Work Text:
It wasn't the first time. No, Max Demian had always been a constant against the starry breadth of the sky, a force within this world of apparitions, forever appearing to me much as he had on that now distant day of our first meeting. The glint of his eyes held the answer to my pleas just as it held every color of the world, every splinter of the collective voice. His clothes were simple and elegant, just as they always seemed to be; the black wool of his jacket and the soft arc of his carefully unbuttoned collar were aligned against his gracefully flushed cheek. Demian must have heard the wild beating of my heart as he stepped closer, the warm light of the streetlamp cradling his thin form with reverence.
I inhaled, the wind filling roughly through my lungs and pushing the stray locks of hair away from my brow. His face was gently tilted, knowing, yet without age, and he smiled, the sanguine curve of his lips suddenly mobile. There was a silence as he extended his hand, fingers shining white against the darkened view of the street. I hesitated, feeling the mighty pull of his gaze against my own, and turned swiftly away. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that he had not moved, though my own body reeled, the wet stretch of cobbles throbbing beneath my boots as I ran.
On and on I went. The street gave way to a further white expanse of sky, shifting to my eyes as a kaleidoscopic river, bold against the stars that yet loomed overhead. The scent of decaying earth then assaulted my nose, my mouth, and I dashed my tongue quickly across my lips as though to draw myself through the extending tendrils of musty air.
Sinclair. The voice was borne on the width of the wind, coming to me from all directions. It was his voice, shaking the land, my thoughts, and rifting through the washed face of the world. Yes, it was Demian.
My heart pounded as the ground beneath me began to fall away, catching against my leather soles and the ripped hem of my trousers. Castles burned with something like vivid sorrow against the haphazard brushstrokes of the sky, skeletal frames of steel girders collapsed into the dust, and clay homes were reclaimed by the cool mud of trenches; I was propelled upwards. There was only exhilaration as my body then moved against the currents of the air. It wound toward my skin as I spread my arms before me, my fingers stretching out as though to touch every blustery atom. I moved with my own will, forward and away from the scene of ruin below.
There was world without end as the current of air tore against my face and hands. I flew as though I had been flung from a catapult; I flew as though my heart was that of a hawk.
My blood raced within my veins, my lungs heaved, suddenly choking against the grip of the wind. I held my arms to my stomach as I violently coughed, feeling the pull of the world. I fell, the broken laughter of the air catching within my ears and the sharp scent of the earth drawing against my mouth; it seemed that I would fall forever. My eyes wide, I saw the horizon as it held itself in folded lavender, suddenly now becoming crimson. Yes, it was the curve of a mouth, the scarlet bow of lips hanging beneath the gentle slant of cheekbones and nose, those uncommonly green eyes, mahogany waves of hair parted to the side, the brow with its peculiar sheen. Yes, it was Demian.
It was Demian as I had painted him, the sleek spots of pigment as I had strewn them against the crisp, white surface of the canvas. I held my face in my hands, shutting my eyes roughly against the tips of my fingers. For a moment, there was only darkness and the rushing of my pulse, though it was distracted by a light touch to my shoulder. I turned, feeling fingers press against my arm. He now appeared before me, matching my descent, though the solid crease of his clothes indicated no movement. Demian reached forward, taking my hand gently with his own.
Sinclair, his voice came again and all was still. The timbre of the word, the simple syllables of my name, came to me as though they had been spoken from within the deepest corners, the darkest wells of my mind. Indeed they had, I realized, just as Demian smiled. Breathe, Sinclair. Just breathe.
Please, I began, clutching my hands weakly against the thin air. Demian, I can't --
Remember, Sinclair. His mouth did not move, though his form shifted toward me. He held a long finger to my forehead, drawing a line and pushing the hair from my brow. I felt him take me in his arms. Gently, so gently, and as his hands pressed to my back, I knew that I was safe. Remember. Demian brushed his fingers against my cheek, cupping my chin and pulling me closer. His kiss was tender, airy, melodic against the beating of my heart. I stared into the green wash of his eyes, the starry depths into which I tumbled, now cloaking our forms in eager shadows. Sighing against my lips, his tongue touched my own and his hand rose to my shoulder-blade, the breeze passing quietly between us.
And so I breathed as I once more felt the sweetness of the wind and the rhythm of the stars within me. I ascended, again glancing for a moment to Demian as he stood upon the air below. He smiled, nodding almost imperceptibly, and raised his hand to me.
Soon, I whispered, a smile passing across my features. Demian did not answer, only nodding again, and a brilliant light fell forth from his eyes. It was the light of change, the light of knowledge.
It was the light of dawn as it spread across my sheets, gently pulling against my eyes and twining through my hair. The window had been left open and the cold March breeze blew against my temple. I shuddered, huddling within my blanket and pulling my robe around my shoulders. Rubbing the back of my hand against my eyes, I blinked as my glance fell upon the portrait as it hung pinned to the wall. It seemed to smile, returning the sentiment and the longing that I at once felt for Demian.
"Soon," I said, my voice sounding flat within the confines of the small room. I held my hand to my forehead. I waited, my gaze settling on the vibrantly blue width of the sky, but the only answers that I received were the beating of my own heart and the air as it quietly escaped from my half-parted lips.