Disclaimer: I own nothing. Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

Title: Flights of Love

Pairing: Arthur/Eames

Rating: M

Word count: 5,063

-inspired by the title of Bernard Schlink's short story collection "Flights of Love", just the title, my fanfic here has nothing to do with any of Mr. Schlink's stories or characters.

-so this's my first published inception fanfic...::blush::

-since I'm a non-native, I apologize in advance for any grammatical mistakes I've made. Please do point out if you find one, so that I can improve, thx.

Flights of Love

With hindsight, Arthur figured everything started at Heathrow, probably.

Arthur likes airports, people bustling about, planes landing and taking off. The whole place smells of "escape", yes, escaping, leaving, moving away. He derives some sort of twisted sense of safety from that.

It was a chilly February morning. He bought a cup of coffee at the vending machine. The brown liquid was scalding his palm so he put it down. His flight was about to take off in 40 minutes, doesn't really matter where the flight was heading. The only thing mattered was that Arthur was leaving. He'd just finished a job here in London, and was happy to get away from the city's characteristic bad weather.

Five minutes later a man plopped down next to him and took his coffee.

Arthur wasn't sure if he was shocked or irritated, so he just stared at the man, who casually took a sip from the plastic cup, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Mr.—"He began, and was immediately interrupted.

"—Eames, what the hell do you think you're doing? Can you explain your behavior? For the first question, darling, this is an airport; I am here to catch a plane. Second, I have no small bills on me."

Arthur gritted his teeth, "Do—"

"Do I expect you to buy my story? Yes, pet, I do, actually."He grinned, "See? I know you."

Arthur glared.

"So where are you heading?"

"None of your business, Mr. Eames."

"I was just—"

"Shut up."

They spent the following 10 minutes in awkward silence. Well, that depends on how you define awkward. Eames seemed completely at ease. In fact, he was humming a broken version of some pop song. Arthur tried his best to play deaf before he abruptly stood up and left without a word.

"It's lovely seeing you too, darling." Eames called out behind him, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Screw you. Arthur thought, dragging his luggage alongside with him.

—

Their next encounter took place in Berlin.

"Do I have a huge LCD screen that read 'Arthur is here' hovering above my head wherever I went?" He asked the forger, who chuckled before he replied, "Well, actually that lovely LCD screen reads 'Hello Eames, Arthur's here, come catch him'."

"Am I supposed to laugh?"

"No, according to my thorough observation, you were not born with the ability to properly appreciate a joke, which is sad, I feel sorry for you."

"Thank you for pointing that out."

"You're always welcome, love." Eames said with a mocking smile.

Their eyes met, briefly. Arthur quickly looked away, staring at an imaginary spot floating in the air. They were sitting in an obscure small pub. Outside the windows, night slowly wrapped her arms around the German city. Arthur's glass sat empty beside his right hand, but he didn't intend to ask for a refill. He didn't even want to set foot in this place from the very start. Arthur was sauntering down Ebert Street when the forger mysteriously showed up and dragged him into this shabby small place.

"So, why are you here?" Eames asked, tipping his chair back.

"…because you deliberately ignored my vehement protest?"

"I mean Berlin."

"Job." Arthur simply threw a word at him, "you?"

Eames shrugged, "I'm not here to admire Berliner Dom, darling."

Arthur half-raised his eyebrows but didn't push further. If you worked in this field long enough you would know it's necessary not to ask unnecessary questions. Silence fell between them again, like tiny motes of dust sprinkling from the ceiling. Part of Arthur wanted to grab at the forger's collar and shout at him, how did you find me, this is not funny, but his rational self firmly banned him from putting his thoughts into action. He shifted in his chair, racked his brain for a passable excuse to leave. He suddenly felt uncomfortable being alone with the forger, whose eyes were locked on him with unconcealed curiosity and playfulness, as if he could see how the point man's brain was working. "Please forgive my retreat from this staring contest, Mr. Eames." Arthur heard himself said, sounding more sarcastic than he had intended to, "I have some more research to do."

"Sure. I was expecting you to say that, love. You always have lots of 'researches' to do whenever you wish to escape."

"I'm not escaping."

"Whatever you say, darling."

"Don't play God, Mr. Eames."

"I'm merely playing mind-reading."

The point man tried to dig up a witty retort, but came up with nothing. He dashed out of the pub before his cheeks started burning. Bastard, he thought, as he strode down the now empty streets leading to his hotel. His only consolation was the thought that he'd be leaving this country in less than a week, if he and Cobb accomplished their job as planned. They would. He'd make sure of it.

—

Compare their indeterminate relationship to a lonely railway through an endless desert towards the sea then Paris was a significant turning point, yet between Berlin and Paris there was a long pause. The train came to a halt and stayed motionless, rails half-buried by sands.

After the job in Berlin he'd returned to the United States and enjoyed an Eames-free vacation. He'd decided not to take another job until his restlessness urged him to. Arthur spent weeks nestling in his apartment (which was "unnaturally and unhealthily neat", as Eames would describe) without going out of his front door except for the groceries. Cobb called occasionally. Their conversations were short and dry, talking for the sake of talking. Cobb and Mal were expecting their second child. It was understandable that extractor could think of little else.

He finally got bored. Early one morning Arthur put on a pair of trainers and went out to see some sunlight. As he was jogging he gave a little thought about the forger, who hadn't harassed him for almost half a year now. Not that he missed the disturbance; Arthur was taking Eames' silence as a curious fact. From the very first time they worked together the Brit seemed to enjoy getting on Arthur's nerves. Arthur's thoughts trotted a little further than he'd wanted; fell back on the day where they were first introduced. He was sifting through a pile of documents when Cobb gave a tap at his shoulder and said, Arthur, this is Eames, our new forger. The point man frowned as soon as he laid eyes on the forger's hideous candy pink shirt and wrinkled jacket. Glad to meet you, Mr. Eames. He said, knowing he sounded indifferent, but he didn't care. They shook hands. To Arthur's surprise, Eames didn't let go of his right hand. Glad to meet you too, darling. The forger replied with a devious smile.

It took admirable self-control not to splash tea on that smirking face.

Arthur hated him.

Then there were constant bickering, arguing, a furious Cobb shouting "you two get the hell out of here", embarrassment, awkwardness. They might be able to work together, but they would never get along.

Later Arthur tried to sort things out rationally. What exactly did he hate about Eames? Could be the man's obvious misunderstanding of fashion, or his obnoxious jokes and teasing (and the fact that a majority of them were aimed at Arthur), or the way he looked at him, like he was mentally stripping off Arthur's perfect three-piece suit, one by one, in painfully slow motion.

This sort out thing only made his hostility more intense.

He was panting now. He really shouldn't have stayed indoors for such a long time. Arthur allowed himself to slow down a bit. His mind automatically returned to Berlin. The forger claimed that he was there for a job, but as far as Arthur was concerned, there wasn't another team of extractor around.

Eames was up to something.

Whatever.

Arthur sternly told himself to stop pondering, and that he cared nothing about the forger. He bought a bottle of mineral water and turned to jog back home, struggling to expel the British man's grey eyes from his mind.

The next day one of his many contacts called. Arthur was reading a paperback on the couch. The phone rang twice before he picked up. After catching up and a few old jokes, the French architect asked if he was interested in flying to Paris to join a team of dream workers who were planning to pull out a scandal from "un homme politique". The job sounded easy (which means boring to Arthur), but he took it anyway, just to make some alternations to his current monotonous life.

"When will you be here?" asked the architect.

"Are you in a rush?"

"We still have two to three weeks, if that's what you want to know."

"I'll fly over the day after tomorrow."

"Good to work with you again, Arthur."

"Likewise, Benoit", he smiled, "Who's in the team?"

"There's Dubois from Lille. I assume you know him already… no? Well, he's an excellent extractor. I'm the architect of course, and our forger is Eames."

Arthur felt like he was punched in the face.

"Arthur? Is there a problem?"

Yes, I want to back out. "No, no, everything's fine." He pinched the bridge of his nose, "so, um, see you in two days, Benoit."

He hang up, lay on the couch for a while, staring at the ceiling. He was transitorily tempted to pick up the phone again and tell Benoit he'd changed his mind, but that would be rather childish. He dismissed the idea, got on his feet and walked back to the bedroom. His laptop was glimmering on the desk. Arthur booked a ticket to Paris, closed his eyes, thinking of everything and nothing at all.

—

Roissy Charles de Gaulle.

Arthur arrived at the capital of France around midnight. The taxi driver had that I-am-drowsy-and-I-hate-my-job look on his face. There is a considerable distance between "Parisian taxi drivers" and "most friendly drivers in Europe". Arthur watched the city flew by, buildings blurred by speed.

The hotel Benoit picked for him was…Arthur didn't want to use the word "mediocre", but he had nothing better. A bleary-eyed receptionist handed him the keycard. His room was on the forth floor, there was no elevator in the building so he had to climb the stairs. The corridor smelled of bleach and dust, so was the room. Arthur dropped his bag and walked over to the window. The hotel was on the outskirts of Paris and two streets away from the team's base. The French city was shimmering some distance away, like a delicately-designed dream. Hi, ma belle. He shut the blind, turned to make himself a cup of coffee.

When Arthur stepped into the penthouse they used as the base, Eames was already there, sprawling on a decrepit couch. He was wearing the most stupid floral shirt Arthur had ever seen.

"Bonjour, ma belle." said Eames.

"Good morning, Mr. Eames." The point man calmly replied, determined not to be affected, "you shouldn't have used feminine, by the way."

"Last time I got a chance to speak French was when I was hitting on a blonde. She really surprised me with her-"

"Eames." Arthur banged his stack of papers on the desk.

"Yes, darling?"

"You overshared."

"Thought you might be interested."

"Look, Mr. Eames." The point man signed, began sorting out the files spread on his desk, "You may not notice, but there is a severe malfunction of communication between us. I suggest we stop talking before we start arguing again."

"But we never argue, pet, we discuss. Well, sometimes we discuss fiercely, if you insist."

Arthur rolled his eyes, "That's what I mean by 'malfunction of communication.'"

There was a slight plink at the door, Benoit came in with the extractor, saved Arthur from this pointless conversation. The point man thankfully hurried off to discuss the details of their extraction plan with the architect. He felt the forger's gaze burning between his shoulder blades, but he kept his eyes on the papers.

Maybe it's a mistake to come here. The thought circled above him like a raven as he examined the layouts.

It was a mistake, but not in the way Arthur had expected.

—

They woke up two hours early on their third trial run, a day before deadline.

Arthur blinked in confusion. Benoit, who was on the lookout, was shaking him, "We must leave now." he said, voice tainted with suppressed panic, "Something's wrong."

They carefully looked down from the dusty window. A minivan rushed into the courtyard. A bunch of ominous-looking men jumped off, weapons in hand. "This can't be good." Eames whistled, "Is there a backdoor or something?"

"This is a penthouse, Eames." Arthur snapped, clenching his Browning.

"I know, love, I know." Eames took his Gluck out from a drawer, "looks like we'll have to handle them the way we handle projections."

"Someone sold us out." said Duboi.

The front door was kicked open with a loud bang.

"We'll care about that later." Arthur replied. He was tensed, like a fully-stretched string, "if we can make it to the car, we'll live."

"Thank you for stating the obvious, darling."

"You got a better idea?"

"We can jump out of that window-"

"…and break our necks?"

The forger opened his mouth to protest, but at that split second the fragile wooden door to the penthouse was smashed down. Arthur's mind went blank, or dark, all thoughts fled him except the instinct of clinging to his dear life. Minutes stretched into hours in the thunderstorm of bullets. He found himself hiding behind the couch with Eames. The forger was panting, a trail of blood trickling down his cheek.

"You alright?"

"I guess." Eames managed a grin, "seriously, Arthur, the window. That's the only way out."

"We'll have to dash across the room."

"Great, we'll dash across this bloody room."

The point man stared at the wall intensely, as if trying to discern some sort of invisible signal, before he abruptly got on his feet and bolted, shooting at random as he ran. Eames was right behind him, bending in two.

We are like mice. Arthur thought vaguely. A bullet grazed his ear. He was about to leap off when he heard the forger groan in pain. "Eames!" He called out.

The forger shoved.

Arthur crashed into the bush below, unable to focus for a few seconds. His left arm and ankle hurt like hell. Eames landed beside him with a loud thud. They struggled to the rental car parked on the gravel.

"Benoit and Dubois are still there." Arthur breathed, as the grey Honda speeded up, engine rumbling painfully.

"…didn't have time for them." Eames murmured, eyes drooping close.

Arthur shook his head as if to shake the guilt off. He glanced at the rearview; no one was chasing them, yet.

"We need a hideout, I'm thinking Le Mans, I've a friend there…Eames?"

All he got as an answer was silence. The British man's eyes were shut; his head leaned lifelessly against the window. There was blood dripping from his hand. Arthur clumsily tore off his jacket, revealing his shoulder. The floral shirt was soaked with blood.

His palms turned cold and slippery.

Oh no was his first thought, then goddamnit, Eames, don't you dare. The last phrase repeated like a broken record. Don't you dare, don't, don't, don't.

—

Eames was having this bizarre dream, again.

He was chasing a seagull.

He was chasing this particular seagull in a nondescript city. The kind of city Calvino depicted in Le Citta Invisibli. The sun was scorching, sharp shadows scattered all over those empty cobble streets. He ran desperately in the maze of narrow alleys, strived to keep the seagull in sight. His throat and lung were burning. He had no clue why he was running after the bird, but it was so…beautiful, he can't let it disappear, he just can't.

The whole city was dauntingly silent, surrounding him, with windows like hollow eye sockets.

You never have any idea I'm watching you. You have no idea that I want you. He wanted to shout, but how would the seagull, who was hovering effortlessly amid streaks of clouds, ever hear him? He had to keep running. Eventually the seagull will swirl down to perch on some enormous, seaweed-covered rock among the waves. He'd catch it.

—

"Where's the seagull?" was the first complete sentence Eames managed to utter after he woke up in a forlorn farmhouse 200 kilometers away from Paris.

"Please tell me the bullet in your shoulder didn't break down your brain function." Arthur said wearily, rubbing his temple with a knuckle, "I won't be able to fetch you a psychiatrist." The dark smear under his eyes and his unshaved face made the point man look at least ten years older.

"Your words are as heartwarming as always, love." Eames' grin turned into grimace when he tried to prop himself up with his elbows. "You should lie still." The point man told him.

"How long have I been lying still?"

Arthur shrugged, "a couple of days."

Eames studied a crack in the wooden ceiling for a while. Neither of them spoke. Something was rattling distantly, a broken window, perhaps.

"Thank you." he finally said, eager to break the gathering silence.

Arthur simply nodded, eluding the other man's gaze. The tip of his ear turned pink, as if being a subject of gratitude was somehow embarrassing.

—

It rained the following day, and Eames had a fever.

They didn't have ice cubes and it seemed hopeless trying to find some so Arthur put wet towel on Eames' forehead and changed it every ten minutes. Wind and rain were whipping the farmhouse, which creaked unceasingly, as though in pain. The electricity was out; their only source of light was a torch. The room was like a prehistoric cave.

Eames was having a nightmare, judging by his twitching and moaning and the sweat that trickled down his face despite Arthur's effort to wipe them away every five minutes. He finally dozed off in the uncomfortable wicker chair and was later woken by the roar of thunder. He glanced at his watch; it was a quarter to three in the morning.

Eames was watching him, toying with the towel.

"Give…"his voice was unexpectedly hoarse, Arthur cleared his throat, "give it to me."

Eames obediently handed him the wet towel. Arthur placed a hand on his forehead; The man was still burning with fever. There was something about the way the forger looked at him that piqued Arthur's curiosity, "You need anything?" he asked.

"Maybe a comforting kiss?" the man smirked.

"Looks like the fever's getting worse. I'll call Collette first thing tomorrow; see if he can get you some medicine."

"I'm serious."

"No, you're delirious."

Eames chuckled, softly. He clasped Arthur's hand into his. A streak of lightening temporarily lit up the room. The air around him suddenly became too dense for him to breathe properly. I'm the one who's delirious, he thought.

He bent down, lips brushed Eames' forehead, light as a blue-grey feather that falls from nowhere onto your palm on a fresh spring morning. The forger's other hand glided to the nape of his neck, pressing him downwards. Their lips met.

Their first kiss was like quicksand, dark and warm and wet, engulfed them without a sound.

—

As Eames got better, it became harder to fight the temptation of knocking the Brit back to unconsciousness.

"I don't like pancakes."

"As far as I can tell you used to gulp down tons of them at lunchtime when we were working on the Sandusky job."

"All right, I like pancakes, but these are made in a wrong way."

"Fine, go ahead and starve to death then." Arthur said nonchalantly, without looking up from his newspaper.

"What's running in your veins, ice water?"

"Shut up and eat them before I shoot you in the head." Arthur snapped, folded up the newspaper and stormed out of the room.

Eames smirked as he munched his pancake.

Later when Eames was able to get out of bed, they sometimes went for a walk in the deserted courtyard. The weeds had grown so high they could easily disappear in them. They seldom talked. They would stand there, at the rim of the ocean of withered plants, till dusk quietly slipped into night. Arthur always had that distant look on his face and Eames didn't know why. He wanted to kiss him, to grasp his attention.

But he didn't.

—

One night Eames woke to the dull pain in his shoulder and found Arthur sitting alone in the dark kitchen, head resting on his folded arms. At first Eames thought the point man was asleep, but as he padded closer, Arthur's eyes flicked open.

"Eames." Arthur murmured, stifled a yawn, "Everything ok?"

"I should be asking that question, love."

The point man shrugged, "I'm fine."

Eames raised his eyebrows.

"Stop that, Eames, I'm fine, just…leave me alone."

"Is it about Benoit?"

"No."

Eames' eyebrows were elevated higher.

Arthur abruptly stood up, as if to run and hide. "They are dead." he said, the last word was almost inaudible, "I shouldn't have, I mean, I should have done something."

"We are already more than lucky to be alive, Mr. Savior."

Arthur braced his hands on the small round table, "I don't know." he said, a hint of fatigue in his voice. For a moment or two he seemed so vulnerable that Eames felt the urge to kiss him.

This time he yielded to it.

Arthur didn't push him away.

—

They parted ways at Lyon Airport. Eames thought it was like a ridiculous ending of a badly-written novel, but he kept his own counsel. He asked where the point man was going, Arthur dimpled, "…thought you could 'play mind-reading', Mr. Eames."

"…must be the magnetic field, it's different here in France."

Arthur tried to hide his smile, "Singapore," he was practically talking to his suitcase, "I want to be somewhere far."

"Aw, which lame fiction are we in, exactly?"

"Eames, stop brandishing your weird sense of humor."

"You're envious, darling."

"I have a name, and it's definitely not 'darling'."

"I like it when you roll your eyes like that. It makes you look more…human."

"Shut up." light pink crept onto the point man's cheeks. Eames smirked, content of himself. They sat there for a while, watching people swarmed by, each lost in his own thoughts. Arthur glanced at his wrist watch, "so," he announced, "I have to…go."

"Yeah, of course." Eames nodded, suddenly feeling awkward. He was sure Arthur was feeling the same. Their gaze held for what seemed like eternity before Arthur cleared his throat and turned to walk away, quickly engulfed by a crowd of tourists.

—

In his dreams he was wandering in the invisible city again, but the seagull was nowhere to be found.

Being able to dream outside of work is somewhat of a luxury. Eames figured he shouldn't ask for more.

—

Arthur didn't go to Singapore. He flew back to the States and stayed with Dom and Mal for a week or so, shared their joy of the birth of James. Happiness is contagious. He let himself sink into it, pretending the whole world is bright and beautiful.

He couldn't tell what was the point in lying to Eames, the thought was troubling, so he simply shut it out. He could manage that during most of his waking hours, but he couldn't control his subconscious. During a job in North Colorado, when he was down to the second level (a stark metro station, brightly-lit by florescent lights), his projection of Eames walked towards him, waited with him for the train that would never come.

"You're fleeing from me, love."

Arthur said nothing; though he knew his projection was telling the truth, subconscious never lie. He glimpsed at his watch, ten minutes to the kick.

"I shouldn't be surprised," Eames, or rather, the projection of Eames, went on, "you've always been afraid to admit what you really want, Arthur. You want the world to be a scientific formula, so that there's always a 'correct answer' waiting for you somewhere. When you don't get it you escape."

Arthur closed his eyes. Eight minutes and twenty-six seconds.

The projection leaned closer, breathed into his ears, "you lied to me, at Lyon Airport."

"…so what?" he shoved the man away, "leave me alone!" All the other projections at the platform turned abruptly and stared at them. The point man took a deep breath, fought down the anger and frustration that threatened to swallow him. The projections looked away.

Eames tugged at the collar of his shirt, the corner of his mouth twitched up. Arthur hated the way he looked at him, as though his skull had become transparent.

Four minutes and nineteen seconds.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I didn't have to do what."

"…lie, flee, evade, be a stick in mud, be a coward, shall I continue?"

Two minutes.

"I hate you."

"You want me, darling."

"No, I don't." he plopped down on a nearby bench. What's the point in quarreling with your own subconscious?

One minute and forty-two seconds.

One minute.

Thirty seconds.

The world around him finally collapsed.

—

The next day he flew to Rio de Janeiro. Melbourne followed, then Hong Kong, Yokohama, Barcelona, he never stayed in any of them for more than two weeks.

He saw Eames again in London.

It was a rainy Saturday; Arthur had gone to Sainsbury's and returned with a full plastic bag. When he was fumbling for the key to his rented apartment, the door clicked open. Eames stood in the dimly-lit doorway with a playful smile on his face.

Arthur could do nothing but stare at him, petrified.

"How did you-"

"The fire escape, darling, it's surprisingly convenient."

"That's not the point." Arthur dropped the bag on the kitchen counter, "does it ever occur to you this is against the law?"

"Could you spell 'law' for me? I've never heard of such a thing."

"Eames."

"I love your pronunciation, pet."

Arthur rolled his eyes, "I understand now a malfunction of communication can never be fixed." He noticed the bare cupboard, "…you stole my coffee, and my cookies."

Eames shrugged innocently, "How was Singapore?" he asked.

"Humid, and boring." The room was too dark, Arthur switched the lights on. The rain was getting heavier, water streaked down the windows. He could hear the distant sound of traffic on the main roads.

"You didn't go to Singapore."

Arthur began putting oranges into the refrigerator, "What makes you say that?"

"Because I was there looking for you."

An orange slipped from his hands, both of them watched it roll across the kitchen floor. Intolerable silence swelled between them, like an infected wound or something terrible. Arthur signed, closed the fridge door. "…thought you were in Mombasa." he said.

"I can lie too."

Arthur remained silent.

"What are you running away from?"

"I'm not running away from anything, Eames." he said wearily, suddenly remembered that stark metro station, the projection said you want me, and he blurted no I don't. That was stupid, he shouldn't have replied at all. What was he trying to prove?

"Okay, you took all that trouble to confirm that I had told you a lie, satisfied now? Or should I give you a hug because I broke your heart? "

"Arthur-"

"I want you out of my apartment now, I'm serious."

Eames took a step forward, the other man tried to run but the forger yanked him back into a brutal kiss. Arthur bit him. They knocked over everything on the kitchen counter. A china teacup smashed into pieces.

Eames didn't leave the apartment that night.

—

By the time Eames woke up Arthur was no longer there.

He lay there for god knows how long, watched the patch of sunlight moving slowly from the ceiling to the adjacent wall, thinking about the seagull. He might never catch it, but he won' stop chasing.

—

They stumbled into a somewhat odd relationship.

They would have sex whenever they happened to be in the same city, but the chances were rare due to their disparate schedules and way of life. Arthur always left early. Eames would lie in the messy sheets and watched him get dressed, grey morning light filtered through the thin curtains, reduced everything to pale shadows.

He never told him about the seagull; it seemed ridiculous to do so.

Eames thought things would be like this forever.

He was wrong.

—

Amsterdam was the end of their tiring hide-and-seek.

Arthur had spent his morning wandering in Amsterdam's outdoor markets; now he was looking for a place to sit down. The bright July sun made him squint. He spotted a small café near the canal. The sound of seagulls echoed between rows of centuries-old canal houses.

He ordered a herring sandwich and a glass of orange juice. There was a copy of Brideshead Revisited in his backpack, he took it out and resumed reading from where he'd left off.

"Can I take the seat here?"

Arthur looked up from the pages, did his best to keep a straight face, "yes, you can, as long as you promise to make no noise."

The man sat down, he sat in a rather graceless way. Arthur flipped a page, pretending not to notice.

"What's that you're reading?"

"You just can't keep quiet for more than two seconds."

"That depends on which unfortunate guy I'm talking to."

Arthur closed his book, now smiling, "Looks like I can't get rid of you, can I?"

Eames smirked, "No, darling, no."

The waiter brought Arthur his sandwich and orange juice. He picked up the glass, and put it back down. "Listen, Eames," he said, addressing to the window sill, "I'm on vacation here."

"…and?"

Arthur licked his lips, turned his attention to a vase, "and I was thinking, since I'm not in a rush this time, maybe we could, um, go sightseeing or something." he blushed.

"Always a pleasure, love." Eames replied, grinning as realization dawned on him.

Amsterdam was hushed around them.

End

Thank you so much for reading.:::hug:::

Do tell me what you think of it. All comments are appreciated.