keep it clean, don’t get the gauze wet. Take a few aspirin later and I’ll change the dressings tomorrow,” Arthur explains. He wipes his fingers clean with a towel, leaving behind pinkish streaks. “You’re all right?”

Eames hums. He feels himself nodding off. “Took the cheap way out after all,” he declares.

“Good night, Eames,” Arthur says after a pause.

The mattress rebounds a bit when he rises. Eames can hear the bathroom light click on, and then the faucet starts running -- cleaning the tools, Eames thinks groggily. Just before he falls asleep, he realizes that Arthur will stay there while Eames sleeps, and he’ll be there when he wakes up.

He’s sure of it, in fact.

Prompt: High School AU. Eames is on the wrestling team, Arthur is on the school paper and is forced to cover one of the matches.

Eames’s tattoos are horrid. That doesn’t stop anyone sitting in the bleachers from openly staring at them.

“He probably got them done illegally,” says Arthur. When he gets no response, he adds, “And chose the design while blindfolded.”

“He probably did get them done illegally,” Ariadne finally agrees, but in an entirely different tone.

Arthur glances around. Ariadne is watching with her mouth slightly open, as is Cobb, but he’s occasionally tearing his eyes away to scrutinize his own body. Mal is watching Cobb with a slight smile. She pokes him on the thigh and says, “The muscular type? You like it, really?”

“I don’t like it, really. I just think it’s admirable.”

Ariadne snorts. Arthur says, “Maybe he’s actually twenty-six, masquerading as a high school student because he couldn’t make it in real life.”

“You spin such wonderful stories, Arthur,” Ariadne says. Now she has her elbow on her knee, chin propped up on her hand, and a glazed look in her eyes.

Cobb is still watching as well, one hand wrapped around his opposite arm. In all honesty, Arthur thinks he knows how Cobb feels; despite having grown almost half a foot since freshman year, Arthur is still thin, can still fit into clothes he wore in middle school. Compared to these sweaty, grunting wrestlers -- well, the expression on Cobb’s face says it all.

At least Cobb plays soccer. Arthur collects Lomography cameras and mostly sits in his room.

A movement out in the center of the gym catches Arthur’s eye -- it’s Yusuf, waving as he rips off his headgear and jogs over to the bleachers. Arthur isn’t sure that what Yusuf does counts as wrestling, per se; it might actually be a strange combination of wrestling, judo, street-fighting, and what looks like reflexes borne from years of getting tackled by his brothers out of nowhere.

“Hey,” Yusuf pants when he comes to stop in front of them. “So, you’re good, right? You’re going to write the story?”

“I’m just covering the match,” Arthur says. “But yeah, I’ll probably come around and ask you guys for some quotes, if that’s okay.”

“Sure, sure. Let me know if you have any questions.” Yusuf flashes a grin before heading into the locker rooms.

“Okay.” Mal stands up and slings her messenger bag over her shoulder. “As much as I hate to leave this beautiful view, I have to get to the library before it closes.”

Cobb stands up as well, and then it’s kind of weird to just have the two of them remaining, so all of them file out of the bleachers and head out. As they walk, Ariadne rubs Arthur’s shoulder, then loops her arm through his.

“Good luck on the article. If you have to keep sitting in on practices, you’ll probably smell like ball sweat by the end of the week,” she says brightly, her hair immediately whipping into Arthur’s face as soon as they step outside.

What Arthur doesn’t mention is that he doesn’t have to sit in on the practices. He’s just supposed to cover the match. It’ll be a blurb on a sidebar, if anything. But he figures that watching the practices will provide him with journalistic integrity or whatever.

Journalistic integrity. Definitely.

pyrimidine — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 10:07:24 GMT

SPAM WILL STOP NOW, I PROMISE.

Pagina Uno
Prompt: Arthur is a librarian, Eames is the patron with the highest fines in the library's history.
~6k

WARNINGS: THERE ARE SEVERAL. First off, I have read about 8-12 books in my entire life. Secondly, I haven't stepped foot in a library in about...a decade. I have no idea what a librarian actually does. This will probably bother some of you and I'm sorry D: Thanks to jibrailis for answering some questions of mine, such as "WHAT IS BOOK" and generally trying straighten my herpy-derp ways.

Arthur likes libraries.

Some people who don’t know him in the slightest say this is clichéd and predictable. These are people who depend on dumb assumptions when constructing a personality for someone -- they see Arthur and his penchant for dressing nicely, Arthur who likes libraries, and assume they know everything about him. He mostly keeps to himself, so he must be into books. Sometimes he doesn’t talk much, which translates to him being an introvert whose personal motto is ‘if you don’t have anything nice to say...’, etc. He doesn’t give away laughs, so he’s serious and must really be into books.

Arthur likes libraries; this much is true. He also likes shooting ranges and driving manual-shift cars. One of his many goals is to visit every taco truck in the tri-county area. When he’s trying to help a patron who’s being difficult, he wants to punch them while insulting their mom. After work, he exercises the best he can, sometimes taking a run around the neighborhood or joining Yusuf at the gym. He hates a lot of books. His life isn’t brimming with joy all the time, but it’s not some pitiful sketch that others have come to expect, either.

Arthur likes libraries. He lives, quietly.

*

It’s a Monday when it all starts. Arthur knows because his coffee is already gone and it’s not even ten in the morning. This only happens on Mondays.

“Hello,” he greets the girl hovering between the public search computer and the information desk. “Can I help you with anything?”

She slides over to him. “Yeah, I’m looking for The Corrections? It says it’s checked out and I was wondering how long it would be until it’s back.”

“I’m sorry about that, let me just take a look,” Arthur says, trying not to sound rehearsed. He utters this phrase so many times a day that sometimes he wants to record it and play it as a soundbite whenever needed.

He pulls up the database and types in the book title. Only one copy available, paperback, checked out by E. Ames, overdue for --

Arthur can’t help the, “Jesus,” that slips out.

“What?” the girl asks.

“It’s -- well, we do carry it, but it’s very overdue,” Arthur hedges.

She makes a face. “Is there anything you can do?”

Arthur smiles wanly. “We’ll send a reminder postcard soon.”

As soon as she leaves, he prints out the generic postcard about a book being overdue, then figures that this E. Ames must have gotten tons of them already. He changes his mind and just handwrites a note instead.

To E. Ames -

I am a librarian at Newtown Public. It seems you owe a fine of over $50 for The Corrections. The fine is secondary to the fact that there’s been an empty spot in our ‘Fiction’ section for almost half a year now. Since our automated postcards apparently aren’t spurring the book’s return, I am writing you personally. Please return the book as soon as possible. It would be greatly appreciated.

- A.

Yusuf is around, popping in and out of the back office, so Arthur grabs a cart and takes the elevator up to the third floor to walk around for a bit. The bulk of it is nonfiction, history, and travel; it’s always less crowded than the other two floors, with the scent of worn spines and sunlight coming through the windows, highlighting tiny specks of dust. When Arthur exits the elevator, the sandy-haired guy that Arthur’s been pretending not to eye for months passes by, hefting several large books in his arms. He gives Arthur a small smile, as per their ritual, and Arthur smiles back with closed lips, also keeping to the ritual.

One of the many perks of his job is people-watching, or seeing who comes up to the counter and asks for what. A bubbly girl checking out the entirety of Murakami books, the teenage boy looking for Agatha Christie recommendations, a man in a biker jacket wanting Sylvia Plath. Sandy-haired guy has been reading various books on Turkish history for months now.

Returning books to their shelves is a mindless process, and that’s the excuse that Arthur uses to justify the way his thoughts tend to wander toward imaginary conversations with sandy-haired guy. Maybe Arthur would pass by with his cart and peer at him until he looked up and said something. Or maybe he would get up and ask what kind of books Arthur was re-shelving.

In reality, Arthur just shelves books and sandy-haired guy just keeps reading. It’s easier that way.

*

The first thing Arthur does when he gets in on Wednesday morning is check the system to see if this asshole E. Ames has returned the book. To his surprise and slight disappointment, The Corrections is now shown to be on the checkshelf. He’s surprised because, really? All it took was a handwritten letter? The disappointment is just because he has no grounds to blindly hate this person anymore.

He rolls out two carts of books and starts in the fiction section, putting them back almost by memory. Before long, he’s settled into the rhythm, gauging his pace by the crinkle of plastic sleeves, the thunk-hiss of books sliding back into place. Most of them are hardbacks, so when his hand grips around a paperback, he instinctively glances at it. It’s The Corrections. Just then, a piece of paper flutters out from behind the front cover and lands on the floor, half-leaning up against his shoe.

Arthur automatically picks it up. Three of the edges are straight but the last one is torn at an angle; there’s writing that follows along the line of the ripped edge.

Dear Librarian A. --

Many apologies. I could say that it slipped my mind to return said book, but I’d be lying. In all honesty, I was simply too lazy to find it. It seems I needed a kick, which you’ve given me. Hope the book finds its way home once again -- it’s been safe and sound and only vaguely stained with coffee.

- Eames

Arthur quickly closes the book and shoves the note into his pocket, as if he can erase its existence if he just moves fast enough. Who the hell puts notes in a book? He flashes back to middle school, when he would watch girls write notes and furtively tape them to the underside of their desk for friends to find during the next class period. He doubts that this E. Ames is a middle school girl, though.

When Arthur finishes, there’s about twenty minutes left before a fourth grade class is due to come in for a research field trip. He stands around the information desk, twiddling his lanyard as Yusuf sits at his computer, clicking madly with the mouse.

“What’s the biggest fine you’ve ever seen someone rack up?” Arthur asks abruptly.

“Biggest fine? There’s actually someone who’s got several horses in that race right now,” Yusuf says.

“What?”

Yusuf looks at him over the monitor. “Really? I know you’re usually holed away while doing your job or whatever it is that you do, but really?”

Arthur puts his hands in his pockets and waits as Yusuf looks back down and types something into the computer.

“Here,” he says, shifting the screen a bit as Arthur comes around. “E. Ames. They’ve been checking out books without returning any for months.”

With this reveal, the blind hate comes rushing back in one convenient wave. “How have they not had a restriction placed on their account?” Arthur bites out.

“Well, they have, now. But by that time it was too late.” Yusuf points to the bottom of the page and reads, with flourish, “Forty-two books.”

“Forty-two books?” Arthur’s voice actually inflects the question as such -- above and beyond, actually -- which almost never happens. “Forty-two books, all overdue?”

“Yes, almost all of them. It’s actually pretty impressive.” Yusuf pulls up his Solitaire window again and starts clicking around. His method of playing seems to involve making the least strategic moves possible.

Arthur is still reeling from the number when a crowd of kids bursts through the door, yelling and shaking their backpacks and being followed by chaperones with pinched expressions. He puts his hands into his pockets, then decides against that action when he accidentally touches the crumbled note.

“Hi, everyone,” he calls. At least he’ll have a distraction for a while.

*

Three hours later, the kids have departed in a whirlwind, leaving Arthur with disheveled hair, several crayon streaks running down his shirt, and a paranoid mindset. Half a pot of coffee has only served to make him jittery. He’s been jogging his leg up and down while staring at the computer screen for about ten minutes.

As it turns out, E. Ames’s account information at Newtown is pretty much a joke -- born in 1899, living at Privet Drive, phone number starting with a 555 -- but Arthur had cross-referenced the name with other libraries and an E. Ames had come up at the Redford branch. The information looks legitimate this time, with a street address that sounds vaguely familiar and a phone number that Arthur finally punches into the dial-pad.

After four rings, someone on the other end picks up and grunts.

“Hello, may I speak to Mr. or Mrs. Ames?” Arthur asks brusquely.

“Yes?” A man’s voice, with a soft accent. “Who is this?”

“Mr. Ames,” Arthur begins, but is interrupted almost as soon as he speaks.

“It’s Eames.”

“But it says E. Ames on your account -- I’m Arthur, a librarian at Newtown -- ”

“Ah,” Eames says after clearing his throat. He sounds like he just woke up. “Alright. Hello, Arthur. One of the librarians said I couldn’t leave a blank space for my first name and I was cowed by such authority, embarrassingly enough.”

Arthur rubs his eye. “Why couldn’t you just write your first name.”

“America has an enormous problem with identity theft,” Eames says breezily. “I couldn’t take the risk. Listen, have you read this book? The Sound and The Fury? Faulkner seems like one solemn bastard.”

Eames’s manner of speaking reeks of annoying charm, of someone who’s spent their entire life not encountering any difficulty with winning people over or bending things to their will. He could probably drop in by parachute on any conversation in the world and manage to insinuate himself within thirty seconds. Meanwhile, Arthur has discovered yet another crayon scrawl, this time on his pants, and half of his handouts had ended up as crappy origami strewn all over the floor.

“Mr. Eames. I’m not your English teacher. I’m not a sounding board for your pedestrian thoughts and I’m not here to pat you on the back for having a first grader’s analysis on Faulkner’s style. I’m calling because you apparently have over forty overdue books on your account here,” Arthur bites out.

There’s a pause.

“Quite an impressive eyebrow and mustache combination, though,” says Eames, as if he’s having an entirely different conversation. “Faulkner, I mean.”

Now it’s Arthur’s turn to offer only silence.

“Also, you’re a bit abrasive to be working in customer service,” Eames adds, though nothing about it sounds angry or confrontational. In fact, it’s easy to imagine the words being pushed out through a smile.

“You’re right, I apologize,” Arthur says stiffly. “I was out of line. Please know that my actions in no part reflect those of the library or other employees -- ”

Eames interrupts. “Oh, not the robotic spiel. You rang me at home, I thought we knew each other better than that by now.”

“Do you make a habit of trying to befriend debt collectors?” Arthur asks dryly.

Eames laughs. “That’s a bit overdramatic and self-important. But listen, about the books: I’m a horrible person, I’m taking away from the well-read potential of the city’s population. I really should start thinking of the children,” he says. “Good lord, yes, the children. Won’t someone think of them.”

“It would be more effective if you toned it down a notch or two,” Arthur says. “I assume you’re not considering this a very pressing matter.”

“Well, there are four other libraries in the county. Newtown is the smallest branch,” says Eames. “No matter, ignore me. Of course I’m being a complete ass. Please accept my apology. Arthur,” he adds with a slightly exaggerated drag on the vowels.

Arthur says, “Your accent doesn’t excuse you.”

“Indeed it doesn’t, but it does make my excuses easier to swallow,” Eames points out astutely. “So, your books. It’ll take me a bit to sort out where they’ve all gone. Not to worry, though, I fully intend on paying any and all fines. Thank you for your call.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Arthur says a bit lamely.

“Have a good day, now,” Eames prompts.

Arthur had started this conversation in the driver’s seat. He wonders how and when Eames managed to take over the wheel. “Yes, you too,” he says.

They hang up. Arthur clutches the phone and stares at it. It’s an innocuous piece of plastic, but he feels like hitting it against the desk. At the same time, the note is practically burning a hole through his pocket and he kind of feels like his ear has been molested by Eames’s voice.

Before he leaves, he swings his messenger bag over his head and throws out the note.

*

The book truck is about halfway full, and sitting right in the middle is a whole bundle, tied up with what looks like butcher’s string. A note is tucked behind the front cover of the topmost book.

Dear Librarian Arthur --

I’m asking forgiveness once again. This bundle is for the children (WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THEM, GOOD GOD).

- Eames

Postscript: have you read The Westing Game? Brilliant book.

Arthur reminds himself over and over that calling a patron a gigantic rat bastard is out of line. As he rifles through the stack, he finds that it contains The Westing Game, Danny: The Champion of The World, The Phantom Tollbooth, and The Ear, The Eye, and The Arm, among others. Maybe Eames has a kid or something. Working in a library has its deeply personal moments, when bits and pieces of lives are revealed in passing, and Arthur finds himself wondering about Eames.

Objectively, he has no real reason to be angry. Annoyed, sure, if only because the sheer audacity, but no one is on the waitlist for those books and the fines that Eames is racking up could go toward paying Yusuf to do more reading sessions of children’s fiction, or maybe even asking some guest speakers to come in. Newtown’s always been off the radar, scraping by on whatever they can get. From that viewpoint, Eames is a potential goldmine.

Nobody’s waiting to check out The Westing Game, so Arthur ends up taking it home with him that night and shakily reads the whole thing while jogging on his treadmill.

*

A few days later, Arthur scratches out another postcard:

Someone signed up for the waitlist to check out The Secret, god knows why. Please return it. Also, this is the last time I’m acting as your personal reminder system. You have 32 books left in your possession and a couple hundred dollars in fines. Maybe you should start digging underneath the couch cushions.

- Arthur

Once again, there’s a prompt reply:

Dear Librarian Arthur --

It’s not that bad, for a self-help book. I found my self being helped many times over. Also, is that some personality leaking through? I think I like it.

- Eames

*

Arthur heads up to the third floor, rolling the cart out of the elevator and seeing sandy-haired guy immediately. They smile at each other before Arthur turns into the fourth aisle and starts putting books back.

He’s almost done with the top layer when something cuts into his periphery. It takes a moment to recognize the New Age-y cover of The Secret, and another to take in the smooth-nailed thumb that’s gripping the bottom of the book. The thumb is attached to a hand, which is attached to a solid forearm; when Arthur looks all the way up, sandy-haired guy is looking back at him.

“What,” Arthur say dumbly, not quite getting it.

“Considering the gross amount of fines I have to my name, it’s probably time I finally introduced myself,” sandy-haired guy says with a very familiar voice, one that practically licks its way into Arthur’s ear canals, leaving a slight blush in its wake.

Arthur’s heart leaps into his throat, then hovers there uncertainly while he processes all the pieces. Once he finally puts it together, it stomps back down to his chest and grumpily resumes beating.

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur finally states, turning so that he’s wholly facing him.

Eames grins, showing crooked white teeth and laugh lines on his cheeks. “It couldn’t have been anyone else, could it?”

He’s right. It really couldn’t have.

*

Eames-as-a-person is very disconcerting. It’s as if he’s materialized, fully-formed, from the phone call and the letters. There’s still a disconnect between this guy with the massive fines, the one who is essentially obnoxiousness wearing a human suit, and the quiet patron who always sits on the third floor, flipping through pages with a toothpick sticking out of his mouth and only looking up when Arthur walks by with his cart.

Now that all those characteristics have forged into one Mr. Eames, Arthur would like to think that it’s not quite as enthralling to see him sitting at the usual spot, slowly tracking words with his eyes at a steady pace. The way he absently shifts his toothpick around with his lips is not attractive anymore, it’s unsanitary and douchey. His threadbare t-shirts are just an embarrassment, nothing else. Forty books.

Honestly, Arthur is kind of pissed at Eames for ruining the sandy-haired guy. Sandy-haired guy had been on a pedestal; Eames had stumbled in, holding his forty goddamn books, and knocked the pedestal over with a spectacular crash.

Arthur realizes that his nose is tensing up because he’s glaring so hard. He starts putting books away, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.

“Sorry to interrupt your therapy, but that’s a bit loud.”

Arthur just says, “Forty books.”

“I’ll pay the fines,” Eames says.

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then, Arthur?”

“The point is that you’re here every day, reading about Turkish history, and you can’t find time to return the books that you’ve checked out decades ago.”

“I intend to return each and every one of them, they’re just a bit...scattered at the moment,” Eames says thoughtfully. “I am very fond of books, but I am horrible at keeping track of their whereabouts. For example, I’m fairly sure that a family of raccoons has made off with a copy of The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat.”

“You’re aware that you’re breaking practically every cardinal rule of the library code. I shouldn’t even be talking to you based on that.”

“There’s a library code,” Eames repeats with a smile.

Arthur’s only response is to grab the cart and move to the next aisle over. Eames comes around the other side and leans against a shelf. “Are you a proper librarian, then?”

“I have a degree in Library Science, yes.”

“Really? I’d’ve thought you were in construction,” Eames says without missing a beat, then tilts his head, as if recognizing Arthur’s urge to both laugh and hit Eames in the face.

Arthur lets the silence grow until he starts feeling uncomfortable. “Why are you reading about the history of Turkey, anyway?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Considering your current book list, it’s kind of an outlier.” This isn’t true at all. Eames’s booklist has possibly the widest range Arthur has ever seen; the history of Turkey could easily be slotted in between World Politics: The Menu For Choice and The Historian.

“So you think you know me based on my literary tastes now,” Eames states.

“I don’t think I know anything,” Arthur says. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. “What’s your first name?”

“I have just the one. Like Madonna.”

“Like Lucifer,” Arthur says darkly.

“How about Oprah,” Eames suggests.

There’s another urge to laugh, but Arthur tamps it down and rolls the cart away again instead. This time Eames doesn’t follow.

Good Times, Bad Times shows up in the pile of books the next morning. Arthur picks it up, holding it by the open edge and softly letting pages flip past his thumb until he gets to the note.

Dear Librarian Arthur --

I found this one in the pantry.

- Eames

Arthur puts it on the cart.

*

Books start coming in more regularly in varying numbers, but always with the unfailing note. One day, it’s this:

Dear Librarian Arthur --

The Ender’s Game series: is it worth reading?

A couple days later:

Dear Librarian Arthur --

Would you recommend Pedro Paramo or Cien Años de Soledad?

Or something like this:

Dear Librarian Arthur --

I suppose you won’t be the least bit surprised, but I have a confession to make: I think I prefer children’s books over these classics.

Every Friday, Arthur gathers up all the paper scraps and sends off answers in the form of a postcard with a numbered list on the back. Then there’s the fact that he still sees Eames several times a week, where Eames will come up to Arthur as he’s re-shelving, then amble back to his usual table until Arthur squeaks by with his cart to pick up the conversation where they’d left off.

The letters get to the point where it seems like there’s a small forest in the form of printer paper, Post-Its, and fortunes from fortune cookies stashed in Arthur’s bottom desk drawer. Finally, one day he takes out a blank postcard and starts writing.

1. My first name is Arthur, not Librarian.
2. I don’t know if you’ve progressed past the Pony Express or telegraphs, but there are easier means of communication. Or are you a technophobic luddite in addition to being a book hoarder?

“Honestly, what’s with the epistolary romance?” Yusuf asks, right into Arthur’s ear.

Arthur snaps upright, his pen trailing off in the middle of writing his e-mail address. He flits a glance at Yusuf and says, “It’s not an epistolary romance. It’s not an epistolary or romantic anything.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence like that,” Yusuf tells him. “But sure, I’ll let you wade around in denial for a bit longer. I hear it’s nice this time of year.”

And he actually keeps his word. That is, until the end of the week, when he sidles up to Arthur’s desk with a funny look and says, “By the way, you got a letter.”

The funny look turns out to be the muted version of a shit-eating grin. Yusuf hands Arthur the postcard and disappears into the office.

Dear Arthur --

It’s admirable that you put so much effort into veiling the fact that you essentially begged me to call you by your first name and e-mail. No worries, I got the message.

The first message from co0kinturkeyx@yahoo.com gets routed to Arthur’s junk mail on Outlook. He marks it ‘not junk’, but decides against adding him to his contact list. Because that’s the boundary now, apparently.

*

Arthur has just finished giving a tutorial on Google Scholar -- and the entire internet, for that matter -- to a group of blank-faced high schoolers when Yusuf catches up with him in the breakroom.

“Hey. Gym tonight? It’s been a while,” Yusuf asks. “I’m taking a spinning class, but there’s an open gym if you’d like.”

Yusuf had been taking a pilates class the previous month. Before that had been Bikram yoga and jazz dancing. His propensity for trying different things is admirable.

Arthur agrees to come with, as long as he doesn’t have to see Yusuf’s weird roommates, and they get to the gym around sundown. There are people milling around on the machines, but it’s nowhere near crowded.

When Arthur first spots Eames, he thinks he’s hallucinating, even though it’s perfectly logical that someone who lives in the area would also attend this particular gym. Even so, as stupid as it sounds, Arthur is thrown off-balance by seeing Eames outside of the library, lit by harsh fluorescent bulbs instead of the sun through the library’s windows. This Eames is breathing quick but steadily, tiny beads of sweat forming on his hairline and upper lip. His mouth is slack in concentration, something more fixated and intense than the soft focus he directs toward books.

Arthur watches for so long that he realizes Eames is walking towards him only when it’s too late. The echoing look of surprise on his face makes Arthur look at Yusuf, who suddenly finds interest in the ceiling.

“This was you?” Arthur asks.

“Gotta go, my spinning class is starting,” Yusuf says while walking backward. He disappears into one of the small rooms lining the west wall, where there will definitely be witnesses if Arthur follows him in and attempts to strangle him.

Meanwhile, Eames is still standing there. “Hello,” Arthur says, for lack of a better greeting, but Eames treats it like Arthur is knighting him or something.

“Yusuf is a prince among men, it seems.” Eames grins. “I assume he doesn’t partake in this library code you mentioned.”

“He’s a second year science grad student. Works over the summers,” Arthur explains. He fiddles with the kangaroo pockets of his hoodie, then gives Eames a onceover, taking in the tape wrapped around his hands and feet.

“Pugilism,” Arthur says with faint disdain.

Eames puffs his chest out. “A man’s sport.” He nods at Arthur and says, “Capoeira. Or taekwondo, I can’t tell. Something with a lot of kicking and legwork.”

It’s the former. He hasn’t done it in years but he still has the lean cuts of muscle on his thighs, still has the extension when he works out in his apartment. Eames has apparently taken Arthur’s silence as an affirmative, seeing as how he’s walking over to the wall and picking out some padded gloves. He hadn’t even asked Arthur to partner up, but Arthur follows him to the mats anyway.

Eames slips the gloves onto his hands and holds them up near his head. “Too high?”

Arthur responds by axe-kicking and hitting the glove on the way down, with his ankle instead of the top of his foot. There’s a resounding slap. Eames raises his eyebrows.

Time passes quickly from then on. Arthur thinks he hears Yusuf yell goodbye somewhere along the way, but he’s too busy avoiding getting his face crushed by the bottom of Eames’s foot, so he’s not really sure. They end up staying until half the lights flick off in a courteous way of letting everyone know it’s almost closing time. By that point, both of their shirts are soaked through with sweat. They’re a good match, fighting-wise -- Eames is considerably bulkier but Arthur is faster. He feels rabbit-quick, adrenaline hopping him up onto his toes more often than not, Eames’s challenging smile sparking a reluctant one onto Arthur’s own face.

The next morning, Arthur wakes up feeling like someone’s taken a battering ram to his legs and back all night. Even his feet feel cramped. He brushes his teeth and rhythmically splays out his toes against the cold tiles, wincing every time he does so.

When he gets to work, Yusuf, looking fresh-faced and awake, asks, “Why are you walking like a drugged horse?”

“I have bruises all over my knees,” Arthur sighs.

“What have you been doing,” Yusuf asks suggestively, then adds, “Wait, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, have you been giving a lot of blowjobs lately?”

“I’m never going anywhere with you or doing anything for you again,” Arthur tells him, but ten minutes later he gets him coffee anyway.

When he looks through the book truck, there are eight books in the bundle. The note is just a squiggle, then: Can’t write, arm hurts.

Arthur waits until the end of the day before putting the books back onto their shelves, one by one.

*

“Twilight,” Eames announces grandly.

Arthur tucks his phone between his cheek and his shoulder. He glances at the wall clock and says, “It’s ten past noon.”

“Eclipse,” Eames continues.

“Are we playing a word association game?”

“By Stephanie Meyer,” Eames says.

“Alright,” Arthur says, putting his pen down, “I know there’s a waitlist for this one.”

“It’s not even overdue, I’ve got until tomorrow.”

“Are you serious.”

“God, this is horrible. It’s amazing. Listen to this.” Eames starts reading out loud, running the dialogue together and generally being a terrible narrator. Arthur hears snatches about declarations of love and something involving sweet blood and marble slab chests.

“Wait,” Arthur interrupts, “chest as in a trunk or storage unit, or chest as in body part?”

“That was three paragraphs ago, Arthur, please try to pay attention.”

“Okay, okay,” Arthur grumps.

And then he realizes that he’s listening raptly to Eames reading him Twilight over the phone at work. There’s a book in one hand, his other hand hovering over the keyboard, but he’s long since forgotten what he was supposed to do with either of these things.

“I find that I’m sufficiently cheered up,” Eames announces, snapping Arthur out of his thoughts. “I’ll be returning the book tomorrow, you won’t have to worry about bloodthirsty Twilight fans mauling you.”

“Right, I appreciate that,” Arthur says absently. “Goodbye.”

True to Eames’s word, the book is returned the next day. And, that’s that, actually -- Arthur pulls up Eames’s account and sees only empty space where there had once been a list of forty books.

It’s a bit anticlimactic.

On a whim, Arthur walks up the stairs to the third floor and sees only a group of high school students working on a project and one older man flipping through a magazine about Tahiti. The whole thing just feels strange, knowing that he no longer has any justifiable reason to keep up this kind of communication with Eames.

Nothing has changed, really, but then again, everything has changed.

He wishes sandy-haired guy had remained sandy-haired guy, and E. Ames had remained E. Ames -- he wishes that Eames wasn’t someone who charmed, infuriated, irritated, and amused him, all at once. He wishes that Eames wasn’t someone he keeps thinking about so much.

*

When Arthur gets back downstairs, Yusuf is getting prepared for his reading session. He raises his eyebrows and asks, “Something wrong?”

“Nope.” Arthur shakes his head.

Yusuf doesn’t speak for a moment. “I feel like I should have been cataloguing this as a chronological timeline,” he comments as he removes his jacket and drapes it over his chair.

Arthur rubs the back of his neck. “Don’t.”

“It’s just massively frustrating to watch, I’ll have you know,” Yusuf says, and he sounds very serious even as he’s pulling the brand-new sock puppets onto his hands, a product of Eames’s fines.

“Doesn’t make it any less daunting,” Arthur says. He picks up the stack of thick, cardboard-paged books and leads the way into the children’s section, where there’s already a crowd of moms and kids waiting.

*

After Yusuf’s massively successful story time, Arthur, against his better judgement, sends an e-mail:

Learned enough about Turkish history yet?

The reply comes about an hour later, as Arthur is getting ready to leave.

Just enough, actually.

It’s the most vague answer that Arthur has ever gotten. He stands there for a while, then logs off the computer and heads home.

*

Now that Eames has squared away his fines and everything, Arthur is prepared to see him sporadically, if at all. Which is why it’s a surprise to see him the very next day, hanging around the information desk and browsing through pamphlets as if he’s genuinely interested in MLA format.

“You’re officially free from the shackles of debt, you know,” Arthur says. Eames turns around immediately and it hits Arthur all over again, how Eames is -- Eames.

“Hello,” Eames says.

“Hi,” says Arthur.

Eames taps out some arrhythmic pattern onto the countertop before abruptly shoving his hands into his pockets. “Alright, I’m just going to say it out loud. Essentially I’ve been courting you for the past few months.”

“Okay,” Arthur says after a pause.

“If I asked you out on properly, what would you say?” Eames shakes his head. “Or it doesn’t even have to be that. We can say that I just want to make sure you’re a corporeal human being, not a ghost who’s tied to the library and disappears once we step outside.”

Arthur’s fingers feel slippery against the book he’s holding. “You saw me at the gym,” he says.

“True. But trying to headbutt someone hardly counts.” Eames smiles lopsidedly. “What would you consider to be a good first date activity?”

“Naked skydiving,” Arthur says, deadpan as usual, and he expects Eames to one-up him, also as usual.

But instead Eames just leans against the counter and looks at him, not serious, not teasing, not anything. Just looking.

Arthur stares at him steadily as well, even though his heart is pounding in a way that reminds him that he should be nervous. This seems all wrong: Eames standing in the atrium with his threadbare shirt, looking at Arthur like that. Still -- it’s happening.

“I did some digging,” Arthur finally says, and his voice is steady.

“Did you,” Eames says.

“The Redford branch is much closer to you. Your card there is still active. Coming here actually must be really inconvenient.”

Eames shrugs. “It’s cozy here. And I really am interested in Turkish history, and this branch has the most extensive choices.”

Arthur hums.

“Or maybe I was setting extensive groundwork for wooing a particular librarian. I think I just ended up making things much more complicated than needed.”

Arthur hums again, but he’s smiling this time.

“Since apparently you’ve been swooning over me, looking me up on the system and all,” Eames presses. “Having vapors amongst dusty old history books. It’s a fetish, isn’t it?”

“You can’t pull that off anymore,” Arthur tells him. “I see right through you now.”

Eames relents, leaning in a little and smiling when Arthur reciprocates. “To be honest, Arthur, I’m surprised it took you this long.”