Eames, standing on the rocky beach, seemingly lost in thought staring into the distance, the horizon, as if hearing the beck and call of the seas like so many men before him. Staring, like trying to file this moment away, like this is something that can never be recreated in a dream, like these moments passing were vital to his sole existence.

It's windy out here, the roiling waves lapping the shore frothed and soft to the eye, betraying the onlooker, forging imagery which turns lethal the moment one believes what they're seeing.

Eames knows all about that, and isn't fooled as he tucks his hands into his pockets and shifts his stance.

"Aren't you cold?" asks a concerned, deep voice a few steps behind him, unafraid of breaking the silence with the knowledge of a lover, that it had been expected. Wished for, having appeared like a ghost, like the gust of wind had brought it there from another world.

Eames smiles to himself, not turning, but fixing his eyes more sternly on the horizon. He shrugs, nonchalant, aware that he is cold, but chooses to ignore it for the sake of this moment.

He hears footsteps approaching, the sound giving substance to the voice, and they halt beside him. Cool hands weave a scarf around Eames's neck, carefully stuffing the ends beneath his jacket, and then, one of those lovely hands finds its way inside Eames's pocket, curling its fingers around Eames's, rubbing them for heat.

"I don't want to leave yet. I want you to see this," whispers Eames, leaning closer to Arthur, until their arms are pressed together, tangled from the elbow down, both men holding on tight.

"I know," Arthur gently answers the feeling. He wants to see everything Eames is willing to show him.

A sight to be seen, in the early Autumn evening, is what Eames is here for. One of a kind out of all of God's creation, an the scene begins to unfold in front of them as if on cue.

Obscured by the fleeting cloud, the sun slowly sinking starts to change hues, flickering between shades of yellows, myriad reds, casting colours onto the ocean, changing inexorably, each passing moment revealing a new facet, a new face, morphing into things that had never been there before, and never will be again. Lingering, draggling, as if putting on a show for the men watching in reverent silence.

"It's like you." Arthur doesn't take his eyes from the sun when he lets go of Eames's hand and moves behind him, encircling him with his arms, then, fishing Eames's hands from his pockets to cradle them between his own, sharing warmth. "Nothing compares."