eternalsojourn: Legs (Default)
[personal profile] eternalsojourn
Author: [livejournal.com profile] eternalsojourn for art by [livejournal.com profile] neomeruru
Written for: [livejournal.com profile] i_reversebang
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~4950
Warnings: Angst, major character death, some violence
Beta: [livejournal.com profile] night_reveals, who always has the most incisive comments. Unfortunately I left her (and myself) little time for editing on this one, and as such, I didn't end up taking all her advice, to my detriment. All remaining flaws are mine; she probably caught everything you could think of to improve this fic.
A/N: This is a reincarnation fic, so most of the sections are essentially AU, with one canon-era section.
Art Master Post: Can be found here.
Summary: Arthur and Eames begin, then go through several iterations of their love before finally, perhaps, getting it right.

Theme and Variations



Reincarnation
[livejournal.com profile] neomeruru

195,000 Years Ago

Fire crackled, throwing off heat that bordered on stifling, the furs a soft, warm surface on which two bodies shifted, slow and glistening. Outside was cold, dark. Unforgiving, filled with dangers. Past the mouth of the cave where it widened to a cavern, the fire provided more than light, more than heat, more than protection from the creeping night. It cast a glow within which a self-contained world forgot all else.

It was just two bodies, hunting mates. Men who knew the words for “danger” for “food this way” for “shelter here”, but who had no words for the desire that stirred in them. Men who simply touched because it felt right, who stroked the way they themselves had done to relieve the itch. They pressed themselves together face to face until the heavier one, Eames, growled, biting at Arthur’s flesh and flipping him over.

His probing fingers were met with a grunt, the drag of dry skin suggesting pain. Using the only liquid he knew, he drooled warm and wet onto his fingers and penis, and waited no longer. He pushed and Arthur moaned, fingers looking pale splayed against the dark fur.

Eames was pleased at the sound, and felt a swelling pulse rush to his jutting flesh. He drove in, curling his body around his mate.

The fire crackled loudly as a piece of wood split in the background. Arthur tugged at himself frantically, knees slipping on the furs. He grunted and keened, panted and rubbed until he stilled, then jerked, spilling milky liquid into the fur.

Eames continued to thrust hard, bracing his mate’s hips and gasping into the sweaty back. He came with a groan, lips brushing his mate’s back — an oddly tender touch. The skin felt nice on his lips. Perhaps he would try that more next time.

The idea dissipated quickly, to be remembered later. Cloaked in the heat of the fire, of the furs, of his spent mate, he fell asleep in safety.

***

With no large beasts around, they split up and hunted smaller game. Arthur brought down a large flying beast; Eames had ensnared a small furry one. While Arthur prepared the fire, Eames gathered roots, leaves, and berries.

After it all, the fire burned low but steady, the beasts reduced to bones and tendon. Arthur used a rock to crush charcoal from the fire together with some rendered fat into a softly dipped stone. Eames had a soaked green stick and was carefully shifting something near the embers.

While Arthur drew the shape of the animal Eames had caught onto the wall, Eames was busy gently rubbing a stone on something.

Later, by the dying embers as they sat closer together for warmth, Eames handed Arthur the thing he’d been working on.

It was a wishbone, dried, free from flesh, warmed and scraped smooth. Arthur lightly drew his finger along its curves, where it divided from one to two, then drew two fingers back down to where they joined.

He laid down on the furs and pulled Eames down with him, looking him in the eyes and stroking his arm. Eames, remembering how Arthur’s skin felt under his lips, leaned forward, and kissed.

***

7th Century

Eames floats nowhere. His time is not now.

***

It was a reality of Arthur’s life that he was poor. He didn’t question why; that would be energy spent that would be put to better use figuring out how to survive.

When he wasn’t actively scavenging for food, or before someone came and scooted him out of his current shelter, he had good times. He laughed with his friends, he enjoyed the sunshine, he relished a good night’s sleep.

One early winter’s day after a particularly bad harvest, those memories were far from his mind.

He had been chased from several shop entrances, and the most promising alleys for discarded food ends had turned up nothing. Arthur’s stomach was beyond complaining as he stoically moved on.

Down a new alley he’d never seen before, he dug through a meagre bin. A door opened a little ways away and his eyes met the kindly gaze of a woman with slate grey eyes. She held in her hands a platter with the ragged remains of a roast fowl, picked mostly clean.

She held it out towards Arthur, eyebrows raised. Arthur approached cautiously and reached out to take it with a suspicious frown.

She smiled and reached to place his other hand under the platter to support it.

“You’ll leave the plate at my door when you’re finished, yes? Keep out of sight. The master might see you.”

Arthur bobbed his head in thanks and retreated to the shadows behind the bin. The smell of fresh cooked meat aroused the grumbling of his gut. He gratefully sucked every last morsel off the bones, happily discovering chunks of meat by the joints. When he finally finished and picked over the white, drying bones, his fingers landed on the wishbone.

Something fractured and split inside him. He ached with a sudden sense of loss, of isolation.

He wanted to sit there, to curl up into that quiet corner and cry, for no reason he could discern.

He gripped the two sides of the bone and pulled until it cracked. It wasn’t dry enough to snap in two, so it hung on by shreds.

He placed it back on the platter and stood, leaving the platter at the door. He wandered off to seek more food, inexplicably angry and forlorn.

***
Turn of the 20th Century

As boys, people about town thought they must be brothers. They walked to the five-and-dime with their small allowances, exiting with a colourful assortment of candies and trading cards. They chased each other, bellowing battle cries as they hurled ‘spears’ — 5ft ferns — at each other. They fought and wrestled, forgave each other wordlessly, and swam, their toasted bodies glistening in the summer sun.

It was in their favourite swim hole that Arthur took to calling Eames “Bones”. A rock formation, a tall tower with a hole beneath it that looked much like a wishbone, prompted Eames to ask Arthur to meet him at the Bones. He said it so often, Arthur just slipped into calling Eames that. Eames never questioned it.

As teens they cruised together for girls, talked each other up to the fair and fresh-faced young ladies at the diner, the boulevard, and eventually the bar. Then they quietly resented the other when things went too well with their girlfriends, and suddenly there was no time for fooling around, for carefree drives around town, for a pensive smoke down by the river.

All those small betrayals seemed insignificant when the war started.

With a proud step and a sense of duty, Arthur signed up. With a twinkle in his eye and a thirst for adventure, Eames went with him.

The training proved the making of both of them. Broken down, shouted at, pushed beyond their limits, then trusted and believed in, they thrived: Arthur with a grim, steadfast determination, Eames with a cavalier, expectation-defying brilliance.

By some miracle (and an understanding assigning sergeant), they landed in the same regiment.

The pride and twinkle eventually dulled, eclipsed by disillusionment brought on by watching their brothers-in-arms die in agony in the trenches. Of gutshot, of gangrene after weeks on the front lines, beyond the reach of medical help. Of bodies left to rot in muddy fields overtaken by the enemies. There was no honour for the fallen.

One grey morning amid what was once a quiet town in France, Arthur, Eames, and the ten remaining members of their troop picked carefully through the rubble for useable goods and supplies. After weeks of hard battle, the men took the opportunity of the quietude to joke and laugh. The squawk of crows and soothing whoosh — like radio static and yet so unlike it — of a nearby brook were enough to lull everyone into a sense of respite.

The youngest of their crew was Hawks, a bright-eyed, fresh-faced boy with brash confidence and an appetite for destruction. He had stopped atop a small mound of rubble, had kicked some unusable junk aside and was just bending down to inspect some promising-looking handle when a dull, flat shot popped through the quiet.

Hawks lay crumpled, his head bleeding out a vibrant red over the muted dusty grey of crumbled stone beneath him.

The team scattered, diving behind things while more shots sent up bursts of dust and debris.

Arthur and Eames, who were farthest ahead, ducked into the broken doorway of a nearby stone shop front.

Silently, Arthur pointed to the upper window of a building across the way, then to the upper level of the shop they were standing in. Eames glanced at the continuing bursts of debris, at the apparent locations of the rest of their troop and nodded grimly. He pointed at Arthur, then straight up, then at himself and the building across the street.

Arthur nodded. “Bones,” he barely breathed, part warning, part encouragement.

Eames squeezed Arthur’s shoulder in preparation to run across the open street, but his eyes spoke of worry for Arthur.

Arthur just smirked, then broadened it to a grin as he punched Eames softly in the shoulder and pushed him lightly towards the door opening.

Under Arthur’s cover fire, Eames hustled first to the shelter of a half-destroyed statue in the square, then to the opening between two buildings. He found the entrance at the back, half caved in. It took him a minute to quietly move enough pieces out of the way to enter.

The stairs were creaky so he waited for the sound of gunfire, resolutely not thinking about his friends still in the street, and kept to the edges to minimize noise.

Upstairs he found two men, each focused on their own window.

With a quick glance around to make sure no one could sneak up on him once he’d made his presence known, Eames shot both men dead, then another shot each to make sure.

The silence was sudden.

Eames headed back across to see how Arthur had fared — well, judging by the lack of gunfire.

He received some thumbs up from some of his men, though they were already sweeping the area to find any stragglers.

When Eames reached the statue, he heard a shout and saw a body fall from the window of Arthur’s building. It was the wrong uniform for Arthur, but alarmed nonetheless, Eames rushed in.

Upstairs Eames was greeted with a sight that was a punch to the gut. Two bodies were in dark heaps on the floor, but all Eames saw was Arthur, slumped and soaked in blood against the wall below the open window.

“There was a third,” he said weakly. “In the next room. He got me.”

“That was him out the window?” Eames asked, though he knew. When Arthur nodded, he shook his head in disbelief. “You’re a hard bastard.” He fell to his knees beside Arthur, gingerly inspecting the wound.

Arthur tried to wave him off. “I’m done, Eames. I’ve lost so much blood.”

Outside shouts arose, the scuffle of sudden activity, the stuttered tap of fresh gunfire.

“Go,” said Arthur. “They’ll need you.”

Eames’s eyes flashed with anger. “Don’t you dare give up. I’ll come back up for you.”

Arthur shook his head wearily. “I’m just glad you’re here,” he replied.

It was the unusual show of sentimentality that told Eames more than the blood, more than the drawn pallor of Arthur’s face.

“Get that chair,” Arthur said. “I can at least shoot a few from the window.”

Eames did, and seeing Arthur’s determined clench of his jaw as he aimed as best he could out the window with his good arm, Eames was able to give Arthur’s shoulder one last squeeze before rushing out the door.

It was dusk before Eames returned. The gruelling day of advance-retreat had whittled his team down to five. They’d have retreated out of the village entirely but for the hard-won land, the few but relentless enemies, and the fact of Arthur’s presence on the upper floor of that shop.

In the end they prevailed, but the victory was pyrrhic.

Arthur’s body still sat in the seat, propped up by the wall, but he was long since gone from that shell.

Eames shouted at the others to find a suitably defensible position to set up camp for the night. He took one last long look at Arthur, feeling as though he’d been cut loose from his moorings.

He turned and followed his team.

The rest of his tour of duty made a hero of Eames. He had no sense of loyalty, no motivation to do the right thing. What he had was a compulsion to dive into the thick of battle, to keep moving when others quailed, to rush into the breach when all hope seemed lost.

He’d have been given awards for his valour (and laughed at the misnomer) had he survived the war to receive them.

***

Early 21st Century

The first time they were introduced was by Mallorie Cobb on a government test run for a new use for the PASIV: psychological evaluation. Eames had suspected, based on early testing in his own country and the very fact of his involvement, that the technology was moving towards finding out peoples’ secrets. Otherwise why hire a known thief and con man? He had no real qualms about it, but he did like knowing what he was signing on for.

Despite Arthur’s reputation, Eames did not think Arthur was entirely too clean, body and soul, to be getting involved in such endeavours. He might have thought Arthur was a tad humourless, determined as he was not to so much as twitch his lips at Dominic Cobb’s attempts at humour. That’s not what struck him most about Arthur, though. What he thought was that he quite liked Arthur on sight, and at the same time, Eames had an incredible urge to find Arthur’s tender spots and poke.

During that job, Eames discovered that Arthur was not quite humourless, just not particularly amused by Dominic. He also appeared to have the same compulsion to needle and pick that Eames did. Eames found it altogether delightful, though at times he rather suspected Arthur didn’t feel the same way. Whether or not that was true, Eames had the distinct and unshakeable impression that they’d fallen into a well-worn path, despite the fact that it was impossible for anything to be “well-worn” when they’d only just met.

Coming back together for the Fischer job, Eames was grateful for the effortless familiarity they had, given the seemingly endless complications of the job. It was helpful having at least one person he didn’t have to worry too much about.

The events of that job left Eames shaken and exhilarated — much like the rest of them, judging by their faces upon waking. Arthur’s incredulous, triumphant smile was a perfect reflection of Eames’s state of mind when their eyes met. It was little wonder, then, that Arthur showed no surprise when Eames waited in baggage claim to see if Arthur fancied some company, wherever he was going.

Whatever familiarity they shared from the moment they met was burned away, replaced by the inferno that followed.

They were both alight with success and a narrow escape from disaster. By unspoken agreement, they headed straight to the hotel (Arthur’s choice), booked one room, and neglected to head back out again for food or anything else.

If Arthur was demanding professionally, he was positively rapacious intimately. No sooner had Eames placed his bag down when Arthur tugged on Eames’s lapel, and taking barely a moment to search Eames’s face for objection, kissed him fiercely. Riding many highs at once, they crashed together, taking from each other without reservation or courtesy.

The initial rush wore off, as those things tended to do, though after that they were nigh on inseparable. They took work together, they stayed together. They lived together almost by accident, it not making any sense to find separate arrangements wherever they went. Eames gave up his flat in London, Arthur his apartment in San Francisco, and together they made a home of sorts in the 17th arrondisement in Paris, in Levallois. It suited them well, the life of fine foods, wines, and nights topped with armagnac and lovemaking.

In a city where love and fine living are indulged without shame, emotions run high: it was also the home of fiery arguments, words with no punches pulled. Their time spent finding tender spots to poke, once done in the spirit of gentle teasing, honed their skills well to cut deep to the places that took too long to heal.

Their specific complaints were valid, if trivial. Arthur accused Eames of falling short in taking care of daily tasks; Eames accused Arthur of prioritizing the mundane. Doubt crept in, insidious. Eames suspected Arthur of growing tired of Eames’s laissez-faire approach to life; Arthur suspected Eames of growing bored. Their fear added fuel to the fire, gave potency to their defensive strikes.

In moments of quiet solitude, if they had looked closely enough, they’d have seen underneath the nurtured resentment a simple driving thought: “Don’t go”.

One night late in winter, the fire burned hot and strong one last time. It was an argument they’d had before, but one of them (neither would later remember who) accused the other of falling out of love. When neither of them had the heart or the humility to argue otherwise, they both walked away, furious, helpless.

Eames turned to old habits for comfort — gambling, drifting, drinking — but found none. He might have wanted to make amends, feeling some remorse for words he thought he meant at the time. In retrospect those words were harsher than he could bear to look at directly, but he was convinced Arthur wanted nothing more to do with him.

Arthur found himself in the home of the Cobbs: the sadness that had soaked into the walls and never quite dissipated suited him just fine.

He found himself at dinner one Sunday nearly a year later with Dom and the kids, the smell of roast chicken reminding him entirely too much of Sunday evenings in Paris. He’d managed to put it from his mind and enjoy Philippa’s prattle right through dessert. Then Philippa, excited at having a string of visitors, said, “Daddy, will Uncle Arthur still be here when Eames and Harry come?”

Feeling suddenly ill, Arthur placed his napkin on the table and stood. “I don’t think so, Philippa. I have to work,” and he walked out, not trusting himself to prevent his sick resentment from spilling over into the kids’ space. He missed, then, Cobb’s answer that Eames, the forger, and Harry, the chemist, wouldn’t be staying but simply stopping for lunch on their way to the university, where they’d be training a fledgling class in dreamshare techniques.

He also missed the kids splitting the wishbone, James delighted at winning for the first time and getting to make his wish. Had Arthur witnessed this, he might have reflected on what he’d have wished for. As it was, he distracted himself with the task of packing his belongings to move on the next day.

***

2140

In the spring of 2140 in Grace Maternity Hospital in Fort Baker, California, two boys were born. One, plump and fair, clear-eyed and quiet, was born to British parents. They named him Adrian Eames. The other, tall with a thick head of dark hair already, kicked and jerked, and smiled. His parents called him Arthur, for no other reason but that he looked like one. Due to a large number of births in that area, the two mothers were forced to share a room and the boys, quiet to begin with, appeared to enjoy being placed together. One nurse smiled down at them and called them “old souls”, though neither of the mothers believed in such things.

The mothers, when their husbands weren’t around, became fast friends over the next day they remained in the hospital. And as it turned out, they lived within several blocks of each other, though city life being what it was, had never previously met.

They visited often, and the boys grew up side by side, close as brothers. Arthur called Adrian “Eames”, and Eames accepted it, though no one knew quite why Arthur did so. Arthur himself could not have said why; his mother asked once, and he simply shrugged. He was Eames, that’s all.

When they attended school, they had a friendly competition, pushing each other to the top of the class. Outside in their spare time, they tumbled and played, ran free when they weren’t supposed to, got into mischief and covered for each other.

It was devastating, then, when eight years later, Eames’s grandfather fell ill, and Eames’s family moved back to the family estate in England to care for him. Arthur and Eames had a moment in the park the morning Eames was meant to leave. Sitting on the monkey bars and swinging their legs, they were both bereft, pouting, and completely without words to express what they were feeling.

“Mum says we have to stay there. If granddad dies, dad has to take care of the house,” Eames said, staring at his knees. “Dunno why. We have a house here.”

Arthur said nothing for a minute, kicking at one of the rungs. “We can talk on the comm,” he said hopefully, but couldn’t dislodge the unpleasant heaviness in his stomach.

Eames nodded, then looked at the car in the distance to see his father shutting the trunk on the last of their luggage. “Gotta go,” he said sullenly.

Arthur nodded, angry and sad and unable to speak past the lump in his throat. When Eames hopped off the bars, Arthur met Eames’s eyes for a moment. Eames’s lips twitched downward in an unhappy curve.

“Call me when you get there,” Arthur said, and Eames smiled sadly, turned and left.

***

They did use the comm for a time, but life and activity overtook them, and their contact to dwindled, then disappeared.

It wasn’t until Arthur, at age 14, took a trip with his family to Greece with a connecting flight in London that Arthur laid eyes on Eames again. In the duty free, Arthur was poking around the sunglasses when he heard a voice call his name. Turning, he saw a familiar face grinning at him.

“Eames!” Arthur exclaimed before he could even think. Eames was bigger, obviously, awkwardly standing like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, much like Arthur himself. Arthur moved forward hesitantly, followed by Eames, who looked as unsure as Arthur. Arthur laughed slightly, then just gave in and hugged Eames, who melted against him.

“I never expected to see you here,” said Arthur, letting go.

You didn’t?” Eames laughed.

Arthur huffed, conceding the point, and explained about his family’s holiday. Eames, it turned out, was on his way to Italy with his parents. As Arthur was about to ask how Eames had been faring in the intervening years, Eames winced at an announcement over the speakers.

“That’s my flight,” Eames said. “No time to get crisps after all.”

“Oh, right,” said Arthur, disappointed. He wanted... something. He knew he wasn’t in any position to dare to hope for anything more, for more time, or a chance to travel together, or any other ridiculous thing he might dream up. What he got, though, was nice. Eames, as rushed as he was to get back to his gate, pulled Arthur into another hug, squeezing him tight.

And then Eames was gone again, and as difficult it was to watch him walk away, Arthur couldn’t help feeling overjoyed at seeing him again.

***

Four years later Arthur had to make a choice. He could move onto diplomatic studies, which he had excelled already and would help him travel the world; or he could join the space academy, which was much harder, and may or may not lead to travel off the planet.

In the end it was no contest. Arthur was the type to take risks, albeit calculated ones, and was confident enough in his ability to work hard enough to become top of his class even in a larger arena. And besides, the academy was in the next town over, and so had loomed in his periphery for as long as he could remember.

The first day was nerve-wracking, with a pile of new recruits being herded from place to place, receiving stern speeches and sterner warnings. There were about 300 academy freshmen, roughly a third of whom would drop out in the first month (or so they were told).

During one speech from the woman who would apparently be the Tactical instructor, the recruits were asked if anyone knew why it was important for a security officer to score at least 90% in Diplomatic Relations even though they weren’t on the Ambassador study track. Arthur put up his hand and answered. “All students require that grade, regardless of field of study,” he said. “All officers of the Alliance are expected to be ambassadors of Earth.” He’d just been reading up on school philosophy, to make sure this was what he really wanted to do.

The woman nodded at him before moving on to the rest of her speech. There was a minor shuffling of people behind Arthur, but he thought nothing of it until he felt a tap on his shoulder. His jaw dropped when he turned and saw Eames smirking slyly back at him.

“Pushing to the top of the class already, are you?” Eames whispered.

“Worried you won’t be able to keep up?” Arthur shot back, smiling.

“We’ll see,” said Eames, then pointed with his chin back at the front of the class, where the woman was still speaking, but raising an eyebrow at the two.

***

The program was six years, and after five years it was determined who would be eligible for ship positions. Arthur and Eames, having relentlessly poked and prodded at each other to get ever better at all aspects of their study, were top picks. Having seen how well they collaborated and how strategic they could be together, they were posted to the same ship.

As close as they were, it was actually a long time before they pushed their relationship beyond friends. In year five, when they found out they’d both made the cut for travel, they’d celebrated at the academy bar. Later, overlooking the ocean while perched on a driftwood log, Eames had kissed Arthur softly. It was long in coming and utterly natural. It was also all they did that evening.

A few more kisses over the remainder of their studies convinced them both that it wasn’t simply the spirit of celebration that brought them to that point. Once in final year they spent a study session kissing instead, and stroking each other to completion. Then they both winced at the lost study time, but neither could really bring themselves to regret it.

Upon taking up their post, Arthur discovered their quarters were located near each other’s, and he took the first opportunity to visit Eames in his to christen their new endeavour.

Going from academia to a real posting was a huge adjustment, and being separated from everything they knew on Earth often caused new Alliance officers to struggle emotionally. Arthur and Eames were no different, and they sometimes lashed out at each other. It never lasted long, though, as both had found their own ways to cope: Eames with his holographic games designed to explore different psychological tactics in negotiation; Arthur with his zero-gravity combat exercises.

There were crises, some attacks on the ship, some moments in which neither thought they’d survive. There were also long stretches of routine.

Arthur changed; Eames changed. Arthur rose through the ranks to positions of command while Eames moved towards a position as ship’s counsel. Eventually, Arthur was given his own ship, which he accepted on condition that Eames could come with him. The Alliance, sensitive to such matters, allowed it with no objection.

On the fifth day of Arthur’s captaincy, he took a last look over his crew before finishing for the day, leaving his first officer in charge. He returned to his quarters to find Eames laying out a meal for the two of them. Pleased, Arthur changed from his uniform into civilian clothes.

When he sat at the table, he saw a box, and Eames sitting across the table from him looking mischievous. Arthur cocked an eyebrow and opened the box.

Inside sat a necklace: a simple chain with a small platinum pendant in a Y-shape.

“No rings on deck,” said Eames. “But no one said anything about a discreet necklace under your uniform.”

“Ring?” Arthur repeated.

Eames smirked, but it lacked his usual smugness. “I had it made on Earth. It’s a bit old-fashioned, I’ll admit, but I rather thought we could have something signifying... this.”

“It’s a wishbone,” said Arthur inanely.

“Yeah,” Eames said quietly. “I don’t know why. It just felt right.”

Arthur lifted the necklace out of its box and put it on. “It does,” he agreed, then stood to cross over to Eames, pulling him up and fingering the matching chain he found around Eames’s neck. “We made it, didn’t we?” he said, and kissed Eames soundly.

**End**

Date: 2012-07-29 05:11 pm (UTC)
ext_230: a tiny green frog on a very red leaf (Default)
From: [identity profile] anatsuno.livejournal.com
waaah-ah-ah-ah. You made me read deathfic. *sobs*

No, kidding - I clicked bc I thought I could cope, and I'm happy I read this story (even if I teared up). Thank you. <3

Date: 2012-07-30 04:10 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] eternalsojourn.livejournal.com
Haha! Aw, sorry! I didn't know what I was doing with this fic until I started writing, and parts came out angstier than I expected. Thanks for reading! ♥

Date: 2012-07-29 09:11 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] bat-hawk.livejournal.com
Oh, lord, I suck at reading reincarnation!fic. Always makes me teary, and the middle bits of this were so sad! Especially the canon part. Oh, boys, why are you this way? At least they got one happy ending.

Lovely writing, even if I am the worst at angst.

Date: 2012-07-30 04:11 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] eternalsojourn.livejournal.com
Thank you for reading even with the angst! <3

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