In the Disquiet of the Night
Rose-coloured hair trailing across his face...
Athrun came to with a shudder, and glanced at his left wrist, remembering belatedly that he wasn't wearing his watch. How vivid his dreams had been, lately. It wasn't normal. He glanced at the bottle filled with round, shiny pills next to his bed, and compulsively pulled off the cap and dumped two into his palm. He threw them into his mouth, then grabbed the water glass with precise determination, and swallowed the medicine instantly.
There. That should take care of the dreams.
It was no nightmare, but Athrun didn't want to take any chances. He'd been fooled by his own mind too many times.
"Athrun!"
The squeal rang on in his ears even after he'd climbed out of bed, leaning over the sink and staring into his shadowy, dark-rimmed eyes. He splashed freezing water on his face, licked his lips nervously, and sighed, slumping with exhaustion to the floor.
The pills, it seemed, were doing nothing. These were no ordinary dreams.
Down to earth as Athrun was, he couldn't help but think that something was haunting him. As quickly as the delusional concept came, he swept it away, and got to his feet, blinking at himself once more before stumbling back into bed.
No. That couldn't be. Athrun snuck another glance at his medicine, tempted to take only a little more, but the horror of overdosing stood clearly in his mind, and he settled down again, reluctantly releasing the bottle from his tense right hand.
He'd just try harder to get to sleep. Athrun squeezed his eyes shut, with ferocity, and covered his ears. Probably something was disturbing him; from outside, most likely. In this day and age, even Orb's once safest streets were now filled with deadly corners. Maybe some teenager was yelling.
This time, he actually jumped. Athrun looked down to find himself nearly falling off the bed, sheets trailing all over the ground. 'What is this...?' he thought to himself, distraught, and ran a hand through his hair, which felt ruffled and filthy.
He swore he'd felt arms around his body. Someone hugging him tightly, body much warmer than expected. He looked down at himself, and trailed cold fingers down his arms, disturbed. Who was that? He had a sneaky suspicion, and it was enough to dispel any desire to rest left in him. Next thing he knew, he'd see her dying again.
Athrun sighed, and wandered to the kitchen for another glass of water, then flicked on the television, sagging in his couch.
He really hadn't meant to fall asleep.
But this time, his dream had been way past the comfort limit. First she was in his bed, then she was sitting on the couch with him, watching the same commercial about yogurt drink as he was.
Athrun was shaken. He grabbed at the television remote, flicked off the announcer's chipper voice with a pained noise in his throat, and stumbled to the nearest window (it was in the bathroom) for some air. Athrun gulped in the taste of evening summer, body weary, but mind awake, filled with racing, frantic thoughts.
So he was dreaming of Meer, was he?
He shut his eyes. Why?
After the war started, Athrun stopped dreaming. It was probably a subconscious desire of his; he knew, just by looking, that nightmares plagued some of the others. Yzak was one of them. One morning, the sharp-tongued, silver-haired teenager looked flustered and exhausted, and jittery, and Athrun knew that they'd probably started for him.
He was lucky. They never came. Once or twice, he heard his father's voice whispering to him, but out of fear or plain alertness, he woke up before anything happened. Anything that he would regret.
Then, after the wars, he bought the pills. He'd first seen them stowed away in Lacus's purse, and bought some just in case, though the nightmares didn't start until at least two months later; and then they proceeded to puncture his soul and make him bleed, without mercy. A delayed reaction, he'd thought bitterly, and didn't appreciate it at all.
Still, he never dreamed. It didn't make sense for them to start now.
Now he saw her every night. Athrun was surprised that he knew so much about her. He hadn't known he was so familiar with her movements, or her appearance. If asked to name all the differences between her and Lacus Clyne, Athrun would be able to write a book. Athrun didn't even recall talking to her much; yet somehow, in their dream dialogues, she would always say something so utterly Meer-like that Athrun was sure he didn't make it up.
Though if he did, he wouldn't know. She was dead.
How ironic, Athrun thought, that he only remembered her after she had died. He wondered if she would have appeared in his mind if she was still living.
Upon a whim, he threw the pills into the garbage. If night terrors came to haunt him, he'd welcome them. Only after they passed, could he hear Meer's sugary voice, sending him into a fitful slumber.
She always died at the end.
Athrun climbed into bed, curling up into the fetal position, trying to make himself as compact as possible. He flicked on her remix of Lacus's "In the Quiet Night" and shut his eyes, knowing, as they fluttered, that when rest came at last, he'd hear nothing but gunshots.