If Not Then, Another Time

Drey’s been having these dreams for as long as he could remember.

It wasn’t vivid at first. The swath of blurred colors and muted sounds simply joined the rest of a child’s midnight fantasies under cover of a blanket and his mother’s soft voice.

He remembered waking up from them, the first few minutes swaddled with his hair tickling his face giving him a momentary clarity– flashes of sceneries, wonders, and scents he never encountered.

Then it'd pass, and all Drey'd remember was the promise of a playdate or a visit to the park with his parents– his father not yet reeking of alcohol, and his mother yet to drown in tears.

Eventually, though… the dreams stopped getting mixed into the frivolities of his young mind and dragged him repeatedly under.

Flashes of color and muted buzzes of sound turned into a variety of sights unreal for a dream with its strangeness and vividness– stark expanses of green meadows and forest clearings; swirling smoke from a cottage lost in the woods; plants of rainbow colors with rocks melting and evaporating; books with symbols in a language reminiscent to stories of old.

But above all that– the wind whipping against his face; inhaling the herbal, floral, and unearthly scents– Drey dreamt of a boy.

To say they were but a boy was a lie, though, since the dreams varied– sometimes they were a boy– still rough around the edges as he was–, and others they were a man– rough, yes, but in a chiseled way dealt by the tools of time.

Back then, Drey didn’t understand why it was wrong for him to keep dreaming of a boy. Confusion and the starting trickles of hurt that’d barrel into dejection filled him when his father and all the others shunned him at the mention of the boy-man.

It’s wrong. You’re wrong. Stop being wrong, Drey.

Soon, he learned to stop asking why. Maybe the mocking jeers and taunts splattered on his desk and locker finally sunk in. Or it might be the cold attitude of his father, who began to spend long hours out to avoid him.

But Drey knew that the ultimate factor was his mother– that he pushed down his innate nature to defend himself for the desire to stop her from crying in the night.

You’re not wrong, sweetie. You’re perfect. My perfect son. Just not the kind of perfect they’re all used to.

He still kept having the dreams. Their intensity and lucidness increased as he grew from a wide-eyed, curious boy who doodled in sketchbooks to a just-turned man of twenty-something years who took pills to forget them.

*

“Are you in some kind of slump or something?”

“Not that... I know of? Wh- Why do you ask?”

Tom sighed, handing back Drey’s phone, earphones wrapped around it. They leaned back on their seat, the excited composure from earlier turning into disappointment with their sculpted brows scrunched together.

“Tom? Was there– did you not like the song?” There was a hint of panic in his voice, all the usual self-criticism of a typical songwriter and yet-to-be-discovered artist washing over him in a flash.

Drey liked to think that he was confident in his skills and talent, but he was still human after all. He was just a man who craved the recognition he didn’t get in his early years– not from his father and not from his peers.

Tom’s demeanor softened. “No, no, it was good, Drey. Your music’s great as always, just like the past releases and better than when I first scouted you.”

They bit their lip, hesitating to continue, making Drey just know that there was a–

“But–”

There it was.

“–I’m just not sure if it’ll sell.” Tom pulled out their phone, fingers flying on the small screen before pushing it across the table, making him set aside his coffee. Seeing the titles made Drey involuntarily grimace as he slid it back to the owner.

“Yeah, yeah, I know that genre’s not your type. You told me that on the onset.”

Drey sighed. “But?”

Tom gave him a smile, in consolation or in a patronizing manner, he wasn’t sure. “But if you want your other music to really get traction, you need an in, Drey. I know it’s against a personal code or something–”

“That’s not what I–”

“–or whatever reason you can’t write love songs, but it’s definitely going to give you– give us a foot in the door.”

They stood up, coat already slung over their shoulders, a couple of bills and coins left on the shared table. Tom paused, patting him on the shoulder. “Just think about it, okay? I’ll send over some recommendations for you to go over, and we’ll talk again in a week.”

And just like that, here Drey was, in his moderately decorated studio apartment, crumpled pieces of paper forming a sea of white and creme around him as he rummaged through sketchbooks he never thought would see the light of day again.

Love songs.

Well, that was a problem, now wasn’t it? He sighed, flopping down on the carpeted floor as he leafed through the sketchbooks, childish scribbles of shaky words mixed in with wild strokes that turned into definitive ones.

“I haven’t even been a single relationship and they want me to write love songs.” Drey groaned, another wistful sigh tumbling from his lips when he reached for notebooks– diaries that came with the box sent over by his mother.

Good riddance for his father and a hesitant separation for his mother.

Love songs.

How impossible, considering the love he knew from those dreams, was something people called wrong.

*

“Stop fucking moving around so much.” A gruff voice, one he knew very well in the past years– now going on a decade–, reverberated in his ear.

“Mhm,” Drey shifted again, sighing when the arms around him tightened, feeling the rise and fall of the other’s chest against his back. “It’s cold. I can’t help it.”

The man– he assumed it was one, with the hardness of the chest brushing against his back and the ripples of muscle racing across the arms securing him into the hold– sighed, pulling the fur coat more on Drey's side while kicking off a few logs at the fireplace.

“There,” The man grunted, nuzzling back, nose brushing against the back of Drey’s neck. “Now go the fuck to sleep, you shitty human.”

Drey laughed, turning his head to meet striking blue eyes. “Okay, ---.”

The man huffed, shifting them until they were face to face, mere inches separating them. “You know you keep talking about traveling for those rare plants and crap, but a little cold and you’re already whining.”

Drey laughed again, softly this time, getting closer. “I’m sure I can manage, ---.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh,” He smiled, cupping the other’s face, fingers tracing the hard lines and iridescent scales the fire’s light brought to existence.

“I have you with me, don’t I?”

—

“Fuck!”

“Ah!” Drey hurried over to the other end of the worktable, shoving aside flasks and bottles before grabbing a pouch. He stumbled, running to spread the powder over the snaking purple fire.

With the danger quelled, Drey turned to his companion, soot littering the other’s body. “---! I told you to let me help!”

The man– a bit younger– clicked his tongue as he grabbed a random cloth to wipe himself down. “And I told you I could do it! If it wasn’t for your shitty voice nagging over and over–”

“If it wasn’t for me watching over, you would’ve turned into, into–” Drey paused, panic turning into teasing. “Into a lizard, ---. A plain old lizard that can’t breathe fire; just existing uselessly.”

The man froze mid-wipe, soot already half-gone, save for smudges on his nose and cheek. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying, Drey.”

Drey hummed, turning away from his companion– once an occasional visitor-turned unlikely friend– hiding the smile on his face. “You know I always wanted a pet lizard.”

In a flash, faster than the normal eye could see, the man had him cornered, the edge of the table digging into his thighs. His breath hitched as hands held his chin, the slight graze of claws making him gulp.

“---…?”

“Well,” The man grinned. “I always wanted a pet human. Guess we can compromise, huh, Drey?”

—

The hit made him fall back, legs wobbling before failing him and letting the ground eat him up. He groaned from the pain erupting along his backside, a wooden sword thrown at his feet.

“Again.”

“I–” Drey winced as he tried to move. “I can’t, ---.”

The boy clicked his tongue– not a man just yet– roughly pulling the other up. He yelped when the other’s claws tore through the fabric of his tunic– a flimsy thing that could’ve seen better days–, drawing a bit of blood.

“Hey–!”

“You’re,” The boy growled in Drey’s face, a hint of fangs showing. “Going to try again. And again. And fucking again until you can land at least a hit on me.”

Drey stuttered, grasping at the other’s wrist, fingers brushing against scales of deep golds and dark embers. He stared at the stranger-turned-visitor, their eyes locking; dark grey to slitted blue. “Why? I–I don’t– I’m not one of your soldiers or a knight! I’m just nobody. Why would I need to learn how to use this?”

The wooden sword still lay amidst the grass of the forest’s clearing, a place just a few hours walk away from the cottage he’d been cooped up in since the townspeople scorned him.

The isolation was fine for Drey. He was perfectly alright with his days spent doing odd jobs for the occasional traveler and scribbling away at blueprints of wonders he wanted to make into reality.

Which was why it didn’t make any sense why --- wanted him to–

“So that I won’t need to fucking worry about you dying off when I’m not here, idiot!” The boy shook him, inhuman growls filling the small clearing, the sound fending off curious creatures.

“You’re human! Weak, defenseless, and….”

Mine.

*

“Sweetie? What are you calling fo–”

“Hey. Mom,” Drey took in a shaky breath, voice cracked and hoarse as he tried and failed to settle the sobs now silently wracking through his body. “Do you remember those dreams I talked to you before? Before…”

He heard shuffling from the other end, the sleepy voice of his father heard in the background. Then there was a soft click, another shuffle, then a shaky breath that mirrored his own.

“Yeah, sweetie. I do. Are you,” She paused. “Are you having them again? About that boy?”

I never stopped having them. Not even when I cried and gave so many coins to the shrine, praying for them to go away.

Drey let out a breathless laugh, wayward tears slipping into his mouth. “Yeah.”

He turned to the side, the silent tears he’d woken up to going on over the bridge of his nose, joining the others in soaking into his pillow. His eyes flitted over to the torn open box a couple of feet from him, piles of old notebooks surrounded by bigger sketchbooks and crumpled pieces of discarded failures.

No one spoke for a bit. The sounds of Drey’s heavy breathing– a poor attempt on his part to settle the ache in his chest and dismiss the lump in his throat– filling both the room and the line that connected him to someone cities away.

It’s been a while since he woke up like this. With an inaudible name on his lips, eyes burning, and tears threatening to drown him in his sleep. Where he curled in on himself, arms trying to replicate warmth that he’d felt so vividly– so lucidly, so real.

“I don’t know if you still remember– you were too young then– but,” His mother started, voice gentle and guiding him through the haze. “Sometimes you’d cry out in the night, waking me and your father up.”

Her voice wavered slightly. “We were so scared, you know? We didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t stop crying even if we saw that you wanted to. It was as if–”

“–my body thought I hadn’t cried enough over a boy I shouldn’t even be dreaming about?”

She sighed. “Drey.”

“Do you,” Drey shifted again, turning to face an empty spot in his bed– too big for one; the decision in buying it an impulse he couldn’t've stopped. “Do you think if I dreamt of a girl instead, then it wouldn’t've hurt so much?”

The thought wasn’t lost in him throughout the years. The what-ifs clawing and clamoring for him to make it true because it would be so easy to pretend, wouldn’t it? That if it wasn't a boy then he wouldn’t be wrong– instead of vile, it’d be romantic; sweet instead of disgusting; acceptance instead of isolation.

It was a nice thought– one he almost succumbed to during the days his father would have enough fire left in him to burn, the continued dreams kindling for his ire.

“Of course not.”

His mother’s voice slashed through, jolting him– waking him.

“Love, no matter what form, is always painful, sweetie. It will always hurt. Remember that.”

Remember that you are not wrong.

*

Tom set down the phone with shaky hands, handing it over with uncharacteristic meekness.

“Um… did,” Drey cleared his throat, fiddling with the device. “Did you like– uh, was it good? The song?”

“I,” They cleared their throat, eyes still a bit mystified and downright shocked if he wasn’t downplaying it. “Uh, wow. So you, uh, you’re–”

He smiled, fiddling with the cup of coffee between them. “Gay? Yeah. I, uh, am. That.”

The first time Drey said it out loud was in the comfort of his room, with the loud snores of his father with alcohol for blood and his mother with tears for dinner muted and cut-off. He whispered it softly, gently, repeatedly until the dreams pulled him under again.

The second time was less peaceful, less cathartic– more painful with the blossoming bruise on his cheek, more jarring with the declarations of disownment and wrong, wrong, wrong filling his ears.

This was the third time.

A hand reached for his own, squeezing gently. Tom smiled, eyes shining incredibly bright under the light of the café. “Thank you. It’s a good song, Drey.”

*

Drey lowered his hand down, the figures of his friends disappearing around the corner. He blinked, looking owlishly at his hand, trying to remember what he usually did with them. Actually, how did he breathe? How did he walk? Blink? Speak?

He expected a lot of things to happen today.

Maybe they wouldn’t show up. Maybe they’d come up with an excuse to suddenly cancel plans; an emergency at work, a sick relative, an event they couldn’t miss.

He’d thought long and hard of what he’d do when they– friends he’d amassed over the years despite his awkwardness– wouldn’t show that the day left him in a daze when they did.

It doesn’t matter who or what you like, Drey. We’re your friends, and we’ll continue to be as long as you want us to.

Drey rubbed at his eyes, still swollen from the crying marathon it did a few hours ago, legs leading him on auto-pilot. He was still smiling, still riding on the high of finally doing something he knew was right–

“OI, FUCKER!”

He wasn’t exactly sure which one it was that shocked him more– the jarring motion of being choked by his collar when he was pulled away; the motorcycle that zoomed past where he stood; or,

The familiar voice that rose above it all.

*

They’ve had a lot of fights before, squabbles and full-on fist-fights here and there. But he knew, they both knew that this one was different than the rest– a tad direr in meaning and intensity.

The man had a sword at Drey’s throat, tears streaming down his face.

Even with the pain from all the other wounds– the arrow that met him when he opened the door that morning; the leg lost to the bolo that cleaved it right off when he ran to the woods– Drey still smiled, reaching for ---.

“Hey,” He coughed, stroking the man’s blood and tear-stricken face, the rest of his love's form drenched in the torn flesh of the ones who dared defy the dragon prince’s orders to do no harm to the alchemist. “It’s okay. It’s okay, ---.”

“Fuck, fuck, no it’s fucking not. I can’t do this. I won’t–”

“You will,” Drey brought another hand up, guiding the blade he’d gifted his love a few months prior. “You will because you know if it was you, you’d rather die by my hand too.”

“Drey, please. Fucking please.”

“It’s okay, ---. It’ll be okay.”

Let’s meet again.

*

“Oi, you fucking idiot. Where the hell were you looking?” The shadow above him growled, pulling him off the pavement and flipping off the other bystanders who gawked at the scene.

Drey opened his mouth, wanting to thank the stranger for saving his life, words already set at his tongue. Maybe even offer him money or a meal in compensation.

He would’ve done all of that, really.

But the owner of the voice was by no means a stranger, with striking blue eyes and hair mimicking deep golds and dark embers.

So Drey still opened his mouth, but it wasn’t a word of thanks or a dismissive bow before he scuttled off to his studio apartment with a bed too big for one– to process the possible end of his life that day.

No.

His eyes– dark grey– filled with tears, soul singing and celebrating for a promise– an oath fulfilled across worlds and across lifetimes.

“Sayer?”