No Grand Gestures - Ch. 1
Title: No Grand Gestures (Chapter 1)
Author: Classlicity
Fandom: Inception
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Ensemble
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Seventeen year old Arthur meets fine arts grad-student Eames at a club one night. Angst ensues. Much love to sobota for the beta. And to my girlfriend who says I only ship it for the porn. The porn and the ANGST, baby, the porn and the ANGST.
“Ariadne, and I repeat, this is a very bad idea.”
“You’re always such a stick in the mud.” Ariadne smiles brilliantly at her best friend and the thirty some odd people standing behind him. “You love this band. I love this band. I fail to see the badness.”
Arthur leans against the paneling of the bar for a second, staples from old concert posters digging into his back. The September air is crisp, but not yet cold, and the line from the door of the bar just keeps getting longer.
“You fail to see how this can go horribly, explosively wrong?” He raises an eyebrow at her and she waves it away.
“We live in a college town.” She lowers her voice, continuing, “just because we may not be in college doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t take advantage of the opportunities this presents us.”
“If you get arrested again, I am not covering for you.”
Ariadne pops up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “You will have so much fun tonight I promise. Besides, I have a plan.”
The eyebrow inches its way back up Arthur’s forehead.
“Don’t look at me like that. Nash is working the door tonight. Just make sure you get in his line and we won’t have any trouble.”
Arthur sighs. His fingers itch for something to do, so he absently buttons and unbuttons the black waistcoat he’s wearing. Ariadne made him buy it, and the stupid tight jeans, though the white button down was already his.
“I can’t believe the depths you will sink to when you want to get your way,” he says, not surprised at all.
“Just be glad you’re on my good side,” she replies. She bounces on the balls of her feet, too excited to stay still. “I am a genius, after all.”
“An evil one.”
Finally, the doors start to open up and the line starts moving. Arthur holds his breath when they reach Nash but sure enough, he waves them through. Ariadne holds out her wrist expectantly, and with a sigh, he fastens the purple strip of plastic around their arms.
They’re in, and they can drink.
---------
The bar is dark, and smells like cheap beer and too many hipsters. Arthur orders screwdrivers, because that’s what he knows he can drink. Ariadne finds a couple of her friends that have already graduated, and flits off with them, leaving Arthur standing near the bar, people watching. He’s used to it, though. Ariadne has lots of friends, and he’s comfortable being a loner.
She’s dancing with a girl named Casey to an unknown opening band that, in Arthur’s opinion, doesn’t really deserve dancing. But who is he to spoil her good time?
“Don’t you hate it when they do that?”
Arthur whips his head around so quickly his neck nearly snaps. A man has materialized next to him, a grey New Pornographers tee-shirt stretching taut across broad shoulders. It clashes horribly with his brown corduroys, but for once, Arthur barely notices, distracted by a smirk worn by full lips.
“I’m sorry?” Arthur asks once he finds his voice. “Who does what?”
“Girlfriends.” The man gestures with his beer bottle at the dancing Ariadne. “That. Abandonment.”
“We’re not together.” The phrase is automatic after all these years. Arthur and Ariadne were born only one month and two houses apart. They have been nearly inseparable ever since. Once, when they were thirteen, Ariadne had made him kiss her. They didn’t try again.
“Interesting,” the man says, taking a swig from the bottle. He’s British, and Arthur hopes the flutter in his stomach is vodka.
“What is?” Arthur snaps, because annoyed is the best option here.
“In my experience, a man watches a woman move because he’s in love with her. Or has other plans for her.” The British man looks him up and down slowly. “Your response makes me think this isn’t the case.”
“Or maybe there’s just nothing better to look at,” Arthur replies, pointedly watching Ariadne dance.
The man laughs and takes another drink. “I’ll give you points for that one, but we both know that’s not true.”
Arthur has to look at him to see if he’s serious. The man wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and Arthur doesn’t know whether to laugh or roll his eyes. He settles on a barely there smile.
“What are you drinking?”
The forgotten glass in Arthur’s hand holds nothing but melted ice with an orangey sheen. He’s the designated driver but he still answers, “Screwdriver.”
“Stay here.” The man tosses his empty bottle in the trash and winds his way through the crowd.
Arthur’s social anxiety is telling him to flee, but he knows this feeling in his stomach and he doesn’t want to let it go just yet. The debate rages too long, because the stranger is back, holding out a shot glass of something that is distinctly not a screwdriver.
“This is whiskey.”
The man smiles, raising his own glass. “Bottoms up, love.”
The shot makes Arthur’s throat burn, and he hates this man right now. Or he would if he wasn’t looking at him like a problem he has to solve. Arthur’s never been looked at like that before, and he swallows again, despite the lingering taste of alcohol.
The stage lights come up and guitar starts blaring through the speakers.
“My name is Arthur,” he practically shouts.
The man shakes his head. It’s too loud. People are rushing past them trying to get closer to the stage, and someone jostles the glass out of his grip. It shatters on the floor. He feels a strong hand on his back, guiding him out of the crowd. They end up near the wall, and Arthur can’t see the band at all, but the man is standing right in front of him, lips quirked into a smile.
“What were you saying?” he asks, leaning closer.
Arthur hooks his fingers into his belt loops to keep from fiddling with his waistcoat. His heart is hammering at his chest, begging him to run away, and he does take a step back, running into the wall.
“I said my name’s Arthur, not love.”
“I’m Eames.” Eames steps closer; too close, really, and leans against the wall, bracing his weight on one hand. “I’ve never seen you around here before.”
It’s loud, and the shot finally hits Arthur like a bullet; he can feel the blood rushing to his face. He has to remember to be irritated. Irritated is safe, so he arches an eyebrow and says, “That doesn’t mean much. It’s entirely plausible that we’ve crossed paths a thousand times, and you just didn’t notice.”
“No, it’s not.”
The drums pound at them. The club smells like stale cigarettes and a fog machine. Arthur can barely breathe, Eames is so close. He vainly attempts to keep his face blank.
“You have entirely precluded it from the realm of possibility?”
Eames chuckles. “I bartend here most Wednesdays and Thursdays. So yes, Professor Arthur, while the possibility exists that I have looked right past you, over and over,” he makes that sound almost sexual, the low drawl of his accent tingling down Arthur’s spine, “I still maintain that I have never seen you around here.”
“Then we will have to agree to disagree,” Arthur says, unable to take his eyes off the curve of Eames’s lips. He hates floundering in these conversations, hates flirting. He just needs space, he thinks, but Eames’s eyes are on him like he’s trying to figure him out. So instead of running he asks, “Do you find it rewarding to buy drinks for straight guys?”
Eames is silent for a moment, considering. The music swells and Arthur’s waiting for the wrong answer, desperate to run away. But Eames only comes closer to him, even as he tries to flatten himself against the wall of the club, palms brushing against the cool concrete.
Hooking a finger in one of Arthur’s belt loops, Eames draws them together, faces so close Arthur’s having a hard time focusing.
“Darling, no one who wears jeans this tight isn’t at least a little curious.”
Arthur’s mouth falls open the slightest bit, like he’s trying to decide what to say. He barely has time to process before those lips are crushed against his, the full length of Eames body pressing him into the wall. Instinctively, his hands fly to Eames shoulders, then wind themselves in his hair as he relaxes into the kiss. Eames’s tongue pries his mouth open further and it’s everything he’s ever wanted in a tipsy semi-anonymous makeout session - tongue and teeth and that mouth.
Eames goes for his throat, licking and nipping and making Arthur bite back little moans. He’s hard, and when Eames starts to grind slowly into him, Arthur knows it’s completely mutual.
“My flat is just around the corner,” Eames whispers into his neck. His hips cant up, and the thought of being alone and naked with Eames makes Arthur see stars.
“I can’t,” Arthur gasps. His cock is pissed; that was not the answer it had expected. “I promised Ariadne I’d drive tonight.”
Eames goes still against him, tilting his head back just enough to make skeptical eye contact. “And you’re not together?”
Eyes narrowed, Arthur answers, “No. We’re not. You’re kind of a prick.” His cock throbs in his too tight jeans.
“You’re kind of a git.”
Arthur pulls Eames back into another kiss. All he can think about is the heat from where they’re touching, chest to chest, hips, thighs. Eames’s fingers pull his shirt out of his jeans and slip under the white cotton. Arthur’s sure he’ll find fingerprints seared into his waist where Eames is touching him. They rut together, Eames pressing faster and harder against him.
Arthur moans into Eames’s mouth, skin on fire. “Eames,” he pants between kisses, “If you don’t stop that, I’m going to come in my pants.”
Fingers clench reflexively, and Arthur knows that he will really have bruises now. “You have to know, Arthur,” Eames says, lips brushing lips as he talks, “I consider that a challenge.”
He’s never wanted to come so badly, and he’s half about to pull Eames into a bathroom, because even a flat around the corner is too far away, when he hears someone calling his name. Ariadne is looking for him.
“Fuck,” Arthur swears, drawing out the word.
“Let’s.” Eames noses his way under the collar of Arthur’s shirt to bite at the juncture of neck and shoulder.
Arthur slips his hands between them and pushes on Eames’s chest. “I have to go.”
“Arthur!” Ariadne calls again, closer to them.
Eames backs off a little, but he’s frowning. “She’s a big girl, she can take care of herself.”
Arthur shakes his head. “I promised.”
He slips out from Eames’s grasp, carefully tucking his shirt back in, and doing his best to adjust the hard on in his jeans. Eames watches, the same expression on his face that Arthur saw earlier. Like Arthur is a jigsaw puzzle and he doesn’t know where the pieces fit.
When he notices that Arthur’s caught him staring, he strokes his cock through his corduroys. It’s vulgar and thrilling, and Arthur has to turn away right then or he won’t be leaving with Ariadne.
Shakily, he makes his way into the crowd, finally remembering that there is a band here. A small hand grabs his and Ariadne’s pulling him towards the exit.
“Mr. Dunwalski from AP Chem is here,” she hisses. “I don’t think he saw me, but we need to go.”
“Yeah,” Arthur replies, not really paying attention. He can feel the itch between his shoulder blades of someone watching him.
The night air is cool, and it helps, a little bit. Arthur has the keys to Ariadne’s beat up Civic. He slides in to the driver’s seat in silence, and Ariadne is too curious not to ask.
“I couldn’t find you during most of the set. Did you have fun?”
That earns a small smile. “You could say that.”
On to Chapter 2
Author: Classlicity
Fandom: Inception
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Ensemble
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Seventeen year old Arthur meets fine arts grad-student Eames at a club one night. Angst ensues. Much love to sobota for the beta. And to my girlfriend who says I only ship it for the porn. The porn and the ANGST, baby, the porn and the ANGST.
“Ariadne, and I repeat, this is a very bad idea.”
“You’re always such a stick in the mud.” Ariadne smiles brilliantly at her best friend and the thirty some odd people standing behind him. “You love this band. I love this band. I fail to see the badness.”
Arthur leans against the paneling of the bar for a second, staples from old concert posters digging into his back. The September air is crisp, but not yet cold, and the line from the door of the bar just keeps getting longer.
“You fail to see how this can go horribly, explosively wrong?” He raises an eyebrow at her and she waves it away.
“We live in a college town.” She lowers her voice, continuing, “just because we may not be in college doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t take advantage of the opportunities this presents us.”
“If you get arrested again, I am not covering for you.”
Ariadne pops up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “You will have so much fun tonight I promise. Besides, I have a plan.”
The eyebrow inches its way back up Arthur’s forehead.
“Don’t look at me like that. Nash is working the door tonight. Just make sure you get in his line and we won’t have any trouble.”
Arthur sighs. His fingers itch for something to do, so he absently buttons and unbuttons the black waistcoat he’s wearing. Ariadne made him buy it, and the stupid tight jeans, though the white button down was already his.
“I can’t believe the depths you will sink to when you want to get your way,” he says, not surprised at all.
“Just be glad you’re on my good side,” she replies. She bounces on the balls of her feet, too excited to stay still. “I am a genius, after all.”
“An evil one.”
Finally, the doors start to open up and the line starts moving. Arthur holds his breath when they reach Nash but sure enough, he waves them through. Ariadne holds out her wrist expectantly, and with a sigh, he fastens the purple strip of plastic around their arms.
They’re in, and they can drink.
---------
The bar is dark, and smells like cheap beer and too many hipsters. Arthur orders screwdrivers, because that’s what he knows he can drink. Ariadne finds a couple of her friends that have already graduated, and flits off with them, leaving Arthur standing near the bar, people watching. He’s used to it, though. Ariadne has lots of friends, and he’s comfortable being a loner.
She’s dancing with a girl named Casey to an unknown opening band that, in Arthur’s opinion, doesn’t really deserve dancing. But who is he to spoil her good time?
“Don’t you hate it when they do that?”
Arthur whips his head around so quickly his neck nearly snaps. A man has materialized next to him, a grey New Pornographers tee-shirt stretching taut across broad shoulders. It clashes horribly with his brown corduroys, but for once, Arthur barely notices, distracted by a smirk worn by full lips.
“I’m sorry?” Arthur asks once he finds his voice. “Who does what?”
“Girlfriends.” The man gestures with his beer bottle at the dancing Ariadne. “That. Abandonment.”
“We’re not together.” The phrase is automatic after all these years. Arthur and Ariadne were born only one month and two houses apart. They have been nearly inseparable ever since. Once, when they were thirteen, Ariadne had made him kiss her. They didn’t try again.
“Interesting,” the man says, taking a swig from the bottle. He’s British, and Arthur hopes the flutter in his stomach is vodka.
“What is?” Arthur snaps, because annoyed is the best option here.
“In my experience, a man watches a woman move because he’s in love with her. Or has other plans for her.” The British man looks him up and down slowly. “Your response makes me think this isn’t the case.”
“Or maybe there’s just nothing better to look at,” Arthur replies, pointedly watching Ariadne dance.
The man laughs and takes another drink. “I’ll give you points for that one, but we both know that’s not true.”
Arthur has to look at him to see if he’s serious. The man wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and Arthur doesn’t know whether to laugh or roll his eyes. He settles on a barely there smile.
“What are you drinking?”
The forgotten glass in Arthur’s hand holds nothing but melted ice with an orangey sheen. He’s the designated driver but he still answers, “Screwdriver.”
“Stay here.” The man tosses his empty bottle in the trash and winds his way through the crowd.
Arthur’s social anxiety is telling him to flee, but he knows this feeling in his stomach and he doesn’t want to let it go just yet. The debate rages too long, because the stranger is back, holding out a shot glass of something that is distinctly not a screwdriver.
“This is whiskey.”
The man smiles, raising his own glass. “Bottoms up, love.”
The shot makes Arthur’s throat burn, and he hates this man right now. Or he would if he wasn’t looking at him like a problem he has to solve. Arthur’s never been looked at like that before, and he swallows again, despite the lingering taste of alcohol.
The stage lights come up and guitar starts blaring through the speakers.
“My name is Arthur,” he practically shouts.
The man shakes his head. It’s too loud. People are rushing past them trying to get closer to the stage, and someone jostles the glass out of his grip. It shatters on the floor. He feels a strong hand on his back, guiding him out of the crowd. They end up near the wall, and Arthur can’t see the band at all, but the man is standing right in front of him, lips quirked into a smile.
“What were you saying?” he asks, leaning closer.
Arthur hooks his fingers into his belt loops to keep from fiddling with his waistcoat. His heart is hammering at his chest, begging him to run away, and he does take a step back, running into the wall.
“I said my name’s Arthur, not love.”
“I’m Eames.” Eames steps closer; too close, really, and leans against the wall, bracing his weight on one hand. “I’ve never seen you around here before.”
It’s loud, and the shot finally hits Arthur like a bullet; he can feel the blood rushing to his face. He has to remember to be irritated. Irritated is safe, so he arches an eyebrow and says, “That doesn’t mean much. It’s entirely plausible that we’ve crossed paths a thousand times, and you just didn’t notice.”
“No, it’s not.”
The drums pound at them. The club smells like stale cigarettes and a fog machine. Arthur can barely breathe, Eames is so close. He vainly attempts to keep his face blank.
“You have entirely precluded it from the realm of possibility?”
Eames chuckles. “I bartend here most Wednesdays and Thursdays. So yes, Professor Arthur, while the possibility exists that I have looked right past you, over and over,” he makes that sound almost sexual, the low drawl of his accent tingling down Arthur’s spine, “I still maintain that I have never seen you around here.”
“Then we will have to agree to disagree,” Arthur says, unable to take his eyes off the curve of Eames’s lips. He hates floundering in these conversations, hates flirting. He just needs space, he thinks, but Eames’s eyes are on him like he’s trying to figure him out. So instead of running he asks, “Do you find it rewarding to buy drinks for straight guys?”
Eames is silent for a moment, considering. The music swells and Arthur’s waiting for the wrong answer, desperate to run away. But Eames only comes closer to him, even as he tries to flatten himself against the wall of the club, palms brushing against the cool concrete.
Hooking a finger in one of Arthur’s belt loops, Eames draws them together, faces so close Arthur’s having a hard time focusing.
“Darling, no one who wears jeans this tight isn’t at least a little curious.”
Arthur’s mouth falls open the slightest bit, like he’s trying to decide what to say. He barely has time to process before those lips are crushed against his, the full length of Eames body pressing him into the wall. Instinctively, his hands fly to Eames shoulders, then wind themselves in his hair as he relaxes into the kiss. Eames’s tongue pries his mouth open further and it’s everything he’s ever wanted in a tipsy semi-anonymous makeout session - tongue and teeth and that mouth.
Eames goes for his throat, licking and nipping and making Arthur bite back little moans. He’s hard, and when Eames starts to grind slowly into him, Arthur knows it’s completely mutual.
“My flat is just around the corner,” Eames whispers into his neck. His hips cant up, and the thought of being alone and naked with Eames makes Arthur see stars.
“I can’t,” Arthur gasps. His cock is pissed; that was not the answer it had expected. “I promised Ariadne I’d drive tonight.”
Eames goes still against him, tilting his head back just enough to make skeptical eye contact. “And you’re not together?”
Eyes narrowed, Arthur answers, “No. We’re not. You’re kind of a prick.” His cock throbs in his too tight jeans.
“You’re kind of a git.”
Arthur pulls Eames back into another kiss. All he can think about is the heat from where they’re touching, chest to chest, hips, thighs. Eames’s fingers pull his shirt out of his jeans and slip under the white cotton. Arthur’s sure he’ll find fingerprints seared into his waist where Eames is touching him. They rut together, Eames pressing faster and harder against him.
Arthur moans into Eames’s mouth, skin on fire. “Eames,” he pants between kisses, “If you don’t stop that, I’m going to come in my pants.”
Fingers clench reflexively, and Arthur knows that he will really have bruises now. “You have to know, Arthur,” Eames says, lips brushing lips as he talks, “I consider that a challenge.”
He’s never wanted to come so badly, and he’s half about to pull Eames into a bathroom, because even a flat around the corner is too far away, when he hears someone calling his name. Ariadne is looking for him.
“Fuck,” Arthur swears, drawing out the word.
“Let’s.” Eames noses his way under the collar of Arthur’s shirt to bite at the juncture of neck and shoulder.
Arthur slips his hands between them and pushes on Eames’s chest. “I have to go.”
“Arthur!” Ariadne calls again, closer to them.
Eames backs off a little, but he’s frowning. “She’s a big girl, she can take care of herself.”
Arthur shakes his head. “I promised.”
He slips out from Eames’s grasp, carefully tucking his shirt back in, and doing his best to adjust the hard on in his jeans. Eames watches, the same expression on his face that Arthur saw earlier. Like Arthur is a jigsaw puzzle and he doesn’t know where the pieces fit.
When he notices that Arthur’s caught him staring, he strokes his cock through his corduroys. It’s vulgar and thrilling, and Arthur has to turn away right then or he won’t be leaving with Ariadne.
Shakily, he makes his way into the crowd, finally remembering that there is a band here. A small hand grabs his and Ariadne’s pulling him towards the exit.
“Mr. Dunwalski from AP Chem is here,” she hisses. “I don’t think he saw me, but we need to go.”
“Yeah,” Arthur replies, not really paying attention. He can feel the itch between his shoulder blades of someone watching him.
The night air is cool, and it helps, a little bit. Arthur has the keys to Ariadne’s beat up Civic. He slides in to the driver’s seat in silence, and Ariadne is too curious not to ask.
“I couldn’t find you during most of the set. Did you have fun?”
That earns a small smile. “You could say that.”
On to Chapter 2