[December 11th] interlude
interlude
PG-13
Author : fermine | Artist : mmmketchup
It's Christmas and Eames is standing in Arthur's kitchen, late one evening, with nowhere else to be and no particular agenda. Outside snow is falling soft and downy, fogging up the windows, the coldest bleakest day of December, cars slogging through the smooth tundra of dark icy roads.
It's much quieter up here in Arthur's apartment. Eames leans against the doorway, crossing his arms, and the floorboards creak in time with his minute shifts.
Arthur's back is turned to him. He's wearing a white undershirt creased with too many wrinkles and Eames can't remember a time when he's ever been this stupidly in love, the soft glow of the overhead lamp reflected in the dark sheen of Arthur's hair. The lines of Arthur's shoulders are taut underneath the flimsy material of his shirt and Eames wants to push him against the fridge and kiss his neck but can't bring himself to move. He watches Arthur for a minute as he tinkers with the stove, opening and closing drawers, grabbing the necessary things.
Finally, Arthur turns and pushes a mug into Eames' hands. There are tiny marshmallows bobbing in the drink, like white unmoored sailboats. Eames tilts the mug to the side to watch the cream swirl on the surface, coagulating in the middle.
"Oh. All right," he says slowly. He looks up, glancing at Arthur sideways. "Did you drug this?"
"I probably should have," Arthur says.
Eames bites back a laugh. "Yes you probably should have. Hot chocolate, Arthur? Are you feeling ill?"
Arthur shrugs. "I'm feeling Christmas-y."
"Even though you're Jewish."
Arthur nods, snorting. "Yes, even though."
They stand in silence for a while, listening to the pan simmer on the stove. The sharp tang of cinnamon makes Eames wrinkle his nose but underneath all that is the faint smell of chocolate. It makes Eames smile a little. He hasn't felt this peaceful in a long time, not since he started working this job, but he thinks maybe peace feels a lot like this, a slow, sleepy ensconcing warmth, the TV turned on in the living room, but on mute. He thinks about the city outside, snow falling over everything like sparkling tinsel, the strip of skin on Arthur's back where his shirt is riding up.
He lifts his mug in salute."Cheers."
Arthur huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.
When Arthur turns to face the sink, Eames touches him on the elbow. Arthur doesn't even startle or protest; he tips his head back, raising his eyebrows. His breath is sweet, his mouth too.
"What?"
"Thank you," Eames says, "for the hot chocolate." His hands are high up on Arthur's ribs when he tucks his nose against the side of Arthur's neck, resting his cheek against the curve of Arthur's shoulder.
Arthur lifts a hand to Eames' face and his fingers taste faintly sweet when he presses them to the corners of Eames' lips, brushing them against his cheek.
"Sure," Arthur says.
After awhile, water floods the sink.
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