flower [book 2] ❊ l.s.

four - the dreams

Harry tried to open his eyes, but he found that his eyelids were far too heavy. He whined softly into the darkness, shifting restlessly. The pile of blankets only made him feel more trapped, and he fought back against their hold on him, uselessly weighed down by stiff muscles.

Warm fingers brushed over his cheek, cupping his face gently. He would recognize Louis's touch in the deepest of sleeps. The panic coursing through his veins settled instantly. He melted into his boyfriend's arms, sighing as the tension in his muscles faded from confusion to clarity.

Harry's mind, though, cleared as well. The fog lifted, and through the haze, he saw a young boy, alone in the middle of a large living room. The images were blurred, distorted, like looking at a picture with his eyes half closed. He tried to rub his eyes, but he found that his muscles were too heavy, pinned down by sleep's suffocating embrace.

Harry blocked out the static of his other thoughts, trying to force the obscure dream into focus. It was like pressing play on an old, pixelated movie, but the people's voices rang through clearly.

"Why isn't he here?" the boy on the couch called out. The words hung in the air like they were written, waiting for anyone to acknowledge them.

Just a moment too late, a woman entered the room. "He'll be here," she told the boy. "He just has to finish up some things at work first."

"But it's Christmas," he protested. He looked eerily familiar, but Harry couldn't quite place him. "How come he's always late for Christmas?"

"He has to work."

"None of my friends' parents work on Christmas. You don't work on Christmas."

She sat down next to him on the couch. "Your father's work is different. Be patient."

The lights flickered, but the people in the dream didn't react. They froze for a few seconds, then skipped forward, every subtle movement stiff and robotic. As his dream snapped from frame to frame, Harry finally had a chance to study the young boy's face, and he made the connection all at once.

It was Williams, he realized -- one of Louis's business associates -- and this wasn't the first time that Harry had dreamed about him. He studied the child closely until he felt certain; he had only met Williams once, but he could feel the connection.

He could see this young boy still standing behind the harsh businessman he observed in Louis's meeting.

The floor rumbled with sound, echoes of not enough, not enough, not enough -- but the woman's mouth didn't move, and the boy's mouth didn't move. No, these were thoughts, a glimpse into a son's deepest fears. The windows shook and the lamp flickered, and Harry tried to memorize the scene before it was gone.

The walls collapsed like crumpled pieces of paper. In the blink of an eye, the room disappeared, and Harry was ejected from Williams's childhood memory. He curled in on himself instinctively as the spirits ripped the dream away from him. They had given him a flash of the future through a piece of the past, but they only gave so much at one time.

Even in hindsight: what could a memory like this possibly mean?

Harry woke with a gasp, bolting upright in bed. He had to rub his eyes a few times to make sure that he wasn't still dreaming, blinking slowly just to remind himself that he could. Goosebumps peppered his bare arms, and he shivered, feeling scared, confused, and achingly alone.

The bedroom was dark, swathed in shadows, but not nearly as suffocating as his dreams. Louis must have carried him to bed while they both fell asleep on the couch. He glanced at the warm body beside him, exhaling a breath of relief at the peaceful expression on his boyfriend's face.