No Grand Gestures - Ch. 3
Title: No Grand Gestures (Chapter 3)
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. If it wasn't for sobota and her invaluable service of nagging at me to write (and of course the beta, that helped too), this chapter would never have gotten finished.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2
It’s eleven days before Eames calls. Arthur knows because he’s not counting. And it’s a text, really.
I had a prophetic dream about u - E
Arthur turns the phone over and over in his hands. His calculus textbook stares at him, forgotten, as he sprawls on his bed. He shouldn’t respond at all.
Clairvoyance is overrated. Hesitating, Arthur adds, You’re not the only E I know.
He pushes the book onto the floor. Homework will have to be done in homeroom, because his concentration is already shot. The phone buzzes in his hands.
But I’m the only 1 that matters.
Arthur most definitely is not responding to that, the asshole. But it vibrates again, and he’s spared.
Don’t u want 2 know about my dream?
No.
He’s done, really done. Shouldn’t have left his number. Should call Ariadne and have her yell at him again.
His phone rings for real this time, and there’s no debate about answering it.
“What?” Arthur asks peevishly.
“Darling,” Eames’s voice danced down Arthur’s spine, “don’t be upset. Listen, I was a right arsehole last time, but I looked it up, and, well…”
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates on breathing steadily. The pounding in his chest really can’t be good for him.
“How do you feel about wearing a school uniform and calling me ‘headmaster’?”
“For some reason, the idea doesn’t appeal to me,” Arthur answers, deadpan.
“I’ve plenty of others.” Eames pauses, but Arthur can hear his soft breathing. “Come over and I’ll show you.”
Arthur should hang up, but if he’s honest with himself, he’s already given up on ‘should’. Still, he measures out his words carefully, letting them drop one by one so that the message is absolutely clear.
“I can’t. It’s a school night.”
Eames chuckles, resigned. “Alright, then. I’ll see you when I see you.”
“Friday. My mom works the overnights to Paris on the weekends,” Arthur says in a rush, hating that he sounds so desperate.
“Perfect,” Eames purrs, “come see me after class, you naughty, naughty boy.”
It turned out that Eames’s prophetic dream had nothing to do with kinky role play and everything to do with sex in the shower. With his hands sliding against the cool tile and the hot water beating down on him, dripping into his open mouth, Eames kissing along his back and fucking him relentlessly, Arthur hopes that Eames has more dreams.
------
The next weekend, at Eames’s, he is proclaimed “too thin by half” and rushed down a flight of stairs to meet Mallorie and Dominic. They are a lovely pair, recently engaged, and between bites of what Mal calls a cassoulet the four of them fall into easy conversations about art, architecture, dreams, and the subconscious. It makes Arthur slightly giddy to feel so, well, grown up. He doesn’t even decline the wine they offer him, even though he’s never liked the taste of it.
Arthur is definitely tipsy by the time they leave, and Eames finds it endlessly amusing to tease him when it takes him too long to come up with a suitable retort. They pause at Eames’s door while he fumbles with his keys, Arthur jostling him as he leans against the frame.
Eyes dark, Eames cups Arthur’s face in his free hand, thumb brushing across his lower lip. “You have a wine stain, love,” he says softly, before kissing him so thoroughly they’re gasping for breath and they haven’t even made it inside.
------
The third Friday that Arthur takes the bus to Eames’s apartment, he’s left pounding on the door for five minutes. Whipping out his phone, he jabs furiously at the keyboard; they had talked about him coming over, at length and with generous detail the night before. Just before he hits send, Arthur knocks one more time.
The door opens just a crack, and a sleepy Indian man with a mop of dark curly hair peers out at him.
“We don’t want any,” he says, his accent much more clipped than Eames.
Arthur frowns. “You must be Yusuf.”
He looks Arthur up and down, carefully. “I am.”
“I’m Arthur.”
“That’s nice, Arthur, but I still don’t want any magazine subscriptions or whatever it is you’re selling.”
With a sigh, Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, not really wanting to deal with the fact that Yusuf has no idea who he is even though he’s been over at his house every weekend for the last four weeks. It makes his stomach lurch, and he’s really not in the mood for that.
“I’m not selling anything. Is Eames home?” Arthur asks, trying to sound polite and not frustrated.
Yusuf gives him another once over. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I want to get laid,” Arthur snaps. Jaw set, he glares at the shorter man. He’s been told it’s effective.
“Well,” says Yusuf, “you are his type.”
He lets the door swing open and Arthur strides inside, setting his backpack on the kitchen counter. Yusuf sinks back onto the couch, and pulls an electric scale out of hiding. A large bag of weed appears from under the couch, and Yusuf begins measuring it out for individual portions.
Arthur snorts. “At least you’re cautious about who you show that to.”
“Ha ha. Eames is back there, painting.”
Arthur starts for the bedroom, but Yusuf’s voice stops him.
“I wouldn’t disturb him. He gets crabby when he’s in the zone.”
“He’s expecting me,” Arthur says, ignoring the advice. He cracks open the door to the bedroom, and Eames is hunched over a canvas with paints spread messily on the floor. A paint stained flannel shirt hangs unbuttoned, and his baggy jeans are so old they’re fraying at the waist. He’s listening to his iPod loudly enough that Arthur can hear the faint sound of “Sympathy for the Devil”. Arthur resists the urge to jump on top of him right then and there. Instead, he squats down in front of Eames, waving his hand in his face.
Eames blinks, popping one of his ear buds out. “Sorry love, but I have to get this finished.”
Struggling to keep his face from falling, Arthur replies, “I’ll just do my homework, I guess.” He’s pretty sure he fails spectacularly.
Eames doesn’t even look up.
Sighing, Arthur pulls his history textbook out of his bag, and flops on to the couch next to Yusuf. He’s being petty, he knows, but that doesn’t stop him from scowling as he flips through the McCarthy era. For thirty minutes, he tries to get comfortable, tries to pay attention to his textbook. The TV’s on, volume so low it’s just a murmur, and every once in awhile Yusuf will hum to himself as he works. It sucks.
“This was a waste of time,” Arthur mutters to himself, slamming his book shut.
Yusuf raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”
“Nothing.” Everyone says he’s mature for his age, but he’s perilously close to sulking right now. Arthur stares at the TV, not even attempting to process what’s going on. It looks like a reality show starring blonde girls with too much time on their hands.
“Listen, Arthur. Eccentric, lock-yourself-in-a-room-for-nine-hours behavior is par for the course with artists. If you’re going to date one, you need to relax a little.”
“We’re not dating.”
“Whatever you say, boss. Wait here a minute.” Yusuf scoops his little bags of weed into one large Ziploc and gathers the whole operation in his arms. He disappears into his bedroom, coming out minutes later with a silver cigarette case and a lighter.
Flicking open the case, Yusuf pulls out a tightly rolled joint. Arthur had only gotten high once before, back when Nash still went to his school and was trying hard to impress Ariadne with his supposed coolness.
“It’s my own blend,” Yusuf says, taking a long drag from the joint. He holds the smoke in expertly before letting it slip out of the corners of his mouth. “You can’t find this in stores.”
When it’s Arthur’s turn, he coughs so much he doubts the smoke even made it to his lungs, but minutes later with his head swimming, he laughs for no particular reason.
“Ok,” he says, “I’m relaxed. Now what?”
Yusuf hands him a controller to the Xbox. “Now we kill some Nazis.”
They form a strange team, with Yusuf often getting killed within the first few minutes by his own grenades and Arthur having to finish the missions solo. It happens so frequently that they eventually switch to Katamari Damacy, rolling over human and animal alike until they both fall asleep.
He wakes up to someone gently shaking his shoulder. His cheek has lines in it from the gaps in the wood paneling on the floor where he crashed.
“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” Eames whispers.
It’s a herculean effort, but Arthur stands, leaning heavily against the older man as Eames draws him along to the bedroom. Arthur collapses on the bed, and is absolutely no help as Eames undresses him. They curl up together in the dark, the whole room smelling like paint, so Arthur buries his nose in Eames’s chest, trying to breathe him in instead.
In the morning, Eames apologizes over scrambled eggs and bacon. “I’ll make it up to you next weekend. I promise.”
“I can’t,” Arthur says, shoveling eggs into his mouth like a starving man. He takes a large swig of orange juice, continuing, “Next weekend is homecoming.”
Eames steals a piece of bacon off his plate. “Oh?” He smirks, crunching on the burnt bits. “Do you have a hot date?”
“One of Ari’s friends, Phillipa. She’s a junior.”
“Is she pretty?” Eames’s tone is light, but he’s got that look in his eyes again, the one that makes Arthur feel like a puzzle.
“Yeah. I guess.”
Eames reaches for the last piece of bacon, and Arthur swats his hand away. They don’t talk about homecoming again.
------
Ariadne, on the other hand, wants to talk about nothing more than Eames’s feelings about homecoming. Or rather, Eames’s feelings about Arthur, and how that should directly correlate to Arthur actually caring about homecoming.
“It’s not healthy,” she says, corralling him at his locker after Monday morning classes.
Slamming his locker shut, Arthur contemplates playing dumb. But Ariadne with a mission is like a pit-bull with a bone, so there’s really no point. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, too damn bad. Because we’re talking about this.”
Arthur slumps against the lockers in defeat. “Fine. Go ahead Ari, tell me how to live my life.”
Her eyes widen with real hurt, and Arthur has to look away. “That’s not fair. I’m just worried about you.”
He bites back a snappish reply because it really is unfair of him. Still, he can’t bring himself to make eye contact.
“Arthur,” she continues, taking his silence for the implicit apology it is, “You keep insisting that this ‘thing’ with Eames isn’t a relationship. But you blow me off every weekend for him. So I have to think that maybe Eames doesn’t like you as much as you like him. Or, I don’t know, respects you like he should. You’re a whole person, not just a pretty boy who wears pretentious waistcoats.”
“You told me I look good in vests,” he says, trying to remove the pout from the words but not quite making it.
“And I was right,” she replies, gloating. “But seriously, you should give Phillipa a chance. She really likes you. She thinks this whole ‘intense but sensitive’ thing is hot. And she’s smart, pretty, and has a great sense of humor.”
“Now you’re sounding like a salesman.”
“I would never use my superior debating skills for profit.”
Arthur sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Ari.”
She regards him for a moment. “You know, Arthur, if you’re not into girls, you can tell me,” she says, quietly.
He lets out a shaky laugh, pulling his best friend into an impromptu hug. Ariadne squeaks when he squeezes her. When he lets her go, she straightens her backpack and raises her eyebrows expectantly.
“Well?”
Arthur smirks. “It’s about the person, not the gender.”
Ariadne considers this, head cocked to the side, before grinning broadly. “Perfect, because I already invited Phillipa to sit with us at lunch. You’ll love her.”
-------
Wednesday night, Arthur borrows Ariadne’s battered Civic and takes Phillipa to his favorite coffeehouse downtown. It’s narrow, and red, and smells less like espresso and more like the bar that inhabits the floor above it.
It’s apparently the right choice, because Phillipa just smiles and says, “They make the best soy honey lattes here.”
He figures it’s better to learn if his homecoming date is interesting or not prior to homecoming so that he has time to make a plan B. And C. Arthur quickly learns that they have little in common when it comes to musical tastes.
“Lady Antebellum, really? Really?”
“Just because I have no desire to play ‘who can name the more obscure band’ does not mean I’m a capitalist pig-dog.”
“I would never call you a pig-dog.”
“But I could tell you were thinking it.”
She does, however, adore the same complicated heist movies that Arthur lives for, so he forgives her. Time flies, and soon he has to take her home or be caught breaking curfew and the wrath that comes with it. He walks her up to her front porch, and there’s an awkward moment, where he can see her bite her lip and it occurs to him that he’s supposed to kiss her or something.
So he pecks her on the cheek, and says, “I had fun. We’re meeting at Ari’s at seven, right?”
She turns beet red, so he figures he got that right, too. “Yeah. Good night, Arthur.”
She ghosts a finger over her cheek unconsciously, and fumbles with the doorknob. Arthur almost says something, but he can definitely see her father glaring at him through a crack in the curtains.
He wonders, as he parks in Ariadne’s driveway leaving her keys in the broken sunglasses holder, if Phillipa will think about him tonight.
The air is crisp and just this side of freezing this late in October; it makes him wish he’d worn his scarf for the short walk back to his house.
“How did your date go?” his mom asks, from the couch. She’s flipping through a magazine with her bathrobe on and her hair in a towel turban, as if she had just got out of the shower.
“Good,” he answers. If he says too much, she’ll keep prying and he doesn’t want to talk about it, really. “I have some reading to catch up on, though.”
His mom sighs heavily, and gestures to no one. “Where has my baby boy gone? This moody thing doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.”
“That’s not true, mom.” He gives her a quick hug and a kiss on the forehead before disappearing up to his room.
The book his English teacher had assigned is Fahrenheit 451, which he’d read freshman year just for kicks. It can’t hold his attention with the caffeine buzzing in his veins, so he just lets his mind wander. At first, he thinks about blue eyes and gold hair, a pretty laugh, the tightness of her sweater. His hand drifts down to his dick, stroking it languidly.
There’s a voice in his head telling him what it would feel like to peel that sweater off, to palm her breasts, to kiss them. It isn’t until he starts jerking off properly that he realizes the voice has an English accent.
He tries not to think about it too hard after he comes.
-------
Arthur’s mom takes so many pictures of him in his new grey suit and slicked back hair that thirty minutes later he can still see the flash every time he closes his eyes. Phillipa is wearing a white sparkly dress, so he got her a corsage to match, and every other word his mom says is “adorable.”
Ariadne’s date, James, is from the local Catholic school, and is far better at posing and smiling than Arthur. Ariadne loves the attention, especially since she’s gone out of her way to get all dolled up like Holly Golightly, black opera gloves and all.
“And I thought you said I was the one who takes things too literally,” Arthur teases as he holds the door to the gym open for her.
It’s dark with blue and white Christmas lights everywhere. The music is already terrible, and he can’t see another person there he actively likes.
“Whatever, Draper,” Ariadne says, pulling James onto the dance floor.
But Phillipa has friends, so Arthur is forced into small talk, which is not as bad as he expects. A slow country song comes on and she squeezes his hand.
“Please, Arthur, dance with me. I love this song and if you dance with me now, I promise I won’t get mad if you make fun of me later.”
He hasn’t slow danced with anyone since he was fifteen so he’s forgotten the feel of a head on his shoulder. Phillipa is warm against him, silently singing along with the song, letting him sway them around the dance floor. It makes his chest ache, that she wants him, just like this, with her arms around his neck and his hands on her waist.
“Arthur,” Phillipa breathes, lifting her head so she can look him in the eyes. “If I asked you to kiss me, would you?”
“Yeah.” The look she’s giving him is so earnest that it makes him feel old and jaded. Still, he cups her chin in his hand, and leaning down, brushes their lips together. It’s gentle and pleasant, and everything he thinks a couple’s first kiss should be, but Phillipa pulls away, searching his face.
“You don’t really like me, do you?”
Arthur hesitates for a split second, and that’s enough for her to shrug off his hands and leave the dance floor.
“Fuck,” he mutters, half jogging after her, conscious of all the eyes on his back.
He finds her camping out in a stairwell, skirt poofing out around her knees from sitting on the steps.
“Go away, I’m trying to cry.”
“I’m sorry,” he says lamely. He stands in front of her, hands itching to do something.
Phillipa dabs at her eyes, trying not to smear her mascara around. “Sorry, I just, I’ve kind of had a crush on you since we had gym together last year, and when Ariadne suggested we come together I guess I got my hopes up. But you’re still in love with her, huh?”
“Oh, god, not this again.” Arthur flops down next to her and buries his face in his hands. “Why does everyone think I’m in love with Ariadne?”
“You’re not?”
“No. Christ, no. She’s practically my sister. I love her, but I not in love with her.” Arthur leans back on his elbows, watching her expression out of the corner of his eye.
“Are you sure this isn’t one of those things where you just need an understanding outsider to tell you that you’re in love with her like in a Reese Witherspoon movie?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Then what the fuck, Arthur?” Phillipa slaps him on the shoulder, hard enough to make it sting.
“What was that for!”
“You owe me an explanation. I’m a nice person, and we have stuff in common, and you, you asked me on a date, so what the flying fuck?”
Arthur sighs, and tries running his fingers through his hair, but he remembers about the gel and stops, mid gesture. “It’s complicated.”
“This isn’t Facebook, Arthur.”
He smiles at her and thankfully she smiles back. “You look really nice tonight,” he ventures, and she blushes but slaps his shoulder again.
“Don’t try to change the topic.”
“Fine, Jesus.” Rubbing his shoulder, he tries to figure out the right words to say. Phillipa waits patiently, which makes it even harder for him to look her in the eye. “I met someone who goes to the college. And they told me flat out they won’t date high school kids, but I can’t stop myself from liking them anyway.”
She considers this for a minute. “Have you even tried asking her out?”
“No,” he admits.
“Then it sounds to me like you’re not even giving yourself the chance to be rejected. It sucks when it happens, and you’re an asshole, by the way, but Arthur, you at least have to try.” Phillipa kisses him on the cheek and stands, brushing off the back of her dress.
Offering her hand, Phillipa helps him to his feet, straightening his tie and boutonniere. She sighs dramatically, flicking at imaginary lint on his sleeve. “Your chances will improve drastically if you wear this suit all the time.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” he deadpans, though he can’t keep a smile off his face. He holds open the door to the gym for her. “Back into the fray?”
“Better than hiding in a stairwell all night.”
“For you, maybe.”
“Oh, stop being so emo and come be my boyfriend for a night.”
----------
Arthur barely remembers to take his phone out of his jacket pocket before he hangs it in his closet. Smiling, he lays down on his bed flipping through the pictures that Ariadne took when she stole it from him at the dance. There’s one of him, scowling at her, but it shows off his suit.
Feeling bold, he attaches it to a text message and hits send.
Ari says I look like Don Draper’s illegitimate child
Two minutes later, his phone beeps at him, and for once he’s not embarrassed by the blush creeping over his cheeks. No one’s there to see it anyway.
Well darling u do drive men mad
On to Chapter 4
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. If it wasn't for sobota and her invaluable service of nagging at me to write (and of course the beta, that helped too), this chapter would never have gotten finished.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2
It’s eleven days before Eames calls. Arthur knows because he’s not counting. And it’s a text, really.
I had a prophetic dream about u - E
Arthur turns the phone over and over in his hands. His calculus textbook stares at him, forgotten, as he sprawls on his bed. He shouldn’t respond at all.
Clairvoyance is overrated. Hesitating, Arthur adds, You’re not the only E I know.
He pushes the book onto the floor. Homework will have to be done in homeroom, because his concentration is already shot. The phone buzzes in his hands.
But I’m the only 1 that matters.
Arthur most definitely is not responding to that, the asshole. But it vibrates again, and he’s spared.
Don’t u want 2 know about my dream?
No.
He’s done, really done. Shouldn’t have left his number. Should call Ariadne and have her yell at him again.
His phone rings for real this time, and there’s no debate about answering it.
“What?” Arthur asks peevishly.
“Darling,” Eames’s voice danced down Arthur’s spine, “don’t be upset. Listen, I was a right arsehole last time, but I looked it up, and, well…”
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates on breathing steadily. The pounding in his chest really can’t be good for him.
“How do you feel about wearing a school uniform and calling me ‘headmaster’?”
“For some reason, the idea doesn’t appeal to me,” Arthur answers, deadpan.
“I’ve plenty of others.” Eames pauses, but Arthur can hear his soft breathing. “Come over and I’ll show you.”
Arthur should hang up, but if he’s honest with himself, he’s already given up on ‘should’. Still, he measures out his words carefully, letting them drop one by one so that the message is absolutely clear.
“I can’t. It’s a school night.”
Eames chuckles, resigned. “Alright, then. I’ll see you when I see you.”
“Friday. My mom works the overnights to Paris on the weekends,” Arthur says in a rush, hating that he sounds so desperate.
“Perfect,” Eames purrs, “come see me after class, you naughty, naughty boy.”
It turned out that Eames’s prophetic dream had nothing to do with kinky role play and everything to do with sex in the shower. With his hands sliding against the cool tile and the hot water beating down on him, dripping into his open mouth, Eames kissing along his back and fucking him relentlessly, Arthur hopes that Eames has more dreams.
------
The next weekend, at Eames’s, he is proclaimed “too thin by half” and rushed down a flight of stairs to meet Mallorie and Dominic. They are a lovely pair, recently engaged, and between bites of what Mal calls a cassoulet the four of them fall into easy conversations about art, architecture, dreams, and the subconscious. It makes Arthur slightly giddy to feel so, well, grown up. He doesn’t even decline the wine they offer him, even though he’s never liked the taste of it.
Arthur is definitely tipsy by the time they leave, and Eames finds it endlessly amusing to tease him when it takes him too long to come up with a suitable retort. They pause at Eames’s door while he fumbles with his keys, Arthur jostling him as he leans against the frame.
Eyes dark, Eames cups Arthur’s face in his free hand, thumb brushing across his lower lip. “You have a wine stain, love,” he says softly, before kissing him so thoroughly they’re gasping for breath and they haven’t even made it inside.
------
The third Friday that Arthur takes the bus to Eames’s apartment, he’s left pounding on the door for five minutes. Whipping out his phone, he jabs furiously at the keyboard; they had talked about him coming over, at length and with generous detail the night before. Just before he hits send, Arthur knocks one more time.
The door opens just a crack, and a sleepy Indian man with a mop of dark curly hair peers out at him.
“We don’t want any,” he says, his accent much more clipped than Eames.
Arthur frowns. “You must be Yusuf.”
He looks Arthur up and down, carefully. “I am.”
“I’m Arthur.”
“That’s nice, Arthur, but I still don’t want any magazine subscriptions or whatever it is you’re selling.”
With a sigh, Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, not really wanting to deal with the fact that Yusuf has no idea who he is even though he’s been over at his house every weekend for the last four weeks. It makes his stomach lurch, and he’s really not in the mood for that.
“I’m not selling anything. Is Eames home?” Arthur asks, trying to sound polite and not frustrated.
Yusuf gives him another once over. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I want to get laid,” Arthur snaps. Jaw set, he glares at the shorter man. He’s been told it’s effective.
“Well,” says Yusuf, “you are his type.”
He lets the door swing open and Arthur strides inside, setting his backpack on the kitchen counter. Yusuf sinks back onto the couch, and pulls an electric scale out of hiding. A large bag of weed appears from under the couch, and Yusuf begins measuring it out for individual portions.
Arthur snorts. “At least you’re cautious about who you show that to.”
“Ha ha. Eames is back there, painting.”
Arthur starts for the bedroom, but Yusuf’s voice stops him.
“I wouldn’t disturb him. He gets crabby when he’s in the zone.”
“He’s expecting me,” Arthur says, ignoring the advice. He cracks open the door to the bedroom, and Eames is hunched over a canvas with paints spread messily on the floor. A paint stained flannel shirt hangs unbuttoned, and his baggy jeans are so old they’re fraying at the waist. He’s listening to his iPod loudly enough that Arthur can hear the faint sound of “Sympathy for the Devil”. Arthur resists the urge to jump on top of him right then and there. Instead, he squats down in front of Eames, waving his hand in his face.
Eames blinks, popping one of his ear buds out. “Sorry love, but I have to get this finished.”
Struggling to keep his face from falling, Arthur replies, “I’ll just do my homework, I guess.” He’s pretty sure he fails spectacularly.
Eames doesn’t even look up.
Sighing, Arthur pulls his history textbook out of his bag, and flops on to the couch next to Yusuf. He’s being petty, he knows, but that doesn’t stop him from scowling as he flips through the McCarthy era. For thirty minutes, he tries to get comfortable, tries to pay attention to his textbook. The TV’s on, volume so low it’s just a murmur, and every once in awhile Yusuf will hum to himself as he works. It sucks.
“This was a waste of time,” Arthur mutters to himself, slamming his book shut.
Yusuf raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”
“Nothing.” Everyone says he’s mature for his age, but he’s perilously close to sulking right now. Arthur stares at the TV, not even attempting to process what’s going on. It looks like a reality show starring blonde girls with too much time on their hands.
“Listen, Arthur. Eccentric, lock-yourself-in-a-room-for-nine-hours behavior is par for the course with artists. If you’re going to date one, you need to relax a little.”
“We’re not dating.”
“Whatever you say, boss. Wait here a minute.” Yusuf scoops his little bags of weed into one large Ziploc and gathers the whole operation in his arms. He disappears into his bedroom, coming out minutes later with a silver cigarette case and a lighter.
Flicking open the case, Yusuf pulls out a tightly rolled joint. Arthur had only gotten high once before, back when Nash still went to his school and was trying hard to impress Ariadne with his supposed coolness.
“It’s my own blend,” Yusuf says, taking a long drag from the joint. He holds the smoke in expertly before letting it slip out of the corners of his mouth. “You can’t find this in stores.”
When it’s Arthur’s turn, he coughs so much he doubts the smoke even made it to his lungs, but minutes later with his head swimming, he laughs for no particular reason.
“Ok,” he says, “I’m relaxed. Now what?”
Yusuf hands him a controller to the Xbox. “Now we kill some Nazis.”
They form a strange team, with Yusuf often getting killed within the first few minutes by his own grenades and Arthur having to finish the missions solo. It happens so frequently that they eventually switch to Katamari Damacy, rolling over human and animal alike until they both fall asleep.
He wakes up to someone gently shaking his shoulder. His cheek has lines in it from the gaps in the wood paneling on the floor where he crashed.
“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” Eames whispers.
It’s a herculean effort, but Arthur stands, leaning heavily against the older man as Eames draws him along to the bedroom. Arthur collapses on the bed, and is absolutely no help as Eames undresses him. They curl up together in the dark, the whole room smelling like paint, so Arthur buries his nose in Eames’s chest, trying to breathe him in instead.
In the morning, Eames apologizes over scrambled eggs and bacon. “I’ll make it up to you next weekend. I promise.”
“I can’t,” Arthur says, shoveling eggs into his mouth like a starving man. He takes a large swig of orange juice, continuing, “Next weekend is homecoming.”
Eames steals a piece of bacon off his plate. “Oh?” He smirks, crunching on the burnt bits. “Do you have a hot date?”
“One of Ari’s friends, Phillipa. She’s a junior.”
“Is she pretty?” Eames’s tone is light, but he’s got that look in his eyes again, the one that makes Arthur feel like a puzzle.
“Yeah. I guess.”
Eames reaches for the last piece of bacon, and Arthur swats his hand away. They don’t talk about homecoming again.
------
Ariadne, on the other hand, wants to talk about nothing more than Eames’s feelings about homecoming. Or rather, Eames’s feelings about Arthur, and how that should directly correlate to Arthur actually caring about homecoming.
“It’s not healthy,” she says, corralling him at his locker after Monday morning classes.
Slamming his locker shut, Arthur contemplates playing dumb. But Ariadne with a mission is like a pit-bull with a bone, so there’s really no point. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, too damn bad. Because we’re talking about this.”
Arthur slumps against the lockers in defeat. “Fine. Go ahead Ari, tell me how to live my life.”
Her eyes widen with real hurt, and Arthur has to look away. “That’s not fair. I’m just worried about you.”
He bites back a snappish reply because it really is unfair of him. Still, he can’t bring himself to make eye contact.
“Arthur,” she continues, taking his silence for the implicit apology it is, “You keep insisting that this ‘thing’ with Eames isn’t a relationship. But you blow me off every weekend for him. So I have to think that maybe Eames doesn’t like you as much as you like him. Or, I don’t know, respects you like he should. You’re a whole person, not just a pretty boy who wears pretentious waistcoats.”
“You told me I look good in vests,” he says, trying to remove the pout from the words but not quite making it.
“And I was right,” she replies, gloating. “But seriously, you should give Phillipa a chance. She really likes you. She thinks this whole ‘intense but sensitive’ thing is hot. And she’s smart, pretty, and has a great sense of humor.”
“Now you’re sounding like a salesman.”
“I would never use my superior debating skills for profit.”
Arthur sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Ari.”
She regards him for a moment. “You know, Arthur, if you’re not into girls, you can tell me,” she says, quietly.
He lets out a shaky laugh, pulling his best friend into an impromptu hug. Ariadne squeaks when he squeezes her. When he lets her go, she straightens her backpack and raises her eyebrows expectantly.
“Well?”
Arthur smirks. “It’s about the person, not the gender.”
Ariadne considers this, head cocked to the side, before grinning broadly. “Perfect, because I already invited Phillipa to sit with us at lunch. You’ll love her.”
-------
Wednesday night, Arthur borrows Ariadne’s battered Civic and takes Phillipa to his favorite coffeehouse downtown. It’s narrow, and red, and smells less like espresso and more like the bar that inhabits the floor above it.
It’s apparently the right choice, because Phillipa just smiles and says, “They make the best soy honey lattes here.”
He figures it’s better to learn if his homecoming date is interesting or not prior to homecoming so that he has time to make a plan B. And C. Arthur quickly learns that they have little in common when it comes to musical tastes.
“Lady Antebellum, really? Really?”
“Just because I have no desire to play ‘who can name the more obscure band’ does not mean I’m a capitalist pig-dog.”
“I would never call you a pig-dog.”
“But I could tell you were thinking it.”
She does, however, adore the same complicated heist movies that Arthur lives for, so he forgives her. Time flies, and soon he has to take her home or be caught breaking curfew and the wrath that comes with it. He walks her up to her front porch, and there’s an awkward moment, where he can see her bite her lip and it occurs to him that he’s supposed to kiss her or something.
So he pecks her on the cheek, and says, “I had fun. We’re meeting at Ari’s at seven, right?”
She turns beet red, so he figures he got that right, too. “Yeah. Good night, Arthur.”
She ghosts a finger over her cheek unconsciously, and fumbles with the doorknob. Arthur almost says something, but he can definitely see her father glaring at him through a crack in the curtains.
He wonders, as he parks in Ariadne’s driveway leaving her keys in the broken sunglasses holder, if Phillipa will think about him tonight.
The air is crisp and just this side of freezing this late in October; it makes him wish he’d worn his scarf for the short walk back to his house.
“How did your date go?” his mom asks, from the couch. She’s flipping through a magazine with her bathrobe on and her hair in a towel turban, as if she had just got out of the shower.
“Good,” he answers. If he says too much, she’ll keep prying and he doesn’t want to talk about it, really. “I have some reading to catch up on, though.”
His mom sighs heavily, and gestures to no one. “Where has my baby boy gone? This moody thing doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.”
“That’s not true, mom.” He gives her a quick hug and a kiss on the forehead before disappearing up to his room.
The book his English teacher had assigned is Fahrenheit 451, which he’d read freshman year just for kicks. It can’t hold his attention with the caffeine buzzing in his veins, so he just lets his mind wander. At first, he thinks about blue eyes and gold hair, a pretty laugh, the tightness of her sweater. His hand drifts down to his dick, stroking it languidly.
There’s a voice in his head telling him what it would feel like to peel that sweater off, to palm her breasts, to kiss them. It isn’t until he starts jerking off properly that he realizes the voice has an English accent.
He tries not to think about it too hard after he comes.
-------
Arthur’s mom takes so many pictures of him in his new grey suit and slicked back hair that thirty minutes later he can still see the flash every time he closes his eyes. Phillipa is wearing a white sparkly dress, so he got her a corsage to match, and every other word his mom says is “adorable.”
Ariadne’s date, James, is from the local Catholic school, and is far better at posing and smiling than Arthur. Ariadne loves the attention, especially since she’s gone out of her way to get all dolled up like Holly Golightly, black opera gloves and all.
“And I thought you said I was the one who takes things too literally,” Arthur teases as he holds the door to the gym open for her.
It’s dark with blue and white Christmas lights everywhere. The music is already terrible, and he can’t see another person there he actively likes.
“Whatever, Draper,” Ariadne says, pulling James onto the dance floor.
But Phillipa has friends, so Arthur is forced into small talk, which is not as bad as he expects. A slow country song comes on and she squeezes his hand.
“Please, Arthur, dance with me. I love this song and if you dance with me now, I promise I won’t get mad if you make fun of me later.”
He hasn’t slow danced with anyone since he was fifteen so he’s forgotten the feel of a head on his shoulder. Phillipa is warm against him, silently singing along with the song, letting him sway them around the dance floor. It makes his chest ache, that she wants him, just like this, with her arms around his neck and his hands on her waist.
“Arthur,” Phillipa breathes, lifting her head so she can look him in the eyes. “If I asked you to kiss me, would you?”
“Yeah.” The look she’s giving him is so earnest that it makes him feel old and jaded. Still, he cups her chin in his hand, and leaning down, brushes their lips together. It’s gentle and pleasant, and everything he thinks a couple’s first kiss should be, but Phillipa pulls away, searching his face.
“You don’t really like me, do you?”
Arthur hesitates for a split second, and that’s enough for her to shrug off his hands and leave the dance floor.
“Fuck,” he mutters, half jogging after her, conscious of all the eyes on his back.
He finds her camping out in a stairwell, skirt poofing out around her knees from sitting on the steps.
“Go away, I’m trying to cry.”
“I’m sorry,” he says lamely. He stands in front of her, hands itching to do something.
Phillipa dabs at her eyes, trying not to smear her mascara around. “Sorry, I just, I’ve kind of had a crush on you since we had gym together last year, and when Ariadne suggested we come together I guess I got my hopes up. But you’re still in love with her, huh?”
“Oh, god, not this again.” Arthur flops down next to her and buries his face in his hands. “Why does everyone think I’m in love with Ariadne?”
“You’re not?”
“No. Christ, no. She’s practically my sister. I love her, but I not in love with her.” Arthur leans back on his elbows, watching her expression out of the corner of his eye.
“Are you sure this isn’t one of those things where you just need an understanding outsider to tell you that you’re in love with her like in a Reese Witherspoon movie?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Then what the fuck, Arthur?” Phillipa slaps him on the shoulder, hard enough to make it sting.
“What was that for!”
“You owe me an explanation. I’m a nice person, and we have stuff in common, and you, you asked me on a date, so what the flying fuck?”
Arthur sighs, and tries running his fingers through his hair, but he remembers about the gel and stops, mid gesture. “It’s complicated.”
“This isn’t Facebook, Arthur.”
He smiles at her and thankfully she smiles back. “You look really nice tonight,” he ventures, and she blushes but slaps his shoulder again.
“Don’t try to change the topic.”
“Fine, Jesus.” Rubbing his shoulder, he tries to figure out the right words to say. Phillipa waits patiently, which makes it even harder for him to look her in the eye. “I met someone who goes to the college. And they told me flat out they won’t date high school kids, but I can’t stop myself from liking them anyway.”
She considers this for a minute. “Have you even tried asking her out?”
“No,” he admits.
“Then it sounds to me like you’re not even giving yourself the chance to be rejected. It sucks when it happens, and you’re an asshole, by the way, but Arthur, you at least have to try.” Phillipa kisses him on the cheek and stands, brushing off the back of her dress.
Offering her hand, Phillipa helps him to his feet, straightening his tie and boutonniere. She sighs dramatically, flicking at imaginary lint on his sleeve. “Your chances will improve drastically if you wear this suit all the time.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” he deadpans, though he can’t keep a smile off his face. He holds open the door to the gym for her. “Back into the fray?”
“Better than hiding in a stairwell all night.”
“For you, maybe.”
“Oh, stop being so emo and come be my boyfriend for a night.”
----------
Arthur barely remembers to take his phone out of his jacket pocket before he hangs it in his closet. Smiling, he lays down on his bed flipping through the pictures that Ariadne took when she stole it from him at the dance. There’s one of him, scowling at her, but it shows off his suit.
Feeling bold, he attaches it to a text message and hits send.
Ari says I look like Don Draper’s illegitimate child
Two minutes later, his phone beeps at him, and for once he’s not embarrassed by the blush creeping over his cheeks. No one’s there to see it anyway.
Well darling u do drive men mad
On to Chapter 4