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MikoTotsu Week

Day 3: Dream

He felt like he was floating in air, empty space surrounding him. The pillows and mattress beneath him felt too soft, ethereal, like they weren't really there. Were they there? Or weren't they? He didn't know. Didn't care. Besides, that didn't matter. The softness of his pillows, the fogginess in his head, the weightless feeling of the air around him, none of those mattered, either.

All that mattered, was that ther was warmth. Every so often, there was a stirring inside his chest, like a beast trying to break free from its cage, but with each bubbling of anger from within him, another wave of comfort washed over him, and the beast was subdued.

Why was he angry?

He couldn't remember.

Why couldn't he remember?

It didn't matter.

Floating in the darkness of his memories, he felt safe. Secure. Warm. Somehow, nothing bad would happen here. He could tell. Everything was right. Everything was the way it was supposed to be. He felt peaceful, such a rare peace that melted over him in waves, and he relaxed and sank into the echoes that surrounded him, like familiar, thin arms pulling him in and holding him close.

Everything would work out alright.

Or at least, that's what he believed, as the slim, cool fingers cupped his too-warm cheeks and traced lightly over his eyelids, into his hair, down his chest. He leaned yearningly into this touch, so familiar, so right. The soft whisper of breath tickling his ear, causing goosebumps to spread tantalizingly across his skin. The tender press of that perfect body against his own, fitting so well, like it was made just for him. The light that seemed to radiate and fill him up, keeping him close and safe, silencing the beast within him. It was perfect. It was the way things were supposed to be.

But it was wrong.

Suddenly, inexplicably, the fingers were too cold. Too frozen. Too stiff. The breath stilled. Stopped. The light stained red. The serenity of their silence interrupted by the cruelty of a single, endless gunshot.

And then he was running,

running,

running.

He was never fast enough.

He could only watch as that slim, familiar, precious figure fell down, too slow and too fast and why was he falling at all, and why couldn't he reach him as he lay there bleeding, bleeding, bleeding too much red much too quickly. And just as it was too late he felt the ghost of those fingers once again, heard the echo of his love and his chest was on fire and he was on fire and the world was burning, as it should be burning, as he burned, and as he now burns, and he could only pray for the dream to end only to wake and find that the dream was real and he was alone.

Please feel free to tell me what you thought!