12 Songs of Christmas My True Love Gave To Me part four
I Miss You Most At Christmas Time
Every other season comes along
And I'm all right
But then I miss you
Most at Christmas time
2008
In May, Arthur gets a phone call, and he’s surprised to find it’s from Cobb.
Cobb explains to Arthur, “Mal is dead . . . and I need help.”
Cobb fills Arthur in on the experiments they had been doing-layering up dreams, and adding sedatives into Somnicin and how Mal jumped from the 21st building but not before signing legal papers stating how she feared for her life.
“I’m on the run, Arthur, but I intend to go home. I need your help; I need you to get me into the business.”
“I haven’t worked a job in over a year and a half, Dom. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“But Eames told me you could,” Dom said, snapping Arthur back into the conversation.
“What did you say?”
“I said Eames told me you-”
“You’ve spoken to him?” Arthur asked in a frenzy.
“. . . Yes,” Dom answered sounding unsure where the conversation was going.
“Is he still in Mombasa?”
“Um . . . yes, but I spoke to him after I landed in Syria,” Dom stated. “Look, I’m sorry to cut in, Arthur, but I do need your help. I need to get back home . . . back to my kids I-”
Arthur let Dom rant on; he was still digesting the new information on Eames.
‘Still alive, still in Mombasa, still waiting for me. . . .’
“-and I didn’t kill Mal-”
“Yes,” Arthur cut in.
“And I. . . . What?”
“Yes, I’ll help you. Where are you?”
There had to be a reason Eames had sent Dom his way; Arthur didn’t know why but it wasn’t as if he had anything to lose. Dom, apparently, was still in Syria.
“It’s too close to Israel; I can’t go there. Meet me in Beijing in two weeks’ time.”
“I can do that,” Dom said. They said their goodbyes and Arthur quickly began to pack away the small life he had set up for a little less than a year. Within two days, Arthur had managed to pack and store his few belongings into a storage room he had rented two years back when he first left L.A., but before leaving he opened the large box filled with bottles one more time. Taking them out of their wrappings (he’d rewrapped them), he held and stared at each bottle, wondering and imagining what Eames was doing or thinking when he was holding and drinking out of them.
Once Arthur reached Beijing, he automatically started feeling for jobs so that by the time Dom arrived he was already good to go and ready to train Dom into a life of criminal activity.
Dom had finally gotten used to the idea of breaking the law by their third job. The two of them were having dinner at their hotel restaurant in Moscow. Arthur kept each job relatively close to each other. China, India, Russia-
“So, are you going to call him?” Dom asked.
“What?” Arthur knew exactly who Dom was referring to, but chose to feign ignorance as he stabbed his salad viciously.
“He’s still in Mombasa. He told me a couple months ago he wasn’t thinking about leaving . . . something about extended vacation or something.”
“Good for him,” Arthur said as he shoved the Romanian leaves into his mouth.
“You could . . . go to him. You know-it is nearing the holidays,” Dom advised, but Arthur kept his mouth shut and kept chewing. Dom stared at him and sighed in defeat, continuing on his own dinner.
Arthur wasn’t stupid. Of course he could just ‘call him.’ As soon as Arthur was working again, the first thing he did was look up Eames. He had been itching to call his contacts and do what he did best to keep tabs on Eames, but the whole thing would have defeated the purpose of them separating.
‘More like: of you leaving,’ the voice in the back of his head said.
Arthur told himself that it was necessary to leave Eames at the time. He constantly argued with the voice in the back of his head that the two of them needed a time of separation, to think, to regroup. When the two of them were together their brains jumbled up and priorities got all shot to hell and both of them were so stubborn and so willing to throw each other out of the line of a stray bullet. . . .
“It had to be done,” Arthur tells himself every night before going to bed.
The fact that Christmastime was nearing didn’t make things easier for Arthur. The greens and reds, the pictures of Christmas trees and snow-practically everything was screaming at Arthur to just give in and run back to Eames.
“I hate Christmas,” Arthur had muttered to himself as he and Dom were walking out onto the main street to catch a cab to France where they had their next job with Cobol Engineering.
Dom heard Arthur and cracked a little smile, “Wow, downright Grinch, aren’t you?” he said making Arthur flinch involuntarily. Dom hadn’t noticed, and if he did he didn’t say anything.
Arthur suddenly had a flash back to all those Christmases ago when Eames came to his loft for the first time and gave Arthur his own PASIV. How they dreamed together but Eames never got to see Arthur’s Christmas tree building.
That night once they land in France and settle into their own hotel rooms, Arthur takes out his PASIV and sets the timer to 10 minutes before going under.
It’s his loft from 3 years back. Arthur’s projection of Eames is already spooning Arthur on his old sofa when he wakes up in the dream.
“What took you so long, Arthur dear?” Eames asks as he nuzzles against the back of Arthur’s neck.
“Sorry,” Arthur said turning in Eames’s embrace to face him. His hand cupping one side of the older man’s cheek as he apologized again, “I’m sorry.”
“Shh . . . it’s okay. It’s fine-you’re here now; you’re here with me,” Projection Eames said but then from the kitchen there was breaking of glass making Arthur sit up. To Arthur’s surprise another Eames strode out of his kitchen, with a bottle of liquor in-hand. This Eames was flushed with alcohol, his eyes glossy as if he had been crying, hair mussed up and clothes shabby. He faltered into the living room and stared at Arthur, pointing at him with an accusatory finger.
“You left me to die!” the second Eames screamed at him, “YOU LEFT ME TO ROT ALL ALONE! YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BEEN THE BETTER MAN AND SHOT ME BEFORE YOU LEFT!”
Arthur jerked up, standing up in fear of this new Eames. The drunk Eames glared at him, downed the remainder of the bottle and threw it onto the floor, causing it to shatter.
“Oh, Arthur dear,” drunk Eames spat out, saying ‘Arthur dear’ as if it were some dirty taste in his mouth, “thinking he’s doing the best for both of us. Oh, Arthur dear, doing what’s right. Well look at him now, Arthur dear!” Drunk Eames said pointing behind Arthur to where the first Eames still lay.
Arthur turned around and in horror found the first Eames staring up at him, dead, with a white film over his eyes, pale skin and blue lips.
“You’ve killed him with your cold heart, Arthur dear; you’ve frozen him solid. Look at that!” Drunk Eames continued cruelly. Tears streamed down Arthur’s face as he shook and tried to gasp for air. He clenched a hand over his heart and gripped it hard enough to bruise.
“You’ve killed him Arthur; going to kill me to, are you?” the second Eames kept taunting in the most fiendish way behind him.
“Or maybe I should kill you?”
And before Arthur could register the fact that the projection of drunk Eames was grabbing the end of the broken bottle and stabbing him in the back, he jolted awake with real tears flowing from the corners of his eyes.
After regaining a regular breathing pattern, the point man raided the liquor cabinet in his hotel room. Drinking down the small bottles one by one till his visions were too blurred and memories of the dream were distant.
Arthur sat on the edge of his bed, rocking from side to side then suddenly grabbed the phone and punched in the numbers he had memorized and punched in numerous times but never had strength to press send.
The dial tone rang about 4 times before a deep, familiar, whiskey-laced voice asked, “Hello?”
“Tell me I didn’t kill you with my cold heart,” Arthur said. He more likely slurred the words but the question still stood. “Tell me that-I didn’t take my cold, cold bastard heart and freeze you to death, Daniel. Please?” Arthur pleaded as he shook and fell into a cry.
Eames had yet to reply back but Arthur knew he was still on the other line.
Arthur continued to sob out broken sentences of how he had destroyed everything and how he’s so confused and how much he missed Eames.
“F- fuck, Dan . . . I- I don’t know any more. Did I do the right thing? Leaving? I don’t know any more. I just miss you and I just want to come home to you and I just . . . and I got s- s- s- so scared when I read your card last year and I just. . . .”
It was pathetic and probably completely stupefying, but a second later Eames spoke out, “You did the right thing,” the British man’s deep soothing voice carrying on in Arthur’s ears. “You did the right thing. Shhh, stop crying now, it’s okay. You didn’t kill me, Arthur. I’m still hurt and angry, but you didn’t kill me, darling-it’s okay. . . . Shhh, lay down now-I know you’re in bed.”
Arthur held onto the phone as he lay on his side on his bed and continued to cry over the phone. Eames continued to sooth Arthur softly, calling him pet names Arthur rarely let Eames indulge in.
He was drifting off the sleep when he heard Eames say in a sad humorous way, “Funny thing . . . I was just thinking that I miss you most, during the holidays.”
Arthur replied softly, “. . . Me too . . . except. . . .”
“Except what, Arthur dear?” Eames asked using one of his favorite pet names, but not like the angry projection in Arthur’s dream. No, this was dulcet and warm and just so filling.
Arthur smiled and continued, “Except . . . every day is Christmas now. . . .”
Winter Wonderland
He'll say: Are you married?
We'll say: No man, But you can do the job
When you're in town
2009
To say that it was a ‘busy’ year for Arthur would be a big understatement. The extraction job originally planned for a designer in Proclus Global to find out the information that Cobol needed resided only with the CEO himself, and with that a chain reaction started.
Extraction on Saito.
Extraction failed.
Hired by Saito.
Do inception on Fisher.
Inception complete, Dom goes home.
Within that chain of events, Arthur had come across several new findings.
Number one, Inception is possible and the idea was not only thrilling but also frightening. Number two, Eames had gained weight. Not in a bad way but just a bit meatier and much fuller and healthier than when Arthur had seen him last. Certain things, though, hadn’t changed with Eames. He was still brilliant and artful, from planning a heist to the masterful stroke of executing it.
There were times on the job when it was awkward for both of them. Neither of them knew exactly how far to push their boundaries, how far they could tease each other or flirt, but it didn’t matter much. Both of them were swamped and overtaken by the amount of preparation for the inception.
Arthur finished picking up his luggage, set it on his trolley, and watched Eames, who was watching Dom leave with Miles.
“Where you headed?” Arthur asked quietly as he stepped next to Eames. Eames looked over at Arthur then back to his hands where he was examining his nails with a toothpick in his mouth.
“Not sure yet. Thought about just resting up for a couple days and maybe . . . I don’t know, head back home,” Eames answered.
“Home?” Arthur asked, raising a brow, truly confused. “London?”
“Yeah,” Eames said, looking up and smiling, “Had to call in a favor-a distant uncle of mine to, you know. . . .”
“Oh,” Arthur said, slightly disappointed. It wasn’t that Arthur was expecting anything, like him and Eames running towards each other with the theme from ‘The Summer Place’ playing the background as they slow-mo to a dramatic hug, but disappointment was all that Arthur could really use to describe what he was feeling. He was happy that Eames could go home. He knew that the forger had been wanting to go back to London for some time.
“Maybe we can have dinner before you leave?” Arthur asked.
“Yeah, that’d be nice,” Eames replied back. The two of them stared at each other, both with awkward smiles on their faces. This was actually the first time the two of them had a moment alone since their reunion. Everything was on a strict plan, plotting and practicing and building, so that neither of them had any time to really sit down and talk.
“Look . . . Dan,” Arthur started but was cut off by Ariadne who pushed her trolley next to them, smiled and asked, “So we’re going out to get smashed right? Job well done?”
Eames smiled at Ariadne, probably thinking the same thing as Arthur, thinking ‘She’s so young. So new. . . .’
“We usually don’t celebrate after every job, Ari,” Eames said. “Usually all the members of the group ignore each other and go separate ways as soon as their paid. Safer that way.”
“Oh . . .”Ariadne said, looked contemplative for a bit, then shoot back up, “but this was no ordinary job. I think we can celebrate at a discreet location.”
Eames chuckled, and Arthur smiled kindly at her.
“Ah, well I think I’ll skip this one,” Arthur apologized. Ariadne gave him a look but he just smiled wryly.
“Well then, I guess I have to attend now since, Arthur isn’t joining. Would be dull, I think, if it was just you and Yusef, now wouldn’t it?” Eames said, surprising Arthur.
“Great! I’ll text you the place!” she said as she took off. Arthur gaped slightly at Eames, who turned to look back at him.
“Might as well indulge her, Arthur-” Eames said nonchalantly.
“Um . . . yeah.”
“But you were saying something?”
Arthur had almost forgotten, but the moment was lost now and there was nothing he could think of to say to Eames anymore.
“I um . . . just wanted to say that you know where I am so . . . yeah,” he finished lamely. Eames smiled brightly at Arthur and said,
“I always know where you are, Arthur.”
Three months passed and December came back to haunt Arthur. He now lived in a loft in Silverlake. It wasn’t the best of places he could have picked to settle; the neighborhood that was filled with college students, hippies and hipsters, but the built-in selves all along one whole side of the wall had attracted Arthur’s attention. The spotted elephant Eames had gifted him for their first Christmas sat on one of the mid shelves next to the stock cards Arthur had framed. A whole other section was filled with the empty bottles Eames had sent him from Mombasa, though the tear-soaked card that came with that package was still placed behind Arthur’s driving license. Other parts of the shelves were filled with books and poorly made pottery he had made from a ceramics class he was currently taking.
There was one cup though, on a self all on its own as if it was a prized trophy. It was one of the best ones Arthur had made in class and for several weeks he contemplated if he should mail it to Eames, who had texted him two weeks after the Fisher job to say that he was now back in England under his given name and living in the house left to him by his mother.
Arthur didn’t mail the poorly made cup, however; but time to time he would look at the porcelain cup with its poorly painted blue patterns and think that Eames would probably have a good laugh at it, if he received it in the mail.
The whole point of Arthur deciding to take a ceramics class was because he felt he had lost his passion in dream-sharing. It’s not that dream-sharing was boring now that Arthur had achieved the God-like impossibility, but rather that the art and marvel of it had somehow become lost to him throughout the jobs he had taken with Dom. Not that is was all Dom’s fault, of course-but Dom’s projection of Mal and the dream he had dreamt with the two projections of Eames just made it hard to forget the dark sides of dream-sharing. It’s the price for a stable reality.
So Arthur decided to take up something where he could build something with his own hands, no matter how poor the results were. He knew he would be terrible at it-it was no surprise to him when the first thing he made (a vase) came out to look more like a play-do creation made by a four-year-old. His teacher, a lovely middle-aged Asian lady, had patted his shoulder in sympathy but Arthur had a feeling she had only covered her face because she was trying so very hard not to laugh at him.
Arthur also picked up a cooking class, where the class was filled with mostly soccer moms and one or two female college students. They all fawned over Arthur, some even shamelessly flirted with him, leaving Arthur to awkwardly explain he was in somewhat of a relationship with someone else, then wondering if he was still in a relationship with Eames.
The first email came on the first week of December.
To: A.Lowey@gmail.com
From: D.E.Strathclyde@gmail.com
Subject: ignore my given last name, Arthur.
Yes. You probably always knew my full name. Ignore it.
Just thought I’d write you a line…
Still in London, living in this giant house my mother had left me with. Can’t say I’m not bored, but I don’t think I’ll ever get back into dream-sharing or conning people again, Arthur.
A bit tired.
I don’t know if it’s the same for you, but I know you have not made plans to take any other jobs.
I’m sorry that you can’t use your given name anymore-but I found that his email address was still active so I decided to say hello.
Hope you are well, Arthur.
-Daniel.
Arthur had quickly responded back after reading.
To: D.E.Strathclyde@gmail.com
From: A. Lowey
Subject: I’ve always ignored your given last name. It’s atrocious.
I think the magic of dream-sharing is lost to me now, not because it’s not brilliant but just . . . it gets tiring.
Reality and dreaming, there’s no difference. People are supposed to dream to escape reality, yet we’ve made it our lives.
I haven’t been thinking about taking any jobs. I can relate when you say you’re tired.
I’m tired as well.
But you’ll find that I’ve been keeping myself busy. You’d be proud, or find a tremendous amount of amusement over it.
I hope you’re taking care of yourself too. . . .
Arthur.
Arthur pressed send and then quickly closed his laptop and slumped into his wiggly chair. After a couple of moments, he decided to go out to grab lunch. There was a café within walking distance of his loft that had exceptional coffee, and Arthur had come to deal with the hipsters who infested the shop.
Arthur ordered a sandwich and drank his coffee while he waited and people watched, ‘till his blackberry gave out a buzz. Arthur fished out his phone from his pocket and viewed the display to find out he had received an email. He opened it:
To: A.Lowey@gmail.com
From: D.E.Strathclyde@gmail.com
Subject: bless you for ignoring it all these years then, love.
What HAVE you been doing, Arthur?
Finally settling to make those plans to conquer the world?
I, too, have been keeping myself busy. I’ve been thinking about selling the house, though; a bit too big for just one. A bit too ostentatious as well. . . .
I’ve been painting. A lot. Thought about sending you one but I didn’t know if I should. . . .
Dreaming . . . I find has become the reason for our lives to complicate themselves. I find that I am no longer the best of the generation . . . mostly because there is a new generation below us. Ariadne, I have to say, is a brilliant architect. If she plans to stay in the game, I am certain she will do well-just a matter of finding the right extractor to follow.
I’ve been doing a lot of traveling around the UK. Recently I took a road trip from London to Glasgow, just for the hell of it. It was very green, and wet and very slow, but I enjoyed it.
London seemed to have changed its pace while I was gone; still enjoying being home, though. I visit my mother every week, the only problem with that, though, is that the old man is there as well. Can’t be helped, I guess.
Tell me, Arthur, do you still play guitar?
Arthur’s sandwich came out by the time he finished reading his email, but he ignored his food and automatically responded back.
To: D.E.Strathclyde@gmail.com
From: A.Lowey@gmail.com < via blackberry>
Subject: Re: bless you for ignoring it all these years then, love.
I’m not going to take over the world; and yes, I still do play the guitar. I still play the one you got me . . . which I never asked-how did you know that was the exact same model that I broke?
I’ve been keeping busy by doing other things.
I’m taking a cooking class, and I’ll have you know I can make a decent meal.
I’ve also been taking a ceramics class. I’m horrible at it, but you already knew I’m horrible with things like that.
I . . . actually made a cup. Debated with myself, thinking maybe I could send it to you, but obviously I haven’t.
Arthur paused from writing, bit his lips and wondered if it was okay to ask the next query. Arthur huffed a frustrated sigh and continued to write.
Eames . . . do you think we are ever going to be like we were before?
And before Arthur could change his mind he sent the message. No longer hungry Arthur asked for the meal to be packed and ordered another coffee to take home.
There were no more emails from Eames for the rest of the day, and Arthur had told himself that Eames had probably gone to bed, time zones and such. Two days later Arthur received a knock on his door. A postman stood at his door with a priority express mail package with the return address to London.
Arthur couldn’t sign and grab the package quickly enough. He had practically slammed the door on the poor mailman’s face. Arthur tore the box open and found a standard sized 16x12 canvas. Arthur gently took the canvas out of the box by its wooden frame and withdrew it to reveal a serene painting of a lake in a hazy and warm sunset.
Arthur lightly treaded his fingers over the uneven paint, following Eames’s brushstrokes.
Arthur looked in the box in search of a card, but found none, so he flipped the painting over to find at the right bottom corner a message left for him.
Lake Loch Ness. I was hoping that I’d catch a glimpse of Nessy, but during the four hours of sitting at the top of the hill painting this, it began to dawn on me that maybe the whole Loch Ness monster business was a tourist trap.
Perhaps we can go there in search of Nessy together.
And to answer your question: No. I don’t think we can ever be like we were. . . .
Because I believe we can do better than that.
The next day Arthur packs his defectively-made cup, and if he overdoes the bubble wrap it’s because he doesn’t trust the American postal system. Arthur doesn’t write “Thank you for the beautiful painting” or “Yes, let’s try again.”
Instead he draws (or tries to draw) a sad stick figure man sitting in front of a pottery wheel with the words “Don’t laugh” under it.
What Are You Doing, New Years Eve?
When the bells all ring and the horns all blow
And the couples we know are fondly kissing.
Will I be with you or will I be among the missing?
2010
In L.A., Christmastime officially starts when the local radio station, KOST 103.5, starts to play continuous holiday music-and it seemed that wherever Arthur went, they had set their radio to that station. Arthur didn’t mind it too much. The usual “Santa Baby” and “Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer” didn’t annoy him as much as the overplayed “Jingle Bell Rock” or the “Last Christmas.”
What did hit a nerve was all the people calling in to the radio, dedicating a song to their sweethearts and their loved ones.
“L.A., it seems, has been overrun by cliché Christmas carols. Debating if I should leave town for a while till this Christmas nonsense has blown over or just chop my ears off. . . .” Arthur typed.
Since the first week of December last year, Arthur and Eames had emailed each other daily. Mostly they talked about what they were doing, and candidly asking questions about the time they were apart. The thick blanket of awkwardness seemed to just melt away between them.
This email was a reply back to was Eames’s email with the subject line: “I’ve decided that the cup you’ve sent me I will only use for coffee.” Within the email it explained that the cup was not worthy to contain the proud brew of proper British tea.
“I received about a dozen invitations from the soccer moms and to a couple college parties from my classmates in cooking and ceramics classes. Speaking of which, my ceramics teacher believes I’m making progress. Maybe I can make a cup ‘worthy’ of proper British tea . . . maybe. Don’t get your hopes up.”
The next morning Arthur was awakened by his blackberry giving off a cheerful chirp indicating that there was an incoming call. Arthur blindly grabbed at his phone and pressed it against his ear.
“Hel. . .o?”
“Sleeping in, Arthur?”
Arthur jolted awake, sitting up on his bed
“Eames!”
“Arthur!” Eames greeted back with a laugh, “Yes. Lovely to hear you, too.”
“I. . . .” Arthur started but was cut off by amused Eames.
“I was just calling to see if you were doing anything for New Years. Afraid we can’t do Christmas together; it’s impossible to find a flight out to anywhere at this point, but I thought leaving town for a holiday would be cleaner and so much more painless than cutting your ears off,” Eames said.
“I um. . . .” Arthur coughed and continued, “I’m not doing anything for New Years.”
“Wonderful! Pick a place, Arthur dear. I’ll meet you there.”
“How about . . . Vienna?” Arthur posed.
“Vienna! We haven’t been there together, have we?” Eames asked.
“No . . . thought it’d be nice. Something new,” Arthur supplied. The younger man heard the older man smile over the phone.
“Something new for the New Year; sounds good to me, Arthur.”
“Yeah. . . .” Arthur replied back a bit dreamily like then cleared his throat and recovered his normal voice to repeat: “Yeah. Yes. Something new, new year. Good. Great.”
Eames didn’t laugh at him, but mirth was clearly in his voice when he told Arthur that he’d send the plane ticket information in his email. After getting off the phone, Arthur groaned and covered his eyes with the heel of his palm, flopping back into his pillows.
“Why do I act so awkward?!” Arthur vented out to himself, then rubbed his face and looked back at his phone.
If Arthur smiled stupidly for the rest of the day, it was only because he woke up on the right side of the bed.
Arthur arrived in Vienna on the 30th of December, 4 PM colloquial time. There was a car sent out for him at the airport to bring him to Hotel Imperial. Arthur marveled at the architecture of the hotel lobby as he was directed to the Imperial Suite on the 3rd floor. Once Arthur arrived in front of the door, he knocked once and waited for the door to open.
Eames opened the door and leaned against the entrance; Arthur’s throat rose up, making him choke on his tongue, as Eames gave him a mind-blowing smile.
“Arthur,” Eames offered with soft eyes, looking at Arthur from head to toe. “Always looking lovely.”
Arthur cleared his throat and said, “Eames. You um . . . too.” He blushed at his awkwardness. Eames just stood their smiling as if he knew some secret Arthur wasn’t in on, and it was unnerving.
“Can I come in?”
“Of course!” Eames said stepping aside, “Here let me get this for you.” He grabbed Arthur’s suitcase for him, brushing his hand in the process.
“Thanks.”
Arthur stepped into the suite to find himself in a very lavishly furnished room. Arthur had been in a lot of hotels in his lifetime-from rundown shack-like rooms to four star hotels-but this suite was by far the most ostentatious and exquisite he had ever been in.
It was decorated in a gold and dark evergreen color scheme, and from the ceiling hung a crystal chandelier. Turkish sofas and Italian stools furnished the salon floor, and there were golden lamps and indoor palms in every corner.
“Wow, this is. . . .”
“Too much?” Eames asked as he closed the door behind Arthur.
“No, I was going to say really nice. The building itself is actually something I wrote a paper on, way back in college-” Arthur supplied as he took off his coat flaked with snow.
“Did you, now?” Eames asked as he took Arthur’s coat from behind. Arthur turned around to face Eames, finding that he and Eames were very close to each other. Arthur, for a moment, stared at Eames’s dark gray-blue eyes, falling into a familiar sensation of contentment then dropped his gaze to the older man’s red ample lips.
“See something you like, Arthur dear?” Eames asked, clearly exaggerating his name. Arthur looked up and narrowed his eyes at the older man, which prompted a rueful smile from Eames.
“Something about the building, you were saying?” Eames said as he stepped back, took Arthur’s coat, and walked over to a coat rack to hang it.
Arthur took a step back before continuing passionately about the art and history of the building: “The building has a lot of history in it. Mozart lived here once; Strauss, Beethoven, and Schubert as well. And the architecture is a great example of the neo-classical era, and. . . .” Arthur looked over at Eames and found him leaning against the mantle, looking at him fondly.
“. . . And you already knew that. Of course you knew that,” Arthur said as he sat in a Turkish armchair in front of the fireplace.
“But you explain it so much better than my teachers did back in school. Much more interesting,” he said. Then he asked, “Hungry?”
“No, just tired. The flight was a bit rough,” Arthur explained as he leaned back comfortably in his chair and loosened his tie.
“Out on a vacation and you’re wearing a three-piece suit,” Eames said as he noted Arthur’s apparel. Arthur just gives a tired smile and a hum. Eames wore a pair of dark khaki pants and dark brown loafers. He also wore a burgundy button down shirt (where the first 2 buttons were opened), which he had tucked neatly into his slacks. He looked comfortable, as if he was in his own skin, relaxed and without worries. Even the air around him seemed to be calm and tranquil, and Arthur couldn’t help but marvel at how well it seemed to suit Eames.
“You look nice,” Arthur thought out loud.
“Thank you, Arthur,” Eames received gently.
“You look relaxed,” Arthur offered again.
“I am relaxed. I think for the first time in a long time; I’ve never been more relaxed as in the last couple months,” Eames explained.
“Oh? What changed?”
“I think I just realized that I was content and happy with myself. Then I realized that I wasn’t sleeping with a gun every night and I still got a decent night’s sleep, and I think somewhere along the way I understood why you left,” Eames said, giving Arthur an encouraging smile. Arthur tried to return a smile but failed due to the memory of him leaving Eames alone in Mombasa that night.
“Oh, Arthur, I’m sorry,” Eames apologized as soon as he noticed Arthur’s change of expression. He quickly strode to Arthur and knelt in front of him, taking Arthur’s slender hands into his big, callused ones.
“We wrote about this, yes? You told me why. You explained how you thought I was making myself physically sick with worry, and I agreed, yeah?”
“Yeah. . . .” Arthur agreed weakly, staring at his hand in Eames’s.
“Hey,” Eames called out. “Look at me.”
Arthur slowly raised his gaze to meet the forger’s.
“We’re okay. We’re going to be fine. You did the right thing; it hurt but you did the right thing by leaving. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have let you go anywhere without me. We needed this. Time to really wrap our heads around the idea,” Eames said, tilting his head with a warm smile.
“Time too wrap our heads around what idea?” Arthur asked softly.
“Time to wrap our heads around the idea that we found someone in our lives that we can consider ‘our true love,’” Eames sponsored with a tongue in cheek, but the sharpness in Eames’s navy blue eyes told Arthur that he wasn’t joking around.
Eames and Arthur ordered room service instead of going out to eat. Arthur was tired from travel and the time difference; he was nearly falling asleep in his chair.
He let Eames order in fluent German and the two of them spoke for an hour just in German for the hell of it.
“I can hear your Hebrew in your German,” Eames commented after he sipped his red wine and comfortably sank into his cushiony armchair.
“What do you mean?” Arthur asked, happily buzzed and relaxed, sitting slouched on his own armchair.
“Just the way you roll certain words-I can hear a faint accent from it.”
“Hmmm,” Arthur hummed into his own glass before finishing his drink. He continued, “I know what you’re saying. Yes. I don’t mean to . . . my tongue just does it on its own.”
“Probably because Hebrew is your first language,” Eames offered.
“Probably,” then Arthur laughed. “You remember when we first met, and you pointed out how ‘hard’ I was trying to erase the poor financial upbringings that I had?”
“Now, Arthur dear, there are only so many times I can apologize for that,” Eames said, sitting up and placing his glass on the table between them. Arthur waved his hand dismissing it.
“No, no, I was going to say that you were right. During college, I tried so hard to not give away the fact I came from a poor Jewish family back in New York. When I got to UCLA on a full ride, the first thing I did was try to speak like everyone else, try to be interested in things everyone else liked. I just tried to hard. I don’t know, but somewhere along the way it just became who I am. I lost focus on what I liked.”
“Then what do you like, Arthur?” Eames asked as he leaned back in his chair and propped his head on his index and middle finger.
“I found out that I actually hate dressing up. I don’t like parties and I don’t like champagne, ‘cause it makes this weird feeling in the back of my throat.” Eames laughed openly at Arthur’s confession.
“I also found out that I really hated my old job. The one at The Getty, being an art critic; getting paid to be pretensions and pompous, then having to pretending that you’re as lofty and posh as the old people you work for. I found out I also hate Beijing in the summer, and I hate all chocolate but white.”
Eames smiled lazily as he listened to Arthur’s confession. Arthur then sat up a bit straighter and looked intently over at the older man.
“Then about three years back I realized that I really hated Christmas.”
Arthur kept staring at Eames, whose smile had died down a little, and then continued, “I never really enjoyed Christmas or anything. You were right, I grew up poor. Didn’t celebrate the Jewish holidays, either-my family couldn’t be picky enough to keep kosher. Basically my parents were too busy trying to just survive to instill tradition or anything like that in my life. They weren’t horrible parents, just busy. They died when I was fairly young-and I don’t mind. I don’t think they would be very proud to find their only child criminal and well, gay.” Arthur glossed.
“Then one year you just appeared in my life, infuriated the hell out of me, and then just left. I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about you after our first job. I researched you, dug your whole life up. At the time I told myself that it was just me being anal and thorough and making sure I wouldn’t work with a jackass like you.”
Eames gave Arthur a wry smile.
“But I think we both know that wasn’t true, was it?”
“No. Well at least I’d like to think not,” Eames provided softly. Arthur smiled and continued:
“Started off with a stupid stuffed animal, then it just . . . you took a day that was like any other day of the year for me and made it into something I looked forward to every year, and then you made every day like Christmas. Those two years we spent together, Daniel, every single fucking day was like Christmas,” Arthur whispered. A familiar ache throbbed in Arthur’s chest as his eyes began to heat up.
“Those three years without you, it was like I was-”
“Dying,” Eames and Arthur said at the same time.
The two men stared at each other, slowly breaking into a small timid smile full of apologies to each other. Arthur stood up from his chair slowly and stepped in front of Eames. Arthur reached out for Eames’s face with uncertainty and shaky hands. Eames took the younger man’s hand in his and placed Arthur’s palm onto his face, his thumbs brushing back and forth adoringly across Arthur’s knuckles.
“Can we start again? Can we have Christmas every day again?” Arthur asked hushed, his eyes holding back heavy tears.
“God, darling, yes. Yes, please,” Eames breathed out as he pulled Arthur down and craned his neck up to meet Arthur’s lips.
It had been nearly four years since they last shared a kiss, but Arthur still felt so superbly well-fitted with each curve of Eames. Like a puzzle piece, Arthur slide right into place. Arthur closed his eyes, drowning himself in what he could only express as a flood of euphoria. The heavy tears finally let go of Arthur’s dark lashes and rolled down his cheeks, only for Eames to gather them away with his thumbs. Arthur climbed onto Eames’s lap, took his arms and rested them on the shoulders he felt so many years ago were made just for him, placing his arms around Eames as they kissed and made love.
Now Arthur knows that Eames’s shoulders were made just so that Arthur could rest his arms around him as they kissed.
Arthur doesn’t know how long they had been kissing, but both of them broke apart for air and stared at each other’s teary faces and laughed at how ridiculous they looked. Eames took one of his big hands and caressed the side of Arthur’s face and stared at him as if he was a marvel.
“Ughhoof,” Eames breathed out a half groan and a half sigh. Arthur followed by releasing a similar sounding breath of air in his chest. Then the two giggled like teenagers. Arthur leaned over and bumped his forehead against the older man’s as he pressed their tangled hands over his heart.
“What are you doing for New Year’s eve, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asked.
“I’m not quiet sure, Arthur dear. . . . But whatever I’m doing, I know I’ll be having a grand time.”
I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm
What do I care how much it may storm?
I've got my love to keep me warm
2011
Arthur heard Eames coming in through the door and giving out a dramatic “burr!” as he closed the door behind him.
“Cold out?” Arthur asked from the kitchen, washing away the last of their dinner.
“Yes. I can’t believe you made me go out in the sodding rain to get you your damned bloody orange wine,” Eames called out from the foyer.
“Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy orange wine as much as I do. Besides, the wine cellar is across the yard; hardly trekking through a blizzard, is it?” Arthur said as he grabbed two wine glasses and a cork opener and headed towards the living room. Eames had already settled on the floor in the living room, by the lit fireplace.
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t cold,” Eames said sulkily. Arthur smiled exasperatedly as he made his way over to Eames and straddled his lap comfortably. Eames settled the bottle he was studying onto the floor next to him and grinned up at Arthur as he wrapped his arms around Arthur’s svelte waist.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Arthur said, smiling down into a kiss.
“Hmmm, I bet you will,” Eames replied back, also smiling into their kiss.
Since Vienna, Arthur and Eames had decided to take things slowly, no more impulsive behavior and no more blaming each other for the times they were both hurting over-just taking it one step at a time. By mid-June, Eames had finally sold his parents’ house and moved to L.A., buying a rather moderate house in La Canada. Arthur had moved into Eames’s house on the second week of December and the two of them had finished unpacking and organizing Arthur’s things in time for Christmas.
Eames took the glass and cork opener out of Arthur’s hand and dismissed them near the now neglected bottle of wine.
“We need to have sex in every room of the house now,” Eames said as he buried his face into Arthur’s nape.
“We already have,” Arthur groaned out as Eames nipped his neck.
“It’s different now,” Eames said as he placed a kiss between each word. “You are now officially moved in. We need to christen the house properly.”
Eames then held Arthur and tumbled him onto his back, Eames above him, bracing him with his whole body.
“We could do that . . . but you said you were cold or something? Maybe you should go soak in a hot bath first?” Arthur said impishly as he started unbuttoning Eames’ shirt.
“We wouldn’t want you to be all cold, um . . . on the floor naked, would we?”
Eames growled as he bit into Arthur’s neck, making him yelp and laugh. He reached out for Eames’s face and then brought him up to his lips where they shared an open-mouthed kiss.
“I think I’ll be just fine, Arthur, though your concern is much appreciated; I’ve got your love to keep me warm.”
FANMIX
CLICK TO DOWNLOAD FANMIX
REAL THINGS in the work of FICTION
The watch Eames got Arthur: watch
Madonna in Sorrow:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:The_Madonna_in_Sorrow.jpg
Guitar:
http://www.martinguitar.com/guitars/choosing/guitars.php?p=s&g=5&m=D-15
Things I got inspired by:
Let it Snow café scene where Eames takes Arthur’s hands:
http://28.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lbfq841pch1qe6deko1_250.gif
the poorly described sex scene in Paris: (NOT WORK SAFE!)
http://tatarnikova.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d33x9ke
painting that Eames drew of Lake Loch Ness
http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Jx78YcF-F8U/THO-e-Kj8FI/AAAAAAAAC5g/bMVdrc7fKKI/s1600/loch-ness01.jpg
Hotel Imperial, Vienna:
http://www.starwoodhotels.com/luxury/property/overview/index.html?propertyID=97
the rooms:
http://i286.photobucket.com/albums/ll93/snowinginjune/Screenshot2010-12-30at64351PM.png
http://i286.photobucket.com/albums/ll93/snowinginjune/Screenshot2010-12-30at64527PM.png
orange wine: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orange_wine
a wine that has quiet a tedious process in the making of- but it really does have a beautiful color and tastes very sweet.
thank you for reading, and comments are loves!