Fic: The Wedding, Part I: Invitations
The Wedding, Part I: Invitations
Coda in the Amuse-Bouche universe.
Wordcount: 4300
Arthur doesn't know why he expected getting married to be easy. An unrealistic example set by Beth and Lou Ann, maybe. They put on a tux and a dress, went down to the courthouse, and got drinks at the bar next door. But he's not Beth, and Eames is definitely not Lou Ann.
It all begins innocuously enough, with Eames calling his parents and putting them on speakerphone.
"Mother, Father," Eames says in that strange, stiff voice he uses around them. "I've exciting news. I'm engaged."
There's a silence on the other end of the phone. Then Eames' mother, Harriet, says, "Is someone pregnant?"
Eames starts. "What? No. No. This is entirely voluntary."
"I see," she sounds skeptical. "To whom?"
Arthur glances over at Eames; this is not promising, considering he's been introduced to Eames' parents on four separate occasions. "Arthur," Eames says, then clears his throat. "You remember Arthur."
Eames' father, Charles, crackles over the line. "You're marrying the help?"
Eames immediately turns off speakerphone and brings the receiver to his ear. "Arthur is not the-yes, remember what I said? And that is not the-"
Arthur sighs as the conversation descends into a full-blown argument. Nothing about this is going to be easy.
* * * * *
They look at venues. So very many venues: resorts, beaches, picturesque fields, restaurants, grand old hotels, trendy boutique hotels, recently renovated dungeons (this is some kind of European hipster thing now), zoos, and aquariums. Most are deemed too small by Eames, who mentions breezily that they need room for a forty-piece orchestra, a Cirque du Soleil troupe, some fire breathers, and a drum line. Arthur still isn't sure whether he's joking or not. He hopes it's the former, but he suspects it's not, since the only place Eames rules out as too large is a football field.
"Why did we come here? Neither of us watches American football," Arthur says, bewildered, as they exit the stadium. "Or any sports, for that matter."
"Darling, you know I am a great supporter of Manchester United."
"What you support is watching hot men run down a field in shorts," Arthur replies, dryly. "And the only reason you know that team name is because your father hates them."
"Be that as it may," Eames says, not denying either assertion, "I fail to see how any of this is relevant to a wedding venue."
"Because the wedding should maybe have something to do with who we are as people?"
"What an adorably American notion," Eames says. "No, an English wedding reminds everyone in attendance through the weight of centuries of tradition that there is no escaping the bleakness of existence or the miserable bastards you're surrounded by."
Arthur frowns. "That sounds kind of dark--"
"It's also an opportunity to create the event of the season amongst your social set!" Eames exclaims. "We are going to plan a fete so dazzling, so stupendous, that all will look upon it and despair."
"I don't know if despair is exactly--" Arthur stops when a manic gleam appears Eames' eyes. "Okay, okay, whatever you want. But just so you know, I'd be happy to go to the courthouse right now and get married."
"The courthouse," Eames scoffs. "Might as well climb into a hole in the ground at that point. Although--maybe the Grand Canyon, or a cemetery, or--"
Arthur sighs as the distinct possibility of getting married surrounded by corpses now enters his life.
* * * * *
Venues are not the only thing they look at. The wedding planner Eames hires, Abigail Hayworth (who has apparently planned the weddings of minor royalty and British celebrities), also sets up appointments for flowers, party favors (Arthur had no idea people got those outside of first grade parties), and, more enjoyably, food tastings.
They settle on the food and cake relatively quickly. Eames wavers between a traditional English multi-tiered fruitcake monstrosity versus red velvet cupcakes (what he actually wants) until Arthur intercedes on behalf of the red velvet. Eames looks relieved, afterwards, and murmurs something about serving the fruitcake at the 'wedding breakfast' which Arthur decides not to ask about.
The rest of the appointments are nowhere near as fun. Every day after work, they see millions of: floral trellises, bouquets, enormous centerpieces, garlands, and god knows what other ways you stick a bunch of flowers together. Arthur nearly falls asleep listening to discussions about tea roses more times than he can count.
There's more than flowers, of course: there's stationery, furniture rentals, place settings, and on and on. After an afternoon spent staring at paper in the supposedly different colors of cream, ivory, and bone, Arthur finally cries uncle.
"Baby," Arthur says while Eames compares the effects of indigo ink on thirty-two pound, ninety pound, and two-hundred papers, "Would you be okay with going to meet the videographers alone?"
"Alone? Are you not feeling well?" Eames immediately drops the paper in order to touch Arthur's forehead. "You don't feel warm. If you've a spot of indigestion, I know a cleanse that--"
"No, it's not that." Arthur sighs. "You said you wanted input on all the magical little wedding details, which is great. I get not wanting to leave everything up to Abigail. But it's been months of this stuff and I think after the twenty-sixth type of white tablecloth I hit my limit."
Eames stares blankly at Arthur, uncomprehending.
"What I mean is, there are some aspects and details that I don't care that much about," Arthur says, trying to gentle his voice. "Like the shape of the light sockets. Or the flowers. Or the color of the officiant's robes. I love you, I want to marry you, and I trust your decisions."
"You don't--" Eames continues staring at Arthur in bafflement. "But flowers are the soul of a wedding."
"That's--true, I'm sure," Arthur says. "But what do I know about flowers? Nothing, except you shouldn't eat most of them. Not that I'd know that from personal experience--I'm just assuming, you know, that they're mostly not edible."
"You're sure you don't mind? You don't want to be involved in the final decisions?"
"On the venue, sure," Arthur says. "The food we've already decided. I'll pick out what I want to wear. The other stuff--the music, the party favors, the ice sculptures--that's all you, babe. If you're having trouble deciding on something, I'm happy to help, but the only thing I really care about is the guy I'm walking down the aisle with."
"Oh darling." Eames' smile reminds Arthur why he's bothering with all this nonsense to begin with. "You are simply too wonderful for words."
* * * * *
The venue they ultimately settle on is a castle in the Scottish Highlands, owned by one of Eames' distant relatives. It is a stately old building, complete with turrets and a dazzling view of several small lakes. Eames is infatuated, Una shrieks when Arthur gives her a brief tour via Facetime, and even Arthur can see why some would describe the location as 'magical.'
And then comes the less magical matter of logistics.
Being a castle, it's not exactly outfitted with all the modern bells and whistles like electricity, toilets, and central heating. It's also cavernous, drafty, and filled with an alarming amount of rodent wildlife despite the best efforts of a caretaker that drives in once a month from three towns over.
The reason it's someone from three towns over and not, say, someone from the town closest to the castle, is because of several gruesome murders that took place on the premises centuries ago. In short, all the locals believe the castle is haunted and refuse to step foot inside.
"Your cousin could have given us a heads up when she was pitching the place," Arthur says as they drive down the single lane, mostly dirt road to the hotel they're staying in. Half of it is already washing away in the persistent rainfall.
"It's no matter. I'm not about to allow superstition ruin what is going to be the best wedding this country has ever seen."
"I'm excited, too, but isn't that setting the bar a little high? I mean, it's a big event that'll be taking place at least partially outdoors, which means there's a lot of stuff we can't control--"
"That is precisely the kind of talk I do not want to hear," Eames says, the manic look in his eyes reappearing. "I am not about to concede my future to the wild winds of fate like some--some conceding quitter. Quitters never prosper. We are not quitters! We shall prosper!"
"Uh," Arthur says. "I'm not saying we quit, I'm saying maybe it's not realistic to have such high expectations for--"
"It will be perfect," Eames says, the set of his jaw brooking no further argument. "Everything about this wedding will be perfect, if I have to fight a hundred ghosts and light all six thousand candles in the castle myself."
* * * * *
"Yo, Artie," Una says as her face fills the cellphone screen. "How goes planning the fairytale princess wedding of every little girl's dream?"
"Weird," Arthur says, and pauses to consider. "Yeah, weird."
"That was a less romantic an answer than I'd hoped."
"Planning a wedding isn't romantic, it's exhausting," Arthur replies. "We're making up the guest list and it's a series of increasingly stressful conversations about which relatives we don't love enough to invite. It doesn't help that Eames is related to every aristocrat in Europe."
"Uh huh, yeah that sounds rough," Una says dismissively. "Is everyone getting a plus one?"
"Yes, but you have to promise you won't bring some rando again."
"Some--" She huffs. "Who do you think I am? I would never bring--"
"Do you still talk to that girl you brought to cousin Jenny's wedding? How about the guy from Mom and Nasir's wedding?"
"Well, obviously I had to bring some rando to Mom's wedding--how else would I bring shame to the family name?" Una does her impression of Mom's disappointed and disapproving expression, which Arthur can't help but chuckle at. "Besides, the plus one you really need to worry about is Dad's. He broke up with his girlfriend."
"Again?"
"Again. You know mom is going to flip her shit if his new girlfriend or whoever he brings is younger and blonder than Gloria was."
"But what about the baby? I guess, technically our half-sister."
"Dad says he'll still be involved in raising her."
"How--you know what, never mind. Not my business," Arthur says. "Mom and Dad are sitting at different tables, I guess. Eames is going to love that."
"Unless you want your wedding interrupted by a fistfight."
"I've got enough fistfights to worry about with Eames' side of the family," Arthur replies. "They're like the definition of crazy repressed drama."
"Seriously? But Eames seems so--" Una halts. "Okay, yeah, I can see it."
"Yeah, it's all very hush hush." Arthur sighs. "I mean, whatever, every family's got secrets and it's not his fault. The only thing I care about is how stressed out it makes him--I told you about his second family in Paris, right?"
"You mean Eames' adult half-sister and her mother living in Paris?"
"That's the one. Well, when Eames was sixteen, he ran away to find them in Paris and ended up staying with them until he went to college. It's a crazy story, but he considers his dad's--I dunno, ex-mistress--like his second mom. And his half-sister like his real sister. He wants them at the wedding."
"Woo boy," Una says. "Does the rest of his family know about them?"
"If they do, they certainly aren't going to acknowledge it," Arthur says. "Eames hasn't even talked about it directly with his parents."
"Have you met them? His second family, I mean."
"Yeah, Carlotta and Jacquenette are great. The best part is: they don't treat me like hired help."
Una makes a face. "I can't believe you've been together for three years and Eames' parents still act like this. It's such bullshit."
"Yeah." Arthur sighs. "It's not Eames' fault, I keep reminding myself."
There's the sound of something ripping and then Una winces onscreen. "Ow."
"What is that--Una, are you waxing your legs again?"
"Oh no, I'm not waxing my legs." She waggles her eyebrows. "I got a date with a very promising young lady. I think there might be a chance we might swing by Boom Boom Town this weekend if you know what I mean."
"First of all, who says Boom Boom Town, that is not a thing and second, no, you cannot be waxing your genitals while we Facetime." At her innocent expression, Arthur groans. "Inappropriate. Way inappropriate."
"Whatever, I've listened to you poop on the phone before," she replies. "Besides, I need you to check my work since I can't see everything."
"Don't you dare point that camera at your crotch or I will hang up. Aren't there professionals that can do this for you?"
"Yeah, about that. Money's a little tight right now."
"Tight? You live rent-free with Dad and have a job that pays--" Arthur narrows his eyes. "What happened to your job?"
"I quit last week. It totally sucked and I'm over it."
"Jesus, again?"
"I already got lectured by Mom and I don't want to hear it from my best friend, too."
"Oh, so now I'm your best friend again? I thought I was the worst killjoy older brother in the history of killjoy older brothers."
"You can be both." Una winces as another suspicious tearing sound echoes through the speakers. "It's kinda red down here. Is there supposed to be blood?"
"Look, I'll Venmo you the money to hire someone who knows what they're doing."
"I don't want to take your wedding money. I'm sure renting twenty unicorns to pull a gay sleigh across a rainbow can't be cheap."
"Don't worry about it," Arthur says. "Eames has some kind of wedding fund, maybe? I'm not exactly sure. I don't know where the bills are going, so I guess they're not going to me."
"You don't know? What does Mom think about that?"
"Don't tell her. I'm working on it and I don't want her to be mad at me." At Una's eye-roll, Arthur continues, "I've tried to talk to Eames about money but he always distracts me with sex or food. Or food with sex."
"And that works?"
"Of course it works! Do you think I'm dead inside?" Arthur shakes his head. "I've even tried the Budget Board, but somehow that doesn't make finances fun for him either."
"The Budget Board is only fun if your name is Mommy's Baby Artie-Poo," Una says, mimicking their mother's voice. Arthur frowns; it's not a flattering impression. "For normal, sane, non-Artie-Poo people, it's the worst thing ever."
"Whatever," Arthur says, thinking back fondly on afternoons spent filling in the Budget Board. "Anyway, I think the stress is starting to get to Eames. He's been--distant. Distracted by the planning."
"Don't you guys have an event planner?"
"Yeah, but Eames wants to be really involved and apparently there's still a million things to take care of. He's been obsessing over stuff like handmade tartan kilts and the exact shapes for the ice sculptures." Arthur sighs. "He gets like this when he's working on a new show, but it usually lasts for a couple of weeks. This has been going on for months."
"Have you talked to him about it?"
"I should, shouldn't I?"
"Probably. Wish you luck, big bro," Una says. "Also, I should probably go now because I'm definitely bleeding."
* * * * *
Arthur finds Eames seated in the middle of the living room, surrounded by a sea of stationary. It takes some work to pick through the maze of place cards, sample menus, and programs to reach him.
"Hi, baby," Arthur murmurs as he slides his arms around Eames' waist.
"Hello," Eames replies with an absent-minded kiss, gaze not lifting from the place cards he's comparing.
Arthur nuzzles Eames' neck. "Have a second to talk?"
"I have to make the final decisions on the stationery tonight so we can place our orders with the printers tomorrow. Why, is something wrong?"
"Baby, do you know that it's been two weeks since we did something more than kiss?"
"What?" Eames cranes his head around to look at Arthur. "Two weeks?"
"Two weeks."
Eames sets down the menu. "That is most disturbing news. This situation cannot be permitted to stand."
Arthur suppresses a smile. "What are you planning to do about it?"
"Kiss every inch of your naked body immediately."
"Sounds like a promising start," Arthur murmurs before the rest of his words are swallowed up in kisses.
Later, after thorough bodily investigations, Eames says, "Has it really been two weeks?"
Arthur turns onto his side to face Eames. "Yeah. And we've both been home, not traveling."
"It's because I've been distracted by the wedding planning, isn't it?" Eames sighs. "I'm sorry, darling. You know this is what it's like when I'm choreographing a show. I want to create an unforgettable experience."
"I know you do, and you will. But something about this feels different." Arthur laces his fingers through Eames'. "I've never seen you this stressed out before. What's going on?"
"The timeline is tighter than I'd like. And then there's the guest list which seems to grow with every day that passes."
"Is that why?"
"No," Eames admits. "Not entirely."
"Baby, talk to me. I want to understand. And help, if I can."
"I--" Eames hesitates. "I want it to be perfect."
"You mentioned that before. What exactly does perfect mean to you?" Arthur asks gently. "Does that mean everything goes according to plan, or is there more to it?"
"According to plan, yes. But I also--oh, I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but I also want your family to see how much I adore you."
"They already know how much you love me. That's why I'm marrying you," Arthur says, faintly puzzled.
"Fine, yes, they are aware--except for your mother. Who wishes you had proposed to that Pulitzer Prize-winning ex of yours instead."
"That's--" Arthur opens his mouth, but can't deny the uncomfortable kernel of truth in what Eames said. "Well, that's not her decision. It's mine."
Eames visibly droops. "She hates me."
"She doesn't--it's not personal. I've dated some, uh, not so great guys in the past, which has made her wary. She'll come around. I mean, Una and Dad and Beth and Nasir all love you."
"Darling, do you think I chased after fame and fortune because my insatiable desire for the approval of strangers is logical or healthy?"
Arthur chuckles. "Fair point, but isn't therapy supposed to be helping with that?"
"Helping to manage, yes. Curing, no." Eames sighs. "I know it's absurd to hope that a single event could change everything in a relationship. But a part of me can't help it."
Arthur reaches out to stroke Eames' cheek. "Is this really about my mother?"
"Perhaps only partially. I suppose she won't be the only person in attendance." Eames' expression shifts into something raw, vulnerable. "There may or may not also be the matter of my family."
"Come here, baby." Arthur pulls Eames close. "Come here."
* * * * *
"Arthur," Mal says, voice cool as she rises from her seat to permit Arthur a kiss on the cheek. Even after all these years, Arthur's pretty sure she doesn't like him. Most of Eames' musician friends view Arthur as an oddity once they find out he doesn't listen to music, but eventually they warm up to him. Not Mal, apparently. "Have you listened to Eames' new album?"
And she's still in the habit of interrogating him about Eames' music. According to Cobb, she does that to everyone, so at least Arthur's not being singled out. Probably. "Yes."
"What do you think of it?"
"I think it's genius," Arthur says, honestly. "It's Eames' best work to date."
She nods once. "What is your favorite song?"
At least he's better prepared for the questions, now. "Saving Me, Saving You."
"Not 'My Favorite Dragon'? It is about your cock."
Arthur feels heat rising in his cheeks but gazes steadily at her. "I like the melody of 'Saving Me, Saving You' better."
She nods again, brusquely. "What can I do for you? I assume this is to do with Eames."
"Skipping the small talk and jumping right into it, okay." Arthur takes a deep breath. "It's about his parents and, to a lesser extent, his family."
"If you want them to love you, forget it. They never will."
"No, I--I've accepted that," Arthur says, swallowing hard. "I guess I--can you tell me why they hate me so much?"
Mal stares at him for a long moment. Her expression softens. "Oh, Arthur. They don't hate you. They think you are inappropriate. Another phase Eames is going through before he settles down with a proper woman."
"We're getting married."
"Eames has been married before," she reminds him. "And what does that mean to these people? Nothing. To them, you are another intruder in their world, a bourgeois American who probably wants Eames for his money or fame."
"We have a prenup! I would never--"
"I know that," Mal says. "I know you love him. And he loves you. You are marrying for the right reasons, because you have a good relationship. But they don't see that. You don't fit into their lives. You don't share their values, their customs."
Arthur stares down at the lunch menu on the table. The words blur in front of him and blinks to focus them. "There's nothing I can do to change their minds?"
"A few of them, maybe. His cousins. Jacquenette and Carlotta like you, yes?" At his nod, Mal continues, "And you are not the only one struggling with this question of being seen and accepted for who you truly are. Why do you think Eames has been so frantic over the wedding?"
* * * * *
The planning continues to stretch Eames thin, emotionally. He is, by turns, frazzled, exhausted, and irritable, while Arthur does his best to be supportive and understanding.
The inevitable breaking point comes over a bouquet of flowers.
"It's over," Eames says, words muffled by the table his face is currently mashed against. "The electricity won't work. The décor will be hideous. The guests will go hungry in the damp. The wedding will be terrible and everything will be ruined."
"What's going on?" Arthur asks as he strokes Eames' back soothingly. "Why is everything ruined?"
"Just look at the arrangement. Look at it!"
Arthur squints at the offending bouquet. "It's... pretty?"
"The colors are all wrong and and petals are too small." Eames shakes a hydrangea head. "Our guests cannot be expected to sit surrounded by these! We might as well put them in a field with weeds."
"Baby," Arthur plucks the offending hydrangea from Eames' grasp. "What's this really about?"
"I told you, it's about substandard floral arrangements," Eames says, slowly lifting his face.
Arthur rubs a thumb over the flower stem, bruised and bent but not entirely broken. "Is it?"
"Not everything has a deeper meaning, Arthur," Eames says. "Sometimes I am precisely as shallow as I first appear."
Arthur simply smiles, and waits.
Eames is quiet for a minute before he speaks, quietly, "Did I ever tell you what it was like coming out as bisexual to my family?"
"No," Arthur says. "I'm guessing it didn't go great."
"I informed everyone when I was twelve. No one listened. They thought it was a silly phase I'd grow out of, or that I was acting out for attention." Eames pauses. "The first time I introduced round a man as my boyfriend, half my relatives laughed and the other half said absolutely nothing. Neither would acknowledge him."
"I guess it's good to know it's not just me," Arthur says, aiming for a joke that comes out a hair too bitter.
"No, you're wonderful," Eames looks so sad for a moment that Arthur feels his chest clench. "I wish I could make them see that."
"I'm okay, Eames. How they act is on them, not you." Arthur cups Eames' cheek. "I'll be okay. But what about you?"
"You would think I'd have learned long ago not to expect anything from my parents. Besides money, I suppose." Eames closes his eyes. "My therapist is always saying--well, it doesn't matter, does it? I can't seem to find a way to listen when it comes to them."
"It's only a day," Arthur says. "A day that will be magical because it marks the beginning of the rest of my life with you. Still only a day."
"But look at how beautiful they can be." Eames' voice is low, raspy, as he touches the hydrangea in Arthur's hand. "How could anyone see you surrounded by hydrangeas and not--and not--"
Arthur tugs Eames into his arms. If only he could swallow up Eames' pain, change out Eames' broken heart for his own. "I love you. Mal loves you. Your friends love you, and my family--well, most of my family loves you. We'll all be there, too. Appreciating the flowers, even if they're not perfect."
"I know. I do. And I am--grateful."
"But it's your family. It's hard." Arthur holds Eames tightly. "No matter what they say or do, you've got me. You're not alone in this."
"For the rest of our lives?" Eames' voice is soft. "Even when it's no fun?"
"Especially when it's no fun," Arthur says. "Luckily for me, it's pretty fun most of the time. And we've got all that awesome sex and stuff."
Eames huffs a small laugh against Arthur's shoulder, which has gotten damp. Arthur kisses Eames' temple and wishes that he could do more. Hopes that for now, this is enough.
fin
* * * * *
Bonus: Track list from Eames' latest album, Light that will never go out:
1. Loaded Die
2. Alleyway Kiss
3. Saving Me, Saving You
4. Sonya's Song
5. Nouvelle Cuisine
6. Una, Dos, Tres
7. Dearest Moneypenny
8. Lady Slippers
9. My Favorite Dragon
10. Light that will never go out
11. Safe, at last
Onto The Wedding, Part II: Ceremony
Coda in the Amuse-Bouche universe.
Wordcount: 4300
Arthur doesn't know why he expected getting married to be easy. An unrealistic example set by Beth and Lou Ann, maybe. They put on a tux and a dress, went down to the courthouse, and got drinks at the bar next door. But he's not Beth, and Eames is definitely not Lou Ann.
It all begins innocuously enough, with Eames calling his parents and putting them on speakerphone.
"Mother, Father," Eames says in that strange, stiff voice he uses around them. "I've exciting news. I'm engaged."
There's a silence on the other end of the phone. Then Eames' mother, Harriet, says, "Is someone pregnant?"
Eames starts. "What? No. No. This is entirely voluntary."
"I see," she sounds skeptical. "To whom?"
Arthur glances over at Eames; this is not promising, considering he's been introduced to Eames' parents on four separate occasions. "Arthur," Eames says, then clears his throat. "You remember Arthur."
Eames' father, Charles, crackles over the line. "You're marrying the help?"
Eames immediately turns off speakerphone and brings the receiver to his ear. "Arthur is not the-yes, remember what I said? And that is not the-"
Arthur sighs as the conversation descends into a full-blown argument. Nothing about this is going to be easy.
* * * * *
They look at venues. So very many venues: resorts, beaches, picturesque fields, restaurants, grand old hotels, trendy boutique hotels, recently renovated dungeons (this is some kind of European hipster thing now), zoos, and aquariums. Most are deemed too small by Eames, who mentions breezily that they need room for a forty-piece orchestra, a Cirque du Soleil troupe, some fire breathers, and a drum line. Arthur still isn't sure whether he's joking or not. He hopes it's the former, but he suspects it's not, since the only place Eames rules out as too large is a football field.
"Why did we come here? Neither of us watches American football," Arthur says, bewildered, as they exit the stadium. "Or any sports, for that matter."
"Darling, you know I am a great supporter of Manchester United."
"What you support is watching hot men run down a field in shorts," Arthur replies, dryly. "And the only reason you know that team name is because your father hates them."
"Be that as it may," Eames says, not denying either assertion, "I fail to see how any of this is relevant to a wedding venue."
"Because the wedding should maybe have something to do with who we are as people?"
"What an adorably American notion," Eames says. "No, an English wedding reminds everyone in attendance through the weight of centuries of tradition that there is no escaping the bleakness of existence or the miserable bastards you're surrounded by."
Arthur frowns. "That sounds kind of dark--"
"It's also an opportunity to create the event of the season amongst your social set!" Eames exclaims. "We are going to plan a fete so dazzling, so stupendous, that all will look upon it and despair."
"I don't know if despair is exactly--" Arthur stops when a manic gleam appears Eames' eyes. "Okay, okay, whatever you want. But just so you know, I'd be happy to go to the courthouse right now and get married."
"The courthouse," Eames scoffs. "Might as well climb into a hole in the ground at that point. Although--maybe the Grand Canyon, or a cemetery, or--"
Arthur sighs as the distinct possibility of getting married surrounded by corpses now enters his life.
* * * * *
Venues are not the only thing they look at. The wedding planner Eames hires, Abigail Hayworth (who has apparently planned the weddings of minor royalty and British celebrities), also sets up appointments for flowers, party favors (Arthur had no idea people got those outside of first grade parties), and, more enjoyably, food tastings.
They settle on the food and cake relatively quickly. Eames wavers between a traditional English multi-tiered fruitcake monstrosity versus red velvet cupcakes (what he actually wants) until Arthur intercedes on behalf of the red velvet. Eames looks relieved, afterwards, and murmurs something about serving the fruitcake at the 'wedding breakfast' which Arthur decides not to ask about.
The rest of the appointments are nowhere near as fun. Every day after work, they see millions of: floral trellises, bouquets, enormous centerpieces, garlands, and god knows what other ways you stick a bunch of flowers together. Arthur nearly falls asleep listening to discussions about tea roses more times than he can count.
There's more than flowers, of course: there's stationery, furniture rentals, place settings, and on and on. After an afternoon spent staring at paper in the supposedly different colors of cream, ivory, and bone, Arthur finally cries uncle.
"Baby," Arthur says while Eames compares the effects of indigo ink on thirty-two pound, ninety pound, and two-hundred papers, "Would you be okay with going to meet the videographers alone?"
"Alone? Are you not feeling well?" Eames immediately drops the paper in order to touch Arthur's forehead. "You don't feel warm. If you've a spot of indigestion, I know a cleanse that--"
"No, it's not that." Arthur sighs. "You said you wanted input on all the magical little wedding details, which is great. I get not wanting to leave everything up to Abigail. But it's been months of this stuff and I think after the twenty-sixth type of white tablecloth I hit my limit."
Eames stares blankly at Arthur, uncomprehending.
"What I mean is, there are some aspects and details that I don't care that much about," Arthur says, trying to gentle his voice. "Like the shape of the light sockets. Or the flowers. Or the color of the officiant's robes. I love you, I want to marry you, and I trust your decisions."
"You don't--" Eames continues staring at Arthur in bafflement. "But flowers are the soul of a wedding."
"That's--true, I'm sure," Arthur says. "But what do I know about flowers? Nothing, except you shouldn't eat most of them. Not that I'd know that from personal experience--I'm just assuming, you know, that they're mostly not edible."
"You're sure you don't mind? You don't want to be involved in the final decisions?"
"On the venue, sure," Arthur says. "The food we've already decided. I'll pick out what I want to wear. The other stuff--the music, the party favors, the ice sculptures--that's all you, babe. If you're having trouble deciding on something, I'm happy to help, but the only thing I really care about is the guy I'm walking down the aisle with."
"Oh darling." Eames' smile reminds Arthur why he's bothering with all this nonsense to begin with. "You are simply too wonderful for words."
* * * * *
The venue they ultimately settle on is a castle in the Scottish Highlands, owned by one of Eames' distant relatives. It is a stately old building, complete with turrets and a dazzling view of several small lakes. Eames is infatuated, Una shrieks when Arthur gives her a brief tour via Facetime, and even Arthur can see why some would describe the location as 'magical.'
And then comes the less magical matter of logistics.
Being a castle, it's not exactly outfitted with all the modern bells and whistles like electricity, toilets, and central heating. It's also cavernous, drafty, and filled with an alarming amount of rodent wildlife despite the best efforts of a caretaker that drives in once a month from three towns over.
The reason it's someone from three towns over and not, say, someone from the town closest to the castle, is because of several gruesome murders that took place on the premises centuries ago. In short, all the locals believe the castle is haunted and refuse to step foot inside.
"Your cousin could have given us a heads up when she was pitching the place," Arthur says as they drive down the single lane, mostly dirt road to the hotel they're staying in. Half of it is already washing away in the persistent rainfall.
"It's no matter. I'm not about to allow superstition ruin what is going to be the best wedding this country has ever seen."
"I'm excited, too, but isn't that setting the bar a little high? I mean, it's a big event that'll be taking place at least partially outdoors, which means there's a lot of stuff we can't control--"
"That is precisely the kind of talk I do not want to hear," Eames says, the manic look in his eyes reappearing. "I am not about to concede my future to the wild winds of fate like some--some conceding quitter. Quitters never prosper. We are not quitters! We shall prosper!"
"Uh," Arthur says. "I'm not saying we quit, I'm saying maybe it's not realistic to have such high expectations for--"
"It will be perfect," Eames says, the set of his jaw brooking no further argument. "Everything about this wedding will be perfect, if I have to fight a hundred ghosts and light all six thousand candles in the castle myself."
* * * * *
"Yo, Artie," Una says as her face fills the cellphone screen. "How goes planning the fairytale princess wedding of every little girl's dream?"
"Weird," Arthur says, and pauses to consider. "Yeah, weird."
"That was a less romantic an answer than I'd hoped."
"Planning a wedding isn't romantic, it's exhausting," Arthur replies. "We're making up the guest list and it's a series of increasingly stressful conversations about which relatives we don't love enough to invite. It doesn't help that Eames is related to every aristocrat in Europe."
"Uh huh, yeah that sounds rough," Una says dismissively. "Is everyone getting a plus one?"
"Yes, but you have to promise you won't bring some rando again."
"Some--" She huffs. "Who do you think I am? I would never bring--"
"Do you still talk to that girl you brought to cousin Jenny's wedding? How about the guy from Mom and Nasir's wedding?"
"Well, obviously I had to bring some rando to Mom's wedding--how else would I bring shame to the family name?" Una does her impression of Mom's disappointed and disapproving expression, which Arthur can't help but chuckle at. "Besides, the plus one you really need to worry about is Dad's. He broke up with his girlfriend."
"Again?"
"Again. You know mom is going to flip her shit if his new girlfriend or whoever he brings is younger and blonder than Gloria was."
"But what about the baby? I guess, technically our half-sister."
"Dad says he'll still be involved in raising her."
"How--you know what, never mind. Not my business," Arthur says. "Mom and Dad are sitting at different tables, I guess. Eames is going to love that."
"Unless you want your wedding interrupted by a fistfight."
"I've got enough fistfights to worry about with Eames' side of the family," Arthur replies. "They're like the definition of crazy repressed drama."
"Seriously? But Eames seems so--" Una halts. "Okay, yeah, I can see it."
"Yeah, it's all very hush hush." Arthur sighs. "I mean, whatever, every family's got secrets and it's not his fault. The only thing I care about is how stressed out it makes him--I told you about his second family in Paris, right?"
"You mean Eames' adult half-sister and her mother living in Paris?"
"That's the one. Well, when Eames was sixteen, he ran away to find them in Paris and ended up staying with them until he went to college. It's a crazy story, but he considers his dad's--I dunno, ex-mistress--like his second mom. And his half-sister like his real sister. He wants them at the wedding."
"Woo boy," Una says. "Does the rest of his family know about them?"
"If they do, they certainly aren't going to acknowledge it," Arthur says. "Eames hasn't even talked about it directly with his parents."
"Have you met them? His second family, I mean."
"Yeah, Carlotta and Jacquenette are great. The best part is: they don't treat me like hired help."
Una makes a face. "I can't believe you've been together for three years and Eames' parents still act like this. It's such bullshit."
"Yeah." Arthur sighs. "It's not Eames' fault, I keep reminding myself."
There's the sound of something ripping and then Una winces onscreen. "Ow."
"What is that--Una, are you waxing your legs again?"
"Oh no, I'm not waxing my legs." She waggles her eyebrows. "I got a date with a very promising young lady. I think there might be a chance we might swing by Boom Boom Town this weekend if you know what I mean."
"First of all, who says Boom Boom Town, that is not a thing and second, no, you cannot be waxing your genitals while we Facetime." At her innocent expression, Arthur groans. "Inappropriate. Way inappropriate."
"Whatever, I've listened to you poop on the phone before," she replies. "Besides, I need you to check my work since I can't see everything."
"Don't you dare point that camera at your crotch or I will hang up. Aren't there professionals that can do this for you?"
"Yeah, about that. Money's a little tight right now."
"Tight? You live rent-free with Dad and have a job that pays--" Arthur narrows his eyes. "What happened to your job?"
"I quit last week. It totally sucked and I'm over it."
"Jesus, again?"
"I already got lectured by Mom and I don't want to hear it from my best friend, too."
"Oh, so now I'm your best friend again? I thought I was the worst killjoy older brother in the history of killjoy older brothers."
"You can be both." Una winces as another suspicious tearing sound echoes through the speakers. "It's kinda red down here. Is there supposed to be blood?"
"Look, I'll Venmo you the money to hire someone who knows what they're doing."
"I don't want to take your wedding money. I'm sure renting twenty unicorns to pull a gay sleigh across a rainbow can't be cheap."
"Don't worry about it," Arthur says. "Eames has some kind of wedding fund, maybe? I'm not exactly sure. I don't know where the bills are going, so I guess they're not going to me."
"You don't know? What does Mom think about that?"
"Don't tell her. I'm working on it and I don't want her to be mad at me." At Una's eye-roll, Arthur continues, "I've tried to talk to Eames about money but he always distracts me with sex or food. Or food with sex."
"And that works?"
"Of course it works! Do you think I'm dead inside?" Arthur shakes his head. "I've even tried the Budget Board, but somehow that doesn't make finances fun for him either."
"The Budget Board is only fun if your name is Mommy's Baby Artie-Poo," Una says, mimicking their mother's voice. Arthur frowns; it's not a flattering impression. "For normal, sane, non-Artie-Poo people, it's the worst thing ever."
"Whatever," Arthur says, thinking back fondly on afternoons spent filling in the Budget Board. "Anyway, I think the stress is starting to get to Eames. He's been--distant. Distracted by the planning."
"Don't you guys have an event planner?"
"Yeah, but Eames wants to be really involved and apparently there's still a million things to take care of. He's been obsessing over stuff like handmade tartan kilts and the exact shapes for the ice sculptures." Arthur sighs. "He gets like this when he's working on a new show, but it usually lasts for a couple of weeks. This has been going on for months."
"Have you talked to him about it?"
"I should, shouldn't I?"
"Probably. Wish you luck, big bro," Una says. "Also, I should probably go now because I'm definitely bleeding."
* * * * *
Arthur finds Eames seated in the middle of the living room, surrounded by a sea of stationary. It takes some work to pick through the maze of place cards, sample menus, and programs to reach him.
"Hi, baby," Arthur murmurs as he slides his arms around Eames' waist.
"Hello," Eames replies with an absent-minded kiss, gaze not lifting from the place cards he's comparing.
Arthur nuzzles Eames' neck. "Have a second to talk?"
"I have to make the final decisions on the stationery tonight so we can place our orders with the printers tomorrow. Why, is something wrong?"
"Baby, do you know that it's been two weeks since we did something more than kiss?"
"What?" Eames cranes his head around to look at Arthur. "Two weeks?"
"Two weeks."
Eames sets down the menu. "That is most disturbing news. This situation cannot be permitted to stand."
Arthur suppresses a smile. "What are you planning to do about it?"
"Kiss every inch of your naked body immediately."
"Sounds like a promising start," Arthur murmurs before the rest of his words are swallowed up in kisses.
Later, after thorough bodily investigations, Eames says, "Has it really been two weeks?"
Arthur turns onto his side to face Eames. "Yeah. And we've both been home, not traveling."
"It's because I've been distracted by the wedding planning, isn't it?" Eames sighs. "I'm sorry, darling. You know this is what it's like when I'm choreographing a show. I want to create an unforgettable experience."
"I know you do, and you will. But something about this feels different." Arthur laces his fingers through Eames'. "I've never seen you this stressed out before. What's going on?"
"The timeline is tighter than I'd like. And then there's the guest list which seems to grow with every day that passes."
"Is that why?"
"No," Eames admits. "Not entirely."
"Baby, talk to me. I want to understand. And help, if I can."
"I--" Eames hesitates. "I want it to be perfect."
"You mentioned that before. What exactly does perfect mean to you?" Arthur asks gently. "Does that mean everything goes according to plan, or is there more to it?"
"According to plan, yes. But I also--oh, I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but I also want your family to see how much I adore you."
"They already know how much you love me. That's why I'm marrying you," Arthur says, faintly puzzled.
"Fine, yes, they are aware--except for your mother. Who wishes you had proposed to that Pulitzer Prize-winning ex of yours instead."
"That's--" Arthur opens his mouth, but can't deny the uncomfortable kernel of truth in what Eames said. "Well, that's not her decision. It's mine."
Eames visibly droops. "She hates me."
"She doesn't--it's not personal. I've dated some, uh, not so great guys in the past, which has made her wary. She'll come around. I mean, Una and Dad and Beth and Nasir all love you."
"Darling, do you think I chased after fame and fortune because my insatiable desire for the approval of strangers is logical or healthy?"
Arthur chuckles. "Fair point, but isn't therapy supposed to be helping with that?"
"Helping to manage, yes. Curing, no." Eames sighs. "I know it's absurd to hope that a single event could change everything in a relationship. But a part of me can't help it."
Arthur reaches out to stroke Eames' cheek. "Is this really about my mother?"
"Perhaps only partially. I suppose she won't be the only person in attendance." Eames' expression shifts into something raw, vulnerable. "There may or may not also be the matter of my family."
"Come here, baby." Arthur pulls Eames close. "Come here."
* * * * *
"Arthur," Mal says, voice cool as she rises from her seat to permit Arthur a kiss on the cheek. Even after all these years, Arthur's pretty sure she doesn't like him. Most of Eames' musician friends view Arthur as an oddity once they find out he doesn't listen to music, but eventually they warm up to him. Not Mal, apparently. "Have you listened to Eames' new album?"
And she's still in the habit of interrogating him about Eames' music. According to Cobb, she does that to everyone, so at least Arthur's not being singled out. Probably. "Yes."
"What do you think of it?"
"I think it's genius," Arthur says, honestly. "It's Eames' best work to date."
She nods once. "What is your favorite song?"
At least he's better prepared for the questions, now. "Saving Me, Saving You."
"Not 'My Favorite Dragon'? It is about your cock."
Arthur feels heat rising in his cheeks but gazes steadily at her. "I like the melody of 'Saving Me, Saving You' better."
She nods again, brusquely. "What can I do for you? I assume this is to do with Eames."
"Skipping the small talk and jumping right into it, okay." Arthur takes a deep breath. "It's about his parents and, to a lesser extent, his family."
"If you want them to love you, forget it. They never will."
"No, I--I've accepted that," Arthur says, swallowing hard. "I guess I--can you tell me why they hate me so much?"
Mal stares at him for a long moment. Her expression softens. "Oh, Arthur. They don't hate you. They think you are inappropriate. Another phase Eames is going through before he settles down with a proper woman."
"We're getting married."
"Eames has been married before," she reminds him. "And what does that mean to these people? Nothing. To them, you are another intruder in their world, a bourgeois American who probably wants Eames for his money or fame."
"We have a prenup! I would never--"
"I know that," Mal says. "I know you love him. And he loves you. You are marrying for the right reasons, because you have a good relationship. But they don't see that. You don't fit into their lives. You don't share their values, their customs."
Arthur stares down at the lunch menu on the table. The words blur in front of him and blinks to focus them. "There's nothing I can do to change their minds?"
"A few of them, maybe. His cousins. Jacquenette and Carlotta like you, yes?" At his nod, Mal continues, "And you are not the only one struggling with this question of being seen and accepted for who you truly are. Why do you think Eames has been so frantic over the wedding?"
* * * * *
The planning continues to stretch Eames thin, emotionally. He is, by turns, frazzled, exhausted, and irritable, while Arthur does his best to be supportive and understanding.
The inevitable breaking point comes over a bouquet of flowers.
"It's over," Eames says, words muffled by the table his face is currently mashed against. "The electricity won't work. The décor will be hideous. The guests will go hungry in the damp. The wedding will be terrible and everything will be ruined."
"What's going on?" Arthur asks as he strokes Eames' back soothingly. "Why is everything ruined?"
"Just look at the arrangement. Look at it!"
Arthur squints at the offending bouquet. "It's... pretty?"
"The colors are all wrong and and petals are too small." Eames shakes a hydrangea head. "Our guests cannot be expected to sit surrounded by these! We might as well put them in a field with weeds."
"Baby," Arthur plucks the offending hydrangea from Eames' grasp. "What's this really about?"
"I told you, it's about substandard floral arrangements," Eames says, slowly lifting his face.
Arthur rubs a thumb over the flower stem, bruised and bent but not entirely broken. "Is it?"
"Not everything has a deeper meaning, Arthur," Eames says. "Sometimes I am precisely as shallow as I first appear."
Arthur simply smiles, and waits.
Eames is quiet for a minute before he speaks, quietly, "Did I ever tell you what it was like coming out as bisexual to my family?"
"No," Arthur says. "I'm guessing it didn't go great."
"I informed everyone when I was twelve. No one listened. They thought it was a silly phase I'd grow out of, or that I was acting out for attention." Eames pauses. "The first time I introduced round a man as my boyfriend, half my relatives laughed and the other half said absolutely nothing. Neither would acknowledge him."
"I guess it's good to know it's not just me," Arthur says, aiming for a joke that comes out a hair too bitter.
"No, you're wonderful," Eames looks so sad for a moment that Arthur feels his chest clench. "I wish I could make them see that."
"I'm okay, Eames. How they act is on them, not you." Arthur cups Eames' cheek. "I'll be okay. But what about you?"
"You would think I'd have learned long ago not to expect anything from my parents. Besides money, I suppose." Eames closes his eyes. "My therapist is always saying--well, it doesn't matter, does it? I can't seem to find a way to listen when it comes to them."
"It's only a day," Arthur says. "A day that will be magical because it marks the beginning of the rest of my life with you. Still only a day."
"But look at how beautiful they can be." Eames' voice is low, raspy, as he touches the hydrangea in Arthur's hand. "How could anyone see you surrounded by hydrangeas and not--and not--"
Arthur tugs Eames into his arms. If only he could swallow up Eames' pain, change out Eames' broken heart for his own. "I love you. Mal loves you. Your friends love you, and my family--well, most of my family loves you. We'll all be there, too. Appreciating the flowers, even if they're not perfect."
"I know. I do. And I am--grateful."
"But it's your family. It's hard." Arthur holds Eames tightly. "No matter what they say or do, you've got me. You're not alone in this."
"For the rest of our lives?" Eames' voice is soft. "Even when it's no fun?"
"Especially when it's no fun," Arthur says. "Luckily for me, it's pretty fun most of the time. And we've got all that awesome sex and stuff."
Eames huffs a small laugh against Arthur's shoulder, which has gotten damp. Arthur kisses Eames' temple and wishes that he could do more. Hopes that for now, this is enough.
fin
* * * * *
Bonus: Track list from Eames' latest album, Light that will never go out:
1. Loaded Die
2. Alleyway Kiss
3. Saving Me, Saving You
4. Sonya's Song
5. Nouvelle Cuisine
6. Una, Dos, Tres
7. Dearest Moneypenny
8. Lady Slippers
9. My Favorite Dragon
10. Light that will never go out
11. Safe, at last
Onto The Wedding, Part II: Ceremony