Archive of Our Own ^beta

"We have to stop meeting like this."

Agent Eight opens his eyes; the ocean's breadth before him is a familiar sight. It reaches farther than he can see, reflects the sky like polished glass. Although the light is strong, and there are only wisps of clouds, the sun is merely warm, like an embrace.

The horizon blurs, and a gentle wind stirs, salt on its tongue.

"I wish we could," Eight replies. He observes the skyline for a while, until he cannot contain himself any longer. Turning around, he is met with the same view, the same endless expanse of clouds and blue, blue, blue.

The Octoling sighs, and twirls one tentacle around a clawed fingertip. No matter how many times he has this dream, he never sees who owns the voice.
A breeze curls around his waist, and his hip suddenly feels hot. Eight huffs with amusement, and swats an imaginary hand away.

"Cheeky," he says.

The wind snickers. Eight smiles, and there is a period of silence before he feels the breeze pass again, cooler than before.

"I mean it," the voice says, somber now.

Eight chuckles softly, an ache settling into his hearts, staying quiet. Though there is no gaze to avoid, he looks elsewhere anyways.

"Eight, you have to let go," the voice continues.

Eight instinctively shivers in the cold sea air. His throat feels thick, like he's choking on seaweed. He tries to swallow past the sensation, but the motion is fragmented. Without thinking, he fiddles with his torn ear, and fixes his gaze on his own reflection.

"I wish I could," he manages. His own hands meet each other, and he grasps so tightly that his knuckles turn white. His eyes sting horribly.

"I miss you so much," Eight goes on, his voice wavering. "I barely remember you. But I miss you so much that I think it's going to kill me."

"I wish I could stop chasing after you. I wish I could forget. I wish I could learn to let go."

The wind is still. Eight hiccups, as he watches fat hot tears roll down his reflection's face. He grimaces at the ugly crier he sees, and screws his eyes shut.

"Three, just come back to me," he finishes, his head pounding. His whole body feels like it's boiling.

Still, there is silence.

"Three," he pleads.

Agent Eight opens his eyes to darkness. The only light comes from a corner in the room, blurry and faint red numbers that read

0 3 : 3 3.

Eight snarls, feels around in the dark for the Octoshot he keeps in his bedside drawer, and whips it as hard as his arm allows towards the clock. A series of clanging and thuds follow, and the numbers disappear from the corner.

Adrenaline grips him for a few minutes, and his breath comes harsh as he tries to settle down. Eventually, the fit of rage passes, and Eight digs his claws into his skull as he scolds himself for the outburst.

Heart still pounding, he lays back in bed and bunches the blanket between his hands. There are pinpoints of pain on his head where he'd pricked himself with his claws, and he sighs heavily, suddenly exhausted. His eyelids droop, and he allows himself to fall again into a dreamless sleep.

When the Octoling would wake, he would wake later than typical of him, near noontime. He would look first to his left, to an long-empty space beside him on the mattress- then he would remember his nighttime escapade. The digital alarm clock lay on the floor, still plugged in but its glass display shattered and the plastic backing opened, the circuitboard exposed. A dent in the wall showed his mark, narrowly missing a lamp- the Octoshot itself was only lightly scratched.

He would pinch the bridge of his nose, sigh with exasperation, and then life would go on.