it's friday, i'm in love.
Smells Like Teen Spirit
Arthur/Eames, PG-13, for the prompt: " Eames and Arthur have always been neighbors. Arthur refuses to go to his ridiculously stupid senior prom and stays at home while all his friends pile into a limo and leave. College student Eames shows Arthur that not all prom traditions - that is, losing your virginity on prom night - are lame." warning for The Cure references. bronson is reading about Abe Lincoln and zombies so this is has not been looked over. Pardon the errors dlskfj.
4506 words
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It's Prom night and rather than spend a hundred and fifty dollars on a tux and renting a stretch limo with a bunch of zit-faced virgins, Arthur is stretched out on his stomach reading Amazing Spider-Man #583, the issue with Barack Obama. There are things in life far more important than this antiquated mating ritual, Arthur knows, like reading about the newly elected head of state saving Mary Jane Watson from a twenty foot ogre.
Besides, it's not like he has a date anyway. St. Donovan's isn't exactly chock-full of pretty girls all throwing themselves at his feet. All the guys have dates from other schools -- girls from St. Miriam's -- and the ones who don't have girlfriends or happen to be gay, have the requisite female cousin or friend brought along as eyecandy. Arthur has neither. He doesn't mind missing it though, Prom, because it's never been his thing. He's on the Debate team for god's sake. Guys like him don't do Prom on the grounds that is a bourgeois practice.
The doorbell rings at 7:30, just when Arthur is about to go on an Alfred Hitchcock marathon, popping Psycho into the VCR. He rolls onto his back and answers it, hoping it's matter-of-life-and-death important. When he pulls the door open, leaving the latch on, he sees that it's just Eames, come home for the weekend. He's supposed to be in Boston, studying or whatever.
"You're supposed to be in Boston," Arthur says, leaving the studying or whatever part out. He closes the door again and unhooks the latch. Eames beams at him, raising a thumb. His hair is slicked back but there are bits he's missed smoothing over. Arthur's hand twitches.
"What are you doing here? And why are you wearing a tux?"
"The question is, why aren't you? Isn't it Prom season? I'm in town specifically for this momentous occasion. I'm wearing underwear, which is, you know, new to me altogether. And I rented a limousine."
"Eames," Arthur says, sighing. "No."
"I'm wearing underwear, Arthur!" Eames presses, "Still no?"
Arthur doesn't laugh. "Still no." He peers a little over Eames' shoulder and raises an eyebrow when he sees a limousine parked across the street, in front of Eames' driveway. A man with curly brown hair reading a porno mag is at the driver seat. He looks boredly up at Arthur.
"Do you know how much money I spent on the limo?" Eames says, "Arthur, I flew all the way from Boston right after finals just to be here. I haven't had any sleep for days and I'm so exhausted I can hardly differentiate pink from mauve. How's my bowtie, by the way? Do you like it?"
Arthur's mouth twitches. "It's plain," he says, and reaches for Eames across the front porch to straighten it. The bowtie is black, and so is Eames' cummerbund which is this fat belt that goes around his waist, anchoring the whole getup. Arthur thinks he looks rather dashing, like a gentleman-about-town; Eames' usual attire consists primarily of polo shirts and tasseled loafers which he often wears without socks.
"I'm sure Harvard misses your brilliant mind, Eames," Arthur tells him, but he lets him in anyway, closing the door behind him and putting back the safety latch.
"I have a feeling only Cobb does; he's my only friend." Eames sighs and pitches himself at the sofa, stretching lazily over the cushions. He picks up a Amazing Spiderman #583 and crosses his legs at the ankle. "Everyone else thinks I'm far too good looking to be intelligent." He taps his temple with his index finger. "Cobb, however, he understands. He's a bit on the rakish side, but then he remembers to shower and I forget why I bothered putting trousers on in the first place."
"Thank you for that," Arthur says dryly. He snatches his comic back and Eames laughs, sitting upright so that Arthur can fold himself against the arm of the sofa. Eames prods the VCR with the point of his shoe and the tape deck whirs to life. The credits flash.
"So," Eames says, tapping the back of the sofa and glancing at Arthur "Do you want to-"
"No."
"I haven't even asked yet."
"I know what you're going to say."
"Doubtful. I was going to ask when you plan on getting a DVD player. VCRs are a thing of the past, Arthur. I thought you were a modern... man, teenager. Thing."
"Thing? I am modern," Arthur says, and bats Eames' arm off his shoulder six times. "Which is precisely why I refuse to attend Prom."
"Oh, you're no better than those spinster cat ladies who insist they're holding onto feminist principles when in fact they're just too ugly to get laid. I flew here so I could be your date; your problems are solved."
"Oh joy," Arthur says.
Eames ignores him. "Prom is an important part of the whole high school experience, Arthur. Why do you think my family moved here two years ago? So I could experience high school, Prom properly. Nobody does it like you Americans; your taste for tacky themed parties is unmatchable. So how about it? Wear your best suit and be my date?"
"Eames," Arthur says. There's a note of warning there but he's also really distracted by the movie and the warmth of Eames' leg pressing against his. "I can't," he says."I have nothing to wear and to be honest, I hate people."
"Hard to tell." Eames says, "If it helps, in addition to the limo, I bought you a corsage which only cost me about fifteen dollars - a tiny sum of money if you factor in the traveling expenses and the suit." He grins.
Arthur concedes with a sigh. He isn't that cold hearted. "Thirty minutes and then we leave." He holds up a hand.
Eames salutes.
Arthur climbs up the stairs and rifles through his closet, grateful that his parents have chosen this particular evening to go out on a movie date. Otherwise they'd see him, the staunch Mr. Anti-School Spirit, freaking out accordingly; he doesn't have anything suitable to wear to prom except the dress shirt his mom bought for him when the entire debate team went to compete at Nationals. Arthur picks his favourite Smiths shirt instead, going for equal parts ironic and trendy. It's a little tight and hikes up at the back but it will do. He is, after all, purely anti-Prom.
Downstairs, Eames has left the front door open. White rose petals are scattered on the driveway and Eames is panting like he's just run a marathon, wiping sweat off the sides of his face. He hands Arthur a single red rose, the thorns cut off. His fingers look a little bit red, raw, and his face too.
"I'm not cleaning that up," Arthur says, pointing to the mess in the driveway. He steps on the petals on his way to the limo, trampling a pile of them that is shaped liked a heart under his shoes.
"Don't worry. I can always get Yusuf to take care of it," Eames says and offers him an arm which Arthur takes with more enthusiasm than he lets on. He wishes he'd remembered to put on cologne, but at least he has enough foresight to wear lip balm.
*
They stare at each other in the limo, waiting for the other one to blink first. Eames rubs a hand up and down his thigh, looking very out of sorts while Arthur picks at the thread sticking out of his shirt, slowly bobbing his head to inaudible music. They're stuck in traffic and for the last five minutes have been staring into space, stretching their arms and legs, making feeble attempts to start a conversation. But every attempt pewters out into nothing more than, "that's great,", "cool." or "uh." Sometimes an awkward shrug or two.
Eames brings out the champagne to salvage the situation.
"I'm not allowed to drink," Arthur tells him when Eames hands him a flute. Eames just shrugs and takes a languid sip and then several more, puffing out his cheeks and sighing languidly with his head tipped back. Arthur watches his adam's apple bob.
"Stop being such a stick in the mud," Eames says and nudges Arthur in the side with a sharp elbow. "I know you think not adhering to the rules makes you less of a person but life is not always black and white, it's more complicated than that. Drink up."
"It's not that," Arthur interrupts, but then Eames goes on to continue, "Champagne is so much better than beer. Classier too. Try it. Come on, there's no one else around, Arthur. I won't tell. Do it. Do it." He flicks Arthur on the nose, leaning close. "Do it."
Arthur laughs in spite of himself. He brings the flute up to his lips, but then the limo rolls over a speed bump, and he accidentally spills champagne all over himself.
*
"It's not so bad. I hardly even notice the stain unless you draw my attention to it," Eames says. He looks like he's trying hard not to laugh, leaning against the wall of the third floor boy's bathroom at St. Donovan's Parochial School for Boys.
"Why did I even bother coming here?" Arthur says. He looks like he's just pissed himself; the wet spot in his pants still hasn't disappeared even though he's dabbed it with paper towels and cooled his lap in front of the heating vents.
"To experience life." Eames explains, "And to humor me." He smiles when Arthur scowls in his direction. It's going to be a bad night, Arthur just knows, he can feel it in his gut. But what he said is true enough: he doesn't know what the hell he's doing here.
Prom is for cool people, the popular kids. Kids with friends. With schoolwork on the table, the debate team and applying for college, Arthur doesn't have a lot of time to be making friends. School is a lot like limbo, Arthur thinks. You remain in a temporary state of stasis before moving onto the next stage, college, real life, which, comparatively, is a lot cooler and fun. Knowing that doesn't make the wait more bearable though, neither does it shorten it.
Wiping his hands across his shirt, Arthur fixes Eames with a displeased look. It feels weird to walk with soggy underwear on so adjusts his crotch and waddles towards Eames to glare at him properly.
"Arthur," Eames says, seriously. "Do you want to do something fun?"
St. Donovan's is separated into three blocks. They're in the middle block where the junior and senior classrooms are housed. The third block is where Prom is being held, in the gym.
"Sure," Arthur says, begrudging. "Why not?"
*
As a freshman, Arthur spent a lot of time at the library. Both of his parents were nurses so they kept odd working hours and because he hated nothing more than being home alone, he'd hole himself up in the school library until it closed at five. They'd just moved into the neighborhood that year and the creaking in the house always used to freak him out. The steady increase in crime rate that year didn't help quell his fears, either.
"Oh, St. Donovan's. How I have missed this place."
Eames' voice echoes down the hall. It's a long hallway, each side lined with lockers that stand gleaming under the fluorescent light. Eames' family moved into Arthur's neighborhood when Arthur had been a sophomore two years ago, and he's the closest thing to a friend that Arthur's got, which is always helpful whenever Eames does stupid shit, because then Arthur forgets just how much he wants to throttle him.
"Eames," Arthur says, pained, when Eames shimmies out of his pants.
"It's not what it looks like, calm down." His boxers come off next and Arthur tries valiantly not to look anywhere below the waist.
"Arthur, as much as I would like to cross swords with you, there's something else I want to try besides stand around in a chicken costume in Harvard Square, and now that I'm no longer a student of this fine institution," He taps the wall reverently, "I think now is the perfect opportunity to fulfill all my fantasies."
"Oh god," Arthur says.
"You flatter me." Eames winks. When he's down to his socks, he starts jumping vigorously and stretching his arms over his head, like he's prepping himself up for a run. He does run eventually from one end of the hall to another and Arthur stares, unblinking, as Eames' ass swims in and out of focus. He kind of wants to steal Eames' underwear which is a weird thought to be having, he knows, but god, he's so finely sculpted and well-equipped that Arthur is starting to drool like a faucet.
"Phew. Broke into a sweat there," Eames says, panting on his knees. He grins up at Arthur who crosses his arms and fixes his gaze firmly on Eames' face, not elsewhere, not his dick, which is just, wow. Arthur's never seen a dick he's actually enjoyed looking at before. That's a first.
"Did you look?" Eames asks, grinning as he puts his pants back on.
"Don't be stupid. Of course, I didn't."
"Oh shut up, don't lie to me." Eames laughs. "You lingered! I saw you, you sneaky little lingerer!"
Arthur flushes and rolls his eyes. "So what," he says. "I was just. Shit. I don't know. I thought you were going to-"
"Forcefully rub my cock on you?"
Arthur makes a strangled noise. "That," he says. Eames laughs again, clipping on his belt and smoothing down his shirt. His bowtie is a little skewed; Arthur has this strong urge to reach over and adjust it.
"Mm," Eames hums. "Now I have worked myself up an appetite. Do you think they have bologne sandwiches in the gym?"
"I've never heard you say bologne before," Arthur says.
"Bologne," Eames says again. "Now you've heard it twice." He loops an arm around Arthur's shoulder carefully as they walk down the hall. Arthur remembers the first time he'd run into Eames' in school two years ago and Eames offered him a ride home. He thought Eames was joking. When Eames asked him if he liked guys two weeks later, he thought he'd been joking then too.
*
"This is worse than my bar mitzvah when Chris Hirschkovitsch stole my yarmulke as a masturbatory accessory to suck on," Arthur says.
Eames looks at him, vaguely alarmed. The gym is packed with high school seniors tonight. It's just like a John Hughes movie, the guys are in one end of the room, congregating like a flock, the girls on the other side, wearing pretty dresses and leaving periodically for the bathroom. No one is dancing. Some teachers are milled about the punch table, hitting on each other. Arthur sees Mr. Saito eyeing the young 'uns like a hawk.
"Hey weren't you that freshman they tied to the penis-shaped snowman last year?" someone to Arthur's left asks. Arthur recognizes him as Robert Fischer.
"Junior," Arthur says stiffly. "I was a junior."
"Right," Robert says. He's a little bit drunk, swaying on his feet, and two of his buttons are missing; his red cummerbund is askew. "Hey, have you seen my wallet?" he asks. "It's black and made from the skin of a dead alligator and it's got five hundred dollars in it? I put it down somewhere but I can't remember where."
"Sorry," Arthur says. "I just got here."
Robert nods. Arthur watches him come up to Nash, whom Arthur sat next to in bio last year, pestering him with the same question about his wallet.
Eames whistles, watching as Robert is carted off to the side by a bemused Mr. Saito. "God, I missed this place," Eames says. "There's nothing quite like it, is there? Chastity clubs, paedophilic teachers," He casts a sly glance in Mr. Saito's direction. "Tell me, who's Saito bedding now?"
"Robert," Arthur says without a hint of humor. "That guy earlier."
"Oh," Eames says. He makes a thoughtful noise. "Not that I condone the man's behavior but, I can see why he'd want to, to borrow an American phrase, 'tap that'."
"What," Arthur says.
Eames winks. He heads to the buffet table and fills his plate high with finger food, waving jovially at the teachers who look surprised to see him there. Arthur's getting several looks too, some of them unfriendly, for showing up in a band shirt and with a quickly drying wet spot in his pants.
"You were right about Prom." Eames says, "Your Prom, at least. This is so bloody boring it makes watching paint dry fun again. Abba cover band, no theme whatsoever." He clicks his tongue. "I went to Prom dressed as a Jack Sparrow, Arthur! Do you know who that man is? Greatest pirate of the seven seas, that one. A bit gay, but. The happy kind. We had a nautical theme that year, for prom. Great fun. And I was Prom king, you know."
"Oh, I know," Arthur says. He remembers. Eames rang his doorbell five times the morning after his Prom, wearing a crown made out of cardboard, spray-painted a glossy gold. Arthur never got to see the pirate costume because Eames had dressed down to jeans and a white button-down shirt. There was eyeliner smeared in remnants around his eyes, fanning out into wings across the bridge of his nose and he smelled a little bit like sweat and alcohol and other things but Arthur invited him inside the house anyway because his parents were gone and it was nice, sometimes, to have Eames over to talk to, even though there hadn't been a lot of talking done that morning; Eames fell asleep on the sofa five minutes after Arthur disappeared to see if they had any orange hostess cupcakes left in the cupboard.
"Do you want to leave?" Eames asks. He's done eating, stuffing his hands inside his pockets, hunching his shoulders a little.
"Unless you want to dance," Arthur says, which isn't really his main concern right now. Eames tugs him by the wrist towards the dance floor which is rapidly filling with people with bad coordination.
"Do you want to dance?" Eames asks.
"Eames," Arthur says. He looks at the hand closed around his wrist and Eames' earnest face. And he kind of wants to, you know, dance, but maybe just a little. Maybe one dance. "They're playing Super Trooper," he says lamely. "I hate Abba."
"Oh, good." Eames laughs. "I thought you hated all kinds of music."
"Not all kinds of music. Just Swedish pop," Arthur says. "But not here," he repeats, and he's a little pink in the face, sweating in his hairline, because Eames is rubbing his thumb across his knuckles, slow, broad, figure eights.
"At home," he says, and when Eames flashes him a wicked grin, he amends, smiling slowly, "Maybe. With the right kind of music. No 80s pop."
*
"I am going to show you a good time," Eames says.
The last time he said this, there was German pornography involved and a very confused stripper wearing a donkey costume, so Arthur doesn't trust him, not really. He waits in the limo, twiddling his thumbs in his lap and rubbing his knees, pretending to study the interior while Eames hurriedly disappears inside the house.
The driver, Yusuf, is idly flipping through a magazine. He doesn't look up when he speaks. "I never even went to Prom, you know," he says, "I hated everyone in my high school; they were all dicks. They sucked dick too. I think this is more or less why I felt like I didn't fit in. I wasn't only un-athletic, I was straight too."
Arthur leans forward in his seat. "You look kind of familiar. Weren't you in Eames' graduating class?"
Yusuf laughs. Just then Eames appears by Arthur's open window, grinning, gesturing for him to come inside.
"Sorry," Arthur says, nodding at Yusuf, although he isn't sure why he just said that. He trots up along the driveway, frowning when his shoes crunch against rose petals that should've been disposed of an hour ago. He looks up when Eames stops him with a hand on his arm. His touch is firm and his palm seeps warmth where it closes around the bend of Arthur's elbow.
"I want you to close your eyes first," Eames says, moving around Arthur to stand behind him. Arthur is acutely aware of his back touching Eames' chest and Eames' breath moving across the folds of his neck, making the hair there stand on end.
Arthur straightens his spine quickly, startling a little when his shoulder hits Eames' chin and Eames laughs.
And then Eames is cupping both hands over his eyes, so close Arthur can smell his sweat and cologne. He likes it, he decides, and leans back a little to catch more of his body heat.
"Walk," Eames instructs, voice low. His lips touch the back of Arthur's ear and Arthur feels all his synapses firing.
He does what he is told and ambles forward awkwardly. He doesn't bump into anything, except Eames, who, in the space of the next second, has suddenly pressed himself against Arthur's back. And he's warm, really really warm, broad and firm, and Arthur seriously wants to kiss him.
Eames takes a sudden step back, releasing him. The sofa and some of the furniture have been pushed back from the center of the room. There are tiny Christmas lights blinking from the walls, held there with duck tape, and a bowl of pretzels and chips is sitting on the coffee table, next to a pair of mismatched mugs and a half-empty bottle of champagne.
"Ta-da!" Eames says. "Well?"
Arthur bursts out laughing and shakes his head. He scoops a handful of pretzels from the bowl and bounces a little on the sofa, watching the lights change color as he chews thoughtfully.
"This is nice. Wow. I mean. Eames. Why?" He brushes crumbs off his lap and glances up and Eames is looking at him all dopey-eyed like he's about to do something infinitely stupid. And Arthur's right. Five seconds later, Eames is taking Arthur's hand and fastening a corsage around his wrist. There are frosty beads of water on the little white flowers, and it's like they've just been placed there by an eye dropper.
"Okay," Arthur says, not sure what else to expect, but his stomach is flipping oddly like so many other times, close-calls, when Eames absently touches him on the knee or pushes his hair back while they watch TV together in his living room.
"Your turn," Eames says.
"What?" Arthur raises both his eyebrows when Eames hands him a boutonniere. It's unfair, he thinks. "And I get the fucking corsage, Eames? What the fuck," but he's pinning it to Eames' tux, hoping the needle pierces his skin. It doesn't, and Eames just stands there grinning, gorgeous and perfect, his hair drooping a little to the side, which he pushes back unsuccessfully.
"I have another surprise," Eames says.
"More pretzels? Yum."
Eames shoots him a dirty look. He picks up the remote from the sofa and points it at the stereo, and oh god, Arthur thinks, he's a little bit in love.
"No fucking way. This is my favourite song!" He jabs Eames in the shoulder. "How did you know?"
"I just know you," Eames says, laughing. Arthur bobs his head to The Cure's Just Like Heaven, mouthing the lyrics: show me, show me, show me how you do that trick the one that makes me scream she said. He flushes when he catches Eames staring, ducks his head.
"I know you like the back of my hand, Arthur, which, to be quite frank, my penis happens to be well-acquainted with also."
"I didn't have to know that."
"I'm sorry."
Arthur laughs. "Are you going to ask me to dance or what?"
"To Just Like Heaven? Oh god, no. Unlike some people, I have bad coordination. None of us have killer dance moves like you."
Arthur punches him gently on the shoulder, rolling his eyes. "Wait a bit," Eames says, holding up a finger. He bites his lip, and then: "There," he says, grinning. The track changes. Close To Me, slower, but not too slow, another one of Arthur's favourites from The Cure. The lyrics are rather apt, Arthur thinks: I've waited hours for this, I've made myself so sick, I wish I'd stayed asleep today.
Eames extends a hand, smiling. Arthur takes it with a roll of his eyes but it's not like he isn't completely charmed. He knows exactly where to put his hands, his chin; Eames too. His arms go around Arthur's waist, his hands fold over the small of Arthur's back.
Up close, with his cheek resting lightly on Eames' shoulder and his hands curved over the planes of Eames' back, Arthur's breathing settles. He sighs a little, tightening his grip around the width of Eames' shoulders.
"I'm sorry this is tacky," Eames says softly into his ear.
"Are you kidding? It's great," Arthur says, voice low too, hushed. He means it. Arthur doesn't want to talk over the song, but he also doesn't want this moment to ever end; things have a way of passing him by often. There's been plenty of near-misses, times when he wished he'd said or done something else.
"Really?" Eames is speaking into his cheek, the bristles of his stubble brushing his skin, making him shiver.
"Really," Arthur says.
When the song ends, Eames cups the back of Arthur's head, working his hair apart into sections with his fingers. But he doesn't kiss him, although Arthur is kind of hoping he will, soon, soon.
"I have something for you. One last thing," Eames says. He disappears out the front door and doesn't come back until five minutes later, panting, a thin film of sweat covering his face. He's hiding something behind his back, and when he finally lifts it into view, Arthur laughs, hard.
It's Eames' Prom King crown from two years ago.
"What the hell," Arthur says as Eames tugs him forward by the wrist and fits the crown over his head. It's not so glorious now, the spraypaint gone a dull shade of brown, but it's perfect, it really is, even though it goes all the way down Arthur's forehead, flattening his hair over his eyes. He blinks.
Friday, I'm In Love plays and Arthur laughs again, tipping back his head.
"What is this, a mixtape?" he says, pulling Eames forward by the lapels, fingers linked around his neck.
"A mix CD," Eames corrects him, shaking his head, "God, so archaic, Arthur, with your VCRs and your mixtapes-"
Arthur closes a hand over his mouth to get him to stop talking. He feels Eames smile behind his hand, lips stretching; the corners of his eyes crease, eyes narrowing softly.
"Come on already," Arthur says, "Whatever it is you're thinking, just do it."
"All right," Eames concedes, nodding, and then he's kissing Arthur, lips warm and soft, and Arthur thinks, for Prom night, this is actually pretty cool.