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Arthur may be a nerd; he speaks four languages and knows how to code in three more, he wore Converse high-tops way before they were cool, and he has a few too many pressed wool slacks and khakis in the closet of his too-small dorm room.
Being a nerd, however, has never stopped Arthur from partying to beat any beer-pong playing frat-boy business major. He loses a good portion of his social anxiety after a few Jell-O shots, and it's not like people are trying to get him to engage in any kind of scintillating conversation at most bars. Arthur's there to get his drink on, ogle cute guys, and dance. And once he starts dancing, it's hard to get him to stop.
He hasn't been to this club before, but Mal had insisted on it. He figures out why, once the sandy-haired bartender starts bringing over bottles of booze to their table; decent stuff too, not just half-empty bottles for wells drinks.
"Did you really ask me to come out tonight just to be your wingman?" he asks her in French.
"You know I'd do the same for you," she replies.
"Hey, what are you guys saying?" the blond asks uncomfortably. Arthur and Mal share a small laugh, entirely at his expense.
"I'm going to dance," he tells her, still speaking in French, just to be a prick. "Enjoy yourself."
"I intend to," she says, smiling dangerously at the bartender.
Arthur pushes his way into the center of the crowd, lifts his arms above his head, and starts to dance.
Arthur's body was this alien thing for years, thanks to puberty and self-consciousness, and the slow realization that he wasn't straight. It manifested as clumsiness: tripping over his shoes, dropping books, spazzy stuff like that. It was like there was some kind of crossed wire between his brain and his limbs. It went away sometimes, like when he was running, or while practicing drills in martial arts classes.
What really cured it, though, was going out to dance after he made his first fake ID, when he was still a freshman. Dance clubs, music, and booze: it's like an equation that unlocks something, the key to some encrypted part of himself. His body moves without him having to think about it, about anything. It's easy.
The songs shift and fade into each other. Arthur can feel his shirt start to stick to him with sweat, his already disordered hair falling into chaos. He keeps dancing until he stops remembering the midterms he should be studying for, the scholarships he should be researching, the grad schools he should be thinking about, the entirety of his life that too often weighs on his mind. He keeps moving, keeps dancing.
Eventually, he becomes aware of another body circling his own, like a satellite orbiting him. Arthur looks up, locks eyes with another boy: he sees a smooth face, blue eyes with the slightest slant to them, a wide mouth that's open and panting for breath. Sweat collects at his temple, darkening his hair there and at the nape of his neck.
It's Lady Gaga that pushes them together, which could be embarrassing, but is perfect instead. Or maybe it's the booze that makes it perfect, but they come together gracefully, slowly. There are hands on Arthur's hips, a body moving in perfect time with his own. Arthur lets his weight fall into the solid mass of another person, and doesn't stop to question or analyze.
Thank god for alcohol and Lady Gaga.
Arthur can feel the other guy getting hard, and it's only the fact that the song is ending that saves Arthur from pouncing on him, pulling him down into a frantic kiss. In the momentary lull between songs, Arthur leans forward and says, "What's your name?"
"Eames," the guy says, not taking his hands off Arthur's hips.
Arthur’s tempted to haul him into the bathrooms for a sloppy, drunken hand job. He's not that wasted, though. "I'm Arthur," he says instead.
And then -- because Arthur may be a fucking champion on the dance floor, but he's still a dork, through and through -- he puts his hand out to shake. He regrets it immediately: who does that? Shakes the hand of someone they’ve basically been humping on the dance floor for the last twenty minutes? He almost takes his hand back, but that would just look even stupider.
Eames looks at the proffered hand, then back at Arthur -- who's starting to feel like a serious idiot -- before grinning and taking Arthur’s sweaty hand in his own.
"It's a pleasure, Arthur," he says.
Arthur's already flushed, so at least the guy can't tell that he's blushing. “Do you want a drink?”
Eames wipes the sweat off his neck and smiles. “Love one.”
He hasn’t let go of Arthur’s hand, so Arthur pulls him out of the crowd and back to his and Mal’s table. The bartender has an arm around her neck, and is apparently in the midst of a joke that has Mal laughing helplessly. When she sees that Arthur’s got someone in tow, they have a silent conversation that consists entirely of raised eyebrows and smirks.
“Who’s your friend?” the bartender asks, apparently missing out on the subtle communication.
“This is Eames,” Arthur says. “Eames, this is Mal, and...” Arthur trails off when he realizes he’s forgotten the bartender’s name. Did he even ask?
“I’m Dom,” he says, nice enough not to make a thing out of it. Arthur feels like a bit of a prick, until Eames leans around him and offers his hand to Mal and Dom.
“Nice to meet you both,” he says, as though he doesn’t have one hand squeezing Arthur’s ass through his jeans.
Dom doesn’t seem to notice, though Mal picks up enough of Arthur’s facial expression to grin at them both. Introductions over, Arthur tugs Eames into the booth, grabbing the bottle of Jack Daniels.
“Whiskey?” he asks. “I think there’s some tequila and rum, too.”
“Jesus, quite the spread,” Eames says, sidling closer.
“Dom’s a bartender here,” Arthur says. And shit, his awkwardness is catching up with him again, and he feels a slight panic while trying to think of what to say next. “I mean, presumably he’s not working right now.”
“Presumably,” Eames says, raising his eyebrows.
Arthur takes a big swallow of the whiskey. Maybe he should have hauled Eames off to the bathrooms for a hand job. That would have been less awkward than this. The problem is that now he has time to stop, think, analyze, and over-analyze.
“Um. So.” Arthur twists the bottle in his hands. “Do you... come here often?”
Eames looks at him, still smiling faintly. “Do you really want to do all that? Small talk?”
Arthur blinks. “Not really, no.” He takes another sip. “I just -- I didn’t want to come off as a horndog asshole or something.”
Eames laughs. “You don’t, trust me. But I hate small talk.”
Arthur grins. “Me too. But I’m...” He makes an indistinct gesture. The whiskey is making his tongue feel thick in his mouth.
“Ever played Two Truths and a Lie?” Eames asks.
“No,” Arthur says. Eames sidles closer, until their thighs are pressed together.
“It’s simple. You say two true facts about yourself and one false. Like: my middle name is Daniel, I took ballet lessons until I was twelve, and the first time I ever kissed a boy, it was in the library at school.”
“And I’m supposed to figure out which was the lie?” Arthur asks.
Eames nods, so Arthur takes a second to think about it. “The first kiss. That’s the lie.”
Eames grins even wider. “Nope. Middle name was the lie.”
“What’s your middle name, then?”
“Too embarrassing to tell on a first date,” Eames says. “Go on, your turn.”
Arthur laughs, feeling a weird flutter of nerves. “Ok. Give me a second.” He takes another sip from the whiskey bottle. “I can speak three languages, I’m not ticklish at all, and...” Arthur lowers his voice. “The first time I ever jerked off, it was with with some porn I found in my mom’s dresser.”
Eames looks delighted. “It’s definitely not the last one.”
Arthur shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”
“What were you doing in your mother’s knicker drawer?”
Arthur grins. “Looking for weed.”
Eames throws his head back and laughs. “All right, it’s the second one, then. Everyone’s ticklish.”
“Wrong,” Arthur says.
“What?” Eames says, mock-outraged. “You filthy little liar.”
His hands go to Arthur’s sides, fingers dancing across his skin. Arthur laughs and leans into him, lets his face drift closer to Eames’, and smiles when Eames’ hands wander underneath his shirt.
“I don’t believe it,” Eames says. There’s a pretty flush on his cheeks, and Arthur feels a momentary triumph. His hands are still sliding across Arthur’s hips and stomach, wide and slightly cool against his skin. “Fine, how many languages do you speak?”
“English, French, Spanish, and Latin,” Arthur says, shifting his leg until it lies over Eames’. “And Python, Java, and C++, if those count.”
Eames grins, different than his other smiles. This one is lopsided and happy. “They definitely count.”
Arthur’s half in Eames’ lap now, and pretty content there, actually. He still has the bottle of whiskey in his hand, but no longer feels the need to drink. He’s good and buzzed and horny, and flirting with Eames is far easier than he thought it’d be.
“It’s your turn,” he says.
Eames takes a deep breath. “All right,” he says, leaning in close. His hand moves up underneath Arthur’s shirt, brushing against his ribs. “I find nerds incredibly sexy, I wanted to drag you off that dance floor and suck you off in the toilets--”
Arthur gasps, and his hand tightens in Eames’ shirt.
“--And I want to take you home right now.”
He says the last in a breathy growl, practically purring the words into Arthur’s ear. The words travel straight to Arthur’s cock, and it’s only Eames’ hand, tight on his hip, that keeps him from straddling the other man right then.
So it’s understandable if it takes Arthur a few moments to answer. “I don’t know.”
“Last one,” Eames says. He moves his hips in a quick roll, enough to let Arthur feel that he’s hard in his jeans.
“What?”
“Last one’s the lie. Before I take you home, I just want to--”
He turns Arthur’s face to his, and they kiss until they’re breathless.
“Wanted to do that,” Eames finishes.
Arthur sucks in a steadying breath, then nods. He turns to Mal, who is casually ignoring them. Dom, however, is blushing a little and looking away.
“We’re leaving,” he says to Mal, in French.
“We are?” she asks.
“Me,” Arthur specifies. “I am. With him.”
Mal laughs, and pats him on the cheek. “Enjoy yourselves.”
He turns back to Eames, who’s still grinning wolfishly at him. “Oh, we plan to,” Eames answers.