Re: Dreaming: Billy & Eames
A blank look in the stranger’s direction, because time seemed to fold over itself and the span of a few seconds felt like hours. Billy’s feet were heavy as he dragged them over the carpet, weighted down with shame and secrets like ballast keeping him upright. The stranger was reaching for something, an answer that Billy could only see from a distance.
In the squeeze of his fist, the key’s teeth prickled against his palm in shifting spines and the pressure seemed to pull him back in time. He remembered feeling safe in the Prince’s bed, sheltered from the stormy seas that crashed against the spire as fingers stroked the skin of his throat. Promises that soon he would be set free murmured against his ear, quiet praise telling him that he’d been so good, done so well.
The Prince didn’t drug him. The antibiotics were to keep him healthy, strong, so that the Prince could keep stealing the power he needed. Billy didn’t know if he did it through the blood that was taken while he slept, or with the hands that roamed Billy’s flesh while he bit down on a mouthful of crisp, white linens. Either way, whatever he did, it made him -
“Weak,” he said, realization abrupt as he reached the door and placed one hand flat against it. He turned to look back at the stranger with wide eyes. “Usually I’m too weak, when the new ones come.” A jut of his chin, at the stranger’s chest. “If you’re here, it’s because you have something. Fire, lighting, earth -- something that he wants. Something that can get us through the door. He takes mine, but not while I’ve been healing.”
He’d looked expectant, maybe even eager. But when the sound of booming footfalls came, Billy’s gaze whipped to that direction and his exposed skin flushed visibly darker. Wisps of smoke curled out from under his sleeves, his dragging hems. He thought that he felt an invisible hand curl soft, seeking fingers against the back of his neck, threading into his hair.