[Fic & Art] Flash
Title: Flash
Author: keelain, weatherfront
Team: Romance
Prompt: Silence
Word count: 1,344
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
"Excuse me," comes a voice from above them, "I was just wondering if-- if you might be who I think you are."
Eames tilts his head up, peers at her over the rim of his sunglasses. She must be a student, her arms crowded with books, her bag heavy where it bumps against the edge of their table. Arthur looks at him and purses his lips around the straw in his ice tea; no, he means. Don't tease her. Eames lets his eyes flicker across the bright line of his mouth.
"It's nothing to write home about," says Eames, "but you're probably right. I'm Eames, pleased to meet you."
"Oh, I thought so!" she exclaims, and lights up as she takes his hand. "And you're Arthur, right?"
"That's my name, yes," says Arthur, shaking her hand in turn. "Though I'm not famous like he is, you know, I'm just an assistant professor at the university--"
"In vocal performance," she says. "I'm sorry, I'm not stalking you or anything, please don't freak out. One of my friends is a student of yours, and I didn't want to be intrusive and try to meet you through her, but-- I guess I was lucky enough to run into you anyway. Wow, I'm a huge fan of yours, both of you. I can't believe-- I grew up on your music, your movies! This is pretty surreal, huh?"
"Well, I'm vastly less exciting now than I was twelve years ago," says Arthur. "Eames, though, he's still as big a star as ever."
"I was somewhat more overtly muscular back then," says Eames. "With a more overtly muscular paycheck."
"This is probably rude of me," she says, "but I think your mid-career genre switch to indie roles was the best professional decision you ever made. I mean, even when you were twenty, you had the potential talent for meatier parts than the rom-coms and action thrillers you were doing. Only nobody took you seriously because of the way you looked without a shirt on--"
"Some certain people still don't take me seriously because of the way I look without a shirt on," says Eames, pointedly, and Arthur rolls his eyes. "But it's not rude of you, don't worry, er--"
"Ariadne," she says. "I'm a first-year MA student in entertainment journalism, but I'm not secretly trying to pull a story from this or anything, I promise. I'm honestly just such a huge fan. Wait, my god -- ignore me if I'm getting too personal, but -- have you two been together since Under Your Hands?"
"Oh, god," laughs Arthur, turning his head away. A sudden flush creeps up the shell of his ear, translucent in the afternoon sun through the cafe windows, infinitely precious. "Do we have to talk about that video?"
"We've known each other for a while," says Eames, caught by that delicate stain of color. "That was when we met, I think."
"It's a great video," says Ariadne. "In terms of the amount of cultural impact it had, at the very least. I guess maybe in retrospect you guys might be embarrassed by it, but Jesus, I was twelve when you released it. I know from firsthand experience the kind of sheer havoc Under Your Hands wreaked on our perception of beauty, of attraction, of the boundaries that popular music could push--"
"Of how much leather one person could possibly wear," says Arthur.
"Of how no amount of leather," says Eames, "could stand between an overtly muscular man of twenty and a seventeen-year-old in heat."
"Eames," says Arthur, "come on."
"It did practically serve as rudimentary sex ed for a whole generation of teenagers," says Ariadne, and slides a card out of her wallet. "Look, you can toss this as soon as I'm out the door, but just in case you're ever in need of my services-- I work part-time for Onstage and Onscreen, I do columns, interviews, reviews, anything, really. I attend movie premieres too, Eames."
"I'll keep that in mind," says Eames. "Hey, thanks for being discreet, by the way."
"The owner here is pretty strict about no one bothering her customers," says Arthur, "but not everyone who recognizes us is courteous enough to abide by her standards. We've seen her throw people out before, regrettably. Thank you."
"It's no problem, of course I wouldn't make a scene," she says as she leaves. "I really am a fan, you know."
Arthur turns her card over in his hands, absently, the hum of the background music drifting back to them in the silence. Eames pops an ice cube into his mouth and crunches down on it, a cool shatter of steam on his tongue.
"You didn't correct her," says Arthur, "when she asked about us."
"Neither did you," Eames points out, gently.
"Because she won't print it anywhere," says Arthur, "and I thought maybe it would make her happier to think of-- that version of events. One where we've been with each other for twelve years."
"Twelve years, twelve months," says Eames. "It's not much of a difference. In the grand scheme of things."
Arthur makes a noncommital sound, and stirs the shards of ice pooling at the bottom of his glass. Eames reaches over with his dessert spoon, fishing one out of the remnants of the tea, meeting Arthur's eyes over his sunglasses, a what'll-you-do. Arthur only smiles, distracted.
"Do you regret it?" Arthur asks, at last. "That we forgot about each other for eleven years? That you didn't-- that you didn't have me, the night we wrapped on that video?"
Eames swallows. He remembers Arthur at seventeen, on the set of their video together, under the hard glare of studio lights. The slender sapling body of Arthur at seventeen, tilting on the edge of adulthood. Dolled up in the leather and metal they poured him into, uncomfortable in his own skin, so dangerously beautiful.
The sound director cranking up the volume, the cameras rolling. With his pulse throbbing in time to the breakneck thrum of the bass, Eames grabbed Arthur by his shoulders, slammed him up against the wall. The hollow of Arthur's throat was slick with sweat, the heat of him scorching the palms of Eames's hands. He had his thigh between Arthur's, and without thinking, he pressed forward -- he couldn't hear the fucking music anymore, Arthur's lips falling open in a gasp just inches from his own, looking lost, looking for all the world like he was about to start apologizing -- and Eames thought, wild-eyed with want, Shit, if I'm not careful--
But here they are, twelve years later, with the sleeves of Arthur's cardigan rolled up to his elbows. The lights of the cafe and the sun outside quiet as someone else's song playing over the speakers. There's nothing of the sliver of pie left on the plate between them, only crumbs dotting the china. This isn't hurtling, thinks Eames. This is one foot in front of the other, slow, a decade to close the space between our lips. Reaching for it, asking for it, instead of stumbling onto it. This is knowing what you want.
"So maybe we didn't say a word to each other for eleven years," says Eames, "but I never forgot about you. Did you?"
Arthur startles and looks at him, beautiful still in cotton and wool. Better than ever.
"Did you?" asks Eames. "I don't think you did."
"Not for lack of trying," mutters Arthur. "I couldn't."
He probably means it to hurt, like the last valiant struggle of something pinned to the ground, a jab just to spite Eames for cornering him with the truth. But it's soft, that punch. I couldn't forget you. Eames leans across the table and kisses him, tangling his fingers in the yarn of his cardigan, and Arthur tastes like key lime, like pie crust, like peaches and sugar syrup.
Once I expected to find only fire in your mouth, that you would burn me if I got too close, thinks Eames. But that was a long time ago.
---
keelain: Ifrit said to use the prompt quiet but it wasn't there so I thought maybe this one would fit. I also stuck my drawing in randomly because she's not here and that means I procrastinated-- I mean, I'm the boss!
Author: keelain, weatherfront
Team: Romance
Prompt: Silence
Word count: 1,344
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
"Excuse me," comes a voice from above them, "I was just wondering if-- if you might be who I think you are."
Eames tilts his head up, peers at her over the rim of his sunglasses. She must be a student, her arms crowded with books, her bag heavy where it bumps against the edge of their table. Arthur looks at him and purses his lips around the straw in his ice tea; no, he means. Don't tease her. Eames lets his eyes flicker across the bright line of his mouth.
"It's nothing to write home about," says Eames, "but you're probably right. I'm Eames, pleased to meet you."
"Oh, I thought so!" she exclaims, and lights up as she takes his hand. "And you're Arthur, right?"
"That's my name, yes," says Arthur, shaking her hand in turn. "Though I'm not famous like he is, you know, I'm just an assistant professor at the university--"
"In vocal performance," she says. "I'm sorry, I'm not stalking you or anything, please don't freak out. One of my friends is a student of yours, and I didn't want to be intrusive and try to meet you through her, but-- I guess I was lucky enough to run into you anyway. Wow, I'm a huge fan of yours, both of you. I can't believe-- I grew up on your music, your movies! This is pretty surreal, huh?"
"Well, I'm vastly less exciting now than I was twelve years ago," says Arthur. "Eames, though, he's still as big a star as ever."
"I was somewhat more overtly muscular back then," says Eames. "With a more overtly muscular paycheck."
"This is probably rude of me," she says, "but I think your mid-career genre switch to indie roles was the best professional decision you ever made. I mean, even when you were twenty, you had the potential talent for meatier parts than the rom-coms and action thrillers you were doing. Only nobody took you seriously because of the way you looked without a shirt on--"
"Some certain people still don't take me seriously because of the way I look without a shirt on," says Eames, pointedly, and Arthur rolls his eyes. "But it's not rude of you, don't worry, er--"
"Ariadne," she says. "I'm a first-year MA student in entertainment journalism, but I'm not secretly trying to pull a story from this or anything, I promise. I'm honestly just such a huge fan. Wait, my god -- ignore me if I'm getting too personal, but -- have you two been together since Under Your Hands?"
"Oh, god," laughs Arthur, turning his head away. A sudden flush creeps up the shell of his ear, translucent in the afternoon sun through the cafe windows, infinitely precious. "Do we have to talk about that video?"
"We've known each other for a while," says Eames, caught by that delicate stain of color. "That was when we met, I think."
"It's a great video," says Ariadne. "In terms of the amount of cultural impact it had, at the very least. I guess maybe in retrospect you guys might be embarrassed by it, but Jesus, I was twelve when you released it. I know from firsthand experience the kind of sheer havoc Under Your Hands wreaked on our perception of beauty, of attraction, of the boundaries that popular music could push--"
"Of how much leather one person could possibly wear," says Arthur.
"Of how no amount of leather," says Eames, "could stand between an overtly muscular man of twenty and a seventeen-year-old in heat."
"Eames," says Arthur, "come on."
"It did practically serve as rudimentary sex ed for a whole generation of teenagers," says Ariadne, and slides a card out of her wallet. "Look, you can toss this as soon as I'm out the door, but just in case you're ever in need of my services-- I work part-time for Onstage and Onscreen, I do columns, interviews, reviews, anything, really. I attend movie premieres too, Eames."
"I'll keep that in mind," says Eames. "Hey, thanks for being discreet, by the way."
"The owner here is pretty strict about no one bothering her customers," says Arthur, "but not everyone who recognizes us is courteous enough to abide by her standards. We've seen her throw people out before, regrettably. Thank you."
"It's no problem, of course I wouldn't make a scene," she says as she leaves. "I really am a fan, you know."
Arthur turns her card over in his hands, absently, the hum of the background music drifting back to them in the silence. Eames pops an ice cube into his mouth and crunches down on it, a cool shatter of steam on his tongue.
"You didn't correct her," says Arthur, "when she asked about us."
"Neither did you," Eames points out, gently.
"Because she won't print it anywhere," says Arthur, "and I thought maybe it would make her happier to think of-- that version of events. One where we've been with each other for twelve years."
"Twelve years, twelve months," says Eames. "It's not much of a difference. In the grand scheme of things."
Arthur makes a noncommital sound, and stirs the shards of ice pooling at the bottom of his glass. Eames reaches over with his dessert spoon, fishing one out of the remnants of the tea, meeting Arthur's eyes over his sunglasses, a what'll-you-do. Arthur only smiles, distracted.
"Do you regret it?" Arthur asks, at last. "That we forgot about each other for eleven years? That you didn't-- that you didn't have me, the night we wrapped on that video?"
Eames swallows. He remembers Arthur at seventeen, on the set of their video together, under the hard glare of studio lights. The slender sapling body of Arthur at seventeen, tilting on the edge of adulthood. Dolled up in the leather and metal they poured him into, uncomfortable in his own skin, so dangerously beautiful.
The sound director cranking up the volume, the cameras rolling. With his pulse throbbing in time to the breakneck thrum of the bass, Eames grabbed Arthur by his shoulders, slammed him up against the wall. The hollow of Arthur's throat was slick with sweat, the heat of him scorching the palms of Eames's hands. He had his thigh between Arthur's, and without thinking, he pressed forward -- he couldn't hear the fucking music anymore, Arthur's lips falling open in a gasp just inches from his own, looking lost, looking for all the world like he was about to start apologizing -- and Eames thought, wild-eyed with want, Shit, if I'm not careful--
But here they are, twelve years later, with the sleeves of Arthur's cardigan rolled up to his elbows. The lights of the cafe and the sun outside quiet as someone else's song playing over the speakers. There's nothing of the sliver of pie left on the plate between them, only crumbs dotting the china. This isn't hurtling, thinks Eames. This is one foot in front of the other, slow, a decade to close the space between our lips. Reaching for it, asking for it, instead of stumbling onto it. This is knowing what you want.
"So maybe we didn't say a word to each other for eleven years," says Eames, "but I never forgot about you. Did you?"
Arthur startles and looks at him, beautiful still in cotton and wool. Better than ever.
"Did you?" asks Eames. "I don't think you did."
"Not for lack of trying," mutters Arthur. "I couldn't."
He probably means it to hurt, like the last valiant struggle of something pinned to the ground, a jab just to spite Eames for cornering him with the truth. But it's soft, that punch. I couldn't forget you. Eames leans across the table and kisses him, tangling his fingers in the yarn of his cardigan, and Arthur tastes like key lime, like pie crust, like peaches and sugar syrup.
Once I expected to find only fire in your mouth, that you would burn me if I got too close, thinks Eames. But that was a long time ago.
---
keelain: Ifrit said to use the prompt quiet but it wasn't there so I thought maybe this one would fit. I also stuck my drawing in randomly because she's not here and that means I procrastinated-- I mean, I'm the boss!