Re: Dreaming: Billy & Eames
Billy ignored the bed’s sudden appearance, uncaring or unaware as to the strangeness of it. What was one incongruity compared to another? The sheets were the same colour as his clothes, white stained with choleric red. The helix of Billy’s mouth was still a frown, lines furrowed deep as the door moaned and scraped and fingers that felt stronger than they had any right to be slid in a coil around his wrist. He didn’t protest, didn’t make a sound but braced himself for the impact of his body against the newcomer’s because he knew the door wouldn’t give all the way.
Except that it did. Right. They slipped through like it was nothing and stepped into a place that felt as foreign to Billy as whatever lay across the ice seas surrounding their little island. The ceiling overhead was stone until Billy looked up, and then it became a vast and steely sky. Thick vines made a carpet over cobbles under their feet. He reached out to touch a flower that bloomed as wide as a dinner plate and the petals shivered as a plucked string, and Billy’s finger came back dusted in a sticky layer of pink pollen.
“This way,” he murmured, the words dripping off his tongue molasses-thick. The key burned hot in his grasp. Stepping carefully over the vines, Billy made his way over to the bench and then turned left at the first intersection of stone pathways, disappearing around the corner in a wisp of white cotton. He glanced over his shoulder to see if the newcomer followed behind. “He wouldn’t have hidden it far.”