Halcyon

A Bungou Stray Dogs drabble

by mew-tsubaki

Note: The Bungou Stray Dogs characters belong to Asagiri Kafuka-sensei, not to me. Steincraft with feels. D: Read, review, and enjoy!

- ^-^3

It was just a test, just a trial-and-error session to see how far he could take his ability.

If he sliced more than his neck, the carotid… If he dissected his arms at the elbows… If he opened up the femoral arteries in his legs, placing seeds in every garnet red opening before the living river flowed out of his body—could he extend his powers then, extend his reach? Letting the vines thrum and thread through him, drawing on his life force as they turned him into more than a conduit, turned him into a host for something living, breathing—

Something out of control.

Just as easy as it was to imagine tearing the Detective Agency and the Port Mafia to shreds for the trouble they'd caused the Guild and for the momentary grief they'd caused John by landing Howard in the hospital for a while, it was an illogical conclusion to think that the vines could sink so low into Earth so as to stretch across cities, countries, oceans, continents, invading every land and home and family. Yet, illogical though it was, the horrors terrified John all the same.

The idea of his family home uprooted, things crushed and crunched, bodies broken. His imagination ran wild with images of his loved ones speared through, eyes rolled back in heads, garnet red staining the oft parched earth, leaves and fruits blooming far too brilliantly after feeding on the nutrients of human life. It only worsened when their names came to mind, and then it was Winfield he saw stretched among branches, Ruthie who was paler than a corpse, Rosasharn who'd become a mangled flower in real life, leaves framing her head as a grotesque blossom.

Bile rose to the back of John's throat, and he bent over to empty the contents of his stomach—

—and that was when he sat up in bed, screaming, a dry heave remaining in his stomach unpleasantly no matter how tightly he held himself and clenched his muscles.

After two seconds, he was made to realize that he wasn't in the world of his nightmares. No, he was in his room, in his bed, Howard to his right, Howard's arms around him, the older man's right arm wrapping around his waist while his left hand drew lazy eights on the skin of John's bare back.

John took a shaky breath as Howard kept on, and the blond tried to regain control of his abdomen's muscles. This wasn't the first time this had happened. And, morbidly, John didn't think he was supposed to be the one with the violent nightmares.

Howard had told him a few times before that he was aware of his lack of control over his own powers. "The Great Old Ones…," the older man had said in his wispy, at times eerie, voice, "…are not exactly an ability." When asked how he knew that, Howard had given John a dark smile and added, "Because I am aware my powers are unstable and that I'm not the one fully in charge of them. So," he'd continued, pressing a kiss to John's fingertips, "if I lose myself…" A kiss to John's palm. "…you should not hesitate…" A brush of lips to the inside of John's wrist. "…to stop me…" A tug on John's wrist, bring John closer to him, nose to nose. "…or to kill me before I reach that point." To seal the promise, he'd kissed John's lips, but the intimacy that followed had never erased Howard's words from John's brain.

But despite Howard's honesty and views of the Great Old Ones, John was the one with the dark thoughts and the nightmares of losing control of his ability, of killing his family. During the daytime, when John was wide awake, he tried reasoning that it was his guilty conscience working him over. If he could use the Grapes of Wrath to do Fitzgerald's bidding at will, then who was to say the ability wouldn't strive to keep being used, even when John didn't call upon it to aid the Guild? His ability was different from the others'; it worked on a larger scale, a more natural one. Mitchell's was a more natural ability like his, but her powers were weak compared to the others'. Fitzgerald, Alcott, Hawthorne—even Twain and Montgomery—they all exercised decent control. They were the masters of their abilities, not the other way around.

At least Howard understood and empathized, and he knew how to handle John whenever the nightmares woke the both of them up. He never used words—even coming from his partner and lover, John knew he could never see them as anything but empty in these circumstances—nor did he shush the younger man. In lieu of that, Howard drew John's head to his chest and held him, stroking his hair softly and humming foreign tunes that distracted John and let his mind wander to Howard, wondering just how old the other man was and from where he hailed…

And it did the trick every time. His stomach settled, thoughts of instability seemed silly in Howard's surprisingly firm grip, and he found comfort in his partner's voice as Howard got him to recline and drift off to a more restful sleep.

It wasn't the peace he sought and needed. But it was the calm he wanted, and he'd thank Howard yet again in the morning for getting him through yet another grueling night of mental anguish.

- ^-^3

They really are powerful, and I've been wondering, considering the power of John's ability, if there's the possibility that he can't actually fully control it… Plus, I think Lovecraft actually has a better sense of what resides within him than he lets on to the Guild—aside from John, of course. -w- Poor John, though, dreaming those things…and poor Howard, having to ask John to do such things should he ever become that way. I just. ;w; *cries*

Thanks for reading, though, and please review!

-mew-tsubaki :c