For the letter 'O', I was given 'obsessed'.
Rating: T
Characters: Jean, mentions of Mercedes (OC) and Marco
Genre: Angst

Obsess(ed)

verb\əb-ˈses, äb-\
: to be the only person or thing that someone thinks or talks about : to think and talk about someone or something too much

It was their second day at the chalet; the others were either sound asleep upstairs or on patrol. Jean had woken from a bad dream – not quite a nightmare, but not pleasant enough to be classed as a regular dream – and he'd spent the next hour tossing and turning, before he had retreated to the underbelly of the stronghold in the form of its kitchen. The fire to cook the evening meal had long died down to smoldering coals, but it was enough for him to light a single candle. He was glad no one else was around to see how lame he looked sitting at a prep table with it by himself.

He'd dreamt of her again. Mercedes, the girl Marco had liked. He'd dreamt of them both, actually. It hadn't been the first time but this one had been more potent. He pinched his nose to give his sinuses some relief; it was like the dream had cloyed them.

It had started at the funeral pyre – the one they'd cremated Marco on. Unlike in the waking world, this time he had seen them place his body onto it. Mercedes had been on the other side of the flames just as she had after Trost, only this time she had actually climbed up into it, walking unharmed into the flames, her clothes, hair and eyes becoming fire, until she came to Marco's body. She had pulled him to his feet and somehow he'd stood there, the lost half of his body regenerating in the form of flames until he was solid flesh and bone again.

As much as he cringed to remember it now, Jean had watched her wrap her arms around Marco and kiss him, the two of them standing there on that pyre of misery, languishing and yet relishing in it as the flames grew ever stronger until they were obscured in blue and gold.

He'd woken sweaty and feverish, as though he really had been standing in front of a ten-foot fire. It wasn't the only time he'd dreamt of Marco's corpse or funeral pyre. No, what had really unnerved him was the confusing, horrible mix of feelings the appearance of Mercedes had provoked in him. Amazement, disgust, relief, fear – it was all there. Most disturbing of all was a dark, twisted sort of envy: that in this dreamworld she was managing to be closer to Marco, even in death, than he would ever be again; but also, obscurely, that unlike him, even in death Marco had found out the truth about her through that kiss; in this world, all Jean's mouth tasted was ash.

Stop it, you're being ridiculous, he told himself. It was just a dream. You need to let the both of them go. Marco is dead and Mercedes may as well be, to you.

Jean's body betrayed him, however. His hand pushed into the pocket of his pajama trousers and drew out the lock of Mercedes' hair he'd taken from the ground the night he'd stopped her from cutting it all off. He brought it between him and the candle to examine, pulling it through and wrapping it around his fingers, watching the light glimmer off it. He wasn't sure why he'd kept it. Over the last few months it'd grown a little thinner due to being unsecured and losing hairs here and there, but its strange hold over him hadn't lessened. He'd heard of powers of control before – taking something of the other person, like hair, and using it as part of a spell to get them to do whatever you wanted, or injure them – but he'd never thought the stories carried any weight until now. Wasn't he supposed to be able to affect her, in that case, rather than the other way around?

What would happen if I… he held the lock high above the candle's flame, tracing its wave and languid spiral down from his thumb and forefinger to its tip, waving at him in the tiny column of heat dissipating into the dark. If I burnt it, would I stop dreaming of her, of him?

Almost of its own accord, or as if someone was pulling him back, Jean retracted the lock from the flame and put his head in his hands. The cool strand of hair brushed against his cheek and the small enjoyment he got from the sensation made him snap to attention. He checked the kitchen – still vacant. His hands fell back together in front of him, stroking the lock some more as he frowned and thought.

I don't know if I want to stop dreaming, he admitted. It's all I have. The others, he thought of his squadmates, they have each other, or they want to save humanity – my purpose isn't as clear anymore. Maybe it burned itself out.