Arthur spun around.

Eames sat on the far side of the bed, a citron dressing gown clinging like mist over his skin. He looked paler than Arthur would've liked, and ugly bruises darkened the skin around his wrists and the left side of his head. But Eames was awake, and even though Arthur hadn't wanted to talk with him, he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything but grateful.

"In a rush?" Eames said, quirking his lips.

Arthur realized belatedly that he was gripping the doorknob like a weapon. He took a deep breath and forced his hand to let it go. "Not as such, no." He tried for a smile; judging from Eames's hastily swallowed laughter it had come off more manic than jovial. "And yourself?"

Eames looked out the window at the glacier. "I'm fine. But..." He sighed. "We really need to talk."

Arthur could already see where this was going. It didn't matter that Eames hadn't actually written the note, the sentiments were true all the same. Eames wasn't comfortable here and he obviously wasn't safe either. He'd need to leave. It wouldn't be horrible though. It wouldn't. They could still keep the peace. That was the most important part. Arthur forced himself to swallow and nodded with what he hoped was royal dignity. "Of course. I understand."

"Arthur-" he began, and Arthur wondered how this would go. Would Eames condemn him for not being able to control his nobles? Or would he charge him with planning the entire plot himself?

"I am so, so sorry."

Arthur blinked, already preparing to graciously accept whatever he was accused of. "What?" he said weakly.

If Arthur didn't know better, he'd say Eames looked incredulous. "You've been knocked out for three days because you had to go rescue me."

"You don't need to apologize for that-"

"But I really, really do."

Arthur shook his head. How could Eames not see that this was all his fault? "I stormed off like a child. You were kidnapped. Ergo-"

"No one in their right mind would blame you for that. And it was cruel of me to make light of your people's losses. My mother would've forgiven Winter long ago." He sighed and stared off into the distance. "And it's not your fault your duke was insane. Nor is it my business if you…" he winced. "if you take lovers. Plenty of nobles do."

Arthur shook his head. "You wouldn't have done it," he argued.
"Kissed your duke? Flaming hells, of course not." Eames smiled wistfully out the window. "But that doesn't mean I don't want… things. Even if they're things I can't have."

Arthur wondered who it was that could make Eames smile like that, and tried valiantly to stop jealousy from bubbling up in his throat. "Still, I'm sorry. I wronged you. You deserve better."

"I-? Gods no, you're the one who deserves better," Eames made an inarticulate noise and punched his pillow. "Arthur, you deserve someone so much better than me. Someone who doesn't make you flinch when he touches you; someone you can be happy with. You deserve to be happy."

Arthur stared at Eames like he'd grown another head. Eames had never seemed to care if he was happy or not. Why…?

Realization struck like sudden sunlight shearing brilliantly across smooth ice. The wistful looks. The almost frosty anger towards Nash. And the fire beetles, even now washing soft light across the walls. Father Frost, fuck.

Maybe he was wrong. But he had to ask, had to know. "Eames," Arthur said slowly. "In the woods. You said you'd never hurt me."

Eames looked away sharply, his face a mask. "I want peace as much as you do."

That wasn't an answer. That wasn't an answer at all. "I know you do," Arthur said, his heartbeat picking up. "but- do you feel…" he took a shallow breath. "Obligated? Or do you feel…more. Than that."

The words hung in the silent air between them, and almost immediately Arthur regretted saying anything. Eames's silence was answer enough. He'd presumed. He shouldn't have said anything. Arthur had a stammering apology ready on his lips when Eames turned around to face him, his eyes shadowed and downturned.

Eames looked wrecked. Anguished, even. Arthur closed his mouth. It was not the look of someone who felt obligated. Not at all.

"I'm sorry," Eames finally whispered. "It's not something I can help. I'm sorry it makes you uncomfortable; If you want to annul the marriage we can. Just tell me what you want. Anything."

Arthur let out the breath he'd unconsciously been holding. Something beautifully warm unfolded in his chest.

He was generally a cautious person. Still, there were times deliberation was unwarranted. This was one of them. Throwing caution to the winds, he leaned in slowly, inch by torturous inch, finally grazing his husband's lips with a chaste kiss.

Eames jerked away violently, looking at him with wide eyes. His hands, Arthur dimly noted, were shaking. Their ragged breathing was the only sound in the room.

Arthur didn't dare to look Eames in the eye, too afraid of what he might see. Not letting himself think, he reached up to cup Eames's cheek with trembling fingers and slowly dragged his tongue across Eames's lower lip.

Eames snapped, his control shattering like ice on stone. With a growl, he surged up against Arthur, seizing his shoulders and yanking him back against the pillows. His hands roamed up and down Arthur's body with fierce desperation, as if he couldn't bear to let him go. His kisses were almost frantic, hot and wet and so needythat Arthur couldn't help but meet them with a desperation of his own, whining involuntarily as Eames raked fingers down his back.

The heat was everything he remembered, searing like a fiery brand against his skin, clinging to the air around them like fog.

Eames's hands were now vises on his hips, crushing their bodies together, and Eames's leg had insinuated itself between his own as their kisses had become more frantic. The sudden friction made Arthur arch off the bed. He moaned, clutching the fabric of Eames's robe helplessly. Father Frost, he needed more. He ached; the tension pooling in his stomach grew with each pass of Eames's tongue. He wanted Eames in him, wanted the heat of Summer to coat his skin and soak him with Eames's scent. "Please, I-"

The words broke the spell. "Arthur," Eames gasped, pulling away. His eyes were wide, colored with what could have been fear. "This isn't- you don't need to. Just because I- want you-"

Arthur stared at him, panting heavily. Father Frost, really?
Eames bravely forged on, his knuckles white. "I would never force- the treaty doesn't require-"

Frost take it all. Arthur was sorely tempted to hit him. "I am going to say this slowly and clearly, and you're going to pay attention." Arthur said, as calmly as he could. "I do not give a flying fuck about the treaty right now. I do not want to talk about politics. I have ministers for that."

Eames tried to say something, but Arthur cut him off with a hand firmly placed over his mouth. He stared into Eames's eyes, heartened by what he saw there. Eames, it seemed to him, was finally letting himself hope. After all the pain they'd been through together, they both deserved this. A chance to tell the truth. A chance to finally tell Eames what he felt, what he wanted.

"I don't want to talk about politics," he repeated. "I want to be with you. I want you" he breathed, leaning closer, "just you, alone, in my bed. Unclothed, with your hands on my-"

Arthur abruptly felt himself being yanked onto the bed next to Eames, who then flipped him onto his back and rolled atop him. Looking up, he shivered at the heat in Eames's eyes.

"You talk too much," Eames murmured into his neck, punctuating each word with a faint catch of his teeth.

Arthur felt a wisp of need snake down his spine. "Then quiet me,"

"Y-your majesties?"

They glanced up to see one of the royal physicians standing by the door, looking like there were a million places he'd rather be. "K-king Eames should remain under observation-"

"Is anything in immediate danger of falling off?" Eames growled.

"No, but-"

"Is there any risk of hemorrhaging? Seizures? Irreparable brain damage?"
"I don't think-"

"Then," Eames bit out. "why the hell are you still here?"

The man scurried out with faintly apologetic squeaks. Arthur turned to look back at Eames, biting his lip and feeling suddenly shy. The look of trepidation that had returned to Eames's face was more worrying than he would've liked to admit.

At length Eames sighed and turned to face him. "If we're going to… well. You know how I feel about you," he said with a depreciating chuckle. "I just… need to know. What you want from me. What I am to you."

"I… you're my husband." Arthur looked up, praying that Eames understood. "I want to be with you, married to you. In every sense of the word."

With a sharp intake of breath, Eames reached out to pull him closer before trailing his fingers down Arthur's neck and letting them rest against his chest. He was almost reverent, as if Arthur was some precious wonder that might shatter at the first touch.

"I'm not an ice sculpture, Eames. I'm not going to break," he said, trying to feel indignant but failing spectacularly.

Eames grinned, seemingly content to bask in Arthur's attention. "And what are you, then?"

"Your king. Or just yours, I suppose," Arthur said with a shrug, feigning nonchalance. "If you'd have me."

Eames laughed; his breath was warm like summer against Arthur's skin. "Just so you know, I'm going to kiss you now," he murmured.

"I suppose that's alright," Arthur whispered back.

When the kiss came there was no desperation in it, but neither was it hesitant.

The feel of Eames's lips over his own was enough to make Arthur shiver and clutch at the fabric of Eames's robe, tugging it forward slightly.

"Please," Arthur whispered, tilting his head up for more.

Eames pulled back slightly, looking down at Arthur's blown pupils and flushed skin with a faint grin and a blush of his own. "And what would my king want from me?"

"Give me everything."

And Eames did.

Six Months Later

Eames stood on the balcony of the Winter Palace and tried not to burst out laughing. "They're very… large," he finally said.

Ariadne pursed her lips, both hands thoughtfully resting on her stomach. "They do look a bit like mutated hydras, don't they."

"One headed hydras with definite swan characteristics?" he tried.

She shook her head, determined to face the truth head on. "The one on the left definitely has at least four heads." She shrugged, patting her rounded stomach with gentle fingers. "Still, I did want swans for the wedding, and it's the best they could do with the time limit."

She sighed. "Of course, I hardly think giving birth beforehand would've mattered, but Dom would start shrieking about bastards and running into things. So it's really all his fault that the swans are awful. And Phillipa's, of course."

Eames winced. "You are not naming my heir Phillipa. And don't blame the baby. If it's anyone's fault, it's yours."

"Is that so?"

"You couldn't have waited another three month before dragging the idiot into your bed-"

"-I don't see how my sleeping habits are any of your business, really."

Eames gritted his teeth. "They aren't anymore, now that my poor husband was finally able to sound-proof your rooms. I couldn't sleep for weeks, Ari." He narrowed his eyes. "Weeks."

Cobb ran by, shouting at a harried looking elf about seating arrangements. "Honestly. Your rooms are on the other side of the tor," Ariadne muttered as she smiled at her fiancé.

Eames could imagine the haunted expression on his face, the one he was certain the rest of the palace shared by now. "Iknow."

"Please. If you couldn't sleep, it was hardly because of me."

Eames followed her gaze across the garden, over the hectic army of wedding planners, ignoring the ivy boughs that some unlucky sprite had just set on fire and the minor altercation two sculptors were having with regard to one of the ice swan's fletching patterns.

There, in serious discussion with one of the florists, was Arthur. HisArthur, he would never get tired of reminding himself. "I suppose some of my sleeping troubles may have been his fault," Eames conceded.

Ari didn't seem inclined to press the point, though her smile was served as a reminder that she certainly could've, if she'd wanted to.

They stood in silence for a moment, brother and sister, surveying the chaos together.

"I wish Mother could've seen this," Ariadne finally whispered. "What you've done… I wouldn't have dreamed it possible. Not in ten thousand years." She turned back to face him, smiling even as her eyes filled with tears. "Eames, we're at peace. Peace," she repeated, the word a marvel and a wonder on her tongue.

Eames could only nod, his heart in his throat. He looked back over the chaos of the wedding preparations.

Cobb was screaming about placeholders, one of the gardeners may or may not have begun a brawl with the other, his sister's pregnancy broke every taboo the Winter court had, the burning ivy was beyond repair, and the twelve ice swans were absolutely hideous. None of it mattered. Not in the least.

Because beyond it all was Arthur. As Eames watched, he fiddled with his silver holly crown before noticing Eames's gaze. Their eyes met, and Eames felt himself falling in love all over again, like he seemed to every time his husband looked at him, slipped into their bed, or smiled, even.

"Oh, Ari," he whispered, moving to cradle her and her unborn child against him. The child that would join Summer and Winter into one, and rule them in the beautiful peace to come.

"My sweet Ari. We've won so much more than peace."