Maybe it's a dream?
Maybe nothing else is real?
It was odd, how everything seemed unreal. The endless white that fanned out from beneath his feet, the cold wind that caress his cheeks, his own breath against his hands. It felt like a cruel trick of mind, how everything slips through his fingers.
Right here, at the top of the world, everything seems to gravitate down with ease. Away from him. Away from his blood red eyes. Away from his fading humanity.
"Yo! You're finally here, Red?"
He remembered numerous taunts that slipped through those lips. He remembered something entirely different that slipped through those same lips. Kindness, tenderness, warmth. Are they really the same? Are they honestly real? If either one were just a twisted illusion it would hurt just the same.
He couldn't hear him when he stood motionless before him – ears deafened by the sound of his own blood pumping. He couldn't see his face when he lunged towards him – eyes blurred by tears that threatened to fall.
Holding the other man's life between his fingers felt oddly right. The feel of racing pulse on his skin, the desperate inhales; it was soothing, somehow. He started to believe the prior mention of warmth was just a dream. It couldn't have been real. Too much satisfaction, not much regret.
He lets a small smile when red marks appeared.
It never reached his eyes.
The sight of the other man writhing and wheezing below him made his heart clench. He couldn't quite understand. The man didn't walk out of his life. He never existed. Those dreams of walking through beige patches and sunset hills; they were never memories – just disillusions.
"You won. Happy you little fucker?"
By the time the man fell, he couldn't feel anything. Numb, torn, broken. What he believed all false. What he realised were little; but it was enough. He didn't need to pretend it was real. It is. His brown hair, his green eyes, the tears that fell from those eyes; they were all too familiar.
He didn't take the chance to fix it. What pieces he had, he shattered them once more. Giving no heed to whatever feeling he had left, he fled into isolation. Trapped in a never ending white box, he let out a soundless scream. Echoes rebounding in dissonance within his mind, tearing down fragments of memories.
In his dreams he would see reality – what could have been. Imagery of his hands around the man's throat drowned his thoughts. His breath somehow reached his mouth. He would wonder… what'll happen if he actually took them away? It seemed easy enough. Tightening his grip, slowly those pipes would shatter.
What he saw, instead, was his lips covering the man's.
Drinking his breath.
"How idiotic," he found himself mutter – mildly surprised that his vocal chords still worked.
When he looked at the rays of light peaking through those white mounds, he found himself wishing. He couldn't, shouldn't. He ruined those chances himself. Chose to do so. Those days where he would point out to the black sky with someone beside him, gone. He realized when he couldn't go back, he'd go forward. …but where is there left to go, when you're already at the top?
A stagnant eternity.
Or tumbling back down.
Once again he stood at the edge of the world. Everything in his sight covered in soft, hazy white. This, he was convinced, was definitely a dream. He ignored the constant shouts of his name. They were just a figment of his imagination after all. As the calls grew louder, his heartbeat followed suit. He didn't hear apologetic cries from a voice he knew well, nor did he feel a soft swipe at the back of his jacket. All he could hear was the wind beating in his ears. He didn't mind; because for once in a long time, he felt free. He felt like he could move once again. All confusion and regret that bind him dissolved. He didn't care whether if this is reality or not, he didn't want the answer to that either. All he knew was his unwillingness to wake from this dream.
He never did.