Dream Eater (m|m)

Chapter 8

I wait on the street, leaning against the side of the building. A few minutes later, Damien returns, hands in the pockets of his long coat.

"Did they let you change the money?" I ask.

He casts me a glance, no smile. "Yeah. Come on. Let's find a place to stay. Then we'll plan our next move."

"Damien, I--"

He sets off down the street, not waiting for me.

We pass two, three, then four perfectly good inns and hostels before I start to lag behind. My body is tired, and I'm short of breath.

"Hey...can we...stop for a minute?" I call, addressing Damien's back.

He glances back over his shoulder at me. "No. We're almost there."

I grit my teeth but force myself to keep moving.

My definition of 'almost there' is clearly not the same as his, because we walk for at least as long again as we already have before he stops. When he finally does, I can only stare.

We're standing before a tiny, run-down little place, with an overgrown garden, and a 'no vacancy' sign that flickers with fluorescent anger in the grimy window beside a door covered in peeling paint.

"You have got to be kidding me," I whisper under my breath. I couldn't speak louder if I wanted to.

Damien marches up to the door and knocks loudly. A moment later, an elderly man answers, looking like he just ate a lemon and chased it down with a shot of vinegar.

"What d'you want?" he growls. "Can't you read?" He points at the sign.

Damien says something to him in a low voice and counts out a handful of money. The old man's face doesn't change, but he steps aside and gestures for Damien to come inside. When I hesitate, Damien glances back at me.

"Alex, come on."

I have no idea why he'd want to stay here over any of the other perfectly nice places we passed along the way, but I figure he's got his reasons.

I take a deep breath--or try to--and follow him.

The old man leads us down a narrow, dimly lit hall to a small room with two narrow beds, a tiny bath, stained ceilings, threadbare rugs, and not much else.

Damien shuts the door after him and turns to me. He frowns.

"Are you alright? You look pale."

I wave him off. "I'm fine." I sit on one of the beds and lie back, closing my eyes and trying to breathe even and slow.

I feel his hand on my brow.

"You're not alright. What's wrong with you?"

"I..." I swallow. I'm a pretty easy-going guy, but this is one of the few things I don't like talking about. "Do you have any idea what it's like to die of tuberculosis?"

He shakes his head. "No. I've heard of it, but that's about it."

"It's awful." I close my eyes, trying not to remember. "The experience...it left a mark on my soul. If I hadn't become a demon, if I'd reincarnated like a human, it might have taken lifetimes to heal. But because I became a dream-eater, that damage is...sort of permanent. At least as long as I've got this body. My lungs have never been that great. I lose a lot of energy when I do anything strenuous...like walking across entire countries." I cough.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he demands, clearly marking the blame as all mine.

"Would you have slowed down long enough to let me?" I retort.

He doesn't answer, and when I open my eyes, I catch him watching me with a look I haven't seen before. It's quickly eclipsed by something more familiar.

"You'll have time to rest now," he says. "We'll stay here tonight, and tomorrow make our way to the nearest dead zone."

"Dead zone?"

He runs a hand through his hair, and I get the feeling he isn't in the mood to explain all the shit to the clueless pain-in-the-ass he's stuck with.

"A place where I can use my power undetected. There are usually a few in every region. Sakariel... We had them all mapped out at one time...just in case."

He stands and goes to the small window, drawing back the frilly curtains.

"Can we get some food?" I ask. Spiritually, I'm still brimming with the potent, if unpleasant, power of his nightmares. Physically, I'm starving.

"You need to eat?" he asks, looking confused.

"You don't?"

He shakes his head.

"Look," I sit up with a groan. "As I told you before--you and I are not the same. I'm a demon, yeah. But I still have to take care of my physical body just like any mortal. As Fallen, you don't have to worry about that, do you?"

He shakes his head again. "Never had to before. Although when my memories were suppressed, I did enjoy eating food. Especially cheeseburgers. And french fries. And sushi. And pizza. And cake."

"Please stop." I press my palms against my eyes and groan.

He's quiet so long that eventually, I look. He's watching me with that weird look again, and I frown at him.

"What?"

Instead of answering, he turns away, busying himself with counting the money he changed at the bank.

"What do you want? I think I saw a few restaurants nearby. French? Italian?"

I sit up, but a pain strikes me in the side of my chest. I know it's not real. I know I'm not sick anymore. I'm not dying. But it still scares me anyway.

"You pick," I say, going for a light tone. "Takeout, though. Bring me something good. I'm gonna take a shower."

I go into the tiny washroom and shut the door, not giving him time to argue.

At least there's hot water, and I stand in the shower for a long time, breathing the steam and trying to convince my lungs to relax.

When I come out, Damien is gone. I lie down on one of the narrow, uncomfortable beds, wondering why it was so important to come here, of all places. It's clear Damien's been here before, and I don't know if that's a good thing or not.

I shut my eyes, just meaning to rest a minute, but fall asleep.

~xxx~

When I wake up, Damien is back. The room is dark, and he's standing at the window, staring out at the shabby garden. There's a pile of takeout boxes on the table.

I sit up and he turns to look at me. "Help yourself," he says, gesturing at the boxes. "I got a variety."

'A variety' turns out to be a mix of Thai, Italian, and--weirdly--pancakes. Why he'd have chosen the last, I don't know, but that's what I go for. They're delicious--fluffy, somehow still warm, and drenched in butter and syrup. When I look up, that same look is on his face, and suddenly it pisses me off.

"What?" I ask sharply. "Ever since you got your memory back, you keep looking at me all weird. Is there something wrong with my face?"

His expression immediately shutters, going cold and hard as stone. "No. There's nothing wrong with you."

He grabs his coat and slings it over his shoulder.

"I'm going out," he says. "Get some rest."

He's out the door and gone before I have a chance to respond.