A/N: Well, hello. I'm trying to work faster on my translation so that I can make my English work catch up with the Italian ones – though it's about 50+ fics so it's quite hard – because that will bring me to update at the same time with both the fandoms. Maybe you just don't care sorry haha.
I'm not going to write many notes for long fics for the same reason but if you'd leave a review to let me know what you think it'd encourage my translating work.
Thanks to Mariafbv for being my beta.
At first it might seem a little too confused, but it gets clearer chapter by chapter, I swear.
Warnings: abuse, kinks, amnesia, death of secondary characters, DOD (Dissociative Identity Disorder), therapy.
xxx
His chest deflates slightly, anxious to breathe something different from the panic filling his veins and reaching his lungs, painful from the harsh physical effort he is going through.
You only see what you want when you're out with the birds of prey.
He is running up to nowhere.
The small break doesn't help, instead it is making him more unsatisfied towards a desire he hasn't even fully realized yet. His mind is a desolate land, destroyed by that anonymous need, even though he can't really tell what it is about, as if it's something scary but vain.
You disappear with the dawn.
You only see what you want when you're out with the birds of prey.
He looks around and the natural scenery surrounding him confuses him. He's searching for something but he has quite realized what it might be yet. He's searching for someone, for an important someone too. Who was that someone?
He runs again then, not even bothering paying attention to the cracking pain he is starting to feel to his legs, violent cramps, muscles flexing in pain as if they're asking for mercy, begging him to stop and try later on for that target.
But he can't.
He can't stop, not now while he's starting to feel like he's close. He can't do it, not after he has run for so long in the middle of nowhere to arrive there, where he is, where he doesn't even know he's at; where is he?
He doesn't care much.
He doesn't care because he's starting to feel a little more complete and that makes him think he's almost there, he has almost reached him, he doesn't need to run too long now.
There's no right, there's no wrong.
You only see what you want.
He turns around a few trees. It's not like he's counting, because it looks like everything just disappears whenever he walks towards it, so he realizes there is no need for avoid anything: a simple waste of time that gets him farer from the aim.
He's starting to feel too weak but still he can't let go.
Also, even if he would want to stop, his legs wouldn't allow that, they'd force him to be dominated by a movement he can't control anymore. He isn't even choosing a direction; he's just following the one his body imposes.
The moment he stops though, he doesn't see anything but the water shining under the sun, and the anxious feeling of unsatisfied desires hits him again.
What if he has walked miles uselessly?
What if he has run that long instinctive road only to find a stupid lake?
No, that's not what he's searching for, he knows it because his chest his giving him signals again to make him understand nothing is going the way it should.
He's already breathing harshly and this time it's not about the run itself, but because he's feeling terribly lost. Then he feels a presence behind his back, light steps moving through the spines of herb shaking to seek for his attention.
When he turns to check, he isn't really sure about what he sees: the figure standing in front of him is blurred and no matter how much he tries, he can't focus on it, and the way he's forcing his sense for that makes him feel a hard pain at his temples, so he brings his fingers up to brush them. His eyes close instinctively and, when he opens them again, he realizes how stupid he has been: the figure is gone and there was nothing before his eyes again. It's like an empty space ready to devour him making explode the anxiety again, as if it's hidden into his body constantly, ready to blow it all up so that any part of his body feels involved.
Seconds pass, but they aren't really seconds.
Seconds become years.
Years become seconds.
Time goes on slow and inexorable, fast and uncatchable.
You disappear with the dawn.
You only see what you want when you're out with the birds of prey.
He realizes his temples aren't really feeling the contact with his fingertips, so massaging has become useless, because something that doesn't feel, doesn't need to be brushed. And he isn't actually feeling.
The wind blows, his ears could hear it, but his skin escaped the touch.
Then, again, herb shaking, a few steps at his back and this time, when he turns, he makes sure his gaze is strong and intense on what he sees; but he doesn't see anything.
The other person isn't there anymore as he would have thought, just gone.
He feels his head hurting again, weaker, a lot weaker, then again, stronger, much stronger.
He blinks his eyelids a few times, almost as if he believes that could wash away the pain and it does actually; but then his eyes got caught in a strong blinding light that made him shake and almost fall.
He passes out a second later.
xxx
When his eyes open again, his sight is a lot more hazed than it was before, running through the woods. He can barely capture the neutral colors surrounding him, mixing and blending to create a much worse state of confusion.
He tries to blink again as a few seconds before, but he can't focus on the people surrounding him: he can feel voices, even breaths, but he can't see, his retina isn't really scanning the bodies and faces behind the sounds continuously trembling around him, as if all the attention in the room is on him.
He feels a sober anxiety then, more real, and he walking around psychically to hide among the wounds of his drunken mind to try and give an order to the thoughts or maybe keep them alive enough to elaborate them consciously.
It takes him barely 10 seconds to fall into the oblivion again.
xxx
There's no right, there's no wrong.
You only see what you want.
He's running again, once again. Lately – he can't really measure time because time doesn't exist there – he has found himself running so many times he is asking himself how can his legs even keep lasting.
He doesn't care though.
He has a prey.
He has found it.
It can't escape.
There are moments in which that blurred image represents the main sweet aim, a simple desire to be made real, but right now, it's just a target. He isn't searching for it with interest, but with hunger, so much he has sure he has felt the sensation dozens of times before even though he can't remember them right now – now … time doesn't exist – because it's so familiar.
There's a pleasant warmth running through his chest, a dispersive but still present feeling that makes him shiver unstoppably along his back and he know for sure what it is. He knows it beyond this confusion.
The bird of prey.
A night bird.
His perfect sight is trained to see through the darkness of the night sky, his skilled hearing – trained the same way – and all the qualities that make him able to choose a target and pursue it until he gets it, just as he was about to do now, he was sure of it.
As a good predator, which he was, he would have eaten it alive, sucking each and every little piece of sanity away from its mind until it was done.
He runs, faster, tracing the route he had followed the time before, like every single time, until he finds that lake.
He tries not to get caught by surprise this time and, as soon as he hears the swish of the herb, alive again, he turns fast to keep his prey from escaping.
Still, right now his prey is not a prey at all: it's a wish again, a desire, and it changes like a swing, back and forth. It's all so confused and confusing.
He takes his eyes to look into the two little sapphires shining in front of him and then he is able to look at him, completely. It's there, on the tip of his tongue, but he can't say his name. His eyes wander over his body, his lips curl in a sweet smile, a sick one, then sweet again.
The light.
xxx
This time he is able to distinguish better the voice around him, he's almost able to catch some words during the conversation going on in the room. The words 'memories', 'part', 'erase' fly around him, filling a new air he doesn't recognize, but he can't force his mind enough to go on an synthesize the whole thing together.
One voice among the others sound fucking familiar, a little less unknown, and the warmth of the common tone seems to call him a little, probably because it's actually the first reality he gets in contact with since God only knows how long; but he doesn't have time for statements: his prey is running away and he needs to hurry if he wants to catch it.
He won't be able to catch it ever again if he stops.
His prey.
Where was his prey?
xxx
He slips down the hole again, and his wandering through the woods; he's faster and faster, and he doesn't want to stop, not after he has been terrorized by the idea of missing the goal forever. It was his prey, wasn't it?
But it doesn't look like a prey to your right now.
No, this time it looks like a desire, he knows.
He runs, he runs, he runs, until he reaches for the place that looks like the final destination every single time. Again, he turns as soon as he hears that sound, the swish among the leaves, and the third try is the lucky one. The third he actually remembers. If time doesn't exist, number don't either.
It's a fast flash: the expression on the other boy's face makes him smile.
"Kurt."
xxx
His eyes open for good now and the sharpness of every detail surrounding him is so defined that it almost hurts his eyes. His eyelids go down for a second and he takes courage: he knows when he'll open them back, he's going to meet that white and gray space, but at least he's going to have a little preparation ahead now. He doesn't want his head to spin again so hard it makes him pass out. It's fucking creepy.
He does it though and not only he focuses on the hospital room in the details (he's now realizing he has always woken up there also), but he can also scan perfectly the image of the boy sitting beside him, looking at him life he's a ghost or something, with his eyelid and mouth wide opened.
"Blaine …" He murmurs weakly, realizing slowly how hard it is for him to talk. What the hell happened to bring him in such a state?
"Sebastian …" The boy whispers, getting a little closer to the bed with his chair, "you woke up …" He stares at him an Sebastian immediately thinks it's such a stupid statement. Right now, sharing this mean thought with himself, he's already feeling like he's getting back into his own shoes and it's such a perfect sensation.
"Where am I?" He asks, shifting a little towards him instinctively, before he realizes he's practically tied to the bed enough to force him back.
Why?
"Metropolitan Hospital Center," Blaine answers with a serious look on his face, with such a worry in his eyes that Sebastian has no problem reading it, "you had an accident, don't you remember?"
Sebastian shakes his head, then nods.
"I don't remember about it," he explains, smooth voice, while his face in scowling fast, "but I remember I had one. It's so weird …" He moans, bringing a hand on his forehead for the instinct to fight the sudden stabs that hit him as soon as he tried to remember about the reason he is there.
Blaine nods.
"It is," he answers fondly, leaning towards him to takes his free hand, "it's totally weird, I know."
Sebastian starts a little at the touch and feels like it's because his body hasn't felt the contact with another skin for too long, so it's the pleasure of physically connecting that brings him to that. When he realizes it, he can't help but asking.
"What's the date today?" He asks and brings his gaze up from Blaine's hand upon his own – he doesn't really care much about it, he needs answers – to point them into the other boy's, wondering.
"4th of November, 2012." Blaine shoots back, as if he has trained who knows how long to give him that answer the right way, as if he has been waiting for Sebastian to wake up to tell him that. Sebastian might be fucking dazed, but he isn't stupid, he was never stupid.
"It's been sixteen days." Sebastian shoots back, but he doesn't even know what he's actually talking about. Blaine startled in the hold of their hands. "Blaine, it's been sixteen days. Is my brain damaged or something?" He asks when he realizes that repeating the words isn't making them any clearer. The only thing he remember it's 19th of October 2012. What happened that day?
"No." Blaine answers, shaking his head. "No long-lasting damage. The doctor says your memory might be a little shadowed at the moment, but it's not irreversible. As time goes by, you'll remember everything. You're just a little confused because of the coma."
Sebastian wrinkles his nose at that, as if he realizes just now what happened.
"Sixteen dyas of being comatose?"
"Fifteen." Blaine answers. "You had your accident fifteen days ago." He explains and Sebastian looks down for a few seconds, thoughtfully.
He tries to remember about something, anything, but all he can do his feeling the pain drive fast to his head every time he does it, so he's forced to talk to Blaine again, trying to avoid the part of him that wants to remember alone.
"What happened sixteen days ago, before the accident?" He asks, insistently, but Blaine shake his head.
"I don't know, we haven't talk on that day, I have no idea where you were. They called me after your accident." He give back, shrugging, but Sebastian's careful eyes notice he's practically trembling while shifting – his sight is perfect, the sight of the bird of prey (a violent camp hits his temple at that metaphorical thought, he has no idea why).
He tries to think about the words he has heard when he woke up earlier – 'memories', 'part', 'erase' – but he isn't able to explain it to himself. He gets hit by another stab, the worst until now.
He leaves Blaine's hand to pull to his temple, just like the left one, and starting massaging there. This time, he feels it, his nerves are shaking under the touch and mainly it was really. It's not an imagination, he must be awake because he can feel the contact perfectly.
"Is everything okay?" Blaine asks, sound worried, but Sebastian starts to wonder how can his best friend be so calm: he was on coma for fifteen days, but Blaine looks like he hasn't even considered the idea that he could have never woken up again.
There's something strange in that, something very strange.
"I keep having this stabs and … I feel like shit …" He murmurs, groaning, but Blaine simply sighs, smiling at him in a way Sebastian doesn't consider appropriate right now; he's getting more nervous, he needs to understand. "Are we on Sunday?" He asks suddenly, weirdly worried about the day of the week, even though he doesn't know why.
Blaine breathes in, slowly.
"Yes, Sebastian. We're on Sunday." He answers and Sebastian swallows, wondering the reason why these questions get out of his mouth if he doesn't understand them. Especially, he needs to know why he isn't even able to think without getting hurt.
Suddenly, with no stabs, something about the visions he had gone through for fifteen days comes up to his mind, enlightening him. He lifts his eyes and turns it into Blaine's, smiling spontaneously now, naturally and almost brightly.
"Where's Kurt?" He asks, hope shining into him, as if he has reached an essential point to clear things up; but Blaine is looking at him with his eyebrow lifted in surprise.
"Who's Kurt?"
Sebastian's smile vanishes to ashes.