Growing up in England meant never really having an interest in going to Ireland. Sure, you heard things from your mates about the ferry ride over; about spending the weekend blowing some quick quid at the pubs that had back rooms designed specifically for the most unsavoury purposes, but for whatever reason, Eames had never gone.

And then, he was too busy, too disinterested-- too whatever to want to get within spitting distance of a place that wants so badly to pry that four letter word from him.

Home.

It doesn't smell like England anymore, it smells like dark curls and the lingering scent of coffee long since consumed.

Or that's what Eames was beginning to think. It's been a while (four weeks and two days) since he's had a chance to walk into a room that has the right smell- since he's felt like he's not forgotten something important, even though he knows full and well what's weighing on his mind. He'd run to Mombasa, because it has always been familiar, soothing-- but he'd have had more luck stopping a gun shot wound with a pack of tissues.

And then, a text, a ring, an email-- an address; like waking up from a too long sleep, limbs heavy and mind hazy.

Now, driving down a mostly dirt lane, in a criminally tiny vehicle (another thing about Europe he's never been fond of), Eames wonders if he's made that up. If perhaps he's concocted memories, fondness, to soothe an ache that wouldn't be ignored. No one has ever accused him of being unconvincing.

But mostly, he wonders if he's lost...

Manchester Academy of Excellence is a prison ground at times.

Going on three years here and Eames is still making eyes at the old librarian to get out of overdue book fines. Doesn't matter that he knows the book is lost somewhere in his dorm room and he just can't be arsed to find it-- this school charges enough money to fund a small third world country from his parents alone; Christ knows they can afford to buy a new copy of An Enemy of the People.

Technically, he shouldn't be out and about right now, so he ducks under the windows of the East wing (wouldn't do to have wandering eyes and wagging tongues tattle on his hard earned free period) and heads toward the Theatre. He can't even walk around campus the way he used to, regardless of his third year status. Ever since the administration figured out his creative scheduling in second year (first period math conflicting with a class that did not technically exist-- no one can dispute that his handwriting is, at the very least, versatile ) they haven't exactly been lenient with his truancy. Technically, he should be in psychology right now, but his scores in that class are high enough spending most of his time out of it that he wouldn't want to jinx it with regular attendance.

Or, that's the story he's sticking with.

Eames tugs his coat up against the morning chill, wishing he'd swallowed his pride and shrugged into the sweater-vest. The thing never fails to make it look like he's got a paunch to rival his father's; if there's anything Eames would rather avoid, its that self-fulfilling prophecy. It looks nice on the girls, their breasts pressed against the cloth and the buttons undone in that tantalizing V, and even some of the boys manage to make the thing look worth the trouble of taking off just to get to the tie underneath, but Eames is too broad across and too stubborn to wear one in turn.

Cold and not looking where he's going, Eames rounds the corner with the thought of the warm theatre in his head. 

   

It's late, the streetlights buzzing and the lights in some of the flats long since turned out. From the sidewalk, Eames glances up at the dark windows he'd held some hope would be bright.

Making his way up the stairs, Eames tries to ignore the knot of muscles pulled taut in his lower back. As soon as the negotiations had come to a close, he'd packed his shit into the car and headed home. Apparently Eames is starting to feel his age; fourteen hours in the drivers seat has his shoulders stiff and his head pounding. He sighs two flights up and curses realizing his toothbrush is shoved somewhere in his luggage, which is all down in the car.

It doesn't take much debate to conclude that the toothbrush can fuck itself. Eames rounds the third flight and slips the key into the lock. It's well oiled and thus, doesn't make so much as a creak as he pushes it open to the familiar darkness of his flat.

Eames is usually one to be asleep at this time. Its too damn late to be considered early and its too damn early to figure out if the reciprocal makes sense. For a moment he wonders if Mal is traipsing through dreams again, or if someone's meddling with the circadian rhythms of the house, but he doesn't hear anyone moving about upstairs and it doesn't feel like a power-induced wakefulness.

Nope. This is just that buggering kind of wakefulness that occurs when your brain has decided it needs to kick you out of a perfectly content slumber in lieu of a stroll around the house.

Throwing the covers off, Eames pads barefoot out of his room and down the stairs, no real destination in mind. He feels rumpled and a little too far on the side of too warm, so he makes a stop in the kitchen to grab a glass of water. In the distorted reflection of the stainless steel pots and pans hanging from the rack above the island, Eames can tell that rumpled is precisely what his hair looks like, but he's not about to impress anyone at-

2:54am

Christ have mercy.

Before he has a chance to throw himself a mental pity party and scamper back up to bed with his hopes of catching a few more hours of sleep, the distinct if not muffled sound of metal meeting metal catches his attention. Glass in hand, Eames pokes his head out and looks around, not seeing any lights on in the living room, nor down the hall that leads to the back of the house, nor-

The Parenting Meme
[ x ]  masterchemist 
[ x ]  littlspecificty  & preforging 
[ x ]  a_gold_bishop 

[ x ] Arthur and Eames go to Italy for a job.
[ x ] Eames meets Daniel, Arthur's twin.

It is barely twenty two hundred hours in Spain, which means it's almost 5pm in New York.

Which means, Arthur will be buried under work for at least another hour-- if Eames is lucky. If Eames' luck is running true to course, Arthur could actually have his phone on silent and tucked away in his bag, content to power through whatever needless very important task he's set before himself.

The problem being, Eames is bored. Ten pm means the locals are just getting into the swing of things, the city lighting up and the sweet smell of coffee piercing the night, and Eames should, by all means, be out there with them, partying it up. Finding his mark in the midst of the crowd and scoping out what she normally goes for (classless and easy? snooty and withdrawn? native or exotic?) so their little band of thieves can make off with her daddy's bank account info with as little hassle as possible. As the daughter of a corporate giant, she was obviously followed by her fair share of muscle, but Eames wasn't really bothered by that, he was quick on his feet and fast with his lies. The thing is...

Alright. So Arthur hadn't called last night. Which is a silly thing to get worked up over- and he wasnt worked up over it, just thinking about it- but he's found his hand on his mobile more times than he can count today and he's wondering if calling wouldn't be such a bad idea.

Turning his mobile over in his hands, Eames considers the pros and cons of calling. On the one hand, Arthur might pick up, which could result in a pro (their having a conversation) but also a con (that conversation being about how Eames shouldn't call before 7pm because Arthur actually works yadda yadda). On the other, Arthur might be doing something important and Eames doesnt want to be a distraction, even though Arthur is obviously not paying his mind the same courtesy.

In the end, Eames settles for a happy medium, walking out to the balcony of his little rented home (he likes to live out of other people's homes more than hotels, he likes knowing the stove's been used and the paint's had thought put into it) and thumbing out a text to the point man.

so. at the risk of sounding like an outdated porn star... what r u wearing?

The direct continuation of this thread.


Drifting in that tenuous place between sleep and wakefulness, Eames does the first thing anyone as relaxed and comfortable as he is right now would do: tries to will his body back to sleep.

It’s a losing battle though, as is always the case once you’ve realized you’re making the climb into the waking world, and the ratio of sleep to wakefulness tips unsatisfactorily in the latter direction, leaving the impression of the former only in your limbs. A tease, if there ever was one.

Deciding being awake doesn’t necessarily mean he has to be up, Eames buries his head further into the lush down of the hotel pillow, drawing his knees up-

And cracking an eye open when they come into contact with another pair of shins. Arthur’s shins, to be specific.

It takes a moment, to remember why this is reality and that, if he wants to keep the image of the other (hair mussed, face lax and pressed into the pillow, arm bent under his pillow and breathing through his mouth) for just a little longer, he should probably reign in the urge to jump out of bed and find his totem. If it isn't reality, his subconscious is getting reprehensibly good at this.

Licking his lips, Eames can't help but smile. Its an irrational response to the situation as a whole; Arthur sleeping across from him, the knowledge that they'd basically played hookey to fuck and then sleep (and Eames has no idea where the clock is but he's not jostling the bed to try and find out how long they've been asleep for), the way Arthur'd opened his legs for him, so at ease with what he wanted from Eames, prepared like a bleeding boy scout with slick and rubbers-

Eyes going wide and cringing, Eames pulls the covers up just slightly to get a look at himself.

There's good news and bad news. The good news is: Eames does not have a rubber dried to his dick. Additionally, Arthur is just as pleasantly naked as he remembers- very good news indeed. Which means he is not in for an embarrassing walk to the bathroom and the painful process of soaking and tugging a crusty rubber off of his delicate bits. The bad news is, of course, if the rubber isn't on his dick, and he distinctly remembers falling asleep practically on top of the point man with it still on, then either Arthur took it off (which would be a bit embarrassing) or it is currently lost in the bed somewhere (which Arthur is not going to like, but is still kind of funny).

Well, Eames figures, letting the covers fall closed over them again, I'm sure there are worse things to lose in bed with a beautiful, naked man.

When littlspecificty is bored, we all profit! So here's another meme!

Rules for anyone else wanting to do it:
1) Pick 2 songs (or more) that you would love for your muse to sing during karaoke - the more outrageous it is, the better (and if your muse has to get wasted to do it, that's fine, too).
2) Post a link to a vid of the song if you can or audio file (doesn't matter).
3) Post the lyrics to the songs you choose. If more than one person is singing in it bold what parts your muse will be singing.


( sing me a song;; sing it with me )

( { Q&A on the inside } )

Well that was long!

Ladies and Gents, its Meme Time.
Thanks to littlspecificty for rebooting and dreamsofmazes who started it.

001. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
002. I will respond by asking you ANY five questions of a very intimate and creepily personal nature. Or not so creepy/personal [possibly].
003. You WILL update your LJ with the answers to the questions.
004. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the post.
005. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

( {Q&A on the inside} )

[ x ]   That isn't going to be easy.
[ x ]   * reprogramming figuring out his new mobile *
[ x ]   * trying to snap a photo *  Oi!
[ x ]   jely beans arthur? rly?
[ x ]   cant or wont? theres a diference
[ x ]   Precisely. So what is the problem?
[ x ]   {{Arthur's Plan}}
[ x ]

{ we're almost there, but not quite official yet }

is_on_point
[ x ]   * reprogramming figuring out his new mobile *
[ x ]   I didn't think you were serious.
[ x ]   Precisely. So what is the problem?
[ x ]

falsity
[ x ]   It wouldn't be the first time.
[ x ]   Certainly took your time, didn't you.
[ x ]