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Flames.
Flames licking up my palms, dancing at my feet and swirling around the air. It crackles and pops around my head, filling my lungs with black clouds and burning each breath I struggle for.
I can't scream. I try so hard, but it feels so distant as I stagger forward and see Baz, pressed against a tree with his face shielded by fallen hair.
An arm outstretched. A strangled cry to plead him to stop; to plead him to let go of the flames. They're hurting us. They're hurting him much more than me. The sparks of the burning forest are relentless; it won't take long before they take over his body.
They can't. I won't let them.
“Baz,” I beg, my lungs sputtering. “Baz stop, please .”
His eyes stay down, reflections of the rapidly approaching fire shining against his hair. It still covers what I want to see, what I want to hold.
With reaching hands, I collapse forward and grasp his face in my palms, cradling the sharpened jaw I'm oh-so fond of. He tilts his head up, tear stained cheeks remaining dampened as I stares. I shout. I shout into an oblivion that I can't even hear as it roars around me.
I cry, begging him to stop, begging him to come back to the manor with me, begging him to listen that he’s loved. That the vampire den was a mistake and that he shouldn't be ashamed.
He isn't listening; he's staring somewhere behind me, mind distant as a tear trickles down his face.
Being burnt alive feels like when going off. It's all-consuming flame, overwhelming me. I shake Baz's shoulders in dire urgency.
I sob. I can't leave him to die. I can't leave him at all. I can't… I can't…
I jolt awake.
It’s Christmas Eve morning, and my hands pushed under the elastic of Baz's ridiculous and uncharacteristically festive boxers, decorated with reindeer and holiday bells. He’s still sleeping soundly, secured in my arms.
It’s been five years since we got together.
I know we're safe. I know we made it out of there alive; I know I kissed him, and he kissed me back.
Then we never really stopped.
But still, every holiday season, I'm flooded by the dreams of a day that could've ended us both.
I dream of him dying, of us dying. Of the harsh reality that I can't let go of what-ifs.
It knocks the air from my lungs, making me choke on the sputters of breath I try to capture back. With every breath I search for, I accidentally nudge Baz more and more awake. Eventually, he's alert and turning towards me. He does what he always does; rolls me on my back and rubs a hand over my chest while pressing butterfly kisses to the side my hair.
I calm down. Not immediately, but eventually it smooths out, relaxing me and letting it all ease away into the holiday’s morning.
All is silent in the flat; everything but us. Our breathings, his hand dragging against my skin. The creek of the bed as he wiggles closer. Wiggles up against me.
“Was it the forest dream again?”
I swallow. “Yeah,” I croak, eyes shutting as my hands squeeze and release. “Of course it was. It wouldn't be our anniversary without it.” It’s not quite funny; I'm not quite funny, but I need to joke to not sound pathetic.
Baz laughs, though. He gives a throaty, tired laugh as his chin tucks into my neck. I can feel his breath on my pulse. “At least there’ll always be a consistency.” He presses a gentle, lasting kiss to my neck before continuing. “Happy five years. I love you.”
The lump in my throat doesn't budge, but it at least lets me speak. “I love you too.”