double buck
masterpost
1.
Arthur has absolutely no interest in sawing double buck. He’s single buck, always has been; his saw is six foot four, and if you think he’s too short to handle it on his own you don’t know who he is.
So there was no need for a partner, and if he were to have a partner, it certainly wouldn’t be some upstart hot saw competitor who does chainsaw art on the side.
Because really, fuck. Chainsaws are so inelegant.
When Cobb brought the whole thing up Arthur just sat very still and looked at him, trying to convey with the ineffable depths of his eyes how supremely dumb Cobb was, and, by extension, this idea.
“It would just be for exhibition,” Cobb said.
“He’s really very good,” Cobb said.
“He’s making me a chainsaw bear for the front porch,” Cobb said.
“He’s friends with Ariadne,” Cobb said.
“Well of course he’s friends with Ariadne, isn’t he?” Arthur muttered. “Chainsaw artists.”
“That’s all you have to say about this?” Cobb asked, and Arthur got up to leave.
“Yes,” Arthur said.
“Ass,” Cobb called after him.
Cobb is the chair of the local forestry club, and he’s into fostering community and educating the public about loggersports and shit. Arthur is into winning the Lumberjack World Championships.
They’re kind of friends, except when Cobb comes up with dumbass ideas like this.
Arthur only competes in single buck, but he likes to throw hatchets in his spare time. He went out behind Cobb’s house and did that, than, and then Cobb shows up, like he usually did, looking mopey.
“That’s a nice pine,” he said, frowning.
“Just be glad I didn’t go for your precious sugar maple,” Arthur told him, dislodging the hatchet and going back for another throw.
“Don’t fuck with the sugar maples,” Cobb said. “If I have to pay for syrup, ever, you have to buy it.”
“I’ll buy you Aunt Jemima,” Arthur said, and Cobb made a retching noise.
“Seriously, though, someday you’re going to do this and take off one of the kids’ heads or something.”
“Do you doubt my aim, Cobb? You could put an apple on your head and I could cut it in half. I’m fucking William Tell.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re an ass?” Cobb said, and Arthur shrugged.
“You. All the time. Most recently just now, when I refused to go along with your stupid double buck scheme.” He threw the hatchet again.
“Double buck is so much faster than single buck, Arthur. It’s a crowd pleaser.”
“Like hot saw?”
“Your hatred of chain saws is extremely unreasonable,” Cobb said.
“They’re inelegant,” Arthur said. “They’re contrary to the spirit of the sport.”
Arthur had thought that conversation ended that day in Cobb’s backyard, but now there’s a crunch on the gravel drive and Cobb’s truck is pulling up his driveway with someone Arthur doesn’t know is riding shotgun.
It has to be Cobb, anyway, because no one else has the combination to the padlock at the other end of Arthur’s driveway.
When the other man gets out, he’s wearing buffalo plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, exposing muscular forearms, and it’s got to be hot saw. In this business, muscles like that only come from hefting around jacked up snowmachine engines.
“I knew I should never have given you the combination to my gate,” Arthur says.
“Arthur,” Cobb says. “This is Eames.”
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Eames says, extending his hand.
“I can’t say the same,” Arthur says as he takes the hand, and gives Eames a look that’s intended to be withering. Eames squeezes hard, when he shakes.
“He’s lying,” Cobb says. “I told him you were making me a chainsaw bear.”
Arthur scowls at Cobb, but it’s really not worth it, because Cobb is practically immune.
“I’m not interesting in sawing double buck,” Arthur says, looking directly at Eames. “Welcome to our club.”
“Charmed,” says Eames, and his face splits into a grin.
Arthur is pretty sure there’s nothing charming about it.
2.
“I heard you were an ass to Eames,” Ariadne tells him the next day when she runs into him at the diner in town, where Arthur likes to go in the mornings to eat biscuits and sausage.
Actually, it’s not so much running into one another as a standing appointment, because Ariadne and Arthur have breakfast together most mornings, but he likes to pretend they don’t. She does use a chainsaw, after all.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arthur says.
“You really need to get over your unreasonable hatred of chainsaws,” Ariadne says.
“They smell awful,” Arthur tells her.
“I thought they smelled like sunshine and daisies,” Ariadne says brightly. “And I know you think they’re inelegant, but you have to admit I have a pretty snazzy little Stihl.”
“Whatever,” Arthur says, and Ariadne pats him on the back.
“Don’t sulk,” she says. “I know you like the moose I made you.”
The moose is, admittedly, pretty wicked. It’s life size.
“What’s a Brit doing sawing hot saw?” Arthur asks, and Ariadne’s lips quirk into a grin.
“Winning,” she says. “You’d like him.”
“I don’t only like winners,” Arthur says.
“No,” she says. “But you only fuck winners.”
Arthur pushes his last biscuit across his plate. Ariadne laughs.
“Do you want me to eat that for you?” she asks.
“No,” Arthur says, and stuffs most of it in his mouth at once. Ariadne laughs at him again, and Arthur remembers why he never gave Ariadne the code to his gate. Although she usually just parks at the end of the drive and hops over it, but at least that doesn’t mess up the gravel.
“This is why I never gave you the code to my gate,” he tells her.
“Whatever,” she says. “You act like there’s not a four wheeler trail through your backyard.”
“There isn’t,” Arthur says. “Because I have a shotgun.”
“You’re such an old man.”
There’s really nothing Arthur can say to that.
“How’s the commission coming?” he asks, instead. Ariadne’s working on a pair of matched lions for some rich summer people who live outside of town.
“Speaking of,” she says. “I need to get back to work. Tomorrow?”
Arthur doesn’t respond, which is his usual response.
3.
Because Cobb and Ariadne were all up in Arthur’s shit about being nice to Eames, Arthur had kind of assumed that Eames was some sort of absurdly nice person, the sort of imaginary lumberjack who frolics through the forests with deer and rabbits.
It turned out Arthur was slightly off in that assessment. And, also, Eames had apparently snitched the gate code off of Cobb, because there’s truck that’s neither Cobb’s nor Arthur’s in the drive when Arthur gets back, and Eames is sitting in one of this Adirondack chairs.
“Good morning, Arthur,” Eames says.
“Eames,” Arthur says with a curt nod. “I don’t really have time right now.”
Eames gets up and prowls over, and then he stands very close to Arthur and just looks at him.
They’re of height, but Eames is broader than Arthur, and up close his eyes are blue and Arthur isn’t sure if he could take him in a fight.
Which sucks, because Arthur likes to know whether he can take people in fights, if the need arises. It’s not like he gets into a lot of brawls at the bar, but. Well, Cobb would beg to differ.
“So you don’t want to saw double buck,” Eames says after a moment. His voice is low, and Arthur tries not to look at his lips, which are full and thick and seem to move slower than they need to, to make the words come out.
“No,” Arthur says.
“Well that’s good,” Eames says. “Because neither do I.”
“Okay,” Arthur says.
“We’re in agreement then?” Eames asks, and Arthur nods.
“Yes,” Arthur says.
And then Eames leaves, and Arthur feels like he’s somehow being manipulated, though he can’t put his finger on how.
He calls up Cobb when he gets inside.
“Cobb,” he says. “Eames doesn’t want to saw double buck.”
He can hear Cobb mumbling over the line, but there’s no actual talking.
“Cobb,” he repeats.
“He used to saw double buck,” Cobb says.
“So, what, I’m not good enough?” Arthur asks.
“Does it matter? Now you can get out of this and go back to being totally unhelpful to the cause.”
“What is the cause exactly?”
“Educating people about the lumberjack arts,” Cobb says tightly.
“I’m good,” Arthur says. “That’s education enough.”
Then he hangs up. Or maybe Cobb does. Semantics.
“Eames doesn’t even want to saw double buck,” Arthur tells Ariadne at breakfast the next morning.
She sighs.
“You really need to talk with Eames about that,” she says.
“I did talk to Eames about it! He said he doesn’t want to saw double buck!”
“No,” she says. “I mean you really should talk to Eames about that, before you come to me acting all offended.”
“I’m not offended,” Arthur says.
“You totally are,” she says. “Which is why we’re going to change the subject now, and talk about what you’re going to do for the exhibition at the county fair.”
“Nothing. Cobb knows that.”
Arthur hates the county fair, for several reasons he doesn’t want to get into right now.
“You could at least do some hatchet throwing,” Ariadne suggests, and Arthur raises an eyebrow.
“Hatchet throwing,” he says. “Is not an actual lumbersport.”
“No, but it’s cool and you’re good at it.”
Arthur frowns, because he’s not sure if he should run with the compliment or attack the implication that single buck is not cool. Because obviously he’s also good at that.
“Did Cobb put you up to this?” he asks.
“God no. You know Cobb hates your hatchet throwing.”
Which is also true, and a point in favor of hatchet throwing.
“I’ll think about it,” Arthur says, and Ariadne nods.
4.
The county fair is the next weekend, at a park down by the river. Ariadne will sell chainsaw art and do demonstrations, and Eames probably will, too, now that he’s here, and Arthur is willing to bet that Cobb will weasel a stock saw demonstration out of him. Cobb and Mal will do some underhand demos, and Yusuf will set up a booth, and Arthur will try to come up with reasons not to go.
“I think I’m coming down with something,” Arthur says when Cobb stops by on Wednesday, and Cobb just purses his lips.
“I’ll pay for your ticket to the demo derby,” Cobb offers.
“Ariadne suggested I could do some hatchet throwing.”
Cobb frowns.
“I’ll let you do a hatchet throwing demonstration,” Cobb says. “As long as there are no children around.”
“What the fuck Cobb? We’re right off the midway. There are always children around.”
“Fine,” Cobb growls.
“Fine what?”
“Fine, you can do a hatchet throwing demonstration, but you have to do it in the cage.”
“The cage isn’t big enough,” Arthur says. “No one wants to see someone throw a hatchet four feet. Besides, Ariadne needs it.”
Cobb sighs.
“I’m not going to get sued because you whack some kid in the skull, Arthur.”
“If I whack some kid in the skull,” Arthur says. “I’m pretty sure I’d have more problems than a lawsuit.”
“So?”
“It’s not going to happen, Cobb. It’s going to be no more dangerous than the goddamn Zipper.”
Arthur’s feelings about the Zipper are up there with his feelings about chainsaws, and by ‘up there’ he means ‘down there, and negative.’
“Fine,” Cobb says. “We’ll figure something out. But you have to come and talk to people at the table.”
Arthur hates talking to people at the table, but Cobb knows that already, and if Arthur says anything about it, Cobb will just bring up the possibility that Arthur needs to go to counseling.
Arthur slathers on sunscreen before he goes over to the fairgrounds, because there’s nothing worse than getting a sunburn at the stupid county fair.
When he gets there Ariadne and Eames are doing some sort of duelling chainsaws thing in their respective cages, and Eames is wearing overalls. And nothing else. He’s undone the bib so it falls loose around his legs, and his chest is bare and gleaming with sweat, and the overalls are slipping down along the curve of his ass.
It’s vulgar, and also unsafe. Arthur hopes he gets a million splinters.
Mal is sitting at their table wearing a sunhat with James on her lap, and Arthur goes to over to sit down next to her, grateful for the shade.
“Eames is inappropriate,” he says, and Mal arches an eyebrow at him.
“I was rather thinking you’d enjoy the view.”
“Shut up,” Arthur says. “He’s going to get so many splinters.”
“Perhaps you could help him take them out,” Mal suggests.
Arthur remembers, now, why he usually complains about things to Cobb.
“How’s James doing?” he says, instead, and Mal beams.
“You learn quickly, Arthur,” she says, and begins a long monologue about James’ first word.
“Where’s Phillipa?” Arthur asks, finally, because he’s always liked larger children better.
“With her father, in the poultry building,” Mal says, and Arthur gets up to go.
Only then Eames is coming out of his cage, because apparently the eagle he was making is finished.
“Hey, Arthur,” he says, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Put on some clothes,” Arthur says, and leaves.
Arthur fails to find Cobb and Phillipa, but he spends a lot of time watching pigs sleep and letting a girl in 4-H blather on about her goat.
When he gets back, Eames is at the table and Mal has disappeared. He’s done up the bib of his overalls, but he’s still not wearing a shirt, and Arthur does not want tickets to this gun show, but apparently he has them.
“This better, darling?” Eames asks, when Arthur sits down.
“Don’t you get splinters working like that?” Arthur counters, and Eames just grins.
“I have very thick skin,” Eames says. Which is absurd.
“You’re going to get a sunburn,” Arthur tells him, and looks at the pamphlets Cobb had spread out across the table.
“I’m glad you’re so concerned for my welfare.”
“I’m not,” Arthur says, and picks up a pamphlet to read it.
Eames is watching him.
“Why don’t you want to saw double buck?” Arthur asks.
“Why don’t you?”
“Because I compete alone.”
“So do I,” Eames says.
“Cobb says you used to--”
“Gossiping about me, were you?” Eames asks, and then some teenager wearing too much make-up appears to flirt with Eames, and Arthur makes a point of ignoring them both.
“She seemed very interested in the lumberjack arts,” Arthur says, when she leaves.
“Jealous?” Eames asks, and Arthur frowns.
“Of that jailbait? Never,” Arthur says, and Eames stops to look at him.
“I meant of me,” Eames says, raising an eyebrow, and Arthur can feel himself blushing, and almost wishes he had foregone the sunscreen, just to have an excuse.
“My old double buck partner screwed me over,” Eames says, now, and Arthur nods and then they don’t talk any more.
When Cobb returns he sets Arthur up for the hatchet throwing demo, which is kind of a relief. The rig up a chain-link fence and have the audience stand back, like Arthur was going to miss or something. Which he so wasn’t.
He draws a reasonable crowd, and when he gets back to the table Ariadne is there, and Eames has gone back to the chainsaw.
“So,” Ariadne says. “Enjoying the gun show?”
Arthur scowls at her.
“He’s going to get sunburned,” he says.
Ariadne laughs at him, and goes to buy them both Hawaiian ice. Arthur always gets half cherry, half lime, and when Eames comes out of the cage again he purses his lips and frowns, like Cobb.
“What happened to your mouth?” he asks Arthur.
“We made out,” Ariadne tells him with a completely straight face, and Arthur glares at her.
“Hawaiian ice,” he says. “Red dye 40.”
“It looks good on you,” Eames says, and Arthur gapes at him as he walks away.
“I can’t believe you like that guy,” Arthur says to Ariadne when he’s gone, and Ariadne laughs at him until Mal and Cobb get back and relieve them both of their table minding duties.
“We should ride the Zipper,” Ariadne says, and Arthur frowns.
“You know how I feel about the Zipper,” he says.
“How do you feel about the Zipper?” calls a voice from behind them, and of course it’s Eames.
“Arthur hates it,” Ariadne informs him, and then they both look at Arthur.
“Afraid?” Eames asks, and Arthur scowls.
“No,” he says.
So they end up in line for the Zipper, and then a carnie jams all three of them into a car together, with Arthur in the middle. He can feel the bulge of Eames' thighs against his, and Ariadne is tiny but apparently she takes up too much space, and then they're spinning around madly and Arthur wants to puke. He settles for squeezing Ariadne's hand until she screams.
"Darling," Eames whispers from his other side. "Hold mine. I can take it."
Eames' hand is big and warm and rough, and Arthur hopes he splits some bones.
For some reason the man minding the ride is too busy chewing on a cigarette butt to notice them, and they end up going around a second time, and then something happens and they end up stuck at the top, rocking in slow motion.
"This," Arthur hisses to the population of the cab in general. "Is why I hate the Zipper."
"Aw," Eames says, squeezing his thigh. "We'll get out eventually."
"Stop invading my personal space," Arthur says.
When they do get out, Arthur pukes technicolor in a trashcan that smells like shit, and Eames walks him back to his car.
"Tomorrow?" Eames says, and Arthur gives him a look he hopes conveys death.
"Only because it's the demo derby," he says.
Tomorrow, it turns out, is when Eames is doing the hot saw demo. He shows up looking twitchy and sunburned, which makes Arthur feel smug, but he’s still wearing an excessively tight t-shirt that seems like it should be uncomfortable in light of the sunburn. When Arthur arrives at the fairgrounds Eames is fiddling with the jumped up snowmachine engine he has the gall to call a saw.
“Arthur,” he says. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Fancy that,” Arthur echoes, and Eames sits down at the table next to him, grinning.
“Hot saw demo at one o’clock,” he says. “Be there.”
“I don’t think I have a choice,” Arthur says flatly.
Eames spends the next half hour wincing every time he moves, until finally Arthur lets out a heavy sigh and waves over Mal.
“Can you take over the table?” he asks, and Mal nods her ascent, and then Arthur grabs Eames by his arm and tugs him through the crowds.
“You’re stronger than you look,” Eames says, looking at Arthur’s hand clamped around his wrist.
“You’re more of an ass than you look. Which is quite a feat,” Arthur says flatly, and doesn’t talk to Eames until they get to Arthur’s truck.
“Take off your shirt,” Arthur says, then goes to rummage around in the back of the cab.
“I knew you couldn’t resist me,” Eames replies, and Arthur hits him, hard, when he comes up with the bottle of aloe.
“I’m helping you, you idiot,” Arthur says. “Take off your shirt.”
Eames peels his shirt off slowly, like this is some sort of thing, and Arthur frowns at the ropey bulk of his muscles.
“Hot saw,” Eames says, looking at Arthur sidelong.
“I’m sure,” Arthur replies, then squirts a fat splotch of aloe into his hand, and goes for Eames’ shoulders.
Eames winces, initially, and shifts away, and Arthur gives him a sharp prod and rubs harder, digging his fingers into Eames’ biceps.
By the time Arthur reaches the middle of Eames’ back, Eames is actually moaning, arching into Arthur’s hands.
Then there’s a honk, and a wolf whistle.
It’s Yusuf, of course.
Arthur yanks his hands off Eames’ back, and Yusuf leans out the window, grinning.
“Arthur, Eames,” he says. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
“You didn’t,” Arthur says, picking up the bottle of aloe and waving it around.
“I rather think I did,” Yusuf says. “Help me with the stock?”
“You did,” Eames says, giving Arthur a significant look. Arthur frowns at him, then goes around to the back to help Yusuf with his stuff. Yusuf owns the hardware store in town, and sponsors most of their lumbersport events. Eames puts his shirt back on, and Arthur and Eames end up carrying Yusuf’s boxes over to Yusuf’s booth, and then they take over from Mal again.
“No chainsaw art today?” Arthur asks, and Eames shrugs.
“Didn’t want to steal all of Ari’s business,” he says, nodding towards where Ariadne is working on what appears to be a mermaid. “And of course I wanted to spend more time with you.”
“Right,” Arthur says, not looking at him. “I’m charmed.”
One o’clock rolls around, and Arthur is forced to look at Eames’ musculature again, and admit that he’s kind of good at hot saw. Maybe great.
But being good at hot saw is kind of like being good at something that sucks, so Arthur ignores Eame’s triumphant crow when he finishes making his cuts, ignores the cheering crowd.
He had a crowd for hatchet throwing, yesterday, too. They were pretty into it.
“Good job,” he says when Eames gets back, though he’s still refusing to make eye contact. “Too bad it’s hot saw.”
Eames laughs.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m good at other things, too.”
Arthur can’t tell if that’s innuendo or if Eames is talking about double buck.
“I’m not worried,” Arthur says. “Because I don’t plan to do anything else with you.”
Eames brings Arthur a frozen chocolate covered banana after lunch. Arthur tries to eat it as unerotically as possible, but Ariadne sees through it and laughs at him.
Arthur kind of talks to Eames, anyway, because he’s curious about lumbersports in England, until sometime in the midafternoon when he remembers that he’s supposed to be angry with Eames for a combination of reasons, including but not limited to: flirting with him, causing people to encourage Arthur to saw double buck, refusing to saw double buck with Arthur (even though Arthur does not want to), and being an idiot who can’t keep his shirt on.
Ergo, Arthur stops talking to him, only then Eames goes off with Philippa somewhere and leaves Arthur with Ariadne.
“You like him,” Ariadne says with a smirk, and Arthur scowls at her. “I knew you would.”
“I don’t,” Arthur says.
“You were having a conversation,” Ariadne says.
“Then I remembered that I hate him, so that ended,” Arthur says, and then Yusuf comes over and leans against their table.
“Arthur was feeling Eames up in the parking lot,” he says, like all of Arthur’s friends have nothing better to do than gossip about him.
“I was administering aloe vera lotion,” Arthur says flatly. “Not that it’s anyone’s business.”
“Of course not,” Ariadne says, shaking her head at Yusuf. “Not our business at all.”
“I hate chainsaws,” Arthur says, and Yusuf frowns.
“Pity,” he says. “I really need to sell more.”
Arthur punches him, just for that, and then stalks off to somewhere else.
Only then it’s evening, and demolition derby time, and Arthur is many things, but he’s not able to resist junked up cars crashing into one another in a pit of mud and occasionally catching fire. When he was in high school he’d done demo derby. And won, of course.
He goes to the stands alone, because the event is really all about the flaming cars, but somehow Eames finds him, coming up the bleachers with a wavering pitcher of beer.
“God, Eames,” Arthur says, looking at him. “Are you already drunk?”
“Beer, Arthur?” Eames asks, holding up plastic cups, and when he pours some into one it sloshes out.
“You are already drunk,” Arthur says, but takes the cup anyway and throws it back. “And this beer is terrible.”
“Of course it is,” Eames says.
“I can’t believe you got drunk on this shit,” Arthur continues, and Eames laughs.
“Faked it, darling,” Eames says, and fills the other cup neatly.
“Now I have a sticky cup, fucker,” Arthur says, and Eames just laughs some more.
The demolition derby is excellent, and they have to bring in a fire truck, and there’s a round with minivans where all sorts of doors fall off and Eames keeps bringing up pitchers of beer until they’re both more than a little drunk, and Arthur is slurring his words and throwing his arm about Eames’ shoulders and telling dirty jokes. Eames laughs uproariously before Arthur even finishes any of the jokes, and they end up stumbling back to the parking lot and Arthur’s truck, the midway lights whirling around them.
“That was great,” Arthur mumbles into Eames shoulder. “Let’s ride the ferris wheel.”
“The ferris wheel,” Eames says very seriously. “Is just the zipper for wimps.”
“Shut up,” Arthur mumbles. “Shut up. Where’s Ariadne?”
“Last I saw, trying to flirt a new chainsaw out of Yusuf.”
“Where’s Dom ‘n Mal?”
“They have kids. They went home.”
“So it’s just you and me, then?” Arthur asks.
“Yeah,” Eames says.
They skip the ferris wheel, and stumble onwards.
“Don’t drive home,” Eames says, when they get back to Arthur’s truck, and Arthur looks at him.
“I can drive,” he says, trying and failing to make it come out sober.
“Don’t,” Eames says, groping at Arthur’s front pocket. “Keys.”
Arthur writhes around, but Eames somehow gets his keys and sticks them down his pants, and Arthur looks at him and sighs.
“Not going in there,” he says, and crawls into the truck bed.
Eames follows him, and Arthur flails him arms around ineffectually.
“Get your own,” he says. “You have your own.”
“Too far,” Eames says, and Arthur unfolds the scratchy blanket he keeps in the back of the truck and wraps it around himself. The midway lights are glowing, and there’s the sound of people nearby, and somehow he falls asleep, anyway.
Arthur wakes up twice in the middle of the night; once to peel off his shirt because it’s suddenly gotten wicked hot, and a second time because the ridged ground of the truck bed is uncomfortable and also to kill the twenty mosquitoes that have settled on his body with greedy glee. He’s an expert mosquito killer, but he’s as of yet unable to do it in his sleep, and before he even opens his eyes in the morning he can feel the bites he has gotten, scattered across his back.
He rolls over and blinks through his headache, only to find Eames behind him, holding his head up on his elbows and watching Arthur.
“You’ve a tramp stamp, darling,” Eames says, and Arthur peers at him.
“It’s not a tramp stamp,” he says. “It’s a back piece.”
“I’m not your darling,” he adds after a moment.
“Roll over again, I want to see it,” Eames says, and Arthur frowns but acquiesces, because his back piece is damn good. It’s a white pine, tall and scraggly, traced up the line of his spine in black ink; at its widest it spans the small of his back.
“I think the roots edge into tramp stamp territory,” Eames is saying, and Arthur groans.
“You got me drunk last night,” he says. “Please do shut up.”
“You aren’t quite as clever hungover, are you?” Eames asks, and Arthur rolls over again to find Eames kneeling next to him, looking down.
“I don’t understand how you’re so goddamn chirpy,” he mutters.
“I went over to the horse people,” Eames says, waving his hand towards the trailers behind the horse barn. “They gave me coffee.”
“Goddamn horse people,” Arthur mutters, only then Eames produces one of the plastic cups from last night and hands it to Arthur.
“This smells like beer,” Arthur says, looking skeptically at the dark liquid within.
“And it’s a little cold, too, so as not to melt the plastic,” Eames says. “It was the only cup I had, and they wouldn’t let me take one of their mugs.”
“I hate you,” Arthur says, but sips the cold beer-flavored coffee anyway.
“Hair of the dog, yeah?” Eames says.
“Whatever,” Arthur says, downing the rest of the cup, and Eames laughs.
It’s still early, so Arthur goes home to find new clothes before returning to the fair. Cobb’s there, of course, frowning.
“Where were you this morning?” he asks.
“What?” Arthur says.
“I stopped by your house and your truck wasn’t there,” Cobb says. “I wanted to do another hatchet demo today.”
“I have my hatchets in the truck,” Arthur says, but Cobb is still frowning.
“But where were you?” he whines, and Arthur stares at him.
“Not home, apparently,” Arthur says. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Arthur,” Cobb says, squinting.
“Seriously, Cobb, I don’t know why you need to know this.”
“Because you’re hiding something from me,” Cobb says. “As chair of this club, it’s important I know everything.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Arthur says, only then someone comes up from behind and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Telling Cobb about our night together?” Eames asks, and Arthur elbows him and Cobb gapes a little, then quickly claps his mouth shut.
“Does this mean you’ll saw double buck?” Cobb asks, looking between the two of them.
“No,” Eames says.
“It wasn’t like that,” Arthur tells him.
“So if we did fuck, you would saw double buck?” Eames asks speculatively.
“No,” Arthur says. “You don’t want to, anyway.”
“That rhymed,” Cobb contributes.
Arthur goes to get some fried dough for breakfast, because, damnit.
“I heard you and Eames slept together,” Ariadne says. “In the bed of your truck. In the fair parking lot. I didn’t realize you were such an exhibitionist.”
“I’m not,” Arthur says, except he totally is. “We didn’t sleep together. We just happened to sleep in the same place.”
“Whatever,” Ariadne says, waving her hand in the air. Then she goes to talk to Yusuf and unsubtly stare at Arthur, and Arthur wonders at their club’s propensity for gossip.
Eames has gone back to his chainsaw art cage, but at least he has the sense to wear a shirt today, and Arthur watches the other man out of the corner of his eye as he works. He’ll admit, grudgingly, to kind of appreciating the rough hewn style of chainsaw art, but he refuses to admit to appreciating the way Eames’ body moves around the wood, the ripple of his shoulders as he lifts the chainsaw, the indecently tight shirt.
He watches anyway, until Mal comes over to sit with him and gives him a sidelong glance.
“Ready to make the beast with two backs yet?” Mal asks.
“No,” Arthur says, turning to stare at her.
“I’m referring to double buck, of course,” Mal says, then continues in an exaggerated French accent. “That doesn’t mean anything else, does it?”
“Eames doesn’t want to,” Arthur says. “Also, I know you know that means something else.”
“Whatever do you mean, Arthur?” Mal asks, but her smirk gives her away.
“Cobb,” Arthur says when Cobb returns from harassing fair-goers in an attempt at educating them. “Your wife is being vulgar.”
Cobb looks between the two of them and shrugs.
“I don’t know what happened, but I side with her.”
“Exactly right dear,” Mal replies, and rises to kiss him.
“Arthur,” Cobb says, slapping him on the back. “Given any thought to double buck?”
Mal dissolves into laughter, and Arthur scowls at her.
Eames stands in the front row for Arthur’s hatchet throwing demonstration that afternoon, holding Phillipa on his shoulders and blocking the view for several children. Arthur ignores him.
That’s the last day of the fair, and Cobb buys them all french fries doused in malt vinegar to celebrate, and cheap hamburgers from the 4-H stand. Arthur gets roped into going with Eames to bring Philippa and James on the rides, and when they get bored with the cars and boats and trains that go in circles they bring the kids on the Octopus. Arthur rides with James, who spends the whole ride screaming.
“I think that’s actually illegal,” Arthur tells Eames when they get off.
“Don’t worry,” Eames whispers. “I won’t tell.”
“It was your idea,” Arthur says.
“But you went along,” Eames says with a smirk.
They do the Scrambler next, the four of them in one cab. James holds up slightly better this time.
When Arthur goes to bed that night, he can feel the shadow of the whirling motion in his head. He falls asleep pretty quickly, anyway.
part 2
1.
Arthur has absolutely no interest in sawing double buck. He’s single buck, always has been; his saw is six foot four, and if you think he’s too short to handle it on his own you don’t know who he is.
So there was no need for a partner, and if he were to have a partner, it certainly wouldn’t be some upstart hot saw competitor who does chainsaw art on the side.
Because really, fuck. Chainsaws are so inelegant.
When Cobb brought the whole thing up Arthur just sat very still and looked at him, trying to convey with the ineffable depths of his eyes how supremely dumb Cobb was, and, by extension, this idea.
“It would just be for exhibition,” Cobb said.
“He’s really very good,” Cobb said.
“He’s making me a chainsaw bear for the front porch,” Cobb said.
“He’s friends with Ariadne,” Cobb said.
“Well of course he’s friends with Ariadne, isn’t he?” Arthur muttered. “Chainsaw artists.”
“That’s all you have to say about this?” Cobb asked, and Arthur got up to leave.
“Yes,” Arthur said.
“Ass,” Cobb called after him.
Cobb is the chair of the local forestry club, and he’s into fostering community and educating the public about loggersports and shit. Arthur is into winning the Lumberjack World Championships.
They’re kind of friends, except when Cobb comes up with dumbass ideas like this.
Arthur only competes in single buck, but he likes to throw hatchets in his spare time. He went out behind Cobb’s house and did that, than, and then Cobb shows up, like he usually did, looking mopey.
“That’s a nice pine,” he said, frowning.
“Just be glad I didn’t go for your precious sugar maple,” Arthur told him, dislodging the hatchet and going back for another throw.
“Don’t fuck with the sugar maples,” Cobb said. “If I have to pay for syrup, ever, you have to buy it.”
“I’ll buy you Aunt Jemima,” Arthur said, and Cobb made a retching noise.
“Seriously, though, someday you’re going to do this and take off one of the kids’ heads or something.”
“Do you doubt my aim, Cobb? You could put an apple on your head and I could cut it in half. I’m fucking William Tell.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re an ass?” Cobb said, and Arthur shrugged.
“You. All the time. Most recently just now, when I refused to go along with your stupid double buck scheme.” He threw the hatchet again.
“Double buck is so much faster than single buck, Arthur. It’s a crowd pleaser.”
“Like hot saw?”
“Your hatred of chain saws is extremely unreasonable,” Cobb said.
“They’re inelegant,” Arthur said. “They’re contrary to the spirit of the sport.”
Arthur had thought that conversation ended that day in Cobb’s backyard, but now there’s a crunch on the gravel drive and Cobb’s truck is pulling up his driveway with someone Arthur doesn’t know is riding shotgun.
It has to be Cobb, anyway, because no one else has the combination to the padlock at the other end of Arthur’s driveway.
When the other man gets out, he’s wearing buffalo plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, exposing muscular forearms, and it’s got to be hot saw. In this business, muscles like that only come from hefting around jacked up snowmachine engines.
“I knew I should never have given you the combination to my gate,” Arthur says.
“Arthur,” Cobb says. “This is Eames.”
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Eames says, extending his hand.
“I can’t say the same,” Arthur says as he takes the hand, and gives Eames a look that’s intended to be withering. Eames squeezes hard, when he shakes.
“He’s lying,” Cobb says. “I told him you were making me a chainsaw bear.”
Arthur scowls at Cobb, but it’s really not worth it, because Cobb is practically immune.
“I’m not interesting in sawing double buck,” Arthur says, looking directly at Eames. “Welcome to our club.”
“Charmed,” says Eames, and his face splits into a grin.
Arthur is pretty sure there’s nothing charming about it.
2.
“I heard you were an ass to Eames,” Ariadne tells him the next day when she runs into him at the diner in town, where Arthur likes to go in the mornings to eat biscuits and sausage.
Actually, it’s not so much running into one another as a standing appointment, because Ariadne and Arthur have breakfast together most mornings, but he likes to pretend they don’t. She does use a chainsaw, after all.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arthur says.
“You really need to get over your unreasonable hatred of chainsaws,” Ariadne says.
“They smell awful,” Arthur tells her.
“I thought they smelled like sunshine and daisies,” Ariadne says brightly. “And I know you think they’re inelegant, but you have to admit I have a pretty snazzy little Stihl.”
“Whatever,” Arthur says, and Ariadne pats him on the back.
“Don’t sulk,” she says. “I know you like the moose I made you.”
The moose is, admittedly, pretty wicked. It’s life size.
“What’s a Brit doing sawing hot saw?” Arthur asks, and Ariadne’s lips quirk into a grin.
“Winning,” she says. “You’d like him.”
“I don’t only like winners,” Arthur says.
“No,” she says. “But you only fuck winners.”
Arthur pushes his last biscuit across his plate. Ariadne laughs.
“Do you want me to eat that for you?” she asks.
“No,” Arthur says, and stuffs most of it in his mouth at once. Ariadne laughs at him again, and Arthur remembers why he never gave Ariadne the code to his gate. Although she usually just parks at the end of the drive and hops over it, but at least that doesn’t mess up the gravel.
“This is why I never gave you the code to my gate,” he tells her.
“Whatever,” she says. “You act like there’s not a four wheeler trail through your backyard.”
“There isn’t,” Arthur says. “Because I have a shotgun.”
“You’re such an old man.”
There’s really nothing Arthur can say to that.
“How’s the commission coming?” he asks, instead. Ariadne’s working on a pair of matched lions for some rich summer people who live outside of town.
“Speaking of,” she says. “I need to get back to work. Tomorrow?”
Arthur doesn’t respond, which is his usual response.
3.
Because Cobb and Ariadne were all up in Arthur’s shit about being nice to Eames, Arthur had kind of assumed that Eames was some sort of absurdly nice person, the sort of imaginary lumberjack who frolics through the forests with deer and rabbits.
It turned out Arthur was slightly off in that assessment. And, also, Eames had apparently snitched the gate code off of Cobb, because there’s truck that’s neither Cobb’s nor Arthur’s in the drive when Arthur gets back, and Eames is sitting in one of this Adirondack chairs.
“Good morning, Arthur,” Eames says.
“Eames,” Arthur says with a curt nod. “I don’t really have time right now.”
Eames gets up and prowls over, and then he stands very close to Arthur and just looks at him.
They’re of height, but Eames is broader than Arthur, and up close his eyes are blue and Arthur isn’t sure if he could take him in a fight.
Which sucks, because Arthur likes to know whether he can take people in fights, if the need arises. It’s not like he gets into a lot of brawls at the bar, but. Well, Cobb would beg to differ.
“So you don’t want to saw double buck,” Eames says after a moment. His voice is low, and Arthur tries not to look at his lips, which are full and thick and seem to move slower than they need to, to make the words come out.
“No,” Arthur says.
“Well that’s good,” Eames says. “Because neither do I.”
“Okay,” Arthur says.
“We’re in agreement then?” Eames asks, and Arthur nods.
“Yes,” Arthur says.
And then Eames leaves, and Arthur feels like he’s somehow being manipulated, though he can’t put his finger on how.
He calls up Cobb when he gets inside.
“Cobb,” he says. “Eames doesn’t want to saw double buck.”
He can hear Cobb mumbling over the line, but there’s no actual talking.
“Cobb,” he repeats.
“He used to saw double buck,” Cobb says.
“So, what, I’m not good enough?” Arthur asks.
“Does it matter? Now you can get out of this and go back to being totally unhelpful to the cause.”
“What is the cause exactly?”
“Educating people about the lumberjack arts,” Cobb says tightly.
“I’m good,” Arthur says. “That’s education enough.”
Then he hangs up. Or maybe Cobb does. Semantics.
“Eames doesn’t even want to saw double buck,” Arthur tells Ariadne at breakfast the next morning.
She sighs.
“You really need to talk with Eames about that,” she says.
“I did talk to Eames about it! He said he doesn’t want to saw double buck!”
“No,” she says. “I mean you really should talk to Eames about that, before you come to me acting all offended.”
“I’m not offended,” Arthur says.
“You totally are,” she says. “Which is why we’re going to change the subject now, and talk about what you’re going to do for the exhibition at the county fair.”
“Nothing. Cobb knows that.”
Arthur hates the county fair, for several reasons he doesn’t want to get into right now.
“You could at least do some hatchet throwing,” Ariadne suggests, and Arthur raises an eyebrow.
“Hatchet throwing,” he says. “Is not an actual lumbersport.”
“No, but it’s cool and you’re good at it.”
Arthur frowns, because he’s not sure if he should run with the compliment or attack the implication that single buck is not cool. Because obviously he’s also good at that.
“Did Cobb put you up to this?” he asks.
“God no. You know Cobb hates your hatchet throwing.”
Which is also true, and a point in favor of hatchet throwing.
“I’ll think about it,” Arthur says, and Ariadne nods.
4.
The county fair is the next weekend, at a park down by the river. Ariadne will sell chainsaw art and do demonstrations, and Eames probably will, too, now that he’s here, and Arthur is willing to bet that Cobb will weasel a stock saw demonstration out of him. Cobb and Mal will do some underhand demos, and Yusuf will set up a booth, and Arthur will try to come up with reasons not to go.
“I think I’m coming down with something,” Arthur says when Cobb stops by on Wednesday, and Cobb just purses his lips.
“I’ll pay for your ticket to the demo derby,” Cobb offers.
“Ariadne suggested I could do some hatchet throwing.”
Cobb frowns.
“I’ll let you do a hatchet throwing demonstration,” Cobb says. “As long as there are no children around.”
“What the fuck Cobb? We’re right off the midway. There are always children around.”
“Fine,” Cobb growls.
“Fine what?”
“Fine, you can do a hatchet throwing demonstration, but you have to do it in the cage.”
“The cage isn’t big enough,” Arthur says. “No one wants to see someone throw a hatchet four feet. Besides, Ariadne needs it.”
Cobb sighs.
“I’m not going to get sued because you whack some kid in the skull, Arthur.”
“If I whack some kid in the skull,” Arthur says. “I’m pretty sure I’d have more problems than a lawsuit.”
“So?”
“It’s not going to happen, Cobb. It’s going to be no more dangerous than the goddamn Zipper.”
Arthur’s feelings about the Zipper are up there with his feelings about chainsaws, and by ‘up there’ he means ‘down there, and negative.’
“Fine,” Cobb says. “We’ll figure something out. But you have to come and talk to people at the table.”
Arthur hates talking to people at the table, but Cobb knows that already, and if Arthur says anything about it, Cobb will just bring up the possibility that Arthur needs to go to counseling.
Arthur slathers on sunscreen before he goes over to the fairgrounds, because there’s nothing worse than getting a sunburn at the stupid county fair.
When he gets there Ariadne and Eames are doing some sort of duelling chainsaws thing in their respective cages, and Eames is wearing overalls. And nothing else. He’s undone the bib so it falls loose around his legs, and his chest is bare and gleaming with sweat, and the overalls are slipping down along the curve of his ass.
It’s vulgar, and also unsafe. Arthur hopes he gets a million splinters.
Mal is sitting at their table wearing a sunhat with James on her lap, and Arthur goes to over to sit down next to her, grateful for the shade.
“Eames is inappropriate,” he says, and Mal arches an eyebrow at him.
“I was rather thinking you’d enjoy the view.”
“Shut up,” Arthur says. “He’s going to get so many splinters.”
“Perhaps you could help him take them out,” Mal suggests.
Arthur remembers, now, why he usually complains about things to Cobb.
“How’s James doing?” he says, instead, and Mal beams.
“You learn quickly, Arthur,” she says, and begins a long monologue about James’ first word.
“Where’s Phillipa?” Arthur asks, finally, because he’s always liked larger children better.
“With her father, in the poultry building,” Mal says, and Arthur gets up to go.
Only then Eames is coming out of his cage, because apparently the eagle he was making is finished.
“Hey, Arthur,” he says, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Put on some clothes,” Arthur says, and leaves.
Arthur fails to find Cobb and Phillipa, but he spends a lot of time watching pigs sleep and letting a girl in 4-H blather on about her goat.
When he gets back, Eames is at the table and Mal has disappeared. He’s done up the bib of his overalls, but he’s still not wearing a shirt, and Arthur does not want tickets to this gun show, but apparently he has them.
“This better, darling?” Eames asks, when Arthur sits down.
“Don’t you get splinters working like that?” Arthur counters, and Eames just grins.
“I have very thick skin,” Eames says. Which is absurd.
“You’re going to get a sunburn,” Arthur tells him, and looks at the pamphlets Cobb had spread out across the table.
“I’m glad you’re so concerned for my welfare.”
“I’m not,” Arthur says, and picks up a pamphlet to read it.
Eames is watching him.
“Why don’t you want to saw double buck?” Arthur asks.
“Why don’t you?”
“Because I compete alone.”
“So do I,” Eames says.
“Cobb says you used to--”
“Gossiping about me, were you?” Eames asks, and then some teenager wearing too much make-up appears to flirt with Eames, and Arthur makes a point of ignoring them both.
“She seemed very interested in the lumberjack arts,” Arthur says, when she leaves.
“Jealous?” Eames asks, and Arthur frowns.
“Of that jailbait? Never,” Arthur says, and Eames stops to look at him.
“I meant of me,” Eames says, raising an eyebrow, and Arthur can feel himself blushing, and almost wishes he had foregone the sunscreen, just to have an excuse.
“My old double buck partner screwed me over,” Eames says, now, and Arthur nods and then they don’t talk any more.
When Cobb returns he sets Arthur up for the hatchet throwing demo, which is kind of a relief. The rig up a chain-link fence and have the audience stand back, like Arthur was going to miss or something. Which he so wasn’t.
He draws a reasonable crowd, and when he gets back to the table Ariadne is there, and Eames has gone back to the chainsaw.
“So,” Ariadne says. “Enjoying the gun show?”
Arthur scowls at her.
“He’s going to get sunburned,” he says.
Ariadne laughs at him, and goes to buy them both Hawaiian ice. Arthur always gets half cherry, half lime, and when Eames comes out of the cage again he purses his lips and frowns, like Cobb.
“What happened to your mouth?” he asks Arthur.
“We made out,” Ariadne tells him with a completely straight face, and Arthur glares at her.
“Hawaiian ice,” he says. “Red dye 40.”
“It looks good on you,” Eames says, and Arthur gapes at him as he walks away.
“I can’t believe you like that guy,” Arthur says to Ariadne when he’s gone, and Ariadne laughs at him until Mal and Cobb get back and relieve them both of their table minding duties.
“We should ride the Zipper,” Ariadne says, and Arthur frowns.
“You know how I feel about the Zipper,” he says.
“How do you feel about the Zipper?” calls a voice from behind them, and of course it’s Eames.
“Arthur hates it,” Ariadne informs him, and then they both look at Arthur.
“Afraid?” Eames asks, and Arthur scowls.
“No,” he says.
So they end up in line for the Zipper, and then a carnie jams all three of them into a car together, with Arthur in the middle. He can feel the bulge of Eames' thighs against his, and Ariadne is tiny but apparently she takes up too much space, and then they're spinning around madly and Arthur wants to puke. He settles for squeezing Ariadne's hand until she screams.
"Darling," Eames whispers from his other side. "Hold mine. I can take it."
Eames' hand is big and warm and rough, and Arthur hopes he splits some bones.
For some reason the man minding the ride is too busy chewing on a cigarette butt to notice them, and they end up going around a second time, and then something happens and they end up stuck at the top, rocking in slow motion.
"This," Arthur hisses to the population of the cab in general. "Is why I hate the Zipper."
"Aw," Eames says, squeezing his thigh. "We'll get out eventually."
"Stop invading my personal space," Arthur says.
When they do get out, Arthur pukes technicolor in a trashcan that smells like shit, and Eames walks him back to his car.
"Tomorrow?" Eames says, and Arthur gives him a look he hopes conveys death.
"Only because it's the demo derby," he says.
Tomorrow, it turns out, is when Eames is doing the hot saw demo. He shows up looking twitchy and sunburned, which makes Arthur feel smug, but he’s still wearing an excessively tight t-shirt that seems like it should be uncomfortable in light of the sunburn. When Arthur arrives at the fairgrounds Eames is fiddling with the jumped up snowmachine engine he has the gall to call a saw.
“Arthur,” he says. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Fancy that,” Arthur echoes, and Eames sits down at the table next to him, grinning.
“Hot saw demo at one o’clock,” he says. “Be there.”
“I don’t think I have a choice,” Arthur says flatly.
Eames spends the next half hour wincing every time he moves, until finally Arthur lets out a heavy sigh and waves over Mal.
“Can you take over the table?” he asks, and Mal nods her ascent, and then Arthur grabs Eames by his arm and tugs him through the crowds.
“You’re stronger than you look,” Eames says, looking at Arthur’s hand clamped around his wrist.
“You’re more of an ass than you look. Which is quite a feat,” Arthur says flatly, and doesn’t talk to Eames until they get to Arthur’s truck.
“Take off your shirt,” Arthur says, then goes to rummage around in the back of the cab.
“I knew you couldn’t resist me,” Eames replies, and Arthur hits him, hard, when he comes up with the bottle of aloe.
“I’m helping you, you idiot,” Arthur says. “Take off your shirt.”
Eames peels his shirt off slowly, like this is some sort of thing, and Arthur frowns at the ropey bulk of his muscles.
“Hot saw,” Eames says, looking at Arthur sidelong.
“I’m sure,” Arthur replies, then squirts a fat splotch of aloe into his hand, and goes for Eames’ shoulders.
Eames winces, initially, and shifts away, and Arthur gives him a sharp prod and rubs harder, digging his fingers into Eames’ biceps.
By the time Arthur reaches the middle of Eames’ back, Eames is actually moaning, arching into Arthur’s hands.
Then there’s a honk, and a wolf whistle.
It’s Yusuf, of course.
Arthur yanks his hands off Eames’ back, and Yusuf leans out the window, grinning.
“Arthur, Eames,” he says. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
“You didn’t,” Arthur says, picking up the bottle of aloe and waving it around.
“I rather think I did,” Yusuf says. “Help me with the stock?”
“You did,” Eames says, giving Arthur a significant look. Arthur frowns at him, then goes around to the back to help Yusuf with his stuff. Yusuf owns the hardware store in town, and sponsors most of their lumbersport events. Eames puts his shirt back on, and Arthur and Eames end up carrying Yusuf’s boxes over to Yusuf’s booth, and then they take over from Mal again.
“No chainsaw art today?” Arthur asks, and Eames shrugs.
“Didn’t want to steal all of Ari’s business,” he says, nodding towards where Ariadne is working on what appears to be a mermaid. “And of course I wanted to spend more time with you.”
“Right,” Arthur says, not looking at him. “I’m charmed.”
One o’clock rolls around, and Arthur is forced to look at Eames’ musculature again, and admit that he’s kind of good at hot saw. Maybe great.
But being good at hot saw is kind of like being good at something that sucks, so Arthur ignores Eame’s triumphant crow when he finishes making his cuts, ignores the cheering crowd.
He had a crowd for hatchet throwing, yesterday, too. They were pretty into it.
“Good job,” he says when Eames gets back, though he’s still refusing to make eye contact. “Too bad it’s hot saw.”
Eames laughs.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m good at other things, too.”
Arthur can’t tell if that’s innuendo or if Eames is talking about double buck.
“I’m not worried,” Arthur says. “Because I don’t plan to do anything else with you.”
Eames brings Arthur a frozen chocolate covered banana after lunch. Arthur tries to eat it as unerotically as possible, but Ariadne sees through it and laughs at him.
Arthur kind of talks to Eames, anyway, because he’s curious about lumbersports in England, until sometime in the midafternoon when he remembers that he’s supposed to be angry with Eames for a combination of reasons, including but not limited to: flirting with him, causing people to encourage Arthur to saw double buck, refusing to saw double buck with Arthur (even though Arthur does not want to), and being an idiot who can’t keep his shirt on.
Ergo, Arthur stops talking to him, only then Eames goes off with Philippa somewhere and leaves Arthur with Ariadne.
“You like him,” Ariadne says with a smirk, and Arthur scowls at her. “I knew you would.”
“I don’t,” Arthur says.
“You were having a conversation,” Ariadne says.
“Then I remembered that I hate him, so that ended,” Arthur says, and then Yusuf comes over and leans against their table.
“Arthur was feeling Eames up in the parking lot,” he says, like all of Arthur’s friends have nothing better to do than gossip about him.
“I was administering aloe vera lotion,” Arthur says flatly. “Not that it’s anyone’s business.”
“Of course not,” Ariadne says, shaking her head at Yusuf. “Not our business at all.”
“I hate chainsaws,” Arthur says, and Yusuf frowns.
“Pity,” he says. “I really need to sell more.”
Arthur punches him, just for that, and then stalks off to somewhere else.
Only then it’s evening, and demolition derby time, and Arthur is many things, but he’s not able to resist junked up cars crashing into one another in a pit of mud and occasionally catching fire. When he was in high school he’d done demo derby. And won, of course.
He goes to the stands alone, because the event is really all about the flaming cars, but somehow Eames finds him, coming up the bleachers with a wavering pitcher of beer.
“God, Eames,” Arthur says, looking at him. “Are you already drunk?”
“Beer, Arthur?” Eames asks, holding up plastic cups, and when he pours some into one it sloshes out.
“You are already drunk,” Arthur says, but takes the cup anyway and throws it back. “And this beer is terrible.”
“Of course it is,” Eames says.
“I can’t believe you got drunk on this shit,” Arthur continues, and Eames laughs.
“Faked it, darling,” Eames says, and fills the other cup neatly.
“Now I have a sticky cup, fucker,” Arthur says, and Eames just laughs some more.
The demolition derby is excellent, and they have to bring in a fire truck, and there’s a round with minivans where all sorts of doors fall off and Eames keeps bringing up pitchers of beer until they’re both more than a little drunk, and Arthur is slurring his words and throwing his arm about Eames’ shoulders and telling dirty jokes. Eames laughs uproariously before Arthur even finishes any of the jokes, and they end up stumbling back to the parking lot and Arthur’s truck, the midway lights whirling around them.
“That was great,” Arthur mumbles into Eames shoulder. “Let’s ride the ferris wheel.”
“The ferris wheel,” Eames says very seriously. “Is just the zipper for wimps.”
“Shut up,” Arthur mumbles. “Shut up. Where’s Ariadne?”
“Last I saw, trying to flirt a new chainsaw out of Yusuf.”
“Where’s Dom ‘n Mal?”
“They have kids. They went home.”
“So it’s just you and me, then?” Arthur asks.
“Yeah,” Eames says.
They skip the ferris wheel, and stumble onwards.
“Don’t drive home,” Eames says, when they get back to Arthur’s truck, and Arthur looks at him.
“I can drive,” he says, trying and failing to make it come out sober.
“Don’t,” Eames says, groping at Arthur’s front pocket. “Keys.”
Arthur writhes around, but Eames somehow gets his keys and sticks them down his pants, and Arthur looks at him and sighs.
“Not going in there,” he says, and crawls into the truck bed.
Eames follows him, and Arthur flails him arms around ineffectually.
“Get your own,” he says. “You have your own.”
“Too far,” Eames says, and Arthur unfolds the scratchy blanket he keeps in the back of the truck and wraps it around himself. The midway lights are glowing, and there’s the sound of people nearby, and somehow he falls asleep, anyway.
Arthur wakes up twice in the middle of the night; once to peel off his shirt because it’s suddenly gotten wicked hot, and a second time because the ridged ground of the truck bed is uncomfortable and also to kill the twenty mosquitoes that have settled on his body with greedy glee. He’s an expert mosquito killer, but he’s as of yet unable to do it in his sleep, and before he even opens his eyes in the morning he can feel the bites he has gotten, scattered across his back.
He rolls over and blinks through his headache, only to find Eames behind him, holding his head up on his elbows and watching Arthur.
“You’ve a tramp stamp, darling,” Eames says, and Arthur peers at him.
“It’s not a tramp stamp,” he says. “It’s a back piece.”
“I’m not your darling,” he adds after a moment.
“Roll over again, I want to see it,” Eames says, and Arthur frowns but acquiesces, because his back piece is damn good. It’s a white pine, tall and scraggly, traced up the line of his spine in black ink; at its widest it spans the small of his back.
“I think the roots edge into tramp stamp territory,” Eames is saying, and Arthur groans.
“You got me drunk last night,” he says. “Please do shut up.”
“You aren’t quite as clever hungover, are you?” Eames asks, and Arthur rolls over again to find Eames kneeling next to him, looking down.
“I don’t understand how you’re so goddamn chirpy,” he mutters.
“I went over to the horse people,” Eames says, waving his hand towards the trailers behind the horse barn. “They gave me coffee.”
“Goddamn horse people,” Arthur mutters, only then Eames produces one of the plastic cups from last night and hands it to Arthur.
“This smells like beer,” Arthur says, looking skeptically at the dark liquid within.
“And it’s a little cold, too, so as not to melt the plastic,” Eames says. “It was the only cup I had, and they wouldn’t let me take one of their mugs.”
“I hate you,” Arthur says, but sips the cold beer-flavored coffee anyway.
“Hair of the dog, yeah?” Eames says.
“Whatever,” Arthur says, downing the rest of the cup, and Eames laughs.
It’s still early, so Arthur goes home to find new clothes before returning to the fair. Cobb’s there, of course, frowning.
“Where were you this morning?” he asks.
“What?” Arthur says.
“I stopped by your house and your truck wasn’t there,” Cobb says. “I wanted to do another hatchet demo today.”
“I have my hatchets in the truck,” Arthur says, but Cobb is still frowning.
“But where were you?” he whines, and Arthur stares at him.
“Not home, apparently,” Arthur says. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Arthur,” Cobb says, squinting.
“Seriously, Cobb, I don’t know why you need to know this.”
“Because you’re hiding something from me,” Cobb says. “As chair of this club, it’s important I know everything.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Arthur says, only then someone comes up from behind and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Telling Cobb about our night together?” Eames asks, and Arthur elbows him and Cobb gapes a little, then quickly claps his mouth shut.
“Does this mean you’ll saw double buck?” Cobb asks, looking between the two of them.
“No,” Eames says.
“It wasn’t like that,” Arthur tells him.
“So if we did fuck, you would saw double buck?” Eames asks speculatively.
“No,” Arthur says. “You don’t want to, anyway.”
“That rhymed,” Cobb contributes.
Arthur goes to get some fried dough for breakfast, because, damnit.
“I heard you and Eames slept together,” Ariadne says. “In the bed of your truck. In the fair parking lot. I didn’t realize you were such an exhibitionist.”
“I’m not,” Arthur says, except he totally is. “We didn’t sleep together. We just happened to sleep in the same place.”
“Whatever,” Ariadne says, waving her hand in the air. Then she goes to talk to Yusuf and unsubtly stare at Arthur, and Arthur wonders at their club’s propensity for gossip.
Eames has gone back to his chainsaw art cage, but at least he has the sense to wear a shirt today, and Arthur watches the other man out of the corner of his eye as he works. He’ll admit, grudgingly, to kind of appreciating the rough hewn style of chainsaw art, but he refuses to admit to appreciating the way Eames’ body moves around the wood, the ripple of his shoulders as he lifts the chainsaw, the indecently tight shirt.
He watches anyway, until Mal comes over to sit with him and gives him a sidelong glance.
“Ready to make the beast with two backs yet?” Mal asks.
“No,” Arthur says, turning to stare at her.
“I’m referring to double buck, of course,” Mal says, then continues in an exaggerated French accent. “That doesn’t mean anything else, does it?”
“Eames doesn’t want to,” Arthur says. “Also, I know you know that means something else.”
“Whatever do you mean, Arthur?” Mal asks, but her smirk gives her away.
“Cobb,” Arthur says when Cobb returns from harassing fair-goers in an attempt at educating them. “Your wife is being vulgar.”
Cobb looks between the two of them and shrugs.
“I don’t know what happened, but I side with her.”
“Exactly right dear,” Mal replies, and rises to kiss him.
“Arthur,” Cobb says, slapping him on the back. “Given any thought to double buck?”
Mal dissolves into laughter, and Arthur scowls at her.
Eames stands in the front row for Arthur’s hatchet throwing demonstration that afternoon, holding Phillipa on his shoulders and blocking the view for several children. Arthur ignores him.
That’s the last day of the fair, and Cobb buys them all french fries doused in malt vinegar to celebrate, and cheap hamburgers from the 4-H stand. Arthur gets roped into going with Eames to bring Philippa and James on the rides, and when they get bored with the cars and boats and trains that go in circles they bring the kids on the Octopus. Arthur rides with James, who spends the whole ride screaming.
“I think that’s actually illegal,” Arthur tells Eames when they get off.
“Don’t worry,” Eames whispers. “I won’t tell.”
“It was your idea,” Arthur says.
“But you went along,” Eames says with a smirk.
They do the Scrambler next, the four of them in one cab. James holds up slightly better this time.
When Arthur goes to bed that night, he can feel the shadow of the whirling motion in his head. He falls asleep pretty quickly, anyway.
part 2