Snow, Sun, Rain
Summary: Kit drabbles. Before he ever met Will. If you want to know why he's so screwed up in the head, read this.
Warnings: Let see, I'd put this around PG-15 for themes and mild language. Nothing actually happens explicitly, but there's implied sex and rape. Sorry if that squicks you.
Snow
It was winter when the boy turned up at Matthew’s door, on a day when he had no desire to get out of bed, out of the cocoon of blankets he’d made for himself. But the knocking was persistent and steady, eventually falling into a rhythm - two beats then three, two beats then three, and so on.
He groaned and got up, making his way to the door, the beginnings of a headache stirring in his temples. He made his way past a small mountain of crushed and empty beer cans, all consumed in the last twenty-four hours, on the first snowfall of the season. His first snowfall alone in three years.
He pulled the door open and froze.
There was a boy. Around thirteen or fourteen years old, probably, but it was always hard to tell with Dreamweavers. Matthew realized that much. The boy’s face was far too perfectly balanced, much too delicate, to be simply human. But what had given him away were his eyes. Bright silver orbs outlined by black, the pupils against his pale irises tiny dots, expanding and contracting even in the steady light.
Matthew took in his clothes - falling apart at the seams; and his shoes - worn to the soles, toes poking out, his socks frayed and dusty. His jeans were dirty with mud and sweat, and his torn shirt and jacket looked like he’d been sick on them. There were snowflakes melting in his hair.
“Water,” the boy croaked. “I need water.”
Why my apartment? Why climb to the second floor and halfway down the hall just for water? Matthew sighed. “I can’t help you,” he muttered, and started to close the door.
The boy stopped it with his hand, his thin arm surprisingly strong. “Matthew,” he breathed. “Matthew, you have to help me.”
That made him stop. “How do you know my name? Who are you?”
The boy swallowed and grimaced. “I’m thirsty.”
“Who are you?” Matthew repeated.
The boy reached up and clutched the front of Matthew’s shirt. He could barely stand, but his grip was strong. “The doctor told me to come here,” he managed to say, and his face was so close that Matthew could clearly see the dried cracks in his lips and the desperation on his face. “He said you would help me.”
Matthew blinked. “Who are you?”
“My name is Kenneth,” he murmured. And then his hands reached up, cupping Matthew’s face between his palms. “And let me show you who I am.”
There was no time to react, no chance to stop him, and Matthew quickly found himself thrown into a Dream - one woven from confused and fragmented memories, seen through a haze of pain.
After a few disorienting minutes - or perhaps only seconds - the boy let him go and slowly crumpled, falling onto his back, on the linoleum-covered floor. The front pocket of his jacket shifted, and a lump inside it moved. A moment later, a wet, bedraggled black kitten - dirty and skinny and tiny - crawled out to lick the boy’s face.
Kenneth smiled faintly, feeling his consciousness draining away. Beyond Matthew’s shoulder, through the windows shut tight, he the snow continued to softly fall, muting all sound and color.
And the last thing Kenneth saw, before succumbing to a deep and dreamless sleep, was Matthew staring down at him in confusion and fear, the kitten curled up in the warmth of his hands.
Sun
She met him in the middle of summer, when the sun was high in the sky, on the outskirts of a city that lay on the edge of a vast desert. On a day when the heat rose from the ground in waves.
He was standing at a corner bus stop, his hands in his pockets. His icy blue eyes seemed intelligent and alert, scanning the street quickly yet calmly. He was very tall, and his shoulders were broad, while his face was - for lack of a better word - beautiful. Thick black hair fell into his eyes and he shook them back, meeting her gaze.
She smiled at him, a frank and friendly and mildly flirtatious smile. “Hi.”
“Hello,” he replied in a smooth, low voice that she could just barely hear. “Hot day, isn’t it?”
“You’re a bit over-dressed,” she remarked, looking pointedly at his long-sleeved shirt and grey woollen gloves.
His eyes sparkled. “Are you from around here?”
“I am now,” she replied. “I just moved. You?”
“The same.”
“My name is Kara,” she said suddenly, surprising even herself.
He hesitated for a moment, his eyes studying her closely. “Adrian,” he said slowly. “My name is Adrian.”
Kara felt a small shiver run down her spine at the sound of his voice. For the next two years, his voice would have the same effect on her. He could simply whisper in her ear, and the world would come to a swift, shuddering halt, his mouth hot against her skin.
Even when he slid the knife into her back twenty-five months, three weeks, and five days later, the sound of his voice made her breath catch in her throat. And his apology, stammered through a veil of tears, lingered in the air long after he had gone.
Her last thought was a wish. A wish that she had lied and not given him her real name, just as he had lied on the day they first met, under the sweltering heat of the midday sun. On the day she had stayed her hand and disobeyed orders. The day she had chosen not to kill him.
Rain
It’s raining when Ward’s car almost runs him over, while the world is on the edge between night and morning. The young man’s arm is stretched carelessly across the road as he lay, half on the asphalt and half in the ditch. Ward has not ordered any deaths in his small piece of the desert, in one of the poorest of the Outer Sectors, so he tells his men to step out and investigate.
“It’s a weaver, boss,” one them tells him in a voice filled with disgust. “His arm’s full of holes. Just another useless piece of drug-addled shit,” he goes on, a hint of hatred and fear creeping into his voice.
Ward finds this interesting. “I’m coming out - don’t bother with an umbrella. It’s just rain.”
The young man is lying on his back, blank silver eyes rimmed by black staring wide at the purple sky. His limbs tremble for a moment then subside. His pupils dilate.
Ward sighs. “He’s high, all right. On Dreamer’s dust.”
“Fucking moron,” one of Ward’s men mutters derisively.
Ward squats for a closer look. The young man’s face is exquisitely formed. His bone structure is somehow delicate and strong at the same time, and his skin is pale and smooth. He could almost be called beautiful.
Ward stands up. “Give him some dust.”
His underling is surprised. “Right off the newest batch?”
“You heard me.”
“We’re saving his life?”
Ward smiles, and his underling wishes he hadn’t asked. “He might be useful. Put him in the car.”
Charlie does as his boss says and drags the man off the road and shoves him into the back of the car, next to his boss. He retrieves a suitcase from the trunk and opens it, revealing a row of vials and small paper packets, and a small glass syringe.
“How much do you want to give him?” Charlie inquires.
“Two,” Ward says absently.
Charlie picks up two of the paper packets and opens a vial. Shimmering white powder falls from the packets and into the clear liquid in the glass, which immediately turns a rich, dark red. He recaps the vial and gives it a shake. In the next moment, the liquid is clear again, and he holds it up to the light.
Poison and antidote, all in one. It was the only way to control Dreamweavers. It also gave people the best fucking high.
Within moments after Charlie injects him with the drug, the young man’s eyes regain focus, and he sits up, looking confused.
“Where am I?” he asks, and his voice is strangely compelling.
“In my car,” Ward answers.
He stares at Ward evenly. “You gave me dust.”
“Aren’t you grateful?”
“No,” he retorts. “How much did you give me?”
“Now, why should I tell you the secret to staying alive? I gave you dust. I saved your life. I own you now.”
The young man’s forehead wrinkles slightly as the car begins to move. He watches the rain through the glass, his lips slightly parted. “What do you want?”
Ward smiles again. In his mind he is already imagining it. The young man’s lean frame beneath Ward’s own, the young man’s breath coming in ragged gasps. “What’s your name?”
The boy turns his head to look at him. He looks younger than he did just moments before. “Seventeen.”
“I didn’t ask you how old you were. I asked your name.”
The boy laughs coldly, without feeling. “Seventeen is as good a name as any. Or you can give me a new one, if you want. And I’m certainly older than seventeen.” He looks Ward up and down. “Tell me what you want.”
Ward shakes his head. “You’ll work for me. That’s it.”
He stares at Ward for a moment more before looking out the window again. The sun is rising now, and the rain has stopped. “I didn’t ask to be saved.”
Ward snorts. “No one ever does.”
There was silence for a few heartbeats. “You can call me Kenneth,” he says softly.
“Is that your real name?”
“I already gave you my real name. You didn’t like it.”
Ward reaches out and touches the boy’s face. Kenneth flinches but doesn’t move away. “You’re strange, even for a weaver. Most people would be demanding I let them go and wouldn’t be introducing themselves so calmly.”
Kenneth says nothing.
Ward moves closer. “Aren’t you going to struggle?”
“Do you want me to?” he asks, sounding disinterested.
Ward laughs and returns his hand to his lap. A few more days, a few other kinds of drugs, and the boy would be different.
Kenneth’s gaze sweeps over Ward then over to Charlie in the driver’s seat before looking out the window once more. The sun is beginning to rise over the desert, and he feels himself beginning to sink into a stupor, his mind beginning to fly. Ward moves closer to him again, as the drug begins to take over. He feels hands fumbling with the buttons on his jeans but can’t move. He sees Ward’s face moving closer toward his own, feels Ward’s mouth on his jaw.
Kenneth wills the drug to work faster, to send him into a dreamless sleep sooner, despite knowing that afterward, he would wake with his head on fire.
The last thing he remembers, before unconsciousness comes to claim him, is the view outside the car window. A view he has wanted to see, even as a child, the promise of which has lured him toward the Outer Sectors. It’s right there in front of him, and he almost doesn’t care about the rest, about what is happening to his body.
He closes his eyes, and the desert yawns in the sunrise, strange yet beautiful flowers blooming under the cloudless sky, after a long night of rain.
----
Yeah, that Ward guy is an asshole.
Warnings: Let see, I'd put this around PG-15 for themes and mild language. Nothing actually happens explicitly, but there's implied sex and rape. Sorry if that squicks you.
Snow
It was winter when the boy turned up at Matthew’s door, on a day when he had no desire to get out of bed, out of the cocoon of blankets he’d made for himself. But the knocking was persistent and steady, eventually falling into a rhythm - two beats then three, two beats then three, and so on.
He groaned and got up, making his way to the door, the beginnings of a headache stirring in his temples. He made his way past a small mountain of crushed and empty beer cans, all consumed in the last twenty-four hours, on the first snowfall of the season. His first snowfall alone in three years.
He pulled the door open and froze.
There was a boy. Around thirteen or fourteen years old, probably, but it was always hard to tell with Dreamweavers. Matthew realized that much. The boy’s face was far too perfectly balanced, much too delicate, to be simply human. But what had given him away were his eyes. Bright silver orbs outlined by black, the pupils against his pale irises tiny dots, expanding and contracting even in the steady light.
Matthew took in his clothes - falling apart at the seams; and his shoes - worn to the soles, toes poking out, his socks frayed and dusty. His jeans were dirty with mud and sweat, and his torn shirt and jacket looked like he’d been sick on them. There were snowflakes melting in his hair.
“Water,” the boy croaked. “I need water.”
Why my apartment? Why climb to the second floor and halfway down the hall just for water? Matthew sighed. “I can’t help you,” he muttered, and started to close the door.
The boy stopped it with his hand, his thin arm surprisingly strong. “Matthew,” he breathed. “Matthew, you have to help me.”
That made him stop. “How do you know my name? Who are you?”
The boy swallowed and grimaced. “I’m thirsty.”
“Who are you?” Matthew repeated.
The boy reached up and clutched the front of Matthew’s shirt. He could barely stand, but his grip was strong. “The doctor told me to come here,” he managed to say, and his face was so close that Matthew could clearly see the dried cracks in his lips and the desperation on his face. “He said you would help me.”
Matthew blinked. “Who are you?”
“My name is Kenneth,” he murmured. And then his hands reached up, cupping Matthew’s face between his palms. “And let me show you who I am.”
There was no time to react, no chance to stop him, and Matthew quickly found himself thrown into a Dream - one woven from confused and fragmented memories, seen through a haze of pain.
After a few disorienting minutes - or perhaps only seconds - the boy let him go and slowly crumpled, falling onto his back, on the linoleum-covered floor. The front pocket of his jacket shifted, and a lump inside it moved. A moment later, a wet, bedraggled black kitten - dirty and skinny and tiny - crawled out to lick the boy’s face.
Kenneth smiled faintly, feeling his consciousness draining away. Beyond Matthew’s shoulder, through the windows shut tight, he the snow continued to softly fall, muting all sound and color.
And the last thing Kenneth saw, before succumbing to a deep and dreamless sleep, was Matthew staring down at him in confusion and fear, the kitten curled up in the warmth of his hands.
Sun
She met him in the middle of summer, when the sun was high in the sky, on the outskirts of a city that lay on the edge of a vast desert. On a day when the heat rose from the ground in waves.
He was standing at a corner bus stop, his hands in his pockets. His icy blue eyes seemed intelligent and alert, scanning the street quickly yet calmly. He was very tall, and his shoulders were broad, while his face was - for lack of a better word - beautiful. Thick black hair fell into his eyes and he shook them back, meeting her gaze.
She smiled at him, a frank and friendly and mildly flirtatious smile. “Hi.”
“Hello,” he replied in a smooth, low voice that she could just barely hear. “Hot day, isn’t it?”
“You’re a bit over-dressed,” she remarked, looking pointedly at his long-sleeved shirt and grey woollen gloves.
His eyes sparkled. “Are you from around here?”
“I am now,” she replied. “I just moved. You?”
“The same.”
“My name is Kara,” she said suddenly, surprising even herself.
He hesitated for a moment, his eyes studying her closely. “Adrian,” he said slowly. “My name is Adrian.”
Kara felt a small shiver run down her spine at the sound of his voice. For the next two years, his voice would have the same effect on her. He could simply whisper in her ear, and the world would come to a swift, shuddering halt, his mouth hot against her skin.
Even when he slid the knife into her back twenty-five months, three weeks, and five days later, the sound of his voice made her breath catch in her throat. And his apology, stammered through a veil of tears, lingered in the air long after he had gone.
Her last thought was a wish. A wish that she had lied and not given him her real name, just as he had lied on the day they first met, under the sweltering heat of the midday sun. On the day she had stayed her hand and disobeyed orders. The day she had chosen not to kill him.
Rain
It’s raining when Ward’s car almost runs him over, while the world is on the edge between night and morning. The young man’s arm is stretched carelessly across the road as he lay, half on the asphalt and half in the ditch. Ward has not ordered any deaths in his small piece of the desert, in one of the poorest of the Outer Sectors, so he tells his men to step out and investigate.
“It’s a weaver, boss,” one them tells him in a voice filled with disgust. “His arm’s full of holes. Just another useless piece of drug-addled shit,” he goes on, a hint of hatred and fear creeping into his voice.
Ward finds this interesting. “I’m coming out - don’t bother with an umbrella. It’s just rain.”
The young man is lying on his back, blank silver eyes rimmed by black staring wide at the purple sky. His limbs tremble for a moment then subside. His pupils dilate.
Ward sighs. “He’s high, all right. On Dreamer’s dust.”
“Fucking moron,” one of Ward’s men mutters derisively.
Ward squats for a closer look. The young man’s face is exquisitely formed. His bone structure is somehow delicate and strong at the same time, and his skin is pale and smooth. He could almost be called beautiful.
Ward stands up. “Give him some dust.”
His underling is surprised. “Right off the newest batch?”
“You heard me.”
“We’re saving his life?”
Ward smiles, and his underling wishes he hadn’t asked. “He might be useful. Put him in the car.”
Charlie does as his boss says and drags the man off the road and shoves him into the back of the car, next to his boss. He retrieves a suitcase from the trunk and opens it, revealing a row of vials and small paper packets, and a small glass syringe.
“How much do you want to give him?” Charlie inquires.
“Two,” Ward says absently.
Charlie picks up two of the paper packets and opens a vial. Shimmering white powder falls from the packets and into the clear liquid in the glass, which immediately turns a rich, dark red. He recaps the vial and gives it a shake. In the next moment, the liquid is clear again, and he holds it up to the light.
Poison and antidote, all in one. It was the only way to control Dreamweavers. It also gave people the best fucking high.
Within moments after Charlie injects him with the drug, the young man’s eyes regain focus, and he sits up, looking confused.
“Where am I?” he asks, and his voice is strangely compelling.
“In my car,” Ward answers.
He stares at Ward evenly. “You gave me dust.”
“Aren’t you grateful?”
“No,” he retorts. “How much did you give me?”
“Now, why should I tell you the secret to staying alive? I gave you dust. I saved your life. I own you now.”
The young man’s forehead wrinkles slightly as the car begins to move. He watches the rain through the glass, his lips slightly parted. “What do you want?”
Ward smiles again. In his mind he is already imagining it. The young man’s lean frame beneath Ward’s own, the young man’s breath coming in ragged gasps. “What’s your name?”
The boy turns his head to look at him. He looks younger than he did just moments before. “Seventeen.”
“I didn’t ask you how old you were. I asked your name.”
The boy laughs coldly, without feeling. “Seventeen is as good a name as any. Or you can give me a new one, if you want. And I’m certainly older than seventeen.” He looks Ward up and down. “Tell me what you want.”
Ward shakes his head. “You’ll work for me. That’s it.”
He stares at Ward for a moment more before looking out the window again. The sun is rising now, and the rain has stopped. “I didn’t ask to be saved.”
Ward snorts. “No one ever does.”
There was silence for a few heartbeats. “You can call me Kenneth,” he says softly.
“Is that your real name?”
“I already gave you my real name. You didn’t like it.”
Ward reaches out and touches the boy’s face. Kenneth flinches but doesn’t move away. “You’re strange, even for a weaver. Most people would be demanding I let them go and wouldn’t be introducing themselves so calmly.”
Kenneth says nothing.
Ward moves closer. “Aren’t you going to struggle?”
“Do you want me to?” he asks, sounding disinterested.
Ward laughs and returns his hand to his lap. A few more days, a few other kinds of drugs, and the boy would be different.
Kenneth’s gaze sweeps over Ward then over to Charlie in the driver’s seat before looking out the window once more. The sun is beginning to rise over the desert, and he feels himself beginning to sink into a stupor, his mind beginning to fly. Ward moves closer to him again, as the drug begins to take over. He feels hands fumbling with the buttons on his jeans but can’t move. He sees Ward’s face moving closer toward his own, feels Ward’s mouth on his jaw.
Kenneth wills the drug to work faster, to send him into a dreamless sleep sooner, despite knowing that afterward, he would wake with his head on fire.
The last thing he remembers, before unconsciousness comes to claim him, is the view outside the car window. A view he has wanted to see, even as a child, the promise of which has lured him toward the Outer Sectors. It’s right there in front of him, and he almost doesn’t care about the rest, about what is happening to his body.
He closes his eyes, and the desert yawns in the sunrise, strange yet beautiful flowers blooming under the cloudless sky, after a long night of rain.
----
Yeah, that Ward guy is an asshole.