*how to put the fun in dysfunctional (two)
for distracterisey;
thank you for the amazing extra art ♥
how to put the fun in dysfunctional
prequel of sorts
By hipokras
Inception. Arthur x Eames. pg-13. humour, fluff.
"Did you hear about the fourth-former who set off an explosion in the Chem lab?"
"New kid, he was, right?"
"The American, you mean."
"Is he? That explains it."
Grave and serious nodding accompanied this. They did gratuitously burst a lot of crackers on their Independence Day.
Arthur had heard every possible rumour about himself at this point. The stories went on to tell how he'd single-handedly concocted a Molotov Cocktail using the chemistry lab supplies, during class no less, and set it off by accident, nearly scorching balding Professor Brownin g's toupee. His amusement was only doubled by the fact that he'd never known Professor Browning wore a toupee.
Thus began his school career, with the reputation that he was an arsonist. Wherever he went, down to meals in the hall, he was greeted as "Pyro Arty." Everyone knew him, from the biggest boys to the smallest shrimps running around doing chores for the biggest boys. These inevitably wanted to do Arthur's chores for him as well.
"Will you knock it off?" he'd snapped when a particularly persistent junior named Tom refused to leave him alone. Tom routinely broke into his rooms, tidying up everything in sight (a feat considering how neat Arthur already was.) "It's called stalking, and the police don't like it any more than I do."
Tom would be unfazed, grinning cheekily. "I'll take that risk. I'm told that you might set fire to more school property if an eye isn't kept on you."
Only then did it occur to Arthur that Tom could be on a senior student's payroll.
"Who is it?" he demanded, the next time he walked into his room for a book, only to find Tom poking around in the corners with a broom. The younger boy turned around innocently, and blinked. "Who's putting you up to spy on me?"
The angelic look on the other's face was extremely suspect. "I was told you'd be asking that, Pyro Arty." (Arthur gritted his teeth and let the nickname slide.) "And so, I've come to offer you a bargain."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. Someone had been watching far too many spy movies. Or even mafia. Because evidently there could not be too much of mobster movies in pop culture. He asked in a deadpan, "What is your offer that I can't refuse?"
"I'm surprised you're being so reasonable," said Tom thoughtfully, crossing the floor, broom in hand still. "He's willing to let you know his name… if you do him a little… favour."
He knew he'd want to kick himself later. He sighed. "Name your price."
*
Gingerly, Arthur closed the door behind him, extra cautiously, so as not to trip up anything he had so elaborately set up. It was well dark by now, and the school building was dimly lit in the corridors, the classrooms dark and silent. The Chemistry lab seemed, now more than ever, like Frankenstein's favourite hobby house.
Click, click went the sound of the guard through the corridor beyond, on his scheduled seven-o'-clock patrol. A flashlight beamed bobbed over the shadows, and Arthur slowly crept down the opposite direction. This is what he was reduced to- sneaking around the school, laying groundwork for other students' pranks so that he could find out who was messing around with his life. Dammit, if he was going star in a mafia movie, it should certainly have a bigger budget!
Getting out of here wasn't going to be as hard as getting in. He knew how to easily evade the guard, and he'd made it down to the end of hallway, waiting to make sure that the guard had gone to the floor above. The click, click of shoes sounded like a tap-dancer's, as the guard headed for the stairs. Arthur was about to make a run for it, when a classroom door opened and someone stepped out.
*
He was, Eames swore silently to himself, never going to forgive Pritchard. Given that the fellow was his best mate and all, but still. How stupid did one have to be to forget their copy of Busty Ladies in their desk in class.
"Will you stop hopping like a rabbit?" someone had snapped irritably on the tennis court, when it struck Pritchard like an epiphany where his magazine had gone. He'd had a complete meltdown, a panic attack at the thought of the seven-o'-clock guard finding the damn thing as he made a sweep of all the classrooms. When Pritchard went completely nutters and started babbling about being suspended, Eames had stepped in quickly and promised to rescue the magazine before the guard did.
Forgiveness my arse, he grumbled mentally. It was seven o' clock, he was breaking rules by being in the school building after hours, there was a cornucopia of... adult literature stuffed up his shirt, and he was staring at the back of an underclassman's head as he tried to sneak away.
Oh, and he was a Prefect.
It was then that the underclassman, alerted by some tiny sound, swivelled around in shock. Eames found himself blinking at a familiar face. He raised a hand in a reflexive wave, and Busty Ladies slid down to the floor.
Dammit.
"Hello, Arthur," he said, grinning weakly.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Arthur looked wild, panicked, and extremely suspect. A big clue was the fact that he usually never cursed. Eames's had known Arthur through their families for a long time, and he never forgot the first impression the younger boy had made on him.
Eames's second clue that Arthur wasn't glad to see him was that the junior leapt on him and tackled him to the floor.
At first, he thought Arthur was reaching for the Busty Ladies at his feet, and embarrassment overrode common sense. He dived for the magazine at the same time, and Arthur collided into him, sending them crashing into the classroom door. Which hit the wall with a bang.
"Who's there?" demanded a suspicious male voice.
Eames shot Arthur an alarmed glance. "Hide!" he hissed.
"I was trying to, you dolt," Arthur whispered back. He looked back at the classroom, wondering if it would be safe. Eames shook his head, jerkily. It would be the first place the guard would look. Click, click, clack. Eames seized the other boy by the wrist and dragged him across the floor and through a door.
It whooshed shut, and there was the tinkle of glass shattering. Arthur had three nano-seconds to recognise the tinkle before the stench of rotten eggs hit him. "Crap," he sighed. They were in the Chemistry lab.
*
"Hydrogen sulphide. Hydrogen sulphide." No matter how many times Eames repeated it, and with what inflection, the words still made no sense to him. "Why, in the name of a very sweet virgin called Mary, would you booby trap a place with hydrogen sulphide?"
"I was trying to get a second-grader to stop cleaning my room," admitted Arthur grudgingly. He kicked off his shoes, and sat down on a bench in the boys' showers, and started to work on his socks.
Eames looked at him askance. "You're supposed to let them do that for you, you know," he said warily, as though Arthur was in for a bit of culture shock. "It builds character and things like that." Arthur merely glowered at his feet.
They both smelled so bad, that after a while, they'd gotten used to each other's stench. It was a marvel the guard hadn't followed his nose to them. "I'm going to be using deodorant for the rest of my life," realised Arthur slowly, staring in horror at his shirt.
"Don't worry," Eames told him carelessly, popping the buttons of his own shirt with one hand. "Given some of the boys here, a little extra smell won't stick out. Hope there's still hot water." His regulation trousers dropped to the floor, his shirt following. He stepped casually out of his clothes, headed for the closest shower. Arthur politely averted his eyes, and soon there was the sound of running water, and Eames whistling merrily to himself.
Faults he had in plenty, (Arthur thought, unusually red-faced,) but a fine derrière was not one of them.
*
Eames had made it through the first ten minutes of Geography before he was summoned by the Headmaster. To his relief, Arthur wasn't there. If he was honest, he was only surprised that it took so long for him to be caught. Only so many people were going around smelling like a week-old carton of stale eggs.
Disappointed in you. What have you got to say for yourself? And you, a Prefect. We expected better. Eames had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from being cheeky. This wasn't the first time since his investiture that he'd orchestrated a prank. Eventually, he was released with a warning, because it was the first time he was caught.
Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It won't happen again, sir. He walked out, poorly concealing a grin. And that was where he found Arthur: hovering outside the Headmaster's office, looking guilt-wracked. One look at his pinched face told Eames Arthur was contemplating turning himself in.
"Hello, Arty," he greeted loudly, deliberately using the obnoxious hated nickname.
Arthur mumbled a distracted response. Eames knew then that reasoning with him was useless. Fair enough, he liked the other, more nebulous plan of action in his head anyway. He manoeuvred Arthur out of sight from the office, pulled him into the shadow of a wall, and kissed him. Arthur momentarily forgot to be guilty, and punched Eames in shocked reflex instead.
*
"He's going to be alright, isn't he?" Arthur asked the school nurse for the fifth time in three minutes. She glanced exasperatedly up at him from her desk, and nodded. "So can I visit him now?" She looked pinched, undecided, but the obstinate look on this student's face quickly made her reconsider. She nodded.
Eames was sitting up on a bed, holding an icepack to the side of his face. He brightened when Arthur came in. The blow hadn't been that hard, but Arthur's fist had glanced off his cheekbone and crashed near his eye. "Oh god, I am so sorry," he blurted, dropping any of his usual stoic calm, rushing to Eames's side.
"Hey, I deserved some of it," chuckled the older boy. He resisted involuntarily when Arthur tried to part the hand against his face. Arthur gently brushed him aside, and repositioned the icepack better, holding it there. Eames let his body relax, amused at himself.
"No, no," murmured Arthur, carefully avoiding his gaze, "you didn't. You just, uh, took me by surprise. Thanks by the way." His dark eyes met Eames's head on this time, conveying a wealth of meaning and surprised gratitude, that the latter knew had nothing to do with that failed attempt at a kiss. "I owe you."
"Yeah, well. Never mind." Arthur's hand was warm, pressed up against his face like that. A tiny shudder of pleasure racked Eames's frame as Arthur shifted imperceptibly, immediately moving much closer into Eames's personal space. He found that he didn't mind the intrusion at all.
"Well, I do. I do owe you, and I am grateful." Other hand cupping Eames's unbruised cheek, Arthur leant in so close that Eames that could feel lashes brushing against his skin. Arthur's lips pressed against his, tentatively, and Eames's nearly parted. He found himself leaning away, cursing his wanton impulses and his inner gentleman both as he did.
Surprise and humiliation flashed across Arthur's face, but it disappeared faster than lightning. His expression was neutral again, and he had stepped back, holding up the icepack against Eames's face. Eames had never felt worse.
"Listen," he began ineffectually, reaching for Arthur's hand. The other boy shifted out of his reach. "You shouldn't because you feel obligated. That's not what I was trying to do to you earlier, either."
Arthur didn't seem to have heard. "Is the ice working?" he asked instead, switching his grip on the pack. Eames nodded. He welcomed the tiny sign of proximity, ignoring how selfish he was probably being.
"I've always wanted to do that," he went on, though probably to himself. Arthur didn't seem to believe him, not that he'd stopped feigning deafness. "How about we bunk the rest of the day, and head out to London. You and me. It'll be fun."
"You're a Prefect." Arthur looked mildly scandalised by the suggestion of breaking rules.
"So?" countered Eames, unperturbed.
"Doesn't that badge mean something to you?"
"It means I get to lord it over juniors."
Despite himself, Arthur laughed. Then realisation hit. Oh, crap. Tom.
"Tom?" repeated a delighted Eames, and Arthur immediately looked at him suspiciously. "You've met him, have you? Real treat he is. Keeps giving me daily reports about this fourth former I told him to keep tabs on." His eyes were twinkling, and Arthur's suspicion deepened. "He's a resourceful one, too. Also a science whiz. In retrospect maybe the Chem lab business-"
"Wasn't my fault?" finished Arthur, giving Eames his dirties look. "Here," he muttered, dropping the icepack into Eames's lap. He resolutely the laughter in the background, striding out of the infirmary. He sincerely hoped that icepack would freeze Eames's future lineage to death.
*
Arthur ransacked his room for the first time since he'd last discovered Tom in there. The past day and half was a complete blur, and now he began to discover cleaning hadn't been Tom's only forte. The bag of Snickers bars were discovered in his desk drawer. He would have been flattered if it hadn't been mildly creepy. How had Eames figured out his favourite candy so fast? Scratch that- how had Eames discovered his weakness so fast? Stupid question.
On the other hand, he found the note in his cupboard. It was scribbled on a Post-It, stuck gently to a pile of freshly laundered clothes. He recognised them as the uniform he'd been wearing last night.
"You, me, a bus to London," he read aloud, staring at Eames's familiar scrawl. "Because candlelit dinners are cliché anyway."
-- finis --
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