Fic: It's the color - a Christmas coda to Amuse-Bouche
It's the color
Wordcount: 990
Another fluffy coda to Amuse-Bouche, Christmas themed for the holidays.
"Well?" Eames practically bounces onto the armchair. "Open it!"
Arthur accepts the exuberantly colored gift (tomato-red wrapping paper and hot pink ribbon with tape stuck all over, which means Eames probably wrapped it himself) and girds himself for what may be another awkward conversation. Eames has many wonderful points--including incredible warmth and generosity of spirit--but unfortunately, his gift-giving skills leave a little something to be desired.
It's not that Eames gives bad gifts, per se, it's just that he lacks a certain sense of proportion. It's probably a product of growing up spectacularly wealthy and having, perhaps, had some past lovers take advantage of his good nature, but it's led to some unfortunate conversations Arthur never thought he'd have.
As an example: for Arthur's birthday, Eames blindfolded him and led him into the driver's seat of a brand-new Lamborghini. Arthur had searched the glove compartment for ten minutes--much to Eames' bemusement--before realizing the car itself was the gift. Arthur had been stunned into silence for so long that Eames was halfway through placing a call to the dealership to trade the car in for a different model before Arthur successfully stopped him.
Arthur had never on earth thought he'd have to seriously sit down with someone and tell them to return a brand new sports car on his behalf. Eames had looked so crestfallen ("But don't you like it, darling? It's the color, isn't it? I knew I should have gone with the matte finish instead!")
And then Arthur had to gently explain that no, he loved the car, but they'd been together less than a year and he simply wasn't comfortable accepting a such an expensive present. Besides, how the hell was Arthur going to go shopping for Eames' birthday after a gift like that?
After a long conversation, Eames seemed to understand (mostly), and they went together to return the car. Arthur watched it go with more than a trace of wistfulness, but knew that in the long run, it was the right decision. Eames had been so distressed by the whole gift-giving debacle, though, that Arthur let him pay for an absurdly expensive ten course dinner and champagne dessert. The dinner had been phenomenal, as had the sex immediately following, so it turned out to be a pretty great birthday afterall.
The gift Eames had given Arthur for their six month anniversary had been slightly less disastrous--but only slightly.
"It's a new flat--or as you Americans so charmingly put it--apartment!" At Arthur's expression, Eames hurriedly added, "But it's a rental, I swear. I didn't buy it this time."
"And how much is the rent, exactly?" When Eames told him, Arthur had nearly fallen over.
"I suppose it's out of the question that I simply cover the monthly expenses?" Eames ventured hopefully.
"I can't, Eames. I'm sorry," Arthur replied. "I do appreciate the sentiment, but it's too much."
Eames had looked terribly sad, then, lower lip jutting out ever so slightly as he traced the grain of the black granite countertop. "I don't want to just buy you a pair of socks and call it a day."
"There's a distance between socks and things that cost more than I make in a year," Arthur said, wrapping his arms around Eames' waist and kissing his shoulder consolingly. "I'm not with you because of the stuff you can buy me. Maybe in ten years we can revisit the Lamborghini, but for now a nice hat and maybe some mittens will do."
Eames had cracked a smile then. "You're going to make me stick around for nine and a half more years?"
"Sure," Arthur said. "By then I'll have saved up enough to buy you a rusty Toyota in return."
Arthur blinks down at the present in his lap, pulling out of the memories. "You didn't need to get me anything, you know," Arthur says even as he takes out the gift-wrapped box he prepared for Eames from behind his back.
It's nothing too exciting, just a set of designer earmuffs Eames had eyed in a store window some months ago. Eames coos with pleasure regardless, and puts them on immediately.
"Well?" Eames prompts again, expectantly.
With some trepidation, Arthur tugs apart the ribbon bow and rips through the wrapping. The box is weighted down at the bottom, filled with something heavy and substantial. He removes the lid and pushes aside hot pink tissue paper to reveal: a book.
A signed, advance copy of Sonya Roy's new cookbook, to be exact.
"Oh my god," Arthur breathes as he lifts it up with trembling fingers. On the inside book flap is the message: Dear Arthur, may you always cook with passion --Sonya. He flips through the glossy pages, takes in the familiar voice that leaps through the words, and tries to decide what recipe he wants to tackle first. Each new recipe catches his eye and his imagination, making his mind race with how it’ll taste, what wine he could possibly pair every dish with.
“Shall I give you two a minute alone?” Eames asks, only the slightest catch in his teasing tone.
“Eames,” Arthur starts, not sure how to put into words all the emotion bubbling up inside him.
Eames examines his fingernails with a studied casualness. “This one might be a bit more difficult to return, seeing as it has your name in it and all.”
Arthur sets the book down and stands. He puts his hands over Eames’ earmuffs and tips his head back for a kiss. “It’s perfect, Eames,” he says. “It’s absolutely perfect.”
The tension in Eames’ expression eases. "I got it right this time?"
"Yes." Arthur kisses his nose. "Thank you."
"I'm going to have to force her to write another book when your birthday rolls around," Eames says after a moment, and Arthur laughs.
fin
Wordcount: 990
Another fluffy coda to Amuse-Bouche, Christmas themed for the holidays.
"Well?" Eames practically bounces onto the armchair. "Open it!"
Arthur accepts the exuberantly colored gift (tomato-red wrapping paper and hot pink ribbon with tape stuck all over, which means Eames probably wrapped it himself) and girds himself for what may be another awkward conversation. Eames has many wonderful points--including incredible warmth and generosity of spirit--but unfortunately, his gift-giving skills leave a little something to be desired.
It's not that Eames gives bad gifts, per se, it's just that he lacks a certain sense of proportion. It's probably a product of growing up spectacularly wealthy and having, perhaps, had some past lovers take advantage of his good nature, but it's led to some unfortunate conversations Arthur never thought he'd have.
As an example: for Arthur's birthday, Eames blindfolded him and led him into the driver's seat of a brand-new Lamborghini. Arthur had searched the glove compartment for ten minutes--much to Eames' bemusement--before realizing the car itself was the gift. Arthur had been stunned into silence for so long that Eames was halfway through placing a call to the dealership to trade the car in for a different model before Arthur successfully stopped him.
Arthur had never on earth thought he'd have to seriously sit down with someone and tell them to return a brand new sports car on his behalf. Eames had looked so crestfallen ("But don't you like it, darling? It's the color, isn't it? I knew I should have gone with the matte finish instead!")
And then Arthur had to gently explain that no, he loved the car, but they'd been together less than a year and he simply wasn't comfortable accepting a such an expensive present. Besides, how the hell was Arthur going to go shopping for Eames' birthday after a gift like that?
After a long conversation, Eames seemed to understand (mostly), and they went together to return the car. Arthur watched it go with more than a trace of wistfulness, but knew that in the long run, it was the right decision. Eames had been so distressed by the whole gift-giving debacle, though, that Arthur let him pay for an absurdly expensive ten course dinner and champagne dessert. The dinner had been phenomenal, as had the sex immediately following, so it turned out to be a pretty great birthday afterall.
The gift Eames had given Arthur for their six month anniversary had been slightly less disastrous--but only slightly.
"It's a new flat--or as you Americans so charmingly put it--apartment!" At Arthur's expression, Eames hurriedly added, "But it's a rental, I swear. I didn't buy it this time."
"And how much is the rent, exactly?" When Eames told him, Arthur had nearly fallen over.
"I suppose it's out of the question that I simply cover the monthly expenses?" Eames ventured hopefully.
"I can't, Eames. I'm sorry," Arthur replied. "I do appreciate the sentiment, but it's too much."
Eames had looked terribly sad, then, lower lip jutting out ever so slightly as he traced the grain of the black granite countertop. "I don't want to just buy you a pair of socks and call it a day."
"There's a distance between socks and things that cost more than I make in a year," Arthur said, wrapping his arms around Eames' waist and kissing his shoulder consolingly. "I'm not with you because of the stuff you can buy me. Maybe in ten years we can revisit the Lamborghini, but for now a nice hat and maybe some mittens will do."
Eames had cracked a smile then. "You're going to make me stick around for nine and a half more years?"
"Sure," Arthur said. "By then I'll have saved up enough to buy you a rusty Toyota in return."
Arthur blinks down at the present in his lap, pulling out of the memories. "You didn't need to get me anything, you know," Arthur says even as he takes out the gift-wrapped box he prepared for Eames from behind his back.
It's nothing too exciting, just a set of designer earmuffs Eames had eyed in a store window some months ago. Eames coos with pleasure regardless, and puts them on immediately.
"Well?" Eames prompts again, expectantly.
With some trepidation, Arthur tugs apart the ribbon bow and rips through the wrapping. The box is weighted down at the bottom, filled with something heavy and substantial. He removes the lid and pushes aside hot pink tissue paper to reveal: a book.
A signed, advance copy of Sonya Roy's new cookbook, to be exact.
"Oh my god," Arthur breathes as he lifts it up with trembling fingers. On the inside book flap is the message: Dear Arthur, may you always cook with passion --Sonya. He flips through the glossy pages, takes in the familiar voice that leaps through the words, and tries to decide what recipe he wants to tackle first. Each new recipe catches his eye and his imagination, making his mind race with how it’ll taste, what wine he could possibly pair every dish with.
“Shall I give you two a minute alone?” Eames asks, only the slightest catch in his teasing tone.
“Eames,” Arthur starts, not sure how to put into words all the emotion bubbling up inside him.
Eames examines his fingernails with a studied casualness. “This one might be a bit more difficult to return, seeing as it has your name in it and all.”
Arthur sets the book down and stands. He puts his hands over Eames’ earmuffs and tips his head back for a kiss. “It’s perfect, Eames,” he says. “It’s absolutely perfect.”
The tension in Eames’ expression eases. "I got it right this time?"
"Yes." Arthur kisses his nose. "Thank you."
"I'm going to have to force her to write another book when your birthday rolls around," Eames says after a moment, and Arthur laughs.
fin