He Who Dreams Alone
by Ekai Ungson
disclaimer: CLAMP made it. i ain't worthy.
for syaoran no hime. i haven't been in touch with you since, like, forever.
and for wen-sama, who inspired this.
'Sometimes I wonder that instead of falling madly in love,
we should aspire to fall sanely in love.
But then, what would be the point?'
--Zafra, Jessica: Twisted Five
He was the one who dreamt alone, that was what his name meant. And in truth, when she really thought about it, it was the full definition of his very being.
He dreamt alone because no one could understand him. Even she herself could not. He was a man, and a child, wise beyond his years, deprived of his innocence, living the childhood he never had, at the same time trying to be... normal. There was nothing he did not know, nothing he could not do.
Except one simple thing.
The night sky was thin, and breakable, easy to tear apart, shatter. Like diamonds the stars do glitter from high, high above, like pieces of broken glass that was very heart.
Tomoyo looks up at the sky, blue-black in its starkness, and beseeches it to break her, break her, just as her heart is broken, just as her soul drains from her body out of a gash in her chest.
He found her sitting under a tree at the park, her eyes a deep violet void, expressionless, emotion;less. She didn't look up as he approached, didn't even blink Like a marble statue, she lay, still and frozen.
He longed to take her by the shoulders and then shake her senseless, and scream. He wanted to open her eyes and stop living in a convoluted world where she saw things through a distorted camera lens, and see.
But he would not. He would not because it would be hypocritical of him to do so, because he was broken, too, as broken as her.
He was shattered because she was.
She turns her head to stare blankly at his blue eyes, his deep, sweet, blue eyes. Maybe, just maybe, if things had been a little different, she could've loved him instead, instead of holding on to the exercise of futility that was loving Sakura.
He had opened his arms to her, gave her comfort in her solace. He had offered his soul to satiate her. He had done everything for her, but never did she fall into his arms, never did she reach for his lips. She found it the greatest irony, that here was a man who loved her with all his human soul, willing to give her anything and everything, and here she was, in love with someone who saw her as a friend and nothing more.
She never fell into what he gave her because she didn't want to do something she would regret later.
He smiled at her, but he knew the smile didn't reach his eyes, and he knew she saw it, too.
"Is there room for one more in there?" he asked, and she indicated the space beside her. He sat. Misery loved company.
She was skating on thin ice now, extremely thin ice, a few more strokes and it would break into pieces and she would fall, fall into the cold water. She was walking that thin border that separated love from lust, because this was sheer desperation, just untainted, transparent desperation.
She kept it in, struggled with it. Not Eriol, she screamed, in a voice he would never hear. Anyone but Eriol. He wouldn't-- didn't-- deserve it.
But a second too late.
"Eriol," she said, in a voice he knew how to hear this time.
He turned to look at her, and was lost.
He was warm, and strong, her hands running through his hair, his lips terrifyingly warm against the stark ice of her own. With each touch she pulsed with life, as if his skin against hers was enough contact to pull his very life and transfer it to her hollowness.
Revive me, revive me, she screamed. And he obliged, no matter that she was draining his life fromout of him. Never mind that it woul kill him, kill him.
He branded her with his lips, scorched her with his fingertips, touching every part of her, transforming icy stone into pulsing flesh, each time losing a part of himself within her. He gave, and gave, and gave. She took, and took, and took.
At the sound of her name her eyes shot open to meet his. His eyes were smoky, veiled, lusty. Her breath came out as wisps of steam that dissolved into the black air. No light spills in. None fall out. They were alone, he and her, and there was no circle of moon or stars to guide them.
She touched his face and wondered.
He longed to break her, just as she'd broken him. Impale her, paralyze her, render her useless, then throw her away.
But he couldn't do that to her. One, because he was too weak now, and two, because he loved her too much.
Strength and warmth and life and vitality he offered her now, all this, to make her live again. Strength and warmth and life and vitality, that she really didn't want to take from him, but needed to, because he was there and he was willing.
Break me, he seemed to say. I am broken beyond repair. You might as well take me and then throw me away.
She held him close to her heart, wills herself not to hurt him. But as long as she touched him she drained just a little, and soon there would be nothing left.
But she needed this. She needed to hurt because she was hurt, lest she die.
She ceased and he began, leading her to dance an age-old lover's waltz, dying, slowly, slowly.
And when it was all over she buried her face in his neck and found him lifeless.
So she wept.
"Why do you cry?" he asked with broken lips, softly, still cradling her.
"I have... killed you," she said. "I have. I didn't want to, but I did..."
He shook his head. "I am reborn, over and over, as long as you exist... because, Tomoyo-san, you have killed me over and over before, yet I live... for you."
And she looked into his eyes and saw there infinite understanding, and love, and a semblance of what she might come to love. The one who dreamt alone.
Why he loved her she did not know. But he did, and now that her pain was gone, she could heal his.
She could believe it.
-'Eriol' means "he who dreams alone" in elvish language, apparently. Credits to Lady Harlequin for that, Tolkien fan that she is. ^_^
-In this fic, it is believed that Kaho does not exist. ;P So I really don't like her. Sue me? .