the contest: part 3, when eyebrows meet
Title, The Contest: Part 3, When Eyebrows Meet
Author, beanarie
Team, Rrrrromance
Prompt, Naked
Wordcount, ~600
Rating, R for language
Warning, College boys are jerks with filthy mouths. And I am a very slow writer. And I don't mean "naked" in the usual sense.
Summary, Eames enters a drinking game to defend Arthur's honor. College AU.
Part One - The Slap Of The Glove
Part Two - Four Clicks
The pizza arrived between shots eleven and twelve, at which point Khan leapt for the door, Bickford leapt for the bathroom, and Thomerson leapt for the television to check the basketball score.
Happy social commentator Eames was no more. His stubbled chin rested on the table, making him look from some angles like a glum, disembodied head.
"What's," Arthur asked. "What's up? What's... wrong? Eh, guy?" He frowned so hard his eyebrows met in the middle. Those had not been his words, all juvenile and monosyllabic and needlessly repetitive. It was like someone was using him as a ventriloquist dummy.
The oblong bowling ball that was Eames’s head went askew as he tilted it for a better view of Arthur. "You still here?"
"Well, you know. Duh." Duh? Arthur's stomach roiled with consternation. That was it; his drinking was done for tonight. "The hell, man?"
Eames enlisted the help of his arms to prop his head up on the table. "I don't even know, to be honest. One of those... stages of drunkenness, I guess. Mm. Melancholy, yeah?"
"Eames, that's like, the opposite of honest. What the fuck." The thought occurred to him that he had shown very little appreciation for Eames's efforts thus far. "You know. You been. You been my good champion. Um. Thank you." He considered adding a comment against Bickford's parentage, but his train of thought got lost before it reached the station.
The smile that broke out on Eames's face was like sunshine. "You're so pissed. Christ, Arthur without his words."
"Yeah." Arthur grinned. "Where'd they go? Fuckheads. Buggering flighty assfaces."
"I like your words."
"Huh?" The phantom ventriloquist had to be using Eames now. There was no other explanation for it.
"I like-"
Arthur meant to lean over just slightly, but his head had gained about fifty pounds. His lips nearly brushed against Eames’s elbow and Eames sort of sighed.
"I wish," Eames said, and Arthur pulled his lips inside his mouth to prevent saying something that might keep the sentence from being finished. "I wish I could get the smell of your aftershave out of my nose." He should have sounded peevish, like Arthur, you're rank. Easy on the Old Spice from now on. Instead it came out like something else entirely. Something strange and wistful. Longing.
"Eames," Arthur whispered.
Suddenly two large, flat cardboard boxes dropped from the sky, making both boys jump. "Dinner, asshats," Khan said. "We'll deal with which of you owe me money tomorrow when I'll be cranky and hungover and less likely to let you off the hook in exchange for the phone number of the redhead from the swim team."
Eames spread his hands. "She gave me the wrong digits, Adjai. Not my fault."
It was as if nothing had just happened. Arthur reminded himself that, really, nothing had.
"What ho, Cedric!" shouted Bickford. As he entered the kitchen, he wiped his hands on the front of his jeans because there were no towels in Khan's bathroom. "Let’s get this going again."
Eames rolled his eyes. "A man named after letters of the alphabet is having a go at me."
Bickford made his way back to his chair, his elbow hitting Arthur with a glancing blow as he sat. "Dude. Put your alcohol where your fucking mouth is. Lit-ter-ra-lly."
Barely registering Bickford’s violation of his personal space, Arthur felt his eyebrows touch again. He had no idea what was going on. And a part of him, a very vocal part of him, said it wasn't only the fault of whatever Thomerson had been slipping into his cup all night.
Author, beanarie
Team, Rrrrromance
Prompt, Naked
Wordcount, ~600
Rating, R for language
Warning, College boys are jerks with filthy mouths. And I am a very slow writer. And I don't mean "naked" in the usual sense.
Summary, Eames enters a drinking game to defend Arthur's honor. College AU.
Part One - The Slap Of The Glove
Part Two - Four Clicks
The pizza arrived between shots eleven and twelve, at which point Khan leapt for the door, Bickford leapt for the bathroom, and Thomerson leapt for the television to check the basketball score.
Happy social commentator Eames was no more. His stubbled chin rested on the table, making him look from some angles like a glum, disembodied head.
"What's," Arthur asked. "What's up? What's... wrong? Eh, guy?" He frowned so hard his eyebrows met in the middle. Those had not been his words, all juvenile and monosyllabic and needlessly repetitive. It was like someone was using him as a ventriloquist dummy.
The oblong bowling ball that was Eames’s head went askew as he tilted it for a better view of Arthur. "You still here?"
"Well, you know. Duh." Duh? Arthur's stomach roiled with consternation. That was it; his drinking was done for tonight. "The hell, man?"
Eames enlisted the help of his arms to prop his head up on the table. "I don't even know, to be honest. One of those... stages of drunkenness, I guess. Mm. Melancholy, yeah?"
"Eames, that's like, the opposite of honest. What the fuck." The thought occurred to him that he had shown very little appreciation for Eames's efforts thus far. "You know. You been. You been my good champion. Um. Thank you." He considered adding a comment against Bickford's parentage, but his train of thought got lost before it reached the station.
The smile that broke out on Eames's face was like sunshine. "You're so pissed. Christ, Arthur without his words."
"Yeah." Arthur grinned. "Where'd they go? Fuckheads. Buggering flighty assfaces."
"I like your words."
"Huh?" The phantom ventriloquist had to be using Eames now. There was no other explanation for it.
"I like-"
Arthur meant to lean over just slightly, but his head had gained about fifty pounds. His lips nearly brushed against Eames’s elbow and Eames sort of sighed.
"I wish," Eames said, and Arthur pulled his lips inside his mouth to prevent saying something that might keep the sentence from being finished. "I wish I could get the smell of your aftershave out of my nose." He should have sounded peevish, like Arthur, you're rank. Easy on the Old Spice from now on. Instead it came out like something else entirely. Something strange and wistful. Longing.
"Eames," Arthur whispered.
Suddenly two large, flat cardboard boxes dropped from the sky, making both boys jump. "Dinner, asshats," Khan said. "We'll deal with which of you owe me money tomorrow when I'll be cranky and hungover and less likely to let you off the hook in exchange for the phone number of the redhead from the swim team."
Eames spread his hands. "She gave me the wrong digits, Adjai. Not my fault."
It was as if nothing had just happened. Arthur reminded himself that, really, nothing had.
"What ho, Cedric!" shouted Bickford. As he entered the kitchen, he wiped his hands on the front of his jeans because there were no towels in Khan's bathroom. "Let’s get this going again."
Eames rolled his eyes. "A man named after letters of the alphabet is having a go at me."
Bickford made his way back to his chair, his elbow hitting Arthur with a glancing blow as he sat. "Dude. Put your alcohol where your fucking mouth is. Lit-ter-ra-lly."
Barely registering Bickford’s violation of his personal space, Arthur felt his eyebrows touch again. He had no idea what was going on. And a part of him, a very vocal part of him, said it wasn't only the fault of whatever Thomerson had been slipping into his cup all night.