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Dreams have always been especially fond of visiting Kalim in his sleep.
The happy ones, in particular. The ones that feel like an explosion of a multitude of colours, a kaleidoscope of endless vibrancy, bewitching like a hypnosis to its very core. The kind of dreams that impart him with a light, tingling feeling in his chest when he wakes up, his memory a haze of what had transpired in his sleep-induced mind, but the faint evidence still lingering in his head like a ghostly presence.
Kalim likes these dreams. They remind him of magic carpet rides— the wind screaming into his ears, the warm summer breeze tracing his skin like a promise, the adrenaline flowing through his veins. Making him feel alive.
Nightmares, on the other hand.
He doesn’t like them.
He doesn’t like how they’re able to squirm into his mind undetected like parasites.
He doesn’t like how they infest his dreams like an apocalypse, devouring them whole and metamorphosing them into something darker, something more sinister.
He doesn’t like how they take root in his mind like a spider spinning its web, refusing to leave until it lures its prey in.
Until it captures it.
Until it consumes it.
Until it leaves nothing but a cobweb behind.
But most of all, he doesn’t like how frequent they’ve become.
Because, once upon a time, Jamil was a familiar sight when he dreamed.
Now, he’s become a common inhabitant of his nightmares.
Sometimes, Kalim dreams of a world where Jamil had his way.
A world where his mind is not his own, not anymore. Controlled by taut, invisible strings tied to nimble fingers. Countless others manipulated by said strings, students who used to call him by the title of housewarden now reduced to mindless dolls.
“Long live Master Jamil,” they echo as one, falling onto their knees before their new sovereign.
Jamil’s gaze dismissively sweeps past them, for they are nothing but pawns in his game.
Then, his eyes fall on Kalim.
A smile creeps onto his face, slow and sinister, eyes flickering with something akin to disdain and satisfaction alike.
“Finally,” he says, each syllable pronounced carefully. Emphasised, relished in, almost. “This time, you are the one who shall serve me.”
There are times when Kalim dreams of cold fingers encasing his neck, like a snake circling its prey.
In the corner of his eye, he sees Prefect and Grim lying beaten in a corner, their breaths shallow and weak.
The twins remain crippled on the ground. Bones broken, bodies unmoving, blot mixing with blood and piercing through their chests like a trident.
Azul hovers over them on wobbly knees, face tainted with tears, gloves coated with blood as his fingers twitch uselessly.
Jamil doesn’t pay them any mind. His eyes instead narrow on Kalim, trapped in his unforgiving grasp.
“At last, I’ll be free. Free from you,” he sneers.
His pressure increases, steady yet suffocating. Dark spots swallow Kalim’s vision. The rattling of snakes fade into nihility.
Something snaps.
Then he falls.
Though, the worst of them all are the nightmares where Jamil succumbs to his overblot. They would always go the same way, following the same pattern, the same routine— almost like a never-ending cycle of something reminiscent to torture.
Each time, Jamil would drain every ounce of his magic reserves, until it was left barren.
Each time, he would watch as Jamil’s attacks turned uncoordinated and sloppy as he lost what was left of his sanity to his Overblot monster.
Azul would shout, “Kalim-san, this is your chance! You need to strike him now!”
But each time, Kalim wouldn’t be able to do it.
He’d pause in his step, hesitate, unable to bear the thought of hurting Jamil.
And each time, he’d be too late.
He’d watch in hopeless despair as blot spilled all over Jamil, swallowing his body whole. A scream would rip from Jamil’s throat. He’d fight against it, struggling to be freed.
But when the blot subsided, there would be nothing left. Only his Overblot monster would remain, a phantom of what was once in its place.
Jamil’s scream still rings in Kalim’s head when he wakes up, as if scalded deep into his flesh.
He sits up, groggily trying to make sense of what’s happening.
Except nothing is.
Because they managed to stop Jamil in time, before the visions from his nightmares could turn into a reality.
…He is alive.
And so is Jamil, sound asleep just a few doors down.
Kalim releases a breath he doesn’t recall holding.
Slowly, he climbs out of bed, the frigid cold from the floor biting into the padding of his feet.
Then, spontaneously, he silently leaves his room.
Low lights illuminate the desolate hallway of the dorm, carving out a path invisible even to his eyes— a path that he still chases like a ghost nonetheless.
He doesn’t think about where he’s going, nor does he think about why.
He just continues walking.
It feels oddly familiar. A distant memory itching in the back of his mind, inches away from being within his grasp. A case of déjà vu, as Rook Hunt would label it.
Perhaps it was from a time when he could proudly call Jamil his best friend, without any lingering doubts circling the crown of his head. A time when he didn’t have to care about anything, for it was Jamil’s duty to worry over such matters in his stead. A time when the seven year old him was even more terrified of nightmares than he is now.
He remembers that seven year old him running over to Jamil’s room after being jolted awake from another nightmare, hand slipping from the doorknob as he carelessly flung the door open.
“Jamil!” he cried out, prompting Jamil’s eyes to snap open.
In a split second, Jamil had jumped out of his bed, hands balled into fists, eyes alert, poised to attack.
Then his gaze fell on Kalim’s silhouette.
He relaxed, tension slipping from his shoulders as he lowered his arms. Shaking his head, he sighed, “Oh, it’s you. What do you…”
That was when he seemed to notice Kalim’s tear-stained face, his eyes shining unusually brighter than usual.
“Jamil, I…” Kalim trailed off with a sniffle, raising a hand to swipe at his eye.
Jamil took in the sight for a moment, and let out another long sigh.
He opened his arms. A reluctant invitation, but still an invitation nonetheless.
No words had to be exchanged between them. Kalim immediately threw himself into his arms, fists clenched tightly around Jamil’s jacket, refusing to relax his grip for even a second.
A few seconds went by before he felt cold hands snake around his back, pulling him just a little closer.
It was funny. Jamil always felt cold, but he would somehow always make Kalim feel warm.
Now, Kalim finds himself in front of a door. His fingers are already curled around the handle— when did he do that?
He inhales, and exhales slowly.
Then he pushes the door open, stepping into the dark void of the room.
Jamil, he nearly calls out, for it has become a habit that would forever be etched into his mind.
That name dies on his tongue a fraction of a second later, when he sees the man in question.
In a deep slumber, Jamil’s hair fans around him— almost like a spiderweb meant to protect him while he rests. His breathing comes out slow and even, eyes twitching the slightest bit, lost in a dreamworld beyond Kalim’s imagination.
He looks… peaceful.
Calm.
At ease.
…And it hurts.
Kalim’s gaze slowly traces Jamil’s serene face. The usual crease in his brows from when he’d lecture Kalim about forgetting his pen in class is absent, making him look younger.
His seemingly permanent frown has bid him leave in his sleep, posture relaxed as tension temporarily makes an escape to grant him some relief.
Dark bags stain his bottom eyelids from when rest evaded him like the plague, his scarred hands unclenched and resting atop his stomach.
…It’s weird to see Jamil look so unguarded, tranquil even.
Unconsciously, Kalim reaches towards him, trembling hand hovering mere inches above Jamil’s shoulder.
…He does not touch him. He does not tap him. He does not jostle him awake.
Something uncomfortably close to fear slithers up the back of his neck— a warning, perhaps.
In this state, Jamil reminds him of the lavish paintings his parents like to hang up all around their house. The ones that he was allowed to look at, but never to lay a finger upon.
Jamil chooses that exact moment to stir in his sleep.
Kalim’s heart stumbles dangerously in his chest. He immediately retracts his hand, clutching it against his chest as his knuckles fade into white.
He sharply sucks in a breath.
But Jamil does not open his eyes. Instead, he shifts ever so slightly away from him, lips forming around what appears to be Azul’s name before drifting off into a deeper sleep.
Kalim blinks.
He stares.
…And he takes a step back.
Then another.
Away from Jamil.
…He should not be here.
This is supposed to be the sole space where Jamil allows for his walls to lower. Where he allows himself fleeting rest. Where he isn’t confined to his family’s name, nor bound to his duty of being a servant for the heir of the Asims.
Here, he is just Jamil.
And Kalim— he is an intruder in his private space.
A lone butterfly, flitting along merrily — ignorantly — before he winds up getting caught in the delicate webbings of a spider’s home. An easy meal for the arachnid, but an inconvenience to it nonetheless. It would have to tear him out of its web, leaving a large, gaping hole behind, one that can never truly be fixed.
He should not be here.
He doesn’t deserve to be.
Not after all the responsibilities he’d carelessly dumped on Jamil, piled heavy on his shoulders. Not after constantly being in the way of Jamil and his unattainable freedom, binding him by invisible chains to his role as his servant. And especially not after being completely blind to his pent-up frustrations, his deep-rooted rage, and most of all, his internal suffering.
Kalim swallows, his throat suddenly feeling like lead.
He should not be here.
He should leave.
So he does, turning around and slinking towards the door that’s still left slightly ajar, dim light pouring in through the crack.
His fingers wrap around the side of the door, pulling it open by an inch.
He hesitates, and stops.
Kalim turns back to Jamil’s sleeping form, still encased within the shadows of the room.
“Hey, Jamil?” he murmurs, eyes flickering briefly towards Jamil’s face.
Then, he looks away. “I know you can’t hear me right now, and I don’t know if you’d care even if you were awake, but…” A pause. “...I’m sorry. For… everything.”
Of course, Jamil does not respond.
His words remain suspended in the air, hung by invisible threads.
Kalim takes in a shaky breath. He clenches his fists.
He turns around.
He gently opens the door, steps outside, and closes it behind him.
Then he walks down the lonely hallway, returning the way he came from.
He does not look back.