Fic: Après-ski
Après-ski
Words: 4,000
Thanks to: fififolle for looking it over.
Written for: the i_reversebang, inspired by kateison's beautiful art.
French for: after skiing. The phrase refers to going out, having drinks, dancing, and socializing after skiing. It is popular in the Alps, where skiers often stop at bars on their last run of the day while still wearing all their ski gear. In the United States, the term is used more broadly to describe the atmosphere of ski resorts and ski culture, ski themed architecture and decor, and the ski oriented lifestyle in general.
-Wikipedia
Après-ski
DAY 1: NASH
"Arthur, I'm going to need you to stop shivering," Nash says, peering out from behind his camera. "The movement is blurring the shot."
"Will do," Arthur says, trying and failing to control the chatter of his teeth. Despite having suffered through innumerable New England winters he's still pretty useless in the cold-which is why he packed up to Miami the first opportunity he got. Not that Miami will help him now. "I've lost feeling in my hands."
Nash heaves an irritated sigh. "If you can't stop completely, maybe you could shake less violently?"
Arthur resists the urge to bring his arms in to hug his mostly naked torso. He's technically wearing a vest, but its primary purpose is fashion, not providing life-sustaining warmth. He tells himself to suck it up; he's a professional, goddamnit. "Sure. Sounds good."
The shutter goes off repeatedly as Nash circles around Arthur, capturing him from every angle. Nash isn't a particularly chatty or encouraging photographer, limiting comments to things like, "Move your elbow a little to the right. No, your other elbow." and, "Hold the snowball higher up, as if it's about to leave your grip and fly into the air." This continues for another ten minutes, until the water dripping from the snowballs melting in Arthur's hands becomes impossible to ignore.
"Alright, let's take a break," Nash says at last, lowering his camera. "Somebody get his makeup cleaned up. And where the hell is Eames?"
Arthur drops the slush to the ground and winces as he walks off the snow-covered set, trying to work some sensation back into his fingers. One of the production assistants brings Arthur a robe and a mug of tea to wrap his claw-hands around while the makeup artist tuts over how his lips are starting to turn blue. The entire crew (including Nash) is wearing heavy down coats and gloves as they wander around the below-freezing temperature studio, and Arthur glances longingly at several people's hats.
"You called?" An amused voice, male, with an uppercrust-y sounding British accent accompanies the saunter of a man Arthur's only seen on billboards up till now. In person, Eames is somewhat shorter than Arthur expected but broader, and his face-the face that has graced the pages of practically every fashion magazine in the world-is every bit as lovely in three dimensions.
Under normal circumstances, Arthur would be seriously concerned about the obvious flow of blood from his brain to other parts of his body (especially in the face of such a gorgeous man rapidly stripping out of his clothing). Luckily, being on verge of hypothermia means that all functions not related to immediate survival have been shut down. So he can observe Eames' bare, suntanned flesh with a respectable poker face (and body) on. Small mercies.
"Did you get lost on the way over?" Nash asked, his perpetual sour-face puckering with obvious dislike. Arthur supposes it makes sense. Eames and Nash have probably worked together before and Nash, as far as Arthur can tell, dislikes virtually everyone he meets. "You know I've only got you guys for a day, right?"
"As a matter of fact, there was an accident that stopped traffic on the way over," Eames replies. "Several people were hospitalized, terrible tragedy. I expect it'll be all over the papers tomorrow."
"Oh," Nash says, and has the grace to seem a little chagrined. "Well, your co-star has been waiting on you for an hour now. So get your ass into makeup, stat."
"Yes, sir," Eames says, gaze sincere while something sly twists the corner of his mouth. As he walks over to the makeup table, he tosses a wink over his shoulder at Arthur, who blinks, startled and only beginning to regain fine motor control.
Arthur, as a general rule, doesn't sleep with coworkers on a job. He watches Eames' ass as he walks away (firm, surprisingly round and bite-able), and thinks to himself: sex after the job doesn't break any rules.
The brief respite eventually comes to an end when the PAs finish laying down a fresh layer of powder on the set with the snowmaker. The makeup artist finishes putting enough blush on Arthur's cheeks to fake a healthy glow and he's forced to let go of his robe, changing into a new outfit (a thin white button-down with Fair Isle patterning stitched into the collar along with a matching tie). It's an improvement over the vest, but then again, virtually anything would be.
Nash has Arthur strike various poses leaning up against the makeshift igloo/ice fort they've set up as a backdrop, still with Arthur wearing no gloves. He winces in between shots when he has to pull his bare palms away from the igloo wall, skin prickling uncomfortably, but at least he's stopped shivering uncontrollably.
Eventually, Eames emerges from makeup and wardrobe in a navy blue pointelle sweater with a weave so open that Arthur can practically see through it. The muscle definition there would make Michelangelo weep tears of homoerotic joy.
"Okay, guys," Nash says, interrupting Arthur's lustful staring. "Get on both sides of the igloo, two snowballs each. You're going to have a snowball fight."
That jerks Arthur out of the idle fantasy he'd been having of licking at Eames' nipples through his sweater. "Wait, what?"
"Snowball fight. You versus him. Flinging snowballs like monkeys fling feces," Nash says.
"First of all, that's disgusting. Second of all-" Arthur is interrupted by the feel of something cold and wet skimming past his left bicep. He turns in the direction from whence the volley came and sees Eames, second snowball in hand, eyebrow cocked.
"Well?" Eames says, and smirks.
"Oh." Arthur stoops down to arm himself from the snowball pile on his side of the igloo. "It is on."
The next hour passes in a blur as Arthur hurls snowballs in Eames' direction (careful to avoid the face, of course) and attempts to dodge Eames' return fire with limited success. The indignity of being repeatedly hit in the solar plexus is quickly forgotten in the heat of battle and the opportunity to see Eames grow wetter with every volley. By the time Nash calls out for them to stop, Arthur and Eames are both exhausted, panting, and soaked.
"I've got it," Nash says, not glancing up from scrolling through the photographs on his camera. "Arthur, I'm done with you, go home. Eames, get changed into your next outfit. I need some solo shots of you."
As they both traipse off the set into towels and robes, Arthur can't help but grin to himself. Fucking Eames. Who the hell knew photoshoots could be so much fun?
Once they're both in the wardrobe area peeling out of their clothing, Arthur glances over to make sure Nash and his PAs are out of earshot before he says in a low voice, "Was there really an accident?"
"Oh no," Eames replies, gaze roving over Arthur's body with far more than a professional interest. "I simply can't stand Nash. If you give him ten hours, he'll spend nine of them tormenting the models and the last hour on actual, usable material."
Funny and intelligent in addition to hot; Arthur's going to be all over him like a cheap suit the moment they're done with this job. Until then, he might as well introduce himself and flirt outrageously. "I don't think we've been introduced," Arthur says as he holds a hand out to shake. "My name's Arthur."
A strange expression crosses Eames' face as he takes Arthur's hand. "Eames."
"It's great to meet you, Eames," Arthur says, smiling. "I look forward to seeing you all week."
Instead of smiling back as Arthur hopes, Eames' brow furrows in a very unpromising manner. "Arthur, we-"
"Eames!" Nash hollers from across the studio. "Makeup's waiting!"
"Duty calls," Arthur says, trying to keep it light even as he's disappointed, again, by the lack of reciprocating smile.
"Yes," Eames says, face unreadable. "I'll see you at tomorrow's shoot."
Arthur watches Eames walk off in a state of horny confusion. Is Eames straight? Didn't seem like it from the way his eyes zeroed in on Arthur's dick a few minutes ago. Closeted? Possible, but unlikely. Then again, it's possible the onset of frostbite has compromised his ability to interpret the signs correctly.
Arthur sighs. Hopefully Eames is just moody and unstable. He really does have the most gorgeous ass and it'd be a crying shame if Arthur never got to put his hands on it.
* * * * *
DAY 2: COBB
Day two of the photo-shoots starts with a new pile of artificial snow on the studio floor and a new photographer: Dom Cobb. Arthur is surprised to find Cobb to be both pleasant and pleasant-looking.
"Ariadne, hey," Arthur says while he's waiting for Wardrobe to finish ironing his outfits. "What brings you around these parts?"
"Came to see how the shoot's going," she replies with a hug. "Mal wanted me to check in."
"Haven't started today's shoot yet so not much to report." he says, gesturing to the set and the cameras. "How are you guys doing?"
"As well as can be expected when we're launching a new line," Ariadne says wryly, pointing to the bags under her eyes. "If you think these are bad, you should see Mal's."
"She sounded pretty stressed the last time I spoke to her," Arthur says. "How about you? Doing okay?"
"Apprenticeship has its ups and downs, but that's what I signed up for." Ariadne shrugs. "In between panicked running around and crying myself to sleep every night, I did manage to fit in getting a tattoo, though. Want to see?"
"Sure," he says, and she rolls up one pant leg to reveal the image of a bishop on her ankle. "Nice."
"Hurt like a motherfucker," she says with pride.
"I'll bet." Arthur sits back. "I've always wanted to get a tattoo."
"Models aren't allowed to get tattoos?"
"Models are allowed to do whatever the hell they want, but piercings, tattoos, and weight gain are generally discouraged if you want someone to actually hire you."
"So I guess tear drops for every guy you kill are out, huh," Ariadne says, grinning. "Anywhere you can hide a tattoo?"
"Let me put it this way: I don't want one bad enough to get it someplace that hidden," Arthur says. "Although, come to think of it, I did meet a model once who had his balls tattooed."
"Wait, seriously? That's a thing?"
"I don't know if it's a thing, but it was his thing."
"Wow, hardcore," she says, sounding impressed. "What was it of?"
"Don’t know, never saw it," Arthur lies. The truth is, his memories from the night he'd met this particular model are rather hazy ones, more impressions than anything. Arthur was pretty drunk at the time, so details like the man's face and name have disappeared into the ether. He does remember that the sex was pretty good, though, and he'd probably recognize the tattoo if he ever saw it again-if only because there can't possibly be that many male models running around with inked scrotums.
"I guess it's a conversation starter," Ariadne says.
"Hell of a pickup line," Arthur says dryly, glancing over when one of the PAs calls him. "Hey, I gotta hop into some clothes."
"Alright, have a good shoot. I'll be lurking in the background."
"Try not to be too creepy, now."
"No promises."
Instead of putting Arthur into the most impractical outfits of Mal's line, Cobb has Arthur dress in layers including ski jackets and accessories. An hour into the shoot, Arthur flexes his gloved fingers in wonder and says, "I still have feeling in my extremities."
"Photoshoots too grueling for your delicate constitution?" Eames remarks as he adjusts the ski poles in his hands with the ease of experience. "Or are you completely unused to physical discomfort of any kind?"
"Hey, I've had to walk runway shows in six inch heels while balancing a fruit platter on my head," Arthur shoots back. "Don't talk to me about physical discomfort."
"Oh, am I supposed to be impressed that you can successfully walk thirty seconds without tripping?" Eames asks. "I'll think about that next time I'm stuck in winter on the beach for hours, pretending to have the time of my life with swimwear riding up my bum."
"What is your problem?" Arthur hisses, low. "Did I insult your mother in a previous life or something?"
Eames gives Arthur a disbelieving look-as if Arthur is the crazy one. "You really don't remember, do you?"
"That was just a figure of-"
"Hey, guys," Cobb says, smiling politely from the edge of the set. "You ready to move on to the next shot?"
Arthur clears his throat. "Uh, yeah, of course."
Eames agrees as well, and they resume. The theme for this shoot is a straightforward Alps chalet story featuring Arthur and Eames posing with ski equipment. The shoot isn't what Arthur would call fun, but Cobb is patient and gives clear instructions, which Arthur has grown to appreciate.
"You're doing great, Arthur," Cobb says encouragingly. "But maybe… maybe you could try looking less murderous? You don't have to smile, but maybe scowl less hard?"
Arthur takes a deep breath and tries. When he looks at the photos later, Eames is frolicking in the snow and smiling as if there's nowhere else he'd rather be, while Arthur looks as though he's enduring intense constipation with grim determination.
* * * * *
DAY 3: YUSUF
"How are things going with Eames?" Mal asks. "Good shoots?"
"It's going great," Arthur says, lying baldly and without shame.
"I appreciate you doing this," she says. "The ads, the publicity, the press-it all has to be perfect. And you know there's no one else I could imagine working with besides you."
"It's gonna be amazing," he says, and this time he means it. The clothing from Mal's line, though it may vary in actual cold-weather practicality, varies not at all in quality. All of it is spectacularly made and utterly beautiful. "Eames is a professional and he looks fantastic in every shot."
"I'm sure you look wonderful as well."
"I'm a runway model, not a print one," Arthur warns. "So keep expectations appropriately in check."
She chuckles. "And the photographers? How have they been?"
"Interesting," he says, and, realizing how that sounds, adds quickly, "I like Cobb's work."
"Yes, I do as well," she pauses. "Did he-did Cobb say anything about me yesterday?"
"What? Why-"
"Hey, Arthur." One of the PAs opens the door and sticks her head in the stairwell. "We're getting started in a few."
"Thanks," Arthur says, and then to Mal, "I gotta go."
"Oh yes, of course," Mal says. "Good luck. Tell Dom I said hi."
When Arthur heads onto the set, it's once again covered in fresh snow. Eames is wearing a jacket that skims his broad chest like it was hand-made for him. Arthur considers trying to mend fences with Eames on the basis of that alone, but then the photographer for the day, Yusuf, begins to speak.
"Arthur, I want you to crawl inside this costume and lay on your side while we stitch you in," Yusuf says, gesturing to what looks like a giant furry carcass on the ground. "Then, when Eames comes over with his sword to cut it open and crawl inside for warmth, he'll discover you inside already."
"Is this…" Arthur squints at the kangaroo-like animal. "Are you recreating a Star Wars scene?"
"No, because that would open me to up to god knows how many lawsuits from George Lucas," Yusuf replies. "This is some other ice-planet dwelling alien creature completely unrelated to the legendary Tauntaun that Han Solo split open in order to keep Luke Skywalker alive. It has three feet, see?"
This is not what he thought he was signing up for when Mal offered him this contract, Arthur thinks as he lays inside a giant animal suit and waits for them to literally sew him into it. At least this time he's relatively warm-perhaps a little too warm, in fact.
"Yusuf, I don't know about this…" Eames had been distant and icy (ha) during the shoot yesterday, but Arthur thinks he can detect a clear note of worry in his voice.
Arthur finds out the precise source for Eames' concern when, a few minutes later, the tip of what is definitely a sword made from metal (as opposed to a plastic lightsaber) pokes through the stitches, inches away from Arthur's face.
"Jesus Christ," Arthur mutters as he squeezes back as far as he can into the costume, and reminds himself that in addition to getting paid, he's doing this as a favor to Mal. A huge favor. The hugest.
* * * * *
DAY 4: BROWNING
"Here's your whip," Browning says as Arthur gingerly accepts the black leather prop. "Remember: you're hidden away in a cave at the top of mountain, you're looking for answers, and you're not going to let your captive free until you have them."
Instead of snow on the ground, the set's done up like a cross between the lair of a James Bond villain and a S&M dungeon. Arthur's wearing a black turtleneck with zipper detailing across the front and trousers while Eames is shirtless and handcuffed. Arthur's not sure how this photoshoot is supposed to advertise Mal's clothing, but he wasn't hired for his opinions.
"Just do whatever comes natural," Browning says, gesturing at Eames. "Shout, threaten, throw him up against the wall-whatever it takes to get to the truth. Oh, and if you use the whip, remember contact with skin is okay, but don't rip through the clothing." Eames looks up with alarm.
Arthur advances on Eames and tries to think menacing thoughts. It's not easy, considering they've oiled Eames up so every perfectly defined muscle catches the light, but Arthur's a professional. He can do this.
Rather than start with theatrics, he kneels in front of where Eames is seated on the ground and says, quietly, ''Tell me what you know."
"No." There's an artful smear of fake blood across Eames' cheekbone and Makeup plumped up his mouth with a mottling effect to simulate a bruised lip. It's obscene.
"I can make this easy for you," Arthur says, tracing the handle of the whip across Eames' collarbone, then juts it up against Eames' throat. "Or we can do this the hard way."
"Go to hell," Eames says succinctly. His Adam's Apple bobs against the whip and Arthur pulls away.
"There's no need for this to be difficult," Arthur says. "All I want is to have a conversation."
"You want more than that," Eames says, glaring up at Arthur balefully. "Otherwise you wouldn't have brought me here."
"If you know what I want, why won't you just give it to me?" Arthur says, standing.
"Because you bloody forgot," Eames practically spits out and Arthur stares at him, trying to work out what the hell Eames is talking about and how it fits into their story.
"Spectacular," Browning says, lowering his camera and walking over. "That was fantastic, guys. Now Arthur, if I could get you to stand here and hold your arms like this…"
* * * * *
DAY 5: FISCHER
"The concept is huddling for warmth," Fischer says, and Arthur thinks: of course it is.
Eames and Arthur are both in skimpy black briefs beside two zipped together sleeping bags. There's an elegant trail of discarded clothing on the ground-practically Mal's whole line, in fact. The way the shots are constructed, Eames and Arthur will be positioned in the background while the clothing will be in focus in the foreground. Arthur has to admit that the concept is clever, even if he's not looking forward to Eames snarling at him for several hours in close proximity.
Thankfully, this is the last shoot. After this, they can go their separate ways. At least until Mal decides which of the photographers' work she likes the most and pulls Arthur and Eames back in for follow-up campaign shoots.
A few vague worries about the onset of untimely erections pass through Arthur's mind but are promptly dissipated by Eames' surly temperament and the frosty chill between them. As Arthur obediently rotates between lying beside, on top of, and below Eames, Arthur tries to focus on the sizable paycheck waiting for him on just the other side of this day. He's almost there. He can take a few hours more.
"You're thinking too loudly," Eames says, and Arthur blinks. "Your mind's faraway and you're not focusing on me. It'll show in the shot."
"Should I be paying attention to the scintillatingly non-existent conversation we're having?" Arthur replies, annoyed that Eames is probably right.
"We don't need to talk," Eames says. "But I do need you to at least pretend you're somewhat interested in being here with me."
"It doesn't matter anyway," Arthur says, somewhat petulant. "You nail every shot and I look like a confused bystander photobombing no matter what I do."
Eames almost cracks a smile at that. "I don't nail every shot."
"You do. You're like a photographer's muse come to life," Arthur grouses. "Lighting, clothes, whatever-it doesn't matter. You even look great in cam photos posted by creepy weirdos on the internet."
Eames seems amused now. "You've looked at cam photos of me on the internet?"
"Well, I had to-" Arthur flails wildly for a semi-plausible sounding excuse. "We were going to be working together for the week. It only makes sense to do research and prepare."
"But you're a runway model," Eames says, amusement giving way to puzzlement. "What does this job matter?"
"I'm not going to be a runway model forever," Arthur says. "I'm already thirty, pushing the outer bounds of acceptable age limits."
"But you have your face, your physique." Eames reaches out, almost as if to touch Arthur's cheek, then stops himself. "You barely look twenty."
"People always think they're going to be the ones with looks that last forever, but statistically, it's impossible for everyone to make it." Arthur shrugs. "And with runway work-who knows what next season's trends will be? Rugged, square jawed men? Nordic, blue-eyed blondes? All it takes is a fad I don't fit and I'm out for the season, the year. And then who knows if I ever come back in style."
Eames stares up at Arthur for a long moment, and then says quietly, "You know, I've already started receiving calls from my agent about jobs casting me as a 'middle-aged father.'"
Arthur blinks. "Middle-aged? But you're-"
"Not even thirty-five and over the bend, apparently."
"You're gorgeous, though." Arthur understands the vagaries of the fashion industry but a part of him is genuinely bewildered. Eames' mouth, his eyes-his everything. Who wouldn't want to photograph that face?
Eames manages a ghost of a smile. "I don't look anywhere near twenty, though."
"I like that you don't," Arthur says. "You aren't a kid anymore."
"I suppose not." Eames' voice is quiet, expression unreadable.
Arthur doesn't know what to say after this, abruptly aware of everywhere their naked skin is touching. He's saved from having to explain why he's suddenly begun sweating by Fischer approaching.
"Great job, guys," Fischer says. "Let's take a break."
* * * * *
Arthur walks into Wardrobe after he's finished taking off his makeup. Eames is already mostly undressed, back to Arthur. There's a mirror in front of Eames, and in the reflection, Arthur catches a flash of tattooed skin below the belt in a very particular area.
Suddenly, the pieces all fall into place.
"It was you in that hotel on New Year's Eve," Arthur blurts out. "We met that night."
Eames barely reacts as he tucks his balls away and steps into his boxers. "We did a bit more than meet, Arthur."
Pieces of memory spark up: the taste of champagne on lips, the smell of Eames' cologne, the scratch of his stubble against Arthur's thighs. "Well, shit," Arthur says. "I had no idea. I just-most of that night is a blur."
"Yes, I know." To Arthur's surprise, Eames no longer seems angry. "I thought you might have been pretending not to remember at first, but then it became obvious you would never do something like that. At that point, my ego was bruised by the idea that anyone should ever find my drunken lack of sexual prowess to be entirely forgettable."
Arthur sighs. "Eames, I-"
"I acted like a petty wanker and I'm sorry." Eames shakes his head. "I know it doesn't make up for the shite I put you through, but you were a complete professional in spite of me. And I'd be happy to put in a good word for any print work you might want to do in the future."
"Thank you." As Arthur watches Eames slip into his shoes, he thinks he should probably let it go on this note. Eames would be a valuable contact, a colleague he could establish a solid working relationship with. Then Eames bends down to do up his laces and Arthur thinks: fuck it. "It wasn't all bad, though."
Eames looks up, eyes raised. "No?"
"If you think about it, it's kinda like we went on a series of dates already," Arthur says. "Snowball fighting, skiing, reenacting a movie, tying you up with a whip-you know, normal stuff."
Eames huffs out a surprised laugh as he stands and eyes Arthur cautiously. "Dates, huh?"
"Yeah, and I don't know about you, but this whole huddling for warmth thing has got me working up an appetite." Arthur scratches his nose. "I could go for some dinner."
"Dinner." Eames cocks his head to one side, almost shy. "I suppose I could eat. Maybe you can tell me what it's like to walk a runway in Milan."
"Only if you tell me what it's like to get a fucking ace of spades tattooed onto your balls," Arthur says, deadpan.
Eames breaks out into a toothy grin, forehead furrowing, eyes crinkling, absolutely nothing camera-ready about it at all. "Deal."
fin
Poll Fic: Après-ski
Words: 4,000
Thanks to: fififolle for looking it over.
Written for: the i_reversebang, inspired by kateison's beautiful art.
French for: after skiing. The phrase refers to going out, having drinks, dancing, and socializing after skiing. It is popular in the Alps, where skiers often stop at bars on their last run of the day while still wearing all their ski gear. In the United States, the term is used more broadly to describe the atmosphere of ski resorts and ski culture, ski themed architecture and decor, and the ski oriented lifestyle in general.
-Wikipedia
Après-ski
DAY 1: NASH
"Arthur, I'm going to need you to stop shivering," Nash says, peering out from behind his camera. "The movement is blurring the shot."
"Will do," Arthur says, trying and failing to control the chatter of his teeth. Despite having suffered through innumerable New England winters he's still pretty useless in the cold-which is why he packed up to Miami the first opportunity he got. Not that Miami will help him now. "I've lost feeling in my hands."
Nash heaves an irritated sigh. "If you can't stop completely, maybe you could shake less violently?"
Arthur resists the urge to bring his arms in to hug his mostly naked torso. He's technically wearing a vest, but its primary purpose is fashion, not providing life-sustaining warmth. He tells himself to suck it up; he's a professional, goddamnit. "Sure. Sounds good."
The shutter goes off repeatedly as Nash circles around Arthur, capturing him from every angle. Nash isn't a particularly chatty or encouraging photographer, limiting comments to things like, "Move your elbow a little to the right. No, your other elbow." and, "Hold the snowball higher up, as if it's about to leave your grip and fly into the air." This continues for another ten minutes, until the water dripping from the snowballs melting in Arthur's hands becomes impossible to ignore.
"Alright, let's take a break," Nash says at last, lowering his camera. "Somebody get his makeup cleaned up. And where the hell is Eames?"
Arthur drops the slush to the ground and winces as he walks off the snow-covered set, trying to work some sensation back into his fingers. One of the production assistants brings Arthur a robe and a mug of tea to wrap his claw-hands around while the makeup artist tuts over how his lips are starting to turn blue. The entire crew (including Nash) is wearing heavy down coats and gloves as they wander around the below-freezing temperature studio, and Arthur glances longingly at several people's hats.
"You called?" An amused voice, male, with an uppercrust-y sounding British accent accompanies the saunter of a man Arthur's only seen on billboards up till now. In person, Eames is somewhat shorter than Arthur expected but broader, and his face-the face that has graced the pages of practically every fashion magazine in the world-is every bit as lovely in three dimensions.
Under normal circumstances, Arthur would be seriously concerned about the obvious flow of blood from his brain to other parts of his body (especially in the face of such a gorgeous man rapidly stripping out of his clothing). Luckily, being on verge of hypothermia means that all functions not related to immediate survival have been shut down. So he can observe Eames' bare, suntanned flesh with a respectable poker face (and body) on. Small mercies.
"Did you get lost on the way over?" Nash asked, his perpetual sour-face puckering with obvious dislike. Arthur supposes it makes sense. Eames and Nash have probably worked together before and Nash, as far as Arthur can tell, dislikes virtually everyone he meets. "You know I've only got you guys for a day, right?"
"As a matter of fact, there was an accident that stopped traffic on the way over," Eames replies. "Several people were hospitalized, terrible tragedy. I expect it'll be all over the papers tomorrow."
"Oh," Nash says, and has the grace to seem a little chagrined. "Well, your co-star has been waiting on you for an hour now. So get your ass into makeup, stat."
"Yes, sir," Eames says, gaze sincere while something sly twists the corner of his mouth. As he walks over to the makeup table, he tosses a wink over his shoulder at Arthur, who blinks, startled and only beginning to regain fine motor control.
Arthur, as a general rule, doesn't sleep with coworkers on a job. He watches Eames' ass as he walks away (firm, surprisingly round and bite-able), and thinks to himself: sex after the job doesn't break any rules.
The brief respite eventually comes to an end when the PAs finish laying down a fresh layer of powder on the set with the snowmaker. The makeup artist finishes putting enough blush on Arthur's cheeks to fake a healthy glow and he's forced to let go of his robe, changing into a new outfit (a thin white button-down with Fair Isle patterning stitched into the collar along with a matching tie). It's an improvement over the vest, but then again, virtually anything would be.
Nash has Arthur strike various poses leaning up against the makeshift igloo/ice fort they've set up as a backdrop, still with Arthur wearing no gloves. He winces in between shots when he has to pull his bare palms away from the igloo wall, skin prickling uncomfortably, but at least he's stopped shivering uncontrollably.
Eventually, Eames emerges from makeup and wardrobe in a navy blue pointelle sweater with a weave so open that Arthur can practically see through it. The muscle definition there would make Michelangelo weep tears of homoerotic joy.
"Okay, guys," Nash says, interrupting Arthur's lustful staring. "Get on both sides of the igloo, two snowballs each. You're going to have a snowball fight."
That jerks Arthur out of the idle fantasy he'd been having of licking at Eames' nipples through his sweater. "Wait, what?"
"Snowball fight. You versus him. Flinging snowballs like monkeys fling feces," Nash says.
"First of all, that's disgusting. Second of all-" Arthur is interrupted by the feel of something cold and wet skimming past his left bicep. He turns in the direction from whence the volley came and sees Eames, second snowball in hand, eyebrow cocked.
"Well?" Eames says, and smirks.
"Oh." Arthur stoops down to arm himself from the snowball pile on his side of the igloo. "It is on."
The next hour passes in a blur as Arthur hurls snowballs in Eames' direction (careful to avoid the face, of course) and attempts to dodge Eames' return fire with limited success. The indignity of being repeatedly hit in the solar plexus is quickly forgotten in the heat of battle and the opportunity to see Eames grow wetter with every volley. By the time Nash calls out for them to stop, Arthur and Eames are both exhausted, panting, and soaked.
"I've got it," Nash says, not glancing up from scrolling through the photographs on his camera. "Arthur, I'm done with you, go home. Eames, get changed into your next outfit. I need some solo shots of you."
As they both traipse off the set into towels and robes, Arthur can't help but grin to himself. Fucking Eames. Who the hell knew photoshoots could be so much fun?
Once they're both in the wardrobe area peeling out of their clothing, Arthur glances over to make sure Nash and his PAs are out of earshot before he says in a low voice, "Was there really an accident?"
"Oh no," Eames replies, gaze roving over Arthur's body with far more than a professional interest. "I simply can't stand Nash. If you give him ten hours, he'll spend nine of them tormenting the models and the last hour on actual, usable material."
Funny and intelligent in addition to hot; Arthur's going to be all over him like a cheap suit the moment they're done with this job. Until then, he might as well introduce himself and flirt outrageously. "I don't think we've been introduced," Arthur says as he holds a hand out to shake. "My name's Arthur."
A strange expression crosses Eames' face as he takes Arthur's hand. "Eames."
"It's great to meet you, Eames," Arthur says, smiling. "I look forward to seeing you all week."
Instead of smiling back as Arthur hopes, Eames' brow furrows in a very unpromising manner. "Arthur, we-"
"Eames!" Nash hollers from across the studio. "Makeup's waiting!"
"Duty calls," Arthur says, trying to keep it light even as he's disappointed, again, by the lack of reciprocating smile.
"Yes," Eames says, face unreadable. "I'll see you at tomorrow's shoot."
Arthur watches Eames walk off in a state of horny confusion. Is Eames straight? Didn't seem like it from the way his eyes zeroed in on Arthur's dick a few minutes ago. Closeted? Possible, but unlikely. Then again, it's possible the onset of frostbite has compromised his ability to interpret the signs correctly.
Arthur sighs. Hopefully Eames is just moody and unstable. He really does have the most gorgeous ass and it'd be a crying shame if Arthur never got to put his hands on it.
* * * * *
DAY 2: COBB
Day two of the photo-shoots starts with a new pile of artificial snow on the studio floor and a new photographer: Dom Cobb. Arthur is surprised to find Cobb to be both pleasant and pleasant-looking.
"Ariadne, hey," Arthur says while he's waiting for Wardrobe to finish ironing his outfits. "What brings you around these parts?"
"Came to see how the shoot's going," she replies with a hug. "Mal wanted me to check in."
"Haven't started today's shoot yet so not much to report." he says, gesturing to the set and the cameras. "How are you guys doing?"
"As well as can be expected when we're launching a new line," Ariadne says wryly, pointing to the bags under her eyes. "If you think these are bad, you should see Mal's."
"She sounded pretty stressed the last time I spoke to her," Arthur says. "How about you? Doing okay?"
"Apprenticeship has its ups and downs, but that's what I signed up for." Ariadne shrugs. "In between panicked running around and crying myself to sleep every night, I did manage to fit in getting a tattoo, though. Want to see?"
"Sure," he says, and she rolls up one pant leg to reveal the image of a bishop on her ankle. "Nice."
"Hurt like a motherfucker," she says with pride.
"I'll bet." Arthur sits back. "I've always wanted to get a tattoo."
"Models aren't allowed to get tattoos?"
"Models are allowed to do whatever the hell they want, but piercings, tattoos, and weight gain are generally discouraged if you want someone to actually hire you."
"So I guess tear drops for every guy you kill are out, huh," Ariadne says, grinning. "Anywhere you can hide a tattoo?"
"Let me put it this way: I don't want one bad enough to get it someplace that hidden," Arthur says. "Although, come to think of it, I did meet a model once who had his balls tattooed."
"Wait, seriously? That's a thing?"
"I don't know if it's a thing, but it was his thing."
"Wow, hardcore," she says, sounding impressed. "What was it of?"
"Don’t know, never saw it," Arthur lies. The truth is, his memories from the night he'd met this particular model are rather hazy ones, more impressions than anything. Arthur was pretty drunk at the time, so details like the man's face and name have disappeared into the ether. He does remember that the sex was pretty good, though, and he'd probably recognize the tattoo if he ever saw it again-if only because there can't possibly be that many male models running around with inked scrotums.
"I guess it's a conversation starter," Ariadne says.
"Hell of a pickup line," Arthur says dryly, glancing over when one of the PAs calls him. "Hey, I gotta hop into some clothes."
"Alright, have a good shoot. I'll be lurking in the background."
"Try not to be too creepy, now."
"No promises."
Instead of putting Arthur into the most impractical outfits of Mal's line, Cobb has Arthur dress in layers including ski jackets and accessories. An hour into the shoot, Arthur flexes his gloved fingers in wonder and says, "I still have feeling in my extremities."
"Photoshoots too grueling for your delicate constitution?" Eames remarks as he adjusts the ski poles in his hands with the ease of experience. "Or are you completely unused to physical discomfort of any kind?"
"Hey, I've had to walk runway shows in six inch heels while balancing a fruit platter on my head," Arthur shoots back. "Don't talk to me about physical discomfort."
"Oh, am I supposed to be impressed that you can successfully walk thirty seconds without tripping?" Eames asks. "I'll think about that next time I'm stuck in winter on the beach for hours, pretending to have the time of my life with swimwear riding up my bum."
"What is your problem?" Arthur hisses, low. "Did I insult your mother in a previous life or something?"
Eames gives Arthur a disbelieving look-as if Arthur is the crazy one. "You really don't remember, do you?"
"That was just a figure of-"
"Hey, guys," Cobb says, smiling politely from the edge of the set. "You ready to move on to the next shot?"
Arthur clears his throat. "Uh, yeah, of course."
Eames agrees as well, and they resume. The theme for this shoot is a straightforward Alps chalet story featuring Arthur and Eames posing with ski equipment. The shoot isn't what Arthur would call fun, but Cobb is patient and gives clear instructions, which Arthur has grown to appreciate.
"You're doing great, Arthur," Cobb says encouragingly. "But maybe… maybe you could try looking less murderous? You don't have to smile, but maybe scowl less hard?"
Arthur takes a deep breath and tries. When he looks at the photos later, Eames is frolicking in the snow and smiling as if there's nowhere else he'd rather be, while Arthur looks as though he's enduring intense constipation with grim determination.
* * * * *
DAY 3: YUSUF
"How are things going with Eames?" Mal asks. "Good shoots?"
"It's going great," Arthur says, lying baldly and without shame.
"I appreciate you doing this," she says. "The ads, the publicity, the press-it all has to be perfect. And you know there's no one else I could imagine working with besides you."
"It's gonna be amazing," he says, and this time he means it. The clothing from Mal's line, though it may vary in actual cold-weather practicality, varies not at all in quality. All of it is spectacularly made and utterly beautiful. "Eames is a professional and he looks fantastic in every shot."
"I'm sure you look wonderful as well."
"I'm a runway model, not a print one," Arthur warns. "So keep expectations appropriately in check."
She chuckles. "And the photographers? How have they been?"
"Interesting," he says, and, realizing how that sounds, adds quickly, "I like Cobb's work."
"Yes, I do as well," she pauses. "Did he-did Cobb say anything about me yesterday?"
"What? Why-"
"Hey, Arthur." One of the PAs opens the door and sticks her head in the stairwell. "We're getting started in a few."
"Thanks," Arthur says, and then to Mal, "I gotta go."
"Oh yes, of course," Mal says. "Good luck. Tell Dom I said hi."
When Arthur heads onto the set, it's once again covered in fresh snow. Eames is wearing a jacket that skims his broad chest like it was hand-made for him. Arthur considers trying to mend fences with Eames on the basis of that alone, but then the photographer for the day, Yusuf, begins to speak.
"Arthur, I want you to crawl inside this costume and lay on your side while we stitch you in," Yusuf says, gesturing to what looks like a giant furry carcass on the ground. "Then, when Eames comes over with his sword to cut it open and crawl inside for warmth, he'll discover you inside already."
"Is this…" Arthur squints at the kangaroo-like animal. "Are you recreating a Star Wars scene?"
"No, because that would open me to up to god knows how many lawsuits from George Lucas," Yusuf replies. "This is some other ice-planet dwelling alien creature completely unrelated to the legendary Tauntaun that Han Solo split open in order to keep Luke Skywalker alive. It has three feet, see?"
This is not what he thought he was signing up for when Mal offered him this contract, Arthur thinks as he lays inside a giant animal suit and waits for them to literally sew him into it. At least this time he's relatively warm-perhaps a little too warm, in fact.
"Yusuf, I don't know about this…" Eames had been distant and icy (ha) during the shoot yesterday, but Arthur thinks he can detect a clear note of worry in his voice.
Arthur finds out the precise source for Eames' concern when, a few minutes later, the tip of what is definitely a sword made from metal (as opposed to a plastic lightsaber) pokes through the stitches, inches away from Arthur's face.
"Jesus Christ," Arthur mutters as he squeezes back as far as he can into the costume, and reminds himself that in addition to getting paid, he's doing this as a favor to Mal. A huge favor. The hugest.
* * * * *
DAY 4: BROWNING
"Here's your whip," Browning says as Arthur gingerly accepts the black leather prop. "Remember: you're hidden away in a cave at the top of mountain, you're looking for answers, and you're not going to let your captive free until you have them."
Instead of snow on the ground, the set's done up like a cross between the lair of a James Bond villain and a S&M dungeon. Arthur's wearing a black turtleneck with zipper detailing across the front and trousers while Eames is shirtless and handcuffed. Arthur's not sure how this photoshoot is supposed to advertise Mal's clothing, but he wasn't hired for his opinions.
"Just do whatever comes natural," Browning says, gesturing at Eames. "Shout, threaten, throw him up against the wall-whatever it takes to get to the truth. Oh, and if you use the whip, remember contact with skin is okay, but don't rip through the clothing." Eames looks up with alarm.
Arthur advances on Eames and tries to think menacing thoughts. It's not easy, considering they've oiled Eames up so every perfectly defined muscle catches the light, but Arthur's a professional. He can do this.
Rather than start with theatrics, he kneels in front of where Eames is seated on the ground and says, quietly, ''Tell me what you know."
"No." There's an artful smear of fake blood across Eames' cheekbone and Makeup plumped up his mouth with a mottling effect to simulate a bruised lip. It's obscene.
"I can make this easy for you," Arthur says, tracing the handle of the whip across Eames' collarbone, then juts it up against Eames' throat. "Or we can do this the hard way."
"Go to hell," Eames says succinctly. His Adam's Apple bobs against the whip and Arthur pulls away.
"There's no need for this to be difficult," Arthur says. "All I want is to have a conversation."
"You want more than that," Eames says, glaring up at Arthur balefully. "Otherwise you wouldn't have brought me here."
"If you know what I want, why won't you just give it to me?" Arthur says, standing.
"Because you bloody forgot," Eames practically spits out and Arthur stares at him, trying to work out what the hell Eames is talking about and how it fits into their story.
"Spectacular," Browning says, lowering his camera and walking over. "That was fantastic, guys. Now Arthur, if I could get you to stand here and hold your arms like this…"
* * * * *
DAY 5: FISCHER
"The concept is huddling for warmth," Fischer says, and Arthur thinks: of course it is.
Eames and Arthur are both in skimpy black briefs beside two zipped together sleeping bags. There's an elegant trail of discarded clothing on the ground-practically Mal's whole line, in fact. The way the shots are constructed, Eames and Arthur will be positioned in the background while the clothing will be in focus in the foreground. Arthur has to admit that the concept is clever, even if he's not looking forward to Eames snarling at him for several hours in close proximity.
Thankfully, this is the last shoot. After this, they can go their separate ways. At least until Mal decides which of the photographers' work she likes the most and pulls Arthur and Eames back in for follow-up campaign shoots.
A few vague worries about the onset of untimely erections pass through Arthur's mind but are promptly dissipated by Eames' surly temperament and the frosty chill between them. As Arthur obediently rotates between lying beside, on top of, and below Eames, Arthur tries to focus on the sizable paycheck waiting for him on just the other side of this day. He's almost there. He can take a few hours more.
"You're thinking too loudly," Eames says, and Arthur blinks. "Your mind's faraway and you're not focusing on me. It'll show in the shot."
"Should I be paying attention to the scintillatingly non-existent conversation we're having?" Arthur replies, annoyed that Eames is probably right.
"We don't need to talk," Eames says. "But I do need you to at least pretend you're somewhat interested in being here with me."
"It doesn't matter anyway," Arthur says, somewhat petulant. "You nail every shot and I look like a confused bystander photobombing no matter what I do."
Eames almost cracks a smile at that. "I don't nail every shot."
"You do. You're like a photographer's muse come to life," Arthur grouses. "Lighting, clothes, whatever-it doesn't matter. You even look great in cam photos posted by creepy weirdos on the internet."
Eames seems amused now. "You've looked at cam photos of me on the internet?"
"Well, I had to-" Arthur flails wildly for a semi-plausible sounding excuse. "We were going to be working together for the week. It only makes sense to do research and prepare."
"But you're a runway model," Eames says, amusement giving way to puzzlement. "What does this job matter?"
"I'm not going to be a runway model forever," Arthur says. "I'm already thirty, pushing the outer bounds of acceptable age limits."
"But you have your face, your physique." Eames reaches out, almost as if to touch Arthur's cheek, then stops himself. "You barely look twenty."
"People always think they're going to be the ones with looks that last forever, but statistically, it's impossible for everyone to make it." Arthur shrugs. "And with runway work-who knows what next season's trends will be? Rugged, square jawed men? Nordic, blue-eyed blondes? All it takes is a fad I don't fit and I'm out for the season, the year. And then who knows if I ever come back in style."
Eames stares up at Arthur for a long moment, and then says quietly, "You know, I've already started receiving calls from my agent about jobs casting me as a 'middle-aged father.'"
Arthur blinks. "Middle-aged? But you're-"
"Not even thirty-five and over the bend, apparently."
"You're gorgeous, though." Arthur understands the vagaries of the fashion industry but a part of him is genuinely bewildered. Eames' mouth, his eyes-his everything. Who wouldn't want to photograph that face?
Eames manages a ghost of a smile. "I don't look anywhere near twenty, though."
"I like that you don't," Arthur says. "You aren't a kid anymore."
"I suppose not." Eames' voice is quiet, expression unreadable.
Arthur doesn't know what to say after this, abruptly aware of everywhere their naked skin is touching. He's saved from having to explain why he's suddenly begun sweating by Fischer approaching.
"Great job, guys," Fischer says. "Let's take a break."
* * * * *
Arthur walks into Wardrobe after he's finished taking off his makeup. Eames is already mostly undressed, back to Arthur. There's a mirror in front of Eames, and in the reflection, Arthur catches a flash of tattooed skin below the belt in a very particular area.
Suddenly, the pieces all fall into place.
"It was you in that hotel on New Year's Eve," Arthur blurts out. "We met that night."
Eames barely reacts as he tucks his balls away and steps into his boxers. "We did a bit more than meet, Arthur."
Pieces of memory spark up: the taste of champagne on lips, the smell of Eames' cologne, the scratch of his stubble against Arthur's thighs. "Well, shit," Arthur says. "I had no idea. I just-most of that night is a blur."
"Yes, I know." To Arthur's surprise, Eames no longer seems angry. "I thought you might have been pretending not to remember at first, but then it became obvious you would never do something like that. At that point, my ego was bruised by the idea that anyone should ever find my drunken lack of sexual prowess to be entirely forgettable."
Arthur sighs. "Eames, I-"
"I acted like a petty wanker and I'm sorry." Eames shakes his head. "I know it doesn't make up for the shite I put you through, but you were a complete professional in spite of me. And I'd be happy to put in a good word for any print work you might want to do in the future."
"Thank you." As Arthur watches Eames slip into his shoes, he thinks he should probably let it go on this note. Eames would be a valuable contact, a colleague he could establish a solid working relationship with. Then Eames bends down to do up his laces and Arthur thinks: fuck it. "It wasn't all bad, though."
Eames looks up, eyes raised. "No?"
"If you think about it, it's kinda like we went on a series of dates already," Arthur says. "Snowball fighting, skiing, reenacting a movie, tying you up with a whip-you know, normal stuff."
Eames huffs out a surprised laugh as he stands and eyes Arthur cautiously. "Dates, huh?"
"Yeah, and I don't know about you, but this whole huddling for warmth thing has got me working up an appetite." Arthur scratches his nose. "I could go for some dinner."
"Dinner." Eames cocks his head to one side, almost shy. "I suppose I could eat. Maybe you can tell me what it's like to walk a runway in Milan."
"Only if you tell me what it's like to get a fucking ace of spades tattooed onto your balls," Arthur says, deadpan.
Eames breaks out into a toothy grin, forehead furrowing, eyes crinkling, absolutely nothing camera-ready about it at all. "Deal."
fin
Poll Fic: Après-ski