Fic: Dreams Are For Rookies
Oh god, I am just going to post this thing and be done with it. SERIOUSLY, I HAVE NO EXCUSES FOR THIS, NONE.
Dreams Are For Rookies
Arthur/Eames | PG-13 | 4700 words
Two months before the end of sophomore year, Arthur lets Ariadne talk him into “making an appearance” at a party held by the captain of the soccer team, way to hell and gone out in the suburbs. The house is over-sized, the music too loud, and no one, save a half dozen people, can remember Arthur’s name. It’s pretty much his idea of hell.
And that’s all before he chugs four beers in the kitchen to avoid talking to anyone and somehow ends up in a closet during an impromptu game of Seven Minutes in Heaven.
Oh look, ANOTHER HIGH SCHOOL AU. You're all SHOCKED AND APPALLED, I can tell. Really, though, if you know me at all, you're really just shaking your head. liketheroad, halflinen, and harriet_vane told me this wasn't utterly stupid, so blame them. And apologies to the actual band whose name I stole for the title.
The two times Arthur has allowed himself to be dragged to a house party have both, somehow, turned into high school cliches. The first time, seven months into his freshman year, he woke up on the front lawn of the student body president’s house without his shoes, an empty bottle of Gatorade in one hand and a tennis ball in the other. Ariadne still swears there’s no video footage of him from that night, but Arthur thinks she’s just being nice.
Then, two months before the end of sophomore year, Arthur lets Ariadne talk him into “making an appearance” at a party held by the captain of the soccer team, way to hell and gone out in the suburbs. The house is over-sized, the music too loud, and no one, save a half dozen people, can remember Arthur’s name. It’s pretty much his idea of hell.
And that’s all before he chugs four beers in the kitchen to avoid talking to anyone and somehow ends up in a closet during an impromptu game of Seven Minutes in Heaven.
“Are you shitting me?” he says loudly as Ariadne shoves him into a rather large linen closet. “Seriously, are we in sixth grade now?” He isn’t drunk enough for this...except maybe he is, since he’s blushing as well, and Arthur despises blushing in public.
“You said you’d be a good sport.” Ariadne looks over her shoulder, biting her lip around a grin when said soccer captain, the One and Only Dom Cobb (because that’s really the only way Arthur can think of him, given that Ariadne tends to refer to him in hyperbolic capital letters surrounded by floating, sparkly hearts), yells something about making sure Arthur doesn’t cheat.
“I never said anything about subjecting myself to voluntary humiliation, and I don’t cheat.” He might be a little too indignant over the last bit, but seriously, he’s vice-president of the history club, for fuck’s sake. Cheating over a kissing game is an insult.
Ariadne pats his cheek. “You’ll be okay, promise.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m totally not-”
“This is the room, yeah? Have we started already?”
Arthur’s stomach makes a very uncomfortable and unwanted swoop. He holds himself very still and hisses at Ariadne, “You did this on purpose.”
She beams happily. “Not really, no, but it worked out perfectly. You can thank me later.” And then, to Arthur’s abject horror, she turns to the boy behind her and ushers him into the closet with a flourish, saying, “He’s all yours!” The door slams shut, and Arthur is left alone in a tiny, dimly lit room with possibly the hottest guy on the planet.
Not that Arthur has told a single living soul on said planet that he’s been lusting for months after Eames, the foreign exchange student from Britain who’s just cool enough to go by his last name. He’s never told anyone about the numerous times he sneaks into the auditorium to watch the rehearsals for A Streetcar Named Desire (Eames is playing Stanley, American accent and all), or the times he’s slowed his steps through the senior hallway just to listen to Eames hold a conversation, or the times he “accidentally” parks his piece of shit Mazda beside Eames’ Jeep. It’s all very pathetic and lame and so very Molly Ringwald, and Arthur hates himself for it. He likes to think he’s above stupid high school bullshit crushes, especially ones on seniors who are too hot, too everything to even care about his existence.
Arthur is maybe really fucking drunk.
Eames leans back against the linen closet door and smiles at him, which in turn makes Arthur’s heart stutter, which in turn makes Arthur glare.
“So,” Eames drawls, and the word pulls at his lips in disgustingly attractive ways. “You’re Arthur.” He doesn’t say it like a question.
“Does it matter?” Arthur shoots back before he can really think about it. “Let’s just do this.” He’s not backing down from this simply because the thought of kissing Eames makes him want to simultaneously hyperventilate and claw his way through the walls, but he’s also not going to stand here and stare at Eames’ mouth, or the way his gray t-shirt pulls across his chest and shoulders. If they’re kissing, he won’t have to stare at anything.
But Eames laughs softly. The sound makes Arthur feel a little sick. “What’s the rush? I don’t like to exchange kisses with anyone I haven’t been properly acquainted with.”
God, Arthur would really like to curl up inside Eames’ voice and live there. He blinks for second and shakes himself, scrubbing a hand roughly over his flushed cheeks, pushing irritably at his glasses. “It’s called Seven Minutes for a reason. We’re on a timer.”
“Are we?” Eames glances around the tiny closet. “I don’t see a clock anywhere.”
“It’s part of the game, they’re all-”
“Arthur.” Heavy, warm hands land on Arthur’s shoulders, and Arthur hates that he can’t breathe for a terrible moment. He forces himself to meet Eames’ eyes, hoping frantically that Eames doesn’t have some kind of special Hot British Guy super power that allows him to read Arthur’s thoughts.
“Yes?” He tips his chin up, says the word very calm and evenly.
“Are you frightened of me?” Eames asks, and he sounds genuinely curious. He narrows his gaze, head tilted to one side, and Arthur wishes he’d stop touching him.
“Why the hell would I be scared of you?” Arthur barks out a high, uncomfortable laugh. “I just don’t want to cheat. Standing around shooting the shit isn’t really playing the game.”
The corner of Eames’ mouth twitches. “Ah, yes, and you were so keen on playing this little game, weren’t you,” he murmurs quietly. He finally drops his hands, and Arthur breathes a sigh of relief.
“Okay, let’s get this over with and you’ll never have to-”
“Do you even know my name?”
Arthur chokes a little. “‘Course I do. Everyone does,” he adds, looking away at the stack of yellow towels in the corner.
“Do you know anything else?”
Shit, he’s not having this conversation now. Why the hell won’t Eames just fucking kiss him and be done with it? Unless...unless he’s stalling. It wouldn’t surprise Arthur, really; it’s not like he’s fighting off people wanting to make out with him with a stick. It’s not like he’s kissed anyone else in his life besides Ariadne, which was once, and at her seventh birthday party. Eames has probably been kissing people from before he could walk.
“I don’t need to know anything else,” Arthur replies sharply. He crosses his arms over his chest and squares his shoulders, glad for the beer muddling his senses. It makes the humiliation easier to take. “Now fucking kiss me, or I’m done with this shit.”
Eames rubs at his chin, a strange, thoughtful look in his eyes, like he’s debating an important question. Probably something about the length of their kiss and how long he can stand the torture. Arthur ignores the ugly clench in his chest, tries not to stare at the way Eames chews at the corner of his lip.
“Right,” Eames finally says, and there’s a hint of determination in his voice. He takes a step closer, until they are nearly chest to chest, the soft cotton of Eames’ t-shirt brushing against the front of Arthur’s sweater. He reaches up, frames his thumb and index finger gently along the line of Arthur’s jaw, and Arthur cannot help the small gasp that escapes his throat at that unexpected touch. He swallows quickly to cover it up, but Eames smiles.
“I won’t bite,” he whispers just before sliding his lips over Arthur’s.
It’s nothing at all what a kiss should be, not here, not like this. It shouldn’t be slow and careful and almost soothing, with barely-parted mouths and only the slightest touch of Eames’ tongue against Arthur’s lower lip. Without meaning to, Arthur’s eyes flutter closed as his traitorous body all but melts into it, and then the next thing he knows, his fingers are tangled in the material of Eames’ shirt, and he makes a small, ridiculous panting noise.
He wants to break free and hide his face for the next billion years, and yet Arthur doesn’t want this moment to end. He’ll never get it back.
Unfortunately, Eames pulls back, letting their mouths part abruptly. Arthur thinks frantically, breathlessly, Not yet.
“Here, let’s get rid of these,” Eames says softly as he reaches up to slide Arthur’s glasses down and off his nose, setting them on the shelf just over Arthur’s shoulders. Everything goes a little blurry, but he can still see the quirk of Eames’ mouth.
“I need those,” Arthur grumbles, just to have something to say since Eames isn’t kissing him anymore. His face feels way too hot.
Eames laughs, but it doesn’t sound malicious at all. If anything, he sounds...fond. “I think you’ll find this a lot easier without them.” Fingertips skim over Arthur’s cheek, making Arthur shiver and involuntarily clench his hands in Eames’ shirt.
God, he hopes Eames isn’t trying to insinuate that he knows Arthur’s never really done this before.
“I’ve done this before,” Arthur blurts out, because obviously beer and hormones do not equal wise life decisions.
“I never said you hadn’t.”
“Well, I have. Tons of times. Tons and tons of times, so don’t, y’know. Do that.”
“What?” Eames traces a finger down Arthur’s chin, and Arthur glares fiercely, ducking away from the touch.
“That. I don’t need it, it’s just a fucking game, all right?” His stupid heart begins to pound faster. It’s times like these that Arthur truly hates being sixteen; he’d give anything to be a full-fledged adult, a list of life experiences under his belt and a catalog of solutions in his head, enabling him to solve practically any crisis. If he were an adult, he’d know how to deal with wanting something he can’t have. He’d know how to kiss someone without falling to goddamn pieces.
Eames blinks slowly, and there’s a flicker of something in his expression, but Arthur is too drunk and too blind in the dim light of the closet to really put a name to it. “A game. Yes,” Eames eventually replies, and Arthur thinks maybe he’s fucked up everything and Eames will leave him alone with the vague taste of tobacco in his mouth.
But instead, Eames presses forward, forcing Arthur to stumble backward until his shoulders hit the edge of the shelves. He cups Arthur’s cheek again, only this time his thumb drags over Arthur’s mouth as his fingers splay over his skin. Arthur has to close his eyes for a moment and swallow, hard, barely conscious of his lips automatically parting, waiting.
When the next kiss happens, it’s completely different from the first. This kiss isn’t as gentle or slow, and there’s definite purpose behind it; Arthur can feel his mouth go wide as Eames slants his lips slightly and licks inside, his tongue sliding against Arthur’s. He can barely breathe, can only focus on the wet heat of Eames’ mouth, the heavy warmth of his body flush against him. It takes him a good thirty seconds or so before he lets himself return the kiss-which mostly involves Arthur mimicking Eames’ motions, right down to the little nip Eames gives the corner of Arthur’s mouth.
Arthur hears a brief rumbling noise, and thinks, somehow, that the sound came from Eames.
He made Eames groan.
Feeling a sudden, impulsive burst of confidence, Arthur releases his grip on Eames’ t-shirt and slides his palm along the hem, barely touching skin, until his hand is cupped against the curve of Eames’ waist, just above his hip. Without thinking, he lets his fingers dip underneath the shirt, and the shock of touching hot, smooth skin doesn’t quite register until he feels a shudder go through Eames’ entire body. Arthur does a mental fist pump, a jolt of pure adrenaline rushing through him.
Suddenly, Eames puts both hands on Arthur’s shoulders and sets Arthur back as if they’re in a fucking Victorian novel.
“Wait,” Eames says, his voice low and breathy. His mouth is all slick and full; Arthur really just wants to lean back in and sink his teeth there, right at the dip in his lower lip.
Too bad Eames is going to put an end to all this and pat Arthur on the cheek as a parting gesture. Arthur can see it all unfolding in his head in crystal clear Technicolor.
“Sorry,” Arthur says before Eames can smirk and say something about how charming this whole experience has been. He puts on his best bored look and folds both arms over his chest, holding himself very still against the shelf. Not a single part of him is touching Eames, and he wishes he couldn’t feel his pulse pounding beneath the skin of his lips. He tilts his chin up, waiting to be dismissed.
Eames, though, looks slightly bewildered. “Don’t-don’t apologize, I’m not-I just-” He laughs, the sound quiet and uncertain. “But you, ah, really shouldn’t touch me like that.”
Arthur’s stomach bottoms out, but he’s proud of the way he keeps his expression mostly blank. He shrugs, keeps his hands pressed against his ribs so that Eames can’t see them shake. “Fine, whatever, it won’t happen again. So are we done here?” He flushes when his voice wavers slightly.
“Um.” Eames’s mouth twists to one side. “Do you want to be done?”
It’s like adding insult to injury. Arthur’s not about to admit that no, he’s not done, he’d fucking stay plastered against this shelf until the end of time if it meant getting to put his hands on Eames like that. He may be drunk, but he’s still got some dignity left. Sort of. Maybe.
Arthur shrugs again. “Yeah, I’ve got people waiting on me, and our time’s probably up, anyway.” He doesn’t look at Eames’s mouth, or the stupid pinch just above his nose. He takes a deep breath, pushes off the shelf, and makes an awkward attempt to shoulder his way past Eames without touching him.
Of course, Eames would block his way to the door. For the second time, he says, “Wait,” and Arthur rolls his eyes.
“Seriously, I already said I was sorry, and we’ve both got other things we’d rather being doing than this stupid shit, I don’t-”
Eames kisses him, soft and quick, his hand circling around Arthur’s wrist in a light hold. Arthur’s breath stutters, and he instantly forgets the rest of his sentence.
“Sarah was really off today, wasn’t she?” Eames whispers against Arthur’s mouth. “She’s a bloody fine actress, but her boyfriend dumps her and suddenly she can’t remember a single fucking line.”
“She seemed all right, you guys were pretty-” He pauses, then pulls back abruptly, eyes wide. Sarah is Eames’ co-star, his Blanche. Shit. “You...you knew about-”
“Your lurking skills need considerable work if you ever plan to go into espionage.” There’s a definite smirk in Eames’ tone. “Maybe you shouldn’t sit in the balcony every damned day. It really is quite distracting.”
Arthur splutters. “How am I distracting, you never even knew I was there!” Eames has yet to let go of his hand.
“Everyone knew, and yet it took me tracking down your best friend to actually learn who you are.”
Naturally Ariadne would be involved in all this. He’s never mentioned Eames’ name once to her, but she knows, and Arthur knows she knows. Best friends are like that, and he’s just been in denial.
“Who I am is nothing worth researching,” Arthur mumbles, trying to pull his hand free of Eames’ grasp.
“I would vehemently disagree with you on that one. You’re vice-president of the history club, treasurer of the French club, and volunteer at the public library on the weekends. You run cross country track and have a rather strange obsession with the Beastie Boys. You’ve read The Great Gatsby once a year since you were twelve, cried at the beginning and end of Up, and Tennessee Williams is your favorite playwright. Oh, and you wore Transformers underpants until you were ten.”
Arthur blinks. “That last part’s a lie. I was nine.”
“My mistake.” Eames’ smirk gets wider as he slowly releases Arthur’s wrist. “So now that I’ve told you everything I possess in my catalog of Arthur Knowledge, perhaps you’ll return the favor?”
“I’m not.” He pauses to clear his throat as his cheeks explode with heat. “I’m not telling you-I don’t know anything about you. Really.”
He’s not quite prepared for Eames’ expression to go soft, or for him to say in a careful, soothing voice, “I’m not here to mock you, Arthur, I promise.”
“Just because I like to watch the rehearsals doesn’t mean I’m, like, stalking you.” He doesn’t realize he’s wincing until it’s too late. “I just...really like that play.”
“I see.” Eames doesn’t say anything for several long moments, but he chews the corner of his lip as if he’s mulling over his next comment.
“If it bothers you, I won’t go anymore. Or I’ll stay out of sight and you’ll never have to worry about me being a distraction again.” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them; a part of him hopes Eames knows he’s drunk, that the real Arthur chooses his words much more carefully and would never be this lame.
Eames slowly nods his head, and Arthur thinks, Okay, then. At least he didn’t come straight out and demand Arthur never lay eyes on him again. That would only be slightly less humiliating.
Arthur starts to shuffle past him, skin flushed and stomach knotted. “All right,” he murmurs, head bowed as he grabs his glasses off the shelf, shoves them back up his nose. The world sharpens, and he takes a deep breath in a desperate attempt to pull himself back together.
But just as he turns the doorknob, Arthur feels hot, hot breath against the shell of his ear. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from shivering, a battle he loses spectacularly, especially when Eames says, “When I said you shouldn’t touch me, what do you think I meant by that, exactly?”
Arthur closes his eyes. “I don’t know, that-that you didn’t want-that I’d crossed a line,” he whispers.
Eames hums softly. “Can I show you something?”
He swallows. “Yeah?”
“Turn around.”
Arthur turns carefully until he’s facing Eames, his back against the door. There’s a good couple of inches between them, but he feels as if he’s surrounded by heat, the scent of Eames-cigarette smoke, hints of whiskey and aftershave-making his chest go painfully tight. It’s so unfair, Arthur just wants; he barely keeps himself from groaning in frustration.
To make matters worse, Eames licks over his bottom lip, which is close enough for Arthur’s gaze to track the slick slide of his tongue over smooth skin, and fuck, is he trying to kill him?
“When you touched me,” Eames breathes, “this is what it felt like.”
Arthur doesn’t know what to expect, but it’s certainly not Eames’ hand slipping tentatively beneath the edge of the shirttails peeking out from under Arthur’s sweater (how his shirt’s gotten untucked from his jeans, he has no idea, he’ll be irritated about that later when he can finally, you know, think), or Eames’ fingers splaying over his bare hipbone, the touch feather-light but still enough to quietly wreck Arthur. A sharp, tiny moan that escapes from his mouth, sounding horribly loud in the stuffy closet.
“Do you see now?” he hears Eames whisper, and something like a kiss skims over Arthur’s jaw. He drops his hand (Arthur doesn’t moan again, he doesn’t), smooths Arthur’s shirt back into place.
“I.” He’s shaking a little too much to make coherent sentences, afraid to open his eyes and take in whatever look is in Eames’ eyes. “I...guess?” Surely he couldn’t have made Eames feel that way...
“So you understand that had I continued to let you touch me in such a manner, my abilities to remain a gentleman in your presence would have been sorely compromised.” Lips press against the corner of Arthur’s mouth. “I’d, um. Rather not jump you without your expressed permission.”
Arthur’s eyes fly wide open. “You...you want to jump me?” They are nearly nose to nose, and he can feel Eames’ breath against his chin.
“Well.” Eames smiles sheepishly. “I’d like to be certain that you’d actually like to continue this outside of a linen closet before committing to said jumping, but...yes?” He laughs, and it’s self-deprecating, self-conscious, and possibly the most amazing thing Arthur has ever heard.
Without a second thought, Arthur says, “You’re from south London and you like vintage Morrissey and there’s a picture of a Corgi puppy in your locker that’s probably waiting for you back home and you don’t like to admit that you like those Jason Statham movies where he’s got a fake heart and you hate baseball but still watch it on TV and sometimes you sing Lady Gaga songs under your breath when you think no one’s listening.” He stops for air, a constant loop of oh shit oh shit running through his head because oh god, he’s sounds like a damn creeper.
Eames squints at him. “Which songs?”
Arthur doesn’t even pause. “Mostly ‘Bad Romance,’ but sometimes ‘Telephone’.”
His lips twitch. “Also, the puppy’s name is Heathcliff, and he was my birthday present last year. He’s quite large now.”
“You named your dog after the dude from Wuthering Heights?”
“And I have a cat named Darcy, what’s your point?”
Arthur doesn’t really believe in love, but he might just be drunk enough to change his mind. “How...you do actually exist in real life, right?”
Eames raises an eyebrow, and he gives Arthur a genuine, full-blown smile that makes Arthur glad for the door against his back that prevents him from melting into the floor. “Is that a compliment?” he asks.
“I don’t know, you somehow ended up in a closet with me, kissed me, and then told me you own a cat from a Jane Austen novel, and this on top of all the Lady Gaga shit.” Before he can think better of it, Arthur reaches up and pokes at Eames’ cheek, lets his finger trail over the bridge of his nose.
To his amazement, Eames turns his face into the touch. “What if, ah, I told you I maybe, sort of, talked Cobb into letting me be in here with you?”
Arthur snorts. “Now I know you’re not real.” He doesn’t drop his hand, just continues to trace the lines of Eames’ cheekbones.
“I don’t feel real enough?”
“You do, but this is starting to sound way too High School Musical for me. I’m probably five minutes away from passing out, which means I’m totally hallucinating.”
Eames leans closer, slides a hand slowly up Arthur’s chest to gently cup the back of his neck. “So what you’re saying is, your subconscious really wants me to kiss you again?”
Arthur’s fingertips brush over Eames’ stupid, gorgeous lips, which feel very, very real. Real and hot and wet. “Possibly,” he breathes. “But I’m pretty sure our seven minutes were up a long time ago.”
“I distinctly remember saying something about a lack of clocks.”
“Still-”
“Arthur.” The way he says his name is almost pornographic. “Do you always argue with your hallucinations?”
He’s never had a hallucination under his hands and so close Arthur could lick his teeth. “No,” he whispers, and Eames laughs again, soft and affectionate.
“I’ll choose to be flattered, then,” he says, sliding Arthur’s glasses off his nose once more. “Can’t say I’ve ever made out with a beautiful boy who completely fails at stalking and then accuses me of being a figment of his imagination whilst giving me insane bedroom eyes.”
Arthur manages to glare even as Eames slowly sinks his weight against his chest, pressing him harder against the door. “Did you just insult me?” he asks breathlessly, eyes fluttering closed the second Eames’ mouth skims over his cheek.
“Not at all. In fact, if I am a hallucination, then well done, you’ve got a brilliant imagination on you.” His grin obscures the kiss he places on Arthur’s lower lip, the hand at Arthur’s neck slipping down to splay over Arthur’s heart.
There are two things Arthur is certain of: one, he’s drunk and two, the longer he stays braced against the door of this tiny, cramped closet being kissed like every ridiculous fantasy he’s ever had, the less he cares about whether or not Eames is a product of too much cheap beer. Eames feels real, tastes real, and the quiet noises he makes whenever Arthur gets bold and takes over the kiss are so real, Arthur thinks he couldn’t possibly make them up.
He doesn’t realize he’s maybe gone a little hard and is maybe pawing at Eames’ t-shirt a little too insistently until Eames breaks away, gasping, and says in a rough, sex-drenched voice, “Is it wrong if this hallucination would really just like to take you on a proper date before orgasms are involved?”
Arthur’s brain is currently composed of hormones, beer, and the kind of glee associated with thirteen-year-old girls. “What?” he asks intelligently, hands tangled up in soft gray cotton. He thinks he should maybe relax his death grip, but then, Eames fingers are hooked into the belt loops of Arthur’s jeans and he hasn’t let go.
Eames takes a deep breath. “Goddamn it, I am really trying to be a fucking gentleman here,” he says, laughing weakly. He sounds slightly desperate. “Just humor me, please? Let me buy you dinner and a movie and all the cliched trappings of a first date, and then you can come back to my room and maybe come in my mouth.”
Arthur makes a strangled noise. “You-I-fuck, I-” He might be hyperventilating. Or just really wanting to skip the whole date talk and get right to the part where he’s alone in Eames’ room. Having sex. “Please, please be real, jesus fucking christ.”
“I’m sure I’d be a lot smoother were I not,” Eames breathes, and he sucks sharply at Arthur’s lip before sighing heavily and pushing himself away from Arthur.
Arthur, meanwhile, leaves his hands permanently glued to the neck of Eames’ shirt. He ignores the sad, frustrated whimper that comes from somewhere in his throat and says, “Fine, you can take me out.”
Eames beams at him, all flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. Yeah, Arthur might be slightly in fucking love with him. “You’ve made this hallucination very happy.”
“Don’t kid around, I want to enjoy this while it lasts.” He goes for broke and yanks Eames back against him, kisses him hard.
When Eames finally pulls away, he’s humming “Love Game” under his breath as he hands Arthur back his glasses.
~
Arthur wakes up the next morning hungover as fuck. He can’t see the clock on his nightstand, nor does he remember where he dropped his glasses the night before as he’d quite literally fallen into bed. He groans loudly and finally flails around for his phone, which is somehow wedged beneath his pillow.
He has one text message, which reads, walk walk fashion baby work it move that bitch crazy
He doesn’t recognize the number, but he doesn’t need to. Arthur rolls onto his stomach, wincing painfully in the bright sunlight streaming through his bedroom window, and writes back, Still real?
A minute later: as it gets
Arthur grins into his pillow, flushing despite the fact that his brain hurts and his mouth tastes like death. I’m glad, he types and sends.
Two minutes later: go back to sleep, youve got a hot date 2nite
~
LOOK, MORE AUTHOR'S NOTES: The inspiration for putting Eames in a production of A Streetcar Named Desire came from slowlikewine emailing me about how much Tom Hardy reminds her of a young Marlon Brando. IT IS KIND OF UNCANNY.
And just because I feel like it, this is the JGL that resided in my head while I wrote this. Draw in the black plastic frames.
ETA: Now with BONUS ART by innueneko! *___*
Dreams Are For Rookies
Arthur/Eames | PG-13 | 4700 words
Two months before the end of sophomore year, Arthur lets Ariadne talk him into “making an appearance” at a party held by the captain of the soccer team, way to hell and gone out in the suburbs. The house is over-sized, the music too loud, and no one, save a half dozen people, can remember Arthur’s name. It’s pretty much his idea of hell.
And that’s all before he chugs four beers in the kitchen to avoid talking to anyone and somehow ends up in a closet during an impromptu game of Seven Minutes in Heaven.
Oh look, ANOTHER HIGH SCHOOL AU. You're all SHOCKED AND APPALLED, I can tell. Really, though, if you know me at all, you're really just shaking your head. liketheroad, halflinen, and harriet_vane told me this wasn't utterly stupid, so blame them. And apologies to the actual band whose name I stole for the title.
The two times Arthur has allowed himself to be dragged to a house party have both, somehow, turned into high school cliches. The first time, seven months into his freshman year, he woke up on the front lawn of the student body president’s house without his shoes, an empty bottle of Gatorade in one hand and a tennis ball in the other. Ariadne still swears there’s no video footage of him from that night, but Arthur thinks she’s just being nice.
Then, two months before the end of sophomore year, Arthur lets Ariadne talk him into “making an appearance” at a party held by the captain of the soccer team, way to hell and gone out in the suburbs. The house is over-sized, the music too loud, and no one, save a half dozen people, can remember Arthur’s name. It’s pretty much his idea of hell.
And that’s all before he chugs four beers in the kitchen to avoid talking to anyone and somehow ends up in a closet during an impromptu game of Seven Minutes in Heaven.
“Are you shitting me?” he says loudly as Ariadne shoves him into a rather large linen closet. “Seriously, are we in sixth grade now?” He isn’t drunk enough for this...except maybe he is, since he’s blushing as well, and Arthur despises blushing in public.
“You said you’d be a good sport.” Ariadne looks over her shoulder, biting her lip around a grin when said soccer captain, the One and Only Dom Cobb (because that’s really the only way Arthur can think of him, given that Ariadne tends to refer to him in hyperbolic capital letters surrounded by floating, sparkly hearts), yells something about making sure Arthur doesn’t cheat.
“I never said anything about subjecting myself to voluntary humiliation, and I don’t cheat.” He might be a little too indignant over the last bit, but seriously, he’s vice-president of the history club, for fuck’s sake. Cheating over a kissing game is an insult.
Ariadne pats his cheek. “You’ll be okay, promise.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m totally not-”
“This is the room, yeah? Have we started already?”
Arthur’s stomach makes a very uncomfortable and unwanted swoop. He holds himself very still and hisses at Ariadne, “You did this on purpose.”
She beams happily. “Not really, no, but it worked out perfectly. You can thank me later.” And then, to Arthur’s abject horror, she turns to the boy behind her and ushers him into the closet with a flourish, saying, “He’s all yours!” The door slams shut, and Arthur is left alone in a tiny, dimly lit room with possibly the hottest guy on the planet.
Not that Arthur has told a single living soul on said planet that he’s been lusting for months after Eames, the foreign exchange student from Britain who’s just cool enough to go by his last name. He’s never told anyone about the numerous times he sneaks into the auditorium to watch the rehearsals for A Streetcar Named Desire (Eames is playing Stanley, American accent and all), or the times he’s slowed his steps through the senior hallway just to listen to Eames hold a conversation, or the times he “accidentally” parks his piece of shit Mazda beside Eames’ Jeep. It’s all very pathetic and lame and so very Molly Ringwald, and Arthur hates himself for it. He likes to think he’s above stupid high school bullshit crushes, especially ones on seniors who are too hot, too everything to even care about his existence.
Arthur is maybe really fucking drunk.
Eames leans back against the linen closet door and smiles at him, which in turn makes Arthur’s heart stutter, which in turn makes Arthur glare.
“So,” Eames drawls, and the word pulls at his lips in disgustingly attractive ways. “You’re Arthur.” He doesn’t say it like a question.
“Does it matter?” Arthur shoots back before he can really think about it. “Let’s just do this.” He’s not backing down from this simply because the thought of kissing Eames makes him want to simultaneously hyperventilate and claw his way through the walls, but he’s also not going to stand here and stare at Eames’ mouth, or the way his gray t-shirt pulls across his chest and shoulders. If they’re kissing, he won’t have to stare at anything.
But Eames laughs softly. The sound makes Arthur feel a little sick. “What’s the rush? I don’t like to exchange kisses with anyone I haven’t been properly acquainted with.”
God, Arthur would really like to curl up inside Eames’ voice and live there. He blinks for second and shakes himself, scrubbing a hand roughly over his flushed cheeks, pushing irritably at his glasses. “It’s called Seven Minutes for a reason. We’re on a timer.”
“Are we?” Eames glances around the tiny closet. “I don’t see a clock anywhere.”
“It’s part of the game, they’re all-”
“Arthur.” Heavy, warm hands land on Arthur’s shoulders, and Arthur hates that he can’t breathe for a terrible moment. He forces himself to meet Eames’ eyes, hoping frantically that Eames doesn’t have some kind of special Hot British Guy super power that allows him to read Arthur’s thoughts.
“Yes?” He tips his chin up, says the word very calm and evenly.
“Are you frightened of me?” Eames asks, and he sounds genuinely curious. He narrows his gaze, head tilted to one side, and Arthur wishes he’d stop touching him.
“Why the hell would I be scared of you?” Arthur barks out a high, uncomfortable laugh. “I just don’t want to cheat. Standing around shooting the shit isn’t really playing the game.”
The corner of Eames’ mouth twitches. “Ah, yes, and you were so keen on playing this little game, weren’t you,” he murmurs quietly. He finally drops his hands, and Arthur breathes a sigh of relief.
“Okay, let’s get this over with and you’ll never have to-”
“Do you even know my name?”
Arthur chokes a little. “‘Course I do. Everyone does,” he adds, looking away at the stack of yellow towels in the corner.
“Do you know anything else?”
Shit, he’s not having this conversation now. Why the hell won’t Eames just fucking kiss him and be done with it? Unless...unless he’s stalling. It wouldn’t surprise Arthur, really; it’s not like he’s fighting off people wanting to make out with him with a stick. It’s not like he’s kissed anyone else in his life besides Ariadne, which was once, and at her seventh birthday party. Eames has probably been kissing people from before he could walk.
“I don’t need to know anything else,” Arthur replies sharply. He crosses his arms over his chest and squares his shoulders, glad for the beer muddling his senses. It makes the humiliation easier to take. “Now fucking kiss me, or I’m done with this shit.”
Eames rubs at his chin, a strange, thoughtful look in his eyes, like he’s debating an important question. Probably something about the length of their kiss and how long he can stand the torture. Arthur ignores the ugly clench in his chest, tries not to stare at the way Eames chews at the corner of his lip.
“Right,” Eames finally says, and there’s a hint of determination in his voice. He takes a step closer, until they are nearly chest to chest, the soft cotton of Eames’ t-shirt brushing against the front of Arthur’s sweater. He reaches up, frames his thumb and index finger gently along the line of Arthur’s jaw, and Arthur cannot help the small gasp that escapes his throat at that unexpected touch. He swallows quickly to cover it up, but Eames smiles.
“I won’t bite,” he whispers just before sliding his lips over Arthur’s.
It’s nothing at all what a kiss should be, not here, not like this. It shouldn’t be slow and careful and almost soothing, with barely-parted mouths and only the slightest touch of Eames’ tongue against Arthur’s lower lip. Without meaning to, Arthur’s eyes flutter closed as his traitorous body all but melts into it, and then the next thing he knows, his fingers are tangled in the material of Eames’ shirt, and he makes a small, ridiculous panting noise.
He wants to break free and hide his face for the next billion years, and yet Arthur doesn’t want this moment to end. He’ll never get it back.
Unfortunately, Eames pulls back, letting their mouths part abruptly. Arthur thinks frantically, breathlessly, Not yet.
“Here, let’s get rid of these,” Eames says softly as he reaches up to slide Arthur’s glasses down and off his nose, setting them on the shelf just over Arthur’s shoulders. Everything goes a little blurry, but he can still see the quirk of Eames’ mouth.
“I need those,” Arthur grumbles, just to have something to say since Eames isn’t kissing him anymore. His face feels way too hot.
Eames laughs, but it doesn’t sound malicious at all. If anything, he sounds...fond. “I think you’ll find this a lot easier without them.” Fingertips skim over Arthur’s cheek, making Arthur shiver and involuntarily clench his hands in Eames’ shirt.
God, he hopes Eames isn’t trying to insinuate that he knows Arthur’s never really done this before.
“I’ve done this before,” Arthur blurts out, because obviously beer and hormones do not equal wise life decisions.
“I never said you hadn’t.”
“Well, I have. Tons of times. Tons and tons of times, so don’t, y’know. Do that.”
“What?” Eames traces a finger down Arthur’s chin, and Arthur glares fiercely, ducking away from the touch.
“That. I don’t need it, it’s just a fucking game, all right?” His stupid heart begins to pound faster. It’s times like these that Arthur truly hates being sixteen; he’d give anything to be a full-fledged adult, a list of life experiences under his belt and a catalog of solutions in his head, enabling him to solve practically any crisis. If he were an adult, he’d know how to deal with wanting something he can’t have. He’d know how to kiss someone without falling to goddamn pieces.
Eames blinks slowly, and there’s a flicker of something in his expression, but Arthur is too drunk and too blind in the dim light of the closet to really put a name to it. “A game. Yes,” Eames eventually replies, and Arthur thinks maybe he’s fucked up everything and Eames will leave him alone with the vague taste of tobacco in his mouth.
But instead, Eames presses forward, forcing Arthur to stumble backward until his shoulders hit the edge of the shelves. He cups Arthur’s cheek again, only this time his thumb drags over Arthur’s mouth as his fingers splay over his skin. Arthur has to close his eyes for a moment and swallow, hard, barely conscious of his lips automatically parting, waiting.
When the next kiss happens, it’s completely different from the first. This kiss isn’t as gentle or slow, and there’s definite purpose behind it; Arthur can feel his mouth go wide as Eames slants his lips slightly and licks inside, his tongue sliding against Arthur’s. He can barely breathe, can only focus on the wet heat of Eames’ mouth, the heavy warmth of his body flush against him. It takes him a good thirty seconds or so before he lets himself return the kiss-which mostly involves Arthur mimicking Eames’ motions, right down to the little nip Eames gives the corner of Arthur’s mouth.
Arthur hears a brief rumbling noise, and thinks, somehow, that the sound came from Eames.
He made Eames groan.
Feeling a sudden, impulsive burst of confidence, Arthur releases his grip on Eames’ t-shirt and slides his palm along the hem, barely touching skin, until his hand is cupped against the curve of Eames’ waist, just above his hip. Without thinking, he lets his fingers dip underneath the shirt, and the shock of touching hot, smooth skin doesn’t quite register until he feels a shudder go through Eames’ entire body. Arthur does a mental fist pump, a jolt of pure adrenaline rushing through him.
Suddenly, Eames puts both hands on Arthur’s shoulders and sets Arthur back as if they’re in a fucking Victorian novel.
“Wait,” Eames says, his voice low and breathy. His mouth is all slick and full; Arthur really just wants to lean back in and sink his teeth there, right at the dip in his lower lip.
Too bad Eames is going to put an end to all this and pat Arthur on the cheek as a parting gesture. Arthur can see it all unfolding in his head in crystal clear Technicolor.
“Sorry,” Arthur says before Eames can smirk and say something about how charming this whole experience has been. He puts on his best bored look and folds both arms over his chest, holding himself very still against the shelf. Not a single part of him is touching Eames, and he wishes he couldn’t feel his pulse pounding beneath the skin of his lips. He tilts his chin up, waiting to be dismissed.
Eames, though, looks slightly bewildered. “Don’t-don’t apologize, I’m not-I just-” He laughs, the sound quiet and uncertain. “But you, ah, really shouldn’t touch me like that.”
Arthur’s stomach bottoms out, but he’s proud of the way he keeps his expression mostly blank. He shrugs, keeps his hands pressed against his ribs so that Eames can’t see them shake. “Fine, whatever, it won’t happen again. So are we done here?” He flushes when his voice wavers slightly.
“Um.” Eames’s mouth twists to one side. “Do you want to be done?”
It’s like adding insult to injury. Arthur’s not about to admit that no, he’s not done, he’d fucking stay plastered against this shelf until the end of time if it meant getting to put his hands on Eames like that. He may be drunk, but he’s still got some dignity left. Sort of. Maybe.
Arthur shrugs again. “Yeah, I’ve got people waiting on me, and our time’s probably up, anyway.” He doesn’t look at Eames’s mouth, or the stupid pinch just above his nose. He takes a deep breath, pushes off the shelf, and makes an awkward attempt to shoulder his way past Eames without touching him.
Of course, Eames would block his way to the door. For the second time, he says, “Wait,” and Arthur rolls his eyes.
“Seriously, I already said I was sorry, and we’ve both got other things we’d rather being doing than this stupid shit, I don’t-”
Eames kisses him, soft and quick, his hand circling around Arthur’s wrist in a light hold. Arthur’s breath stutters, and he instantly forgets the rest of his sentence.
“Sarah was really off today, wasn’t she?” Eames whispers against Arthur’s mouth. “She’s a bloody fine actress, but her boyfriend dumps her and suddenly she can’t remember a single fucking line.”
“She seemed all right, you guys were pretty-” He pauses, then pulls back abruptly, eyes wide. Sarah is Eames’ co-star, his Blanche. Shit. “You...you knew about-”
“Your lurking skills need considerable work if you ever plan to go into espionage.” There’s a definite smirk in Eames’ tone. “Maybe you shouldn’t sit in the balcony every damned day. It really is quite distracting.”
Arthur splutters. “How am I distracting, you never even knew I was there!” Eames has yet to let go of his hand.
“Everyone knew, and yet it took me tracking down your best friend to actually learn who you are.”
Naturally Ariadne would be involved in all this. He’s never mentioned Eames’ name once to her, but she knows, and Arthur knows she knows. Best friends are like that, and he’s just been in denial.
“Who I am is nothing worth researching,” Arthur mumbles, trying to pull his hand free of Eames’ grasp.
“I would vehemently disagree with you on that one. You’re vice-president of the history club, treasurer of the French club, and volunteer at the public library on the weekends. You run cross country track and have a rather strange obsession with the Beastie Boys. You’ve read The Great Gatsby once a year since you were twelve, cried at the beginning and end of Up, and Tennessee Williams is your favorite playwright. Oh, and you wore Transformers underpants until you were ten.”
Arthur blinks. “That last part’s a lie. I was nine.”
“My mistake.” Eames’ smirk gets wider as he slowly releases Arthur’s wrist. “So now that I’ve told you everything I possess in my catalog of Arthur Knowledge, perhaps you’ll return the favor?”
“I’m not.” He pauses to clear his throat as his cheeks explode with heat. “I’m not telling you-I don’t know anything about you. Really.”
He’s not quite prepared for Eames’ expression to go soft, or for him to say in a careful, soothing voice, “I’m not here to mock you, Arthur, I promise.”
“Just because I like to watch the rehearsals doesn’t mean I’m, like, stalking you.” He doesn’t realize he’s wincing until it’s too late. “I just...really like that play.”
“I see.” Eames doesn’t say anything for several long moments, but he chews the corner of his lip as if he’s mulling over his next comment.
“If it bothers you, I won’t go anymore. Or I’ll stay out of sight and you’ll never have to worry about me being a distraction again.” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them; a part of him hopes Eames knows he’s drunk, that the real Arthur chooses his words much more carefully and would never be this lame.
Eames slowly nods his head, and Arthur thinks, Okay, then. At least he didn’t come straight out and demand Arthur never lay eyes on him again. That would only be slightly less humiliating.
Arthur starts to shuffle past him, skin flushed and stomach knotted. “All right,” he murmurs, head bowed as he grabs his glasses off the shelf, shoves them back up his nose. The world sharpens, and he takes a deep breath in a desperate attempt to pull himself back together.
But just as he turns the doorknob, Arthur feels hot, hot breath against the shell of his ear. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from shivering, a battle he loses spectacularly, especially when Eames says, “When I said you shouldn’t touch me, what do you think I meant by that, exactly?”
Arthur closes his eyes. “I don’t know, that-that you didn’t want-that I’d crossed a line,” he whispers.
Eames hums softly. “Can I show you something?”
He swallows. “Yeah?”
“Turn around.”
Arthur turns carefully until he’s facing Eames, his back against the door. There’s a good couple of inches between them, but he feels as if he’s surrounded by heat, the scent of Eames-cigarette smoke, hints of whiskey and aftershave-making his chest go painfully tight. It’s so unfair, Arthur just wants; he barely keeps himself from groaning in frustration.
To make matters worse, Eames licks over his bottom lip, which is close enough for Arthur’s gaze to track the slick slide of his tongue over smooth skin, and fuck, is he trying to kill him?
“When you touched me,” Eames breathes, “this is what it felt like.”
Arthur doesn’t know what to expect, but it’s certainly not Eames’ hand slipping tentatively beneath the edge of the shirttails peeking out from under Arthur’s sweater (how his shirt’s gotten untucked from his jeans, he has no idea, he’ll be irritated about that later when he can finally, you know, think), or Eames’ fingers splaying over his bare hipbone, the touch feather-light but still enough to quietly wreck Arthur. A sharp, tiny moan that escapes from his mouth, sounding horribly loud in the stuffy closet.
“Do you see now?” he hears Eames whisper, and something like a kiss skims over Arthur’s jaw. He drops his hand (Arthur doesn’t moan again, he doesn’t), smooths Arthur’s shirt back into place.
“I.” He’s shaking a little too much to make coherent sentences, afraid to open his eyes and take in whatever look is in Eames’ eyes. “I...guess?” Surely he couldn’t have made Eames feel that way...
“So you understand that had I continued to let you touch me in such a manner, my abilities to remain a gentleman in your presence would have been sorely compromised.” Lips press against the corner of Arthur’s mouth. “I’d, um. Rather not jump you without your expressed permission.”
Arthur’s eyes fly wide open. “You...you want to jump me?” They are nearly nose to nose, and he can feel Eames’ breath against his chin.
“Well.” Eames smiles sheepishly. “I’d like to be certain that you’d actually like to continue this outside of a linen closet before committing to said jumping, but...yes?” He laughs, and it’s self-deprecating, self-conscious, and possibly the most amazing thing Arthur has ever heard.
Without a second thought, Arthur says, “You’re from south London and you like vintage Morrissey and there’s a picture of a Corgi puppy in your locker that’s probably waiting for you back home and you don’t like to admit that you like those Jason Statham movies where he’s got a fake heart and you hate baseball but still watch it on TV and sometimes you sing Lady Gaga songs under your breath when you think no one’s listening.” He stops for air, a constant loop of oh shit oh shit running through his head because oh god, he’s sounds like a damn creeper.
Eames squints at him. “Which songs?”
Arthur doesn’t even pause. “Mostly ‘Bad Romance,’ but sometimes ‘Telephone’.”
His lips twitch. “Also, the puppy’s name is Heathcliff, and he was my birthday present last year. He’s quite large now.”
“You named your dog after the dude from Wuthering Heights?”
“And I have a cat named Darcy, what’s your point?”
Arthur doesn’t really believe in love, but he might just be drunk enough to change his mind. “How...you do actually exist in real life, right?”
Eames raises an eyebrow, and he gives Arthur a genuine, full-blown smile that makes Arthur glad for the door against his back that prevents him from melting into the floor. “Is that a compliment?” he asks.
“I don’t know, you somehow ended up in a closet with me, kissed me, and then told me you own a cat from a Jane Austen novel, and this on top of all the Lady Gaga shit.” Before he can think better of it, Arthur reaches up and pokes at Eames’ cheek, lets his finger trail over the bridge of his nose.
To his amazement, Eames turns his face into the touch. “What if, ah, I told you I maybe, sort of, talked Cobb into letting me be in here with you?”
Arthur snorts. “Now I know you’re not real.” He doesn’t drop his hand, just continues to trace the lines of Eames’ cheekbones.
“I don’t feel real enough?”
“You do, but this is starting to sound way too High School Musical for me. I’m probably five minutes away from passing out, which means I’m totally hallucinating.”
Eames leans closer, slides a hand slowly up Arthur’s chest to gently cup the back of his neck. “So what you’re saying is, your subconscious really wants me to kiss you again?”
Arthur’s fingertips brush over Eames’ stupid, gorgeous lips, which feel very, very real. Real and hot and wet. “Possibly,” he breathes. “But I’m pretty sure our seven minutes were up a long time ago.”
“I distinctly remember saying something about a lack of clocks.”
“Still-”
“Arthur.” The way he says his name is almost pornographic. “Do you always argue with your hallucinations?”
He’s never had a hallucination under his hands and so close Arthur could lick his teeth. “No,” he whispers, and Eames laughs again, soft and affectionate.
“I’ll choose to be flattered, then,” he says, sliding Arthur’s glasses off his nose once more. “Can’t say I’ve ever made out with a beautiful boy who completely fails at stalking and then accuses me of being a figment of his imagination whilst giving me insane bedroom eyes.”
Arthur manages to glare even as Eames slowly sinks his weight against his chest, pressing him harder against the door. “Did you just insult me?” he asks breathlessly, eyes fluttering closed the second Eames’ mouth skims over his cheek.
“Not at all. In fact, if I am a hallucination, then well done, you’ve got a brilliant imagination on you.” His grin obscures the kiss he places on Arthur’s lower lip, the hand at Arthur’s neck slipping down to splay over Arthur’s heart.
There are two things Arthur is certain of: one, he’s drunk and two, the longer he stays braced against the door of this tiny, cramped closet being kissed like every ridiculous fantasy he’s ever had, the less he cares about whether or not Eames is a product of too much cheap beer. Eames feels real, tastes real, and the quiet noises he makes whenever Arthur gets bold and takes over the kiss are so real, Arthur thinks he couldn’t possibly make them up.
He doesn’t realize he’s maybe gone a little hard and is maybe pawing at Eames’ t-shirt a little too insistently until Eames breaks away, gasping, and says in a rough, sex-drenched voice, “Is it wrong if this hallucination would really just like to take you on a proper date before orgasms are involved?”
Arthur’s brain is currently composed of hormones, beer, and the kind of glee associated with thirteen-year-old girls. “What?” he asks intelligently, hands tangled up in soft gray cotton. He thinks he should maybe relax his death grip, but then, Eames fingers are hooked into the belt loops of Arthur’s jeans and he hasn’t let go.
Eames takes a deep breath. “Goddamn it, I am really trying to be a fucking gentleman here,” he says, laughing weakly. He sounds slightly desperate. “Just humor me, please? Let me buy you dinner and a movie and all the cliched trappings of a first date, and then you can come back to my room and maybe come in my mouth.”
Arthur makes a strangled noise. “You-I-fuck, I-” He might be hyperventilating. Or just really wanting to skip the whole date talk and get right to the part where he’s alone in Eames’ room. Having sex. “Please, please be real, jesus fucking christ.”
“I’m sure I’d be a lot smoother were I not,” Eames breathes, and he sucks sharply at Arthur’s lip before sighing heavily and pushing himself away from Arthur.
Arthur, meanwhile, leaves his hands permanently glued to the neck of Eames’ shirt. He ignores the sad, frustrated whimper that comes from somewhere in his throat and says, “Fine, you can take me out.”
Eames beams at him, all flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. Yeah, Arthur might be slightly in fucking love with him. “You’ve made this hallucination very happy.”
“Don’t kid around, I want to enjoy this while it lasts.” He goes for broke and yanks Eames back against him, kisses him hard.
When Eames finally pulls away, he’s humming “Love Game” under his breath as he hands Arthur back his glasses.
~
Arthur wakes up the next morning hungover as fuck. He can’t see the clock on his nightstand, nor does he remember where he dropped his glasses the night before as he’d quite literally fallen into bed. He groans loudly and finally flails around for his phone, which is somehow wedged beneath his pillow.
He has one text message, which reads, walk walk fashion baby work it move that bitch crazy
He doesn’t recognize the number, but he doesn’t need to. Arthur rolls onto his stomach, wincing painfully in the bright sunlight streaming through his bedroom window, and writes back, Still real?
A minute later: as it gets
Arthur grins into his pillow, flushing despite the fact that his brain hurts and his mouth tastes like death. I’m glad, he types and sends.
Two minutes later: go back to sleep, youve got a hot date 2nite
~
LOOK, MORE AUTHOR'S NOTES: The inspiration for putting Eames in a production of A Streetcar Named Desire came from slowlikewine emailing me about how much Tom Hardy reminds her of a young Marlon Brando. IT IS KIND OF UNCANNY.
And just because I feel like it, this is the JGL that resided in my head while I wrote this. Draw in the black plastic frames.
ETA: Now with BONUS ART by innueneko! *___*