reversebang prompt #107 -All the Right Moves
Fic Title: All the Right Moves
Author: queenofinfinite
Pairing(s): Arthur/Eames, Ariadne/Robert (side)
Rating: R
Word Count: 6,772
Warnings: The F-bomb never gets old. Also, gratuitous violence, just so you know.
Summary: According to Arthur Janowitz, age 18, love is a bitch. He’s never been laid, and apart from sleazy drug runner Nash, has never had a proper boyfriend. Eames is buff and Mr. Popular and is basically everything Arthur has ever wanted. There’s just one small problem. Okay, maybe several. They both play hockey, which is great, just that Eames is Proclus. Arthur is Cobol. And Eames - has Arthur ever mentioned he is a fucking jerk? No? Well, now you know.
Disclaimer: I’ve never even stepped onto a hockey rink, ever. So most of the stuff here is scoured from Wiki, asking inane questions and assuming that hockey is basically soccer played with fewer people, only with sticks and a puck. :P Pardon my ignorance.
Eames, Arthur admitted reluctantly, had very good ideas. He was sharp, and he could read the game like an open book. Not that he would ever tell that to the other boy, but yeah. Also, it was nice talking to someone who wasn’t Cobb (who sometimes rather worryingly talked to himself), Yusuf, or Ariadne (who never, ever stopped talking about The Amazing Robert Fischer nowadays.) Over the course of two weeks, Arthur learnt that Eames hated pasta, had an older sister, and had only picked up hockey initially because he had anger issues and wanted to have an excuse to go around looking menacing and beating people up, until he found out that he was actually good at it. Making plays, not beating, that is.
Arthur twiddled his pencil between his fingers, absent-mindedly listening to Eames’ rambling on the phone. He had no idea when the conversation meandered from hockey into diatribes about idiots who pissed Eames off, or how they started talking so regularly, but it was... different from how he talked to Ariadne, or Yusuf, or Cobb, even.
Arthur didn’t really have many friends in school. He wasn’t a loner, but he wasn’t one of the popular kids either - he’d found early on in academic life that keeping his head down and lying low was usually the best way to avoid being slammed into lockers or have his books stolen and flung into the toilet, although now being on the hockey team had drastically changed things. A hockey stick hefted in a suitably threatening manner did wonders, as did cultivating a friendship with the goalie, Abott - people tended to be a lot friendlier as a result.
Oftentimes Arthur didn’t say much, just listened to the soothing rumble of Eames’ voice over the phone and pretended that he wasn’t totally interested in the other boy.
“Sorry. Did I call at the wrong time, I can always - “ Eames demurred hastily, and Arthur started, realising too late that Eames had just asked him a question.
“Uh, nah. This essay’s just being a bitch, is all.” Arthur cleared his throat sheepishly, “I, uh, don’t suppose you’d be doing Hamlet?”
It was a lie, of course, but Arthur wasn’t going to admit that. He knew perfectly well what he had to write, he just didn’t want Eames to hang up. Tell me anything, everything, just keep talking -
“Yeah, I studied it last year. Scandalous shite, really. Incest, corruption, Oedipus fucking complexes, Machiavellian plots and counterplots, you name it, it’s got it.” Eames chuckled, “But, no, I don’t really remember much. Other than Claudius being an absolute prat, that is.”
“Uhuh.” Arthur set his notebook down and kicked back in his chair, “It’s just an amalgamation of all the tropes that were the rage then. Shakespeare cobbled all these together and, voila, sensational tragedy guaranteed to make the ladies faint. Frankly, I don’t think it’s all that great.”
“You Americans can’t appreciate a good play when you see one, can you?” Eames sounded vaguely amused. “Shakespeare did run with those crazy ideas, but he breathed life into them. He didn’t just throw them together. Even Gertrude has depth - she’s not just some one-dimensional tart looking to get laid. She loves her son, and she’s sorry for what she’s done. And that’s saying something about a character that has barely even a fifth of the lines in the entire play.”
“That’s not bad for ‘I can’t really remember much’.” Arthur said dryly after a moment of silence. He hadn’t expected Eames to be, well, smart. Or read. Though they’d only met twice, Eames had always struck Arthur as the Jock. Good on the ice, but uninterested in grades. That sort.
“Hey, us Brits have it rough in here, okay. We’ve got to defend the greatest playwright of all time!” Eames huffed, but he seemed vaguely embarrassed at having being caught out on knowing something about Renaissance plays.
Then a girl’s voice filtered over his end, “Hey, Leon, who’re you talking to? I missed you - “
At which point Eames must have closed his hand over the receiver, because the sounds on the other side of the line became muffled and indistinct. Arthur felt his guts twist. With looks like that, not surprising he has a girlfriend, his mind cut in snarkily, what were you expecting, for him to sweep you up and carry you off into the sunset?
“Hi, sorry about that,” Eames returned, “I - er, I need to go. See you tomorrow, alright?” With that, the phone went dead. He hadn’t even bothered to listen for Arthur’s reply, and it stung. Arthur chucked his cell aside and gripped his head. Get over it, he chided himself, get shit done today and kick his ass tomorrow.
Match days were a bitch. Specifically, having to attend school on a match day sucked. Cobol High had a stupid policy stating that if you had a match after school hours, you had to attend lessons. Truancy got you benched, so Arthur dragged himself to school and spent Math running through plays in his head, trying to factor everything Eames had told him into the picture. First match of the season, and he was jittery as heck. He glanced around. Cobb was passed out on his desk, face mashed against a bunch of Proclus player stats; at the back, Abbott was rocking out on his iPod, eyes closed and mouth moving silently; Yusuf’s seat was conspicuously empty - he was probably hiding out in one of the toilets somewhere taking a hit. Or several, depending upon his mood. Only Saito was actually paying attention, which figured. He was the all-round star student, tipped for MVP and class valedictorian this year; even a match with Proclus wasn’t going to spook him.
His phone buzzed. It was Eames. Gon kick ur arse 2dae cobol boy. ;)
It shouldn’t have made a warm feeling surge in his chest, but it did. Arthur typed back, Bring it on i’ll b waiting.
Eames’ reply came almost instantly. U sure? Dun say anyting ur regret.
Speak 4 urself. Also ur grammar sucks.
Yusuf shook his head forlornly, looking lost in the locker room, “Fuck, I’m not ready for this.” He buried his face in his towel, “I can’t. I just can’t. Why did I - “
“Knock it off, Yusuf.” Dom clapped his shoulder, “It’s too late for that.”
“Easy for you to say.” The defenseman muttered, wrenching his helmet over his head with the resigned air of a beleaguered soldier. “Denilson is going to flatten me. I heard he got even bigger over the break. What the hell is wrong with these guys!?”
Arthur paid no attention to Yusuf. Everyone got slightly mental before a game, and nervous griping was Yusuf’s way of letting off steam. He headed straight for his locker and grabbed his gear, already beginning the process of shutting the world out and focusing on the game ahead of them. The terrible anticipation was building; he could feel his senses sharpening the way they always did just before a match, the adrenaline spiking in his veins and speeding up his heartbeat.
They gathered round for the obligatory pre-match huddle, gear clashing and catching between them awkwardly as they pile their fists atop each other. Cobb’s eyes had an almost maniacal glint in them as they filed out. Did he really believe they could win this? Cobol High had him and Cobb and Saito, but this was Proclus Global, not some pushover team from the middle of nowhere.
Arthur bit his lip and tugged his visor down. Proclus had an intimidating fanbase. Actually, intimidating didn’t even begin to cut it. The bleachers were a thick swathe of crimson - Arthur couldn’t even pick out the blue of Cobol supporters anywhere. It was only the first game of the season, but any match with Proclus invariably drew viewers. They were strong, they were fast, they rocked and thanks to massive corporate sponsorships, their games got airtime. Next to them... next to a team like them, Cobol High was just a blip on the radar.
“Janowitz!” Tadashi yelled over the roar of the crowd, “Good to see you’re still alive! And you too, Cobb!” He looked genuinely pleased to see them, but then again the Proclus captain was like that; crazy happy and nothing fazed him. He was also the deadliest player that Arthur had gone against.
Cobb merely squinted and clicked his visor down. Somewhere along the line, the Cobol player had gotten it lodged in his head that Tadashi was The Enemy, and apart from after-match handshakes, he refused to even be civil. Not that Tadashi seemed to mind in the least, he just laughed and moved on.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Tadashi,” Arthur apologised sheepishly, “That idiot’s just being stubborn.”
Tadashi flashed him a smile, “It’s fine.”
They bumped fists companionably as they got into position. Arthur tightened his grip on the hockey stick, eyes glued on the puck in front of him. The Proclus centre grinned and accelerated, and then he wasn’t even there anymore. Fuck, but he’s fast. Arthur sped up, lengthening his strides to catch up with him. It was no use; this new guy moved on the ice like he was made for it; his reach was longer, his reflexes faster and Arthur was forced to wear himself thin veering fruitlessly back and forth. He was being played, and it chafed him.
He hasn’t even touched the puck at all, and there were few centres that could do that - shut him down totally. Too bad this guy was one of them. Arthur doubled over, panting, painfully aware that if this went on any longer he wasn’t going to last.
“Hey. You all right?” British accent.
“Eames. What. The Fuck.” Arthur gulped for air, fighting to get his words out, “You’re fucking insane.”
“I was wondering when you’d notice.” Eames sounded amused, his fingers drumming a light tattoo on Arthur’s helmet.
Fuck you, Arthur wanted to snap, but he controlled himself with an effort. Now was not the time to start a fight. Not that he had the energy to, anyway.
“Arthur, you ok - get your hands off my centre right now.” Cobb snarled on the other side of him, hauling him up with a proprietary arm, “Saito can take over - “
Arthur’s eyes narrowed, “No. I’m - quit worrying, Dom, it’s fine.” I’m damned if I’m going to cop out now.
Cobb still hadn’t let go of his elbow, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” Arthur straightened, locking eyes with Eames, “I was just getting started.”
He hated losing, and he wasn’t about to let himself get thrashed.
“.... Okay.” Cobb didn’t look completely convinced, but he moved off after shooting Eames a suspicious glare.
Part 3