Umm...I made a crazy ridiculous request at burnmybridges's post so I think, by some kind of transitive property (WHO FAILED MATH FOREVER? OH, YEAH, THAT WAS ME.) I think I tagged myself
( Read more... )
Arthur brought in noise-canceling headphones the day after Eames wore a neon blue jacket.
"I need to tune out your clothes," he said, obviously pleased with his own joke. Eames rolled his eyes.
But then Arthur wore them all day. It was hard to get his attention and Eames liked to attract Arthur's attention. And he kept bobbing his head to whatever the music was he was listening to. And there was this tiny quirk to the corner of his lips, like he was always on the verge of grinning.
The next day Eames wore a green plaid suit, a purple shirt, and a pink-with-yellow-dots cravat. Try to block this out, he thought. He was already smirking when he pushed the doors open.
"You look like Crayola vomited on you," Yusuf said. "I suggest you try looking at the clothes before you put them on in the morning."
When Ariadne saw him, she laughed so hard she had to sit down.
Arthur didn't even look up. He just continued to look down at the pad of paper in front of him, his pen tapping a rhythm out on the edge.
Eames wrinkled his nose. This wasn't fun at all.
***
He tried knocking over the desk behind Arthur, the one that had the model Ariadne had been working on it. She smacked the back of his head.
"Ow," he whined.
She smacked him again. "Pick it up, dingbat."
"Fine," he said.
Arthur's pen never paused in the rhythmic tapping.
***
So noise didn't work. Nosier clothes didn't work. Pouting didn't work--he didn't even have to try that one to know it wouldn't work.
"Pouting will never work on me," Arthur once told him, a couple sheets to the wind after they'd closed a particularly hard job. Arthur had been in the whiskey and Eames's mother had always told him that whiskey was the honesty alcohol. It was why, she explained, she seemed so mean after she drained her Jameson. So obviously Arthur couldn't help but be truthful that time so Eames knew...pouting never would work on him.
"Stop pouting," Dom said. He picked up the My Little Ponies that were strewn across the floor of his living room. "Don't pout in my living room."
"I'm not doing it on purpose," Eames said. "But you have to help me."
"That's what you said when you called. And--if you remember--I told you that you were insane and you should leave me alone."
"I distantly recall that, yes."
"And yet you're in my living room. Pouting."
"Something like that." Eames sighed. "His headphones block me out, Dom. He's ignoring me."
Dom patted his arm. "Get the hell out of my house," he said but he said it with sympathy implied.
There was a night, about a week later, when Eames and Arthur were the last two in the warehouse. Arthur had stuck around because he hadn't noticed everyone leaving. Eames was hoping for five minutes of attention when Arthur put his iPod away to leave.
But Arthur wasn't even looking at his laptop anymore. His attention had drifted and he was staring at a wall, too involved in the music to notice the real world.
Eames had always liked Arthur's attention. It was vivid and intense. You felt it, down to your toes, when it hit you. It was something in his shoulder, a little bit around the eyes.
Eames started a sketch in the corner of his notes. Mostly just the arc of Arthur's neck, the angle of his jawline, the sharp-line of his well-gelled hair...
Somehow he didn't notice when Arthur spun his chair around to face him. And he was busy with the crinkle at the edge of Arthur's eye when Arthur pulled the headphones off, letting them sit around his neck.
"Hey, Eames," Arthur said. He grinned when Eames started.
"You called, darling?"
Arthur stood and stretched. He picked his iPod up and walked across the room to Eames.
"You gotta listen to this," he said, pulling the headphones off his own neck and settling them on Eames's ears.
And they really did cancel out all the noise. The rest of the world went completely silent so that all he heard was the song.
Au premier temps de la valse...Toute seule tu souris déjà...
Arthur said something--Eames could see his lips move--but he wouldn't let Eames remove the headphones.
Au premier temps de la valse...Je suis seul mais je t`aperçois...
Arthur leaned down and pressed a kiss into Eames's cheek, his lips still moving, still saying something Eames couldn't hear.
"I need to tune out your clothes," he said, obviously pleased with his own joke. Eames rolled his eyes.
But then Arthur wore them all day. It was hard to get his attention and Eames liked to attract Arthur's attention. And he kept bobbing his head to whatever the music was he was listening to. And there was this tiny quirk to the corner of his lips, like he was always on the verge of grinning.
The next day Eames wore a green plaid suit, a purple shirt, and a pink-with-yellow-dots cravat. Try to block this out, he thought. He was already smirking when he pushed the doors open.
"You look like Crayola vomited on you," Yusuf said. "I suggest you try looking at the clothes before you put them on in the morning."
When Ariadne saw him, she laughed so hard she had to sit down.
Arthur didn't even look up. He just continued to look down at the pad of paper in front of him, his pen tapping a rhythm out on the edge.
Eames wrinkled his nose. This wasn't fun at all.
***
He tried knocking over the desk behind Arthur, the one that had the model Ariadne had been working on it. She smacked the back of his head.
"Ow," he whined.
She smacked him again. "Pick it up, dingbat."
"Fine," he said.
Arthur's pen never paused in the rhythmic tapping.
***
So noise didn't work. Nosier clothes didn't work. Pouting didn't work--he didn't even have to try that one to know it wouldn't work.
"Pouting will never work on me," Arthur once told him, a couple sheets to the wind after they'd closed a particularly hard job. Arthur had been in the whiskey and Eames's mother had always told him that whiskey was the honesty alcohol. It was why, she explained, she seemed so mean after she drained her Jameson. So obviously Arthur couldn't help but be truthful that time so Eames knew...pouting never would work on him.
"Stop pouting," Dom said. He picked up the My Little Ponies that were strewn across the floor of his living room. "Don't pout in my living room."
"I'm not doing it on purpose," Eames said. "But you have to help me."
"That's what you said when you called. And--if you remember--I told you that you were insane and you should leave me alone."
"I distantly recall that, yes."
"And yet you're in my living room. Pouting."
"Something like that." Eames sighed. "His headphones block me out, Dom. He's ignoring me."
Dom patted his arm. "Get the hell out of my house," he said but he said it with sympathy implied.
***
Reply
There was a night, about a week later, when Eames and Arthur were the last two in the warehouse. Arthur had stuck around because he hadn't noticed everyone leaving. Eames was hoping for five minutes of attention when Arthur put his iPod away to leave.
But Arthur wasn't even looking at his laptop anymore. His attention had drifted and he was staring at a wall, too involved in the music to notice the real world.
Eames had always liked Arthur's attention. It was vivid and intense. You felt it, down to your toes, when it hit you. It was something in his shoulder, a little bit around the eyes.
Eames started a sketch in the corner of his notes. Mostly just the arc of Arthur's neck, the angle of his jawline, the sharp-line of his well-gelled hair...
Somehow he didn't notice when Arthur spun his chair around to face him. And he was busy with the crinkle at the edge of Arthur's eye when Arthur pulled the headphones off, letting them sit around his neck.
"Hey, Eames," Arthur said. He grinned when Eames started.
"You called, darling?"
Arthur stood and stretched. He picked his iPod up and walked across the room to Eames.
"You gotta listen to this," he said, pulling the headphones off his own neck and settling them on Eames's ears.
And they really did cancel out all the noise. The rest of the world went completely silent so that all he heard was the song.
Au premier temps de la valse...Toute seule tu souris déjà...
Arthur said something--Eames could see his lips move--but he wouldn't let Eames remove the headphones.
Au premier temps de la valse...Je suis seul mais je t`aperçois...
Arthur leaned down and pressed a kiss into Eames's cheek, his lips still moving, still saying something Eames couldn't hear.
"I love you too, pet," Eames said.
Reply
DYING. And ugh, I love how it's playful and fun and then in the end, with that quiet moment *_____* THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS
Reply
Leave a comment