|Billy has been stuck in (liminality) wrote in repose,|
@ 2019-07-13 21:56:00
|Entry tags:||*log, billy kaufman, f eames|
Dream Log: Billy/Eames
Who: Billy K. and F. Eames
Where: A prison island
When: Present (night)
Warnings/Rating: TBD, but let’s start with warnings for kidnapping, Stockholm syndrome, and (at the very least) implied abuse.
When he woke up in the tapestry room, Billy knew that it was because the Prince had found someone new. They would be delivered in the usual way: wheeled through the front gate in the back of a wagon drawn by draft horses, manes and feathering matted with salt from the sea spray. He knew this, because it was the way that everyone had ever been brought to the cold, sun-bleached palace that sat on the very peak of the Prince’s island. Billy knew this just as he knew why he’d been brought to this room, waking up on the carpeted stone with his head aching dully and a clean, white bandage wrapped around his elbow.
Billy was the welcome party. He was there to greet the new arrivals, to brace them for the realization of their imprisonment. To keep them calm, if he could manage. To convince them that they were safe. And he would, because he always did. He would lie to them, because it meant that they wouldn’t fight, and if they didn’t fight then they might not get hurt. (Billy desperately wanted to believe that it meant they wouldn’t get hurt.)
With a quiet grunt, he pushed himself to sitting upright. His hand brushed against something at his side, and he glanced down to see that the Prince brought along the book that Billy had been reading last night. It made him smile, although it was a small thing - both the gesture, and the smile. He reached out and ran his fingertips over the raised lettering on the cover, then traced the artwork: a door silhouetted against beams of light, coloured in shades of green and black. The Prince always remembered that Billy liked Stephen King.
He held the book carefully against his chest as he clambered to his feet, still a little wobbly. He couldn’t see them because the long hems on his pants were dragging over the dusty carpet, but he could tell that his feet were bare. He was dressed in all white again, a t-shirt leaving his arms uncovered, and Billy frowned as he looked down at the bandage. Something was missing, but he couldn’t figure out what it was, and he was out of time. The door that led out to the palace’s foyer was grinding open against the stone floor.