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To be, or not to be, that is the question.
It is certainly a question Dawnbreaker asked himself every morning he had the misfortune to wane up to and every night the darkness prevailed. The world was cruel, dreams even crueler, and some days he really wondered if there was a purpose to anything at all.
But the sword of life is double-edged: a stab in the heart is a sign he was still alive.
He just wished he didn't have to bleed as a result.
Alas, tonight is another night of unanswered questions. Another night where his eyes closed and he wished he would be transported to the undiscovered country of death. Another night where the scythe of longing stabbed him again and again and again.
To die, to sleep. He thinks as he falls into slumber.
The first thought he had when he woke up was a damnation towards the sun.
Its brightness was an insult to his prevailing sadness and a disturbance to the one good slumber he's had in forever. He opened his eyes begrudgingly, mentally preparing himself for another miserable day.
Then it hit him: there should not be a sun.
His eyes are wide open now, and it was almost comical how quickly he stood up to check the windows — windows, he realizes, are not his own. Whose room is this? What world is this? He asked himself as he stared at the abnormally bright star lighting up this abnormally bright world.
He runs his hands through his hair, unruly becoming unrulier if that was even a thing. A sigh escapes his lips and he walks away from the window, blinking away the pain.
Until...
"Zayne!"
He jumps when he realizes another person is in the room with him. His heart begins jumping too when he recognizes who this is, pointing an accusatory finger at him with a pout.
You. The lover in his dreams. The person he lives for.
"I thought we agreed on giving each other forehead kisses when we wake up!" You step closer, and he doesn’t think he could breathe anymore. "Where was mine?"
Yep, breathing is not an option. He needs a cardiologist asap.
"Um, uh-"
You sigh and place your hand on his forehead. "Are you sick?"
"No," he mutters, hating how awkward he sounds. At least the rasp of his morning voice is still there—he remembers you once mentioned your love for that rasp.
But judging by your expression, he may have come off wrong. You place your hands back on your sides, a small frown forming on your pretty face, and his heart just about fell to his stomach. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt you.
When you retreat your hands back to your sides, he quickly takes them back and holds them in his own. "Good morning, my love," he says and quickly places a kiss on your forehead. It was the warmest he'd felt in a long time, and for a moment he forgot that the same hands he used to love you are the same hands that ended the lives of those he cared about.
One wrong move and he could hurt you.
He pulls away, repulsed that he was greedy enough to hold you. Repulsed that he believed he would deserve you, even for a moment. Staring at his hands, full of bold scars and unwashed blood, he wished he was better.
He wished he were the Doctor instead.
“Zayne…”
But you don’t wish that.
You reach for his hand, trying to feel the softness that had once touched your face. And he allows the contact despite the fear that sweeps through his body. Your eyes look up at him, making him forget how to breathe. How to protect you.
Yet, the ice doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t consume him until he has to pull away from you. It stays grounded as he holds your face, memorizing the features that he so vividly loved in his dreams.
“I think you are sick, Zaynie,” you murmur, laughing. “Come on, we’ve got chocolate cake!”
And with a drag of your hand, Dawnbreaker relishes in the sweetness of life.