Beautiful Dreamer
"Lysandre," says Augustine, hovering next to him in the blackness, and Lysandre knows that it is just a dream.
"Lysandre," says Augustine, taking his hand, "aren't the stars beautiful?"
They are in a field, at night, far, far away from any cities or towns, and the sky is so clear that he thinks he can see hundreds, maybe even thousands of stars. And indeed, they are beautiful, spread across the dark abyss of the night sky in swathes of glittering lights.
"Lysandre," says Augustine, pointing upwards, "aren't the fireworks beautiful?"
They are at the top of Prism Tower, at midnight on New Year's Day, fireworks spiralling upwards in a dazzling display of red, blue, green, yellow, and magenta, one colour for each of the five plazas of Lumiose. And indeed, they are beautiful, exploding across the sky in a storm of light and sound over the cheering crowd below.
"Lysandre," says Augustine, lying on his stomach, "isn't the view beautiful?"
They are on a beach at sunset, fiery streaks of red and orange spreading across the sky and reflecting in the shimmering waters below. They are alone, the only other sounds around them being the gentle lapping of waves at the shore and the faint cries of Wingull in the distance. Augustine lies next to him on their picnic blanket, clad only in swimming trunks, with his body covered in glistening droplets of water that slide slowly down his skin. And indeed, the view is beautiful.
Sometimes he sees another Augustine, watching him from someplace far off in the distance, but his face looks haunted and his eyes look dead and it's so, so much easier to deal with his phantom Augustine than with this one, this one crushed by grief and confusion and betrayal. No matter how hurt or furious the phantom Augustine gets, he comes back. He always comes back. If he chooses to face this Augustine, this broken, sorrow-filled version of him, he's not sure what will happen, if they'll cut themselves on the jagged edges he left behind. No. Much safer to stay here, in the darkness, with the ghost of a man who once called him friend haunting his dreams.
Sometimes, he can hear voices, garbled though they are, as if he's hearing them from underwater, beneath the surface of a dark and endless sea. Other times, he can hear what sounds like angry outbursts, or the pounding of fists on a wall.
And sometimes, when all else is still and silent, he can hear muffled, gasping sobs, as if the person crying is trying their hardest not to but is ultimately helpless against the storm of emotion that rages over them, that rages over this calm and quiet sea and turns it into a roiling, roaring creature, waves crashing in his ears as his heart pounds like it's trying to beat out of his chest and his head aches from the sound. And so he covers his ears and shuts his eyes and retreats to a place deep, deep within himself, deep beneath this turbulent, raging sea, far, far away from the muffled sobbing that somehow still manages to haunt his unconscious dreams, lingering in the back of his mind like a jealous lover.
"Let's make a perfect world together, Lysandre," Augustine says, sometimes.
"Let me join you, my friend," he says, other times. "I too desire a beautiful world."
"Kiss me," he says, still other times, or sometimes even, "Take me, Lysandre, please, I need you—"
He likes these Augustines. These ones are easy to deal with. But, of course, there are others, others that prey upon the weakness in his mind.
"You betrayed me," Augustine says. "I trusted you. I idolized you. You were my friend."
"I'll never forgive you," Augustine says, "I can't forgive you for what you tried to do. Are you insane? What made you think that was a good idea?"
"I hate you," Augustine says angrily. "Leave. I never want to see you again."
"And so came the fall of another man who would be god," Augustine says, mockingly. "You fell just like the rest of them. Even if you'd succeeded, what would be the result? A world with no Pokémon or people save for one crazy man with a saviour complex and his team full of rich brats. Is this the 'perfect' world you'd dreamed of?"
But even this Augustine is not the worst one.
"I forgive you, Lysandre," says Augustine, cruelly, almost, words twisting like a knife in his heart, "even after everything you've done. Why is that, hmm? Why do you think that is?"
And no matter how much he covers his ears, no matter how much he tried to block out the sound of the words he knows are coming next, he always hears them, echoing in his mind like the tolling of a thousand bells.
"I still love you, Lysandre. I love you, I love you, I love you…" says Augustine, over and over and over, again and again and again and again, and he covers his ears and shuts his eyes and runs, somewhere, anywhere that is far, far away from that cruel, lovely mouth and those piercing grey eyes and the words burning brands into his soul.
"I love you," the voice says, laughing hysterically, and he runs and runs and runs—
Lysandre awakens with a gasp, breathing heavily, blue eyes snapping open to take stock of his surroundings. He is lying on a bed that is not his own, in a room that is not his own, and someone is holding his hand. He turns his head only to see shocked grey eyes staring into his own, and the faint echo of an "I love you" twists through his mind like a trembling whisper on the wind.
"You're awake," Augustine says, dumbly.
"So it seems," says Lysandre, because he cannot think of anything else to say.
"Am I dreaming?" Augustine says, still staring at him in disbelief.
"Perhaps," Lysandre replies. "Or perhaps I am the one dreaming. Perhaps we are both, in fact, dreaming, and have been brought together by chance—"
"Lysandre," says Augustine, "shut up."
Lysandre's jaw snaps shut with an audible click.
Augustine, quite frankly, looks like hell. His hair and clothing is rumpled, his jaw looks like it hasn't seen a razor in days, and his eyes are red and wet like he's been crying recently.
"I love you," the voice whispers, curling insidiously in his mind.
"Augustine, I—"
"Don't," says Augustine, sounding hoarse and so, so tired of everything. "I don't want to hear it, Lysandre."
They stay there in silence for a while, neither quite looking at the other, neither quite looking at the other, neither quite knowing what to say to dispel the awkwardness hanging heavy in the air. Gradually, Lysandre feels his eyelids beginning to grow heavier and heavier, and, against his will, they begin to slide shut—
"Lysandre!" a voice cries, and his eyes snap open once again to see wide, panicked grey eyes staring into his own. His hand, which, he realizes, Augustine has been holding this whole time, is now being clutched in a death grip, as if holding on tighter will anchor Lysandre more firmly in the realm of consciousness.
"I miss you," says Augustine, a painfully, heartbreakingly earnest admission, staring at Lysandre desperately as if he might disappear the moment he looks away.
"I love you," the phantom whispers.
"I missed you too," Lysandre says truthfully, because no phantom his mind could conjure up can compare to the real Augustine, made of flesh and blood and sitting at his bedside now looking like a lost little boy.
"No," says Augustine, "you didn't hear me. I miss you. I miss the Lysandre who would talk to me for hours about mega-evolution. I miss the Lysandre who would put as much passion into working at his café as he did into working at his labs. I miss the Lysandre who invented the Holo Caster to bring people closer together and make the world a better place."
"I do want to make the world a better place," he says quietly.
"With what? With genocide?" Augustine spits, voice rising. "I could have helped you, you know! We could have thought of another way, together! Or was I just another one of those 'uncaring plebeians' to you? The Lysandre I knew still had faith in this world and its ability to change. Still believed that, together, people and Pokémon could change the world for the better! Isn't that why you invented the Holo Caster? To encourage people to communicate with each other and work together?
"I—"
"The Lysandre I knew—" says Augustine, voice cracking, "No. He's not you. I don't know who you are, any more."
"I'm still me," Lysandre says, helplessly.
"I know," sighs Augustine, looking down at their clasped hands, "and that's the saddest part."
"Lysandre," says Augustine, staring at him with wide, guileless eyes, "am I beautiful?"
And suddenly, they are in Lysandre's own room, and Lysandre is sitting on a plush red sofa with Augustine standing directly in front of him. He is wearing Lysandre's crimson dress shirt, and only the dress shirt, which is just barely preserving his modesty. They seem to have been in the middle of an animated discussion about mega-evolution, judging by the papers scattered haphazardly across the coffee table between them and the ones that Augustine is still holding in his hand. His hair is endearingly mussed, and his cheeks are slightly flushed from the enthusiasm with which he'd been explaining a new theory to Lysandre only moments ago. And indeed, he is beautiful.
"Yes," says Lysandre, "you are beautiful."
"Then why did you leave me behind," says Augustine, eyes turning hard and cold, terrible in his beauty, voice booming and resonating throughout Lysandre's entire being, the echoes of a thousand thoughts left unsaid bursting through the hollows of his heart.
"I—" he begins, though he really has no idea what he's going to say, and before he can continue Augustine bursts into flames, and Lysandre is forced to watch as the fire devours his body, burning and burning until nothing is left, the absence clawing at him just as surely as those words are now seared into his memory.
Why did you leave me behind.
"I forgive you, you know," says Augustine, the real Augustine, still refusing to look at him.
It feels like all the breath has been punched out of his lungs.
"I love you," the voice whispers, curling with an iron grip around his heart.
"Do you want to know why?" says Augustine, the grip on Lysandre's hand tightening almost painfully.
"Why," Lysandre manages to croak out with what little breath he can muster, dreading the answer and yet at the same time wanting, needing to hear it.
"It's because I still need you," says Augustine, voice achingly raw, eyes frighteningly bright as he finally looks Lysandre in the eye.
"I love you," the voice whispers.
"I don't care what you did, or what you tried to do," says Augustine, voice trembling audibly, "and I don't care who you've become. I just want my friend back."
"I'm back," says Lysandre, softly, and this, above all else, is what causes Augustine to break down, tears streaking down his beautiful, wrung-out face as he tries desperately to hold in his sobs. He's still holding onto Lysandre's hand.
"Yes," says Augustine after many long moments, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. "Yes, you are."
And maybe, for now, that will be enough.