Those Nights
By Allegra
Night always found him.
In the light of day he could go on as if nothing was wrong; he chatted with friends over lunch, he fought alongside his comrades, he was one of them. Even Inspector Link's hovering had become part of the normalcy, another aspect of everyday life— like the hovering phantom, a small reminder that soon things would break. But not today. Not in the light.
But night always found him. And with it came the loneliness and fear of never truly being alone.
Dreams always found him.
He came to hate his dreams. They were there, floating just out of his reach, flitting about the edge of his mind. He sensed that they were important, that he would be punished for missing them, but once he woke up he could never remember them with any form of clarity. Link occasionally reported that he had woken up screaming in the middle of the night, or sat up, looking out the window, only to lie back down and continue sleeping. Allen did not remember. He never remembered. And he wondered if it happened every night, between all the things that Link didn't notice, and all the things that he didn't tell him. More than anything he wished that he could just remember these infuriating dreams— and when he could not, he wished that they would cease to exist.
But dreams always found him. There were nightmares, too. Soon they were all nightmares.
And Allen woke up crying, without ever knowing why, yet always knowing; the walls pressed against him, pinning him to the bed as they came closer, closer until he feared he would cease to exist. They would smother him. They would destroy him.
Link breathed quietly in the bed next to his, and Allen rose shakily, cold and sweaty. He shivered, pushing the suffocating comforter as far away from him as he could before swinging his legs off of the bed. He hissed as bare feet met cold stone, but did not recoil. He bent over, resting his head in his hands, and reveled in the unpleasant sensation.
He had to go.
Abruptly, Allen stood, taking a few jerky steps before stopping before his window and resting his hand on the comforting wooden sphere of his bedpost. It would not harm him. But the window— the glass was treacherous. Allen lifted a shaking hand, hesitantly touching the rich fabric of the curtains. They would protect him— but they were smothering. He ripped them aside, and silently stared at his own translucent reflection. He was fading. The scar on his cursed eye was different, twisting and shifting in ways that made him feel nauseous. Allen glanced down, suddenly feeling very cold and not enjoying the sensation. His bare torso was covered by a sheen of sweat and the frigid air seemed to cut right through the thin cotton of his pants.
He had to go.
Confusion mixed with a sense of urgency and desperation as his legs walked, and his feet stepped, and his hand grabbed and turned as him arm pulled, and he was gone.
All of the hallways looked the same at night. Endless tunnels of pitch black— doubtlessly there were still people awake and working in the science department, but here the warriors slept, rejuvenating and facing their own nightmares. It didn't matter; he was not walking with his eyes. His hand drifted across an endless expanse of stone, punctuated by the occasional bump of a wooden doorframe. At last his feet stopped.
Soft light filtered out across the floor from the crack underneath a door— whose, Allen did not know. He couldn't hear anything inside, so he shifted from foot to foot, suddenly feeling very lost and alone, and very much wanting that light. He raised a red hand, gray in the darkness, and knocked.
Now there were footsteps, a familiar pitter-patter of bare feet. The door cracked open, shedding a sliver of light across his eye that was painful, and Allen was surprised by how much he wanted it. The door opened an inch further, revealing a curious eye and shock of black bangs. He watched as soft lips formed his name, barely hearing it. The door swung open further.
"Allen?" Lenalee repeated, opening the door wide enough so that she could see him fully while hiding behind it, exposing only her head. He glanced up at her, eyes slightly glazed over; he looked disoriented. "What are you doing here?" she asked in a whisper. Allen continued to look at her, not seeming to know. With his dazed expression she thought that he resembled something between a coma patient and a lost puppy. Something inside her tightened and her mouth moved before her mind had entirely decided—
"Come in."
AN: Expect three short chapters out of this baby. For anyone waiting on Breaking Point, the next chapter is coming soon, I promise. Just waiting for my beta to get back to me, as I had the good sense to send the chapter over a few days before Christmas, and actually expected others to have as little of a life as I do.