Bring It On
there was PEER PRESSURE.
(okay, i lied. there was no pressure. this just wanted to be written. my brain ate the previous story's comments, which turned into +10 Power-of-Typing-Things. and -1000 for recycling my reply to bookshop. *hides*)
(also, i’m not a scientist. i don’t know anything about science. but i like it. don’t yell at me.)
a continuation of Inspiration.
also known as things are happening to me that i don't comprehend.
prompt: When Eames isn't forging, he is an internationally famous romance novelist. The protagonists of his latest novel bears a striking resemblance to Arthur and himself.
"Arthur."
"...."
"Arthur."
"...."
"ARTHUR."
"....?"
+
Arthur blearily opens his eyes and finds his vision obscured by-- something yellow. With herculean effort, he brings a hand up to his face and pulls said thing off.
Notebook paper.
Extreme near-sightedness only tells him there are things written -- possibly drawn -- on it. The point-man-cum-Olympic-sleeper lets the paper slip from his tenuous grasp, and rolls back into his hypoallergenic pillow.
The crinkled sheet sits forlornly in the dark, between the bed and the side-table.
Draft -- the 17th (final) installment of 'Arthur and Me'
Title: Essence of Arthur
There Will Be Blood
Explosions
Somnolence
I wail in grief when Arthur refuses to wake up. The coma keeps him beyond my reach. In vain, I plead for him to open his gorgeous eyes.
"Oh god, Arthur! Don't leave me! I cannot bear to be in a world without you."
Tears. Salty tears.
+
"So, I think the draft is starting to really show the world who Arthur is. Don't you?"
Eames eyes him expectantly, but at six AM Arthur's non-caffeinated brain is still stuck on-
"No bacon?"
"I taped it to your head."
A confused look.
"The bacon?"
"With each day that passes, you become markedly less similar to Arthur-in-the-novel. But I still love you," the novelist sighs.
Seemingly not aware of his domestic partner's existence, the real Arthur stares wistfully out the window in the general direction of Costco.
+
Over the course of not a few evenings, Arthur has observed Eames's writing habits, which are surprisingly rigid. At least three full pages (no double-spacing) per weekday. Ten on Saturday. Two on Sunday. There is a weekly call with his editor at eight-thirty AM, GMT, on the dot. Unless there is a life-threatening crisis. In which case, Eames said, Ferguson would graciously settle for ten-fifteen.
It is curiosity that leads Arthur to eavesdrop on one of their meetings. But, frankly, it's as dull as rocks. After listening to a twenty-minute debate over the Oxford comma ("REMOVE IT AND I WILL CASTRATE YOU" is more or less Eames's feelings on the subject), he figures he might as well do the laundry.
Until he hears the unmistakable--
"His cock, Ned!"
An exasperated sigh.
"What is it this time?"
THIS time? Arthur resists the urge to barge in and state that his cock is not up for discussion.
"I don't think you understand how crucial this is. This is your final book for the series. Let me summarize. In the ninth installment, his cock was twenty centimeters." (WHAT.) "In the thirteenth, it was twenty-three." (Oh, that works.) "And presently you're making it twenty-eight." (Okay, now that's disgusting.)
From his tone of voice, Eames seems unfazed.
"So? Mine's twenty-nine."
+
It happens with neither rhyme nor reason.
One minute, Arthur is watching Eames bang away on the keyboard as usual. The next, he is overcome by a desire that burns with the intensity of a thousand flamethrowers. As they have not yet engaged in sexual activity (due to scheduling conflicts), Arthur is understandably nervous and takes a deep breath.
“I- I find your methodology sexy.” A pause. “I think we should do it.”
He braces himself for a tidal wave of lust and orgasms.
Instead, Eames only frowns at bit at the computer screen and takes off his glasses. Wiping them furiously, he turns toward the love of his life.
“Sorry, did you say something?”
+
As the weeks progress, Arthur starts feeling a bit like Lysistrata. Except in this case, the men are completely unaware that there is such a thing as sex.
He decides to take action.
“Eames, stop the fucking war.”
“I tried. Tony Blair wouldn’t go for it.”
Eames squints at his newest paragraph and promptly jackhammers the backspace key.
+
As he is clearing out the sock drawer, Arthur finds a lonely scrap of graph paper. He turns it over to make sure no PIN numbers were jotted down or anything.
Instead, he sees--
I wait and wait. And it is easy to say forever. But forever is a long time.
Nurses, doctors, even cancer patients take pity on me. Sometimes, they bring free broccoli chicken soup. It is not half-bad.
I tell Arthur that. But he can't hear me.
Oh, how lost I feel.
"People cannot possibly be paying $14.99 for this," he mutters to himself. But Arthur is a generous man, and decides to give Eames the benefit of the doubt. Surely, the rough draft is still in the works.
+
“It’s being published as we speak.”
Arthur stares at Eames. Then rolls his die. Then vows never to give his lover the benefit of anything ever again.
+
The seventeenth (and final) installment of Arthur and Me breaks all records in the history of humankind.
A small civil war starts in the Vatican City -- the first of its kind.
J.R.R. Tolkien sends a wispy letter of congratulations from his grave -- also the first of its kind.
And scientists estimate that the Earth’s axis has tilted a whopping four degrees, due to the sudden materialization of 3.8 trillion copies in the Americas. (But, they added while twiddling some knobs, this may be corrected once the Chinese translation is complete.)
“I’m incredibly honoured,” NeMerry says to a CNN reporter. “Please print that with a ‘u’.”
(okay, i lied. there was no pressure. this just wanted to be written. my brain ate the previous story's comments, which turned into +10 Power-of-Typing-Things. and -1000 for recycling my reply to bookshop. *hides*)
(also, i’m not a scientist. i don’t know anything about science. but i like it. don’t yell at me.)
a continuation of Inspiration.
also known as things are happening to me that i don't comprehend.
prompt: When Eames isn't forging, he is an internationally famous romance novelist. The protagonists of his latest novel bears a striking resemblance to Arthur and himself.
"Arthur."
"...."
"Arthur."
"...."
"ARTHUR."
"....?"
+
Arthur blearily opens his eyes and finds his vision obscured by-- something yellow. With herculean effort, he brings a hand up to his face and pulls said thing off.
Notebook paper.
Extreme near-sightedness only tells him there are things written -- possibly drawn -- on it. The point-man-cum-Olympic-sleeper lets the paper slip from his tenuous grasp, and rolls back into his hypoallergenic pillow.
The crinkled sheet sits forlornly in the dark, between the bed and the side-table.
Draft -- the 17th (final) installment of 'Arthur and Me'
Title: Essence of Arthur
There Will Be Blood
Explosions
Somnolence
I wail in grief when Arthur refuses to wake up. The coma keeps him beyond my reach. In vain, I plead for him to open his gorgeous eyes.
"Oh god, Arthur! Don't leave me! I cannot bear to be in a world without you."
Tears. Salty tears.
+
"So, I think the draft is starting to really show the world who Arthur is. Don't you?"
Eames eyes him expectantly, but at six AM Arthur's non-caffeinated brain is still stuck on-
"No bacon?"
"I taped it to your head."
A confused look.
"The bacon?"
"With each day that passes, you become markedly less similar to Arthur-in-the-novel. But I still love you," the novelist sighs.
Seemingly not aware of his domestic partner's existence, the real Arthur stares wistfully out the window in the general direction of Costco.
+
Over the course of not a few evenings, Arthur has observed Eames's writing habits, which are surprisingly rigid. At least three full pages (no double-spacing) per weekday. Ten on Saturday. Two on Sunday. There is a weekly call with his editor at eight-thirty AM, GMT, on the dot. Unless there is a life-threatening crisis. In which case, Eames said, Ferguson would graciously settle for ten-fifteen.
It is curiosity that leads Arthur to eavesdrop on one of their meetings. But, frankly, it's as dull as rocks. After listening to a twenty-minute debate over the Oxford comma ("REMOVE IT AND I WILL CASTRATE YOU" is more or less Eames's feelings on the subject), he figures he might as well do the laundry.
Until he hears the unmistakable--
"His cock, Ned!"
An exasperated sigh.
"What is it this time?"
THIS time? Arthur resists the urge to barge in and state that his cock is not up for discussion.
"I don't think you understand how crucial this is. This is your final book for the series. Let me summarize. In the ninth installment, his cock was twenty centimeters." (WHAT.) "In the thirteenth, it was twenty-three." (Oh, that works.) "And presently you're making it twenty-eight." (Okay, now that's disgusting.)
From his tone of voice, Eames seems unfazed.
"So? Mine's twenty-nine."
+
It happens with neither rhyme nor reason.
One minute, Arthur is watching Eames bang away on the keyboard as usual. The next, he is overcome by a desire that burns with the intensity of a thousand flamethrowers. As they have not yet engaged in sexual activity (due to scheduling conflicts), Arthur is understandably nervous and takes a deep breath.
“I- I find your methodology sexy.” A pause. “I think we should do it.”
He braces himself for a tidal wave of lust and orgasms.
Instead, Eames only frowns at bit at the computer screen and takes off his glasses. Wiping them furiously, he turns toward the love of his life.
“Sorry, did you say something?”
+
As the weeks progress, Arthur starts feeling a bit like Lysistrata. Except in this case, the men are completely unaware that there is such a thing as sex.
He decides to take action.
“Eames, stop the fucking war.”
“I tried. Tony Blair wouldn’t go for it.”
Eames squints at his newest paragraph and promptly jackhammers the backspace key.
+
As he is clearing out the sock drawer, Arthur finds a lonely scrap of graph paper. He turns it over to make sure no PIN numbers were jotted down or anything.
Instead, he sees--
I wait and wait. And it is easy to say forever. But forever is a long time.
Nurses, doctors, even cancer patients take pity on me. Sometimes, they bring free broccoli chicken soup. It is not half-bad.
I tell Arthur that. But he can't hear me.
Oh, how lost I feel.
"People cannot possibly be paying $14.99 for this," he mutters to himself. But Arthur is a generous man, and decides to give Eames the benefit of the doubt. Surely, the rough draft is still in the works.
+
“It’s being published as we speak.”
Arthur stares at Eames. Then rolls his die. Then vows never to give his lover the benefit of anything ever again.
+
The seventeenth (and final) installment of Arthur and Me breaks all records in the history of humankind.
A small civil war starts in the Vatican City -- the first of its kind.
J.R.R. Tolkien sends a wispy letter of congratulations from his grave -- also the first of its kind.
And scientists estimate that the Earth’s axis has tilted a whopping four degrees, due to the sudden materialization of 3.8 trillion copies in the Americas. (But, they added while twiddling some knobs, this may be corrected once the Chinese translation is complete.)
“I’m incredibly honoured,” NeMerry says to a CNN reporter. “Please print that with a ‘u’.”