Work Text:
The first time Arthur meets Eames, he is sixteen to Eames's twenty-six, confused and desperate for purpose as only a teenager can be. He's been at St. Vladimir's most of his life, surrounded by classmates who don't understand him and faculty who are by turns amused, worried, or scared of him. Arthur is a prodigy. He's no Dimitri Belikov, all strength and height and raw power. No, Arthur's strengths are his small, lean stature, his uncanny accuracy, and his unbelievable, unreasonable speed.
By the time he is sixteen, it is near impossible to land a blow on him. None of his classmates can do it anymore, and only a handful in the two classes above him will manage it. Several of the faculty have taken to sparring with him, and he is, of course, used for all practical demonstrations. He displays an avid thirst for information and a mind like a steel trap. He will, one day, get the highest marks on the recall section of the written graduation final that the Academy has ever seen.
He is getting complacent.
Not cocky, never cocky, but complacent. Arthur knows all too well the dangers lurking outside of St. Vladimir's warded grounds. He knows what a Strigoi looks like, the sickly pale color of their undead skin, the red of their eyes, the way a false blush paints their lips and the screaming hunger for blood that runs in their veins. He knows the slight, metallic tang of the air when they are near.
At a distance, one might be confused. It's only natural to hesitate, he's told, over and over again, and all this training is so that they can overcome that hesitation, the natural inclination not to kill another thinking being. But Strigoi aren't human, or half-human like the dhampir. They're not decent vampires like Moroi, or anything else with a conscience. They're evil: no morals, no boundaries, just hunger. So if he wants to protect his way of life, and protect the good Moroi that have defined it, Arthur won't hestitate before slamming the silver stake home.
Eames can teach him that, he thinks, sitting unobtrusively in the back row of students in the gym.
Arthur's not supposed to be there, but he's learned that if it's in the pursuit of knowledge, Headmistress Kirova will forgive him just about anything short of actual illegality. He's a sophomore, only sixteen, and you're supposed to be at least seventeen before ever using a silver stake. Eames is going to demonstrate with a real one, then they'll practice with wooden stakes and dummies and on each other, as gently as a bunch of teenagers can. Arthur's not supposed to take this seminar for another two years, but Eames' legend has taken the school by storm and Arthur has to see if the stories are true.
Kirova walks in with Paolo, one of the school's regular guardians, and what can only be Eames in tow. As always, Arthur immediately assesses them for a fight. Kirova is an administrator now, and she's lost muscle lately, much more than is safe for a guardian. He'll have to find a way to mention that, if she tries to tell him off for being here. Paolo is tall, muscled and lean in much the same way Arthur is, though without Arthur's remarkable speed. He moves in the same way all guardians do, with an economy of movement and a total awareness of his surroundings. He looks graceful, and not unlike a ballet dancer. Then there is Eames.
Eames is of average height, maybe a little taller than Arthur, maybe a little shorter. It's hard to tell from where he's sitting, and the sheer amount of muscle on the man makes it more difficult to judge. He's quick, though, would have to be, to have been part of the team that was watching Belikov. You don't set just anyone to watch your best guardian after he goes rogue. So Eames is quick, and heavily muscled in a way that makes Arthur's teenage body sit up and take notice, making him shift on the practice mat he's sitting on.
He realizes that he hasn't been paying attention, too busy assessing fight or flight risks.
Kirova has finished the introductions, and is waving Eames forward to speak.
"Thank you, Headmistress. As you know, for the next two weeks, I will be your instructor in Advanced Guardian Combat. I expect you to be ready to fight at any time, whether or not we're actually in class. Strigoi are not going to wait until it's convenient for you, and neither will I," he begins, serious as the grave. "There will be lives, actual human, dhampir, and Moroi lives, resting on what you learn here today, and over the rest of this course."
Eames is pacing now, looking into each student's eyes as he circles them, and Arthur tries not to shiver as that hot, evaluating gaze passes over him.
"Your ultimate goal is the preservation of life. That sounds daunting, maybe, to some of you. To others, it may sound like nothing at all. I promise that when you are faced with a situation in which your skills are finally tested, you will realize all too late what it means to have the lives of your friends, family, and fellow guardians in your hands. Or as some would say, at stake."
"Train hard and train well, because the world depends on it. Above all, never hesitate."
He pauses a few moments, letting the words sink in. All concepts that the students had heard before, but somehow more potent, more real, coming from this man, who everyone knew had killed five Strigoi just weeks ago. A man who had more molnija tattoos to commemorate his kills than almost any other guardian.
Eames nods, apparently satisfied with whatever he's seeing in their faces, and breaks the silence. "Now, who would like to help me with a demonstration?"
After that speech, most students are lost in thought, or just too terrified to be a test dummy for whatever advanced moves Eames is about to spring on them. Arthur is neither, but remains silent all the same. He has to take this seminar, he just has to. Eames can teach him what he needs to know, can answer the questions that other faculty have been too scared, or uncomfortable, or uncertain to answer for him. Arthur can tell, so he stays silent and still in the back row.
"Arthur," Kirova says, and the boy in question startles.
"Headmistress?" he replies quietly. (Please don't make me leave, he's chanting in his head.)
"Please come up and help Guardian Eames with the demonstration," she requests, somehow simultaneously making it an order.
Arthur finds his limbs obeying before he consciously tells them to, almost makes a face at that, and catches himself just in time. He wants to make a good impression. He wants to make the best impression.
As he walks up, the headmistress is saying something to Eames: words like potential, prodigy, and "the most promising student we've seen in years." He ignores her. The words aren't meant for him and he's heard them all before. They are nothing but a weight on his shoulders, reminding him to be the best, better every time he steps onto the mat.
Instead, he studies Eames, who is even more impressive up close. Better looking, too, Arthur thinks, eyes caught briefly on the curve of one full lip, the bulky, defined lines of Eames' shoulders.
"Arthur?" Eames says, and his eyes flash up to meet Eames'. The corner of Eames' mouth tilts up, eyes crinkling at the edges. Arthur's cheeks abruptly flush red.
"Yes," he says, as Kirova takes several steps out of range, leaning her back against the mirrors.
Eames reaches out, shakes Arthur's hand.
"Welcome to Advanced Guardian Combat," he says, and throws Arthur, effortlessly, across the room.
When Eames turns back to the class, Arthur can see the molnija marks on his neck, row after row of tattoos in a dark, rectangular block on the nape of his neck.
"This is the first thing you're going to learn today," he tells the class, before giving Arthur a hand up. "Pay attention, Arthur and I will demonstrate it again at half speed."
When he gets his breath back, Arthur is sure of it: he's in love.