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The house is empty.
The house is empty and the silence is suffocating.
The house is empty and Lucas is choking on the sobs that threaten to bubble into the air.
The dream still permeates through his mind, red and flashing and foggy and the air is to thick to inhale and too thin to breathe and he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't-
Despite his best efforts, a singular sob escapes into the silence. It's small, lonesome in the empty air, but it's the breaking point, and within moments it's a chorus, violent hiccups and choked inhalations, half finished before the wailing picks up again, and then it all circles back round on itself.
He sits there, hunched over, hands scrunched in the sheets, for what feels like an eternity, struggling vainly to catch breaths between his sobs. Eventually the horrible, choking-crying subsides, and as it settles to sniffling and the occasional hiccups, the silence he had been trying to leave undisturbed suddenly feels so incredibly wrong.
He tugs his blanket around himself, the thin fabric a pathetic imitation of human warmth, and tries to ignore the emptiness that fills the bed next to his, the space just beside him in his own.
It's not cold. He knows it isn't, but he can't help the tremors shaking him in the sudden emptiness that he'd realised about him. He hated waking in the night, when he could do nought to distract himself from the houses newfound silence but lay there and try to sleep, which just made it infinitely worse.
He forces his eyes shut, trying to ignore the red that still flickered behind his eyelids, the smoke awaiting in the back of his head, the thick, acrid scent that still lingered despite the months that'd passed since-
His eyes snap open, his throat heavy with the threat of further tears as he rolls onto his back. He stares at the ceiling above him, scrutinising the wooden beams, trying to pick out every grain or splinter in their surface.
The moon peers through the window, staining the room in a washed-out, watercolour white. Mum would have called it pretty. Claus would whine about it being boring, before making up some stupid ghost story to scare Lucas, and Mum would tell him off for it but she'd be laughing anyway and you could tell she wasn't actually cross.
Tears line the corners of his eyes, springing out from within the half-memory half-imagination and he pushes himself out of bed, dragging the blanket along with him from around his shoulders and stumbling sleepily to the door. The handle opens with a soft clink, his father's insistence upon keeping it locked quickly forlorn at the prospect of Claus returning of his own accord.
The night is quiet, but tinged with an air of life that is missing from the house, the chirping of crickets and the noise of the sheep shuffling around within their pen making the air comfortable. Despite the wind's chill biting at his arms, the air out here feels warmer, almost homely. Moreso than the house at least.
He crouches down by the doghouse, patting the ground before him as a soft whisper escapes his lips. Boney's drowsy presence makes itself known to his subconscious first, then physically as the dog shuffles out and into Lucas's arms.
A wet nose meets his neck as a soft yet insistent prodding meets his thoughts, Boney's questioning of what's wrong?
He can't find the energy to respond, simply burying his face in Boney's fur as a few streaks of wetness escape his eyes. He can feel himself drifting again, awareness evading him as Boney's warm fur shifts gently within his arms.
He'll have to apologise for worrying him tomorrow, he thinks, distantly, as he settles into unconsciousness.