Warning; alternate universe, supernatural, teen & lolidk! Arthur
Disclaimer; if only, ohoho ~
Author's Notes; The chapters will get more ... interesting, hopefully. Thank you for the lovely reviews ~
Monday morning, Arthur was automatic as he got up at six on the clock. When he stepped in the shower to clear his head, it was only then that he remembered that he was suspended and that there was really no point in getting up and staying up this early. But nevertheless, he finished his shower in a timely manner. Though, instead of grooming himself up like usual, he proceeded to dry his hair with his towel, leave it half-wet, before peering in the Eames' mirror's direction.
From seeing his reflection, he assumed that the other was sleeping. So here, he was given one of two choices; head down for breakfast or continue to lay around in his room. He wasn't hungry (he usually wasn't during most mornings, but he ate just because it was the most important meal of the day— from the looks of it, he still had three hours of "breakfast hours" left), so he decided to laze around.
After grabbing one of his favorite novels, Arthur settled himself on his bed and turned to the first page.
He had read Ender's Game more than four times— first, when he was gifted it; second, when he reread to make sure he understood it; third to pick up the details; and the fourth time was for pure entertainment. Though he thoroughly enjoyed the book, the content itself got boring since it was his fifth time reading the first page. He could only imagine, by time he reached the end of the book, he could answer every question that specified very small details that usually went through one ear and out the others for most.
As his careful eyes skimmed the first chapter, he became aware that he wasn't even paying much attention, and that he took in nothing after reading the seventh page. His eyes darted back to the first word on that page. He began to read again, but after a paragraph, he gave up.
Closing the book, he straightened up and peered over at the mirror. Still his reflection. Shouldn't Eames be up by now? He was gone since the time of dinner until this moment. Not that Arthur was worried. He was just curious.
Aside from that, he was bored and anticipating the time to turn to eight o'clock. Seven minutes seemed a long time to wait, and when he stared at it, the time only seemed to tick by slower.
With a sigh, he drew his gaze away. His thoughts then reeled to what he could do for the remainder of thee day (aside from eating and reading, of course). He could check out what was playing on the television, but he doubt his father would approve, even though he said nothing about him not being able to watch TV. He could always do his laundry, but he did it yesterday. There wasn't a point in washing nothing but the clothes he wore last night.
So, he was struck with boredom until Eames played his part and entertained him.
He could only imagine their little kiddie games getting worse, though. Eames was pushing his limits; never before had he implied something pertaining to his own body part— or at least, something sexual— but yesterday, he couldn't help but get the other back for pulling such. And he actually felt accomplished after it. Yet, it wasn't anything to boast about. If anyone, aside from Eames, were to hear about it, his reputation of being prim, proper, and formal (save the fact that he got in a fight, of course), would be trashed. Not to mention, everyone would look at him differently just because of something that hinted at things forbidden to be mentioned unless he was eighteen, which was next year.
Speaking of such, Eames did mention that his birthday was coming up soon. If Arthur had his laptop, he could have researched it— wait. He should have done that earlier. If Eames was proclaimed missing, then there should be reports on his disappearance and whatnot. Ariadne had said that Eames went missing, and for a week or two, the whole town feared. But that was years ago— six years ago, if he was calculating correctly.
Six years.
By now, most probably assumed that the other was dead, seeing that he practically disappeared without a trace. If that were the case— if, per se, the whole fairy tale thing was true, he were to kiss Eames and successfully save him, then what would happen?
There wasn't a doubt that his parents would automatically become suspicious of a man in his bedroom that entered without their permission. Others would probably think that he kidnapped the Englishman or something along those lines. If not, he would still be questioned, which meant he had to tell the truth or make up a story. If he told the whole truth, then no one would believe him.
Arthur could barely even believe himself— a man in a mirror by means of magic was ludicrous and impossible. The officials would send him to an insane asylum for even telling the story. Or, at the very least, he would end up getting therapy.
But the mirror was proof, right? The investigators could examine the mirror and find clues. Eames could back him up and report Nash. It shouldn't be hard to catch the other man, considering that there has to be fingerprints somewhere. But did fingerprints stay after six years?
As Arthur pondered these questions, he gazed over at his clock once more. It was eight. Only seven minutes passed. By two hours, he was sure that he would run out if things to even think about. For now, he could consider the made up story.
Well, if Eames could back him up, he could simply say that he found the other. Or maybe he didn't need to get involved. Eames was already an adult; he could make something up with that wild imagination of his. But whatever he makes up, Arthur didn't want to be a part of it. He didn't have the time to be interviewed, and his parents would certainly question him further more on what the Eames business was all about, which would make a very long story if he was to tell the truth.
As for getting Eames out of the house without his parents seeing, he could either smuggle him out with a fifty percent chance of being caught or throw him out the window. Or hide him until his parents leave so he could drive the man somewhere far, far away. The third one seemed like the best option, considering that that would mean that he would probably not see the other again.
But that was all in the future; he would decide what to do when the time called for it.
Now, he needed to find something suitable to be doing aside from watching television and eating. He could always go for a jog, but seeing that his parents were asleep, they might wake up to think that he was sneaking out. And if they thought that, he would be in more trouble. At this moment, that was the least he wanted.
Arthur heaved a sigh and rested back on his pillow. He curled up into a slight ball as he peered at the mirror. Still the reflection of his room. He frowned faintly and wondered if it was possible to tap the mirror or shout for Eames to wake up. That was possible, right? The Englishman could hear him in front of the mirror; it would only make sense if he could hear him in the same room.
Having nothing else to do, Arthur tested his theory.
He pulled himself up and crawled over to the edge of his bed where he proceeded to get off. He peered at his reflection for a while, contemplating why he couldn't see the gray room Eames was in. Passing it off as some crazy idea from Nash or whatever his name was, Arthur stepped closer. He leaned forward, leaving an inch between him and the mirror. During the moment in which he searched for any trigger, he worried about the other showing up unexpectedly, which, he knew, would scare the skin off of him. At the thought of such, he pulled away and examined the mirror.
It seemed to be an ordinary mirror. Maybe he dreamt everything about Eames— maybe school hadn't even started, and he just moved in. Maybe he was tired— no. If that was the case, then his backpack wouldn't be laying were he usually put it after coming home from school. So, Eames, and every event involving the certain Englishman were real.
Then, why wasn't he showing up in the mirror? Perhaps he died? It was a possibility. He had mentioned it before, even though the other had decided that it wasn't possible because he would end up getting a kiss.
At the thought of that, Arthur sniffed.
He hadn't kissed anyone yet, and truthfully, he didn't want to kiss a mirror. That was basically, to him, like making love to himself. Though he would admit that he was quite attractive, he wouldn't go as far as that. The least his first kiss could be was with an actual person. That wasn't going to happen if he was supposed to kiss the mirror.
Then again, the whole thing could be a fairy tale. There must be some other way out of it. He was not kissing the mirror— or Eames. His first kiss, and he knew he was sounding like a prissy and bratty teenage girl, but his first kiss was going to be special. Just not the kiss-a-mirror special.
And, wait— why the hell was he thinking about kissing? Things like this shouldn't be an issue until he was allowed to date, which was after his school years, because his parents thought that love and whatnot would affect his grades somehow.
Not that that really mattered.
Even though he planned to settle down in five years or something along those lines, he was sure that he had plenty of time to find someone and date. Possibly propose. Maybe.
It was still too early to think about the future; hell, he wasn't even sure if he wanted to settle down, have a spouse and children. For one, a spouse meant life-long dedication. At the moment, no one was sprouting that vibe. And two, he wasn't that fond of kids, especially the ones that were snobby and stuck up. Not to mention, they were loud and obnoxious, like Eames, and they take up a lot of time and attention. He didn't want kids at the moment, and he was sure, in the future, he won't even have a child until he was financially stable without his parent's support. Which would be thirty years or older, he could imagine.
But that was the future; he was living in the present. There wasn't a point in thinking about a family yet when he hadn't even met that "someone special".
Shaking his head from the thoughts once again, Arthur climbed back on his bed.
Three minutes later, he found himself in a position that he usually placed himself in when he was little. He hung half-off the bed, he stomach rested on the edge of the bed where it actually hurt, with his arms dangling down. He knew he was endangering his head, brain, and his entire future, but so far, he hadn't had a casualty. Besides, he was careful; that was why his hands are dangling beside him— just in case he does slip off the bed, it could be possible that he could catch himself, or at the very least, do a somersault to safety. Only, the wall was a good meter away. He could actually injure himself. And that wouldn't be a pretty picture, since he already had bruises littering his body from the fight on Friday.
As he was about to pull himself up, Eames chose that perfect moment to make a comment. "Good morning to you too, Arthur. I have a nice view of your arse in the air."
The comment made all the blood rush to the young teen's face, which made his head begin to spin. Quickly heaving himself back onto to the bed, he flopped back and allowed the blood to return to its original state. To his left, since he was laying on his back and upside down, Eames was very amused, and he could easily tell by the snickers coming from the opposing figure. After regaining his composure, he propped himself up on his elbows.
"Shut it," he muttered. "I was trying to think. Where were you the last ... thirteen or so hours?"
Eames tapped his bottom lip as if to think, then lowered his hand and flashed a grin. "Upside down thinking with your lovely arse in the air?"
"If you mention my—"
"Alright, alright. As for where I was, mm, I was ... resting. Now, do correct me if I'm wrong, but you actually sounded concerned of my presence. Am I finally worth your time?"
Arthur scowled.
Now, since Eames was here teasing him, he no longer wished for the other's presence.
"No," he answered flatly with a slight huff as he turned his gaze to the ceiling.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Englishman smirking his trademark smirk. "I'm growing on you, darling. S'nothing horrible to admit. I'm honored, really."
Arthur didn't bother to throw the other a glare. By now, he realized that the glares didn't work on this man as they worked on others. So there wasn't really a point in showing it off again, unless it was necessary or came naturally.
"Any plans for today? I thought of some games that seem interesting."
And by interesting, the dark brunet was almost positive what the other was hinting at. He grumbled something unintelligent under his breath before turning towards Eames.
"I'm bored," he stated dully, "and I've been up for two hours."
"That's not fanciable. Hm, anything you have in mind to do, dear Arthur?"
Arthur's eyes peered at the ceiling once more as he thought. Moments later, his sights returned to the Englishman, and he shrugged. "I have nothing, else, I wouldn't be talking to you at this moment."
"Oh, now. That hurts. I thought you liked me." The light brunet stuck out his bottom lip in a small pout once more. In response, the student puffed out his cheeks. Eames laughed, and Arthur cast off a soft 'hmph'.
"You're adora—"
"No," the dark brunet cut in, his brows immediately furrowing.
"No?" Eames repeated, quirking an eyebrow.
"I'm not adorable. I'm handsome. There's a difference."
"You're cute."
"Attractive."
"Hot."
"Dashing."
"Sexy."
"Appealing."
"Are we still describing you, or am I incorporated within those adjectives?"
Arthur pushed himself up into a sitting position. "I was describing myself." And to prove that he was handsome, attractive, dashing, and appealing, he flashed a quick smile.
"Therefore, I'm adorable, cute, hot, and sexy," Eames responded, mirroring his grin. "Works with me, love. Now, with that settled, do inform me on what's on your planner for today."
The young teen's smile slipped slowly from his lips as he was brought back to consideration. He had nothing planned aside from breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And perhaps talking to Eames in between.
"Surprise me," he requested, eyes boring through the other male's blue-green orbs.
"Alright, if you insist. Truth or dare?"
There wasn't a point in playing truth or dare, since Eames couldn't do much anything inside a mirror, and Arthur knew the other would dare him to kiss him if he chose that choice. For thirty minutes, they went back and forth with questions prying into each other's life.
Some were personal, which Arthur decided to ignore and request for another one. There were some things he's definitely not admitting, considering that they were all absolutely embarrassing, and would, no doubt, be used against him sooner of later.
This, of course, made the game less interesting from Eames' point of view, but Arthur had gathered a bit of information about the other, so he didn't care as much.
He now knew that Eames' first kiss was shared on the playground during first grade. He also knew that Eames' birthday was on September 15th, which was nearing in a matter of weeks. He found out that the ridiculous pink shirt the man had on was from a brand name clothing company. And that purple was the man's favorite color (which was completely coincidental, since that was the color Arthur favored as well). Eames didn't like to read, and when he did, his best read was The Outsiders. Furthermore, the Englishman once broke his arm, flicked off a teacher, and passed with low D's his 8th grade year. Arthur wasn't even sure how the other managed to get into one of the sports' team.
Their little session ended when Arthur's stomach began to stir, calling out silently for food. After excusing himself, he proceeded downstairs to grab something to eat. As he ate his sandwich, he ran over his thoughts once more.
Really, Eames wasn't that horrible as a person. It was just the puns, the teasing, the taunts, and implications that made Arthur uncomfortable. Then again, it would make any regular person uneasy, no?
By time he finished his sandwich, he had already finished thinking about the Englishman. After all, he was putting too much thought into Eames when he should be considering something else— like school, since that played a major part in his life.
Though, he didn't linger on the topic of school for long. The moment he started up the stairs to make his way back to his room, he was already thinking of ideas that could amuse him and Eames both until lunch time.
As he entered the room and seated himself on the bed, Eames grinned and greeted him, like always.
"How was your breakfast?" the man in the mirror started, peering at him with the startling blue-green eyes.
"Dull," answered Arthur as he shifted to get comfortable.
"Better than eating nothing for six years, no? What did you have?"
Arthur quirked a brow as if to ask why their conversation was based on this, but he made no move to complain. It was, after all, something to reply to.
"You don't starve though. I had a sandwich."
Eames' brows shot up a bit, his face brightening with amusement. "Well, yeah. I don't starve. A sandwich— what sort?"
Arthur wasn't exactly sure if the man was trying to imply something or not, but from his interpretation, there wasn't anything that was above PG-13 that could involve a sandwich and its ingredients.
"Ham, lettuce, tomato, and whole wheat bread ... ?"
He leaned forward ever so slightly, as if to anticipate the light brunet's answer.
Eames gave a soft snort. "I always hated vegetables. Dad made me eat them. Coach did too."
The other managed a feeble shrug.
"What other things do you like to eat?" the older of the two continued to ask.
For a moment, the student pondered over the answer of the question. There were many things that he fancied eating, and to choose a few favorites above the rest— it was hard. Yet, in the end, he went with the basic ones that stuck to his head.
"I'm a fan of steak, breads, and fruits. Salads, on occasions, as well."
Eames rolled his eyes, and Arthur huffed again.
"Not surprising, love. I fancy steak too, though I rather prefer chicken and seafoods. Salads aren't my forte, though. Too much veggies." The Englishman's face scrunched up slightly at the mention of vegetables.
"It's healthy," the young teen responded.
"So is seafood ... on some occasions."
"On some occasions," Arthur repeated, mimicking the other.
Eames gave him a look for a moment before issuing his response. "Now, that didn't even sound like me, darling."
"You do know my mother thinks that I'm talking to myself, right?"
And Eames, the idiotic person he was, laughed. "I heard. Perhaps you should lower your voice."
"... I don't whisper," the dark brunet responded bitterly.
"No? I'm not the only one! We seem to have so many qualities alike. I believe that we're meant for each other."
Arthur faked a laugh for a moment, then dropped to a serious face. "No."
"Oh, bloody hell, Arthur. Don't you believe in happy endings?"
The student's brows furrowed as he glimpsed at the opposing figure. "Happy endings only happen in fairy tales," he stated.
"I'm offering you a chance to be in a fairy tale, love. Be the princess to my princey-self."
Arthur couldn't help but roll his eyes. "This is real life. And your fairy tale is screwed up. Besides, I would be the prince rather than the princess."
Eames shook his head, chuckling lightly. "The things happen to the prince. For example, The Frog Princess, Beauty and the Beast—"
"I'm sure you aren't aware of Sleeping Beauty or The Little Mermaid."
"You know your fairy tales! I am truly impressed."
Arthur heard the pure sarcasm dripping from each of those words, but chose to not reply to it with further sarcasm. "You're easily impressed," he commented in its place.
"Incorrect. I'm only deeply impressed with you." A wink followed that. "You're fascinating to me with your stick-in-the-mud personality. It makes me wonder what you are thinking— or how you would be out of control." A small smile rode over the Englishman's lips. "I'd love to see you out of control."
Arthur shifted in his position so that his legs were dangling off the bed. His chocolate brown eyes surveyed the man's expression.
Eames seemed sincere.
"I usually speak my thoughts aloud, and I think that you are quite ridiculous. As for my control, you've had a taste of it before when I unleashed my fury." He quirked a brow.
"Ah, so you are right. But I want to dig deeper into you. I want to know you better than you own mum."
"My mother doesn't know much about me," the young teen responded, frowning again.
At the sight of confusion flicking over the other's face, Arthur turned away. One of the subjects he wanted to avoid was the talk of his and his mother's situation.
Eames, though, didn't seem to get the hint that he didn't want to talk about her.
"Then, your dad? It's usually your mum that knows you more than anyone else—"
"She doesn't know anything," Arthur repeated.
"You don't tell her—"
"If you haven't noticed," the student hissed, eyes casting back on the man in the mirror, "my relationship with my mother is not as bonded as the ones people usually have with theirs. And I would prefer it if we don't talk about it."
"My apologies. Then, who knows you the most?"
At that, the dark brunet found himself chewing on his bottom lip— a habit he used to have, but stopped after discovering how ridiculous it was. Now, it was back just to flaunt the fact that he was hesitating. He was embarrassed by the answer, which made him consider whether or not to admit it. In the end, he dropped his gaze and heaved a sigh.
"At the moment, you. Or at least, you seem to be well informed."
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur noted Eames' lips curving up into a smile.
"Good. I plan to learn more about you."
"I've learned enough about you," he grumbled in response, but the Englishman heard him.
"Oi. I'm an interesting an fanciable bloke. I just tend to run my mouth—"
"And that mouth's going to get you in trouble," Arthur said matter of factly.
"I've been told," the light brunet responded, his words still tainted with amusement.
For a bit, the student simply hugged his legs and watched Eames' unmoving lips in a somewhat daze. As he stared, he began to wonder how they would feel—
His eyes closed as he rested his chin on his knee. He exhaled slowly. Even though the lips look utterly kissable (this, coming from a person who hadn't had his first kiss), he willed himself not to stare at it again. He had been caught last time, and he didn't want the other to get any ideas.
Thankfully, it seemed as if Eames didn't notice, since the silence between them continued for five minutes. When the silence was broken, it was by the fellow Englishman.
"Have I told you that you look utterly snoggable?"
Of course Eames would start off a conversation like that. By now, he should have gotten to the fact that the other simply loved complimenting him.
Arthur would have been proud if the comments didn't make him flustered and embarrassed. For this one, he threw the other figure a careless glare as he desperately tried the settle the rise of temperature that threatened to show on his cheeks. Even though it had been a few weeks since the first compliment spilled out, he had obviously not gotten use to that. The flirtations, perhaps, but they still made him stop and scowl.
"I am aware, now, thank you," he replied stiffly.
Eames gave him a cheeky grin. "So, for my twenty-first birthday in three or four weeks, what are you going to give me? They say a kiss is the best gift."
"I'll sing you Happy Birthday," Arthur answered bluntly.
The Englishman's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You're not pulling my leg, are you?"
The student scoffed. "I can't sing to save my life," he muttered. "So, yes, I was joking."
Again, Eames pouted— Arthur was so sure that the other was pouting on purpose because of his reaction. He didn't want to give Eames his usual reaction, since that was what he expected. So, he ignored it this time.
There was a slight pause in which the light brunet waited for him to do something, but when he refused to, he responded. "Shame. I'd imagine that you have a lovely voice."
Truth be told, Arthur thought he sounded pretty well, but only in the shower when the sound of water pouring covered much of the rasp. Then again, the last time he broke into a musical in the shower was a little less than a year ago. He could only imagine how bad he was at singing now.
"You can't be as horrible. Sing with me, now, darling. Happy birthday to Eames—"
"It's not even your birthday yet."
"Well, practice doesn't hurt. Repeat after me: happy birthday to Eames."
Arthur blinked slowly at the other man.
Right off the bat, he made an observation that the other wasn't that much of a singer, but at least it didn't sound like chickens scratching each other. Because if that was the case, then the mirror would have already been broken.
He wasn't saying that he could sing any better though; he could even go as far as telling himself that he might be worse at singing than Eames, which really said something about his own voice. But he didn't want to lose any confidence. He was sure that, if he tried and had practice, then he would be an average singer.
For now, Eames, singing the birthday to himself, was rather hilarious, but the other's voice, dipped low and with a slight husk and growl to it, made the song and Eames' singing a bit fanciable than usual.
When the Englishman finished, he nodded at the young teen's direction. "Your turn."
Once more, Arthur replied with a quipped 'no'.
"So stubborn, my love," tsked the man in the mirror. "My birthday wish is for you to sing me something, if not give me a kiss."
"You do realize that the more you mention your plan of yours, the more unwilling I am to cooperate. Not that I was cooperating in the first place."
Eames sniffed. "You said maybe."
"Maybe," Arthur stressed, "is a different word than yes. I'm not kissing you."
"Oh, but you will. I know my lips are very captivating."
At the sound of that, Arthur couldn't help but switch his gaze to Eames' mouth, which was curled into an amused smile. His sights flickered back to the blue-green eyes almost immediately afterward, hoping that he wasn't caught with his sudden inspection, but his action didn't go unnoticed.
"Just imagine yours against mine, pet," Eames purred, licking his lips in a seductive manner.
Arthur, a bit affected by the fact that the light brunet was suggesting something by licking his lips, gave a soft snort. "I would be kissing the mirror."
"Once I'm out, though," the British male promised, "we will snog, and it will be the most brilliant snog you've had— well, no, in your case, I'll make sure your first kiss is remembered."
Arthur didn't want to comply; kissing the mirror first would only show how desperate he was. At this moment, he was far from desperate. He just fancied looking at Eames' mouth. That was it, really.
But second offer of snogging was tempting, though, and he shivered at the thought. Even though he was seventeen, he still felt young. He didn't even want a relationship yet (save the fact that Dom was attractive, but he didn't think of the blond that way— or at least, he shouldn't). Shaking is head from the very thoughts, he tuned back into reality.
Eames was peering at him with much intensity in his eyes.
Arthur ignored the striking gaze and leaned back on his bed. "What happened to your parents?" he questioned, remembering back when Eames first explained the situation to him.
At the sound of such, the Englishman's brows furrowed and his lips curled into a delicate frown once more. The flirtatious atmosphere was suddenly gone.
He didn't answer, and his eyes, which were once on Arthur, slid away. The young teen wasn't entirely sure if he was avoiding the question or simply trying to refrain from tearing up. Seconds later, he noted that Eames' fists were clenched and his jaw was locked.
Clearly, this was a touchy subject. If Arthur had cared more, he would have said "you don't have to tell me if you don't want to", but he allowed Eames to make that decision.
Honestly, whatever happened to the man in the mirror's parents wouldn't affect the him, but generally, because of Eames' tensed reaction, he became a bit curious. He didn't want to push, though. This subject could be easily avoided if the other pulled one of his tactics and tried to side-step the entire topic. Yet, it seemed as if Eames wasn't as secretive as he was.
"They died," he answered stiffly, about two minutes after the question was asked.
The answer itself was one of the reasons why Arthur preferred for the subject to be avoided. Again, he wasn't sure how to respond in this situation. With Robert, he simply told the Fischer heir to suck it up, or something along those lines. But Fischer wasn't dead. Eames' parents, on the other hand, and according to said man, was dead.
Arthur was silent for some time, quietly observing the other man. Eames was apparently still fighting a break down.
He wanted to say something, but what could he say? "I'm sorry"? He wasn't sorry for the fact that Eames' parents are deceased, because he never knew them. He wasn't sorry for the fact that he killed them either, because he didn't. It was harsh, but still, "I'm sorry" was an inappropriate response.
What else was there? There was the classic "they're in a better place", but from what he was seeing, a better place would have been on Earth with their son— who was in a mirror. That wasn't the right thing to say either.
Ending his thoughts, he remained quiet while continuously observing the other in silence.
Eames drew out a shaky breath nearly five minutes later before he lifted his gaze. The oceanic eyes skimmed across the chocolate brown ones, then darted away.
"Mum died giving birth to me. Dad ... he wasn't fond of. He blames me for mum's death. At times, he would hit me, but it wasn't as bad— just a slap or a punch. He puts me down. Suppose that's one reason why I toy with people's emotions."
The Englishman proceeded to sit himself down and palm his forehead.
Arthur, in return, didn't bother to sit up and watch any further actions; instead, he turned his gaze to the ceiling.
"He taught me to not trust— to not love anyone by myself. Or, at least, he influenced it. I just picked it up."
There was a slight hitch in Eames' voice that Arthur caught, but he didn't stop.
"He got into a car accident, and I was sent here, in my grandparent's care. Parents of my mum. They seem friendly, but that's rubbish. They blamed me for her death too. Like I could do anything to prevent it."
Anger was beginning to uprise in Eames' voice, and Arthur knew it was a smart idea to stop the story now, but Eames didn't stop.
"Really, all I wanted was to be loved— you know, like most of the people at school. I joined the sports team. Made a few companions that only stuck because I'm brilliant— you— hm. I only flirted and broke others just so I'm not the only one feeling pain. It's horrible, and shite ... I'm a terrible person, but Arthur— I swear I'm different. I like— I want to like you."
Arthur pushed himself to a seating position so that he could look at Eames. The British figure was peering up at him. And from the looks of it, he hadn't even shed a tear.
Arthur wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing; good, because he didn't want to deal with it, but bad because it seemed as if Eames didn't care.
Not that it would matter, anyways.
"Honest, love. I've changed. Don't give me that look."
Arthur continued to frown at the other man.
Eames sighed and climbed to his feet. His hands braced on the side of the mirror as he met the brown eyes. "I want to change for you."
"You want to get out," the student corrected.
"That ... too," he responded in a faint murmur. "But I can like you— no. I like you, Arthur."
The teen rolled his eyes once more. "This isn't a fairy tale. We're not Romeo and Juliet," he stated.
"We're kinda like the fucked up version of Romeo and Juliet, then," Eames returned.
"This conversation is as ridiculous as your response."
"So, you agree?"
The younger of the two scoffed. "Not at all. If you'll excuse me, I need to grab lunch."
Even though it was two hours before the clock struck noon, he still got off the bed and ushered out of the room. He needed time to think, and hopefully, during the time he was away, Eames would think about what he just said.
— ox — xo —
For the entire day, he lingered downstairs, promptly ignoring his parents and watching TV (surprisingly, they didn't comment on that).
He watched a few dramatic acts, a couple of child cartoons, talk shows, and basically whatever he found interesting.
At six, his father came home with his homework assignments. He had that done after dinner.
When the clock announced that it was eight, he started back up the stairs. He was a bit wary as he entered his dark room and flipped on the light. His brown eyes flickered quickly to the mirror.
Eames was gone.
Deciding to leave the man alone, he went to get ready for bed.
— ox — xo —
He woke in the middle of the night to the sound of murmuring.
At first, he passed it off as his parents talking elsewhere in the house, but when his brain finally registered the fact that it was coming from the mirror, he turned over.
"Do you mind?" he grunted.
Eames blinked at him, moonlight casting over the mirror to give Arthur a view of the older man.
"Hello, Arthur. I was just thinking."
"It would be much appreciated if you think inside your head."
"My apologies, pet. But as I was saying, I was thinking about us."
Arthur groaned lightly and rolled over to face the wall. "There's no 'us'."
"There will be."
"Go to sleep, Mr. Eames."
"Sweet dreams, darling."
— ox — xo —
Arthur woke up, again, five hours later. As he rolled to his back and opened his eyes, he heard Eames' voice.
"I'm in love with you."
He gazed over, but didn't bother to glare. It was morning, and he just woke up. He wasn't fully awake yet.
"You're forcing yourself," he mumbled, sitting up and running a hand through his pounding head.
God, he hated headaches.
He let out a breath and closed his eyes. As he massaged the bridge of his nose, Eames continued.
"I'm not. I haven't felt like this for someone before. Not even Mal."
"Do you ever shut up? I have a headache."
His arm fell to his lap as he exhaled a couple of more times. When that didn't work, he laid back down and curled into ball under the covers. It was stuffy and hot, and that didn't help him at all.
He pulled the covers down for air, and yet, his head continued to pound. He blamed the fact that he watched hours of TV, and Eames, since the other seemed strung on talking to him.
"A cold shower helps," he offered, but aside that, he continued to press the other subject. "I've been thinking this entire time and concluded that—"
"Eames," Arthur began, irritation in his voice, "you can not fall in love with someone you knew for three or four weeks."
"Romeo and Juliet—"
"—are fictional characters. There's no such thing as love at first sight." He then dragged the covers to his chin. "I'm trying to rest. Stop talking to me."
There was a sigh.
"One day, Arthur, you'll feel what I feel for you. Might not be for me, but you'll feel it, and you'll know—"
"You sound pathetic. I hope you are aware. Now, kindly shut the hell up before I break the mirror."
Eames fell silent after that.
— ox — xo —
He had woken up various of times throughout the day, but every time he did, he would still get the headache.
When it was four in the afternoon, he dragged himself to his feet. Ignoring the pain, he brushed his teeth and headed downstairs for something to eat.
His parents, again, were out.
After feasting on a quickly made sandwich, he swallowed painkillers, and not feeling up to anything else, he hauled himself back to his bed and crawled in.
Eames, as he first noticed when he entered, was aware of his presence, but didn't make a greeting. He didn't speak either when Arthur laid on the bed and tried to clear his head.
Gradually, the dark brunet forced himself to sleep for a mere hour.
— ox — xo —
When he awoke, the place was already dark, seeing that the sun was peeking slightly out of the horizon.
His head was lightly throbbing, but he wasn't as pained as before. He didn't want to take his chance and sit up either, but he did roll onto his back, and unfortunately (or maybe fortunately?) Eames had caught his movement.
"How are you feeling?" the Englishman questioned with much gentleness and caution.
"I'm fine," Arthur replied, a sigh of relief running past his lips.
"That's good to hear."
The young student turned and faced the other. "You sound tired," he commented dryly, almost speaking for himself.
Eames offered a small smile. "I had to make sure that you didn't die on me."
At the comment, the dark brunet frowned faintly, but nonetheless, he waved it off. "I just have a headache," he muttered. "Takes more than that to kill me."
The man in the mirror chuckled lightly. "I can imagine. Your mum dropped something off, by the way. I think it's your school assignments."
Arthur propped himself up lightly to see what the other was talking about.
Sure enough, a yellow folder was sitting in his desk.
With that seen, he laid back down. "I'll do that tomorrow."
"Tomorrow's our last day before you have to go back to school. Are you sure you don't want to socialize with me? You have plenty of time to get your work done. Talking to me, you rarely have time, and I do enjoy our conversations."
Arthur enjoyed them as well, but there was no way he would admit that out loud.
— ox — xo —
The next day, Arthur got up at nine. After cleaning himself and eating breakfast, he started on the assignments. By noon, he was free to do whatever he wanted. Not many options were given to him, so he settled with having small talk with the British figure.
Their chat began with Eames making sure that Arthur was completely okay. After that, they started slow. For once, there wasn't any flirtatious comments or taunting thrown around. They had a suitable, long conversation that involved the weather, school, his friends (he supposed Dom, Mal, Ariadne, Lorenzo, and Houston could be called his friends), and a small argument which had Eames defending dogs as the better pet to Arthur's preference of cats.
At five in the afternoon, his jaw was tired from talking and forcing back grins that dared to appear.
After excusing himself, he made his way downstairs for dinner. As the meal was served, he was given a small lecture before being told that he would get his possessions back. When Arthur returned to his room at seven, he had his laptop, his cellphone, and his car keys in his grasp.
The first thing that crossed his mind as he settled in was research Eames, and he did just that.
Situating himself on his bed with the Englishman trying to look at what he was doing on the laptop, Arthur typed 'Nicholas Eames' into the search engine.
Turned out, the other and Ariadne were telling the truth.
According to the news report, fourteen year old Nicholas Eames from Limbo was reported missing on October 2nd. There weren't any traces, and reports of those who resided at the same house later claimed to have heard a voice. Presumably, most thought of the house as haunted. Which promptly meant that Eames could be a ghost. But Arthur contradicted that thought since the body wasn't found.
After reading the bit of information, he sat back, allowing it to seep in. A few moments later, he turned back to Eames. The other was gazing at him curiously, urging him to tell with his eyes. Arthur didn't tell. He simply closed the browser and closed the laptop.
Alright. So, Eames wasn't lying about his history, but that didn't mean the fairy tale thing was true. After all, Mal had assumed it. He made a mental note to ask her tomorrow. For now, Eames seemed rather impatient to hear what he had been doing on the computer. It wasn't an important subject, and he wanted to avoid admitting that Eames was actually honest on his part.
Arthur cleared his throat. "What were we talking about before?"
At first, the Englishman narrowed his eyes on him, as if telling him to mention what he was searching. When he did not, Eames answered the question.
"We were talking about my allergies to chocolate. Were you searching me up, though?"
Caught.
Arthur pursed his lips slightly. "I was checking to make sure that you were telling the truth. You wore a ridiculous purple and yellow shirt in the picture they posted of you. It makes me wonder why you weren't picked on."
"Oh, come, Arthur. It wasn't as bad. It makes me approachable, like I said before." The light brunet grinned at him. "It was one of my favorites."
Arthur just stared, because it was hard to believe a shirt as ugly as that was someone's favorite. Then again, Eames did emit a bad fashion sense. At least the other wasn't wearing the blinding shirt at the moment.
"Mm, I don't want to end our lovely conversation," the Englishman started, "but you do realize that you have school tomorrow, yes?"
When he heard that, Arthur's gaze snapped to the clock.
It was nearing his usual bed time.
"Right," the young student muttered before heading off to the bathroom.
Minutes later, he returned to his bedroom. After turning his laptop off and setting it aside, he climbed into bed.
"Don't wake me up in the middle of the night," the student requested, rolling to face the wall as he pulled the covers up.
There was a snort behind him. "Good night to you too."