Fic: Until January - Chapter 1: September
Until January - Chapter 1: September
Word Count: 1,770
Master post of chapters here.
Chapter 1: September
The thing about it is, it’s just too easy.
Eames stares at the bulging pocket in the wool gabardine jacket, which is flung carelessly over the back of the sticky plastic booth. Then he looks up at Arthur, who is speaking rather animatedly into his Blackberry, with his back to Eames.
It’s practically beckoning to Eames, and it would-to be quite frank-be a slight to the honor of all two-bit thieves across the world if he were to resist its siren call.
The weight of the leather wallet is tucked into Eames’ pocket beneath the flap of his godawful powder blue uniform polo shirt before Arthur turns back around.
“Let me guess,” Eames says as soon as he catches sight of Arthur’s haggard expression. “They called you back in.”
“They gave me half an hour to catch a cab.” Arthur smiles faintly. “They don’t know I’m across the street already.”
“Yes, well, Cluck ‘n Go isn’t usually the first place people like you tend to stop to take a load off,” Eames says.
“People like me?” Arthur echoes as he slips the phone back into his jacket, not seeming to notice anything amiss.
“You know, people in fancy suits who make more money than god and never get more than two seconds away from their desks to spend it,” Eames replies, leaning back in the booth. “Also known as the tragic muckety-mucks.”
“You really have a way with words,” Arthur says, but he’s smiling as he smooths back his hair.
“Every bard has to start somewhere.” Eames watches carefully as Arthur straightens his tie and then his jacket.
“You know where your real talent lies,” Arthur says, and suddenly he’s serious again, no trace of his wry humor left. “And it isn’t with words, or washing dishes.”
Eames squirms uncomfortably under the weight of Arthur’s stare and looks away. “My break’s over. The aforementioned dishes aren’t going to wash themselves no matter how many times I wave my wand at them-and I’m not talking about a pointy wooden stick.”
The wryness is back. “Crude as always, Mr. Eames.”
“I strive to entertain,” Eames says, waiting until he reaches the Employees Only bathroom-which is only marginally less filthy than the Customers Only bathroom-to rifle through Arthur’s wallet.
But instead of the scads of cash Eames knows Arthur carries alongside his Platinum American Express Card and Diamond Visa, all that’s in the wallet is a neatly folded note that says: side door by the dumpster.
Eames blinks a few times before jamming the note in his pocket and slinking out of the bathroom. Yusuf rushes in immediately after without a word, and Eames makes his way through the kitchen to the side door.
Arthur’s waiting outside in the alleyway, looking completely out of place standing next to a rat-infested dumpster with his stupidly expensive suit.
“You ripped me off,” Eames says, tossing the empty wallet back at Arthur, who catches it easily. Shit, Eames thinks. How the fuck did he manage to miss those reflexes?
“I feel compelled to point out that you were the one helping yourself to a wallet that wasn’t yours,” Arthur replies, tucking the wallet away.
“I stole that wallet fair and square,” Eames says, to be difficult. “Do you regularly carry dummy wallets on your person to destroy the hopes and dreams of those with unusually curious fingertips?”
“Sometimes.” Arthur shrugs, seeming unrepentant. “A lot of people think I look like an easy mark. I like to prove them wrong.”
“Wow,” Eames says. “I must admit to being somewhat impressed by the thoroughness of your planning and paranoia.”
“Why did you come out here?” Arthur asks, changing the subject abruptly.
“To get my reward for being a Good Samaritan,” Eames says. “No? Well, it was worth a shot.”
“I’ll give you money once you’ve done something to actually earn it.”
"Here, really?" Eames raises his eyebrows. “Next to a giant bin that reeks of day old chicken grease and a homeless bloke who may or may not be dead? Not exactly one for ambiance, are you? But I suppose it’s always the repressed, quiet ones you have to watch out for.”
There’s a moment of blank confusion on Arthur’s face before he blinks, and seems to catch on to what Eames is talking about. “What? You think I-" Arthur shakes his head. “No, I don’t need to pay for sex. I meant art, Eames. The way you see the world.”
“You mean my sketches?” Eames searches for a punchline and comes up short. “Just doodles, mate. Nothing artistic about them at all.”
“You and I both know that isn’t true,” Arthur says, taking a step forward. “I’ve seen what you can do with pastels and paints and god knows what else when given half the chance.”
“None of that was-" Eames kicks a crumpled beer can into the side of the building and startles the man who was apparently sleeping-and not dead-on the ground nearby. “It was a lark for some spare change.”
“I would buy everything you make,” Arthur says, serious and intent in a way that makes Eames feel as though he’s being examined under a microscope. “Anything you’ve made already, I’ll buy.”
“So you want to be my art pimp?” Eames says. “To hire me on as your naked caricaturist?”
“You don’t think I’m being sincere.” Arthur frowns as if the idea actually troubles him. “You think this is all about sex.”
“Darling, it’s always about sex,” Eames drawls, watching a rat scurry out of the corner of the dumpster and into a dark corner of the alleyway. “There’s no need to be coy and hide behind art metaphors. We’re both grown men here.”
“Are we?” Arthur cocks his head. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.” Eames fishes a nearly empty pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and pulls one out; he was going to wait until the end of his shift to have one so he could save the rest for tomorrow, but all this talk of sex is making his fingers itch. “What about you?”
“Twenty-four,” Arthur replies. “I thought you’d be older.”
“Thanks, I guess.” Eames lights a cigarette and takes a deep, steadying inhale.
“No, it’s just-" Arthur pauses, like he doesn’t know how to word whatever he’s trying to say. “You don’t act like anyone I knew when I was twenty-two.”
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Arthur, but I suppose I’ll take it as a compliment.” Eames exhales, and feels better already.
“I do want to sleep with you,” Arthur says, changing conversational tracks so matter-of-factly that Eames coughs on his smoke. “But that is wholly separate from the potential I think you have as an artist. And I think that given the right materials, some time, and freedom from all the self-destructive habits you’re so fond of indulging in, you could really make something of yourself.”
“Like being a prostitute to a condescending white knight,” Eames says once he finishes coughing.
“Like someone who’s doing what he’s meant to be doing instead of wasting his life away in the back of a fast food restaurant,” Arthur replies, refusing to get riled up.
“Am I the only one wasting his life away in this scenario?” Eames asks with a pointed eyebrow.
Arthur snorts out a bitter laugh. “Well, at least I’ve got something to show for it.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out his real wallet-which looks exactly the same as the fake one, the fucker-and pulls out a fan of money. “Here, three hundred dollars. Take it.”
“What?” Eames stares at the crisp fifties and twenties. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I am.” There’s an edge of impatience creeping into Arthur’s voice. “You can’t paint or draw or do much of anything if you don’t have supplies, and you need money to buy them. This is a start.”
Eames reaches out to take the money, hesitating when Arthur doesn’t retract his hand. “What if I spend it all on crack?”
“You don’t do drugs,” Arthur says confidently. “At least, not the ones I’m concerned about. In any case, I suppose that’s your choice to make although it’d be a short-sighted one, since the only way I’m giving you more money is if you produce a tangible result.”
“Tangible results?” Eames takes the bills and squints at them. They look real. “Are we talking about blowjobs or assfucking here? Or maybe something kinkier?”
“For the last time, Mr. Eames, I’m not interested in paying you for sex.” Arthur holds out a crisp white business card with his name and address in raised letters on the front. “Give me a call when you have something to show me to prove that this should be an ongoing investment.”
“What are you getting out of this?” Eames asks, looking up from the business card and the wad of dollar bills. “What do you want?”
“I already told you. Paint something, draw something, sketch something-I don’t care, as long as I can hold it in my hands and look at it.”
“What if I disappear and you never see me again?”
“I’ll write you off on my taxes as a charitable donation,” Arthur deadpans. “Mr. Eames, you are free to do whatever it is you please with this money. Spend it on rent, food, cigarettes-whatever you feel is necessary. But we both know three hundred dollars isn’t going to take you far in New York, and that the only path to a real, sustainable income is through me.”
“You’re a rather presumptuous wanker, you know that?” Eames says as Arthur turns on his heel and walks away.
“Take some time to think about it and call me if you’re serious,” Arthur says without turning.
Eames debates tossing the business card into the dumpster right then and there, but there’s something about the way Arthur had looked at Eames--as if Arthur could see more to him than the stained uniform polo, the battered and ripped khakis Eames can’t afford to replace. As if he really could see Eames becoming something great.
Eames finishes his cigarette and grinds it out underneath his shoe. He tucks the card and wad of bills into a pocket beneath his shirt, pauses, and then pulls out a ten. “Here,” Eames says as he crouches down next to the guy lying in a huddle of blankets. “Sorry to have disturbed your sleep.”
Then Eames walks back inside the building, puts on his rubber gloves, and gets to work.
Onto: Chapter 3
Word Count: 1,770
Master post of chapters here.
Chapter 1: September
The thing about it is, it’s just too easy.
Eames stares at the bulging pocket in the wool gabardine jacket, which is flung carelessly over the back of the sticky plastic booth. Then he looks up at Arthur, who is speaking rather animatedly into his Blackberry, with his back to Eames.
It’s practically beckoning to Eames, and it would-to be quite frank-be a slight to the honor of all two-bit thieves across the world if he were to resist its siren call.
The weight of the leather wallet is tucked into Eames’ pocket beneath the flap of his godawful powder blue uniform polo shirt before Arthur turns back around.
“Let me guess,” Eames says as soon as he catches sight of Arthur’s haggard expression. “They called you back in.”
“They gave me half an hour to catch a cab.” Arthur smiles faintly. “They don’t know I’m across the street already.”
“Yes, well, Cluck ‘n Go isn’t usually the first place people like you tend to stop to take a load off,” Eames says.
“People like me?” Arthur echoes as he slips the phone back into his jacket, not seeming to notice anything amiss.
“You know, people in fancy suits who make more money than god and never get more than two seconds away from their desks to spend it,” Eames replies, leaning back in the booth. “Also known as the tragic muckety-mucks.”
“You really have a way with words,” Arthur says, but he’s smiling as he smooths back his hair.
“Every bard has to start somewhere.” Eames watches carefully as Arthur straightens his tie and then his jacket.
“You know where your real talent lies,” Arthur says, and suddenly he’s serious again, no trace of his wry humor left. “And it isn’t with words, or washing dishes.”
Eames squirms uncomfortably under the weight of Arthur’s stare and looks away. “My break’s over. The aforementioned dishes aren’t going to wash themselves no matter how many times I wave my wand at them-and I’m not talking about a pointy wooden stick.”
The wryness is back. “Crude as always, Mr. Eames.”
“I strive to entertain,” Eames says, waiting until he reaches the Employees Only bathroom-which is only marginally less filthy than the Customers Only bathroom-to rifle through Arthur’s wallet.
But instead of the scads of cash Eames knows Arthur carries alongside his Platinum American Express Card and Diamond Visa, all that’s in the wallet is a neatly folded note that says: side door by the dumpster.
Eames blinks a few times before jamming the note in his pocket and slinking out of the bathroom. Yusuf rushes in immediately after without a word, and Eames makes his way through the kitchen to the side door.
Arthur’s waiting outside in the alleyway, looking completely out of place standing next to a rat-infested dumpster with his stupidly expensive suit.
“You ripped me off,” Eames says, tossing the empty wallet back at Arthur, who catches it easily. Shit, Eames thinks. How the fuck did he manage to miss those reflexes?
“I feel compelled to point out that you were the one helping yourself to a wallet that wasn’t yours,” Arthur replies, tucking the wallet away.
“I stole that wallet fair and square,” Eames says, to be difficult. “Do you regularly carry dummy wallets on your person to destroy the hopes and dreams of those with unusually curious fingertips?”
“Sometimes.” Arthur shrugs, seeming unrepentant. “A lot of people think I look like an easy mark. I like to prove them wrong.”
“Wow,” Eames says. “I must admit to being somewhat impressed by the thoroughness of your planning and paranoia.”
“Why did you come out here?” Arthur asks, changing the subject abruptly.
“To get my reward for being a Good Samaritan,” Eames says. “No? Well, it was worth a shot.”
“I’ll give you money once you’ve done something to actually earn it.”
"Here, really?" Eames raises his eyebrows. “Next to a giant bin that reeks of day old chicken grease and a homeless bloke who may or may not be dead? Not exactly one for ambiance, are you? But I suppose it’s always the repressed, quiet ones you have to watch out for.”
There’s a moment of blank confusion on Arthur’s face before he blinks, and seems to catch on to what Eames is talking about. “What? You think I-" Arthur shakes his head. “No, I don’t need to pay for sex. I meant art, Eames. The way you see the world.”
“You mean my sketches?” Eames searches for a punchline and comes up short. “Just doodles, mate. Nothing artistic about them at all.”
“You and I both know that isn’t true,” Arthur says, taking a step forward. “I’ve seen what you can do with pastels and paints and god knows what else when given half the chance.”
“None of that was-" Eames kicks a crumpled beer can into the side of the building and startles the man who was apparently sleeping-and not dead-on the ground nearby. “It was a lark for some spare change.”
“I would buy everything you make,” Arthur says, serious and intent in a way that makes Eames feel as though he’s being examined under a microscope. “Anything you’ve made already, I’ll buy.”
“So you want to be my art pimp?” Eames says. “To hire me on as your naked caricaturist?”
“You don’t think I’m being sincere.” Arthur frowns as if the idea actually troubles him. “You think this is all about sex.”
“Darling, it’s always about sex,” Eames drawls, watching a rat scurry out of the corner of the dumpster and into a dark corner of the alleyway. “There’s no need to be coy and hide behind art metaphors. We’re both grown men here.”
“Are we?” Arthur cocks his head. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.” Eames fishes a nearly empty pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and pulls one out; he was going to wait until the end of his shift to have one so he could save the rest for tomorrow, but all this talk of sex is making his fingers itch. “What about you?”
“Twenty-four,” Arthur replies. “I thought you’d be older.”
“Thanks, I guess.” Eames lights a cigarette and takes a deep, steadying inhale.
“No, it’s just-" Arthur pauses, like he doesn’t know how to word whatever he’s trying to say. “You don’t act like anyone I knew when I was twenty-two.”
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Arthur, but I suppose I’ll take it as a compliment.” Eames exhales, and feels better already.
“I do want to sleep with you,” Arthur says, changing conversational tracks so matter-of-factly that Eames coughs on his smoke. “But that is wholly separate from the potential I think you have as an artist. And I think that given the right materials, some time, and freedom from all the self-destructive habits you’re so fond of indulging in, you could really make something of yourself.”
“Like being a prostitute to a condescending white knight,” Eames says once he finishes coughing.
“Like someone who’s doing what he’s meant to be doing instead of wasting his life away in the back of a fast food restaurant,” Arthur replies, refusing to get riled up.
“Am I the only one wasting his life away in this scenario?” Eames asks with a pointed eyebrow.
Arthur snorts out a bitter laugh. “Well, at least I’ve got something to show for it.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out his real wallet-which looks exactly the same as the fake one, the fucker-and pulls out a fan of money. “Here, three hundred dollars. Take it.”
“What?” Eames stares at the crisp fifties and twenties. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I am.” There’s an edge of impatience creeping into Arthur’s voice. “You can’t paint or draw or do much of anything if you don’t have supplies, and you need money to buy them. This is a start.”
Eames reaches out to take the money, hesitating when Arthur doesn’t retract his hand. “What if I spend it all on crack?”
“You don’t do drugs,” Arthur says confidently. “At least, not the ones I’m concerned about. In any case, I suppose that’s your choice to make although it’d be a short-sighted one, since the only way I’m giving you more money is if you produce a tangible result.”
“Tangible results?” Eames takes the bills and squints at them. They look real. “Are we talking about blowjobs or assfucking here? Or maybe something kinkier?”
“For the last time, Mr. Eames, I’m not interested in paying you for sex.” Arthur holds out a crisp white business card with his name and address in raised letters on the front. “Give me a call when you have something to show me to prove that this should be an ongoing investment.”
“What are you getting out of this?” Eames asks, looking up from the business card and the wad of dollar bills. “What do you want?”
“I already told you. Paint something, draw something, sketch something-I don’t care, as long as I can hold it in my hands and look at it.”
“What if I disappear and you never see me again?”
“I’ll write you off on my taxes as a charitable donation,” Arthur deadpans. “Mr. Eames, you are free to do whatever it is you please with this money. Spend it on rent, food, cigarettes-whatever you feel is necessary. But we both know three hundred dollars isn’t going to take you far in New York, and that the only path to a real, sustainable income is through me.”
“You’re a rather presumptuous wanker, you know that?” Eames says as Arthur turns on his heel and walks away.
“Take some time to think about it and call me if you’re serious,” Arthur says without turning.
Eames debates tossing the business card into the dumpster right then and there, but there’s something about the way Arthur had looked at Eames--as if Arthur could see more to him than the stained uniform polo, the battered and ripped khakis Eames can’t afford to replace. As if he really could see Eames becoming something great.
Eames finishes his cigarette and grinds it out underneath his shoe. He tucks the card and wad of bills into a pocket beneath his shirt, pauses, and then pulls out a ten. “Here,” Eames says as he crouches down next to the guy lying in a huddle of blankets. “Sorry to have disturbed your sleep.”
Then Eames walks back inside the building, puts on his rubber gloves, and gets to work.
Onto: Chapter 3