Chapter Text
“A candy cane gram? A candy cane gram?” Arthur yanks his locker open, chucking his books inside with the strength of his fiery indignation. But because the universe is unfair and his books are soft, flimsy paperbacks, they just bounce off the wall and plop pathetically onto the floor, then taunt him into giving up the last of his dignity.
“All the cool kids are doing it,” Eames smiles, picking up Arthur’s books and handing them over before crossing his arms over his chest like this is an everyday thing, like his kind and Arthur’s kind don’t orbit on different axes light years apart.
“This wasn’t part of the deal,” Arthur hisses, slamming the door shut before remembering he didn’t actually pull anything he needed out of it. “I wanted to get my mom off my back. I didn’t want the entire fucking school to think I’m, I don’t know, blackmailing you into going out with me and sending me fucking candy cane grams.”
He always likes to construct worst case scenarios, just to prepare himself for any eventuality. It’s not that he’s a pariah or a stand-out nerd who quotes Star Trek in AP Physics. He’s not even the guy who gets picked last for dodgeball. He’s just – average. He gets decent grades, volunteers at the soup kitchen a few times a year, swims 1500m a week but never tries out for the team, and has a few friends he’s stuck with since he learned his times tables. He goes about his own business and keeps his head down because he figures it’s his best shot at getting the hell out of Dodge. But Eames – Eames is something else. Eames isn’t just popular. He doesn’t just captain the soccer team and paint stupidly breathtaking murals with the art club, and bake what has to be crack-laced cookies for the bake sale, he’s nice. He’s charming and weirdly sweet and he never holds back when he laughs, not afraid to show his god awful teeth, not self-conscious about a damn thing. He’s also unattainable and clearly spoiled, used to getting what he wants, doing what he wants with no regard for how other people might suffer from the consequences. So, actually, he’s an asshole and Arthur wishes he’d just move to fucking Siberia.
“Another layer of deception wouldn’t hurt, would it?” Eames shrugs, leaning in so he can be heard over the ruckus of the entire student body dragging their feet to second period. “Your sister is already suspicious, and parents have eyes and ears everywhere. They’re stealthier than you know. D’you really think all they talk about is our academic progress during those parent-teacher conferences? Anyway, deal is a deal and I don’t do anything by halves.”
Arthur can smell Eames now, clean and warm, can see those flecks of iridescent color in his eyes that beckon like precious metals, and Arthur wants to say fuck the deal, I’ll tutor you anyway, but he can’t, he doesn’t know how.
“Fine,” he mumbles instead, spinning his lock and going past zero two times too many, “but did you have to get the singing elf, too? Nash warbles like a dying cat.”
And Eames just says, being the asshole he is, “my affection knows no bounds, sweet pea. Besides, your cheeks take on a lovely color when you blush.”
*
Eames, it turns out, is also an attentive fake boyfriend, of course he fucking is. He memorizes Arthur’s schedule, brings Arthur homemade coffee before first period while Ariadne makes kissy faces in the background, and waves at Arthur during soccer practice because apparently Arthur attends those now, to keep up the farce, not to ogle Eames’s backside when he bends down to pull up his socks. Arthur doesn’t do PDA, which works out for the both of them, but sometimes Eames makes a show of dragging a finger down Arthur’s cheek before heading to class and Arthur lets him. From 8:30 to 4, Arthur lets himself be someone else – someone who dates a guy like Eames and holds onto his attention, someone who occupies the center of the universe instead of the periphery for once. It’s after 4 when he reminds himself of who he is, trying not to be the idiot who wastes all his time wanting to be someone else, but feeling a little like that idiot anyway.
*
It’s two days before the Calculus final and four before Christmas break when he catches a glimpse of Eames’s last exam, sticking out of his bookbag that’s propped up against the kitchen table, marked with a 73 in red. He slides it out of its binder and stares at the chicken scratch Eames calls ‘the tortured artist.’ He’s still staring at it when Eames gets back from the bathroom.
“Wait, don’t look at – ”
“Eames,” he says slowly, slamming a hand down before Eames can snatch the paper away, “this – every problem you got wrong – every single step you show is right except for the final answer. You – ”
“Shit.” Eames slumps into his chair and rubs at the back of his neck.
“You were lying about being shitty at math? You purposely wrote down wrong answers on your exam. You purposely – what – I don’t – why?” Arthur blinks, more baffled than anything else by the self-sabotage.
“You must know,” Eames says, swallowing, looking so self-conscious Arthur wants to reach over and slap him, make him get a grip because it’s a little terrifying seeing him like this.
“No. No, I don’t,” Arthur says the second before he realizes he does. He knows. He’s known maybe for a while now but it’s one of those things you stifle, bury and smooth over because a clamoring, faithless part of you still has teeth, still says no louder than the rest of the world combined. And so he waits with his heart pushing up into his throat, staring at Eames who’s just within reach and not at all an asshole but beautiful – and maybe even his.
“I wanted your attention,” Eames says, loudly enough to be heard over the ruckus. “And when I had it, there was no way I could let it go.”