Re: Dreaming: Billy & Eames
Mazes. Eames had never especially liked mazes. He wasn't a reader (obviously) and thus his only classical reference point was a very pissed classicist he'd taken to bed once after spending the evening picking her mind in a pub, who rambled on about a bull in a maze, that made Eames think of little china tea-cups stacked along the side of stone walls. Mazes. He knew vaguely, that the maze was his, not the boy's. The maze was similar to the patterns Eames had laboriously drawn on the side of a piece of paper, over and over until he couldn't be fucked with trying any longer.
Eames knew what he was good at. Writing things down had never been it, darling. Far better with people. The boy had introduced foreign blooms, the heavy scent like a blanket around Eames's shoulders, over his head. He still had the pale, androgyn's features that had knives for cheekbones and sparse expressions that sifted over his face like someone running a hand through a bucket of coins.
The boy bobbed ahead, like a kite on an ever-diminishing string. Eames strolled after him, the casual stride of a man on a wander after lunch rather than a sense of immediate urgency. The dread, the loom the dream tried to imprint upon him, like damp fingerprints into dry clay, slid off him. Eames's unconscious knew he was a very large, somewhat deadly man, darling and the prince, whoever he was, he could probably snap like a twig off the twining wood that rose at one side of the next stone sub-section.
"Hidden what?" Eames said patiently. It was like finding a riddle before you could even answer it.