Warning; alternate universe, supernatural, teen! Arthur, homophobia
Disclaimer; when Arthur doesn't want specificity.
Author's Notes; So, I'm predicting that there would be three or four more chapters. Possibly more. Not sure— but I'm aiming towards three more chapters. I want to thank those who still read and review; I love you guys! Oh, and kudos to you if you can figure out what internal organ the mirror is connected to. Annnd, I think that's it. Enjoy this chapter ~ :B
His mother was suspicious, and Arthur didn't blame her. He was, after all, literally yelling at the mirror, and he couldn't use the excuse that he was on the phone because his phone wasn't even on him. He knew she was curious of what the hell was going on in his room, but he avoided her curious gaze. He didn't know how to explain something so simple, yet complex.
But he couldn't just ignore her.
He had one of two choices: stay in the room and dwell on Eames' state or don't stay in the room and have his mother nosing around. The bathroom was a fair place to stay for the first hour, but who would want to stay in a bathroom, staring at the shower, for more than an hour? Not Arthur, so he left the bathroom and his room.
It sucked because he didn't have a car of a phone; he could really use a joyride or at least someone to talk to— someone like Ariadne, since she seemed to be the only one he could get along with and not have memories and emotions attached.
— ox — xo —
He didn't want to get up Tuesday— well, get up and out of bed, because he couldn't sleep at all. The entire night, he stated up ad listened to Eames' ragged breathing. Eames wasn't standing, but by the breathing alone, Arthur knew that the other was there. This sent a panicking chill down the dark brunet's spine.
Before, Eames didn't watch him sleep; for the past couple of days, Eames admitted to. Arthur knew this change of action must mean something. And that something, he dreadfully came to the conclusion of, was that Eames was dying.
That thought continued to make him sick in the stomach.
He couldn't pull himself out of bed to get ready for school, but school was where he got away. He wanted to leave the room, the house, and everything he had to pretend for at home. He just needed to forget, but unfortunately, forgetting wasn't that easy.
Mal was at school, and so was Dom and Lorenzo. It seemed like everywhere he went, there was always some sort of memory tailing behind.
The only memory that wasn't bad belonged to Ariadne, or so, his mind seemed to think.
Dom started it all. Houston gave him away to Lorenzo. Lorenzo was a temporary getaway. Mal was linked to Eames. And Tadashi— well, he brought the memory of what happened to his locker. Ariadne was in a similar position, but she helped out.
Did that matter, though? The bullying phase was nearly gone, which was surprising since Lorenzo fancied touching him in public places.
But that was aside the point.
He needed to get up and—
"Arthur, are you okay?"
He jumped at the voice belonging to his mother. With hands clutching the blankets to his chest, he took a few calming breaths from the surprise.
"I'm fine."
The man in the mirror next to him wasn't, though, as one could tell from the excessive wheezing.
Arthur slid out of the bed to the left in attempt to distract his mother. It didn't work. She paced over and peered at the broken glass.
"Do you like him?"
Arthur's heart just stopped, and he could have sworn everything— Eames' breathing included— stopped too. There was no way that she could see Eames. If she had, then she would have known his situation with the mirror all along.
She turned to him. "Tell me, Arthur."
Arthur's mouth fell open slightly. He was wordless. Completely and utterly wordless.
"I'm here for you. I want you to know that. I may be your step-mother, but I ... I feel as if you're my son."
Finally, Arthur snapped from daze. His brows furrowed. "You're not my mo—"
"You won't let me be your mother. I want to help you."
"It's not any of your concerns."
"Do you like him?" she pressed, much like Mal. Arthur was surprised that her voice could even be this bold.
He hesitated, though.
It wasn't like he didn't like Eames. It was just— it was just a really complicated feeling that he, himself, was unsure of.
"I don't have an answer."
"Do you want to see him again?"
Arthur's brows furrowed. What was she talking about?
"I'm afraid I don't comprehend."
"I don't want to hold you back. You're grown now. You should be able to make your own choices." She tossed something to him, and he instinctively caught it. "Don't do anything reckless, though. Father won't be pleased."
Arthur stared at her, his mouth still hanging open ever so slightly. His fingers were curled around his car keys. "What ..."
She gave him a small smile. "Our little secret. Just don't let it mess with your grades."
"Why are you—"
"I want you to forgive me for telling him."
The keys pressed against his palm, and his mouth clamped shut. This was most definitely random.
"You're lying."
Her face darkened. "I'm on your side."
"Whatever you're trying to pull, it won't work."
"Arthur." She rounded the bed and grabbed his shoulders. "I want you to be happy. You deserve happiness."
"I know."
She let go of his shoulder and took a step back. "You've become disrespectful."
"I'm not in the mood," Arthur said coldly, tone as a warning.
"I should take the keys back, but I won't. Maybe seeing that boy again would make you happier."
"I'm not gay," he pressed again, face twisting into a frustrated one. "It's a sin to be gay—"
This was what his father wanted him to be. This was what—
He felt a slap against his cheek.
"It is not a sin," his mother said furiously. "If you love him, then I'm not stopping you, and don't you dare let anyone else stop you."
Arthur gazed at the floor, fists tightening.
"Don't change for your father. He's just stressed. He loves you, no matter your decision."
Arthur exhaled a couple of times. "Please leave," he requested moments later.
His mother shifted back. "Arthur—"
"Stop saying my name! You're not my mother; you'll never be. This doesn't change anything. You—"
"I'm sorry. Isn't that—"
"Get out," he hissed, flush of anger rising on his cheeks.
"Just remember what I said." She shuffled away from him.
"Your words mean nothing," he scowled as she made her way out of the room.
When he received no answer in return, Arthur slid down and sat against the wall. He buried his head and choked back the tears. He wasn't sure what the hell just happened, but it wasn't him. It was far from him. It was as if a monster inside of him was released.
He should apologize— but he didn't want to. He couldn't face the shame, and he couldn't face that question either. Speaking of which—
"Eames," his voice whispered out as he scrambled to his feet and made his way to the mirror. "Eames, are you alright?"
This time, the other appeared before him on his second call. He was still leaning against the mirror, obviously in pain.
"Yeah ... just hurts. That wasn't ... nice. Your mother—"
"I don't want to talk about her," he snapped, but seeing Eames' expression, he softened unconsciously. "You should stop moving a lot."
"Best ... idea ever, pet." Eames gasped and dropped his head against the glass.
Arthur began fearing again. He needed to call Mal. He needed Mal here.
"So, do you ... ?"
Arthur lifted his gaze to meet the blue-green eyes. "Do I?"
"Love ... like me?"
If avoiding the question from his mother was hard, then this was definitely harder. He wanted to run from it, but what good would that do?
"Arthur ..."
Shit, shit, shit.
How was he supposed to reply? What was Eames expecting? A yes, of course, but did Arthur really? Even in this case, he couldn't make himself lie.
"I ... I don't know," he admitted, back pressing against the bed, arms hugged around his legs. "I don't know anymore. I don't want to do this. I'm supposed to be prim and proper, and I let my emotions get the best of me."
"Human feelings," Eames wheezed out. "Been through them ... millions of time. Never felt ... this strong for someone."
Arthur placed his forehead on his knees. He couldn't face Eames. He couldn't bring himself to.
"I ... enjoyed our talk ... and shit. Yeah ... dammit, it hurts. I—" Another strangled gasp. "Talk to me, Arthur. Want to hear your voice."
Again, Arthur found himself shaking and forcing tears back.
He wasn't weak. He wasn't pathetic. Eames wasn't either. They were going to pull through this. Together.
"I'm sorry," the dark brunet murmured. "It's not supposed to end this way."
"Hasn't ended. And ... if it does— fucked up Romeo ... and Juliet, remember?" Eames laughed, but like before, it was dry and ended in a cough.
"This is not a fucking love story," Arthur murmured.
"Tragedy," the Englishman supplied.
Arthur's gaze snapped up. "You're not going to die!" he scowled. "You'll get through it— I'll help."
"You have ... school."
"Fuck school," Arthur said nonchalantly, surprised of his own voice. "I'm staying here, by your side whether you like it or not."
Eames continued to meet his gaze. And ever so slightly a smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. It showed a bit of hope above all the pain.
"... Thank you."
"Don't thank me. I'm doing it for myself."
Eames let out a shaky breath. "Love you," he breathed moments later.
Arthur felt his heart beginning to pound again.
— ox — xo —
Dinner was awkward because of two reasons: one, his mother was ignoring him completely, and two, his father was lecturing him about getting a good job after graduating.
And then Mal came up.
"Who was the young lady?"
"Pardon?"
"The one that returned your book."
"Mal."
"I like her. Ask her out. She's the only exception I'm willing to make."
Arthur nearly choked on his food. "She's unavailable."
"Make her available."
"No."
His father's temper rose after that. "What?"
"No," Arthur replied stiffly.
His father was furious. "You won't even try?"
"I have no interests in her."
"She's a lovely lady."
"I agree, but she's not my type."
"Are you becoming a queer again?" his father sneered.
Arthur rose to his feet, Eames flashing across his mind. He needed to get back to Eames. "What if I am?"
"You dare—"
"Please," his mother spoke up. "Stop it. Both of you."
"You helped him," his father scowled. "You know he's going to be—"
"He can take care of himself. Please calm—"
"My son is a faggot," he hissed.
Arthur dropped his plate on the floor and listened as it shattered, sending glass all around. "No. Arthur is a faggot. You don't have a son."
He prepared for a blow, but before he could receive it, his mind switched gears and he bolted.
He was scared. Anyone with a brain could tell that by how he ran into his bedroom, locked his door, and balled himself up in front of the mirror. His breaths came in pants, but the sound of footsteps approaching his bedroom stopped his breathing.
There was a knock.
And another.
"Come out here this instant!"
His father was raging, and that alone was the main reason why Arthur didn't move. He stayed by his bed, arms around himself, rocking slightly.
"Do not ignore me, Arthur!"
There was continuous pounding on the door.
"Just go."
He didn't budge at the sound of Eames' voice.
"What did—"
"Shut up!"
"Did you just tell me to shut up?" his father demanded. "You have one minute to pack your things. You are—"
"Please calm down." His mother to the rescue. Joy. But considering his situation, Arthur was forever grateful for his mother to step in.
"I want him out of the house!"
"Calm down!"
"What's going on ... ?"
Arthur dropped his arms and peered at Eames. He was confused.
Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but at that exact moment, there was a loud crash into his door. Instinctively, he ducked at the noise, hoping that his father hadn't broken through or thrown his mother against it. There wasn't a cry, though; just more screaming from both parties. Arthur, again, found himself worthless. He wanted to go out there and jump into the fight, defend his mother for defending him, but he had nothing, and he was shit at fighting physically.
"Arthur ..." His attention switched back to Eames, who gasped for breaths. "I can't ... fuck."
Arthur cursed and scrambled to the front of the mirror. His fingers trailed over Eames' forehead that was pressed against the glass.
"Where does it hurt?"
There was screaming in the background still, but Arthur found his attention occupied on the figure in front of him. His father and mother could wait; Eames could not.
"`verywhere ..."
"Can you feel me?"
"Y-Yeah ..."
"Where?"
"Forehead."
Arthur reached up and stroke the starting point of the broken glass.
"Hip?" he questioned.
Eames nodded slightly.
He drew his hand back.
What could he do? Nothing, like before.
"He's your son!" And the yelling outside didn't help him with his panicking state either.
He tried to shove his father and mother out of the picture; he tried brainstorming for ways— ways to get Eames out or at least stop the pain. Nothing came to him.
"Arthur ... Arthur."
His gaze snapped back to Eames. The Englishman had his eyes squeezed close, flaunting the fact that he was trying to endure the pain.
"Don't talk," the young brunet murmured, hesitating slightly.
Eames shifted slightly. "S'hard ... to breathe."
"Don't you dare die on me—"
"Arthur!" He promptly ignored his father's booming voice. "I will break in if you do not open the door this instant!"
Arthur's gaze continued to linger on Eames, caring not for his father's commands, but when he heard a rattle and the door opening, his heart jumped to his throat.
Arthur quickly scrambled to his feet, bracing himself as he watched his father stalk nearer and nearer by each passing second. He found himself holding his breath. He also found himself searching for his mother. She stood at the door, an apology planted on her face. She wasn't going to step in. She was worthless, after all. His attention, however, was jerked from his mother to his father, who now had grabbed his collar and heaved him over a few inches.
"I will not hesitate to disown you," his father said sternly.
"Do it," Arthur challenged, but immediately regretted it. He didn't want to be disowned; he had an entire life in front of him.
"Do not use that tone—"
"It's my choice. It doesn't involve you."
"You will get bullied—"
"Already have," Arthur spat. "And thanks to my friends, I got through it."
His father's grip loosened slightly, but his eyes were still firm. "I raised you. This is my house. You follow my rules."
"I'm seventeen. I'm not stupid—"
"If you're not stupid, then you would know that you're committing a sin," his father hissed.
"I'm not the only gay person—"
"You're my only child. You are my heir—"
"I'm not your child." The moment those words spilled from his lips, he felt a stinging pain in his cheek. It was only then did his mother step it.
She grabbed his father's arm. "Let him go," she ordered. "If you love him enough, you would understand that this is the decision he's making."
His father threw her a glare, then, ever so slowly, let go of Arthur.
The young teen stumbled back, dissatisfaction and hatred written all over his face.
His father glared at him. "Consider yourself stripped from your freedom. You will change."
And then, to Arthur's terror, his father looked at the broken mirror. "Why do you have this in your room? It's going to end up breaking." But thankfully, without further word, the other turned and left his room.
His mother opened his mouth to say something, but Arthur beat her to it. "Save it. I need time to think." She, wordless, nodded, then made her way out, closing the door behind her.
Arthur let out a breath before switching his gaze over to Eames. "Are you okay?" he asked, crouching down and trailing his fingers over the other's forehead.
The Englishman nodded slightly. "Why ... d'you still keep ... the mirror here?"
Blue-green eyes turned to meet his gaze.
Arthur's mouth suddenly went dry.
Why had he kept Eames?
"I ... care, I suppose," he murmured, eyes flickering away.
"Care ... ?"
"Yes," Arthur gritted out, sitting back against his bed. "I care. Unlike my father ... I ... I did this to you, and you're dying, and I don't know what to do. I feel helpless, and I need a getaway; I keep going back to Lorenzo, but father ... I tried, I fucking tried." He lowered his head into his arms. "I'm not a murderer. I don't want you to die, Eames. I ..."
"Arthur."
Arthur exhaled and closed his eyes. "There's too much stress. Too much shit. I just want a break. And you're ... you were my break from reality. You cared and helped me when no one else could. I ... appreciate that. And— God, Eames. Don't die. Please don't die."
"Arthur."
"I've been a selfish—"
"Bloody hell, Arthur! Look at me!"
Arthur glanced up slowly and blinked.
Then blinked again.
The next thing he knew, he was on his feet, his palms on the mirror.
"You were pretending all this time? You bastard— I should just break the— what the hell ..."
Arthur dropped his gaze to the cracks. They weren't touching the other end of the mirror, and Eames— well, Eames looked better. Though he was still leaning against the mirror, he didn't look as if he was in the dying state. He was grinning.
Arthur stared.
"I wasn't faking. Your words ... it made me happy, and I don't know— my hip doesn't hurt much anymore."
Arthur seriously wanted to slap Eames, but he resorted to beaming. He couldn't help it. A surge of relief had washed over him.
"I need to call Mal," he stated urgently. "Shit. I don't have my phone." He was practically fumbling with some happiness that he had never felt before. "She needs to know."
Arthur quickly ushered towards his nightstand and grasped his keys. When he lifted his gaze to meet the oceanic eyes, he saw gratitude— joy— and Arthur knew his eyes were reflecting the same emotion.
"I'll be back. I need to tell her." He ushered towards the door, but before his hand touched the handle, Eames spoke up.
"Wait, darling. Come back."
And Arthur, still bouncing with excitement, reverted his step and headed back over. "You called?"
Eames chuckled, and this time, the laughter wasn't dry and forced. It came naturally.
"I just wanted to see your dimples up close."
"Oh, well—" Arthur flashed a bright smile. "Happy?"
"Very much so. You're beautiful. So fucking gorgeous— I'm overjoyed, love. I really am."
"Good. I need to visit Mal—"
"Alright. Run along."
Arthur's cheeks ached from grinning, but he didn't falter. "I'll be back. I can promise you that—"
"Give me a kiss first."
And Arthur did. He pecked the mirror where Eames' lips were at before straightening up.
After sharing one final look, Arthur was out the door.
He was just about out the door when he heard his mother's voice, stopping him.
"Don't go," she whispered, gripping his arm. From the sight of her eyes, he knew that she had been crying. His happy spirit disappeared. "Your father loves you. He doesn't mean it—"
His father; the subject just boiled his blood, but much to his fortune, his thoughts reeled back to what he was going to do, and that was to visit Mal. He felt much better, but still, he didn't want to think of his or his parent's situation.
"Can I have my cellphone back?" he dared to question.
Her lips trembled, and her eyes glazed over. "Please think about what you're doing. He's sorry; I'm sorry—"
"I'm not leaving." At least, not yet. "I just need my cellphone." He shook off her grip.
"What ... what for?" she asked, looking hesitant.
Arthur was frustrated. He just needed his phone, but he knew he wasn't getting it without a logical explanation.
"I want to call a friend."
She stared at him for some time before switching his gaze away.
"Are you going to call him?"
Him?
His brows furrowed.
Did she mean Dom?
"Him?" Arthur echoed.
"The boy— the one that last left here."
Eames? No— Lorenzo. She must be talking about Lorenzo.
"No ... it shouldn't matter." Except that he was banned from speaking to the other.
Her steady gaze returned. "You never answered my question."
She was making this complicated.
Arthur scowled slightly, but kept his cool. He needed the phone, if not, he needed to get out. From the looks of it, she wasn't letting him go.
"Which question?"
"Do you lo— like him?"
That was some sort of relief; it came to him that, before, back when she was facing the mirror, asking the same question before tossing him his car keys, she was referring to Lorenzo, not Eames. So Eames was safe for now. But Arthur apparently wasn't, since he was obviously taking a bit of time to answer.
"Does it matter?" he muttered.
"Yes," she stressed.
Arthur gripped the handle of the door again, and his mother grabbed his arm once more.
"Don't go. I promise you it'll get better."
"I'm visiting a friend," he replied, gritting through his teeth.
She didn't seem to believe him.
"Either that or the cellphone," he responded as coolly as he could manage.
She drew her hand away. "Cellphone," she decided, gesturing him over to the pantry. She then removed a couple of boxes before handing him the phone. "Don't tell your father," she warned.
Arthur couldn't help it; he beamed. "Thank you."
And with that, he was hurrying up the stairs once more.
He opened the door to his bedroom, a smile threatening his lips. When Eames greeted him, though, the smile broke loose.
"Back so soon, darling? I hope you didn't get a speeding ticket."
"Of course not," Arthur responded, closing the door to ensure his privacy. "My cellphone was returned to me." He held up his black cellular device to show that he had gotten it back.
"Put it on speaker?"
Arthur nodded and quickly dialed Mal's number. As it started to ring, the young teen impatiently went to the mirror, raising a hand and placing it over the one Eames had on the mirror.
The Englishman smiled, the corners of his mouth stretching into a grin that would make Cheshire cat proud.
And then, finally, Mal decided to pick up.
"Is something wrong?" she sounded worried, and that was almost laughable.
Arthur didn't laugh though— well, he tried not to. "Yes," he answered, shooting Eames a look that plainly commanded the other not to protest.
"What happened?" she demanded.
"Well," he drawled out, "the mirror isn't really bro ... ken." There was hesitation in the last few syllables since his eyes ran to the cracks on the mirror; they had reached midpoint, and Eames didn't seemed in pain at all. He was healing quickly.
"Pardon?"
Since Arthur fell speechless, Eames took over. "I'm brilliant, Mal. Thanks to Arthur here."
"What did you do?" she pressed, seeming to be unable to contain her happiness and excitement.
By now, Arthur had dawned back down to Earth. "We're not exactly sure," he admitted.
The other line fell silent. Arthur used the time given to him to draw his hand away from the mirror. Though Eames seemed reluctant to pull his own hand away, it didn't stop either of them from grinning broadly.
In Eames' smile, Arthur could see the happiness, and that alone warmed his heart. Eames really did have a gorgeous smile. He wondered why he never paid attention to it before. But now, since he had taken notice of the smile, he was sure that he would never skim pass it again. In return, Arthur hadn't smiled this much in years, so his cheeks began to hurt. He relaxed them and glanced away, embarrassed.
"Is it possible that I can visit?"
His attention snapped back to the phone on speaker.
"I'm in ... a tight situation with my parents."
"Oh," she hesitated slightly, "alright. Are you okay?"
"Yeah—" His eyes met Eames' knowing gaze. "Yes, I'm fine."
"Just making sure. Take care of him, alright?"
A small smile appeared on the dark brunet's lips. "I'll try."
Mal laughed. "Was there a particular reason why you weren't here today?"
Right. He missed a day of school for the first time in three years. There went his streak.
"I wasn't feeling as well and overslept."
"I see. Well, see you tomorrow, then?"
"Yeah, tomorrow."
"Bye, Eames."
"Later, Mal."
As Arthur disconnected the line, he switched his eyes back on the Englishman. Eames wasn't grinning as much, but there was still a shadow of a small smile tinted on his lips.
"I really want to snog you senseless," the light brunet murmured basically out of nowhere, "but I'm stuck in this damn mirror."
Eames stuck out his bottom lip slightly, pouting. And Arthur, in return, really, really wanted to kiss Eames, but of course, the mirror was in the way, and he didn't want another episode where his heart would be broken because of his lust.
Eames seemed to like him, though, and that thought made Arthur's heart flutter. But he couldn't trust what the other was saying. Maybe he was just a toy and nothing more. That thought made his chest clench and his smile fade.
Apparently, his actions didn't go unnoticed by Eames, whose smile also disappeared. "Did I say something wrong?"
Arthur shook his head to answer and so he could clear his thoughts.
"Arthur." The young teen blinked as he was addressed again. "I want you to be honest with me." There was no play in Eames' tone or expression; he simply gazed at Arthur with a serious look.
"I'm fine," the dark brunet responded, lifting his brow ever so slightly in a question.
Eames eyed him for a few more silent seconds before smiling again. "Alright, if you insist. Now ... what do we do?"
Arthur feebly shrugged. "I need to take a shower."
"You take two a day," the Englishman said blankly.
"Your point?" the student challenged.
"Well, it's a lot of water you're wasting."
Arthur's nose crinkled slightly. "It's not wasted if it cleans you."
Eames stuck out his bottom lip in a pout once more. "Always with the comebacks."
"And good ones at that," Arthur replied, a soft grin working its way to his lips.
Eames chuckled. "I don't feel any pain."
The sudden change of topic brought Arthur back to reality, and his smile faded temporarily.
"There are still a few cracks in the mirror," he stated, tracing his fingers over the broken glass.
"That tickles," Eames started, and Arthur, wanting to see the humor in this, began tickling the broken glass. And Eames clutched his side, barking with laughter.
Finally, seconds later, Arthur gave into mercy and pulled his hand away. Eames straightened up after a bit, a wide grin still on his expressions.
"When I'm out of the mirror, you're going to be tickled. Seriously, Arthur."
The dark brunet rolled his eyes, but laughed dryly. "I'll be looking forward to it."
"That is, if I ever get out," Eames murmured in addition.
At the sound of that, Arthur fell silent and glanced away. He was shameful to the fact that he didn't know how to get Eames out. There must be a way out. Arthur just didn't know how.
Maybe Eames did have to experience death, but at this moment, he didn't want to try at death again. Arthur couldn't see someone die, or in any case, commit the crime. His eyebrows furrowed as he thought, but before he could think further, there was a slight sound of cracking to the side.
His sights snapped over and immediately, his heart began to pound.
The cracks were bigger than before. And Eames was sitting on the ground, arms wrapped around his legs. The eyes were downcast.
"Eames, are you okay?" His panicking state returned as he quickly had his fingers dance over the broken glass. "Eames?" he called again, eyes on the unmoving male.
When the Englishman continued to ignore him, Arthur crouched down and touched the part of the mirror where Eames' hands were located.
"Can you hear me? Eames!"
His heart was pounding madly against his chest. His mouth ran dry. He couldn't believe it— what just happened?
"Eames, can you hear me?" he asked again, this time, a bit louder.
"Yeah, yeah," the opposing figure responded, sending waves of relief through Arthur.
But the relief left him the moment he heard cracks again. This could not be happening.
"Where does it hurt?" he questions feverishly.
"My hip is fine. It's not ... the hip's healed. It's ..." Eames heaved a sigh and lifted his head faintly. "I could be stuck here forever. You'll be off to college soon, and you'll meet someone—" Eames' voice cracked along with the mirror. "— I won't be in your existence."
"I won't forget you," Arthur responded firmly.
Eames snorted, rocking himself slightly. "You won't remember me when you're married ... and have a family, and—"
"Eames, that's the future," the young teen said firmly.
Eames exhaled once more. "I know. I just ... I won't be able to bare you leaving. I've grown attracted to you, though it's been how many months? Two? Three?"
"Two," Arthur confirmed.
The other nodded jerkily. "Arthur, I ... I honestly want to be with you. I want to be able to—"
Eames glanced up to meet his eyes. Arthur tried to swallow, but his dry mouth prevented it. He continued to stare.
"I want to love you, kiss you, hold you. But I'm in this sodding mirror just because I was stupid— I was completely stupid, and I'm sorry. I want to take it all back. I want—" Eames' breathed hitched and his sights turned away. "I want you."
The last three words were whispered, but Arthur had listened intently enough to catch them. He didn't know what to do in return; he refused to run simply because he was afraid of his own feelings, but with his heart pounding rapidly in his chest, it was hard not to run.
His eyes scrolled away from Eames and turned to the ground.
He believed Eames. Or at least, he really wanted to believe the other. But what difference was Eames from the rest? Perhaps Arthur was just that desperate to be wanted and held— to be loved. Didn't everyone, though? He could have also chosen Lorenzo, but if he were given a choice at the moment, he would definitely choose Eames. And yet, Arthur wasn't sure if the emotion towards the Englishman was simply care or something else.
"Look at me."
Arthur lifted his gaze towards the other male. Eames was gazing at him, looking as if he was about to cry, but had not yet shed a tear. Their eyes met without hesitation.
"Tell me how you feel about me."
The young teen opened his mouth to reply, but he fell silent. He still hadn't figure out how he felt about Eames. He closed his mouth, feeling rather stupid.
Arthur knew that he wanted Eames as a companion— as a friend. He knew that he was extremely happy with the man not too long ago. He knew that he was worried and cared.
A calming breath escaped him. "I'm not sure. You're ..." he paused and tried to think of something that wouldn't sound as dull. In the end, he lamely finished with "a good companion". After that, he could only listen to the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears.
Eames nodded slightly and took out a held in breath. "I'm being selfish," the Englishman started. "I ... I used you to try to get out, but I don't now. I learned my lesson. And ... I want you to be happy. Whether it's with me or not."
Arthur's gaze dropped to Eames' moving lips forming the cautious words.
"I can only hope that you choose me, but—" Eames laughed, but it was heartless and fake. "— I can't even touch you." Eames sniffed and glanced away.
There was another crack sound from the mirror. It was breaking again.
"I can't kiss you, hold you— I want to, Arthur. I want to so much."
"Eames," Arthur cut off, his voice shaking.
"I'm sorry for making this awkward between us, darling. I ... couldn't keep it in."
Arthur shook his head and leaned back against his bed. "I'm just confused about my feelings," he murmured.
Because, after all, what if Eames was a figment of his imagination? Or what if this was simply a dream? He would wake up and find that Eames never existed and neither did Dom, Ariadne, Lorenzo, Mal, or the others.
But he knew, somehow, that this was reality, which meant he could be having feelings for someone inside a mirror.
Okay, so maybe he did like Eames. Maybe he wanted to kiss those delicious lips and run his fingers through the hair. But obviously, those actions couldn't be done with Eames trapped in a mirror. Their relationship would be based on talking. Not that Arthur had a problem with that, but it wasn't like he could hang out in front of a mirror for years.
He licked his bottom lip and glanced back up. Eames wasn't looking at him, so he cleared his throat to catch attention.
"If we ... were to have a relationship, what would we do?"
Eames' eyes immediately snapped up to meet his own. "Anything we can, darling."
Arthur ended up biting his bottom lip.
"Does this mean that you—" Eames straightened a bit as he asked this. "—that you fancy me or am I sadly mistaken?"
Arthur managed a small shrug. "I'm not sure," he mumbled. "I ... like you, Eames. As— as a friend."
"Oh."
Eames' expression clearly masked one of disappointment.
"It's not—"
"It's alright, Arthur. I understand." There it was again: the hitch in the Britishman's voice. "Don't feel sorry for me. I deserve this."
"You don't—"
"Don't, Arthur. I did, and you know it. I ... I need some time to think. Excuse me."
Eames turned, but Arthur quickly reached out and placed a hand on the mirror. "Eames, don't go." Too late. Eames was gone, leaving cracks that had now reached the other side of the mirror again.
Fuck.
— ox — xo —
It was Friday morning, but Arthur didn't head off to school. He was wielding a few bruises from where his father grabbed him and shoved him into a wall during a few lectures about his sexuality. And of course, to his misfortune, his mother was out grocery shopping and his possessions were locked away out of sight of his father. But that was all last night.
An hour after the fight, when he finally came out of the bathroom with puffy eyes that flaunted the fact that he had been crying, Eames consoled him. They talked quietly for hours on end. At four A.M., he fell asleep to Eames' soft lullaby.
This morning, he overslept by hours and his parents didn't even bother to wake up. He didn't mind as much; his streak of no absences was already ruined, so there wasn't a point in trying to work it back up (besides, Fall Break was next week).
His gaze turned to the side to view the cracks that had slowed in growth, though they were still large.
Arthur swallowed and jerked his eyes away. He didn't even know anymore. One moment, the glass was alright and almost healed; the next moment, it cracked and broken.
Maybe it was connected to Eames' voice? Arthur did notice the cracks in the other's words each time there was a crack in the mirror, issuing the fact that the mirror was slowly breaking again.
He scowled and ran a hand through his hair. Again, he was pounded with the amount of stress.
If only he hadn't thrown the pencil holder— if only he didn't let his emotions take over and allow Lorenzo to get him. If only he hadn't found a liking to Dom.
Arthur closed his eyes and exhaled. It was this feeling again; the feeling of regret for starting a domino effect and blaming everyone along the way, when in actuality, it was his fault. Arthur could accept that it was his fault now, but he didn't want to think about it.
His eyes opened to the sight of the ceiling and sunlight. By looks of it, it was nearing the time for lunch. His stomach confirmed this with a rumble a few moments later.
Waving the previous thoughts off, the young teen sat up in bed. His head was throbbing a bit, but he paid that no attention.
As usual, he went for a very quick shower, and when he returned, he peered at the mirror.
No Eames. Still cracks.
Had he dreamed up Eames healing? His brows furrowed at that idea. He didn't think he was sleeping before he retired to bed at four in the morning.
But now wasn't the time to consider such; he had food to eat before he passed out from starvation.
Even though he was hungry, the moment Arthur stepped down from the stairwell and saw his father at the kitchen table, he wanted to go right back upstairs. But since his father lifted his head and acknowledged him, there wasn't an escape unless he really did want to get beaten, so he kept his head down and traveled to the fridge.
From there, he removed a bright red apple. After washing it, he made a quick getaway to the stairs, but unfortunately, he didn't get far.
"Arthur, a word." The voice sent chills down his spine. Having a word with his father without anyone else around was the last thing he wanted to go through, but he wasn't one to disobey. After all, he tried that yesterday and ended up being thrown into the wall.
And where the hell is his mother? Probably avoiding this.
Reluctantly, he turned to face his father. "I think we've talked enough," he responded icily.
Immediately, he could tell his father was about to start correcting him, but instead, his father took the calm way. "I think we haven't. Take a seat."
Arthur didn't want to, but the glare that was sent in his direction urged him to seat himself at the kitchen table. And so he did, at the farthest chair from his father and the closest to an escape route.
He leaned back and eyed his father with much caution.
His father began seconds later without much of a new look thrown his way. "I want to apologize for my crude behavior." Arthur had to hold himself from rolling his eyes. "But first, you need to apologize for your behavior. You know this is not how you act."
Arthur's jaw clenched. "I'm sorry," he replied stiffly.
"I'm sorry?" His father echoed.
Arthur tried again. "I apologize for my behavior, father."
"And I apologize for my actions. Now," his father folded up his newspaper and set it aside, "I want to talk to you about your preference for men."
Arthur stood up abruptly, not wanting to go through with this conversation again. His father wasn't giving him a choice. "Sit down."
And so he sat, but stubbornly.
"Are you positive? This could all be a phase ... you're not at least bisexual?"
The corner of Arthur's mouth twitched with much irritation. "No."
"Bi-curious, then?" His father was obviously not getting it.
"Homoflexible."
His father stared at him. "Pardon?"
"Homoflexible," Arthur repeated. He didn't want to lie completely, but he also wanted to tell the truth. Yes, he found some women attractive, but the thought of kissing or being intimate with them made him cringe.
"What is that supposed to mean?" his father questioned, lips tight.
"It's in the dictionary."
"I do not appreciate your attitude, Arthur. I raised you to this age. Pay me respect."
Arthur crossed his arms over his chest but remained wordless.
"I'll take it to meaning that you do consider women a part of your portion. Like I stated before, the one that came here is a lovely—"
"She's taken by someone else," Arthur said coldly.
His father frowned. "I'm sure there are plenty others that are worth your time."
"What are you trying to say?"
"I want you to date a female. I'm allowing you to so that you can feel what I felt when I met both of your mothers."
Again, Arthur stood. "I believe I am of age to make my own decisions, thank you."
Before his father could give him another word, Arthur grabbed his apple and retreated to his bedroom. There, behind locked doors, he feasted on his breakfast. Halfway through his apple, Eames appeared.
The Englishman didn't look horrible, like he did before when the mirror first broke, but he didn't look too well either.
"Another row with your father?" he questioned.
Arthur didn't answer and completely tried to ignore Eames.
"Don't let him get to you. You're old enough to make the decisions you want." Arthur knew that much. "And like I said last night, you can't help who you fall for."
The dark brunet lifted his head to gaze at the man in the mirror. Eames' eyes were soft, but not a tint of a smile was on his lips.
"I couldn't help but fall for you." The sentence was whispered, and Arthur could barely hear it, but the sight of a very small, and somewhat sad, smile was enough to give him ideas.
"He doesn't understand," Arthur replied, his words quipped.
"He's your father—"
"—that's willing to kick me out of the house."
"He won't."
"You don't know him as much as I do. I know he will."
Eames fell silent. Arthur sighed and used that moment to stand up. After discarding the apple and washing his hands, he returned to the front of the mirror and sat.
"Are you ... willing to be kicked out?" the Englishman questioned, somewhat nervously.
Arthur picked with the tails of his shirt. "No, but he will if I act up."
His chocolate brown eyes took in the oceanic ones. He knew what Eames was thinking; if Arthur was to be kicked out, then he wouldn't see Eames again. And vice versa on that.
"I won't be able to see you, then," the light brunet responded softly.
Arthur pressed his back against the side of the bed. He didn't know what to say, and from the sounds of it, Eames didn't either. So for next few moments, they stared at each other, searching for something again. It was only when he heard his father's voice booming did he was pulled away from trance and listened in.
"Our son won't even consider dating a women!" Joy; his mother was up. His father must be filling her in on everything now."No, you don't understand. He needs to see a therapist."
Arthur glanced back at Eames, whose face was darkened. "Don't listen to him."
"A therapist," Arthur repeated, fists clenching. "He thinks I'm a freak."
"No, Arthur. You're perfect."
Arthur tilted his head back and blinked back the tears that threatened him with each passing second.
"You are the most amazing person I've ever met. You and Mal— but you're perfect, darling."
The student sniffed and blinked various of times. "I know," he managed out.
"—queer! That was probably why he was suspended!"
"I hate him," Arthur murmured, resting his chin on his arms that were resting on his propped up knees.
"I hate how he treats you," Eames pitched in.
Arthur closed his eyes and bit his lip to refrain from them trembling.
"Don't let him get in the way of what or who makes you happy."
Arthur nodded slightly, understanding— or trying to understand.
— ox — xo —
It didn't get better as the day progressed. Arthur was trying to avoid the talk at lunch, but he didn't have luck on his side. He listened to his father drone on and on about women and their qualities.
"They make you sandwiches." Arthur snorted at that, and his mother actually laughed, but his father was deadpan serious.
By time he finished the food, he returned to his room. Only then did he receive a few texts from those at school. They were all making sure he was okay or asking where he was.
Arthur chose to reply to Ariadne's text with 'fine; at home' and left it at that.
— ox — xo —
Dinner was it. Arthur couldn't stand being in the same house as his father. He wanted to grab his keys and run away, but him having car keys was supposed to be a secret. And also, he didn't want to leave everything behind. He cherished the things within his room. But he couldn't take it anymore.
He slammed the door closed, locking it safely behind him. The noise brought attention to both Eames and his father.
"Do not slam your door!" came from his father, and on the other side, "are you alright?" came from Eames.
Obviously, he wasn't alright. Tears streaked his face, all in which he tried to hide by wiping them away. He wasn't about to show signs of weakness. He was still strong. He was strong. He could get through this. He could— "I'm leaving."
He wasn't that strong.
Grabbing a duffle bag that usually stored his swimming trunks, he unzipped it and dumped all the unneeded belongings out.
"Arthur—" Eames called out. "Please, Arthur—"
Arthur couldn't even see properly. Blinded by tears, he began removing some of his clothing from the closet and stuffing then into the bag.
"I'm sorry, Eames. I'll come back for you. I—"
"You can't just leave!"
Arthur threw a glare in the Englishman's direction. "Watch me."
Turning back and ignoring Eames' protests, Arthur finished stuffing four of his button ups and five pair of pants in. Two t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants were then thrown in along with a handful of underwear.
"Think about this, Arthur, please—" He should really destroy Eames. End the suffering. But he couldn't bring himself to.
Instead, he ventured to the bathroom and drew out a shampoo bottle along with his toothbrush and toothpaste. He threw them into the bag as well before going through his closet again.
He was shaking. His mind wasn't in the right place. He was becoming careless.
A few ties and belts were thrown in. His cellphone went next. Then his car keys, which he ended up stuffing into his pockets. He proceeded to empty his backpack of unnecessary items and began filling that up with a few things.
When he finished packing, he heaved both bags on each shoulder. But as he went to the door, he heard a loud crack. He knew he should ignore it, just as he was ignoring Eames all this time, but he couldn't.
He dropped the bags and turned to face the mirror. It was severely broken, and the cracks were spreading rapidly. Eames was still visible, though.
Arthur ushered over. "Come with me," he whispered, touching the part of the mirror where Eames' tear-streaked cheek was. "Come with me, Eames," he repeated, hands shaking, eyes blurred once more with tears.
"Stay with me, Arthur."
"I-I can't. I want to leave. He doesn't understand—"
"Please, Arthur—"
"I need you, Eames." Arthur didn't know where that line came from; it just rolled off his tongue, but he found it to be true. He needed Eames. He wasn't brave enough to walk out alone. He needed someone, and Eames fit that role.
"I need you too, Arthur. I need you. I love you, dammit. Please don't leave me—"
"I ... just come with me."
"How?" Eames asked, leaning forward so that Arthur could clearly see the tears shining in the Englishman's eyes. "Tell me how, Arthur. I'll do it."
Nothing. Arthur didn't know what to say. He didn't know how. The mirror wasn't moveable. He didn't want to break the mirror. He needed to go, though. He couldn't bare another night here. But he couldn't leave Eames behind. He just couldn't.
"Kiss me," Eames whispered, placing a hand up on the other side of the broken glass. Arthur positioned his hand over the other's, squeezed his eyes shut, and leaned in.
His lips lingered on the cool surface for a second, and then, the surface turned warm. His hand, which was on the mirror, was taken by another.
His eyes flew open, and realization dawned on him.
He was kissing Eames, but not through a mirror; he was actually kissing Eames, and ... it felt wonderful. Closing his eyes again and allowing himself to melt into the kiss, his heart soared.
It was slow, rhythmic, lovely— their lips moved in sync, tasting each other, pressing, hot, needing, wanting—
He felt the hand encasing his remove itself, and he made a small noise of protest, but that hand, along with the other, trailed down and gripped his hip, backing him into the bed.
The kiss grew ferocious.
Arthur was bent back against the bed, his arms wrapped around Eames' figure. The opposing male pressed into him, teeth meeting his own, tongue snaking in. Hands traveled, touching, sliding. And then those hands lifted him onto the bed without breaking the heated kiss. A second later, additional weight was added onto the bed. Arthur was gently pushed back as their lips disconnected.
His eyes opened, but Eames had already trailed his mouth to Arthur's neck where he continued to kiss and suck. Arthur made a noise of pleasure, arching against the other.
At then, the Englishman pulled away with a soft chuckle. Arthur peered up, blinking the tears away to get a clear look at Eames, who was hovering above him.
"You're bloody gorgeous," Eames mumbled, touching Arthur cheek with much tenderness. "I waited so long for this. God, Arthur." Eames nearly knocked the breath out of him again as he wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into an embrace. "I love you."
Arthur closed his eyes at the sound of that. For a few moment, he listened to their breathing. It was only when Eames' weight on him was noted did he give a friendly shove.
"Can't breathe," he murmured out.
Eames laughed and drew back. "I just take your breath away, don't I, darling?"
Their eyes met again, and Arthur broke into a smile. "Take it away, again?"
Eames grinned. "With pleasure."
Given that as the warning, Eames' lips descended onto Arthur's, sealing their silent words in a meaningful kiss. It returned to a slow rate— one where Arthur tried to feel every bit of Eames' lips. On the other hand, Eames' fingers danced down his sides and trailed along his waistline. And then— the door was forced open.
Eames immediately jerked away, and Arthur pulled himself up quickly.
His father was staring, wide eyed, with one hand in the knob. His mother was behind him, gaping.
For a second, silence echoed through the room. Arthur would have said "it's not what it looked like", but that was a lie, and everyone knew it.
His father was first to talk after a bit. "You have thirty seconds to pack and get the hell out of my house."
Arthur stiffened.
He was kicked out.
Shit.
Eames' fingers inched towards his and eventually grabbed his hand. Arthur instantly felt better and stronger.
Clutching the hand back, he got out of the bed, Eames tailing his actions.
His mother turned and walked away, but Arthur could really care less. He was focused on his father. Their glares lingered no more than a few seconds before Arthur walked over and picked up his duffle bag. Eames helped with the other.
He had nothing to say, so he passed his father. Eames lingered a bit, though, glaring at the older man before shooting him the middle finger. Arthur had to jerk Eames into moving after that so his father wouldn't attack.
They made it downstairs, hands still laced within each other's. After he successfully unlocked the door, he heard his mother's voice calling out to him. "Wait." He didn't want to wait, but he eventually did.
Arthur turned in her direction just in time to catch sight of an envelope shoved into his hands.
"That should be two thousand," she whispered urgently.
He stared at the envelope, then switched his gaze to her. He was wordless, but thankfully, Eames piped up. "Thank you."
Arthur was then tugged out of the house as he watched his mother smile sadly and close the door, symbolizing that he was no longer welcomed in there.
And that was it.