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06 December 2010 @ 11:27 pm
[fic]: with the perfect armour (with a perfect dream)  
Title: With the Perfect Armour (with a perfect dream)

Author: epistolic

Rating: M.

Word Count: 4,849.

Genre: Romance.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Summary: A story about lost chances and rediscovering them. Arthur goes to Limbo to search for Eames. Eames/Arthur, slash, One-Shot.

A/N: First of two writing4acause fics for zeto. zeto, darling, I don't think this fic matches any of your specific prompts, though I was trying to capture some of the sentiment of this prompt, though I don't really think I got it exactly right. :head-desk: If this is, you know, not what you wanted, feel free to PM me and I'll try again. ♥

Please don't forget to comment!

With the Perfect Armour (with a perfect dream)

Roar of the sea as it covered his ears pushed him up onto the crusty bank of shells. The wet drag of his trousers to his legs, the wet suckling of the ocean back down the length of sand. A conch with its jagged edge nicked his hand. The sea with its doom-bell voice. When he licked his lips he tasted salt and the sharp sting of it on the cracks in his mouth. His jacket was heavy caught against his shoulders. The long stretch of smoothness, from the water to the sand to the rocks to the forest to the city beyond that, the black limbs of the trees turned bronze from the sunlight. The ocean sighing like a pair of lungs.

Forget, forget, forget, forget.


He found a stick on the sand and wrote his name where the shore met the stilted lip of the sea. A-R-T-H-U-R. His clothes dried turned stiff moved against him when he moved. He touched a hand to his face then scrubbed a speck of sand from his eye. He looked across the dunes to the forest. The hot nerveless wind crooned.


His shoes left gaping holes where he walked across the hillocks, they would never be seen from the moon. Not the grass clutching close to the sand. Not the forest. Not him. Like an ant he made his way across the tablecloth open pocket-knife in his hand. A-R-T-H-U-R. A-R-T-H-U-R. Leaving a trail of carved breadcrumbs in the trunks of trees. The sun swung lower like Baghdad, like a man with a brown-glass bottle between his thighs and the languid drag of fingertips along Arthur’s arm. The pocket-knife cut deep where the living wood was, closeted up like a heart. He paused at one. Leaned forward pressed his forehead against the rough bark.

Where? he said. Where the fuck are you right now?

In Baghdad in a separate world in a motel room in the crooked nest of blankets a man once said, Here. I’m right here, sweetheart. Right here.

Here in a forest with the sun swinging low here felt relative. Perhaps here never was.


The sun dipped like a pendulum to its lowest point. He stopped, wondered how far into the woods that pressed in like a secret. He closed his pocket-knife. Put it into his pocket where he knew it would vanish until he needed it again. The sky the pallor of ricepaper a washed-out grey and he sat on the floor of dead leaves and detritus and the crumbling logs slanted across the way holding year upon year of time uncounted.

He loosened his tie. Head tipped back against the nearest log throat bobbing.

I’m open, he wanted to say. I’m waiting.

He took the gun out of his belt and took it apart. A man somewhere sometime somehow some reason once did the same, peeled his waistcoat off and slid palms underneath the set of his suspenders. A man once put a warm mouth to his throat the same throat that’s now tilted up to the sky.

Won’t you come to Mombasa? a man once said.


You can stay however long you want.

With a ruler Mombasa was twenty centimetres from New York on a map. He put the gun back together. With a ruler the curve of a hip was twenty centimetres to the delicate curve of a belly-button.

With a ruler the time between one breath and the next was a brilliant thing unmeasurable.

With his name carved into the timber above him he fell asleep. There wasn’t a sound but the wind. No bird leant a voice to the undercurrent that whispered between the looming trees and his heartbeat was the only thing that was sure. If a thing could be sure in such a desolate world. The moon hovered close with its flinty light and he slept without waking until the dawn.


As a boy he’d gone out to the woods with his father hunting rabbits, the dashboard of the old truck speckled. Dust in a rain-smear across the windshield. Father with his hands rough from handling a boat that he liked the oars on, didn’t switch to a motor. The engine as the only solitary noise. Afternoons with the windows wound right down rich orange on the roads and the backs of his arms as they left the radio off. The old dumb world with its voice drained out through the sieve of the sky. This was a world he loved. Quiet, pacing there in his father’s shadow, he was so weightless he could almost rise up to the clouds. The scent of new leaves and the smell of wood. His father set the rifle into his arms and then the wait for a movement in the long grass. With the sun drenching right past his skin to his bones.

You want to learn something, Arthur? his father asked.

The drone of flies and the scutter in the undergrowth of skinks and small mammals, the heft of the gun. As a boy he’d shot rabbits as they nosed in the grass. He’d passed his afternoons in absolute silence punctuated by the sound of gunshots. Like luck, like misfortune, like all the things in life, when they passed the silence descended again and the world kept its orbit around the sun. Everywhere people lost their childhoods in silence the moments vivid and radiant then suddenly gone.


In the morning the rain trickled down his nose and woke him with the soak of it into his shoes. The air weighted with the tiny sounds of insects. He pulled his jacket about him. He hummed a soft tune.


He didn’t change the world although he knew he could didn’t flatten the trees. Like the saints used to do he passed the knotted tree trunks conjuring only the immediate things that he needed. Pocket-knife. Umbrella. Dry shoes. The crisp moist air in his lungs and Glasgow was like this and if he wasn’t careful enough he’d end up forgetting, it would all be lost. Just wispy thoughts that had escaped his brain. Sealed off by glass.

He let his fingers get wet and then cold. He made his umbrella transparent. He looked up.

By afternoon the storm deepened, turned ravenous and lightning across the sky like a sheet. When dark finally fell he stood poised on an outcrop over a waterfall with the trees fanned out behind him before him around him.

Eames! he yelled out into the wind.

The sky flashing and he let the umbrella go. Watched it blown away, disappeared into the rushing water underneath the great mounds of rock where he stood.

Eames! he yelled again. Are you here somewhere! Eames!

When the storm was over he shivered and shook and the river beneath him pressed onward, swollen.


Night he was blind. There wasn’t a moon.

Eames, he said into the silent dark like it warmed him. He was frightened of changing things. The world could become too comfortable and comfortable things were the most dangerous things because they could hurt you and still you would never let go.


Mombasa he hadn’t stayed longer than a week the heat he’d complained, not you. Not you.

You survived in Malaysia a month, a man said.

The sun set slowly and he sat on the edge of a bed staring down at a man that he’d known for years. He put his hand on the fold of a sheet that rested across the man’s thigh. He could sense the muscle. He took his hand away.

It was never just about survival, he said.

Just business?

Don’t be an asshole.

I’m not the one leaving, you know.

It’s just, he said. I just have to go. Drop by if you’re ever in Zurich, alright?

The light honeycombed from the dusty windows and mellowed deep yellow from all of the grit. The man on the bed propped up on his elbows. Bent forward.

Just another two days or so, love. Come on. What the hell have you got to lose?

Do you really want me to answer that question? he asked.

Yes, I do, the man said.

Nothing, he said. That’s why I have to go. I’ve got nothing to lose.


Mother sitting on the porch with the telephone. Lumpy sweater hair tangled sun over the fence and hydrangea bushes shadows dragged very long like spilt ink. Orange like the colour puffed into the sky, atomised on a breath. Boy in the living room. Watched the power lines overhead birds breaking formation the gold light on the wood of the old pine porch bell of a girl on a bicycle. Blacktop still hot from the day gone past. Air so still it took on the feel of a bubble or a dream that a pinprick could wake you up from. The boy looked on his world and he thought it was good. I’ll remember, he thought. I’ll remember this all.


When the sun came up he could see the skyscrapers towering up and over the tops of the trees. The faint grey mist from the night before’s rain. The damp cling of it to the gleaming glass windows that Dom made, perhaps. He had no way to tell.

He picked his way down from the jut of the outcrop and steadied himself back on level ground. The soil by his feet was moist with leaf litter and the pungent scent of wet pine needles. Sun in his eyes. The long sprawl of the shadows. The bright gold in between, the new dew-drops glistening. He listened for a while. There was the sound of a bird. It was clear and tremulous soaring into the sky.


There was no way for him to dream in Limbo. He slept in great senseless blocks like a plank of wood.

Some time later he came upon a great hollow tree with the roots overgrown with ancient moss. The centre wood opened and rotted away. He sat himself in it as he had as a boy and pulled his knees up and underneath his chin. A red die was in his pocket and he took it out. He looked down at the dots. Ran the pad of his thumb over them.

Would they in time wear away? That was something he had not considered. In months, in years, would there come a time when all sides of the die showed nothing at all. Soothed away like a memory visited too often. It was possible. Anything was possible.

He remembered Mal. She had eyes like pools like great mirrors. Sad and laughing at the same time.

Dance with me, Mal had said. Come on, Arthur. Come on.

She had on a beautiful blue summer dress. It was light and she flew in his arms like a bird. The sweet hint of her perfume. Sometimes he worried that with each time he remembered he changed some tiny aspect of her where her hand rested where the balls of her feet touched ground when she laughed. Was it possible to alter a person speck by speck in the dusty coilings of recall. Reshape them from the clay. Maybe that was what had happened with Dom. Mal slowly chipped at by rancid memories of herself until the final day she slipped a knife between Arthur’s ribs and smiled and the roof collapsed over them.


The vow still unuttered on his lips.

I’ll find you, he thought. I’ll bring you back. I will.


The day tottered out from the fringe of trees and broke upon the spread of a cityscape. He stood standing with the sweep of it. The dazzling light. Eames, he called. He sat down on a stone.


In Gettysburg the hail had rattled the car until he had almost felt his ribcage buckle. A man in the passenger seat next to him. The thick sour scent of wet clothes. The spit-spat of gunfire along the car’s side and smattering up the passenger window. Eames! Eames!

I’m alright. I’m still good.


The wide square that of a phantom city grand and uninhabited as if under glass. Signs of subways and the winding, debris-strewn roads. Wind nursed the light things, leaves and plastic bags and swept them thoroughly across the sidewalk. His shoes made clipped noises on the concrete.

One. Two.

One. Two.

Maze to rival all mazes, cobblestone paths where the sun draped itself deep into the gutters. He’d seen a brain before, a human brain. In a world gone past in a memory gone past he’d trained to be a doctor on an army scholarship. The labyrinthine gyri and sulci of a mind with its cleft in between the two hemispheres. The thin transparent net of matter overlying it. The twists and turns of arteries and small veins. Such was a labyrinth fashioned by the likes of God. Such was a labyrinth truly unsolvable.


Once he’d stood outside a man’s hotel room with his thumb on the call button of his phone. He’d pressed it and a ringing started up on the other side of the door but no-one answered though there was the sound of a mobile picked up put back down and the ringing didn’t stop.

He knocked.

I know you’re in there, he said. Open up.

A small hesitation long enough to doubt himself. Then the lock thudding off. He tried the knob and it turned smoothly steadily under his fingers. The door gave way and there was a retreating back into the husky shadows broad with a shirt pulled taut over the shoulders shoulder-blades that he knew the precise taste of.

I’m sorry, he said to the room.


How long are you here? Are you going to the wedding?

I’d be a piss-arse friend if I didn’t, the man said.

You’re still angry at me.

No, I’m not angry. You want a drink?


Do you want it dry?

Look, I’m sorry. I said I was.

Do you want your drink dry, Arthur. Simple enough question.

I rang you five times but you didn’t pick up.

Last time I checked, not answering the phone was still legal.


I’m drunk, sweetheart. Don’t mind me.

Eames, listen to me.

Do you want your drink dry or not?


He’d killed men with and without his bare hands before they all had. Sometimes he wondered if deep in his soul some hidden streak ran parallel to his bones that did not exist in ordinary men and allowed him to do all the things that he did. In New York on the trains he’d stood among hundreds of people and wondered what dreams lay inside of their hearts. What was safe when not even a man’s thought was his own. When it could be altered planted subverted stolen. Could it happen that one day no-one on the earth had a single thing exclusively theirs. The great human condition of everything and nothing and no-one being able to tell the difference. He didn’t think about this overly much since it prevented him from doing his job but from time to time he pondered it. As a boy he hadn’t meant to turn out this way. Whatever this was. Whoever he was. But he didn’t regret. A luxury that he with all of his millions could not yet and would never be able to afford.


In the city the lean of the sun was warm. He followed it through the hollow streets the copper shapes of it disrupted by flocks of pigeons leaping up with wings beating when he walked beside them.

Hey, he called. Hey, is anyone here?

It felt like he was calling up to the sky. He doubted God or anyone up top would hear him. He listened to the sound of his shoes. One. Two.


He slept in a hotel room that he did not recognise with the covers pulled up underneath his arms. The furniture was tasteful as Mal was tasteful. At Mal’s wedding he’d danced with her almost three times felt the graceful shift in her gravity centre and the look on her face of a woman in love who wanted nothing more than for the world to fall in love as well.

Afterward she found him by the river’s edge. Soft mist of laughter and music behind them and the quiet, calm rustling of the reeds. They sat and looked out at the water together. Small wimples appeared from time to time in the current. Trout underneath and the river crabs. She sloped onto his shoulder his suit jacket on the grass and her hair tickled softly beneath his neck. Folds in the clouds as the sun lolled down slowly and the flash of a glare as it hit the right angle. The fresh smell of salt and mud and bruised grass. The quick dart of the insects. The glare disappeared and he no longer needed to squint at the sun and the landscape came back in mysterious brush strokes. He could almost detect the soft surge of her heart.

Life is so beautiful, she said to him.


When he woke he dressed and then he went out of the room and searched all the rooms off the corridor. They were all of them empty. He went downstairs and the blank lobby echoed the sharp sound of his shoes right back at him. He passed out of the silent glass doors.


Once in Belarus he’d spent six weeks with a man stealing cars. Across Europe they’d cut a clean line through the cities like some child stringing dot to dot with a pencil. The glad rush of it, shaving by the front view mirror, the ham rolls with lettuce and sweet-seeded mustard.

Are you happy?

In general, or just right now?

Oh, Arthur. Never a straight answer for anything.

Stop laughing. Keep your eyes on the road.

You’re smiling.

I am not.

He turned his face away. It would happen that later he’d revisit this moment and each time something quiet would sneak up on him. Like the shot of a rifle or the glare on a river it was perfect. It signified everything.


In some part of the city he came upon a house that looked as if it belonged by a beach. Green tiled ceilings and a porch that shone in the sun steps down to a pool of very still water instead of the expected sand. The water circled right around the house. There was a walkway above the water that led to the porch.

On the porch a hanging chair from the roof. A low wicker table. He went into the house past the foyer with French magazines and a woman’s coat thrown across the back of an armchair.


Corridor and living room with children’s toys. Familiar in a far-off way. Like stepping from the carriage of a train into the next with only a subtle jolt in between to warn that the world had altered somewhat. He ran the tips of his fingers over the dining room table and the deep green placemats the windows with their dark wood letting in the light. He went upstairs but no-one was up there either and eventually he left. There were just so many houses.


Some nights he woke afraid he’d begun to forget. Left with the things he had to remember there were details that altered. Times. Places. Specific words. Meanings of words. Was it better to remember and warp the things you remembered or to simply let the memories be as they were. Was that the start of forgetfulness, letting memories be. He didn’t know. With his pocket-knife he sat and carved.

A-R-T-H-U-R. A-R-T-H-U-R.


After days weeks months he wasn’t sure he happened upon a hotel that wasn’t completely lifeless.

Hello, sir, the girl said. She was young, uniformed. Blonde hair in a fishbone plait down her nape and a scarf tied neatly about her neck. How may I help you?

He looked at her a long while. Fingered the grip of the pistol in his pocket.


I’d like a single room.


She tapped away at computer keys. He saw that her hands were beautiful and even sitting down he knew she had a splendid figure. Her eyes were the colour of lit-up wood clear and brown. He had a sudden inexplicable longing to reach down touch her forearm count the beats of her pulse but he did not. From outside in the street, a dog barked.


Time when he’d made a name for himself he’d had reputation, famed loyalty, fearlessness. No-one was ever completely fearless. With the shells that had ripped their way through his body everything was cold. The acerbic light with its halo of silver around it that came with distance from the lamps and eyes blurred with tears. He was lying there crying. He could feel his guts underneath his fingers. The slime of them up and beneath his nails and pain like something that seized his abdomen and choked him with it the spilling gash. So cold. A man beside him holding his shoulders and helplessly rocking him. The ceiling swirled. Time when he’d gone to college to study medicine so that other men would not need to go all the way through this. With that knowledge he understood what was happening to him the slow spiral the descent into physical shock. Morphine and prayers. Blood clogging his lungs. Neither of them with a knife or a bullet. Snap a man’s neck and it might still take him half an hour to die. He was lying there crying. He might have lain there an hour or lain there a minute those were things that turned hazy with revisitation but he knew that he’d lain there and that he’d not been fearless even as the halogen lights dimmed out of his vision and he’d woken like a newborn babe to the world.


One morning he put his die on the bedside table and when he’d brushed his teeth he forgot to go back. At the door of the house he carved his name in the wood. A-R-T-H-U-R. Like always. And then he moved on.


Night-time and a hailstorm overtook him in the city. He was sitting at a table reading a book. The ice pelted the windows like ack-ack fire lights blinking and then the power went out.

Once he’d sat in a wrecked car fumbling for a seatbelt clasp the man beside him with a jagged hole in the side of his head. Almost impossibly the man had still been alive sluggish with the blood all over his shirt. Mumbling. Glass cuts all over his arms. Smell of gas in the air and the seatbelt was jammed and both the man’s legs were broken trapped beneath the dashboard. Dom with ten minutes still left on the clock. He was free of his own seatbelt and though the door would not open the window was shattered and he knocked it clean with his elbow. The man beside him could not move and still sat there head wound a mess. Sound as the engine buckled and sparked. The gas smell.

Eames, I’m going to have to go, he said.

Standing now on the balcony with hail pelting down and not a drop of rain touched him. The storm thrashed on mute and anguished. So much inhuman chaos that could not be helped but he was human and he could have decided some things. Walking away from the car as it smoked and burned and spilled petrol like mud and the ache in his chest that he could have done more he could’ve always done more. He could have altered so much. He had a human heart.


When the rain cleared in the morning he crossed a square where a woman and her sister were walking a dog. A boy sat in a park and threw stones in a pond and inside the pond the orange flash of goldfish fins. Clear taste of the rain in the air on his tongue.

I’ve missed this, he thought and he knew it was true.


Day he pushed into an apartment and came upon a family sitting at a breakfast table.

Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing!

I’m sorry, I just – I’m going now, I’m sorry.

You can’t just barge in here like you own the place!

He backed out into the corridor and closed the door. From the other side he heard the angry turn of a lock.

I’m sorry, he called again. I’ve got the wrong floor. I’m sorry.

Shaken he went to the elevators and jabbed the down button with his thumb. Once inside he ran both his hands over his hair stared into the mirrors what on earth was he doing. He didn’t live here. He didn’t know any of these houses or flats. No reason for him to go on like this though he had a numb feeling that he’d had a reason once. He put his palms on the mirrored wall next to him. His fingers traced out the letters.

A-R-T-H –


Once he passed a coffee shop with a seated woman inside and he stopped and turned back and looked at her through the shopfront. She wore a beautiful blue summer dress and she had a cream-coloured flower in her dark curls and while he looked at her she turned her head and saw him.

When he went inside she shifted a napkin away so that a place was empty for him to sit next to her.

The coffee here is delicious, she said to him. Her eyes were large like pools like great mirrors.

Do you come here often?

Every morning.


Sometimes. I’ve seen you once or twice. Do you live near here?

Not really. No.

She put her hands around her mug fingertips meeting holding it to her lips as if it were precious. Ring on her finger and a single diamond. Light on her cheekbones and collarbones and a deep contentment that stirred something in him when he saw it.

Are you going to be here tomorrow?


I’m Arthur.

She smiled at him softly. I’m Mal.


Strange to look on her and see her in love and so much younger than him. Day after day with the glowing surety in her eyes. One morning he put his hand on her wrist her pulse singing the snow catching on her long eyelashes and she put her arms out looked up at the sky where the flakes came down. Her eyes so bright. Then she turned the wrist he had in his hand until their palms met, her other hand touching down on his shoulder. She leaned in her heels lifted.

Come on, Arthur, she said.

Suddenly with his free hand on her waist he understood that he longed for what she was. That she in her quiet infinite wisdom knew the world and what it was to be happy in it.


It came to be that he had his own apartment. That the sun rose of its own accord in the morning and slathered its beams on his hardwood floors.

The face in his mirror spoke of a man past forty not yet unattractive but certainly past his prime. Sometimes he had moments when he stood by the window or out on the porch palms braced on the rail and realised that he truly wanted for something, though with an older man’s understanding that he could no longer pursue it. Once he’d flown across entire continents with a purpose that now escaped his memory. In the evenings he struggled with these unknowns. In another life another world perhaps he’d been a young man with a young man’s fears and a young man’s questionings and a young man’s mute struggle with right and wrong. Perhaps he’d loved in the way that Mal now loved. But a young man chases and an old man waits and now he was old and he had to wait. In a way now he recognised that happiness could not always be hunted and that sometimes it would approach in unguarded moments. Like the shot of a rifle or a river glare. He simply had to be patient. The moment would come.

Perhaps one particular afternoon on a subway he’d catch the eye of a man sitting opposite him. Perhaps the man would be older blond hair flecked with age and grey eyes and a chin smattered lightly with stubble. The flick of the tunnel lights over his face. The strong jaw. The slow sloping half-startled smile.

I’m Eames.

I’m Arthur.

And then it would be done, another soft thing of wonder in the years to come. For in a life and a world made suddenly new the only certainty lay deep in the human heart.

The End.

A/N: So, this happened after I read Cormac McCarthy's The Road. The style is probably obvious. Hope it worked, darlings! Do let me know. :snuggles:

Please don't forget to comment! And feel free to friend me for future Arthur/Eames, or check out my other Inception fics! I am also participating in writing4acause - I'm offering up to 5,000 words of Inception fic for a donation up to and including $30; a higher donation will get a word count of up to 10,000 words. If you'd like to make a request, please do so here! The rules are that I write a fic for every request, so multiple requests are all well and good. Thank-you for your support, bbs!

ze_zebraze_zebra on December 6th, 2010 01:37 pm (UTC)
I'm childish and I wanted to be the first to comment? :) off to read it...
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on December 6th, 2010 01:38 pm (UTC)
Buh, you. :loves you:
- ze_zebra on December 6th, 2010 02:34 pm (UTC) (Expand)
- epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:04 am (UTC) (Expand)
- ze_zebra on December 18th, 2010 11:34 am (UTC) (Expand)
- epistolic on December 22nd, 2010 01:13 pm (UTC) (Expand)
- ovariesofsteel on December 6th, 2010 01:44 pm (UTC) (Expand)
ovariesofsteelovariesofsteel on December 6th, 2010 01:45 pm (UTC)
I loved this-back to give thoughts later. Pre-K for mini, and gym for me.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:04 am (UTC)
Thank-you, so glad you enjoyed! ♥
AYMSzeto on December 6th, 2010 01:48 pm (UTC)
With a ruler Mombasa was twenty centimetres from New York on a map. He put the gun back together. With a ruler the curve of a hip was twenty centimetres to the delicate curve of a belly-button.

With a ruler the time between one breath and the next was a brilliant thing unmeasurable.

What gorgeous imagery.
AYMSzeto on December 6th, 2010 01:49 pm (UTC)
Everywhere people lost their childhoods in silence the moments vivid and radiant then suddenly gone.
How do you come up with these utterly beautiful lines, you amazing person, you.
- zeto on December 6th, 2010 01:58 pm (UTC) (Expand)
- zeto on December 6th, 2010 02:06 pm (UTC) (Expand)
- zeto on December 6th, 2010 02:09 pm (UTC) (Expand)
- zeto on December 6th, 2010 02:10 pm (UTC) (Expand)
- epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:05 am (UTC) (Expand)
- zeto on December 15th, 2010 12:02 pm (UTC) (Expand)
- epistolic on December 19th, 2010 02:33 am (UTC) (Expand)
(Deleted comment)
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:05 am (UTC)
The Companion the Doctor never Talks About: Dariawirrrn on December 6th, 2010 02:22 pm (UTC)

Brilliant fic. Love the colours and the textures of the world you weave, and the slow, rolling sadness of the piece.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:06 am (UTC)
Thank-you so much, very happy you liked! ♥
[sara] a nostalgic color: brick brendan heelitnowdigosaraba on December 6th, 2010 03:56 pm (UTC)
All the non-traditional/free form stuff you do is just beautiful. It always, always gets me. NEVER STOP! I can't help but second zeto's comment about the paragraph with the rulers imagery. I never want to forget those comparisons. <3

Also, I hope you don't mind if I friend you because now I have to be sure not to miss any of your fic. =D
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:08 am (UTC)
Ah, thank-you so very much! :blushes: Your comment pretty much just made my day. And yes, of course I don't mind friending! I love making new friends. Will defs add you back. ♥
clair3clair3 on December 6th, 2010 05:51 pm (UTC)
absolutely gorgeous!!!
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:08 am (UTC)
Thank-you! ♥
(Deleted comment)
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:12 am (UTC)

Bah, you. You. What do I even say? How do I even deserve your love, your enthusiasm? I must have built up a mountainous level of good karma from a prior life, because otherwise I would never have internets-met you. You're so sweet, ♥ Thank-you so much! I'm so glad you enjoyed this, that even through my more experimental pieces you still stick with me and read and comment and shower me with praise that I can't possibly deserve. Thank-you. I'm pretty sure the sole reason I write now is for love from you and those like you, who are just so kind to me. ♥ ♥

(All of which is just a really roundabout way of me saying Thank-you, darling. You've made my day. ♥)
(Deleted comment)
- epistolic on December 17th, 2010 08:37 am (UTC) (Expand)
and i'm absolutely flawless: tom hardy | oh shit shake that assweatheredlaw on December 6th, 2010 06:25 pm (UTC)
I think the style is brilliant. The Road is one of my favorite novels and McCarthy is such an amazing author. This style really works for the story - definitely a good deviation from the more "usual" way of writing. I like this a lot. And I think the ending is spectacular - like you're not sure where they are or if they're out or not, but it doesn't matter because they've found one another and that was the entire point in the first place. Excellent job.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:12 am (UTC)
Ah, thank-you! And yes, I am so in love with McCarthy's writing and his style. I'm so happy you liked this! And that the ending worked! Thank-you so much. ♥
epic escapist love: jglchaoticallyclev on December 6th, 2010 10:31 pm (UTC)
this is just so rich in feeling. gorgeous. ♥

(i've had this comment window up for hours because I forgot to hit post before going to work. *headdesk*)
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:12 am (UTC)
Oh, thank-you, darling. Thank-you. ♥
Meamesphotoclerk on December 6th, 2010 10:55 pm (UTC)
*__* oh darling.
All my love for everything you write. They're all so melancholy when they're not outright sad, but I love love love them and you know it. <3
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:13 am (UTC)
Oh, you. Your comments always make me smile. :grin: Thank-you! I'm so, so happy you enjoyed. ♥
kittie_gurl57: Inceptionkittie_gurl57 on December 7th, 2010 02:33 am (UTC)
Oh my dear. You are always so amazing that I very, very often lose the ability to shower you with coherant praise. However, my best shot is this:



You're so amazing. I loved the style you wrote this in, and I loved how you had Arthur writing and carving his name into everything he found, and I loved the flowing yet disjointed feel of some of the segments. I also really loved the lack of punctuation and structure in some parts (and I don't say that often). So, in short, DARLING YOU BLEW MY MIND.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:15 am (UTC)
Gaw, you. This comment just... Gaw. Thank-you so much! I'm almost squirming with happiness right now, you can't even begin to imagine. Thank-you for still reading despite the experimentalisation, and pushing past my crazy structure and punctuation and so on - thank-you. You're much too lovely, my dear. ♥
rennerenne on December 7th, 2010 10:57 am (UTC)
I’m drunk, sweetheart. Don’t mind me.

Eames, listen to me.

Do you want your drink dry or not?

That was the sound of my heart breaking. This is just so, so breathtaking. Everything you write is, really, but every time you get to me. Every time.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:15 am (UTC)
Oh, you. You. Thank-you so much, I don't even. ♥
Seek: epicplotcoldthermistor on December 7th, 2010 04:03 pm (UTC)
J.F.C. I always, always, always love the way you play with style in your pieces., And so skillfully too. It's another of those pieces I won't feel safe saying *anything* definite about, with regard to content - not until maybe three more close readings.

I like the very impressionistic flashes we get in each section, though, especially the one on Arthur's childhood. And the way memory runs into present - it's very Limbo. Awesome job, mate! (:
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:23 am (UTC)
Gah, thank-you so much! You're really much too kind, I don't even. I'm so happy you liked the style, gaw. Thank-you. ♥
Vice President of #Awesometown: Arthur/Eames Kisssully_is_hott on December 7th, 2010 07:36 pm (UTC)
Omg so much love for this. <33 *_*
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on December 15th, 2010 08:23 am (UTC)