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They say you can always figure out if you're dreaming or not by looking for certain signs. 1. you can't read. 2. Faces are usually blurry or distorted or unlike their own in some way. 3. You may have trouble counting or telling time.
Rowan Whitethorn is not dreaming. But he wants to be. Gods, he needs to be. Maybe then seeing the face of his fiancé wouldn't hurt so much. But he can see the clock flashing 03:09 and he can make out all the beautiful, intricate features of Ruhn Danaan's face and he can read the poster above their bed that says "never on time, but I'm always there when you call." A gift, and a promise to each other. One they had kept for seven years, and one he had hoped to keep for seventy more.
"Baby I need you to say something," That soft, rasping voice pierces all the darkened corners of his heart.
He continues to look at the scene before him, unmoving, unblinking, as if his body is not his own.
Ruhn reaches out, blue eyes shining with unshed tears, and cups his cheek. The gesture is so familiar Rowan can't help but whimper, leaning into that warmth like it is the only tether keeping him to this world.
The male before him let's out a tangled breath, relief floating on the wings of the early morning.
"Please my love," Ruhn tries again, "Say something. Say anything."
His eyes shift to the black hair, still as silky and choppy as it was three months ago. "It's gotten longer." His fingers reach up to play with the strands, weaving through it.
"I—" His fiancé chokes, pain like drowning sirens flashing behind his eyes. "I didn't have a chance to cut it. Even my undercut has grown too long."
Rowan sits further up in bed, losing the gentle warmth of the hand on his face, but gaining the advantage of seeing everything a little more clearly. The curtains billow softly, leaking in the last dregs of moonlight. The trees outside the window scrape against the wooden paneling of the house, and it is a comfort to hear such a familiar sound. It is almost a substitute for the rushing river they'd once lived by. One he may still live by if he weren't such a coward, if he hadn't run away.
"Why are you not at home?"
"This is my home."
A sharp inhale sounds like a gunshot in his ears. "Why did you leave?"
He turns his attention away from the window and pins his green gaze directly on that heartbroken face.
"I couldn't stay, I couldn't bear to. Not without you."
Ruhn collapses onto the bed, head falling into his hands, sobs wracking his shoulders.
"I'm sorry. I'm—I'm sorry."
Rowan looks away, torn between wanting to go to him and wanting to curl into a ball and wish away the pain hurtling in his chest.
"I told you I'd come back for you. No matter what." The voice is small, but it is full of conviction. "I told you I'd be there when you called."
"I didn't realize you could come back from the dead to honour your promise."
"I'd come back from hell to honour us."
"Why are you saying these things?" It is an explosion, a tornado of anger and pain and endless heartache.
"Because they are true!" They are volatile in their anguish. "Because we did not die and die and die again just to leave each other." Blue eyes fracture like weak ice.
"Why do you not believe me?"
“Because I know when I open my eyes this will all turn out to be a dream and I’ll lose you again.”
His fiancé bows over as the words strike every chord in his crippling heart.
"Come here." He holds his arms open. If they only have this time, he would rather spend it holding the male that carried his body across a battle field, and carried his heart across time itself.
Ruhn crawls into his arms, head resting in the crook of his neck. Their heartbeats match and something inside Rowan crumples.
"I love you." His fiancé whispers.
Rowan Whitethorn runs a fading hand through that beautiful black hair and whispers the words back, over and over again. Like a beating drum. Like an echo. Like the start of forever.
And then he closes his eyes, and sleeps at last.
***
Ruhn Danaan wakes up to an empty bed and sheets wrapping around his legs, like a noose. He looks at the poster above him.
never on time but I'm always there when you call.
A stray tear dares to escape. He swipes it away with enough burning anger to start a fire, and stands up. His feet feel the cool tiles of the bedroom floor.
With a deep breath, smelling of pine and snow, he starts another day without Rowan Whitethorn.