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Arthur wakes up on a patch of grass with blades tickling the inside of his mouth. He spits them out and stands, brushing dirt off his clothes. He rubs more dirt off his jaw and spots Cobb standing across the street with his back to Arthur. Before him is his house, except it's not. The entire street is bathed in sunlight but the house sits under a shadow, drawn up and slumped into itself. The same house they are dreaming in topside.

The lights are off and the windows are wrinkled like saran wrap, stretched taut and dripping blue liquid. The house smells like gasoline and black oil stains the driveway like a pool of blood. Arthur watches Cobb petrify as the door swings open and a silhouette appears in the doorway. He launches himself across the street, pulling Cobb out into the light and away from the house. A woman stands before them, twisting her fingers into the tattered trail of her skirt.

There are fruit flies where her eyes should be, batting inside the sockets and crawling beneath her skin. Her feet are bare, disclosing tender bones at the arches, bumpy with animal bruises. Her legs are scarred with burn marks, leading inside her clothes, ripped and slashed. Her hair hangs long under her shoulder, wet and sticking to her skin. She moves forward, beckoning with her bent knuckles. Shards of glass splinter her palms; Arthur watches blood drip down her wrists and arms, blue like anti-freeze and black inside her elbow.

She licks her tongue over her cracked lips, "Puis-je vous aider?"

Arthur's hand on Cobb's chest, holding him in place, can feel the sudden thunder in his chest. "Is that—?"


Mal turns away from them, swaying her thin hips and scratching the shards to rip new holes into the belly of her shirt. She walks back into the house, expecting them to follow. The house bends around her to take her in.

"That's not," Cobb stutters, "That's not me—I didn't!" he turns to face Arthur, "Why is Eames dreaming about my family? That's my wife, Arthur; he's projecting her, that's not me. I've seen enough, kick me out."

"If you're going to pussy out, do it yourself. I'm following her and finding Eames. If you're not behind me when I go, I'll understand, but, I'd like for you to stay."

"Arthur, let's get out of here, if he's creating monsters out of people, there is no knowing what's happening in the house."

Arthur ignores him, starting for the house. "When you get topside, don't tell Ariadne, she'll get panicked."

Arthur turns and heads up the worn steps, soggy with mold. He gets all the way to the front door before he feels Cobb behind him, hesitating but following. "You're right, I shouldn't have—"

"Shut up," Arthur cuts him off and starts into the room.

No sooner than crossing the threshold, the room warps and twists around them. They're in Philippa's room when the house stops shaking. The room is empty, lavender walls untouched, and nothing is out of pace. The windows are open, white curtains lofting over glass again. A series of pink toys are strayed across the floor, most beside the bookshelf pushed against the wall.

Arthur feels for his Glock, flicking the safety off, disconcerted by the silence of the house. If the house warps whenever someone walks in, they have no clue where they really are, let alone, where Mal is. If it doesn't, they are sitting pretty, put here by someone. Cobb crosses, looking distractedly out the window, and pulling out his own gun, "No one outside."

The door of the room opens suddenly and Philippa walks in, fists pressed into her eyes as she sobs. As opposed to Eames' manifestation of Mal, Philippa looks relatively normal. Her hair is blond and she is wearing a ballerina tutu and flats, as though fresh from ballet practice. Her eyes are blue and clear, like Cobb's.

Cobb stashes the gun quickly, tripping over himself to take her in his arms. She latches on, crying into his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Daddy, I didn't mean to do it!"

Arthur tucks his gun into his waist, belatedly realizing Cobb is signaling him to do so. Arthur shuts the door of the room, half-listening to the conversation Cobb is having with the projection of his daughter.

"What did you do, Philippa? What's the matter?"

"I made a mess, Daddy. I don't want Mommy to see, she'll be cross with me."

"Why didn't you clean it up, then?"

"I can't clean it up, I need help. Will you help me, Daddy?"

"Yeah, of course I will, sweetheart, take me there. Where did you make a mess?"

The kitchen appears at the end of the hallway when they step out of Philippa's room. The counters are cleared and the table has a stack of rotting fruit next to a half-empty glass of blue liquid. At the foot of the refrigerator, Eames lies face down with his bones cooking like popcorn kernels, loud in Arthur's ears. He's dying.

Cobb disappears into the other room, hiding his daughter into the fabric of his lapels. There are some things that projections of children shouldn't see. Arthur crouches next to Eames on the floor; the discs of his spine are like sandpaper in Arthur's hands.

When Cobb comes back into the room, he finds Arthur, touching the wound on Eames' back that breaks into his spinal fluid and organ secrets and bares them all, a mess on the kitchen floor. At the end of the hallways, the scratch of glass breaking announces Mal's presence. Her bare feet, pressing gore into the hardwood, and Mal will be cross.

Eames, dying with blood opening his skin like jaws, skin ripped open and thick smelling, like gasoline and anti-freeze. Arthur's fingers are stained, like he's hurling himself into the discs, dull with blood. At least his eyes are closed.

Cobb takes one look and kicks Arthur out. He slumps into Eames and disintegrates and for a second, all Cobb can hear is the glass and the hardwood and Eames' bones, popping in his ears. He's aiming the gun at his own head when Mal's shards finger his throat open in silent gashes. He feels the hot gurgle of blood down his chest and—wakes up to James crying outside the room and Arthur grabbing at his chest like he can't breathe.


Ariadne hides her face when they tell her, digging the crescents of her nails into her palms. Miles perches himself at the foot of the fireplace and pokes the cinders absently. Arthur stands at the entrance of the room, shoulders tense, with James on his hip, sleeping against his shoulder. Cobb rubs his throat when he talks.

Eames left after he woke up, believing he fell asleep waiting for Arthur to finish up helping Cobb. He laughs lightly and makes old man jokes and heads out before his eyes get too clear.

Arthur coaxes James into a car seat and Ariadne promises to visit Philippa again soon. Miles frowns and warns Cobb to finish this nonsense before he drives away. The children are going to Anaheim for the weekend. When they're gone, Cobb's face hardens and he hands Arthur a new gun, with the serial number filed off. Arthur assumes it has to do with where Yusuf is but when he asks, Cobb says, "Try not to shoot it, the safety doesn't work."

They find Yusuf in a dingy bar, kissing dark haired girls and mixing hard liquor with a blunt between his teeth. When they come in, gang members get defensive. Yusuf hugs Cobb around the waist and grins through the blunt. The dark haired girls disperse at his instruction. Arthur talks fast, Eames is in trouble, Eames is killing himself, and Eames is my motherfucking best fucking friend. Yusuf disentangles himself from the dingy people and when they get on the highway, offers Cobb a hit.


The first sign might have been the hate that bubbled and built inside Arthur whenever Eames came home this way, all glassy eyes and beatific smiles. Maybe it was pain or disgust, maybe guilt, but it was always in his chest, glowing red hot whenever Eames got too close.

He'd fall into bed around three or four in the morning, smelling distantly of blood and cheap whiskey and his stubble doesn't tickle, it scrapes across all the tender skin Arthur can't afford to hide. He'll fall in with expectations, wanting this or taking that. Arthur thinks they should leave LA soon, there are too many people ugly with purple and black at their elbows, sucking life through their collapsed veins and crippling their organs like counter clockwork.

He'll fall in beside him, kissing his teeth and Arthur pretends he's asleep so he can focus on something other than this--whatever it is that day: fury, pity, grief, Sleeping is better than focusing too hard on them, if they are still a they. If they haven't become a he and an I.


The Californian sun cuts through the windows the next day and Eames is warm, lapping sunlight into his mouth when he yawns. His eyes are clear, a bit yellow at the edges but otherwise focused. They watch Arthur with precision and kiss Arthur languidly, fluttering lashes against his own.

"Mmm, I love you in the morning, pet. You're all fussed up, looking lost without an Oxford choking you, I love fucking you like this."

Eames' fingers trail ghost stories into the spaces between Arthur's ribs, yanking and prying the bones apart to make room for him. Once upon a time, on a dark and stormy night, the worst of times and the best, killing mockingbirds and waiting for the human voices, here it is. All the whispered clichés press edges into Arthur’s body, like digging blue fertilizer into the white barks of diseased trees. Affection bubbles this time, Eames is so focused with his back to the world and his attention solely on Arthur.

Eames fucks him, slow and sweaty, with his palms open at Arthur’s hip, rubbing hipbones with metacarpals, slow increments and the arching curve of Arthur’s back, coming off the mattress.

Arthur rocks back into Eames, “Open your eyes. Eames, fuck me with your eyes open, fuck, watch me come part, watch.”


Behind Arthur, there is a fury. His eyes are like coal, burning and poisoning the sky and its fresh air, fueling the power to mover others around him. Arthur can carve; he keeps his nails trim so he doesn’t do it accidentally, but he can cut through skin and fat and blood vessels, scalpel through the mucky and bone that congeals around your major organs. Arthur carves through Eames sometimes.

Dom has seen it, the way Arthur slices through anything you might hide or protect, without malice or remorse in his burning coal eyes. Mal taught him to do it; she burned with precision, too. Dom’s been carved before, silently and anticlimactically but never kept any illusions of secrecy with Arthur. Arthur might not act on it, Cobb may be too much of a coward to admit anything, but Arthur doesn’t not know. Coal doesn’t not burn.

But the moment Eames comes home that night—dawn, whatever—Arthur flinches. His coal eyes are reserved and closed behind slid iron grates that project cold.

Eames’ bags are packed at the foot of the door. (He wouldn't leave, Arthur.) All the weapons Cobb and Arthur have are hidden, empty and disassembled, in Cobb’s closet. Ariadne is sitting on the floor, keeping quiet. Her eyes follow Cobb every time he moves like he’s supposed to guide her. Yusuf steps forward first, sharing a nonchalantly cautious greeting. Eames has always had intuition for when things are about to go sour.

Cobb stands to close the door behind him and leads the two of them back into the living room. Arthur stands at the doorway and the other two sit on couches, all away from Eames.

"Alright?" he nods at Arthur and turns to Cobb, "Awfully still. Where are Pinky and the Brain?"

Cobb shrugs, "I sent them away."

"What for?" The edge in Eames' voice changes dangerously, darkening protectively.

"We need to talk." Cobb continues, nonchalant.


Arthur can feel the hate in him again, Eames is acting. "Your drug problem," Arthur announces.

The room stills for a second, where Ariadne swallows like she might scream and stands like she might start running. Eames stills for an entire second and Arthur can see him, weighing the exits to the manpower and the possibility he'll have to shoot his way out. He's got a .22 tucked into ankle, Arthur knows. But then he scoffs lightly, "I haven't got a problem, darling."

"Yeah, you have, mate." Yusuf accuses.

Eames turns to him, as if stung by what he's said. He opens his mouth to speak but Yusuf cuts him off, voice rising, "I can't believe this, you are a perfect idiot. How could you keep this from me? Where have you been getting the scag--we have enemies everywhere, Eames, the wrong dealer will kill you. Did you think of that? I bet you didn't, prancing around the city, looking for the right edge to tumble over, are you? Bloody idiot."

"Who said anything about scag?"

"Quit the foreplay, Eames. We all know what’s been going on."

"Oi, oi, don't get ahead of yourself there, Yusuf, you do drugs all the time, goddamn hypocrite. Anyway, don't forget who it was that introduced me to the fucking thing."

All eyes shot to Yusuf who crosses his arms defensively. "That was years ago and I gave it to you once. You should have told me if you were doing it so frequently. I would have at least gotten you a clean supply. Fuck, who knows what you have been fucking taking."

Eames sighs like he's talking to a small child, "I'm not an addict, I don't need any supply."

"You just said—" Ariadne starts.

"No, I admitted to trying it once, a long time ago. Does it mean I'm an addict now? No, it does not, Ariadne, now sit down and let the adults talk."

"Hey," Yusuf interjects, "leave her alone, she's trying to help you."

"I'm not an—"

"How do you explain your dreams then? Projections killing their own subconscious?" Cobb challenges.

"What do you know about my dreams?"

"I was fucking there, Eames! You bled out right in front of me, you killed yourself in front of me," Ariadne balled her hands up into fists.

"That doesn't just happen," Cobb adds.

"Maybe it doesn't. Though, I find it works better than having my insane wife shoot everyone for me."

"That has nothing to do with this. Don't turn this on me."

"Because it's on me, is it? Oh, Eamesy is an addict, someone phone the morality police, international criminals want to give me lessons on ethics! Don't get hysterical, Cobb. This is a right laugh."

"This isn't a joke, Eames. This isn't a dream; you're killing yourself with this stupid shit and for what? Check your goddamn totem if--"

"You're exactly right, Ariadne! Forever leading the lost out of the maze, thank you, Princess. This isn't a dream, we're not even friends, this isn't a job and we're not a fucking team of superheroes together. We're coworkers and frankly, esteemed colleagues, even if I was on the scag, it doesn't concern any of you. Why the fuck does any of you care? How is it any of your business? It's not, isn't it? It's really none of your business!"

"What about me?" Arthur asks. "Is it my business?"

Eames wheels around, surprised by the suddenness. The room falls silent for another moment, everyone caught off guard by Arthur. Eames sighs and stands up, crossing the room and pulling Arthur into his arms at the waist. He presses his nose into Arthur's cheek; breathing on his jaw, breathing in his breath. Against him, Arthur is not relaxed in the mildest sense.

The first sign might have been the manipulation. I love you, Arthur, I'll see you in three days, pet, and not answer any of your calls in the meantime. Don't worry, though, darling, I'll always come home to you, my love. The first sign might have been the way whenever Eames comes near him, Arthur feels like Eames is taking something from him, instead of Arthur giving it to him.

Arthur doesn't relax and Eames sags against him, gripping Arthur's waist as if he'll leave."I haven't got a problem, Arthur. Please believe me."

Arthur breathes in, a shattering breath, and the hate bubbles. All this pity and grief, burning through Arthur's chest, because Eames is so skinny and blurry, he's been taken apart by something he can't control--Eames isn't in control. He thinks of Hanoi, of Florence and Dresden, Arthur thinks of Marseille, Warsaw, Sydney, all the cities where Eames was leaving himself behind and Arthur begged him to stop and get sharp again. Every time Eames grinned or frowned, spelling his plea into Arthur's skin, his ribs and teeth. Arthur doesn't understand God, because maybe he doesn't even exist, but he prays anyway. Please God, help us. Please God, help him.

"I'm tired of you telling me that, Eames. I need you to do something, for fucks sake. You need to get help or--"

"Get out?"

Arthur stills for a long minute, he doesn't want Eames to leave. But he doesn't want this Eames to stay. Instead, he kisses him, cutting off any train of thought because Arthur knows this is his last window. He won't be able to after this. Eames surges into it, closemouthed and powerful with affection and energy. There's a curve in his mouth like relief but Arthur doesn't feel relieved. Arthur pulls away, praying to God and asking why it has to be Eames. Why does he have to be this person? Why couldn't he just stop?

"I packed your bags."


Eames leaves. He stiffens his shoulders, kisses Arthur's wounded knuckles, glares all of them down in turn and leaves. The rental car rumbles to life and takes him away. Eames leave with all his things, his focus and his talent that he's throwing, Arthur watches the door close behind him. Eames left, but before he did, Arthur froze all his assets and Cobb shut him out of Dreamshare. Eames is gone, but he's alone and broke, he has nowhere to go no one to turn to. Two days later, the cops pick up the rental car in Sacramento, empty save for a cigarette carton.

He's gone, cut off from the world for a week. Arthur tries to play with Philippa but whenever he smiles, she palms his cheeks until his jaw hurts. "What are you doing?"

"You were happy, Uncle Arthur. I just want you to stay happy."

Two weeks pass, Arthur starts scuffing Cobb's floor when he paces and stays up stress cleaning. Eames is gone for seventeen days, wherein every time Arthur closes his eyes and falls asleep, he dream of Eames and his death, the smell of gasoline and needles clattering out of his arm and onto the floor. Ariadne sleeps next to him, light enough a sleeper that if Arthur tries to leave at night, she'll wake up.

Arthur could find him easily but he needs to hold his ground. He can barely leave the state, he wouldn't leave the country. (He wouldn't leave Arthur.)

That's when he gets the call—after seventeen days of wandering in the desert and going through detoxification and maybe dying alone in the heat. Hannah calls. Hannah talks slow, like things are okay and safe, like the night she was married, even in eternity. Infinity is not chaotic, Arthur, so stop trying to control it. Her voice is nostalgic, Arthur completely forgets about the accent he's fought to shake over the years until he talks to her. "I've got something of yours, Arthur," she says, "I reckon you'd like him back."


Hannah's house is Wichita Falls, Texas. It stands small in comparison to the rest of the block, but she doesn't need much space. Hannah is married to the principal of a local middle school and whenever Arthur comes near her, she looks at him like she's waiting for guidance. Arthur, you're the spitting image of Daddy, she says and strokes his hair reverently.

Her house and her husband almost scare Arthur. It's so clean and middle class in a frighteningly domestic manner. Whenever he comes over, she's ironing something, putting together a lesson for the bible study group she runs, or pressing her callused fingertips into the rounds of her prayer beads.

Hannah hugs him for a long time and sets sugar cookies before him on the kitchen table. She smiles at him, "They're your favorite."

"When we were seven."

"Don't say that, Arthur, you've got to stay young in here," she ushers his tie out of the way to thump her fingernails against his chest.

Hannah doesn't know a lot about someone on detox, but Tina, you remember Tina, she works over at the hospital with that deadbeat boyfriend, and Tina knows some. Hannah has been feeding Eames small portions of bread and peanut butter and making sure he drinks the water she leaves at his bedside. Hannah has been giving him Nyquil to keep the worst of the edge off. Hannah's husband doesn't want Eames here, but agreed to help until Arthur came.

Eames showed up at her house at four in the morning, two days ago. He'd been stumbling through half-empty streets, trying to remember what street her house was on from that one visit with Arthur during those first easy 13 months. Eames had been six hours into detox, just barely lucid, and begged her not to call Arthur.

Arthur leaves his jacket and his tie draped over her couch and hugs her multiple times, like he can't believe this person he underappreciated is doing so much for him. He vows to send her to Greece on her next anniversary. Hannah will like Greece, he decides, chewing a cookie.

"Are you staying?"

"Just for the night," he rolls his sleeves up.

"You can take the guest room."

"I'll stay with him. Where is he?"

The rest of Hannah's house smells like freshly cooked meals but the basement doesn't, not with Eames on a cot pushed to the edge of the room with his bones rubbed raw and drawn up around him. There are scrapes all up and down the wall. Eames is lying on his side and watches Arthur come in with wide eyes. The cot rattles as he starts shaking and scrambling away.

When Arthur steps into the light, the rattling stills. Eames' body draws up tight. He steps closer and Eames visibly forces himself to relax. "Oh, it's just you. I'm sick of you. Haven't you got better looking mates?"

Arthur opens his mouth to speak, to question, but Hannah puts a hand on his arm. "I should have told you. About a day in, he started having a recurring hallucination. From what I can tell, it's of you, except as some kind of monster. You're a perfect asshole to him."

Arthur thinks of Mal, her splintered glass and jeweled bones, draped over Eames' dreams like a carcass at an altar. "What do I look like?"

Hannah shrugs, "Something with black teeth, I’m not sure. I try to keep out of his way. He's pretty strong, and frankly, I was scared of him when we met the first time. Mind your distance and when you're ready, I'll make dinner for us and help you feed him." She leaves them to their devices, wringing her hands white.

For a second after the door closes, Arthur can't move, paralyzed by the color of Eames' skin, yellow with sweat and grimy, his arms a tender red from a bad sunburn. Arthur worked it out. Eames spent a few days in Sacramento, then found some cash and made it to Texas because it was as far as he could get. He spent about five or six days, sleeping in drug dens and chewing his lips against the heat, eating almost nothing and doing anything for a fix.

Arthur walks closer, to this person he loves and cannot fathom who they've become. Eames is here, but he's not smiling from across the room or kissing him with vigor, he's not quoting some obscure literature in a verbal sparring match or pushing Arthur to achieve more than what Arthur ever believed he could. This isn't Eames burning a meatloaf or stealing packs of mints from convenience stores because he can or even just repainting their apartment a darker blue instead of the antifreeze blue color they used to have.

How did we get here, he thinks, Why did it have to get this far? Why couldn't he get Eames to stop? Why couldn't Arthur be enough?

"Every time I see you, I wish it was him. You're cruel like him though, I'll give you that. I can't ever touch him either."

Arthur pockets his hands, unsure of what to say or do.

Eames lays on his back, pulling a worn blanket over his shoulders, “Can you have your fun and leave, already? Turn off that music, too."

"I'm not playing music."

"Of course you're not," Eames looks at the ceiling, muttering under his breath. He closes his eyes to ignore the monster, fingers closed in the blanket. When Arthur takes a step forward, the heel of his shoe sounds loudly in the concrete of the basement. Eames jolts up, "Arthur? What are you doing here?"

Encouraged by recognition, Arthur steps closer, dropping to his knees to be at eye level with Eames and close enough to touch. "I'm here to help you get through this."

Eames laughs, mockingly and brutal. "Oh, this? It's been so long already, Arthur, I think I should stop. I don't want to die like this. Shut the music off, would you?" His eyes look wary, like he's looking at something he's not sure is real. Arthur's not even sure this is real. His totem is upstairs.

"I'm not playing music, Eames."

"Oh, I wasn't—alright, I like that. I had forgotten how much I like how you say my name. Eames. Mummy used to call me ugly names. You don't, you say my name and look at me with your eyes so perfectly," Eames' hand reaches out, thumbing Arthur's jaw. "You eyes have always been gorgeous, always like marble and water." Eames sighs wistfully, "I wish you were real."

"I am real, Eames. This isn’t a hallucination. Where's your totem?"

"Fuck my totem, sweetheart. You're not real. Real Arthur goes through Cobb before he does anything. Real Arthur is never here when I need him. Real Arthur wants a family with children; I can't give the real Arthur anything he wants. I wish you were him. At least you look at me like I hold answers, like I can give you everything. Oh, you'll learn too, Fake Arthur. Are you here to die with me? Real Arthur can never make it when I need him."

A shudder racks his bones, and Eames shivers around the blanket, swearing under his breath. His knuckles are white and sweat breaks out over his skin again, cold to the touch.

Arthur's been here before, trying to help Eames, trying to set him right again, even after such a long line of bullshit. He's said this before, and if he has to, he'll say it again in the future. This isn't over, it maybe never will be, but Eames will always have him here to say this because even if he's killing them both, Arthur is staying. That might have been the first sign, Arthur's stubbornly unyielding resolve; his inability to give up on Eames.

"I'm real, Eames. I’m here."

Date: 2011-06-03 12:33 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] everhaunting.livejournal.com
So ever time I see my tag I get that stupid smile on my face. You are beautiful in everyway shape and form. Thank you for taking this and making it beautiful.

Date: 2011-06-03 12:46 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ofvanity.livejournal.com
Y'know, we joke a lot about that but something about your excitement just makes me want to write. I told you, you sweet-talk me and I put out. (:

Date: 2011-06-03 01:01 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] dreadly.livejournal.com
I just wanted to drop the comment to tell you that I AM SO EXCITED TO READ THIS, and that I'm going to as soon as I get the stuff I need to get done, done (aka I am not letting myself read this until I finish writing. GOOD MOTIVATION TACTIC \o/)

Date: 2011-06-03 11:09 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ofvanity.livejournal.com
Lol, I'm excited for you to read! Priorities, though, you're doing it right, (:

Date: 2011-06-03 01:51 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] thursday-kat.livejournal.com
Oh man, this was haunting and heartrending and so very beautifully written and I was shaking through the whole of it. One of those rare fics that hurt but are worth it. &hearts

Date: 2011-06-03 11:06 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ofvanity.livejournal.com
Oh, *hugs* thank you, so much, ♥

Date: 2011-06-03 04:12 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] clair3.livejournal.com
ohhh my heartachess for them both!

Date: 2011-06-03 11:10 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ofvanity.livejournal.com

thank you.

Date: 2011-06-03 04:12 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] pomme-noir.livejournal.com
Very well written. You have a way with words. I think one of the past lines is the one about fertilizer and bark. I'm a little achy, must read fluff to ease it.

Date: 2011-06-03 11:13 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ofvanity.livejournal.com
Thank you, ♥
I needed fluff after writing this, tbh.

Date: 2011-06-06 12:34 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] osaki-nana-707.livejournal.com
Oh, wow. This is just amazing. You've got some extremely powerful imagery here, the whole story is just dripping with it. My heart is pitter-pattering over how intense this is. You handled it so, so well. I'm really impressed by this. Thanks for this.

Date: 2011-06-06 04:06 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ofvanity.livejournal.com
Thank you so very much, you are too kind, ♥

Date: 2011-06-06 09:42 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] iluveames.livejournal.com
This is BLOODY BRILLIANT! I mean proper great, really. I'm just waiting to see if Eames will turn out alright...I hope so :(

Date: 2011-06-06 11:27 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ofvanity.livejournal.com
Thank you so much, <3
I'm sure Eames will pull through.

Date: 2011-07-01 04:44 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] build-the-moon.livejournal.com
This was so fantastic. I absolutely loved it.


Date: 2011-07-02 03:55 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ofvanity.livejournal.com
Thank you, ♥ :)


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December 2011


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