The water swirls around him, singing a sweet melody in his ears. He doesn't try to fight it. This is what he wants, to sink into the deep, never to return. Anything will be better than going back into that world, where black is white, and right is wrong, and God and the Devil walk hand in hand. In his mind, there is only the law and those outside of it. His lungs burn, and he takes a deep breath. Why fight it, he thinks, as the water floods his lungs. Why? But then the world starts to go dark, and he struggles, staring up at the stars, distorted and cold through the water. He screams, the water muffling the sound, and then he has no more strength to do anything besides let the world slip away, like sand through an hourglass. As he closes his eyes, he thinks that he can see each individual grain of his life slowly dissolve into nothing.

Jem screams as his obnoxious roommate brings him into consciousness. The man is shaking his shoulders, and he huffs indignantly, struggling out of the man's tight grip. He leans against the headboard, panting, staring angrily at the man.

"What is wrong with you?" he exclaims as soon as he has caught his breath. "You can't just wake me up like that!" His roommate tilts his head quizzically. "Look Vincent. It's not good to shake someone like that. You could break their neck, and you'd be tried for murder, or neglect." Vincent's head tilts to the other side.

"Sorry," he grunts out. His eyes flicker downward for a second before he refocuses them on Jem's face. "I just… you were screaming." Jem sighs.

"Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep. I'm fine." Vincent doesn't move. "Trust me, I'm fine." He lies back down, as if that will prove his point, drawing the covers to his shoulders. Vincent stands and stretches. Jem closes his eyes and listens to the sound of the door creaking shut. The sounds of the night swirl around him, and he shivers. He contemplates taking a warm bath, but the thought of water makes him shudder convulsively, and he's worried for a moment that he might pass out, or have a panic attack. But the shaking passes, and he curls up on his side and tries to fall asleep again. As he drifts off, he can just barely feel the water closing in around him again.

Galen shivers as he creeps through the shadows. The streets of Paris are quiet. He can see the lights from a few windows, and he starts to imagine what it must be like to have a steady home, with a loving family. He shivers again and hugs his arms to his chest, biting his lip to hold back a whimper of discomfort. He wishes more than ever that he hadn't given his coat to that kid a couple of months ago, but he hadn't needed it then, and he supposes that he doesn't need it now. Once winter really sets in though, it'll be a different story.

His legs give way just in front of a little church. He gives a small laugh. He should pray, he knows that much, but his hands are just too cold, and he can't feel his ears, or the tip of his nose, or his fingers, or any other part of him. He can't even feel his tongue. He wishes that he could pray. His sister has always told him that God is watching him, and that one day, He will take pity on the poor boy, and then Galen won't have to live like this anymore.

Sometimes, just sometimes, he gets the feeling that he's not alone in the streets. Sometimes, he feels like there is something using him, or someone. He used to think that it was God watching over him, just like Ellen said. Now, he thinks that it might be something darker. God wouldn't send him dreams like the one's he's had ever since he can remember. He sighs and curls tightly into a ball.

The church door opens. Galen flinches away, trying to sink into the shadows. There is a priest standing on the step, staring out at the sleeping city. "Father," Galen calls. He can't help it. He wants the man to see him, to save him. "Father, help me, please!" The man turns. His eyes find the boy's.

"My child," he calls. "What are you doing alone, and so late?" Galen sniffles and rubs at his eyes. He refuses to cry.

"I don't have anywhere to go, Monsieur," he says. "Please. Just, all I want is a place to stay the night." The man gestures for Galen to stand.

"You may always find shelter with the church," he says. "Come in, my child." Galen does, stumbling all the way. As he passes the priest, he turns, tears streaming down his pale cheeks, to grasp the man's robe.

"Thank you, Father," he sobs. "Thank you."

He stays with the priest through the night. It is warm and cozy. The bed is hard, but it is heaven to the little boy, who has spent so much of his life out on the streets, running from his parents. He sighs as he gazes all around at the sights of a home. There is the clock, and there is the dresser. There is the bed, and the sheets, and the sink, and the plates, and even a dishwasher. Galen can't remember the last time he's seen a dishwasher. He thinks it might have been the time he snuck into someone's kitchen and stole a loaf of bread and some cheese. Whenever it was, it was a long time ago.

Montgomery sighs as he turns another corner. It's clearly a dead end, leading to a brightly lit school café. The words Le Café Musain – 1801-1832 are peeling off of a little painted sign. Inside, there are students everywhere. He sighs again. He really should have gone to school when he had the chance. Even if he hadn't had the resources to attend a nice academy like this, he would have an easier time finding work now. He doesn't want to be stuck working in the Thatcher Inn forever, with those awful people.

He's no better than any of them. That he knows. But he also knows that he could have been. At just barely twenty, and hardly brushing five foot seven, he's not the tallest man he knows, but he's got the looks to make up for it. Maybe, he thinks, he could have been a model, or a TV anchor, or an actor. He still can, he muses, if he somehow manages to scrape up the funds to pay for a good education. As he runs his hands along the worn brick of the café, he wonders why he feels a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and a strange tingle in his spine. He recognizes the building, despite never having been down this alley for more than a second. He certainly doesn't remember ever seeing the café. Not in this life, at least.

He laughs to himself. He's never been much of a dreamer, always lurking in back alleys, ready to jump an unsuspecting kid and rob them for all they're worth. Thatcher's taught him that, he supposes. He also supposes that he should find himself a new job, so when has supposing done him any good? He laughs even louder at the thought.

The café door creaks open. Montgomery vaguely recognizes the girl that makes her way down the street. It's Thatcher's kid, he thinks. It's that Ellen girl, the one who never gave him the time of day. He's considering jumping out at her, just for a little scare, when a boy swings into step beside her. He's big, very big, and Monty knows that if he engages, he'll probably end up on some emergency room floor, if he doesn't bleed to death, first.

He hears them laughing as they turn the corner, and he leans forward unconsciously, straining to hear. There's something in their laughter that stirs a memory that definitely isn't his.

A/N: So, tell me what you think? I like feedback, compliments, and constructive criticism!