songs to drive by
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Summary: Arthur hates this city and everything it stands for, really, really, he does.
Notes: totally breaking the fourth wall and kind of self-insert in that it's set in my hometown. But of course that's the idea. Written for the Take Your Fandom Home With You Day ficfest.
Arthur hates this city and everything it stands for, really, really, he does. He hates the way you can’t get anywhere without driving, hates the way it gets so humid in the summer that stepping outside before six p.m. is like an invitation to a slow death by suffocation, hates the way country music is impossible to stay away from. Honestly. It’s like a parasite; even when you think you’ve encased yourself in a (admittedly, pretty hipster) cocoon of decent bands, Taylor Swift and Tim McGraw are impossible to escape entirely. He hates that the suburbs are boring and the river near Broadway is full of tourists (you can always tell because they wear cowboy boots and western shirts with Levis). He hates the west side of town, Green Hills and Brentwood and Bellevue, with their blonde trophy wives and SUVs and rich private school kids.
Doesn’t stop him from driving in his beat up Impala the half hour to Centennial Park, though, on cooler summer afternoons, arm catching the wind out the open window as he does eighty-five down the interstate.
Arthur takes the back way, past the dilapidated ice rink and his favorite out-of-the-way Caribbean restaurant. He finds a semi-shaded parking spot near the pond and cuts the engine.
It’s much too hot for more than a wifebeater and jeans, though Arthur is fully aware they make him look even skinnier than he is, all gangly limbs and slim hips. Not like the gym-membership guys who jog past him blaring hip-hop on their iPods as Arthur rounds the pond and heads toward the Parthenon.
Eames is sitting on the steps, leaning against a column, sketching the dozen or so Vandy students playing ultimate Frisbee on the long, slightly-browned grass.
“Afternoon, darling,” Eames says, not even bothering to look up from his sketchbook when Arthur sits next to him. Arthur makes a face and steals a sip of his Coke.
The air is thick and humid, but Eames looks perfectly comfortable. Arthur could punch him.
“I’m bored, Eames,” he announces, lying back on the step.
He can see Eames’s smirk in his peripheral vision, even as he smudges a shadow into his drawing. “Are you being existential or just whining? It’s terribly hard to tell, with you.”
Arthur smacks his arm absently, watching the clouds. “Both,” he admits.
He isn’t even aware that Eames has put up his charcoal and sketchbook when he’s being lifted to his feet. He tries to wiggle out of Eames’s grip (one of the few perks of being so damn skinny), but Eames just wraps his arms around Arthur’s chest and holds on, pressing his nose into Arthur’s neck.
Then all of a sudden he’s gone, picking up his sketchbook and heading for the parking lot. When he reaches the front steps, he turns and gives Athena a low, flourishing bow. “Coming, darling?” he calls back toward Arthur. Who, really, has no choice but to follow.
---
Charlotte is one of the few places in Nashville Arthur can stand, away from the tourists and-for the most part-the hicks, and-definitely-the West Enders. The Charlotte Avenue Goodwill is by far the best in the city, and beyond that there’s a stretch of thrift and vintage shops, and McKay’s, the huge used bookstore, where Arthur curls up on the cool linoleum floor and leans against rough wooden bookshelves, flicking through a battered copy of Sophie’s World while Eames stalks the psychology section.
---
The thing about Broadway is, too near the river it’s clogged with tourists, and too far from the river it becomes West End, but there’s a pocket in between crowded with small art galleries and gorgeous architecture and the Frist.
Art aficionados that they are, they spend inordinate amounts of time here, holding hands as they walk past Hindu sculpture and huge, pre-Impressionist canvases until they find something that makes them freeze and stare, and then Arthur will curl around Eames on the nearest bench and watch him copy.
---
The other thing about Broadway is that, if you go the right way, it turns into Church Street. It’s like an oasis in the desert, this one glimmer of beauty in a city caught in the middle of the Bible Belt. It has the highest concentration of rainbow in Middle Tennessee, possibly the whole state. And Arthur loves it.
Eames parks his car a block up the street, and they walk past Play and OutCentral, Eames tucking his hand into Arthur’s back pocket just because he can.
Outloud has its door open, letting in the cool, late afternoon breeze. Lady Gaga is blasting from the speaker system. Arthur waves at Demetria, who grins at him from the register.
“Remembered to wear my rainbow bracelet this time,” he says, lifting his left wrist.
She laughs, “So proud of you, girl.”
“Caught in a bad romance,” Eames sings, off-key and shaking his ass toward the bargain books section.
Arthur rolls his eyes and follows him, laughing as Eames grabs his hands and twirls him around, dancing them toward the movie shelves. The cat wraps around their legs, making them stumble and grin.
Okay, maybe Nashville isn’t all bad.
Apparently the universe was just waiting for Arthur to have a rare moment of benevolence before everything crashed down around him, because that’s the moment Eames freezes and looks down at Arthur with a really, truly frightening smile.
“We’re buying feather boas,” he announces grandly. “And we’re going dancing.”
---
And that’s how they end up back at Centennial Park as the sun sinks below the ice rink, wearing ridiculous feather boas even though it’s clearly much too hot for them, walking toward the sound of music drifting toward the pond.
Saturday nights, the park hosts swing dancing under one of the shelters, and Eames laughs as he drags Arthur down the sidewalk.
The dance floor is packed, filled with women in heels and tennis shoes and men in button-down shirts and NASCAR tees and even a couple kids stumbling around at the periphery.
“There is no way I’m going in there,” Arthur says, aware he probably doesn’t look as defiant as he wants to with a pink boa wrapped around his neck.
Eames shrugs. “Have it your way, darling,” he says, slipping one arm around Arthur’s waist. He’s always been a good dancer, leading Arthur through steps he only barely remembers from last summer.
The street is littered with fake neon feathers.