It wasn't until the day of the wedding that Arthur began to wonder if he could, indeed, handle it. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, Arthur told himself very adamantly that he was not nervous. Not at all. There was no way this could go wrong. Unless Eames forgot the vows, or one of the summer courtiers was secretly an assassin, or perhaps a mob of angry winter ogres were preparing to storm the keep in the middle of the ceremony.

Arthur shook his head and smoothed back his hair, trying to concentrate on his appearance instead. He wore white lambskin leggings that fit him like a second skin, with leather boots to match. His tunic was velvet of deep charcoal-blue, embroidered with silver thread. Rubies and sapphires winked from the hem, and his handmaids had woven more gems into his hair. Over his shoulder he slung a heavy cape of white ermine, the fur as smooth and even as a fresh snowfall.

Finally, he placed a silver circlet atop his head and strode from his rooms with a determination quite at odds with the hammering in his chest. As he walked through the halls of the Tor he looked resolutely ahead, trying to ignore the expressions of the men and women he passed. Some looked angry, like he had betrayed them. Others looked sick, like he was a naïve child sacrificing himself in a gambit that would never work.

Arthur gritted his teeth. This was going to work; it had to. He wouldn't let it fail. It was all going to be okay, alright, nothing was going to go horribly, disastrously wrong-

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he collided with someone going the other way, sending them both sprawling.

"I apologize…" Arthur trailed off when he looked up and saw who the other man was. Oh god. Arthur licked his lips. If he had known that Eames had a body like this when he'd agreed to the wedding he might have had second thoughts. Not because said body was unpleasant. Far from it. His shirt was transparent gold silk, and beneath the fabric Arthur could make out broad muscles covered with hundreds of intricate henna drawings. His cape was made of riotous strands in a million different shades of orange and green, and his pants looked to be of emerald snakeskin and were much to tight to be legal by any means. Arthur swallowed. Fuck. He wanted to jump on top of the man and lick his skin, then tear him out of those hideous pants and… do things to him.

A traitorous part of his mind suggested that it would be a completely plausible course of action. They were getting married, after all. Arthur shook his head. Their union was about bringing peace, it could never be anything more than that. Squaring his shoulders and banishing his inappropriate thoughts, Arthur pulled Eames up.

Eames meanwhile, was staring at him with wide eyes. "Arthur," he finally said. "You're looking nice." He licked his lips; Arthur tried not to zero in on the pink tip of his tongue.

"Likewise?"

Eames made an odd noise, somewhere between a cough and a groan.

"Regretting this already?"

Eames shook his head. "Just ah… unused to your hair like that."

Arthur resisted the urge to fiddle with the jeweled braids. "It's traditional. I'd appreciate it if you didn't mock my people's customs-"

Eames reached out and gently traced Arthur's cheekbone. "They're lovely. You look fine. Calm down."

Arthur managed a shaky smile, doing his very best not to let the feel of Eames's hot fingers affect him. Cultural differences, he had to remember that. "As do you."

They stood in silence for a moment. Finally, Arthur coughed. "Eames, your hand…"

Eames jerked his fingers away from Arthur's face quickly, like Arthur was the one with burning skin. "Sorry about that. Ah, shall we?"

Arthur stared at the proffered arm. The arm of his soon-to-be husband, he screamed hysterically at himself. What was he doing? What had possessed him to- he caught Eames's gaze. This was necessary. He could do this.

Exhaling slowly, he took Eames's arm.

"That went well," Eames commented as he took off his cloak and slung it over the back of his chair. Arthur made a noncommittal sound and huddled into a ball on the bed.

It had gone well, as well as something like this could be expected. There had been glares and mutterings from both sides, but no one had tried to kill each other yet, at the very least. On the other hand, it had been a wedding, and weddings meant kissing.

The fucking kiss. He'd intellectually known that there would be one, but he'd always imagined it would be like the ones at proper, winter weddings. A slight, chaste kiss on the lips, and that would be all.

Apparently the summer sidhe kissed differently. Eames mouth was an all-consuming furnace. Arthur shivered and remembered the heat, the way Eames had nibbled at his lips until Arthur gasped from the sensation of it. Encircled in the tight embrace of Eames's arms, Arthur hadn't cared that half his court was gasping like fish, or that Cobb was squinting with enough force that he might've injured himself.

"Arthur?"

Arthur jumped guiltily, hoping it wasn't obvious what he'd been thinking about. "Yes?"

Eames bit his lip. "Well, I don't know what the custom is in your lands, but in mine, newlyweds give each other gifts."

"I didn't know," Arthur said, peering at the bundle in Eames's hands with surprise. He felt vaguely guilty; in truth, it was a common custom in the Winter Court as well. Somehow Arthur had never considered getting anything for Eames. He hadn't thought of the marriage as real, perhaps that was it. It was a facade, a child's game of make-believe, and only now was he realizing that it wasn't. They were married. For life. Arthur tried not to let any panic show on his face.

Eames was gently unwrapping the bundle, oblivious to Arthur's turmoil. "I wasn't sure if you would like it but…" he trailed off, and pulled the rest of the cloth away in silence. A slow glow filled the room and Arthur stared, mesmerized.

Resting in his hands was a thick glass jar, unmarked by etchings or paint. It tended towards a faint green in coloring, marking it subtly as a thing of Summer. Arthur would've passed by it in any marketplace; Winter sidhe were renowned for their crystalline glasswork that refracted rainbows in the sun and glittered like white diamonds in the moonlight. It was the jar's contents that caught his breath. A hundred tiny lights winked back, glowing softly golden. They drifted in lazy spirals, seemingly blown by some unseen summer wind.

"Royal Fire beetles. They're enchanted. I know they don't fit your color scheme, but…"

Arthur felt a lump form in his throat. How could Eames have known that his mother used to light a candle in an ice jar and leave it for him back when he was young enough to be afraid of the dark. He'd rejected any and all lamps the servants tried to put in his rooms after she died, but now… took the jar carefully and placed it on the table by the bed. "They're beautiful. Thank you." Turning around, he looked Eames in the face for the first time since the ceremony. He was beautiful in the glow of the insects; his skin gleamed amber and his eyes shone like sweet summer wine. His eyes were open, unguarded, and brimming with something Arthur couldn't identify.

He suddenly realized there was something he wanted, needed, to do. "I don't have a gift," he whispered. "But perhaps you'd accept this instead." He walked slowly up to Eames and cupped his chin, taking a moment to steel his resolve before drawing him down into a kiss. He brushed his lips over the corner of Eames's mouth hesitantly, hoping he was doing it right.

Eames stood frozen for a minute, before pressing himself against Arthur and kissing him back with a ferocity that almost burned. Arthur found himself opening his mouth for Eames with desperation. Eames took each everything Arthur gave him mercilessly, like a general in battle. Swearing under his breath, he pushed Arthur's back against the wall with one hand and cradled his head with the other. Moving his head away from Arthur's neck, he began to suck at the line of Arthur's jaw.

Arthur did his best to keep his composure and avoid melting into a compliant puddle at the insistent touches of Eames's mouth. His scent, a heady pulse of tangerines and cinnamon in the air, made Arthur lightheaded. He whimpered as Eames's tongue licked over a particularly sensitive patch of skin, and scrabbled at Eames's back with his hands.

One of Eames's hands drifted lower, slithering beneath his shirt and stroking his chest with serpentine motions. "Fuck, Arthur," Eames moaned. "I want- I want-"

Arthur Arched into his touch, too far gone to care about propriety or appearances or anything but Eames's skin, hot and sweaty, against his own. "You can have-whatever you want. Take it-"

Eames pulled away suddenly, his eyes wide and his breathing heavy. Arthur almost cried out at the loss of sensation, but stopped when he saw Eames's face. What he saw made him cringe. Disgust. Horror. In the blink of an eye it was gone, leaving a blank mask of indifference behind. It didn't matter. Arthur had seen.

"Thank you, Arthur." Eames mouth twisted and he looked away. "But… that's really not necessary." He gave a smile that echoed his earlier look of revulsion, and retreated to his side of the bed. "Goodnight."

Arthur stared as Eames burrowed under the blankets, his back facing Arthur. The bitterness of rejection burned in his throat. He could envision Eames's thoughts perfectly, could almost pinpoint the moment in which Eames had realized he was kissing an enemy. The moment he'd realized the pathetic creature pressed against him was a Winterling.

Arthur pressed his head into his hands. For a moment, it had almost seemed like the marriage could have been more than a charade. Eames had kissed him and it hadn't felt like a game. It had felt real. Or perhaps he'd just wanted it to feel real.

Listening to Eames's breathing even out, Arthur sighed. It didn't matter what he wanted. Eames hadn't wanted him, and he couldn't change that. He looked across the room at the faint glow of the fireflies, and then let his eyes close, heavy with resignation. Eames had brought him peace, the most precious gift of all. The least Arthur could do in return was respect that Eames didn't want anything more from him. Not knowing what else to do, Arthur moved to his own side of the bed and laid down, pulling the blankets over himself with stiff, jerky motions. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to sleep.

iThanks so much for reading this; I'm so glad that people are enjoying it! I forgot to mention in the last chapter, but the story was written in response to a prompt asking for a Hawksong/Inception fusion. So elements of the plot do come from Hawksong, but it's different enough that I didn't think it warranted being filed as a crossover. Obviously, all such ideas and characters belong to their respective creators, etc. /i