At sixteen, Eames wasn't supposed to be doing this. Partying, yes, that was kind of expected. But he was more than a bit shocked and angry at his mother having uprooted him and his younger brother from England and taking them to the US of A, settling them down in fuck - nowhere to finish off his schooling and his brother's. She wanted to get them
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But he gave the other teen a wide smile, not caring that it showed off his crooked teeth.
"Couldn't help noticing you there," he said, leaning back (more like melting) against the door frame he was against, putting his loose (and starting to hang low) jeans and light blue shirt (proclaiming a love for rugby) on display better. "Not to sound creepy or anything - I only know like, one or two people here."
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"I bet many couldn't help noticing that accent of yours. What are you doing on this side of the pond?"
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Eames felt his gaze drawn to the cant of those hips, but he only glanced, licking his lips as he looked at the other boy's face.
"Oh, they were all demanding I say 'something, anything' earlier. I gave them a sonnet or two," he winked, and then raised his water bottle to take a drink. "Moved, of course."
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