WARNING: This story is intended for those 17+ for language, violence, and SLASH (Male coupling)! Otherwise, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Resident Evil series, and if I did, Luis wouldn't have died.

. . .

. .

.

Chapter One: Tortured Soul

An image of a painting hanging in a dreary castle seemed to call back ancient demons, lightning struck, and then all hell broke loose. Death permeated the atmosphere like smoke in a smoldering warehouse. It felt like an obscured dream that took a wrong turn somewhere, pieces seeming broken up in parts more often than not, and you could even swear you had this dream before… And yet, not being able to remember exactly what happens. Obviously, nothing having to do with kittens and rainbows, but the show must go on.

He watched himself walk down a familiar hallway from a bird's-eye-view, knowing in full that he was nothing but a helpless spectator. He pressed forward, not understanding what he was doing in the first place, wishing he was home in his bed sleeping right then. His heart pounded disruptively in his head as he came up onto a corner, his gut wrenching as he slowly turned, not knowing exactly what was going to happen. The lightning struck again, and this time was followed by a blood-curdling scream, the voice of a female. He knew this voice, though he could clearly discern it from the uproar of shouting voices getting closer. The sound of his boots thudded in rhythm against the cold marble floor as he picked up the pace, following the estranged voices, as if being beckoned by the knowledge that he would die anyway. He skidded to a stop, the loud sound of glass breaking underneath him broke him from the seeming trance. He took a brief look out the shattered window; he was at least five stories up, he thought or at least that's as far down as he was able to see. The rain was dense, thunder cracking so loudly that it hurt his eardrums, he pulled his head back inside. He looked back down, a dark substance appeared below his feet but he was unable to tell what it was. He used the lightning to his advantage this time, used it as his own personal flashlight. The light came swift and bright just as he'd hoped, though the one thing he didn't anticipate was the dark substance; dark crimson surrounded his feet, the muscle in his chest literally stopped for a matter of milliseconds. Suddenly the rain hitting the floor and windowsill resembled the sound of missiles in a warzone, it was deafening. Before he knew it, he was running as fast as his feet would carry him. Glancing back, he could still see the blood, it trailed from his feet like a wet shadow of blackness. Echoing in the distance, he heard a child laughing, making quick note of how it didn't sound quite right…Twisted and malevolent, like the very voice itself was going to devour his soul. The path he'd taken led him to a dead end, it was unusually dark and he felt as though he was being watched by something in the wall or the wall itself. Another silent flash revealed the horror before his eyes; he'd been standing in front of a giant mirror and the blue of his eyes was replaced with an eerie red hue that screamed kill. But that wasn't what caught his attention…it was the gaping hole in his body, the ends of his clothing and skin curling around the edges of the massive wound, instantly indicating it was induced by a puncture from the back all the way through. The last thing he saw was blood being splattered on the reflective sheet of glass.

Leon flung up in bed, pulse racing and breath hitching. He exhaled unevenly in relief to find himself in his room; it had all been just another bad dream. He didn't have night terrors like these often, just enough to deprive him of sleep. He pulled the sheet off himself best he could, the light sheen of sweat making it a job to him, and threw his legs over the side of the bed with a yawn. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock, staring longer than usual to wait for the blurs to leave his eyesight…Four-eighteen in the morning, just great. He loosely thanked God that he was on vacation as he stood up, smoothing out the legs to his boxers before making his way to the kitchen. He opened the top cupboard beside the refrigerator, unable to ignore the bright red digits on the microwave reminding him of the time when he grabbed a bottle of vodka. All he needed was enough to calm his nerves and then he'd go back to sleep. He lazily turned around and sluggishly treaded into the common room, flicking on the lamp and taking a seat on the taupe couch adjacent from the television. The agent snatched the remote from the dark brown coffee table and pressed the power button. He pulled the corked cap from the bottle of alcohol and took a swig, grimacing slightly when it scorched the back of his throat as it went down. At that point, he wished he hadn't drunk the rest of the orange juice for breakfast that morning. He brought his attention to the television, and of course, nothing but infomercials. He grimaced through another taste of the bitter liquid, glaring daggers through the bottle as if it was it's fault he was up and four-thirty in the morning drinking in the first place. Leon leaned his head back against the couch, the cool fabric feeling good against his bare neck while light from the program danced across his bare back and chest. Wondering why he sat up until dawn drinking every time he had that damn dream, and why it felt so real right after he woke up but faded into thin air after a few minutes. Every time he had it he swore he wouldn't forget it, but it would be gone at the snap of a finger. He groaned irritably, now so wired he probably wouldn't be able to fall sleep again until mid afternoon.

"I'm thirty-one fuckin' years old for crying out loud," he said to himself "and it's just a nightmare." He winced ever so slightly as he lied. It was so much more than just a case of serial dreams, they recollected his subconscious fears and memories, combining the two into what it was currently escalated to. He tried so hard to stay rational, to keep reminding himself he couldn't have done anything to save him, because if he didn't then he probably would've gone crazy by now. Or maybe not, either way, he felt guilty -The kind that weigh heavily on your heart. Leon took another gulp of the vodka, the taste now bearable and didn't burn the back of his throat. He rubbed his tired, burning eyes. The man then abandoned his bottle and reached for the pack of cigarettes next to a small, clean ashtray. He used to smoke when he was a teenager but stopped soon afterwards so he could be a police officer, wanting to be at optimal health, and never had any attentions to pick the habit back up. He bought his first pack four years ago, after the first night terror. He placed the filtered end between his lips to free his hands while he struck the match against it's package, the flame ignited to life brilliantly before fulfilling it's purpose and was immediately blown out. He dropped the used match in the ashtray and dragged the whole thing to the edge of the coffee table and hastily turned the television off, sick of hearing the pitchman talk about the same useless attachments that turned a hair trimmer into a lighted screwdriver over and over again…or something like that. He retrieved the vodka bottle before lying down on the couch and rubbed his temples. He took a deep drag of the cigarette before exhaling and closing his eyes, comfortable with the silence surrounding him.

Blood…lots of it. Long dark waves of hair drowning in it. His eyes squinted as he took deep breaths, trying desperately to hold his demeanor. His efforts proved in vain, however, as a single tear fell, his voice dry and scratchy as he spoke "Sorry…"

Leon felt an unpleasant shiver run up his spine, he then realized he had been dozing off again. He inhaled the last bit of the cigarette before putting it out, wishing the images and voices would leave his mind. His heart felt like it'd been ripped from his chest and he threw his arm over his face, taking deep breaths. Even though it was over five years ago, the mission he went on to save the President's daughter was still fresh in his memory. Painfully fresh; a rogue tear escaped his prison-like eye and made it's way down his face upon remembering the smell of blood… his friend shoving his hand away when he tried to look at the wounds. Sure, he might not have been able to save him, but he could've at least tried.

Leon swallowed hard, the bottle of alcohol falling to the floor "…Luis."

.

. .

. . .

Yeah, soo….um I wrote this for 2 reasons:

I was bored and watched my brother beat Alan Wake this morning and it made me feel like writing.

I 3 the Leon/Luis pairing just as much as Wesker/Chris ^_^

Anyway, next chapter coming (It should be where a certain someone makes his appearance! Drop me a review if you like it so far and thanks for reading!