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In the quiet of Arthur’s LA hotel room, with sweat cooling on their bodies, Eames asks the question.
“Are we gods or are we monsters?”
They had achieved the impossible, yet there was something melancholy in their lovemaking. Eames doubts he is the only one troubled.
Arthur’s response is a tired whisper. “Aren’t all gods monsters?”
Eames swallows. “So you think we’re both.”
Arthur’s hand finds his in the darkness.
“Maybe we’re both. Maybe we’re neither. Whatever we are, we’re brilliant. You’re brilliant.” Arthur interlaces their fingers. “I think I can live with that.”
“Yeah,” Eames says finally. “Me too.”