Waking

He was weeping again. It made you feel utterly, completely selfish and very useless to hear those helpless fearful noises. Whimpering cries of dread scattered throughout the dark hours when you ought to have been deeply in slumber, so alien and so crude. You knew that there was nothing at all to be done and this was why no one went to him. The nightmares eroded his mind like the bitter acidity of an unwashed mouth, cavities littering the bright colors of his thoughts with their sour evil. It was not your responsibility to wash him clean, to draw out the poison with your lips and spit it into a bucket. You were hardly pure, had not been for such a long time, so how could you expect to bring upon him something other than further suffering? There were simply some facets of persona which one did not intrude upon, Sandy had said, and this was one of them. Yet you wanted, as always, to kiss his wounds and watch them vanish with the ease of childhood bruises. But even you did not wield such power and had never presumed to illusion yourself so.

But oh, how you desperately wanted to crawl from your coffin and into his cave, to throw the sheets aside and gently take his body in your hands. To uncurl it from that fetal defense while whispering soothing words (which you had yet to fathom but assumed you would know in due course). And then he would not cry (yet neither would he wake) but instead find some sanctuary from nightmarish landscapes in the space against your body. You would rest easy to know that he bled no more. When you slept yourself it would be with a smile of contentment. As selfish as it might be, you would be secretly smug that it had been your actions that halted the nightly passion. For you were never a jealous person and would be wholly satisfied with the knowledge that you had subliminally repaired whatever had broken. Hush, Dillon. No more bad dreams.

Yet even as you contemplated the hypothetical triumph and its subtle bounty, you had not moved. As you lay under the bower of ugly contrasts in yellow and black you heard him sob again. Listening, you imagined that you could see his nimble white fingers fisting in the robins-egg sheets. Grasping tightly and twisting as if he meant to rip the cheery color away from the bright fabric background, a desperate violence never expressed in waking. You thought not for the first time that perhaps Dillon was physically weak not because he was fragile, but rather because he was afraid to be out of control. How he cherished control, almost obsessively. Another cry and not for the first time you wondered what tormented him so, that what ought to have been his eden was instead a bloody purgatory. That he should sob so breathlessly, writhing as if to escape every hellish hound known to man. What did he see on the back of his eyelids? And could you banish it? Doubtful. Not even therapy had done so and moreover you were a fumbling fool in regard to others pain.

You sighed once more and turned your back to the aisle, drawing the blankets over your ears as if to obstruct the passage of sound. Yet the silence did not fall and through the layers of fabric and polyester you could hear the soft sounds of anguish. No one so beautiful, nor gentle and caring and brilliant, as Dillon ought to have it within them to make such noises. You would like to think that life followed a pattern of strict code, and the wicked were dealt their just desserts while the good enjoyed the fruits of their kindness. But you knew that such things were rather reversed in reality, and this was why the man whom you thought might have been your personal living saint wept in such a bitter tone. Below you, Brodie snuffled in his slumber. The snorts momentarily overrode the sounds of your dearest friend, and you thought fervently that if only you could rattle things about without fear of waking anyone you might falsely silence Dillon. It would be a guilty distraction, not actually halting the crying but giving the perception of its non-existence. Could you suffer such ruthless self-absorption on your part? Perhaps you rather deserved to be disturbed, for if you were unkind enough to leave Dillon at the mercy of his nightmares then you had collected ample guilt to suffer as well. For shame, Rico.

It was, you reflected with a mounting defensive irritation, very like Dillon to be so inadvertently rude. He always had the insight to be salve to the rest of them but was found wanting when it came to helping himself. At times you were certain that the naivety which all but left a sticky trail in his wake must be a facade, for someone who had so many insecurities and imperfections could not possibly be selfless or as empathetic as he appeared. It made you rather angry on many occasions. And in the sleepless dead of night with weight on your conscience you most certainly had the audacity to be irritated. Irritated yet sympathetic (which led instantly to a demand of your exhaustedly alert mind to decide on one or the other). And now the late hour was grinding into your thought processes, creating an unpleasant friction which made you quite certain that you would roll from the embrace of you blankets and pad across that aisle to take action. So you threw the welcoming bedding away from your bare skin and silently harbored mutinous feelings over the inoperable heating system. Feet unsure on the carpet, you crossed the space of two feet that yawned forth dauntingly. It was a small journey, but it always felt like the relieved conclusion of a interminable quest as you crawled into his bed.

It was not exactly as you had envisioned, but the scene was near enough. He was curled on his side with fistfuls of blue, but his hair was matted by tears and sweat (rather than sleek and idolized as you had inwardly seen) and his skin was not the fair china surface marked by water but blotchy-pink and flushed with suppressed sobs. You had supposed that he was still deeply hidden in the land of dreams, yet as the mattress dipped slightly with your weight his head rolled to stare at you with ink-colored eyes.

“You're awake.” You said dumbly, now feeling somehow cheated.

He did not answer, the cries mellowing but still churning out punctuated by hiccups. Your knee sunk into the soft plush of that damn Mickey Mouse toy that he had stolen from Sandy, and you would have liked to whine a bit and ask why he couldn't have taken comfort in the stuffed toys littering the bed rather than keeping you awake. With this in mind you formulated an inquiry.

“Why are you crying?” You asked, demanding and much less gentle than you had wanted.

“N-” Hiccup. “Nightmares.”

Thankful that he had not proclaimed undying love for his younger sister or disclosed his desperate hatred of himself (or some other melodramatic S-E-C-R-E-T), you sighed and knelt beside his curled body. He shook as if chilled (he might have been, what with the cold air battling the heat of his moist skin) as you reached toward him. Your brows knitting now more in concern than annoyance you took pity on how small he had become (for Dillon was hardly bigger than you were and could be quite tiny indeed when the fancy struck him). With the softest touch possible in your current state of sleep-craving-uncoordination you touched his sharp cheekbone. His weeping had lessened to hiccups and sniffles yet he trembled still as if he were about to fly apart into a thousand unkempt pieces. Fingers pressed against the tears, absorbing them with the heat of your skin.

“'S just dreams. Just ugly thoughts that you ignore in the daytime.” You reassured gruffly, the tenderness you hoped was in your eyes counterbalancing the tone.

“I know. But that's why they scare me. They exist, right?” Hiccup, sniffle.

“So let 'em out. Talk sometimes.”

That sounded a bit like an order rather than suggestion. Not precisely your intention, but it seemed to have a slight calming effect on your distraught companion. You wished he would talk, rather than sitting apart with the damned notebook for company and a soul veiled by the too-long fringe of hair that he kept specifically to hide behind.

“No one else needs my shit.” Dillon replied, now intent on the wall rather than your gaze.

Another thing you wanted to slaughter: that 'if-I-don't-quite-look-at-you-I-can-stay-aloof' nonsense. Yet you thought that perhaps there was a secret desire to obey you tucked twisted and hushed into the space between his tongue and lips, and you had only to coax it free with affection.

“I do. I need your shit. 'Cause I need you, y'know? I need Dillon-who-has-shit, 'cause I don't want Dillon-who-is-fake-perfect. That isn't my Dillon. Everyone has shortcomings, sins, fears. You always take my crap and I'm strong enough to take some of yours. Love shares, ya' know?” This speech impressed you, yet you wished that you could pause the moment and save it for a date when you were less drowsy.

He regarded you once more, chewing his lower lip as his fist ground the remaining tears away from his face.

“I just get so scared sometimes, Rico.” Dillon confided, apologetic.

“I know.”

You bent to kiss the corner of one eye and then the other. His brassy eyelashes tickled your mouth, and you wanted to press your lips against them to arrest the movement. Unabashedly you did indeed bless the wispy hairs, feeling Dillon's fingers resting lightly at the curve of your neck in a possessive gesture (which made you smile because you wanted him to own you). His eyelashes were downy soft and a little shorter than your sister Kate’s, and you almost laughed aloud at the absurd randomness of the comparison. You sat back slightly when you had finished your display of tenderness, just looking at him and wondering why it was that you had decided not to fall hopelessly in love with him. Or perhaps you had done that long ago, and the choice had lay in whether you would be 'his'. Because even you had to acknowledge that no matter the choices of partners you yourself made Dillon had always been, and unfalteringly would be, 'yours'.

“Stop being so amazing. It makes me feel really incompetent.” He chided darkly, voice cracking amidst the attempt at humor.

“Shut up, Dillon. I'm tired.” You mumbled with a bashful half-smile, wrapping an arm around his midriff as you carefully lowered yourself to the mattress.

He did not promptly answer, but instead lay still and allowed you to shift about in search of a comfortable position. When you found it he curled against you, skinny leg looping innocently around the back of your knees. It was interesting how nothing had changed in the way in which you fit against one another. You yourself had gone from a tiny, fat, pretty thing masquerading as homely to a tiny, skinny, pretty thing quite obviously attractive while Dillon had gone from being small, chubby, and seemingly a young woman to being a small, slight, and gender-ambiguous person. Yet no matter how thin or weighty or tall either of you were that snug mold had never shifted.

You drifted into that state just before agreeing to sleep, in which muscles are still slightly tense and two people stare at one another in a way that is neither awkward nor too invasive. In the darkness you could see that his nose was still red and wet and he looked sad, somehow. Yet you thought in a detached peculiar fashion that you had never seen another human being so beautiful. Perhaps because he was your-not-best-friend-Dillon, who had always been fey and mesmerizing but not at all ethereal to your eyes. You liked that he was puckish, flawed, and you resented the smudged eyeliner because it was the glow of life that made him so comely to behold. You liked to be shown that he was not a paper cut-out, and had dimensions and emotion and the throb of blood in his veins. When he wore that white paint the only thing with color was his eyes, glowing eerie and black (or a brilliant hazel, depending on his mood and the lighting) in the face of a glass doll. Perhaps it was to become someone he was not for the hungry eyes of the outer world, or maybe it was to hide who he really was for then the true Dillon was sacred and precious. You decided that you rather cherished the small graces that you rarely thought of (and would most likely once more forget upon later waking). Treasured that you were one of a select few that could see him with blotchy pink skin and red-rimmed eyes, able to caress his tears away and know that he loved you for it. His fingers found yours, clasping hesitantly as if afraid that you would draw away. In answer you pressed your cheek close to him, resting just below his jawline. You could hear a heartbeat, thumping loud and quick like Christopher's drumming of the lunchroom table against the shell of your ear.

“I'm here, Dillon. I'm not going anywhere, okay? You don't have to be afraid. Just wake me up if you have another bad dream.” You said softly, and you were not certain if he could hear you with such a quiet pitch.

One hand worked into your hair compulsively, and you were sure that the top of your head was becoming damp with yet another fall of tears. You considered asking him what he had dreamt of and why it affected him as it did but supposed that maybe it would be better to refrain from prodding.

“You're not alone.” You added, repeating it because you thought perhaps he needed to hear such things more often.

He failed to answer, but you were confident that his heartbeat had murmured 'I know'.

Finite