dream: eames and louis (and desire)
"Really." It seemed unperturbed by the surprise, or by being guessed. It might have come from anywhere, after all. This was a Dream, was it not? Dreams were mutable things. Perhaps Eames had invented it.
The music had stopped, but still they were dancing, swinging to the low drumbeat of a distant, invisibly thrumming heart. It was so deep and steady that it must be giant as a yellow sun, wide as a continent. It didn't entertain the possibility that it was wrong when it was asked, only looked, and felt the hum of invisible blood in invisible veins, the steady roll of living and wanting things.
It sniffed. "Dancing, obviously." It could be disdainful and fickle as a cat, and its eyes narrowed a touch. "You're the one dreaming of Desire, dear heart. What does that say about what you were trying to find? I wonder."