Memo had always been a dreamer, literally and figuratively. It was part of what made him, him-- the essence of hoping and dreaming and believing that things will get, become, be better. As a young child, he’d had so many emotions that couldn’t be expressed; they came out in his dreams.

During his transient years, he never really slept deep enough to dream. Then he’d come to Hoenn, re-entered into a modicum of stability, and like long lost friends, they’d returned, vibrant and colorful and full of music.

Then, Maldacena. Cyberspace hell. A detachment from his emotions and literally having to watch the only person he’s ever really loved forget about him, and then die. A compact burst of sadness, depression, and hopelessness, hypodermically injected straight into his brain, leaving cobwebs that won’t quite clear, even in the bright light of day, let alone at night.

His Slateport apartment may have been crappy, but it was his-- the first thing that ever really was. And he was used to the solitude and the way he could experience his emotions, alone, in a controlled environment and manageable space.

But now he lived with Alex. And it was, frankly, amazing-- the concept of the person he loved the most just a few feet away, accessible, present, safe, like drawing water out of a tap, refreshing and sustaining his soul.

He wasn’t alone anymore. He couldn’t casually fall against the wall of his bedroom and cry for no discernable reason. He couldn’t suffer through his nightmares and wake up alone and pretend like they hadn’t happened. And he was trying so hard to be fine, to be normal. A, because he didn’t want Alex to worry more than he was already predisposed to doing, and B, because it was intrinsically part of him that he let nothing get him down.

That was part of what made him, him. Believing that things will get, become, be better. Remember?

The emotions needed an outlet.

So he worked. He ate little, mostly only when Alex was looking. He closed his bedroom door and laid in bed and presented a facade of sleep.

But, eventually, he dreamed.

They took many forms. Usually ones where Alex died in various, gruesome ways. Some where Memo killed him, himself.

This one was particularly gnarly, dark in its vibrancy, Alex dangling from a noose made of Unown, for Arceus’ sake, but when Memo tried to reach for the rope they became blackened thorns, and no matter how he pulled or ripped or tugged they did little but cut his hands and continue to choke the life out of the man he loved.

He had a distant feeling of crying, registered vaguely that he would wake up with tears on his cheeks, and that thought tried to multiply into it’s just a dream. It’s just a dream.. But the fear and desolation was so strong and vivid that it smothered any chance he had of rationalizing, or waking. With desperate fingers he tried to pull at the ring of thorns around Alex’s throat and his fingers, wet with their combined blood, slipped free.

In the physical world, his hand cracked against the head of the bed, loud and distinct.

[attr="class","mintag"] Alexei Ivanov

“I’m still sorry.”

He closes his eyes, forces himself to breathe.

“It was just a night terror,” he repeats, pulling at his wrists again. His eyes open. He endeavors to sit up. “I have them from time to time.” He offers a laugh, a soft chuckle that is more meant to be a balm, a way to say see? I can laugh it off, you can too.

Mentally, he begs Alex to leave it, to let him go, bid him goodnight, go back to his midnight snack.

[attr="class","mintag"] Alexei Ivanov