Prologue: Awake Again
Terror. Rage. Determination. More terror.
The iron poker is cold and hard against his palm, and fury burns hot in his veins as he swings as hard as he can. For a moment, everything it tinted red, and then there is the jarring impact, the small thrill of satisfaction at the arcing spray of blood and torn flesh. Something in his chest eases, even as he recoils from himself in horror.
Frightened eyes glitter at him in the darkness, but all he feels is anger and fear, anger and fear. He feels his fist tightening around the poker, and for the span of a breath, he's not sure he shouldn't be more afraid of himself.
Then the world explodes around him, crushing him, and he can't breathe again. This time, fear is only part of the reason, and he scrabbles at the sand, fighting as he's pressed down and down.
The there is pain. It flashes through him in jagged spikes of crimson lightning, bursting from the wet slice and dull crunch at his shoulder. The stench of blood and rot fills his nose and mouth and he is drowning in it, drowning in screams and salty-copper, and the red retreats from his vision except for one bright, ugly pinpoint. It stares at him, unblinking, until finally, finally, blackness blankets his mind.
He falls away. He falls for a very long time, too long. He feels them flitting over him like stones, skipping on the surface as he drifts underneath, mossy green and vibrant violet and electric yellow. They touch him, especially the green one, whose verdant tendrils coil deep and gather bits of him away and knit other bits of him up.
He can feel himself floating upwards, and the closer he comes to the surface, the more it gnaws at him. It all seeps back in steadily, diluted only by the atmosphere he's been suspended in.
Fear. Anger. Hunger.
It claws at him. It's not the ache of emptiness, nor the frailty of utter starvation, a passive thing to be overcome or to be overcome by. It's an active hunger, with teeth and claws that grip his belly tight, tearing it open and letting all that might fill it spill out. It crawls up his throat like a howl, scratches at his eyes and ears and into his skull. It gnaws and pierces, pinpricks all over, and itch in his spinal cord that wriggles up and down relentlessly.
It isn't merely hunger. It is madness. It is famine.
It sinks its slimy-dry-cold fingers into him, and his soul is crying and laughing and screaming as it is torn and consumed piece by bitter piece. It tugs him towards the surface, relentless and giggling. Suddenly, he does not want to go, but it gives him no choice.
There is a pounding, a discordant drumline surrounding him, and a river rushing in his ears. His eyes are wide and wild, and everything seems to vibrate around him, tingling up his fingertips and making his breath come in short, sharp gasps.
It fills his lungs, rolls over his tongue like honey, but infinitely sweeter - a taste beyond any other taste, and he craves, oh, he craves.
The drums beat in his brain, thrumming with life, and he craves.
And there is one, alone and cut off, and he can smell that glorious smell wafting in on the night air. All else smells of ash, but that. Oh, that.
Desire pools on his tongue, and the famine rips at him, and he is there, only inches away, teeth bared, only one more heartbeat away from slicing into that tender throat.
Davy's throat.
Davy.
His friend.
Gasping, Michael jerked to wakefulness, fingers fisted in his hair, staring across the way at Micky, who was entrenched deeply in a dream of his own. The drummer's face is scrunched painfully, and he is curled up on his side more tightly than usual, as though protecting himself unconsciously.
As he tried to breathe deeply, the pounding of his heart eases, and another beat grew more and more apparent. Slower, in spite of whatever nightmare plagued him, and pushing a savory rush of blood through his gangly body, Micky's heart called to Michael. His flesh, tender and undoubtedly tasty in spite of years of hard living, beckoned Michael closer.
Rolling onto his back, Michael tried to stop breathing, but the steady thumpathump of Micky's heart rattled in his skull, and a craving, one he recognized, drew it's nails down Michael's sanity with a maddening screech.
Kicking off his bedding, Michael tumbled from bed and, not giving his body a chance to betray him, ran from the room. He slammed into the bathroom, heedless of the slumbering occupants of the house, and lurched over the sink, stomach heaving against nothing.
Turning on the taps, Michael splashed cold water on his face, letting the swirl of it circling the drain mesmerize him.
It was only the dream, he told himself firmly. The stupid dream, the memory, whatever. He wasn't like that anymore. Lucy and Peter had healed him. He was fine. He just needed to forget all about that and move on.
He nodded, satisfied with his train of thought, no matter how hollowly it clattered. No matter that it felt too much like misdirection, the prattle and clatter of a magician as it tried to make you believe the lovely assistant had really vanished. No matter that the empty pit in his gut was still there, weaker, but ever present.
It was only a dream.
He looked at himself once more in the mirror before turning away and heading back to bed.
And if he'd noticed that his eyes looked a bit more orange than usual, like someone had dipped a paintbrush with red watercolor on it into a golden-brown-tinted cup of water, he would have blamed it on the light and the sleeplessness.
But he didn't, and it didn't much matter anyway, because he would have been wrong.
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A/N - Well, I was very wrong - it's nowhere near 2am. And why do I get the feeling this isn't going to end well? Oh, right, because I read the outline