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Melone rarely dreams. He’s better off for it, probably. Ever since he got hit with the arrow his dreams are weirder. No longer dreams proper, more like memories of things that could have been. Things that never were but they were likely enough that his brain accepted them as reality, as a possible outcome. He dreams in numbers, countless ones and zeroes, and wakes up exhausted.
Refreshed.
Sometimes, though.
Sometimes his dreams are the reality and all that falls in between. All that fell between the cracks.
Sometimes he dreams in memories or what must be memories because it’s too vivid. Conflicting at times, but each one of those dreams is real in some regard.
At least they feel like it.
He dreams of the feeling of hands on him, eager and hot. Surprisingly soft. Never gentle. Of cigarette smoke permeating the air, the dimly lit room and clean bedsheets, creased. He dreams of lips, chapped, on his neck, of teeth biting into the soft flesh of his thigh. Of skin sweaty and salty under his tongue, of the bitter taste of precum on his tongue.
He dreams of blond hair spilled all over the pillow, of blond hair on his clothes, of threading his fingers through them. It’s a different shade than his. Warmer. Golden.
Of rough voice, commanding. The same voice pleading. That voice calling him, calling his name with desperation he never thought him capable of.
Of blue eyes fixed on him, challenging him, blue eyes widening in shock, in disbelief, in fear. Blue eyes watching him, searching for something he can’t understand himself. Blue eyes narrowing in anger but it’s blue, always so blue he feels like he’s drowning, the blue that feels dead.
He dreams of a man, emerging from the prison, his suit pristine, his back straight. A cigarette in his hand and he thinks he can remember the relief he felt.
He can certainly remember a hand bumping his, the taste of his lips on the cigarette he stole. He can remember how hot the car seat was that day, the sun unforgiving and bright, their skin sticky with sweat, sticky with them. He’s pretty sure he had a bruise left from the seatbelt clasp. Bruises all over his body.
The dark smoke so much like the one from his cigarettes and so different. Warmth enveloping him, enveloping them and coming with his lungs full of Prosciutto.
With claws grasping at his arms, scratching, leaving no marks, holding him tight, holding him like he’s afraid to break him.
Holding him like he wants to break him into pieces like he's but an outlet for his anger. Slipping out of that grasp.
He dreams of the taste of blood in his mouth, of the knife opening him up - Melone, Melone a voice calls, he knows the voice, he has to run, he got too close, he’s gonna -
[no, turn back, that’s a wrong one, that’s a different memory]
He dreams of hands on his face, taking his mask off. Gently. Of hands on his face, on his mask, clutching desperately. Tearing it off. Hands in his hair, careful, the buzz of the clippers and comfortable silence. The lilac strands falling on the tiles. The smell of ammonia and chemicals, the snap of latex, latex for his hands, latex against his skin.
Hands in his hair, tacky with blood, pulling his head back and his lips turning into a grin. Spitting out blood and he’s pretty sure they broke his nose and his tooth is coming loose but he still smiles, still laughs in their face.
Is that all you’ve got?
[no, that doesn’t seem right. Back, back, back-]
A slap to his face, the burning pain of his cheek, and slurred words. The breath of relief, those hands (it’s always the fucking hands why is it always the hands why-)
Why are his hands always so fucking cold. Why does it feel so good to have him touch his face, to have him tilt his head, to feel the press of his finger on his carotid. To have him check his body for serious injuries and he wants to say that he’s fine, that it’s just some bruises and maybe a fracture or two, that Junior did a good enough job finishing it for him only he can’t take a breath-
[that’s not how it went, that’s the other one, fuck]
Cold fingers on his face, gentle. Probing, assessing the bruises, his blackened eye. A welcome relief to the pain. His lips opened and a tablet slipped in, he swallows, swallows the water poured. It takes time but the pain eases, no longer throbbing, no longer so overwhelming. Hands in his hair again, on his scalp. His body hurts, he feels like he’s been run over but he can breathe. His ribs are sore but he can breathe in and out, deeply.
Can smell the cigarettes again. The shitty ones, the ones that he hates.
The only ones Prosciutto smokes. He gets them back from wherever he’s from and everyone complains but somehow he never runs out. Somehow there’s always a pack waiting for him when he runs out and that’s not only because he’s insufferable without them.
Somehow there’s more cold water on his lips. Somehow he’s being held.
He’s being tied and he tries to struggle out of the restraints but it’s fruitless and he won’t give them the satisfaction. They think they won but they are so far out of their league that all he can do is laugh when they pull at his hair. When they tilt his head back -
[no, no, no, not that one, not that one, please]
“Melone, you fucking idiot, wake up.”
The sun burning his eyelids, his mouth dry. He’s sore but the fun way, he’s got someone with him and just this one time it feels good. This time he savors the burn, savors the soreness. The warmth next to him, even if his partner is shaking him, even if he’s dead set on kicking him out, it’s fine. He can just snuggle closer, burying his face in the familiar chest, listen to the heartbeat he knows like his own. He’s laying on the floor but that’s fine, that’s how he fell asleep why is there gravel biting into his back-
[rewind]
“Melone, I don’t know how to put you back together, don’t make me take you to the doctor, please, Melone.”
He’s looking at Prosciutto, bewildered. There’s nothing serious, it’s just a few stitches, why would he take him to the doctor. Cioccolatta is not his biggest fan, knowing him, he’ll just make it worse, Prosciutto knows this then why would he suggest something like that-
His head is throbbing, he might have hit himself too hard why does it hurt so much, why does it hurt, did they really break something more than just his nose, those fucking idiots-
[rewind]
“MELONE!”
He’s back at the prison gate, the sun is setting. Prosciutto is waiting for him, propped on the car, smoking a cigarette. He’s forgone his suit jacket, leaving only his shirt, unbuttoned, tucked loosely into his suit pants. The sun is painting him in gold, making his stupid pendant stand out even more than usual. He’s just as hot as he’s always been. He’s got Grateful out and she’s gorgeous, watching him with her innumerable eyes and reaching and he reaches back, gently holds her claws.
“It’s so good to finally meet you, girl,” he says and presses a kiss to her clawed hand.
Prosciutto is turned away from him but he feels his gaze, his attention on him.
How can he not when he has Grateful looking at him curiously with those eyes of hers.
How can he not when -
“Melone, wake up,”
Just a moment, just a little longer-
“Melone.”
“Melone!”
[rewind]
Melone no longer dreams.
He used to dream but that was before the arrow, that was before everything went to shit.
[rewind]
Melone dreams about things that were, about things that could be. He dreams but then he opens his swollen eyes to Prosciutto on his bedside, smoking his cigarette, tugging at his pendant. He wants to laugh but his ribs hurt too much - must have been fractured. He wants to reach out but he’s too weak. He glances at his elbow and there’s a venous catheter inserted, the bag with fluids connected to it. It’s half-empty but there’s a new one hanging next to it.
Waiting for its turn.
There are also fingers tangled with his, holding onto his own and he knows that hand, the bone structure, the texture of the skin. It’s not even that cold, he must have been holding it for a while now, enough to warm it up. Enough to even out their body temperatures at least in this one distal part.
He groans. His mouth feels dry and stale but there’s an ice cube at his lips. He sucks on it and then he sucks on Prosciutto’s fingers.
Prosciutto laughs, that quiet, hoarse laugh of his, the one he lets out involuntarily. His face hurts but Melone smiles nonetheless. Smiles wider when he sees the tears in Prosciutto's eyes, wider when he realizes just how strong his hold is.
“How close it was?” he croaks and winces at the weakness in his voice.
“Too close,” Prosciutto replies and pulls his hand away.
“You were worried,” he says because he can’t stop himself. Can’t stop himself from enjoying the way Prosciutto exhales, the way he turns away. Refuses to meet his eyes. Chews on his cigarette. The way his hair is sticking out of the buns like he’s been tugging at them, maybe not even realizing it.
If he did, he’d have fixed it already. He would never let him see himself in this state but-
“You care, Pro,” he coos. It’s so cute, he can’t help himself. There’s a hint of a blush rising on Prosciutto’s cheeks, a clench in his jaw. The way he looks at him, baleful, makes him wonder, what will give first, whether Prosciutto will storm off or try to finish the job.
Well, finish. He’s in no condition to fight.
Curiously, Prosciutto doesn’t storm away or try to kill him. He’s staring at him intently, staring at him like he’s dissecting him and evaluating whether he’s worth anything. Whether he’s worth the effort. Melone tilts his head and winces because it hurts like a bitch to move.
And that little wince is what makes Prosciutto sigh. Pinch the bridge of his nose and stub the cigarette.
And do the unexpected.
“So what if I do care, Melone?” he says, his voice level. Artificially so but it comes from Melone’s knowledge of him, not his demeanor. He’s got his act up to perfection and he’d fool anyone. Maybe even Ris.
But he knew him before the arrow, before he went to that prison and emerged as Prosciutto. Before the suits became his second skin. Before his act got impenetrable and even now, even with all the knowledge he has now, he has a hard time seeing through Prosciutto.
Well, he thinks he knew him before. His memories got hazy when he stopped dreaming.
His memories got hazy when he started dreaming.
[wait, rewind]
[rewind]
Melone thinks he dreams. On good days, he can almost believe that the visions behind his closed eyelids are dreams, that they are memories from the day past, information he acquired on that day in flux, rearranging themselves.
On bad days he’s certain.