fic: Louder than sirens, louder than bells, sweeter than heaven, and hotter than hell
Title: Louder than sirens, louder than bells, sweeter than heaven, and hotter than hell
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13 (because I probably threw around the f-bomb a little too much for it to be considered PG)
Word Count: approx. 3,000
Summary: In which Arthur is considered completely unapproachable and Eames decides to accept the challenge.
A/N: more high school AU! (this is when you go WOW I AM SO SHOCKED AND APPALLED THIS IS SO UNEXPECTED) high school AU is probably my favorite. ever. jsyk.
written for this prompt at inception_kink. unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.
title borrowed from Florence and The Machine
This is Arthur: five-foot-ten, slim, Caucasian, male. Brown eyes, black hair, fair complexion. Glasses, books tucked under his arm, hair swept back. From the facts and the facts alone, he’s a perfectly normal high school student. However, high schoolers being, well, high schoolers, don’t really take the facts into account. This is what they see: sharp, brilliant, always-has-an-answer Arthur. Neatly dressed, silent, stoic Arthur. Straight-faced, unwavering, absolutely terrifying Arthur. It doesn’t quite make sense, but then again not much in high school does.
It’s actually quite a curiosity that people are so unnerved by Arthur; it was never like this in grade school. In grade school, Arthur was always the one who got pushed around, the small, skinny little kid everyone picked on because it was just so easy. In grade school, Arthur also didn’t speak much, also dressed tidily in the way his prim mother always insisted that he dress (you always have to make a good impression, honey, she’d always say), also didn’t smile a whole lot, but then high school happened and for some reason, the fun seemed to have worn off and now, now all people think when they see him is that he’s frightening. The sort of person who could cut you down with a single, well-spoken sentence. The sort of person who is literally capable of glaring death at you. A robot, maybe, and most certainly frightening.
And then we have Eames: slightly broader build than our Arthur, also approximately five-foot-ten, approximately the same age as well. Blue eyes, hair that falls somewhere between blonde and brown depending on the day, a grin of crooked teeth and full lips. He’s fairly normal as well, except for that he’s from London and is currently living in New York, which makes him a bit of an oddity amongst his classmates. It’s that sort of thing, the way his voice wraps around words, the careless, easy lilt to his laugh, that make him rather well liked.
It’s really no wonder Eames is popular in high school, because Eames is, well, Eames is Eames. He’s confident quite a lot of the time, and when he’s not, he at least puts on a very show of it. He hands out smiles like free chocolate and knows how to make people laugh. He’s very good at pretending he doesn’t care about a thing but he’s also very good at maintaining good grades, which must make him seem all sorts of flawless. Except for Eames really isn’t flawless. Except for he isn’t nearly as confident as he seems. Except for he’s actually quite insecure, but at least he’s good at acting like he knows that he wants and he’s not shy about that, and in high school, that’s what matters, because no one cares about anything but want.
---
“Who’s that?”
Ariadne follows Eames’ gaze to the front of the classroom, where a slender brunette boy with perfect posture sits dutifully taking notes on today’s US History lecture. They’re discussing the Massachusetts Bay colony and King Phillip’s War, and privately, Eames thinks history (especially United States history, for fuck’s sake; why does he even need to know this information?) is a rather pointless subject, but he does his best to follow the lecture anyways, because as much as he dislikes the subject, he’d rather not have a bad grade on his transcript if he can help it.
“Who, Arthur?” Ariadne whispers back to Eames. She tucks a lock of wavy brunette hair behind her ear.
Arthur tilts his head to one side while listening to their teacher ramble on about the technical elements of the war between the Wampanoag Indians and the English settlers. This movement exposes the pale column of Arthur’s neck. Arthur taps his pen on his notebook listlessly.
“Yeah,” Eames says, a little distracted. Or more than a little bit. Or a lot.
Ariadne narrows her eyes, turning back to her notes. “I don’t know, Eames,” she warns. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get your sights set on him.”
Eames purses his lips and watches the way Arthur bends over his notebook as his pen scratches diligent notes across lined paper.
“Why not?” Eames asks. He doesn’t see why Ariadne would try to stop him. Arthur seems perfectly fine to Eames; more than fine actually, attractive, lovely, very, very pretty with his sharp features and warm grey sweater vest and shirt tucked into the top of his dark jeans. But then again, Eames has only just transferred, the school year has only just begun, he’s only just settling into this new place; what does he know? He hasn’t heard the gossip, the rumors, the little whispered nothings that fill the halls with constant chatter.
Ariadne shrugs. Her brown eyes have that bright, lively look like they always get when she’s gossiping about some new development, or, as it would happen, Eames’ new crush.
“He’s weird,” she murmurs softly so she won’t be overheard. “He literally doesn’t talk to anyone. And I heard that even when he does, he’s kind of rude. He totally flipped out at some girl last year for speaking to him, y’know. Mal told me; she saw it happen. She said the girl was close to tears by the end of it.”
Eames hums softly, not quite listening to Ariadne anymore. It all sounds like idle hallway gossip to him; nothing of fact, just little things you overhear in passing, bits and pieces of maybe-truths and half-believable lies. Eames doesn’t believe it, not one bit, and the more he looks at Arthur, watches the way he moves with an easy grace, the way he’s attentive and focused, the more he thinks that there’s no way what Ariadne’s saying could be true. And even if it is, well, Eames has never been one to back down from a challenge, now has he?
---
Eames doesn’t know why it took him most of the first month of school to notice Arthur (except for he totally does, because learning your way around a new school with people who all already know each other is a difficult thing), but now that he has, he’s noticing Arthur everywhere. Arthur, who has a locker just down the hall from Eames. Arthur, who drives himself to school in a red sedan and parks in the same spot every day. Arthur, who, in addition to sharing US History with Eames third period, also shares English with him, seventh period, last class of the day.
It’s nice. It makes what would otherwise be a tedious forty-five minutes, the last stretch holding Eames back from being free for the rest of the afternoon, so much more enjoyable. They’re currently reading 100 Years of Solitude, and when their teacher asks them if they noticed anything worth noting from the previous night’s reading, any recurring themes or motifs, Arthur takes a moment to look around, as if waiting for someone to say something, and when no one speaks, Arthur raises his hand, slowly, thin fingertips curling inwards slightly towards his palm.
“Yes, Arthur,” their teacher smiles gently at him in the way she smiles at everyone, but especially so at Arthur because he’s insightful and sharp and easily a teacher’s favorite without trying or even wanting to be.
And then Arthur opens his mouth and in that soft, sure voice of his begins talking about the insomnia plague and the metafictional statement the event makes about the value of language and the intangibility of the meaning of written word. Eames stops really listening after the first few words because the quiet rise and fall of Arthur’s voice, the way his words fall in steady, carefully constructed syllables, is a little mesmerizing. He gestures with his hand as he speaks, delicate wrist bending rather impressively in a pleasant curve. The corner of Eames’ mouth turns up.
The teacher nods and smiles the way through Arthur’s analysis of the passage, and Eames is just so much sure that Ariadne’s wrong. There’s no way Arthur can be nearly as mean as people make him out to be. Because while Arthur doesn’t quite smile, doesn’t exactly scream warmth, he’s certainly not cold, not with his soft, soft voice, and Eames has a hard time picturing him angry and loud and harsh enough to make someone cry.
But then again, Eames thinks as he doodles in the margins of his notebook, then again, he doesn’t really know Arthur at all (but he’s willing to take the chance).
---
It’s another few days before Eames works up the courage to actually get up and talk to Arthur, but after careful deliberation and planning and numerous attempts from Ariadne to dissuade him, Eames finally just thinks fuck it, and resolves to go and say hello. Lunch seems to be the perfect opportunity because everyone’s milling about anyways, so Eames is hoping it’ll seem casual when he sidles up next to Arthur.
Arthur sits at a table all by himself near the side of the cafeteria by the windows. He sits in the same spot every day, staring out the window as he munches on his lunch. He sits alone, not because the table isn’t big enough to fit anyone else, no it’s easily enough to fit at least a dozen people, but because people avoid him in the cafeteria just as they do everywhere else at school. Ariadne insists it’s because Arthur looks like he’d snap at anyone who tried to sit with him, but Eames thinks Arthur looks more bored than anything.
Eames drums his fingers restlessly against the tabletop and sneaks a glance at Arthur. Ariadne eyes Eames with furrowed eyebrows.
“Something wrong?” she asks.
Eames presses his lips together. His fingers pause. “No,” he says decisively, looking over at Arthur. Today’s sweater is navy, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and the dark coloring looks lovely against Arthur’s pale skin. Eames is silent for a moment before announcing, “I’m going to go talk to him.”
Ariadne follows Eames’ gaze and then she snaps her head back towards Eames so fast Eames is almost worried she might give herself whiplash. “You can’t be serious,” she says, eyes wide. “That’s like asking to have your head ripped off.”
Eames shrugs, heart thudding in his chest. He’s put too much time and thought into this to back down now. He scoops up his backpack and stands, food forgotten, and walks towards Arthur’s table, very resolutely ignoring Ariadne, who is hissing warnings at his back all the while. Eames becomes uncomfortably aware of how with each step closer to Arthur’s table, the entire cafeteria becomes quieter and quieter. By the time he reaches Arthur’s table, Eames can feel every pair of eyes in the cafeteria on him, and it’s absolutely silent. Arthur, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to notice at all. Eames takes a deep breath and sits down.
“Hi,” he says, letting an easy smile float to his face, far more confident than he actually is.
Arthur turns towards Eames slowly, his expression carefully schooled into an impassive look that reveals nothing. He nods once, politely. “Hello,” he says, and the smooth swoop of his voice does funny things to Eames’ stomach. Eames will later realize that this is the first time Arthur speaks directly to him.
Eames grins to cover the nerves and says, “I noticed you from over there and I couldn’t help thinking that someone as lovely as yourself shouldn’t be sitting all by himself. I thought maybe you’d enjoy some company.”
A constant loop of oh shit, oh shit, oh shit plays through Eames’ head because fuck, did he actually just call Arthur lovely out loud? Who even does that? Arthur’s sure to think he’s a freak now.
Arthur stares blankly at Eames for a moment, and Eames’ heart sinks, because he thinks surely, surely all must be lost now. Except for then the most surprising and wonderful thing happens, and Eames feels like he could burst with how happy he is. Arthur smiles and lets out a sound that probably would be a laugh if Arthur let it, and Arthur has the most charming dimples when he smiles. A light pink appears in bursts at Arthur’s cheekbones, and his eyes curve into crescent shapes when he smiles. Eames is vaguely aware that the rest of the cafeteria is murmuring and chattering and whispering in awe and amazement and surprise at Arthur’s reaction and also that Eames is still alive after talking to Arthur instead of being reduced to a bloody pulp. It’s actually rather noisy in the cafeteria again with everyone murmuring at each other Did you see that? I can’t hear what they’re saying, can you? Why didn’t Arthur punch his face in? But Eames is more amazed by Arthur’s smile and how warm his eyes are when he’s holding back a laugh.
“I wouldn’t exactly call myself lovely, but thank you,” Arthur says in that soft way of his. And then almost as an afterthought, he adds, “For noticing that I was alone, I mean. No one ever does.”
Feeling a little more confident now, Eames leans against the table and a little more into Arthur’s space. “I don’t see why not,” Eames says. “You seem like a perfectly delightful person to me.”
Arthur narrows his eyes at Eames, as if trying to figure out if Eames is lying or not, but a smile still plays lightly at his mouth, so Eames doesn’t back off. “You’re new,” Arthur states finally.
Eames laughs. “That obvious, huh?” he chuckles. “I’m Eames.”
Arthur nods. “Arthur,” he introduces himself, even though he doesn’t really need to. He still has that calculating expression on his face like he can’t figure something out. “Why are you talking to me? Haven’t you heard the rumors?”
Arthur doesn’t sound accusing like he could when he says this; he sounds more matter-of-fact than anything, and Eames huffs out a little sigh.
“Well yes, of course, who hasn’t?” Eames says. “But that’s all they are, right - rumors. They don’t mean anything if you don’t let them, and I’d rather like to think that there’s more to you than just that.”
Arthur’s mouth curves up. “So you don’t believe I’m a coldblooded, heartless robot?” Arthur asks, voice lilting mischievously. Eames finds himself wanting Arthur to use that voice more often.
“Tell me this, and I’ll answer your question,” Eames says, just because he’s curious, just because he can. “Did you or did you not make a girl cry last year for speaking to you?”
Arthur makes a scoffing sound. “That was at a debate tournament,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And her argument was fundamentally flawed, so she really should have seen it coming. Any competent debater could have and would have torn her apart.”
Eames laughs. “You’re quite a character,” Eames muses. He smiles and inches a little closer, “Perhaps you would consider accompanying me to dinner tomorrow night?”
Arthur tilts his head to one side in that same way Eames saw the first day he noticed Arthur in history class, the way that bares the pale length of Arthur’s neck. Eames swallows. Arthur smirks slowly.
“Are you asking me out?” Arthur asks, eyes playful. He’s quite possibly leaning a bit closer to Eames now, and Eames has absolutely no idea how anyone ever got the idea that Arthur’s cold, because he’s so present and full of tightly coiled energy and so positively alive, so responsive to what Eames throws his way that Eames is a little blown away.
“Suppose I am,” Eames says. “What would you say?”
Arthur seems to consider this for a moment before answering, “I would say you’re a lot less smooth than you think you are, Eames, and also that I would love to go on a date with you.”
Eames feels a little thrill go through him when Arthur says his name, and he can’t help grinning like an idiot because, well, Arthur said yes, didn’t he? Who wouldn’t be excited about that?
“Great,” Eames says cheerfully. “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty?”
“Sure,” Arthur says. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, and no single motion should have as strong of an effect on Eames as that, but fuck, if that doesn’t do crazy things to Eames.
As fate would have it, because Eames is just that lucky, the bell rings then signaling the end of lunch, and Arthur smiles and collects his things and stands.
“I have to go to class,” he says, words soft and round on his tongue. “I’ll see you seventh period.”
Eames retrieves his backpack again and stands as well. “Yeah,” he says awkwardly, not really knowing what to say.
Arthur makes as if to leave and then pauses after a couple steps and turns back. “You know,” he says, “You’d probably have an easier time in that class if you actually paid attention instead of staring at me all the time.”
Arthur slips Eames one last smirk over his shoulder before turning decisively and slinking away, quickly disappearing into the crowd of students all rushing to get to their fifth period class on time. And Eames probably should feel embarrassed that he’s been caught ogling at Arthur, but he’s a little too stunned by the sultry edge to Arthur’s voice and the swing to his hips, the sharp precision to his words and the way Arthur picks up on all the little details, and Eames thinks he could quite possibly be a little bit in love.
---
It’s some time before Eames realizes that all it takes for Arthur to come alive is for someone to give him a chance. All it takes for him to open up and smile and laugh is someone to take a chance on him, and the only reason Arthur has been so closed off and guarded towards everyone is that no one had ever tried, they’d all simply assumed and Arthur had been left alone. Arthur’s not very good at reaching out, Eames learns, but he’s good at reciprocating when he wants in soft chuckles and lopsided smirks.
And really, that’s all Eames really needs.
---
END.
MORE A/N: oh god this fic is so filled with blatant references to RL. like (a) anyone who remotely knows me knows that I hate history with such a burning passion. you have no idea how pointless I find the subject. (b) I read 100 Years of Solitude in English this year and we spent so much time talking about metafiction and I don't even know why because there were only maybe one or two passages that were metafictional-ish in the whole novel (it was a good book though. I definitely recommend it). and (c) there's this really vicious debater girl at my school who actually did make someone cry at a debate tournament once. I think she threw a pocket-sized version of the US Constitution at someone too because that someone said that such-and-such was "unconstitutional" and she was all SHOW ME WHERE IT SAYS THAT BITCH -throws pocket Constitution-
but anywho, enough of my irrelevant rambling.
thank you for reading! feedback and/or concrit is always welcome and appreciated!
( click here for sequel! )
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13 (because I probably threw around the f-bomb a little too much for it to be considered PG)
Word Count: approx. 3,000
Summary: In which Arthur is considered completely unapproachable and Eames decides to accept the challenge.
A/N: more high school AU! (this is when you go WOW I AM SO SHOCKED AND APPALLED THIS IS SO UNEXPECTED) high school AU is probably my favorite. ever. jsyk.
written for this prompt at inception_kink. unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.
title borrowed from Florence and The Machine
This is Arthur: five-foot-ten, slim, Caucasian, male. Brown eyes, black hair, fair complexion. Glasses, books tucked under his arm, hair swept back. From the facts and the facts alone, he’s a perfectly normal high school student. However, high schoolers being, well, high schoolers, don’t really take the facts into account. This is what they see: sharp, brilliant, always-has-an-answer Arthur. Neatly dressed, silent, stoic Arthur. Straight-faced, unwavering, absolutely terrifying Arthur. It doesn’t quite make sense, but then again not much in high school does.
It’s actually quite a curiosity that people are so unnerved by Arthur; it was never like this in grade school. In grade school, Arthur was always the one who got pushed around, the small, skinny little kid everyone picked on because it was just so easy. In grade school, Arthur also didn’t speak much, also dressed tidily in the way his prim mother always insisted that he dress (you always have to make a good impression, honey, she’d always say), also didn’t smile a whole lot, but then high school happened and for some reason, the fun seemed to have worn off and now, now all people think when they see him is that he’s frightening. The sort of person who could cut you down with a single, well-spoken sentence. The sort of person who is literally capable of glaring death at you. A robot, maybe, and most certainly frightening.
And then we have Eames: slightly broader build than our Arthur, also approximately five-foot-ten, approximately the same age as well. Blue eyes, hair that falls somewhere between blonde and brown depending on the day, a grin of crooked teeth and full lips. He’s fairly normal as well, except for that he’s from London and is currently living in New York, which makes him a bit of an oddity amongst his classmates. It’s that sort of thing, the way his voice wraps around words, the careless, easy lilt to his laugh, that make him rather well liked.
It’s really no wonder Eames is popular in high school, because Eames is, well, Eames is Eames. He’s confident quite a lot of the time, and when he’s not, he at least puts on a very show of it. He hands out smiles like free chocolate and knows how to make people laugh. He’s very good at pretending he doesn’t care about a thing but he’s also very good at maintaining good grades, which must make him seem all sorts of flawless. Except for Eames really isn’t flawless. Except for he isn’t nearly as confident as he seems. Except for he’s actually quite insecure, but at least he’s good at acting like he knows that he wants and he’s not shy about that, and in high school, that’s what matters, because no one cares about anything but want.
---
“Who’s that?”
Ariadne follows Eames’ gaze to the front of the classroom, where a slender brunette boy with perfect posture sits dutifully taking notes on today’s US History lecture. They’re discussing the Massachusetts Bay colony and King Phillip’s War, and privately, Eames thinks history (especially United States history, for fuck’s sake; why does he even need to know this information?) is a rather pointless subject, but he does his best to follow the lecture anyways, because as much as he dislikes the subject, he’d rather not have a bad grade on his transcript if he can help it.
“Who, Arthur?” Ariadne whispers back to Eames. She tucks a lock of wavy brunette hair behind her ear.
Arthur tilts his head to one side while listening to their teacher ramble on about the technical elements of the war between the Wampanoag Indians and the English settlers. This movement exposes the pale column of Arthur’s neck. Arthur taps his pen on his notebook listlessly.
“Yeah,” Eames says, a little distracted. Or more than a little bit. Or a lot.
Ariadne narrows her eyes, turning back to her notes. “I don’t know, Eames,” she warns. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get your sights set on him.”
Eames purses his lips and watches the way Arthur bends over his notebook as his pen scratches diligent notes across lined paper.
“Why not?” Eames asks. He doesn’t see why Ariadne would try to stop him. Arthur seems perfectly fine to Eames; more than fine actually, attractive, lovely, very, very pretty with his sharp features and warm grey sweater vest and shirt tucked into the top of his dark jeans. But then again, Eames has only just transferred, the school year has only just begun, he’s only just settling into this new place; what does he know? He hasn’t heard the gossip, the rumors, the little whispered nothings that fill the halls with constant chatter.
Ariadne shrugs. Her brown eyes have that bright, lively look like they always get when she’s gossiping about some new development, or, as it would happen, Eames’ new crush.
“He’s weird,” she murmurs softly so she won’t be overheard. “He literally doesn’t talk to anyone. And I heard that even when he does, he’s kind of rude. He totally flipped out at some girl last year for speaking to him, y’know. Mal told me; she saw it happen. She said the girl was close to tears by the end of it.”
Eames hums softly, not quite listening to Ariadne anymore. It all sounds like idle hallway gossip to him; nothing of fact, just little things you overhear in passing, bits and pieces of maybe-truths and half-believable lies. Eames doesn’t believe it, not one bit, and the more he looks at Arthur, watches the way he moves with an easy grace, the way he’s attentive and focused, the more he thinks that there’s no way what Ariadne’s saying could be true. And even if it is, well, Eames has never been one to back down from a challenge, now has he?
---
Eames doesn’t know why it took him most of the first month of school to notice Arthur (except for he totally does, because learning your way around a new school with people who all already know each other is a difficult thing), but now that he has, he’s noticing Arthur everywhere. Arthur, who has a locker just down the hall from Eames. Arthur, who drives himself to school in a red sedan and parks in the same spot every day. Arthur, who, in addition to sharing US History with Eames third period, also shares English with him, seventh period, last class of the day.
It’s nice. It makes what would otherwise be a tedious forty-five minutes, the last stretch holding Eames back from being free for the rest of the afternoon, so much more enjoyable. They’re currently reading 100 Years of Solitude, and when their teacher asks them if they noticed anything worth noting from the previous night’s reading, any recurring themes or motifs, Arthur takes a moment to look around, as if waiting for someone to say something, and when no one speaks, Arthur raises his hand, slowly, thin fingertips curling inwards slightly towards his palm.
“Yes, Arthur,” their teacher smiles gently at him in the way she smiles at everyone, but especially so at Arthur because he’s insightful and sharp and easily a teacher’s favorite without trying or even wanting to be.
And then Arthur opens his mouth and in that soft, sure voice of his begins talking about the insomnia plague and the metafictional statement the event makes about the value of language and the intangibility of the meaning of written word. Eames stops really listening after the first few words because the quiet rise and fall of Arthur’s voice, the way his words fall in steady, carefully constructed syllables, is a little mesmerizing. He gestures with his hand as he speaks, delicate wrist bending rather impressively in a pleasant curve. The corner of Eames’ mouth turns up.
The teacher nods and smiles the way through Arthur’s analysis of the passage, and Eames is just so much sure that Ariadne’s wrong. There’s no way Arthur can be nearly as mean as people make him out to be. Because while Arthur doesn’t quite smile, doesn’t exactly scream warmth, he’s certainly not cold, not with his soft, soft voice, and Eames has a hard time picturing him angry and loud and harsh enough to make someone cry.
But then again, Eames thinks as he doodles in the margins of his notebook, then again, he doesn’t really know Arthur at all (but he’s willing to take the chance).
---
It’s another few days before Eames works up the courage to actually get up and talk to Arthur, but after careful deliberation and planning and numerous attempts from Ariadne to dissuade him, Eames finally just thinks fuck it, and resolves to go and say hello. Lunch seems to be the perfect opportunity because everyone’s milling about anyways, so Eames is hoping it’ll seem casual when he sidles up next to Arthur.
Arthur sits at a table all by himself near the side of the cafeteria by the windows. He sits in the same spot every day, staring out the window as he munches on his lunch. He sits alone, not because the table isn’t big enough to fit anyone else, no it’s easily enough to fit at least a dozen people, but because people avoid him in the cafeteria just as they do everywhere else at school. Ariadne insists it’s because Arthur looks like he’d snap at anyone who tried to sit with him, but Eames thinks Arthur looks more bored than anything.
Eames drums his fingers restlessly against the tabletop and sneaks a glance at Arthur. Ariadne eyes Eames with furrowed eyebrows.
“Something wrong?” she asks.
Eames presses his lips together. His fingers pause. “No,” he says decisively, looking over at Arthur. Today’s sweater is navy, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and the dark coloring looks lovely against Arthur’s pale skin. Eames is silent for a moment before announcing, “I’m going to go talk to him.”
Ariadne follows Eames’ gaze and then she snaps her head back towards Eames so fast Eames is almost worried she might give herself whiplash. “You can’t be serious,” she says, eyes wide. “That’s like asking to have your head ripped off.”
Eames shrugs, heart thudding in his chest. He’s put too much time and thought into this to back down now. He scoops up his backpack and stands, food forgotten, and walks towards Arthur’s table, very resolutely ignoring Ariadne, who is hissing warnings at his back all the while. Eames becomes uncomfortably aware of how with each step closer to Arthur’s table, the entire cafeteria becomes quieter and quieter. By the time he reaches Arthur’s table, Eames can feel every pair of eyes in the cafeteria on him, and it’s absolutely silent. Arthur, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to notice at all. Eames takes a deep breath and sits down.
“Hi,” he says, letting an easy smile float to his face, far more confident than he actually is.
Arthur turns towards Eames slowly, his expression carefully schooled into an impassive look that reveals nothing. He nods once, politely. “Hello,” he says, and the smooth swoop of his voice does funny things to Eames’ stomach. Eames will later realize that this is the first time Arthur speaks directly to him.
Eames grins to cover the nerves and says, “I noticed you from over there and I couldn’t help thinking that someone as lovely as yourself shouldn’t be sitting all by himself. I thought maybe you’d enjoy some company.”
A constant loop of oh shit, oh shit, oh shit plays through Eames’ head because fuck, did he actually just call Arthur lovely out loud? Who even does that? Arthur’s sure to think he’s a freak now.
Arthur stares blankly at Eames for a moment, and Eames’ heart sinks, because he thinks surely, surely all must be lost now. Except for then the most surprising and wonderful thing happens, and Eames feels like he could burst with how happy he is. Arthur smiles and lets out a sound that probably would be a laugh if Arthur let it, and Arthur has the most charming dimples when he smiles. A light pink appears in bursts at Arthur’s cheekbones, and his eyes curve into crescent shapes when he smiles. Eames is vaguely aware that the rest of the cafeteria is murmuring and chattering and whispering in awe and amazement and surprise at Arthur’s reaction and also that Eames is still alive after talking to Arthur instead of being reduced to a bloody pulp. It’s actually rather noisy in the cafeteria again with everyone murmuring at each other Did you see that? I can’t hear what they’re saying, can you? Why didn’t Arthur punch his face in? But Eames is more amazed by Arthur’s smile and how warm his eyes are when he’s holding back a laugh.
“I wouldn’t exactly call myself lovely, but thank you,” Arthur says in that soft way of his. And then almost as an afterthought, he adds, “For noticing that I was alone, I mean. No one ever does.”
Feeling a little more confident now, Eames leans against the table and a little more into Arthur’s space. “I don’t see why not,” Eames says. “You seem like a perfectly delightful person to me.”
Arthur narrows his eyes at Eames, as if trying to figure out if Eames is lying or not, but a smile still plays lightly at his mouth, so Eames doesn’t back off. “You’re new,” Arthur states finally.
Eames laughs. “That obvious, huh?” he chuckles. “I’m Eames.”
Arthur nods. “Arthur,” he introduces himself, even though he doesn’t really need to. He still has that calculating expression on his face like he can’t figure something out. “Why are you talking to me? Haven’t you heard the rumors?”
Arthur doesn’t sound accusing like he could when he says this; he sounds more matter-of-fact than anything, and Eames huffs out a little sigh.
“Well yes, of course, who hasn’t?” Eames says. “But that’s all they are, right - rumors. They don’t mean anything if you don’t let them, and I’d rather like to think that there’s more to you than just that.”
Arthur’s mouth curves up. “So you don’t believe I’m a coldblooded, heartless robot?” Arthur asks, voice lilting mischievously. Eames finds himself wanting Arthur to use that voice more often.
“Tell me this, and I’ll answer your question,” Eames says, just because he’s curious, just because he can. “Did you or did you not make a girl cry last year for speaking to you?”
Arthur makes a scoffing sound. “That was at a debate tournament,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And her argument was fundamentally flawed, so she really should have seen it coming. Any competent debater could have and would have torn her apart.”
Eames laughs. “You’re quite a character,” Eames muses. He smiles and inches a little closer, “Perhaps you would consider accompanying me to dinner tomorrow night?”
Arthur tilts his head to one side in that same way Eames saw the first day he noticed Arthur in history class, the way that bares the pale length of Arthur’s neck. Eames swallows. Arthur smirks slowly.
“Are you asking me out?” Arthur asks, eyes playful. He’s quite possibly leaning a bit closer to Eames now, and Eames has absolutely no idea how anyone ever got the idea that Arthur’s cold, because he’s so present and full of tightly coiled energy and so positively alive, so responsive to what Eames throws his way that Eames is a little blown away.
“Suppose I am,” Eames says. “What would you say?”
Arthur seems to consider this for a moment before answering, “I would say you’re a lot less smooth than you think you are, Eames, and also that I would love to go on a date with you.”
Eames feels a little thrill go through him when Arthur says his name, and he can’t help grinning like an idiot because, well, Arthur said yes, didn’t he? Who wouldn’t be excited about that?
“Great,” Eames says cheerfully. “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty?”
“Sure,” Arthur says. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, and no single motion should have as strong of an effect on Eames as that, but fuck, if that doesn’t do crazy things to Eames.
As fate would have it, because Eames is just that lucky, the bell rings then signaling the end of lunch, and Arthur smiles and collects his things and stands.
“I have to go to class,” he says, words soft and round on his tongue. “I’ll see you seventh period.”
Eames retrieves his backpack again and stands as well. “Yeah,” he says awkwardly, not really knowing what to say.
Arthur makes as if to leave and then pauses after a couple steps and turns back. “You know,” he says, “You’d probably have an easier time in that class if you actually paid attention instead of staring at me all the time.”
Arthur slips Eames one last smirk over his shoulder before turning decisively and slinking away, quickly disappearing into the crowd of students all rushing to get to their fifth period class on time. And Eames probably should feel embarrassed that he’s been caught ogling at Arthur, but he’s a little too stunned by the sultry edge to Arthur’s voice and the swing to his hips, the sharp precision to his words and the way Arthur picks up on all the little details, and Eames thinks he could quite possibly be a little bit in love.
---
It’s some time before Eames realizes that all it takes for Arthur to come alive is for someone to give him a chance. All it takes for him to open up and smile and laugh is someone to take a chance on him, and the only reason Arthur has been so closed off and guarded towards everyone is that no one had ever tried, they’d all simply assumed and Arthur had been left alone. Arthur’s not very good at reaching out, Eames learns, but he’s good at reciprocating when he wants in soft chuckles and lopsided smirks.
And really, that’s all Eames really needs.
---
END.
MORE A/N: oh god this fic is so filled with blatant references to RL. like (a) anyone who remotely knows me knows that I hate history with such a burning passion. you have no idea how pointless I find the subject. (b) I read 100 Years of Solitude in English this year and we spent so much time talking about metafiction and I don't even know why because there were only maybe one or two passages that were metafictional-ish in the whole novel (it was a good book though. I definitely recommend it). and (c) there's this really vicious debater girl at my school who actually did make someone cry at a debate tournament once. I think she threw a pocket-sized version of the US Constitution at someone too because that someone said that such-and-such was "unconstitutional" and she was all SHOW ME WHERE IT SAYS THAT BITCH -throws pocket Constitution-
but anywho, enough of my irrelevant rambling.
thank you for reading! feedback and/or concrit is always welcome and appreciated!
( click here for sequel! )