He was drowning.
Tristan clawed at his throat as the red water spilled around him, warm on his chest and pounding against his arms. He coughed and drew in more of the water, scrambling against the walls of the red-stained room. He didn't know where he was, he didn't care where he was, he couldn't breathe, he was—
Door. There was a door. Tristan tried for the knob, which slipped out of his grip as he became more desperate, so much water, so much red, so much blood, staining his chest and arms, dripping into his eyes, filling his lungs as it rushed around him. He slammed his weight against it in one last fit of desperation and it caved open, letting him escape.
Bright sunlight and silence. Tristan furrowed his eyebrows and looked down at himself. He was dry again, and when he turned around there wasn't a door. The room had just disappeared. He looked around, not quite sure where he was or what was going on.
Downtown Kandahar. Tristan slowly turned in a circle as he took in his new sight. Already the place he had been before was fuzzy in his mind compared to his hometown. He was on one of the streets he grew up on, before he knew what the Order was. And somehow, he remembered everything about it in perfect clarity.
Which was why he knew that it had never been so empty before. There wasn't a single person in sight, there were no sounds from inside the buildings. Everything was still.
"Hello?" Tristan cautiously walked along the road, uneven pavement under thin shoes felt with every step but the sun beating down on him unable to touch his skin. Silence responded to him.
"Is anyone here?" He tried again.
"Heyo."
Tristan jumped and whirled around towards the voice. He knew that voice, he was sure he knew that voice. Who it belonged to slipped just out of reach, but he realized that it didn't matter. No one was there. He was sure there had been a voice. But maybe his ears were just playing tricks on him.
"Over here."
The voice echoed around him, above him, Tristan couldn't see anyone but himself. That in itself wasn't right, Kandahar was always busy, always. Was the voice responsible for making everyone leave?
"Tristan!"
He turned again, a growl in his throat and anger in his eyes, something was playing games with him, he knew that voice, he—
Oh.
"Heyo. Miss me much, Spices?" Marcus Jacob Abendana asked, a slightly teasing grin over his face. And as Tristan stared dumbfounded at the man, his partner, a person he knew had gone, he realized that in the three years apart he hadn't changed a bit. He had the same face, the burn scar of his jawbone, the spray of freckles Tristan had envied… he didn't have any of the wounds he was buried with. He was exactly how Tristan remembered him. But it couldn't be him, Marc was gone, he saw him die on the mountain, burned by the dragon fire meant for him.
All at once, the shock faded, and he realized that his partner, his friend since he was twelve was standing in front of him, grinning like he didn't know what had happened. And Tristan wanted to laugh and and embrace him with no intention of letting him go, ask for help, cry over their loss, scream and rage at Marc for leaving him like that. He wanted…
"I'm sorry," Tristan breathed. "It should've been me."
Marc shook his head and walked towards him, grasping his arm. His teasing grin melted into something softer, the smile that he would give Tristan when he was frustrated or upset because it would make him feel better. According to Marc, it was part of the job description because he was the older one. Tristan of course resented that, right up until his death. Until he'd give anything for that feeling again.
"I don't regret my choice, Spices."
"I…" Tristan looked around at the buildings, a smile finally coming to his face. It felt so good to be back in his hometown, to be back with his partner. A slight twinge to the back of his head told him that he was missing… something… but he didn't care. He didn't care about anything as long as he could stay. As long as he had his partner back everything was good.
The twinge wasn't going away.
"Am… am I dead?" The smile faded slightly as the words slipped out without thought. He didn't remember dying. The last thing he remembered was… he couldn't tell. And the twinge telling him he was missing something big wasn't going away.
Marc quirked his eyebrows and shrugged. "I don't know." He tugged Tristan's sleeve slightly and they started walking down the street, no particular place in mind. "Do you want to be?"
He started and looked over to Marc, whose earth brown eyes bored into his, demanding he avert his gaze and submit an answer. It was a gaze he only knew Marc able to achieve. Tristan swallowed thickly and focused on the skyline. Easy answer: of course he didn't. Who would, living was… living. It was something people generally wanted to do. But the twinge said otherwise. It didn't give him an answer or tell him why, but it told him that he was wrong in that answer.
"I… I can't…"
"It's a simple question, Tristan." Marc squeezed his arm. "I won't judge."
"I…"
Garret.
Tristan inhaled shakily, but didn't feel the air in his lungs. He remembered. Marc was one of two. Garret Xavier Sebastian was his other partner, four years his junior, and Garret best friend because he was alive when Marc wasn't. Garret was the one he had trusted with his life and emotions and secrets, but Garret stabbed him in the back andleft him alone. Again. Tristan never liked being alone.
"Maybe," He whispered. Marc was silent and Tristan risked a glance. The intenseness was gone. After three months of suffering alone, he didn't need it to make Tristan break. "It seems peaceful. No dragons or fighting or… or grief, or betrayal, or guilt, and you might be there, and—" Tristan broke off. His cheeks were wet, and when he wiped away the tears they were red. "This is depressing."
Marc nodded. "Well, you've always been able to unburden to me, my young partner."
"Shut up." His heart wasn't really in it and he heard more than felt his voice crack.
They walked in silence for a while, the pavement under their feet turning somewhat even. Almost unnaturally so. Tristan was rather sure that the street he had been on a few minutes ago was nowhere close to where he was now, but he left it. He still knew where he was.
"You know, you have a lot to live for."
"We don't even know if I'm alive or dead yet."
Marc sighed softly and Tristan narrowed his eyes at him. He still looked eighteen, but for a moment there he felt so much older next to Tristan. More than the two months that separated them.
"That's not the point, Spices. If you turn out to be alive, you know that you won't be able to talk to me. At least, I won't be a able to respond. I know that you miss me, Tristan, because I miss you too, more than you know. But I'd rather my sacrifice not be in vain because you want to off yourself—"
"I'm not going to kill myself, Marc!" Tristan screeched and pulled away. Marc didn't react to the sudden movement, but raised an eyebrow. Tristan raised his back. One thing he could do better than his partner.
But… Marc did have a point. Tristan didn't want to leave him, he didn't want to be left alone, abandoned. Again. And part of him truly, desperately hoped that he was dead so he could stay. If he was alive… he didn't know what to do. Because Marc wasn't. He couldn't talk to him like he was now if he turned out to be alive.
"I promise not to intentionally die. You died for me, I can't make that worth nothing," Tristan closed his eyes and opened them again to meet his partner's gaze. The brown he hadn't seem in three years stared back at him. "But why did you have to do that? Why did you have to leave me?"
"Tristan, I didn't want to live my life knowing I could have saved you. You're my partner, even now." Marc took a step forwards and pulled Tristan into a hug. "And I'm always, always going to be with you, Tristan. Never forget that." Tristan nodded, but something was wrong again. Something… he couldn't place it. He didn't feel right. "I'm right along side you, even when you can't see."
Tristan nodded just as a sharp pain went through his chest. He gasped and dug his nails into Marc's back.
"And life is an awfully great thing, y'know," He continued, but it was faint. Too faint.
And all too quickly, Tristan knew what was happening.
"No, no, Marc, I'm not ready to leave, I— I can't leave you yet, please don't let me go—"
"See you later, Spices."
"Marc, please!" Tristan gripped him tighter as his best friend dissolved into the air around him, which suddenly was too hard to breathe again. The sunlight turned white and the ground disappeared beneath him, the streets of Kandahar swallowed in the light. He fell, reaching out for a friend that was long since gone until he forced open his eyes and woke up.
He was in the infirmary. He could hear beeping and whirring machines around him and looked around. Garret was sleeping upright in a dingy hospital chair. And part of him wanted to wake him up and ask what had happened. Most of him couldn't care.
Tristan closed his eyes and sighed, pain of his injuries clouding everything except for the grief. His partner had died over three years ago, his body lay in the cemetery six feet underground. But it felt like he had lost him all over again.
"See you later, Marc."
