(no subject)
Y'all, why is this 10k? It should definitely not be 10k. The following is self-indulgent dribble, as per usual; cheesier than normal, but I had lots of fun writing it :D
Signed, Sealed, Delivered
PG
Written for this prompt, for this commercial:
SETH KAY to RAYNA EISOLD
GENERAL REASON: "neither of us are what the other person needs anymore"
The slogan on the scooter is supposed to say 'No Sad, Big Smile Break-Up Service', but for the past few months it's just been 'Nads', minus all the spaces and missing letters. Some jerk has also scribbled a huge, illustrated penis in Sharpie right next to the so-called slogan, which means that Arthur often gets mistaken for an entirely different kind of mobile service. He's also been pulled over by the cops at least four times, but once he flashes his lanyard-cum-ID-cum-business card, they usually let him go.
Well, except for that one time. Officer Roberts, of WANDA LEE to BENJAMIN ROBERTS, had lapsed into shocked recognition. But Arthur has fast reflexes. He wouldn't be doing this job if he didn't. In any case, he'd already gunned the scooter before Roberts had a chance to reach for his baton, or taser, or maybe even his gun, who knows.
Today he's in the outskirts of the city, in the van that thankfully has all its letters and is even gleaming a little, thanks to some unexpected rainfall the night before. According to the application, Kay and Eisold had been together for eight years, so Arthur prepares himself for tears and/or violence during the drive. Kay went for the 'Dust in the Wind' package, which, along with the standard break-up and rough dictation of any response from the other party, includes a clean-up service that involves returning to the shared residence and removing all the client's belongings for later reclamation at the NSBSBUS office. The initial letter delivery went well, or as well as could be expected, but Arthur has learned that first reactions are not a good indicator for subsequent encounters.
He's tense for about the first ten seconds after Rayna buzzes him in, but she's still calm and polite, just like last time, and so he allows himself to relax and look around a little. Seth Kay and Rayna Eisold live -- lived -- on the third floor of an old Victorian. It has narrow hallways, high ceilings with rounded corners, and most of the windows face the west, which is great for natural lighting. Arthur trails his fingers along the intricate wainscoting as he follows Rayna to the living room. He considers commenting on it, complimenting her on the fact that they decided to keep it instead of going for a more modern look. He ends up keeping his mouth shut instead.
"These are clothes," she says, gesturing to a couple trash bags slumped by a shelf full of vintage toys. "Um, and there's some boxes in the bedroom, if you have room."
"No problem. I have the van today, so space shouldn't be an issue," Arthur assures.
"Good," Rayna says. "Okay, yeah, good."
"Okay." Arthur smiles at her, a rote expression that barely means anything anymore. "I'll just get started here. The boxes are -- ?"
"Oh. Here," she says, stepping around the corner and nudging a few out into the hallway with her foot. "Just, you know. Odds and ends. I probably wouldn't mind if they got dropped onto the freeway by accident." She huffs out a laugh, rubs her forehead to hide her eyes, but when she looks up again her gaze is clear, with no trace of tears.
Arthur may be void of emotion by now, but he still has some tact leftover. He starts working in silence and it only takes him a few minutes to lug everything out to the van by himself. Rayna meets him on the doorstep afterward.
"All set?" she asks.
"Yeah, that's all of it. Thanks for letting me stop by."
He'd noticed some discoloration on the walls from picture frames and whatever else they had hanging up. Arthur digs out a business card and hands it to her. "Hey, if you're looking for interior repainting or anything, these guys are great. 10% off if you mention us," he adds as she takes the card.
"Thanks," she says absently.
"He seems like an asshole," Arthur offers after a pause.
Rayna just quirks her mouth at him, a thanks, but no thanks, type of expression that Arthur is used to seeing by now. "He was worth it," she says after a while.
He gets into the van and shuts the door. Before he starts the engine, he reaches into the glove compartment and retrieves his notebook. Next to KAY to EISOLD, he writes, harpooned and underlines it twice.
*
No Sad, Big Smile Break-Up Service had its humble beginnings in Arthur's on-campus apartment during college. Technically, he was unknowingly running such a company since sophomore year of high school, when he somehow gained a reputation for being a good, innocuous bearer of bad news. He could be sympathetic or stoic, whatever the situation called for. This role continued through college, and when he graduated without any prospects, it seemed as good of an idea as anything else to turn it into something lucrative. People were making tons of money selling dumb stuff on Etsy and getting sponsored from Youtube videos, so why not start a break-up service?
The difference was that back then, he was actually talking things out with people, helping them figure out what they wanted, or what was going to best for them in the long run, break-up or not. Nowadays he gets clients to fill out the 'WHAT YOU WANT TO SAY:' part of the application and runs it through autosummarize so that he has a spiel to read before handing the respondent a printed-out version of the full letter. There are branches in LA, New York, San Francisco, and Austin. But at least he makes the effort to keep the San Francisco office just between him, Yusuf, and Ariadne, for some semblance of a small and cozy entrepreneurship.
Honestly, the whole thing shapes up to be a bit dull. It might seem callous, but day-to-day exposure to anything results in some degree of detachment. Arthur rates his reaction to each break-up on a sliding scale: hallelujah, boring, or harpooned. 'Hallelujah' includes anything from infidelity to stealing. 'Boring' mostly consists of melodramatic crap that Arthur can catch on daytime television in the comfort of his own home. 'Harpooned', however, doesn't come along very often, and usually calls for a pint or two after work.
Yusuf texts right as Arthur is about halfway through a cigarette: I think i ate a piece of lint by accident
Then, two minutes later: Never mind it was a shred of coconut
Stop eating everything in sight, Arthur texts back. Yusuf just replies with a smiley face.
Bar-ing. Meet me when youre free, he sends, before flicking away his cigarette and heading into Forge & Fire.
*
As soon as Arthur steps through the door, he's greeted by a booming voice that yells, "And that right there's my favorite customer."
Arthur wordlessly holds up two fingers before taking off his jacket and sliding onto a stool. "Thanks," he says as two pints slosh their way in front of him.
Eames raises his eyebrows and smiles toothily at him before turning away to continue a conversation about the best dog tracks around the area. Arthur doesn't even realize he's staring and listening in until Yusuf snaps his fingers right by his ear and says, "Stop staring."
"I'm not," Arthur counters, leaning away and rubbing his ear. Because he wasn't.
SHEENA GILL to BRAD O'RILEY
GENERAL REASON: "He's a lying bastard who cheated on me, what more do you need?"
The problem with Eames is that Arthur can't get away from him.
Most people spend the majority of their time in two places: work, and home. Work, for Arthur, is two doors down from the bar where Eames has been employed for the past two months. Eames also lives in one of the units above the bar. Which would be fine if not for the fact that home, for Arthur, is right next door to where Eames resides. It seems narcissistic, but sometimes he thinks that if he drew a physical map of his location in proximity to Eames, it would resemble an atomic nucleus and its respective electron cloud.
Eames has incredibly loud subwoofers placed against the shared wall of their apartments; sometimes Arthur can hear him yelling on XBox Live, probably to junior high schoolers on the other end. He very obviously cuts his own hair and sings really loudly when he's drunk. When the hallway stinks like smoke, half the time it's because of Eames burning his dinner -- but the other half the time it's Arthur burning his dinner, so maybe that one doesn't count.
On the other hand, he's got most of the qualities that Arthur enjoys in a person, and he makes strong drinks and listens when Arthur talks and conveniently forgets his tab a lot of the time. When he runs into the mailman, he'll get Arthur's mail as well and slip it underneath his door. When he's not warbling Chaka Khan songs, he's whistling swingy, jazzy melodies that hit perfectly on the dissonant notes and make Arthur's spine sing with pleasure.
So in sum, Eames is a good guy. Good neighbor, good bartender, good almost-friend. Arthur might even consider dating him, were it not for the fact that Arthur is the Hermes for scorned lovers and also completely dead inside. It probably wouldn't work out.
*
When Arthur gets in on Monday morning, he's greeted with Yusuf sorting through the unclaimed 'Dust in the Wind' packages from 2010, using his specially honed method of throwing lots of stuff around instead of organizing it in any recognizable way. Ariadne is on the phone, saying, "No, I'm sorry, we don't handle divorces," with a steaming cup of coffee in front of her, filled to the brim. It's the landmark on her desk, the sun to the solar system of paperwork for NSBSBUS, paperwork for her other job at the student health center where she works as a stand-in counselor/advisor/therapist/rock, and random schoolwork for her MFA in studio art. Just looking at her workspace makes Arthur tired.
"Because divorces need to go through a court of law," she stresses as Arthur puts his stuff down. "Yes, I understand that you want to break up, but seeing as how you're married, that would constitute a divorce."
Arthur would have hung up by now, those Yelp reviews can go fuck themselves, but Ariadne only has a barest hint of impatience in her voice as she switches over to headset and uses her hands to play GIRP on her computer.
The rest of the morning passes as Arthur lays out the schedule for the week -- their peak times are pre- and post-summer months, which makes sense in a completely stereotypical way -- and helps Yusuf clean out the junk. Most of it should go to Goodwill, but Yusuf keeps a microbe plushie that he finds (The Pox) and Arthur, a rubber band ball.
Lunch consists of kale and bean sprouts -- 27 years and he still can't manage to feed himself correctly -- and trying to fend off an insistent thirteen-year-old who keeps calling, trying to get them to back out on some girl he asked to the formal.
"We don't make deliveries to schools," Arthur tells him. "Why do you have a cell phone, anyway? Go play with some sand. Take advantage of a time when your heart isn't tangled in a never-ending losing game of Frogger."
"What's Frogger?" the kid asks.
Arthur hangs up on him, then refreshes their Yelp page before a new 1-star review riddled with spelling errors pops up and he replies, "Fetus. Updating from his iPhone in class. Blame the education system."
*
Rush hour is starting to choke into motion by the time Arthur hops onto the scooter to make his way to the off-campus housing buildings in the Sunset district. Brad O'Riley lives in a batch of mid-rises that have been painted beige in a mostly failed attempt at a modern makeover.
When Arthur knocks on 207, it takes about thirty seconds for the door to open; apparently it's a studio, seeing as how the bed is fully visible from the doorway, as is the lightly tanned ankle that quickly disappears underneath the sheets.
"Hey," says the guy who opened the door. He's wearing a white tee and basketball shorts, which is the international standard for when one needs to get dressed very, very quickly.
"Hi," Arthur says, business-like. "Brad O'Riley?"
Brad's eyes drift down to Arthur's name tag before snapping back up. "No way," he gapes.
"Sheena would like to express her wishes to end the relationship," Arthur says mechanically. "The letter I am about to hand to you includes all grievances and reasons she had for this break-up. There is a blank form and self-addressed stamped envelope included, should you decide to respond at a later date, or I can take down a dictation right now."
He holds out the envelope and keeps it there until Brad finally takes it.
"This is so cold, man," he starts, but Arthur interrupts.
"The following is a summary from Ms. Gill's letter: Brad, you're a huge bastard and I should have listened to everyone else when they told me not to waste my time with you. I can't believe I took you to Ibiza, where you banged my grand-big." Arthur pauses and looks up. "Did you meet her through a sorority?"
"She was my little," Brad says. He has the temerity to look a bit sad. "I actually really liked her."
"Yeah, well." Arthur shrugs and backs away. He didn't even mean to ask. Lately, he's been breaking character a lot more. That should stop.
Brad's expression hardens. "Wait, fuck you, man, you come and deliver this shitty news and expect to walk away with a smile?"
Over the years, Arthur has gotten pretty goddamn good at jogging backwards. He uses that skill now to keep an eye on Brad while simultaneously expanding the distance between them until he can safely hop onto his scooter and putt onto the street.
*
By the time he gets back to the office, Arthur idly twangs at his new rubber band ball for half an hour before filing GILL to O'RILEY as 'boring' and calling it a day. As he heads out, Ariadne is asking Yusuf whether or not she should copy an application as-is -- "Yes, yes, the all-caps format has a certain aesthetic value, keep it." -- and he briefly wonders, as he's wont to do these days, what the hell he's doing with his life.
The thought stays with him on the walk to the supermarket, and as he stares at a brightly lit selection of cheeses, and as he walks up and down the same wine aisle three times before finally getting into the checkout line. A woman with short red hair is standing in front of him; he stares at the back of her head and involuntarily starts creating an entire imaginary relationship track record for her. Maybe fresh out of a long-term, or happier being alone after a string of shitty short-terms. Or just happier being alone, period.
Thankfully, he's interrupted from that particular black hole of theatrical fantasy when someone says, "Arthur?"
Arthur pivots a little and sees Eames standing behind him with a questioning expression.
"Eames," Arthur states. Because -- Eames. Seeing him unexpectedly always makes Arthur's reflexes sputter. "Hey."
"Hello, my favorite anti-cupid," says Eames. "Fancy seeing you around here, shopping for food like a mere mortal."
Arthur snorts. "Yeah, too bad they're all out of ambrosia today." He's heard every joke in the book regarding his job, but it seems novel coming out of Eames's mouth, overlaid by that accent.
Eames's words and the weight of the basket in Arthur's hand remind him of the fact that the only items he's buying are three bottles of Yellow Tail, a 40oz of IPA, six packets of string cheese, and a bag of baby spinach. Eames's own basket, however, contains only a gigantic handle of whiskey, four bundles of parsley, and a 96-pack of Bagel Bites. The only acknowledgement of their half-assed stab at a well-balanced food pyramid is the fact that they look everywhere but.
"The bar started opening for lunch last week, did you know?" Eames asks after a pause, effectively passing up the 'get out of this conversation free' card that pops up following a casual greeting. "We would have done it earlier, but there remained the issue of health inspections and 'getting it up to code', whatever that means."
"Yes, those pesky health inspections. So useless." Arthur shakes his head, simultaneously wincing at the fact that his main social tactic is to run with amiable conversation and warp it into something potentially mean and sarcastic. He doesn't do it on purpose, but avoiding it requires an intense vigilance that he usually doesn't have the energy nor the desire for.
Eames never seems to mind, though. He even goes so far as to laugh and say, "You're extremely entertaining, you know."
Arthur smiles back and mimes tipping his hat. "Are the bar lunches going to be along the same lines as your daily cuisine?" he asks, nodding at Eames's basket.
"And here I was, thinking we had a tacit agreement not to speak of it," says Eames. "Of our -- our Pandora's box of processed foods."
"And the only good thing in it is the alcohol, right?" Arthur huffs as he hefts the basket onto the conveyor belt.
Eames laughs again. "Well, regarding the menu, you'll just have to pop in sometime and see. There's a free sandwich in it for you," he adds. "And I promise it won't just be two Bagel Bites made into a calzone."
"Sure," Arthur says. He usually likes that word because it's somehow vague, breezy, promising, and dismissive all at once. He might actually mean it this time, though.
Eames reaches over a bit to poke around at the magazines situated above the stacks of gum and chocolates. It doesn't occur to Arthur to lean away until it's too late, it'd be too obvious, and so he inches forward along with the line instead, acutely aware of Eames's proximity. His hand lingers over the new issue of Cosmopolitan before moving on with a soft puff of laughter; Arthur can practically see the way he's smiling. He feels an inexplicable urge to look behind him and check, but then it's his turn to pay and the feeling passes.
Recently, the weather has started to turn, and the entire neighborhood is filled with a bustling, healthy vibe like some kind of eternal farmer's market nightmare. Arthur and Eames walk the three blocks back side-by-side, dodging other pedestrians, their dogs, low-hanging leaves, fire hydrants, and wayward bicyclists without much trouble. When they reach their building, Eames holds the door open for Arthur and keeps chatting over his shoulder as they climb the stairs.
"Well," he finishes, stopping at his door while Arthur walks just a few more steps down the hallway. "Cheers. Remind me to order two of those emergency beeper whatsits, just in case one of us is on the verge of death by malnutrition."
"LifeAlert," Arthur supplies. Eames snaps his fingers and nods. "Hey, I'll pay for yours as long as you do your neighborly duty and prevent my body from being eaten by cats."
"Will do." Eames nods. He glances down briefly to fit the key into the lock, the last strings of a smile still pulling at the corner of his mouth, his profile lit up by the late afternoon sunlight, and then he's gone.
Arthur steps into his own apartment, closes the door, and just leans against it for a good minute or two, coming down from some inexplicable rush.
PHILIP JOU to TYLER LUSTIG
GENERAL REASON: "this dude is a shitty friend."
Some people act like it's the 11th commandment or whatever -- "Arthur shall not seriously date anyone" --, which is something that he doesn't understand. Plenty of people don't date. And it's not like he's been completely devoid of human contact, because he barely remembers half the people he's ever hooked up with, which -- is kind of asshole-ish, actually, but for some reason reassures the world that he's a functional human being, as if being an asshole is a characteristic that makes him normal.
Romanticizing someone who handles other people's break-ups is easy. There are assumptions that he's been burned by the love of his life and his heart is just splintered kindling, or that he's basically a mobile therapist who empathizes deeply with people who get dumped, or that he's wading through the aftermath of relationships while looking for his soulmate, or that he's a sociopath, because even sociopaths need to make a living.
The truth is that he just feels like he's read the ending to every single story there is, so what's the point of slogging through whatever comes before? And if he does happen to have a thing for Eames, then --
then --
*
Ariadne is out on a job with the van, so Arthur has to take the 'Nads' scooter up and down all the roller coaster hills that lead south. Occasionally, NSBSBUS gets a client requesting a platonic friendship break-up, which usually turn out to be more interesting than most of their other ones.
Tyler Lustig looks like a perfectly typical twenty-something, still bleary-eyed at half past noon on a Saturday. He lays his forearm along the line of the doorframe and nods when Arthur asks, "Are you Tyler Lustig?"
"Philip would like to explain his wishes to end this friendship," Arthur begins, and rattles off the spiel. "The following is a summary from Mr. Jou's letter," he continues.
"You only call when you need something -- someone to listen to you, or someone to entertain you, or someone to accompany you to get food because you still don't like going anywhere by yourself. Seriously, you're going to have to learn how to go places by yourself. You've been the fairweather-est of fairweather friends, if 'fairweather' actually means 'really shitty'. I haven't even been able to get you on the phone to tell you this personally. No hard feelings, hope everything goes well for you in the future."
Arthur has been gradually trailing off ever since the start of the letter, because the hardest ones to read aren't the angry ones that drop the f-bomb after every other word; they're the ones that are matter-of-fact and declarative, the ones that have such a tone of finality that the whole thing might as well just be a gigantic full stop.
"There's more, isn't there?" Tyler prompts after an uncomfortable silence.
"No," Arthur denies.
"Read it," Tyler says challengingly.
Arthur sighs and re-grips the letter. "P.S.," he reads, "I know you're going to deny this whole thing. If you can tell me what kind of car I drive or who the last person I dated was, then maybe I'll think about changing my mind." He clears his throat and finishes: "P.P.S. That first postscript was a lie, because I know you don't know that stuff because you never fucking listen to me."
"So, how's it feel?" Tyler asks as soon as he's done, obviously having been rehearsing the response while Arthur was reading. "How's it feel to go around delivering relationship-ending messages and shitting on people you've never even met before? Do you feel good about yourself?"
"Well, honestly, right now it's not that bad. It sounds like you were a pretty crappy friend," Arthur says, because he's always been truthful when it comes to voicing his opinion.
Apparently Tyler doesn't value this kind of objective viewpoint, since Arthur barely has time to hand Tyler the letter before getting punched in the face. Physical violence is nothing new to him, but the punch comes at a weird angle that offsets his center of balance and he tips to the side. Then there's a secondary knock to his skull on his way down and the world turns suddenly shaky and dark, as if he's been rolled over some precipice of consciousness.
Days without an OSHA recordable injury: 0, scrolls across Arthur's mind before he blacks out completely.
*
"Unbelievable," Yusuf keeps saying. "Unbelievable. I can't believe it."
"Wait, so what is it again, exactly? Is it believable?" Ariadne finally asks. "Arthur, what's your middle name?"
"Elizabeth," says Arthur. His head is killing him, and the hospital lights are so bright, and his eyelids slide down a little to block out the worst of it.
They pop back open a second later, though, because Yusuf punches really hard. "Wake up, we can't have you passing out before the cops get here."
"Cops? Why cops?" Arthur feels a distant panic at the thought of encountering Officer Roberts again, he of the longstanding grudge and the many weapons.
"I figured maybe you'd want to press charges," Yusuf explains. "You don't?"
"Not really," Arthur sighs. "Nature of the beast. Almost every single one of your deliveries ends in a foot chase. And remember when that girl came at Ariadne with a Roomba?"
"Well, she didn't actually make contact, and Yusuf's never actually been caught. I think that's the crucial difference here," Ariadne says absently, looking over the rest of the form. "Seriously, middle name. At least an initial."
"A."
"That's as in 'A' for assault victim," Yusuf says. "You really don't want to press charges?"
"I want to get cleared as soon as possible so I can go home," Arthur says with weary honesty, because that really is all he wants. He wants to ball himself up in his comforter, unplug the alarm clock, and watch embarrassing TV like ABC Family or Noggin for about a week straight.
"If it's a concussion, you need someone to stay with you so they can wake you up every two hours to make sure you're not slipping into a coma or anything," Yusuf says calmly, making Arthur's fantasy dissolve into reality again.
"It's not a concussion, it's a black eye," Arthur argues.
"And an enormous bump on the back of your head," Yusuf points out. "Your head is growing another head, that's what's happening back there."
"You're due for dinner at your mom's place," Ariadne tells him, and indeed Yusuf is dressed in slacks and a disturbingly shiny shirt. "I'll stay."
"But you're supposed to come with. I flaked on you last time, and the time before that, too."
Ariadne replies and Yusuf says something else, but Arthur's eyes start to slip shut again and he doesn't really comprehend any of it. It's starting to become difficult to keep track of the conversation. "Nobody needs to stay," he says to himself.
He closes his eyes.
*
It comes as a surprise to no one that it's a concussion. Yusuf drops Ariadne and Arthur off at his building by double-parking with the hazard lights on, as if that excuses him from blocking half the street as he and Ariadne hold a leisurely conversation through the passenger window. Arthur, for his part, peels himself out of the car and sways around for a second before leaning against the open door.
The door to Forge & Fire is propped open, releasing a stream of conversation and music that makes Arthur's head pound. There's also a dark blob standing against the wall to the building, and it says, "Arthur!"
Arthur squints.
"Hello, gang," Eames starts, pushing away from the wall and tossing his cigarette away. "I was wondering when you'd show up. What's -- Christ, Arthur, what happened?"
"Hazards of being present for lots of volatile emotions," Yusuf calls. "Hey, Eames."
"He got punched and hit his head," Ariadne says simply. "I'm going to stay with him, make sure he doesn't throw up all over himself and drown in it."
"Employee of the month over here," Arthur slurs, and chuckles to himself.
His body seems to have gotten a lot more out of sync ever since leaving the hospital. He can't even blink both eyes simultaneously. This discovery morphs into a self-imposed challenge, and as Eames sidles over to speak with Ariadne and Yusuf in low voices, Arthur squints up at the flickering lights of Forge & Fire and tries to blink normally. He doesn't know how much time passes, but eventually a reservoir of sour saliva starts collecting in his mouth and he has to lean over to spit it out, but he doesn't throw up.
"Right. Arthur," Eames finally says at a normal volume, emerging from the pow-wow, "I'm staying with you tonight."
"What -- " Arthur tries to protest, but somehow zones out and comes to again when they're about five feet from the curb, with Eames's arm around his waist.
Ariadne is in the car once again. She yells something about calling him first thing tomorrow before Yusuf pulls into traffic and they disappear around the corner, probably to gorge themselves on Yusuf's mother's amazing cooking. Yusuf brings leftovers sometimes, and those are mostly the times that Arthur laments living far away from his parents.
"Oh, okay," Arthur says out loud, to no one and in response to nothing in particular.
Eames practically carries him up the stairs, which might be embarrassing but mostly Arthur is grateful for Eames's solidness at his side. Once inside Arthur's apartment, Eames deposits him on the couch before rummaging around like he lives there. A trash can finds its way into Arthur's arms, and saltines and water appear on the coffee table. He stares off into a random point in space and becomes immersed in the presence of Eames, listening to the sounds he makes as he moves about the place.
"Hey," Eames warns as he sits down next to Arthur, and the ensuing jab to Arthur's shoulder makes him jerk upright. "None of that."
"I didn't even realize I was doing it in the first place," Arthur complains. "Listen, I'm fine. I'm completely fine, I'm just exhausted and I want to sleep. Besides, I can think of thousands of other things you can be doing that are much, much more appealing than being my babysitter."
"I'm a natural night owl," Eames replies, as if that makes sense. "I can also make nature noises if you think it'll soothe you. Would you prefer rainforest or sounds of the sea?"
Arthur rolls his face into the cushion and says, "Ugh."
Eames puts the TV on Jeopardy with the volume set a bit too high, but incidentally Arthur loves the show. He hugs the trash can and answers all three Daily Doubles, but Eames gets the Final Jeopardy question correct, which earns some begrudging admiration from Arthur. During each commercial break, Arthur chews on saltines and gets more comfortable on the couch.
Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom is playing after that. About fifteen minutes in, Arthur feels okay enough to place the trash can on the floor; about halfway through, Eames gets up and comes back with a half-frozen Gatorade that Arthur bangs on the coffee table before shaking the miniature icebergs into his mouth.
He's finally allowed to go to bed at 11:00, after a quick shower during which Eames knocks on the door every five minutes. When Arthur's done, he yanks it open and says, "You would have heard it if I passed out."
"Maybe not, since you're likely to drape yourself over side of the tub in a very graceful, silent way," Eames says, "even with the head injury."
"Why the hell would you think that?" Arthur asks as he crawls onto the bed and arranges himself in a graceful, silent way. Eames just stands there and watches until Arthur realizes what happened and reaches out to turn off the light.
"Get out," he says without venom.
Eames obeys with a smile, shutting the door quietly behind him. Arthur falls asleep in what seems like seconds.
After two hours on the dot, Eames comes in, tugs down the comforter, and gently squeezes Arthur's shoulder. "Hey," he murmurs, but the bass of his voice is still prominent. "Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?"
"My face got in the way of someone's fist," Arthur answers in a mumble, eyes still closed. "Now you're forced to ask me Law & Order questions."
"What day is it?"
"April 45th."
"Maybe I'll blacken your other eye, create some symmetry here," Eames says. Arthur feels him swipe his thumb over his good cheekbone, swooping down in a backwards 'J'. "Alright, go back to sleep."
"Thanks," Arthur manages.
The comforter settles over his chest again. He goes back to sleep.
*
And if he does happen to have a thing for Eames, then --
then it's going to be like a slow wave, gathering up momentum with each moment. But all Arthur has to do is wait for it to crest and break, wait for it to wash away quietly. All he has to do is wait.
***
Morning hollers into Arthur's consciousness like a speeding bullet before exploding into daylight and birds chirping and the clicking of bike gears and buses belching through the streets. After the initial discontent about being awake passes, he cracks one eye open and gauges his mood.
He definitely doesn't think about Eames.
Instead, he thinks about getting out of bed and sitting down at his computer and scrolling through all the unread files, some of which whittle down years of love and partnership and whatever-the-hell into rows of blocky text, and facing another batch of strangers only to read them a list of reasons about why they're not good enough.
Just as he's deciding that he'd probably rather be dead than do another day of that, eerily enough, his phone buzzes with a new text from Yusuf: Arthur are you depressed
This is usually the time of year when you get depressed
I knw i should have hooked up that tin can phone line
Taking my yearly sabbatical, Arthur writes back, which Yusuf doesn't reply to, seeing as how this is the third year in a row that Arthur has taken off without previous notice and Yusuf is nothing if not good at improvisation. Plus, the weather has turned back in on itself -- April is nearly half over, and yet rainclouds and showers have returned to blanket over the city like it's mid-winter. That should call for a lull in business.
Head injuries aren't very conducive to safe driving, but he moves around and goes for a short jog and feels fine, so he ends up taking a drive down the coastline. Not too far, just a couple hours out, where the water is actually nice and not frigid, and there are beachfront houses lining the winding road.
Then he drives around aimlessly, because what the hell, what a pointless trip.
Just before he gets back onto the freeway, he notices that one of them is having an open house, and spins into a U-turn before he can rethink it. There's a curving driveway, and the backyard is separated from the beach by only a few meters. The whole place smells like saltwater. A few other couples are milling about, checking out the bay windows and stamping lightly on the hardwood floors. The house is airy and beautiful, and more than a little lonely.
"Nice house," Arthur says to the realtor, who's hanging out in the background.
"Isn't it?" she gushes. She goes into the merits of the property before offering a pamphlet that Arthur politely declines.
"Why did the owners decide to sell?" he asks instead.
"They're divorced. She's selling the house, moving back east. Would you like a pamphlet?" she asks again.
Arthur declines once more. He leaves without taking a second look around.
*
Rush hour starts bottle-necking the freeways for no good reason, and it takes him a few hours to get back home. Parking is a fucking nightmare as well. By the time he yanks the emergency brake up, he's resettled into his normal, day-to-day grumpiness and decides to head directly to the bar.
Ariadne and Yusuf are already there, perched on the stools with an empty one between them, and Arthur feels a sudden and fervent gratefulness for their presence. He takes a seat as Eames heads toward them with plates in each hand.
"Egg salad sandwich with potatoes on the side, well-done, and a muffaletta, toasted," Eames recites, placing the food onto the bar. "Arthur -- "
"The usual, thanks," Arthur cuts in, and Eames busies himself with getting the whiskey. "So what's on the agenda?" he asks, hoping no one will mention his absence.
"Oooh, someone bought a 'Landslide'," Ariadne announces as she chews. "Lawyers. Totally rolling in it."
"He's not in the mood today," Yusuf says in a horrible stage-whisper.
"Oh." Ariadne swallows. Then, instead of moving past it like she usually does, she says, "Why?"
Arthur shrugs. He takes a sip of his whiskey and tries to convinces himself that Eames isn't hanging around their side of the bar on purpose.
"I think maybe it's because you spend so much time invested in other people that you don't concentrate on anything else." Ariadne takes a gulp of her beer. "You let it get to you too much."
"Oh, god," Arthur says.
"No," Yusuf corrects, "he bottles it up until the cap pops off. That's the problem."
Sometimes Yusuf and Ariadne resemble a never-ending game of Pong. Arthur usually gets stuck in the middle and under the microscope because Yusuf seems to exist on a higher level of contentment in general, and Ariadne has taken to adulthood like a fish to water.
"Is that a euphemism?" Eames interrupts, lightening the mood. "Arthur, do you need a good wank? I can't promise sanitary conditions -- " he gestures around the bar. " -- but I can guarantee a good time."
Ariadne and Yusuf laugh as Arthur gets elbowed from both sides. As he grimaces, he accidentally catches Eames's eye; Eames holds it for a beat too long before turning to put clean glasses away.
Something akin to a rising tide swells up in Arthur's chest; he has to tamp down the impulse to grab Eames's sleeve, ask, What? What is it?
"Seeing people at their worst has ruined him," Yusuf says sagely.
"They're not at their worst," Arthur protests. "They're just being -- normal."
"He has low expectations," Yusuf explains to Eames, and something about the whole scene reminds Arthur of parent-teacher conferences. Then he turns to Arthur again and says, "Hiring a third party so you can break up with your significant other by proxy is not normal."
"It will be soon, if things keep going the way they do," Ariadne counters.
The two of them devolve into an argument about the future of break-ups and communication in general. Meanwhile, Arthur poses a silent challenge as to how many empty glasses he can rack up, then accepts said challenge and gets to work.
Ariadne is saying something about high-speed internet connections in Asia when Arthur loudly announces, apropos of nothing, "Relationships are fruit."
"Oh, no," Ariadne says.
"Fruit," Eames repeats, having apparently decided to ignore the entire other half of the bar for the night.
"You're opening a dam, Eames," Ariadne says, but Eames merely acknowledges her warning instead of heeding it.
"Fruit," Arthur confirms at a normal volume, "or any other kind of perishable."
"What's the pasta equivalent, then? Something without an expiration date," Eames clarifies.
"Nothing," Arthur says at the same time Ariadne answers, "Your dominant hand."
Eames laughs. "Fair enough."
"I'd rather go for some fast food myself," Yusuf says thoughtfully.
"Fast food is incredibly tempting and delicious, but wouldn't you need a palate cleanser after a while?" Eames suggests. "Something sweet to wash it down."
"Wow, that's really nice," Yusuf tells him.
"Corny, but I actually buy it," is Ariadne's conclusion. "It's probably the accent."
"Of course it's the accent, but don't make the mistake of underestimating the depths of my soul," Eames says.
"Sure," Arthur scoffs. "Under the chest that's hard as diamonds, there lies the heart of a passionate, misunderstood soul." He takes a gulp of his drink when Yusuf repeats, under his breath, "Diamonds?"
"And carnal," Eames adds. "A passionate, misunderstood, carnal soul."
"And carnal," Arthur agrees. "Like a chipmunk. Anyway. I think this is the part where you convince me that I'm missing out, etcetera, etcetera."
"If you're being serious, then -- I mean, you're a grown man, Arthur." Eames shrugs and starts wiping down the counter. "Whatever you might believe, or whatever you might've convinced yourself of, or whatever you might even be in denial about, all of that is your own business. I respect it."
"He's totally judging you," Ariadne translates. "You've turned a miserable human experience into a lucrative business. Who wouldn't judge you?" She rubs his back briefly as she speaks, an endearingly sweet action incongruous to her words.
"You would think that I'd be hurt by that, but considering my scruples left the building about ten years ago -- ," Arthur pauses to finish his drink, " -- I'm not."
Eames puts his elbows on the counter and leans in. "Alright, now tell me that love is a waste of time," he instructs. The tone of his voice is suddenly different, like it's only the two of them, alone.
"Love," Arthur says obediently, "is a waste of time."
Eames smiles. It's a nice smile. "I'm surprised you don't deny its existence altogether."
"I'm not stupid. People love each other all the time. Too much, maybe. Or too often." Arthur closes one eye and tilts his glass, rolling it along the bottom rim to see how the light refraction changes.
"On that note: shots," Yusuf requests, his index finger pointed up in the air.
Surprisingly, Eames brings over enough for all four of them. He also keeps refilling until Arthur loses track, first of the drinks, and then of the night altogether.
*
The next morning finds Arthur on the couch, telling himself that he has to stop waking up like this. It takes him about ten more minutes to realize that the quilt he's covered with is unfamiliar. When he finally opens his eyes, he sees a piece of paper on the coffee table, folded lengthwise and tented up on its edges.
The quilt is on loan. What kind of person doesn't have a single quilt lying around?
The letters are shaky, but only slightly. Arthur stares at the note. Then he pulls the quilt up over his face and huddles underneath. It smells like fresh laundry and a tiny bit of aftershave.
He doesn't remember anything that led up to this point, with him being in a warm cocoon courtesy of Eames's quilt, but what's clear is that Eames has officially put Arthur to bed twice, both times in a completely innocuous way. This is a fact, and one that serves as a good indicator of what kind of relationship they have, or will ever have. He's equal parts relieved and disappointed at having navigated out of the thorny, tangled mess of uncertainty. On one hand, solidifying a platonic relationship would help Arthur with whatever kind of crush he has. On the other hand, it's a platonic relationship.
Still, Arthur feels better. Marginally better, but better all the same. After all, it's nothing that he wasn't expecting.
("Where are the quilts?" Eames asked, emerging from the bedroom and banging into the doorframe on the way. "Shit. Ow."
"No quilts. Comforter," Arthur grunted.
Eames knelt down and began to clumsily untie Arthur's shoelaces. "Comforters belong on beds, not sofas," he said distractedly, "and seeing as how you're adamant about your post on the sofa, it's not going to work. You don't have any quilts at all?"
There was a thunking noise, and Arthur's right foot was free of its oppressive loafer prison. "I want to take you out," Arthur said in response. "Would you let me take you out?"
Eames's hands were busy with Arthur's other shoe. They stilled for a moment, but Arthur fell asleep before he heard an answer.)
*
----
"I checked the weather report," Yusuf says.
"And?"
"Sunny. Sunny. Sunny. Sunny. Sun--," Yusuf pauses. "Wait, I'm going for the two-week forecast now. Yeah. Sunny. Sunny. Sunny. Sunny. I think you get the point."
"Okay." Arthur exhales. "Let's plan to take one day off and do ten-hour days, four days a week, like we did last year. Thursday through Sunday. Are you okay with that?"
"Definitely. Yes." Yusuf's voice has a determination Arthur's only previously heard in zombie survivor movies. "Let's do this."
And thus, as schools all over the country release students into the normal population and the sun starts hanging on to the horizon for longer and longer, one of their busiest times of the year rolls around, because there's something about summertime that makes people question their commitments even more than usual.
It's fine. It's rote. Arthur rattles off break-up letters like he's in a spelling bee where speed counts. He weaves in and out of rush hour traffic, slams on the brakes when he sees CHP, and goes 85 miles per hour otherwise. Sometimes he even leaves the engine idling, so as to make a quicker getaway.
Afterward, he gets home, toes off his shoes, and, more often than not, he ends up hanging out with Eames in some context or another. If not in the bar, then at one of their respective apartments. The first time he successfully cooks chicken cacciatore, he brings it over to Eames's place to show off. A couple weeks later, Eames buys a Shake Weight after a shitty day, which becomes a lot less uncomfortably suggestive and a lot more hilarious after they share some beers.
One night, they have a barbecue on the roof of their building. It's uncharacteristically warm for San Francisco, but a chill starts creeping in as the sun goes down. Most of the attendees start trickling away after that, but Arthur hunches forward in his jacket and stands near the edge of the roof, just watching the fog roll in.
"This was nice," Ariadne comments from beside him. Arthur glances over at her; she's looking content, belly protruding slightly from underneath her t-shirt. "Totally worth the food coma."
"Yeah," Arthur agrees.
"So," Ariadne starts hesitantly. She raises her eyebrows, and right over her head in Arthur's line of sight is Eames, who's tending to the last of the grill.
Arthur shakes his head. "Nope."
"Over it?"
"Definitely." He nods.
"He was pretty interested in watching you eat that third hot dog," Ariadne says offhandedly.
"Because it was my third hot dog in ten minutes," Arthur says. "Speed-eating attracts all kinds of attention."
"It was pretty impressive," Ariadne admits. "Well, okay. As long as you're over it, I guess."
Arthur smiles at her. "Yeah," he says. The fog is now cottoning over any building higher than five stories. "Yeah, I am," he says again.
*
MISTER EAMES to DOMINIC COBB
GENERAL REASON: "irreconcilable differences."
Arthur changes his mind the next day, when he's scrolling through the new applications and comes across one for Eames, to someone named Dominic Cobb.
Staring at the monitor doesn't make the letters change. He feels a hot flash of jealousy, as well as a dark self-satisfaction for successfully saving himself the embarrassment and letdown before it could even happen. Eames seems rather good at compartmentalizing different slices of his life, which would explain why Arthur has never seen this Cobb guy around.
Yusuf is doing rounds at the panhandle today, which means he could easily swing by Cobb's place. In fact, he says as much when he scans over the location as the document prints, but Arthur makes up an excuse about needing fresh air and barges out the door before anyone can call him out. Indulging in less-than-advisable curiosities is one of his weaknesses.
Dominic Cobb has sky-blue eyes and dirty blond hair. He's also got a smattering of facial hair that makes him look like an aging porcupine, though Arthur suspects he's the minority in that opinion. To anyone else, Dominic Cobb probably looks like an all-American guy who belongs in a Levi's ad campaign.
"Eames is breaking up with you," Arthur announces loudly, instead of, "Hi," or, "Hello," or any other normal type of greeting.
Cobb coughs. "Right. Okay. You must be Arthur?"
"Yes, I'm here from No Sad, Big Smile Break-Up Service," Arthur says. "Eames is breaking up with you because of 'irreconcilable differences', according to his statement. Should you be inclined to respond, I have a few options available for you -- "
"That's okay," Cobb interrupts. "Yeah, no, that's fine, it won't be necessary. Thanks."
He shoots Arthur a quick smile and starts to close the door, which would officially seal this as the most amicable and succinct break-up that Arthur has ever been involved in. But for some reason, Arthur speaks up before Cobb can get the door shut: "And how long had you been seeing Eames?" he asks loudly, in spite of himself.
"Uh." Cobb wipes his hands on his pants. "I don't know. A couple months? Maybe a few months?"
"A couple or a few?" Arthur asks immediately. "Was it a casual relationship or something more serious?"
"Is this any of your business? Why are you asking these questions?" Cobb sounds curious more than anything else.
"Statistics," Arthur fibs. "For our company pamphlet."
"Shouldn't you be prepared to write my answers down, then? To double-check the numbers and analyze them later," Cobb points out.
"I'm good with memorization," Arthur says shortly. "What are you, some kind of professor?"
"Yes," Cobb says. He blinks. "Of statistics."
"Oh." Arthur feels a sudden draining of energy at the stumble. Almost as quickly as he'd gotten riled up, now he's tired and at a loss. Getting worked up over Eames and Cobb was dumb, that much is clear. The whole thing feels kind of surreal.
"So, are you going to use Prism or Graphpad?" Cobb presses. "Because both have their advantages and disadvantages, you know."
He looks thrilled about the chance to talk stats with someone. Arthur says, "Probably Excel. Nothing fancy."
"Right," Cobb says, disappointed. "Well, I'll let you get to it. Hey, thanks for stopping by."
This time, when he starts to close the door, Arthur steps backward until he's off the porch. "You're not angry?" he calls.
"Eames is a good guy," Cobb declares. Then, oddly enough, he smiles. "See you, Arthur."
Arthur sits in the car for a while. A few doors down, there's a weeping willow that almost sweeps against the street. He stares at the swaying green, then starts the engine and prepares to hit up the next appointment.
It's only when he gets to the second stoplight that he realizes he's not even wearing his nametag. Strange.
*
Between the three of them, it takes two days to clear the queue completely. At that point it's nearly time for semester-based schools to start up again, so Arthur takes an early Friday and spends most of the afternoon watching TBS, and halfway through the second King of Queens rerun, there's a knock at the door.
It's Eames, of course, holding a pan of something that smells delicious. "Scones," he announces, lifting it slightly like an offering. Being aware of a new facet of his life is strange, because Arthur doesn't know if he should acknowledge it out loud or not.
"Godsend," Arthur says, letting him in and turning the TV off.
There's still steaming coming off the pan; it curls into little wisps in the late afternoon sunlight. Eames sets the scones down on the dining table before pulling out a couple chairs. "Dig in," he invites.
Arthur obeys. The scones are way too hot, so he dances his fingers over them in lieu of starting a conversation. He can feel Eames studying him. Slightly burnt blueberries are suddenly very interesting.
"I should confess something," Eames begins. "I'm just going to jump in, here," he adds belatedly.
Arthur pauses and looks up, uncertain. "I should have known that scones stood for a preemptive apology."
"Not an apology, exactly. Just something I need to get off my chest." Eames smiles his crooked smile, the corners of his eyes relaxing into contented crinkles.
An unexpected wave of attraction, unmarred by the layers of pessimism and denial that Arthur keeps burying it under, swoops through him like a roller coaster. "Okay, I think I'm ready to hear your sins," Arthur says after a pause.
Eames clears his throat and shifts, flicking at the corner of a scone to make it whip around in short circles. Silence prickles at Arthur's ears.
Eames says, "Cobb is my mate."
"Yes, I'm aware," Arthur says slowly.
"No. He's my mate, period. We never -- I'm not dating him, and I never was."
Arthur studies him. It's like the part in a murder-mystery, when everything is about to be elucidated. But right now, Arthur is just confused. "Then what was -- ?"
"My shoddy plan of trying to gauge whether or not you actually were interested in me," Eames says baldly. "Rather childish and manipulative and cowardly, I apologize for that. But I just -- I hope you understand. Asking someone something like that face-to-face, especially a friend, is quite daunting, frankly."
Misinterpreting intentions happens to everyone at some point, which is why he spends so long trying to dissect what he just heard. Cobb, not actually dating Eames. Never was. Eames, setting up a fake application -- which would explain why it was only filled out about halfway -- to gauge Arthur's reaction? As far as interpretations go, it hits all the logical points but Arthur is still unsure.
"I guess," Arthur says as his brain comes back online. "Wait, what? I mean, thanks."
"Sorry for the runaround," Eames says hastily.
"It's not a big deal." Arthur waves him off. He rehashes the words again, and all he can come up with is, "Why?"
"Why does anybody do anything? Because they want to," Eames says. "And if two people happen to want the same thing in some kind of mutually beneficial arrangement, then."
He trails off. Arthur can already feel himself breaking just because he's facing this head on, for the first time. The power that Eames seems to exert over him is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating -- and for the first time, he wonders about the possibility of reciprocation.
He can deny it. He can say, no, you're wrong. He can bury his head in the sand until Eames takes everything back.
"I do want it," he hears himself saying. "You're right."
"Then you should let yourself do this, in my opinion." Eames smiles. "I'll be careful with you," he says jokingly, but Arthur can hear the seriousness that undercuts it.
"And if I don't return that favor?" Arthur argues. "I've spent years mixed up in break-ups. I can't promise that I'll be kind, or sensitive, or not a complete asshole in general. I can't promise I'll be any good at this."
"Not to sound even more naff, but you've already proven that you are all those things," Eames says. "It's too late to keep those secrets. You made the mistake of letting me get to know you. You, not the person you want to be."
Arthur scoffs. Eames smirks at him, but doesn't budge.
"Who do you think I want to be?" Arthur asks, curious enough to veer into a tangent.
To his surprise, Eames seems to think about this carefully, and that's it, Arthur's gone. "Someone who forfeits without second thought instead of playing, I suppose," Eames finally says. "I know I said that all of this was your own business and I had no part in it, but I changed my mind," he continues. "I had to try. So. This is me trying."
He studies Arthur, as if waiting for a response.
Funnily enough, Arthur isn't imagining the usual fanfare of break-ups and heartbreak and horrible, explosive demises. He isn't imagining who will have to deliver the news, Ariadne or Yusuf, and he isn't imagining the vacation time he'll need to take when it ends. He's not thinking about anything at all; he's simply sitting there in front of Eames, their knees inches away from touching, the pan full of scones between them.
With his heart pounding loud in his ears, Arthur pinches a scone between his fingers and takes a large, determined bite.
"What did you mean, 'actually'?" he asks, swallowing. "'Actually interested', what does that mean?"
Eames sits back and laughs. A bright sound that Arthur's heard mostly through the wall they share, but now it's here, right in front of him. When Arthur cuffs Eames's knee with his foot, Eames manages to grab his ankle and hold it still.
He leans in and says, "I want to take you out. Would you let me take you out?"
The words ping something familiar in Arthur's memory. Eames is smiling like he's sharing a private joke with Arthur, and Arthur doesn't think he'll tire of seeing that expression, ever. He's practically thrumming with energy -- and it feels like stepping off the edge of a cliff without knowing what's below, but he looks at Eames and thinks, okay. Okay, yes.
Signed, Sealed, Delivered
PG
Written for this prompt, for this commercial:
Click to viewSETH KAY to RAYNA EISOLD
GENERAL REASON: "neither of us are what the other person needs anymore"
The slogan on the scooter is supposed to say 'No Sad, Big Smile Break-Up Service', but for the past few months it's just been 'Nads', minus all the spaces and missing letters. Some jerk has also scribbled a huge, illustrated penis in Sharpie right next to the so-called slogan, which means that Arthur often gets mistaken for an entirely different kind of mobile service. He's also been pulled over by the cops at least four times, but once he flashes his lanyard-cum-ID-cum-business card, they usually let him go.
Well, except for that one time. Officer Roberts, of WANDA LEE to BENJAMIN ROBERTS, had lapsed into shocked recognition. But Arthur has fast reflexes. He wouldn't be doing this job if he didn't. In any case, he'd already gunned the scooter before Roberts had a chance to reach for his baton, or taser, or maybe even his gun, who knows.
Today he's in the outskirts of the city, in the van that thankfully has all its letters and is even gleaming a little, thanks to some unexpected rainfall the night before. According to the application, Kay and Eisold had been together for eight years, so Arthur prepares himself for tears and/or violence during the drive. Kay went for the 'Dust in the Wind' package, which, along with the standard break-up and rough dictation of any response from the other party, includes a clean-up service that involves returning to the shared residence and removing all the client's belongings for later reclamation at the NSBSBUS office. The initial letter delivery went well, or as well as could be expected, but Arthur has learned that first reactions are not a good indicator for subsequent encounters.
He's tense for about the first ten seconds after Rayna buzzes him in, but she's still calm and polite, just like last time, and so he allows himself to relax and look around a little. Seth Kay and Rayna Eisold live -- lived -- on the third floor of an old Victorian. It has narrow hallways, high ceilings with rounded corners, and most of the windows face the west, which is great for natural lighting. Arthur trails his fingers along the intricate wainscoting as he follows Rayna to the living room. He considers commenting on it, complimenting her on the fact that they decided to keep it instead of going for a more modern look. He ends up keeping his mouth shut instead.
"These are clothes," she says, gesturing to a couple trash bags slumped by a shelf full of vintage toys. "Um, and there's some boxes in the bedroom, if you have room."
"No problem. I have the van today, so space shouldn't be an issue," Arthur assures.
"Good," Rayna says. "Okay, yeah, good."
"Okay." Arthur smiles at her, a rote expression that barely means anything anymore. "I'll just get started here. The boxes are -- ?"
"Oh. Here," she says, stepping around the corner and nudging a few out into the hallway with her foot. "Just, you know. Odds and ends. I probably wouldn't mind if they got dropped onto the freeway by accident." She huffs out a laugh, rubs her forehead to hide her eyes, but when she looks up again her gaze is clear, with no trace of tears.
Arthur may be void of emotion by now, but he still has some tact leftover. He starts working in silence and it only takes him a few minutes to lug everything out to the van by himself. Rayna meets him on the doorstep afterward.
"All set?" she asks.
"Yeah, that's all of it. Thanks for letting me stop by."
He'd noticed some discoloration on the walls from picture frames and whatever else they had hanging up. Arthur digs out a business card and hands it to her. "Hey, if you're looking for interior repainting or anything, these guys are great. 10% off if you mention us," he adds as she takes the card.
"Thanks," she says absently.
"He seems like an asshole," Arthur offers after a pause.
Rayna just quirks her mouth at him, a thanks, but no thanks, type of expression that Arthur is used to seeing by now. "He was worth it," she says after a while.
He gets into the van and shuts the door. Before he starts the engine, he reaches into the glove compartment and retrieves his notebook. Next to KAY to EISOLD, he writes, harpooned and underlines it twice.
*
No Sad, Big Smile Break-Up Service had its humble beginnings in Arthur's on-campus apartment during college. Technically, he was unknowingly running such a company since sophomore year of high school, when he somehow gained a reputation for being a good, innocuous bearer of bad news. He could be sympathetic or stoic, whatever the situation called for. This role continued through college, and when he graduated without any prospects, it seemed as good of an idea as anything else to turn it into something lucrative. People were making tons of money selling dumb stuff on Etsy and getting sponsored from Youtube videos, so why not start a break-up service?
The difference was that back then, he was actually talking things out with people, helping them figure out what they wanted, or what was going to best for them in the long run, break-up or not. Nowadays he gets clients to fill out the 'WHAT YOU WANT TO SAY:' part of the application and runs it through autosummarize so that he has a spiel to read before handing the respondent a printed-out version of the full letter. There are branches in LA, New York, San Francisco, and Austin. But at least he makes the effort to keep the San Francisco office just between him, Yusuf, and Ariadne, for some semblance of a small and cozy entrepreneurship.
Honestly, the whole thing shapes up to be a bit dull. It might seem callous, but day-to-day exposure to anything results in some degree of detachment. Arthur rates his reaction to each break-up on a sliding scale: hallelujah, boring, or harpooned. 'Hallelujah' includes anything from infidelity to stealing. 'Boring' mostly consists of melodramatic crap that Arthur can catch on daytime television in the comfort of his own home. 'Harpooned', however, doesn't come along very often, and usually calls for a pint or two after work.
Yusuf texts right as Arthur is about halfway through a cigarette: I think i ate a piece of lint by accident
Then, two minutes later: Never mind it was a shred of coconut
Stop eating everything in sight, Arthur texts back. Yusuf just replies with a smiley face.
Bar-ing. Meet me when youre free, he sends, before flicking away his cigarette and heading into Forge & Fire.
*
As soon as Arthur steps through the door, he's greeted by a booming voice that yells, "And that right there's my favorite customer."
Arthur wordlessly holds up two fingers before taking off his jacket and sliding onto a stool. "Thanks," he says as two pints slosh their way in front of him.
Eames raises his eyebrows and smiles toothily at him before turning away to continue a conversation about the best dog tracks around the area. Arthur doesn't even realize he's staring and listening in until Yusuf snaps his fingers right by his ear and says, "Stop staring."
"I'm not," Arthur counters, leaning away and rubbing his ear. Because he wasn't.
SHEENA GILL to BRAD O'RILEY
GENERAL REASON: "He's a lying bastard who cheated on me, what more do you need?"
The problem with Eames is that Arthur can't get away from him.
Most people spend the majority of their time in two places: work, and home. Work, for Arthur, is two doors down from the bar where Eames has been employed for the past two months. Eames also lives in one of the units above the bar. Which would be fine if not for the fact that home, for Arthur, is right next door to where Eames resides. It seems narcissistic, but sometimes he thinks that if he drew a physical map of his location in proximity to Eames, it would resemble an atomic nucleus and its respective electron cloud.
Eames has incredibly loud subwoofers placed against the shared wall of their apartments; sometimes Arthur can hear him yelling on XBox Live, probably to junior high schoolers on the other end. He very obviously cuts his own hair and sings really loudly when he's drunk. When the hallway stinks like smoke, half the time it's because of Eames burning his dinner -- but the other half the time it's Arthur burning his dinner, so maybe that one doesn't count.
On the other hand, he's got most of the qualities that Arthur enjoys in a person, and he makes strong drinks and listens when Arthur talks and conveniently forgets his tab a lot of the time. When he runs into the mailman, he'll get Arthur's mail as well and slip it underneath his door. When he's not warbling Chaka Khan songs, he's whistling swingy, jazzy melodies that hit perfectly on the dissonant notes and make Arthur's spine sing with pleasure.
So in sum, Eames is a good guy. Good neighbor, good bartender, good almost-friend. Arthur might even consider dating him, were it not for the fact that Arthur is the Hermes for scorned lovers and also completely dead inside. It probably wouldn't work out.
*
When Arthur gets in on Monday morning, he's greeted with Yusuf sorting through the unclaimed 'Dust in the Wind' packages from 2010, using his specially honed method of throwing lots of stuff around instead of organizing it in any recognizable way. Ariadne is on the phone, saying, "No, I'm sorry, we don't handle divorces," with a steaming cup of coffee in front of her, filled to the brim. It's the landmark on her desk, the sun to the solar system of paperwork for NSBSBUS, paperwork for her other job at the student health center where she works as a stand-in counselor/advisor/therapist/rock, and random schoolwork for her MFA in studio art. Just looking at her workspace makes Arthur tired.
"Because divorces need to go through a court of law," she stresses as Arthur puts his stuff down. "Yes, I understand that you want to break up, but seeing as how you're married, that would constitute a divorce."
Arthur would have hung up by now, those Yelp reviews can go fuck themselves, but Ariadne only has a barest hint of impatience in her voice as she switches over to headset and uses her hands to play GIRP on her computer.
The rest of the morning passes as Arthur lays out the schedule for the week -- their peak times are pre- and post-summer months, which makes sense in a completely stereotypical way -- and helps Yusuf clean out the junk. Most of it should go to Goodwill, but Yusuf keeps a microbe plushie that he finds (The Pox) and Arthur, a rubber band ball.
Lunch consists of kale and bean sprouts -- 27 years and he still can't manage to feed himself correctly -- and trying to fend off an insistent thirteen-year-old who keeps calling, trying to get them to back out on some girl he asked to the formal.
"We don't make deliveries to schools," Arthur tells him. "Why do you have a cell phone, anyway? Go play with some sand. Take advantage of a time when your heart isn't tangled in a never-ending losing game of Frogger."
"What's Frogger?" the kid asks.
Arthur hangs up on him, then refreshes their Yelp page before a new 1-star review riddled with spelling errors pops up and he replies, "Fetus. Updating from his iPhone in class. Blame the education system."
*
Rush hour is starting to choke into motion by the time Arthur hops onto the scooter to make his way to the off-campus housing buildings in the Sunset district. Brad O'Riley lives in a batch of mid-rises that have been painted beige in a mostly failed attempt at a modern makeover.
When Arthur knocks on 207, it takes about thirty seconds for the door to open; apparently it's a studio, seeing as how the bed is fully visible from the doorway, as is the lightly tanned ankle that quickly disappears underneath the sheets.
"Hey," says the guy who opened the door. He's wearing a white tee and basketball shorts, which is the international standard for when one needs to get dressed very, very quickly.
"Hi," Arthur says, business-like. "Brad O'Riley?"
Brad's eyes drift down to Arthur's name tag before snapping back up. "No way," he gapes.
"Sheena would like to express her wishes to end the relationship," Arthur says mechanically. "The letter I am about to hand to you includes all grievances and reasons she had for this break-up. There is a blank form and self-addressed stamped envelope included, should you decide to respond at a later date, or I can take down a dictation right now."
He holds out the envelope and keeps it there until Brad finally takes it.
"This is so cold, man," he starts, but Arthur interrupts.
"The following is a summary from Ms. Gill's letter: Brad, you're a huge bastard and I should have listened to everyone else when they told me not to waste my time with you. I can't believe I took you to Ibiza, where you banged my grand-big." Arthur pauses and looks up. "Did you meet her through a sorority?"
"She was my little," Brad says. He has the temerity to look a bit sad. "I actually really liked her."
"Yeah, well." Arthur shrugs and backs away. He didn't even mean to ask. Lately, he's been breaking character a lot more. That should stop.
Brad's expression hardens. "Wait, fuck you, man, you come and deliver this shitty news and expect to walk away with a smile?"
Over the years, Arthur has gotten pretty goddamn good at jogging backwards. He uses that skill now to keep an eye on Brad while simultaneously expanding the distance between them until he can safely hop onto his scooter and putt onto the street.
*
By the time he gets back to the office, Arthur idly twangs at his new rubber band ball for half an hour before filing GILL to O'RILEY as 'boring' and calling it a day. As he heads out, Ariadne is asking Yusuf whether or not she should copy an application as-is -- "Yes, yes, the all-caps format has a certain aesthetic value, keep it." -- and he briefly wonders, as he's wont to do these days, what the hell he's doing with his life.
The thought stays with him on the walk to the supermarket, and as he stares at a brightly lit selection of cheeses, and as he walks up and down the same wine aisle three times before finally getting into the checkout line. A woman with short red hair is standing in front of him; he stares at the back of her head and involuntarily starts creating an entire imaginary relationship track record for her. Maybe fresh out of a long-term, or happier being alone after a string of shitty short-terms. Or just happier being alone, period.
Thankfully, he's interrupted from that particular black hole of theatrical fantasy when someone says, "Arthur?"
Arthur pivots a little and sees Eames standing behind him with a questioning expression.
"Eames," Arthur states. Because -- Eames. Seeing him unexpectedly always makes Arthur's reflexes sputter. "Hey."
"Hello, my favorite anti-cupid," says Eames. "Fancy seeing you around here, shopping for food like a mere mortal."
Arthur snorts. "Yeah, too bad they're all out of ambrosia today." He's heard every joke in the book regarding his job, but it seems novel coming out of Eames's mouth, overlaid by that accent.
Eames's words and the weight of the basket in Arthur's hand remind him of the fact that the only items he's buying are three bottles of Yellow Tail, a 40oz of IPA, six packets of string cheese, and a bag of baby spinach. Eames's own basket, however, contains only a gigantic handle of whiskey, four bundles of parsley, and a 96-pack of Bagel Bites. The only acknowledgement of their half-assed stab at a well-balanced food pyramid is the fact that they look everywhere but.
"The bar started opening for lunch last week, did you know?" Eames asks after a pause, effectively passing up the 'get out of this conversation free' card that pops up following a casual greeting. "We would have done it earlier, but there remained the issue of health inspections and 'getting it up to code', whatever that means."
"Yes, those pesky health inspections. So useless." Arthur shakes his head, simultaneously wincing at the fact that his main social tactic is to run with amiable conversation and warp it into something potentially mean and sarcastic. He doesn't do it on purpose, but avoiding it requires an intense vigilance that he usually doesn't have the energy nor the desire for.
Eames never seems to mind, though. He even goes so far as to laugh and say, "You're extremely entertaining, you know."
Arthur smiles back and mimes tipping his hat. "Are the bar lunches going to be along the same lines as your daily cuisine?" he asks, nodding at Eames's basket.
"And here I was, thinking we had a tacit agreement not to speak of it," says Eames. "Of our -- our Pandora's box of processed foods."
"And the only good thing in it is the alcohol, right?" Arthur huffs as he hefts the basket onto the conveyor belt.
Eames laughs again. "Well, regarding the menu, you'll just have to pop in sometime and see. There's a free sandwich in it for you," he adds. "And I promise it won't just be two Bagel Bites made into a calzone."
"Sure," Arthur says. He usually likes that word because it's somehow vague, breezy, promising, and dismissive all at once. He might actually mean it this time, though.
Eames reaches over a bit to poke around at the magazines situated above the stacks of gum and chocolates. It doesn't occur to Arthur to lean away until it's too late, it'd be too obvious, and so he inches forward along with the line instead, acutely aware of Eames's proximity. His hand lingers over the new issue of Cosmopolitan before moving on with a soft puff of laughter; Arthur can practically see the way he's smiling. He feels an inexplicable urge to look behind him and check, but then it's his turn to pay and the feeling passes.
Recently, the weather has started to turn, and the entire neighborhood is filled with a bustling, healthy vibe like some kind of eternal farmer's market nightmare. Arthur and Eames walk the three blocks back side-by-side, dodging other pedestrians, their dogs, low-hanging leaves, fire hydrants, and wayward bicyclists without much trouble. When they reach their building, Eames holds the door open for Arthur and keeps chatting over his shoulder as they climb the stairs.
"Well," he finishes, stopping at his door while Arthur walks just a few more steps down the hallway. "Cheers. Remind me to order two of those emergency beeper whatsits, just in case one of us is on the verge of death by malnutrition."
"LifeAlert," Arthur supplies. Eames snaps his fingers and nods. "Hey, I'll pay for yours as long as you do your neighborly duty and prevent my body from being eaten by cats."
"Will do." Eames nods. He glances down briefly to fit the key into the lock, the last strings of a smile still pulling at the corner of his mouth, his profile lit up by the late afternoon sunlight, and then he's gone.
Arthur steps into his own apartment, closes the door, and just leans against it for a good minute or two, coming down from some inexplicable rush.
PHILIP JOU to TYLER LUSTIG
GENERAL REASON: "this dude is a shitty friend."
Some people act like it's the 11th commandment or whatever -- "Arthur shall not seriously date anyone" --, which is something that he doesn't understand. Plenty of people don't date. And it's not like he's been completely devoid of human contact, because he barely remembers half the people he's ever hooked up with, which -- is kind of asshole-ish, actually, but for some reason reassures the world that he's a functional human being, as if being an asshole is a characteristic that makes him normal.
Romanticizing someone who handles other people's break-ups is easy. There are assumptions that he's been burned by the love of his life and his heart is just splintered kindling, or that he's basically a mobile therapist who empathizes deeply with people who get dumped, or that he's wading through the aftermath of relationships while looking for his soulmate, or that he's a sociopath, because even sociopaths need to make a living.
The truth is that he just feels like he's read the ending to every single story there is, so what's the point of slogging through whatever comes before? And if he does happen to have a thing for Eames, then --
then --
*
Ariadne is out on a job with the van, so Arthur has to take the 'Nads' scooter up and down all the roller coaster hills that lead south. Occasionally, NSBSBUS gets a client requesting a platonic friendship break-up, which usually turn out to be more interesting than most of their other ones.
Tyler Lustig looks like a perfectly typical twenty-something, still bleary-eyed at half past noon on a Saturday. He lays his forearm along the line of the doorframe and nods when Arthur asks, "Are you Tyler Lustig?"
"Philip would like to explain his wishes to end this friendship," Arthur begins, and rattles off the spiel. "The following is a summary from Mr. Jou's letter," he continues.
"You only call when you need something -- someone to listen to you, or someone to entertain you, or someone to accompany you to get food because you still don't like going anywhere by yourself. Seriously, you're going to have to learn how to go places by yourself. You've been the fairweather-est of fairweather friends, if 'fairweather' actually means 'really shitty'. I haven't even been able to get you on the phone to tell you this personally. No hard feelings, hope everything goes well for you in the future."
Arthur has been gradually trailing off ever since the start of the letter, because the hardest ones to read aren't the angry ones that drop the f-bomb after every other word; they're the ones that are matter-of-fact and declarative, the ones that have such a tone of finality that the whole thing might as well just be a gigantic full stop.
"There's more, isn't there?" Tyler prompts after an uncomfortable silence.
"No," Arthur denies.
"Read it," Tyler says challengingly.
Arthur sighs and re-grips the letter. "P.S.," he reads, "I know you're going to deny this whole thing. If you can tell me what kind of car I drive or who the last person I dated was, then maybe I'll think about changing my mind." He clears his throat and finishes: "P.P.S. That first postscript was a lie, because I know you don't know that stuff because you never fucking listen to me."
"So, how's it feel?" Tyler asks as soon as he's done, obviously having been rehearsing the response while Arthur was reading. "How's it feel to go around delivering relationship-ending messages and shitting on people you've never even met before? Do you feel good about yourself?"
"Well, honestly, right now it's not that bad. It sounds like you were a pretty crappy friend," Arthur says, because he's always been truthful when it comes to voicing his opinion.
Apparently Tyler doesn't value this kind of objective viewpoint, since Arthur barely has time to hand Tyler the letter before getting punched in the face. Physical violence is nothing new to him, but the punch comes at a weird angle that offsets his center of balance and he tips to the side. Then there's a secondary knock to his skull on his way down and the world turns suddenly shaky and dark, as if he's been rolled over some precipice of consciousness.
Days without an OSHA recordable injury: 0, scrolls across Arthur's mind before he blacks out completely.
*
"Unbelievable," Yusuf keeps saying. "Unbelievable. I can't believe it."
"Wait, so what is it again, exactly? Is it believable?" Ariadne finally asks. "Arthur, what's your middle name?"
"Elizabeth," says Arthur. His head is killing him, and the hospital lights are so bright, and his eyelids slide down a little to block out the worst of it.
They pop back open a second later, though, because Yusuf punches really hard. "Wake up, we can't have you passing out before the cops get here."
"Cops? Why cops?" Arthur feels a distant panic at the thought of encountering Officer Roberts again, he of the longstanding grudge and the many weapons.
"I figured maybe you'd want to press charges," Yusuf explains. "You don't?"
"Not really," Arthur sighs. "Nature of the beast. Almost every single one of your deliveries ends in a foot chase. And remember when that girl came at Ariadne with a Roomba?"
"Well, she didn't actually make contact, and Yusuf's never actually been caught. I think that's the crucial difference here," Ariadne says absently, looking over the rest of the form. "Seriously, middle name. At least an initial."
"A."
"That's as in 'A' for assault victim," Yusuf says. "You really don't want to press charges?"
"I want to get cleared as soon as possible so I can go home," Arthur says with weary honesty, because that really is all he wants. He wants to ball himself up in his comforter, unplug the alarm clock, and watch embarrassing TV like ABC Family or Noggin for about a week straight.
"If it's a concussion, you need someone to stay with you so they can wake you up every two hours to make sure you're not slipping into a coma or anything," Yusuf says calmly, making Arthur's fantasy dissolve into reality again.
"It's not a concussion, it's a black eye," Arthur argues.
"And an enormous bump on the back of your head," Yusuf points out. "Your head is growing another head, that's what's happening back there."
"You're due for dinner at your mom's place," Ariadne tells him, and indeed Yusuf is dressed in slacks and a disturbingly shiny shirt. "I'll stay."
"But you're supposed to come with. I flaked on you last time, and the time before that, too."
Ariadne replies and Yusuf says something else, but Arthur's eyes start to slip shut again and he doesn't really comprehend any of it. It's starting to become difficult to keep track of the conversation. "Nobody needs to stay," he says to himself.
He closes his eyes.
*
It comes as a surprise to no one that it's a concussion. Yusuf drops Ariadne and Arthur off at his building by double-parking with the hazard lights on, as if that excuses him from blocking half the street as he and Ariadne hold a leisurely conversation through the passenger window. Arthur, for his part, peels himself out of the car and sways around for a second before leaning against the open door.
The door to Forge & Fire is propped open, releasing a stream of conversation and music that makes Arthur's head pound. There's also a dark blob standing against the wall to the building, and it says, "Arthur!"
Arthur squints.
"Hello, gang," Eames starts, pushing away from the wall and tossing his cigarette away. "I was wondering when you'd show up. What's -- Christ, Arthur, what happened?"
"Hazards of being present for lots of volatile emotions," Yusuf calls. "Hey, Eames."
"He got punched and hit his head," Ariadne says simply. "I'm going to stay with him, make sure he doesn't throw up all over himself and drown in it."
"Employee of the month over here," Arthur slurs, and chuckles to himself.
His body seems to have gotten a lot more out of sync ever since leaving the hospital. He can't even blink both eyes simultaneously. This discovery morphs into a self-imposed challenge, and as Eames sidles over to speak with Ariadne and Yusuf in low voices, Arthur squints up at the flickering lights of Forge & Fire and tries to blink normally. He doesn't know how much time passes, but eventually a reservoir of sour saliva starts collecting in his mouth and he has to lean over to spit it out, but he doesn't throw up.
"Right. Arthur," Eames finally says at a normal volume, emerging from the pow-wow, "I'm staying with you tonight."
"What -- " Arthur tries to protest, but somehow zones out and comes to again when they're about five feet from the curb, with Eames's arm around his waist.
Ariadne is in the car once again. She yells something about calling him first thing tomorrow before Yusuf pulls into traffic and they disappear around the corner, probably to gorge themselves on Yusuf's mother's amazing cooking. Yusuf brings leftovers sometimes, and those are mostly the times that Arthur laments living far away from his parents.
"Oh, okay," Arthur says out loud, to no one and in response to nothing in particular.
Eames practically carries him up the stairs, which might be embarrassing but mostly Arthur is grateful for Eames's solidness at his side. Once inside Arthur's apartment, Eames deposits him on the couch before rummaging around like he lives there. A trash can finds its way into Arthur's arms, and saltines and water appear on the coffee table. He stares off into a random point in space and becomes immersed in the presence of Eames, listening to the sounds he makes as he moves about the place.
"Hey," Eames warns as he sits down next to Arthur, and the ensuing jab to Arthur's shoulder makes him jerk upright. "None of that."
"I didn't even realize I was doing it in the first place," Arthur complains. "Listen, I'm fine. I'm completely fine, I'm just exhausted and I want to sleep. Besides, I can think of thousands of other things you can be doing that are much, much more appealing than being my babysitter."
"I'm a natural night owl," Eames replies, as if that makes sense. "I can also make nature noises if you think it'll soothe you. Would you prefer rainforest or sounds of the sea?"
Arthur rolls his face into the cushion and says, "Ugh."
Eames puts the TV on Jeopardy with the volume set a bit too high, but incidentally Arthur loves the show. He hugs the trash can and answers all three Daily Doubles, but Eames gets the Final Jeopardy question correct, which earns some begrudging admiration from Arthur. During each commercial break, Arthur chews on saltines and gets more comfortable on the couch.
Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom is playing after that. About fifteen minutes in, Arthur feels okay enough to place the trash can on the floor; about halfway through, Eames gets up and comes back with a half-frozen Gatorade that Arthur bangs on the coffee table before shaking the miniature icebergs into his mouth.
He's finally allowed to go to bed at 11:00, after a quick shower during which Eames knocks on the door every five minutes. When Arthur's done, he yanks it open and says, "You would have heard it if I passed out."
"Maybe not, since you're likely to drape yourself over side of the tub in a very graceful, silent way," Eames says, "even with the head injury."
"Why the hell would you think that?" Arthur asks as he crawls onto the bed and arranges himself in a graceful, silent way. Eames just stands there and watches until Arthur realizes what happened and reaches out to turn off the light.
"Get out," he says without venom.
Eames obeys with a smile, shutting the door quietly behind him. Arthur falls asleep in what seems like seconds.
After two hours on the dot, Eames comes in, tugs down the comforter, and gently squeezes Arthur's shoulder. "Hey," he murmurs, but the bass of his voice is still prominent. "Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?"
"My face got in the way of someone's fist," Arthur answers in a mumble, eyes still closed. "Now you're forced to ask me Law & Order questions."
"What day is it?"
"April 45th."
"Maybe I'll blacken your other eye, create some symmetry here," Eames says. Arthur feels him swipe his thumb over his good cheekbone, swooping down in a backwards 'J'. "Alright, go back to sleep."
"Thanks," Arthur manages.
The comforter settles over his chest again. He goes back to sleep.
*
And if he does happen to have a thing for Eames, then --
then it's going to be like a slow wave, gathering up momentum with each moment. But all Arthur has to do is wait for it to crest and break, wait for it to wash away quietly. All he has to do is wait.
***
Morning hollers into Arthur's consciousness like a speeding bullet before exploding into daylight and birds chirping and the clicking of bike gears and buses belching through the streets. After the initial discontent about being awake passes, he cracks one eye open and gauges his mood.
He definitely doesn't think about Eames.
Instead, he thinks about getting out of bed and sitting down at his computer and scrolling through all the unread files, some of which whittle down years of love and partnership and whatever-the-hell into rows of blocky text, and facing another batch of strangers only to read them a list of reasons about why they're not good enough.
Just as he's deciding that he'd probably rather be dead than do another day of that, eerily enough, his phone buzzes with a new text from Yusuf: Arthur are you depressed
This is usually the time of year when you get depressed
I knw i should have hooked up that tin can phone line
Taking my yearly sabbatical, Arthur writes back, which Yusuf doesn't reply to, seeing as how this is the third year in a row that Arthur has taken off without previous notice and Yusuf is nothing if not good at improvisation. Plus, the weather has turned back in on itself -- April is nearly half over, and yet rainclouds and showers have returned to blanket over the city like it's mid-winter. That should call for a lull in business.
Head injuries aren't very conducive to safe driving, but he moves around and goes for a short jog and feels fine, so he ends up taking a drive down the coastline. Not too far, just a couple hours out, where the water is actually nice and not frigid, and there are beachfront houses lining the winding road.
Then he drives around aimlessly, because what the hell, what a pointless trip.
Just before he gets back onto the freeway, he notices that one of them is having an open house, and spins into a U-turn before he can rethink it. There's a curving driveway, and the backyard is separated from the beach by only a few meters. The whole place smells like saltwater. A few other couples are milling about, checking out the bay windows and stamping lightly on the hardwood floors. The house is airy and beautiful, and more than a little lonely.
"Nice house," Arthur says to the realtor, who's hanging out in the background.
"Isn't it?" she gushes. She goes into the merits of the property before offering a pamphlet that Arthur politely declines.
"Why did the owners decide to sell?" he asks instead.
"They're divorced. She's selling the house, moving back east. Would you like a pamphlet?" she asks again.
Arthur declines once more. He leaves without taking a second look around.
*
Rush hour starts bottle-necking the freeways for no good reason, and it takes him a few hours to get back home. Parking is a fucking nightmare as well. By the time he yanks the emergency brake up, he's resettled into his normal, day-to-day grumpiness and decides to head directly to the bar.
Ariadne and Yusuf are already there, perched on the stools with an empty one between them, and Arthur feels a sudden and fervent gratefulness for their presence. He takes a seat as Eames heads toward them with plates in each hand.
"Egg salad sandwich with potatoes on the side, well-done, and a muffaletta, toasted," Eames recites, placing the food onto the bar. "Arthur -- "
"The usual, thanks," Arthur cuts in, and Eames busies himself with getting the whiskey. "So what's on the agenda?" he asks, hoping no one will mention his absence.
"Oooh, someone bought a 'Landslide'," Ariadne announces as she chews. "Lawyers. Totally rolling in it."
"He's not in the mood today," Yusuf says in a horrible stage-whisper.
"Oh." Ariadne swallows. Then, instead of moving past it like she usually does, she says, "Why?"
Arthur shrugs. He takes a sip of his whiskey and tries to convinces himself that Eames isn't hanging around their side of the bar on purpose.
"I think maybe it's because you spend so much time invested in other people that you don't concentrate on anything else." Ariadne takes a gulp of her beer. "You let it get to you too much."
"Oh, god," Arthur says.
"No," Yusuf corrects, "he bottles it up until the cap pops off. That's the problem."
Sometimes Yusuf and Ariadne resemble a never-ending game of Pong. Arthur usually gets stuck in the middle and under the microscope because Yusuf seems to exist on a higher level of contentment in general, and Ariadne has taken to adulthood like a fish to water.
"Is that a euphemism?" Eames interrupts, lightening the mood. "Arthur, do you need a good wank? I can't promise sanitary conditions -- " he gestures around the bar. " -- but I can guarantee a good time."
Ariadne and Yusuf laugh as Arthur gets elbowed from both sides. As he grimaces, he accidentally catches Eames's eye; Eames holds it for a beat too long before turning to put clean glasses away.
Something akin to a rising tide swells up in Arthur's chest; he has to tamp down the impulse to grab Eames's sleeve, ask, What? What is it?
"Seeing people at their worst has ruined him," Yusuf says sagely.
"They're not at their worst," Arthur protests. "They're just being -- normal."
"He has low expectations," Yusuf explains to Eames, and something about the whole scene reminds Arthur of parent-teacher conferences. Then he turns to Arthur again and says, "Hiring a third party so you can break up with your significant other by proxy is not normal."
"It will be soon, if things keep going the way they do," Ariadne counters.
The two of them devolve into an argument about the future of break-ups and communication in general. Meanwhile, Arthur poses a silent challenge as to how many empty glasses he can rack up, then accepts said challenge and gets to work.
Ariadne is saying something about high-speed internet connections in Asia when Arthur loudly announces, apropos of nothing, "Relationships are fruit."
"Oh, no," Ariadne says.
"Fruit," Eames repeats, having apparently decided to ignore the entire other half of the bar for the night.
"You're opening a dam, Eames," Ariadne says, but Eames merely acknowledges her warning instead of heeding it.
"Fruit," Arthur confirms at a normal volume, "or any other kind of perishable."
"What's the pasta equivalent, then? Something without an expiration date," Eames clarifies.
"Nothing," Arthur says at the same time Ariadne answers, "Your dominant hand."
Eames laughs. "Fair enough."
"I'd rather go for some fast food myself," Yusuf says thoughtfully.
"Fast food is incredibly tempting and delicious, but wouldn't you need a palate cleanser after a while?" Eames suggests. "Something sweet to wash it down."
"Wow, that's really nice," Yusuf tells him.
"Corny, but I actually buy it," is Ariadne's conclusion. "It's probably the accent."
"Of course it's the accent, but don't make the mistake of underestimating the depths of my soul," Eames says.
"Sure," Arthur scoffs. "Under the chest that's hard as diamonds, there lies the heart of a passionate, misunderstood soul." He takes a gulp of his drink when Yusuf repeats, under his breath, "Diamonds?"
"And carnal," Eames adds. "A passionate, misunderstood, carnal soul."
"And carnal," Arthur agrees. "Like a chipmunk. Anyway. I think this is the part where you convince me that I'm missing out, etcetera, etcetera."
"If you're being serious, then -- I mean, you're a grown man, Arthur." Eames shrugs and starts wiping down the counter. "Whatever you might believe, or whatever you might've convinced yourself of, or whatever you might even be in denial about, all of that is your own business. I respect it."
"He's totally judging you," Ariadne translates. "You've turned a miserable human experience into a lucrative business. Who wouldn't judge you?" She rubs his back briefly as she speaks, an endearingly sweet action incongruous to her words.
"You would think that I'd be hurt by that, but considering my scruples left the building about ten years ago -- ," Arthur pauses to finish his drink, " -- I'm not."
Eames puts his elbows on the counter and leans in. "Alright, now tell me that love is a waste of time," he instructs. The tone of his voice is suddenly different, like it's only the two of them, alone.
"Love," Arthur says obediently, "is a waste of time."
Eames smiles. It's a nice smile. "I'm surprised you don't deny its existence altogether."
"I'm not stupid. People love each other all the time. Too much, maybe. Or too often." Arthur closes one eye and tilts his glass, rolling it along the bottom rim to see how the light refraction changes.
"On that note: shots," Yusuf requests, his index finger pointed up in the air.
Surprisingly, Eames brings over enough for all four of them. He also keeps refilling until Arthur loses track, first of the drinks, and then of the night altogether.
*
The next morning finds Arthur on the couch, telling himself that he has to stop waking up like this. It takes him about ten more minutes to realize that the quilt he's covered with is unfamiliar. When he finally opens his eyes, he sees a piece of paper on the coffee table, folded lengthwise and tented up on its edges.
The quilt is on loan. What kind of person doesn't have a single quilt lying around?
The letters are shaky, but only slightly. Arthur stares at the note. Then he pulls the quilt up over his face and huddles underneath. It smells like fresh laundry and a tiny bit of aftershave.
He doesn't remember anything that led up to this point, with him being in a warm cocoon courtesy of Eames's quilt, but what's clear is that Eames has officially put Arthur to bed twice, both times in a completely innocuous way. This is a fact, and one that serves as a good indicator of what kind of relationship they have, or will ever have. He's equal parts relieved and disappointed at having navigated out of the thorny, tangled mess of uncertainty. On one hand, solidifying a platonic relationship would help Arthur with whatever kind of crush he has. On the other hand, it's a platonic relationship.
Still, Arthur feels better. Marginally better, but better all the same. After all, it's nothing that he wasn't expecting.
("Where are the quilts?" Eames asked, emerging from the bedroom and banging into the doorframe on the way. "Shit. Ow."
"No quilts. Comforter," Arthur grunted.
Eames knelt down and began to clumsily untie Arthur's shoelaces. "Comforters belong on beds, not sofas," he said distractedly, "and seeing as how you're adamant about your post on the sofa, it's not going to work. You don't have any quilts at all?"
There was a thunking noise, and Arthur's right foot was free of its oppressive loafer prison. "I want to take you out," Arthur said in response. "Would you let me take you out?"
Eames's hands were busy with Arthur's other shoe. They stilled for a moment, but Arthur fell asleep before he heard an answer.)
*
----
"I checked the weather report," Yusuf says.
"And?"
"Sunny. Sunny. Sunny. Sunny. Sun--," Yusuf pauses. "Wait, I'm going for the two-week forecast now. Yeah. Sunny. Sunny. Sunny. Sunny. I think you get the point."
"Okay." Arthur exhales. "Let's plan to take one day off and do ten-hour days, four days a week, like we did last year. Thursday through Sunday. Are you okay with that?"
"Definitely. Yes." Yusuf's voice has a determination Arthur's only previously heard in zombie survivor movies. "Let's do this."
And thus, as schools all over the country release students into the normal population and the sun starts hanging on to the horizon for longer and longer, one of their busiest times of the year rolls around, because there's something about summertime that makes people question their commitments even more than usual.
It's fine. It's rote. Arthur rattles off break-up letters like he's in a spelling bee where speed counts. He weaves in and out of rush hour traffic, slams on the brakes when he sees CHP, and goes 85 miles per hour otherwise. Sometimes he even leaves the engine idling, so as to make a quicker getaway.
Afterward, he gets home, toes off his shoes, and, more often than not, he ends up hanging out with Eames in some context or another. If not in the bar, then at one of their respective apartments. The first time he successfully cooks chicken cacciatore, he brings it over to Eames's place to show off. A couple weeks later, Eames buys a Shake Weight after a shitty day, which becomes a lot less uncomfortably suggestive and a lot more hilarious after they share some beers.
One night, they have a barbecue on the roof of their building. It's uncharacteristically warm for San Francisco, but a chill starts creeping in as the sun goes down. Most of the attendees start trickling away after that, but Arthur hunches forward in his jacket and stands near the edge of the roof, just watching the fog roll in.
"This was nice," Ariadne comments from beside him. Arthur glances over at her; she's looking content, belly protruding slightly from underneath her t-shirt. "Totally worth the food coma."
"Yeah," Arthur agrees.
"So," Ariadne starts hesitantly. She raises her eyebrows, and right over her head in Arthur's line of sight is Eames, who's tending to the last of the grill.
Arthur shakes his head. "Nope."
"Over it?"
"Definitely." He nods.
"He was pretty interested in watching you eat that third hot dog," Ariadne says offhandedly.
"Because it was my third hot dog in ten minutes," Arthur says. "Speed-eating attracts all kinds of attention."
"It was pretty impressive," Ariadne admits. "Well, okay. As long as you're over it, I guess."
Arthur smiles at her. "Yeah," he says. The fog is now cottoning over any building higher than five stories. "Yeah, I am," he says again.
*
MISTER EAMES to DOMINIC COBB
GENERAL REASON: "irreconcilable differences."
Arthur changes his mind the next day, when he's scrolling through the new applications and comes across one for Eames, to someone named Dominic Cobb.
Staring at the monitor doesn't make the letters change. He feels a hot flash of jealousy, as well as a dark self-satisfaction for successfully saving himself the embarrassment and letdown before it could even happen. Eames seems rather good at compartmentalizing different slices of his life, which would explain why Arthur has never seen this Cobb guy around.
Yusuf is doing rounds at the panhandle today, which means he could easily swing by Cobb's place. In fact, he says as much when he scans over the location as the document prints, but Arthur makes up an excuse about needing fresh air and barges out the door before anyone can call him out. Indulging in less-than-advisable curiosities is one of his weaknesses.
Dominic Cobb has sky-blue eyes and dirty blond hair. He's also got a smattering of facial hair that makes him look like an aging porcupine, though Arthur suspects he's the minority in that opinion. To anyone else, Dominic Cobb probably looks like an all-American guy who belongs in a Levi's ad campaign.
"Eames is breaking up with you," Arthur announces loudly, instead of, "Hi," or, "Hello," or any other normal type of greeting.
Cobb coughs. "Right. Okay. You must be Arthur?"
"Yes, I'm here from No Sad, Big Smile Break-Up Service," Arthur says. "Eames is breaking up with you because of 'irreconcilable differences', according to his statement. Should you be inclined to respond, I have a few options available for you -- "
"That's okay," Cobb interrupts. "Yeah, no, that's fine, it won't be necessary. Thanks."
He shoots Arthur a quick smile and starts to close the door, which would officially seal this as the most amicable and succinct break-up that Arthur has ever been involved in. But for some reason, Arthur speaks up before Cobb can get the door shut: "And how long had you been seeing Eames?" he asks loudly, in spite of himself.
"Uh." Cobb wipes his hands on his pants. "I don't know. A couple months? Maybe a few months?"
"A couple or a few?" Arthur asks immediately. "Was it a casual relationship or something more serious?"
"Is this any of your business? Why are you asking these questions?" Cobb sounds curious more than anything else.
"Statistics," Arthur fibs. "For our company pamphlet."
"Shouldn't you be prepared to write my answers down, then? To double-check the numbers and analyze them later," Cobb points out.
"I'm good with memorization," Arthur says shortly. "What are you, some kind of professor?"
"Yes," Cobb says. He blinks. "Of statistics."
"Oh." Arthur feels a sudden draining of energy at the stumble. Almost as quickly as he'd gotten riled up, now he's tired and at a loss. Getting worked up over Eames and Cobb was dumb, that much is clear. The whole thing feels kind of surreal.
"So, are you going to use Prism or Graphpad?" Cobb presses. "Because both have their advantages and disadvantages, you know."
He looks thrilled about the chance to talk stats with someone. Arthur says, "Probably Excel. Nothing fancy."
"Right," Cobb says, disappointed. "Well, I'll let you get to it. Hey, thanks for stopping by."
This time, when he starts to close the door, Arthur steps backward until he's off the porch. "You're not angry?" he calls.
"Eames is a good guy," Cobb declares. Then, oddly enough, he smiles. "See you, Arthur."
Arthur sits in the car for a while. A few doors down, there's a weeping willow that almost sweeps against the street. He stares at the swaying green, then starts the engine and prepares to hit up the next appointment.
It's only when he gets to the second stoplight that he realizes he's not even wearing his nametag. Strange.
*
Between the three of them, it takes two days to clear the queue completely. At that point it's nearly time for semester-based schools to start up again, so Arthur takes an early Friday and spends most of the afternoon watching TBS, and halfway through the second King of Queens rerun, there's a knock at the door.
It's Eames, of course, holding a pan of something that smells delicious. "Scones," he announces, lifting it slightly like an offering. Being aware of a new facet of his life is strange, because Arthur doesn't know if he should acknowledge it out loud or not.
"Godsend," Arthur says, letting him in and turning the TV off.
There's still steaming coming off the pan; it curls into little wisps in the late afternoon sunlight. Eames sets the scones down on the dining table before pulling out a couple chairs. "Dig in," he invites.
Arthur obeys. The scones are way too hot, so he dances his fingers over them in lieu of starting a conversation. He can feel Eames studying him. Slightly burnt blueberries are suddenly very interesting.
"I should confess something," Eames begins. "I'm just going to jump in, here," he adds belatedly.
Arthur pauses and looks up, uncertain. "I should have known that scones stood for a preemptive apology."
"Not an apology, exactly. Just something I need to get off my chest." Eames smiles his crooked smile, the corners of his eyes relaxing into contented crinkles.
An unexpected wave of attraction, unmarred by the layers of pessimism and denial that Arthur keeps burying it under, swoops through him like a roller coaster. "Okay, I think I'm ready to hear your sins," Arthur says after a pause.
Eames clears his throat and shifts, flicking at the corner of a scone to make it whip around in short circles. Silence prickles at Arthur's ears.
Eames says, "Cobb is my mate."
"Yes, I'm aware," Arthur says slowly.
"No. He's my mate, period. We never -- I'm not dating him, and I never was."
Arthur studies him. It's like the part in a murder-mystery, when everything is about to be elucidated. But right now, Arthur is just confused. "Then what was -- ?"
"My shoddy plan of trying to gauge whether or not you actually were interested in me," Eames says baldly. "Rather childish and manipulative and cowardly, I apologize for that. But I just -- I hope you understand. Asking someone something like that face-to-face, especially a friend, is quite daunting, frankly."
Misinterpreting intentions happens to everyone at some point, which is why he spends so long trying to dissect what he just heard. Cobb, not actually dating Eames. Never was. Eames, setting up a fake application -- which would explain why it was only filled out about halfway -- to gauge Arthur's reaction? As far as interpretations go, it hits all the logical points but Arthur is still unsure.
"I guess," Arthur says as his brain comes back online. "Wait, what? I mean, thanks."
"Sorry for the runaround," Eames says hastily.
"It's not a big deal." Arthur waves him off. He rehashes the words again, and all he can come up with is, "Why?"
"Why does anybody do anything? Because they want to," Eames says. "And if two people happen to want the same thing in some kind of mutually beneficial arrangement, then."
He trails off. Arthur can already feel himself breaking just because he's facing this head on, for the first time. The power that Eames seems to exert over him is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating -- and for the first time, he wonders about the possibility of reciprocation.
He can deny it. He can say, no, you're wrong. He can bury his head in the sand until Eames takes everything back.
"I do want it," he hears himself saying. "You're right."
"Then you should let yourself do this, in my opinion." Eames smiles. "I'll be careful with you," he says jokingly, but Arthur can hear the seriousness that undercuts it.
"And if I don't return that favor?" Arthur argues. "I've spent years mixed up in break-ups. I can't promise that I'll be kind, or sensitive, or not a complete asshole in general. I can't promise I'll be any good at this."
"Not to sound even more naff, but you've already proven that you are all those things," Eames says. "It's too late to keep those secrets. You made the mistake of letting me get to know you. You, not the person you want to be."
Arthur scoffs. Eames smirks at him, but doesn't budge.
"Who do you think I want to be?" Arthur asks, curious enough to veer into a tangent.
To his surprise, Eames seems to think about this carefully, and that's it, Arthur's gone. "Someone who forfeits without second thought instead of playing, I suppose," Eames finally says. "I know I said that all of this was your own business and I had no part in it, but I changed my mind," he continues. "I had to try. So. This is me trying."
He studies Arthur, as if waiting for a response.
Funnily enough, Arthur isn't imagining the usual fanfare of break-ups and heartbreak and horrible, explosive demises. He isn't imagining who will have to deliver the news, Ariadne or Yusuf, and he isn't imagining the vacation time he'll need to take when it ends. He's not thinking about anything at all; he's simply sitting there in front of Eames, their knees inches away from touching, the pan full of scones between them.
With his heart pounding loud in his ears, Arthur pinches a scone between his fingers and takes a large, determined bite.
"What did you mean, 'actually'?" he asks, swallowing. "'Actually interested', what does that mean?"
Eames sits back and laughs. A bright sound that Arthur's heard mostly through the wall they share, but now it's here, right in front of him. When Arthur cuffs Eames's knee with his foot, Eames manages to grab his ankle and hold it still.
He leans in and says, "I want to take you out. Would you let me take you out?"
The words ping something familiar in Arthur's memory. Eames is smiling like he's sharing a private joke with Arthur, and Arthur doesn't think he'll tire of seeing that expression, ever. He's practically thrumming with energy -- and it feels like stepping off the edge of a cliff without knowing what's below, but he looks at Eames and thinks, okay. Okay, yes.