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It wasn’t often that Oz dreamt, or rather, remembered his dreams. Dreams were past him. The “most powerful wizard in the world” found dreaming unimportant. He didn’t need that vulnerability creeping within him. He only needed reality.
But this dream was different.
Oz sat up from his bed, fingers pressed between his furrowed brows. He took slow breaths as he closed his eyes again to try to recall the events of his dream.
Arthur was there. It was set during a battle with the Great Calamity. Arthur was severely injured. Oz went to save Arthur. He was running - running as fast as he could - but Arthur kept getting further and further. Darker and darker, the only light he could see was Arthur. Arthur kept calling for Oz. Running and running. Suddenly - “Possideo.” - Arthur was gone.
It all remained blurry to him. The more Oz thought about it, the more it faded from his mind. That’s exactly what frightened him. He felt his heart clench, and the rush of anxiety caused his muscles to tense up. He was unmoving, only to hear the sound of the night owls and the slow huffs of his own breathing. Oz could not bring himself to go back to sleep.
---
Light crept through the thick curtains of his window, rays gently hit his bedding signaling the new morning. How long had Oz been awake? He let out another dejected sigh as he extended his arm to peek through the curtains. His attention was directed to the sight of the younger wizards gathered in the courtyard up and early. He spotted the young prince of the central country amongst the group, who was joyfully laughing away with his peers. Arthur looked so bright, just as bright as Oz recalls he once was during his time at Oz’s castle. Bright and… alive.
Arthur is alive.
He felt a pang in his heart and quickly retracted away from the window as he involuntarily clenched his fist. He knew that his creeping anxiety would eventually trigger something like this, but… why was Figaro involved? Why did he hear his spell? Was this fate’s forewarning? It was just a dream but why did it make him feel so uneasy? The twins' prophecies---
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps out in the hallway. Figaro’s footsteps, to be specific.
“Good morning my beloved Ozzy~” Figaro chimed in Oz’s room - well, more like barged in - pitching his voice a little higher than his normal. As per his usual routine, he strode towards Oz's bed with puckered lips. However, he halted right in front of the bed seeing that Oz refused to meet his eye. He raised his eyebrows and pouted, “not in the mood?”
Oz gave no response, and instead shifted his head away from Figaro. Oz was definitely not in the mood. Figaro frowned. Was it because he didn’t knock before entering? Not that that actually mattered. It’s not like this is the first time Figaro came in for an intimate morning greeting either. With a loud exhale the “younger” wizard sat down on the bed, adjacent to the “much older” one. “So,” Figaro started, “rough night? Woke up on the wrong side of the bed? Bad dream?--”
“...Leave-”
“I’m not leaving.”
Figaro closed the distance and leaned in on Oz’s side, looking at him with a thin smile. “Well, what was this dream about?” Figaro nudged him with his elbow, “I don’t suppose this dream involves me, does it?” He knew it probably did though; the plagued silence practically confirmed it.
“Was it about that thing with Arthur?”
He knew that bringing up that child would cause a reaction in Oz but, much to Figaro’s shock, it hadn’t. He kept trying though. He threaded his fingers through Oz’s long blue hair, Oz let out a soft whimper at his sudden touch. “The best way to solve your emotional problems is by talking about it… is what one would usually say. But considering this is coming from me speaking to you, I guess that won’t work,” he chuckled, Oz turned to look at him with a deadpan expression. “Finally looking at me, huh,” Figaro said, “c’mon, let ol’ Figaro have at it.”
Oz lowered his head, “you already know.” It was already obvious, after all.
Figaro furrowed his brows and scratched the top of his head, “if that’s the case, should I offer you to punch me and get it over with already? Ah, but I value my handsome face too much,” he huffed, “you have full permission to beat up the version of me in your dream though. That guy is definitely stupid if he even tried to mess with you. Just Vox Nox him away or hit him with that staff of yours. I’m sure that bastard deserves it. This real, much more lovable, Figaro would never-”
“Figaro.” Oz interrupted him before he could ramble any further.
Figaro leaned in closer, rubbing his head against Oz’s, “you’re a pretty monotone guy, but it’s easy for me to tell when you’re hurting, you know?”
“‘Monotone guy’?”
“Ahh, you know what I mean,” Figaro laughed and looked back at Oz, “could I at least interest you in a comforting kiss?”
With no further reply, Oz motioned to rest his forehead on Figaro’s shoulder, facing downwards to avoid eye contact. Figaro carefully brushed through the hair strands that covered the other's face, tucking it behind his ear. He then placed a soft kiss on the top of Oz’s head.