The Trick to Falling in Style

Dream

The winter season rips through the districts with a bitterly cold vengeance. A figure stands on a parapet on a random rooftop in Logstedshire. The wind whips around him, creating a tiny air bubble where the cold temperature lies still. He stares out at the other buildings in his district. The lights are starting to turn off, and the streets are completely empty. Only he is bearing witness to the solitude of a dozing city. He used to find beauty in this, but his heart is as cold as the wind that desperately tries to steal his warmth. His stare is dull as he soaks up all the monotonous details of the district. He hardly cares about them anymore, something dark and dangerous churning in his gut like a storm on the horizon.

He hears a whooshing sound behind him like an airsoft gun or the release of a bowstring. Suddenly, there is a presence behind him when there was not one a second before. The figure tilts his head over his shoulder to see the porcelain mask gleaming in the twilight sky. The hero takes a few steps forward, but he does not climb onto the parapet. He leans against it, his arms crossing as he looks down at the street around him. The figure stops paying attention to him at the same moment the hero tries to start a conversation. "How are you today?"

The figure does not answer. Although there are several words strung together into sentences running around in circles in his mind, he dares not let any of them slip past his lips. He was relearning the skill of lying by omission. He had stopped doing it for a little bit, but it was becoming increasingly clear that he needed to return to his lying ways.

"The others asked me when was the last time I had seen you, and I realized that we haven't spoken in a little while," The hero said with a softness in his voice like he was bringing up the weather or his daily toiling. "You've been isolating yourself for a while now. You don't have to necessarily tell me why, but I think it would be best if you spoke with someone. The Captain offered. You should take her up on her offer. It would be beneficial to talk through your problems with someone."

The figure did not have problems that could be easily sorted out. He had purposefully ruined one of his friendships, and he was on his way to ruining all of them. The fact that he was distancing himself was only the first step in a long process that would eventually absolve him of his guilt and compromises. He was going to figure this entire mess out without anyone's help. It wasn't like they could help him. He would only be putting them in danger, and he couldn't do that. He couldn't be even more of a bomb than he already was.

"Go back to the tower, Dream. I don't need you," The figure said, stepping off the rooftop. The wind he had been pushing away from him suddenly snapped forward to catch him. He slid down the wind to the ground like he was on a playground slide. He stepped into the shadows, and he was glad that the hero had enough wits to walk away. If only that was the last conversation they ever had before the figure was gone, disappearing into the winds he once thought he could control.

—

Vermillion's attention snaps back to him at the same moment a rush of pain spirals throughout his body. He instinctively tosses his body to the side, pushing vomit from his lips. His stomach contracts. He winces when his puking stops, rolling onto his back to help him steady his breath. One of his hands reaches up to touch his chest, pressing down lightly to feel for his heartbeat. When the slightly irregular beating pulses against his fingertips, he allows himself to examine the room he's found himself in.

For a moment, he thinks he's in Beau's room at the college. The small room filled with a bunk bed and desk is awfully reminiscent of the location where all their meetings took place when they were partners. The differences, however, suddenly pop out to him. There is an old school television resting on the floor in the corner, making it difficult to open the cream-painted closet door. There are thick red curtains hanging over the singular window that is in the wrong place, closed tightly so that very little light would pass through. The desk has a stack of papers on it but no more than one. It smells like sweat and heavy perfume, and Beau's room always smells like a chicken coop in the early hours of the morning.