A Sleep Without Dreams

"Tseng?" I dumbly ask, still stunned by what I think might have just happened. Then I quickly jump to the edge of the bed like a frantic animal, half-expecting to see nothing more than the shadow of a phantom and almost hoping that it's nothing more than a trick of the mind before the reality sinks in and I see him lying on the floor, contorted, filthy, and weakly breathing.

"Tseng!" I repeat, hoping it will add some kind of substance before I quickly jump to the floor to check his pulse and almost gag over the strong stench of alcohol and grime. He smells like he hasn't changed his clothes or bathed during the entire time he was missing, and I quickly brush it off in favour of the fact that his pulse is present. It's faint and irregular though, despite that he has enough energy to weakly move his arm in an attempt to push my hand away while mumbling something that sounds like, "Leave me alone…"

I only frown at the irony and choose to ignore him while carefully carrying him to the bed while recoiling when he winces with a sharp hiss. Then I put him down as gently as I can and almost feel a weight drop inside when he turns his head away and I see red marks on his neck. They look like bruises from strong fingers. Then I take a closer look at the rest of him and note what almost looks like rope-burns around his wrists.

"What happened to you?" I mutter, and I wipe a black smudge from the hollow of his cheek with my thumb. Then, unable to stop myself, I wind up removing his shirt to explore the rest of him while feeling more ill by the moment and finding myself focussing on another time when I should have helped him but didn't. Only this time, I can't help but feel more responsible for it.

I also doubt that the remnants left marks on him that resemble the overuse of needles along his arms, torso, and legs, and I also doubt that they left marks that resemble the possibility that he might have been strapped down or tied up. Then I wind up stepping back with my finger curled over my mouth like he often does when he's deep in thought or attempting to hide a smile that he doesn't want others noticing, and I go completely blank without knowing what else to do.

Whatever he's been through and wherever he's been has left marks that suggest he may have escaped from something, somewhere, or someone. There are dry and scabbed friction burns around his wrists and ankles and there are similar marks across his chest and upper legs that suggest he's had plenty of time to heal.

And for some reason or other, I can't seem to wipe the image of him and Elena from my mind on the day that I found them in the Forgotten Capital while a nagging voice in the back of my mind keeps telling me that the endless guilt I feel in regard to him may be my greatest addiction.

"Kjata…" I mutter, not really knowing why as I continue to stand here and stare at the marks on his body. Then I manage to build enough sense to tell myself that I can't just stand here and do nothing while waiting for him to wake up, and I walk into the bathroom to pull an old pail from under the sink and rinse off a washcloth that's covered in dust so that I can get him cleaned up.

He hardly stirs when I remove the rest of his clothes to wipe him down. But every now and then, he winces from discomfort and I try to keep my mind occupied from the worst by wondering why he came to me, despite his dramatic entrance that doesn't strike me as a threat. He's never failed to remind me that I could never be a part of his life like them—the Turks that he views as his family. Nor does he ever attempt to hide the fact that Shinra is what makes him feel like he belongs somewhere.

Regardless of the questions that border on scepticism though, I can't deny the fact that it fills me with a slight feeling of accomplishment or triumph as I sit beside his unconscious form. He's been full of inner conflicts since the first day he mysteriously showed up in my life, and I lean over to rest my dry lips on his cool forehead while wondering what it is that eats away at him. He could have shot me, I think, like I did to him. Yet he didn't.

I can only sigh at the thought while I lightly brush my thumb over the corner of his mouth and stroke his soiled hair before pulling the covers over him when I'm done. After that, I furrow my brows and tighten my jaw as I reluctantly pick Lucrecia's necklace from the floor and wonder…

Nothing is ever as easy as I would like it to be. From the first days that I can remember to a time when I became a Turk and was assigned to Nibelheim. I fell in love with a beautiful woman that I always suspected was in love with my father, only to be betrayed by her and the man that she married.

But I never used to look at it that way. Instead, I blamed myself for most of her decisions and for never being able to stop her.

Maybe it's fate, I wonder, hoping that it's not a sign while thinking of how ironic it is that her son's lover—now mine—would be the one to bring it back to me. But how it came into his possession is no more of a mystery than how he suddenly showed up, where he came from, why, or even what happened to him, and I simply sit here staring at him as I sit by his side with a nagging desire for him to wake up so that I can at least get half of my questions answered.

He sleeps through the rest of the night and through the next day though, causing me to worry more without realizing that it's as if he's an empty shell all the sudden. He breathes, stirs, and feels warm to the touch. But there is something different about the way he feels when I touch him and I can't quite put my finger on what it is.

It's almost like a connection that I don't think I've noticed before has been broken, and I find myself spending more time attempting to figure out what it is while I lay beside him, stand at the foot of the bed, the side of the bed, and emptily stare at him while wanting to get some fresh food and clothes for him when he wakes. Yet at the same time, I find myself unable to leave him alone for fear that he'll disappear if I let him out of my sight again.

And to add to the weight, I can't help but ask myself why the thought of seeking medical help for him causes such a tight tension in my gut if he means something to me, and all the while I attempt to argue with myself over the fact that it may simply be a selfish act because I fear that the Turks will come for him if I do.

From there, three more days pass and I take to kneeling at the side of the bed and running a clean cloth dipped in broth along his mouth to stop him from dehydrating or starving. I even manage to place small bits of food in his mouth that he manages to chew in whatever state he's in, and it isn't until the third day when I'm trying to see if I can get him to eat more that I realize what it is that feels so empty about his presence all the sudden.

I haven't dreamt since he arrived.

Nor has there been any connection between us when I touch him. Not once have I felt the strange static that I never really noticed until now, and not once have I fallen into the strange visions of his past. It's as if there's nothing pulling me towards him like before. Nothing unusual is happening in his presence and nothing is mysteriously calling out to me.

I wouldn't say that my feelings toward him have changed though, and since I've been able to view him more objectively without feeling like I'm being influenced by an exterior force, I'm suddenly feeling more comfortable over the fact that I think my feelings for him may have always been genuine even if they were questionably influenced or somewhat self-indulgent.

And while I'm wiping his mouth from some food that spills from the corner, I notice his eyelids flutter as if he's trying to wake up, and anticipation lights up inside of me like an unrestrained fire as I take subtle note of the golden light that shines through the minimal cracks of the heavy curtains that seem to be adding to the lift inside while I falter, his eyes struggle to open, and he mutters out, "Vince…" in a hoarse and dry voice with an irritated look on his face.

"I'm right here," I tell him while thoughtfully brushing his hair with my fingers and watching him roll his eyes back in an attempt to force them to focus better.

Then he forces himself to sit up, determined to fight against the state that he's in and he weakly brushes his hair behind his ear with a shaky hand and mutters, "I hoped it was a dream…" as if to himself before looking disgusted at the realization of how dirty his hair is.

Then he emptily sets his attention on the necklace on the end table—no longer around my neck—and he stares at it with no expression until a slight sneer appears and he stubbornly tries to get up and nearly falls over from not using his legs for so long.

But instead of attempting to scold or reason with him like I want to right now, I catch him and help him sit back down on the bed, and I frown when he tells me that he's filthy and needs to get cleaned up.

"You need your rest."

"I've rested enough."

"Then let me help you…"

Despite the reality of the situation, I almost smile when I focus on how stubborn the man is and I guiltily wonder if he was as determined to put his frail condition aside after the remnants tortured him.

Nothing ever seems to stop him once he sets his mind to something. But out of all of the more pressing priorities he could have had, the one he decides to focus on is the fact that he's filthy, and I find myself holding him closer than I probably need to while I wonder if he's only doing it to keep his mind from whatever happened to him as I help him to the bathroom and ignore him when he tells me that he doesn't need my help.

He doesn't react to the fact that I ignore his request though, as passively strange as it is, and he doesn't try to push me away like he'd normally do. And to my surprise, he cooperates completely, even when I urge him to sit on the edge of the tub and I build enough courage to detachedly ask him, "Where were you?"

"I don't know…" is all he says, almost chilling in the detached way that he says it. Then he leans his head against the wall and stares into space like he doesn't have enough energy to even care about the answer, and I wind up clenching my jaw as a result while the next few minutes drag on like an eternity as I start filling the tub.

All the while, he emptily stares into space and I quietly try to subdue the feeling of thorns growing inside until he finally settles his attention on me as if he's stuck in some sort of lifeless dream and asks, "When you woke up… How did you feel?"

And for some reason, the question takes me off guard and makes me unexplainably defensive, and to avoid what I think the essence of it really is, I reflect on the night that he returned instead.

"Like there was an asshole standing at the foot of my bed," I flatly answer, and he shakes his head like a part of him knows my response is nothing more than avoidance and he continues to emptily stare at me as I stare at the water with a faint regret over saying something so unnecessarily cold.

"No…" he says. Then he clarifies and weakly presses, "I meant when you woke up after realizing you weren't yourself anymore."

And now it sinks in, something that I fear is not really about me. But I try to brush the nagging feeling away as I reach down to turn the taps off and try to convince myself that I'm turning it into something that it isn't before muttering with a tightened jaw in hopes of changing the topic, "Betrayed."

"I see…" he quietly says, still watching me with eyes that appear to be focussing better than they were as he shakily leans forward and rests his hand on the edge of the tub to keep himself steady and personable. "You had everything going for you…" he presses, barely above a coarse whisper, "A career… Talent… Looks…" Then he weakly muses with a misleadingly soft and soothing tone that almost croons with a conflicting cruelty as he leans even closer, "You must have felt more than betrayed."

"Those things weren't important," I hoarsely mutter, partially burying my face from his sight by lowering my chin and focussing on the water instead of him. Then I habitually sigh when it hits me that I'm just as much of a liar as he is. It's all in vain though, because despite how vulnerable he appears to be right now, he's still able to read me better than anyone I've ever known.

"I don't believe you," he distantly responds before I lower my head more in an attempt to avoid his penetrating eyes and I reach over to help him remove the sheet he's managed to tangle himself in as he leans back and stares at me in a way that makes me feel judged for no logical reason.

"I don't know what I felt," I finally admit while unintentionally clenching my jaw again and keeping my other thoughts to myself, mostly my concerns as I coax him as gently as I can to let me remove the blanket entirely, "Maybe… I was scared…"

Then I pull him forward so I can help keep him steady and I lower my head when I feel his hand weakly move over the ends of my hair, almost compassionately.

"And maybe…" I continue as I note that his subtle shaking doesn't appear to be from frailty or low temperatures, "I was appalled."

"Appalled…" he distantly repeats. Then he pauses for a moment before surprising me by tilting my head so that he can tiredly gaze at me in a form of mindless study as he emptily stares into my unnaturally coloured eyes.

After that, he moves his attention to my unnaturally pale skin and subtly brushes his thumb over my cheek before I break the strange spell by nervously looking away and quickly shaking my head to hide behind the security of my bangs as if I could somehow recoil and hide.

"I wasn't me anymore."

"How long did it take you to accept it?" he asks, turning clinical as he asks while I help him into the water and he hangs onto me as if he's more afraid of letting go than I am of letting him go, and I regretfully admit that, "I never did."

"I see."

Then he turns his attention to the tiles like he suddenly wants to avoid me, and I grab the cloth to start cleaning him while growing more concerned over the uncomfortable silence that follows.

There are so many questions and so little opportunity to ask them as my jaw becomes sore from keeping my teeth clenched in an attempt to hold back a growing storm inside. More days pass and the stiffness settles into my limbs from emotions that I don't understand or want to reveal. Everything about him since he awoke seems confused and distant, even his eyes that are usually hard and hypnotic seem distant and empty, sometimes melancholy and unfocussed like he's stuck in an unending sleep without dreams.

And he's passive, letting me dictate where he sits and sleeps, right down to what he eats and drinks, and when.

The best I've been able to get out of him is that he doesn't remember anything besides a long corridor, sterile. After that, all he recalls is cold and bitter snow, and frozen shores where he thinks he found transportation.

"I'm certain I was near Modeoheim…" he states, "But… I may have been further north…"

He remembers very little after that though, and though I wish he wouldn't, he comments that he'd like to go back to the Northern Continent to see if he can find out more about what really happened. He tells me that it's almost like the last time he disappeared—after the temple—and the only thing he remembers clearly this time is when he found himself in Kalm.

He can't remember how he got here or why, except that he thought he might have been looking for me before Lucrecia's Necklace was thrown at him from my window, which led him to a tavern to drink the desire to find me away.

"You frustrate me to no end…" he tells me. "Your constant insults… and the desire to put you out of your misery… and mine… seemed desirable…"

Kjata… I thought, So that's why he fired his gun at me.

And consequently, I can't help but focus on how much of an idiot I am and less on the fact that he doesn't remember what happened before he disappeared. Though he does recall talking to Reno and someone shooting him without being able to recall who or why, and I don't bother to enlighten him while I listen and grow angrier over the fact that no one knows anything and that it could have been avoided if only I had a shred of self-control.

But the fact that I don't know what could have been avoided is what bothers me the most as I continue to tend to him like I owe him while hoping that my guilt doesn't raise any questions.

And for the most part, I sit beside him quietly, and it almost seems like we're two strangers who don't know what to say to one another. And like a guard hound, I constantly watch him for signs that could answer any one of the multitude of questions that plague me as I force myself to patiently wait for him to come around on his own.

The nights are worse than the days though, and they cause even more confusion. He mutters strange words in broken Wutian that barely make sense. Most of it has something to do with a genesis, and I wonder why it bothers me when I tell myself that it must have something to do with Sephiroth's desire to destroy the world in favour of his warped vision of what should have been.

And if it wasn't for his progress that makes me think he's getting better, I might have been more concerned as days turn into weeks and we grow more comfortable with each other's company as if this is the way it's always been for us. Perhaps it's only the fact that he's a familiar presence to me that I don't seem to mind his lack of affection beyond friendship.

It's strange, since he came back. It's as if a part of him went missing. But it hasn't changed the fact that I think I still feel something more for him than I should even though I strangely honour the fact that he's made it more than clear that he doesn't want to carry on with a relationship that goes beyond friendship.

I may not have been entirely honest about how much it bothered me though, particularly when he muttered out on a night that I thought was safe to test the waters by a stolen kiss, and he turned his head away while coldly stating, "I'm tired of being used by you…"

"Then why did you come back?" I quietly asked, almost angry but not sure with whom before he slightly lifted my spirit amidst the ever-growing conflicts by answering, "You're the only one I can trust."

Yeah… right… I think, as I reflect on questions with no answers and wait for him to finish bathing like we've been doing for weeks now. All the while, I stare blankly at the necklace that still sits on the night stand. Neither of us has touched it or even acknowledged it, and that's about all the thought I give to it while I wait for him to come out smelling like lavender and missing the subtle scent of cologne that I'd come to familiarize him with.

That's about all I can do though, is spend my time waiting, reflecting, and wondering about the most recent events and the lack of his biting spark. Every question I ask him about his disappearance gets brushed off as if he doesn't really care.

Yet to contradict it all, he's developed a growing and disturbing obsession with the Northern Continent, believing that it's where he was, and I wonder if the answer lies there too. But I can't deny the fact that I want to avoid the possibility at all costs due to my unsubstantiated dreams, and I also can't deny the fact that I may be deliberately standing in his way all the sudden.

Maybe it's strange to feel relieved when he comes out and pulls my focus away from my thoughts, and maybe it's strange to feel slightly moved by the way he avoids my concerned stare when he walks out of the bathroom without the spark that he used to carry. He looks drained still, and he reaches for his cuff to adjust his non-existent watch out of habit. Then he quickly glances at me before turning his attention to the small open kitchen and scans his tired eyes over the counters and cupboards before stating that he'd like to go into town with me.

"What for?" I ask, realizing that there's a hint of sarcasm and disbelief in my tone over the fact that he'd openly say he'd like to be seen with me. But all he does is shrug and quickly shake his head as if he's not offended, or even surprised by the question or the insensitive tone. Then he sits on the wooden chair by the small table and says that he's starting to feel suffocated.

"You've barely been able to walk," I remind him while hiding the further concern over how hard his dignity would be hit if he lost his balance in public and I had to aid him.

But he tells me, "I'm feeling much better… and I'm rather tired of eating this…" For a moment, he seems like his old self while he waves his hand in a circular motion and then flips a piece of bread on a plate over to emphasize his distaste and growing restlessness. Then he looks down at the ill-fitting clothes he managed to dig up in the small dresser that I've never had any use for.

"I could use some decent clothes too…" he comments, growing quieter before staring off into space after mindlessly jerking his hand towards his pocket. But there's no locket for him to trace his fingers over and I habitually sigh over the fact that everything we do or say seems futile.

I suppose it's no surprise that I'd give into him though. At this point, I realize I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to do more for him than I'm capable of doing. I even offer my cloak so that he can hide his appearance before he turns down my offer by shaking his head and waving his hand at it while indifferently stating that, "No one ever comes here."

Maybe he's right, I wonder. Though the fact that he turns the offer down causes me to silently question why he hasn't bothered to try to contact the Turks during all this time. It's a question that nags at me constantly and I question it even more when I reflect on how he doesn't even show concern over the fact that they may be looking for him. But then again, maybe that's his plan, and maybe he knows what I'm thinking as he faintly smiles while curling his finger over his mouth to hide his amusement.

Then he subtly shakes his head and states as if to reassure me that, "From what I recall, the taverns in Kalm are dark, Vince…"

"They are," I uncomfortably admit before he finally turns his attention to me and holds it for more than a brief passing of seconds, unreadable, and I stare back with a desire to be closer, despite how concerned I am over the strange changes in his character.

But something holds me back…

Something's been holding me back since the day he returned, and I'm starting to wonder if it's the same thing that's ended the dreams and the connection I used to feel.

The tavern seems to alleviate my confusion though, as it moves my cautious and protective attention to our surroundings when we both enter. But not a single person looks up as we make our way to an available table in the darker protection of the shadows where we sit quietly and apart from each other.

From there, he quietly eats and I remain silent, inconspicuously watching him while he keeps his back to the wall and frequently glances at the tavern's surroundings with keen and observing eyes as if he's looking for something. He never lets on about what he's looking for though, and I tell myself that he's only being cautious while trying to fight off the feeling that he might have contacted one of his Turks without me knowing and is waiting for them to rescue him from my dire company.

Nothing happens though, and we go from the tavern to find some suitable clothes, and we wind up in a bakery to satisfy his sweet tooth before we return home to watch the news on the small television like we've been doing every evening. He seems content to simply stay here, accepting that the closest I'll let myself get to him is by putting my arm around him. But I'm unable to express any emotion beyond that, and to my dismay, I believe it's what he prefers.

And now, after we return from an outing that seems more like a dream, we sit beside each other on the bed, too comfortable to be enemies, too close to be friends, and too distant to be anything else. He leans against me while I rest my arm across his shoulder and like the routine it's become, we silently watch the news together. All the while, he picks at some kind of cinnamon concoction that appears sickeningly sweet while I silently assume that it's only to substitute the affections that he misses from his lover before me. They're things I can never add up to.

He no longer bothers to offer me any though. It's as if he's come to terms with the fact that there's no point in pursuing what he views as an empty void.

But why it takes me this long to sort it all out is beyond me as I grit my teeth like I so often do when I'm bothered by my thoughts and I tighten my arm around him, turn off the television, and ignore him when he tells me with a mouth full of reminders of Sephiroth that, "I was watching that."

"It's over," is all I tell him, emptily staring at a blank screen as he licks his fingers clean and swallows before grumbling that, "No it isn't… It was just starting to get interesting."

I don't really hear him though. Instead, I focus on the sickening scent of sugary syrup and cinnamon, thinking of the sweet taste in my mouth when Sephiroth taunted me in my dreams. Then I turn my attention to Tseng and stare at him like I'm seeing him for the first time, breathing that familiar scent out of habit and focussing on it like I'm noticing something different for the first time.

He's right. There's nothing feminine about him. Everything about him, right down to his quiet presence is masculine and I've been avoiding that truth, although it's been obvious to me from the start and that I've been telling myself that from the start.

And like a man, he has the same needs as a man, like my own, and I've been denying it in favour of my own.

Or simply out of denial.

It's been so long since anyone has entered my life and stirred anything in me that I fear I'm not able to comprehend what I'm really feeling anymore. Nor am I able to know how to properly respond or even how to let go, and I'm suddenly believing that it may be why everything about our relationship has been selfish, cruel, and full of denial as I fear I'm seeing it clearly now.

I'm also noticing the fact that he's not keen on the way that I'm staring at him as he slowly turns to me and coldly stares back. I don't take it to heart though. It's what he does when he feels threatened. The wall goes up and the emotions wash away to a safe place somewhere deep inside.

His cold austerity is nothing more than a defence mechanism to hide the fact that he's more feeling than he'll admit to, and he attempts to pull back while I take the time to realize what I'm realizing.

But my hold on him is like a vice, as unconscious as it is and as conflicting as it is while I hide the fact that I'm nervously contemplating making amends because I'm suddenly realizing that I never viewed him as a substitute. I think I may have been sending the wrong signals since the beginning even though I never really paid much attention to what he really is as opposed to who he really is.

And at that, I pull him closer while tilting his chin so I can kiss him, less demanding than I normally do while attempting to mimic the submissiveness that I've come to expect from him, and I hope to high hell that I'm not just leading him on again, for both our sakes as I undo the buttons on his shirt and run my hand along his chest in a wanton admiration while noting that he's not pushing me away.

All the while, his kiss follows my lead by growing more dominating by the second as he adjusts to accommodate us both better, breathing heavy and encouraging the dizziness caused by my uncertainty. But I do my best to fight the suffocating feeling as I force myself to convince myself that I can follow through this time.

Because Kjata knows how much of a mistake it would be if I didn't.