Chapter Text
Why?
Why did it have to happen this way? Why did the dream have to end?
He wished to remember it, and him, forever. Had he truly deserved such a fate?
What sins had he committed, besides a woefully short life of dreaming and music?
He was only 19. And yet, he was willing to sacrifice what was left of his life for him.
Why could he not have met him in the waking world?
Yuugi...
He would never forget him.
Even if it was only a dream, even if his memory were to be shattered across the universe, he would always remember. And, surely, perhaps then, his feelings would reach him.
The night was calm, and lovely, like every other night in this village—as if the ravage of time or seasons would never touch it. A full, crisp moon hung over the flower fields, as an older man seated himself by the cliffside. He set aside his walking stick, watching the waves crash into the jagged coast below over their love for the moon.
“It’s nice to meet you—“ he chuckled, pausing for a moment, as if reconsidering the phrase. “—or, should I say, welcome back.”
It was another place. Another time. Another cliff.
Yuugi Mutou clasped his hands together in a wordless prayer as the world ended around him. Somewhere, past the thick, violet-colored fog that threatened to envelop them all, he knew there would lay the rest of his party... and him .
He needed to do this; for them, and the rest of the world. If it was for him, the person he cared about the most, then it wouldn’t be so hard, right? What was his life, against all the others that would be saved?
He was thankful, truly, for the time he had had with them, however short. He was thankful, that he had met him.
It was easy, if he thought of it like this.
He tumbled through the air, his stomach clenching as he plummeted. So much for a graceful death, he thought.
It was taking a little bit. Maybe he had time for one last selfish thought, then.
If he blew him a kiss, would it reach him, all the way up there?
He supposed not.
And then, once more, the world reorganized itself into the beginning.
Tenuto was a town that had remained the same for all of time. It was a lush pause, the quiet buzz awaiting the starting notes of an orchestra at the beginning of a concert. Each rustle of the wind through the trees, the turning of the windmill in town, the sunlight dancing over the calm stream that fed the flower fields, the flowers themselves, rapt with attention, each was only a part of the scene being set. Even the subtle smell of salt on the air, supplied by a breeze from beyond the coast which laid only a few miles in the distance, waited patiently for the story to begin.
It had been this way each morning since this world had existed, but in this place of beginnings, it would continue to remain the same, in this fine, idyllic harmony, until it was finally disturbed.
That day was not today. For now, the town would continue its humble symphony, supported by the flowers that stretched as far as one could see, all along the cliffs that overlooked the sea.
At night, one could see the lights of the bustling port city Ritardando, like offered candles to the vast sea and sky from those very cliffs. The city had expanded over the years, a stark difference from the gentle stagnation of Tenuto, nestled safely in its wood. No, Tenuto nutured something besides economic growth or its brightly-clad flora.
It was a cradle for a dream.
A pair made their way across the flower fields, hand in hand, as the sun peeked out at them from behind the occasional wispy cloud. Otherwise, the sky was completely clear, open and stretching endlessly towards the sea’s horizon.
“Grandpa, why are there waves in the sea?” asked a young boy, looking up at the older man with a wide-eyed, curious glance.
The older man chuckled and took a moment to consider the question, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Well you see, dearest Yuugi, there are waves because the of the moon. The sea, fickle as she is, has always been in love with the moon.”
This gave Yuugi pause, fiddling with the kerchief that held back his wavy, blond locks. “How’s the moon do that?”
“The sea took one look at the moon, and was charmed by her beauty,” said his grandfather, stroking his beard thoughtfully, “Being one to love too deeply, the sea has never been able to sit still since.”
Yuugi stared at him blankly, before grinning, filled with wonder. “Really?” he asked, “It hasn’t stopped since? Wouldn’t it get tired?”
“Really!” Grandpa Mutou confirmed, smiling. “The sea’s love is vast, and for good reason. Don’t you feel your heart pound just a little when you look at the moon?”
The boy nodded, before becoming distracted by a passing puddle, fed from rain the night before. “How about puddles? Do they have waves of love, too, like the sea?” He stood over it, watching his own framed reflection in the shallow water.
“No, dearest one, the amount in the puddle is the most important part. There simply isn’t enough.” The elder man shook his head, sadness etched into his worn countenance. “The waves of the human heart are very similar, although in different ways. Greed, vanity, wrath... often a human heart can be shaken by fear. It spreads from heart to heart, if unchecked. And much like the sea, once they are stirred, it takes a miracle to calm them once more.”
Yuugi fixed him with an empty, puzzled look, clearly not able to comprehend what he’d just been told. Instead, he simply nodded obediently.
“Ah... What am I even saying?” Grandpa Mutou murmured to himself, reaching out for Yuugi’s hand once more. “You’re far too young to understand, so I must just sound like an old coot to you. The waves of the sea’s love are too beautiful to be compared to the ugly waves of human desire. Let’s go home.”
He turned to leave, but hesitated suddenly, freezing as if hit by some unseen force. The older man seemed to struggle against something momentarily, before the tension drained from his face.
“Yuugi,” he deadpanned, his gaze unfocused, “You will have to be very, very brave someday. When you are older, the waves of fear in the world around you will become bigger and bigger, until only you can calm them once more. Your astra, far too bright for your own good, will light the darkness for those you love.”
“How will I do that?” Yuugi, starstruck, could not hold the waver from his voice.
“You will someday jump into the sea, my dearest Yuugi.”
10:48 PM—October 16, 1849
Number 12 Place Vendome, Paris, France.
Mahad closed the drawing room doors behind him as he crossed the hall to enter the master bedroom, where he knew Atem lay, where the composer had been bed bound for the past few weeks. He didn’t have the energy to even wrinkle his nose at the scent of illness that hung heavy on the air any more, at this point. There was far too much to be taken care of.
He’d thought the move would help Atem escape the chronic cough that had plagued him his whole life, the one that had already almost claimed Mana several times, although she was currently faring much better. He’d been wrong.
Mahad spared a glance at her, asleep in her chair at the foot of her older brother’s bed, head in her arms. He’d wake her later if it looked like Atem was not going to—he couldn’t think like that. He owed it to both Mana and Atem to remain cool-headed.
Even if the worst were to pass, like he’d always worried, he would take care of Mana, no matter the cost. She was all Atem had cared about—besides music, anyways. His stomach twisted traitorously. He quelled the gut-wrenching feeling by switching his attention to the doctor, who had just finished wicking sweat from the composer’s brow.
“He seems calmer now,” the writer remarked evenly, “His face is less pained than it was before.”
The doctor, who Mahad had searched out specifically for his apparent knack of dealing with patients with the consumption, nodded agreeably. Mahad studied him sharply, awaiting a response.
“He must be having pleasant dreams,” the doctor replied, not looking up as he prepared another compress.
“That is, indeed, a small blessing.” The writer shifted, his arms tucked behind his back. “Does it point towards his recovery?”
The doctor lapsed back into silence, and Mahad could hear the grandfather clock in the corner continue its steady ticking. Half a minute passed, agonizingly slow, before the man spoke up.
“It is said that people have the sweetest dreams in the hours before their passing,” the doctor said quietly, his hands still.
Mahad grit his teeth, fighting the urge to raise his voice. “I won’t accept that,” he nearly hissed, venomous and hurt, “What kind of doctor would say that?”
“I apologize,” the doctor said reflexively, looking away, “Hopefully it is naught but wives tale.”
His face set in what felt like a permanent frown, Mahad turned away from the doctor, instead finally looking Atem in the face. It felt odd. He’d always settled for small glances, when his closest friend was preoccupied with something else—usually, piano playing.
Oh, how Mahad had loved to watch him play. In the foyer, in the salons of the rich, but most of all, in the garden, on the sunny days that he realized that he’d taken for granted. There was something about Atem’s playing that had always struck him somewhere tender, but despite working with words for a living he’d never found words to describe the way it made him feel.
Atem had started playing for Mana, initially, before Mahad had known the pair. The writer had happened across the composer initially at one of the many salon parties he found himself invited to, being popular in the same circle of the socialites. Neither had been particularly suited for the pleasantries of the upper class, and quickly found themselves close friends.
But never too close, Mahad had always told himself. He lived life with restraint, and duty, and he knew that rumors were career-enders. Their livelihoods depended on the fickle favor of those who frequented the parties of the upperclass, and Mahad would never put Atem in that kind of jeopardy, no matter his personal feelings.
Truly, it was because of his personal feelings that he was doing this. If nothing else, Mahad would simply stay with him to the end. That was a form of love too, wasn’t it?