friends forever
.friends forever, pt 2
in which eames and ariadne are bros, cut class, get stoned, and talk about arthur
pg13 . 4271 words
[ 1|2| 3| 4|WIP]
The third Friday in September, when it is still nice out but just barely, Eames tells Ariadne they’re skipping study hall.
“And,” he says grandly. “Whatever comes afterwards.”
“Pre-Calc,” Ariadne groans as she fiddles with her locker. “A.P. Chem. French 4. Get with the program, Eames, you know this. My schedule’s practically the same as Arthur’s.” She drags Arthurs name out over several syllables, and Eames winks salaciously.
“Actually,” Eames says. “I’m only doing this to keep you from spending too much time with our dear Arthur. I don’t like you at all, I just want to keep an eye on you so you don’t steal him out from under my nose.”
“I hate to break it to you, Eames, but Arthur is gayer than the month of May.”
“I didn’t think so when we first met.”
“Oh!” Ariadne brightens visibly. “If I cut class with you, will you tell me how you pined away miserably for Arthur until he lost a bet and had to give you a makeover and take you to the homecoming dance?”
“Actually, I pined away miserably for Arthur until he sang ‘All I Want For Christmas is You’ to me at the school’s winter concert.”
“Are you talking about me again?” Arthur says, coming up from behind and wrapping his arms around Eames’ waist. Eames turns and kisses him on the corner of the mouth. Although she hates PDA on principle, especially in the vicinity of her locker, they’re so sweet it makes Ariadne’s teeth hurt. Though, also, Arthur’s arms are crazy long, like a monkey’s.
“We should’ve been talking about how you take longer than anyone I’ve ever met in the locker room after gym,” Ariadne says.
“Well,” says Arthur as he disentangles himself from Eames and opens his locker. “Not all of us can rock eau de socks like you, Andersen.”
“Uncalled for, Andersen. Uncalled for,” Ariadne says, and dumps a pile of books unceremoniously into her own locker. “Okay, Eames, I’m going with you. And you’re going to give me all the dirt on this kid over here.” She jerks her thumb at Arthur, who frowns.
“If he tells you we started dating after he drove me to Chicago in Robert Fischer’s father’s stolen convertible and he danced to ‘Twist and Shout’ in a parade, don’t believe him.”
“Stop lampshading the fact that you two are like a terrible high school movie couple,” Ariadne grumbles.
“Don’t worry, love,” Eames says to Arthur. “Nothing but the truth. Scout’s honor.” He holds up two fingers in a salute.
“That’s the Cub Scout one, you dumbass,” Arthur scowls, and Eames kisses him. Ariadne wonders if it’s possible to develop diabetes from hanging out with stupidly adorable couples. Probably not with just the one, but she saw the Cobbs making out in Ms. Cobb’s classroom after school once, and she left double-quick because there’s got to be something dangerous about thinking your teachers are cute. If they started making out at the same time and place as Arthur and Eames, Ariadne might fear for her well-being and her single soul.
“Want me to carry your books to class before we leave?” Eames offers as he and Arthur break apart.
“I am not the girl in this relationship. And if I were, that’d be sexist. I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own books, and I’m sure I’d be equally capable as a girl,” Arthur says, and Ariadne snorts. Which is a habit she should really work on breaking.
“Later, Arthur. Can I borrow your notes if I miss pre-calc? I can get chem ones from Yusuf.”
“I’ll make you copies.”
“Thanks, you’re a doll,” Ariadne says, and reaches up to ruffle his hair. Then she and Eames take off down the hall before Arthur can hit anyone.
“Not a girl!” Arthur shouts after them.
“A KEN doll!” Ariadne shouts back. When she and Eames get outside, they dissolve into giggles. Ariadne straightens up, and sets off towards her car in the parking lot, swinging her keys around one finger.
“Okay,” she says. “Where are we going?”
Eames grins, and holds up a small plastic baggie, “We’re going to the park.”
Ariadne may have only been in town for a month, but there’s only one park he could mean. It’s near the edge of town and usually vacant, and there’s a stream running through and into the woods. If you follow the stream you wind up at a hollowed out shack, spattered with paintball entrails, where kids go to drink and smoke pot and whatever else. It’s unclear whether the police don’t know or they just turn a blind eye, as it’s one of the worst kept secrets in school, up there with the fact that the captain of the cheerleading squad is sleeping with the gym teacher, Mr. Dick Richards (whose parents were seriously terrible with names, and this coming from someone named Ariadne Anne Andersen).
When they get to the park, Ariadne grabs a fleece blanket from her trunk and she and Eames hop along the stream bank, trying to keep their feet dry.
“Who’d you skip with if I wasn’t here?” Ariadne asks. Despite Eames’ somewhat inexplicable attachment to her, and her subsequent friendship with Arthur, she’s still trying to figure out her new school’s social landscape.
“Yusuf, maybe,” Eames says. “But he always wants to start bonfires, so be glad you’re here.”
“I like bonfires.”
“Not the way Yusuf does. He’ll burn anything.” Eames shakes his head.
“Yeah, I’d noticed that in lab.”
“You’d make a good guy,” Eames says, leaping from one bank to the other.
“Where’d that come from?” Ariadne asks, pausing to look at him, and, also, to consider whether she can make the leap.
“Then we could be bros.”
“What, you don’t consider me your fag hag?”
“You’re supposed to call me sexist and say we can still be bros.”
“As long as you don’t think I’m a fag hag, I don’t care,” Ariadne says, and leaps to the other bank. “And I refuse to be your beard.”
“As if I need a beard,” Eames scoffs.
When they get to the shack, Eames ushers Ariadne in.
“Ladies first?” Ariadne asks, raising a brow.
“No.” Eames replies, throwing his arm across her shoulders. “Brosephs first. And you, new kid, are my bro.”
“Thanks, I guess,” says Ariadne, and spreads out her blanket and plops down inside. Eames lounges against the wall next to her and rolls a joint.
“So,” Ariadne says as Eames takes a drag. “You and Arthur, how’d it start?”
“Well,” Eames says, handing Ariadne the joint. “I was the new kid sophomore year--that’s why I was so glad you moved in to replace me. And a skinny kid with a stick up his perfectly formed arse was supposed to show me around...”
“Mmm,” Ariadne says. “Arse.”
“You shall not covet your neighbor’s arse, Ariadne,” Eames says sharply. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”
“Story,” Ariadne says, snuggling deeper into her blanket. “I love story time.”
--
After the divorce, Eames’ mother had insisted they move back stateside to be near her family. The divorce was excessively messy, and if Eames wanted to throw a fit he didn’t, because he hated his father. So they had moved to the town where Eames’ aunt lived, and Eames had transferred into the local high school as a sophomore, and that was okay.
During their first meeting, Cobb tried to explain about the American system was different from the British, but he didn’t seem so sure about the differences himself, and spent most of their conversation shuffling through papers and looking squinting.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he said at last. “You seem to be a bright boy. But just to be safe, I’ve asked another student to come show you around. Ah--that should be him now.”
There was a tap at Cobb’s office door, and then a boy Eames’ height in jeans and a t-shirt stepped inside. He looked quite ordinary, except if you looked closely his jeans had been ironed. Eames noticed these things, because he looked closely. Eames could be frank with himself: he had a type. Arthur, with his dark hair and thick lashes, visible even behind those adorable glasses, was it.
“Does your mum,” Eames asked. “Iron your jeans?”
Cobb squinted at Eames, and the boy looked disparaging.
“No,” he said. “I do.”
“This is Arthur,” Cobb said. “Arthur, Eames.”
“I think this is the beginning of the beautiful friendship,” Eames said.
Arthur scowled. Cobb sent them on their way.
--
“And then you made out in the hall?” Ariadne interrupts.
“Don’t interrupt, Ariadne,” Eames says. “You know we didn’t make out in the hall. Epic romances take time.”
--
It turned out that Cobb had arranged for Arthur to be Eames’ guide because their schedules were nearly identical--Eames had Acting when Arthur had orchestra, but otherwise they shared all the same classes, with the first being American History.
“You lot like to talk about yourselves, don’t you?” Eames said by way of conversation.
“Well, evidently you live here now,” Arthur said. “So it’d be much more becoming if you didn’t act superior.”
“I’m the superior one, mate? How are you supposed to guide me if you refuse to speak to me?”
“You’re following me, aren’t you?” Arthur said, and Eames didn’t have much to say to that.
“I’d follow you anywhere,” he said. Arthur turned around and glared.
Their next class was world lit, with Mr. Saito. Who insisted on being called Saito-san (students should learn to express respect in more than one culture), and spent 90% of their first period complaining about the terrible books he was forced to teach.
Arthur raised his hand.
“Excuse me, Saito-san,” he said. “While I’m sorry that the curriculum includes no Japanese literature, shouldn’t we get on with the class?”
“And who are you?” Saito asked.
“Arthur Andersen, Saito-san.”
“There’s more to respect than using honorific titles, Mr. Andersen. Being an American, I don’t expect you to understand this. But if you would allow me to teach this class as I see fit, I would appreciate it.”
Arthur put his hand back down.
“So,” Eames said. “Not going so well with Saito-san, is it?”
“Seriously,” Arthur said. “Do people just come to America to be bastards to those of us who are actually from here?”
“Was that a subtle jab at me?”
“No,” Arthur said. “It was a sharp jab, you’re just stupid.”
“I would beg to differ, Mr. Andersen,” Eames said. “But I’m not sure if it’s worth the trouble.”
--
“So,” Ariadne says, taking another drag on the joint before returning it to Eames. “When do we get past the snark?”
“After a few months or so. Do you want me to skip to that part?”
“Seriously, do you remember every conversation you guys ever had?”
“No, I’m making most of this up.”
“If you’re making this up, then why didn’t Arthur just jump your bones right away?”
“Because that wouldn’t be true to the spirit of the tale. Remember scout’s honor?”
“You aren’t a boy scout, Eames,” Ariadne says.
“No. But Arthur is.”
“He would be,” Ariadne says, and manages to resist snorting.
“Hey, that’s my boyfriend you’re talking about.”
“And you’re supposed to be telling me how you got that way.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a stupid story anyway.”
“That’s not what the girl who sits next to me in painting says.”
“Would this be Aubrey? Because you should know that she can’t be trusted.”
“Yeah, well,” Ariadne is lying on her back, and she stretches her arms out above her head and looks at the ceiling. “I think I’m a little high.”
“You better be,” Eames says. “This is fucking hydroponic. Yusuf grows it.”
“So can you skip to the part where you and Arthur realize your undying love for one another and fuck in the hallway?”
“No,” says Eames. “This is high school. It’s all about the slow burn. But I’ll speed it up a little bit. So Arthur’s not showing me around any more, because I’ve been stamped ‘settled.’ But we almost all the same classes, and Arthur was slightly more uptight than he is now. And since we founded GSA at the end of last year, of course both of us think the other is maddeningly attractive, and also straight.”
“Of course,” says Ariadne, nodding sagely. “That’s how these stories go.”
--
Homecoming was in mid-October. Their town’s football team is not particularly good, but it is popular, so Homecoming’s something of a big deal, with a parade and a dance and a king and a queen and a court. Eames was in the running, for the court, but only because the other students hadn’t figured out that having a British accent doesn’t actually mean you’re particularly cool. Arthur’s on student government, and over worked, because he’s the underclassman who everyone dumps everything on.
Eames ran into Arthur after school, one day when he’d stayed late to work on the fall play. He liked to use the staff bathroom, because it’s fancy and with no one around he could, and when he pushed open the door Arthur’s in there washing his face.
“Don’t they teach knocking where you come from?” Arthur asked, raising his eyebrows in the mirror.
“Well, at least your bits were in your pants, yeah?” Eames said. Arthur frowned, and splashed more water on his face.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“What?” Eames said. “No rejoinder?”
“Did you just use the word rejoinder?--No, not now, Eames. I’m busy.”
“Being the workhorse of student council? I’m sure Homecoming will happen if you sleep.”
“What do you care? Besides, I can sleep through the dance.”
“What, not going to enjoy the fruits of your labor?”
“No, I imagine not,” Arthur sighed. “Well, I suppose you’re looking to use the bathroom, so I’ll get back to work.”
Arthur made to slip out the door, but Eames caught him by wrist.
“Seriously, Arthur,” he said. “Get some sleep.”
“Whatever, Eames,” Arthur said, shook loose, and disappeared down the darkened hall.
Homecoming went off without a hitch, of course. Though that’s mostly hearsay--Eames didn’t go to the game and didn’t make court, either, and he skipped out on the dance as well, because if Arthur wasn’t going it really wasn’t worth the trouble of making an appearance. Instead he sat home and watched a movie with his mom, a dumb one with Hugh Grant in it but one she wanted to see. And when you were the only child of a single mother you had to make certain concessions like that.
“Good job with Homecoming,” Eames told Arthur the next morning before U.S. History. They were both there early; Arthur because he liked to be prepared, Eames because he didn’t feel like talking to anyone else.
“How would you know?” Arthur said.
“Word gets around,” Eames shrugged. “As, apparently, did the word that I failed to attend any events. I don’t believe in worshipping at the alter of American football.”
“So, what, it’d be okay if it were soccer?” Arthur asked.
“Yes,” Eames said. “Or rugby, even. Have you ever seen rugby? Lots of wrestling around in the mud.”
“If you’re trying to imply that would turn me on, I will go talk to the principal about acquainting you with our sexual harassment policy.” Arthur has begun to tap the end up of his pen against his desk in a stiff staccato rhythm.
“God Arthur--what?”
“I’m just saying, that it’s perfectly within my rights to be homosexual, and I don’t appreciate your subtle jabs at my sexuality.”
“What?” Eames gaped at Arthur; he was pretty sure he opened and closed his mouth like a fish. “Have you ever actually been harassed? Because I promise you, if I were harassing you, you would know.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Eames?” Arthur’s pen sped up.
“God, no Arthur. I didn’t even know you were gay.”
“Well,” Arthur said, looking contrite. “Now you do.”
“So it would seem,” Eames said, and rubbed his temple.
--
“And after class you made out in the hall, right?” Ariadne says.
“What? No, Ariadne. I feel like you don’t understand this story at all.”
“You were the one who decided to drug me up before telling it,” Ariadne says, then pauses. “On that note, did you bring any food?”
Eames pulls a box of Cheez-Its out of his back-pack and hands it over. Ariadne immediately plunges her hand in and sets about munching.
“Always prepared. Like a Boy Scout. I like it, Mr. Eames. Now, explain to me why you didn’t just kiss Arthur as soon as you found out he swung your way.”
“Elementary, my dear Watson. Just because a guy is gay doesn’t mean he’s attracted to you, even if you happen to be male.”
“But Arthur clearly wants to chomp your bits,” Ariadne says, then dissolves into giggles.
“He does now,” Eames replies. “You are seriously stupid high.”
“Nah,” Ariadne says through a mouthful of Cheez-Its. “I’m always like this, you just never noticed. Cheez-it?”
Eames takes the box and munches thoughtfully.
“When I found out Arthur was gay and, apparently, out, I was actually more depressed, because if he hadn’t made a move yet then it was clear it was just me, not my gender. Which was worse. I didn’t talk to him beyond the necessary for a week and a half.”
--
And then Saito(-san) decided to assign partners for their midterm projects, rather than just letting them pair off randomly or, better yet, go at it alone.
“To encourage cultural exploration,” Saito explained, handing out the list of partners. “And the list stays as is. No trading. I will not change pairs under any circumstances.”
So of course Eames is paired with Arthur. Because that’s how these stories go.
“Any book in particular you want to do?” Eames asked when he pulled his desk together with Arthur’s. “Maybe Japanese, to keep your nose that lovely shade of brown?”
“You can pick,” Arthur said with a shrug, and Eames started and looked at him.
“What? Arthur Andersen, without an opinion? Alert the presses.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Arthur said, and Eames looked at him again.
“Seriously Arthur, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Arthur said, and his voice was almost a snarl. “Just pick a book.”
“Fine,” Eames said flatly, then taps the list of options. “I just read something about this one--by Kazuo Ishiguro, who’s Japanese-born but from Britain. ‘Never Let Me Go.’”
“Fine. Tell Saito-san we’ll take it,” Arthur said. “Meet me at the town library next Thursday, 4 pm.”
And then he gathered up his books and left the room, although the bell hadn’t rung yet.
--
“Clearly he was jonesin’ for a bonesin’,” Ariadne contributes.
“Shut up, Ariadne,” Eames says. “We’re almost home.”
--
Eames was there, at 4 o’clock on the dot. It was a stupid idea, but he wore cologne. When Arthur arrived, he wrinkled his nose.
“Something smells,” he said.
“That’s not me,” Eames said.
“I’m pretty sure it is. Got a hot date after this?” Arthur’s lips curled into a smirk, and Eames shrugged.
“Let’s talk about the book,” Eames said, setting his hands down on the table between them. “We need to write a report together, and present it to the class. I was thinking we could set up a Google document for writing the report--would that work for you? Then we could both work on it at the same time.”
“Yeah, I’ve done that for projects before.”
“But we need to see if we came to any common conclusions about themes and symbolism and shit.”
“It has to do with humanity and love, obviously,” Arthur said, looking annoyed. “What both of those things mean.”
“Yeah, and I think maybe we could draw parallels between the conclusions for both of them?”
“That could work,” Arthur said, thoughtful now. “What if we each took one theme and then wrote up on that, and then we could try to integrate from there.”
“Sure,” Eames responded.
“I’d like to do humanity,” Arthur said.
“The whole human race, dear?” Eames replied, unable to resist. “That would take some time.”
“Shut up, Eames,” said Arthur, but it lacked some of the usual bite. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Love it is,” Eames said, and waggled his eyebrows. “Same place, same time, next week?”
“Works for me,” said Arthur, pulling out a planner and jotting it down.
“It’s a date,” Eames said, and left before Arthur could say anything about that, or cry sexual harassment.
Somehow over the course of the project it struck Eames that maybe Arthur didn’t hate him completely--maybe when he said thank you after Eames brought M&M’s to their next meeting, Eames could’ve sworn his cheeks went pink, and after that he started responding to Eames’ jabs again. Maybe when he laughed, outright laughed, and when the librarian gave them the stink-eye Arthur pulled a face. Or maybe when he started to move his arms about while he explained his ideas, and it seemed like he was actually properly alive for the first time since Eames had met him. And Eames thought maybe that had something to do with himself, as in Eames. So Eames paid attention, more than he had to probably anything in his life, and he thought maybe he had a chance.
So of course he made a plan. A damn good one.
But you know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men, and Eames was really more of a teenager than a man.
When the day of their presentation came around Eames and Arthur stood side by side in front of the class, which they’d split up by handing out papers that say ‘human’ in Arthur’s tidy hand and ‘clone’ in Eames’ miserable scrawl. They then spoke to the two sides of the room out of different sides of their mouths, Arthur to the humans and Eames to the clones. It worked well--Saito was nodding along, and the rest of the class was participating and seemed to get the idea. Arthur even grinned, slightly, and then they get to the conclusion, where Eames speaks to the clones alone, using lines from the novel, pulled as if at random.
“But the fact was, I suppose, there were powerful tides tugging us apart by then, and it only needed something like that to finish the task. If we’d understood that back then-who knows?-maybe we’d have kept a tighter hold of one another."
"I keep thinking about this river somewhere, with the water moving really fast. And these two people in the water, trying to hold onto each other, holding on as hard as they can, but in the end it's just too much. The current's too strong. They've got to let go, drift apart. That's how it is with us."
"You say you’re sure? Sure that you’re in love? How can you know it? You think love is so simple?"
And then, finally, Eames used his own words.
“Yes,” he said. “I think maybe it is.”
Eames grabbed Arthur by the hand, here, jerked him close and put his other hand on Arthur’s back. Arthur--he could tell Arthur didn’t know what was happening. And Eames kissed him, hard on the mouth.
And then he was sprawled out on the floor, because Arthur had still had one free hand, and had punched him the face and run out of the room.
The class gaped.
“Excuse me, Saito-san,” Eames said. “But I think I have to go to the bathroom.”
He rose with as much dignity as he could muster, and walked into the hall.
The first place he checked was the faculty bathroom.
“Occupied,” Arthur shouted, when Eames knocked on the door.
“Arthur, it’s me,” Eames said.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Arthur, please.”
“What the fuck was that, Eames?”
“I’ll tell you--just let me in. I’ll tell you, and then I promise I’ll leave you alone forever if you still want me to.”
It’s quiet, for awhile, and Eames sunk down to sit on the linoleum floor outside the bathroom door, even though it was linoleum floor outside of the bathroom door.
Then the door opened, and Arthur is looked down at him.
“Come in,” Arthur said. So Eames did.
“Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m attracted to you,” Arthur said.
“I know,” Eames said. “I know. But Arthur, you fuckwit, I am gay and I am attracted to you.”
Arthur’s mouth opened into a small ‘o’. “That really would be easier to swallow if you hadn’t called me a fuckwit.”
“Arthur,” Eames said, taking a step closer. “Darling. I’ve been attracted to you since I first laid eyes on you and your stupid pressed jeans. But now, I think I might love you. Or I could. Would you like to give it a go?”
And then Arthur kissed him.
--
“Ohhhh,” Ariadne says, eyes round. “And then what?”
“A gentlemen,” comes a voice from outside. “Doesn’t kiss and tell.”
Eames laughs, “Arthur! I knew you’d find us.”
“Nice story, Eames,” Arthur says, coming inside. “Now are you going to tell her the real one?”
“Maybe later,” he says. “Want some Cheez-its? Or I have more pot.”
“Yusuf’s?” Arthur asks, sitting down.
“Of course, darling. Only the best for me and mine,” Eames replies, and starts to roll another joint.
“You guys are dicks,” Ariadne says, and takes the box of Cheez-its back. “But it was a good story.”
in which eames and ariadne are bros, cut class, get stoned, and talk about arthur
pg13 . 4271 words
[ 1|2| 3| 4|WIP]
The third Friday in September, when it is still nice out but just barely, Eames tells Ariadne they’re skipping study hall.
“And,” he says grandly. “Whatever comes afterwards.”
“Pre-Calc,” Ariadne groans as she fiddles with her locker. “A.P. Chem. French 4. Get with the program, Eames, you know this. My schedule’s practically the same as Arthur’s.” She drags Arthurs name out over several syllables, and Eames winks salaciously.
“Actually,” Eames says. “I’m only doing this to keep you from spending too much time with our dear Arthur. I don’t like you at all, I just want to keep an eye on you so you don’t steal him out from under my nose.”
“I hate to break it to you, Eames, but Arthur is gayer than the month of May.”
“I didn’t think so when we first met.”
“Oh!” Ariadne brightens visibly. “If I cut class with you, will you tell me how you pined away miserably for Arthur until he lost a bet and had to give you a makeover and take you to the homecoming dance?”
“Actually, I pined away miserably for Arthur until he sang ‘All I Want For Christmas is You’ to me at the school’s winter concert.”
“Are you talking about me again?” Arthur says, coming up from behind and wrapping his arms around Eames’ waist. Eames turns and kisses him on the corner of the mouth. Although she hates PDA on principle, especially in the vicinity of her locker, they’re so sweet it makes Ariadne’s teeth hurt. Though, also, Arthur’s arms are crazy long, like a monkey’s.
“We should’ve been talking about how you take longer than anyone I’ve ever met in the locker room after gym,” Ariadne says.
“Well,” says Arthur as he disentangles himself from Eames and opens his locker. “Not all of us can rock eau de socks like you, Andersen.”
“Uncalled for, Andersen. Uncalled for,” Ariadne says, and dumps a pile of books unceremoniously into her own locker. “Okay, Eames, I’m going with you. And you’re going to give me all the dirt on this kid over here.” She jerks her thumb at Arthur, who frowns.
“If he tells you we started dating after he drove me to Chicago in Robert Fischer’s father’s stolen convertible and he danced to ‘Twist and Shout’ in a parade, don’t believe him.”
“Stop lampshading the fact that you two are like a terrible high school movie couple,” Ariadne grumbles.
“Don’t worry, love,” Eames says to Arthur. “Nothing but the truth. Scout’s honor.” He holds up two fingers in a salute.
“That’s the Cub Scout one, you dumbass,” Arthur scowls, and Eames kisses him. Ariadne wonders if it’s possible to develop diabetes from hanging out with stupidly adorable couples. Probably not with just the one, but she saw the Cobbs making out in Ms. Cobb’s classroom after school once, and she left double-quick because there’s got to be something dangerous about thinking your teachers are cute. If they started making out at the same time and place as Arthur and Eames, Ariadne might fear for her well-being and her single soul.
“Want me to carry your books to class before we leave?” Eames offers as he and Arthur break apart.
“I am not the girl in this relationship. And if I were, that’d be sexist. I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own books, and I’m sure I’d be equally capable as a girl,” Arthur says, and Ariadne snorts. Which is a habit she should really work on breaking.
“Later, Arthur. Can I borrow your notes if I miss pre-calc? I can get chem ones from Yusuf.”
“I’ll make you copies.”
“Thanks, you’re a doll,” Ariadne says, and reaches up to ruffle his hair. Then she and Eames take off down the hall before Arthur can hit anyone.
“Not a girl!” Arthur shouts after them.
“A KEN doll!” Ariadne shouts back. When she and Eames get outside, they dissolve into giggles. Ariadne straightens up, and sets off towards her car in the parking lot, swinging her keys around one finger.
“Okay,” she says. “Where are we going?”
Eames grins, and holds up a small plastic baggie, “We’re going to the park.”
Ariadne may have only been in town for a month, but there’s only one park he could mean. It’s near the edge of town and usually vacant, and there’s a stream running through and into the woods. If you follow the stream you wind up at a hollowed out shack, spattered with paintball entrails, where kids go to drink and smoke pot and whatever else. It’s unclear whether the police don’t know or they just turn a blind eye, as it’s one of the worst kept secrets in school, up there with the fact that the captain of the cheerleading squad is sleeping with the gym teacher, Mr. Dick Richards (whose parents were seriously terrible with names, and this coming from someone named Ariadne Anne Andersen).
When they get to the park, Ariadne grabs a fleece blanket from her trunk and she and Eames hop along the stream bank, trying to keep their feet dry.
“Who’d you skip with if I wasn’t here?” Ariadne asks. Despite Eames’ somewhat inexplicable attachment to her, and her subsequent friendship with Arthur, she’s still trying to figure out her new school’s social landscape.
“Yusuf, maybe,” Eames says. “But he always wants to start bonfires, so be glad you’re here.”
“I like bonfires.”
“Not the way Yusuf does. He’ll burn anything.” Eames shakes his head.
“Yeah, I’d noticed that in lab.”
“You’d make a good guy,” Eames says, leaping from one bank to the other.
“Where’d that come from?” Ariadne asks, pausing to look at him, and, also, to consider whether she can make the leap.
“Then we could be bros.”
“What, you don’t consider me your fag hag?”
“You’re supposed to call me sexist and say we can still be bros.”
“As long as you don’t think I’m a fag hag, I don’t care,” Ariadne says, and leaps to the other bank. “And I refuse to be your beard.”
“As if I need a beard,” Eames scoffs.
When they get to the shack, Eames ushers Ariadne in.
“Ladies first?” Ariadne asks, raising a brow.
“No.” Eames replies, throwing his arm across her shoulders. “Brosephs first. And you, new kid, are my bro.”
“Thanks, I guess,” says Ariadne, and spreads out her blanket and plops down inside. Eames lounges against the wall next to her and rolls a joint.
“So,” Ariadne says as Eames takes a drag. “You and Arthur, how’d it start?”
“Well,” Eames says, handing Ariadne the joint. “I was the new kid sophomore year--that’s why I was so glad you moved in to replace me. And a skinny kid with a stick up his perfectly formed arse was supposed to show me around...”
“Mmm,” Ariadne says. “Arse.”
“You shall not covet your neighbor’s arse, Ariadne,” Eames says sharply. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”
“Story,” Ariadne says, snuggling deeper into her blanket. “I love story time.”
--
After the divorce, Eames’ mother had insisted they move back stateside to be near her family. The divorce was excessively messy, and if Eames wanted to throw a fit he didn’t, because he hated his father. So they had moved to the town where Eames’ aunt lived, and Eames had transferred into the local high school as a sophomore, and that was okay.
During their first meeting, Cobb tried to explain about the American system was different from the British, but he didn’t seem so sure about the differences himself, and spent most of their conversation shuffling through papers and looking squinting.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he said at last. “You seem to be a bright boy. But just to be safe, I’ve asked another student to come show you around. Ah--that should be him now.”
There was a tap at Cobb’s office door, and then a boy Eames’ height in jeans and a t-shirt stepped inside. He looked quite ordinary, except if you looked closely his jeans had been ironed. Eames noticed these things, because he looked closely. Eames could be frank with himself: he had a type. Arthur, with his dark hair and thick lashes, visible even behind those adorable glasses, was it.
“Does your mum,” Eames asked. “Iron your jeans?”
Cobb squinted at Eames, and the boy looked disparaging.
“No,” he said. “I do.”
“This is Arthur,” Cobb said. “Arthur, Eames.”
“I think this is the beginning of the beautiful friendship,” Eames said.
Arthur scowled. Cobb sent them on their way.
--
“And then you made out in the hall?” Ariadne interrupts.
“Don’t interrupt, Ariadne,” Eames says. “You know we didn’t make out in the hall. Epic romances take time.”
--
It turned out that Cobb had arranged for Arthur to be Eames’ guide because their schedules were nearly identical--Eames had Acting when Arthur had orchestra, but otherwise they shared all the same classes, with the first being American History.
“You lot like to talk about yourselves, don’t you?” Eames said by way of conversation.
“Well, evidently you live here now,” Arthur said. “So it’d be much more becoming if you didn’t act superior.”
“I’m the superior one, mate? How are you supposed to guide me if you refuse to speak to me?”
“You’re following me, aren’t you?” Arthur said, and Eames didn’t have much to say to that.
“I’d follow you anywhere,” he said. Arthur turned around and glared.
Their next class was world lit, with Mr. Saito. Who insisted on being called Saito-san (students should learn to express respect in more than one culture), and spent 90% of their first period complaining about the terrible books he was forced to teach.
Arthur raised his hand.
“Excuse me, Saito-san,” he said. “While I’m sorry that the curriculum includes no Japanese literature, shouldn’t we get on with the class?”
“And who are you?” Saito asked.
“Arthur Andersen, Saito-san.”
“There’s more to respect than using honorific titles, Mr. Andersen. Being an American, I don’t expect you to understand this. But if you would allow me to teach this class as I see fit, I would appreciate it.”
Arthur put his hand back down.
“So,” Eames said. “Not going so well with Saito-san, is it?”
“Seriously,” Arthur said. “Do people just come to America to be bastards to those of us who are actually from here?”
“Was that a subtle jab at me?”
“No,” Arthur said. “It was a sharp jab, you’re just stupid.”
“I would beg to differ, Mr. Andersen,” Eames said. “But I’m not sure if it’s worth the trouble.”
--
“So,” Ariadne says, taking another drag on the joint before returning it to Eames. “When do we get past the snark?”
“After a few months or so. Do you want me to skip to that part?”
“Seriously, do you remember every conversation you guys ever had?”
“No, I’m making most of this up.”
“If you’re making this up, then why didn’t Arthur just jump your bones right away?”
“Because that wouldn’t be true to the spirit of the tale. Remember scout’s honor?”
“You aren’t a boy scout, Eames,” Ariadne says.
“No. But Arthur is.”
“He would be,” Ariadne says, and manages to resist snorting.
“Hey, that’s my boyfriend you’re talking about.”
“And you’re supposed to be telling me how you got that way.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a stupid story anyway.”
“That’s not what the girl who sits next to me in painting says.”
“Would this be Aubrey? Because you should know that she can’t be trusted.”
“Yeah, well,” Ariadne is lying on her back, and she stretches her arms out above her head and looks at the ceiling. “I think I’m a little high.”
“You better be,” Eames says. “This is fucking hydroponic. Yusuf grows it.”
“So can you skip to the part where you and Arthur realize your undying love for one another and fuck in the hallway?”
“No,” says Eames. “This is high school. It’s all about the slow burn. But I’ll speed it up a little bit. So Arthur’s not showing me around any more, because I’ve been stamped ‘settled.’ But we almost all the same classes, and Arthur was slightly more uptight than he is now. And since we founded GSA at the end of last year, of course both of us think the other is maddeningly attractive, and also straight.”
“Of course,” says Ariadne, nodding sagely. “That’s how these stories go.”
--
Homecoming was in mid-October. Their town’s football team is not particularly good, but it is popular, so Homecoming’s something of a big deal, with a parade and a dance and a king and a queen and a court. Eames was in the running, for the court, but only because the other students hadn’t figured out that having a British accent doesn’t actually mean you’re particularly cool. Arthur’s on student government, and over worked, because he’s the underclassman who everyone dumps everything on.
Eames ran into Arthur after school, one day when he’d stayed late to work on the fall play. He liked to use the staff bathroom, because it’s fancy and with no one around he could, and when he pushed open the door Arthur’s in there washing his face.
“Don’t they teach knocking where you come from?” Arthur asked, raising his eyebrows in the mirror.
“Well, at least your bits were in your pants, yeah?” Eames said. Arthur frowned, and splashed more water on his face.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“What?” Eames said. “No rejoinder?”
“Did you just use the word rejoinder?--No, not now, Eames. I’m busy.”
“Being the workhorse of student council? I’m sure Homecoming will happen if you sleep.”
“What do you care? Besides, I can sleep through the dance.”
“What, not going to enjoy the fruits of your labor?”
“No, I imagine not,” Arthur sighed. “Well, I suppose you’re looking to use the bathroom, so I’ll get back to work.”
Arthur made to slip out the door, but Eames caught him by wrist.
“Seriously, Arthur,” he said. “Get some sleep.”
“Whatever, Eames,” Arthur said, shook loose, and disappeared down the darkened hall.
Homecoming went off without a hitch, of course. Though that’s mostly hearsay--Eames didn’t go to the game and didn’t make court, either, and he skipped out on the dance as well, because if Arthur wasn’t going it really wasn’t worth the trouble of making an appearance. Instead he sat home and watched a movie with his mom, a dumb one with Hugh Grant in it but one she wanted to see. And when you were the only child of a single mother you had to make certain concessions like that.
“Good job with Homecoming,” Eames told Arthur the next morning before U.S. History. They were both there early; Arthur because he liked to be prepared, Eames because he didn’t feel like talking to anyone else.
“How would you know?” Arthur said.
“Word gets around,” Eames shrugged. “As, apparently, did the word that I failed to attend any events. I don’t believe in worshipping at the alter of American football.”
“So, what, it’d be okay if it were soccer?” Arthur asked.
“Yes,” Eames said. “Or rugby, even. Have you ever seen rugby? Lots of wrestling around in the mud.”
“If you’re trying to imply that would turn me on, I will go talk to the principal about acquainting you with our sexual harassment policy.” Arthur has begun to tap the end up of his pen against his desk in a stiff staccato rhythm.
“God Arthur--what?”
“I’m just saying, that it’s perfectly within my rights to be homosexual, and I don’t appreciate your subtle jabs at my sexuality.”
“What?” Eames gaped at Arthur; he was pretty sure he opened and closed his mouth like a fish. “Have you ever actually been harassed? Because I promise you, if I were harassing you, you would know.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Eames?” Arthur’s pen sped up.
“God, no Arthur. I didn’t even know you were gay.”
“Well,” Arthur said, looking contrite. “Now you do.”
“So it would seem,” Eames said, and rubbed his temple.
--
“And after class you made out in the hall, right?” Ariadne says.
“What? No, Ariadne. I feel like you don’t understand this story at all.”
“You were the one who decided to drug me up before telling it,” Ariadne says, then pauses. “On that note, did you bring any food?”
Eames pulls a box of Cheez-Its out of his back-pack and hands it over. Ariadne immediately plunges her hand in and sets about munching.
“Always prepared. Like a Boy Scout. I like it, Mr. Eames. Now, explain to me why you didn’t just kiss Arthur as soon as you found out he swung your way.”
“Elementary, my dear Watson. Just because a guy is gay doesn’t mean he’s attracted to you, even if you happen to be male.”
“But Arthur clearly wants to chomp your bits,” Ariadne says, then dissolves into giggles.
“He does now,” Eames replies. “You are seriously stupid high.”
“Nah,” Ariadne says through a mouthful of Cheez-Its. “I’m always like this, you just never noticed. Cheez-it?”
Eames takes the box and munches thoughtfully.
“When I found out Arthur was gay and, apparently, out, I was actually more depressed, because if he hadn’t made a move yet then it was clear it was just me, not my gender. Which was worse. I didn’t talk to him beyond the necessary for a week and a half.”
--
And then Saito(-san) decided to assign partners for their midterm projects, rather than just letting them pair off randomly or, better yet, go at it alone.
“To encourage cultural exploration,” Saito explained, handing out the list of partners. “And the list stays as is. No trading. I will not change pairs under any circumstances.”
So of course Eames is paired with Arthur. Because that’s how these stories go.
“Any book in particular you want to do?” Eames asked when he pulled his desk together with Arthur’s. “Maybe Japanese, to keep your nose that lovely shade of brown?”
“You can pick,” Arthur said with a shrug, and Eames started and looked at him.
“What? Arthur Andersen, without an opinion? Alert the presses.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Arthur said, and Eames looked at him again.
“Seriously Arthur, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Arthur said, and his voice was almost a snarl. “Just pick a book.”
“Fine,” Eames said flatly, then taps the list of options. “I just read something about this one--by Kazuo Ishiguro, who’s Japanese-born but from Britain. ‘Never Let Me Go.’”
“Fine. Tell Saito-san we’ll take it,” Arthur said. “Meet me at the town library next Thursday, 4 pm.”
And then he gathered up his books and left the room, although the bell hadn’t rung yet.
--
“Clearly he was jonesin’ for a bonesin’,” Ariadne contributes.
“Shut up, Ariadne,” Eames says. “We’re almost home.”
--
Eames was there, at 4 o’clock on the dot. It was a stupid idea, but he wore cologne. When Arthur arrived, he wrinkled his nose.
“Something smells,” he said.
“That’s not me,” Eames said.
“I’m pretty sure it is. Got a hot date after this?” Arthur’s lips curled into a smirk, and Eames shrugged.
“Let’s talk about the book,” Eames said, setting his hands down on the table between them. “We need to write a report together, and present it to the class. I was thinking we could set up a Google document for writing the report--would that work for you? Then we could both work on it at the same time.”
“Yeah, I’ve done that for projects before.”
“But we need to see if we came to any common conclusions about themes and symbolism and shit.”
“It has to do with humanity and love, obviously,” Arthur said, looking annoyed. “What both of those things mean.”
“Yeah, and I think maybe we could draw parallels between the conclusions for both of them?”
“That could work,” Arthur said, thoughtful now. “What if we each took one theme and then wrote up on that, and then we could try to integrate from there.”
“Sure,” Eames responded.
“I’d like to do humanity,” Arthur said.
“The whole human race, dear?” Eames replied, unable to resist. “That would take some time.”
“Shut up, Eames,” said Arthur, but it lacked some of the usual bite. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Love it is,” Eames said, and waggled his eyebrows. “Same place, same time, next week?”
“Works for me,” said Arthur, pulling out a planner and jotting it down.
“It’s a date,” Eames said, and left before Arthur could say anything about that, or cry sexual harassment.
Somehow over the course of the project it struck Eames that maybe Arthur didn’t hate him completely--maybe when he said thank you after Eames brought M&M’s to their next meeting, Eames could’ve sworn his cheeks went pink, and after that he started responding to Eames’ jabs again. Maybe when he laughed, outright laughed, and when the librarian gave them the stink-eye Arthur pulled a face. Or maybe when he started to move his arms about while he explained his ideas, and it seemed like he was actually properly alive for the first time since Eames had met him. And Eames thought maybe that had something to do with himself, as in Eames. So Eames paid attention, more than he had to probably anything in his life, and he thought maybe he had a chance.
So of course he made a plan. A damn good one.
But you know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men, and Eames was really more of a teenager than a man.
When the day of their presentation came around Eames and Arthur stood side by side in front of the class, which they’d split up by handing out papers that say ‘human’ in Arthur’s tidy hand and ‘clone’ in Eames’ miserable scrawl. They then spoke to the two sides of the room out of different sides of their mouths, Arthur to the humans and Eames to the clones. It worked well--Saito was nodding along, and the rest of the class was participating and seemed to get the idea. Arthur even grinned, slightly, and then they get to the conclusion, where Eames speaks to the clones alone, using lines from the novel, pulled as if at random.
“But the fact was, I suppose, there were powerful tides tugging us apart by then, and it only needed something like that to finish the task. If we’d understood that back then-who knows?-maybe we’d have kept a tighter hold of one another."
"I keep thinking about this river somewhere, with the water moving really fast. And these two people in the water, trying to hold onto each other, holding on as hard as they can, but in the end it's just too much. The current's too strong. They've got to let go, drift apart. That's how it is with us."
"You say you’re sure? Sure that you’re in love? How can you know it? You think love is so simple?"
And then, finally, Eames used his own words.
“Yes,” he said. “I think maybe it is.”
Eames grabbed Arthur by the hand, here, jerked him close and put his other hand on Arthur’s back. Arthur--he could tell Arthur didn’t know what was happening. And Eames kissed him, hard on the mouth.
And then he was sprawled out on the floor, because Arthur had still had one free hand, and had punched him the face and run out of the room.
The class gaped.
“Excuse me, Saito-san,” Eames said. “But I think I have to go to the bathroom.”
He rose with as much dignity as he could muster, and walked into the hall.
The first place he checked was the faculty bathroom.
“Occupied,” Arthur shouted, when Eames knocked on the door.
“Arthur, it’s me,” Eames said.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Arthur, please.”
“What the fuck was that, Eames?”
“I’ll tell you--just let me in. I’ll tell you, and then I promise I’ll leave you alone forever if you still want me to.”
It’s quiet, for awhile, and Eames sunk down to sit on the linoleum floor outside the bathroom door, even though it was linoleum floor outside of the bathroom door.
Then the door opened, and Arthur is looked down at him.
“Come in,” Arthur said. So Eames did.
“Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m attracted to you,” Arthur said.
“I know,” Eames said. “I know. But Arthur, you fuckwit, I am gay and I am attracted to you.”
Arthur’s mouth opened into a small ‘o’. “That really would be easier to swallow if you hadn’t called me a fuckwit.”
“Arthur,” Eames said, taking a step closer. “Darling. I’ve been attracted to you since I first laid eyes on you and your stupid pressed jeans. But now, I think I might love you. Or I could. Would you like to give it a go?”
And then Arthur kissed him.
--
“Ohhhh,” Ariadne says, eyes round. “And then what?”
“A gentlemen,” comes a voice from outside. “Doesn’t kiss and tell.”
Eames laughs, “Arthur! I knew you’d find us.”
“Nice story, Eames,” Arthur says, coming inside. “Now are you going to tell her the real one?”
“Maybe later,” he says. “Want some Cheez-its? Or I have more pot.”
“Yusuf’s?” Arthur asks, sitting down.
“Of course, darling. Only the best for me and mine,” Eames replies, and starts to roll another joint.
“You guys are dicks,” Ariadne says, and takes the box of Cheez-its back. “But it was a good story.”