Author's Note: Short and plotless, huzzah!
When Yukito dreams, his dreams are never particularly eventful. He dreams of his house, silent and dark. He dreams of walking around the empty rooms, surefooted despite the lack of light. He dreams of running his hands over the tops of the tables, over the spines of books that he has read and never read at the same time. He dreams of watching the moon, when there is a moon, of watching the clouds when the moon hides its face. He dreams of walking through his garden, never going beyond the high wall that surrounds it.
Sometimes he dreams of flying, high and far, and those are the good dreams because they are the only dreams free of the gripping loneliness that pulls at him as inexorably as gravity. He can leave it behind when he flies, it has no claim on him. Nor does the sadness, so inescapable on the ground. When he flies he is only a feather on the wind's back, completely empty.
His dreams are dreams of longing. For the cheerful, good-natured heat of the sun, resting snug and comfortable against his back, radiating warmth (the sun has a deep and rumbling purr). And for something else, too, which he never gives name to, something precious that left him behind with nothing but his dreams. In Yukito's dreams he is empty, he who has never been other than full.
Every morning he wakes to the dawning light, and dreams anew when darkness comes.
Yue dreams of a life that is not his, of light and surpassing sweetness. He dreams of places he has never been and people he has never met. In his dreams he tastes food he has never eaten and feels a gentle, glowing happiness that he has never known.
He does things in his dreams that he has never
done, attends school and plays games, rides a bicycle, ties his
shoes. And he has friends in his dreams, rich and alive. A boy with
dark eyes and a slow smile whose constant and devoted presence bars
any possibility of loneliness. A young girl, all delight and energy,
whose pure and radiant joy in him is both obvious and unwavering.
Through them he experiences a completeness he has never known, a
family like none he ever had. In his dreams he is not a tool, not
some thinking object to be used and discarded at will. In his dreams
he is a person, whole and entire, with all the rights and privileges
it implies. In his dreams he is free, who has never been free, as
gentle and kind as he has
never been.
Every night he wakes to darkness, and dreams again when morning comes.