Erm. Hi. I am new here and have decided that, although LJ is nice I feel like this would also be nice, too. So here. Have some fiction.

Eames had a lot of things that other boys didn't. He had an the athletic ability of a former Olympics champion, the intelligence of a neuroscientist and the acting ability of no other. He was one of the most popular kids in school (albeit, the handsomest) and he was the teacher's favourite student. His best friends were a tight knit group, and his friends included everyone and anyone who had talked to the boy more than once. His charisma and smile made it easy for people to love him, everyone it seemed, except for one person. And that person's name was Arthur.

Arthur was his best friend, but he was also a bit of a dork. He spent his weekends shut indoors playing videogames or trolling the internet, all while reading a chapter on astrophysics or Turkish history (both of which he would have borrowed from Eames). He spent his weeknights baby sitting his little sister, often accompanied by Eames, who came up with all sorts of 'fun' games for the three of them to do. Arthur's parents would be home by around seven, and Eames would have left by six, before Arthur and his family had dinner and then afterwards watched television together. He didn't want to intrude of Arthur's life as much as possible, but he had a soft spot for both his friend and his friend's little sister. So, Eames would walk home alone, hands in pockets, with the heavy weight of his bag ever present.

Eames had looks, charm and intelligence. There were two things that he didn't have.

One of them was Arthur. Arthur who was really, very straight and who dressed impeccably and had a smile that melted hearts and a personality that was even better (which, Eames had no idea how ithat/i was possible). Arthur was kind of gorgeous and kind of brilliant, and it wasn't that Eames had a league (being that he'd never dated- never wanted anyone other than Arthur. Wasn't that pathetic?) but if he idid/i have a league, Arthur would be way out of his. He assumed Arthur liked the petite girls, like Ariadne. So, on days that Eames felt particularly shite, or, Arthur looked particularly beautiful, he'd hunch his shoulders in attempt to make himself look as small as possible. It never worked, but hey, a guy could try.

The second thing that Eames wanted more than anything in the world, the second deepest and darkest secret that he'd kept hidden, was that, more than anything he wanted a family. He'd grown up with an abusive father and two older siblings. Eventually, they'd decided to leave the father and find a place of their own. Well, his older sister and brother had decided that for him. He'd more or less, just agreed and followed them to wherever they wanted to go- as long as it was away from the father. He'd only been twelve and hadn't even started high school, yet. His siblings dragged him to a different continent and decided to raise him in suburban America, by themselves, which, in retrospect was, and never had been, a good idea. But, they tried, and though both of them were as damaged as Eames (if not more so) they tried.

His sister, Wanda had, to memory, never said a word. Everything she wanted to say she wrote with pen and paper, staring at Eames if it was something particularly urgent. She was the middle child of the three of them and also fucked up in so many ways, it was hard to count. She kept her sandy hair cut short (Eames assumed this was because she was terrified of it being pulled, like it had been before the move) and her clothes layered. He'd never asked what his father had done to her, but he reckoned he could guess.

His brother, Logan was as tall as Eames, himself but held himself in a way that made people think he was much smaller than he really was. He'd talk to Eames in hushed tones, and didn't care for small talk. He was very to the point and Eames had nicknamed his brother 'The Needle', because, well. Point. He was the spitting image of their father, which terrified all three of them, and Logan did whatever he could to hide this from both the world, and himself. Logan didn't hate himself in the way that maybe Eames or even Wanda did. Eames thought that James held the belief that life was just a job that needed to be done. Something like a maths equation, something to be solved, but never really thought about to much depth. He was a logical thinker, and Eamed liked it that was.

Eames, on the other hand, was not quiet nor was he the spitting image of his father. He was often loud and obnoxious at home and prone to screaming matches iat/i Wanda. Wanda knew how to fight, though, and she knew how to fight dirty. Just by calling Eames by his name (his real, actual name) was enough to get Eames screaming obscenities at his already fragile sister. Logan had suggested that Eames acted out because he was so intent on repressing whatever his father had done to him as a child.

Eames told Logan that he could fuck off and suck a dick.

Logan had given him a look and then walked away, which was typical behaviour.

Typical behaviour in a household in which nobody loved each other because they were all so afraid of the implication of loving another human.

They were all severely messed up in their own different ways.

Eames felt like he could cope. He could cope because he had Arthur. He had someone who he could love without reservation. It didn't matter that Arthur didn't love him back, it didn't matter that Eames wanted it. It mattered that Eames would never act on some idiotic impulse to go ahead and ruin what he had with Arthur- the only thing that was keeping him from going mute or from relieving himself from social niceties.

He loved the fuck out of Arthur, and that was enough for him.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Was the first thing out of Eames's mouth, upon arriving home on a Wednesday afternoon.

His sister and brother look at him gravely and nod. Eames wills himself not to smile and joins the silent vigil.

They're standing at the kitchen table, both of them wearing the same expression, both of them staring at the same (and only) picture of their father.

Eames thinks it's stupid.

"How'd he die?" he asks, not caring if it's inappropriate.

"Coke," says Logan. "Was found in a ditch outside of London on Saturday. Beaten and battered, but overdosed first."

"So he didn't even suffer," Eames growls. "Fuck."

"Don't say that," his brother says, rolling his shoulders. "You're sounding like him, now."

They leave Eames to stare at the picture himself, angry and a little lost.

All he'd ever wanted was revenge on his father. He'd never have done it but-

That doesn't mean he's ianything/i like the man.

He stares at the picture and wonders if that's really the case. He doesn't really look anything like his father, except maybe for the hair and the physique, but the similarities stop there. He's never beaten anyone in his life and he's certainly never even considered doing- that- to anyone. Sex was a concept that rarely even crossed his mind, and when it was something that crossed his mind, it was usually in regard to Arthur. So, his feelings of lust were tied into feelings of love and also respect.

Feelings that, he assumed were completely different from feelings that his father had ever experienced.

He tells himself he's completely different from his father and Logan is just being a fucking asshole, again.

He tells himself this not for the first time.

And he knows that it certainly won't be the last.

He treads off to his room, ignoring his brother's call for dinner and ignoring the soft rap on his door, which indicates that his sister is trying to 'talk' to him. Well, Eames thinks, if she wants to talk, then maybe she could make noise with her mouth. He could open the door, but he's not in the mood for her stony silences and Logan's sharp tongue. Instead, he lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what his mother was doing now, if she was still alive, and wondering what Arthur was having for dinner, what he was watching on TV with him family.

He falls asleep hours later, long after midnight.

He swings around Arthur's house the following Saturday afternoon, far too perky than was acceptable so close after the death of his father, but really, he's just pleased to be out of the oppressive household. And, if he's honest with himself, he may still be in denial of the situation- not fully comprehending what had happened. His brain will catch up soon enough, hopefully when he's alone and hopefully someplace where screaming and yelling won't raise eyebrows.

But, for now, he's fine with denial, and he's even better with spending the day in the company of his best friend who was intent on studying, but Eames knew from past experience how easy it was to sway the boy into getting drunk or stoned or anything delinquent-y. Even if Arthur was one of the most straight-edge kids he knew, he had absolutely no problem when Eames would get piss drunk in his company. Arthur generally gave up studying after Eames had started talking 'British', which was a sure-fire way to tell if he was drunk/stoned or involved in a delinquent act which involved the alteration of brain chemistry.

Today, however, Eames hadn't brought a joint or even a bottle of Jacks. This was due to two main factors (as were most of his life choices.)

1) He had spent the last of his money on a new sketchpad, which he'd quickly filled with angry scribbles and blackened words. He wasn't an angst teenager by design. But, give him a break.

2) As previously stated, he now had a dead father. He was in a vulnerable emotional state. Vodka or weed often influenced people to 'open up'. That was really the last thing that Eames intended on doing. Especially in front of Arthur.

It wasn't like Eames was the only one keeping secrets from his best friend. He wasn't blind and Arthur was obviously going through isomething/i at the moment. Eames just wasn't sure iwhat/i. He wasn't going to pry because, really, he tried his best not to be a hypocrite. He just slipped, sometimes, when it was in his best interests.

It was in his best interests a lot of times. Whatever.

"Hey," Arthur says, buttoning up his waistcoat. The waistcoat, which is completely unnecessary and inappropriate because they're not going anywhere important at all.

"Greetings," Eames replies, giving him a questioning tilt of the head. Arthur ignores him. "How was your Friday night?"

Arthur shrugs. "Ariadne's party. You didn't turn up."

Ah. That explains the bitchiness. "It slipped my mind," Eames says, honestly. He'd spent his Friday night curled up with iThe Importance of Being Earnest/i. Not as exciting, but probably more gratifying.

"Yeah, well," Arthur mumbled, still struggling on a particularly stubborn button. "You said you'd show. So, I was left in the company of, well, everyone else."

"Ariadne has loads of lady friends," Eames points out. "Should have just snogged one of them."

For a moment, Arthur looks torn between laughing at Eames' casual use of 'snog' and punching Eames in the face for not even apologising.

"Well. I did. 'Snogged' and stuff."

"And istuff/i?" He asks, ignoring the pit in his stomach that has nothing to do with the breakfast he had not yet consumed.

"I was- Yeah. She. I don't know. She blew me."

Eames did not wince, but it was a close thing. "Good on you, proud of you man."

And Arthur's answering smile is about as pained as Eames' on expression. That's something.

Right?

Eames finds out that the reason Arthur is dressed nicely is that because, today is the day Arthur is getting himself a girlfriend. That isn't how Arthur explains it, exactly. Instead he says something along the lines of "I got laid last night for the first time ever, dude. I should check up on her and make sure she's okay and you know, be gentlemanly."

And Eames is the best guy in the world to understand all of Arthur's hidden meanings in carefully thought out sentences. He knows when Arthur's nervous or stressed or depressed or ecstatic. He also knows when Arthur wants to get laid. He iknows/i Arthur wants to get laid, and doesn't object when they climb into Arthur's car to go visit Ariadne and her friend (who's name Eames was still uncertain of. In Eames' mind she would be dubbed blow-whore.) They don't talk the entire way there, though Eames feels like he should give Arthur a brotherly punch on the shoulder, or commend him further for getting blown. He does neither because he's not in the mood for being Arthur's brother, today. And though his moods vary from 'The Polite English One' to 'The hyper, insane scarily polite English One', he doesn't feel like the world deserved Eames' good side. Not today.

They arrive at Ariadne's house, still in silence and when their friend opens the door she looks less than pleased to see them.

"Before you even consider offering alcohol or weed or whatever pills you have in your pocket, Eames," she starts, stepping towards him. "Know that I have the shittiest hangover, which apparently idoes not/i happen to anyone else,"- She shot Arthur a glare, before turning back to Eames. "So iknow/i, Mr Eames, that I am in a shitty mood because of the hangover and because one of my best friends decides to just not show up at my fucking ibirthday/i. So you better have some pretty fucking good reasons for not showing up last night, and then showing up now."

Eames stares at her and wonder if 'Oh well, my abusive father, who my family and I left in England- oh, did I not mention that he was abusive? Well, anyway, yeah he died and I've been a little preoccupied with both trying not to kill my brother and sister and trying not to kill myself. I do hope you'll excuse me for forgetting about your birthday, even though you've never once said 'happy birthday' to me on my own'.

Instead, he says, "Sorry."

She looks like she's about to hiss something particularly snarky. Something along the lines of 'ME AND YOU ARE DONE PROFESSIONALLY.' But before she can quote Christian Bale, Arthur coughs.

"So um, that girl I was with last night,"-

"Annabel," she mutters, stonily.

"Er- yeah. Her," Arthur says, nodding. "Is she here? Because, me and her last night kind of,"-

"I know what you two did," Ariadne snaps, and Eames is sure that there's some sort of underlying jealousy there. "She's inside. If you break her heart, I'll break your head."

Ah, so she was jealous of Arthur getting Annabel. Eames had picked up on Ariadne's lesbian tendencies (she dressed rather similarly to Arthur most day, icome on/i) but hadn't noticed the apple of her eye.

They watch Arthur enter the house and Ariadne blocks his entrance inside the house, by standing in front of him with her hands of her hips.

And he's not going to bother with her, not at the moment.

So, he walks the fuck away.

FDR is one of Eames' old friends from England, who'd he'd met on the plane over. FDR had no English accent to speak of, but still attempted an accent if the situation called for it (for example, in picking up girls or boys). He was the friend that, most of the time Eames pretended didn't exist. He was the kind of guy that your parents would warn you about, and if Eames had half decent parents he was sure that they'd warn him against FDR. FDR who was, charming and sexy and a maybe too intelligent for his own good. He was the only person, aside from his brother and sister who really knew what was iup/i with Eames.

This wasn't necessarily a good thing, in fact most times it presented itself as a very, very ibad/i thing. Because it was one thing for someone that maybe understood that Eames was a teenage boy, and, as a teenage boy had absolutely no desire to talk about things like ifeelings/i or iemotions/i. Well, he might have had a subtle desire to discuss such emotions. But, with someone like FDR, there was a desire to avoid all topics of feelings or emotion or well-being or any personal information what-so-ever.

It was because FDR brought all things back to well. . . Sex. And, though Eames had a startlingly powerful desire to do- sex- with someone that wasn't FDR and with someone that was more Arthur, he still hated it when drunken conversations regarding his father or his siblings turned into a conversation in which FDR tried very, very hard to grind against Eames and kiss him with everything he had. And, most of the time Eames let it happen, just because it was something to be expected, and, if he didn't let FDR do what he needed to do, then he wasn't prepared to deal with the backlash. He didn't think that FDR would hurt him or anything. But then again, why take the chance?

So when he comes to FDR's apartment later that Saturday, angry and a tad broken, FDR hugs him and holds him close in something that resembles nothing like a friendly exchange between friends, but rather an embrace between lovers. Eames doesn't object when FDR raises his chin to kiss him and doesn't object when FDR slowly unbuttons Eames' shirt. When FDR reaches his fly, he pulls away and the man (because, really, he's not a boy like Eames, he's more mature, maybe. More confident) and gazes at him, searchingly.

"Can I stay here, tonight?" Eames asks, untangling himself and buttons up his shirt.

"I was going to go out. Clubbing," FDR mutters, not breaking eye contact.

"You can still go out," Eames says. "Can I just crash on your couch? I don't want to go home."

"Sleep at one of your friend's," FDR snaps. "This isn't a fucking charity."

Eames sighs and wonders why everyone's being so bitchy today. "Why so bitchy, today?"

"Because," he hisses. "I have a hard-on and my job is in the shitter and- fuck, Eames. I'm sorry."

Which startles the smaller man. He really can't remember the last time FDR had apologised for ianything/i.

"S'ok," Eames says. "Sorry for-um- intruding. I- I - I just."-

"I get it," FDR says, seemingly calmer. "You can crash on my couch tonight, man.

Eames smiles in gratitude and FDR kisses him.

"Stay as long as you want.