He has the dream again

He has the dream again.

It’s more of a nightmare, really. His subconscious’ inability to let the memory of an incident lie buried where it belongs. Deep, deep, deep. It feels like a sick obsession at this point. Every year, as the date neared, his mind would reel until the itch became too much; robbing the grave of his past to force him to look at their rotting bones. A reminder of what he’s done.

There aren't any screams as he jolts awake but his body is drenched in a cold sweat and chills consume him as mangled sheets fall from his body and leave him shivering.

The room is spinning.

Everything around him refuses to come into focus and alarms are blaring in his mind that this is it; he'll never see clearly again. The dream had finally done it. It managed to crawl from his mind and enter reality once again, maiming him indefinitely. He'd lose his job, his home, his life. Everything would be over all because of one stupid recurring dream; nightmare – memory – that refused to let sleeping dogs lie. He knows, realistically, this isn't true. Understands that what's done is done; secrets were buried long ago and that all this is is a nightmare but the heavy, haunted thought continues to cling to him.

His heart is pounding, head racing, body both frozen with fear and urging him to just move. Move. Move. Move.

The room is spinning.

It begins to come into focus, only enough that it's familiar and comforting. Enzo is still drenched in sweat. Reminded only as another shiver wracks his body. He's a mess, he knows this, but as per usual he can't bring himself to care, what does it matter? Has it ever mattered?

Nightmare continues to seep into reality, clinging desperately to his mind, and Enzo wonders for a harrowing moment if this is it. Will it finally consume him? Will it become a reality once more? Will the haunting figure at the edge of the woods emerge once again? A god summoned through blood shed. A beast – a man? Clementine.

His face falls into his hands -- a mistake, on his part -- and the room continues to whirl, his head far too light to feel attached. Headless. Enzo was finally losing his mind.

The face.

He can still see their face.

Even though he doesn’t fully recognize its features the expression is seared into the back of his eyelids; branded by an error he couldn't escape. His right hand begins to tremble. He clenches both into fists. Only his left hand complies.

He needs to get out of this bed.

He needs to get up.

He needs to get out of here.

He's overtaken by the inexplicable urge to escape once again; his body finally complies. He throws what remains of his sheets away from his legs, and Enzo almost trips with how quickly he gets up.

It's all too much.

For as long as Enzo can remember -- ever since that day -- everything had become too much. Overwhelming. Overbearing. A weight no man should ever have to carry. No mistake a man should ever make in the first place. How could he have made such a mistake?

The anxiety. The paranoia. The memories that continue to haunt him; they're all eating him alive from the inside out. A starved parasite whose only goal is to render him useless. Enzo can't help but to think that it's working. An overachiever, just like him, it doesn't know when to quit.

He's in the kitchen.

He doesn't remember the walk from his bedroom to the larger space but he can feel the change from hardwood to vinyl tiles under his feet and understands that this must be where he is. His eyes are still struggling to fully focus, the edge of his vision clouded with an eerie and dark vignette. The room is no longer spinning but reality continues to feel warped, especially as he glances down towards his hands.

They aren't his own.

There's a familiarity in the complexion; in the way freckles highlight his knuckles and in the dry, cracked skin along his palms but they are not his own. He's simply watching. They're making coffee. The clock reads 2:07 when his too full head glances towards his stove top and catches the time and Enzo can't help but think the last thing he needs is coffee but his hands are still making it. Automatic. No control. Has he ever truly been in control? Enzo craved for the concept so deeply his chest began to ache. The hands that weren't his own continued to make coffee.

The room is no longer spinning.

The coffee tastes like shit.

It could be argued that what was held inside that mug was barely coffee to begin with. Warm milk with two unstirred scoops of shitty instant coffee. Maxwell House. Enzo had no recollection of buying it. He'd entered the grocery store, blinked, and suddenly he was home with the blue tin of shitty, instant coffee. He hadn't questioned it. He hates drinking it. He takes another sip.

Out of the corner of his eyes, as the head attached to the body his mind simply inhabited glanced in another direction, he catches sight of the landline. An old thing -- yellowed with sun damage, age, and use -- it reminded him of how alone he was.

When was the last time he'd heard another person's voice? One that was based in reality and wasn't his subconscious' attempt at rattling him to his core with reminders of his mistakes. Enzo couldn't even begin to recall but he could hear something faint, way in the back of his mind, an echo in a hollow chamber. A voice. Familiar and warm. Comforting. A solace. The only one in his day.

"Enzo? What's wrong? Did something happen?" Startled, Enzo looked down. The phone is clenched in his hand so tightly he fears the plastic was going to crack under his grip, "are you okay?" the voice continued. He didn't remember calling anyone.

"Whit?" He could hear himself asking, the feeling of speaking reverberating through his chest.

"Yeah?"

"Can you come over?"

"Of course, I'll be there in 10-"

"You live 20 minutes away-"

"I know," the line went dead.

Dial tone. All Enzo can hear is dial tone as the world moves in slow motion. 10 frames per second with lag in between. A reference he assumes he learned from Whit.

Whitney.

There’s a knock at his door. His heart rate begins to soar when he turns and watches the door handle begin to turn on its own. Without assistance. A haunting. A ghost. His own nightmare finally reached him and as the landline clatters onto the counter because his right hand can no longer form a fist, his left hand continues to hold his shitty, unstirred coffee tightly.

Beyond the door is a disheveled, gray haired man with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. He looks frantic. No -- terrified. Whitney stands slightly hunched over, hand firmly on the doorknob, wide eyes scanning the room so quickly Enzo almost misses it until they land on him. They lock eyes. He seems surprised.

Enzo simply stares.

"Whit-"

Warmth.

Warmth and soap.

Warmth and soap and strong arms and Whitney.

Enzo realizes with startling clarity that Whit had crossed the room without a word and pulled him into a tight embrace. Arms coil around him and hold him close, trapping him against the other man's chest. There’s more emotion within this single hug than he knows what to do with. It causes his chest to swell and tighten, his breath to catch in his throat. His eyes begin to burn. Whitney hugged him out of relief. Enzo is hugging him in return – after letting the mug slip from his hands and clatter on the vinyl floor beneath them – with raw desperation. Neither of them move as warm milk pools at their feet..

They stand there for a while. The concept of time is left to those who still felt it mattered. Enzo isn’t one of them.

"Enzo?" He feels more than hears Whitney speak. Everything comes rushing back. The nightmare. Being jolted awake. The all consuming fear that wracked his body and made him shake. The man. The voice. The face. The face The face-

"Uh, Enzo?"

He pulls away slowly, arms dropping to his sides, unable to look Whitney in the eyes..

"Right-" clearing his throat, Enzo blinks away the burning feeling in his eyes with little success, "sorry," he mumbles, taking a small step away from the other man.

Whitney looks like he wants to say something. His eyes are dancing carefully across Enzo's face, taking everything in with such gentle consideration it makes his heart stutter and breath catch. He takes another step away. Whitney reaches a hand out, but hesitates before it can touch his face.

"You're a klutz," he says with a soft laugh, but it sounds like what happened to you? "Your makeup is smudged," he notes, but it sounds like what can I do to help? "I'm gonna grab a cloth," he mentioned, turning away from Enzo completely to head towards the bathroom. It sounds like how can I fix this?

Enzo's eyes begin to burn.

He fails to blink away his tears this time.

If he'd remembered Whit's remarks he wouldn't have reached up to wipe his eyes, but his hands still don’t feel as if they’re his own. He stares down at the smudged pink makeup along his fingers. All he can do is wonder what the man in his bathroom sees in him.

What about him made Whitney want to rush to his aid? Drop everything after a cryptic 2 am phone call where all he’d done was ask for him to come over without explanation. Then again, Whitney hadn’t asked for clarification. Hadn’t needed it. Enzo stares down at the mess on the floor but is unable to do anything about it.

The right hand that still isn’t his own continues to tremble. The left hand that isn’t his own is perfectly still. A hand of undetermined origin is coaxing his head to look up. He meets gray eyes once again.

“Wash cloth,” Whit explains softly, holding it up for Enzo to see as his free hand reaches out to hold his chin gently. All Enzo can bring himself to do is nod. It’s all the permission that Whit apparently needed as the cloth glides gently across his cheek.

He looks so focused on the task at hand. If Enzo weren’t as displaced as he felt, he’d have noticed there was more behind those soft eyes. Concern. Worry. A hint of doubt mingled with relief. But Enzo was far too focused on their colour. How could someone’s eyes be this impossibly pale? So strikingly soft yet indescribably sharp simultaneously? He was beginning to become lost in them–

“Enzo?” His voice is so warm. The sound is so overwhelmingly consuming he can’t move. Can’t blink. Can’t look at him. If Whit speaks again, Enzo doesn’t hear. The wash cloth moves gently across his face. The care that went into warming it up doesn’t go unnoticed. Nothing Whit has ever done for him goes unnoticed. He’s so warm; he’s so close–

“Vincenzo?” There it is again, that warm voice. Enzo can’t stop thinking about how close they are. The smell of soap fills his senses. The lingering feeling of warm cloth against his face as it slips down the bridge of his nose, hovering ever so gently against his cupid’s bow, is intoxicating. Is he expected to respond? The cloth is against his lips now, carefully wiping off the remains of his day job; his nightmare. The cloth lingers there for a moment longer.

Enzo risks bringing the world into focus, to look beyond the surface, to see more than just the colour of Whitney’s eyes. He’s staring right back at him. His expression is illegible – or maybe Enzo simply refuses to read it for what it is. Closer. It was closer than it had been before.

Whitney’s hand, once caressing his chin with gentle care, was sliding up to cup his cheek, thumb tracing a careful line where tear stained makeup had once been. Their eyes lock and Enzo refuses to look away - he’s afraid to. If he looks away, will Whitney still be here? If he blinks, will he still be moving closer? If he does nothing but sit here, caught in the clouded skies that stare back at him, what would happen next?

The room is spinning.

But Enzo is warm.

It's strange to note the familiarity in the feeling – as if they’d done this before. It’s by no means a brief kiss. They linger there together, soft and tender, with Whit’s hand still holding Enzo’s face in place, as if he too is afraid that letting go would make Enzo vanish.

What it is reassuring. Intimate. Warm. Soothing. Familiar. Every word that Enzo could think up in his mind about this kiss is exactly what it was. At the end of the day, it’s indescribable. He wishes they had done this sooner, wishes they could do this more. He raises a trembling hand that is now his own against Whit’s arm.

There are no sparks – no fireworks lit between them that propels them into desperately pulling one another closer – it’s simple. It’s more than he could have ever asked for. It’s exactly what he needs. He mourns the loss of it when Whitney pulls away. A soft breath escapes him. He hopes Whitney understands the meaning. He knows, deep down, that he does.

“Sorry-” he begins to whisper.

“Why?” Whit breathes incredulously - Enzo can’t even begin to answer that simple of a question, so he doesn’t.

They stay there, lingering. Always lingering. The cloth has long gone cold but Whitney continues to wipe along his face gently in places Enzo is sure have long been clean by now. Any excuse to be close. He wonders, briefly, if they ever needed an excuse. Or, perhaps, the only excuse they needed to begin with was the desire to linger at all.