Project Interdimensional

He carefully creeps out of bed and to the bathroom. He washes his face not in cold water, but warm, for once, trying to preserve that feeling from the dream. He looks up at the face looking back at him in the mirror and tilts his head; the face mimics and almost unconsciously he smiles. His reflection smiles back, and it’s a nice smile, he decides; a nice expression.

He goes back to washing his face.

Music singing in his soul...

~

When you wake some time later, no, a little while later, you’re alone in the bed and you blink in surprise. But then you look up and sit up you see the door open, the door behind the door, leading into a long corridor through which morning sunlight is beginning to stream and—

The sound makes you freeze and tilt your head, trying to catch it—the sound of music.

High and light and chords rippling gently through the air, quietly, so you can barely catch it; you slip out of bed and blink the sleep from your eyes and head closer for a better hear.

It’s music, alright. He’s playing music.

Almost feeling like you’re intruding on a dream, invading the perfect peace, the harmony of the moment, you slowly tiptoe down the soft carpet, the music getting gradually louder with every step. It’s not piano, not the odd plinking, ringing notes from before—it’s rising and falling, vibrating strings, causing waves of green and blue and soft, peachy orange to go through your mind, making you gasp. Sound has color? Or is it merely the emotions that you’re reading—emotions—color?

You shake your head, trying to clear the sudden confused muddle. It doesn’t matter right now.

The door is open, the other side from which these beautiful sounds are coming; hesitantly you peer around it to see—

He’s standing there in a pillar of light, with this serene expression on his face—eyes closed, an oh-so-soft smile on his lips, his fingers moving so smoothly on the strings, pressing and releasing and he holds the bow (is that what it’s called? You’re not sure) so precisely, like it’s become second nature, like it’s supposed to be held... And one moment when his eyes flare open he looks exhilarated, enthralled, enraptured...

And still the beautiful music, high and light and singing and it’s not perfect, not exactly; he misses a note here and there and you can catch the minuscule shifting of his mood as he notices and corrects it, pausing and going back, over the little bits until they are perfect, and then back again to the start, with a tiny shuddering breath and half-opening his eyes, and the song’s beautiful, slow and careful and delicate, simple while still being pretty, and—

And then just like that it’s over, with one final low note rippling through the air and you slowly break out of your trance, from drinking in it all in. He stands there, still and holding the violin and his eyes are almost closed; but they’re unseeing, and you’re not sure what he’s thinking, now—all the gentle waves of emotion have gone flat, but slowly building up to something you can’t tell—

He swallows, and slowly puts the instrument down. And then he stands there, looking at it and steps back, and slowly sinks to his knees on the plush carpet, and carefully puts his hands in his lap. Excessively he blinks, rapidly and quickly and you hear him sniff, slightly; and even though he smiles a few tears tumble down his cheeks and splash onto his bare knees.

“...Cheshire?”

Your voice breaks the silence and he looks up, and he smiles, with eyes closed and widely, as though there isn’t salty water dripping off his chin. “Good morning, Bel. I’m alright, d-don’t worry about me—” He cuts himself off to gasp slightly and you don’t miss the stutter, just dash across the room to throw your arms around his neck; he hugs you back, at first slowly and then tighter, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I’m alright,” he gasps, nuzzling you. “Just... just a little overwhelmed...”

And the feeling’s not sad, from him, exactly, just... replaying, riding on those beautiful waves of music being made by his own fingers—

“I can play, Bel,” he whispers, “I can play.”

“I know,” you say, hugging him. “I heard.”

“I can still play...”

“You always could.”

He draws back and he smiles again, brushing away the wet from the corners of his eyes and his cheeks and you kiss him gently, a kiss that he returns before pulling away with another gasp to press another to your lips, and another, and then that fervent energy overtakes him and he stands, heads to the bookshelves and pulls out more thin, dusty volumes, adding them to the several already spread out on the table. He moves with quick, almost excited movements, and you watch, drinking in the sudden spikes in his emotional state.

“...Aren’t you going to eat breakfast?” you ask eventually, sitting there and watching him flip through pages and books and blow dust off of everything.

“Later,” he says, and there is definite excitement in his voice. “Breakfast can wait.”

You frown. “No, it can’t. You need to eat.”

He looks up from a page full of bars and notes and his face does something almost akin to a pout. It makes you giggle. “Be-el, ple-ease? Can’t I put it off for an hour or so?”

“It’ll turn into five hours. You need food and sugar.” Though you smile your voice is stern. “If you take twenty minutes to eat, then you can spend all of the time before lunch here doing what you want. Now come on. Food and sugar.”

There is a wall in your room that is covered in photographs. Perfect, flawless photographs.

All photographs of him, of course.

(I never denied I was a stalker.)

Beautiful, amazing snapshots of moments in time, moments preserved forever—a coy smile, a playful wink, a lazy pose; a hand reaching out, an eye. A sultry gaze from behind burnished red strands, fingers on lips... elaborate outfits, blazing skies, silhouettes and shadows, unblemished skin and long white tail: throughout it all, him.

Your fingers brush over the smooth, glossy surface of the latest one, pinned up with the rest and with the date written in tiny letters on the back; he’s reaching up for the sun in this one, his slim fingers almost cupping the white-hot orb while rays of dazzling light shine between them, falling upon the small, contented smile on his face.

(Sun. He’s so warm... and I’m so dark.)

He doesn’t really see that side of you, not exactly; you don’t see that side of you, most of the time. Most of the time, when you’re doing something together—he’s smiling, that amused smile you love so much, and you’re smiling back, like you always are, just a little, soft smile because he’s happy and being with him makes you happy too and somehow you just have to stop what you’re doing (already forgotten it) and just hug him, bury your face in his neck even as he says your name in that faintly musical voice and then raise your head to kiss him—it’s not like that. It’s only... only at times like this, when you’re alone with these massive feelings, at a loss with them, that you wonder how dark you truly are.

(Am I doing something bad? Thinking about him so much, wanting to know so much, feeling like this—or am I just in love?)

It’s not that you’re overly pushy, it’s not that you’re overly demanding, no, never that—beneath it all he’s so quiet, so fragile, so easily broken despite all his strength—and that thought makes your heart clench in your chest, because he doesn’t realize he needs protecting too—and so you’re gentle with him, always; you don’t know how effective you are but you’re always there to support him, there by his side and gentle, accepting, loyal...

And yet...

Your gaze drifts down to another photo, one taken in near-darkness, his pale skin almost glowing as shadows play about him and he looks over his shoulder with wide, staring eyes, some not-quite-startled emotion there—he doesn’t know a lot about me... but... he loves me, so does it even matter...?

He’s said it more than once—all the time, almost (even though you confessed first)—and you don’t doubt that he does, having read it in his mood, his emotions that you pick up on; there’s no doubt in your mind how much he cares and how much it matters to him that you’re there; does that make it alright, then? You’re quite sure he doesn’t care—it doesn’t change anything—to him, that you’re—

Demon, inhuman, black and monstrous and sadistic and stalker and possessive and hurtful—except you don’t even know if you’re those things, you try not to be, but...

(Stalker? When—don’t leave me please don’t leave me I just love you—no wait, that’s not right, the evidence is contradictory? But I did, I stalked—hurt—her—someone before... but I don’t want to do that to you, but—)

You sigh, sit on the stool you were standing on and look at another photo, one of a lantern, hanging from his hand and the smile seeming just a touch sinister in the greenish light, tattered strips of red fabric in the background behind him like streaks of blood. ...He’s beautiful. You’ve always thought so from the moment you first saw him. Amazingly beautiful, inside and out. Always so strong, and selfless to a fault, caring, loving—do I even deserve all that...?

But he loves me... and I love him... Does that make it alright? I can’t tell, with these feelings... this is the first time I’ve felt this way, even though I’ve been with people before...

You’re young, for a demon, and there’s so much you don’t know; that worries you sometimes, like now—what if I’m doing something wrong? What if I’m doing something bad? I don’t want to hurt him...

You curl up, folding your arms over your knees and your eyes rove across the wall, searching for something lighter, something to distract you—your gaze stops on the one of broken glass in his hands, taken under the rain, and you remember the enigmatic remark he made, with that odd, distant look on his face after the shoot was over: “Like a heart, almost...” And now of course you know what he meant, now, and the images flash through your mind, images and emotions:

Snap and lash out and a golden bracelet falls soundlessly to the floor—and then enormous overwhelming hurt and tears, raw sobbing, and then crack and horrifying, sickening numb(ing) waves of empty pain and then slow recovery—

You bite your lip and close your eyes against the sudden stinging. He’s broken. He’s so, so broken and yet not and not anymore and—

You snap your eyes open and look for anything to change train of thought from, anything—that picture. The one—the one... where he’s sitting with his knees up and arms across them and this sunny, closed-eye smile and tastefully nude—and that brings with it another memory, one of—he kisses you with his tongue in your mouth and your wet body is plastered to his and you moan as—

Hastily you shake your head to clear the memory, face feeling rather hot. No. That’s a pleasant memory to be sure, but not what you were looking for. Nuh-uh.

This time a different picture leaps out at you, one of a mirror and a heavily made-up face and feathers and more costumes and a strange stare. Like a mask, acting as someone else—he’s always so natural, always in-tune with what you want him to do when it comes to this, being your model of sorts; always perfect harmony, even without words, without needing to say anything, just being natural around each other and communicating with mere looks... you’re still not quite sure how it works (something to do with your empathetic abilities and his odd sixth sense) but you’re not about to question it.

Is that how much we love each other? Or is it just something else... it was like that from the start, before we... we...

A small smile curves your lips. That was nice. The fluffy, fluttery, nervous feelings that he somehow still manages to evoke in you; get your heart pounding and your cheeks warm and make you shy... you love that about him. All of it. The gentle teasing and the flirting, the surprise kisses and how much he trusts you, that you can do that for him too, give those feelings back and make him happy in return.

Is that what love is? ‘m not sure...

The door swings open and he pokes his head in. “Bel~?” There’s a playful smile on his face and you can just see his tail waving. Without even thinking, without even consciously registering it at first there’s already a responding smile on your face.

“Mm?”

“Let’s go somewhere today? You and me?” He winks and your smile grows wider—always the flirt, always—and you slide off the stool to join him.

“Mhm!”

Your hand takes his without thinking, and his larger fingers wrap around yours and just like that, the dark thoughts plaguing you fade away, go back to some shadowed depth they came from, replaced by warm, fluffy feelings of love and happiness, especially as you look up at him, and he’s smiling, and he looks down at you at the same time and your faces are inches away—and he leans in to press a kiss to your lips and nuzzle your cheek, and as you return the action you think, I love you.