Prompt Post No. 12
Welcome to Round 12 of the Inception Kink Meme.
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For the little things, maybe, but-if Father Dominick’s silence was anything to go on-not for the big things. Not unless he was willing to ship off to East Jesus Nowhere and submit himself to Homosexuals Anonymous, or whatever they called those summer camps where they sent kids like him to be "reformed." And for what? So he could come back talking like Arthur, all hot air and self-righteous bigotry? No thanks.
There hadn’t been any noise on Father Dominick’s side of the confessional for a while. Robert nudged the partition with his foot.
“Hey, did you die in there, Father?”
There was a rustling noise as Father Dominick resituated himself. Signs of life, at last. “Don’t sound so cheerful about it, Robert.”
"You know, I don’t think you’re supposed to use my name in here.” Any excuse to change the subject. What had he even been thinking? Oh, that’s right-he hadn’t been thinking. Not with anything above the waist.
“I’m pretty sure this is supposed to be an anonymous confession.”
"Of course. Forgive me, my son."
“I think it’s Jesus you want to be asking for forgiveness, Father. Not me. But I understand how you might mix us up. It’s all in the eyes. Or so I’m told.”
Father Dominick heaved a sigh. "The lord will not be mocked.”
Maybe it was just his imagination, but Robert could have sworn there were a few extra syllables tacked onto the end there that sounded suspiciously like “you little shit.” Which was just perfect, really.
"Sorry, Father," he said, barely restraining his laughter. He added, "Sorry, Jesus" for good measure.
"He already died once for your sins," Father Dominick replied dryly. "One get-out-of-jail-free card's all you're getting."
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
Father Dominick lapsed into silence again, something that wasn’t unusual for him but was making Robert nervous as fuck today. Robert knew it was just his way of giving him time to reflect and gather his thoughts, but that was cold comfort when you were trying to force your thoughts to scatter like so many wayward lambs.
He'd been thinking of Eames entirely too much lately, to use the term loosely. He didn’t really count the hours he’d logged at the Whackoff Warehouse among his contemplative efforts. Still, even his authentic mental deliberations all seemed to center around Eames, even though that ship had as good as sunk the last and only time they'd spoken. He'd blown it, all right. Not that he'd ever had any real chance in the first place.
He was just some dumb rich kid who lived next door to Eames. No one important or interesting or capable of engaging him, whatever that meant. It was actually pretty fucking depressing, when he thought about it. But when you spent approximately 97% of your time crushing on thirty-something ex-pat mechanics, heartache wasn't exactly unprecedented.
Robert buried his face in his hands with a groan. Today was a day for sobbing along to infomercials and eating marshmallow fluff straight from the jar-not for going to confession.
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“Okay, smart guy, what do I need?”
“A friend.”
Oh.
He probably should have seen that one coming, but it still stung. It wasn’t like he didn’t have friends. He just-okay, no, it was exactly like he didn’t have friends. Most days, it suited him just fine. He didn’t want to pal around with a bunch of Jesus-freaks anyway. Still, his feelings erred more on the side of resigned than content. It hadn’t been any choice of his, after all, but Arthur’s smear-campaign that had effectively lowered him to the status of Untouchable in the eyes of the majority of the student body, aside from the occasional Neanderthal who took “gay” to mean “interested in anything that breathes and has a cock.”
Even he had standards when it came to his bodily orifices.
“Is there something you want to talk about, Robert?” Father Dominick asked after several torturously long minutes. “Off the record, I mean.”
"That might pose a problem, given an omnipresent, omniscient god."
Father Dominick laughed. He'd evidently given up on confessional decorum a long time ago. "You have a good sense of humor, Robert."
"Thanks, I guess.” He was glad Father Dominick couldn’t see the stupidly vibrant shade of red his face had no doubt turned. Compliments were strictly rationed in the Fischer household. “So, are we done here?”
“It’s your decision.”
He wasn’t about to admit it, but sometimes he kind of hated the moments the adults in his life chose to treat him like he was actually a responsible human being. They always seemed to pick the worst moments, when he just wanted someone to tell him what to do and spare him the trouble of dealing with the particulars.
Fortunately, Father Dominick seemed to take the hint.
“I think that’s all for today,” he said, standing and brushing off his robes. “I absolve you of your sins. You may go in peace.”
It seemed too good to be true. “What, no penance?”
"I think you have enough on your plate for a while. You could do with a little fresh air and sunshine."
"See you at practice tomorrow?"
"Ten. Don't be late. And Robert?”
“Yeah?”
“You know you can talk to me about anything that’s on your mind, okay? You don’t need to come to confession for me to listen.”
"Sure, okay," he said. "Maybe I'll take you up on that sometime.”
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A/N: Whew. That's all for tonight folks. I hope you've enjoyed the digression. We'll get back to your regularly scheduled Eames-perving shortly. :DDDDDD
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Practice was uneventful, beyond Yusuf tossing his cookies in the goalie net, thanks to poorly aimed kick from yours truly. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Really, it was kind of an occupational hazard when you regularly had balls flying toward you at something like 60mph, but who wanted to take the blame for putting the goalie out of commission three days before a big game? Not him.
Robert had delivered a mumbled apology and cut out early under the pretense of a migraine. He wasn't much good to anyone today, anyway. Confession had stirred up a lot of feelings he wasn't particularly keen on exploring at the moment, or maybe ever, and he hadn't managed to get enough consecutive minutes together to jerk off for almost twelve hours, which was practically a lifetime when you were sixteen and, in terms of danger, roughly equivalent to carrying a loaded gun with the safety off and a sticky trigger-finger.
He wondered if Eames owned a gun. He seemed like the type, sort of thuggish and about a hundred different kinds of bad news, the fact that he lived in the same neighborhood as a bunch of stock-trading suits like Robert's dad notwithstanding. Then again, guns were a little passé these days. You could get away with owning one if you were part of the mafia or some backwoods redneck out in the boonies, but for anyone else it was just in poor taste.
Anyway, on second thought, Eames actually looked more likely to use his fists than anything else. He probably fought dirty as hell, too, getting in bar fights for the hell of it and letting guys land punches just to feel the rush of adrenaline. The image of Eames, one eye black, lip split, chin slicked with blood, was definitely not turning him on. Nope. Not even a little bit.
In fact, he was completely over Eames. Totally, definitely over him. Eames had been nothing more than a passing fad. He was history. He was… also standing out in his driveway.
"Damn it!" Robert swore. He dove into a random lawn, ducking behind an especially large and ugly lilac bush.
So maybe it was going to take a little longer to get over it than he’d thought.
He peered out from behind the foliage, watching Eames straddle his bike. Gavin, his mind supplied helpfully. He rolled his eyes. Eames was probably one of those guys who named his penis, too; something stupid like Mr. Happy or Excalibur. How could he find that even remotely attractive? Clearly he needed his head examined. And if that failed to turn up any leads, he probably had a rogue gene somewhere in his DNA that predisposed him to be attracted to men he could never, ever bring home to his dad-even if they hadn’t suffered the tragic flaw of being, you know, men.
At least Eames wasn’t walking around half-naked today. Instead, he was wearing a perfectly serviceable white t-shirt and a leather jacket that didn’t press so much as hammer on Robert’s bad-boy buttons, even at this distance. This, he was forced to concede, was not a crime, unlike watching people from the bushes, which would probably earn him a couple weeks in a juvenile detention center, where they’d eat him alive.
He just wasn’t cut out to be a badass. Not by a long shot. Maybe that was why Eames wasn’t interested in him. Robert frowned into a clump of lilacs, nostrils filled with the fresh, floral scent of loserdom. He didn’t even know what the hell Eames was doing, just sitting there on his bike like he was waiting for something. Or someone. His boyfriend, maybe.
Any boyfriend of Eames was bound to be 6’2”, built like a rugby player, and skilled in the art of chain-smoking. Gangly teenagers need not apply. Robert tore his eyes away and shrugged it off. Whatever. So Eames didn't think he was worthy of debauching. So what? Arthur had quite enjoyed his fumbling attempts at hand-jobs, thank you very much. If Eames didn't want one, fine. His loss.
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What he had failed to taken into account was whether or not it was Eamesproof.
“Robert! Hey!”
Well, that answered that question.
He was not going to dignify that with a response. And whatever else Eames said, he was absolutely not going to turn around, because that meant admitting defeat. No, he was going to march straight inside, close the door, and channel all his stress into rearranging the furniture.
“Bobbyyyy,” Eames called, sing-song. “Oi, Bobby! Give us a moment, would you?”
Robert stared longingly at his front door and sighed. Damn Eames and his stupid good looks and his stupid bike and his stupid everything. Whatever he had to say had better be worth it, damn it.
"I know you can't be talking to me, since I explicitly told you not to call me Bobby."
“Did you now?” Eames cocked his head, face screwed up in mock-thought. He scratched at what looked like two or three days worth of scruff. Robert found himself struck by the sudden urge to rub his cheek against it. “Funny, I don’t remember that at all.”
“Maybe you should ask your doctor about that," he suggested. "Short-term memory loss is one of the warning signs of dementia.”
Eames just laughed and waved him over. “C’mere, brat. I’ve got something for you.”
That sounded promising. But just in case, Robert made sure to stomp his way over. Initially, at least. By the end, it had become something more akin to an awkward shuffle. Couldn't blame him for trying.
He put on his best glare. "What do you want?"
Wordlessly, Eames thrust a bike helmet at him.
"What's this?"
"Well, it's a bloody helmet, isn't it. Surely you've seen one before."
"I know it's a helmet, moron." Honestly. How dumb did Eames think he was? "What am I supposed to do with it?"
Eames grinned and patted the seat behind him on the bike. "Throw it on and hop on. I'll take you for a spin."
Though those words were going to do a marvelous job occupying his imagination later, Robert had to admit they sounded pretty awesome in-context. They did not, however, sound anything at all like something the Eames who had basically given him the finger during their last encounter would say. That put a slight damper on his excitement.
In the interim, Eames had lit a cigarette and sat watching him expectantly. "So?"
"What makes you think I want to get on your stupid bike-"
"Gavin," Eames interjected. “His name is Gavin.”
"-and let you drive me into a tree or something?” He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “No way. Can you even legally drive in this country?"
"What are they teaching you lot these days?"
The usual. Math, English, History... a side of genuflection. Not any manners that he’d ever retained.
"Anyway, I thought you said I-" Robert used air-quotes for optimum effect "-couldn't handle you."
Eames’ eyes glittered mischievously. "Just leave the handling to me, then, yeah?"
“Um.” Smooth, Robert. Smooth. Not that he could help it, given the way his body was responding to the not-entirely-accidental innuendo in that comment. “Okay.”
Well, two syllables was a slight improvement over one. He deserved credit for that.
Eames flicked his cigarette to the pavement and ground it out under the heel of his boot. A combat boot, to be exact.
“So, are you coming or what?”
Robert hesitated. On the one hand, he could distinctly remember being warned off people who wore combat boots, rode motorcycles, had bad tattoos, and who could smoke a Marlboro to the filter in less time than it took him to brush his teeth.
On the other hand… well, basically all the same things, really. Plus the accent, which was possibly the only feature of Eames his dad wouldn't mind.
A/N: More later today if I can manage. Hope you like it. :)
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damn Eames so suave
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“Your dad’s a bit of a tight-ass, isn’t he? You’ve got it written all over you,” Eames said, shaking his head. “Never lets you have any fun, does he?"
Robert shuffled his feet. “Sometimes?"
"What are you waiting for, then?"
"I don't know," he said, glancing back at the house. "I'm already kind of grounded for, uh, stuff."
"Stuff," Eames repeated. "Right. I guess I'll just be taking this trip by myself then. I'd like my helmet back, if you don't mind."
Robert stared down dejectedly at the red plastic. What the hell was he waiting for? His dad to give him permission? Not going to happen. Not in this lifetime, at least. So he was grounded. What was his dad going to do? Ground him, squared? Robert jammed the helmet on his head without a word and hopped up behind Eames. It was too big on him, but it would work.
"I see you've changed your mind," Eames said pleasantly.
"Yeah, well, I wouldn't want to miss a second of your wipeout."
"Cheeky little shit, aren't you? Well, come on, then. Gotta get you back before that tosser knows you've gone missing."
Eames started up his bike, the engine turning over roughly a few times before settling into a steady purr. He was just going to pretend that he wasn't blushing like an idiot, if that was okay with everyone. But this moment, with his arms around Eames' waist, was definitely making his top five most embarrassing/arousing/memorable experiences ever. Just saying.
"You wanna hang on tighter than that, love," Eames said over his shoulder, grinning. "Don't be shy. Nice and close, there's a good boy. All settled, then?"
"Hey, uh, are you sure this is safe?"
Eames laughed and revved the engine. "Would it be any fun if it were? Hang on tight, Bobby."
"My name is not-"
Even with the warning, he wasn't fully prepared for the rush of air that hit him. Eames made a pretty decent windshield, but Robert was still getting a good idea of what it must feel like to be a kite getting whipped around in a hurricane. Okay, so that was an exaggeration, but he couldn't even seem to keep his eyes open. Not that he wanted to, really, with the street flying by so fast he was already dizzied by the constant stream of scenery. There was nothing for it but to cling even tighter-for safety, damn it-as they sped off.
"How do you like it?" Eames shouted over the noise. "'S great, isn't it?"
Great? It was fucking terrifying. That's what it was. Terrifying and absolutely exhilarating and, in a way, yeah, kind of great.
"Not bad," he yelled back. "Maybe you should slow down."
They were going awfully fast. Judging by the way Eames' shoulders were moving, he was laughing, but the sound of it was lost to the rumble of the engine and the whooshing of air parting all around them as the world became a peripheral blur. Robert buried his face between Eames' shoulder blades, cheek pressed into the sun-warmed leather.
"Hey, we've got a turn coming up. When I start to lean, you lean with me, all right?"
"Okay." He could do that.
"Now, don't panic, but you're going be leaning into the curve, all right?"
If Eames weren't so hulking, Robert was sure he would have squeezed all the air out of him. "What?"
"It's fine, yeah? Just trust me on this one."
Easy for him to say-he wasn't the one clinging desperately to a maniac on a motorcycle. If Eames was a good driver, and he hadn't really said either way, Robert really, really didn't want to know what poor driving looked (or felt) like. But Eames was the expert here, at least comparatively.
“All right,” Eames shouted, “first turn coming right up.”
He started to lean hard left and all of Robert’s internal panic meters went haywire as the pavement seemed to rush up to meet them. He was sure they were going to tip over and leave a giant, macabre smear all over the pavement-what the fuck, he wasn’t even in proper gear-but the feeling passed within seconds. They’d made it through the curve safe and sound, just like Eames had said.
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The next turn didn't make his adrenaline spike nearly as high as the first had. The third was even more, well, he didn't want to say unremarkable, so he'd just settle for less terror-inducing. After a while, he found, you got into the rhythm of it and stopped calculating risk assessment in your head. It wasn't relaxing by any means, but Robert didn't need any more of that in his life. He felt like he'd grown up in a plastic bubble or a padded room, the way his dad had tried to keep him from doing anything that had even a minimal risk of letting him actually experience something for himself.
And being pressed all along Eames' back, his knees scraping the rough denim of Eames' jeans, was definitely a perk. Quite literally, as it happened. Now that the initial fear of being on a motorcycle had passed, he was mildly concerned for the state of his briefs. Between Eames just being, well, Eames, and the near-constant vibration of the seat, Robert was about one bump away from coming in his pants, which would not be good. Not for his underwear drawer, which had seen a significant decrease in wearable pairs after Eames had moved in-completely unrelated, of course-, or his ability to show his face in public, or any other number of things.
Yeah, there was really nothing good about that, no matter how you looked at it.
"All right, I think we've maxed out your fun quota for today."
He blinked, rapidly. They had, it seemed, stopped moving at a neckbreaking pace. Actually, they weren't moving at all. They were back in Eames' driveway, completely stationary. Robert's arms felt wobbly like rubber as they slipped from Eames' waist. He got off the bike and stood there, looking at him with something almost like concern.
"Robert, you okay? You look a little shell-shocked."
"Huh? Oh, I'm fine. I'm fine. Nothing a few minutes on solid ground won't cure."
That, and a cold shower. For once, though, he was slightly more concerned about the former. He went to lift one leg off the bike and promptly went sprawling, his knees unable to hold him up. Eames caught him with a laugh and hauled him upright, supporting him with one arm around his waist.
"Happens to the best of us," he said. "I'll help you in. Come on."
Robert glowered at him. "I'm not a baby."
"Oh, come off it. I never said you were, so unless you'd like to crawl up your front steps, quit your whining."
"Fine."
But he didn't have to be happy about being treated like an invalid. Except for, privately, he kind of was. Not because he needed another person in his life who wasn't the least bit interested in treating him like someone capable of handling ordinary responsibilities-which wasn't Eames generally, anyway-but because it was just...nice. His dad wasn't affectionate, as a general rule, and most of the other people in his life (read: Father Dominick) would get strung up by the neck if they even thought about hugging him.
Eames didn't seem to give a shit either way. Robert kind of loved him for that.
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"You mind if I poke about in your fridge a little?"
"Go ahead."
Now that Eames was a whole three feet away, Robert kind of missed the contact. So maybe he'd leaned against Eames just a little more than was strictly necessary, but he was certain God could forgive him that one. And if he couldn't, well, who cared anyway? Eames sat next to him and pushed a can of Coke across the table, popping another open for himself and drinking-maybe more like slurping, honestly-it thirstily. He might have been concerned for the fact that this in no way kept him from being just as stupidly fond of Eames as he had been before, but they were past that point.
There wasn't enough blood north of his waistband to sustain a blush anyway.
"So," Eames said, "is it just you and your dad?"
"Yeah." He swallowed a mouthful of soda, throat suddenly dry.
"And your mum?"
He shrugged. "She left when I was eleven."
"That recently?" Eames slouched back and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. That's tough."
"What do you know about it anyway?"
"About you and yours? Nothing." He drained his can of Coke and pushed it away. "But my mum got sick when I was little and after that it was just me and my dad."
Robert twirled his soda can between his hands, stealing a glimpse at Eames out of the corner of his eye. "What was that like?"
"Awful," he laughed. "He was a right prick, my dad. He'd come home drunk off his arse and chase me around the house with a belt."
"Sorry."
Eames waved it off dismissively. "The arsehole's been dead for ages. And I don't miss him a bit."
He didn't know what to say to that. What did you say to that, really? 'I'm glad you don't miss your dead asshole of a dad' wasn't exactly the most sensitive commentary. And saying 'sorry' again wasn't at all appropriate. He settled for not saying anything at all, just thinking. His dad wasn't like that. A little negligent in some areas, a little overbearing in others, but ultimately okay. Not great, but definitely not the worst dad in the world. Better than a lot of them, Robert was sure.
Not that that kept him from thinking his dad was a stupid jerk half the time anyway. But Robert loved him. Most of the time.
"My dad's not that bad," he said, eventually. "Just strict, mostly. And kind of..." He hesitated. It wasn't that he didn't know exactly what his dad was. More that he wasn't certain he wanted to make the confession that came with it. Oh, what the hell. Eames wasn't going to judge. "Kind of homophobic?"
"Ah, one of those." Eames tapped his nose smartly. "Yeah, so was mine. He caught me snogging my best mate once and decided to take my bedroom door off the hinges."
Robert laughed, unable to help it. "Sorry, it's not funny-"
"Oh, no, it's funny," Eames assured him. "Now, anyway. At the time, I wanted to strangle the bastard, but it's okay. You can laugh."
"So, what did you do?"
Eames shrugged. "Started snogging him in maths instead."
"I bet your teacher appreciated that."
"Yeah, well, more than my dad, anyway. 'sides, I was shit at maths. There's no art to it. Just a bunch of bloody numbers and once you get far enough along, they start throwing in letters and symbols I can't even name. Anyway," Eames said, grin fading into something more serious, "about your dad. You shouldn't let it get to you. There's always going to be people who don't think what you're doing's not okay. It's shit, but that's the world for you, eh? You can't life your life for other people. You do that, and I guarantee you'll end up disappointed."
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"Okay, so-"
"Who in the world are you?"
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Robert looked over slowly, doing his best to keep his expression as guilt-free as possible. "Um, hi, dad."
For his part, Maurice looked like he was about to pop a cluster of blood-vessels in his face, he was so purple with rage. That was never a good sign. Neither was the fact that he was using Infuriatingly Calm Voice #2, entirely different from #1, which involved the Look of Mild Disapproval.
"Robert, who is this man?"
"Our next door neighbor?" So that sounded confident. "His name is Eames." Like Madonna, dad. What the hell. "Uh, Eames, this is my dad, Maurice Fischer."
Maurice pointedly ignored Eames, who looked entirely unperturbed by the whole situation. Robert hoped he had the sense to keep his mouth shut, because the last thing he needed right now was for the two of them to get into it.
His dad looked between the two of them for a moment. "And what is Mr. Eames doing over here, Robert?"
"Um..." Oh, shit. Why hadn't he come up with a story, just in case something like this happened? Where was his pessimism now? How could he have been so optimistic to think that everything would just work out perfectly when almost nothing ever worked out for him? "He, I, uh, we-"
"Robert here just had a bit of a spill on the sidewalk," Eames interrupted, smoothly, "and I was outside working on my bike, so I just wanted to see him in safely. Your son's a very nice boy, Mr. Fischer. Very polite." He raised his Coke can. "Even offered me something to drink for my troubles."
He pushed away from the table and stood, looking rather menacing next to his dad despite the fact that, if Robert were capable of objectivity, he'd be forced to admit that Eames was at least three inches shorter. Robert swallowed. There would be blood. He just knew it. Oh, god. This could not end well.
"I'm terribly sorry to have intruded," Eames said, rather convincingly. He gave Robert a sympathetic smile and clapped Maurice on the shoulder. "All right, well, you're probably going to want to put some ice on that knee. Catch you later, Bobby. Nice to meet you, Maurice."
Robert didn't think he'd ever seen his dad at a loss for words, ever. But there he was, standing there like a bullet train had just sped through their kitchen. Metaphorically speaking, it wasn't entirely inappropriate. No one talked to his dad with that kind of informality. Not unless they had good reason to, which meant they either signed his paychecks or were considered holy deities in the world of finance. Robert looked warily at him, looking for some kind of clue about how to proceed without incurring his unholy wrath.
"Dad?"
Well, that snapped him out of it. "Yes."
"Um, I'm going to go upstairs, okay? Father Dominick wants me to read up on something before our next practice." Not true, but it sounded a lot better than saying that he felt like he was wading in a pool of awkwardness and tension and just really wanted to jerk off, so could he please go now. "Is that...okay?"
Maurice's gaze was not focused on him. "I see he left his jacket here."
Robert hadn't even noticed. But there it was, lying on the table right where Eames had left it.
"I can go take it to him later. I'm sure he doesn't need it right this minute."
"You weren't on his motorcycle, were you?" he asked, in the same tone that someone else might use to ask if you'd been involved in ritualistic animal slaughter.
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"Horrible, noisy machines," his dad said with a faint grimace. "See that you don't. I don't want you hanging around that type."
"Okay, dad." Whatever you say. "How was work?"
"A mess, as usual. Every secretary they send me is completely incompetent. I don't know how they expect me to get anything done."
Robert toyed with his empty Coke can. "Yeah, me neither."
After a long stretch of silence, during which Robert quietly prayed for the earth to swallow him up and spare him his misery, Maurice cleared his throat. "I'll be in my office until dinner. I don't want to be disturbed, do you hear me?"
"Yes, dad."
Like that was anything new. Disturbing his dad while he was working was on par with kicking a sleeping tiger in the face. Not something he was stupid enough to do even under the most desperate of circumstances. Robert watched him go, waited until he was safely out of earshot, and then slumped down in his chair with a groan.
Crisis averted.
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A/N: Aaaaand, we've made it through another section! Phew. I hope you're all still enjoying the fic! More when I can manage. It's time for class, ahaha.
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