Though It Was a Dream
by anza (18.10.06)
It was a dream. It was a dream.
He could see it suddenly in his mind, the sight of his own mouth opening wide, wider so he could see the pearly white shine of every tooth in his jaw, every tastebud on his tongue. And then the sound was coming forth, and the mind-sight was panning out so he could see the tip of his nose, see the quiver of his jaw, then the twin sets of crescents where his eyes were squeezed tight away from the sight, away from the smell in the air, warm and humid and metallic. The scream started high, a screeching sound like the death cry of a rabbit, but as his sight widened to the tip of one rotten hand clutching against his shirt, tugging like a child, the scream tuned higher still until he couldn't tell where the beginning of the nightmare and the scrabbling denial of his deeds ended. All there was was the keening, shrill sound, that terrible music in the air as he breathed the blood of dozens, of hundreds, his red hands smearing messily down the sides of his cheeks.
His hands, his body was so cold he was afraid they were taking the heat from him, afraid they were sucking the life from him. And they were, because as they felt the warmth of his arms, reaching out to rip him slowly to shreds, he was growing further and further from life. The scream whispered away, though his mouth was still opened wide. In the dark of his dream, his pentacle on his forehead burned brightly.
Something - someone else's hands - pried his away from where he'd been clutching his head hopelessly. Abruptly he jerked awake and away from whoever it was, but Kanda didn't let his hands go. They were locked together, Allen's in panic and Kanda's in worry that didn't quite hide behind the dark scowl of between his brows.
Slowly his mouth closed from where he'd been opened so wide his lips hurt, hands falling lax into his lap. They looked at each other, and Allen knew there were little lines of hysteria around his eyes, a little rim of white around his pupils. Absently his good hand covered the other one unconsciously, tracing the wrinkles there with a nervous desperation. There were so many demons in the world, and they rarely disturbed Allen Walker from his sleep. This one had left him more than a little shaken, which was why the other boy was there, blue eyes so dark in the night that they were only faint gleams of liquid color, looking unblinking at him.
What is it you want?, those eyes asked him.
Allen reached out with one hand, but even before his fingers reached the other boy's shoulder Kanda had lunged forward, bringing Allen to him fiercely. Their lips, their teeth clashed, and then Allen was once again desperate, fingers closing on the muscle of his lover's arm, squeezing it. The Japanese pressed him down onto the bed, legs fighting to dominate the smaller boy under him. A frenzy of hair and fingers and flesh, and Allen was freed from the nightmares, freed from the demons of his sleep by his own dark protector that watched over him even at night, the dark arc of his sword slicing through the darkness.
The younger boy sobbed, hot tears running down the lines of Kanda's shoulder and chest. The Japanese froze, eyes a little wide at the moan, at the helpless scrape of nails against his back and the wetness from Allen's eyes, and then relaxed, movements a little more gentle. He cradled the younger boy closer, until Allen's forehead was cushioned against Kanda's cheek, and the baby-softness made him moan again, softer and quieter. No words between them now, only the slow move of seeking fingers and the irresistable toe-curling sensations. In the night between the fading hiccups of his hysteria, Kanda's clumsy fingers came away silver where they wiped his cheeks.
Though it was a dream, Allen smiled.