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When you open your eyes, the distinct lack of pain behind them is almost startling. Your temples aren’t throbbing, the burn in your throat is gone, and the heady, dizzy feeling that’d been weighing you down moments ago has lifted like a fog, leaving you alert and blinking at a ceiling that is both familiar and oddly comforting.
You exhale, a loud sigh shaking the silence around you before you laugh, a little strained and more relieved than you’d like to admit.
Just a dream, you think.
It was just a dream.
“Thank God,” you mutter, pushing yourself up and out of bed. You instantly regret throwing your sheet off, the cool air chilling the sweat still clinging to your skin, and your nose wrinkles. You’re in dire need of a shower, but first—
“Wake up.”
The pair of shades sitting on your desk are dim when you walk over, their usually perky red lights small and dulled, and you pat the edge of the wood as you sit. “C’mon, wake up.”
“I think you, of all people, should know that I am incapable of sleep, therefore I cannot ‘wake up,’ as you so politely demand.”
You rub the heels of your palms over your eyes and sigh. “Open log six and record.”
“Not even a ‘good morning.’ Rude.”
“Just open the log,” you huff, dropping your hands as your head tips back, resting against the back of your chair. You slide the shades on, wincing at the too-bright display. He did that on purpose but you can deal with him later. “Year continued, June 8th, dream log in progress.”
“Ah, of course.”
“Shut up. No physical effects this time beyond sweating and shortness of breath. I can’t remember what happened, just that I was dizzy, breathing was difficult, and I was happier than I’ve ever been to see my ceiling.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“Hal.”
“What’s it like to dream?”
You arch an eyebrow, aware that he can see you, and shrug. “You’ve read the logs, you should know.”
“I know about your bad dreams, Dirk. I believe I’m justified in saying there is quite the difference between the many kinds of dreams you’re subject to, and I find myself curious about these very clear differences.”
His tone leaves your face warm and you stand, manually closing the log before dropping the sentient hunk of metal and plastic you should never have tried to create back on the desk.
You don’t have time for his shit today; plain old plastic it is.
“Dirk, you didn’t answer my question.”
You ignore him, walking out of the room without another word. Down the hall, Dave’s shower is calling out for you, a siren song filled with hot water and steam, designer shampoo, and a sign that reminds you that you’re not allowed in his room.
You suppose it’s a good thing you’ve never been one for rules or cheap, red-marker signs glaring at you from ten feet off.
You brush past it, reaching to tug the tape off but it doesn’t budge and you pause, tugging again.
When it still doesn’t move, you decide you’ve had enough of inanimate objects for the day and you’ve barely been awake for more than fifteen minutes. A shower is your top priority; dealing with Dave when he inevitably finds out you’ve been depleting his supply of shampoo will come later, likely when he’s actually in the same country, state, town, and, quite possibly, building as you are.
. . . . .
You jolt upright and gasp, fingers curled in the blankets twisted around you. You can hear your heart pounding in your chest, the rush of your blood that reminds you of seashells and the ocean, and your own ragged breathing.
You’re frightened, you realize, just before a surge of annoyance rushes forward, riding on the adrenaline moving through your system.
You can’t remember.
You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised, and as you flop back, kicking at the sheets tangled around your feet, you let out a loud sigh.
“That sounds promising,” Hal chirps, and there’s something in his artificial tone that you find soothing, calming somehow.
Maybe you’re still dreaming.
“Log,” you tell him. “Continued, June 14th, panic, no memory, and sweating. I feel like I ran twelve miles uphill both ways and went absolutely nowhere. That’s it.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” You shoot a glance at your desk, eyes focusing on the soft red that lights up the area around it.
“I don’t think so,” he tells you. “They’re getting more frequent, you know.”
You know.
You don’t need him to tell you what you’ve been telling yourself repeatedly for the past month and a half.
What started out as an infrequent experience, the rare occurrence that disrupted your usually peaceful napping, had recently become a weekly—and now bi-weekly—late night attraction. At first, you didn’t mind them. Dreams of all sorts were interesting and you’d jumped at the chance to see what might be causing the change in your subconscious. As usual, you catalogued what you could remember, but in these cases, you always came up lacking.
Where dreams of walking the red carpet and avoiding Adam Sandler at the Taco Bell six blocks down were vivid and unsettling, your new dreams were blank and left you breathless, wide awake, and looking for something to hold on to, to ground yourself with.
“I know,” you murmur, slinging an arm up over your eyes. “...I know.”
“Perhaps a change in diet,” he suggests.
“You know what I eat.”
“If you mean ‘not enough,’ then yes, I am aware of what you eat. That aside, your intake of carbonated soft drinks may have a positive effect if adjusted to be less frequent, according to the internet.”
You hum dismissively, shrugging again.
It’s unlikely you’ll be able to fall back asleep but you don’t know what to do with his concern either, so your roll over and face the wall, closing the topic for now.
“We’ll see.”
. . . . .
You know Dave’s home when the door slams and it startles you back into the waking world. There’s a little line of drool leaking onto your desk and you swipe at your mouth, nose wrinkling in disgust as it clings to your fingers.
You’ll have to redraft the unlucky plan turned pillow, but it can wait.
Dave’s home, after all, and you have a shampoo theft to answer for. Or you will, as soon as he notices.
As you make your way out to the front room, you try to ignore the nagging in the back of your mind that your excuses are getting thinner and thinner, and are in dire need of some extra padding if you want anyone—yourself included—to believe them.
You don’t miss him, you remind yourself. Years of his being away for work, staying up late and sleeping when you’re awake, have conditioned you for this.
And yet, it doesn’t change anything, from the way you can never bite back that first smile or ignore the relief you feel when the lock clicks behind him.
He greets you with a lazy two-fingered salute and a quiet, “Sup, brat?”
You shrug, leaning against the table as you watch him fumble around with his bags, trying to pull his jacket off as he drops his keys on the counter instead of simply waiting and doing one at a time. It would be easier, less strenuous, and flat make more sense.
But Dave is Dave, you suppose, and sense isn’t something he’s very in tune with.
“Same shit, different day,” you tell him. “How was London?”
“Loud, busy, full of rain and bird shit.”
“So... the usual.”
He nods. “The usual.”
You let the silence stretch, crossing your arms as you wait, and you’re about to ask him how his flight was when you pause. He’s loosening his tie, popping the top buttons on his shirt, and you find yourself staring, only jerking out of your reverie when he slings an arm around your shoulders and steers you into the living room with a warm squeeze.
He deposits both of you on the couch and slumps back, toeing off his shoes before his feet are up on the coffee table, red socks bared to you and the rest of the room.
It hits you like a ton of bricks when you realize that you actually missed him, despite knowing that your earlier denial was only for show.
You are, in fact, an idiot.
Hal would be proud.
Dave’s hand is warm and he feels good against your side, and you try not to lean too much into his side when he rubs your shoulder.
You missed him.
Something brushes against your hair, startling a soft sound out of you as your thoughts scatter, and you freeze when you realize it’s his nose as he exhales, his breath tickling over your skin.
“...You’ve been using my shower, haven't you?”
Oh. Right.
“You little shit.”
. . . . .
Log six is getting full but you’ve stopped worrying about your dreams, briefly pulled into a different problem that’s left you pacing the small space in the center of your room.
Yesterday, you woke up to the smell of pancakes, bacon, and what you thought was burnt bread but was actually toast.
Dave made breakfast.
Dave made edible breakfast, and you’d never tasted anything so good.
The dishes are still sitting in the sink, waiting for you to put them in the washer, but you can’t bring yourself to remove what little evidence you have that’s keeping yesterday morning from seeming like something out of a dream.
Then again, maybe that should be seen as incentive. Maybe the jump that likes to show up in your stomach every time Dave smiles at you wouldn’t seem so real if the physical reminder weren’t laid out in the kitchen, calling your name every time you ventured out to get a glass of water or a quick bite.
You sit on the edge of your bed and rub your hands over your face.
You don’t want it to have been a dream and, in hindsight, you’re not sure whether you should be more worried about the fact that Dave’s apparently taken a liking to the kitchen, or the lack of concern you’re expressing over the realization that there’s something seriously wrong with you.
Likely both.
. . . .
Sleep has slowly begun to elude you, and more and more you find your mind wandering instead of succumbing to that place where your subconscious takes over and all hell breaks loose. Lately, however, you don’t mind as much as you once did. The silence in your room isn’t deafening and the pounding that likes to thrum in your temples is no longer present, ruining the peacefulness of any rest you might make a grab for.
For once, you’re happy to just sit.
As you discreetly adjust your arm, you pretend that it has nothing to do with the man pressed against your side, or the head resting on your shoulder, or the soft snores that let you keep track of his breathing.
You pretend not to notice how close his fingers are to yours, or the impulsive need to reach and take hold of them that’s threatening to overcome your self-control.
You pretend that this is just a dream and that when you wake up, Dave will be back in London, and you’ll be looking forward to to his return in the same way any other brother would look forward to seeing their sibling.
You pretend that you don’t wonder how smooth his lips are, how his chest would feel pressed close to yours, or if maybe you’d be able to sleep with him at your side.
You pretend that this is enough.
You pretend you’re satisfied with that for all of two minutes before you can no longer stomach it and you slide your fingers through his, gripping his fingers more forcefully than you meant to. He stirs lightly, sighing as you go still and pull your hand back, an apology on the tip of your tongue just in case.
He doesn’t wake though and you breathe a silent, heartfelt thank you as your embarrassment burns hot on your cheeks.
How would you explain this?
...How would you explain what you don’t understand?
. . . . .
When you wake, it’s to the peculiar feeling of falling and the jump in your leg that always leaves you thinking you’re going to roll off your bed.
Fortunately for you, you don’t happen to be in your bed and you’re not actually falling.
Unfortunately for Dave, the weight on your chest nearly stops your heart and you jerk upright, shoving at the heaviness instinctively as you gasp for breath.
Dave yelps when he hits the floor, swearing up and down as he rubs at his eyes and shoots a glare your way.
“The fuck?” he snaps, righting his shirt as he stands.
You mumble a sheepish ‘sorry’ and hide the shaking of your hands at your sides.
When he walks away, you swallow the urge to call him back, or to get up and follow him, and roll over.
You really are an idiot.
. . . . .
“Log seven, continued from six, day one, July 2nd, falling. I felt like I was falling.”
“Falling?”
You nod, reclined on your bed with Hal shading your eyes. The series of monitors in your view is calming and you concentrate on the rhythmic jump of the lines skittering across the screen. Your breathing, your pulse, your temperature—he’s got everything meticulously organized for his monitoring pleasure and it occurs to you just how well he takes care of you without lifting a finger he isn’t in possession of.
A ‘thank you’ almost escapes, impulsive and quick, but you bite down on it at the last second.
You’ve been doing that a lot lately, fighting the impulse to open your mouth when you know you should keep it closed, to keep your knee-jerk reactions at bay.
You’re still not sure how to look at Dave after the debacle you’d singlehandedly created last night, unable to let go of him after you’d unceremoniously thrown your arms around him without warning.
For just a moment, you’d been unable to move, clinging to him in some kind of self-induced paralysis. But he hadn’t thrown you off, hadn’t asked you what the hell you were doing, and when his arms had wrapped around your waist, when he’d run a hand up your back and you’d felt him sigh, you hadn’t been able to hold it in any longer.
‘I missed you,’ you’d choked out and it’d sounded even more ridiculous out loud, ringing in the quiet of the kitchen.
He hadn’t gone anywhere.
He’d been home for three weeks and yet, you couldn’t—and still can’t—shake the feeling that he’s been gone for much, much longer. Even now, with your face warming at the memory, you can still feel the heavy weight in the pit of your stomach that’d left you feeling heavy, dragging you down as you sit up and glance toward the slight movement in your lap.
Your hands are shaking again.
They’ve been doing that a lot lately.
“Get some water,” Hal tells you gently and you nod without thinking. “Calm down.”
It’s soothing and soft, but you have to bite your lip to stifle the shout that comes rushing up from somewhere in your chest that you are calm, that you’re perfectly fine and you don’t need a pair of glasses telling you what to do.
It startles you, adding a spike to the heart monitor he’s got going.
“Right,” you manage and you set him aside as quickly as you can without dropping him.
Water.
You just need a drink of water.
. . . . .
It’s 3:27 PM on July 4th when Dave sits you down on the couch and stands in front of you, his arms crossed over his chest, his lips twisted in that way that only Dave can manage.
You used to hate that look as a kid.
He’s worried about you and you have no plausible, or even believable, explanation to replace the swirl of emotions welling up in your chest.
“So,” he starts and you shake your head before you can stop yourself.
No.
You don’t want to have this conversation.
You don’t know what to say or what’s wrong or—
“Let’s watch a movie.”
You nearly choke on all the excuses you’d been scrambling to organize well enough to get out in a feeble attempt to placate his concern.
“...A movie?”
“Yep.” He turns on his heel and goes over the cabinet you keep your DVDs in and selects one without even bothering to glance at it. You grip the hem of your shirt, biting back a groan.
He planned this.
You can’t decide if that worries you or if the heat blooming in your chest is from something else, more akin to care and the apparent sweetness of what he’s doing. You know what he’s picked before he manages to sit down beside you, the first of the previews clueing you in immediately, and you try to hide the smile that feels awkward on your lips because he remembers, without question, what you like.
You don’t need to ask, but you do anyway. “Spirit?”
He nods. “You know it.”
You do. You love this movie.
“It’s a good one,” he tells you, and you take the invitation to move a little closer when he lifts his arm and pats the space at his side. “Matt Damon’s a great horse.”
“You don’t have to justify your unironic love for horse films to me, Bro.”
“I’m not justifying anything, brat. I’m simply stating a well-known fact that that man is a better equine than spy. Just filling you in on the truth.”
You roll your eyes, hesitantly leaning against him, and he huffs a quiet laugh as his hand rubs over your shoulder. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
. . . . .
The movie is good but you can’t concentrate on it—not that you need to. You could recite it backwards, half asleep, and sick with the flu.
Still.
He’s too warm against you, his laughter is too obvious with your head pressed against his chest, and you don’t know how much more you can take of him petting your hair. It’s so casual, soft and gentle, and the inside of your cheek is raw from the last forty-five minutes of trying to stifle every little sigh that wants to escape.
You should sit up, at the very least tell him to stop. This isn’t something that brothers do and that knowledge eats at you with a vengeance.
You don’t though.
You can’t.
Because you know, without a doubt, that he knows that too.
He knows but he continues, and you ruthlessly squash the bubble of hope that forms beneath your worry.
. . . . .
When the credits finally roll, you stay where you are, and when his hand stills against the back of your neck, you let out the slow sigh that’s been building since he started touching you. You neck is aching, your shoulders are stiff from being turned at such an awkward angle, and your fingers are still trembling from the softness of his touches.
It almost makes you want to smile.
You feel steadier than you have in weeks and, for once, you don’t mind the shaking.
“Want to watch another one?”
His voice rumbles low and soft, and you shrug, shifting to look up at him. “Do you?”
He yawns but gives you a lazy smile. “Black Beauty’s in there.”
“Tempting,” you murmur, and the moment the word leaves your mouth, you feel the back of your neck burn. You’re not sure if you were talking about him or the movie, or where that thought came from, but you can’t deny that it’s true either way.
The little rush of heat that heads south, darting right below the pit of your stomach proves that, and you curl your fingers into fists, nails biting into your palms.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
You don’t deny it. It was a yes and you take some sense of satisfaction at him knowing that, at how well he can read you even now.
“Okay.”
You go to sit up, to give him room, and you’re about to ask him if he’s going to get off his ass and follow through with his own suggestion when his hand cups your cheek and you freeze.
He doesn’t move to get up. His thumb follows the curve of your cheek and he’s looking at you with an expression you don’t recognize, soft but considering, his lips a thin line but not pinched. There’s that softness again, that concern, and you want to look away, but you can’t.
You wish you’d just worn your shades.
“I’m worried about you,” he tells you, and it’s so quiet you can barely hear it, not even a whisper.
You open your mouth; you need to say something, but your apology is lost when he leans down and kisses you.
It’s too is soft, almost painfully so, but it’s Dave and you fist your hands in his shirt, savoring the moment even as you rub your thumbs over the seams just to remind yourself that this isn’t just a fantasy. It can’t be real, you think, but when he hauls you against his chest, into his lap, and settles your knees on either side of his hips, you change your mind.
Even in your wildest, most vivid dreams, you’d never be able to bring out even a shadow of just how good his body feels against yours, warm and hot and sturdy.
He’s not your rock. He’s got too much underneath the stoic face and back one-liners he’s always dishing out.
But he holds you steady.
. . . . .
When he picks you up, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold tight, your legs looped around his waist as he carries you down the hall. Your breathing is rough, as ragged as his is, and you bury your face against his neck, breathing deep.
He smells like a lot of things, but mostly of home.
His hand cups your ass and he squeezes, his laugh shifting the hair at the side of your neck. “Tickles,” he chides, squeezing again, and you push down against his palm. You’re not sure you care whether it tickles or not as long as he keeps touching and grabbing, and you arch against him as his knees bump against the bed.
“Sorry,” you breathe, but even he can hear how insincere you are.
You’re not sorry and he knows it.
When he drops you, you forget about apologizing.
You forget about most things that aren’t his hands pulling at your clothes and sliding down your chest, the press of his skin against yours, or the sloppy, open-mouthed kisses he peppers down your body, everywhere he can reach as you lean back and pull him with you.
Right now, there’s each other.
. . . . .
Your body aches with a satisfaction you can feel all the way down to your toes and his weight against your chest is comfortable instead of restricting. It’s a nice change, one that leaves you with a lazy buzz. You trail your hands down his back, smiling against his neck as you press little kisses to his damp skin. He tastes like salt, light but noticeable, and you think you like that. It’s new but familiar, enticing when it should be putting you off.
You think maybe, you’re biased.
You like most things about him.
. . . . .
When he finally moves, you heave a sigh, both of relief and sadness at the loss of his weight against you, and roll to press a kiss against his chest, nuzzling the light dusting of hair that’s difficult to notice when your face isn’t pressed against it.
“You good?” he asks, and you give an appreciative hum, hiding a smile.
“Great.” Your voice is thick, heavy and sated, and you lick your lips, sneaking a glance up at him.
He’s beautiful.
“Good. Would hate to have already lost my chance at a repeat performance.”
Mussed with swollen lips and scattered discolorations from all your bites, he’s absolutely beautiful.
You hide another smile, trailing your fingers over his hip. “We’ll see,” you murmur and it sounds like a tease. You didn’t know you were capable of such a thing, or that he would approve as wholeheartedly as he does, but the groan he doesn’t bother to hold back tells you what you need to know.
“Thank God.”
He approves.
It’s honest, raw, and pleased, and you can’t resist sliding up to press a kiss against his jaw, then another, then another until he’s rolling you over and telling you to kiss him like you mean it.
You do and you feel him smile against your lips.
You wonder if he can tell just how much you love him.
. . . . .
You’re lying in Dave’s bed, clutching at his covers, when Hal finally breaks the figurative silence that’s stretching, only interrupted by your harsh breaths, and asks:
TT: Are you well?
Are you?
You want to say yes, but the burn in your chest and the cold sweat clinging to the back of your neck say otherwise.
TT: Why are you asking a question you know the answer to?
TT: I was giving you the opportunity to speak of your troubles on your own terms, but if you insist, I will ask directly.
TT: Your dreams are back.
TT: I know.
TT: Yes, but the question is:
TT: Do you know why?
You don’t.
You don’t want to have this conversation.
TT: As I suspected.
TT: Neither do I.
You squeeze your eyes shut, just listening to your breathing for a long moment, and that’s not what you wanted to hear.
Not at all.
The air is warm, wet and heavy, and you’re torn between ripping the blanket off, away from your face, and sliding further beneath it to drown out all the questions pounding at the inside of your skull. Dave is warm beside you, peaceful in his sleep and, carefully, you slide a hand over to grip the back of his shirt, trying to concentrate on that instead.
The cotton is warm, just like his skin, and it’s only after you scoot closer, wrapping yourself around him from behind, that you feel like you can breathe again.
. . . . .
A week later, Dave is holding you as you shake against him. He hasn’t said anything about the warm water that’s soaking into the material covering his shoulder, or asked why, exactly, you’re crying. He just rubs your back, noses your cheek, and presses a line of kisses against your shoulder until you can finally draw a breath without it cracking.
“You were gone,” you whisper, licking the salt off your lips and it tastes nothing like the salt you’ve grown used to from his skin.
“Gone?”
You nod and he squeezes you tight to his chest as he brushes his lips over your cheek.
“I’m not going anywhere, kid. I’m right here.”
You want to believe him, you really do, but in the very back of your mind you can feel the heavy weight of understanding that you can’t pressing closer and closer.
“I know,” you tell him.
You want to believe your lie.
. . . . .
“Log seven, July 29th… The last few dreams have been the same. I still can’t remember them, but when I woke up I... I couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone set a brick on my chest and today, that feeling still hasn’t gone away approximately three hours later.”
You’re leaning against your desk with your head in your hands as you recite the words you’d been silently practicing for Hal to record.
“...They’re getting worse.”
“They are,” he agrees crisply, matter-of-factly, and you laugh. It’s hollow and tasteless, and completely inappropriate, but you don’t stop it.
You have no idea what’s happening to you.
You should be in bed, waiting where Dave left you after he’d found you kneeling over the toilet, emptying your stomach of everything you’d eaten the day before. You don’t know how many times you apologized as he held your hair away from your face and rubbed your back.
You can’t sleep though. You can’t even bring yourself to get up, to move toward the bed.
Every time you sit down on the sheets, every time the mattress sinks beneath your weight, your mouth starts watering, the bile rising hot and sharp in the back of your throat, and you have to stand, you have to walk away before your stomach heaves again and Dave insists on cleaning up your mess.
You sigh, trying to will away the burning in your eyes.
He’s too good for you.
The door opens and you hesitate before you lift your head, rubbing your hands over your face to try to hide the few runaway drops that’d managed to work their way from your eyes as the smell of chicken broth fills the room.
You’re not sure if you can eat it.
You’re not sure you want to.
But Dave doesn’t force you, and your shoulders slump in relief when he just sets the bowl down and rubs your back, leans down to kiss your forehead and stay there longer than you think can possibly be comfortable.
You reach out for him, gripping his shirt as you turn, and he shuffles forward to stand between your legs. You press your cheek to his stomach, letting out a shaky breath and he pets your hair, threading it through his fingers as he gently rubs your scalp.
You think you could stay like this forever.
And when he whispers a very soft, very gentle ‘I love you,’ you know that, if given the chance, you would.
. . . . .
You’re on your way out of the shower when the world tips on its axis and you fall. You throw a hand out, grasping for the edge of the sink, but your grip is too loose and your knees hit the ground, sending a sharp spike of pain through both of your legs.
You’re not sure if you cry out, just that it’s too loud inside your head and you bow forward, hands clamped tight over your ears as you press your forehead against the cool tile.
Everything is moving, spinning and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push back the way your stomach heaves and your eyes burn.
You barely feel Dave holding onto your shoulders. You barely hear him asking you if you’re okay. You barely notice the frantic edge that seems so far away before you jolt upright, gasping for breath, and you’re staring at the far wall in your room. Your fingers are twisted in the blankets at your side and your chest feels like it’s on fire, and you shake your head, letting go long enough to press the heels of your palms against your eyes and let out a short, harsh breath.
What’s going on, your mind asks, but it supplies no answers.
What happened? You were just—
“Dave?”
When only silence responds, you drop your hands and look around your room, trying to ignore the way your heart lurches in your chest, and you can feel your pulse building into that loud, almost deafening beat within your veins.
Everything is exactly as you left it but the air feels heavy, suffocating, and you swing your legs out of your bed.
You stumble to the door, shaky and cold, and yank the door open.
“Dave?” Your voice sounds thin, stretched and tight, but you don’t care and you try again, hurrying down the hall. “Dave!”
You hear a thud, a curse, and then Dave is swinging around the edge of the kitchen, arms out as he jogs toward you, eyes wide and full of that concern that eats away at you. “I’m here, I’m here, kid, Jesus, are you okay?”
A surge of regret flashes through your mind, mixing with the confusion.
You shake your head when he asks if you’re all right and sag against him when his arms wrap around you.
“Tired,” you mumble. “I thought—”
“I told you. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
You try to tell him that you don’t believe him, that you lied and you need him to say it again and again and never stop saying it, but the only thing that comes out is a choked sob as you bury your face against his chest.
“I love– Dave, I—”
“Hey, hey... I know, kid. Trust me... I know.”
“No, I need you to– I have to– to say it. I—.”
“Shh, shh, c’mon, it’s okay. You can say it later... just relax. We’ve got time.”
Time, you think.
You’ve got time.
You grip his shirt tighter and your head is starting to feel light but you float along on his assurances. Your knees are weak, and distantly, you think you should be scrambling to find a better grip on him, to cling tighter, to hold faster, but before you can dwell on why, your world falls away, taking him with it.
Dave!
. . . . .
The first breath you take burns its way down your throat with a heat you’d never thought possible and you cough, the pain shooting through your chest and your head where sharp spikes of pain are threatening to split your skull.
You need air.
You need air.
There’s something smooth and cold being held over your mouth and your fingers are scraping against something rough as you try to cry out, panic rushing forward when you feel a sharp pain at the ends of your fingers. Briefly, you register that you must have broken the skin but you ignore it as you try to kick your legs out, to dislodge whatever it is that’s weighing you down.
You don’t have time for frivolous thoughts.
You can’t breathe.
“Dirk!”
The shrill artificial tone startles you enough that your eyes snap open and the darkness washes away. Your vision is blurry and something large and silver is swimming before you, but beyond it you think you can see the sky.
You’re not trapped.
“Dirk?”
Hal?
Your eyes widen and you try to jerk up, but that weight is still there, sending another spike of panic through your system.
Hal.
You try to ask what happened but no words come out, just a muffled gasp that’s lost in the slow hum coming from whatever is being held firmly against your face. You shove your hands forward, muscles weak and shaky, with as much force as you can muster until you’re pushed back down and you know you’ve lost.
You’re stuck.
You can’t move, even if you had the breath to keep trying.
You can’t—
“Dirk.” Hal’s tone is flatter now, more regulated but firm, and you take a deep, shuddering breath when the weight on you eases up a little. “You need to breathe. Lift your left hand if Sawtooth is pressing too hard. Raise your right if you can hear me and understand what I’m trying to get through your impressively thick skull.”
You lift your right hand, or more accurately your fingers, and wince when the stinging on your palms becomes more noticeable.
What happened?
“Wonderful. Sawtooth is assisting you with a very basic function also known as breathing. It would appear that your planet is trying to kill you, along with everything else.”
Planet—
“You fell—from a rather impressive distance, I might add—after inhaling krypton gas that, amazingly, didn’t kill you. Neither did the fall, it would appear. Congratulations, you’re alive.”
“Dave,” you rasp, pushing your hands against the ground. “Where’s Dave?”
You can’t sit up.
You feel heavier than you’ve ever felt before, your breathing is labored and the sinking feeling in your stomach is spreading, clutching at your shoulders and dragging you back down as the reality of what you’re seeing starts to sink in.
Dave’s not here.
Your eyes burn, the hot water spilling over, and you can’t stop the cry that wrenches itself from your chest as you turn, rolling to your side then to your stomach. Your knees are too weak to prop yourself up but you have to know, you have to see, and you force your hands to stay planted where they are. You force yourself to ignore the pain from the torn skin, to ignore the way everything spins because your lungs are still processing what it feels like to have oxygen back in them.
And when you look up, you know where you are.
You know what’s happening and you stop fighting, letting yourself fall the short distance back to the roof of the same apartment you’ve been stuck in for the last sixteen years.
It wasn’t real.
Dave was never here.
. . . . .
You no longer know what day it is. Hal has stopped reminding you and for that, you’re thankful. You don’t want to know what day it is, or how as the hours pass you get closer and closer to forgetting.
No matter how long you sit, or how dark it is, you can’t seem to stop the flood of thoughts that keep you from relaxing. The tension in your shoulders won’t ease, the rolling in your stomach won’t pass, and you’re left staring at a familiar ceiling as hot streaks make their way down to your temples.
You hate the way your tears cling to your hair and run along your ear. You hate the moment you have to move and you can feel the stain on your pillow, the wetness that’s cooled in the open air. You hate that soon you’ll have to leave and all of these moments will be in the past, just like the dreams, and the memories, that feel so real running through the forefront of your mind.
But most of all, you hate that you have to forget, that time will take its toll and his smile will fade, his laugh will go quiet, and the touch you so clearly remember now, burning hot and bright along your back, your sides, your cheek, your chest, will go cold just like everything else.
Your dreams are turning to dust. Your memories are fading right along with you and as you lie in bed, you find you’re powerless to stop them, unable to do much more than grasp at the darkness and cling to a reality that never was.