Dreamwalker

by Mercurial Phoenix

Legend tells of a boy who is doomed to walk in dreams, and of a world that is doomed if he does not wake.

2. the boy and the balance

Watanuki opened his eyes and found himself in an empty landscape. Nothing but white surrounded him, as though he were standing in the center of a blank canvas that stretched for miles in any direction.

He was still warm from Yuuko's embrace, but that cold ball of fear was still in his stomach, too—that fear that had almost strangled him as he'd begged Yuuko for answers. He reached up wonderingly and touched the tear tracks on his cheek.

If it was true…if he wasn't actually—he choked on the word 'real' even in his mind—then that meant that his entire life was…

An illusion. A fairy tale. A lie.

He shook his head quickly, using his fist to scrub away the tear tracks. Yuuko-san had told him, There are two dreams…Either dream may become reality if you strongly wish for it.

Two dreams. One while he was asleep, and the other while he was…

But I'm not awake, he thought with a fresh wave of despair. I'm never really awake. I'm never really there, in that world. I don't really belong in that place, with those people. I'm not—not real. Not real, not real, not real…

Under the unbearable weight of that realization, Watanuki sank to his knees, then collapsed forward onto his elbows, tears falling thick and fast onto the emptiness beneath him, disappearing into oblivion.

"Oi."

At first he thought the voice—of all voices for him to hear at this moment—was another hallucination, another notrealnotreal part of him, but when he looked up, still hunched on his elbows and knees, he saw the impassive face of Doumeki Shizuka staring down at him.

For a moment he felt a fleeting sense of déjà vu—hadn't they been in exactly the same positions after Doumeki had shot the spirit woman? He felt nauseous as he realized that she, too—the only person he'd felt had understood his loneliness in such a long, long time—had not truly existed outside of his own mind.

Something of the nature of his thoughts must have shown in his expression, because he thought he saw a mild concern flashing in those amber eyes.

"Oi," said Doumeki again. "What are you doing? You look like a dog that's been kicked by his owner." He paused as if in thought, then added, "I suppose Yuuko-san ordered you to do something else for her?"

Yuuko-san? His owner?

Well. Desperate and hopeless he may be, but Watanuki Kimihiro was not going to go down with a fight.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE, YOU JERK?"

Doumeki only looked down at him. "Right now I'm wondering what you're doing huddled on the ground."

"Having a party," Watanuki snapped, struggling to his knees and conscientiously wiping his face.

Doumeki watched him rub away the tear tracks. "Some party," he returned flatly, "if you're crying like that."

"It's my party," Watanuki shot back. "I can cry if I want to."

Doumeki simply shrugged and looked around the empty whiteness. "Why am I in your dream?" he asked as Watanuki climbed to his feet, still eradicating all evidence of tears.

"Because hitsuzen hates me," Watanuki muttered. "How the hell am I supposed to know, idiot?" Then he blinked at Doumeki. "Wait. How did you know we're in my dream? For all you knew, I could have been in one of yours."

The archer lifted an eyebrow. "We're not," he said shortly. "If we were in my dream…" His eyes flickered over Watanuki's face; Watanuki frowned at him in confusion. Doumeki turned away. "I'd be able to tell," was all he said.

Watanuki rolled his eyes. "Right. Because you know everything."

"About you? Yeah."

The reply was so deadpan, so calmly delivered, that it took Watanuki a moment to realize what had been said. "WHAT?"

Doumeki plugged his ears.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, 'YEAH'? YOU CRETIN, YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ME, HOW DARE YOU ASSUME THAT YOU—"

"Green."

Watanuki was brought up short. "What?" he said, a little out of breath.

"Your favorite color is green. Forest green."

Watanuki stared at Doumeki, mystified. "What—but…How—How do you know that?" he demanded. "Are you stalking me? Oh, my God, you are," he breathed in horror, backing away a step. "You follow me everywhere. You interrupt my time with Himawari-chan. You…you bug me all the time. You make me make you food."

"You do that on your own," pointed out Doumeki. "And stop backing away," he added irritatedly. "I'm not going to jump you."

"But you're a stalker," Watanuki retorted. "How am I supposed to know that you're telling me the truth?"

"Have I ever lied to you?" Doumeki said, and took a step toward him. "And I'm not a stalker. Quit backing up."

"Of course you are," Watanuki insisted, retreating a step further. "How else could you know what my favorite color is? I never told you that."

"Yes you did." Doumeki stopped moving toward him and stared at him intently.

Watanuki also stopped moving and blinked back at him, utterly bewildered. "I did?" he wondered. Then his eyebrows drew together. "I did not."

"You did."

"When?"

Doumeki's expression was unidentifiable. "When you made me those gloves."

Watanuki gaped. Then, for some odd, completely inexplicable reason, he felt himself turn bright red.

"THAT—I—THAT WAS NOT—WHAT KIND OF LOGIC ARE YOU USING?"he roared. "SINCE WHEN DOES THE COLOR OF YOUR GLOVES EQUAL MY TELLING YOU MY FAVORITE COLOR?"

Doumeki shrugged again. "Why else would you give me gloves that were forest green?"

"I—THAT'S NOT—YOU'RE BEING—" Watanuki was fishmouthing, trying to find an appropriate response.

Fortunately Doumeki absolved him of all responsibility and glanced at their surroundings again. "So why am I in your dream?" he repeated.

Watanuki glared at him, still red-faced from the previous topic of conversation. "For—the—last—time," he hissed through clenched teeth. "I—don't—know—you—great—big—utter—"

"If you don't like it, then why don't you just wake up?"

All the red, and any other color besides, drained from Watanuki's face. He felt as if something cold and stone-solid had punched him right in the solar plexus.

"I—I—"

Doumeki seemed to notice that something was horribly wrong, because he moved forward so quickly that Watanuki hadn't even blinked once before Doumeki had him by the shoulders, holding him an arm's length away, those golden eyes searching his colorless face with very real worry.

"Watanuki?"

"I…can't," whispered Watanuki, and as if admitting out loud had given the fact a new kind of power, he felt the entire world around them rumble. He was jerked against Doumeki's chest, and the archer was shielding his body with arms and hunched shoulders, as if something was coming to attack them right then and there.

The world shook and shuddered.

"Why?" said Doumeki harshly, still scanning the vast whiteness around them for some sign of an approaching foe, though his expression was as calm as if they were having a harmless conversation about something trivial like weather.

Watanuki was surprised to find himself pliant and obedient in the archer's arms. "Because," he heard himself say dazedly, "this is all a dream."

The world abruptly went still, as if his acknowledgment had pacified it.

Some moments passed, and Doumeki's carefully moderated breathing was sending soft puffs of air against Watanuki's neck. He shivered, and pulled himself away.

Doumeki stared at him. Watanuki turned away and stared bleakly out over the landscape.

"Yuuko-san told me," he said finally, his voice a whisper of sound. "She said…that everything is a dream."

"We've already established that," said Doumeki, but without any heat. Watanuki could feel that liquid gold gaze branding him, and closed his own eyes. He couldn't even find the energy anymore to be annoyed with Doumeki.

"No. She said that…there are two dreams," he said flatly. "One when I'm asleep, and one when I'm…awake. Supposed to be awake."

Not real, not real, chanted the voice inside his mind.

"You're not awake right now," guessed Doumeki. "Which is why you're dreaming."

Watanuki shook his head. "You don't understand," he murmured. "I'm never awake. Ever. All of this—my life, the people around me, the things I do each day—it's…not real." Spoken aloud, the words seemed to vibrate with their own power.

"What are you talking about?" demanded Doumeki suddenly, striding forward again. But this time, instead of taking Watanuki by the shoulders, he grabbed Watanuki by the wrist with one hand and used the other to tilt up Watanuki's chin, forcing their eyes to meet.

Watanuki couldn't even be bothered to struggle, or to slap at him, or to react at all. "Everything I am," he whispered, wanting so badly to flinch away from the pentrating stare of those burning, burning eyes, "everything I've ever done…it's not real. It never happened. I'm dreaming all of it. Himawari-chan, the spirits, Yuuko-san…you."

Something very close to panic skidded across Doumeki's face, and Watanuki felt those fingers tighten where they gripped Watanuki's wrist and chin. There was a torrent of emotion raging inside him. He began to babble.

"I don't remember so many things from before Yuuko-san said she would grant my wish," he said in a choked voice. "I can't remember my parents' names, or their faces, or the name and face of the apartment manager who took care of me after they died. I don't remember ever tasting something I've cooked. I don't know the names of anyone else in our class. I don't know what year I am in school. Anything I remember from before Yuuko-san has to do with running away from the spirits. I don't remember when I first started talking to Himawari-chan," he said helplessly. "Or when I decided I liked her." He swallowed and forced his voice to remain steady. "I don't know why I don't like you. I don't even remember meeting you."

At this, Doumeki opened his mouth as if to tell Watanuki exactly when they'd met—the first time they'd crossed paths and tempers and verbal swords—but stopped as if someone had stolen his voice. Watanuki saw it in his eyes—Doumeki didn't know. He couldn't remember.

Because Watanuki couldn't remember. Because it hadn't happened…not really.

"Watanuki," Doumeki said at last, and to Watanuki, he sounded defeated. That, somehow, more than anything, frightened Watanuki.

Doumeki took a deep breath, then said in a carefully neutral voice, "Do you mean that you…can't wake up?"

Watanuki tried to shake his head, but Doumeki still had a firm grasp on his chin, so he only said wearily, "No. I don't know how."

"Ask Yuuko-san," suggested Doumeki immediately, his eyes hard on Watanuki's face. He had yet to remove his fingers from Watanuki's chin, but he'd slowly loosened his hold on Watanuki's wrist, now holding it only by encircling the thin bone with thumb and forefinger.

Watanuki sighed, all at once completely exhausted. "I…did," he said. "Sort of. She told me that…there are two dreams, and that either one could become reality if I wished strongly for it."

Doumeki frowned. "So the two dreams are…"

"This world—the one with you and Himawari-chan and the spirits and everyone," said Watanuki, watching Doumeki's face. "Or the other, the one without all of that. The real one."

Doumeki's fingers clenched on his chin again, tilting his face upward to meet angry golden eyes. "This is real," he said in a low voice. "You, Watanuki, everything about you—all of it is real. You just need to believe it is." He hesitated, then gentled his hold and asked cautiously, "What will happen if you don't wish strongly enough for either one of the two dreams?"

Watanuki stared up at him. "I'll disappear," he said softly.

As soon as he had uttered the words, a shadow passed across Doumeki's face; an emotion that Watanuki didn't recognize darkened the gold of his eyes to almost copper, thinned the set of his mouth, tightened his jaw. He let go of Watanuki's chin and took a small step backward, gazing down at Watanuki with that horrible unidentifiable not-expression. Then he turned and began to stride very quickly in the other direction, dragging Watanuki along behind him.

"Hey—wai—wha—" Watanuki stumbled and hurried to match his pace to the archer's. "Where do you think you're taking me?" he demanded, some of his confusion mixing with annoyance at the abruptness of the movement.

"To find that woman. You're going to ask her to show you a way to wake up."

"I already told you—will you please slow down, I can't keep up with you when you're dragging me around like a madman—that she said I had to wish—"

"And you said you don't know how to do that," returned Doumeki, eerily calm in contrast to the feverish rhythm of his stride. "So we're going to ask her to tell you how."

Watanuki processed that, then asked pointedly, "And what if she doesn't know? What then, Doumeki? Will you let go of me, I can walk, you know!" He yanked hard against the archer's grip, which only made Doumeki tug him along more insistently like a recalcitrant puppy on a leash. This should have infuriated Watanuki, but he was preoccupied trying not to trip over his own feet.

"I'm serious," he panted. "What if there is no way to wake me up, and I end up—" He swallowed nervously.

Doumeki let go of him, and stopped so suddenly that Watanuki almost ran into him. The archer swung around and looked at Watanuki with such force, such conviction, that any protest Watanuki might have made on the stop-and-go routine died in his throat.

"You won't disappear," said Doumeki softly, so softly that Watanuki was surprised at the gentleness of the words. Doumeki sounded almost…tender. Watanuki swallowed hard again.

"But how—" he whispered, but Doumeki just looked at him, and he trailed off.

"There's a way to save you. There always is. I should know."

And Doumeki set off again, albeit at a much more sedate pace. Watanuki, stunned speechless by the words as much as the emotion that colored them, followed.