fic: Tell my love to wreck it all (1/2)
Title: Tell my love to wreck it all
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Word count: 10,800 words
Summary: Everyone thinks Arthur leads this perfect, idyllic life. Well, surprise, surprise, he doesn't.
Warnings: domestic abuse, suicidal themes
A/N: high school au written for this prompt (contains some spoilers) at inception_kink, now cleaned up and proofread several more times. and seriously, I have no idea what this fic even is anymore, because I was happily writing along and then Arthur and Eames (well, actually mostly Arthur) decided to get all dramatic on me and it all ended in me shaking my laptop and shouting "MY LIFE IS A SOAP OPERA" at the screen. but it's finished now, and by finished I really mean I just want to post this so I don't have to look at it anymore because I'm so done with tinkering around with it. that said, please enjoy :)
title borrowed from Bon Iver
It’s kind of funny how it always seems to work out like this, how it’s always the quiet ones, the happy ones, the ones who always seem to have everything together and know what they want that are the ones who are falling apart the most, the ones who hide the bruises under wide smiles and kind gestures, perfect grades and impeccable grace, the ones who refuse to break, refuse to give in until the weight of everything crushes them whole.
It’s kind of funny how you never notice the little things that may or may not have been slightly off until it’s too late, until they’re bleeding out on the floor and you have no idea what to do.
It’s kind of a funny thing.
Remember that.
---
“Ugh,” Dom sighs, banging his head against the lockers.
Arthur raises his eyebrow at his best friend and twists his combination into his locker. “Everything okay?” he asks, more amused than concerned. Dom has a tendency to be melodramatic about things. Arthur yanks his locker open and uses his free hand to catch the avalanche of books and binders and loose papers that tumble out.
“Does it look like I’m okay?” Dom cries. And alright, maybe not, Arthur thinks, but he still thinks Dom is being a little too dramatic. Dom bangs his head against the lockers again. “That math test ate my face. I’m not going to live to see the light of day again.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. Yup, Dom’s just being dramatic again. “I’ll bring yellow roses to your funeral,” Arthur says. He grabs the books he needs and then slams his locker shut before anything can fall out of the haphazard mess that is his locker.
Dom frowns. “You’re terrible,” he says, feigning a hurt expression. “I don’t even know why I’m friends with you.”
Arthur laughs. “You’re friends with me because I help you with your homework all the time,” he teases. “Without me, you’d be a lost cause.”
Dom squints. Arthur can’t really tell if Dom’s actually insulted or if he’s just trying to be ironic, so he just shakes his head at his friend and grins, far too amused with the situation.
“You coming over after school today?” Dom asks.
Arthur hums softly as he thinks, scanning over his schedule in his head. “Sure,” he says. “I just have a Student Council meeting to go to after school, and I think Eames has rehearsal today, so I’ll probably wait for him, but we’ll come over afterwards.”
Dom nods. Arthur smiles and doesn’t remind him that he has to be home by seven or his parents will flip out. Arthur doesn’t say that he can’t afford to get home late, not now, not so soon. He doesn’t say it because in a way, Dom already knows; he knows because he’s known Arthur for so long that he’s learned his way around Arthur, has pieced together the little things Arthur doesn’t say and come out with the whole story. It’s not something many people can say they’ve done. It’s not something many people care enough to put that much effort into, because sure, people like him and he’s lovely and opinionated and kind when it counts, but that’s all he is to them - a pretty face. There are only a couple people who’ve realized there’s far more to him than just that.
---
“Arthur!”
Eames’ cheery voice echoes loudly in greeting at Arthur as soon as he steps foot in the auditorium that doubles as the school’s theater. The student council meeting just let out a few minutes ago and Eames still has about forty-five minutes of rehearsal to go, so Arthur had planned on quietly slipping in and sitting in the back and getting some work done until rehearsal ended, but Eames has never been one to go along quietly with Arthur’s plans, so of course he’d interrupt the whole rehearsal just to greet Arthur as he walks in.
Arthur smiles and waves him back to his rehearsing, but Eames seems to have other plans and murmurs something to the director. A moment later, as Arthur is settling into a seat at the back of the auditorium so as not to be a distraction, Eames comes bouncing over, all wide smiles and careless energy.
“Hello,” Eames smiles, leaning over to press a quick kiss to the corner of Arthur’s mouth. “I missed you.”
Arthur suppresses a smile and forces himself to glare. “The fuck are you doing?” Arthur hisses, only half-succeeding in sounding as stern as he means to. “Aren’t you supposed to be rehearsing?”
“I have been rehearsing for an hour straight and I’ve been doing quite delightfully, thank you,” Eames says defiantly, sinking down into a seat next to Arthur, draping his arm across the back of Arthur’s chair and leaning in close. “I think I can spare a minute to say hello to my love.”
Arthur rolls his eyes and at least puts on a good show of attempting to focus on his English homework. He most certainly does not smile, not even when Eames very deliberately knocks his knees against Arthur’s.
“Oh come now, don’t be difficult,” Eames pouts in a way that makes his lips look ridiculous. Ridiculous and very, very appealing. His eyes are bright and lighthearted. “At least give me a proper kiss hello.”
Arthur can’t help he laugh that bubbles up at this and turns away from pretending to work to press his lips to Eames’. And it’s just meant to be a hey, how are you, I haven’t seen you a whole lot today sort of kiss, but then Eames is leaning into it, a hand coming up to rest at the back of Arthur’s neck as he licks his way into Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur can’t help the way he melts into it. He gets lost in the heat of Eames’ mouth, the familiar press of Eames’ fingertips against his skin, and it’s a moment before he comes to his senses enough to push Eames away, albeit with less force than he means to use.
“Go rehearse,” Arthur says, and his voice sounds too soft. “I’ll be waiting.”
Eames heaves an exaggerated sigh. “If you insist,” he says, feigning exhaustion, and drops a kiss onto Arthur’s forehead before getting up and heading off to run lines with his co-star, a tall, willowy girl by the name of Mal. They’re putting on a production of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night this year, and Mal is the Viola to Eames’ Orsino.
Arthur settles into his seat and flips his book open to the appropriate page to begin reading, letting the sound of their voices wash over him. Every so often he hears the familiar ring of Eames laugh, a barely audible but oh so distinctive to Arthur’s ears, and Arthur finds himself smiling despite himself.
---
Arthur remembers the first time he met Eames, two weeks into the first semester of his sophomore year, when Arthur had to mess around with his whole schedule to accommodate the history elective he’d wanted to switch into. He’d walked into class, third period on the very first day of the semester, and there Eames was, sitting right in the middle of the second row, tongue caught between his teeth as he scribbled furiously at the notebook in his lap. As Arthur sought out an empty seat for himself, Eames had smiled victoriously and turned his notebook around to show his friend and they shared a good laugh about some silly caricature Eames had drawn.
There was no reason for Arthur to notice Eames; he was nothing terribly out of the ordinary. But Arthur had felt himself inexplicably drawn to him and couldn’t seem to get away. Arthur had ended up claiming the seat right behind Eames, and he’d looked forward to third period for the rest of the year far more than he probably should have.
Eames had been a transfer student that year, Arthur remembers. He remembers the way comments about Eames would fly through the halls, how he had such a charming accent, how his eyes were so, so blue, and, Arthur’s favorite, how incredibly insightful he could be in class, even though his charismatic, could-care-less attitude seemed to argue otherwise. If there was one thing Arthur valued, it was definitely intelligence.
Arthur remembers, very distinctly, the first time Eames spoke to him. It was the fourth Monday of the semester, and Arthur had slid silently into his seat as per usual and begun taking out his things for class. He was quieter back then, younger, shyer; didn’t really know who he was or where he fit in, and Eames had leaned right over, all wide smiles and careless confidence and asked if he could borrow a pencil.
“Uh,” Arthur had said, very intelligently.
Eames had grinned, not bothered at all by Arthur’s painful awkwardness (later, Eames would tell him that he really found it quite endearing how much Arthur stumbled over his words and blushed and fidgeted in those early days, but Arthur will always look back at these moments and cringe).
“If it’s not too much trouble, I mean,” Eames had said, as if in apology. “I usually have a few with me, but I just can’t seem to find one in my bag.”
Arthur had blinked, taken a moment too long to respond, and then said simply, lamely, “Sure.” He’d handed Eames his good pencil (the other one, the stupid thing, kept breaking on him, but he didn’t tell Eames that), and Eames had smiled impossibly wider and leaned a little closer.
“I don’t believe we’ve been formally acquainted,” Eames had said. “I’m Eames.”
“Arthur,” Arthur had managed to get out, trying and failing to ignore how close Eames was to him, right in his personal space. His face had felt impossibly warm.
“Ah, well it’s lovely to meet you, Arthur,” Eames had said, sounding every bit like he meant it.
Arthur’s stomach had flipped at the way Eames’ voice had curled around the vowels in his name, making his perfectly ordinary, boring name sound like something rather fantastic. His heart had skipped when Eames suggested casually a few days later that they hang out sometime because you seem like a pretty cool guy, Arthur.
From the start, Arthur had pretty much known he’d all but lost himself to Eames’ cheerful demeanor and easy smiles within that first, not-even-a-minute-long exchange. He also knew that he really didn’t mind it.
---
Arthur feels a weight settle down onto his shoulder but doesn’t react in favor of finishing up the paragraph he’s reading before he loses his place. He feels warm lips press to his neck, just under his jaw line.
“Hey,” Eames’ voice comes as a soft murmur against Arthur’s skin.
Arthur finishes his reading and then snaps his book shut. “Hey,” he smiles at Eames. “Done?”
Eames nods lazily, looking quite content to lean his body’s weight against Arthur for a little while longer. “Where are we headed off to?” Eames asks. “I assume you’ve made plans for us today.”
Arthur hums, shrugging Eames off his shoulder. He packs up his things and stands, offering a hand to Eames. Eames makes a face that clearly states he doesn’t want to move but takes Arthur’s hand anyways and lets Arthur help him up. He doesn’t let go.
“Dom invited us over,” Arthur tells Eames as they walk out to the student parking lot together.
Eames nods. “Do you have to be home by seven today?” Eames asks, like he always does even though he already knows what time Arthur needs to get home by. Arthur nods. Eames is quiet for a moment. “You want to do something tomorrow? I don’t have rehearsal. We could get ice cream or something.”
Arthur hesitates and then smiles convincingly enough, but he can tell Eames isn’t fooled. Eames is never fooled by Arthur’s act these days.
“Nah,” Arthur says casually, remembering angry shouts and the sound of glass breaking from the night before. “I probably shouldn’t.”
He keeps walking towards Eames’ car, but Eames stops, his hand that’s still holding Arthur’s keeping Arthur from taking more than another couple steps. Arthur turns, expression carefully composed in that flawless veneer of calm indifference. Eames’ forehead is creased with worry, eyes dark, lips pressed together into a thin line.
“Are you alright?” Eames asks, softly, and Arthur hates the way Eames sounds like he’s breaking.
Arthur laughs, the sound too sharp to come off as casual as he wants it to. “Of course,” he says, falling easily into the well-rehearsed lie. “I’m fine.”
“Arthur,” Eames says, and he sounds almost pleading. “You can tell me if you’re not, you know. I want you to tell me.”
Arthur’s smile falters. A sigh rushes from between Arthur’s lips and he backtracks a couple steps to lean his forehead against Eames’ and fiddle with his shirt.
“I’ll be fine, Eames,” he assures Eames quietly. “I’m used to it. It’s nothing I can’t deal with.”
And the way Eames looks at Arthur is so painful, Arthur wants to take all of it back, makes him want to confess that he’s not alright, if that’s really what Eames wants to hear, that he hasn’t been alright for what feels like forever now, he feels like he’s falling to pieces every goddamn minute of the day; and it wouldn’t be a lie either. But he doesn’t. Instead, Arthur tries for a smile again, and Eames smiles weakly back, lifting his hands to cup Arthur’s face. His lips are soft on Arthur’s, and he kisses Arthur like he’s afraid he might never get to again. Arthur finds his hands curled possessively in the soft cotton of Eames’ t-shirt, every bit as desperate to hang on as Eames is. It’s always like this, this way they cling like there’s nothing left for them, each of them so scared he’ll lose the other because Arthur’s situation is so, so precarious, so liable to change in an instant, too dangerous.
“I love you,” Eames murmurs against Arthur’s lips.
Arthur smiles, but it looks a little sad, that familiar guilt welling up, that feeling like he’s nowhere near good enough for this boy who’s willing to risk everything for him.
“I love you too.”
---
Eames had formally asked Arthur out something like a week after that first time they’d spoken. Arthur remembers it clearly, recalls how he’d blushed furiously, stammered like an idiot, and then said yes, in that order. He remembers how Eames’ face had lit up so brightly, how happy he’d been, and Arthur remembers how wonderful and perfect their first date had been, the way Eames had smiled and listened to everything Arthur said, no matter how dorky or strange, and acted like every word that came out of Arthur’s mouth was the most precious thing.
Arthur remembers how easy it had been in the early days of their relationship, how surprised he’d been when word got out that they were going out but no one really gave them much shit for it. Thinking back, it makes sense now; Eames was (is) so charismatic, so easy to get along with, knows so well just the right way to talk to people, the right way to act, so that people will love him, that of course no one bothered them. They all respected Eames too much for that (Eames later claims that it was also because Arthur was far too cute to push around, but Arthur always rolls his eyes to that explanation, because he’s not cute, okay?).
And Arthur has never been one to believe in soul mates or true love or any of that bullshit, especially not in high school, because seriously, how often do you hear about high school relationships lasting? But sometimes, sometimes when Eames tackles Arthur in one of his lung-crushing hugs or throws a book at the wall to try to kill a spider or smiles that soft, sweet little smile just for Arthur; sometimes Eames almost makes him want to.
It’d just been so perfect in those first weeks they were going out; Arthur had almost let himself believe nothing would ever go wrong. He probably should’ve known better.
---
Arthur glances at the clock on Dom’s nightstand and swears under his breath. It’s already almost seven, too soon for him to make it home on time. He is so fucked. He hurriedly begins gathering his things. Eames looks up from the chemistry homework he’s been poring over for an hour now with a look of such concentration, Arthur knows that Eames doesn’t understand acids and bases at all.
“Do you want me to drive you home?” Eames asks.
“No,” Arthur says so quickly it sounds careless. He pauses as soon as the word leaves his mouth, rethinks what he said, and backtracks, “I mean, yes, I do, but I think it’d be better if Dom drove me today.” Arthur’s parents don’t like Eames, not one bit, and they’re liable to be angrier with him if they see Eames driving him home. Arthur looks to Dom. “Can you?”
“Of course,” Dom says and goes to unearth his keys from where he’d dumped his backpack upon arriving home.
Arthur stuffs the last binder into his backpack and pauses, worrying his lip between his teeth. “I’m sorry,” he says softly to Eames. He’s not really sure what he’s apologizing for, but he feels it in his gut and he feels terrible.
Eames laughs. “Don’t be,” he smiles good-naturedly. “It’s safer for you; I understand.” Eames presses a kiss to Arthur’s mouth. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Arthur hesitates and then smiles, just a little. “I’ll call you,” he promises.
Eames nods and waves Arthur off, saying, “Go.”
Arthur flashes one last smile before following Dom out the door. Dom calls over his shoulder for Eames to see himself out, and Eames assures him it’s not a problem. Dom is silent the entire way to Arthur’s house and drives fast. When they arrive at Arthur’s house, it’s just barely after seven, and it shouldn’t make a difference, because what’s a couple minutes in the grand scheme of things, but Arthur knows otherwise. Dom gives Arthur a look that screams you can’t keep living like this, and Arthur just shrugs and waves goodbye to his friend. He opens the front door of his house as quietly as he can, slipping almost without a sound, but the clack the door makes as it closes rings loudly in the air, and Arthur cringes. He hopes, irrationally, that his parents are already sound asleep and haven’t heard a thing, but he knows it’s far too early for that.
Sure enough, Arthur doesn’t manage to take another step before an angry shout comes from the living room.
“You’re late!”
Arthur wants to protest that he’s not that late, that really there’s no difference between seven o’clock and seven-oh-eight, but he bites his tongue, having learned over the years that it’s easier to just stay silent and take it. Arthur attempts to just keep his head down and get to the stairs as quickly as he can so he can just disappear into his room, but it’s a lost cause and he knows it.
“Well?” Arthur’s father’s voice comes from behind him just as he reaches the foot of the stairs. His voice is sharp, and it hits Arthur harder than anything. “Care to explain yourself?”
“I was at Dom’s,” Arthur says softly, almost a whisper. “We were doing homework.”
Arthur’s father gives him this look like he doesn’t believe a word Arthur said. “Don’t lie to me,” he snaps.
“I… I’m not,” Arthur protests weakly, even though he knows it’s useless.
Arthur’s father’s eyes narrow and he steps closer to Arthur, tall and intimidating, and Arthur’s not short by any means, but he feels so, so small. Arthur tries not to let himself tremble.
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Arthur’s father hisses. “I know you’ve been with that Eames.” The way he says Eames’ name is with a nasty sneer that speaks worlds of how much he’s disgusted by Arthur’s (beautiful, wonderful, so, so very perfect) boyfriend.
Arthur isn’t sure what to say. He opens his mouth anyways, but nothing comes out, his voice caught in his throat. Arthur’s father laughs, short and harsh. Arthur makes a very conscious effort not to flinch. Arthur’s father tosses around his usual comments about how fucking worthless Arthur is, how utterly pathetic Arthur is, and as far as evenings go in Arthur’s household, it’s not bad, really not bad at all (god knows Arthur’s dealt with much, much worse), but Arthur’s been beaten down from years and years of this, and when he finally makes it up to his room after a thorough scolding from both of his parents, he collapses on his bed, feeling a little like he might just fall apart.
Arthur can hear his parents’ voices rising from the floor below, all sharp words and angry shouts, and it’s not just your average bickering either; it’s full-out fighting, arguing as usual over every last thing they can think of. Arthur curls up on his bed and pulls a pillow over his head to try to block out their voices, because it’s too much; he can’t deal with this. He thinks about calling Eames, just so he can hear the sound of his voice, but Arthur inevitably decides against it, not wanting to trouble Eames anymore. God knows Eames has enough to deal with already.
Instead, Arthur shoves his face into his pillow and screams as loudly as he can into it.
---
The first time Eames had discovered Arthur’s situation at home had been purely an accident. Arthur had gone over at Eames’ house after
school, and they’d been in Eames’ room and Arthur had been getting lost in the warm, wet heat of Eames’ mouth, his lips so, so soft against Arthur’s own, and then Eames’ hands had slipped under Arthur’s shirt and brushed along Arthur’s side. Arthur had instinctively drawn back and hissed at the sharp pain flaring out along his ribs. Eames had paused, peered at Arthur with a worried line creasing his forehead.
“… Arthur?”
Arthur had smiled and said, possibly too quickly, “I’m fine.”
Eames had frowned at Arthur, his eyes careful and calculating. Arthur had swallowed nervously. He’d always liked that Eames was so sharp, but this was one time when Arthur hoped, hoped with all his heart, that Eames wouldn’t figure it out, because Arthur didn’t want him to know, couldn’t have him know. Eames was too amazing, too everything, and Arthur hadn’t been prepared to lose him, not yet, not so soon.
“You’re in pain,” Eames had said slowly. “You’re not fine.”
“I am,” Arthur had insisted, even though his words had sounded fake, even to his own ears. Somehow, his lies were never as convincing when he was dealing with Eames. “Eames, really, I’m alright.”
Eames had continued to look at Arthur with narrowed, scrutinizing eyes. His fingers lingered on the hem of Arthur’s shirt. And then his expression had fallen into something hurt and dejected, like he thought Arthur didn’t trust him, like he thought Arthur didn’t like him enough to let him in, and Arthur had felt something within him snap.
“Arthur,” Eames had said softly, and Arthur couldn’t find it in him to say no any longer. Eames had fiddled with Arthur’s shirt. “… May I?”
Arthur had let out a shaky breath and nodded, quite nearly trembling with fear. Eames had lifted Arthur’s shirt slowly, as if afraid of what he’d find, and he drew in a sharp breath. A dark, purple-blue bruise bloomed across Arthur’s ribs, a deep stain in sharp contrast with Arthur’s pale skin. Arthur recalled the night before, when he’d been cleaning up glass shards littering the kitchen floor from a cup Arthur’s mother had thrown at his father. Arthur had bent to pick up the pieces because if he’d left them there they’d have been even angrier, but as Arthur had collected the glass from the ground, he’d received a swift kick to the ribs as his father snapped angrily at him. Beating wasn’t something Arthur suffered often, but when it did happen, he usually felt it for quite a while after.
Arthur had watched the anguish in Eames’ eyes, waited anxiously to see if Eames would still have him, even though he was no good, even though he was nothing, broken, damaged, worthless.
“Oh Arthur,” Eames had breathed. “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.”
Eames had taken Arthur’s face in his hands and kissed him feelingly, and Arthur could feel it all the way to his toes. He’d kissed Arthur over and over and over until they were both breathless, and then he’d promptly vowed to call the police.
“This is abuse, Arthur,” Eames had said, infuriated. “You have to do something about it.”
But Arthur had talked Eames out of it, saying no, it wouldn’t do him any good. His parents were notoriously good liars when it came down to it, and besides, Arthur was frightened out of his mind of what would happen if his parents found out he’d called the police on them. It’d taken a while, but eventually, Arthur had talked Eames down enough to persuade him out of any immediate action.
“Promise me, at least,” Eames had said, “Promise me you’ll tell me if this happens again.”
Arthur had nodded. That was probably the least he could do. “Promise.”
And while Eames hadn’t left him that day, sometimes, Arthur almost wishes he had, because then, Eames wouldn’t have to worry about Arthur anymore. Eames wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not his boyfriend would show up on his doorstep one day a terrible, terrible mess. Eames could have a normal life, worrying about normal things like grades or auditions for the school play or whether he’d pass his driving test or not.
Arthur often feels a little bit like he’s holding Eames back, and he feels horrible for it, but he’s not quite ready to let Eames go just yet.
---
“Oh, this is just ridiculous,” Eames murmurs in Arthur’s ear one day during lunch.
The two of them and Dom are sitting at their usual lunch table. Arthur’s picking at his lunch with Eames wrapped all around him, arm curled around Arthur’s waist and chin resting on Arthur’s shoulder, pressed thigh to thigh with Arthur, a warm, comforting presence keeping Arthur sane. Dom’s sitting across the table from Arthur, leaning an elbow on the table with his chin propped up on his hand. He’s gazing over across the cafeteria at Mal, who’s sitting at her own cafeteria table, laughing with her friends.
Arthur arches an eyebrow at Eames, prompting him to go on.
“Do you have any idea how long Mal has been asking me if Dom might be interested in her?” he says, clearly exasperated by this whole situation. “And I’ve told her and Dom both already that they’re both interested in the other, but they won’t do anything about it. It’s so frustrating.”
Eames sighs dramatically to punctuate his sentence and rests his forehead on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur chuckles and looks over at Dom, who looks like the picture of a love-struck teenager. He reaches over and taps the table by Dom’s hand to get his attention.
“Hey,” Arthur says. “Just go talk to her.”
Dom looks at Arthur with wide eyes. “I can’t just do that!” he protests, panicked. “I’ll make a fool of myself and she’ll never want to talk to me again.”
“Meanwhile, you’re sitting here sulking around when you could be getting the girl of your dreams,” Eames says. He looks across the cafeteria to where Mal is with her friends and calls loudly, “Oi! Mal!”
Dom’s eyes widen further and he looks like he’s about to throw up, but Eames smiles cheerily at Mal and waves her over. Mal makes a face like she really couldn’t, but he waves his hand enthusiastically and she relents. She murmurs quick goodbye to her friends before making her way over, smoothly and gracefully weaving her way between tables of people.
“Hello,” she greets Eames easily. She offers a nod to Arthur and a slightly shy smile to Dom.
“You know Dom, right?” Eames says, forgoing subtlety altogether. Arthur kicks Eames under the table at Eames’ complete lack of tact. Eames just rubs his hand over Arthur’s thigh in a way that’s probably supposed to mean don’t worry, I have a plan even when clearly, he doesn’t.
Arthur sighs and stands. “I have to study,” he says to excuse himself, and scoops up his bag to leave. He waits out in the hallway by his locker for Eames, because he has a feeling Eames will be following Arthur shortly. Sure enough, as Arthur is shoving some books he doesn’t need for his afternoon classes in his locker, Eames’ warm, strong arms wrap around his waist and Eames’ lips press to the back of Arthur’s neck.
“They seem to be hitting it off quite nicely,” Eames informs Arthur.
Arthur chuckles and turns around to face Eames. Eames’ hands rest comfortably on Arthur’s hips, his body close to Arthur’s.
“You’re a romantic genius,” Arthur says flatly, though his voice sounds just a touch too fond.
“Mm,” Eames hums. “Glad you think so.”
He kisses Arthur, slow and sweet, and it’s moments like these when Arthur knows he should feel happy and safe and like everything’s right in the world, but he can’t help how his gut sinks at the love Eames showers so limitlessly on him. But Arthur smiles anyways and acts like everything’s okay, and if Eames doesn’t believe him, at least he doesn’t say anything about it.
---
The thing is, Arthur’s not nearly as together as he likes to act. He’s not nearly as happy or carefree or positive as he makes himself seem; he just tries so hard to cover up the scars that won’t go away, the raised ridges of white along the very fibers of his being. Arthur smiles because he doesn’t know what else to do. He speaks with warm, soft words and a kind, amiable persona because he can’t bear for anyone to find out what he hides behind layers of clothing and perfect grades. Arthur knows that he can’t keep doing this forever, that sooner or later, he’s going to snap, and that day is drawing closer with every step he takes, but he presses on anyways, because if he can’t have everything he wants, well then at least he can try to pretend he can.
One of these days, Arthur knows, one of these days, everything is going to come crashing down on his head and he’ll lose his mind completely. Even now, the signs of the damage weighing down his bones are evident in the way he can’t stand to look at himself in the mirror because it reminds him of the multitude of flaws he can’t even begin to keep track of, the way he feels awful and worthless and like he’s the scum of the earth every time he returns home from a day out, the way he never quite feels like he belongs, like no one wants him here, like no one would miss him if he were gone. His parents sometimes sneer and scowl at him and otherwise completely ignore his very existence altogether, and Arthur thinks, if two people who are his very flesh and blood, who are supposed to find him wonderful in every which way, who are meant to smile fondly at his flaws and call them adorable quirks; if his own parents can’t even find anything to love about him, then really, he must not have any worth at all.
And Eames. Oh god, Eames. He’s the one thing keeping Arthur tethered here and part of the problem all at once. It’s because Eames is so perfect, so wonderful, so caring and warm and understanding in every which way, and it just hurts Arthur sometimes, knowing that he’ll never match up to Eames. It feels like he’s holding Eames back, because Eames could have so much more, he should have so much more, but for some reason, maybe it’s guilt or pity or just because he thinks it’s what he wants, Eames continues to stay. It’s like Arthur is just waiting for Eames to come to his senses and say well, it’s been fun, but you know what, I can do better, and Arthur isn’t sure what kills him more; that or the notion that he’s keeping Eames tied down from reaching his full potential.
It’s the sort of thing that keeps Arthur awake at night, along with whether or not there will be bruises to explain away the next day or tearstains worn onto his cheeks when he wakes, while his classmates are all worrying about whether or not they got question number six on their latest math test right. This is the sort of thing that plagues Arthur’s mind, refuses to let him rest, consumes him when he has nothing else to busy himself with. It’s eating him alive, and he doesn’t know what to do anymore.
---
( on to part two )
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Word count: 10,800 words
Summary: Everyone thinks Arthur leads this perfect, idyllic life. Well, surprise, surprise, he doesn't.
Warnings: domestic abuse, suicidal themes
A/N: high school au written for this prompt (contains some spoilers) at inception_kink, now cleaned up and proofread several more times. and seriously, I have no idea what this fic even is anymore, because I was happily writing along and then Arthur and Eames (well, actually mostly Arthur) decided to get all dramatic on me and it all ended in me shaking my laptop and shouting "MY LIFE IS A SOAP OPERA" at the screen. but it's finished now, and by finished I really mean I just want to post this so I don't have to look at it anymore because I'm so done with tinkering around with it. that said, please enjoy :)
title borrowed from Bon Iver
It’s kind of funny how it always seems to work out like this, how it’s always the quiet ones, the happy ones, the ones who always seem to have everything together and know what they want that are the ones who are falling apart the most, the ones who hide the bruises under wide smiles and kind gestures, perfect grades and impeccable grace, the ones who refuse to break, refuse to give in until the weight of everything crushes them whole.
It’s kind of funny how you never notice the little things that may or may not have been slightly off until it’s too late, until they’re bleeding out on the floor and you have no idea what to do.
It’s kind of a funny thing.
Remember that.
---
“Ugh,” Dom sighs, banging his head against the lockers.
Arthur raises his eyebrow at his best friend and twists his combination into his locker. “Everything okay?” he asks, more amused than concerned. Dom has a tendency to be melodramatic about things. Arthur yanks his locker open and uses his free hand to catch the avalanche of books and binders and loose papers that tumble out.
“Does it look like I’m okay?” Dom cries. And alright, maybe not, Arthur thinks, but he still thinks Dom is being a little too dramatic. Dom bangs his head against the lockers again. “That math test ate my face. I’m not going to live to see the light of day again.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. Yup, Dom’s just being dramatic again. “I’ll bring yellow roses to your funeral,” Arthur says. He grabs the books he needs and then slams his locker shut before anything can fall out of the haphazard mess that is his locker.
Dom frowns. “You’re terrible,” he says, feigning a hurt expression. “I don’t even know why I’m friends with you.”
Arthur laughs. “You’re friends with me because I help you with your homework all the time,” he teases. “Without me, you’d be a lost cause.”
Dom squints. Arthur can’t really tell if Dom’s actually insulted or if he’s just trying to be ironic, so he just shakes his head at his friend and grins, far too amused with the situation.
“You coming over after school today?” Dom asks.
Arthur hums softly as he thinks, scanning over his schedule in his head. “Sure,” he says. “I just have a Student Council meeting to go to after school, and I think Eames has rehearsal today, so I’ll probably wait for him, but we’ll come over afterwards.”
Dom nods. Arthur smiles and doesn’t remind him that he has to be home by seven or his parents will flip out. Arthur doesn’t say that he can’t afford to get home late, not now, not so soon. He doesn’t say it because in a way, Dom already knows; he knows because he’s known Arthur for so long that he’s learned his way around Arthur, has pieced together the little things Arthur doesn’t say and come out with the whole story. It’s not something many people can say they’ve done. It’s not something many people care enough to put that much effort into, because sure, people like him and he’s lovely and opinionated and kind when it counts, but that’s all he is to them - a pretty face. There are only a couple people who’ve realized there’s far more to him than just that.
---
“Arthur!”
Eames’ cheery voice echoes loudly in greeting at Arthur as soon as he steps foot in the auditorium that doubles as the school’s theater. The student council meeting just let out a few minutes ago and Eames still has about forty-five minutes of rehearsal to go, so Arthur had planned on quietly slipping in and sitting in the back and getting some work done until rehearsal ended, but Eames has never been one to go along quietly with Arthur’s plans, so of course he’d interrupt the whole rehearsal just to greet Arthur as he walks in.
Arthur smiles and waves him back to his rehearsing, but Eames seems to have other plans and murmurs something to the director. A moment later, as Arthur is settling into a seat at the back of the auditorium so as not to be a distraction, Eames comes bouncing over, all wide smiles and careless energy.
“Hello,” Eames smiles, leaning over to press a quick kiss to the corner of Arthur’s mouth. “I missed you.”
Arthur suppresses a smile and forces himself to glare. “The fuck are you doing?” Arthur hisses, only half-succeeding in sounding as stern as he means to. “Aren’t you supposed to be rehearsing?”
“I have been rehearsing for an hour straight and I’ve been doing quite delightfully, thank you,” Eames says defiantly, sinking down into a seat next to Arthur, draping his arm across the back of Arthur’s chair and leaning in close. “I think I can spare a minute to say hello to my love.”
Arthur rolls his eyes and at least puts on a good show of attempting to focus on his English homework. He most certainly does not smile, not even when Eames very deliberately knocks his knees against Arthur’s.
“Oh come now, don’t be difficult,” Eames pouts in a way that makes his lips look ridiculous. Ridiculous and very, very appealing. His eyes are bright and lighthearted. “At least give me a proper kiss hello.”
Arthur can’t help he laugh that bubbles up at this and turns away from pretending to work to press his lips to Eames’. And it’s just meant to be a hey, how are you, I haven’t seen you a whole lot today sort of kiss, but then Eames is leaning into it, a hand coming up to rest at the back of Arthur’s neck as he licks his way into Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur can’t help the way he melts into it. He gets lost in the heat of Eames’ mouth, the familiar press of Eames’ fingertips against his skin, and it’s a moment before he comes to his senses enough to push Eames away, albeit with less force than he means to use.
“Go rehearse,” Arthur says, and his voice sounds too soft. “I’ll be waiting.”
Eames heaves an exaggerated sigh. “If you insist,” he says, feigning exhaustion, and drops a kiss onto Arthur’s forehead before getting up and heading off to run lines with his co-star, a tall, willowy girl by the name of Mal. They’re putting on a production of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night this year, and Mal is the Viola to Eames’ Orsino.
Arthur settles into his seat and flips his book open to the appropriate page to begin reading, letting the sound of their voices wash over him. Every so often he hears the familiar ring of Eames laugh, a barely audible but oh so distinctive to Arthur’s ears, and Arthur finds himself smiling despite himself.
---
Arthur remembers the first time he met Eames, two weeks into the first semester of his sophomore year, when Arthur had to mess around with his whole schedule to accommodate the history elective he’d wanted to switch into. He’d walked into class, third period on the very first day of the semester, and there Eames was, sitting right in the middle of the second row, tongue caught between his teeth as he scribbled furiously at the notebook in his lap. As Arthur sought out an empty seat for himself, Eames had smiled victoriously and turned his notebook around to show his friend and they shared a good laugh about some silly caricature Eames had drawn.
There was no reason for Arthur to notice Eames; he was nothing terribly out of the ordinary. But Arthur had felt himself inexplicably drawn to him and couldn’t seem to get away. Arthur had ended up claiming the seat right behind Eames, and he’d looked forward to third period for the rest of the year far more than he probably should have.
Eames had been a transfer student that year, Arthur remembers. He remembers the way comments about Eames would fly through the halls, how he had such a charming accent, how his eyes were so, so blue, and, Arthur’s favorite, how incredibly insightful he could be in class, even though his charismatic, could-care-less attitude seemed to argue otherwise. If there was one thing Arthur valued, it was definitely intelligence.
Arthur remembers, very distinctly, the first time Eames spoke to him. It was the fourth Monday of the semester, and Arthur had slid silently into his seat as per usual and begun taking out his things for class. He was quieter back then, younger, shyer; didn’t really know who he was or where he fit in, and Eames had leaned right over, all wide smiles and careless confidence and asked if he could borrow a pencil.
“Uh,” Arthur had said, very intelligently.
Eames had grinned, not bothered at all by Arthur’s painful awkwardness (later, Eames would tell him that he really found it quite endearing how much Arthur stumbled over his words and blushed and fidgeted in those early days, but Arthur will always look back at these moments and cringe).
“If it’s not too much trouble, I mean,” Eames had said, as if in apology. “I usually have a few with me, but I just can’t seem to find one in my bag.”
Arthur had blinked, taken a moment too long to respond, and then said simply, lamely, “Sure.” He’d handed Eames his good pencil (the other one, the stupid thing, kept breaking on him, but he didn’t tell Eames that), and Eames had smiled impossibly wider and leaned a little closer.
“I don’t believe we’ve been formally acquainted,” Eames had said. “I’m Eames.”
“Arthur,” Arthur had managed to get out, trying and failing to ignore how close Eames was to him, right in his personal space. His face had felt impossibly warm.
“Ah, well it’s lovely to meet you, Arthur,” Eames had said, sounding every bit like he meant it.
Arthur’s stomach had flipped at the way Eames’ voice had curled around the vowels in his name, making his perfectly ordinary, boring name sound like something rather fantastic. His heart had skipped when Eames suggested casually a few days later that they hang out sometime because you seem like a pretty cool guy, Arthur.
From the start, Arthur had pretty much known he’d all but lost himself to Eames’ cheerful demeanor and easy smiles within that first, not-even-a-minute-long exchange. He also knew that he really didn’t mind it.
---
Arthur feels a weight settle down onto his shoulder but doesn’t react in favor of finishing up the paragraph he’s reading before he loses his place. He feels warm lips press to his neck, just under his jaw line.
“Hey,” Eames’ voice comes as a soft murmur against Arthur’s skin.
Arthur finishes his reading and then snaps his book shut. “Hey,” he smiles at Eames. “Done?”
Eames nods lazily, looking quite content to lean his body’s weight against Arthur for a little while longer. “Where are we headed off to?” Eames asks. “I assume you’ve made plans for us today.”
Arthur hums, shrugging Eames off his shoulder. He packs up his things and stands, offering a hand to Eames. Eames makes a face that clearly states he doesn’t want to move but takes Arthur’s hand anyways and lets Arthur help him up. He doesn’t let go.
“Dom invited us over,” Arthur tells Eames as they walk out to the student parking lot together.
Eames nods. “Do you have to be home by seven today?” Eames asks, like he always does even though he already knows what time Arthur needs to get home by. Arthur nods. Eames is quiet for a moment. “You want to do something tomorrow? I don’t have rehearsal. We could get ice cream or something.”
Arthur hesitates and then smiles convincingly enough, but he can tell Eames isn’t fooled. Eames is never fooled by Arthur’s act these days.
“Nah,” Arthur says casually, remembering angry shouts and the sound of glass breaking from the night before. “I probably shouldn’t.”
He keeps walking towards Eames’ car, but Eames stops, his hand that’s still holding Arthur’s keeping Arthur from taking more than another couple steps. Arthur turns, expression carefully composed in that flawless veneer of calm indifference. Eames’ forehead is creased with worry, eyes dark, lips pressed together into a thin line.
“Are you alright?” Eames asks, softly, and Arthur hates the way Eames sounds like he’s breaking.
Arthur laughs, the sound too sharp to come off as casual as he wants it to. “Of course,” he says, falling easily into the well-rehearsed lie. “I’m fine.”
“Arthur,” Eames says, and he sounds almost pleading. “You can tell me if you’re not, you know. I want you to tell me.”
Arthur’s smile falters. A sigh rushes from between Arthur’s lips and he backtracks a couple steps to lean his forehead against Eames’ and fiddle with his shirt.
“I’ll be fine, Eames,” he assures Eames quietly. “I’m used to it. It’s nothing I can’t deal with.”
And the way Eames looks at Arthur is so painful, Arthur wants to take all of it back, makes him want to confess that he’s not alright, if that’s really what Eames wants to hear, that he hasn’t been alright for what feels like forever now, he feels like he’s falling to pieces every goddamn minute of the day; and it wouldn’t be a lie either. But he doesn’t. Instead, Arthur tries for a smile again, and Eames smiles weakly back, lifting his hands to cup Arthur’s face. His lips are soft on Arthur’s, and he kisses Arthur like he’s afraid he might never get to again. Arthur finds his hands curled possessively in the soft cotton of Eames’ t-shirt, every bit as desperate to hang on as Eames is. It’s always like this, this way they cling like there’s nothing left for them, each of them so scared he’ll lose the other because Arthur’s situation is so, so precarious, so liable to change in an instant, too dangerous.
“I love you,” Eames murmurs against Arthur’s lips.
Arthur smiles, but it looks a little sad, that familiar guilt welling up, that feeling like he’s nowhere near good enough for this boy who’s willing to risk everything for him.
“I love you too.”
---
Eames had formally asked Arthur out something like a week after that first time they’d spoken. Arthur remembers it clearly, recalls how he’d blushed furiously, stammered like an idiot, and then said yes, in that order. He remembers how Eames’ face had lit up so brightly, how happy he’d been, and Arthur remembers how wonderful and perfect their first date had been, the way Eames had smiled and listened to everything Arthur said, no matter how dorky or strange, and acted like every word that came out of Arthur’s mouth was the most precious thing.
Arthur remembers how easy it had been in the early days of their relationship, how surprised he’d been when word got out that they were going out but no one really gave them much shit for it. Thinking back, it makes sense now; Eames was (is) so charismatic, so easy to get along with, knows so well just the right way to talk to people, the right way to act, so that people will love him, that of course no one bothered them. They all respected Eames too much for that (Eames later claims that it was also because Arthur was far too cute to push around, but Arthur always rolls his eyes to that explanation, because he’s not cute, okay?).
And Arthur has never been one to believe in soul mates or true love or any of that bullshit, especially not in high school, because seriously, how often do you hear about high school relationships lasting? But sometimes, sometimes when Eames tackles Arthur in one of his lung-crushing hugs or throws a book at the wall to try to kill a spider or smiles that soft, sweet little smile just for Arthur; sometimes Eames almost makes him want to.
It’d just been so perfect in those first weeks they were going out; Arthur had almost let himself believe nothing would ever go wrong. He probably should’ve known better.
---
Arthur glances at the clock on Dom’s nightstand and swears under his breath. It’s already almost seven, too soon for him to make it home on time. He is so fucked. He hurriedly begins gathering his things. Eames looks up from the chemistry homework he’s been poring over for an hour now with a look of such concentration, Arthur knows that Eames doesn’t understand acids and bases at all.
“Do you want me to drive you home?” Eames asks.
“No,” Arthur says so quickly it sounds careless. He pauses as soon as the word leaves his mouth, rethinks what he said, and backtracks, “I mean, yes, I do, but I think it’d be better if Dom drove me today.” Arthur’s parents don’t like Eames, not one bit, and they’re liable to be angrier with him if they see Eames driving him home. Arthur looks to Dom. “Can you?”
“Of course,” Dom says and goes to unearth his keys from where he’d dumped his backpack upon arriving home.
Arthur stuffs the last binder into his backpack and pauses, worrying his lip between his teeth. “I’m sorry,” he says softly to Eames. He’s not really sure what he’s apologizing for, but he feels it in his gut and he feels terrible.
Eames laughs. “Don’t be,” he smiles good-naturedly. “It’s safer for you; I understand.” Eames presses a kiss to Arthur’s mouth. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Arthur hesitates and then smiles, just a little. “I’ll call you,” he promises.
Eames nods and waves Arthur off, saying, “Go.”
Arthur flashes one last smile before following Dom out the door. Dom calls over his shoulder for Eames to see himself out, and Eames assures him it’s not a problem. Dom is silent the entire way to Arthur’s house and drives fast. When they arrive at Arthur’s house, it’s just barely after seven, and it shouldn’t make a difference, because what’s a couple minutes in the grand scheme of things, but Arthur knows otherwise. Dom gives Arthur a look that screams you can’t keep living like this, and Arthur just shrugs and waves goodbye to his friend. He opens the front door of his house as quietly as he can, slipping almost without a sound, but the clack the door makes as it closes rings loudly in the air, and Arthur cringes. He hopes, irrationally, that his parents are already sound asleep and haven’t heard a thing, but he knows it’s far too early for that.
Sure enough, Arthur doesn’t manage to take another step before an angry shout comes from the living room.
“You’re late!”
Arthur wants to protest that he’s not that late, that really there’s no difference between seven o’clock and seven-oh-eight, but he bites his tongue, having learned over the years that it’s easier to just stay silent and take it. Arthur attempts to just keep his head down and get to the stairs as quickly as he can so he can just disappear into his room, but it’s a lost cause and he knows it.
“Well?” Arthur’s father’s voice comes from behind him just as he reaches the foot of the stairs. His voice is sharp, and it hits Arthur harder than anything. “Care to explain yourself?”
“I was at Dom’s,” Arthur says softly, almost a whisper. “We were doing homework.”
Arthur’s father gives him this look like he doesn’t believe a word Arthur said. “Don’t lie to me,” he snaps.
“I… I’m not,” Arthur protests weakly, even though he knows it’s useless.
Arthur’s father’s eyes narrow and he steps closer to Arthur, tall and intimidating, and Arthur’s not short by any means, but he feels so, so small. Arthur tries not to let himself tremble.
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Arthur’s father hisses. “I know you’ve been with that Eames.” The way he says Eames’ name is with a nasty sneer that speaks worlds of how much he’s disgusted by Arthur’s (beautiful, wonderful, so, so very perfect) boyfriend.
Arthur isn’t sure what to say. He opens his mouth anyways, but nothing comes out, his voice caught in his throat. Arthur’s father laughs, short and harsh. Arthur makes a very conscious effort not to flinch. Arthur’s father tosses around his usual comments about how fucking worthless Arthur is, how utterly pathetic Arthur is, and as far as evenings go in Arthur’s household, it’s not bad, really not bad at all (god knows Arthur’s dealt with much, much worse), but Arthur’s been beaten down from years and years of this, and when he finally makes it up to his room after a thorough scolding from both of his parents, he collapses on his bed, feeling a little like he might just fall apart.
Arthur can hear his parents’ voices rising from the floor below, all sharp words and angry shouts, and it’s not just your average bickering either; it’s full-out fighting, arguing as usual over every last thing they can think of. Arthur curls up on his bed and pulls a pillow over his head to try to block out their voices, because it’s too much; he can’t deal with this. He thinks about calling Eames, just so he can hear the sound of his voice, but Arthur inevitably decides against it, not wanting to trouble Eames anymore. God knows Eames has enough to deal with already.
Instead, Arthur shoves his face into his pillow and screams as loudly as he can into it.
---
The first time Eames had discovered Arthur’s situation at home had been purely an accident. Arthur had gone over at Eames’ house after
school, and they’d been in Eames’ room and Arthur had been getting lost in the warm, wet heat of Eames’ mouth, his lips so, so soft against Arthur’s own, and then Eames’ hands had slipped under Arthur’s shirt and brushed along Arthur’s side. Arthur had instinctively drawn back and hissed at the sharp pain flaring out along his ribs. Eames had paused, peered at Arthur with a worried line creasing his forehead.
“… Arthur?”
Arthur had smiled and said, possibly too quickly, “I’m fine.”
Eames had frowned at Arthur, his eyes careful and calculating. Arthur had swallowed nervously. He’d always liked that Eames was so sharp, but this was one time when Arthur hoped, hoped with all his heart, that Eames wouldn’t figure it out, because Arthur didn’t want him to know, couldn’t have him know. Eames was too amazing, too everything, and Arthur hadn’t been prepared to lose him, not yet, not so soon.
“You’re in pain,” Eames had said slowly. “You’re not fine.”
“I am,” Arthur had insisted, even though his words had sounded fake, even to his own ears. Somehow, his lies were never as convincing when he was dealing with Eames. “Eames, really, I’m alright.”
Eames had continued to look at Arthur with narrowed, scrutinizing eyes. His fingers lingered on the hem of Arthur’s shirt. And then his expression had fallen into something hurt and dejected, like he thought Arthur didn’t trust him, like he thought Arthur didn’t like him enough to let him in, and Arthur had felt something within him snap.
“Arthur,” Eames had said softly, and Arthur couldn’t find it in him to say no any longer. Eames had fiddled with Arthur’s shirt. “… May I?”
Arthur had let out a shaky breath and nodded, quite nearly trembling with fear. Eames had lifted Arthur’s shirt slowly, as if afraid of what he’d find, and he drew in a sharp breath. A dark, purple-blue bruise bloomed across Arthur’s ribs, a deep stain in sharp contrast with Arthur’s pale skin. Arthur recalled the night before, when he’d been cleaning up glass shards littering the kitchen floor from a cup Arthur’s mother had thrown at his father. Arthur had bent to pick up the pieces because if he’d left them there they’d have been even angrier, but as Arthur had collected the glass from the ground, he’d received a swift kick to the ribs as his father snapped angrily at him. Beating wasn’t something Arthur suffered often, but when it did happen, he usually felt it for quite a while after.
Arthur had watched the anguish in Eames’ eyes, waited anxiously to see if Eames would still have him, even though he was no good, even though he was nothing, broken, damaged, worthless.
“Oh Arthur,” Eames had breathed. “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.”
Eames had taken Arthur’s face in his hands and kissed him feelingly, and Arthur could feel it all the way to his toes. He’d kissed Arthur over and over and over until they were both breathless, and then he’d promptly vowed to call the police.
“This is abuse, Arthur,” Eames had said, infuriated. “You have to do something about it.”
But Arthur had talked Eames out of it, saying no, it wouldn’t do him any good. His parents were notoriously good liars when it came down to it, and besides, Arthur was frightened out of his mind of what would happen if his parents found out he’d called the police on them. It’d taken a while, but eventually, Arthur had talked Eames down enough to persuade him out of any immediate action.
“Promise me, at least,” Eames had said, “Promise me you’ll tell me if this happens again.”
Arthur had nodded. That was probably the least he could do. “Promise.”
And while Eames hadn’t left him that day, sometimes, Arthur almost wishes he had, because then, Eames wouldn’t have to worry about Arthur anymore. Eames wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not his boyfriend would show up on his doorstep one day a terrible, terrible mess. Eames could have a normal life, worrying about normal things like grades or auditions for the school play or whether he’d pass his driving test or not.
Arthur often feels a little bit like he’s holding Eames back, and he feels horrible for it, but he’s not quite ready to let Eames go just yet.
---
“Oh, this is just ridiculous,” Eames murmurs in Arthur’s ear one day during lunch.
The two of them and Dom are sitting at their usual lunch table. Arthur’s picking at his lunch with Eames wrapped all around him, arm curled around Arthur’s waist and chin resting on Arthur’s shoulder, pressed thigh to thigh with Arthur, a warm, comforting presence keeping Arthur sane. Dom’s sitting across the table from Arthur, leaning an elbow on the table with his chin propped up on his hand. He’s gazing over across the cafeteria at Mal, who’s sitting at her own cafeteria table, laughing with her friends.
Arthur arches an eyebrow at Eames, prompting him to go on.
“Do you have any idea how long Mal has been asking me if Dom might be interested in her?” he says, clearly exasperated by this whole situation. “And I’ve told her and Dom both already that they’re both interested in the other, but they won’t do anything about it. It’s so frustrating.”
Eames sighs dramatically to punctuate his sentence and rests his forehead on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur chuckles and looks over at Dom, who looks like the picture of a love-struck teenager. He reaches over and taps the table by Dom’s hand to get his attention.
“Hey,” Arthur says. “Just go talk to her.”
Dom looks at Arthur with wide eyes. “I can’t just do that!” he protests, panicked. “I’ll make a fool of myself and she’ll never want to talk to me again.”
“Meanwhile, you’re sitting here sulking around when you could be getting the girl of your dreams,” Eames says. He looks across the cafeteria to where Mal is with her friends and calls loudly, “Oi! Mal!”
Dom’s eyes widen further and he looks like he’s about to throw up, but Eames smiles cheerily at Mal and waves her over. Mal makes a face like she really couldn’t, but he waves his hand enthusiastically and she relents. She murmurs quick goodbye to her friends before making her way over, smoothly and gracefully weaving her way between tables of people.
“Hello,” she greets Eames easily. She offers a nod to Arthur and a slightly shy smile to Dom.
“You know Dom, right?” Eames says, forgoing subtlety altogether. Arthur kicks Eames under the table at Eames’ complete lack of tact. Eames just rubs his hand over Arthur’s thigh in a way that’s probably supposed to mean don’t worry, I have a plan even when clearly, he doesn’t.
Arthur sighs and stands. “I have to study,” he says to excuse himself, and scoops up his bag to leave. He waits out in the hallway by his locker for Eames, because he has a feeling Eames will be following Arthur shortly. Sure enough, as Arthur is shoving some books he doesn’t need for his afternoon classes in his locker, Eames’ warm, strong arms wrap around his waist and Eames’ lips press to the back of Arthur’s neck.
“They seem to be hitting it off quite nicely,” Eames informs Arthur.
Arthur chuckles and turns around to face Eames. Eames’ hands rest comfortably on Arthur’s hips, his body close to Arthur’s.
“You’re a romantic genius,” Arthur says flatly, though his voice sounds just a touch too fond.
“Mm,” Eames hums. “Glad you think so.”
He kisses Arthur, slow and sweet, and it’s moments like these when Arthur knows he should feel happy and safe and like everything’s right in the world, but he can’t help how his gut sinks at the love Eames showers so limitlessly on him. But Arthur smiles anyways and acts like everything’s okay, and if Eames doesn’t believe him, at least he doesn’t say anything about it.
---
The thing is, Arthur’s not nearly as together as he likes to act. He’s not nearly as happy or carefree or positive as he makes himself seem; he just tries so hard to cover up the scars that won’t go away, the raised ridges of white along the very fibers of his being. Arthur smiles because he doesn’t know what else to do. He speaks with warm, soft words and a kind, amiable persona because he can’t bear for anyone to find out what he hides behind layers of clothing and perfect grades. Arthur knows that he can’t keep doing this forever, that sooner or later, he’s going to snap, and that day is drawing closer with every step he takes, but he presses on anyways, because if he can’t have everything he wants, well then at least he can try to pretend he can.
One of these days, Arthur knows, one of these days, everything is going to come crashing down on his head and he’ll lose his mind completely. Even now, the signs of the damage weighing down his bones are evident in the way he can’t stand to look at himself in the mirror because it reminds him of the multitude of flaws he can’t even begin to keep track of, the way he feels awful and worthless and like he’s the scum of the earth every time he returns home from a day out, the way he never quite feels like he belongs, like no one wants him here, like no one would miss him if he were gone. His parents sometimes sneer and scowl at him and otherwise completely ignore his very existence altogether, and Arthur thinks, if two people who are his very flesh and blood, who are supposed to find him wonderful in every which way, who are meant to smile fondly at his flaws and call them adorable quirks; if his own parents can’t even find anything to love about him, then really, he must not have any worth at all.
And Eames. Oh god, Eames. He’s the one thing keeping Arthur tethered here and part of the problem all at once. It’s because Eames is so perfect, so wonderful, so caring and warm and understanding in every which way, and it just hurts Arthur sometimes, knowing that he’ll never match up to Eames. It feels like he’s holding Eames back, because Eames could have so much more, he should have so much more, but for some reason, maybe it’s guilt or pity or just because he thinks it’s what he wants, Eames continues to stay. It’s like Arthur is just waiting for Eames to come to his senses and say well, it’s been fun, but you know what, I can do better, and Arthur isn’t sure what kills him more; that or the notion that he’s keeping Eames tied down from reaching his full potential.
It’s the sort of thing that keeps Arthur awake at night, along with whether or not there will be bruises to explain away the next day or tearstains worn onto his cheeks when he wakes, while his classmates are all worrying about whether or not they got question number six on their latest math test right. This is the sort of thing that plagues Arthur’s mind, refuses to let him rest, consumes him when he has nothing else to busy himself with. It’s eating him alive, and he doesn’t know what to do anymore.
---
( on to part two )