recolle | [OPEN] ❁ don't let it get the best of you, you'll make it out alive

[What else indeed? Rosalind moves slowly, step by step, her eyes trained on Fa--

No. On Kurama, because that's who he is now, isn't it? He's Kurama, and this is . . .

It was a competition, he'd said. To the death, he'd told her. There's flashes of color and movement all around them, and he's on a raised platform, and it would be easy to think this nothing more than a sports competition if it wasn't for the horror in Kurama's eyes.

How can she do anything but come closer? That's hers, that boy right there, and that silky hint of sadism only sets off her own possessiveness more. That's hers, her Fawkes, her Kurama, and she'll do whatever she has to in order to keep him safe.]

[Of all the people who might come wandering through one of his dreams, it's Rosalind who comes the closest to jarring him straight out of his nightmare before it ever has a chance to really begin. It's just that she's so far removed from the horrors that he associates with a moment like this, so utterly representative of feelings that are an anathema to a nightmare like this, that her very presence very nearly upends the whole thing, disrupting it beyond its ability to maintain itself.

And yet he's frightened for her, when he sees her there. He's terrified, actually, because he knows that look on her face, that glint in her eyes, and he's currently surrounded by bombs and she's drawing ever closer.]

Rosalind —

Stay still.

[She hasn't the faintest idea how this works, but she can draw her own conclusions. Don't move, someone had screamed at him, so surely he's surrounded by the bombs. Surely they're in close range to him.

Which means they ought not to be near her. Rosalind stares up at the platform, then hoists herself up, mounting it with far more ease than she would in reality.]

And tell me what happens now. Tell me how to change this.

[Tell me how to change this, she says, and it's an interesting question, one that echoes with memories of things he's said himself outside of his own dreams. Changing this is different than fixing it, different than solving it; the latter options suggest that the state he's in is something that can only be responded to and addressed as-is, but changing opens up a much wider array of options.

But can she? There's no way of knowing. It ought to be impossible; if he could fix this, why wouldn't he have done it already?]

He's — he's around here somewhere.

[He doesn't elaborate on the he, though it's not exactly hard to guess.]

When...when he's done toying with me, they'll...the bombs will...

[And that's not hard to guess, either.]

Then let him keep toying with you.

[It's not that she wants to see that, but it's better than him dying. Rosalind keeps approaching, step by careful step, eyes darting around to see if she can see anything: some strange glint in the air, some bizarre blur in reality, something to hint at where all these bombs are.]

Think. Youko had a better chance of beating him, you said. Can you summon him now?

[The longer she looks, the more she'll come to realize that yes, there are little patches of distortion here and there in the air around Fawkes — nothing particularly explicable in any real sense of the word, but there to be quasi-perceived nevertheless.]

I don't know if I'm able. This...happens after he's gone. I don't know if I can bring him back.

It's a dream.

[She stops a few feet from the nearest reality twist. That reminds her of something, but at the moment she can't quite place what.]

You can change things you couldn't in reality. So change things. Call him back.

[A pause, and her voice is softer, more coaxing.]

You did it when we were attacked by those monsters, didn't you? You were frightened for me . . . you were determined to protect me.

Now you have to be determined to protect yourself. Kurama . . . bring him back.

[It unsettles him, somehow, hearing that name on her lips. It resonates with something inside him, makes him feel for a moment like she's talking to two different people at once — himself and someone else, neither of whom has the answers.

But there's an imperative in her words, as well, and he finds that's not something he can ignore, either. Bring him back, she says, and there's no qualification of try to, no maybe you can. It's a directive, one that leaves no room to be ignored. Bring him back, and he truly doesn't know if he can, but she certainly seems to think so and, well, she's always known more than him anyway.

So he closes his eyes and tries to swallow back his fear, reaching deep down for that reservoir of power that by all rights should've been long since empty, except that Rosalind thinks it isn't and so maybe, after all, it isn't.

The air seems to ripple and quake; a wind begins to pick up from nowhere at all, blowing back his red hair that, in places, looks as though it's starting to pale and silver.]

There he is . . .

[There he is: the same man as before, but with vastly different reserves of power. Perhaps it's because they're in Christopher's dream, but Rosalind feels as though she can feel the power radiating off him: it's a fierce pressure against chest chest, something a little overwhelming and yet not at all frightening.]

Now. Show me how Youko defeated the crow.

[He hadn't. But he will now.]

[Help me, he thinks, and doesn't quite know who he's addressing it towards, to Rosalind or to the youkai lying dormant within his own soul — help me, I need you, I need this part of me —

It's like awakening something hot and molten and crackling inside him, a floodgate finally burst in a way that has yet to occur in reality, but which is far more unfettered in his dreams.

Maybe it's that it's easier for Youko to come forward when his own mind has descended into subconsciousness. Maybe there is no rhyme or reason to it, and it's only the dream itself that makes it feel that way.

But the fact of the matter is, in the blink of an eye he's seven feet tall and all silver-white at a time when he shouldn't be, and the gold eyes that fix onto Rosalind are glinting with recognition when they catch sight of her.]

Are you sure this isn't your dream, Rosalind?

[Unconcerned, he reaches up and under his hair, not at all apprehensive about the invisible bombs around him as he draws out a handful of roses with their stems held like darts between his fingers.]

You crave this side of me, don't you?

[She scowls, temporarily brought out of her fear by that quiet taunt.]

Is now really the time?

[Frankly, she craves every side of him, although her reasons for her attraction vary. But she can't deny this is particularly appealing . . . but not right now. Rosalind crosses her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow.]

Go on. You can do this, can't you? Show off, why don't you.

[As much as her pride is prickled by his teasing, it's worth it: now things feel just a little more normal. He's relaxed, and so she in turn feels some of the tension bleed out of her. It doesn't matter if Youko truly could fight the crow or not; this is his dream, and if he feels confident, things will go as he thinks they will.

(At least: she hopes so).]

I asked you a question.

[Unconcerned, he flicks his wrist and throws his handful of roses, aiming them at nothing at all yet somehow managing to skewer a half-dozen...somethings that used to be hanging in the air.

They explode, of course, but he seems equally unconcerned by that; Fawkes's lingering fear has flown, replaced solely by a pervasive confidence that evidently can't be ruffled by something as pithy as bombs.]

It's a fool who thinks he can cage me. In this world, fools die.

[There. Rosalind feels her satisfaction grow as the bombs explode seemingly harmlessly in front of him.]

And I answered it. I'm not going to discuss the facets of my attraction to you while you're busy.

[But she is coming closer, glancing forward to see if she can spot the crow in question. Surely he's still around? But it's a dream; perhaps he's simply faded away.]

[He is still around, as a matter of fact; at least, the way that Youko's ears are pricking seems to indicate as much, as he appears to be tracking something that can't be seen down on the far side of the ring.]

When I'm finished, then.

[He extends an arm, bringing one clawed hand to hover in the air in front of her, forming a makeshift barricade designed to keep her behind him.]

It shouldn't take long.

[She doesn't try and go forward, but she does peer forward. There's a shape in the gloom, vague and tall, but with no real identifying features that she can see.]

I imagine one of those roses piercing his throat would finish him off.

Perhaps. And if not, there are other ways of dealing with him.

[As if on cue, an explosion goes off in the air vaguely near to them, but this time he doesn't flinch the way he had when he was human, and trapped.

Instead, he simply reaches up into his hair again.]

Tedious.

[She, however, flinches, and dislikes the fact she did. It's stupid to be afraid of something that isn't real, but unlike Youko (or Kurama, or Fawkes, or whomever it is she's standing here with), she hasn't any defenses against it.]

What ways are those?

[She glances up, frowning slightly. It's the most minor of points, but there's something very strange about the fact he stores his seeds there. How on earth do they stay put? Her fingers itch to find out, but Rosalind puts her hands behind her back instead.]

The ojigi.

[So he says, in his subconscious mind, because it knows the word even though consciously Fawkes really has no idea what it means or how it could be useful against the crow; he only knows that he's seen it in his memories, and that it'd worked, and that the name of what had worked was simply that: ojigi.

He shifts, sliding his foot along the ground before bringing it down in a swift stamp, and a few seconds later there's the ugly sound of writhing vines off in the distance, and a faint yell that comes accompanied by what might be the sound of bones cracking. Still, it's too far off to see anything of it; the horror, for the moment, is muted and nebulous.]

Hm. That was less interesting than the last time.

Poor Youko.

[The crunch of bones and yowl of pain earns no reaction from Rosalind. She glances out into the darkness once more, half disappointed she can't get a glimpse of the crow, before turning back to him with a self-satisfied smile.]

Well, then. This turned out far better than the last time, hm? Can we leave the platform? I want to try something else before we wake up.

You never cease with your experiments, do you?

[Really, as far as the dream is concerned, the nightmare was vanquished from the moment that Rosalind persuaded him to become Youko again, so the fact that the enemy's demise and defeat is relatively anticlimactic is likely just another wonky facet of the subconscious — making some things important and other things decidedly not, regardless of whether they should be.

He shrugs at her, though, and extends his hand as if offering to assist her in getting down from it by implication.]

What do you want to try?

I want to see if you can change our environment. Not the arena, but somewhere else. If this is a form of lucid dreaming, you ought to be able to.

[She takes his hand carefully; it's a dream, so she's unlikely to fall, but then again, it's not as if taking his hand is a hardship. Which reminds her . . .]

. . . and as for my attraction to you. I've told you before, it goes both ways. I like it when you're human, and I like it when you're like this; I'm hardly going to deny I find you appealing.

[OPEN] ❁ don't let it get the best of you, you'll make it out alive

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