Benjamin Franklin: An American Hero
Title: Benjamin Franklin: An American Hero
Word Count: 4,476
Rating: PG-13
Beta: eternalsojourn
Summary: Cobb wonders how Arthur ever convinces him to carry out Arthur's drunken ideas.
A/N: Written for the Pan-Fandom Friendship Fanworks Fest. Crack
On AO3
--
Dom Cobb is twenty-two years old. He’s twenty-two years old, and he’s almost certain that he has never been, and never will be, as uncomfortable as he is right now.
Arthur pulls the banana out of his mouth. “Are you getting the shot? Does it work?”
Dom hesitates to answer. Yes, he’s getting the shot. Yes, it works. But if he tells Arthur these things, he’s going to have to continue filming Arthur fellating a banana. It’s no use, though, because Arthur just takes his silence as a yes and resumes licking the damn thing, moaning around it.
When Arthur had come back to the dorm room a few hours earlier and asked for help, Dom never imagined they would end up here.
--
“Are you free tonight?” Arthur asks, swinging his backpack into a corner and sitting on his bed.
Dom looks up from his notes to find Arthur staring at him intensely, face flushed and a little out of breath.
“Yeah,” he lies. Mal will understand. More than that. Mal will rip him a new one if he ignores Arthur just to watch a movie at her place. “Why?”
“I need to get drunk,” Arthur says, somehow answering the question and evading it at the same time. “I was thinking we could head over to Sol’s.”
Hell no, Cobb thinks. Sol’s is the worst bar around. It only stays open because it’s cheap and within walking distance of a college. Also, Dom’s pretty sure the owner bribes the health inspector. Arthur must mean business. “Sure,” he says.
--
Arthur doesn’t mention what’s bothering him until he’s well on his way to being truly smashed. "Eames and I had a fight," he says, interrupting Dom's story about the drunk girl who came to class late and blew chunks on the professor.
"Again?" Dom asks. "That's.... I mean. You've have a lot of fights lately. Right?"
Arthur sighs. "He never fucking listens to me. We barely get to see each other, and when we are able to, what does he do? He goes to play poker. Fucking poker. Fucking cards. Fucking...fucking....what are they called? Just fuck."
Dom has seen Arthur drunk several times, and he's always been a fun drunk, but not this Arthur. Dom isn't sure what to say. "Everyone needs to blow off steam sometimes," he ventures.
"But that's just it!" Arthur exclaims. "It's not sometimes! It's every Saturday. Between school and jobs and us living an hour apart and fucking everything else, we get to see other maybe two nights a week. Two nights! That’s...what? Eight times a month, and he spends half of those nights off with a group of other guys."
"Are you jealous?" Dom asks. "If that's it, I have to say, Eames would chew his own foot off before cheating on you."
"That's not it," Arthur slurs, shaking his head and slouching, the fire suddenly gone out of him. "I don't think he's cheating. I just miss him."
Dom reaches up, his hand hovering over Arthur's back, before haltingly patting him a few times.
"I really screwed up this afternoon," Arthur says into his drink. "I tried to make him jealous."
"How?" Dom asks.
Arthur groans, running his hands down his face. "I- I need another drink before I tell you." He taps the bar and gets two more shots, downing them both before Dom can reach for one.
"I...um. I- Jesus, this is so embarrassing. Why do I do things like this? I should never be allowed to speak to people."
"Just spit it out," Dom says encouragingly.
Arthur takes a deep breath. "I told him that when he leaves me alone to play poker, I go online and do a sexy foodie broadcast."
Dom tries and fails to make sense of that. "What do you do?"
"I don't actually do it!" Arthur protests. "But I told him that I have a webcast, and I... you know.”
“I really don’t.”
“Do...that I do sexy things with food."
Dom doesn't think he's drunk, but Arthur's not making any sense. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Arthur says, getting frustrated, "that I lied and told Eames that I basically molest food online. And now he wants to see! And of course I was lying," Arthur says, "and we both know it, and that’s the problem, because he's not backing down. It was- it was supposed to be a joke, you see? To lighten the mood. But it didn’t work, and now...I don’t even know how it happened, but it ended with me insisting that I actually do this and now I have to prove it, but I can’t, because I don’t."
"That sucks, Arthur," Dom says consolingly. "But it's not the worst thing. Just explain and he'll understand."
"I can't just explain! You've got to help me!"
"Help you do what?" Dom asks, profoundly confused.
"Help me tape a few of these episodes. Then I can show them to Eames and he’ll quit poker."
Dom reels. "You do realize that this is the worst idea ever, right? You're not so drunk that you don't realize that?"
"No, no. It'll work," Arthur insists, slapping the bar with the flat of his palm for emphasis.
"How?"
Arthur thinks, actually scrunching up his face in thought. "I... I’ll figure that later," he says. "Just help me."
And he sounds so sad that Dom can't say no.
--
“First thing we need to do,” says Arthur when they get back to their room, “is think of some usernames for my viewer people.”
“Right. Wait. What?” asks Dom.
“Viewer people,” Arthur repeated, as if that explains everything.
Dom can’t work out if he’s too drunk to understand Arthur or if Arthur is too drunk to make sense. “I need some water,” he says, hoping it will help clear things up.
“Okay, you do that. I’m gonna get started on names. Maybe change into something more comfortable.”
Dom grabs a plastic cup that he’s had since freshmen orientation and heads to the water fountain. He bets himself an ice cream treat from the pub that Arthur will be asleep by the time he returns. Alcohol always puts Arthur to sleep.
He’s deliberating between M&M or Oreo when he opens the door to see Arthur, dressed in the same clothes as before but now also wearing a fedora, perilously balancing on one leg while writing on a Post-It.
“Dom Dom Dom! Look what I have!” Arthur shouts when he sees him, thrusting the notepad into Dom’s hand and stealing the water.
He looks down to see a list of names in Arthur’s chicken-scratch writing, even worse thanks to alcohol. Dom specifically blames that last shot. Fucking shots.
Dom squints, hoping that the list will suddenly make sense. It doesn’t. “What the fuck?” he asks slowly.
“You don’t like them?”
“I don’t know what they are!”
Arthur sighs heavily. “I said that I do a foodie broadcast. Who do you think I broadcast to? I have to have...” Arthur trails off as words seem to fail him. “People,” he finishes lamely.
“Oh!” Armed with this new information, Dom reads the list again. “Yeah, still don’t get it. Some are porny, you have celebrities, historical figures - and what the heck is ‘red velvet’? Is that a sex move?” Dom asks, not entirely sure he wants to know the answer.
Arthur looks thoughtful for a minute, and Dom braces himself, but then Arthur shrugs and says, “I’m hungry.”
“‘Flymetothemoon?’”
Arthur smiles, looking proud of himself. “‘Cause we went to the moon in 1969. Get it? 69.”
“Okay,” Dom says, even though it is so clearly not. “What about ‘franklinlover1776’?”
“Benjamin Franklin is an American hero, Dom!” Arthur spits. “He has fans everywhere!”
“You scare me sometimes. Most of the time. Almost always.” Arthur is glaring at him. “Doesn’t matter,” Dom says, shaking his head and praying for his life as he looks back at the list. “Napoleon and Ben Franklin? Do you have some hidden fetish for historical figures?” Dom teases.
“Oh, yeah,” Arthur deadpans. “They get me so hard.”
Dom sighs. “I know I brought that on myself, but can we change the subject? And also pretend it never happened?”
“Sure. Should we start with the strawberries and chocolate?” he asks, holding up the food in question.
Dom drags his camera out from under the bed and readies it. “You owe me so many fucking favors and kickass birthday presents forever.”
Arthur nods distractedly as he squeezes the chocolate sauce out of the bottle, seemingly entranced by the way it drips into the bowl.
--
Arthur digs through the fridge, looking for the caramel sauce. "Hey, look what I found!" he shouts, excitedly waving a container of leftover mashed potatoes. "We should do this one next!"
"Mashed potatoes? You can't make mashed potatoes sexy, Arthur.”
A grin spreads across Arthur's face, slow and dark. Dom is a little terrified.
After a minute and thirty-three seconds in the microwave, because “those three seconds matter, Dom,” Arthur finds the milk and starts pouring a copious amount in the potatoes.
“What are you doing?” Dom asks, curious.
In reply, Arthur dips his fingers into the lumpy mixture and starts painting his face. He puts most of it around his mouth, and adds some by his eyes and on his nose as well.
Dom is fascinated at first, then horrified when he realizes what Arthur is trying to do. “No. No. That doesn’t look anything like come, Arthur. There are huge chunks.”
“It’s fine,” Arthur says. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, so long as you can recognize it for what it’s supposed to be.”
“It’s not fine,” Dom protests. “Where has your pride gone?” While he’s thinking about it, where did his pride go? When did he go from reluctant friend to passionate director?
“Whatever,” Arthur says dismissively. “I’m too drunk to care about artistic integrity.”
“If you can still talk about artistic integrity, you can still care about it.”
“Fuck you, just start recording.”
Dom does.
--
"And now for the pièce de résistance. The crème de la crème. And a whole bunch of other French terms," Arthur slurs. "The banana," he says dramatically, whipping it out from behind his back and brandishing it about, accidentally knocking over recently-emptied beer bottles. Arthur waves a hand towards the mess as if that fixes the problem. “Let me tell you, Dom, I can eat a banana. You have no idea how good I am at eating bananas," he says, voice heavy with innuendo.
“And I hope I never do,” Dom agrees vehemently.
Arthur just stares, his lips curling up slightly, and Dom realizes that he only has a few more minutes of “never.”
I must have been the worst person ever in my past life, Dom thinks. Nothing but karma could explain why he deserves to watch his best friend give head to a banana. Maybe I was Hitler, his drunk mind supplies.
“I think I was Hitler in my past life,” his drunk self says. Out loud.
As far as Dom knows, there’s no list of things not to say to your Jewish roommate, but if there was one, he’s pretty sure that claiming to be Hitler reincarnated would be at the top of the list.
Arthur stares. He isn’t shocked or angry, just confused and bewildered - his face a perfect picture of are you serious?! “That’s probably something you should take up with your therapist,” he says finally.
“No, I just meant...because I’m doing this for you, and karma and- not because I think that - I don’t actually think I’m Hitler. That would just be....no!” Dom sighs in frustration. “You get what I’m saying?”
“Seriously, Dom,” Arthur says. “Therapist.”
“Never mind. Pick up the damn banana and let’s do this.”
Dom has his finger on the record button when his phone starts ringing. It’s Mal’s ring tone, so Dom tells Arthur to take five. Arthur flips him off.
“Hey, Mal,” Dom answers.
“Dom. How is Arthur?” she asks.
“Arthur’s fine,” Dom says, and he wonders, not for the first time, if Mal likes Arthur more than him.
“Oh, most certainly,” says Mal.
It takes Dom a few seconds before he catches on. “Did I say that out loud?”
Mal laughs. “You did. And of course I like Arthur more than you. It’s not like I spend all of my time with you, or think about you, or love you. Honestly, Dom. You can be quite the idiot sometimes.”
“If this is your way of convincing me that you like me, you’re doing an excellent job,” Dom says, more moodily than intended.
“I know,” Mal says lightly. “I have a gift for -” Mal’s words are drowned out by a burst of loud music from Arthur’s laptop.
Dom covers the mouthpiece with his hand. “Arthur, what are you doing?” he yells.
“I need a theme song for the vlog,” Arthur responds.
“And you chose ‘Sexy and I Know It’?” Dom asks.
“Yeah, ‘cause I’ve got passion in my pants and I ain’t afraid to show it,” Arthur says, somewhat distractedly as he sets his laptop on their microwave and presses record on his webcam.
“Hang on, hang on, hang on,” Dom says quickly, words slurring together until they’re barely recognizable. “Why am I filming these if you can just use your webcam?” he asks, incredulous.
“Please,” Arthur scoffs as he swivels his hips. “The quality on this thing’s terrible. This is just a test to see if it’s worth doing at all.”
“You’re such a little shit!” Dom screams, but Arthur is too busy singing “Boy, look at that body” over the original track to listen.
“Arthur, I’m gonna kill you for making me do this when I didn’t have to!” Arthur flips him off again.
Dom brings the phone back up to his ear to hear Mal screaming at him, something about cutting off some very important bits if Arthur isn’t still alive in the morning. “Do I need to come over there?” she asks.
“Mal, I promise you, no amicu-, amicrucide...no, hang on.” Dom mouths the word a few times, trying and failing to get it right, and finally settling on “amicricide.”
“Do you mean ‘amicicide’?” Arthur asks.
“No,” says Dom stubbornly. “Amicricide. Also, when’s the last time you had a drink? Take a shot.”
“You just made that word up,” argues Arthur, but he takes two shots anyway. Trust Arthur to go above and beyond.
“Did not. Not everyone can remember Latin when they’re drunk,” he tells Mal proudly.
“And you can’t either,” Arthur says, wiggling his hips as per the song’s instructions.
Dom has seen Arthur dance before, and the boy can move. As drunk as he is now, though, it looks like he has a bug in his pants that he’s trying to shake out. Dom laughs.
“Fuck you, Dom. I’m sexy and we both know it.”
“You’re very belligerent tonight. And I know you want to flip me off again, so don’t.”
Arthur, still dancing, slowly raises two fingers. “Benefits of having an English boyfriend: more ways to insult people.”
“You’re crazy. Wait,” he says, suddenly remembering that he’s still on the phone with Mal. “Do you want Mal to come over?” he asks.
“Sure, I love Mal! Wait, no!” he cries. He waves a hand in front of him, apparently referring to his disordered state.
“No, Mal, you can’t come over. Arthur doesn’t want you to see him with potato on his face.”
“Is that an American idiom?” Mal asks.
“No, he literally has potato on his face.” Dom ignores the glare Arthur sends his way.
“Well in that case, you can tell Arthur that I have seen him in much worse states. Does he remember the ironing incident?”
Dom holds the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he reaches for his drink. “She wants to know if you remember the ironing incident,” he relays.
Arthur’s eyes widen. “She swore that would stay between us!”
“What’s the ironing incident?” he asks. Before Arthur can respond, he asks Mal, “What’s the ironing incident?”
“Mal, don’t you dare!” Arthur yells, grabbing Dom’s arm to support himself as he leans toward the phone.
“May I come over?” she asks.
Arthur is silent, obviously trying to decide which would be worse. Dom’s eyes flick impatiently between Arthur and the phone. “No,” Arthur finally says.
“Fine, then Dom, you should know that I once walked in on Arthur while he was naked because he had to iron his boxers.”
“You iron your boxers?” Dom exclaims. “I knew you were fastidious, but damn.”
“That’s, that’s-” Arthur sputters angrily. “Don’t stop there! Tell him the whole story.”
“There’s more?” Dom asks, too eagerly if Arthur’s expression is anything to go by.
“The reason I was ironing my boxers was not because they were wrinkled. It’s because I needed to dry them quickly, and the dryers were all full, and Mal wouldn’t bring her hair dryer over. Well, she said she wouldn’t, but then she did, and that’s why she caught me. End of story.”
“But Arthur! You can’t stop there!” Mal says, gleefully throwing Arthur’s words back at him. “Tell him the whole story.”
Arthur froze. “Are you sure you don’t want to come over, Mal? We’d love to have you.”
“That’s okay, Arthur. You made your choice. Tell Dom or I will.”
Arthur glares at the phone, which is unaffected by the anger being directed towards it. “I was ironing my boxers,” he says slowly, “because....because....” Arthur pours a shot, downs it, then says quickly, “because Eames made me come in my pants.”
“Eames made you come in your pants, so you decided to iron your boxers?” Dom asks skeptically.
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t change into a new pair because...?”
Arthur looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. “I didn’t change because Eames told me not to. He said I should wear them all day, but I had a presentation in World Civ. in fifteen minutes, and I couldn’t very well go in that state.”
“You were ironing come so that it would dry? Didn’t it smell?”
Arthur throws the bowl of potatoes at Dom.
--
“I’m gonna call Eames,” Arthur says.
“No. No, bad idea.”
“It’s a wonderful idea. I have to tell him about this.”
“It’s supposed to be a surprise,” Dom argues, trying to wrestle the phone from Arthur.
Arthur stops moving. “Right,” he agrees. “You’re right. Okay. I won’t call him.”
“Good.”
Dom waits until Arthur is in bed before he turns off the light and crosses to his own. As soon as he closes his eyes, he hears Arthur reach for his phone.
Eames’s phone rings four times and then goes to voicemail. Dom can hear it from his bed: This is Eames. Leave a message.
Arthur doesn’t, just ends the call and calls Eames again. Voicemail. Arthur calls a third time, then again. Eames finally answers.
“Are you okay?” he asks immediately.
“Great,” Arthur tries to whisper, oblivious to how loud he actually is. “How are you?”
“You called me four times in a row,” Eames says. “I thought you were in trouble.”
“Oh. I’m not. Never mind.”
“No, it’s fine. I already left. What’d you want?”
“Nothing, really. Just wanted to talk. I ate Dom’s banana tonight, but I thought of yours the whole time.”
“Jesus christ!” Dom exclaims, bolting upright. “You can’t say that to him! He’s not going to understand.
“Is that Dom?”
“Yeah,” Arthur says slowly, staring at Dom like Dom’s the one being stupid here, like he’s not about to get Dom punched in the face by his jealous boyfriend.
Dom throws off his covers and hops out of bed, holding his hand out for the phone. Arthur gives it to him grudgingly.
“Eames, he means a real banana,” Dom says quickly and emphatically. “As in the fruit. I had one here and he ate it. Nothing more.”
“I’ll be there soon,” Eames says, then hangs up.
Dom drops the phone into Arthur’s outstretched hand, then plops down onto the bed next to Arthur. “Eames is going to murder me. I wonder how many pieces he’ll break me into,” he says glumly, already resigned to his fate.
“Don’t worry,” Arthur says, placing a consoling hand on Dom’s back. “I can protect you.”
“You can barely even stand right now!”
Arthur scoffs. “You think I’m drunk. I am not drunk,” he says, enunciating carefully.
“Says the man who wore a fedora and potatoes all night,” Dom protests, but his heart isn’t in it. He’s still wondering how badly Eames is going to beat him.
“You’ll be fine.” Arthur lies down and makes himself comfortable. “I’m gonna take a nap while we wait. Wake me up if Eames attacks you.”
“Hmmm,” Dom hums agreeably, then settles back next to Arthur to wait for Eames, too tired to cross the six feet between their beds.
--
Dom wakes to a slow, rhythmic tapping on his temple. He opens his eyes to see Eames kneeling in front of him, staring at Dom with that terrifyingly blank look of his - the one that promises dark thoughts but betrays none of them.
“You didn’t save any room for me,” Eames says with a dangerous smile.
Dom closes one eye and stares at Eames through the other, trying to make sense of the situation. He remembers getting drunk with Arthur and abandoning his pride for his friend, then waiting for Eames to show up. He must have fallen asleep while waiting.
A sudden gust of breath warms his neck as his bedmate sighs in his sleep, and Dom turns to see a head of dark hair snuggled close.
“Um, explain. Explanations,” Dom stutters out, fighting against the grogginess and the alcohol. “This makes sense, believe me. You’ll laugh.” He throws an elbow back into Arthur’s ribs.
Arthur snorts and jolts awake. He breathes deep and rubs his eyes, then spots Eames. He tries to climb over Dom, gives up when he gets trapped in the covers, and ends up wrapping his arms around Eames’ neck while lying half on top of Dom. This has the unfortunate consequence of bringing Eames’ face about two inches from Dom’s, and Eames still hasn’t stopped staring.
“Arthur,” Dom says, but Arthur is muttering nonsense about how mean Mal is, so he doesn’t hear. “Arthur,” he says louder. “You’d said you’d protect me.”
“Right,” he says, finally pulling back. “Eames, don’t hurt Dom. I’d be sad.”
Eames still doesn’t look away. “Why would he need protection?”
“Have you been drinking?” Dom asks before Arthur can answer. He desperately hopes the answer is no, because whereas Arthur is a fun drunk, Eames is scary and possessive.
“I’ve had a couple. Nowhere near as many as you two, apparently. I heard something about someone’s “banana” being involved?”
The mention of the banana must have triggered something for Arthur, because the sappy smile on his face disappears. “You weren’t here, so I had to find something to do.”
“Is that so?” Eames asks coldly, his eyes finally moving to Arthur’s.
“I um,” Dom says from where he’s lying on his back, Eames kneeling beside him on one side and Arthur propped up on an elbow on the other. “I think I’m gonna go.”
Eames nods, but Arthur holds a hand on Dom’s shoulder. “No, stay.”
“Really, Mal’s expecting me,” he tries again.
“No, she’s not.”
Once again, Dom curses his horrible karma. “Hitler,” he mumbles.
Eames looks down at Dom, and for the first time, the cold look in his eyes is dimmed, replaced by confusion. “Did you just call Arthur Hitler?”
“No, I’m Hitler,” he clarifies.
Eames looks back at Arthur for an explanation, and Arthur just shrugs and says, “I told him to take it up with his therapist.”
“You guys are the ones with issues,” Dom protests. “Here.” He shoves the video camera into Eames’ hand.
“No!” Arthur shouts, reaching for it, but Eames holds it out of reach and presses play.
”Okay, are we ready?” the Arthur of the recording asks. “This one’s going to be great. Eames and I have a history with strawberries. He’s gonna be so jealous.”
“Arthur, I don’t want to know this. Just start.”
“What is this?” Eames asks quietly. He lets the video keep playing, looking between the camera and Arthur.
Arthur doesn’t answer, and Dom is about as uncomfortable as he imagines he can ever be (a true feat after tonight), so he answers, “Arthur’s foodie broadcasts. The ones he tapes while you play poker.”
“I hate you, Dom,” Arthur mutters.
“You’re welcome,” he replies.
Eames stares at Arthur, a hurt look in his eyes. Dom is surprised to find that this vulnerable side of Eames is something he never wants to see again. “Is this true?” Eames asks. “Do you really broadcast yourself over the internet?”
“No,” Arthur says quietly. “It was just to make you jealous so you’d spend more time with me.”
Dom stays as still as possible, hoping that Arthur and Eames have maybe forgotten about him. Luck seems to be on his side, as neither Arthur nor Eames have ever discussed such personal matters of their relationship in front of him before. It’s probably the alcohol. Arthur may kill him tomorrow when he realizes Dom has witnessed the scene.
“That’s what this is about? You want to spend more time together?” Eames asks, looking surprised.
“Yes! Arthur cries. He flops down onto the pillows next to Dom and doesn’t move, looking a bit ill. Dom takes this opportunity to escape to his own bed. “What did you think it was about?”
Eames doesn’t reply, just watches the video again. He starts to smile, and both Arthur and Dom stare.
“What did you think?” Arthur asks again.
“I thought you wanted to break up,” Eames says, voice quiet.
“What? No! Of course not.”
“I’m beginning to understand.” He snaps the camera shut, sets it on Arthur’s desk, then bends down and kisses Arthur. “You don’t want to break up?”
“No, you asshole,” Arthur says, gently brushing Eames’ hair back from his forehead. “I fucking love you.”
Eames’ smile lights up his face. “I fucking love you, too,” he says, pressing Arthur fully onto his back and straddling him. He bends down and kisses Arthur fiercely, drawing a moan from Arthur.
Dom clears his throat, but Arthur and Eames ignore him. “Um, yeah,” he says uncomfortably. “I’ll just...go.” Arthur waves his hand in a shooing motion. Dom grabs his wallet and his cell phone and starts towards to door.
“Dom?” Arthur calls.
He hesitates to turn around, afraid of what he may see, but he braces himself. “Yeah?” he asks, turning to see Arthur smiling at him.
“Thanks.”
Dom smiles. “Anytime, Arthur.”