Except I sort of am. I totally wanted to have this done by now. ::whines::
You can't see it if you're under a rock, you know!
It starts in the midst of tragedy.
Arthur walks into the practice space straight off a fifteen hour flight and forty-five minutes in Los Angeles traffic. He's wearing jeans, a fedora, a raspberry skinny tie Mal had sent him two weeks ago, his dancing shoes, and a scowl.
What Arthur really wants is a half-gallon of overly sweetened coffee, the sort of old-fashioned diner type breakfast best indulged in at three in the morning after a night of drinking, and to crawl into a bed with sheets that have an indecent thread count and to sleep for the next twelve to fourteen hours. Instead, he's got garment bag, half as many clothes as he'll actually need shoved into a duffle bag, and a headache building behind his eye from the sunshine.
Actually walking into the practice space doesn't help. It's large and open, mirrors along one wall and windows along the other, and half-filled with people, who all stop, turn around, and look at Arthur. The music stops, and his eye twitches.
"What," someone—maybe five-one without her heels, long dark hair, very wide eyes—asks, in a whisper that manages to carry all the way across the room in the sudden silence. "What is he doing here?"
Arthur misses Paris already.
"Lost, mate?" a voice behind him asks, before his exhaustion can answer the first question without his permission. "Junior division is down the hall and to the left."
Arthur turns slowly, his eyebrow raised. He resists the urge to sigh—barely—because it's so typical of the gorgeous ones to make Arthur want to punch them before a conversation can even start. There is a chorus of nervous, twittering laughter. Arthur knows himself well enough to know that, if anything, his expression darkens.
The guy just grins. He's got crinkly eyes, and stupid, crooked teeth, and Arthur hates him on sight just on principle of how much all he can think about is all the filthy sex they could have had, if only he hadn't spoken. His mouth is absolutely pornographic, and Arthur's poor, sleep-deprived brain gets caught there for a second too long.
"Eames," the mouth says, still curled upwards. He holds out his hand, and Arthur, reluctantly, shakes it.
"Arthur," he tells him, and ignores the way half the room exhaled all at once, like they'd just been holding their breath. It makes Eames' eyebrow quirk, for a second, and Arthur presses his knuckles into his eye sockets. He's pretty sure the lights that flash behind his eyelids could double as a flashing neon warning sign.
"Well, Arthur," Eames says, rolling Arthur's name around in his mouth obscenely. Arthur is not impressed, but he can't speak for his dick in the matter. "It is quite the pleasure to meet you."
Arthur snorts. Eames looks confused at everyone else. "Sure," he says, and shrugs his duffle bag higher on his shoulder.
Eames taps the fingers of his left hand against an almost empty water bottle that Arthur had just noticed. He's not dressed for the occasion, except in the loosest of terms. He's got on navy blue yoga pants, a yellow t-shirt that declares his intention to explain through interpretive dance, and tennis shoes.
"Are you sure you belong here?" Arthur asks, because apparently the airline lost his brain to mouth filter.
Re: ♥______♥
Except I sort of am. I totally wanted to have this done by now. ::whines::
You can't see it if you're under a rock, you know!
It starts in the midst of tragedy.
Arthur walks into the practice space straight off a fifteen hour flight and forty-five minutes in Los Angeles traffic. He's wearing jeans, a fedora, a raspberry skinny tie Mal had sent him two weeks ago, his dancing shoes, and a scowl.
What Arthur really wants is a half-gallon of overly sweetened coffee, the sort of old-fashioned diner type breakfast best indulged in at three in the morning after a night of drinking, and to crawl into a bed with sheets that have an indecent thread count and to sleep for the next twelve to fourteen hours. Instead, he's got garment bag, half as many clothes as he'll actually need shoved into a duffle bag, and a headache building behind his eye from the sunshine.
Actually walking into the practice space doesn't help. It's large and open, mirrors along one wall and windows along the other, and half-filled with people, who all stop, turn around, and look at Arthur. The music stops, and his eye twitches.
"What," someone—maybe five-one without her heels, long dark hair, very wide eyes—asks, in a whisper that manages to carry all the way across the room in the sudden silence. "What is he doing here?"
Arthur misses Paris already.
"Lost, mate?" a voice behind him asks, before his exhaustion can answer the first question without his permission. "Junior division is down the hall and to the left."
Arthur turns slowly, his eyebrow raised. He resists the urge to sigh—barely—because it's so typical of the gorgeous ones to make Arthur want to punch them before a conversation can even start. There is a chorus of nervous, twittering laughter. Arthur knows himself well enough to know that, if anything, his expression darkens.
The guy just grins. He's got crinkly eyes, and stupid, crooked teeth, and Arthur hates him on sight just on principle of how much all he can think about is all the filthy sex they could have had, if only he hadn't spoken. His mouth is absolutely pornographic, and Arthur's poor, sleep-deprived brain gets caught there for a second too long.
"Eames," the mouth says, still curled upwards. He holds out his hand, and Arthur, reluctantly, shakes it.
"Arthur," he tells him, and ignores the way half the room exhaled all at once, like they'd just been holding their breath. It makes Eames' eyebrow quirk, for a second, and Arthur presses his knuckles into his eye sockets. He's pretty sure the lights that flash behind his eyelids could double as a flashing neon warning sign.
"Well, Arthur," Eames says, rolling Arthur's name around in his mouth obscenely. Arthur is not impressed, but he can't speak for his dick in the matter. "It is quite the pleasure to meet you."
Arthur snorts. Eames looks confused at everyone else. "Sure," he says, and shrugs his duffle bag higher on his shoulder.
Eames taps the fingers of his left hand against an almost empty water bottle that Arthur had just noticed. He's not dressed for the occasion, except in the loosest of terms. He's got on navy blue yoga pants, a yellow t-shirt that declares his intention to explain through interpretive dance, and tennis shoes.
"Are you sure you belong here?" Arthur asks, because apparently the airline lost his brain to mouth filter.