AN: this is based loosely on the John Mayer song 'Dreaming with a Broken Heart'
it's an amazing song, you should listen.
maybe before/after you read
Dreams.
That's all they are.
But that doesn't make them seem any less real. The joy, the… wholeness. It feels so real.
When he wakes, he always remembers, for a split second, the sensation of being complete, just before it slips away. Before reality fades back into focus, before the weight of it settles in his chest.
But then, again that night, it's all back.
Things he remembers from a time not long ago; the musky scent, the bright red of a neckerchief, the feeling of the hands as they fumbled over him. The sound of laughter.
His senses overpowered with the continuous memories, every night a constant barrage.
And every morning, he wakes. Every morning he opens his eyes, expecting the face, the voice, the hands.
And every morning he rolls out of bed, and for a moment he can hardly breathe.
Waking up is the hardest part.
The days roll on, he keeps the memories away while the sun is up. He continues with life. He has to, it's his duty.
Though there always seems to be something missing. He pretends not to notice it, struggles not to identify it, but he still finds himself glancing over his shoulder for a glimpse of dark hair. Looking around to catch a blue eye.
Giving up is the hardest part.
He wants the dreams to stop. He wants the memories to fade, he wants to forget.
He wants the dreams to stop.
He never wants the dreams to stop.
He never wants the smell, the hands, the laughter, to fade.
He's terrified he'll forget the face. He's terrified he'll forget the voice.
He's terrified he'll never feel whole without them.
So he keeps his hope. And he keeps the dreams.
And every night he falls asleep with a small vial clutched tightly in his palm, hoping one day it will follow him into his dreams and fix everything.
Hoping the hands will come back, hoping the wholeness will last once morning breaks.
But it will not. Cause it's gone. Gone.
Just like him.