He was cold. So cold, he was shivering. He was trying to wrap his little hands around his knees to keep himself warm- Only to find himself yanked up by his long oak-colored hair. He tried to keep from screaming. Tried to keep from showing the fear he held in his smokey gray eyes. He succeeded for the most part, but couldn’t stop the whimper- Couldn’t stop it.
****
“Craimar! Craimar, wake up, damn it!” Craimar seemed to hear Shikra’s faintly accented voice from a great distance. He was trying to find it… trying… but he couldn’t seem to wake fully just yet. “Craimar!”
Craimar finally, finally, managed to pull himself out of the nightmare, and very nearly cried out, only long practice at keeping his first reactions to waking up from nightmares from coming out his mouth, “Sh-Shikra?” Her long, strong nose was always the first thing to catch his eye, even in the inky blackness of the night, then her long, sleepy eyes, and the faintly oriental look to her face, and even to some extent her figure, “Shikra- Damn it, what the hell?” He couldn’t miss the traffic whizzing along the street behind them, so he must have still been curled up under the bridge he’d taken refuge under for the night. He was still cold though, cold and wet, and shaking a little from the dream he’d just been awakened from. He blinked in the darkness, and was able to pick out Shikra’s form. She must have been close then, very close. It was the only way he could think of that he was able to see her so well. But then, he’d always been good at seeing in the dark, much better than most others thought he was; he made sure to keep it that way.
“You were dreaming again,” she said softly, “Dreaming- Craimar, what’s wrong with you? You haven’t been the same for weeks now. Even Tilly’s noticing, and you know how she is. She really doesn’t notice much. What is it? What’s going on?”
The years at his parents house came back to him. Nine years of being told he was worthless, stupid. Nine long years of being told how much smarter nearly all his classmates were than he was. Nine years of being told that he would never amount to anything. And even once or twice, he had been beat up on by his father when he got really drunk. There had been one night where his mother had even watched. Watched and laughed. That had pissed Craimar off, and that had been the one night where he had nearly lost it and allowed the tears to flow freely down his face. But he didn’t- Couldn’t let it show that it had hurt him; it would have been so much worse for him if they had known.
“I… Shikra, don’t make me spill it. I- I can’t. I just… Shikra, I can’t.” He closed his eyes to keep her from seeing the tears that glimmered there. He couldn’t believe what he had heard, even now, even three months later. It was all still so unreal; almost like the dream he’d been pulled out of. Because he had his eyes shut, he didn't see the concern in Shikra's eyes; he might not have, even with them open given that it was still so dark.
“When, Damn you Craimar!”
“When I feel like it, Shikra. Just now I don’t, OK?” That had come out gruffer than he had intended, but he wasn’t awake enough yet to care much. He was stiff, wet, and still a little shaky. He must have slept wrong on something or other because his head hurt, his legs had fallen asleep, and his back hurt like a sonuva bitch.