section7mfu | "Dreams" for the impromptu challenge (Reply)

Illya had been having the recurring nightmare for weeks now—the same one, without a single thing changed. He was searching for Napoleon, who had been missing for days, and his homing device would lead Illya to an old pumpkin patch—beneath the dirt upon which the large fruits were growing.

And each time, in the dream, Illya would dig through the dirt with his bare hands, revealing his partner’s face—blue from both the cold and from the lack of oxygen. Despite Illya’s pleas for Napoleon to awaken, he would not, and even as Illya dug him out of the dirt and gently cradled the frozen body, the Russian knew that the man in his arms had been dead for days—most likely the same day he had gone missing.

The dream always ended the same way: with Illya fighting back an agonized cry as the realization sunk in that he had not only just lost yet another important person in his life, but had lost the one person he loved and trusted above all others…

The dream always ended there, because that was when Napoleon would wake him, having been awakened by the Russian’s shouts. And every time, Napoleon would ask him if he was alright, and every time, Illya would try to reassure him that he was.

The first couple of times, Napoleon believed it—or, rather, wanted to believe it. But as the nightmare recurred and Illya seemed to be more unnerved each time, he knew that wasn’t the case.

Still, Illya didn’t want to talk about it. And so Napoleon let the matter go a few more times. But once it started affecting Illya’s physical state—the circles under his eyes and the reduced appetite—Napoleon refused to stay quiet.

The next night it happened, and Illya protested that he would be fine again, Napoleon seized him by the wrist and pulled him to the kitchen and pressed a mug of coffee into his hands before pouring some for himself with extra sugar.

“OK, drink that and talk to me.”

“This is pointless,” Illya murmured. “I am not a child!”

“I never said you were. And I wouldn’t give a child coffee.”

The smirk on Napoleon’s face was surprisingly another straw on the camel’s back; Illya found himself having to look away as the chilling image from the dream returned—Napoleon lying dead and cold in his arms, never to smirk at him again, never to toss a witty joke at him again, never to look at him so fondly again…

“Illya!?”

Illya snapped back to reality to see Napoleon looking back at him with concern.

“Illya, what’s been going on?” he asked. “We’ve both had nightmares before—it’s unfortunately part and parcel of working in the field. But this is the first time I’ve seen you so shaken by one—one that keeps coming back.”

Illya glanced at Napoleon.

“How very astute,” the Russian said.

“What’s different this time?” Napoleon asked, gently. The Russian looked away again. “Illya, talk to me.”

“The difference is that this time, it is the same,” Illya said, at last. “The exact same thing, each and every time for the past three weeks—not every night, thankfully, but still enough times to be concerning. Three or four times a week. You are right, Napoleon; I am no stranger to nightmares, but nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“And what do you think it means?”

“I do not know,” Illya said. He shook his head in frustration. “And that is the problem!”

“….I don’t follow.”

“I have always considered myself as a person who thinks sensibly,” Illya said. “I do not blindly believe things; I need a rational explanation. This time, a year ago, I could have had this dream a hundred nights in a row, and I would have still scoffed at the possibility of it meaning anything in the waking world!”

Napoleon exhaled now, suddenly understanding.

“And with all the weird stuff that’s been happening to us lately, you don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“…Da.” Illya’s fingers tightened around the coffee mug. “I am a grown man, Napoleon. Why am I giving such thought to something so irrational!?”

“Well, like I said, after the aforementioned weird stuff, I don’t blame you,” the American said.

Illya placed the coffee cup down and bit his lip for a moment.

“Napoleon, you… have given more thought to these kinds of things even before all these strange happenings started. Do you think that my dreams have some sort of meaning?” It was almost laughable to ask, and yet, laughing was the last thing Illya felt like doing.

“Well, I have heard about precognition sometimes manifesting itself in dreams,” Napoleon said. “Especially recurring ones, like you’ve been having.”

Illya let out a quiet sound, his face blank but noticeably paler.

“Of course… there’s the classic tale of defying destiny,” Napoleon added, seeing how Illya had reacted to it. “I like to think I do that on a regular basis, in fact. Defying the odds… thus defying destiny.” His expression softened as he placed a hand on Illya’s shoulder. “And you do that, too, from what I’ve seen. You’re not going to lose me that easily, Illya.”

Illya looked back at him, sharply.

“How…? I did not tell you what my dream was…! How could you possibly know?”

Napoleon didn’t say anything, but squeezed his shoulder again, and as Illya looked into his partner’s eyes, he understood.

“You have dreamed of my death multiple times, too.”

Napoleon gave a nod, and Illya forced a chuckle.

“…Silly, isn’t it?” he said, trying to swallow down the lump forming in his throat. “Being so unnerved by… mere fabrications of our own minds?”

Illya’s voice cracked, and so did the mask he usually wore. Napoleon now drew him into a hug.

“Not silly. Human,” Napoleon said, gently. “You’re human, Tovarisch. And we do the most human thing possible in the face of all this—we keep fighting, and we keep defying the odds.”

“Da,” Illya said. “We will.”

Even if the dreams meant something, he would fight them—because what he had was worth fighting for.