Chasing A Memory

Seasonal Dreamer

Rating: T (for language in one area :P)

Disclaimer: As usual, I don't own Degrassi or any of its characters, old or new.

Author's Note: Okay, so this story I'm thinking is only going to be two chapters long :P I just had to get it out of my system haha but I hope you guys like it :)

Read and review!

Chapter One

Life really sucked sometimes.

That was basically what went through Marco del Rossi's mind as he sat cross-legged on white tile, twiddling his thumbs. Or...at least he thought it was tile. He really hadn't a clue where he was, or why he even thought that. It was a strange feeling.

A politely interested expression covered his face as he observed his surroundings. Everything around the boy was just...white. There was no sense of depth, no ceiling as far as Marco could tell, no walls...just white. And the crazy thing was, Marco neither knew how he got here nor where he was before this, and it didn't seem to bother him one bit. He couldn't even remember his own name, but this unnatural blasé feeling seemed to have taken control of his better judgement. It was almost like he was wasn't surprised by any of this.

Marco rose to his feet, brushing himself off as a force of habit; there wasn't any dirt in this place. He looked down at himself, curious as to what he looked like. The fact that he didn't know didn't really strike him as odd, though he supposed it should've. Marco's eyes raked over his arms and hands, delighted that he would figure this out at least. The boy had olive, Italian looking skin, and judging by the hairs on his arms and legs, he figured he must have really dark hair. His hands travelled up to his hair and found it more on the long side, but surprisingly soft. He felt like he was discovering some unknown species as his eyes fell down once more to look at his clothes. Marco was wearing light blue jeans, a dark navy blue shirt, and a black leather jacket. He found he rather liked these clothes, but he couldn't remember ever owning them. Which wasn't exactly a shock.

The Italian looked up again, placing his hands in his pockets and glancing around himself one more time. Given the odd circumstances, Marco came to two logical conclusions as to where he could be. Either he was lost in some overly sterile hospital, or he was dead, though he threw the latter in just for fun. "Hello?" he called out cautiously, hearing his voice echo all around him like he was in a really long tunnel. "Is anyone here?"

Silence. Marco sighed. Of course. So, he started walking, straining his brain as he tried to remember something, anything about him...but he couldn't. He couldn't remember who his family had been, who his friends had been...nothing. Not even where he was born or where he was living. The only thing that he could make out in his mind's eye was a flurry of distorted shades of colours and a startling pair of piercing blue eyes. He entertained the thought that maybe they were his eyes and he had been looking in a mirror, but it didn't really make sense. They didn't seem to fit his tan complexion, but he would've loved it if they did. The blue eyes were just so beautiful.

All Marco seemed certain of, was that he wasn't supposed to be here. This place didn't have any colour but a blinding white, and they definitely didn't have those blue eyes. So, now begged the question...

Where was he?

And, better yet, why was he here?

Suddenly, a rather exuberant, Irish-accented voice sounded from behind him, "Why, Marco! What a surprise to see you here!"

Marco froze for a second before whirrling around to see an older man standing before him, smiling brilliantly. He had wise-looking, green eyes that twinkled down at him and white hair framing his kind face. In fact, his hair seemed almost as white as their surroundings.

Almost.

Marco raised an eyebrow. So his name was Marco was it? Interesting...

The dark haired boy didn't even question how the man knew who he was, and though he didn't get the feeling that this man would be of any danger to him, for all he knew he was who brought him here. He wasn't going to take any chances. Marco clenched his fists in his pockets in preparation, eyeing the man suspiciously. "Um, hi? So, okay, not to sound rude, but who are you? And how did I get here? Where is here exactly?"

The man touched his fingertips together, regarding him sadly. "Unfortunately, I...I hate to say this but as much as I love seeing you, if you're here it isn't necessarily a good thing."

Marco narrowed his eyes. "Go on."

The older man opened his eyes wide, shaking his head quickly, "Oh goodness, please don't think I had anything to do with bringing you here! In fact, though you are very welcome, I'd rather you not be here." He sighed. "It's rather tragic, to be honest. I...oh, this is never an easy thing to tell someone. I absolutely hate being the bearer of bad news, but...Marco my boy, I'm deeply sorry to tell you that you had a very terrible accident."

The Italian stared at him as if waiting for the punchline. "So I had an accident...so what? That still doesn't explain where I am, and anyways," Marco spread his arms out. "Look at me. I don't have a mark on me. Actually, I feel great."

The man shook his head, visibly upset. "That's my point. You shouldn't feel good, Marco. To be honest, you should be in a considerable amount of agony."

"So...what're you saying? I'm dead is that it?" Marco snorted disbelievingly, but when the white haired man simply continued to look at him with a frown on his face, Marco couldn't help himself - he burst into laughter. "Right! I hate to break it to you, but you're crazy. No one can tell me I'm dead."

The older gentleman bit his lip, looking at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry to have to tell you like this."

Marco rolled his eyes. "Seriously? This is a pretty well-played out prank. You almost got me going there."

"Think about it for a second," the man replied. "If this were a prank, why can't you remember who you are? Why can't you remember your family or your friends or where you come from? Why does this place have no sense of perspective? You tell me, Marco. If you're not dead...where are you?"

The Italian shrugged. "I don't know, you brought me here. What did you drug me with?"

The corner of the man's mouth twitched as if he wanted to laugh, but he fought it back. Decidingly let down, he sighed. "I didn't 'drug' you with anything, and nor did I bring you here. Just...just think about it, Marco."

Marco looked at him after a few seconds, realization dawning on him. "You're not kidding, are you?" he asked softly.

The older man took a step closer to him, remorse in his voice, "I wish I were. You are far too young to be here."

Shaky, Marco glanced around him for the third time. This didn't make sense. What kind of situation could he have possibly gotten himself into? How could he be dead? "W-where exactly is here?"

"This is a place I like to refer to as 'limbo.' Or, in basic terms, it's the 'inbetween' area of life and death. Fortunately," the man startled Marco by smiling widely again. "If you are here then that means that you also have a choice."

"A choice?" he whispered.

"Yes," the man nodded. "You get to choose whether or not you, well, 'move on' or not. If you go on, you won't ever get your memory back." At Marco's confused look, he added, "It'll be kinder that way. Trust me. But, you can also return to earth if you'd like."

Marco stared at him. He could go back? "Why wouldn't I-" he started, not understanding anything.

"Not everything is always black and white. There're technicalities to consider."

"Like?" he prodded, but he gasped as he was hit with a sudden force of memories, and it was so over whelming that he blacked out and fell to the ground with a thud.

A six year old Marco shoved his bright yellow shovel into the sand, giggling as he tried making a castle exactly like the ones he'd seen on the t.v. shows. He carefully balanced the wet sand in his shovel before plopping it messily into the bucket, pleased with himself as he quickly flipped it over.

"Marco! Stop digging in the sand and come in for lunch!" Mrs. del Rossi demanded from the front door of their house.

Marco dropped his shovel and called, "Okay Mom! But, can I play with Spinner after lunch? He just got a new toy!"

His mom smiled amusedly. "If you come in right this second, then yes."

The little boy beamed as he jumped up and ran towards her, grinning, "Thanks Mom!"

"You're looking taller these days," Mr. del Rossi remarked, looking over his newpaper at a now nine year old Marco.

Marco picked moodily at his cereal. "Not really, Dad. I'm still the shortest guy in my class." He sighed. "I'm never going to be tall."

"Probably not-" Mr. del Rossi replied absent-mindly until his wife smacked him on the head with a wooden spoon. Marco made a face; that was the spoon she'd been using to make their slow-cooking soup for dinner. Gross. "I mean-!" his father replied hurriedly in his booming voice. "Of course you will! The del Rossi's have always been ladies men." He winked.

Marco glanced down at his cereal, face paling slightly at the comment, but neither parent noticed.

They didn't have a clue.

"What do you mean you'r e gay!" Marco's father roared. Marco's mother simply stood by the staircase, her eyes watery and downcast. She did nothing to stop her husband's terrible rant, cursing and insulting her only son. She just stood there, watching the whole thing.

Fifteen year old Marco winced at his tone. "I mean," he replied quietly, anticipating a storm. "I like...guys."

Pain exploded on the side of his face as his father slapped him with as much force as he could possibly muster. "Do not let me hear you talk like this again," he snarled venomously before storming up the stairs, leaving Marco standing alone in the living room, tears slowly making their way down his face.

"Marco!" a lovely voice called from behind the Italian.

He turned around and greeted the man with curly blonde hair running towards him with a big grin. "Yes, can I help you?" Marco teased as he reached him.

"Is that the best you've got?" the man smiled, brushing Marco's dark hair behind his ears lovingly. "What ever happened to, 'Good morning Dylan, the love of my life, don't you look incredibly handsome today,'?"

Marco giggled, "Is that who you are?"

Dylan growled playfully in his throat, pulling the dark haired boy into a dizzying kiss. "Does that convince you?"

"Hmm...I think I could do better," he whispered, leaning upwards.

"Dude, chill." Marco pulled away and saw Spinner, standing with Dylan's sister Paige, smirking at him. "You're not going off to war."

Paige smacked her boyfriend's shoulder reproachfully. "Leave them alone, Spin. I think it's adorable."

"Whatever. Now, are we going to get going or what?" Spinner asked. "'Cause I specifically remember you saying we would get free tickets to your hockey game," he pointed at Dylan almost accusatorily. "As in we don't pay for any of it."

Dylan rolled his eyes. "Yes Spinner, you'll get your free ticket." He glanced at his watch. "But you're right, we should get going."

"You know, I really hate filthy faggots like you," a large, muscular man growled, winding up and punching Marco in the stomach as his idiotic friends held him in place.

The breath was knocked out of him and he whimpered to himself, praying for nothing more than someone to save him. But he knew that was impossible. Dylan was playing his hockey game and his friends were in the arena, the fact that Marco was gone probably not even registering in their brains. He'd only left for a moment before the game was supposed to start as he had been alarmed to see that he had seven missed calls from home. That was never good.

But now, Marco would rather face irate parents than these group of homophobes who seemed bent on torturing him. How they'd realised he was gay, Marco hadn't the faintest idea. It was like they had some built-in radar for people like him. And that made him wonder how many other poor guys they'd beaten up.

The hooded man, that Marco had labeled as the leader, in front of him punched him in the face and Marco cried out in pain. Please make it stop, he begged, eyes firmly shut.

"Oh my God...MARCO!'

The Italian's heart, despite the pain, flooded with relief; he recognized that voice. Dylan had found him. It never registered in his mind that Dylan shouldn't be here, that he should be playing hockey, but he couldn't say he would be disappointed.

"You bastards! Leave him alone!" Dylan shouted murderously and the sound of feet against pavement, the sound of hope, came closer and closer-

Until something cold pressed itself against Marco's temple.

Dylan came to an abrupt stop, and the brown haired boy's heart plummeted once more. "Let's...let's just calm down here," the blonde's voice pleaded shakily. "Just let him go. We can all just pretend this never happened and you'll never see us again. I promise. Please."

"Not feeling so brave anymore, now are you?" the man standing to his right sneered, and the click of a gun being loaded seemed to sound a thousand times louder then it should've. "You see, the problem with never seen this faggot again-" Dylan's eyes glowed with fury, "-is that he gets to go free. We're not too satisfied with that, are we boys?" There was a chorus of mumbled, 'Like hell we ain't!' from behind Marco's head. But the leader paused, narrowing his eyes at Dylan and moving his gun from Marco's head to Dylan's chest. "Why do you care? You his 'boyfriend' or something?" he mocked.

Marco locked eyes with Dylan's, and they begged him to lie. No. Of course Dylan wasn't his boyfriend. Of course Dylan wasn't gay. Marco was just a friend...Just a friend...

And Dylan, fear penetrating his own heart, complied. "N-no. He's just...a friend of my sister's. And if I have to explain to her that her best friend was murdered right before me and I didn't do anything to stop it, then I can guarantee you we'll both be sorry."

The men laughed, shoving Marco to the ground and moving the gun back to pointing at the Italian. "I think I'll take my chances."

Marco's pure terror over came him and he sprung up to his feet while his bullies were preoccupied, instinct taking control as and he started sprinting away. He didn't bother worrying about his boyfriend; they wouldn't kill Dylan. He wasn't gay as far as they knew, and if he was smart he would continue to allow them to believe it. But him...they would kill him.

But, the sound of the gun being fired was the last thing Marco heard. Both Dylan and Marco fell to the ground, one from the fear of seeing the other shot, and the other from feeling the bullet slice through his skin.

Marco yelped and landed with a thud, motionless as the group cackled gleefully.

And he remained that way.

What did you guys think? :)