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The End of the Rainbow

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Arthur wakes alone in the bed. Which usually meant that Eames was seized by a fit of inspiration during the night and Arthur would find him semi-buried in the detritus of design work, oblivious to the passage of time.

Arthur showers and dresses and walks out of the bedroom in search of Eames and immediately stumbles over a pot of gold.

“What the hell,” he mumbles, nudging gold doubloons out of his way. Doubtless the next step in Eames’s river hallway design. Eames had been talking about adding some “sparkle” to the water somehow. He wanted “some flash.”

There are other pots of gold placed along the hallway, and Arthur wends his way through them and shakes his head and wonders when Eames had this epiphany of design. Arthur can’t remember him having decided on pots of gold, but surely Eames had to order these from somewhere. Surely Eames didn’t just randomly have pots of gold laying around that could be scattered at whim around the house at midnight.

When Arthur walks into the kitchen, he finds at least a dozen crystal prisms hanging from the ceiling. Definitely not a design epiphany Eames had shared with him. Arthur cocks his head and frowns and calls, “Eames?”

“In here, darling!” Eames calls back from the living room.

Arthur heads into it, saying, “Did you spend all night—” and then stops short. “What is that?”

“They’re four-leaf clovers, darling,” Eames says, stepping back from a number of greenery-fresh pots clustered by the window. “Did you know you can buy just four-leaf clovers? Something about the genetics. All very science-y. It’s probably more likely they have a staff of leprechauns on standby. I mean, you wouldn’t want to take all of the magic out of it, now would you?”

Arthur stares at Eames, who stops talking and seems to expect that Arthur is going to have something to say in response. Arthur says, “Not that. What is that?” And then, because apparently Eames needs a visual aid, Arthur waves his hand toward what Eames is wearing.

Which is green velvet. An entire outfit of green velvet. Except for his black leather belt. And his black leather shoes. Both with elaborate gold buckles. But other than that: green velvet. He’s even wearing a green velvet hat.

“Do you like it?” Eames asks, beaming, and then turns in a circle so Arthur can get the full view.

Arthur is at a loss. “Is this…a sex thing?” he asks carefully, because he likes to be supportive of sexual adventures but he also prefers to be given a bit of notice.

Eames laughs. “Not unless you want it to be a sex thing, darling. If you want it to be a sex thing, that can definitely be arranged. In fact, I suppose it is a sex thing to the extent that everything involving me and my incredibly hot body is a sex thing.” Eames waggles his eyebrows at him.

Arthur says stupidly, “Oh,” not knowing what else to say.

Eames grins and draws him in against him, a loose easy embrace that Arthur relaxes into automatically, even in his perplexity. Then Eames tsks at him. “It’s your holiday, darling, and you’re not even wearing green.”

Suddenly everything clicks into place. Maybe it should have been obvious from Eames’s outfit, but it isn’t actually Arthur’s holiday and they have a million things on their schedule that Arthur actually cares about so he had hardly been focused on this particular date. “Is it St. Patrick’s Day?” he surmises.

Eames looks comically shocked. “Is it St. Patrick’s Day?” he repeated, indignant. “Is it St. Patrick’s Day? Do not let your brethren hear you say such a thing, lest the wrath of the leprechauns befall us.”

“Leprechauns don’t have wrath,” Arthur says, “nor are they my brethren.”

“Darling leprechaun,” Eames smiles, and kisses the laugh lines by Arthur’s left eye, the crow’s-feet that should prove to Eames he’s not a leprechaun. He whispers in Arthur’s ear, “That’s what you’d say if you weren’t a leprechaun.”

“As usual,” says Arthur drily, “that’s a foolproof argument. You’ve got me there.”

Eames beams at him, kid-on-Christmas-morning. “Go and put a bit of green on, darling.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees. “I can do that.” He kisses Eames briefly, then says, “By the way, no Irish accent? That would have given away the day immediately.”

“Oh, in the way the leprechaun costume didn’t?” drawls Eames. “But yeah, I thought an Irish accent would be unnecessarily over the top.”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, “that definitely would have been the thing to push you over the edge.”

Arthur goes back to the bedroom and replaces his blue tie with a green one, and when he comes back out Eames is in the kitchen waiting for him with coffee.

Arthur takes it gratefully and says, “I get the pot of gold now, and the leprechaun costume, and the four-leaf clovers, but what’s the deal with the prisms?”

“Rainbows,” Eames explains, and gestures to where rainbows from the prisms are dancing all over their kitchen cabinets.

Arthur smiles appreciatively. “Nice. So are you going to spend the whole day dressed as a leprechaun?”

Eames leers in that way that is only charming because it’s coming from Eames. “If you like, kitten.”

“I would love to stay home and play leprechaun sex games with you all day—”

“I don’t know what leprechaun sex games are, but count me in,” says Eames fervently.

“—but I’ve got—”

“Take a look at the board, darling,” says Eames, and points to their glass board in the kitchen on which they keep their schedules, so that they each always know what the other is up to.

When Arthur had gone to bed the night before, the March 17 portion of the board had been crowded with details of the house showings he’d had lined up that day. Now it’s covered with four-leaf clovers. And a couple of dicks. Because Eames never writes on the board without adding a penis or two to it.

Arthur cocks his head at the design and guesses, “Lucky cocks? Is that what that means?”

“Excellent name for our sex club,” says Eames, “but what it really means is I cleared your day for you. See?” Eames points to the rest of the board, where Arthur sees now that his showings have been moved. “I hope you don’t mind, but I really wanted to surprise you. You’re generally impossible to surprise.”

“No, I’m not,” Arthur denies automatically.

Eames gives him a look. “You know everything about everything all the time. It’s difficult to keep in the dark the point man of our lives.”

Arthur feels a little bit bad at that, because he knows that Eames really loves surprises. Both receiving and giving. “Well,” he says inadequately. “I just…” He shrugs, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Eames steps up behind him and slides his arms around his waist and presses his nose into Arthur’s neck. “Do you know why I insist you’re a leprechaun?” he murmurs. “Because I just can’t believe our luck.”

Which should be an incredibly cheesy line but instead, because it’s Eames, makes Arthur melt into a puddle of adoration. Eames is the most ridiculous person Arthur knows—since Eames is currently dressed in a leprechaun suit, Arthur thinks there can be absolutely no doubt of that—but that also means that Eames goes to lengths in the name of romance that Arthur will never stop being in awe of.

Arthur turns in Eames’s arms and says, “This outfit you’ve got on? Definitely a sex thing,” and throws Eames’s hat off his head.

Eames waggles his eyebrows and says in a terrible Irish accent, “Top o’the morning to you, laddie.”

Arthur says, “Fuck, do not talk Irish to me during sex,” but then maybe kind of undercuts the command by climbing Eames like a tree.