I rarely dreamed about anything besides my mother and the taste of plaster in my mouth. I would start out by the painting, staring at the small chain around the little bird's leg. I could feel my mother's hand dragging off my shoulder, missing the warmth of her touch as her fingers slipped into the air. I knew what was going to happen, I could see her smiling at me as she walked away but I couldn't turn my head in her direction. I could hear the shouts of people and heavy fall of footsteps and I knew it was the men running from the bomb, but all I could do was stare at the little goldfinch and it's a silver chain as plaster-filled smoke encased the room and my vision went dark.
When I opened my eyes, I was standing in the middle of it all. Every surface, every object, even the air was coated in thick grey dust. My body ached, my throat was dry, my eyes and nose stung from plaster and the metallic scent of blood. My ears were ringing; it sounded like I was underwater, but this time I could make out the faint call of my name. It was an effort to move my head, but I could. Everywhere I looked there were bodies, parts of bodies, shoes, maps, other belongings that had been scattered around the room, sticky with blood and coated in dust. Something was moving in the distance, and I was drawn towards it. My feet felt like lead and the distance, while only a few yards, seemed almost impossible. But I kept moving, one foot before the other, the need to reach the moving figure, which I could now make out was a hand, overpowering my pain. It was only when I was mere inches away from the figure that I realized who it was, and I nearly vomited at the sight. It was Boris, laying on his stomach, barely holding himself up with his left arm while the other reached out towards me, shaking with the strain. His long legs were bent at awkward angles that I knew shouldn't be possible. His body was smudged in brown and grey dust, his shirt with plaster. His fingers were coated in red, and I noticed a steadily growing pool of the red coming from underneath him. No, no, no, no this isn't real, you shouldn't be here, you weren't supposed to be here. My brain frantically tried to assure me that this was impossible, but somehow Boris was here in the museum with me, the light quickly fading from his beautiful dark eyes. I crashed to my knees in front of him, not knowing what to do or say or how to save him. I had to save him. His head was shaking, his curls matted with blood and dust and other things I didn't want to know the origins of. He was crying, dirty tears running down his face and disappearing under his shirt. "Potter," he was trying to say, though it came out garbled and weird. "Potter, please,". My hand found his and he coughed, blood bubbling up from his mouth and dribbling down his chin, he was blinking, hard, as his head lowered to the floor, too weak to hold it up any longer. "Boris, no please, I can't lose you," I whispered, leaning close to his face. I didn't know what to do. I needed to help but I didn't know how. A small, crooked smile formed on his lips, distorted by blood and other things. "Potter I-" he was trying to tell me something, but before he could finish his body jerked violently, and suddenly went still. His eyes were clouded, grey. For a second, I could only stare at him, a raw feeling spreading through my chest, my head shaking back in forth in denial. Pain consuming me in a way I'd never felt before, I screamed, and I didn't stop. Our hands were still intertwined and I squeezed him as hard as I could, the noise coming from my mouth was animalistic. "Come back! Come back!" I screamed at him, shaking him with all the strength I had, but he only stared lifelessly behind me.
My eyes flew open to meet Boris', only now they were his usual blackish brown, filled with concern and terror. For a second, we both stared at each other. I was aware that my throat was raw, and my body wet with sweat. He was leaning over me, one hand on my shoulder while the other cradling my head, his face paler than usual and hands trembling slightly.
"Theo?" He whispered, but it sounded weird from him. I don't think he'd ever said my real name before, and with his accent, it sounded more like teee-oh, uncertain and scared.
Without thought I launched myself up, burying my head in his chest and wrapping my arms tightly around him, sobbing. I could practically feel his shock, I don't think I'd ever had a nightmare this bad before. He shifted so that he was sitting on the bed, his back resting on the wall and I let him maneuver me so that I was practically sitting in his lap.
"Shhh," he cooed, running his fingers through my hair and rocking us both back and forth as I cried, "shh, it's okay, shhh." It took me several minutes before I calmed down, my arms still tight around his waist, and my ear pressed to his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat soothing me. He was alive. It was just a dream. There was no blood or dust or plaster. His limbs were a pale, milky white instead of coated in grime, and his eyes were clear, although somewhat tired looking. His skin had always been cooler than mine, but compared to how his hand felt in my dream he was warm, his heart beating strong and chest rising and falling with each breath that he took. Boris was peering down at me, an odd expression on his face as he studied me, no doubt trying to understand what had scared me so badly through body language alone. Boris had always had an uncanny talent of knowing what you were thinking.
"Theo?" Boris called softly. A warm feeling spread in my stomach at the sound of my real name. It was strange coming from his lips yet somehow that made me love it all the more. My eyes traveled to his and almost immediately, encased in his warm gaze and arms I felt safe. "You were screaming," he said softly, "you kept screaming for me." I knew I should have been embarrassed, but instead, I just started crying again.
"You were there!" I sobbed, the vision of blood bubbling from his mouth and the life draining out of his eyes burned into my memory forever.
"Where?" he asked softly, fingers rubbing circles on my back as he usually did whenever I had a nightmare.
"The museum. You were there and-oh god there was so much blood. I couldn't-I couldn't do anything and your eyes...they were just dying and you were trying to tell me something but you couldn't cause you were dead. You were dead Boris and it was my fault and you wouldn't come back and-and-" my breaths were panicked, my hands clinging to his shirt so tightly my knuckles were white. Boris swallowed thickly, before gently prying one of my hands from his shirt and placing it over his heart. He lay his hand over mine.
"Do you hear that?" he asked, his gaze not leaving mine, "is my heart, yes? It is strong, and it will still be strong as long as you are here." I could feel it, beating a bit faster than it had been before but it was there. Boris pulled the covers over me and kissed my forehead.
"I will not leave you, Theo." he murmured, smiling at me softly. His gentle heartbeat and soft humming in Russian lulled me back into sleep, this time without the horrors of before. But when I woke up, Boris was still humming the same song as before, his voice a bit raspy and the bruises under his eyes dark indigo. I frowned; today I had to do something about this.