Fate.
You can choose your steps, but no matter how far you wander, fate is the shadow that always follows.
They sit in an open field bordering the house and water, the air is cool, and they look ahead to the sun that's still setting and the sky's a midnight blue.
That's how it always starts.
It's calm, the breeze brushing through Xavier's hair, the flowers and tall grass swaying in the wind. He closes his eyes and tips his head upwards, savoring peace. They sit in silence, the air soft, the peace and quiet enveloping them. Stars greet him when he opens his eyes, and the trees flutter in the wind, but never make a sound.
In the dream, they are both sitting in an open field. Xavier never remembers the man's name, and there's always a haze cloaking his face; yet there is a single feature he retains with striking clarity. The man's eyes are sunken and dark—what once held light are now devoid of hope and full of exhaustion. When he focuses hard enough he can see the man's face clearly. And yet, when he tries to picture it the edges blur. The image slips from his grasp, shifting like fog in the early morning light. It's there, but it isn't.
The wind dies down and the soft brushing sensation against his skin remains. Xavier looks around, his fingers brushing against the soft tips of the grass and takes in the open field. He picks out a flower, and counts the little purple florets, the sweet smell of the hyacinth lulling the senses. It's quiet. The rustle of the leaves has died down, with only the soft hum of running water. The man doesn't say anything and is just watching the sky, the stars shining brightly mocking him. And yet he watches, like there's something worth waiting for in the distance. Usually, they sit in silence with the comfort of the other's presence. Xavier doesn't ask any questions. And when they do talk it's not about anything important, just trivial matters.
He turns to the man and takes in his features. There's something familiar about him, in the way he holds himself, the curve in his shoulders and the tilt of his head as he looks above, and the grounding comfort of his presence. And yet he can't picture it at all when he wakes up, his face like an old film, curling over the edges with sporicidal flickers of specks.
"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" Xavier doesn't know why he says that, perhaps just to fill the silence, make small talk.
The man doesn't answer but gives a little huff and slowly nods, his lips slightly curling upwards. Overtime, Xavier came to accept that the man is one of little words. When he was younger, he'd ask endless questions to get the man to talk more because he never liked the silence. It felt suffocating. He used to think the quiet was a sign of something wrong, some hidden truth locked away in the space between them.
The man tuns to Xavier and his gaze lands on the flower in his hand. "You know," he says calmly while his voice resonant, "losing something important leaves a mark. But it's not just the pain that stays—it's the memories, the impact. The love doesn't go away."
It's not the pain, but the lessons and the love that last.
The man, Xavier found out, is also a cryptic bastard who spills random things and never elaborates on them no matter how hard Xavier tired to pester him about it.
"Oh, did you get rejected by your crush per chance?" Xavier asks teasingly "Or even worst, you embarrassed yourself and asked her out, in front of her boyfriend?"
The man scoffs and rolls his eyes with a smile "Sure, something like that."
Predictable as ever, Xavier smiles back, the man's got one setting only, mysterious.
They fall back into silence and remain like that for the rest of the night, save for the occasional comments and laughs. No urgency. Just calm, uninterrupted bliss. The stars shine bright overhead and Xavier closes his eyes, just feeling the ethereality of the moment.
That's how it always starts. Peaceful.
The calm before destruction.
When he opens his eyes there are no stars and he is met with darkness. The man is no longer by his side and field disappears along with the scenery and gentles hums that accompanied it. Xavier is enveloped in darkness, floating in a limbo with no escape. The silence is deafening. Only the sound of his breaths and thumping heart fill the quiet. Unlike the warmth of before, the space is cold and detached, desolated of all existence and robing comfort. He's drifting like a lone star, distant and cold, condemned to loneliness.
Thoughts echo around in the emptiness, intensity growing with every passing moment. Sometimes he feels that they aren't his own, foreign whispers floating around invading his mind, pushing their way into his consciousness. It's deafening. The noise is unbearable, louder than any silence he's ever known. As he wraps his arms around himself—trying to shrink away—he closes his eyes once more in hopes of blocking out the roaring chatter.
Without warning his arms jerk upwards, and his body goes limp. Bright lights shine down on him and a sea of faces peer at him expectantly with audible cheering. Looking around, his body is tangled in thread that shines faintly under the light. Xavier pulls and twists, but his arm remains suspended and pain shoots through his arm as the binds tighten around his wrists. He involuntarily waves and the crowd cheers louder and the lights seem brighter.
On cue to the melody, his spine straightens and his arms slice through the air with delicacy and precision, then he's on his toes and gracefully twirls. As his lips lines and words spill from his mouth, reciting a script that is unfamiliar to him, but the words roll off his tongue with such ease, as if rehearsed hundreds of times. Xavier jerks into a pirouette
A sharp pain pierces through his wrist, the thread digging tightly, breaking the skin, and he is forced seamlessly back into place, leaping two feet into the air. The pressure intensifies, as he tries to pull free the ropes strangle him, forcing his body into even more convoluted poses, twisting his body in unnatural ways. He realizes his hands have darkened to an ugly blue and notices the numbness in his hands. He says a couple more lines and hollow laughter erupts instead of agonizing pain.
He is a puppet at the thread's mercy.
A Marionette. That's what he's become
New performances are played, and the final act draws near, his vision blurs, the strings tighten at every moment submission is defied, and he tangles deeper into its restrain.
Over and over, he falls into different roles while the audience cheers, forced to wear different faces and become a new version of himself every time the worlds cave in. Escaping feels impossible. Scenes change and after a million new identities Xavier finds himself surrendering. The thread's taunting. Its colour's crimson as though drenched in his blood.
At the final bow the curtains fall and the audience cheers and Xavier collapses, and finally, finally, he is free. Raising his hand towards the spotlights he relieves an exhale, the broken skin and redness on his wrists are gone along with the cursed thread. His moment of relief runs short, his blood runs cold, feeling a warm brush against his ear.
"You will never be in control."
His exhausted body jolts upward once again.