Stuff of Dreams
Summary: Seto Kaiba can't sleep, so he takes a walk. Introspective piece about Seto and rain.
AN-I am very proud of this little piece, and it took me FOREVER to finish it. So you'd BETTER review. Please. Please...please please please!!I'd like to see your thoughts on this.
Warning! Mentions of child abuse. Over use of the word 'him' and 'he'.
Disclaimer: I don't own it. If you think I do, you are possibly more stupid than my cousin (he's fourteen and I'm more mature than him! At twelve!) which is truly an amazing feat.
The auburn haired youth tossed and turned on his bed. He couldn't get into a comfortable position, even though the bed was huge. He couldn't close his eyes without macabre images of death and gore getting in front of him.
The boy sat up in annoyance. Since when had his mind become a reel of slasher flicks?
There was no way he was going back to sleep. If those were the things he saw when he just closed his eyes for a minute, he would like to see the dreams.
He got up out of his bed and went to the opposite wall, looking at himself in the large mirror. He touched his hand to the face that was staring at him from the clear glass. He looked pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He was a sickly, pasty color. A little too pale. He couldn't be coming down with something. He prided himself on never coming down with anything.
Suddenly, he found himslef feeling unbearably warm, and though the feeling came and went, the adolscent found himself pulling off the large shirt he slept in.
He looked at himself again. Normal. He turned around and looked over his shoulder. Not so normal. Scars obviously made by a whip covered his back, red, white, and pink crisscrossed over themselves in a sickly array. Nobody knew about those scars but Mokuba. And Gozaburo, but that didn't count, because he was dead, and he was the one who had given him the collection of lacerations.
He heard a clap of thunder outside and smiled, very slightly. He rarely smiled large smiles, or any at all. He liked storms, though. Whatever others would say. some things did give him pleasure. Aggressive corporate takeovers, peace, storms, and rain were a few of those things. He slipped on black pants and a black turtleneck, as well as one of the black trench coats he rarely wore.
And then he put on a pair of boots and went out the door, down the winding staircases that Mokuba loved so much, and out the main door.
It was dark, and he almost stumbled a couple of times, but never really did, because he never stumbled. He stepped outside. It was a half-moon that night. Half moons always reminded him of something powdered with sugar. Only he didn't know what the something was. No stars were visible, because they were covered by the clouds that faintly showed their outlines in the dark blue sky.
The thunderstorm had stopped, which slightly disappointed the wanderer, but a drizzle had started, and that was even better. It smelled like rain, which was obvious. He liked the smell of rain. It made everything clean, and it made everything gray, that he could tell even through the dim street lights.
The youth sauntered into the nearest park and sat down on a bench. He was either unaware or uncaring of the fact that the marble was slippery and wet under him.
Probably uncaring, because he was that kind of person.
He felt the cold raindrops trickle down his face, a replacement for the tears he could and would not cry. He felt the drops cling to his long eyelashes and dribble softly into his eyes, making them glassy and unfocused. He blinked the rain rapidly out of his eyes.
Eyes that suddenly held a soft spark of-what was it? Humanity, perhaps? If one looked deep enough, they would know that the boy was enjoying himself, in some strange, melancholy way.
The boy adored the wet drops. He adored them because the rain untainted him. Rain was his faithful friend, because it washed the blood away.
For an hour, he simply sat there, and he stared. Stared at the dully illuminated midnight beauty. He looked at the small trees and nicely trimmed bushes, observed the flowers as the rain fell upon them and became round, clinging like oversized dew drops. When he was much younger, back in time, all he could remember about his mother was that she would tell him that every raindrop that fell upon the ground and burst was a wish, and the ones that fell onto the leaves and petals and became preserved were dreams. So when the rain hit the pavement, the wish would be fulfilled, and when the rain hit the flowers and trees and leaves the dream was preserved. And that was why rain made things so pretty.
He had been innocent then, unknowing that not everything could be a miracle, that not every dream could simply stay, and that wishes rarely came true.
For a while, he almost believed like he had back then. That rain was the stuff of dreams, of fantasies and miracles.
He shook his head bitterly as he walked home.
He didn't believe those things anymore.
Because he was Seto Kaiba.
And he had no time for miracles.
-Owari-