A clatter, the breaking of porcelain. He fell to his knees, eyes wide and shaking, hands knotted in his hair. Gasps all around as eyes fixed upon him. His brother tugging at his arm. Red Robin running to his side.

"Lune!"

He could hear them, calling. The shadows creeping from the corners of his mind, slowly, sickeningly, tendons gently gripping and grabbing hold. He could smell blood. It was on his hands. It was on his hands. It was everywhere.

"Lune, you're bleeding!"

His fathers eyes, wide and open. He could do nothing as he watched him fall, slow motion, falling. Falling. Why wouldn't someone help him? He tried to reach out, they held him back.

"Oh Lune! Lune! Come on, snap out of it!"

The snapping of bones, so like the crunch of his palms pressing into the shards of tableware as they dropped from his hair, body slumping forward. The pain in his back, lightning sharp, and he could see his fathers twisted body broken on the dirt floor. He slumped forward, letting them drag him under.

"Somebody! Help!"

***

He stood, transfixed. All around him, pitch black. Ink black. He was blind, deaf. Palms clenched, blood dripping silently into infinity, pooling at his feet, suffocating him.

"Look at me."

The image of his fathers face, bloodied, bruised, broken. He gagged, the scent of blood, the coppery taste in his mouth, and once more he fell to his knees. Eyes shut tightly, trying to block the sight. He recoiled as a hand gently touched his shoulder.

"Look at me."

Once more, his gaze drawn upwards. His fathers face, smooth, unbroken. The heavy lines around his mouth. The pale skin. Long blonde hair, green eyes that both mourned and sparkled with hidden mischief.

"Dad..."

Clean, whole. Unbroken. Strong muscles, leotard unstained by blood. A hand reached out, tweaking a lock of blue hair. He stood.

"You have not been doing so well, I should think."

Indignantly, he replied. Arched eyebrow, arms crossed.

"I've been doing just fine."

Mirrored expression, lips notching into a smirk.

"If you were doing 'just fine' mon fils, we would not be standing." He gestured, wide and low to the darkness spreading out around them. "Here, in your mind. You and I. Chatting."

He pouted slightly. Morte's hand reached out, stroking the locks gently once more.

"You still mourn."

Gentle disapproval filled his voice. Warmth permeated throughout, and the words tore at his heart.

"For my father."

Bitter, tired words, though his chin was high, proud.

"I am not your father."

A soft whisper.

"You were the only father I ever had!"

The words left in a shout. He could feel the tears that were never allowed to fall. Could feel them, and struggled to be strong. Morte's expression softened.

"I am sorry, Lune. I am not your father."

Regret filled his voice, pain, words he had never said when he was alive.

"You are my father, biologically or no, there is no other man I should give such title!"

A half sob, and he crumbled to his knees, hands clutching his head once more. A gentle hand stroking his head. Fingers filtering through blue locks, once golden and bright as the sun.

"And you are my son. I never thought of you as anything else."

Eyes closed, a deep breath.

"And did you love me as if I were your son?"

A sharp intake of breath. Worry furrowed his brow.

"How could I not love you, my son? How could I not?"

The tears fell then. A confession. Thoughts he never could voice. Thoughts he had wanted to scream from the beginning.

"But I'm not your son! I'm his and I'll never be anything more than an abomination! How could you love me!?"

Arms came about him then. Tight.

"You are my son. You have always been."

He looked up into the stern face. His father. Green eyes filled with unshed tears as well. He continued.

"And I love you. I love you so much that I hate seeing you reject a future, because you refuse to let go of your past."

He pulled away, slowly, arms still gripping. Lightly.

"You cannot continue on alone. You are cracking, breaking. You push them away. You think they're safer that way; but you're only hurting them. Things cannot keep stay the way they are, my son."

Bright red hair, dark eyes. Rosy cheeks. His heart ached. Morte smiled.

"Just like your mother. So concerned with the welfare of others. Selfish without meaning to be."

He chuckled, lightly. Tapped his nose.

"It is time to move forward in the land of the living. There is nothing for you but pain in the past."

Once more, he tweaked his hair. Annoyed, Lune pulled away. Then smiled, slightly.

"I must go now, my son."

A warm, charming smile.

"Until we meet again."

He faded into the dark. Slow. Smiling. Faded until there was nothing left, save a pinprick of light far above. He took a deep breath. Looked up. Closed his eyes; slowly raised his arms. He reached for the light.

***

The hours past. Vigil kept at bedside. Midnight. One am. Two. Three. Even after he had fallen asleep, she kept watch. His bedside, his hand clutched tightly in hers, cool fingers mingling with her warm. She thought she was hallucinating, as his eyelids fluttered. Gently, slowly, the cracked open, violet burning low in the dim light of the tent.

".....nngh..." His low grown, fingers suddenly tightening over hers. She gasped. His hiss of pain.

"Lune!"

His face turned toward hers. Confusion evident, lips moving slowly. "What...Rouge..." Another groan, and she tightened her grip with one hand. The other stroked his cheek.

"You've pushed yourself too hard." Her concern. Her mouth, gently pressing against his forehead. She moved away, cheeks bright and rosy red. "You always do."

His fingers twined in hers gently, tightened. He looked relieved. Exhausted. A ghost of a smile gracing his lips. Her blush. The pieces began to fall into place.

"Rouge.." Their eyes locked. For once, he didn't look away. Didn't release her fingers. Didn't tell her to go.

Only gripped her a little tighter, smiled a little more. And she grinned back, wide and full. Things were changing. Things had changed. She had waited. He was ready.

And time began to move forward once more.