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you're sitting on a couch. the print is floral and you feel like you could be flying. Like rolling your 'r's.

everything feels like candy floss. everything is smooth. nothing is right. your mouth tastes like bird seed and anus or maybe it's just shit beer, rum and that spliff someone just rolled with their thick fingers that have been inside you.

fuck. this isn't quite right. wait. this isn't what is supposed to happen.

(this is probably just a dream.)

Your name is Reginald, with your curly jew hair--so inappropriate. No, wait. You must be Charles.


This is all before you became someone else (a womb), when the sun burnt your skin on the ferry across the channel to the library. This was when you liked girls with quick-bitten nails to play with your curls and boys with uniforms.

(some things never tilt nor change. kickkickkick.)

You drop the funnel cakes,

you pull up your felt skirt and you drag your orange tights to the very ground--that's where your ankles are (virtue). that's the car parked outside your house at a quarter past four on a Wednesday calling you.

(You'd better pick up.)

it's a school night but he's begging you. your feet are bare and the wet gravel, torn from the solid concrete drive, sticks to your tender, wet feet.

Don't worry, Reginald. The car is small and cramped when he puts his dirty fingers up your cunt. Don't worry, Charles. I'm not leaving until you've come twice.

(this is the dream where you wake up at the carnival, except now you're wearing a silver leotard and singing--you're singing but it doesn't sound like angels, even though you joined a church just to carol with other carolers. to chase tits.)

No. Wait.

Reginald, you sound like a kitten. Stay here, kitty. Maybe Alfred will grant you soymilk for your sensitive stomach.

You're eating funnel cake again. There's powdered sugar all over your lips. It's sticky. You're sticky but someone cut out your tongue so it can only gather along your lips until you choke. This is when you drop the candy the stranger gave you with his gritty fingers.


it's curtain time. slide down the slide to get out of the funhouse. get into the light.

Step onto the chest and go ahead--go ahead and sing.


[Are you Dan?]

(No, certainly not. I'm fairly certain I'm Eames but it wouldn't be the first case of mistaken identity.)

[You look like a Dan. Eames must have been your mother's name.]

(Yes, I suppose I look like a Daniel. There is something rather Danish about the line of my jaw and the cuff of my trousers. Maybe I was a Daniel in another life. )

[Possibly your father was a Dan.]

(I've never had a father. I had a philosopher and a latin teacher but my dreams had a father that looked meaner, barred his teeth and sang Smith songs when he thought I was awake.)

[Hmm, maybe you used to be Dan. You know, at birth, before all this. Before you were a bitch.]

(It's not unheard of but I've never felt that way before, twisted up in blue blankets and choking on pink knitted hates. maybe I've repressed it. Maybe once I was meant to have stubble ridden cheeks and a manly sense of direction. But I've never felt that ghost, aren't you supposed to feel that sort of thing?)

[I suppose. All you Dans look the same to me anyway. What a disappointment--this is where everything breaks out of the carefully lined brackets, this is where the letters burst out of the words this is when the punctuation riots in the back room !!!! fuck yes this is what happens when control gets lost because you weren't paying attention !!!! yes (((())))

this is a mother fucking drealaslkdjar



then what?

it's breathing in skin because it smells like sleep and often like being in love should taste like. no. see, he's not waiting for a train. he doesn't have to wait for anything because he can become the train. right? that's what this is about. this is about the lattice of tracks up Arthur's pinstripes, this is about creating secrets, this is about becoming truth. this is about laving into arthur's mouth because it's his to take in the sharp light of reality or the soft scape of dreams. yes. caution feels appropriate because he's not entirely sure where to put his hands. he wants to see arthur rumbled and debauched. he wants to lick the perfection off of him like elderberry blow pancakes with thick syrup.

but caution is demanded in the thin line of his lips as they open up, like the way a bullet impacts the skin before flowering out to do the most damage in the belly of the animal.

Eames thinks he's dead-set on being the elastic in this man's braces.

Arthur's jaw is impossibly tight until Eames bites his bottom lip, tongue snaking out to smooth over the nibbled flesh. then—then it feels a bit like surrender. And it's almost like the dreams he's had, the projection of Arthur's small growl and complete submission, except this is complete dominance and yes, this is probably what everyone talks about when they talk about kisses that forge wars. (helen was a whore.)

When Arthur licks his teeth, it's like Amy bloody Winehouse crawling into the bottom of the bottle, scraping it clean with her tongue and (suck)sucking it dry.

It's true, there is not an ounce of imagination in Arthur's structured shoulders or the symmetry of his waistcoat buttons but Eames believes there is imagination here, between them and that's what makes this better than dreams. It's not that it's reality. Reality doesn't make things superior. Reality just makes imagination harder.

(The challenge. The surprise. The sticky slick of Arthur's gel on your fingertips. The pucker of your lips in want of devotion. The need. Your mouths pressed together. Over. Again. Over and Again.)

"the heroes are always queer," eames' kisses into arthur's front teeth. they're nice.

"my mom listens to edith piaf."

"americans always siding with the french."

"i'm impressed, mr eames."

he presses his chin up to lick the roof of arthur's mouth, squeezing at his jaw with the ball of his thumb. "why?"

they surge together in a kiss.

"you stupid fuck."

again. Again.

"you're mocking me."

"if you're not careful, my darling arthur, you'll catch a case of imagination."

oh don't worry, he says with their tongues sliding together and licking up details, i'm dreaming bigger than that.