[inception] till death do us part [1/9]
'Till Death Do Us Part (And Somehow That Seems To Be Sooner Than Expected)
Part I: I take you
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Nothing really prepares Arthur for this day.
Or maybe he should have seen this coming when Mal told him she’d arranged for him and Eames to have some consultation sessions with her father, a renowned marriage counsellor. He knows Mal’s father has always been successful in helping his clients sort through their problems.
But really, this is unnecessary. Like he and Eames need marriage counselling, hah!
“Well, here we go, boys,” says Miles. “Welcome to your first session. How are you both doing today?”
Arthur fidgets in his seat, straightens his tie and fixes his gaze on the painting hanging on the wall behind the desk. From the corner of his eye, he can see Eames leaning on his sofa, and crosses his right leg over the left.
“Tell me again; why are we doing this?” Eames asks Miles, tapping his finger on the small table separating his sofa from Arthur’s. “Arthur, do we really need to do this?” he turns to Arthur and back to Miles. “Mal put us up to this, just so you know.”
Arthur sighs and smiles apologetically to Miles, if that small tug on the corner of his lips can even be counted as a smile. He reaches out to Eames’ tapping left hand and clutches it. “Stop that and just answer the question,” he says without turning to Eames. He feels Eames’ fingers interlace themselves around his.
“I have a degree in bloody Psychology…” He hears Eames mumble.
Miles gives the pair an understanding smile. “You can blame Mal for this, Mr. Eames,” he says. “Nevertheless, you didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to and yet, here you are.”
Eames clears his throat and tightens his hold on Arthur’s fingers. “Yeah, we didn’t have to do this but… you know… Mal put us up to this.”
“You know she can be really persistent when she wants to,” Arthur says.
“She’s my daughter, of course I know, Arthur. Well, the sooner we start this session the sooner you can go home.”
“Of course. Let’s get started,” Arthur says, taking his hand back from clutching Eames’. Fortunately, the tapping doesn’t continue. Arthur hates how much Eames likes to fidget.
“All right, first question, how long have you two been married?”
“Four years,” Eames answers confidently.
“…Five,” Arthur says. Miles gives him a sympathetic look, which looks exactly like the one Mal gave him a couple of weeks ago when he said Eames and I don’t need any marriage counselling, for God’s sake, Mal.
“Uh, yes, five,” Eames rectifies his answer.
“On the scale of one to ten, how happy you are as a couple?”
“Eight,” Arthur answers automatically.
“Wait, wait. One as in really happy, and ten as in bloody miserable, or the other way around?” Eames asks.
Arthur’s eyebrow twitches for a second. Miles’ smile is still intact. Arthur doesn’t know he could still smile like that in this situation.
“Just respond instinctively to the question,” Miles says patiently.
“Oh, okay.” Eames turns to Arthur. “Ready?”
Arthur nods.
“Eight,” both of them say simultaneously.
Miles jots down something on his notepad and turns up to look at them again. “On the scale of one to ten, how happy would you say your partner is?”
“Eight,” Eames answers.
“Wait… Are we allowed fractions?” Arthur asks.
“Instinctively, Arthur,” both Eames and Miles say.
Arthur clears his throat and leans back a bit. “All right, I’m all set. Ready?” He turns to Eames.
“Ready.”
“Eight,” both of them say again.
One of Miles’ eyebrows quirks up and Arthur gives him an uncomfortable smile while Eames gives him his most charming one.
“How often do you have sex?” Miles continues.
Something clogs up in Arthur’s throat and he freezes in his seat. He could feel Eames is freezing in his as well. “I-I don’t understand the question,” he stutters.
“Yeah, I’m a little bit lost here. Is this a one to ten thing?” Eames asks.
“Right. I mean, if it is, does ‘one’ mean ‘not much’ or ‘one’ as in ‘nothing’? Because strictly speaking zero would mean nothing.”
“Exactly. And if we don’t know what one is, what’s ten?”
“Right. Ten as in…” Arthur clears his throat and looks into the painting hanging on the wall again,”…you know.”
“Constant. Unrelenting.”
“Twenty four seven. Without a break. For anything…”
“Not even to eat.”
Arthur can see Miles is trying hard not to roll his eyes. So Arthur shuts his mouth and hopes Eames does as well. He does.
“This is not a one to ten scenario. It’s a straight question. How often do you have sex?” Miles asks again.
It feels as though someone is pushing the ‘pause’ button and Arthur can’t even move much more answer the question. Because truthfully, he doesn’t even remember the last time he and Eames had sex. Neither does Eames, it seems, if his lack of answer was any indication.
“How about this week?” Miles asks again after twenty painful seconds of silence.
“Uhm… Including the weekend?”
Arthur wants to strangle Eames for asking that.
“Including the weekend.”
Another bout of awkward silence and Miles sighs. “All right, well… describe to me how you two first met.”
Finally, a question that he could answer without falling into a lapse of awkward silence. “It was in Kenya,” Arthur says, smiling wilfully at the memory and looks down to his lap to hide it.
“Mombasa,” Eames corrects. “Four years ago.”
“…Five.“
“Right, four or five years ago.”
Mombasa, Kenya, four or five years ago…
It was a really hot day. Eames was relaxing at the hotel’s lounge nursing his drink (ice tea). His plain white flannel shirt was unbuttoned halfway and his shades perched on his head. The large ceiling fan up above did nothing to quell the summer heat. There was a small ruckus in front of the hotel and Eames could see several men in police uniforms talking to the bellboys.
One of the receptionists walked out from behind the desk and approached the crowd. Eames stopped him when he passed the lounge area.
“I’m sorry, but what’s happening?” Eames asked, pointing to the crowd in front of the lobby.
“It seems a government official was killed today,” the front desk clerk answered. “The police are rounding up tourists who travel alone. Are you alone, sir?”
Eames didn’t answer. He stood up when the police swarmed into the lobby and starting to question every guest. Eames drank down his ice tea and prepared to leave, his right hand resting on the gun tucked behind his back, under his coat, turning off the safety. He stopped short when his eyes locked with another pair of bright brown eyes, belonging to a man dressed in white pinstriped oxford shirt-untucked with the sleeves rolled up, khaki trousers, and a messenger bag hanging across his shoulder, who had just entered the lobby. One of the police officers immediately drew up on him.
Another approached Eames, “Are you alone, sir?” he asked.
Eames didn’t answer, his eyes still locked firmly with the other man’s. A small nod was exchanged. Turning on the gun’s safety again, Eames pulled out his hand from his back. The man smiled up to the police officer, pointing to where Eames was.
“He’s with me,” Eames says, walking towards the man. “We’re friends.”
The police officers frowned but let them go to question a woman who had just entered the lobby.
Eames grabbed the man’s elbow and motioned him towards the second floor where his room was. They didn’t speak to each other during their walk Eames’ brain was ransacked by the waft of cinnamon, musk and faint smell of sun coming from the man walking beside him. He eyed the curls of dark hair falling over the man’s eyes and somehow felt a sudden urge to tuck the hair behind the pointy ear. If the small coil of fluttering in his stomach was any indication, Eames knew he was falling into a deep shit.
The police had started to knock on the doors behind them. Eames quickly shoved the man inside when they reached his room and they both leaned into the closed door. Eames could feel his heart beat noisily in his chest, from the spark of adrenaline bursting out and from suddenly realising the close proximity between himself and the man.
He looked over to the other man, his heart skipped a beat when the man gave him a small smile resulting in the appearance of a dimple. It felt like seeing the first ray of sun on the hill at the back of his parents’ house.
“Thank you,” the man said to him.
“You’re very much welcome, … uh?” Eames cocked an eyebrow and tried not to look so eager when he offered his hand.
The man looked at Eames’ hand, contemplating, and then he bit his lower lip (Eames had to bite his own tongue to force down the small keening sound threatening to come out of his throat). He took Eames’ hand and shook it. “I’m Arthur.”
Eames grinned and his hold on Arthur’s hand lingered a little bit too long. “Eames.”
--
When Arthur accepted the job, he truthfully never expected that he would find himself staring into plump lips that seemed able to temp Saints into sin. When he found out that he was to go Kenya for his job, he merely expected the heat and some annoying bureaucracy with the government officials, and, well, perhaps he might have expected to get to see some bits of deserts. But not this… charming gentleman in front of him.
For the record, Arthur was not really fond of the idea of love at first sight, but lust at first sight was another matter. It was simply human nature. And if he wanted to have some fun, so to speak, after his taxing assignment, surely no one could blame him? After all, the guy practically saved him from dealing with those nosy policemen, so it was only polite to thank him.
It only made things all the better that this Eames person was so damn… attractive.
“They’re gone,” Eames told him. He was leaning a tad closer to Arthur, keen eyes inspecting him and a slow smirk blooming on his face. “Good riddance, I’d say.”
“Indeed,” Arthur said. “Thank you, again.”
“Those police officers can be troublesome. Really, one might think that one can’t have a vacation in peace nowadays,” Eames told him. He walked further inside the room before turning his body to face Arthur again. “Though, perhaps they’ve done a good deed this time.”
Raising his eyebrow, Arthur silently questioned his companion. And under his scrutiny, Eames laughed. He had a lovely laugh, so carefree and intoxicating.
“I got to meet you didn’t I?” Eames said with a wink.
Arthur knows seduction when he sees it. And this time, he could say that Eames’ advance was not something that he was going to decline.
Smiling, he approached Eames. “I wonder if I might invite you for some drinks… as a thank you, since you did help me back then.”
Returning his smile, Eames said, “I’d love to join you for a couple of drinks. And perhaps…”
“Yes?” Arthur said, a bit hastily.
“Perhaps we also can get to know each other better,” Eames said. “What do you say?”
Staring into Eames’s eyes, and noticing the meaning laced in his smile, Arthur could see just what he meant by ‘getting to know each other better’.
Smirking, he said: “I say, that’s a wonderful idea.”
--
“So you’re doing what exactly?” Arthur asked, almost shouting because the bar was crowded with too many people (tourists and locals alike) and the music blared too loud in the background.
Eames leaned closer to Arthur. “Art. I’m an art curator. I own a gallery back in New York,” he answered. He pushed himself away and smirked at the tinge of pink appearing on Arthur’s ear. The afternoon, and now night, had been more enjoyable with Arthur’s company. At first Arthur had been stiff and had wanted to talk much. But after a drink or two, he had started to loosen up.
Eames waved to the bartender and ordered another shot of tequila for the both of them. They had already drunk three shots each and Eames could already feel his body tingling with heat and something else, too.
“I’m an architect,” Arthur said, slurring, almost. “Just opened a firm back in New York too.”
Their orders came and Eames pushed one of the shots into Arthur’s hand. He shifted his barstool a little bit closer to Arthur under the pretence of trying to hear Arthur’s words more clearly.
“New York is a beautiful city,” Eames said. He took his shot and licked the salt on the rim, eyes never flickering away from Arthur’s. He downed the shot in one gulp and reached out to get the lime, but it wasn’t there. He looked away from Arthur to complain to the bartender. The bitter taste of the tequila was biting his tongue. Suddenly a hand clutched his chin and the tangy smell of lime wafted through his nose from those long slender fingers. Eames grinned and turned to face Arthur again.
Arthur had the quarter of a lime in the hand that wasn’t clutching Eames’ face. He smirked and slowly, tantalisingly, bit the lime, sucking the juice. Eames gulped and felt like his trousers were a tad tighter. In a slow but determined motion, Arthur discarded the lime, smiled at Eames and dragged his face forward.
Eames smelt cinnamon, musk, and lime before their lips met. His hands moved around to Arthur’s waist, dragging him closer. He closed his eyes and relaxed when Arthur’s fingers gripped the back of his neck tightly. The kiss was a little bit sloppy and wet, with Arthur’s tongue lapping his lips and literally fucking his mouth. He tilted his head to allow their lips to move and fill any gaps, letting Arthur dominate their kiss while he settled to enjoy the tingling heat coiling in his stomach and slowly making its way down to his groin.
There was a groan, Arthur’s. And somehow Arthur had moved to sit on his lap, body flushed against his, and his arms circling around his neck.
Perhaps Eames was a little drunk and maybe if they were both sober, the thought of taking this snogging session back to his room wouldn’t sound this appealing. Nevertheless, when they broke the kiss for air and he looked into Arthur’s eyes, their foreheads resting against each other so that he could see the dimples formed from the big smile Arthur was sporting right now, somehow he just knew.
“I can hear your heart racing, Arthur,” he whispered. With every syllable his lips touched Arthur’s, and he couldn’t care less about the people wolf-whistling and murmuring around them.
“Save those corny lines for other times when I want romance.” Arthur nipped Eames’ lower lips. He pulled Eames into another searing kiss. The kiss was full of want and need and lust and everything else.
“So you dare to think there would be a next time?” Eames said in between peppering Arthur’s jaw with open mouthed kisses.
“Depends.” Arthur grabbed a hold of Eames’ short hair and tugged him away from his throat. “Want to take the dare?”
“Oh, yes, and I will blow your world so thoroughly you’ll always crave for my touch afterwards.”
“Like I said, save it.” Arthur smirked devilishly. “And just prove it,” he breathed into Eames’ mouth.
“Cross my heart.”
The smirk turned into a softer smile. Eames felt his chest fill over the brim with the heat radiating from that smile and couldn’t help but grin.
They started to close the distance between their mouths again but stopped short when a small cough was heard. They both looked over to the source of the cough and were faced with a flushed bartender, who was trying to look away from them.
“My apologies, sirs,” the bartender said. He cleared his throat, “I don’t mean to disturb you both but, could you please take this elsewhere?”
Eames blinked when Arthur let out a small laugh and buried his face in his neck. “Take me to your room, Mr. Eames,” he whispered into Eames’ ear.
Eames was too happy to say no and he quickly shoved more than enough bills to cover for their drinks. He took Arthur’s hand and dragged him out of the bar.
The sound of Arthur’s laugh echoed along the hallway back to Eames’ room. He chanced a look back and once again felt his heart burning.
Maybe it was too fast, too much like a whirlwind, like a storm that quickly came and gone, but Eames just knew. He just knew from the first time he saw Arthur, that he was the one.
--
Arthur woke up in a tangle of sheets. The sunlight streaming in through the curtains made him feel reluctant to open his eyes. His head was pounding and he felt his stomach churn when he pulled himself up. It also felt like something had crawled into his mouth and died, three days ago.
Slowly, he cracked an eye open and winced as he shifted. Pain shot through his back to his spine, and up to his head, adding to the intensity of the headache he was suffering. He groaned into the pillow and tried to figure out what could possibly be the cause of all this pain.
Then he remembered. The first thing was that the room he was in was not his. The second thing was Eames, and exactly what was causing his sore lower back. And the third thing he noticed was that there was no Eames.
The right side of the bed where Arthur was sure Eames was supposed to be was cold. Clearly it had been abandoned for quite a long time. He tried to quell the odd pang of loss inside his chest and concentrated instead on locating his clothes. His shirt was rumpled and hanging by the bedpost, his pants were nowhere to be seen, and to his horror, his boxer briefs were draped over one of the bedside lamps.
Arthur gathered the bed sheet around his waist and sat up slowly. The pounding headache was nauseating and the small feeling of rejection was making his chest feel constricted. He was just about to get off the bed when he heard a creak. He looked over and found Eames peeking from the bedroom door. Arthur could feel his face stretch, a happy smile forming. The small constricted pain in his chest was slowly creeping away and replaced by sudden gush of warmth.
“Hello there, gorgeous,” Eames greeted. He opened the door wider and stepped into the room. He was a holding a tray with a basket of breads, two glasses of something, and the newspaper. “The room service is apparently out of service. I took it upon myself to get this for you,” Eames said, putting the tray down on the bed in front of Arthur. He took one of the glasses-- which upon further inspection, was actually a glass of orange juice-and walked towards the balcony, eyes never leaving Arthur’s.
Perhaps it’s because of the bluish bite mark he saw on the junction of Eames’ jaw and neck, knowing that he’s the one who did it made Arthur felt so out of control. He looked away instead, he ducked his head and a curl of his hair fell down. He scowled and puffed out air in the faint hope that it would stay out of his face. It fell back to obstruct his eyes again.
Eames chuckled and Arthur bit his lower lip, trying not to pout. He never pouted. So Arthur took the remaining glass of orange juice and drank a large gulp. It was enough to wash down the odd taste in his mouth and calm the riot in his stomach.
Arthur looked at the newspaper headline, something about the recent demise of a government official. It reminded him that he hadn’t reported back to the Organisation on the completion of his mission. He didn’t remember where he put his bag-inside was the profile of said government official, no one should ever knew Arthur had that in his bag.
He put the juice glass back on the tray and looked around. There’s no sign of it anywhere. He scowled and then remembered. In his hurry to take off his clothes last night, he had kicked the bag somewhere. He bent over the bed, and there it was, still tightly closed and safe. He didn’t make any move to take it or check it, lest Eames would ask about it.
And Eames was still looking at Arthur intently, burning his skin with his eyes. He took another gulp of juice and then he put the glass down, wrapped the sheet around his waist, careful not to knock the tray over. He looked at Eames. Eames looked at him.
Deep inside his head, a voice that sounded exactly like Dom’s told Arthur that he had to get away whilst he could. Another voice from inside his chest-sounding suspiciously like Mal’s-told him to ignore Dom and do what his heart told him to do.
“You stayed,” he said, walking towards Eames. It was a statement, not a question. Arthur had thought that it would be just a one night stand. A mistake. But seeing Eames standing by the balcony, sipping his own orange juice, the curtains billowing around him and the sunlight bathing his whole figure, Arthur didn’t know what to think.
“I stayed.” Eames leaned back on the door frame. “I thought you might be missing me.”
A human’s normal heart rate was sixty to a hundred beats per minute. There were approximately three feet between them, two long strides of Arthur’s feet, and two point three four one seconds from one point to another.
Eames smiled at him, his full and lush lips curled to perfection.
Arthur’s heart was racing. It was beating two times faster. Arthur took a deep breath. He only needed one step and one point four five one seconds to wrap his arms around Eames’ neck and press his lips to that smile. He heard a glass shattering, and then a pair of arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him in.
And there was only one voice he heard.
“Oh Arthur…” Eames sighed into Arthur’s mouth, a hand mapping his spine.
That was enough to make something inside Arthur’s chest bloom, and he smiled like he’d never smiled before into the frantic kisses.
--
“Are you bloody kidding me?” Yusuf slapped Eames’ hand that was trying to reach out into one of his chemical tubes. “And don’t touch anything.”
Eames shrugged and leaned back into his chair again, propping his feet up the table, a contented smile on his face.
“You’ve only known him for only six weeks, Eames,” Yusuf says, scowling through his protective goggles towards Eames’ feet. “I knew my wife for at least two years before we got married. We had friendship as the basis of our marriage. And you and him only have, what? Six weeks? At least give it another six months.”
“Yusuf, my friend,” Eames began, sitting up properly and leaning towards Yusuf. “He’s totally amazing. He’s smart. And his smile,” Eames sighed dreamily, leaning back again. “I love his smile.”
--
Arthur shifted uncomfortably on his feet, trying to concentrate on shooting the target fifty yards away. But Dom’s persistent disapproving squint kept on nagging him. He sighed and decided if they were going to have this talk he might as well stop his shooting practice. He took off his ear muffs, protective shades and turned on the gun’s safety. He took a seat beside Dom and rolled his sleeves down again.
“Look, I know this might sound crazy for you but would you please stop looking at me like that?” Arthur said. “I didn’t tell you this because I was asking for your approval, Dom.”
Dom’s frown went deeper, “But don’t you think this is going a little bit too fast, Arthur?” He grunted when Mal shoved him away to take a seat between him and Arthur.
“You know me. I never do anything without thinking it through,” Arthur said, more to Mal than to Dom.
“What does he do?” Mal asked, patting her belly. She was pregnant with a first child and she shouldn’t have been in the shooting range. But she insisted on taking part in this conversation.
“Art,” Arthur answered. “He owns an art gallery in downtown New York. I’m telling you, he’s perfect, Mal.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t. Dom said that.”
--
“Says he’s an architect. He travels a lot for his projects, like me, so it’ll be perfect.”
Yusuf shoved the potato chips into his mouth as Eames fiddled with one empty tube.
“We never really talked about work. But doesn’t matter. I can leave the gallery at any given time. No questions, no demands.”
“What about the sex?” Yusuf asked.
Eames face brightened considerably and Yusuf looked like he regretted asking that question. “There’s nothing quite like it, Yusuf. Nothing.”
--
“Amazing sex doesn’t mean it will be an amazing rela-”
“You know it will be risky, Arthur, cher,” Mal said, cutting her husband’s words again and taking Arthur’s hand with both hers. Sometimes, Arthur wished pregnancy didn’t give Mal such bright radiance, a glow which Arthur knew could made him do anything Mal told him to do if she wished it.
“I know, Mal. But I’m sure I can work it out. Every time I look into his eyes I see something familiar. It’s like I know his deepest and darkest secret and he knows mine. But it doesn’t matter…”
“Because you know you and him will be together in any way,” Mal finished for him. She gave him her sweetest smile and Arthur couldn’t help but give her his. A rarity, but this was Mal.
“Oh my dear Arthur,” Mal sighed, cupping Arthur’s face and resting her forehead against his. “Mon cher Arthur. I’m happy if you’re happy.”
Dom let out a disapproving grunt again but before he opened his mouth to protest, Mal shoved a sharp elbow to his ribs and he shut his mouth.
--
Yusuf grabbed the empty tube from Eames’ hand and sniffed it. “Aren’t you afraid, Eames?”
“No. Yusuf, I’m telling you; when you know, you know. You just have to trust your instinct. Take a leap of faith. And I’m taking that leap,” Eames took Yusuf’s hand and held it in front of his chest. “I’m getting married, Yusuf.”
Yusuf frowned, he looked at his hand in Eames’ and then to the empty tube in his other hand. “You sure you haven’t been sniffing anything from my tubes, Eames? Because I think you’re not making any sense right now.”
Eames laughed boisterously and let go of Yusuf hand. “I’m getting married!”
“Well I hope your parents won’t have a heart attack. I know I would if I were them.”
Westchester County, four or five years later
Eames stands rigid in the roadside, one hand tucked deep in his pocket, and the other holding a cup of hot tea. The cold morning air is starting to dissipate as the sun slowly graces the earth with its light. He sips the tea as he eyes old man Gary from three houses down the street walk his golden retriever in front of him. He nods in greeting when Gary waves and the dog barks.
“Good morning, Mr. Eames!” The sudden greeting is accompanied by a roll of newspaper flying right into Eames’ face. It falls to the ground with a slight thump. “Oops! I’m sorry, Mr. Eames!” the paper boy yells as he tosses another paper to the house across the street.
Eames wants to lecture the kid on how he knows fifteen different ways of taking someone’s life with just a newspaper, and throwing it haphazardly into someone’s face is not one of them. He picks up the newspaper, shakes off the dirt and starts walking back into the house.
He stops in front of the door, eyes fixed on the shrubs of gloxinia lined up along the front windows of the house. Arthur’s gloxinias. Or what’s left of it.
The shrubs look like they’re dying slowly. Eames can’t remember the last time Arthur took care of the flowers, but he does remember how Arthur had been so insistent on not letting anyone touch his gloxinias. He would lash out, or in this case, send deathly cold glares to the gardener that Eames had hired three years ago if he even touched a leaf.
Now, the shrubs are in major need of trimming and the dead leaves are scattered all over the ground, quite a contrast to Eames’ meticulously mowed grass. He likes to mow them at least once a week as an exercise. Eames never bothers to clean them up because he knows Arthur would have his hands on a platter and serve them to old man Gary’s golden retriever if he ever did.
Or at least that’s what Eames thinks Arthur would do.
Eames sips his tea again, the newspaper clamped under his arm and his eyes roving around the dying gloxinias. He shrugs and decides he needs to buy a new mower. And while he’s at it, perhaps he could also invest on some all brand new gardening tools. There is a chance that Arthur would take better care of his gloxinias should he see him doing some gardening. And the fence, he thinks as he stares at their classic white picket fence, he needs to repair that thing too.
He takes a glimpse at the newspaper he’s holding in his hand. The front page displays the news regarding the protests against some newly elected politician. He skips that part and promptly ventures to the hobbies section of the papers, trying to see if they have some good tips for gardening…
…and freezes.
Eames blinks. He then stares at the newspaper in surprise as he ponders about how he could easily skip some seemingly important news (who knows: chances are, before long he would get a phone call from a party or another to kill either the politician or the protest instigator) only to look at some gardening tips. Just what has happened to his life? He’s an assassin-a very damn good one at that-yet there he is, contemplating about gardening while he’s reading his morning paper.
It’s so ordinary, so boring; so normal, even. Thing is, he’s never one to deal with ‘ordinary’, or ‘boring’, and moreover-God forbid, he ponders with a shiver-‘normal’.
--
Arthur carefully puts down the mug of hot coffee on the small round table, right beside a picture frame of him (dimples visible) and Eames (nosing Arthur’s ear) dressed in thick winter coats-a picture of their winter vacation in Canada three years ago. He avoids lingering too long on the picture and proceeds to open the walk-in closet door. He slips on a light blue pinstripe Oxford shirt and pulls on the pants, tucking in the shirt and slipping the braces over his shoulder.
“Darling, your gloxinias are dying,” Eames says as he steps into the closet and starts shuffling around his side of it.
Arthur looks up from his cufflinks drawer. Eames only has a towel around his waist, another around his neck and his skin is still visibly damp with steam from his morning shower. The towel falls and Eames bends down, not to fetch the towel but to pull on his boxer brief.
“Really?” He says, before returning to deciding which pair of cufflinks he’s going to wear today. The platinum D&G pair Eames gave him as a birthday gift (among other gifts) two years ago look amazing with the silver Cartier watch Mal sent him as third anniversary gift. He takes the cufflinks out and pushes the drawer shut. He moves to the tie rack as Eames-pants hanging only by his hips-passes him to go to the belt drawer.
“Yes. Do you want me to trim it?” Eames asks, rummaging around Arthur’s braces, pulling out a black leather belt
Arthur turns around, one eyebrow rising. Eames is pulling the belt through his pants belt loop as he looks up to Arthur and, noticing Arthur’s disapproving expression, shrugs his shoulders.
“Okay. Don’t touch your flowers, I know.” The way Eames is saying the words makes Arthur want to just burn the flowers to ashes. “But you do need to do something before it dies, Arthur.”
“I will. Next weekend.” Arthur turns back and starts buttoning up his shirt. He takes the cufflinks, watch, waistcoat, tie and the suit jacket and walks out of the closet. He places them on the still unmade bed.
“So what do you think of Dr. Miles?” Arthur asks as he fastens the cufflinks. His movements stop when he looks at the platinum band on his ring finger. He turns it around with his thumb, remembering how it felt when Eames had slipped it onto his finger. He could feel the forged letters inside-Darling, in Edwardian Script font-grazing his skin. He closes his eyes and shakes his head and starts knotting his tie into a perfect Windsor.
“He’s okay. I think,” Eames answers from the closet. “He seems very nice.”
“He’s Mal’s father.”
“Indeed he is. I know you love Mal and will always sing her and her family praises, darling.” Eames emerges from the closet, fully clothed. But he’s wearing that bright orange pinstripe shirt Arthur hates so much. He’s rolling the sleeves up his elbows. “But his questions are a tad wishy washy, don’t you think?”
“I thought you’d know how Dr. Miles works, William? Didn’t you say you had a degree in psychology?” Arthur knows his voice is as dry as the Death Valley and he pretends he doesn’t see the frown forming on Eames’ face. He bends down to tie his shoe laces instead.
Eames goes silent for a second or two before he responds. “Doesn’t mean I would know how a marriage counsellor works.”
“Next appointment is on Thursday, 4 p.m. by the way.”
“That means we’ll hit the rush hour. I hate it when it happens.”
“So that’s settled then?” Arthur tilts his head when Eames just walks out of their room and Eames doesn’t answer.
[to be my wedded Husband] next >>
Part I: I take you
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Nothing really prepares Arthur for this day.
Or maybe he should have seen this coming when Mal told him she’d arranged for him and Eames to have some consultation sessions with her father, a renowned marriage counsellor. He knows Mal’s father has always been successful in helping his clients sort through their problems.
But really, this is unnecessary. Like he and Eames need marriage counselling, hah!
“Well, here we go, boys,” says Miles. “Welcome to your first session. How are you both doing today?”
Arthur fidgets in his seat, straightens his tie and fixes his gaze on the painting hanging on the wall behind the desk. From the corner of his eye, he can see Eames leaning on his sofa, and crosses his right leg over the left.
“Tell me again; why are we doing this?” Eames asks Miles, tapping his finger on the small table separating his sofa from Arthur’s. “Arthur, do we really need to do this?” he turns to Arthur and back to Miles. “Mal put us up to this, just so you know.”
Arthur sighs and smiles apologetically to Miles, if that small tug on the corner of his lips can even be counted as a smile. He reaches out to Eames’ tapping left hand and clutches it. “Stop that and just answer the question,” he says without turning to Eames. He feels Eames’ fingers interlace themselves around his.
“I have a degree in bloody Psychology…” He hears Eames mumble.
Miles gives the pair an understanding smile. “You can blame Mal for this, Mr. Eames,” he says. “Nevertheless, you didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to and yet, here you are.”
Eames clears his throat and tightens his hold on Arthur’s fingers. “Yeah, we didn’t have to do this but… you know… Mal put us up to this.”
“You know she can be really persistent when she wants to,” Arthur says.
“She’s my daughter, of course I know, Arthur. Well, the sooner we start this session the sooner you can go home.”
“Of course. Let’s get started,” Arthur says, taking his hand back from clutching Eames’. Fortunately, the tapping doesn’t continue. Arthur hates how much Eames likes to fidget.
“All right, first question, how long have you two been married?”
“Four years,” Eames answers confidently.
“…Five,” Arthur says. Miles gives him a sympathetic look, which looks exactly like the one Mal gave him a couple of weeks ago when he said Eames and I don’t need any marriage counselling, for God’s sake, Mal.
“Uh, yes, five,” Eames rectifies his answer.
“On the scale of one to ten, how happy you are as a couple?”
“Eight,” Arthur answers automatically.
“Wait, wait. One as in really happy, and ten as in bloody miserable, or the other way around?” Eames asks.
Arthur’s eyebrow twitches for a second. Miles’ smile is still intact. Arthur doesn’t know he could still smile like that in this situation.
“Just respond instinctively to the question,” Miles says patiently.
“Oh, okay.” Eames turns to Arthur. “Ready?”
Arthur nods.
“Eight,” both of them say simultaneously.
Miles jots down something on his notepad and turns up to look at them again. “On the scale of one to ten, how happy would you say your partner is?”
“Eight,” Eames answers.
“Wait… Are we allowed fractions?” Arthur asks.
“Instinctively, Arthur,” both Eames and Miles say.
Arthur clears his throat and leans back a bit. “All right, I’m all set. Ready?” He turns to Eames.
“Ready.”
“Eight,” both of them say again.
One of Miles’ eyebrows quirks up and Arthur gives him an uncomfortable smile while Eames gives him his most charming one.
“How often do you have sex?” Miles continues.
Something clogs up in Arthur’s throat and he freezes in his seat. He could feel Eames is freezing in his as well. “I-I don’t understand the question,” he stutters.
“Yeah, I’m a little bit lost here. Is this a one to ten thing?” Eames asks.
“Right. I mean, if it is, does ‘one’ mean ‘not much’ or ‘one’ as in ‘nothing’? Because strictly speaking zero would mean nothing.”
“Exactly. And if we don’t know what one is, what’s ten?”
“Right. Ten as in…” Arthur clears his throat and looks into the painting hanging on the wall again,”…you know.”
“Constant. Unrelenting.”
“Twenty four seven. Without a break. For anything…”
“Not even to eat.”
Arthur can see Miles is trying hard not to roll his eyes. So Arthur shuts his mouth and hopes Eames does as well. He does.
“This is not a one to ten scenario. It’s a straight question. How often do you have sex?” Miles asks again.
It feels as though someone is pushing the ‘pause’ button and Arthur can’t even move much more answer the question. Because truthfully, he doesn’t even remember the last time he and Eames had sex. Neither does Eames, it seems, if his lack of answer was any indication.
“How about this week?” Miles asks again after twenty painful seconds of silence.
“Uhm… Including the weekend?”
Arthur wants to strangle Eames for asking that.
“Including the weekend.”
Another bout of awkward silence and Miles sighs. “All right, well… describe to me how you two first met.”
Finally, a question that he could answer without falling into a lapse of awkward silence. “It was in Kenya,” Arthur says, smiling wilfully at the memory and looks down to his lap to hide it.
“Mombasa,” Eames corrects. “Four years ago.”
“…Five.“
“Right, four or five years ago.”
Mombasa, Kenya, four or five years ago…
It was a really hot day. Eames was relaxing at the hotel’s lounge nursing his drink (ice tea). His plain white flannel shirt was unbuttoned halfway and his shades perched on his head. The large ceiling fan up above did nothing to quell the summer heat. There was a small ruckus in front of the hotel and Eames could see several men in police uniforms talking to the bellboys.
One of the receptionists walked out from behind the desk and approached the crowd. Eames stopped him when he passed the lounge area.
“I’m sorry, but what’s happening?” Eames asked, pointing to the crowd in front of the lobby.
“It seems a government official was killed today,” the front desk clerk answered. “The police are rounding up tourists who travel alone. Are you alone, sir?”
Eames didn’t answer. He stood up when the police swarmed into the lobby and starting to question every guest. Eames drank down his ice tea and prepared to leave, his right hand resting on the gun tucked behind his back, under his coat, turning off the safety. He stopped short when his eyes locked with another pair of bright brown eyes, belonging to a man dressed in white pinstriped oxford shirt-untucked with the sleeves rolled up, khaki trousers, and a messenger bag hanging across his shoulder, who had just entered the lobby. One of the police officers immediately drew up on him.
Another approached Eames, “Are you alone, sir?” he asked.
Eames didn’t answer, his eyes still locked firmly with the other man’s. A small nod was exchanged. Turning on the gun’s safety again, Eames pulled out his hand from his back. The man smiled up to the police officer, pointing to where Eames was.
“He’s with me,” Eames says, walking towards the man. “We’re friends.”
The police officers frowned but let them go to question a woman who had just entered the lobby.
Eames grabbed the man’s elbow and motioned him towards the second floor where his room was. They didn’t speak to each other during their walk Eames’ brain was ransacked by the waft of cinnamon, musk and faint smell of sun coming from the man walking beside him. He eyed the curls of dark hair falling over the man’s eyes and somehow felt a sudden urge to tuck the hair behind the pointy ear. If the small coil of fluttering in his stomach was any indication, Eames knew he was falling into a deep shit.
The police had started to knock on the doors behind them. Eames quickly shoved the man inside when they reached his room and they both leaned into the closed door. Eames could feel his heart beat noisily in his chest, from the spark of adrenaline bursting out and from suddenly realising the close proximity between himself and the man.
He looked over to the other man, his heart skipped a beat when the man gave him a small smile resulting in the appearance of a dimple. It felt like seeing the first ray of sun on the hill at the back of his parents’ house.
“Thank you,” the man said to him.
“You’re very much welcome, … uh?” Eames cocked an eyebrow and tried not to look so eager when he offered his hand.
The man looked at Eames’ hand, contemplating, and then he bit his lower lip (Eames had to bite his own tongue to force down the small keening sound threatening to come out of his throat). He took Eames’ hand and shook it. “I’m Arthur.”
Eames grinned and his hold on Arthur’s hand lingered a little bit too long. “Eames.”
--
When Arthur accepted the job, he truthfully never expected that he would find himself staring into plump lips that seemed able to temp Saints into sin. When he found out that he was to go Kenya for his job, he merely expected the heat and some annoying bureaucracy with the government officials, and, well, perhaps he might have expected to get to see some bits of deserts. But not this… charming gentleman in front of him.
For the record, Arthur was not really fond of the idea of love at first sight, but lust at first sight was another matter. It was simply human nature. And if he wanted to have some fun, so to speak, after his taxing assignment, surely no one could blame him? After all, the guy practically saved him from dealing with those nosy policemen, so it was only polite to thank him.
It only made things all the better that this Eames person was so damn… attractive.
“They’re gone,” Eames told him. He was leaning a tad closer to Arthur, keen eyes inspecting him and a slow smirk blooming on his face. “Good riddance, I’d say.”
“Indeed,” Arthur said. “Thank you, again.”
“Those police officers can be troublesome. Really, one might think that one can’t have a vacation in peace nowadays,” Eames told him. He walked further inside the room before turning his body to face Arthur again. “Though, perhaps they’ve done a good deed this time.”
Raising his eyebrow, Arthur silently questioned his companion. And under his scrutiny, Eames laughed. He had a lovely laugh, so carefree and intoxicating.
“I got to meet you didn’t I?” Eames said with a wink.
Arthur knows seduction when he sees it. And this time, he could say that Eames’ advance was not something that he was going to decline.
Smiling, he approached Eames. “I wonder if I might invite you for some drinks… as a thank you, since you did help me back then.”
Returning his smile, Eames said, “I’d love to join you for a couple of drinks. And perhaps…”
“Yes?” Arthur said, a bit hastily.
“Perhaps we also can get to know each other better,” Eames said. “What do you say?”
Staring into Eames’s eyes, and noticing the meaning laced in his smile, Arthur could see just what he meant by ‘getting to know each other better’.
Smirking, he said: “I say, that’s a wonderful idea.”
--
“So you’re doing what exactly?” Arthur asked, almost shouting because the bar was crowded with too many people (tourists and locals alike) and the music blared too loud in the background.
Eames leaned closer to Arthur. “Art. I’m an art curator. I own a gallery back in New York,” he answered. He pushed himself away and smirked at the tinge of pink appearing on Arthur’s ear. The afternoon, and now night, had been more enjoyable with Arthur’s company. At first Arthur had been stiff and had wanted to talk much. But after a drink or two, he had started to loosen up.
Eames waved to the bartender and ordered another shot of tequila for the both of them. They had already drunk three shots each and Eames could already feel his body tingling with heat and something else, too.
“I’m an architect,” Arthur said, slurring, almost. “Just opened a firm back in New York too.”
Their orders came and Eames pushed one of the shots into Arthur’s hand. He shifted his barstool a little bit closer to Arthur under the pretence of trying to hear Arthur’s words more clearly.
“New York is a beautiful city,” Eames said. He took his shot and licked the salt on the rim, eyes never flickering away from Arthur’s. He downed the shot in one gulp and reached out to get the lime, but it wasn’t there. He looked away from Arthur to complain to the bartender. The bitter taste of the tequila was biting his tongue. Suddenly a hand clutched his chin and the tangy smell of lime wafted through his nose from those long slender fingers. Eames grinned and turned to face Arthur again.
Arthur had the quarter of a lime in the hand that wasn’t clutching Eames’ face. He smirked and slowly, tantalisingly, bit the lime, sucking the juice. Eames gulped and felt like his trousers were a tad tighter. In a slow but determined motion, Arthur discarded the lime, smiled at Eames and dragged his face forward.
Eames smelt cinnamon, musk, and lime before their lips met. His hands moved around to Arthur’s waist, dragging him closer. He closed his eyes and relaxed when Arthur’s fingers gripped the back of his neck tightly. The kiss was a little bit sloppy and wet, with Arthur’s tongue lapping his lips and literally fucking his mouth. He tilted his head to allow their lips to move and fill any gaps, letting Arthur dominate their kiss while he settled to enjoy the tingling heat coiling in his stomach and slowly making its way down to his groin.
There was a groan, Arthur’s. And somehow Arthur had moved to sit on his lap, body flushed against his, and his arms circling around his neck.
Perhaps Eames was a little drunk and maybe if they were both sober, the thought of taking this snogging session back to his room wouldn’t sound this appealing. Nevertheless, when they broke the kiss for air and he looked into Arthur’s eyes, their foreheads resting against each other so that he could see the dimples formed from the big smile Arthur was sporting right now, somehow he just knew.
“I can hear your heart racing, Arthur,” he whispered. With every syllable his lips touched Arthur’s, and he couldn’t care less about the people wolf-whistling and murmuring around them.
“Save those corny lines for other times when I want romance.” Arthur nipped Eames’ lower lips. He pulled Eames into another searing kiss. The kiss was full of want and need and lust and everything else.
“So you dare to think there would be a next time?” Eames said in between peppering Arthur’s jaw with open mouthed kisses.
“Depends.” Arthur grabbed a hold of Eames’ short hair and tugged him away from his throat. “Want to take the dare?”
“Oh, yes, and I will blow your world so thoroughly you’ll always crave for my touch afterwards.”
“Like I said, save it.” Arthur smirked devilishly. “And just prove it,” he breathed into Eames’ mouth.
“Cross my heart.”
The smirk turned into a softer smile. Eames felt his chest fill over the brim with the heat radiating from that smile and couldn’t help but grin.
They started to close the distance between their mouths again but stopped short when a small cough was heard. They both looked over to the source of the cough and were faced with a flushed bartender, who was trying to look away from them.
“My apologies, sirs,” the bartender said. He cleared his throat, “I don’t mean to disturb you both but, could you please take this elsewhere?”
Eames blinked when Arthur let out a small laugh and buried his face in his neck. “Take me to your room, Mr. Eames,” he whispered into Eames’ ear.
Eames was too happy to say no and he quickly shoved more than enough bills to cover for their drinks. He took Arthur’s hand and dragged him out of the bar.
The sound of Arthur’s laugh echoed along the hallway back to Eames’ room. He chanced a look back and once again felt his heart burning.
Maybe it was too fast, too much like a whirlwind, like a storm that quickly came and gone, but Eames just knew. He just knew from the first time he saw Arthur, that he was the one.
--
Arthur woke up in a tangle of sheets. The sunlight streaming in through the curtains made him feel reluctant to open his eyes. His head was pounding and he felt his stomach churn when he pulled himself up. It also felt like something had crawled into his mouth and died, three days ago.
Slowly, he cracked an eye open and winced as he shifted. Pain shot through his back to his spine, and up to his head, adding to the intensity of the headache he was suffering. He groaned into the pillow and tried to figure out what could possibly be the cause of all this pain.
Then he remembered. The first thing was that the room he was in was not his. The second thing was Eames, and exactly what was causing his sore lower back. And the third thing he noticed was that there was no Eames.
The right side of the bed where Arthur was sure Eames was supposed to be was cold. Clearly it had been abandoned for quite a long time. He tried to quell the odd pang of loss inside his chest and concentrated instead on locating his clothes. His shirt was rumpled and hanging by the bedpost, his pants were nowhere to be seen, and to his horror, his boxer briefs were draped over one of the bedside lamps.
Arthur gathered the bed sheet around his waist and sat up slowly. The pounding headache was nauseating and the small feeling of rejection was making his chest feel constricted. He was just about to get off the bed when he heard a creak. He looked over and found Eames peeking from the bedroom door. Arthur could feel his face stretch, a happy smile forming. The small constricted pain in his chest was slowly creeping away and replaced by sudden gush of warmth.
“Hello there, gorgeous,” Eames greeted. He opened the door wider and stepped into the room. He was a holding a tray with a basket of breads, two glasses of something, and the newspaper. “The room service is apparently out of service. I took it upon myself to get this for you,” Eames said, putting the tray down on the bed in front of Arthur. He took one of the glasses-- which upon further inspection, was actually a glass of orange juice-and walked towards the balcony, eyes never leaving Arthur’s.
Perhaps it’s because of the bluish bite mark he saw on the junction of Eames’ jaw and neck, knowing that he’s the one who did it made Arthur felt so out of control. He looked away instead, he ducked his head and a curl of his hair fell down. He scowled and puffed out air in the faint hope that it would stay out of his face. It fell back to obstruct his eyes again.
Eames chuckled and Arthur bit his lower lip, trying not to pout. He never pouted. So Arthur took the remaining glass of orange juice and drank a large gulp. It was enough to wash down the odd taste in his mouth and calm the riot in his stomach.
Arthur looked at the newspaper headline, something about the recent demise of a government official. It reminded him that he hadn’t reported back to the Organisation on the completion of his mission. He didn’t remember where he put his bag-inside was the profile of said government official, no one should ever knew Arthur had that in his bag.
He put the juice glass back on the tray and looked around. There’s no sign of it anywhere. He scowled and then remembered. In his hurry to take off his clothes last night, he had kicked the bag somewhere. He bent over the bed, and there it was, still tightly closed and safe. He didn’t make any move to take it or check it, lest Eames would ask about it.
And Eames was still looking at Arthur intently, burning his skin with his eyes. He took another gulp of juice and then he put the glass down, wrapped the sheet around his waist, careful not to knock the tray over. He looked at Eames. Eames looked at him.
Deep inside his head, a voice that sounded exactly like Dom’s told Arthur that he had to get away whilst he could. Another voice from inside his chest-sounding suspiciously like Mal’s-told him to ignore Dom and do what his heart told him to do.
“You stayed,” he said, walking towards Eames. It was a statement, not a question. Arthur had thought that it would be just a one night stand. A mistake. But seeing Eames standing by the balcony, sipping his own orange juice, the curtains billowing around him and the sunlight bathing his whole figure, Arthur didn’t know what to think.
“I stayed.” Eames leaned back on the door frame. “I thought you might be missing me.”
A human’s normal heart rate was sixty to a hundred beats per minute. There were approximately three feet between them, two long strides of Arthur’s feet, and two point three four one seconds from one point to another.
Eames smiled at him, his full and lush lips curled to perfection.
Arthur’s heart was racing. It was beating two times faster. Arthur took a deep breath. He only needed one step and one point four five one seconds to wrap his arms around Eames’ neck and press his lips to that smile. He heard a glass shattering, and then a pair of arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him in.
And there was only one voice he heard.
“Oh Arthur…” Eames sighed into Arthur’s mouth, a hand mapping his spine.
That was enough to make something inside Arthur’s chest bloom, and he smiled like he’d never smiled before into the frantic kisses.
--
“Are you bloody kidding me?” Yusuf slapped Eames’ hand that was trying to reach out into one of his chemical tubes. “And don’t touch anything.”
Eames shrugged and leaned back into his chair again, propping his feet up the table, a contented smile on his face.
“You’ve only known him for only six weeks, Eames,” Yusuf says, scowling through his protective goggles towards Eames’ feet. “I knew my wife for at least two years before we got married. We had friendship as the basis of our marriage. And you and him only have, what? Six weeks? At least give it another six months.”
“Yusuf, my friend,” Eames began, sitting up properly and leaning towards Yusuf. “He’s totally amazing. He’s smart. And his smile,” Eames sighed dreamily, leaning back again. “I love his smile.”
--
Arthur shifted uncomfortably on his feet, trying to concentrate on shooting the target fifty yards away. But Dom’s persistent disapproving squint kept on nagging him. He sighed and decided if they were going to have this talk he might as well stop his shooting practice. He took off his ear muffs, protective shades and turned on the gun’s safety. He took a seat beside Dom and rolled his sleeves down again.
“Look, I know this might sound crazy for you but would you please stop looking at me like that?” Arthur said. “I didn’t tell you this because I was asking for your approval, Dom.”
Dom’s frown went deeper, “But don’t you think this is going a little bit too fast, Arthur?” He grunted when Mal shoved him away to take a seat between him and Arthur.
“You know me. I never do anything without thinking it through,” Arthur said, more to Mal than to Dom.
“What does he do?” Mal asked, patting her belly. She was pregnant with a first child and she shouldn’t have been in the shooting range. But she insisted on taking part in this conversation.
“Art,” Arthur answered. “He owns an art gallery in downtown New York. I’m telling you, he’s perfect, Mal.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t. Dom said that.”
--
“Says he’s an architect. He travels a lot for his projects, like me, so it’ll be perfect.”
Yusuf shoved the potato chips into his mouth as Eames fiddled with one empty tube.
“We never really talked about work. But doesn’t matter. I can leave the gallery at any given time. No questions, no demands.”
“What about the sex?” Yusuf asked.
Eames face brightened considerably and Yusuf looked like he regretted asking that question. “There’s nothing quite like it, Yusuf. Nothing.”
--
“Amazing sex doesn’t mean it will be an amazing rela-”
“You know it will be risky, Arthur, cher,” Mal said, cutting her husband’s words again and taking Arthur’s hand with both hers. Sometimes, Arthur wished pregnancy didn’t give Mal such bright radiance, a glow which Arthur knew could made him do anything Mal told him to do if she wished it.
“I know, Mal. But I’m sure I can work it out. Every time I look into his eyes I see something familiar. It’s like I know his deepest and darkest secret and he knows mine. But it doesn’t matter…”
“Because you know you and him will be together in any way,” Mal finished for him. She gave him her sweetest smile and Arthur couldn’t help but give her his. A rarity, but this was Mal.
“Oh my dear Arthur,” Mal sighed, cupping Arthur’s face and resting her forehead against his. “Mon cher Arthur. I’m happy if you’re happy.”
Dom let out a disapproving grunt again but before he opened his mouth to protest, Mal shoved a sharp elbow to his ribs and he shut his mouth.
--
Yusuf grabbed the empty tube from Eames’ hand and sniffed it. “Aren’t you afraid, Eames?”
“No. Yusuf, I’m telling you; when you know, you know. You just have to trust your instinct. Take a leap of faith. And I’m taking that leap,” Eames took Yusuf’s hand and held it in front of his chest. “I’m getting married, Yusuf.”
Yusuf frowned, he looked at his hand in Eames’ and then to the empty tube in his other hand. “You sure you haven’t been sniffing anything from my tubes, Eames? Because I think you’re not making any sense right now.”
Eames laughed boisterously and let go of Yusuf hand. “I’m getting married!”
“Well I hope your parents won’t have a heart attack. I know I would if I were them.”
Westchester County, four or five years later
Eames stands rigid in the roadside, one hand tucked deep in his pocket, and the other holding a cup of hot tea. The cold morning air is starting to dissipate as the sun slowly graces the earth with its light. He sips the tea as he eyes old man Gary from three houses down the street walk his golden retriever in front of him. He nods in greeting when Gary waves and the dog barks.
“Good morning, Mr. Eames!” The sudden greeting is accompanied by a roll of newspaper flying right into Eames’ face. It falls to the ground with a slight thump. “Oops! I’m sorry, Mr. Eames!” the paper boy yells as he tosses another paper to the house across the street.
Eames wants to lecture the kid on how he knows fifteen different ways of taking someone’s life with just a newspaper, and throwing it haphazardly into someone’s face is not one of them. He picks up the newspaper, shakes off the dirt and starts walking back into the house.
He stops in front of the door, eyes fixed on the shrubs of gloxinia lined up along the front windows of the house. Arthur’s gloxinias. Or what’s left of it.
The shrubs look like they’re dying slowly. Eames can’t remember the last time Arthur took care of the flowers, but he does remember how Arthur had been so insistent on not letting anyone touch his gloxinias. He would lash out, or in this case, send deathly cold glares to the gardener that Eames had hired three years ago if he even touched a leaf.
Now, the shrubs are in major need of trimming and the dead leaves are scattered all over the ground, quite a contrast to Eames’ meticulously mowed grass. He likes to mow them at least once a week as an exercise. Eames never bothers to clean them up because he knows Arthur would have his hands on a platter and serve them to old man Gary’s golden retriever if he ever did.
Or at least that’s what Eames thinks Arthur would do.
Eames sips his tea again, the newspaper clamped under his arm and his eyes roving around the dying gloxinias. He shrugs and decides he needs to buy a new mower. And while he’s at it, perhaps he could also invest on some all brand new gardening tools. There is a chance that Arthur would take better care of his gloxinias should he see him doing some gardening. And the fence, he thinks as he stares at their classic white picket fence, he needs to repair that thing too.
He takes a glimpse at the newspaper he’s holding in his hand. The front page displays the news regarding the protests against some newly elected politician. He skips that part and promptly ventures to the hobbies section of the papers, trying to see if they have some good tips for gardening…
…and freezes.
Eames blinks. He then stares at the newspaper in surprise as he ponders about how he could easily skip some seemingly important news (who knows: chances are, before long he would get a phone call from a party or another to kill either the politician or the protest instigator) only to look at some gardening tips. Just what has happened to his life? He’s an assassin-a very damn good one at that-yet there he is, contemplating about gardening while he’s reading his morning paper.
It’s so ordinary, so boring; so normal, even. Thing is, he’s never one to deal with ‘ordinary’, or ‘boring’, and moreover-God forbid, he ponders with a shiver-‘normal’.
--
Arthur carefully puts down the mug of hot coffee on the small round table, right beside a picture frame of him (dimples visible) and Eames (nosing Arthur’s ear) dressed in thick winter coats-a picture of their winter vacation in Canada three years ago. He avoids lingering too long on the picture and proceeds to open the walk-in closet door. He slips on a light blue pinstripe Oxford shirt and pulls on the pants, tucking in the shirt and slipping the braces over his shoulder.
“Darling, your gloxinias are dying,” Eames says as he steps into the closet and starts shuffling around his side of it.
Arthur looks up from his cufflinks drawer. Eames only has a towel around his waist, another around his neck and his skin is still visibly damp with steam from his morning shower. The towel falls and Eames bends down, not to fetch the towel but to pull on his boxer brief.
“Really?” He says, before returning to deciding which pair of cufflinks he’s going to wear today. The platinum D&G pair Eames gave him as a birthday gift (among other gifts) two years ago look amazing with the silver Cartier watch Mal sent him as third anniversary gift. He takes the cufflinks out and pushes the drawer shut. He moves to the tie rack as Eames-pants hanging only by his hips-passes him to go to the belt drawer.
“Yes. Do you want me to trim it?” Eames asks, rummaging around Arthur’s braces, pulling out a black leather belt
Arthur turns around, one eyebrow rising. Eames is pulling the belt through his pants belt loop as he looks up to Arthur and, noticing Arthur’s disapproving expression, shrugs his shoulders.
“Okay. Don’t touch your flowers, I know.” The way Eames is saying the words makes Arthur want to just burn the flowers to ashes. “But you do need to do something before it dies, Arthur.”
“I will. Next weekend.” Arthur turns back and starts buttoning up his shirt. He takes the cufflinks, watch, waistcoat, tie and the suit jacket and walks out of the closet. He places them on the still unmade bed.
“So what do you think of Dr. Miles?” Arthur asks as he fastens the cufflinks. His movements stop when he looks at the platinum band on his ring finger. He turns it around with his thumb, remembering how it felt when Eames had slipped it onto his finger. He could feel the forged letters inside-Darling, in Edwardian Script font-grazing his skin. He closes his eyes and shakes his head and starts knotting his tie into a perfect Windsor.
“He’s okay. I think,” Eames answers from the closet. “He seems very nice.”
“He’s Mal’s father.”
“Indeed he is. I know you love Mal and will always sing her and her family praises, darling.” Eames emerges from the closet, fully clothed. But he’s wearing that bright orange pinstripe shirt Arthur hates so much. He’s rolling the sleeves up his elbows. “But his questions are a tad wishy washy, don’t you think?”
“I thought you’d know how Dr. Miles works, William? Didn’t you say you had a degree in psychology?” Arthur knows his voice is as dry as the Death Valley and he pretends he doesn’t see the frown forming on Eames’ face. He bends down to tie his shoe laces instead.
Eames goes silent for a second or two before he responds. “Doesn’t mean I would know how a marriage counsellor works.”
“Next appointment is on Thursday, 4 p.m. by the way.”
“That means we’ll hit the rush hour. I hate it when it happens.”
“So that’s settled then?” Arthur tilts his head when Eames just walks out of their room and Eames doesn’t answer.
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