Chapter Text
Chapter Five
Outside his window was nothing but Christmas carols. Endlessly. The rehearsals were constant. Arthur felt like opening his window and shouting out, How much more can it possibly snow? You’ve let it snow several thousand times already! But his window didn’t open, so he couldn’t do that.
Ariadne poked her head in. “Hey, we’re going to run to pick up some sushi. Want to join?”
“Why aren’t these offices sound-proofed?” Arthur asked, gesturing to the window, where they were taking Let It Snow from the top.
Ariadne looked at him for a second, then she stepped into his office and closed the door behind her.
“No,” Arthur said immediately.
“No. You keep saying no, but I think we need to talk. What happened in Vermont?”
“Nothing happened in Vermont, Ariadne. It was stupid. Don’t worry about it.”
“You fell off the grid and came back snarling and you haven’t let the fur down on your back since.”
“What is that even supposed to mean? I’m not a cat, Ari.”
“More like a tiger. Sometimes. What, did he turn out to be an asshole?”
The problem was that it hadn’t been anything as simple as that. Eames had turned out to be entirely unexpected. Eames had made him laugh more in two days than he had laughed in months prior. Eames had kissed him like he was something amazing and remarkable. Eames had made him feel…at rest, in a way Arthur had forgotten the world could feel, like there was nothing beyond the room that mattered, as long as Eames kept looking at him the way Eames looked at him, kept touching him, kept smiling at him, kept calling him darling like he was something endearing, something to be…something to be…loved.
Eames had asked him to stay.
And Arthur had been all-in, Arthur had had swirling plans about bringing Eames to New York and asking what he wanted, about finding him a job with Saito, who was always looking for forgers, or about maybe coming up with a different plan together, a plan somewhere else, in a city Eames possibly preferred. Eames had asked him to stay.
Eames had gotten Arthur to go all-in, and then Eames had walked away from the table.
“Yeah,” said Arthur grimly. As long as you love me so, said the lyrics outside Arthur’s window. “He turned out to be an asshole.”
***
The tree arrived, with a great deal of fanfare. Ronald Berry’s son and daughter came to New York, beaming, acting like celebrities as they waved to the cameras. Saito gave some welcoming speech about keeping America’s cheerful season bright, or something. Arthur managed not to roll his eyes. He also managed to lightly threaten the son and daughter to make sure some of the tree windfall went to their father’s medical bills. They said, blankly, that the first representative had already negotiated for that.
When Arthur got back to his office, this was an envelope on his desk that hadn’t been there before. Unmarked in any way.
After a long moment of regarding it, Arthur picked it up and opened it, and out dropped a Scrabble tile. I.
***
Eames was in Phoenix. The sun was glaring and the temperature was so high that it should have been fictional. Eames sat in the darkest bar he could find and drank beer after beer until it was finally time for him to say to the bartender, “Can we watch the tree get lit?”
The bartender stared at him.
“You know,” Eames said, gesturing to the television. “The Saito Center Christmas tree. America’s Christmas tree.” He didn’t know why he hadn’t just stayed in his room to watch it by himself. But something struck Eames as pathetic about that. Pathetic to sit all alone and moon after the man you walked out on.
Less pathetic to do it in public. Sure. That’s what he told himself.
The bartender shrugged and switched the station for him. It wasn’t like the bar was crowded.
Eames sat and watched an interminable amount of horrible holiday performances, and finally at the end Saito gave some kind of speech, and there, in the background, Eames spotted Arthur, looking slick and sharp and put-together and not at all like the man who had dimpled at Eames, who had curled close to him, who had flirted and teased.
Eames said to the bartender, as the lights flashed and sparkled over America’s Christmas tree, “You can change it now.”
***
“Arthur,” said Saito, very seriously.
Arthur made himself focus on what Saito was saying. Arthur pushed out of his mind the fact that there had been another Scrabble tile in another unmarked envelope on his desk. L. “Yes, sir,” he said.
Saito gave him a little smile. “You have been very far away.”
“Oh,” said Arthur, because yes, he had been, mentally, for a while now, ever since, well, Eames, and he knew it. “Sorry, I—”
“We work you very hard,” said Saito, shrewd eyes on him.
“It’s fine,” said Arthur, because actually the last thing he wanted right now was free time.
“You’re Jewish, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Arthur, unsure what that had to do with anything.
“And it’s Chanukah, and I just made you attend the lighting of a Christmas tree.”
“It isn’t quite Chanukah yet,” Arthur said, because it wasn’t.
“Nevertheless, it’s been a busy season for you so far. Lots of emergencies. That questionable art deal gone bad, and I am aware you warned me not to make deals to steal things from Russian mobsters, and I didn’t listen. And then the tree situation. Thank you for all the hard work with the tree, by the way. Tell Cobb I’ve said he has to get by without you for a little while. Go home to your family. Enjoy your holiday with them.”
“That’s not—” said Arthur.
“Arthur.” Saito fixed him with that look people didn’t say no to.
So Arthur nodded.
***
Arthur drove upstate, a newly-arrived Scrabble tile tucked away in his pocket. O. Arthur parked at the cemetery. Arthur wended his way to the gravestone. And Arthur sat in the snow at the foot of the grave and looked at his parents’ names and ignored the fact that now he was wet and cold.
Arthur said, “Chag Sameach, guys.” And then, after another moment, as the snow soaked into his pants, “I miss you.”
***
Arthur’s aunts and uncles and cousins were absolutely delighted to see him.
“Arthur!” exclaimed his aunt Ruth, as she descended upon him to embrace him warmly. “This is such a delightful surprise! Unless you called Sally. Did you call Sally and she didn’t tell me? Sally! Why didn’t you tell me Arthur was coming for a visit?”
“No,” Arthur said, as his aunt Sally came bustling toward the front door. “It was a last-minute thing. Sorry to just drop in. I’ve brought, um, wine.” He gestured with it and hoped that was an acceptable offering for showing up unannounced on a doorstep.
“You didn’t have to bring anything,” said Aunt Sally, barreling into a hug, and then taking the wine and handing it to Ruth. “Open Arthur’s wine. Everyone! Look who’s here! Arthur!”
Arthur was embarrassed by the fuss at the same time that it was nice that everyone at least remembered who he was. It wasn’t like he kept in very good touch. But the house was full of relatives who all happily welcomed Arthur in and food and drink was pressed upon him and he found himself drawn into a ridiculous debate about James Bond movies, and Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to a movie because that was how pathetic his life was but he had been raised on James Bond movies and it was nice to remember that.
He ducked into the kitchen late, coat back on, finding his aunts leaning against the counters cradling coffees and chatting.
“I’m taking off,” he said, and was startled when Aunt Sally suddenly turned to him and caught him up into a fierce hug. “Okay,” he said uncertainly, glancing at Aunt Ruth.
“It’s just good to see you,” Aunt Sally said, and stepped away from him. “You know you can come to visit anytime. I mean, I know we’re not your mother, but…”
“I know,” said Arthur, and he felt guilty, but he also felt…tired. Unaccountably tired. Exhausted. He would kill for Eames to show up so he could crawl on top of him and take a nap. He saw his long sleepless life spreading ahead of him and couldn’t bear it. “Sorry, it’s just been…” He couldn’t think of an adjective for how it had been. “It’s been…” He made a vague gesture and hoped they would interpret it as they wished.
“It’s a tough time of year,” said his aunt Ruth.
His aunt Sally smiled at him and patted his cheek fondly. “How long are you staying?”
“I don’t know,” said Arthur awkwardly. “I have some vacation time coming and I thought I would come up here, but I didn’t really plan it out.”
“Stay,” said Aunt Ruth. “We’d love to have a proper visit. You can tell us all the glamorous things you do in New York.”
“I don’t do anything glamorous in New York,” said Arthur.
“Of course you do,” said Aunt Sally, smiling. “Your mother was always so proud of your New York life. Her Arthur, following his dreams.” Aunt Sally beamed at him.
Her Arthur, he thought. Following his dreams. Whatever the fuck he was doing, he wasn’t following his dreams.
“Who are you dating?” asked Aunt Ruth. “Shouldn’t you have a boyfriend in tow?”
“Leave him alone,” Aunt Sally said, “or he’ll never come and visit us again. Don’t mind her, dear boy. Just ask her where her boyfriend is.”
“Stop,” said Aunt Ruth, shoving Aunt Sally fondly.
“She’s dating Jerry from down the road. You remember Jerry, don’t you?”
He did remember Jerry. He couldn’t help the fact that he grinned at Aunt Ruth. “Jerry? Really?”
“We don’t need to talk about it,” said Aunt Ruth, blushing.
“Exactly,” said Aunt Sally, and turned to Arthur firmly. “Don’t let her bother you. You’re staying at the inn?”
Arthur nodded.
“Fine. Come tomorrow for breakfast, hmm? David will be here with the kids, so don’t even pretend like you would be any trouble.”
“Fine,” Arthur relented. He had forgotten the energy it took to deal with her mother’s sisters. His mother had been like that, too, and he missed her now with an acute ache.
“Good. We’ll see you then.” Aunt Sally gave him another hug, and kissed his cheek, and said, “Sweet dreams, little prince,” which was what his mother had used to say to him when he was a young boy and she was tucking him in. Arthur had almost forgotten all about that.
***
Arthur got back to his room at the inn and kicked off his shoes and shed his coat and then couldn’t be bothered to exert any more effort. He crawled onto the bed and closed his eyes and wished he would just fall dreamlessly asleep. That was what he had always told his mother, fretful and fearful, beset by nightmares that drove him awake. Sweet dreams, little prince, she would tell him, and it was a hope and a prayer, and he would squeeze his eyes shut and wish that she was right. Sweet dreams.
He was like his father, she had said. Arthur remembered his father, a man who was always in a suit, who traveled a lot and brought Arthur gifts and always cuddled him warmly when he was around, making up for the time when he wasn’t. He had been killed in a car accident when Arthur was seven, and that was when the nightmares had started. He had never been a good sleeper—like his father—but he thought the nightmares were a later development. Mainly because what he could remember of the nightmares now was that they had been about losing his mother, too.
Which, of course, he had done. Which meant he no longer had nightmares—those had all come true—but he had never lost his combative relationship with sleep.
Sweet dreams, little prince, his mother had said to him, and kissed his forehead and smoothed down his hair. Follow your dreams. All your very best and sweetest dreams, sweetheart.
And it snowed, thick swirls of it that seemed to choke him, and he fought his way through it, while it sucked at his feet like quicksand.
“This way,” someone called to him urgently. “This way. Arthur.”
Arthur stumbled through a door in the ground and found himself on a beach. With Eames.
“You’ve been lost,” Eames told him. He was smirking at him, self-satisfied and smug. Arthur wanted to punch him; Arthur wanted to kiss him.
“I haven’t been,” Arthur denied automatically. “I was…It was snowing. It was snowing.”
Eames stepped closer to him, leaned down to brush his nose up Arthur’s neck. “You’re wearing wingtips. On the beach.”
“Snowing,” said Arthur, closing his hands into Eames’s hair. “It was snowing. Why did you leave?”
“Did you stay?” asked Eames into his skin.
“Yes, I stayed! You’re the one who—”
And then it was snowing again. No, wait, was that a sandstorm? It pelted at Arthur’s face. He flinched and squinted through it, looking for Eames. “Eames!” he shouted. “Eames!” He turned in a circle, and all around him there was nothing. Nothingness. He was utterly alone. He wasn’t even sure he was still on the beach. He wasn’t even sure he was still on the planet. He felt like he had been abandoned by gravity itself.
“Arthur!”
He heard his name at a great distance, but it was definitely his name, and he was sure it was Eames saying it. He took a deep breath and shoved his way through the flying sand. It was like swimming against a riptide. He grabbed handfuls of sand and pushed them out of his way, trying to clear his path. Eames, he tried to say, but sand filled his mouth when he opened it.
“Arthur! This way! Hurry! I’m waiting!”
Wait for me, Arthur tried to say. Don’t leave me, Arthur tried to say. Don’t leave me and I won’t leave you.
Arthur woke up with a start, coughing reflexively, to his phone ringing.
Outside the sun was bright. He’d slept the entire night. Maybe not dreamlessly but at least he’d slept.
He took a deep breath to orient himself back in a world that was still and had no sand or snow or whatever the hell that had been trying to choke him. Then he reached for his phone. Ariadne, it was blinking.
He answered with, “Yeah,” wondering if this was about work. He almost hoped he could get his mind busy again. He didn’t want to have more dreams about Eames in sandstorms. He wanted his head filled with other things.
“How’s home?” Ariadne asked, sounding like she had called to gossip.
I don’t have a home, Arthur almost said, because this room in an inn in a town populated by people he’d known ten years ago, as a different person, didn’t feel anything like home. Any more than his lonely and empty apartment in New York felt like home. But he said, looking at his watch and wincing, “It’s fine. Was there something you wanted?”
“Grumpy, huh?” teased Ariadne.
“I’ve got to go to my aunt’s for breakfast,” Arthur said, which was true. He rolled out of bed. “I’m already late.”
“I won’t keep you. I just want you to know that you got another envelope.”
Arthur froze in the process of choosing between cashmere sweaters in his suitcase. He said carefully, “What do you mean?”
“You know. You get those secret envelopes. From your secret admirer.”
“Are those you?” Arthur demanded harshly. He’d assumed they were Eames but now he realized how foolish that was. Why would Eames be sending him messages?
“No, they’re not me,” Ariadne retorted.
“Are they going through you?” Arthur asked, shifting wildly toward desperate hope, because now he wanted to know: Was Eames in contact with her? What did he say about him? Did he miss him?
“No. But I know you’ve been getting them. Security does keep track of what they send up to your office, you know.”
“Where are they coming from?” Arthur asked. He was sitting on the bed now, sweater forgotten in his hand.
“I think you know who they’re coming from,” said Ariadne knowingly.
“Who’s delivering them? Is he delivering them? Is he in New York?”
“Arthur, it seems to me that you’re the one he’s sending the puzzle to, not me. And, in case you want to know the next clue, it’s a V Scrabble tile.”
V. Which meant Arthur now had in his possession I L O V.
“Do you know what that means?” Ariadne asked into Arthur’s silence. “Does that make sense to you?”
No, it didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. Eames had walked out and yet was sending him messages, luring him into a puzzle. If Eames wanted him, why didn’t Eames just… If Eames wanted him, why had Eames left?
I L O V, thought Arthur. Eames asking him to stay, asking him not to walk away. Eames, calling for him somewhere in a sandstorm. “Fucking idiot,” Arthur said out loud.
“What?” asked Ariadne, startled.
“I’ve got to go,” Arthur said, and hung up the phone.
***
He dressed quickly, for the road, which meant a sharp suit and wingtips, and he thought Eames would laugh at him, but he needed to be wearing wingtips when he met Eames again, he couldn’t imagine meeting him wearing him anything else.
He stopped at his parents’ gravestone and said, “Sorry I don’t visit more often. Aunt Ruth and Aunt Sally have made it clear I should come by more. I’m going to try to. I’ll bring Eames next time. You would have loved Eames. Well. Mom would have loved Eames. I don’t know, Dad, I feel like maybe you would have been skeptical about him. But he grows on you. Okay, that’s enough of me being an idiot. Bye.” He ran his fingers along the top of the gravestone, and then he drove to his aunt’s house.
“Arthur,” Aunt Sally said, and she sounded surprised, and he wondered what he looked like. “Are you alright? Is something wrong?”
“I need to take a raincheck on breakfast. I just wanted to tell you.”
“Oh, Arthur,” she said, looking concerned. “I didn’t say anything to upset you, did I? Did Ruth?”
Arthur shook his head. “No. It’s just that I have to go get my boyfriend.”
“Oh,” said Aunt Sally, sounding caught between delight and confusion.
But Arthur didn’t explain. Arthur kissed her cheek and dashed back to his car and pointed it east and thought, Here I go. Following my very best and sweetest dreams.
***
The trickiest thing in the universe to do was to stay undetectable while at the same time leaving breadcrumbs for the one person you hoped might want to find you. Eames thought he had done a decent job of it, but you never knew.
That was what he was thinking as he stood outside the door of the flat he’d taken and considered whether to open it. Eames knew there was someone in there. It might be Arthur. It might not be.
And Eames decided that, either way, the only thing to do—his only option—was to walk in and meet his fate. His fate could be a gunshot wound to the chest or a very different sort of injury to his heart in the form of lethal dimples. Either way…this was, he thought, the culminating moment of his life, the fork that was going to dictate all of the rest of it.
Eames took a deep breath and opened the door.
“What is this fucking awful tree?” asked Arthur, and gestured at the tabletop tree Eames had bought.
He’d bought it because he’d been thinking of Arthur. He’d bought it because he couldn’t see a fucking Christmas tree anywhere without thinking of Arthur. He was hoping it was the same for Arthur.
And now here was Arthur, frowning in a suit at his Christmas tree.
“I couldn’t afford a nicer one,” Eames said, around the heart that had lodged in his throat. “They’re very expensive.” He closed the door behind him and started walking the few steps toward Arthur.
Arthur looked up from his disapproving contemplation of the Christmas tree and said, “You were supposed to be on a beach.”
This surprised Eames. “Was I?”
“We’re in Boston. It’s freezing.”
Eames drew to a stop next to Arthur and contemplated whether he should touch him or not. He was unsure. “It should be cold on Christmas.”
“It isn’t Christmas yet.”
“I know. Poor timing on your part. You couldn’t have come on Christmas Eve? You’d only have to wait a few extra days, and it would have been much more emotional and moving.”
“What the fuck, Eames,” Arthur said harshly, but then softened the statement by taking the last step that put him up against Eames, his face tucked into the curve of Eames’s shoulder.
Eames crushed Arthur to him and took the first deep breath he’d felt like he’d taken in ages. “I’m a selfish bastard,” he said. “I wanted to keep you safe, but I missed you and I thought maybe if you really wanted to you could—”
“I can take care of myself,” Arthur said into Eames’s neck. “I can even take care of you, which is apparently quite the job.”
Eames squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on the feel of Arthur in his arms. “I didn’t want you to—to make me your problem, and—I can’t—have nice things, Arthur, I’m not good at it, I destroy them, and I don’t—you should—” I wanted you to look at me and see me and know exactly how I am, exactly what you’re getting into, exactly how horrible and undeserving I can be, and want me anyway. I had to make you choose me, knowing everything about me. But Eames didn’t say that. Eames faltered flailingly.
Arthur shifted so he could lift his head and look at Eames, his dark eyes hot. “What makes you think I’m fragile?” he demanded.
Eames shook his head. “Not fragile, just…the loveliest thing I’ve ever gotten to touch.” And Eames had stolen some of the greatest masterpieces ever created. None of them held a candle to Arthur.
Arthur framed his face with his hands. “What makes you think I don’t want to be destroyed? What makes you think I don’t want you to take my boring, pointless life and fucking smash it open?”
Eames opened his mouth to answer and found that, well, he had no rejoinder to that.
“What was your Scrabble message going to be?” Arthur asked him.
Eames met Arthur’s eyes and said, as solemnly and seriously as he had ever said anything, “I love you.”
Arthur stared at him for a very long moment, and Eames would have worried about not getting an immediate reply, except that all of the reply Eames needed was in Arthur’s bright eyes. Arthur said finally, his voice thick with emotion, “I’m going to give your score a penalty for that.”
“Yeah,” Eames agreed.
“Unless you can find a way to make it filthy,” said Arthur, and kissed him.