12 Songs of Christmas My True Love Gave To Me part two

[naimu]

part one : click here to read part one

I’ll Be Home For Christmas

Christmas Eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams
If only in my dreams

2004

Arthur had worked with Eames three times this year. Once during March, and twice during June-it counted as two because it was a two-part job; and both times meeting Eames again, Arthur felt like an utter school girl not knowing what to do in front of the boy she was crazy about. By the end of each job, Arthur began to hate himself a little more and was convinced that it was probably some elaborate plan Eames had conjured up to shoot Arthur’s self esteem to hell.

Arthur didn’t hear from Eames that Christmas, but Arthur suspected he’d receive something in the mail within the week, but two weeks later, and still there was nothing in the mail. Arthur then tried to locate Eames, going through his usual contacts and trying to work under the radar, in case Eames was simply in hiding. He didn’t want to raise any flags, but even after a week of searching high and low, Eames was nowhere to be found.

It was in the middle of January when Arthur got a phone call in the middle of the night.

“Hello?”

There was no response, just harsh breathing.

“Hello?” Arthur asked again, and then it struck him.

“E- Eames?”

“. . . Arthur. . . .”

“God, fuck, Eames, where have you been?” Arthur sat up on his bed, now alert.

“Hmm-” Eames hummed out in dark amusement. “Not quite sure; I think I hopped on a plane to Buenos Aires, and then, I think . . . I don’t remember if I ever left-but I realized what date it was darling and I just felt horrible and I just . . . forgive me Arthur, really. I didn’t mean to forget just-I’m a horrible drunk you see, Arthur. . . .”

“Don’t . . . don’t worry about it. Jesus, Eames, are you still drunk?”

“I believe I am, Arthur. I believe it’s called mourning, but I can’t be sure-never really mourned when the old man died but . . . Jesus. . . .”

Arthur opened his mouth but was at a loss to what he could possibly say. “Eames.” No reply. “Eames,” Arthur called out again, but all he heard from the other side was snuffles and heavy breathes.

“D- Daniel?” Arthur called out quietly and nervously.

Arthur heard Eames choke out a laugh.

“I knew you knew my real name-you lied when you said you didn’t; you’re a liar, Arthur,” Eames said with no real heat in his voice, just defeat.

“Where are you, I can-” Arthur started, but was cut off by Eames.

“I can’t go back-my old man, he made it impossible for me to get back into the country, and I can’t, I can’t-I couldn’t even be there for my own mother’s funeral, Arthur. Christ!”

Arthur gripped his phone, wishing he could do something.

“For the first time, Arthur, in a long time I just want to go home. Arthur, I just want to go home.”

Arthur closed his eyes and breathed in and out slowly before calmly speaking,

“You’re just tired,”

Eames gave a dark laugh, “Yes. I’m tired.”

“You need to sober up and rest.”

“S- sober up . . . yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Are you somewhere safe?” Arthur asked, making Eames laugh again, probably because Eames found it funny that Arthur would ask something like that.

“I’m in my incredibly cheap hotel room, Arthur, on the floor drinking my life away. You’d be proud.”

Arthur bit his tongue from saying “No, not really.” Instead he said, “Go to bed, Eames-go on.” Eames groaned a bit but eventually Arthur heard the creaking of the springs of the cheap mattress and an “oof” sound coming from Eames. “Now just close your eyes and go to sleep.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything this year, Arthur,” Eames whispered into the mouthpiece; sleep was heavy in his voice.

“I never get you anything,” Arthur said slowly.

“No, that’s not true,” Eames responded. “Every year, every damn year, you still let me in your life.”

There was a clenching in Arthur’s chest, something constricting and making it hard to breathe. Arthur was afraid that he’d break his handset from gripping it too hard.

“Every year I send you something and you take it in-and the following year you let me in again and again.” Eames breathed in sharply then continued, “Maybe one day we’ll spend a full Christmas day together?”

The thought of spending a Christmas with Eames made something in Arthur shake, and he didn’t know if it was because the thought terrified him or excited him. It was highly possible that it could have been both.

“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said quietly, and after a few seconds he heard a click of the phone being disconnected. Arthur slowly lowered his phone from his ear and turned it off. For a good ten minutes, Arthur sat on his bed in the dark. Then he quickly got out of bed, turned on the lights and packed a suitcase. The drive to LAX was a blur and so was the call to his assistant, as he made up something about a death in the family and a quick apology for calling in the middle of the night. Then, he waited impatiently for the next flight to London.

It wasn’t hard for Arthur to find out where Eames’s mother was buried.

He bought a big bundle of three dozen out-of-season red roses and made his way to where Eames’s mother lay. She was buried in a private cemetery which looked very upscale, next to her husband. They shared headstones with their names and dates.

“Angela Marcella Emerest
Beloved Mother, Sister and Friend
Angel amongst men”

Arthur kneeled onto the icy grass and placed the red roses in front of the headstone.

“He really wanted to be here. But I promise I’ll find a way to bring him back home to you.”

Let It Snow

When we finally kiss goodnight
How I’ll hate going out in the storm
But if you’ll really hold me tight…

2005

Arthur was in Paris, asked to be at an event in the Louvre.
Unfortunately, the event had been cancelled due to heavy snow, so Arthur decided to hang around the lobby café. He sat in the corner of the dimly-lit café, drinking Café au Lait, as he smoked a cigarette. He decided to finish a book he had picked up at LAX before departure.

Arthur rarely smoked, but something about Paris always made him crave one-so he sipped at his small coffee cup and took a drag of his cigarette every other paragraph, until someone dragged the chair opposite him and sat down.

“I believe this is what they call serendipity.”

Arthur’s head snapped up, and there he was, Eames.

It was the first time he had seen Eames since last year’s phone call, and Eames looked a lot thinner than what Arthur remembered. His eyes, too, were a little bit more aged and ragged, but his lips-his plump lips-still wore a familiar smile. Arthur froze, his cigarette hand paused midway from making it to the destination of his lips, his eyes wide.

“I didn’t know you smoked, Arthur. Surprises every time.” Arthur swore that he had just heard Eames purr out his name.

“I usually don’t,” Arthur said, recovering from bewilderment. He took a drag of his cigarette to calm his nerves. “Something about Paris.”

“Something about Paris,” Eames echoed as he leaned onto the table and settled his elbows on it, his hand rubbing his stubble.

The art critic looked away and moved his cigarette to the ashtray to extinguish, but Eames took a hold of his hand, stopping him. Arthur’s eyes flicked up to Eames, who stared blatantly at him. Eames continued to take his hand, bringing the cigarette up to his lips to take his own deep drag. Eames didn’t stop there, however. Boldly, he plucked the stubby cigarette from Arthur’s hand with his other, and stubbed it out onto the tray.

“May I ask what you are doing here?” Arthur asked in a low voice. He was quite proud of himself for keeping his voice steady, as Eames released his drag and drew Arthur’s hand closer, taking his fingers and nuzzling lightly against them. Arthur could feel Eames inhaling deeply against his fingers, as he nestled against his hand. He could even see Eames closing his eyes and just breathing in, as his thumb made gentle circles on the back of his hand.

“Hmm, sorry. What did you ask?” Eames asked after a moment, opening his eyes and looking up at Arthur.

“I . . . uh. . . .”

“Oh, Paris,” Eames called out as if he finally registered Arthur’s question. He continued as he kept studying Arthur’s hand, “I’m here to meet up with someone, a professor apparently. He has a theory on better navigations to the human mind,” Eames said as he took his other hand and kneaded Arthur’s knuckles with his two thumbs.

“Oh, you haven’t met them yet, then?” Arthur questioned after swallowing a large lump in his throat.

“No,” Eames said, unusually mellow. His concentration was still held on Arthur’s hand. “The snow’s made it impossible for me to go meet up with the professor.” Then, he looked up with a wide smile on his face and a cheery look in his eyes, shoulders relaxed and comfortable. “But what a wonder, isn’t it, Arthur? We end up being snowed in at the same hotel.”

Arthur didn’t trust himself to speak. He simply nodded and took his other hand to sip his coffee.

The forger continued to pad soft circles and patterns onto the skin of Arthur’s hand. After a moment, Eames asked, “What are you doing in Paris? Holiday?”

“No, um, had an exhibition opening at the Louvre-same as you. The event was cancelled due to the snow,” Arthur explained.

“God bless the weather, then. Perhaps we’ll spend Christmas together after all,” Eames said quietly, as he leaned closer against the table. “What are the chances, Arthur? Really? I mean, really, what are the chances we are in the same city, at the same time, at the same hotel?”

“Makes me think that it’s not a matter of chance, but more of a rigged game to me,” Arthur replied, as he raised a brow in suspicion. Eames threw his head back and laughed. There it was again, the clenching in his chest.

“I wouldn’t blame you for thinking so, but no. I promise you, Arthur,” Eames said and damn his English vowels that made Arthur heat up like a stove. “This is as much of a delightful surprise to me as it is to you.”

“What makes you think that this is a delightful surprise for me?” Arthur whispered, failing to sound dissatisfied as he stared at the hypnotic movements of the forger’s thumbs on his skin, creating ripples of yearning.

The younger man heard Eames starting to smile with his full lips, arching so perfectly into a flawless smile right before he said, “Because you haven’t taken your hand back yet.”

Arthur’s eyes flicked back towards Eames’s dark, stormy orbs.

“Maybe I should then,” Arthur offered but did not move. The British man stared into Arthur’s eyes, then looked back down to the ridges of Arthur’s knuckles and took them to his lips, kissing every groove of Arthur’s hand. Eames then looked up with his lips still pressed softly against Arthur’s knuckles.

Eames groaned softly as he grazed his lips against Arthur’s knuckles and said, “I’m willing to bet that you won’t.”

“I can’t guarantee that it won’t be a rigged game, though.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

That night was mostly a blur, not because it was a fast and furious frenzy, but because it just felt so surreal.

There were things, though, that Arthur could not forget, like the sensation of wrapping his arms around Eames’s neck; how the curves of the older man’s shoulder seemed to be made for Arthur to perch his arms on, and how the forger’s lips set trails of fire against the column of his neck. He remembered how Eames sat in the middle of his bed, Arthur in Eames’ lap as the forger’s sex perforated oh-so smoothly into Arthur’s body, filling him right down to the bottom of what Arthur could only explain as his soul. He remembered memorizing the two bullet holes left on Eames’ chest and torso, worshiping the scars with his mouth and tongue, thanking a God he had not prayed to in years, blessing each scar with a small prayer, “Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha‑olam, she‑hehiyanu v'kiy'manu v'higi'anu la‑z'man ha‑ze.” “Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, Who has kept us alive, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season . . . thank you, thank you thank you, thank you. . . .” He remembered how the two moved so in sync, while the thin hotel sheets clung against their sweat-ridden bodies, as their hands came together fitting like puzzle pieces, as Arthur laid on his back, opening himself to Eames who seemed to give rather than take him.

When Arthur woke, he found Eames was already gone. There was a note on the hotel stationary with Eames’s customary handwriting, explaining how the snow had lightened up and he had to meet the professor while there was still a chance.

“Hate to leave you to wake up alone, Arthur. I really do. . . .
Your gift, I believe, will be waiting for you when you get home.
Bon Voyage, Arthur.
Until we see each other again,
Eames.”

When Arthur arrived home two days later, he found a small parcel waiting in his mailbox. He did not even wait to go inside to open it; instead he opened it right in front of the still-open mailbox. He carelessly ripped through the brown paper, nearly tearing straight through the box. The cardboard box held yet another box. Arthur saw the trademark red and golden embroideries of the Cartier gift case, and knew instantly that the gift was pricey.

He flipped the box open to find a beautiful watch, simple yet elegant. Arthur marveled at the watch, as he tentatively touched the black leather of the band. Quickly, he took the watch out of the red case, pushing it over his left hand. The same hand Eames seemed so fascinated with at the café.

Arthur looked at his wrist after he had finished fastening the watch, and drew in a sharp gasp.

The watch suited him faultlessly. It was almost as if Arthur had gone to the store and purchased it for himself.

“You know me so well. . . .” Arthur breathed out the breath he had been holding in, his words being released in a white puff into the cold air. He quickly dug into the cardboard box in search of the usual card.

Arthur ripped open the envelope, digging out the card. The front of it was drawn with a fountain pen, lines inky and thick. To Arthur’s surprise, it was himself, sitting at the corner of the café, cigarette in one hand, book on his lap, legs crossed. The detail reached the nature of his tie clip. Behind the card it read:

Why you indulge me, I’ll never know.
And thank you. She really did love red roses.

Daniel

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

Well, think of my lifelong sorrow
If you caught pneumonia and died
Get over that hold out

2006

Throughout the year Arthur worked with Eames just the once in Monaco during the summer. They kept on smiling at each other across the room, and both tiptoed around each other, not really sure how to react to each other.

“We need to be, ya know . . . be professional,” Arthur said.

“Yeah, yes! Of course,” Eames said nodding furiously, agreeing with Arthur, but as soon as the last person walked out the door after the job was finished, they both grabbed at each other and had sex on the meeting table.

Arthur rapidly worked on the buttons of Eames’s short sleeve shirt as Eames pulled on Arthur’s vest.

“Ridiculous-” Eames said against Arthur bottom lip as he growled and just tore open his vest and Arthur’s shirt making the buttons pop in multiple directions. “It’s so fucking hot here and you’re wearing a fucking vest.”

“I dress well. What-” Arthur stopped mid-sentence as Eames ducked his head to take Arthur’s nipple into his mouth, “Wh- what is, fuck, what’s wrong with that?”

“You’re still defending your clothes; I’m clearly not trying hard enough,” Eames said as he hoisted Arthur up, and automatically Arthur wrapped his legs around Eames’ thick waist, and they continued to strip one another.

They ended up breaking the table; one of the legs gave out and the table collapsed to the floor-both of them giggled profusely afterwards.

As Arthur and Eames tried to put their clothes back on and look somewhat presentable, Arthur asked, as nonchalantly as he could, “So…what are you doing for Christmas?”

Eames looked over at Arthur, his hands stilling from buttoning up. “Why do you ask?” he asked as he too tried to reply back nonchalantly.

“Well, ya know-I was thinking if you’re not doing anything we could . . . meet up somewhere. Or maybe you can even hand-deliver your gift?” Arthur asked looking up at Eames who had a giant smile on his face.

“Arthur, are you asking me over for the holidays?” False skepticism was laced in Eames voice, which made Arthur roll his eyes.

“Yes or no, Mr. Eames. It’s simple as that,” Arthur said, trying to sound annoyed.

“Arthur,” Eames said as he took his hand and cupped the younger man’s face and lifted up to his view. Arthur blushed at the earnest way Eames looked at him. “I’d love to spend the holidays with you,” Eames spoke softly before bringing Arthur closer and kissing him. Arthur’s hand automatically found its way to the back of Eames’ head, fingers raking in through the light brown hair.

“Good,” Arthur breathed out as they parted, staring at Eames’s red swollen lips, “That’s . . . that’s good.”

“This is bad . . . this is so bad. . . .” Arthur told himself as he looked at himself in the mirror. He had dark bags under his eyes, and his skin looked so pasty. His eyes were rimmed red and glossed over with a fever.

It was December 23rd, and Arthur had gotten sick with flu. Any day now Eames would be coming to his door with a giant smile on his face and Arthur was sick.

Arthur washed his face with cold water and then stepped out into his living room. It was only 10 in the morning.

“Okay, I will take Nyquil and I will sleep this off,” Arthur spoke nasally to the spotted elephant who sat innocently on his kitchen bar. “Glad we agree,” Arthur said as he swallowed his pills with a glass of orange juice.

Some time later, he was woke up by something cool and wet being placed on his forehead. Arthur struggled to breathe, let alone open his eyes.

“Shh, it’s okay, Arthur; just me.” Soothing British tones happily invaded his ears.

“Eames?” Arthur cracked opened his eyes to find Eames looking down on him with a gentle smile.

“Hello there,” he greeted quietly.

“Hi,” Arthur croaked back then went through a fit of coughs.

“Oh, that doesn’t sound good,” Eames said as he helped Arthur up, then placed pillows behind his back to keep him propped up.

“Sorry . . . sick.”

“Yes, I know,” Eames said with a smile taking the neglected cool cloth from his bedside table and began to wipe Arthur’s forehead. “You’re also burning up. Oh! I let myself in, picked your lock, and your alarm code was ridiculously easy, Arthur dear.”

Arthur grunted a reply.

“Sorry, this was not what we were supposed to be doing,” Arthur said.

“And what, exactly, were we supposed to be doing?” Eames asked in a mischievous tone, fully knowing what he and Arthur were supposed to be doing. “Oh dear, you must really be ill, you didn’t even roll your eyes at me,” Eames noted as he finished wiping down Arthur’s forehead, neck and shoulders.

“Hmmph,” the sick man gave a despondent noise as confirmation. “I am sorry, though.”

“Oh stop apologizing, Arthur, unless you purposely told your immune system to neglect their duties and get ill. It’s fine-people get sick, it happens,” the forger said as he tossed the towel onto the nightstand and handed Arthur a glass of water. “Slowly,” he said as Arthur drank.

“You’re going to get sick,” Arthur told Eames as he handed the empty glass back to him.

“Hmm, I don’t know; I’m pretty resilient”

“Really, though, you’re going to get sick like me and hate the world and everything that comes with it,” Arthur groaned. Eames chuckled softly and cupped Arthur’s face in his ridiculously huge, cool, soothing hands.

“I think I like you sick-much more open and less filtered.”

Eames and Arthur ended up spooning up against each other. Layers of blankets and Eames’s arm cocooned Arthur. When Arthur woke up again it was 4 in the morning and he desperately needed to use the restroom. He squirmed and extracted himself out of the layers of blankets and Eames’s arm. He froze when he felt Eames shift but continued once Eames settled. He padded over to his bathroom to relieve himself, then decided to take a quick rinse to wash off all the sweat from the night.

By the time Arthur came out of the shower, Eames was lying on the bed with a lazy smile on his face.

“You look better,” he said. Arthur smiled after he finished ruffling a towel through his hair.

“I feel better-much better-but I still feel like shit.”

“Come here,” Eames said, sitting up on the bed and reaching for Arthur’s forehead.

“What’s the diagnosis, doctor?” Arthur asked playfully, but found himself to sound a little bit ridiculous speaking with a slightly stuffy nose.

“You’ll live, but just barely-” Eames replied back with a smirk. “You’ve run out of cold medication, by the way, and you need food in your fridge. I should go out and get some.”

“What? No, don’t do that-” Arthur protested, “I’ll just take some aspirin and we’ll order in.”

“What? With junk food, no-you need a feel-good meal, Arthur,” Eames told him as he pulled Arthur back towards the bed.

“I would have changed the sheets, but I didn’t know where they were-you just go back to bed and I’ll be back in 30 minutes.”

“Eames-no, just, let’s just go back to sleep. It’s like 5 in the morning right now. Just stay. Go later,” Arthur groused as he pulled the rising Eames back down onto the mattress.

“You have nothing to eat in when you wake up again, and it’s not good to take any medication on an empty stomach. 30 minutes. I’ll be back.”

“It’s cold out, and it’s still dark, just go when it gets lighter-” Arthur rebuked, making Eames laugh a little.

“Really? It’s cold outside so I should stay?” Arthur pursed his lips.

“Fine, I’m cold, so stay and keep me warm.” Eames looked at Arthur and Arthur could see defeat in his eyes. Eames sighed and raised his hands up.

“Fine. Fine, I’ll go in a couple of hours-come on, let’s get you back into bed.”

Eames took Arthur into his arms and nestled him against his chest. Arthur had nothing to complain about. They laid there in silence just enjoying each other’s warmth.

“We should . . . do something for New Years,” Arthur stated.

“Hm?”

“You know, Christmas plans didn’t go well so we should go do something for the New Year,” the younger man explained. Eames bent his face down onto the top of Arthur’s head, into the dark hair and smiled.

“Okay. We could go to Paris again. We didn’t really get to spend much time together there-everything was very. . . .”

“Impulsive,” Arthur supplied as Eames laughed in agreement.

“Indeed.”

“Do you think that we had that kind of impulse for each other the moment we met?” Eames asked after a moment as he took one of his hands and laced it with Arthur’s.

Arthur thought for a moment then answered, “I don’t know. At first I hated you. A lot. You annoyed me and I thought you were pulling my leg with the first gift.”

“Yeah? What changed?” Eames asked against Arthur’s temple while padding the web of skin in between Arthur’s thumb and index.

“What makes you think that changed?” Arthur asked as he turned his head towards Eames and smiled cheekily.

“Mmm, Arthur, such a liar,” Eames said as he bent down and kissed behind Arthur’s ear. They shared a broken laugh, both remembering their own set of memories of each other as Arthur continued more sincerely.

“I think I just got to know you better and then I just started to realize something, and that thing terrified me. It still does.” Eames stopped padding Arthur’s hand and then hovered over Arthur.

“What do you mean?” he asked looking a bit confused.

Arthur turned on his back to look straight up at Eames.

“Like, when I first started realizing that I had these . . . feelings for you; I didn’t know what to do.” Arthur started looking straight at Eames, “Then I felt frustrated and I just. . . .”

Arthur paused and looked away from Eames’s gaze and decided that Eames’s shoulder would be a great place to stare at.

“When you go shot, I thought I was going to die.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Eames whispered apologetically.

“When you got shot twice, I thought I did die and throughout that whole time I had no idea why I had this feeling of . . . of-” Arthur tried to find the right word to use, but no word seemed to rival the sensation he had felt. In the back of his head he could hear the squealing of tires and the pounding blasts of gunshots and Eames suddenly swerving. Bright crimson oozing through Eames’s gray shirt; one minute Arthur was pressing down on Eames’s wounds, trying to go for the wheel, and then the next moment he was thrown out of the car, left to horrifically watch the white Audi fly over the bridge.

Arthur blinked his eyes open when he felt a cool and callused hand cup the back of his head. Eames drew him closer and pressed against Arthur’s chapped lips. The kiss was soft, and short, but so heavy and grand, filled with so many unsaid words, starting from “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” to “I think I’m in love with you; don’t you dare leave me. . . .”

Eames rested his forehead against Arthur’s. Their breaths mingled together in the small space between them. Eames’s fingers entangled themselves with Arthur’s long, dark locks; their chests touched each other, Eames’s heart pressed firmly against Arthur’s right and Arthur’s heart pressed against the empty space of Eames’s right.

“I never want to make you feel that way. It was never my intention, Arthur.”

“I know,” Arthur replied as he closed his eyes and melted into the warmth Eames’s broad body emitted. His arms wrapped around the girth of Eames’s neck.

“When I first met you, you terrified me, too,” Eames said. Arthur stayed quiet to let him continue.

“I saw you and something in my body, in my mind, just wanted to own you. At first I thought it must have been because you were beautiful. Stunning smarts, gorgeous face, aesthetic body.” Eames continued on as he tucked Arthur’s drying hair behind his ear, “So I thought I could amuse myself-turn you into a game-but the more I found out about you . . . I found you never ending.” Arthur slowly opened his eyes, his eyelashes brushing against the long blonde ones of Eames.

Eames lifted his head a bit to focus on Arthur’s face and smiled in a way that made Arthur’s jaw drop a little and eyes heat up as if he was the virgin Mary in ecstasy in the presence of the Lord.

“You, Arthur darling . . . you seem to go on forever for me.”

Arthur had no idea what that meant, but he found that the only thing he could really do is draw Eames’s head down and kiss him, open-mouth and open-heart.

On the first week of January they did end up going to Paris, where Arthur was introduced to Professor Miles and his daughter Malorie Miles and Miles’ protégé and son-in-law, Dominic Cobb. When Arthur and Eames were not experimenting in the dream-scape with Dominic and Malorie, he and Eames explored each other, physically and beyond, and in the back of Arthur’s mind he thought, “This must be how it feels when two people merge into one entity.”

click to continue~