It is early morning, the light filters through large picture windows, flooding the hotel room with a soft dreamy glow. Arthur stretches under the sheets, chasing the shade provided by the billowing curtain with his face, trying to hide it against a fluffy ungodly expensive pillow. He sighs, it's no use, the light follows him no matter where he goes.
Opening bleary eyes, he looks to the ceiling, he thinks he might have dreamed. He had to have dreamed, but he no longer remembers them anymore, it's an impossibility not to dream, REM sleep cycled dreams through. But it's not the same as hooking into the PASIV device. It's useless to chase these dreams, they hold no true promise.
He's resorted to drugs a few times, sedatives that force the dreams, but it always feels too desperate, and he cannot allow himself to fall that far. He cannot help but feel tired though, he could try to nab a few more minutes, but there were too many things to do.
He wonders if he could remember his dreams, if the answer to this exhaustion would be found in them. Closing his eyes he buries his face against the pillow anyway, struggles with half remembered dreams, tries to piece together more than a laugh or a smile. More than a touch, or a tease.
It isn't till much later, Eames sitting across from him, smirking in his cool self-assured way, that Arthur can put the puzzle together. He does dream, and he realizes as that sinking feeling of exhaustion settles in. His dreams are just that, dreams, something he can never have, he dreams of Eames.