out of the frying pan (and into the fire) part one

[lo_saay]

OUT OF THE FRYING PAN (AND INTO THE FIRE)
word count: 5,3OO



The first time Arthur saw Eames was actually the second, when he had also first felt that stir of interest, of desire, inside of him. Arthur wouldn't remember that until later, though.

The first time Arthur remembered, he was a budding freshman (with the responsibilities of a high school senior, the workload of a university sophomore, and the romantic experience of an average twelve-year-old boy) picking up the promotional poster for the school's first band concert of the year when he turned and saw him beside the door. He was sitting on the table by the door - the one with the pamphlets for the new sexual education course promoting abstinence-until-marriage. He picked up one of the pamphlets, and was reading it with about as much interest as Arthur attributed to his father's morning paper - which was to say, with great care and concentration.

Still, there was nothing particularly different about him than from any other boy. To Arthur, he appeared to be just another gangly fifteen-maybe-sixteen-year-old-boy with too many limbs that he couldn't quite control or know what to do with just yet. He was just another probably highly immature teenage boy already compiling a list of dirty questions to ask the sex-ed teacher with the shameless intention of flustering her.

"Mr. Eames, get off that table this instant."

The secretary barking brought Arthur out of his reverie with a jolt, but Eames's head remained bent over the pamphlet before he raised it slowly, as though being scolded by the authorities was a trivial matter in the face of leaving a sentence unfinished. Their eyes met, and Eames smiled tightly with his muscles straining and eyes squinting suspiciously. It wasn't a hostile gesture, per se, but it wasn't entirely friendly either. It bordered the 'Yes, can I help you?' with a tinge of 'Why are you staring at me, you weirdo?' that Arthur irrationally found endearing, in the way that he would have found Eames endearing had he snorted and rolled his eyes and blatantly ignored him; in that way hormones had of bypassing all sense of logic and reality.

So there was no justifiable reason for Arthur to pause and stare as that dreadful feeling of interest fluttered awake inside of him. Except, perhaps, for a strange feeling of déjà vu tugging at Arthur's mind, some vague recollection of a hunch that he already seen this boy before, but he couldn't place where or when. Arthur would have remembered this boy with gangly arms and blue-gray eyes. And since Arthur had never been one for romantic notions of true love - even less so at such a young age - he blamed the way Eames' unwavering stare turned his eyes darker for the warm pool stirring inside of him, slowly creeping up the inside his stomach and making him do things like fidget. Arthur was hardly being inconspicuous, what with having been staring for three minutes straight, and he was pretty sure his eyes were wide and his mouth kind of hanging open in a goofy smile. But, well, where was Eames getting off at, being all masculine and attractive with his short hair, flat chest, and sharp cheekbones?

Eames had slid off the table, and he no longer looked tall or clumsy, childish or uncertain. In fact, he appeared to have a clearly defined goal as he headed toward Arthur. It was Arthur's turn to squint as the déjà-vu sharpened; the image was clearly now a memory on the brink of recognition, not a trick of the brain, as Eames walked toward him with slow, deliberate movements and a smirk tugging at his upper lip. Arthur kind of wanted to sock him, and then kiss him.

Then a door opened, and the principal called out "Mr. Eames, my office is this way."

And just like that, Arthur blinked and Eames was back - tall and awkward in his way of holding himself - and the blurry image Arthur had nearly conjured up evaporated, and he was left with a nagging certainty that something important had managed to elude him.

Arthur frowned. Had he just imagined that cool confidence as wishful thinking? Eames had already turned, without sparing a second glance Arthur's way, and walked by the principal with his head hanging and eyes averted in the quintessential image of a scorned child. Mrs. Milton looked over Eames to Arthur.

"Hello, Arthur." Her voice was softer than when she'd addressed Eames; even though he was on the student council, Arthur went out of his way to entertain the most cordial of ties with figures of authority. They liked him because he was polite and well-mannered and sensible. He encouraged that image, because it was always easier to acquire favors and leniency from people who liked you rather than the ones who thought you pretentious or stuck-up or turbulent.

"Hello, Ma'am. I'm looking for the band banners."

Mrs. Milton raised an eyebrow, and her eyes drifted to Arthur's left where the banners sat on the counter. Her expression was undecipherable, but Arthur had a pretty good idea of what she was thinking. What was one of her most brilliant straight-A students doing seemingly interacting with (what Arthur imagined to be) a school punk? Arthur muttered a quick thank you as he felt his face start to burn. He picked up the banners and fled the office. It was in her best interests if she never found out the answer to that question.



Arthur became aware that he was different from other children when he was six years old. It started in kindergarten, when he, having already learned how to write and count, preferred to stay inside and work on basic first grade mathematical solutions while his classmates went outside to play tag or dig around in the sandbox. It continued throughout elementary and middle school, when it became apparent to his teachers that Arthur was intellectually gifted, and suggested that he move up a few grades so he could be with students he could relate to more, intellectually.

His parents refused. Arthur may be as smart as the older children, they acknowledged, but mentally, he was still only eleven years old, and had not lived as a fifteen year old had. "He will be marginalized and excluded from social activities. We don't want Arthur to miss out on his childhood. We want him to have normal experiences."

Normal.

That word followed Arthur around for years after that. Despite being around children of his age, he worked faster than them, assimilated new concepts within a matter of hours or days, instead of weeks or months, and the teachers often brought in extra work for him, assignments prepared for children at least three years older than Arthur. His classmates kept their distance. Some fixed Arthur with an open-eyed gaze of admiration, but most of the time their eyes were narrowed and their mouths were thin lines of distaste, especially when the teacher called upon Arthur to give the answer to a particularly difficult question that had stumped the rest of the class.

Needless to say, little love was lost between Arthur and his classmates. He was always picked last during group projects or activities, especially during physical education, although his hand-eye coordination was not particularly atrocious. During recess, everyone ran away from him to play, so Arthur would find a place to sit and open the latest novel he was reading.

Arthur didn't believe that he was living normal experiences. Often, when he had finished reading his novel or had grown bored of reading, he wondered what it would be like to be truly normal, to be included in activities and not be looked upon as though he were a strange creature from outer space. At some point during the fourth grade, near the end of fall but just before the weather got too chilly to read outside in the afternoon, Arthur decided, in between pages of To the Lighthouse, that becoming normal would be his only ambition in life.

Becoming normal was the first challenge Arthur had set for himself, and for the first time, he was unsure of how to proceed. For the first time, Arthur opened his eyes to just how bored he was with his life. Nothing exciting ever happened, and nothing new ever struck him. He knew that something had to change, and he knew that challenging himself was the only way he was going to stay aware enough to enjoy life.

By the time he reached high school, Arthur's whole life had turned around. He had challenged himself out of being a freak. He joined the student council in junior high, and when high school rolled around, Arthur was elected secretary of the council. He had radically changed his image from an anti-social, sulky, pretentious brainiac jerk to the most composed and competent member of the council, whose indispensable organizational skills kept the meetings running smoothly. Never before in all of the school's years had the council's events been coordinated and executed as efficiently and smoothly than under Arthur's watchful and scrutinizing watch.

Strangely enough, Arthur being elected to the secretary position, as opposed to the president of the council, had little to do with a lack of popularity. Because as strange as it sounded to Arthur to even think it, he was popular. He didn't have many friends, per se, but people seemed to like him.

Yes, Arthur had managed to somewhat overcome the curse of social awkwardness which seems to be mutually exclusive to being a child prodigy (he remained introverted, if not outwardly cold and hostile), and had been surprisingly well accepted at his school. Mostly by the girls, who seemed to feel comforted by his demure nature, and confided their troubles in him. The boys, noting the platonic nature of the girls' interests in Arthur, and Arthur's own romantic disinterest in the girls, didn't begrudge him the attention they invested in him.

Arthur, however, did not truly feel like a demure person by nature. He found that, the rare times he had been inspired by such strong emotions, he wanted to express them loudly. He wanted to shout with exuberance, yell with indignation. It was with a sinking feeling of despair when Arthur finally admitted to himself that it was the people around him who inspired little fervor in him. In short, they bored him. They had no complexity, and Arthur saw them all as they were. They had no mystery, nothing to work out, and if there was anything that bored Arthur, it was an easy equation.

In his solitude, Arthur turned to computers. In them, he found an entire world of complex equations and foreign languages, which allowed him to break down walls of privacy and travel overseas with the click of a finger, all the while his other hand free to finish off his calculus homework. In this world, Arthur found like-minded people. Geniuses in their domain, misunderstood by their peers, united in their ambitions.

For all the solace they brought Arthur, however, they still couldn't replace the longing for physical interaction. Arthur lent an ear to the students around him because although he couldn't bring himself to consider them as friends, he still felt the need to have human interactions. He prayed that, when he entered puberty, he would finally feel that much-needed incentive to talk to girls, to want to make them laugh, instead of it happening accidentally, and in situations when he was being serious. Such as when Kathy Barns had asked how she could be of help in sorting out the graduates' name cards for the The Big Night, and he had told her to sit down and dear God not touch anything, which she seemed to have found positively hilarious and had helped him anyway. He prayed that he would become genuinely interested in them, rather than - in what could be a misguided attempt to make the best out of a dire situation - care more about knowing everything about everyone in general.

Because that's what Arthur, by high school, had become - the centralized gossip box, almost like the school's very own confessional booth. Sometimes, he had to work by schedule the demand was so overwhelming (especially around Valentine's Day and the first week of spring and summer, when everyone's hormones - other than his - always seemed to flare).

When puberty finally hit, sometime around the end of middle school and the summer before high school, Arthur discovered a very important fact of life: being normal was not something he was inherently predisposed to be.

While boys his age had been chasing girls and fighting each other over to ask them to be their dates for the school sock hops for years, Arthur discovered a dreadful feeling: a low, warm stirring of interest inside of him which he knew was what made the other young boys' heads turn at the sight of a pretty girl, but which insisted on remaining impartial to curvy waists and protuberant chests and more inclined toward virility.

It's not that Arthur was disgusted with himself for these peculiar penchants of his. The subject rarely came up at his home, but he had once heard his parents refer to inflictions such as his as "predispositions," so nothing led him to believe that his family would disown him if they found out. But he knew for a fact that, in order for his goal of normality to be achieved, it was essential (and he had observed the trend carefully for years now) that he marry a woman to one day have children with. So, to a fourteen-year-old boy only discovering his body after having long ago mastered complex algebraic equations, it felt like a lot of extra work.

But Arthur was used to extra work and was determined; he had just about resigned himself to his new challenge - finding girls attractive - when something completely unexpected and quite possibly portentous happened.

Arthur met Eames.

**

Arthur ended up casually mentioning Eames to Camille. She was one of the few girls Arthur actually trusted enough to not go around boasting the fact that Arthur had confided to her even the most miniscule amount of his personal thoughts.

They were at their usual table in the cafeteria, the table by the far window, away from the rest of the adolescent crowd. Camille was busy trying to multitask between finishing up the last few exercises of her math homework, so Arthur could look it over before she had to turn it in, and eating her lunch.

"Eames? Yeah, of course I know him," was her inattentive reply. After a few seconds of pencil scribbling on paper, she added, "He played Fagin in the play last year. Don't you remember? There was the whole kerfuffle because apparently a lot of the others thought he should have even gotten to play Oliver, but Paul Newsman got the part because he's Mrs. K's nephew. Then he almost snatched the role of Bill Sikes, but Mrs. K has this 'thing' where she privileges seniors over the newbies, and one of them had his heart set on the role." She looked up then, frowning at some sort of recollection. "Didn't you go see three of the five showings? How come you don't remember him? Don't you usually know everything about everyone?"

Arthur had to fight to keep his mouth closed. He couldn't believe the Eames in the office had been the one who had played Fagin in the school play. Arthur had gone to see the play three times, and part of the reason had been because of Fagin's character, who he'd marveled over. He had known the actor was younger than the others -- it had been obvious when he had entered the stage the first time. But that trivial detail was forgotten through the performance he delivered. He had been sleazy and disgusting, hitting the English accent of the slums on the nail, oozing with ulterior motives and a disingenuous smile that had made Arthur's skin crawl. He hadn't resembled the nervous and awkward teenager who had appeared anxious at getting a scolding from the principal. It irked Arthur that he hadn't been able to make the connection. He didn't know everything about everyone, as Camille had so eloquently put it, but he usually did not forget a face. The fact that he had, and the fact that Eames had been able to so drastically change his demeanor as to fool him, intrigued Arthur.

Camille must have caught something in his look because she smirked. "What? Do you want to meet him? I kind of know him - He's good friends with Sab. I bet I could get them to eat lunch with us."

Arthur felt his face heat up. "W-what? No. I'm busy enough as it is. I was just curious, is all. It's not like I like him." Then he shut up because he realized he was babbling and Camille was grinning at him, making him feel like an idiot. He was supposed to be above such infantile feelings. "Whatever," he snorted, and then rolled his eyes for good measures - because apparently that's what kids did to emphasize just how much they didn't care.

Camille simply laughed.

She ended up bringing Eames to lunch three days later. "Arthur, Eames. Eames, Arthur," she introduced dispassionately as she slumped down on one of the cafeteria stools and passed her latest math homework over to Arthur.

"Charmed," Eames drawled, and Arthur realized, with a leap of the heart, that he actually was British.

"H-hi," Arthur stammered, because he was incredibly smart and cultured and didn't know the first thing about being a gay adolescent in the Midwest forming a crush on the foreign student at his school.

"So, you're the famous Arthur, then," Eames commented, taking a seat beside Arthur, smirking at him like he knew everything about him, and Arthur suddenly felt like a small child admiring the worldly adult in front of him. "I didn't know you did maths homework for free! That's brilliant." He leaned forward as though confessing a deep, dark secret. "I'm kind of shite at maths."

Arthur had the feeling that he should be insulted at the insinuation that he just did anyone's math homework, but all he could think of was that Eames was close and he smelled good, a hint of smoke mingled in with some sort of cologne.

"He does not do my homework," Camille spoke up, although she sounded less affronted at the thought of Eames diminishing her intelligence and more wistful, like the thought of Arthur doing her homework would be something marvelous. "Look, I've got to go. I told Sab I'd meet her in the theater. She's rehearsing her lines, and I said I'd help. Arthur, hand me those after next period, all right? Ta!"

The cafeteria was noisy and filled with students, but the silence between them was obvious and awkward. Arthur licked his lips for something to say - anything - before Eames signed him off as a nut job and took off to join his pals, who he was already waving to at the other side of the room.

"I saw your play," Arthur finally blurted without thinking. "I mean not yours, since you weren't even a freshman, but I remember you played Fagin. You were really good. I was impressed."

Eames finally turned away from his friends, a playful smile tugging at the edge of his lips. Arthur's eyes dipped down, he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed earlier how full those lips were, before looking right back up, scared Eames had noticed. Eames didn't seem to have though. "Thank you. Your condescension is greatly appreciated, Arthur."

Arthur scowled, he hadn't been condescending, but the lightness in Eames' voice was evident. "Shut up, I was being serious. I went to see it three times. How did you even get the role?"

"Junior-high drama teacher saw my potential and pulled some strings," Eames grinned. "Although convincing Mrs. K to let me play something other than a street urchin with one on-stage appearance and one line that wasn't a grunt was a harder feat."

"I'm glad she did," Arthur replied honestly. They lapsed back into silence, and Arthur spent a few moments inwardly panicking, fearing he had been too obvious, and now Eames had caught on and was disgusted and would go around telling everyone what a "poof" Arthur was. Arthur had spent too long on his reputation to inadvertently be the one to bring about its destruction.

"So," Eames said instead, casually, "what does the composed and stoic Arthur like to do for fun?"

The question stumped Arthur. It wasn't usually what people asked him. In fact, most of the time, the questions directed Arthur's way were either when he had a slot in his schedule so he could talk about their problems, or when he would be finished tallying up the replies to the latest poll so they could know which themes the seniors preferred for their marching band event in the spring. No one really asked him anything about, well, him.

Arthur realized with absolute certitude that he could not say his favorite pastime was breaking into the school's server to collect confidential information on students he knew or had heard of by name. It wasn't like he used anything he learned. He just liked knowing. Just in case. But he still he couldn't say that.

He settled for "I like surfing the web."

Eames stared at him, as though for waiting for an additional dozen activities to be added to the list, then his smile wavered. "No, seriously?"

Arthur shrugged, and smiled sheepishly.

"Have you never gone to the record store?" Eames asked, incredulous.

Arthur grimaced, and Eames made a low guttural sound of pain. "You're not some Puritan against all forms of entertainment, are you?"

Arthur opened his mouth to protest wholeheartedly. He had bucketloads of fun. Truly, he did. Just, by himself, usually, in his room, at the computer, but then the bell rang, and Eames jumped to his feet.

"Can't be late to drama class. Listen, meet me out front after school, okay?"

Arthur wanted to ask what for - he had a schedule to keep after all - but Eames had already picked up his bag and twisted himself through the spaces between people, and was off out of sight. Arthur sat for a moment longer, trying to process what exactly had happened. And that's when he understood. He had been asked out after school. By a guy. He was going on a date.

**

They took the bus because Arthur was still fourteen years old, and Eames had only recently turned fifteen and had not gone to get his driver's permit yet. Arthur tried not to fidget, but Eames was sitting beside him and leaning in close, and giving Arthur a rolling commentary of the town as the bus trotted down the streets, as though Eames were the local American student and Arthur the disoriented foreign exchange student. Although, to be fair, Eames was more than an exchange student; he had moved to town two years ago, and was actually a resident. But, still, Arthur was the one who had been born in the local hospital.

"Eames, I know what road this is," Arthur couldn't help but roll his eyes as Eames pointed out the main street.

"Really? And yet you've never gone to Tiff's Tasty Trattoria for lunch? Shame on you." The bus slowed, and Eames stood. "Come on. If you're nice, we'll stop by on the way back."

Arthur usually had meatloaf and steamed carrots for dinner with his family on Friday nights, but he kept quiet and followed Eames off the bus. Although Arthur had grown up in the town, it was the first time he entered the record store. His parents usually gave him albums for his birthday or Christmas. He had never had the need to come here.

Eames, on the other hand, appeared to be a regular customer. He greeted the cashier, a twenty-odd year old good-looking guy with blond hair swept back in one of those horribly trendy gel coiffures that Arthur despised, with an easy high five and an amicable "What's hanging, my friend?"

Arthur disconnected from their conversation while he glanced around him at the rows and rows of music albums. Over each row, a sign indicated the genre of the music, and near the back of the store, Arthur saw written on a big sign VINYL RECORDS.

"-came to culture this uncultivated brat," Eames finished, and Arthur only realized he was talking about him when he saw Eames' thumb jutted his way.

"Hey, I know music," he protested, though rather feebly. It was true that he wasn't exactly knowledgeable in music. He liked to work in silence, whether he was studying or hacking, so the rare times he listened to the records his parents had given to him was when he prepared for bed.

"Of course you do," Eames said in an appeasing tone, but Arthur caught him rolling his eyes at the cashier. "Well, come along, then."

Eames led Arthur to the back of the store, bypassing the compact disc and cassettes sections without even glancing at the selections. Arthur's parents still had a phonograph, and even an 8-track player, in the living room, but they had bought him a boombox for his eleventh birthday. It seemed, however, that Eames preferred to play it old school when it came to music,and he grinned when they came to a stop, diving into the rack labeled NEW COLLECTION.

"Let's start on your musical education then, little man," Eames waved Arthur closer. "Lesson number one," he said as he pulled out a record with the bust of a man with his eyes closed and open mouth stretched out into what Arthur couldn't tell if it was a grimace of pain or a sigh of longing. "British bands are always better. Always."

"Radiohead. The Bends," Arthur read aloud. "What kind of name is Radiohead?"

"A bloody brilliant one."

Eames tucked the record under his arm and led Arthur further down the rack, pointing out all of the indispensable names of rock and roll. Arthur nodded and made noises of acknowledgment, but his eyes were strained on Eames and the names were merely a background noise, insignificant, and frankly a bit of a distraction.

Eames was genuinely smiling, eyes wide and bright, and his voice was patent with passion. There was nothing gangly or awkward about him in this moment. He lifted records with care and attention that did not usually manifest itself in teenage boys. Eames was bright, bigger than life. Arthur realized why people were so mesmerized by him. Arthur was no better. He felt like a helpless electron orbiting around the nucleus, eager to push forth and become closer, to touch and possess, but constantly repelled by the force of nature. There was no way Eames would ever allow it, the very notion of it would probably disgust him, and yet Arthur wanted to fit his body against his side and let his mouth travel the line of his jaw.

"-thur."

Arthur blinked, and his gaze shifted back into focus. He felt his face redden as he realized he'd been transfixed, staring ardently at Eames' profile. "What?"

Eames scowled. "I don't know what everyone raves on about. You're a terrible student."

He was holding a new record. This time, Arthur recognized the cover and the band name. His parents had bought him the CD version of Bat Out of Hell II: Back Into Hell last Christmas. In his opinion, the man's shrill voice was more of a nuisance than anything, but then again, Arthur had never bothered to take the time to listen to the lyrics. Besides, how could he possibly hold a high regard for a guy who had stage-named himself Meat Loaf?

"Isn't he American?"

"Ah, good catch, Arthur," Eames cooed, and Arthur actually preened. "But you lot completely undervalue him, unlike us in the UK, who have recognized his greatness and worship him like he deserves."

"No, right. You know, I much prefer instrumental music," Arthur tried to keep his voice light. "Lyrical music just distracts me too much from my work." He stopped then because Eames had turned a ghastly pale, and made a low, broken sound in the back of a throat.

"Don't worry," Eames whispered, when he had recovered. "I'll save your soul."

They made their way to the cashier, Eames holding The Bends proudly, which he presented to the good-looking man who Arthur noticed - thanks to the handy nametag he had apparently missed earlier - was named Greg.

The record was $6.87. Eames handed over a ten dollar bill, and then dug his hands into his pockets and pulled out a few jingling coins. "You got ten cents?" he asked Arthur. Arthur fished out a dime for him, and Eames handed it to Greg, along with three cents. "Now just gimme back three bills."

Greg grinned sheepishly at Arthur, but complied and handed Eames three one dollar bills. "I thought you were bad at mathematics," Arthur said once they had left the store.

Eames stared at him for a moment, perplexed. Then, he remembered the reference and laughed. "No, mate, that wasn't maths. That was common sense. Not like that shoddy algebrainiac nonsense they make us do at school."

Eames tried to drag Arthur to "Tiff's Tees," but Arthur's body was doing funny things he couldn't seem to control so he begged off. He had told his parents he'd be home early, and they would be worried, he said.

It wasn't exactly a lie. He hadn't told his parents anything, but he was usually home early on Fridays anyway. But it wasn't like they would worry. They would just assume he had been held back at school by some project or another.

Still, Eames let him go without too much of a fight, and Arthur rushed to his room the second he arrived home, shouting a distracted greeting to his mother and sister, who were watching the television in the living room.

His body was burning, like when he had a sunburn, but with less pain and more hot. There was no source, but it all seemed to pool in his stomach. He knew what was happening. Obviously, he wasn't that dense. He was getting an erection. Unfortunately, he did not know how to deal with it. It had never happened before, and his parents had never had 'the talk' with him, like they had had with Amanda when she'd first told her parents a boy had asked her out. He wildly wished he had taken an interest in the sexual education brochures at school, but then again, he was pretty sure masturbation wasn't a hot topic issue when on the road to abstinence.

Finally, he shed all of his clothes and - trying not to stare down at himself - got into the shower. He usually took his showers burning hot, but three seconds in, he realized that he was only enabling his hormonal-crazed body. He toned it down, but it wasn't until the water got icy that his body finally seemed to cool down and his cock became flaccid again. Arthur stayed in the shower until his shivering became uncontrollable.

When he stepped out of the shower, he told himself that Eames was bad news; quite obviously, he would only hinder Arthur's goal to rectify his momentarily glitched sexual preference so he could find a nice girl and live normally.

Arthur toweled himself off, and staring at himself ardently in the glass, swore that he would never again engage in any sort of after school activities with Eames.

part two...