Above the Horizontal Pt. II

[hungerpunch]

Title: Above the Horizontal 
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Homophobic language.
Summary: Arthur joins the rugby team at his new school.

The first game is home-field. In the last twenty minutes of it, when Arthur is trying to get the ball out from Jack’s feet, Jack nails Arthur in the face with his cleat. They end up winning, and Arthur joins the huddle of celebration on the field with blood dripping from his nose, cheek stinging and eye swelling.

“I’m so, so sorry about that, mate,” Jack apologizes fervently afterwards, wincing as he tentatively peels back a piece of gauze to look at the torn up skin around Arthur’s nose; below Arthur’s eye hangs a crescent moon of bruises. He does not feel pretty.

“Not your fault,” Arthur breathes out through his mouth. “Hazard of crowding behind the 8-man.”

Jack half-smiles and lets the gauze slip back into place. “A bit, yeah,” he agrees, rueful.

“It’s a badge of honor!” Mason declares, coming over and jostling Jack’s shoulder. “Now you’re really one of the team. Howsit feel?”

Arthur doesn’t feel like speaking so he flashes a thumbs up. Mason laughs.

His injuries are relatively minor, in the grand scheme of things, but Arthur tries to exercise a little more caution during practices the following week. The scrimmages are low-contact, save Nash, who seems to be tackling Arthur with all his might whenever he thinks he can get away with it.

The coaches might not be watching Nash, but Arthur finds out that Eames is. Nash comes at him from behind and knocks him down even though Arthur is not in possession of the ball--Manwarring blows his whistle to reorganize after the goal’s been scored but Eames uses the opportunity to soldier past his teammates and cause a debacle. “Nash!” he bellows, ripping out his mouth guard, and all the guys snap to attention, eager to see the drama unfold. Arthur mourns for whatever discreetness Eames had claimed to have.

Nash steps out, his upper lip curling. “Problem, captain?”

“Yeah,” Eames seethes, volume lowering as his proximity to Nash increases, though the anger in his voice does not diminish. “I have a bloody problem. You appear to have redirected all your attention from the plays today to trampling Arthur every chance you get.” Nash opens his mouth to protest but Eames jabs him in the chest with an extended, accusatory pointer finger. “That’s the third play you’ve screwed the back over on because you’re not where you’re supposed to fucking be.” He leans in close to Nash, feral and sweaty. “Get your head out of your arse before I kick it in there permanently, and stay the fuck off of Arthur.” He backs up and stares at Nash darkly, and for a second Arthur thinks Eames is going to spit at Nash’s feet, but he just spins on his heel and resumes his place.

“Everything under control, Eames?” Manwarring asks in a drawl that suggests boredom.

Eames doesn’t spare him a glance but says, “Yes coach.” His eyes find Arthur’s across the field and he nods his acknowledgment. When Nash turns around from the spot he’s been dressed down in his gaze is livid--boorish and fierce and it lands on Arthur at once. Arthur goes back to the game and ignores the pain in his head.

Arthur expects the atmosphere of the locker room to be tense after such a practice, but it’s full of the usual frivolity. Arthur recalls that no one on the team likes Nash and it suddenly doesn’t seem so strange.

Arthur’s gathering up his stuff when Mason calls out to him. “Arthur! Come have a coffee,” he says, shrugging his shirt off.

Arthur makes a face. “I stink.”

Mason rolls his eyes. “So take a shower.”

Arthur looks down at the towel he usually uses to wipe the sweat out of his face and finds he has no excuse. “Yeah, okay,” he says, strangled. He drags his shirt off, careful around his head, and steps out of his shorts as the dread rolls over him in tidal waves. He wraps the towel around his hips and turns away from the locker, bracing himself.

He hones in on a free shower head and doesn’t breathe until he’s standing under it, turning the faucet. He faces the green tile of the wall the whole time as he pumps the all-purpose soap from the dispenser on the wall and into his palm, running it over his skin and through his hair as quickly as he can. When he finishes he grabs his towel from the accompanying hook and secures it around himself. Even with his efficiency, he’s one of the last out of the showers--he can tell by how many feet there are left standing around. He doesn’t raise his eyes from the floor.

He sees Mason almost finished dressing at his locker and hurries to do the same, swapping towel for the pre-practice clothes stuffed inside his bag. His sweater bunches against the bridge of his nose for a moment and he hisses, reaching up to pull it out and down quickly. His hair is still dripping water down his back so he ruffles it with his towel harshly. When he straightens up, Mason’s leaning on the locker next to his. “Ready to go, princess?” Mason teases.

Arthur manages a semi-steady glare as he wads his towel up and shoves it to the bottom of his bag. “Ready.” When they exit together, Eames is waiting outside. He pushes off the wall and falls in line with them.

“Oh,” Arthur says. “You’re coming too?”

Eames raises an eyebrow. “That all right with you?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Arthur huffs, dropping his eyes. “I just didn’t know.”

“Yeah,” Eames says. “Robert’s gonna meet us there.”

Compulsively, Arthur checks his back pocket for his phone and wallet. He freezes when he feels one but not the other. “Fuck. Uh, hold on guys, I must have dropped my wallet in the locker room.”

Mason and Eames stop beside him. “Go on,” Mason says and Arthur turns around and jogs back to the building.

When he gets inside, he instantly spies his wallet on the ground, right in front of his locker. “Motherfucker,” he curses under his breath, hurrying over. Just as he bends down to retrieve it, he’s slammed sideways into the locker and held in place there.

“This is convenient,” a voice wheezes in his ear. “I was just thinking about you.” Arthur turns his head to see Nash, up close and personal, face twisted in an ugly scowl. “Thinking about what a bloody fool you made of me today,” Nash snarls.

Arthur wants to snort that it’s not his fault Nash wasted time and energy prowling Arthur during practice but he sees Nash’s arm raise, preparing to strike. Instinctively he ducks his head and tries to jab at Nash’s torso with his elbow but Nash is pressed too close, too confining; Arthur doesn’t have enough leverage to make an impact. Nash’s fist hits a couple inches above Arthur’s ear, forcing Arthur’s head into the metal locker again. Arthur yelps but adrenaline kicks in and he drops into a crouch. Nash’s balance goes haywire and he stumbles, grunting when his shoulder meets metal. Now at the level of Nash’s knees, Arthur lunges off the lockers and into him, arms circling his legs tight as they both go falling.

The ground hurts, but not enough to deter Arthur. He snags the fabric of Nash’s jeans and pulls himself up over him, pinning Nash’s biceps with his knees. Before Arthur can hit him back, Nash spits in Arthur’s face and Arthur reacts on instinct, curling inward and cursing a blue streak indignantly. Nash uses the moment to dislodge Arthur’s knees, but when he reaches up to push Arthur off, Arthur grabs his wrist and twists it. Nash’s gasp of pain turns into a growl and with his free hand, the left one, he backhands Arthur in the face. It’s not powerful as it would be if it were with his right hand, and from a better position, but it’s enough to jar Arthur.

“Get the fuck off me,” Nash hisses as he finally shoves Arthur backwards. “Fucking faggot.”

Arthur’s on his back but quickly levers himself up on his elbows, pulse speeding, legs ready to kick but Nash isn’t making any sudden moves. Arthur’s muscles wind tight and tense, ready to strike, but they both just stare at each other, hatred outlined with wariness. Finally, Nash drops his eyes. “Fuck this,” he mutters. He stands up slowly, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He sidesteps Arthur swiftly and leaves.

Arthur closes his eyes and swears, fully feeling the new ache in his head. He sits up and gingerly dabs the remnants of Nash’s saliva off his face with his jacket. “God damnit,” he says, voice trembling. Collecting himself, he stands and shuffles over to his wallet, forgotten in the fray.

When he gets outside, it takes until he’s about ten feet away from Mason and Eames for them to realize something is wrong. “What the fuck happened?” Eames asks, aborting his I’ve-been-standing-here-forever-and-I’m-bored stance and striding forward to close the remaining distance. He looks so alarmed Arthur wishes he could melt into the ground.

“Nothing,” Arthur tries, knowing as he says it that it’ll fail.

“Oh man, Nash just came out here, he didn’t--did he do that to you?” Mason splutters. “And he just slinked off like the greasy fucking tosser he is, I bet he hasn’t gotten far--”

“Mason,” Arthur says, weary.

“--I’m gonna rip him limb from bloody--”

“Mason,” Arthur presses, rubbing his temple.

“--limb and--”

“Mason!” Eames slaps Mason’s chest with the back of his hand lightly. “Shut the bloody fuck up for a second.” He turns his attention back to Arthur. “You got in a fight with Nash?” he asks, eyes narrowing as if trying to peer into the recesses of Arthur’s psyche for the truth of the matter.

Arthur sighs. “He picked it,” he says.

“What the fuck!” Mason veritably explodes. Arthur experiences acute guilt that the only time Mason isn’t radiantly jubilant is because of Arthur’s well-being.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Arthur grumbles.

“A big deal? Of course it’s a big deal,” Eames swears. “We’re a fucking team, and he’s roughing you up because he got a bit of his fucking ego bruised? Fuck that.” Eames turns his face away, glaring out into some middle-distance, his jaw grinding. “I have got to talk to Manwarring.”

“No,” Arthur says sharply. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“I’m your captain,” Eames bites. Even though Arthur knows Eames’ anger isn’t directed at him, it burns a little.

“And my friend,” Arthur adds. “You’re my friend, and I don’t want this to be some huge ordeal.”

“Friends don’t let friends go unavenged,” Mason asserts.

Arthur tries to hold on to the vestiges of his patience. “I don’t need to be avenged. If I want vengeance I’ll go get it for myself. I’m not some invalid because I got a bloody nose.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say,” Mason says, palms up as if gentling a skittish animal. “Arthur, I know you can hold your own, I’ve seen you play haven’t I? That’s not what it’s about. Me and Eames, we’re your... your, fuck, your crew or whatever you Americans call it.”

“Okay, look,” Eames says. “You don’t want it to be a big deal, that’s fine. But I do have to talk to Manwarring.”

Arthur gives up. “Whatever,” he says. “I’m going home, I look like shit,” he says disdainfully. “Give Robert my regards.”

Arthur adjusts the strap of his bag, hefting it further up his shoulder, and they let him go.

The next day, Nash is not at practice. Arthur buries his suspicion for the time being, letting the physicality of it all subsume him. He focuses on why he loves rugby--the brutal fist of adrenaline that catches him in the ribs every time he’s handed the ball, the siege of bodies, the frantic give and take of strategy, the satisfaction of tackling, of scoring. Arthur loves it when everything falls into place and loves it just as much when he has to fight tooth and nail. He loves that rugby isn’t mindless, like track or cross country or swimming--isn’t something he can zone out in the middle of because if he does he’ll get ripped to shreds on the cleats of another player. His movements can’t be the product of sheer rote memorization; every action has to have a plan behind it, however thoroughly thought-out it may or may not be.

When the hours are up and they’re all trudging--worn but well-worked--back to the locker room, Arthur reflects on climbing into the passenger seat of his dad’s car, red-faced and triumphant as his dad praised him. He’s thrown from the pleasant memory as he passes from the dim light of dusk into the florescent of the locker room, blinking as his pupils dilate.

The absence of Nash reoccurs to Arthur and he heads over to Eames, who sees him coming and passively sips water from a paper cup. “Good practice,” Eames comments, swiping at a bead of water that’s escaped his mouth, eyeing Arthur with an expression Arthur can’t define. Arthur recalls the reflection of his own hideously battered face in his bathroom mirror that morning and almost leaves but resolves himself, squaring his shoulders.

“Where is he?” he asks, quiet enough not to draw attention, pinning Eames under his determined stare.

Eames takes another sip of water, humming, and diverts his attention to the gross floor. “He is...off the team.”

“Off the team?” Arthur echoes faintly. It’s not as though he liked Nash, not as though he’s sympathetic towards him. Still, somehow, the statement, and the reality behind it, slips under Arthur’s skin and festers where it sits, irritating him. “You got him kicked off the team?”

“Manwarring told me it was my team. Mine and Brandon’s. We made the decision together, to cut him.”

“So Brandon knows too?” Arthur grits his teeth. “And now the team is down a player.”

Eames fingers the edge of the flimsy paper cup. Arthur almost feels bad for the tone of his voice--confrontational and scornful--but not quite. “It’s not as if he made any great contributions, Arthur.”

“That’s not the point,” Arthur says, low and critical, pulling at a curl of his hair in agitation.

Eames’ face clouds. “Well it’s done,” he says. “He won’t play again.”

“Fine,” Arthur says, but it’s not fine, and he leaves without another word.

Arthur spends the next week avoiding Eames as much as possible and trying not to over-analyze why he’s doing so. Sometimes friends just get on each other’s nerves, he rationalizes. Sometimes you just need a break. He’s not convinced that needing space from someone should feel so miserable, should be so distracting, should take so much energy. He’s not fooling himself into believing all he wants from Eames is friendship and that’s part of the problem here, isn’t it? Instead of dwelling on it, Arthur puts his nose to the grindstone concerning his projects for his design and technology courses. Eames doesn’t pursue interaction with him during practice or afterwards, and Arthur lets it be.

They win their next game despite being down a man but the victory leaves Arthur semi-hollow, replaying in his mind last week when he jumped up and down next to Eames after they won, the front of his jersey stained with blood and feeling so alive.

Arthur’s walking from the library to his dorm when someone catches up with him. “Too cool to eat breakfast with us these days?” Robert asks, voice light, regarding Arthur with a piercing blue eye from beneath a shock of perfectly combed brown hair.

“Hi Robert,” Arthur says.

“Hello yourself,” Robert responds, reaching up to adjust the scarf around his neck. “Where have you been, then?”

Arthur watches the red cobbles pass by under their tread. “Around,” he answers.

“Oh come off it, Eames told me you two had a row,” Robert reveals breezily.

Arthur glowers, tucking his chin in towards his chest. “We didn’t have a- a row,” Arthur insists.

“What would you call it then?”

Arthur’s nostrils flare and he suppresses a groan. He’s having trouble comprehending where Robert gets off coming to interrogate him. “I don’t know? Nothing happened.”

“Yeah, except now you’re not eating with us and Eames is moping around like a complete sod.”

Arthur’s attention snags on that--that term, ‘moping’--but he refuses to show it. “Well I don’t know what to tell you, because I’ve done nothing to him.”

Robert is relentless. “He says you’re pissed because he got Nash kicked off the team.”

Arthur rounds on Robert, a saccharine smile pasted on his face. “Well then, you know everything you need to know, don’t you?”

Robert stops and rolls his eyes at Arthur. “Don’t be a git,” he admonishes. “Why won’t you just talk to Eames about it?”

“Because I don’t want to,” Arthur says. Because his attraction to Eames is overwhelming and he needed an excuse to get away. Because he didn’t want to get anybody to get kicked out of anything. “I can fight my own fucking battles, I don’t need Eames getting a boner over white knighting,” he hisses on impulse.

Robert sways, eyebrows hoisting themselves nearly to his hairline. He whistles sharply, the way one does when they’ve seen someone wipe out badly. “That sounds like it’s been stewing,” he says, still having the gall to flash a grin at Arthur. Arthur keeps his gaze level, eyes hooded, jaw tight. Robert sighs. “Look, Arthur, he only did it because he cares for you.”

“I asked him, as a friend, to let it go,” Arthur’s voice is taut and barbed. “And he didn’t do that for me. So excuse me if I don’t want to--if I don’t feel like--” Arthur stutters and closes his eyes, blood pounding at his temple. “I just don’t have anything to say to him right now.”

Arthur opens his eyes to the sight of Robert scrubbing his face tiredly. “Why are the gay ones always so dramatic?” Robert moans. “And before,” he begins quickly, “you say anything, just don’t. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe you’re not, but I’ve seen the way you look at Eames.”

Arthur’s initial reaction was to assume Eames had told Robert, and for a moment he experienced an all-consuming fury. But it sounds as though Eames has not told Robert, that Robert has deduced it on his own. Rage withers, and Arthur’s subsequent fear scatters. He studies his shoes. “Have I...really been so obvious?” he whispers, eyebrows knitting together.

Robert takes a hesitant step forward. “No,” he says, but Arthur can’t tell whether he’s being truthful or just being kind. “I just have practice. Everybody falls a little bit in love with Eames, well, most anyway. He’s just that way, you know? Open. Charismatic. Why do you think he leads your rugby team so well? You meet Eames and you want him to be your best friend, you want to be his confidant, you’re immediately inclined to trust him. Some--” he pauses, daring to tilt Arthur’s chin up and look him in the eye, “--more than others.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Arthur asks, twisting out of Robert’s grip.

Robert shrugs. “It’s been awhile since Eames has looked at anybody the way that you look at him.” He retreats out of Arthur’s personal space, digs into his jeans and pulls out a pack of Dunhills; he taps one out and perches it between his lips with fluid familiarity. He surveys Arthur with the air of one checking out livestock, and Arthur feels as though he’s wavering at the edge of some great precipice as he waits for Robert to light up. Robert takes a deep drag and sighs the smoke out, holding the cigarette aside between two fingers. “He’s looking now, Arthur.”

“What?” Arthur asks, blindsided.

Robert smirks cheekily and then turns to go. “That’s all you’re getting from me. Oh, come around mine tonight. Peck House, room 106. Just a small get together, no worries, but if you don’t come I’ll hunt you down and drag you in.”

“But I--”

“Farewell,” Robert calls over his shoulder, long legs carrying him away easily.

“What the fuck?” Arthur mutters in his wake.

“I’m not fucking going to Robert’s,” Arthur tells himself as he showers. “I’m not going to Robert’s. Who does he think he is?” he asks his shampoo bottle. “Honestly.”

“I’m not going to Robert’s, Eames will be there,” he says as he dresses himself. “Not going,” he tells his reflection, idly pressing at the edge of a fading bruise, brushing his fingertips over the scabs on his cheek.

“Just shut up, I’m not going,” he grits out to his calculator as he pores over his homework. He looks up and glances at his clock--it reads 8:30pm. “Jesus fucking Christ, fine,” he relents angrily.

Arthur’s never been to the Peck House, but he knows the way there well enough. He kicks a rock out in front of him as he walks, trying to expel his aggression before he arrives at Robert’s.

When he gets there, he raises a hand to knock at the door but suspends it there, giving himself once last chance to walk away. I’ll hunt you down and drag you in, he recalls Robert’s voice. Arthur seriously doubts that Robert could do anything of the nature. Arthur could just leave.

Then the door opens and Robert’s right in front of him. “Oh hello, Arthur,” he announces. “So glad you decided to join us.”

Arthur spares him a half-hearted glare but allows himself to be ushered into the suite. Ariadne’s on the couch and she waves at him cheerfully; Arthur waves back, hoping that a meteorite will fall from the sky and crush him. Mason is sprawled out on the floor, head on a sofa pillow. “Arthur!” he greets with his characteristic face-splitting smile.

Arthur leans over and looks down at Mason, whose eyes are red. “Hello, Mason,” he says, offering a grin born of a rush of fondness for the perpetually merry boy.

“It’s good to see you, Arthur,” Mason nods sagely.

“Good to see you too.”

“Take a seat, then,” Robert says. “We’re about to play some cards. Let me get you a drink. Brandy or whisky?”

“In what?” Arthur asks.

“Brandy,” Robert decides, and slips away to the kitchen.

“Right,” Arthur replies futilely. “Brandy.” And then, at last, he turns to the presence just to his left that he’s ignored so far. He looks at Eames for a beat, assessing. “Hey Eames,” he says.

“Arthur,” Eames replies, tipping his head. Arthur chews his lower lip and then shuffles around before dropping down to sit on the floor, in between Mason’s head and Ariadne’s knee, across from Eames. Probably not the wisest choice, but anything else would seem unnatural.

“What are you guys playing?” Arthur asks, gesturing to the pile of cards.

“We haven’t yet,” Ariadne explains. “But we agreed on shithead.”

“Sounds solid,” Arthur says, rubbing his hands together. Robert returns and settles a hot mug into Arthur’s hands. “What is it?” Arthur wonders aloud, blowing at the steam rising from it.

“A bit of this, a bit of that,” Robert answers, aloof, taking his seat next to Ariadne.

“Just tell me how much alcohol is in it, ass.”

“A pinch,” Robert sniffs. Ariadne elbows him in the side. “Oh for fuck’s sake, just a shot’s worth,” he grumps.

“Thank you,” Arthur says crisply, and hazards a sip. It’s definitely coffee-based, but there’s some chocolate going on there too. He can taste the brandy, but just enough to warm him. “It’s good.”

“Of course it is,” Robert says, and picks up the cards to deal. “Now let’s play shithead.” So they do; several rounds, in fact. Arthur doesn’t win, but card games have never been his forte. The game leaves little room for personal interaction--something Arthur’s thankful for. He sneaks a peek at Eames a few times, observing how tired he looks, noting that he doesn’t expend more effort than it takes to participate in the game. A twinge of guilt takes up residence next to the brandy-coffee-chocolate mixture in his stomach.

“I can’t take anymore,” Ariadne exclaims after she loses a round. “I’ve got to take a break. Smokes, babe?” she asks Robert, who nods and stands, offering a hand to pull her up from the couch.

“Mason, Arthur?” Robert asks, fishing his pack out. Mason says yes at the same time Arthur says no. “Eames?”

“Nah,” Eames says, and Arthur suddenly wishes he had said yes. Neither of them speak as the other three shuffle out the door, wrapping scarves around themselves and slipping into their shoes. The door snicks shut behind them and the silence roars.

“I need a drink of water,” Eames says and stands, striding into the kitchen. Arthur plays mental ping pong with his options before rising from the floor, quietly following Eames.

Arthur leans a hip against the counter top and is about to speak but Eames, who’s idling in front of the tap, beats him to it. “I’m sorry,” Eames says in a rush of breath. He looks down at the sink, drums his fingers on the Formica. “I’m not sorry for what I did, but...I am sorry for upsetting you.”

Arthur picks at his lower lip too harshly; peels a bit of it away and tastes blood. He licks over it carefully before speaking. “I don’t see how you can separate the two,” he says, because apparently just a mutual apology is too difficult an obstacle for him to surmount.

Eames picks a lint off the front of his shirt. “Okay. Well. I’m not sorry that I told Manwarring, because it needed to be done, and I’m not sorry that Nash got kicked off the team, because he’s an asshole. I am sorry that the way in which these events proceeded offended you.” He shifts his weight forward onto his hands, palms bracing on the lip of the counter. “I’m sorry for the way it happened. Does that make more sense?”

Arthur is forced to concede the point. “Yeah,” he swallows. “It does. And, look. I mean, I’m sorry too. I didn’t...have to be such a brat about it,” he mutters,eyes falling to the floor. He catches Eames’ neutral shrug in his peripheral.

“People keep asking me why you haven’t been at breakfast lately,” Eames says slowly.

“And what are you telling them?”

“That I don’t know why. I, uh, didn’t think you’d want everyone to know.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, looking up. “Good call.”

Eames rotates slightly, opening more of his stance up to Arthur. “At least I did something right, yeah?” he asks smoothly, but Arthur can hear the threads of desperation holding the question together.

“Yeah,” he says, struck by the sudden vulnerability Eames is emitting. “Yeah.”

“You look good, Arthur,” Eames says, motioning at his face. “Since the last time I...well, you know. It’s healing well.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says, reaching up to drift the pads of his fingers over the scabs. “Stings like a bitch, still,” he confides and that, at least, gets a small chuckle out of Eames. The tension loosens, beginning to break up and dissolve. Arthur offers a small smile and Eames moves forward, setting his plastic cup of water down.

“You should smile more, you know,” Eames says.

“I do smile,” Arthur replies, affronted.

“Yeah, no, your whole smile. You have dimples, you know.”

“I didn’t realize,” Arthur says. “No idea, honestly, dimples you say?”

Eames is close enough to swat his shoulder. “Shut up,” he laughs.

“Okay,” Arthur agrees, nerves producing electric currents under his skin. Eames shoots him a weird look.

“Right. Come on, then, let’s pick out a movie to watch when they get back.”

Eames selects one right away, Attack the Block--some alien movie--and Arthur doesn’t have the heart to tell him he despises alien movies so he just agrees and they relocate to the couch. “For fuck’s sake,” Eames says, checking the clock. “How long’s it take to smoke a cigarette?”

Mason, Robert, and Ariadne return shortly after. “We are not watching Attack the Block,” Robert attempts to dictate.

“Oh yes we are,” Ariadne undercuts him, gleefully grabbing it from Eames’ hands and going to put it in.

“Please no,” Robert pleads, but he’s rendered helpless in the face of Ariadne. “I had to get this movie for my British Cinema course. Let’s not and say we did.”

“Robert shut up,” Mason says. “It’s got aliens. It’s the highest rated British film this year. We can’t not watch this movie.”

“You’re all twats,” Robert mumbles, “The lot of you.”

“So be it,” Ariadne says and presses the play button, darting to turn the lights off before settling in Robert’s lap.

Arthur spends the first fifteen minutes too fascinated by the warmth of Eames sinking into his arm and thigh to pay attention to the plot. When he eventually tries to follow along, he just ends up baffled and wondering why national security is not on top of this alien problem.

Another fifteen minutes and Mason is snoring. Arthur snorts when he hears it, and then glances to the side to see Ariadne’s completely turned around and absorbed in making out with Robert. “Well,” he whispers in Eames’ ear. “That failed.” He can feel it more than hear it as Eames laughs.

Eames turns his head towards Arthur, bends back to get his mouth near Arthur’s ear. Arthur’s pulse accelerates. “You wanna escape?”

Arthur grins, giddy in the dark. “Where to?” he asks.

“I know a spot,” Eames murmurs and then he’s off the couch. They bid adieu to Robert and are out the door before Robert can break the suction between his and Ariadne’s lips, leaving Mason to be dealt with.

As soon as they’re outside they laugh together, bumping shoulders. Arthur’s not entirely sure what’s so funny, but it feels good to laugh, and Eames looks happier than ever, so Arthur can’t bring himself to care about the semantics of it.

“Where are we going?” Arthur asks, breathless, and Eames grabs his forearm, just above his wrist.

“No place you haven’t been before,” Eames says and he pulls Arthur into a run. Arthur gives up on specificity.

They end up on the rugby pitch. “Of all places,” Arthur pants, bending over a bit as he sucks in air. “We spend how many hours here a week, and you haven’t gotten your fill?”

“Why do you talk so much?” Eames asks, flopping down onto the cold, damp ground. He reaches up and pushes at the back of Arthur’s knee, inciting Arthur to join Eames in the grass. They lie back in unison, eyes on the star-speckled sky above them.

“I guess this is pretty,” Arthur relinquishes the compliment with a bit of sarcasm. “It’s just stars.”

“You are not the romantic I pegged you for,” Eames mutters. “Can you see any constellations?”

“You pegged me as a romantic?” Arthur asks, pushing himself up on one elbow and tilting his head to better see Eames.

Eames makes a dismissive gesture. “Maybe.”

“Maybe stars are just not my idea of romance,” Arthur dares to flirt, feeling his skin becoming hyper-sensitive.

Eames rolls his neck to look Arthur in the eye. “No? Then what?”

Arthur stays quiet a moment, flitting his eyes over the contours of Eames’ face, as if he could derive a certain truth from the thickness of his eyelashes, or the way his lips are parted. He can’t. “Who’s asking?” he hedges.

“Maybe I am,” Eames replies, words weighted, searching Arthur’s face in equal measure.

“Are you?” Arthur asks, moving to press his fingertips against the skin of Eames’ upper arm in imitation of someone tip-toeing. He doesn’t miss how Eames trembles.

“Yeah,” Eames confirms, gravel in the dips of his syllables, “I am asking.”

Arthur can’t help the smile that graces his face, then, dimpling hard enough to hurt. His fingers traipse from Eames’ arm to his chest, tapping a light tattoo against Eames’ collarbone. “Snow,” he says. “I think snow is romantic.”

Eames shifts, his fingers coming up to smooth across Arthur’s eyebrow, then down the side of his scraped cheek. “Well, you’re going to have to wait for snow. What can I do in the mean time?”

Arthur rolls, vanquishing the space between them easily, resting his weight partially along Eames’ ribcage. “You can kiss me, Eames.”

Eames smiles. “Get down here, then,” he requests, even as his hand is straying to the back of Arthur’s head, pulling him down. It’s a fraction too light for Arthur, their first kiss is--hesitant and shy despite their banter. Arthur cannot even begin to verablize how tired he is of being hesitant and so disposes of further conversation in favor of biting his way into a deeper, hungrier kiss. Every couple of seconds they have to stop because they’re both smiling too hard to continue, so Arthur gives up and places a line of smile-shaped kisses down Eames’ neck before coming to the collar of his shirt. He tucks his arms into himself, then, and rests his head above Eames’ heart, calmed by the thudding rhythm of it.

Eames takes the time to rub his hands up and down Arthur’s back, fingers tripping over the knobs of his spine through his shirt. “Hey,” Eames rumbles gently after a few minutes. “It’s getting cold.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Arthur lies even as he shivers.

“Do I have to carry you? Cinderella style? Is that romantic?”

Arthur scrambles off Eames, scowling without any bite to it. “Please never liken me to any Disney princess ever again,” he says, standing up and swiping the grass and dirt from his knees, dusting the bum of his jeans off.

“Fair enough,” Eames says, lifting himself from the ground as well. “Anything else?”

Arthur closes his hand around Eames’, draws him in as they begin to walk. “Tell me we’re going to win the next game,” Arthur says, cheeky.

Eames huffs a laugh that’s more breath than sound and swoops down to plant a kiss on Arthur’s good cheek. “We’ll win all the games, darling.”

Their team plays the season undefeated, all the way to districts. When the final whistle of the final game blows and the score is in their favor, Arthur screams, throwing his arms up in the air. Every last iota in his body aches but it doesn’t stop him from sprinting down the field to where his team’s converging on the trophy. Everyone is cheering, laughing, bouncing around one another and hugging. Arthur’s blood sings when he gets a hand on the trophy, touching the base of the golden cup. When he looks up from marveling, Eames is standing across from him, hand on the other side of the cup, utterly beaming with the joy of their accomplishment. Arthur wrinkles his nose as he smiles full on, sticking his tongue out playfully--Regression suits you, Arthur. Arthur reaches over to grab Eames’ shoulder, shaking him ecstatically, and then Arthur’s got his hands on everything he wants in the world.