![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sirona_ficsI feel like all I'm doing these days is post fic! No doubt there will be a long, dry period after this one; but for now, I HOPE NO ONE'S COMPLAINING! :D Since the reveals came out earlier today, I'm reposting this now. There's another story to come after this one, too!
Title: Need You So Much Closer
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~11,300
Disclaimer: Definitely not mine. They belong to Chris Nolan, but bless him for giving them to the world! Neil Barrett belongs to himself (he’s a real person, but I’ve never met him, so I claim creative licence). No Bugatti Veyrons (or Stigs) were harmed during the writing of this fic.
Warnings: some angst, some fluff, mentions of homophobia (v. v. brief), blink-and-you’ll-miss-it bloodplay, a little bit of suit!porn.
Summary: It’s Christmas -- family obligations dictate Arthur and Eames push themselves out of their warm, comfortablebed flat and take the pilgrimage to their respective families. Neither has any idea just how hard it would be to spend the holidays apart; thank god for meddling mothers.
Author’s Notes: Thank you so much to by brilliant beta![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
zolac_no_miko, who went above-and-beyond trying to get to betaing this thing; who caught my Brit-isms and fixed them (for Arthur’s POV); and who suggested (among other brilliant, insightful suggestions) the excellent title (which comes from “Transatlanticism” by Death Cab For Cutie). Written for the Eames_Arthur Secret Santa exchange, for fallen_reason.
Need You So Much Closer
Somewhere along the way he’s gotten used to this, Arthur realises when, still half-asleep, he hears Eames carry in a tray loaded with delicious-smelling things and leave it on the chest at the foot of the bed. He disappears again, only to come back a minute later carrying his own cup of coffee (if Arthur’s nose is not very much mistaken), and climbs back into bed with a load of freshly-bought Sunday newspapers. Arthur can practically smell the ink still drying.
He sighs, attempts to snuggle closer to Eames’ furnace-like body and drift back to sleep, but his nose won’t let him – the smell of blueberry pancakes threatening to go cold is more than he can stand. He opens one eye and glares at Eames for producing the means to prevent him from returning to sweet, sweet unconsciousness. To his consternation, Eames doesn’t even shudder.
“That won’t even frighten a kitten at this rate,” he says instead, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards beguilingly. “Go on, darling, you can do better. I’ve seen your glare make a grown man quake in his boots; this will simply not do! It’s only a two, maybe a three on a scale of ten.”
“Have you been actually rating my glares?” Arthur grumbles in a sleep-roughened voice.
Eames smiles, one of his full-blown grins that Arthur not-so-secretly adores, crooked teeth and all. “There have been times when your glares have been the only thing to have kept me going, darling; you shouldn’t make fun of me for feeling a little nostalgic. It is almost Christmas.”
And there it is, the issue of the year. “So you’re saying that you’ve been missing my glares? Eames, you should have said something; I’d hate to have been depriving you of a decent glare or two.”
He’s never been all that successful at misdirection. They have been dancing around the subject for the past month or so, ever since Eames had made it emphatically clear that he wasn’t going away unless Arthur packed his bags for him and shoved him out on the sidewalk, and Arthur had given up fighting the one thing he’d ever really wanted. This year would be quite different from the Christmas before, which they had spent mostly snarking and grouching about having to spend it together. Arthur thinks their current situation stems from the fact that he hadn’t been all too convincing in said grouching -- he’d been doing it out of habit by that time.
The entirety of Eames’ attention is still focused on him, even if he is projecting the impression of being studiously absorbed in the paper. Arthur gives up.
“Look. I promised I’d go to my parents’ house this year, since I didn’t even manage to call last year. Well, I couldn’t very well tell my mother that we’d been in hiding at the time,” he says defensively at Eames’ raised eyebrow.
Arthur has been thinking long and hard about this, and has decided there’s no need to mention his uncle Brian, especially not now – he doesn’t want to spoil their morning, even though it would explain why he hasn’t invited Eames to his house for the holidays, no matter how much he wants to. Just thinking about the asshole makes Arthur’s blood boil; exposing his… significant other to the vileness of the homophobic tirades that sprout from the man’s disapprovingly scrunched mouth is simply unacceptable. He’s had to deal with them enough on his own as it is – Christmas dinners have not been the best time for Arthur for the past few years, and there had been no small relief in being prevented from attending last year.
There’s a carefully concealed flash of disappointment in Eames’ eyes that makes Arthur’s stomach churn; just because Eames can read the world like an open book, though, doesn’t mean that Arthur can’t read him much the same way – seven years of not-so-covert observation tend to have that effect.
“That’s okay,” Eames says. “I promised my mother pretty much the same thing, so it seems like we’re both stuck with filial obligations.” He flashes a calculatedly carefree smile Arthur’s way; Arthur resists the temptation to roll his eyes heavenwards. Who does the man think he’s fooling?
Though, likely he doesn’t realise that Arthur can read him quite so well; Arthur has never made an issue of the fact, or used the information to get one-up on him. He’d always thought that would be... unsportsmanlike.
“True,” he says regretfully. There isn’t much he can do with the information even now; a promise is a promise, and you pissed off Mrs. Lake at your own risk. “New Year’s, then?”
This time, Eames’ smile is much more honest. “New Year’s,” he agrees, and twists down to kiss him swiftly, like sealing another promise. “Now sit up, your breakfast’s getting cold.” He pulls back the covers and gets up, carries the tray round and pops it over Arthur’s lap, earning himself a genuine smile-with-dimples. Arthur is well aware that glares aren’t the only thing Eames rates; of that knowledge, he takes shameless advantage.
~~
Later that week, they pack their bags separately-but-together. No matter how many times Arthur tells himself that ‘it’s just a few days, no different than any other time we’ve been apart for work’, his mind won’t be fooled. It knows why it’s important.
They’ve agreed not to exchange presents until after Christmas without really discussing it; they’re going to be thinking about each other enough as it is without throwing something sentimental like gifts into the mix. Arthur just took delivery last week of the five sweaters and three shirts from the Ferragamo spring/summer 2011 collection that he had pre-ordered for Eames way back in September, ostensibly because he couldn’t bear to look at any more paisley, but in reality because the thought of Eames throwing those soft, form-hugging sweaters over a fitted undershirt, with a pair of jeans or linen trousers to match, is a particularly mouthwatering prospect.
Eames has insisted on listening to Christmas music all damn week; Arthur is ready to strangle the whole of Cambridge’s King’s College Choir if it would get him some peace and quiet. He doesn’t say anything, though, because it’s clear that it soothes Eames, probably makes him think of home. It might well be a family tradition; Arthur can just imagine the huge country manor, with the twenty-odd fireplaces all wreathed in holly and ivy and sprigs of mistletoe to complete the impression, and the King’s College Choir warbling away in the background.
On Friday they share a cab to the airport, sitting very close together in the back seat of the car, thighs pressed against each other’s. They don’t talk much – there isn’t much to say, and Arthur will be damned if he’s going to sound like some Victorian maiden about to be separated from her one true love for the eternity of a week in total. They’re grown men, they can handle this.
It doesn’t explain why over the forty-minute ride his hand migrates to cover Eames’ on his lap and thread their fingers together, or why his heart leaps when Eames scrunches his nose and smiles his crooked grin at him, tightening his hold.
At the airport Arthur holds the car door open for him. Eames throws him an odd look again; you’d think he’d be used to it by now, Arthur’s been doing it for years. It’s not that he thinks Eames can’t do it for himself; it’s just that his mom drilled manners into him and his sister at an early age, a significant part of which was ‘how to treat the object of your affections; and no, Arthur that does not include pulling their hair, or pushing them down into the sandpit, Samantha, shame on you!’. Come to think of it, that should have been a dead giveaway from the start -- he still wants to kick himself over how long it had taken him to realise what all the holding doors open for Eames, buying him coffee, and all the small things he’d thought perfectly natural at the time really meant.
“Give my regards to your parents,” Eames says at his gate, always the perfect gentleman. His flight is earlier than Arthur’s, but Arthur had thought it a waste of time and money to wait at home a few more hours before his was scheduled; not to mention that he hadn’t relished the opportunity to linger in the far-too-empty apartment on his own.
“Likewise,” Arthur smiles. They’re going to have to do the whole ‘meet the parents’ dance soon enough, he muses. With all that entails.
Eames leans in to kiss him, still slightly questioning since they’re out in the open, surrounded by busy travellers. Arthur meets him half-way. To hell with the rest of the world; he just wants to feel those lips on his one more time before they have to go. Eames kisses like he does everything else – rigidly controlled, but with an edge of wildness that makes Arthur’s blood sing and his heart pound in his ears. Eames’ tongue is there for the barest flash of time before it’s gone again, and Arthur leans forward, intent on chasing it. Eames presses their foreheads together instead, content to let their breaths mingle, just as the last call for his flight sounds over the speakers.
“See you soon,” Eames murmurs, and with a last press of his lips he’s gone.
Arthur knows Eames only does this because he thinks walking away from Arthur should be done quickly, like ripping a band-aid off – it doesn’t make the sting any less painful. Arthur presses his lips together and turns, walks away himself, follows the familiar path to the nearest Starbucks and orders the triple shot of caffeine needed to keep him going until he gets to his parents’ house. He wonders when he stopped thinking of it as ‘home’. Probably about the same time Eames started telling him to ‘come home already’, that the research would still be there in the morning and that dinner would be ready in ten minutes. He knows full well Eames lies to him, because he’s always taking whatever they’re having for dinner off the stove just as Arthur comes through the door some thirty minutes later, but Arthur’s never called him on it, and he never will.
~~
The flight is boring, boring, boring, especially since they have no jobs even tentatively planned at the moment and Arthur has no pressing research to focus on. While it’s nowhere near the nine hours that Eames has to endure, it’s still tedious enough that he considers tracking Eames’ phone’s GPS signal just for something to do. Finally, he pulls out Eames’ dog-eared copy of Good Omens that he’d snagged on his way out of the flat, and tries to lose himself in it.
It works, up to a point; he amuses himself with making up the voices in his head. Rather a lot of them sound suspiciously like Eames in various body shapes. An hour later, blissfully, he slips into a light doze that lasts until the plane starts its descent to the Minneapolis airport tarmac.
Sam meets him at the Arrivals gate, jiggling impatiently on the balls of her feet. “At fucking last, Arthur, you’ve no idea what a relief it is to have you here,” she grumbles at him, enveloping him in a tight hug that smells of vanilla and cinnamon and baking, and Arthur thinks he knows exactly what’s been going on here.
“Has mom had you chained to the kitchen table all morning?” he smirks as he herds his distraught sister towards the exit.
“It was awful,” Sam moans, grasping at his coat sleeve for support. “All that flour! All that kept me going was the thought that I could pass all of it on to you when you finally turned up!”
Arthur chuckles at her scowl. Their mom and he had always bonded over the cooking and baking, while Sam had been pottering in the garage with their father practically since she was born. Arthur has always found the dichotomy soothing; it’s deeply entrenched in their family, a part of who they are. Truth be told, he’s been looking forward to this, even though he feels guilty that it’s something that’s his alone and doesn’t include Eames.
They stop at the supermarket on the way, Sam waving the shopping list their mother had apparently pressed into her hand as she’d run out of the house. Arthur expertly steers his distracted sister through the isles, and makes sure to add a bottle of Bombay Sapphire to the shopping basket, to her hissed “Yes!” and not very concealed fistpump.
Their mom can barely wait for them to get out of the car before she pulls Arthur into yet another baking-scented hug. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s so good to see you! Let’s get you inside! George? George! Arthur is here! Let me help you with the shopping; Sam, you take the ingredients into the kitchen, I’ll take the flour and the drinks; oh, here you are, George, dear, help Arthur with his bags, will you?”
“Hello, son,” Arthur’s dad manages to squeeze in, smiling at Arthur wryly and grabbing him into a one-armed hug as his wife pushes Arthur’s luggage into his spare hand.
“Hi, Dad,” Arthur smiles back, taking in the familiar smells of leather and cigar smoke and grease, letting them pull him back to a simpler time.
His mom herds the three of them into the house like a well-trained shepherd dog showing off. Arthur takes in the ornament-laden fire hazard that is the Christmas tree in the corner by the fireplace; just like every year, Jordan – the family’s gravity-challenged cat currently sprawled over the sofa arm – is eyeing it up with worrying intent.
“Hello you,” Arthur stops to stroke his silky ears in passing. Jordan considers him for a moment before regally butting his head into the warm palm, inviting more petting.
Arthur barely has time to change out of his Gucci pullover and Hugo Boss pants before he’s elbows-deep in cookie dough, cutters in all shapes and sizes lined up before him. It’s barely the 22nd, but his mom believes in getting started early. Likely they’ll have his aunt Jenny and uncle James over for Christmas dinner, with their respective spouses and grown-up children and their spouses, unless the plan deviates drastically from last year’s. And Brian. Mustn’t forget Brian, he thinks with a scowl that he quickly smoothes from his face before his mom notices.
When Sam appears briefly and passes him a gin and tonic with a wink, he’s almost pathetically grateful.
He takes a break for a re-fill when the first batch of cookies is in the oven and the second one is set up, leaving his mom pouring chocolate and coffee muffin dough into the forms. He finds Sam balancing precariously on a chair in the living room, stretching up to fix a long piece of tinsel to the top of one of the bookshelves. Since Sam is about an inch taller than him in her stockinged feet, he makes no move to help apart from steadying the chair until she’s done.
“Take a break with me?” he asks, mixing them both another drink. Sam huffs in relief and flops down on the sofa, jostling the napping Jordan and pulling him into her lap, where he proceeds to take up twice his length in space.
“Arthur,” his sister starts; Arthur snaps to attention immediately at her tone -- cautious, a little embarrassed, a little bit ridiculously pleased. “I’m bringing Tom this year.”
Arthur doesn’t need to ask where; Sam can only mean she’s bringing her boyfriend to their Christmas dinner. “Does he know what he’s getting himself into?” he teases, but for the life of him he can’t stop thinking of Eames, of bringing Eames with him, of having him there with the rest of his closest people. Had Eames been thinking the same thing that last morning in their bed, with that look on his face?
Sam is staring at him, delight slowly dawning all over her face. “Ohoho, what’s this?! Arthur, do you have a boyfriend I don’t know about? You sly thing, you never said a word!”
Arthur feels his face heat until he’s quite sure it’s flaming. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, not quite knowing what to say. It’s all the confirmation his devious sister needs.
“Oh my god, ickle Artie’s in love!” she squeals, clapping her hands in mirth. Her long dark hair bounces behind her as she laughs excitedly. Arthur scowls at her, still blushing; it’s just his curse in life that the two people he most often wants to intimidate into silence are both immune to his death glare. Oh god, Sam and Eames are going to be impossible to handle once they do meet.
Meanwhile, he can at least try. “Shut up, Samantha!” he growls.
He knows he’s in trouble when even the strategic use of her full name can’t dim the evil light in her eyes. “You must tell me everything about him! Is he tall? Short? Gorgeous? Does he have an enormous—“
“Finish that sentence, and I’m going to tell Tom all about that time in ninth grade,” he warns, baring his teeth at her.
“Spoilsport,” Sam pouts. “Besides, Tom knows most of it; he was there, remember?”
Arthur had forgotten, actually. It’s the curse of having a prospective brother-in-law that he’s known since his family moved to the neighbourhood when he was eleven.
“Come on, Artie,” Sam groans pathetically. “Don’t be so cruel! Give me something! You’re killing me here!” She grabs his arms and shakes him, as if that’s going to make him talk.
Arthur knows, he knows he’s going to regret this. “It’s Eames.”
Sam’s mouth drops open for a moment. “Omigod!” she shrieks so high that Jordan vaults off her lap in fear for his life. “The hot British guy? Holy shit, Arthur, you slut!”
“Oh, fuck off,” he growls at her, incensed.
“No, no, no, not so fast, you! I was right! I was totally right!” she gloats; it’s definitely unattractive, Arthur thinks uncharitably. He crosses his arms, wishing he could deny it.
Sam sobers up a little at his expression. “No, but really, Artie. You’ve been lusting after the guy and pushing him away for years. What changed?”
Arthur sighs. He can’t very well tell her about last year in Naples, that Eames had laid a siege on his defences until he’d just been plain tired of denying that he wanted it, he wanted Eames. Especially since both his and Eames’ families haven’t the first idea what it is they do – they think the two of them are some sort of insurance investigators, a la The Thomas Crown Affair. Arthur’s mom thinks it’s terribly romantic, to boot.
“It just turned out that he was a lot more serious about it than I gave him credit for,” he hedges.
Sam looks unconvinced. Arthur grits his teeth and spills. “He courted me. Incessantly. For a whole month. There was a Bugatti Veyron involved.”
“A Bugatti Veyron,” Sam says, breathing hard; she sounds like she’s going to hyperventilate momentarily.
“Yeah. He convinced a mate of his to lend it to us for the day and let me take it through its paces,” Arthur ventures, and covers his ears just in time to avoid getting his eardrums burst by Sam’s scream of shock and envy. “I’ll ask if we can borrow it again when you come visit,” he gets out hurriedly while he’s being shaken back and forth by his demented sister.
“Why isn’t this paragon of perfection here with you?” she wants to know when she has calmed down a bit.
Arthur smiles a little wistfully and looks down at his hands so Sam wouldn’t see the naked want in his eyes. “He’d promised his mother he’d spend Christmas with the family -- he didn’t make it home last year, either. And—Well. Brian.” He scrunches his nose in disgust.
Sam bristles when he mentions their uncle. “He’s not coming this year,” she tells him, a mutinous light in her eyes.
Arthur gapes, shock and relief jostling for position in his chest. “Really?” he asks, hardly daring to hope. Then he frowns. “How did that come about?”
Sam winces, as if even thinking about it is painful for her. “It was even worse than usual last year. Normally he just hounds you – which is bad enough, but you know how to handle him and not let him get to you – but when you weren’t here, he graced the table with one of his ‘speeches’. Basically, Dad flipped. He threw him out of the house, told him he wasn’t welcome here until he’d stopped being a homophobic asshole. You should have seen the look on his face,” Sam gloats, vindictive glee written all over hers. Arthur isn’t the only one to have issues with Brian. “Frankly, I can’t believe it took Dad this long, but you know how he needs a while to really gather steam.”
“That’s brilliant,” Arthur says, a cautious smile stretching his lips wide. There’s an unstoppable wave of warmth blooming in him, taking over his whole being. It had been a long time in coming, but Arthur respects his parents more than any other adults in his life, and so he hadn’t said anything. A tiny part of him, insecure and still fifteen-years-old and coming out of the closet for the first time, had been scared to death that the reason they hadn’t said anything was because they’d agreed with Brian. It had been a niggling ache, buried so deep that he hadn’t even noticed it until he feels it unclench now, sending relief cresting through him.
It fades a little when he finds himself thinking that he could have invited Eames along after all, could have had him here with the rest of the people he loves. The thought angers and subdues him at the same time.
Sam’s been watching him, unpicking his private revelations almost as soon as he becomes aware of them himself. She smiles a little sadly, but doesn’t say a word – just takes his hand and squeezes, stroking the back of it with her thumb and lifting it to her mouth for a small, reassuring kiss.
“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us anything about Eames,” she says at last, though more supportive than chiding.
“It was all so-- new. I sort of wanted to keep it to myself. I was hoping that-- oh, never mind,” he looks away, waves his hand as if to push the thought away; as if he could forget how much he’d hoped that he and Eames might be able to spend Christmas together. He’s too distracted to notice Sam’s shrewd eyes on his face, or the way they narrow at the obviously fake carefree smile he gives her.
“Arthur, honey!” their mother calls from the kitchen, and Arthur escapes, almost relieved that conversation is over, leaving Sam staring thoughtfully at his back.
~~
Now that he’s told Sam about Eames, and the spectre of Brian has been suitably dispersed, Arthur literally cannot stop thinking about the man. He finds himself turning to ask Eames’ opinion when he’s discussing cars with his dad; looks for him when he wants to share a smile at something snarky Sam has said; unconsciously reaches for a hand that isn’t there when his mom starts bugging him about whether he’s found someone yet.
He fights it, fights it hard -- not to lose himself in thoughts of Eames in a middle of a conversation, not to flinch when he looks for Eames and doesn’t find him. He’d had no idea he’d gotten so used to Eames being there all the time, that he finds it strange now when Eames isn’t standing next to him, or poking his head around the corner from the kitchen. He’s sure his parents and Sam notice, though, no matter how determined he is not to show that he feels like a part of him is missing. He hates the weakness that he’s somehow allowed Eames to become in his life; hates his lapse in control every time he can’t help but picture Eames charming his mom with that stupid crooked smile on his face.
It’s barely the 23rd and Arthur already feels rubbed raw from the effort it takes to keep his smile in place, to stop wondering what Eames is doing this very minute, to stop checking his phone obsessively for new messages after the one from late last night (Just landed @ lhr, en route 2 mums miss u already xxx). Arthur almost resents him for taking away some of the enjoyment he derives from spending time with his parents and with Sam -- it happens all too rarely these days as it is.
His dad’s voice breaks through his daze; the effort to shake Eames out of his head and get on with things leaves him weak. Oh god. He is in much more serious trouble than he’d thought.
~~
“Oh, Arthur,” Sam’s voice comes from behind him -- Arthur jumps, badly startled. This is getting ridiculous; his awareness of his surroundings has never been so lax in his life. He tears his hands away from the Christmas tree ornament that looks suspiciously like a poker chip and turns to face her, eyebrows raised in question.
Sam just shakes her head for a moment, looking sad. “You’re pining,” she states.
“Am not!” It’s reflexive, and he resists the urge to cover his hands with his pullover’s sleeves, like he used to do as a child when he was feeling uncertain and wrong-footed. He doesn’t meet Sam’s eyes.
Sam scoffs, rolling her eyes in that big-sister way of hers that she’s never quite outgrown. “Even Dad’s noticed. He came to ask me if there was something wrong with you!” She throws her hands in the air, exasperated.
Arthur winces. He’d never intended to make his parents feel uneasy. “Oh god,” he moans and drops his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”
Sam curls long-fingered hands so similar to his own around his wrists and tugs his arms down to make him look at her. “I know you’ve been trying, Arthur. You’ve just never been any good at hiding it when you’re besotted with someone. I was honestly astonished that you managed to hold your Eames off for as long as you did.”
“This is a nightmare,” Arthur whines, horrified, tugging his wrists back from her loose hold and throwing himself down on the sofa in despair. “I can’t believe I can’t even last three days without him! This cannot be happening!”
“Yet here you are,” Sam smirks. She pushes his long legs out of the way and sits down next to him, stretching her own long jeans-clad ones in front of her. “Arthur,” she says, sounding as serious as he’s ever heard her. He opens his eyes and looks at her blearily. “Not that it hasn’t been brilliant to see you, but you need to go.”
Emotions crowd in the wake of her words -- hurt, anger, irritation, and, tentatively, hope. “Are you kicking me out of the house?!” he demands, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.
“What? No!” Sam yelps, smacking his shoulder for good measure. “You moron. You need to go to Eames! It’s painfully obvious that you’re only going to mope around the house for the next three days and make everyone miserable with your ennui. At least that way Eames will be the one to deal with you, and you’ll spare your poor family all the grief!” She grins, triumphant and ever so pleased with herself.
“I can’t just walk out on Mom and Dad, they’ll kill me!” Arthur says, sitting up in horror at the thought.
“No, your Mom and Dad are going to kill you if you stay here because you want to make them happy even when it makes you miserable, rather than getting on the next flight to England and spending a happy Christmas holiday with your young man,” his mom says from behind them.
“Mom!” Arthur yelps and turns to face her, guilt written all over his face.
“Sweetheart, stop gaping at me like that and go get your coat! Your dad’s already got the car running; there’s a flight to London through New York in an hour and forty-five minutes, and you’re going to be on it if I have to drag you there myself!” His mom is smiling, a little sad but no less loving than usual.
“Mom, I--” he tries, still shell-shocked and feeling ashamed of himself.
“Arthur,” his mom cuts him off in the no-nonsense voice that he’s been trained to obey since he’d still been in diapers. “Don’t argue with your mother. Sam’s already packed your bags; the presents you brought for everyone are in the next room, I’ll put them under the tree once you go; and I’ve booked you a seat on the plane already. Please, sweetheart,” his mom says gently, “let us make you happy. It’s the best Christmas present we could ask for.”
Arthur rounds the sofa in three giant steps and squeezes his mom in a massive hug. “Thank you,” he murmurs, not even trying to pretend that his voice didn’t just break. “It’s the best present you could give me.”
His mom sniffs a little, pushing him away after a moment. “Oh, get on with you,” she instructs, smiling through her tears and prodding him towards the door. “And make sure you bring your man here next time!”
“I will,” Arthur smiles brilliantly over his shoulder, still reeling from the family-sized intervention.
“Come on!” Sam urges, impatient as always; she grabs his arm and practically drags him to the door, only stopping to let him put his shoes back on and shrug his peacoat over his dove-gray pullover. Sam and his mom pull on their winter coats, too, and the three of them pile out of the door and into the already running car.
“Your bag is in the trunk, son, I think Sam packed everything, but if there’s something left we’ll send it over to your flat after the holidays,” his dad rumbles from the front, smiling at him in the driver’s mirror. His mom turns around in the passenger seat and beams back at him, warm brown eyes – much like the ones he sees every morning in the mirror – crinkled happily.
Arthur feels a little like a child again, crowded in the back seat with Sam, listening to his parents bickering amiably over the best route to take to the airport. It reminds him of that last drive together, when he’d been going away to college in New York, bags laden with books and possibilities. He feels exhilarated all over again, like the world is his for the taking, all he could possibly imagine and more.
~~
Part Two
Title: Need You So Much Closer
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~11,300
Disclaimer: Definitely not mine. They belong to Chris Nolan, but bless him for giving them to the world! Neil Barrett belongs to himself (he’s a real person, but I’ve never met him, so I claim creative licence). No Bugatti Veyrons (or Stigs) were harmed during the writing of this fic.
Warnings: some angst, some fluff, mentions of homophobia (v. v. brief), blink-and-you’ll-miss-it bloodplay, a little bit of suit!porn.
Summary: It’s Christmas -- family obligations dictate Arthur and Eames push themselves out of their warm, comfortable
Author’s Notes: Thank you so much to by brilliant beta
zolac_no_miko, who went above-and-beyond trying to get to betaing this thing; who caught my Brit-isms and fixed them (for Arthur’s POV); and who suggested (among other brilliant, insightful suggestions) the excellent title (which comes from “Transatlanticism” by Death Cab For Cutie). Written for the Eames_Arthur Secret Santa exchange, for fallen_reason.Need You So Much Closer
Somewhere along the way he’s gotten used to this, Arthur realises when, still half-asleep, he hears Eames carry in a tray loaded with delicious-smelling things and leave it on the chest at the foot of the bed. He disappears again, only to come back a minute later carrying his own cup of coffee (if Arthur’s nose is not very much mistaken), and climbs back into bed with a load of freshly-bought Sunday newspapers. Arthur can practically smell the ink still drying.
He sighs, attempts to snuggle closer to Eames’ furnace-like body and drift back to sleep, but his nose won’t let him – the smell of blueberry pancakes threatening to go cold is more than he can stand. He opens one eye and glares at Eames for producing the means to prevent him from returning to sweet, sweet unconsciousness. To his consternation, Eames doesn’t even shudder.
“That won’t even frighten a kitten at this rate,” he says instead, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards beguilingly. “Go on, darling, you can do better. I’ve seen your glare make a grown man quake in his boots; this will simply not do! It’s only a two, maybe a three on a scale of ten.”
“Have you been actually rating my glares?” Arthur grumbles in a sleep-roughened voice.
Eames smiles, one of his full-blown grins that Arthur not-so-secretly adores, crooked teeth and all. “There have been times when your glares have been the only thing to have kept me going, darling; you shouldn’t make fun of me for feeling a little nostalgic. It is almost Christmas.”
And there it is, the issue of the year. “So you’re saying that you’ve been missing my glares? Eames, you should have said something; I’d hate to have been depriving you of a decent glare or two.”
He’s never been all that successful at misdirection. They have been dancing around the subject for the past month or so, ever since Eames had made it emphatically clear that he wasn’t going away unless Arthur packed his bags for him and shoved him out on the sidewalk, and Arthur had given up fighting the one thing he’d ever really wanted. This year would be quite different from the Christmas before, which they had spent mostly snarking and grouching about having to spend it together. Arthur thinks their current situation stems from the fact that he hadn’t been all too convincing in said grouching -- he’d been doing it out of habit by that time.
The entirety of Eames’ attention is still focused on him, even if he is projecting the impression of being studiously absorbed in the paper. Arthur gives up.
“Look. I promised I’d go to my parents’ house this year, since I didn’t even manage to call last year. Well, I couldn’t very well tell my mother that we’d been in hiding at the time,” he says defensively at Eames’ raised eyebrow.
Arthur has been thinking long and hard about this, and has decided there’s no need to mention his uncle Brian, especially not now – he doesn’t want to spoil their morning, even though it would explain why he hasn’t invited Eames to his house for the holidays, no matter how much he wants to. Just thinking about the asshole makes Arthur’s blood boil; exposing his… significant other to the vileness of the homophobic tirades that sprout from the man’s disapprovingly scrunched mouth is simply unacceptable. He’s had to deal with them enough on his own as it is – Christmas dinners have not been the best time for Arthur for the past few years, and there had been no small relief in being prevented from attending last year.
There’s a carefully concealed flash of disappointment in Eames’ eyes that makes Arthur’s stomach churn; just because Eames can read the world like an open book, though, doesn’t mean that Arthur can’t read him much the same way – seven years of not-so-covert observation tend to have that effect.
“That’s okay,” Eames says. “I promised my mother pretty much the same thing, so it seems like we’re both stuck with filial obligations.” He flashes a calculatedly carefree smile Arthur’s way; Arthur resists the temptation to roll his eyes heavenwards. Who does the man think he’s fooling?
Though, likely he doesn’t realise that Arthur can read him quite so well; Arthur has never made an issue of the fact, or used the information to get one-up on him. He’d always thought that would be... unsportsmanlike.
“True,” he says regretfully. There isn’t much he can do with the information even now; a promise is a promise, and you pissed off Mrs. Lake at your own risk. “New Year’s, then?”
This time, Eames’ smile is much more honest. “New Year’s,” he agrees, and twists down to kiss him swiftly, like sealing another promise. “Now sit up, your breakfast’s getting cold.” He pulls back the covers and gets up, carries the tray round and pops it over Arthur’s lap, earning himself a genuine smile-with-dimples. Arthur is well aware that glares aren’t the only thing Eames rates; of that knowledge, he takes shameless advantage.
~~
Later that week, they pack their bags separately-but-together. No matter how many times Arthur tells himself that ‘it’s just a few days, no different than any other time we’ve been apart for work’, his mind won’t be fooled. It knows why it’s important.
They’ve agreed not to exchange presents until after Christmas without really discussing it; they’re going to be thinking about each other enough as it is without throwing something sentimental like gifts into the mix. Arthur just took delivery last week of the five sweaters and three shirts from the Ferragamo spring/summer 2011 collection that he had pre-ordered for Eames way back in September, ostensibly because he couldn’t bear to look at any more paisley, but in reality because the thought of Eames throwing those soft, form-hugging sweaters over a fitted undershirt, with a pair of jeans or linen trousers to match, is a particularly mouthwatering prospect.
Eames has insisted on listening to Christmas music all damn week; Arthur is ready to strangle the whole of Cambridge’s King’s College Choir if it would get him some peace and quiet. He doesn’t say anything, though, because it’s clear that it soothes Eames, probably makes him think of home. It might well be a family tradition; Arthur can just imagine the huge country manor, with the twenty-odd fireplaces all wreathed in holly and ivy and sprigs of mistletoe to complete the impression, and the King’s College Choir warbling away in the background.
On Friday they share a cab to the airport, sitting very close together in the back seat of the car, thighs pressed against each other’s. They don’t talk much – there isn’t much to say, and Arthur will be damned if he’s going to sound like some Victorian maiden about to be separated from her one true love for the eternity of a week in total. They’re grown men, they can handle this.
It doesn’t explain why over the forty-minute ride his hand migrates to cover Eames’ on his lap and thread their fingers together, or why his heart leaps when Eames scrunches his nose and smiles his crooked grin at him, tightening his hold.
At the airport Arthur holds the car door open for him. Eames throws him an odd look again; you’d think he’d be used to it by now, Arthur’s been doing it for years. It’s not that he thinks Eames can’t do it for himself; it’s just that his mom drilled manners into him and his sister at an early age, a significant part of which was ‘how to treat the object of your affections; and no, Arthur that does not include pulling their hair, or pushing them down into the sandpit, Samantha, shame on you!’. Come to think of it, that should have been a dead giveaway from the start -- he still wants to kick himself over how long it had taken him to realise what all the holding doors open for Eames, buying him coffee, and all the small things he’d thought perfectly natural at the time really meant.
“Give my regards to your parents,” Eames says at his gate, always the perfect gentleman. His flight is earlier than Arthur’s, but Arthur had thought it a waste of time and money to wait at home a few more hours before his was scheduled; not to mention that he hadn’t relished the opportunity to linger in the far-too-empty apartment on his own.
“Likewise,” Arthur smiles. They’re going to have to do the whole ‘meet the parents’ dance soon enough, he muses. With all that entails.
Eames leans in to kiss him, still slightly questioning since they’re out in the open, surrounded by busy travellers. Arthur meets him half-way. To hell with the rest of the world; he just wants to feel those lips on his one more time before they have to go. Eames kisses like he does everything else – rigidly controlled, but with an edge of wildness that makes Arthur’s blood sing and his heart pound in his ears. Eames’ tongue is there for the barest flash of time before it’s gone again, and Arthur leans forward, intent on chasing it. Eames presses their foreheads together instead, content to let their breaths mingle, just as the last call for his flight sounds over the speakers.
“See you soon,” Eames murmurs, and with a last press of his lips he’s gone.
Arthur knows Eames only does this because he thinks walking away from Arthur should be done quickly, like ripping a band-aid off – it doesn’t make the sting any less painful. Arthur presses his lips together and turns, walks away himself, follows the familiar path to the nearest Starbucks and orders the triple shot of caffeine needed to keep him going until he gets to his parents’ house. He wonders when he stopped thinking of it as ‘home’. Probably about the same time Eames started telling him to ‘come home already’, that the research would still be there in the morning and that dinner would be ready in ten minutes. He knows full well Eames lies to him, because he’s always taking whatever they’re having for dinner off the stove just as Arthur comes through the door some thirty minutes later, but Arthur’s never called him on it, and he never will.
~~
The flight is boring, boring, boring, especially since they have no jobs even tentatively planned at the moment and Arthur has no pressing research to focus on. While it’s nowhere near the nine hours that Eames has to endure, it’s still tedious enough that he considers tracking Eames’ phone’s GPS signal just for something to do. Finally, he pulls out Eames’ dog-eared copy of Good Omens that he’d snagged on his way out of the flat, and tries to lose himself in it.
It works, up to a point; he amuses himself with making up the voices in his head. Rather a lot of them sound suspiciously like Eames in various body shapes. An hour later, blissfully, he slips into a light doze that lasts until the plane starts its descent to the Minneapolis airport tarmac.
Sam meets him at the Arrivals gate, jiggling impatiently on the balls of her feet. “At fucking last, Arthur, you’ve no idea what a relief it is to have you here,” she grumbles at him, enveloping him in a tight hug that smells of vanilla and cinnamon and baking, and Arthur thinks he knows exactly what’s been going on here.
“Has mom had you chained to the kitchen table all morning?” he smirks as he herds his distraught sister towards the exit.
“It was awful,” Sam moans, grasping at his coat sleeve for support. “All that flour! All that kept me going was the thought that I could pass all of it on to you when you finally turned up!”
Arthur chuckles at her scowl. Their mom and he had always bonded over the cooking and baking, while Sam had been pottering in the garage with their father practically since she was born. Arthur has always found the dichotomy soothing; it’s deeply entrenched in their family, a part of who they are. Truth be told, he’s been looking forward to this, even though he feels guilty that it’s something that’s his alone and doesn’t include Eames.
They stop at the supermarket on the way, Sam waving the shopping list their mother had apparently pressed into her hand as she’d run out of the house. Arthur expertly steers his distracted sister through the isles, and makes sure to add a bottle of Bombay Sapphire to the shopping basket, to her hissed “Yes!” and not very concealed fistpump.
Their mom can barely wait for them to get out of the car before she pulls Arthur into yet another baking-scented hug. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s so good to see you! Let’s get you inside! George? George! Arthur is here! Let me help you with the shopping; Sam, you take the ingredients into the kitchen, I’ll take the flour and the drinks; oh, here you are, George, dear, help Arthur with his bags, will you?”
“Hello, son,” Arthur’s dad manages to squeeze in, smiling at Arthur wryly and grabbing him into a one-armed hug as his wife pushes Arthur’s luggage into his spare hand.
“Hi, Dad,” Arthur smiles back, taking in the familiar smells of leather and cigar smoke and grease, letting them pull him back to a simpler time.
His mom herds the three of them into the house like a well-trained shepherd dog showing off. Arthur takes in the ornament-laden fire hazard that is the Christmas tree in the corner by the fireplace; just like every year, Jordan – the family’s gravity-challenged cat currently sprawled over the sofa arm – is eyeing it up with worrying intent.
“Hello you,” Arthur stops to stroke his silky ears in passing. Jordan considers him for a moment before regally butting his head into the warm palm, inviting more petting.
Arthur barely has time to change out of his Gucci pullover and Hugo Boss pants before he’s elbows-deep in cookie dough, cutters in all shapes and sizes lined up before him. It’s barely the 22nd, but his mom believes in getting started early. Likely they’ll have his aunt Jenny and uncle James over for Christmas dinner, with their respective spouses and grown-up children and their spouses, unless the plan deviates drastically from last year’s. And Brian. Mustn’t forget Brian, he thinks with a scowl that he quickly smoothes from his face before his mom notices.
When Sam appears briefly and passes him a gin and tonic with a wink, he’s almost pathetically grateful.
He takes a break for a re-fill when the first batch of cookies is in the oven and the second one is set up, leaving his mom pouring chocolate and coffee muffin dough into the forms. He finds Sam balancing precariously on a chair in the living room, stretching up to fix a long piece of tinsel to the top of one of the bookshelves. Since Sam is about an inch taller than him in her stockinged feet, he makes no move to help apart from steadying the chair until she’s done.
“Take a break with me?” he asks, mixing them both another drink. Sam huffs in relief and flops down on the sofa, jostling the napping Jordan and pulling him into her lap, where he proceeds to take up twice his length in space.
“Arthur,” his sister starts; Arthur snaps to attention immediately at her tone -- cautious, a little embarrassed, a little bit ridiculously pleased. “I’m bringing Tom this year.”
Arthur doesn’t need to ask where; Sam can only mean she’s bringing her boyfriend to their Christmas dinner. “Does he know what he’s getting himself into?” he teases, but for the life of him he can’t stop thinking of Eames, of bringing Eames with him, of having him there with the rest of his closest people. Had Eames been thinking the same thing that last morning in their bed, with that look on his face?
Sam is staring at him, delight slowly dawning all over her face. “Ohoho, what’s this?! Arthur, do you have a boyfriend I don’t know about? You sly thing, you never said a word!”
Arthur feels his face heat until he’s quite sure it’s flaming. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, not quite knowing what to say. It’s all the confirmation his devious sister needs.
“Oh my god, ickle Artie’s in love!” she squeals, clapping her hands in mirth. Her long dark hair bounces behind her as she laughs excitedly. Arthur scowls at her, still blushing; it’s just his curse in life that the two people he most often wants to intimidate into silence are both immune to his death glare. Oh god, Sam and Eames are going to be impossible to handle once they do meet.
Meanwhile, he can at least try. “Shut up, Samantha!” he growls.
He knows he’s in trouble when even the strategic use of her full name can’t dim the evil light in her eyes. “You must tell me everything about him! Is he tall? Short? Gorgeous? Does he have an enormous—“
“Finish that sentence, and I’m going to tell Tom all about that time in ninth grade,” he warns, baring his teeth at her.
“Spoilsport,” Sam pouts. “Besides, Tom knows most of it; he was there, remember?”
Arthur had forgotten, actually. It’s the curse of having a prospective brother-in-law that he’s known since his family moved to the neighbourhood when he was eleven.
“Come on, Artie,” Sam groans pathetically. “Don’t be so cruel! Give me something! You’re killing me here!” She grabs his arms and shakes him, as if that’s going to make him talk.
Arthur knows, he knows he’s going to regret this. “It’s Eames.”
Sam’s mouth drops open for a moment. “Omigod!” she shrieks so high that Jordan vaults off her lap in fear for his life. “The hot British guy? Holy shit, Arthur, you slut!”
“Oh, fuck off,” he growls at her, incensed.
“No, no, no, not so fast, you! I was right! I was totally right!” she gloats; it’s definitely unattractive, Arthur thinks uncharitably. He crosses his arms, wishing he could deny it.
Sam sobers up a little at his expression. “No, but really, Artie. You’ve been lusting after the guy and pushing him away for years. What changed?”
Arthur sighs. He can’t very well tell her about last year in Naples, that Eames had laid a siege on his defences until he’d just been plain tired of denying that he wanted it, he wanted Eames. Especially since both his and Eames’ families haven’t the first idea what it is they do – they think the two of them are some sort of insurance investigators, a la The Thomas Crown Affair. Arthur’s mom thinks it’s terribly romantic, to boot.
“It just turned out that he was a lot more serious about it than I gave him credit for,” he hedges.
Sam looks unconvinced. Arthur grits his teeth and spills. “He courted me. Incessantly. For a whole month. There was a Bugatti Veyron involved.”
“A Bugatti Veyron,” Sam says, breathing hard; she sounds like she’s going to hyperventilate momentarily.
“Yeah. He convinced a mate of his to lend it to us for the day and let me take it through its paces,” Arthur ventures, and covers his ears just in time to avoid getting his eardrums burst by Sam’s scream of shock and envy. “I’ll ask if we can borrow it again when you come visit,” he gets out hurriedly while he’s being shaken back and forth by his demented sister.
“Why isn’t this paragon of perfection here with you?” she wants to know when she has calmed down a bit.
Arthur smiles a little wistfully and looks down at his hands so Sam wouldn’t see the naked want in his eyes. “He’d promised his mother he’d spend Christmas with the family -- he didn’t make it home last year, either. And—Well. Brian.” He scrunches his nose in disgust.
Sam bristles when he mentions their uncle. “He’s not coming this year,” she tells him, a mutinous light in her eyes.
Arthur gapes, shock and relief jostling for position in his chest. “Really?” he asks, hardly daring to hope. Then he frowns. “How did that come about?”
Sam winces, as if even thinking about it is painful for her. “It was even worse than usual last year. Normally he just hounds you – which is bad enough, but you know how to handle him and not let him get to you – but when you weren’t here, he graced the table with one of his ‘speeches’. Basically, Dad flipped. He threw him out of the house, told him he wasn’t welcome here until he’d stopped being a homophobic asshole. You should have seen the look on his face,” Sam gloats, vindictive glee written all over hers. Arthur isn’t the only one to have issues with Brian. “Frankly, I can’t believe it took Dad this long, but you know how he needs a while to really gather steam.”
“That’s brilliant,” Arthur says, a cautious smile stretching his lips wide. There’s an unstoppable wave of warmth blooming in him, taking over his whole being. It had been a long time in coming, but Arthur respects his parents more than any other adults in his life, and so he hadn’t said anything. A tiny part of him, insecure and still fifteen-years-old and coming out of the closet for the first time, had been scared to death that the reason they hadn’t said anything was because they’d agreed with Brian. It had been a niggling ache, buried so deep that he hadn’t even noticed it until he feels it unclench now, sending relief cresting through him.
It fades a little when he finds himself thinking that he could have invited Eames along after all, could have had him here with the rest of the people he loves. The thought angers and subdues him at the same time.
Sam’s been watching him, unpicking his private revelations almost as soon as he becomes aware of them himself. She smiles a little sadly, but doesn’t say a word – just takes his hand and squeezes, stroking the back of it with her thumb and lifting it to her mouth for a small, reassuring kiss.
“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us anything about Eames,” she says at last, though more supportive than chiding.
“It was all so-- new. I sort of wanted to keep it to myself. I was hoping that-- oh, never mind,” he looks away, waves his hand as if to push the thought away; as if he could forget how much he’d hoped that he and Eames might be able to spend Christmas together. He’s too distracted to notice Sam’s shrewd eyes on his face, or the way they narrow at the obviously fake carefree smile he gives her.
“Arthur, honey!” their mother calls from the kitchen, and Arthur escapes, almost relieved that conversation is over, leaving Sam staring thoughtfully at his back.
~~
Now that he’s told Sam about Eames, and the spectre of Brian has been suitably dispersed, Arthur literally cannot stop thinking about the man. He finds himself turning to ask Eames’ opinion when he’s discussing cars with his dad; looks for him when he wants to share a smile at something snarky Sam has said; unconsciously reaches for a hand that isn’t there when his mom starts bugging him about whether he’s found someone yet.
He fights it, fights it hard -- not to lose himself in thoughts of Eames in a middle of a conversation, not to flinch when he looks for Eames and doesn’t find him. He’d had no idea he’d gotten so used to Eames being there all the time, that he finds it strange now when Eames isn’t standing next to him, or poking his head around the corner from the kitchen. He’s sure his parents and Sam notice, though, no matter how determined he is not to show that he feels like a part of him is missing. He hates the weakness that he’s somehow allowed Eames to become in his life; hates his lapse in control every time he can’t help but picture Eames charming his mom with that stupid crooked smile on his face.
It’s barely the 23rd and Arthur already feels rubbed raw from the effort it takes to keep his smile in place, to stop wondering what Eames is doing this very minute, to stop checking his phone obsessively for new messages after the one from late last night (Just landed @ lhr, en route 2 mums miss u already xxx). Arthur almost resents him for taking away some of the enjoyment he derives from spending time with his parents and with Sam -- it happens all too rarely these days as it is.
His dad’s voice breaks through his daze; the effort to shake Eames out of his head and get on with things leaves him weak. Oh god. He is in much more serious trouble than he’d thought.
~~
“Oh, Arthur,” Sam’s voice comes from behind him -- Arthur jumps, badly startled. This is getting ridiculous; his awareness of his surroundings has never been so lax in his life. He tears his hands away from the Christmas tree ornament that looks suspiciously like a poker chip and turns to face her, eyebrows raised in question.
Sam just shakes her head for a moment, looking sad. “You’re pining,” she states.
“Am not!” It’s reflexive, and he resists the urge to cover his hands with his pullover’s sleeves, like he used to do as a child when he was feeling uncertain and wrong-footed. He doesn’t meet Sam’s eyes.
Sam scoffs, rolling her eyes in that big-sister way of hers that she’s never quite outgrown. “Even Dad’s noticed. He came to ask me if there was something wrong with you!” She throws her hands in the air, exasperated.
Arthur winces. He’d never intended to make his parents feel uneasy. “Oh god,” he moans and drops his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”
Sam curls long-fingered hands so similar to his own around his wrists and tugs his arms down to make him look at her. “I know you’ve been trying, Arthur. You’ve just never been any good at hiding it when you’re besotted with someone. I was honestly astonished that you managed to hold your Eames off for as long as you did.”
“This is a nightmare,” Arthur whines, horrified, tugging his wrists back from her loose hold and throwing himself down on the sofa in despair. “I can’t believe I can’t even last three days without him! This cannot be happening!”
“Yet here you are,” Sam smirks. She pushes his long legs out of the way and sits down next to him, stretching her own long jeans-clad ones in front of her. “Arthur,” she says, sounding as serious as he’s ever heard her. He opens his eyes and looks at her blearily. “Not that it hasn’t been brilliant to see you, but you need to go.”
Emotions crowd in the wake of her words -- hurt, anger, irritation, and, tentatively, hope. “Are you kicking me out of the house?!” he demands, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.
“What? No!” Sam yelps, smacking his shoulder for good measure. “You moron. You need to go to Eames! It’s painfully obvious that you’re only going to mope around the house for the next three days and make everyone miserable with your ennui. At least that way Eames will be the one to deal with you, and you’ll spare your poor family all the grief!” She grins, triumphant and ever so pleased with herself.
“I can’t just walk out on Mom and Dad, they’ll kill me!” Arthur says, sitting up in horror at the thought.
“No, your Mom and Dad are going to kill you if you stay here because you want to make them happy even when it makes you miserable, rather than getting on the next flight to England and spending a happy Christmas holiday with your young man,” his mom says from behind them.
“Mom!” Arthur yelps and turns to face her, guilt written all over his face.
“Sweetheart, stop gaping at me like that and go get your coat! Your dad’s already got the car running; there’s a flight to London through New York in an hour and forty-five minutes, and you’re going to be on it if I have to drag you there myself!” His mom is smiling, a little sad but no less loving than usual.
“Mom, I--” he tries, still shell-shocked and feeling ashamed of himself.
“Arthur,” his mom cuts him off in the no-nonsense voice that he’s been trained to obey since he’d still been in diapers. “Don’t argue with your mother. Sam’s already packed your bags; the presents you brought for everyone are in the next room, I’ll put them under the tree once you go; and I’ve booked you a seat on the plane already. Please, sweetheart,” his mom says gently, “let us make you happy. It’s the best Christmas present we could ask for.”
Arthur rounds the sofa in three giant steps and squeezes his mom in a massive hug. “Thank you,” he murmurs, not even trying to pretend that his voice didn’t just break. “It’s the best present you could give me.”
His mom sniffs a little, pushing him away after a moment. “Oh, get on with you,” she instructs, smiling through her tears and prodding him towards the door. “And make sure you bring your man here next time!”
“I will,” Arthur smiles brilliantly over his shoulder, still reeling from the family-sized intervention.
“Come on!” Sam urges, impatient as always; she grabs his arm and practically drags him to the door, only stopping to let him put his shoes back on and shrug his peacoat over his dove-gray pullover. Sam and his mom pull on their winter coats, too, and the three of them pile out of the door and into the already running car.
“Your bag is in the trunk, son, I think Sam packed everything, but if there’s something left we’ll send it over to your flat after the holidays,” his dad rumbles from the front, smiling at him in the driver’s mirror. His mom turns around in the passenger seat and beams back at him, warm brown eyes – much like the ones he sees every morning in the mirror – crinkled happily.
Arthur feels a little like a child again, crowded in the back seat with Sam, listening to his parents bickering amiably over the best route to take to the airport. It reminds him of that last drive together, when he’d been going away to college in New York, bags laden with books and possibilities. He feels exhilarated all over again, like the world is his for the taking, all he could possibly imagine and more.
~~
Part Two
