The dirt is cool and moist beneath him, thick and soft and sticking underneath his nails when he curls his fingers into it. Sunlight filters dappled through the vibrant green leaves above him and lays across the ground in warm patches, contrasting the coolness of the woods around him. He can hear a stream, sounding far off down the bank, trickling over rocks and between the roots of trees that have reached down into it. Birds chirp intermittently around him, in the trees and low on the ground and in the sky vast and open above him, spanning endless blue in all directions. He can feel the presence of another, and he sits up to find a shape sitting on the bank of the stream, feet dipped in the water as they watch it flow past them and over their skin. It's pretty, isn't it? they ask, looking back to smile at him, eyes the same vibrant blue he has always known.
Yes, he replies, for he has nothing else to say. They pull their legs from the water and stand, the soft dirt sticking to their bare wet feet as they walk up the bank towards him, standing over him with that calm smile on their face. This is ours, they say, gently sinking to their knees, placing a cool hand on his cheek. This is ours, and always will be. They kiss him, lips warm and soft as they brush over his own, their hand tangling itself in his hair as the other moves up to trail along his jaw. You remember this, Yū?
His eyes flutter closed, another kiss placed gently on the bone beneath his eye. I remember everything, he says, and his hands clench tighter in the dirt. He knows, more than he has ever known anything in his life. This belongs to them. But why?
It is not the first time he has asked this question, and it is not the first time they place their finger lightly against his lips, hushing him with a whisper. It's alright, they tell him, pulling their hand through the long, loose strands of his hair, You'll find out soon. They have always told him that, and he has never understood. He wants, desperately, to know, but the question is pulled from his mind with every time their hands pull through his hair, combing it through with long, languid strokes. A kiss is planted above his eyebrow, and he leans into them, resting his head gently against their collar.
I want to understand, he whispers, to them or himself he has not decided. The hands still for a moment, pulling away briefly to pick something up; he opens his eyes to watch as they begin to weave the stem of a flower into his hair, the pale blue of the petals reflected in their eyes. A forget-me-not, he thinks.
You will, they murmur, warm against his ear. Their arms drape around his shoulders as they pull him closer, holding him, moving their head down. Their lips meet his once more, connecting long and deep and making his blood curl, and then they pull back, too soon, finally. Soon.
He opens his eyes to grey-washed walls and a weight on his arm, the air suddenly much harder to breathe. It is a small room, only marginally bigger than his own, and after the vast expanse of the woods it feels too small, too close. There is a cord running from a stand beside him to a needle below his elbow, resting heavy on his skin. Somebody rests on the bed beside him, leaned over from the chair they sit in with their head resting on their arms, and he knows undeniably who it is. He remembers, then, what had happened, and Allen's screams still ring clear in his mind. His efforts had not been in vain, at least, and he allows himself to relax just a little bit more.
He moves his hand up to rub the sleep from eyes and his fingers brush against something in his hair, woven between the strands. He carefully picks it out, pulling it from his hair to hold it between his fingers before him, and a smile crosses his lips. He looks from the flower to the boy beside him, resting peacefully with the pink light of dawn flowing across his features, and places the flower in his hand twisted between the white strands, a spot of blue in fields of snow. Soon, he thinks.