Archive of Our Own

If Arthur had a diary, this is what it would say:
“Dear Diary, today there was a gigantic ball of tulle in my room.”

 

“Why is there a gigantic ball of tulle in my room?” Arthur yells. He stares at the tulle in the resounding silence. It is white and silver and sprinkled with glitter, occupies the entire floor that is available and seems likely to take prisoners.

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, he stalks over it to reach his bed, only to discover it is covered in buttons of shapes and sizes unrivalled. Arthur thinks he sees a swan sporting a bowler and a cane. There also seems to be a crocheted helicopter.

With a grand swipe, he pushes them over to the end of the bed, but it is a very, very careful grand swipe. Because if one of his precious buttons is lost, Eames will wail for days and there is no reason to repeat last years' minor incident involving fifty-two shoelaces and eight sunglasses. Lessons learned.

Sinking into the small portion of the bed he is still allowed to call his, Arthur considers the state of the room. It is, technically speaking, 50% his flat, but one would never guess that from the amount of wrinkled cloth draped over every available surface, pin cushions and paper patterns spread liberally over the floor and the broad table wedged between the other bed and the larger window, the one Eames commandeered because “I am an artist, a flower turning towards the sun, I need light and inspiration and put down that lace bonnet or I shall perforate you with knitting needles.”

Arthur takes out his iPhone (and no thank you, he did not get it at Eames' insistence because it matches his Oxfords and lumpy sweaters and horn-rimmed glasses and image) to rant on facebook about his insufferable roommate, and since it is only his third post of the week concerning the issue, he feels completely permitted. Never mind it is Tuesday.

Two minutes later, he has a frowny face and an invitation for commiserative coffee from Dom, Ariadne laughing herself silly in emoticons and sixteen comments from Eames' fanclub exploding with questions about the new genius creation Eames is cooking up in that brilliant brain of his.

(The day he moved in with Eames, Arthur garnered about 250 new friend requests, and counting. Arthur hates them all.)

He takes up Dom on commiserating coffee, because Dom has a guilty conscience since he is the one who is still dating Mal, who in turn set Arthur up with her ex-roommate Eames and his idea of sharing a flat.

(“Living with an Arts student will do you good.”, she said. “It will broaden your mind and bring colour and glamour to your predictable routine”, she said. Arthur does not regret a lot of things in his young life, but he does regent thinking he could out-drink a French woman who grew up on wine like it was mother’s milk, and consequently spilled the beans about his deep, dark secret fear of turning into a bland, humdrum office drone like his parents. The next day he woke up in a flat he didn't know, being stared at by a bloke he didn’t know, who shoved the strongest black tea Arthur ever had at him and gave him a face-splitting grin and said “Welcome to your new home, yank.”)

Arthur thinks he is entitled to pity coffee until he’s at least thirty.

 

In Arthur's imagined diary, one would read:
“Dear Diary, today my girlfriend broke up with me because she thinks I'm a 'poof'. Must find out what a 'poof' is.”

 

If Arthur had said non-existent diary, it would also say:
“Nevermind. Cried and ate a lot of chocolate.”

 

"Arthur, I dated you for three months and I think you're a poof!" Ariadne waves her hands towards him in what is probably intended to be a gesture encompassing his entire being, but only ends up very nearly missing their teacups.

"You think every guy you dated is a poof. Also, can you please stop using all the fake colloquialisms? I saw you when you were watching a hockey game, I know you're Canadian." Arthur grouses and sips his tea. It had been served at Ariadne’s utmost insistence because apparently she hasn’t read that statistic about coffee being the most popular drink in Britain. Arthur is starting to suspect that nobody but him did.

"I just seem to be that girl. The one that makes perfectly straight men realize they really, really want to bang other men. That one that never gets a happily ever after and not even a gay best friend out of the deal. And I can't call you a fag, can I. People would try to set you on fire!" She levels a glare at him that is part scandalized and part puppy and totally ineffective.

"You're just pissed because I declined to watch Sex and the City with you. Again. Which I won't because not only am I not gay, but also because it was a terrible movie--"

Ariadne slumps and barely avoids faceplanting into her Earl Grey. "If you were a poof, that'd make you a bit fancy, at least.", she laments to the sugar.

"No it wouldn't. I’d still carry around books on capitalism and why it's wonderful. I wouldn't watch Sex and the City with you, either."

"Well, you did."

"Once! Back when I still wanted to impress you!"

"Assure yourself of your heterosexuality, you mean? You really picked the wrong girl for that one. Must be terrible karma on my part."

"Why am I even talking to you?"

"Because you are still madly in platonic love with me, and really love buying me tea."

"I’m not buying you tea."

"See? You love me."

"Shut up."

 

Also, there would be an entry a bit like this in the diary Arthur does not have:
“Dear Diary, not sure if Eames qualifies as being a poof or is just generally off his rocker. When asked he just keeps muttering about people and their quaint little categories, so no progress on that front.”

 

Arthur is working on his structural economics paper in the blessedly silent and needlework-free library when Saito sits down next to him. He drops a staggering pile of books on the table and manages to make that look both dignified and effortless and Arthur resents him a little. But only a little, because Saito had traditional Japanese archery lessons and will one day inherit the world’s second-largest energy corporation and is the only sane person Arthur interacts with on a weekly basis.

“Do you suppose”, Saito starts, contemplating Arthur's almost empty coffee mug, “we could get beverages that do not resemble dog excrements?”

Arthur does not spit out his mouthful in Saito’s face, but it's a near miss. “Have anything in mind?” he ventures around a last gulp of coffee, pretty good actually, no really, not breaking eye contact, because Saito may be the most terrifying grad student there is to roam these humble streets, but Arthur is nothing if not willing to take anything as an opportunity to learn. It pays off. He can now beat Yusuf’s most resilient cat in a staring contest, which earned him a devoted admirer and a steady supply of all the synthetic drugs he could ever want.

There is a café not too far from the university that Saito tolerates and Arthur could maybe afford a glass of hot milk at. The fact that Saito manages to balance a physics master and a finance Ph.D. with astronomic grades, however, means that his family is suitably satisfied (and discreetly impressed) with his academic progress and grants him a monthly allowance that would be sufficient if he decided to eat at the Savoy every day. Luckily for Arthur, Saito rather spends his obscene amounts of money on the best coffee London has to offer and takes Arthur along for the ride, for reasons still a little foggy.

 

If one were to further look into Arthur’s non-existent diary, there would be a page dedicated to:
“Dear Diary, whatever Eames says, never, ever wear bowler hats. Repeat: Never, ever wear bowler hats. Again: Never. Ever. Wear. Bowler. Hats. I am very afraid Mal will never stop calling me Dumbo.”

 

“I do not understand“, Eames says unintelligibly, measuring tape between his teeth, “how you can wear skinny jeans and black-rimmed glasses and agree to get an iPhone and still deny being a bloody hipster.”

Arthur glares at him from behind his dark-brown, okay, glasses and viciously highlights a section about the British bank system. He hates the British bank system, Arthur had decided almost two semesters ago, but it seems determined to follow him everywhere.

“I thought that was the point of being a hipster. Denying being one.”, he answers testily. God, the British bank system is probably part of the second circle of hell, and going to keep him from passing with straight A's forever. He can already hear his father’s unimpressed voice. “Bringing in a B in Advanced Finance? When your mother has half of the East Coast banks under her surveillance?” and then Arthur would kindly be reminded of his sister again and how she was already working on the other half and how, if he didn't hurry up, there would be nothing left for him and he'd be forced to go into consulting small business like his dad and work the longest hours and make the littlest money in the family. Not that bank surveillance brings in a lot more. Finance sounds much more glamorous than it usually is.

“You're getting me wrong, and on purpose, I suspect.” Eames spits out the tape and starts pinning a voluminous flounce to the trim of the short trousers dangling off his dress form doll. “I have no objections to you being a hipster. With legs like yours, it'd be a crying shame if you wore anything but the skinniest jeans I can dig up at Camden Market. In fact, I am duty-bound to encourage you in any and all of your marginally more adventurous forays into the wonderful world of fashion, or whatever else strikes your fancy. Have you ever considered taking up body painting? I'd love to see the infinite stairs you'd embellish bums with. I merely object to you denying what is a plain fact.” Satisfied with the fluffiness of the left leg, he gets up to retrieve more frills for the other and throws a Cadbury's bar at Arthurs head in passing. “I can see you fuming. Get some sugar.”

“I am not adventuring anywhere. These glasses happened to be on sale.” He munches on the Cadbury's nonetheless, because hey, free chocolate. He is an economics student after all.

“Arthur, not this one. I told you repeatedly I'd be very happy to get you some non-second-hand glasses, I'd get you Tom Fords simply because they'd bring out the brainpower you hide behind your boring business plans and bland ad strategies.” Eames stuffs his mouth with needles again and crouches to add another 1700s touch to his mid-term project.

“My business plans are not boring. Why does everyone think economics are boring?” Arthur furiously breaks off another chunk of chocolate and litters debris all over his book.

Eames turns and gives him the mighty eye. “Arthur, everyone thinks economics are boring. Saito thinks economics are boring, which is why he takes all his electives in physics, and occasionally biology when he is exceptionally fidgety. You think economics are boring. I can hear you at night, you know. No, proportional growth curve, please do not eat me. Nowleave alone your unbearably boring research and hold these sequins for me.”

 

In the diary Arthur does not keep it would say:
“Dear Diary, today I tried double chocolate oyster melon cake. Should never have agreed to be Yusuf’s guinea pig. It kicks equilibrium in the balls. Fell off my chair in class. And at home. And on the toilet, which is where I draw the line.”

 

On King's Road, there is a large, sunlit pharmacy where housewives covered in pearls buy laxatives for their fat, snotty-nosed pugs and troubled actors fallen from their 15 minutes of fame get antidepressants in inconspicuous black bags. It has been owned by Yusuf’s family three generations back now, when his great-grandfather came from India after the pasha he used to mix medicine for decided great-granddad’s head looked a lot neater on a spike than his body, and great-granddad heartily disagreed and packed his herbs and wits and wife and took the first passage to Europe that same evening. There he cured two Earls and a Countess from mysterious tropical diseases, saved a very expensive race horse from losing a leg and made enough to buy the dwindling barber shop that today makes up the first salesroom of the pharmacy. In short, it is a raging success story, and will remain with the family if Yusuf’s natural passion for mixing antihistamines is anything to go by. It is also probably the only one in London with Moroccan mosaics tiles and Persian wall rugs and Scottish bagpipes displayed above every doorway. There is also Mussorgsky floating from speakers shaped like stunted scarabs. “What can I say, we live the multi-culturalism”. Yusuf offers whenever people start asking about the little Buddha sitting on top of the Qur'an, propped against an often-mended Kali statue covered in daisies.

Above the pharmacy, a large assortment of people Yusuf is related to live, including his mother and father, who run the place together. “Which does not mean equality.” Yusuf points out regularly. “My mum has them all under her thumb. She says being a matriarch is her god-born right.” No one disputes that.

The cellar of the block is filled with exotic furniture and at least twelve bikes in disrepair, which one of the many uncles always means to fix up, and most importantly, there is a room with a small oven and a large worktable where Yusuf keeps his ever expanding laboratory. Mal brought half a truckload of no longer needed pillows with her across the English Channel (“You cannot expect me to sleep in the enemy’s bed!” were her first words to Eames when he helped her settle into their shared flat, and they have been BFFs ever since. Yeah, Arthur rolls his eyes too at this love-hate story disguised as five-hundred years of national animosity) and after moving in with Dom, she distributed the ones he absolutely refused to keep (though Arthur cannot for the life of him see what is wrong with hand-embroidered swearwords adorned with lilies and smiling skulls, so he snatches away those from under Ariadne’s nose) to her friends, and most of them ended up slowly migrating into Yusuf’s cellar to build up a little den of iniquity. The iniquity consists mostly of homemade honey punch and Yusuf’s never-ending fascination with soporifics. Lucid dreaming is only a pill away, he claims often and loudly. It can only remain elusive for so long, is his motto, and your friends will love being used as test subjects without consent, is his other one.

Arthur is wedged between pillows and Ariadne’s gleaming laptop and tries to install AutoCAD on it. Tries.

“I don't understand why you just didn't get an official copy.” he says when his third crack does not work. Where are the good old days when all you had to do was fake a serial, he wonders.

“Do you have any idea how expensive that is? I could live in Chelsea for that kind of money.” Ariadne cheerily replies from behind her sandwich. Nobody dares to ask what Yusuf’s dad puts into them, but collective consent is they are heavenly and he should get a luxury cloud in the afterlife.

“But at least a trial version? Come on.” Arthur whines as he enters the fourth crack. It does not help that Ariadne has Vista installed. The laptop keeps making disquieting noises.

“Maybe there is freeware available?” offers Dom, who is Searching The Net. He has been for an hour, and keeps being returned to Youporn. He is clearly Doing Something Wrong. Arthur does not want to know what, but suspects it has Mal’s nimble fingers all over. She did room with Eames before occupying Dom’s quarters, so it is bound to be dreadful bordering on horrifying (as can be expected when those Europeans decide to gang up).

“There is, but it's shit or limited.” Ariadne gets through a mouthful of sandwich. Eames throws a napkin at her head. “One day, the cavewoman will learn how to chew.” He then hollers into the smoke that surrounds the worktable “So where is the wonder concoction? Our breath is baited.”, which intersects Arthur’s cry of victory, because those computer science electives finally paid off. That deserves a celebratory drink or two. Take that, Microsoft.

Yusuf yells back, “In Arthur’s beer!” and Arthur thinks at least I'm not on the toilet this time before dropping sideways.

 

In case Arthur’s non-existent diary was ever opened, one could read this entry:
“Dear Diary, today I learned that a yukata is not a leisure-suit kimono. Also, introducing Saito to Eames was a life-threatening idea and I believe they are still out for my blood.”

 

Like every other fashion student, Eames wears clothes like layers of colourful personality and thinks thrift stores are a valid reason for multiple orgasms. The shared closet in their shared bedroom is stuffed with vintage riding boots, tweed jackets in pastel colours, Indian shawls and, you guessed it, more buttons.
Since Arthur is by no means a morning person and blind as a mole without glasses, the shared part of the closet regularly causes him to stumble out of the flat dressed in red balloon coats and T-shirts proclaiming his availability in case Mick Jagger ever wanted to produce tiny Jaggers. Arthur is to this day unable to look Professor Miles in the eye when discussing today’s consumer mentality and marketing merchandise. Or listen to the Stones.

On the other hand, Arthur has seen Eames run around in mid-western jeans jackets that most certainly came across the Atlantic in Arthur’s luggage, pulling unhappily at the too-short wrist cuffs. Arthur takes slight solace in that while he himself cannot show his face any more at the suited-up dinner get-togethers his department regularly throws for future rapacious businesspeople, at least his own bland wardrobe is chipping away at Eames glittery throne of blindingly outrageous showmanship.

And then there is the part where sharing a closet means getting to know all the skeletons that lie in there, and whatever else he may claim about his character, the truth about Arthur is that he is terribly, terribly nosy.

So he knows the mismatched, often mended, slightly too wide ensemble Eames wore to his graduation, not because he liked it, or looked good in it, or particularly wanted it, but because his grandfather demanded he look respectable on the picture he'd inevitably have to show around, and the only way to pay tribute to their overly long family name was to stuff Eames into an inherited military jacket, complete with the Queen's honour medal stuck onto the brittle cloth, awarded to one of his slightly less shady great-uncles for services better left unmentioned, topped off with fading epaulettes and trousers in a completely inappropriate shade of green. Eames keeps it in a double-locked box Arthur managed to decipher on a rainy afternoon, because there was nothing else to do and Eames understanding of code is laughable to anyone who once had to learn how to derive square roots in the head, and vowed to never show Arthur the photograph again if he didn't get up from the floor right this second and stop laughing like a bloody lunatic.

He also knows the huge collection of socks in all colours of the rainbow Eames tries to drag everywhere, because naturally the time-tested method of buying black and not noticing when one goes missing isn't good enough for him. He makes Arthur hunt for lonely yellow socks with hedgehogs stitched on the ankle, because he cannot bear the thought of pairing it with the mostly yolk-coloured single he found on the laundry line. Eames argues that he can always, always match up his shirt with his socks, but when Arthur finds exactly the same hound’s-tooth pattern in blue and lavender on a wool shirt and hand-knitted long socks stuffed side by side into a drawer, he is still baffled.

 

Maybe there would be an entry like this in the diary Arthur does not possess:
“Dear Diary, today my sister called to tell me she is getting married. She also asked me to advise her on bridal gowns. Am confused. Eames recommends a mermaid dress, whatever that means.”

 

Also, there would be an appendix a bit like this:
“Just found out she is friends with Ariadne on facebook. Will go to Yusuf’s now and stay stoned until Monday.”

 

Dom looks terribly guilty, which is a commonplace look of his ever since he started dating Mal. Maybe because she is wicked and depraved and so unbearably sweet about it no one can fault her for her increasingly creative application of her psychology degree. Or maybe because his mum got another call (in the middle of what for her was, fortunately, afternoon) from the Bobbies inquiring about her son’s habits concerning recreational drugs. Damn Yusuf and his promises of "untraceable in piss".

Dom buys considerably less fancy coffee than Saito, which is still an improvement over Ariadne’s obsession with tea and is much more relaxing to listen to than Arthur’s flatmate, who can go on and on about underwear fashion of the Sixties.

Currently Dom is whining about Mal and her staunch refusal to move overseas with him (“I don't want to do my Master’s in England, Arthur, but much less in France!") based on her assumption that all things American are crude and all Americans are uncultivated pigs. Arthur is of the firm opinion she watches too many Will Ferrell movies and feels only slightly wounded in his unremarkable patriotic pride because Mal is dating the most apple pie American one could find outside of Texas after all. Arthur also thinks Mal loves overcomplicating her own life because she'd turn manically crazy otherwise. This way, she just drives other people to madness and is happy as a button commenting their wacky ways. This is also, most certainly, the reason she moved him into Eames’ flat. That, and endless free entertainment.

Dom is so guilty about what Arthur suspects to be his newest endeavours into recreational areas only vaguely associated with architecture, he buys them scones too and even butters one for Arthur and remembers to use raspberry instead of strawberry jam, so it must be big news. Arthur suspects Mal may be pregnant.

"I got an internship at Charles and Partners", Dom finally blurts out over his second scone. Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up. That is only the most coveted internship in all of London and Dom got in at first try.

"Did you put Mal’s picture on the application again? Cause that would be awful and she'd take your balls."

"Seriously! I had an interview there last week wearing my own face and everything. I swear. I almost had a heart attack when they called me today."

"So you'll be staying in rain-land." Arthur squints his eyes over his mug in what he is sure to be an almost pitch-perfect impression of Dom’s scowl. He sincerely hopes it comes across as ironic. Dom squirms in his seat and picks at his last scone.

"Well?" Arthur prompts when no information is forthcoming.

"I don't know if I’ll take it yet.", Dom mumbles into what does not pass yet as a beard. Arthur laughs and spills half his coffee across the jam pot.

"Right. Cause you'd turn down an internship at Charles and Partners. Right. Tell me again when you're off Yusuf’s good stuff and we can discuss this."

Dom defiantly jabs jam onto his scone and scowls some more. Every single day, Arthur is secretly very, very glad he convinced Dom to tag along to England for their studies. He is an exasperated L.A. suburbanite raised on sunshine and highways now stuck in foggy, congestion-charge-happy central London, and therefore the ideal sidekick to reassure Arthur he hasn't got the worst lot in life. Then again, as much as Dom may complain about the rain and the left side of the road and the lack of smoked turkey leg, he met Mal here, and now he got an internship at one of the most distinguished architecture companies this side of the globe. Arthur may have miscalculated a bit and will most probably bite his own ass in the worrisomely near future. Still, he dearly hopes Mal will end up having her way because no matter how ghastly the weather can be here, Arthur is thankful for every month he gets to spend an ocean away from his parents, and without Dom’s endless string of complaints about yet another European peculiarity he discovered, Arthur’s life would be sorely lacking.

Dom doesn’t need to know that though. Dom only needs to know that Arthur wants another coffee now, because he needs to stock up on caffeine for when Eames decides to take over the kitchen again and make rooibos tea.

 

There might be a note similar to this in Arthur’s non-existent diary:
“Dear Diary, I seriously need to distribute that paper on coffee-acceptance in Britain to all of my friends. And enemies. And everybody else too.”

 

In the age of smartphones and terabites free for all, Arthur considers himself a distinguished epicure of the printed word. Granted, most of the printer's ink in his flat can be attributed to crime novels of the Agatha Christie persuasion, but it's the fondness with which he treats the paper that counts. That does not mean, however, that Arthur does not pray to a questionable collection of deities at the start of every semester that his study materials will be available online, or at least some of them, or at least the ones that come in heavy books. Because Arthur is a sort of weedy guy, which bodes great for the skinny trousers that stealthily kicked out all the bootcut jeans in his closet, but less so for studying from tomes twice his own dry weight. He tries to keep all his heavy studies confined to the library, but on some days he needs to pull a management strategies all-nighter, and the five literary references he is currently trying to drag home make him consider the merits of snaffling one of those kids' pull carts even if it's going to make him look like Matilda and that'd just give Mal all the ammunition she needs to make up yet another aggravating nickname for him.

Arthur isn't overly mulish, at least not when there's nobody around who knows him, so he gives in and collapses under his burden onto the bench in the park he's cutting through in order to keep the torture to a minimum. A few deep breaths later he takes note of an anomaly: the bench is rather...soft. Twisting so he can see the entire thing, he finds proof that the constant exposure to the blindingly cheerful influence of his roommate apparently finally rendered him colour-blind, because how on God's green earth was he able to miss that half the bench is covered in yarn? Knitted wool, crocheted cotton, in all the colours of the rainbow and then some. There are chequered patches in yellow and indigo, rosé flowers surrounded by black and grey stripes and then Arthur has to lean in close because – yes, that is pearly green cotton yarn in a starfish pattern that Eames has been agonizing over for the last two weeks. Arthur leans back and goes 'Huh.' mentally because of course he's seen urban knitting all over London and surreptitiously follows one or two especially impressive knittas on tumblr (if anyone asks, his dashboard is filled with philosophy quotes and stills from black-and-white movies. It is, most certainly, not overflowing with Alexander McQueen runway snapshots and kittens.) but he wasn't aware Eames is part of these exquisite circles. In fact, while Eames takes up any and all fads somehow involving materials originally used to dress people, and he's jumped onto the second-gen needlework train faster than an antelope on speed, Arthur is very sure Eames would not degrade the square meter of textile art he has been sweating blood over to bench dressing and leave it to rot in the rain.

Arthur has a twinge of dread in his stomach, so he swings by Tesco and adds a box of After Eight to his suffocating tower of books, because if his suspicions are correct, Eames will be in serious need of artificial endorphins, and he is incredibly partial to mint when morose.

Indeed, when Arthur has finished ascending three flights of stairs and cursing out every single step there is to them, as he has done since his first exam week and will do until his last, the apartment is suspiciously clean of fluttery silk or lonely zippers or stray buttons. He dumps the books onto his table, which groans pitifully, and goes to the one-man balcony in the kitchen, because Eames is nothing if not predictable in his maudlin habits. Unwrapping the box of After Eight, he flops down next to the puddle of gloom his flatmate has transformed into and holds it under Eames nose, shaking it enticingly.

“Who do I need to cover in tar and feathers?”, Arthur asks when Eames looks up and stares at the sweets with reddened eyes. He nudges the box away with his nose and pulls his knees up tighter, which is when Arthur begins to worry, because if even minty chocolates cannot get a moderately positive reaction, he will need to start inventing bigger guns. A bit apprehensive, he sets down the box. “What happened?”

And then he remembers that today the final nominations for the FAD competition were due to arrive, and gulps, because even Eames’ scary strict advisor with a vengeance against frills had had a good feeling about his proposed collection. Arthur carefully drapes an arm over Eames bent shoulders and wonders how he would feel if he was the wunderkind of the department and then not even selected for the finalist round. Really, really crappy is the answer, and in the mood to subject his painstaking needlework of the last two weeks to the dull drizzle that hangs over London like a particularly persistent wet blanket. He squeezes Eames shoulder and thinks of all the bland phrases his parents would direct at him in such an event, and closes his mouth so fast his teeth click together. Instead, he looks up at the sky and thinks, what would I like to hear, and says, “You're still the Batman of fashion. Totally badass and scary as hell with a needle.”

Eames' head snaps up and he gapes at Arthur, who rethinks the wisdom of using his childhood heroes for motivational inspiration and feels his ears growing hot, dammit, he really hoped they had stopped doing that, anytime now would be great.

Eames starts shaking faintly and buries his head in his hands, curling up even more. Just when Arthur thinks Eames is going to throw the After Eight box at his beet-red head, he hears a snort and for a moment truly cannot decide whether Eames is laughing or crying, so he chances a quick sneak peek to the side, and yes, Eames is laughing and crying and looks a bit exasperated but also a bit relieved, and Arthur can't help but chuckle too.
"Well, Batman was the coolest guy I could think of." and then the laughter bubbles up inside him then because really, either he is the shittiest comforter in the history of ever or he's gonna get a gold medal for his services in the name of saving the future of fashion.
Eames giggles with his face in his hands and the tears stain his Pet Shop Boys t-shirt, which Arthur considers a halfway victory and figures he cannot push his foot any further into his mouth. So he nudges the chocolates towards Eames and muses, "Mal can be Wonder Woman. Imagine what she could do with a lasso."

Eames shoots him a desperate glare before he hiccups and laughs wetly and lets out a few more sobs. Arthur is forever amazed with Europe and its unashamedly crying men. He squeezes Eames shoulder once more and thinks that if Dom could see him now he'd go scurrying because of the cooties, the puritan wanker. Mal will need more than a lasso to loosen him up, but then again she has her parents’ entire vineyard at her disposal, and this is the point where Arthur's brain mercifully screeches to a full-stop and refuses to further any thoughts involving Dom and lassos. Instead he waits for Eames to blow his nose, collect the tatters of his dignity (not that he had much to begin with, shame is something that happens to other people in Eames’ opinion) and finally start dutifully nibbling a mint chocolate. Arthur takes that as a good sign, until Eames stops the calorie ingestion and stares into space with his thinking face, red eyes and all.

"That is actually a pretty cool idea." he says slowly, and Arthur has about two seconds to mentally rewind the conversation so far before Eames grins, still slightly wobbly, but it's progress, and slowly declares, "Yeah, I think I will do that."

He turns to Arthur, who is still confused and has no idea about the protocol for when you suddenly turn into an unwitting muse, “And you think you have no imagination."

"Uh, that's because I have none." Arthur shoots back and winces. It's a knee-jerk reaction. "Wait, what do you mean?"

Eames shakes his head, smacks his shoulder, says, "No, I need to put this to paper right now, thanks a million, ta." and gets up and clambers into the kitchen and Arthur stares after him dumbfounded until he realizes Eames took the entire box of chocolates with him.

 

If Arthur had a diary, which he doesn't, there'd be an entry not entirely unlike this:
“Dear Diary, today Ariadne took me to see a modern dance performance. Had vague hopes of rekindling our romance. Was later informed that this is going to be our first official step towards platonic relations after breakup. Canadians have funny ideas about propriety. Also, these people sure are bendy.”

 

“It isn't that I don't like my aunt, really.” Ariadne fumes and stuffs another scarf into the already bursting cabinet in her room. Arthur keeps a safe distance by the door, where the best escape routes are, because once Ariadne starts cleaning, all bets are off. “And I do appreciate her calling me to make sure I'm still alive. That is probably what's expected of her or something, you know, what with raising me and all.” Her flying fingers find some stray necklaces and promptly grab them, crushing them in her small fists.

“But.”, Ariadne says and kicks the connecting door to the bathroom shut. Arthur winces. There goes hiding place No. 3. “Surely it wouldn't hurt her to actually listen to my fabulous life on the other side of the pond for a while? You know, there are only so many times I can listen to her expounding on cousin Marvin’s latest mis-shot at a deer, or how moonboots saved neighbour Winny from certain frostbite. I never get a word in, and you know what she said when I told her my toilet design won the department award? Oh that is nice, so you specialize in potties? And the worst thing -” Arthur jumps out of the way to clear Ariadne’s path of fury towards the washing machine in the kitchen and tries to cower by the rickety side table. It holds an antediluvian radio and a beige TV set that refuses to show anything but BBC 2. Ariadne claims she doesn't mind and spends all of her Thursday nights at Mal’s room watching Blackadder reruns. Arthur refrains from commenting.

“And the worst thing is, she doesn't even mean that as an insult! She actually thinks it's adorable I plan to construct loos for the rest of my career and told all her friends to contact me if they ever needed toilets. Not that toilets aren't important, of course.” She bundles up nicely pressed shirts and carelessly shoves them into the small space available in the cabinet. See if Arthur ever helps her fold her laundry again.

“Ask any museum operator and they'll tell you managing an old building is all about finding space for lavatories without upsetting the historic substance. And there are never enough toilets; it's a law like gravity.” Scanning the room for any more wayward pieces of dress and finding none, Ariadne spins and descends on the broad worktable like a fury, stacking bristol paper and fine pens and compasses and discovering long lost bottles of nail polish.

“I just wish that she'd ask me about potential fathers of my future children or how the hash is in Europe or whether there are rats in my apartment. Any piece of information I want to give to her I have to weave past stories of her new-age group’s latest trip in search of gremlins or how granddad does with his new hip. And the worst – the other worst – thing is that she believes she's honestly being nice updating me on all the people back home and you know what? She is. It is so bloody difficult to be mad at someone who only wants what's best for you and thinks you miss your home and really want to know what is going on in the place you left. And whose only flaw is not properly listening to adopted nieces because she honestly believes that whatever I do, it's wonderful and cute and independent. So no need to stick her wrinkled nose in, quote, you young people need your space, unquote.”

Ariadne slumps on her bed and eyes the table with futile hopes of diminishing the chaos. Arthur is of the opinion stress-cleaning rarely brings in desirable results, but he did date Ariadne for three months and while she is the epitome of all that is brilliant about being talented and self-sustaining and headstrong – probably the main reason he still buys her tea – she is also deaf to good advice from sensible people, like Arthur. Who then learned to keep their pie hole shut if they valued their toes.

Arthur tentatively shuffles out behind the side table and carefully sits on the bed next to her, because this may just be a lull in the storm that is the never-ending story of aunt and adopted niece and the not-quite friendship, not-quite maternal bond, not-quite distance, not-quite confidence. He drapes an arm around her and has no idea what to say, because he comes from a bread-and-butter nuclear family where nobody has disputes or heart-to-hearts with anybody else, and is not prepared to navigate the muddy waters inherent to a convoluted family like Ariadne’s, with unknown fathers and deceased mothers, hippie aunts and a mishpoche of hermit cousins, mountain-climbing grandparents and cultist uncles. So he pats her shoulder and thinks that Mal would know what to say, because she knows minds and brains inside out, but she's off gallivanting with Dom and lovingly plotting ways to drive him crazy, so he tries to channel Eames who always manages to make Ariadne laugh, usually with some illicit story about the royal family. Taking a deep breath, he hands her the slightly dusty peppermint chocolate he found behind the radio. “Wanna watch Sex and the City?”

 

In the diary Arthur does not keep, there'd be written:
“Dear Diary, my sister got a mermaid dress. Still no clue what this means.”

 

The tulle, as it turns outs, is the key component to Eames’ final project of the semester. Consequently, their flat is cluttered with sketchbooks, mood boards, pearls, tinsel, a bulging wad of tartan wool cloth Eames dug up for five pounds at Portobello Road, and an ever growing amount of buttons everywhere. Arthur very tentatively asks if he may have the lower half of his bed back, but quickly resigns himself to curling up on his pillow when he sees the mad glint in Eames’ eye. You do not mess with the buttons. Right. Lessons learned and all that. Remember what happened with the shoelaces.

When Arthur wakes at six o'clock in the morning to the sound of the sewing machine hacking away, he just stumbles into the kitchen and makes seriously strong black tea, because Eames looks like a man possessed and Arthur is not ready to deal with that without the protection of a thick layer of liquid mollification. While he is at it, he muses, he might as well get started on his bloody presentation on what must be half the bleeding tax systems in the world, and at this point Arthur realises his internal monologue has gone native and sets off to make dropped scones instead. Eames mutters "Thanks a million" when Arthur places a gigantic mug with a ballerina on it next to the ceaselessly working sewing machine and a plate of dropped scones smothered in custard too, after due consideration of the state of the bags under Eames' eyes.

Arthur sets himself up on his portion of his bed and ponders the scary amounts of tulle in their bedroom. There might be some rhinestones in there, but he can't be sure and is afraid to go near it, to be honest.

"I’ve always wondered. Indulge me, why a ballerina?"

Eames head snaps up and he looks at Arthur, the plate and then the tea, and slumps in his chair. The machine stops its staccato and in the sudden silence, Arthur feels a little like a heel. Because right now, one week from the submission deadline and after twenty-one hours of frenetic tailoring may not be the ideal time to let his mouth loose on autopilot. Tell that to his own four hours of sleep, though.

Eames crawls towards the dropped scones and takes a deep breath before sighing, claiming both mug and plate and places himself on the floor between loose yarn, a sketch that resembles a mushroom with braids and oh right, more buttons.

“When I was a kid”, he starts and takes a long gulp from the mug, eyeing it contemplatively, “I was ordered to take riding lessons, because that is what you do when you have a family name so long you need to pause for breath in the middle. I wasn't exactly good at it, which is no matter; because my dad is still not sure which end is the head. So I sneaked off most of the time, and instead accompanied my sister to her ballet lessons, which I aced, much to everyone’s chagrin.Yes, you may insert your rendition of I can do that now.”

He takes a large bite of dropped scones and hums appreciatively. With his mouth still full, ugh gross, he waggles his fork at Arthur. “I know why I keep you around, King of the Stocked Fridge. Did I tell you I've lost twelve pounds since you're here? Must be all that rabbit food of yours.”

Arthur scowls at him and thinks that if he had had the opportunity to take either riding or ballet lessons, he'd have passed both with flying colours because then at least he'd have had some distraction from the suffocating boredom he associates with his childhood. Well, with his entire life so far, but he is working to change that. Slowly. Rationally. He shares a room with a lunatic artist who thinks paisley is the new black, doesn't he? Well, he certainly isn't bored these days.

“When it became impossible to ignore I was not going to study law, or medicine, or anything even remotely respectable – my mum was surprisingly okay with acting at one point, but that would have been a shallow victory – and announcing my intention to go into fashion, my parents informed me that if I thought of applying to anything less prestigious than Central Saint Martin’s I could take my fine behind and sit it under a bridge. Then they phoned up half the aristocracy indebted to us to make damn sure I'd get a spot – which, I will never tire to point out, was absolutely unnecessary, as I was accepted with open arms and tears of joy because apparently my creations call to mind the boldness of Bowery and the ingenuity of Ghesquière. Which didn't impress my sister very much, who gave me this mug to mark the inception of my college life, and I think – yes, it is Anna Pavlova in the swan costume, which I consider both good taste and a predictably safe choice.”

Arthur chews his pancakes and wonders what his parents might have had to say if he ever aimed to study something other than economics. Nothing, he guesses, and hoped for this madness to pass. Then he thinks of Dom and his cathedrals Gaudì would be proud of, and Ariadne and her staircases you could fold into one another, and Mal and her increasingly loco acrobatics in the human mind, and Yusuf and his pharmacological laboratory full of happy, fat cats, and Saito and his gleaming eyes when he talks about fusion reactors, and Robert, his fellow upper management student and the empire waiting for him back in Sydney and subsequently, his dive off a balcony from the forty-ninth floor last year just after the summer holidays, and feels that lump forming in his throat whenever he thinks about his own future.

He startles when something soft presses into his cheek, and looks up to see Eames holding a handkerchief to his face and looking almost genuinely serious for once. “You'd make a fantastic tortured artist, you know. Now blow your nose and have some more tea, there's a love.”

Arthur dutifully blows his nose and hides his face a bit because having a mental breakdown one week from finals is not helpful and even though Eames is disturbingly understanding (European men and their being in touch with their emotions, imaginary Dom grumbles his head), he feels a little too far out of his comfort zone being mothered by his madcap roomie with residue custard on his salmon argyle sweater. So he wipes his nose and mutters “Thank you” and reaches for his presentation because shit has to get done sometime and he can't possibly feel any more down this week. Then Eames grabs his arm and says “No” in that voice he uses when his professors think he ought to apply a little less frills on his evening jackets and pulls him out of the buttons and clasps Arthur's hands around a sketchbook and puts a pencil behind his ear and says, “We're going to Tate Modern now.” and Arthur is pulled along in a daze and does not think about tax systems for the entire day.

 

Maybe an entry a bit like this would pop up in the diary Arthur does not keep:
“Dear diary, apparently not even wearing a waistcoat stops people from assuming I am about to smother them in love letters to Giorgio Armani. Must get more waistcoats.”

 

It is an open secret Ariadne wants to either gut Dom for snatching the internship or bribe him to introduce her to all his bosses, but it is equally understood that he can't do that in the near future, since she knows her way around static equilibrium and then back again, making her designs leap like birds off her coffee-speckled draft paper (and this is how Arthur knows she secretly gets her fixes when no one is looking). It is, as Dom once explained, like robbing a bank and emptying the safe and then finding out the cashier knows more about guns than you, makes you carry the money to your getaway car and then drives off with it, whistling a jaunty tune while the cops read you the Miranda Rights. Arthur thinks he can second that and, if given half a chance, Ariadne will be regarded as the second coming of Zaha Hadid in ten years time. Saito is already keeping tabs on the slew of prizes her projects tend to drag home, and Arthur is reasonably certain future success can be divined by the amount of interest Saito shows in your term papers. It therefore makes a lot of sense Eames has been press-ganged into sending preview photographs and first-row invites for his exam shows to half the board members of Proclus Global.

And then Arthur wonders whether he really constitutes a friend in Saito’s eyes or rather another mildly interesting investment prospect. Saito certainly feels that way about Dom and his tentatively outlandish ideas concerning the possibilities of bamboo in skyscrapers. On the other hand, he does buy Arthur coffee every Wednesday and interviews him about more personal matters like the direction he intends to take his prospective international business master. That counts, right?

So while Mal and Ariadne stick their heads together over the portfolio that will bring Dom’s downfall (who pleads with Mal to be on his side in this, because he is a pitiful man who is in a seriously serious relationship with the woman of his dreams and it turns out to be a rollercoaster ride of conflicting loyalties and pally rivals a head smaller than him but twice as stubborn and French women who think rooting for the underdog is the only moral choice), Arthur gets comfy between the hundred pillows in Yusuf’s cellar and snuggles into the bean bag Yusuf’s fattest, happiest cat usually occupies. She scratches out the eyes of anyone stupid enough to try and touch it, but holds the most idolatrous of loves for Arthur, single man in the world able to hold her eye, and follows him around like a dog. Yusuf is severely jealous and grumpy and kicks the bean bag in passing. Jellylorum, wrapped around Arthur's neck like a breathing scarf, hisses at his retreating back and digs deeper into the knits of the fuzzy sweater Arthur maintains is not hip. At all.

He's got his statistics book and his calculator and the numbers do a tap dance on the page for him, which is oddly soothing in the pandemonium that is Yusuf exploding a glass tube in his futile attempts to make sleeping pills out of the oregano he grows on his balcony, Mal and Ariadne squabbling in French about the impact of thoughtless elevator placement on the mental state of unsuspecting bureaucrats and Dom fretting over his first day of work still half a year away and whether to wear a navy or cobalt tie. Arthur could tell him blue makes him look hopelessly corporate and that as long as he sticks to black suits, he'll be unnoticeable amid the ocean of black-and-blue architects swarming in and out of Charles and Partners. He could, but then he'd out himself as receptive to the endless moaning Eames does on behalf of the unimaginative fashion choices the entire occupational group of commercial design seems to have fallen victim to. And for obvious reasons, that's just not feasible. So he amuses himself feeding Jellylorum popcorn and thinking of ways to sneak her into his flat, if only because Eames is deathly allergic to cats and Yusuf would pinch his face in that way they all seemed to inadvertently pick up from Dom. So he lets Ariadne’s choppy and Mal’s toffee-nosed French wash over him in an uneven rhythm, shuts out Yusuf’s bitching over broken glass, lets Jellylorum purr into his ear and thinks that having a midnight-snack-slash-study-fest with a bunch of high-energy maniacs perpetually on the edge of a nervous breakdown still totally beats mute family dinners and discussions of tax deductions over supper. Then Eames comes in sneezing and cursing the cats and bearing Cointreau and his latest knitting project featuring pearly green yarn which is immediately attacked by all four cats and has Eames crashing around the room after them trying to rescue his baby and cursing the cats some more and it all gets exponentially turbid from there on, but Arthur reclines in his bean bag and eats popcorn smelling of oregano and allows himself to be a tiny bit amused. (which he'd never tell anybody because that would destroy his image and then their troupe would be out of their only sane man, and then what? Have Dom take up the job? Arthur laughs himself silly.)

 

There might be a smugly written note in Arthur’s imaginary diary:
“Dear Diary, Dom enrolled for his Master’s in London. Always suspected he loves being a masochist. In other news, Mal got herself a set of kitchen knives for her birthday. Practical woman.”

 

“I wish to state before witnesses that I did not agree to this.” Arthur does not stomp his foot, because there are forty needles that keep the pieces of cloth around his butt together, but he would like to.

“Yes you did. If I recall correctly, your exact wording was I'd do anything to make you shut up about crinolines and I do peg you as a man of honour to stand by your word when friends in need face dire times. Now turn left and don't move your arm.” Eames says calmly while his fingers pull out and re-pin needles faster than should be possible. It reminds Arthur of jugglers with chainsaws, only these never got quite so close to his private parts. He obediently remains still, but no one told him to shut his mouth and the five other students masquerading as models that seem far too thrilled by their job of standing around being sewn into outlandish garments do nothing to raise his mood. One of them keeps taking fake vintage photos of Eames going about his tailoring business, muttering “Brilliant!”. Arthur thinks he recognizes her from her facebook picture as a member of the incessantly excited Eames-fanclub. If he ends up on the internet wearing a tin hat and a silver Robin costume, his life is about done for.

“And you couldn't have gone for somebody who doesn't recoil at the idea of tights and underwear gone outerwear? It would make your job a lot quieter, I'm just saying.” he grouses. Eames spares him the briefest of glances that roughly translates to peasants are not worth my precious time which could be spent finalising my genius creation, so this is what I'll do before going back to marking cutoff lines. “Aren't you American lot supposed to be in awe of superheroes covered in spandex? Don't think I don't know about your Batman pants, because I do. Lift your elbow, no, that's a bit too much.” He twists measuring tape in eights around Arthur, who warily eyes the tulle still sitting on the floor. It had migrated from their apartment to the work studio three days prior, and fed on a hapless skinny model or two. It definitely seems to have gotten bigger. It is, Arthur muses, most certainly the fattest thing in the room, because two of the other models are a breeze away from getting blown out of the window and most of Eames neurotic fellow students frenetically snipping away at their own workpieces also seem to favour the heroin-chic look. When they aren't staring longingly at the pieces of cloth he attaches to Arthur, they level death-glares at Eames, who is blithely munching on the nougat croissants Mal supplied him with. She also made one for Arthur, with pickles and egg and mushrooms and chutney and strict instructions to dip it into coffee before eating. Arthur knew she had a vengeance against what the English call food, but he had no idea she'd go and dump some French cuisine on top of it to render it completely inedible.

When they take a short break from pinning, measuring, cutting, folding, gluing, sewing (Eames) and standing still (Arthur), the sun is high in the perfectly spotless sky, it's not too cold nor too windy, and of course this is one of the days diligent students aspiring to make it into another year of academic prowess need to spend inside, with frazzled nerves and collapsing crinolines. Arthur is slowly starting to understand why Eames curses them to hell and back.

They grab a spot out by the green and unpack all of Mal’s ominous lunch ideas. She is of the firm opinion that whatever passes through her hands gets turned into pure gold, and while this is true of unstable mentalities and term papers (no one makes semicolons their bitch quite like Mal), it does only occasionally apply to the kitchen. Hers is more of a hit-and-miss approach, and whatever the outcome, it usually proves to be spectacular. They all fondly remember the afternoon Dom almost turned purple from her fried rice with beetroot, chilli and turmeric. She claims it is fusion kitchen, Yusuf claims it is an assault on sentient life, Eames claims she makes a mean curry when no one is looking and Dom has taken up cooking classes on Saturday mornings.

“So you'll be third guy, walking after the one in the furry coat, and remember to not look at anyone. Just do your lovely scowl, yes, that's the one, and you'll be splendid.” Eames pokes at Arthur’s forehead and snags some of the bean salad. It is one of the things Mal never fails, probably because beans are sturdier than dirt.

“If my picture winds up on facebook you will find yourself castrated.” Arthur informs him and digs into the last nougat croissant. It almost makes up for the three hours of subtle torture in the name of art. Eames makes a thoughtful face and twirls his spoon. “Have I mentioned that the whole exercise of showing off clothes on a runway is to take pictures of the clothes and show them around so as to further ones fame, yes? If so, you may have noticed no indication that the faces of the walking sticks supporting the clothing are blackened out before publication.” He throws Arthur a wicked grin over the beans and taps his nose, “Your fifteen minutes of fame! Well, more realistically three I suppose. Or alternatively, lie back and think of England” and winks.

“I cannot, all my ancestors hail from Bohemia. Or Hungary, we're not quite sure. Nothing in here feels compelled to answer to the Queen.” Arthur says dryly and reaches for the questionable croissant Mal created for him. The mushrooms look strangely appealing amidst the mint chutney. Eames sprays beans and onions across the makeshift lunch, guffawing and snickering. “Aren’t you a darling? Oh, we'll make a cynic of you yet.” He swipes stray beans off his lemonish shirt and then puts on a face bordering on serious. “Have I told you I altered the plans for the entrance? You can forget all that fussing about the trap door. You first four guys will descend in a hot-air balloon.”

“What.” says Arthur and stares. “What.”

There should be a limit to the amount of gloating Eames is allowed to do on one day; his head is in danger of collapsing under the weight of all the smirking. “My uncle Christopher’s last adventure trip did not quite go as expected, and when I mentioned I was in possession of an ex-balloon to Ariadne, she suggested all further work be left to her and well, it looks like she got hold of a cherry picker, don't ask me how, and is currently setting up what she calls Batman Returns to Oz on our runway and it is looking quite fantastic, if I may say so myself.”

“What.” says Arthur, because it bears repeating.

 

There would be a short note in Arthur’s imaginary diary, crossed out furiously, but if one knew his handwriting well enough, one could still read:
“Dear Diary, walking in high heels isn't actually all that difficult.”

 

There are things Arthur genuinely enjoys, completely unironically and with a bit of guilty shame. One of these things is watching all the Buffy episodes that feature Cordelia. The other is cost estimation. It sounds dreadfully dull, is dreadfully dull, and if you're Arthur, about the only thing that does not reek of international finance. It also enables you to juggle tuition fees and the full student experience in one of the most expensive cities in the world. Arthur has no delusions about this: should his parents decide they'd much rather he turn up in sunny California again, all they need to do is stop paying him the monthly allowance that in conjunction with his part-time job enables him to pay both rent and a warm meal a day. Consequently, Arthur is a whiz with a calculator and some spreadsheets, and found it to be the most entertaining part of his studies (yeah, he is aware of how pathetic exactly that makes him). It all depends on pulling together time constraints, material demands, man hour availabilities and then a lot of Excel sheets. It's obscenely useful, a fact acknowledged by Eames even, who is about as practical as far as he can throw his sewing machine, and an embarrassing source of zen-like serenity for Arthur.

He is completely in the zone, with a bag of almonds next to him and nearing the first milestone calculation. It's just a little simulation he chose as a project for an elective, but so far his imaginary indie record store is still in the black numbers even taking its less than optimal location in Hacking into consideration. He's munching on almond crumbs and thinking about employee benefit costs when his iPhone decides to go bananas. In the course of the next two minutes he is bombarded with messages by Ariadne (“come over asap”, “not my place 2 mal&doms”, “y r u not here yet????”), Dom (“pls come to my dorm”, “really pls come”) and Yusuf (“do u no whats up w mal? i got like 1000 txts”).

He stares numbly at his phone for another minute before he jolts himself into motion, a thoroughly nauseating churning settling in his stomach. Of course he couldn't help but snatch up the odd reference Eames made to Mal’s history with psychopharmacological treatment, or the way Dom routinely cleans out the sleeping pills that tend to accumulate in their bathroom cabinet, or the way Yusuf carefully excludes her from his cheerful and reckless tests on friends, but he'd shoved it to the side because – well, because he is a stupidly naive idiot, apparently. He yanks his scarf from the board and almost forgets his keys, and ends up in the bright red balloon coat Eames refuses to throw out even though it does not fit him at all because it is vintage Westwood or something.

On the way to Mal and Dom's shared dorm room, the knot in his stomach has ample time to wind itself tighter, and by the time he reaches the doorsteps, he's seeing blood all over their floor in his mind's eye. The doorbell hasn't stopped ringing yet when the door is yanked open, and Arthur finds himself tackled in the hallway by a bundle of pale and sobbing Ariadne, and he goes cold with all the stones in his stomach piling up. He hugs Ariadne and tries to get some coherency out of her, which proves impossible, so he drags them both into the flat and lets Ariadne bury her face in the terrible red coat. Light spills out from the wide open door to the bathroom, and then Dom emerges, ashen-faced and with a phone pressed to his ear. He almost stumbles into Arthur and Ariadne, startles, but keeps steadily dictating his address to what must be emergency services on the other end of the line. Ariadne sinks onto a chair in the kitchen and mutely waves Arthur in the direction of the bathroom, harsh light and all. He takes tentative steps towards it and makes out Eames kneeling on the floor, bent forwards into the tub, and another step reveals Mal's slumped form lying in there, on dry porcelain and covered in puke and heaving deep breaths that resonate from the tiled walls. Arthur has never in his life cherished the sight of a bile-covered person more, because it means Mal is alive and stinking and that's wonderful. He sinks down next to Eames, who holds up Mal with one hand and tries to make her drink water from a small mug with the other. Mal's eyes are glassy and unfocused, but they move, and impulsively, Arthur takes her hand and squeezes hard, because he has never thought about a world without Mal in it and does not want to start now. Eames silently hands him the mug and uses his now free hand to rub soothing circles on Mal's stomach. Yusuf and Ariadne pad silently into the room, carrying a blood pressure gauge and a blanket. Together, the four sit close to the bathtub, with only Mal’s raspy breaths and Dom’s muffled, one-sided conversation drafting in from the kitchen filling the silence.

After the emergency services file out of the flat, Arthur feels the weariness hit him full force, accompanied by a wave of belated panic and all the dizziness that comes with it. He lies flat down on the sofa in the living room, staring at the ceiling and tries very hard not to hyperventilate. It would be ridiculous to faint now, after Mal is in the safe hands of professional medics, and embarrassing to boot as well, but Dom is mercilessly chewing his thumbnail again which he is supposed to have given up years ago, and Yusuf is staring in mute horror at the packet leaflets of all the sleeping pills Mal managed to hide from the cabinet raids, and Ariadne and Eames are curled up in an afghan, wearing Dom’s oversized white tees because their own clothes are covered in Mal's puke. So Arthur thinks it's okay to go and have a little anxiety attack, and then he curls up under the afghan too and very resolutely does not think about a world where Mal died.

 

In the diary Arthur does not possess would be the following, embellished with arrows maybe:
“Dear Diary, before I lose track of all the loonies here: Dom met Ariadne in his Bauhaus lecture, and introduced me to her over my very first taste of punsch, which might have hampered my evaluating skills and led me to believe she is a sweet girl with innocent doe eyes. It might also have given me the courage to ask her out. The punsch, as it turned out, was produced by Yusuf (note: drinking liquids of questionable colour with cat hairs in them leads to heartbreak and friends who think you're more likely to go shopping than have carnal relations with them, which is grossly untrue) who then decided we all need to get to know Eames, who is attached to Mal at the hip because all the raving mad Europeans stick together like glue, who then evoked feelings of a primal nature in Dom, which caused Ariadne to break up with yours truly because Dom apparently cheated on me (Don't. Even. Ask.) and she is now facing a Moral Dilemma because of her unrequited crush on him (when did all of this happen? I clearly wasn't there. Like, all of the time) and spends too much time with Mal thinking up new and exciting ways to overcomplicate other people’s lives (for women who, by their own accounts, hunger after the same bloke (though Ariadne conceded hers is more of a part-time crush) they are suspiciously good friends and one day will just eat up us feeble male creatures (except for Eames, who will happily go on to create gowns worthy of queens for them, so they'll be forced to let him live).
Saito is sane, and I'm not sure how I met him anymore, which is weird because except for Mal, who was probably born with a title, this is a collection of start-up grad students and Saito is freakishly wealthy and could hang out with all the doctorates in King's Club instead of listening to Ariadne go on about circular ventilation shafts and Mal and Eames tearing apart the latest pop-psychology handbook. Then again, Saito drinks green tea with milk.”

 

Arthur has exactly two days left to apply for his Master’s, and he is in Inner Turmoil. It is a new and slightly annoying feeling, and seriously hinders his study plans. He has a timetable for this kind of thing, and Inner Turmoil did not get a slot. A slight miscalculation on his part, Arthur admits, but then again he was never faced with a decision he could put on paper without his parents glancing disinterestedly over his shoulder. And he is having Second Thoughts. It is another new, though slightly more thrilling feeling, and demands his entire attention. Therefore, Saito finds Arthur in the library, staring at the same page he has been pondering over since yesterday, and it is for once not a page on trade restrictions and why they signify the end of the world, but a questionnaire on interests and aptitudes Arthur found placed on top of his domestic economy volume, bluntly eclipsing his scheduled study material of the day. It wasn't subtle, but then again maybe Arthur could admit to having a bit of a thick head sometimes.

“Any revelations yet?” Saito asks offhandedly while sliding his laptop and leather-bound notebook out of his briefcase. He also puts down two coffees in tasteful paper cups that, judging by the smell, come from the absurdly expensive café. Arthur always believed that Saito refuses to let anything but porcelain touch his lips and that the café does not even consider the plebeian idea of coffee to go.

“Hm.” he says because the coffee might indicate Saito has been replaced by a pod person and he is still in Inner Turmoil and having Second Thoughts. “Is that coffee? From the usual place? Isn't transportable coffee some sort of abomination?”

Saito glances in at the cups in gentle confusion. “I do like to think that as the owner, I am entitled to special treatment every now and then.”

Arthur stops reaching for his coffee and stares. It seems to be that kind of week. “You. You own the place?”

“Well.” Saito tilts his head in moderate irritation. “I do find their service quite satisfying. And they brew acceptable coffee. I just wanted to make sure they maintain their standards.” Arthur gapes some more, because here he sits at the same table as a guy who buys coffeehouses on a whim and then carries some of their drinks to Arthur. Maybe they really are friends.

“So you seem to have given your future education some further consideration.” Saito remarks, gingerly extracting the four-page questionnaire from Arthur limp fingers. “And, not to presume, but I imagine you will have come to the conclusion that the world of international finance might not be exactly what motivates you to get up in the morning.” He levels a calm look at Arthur that easily x-rays his brain.

“...maybe.” Arthur allows.

“So you might want to reconsider your specific direction, I take. Now, Arthur”, he continues while opening his sleek notebook, “How do you like Paris?”

Arthur is a bit whiplashed, but that is Saito for you. Enigmatic samurai and whatnot. “I have never been there, so, curious, I guess?” He takes a fortifying sip of coffee.

Saito hums and hits a few keys. “There is an intern position open over the summer at our luxury brands division in Milan. If you started in June, you could easily make it to Paris in time for the winter semester, and lose no time starting on your Master’s. I imagine it will take you no more than two years, even if we account for another internship or junior placement sometime during your second year. By that time I expect Eames will have finished both his apprenticeship and examinations and be ready to either enter into one of our existing brands or build up his own under Proclus’ wing, so either way we will be in need of a competent manager, and I'd much prefer it personally if you also build up a bit of hands-on experience in the production sector because believe me when I say from my father’s and father's father’s experience that there are few things worse than a managing director who does not know his own product. Now, I believe your coffee is going cold. I didn't carry it here for you to let it go cold.”

 

Of course Arthur does not have a diary, but if he did, this would be written in it:
“Dear Diary, deus ex machina is so not overrated.”

 

Arthur ends the call, takes three very deep breaths and then collapses into the bean bag strategically situated behind him. Once he manages to stop hyperventilating and get down from a pulse that feels like skyrocketing past two hundred, he will thank whichever thoughtful person placed it there, but at the moment he is thoroughly occupied with not killing himself or screaming like a stuck pig or anything similar. There is a gentle hand on his shoulder, and then Mal’s face swims into view and she looks a bit scared. Maybe because he sounds like he just ran a marathon, but that is also for later consideration. Right now, she is a friendly person not passive-agressively giving his life choices a roasting, and that is all he could ask for. She carefully feels his forehead and then demands a glass of water over her shoulder, and then there are sounds of shuffling and somebody asks “Will he live?” and yes, Arthur thinks that is an excellent question. Somebody shaped vaguely like Yusuf hands Mal a sloshing cup of water, which she then unceremoniously dumps into Arthurs face.

“What the -” He comes up flailing and yelling after all, glaring through his wet bangs at Mal who shrugs her shoulders and says, “Best way to beat panic lockdown” and helpfully sprinkles the last remains of the cup’s contents over his head. Then Dom appears in his peripheral view, with the squintiest face yet because he knows Arthurs parents from first-hand experience and asks, “So how did they take it?”

Arthur winces and then completely huddles up into a little ball and then quickly stretches out again because Mal acquired another cup and has that glint in her eye. He hugs his knees and tells them, “Well, they didn’t disinherit me. Yet.”

A towel is dumped onto his head, and Eames looks a bit apprehensive at the suspicious herbal smells wafting off it, but he starts to rub Arthur’s hair nonetheless. Arthur would be annoyed, or thankful, or snappy, or slightly mystified, but as things are he is mostly deflated right now and continues recounting to his shoes, “And they refuse to pay for accommodation and fees and anything in Milan. Or Paris.” He lets his head drop and allows Eames to have at his hair, because what the hell, he feels like a drenched poodle, he might as well look like one.

Ariadne pops into his vision and holds out her phone with a tentative smile. “Your sister just wrote to not pay your cancelled wedding invitation any mind. You are welcome to dress up with a beard and sit next to her during the reception. She also just sent a list of souvenirs you absolutely must bring her from Italy.”

“Ha bloody ha.” Arthur mutters and then thinks that without his parents’ help, his own meagre savings might get him the tuition fees of the first semester in Paris and a shoebox somewhere out in the banlieues, which isn't an uplifting future prospect. Arthur is, in theory, all for suffering for the arts, but it would be nice if he wasn't banned from talking to his family until he got down from the high of these fanciful day-dreams, or becoming a scrounger along the way. Because that is his only option if he actually tries to self-support all of this, in which case he is screwed.

“I am screwed.” Arthur moans and ignores Ariadne’s suggestive eyebrows and Eames makes tutting noises and says “Not yet.”

 

There might be a note not unlike this in the diary Arthur does not possess:
“Dear diary, Ariadne’s karma must be sensationally bad indeed. Her newest conquest turned out to have a subscription for Attitude. She is surprisingly cheerful in spite of this.”

 

Arthur remembers resolutely putting his foot down on going to parties organized by Mal because they tend to end up close to police stations and with hangovers that last for three days. On one memorable occasion, they had camped out on unused train tracks to hide from the mounted bobbies. But this time it's Ariadne who makes them head out into nightlife and with an unbeatable reason too: one of her prized toilet designs got installed at a club and there's going to be a little unveiling ceremony and free drinks for all the people she can fit on a guest list. So Arthur can't say no. It would simply be unethical to let her drink all that alcohol alone. He could, however, have asked her which club exactly it was that glomped onto the chance to test out her sliding mirror doors and one-way smoked glasses. He didn't, so he only has himself to blame when he stands in front of Dalston Superstore and realizes that this is Camden on one of its camp weekends. Mal grins hugely, because she is in the process of applying khol to Dom, who sends Arthur wild pleas for help with his increasingly smudged eyes, but Arthur has to ignore him in favour of ducking out of Ariadne’s grasp to prevent something blue and glittery sprayed in his hair.

“No. No, I will not wear clip-on earrings, Ariadne, what are you doing -” and then he is seized from behind by Yusuf, who is not only grinning a little too mellow, but is also wrapped in a gigantic, bright orange feather boa. “Hold still and let the lady do her worst.” Arthur is shocked into silence, because that boa comes with a crystal-studded leather jacket and unspeakable leggings in a tribal design. When Ariadne is done turning Arthurs head into something a magpie would desperately want to nest in, he finally finds his voice, but not his tact and blurts, “You don't have the legs for leggings.”

Yusuf pulls a sad face. “For that, you are not getting my special blend tonight.” He demonstratively hands a little blue pill to Ariadne and a half to Mal, who eyes the jacket appreciatively.

“Maybe not, but you have the legs to rock them.” Eames is suddenly to his right, and now Arthur is caged in between two fluffy boas and in danger of suffocation or second-hand embarrassment. Dom already seems to have arrived there and clings to Mal like it will save his heterosexuality. Mal is laughing and dusting glitter on her cleavage.

Eames, who wears something made out of black gauze bands that seem to cling to him by magic, mostly, shoves a bag stuffed to burst at Arthur and makes shooing motions towards the newly refurbished gents' and because he will really need those specials from Yusuf, who stands beside Eames with crossed arms and a scowl, stroking his boa, Arthur goes and resigns himself to spending another afternoon de-tagging himself from incriminating candids on facebook. The toilets, on the other hands, are nothing short of spectacular.

He emerges with turquoise leggings embellished with a plethora of twinkling rhinestones and praise on his lips for Ariadne, who promptly smears them with berry gloss. He has no idea why he ever thought that dating her was a good idea, but Yusuf seems sufficiently appeased and hands Arthur the goods.

Ariadne is swallowed up by the crowd faster than she can down her first Cardassian Sunrise. Apparently a lot of people also think the toilets arethe shit and wish to show their appreciation by sticking their tongues as far as possible down her throat. Arthur would do the noble thing and rescue her if she weren't happily slapping peoples’ asses and yelling something about reversed karma in Arthur’s direction before being pulled into what seems to be a very involved snog by a black woman wearing nothing but a candy bikini. It says a lot about Arthur that he is more envious of her amazingly muscled arms than getting to make out with his ex.

Mal has dragged Dom off to the dance floor, where he seems ready to tentatively get in touch with previously unknown muscle groups. Arthur may or may not have supplied Mal with that lasso as a goofy birthday present. He does not need to witness Dom’s second puberty though, and makes a beeline for the bar because little blue pill or no, he has a white wristband that says he is on Ariadne’s guest list and if there's one thing he's going to take advantage of tonight, it is that bottle of vodka whispering his name in dulcet tones.

Yusuf is surrounded by at least four ladies and two guys in sparkling dresses (all of them, which by now is something Arthur does not even blink at, because. Fashion student roomie.) and winks at him. “The boa always works, man!”

Arthur is forced to reconsider his initial apprehension towards vaudeville accessories because two of Yusuf’s new friends are currently bickering over the right to stick their finely manicured hands down his trousers. There might have been a pair of shiny high-heels in Eames' bag. Arthur is eyeing them speculatively when Eames comes thrashing out of the restrooms, trailing behind him gauze and a cloud of glitter. “Ariadne, you mad little genius, let me kiss you, there's a waterfall from the ceiling in there!”

 

Of course, Arthur does not have a diary, but if he did, this would be written upside down:
“Dear diary, was offered both a T-square and a piledriver yesterday. Turns out they are not cocktails.”

 

When Arthur comes home from exams on the eve before his last final, he stares at his bed. The sheets are changed, and made, and there is not a single button in sight. There is, however, a parcel on the pillow, wrapped in white tulle and a black bow tie made of crocheted silk wound around it. Arthur stares some more, because he is pretty sure he never told anyone his birthday and the only person – oh, Dom is going to hell after Arthur passes his accounting exam.

He opens it, because he is at the core of his heart a hopeless romantic with all the wrong ideas about how asking your friends for help and not regretting it really works, and then he stares some more, because he may have to revise his train of thought. On his bed now lies a cardigan in dove grey with broad crosses and possibly made of cashmere, with a Burberry logo peeking out of the neckline, and all the buttons are different from one another and there is a swan with a bowler hat and a cane among them and possibly a pearl penguin too. Arthur will be damned because only Eames would have the gall to buy a 250 pounds garment and take off all the brand buttons and sew on gaudy second-hand travesties and limited edition collectors buttons and manage to make it all look like art – and then a Moleskine tumbles out of the neat folds and Arthur swallows and picks it up, because maybe he isn't a hopeless case after all. He opens it and stares at all the blank, untouched pages just waiting to be filled, and then flips to the first and he knew it – there is Eames’ looping scrawl, barely legible all over the paper in black pen. You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling. Ariadne drew a crooked heart under it, with exclamations marks in perspective view. Mal wrote something in French, with an English footnote stating he better take up those preparatory French classes soon so he can properly appreciate Edith Piaf. Yusuf scribbled something that might be a cat with a scowl in the rain. Dom’s minuscule handwriting is wedged into a corner and says They made me do it, please don't kill me.

Arthur slams the notebook closed and takes a deep breath. He briefly considers committing homicide to all his meddling friends, then reconsiders and starts packing for Milan instead and steals all of Eames' silk ties while he's at it. He can give them back in autumn, if he's feeling generous, he supposes.