Thank you so much @kcscribbler for the tag 💕
Unfortunately, I may be on hiatus from everything for a little while, so instead of a WIP excerpt, have an unpublished nightmare drabble based on a new reoccurring dream I've been having that I of course had to shove onto my favorite punching bag ✨️
(Also, the fancy divider is from @enchanthings , go check them out 💕)
In the meantime, no pressure tagging @huggiebird @happybean17 @falling-into-peril @heytheredeann @pippinoftheshire
And an Open Tag for anyone who wants to join!!
Character: Illya Kuryakin
Warnings: Angst, Nightmares, emotional hurt/no comfort
"Open Your Eyes (Or Just Try To)"
Illya had never been a dreamer. When he slept, only blackness greeted his consciousness. Nightmares weren't uncommon, however they were often replays of unsavory memories or missions gone wrong. Near death experiences, fearing for his partners’ lives, the abuse of old handlers, his father's screams and his mother's belt. They were never abstract, like those of his peers. Monsters never haunted him, imaginary killers or threats that were laughable once awakened never manifested.
But recently, they've been changing.
Now, they often begin with the chaotic sounds of agony and brutality that herald a battle. It's faint at first; distant, just out of reach, but still close enough to make his heart pound. Then the echoing gunshots encroach, the shouting grows louder, death looms over the horizon. Adrenaline pulses through his veins and he tries to ready himself for whatever hell is approaching. Illya tries to ready himself, to take in his surroundings and make a plan, but it's too dark. Thick, inky black clouds his vision, and while he's able to get his weapon armed and in his hands, he can't see anything around him. And when the war drums are upon him, its not his own scream that reaches his ears first.
It's Gaby's.
Or Solo's.
Or sometimes they both give their cry of pain or effort from either side of him, before the distorted clashes of metal and flesh drown him. But no matter what he hears, the darkness prevails. He can claw at his eyes, try to rip the wool off or shred his eyelids enough to see, but all can glimpse is fractured images and light before its darkness once again.
Other nights, he drifts into the warmth and safety of a London flat, though he can never tell which one. He can feel the cushioned couch or armchair beneath him, hear the music crackling from the radio, the laughter of his partners as they bicker in the kitchen or dance in the living room. Illya wants nothing more than to see for himself this beautiful reality, one he hadn't let himself believe to be possible. But yet again, something keeps his vision blackened. Yet again, he's robbed of the sense that was drilled into him to keep on high alert at all times. He scrubs at his eyes until they burn, rinses them with water, tries to manually pry open his heavy eyelids, but nothing works. He's tormented by the almosts, the golden lighting that creeps through the tiny cracks between his lashes. He feels someone tug at his arm, with words of encouragement he can never quite remember. But his mind is clouded.
All he can think about is that his eyes are glued shut.
The scenarios change, but that single recurring fact is what unnerves him the most. Illya is never able to open his eyes. This simple task, something instinctual, that he shouldn't even have to think to achieve, he has somehow failed over and over and over again.
Illya wakes up in a cold sweat, disoriented, eyes wide and wild. He tracks every inch of his bedroom, memorizing the space repeatedly until the blood stops marching in his ears and his chest stops heaving.
He's never been able to get back to sleep after those nightmares. Mostly because, as childish as it sounds, he doesn't want to risk closing his eyes. So he just sits up, knees drawn to his chest, and stares at the slit in the curtains over his window, watching indigo fade into gray, gray into lilac, lilac into orange, and orange into blue.
And he keeps his eyes open for as long as he can stand it.