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Sometimes in his sleep, his mind would play tricks on him.
He would dream it had never happened, that she had never been chosen to be cursed and that there had been no reason to save her.
It was bittersweet dreams: Beautiful, bright and painful. But he could never regard them as anything but nightmares.
He dreamt of the day he would finally manage to convince her to go out with him. The weather would be mild, early in the morning on a summer day. She would be in a tank top and sweatpants, back from her morning run, a cup of coffee in her hand and gazing at the sky as the last of the golden-edged clouds slowly faded.
Returning from his early training he would spot her from behind. He would notice how at ease she seemed. That the coffee was steaming and that the sun made the dew glisten around her feet and how some of her hair stuck to her forehead - a sign of her relentless exercise. And he would find her beautiful. His heart would swell with happiness and he would call out her name as he approached.
She would look at him with a slightly curious expression on her face, sunlight reflecting in the dark brown of her eye. He would grin and tell her that it was nothing, and she would huff, turning her head away, the light catching in her hair. He would wipe the sweat off his face and leave the towel hanging across his shoulder as they stood a moment in mutual silence, just watching the beauty of the bright morning unfold.
Then he would smile, his hands in his pockets, and he’d ask her.
“Hey Lal…go out with me?”
“What..?”
She would turn towards him, wary and suspicious, an endearing blush dusting her cheeks. Even without taking his eyes of the sunrise, he was able to sense her bewilderment; unsure if he was joking. He wouldn’t repeat the question; he knew she would lash out at him if he did.
For a moment stretching into eternity, nothing would happen.
Then she would turn away, her soft hair slipping forward and hiding her face partly. And he’d know she had agreed and that she was too embarrassed to speak her answer. His expression would be bright with joy as he turned away.
“Then I’m heading back, kora…”
“Asshole.”
“Thank you.”
He would smirk as he left; she always had been too cute.
This dream was the innocent one, yet it caused him more pain than many of the others. When he woke up afterwards, he would get out of bed to work out, the urge to sleep long gone. He could never willingly submit himself to such painful lies.
On other nights his mind would torture him relentlessly for hours on end and he would toss and turn in his bed, struggling against his sheets.
He would dream of kissing her. Of capturing her soft lips midsentence, effectively muffling her protest. He dreamt of how he would run his hand through her hair, the silky locks slipping through his fingers. How he would embrace her, his heart beating loudly, begging that she wouldn’t push him away. How she would finally respond to his touch, her lean body leaning into his as she wrapped her arms around him, tipping her head to kiss him back.
He dreamt how he would pick her up, drunk on love and lust, and for once she wouldn’t resist. He would carry her to a room and they would lie in the bed. Kissing her neck he would take in her scent, her moan sending shivers down his back. He would barely believe that it was truly happening as he kissed her again and she would tangle her fingers in his hair, her body hot and soft against him. He would touch her warily, as if handling something immensely precious, irrationally afraid that she might break.
Burning with excitement he would strip her of her clothes and she would work hectically to pull off his. He would kiss her bare skin wherever he could, his hands running down her body, her sweet moans would send thrills of arousal through his body till he was aching with need, his breathing ragged. She would move and he would tremble in awe of her beauty, kiss her roughly, his thoughts hazy with want. She would pull his hair and he couldn’t wait any longer. In a blur of passion they would drive each other to the utter edge of pleasure, barely conscious of their actions they would linger on the verge of ecstasy, holding each other tightly.
Then he would wake up, bathed in his own sweat and filled with an insatiable, bone-deep craving that once more rendered him restless.
It was a need he couldn’t fulfill, an unimaginable pressure with no release. Sometimes he when he woke up, the reality of the dream would cling to him and for a while he would lie with a smile on his face, only realizing the truth as he sat up. Then the harsh reality of his useless body hit him.
He had thousands of nightmares like these.
Picturesque sceneries, like showcase windows of all the things that could have happened, all the possibilities he had had, leaving him with feelings of bitter regret.
Sometimes he would dream of marrying her, of her in a pure white dress as she walked towards him, or of becoming a father, of beaming with happiness and pride as he embraced her and his firstborn child. In those dreams he was full of love and warmth and yet he would still wake up crying. Because dreams were all they were.
Nightmares of the things he could never obtain.
He could never bid her a life with him. He had chosen to save her, but the price of her happiness was to give up on being the one she found it with. And yet it was a choice he would make over and over again without a second thought. That’s why only at night, deeply entangled in his lingering dreams, would he allow himself any pity.
Only at night would he curse his fate.