Prompt Post No. 12
Welcome to Round 12 of the Inception Kink Meme.
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Hope school’s going well. Things are coming together pretty quickly with the studio; it’ll be a couple of weeks yet before it opens but there’s going to be an exhibition on the 10th at 11am if you want to come along and watch. You can pick up some paperwork too, if you’re still keen.
Cheers,
E
A perfectly acceptable letter opening like ‘dear’ shouldn’t make his stomach do triple saltos, but it does anyway. As badly as he just wants to reply with an unequivocal yes, Arthur takes the few seconds to check his school diary. The tenth is a Saturday in a week and a half, so he writes the time in before picking up his netbook again and sending an email he hopes sounds sufficiently nonchalant but still interested.
He starts shutting down as he calls Ariadne, because honestly, he’s not going to get any more work done now.
“Heya Arthur. What’s up?”
“I just got another email,” he says, slipping his netbook into its case one-handed. “There’s going to be an exhibition on the tenth at the new studio.”
“Is Eames going to be performing?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.” Arthur hopes so though. He really, really hopes so. “You’re coming with me right?”
“No, Arthur. I have much more important things to do like English homework and painting my toenails.”
“It’s at eleven in the morning,” Arthur adds helpfully, ignoring the sarcasm.
“I am writing it in my diary as we speak,” Ariadne says. “You had better introduce me.”
Arthur makes a derisive noise. “Can you imagine what a big deal it’s going to be? It’s been pretty quiet so far, but I think that’s because he hasn’t really said anything about it. But it’s an exhibition to promote it, so.” He slings his satchel over his shoulder and heads for the door. “I really doubt he’s going to have time to glance sideways at me, if he even remembers what I actually look like.”
“He remembered to send you an email,” she points out.
He refuses to listen to the hopeful little voice in the back of his mind. “Bye, Ari.”
As much as Arthur pretends to be disaffected, he’s restless all week. He starts jogging on the second, getting up before the sun even has time to melt the frost off the grass and stopping in the park a few blocks down to use the kid’s jungle gym to stretch on. He’s reasonably flexible; ever since he was old enough to copy his older sister’s stretches he’s kept up the exercises to be decently limber. But he’s not that great, and he needs all the practice he can get.
The exercise burns off tension he doesn’t really want to jerk off to get rid of, not when he’s planning on having sensible conversations with the primary source of his teenage sexual frustration in the near future. Arthur would much rather associate Eames with ‘stretching and exercise’ than with ‘coming like a freight train’.
It works, mostly. He’s still overly concerned with his hair before he leaves home on the tenth, debating between leaving down like he has it most of the time or slicking it back like he does when he wants to look more mature.
Arthur slicks it back.
He meets Ari at her house because it’s on the way, and she gives him an appreciative whistle. “Why, Arthur. Got someone you’re looking to impress?”
“Shut up,” he mutters, stuffing his hands in his pockets as they fall into step.
“You look good,” she soothes.
There’s definitely already a crowd when they arrive, but not so much that they can’t get a decent vantage point. Arthur glances around as they take their seats.
“It’s just the spring floor,” he says. “They’re probably only going to do showy floor stuff today, not any of the other apparatus.”
Ariadne nods like their older sisters weren’t best friends and gymnasts in highschool and she doesn’t already know just as much about the sport as he does. She knows how much he likes to explain shit.
Eames doesn’t introduce the show, but with a little craning of his neck Arthur can see him down on the floor, off to the side. He’s clean shaven now, like Arthur’s used to seeing him on TV, but he’s left his hair a little long. It looks really good on him, but Arthur quashes the thought.
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