Chapter Text
Eames is awake when Arthur walks out of the bathroom the next morning. Arthur knows this because Eames says, “Darling.”
Only Eames can make darling sound thunderous like that.
“Yes, Viscount?” replies Arthur, disappearing into his closet to study his wardrobe choices.
“Someone set an alarm. Someone set multiple alarms.” Eames sounds incredibly offended.
Arthur bites back his laugh, which he knows will offend Eames even more than he’s already offended by the act of being awake, and selects a shirt and a pair of pants. “That was me.”
“Bloody hell,” Eames complains, “you were drunk last night, and you still managed to set all of these alarms before bed?”
“I was mostly sober by the time we went to bed,” Arthur reminds him, pulling his pants on. He leaves his shirt unbuttoned and pulls a tie off its perch and heads out into the bedroom. “Thanks to you. Thank you.”
“I would not have sobered you up if I’d known you were going to torture me with alarms. Multiple alarms.”
“We have to be in Boston in two hours,” Arthur says, sitting on the bed to put his shoes on.
“Why don’t I just send you in my stead?” asks Eames, shifting so he can curl his way around Arthur, a hand on his abdomen between the open panels of his shirt, a lazy peck of a kiss to his clothed thigh. “Whenever anyone asks you about me, you can just say, ‘Eames is very sexy and funny and the best boyfriend ever.’”
“You’re not funny, though,” Arthur deadpans.
“You treacherous liar,” says Eames without heat, and rests his head on Arthur’s thigh and closes his eyes.
Arthur lets them sit in silence for a second, because it’s nice. But eventually he says, “I have to finish getting dressed. And you have to start.”
“What if I just give all the interviews naked?” asks Eames. “That would be very popular with the interviewers.”
“Because you know I get very jealous if anyone but me ever gets to see this tattoo here,” Arthur says, reaching a hand out to rub at the Art Deco-inspired design just under the curve of Eames’s rear.
“I’ll be sitting the whole time,” Eames points out. “They’ll only see the front of me.”
“Oh, by all means, that’s okay, I like to show off the front of you,” rejoins Arthur.
“Exactly. I knew you’d see it my way.”
“Get dressed,” Arthur says, dropping a kiss onto Eames’s forehead, “before I choose an outfit for you.”
“The horror,” says Eames. “You’ve already subjected me to multiple alarms. Now you’re going to make me wear tasteful clothing?”
“I am cruel and ruthless,” says Arthur lightly, extracting himself from Eames and standing.
“And yet you look so mild-mannered in your striped shirt,” remarks Eames, who still doesn’t look any closer to getting out of bed.
“The stripes are pink,” Arthur notes, as he buttons the shirt and rolls the cuffs.
“That is not making you look crueler and more ruthless,” replies Eames.
“Misdirection,” Arthur says, dealing with his tie.
“The key to a good con,” says Eames.
“Indeed,” Arthur agrees. “I will go entertain our guests. You will get dressed. Then we will all go to Boston.”
“I hope you have all of this scheduled on the whiteboard,” says Eames. “Otherwise I do not acknowledge it as being valid.”
“Get dressed,” Arthur says for, like, the fiftieth time that morning, and then he heads to the kitchen, where his mother offers him coffee and Albert offers him another luxurious breakfast and Arthur adds to the whiteboard, A. entertaining guests. E. getting dressed above the Boston heading.
***
Their promotional schedule for the day is print interviews. They could have insisted on doing them by phone, Arthur supposes, but he prefers to do these things face-to-face, and there are enough writers in and around Boston to pull it off that way. The schedule is a blend of more local media, like The Improper Bostonian, and national print, like People Weekly. And, of course, the bigger websites, as well as a local blog that was one of their very first devoted fansites in the early days and which Arthur and Eames are always sure to spare time for.
“It should only be a couple of hours, really,” Arthur tells all of their parents, “depending on how much Eames behaves himself.”
“I always behave myself,” says Eames. “I’ll behave myself so much that we’ll be done in ten minutes.”
Arthur ignores him, handing a folder over to his mother. “I’ve given you some information on things you might want to do in Boston to kill the time while you’re waiting. Then, when we’re done, we’ll come meet you and keep being touristy with you.” It’s the Eameses’ first time in Boston and they’re excited about all of the sights.
His mother takes the folder and glances through it and says, “We’ll confer about what they’d like to do.”
“Don’t worry about us,” Maggie says. “We are going to have a blast. Have fun at your interviews.” Maggie flutters kisses onto Eames’s cheek and then Arthur’s.
Albert says, “Hey, Arthur, where are all the good sex clubs?”
Arthur says, “That’ll have to wait for after the interviews, you’ll need my password to get in. And a retina scan.”
Albert laughs and claps his shoulder and says, “He is funnier than you, Eamesie.”
“A comedian,” Eames agrees.
Arthur looks at his mother, who has a strange look on her face as she watches the interaction. But everyone is right there and he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable so he leans over to kiss her cheek and just says, “Have fun. You’ll be fine, right?” And he hopes she understands how seriously he means the question.
“Always,” his mother says. “Go be a celebrity.”
“Which is so much less glamorous than you think,” notes Arthur.
“Only because Arthur’s all weird about signing girls’ breasts,” says Eames.
“Oh, my God, that doesn’t happen,” says Arthur. “Let’s go.”
They wave to their parents and walk in the opposite direction as them on the busy sidewalk. The network asked them to choose where they wanted to do the interviews, and Arthur wanted a centrally located spot that wasn’t too over-the-top, so they’ve gone with a boutique hotel on Beacon Hill that was happy to lend a cozy fireplace nook.
Arthur says, “There is no way you are going to behave yourself if you are already talking about breasts.”
Eames says, “Hang on, can we duck into this alley?”
“Wait, what?” says Arthur, exasperated. “What are you—”
Eames tugs him into the alley and kisses him. It’s not overly inappropriate but it’s more of a kiss than Arthur would have expected on a public street, so he’s glad Eames tugged them into the alley, and he also appreciates that Eames is keeping them both clear of the dingy, dusty wall, tucking Arthur up and against him.
“Hi,” Arthur says, when Eames draws back. Sometimes Eames just randomly kisses him like that; Arthur is aware that he is the luckiest person in the world that he doesn’t even question that.
“You made them a fucking folder of things to do in Boston. I bloody adore you.”
“Oh,” Arthur says, feeling the blush. “I just wanted them to enjoy themselves—”
“I know. That’s why I bloody adore you. Okay.” He kisses the bridge of Arthur’s nose. “Now that you’ve been well-snogged, let’s go charm some reporters.”