Wednesday, December 10, 2008


Rating: PG
Status: Oneshot, finished
Summary: He dreams of a life that he might have lived before.


It had haunted him for ages now, this memory of walking down a cobblestone road with another beside him, and it drove him crazy, the way he's taken back to a century before, every single fucking time he closes his eyes.

The smell of saltwater is always far too apparent in the air, a sharp tang in the otherwise numbingly cold air. He breathes in the sea, as he walks down the road, hands tucked firmly into his pockets to keep his fingers from getting nipped. It's a cold, cold October evening, far colder than it had any right to be. Maybe it would snow. The thought amuses him, because who's heard of snow in October? The soonest snow comes is November. Maybe if they're lucky, the snow comes on his birthday- he likes snow. Pretty thing, really- snow.

The lamp flickers above them as they walk- and he turns his head, to look up into the eyes of his companion. They're a deep slate colour, and his face is both noble and stern. That's not the person he remembers though- he remembers an informal grin on thin lips, a sly smirk when he makes a mistake, unreadable looks over the top of a book and a mug of coffee. Yes, he remembers those expressions, all on this very same face.

He hears his companion say something, but he doesn't catch it despite the slow enunciation of the words. A distance away, men shout to each other as they dock their ships on the river. "What?" he says, to the man, and the man obliges by repeating his words.

He tries to read his lips, but the words elude him still.

"I can't hear you," he says, but shrugs it off and they walk on quietly down the row of buildings, sombre elegant things that flank the street left and right. They're huge and imposing. He likes them, even though they're like overgrown structures of metal and clay- his home back in the country was smaller, cozier, but he likes the houses here because they're a memory of so much more. He's done so much more in the city, gained so many more things. Yes, they have looked kindly upon him, a young man of no real significance to them.

They stop at a house, a small townhouse of dark red brick. His companion fumbles slightly with the keys, but he gets the door open, and he raises an eyebrow, as if to say, 'Are you coming in?'

He nods, raising a hand to the door and--

The door fades. He is not touching anything, and for a moment, he panics, and he feels like he's falling, from oh so high up, and-

He awoke, gasping for breath. It was that damned dream again. Fucking hell. His eyes adjusted to the dark after a bit, and he almost crumbled in relief to know that this was his room, his familiar, warm room. The old posters of Led Zeppelin still papered the wall on his right, and Axl Rose stared at him from above Led Zeppelin. The electronic piano stood silently in the corner, and his textbooks lay scattered across the desk that sat next to the piano. It was his room all right, thank god.

But... What was he dreaming about again though? He didn't remember all the details, he just had a vague sense of unease and the knowledge that it was something that had haunted him for ages. And it'd haunt him for ages and ages to come, he was sure of it.

In the dark of his room, he shivered, and he was so lost in his thoughts and trying to figure out what the hell was going on, that he didn't even notice that his cheeks felt itchy and dry, from the tear tracks that cut down his face.

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