Fic: The Wedding, Part II: Ceremony
The Wedding, Part II: Ceremony
Coda in the Amuse-Bouche universe.
Wordcount: 4000
The setup is flawless.
The castle is abuzz, the hum of pleased guests milling about the usually empty halls, a beautiful string quartet adding to the ambiance. The food and drink is plentiful, the décor understated yet dazzling. Even the dressing room Eames is currently pacing is perfectly appointed: all his favorite food and drink on hand, an adjoining washroom set up with his preferred brand of soap--no detail out of place.
Everything is running on schedule, with all minor mishaps handled in an exceedingly professional manner. They call Abigail Hayworth unparalleled in the art of event-planning and rightly so, for she has truly outdone herself.
Unfortunately, Eames is too busy panicking to appreciate any of her hard work.
He's half-dressed, bare feet sinking into the plush carpeting Abigail had imported and put down. All his attendants and groomsmen have left to take their places in the ceremony, save Mal. No one suspected anything was wrong except for her, naturally.
Despite his agitation, Mal sits serenely on the loveseat, waiting for him to speak.
"What if this is a terrible mistake?" Eames asks. It's been a horrid week of awkward interactions with Arthur's mother and worse meetings with Eames' own parents, which culminated in a tense rehearsal dinner involving both their families. Not everything that could go wrong at that dinner went wrong, but it was a close thing. "What if this is Amy Stevens all over again? What if we break up in a week? A month? A year?"
Mal shrugs philosophically. "It could happen."
He ceases pacing and rounds on her. "That's not what you're supposed to tell me to soothe my worries!"
"Oh, what, should I feed you some dreck about the power of love?"
"He doesn't listen to my music!" Eames shouts. "Or, well, he does now, but it's only because he cares about me. Which is preposterous! Everyone listens to my music. People weep because they are so moved by my music."
"That's true," she says. "People do often weep."
"He doesn't love my music," Eames continues. "I'm a musician and he doesn't-this is my life we're talking about here! My raison d'être!"
"I did tell you years ago he likely doesn’t have a soul. It's why he photographs so well."
"He could-" Eames inhales deeply, shakily. "He could leave me. Like so many others have. He could decide that the constant circus of my life, the invasions of privacy, the paradoxical isolation, aren't worth it. He could stop loving me one day."
"Yes," Mal says, gently. "He could. No love is unconditional, which is why we must never take it for granted, and must strive to be kind and good to the ones we care for every single day. Will we be perfect? No. Will we always succeed? No. But we must try, nevertheless, and be thankful for every day they choose to spend with us."
"That is not comforting," Eames says. "Moderately inspirational, but I hope you realize the extent to which that is profoundly not comforting."
"I am not here to tell you comforting lies," she replies. "This is the truth: Arthur loves you and wants to spend the rest of his life with you."
Eames puts his head in his hands.
"I thought this might happen." Mal stands. "Wait here. I'm going to fetch someone who can help."
Before he can stop her, she disappears, leaving Eames to alternate between fidgeting, pacing, and fretting. He eventually throws himself onto the loveseat and tries to do some deep breathing exercises. The door to the room opens again, and a familiar figure enters the room.
"Hey, baby," Arthur says, open and easy.
As Arthur approaches, Eames tips his head back for a kiss automatically, unthinkingly. In spite of everything else, Eames finds a part of himself put at ease simply from Arthur's warmth, the touch of his hand.
"Why must you be so bloody reassuring?" Eames grumbles half-heartedly. "I'm trying to have a proper anxiety attack here."
"How to be reassuring was the first thing they taught us in Bodyguard 101." Arthur replies, as good-humored as ever. "Next time we see each other, I'll aim for menacing. I can do a mean loom."
Eames manages a wan smile, but as Arthur steps away, Eames feels the smile slip.
"Eames?" Arthur says, brow furrowing in concern. "Is everything okay?"
"Mal didn't tell you why I needed to see you, did she?" At Arthur's headshake, Eames exhales sharply and feels the rising tide of hysteria tightening up his chest again. "Oh god."
"She told me it's an old French tradition that grooms have to talk immediately before a wedding," Arthur says, kneeling down beside the loveseat. "I kind of figured that wasn't entirely true."
Eames chuckles. "I can't believe she's still using that French tradition line. The number of times she's told me to do something in the name of a land to which I don't belong."
"But you are French at heart, where it matters," Arthur says in a shockingly good impression of Mal, tapping at Eames' chest with two fingers. Then Arthur's expression grows serious again. "What's wrong?"
"I've been married before," Eames says, sucking in a deep breath. "Or at least, I would've been, if I hadn't mucked up the paperwork."
"I know." Arthur's eyes are kind and understanding and so lovely Eames has to look away.
"It was a terrible decision and I am bloody lucky everything turned out the way it did." Eames pauses. "This time, I'm fairly certain the barristers dotted every i and crossed every t. This should be permanent. At least--as long as you wish it to be."
"Let me tell you a story," Arthur says. "A couple of weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night to piss. You were dead to the world, asleep, snoring like a freight train with a line of drool dripping down--"
Eames frowns. "This story is not going the way I expected."
Arthur chuckles. "I watched you for a minute and you know what I thought? I thought: I can't wait to go back to sleep and wake up next to you again."
Eames toys with the boutonnière pinned to Arthur's lapel, rearranging the delicate petals as carefully as he can. "Drool and all?"
"Drool and all." Arthur's voice drops conspiratorially. "Do you wanna get out of here?"
"Get out of here?" Eames blinks. "And go--where?"
"Anywhere. Back to London, or we can get started on our honeymoon early."
"What about our guests?"
"They can drink the booze we bought, eat the food, and watch your million musician friends perform," Arthur says with a completely straight face. "I can text Abigail to make the arrangements while we leave through the back way. We could be out of the country within hours."
Eames can't help but smile slightly at the idea of escaping and leaving behind his bewildered, outraged relatives. "And no one will notice that we've not only not married, but also have disappeared in the night?"
"Who cares? It's our wedding, and they'll get over it." Arthur squeezes Eames' hand. "We can postpone, we can elope, we can get married next year in a cardboard box. Whatever you want, baby. I'm game."
Eames shakes his head. "Why do you insist on being so bloody wonderful when I'm trying to have a proper meltdown?"
"Sorry. I can storm out of the room and slam a door if you want. Maybe make some angry pointing gestures."
Eames snorts and folds his hand over Arthur's. "Put that pointer finger away, you'll put out one of the groomsmen's eyes. And you know Peter only has the one."
Arthur laughs. "I'll holster this weapon of mass destruction if you come out with me. I think it's time we walk down some aisle."
Arthur stands, revealing a suit Eames has never seen before: crisp ivory, impeccably cut from waistcoat to jacket to trousers. He's breathtakingly beautiful.
"Oh, darling," Eames whispers. "You look incredible."
The corners of Arthur's eyes crinkle as he smiles. "And you're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen, Eames."
"Arthur." Eames screws up all of his courage to meet Arthur's gaze. "Aren't you scared?"
Without missing a beat, Arthur replies, "Of course I am. I don't want to let you down."
"Let me-" Eames halts. "How could you possibly-"
"I want you to have the wedding you want, that you planned," Arthur says. "I've been practicing our vows and all that ballroom dancing stuff but I'm still not--you know, I'm not as good at that stuff as--"
Abruptly, all the fear seems to melt away. The incredible man standing before Eames is nervous--nervous!--that he won't be able to dance and perform to Eames' standards. As if Eames cared one whit about that nonsense. But then again, Arthur has reason to be concerned--Eames has been focused on a good deal of nonsense in the past few months.
"Mal was right," Eames says quietly. "You are precisely what I needed."
Arthur smiles, a touch hesitant. "Yeah?"
Eames smiles back. "Yes. Let's get married."
Arthur leans over for a kiss so sweet Eames feels his heart flutter. "Okay."
* * * * *
The next hour compresses into a blur of people and music and bright lights.
Eames relinquishes Arthur to Una, who escorts him down the aisle while Eames fidgets and admires how Arthur's arse looks in those trousers.
Then it's Eames' turn. Mal takes his arm and guides him, helpful given that Eames' legs are barely functional at this point.
Eames makes it down the aisle without tripping and she deposits him safely by the officiant. Arthur grins, and everything else drops away. The people with their craning, curious faces, the weight of his parents' disapproval, and the fear that he'll muck it up somehow. With Arthur, Eames is safe and calm and free.
They turn to face the officiant, arms at their sides, standing tall and proper. She seems perfectly lovely, but Eames can hardly hear the words as she delivers her speech. He's conscious of the mischievous nudge of Arthur's foot against his, invisible to the audience.
She prompts them to recite their vows. Eames had a speech planned for this, had written and practiced and studied it beforehand. But what issues forth from his mouth has none of the neat organization, the clever turns of phrase, the brevity he'd hoped for. Perhaps the best that can be said about it is that it's heartfelt, and makes Arthur smile.
Arthur speaks next, simply and plainly, about love and trust and honesty and commitment. Eames can't quite focus on the words, because there are tears sparkling in Arthur's eyes, running down the curves of his darling cheeks. He makes no effort to wipe them away, hands holding on to Eames' firmly.
Eames leans forward, voice pitched low. "And here I thought I'd be the one to be in need of tissues."
Arthur snuffles a bit. "I guess there's still time for you to start."
When they kiss, Eames tastes salt and Arthur's usual winter-mint gum. It doesn't feel any different from other kisses they've shared (he half thought it would), aside from the tears, and Eames leans in to wipe those all away.
There's cheering and clapping throughout the hall, Eames vaguely registers. Una and Mal steer them to where Abigail is waiting with photographers.
After photos, they're shepherded into the banquet hall for more photos. This turns into visits to every table, listening to guests wish them well with hugs, kisses, and the occasional off-color joke. In the case of Eames' relatives, there are many truly regrettable jokes made.
Eventually, Eames and Arthur are allowed to sit and catch their breath. They receive a plate of food that's gone cold but can't set into it, as guests begin calling for toasts. Arthur looks longingly at his steak while Eames' stomach grumbles throughout Dom's toast. But they behave.
After Dom, Una stands despite Arthur's efforts to keep her seated. "I don't have a long speech prepared, although I could tell you all some hilarious stories about my big brother," she says while Arthur tries to hide behind Eames. "Come find me afterwards if you're interested. In the meanwhile, I want to tell my new brother-in-law that I have a strict policy when it comes to giving siblings away: no returns, no refunds, and no exchanges."
A chuckle goes through the room while Arthur shakes his head, smiling.
"Noted," Eames says, squeezing Arthur's hand.
"Now," Una says, lifting her glass in the air. "Let's get blasted!"
There are more speeches, more toasts, and a few impromptu musical performances. There's a brief pause due to a microphone mishap, which Eames and Arthur both take as an opportunity to shovel as much cold food into their mouths as possible.
* * * * *
"Sing, sing!" Eames doesn't know how it gets started, exactly, but one minute he's enjoying a glass of champagne with Arthur, and the next he's being thrust into the middle of the dance floor while inebriated guests shout at him to serenade his not-quite-blushing groom.
Anyone who knows Arthur would realize how misguided an idea this is, which leads Eames to the unfortunate conclusion that it's likely his own familial relations bellowing drunkenly across the reception hall.
Eames tries to say no, backing away from the microphone and refusing in so many different ways the words lose meaning. But the people entreating him will have none of it, badgering until he gives in and meets Arthur's eyes across the room.
Arthur seems amused, and shrugs as if to say, 'give them what they want and they'll leave you alone faster.' Ever the practical one. Eames takes a deep breath, pastes on a smile, and sings.
He settles on something from the first musical they saw together. It's unimaginative, but something that's popular enough for the band to know mostly how to play when he asks. Eames launches into a rendition of a song he's never performed before, inserting plenty of mugging for the crowd in order to distract from the lack of practice and the fact that he and the band never quite match on tempo.
There's applause at the end of the song, but Eames only delivers one brief bow before hurrying back to Arthur's side and taking his solemn kiss as reward. When the band resumes playing and the attention has shifted away again, Arthur leans over to say in a low voice, "Was that from the date where you gave me a handjob?"
Eames smiles. "I gave you a handjob at the opera. The song is from a musical where I blew you in the loo."
"Good show." Arthur winks. "And you sang it better."
"This, my dear, is precisely why I must have you in my life every single day," Eames says, giving Arthur a peck on the cheek. He's tempted to turn it into something more, but great-aunt Camilla is watching rather closely.
The rest of the musical performances begin. Eames knew, abstractly, that a high percentage of his friends are musically inclined, but the exact meaning of that doesn't sink in until ten people in a row have sung or performed on instruments, with another ten patiently awaiting their turns.
The tributes are touching and lovely, if fairly inebriated at this point in the evening. But after the fifteenth soppy song about true love, Eames thinks he might be reaching the limits of his appreciation. There are only so many renditions of Wind Beneath My Wings one can listen to in one evening.
"How much longer am I going to have to keep smiling?" Arthur asks as someone struggles through a tipsy, off-key rendition of the song from Titanic.
"I don't know, but I think my face is going to be permanently frozen into a terrifying mask if this keeps up for much longer," Eames replies.
* * * * *
The evening comes to an end, at long last. Eames says goodnight to Arthur's mother, who deigns to give him a hug. A stiff one, but it'll do. The guests are filing out in various states of intoxication, and Eames takes a look around the hall for Arthur.
What he spots instead of his beloved husband--god, what a strange ring to the word--is a mob of unruly Englishmen arguing with each other. They're red-faced and slurring, arms flailing in what's probably supposed to be a threatening manner.
Then the shouting and chaos begin.
Before Eames can react, he spots Arthur shouldering his way into the middle of the crowd, pushing the men apart. Eames hastens towards them, but is still halfway across the room when one of his uncles loses his balance, colliding headfirst with Arthur as he does.
Eames sighs as security bursts into the hall and begins dispersing the throng. Of course the evening would end in a drunken brawl. It'd been the height of foolish naivete for him to think he could avoid it.
* * * * *
Arthur and Eames make it out of the castle with all their limbs intact, though the side of Arthur's face is puffing up like a grapefruit. Arthur promises it looks worse than it feels, and that he'd much rather return to their honeymoon suite than go to an emergency room.
"I want to make love to my husband on our wedding night," Arthur says, and Eames can hardly deny him that.
* * * * *
"Are you ready?" Eames calls out from behind the bathroom door. He smooths down the hem of his negligee and takes a deep breath, but is careful not to allow it to morph into the yawn it so desperately wants to become. Focus.
"Ready and willing," Arthur calls back, presumably still sitting on the bed.
Eames emerges in a cloud of white chiffon, tiers and tiers of ruffles running across the length of his mostly translucent lingerie. Eames is well aware of how he looks (mostly ridiculous) but couldn't resist: when else is he going to have the opportunity to wear such a profusion of white satin and lace?
"You look like a wedding cake," Arthur says, after a blink.
Eames executes a perfect pirouette. "But a sexy wedding cake, yes?"
"The sexiest." Arthur smiles, beckoning. "Now come here so I can take my first bite."
"Oh my," Eames purrs as he sashays towards the bed. "You will be gentle with me, won't you?"
"I'm going to ravish you," Arthur growls, but the effect is somewhat diminished by the jaw-cracking yawn that bubbles up halfway through. "Sorry, that wasn't--"
"Really, you-" Eames tries to summon up enough faux-indignation to reply, but is interrupted by a yawn of his own instead.
"Come here," Arthur says, trying to hide another yawn as he runs his hands up and down Eames' body, fingers familiar and warm over the silky fabric.
"Yes, we'll--" Eames can't hold back a second yawn as he brings a slipper-clad foot (white satin, kitten heels, ostrich feathers running up the side) onto the bed beside Arthur's hip. "We'll make this a proper wedding night."
Arthur kisses Eames' calf even as his eyes droop tiredly. "Yes. Let's. I'll get you out of that nighty and I'll--I'll take you like an animal. You won't know what hit you."
Eames hitches up his skirt and straddles Arthur's lap, slippers falling loose to the ground. "You know, I practiced a rather intricate striptease involving naughty little surprises and audience participation, but perhaps you'd prefer the short version?"
"Maybe I can catch a longer encore tomorrow," Arthur agrees, and kisses Eames, more fatigue than passion in it.
"That could be arranged." Eames grins against Arthur's lips, cock beginning to stir as the kiss deepens. He sits up and guides one of Arthur's hands underneath his negligee to where an adorable floral thong resides.
In one swift move, Arthur tosses Eames on his back and has said thong down about his ankles. It is, frankly, rather impressive. "How do you wanna play this?" Arthur asks, eyes warm and affectionate. "Am I plundering the virtue of an innocent bride? Should I unwrap you like a present to myself?"
"All of the above sound marvelous," Eames replies. Unfortunately, in the minute or so since he's sank back into bed, the exhaustion from the long day-which began with waking up in a panic over whether he'd had his shoes shined (yes)-has finally manifested across his body as resistance to the very idea of moving. Even for a goal as enticing as making love to Arthur.
"Hm." Arthur plucks at one of the various straps running across Eames' shoulders. "I'm not sure I know how to get you out of this. Is there a zipper somewhere?"
"I think there's-" Eames sits up a bit to puzzle over the silky fabric with Arthur; nothing they try pulling seems to open the garment. "Perhaps-"
Arthur chuckles wryly as his fingers, usually nimble under normal circumstances, fumble with a ribbon. "I think I might be too tired for this."
Eames flops backwards onto the bed, officially defeated. "Are you as exhausted as I am? Because I'm starting to suspect that the rumors that Aunt Matilda is a vampire may have some basis in reality."
"I tried to rescue you. She had you cornered but good, though." Arthur collapses half on the bed and half on Eames.
"I know you did," Eames murmurs as he strokes Arthur's hair. "I felt my soul leaving my body as soon as she started discussing her most recent bowel surgeries."
Arthur laughs and scoots up to rest his head sensibly against the pillows. "I still think the highlight of the evening was those two uncles of yours getting into a fistfight over an argument they had twenty years ago."
"Oh don't remind me of that," Eames groans as he crawls up as well. "Uncle Edward hit your beautiful face."
"I think it might be more accurate to say he fell into my beautiful face," Arthur says, seeming amused as he thumbs his bruised jaw. "I'm surprised he managed to stay upright as long as he did."
"I had such plans for tonight." Eames sighs, tucking his cheek against Arthur's chest. "We were going to sneak out of the reception early, I was going to drive you mad with a striptease I've been working on for ages, and we were going to fuck so passionately and for so long the bed was going to fall apart. Instead, I was waylaid by aggressive relatives during my every attempt at escape. Then you were dragged into an absurd brawl featuring fat and disorderly old men."
"I know, baby." Arthur's voice is a comforting rumble as he kisses the top of Eames' head. "But we're married now, which means we have the honeymoon and the rest of our lives to try to break a bed with our fucking, right?"
"Arthur, really." Eames lifts his head to meet Arthur's eyes. "I am attempting to wallow and pout. What I want is for you to mindlessly agree with my sour mood, not improve it with humor and optimism."
"Oh, okay." Arthur puts on a somber expression. "This is a catastrophe. I will never see you take off your clothes in a sexy manner again. The rest of our lives will be filled with rote, passionless fucking that'll never come close to breaking a bed. Everything is ruined."
"There, you see?" Eames says, unable to tamp down the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Allow the spirit of my absurdity to move you."
"Hey, you wanna know a secret?" Eames can feel the smile on Arthur's lips as he whispers in Eames' ear. "I'm in bed with a married man."
"How scandalous," Eames replies, lifting their hands to admire first his own ring, then Arthur's. "Do you suppose his spouse is the jealous type?"
"Maybe. I hear he's in love."
"A man in love with his own husband?" Eames turns his head to brush his lips against Arthur's. "Whoever heard of such a thing?"
Fin
Coda in the Amuse-Bouche universe.
Wordcount: 4000
The setup is flawless.
The castle is abuzz, the hum of pleased guests milling about the usually empty halls, a beautiful string quartet adding to the ambiance. The food and drink is plentiful, the décor understated yet dazzling. Even the dressing room Eames is currently pacing is perfectly appointed: all his favorite food and drink on hand, an adjoining washroom set up with his preferred brand of soap--no detail out of place.
Everything is running on schedule, with all minor mishaps handled in an exceedingly professional manner. They call Abigail Hayworth unparalleled in the art of event-planning and rightly so, for she has truly outdone herself.
Unfortunately, Eames is too busy panicking to appreciate any of her hard work.
He's half-dressed, bare feet sinking into the plush carpeting Abigail had imported and put down. All his attendants and groomsmen have left to take their places in the ceremony, save Mal. No one suspected anything was wrong except for her, naturally.
Despite his agitation, Mal sits serenely on the loveseat, waiting for him to speak.
"What if this is a terrible mistake?" Eames asks. It's been a horrid week of awkward interactions with Arthur's mother and worse meetings with Eames' own parents, which culminated in a tense rehearsal dinner involving both their families. Not everything that could go wrong at that dinner went wrong, but it was a close thing. "What if this is Amy Stevens all over again? What if we break up in a week? A month? A year?"
Mal shrugs philosophically. "It could happen."
He ceases pacing and rounds on her. "That's not what you're supposed to tell me to soothe my worries!"
"Oh, what, should I feed you some dreck about the power of love?"
"He doesn't listen to my music!" Eames shouts. "Or, well, he does now, but it's only because he cares about me. Which is preposterous! Everyone listens to my music. People weep because they are so moved by my music."
"That's true," she says. "People do often weep."
"He doesn't love my music," Eames continues. "I'm a musician and he doesn't-this is my life we're talking about here! My raison d'être!"
"I did tell you years ago he likely doesn’t have a soul. It's why he photographs so well."
"He could-" Eames inhales deeply, shakily. "He could leave me. Like so many others have. He could decide that the constant circus of my life, the invasions of privacy, the paradoxical isolation, aren't worth it. He could stop loving me one day."
"Yes," Mal says, gently. "He could. No love is unconditional, which is why we must never take it for granted, and must strive to be kind and good to the ones we care for every single day. Will we be perfect? No. Will we always succeed? No. But we must try, nevertheless, and be thankful for every day they choose to spend with us."
"That is not comforting," Eames says. "Moderately inspirational, but I hope you realize the extent to which that is profoundly not comforting."
"I am not here to tell you comforting lies," she replies. "This is the truth: Arthur loves you and wants to spend the rest of his life with you."
Eames puts his head in his hands.
"I thought this might happen." Mal stands. "Wait here. I'm going to fetch someone who can help."
Before he can stop her, she disappears, leaving Eames to alternate between fidgeting, pacing, and fretting. He eventually throws himself onto the loveseat and tries to do some deep breathing exercises. The door to the room opens again, and a familiar figure enters the room.
"Hey, baby," Arthur says, open and easy.
As Arthur approaches, Eames tips his head back for a kiss automatically, unthinkingly. In spite of everything else, Eames finds a part of himself put at ease simply from Arthur's warmth, the touch of his hand.
"Why must you be so bloody reassuring?" Eames grumbles half-heartedly. "I'm trying to have a proper anxiety attack here."
"How to be reassuring was the first thing they taught us in Bodyguard 101." Arthur replies, as good-humored as ever. "Next time we see each other, I'll aim for menacing. I can do a mean loom."
Eames manages a wan smile, but as Arthur steps away, Eames feels the smile slip.
"Eames?" Arthur says, brow furrowing in concern. "Is everything okay?"
"Mal didn't tell you why I needed to see you, did she?" At Arthur's headshake, Eames exhales sharply and feels the rising tide of hysteria tightening up his chest again. "Oh god."
"She told me it's an old French tradition that grooms have to talk immediately before a wedding," Arthur says, kneeling down beside the loveseat. "I kind of figured that wasn't entirely true."
Eames chuckles. "I can't believe she's still using that French tradition line. The number of times she's told me to do something in the name of a land to which I don't belong."
"But you are French at heart, where it matters," Arthur says in a shockingly good impression of Mal, tapping at Eames' chest with two fingers. Then Arthur's expression grows serious again. "What's wrong?"
"I've been married before," Eames says, sucking in a deep breath. "Or at least, I would've been, if I hadn't mucked up the paperwork."
"I know." Arthur's eyes are kind and understanding and so lovely Eames has to look away.
"It was a terrible decision and I am bloody lucky everything turned out the way it did." Eames pauses. "This time, I'm fairly certain the barristers dotted every i and crossed every t. This should be permanent. At least--as long as you wish it to be."
"Let me tell you a story," Arthur says. "A couple of weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night to piss. You were dead to the world, asleep, snoring like a freight train with a line of drool dripping down--"
Eames frowns. "This story is not going the way I expected."
Arthur chuckles. "I watched you for a minute and you know what I thought? I thought: I can't wait to go back to sleep and wake up next to you again."
Eames toys with the boutonnière pinned to Arthur's lapel, rearranging the delicate petals as carefully as he can. "Drool and all?"
"Drool and all." Arthur's voice drops conspiratorially. "Do you wanna get out of here?"
"Get out of here?" Eames blinks. "And go--where?"
"Anywhere. Back to London, or we can get started on our honeymoon early."
"What about our guests?"
"They can drink the booze we bought, eat the food, and watch your million musician friends perform," Arthur says with a completely straight face. "I can text Abigail to make the arrangements while we leave through the back way. We could be out of the country within hours."
Eames can't help but smile slightly at the idea of escaping and leaving behind his bewildered, outraged relatives. "And no one will notice that we've not only not married, but also have disappeared in the night?"
"Who cares? It's our wedding, and they'll get over it." Arthur squeezes Eames' hand. "We can postpone, we can elope, we can get married next year in a cardboard box. Whatever you want, baby. I'm game."
Eames shakes his head. "Why do you insist on being so bloody wonderful when I'm trying to have a proper meltdown?"
"Sorry. I can storm out of the room and slam a door if you want. Maybe make some angry pointing gestures."
Eames snorts and folds his hand over Arthur's. "Put that pointer finger away, you'll put out one of the groomsmen's eyes. And you know Peter only has the one."
Arthur laughs. "I'll holster this weapon of mass destruction if you come out with me. I think it's time we walk down some aisle."
Arthur stands, revealing a suit Eames has never seen before: crisp ivory, impeccably cut from waistcoat to jacket to trousers. He's breathtakingly beautiful.
"Oh, darling," Eames whispers. "You look incredible."
The corners of Arthur's eyes crinkle as he smiles. "And you're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen, Eames."
"Arthur." Eames screws up all of his courage to meet Arthur's gaze. "Aren't you scared?"
Without missing a beat, Arthur replies, "Of course I am. I don't want to let you down."
"Let me-" Eames halts. "How could you possibly-"
"I want you to have the wedding you want, that you planned," Arthur says. "I've been practicing our vows and all that ballroom dancing stuff but I'm still not--you know, I'm not as good at that stuff as--"
Abruptly, all the fear seems to melt away. The incredible man standing before Eames is nervous--nervous!--that he won't be able to dance and perform to Eames' standards. As if Eames cared one whit about that nonsense. But then again, Arthur has reason to be concerned--Eames has been focused on a good deal of nonsense in the past few months.
"Mal was right," Eames says quietly. "You are precisely what I needed."
Arthur smiles, a touch hesitant. "Yeah?"
Eames smiles back. "Yes. Let's get married."
Arthur leans over for a kiss so sweet Eames feels his heart flutter. "Okay."
* * * * *
The next hour compresses into a blur of people and music and bright lights.
Eames relinquishes Arthur to Una, who escorts him down the aisle while Eames fidgets and admires how Arthur's arse looks in those trousers.
Then it's Eames' turn. Mal takes his arm and guides him, helpful given that Eames' legs are barely functional at this point.
Eames makes it down the aisle without tripping and she deposits him safely by the officiant. Arthur grins, and everything else drops away. The people with their craning, curious faces, the weight of his parents' disapproval, and the fear that he'll muck it up somehow. With Arthur, Eames is safe and calm and free.
They turn to face the officiant, arms at their sides, standing tall and proper. She seems perfectly lovely, but Eames can hardly hear the words as she delivers her speech. He's conscious of the mischievous nudge of Arthur's foot against his, invisible to the audience.
She prompts them to recite their vows. Eames had a speech planned for this, had written and practiced and studied it beforehand. But what issues forth from his mouth has none of the neat organization, the clever turns of phrase, the brevity he'd hoped for. Perhaps the best that can be said about it is that it's heartfelt, and makes Arthur smile.
Arthur speaks next, simply and plainly, about love and trust and honesty and commitment. Eames can't quite focus on the words, because there are tears sparkling in Arthur's eyes, running down the curves of his darling cheeks. He makes no effort to wipe them away, hands holding on to Eames' firmly.
Eames leans forward, voice pitched low. "And here I thought I'd be the one to be in need of tissues."
Arthur snuffles a bit. "I guess there's still time for you to start."
When they kiss, Eames tastes salt and Arthur's usual winter-mint gum. It doesn't feel any different from other kisses they've shared (he half thought it would), aside from the tears, and Eames leans in to wipe those all away.
There's cheering and clapping throughout the hall, Eames vaguely registers. Una and Mal steer them to where Abigail is waiting with photographers.
After photos, they're shepherded into the banquet hall for more photos. This turns into visits to every table, listening to guests wish them well with hugs, kisses, and the occasional off-color joke. In the case of Eames' relatives, there are many truly regrettable jokes made.
Eventually, Eames and Arthur are allowed to sit and catch their breath. They receive a plate of food that's gone cold but can't set into it, as guests begin calling for toasts. Arthur looks longingly at his steak while Eames' stomach grumbles throughout Dom's toast. But they behave.
After Dom, Una stands despite Arthur's efforts to keep her seated. "I don't have a long speech prepared, although I could tell you all some hilarious stories about my big brother," she says while Arthur tries to hide behind Eames. "Come find me afterwards if you're interested. In the meanwhile, I want to tell my new brother-in-law that I have a strict policy when it comes to giving siblings away: no returns, no refunds, and no exchanges."
A chuckle goes through the room while Arthur shakes his head, smiling.
"Noted," Eames says, squeezing Arthur's hand.
"Now," Una says, lifting her glass in the air. "Let's get blasted!"
There are more speeches, more toasts, and a few impromptu musical performances. There's a brief pause due to a microphone mishap, which Eames and Arthur both take as an opportunity to shovel as much cold food into their mouths as possible.
* * * * *
"Sing, sing!" Eames doesn't know how it gets started, exactly, but one minute he's enjoying a glass of champagne with Arthur, and the next he's being thrust into the middle of the dance floor while inebriated guests shout at him to serenade his not-quite-blushing groom.
Anyone who knows Arthur would realize how misguided an idea this is, which leads Eames to the unfortunate conclusion that it's likely his own familial relations bellowing drunkenly across the reception hall.
Eames tries to say no, backing away from the microphone and refusing in so many different ways the words lose meaning. But the people entreating him will have none of it, badgering until he gives in and meets Arthur's eyes across the room.
Arthur seems amused, and shrugs as if to say, 'give them what they want and they'll leave you alone faster.' Ever the practical one. Eames takes a deep breath, pastes on a smile, and sings.
He settles on something from the first musical they saw together. It's unimaginative, but something that's popular enough for the band to know mostly how to play when he asks. Eames launches into a rendition of a song he's never performed before, inserting plenty of mugging for the crowd in order to distract from the lack of practice and the fact that he and the band never quite match on tempo.
There's applause at the end of the song, but Eames only delivers one brief bow before hurrying back to Arthur's side and taking his solemn kiss as reward. When the band resumes playing and the attention has shifted away again, Arthur leans over to say in a low voice, "Was that from the date where you gave me a handjob?"
Eames smiles. "I gave you a handjob at the opera. The song is from a musical where I blew you in the loo."
"Good show." Arthur winks. "And you sang it better."
"This, my dear, is precisely why I must have you in my life every single day," Eames says, giving Arthur a peck on the cheek. He's tempted to turn it into something more, but great-aunt Camilla is watching rather closely.
The rest of the musical performances begin. Eames knew, abstractly, that a high percentage of his friends are musically inclined, but the exact meaning of that doesn't sink in until ten people in a row have sung or performed on instruments, with another ten patiently awaiting their turns.
The tributes are touching and lovely, if fairly inebriated at this point in the evening. But after the fifteenth soppy song about true love, Eames thinks he might be reaching the limits of his appreciation. There are only so many renditions of Wind Beneath My Wings one can listen to in one evening.
"How much longer am I going to have to keep smiling?" Arthur asks as someone struggles through a tipsy, off-key rendition of the song from Titanic.
"I don't know, but I think my face is going to be permanently frozen into a terrifying mask if this keeps up for much longer," Eames replies.
* * * * *
The evening comes to an end, at long last. Eames says goodnight to Arthur's mother, who deigns to give him a hug. A stiff one, but it'll do. The guests are filing out in various states of intoxication, and Eames takes a look around the hall for Arthur.
What he spots instead of his beloved husband--god, what a strange ring to the word--is a mob of unruly Englishmen arguing with each other. They're red-faced and slurring, arms flailing in what's probably supposed to be a threatening manner.
Then the shouting and chaos begin.
Before Eames can react, he spots Arthur shouldering his way into the middle of the crowd, pushing the men apart. Eames hastens towards them, but is still halfway across the room when one of his uncles loses his balance, colliding headfirst with Arthur as he does.
Eames sighs as security bursts into the hall and begins dispersing the throng. Of course the evening would end in a drunken brawl. It'd been the height of foolish naivete for him to think he could avoid it.
* * * * *
Arthur and Eames make it out of the castle with all their limbs intact, though the side of Arthur's face is puffing up like a grapefruit. Arthur promises it looks worse than it feels, and that he'd much rather return to their honeymoon suite than go to an emergency room.
"I want to make love to my husband on our wedding night," Arthur says, and Eames can hardly deny him that.
* * * * *
"Are you ready?" Eames calls out from behind the bathroom door. He smooths down the hem of his negligee and takes a deep breath, but is careful not to allow it to morph into the yawn it so desperately wants to become. Focus.
"Ready and willing," Arthur calls back, presumably still sitting on the bed.
Eames emerges in a cloud of white chiffon, tiers and tiers of ruffles running across the length of his mostly translucent lingerie. Eames is well aware of how he looks (mostly ridiculous) but couldn't resist: when else is he going to have the opportunity to wear such a profusion of white satin and lace?
"You look like a wedding cake," Arthur says, after a blink.
Eames executes a perfect pirouette. "But a sexy wedding cake, yes?"
"The sexiest." Arthur smiles, beckoning. "Now come here so I can take my first bite."
"Oh my," Eames purrs as he sashays towards the bed. "You will be gentle with me, won't you?"
"I'm going to ravish you," Arthur growls, but the effect is somewhat diminished by the jaw-cracking yawn that bubbles up halfway through. "Sorry, that wasn't--"
"Really, you-" Eames tries to summon up enough faux-indignation to reply, but is interrupted by a yawn of his own instead.
"Come here," Arthur says, trying to hide another yawn as he runs his hands up and down Eames' body, fingers familiar and warm over the silky fabric.
"Yes, we'll--" Eames can't hold back a second yawn as he brings a slipper-clad foot (white satin, kitten heels, ostrich feathers running up the side) onto the bed beside Arthur's hip. "We'll make this a proper wedding night."
Arthur kisses Eames' calf even as his eyes droop tiredly. "Yes. Let's. I'll get you out of that nighty and I'll--I'll take you like an animal. You won't know what hit you."
Eames hitches up his skirt and straddles Arthur's lap, slippers falling loose to the ground. "You know, I practiced a rather intricate striptease involving naughty little surprises and audience participation, but perhaps you'd prefer the short version?"
"Maybe I can catch a longer encore tomorrow," Arthur agrees, and kisses Eames, more fatigue than passion in it.
"That could be arranged." Eames grins against Arthur's lips, cock beginning to stir as the kiss deepens. He sits up and guides one of Arthur's hands underneath his negligee to where an adorable floral thong resides.
In one swift move, Arthur tosses Eames on his back and has said thong down about his ankles. It is, frankly, rather impressive. "How do you wanna play this?" Arthur asks, eyes warm and affectionate. "Am I plundering the virtue of an innocent bride? Should I unwrap you like a present to myself?"
"All of the above sound marvelous," Eames replies. Unfortunately, in the minute or so since he's sank back into bed, the exhaustion from the long day-which began with waking up in a panic over whether he'd had his shoes shined (yes)-has finally manifested across his body as resistance to the very idea of moving. Even for a goal as enticing as making love to Arthur.
"Hm." Arthur plucks at one of the various straps running across Eames' shoulders. "I'm not sure I know how to get you out of this. Is there a zipper somewhere?"
"I think there's-" Eames sits up a bit to puzzle over the silky fabric with Arthur; nothing they try pulling seems to open the garment. "Perhaps-"
Arthur chuckles wryly as his fingers, usually nimble under normal circumstances, fumble with a ribbon. "I think I might be too tired for this."
Eames flops backwards onto the bed, officially defeated. "Are you as exhausted as I am? Because I'm starting to suspect that the rumors that Aunt Matilda is a vampire may have some basis in reality."
"I tried to rescue you. She had you cornered but good, though." Arthur collapses half on the bed and half on Eames.
"I know you did," Eames murmurs as he strokes Arthur's hair. "I felt my soul leaving my body as soon as she started discussing her most recent bowel surgeries."
Arthur laughs and scoots up to rest his head sensibly against the pillows. "I still think the highlight of the evening was those two uncles of yours getting into a fistfight over an argument they had twenty years ago."
"Oh don't remind me of that," Eames groans as he crawls up as well. "Uncle Edward hit your beautiful face."
"I think it might be more accurate to say he fell into my beautiful face," Arthur says, seeming amused as he thumbs his bruised jaw. "I'm surprised he managed to stay upright as long as he did."
"I had such plans for tonight." Eames sighs, tucking his cheek against Arthur's chest. "We were going to sneak out of the reception early, I was going to drive you mad with a striptease I've been working on for ages, and we were going to fuck so passionately and for so long the bed was going to fall apart. Instead, I was waylaid by aggressive relatives during my every attempt at escape. Then you were dragged into an absurd brawl featuring fat and disorderly old men."
"I know, baby." Arthur's voice is a comforting rumble as he kisses the top of Eames' head. "But we're married now, which means we have the honeymoon and the rest of our lives to try to break a bed with our fucking, right?"
"Arthur, really." Eames lifts his head to meet Arthur's eyes. "I am attempting to wallow and pout. What I want is for you to mindlessly agree with my sour mood, not improve it with humor and optimism."
"Oh, okay." Arthur puts on a somber expression. "This is a catastrophe. I will never see you take off your clothes in a sexy manner again. The rest of our lives will be filled with rote, passionless fucking that'll never come close to breaking a bed. Everything is ruined."
"There, you see?" Eames says, unable to tamp down the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Allow the spirit of my absurdity to move you."
"Hey, you wanna know a secret?" Eames can feel the smile on Arthur's lips as he whispers in Eames' ear. "I'm in bed with a married man."
"How scandalous," Eames replies, lifting their hands to admire first his own ring, then Arthur's. "Do you suppose his spouse is the jealous type?"
"Maybe. I hear he's in love."
"A man in love with his own husband?" Eames turns his head to brush his lips against Arthur's. "Whoever heard of such a thing?"
Fin