Re: Dreaming: Billy & Eames
All right. Here it was, the kernel of truth in the heart of a dream Eames hadn't fully embraced the way he'd slid sideways into unconsciousness. Blood. It was funny, blood, in dreams. It was present or it wasn't and it was never half-way. It was always a lot or nothing, never a little. Perhaps that was because what the mind made of blood. Eames wasn't overfond, but he'd seen rather a lot of it. The clock manifesting was interesting, and the androgynous face was more inclined to expression than Eames's own. "That's interesting."
He watched the bandage ravel away and fall in a little cloud of white to the stone at the boy's feet. Cigarette burn? Incongruous, given all evidence to the contrary that they were in an anachronism, but anachronisms haunted dreams, sifted in and out of them to produce the lie, the contrary to prove the rule. "To cause pain, darling." He looked at the clock, and he looked at the door, and he wondered distinctly whether the two were the same.
"And it's not the sort of power that comes with building a fuck-off castle in the middle of nowhere, or going by Prince. I always preferred the original," Eames said aloud, as if thinking it over. "More of a headliner. Are you bleeding under there?" He walked toward the boy, the thin lines of the androgynous form clean and sharp and precise, and knelt briefly by his feet to feel the length of the boy's shins.
"Not that I can tell. Nothing's broken. Should we leave, darling? I'm not much of a fighter. Lover, really." Which was blatantly untrue, but in the thin, knobbled-shoulders form, entirely possible.