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Entry tags:
the weekend
Simple Math [WIP]
Arthur/Eames | PG-13 | 3400 words [this part]
i.e. The Fake Boyfriends High School AU
|previous chapters|
Thank you to everyone who has played along so far! I'd like to say the end is near, but...that would be a lie. @__@
Arthur throws himself into his meet on Friday. He ignores everyone, including Ariadne, who’s used to his pre-race headspace ritual. He doesn’t see Eames at all.
It’s a home advantage, which always works in Arthur’s favor--although he’d like to not think about what happened the last time he won a race on his own school turf. The weather is balmy, clear, the wind at Arthur’s back; his heart pounds in expectation as he warms up, headphones blaring old school Kings of Leon.
He’s lost in thought, going over every turn and hill and slant of the course in his head, when one of his teammates, Josh, taps him on the shoulder.
For you, Josh mouths, and hands him a damp, wadded Post-It. Arthur smooths it out against the trunk of a nearby tree.
In messy, familiar handwriting are the words good luck.
Scrawled underneath them, a single lowercase “e”.
Arthur rips the headphones out of his ears. “Where the hell did this come from?” he yells over at Josh, who rolls his eyes and laughs.
“Where do you think?” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the football field, where practice is still going on.
Eames is on the sidelines, helmet dangling from his fingers. He’s breathing heavily, like he’s just finished running.
Arthur looks back down at the wrinkled Post-It in his hand. “But...why?” he says, mostly to himself.
Josh snorts. “Dude, your fucking boyfriend wanted to wish you luck on the race, so what?”
He wonders when Eames wrote the damn thing, if it was a last minute idea or he did it hours ago, left it sitting in his locker with his cleats and sweats, debating whether or not to actually give it to Arthur...
It’s just a note. No big deal. Arthur has other things to worry about.
And if the Post-It somehow ends up pinned to the back of Arthur’s racing number, then it’s just because he couldn’t find a place to throw it away.
Arthur wins his race.
Driving home, sweaty and exhausted and riding the adrenaline rush of victory, Arthur does a dumb thing and calls Eames, knowing he’ll be on a bus headed for an away game. He waits for the phone to go to voicemail.
Eames answers on the second ring. “Arthur?” His voice is low and hushed, almost intimate. Arthur can hear laughter and yelling in the background above the steady hum of the bus motor.
Thrown by getting a response, Arthur stutters, “I set a new season record.”
A pause, then, slowly, “Really.” There’s a definite smirk in his tone, but it’s not mean. If anything, it makes Arthur sort of grin at nothing as he stops at an intersection.
“Yeah, really. Nineteen minutes and thirty-six seconds.”
“And that’s good, I take it?”
“Yeah, douchebag, it is, seeing as how the guy who came in second got clocked at twenty flat.”
“You don’t need to prove to me you’re fast. You remind me of that practically every damn day.”
“I don’t expect to ever impress you." He glances at himself in the rear view mirror; his cheeks are still flushed from the race, even though it was over a half hour ago.
“You’d be surprised,” he thinks he hears Eames reply, only he’s interrupted by a barrage of catcalls and what sounds a lot like Travis cooing in a high falsetto, “Arthur, darling! I miss your cock!”
“Go fuck yourselves,” Eames yells, and there’s a scuffle and more laughter and a smattering chorus of “hey, Arthur,” before Eames says, “Sorry, sorry, fucking wankers, jesus christ.” He sounds pissed, and maybe even a little embarrassed.
Arthur pulls into his driveway and shuts off the engine, but he stays in the car, slumped in the driver’s seat as he taps his fingers against the wheel. “So, um. Anyway, I’ll just--”
“You got my, ah, message, yeah?”
He swallows. “You didn’t have to.”
“Had to do something. I’m not the shit boyfriend, remember?”
“I’m not--fuck you, I’m not shitty. I came to a game of yours.”
“One. I’ve since played two more.”
“Out of town. I’m not driving an hour to watch you fall on your ass, or break another finger.”
“Well, then, we’ve settled it. I’m the better boyfriend.”
Arthur huffs. “A Post-It, Eames? Seriously? You’re getting all self-righteous over a Post-It?”
“Josh seemed to think it was romantic.”
“Oh, well, if Josh liked it then maybe you’re dating the wrong guy.”
“Naw. He’s a bit too stocky for my tastes. And ginger.”
He tilts his head back against the seat and tries to remember why calling Eames was a bad idea. “I’m not having this conversation with you,” he finally replies.
“Fine, you’re not. And who was it who rung my mobile again?”
“I...didn’t think you’d answer.”
“What were you going to say if I hadn’t?”
Arthur lets his eyes close, picturing Eames tucked into corner of a stiff, ugly bus seat with his knees drawn to his chest, his phone cradled to his ear as he chews the edge of his thumb.
“Thanks,” he whispers.
All he gets in reply is the quiet roar of the bus engine, until Eames whispers back, “‘Night, Arthur,” and hangs up.
Arthur keeps the phone against his ear, heart thumping heavily. “Fuck,” he breathes, and finally opens his eyes.
The rumpled Post-It still clings to his dashboard.
~
Arthur’s phone rings late that night, around eleven. He’d fallen asleep in his clothes around nine by the flicker of his TV, his body wiped from the adrenaline crash following the race.
It takes a good ten seconds to recognize his own ringtone. Arthur paws around frantically for his phone, half-awake and blurry-eyed. He doesn’t bother reading the caller ID when he finally answers.
“‘llo?” he mumbles as he crawls under the blankets.
Music blares in the background, bleeding into the sounds of yelling and laughter. It sounds a lot like a party.
Arthur rubs his eyes. “Hello?” he says again.
The dull chaos still echoes across the line. He huffs, glancing at the phone screen.
The number is Eames’.
Arthur’s suddenly very awake.
“...Eames?” He sits up in bed. “You there?”
Nothing. Arthur thinks maybe he hears a quick sigh on the other end, but then the line goes dead in his ear and all he’s left with is silence.
He shoves his phone under his pillow and stares up into the dark, secretly waiting for it to ring again.
When it doesn’t, Arthur hisses, “Fucking stupid,” to no one but himself, and turns over.
~
Every Saturday morning, Arthur and his mother have a routine: Arthur makes the coffee, and his mother goes out to get bagels. Then they eat at the kitchen table and read the paper. It’s something they unconsciously started after his father passed away, but Arthur doesn’t like to think about it like that.
The morning after Eames pocket-dialed Arthur’s phone (which is all it was, Arthur’s sure of it), Arthur is caught up in the day’s headlines and sipping his coffee when his mother says a bit too casually, “Your grandparents are stopping this afternoon for the weekend.”
Arthur sets his coffee cup down with a loud clank. “What? They were just here.”
“That was five months ago, Arthur. And seeing as it’s the anniversary of your father’s...well, they’d like to see us.”
His mom’s parents have been gone since Arthur was little, which left his father’s parents, who tended to be on the suffocating side even before the accident. Now they're unbearable; ever since Arthur made it clear he has no intention to go into law like his dad, he’s yet to hear the end of it. He doesn’t like to be reminded over and over again that he’s “disgracing” the memory of his father.
“You’re welcome to invite Eames over, if you like.” His mom smiles, because she knows the ordeal her in-laws are. She thinks she’s doing him a favor. But the thought of dealing with Eames on top of his grandparents makes Arthur almost sick to his stomach.
He shakes his head. “No, it’s okay, he’s, uh. Busy with family today, anyway.”
“Well, he’ll be missed. I’m sure Harrison and Ann would love to meet him.”
Yeah, they’d love to meet their only grandson’s boyfriend, Arthur thinks sullenly. It’s times like these when he truly hates being in a small family.
He still does his part; he helps his mother tidy up the house and plan dinner for that evening. He showers and shaves and gets himself as neat and presentable as possible. Arthur wishes he had a medal from his race the day before, just to have something tangible to present to them.
Early that afternoon, Ann and Harrison pull up in their black Lexus, his grandmother dressed as if she just came from the Kentucky Derby. His mom takes her hat as she sweeps Arthur into a hug, then immediately holds him at arm’s length and says, breathless and shaky, “My god, you look more like him every day.”
Arthur ducks his head with an awkward smile. “You always say that, Grandma.”
“I say it because it’s true. You’re a stunningly handsome young man, and so was my John.”
“Have you sent off those applications yet?” his grandfather says, bypassing the hugs.
“Uh, not yet. Still, um, weighing my options.” For the last year, Harrison has been insistent that Arthur apply to Georgetown University, because that’s where his dad went. But Arthur doesn’t want to go to college on the east coast; he’s kind of got his sights set on the University of Wisconsin.
Harrison makes a displeased sound. “Well, if you need references, I have a couple of colleagues who sit on the board of directors. They remember your dad well.”
Of course, because Arthur wants to get into college on his dad’s merits, not his own. He can already feel the tension forming in his shoulders.
His mom clears her throat and says, “There’s coffee ready in the kitchen. Harry, you still take cream and sugar, right?”
As Arthur’s grandfather follows after her, grumbling about fat free half-and-half, Ann kisses Arthur’s cheek. “Is there a special girl in your life right now?” she asks quietly, like a secret.
An overwhelming need tightens in Arthur's chest to reach out blindly and feel Eames behind him. “No,” he replies, “no one special.”
~
It doesn’t get much better after that. In less than half an hour, Ann politely tells Arthur’s mother that the they should sell their house because it’s too large for them, and also that Arthur should really have a part-time job.
“The house is paid off,” his mother replies. Her smile barely flickers. “I guess it is a little big for just the two of us, but Arthur grew up here, and I’ve got my garden out back--”
“Yes, but the memories, Sharon,” Ann says, clasping his mother’s hand. “You can’t expect a boy to really grow up surrounded by so much grief.”
Arthur grits his teeth and stares down at the table. He can’t imagine living anywhere else; he’d notice his father’s absence more in a new house. At least here he can pretend that everything’s still the same as it was.
“What will you do when Arthur heads off to college?” Harrison asks. “Just rattle around in this place alone?”
His mother keeps smiling. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”
“And as for this business with Arthur not having a job--”
“Can’t,” Arthur blurts out, sick of them talking like he isn’t in the room. “I have practice every day, and meets--”
“A part-time job is invaluable for college resumes. It shows responsibility,” says Harrison, looking at Arthur over the top of his glasses. He remembers the way his father used to look at him that exact way.
Arthur holds his gaze. “I have almost a 4.0 GPA and am co-captain of the cross-country team. I’m in three different AP classes. I’d say that’s pretty damn responsible.”
“Arthur, language,” his mother says, but he can tell from her tone that she’s not upset at all.
Harrison makes an unimpressed sound. “Long-distance running and good grades won’t teach you how to survive in the work force. You only get that from practice. Your dad worked as a file clerk for the district attorney’s office from the time he was fifteen until he left for Georgetown.”
“I’m not my dad,” Arthur says, head beginning to pound.
Ann reaches across the table and pats his arms. “Oh, sweetheart, what your grandpa means to say is we just want you to be successful, just like John would’ve wanted. Being good at a sport’s wonderful and all, but it’s not everything.”
Dad didn’t know what he wanted with me, Arthur thinks. As long as I wasn’t dealing drugs or flunking out of school, he was fine. “It’s something, though,” he says.
“And I’m assuming you think this cross-country business is going to get you into a good school?” Harrison asks sharply.
Arthur doesn’t mean to break, but he can’t stand his grandfather’s condescending tone. At least his dad chose to ignore Arthur’s extra-curricular activities rather than mock them. “No, I don’t, but this is my senior year, and I’m going to run my races, whether or not you or anyone else gives a goddamn about them. My job will be to win.”
His grandfather’s eyes go wide, while Ann gasps and covers her mouth. Immediately, Arthur feels contrite heat flood his cheeks. He glances over at his mom, who’s watching him with a sad resignation in her eyes.
“I--sorry,” he mumbles, shoving back his chair. He gets to his feet slowly, waiting for his mom to saying something, but there’s nothing but stunned silence.
Arthur leaves the room and heads straight for the foyer, to the hall table where he keeps his keys.
He gets in his car and drives.
For a while Arthur goes in circles, not really caring about the destination. It doesn’t matter, just as long as he doesn’t have to listen to his grandparents bemoan the loss of his dad while simultaneously demanding Arthur be his replacement.
Twenty minutes of aimless driving go by before Arthur looks around and realizes the street he’s on is too familiar. The houses are much older, taller, more elegant, the pavement eventually giving way to red brick. He’s somehow ended up in Eames’ neighborhood.
Arthur doesn’t stop. Four houses down, he can see Eames in his driveway, playing basketball with Rafe. They don’t notice Arthur’s car until Arthur stops at the curb in front of the house.
Eames meets Arthur’s eyes, immediately tossing the ball back to Rafe. “Go inside,” he says to his brother.
Rafe rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue. When he’s gone, Eames walks up to the driver’s window and bends down, hands splayed on his knees.
“What is it?” he asks quietly, eyes squinted in the bright late afternoon sunlight, and those few words inexplicably make Arthur’s chest deflate.
“Can I just...stay here for a little bit?” Arthur asks.
Eames’ gaze roams over his face for a moment, like he’s searching for something. Then he nods.
Arthur lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
He follows Eames into the house, neither of them saying a word as they climb the steps to the third floor. The back collar of Eames’ shirt is damp with sweat, sticking to his skin; Arthur stares at it, transfixed, until Eames shoves the door to his room open with his shoulder and kicks a pair of cleats out of the way.
“Do you...um.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing tentatively over at Arthur as he circles the room. “Want me to leave you alone?”
The last thing Arthur wants right now is to be alone, but he still shrugs. “No,” he replies as casually as possible.
Eames bites his lip, then shoves his backpack and homework off his bed. “I’ve got a burned copy of that new Bruce Willis movie that just came out, wanna watch?”
“Yeah, okay,” Arthur says, and starts to sit down on the rug.
“Dude, just--I can sit on the floor.”
He looks up. Eames watches Arthur like he’s a skittish animal, and it makes a weird little shiver bloom in Arthur’s stomach. “Okay,” Arthur whispers again, crawling carefully onto Eames’ bed. He sits with his back against the wall, legs folded underneath him, while Eames messes around with the TV and DVD player.
Arthur doesn’t pay much attention during the movie. His mind flits between replaying the words he threw at his grandfather and focusing the line of Eames’ shoulders pressed against the side of the bed from where he’s sitting on the carpet. Arthur wonders what it would be like to stretch his hand out and let his fingers card through the wet strands of hair along Eames’ neck, to just lean in and bury his face in the curve of his throat and forget anything else exists.
His phone rings, a sharp buzz against his hip. Arthur sighs, and answers on the fourth ring.
“You should head home soon,” his mother says quietly.
He leans his head back against the wall. “I will.”
“I’ve had a talk with Harry. He isn’t angry with you, Arthur, I promise.”
“What about the Georgetown thing?”
“He’ll keep the college questions to a minimum from now on.”
Arthur doesn’t completely buy it, but he knows his mother tried. “I’ll be home in a little while.”
“Good. Tell Eames hello for me.”
He blushes faintly; he forgets sometimes just how well his mother knows him. Arthur hangs up, noticing for the first time that Eames is watching him with an unreadable expression in his eyes.
“Your mum?” he asks.
Arthur takes a deep breath. “Yeah.” He braces himself for Eames to ask the inevitable question of why he’s here, but he just turns around and goes back to the movie like nothing’s happened.
“My grandparents want me to be my dad,” Arthur says suddenly.
Eames shifts, glancing back at Arthur over his shoulder. “And what do you want?”
“Anything but that. But it’s--I get it, you know? He was their only son, and I’m their only grandson, and he’s just, like, gone for no reason, and I can’t blame them for wanting him back, but I can’t be him. I can’t be a replacement. It’s not fucking fair to me, and I feel like shit for thinking that, like I should be a better person or something.” He’s almost panting when the words finish tumbling out, and Eames has gone absolutely still.
Softly, Eames says, “No one can make you be anything, no matter what they tell you.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Fuck it, of course it is. You know enough to say you’re not going to be your old man. They can’t take that from you. That’s who you are, and fuck anyone who says otherwise.” He slaps his hand against the carpet, eyes flashing brightly, and Arthur thinks, Yes.
“I should take you back with me,” Arthur says with a faint smile.
“I’ll say it to anyone, anytime,” Eames smirks, but the bridge of his nose is pink.
A close silence falls between them, filled only with the sounds of the movie still playing in the background. There’s a terrifying moment when Eames’ gaze drops to Arthur’s mouth for a split second, and Arthur licks his lips without thinking. Eames grits his teeth, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
“You should--” he starts, but is interrupted by Arthur’s phone buzzing with a text from his mother: Grab some milk on your way back, please. :)
Arthur drags a hand through his hair and climbs off the bed. “Mom wants me to run to the store,” he says, as if Eames asked for an explanation. “Um, thanks. For...just, you know.”
Eames is no longer looking at him, his eyes focused on the TV. “Yeah, no problem. See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” Arthur stands in the doorway, waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what. When Eames doesn’t acknowledge him again, Arthur finally leaves.
Arthur/Eames | PG-13 | 3400 words [this part]
i.e. The Fake Boyfriends High School AU
|previous chapters|
Thank you to everyone who has played along so far! I'd like to say the end is near, but...that would be a lie. @__@
Arthur throws himself into his meet on Friday. He ignores everyone, including Ariadne, who’s used to his pre-race headspace ritual. He doesn’t see Eames at all.
It’s a home advantage, which always works in Arthur’s favor--although he’d like to not think about what happened the last time he won a race on his own school turf. The weather is balmy, clear, the wind at Arthur’s back; his heart pounds in expectation as he warms up, headphones blaring old school Kings of Leon.
He’s lost in thought, going over every turn and hill and slant of the course in his head, when one of his teammates, Josh, taps him on the shoulder.
For you, Josh mouths, and hands him a damp, wadded Post-It. Arthur smooths it out against the trunk of a nearby tree.
In messy, familiar handwriting are the words good luck.
Scrawled underneath them, a single lowercase “e”.
Arthur rips the headphones out of his ears. “Where the hell did this come from?” he yells over at Josh, who rolls his eyes and laughs.
“Where do you think?” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the football field, where practice is still going on.
Eames is on the sidelines, helmet dangling from his fingers. He’s breathing heavily, like he’s just finished running.
Arthur looks back down at the wrinkled Post-It in his hand. “But...why?” he says, mostly to himself.
Josh snorts. “Dude, your fucking boyfriend wanted to wish you luck on the race, so what?”
He wonders when Eames wrote the damn thing, if it was a last minute idea or he did it hours ago, left it sitting in his locker with his cleats and sweats, debating whether or not to actually give it to Arthur...
It’s just a note. No big deal. Arthur has other things to worry about.
And if the Post-It somehow ends up pinned to the back of Arthur’s racing number, then it’s just because he couldn’t find a place to throw it away.
Arthur wins his race.
Driving home, sweaty and exhausted and riding the adrenaline rush of victory, Arthur does a dumb thing and calls Eames, knowing he’ll be on a bus headed for an away game. He waits for the phone to go to voicemail.
Eames answers on the second ring. “Arthur?” His voice is low and hushed, almost intimate. Arthur can hear laughter and yelling in the background above the steady hum of the bus motor.
Thrown by getting a response, Arthur stutters, “I set a new season record.”
A pause, then, slowly, “Really.” There’s a definite smirk in his tone, but it’s not mean. If anything, it makes Arthur sort of grin at nothing as he stops at an intersection.
“Yeah, really. Nineteen minutes and thirty-six seconds.”
“And that’s good, I take it?”
“Yeah, douchebag, it is, seeing as how the guy who came in second got clocked at twenty flat.”
“You don’t need to prove to me you’re fast. You remind me of that practically every damn day.”
“I don’t expect to ever impress you." He glances at himself in the rear view mirror; his cheeks are still flushed from the race, even though it was over a half hour ago.
“You’d be surprised,” he thinks he hears Eames reply, only he’s interrupted by a barrage of catcalls and what sounds a lot like Travis cooing in a high falsetto, “Arthur, darling! I miss your cock!”
“Go fuck yourselves,” Eames yells, and there’s a scuffle and more laughter and a smattering chorus of “hey, Arthur,” before Eames says, “Sorry, sorry, fucking wankers, jesus christ.” He sounds pissed, and maybe even a little embarrassed.
Arthur pulls into his driveway and shuts off the engine, but he stays in the car, slumped in the driver’s seat as he taps his fingers against the wheel. “So, um. Anyway, I’ll just--”
“You got my, ah, message, yeah?”
He swallows. “You didn’t have to.”
“Had to do something. I’m not the shit boyfriend, remember?”
“I’m not--fuck you, I’m not shitty. I came to a game of yours.”
“One. I’ve since played two more.”
“Out of town. I’m not driving an hour to watch you fall on your ass, or break another finger.”
“Well, then, we’ve settled it. I’m the better boyfriend.”
Arthur huffs. “A Post-It, Eames? Seriously? You’re getting all self-righteous over a Post-It?”
“Josh seemed to think it was romantic.”
“Oh, well, if Josh liked it then maybe you’re dating the wrong guy.”
“Naw. He’s a bit too stocky for my tastes. And ginger.”
He tilts his head back against the seat and tries to remember why calling Eames was a bad idea. “I’m not having this conversation with you,” he finally replies.
“Fine, you’re not. And who was it who rung my mobile again?”
“I...didn’t think you’d answer.”
“What were you going to say if I hadn’t?”
Arthur lets his eyes close, picturing Eames tucked into corner of a stiff, ugly bus seat with his knees drawn to his chest, his phone cradled to his ear as he chews the edge of his thumb.
“Thanks,” he whispers.
All he gets in reply is the quiet roar of the bus engine, until Eames whispers back, “‘Night, Arthur,” and hangs up.
Arthur keeps the phone against his ear, heart thumping heavily. “Fuck,” he breathes, and finally opens his eyes.
The rumpled Post-It still clings to his dashboard.
~
Arthur’s phone rings late that night, around eleven. He’d fallen asleep in his clothes around nine by the flicker of his TV, his body wiped from the adrenaline crash following the race.
It takes a good ten seconds to recognize his own ringtone. Arthur paws around frantically for his phone, half-awake and blurry-eyed. He doesn’t bother reading the caller ID when he finally answers.
“‘llo?” he mumbles as he crawls under the blankets.
Music blares in the background, bleeding into the sounds of yelling and laughter. It sounds a lot like a party.
Arthur rubs his eyes. “Hello?” he says again.
The dull chaos still echoes across the line. He huffs, glancing at the phone screen.
The number is Eames’.
Arthur’s suddenly very awake.
“...Eames?” He sits up in bed. “You there?”
Nothing. Arthur thinks maybe he hears a quick sigh on the other end, but then the line goes dead in his ear and all he’s left with is silence.
He shoves his phone under his pillow and stares up into the dark, secretly waiting for it to ring again.
When it doesn’t, Arthur hisses, “Fucking stupid,” to no one but himself, and turns over.
~
Every Saturday morning, Arthur and his mother have a routine: Arthur makes the coffee, and his mother goes out to get bagels. Then they eat at the kitchen table and read the paper. It’s something they unconsciously started after his father passed away, but Arthur doesn’t like to think about it like that.
The morning after Eames pocket-dialed Arthur’s phone (which is all it was, Arthur’s sure of it), Arthur is caught up in the day’s headlines and sipping his coffee when his mother says a bit too casually, “Your grandparents are stopping this afternoon for the weekend.”
Arthur sets his coffee cup down with a loud clank. “What? They were just here.”
“That was five months ago, Arthur. And seeing as it’s the anniversary of your father’s...well, they’d like to see us.”
His mom’s parents have been gone since Arthur was little, which left his father’s parents, who tended to be on the suffocating side even before the accident. Now they're unbearable; ever since Arthur made it clear he has no intention to go into law like his dad, he’s yet to hear the end of it. He doesn’t like to be reminded over and over again that he’s “disgracing” the memory of his father.
“You’re welcome to invite Eames over, if you like.” His mom smiles, because she knows the ordeal her in-laws are. She thinks she’s doing him a favor. But the thought of dealing with Eames on top of his grandparents makes Arthur almost sick to his stomach.
He shakes his head. “No, it’s okay, he’s, uh. Busy with family today, anyway.”
“Well, he’ll be missed. I’m sure Harrison and Ann would love to meet him.”
Yeah, they’d love to meet their only grandson’s boyfriend, Arthur thinks sullenly. It’s times like these when he truly hates being in a small family.
He still does his part; he helps his mother tidy up the house and plan dinner for that evening. He showers and shaves and gets himself as neat and presentable as possible. Arthur wishes he had a medal from his race the day before, just to have something tangible to present to them.
Early that afternoon, Ann and Harrison pull up in their black Lexus, his grandmother dressed as if she just came from the Kentucky Derby. His mom takes her hat as she sweeps Arthur into a hug, then immediately holds him at arm’s length and says, breathless and shaky, “My god, you look more like him every day.”
Arthur ducks his head with an awkward smile. “You always say that, Grandma.”
“I say it because it’s true. You’re a stunningly handsome young man, and so was my John.”
“Have you sent off those applications yet?” his grandfather says, bypassing the hugs.
“Uh, not yet. Still, um, weighing my options.” For the last year, Harrison has been insistent that Arthur apply to Georgetown University, because that’s where his dad went. But Arthur doesn’t want to go to college on the east coast; he’s kind of got his sights set on the University of Wisconsin.
Harrison makes a displeased sound. “Well, if you need references, I have a couple of colleagues who sit on the board of directors. They remember your dad well.”
Of course, because Arthur wants to get into college on his dad’s merits, not his own. He can already feel the tension forming in his shoulders.
His mom clears her throat and says, “There’s coffee ready in the kitchen. Harry, you still take cream and sugar, right?”
As Arthur’s grandfather follows after her, grumbling about fat free half-and-half, Ann kisses Arthur’s cheek. “Is there a special girl in your life right now?” she asks quietly, like a secret.
An overwhelming need tightens in Arthur's chest to reach out blindly and feel Eames behind him. “No,” he replies, “no one special.”
~
It doesn’t get much better after that. In less than half an hour, Ann politely tells Arthur’s mother that the they should sell their house because it’s too large for them, and also that Arthur should really have a part-time job.
“The house is paid off,” his mother replies. Her smile barely flickers. “I guess it is a little big for just the two of us, but Arthur grew up here, and I’ve got my garden out back--”
“Yes, but the memories, Sharon,” Ann says, clasping his mother’s hand. “You can’t expect a boy to really grow up surrounded by so much grief.”
Arthur grits his teeth and stares down at the table. He can’t imagine living anywhere else; he’d notice his father’s absence more in a new house. At least here he can pretend that everything’s still the same as it was.
“What will you do when Arthur heads off to college?” Harrison asks. “Just rattle around in this place alone?”
His mother keeps smiling. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”
“And as for this business with Arthur not having a job--”
“Can’t,” Arthur blurts out, sick of them talking like he isn’t in the room. “I have practice every day, and meets--”
“A part-time job is invaluable for college resumes. It shows responsibility,” says Harrison, looking at Arthur over the top of his glasses. He remembers the way his father used to look at him that exact way.
Arthur holds his gaze. “I have almost a 4.0 GPA and am co-captain of the cross-country team. I’m in three different AP classes. I’d say that’s pretty damn responsible.”
“Arthur, language,” his mother says, but he can tell from her tone that she’s not upset at all.
Harrison makes an unimpressed sound. “Long-distance running and good grades won’t teach you how to survive in the work force. You only get that from practice. Your dad worked as a file clerk for the district attorney’s office from the time he was fifteen until he left for Georgetown.”
“I’m not my dad,” Arthur says, head beginning to pound.
Ann reaches across the table and pats his arms. “Oh, sweetheart, what your grandpa means to say is we just want you to be successful, just like John would’ve wanted. Being good at a sport’s wonderful and all, but it’s not everything.”
Dad didn’t know what he wanted with me, Arthur thinks. As long as I wasn’t dealing drugs or flunking out of school, he was fine. “It’s something, though,” he says.
“And I’m assuming you think this cross-country business is going to get you into a good school?” Harrison asks sharply.
Arthur doesn’t mean to break, but he can’t stand his grandfather’s condescending tone. At least his dad chose to ignore Arthur’s extra-curricular activities rather than mock them. “No, I don’t, but this is my senior year, and I’m going to run my races, whether or not you or anyone else gives a goddamn about them. My job will be to win.”
His grandfather’s eyes go wide, while Ann gasps and covers her mouth. Immediately, Arthur feels contrite heat flood his cheeks. He glances over at his mom, who’s watching him with a sad resignation in her eyes.
“I--sorry,” he mumbles, shoving back his chair. He gets to his feet slowly, waiting for his mom to saying something, but there’s nothing but stunned silence.
Arthur leaves the room and heads straight for the foyer, to the hall table where he keeps his keys.
He gets in his car and drives.
For a while Arthur goes in circles, not really caring about the destination. It doesn’t matter, just as long as he doesn’t have to listen to his grandparents bemoan the loss of his dad while simultaneously demanding Arthur be his replacement.
Twenty minutes of aimless driving go by before Arthur looks around and realizes the street he’s on is too familiar. The houses are much older, taller, more elegant, the pavement eventually giving way to red brick. He’s somehow ended up in Eames’ neighborhood.
Arthur doesn’t stop. Four houses down, he can see Eames in his driveway, playing basketball with Rafe. They don’t notice Arthur’s car until Arthur stops at the curb in front of the house.
Eames meets Arthur’s eyes, immediately tossing the ball back to Rafe. “Go inside,” he says to his brother.
Rafe rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue. When he’s gone, Eames walks up to the driver’s window and bends down, hands splayed on his knees.
“What is it?” he asks quietly, eyes squinted in the bright late afternoon sunlight, and those few words inexplicably make Arthur’s chest deflate.
“Can I just...stay here for a little bit?” Arthur asks.
Eames’ gaze roams over his face for a moment, like he’s searching for something. Then he nods.
Arthur lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
He follows Eames into the house, neither of them saying a word as they climb the steps to the third floor. The back collar of Eames’ shirt is damp with sweat, sticking to his skin; Arthur stares at it, transfixed, until Eames shoves the door to his room open with his shoulder and kicks a pair of cleats out of the way.
“Do you...um.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing tentatively over at Arthur as he circles the room. “Want me to leave you alone?”
The last thing Arthur wants right now is to be alone, but he still shrugs. “No,” he replies as casually as possible.
Eames bites his lip, then shoves his backpack and homework off his bed. “I’ve got a burned copy of that new Bruce Willis movie that just came out, wanna watch?”
“Yeah, okay,” Arthur says, and starts to sit down on the rug.
“Dude, just--I can sit on the floor.”
He looks up. Eames watches Arthur like he’s a skittish animal, and it makes a weird little shiver bloom in Arthur’s stomach. “Okay,” Arthur whispers again, crawling carefully onto Eames’ bed. He sits with his back against the wall, legs folded underneath him, while Eames messes around with the TV and DVD player.
Arthur doesn’t pay much attention during the movie. His mind flits between replaying the words he threw at his grandfather and focusing the line of Eames’ shoulders pressed against the side of the bed from where he’s sitting on the carpet. Arthur wonders what it would be like to stretch his hand out and let his fingers card through the wet strands of hair along Eames’ neck, to just lean in and bury his face in the curve of his throat and forget anything else exists.
His phone rings, a sharp buzz against his hip. Arthur sighs, and answers on the fourth ring.
“You should head home soon,” his mother says quietly.
He leans his head back against the wall. “I will.”
“I’ve had a talk with Harry. He isn’t angry with you, Arthur, I promise.”
“What about the Georgetown thing?”
“He’ll keep the college questions to a minimum from now on.”
Arthur doesn’t completely buy it, but he knows his mother tried. “I’ll be home in a little while.”
“Good. Tell Eames hello for me.”
He blushes faintly; he forgets sometimes just how well his mother knows him. Arthur hangs up, noticing for the first time that Eames is watching him with an unreadable expression in his eyes.
“Your mum?” he asks.
Arthur takes a deep breath. “Yeah.” He braces himself for Eames to ask the inevitable question of why he’s here, but he just turns around and goes back to the movie like nothing’s happened.
“My grandparents want me to be my dad,” Arthur says suddenly.
Eames shifts, glancing back at Arthur over his shoulder. “And what do you want?”
“Anything but that. But it’s--I get it, you know? He was their only son, and I’m their only grandson, and he’s just, like, gone for no reason, and I can’t blame them for wanting him back, but I can’t be him. I can’t be a replacement. It’s not fucking fair to me, and I feel like shit for thinking that, like I should be a better person or something.” He’s almost panting when the words finish tumbling out, and Eames has gone absolutely still.
Softly, Eames says, “No one can make you be anything, no matter what they tell you.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Fuck it, of course it is. You know enough to say you’re not going to be your old man. They can’t take that from you. That’s who you are, and fuck anyone who says otherwise.” He slaps his hand against the carpet, eyes flashing brightly, and Arthur thinks, Yes.
“I should take you back with me,” Arthur says with a faint smile.
“I’ll say it to anyone, anytime,” Eames smirks, but the bridge of his nose is pink.
A close silence falls between them, filled only with the sounds of the movie still playing in the background. There’s a terrifying moment when Eames’ gaze drops to Arthur’s mouth for a split second, and Arthur licks his lips without thinking. Eames grits his teeth, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
“You should--” he starts, but is interrupted by Arthur’s phone buzzing with a text from his mother: Grab some milk on your way back, please. :)
Arthur drags a hand through his hair and climbs off the bed. “Mom wants me to run to the store,” he says, as if Eames asked for an explanation. “Um, thanks. For...just, you know.”
Eames is no longer looking at him, his eyes focused on the TV. “Yeah, no problem. See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” Arthur stands in the doorway, waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what. When Eames doesn’t acknowledge him again, Arthur finally leaves.
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