Author: MJ / Grave
Beta: All Mistakes are my own. Eat them.
Warning: FLUFF and LOVE and SHMOOP
Word Count: 1.310 Words
Disclaimer: You get my first born, ay?
Deidacted to: Noah, as always, because no one will understand this story anyway!
A/N: Again, it's kind of an insider. You might understand the story anyway - without knowhing our RPG
This is a love story from the point of view of two frogs.
Considering frogs have thoughts, an understanding of the life of human beings, the same concept of love and a lot of time on their hands (or whatever it is that frogs have.), the story begins like this:
It was early spring when they got their first lighter. It was a nice thing, all shiny and silver and with poker cards engraved in it. It would stay their favorite of the many to follow.
It was the lighter that would bring them both to raise their filmy eyes above the surface of the pond – a hardship in itself, considering that their pond, after years of being unattended was almost covered completely with water lilies, but at least the layer of ice had already melted away in the warm first sunrays.
It would be the first time they see the dark haired man in his impeccable bespoke suits, with his permanent frown and the brown sharp eyes. This one was Arthur.
It will be the first time they see the other sandy-blonde man in his brightly colored shirts with garish patterns, with his permanent five-o’clock-shadow and the grey shining eyes. That one was Eames.
They realize soon after, that the two of them must be permanently in love.
Also the lighter must be Eames’ one, because Eames looked quite shocked and mildly amused with an unlighted cigarette between his lips and Arthur looked very irritated and mildly flushed with a pointed index finger.
»You haven’t changed, have you, Mr. Eames?« Arthur asked furiously and stepped a little closer.
»Tell me, have I, my love?« Eames asked tenderly and overcame the last inches.
And then Eames pulled Arthur against him and kissed him on his mouth. Arthur acted as if he didn’t like that very much but fisted his hands into the blue tweed shirt anyway after a few seconds of futile struggling.
They asked themselves if that belongs to the mating ritual of humans. First struggling without meaning and then giving in anyway.
In the end it was Spring, it didn’t last very long and Arthur pulled away and hit Eames really hard with his fist. Eames would say »Oh fuck you, darling.« and walk off.
Curiously they would watch Arthur, who stayed behind and touched his lips with uncertain fingers, before biting his bottom lip and stalking off into the other direction.
More days like this would follow – also their pond would be cleaned and even enlarged, they approved of this very much – and in a very short amount of time they had a really impressive lighter collection.
By the time it was summer, their pond wasn’t so quiet anymore. Fish had become their friends and joined them occasionally, as well as the fireflies and a stork – who surprisingly hadn’t tried to eat them yet. And while in spring it was only Arthur and Eames, now they were many younger humans and also a few older ones.
Now there were a lot of things to watch but their attention was always captured by the newest development in the mating ritual of Eames and Arthur.
Apparently it was summer when they decided to provide for offspring.
It was summer when Arthur and Eames tumbled in the high grass directly next to their pond. Eames furiously ripping off Arthur’s grey suit. Arthur furiously ripping off Eames garish orange shirt. Both didn’t really succeed.
Apparently the heat had turned their heads.
»That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what you fucking want!« Arthur moaned while clawing open Eames’ trousers and pushing them down, down, down.
And Eames lied – it was so clear he lied, why didn’t Arthur noticed? »Oh, exactly, my love, because what else could you possibly give?«
And Eames took it from Arthur without any complain, though it looked more like war than love making. And Arthur moaned silently and it sounded more like pain than pleasure.
In this summer that was a strange sight. The frogs looked at the fireflies and the fireflies looked to the stork and the stork flew away. But still they watched on their water lily, asking themselves why Arthur and Eames did that to each other when apparently they wanted to do anything but. Maybe they could find better partners – like that dark haired boy with the bright grin Eames brought here a few times – maybe they would life so much happier without each other.
Still – this summer would be full of nights like this. Nights full of making war.
And Arthur saying: »Leave me alone.«
And Eames saying: »Be careful, darling, or I might do it one day.«
In Autumn Eames really left. With him the fireflies also left and the stork never really came back. The days became colder again and the water lilies began to wilt away. The frogs huddled a little bit closer together, without really needing the warmth.
In this Autumn it was just Arthur. Even him they saw rarely. Arthur would sit on the bench opposite their pond in a black jacket and an unusual green and turquoise scarf. He would sit there for hours. Sometimes there would be a blond boy – the brother of the dark haired boy. But most of the time there would be just Arthur.
Arthur would stare over their pond and sometimes look directly at them – which made them feel slightly uncomfortable, because they more or less spied on him while he was very intimately engaged with Eames.
With Eames, who wasn’t there anymore.
When the last leaves fell from the tree, Arthur sat there with his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
The frogs felt really sad, because they never thought that Eames would make his promise true. That one day he really would leave.
Then again Eames never said something about not coming back.
After autumn came winter. With winter came snow. With snow came Eames.
To be honest they almost lost any hope to see the sandy-blonde man in his brightly colored shirts with garish patterns, with his permanent five-o’clock-shadow and the grey shining eyes, again.
Even Arthur came only scarcely to their pond in his thick black coat and the same scarf. When he came he looked somber and resigned.
But one day, the day after the first snow fell, Eames was there again. The frogs wanted to avert their eyes because it seemed rude to stare right now. In the end it seemed crucial to look.
At first it looked like Arthur wanted to punch Eames.
At first it looked like Arthur would just shake Eames hand.
At first it looked like Arthur would not even acknowledge Eames presence and walk away.
In the end Arthur would drag in one shuddering, cloudy huff of air and stand in front of Eames for a few awkward seconds.
In the end Eames would spread his arms with a rough laugh and just wait.
In the end Arthur would fall into that embrace and clutch at Eames frog-green jacket.
It looked a lot like a happy ending and the frogs didn’t feel too sorry that their pond would freeze closed the next day. Because the way Arthur leaned into Eames and kissed, kissed, kissed him, told already enough.
They would proceed in spring with their mating ritual. This time it looked a lot like making love, when Arthur laughed and his dimples were showing for the first time and he was wearing an awful purple striped shirt and his hair was falling loose.
It looked a lot like making love, when Eames pulled Arthur on top of him and pressed, pressed, pressed sweet words into his skin and whispered »Arthur, oh, Arthur« again and again.
It was spring when they saw the two for the last time.
It all felt like a dream.