"I don't think this one's quite grand enough, darling."
Arthur gives the deliberating man an empty stare before shuffling his feet and stuffing his hands under his arms in an attempt to get the blood flowing. They feel frozen solid, even with protection against the biting wind, but he supposes that he's always had awful circulation.
"Eames," The other's assessing the stability of the tree by shaking it firmly; it sways uneasily from side to side and okay, maybe he has a point. It probably wouldn't be good for their tree to come crashing down on them the instant they've set it up. The sight of shattered decorations and fir needles scattered across their apartment floor would certainly put him off of the idea for life, or at least for the rest of the year. "We've been out here for two hours."
That statement alone should be incentive enough for the two of them to just pick the next durable looking tree and get the hell out of their. Arthur can't even feel his toes, mostly because the other had strung him along straight from his work and he hadn't had the time to properly prepare himself for the harsh winter conditions and blowing snow.
"Patience." The painter grins back at him, but its hidden by numerous branches, thick with pine needles and snow. He's already several steps ahead, surveying the structure of another tree. "Ah, yes, this one looks promising."
Arthur shakes his head, because this isn't the first time he's heard that, but reluctantly follows the other to where he's beaming up at an eight-foot, silvery-green Fraser fir. Although it's beauty is promising and it doesn't appear rotted or decayed or even faulted in the very slightest, he thinks it looks just like all the others.
He's too busy frowning down at his shoes where an inch or two of snow has seeped into his socks. Home sounds fantastic right now, work has not been kind for him these past few days and he swears he feels a cold coming on.
"It helps when you apply a little imagination, Arthur." Eames smiles innocently at the glare he receives from the other, brown eyes narrowing, cheeks and nose red from the frost. "Picture yourself in the living room, lazing about on the couch with a mug of coffee curled in your pretty little hands. And when you look up, this magnificent beaut will be nestled in the corner opposite the fireplace, garnished with only the finest of holiday decor, a twinkling star brightening the very top. It's rather homey, the thought of it."
The architect glances up and can see it a little, the flickering flames of the lit fireplace, the warmth of the cup in his hands, ornaments and tinsel against the tree's prickly green backdrop, his two cats peacefully asleep beneath its branches.
Eames is right, whether or not he'd be willing to admit it aloud, the tree would give their large living room a more intimate feeling, would make it cozy and warm and festive.
"Yes," He says finally, and can see the other grinning childishly at his victory. "Alright, we'll get this one. But you'll be the one carrying it up three flights of stairs."
The painter waves him off, "A small price to pay, I think."
"If you insist."
Later, Arthur's the one smiling, sifting through the pages of a dog-eared novel and chuckling into a deliciously searing cup of coffee as Eames is attempting to stand the tree up in their living room.
"You know, darling," He grunts, missing the tree stand by a good couple of inches. "You could help, even just a little."
"That," He replies smugly. "was not a part of our agreement. Oh, a bit to the left. You almost had it."
Eames calls him a wise arse and flips him off and Arthur, smirking from behind his book, feigns ignorance and happily turns the page.
Christmas is only a few weeks away.
It's half-past 11 at night and Arthur can't rush home fast enough.
He knows that he was supposed to be home by no later than six, knows that he's five hours late.
He clutches the sparkling, star-shaped tree topper that he picked up for ten seventy-five plus tax in his hand, holds his briefcase with the other. When he turns a corner and his apartment building is right there, his feet catch on the ice and he falls.
It hurts, but he can't stay down. It's stupid, maybe, but he promised Eames that he would be there. They were to decorate the tree when he came home, it was one of the only designated nights, at least for the week, that he was able to come home so early.
Except that his boss, his thoughtless, demanding boss had ruined it. He needed to stay late, it wasn't even an option. Stay or quite his job and no you can't make a quick phone call.
He would say it isn't fair, but that's juvenile. Arthur accepts the responsibility as he pushes open the door to their apartment complex, but that won't be enough.
He takes the stairs two or three at a time, feels the throb in his ankle and thinks that he's probably sprained it. It's the last thing that he's worried about.
When the architect quietly eases the door to their flat open, calls out the other's name in the darkness and receives no answer, he steps in. All the lights are out, except the multicolored ones intertwined in their Christmas tree's branches, reflecting off of the vast assortment of colorful bulbs and silly ornaments that they'd picked out days before.
He's too late; then again, he knew that.
It's a bit of a slap in the face that he deserves, to see the tree decorated in a seemingly aimless, but visually appealing way when Eames is nowhere to be found. He didn't wait up, why would he?
Arthur kicks his shoes neatly to the side, shucks off his coat and hangs that up too. He heads down the hallway, where Eames' door is cracked, and peers in.
He can tell right away that the painter isn't asleep in the way that he breathes, it's deliberately stilled and seems forced, like he's trying too hard to appear that he's unconscious.
"Hey," The outline of the older man's broad, tattooed shoulders stiffen in the dark, but he doesn't turn and regard him. "I have the star; you said we should put it on together."
Eames shifts, but the architect knows that it isn't going to be as easy as that.
"I think you can manage just fine on your own, Arthur." His voice is rough, upset, understandably angry. "I'm quite comfy in bed, thank you."
"Eames," He stresses, because he can't not defend himself. "I couldn't do anything it, my boss kept me late and you know how he is-"
"So I suppose-" The painter interrupts, sitting up suddenly in his bed. Arthur can feel the glare that would otherwise go unnoticed in the shadowed room. "I suppose that's it, then. Your job's more important and your boss knows best, that's all good and well, but how long are you going to keep listening to him? How long are you going to be at his beck and call, slave for him?"
"That is not what we were discussing." His tone is low, flashing like a caution sign that this conversation needs to end. He may not be where he wants to in his career but that's for another time and another place, that's none of Eames' goddamn business. "Just because you think you have a right to be immature about this-"
"-I'm not the one dodging responsibility-"
"I've taken the blame, alright? I'm not trying to avoid that-"
"-well, you're certainly not acknowledging the real problem. Perhaps if you'd grow a backbone, then you're boss wouldn't be walking all over you-"
"I'm sorry." The intensity of their argument, the blaze of their tempers and the animosity is smothered with those few words. The silence between them is suffocating. "I apologize, okay? I'm trying to make this better, I'm trying to make up for it, but I'm not the one fighting it."
Arthur tosses the tree topper at the other, who catches it a little clumsily and watches as he storms out the bedroom door.
"Merry fucking Christmas, Eames."
It's minutes later when Arthur is in the living room, silently brooding and contemplating the tree's wondrous decor, that someone flicks the light on, instantly illuminating his cross expression. Eames pads up behind him, wordlessly dangling what looks suspiciously like an ornament in his line of vision.
"I saved it for you to hang." He says finally and the translation is loosely something like 'I accept your apology and I was out of line.'
The ornament itself has the architect's eyebrows raising a bit; it's a plump and fleecy black sheep and it seems ridiculously out of place. He suspends it from a nearby branch anyway, ensuring that its secure before he releases it.
Even though it's unnecessary, they both strain their arms to place the star, also, in it's rightful place and the look is complete.
They step back to admire their handiwork; Eames a little droopy-eyed and Arthur, with a soundless admiration.
That bothersome antique clock that Eames insisted they have chimes from its resting place on the wall adjacent to the fireplace and that's when they know.
Christmas Day is only one week ahead.
"My boss is an idiot."
Eames raises an eyebrow from his spot on their living room couch. The architect is on the other end, restlessly attempting to get some paperwork done.
It was evident by the way he'd been stirring and shifting and sighing heavily since he'd gotten in the room that he was eager to discuss something. Eames, who was amused by the antics that the other might very well be unaware of, simply waited until he broke the silence.
"I think, love, that we'd already established that at some point." But he's in the conversation now, so he sets his sketchpad down in his lap and gives his full attention. "Enlighten me anyway, I never tire of your voice."
The painter knows from the way that Arthur rolls his eyes that he's aware that he's mostly humoring him.
"Here," He shuffles a little closer and Eames is instantly hit with the smell of his very own cologne. The architect occasionally mixes up their things when he's in a hurry and he's stopped mentioning it after it happened once. It makes him smile and really, it's sort of adorable the way that Arthur doesn't notice. "This building, right here. It's fantastic, isn't it?"
He takes the two things that are offered to him, a photograph of a building's exterior and something like sketched schematics of its interior. The building is rather handsome looking, inside and out, and despite its chipping facade, it's large - full of potential and old-world charm.
He chuckles at the schematics, "Arthur, showing me official documents? You're quite naughty."
To his credit, Arthur hardly bats an eye. Eames presses on.
"It's lovely."
"My boss wants to tear it down." He sounds perturbed and the painter is biting back a grin when the other seems very close to pouting. "That building, that one. He's so caught up in short-term profit that he doesn't even realize its potential for something more. It could be a school with a few more additions or a city library."
Arthur snatches the photo back, a lot of purpose behind his consideration.
"Yeah," He finishes, even nodding a little. "A library with entry columns and some stucco exterior, concrete stairs. If I were the project manager, I would..."
He trails off and Eames fixes him with an interested gaze, silently tries to urge him to continue on.
"It doesn't matter." He relents, averting his eyes and reaching for his mug on the coffee table, the one filled with sweet hot chocolate and not sugared black coffee. "There's nothing I can do."
"Darling, I have no idea what you're talking about." When Arthur makes an effort to shy away, he only scoots closer, offering his sketchbook and pen. "Here, you know I love when you talk nonsense about your job, but it's hard to imagine your fascination. Show me."
The architect accepts reluctantly, casting what he probably thinks are furtive glances from behind the drawing book.
"You don't actually care." He accuses; Eames smiles as he clicks the pen anyway. "You're coddling me."
"Indulge me for a few minutes, would you, Arthur?"
The other looks perplexed, blinking down at the open pad of paper and the pen in his hand.
"Okay." He begins to draw, slowly at first because he's uncomfortable. Within the minute, though, he completely blocks out the fact that Eames is leaning against his shoulder, watching the movements of the pen on paper.
Arthur murmurs to himself while he draws, here and there things that are barely audible over the flames crackling in their fireplace, mindless, but fond-sounding incoherencies.
There's a flicker of a smile on his lips when he's done, one large enough to perfectly display those usually unseen dimples.
Then he sighs and Eames can feel the other's weight on his shoulder when he slumps and pushes the sketchbook back into his lap.
"I told you that it doesn't matter, I'm not even involved in this project. They won't listen to me."
The painter flips the pad of paper over and admires the outline of this fictional library's entryway that the other has produced for him.
"Maybe." He buries his nose in the crook of Arthur's neck and breathes, just breathes. The gesture's intimate, but they're more than acquaintances now. They might even be friends. "You're better than the lot of them, though."
"I know." He's not cocky or conceited, he doesn't even smile. "It's cold."
"Give it a few minutes, we just started up the fire."
Arthur nods and sits a little closer; he pretends not to notice Eames' arm around his waist.
In return, the painter decides not to mention how Arthur does nothing to pull away from it.
They're both good at that by now.
"Eames," Arthur begins one afternoon, sniffling and sounding positively miserable. It's not because of a cold, though, he eventually finds out. "There's something that we need to... to..."
He sneezes loudly and the painter finally turns his way.
"You're not looking very well, love." He's at his easel, pondering the blank canvas like he always does before he's about to begin a painting. "Catching ill?"
Arthur inhales sharply through his mouth, because breathing through his nose has become somewhat of a difficulty these last two days.
He hates that it's taken so long for him to discover this, but it needs to be said. Wallowing in his misery for the rest of this Christmas holiday does not sit too well with him, after all.
Honestly, he can't help it if he's figured out far too late that he might in fact be allergic to their lovely Fraser Fir.
He hopes that if he softens the blow, then Eames won't be too upset and they can see about purchasing a fake tree. It would appear just as real, just as magnificent, but it wouldn't leave him congested and feeling utterly pathetic.
But, he realizes, it won't be quite that easy because Eames fucking loves that tree.
"We should..." Arthur tries again, glancing swiftly between the other's patiently attentive expression and that fir sitting innocently in the corner. "I think it's important that we..."
He sighs out his acquiescence and clears his throat.
"Nevermind," He finished, attempting to be casual despite the entirely baffled look he's receiving from Eames. "I lost my train of thought."
It doesn't matter, really, he can fight through this if only for the winter season.
And, if not, he's contemplating a perfectly healthy concoction of over-the-counter allergy pills and decongestants as his fall-back plan.
He and Ariadne are walking back to his apartment from work, are actually in front of the complex chatting pleasantly when something sails through the air and hits him on the back of the neck. Something wet and cold, something so goddamn cold as it drips down his shoulder blades.
Something like a snowball.
Ariadne seems a little surprised when he whirls around and glares at the man grinning mischievously, peering just around the corner. He's holding another freshly made snowball in his hands and that's proof enough.
What startles her the most, however, is that Arthur doesn't respond in his usual fashion. He doesn't shrug it off and call this individual - she assumes that it's Eames - an imbecile and usher her inside. He's gritting his teeth, his words shameless and impulsive.
"You asshole!" He shouts, stooping down and sloppily collecting a snowball in his hand. The other's so busy laughing that even the clumsy throw hits him in the shoulder. "We're at ceasefire, Eames; a truce! A fucking suspension of hostilities! I have a civilian with me-"
"-should I interpret your return fire as re-engagement in our war?"
"You should start thinking about the conditions of your surrender, Mr. Eames." Arthur's taken refuge behind a parked car that doesn't belong to him and Ariadne can't help but think that the remark is incredibly childish of him. "I've already got some ideas in mind."
"Oh, darling, you only wish I've give in."
She's grinning when another snowball flying across the distance hits the vehicle's windshield, showering them both with its icy fragments.
Later that day, after both men call a momentary peace and they all enter the apartment, she is introduced to the charming and delightful Mr. Eames, the one she's heard so much about.
She finds that he's really perfect for Arthur, in a strange way. Eames is that loosing up that he needs, someone who can match him wit-for-wit all while wearing that boyish grin of his.
He's someone who can see Arthur in the ways that others can't, makes him blush and fumble and smile. Smile.
Ariadne can't believe that it's taken this long for them to meet and she conspires to come over often.
Next time, she thinks that she'll bring Mal.
"You waited until three days before Christmas to go shopping?"
Arthur's a little perturbed at the amount of incredulity in his dear friend's tone. She's looking at him like he's crazy as they wander the streets, searching for shops that aren't completely and utterly swamped with dozens of desperate shoppers.
He's about to open his mouth to defend himself, but Ariadne starts addressing the man at his side.
Dominick Cobb, a good friend of his from the architecture firm, looks even more ill at ease than he does when he's being scolded at.
"You need to buy a gift for your wife, don't you?" She sounds positively exasperated. "And you waited until now? You guys are borderline hopeless."
"We've been busy," Arthur says, with a hint of indignation. To be fair, he's already done most of his shopping. There's just the matter of that one more gift, the one that he didn't think about until Eames was tucking a present under the tree.
He recalls asking who its for, but Eames just gave him a sort of secretive wink and told him that he'll have to wait until Christmas Day. That's when he called Ariadne up and suggested they go on this little trip.
He might be panicking a little, he has no idea what to get Eames.
"Arthur," Ariadne has a somewhat frustrating ability of being able to sense just how frantic he is even when he doesn't show it. "There's a seriously simple solution to all of this."
She whispers something in his ear, beaming innocently when he pulls away shaking his head. And if there's a touch of pink in his cheeks, then Cobb's at least kind enough not to mention it.
"No." He declares firmly; he's not going to budge. "That idea's ridiculous, we have no way of knowing it'll work in advance. It's foolish and if it doesn't work, I'll look absurd."
Ariadne isn't the slightest bit put off by his words.
"And what, Arthur, happens if it does work?" She hums and the notion's harmless enough, but now she's got him thinking.
He cannot believe what he's about to consider.
Christmas Day comes quicker than maybe either of them expected, but when Arthur pads quietly out of his room at nine that morning, dressed in a pair of slacks and a white, argyle patterned sweater, he doesn't know whether to be surprised or not when Eames is grinning at him from the couch.
"Good morning, love." He smiles from behind a cup of freshly brewed tea. "Coffee's in the kitchen."
Arthur pours himself a mug, relishes in the taste, because it's hard enough for him to function in the morning, otherwise.
"I want you to open my gift." The painter says the very instant he takes his spot on the couch and Arthur stills for a moment.
"Eames, about... about your gift-"
"It's alright, darling." Eames doesn't sound even remotely upset as he stands to his feet and collects the wrapped package from beneath the tree. "I didn't give notice and it really isn't much."
Arthur accepts the gift a little guiltily; it's probably worth a lot more than he's going to give.
He opens the present carefully, taking the time to work his finger beneath the tape, ensuring that he isn't tearing the paper. Eames calls him a perfectionist, perhaps out of anxiety, and tells him that if he doesn't hurry, Christmas will be over.
He raises his eyebrow at the other's impatiency, but pushes the wrapping away to reveal what's beneath.
"You always look so cold, love." The painter offers as a means of explanation when Arthur holds the light blue, Burberry cashmere scarf in his hand. "You ought to try it on."
It's so simplistic, but really, he knows better. These things are most definitely not cheap.
"Had to save for a bit." Eames starts cheerfully, helping the otherwise immobilized man wrap the scarf loosely around his neck. "Most of the money goes for the rent, after all, but I managed enough."
"There," He says after a moment, sitting back and admiring. "It looks brilliant on you. Happy Christmas, Arthur."
"Eames, it's..." His mouth feels dry and he toys with the end of the scarf, offering his gratitude without quite looking the other in the eye. "Thank you, honestly."
"You are more than worth it." Eames is smiling again and he weakly returns the gesture.
"I have your present." Arthur says thoughtlessly, he's not so up to this anymore. "It's not... Eames, you can't laugh. It's not as good, but you have to close your eyes."
"I wouldn't dream of it, monkey." He obliges, closing his eyes. "Is there a point in me asking about all of the secrecy?"
"No." He's entirely grateful that the other's eyes are closed as he fiddles with something in his hand, when pink stains his cheeks and it's all he can do to keep jack-hammering heart at bay.
The architect curses Ariadne a number of times in his head, curses the idea, which surely won't work. He'd planned on getting Eames an actual gift, something tangible and something useful.
This is the first time in a long time that he's felt quite so nervous.
The startled sound that Eames emits is muffled a little by his own lips as he pushes their mouths together. He hadn't planned it all out, the hand resting on the other's thigh, the fingers gripping the material more out of fear than anything else. He thinks it's the most impulsive thing that he's ever done and really, it can't be that bad because the painter hasn't pushed him away and proclaimed his disgust yet.
Arthur's absolutely embarrassed of the sound he makes when the other so suddenly pulls away.
"Whose... idea was this?" His expression is infuriatingly unreadable and he briefly eyes the sprig of mistletoe that is being held above them.
"Ariadne's..." He murmurs, mortified and breathless. His heart is still pounding rapidly and his face feels unmistakably hot. "I'm sorry. I told her that it wouldn't work, I must look like such an ass right now-"
Eames is closer to him now, silencing him and leaning forward so that their noses are touching, resting a hand on the back of his neck. The fingers there curl at the base of his hairline, the only sign of any sort of warning before they're kissing again. It's gentle and warm and not enough time has gone by before they're separating again.
"I shall have to thank her." Eames smiles at him affectionately, rubbing his thumb on the skin of his neck. "She can really pick out a gift, yeah?"
The words he'd been preparing in his own defense die on his tongue when the painter embraces him again, eases him gently back onto the couch and kisses him with a larger hint of passion than before.
Arthur smiles into it, his arms wrapping themselves securely around the other's neck, deepening the embrace. The mistletoe lies forgotten on the floor.
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Eames."
It appeared that they both owed Ariadne their respective gratitude.