[fan fic] Paper Plane
Title: Paper Plane
Characters/Parings: Canada, America, Ukraine, and England, plus brief appearances of others.
Rating: PG-13 or 14-A
Warnings: Very dark fic, sickness, blood, death, speculative future, angst by the bucketload.
Summary: Based on the Vocaloid song Paper Plane and the Opening Heaven's Gates series. Companion to Prisoner.
Matthew Williams had been born two and a half months premature and small even for that age. Sickly and weak, the doctors gave him a very low prognosis. He would likely die, and even if he lived, he wasn’t going to be a strong, healthy child. The latter turned out to be true.
Soon after Matthew turned five he came down with pneumonia. He’d always been susceptible to respiratory disease, because his mother smoked and he wasn’t physically strong enough to fight off illnesses on his own. It had been a long, hard fight, mostly fought in a hospital, for Matthew to conquer the disease.
When he turned seven he found himself in the hospital again, this time to have his breathing problems he had when he played with his friends diagnosed. They believed it was asthma. He left the hospital with a chronic respiratory disease. It was something he was genetically predisposed to, with no known cure and the promise it would get worse over time. They gave him medicine so that Matthew could breathe even when he was running with his friends. It didn’t work.
By the time Matthew was twelve he was constantly in the hospital for his alarmingly frequent exacerbations and cachexia. He wasn’t going to live to adulthood, the doctors said. Matthew’s mother couldn’t handle the news and hardly went to the hospital at all. His father, in contrast, came whenever he could. It wasn’t often enough for either of their tastes, but at least Matthew had the presence of his family.
He met Yekaterina shortly after he turned fifteen. She was volunteering at the hospital, just talking to the lonely patients, sometimes bringing music or news with her to share. Matthew took to her almost immediately, as if he had known her all his life, despite the fact the lower portion of her left leg was missing and her face was crisscrossed with scars. She seemed to like him too, if the way she smiled when she saw him indicated anything.
That night Matthew experienced a dream so vivid and real he could swear it was a memory. But in it he was much younger, practically an infant, and he was in a place so open and free and vast he could swear it was infinite. The dreams came again the next day, and the next. He dreamt every night of a free place, a white bear, and a boy with a face almost exactly like his. He and the boy and bear would play from sunrise to set. They confused Matthew, but as desolately alone as he was much of the time, he took those dreams as a source of happiness.
Yekaterina came to visit Matthew every few days, bringing books with her alongside the usual sweets and CDs. Books that were illegal in United Russia. Non-propaganda history books of not only United Russia but Ukraine and the nations of the Western European Alliance and the former nations that comprised the UCNA. While at first nervous about reading such books, Matthew eventually grew to enjoy learning about the pasts of allies and enemies to his homeland.
(“Someone very wise once told me that those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it,” Yekaterina said softly, leaning near Matthew to hide the illegal books. “I don’t want the mistakes of the past to come true again.”
“What sort of mistakes?” Matthew had asked. Wars, genocide, slavery, there were innumerable mistakes in the history the books told.
Yekaterina had only smiled sadly. “Maybe one day I’ll tell you the story.”)
One fine spring afternoon Matthew felt the compulsion to go to his father’s work. “I don’t know why,” he told Yekaterina, who was rapidly becoming a daily visitor, “I just feel like I have to.” He expected her to say no, to tell him that with his difficulties breathing after even crossing the room it would be too much for him. Instead she fetched a set of clean white hospital clothes and helped him to leave the building.
(“I miss Papa,” Matthew wept into his pillow, ignoring the gentle hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” Matthew’s body double, his twin, said in the softness of the night. “I’ll be here for you now.”)
Once he was at the prison Matthew wandered around the barbwire fence, trying to understand his compulsion and what it was he was looking for. In his search he hardly noticed one of the youngest prisoners watching him wander with curiosity.
He returned to the hospital severely exhausted and very out of breath, but Yekaterina did not chastise him for it. She only asked if he was satisfied, and when he replied that no, he wasn’t, she promised to return the next day.
The fifth day of searching for whatever was pulling Matthew forward finally gave him results. He found a paper airplane caught on some dry, dead weeds and when he looked past the fence to see who had sent it, he saw one of the prisoners dressed in ragged clothing watching him. He had found what he was looking for.
Matthew opened the paper airplane to read the untidy writing that was scrawled across its surface. A letter. The words were so familiar it hurt, and Matthew knew immediately that he would have to respond to them. He went to Yekaterina’s car, retrieved some paper and a pen, and began to write. He folded his letter into a paper plane and went back to where he’d seen the prisoner. Stumbling a little, he tried several times to throw the letter over the fence. After a few tries it flew over the wire gracelessly, and once the prisoner had caught it Matthew gave him a feeble wave and left. His breath was completely gone, and Yekaterina would be worried about him.
(“And you have to promise that you won't turn into one of those guys who ignores their completely awesome big brother for a stupid girl."
"Fine, fine, fine. I promise. You know I'll always love you best. Can I go now? I need to make dinner." But Matthew didn‘t mind making that promise, because it was true.)
Writing letters to the young prisoner became Matthew’s obsession. Every day he and Yekaterina would sneak away, rain or shine, weak or strong, and he would throw a paper plane over the fence. Every few days he would get one in response.
Those paper planes warmed Matthew to the tips of his toes. When he could not stand to read any more about the wars of succession in Europe and his mind was buzzing with Ukrainian history he would turn to those simply written letters that were full to bursting with kinship and affection. It amazed him, how strong his imprisoned friend was, and how optimistic he could be in the work camp.
(His twin had never been a pessimist. Their father had always been exasperated by that, but Matthew loved the fact his brother could never be brought down by the troubles of the world for long. He admired his brother for his sometimes foolish certainty that everything would be all right.)
He had to be strong, too, for the sake of his friend. Every plane Matthew received described how happy his friend was to get the letters, how much more hopeful he was with the letters. Surely, if someone in a horrible position as his friend could live and be happy (sometimes there was a little bit of red at the edges of the paper, as if it had been handled by bloodied fingers), Matthew could be, too.
Buoyed by this new hope, Matthew’s exacerbations began to go away. They weren’t quite so frequent, and when they did come he was no longer coughing up blood along with the thick mucus lining his windpipe. He even gained a little much-needed weight and filled out a bit of his bony frame. He still struggled to breathe even after walking short distances, but even that seemed bearable now.
His dreams were so vivid now that the sterile whiteness of hospital was unreal to Matthew. The colour and energy of the world in his dreams pulled him in, as he watched the history he studied unfold around him. He wasn’t sure how it worked, and for the time being he didn’t struggle to figure it out. He was too busy devouring the history of the former nation Canada, from the First Nation tribes to the formation of the UCNA, it boasted on its cover. The book must have been written before United Russia forbade such books on the subject, or it was made in Ukraine before it became a satellite state. Yekaterina was especially anxious to know what he thought about it, but Matthew reserved his judgement. All the events described were so gut-wrenchingly familiar he wasn’t sure what to make of the book.
Matthew told Yekaterina about his dreams as he coughed into his white sleeve while they drove back to the hospital one crisp winter afternoon. She nearly crashed the car when he told her he had a twin in those dreams, that he remembered a long-haired man with stubble and another man with thick eyebrows raising the two of them. His dreams had since progressed past that point, with him and his brother being independent entities.
“Dreams are important,” she told him once she’d regained her composure. “They tell us things our conscious mind doesn’t know.” She smiled. When Matthew mentioned he’d seen her in his dreams a few times, she smiled even wider.
It occurred to Matthew one night after he awoke from a more nightmarish event--
(--his brother screaming in pain, and the dust and smoke rising up against the New York skyline--)
--that he would do absolutely anything for his twin. Anything at all.--
(--the festering infection seemed to poison him. He was distrustful of even his brother, and those hateful accusations hurt like nothing Matthew had ever felt before--)
--Even if it meant giving up his happiness, even if it meant giving up his life.--
(--but it’s the cold hard stares he got that broke his heart.)
--What was most chilling was that even outside the dreams Matthew felt that way.
It was early evening, only a day after Matthew turned sixteen, that his father caught him and Yekaterina sneaking back into his hospital room. His expression was hard and angry.
“I trusted you to look after my son,” he said to the woman holding Matthew up.
“Sir, I would never do anything to hurt Matthew,” she replied quickly. Matthew was wrenched out of her arms.
“Get out!” he shouted. “Get out and never come back here!” He waved an arm wildly in her general direction. She retreated, apologising to Matthew all the while.
“Father! It’s not her fault!” Matthew tried to shout. He couldn’t get enough air in. Not enough, not enough.
“Matthew, you are not to leave this room without a nurse, understood?” he said coldly. He helped his son to the bed before he saw the paper airplane clenched in Matthew’s fist. He took the paper without a struggle, although Matthew tried his very best to protest, and read it. Already angered, the man became absolutely livid. He crushed the paper plane in his hand.
“Matthew, you are to never speak with this person again. Your health is strained enough as it is, visiting whoever you are talking to will only strain it more.”
(Matthew used to be famous for his frightening efficiency in war, in violence, but now he preferred unarmed protests, civil disobedience. His twin laughed at how tame he had become, but Matthew didn‘t mind the laughter.)
He disobeyed. There was really nothing for him to do but go against his father’s orders. Every day he would slip on his white hospital clothes, sneak down to the lobby, and meet up with Yekaterina. It wasn’t easy to do so anymore, his exacerbations were returning and he was no longer gaining weight, but he did so anyways.
Matthew tried to ask himself why he through such struggles to see his friend and send him those paper planes. It wasn’t as if he was truly lonely, for he had his father and the nurses who regularly saw him and Yekaterina. No, he wasn’t spurred on by loneliness. The only reason he could find was because he loved the prisoner as a brother, like the twin he had in his dreams. It was a compulsion, something giving him strength even as his body deteriorated. He found he had to keep sending those letters. Yekaterina, thankfully, supported him with everything she had.
“If you need to do this,” she said one early morning, brushing off Matthew‘s apology, “then I’ll help you however I can.” The young man deeply suspected that Yekaterina was the only one who truly understood everything happening.
His dreams weren’t so happy anymore. Among all the people that appeared in his dreams tension was building, and the only one who was near Matthew’s twin any longer was Matthew himself.
(Even now they were too deeply entwined for his paranoid, violent brother to disregard him. He clung tightly to Matthew, said that he was his only true friend and ally left in the world. They were all plotting, he knew, trying to stop his march into the future.)
Muscle atrophy was taking away Matthew’s dexterity and strength. Even writing his letters and reading his illegal books were becoming difficult tasks. Even getting emotional was keeping Matthew from breathing. Walking was agonising.
(“Please Matt, you have to do this!” his brother begged, holding Matthew’s hand as if it were his last lifeline. He was uncertain; he didn’t want to hurt anyone. I can’t do this, he thought, I can’t. He loved his friends too much to do something like this. The grip on his hand tightened just a little and Matthew’s expression softened to resignation. He loved his brother most of all.
“I’ll do it for you,” he said softly. The look of genuine relief and gratefulness on his brother’s face eased the guilty pain Matthew felt.)
He couldn’t keep writing to his friend, to the prisoner he’d grown to see as his brother.
(--bloodbloodblood and tears and vomit. Matthew had hoped that after World War II he would never have to kill a man that brutally again. But people like him didn’t die by humane means--)
As much as it pained Matthew, he knew that if he wanted to keep his friend from worrying, he’d have to stop sending letters soon. He had to borrow some of that strength.
(--after he retreated to his room, the one he and his brother shared. He had to wash the blood and his vomit away quickly. In the bathroom mirror he saw his brother standing in the threshold. He looked horrified. Matthew turned to him with his blood-splattered face and hands.
“I’m sorry for startling you,” he said gently.)
Matthew wrote his last letter so carefully it hurt. He wrote that he had to go far away, that he would not be returning to United Russia. He did not mention his disease, the fact he was slowly but surely dying. He would not allow himself to torment his imprisoned friend like that.
(And that night he lay in bed and sobbed while his brother slept on.)
He threw the letter over the familiar barbwire fence and waited, watching his friend read the letter. His shoulders were sinking, and then trembling. He was hanging his head. Matthew turned away, praying he would not cry, that his breath would stay long enough for him to walk away.
“I’ll wait for you!” the prisoner shouted from behind him. Matthew stopped in his tracks. “Until you come back, I’ll treasure the letters!” A tear ran down Matthew’s cheek, and he reached up to stop it. He could feel a coughing fit coming on. He walked. He almost turned back, though, when he heard a softer, “Then I can see you again, right?”
He was strong, though, and got into Yekaterina’s car before he burst into tears. It hurt so much, too much, to say goodbye like this, but it would hurt his friend more if he suddenly could not deliver his letters, as he had every day.
By the time they reached the hospital again Matthew was feverish, coughing up mucus mixed with blood and had severe chest pains. He was rushed to his room by nurses and Yekaterina disappeared before she could get into serious trouble by taking a patient out of the hospital as she had been doing.
He was immediately put onto oxygen therapy. Blindly, Matthew reached for a paper plane that was hidden in his bedside table drawer. A nurse found it for him and put it into his open hand. He held tight to it, trying to draw strength from the words.
Matthew could vaguely hear his father shouting, trying to get into the room to comfort his son. He wanted to turn and look, but he was finally getting enough air and he felt so heavy. He couldn’t even turn his head.
Matthew’s father was left shut out of the room, the image of his son pale and fragile with an oxygen mask on his face burned behind his eyelids. When he returned to his work at the prison, he was haunted by the image. He found a boy who looked frighteningly like his son, a small pile of paper airplanes sitting in front of him. He snatched the plane the boy held in his hands and read it. The letter was written in Matthew’s handwriting. He tore it. This pitiful boy being held back by two fellow guards was the reason his son was lying in a hospital bed unable to move.
The prisoner released a feral roar and wrenched himself free. His fist flew at the man and the blow landed hard and fast. The guards pulled the boy back down, and he struggled and sobbed. For a moment he saw his son in that boy’s face, and he nearly had mercy on the child. But he blinked, and the image of his fragile, dying child flashed in front of his eyes. He ordered the guards to take the prisoner away and to send him to the gas chambers.
That night Matthew’s dreams stopped.
Two months passed by slowly for Matthew. It was painfully clear to him and his father that he was dying. He could no longer stand up without help and weighed less than forty kilograms. He was almost always using an oxygen mask to breathe. Yekaterina had vanished. Matthew began to line up his last wishes, his regrets. He asked a nurse to read him the last bits of the history of Canada before it unified with the UCNA. He cried when he read about the execution of the murderer who’d ordered Japan’s destruction. He listened to an old CD that taught Ukrainian.
He wished with all his being he hadn’t pretended to be strong for his friend. He wanted to tell the prisoner the whole truth. He wanted to see his friend’s smile, to hear his laugh. He wanted to apologise for what he’d done. He wanted to see his friend, the someone he treasured as he would a brother, once more.
At the end of spring Yekaterina returned, this time with a green-eyed man with heavy eyebrows at her side. He looked tired, as though he had seen far more than most, even if he was very young.
“This is an old and dear friend of mine, called Arthur,” she told Matthew, lifting him gently so he could lie comfortably against her chest. Matthew smiled weakly as she settled into a comfortable position behind him, Arthur sitting at the foot of the bed.
“Matthew,” he sighed gently, reaching out to take one of the boy’s porcelain-fine hands in his own. He spoke softly in a language Matthew didn’t know. Yekaterina whispered in his ear.
“Arthur does not speak Russian or Ukrainian. He is a Briton from the Western European Alliance. He has helped me plan rebellions in my homeland. He is calling you his darling son.” For some reason those words filled Matthew with warmth to the tips of his toes. Arthur was someone he felt he had known his whole life, like Yekaterina.
Arthur began to talk softly, still holding one of Matthew’s hands. Yekaterina murmured the translation in his ear. He took in what she said, but watched Arthur’s face and listened to the way his voice went up and down. It was so beautifully familiar to Matthew, but he didn’t know why.
Oh. Arthur was from his dreams, a man he considered one of his fathers. But… why were people from his dreams appearing now?
“Francis wishes he could be here, but he is busy getting the Estonian rebels to safety,” Yekaterina mumbled. Francis, too? This could hardly be a coincidence.
“Yekaterina,” Matthew wheezed, “what do my dreams mean?” The woman translated his question for Arthur and they looked at each other for a long moment. Then Arthur nodded briefly and drew a little closer to the two. His other hand covered Matthew’s.
“They’re memories,” she said gently. “Memories of a previous life.”
(Matthew stood before the mirror, a pair of scissors in hand. He hesitated to cut his hair only for a moment before his resolve settled. He would not let his twin die.
As he cut his hair he understood there was no going back.)
A tear slipped from the corner of Matthew’s eye. Yekaterina rubbed it away tenderly. His mind wandered back to his imprisoned friend. “Where is my brother?” he asked slowly, already suspecting the answer.
(He looked at his twin, staring at the rain running down the window pane. He bit the inside of his lip. He wanted to know that his brother would always be free. That he would be able to keep flying. That he could be happy...
“You have to leave,” he said. He pulled his coat around his twin’s shoulders. The fit was perfect, although the jacket had been tailored for Matthew.)
Yekaterina licked her lips slowly. “I was once his nurse, I knew him when I helped his family plan rebellions against United Russia,” she said. “He was captured, though, long before I found you.”
“He…” Matthew gathered his words. “He was the one I sent letters to.”
("Nobody will notice. I already cut my hair. I love you. Please go now, while there's still time." He smiled.)
“I thought so,” the Ukrainian woman replied, smiling gently. “You were drawn to each other.”
Arthur said something. Ukraine's translation fell on tired, unhearing ears. Matthew felt so peaceful now, even though he should’ve had many questions.
(No one noticed that it was Matthew wearing the pilot’s jacket and the glasses with a prescription that was close, but not quite right for him.)
Matthew vaguely heard the slowing of the beeping from the cardiac monitor. This was it, wasn’t it? At least he was dying happy, in the arms of and with people who loved him. He felt Arthur release his hands and felt a larger, cooler pair replace them. His father was here, too. Not angry or trying to be protective, just here.
(They bound his hands, as they would a common criminal. Matthew was glad he’d saved his twin the shame of that. When he got to the platform he didn’t kneel. No, he would never kneel. He would stand proudly, even in death. Matthew’s mind ventured to his brother, his family, and his friends; to all the people he loved, including his own. He had to reassure them somehow. He turned to the camera filming the execution, and he smiled.
It’s all right, he told them. Everything will be okay, so don’t cry for me. I’m happy, I really am. Stay free, keep flying. I love you.
He did not fear the shot and felt no pain when the gun went off.)
Matthew was smiling when he flat lined.
Characters/Parings: Canada, America, Ukraine, and England, plus brief appearances of others.
Rating: PG-13 or 14-A
Warnings: Very dark fic, sickness, blood, death, speculative future, angst by the bucketload.
Summary: Based on the Vocaloid song Paper Plane and the Opening Heaven's Gates series. Companion to Prisoner.
Matthew Williams had been born two and a half months premature and small even for that age. Sickly and weak, the doctors gave him a very low prognosis. He would likely die, and even if he lived, he wasn’t going to be a strong, healthy child. The latter turned out to be true.
Soon after Matthew turned five he came down with pneumonia. He’d always been susceptible to respiratory disease, because his mother smoked and he wasn’t physically strong enough to fight off illnesses on his own. It had been a long, hard fight, mostly fought in a hospital, for Matthew to conquer the disease.
When he turned seven he found himself in the hospital again, this time to have his breathing problems he had when he played with his friends diagnosed. They believed it was asthma. He left the hospital with a chronic respiratory disease. It was something he was genetically predisposed to, with no known cure and the promise it would get worse over time. They gave him medicine so that Matthew could breathe even when he was running with his friends. It didn’t work.
By the time Matthew was twelve he was constantly in the hospital for his alarmingly frequent exacerbations and cachexia. He wasn’t going to live to adulthood, the doctors said. Matthew’s mother couldn’t handle the news and hardly went to the hospital at all. His father, in contrast, came whenever he could. It wasn’t often enough for either of their tastes, but at least Matthew had the presence of his family.
He met Yekaterina shortly after he turned fifteen. She was volunteering at the hospital, just talking to the lonely patients, sometimes bringing music or news with her to share. Matthew took to her almost immediately, as if he had known her all his life, despite the fact the lower portion of her left leg was missing and her face was crisscrossed with scars. She seemed to like him too, if the way she smiled when she saw him indicated anything.
That night Matthew experienced a dream so vivid and real he could swear it was a memory. But in it he was much younger, practically an infant, and he was in a place so open and free and vast he could swear it was infinite. The dreams came again the next day, and the next. He dreamt every night of a free place, a white bear, and a boy with a face almost exactly like his. He and the boy and bear would play from sunrise to set. They confused Matthew, but as desolately alone as he was much of the time, he took those dreams as a source of happiness.
Yekaterina came to visit Matthew every few days, bringing books with her alongside the usual sweets and CDs. Books that were illegal in United Russia. Non-propaganda history books of not only United Russia but Ukraine and the nations of the Western European Alliance and the former nations that comprised the UCNA. While at first nervous about reading such books, Matthew eventually grew to enjoy learning about the pasts of allies and enemies to his homeland.
(“Someone very wise once told me that those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it,” Yekaterina said softly, leaning near Matthew to hide the illegal books. “I don’t want the mistakes of the past to come true again.”
“What sort of mistakes?” Matthew had asked. Wars, genocide, slavery, there were innumerable mistakes in the history the books told.
Yekaterina had only smiled sadly. “Maybe one day I’ll tell you the story.”)
One fine spring afternoon Matthew felt the compulsion to go to his father’s work. “I don’t know why,” he told Yekaterina, who was rapidly becoming a daily visitor, “I just feel like I have to.” He expected her to say no, to tell him that with his difficulties breathing after even crossing the room it would be too much for him. Instead she fetched a set of clean white hospital clothes and helped him to leave the building.
(“I miss Papa,” Matthew wept into his pillow, ignoring the gentle hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” Matthew’s body double, his twin, said in the softness of the night. “I’ll be here for you now.”)
Once he was at the prison Matthew wandered around the barbwire fence, trying to understand his compulsion and what it was he was looking for. In his search he hardly noticed one of the youngest prisoners watching him wander with curiosity.
He returned to the hospital severely exhausted and very out of breath, but Yekaterina did not chastise him for it. She only asked if he was satisfied, and when he replied that no, he wasn’t, she promised to return the next day.
The fifth day of searching for whatever was pulling Matthew forward finally gave him results. He found a paper airplane caught on some dry, dead weeds and when he looked past the fence to see who had sent it, he saw one of the prisoners dressed in ragged clothing watching him. He had found what he was looking for.
Matthew opened the paper airplane to read the untidy writing that was scrawled across its surface. A letter. The words were so familiar it hurt, and Matthew knew immediately that he would have to respond to them. He went to Yekaterina’s car, retrieved some paper and a pen, and began to write. He folded his letter into a paper plane and went back to where he’d seen the prisoner. Stumbling a little, he tried several times to throw the letter over the fence. After a few tries it flew over the wire gracelessly, and once the prisoner had caught it Matthew gave him a feeble wave and left. His breath was completely gone, and Yekaterina would be worried about him.
(“And you have to promise that you won't turn into one of those guys who ignores their completely awesome big brother for a stupid girl."
"Fine, fine, fine. I promise. You know I'll always love you best. Can I go now? I need to make dinner." But Matthew didn‘t mind making that promise, because it was true.)
Writing letters to the young prisoner became Matthew’s obsession. Every day he and Yekaterina would sneak away, rain or shine, weak or strong, and he would throw a paper plane over the fence. Every few days he would get one in response.
Those paper planes warmed Matthew to the tips of his toes. When he could not stand to read any more about the wars of succession in Europe and his mind was buzzing with Ukrainian history he would turn to those simply written letters that were full to bursting with kinship and affection. It amazed him, how strong his imprisoned friend was, and how optimistic he could be in the work camp.
(His twin had never been a pessimist. Their father had always been exasperated by that, but Matthew loved the fact his brother could never be brought down by the troubles of the world for long. He admired his brother for his sometimes foolish certainty that everything would be all right.)
He had to be strong, too, for the sake of his friend. Every plane Matthew received described how happy his friend was to get the letters, how much more hopeful he was with the letters. Surely, if someone in a horrible position as his friend could live and be happy (sometimes there was a little bit of red at the edges of the paper, as if it had been handled by bloodied fingers), Matthew could be, too.
Buoyed by this new hope, Matthew’s exacerbations began to go away. They weren’t quite so frequent, and when they did come he was no longer coughing up blood along with the thick mucus lining his windpipe. He even gained a little much-needed weight and filled out a bit of his bony frame. He still struggled to breathe even after walking short distances, but even that seemed bearable now.
His dreams were so vivid now that the sterile whiteness of hospital was unreal to Matthew. The colour and energy of the world in his dreams pulled him in, as he watched the history he studied unfold around him. He wasn’t sure how it worked, and for the time being he didn’t struggle to figure it out. He was too busy devouring the history of the former nation Canada, from the First Nation tribes to the formation of the UCNA, it boasted on its cover. The book must have been written before United Russia forbade such books on the subject, or it was made in Ukraine before it became a satellite state. Yekaterina was especially anxious to know what he thought about it, but Matthew reserved his judgement. All the events described were so gut-wrenchingly familiar he wasn’t sure what to make of the book.
Matthew told Yekaterina about his dreams as he coughed into his white sleeve while they drove back to the hospital one crisp winter afternoon. She nearly crashed the car when he told her he had a twin in those dreams, that he remembered a long-haired man with stubble and another man with thick eyebrows raising the two of them. His dreams had since progressed past that point, with him and his brother being independent entities.
“Dreams are important,” she told him once she’d regained her composure. “They tell us things our conscious mind doesn’t know.” She smiled. When Matthew mentioned he’d seen her in his dreams a few times, she smiled even wider.
It occurred to Matthew one night after he awoke from a more nightmarish event--
(--his brother screaming in pain, and the dust and smoke rising up against the New York skyline--)
--that he would do absolutely anything for his twin. Anything at all.--
(--the festering infection seemed to poison him. He was distrustful of even his brother, and those hateful accusations hurt like nothing Matthew had ever felt before--)
--Even if it meant giving up his happiness, even if it meant giving up his life.--
(--but it’s the cold hard stares he got that broke his heart.)
--What was most chilling was that even outside the dreams Matthew felt that way.
It was early evening, only a day after Matthew turned sixteen, that his father caught him and Yekaterina sneaking back into his hospital room. His expression was hard and angry.
“I trusted you to look after my son,” he said to the woman holding Matthew up.
“Sir, I would never do anything to hurt Matthew,” she replied quickly. Matthew was wrenched out of her arms.
“Get out!” he shouted. “Get out and never come back here!” He waved an arm wildly in her general direction. She retreated, apologising to Matthew all the while.
“Father! It’s not her fault!” Matthew tried to shout. He couldn’t get enough air in. Not enough, not enough.
“Matthew, you are not to leave this room without a nurse, understood?” he said coldly. He helped his son to the bed before he saw the paper airplane clenched in Matthew’s fist. He took the paper without a struggle, although Matthew tried his very best to protest, and read it. Already angered, the man became absolutely livid. He crushed the paper plane in his hand.
“Matthew, you are to never speak with this person again. Your health is strained enough as it is, visiting whoever you are talking to will only strain it more.”
(Matthew used to be famous for his frightening efficiency in war, in violence, but now he preferred unarmed protests, civil disobedience. His twin laughed at how tame he had become, but Matthew didn‘t mind the laughter.)
He disobeyed. There was really nothing for him to do but go against his father’s orders. Every day he would slip on his white hospital clothes, sneak down to the lobby, and meet up with Yekaterina. It wasn’t easy to do so anymore, his exacerbations were returning and he was no longer gaining weight, but he did so anyways.
Matthew tried to ask himself why he through such struggles to see his friend and send him those paper planes. It wasn’t as if he was truly lonely, for he had his father and the nurses who regularly saw him and Yekaterina. No, he wasn’t spurred on by loneliness. The only reason he could find was because he loved the prisoner as a brother, like the twin he had in his dreams. It was a compulsion, something giving him strength even as his body deteriorated. He found he had to keep sending those letters. Yekaterina, thankfully, supported him with everything she had.
“If you need to do this,” she said one early morning, brushing off Matthew‘s apology, “then I’ll help you however I can.” The young man deeply suspected that Yekaterina was the only one who truly understood everything happening.
His dreams weren’t so happy anymore. Among all the people that appeared in his dreams tension was building, and the only one who was near Matthew’s twin any longer was Matthew himself.
(Even now they were too deeply entwined for his paranoid, violent brother to disregard him. He clung tightly to Matthew, said that he was his only true friend and ally left in the world. They were all plotting, he knew, trying to stop his march into the future.)
Muscle atrophy was taking away Matthew’s dexterity and strength. Even writing his letters and reading his illegal books were becoming difficult tasks. Even getting emotional was keeping Matthew from breathing. Walking was agonising.
(“Please Matt, you have to do this!” his brother begged, holding Matthew’s hand as if it were his last lifeline. He was uncertain; he didn’t want to hurt anyone. I can’t do this, he thought, I can’t. He loved his friends too much to do something like this. The grip on his hand tightened just a little and Matthew’s expression softened to resignation. He loved his brother most of all.
“I’ll do it for you,” he said softly. The look of genuine relief and gratefulness on his brother’s face eased the guilty pain Matthew felt.)
He couldn’t keep writing to his friend, to the prisoner he’d grown to see as his brother.
(--bloodbloodblood and tears and vomit. Matthew had hoped that after World War II he would never have to kill a man that brutally again. But people like him didn’t die by humane means--)
As much as it pained Matthew, he knew that if he wanted to keep his friend from worrying, he’d have to stop sending letters soon. He had to borrow some of that strength.
(--after he retreated to his room, the one he and his brother shared. He had to wash the blood and his vomit away quickly. In the bathroom mirror he saw his brother standing in the threshold. He looked horrified. Matthew turned to him with his blood-splattered face and hands.
“I’m sorry for startling you,” he said gently.)
Matthew wrote his last letter so carefully it hurt. He wrote that he had to go far away, that he would not be returning to United Russia. He did not mention his disease, the fact he was slowly but surely dying. He would not allow himself to torment his imprisoned friend like that.
(And that night he lay in bed and sobbed while his brother slept on.)
He threw the letter over the familiar barbwire fence and waited, watching his friend read the letter. His shoulders were sinking, and then trembling. He was hanging his head. Matthew turned away, praying he would not cry, that his breath would stay long enough for him to walk away.
“I’ll wait for you!” the prisoner shouted from behind him. Matthew stopped in his tracks. “Until you come back, I’ll treasure the letters!” A tear ran down Matthew’s cheek, and he reached up to stop it. He could feel a coughing fit coming on. He walked. He almost turned back, though, when he heard a softer, “Then I can see you again, right?”
He was strong, though, and got into Yekaterina’s car before he burst into tears. It hurt so much, too much, to say goodbye like this, but it would hurt his friend more if he suddenly could not deliver his letters, as he had every day.
By the time they reached the hospital again Matthew was feverish, coughing up mucus mixed with blood and had severe chest pains. He was rushed to his room by nurses and Yekaterina disappeared before she could get into serious trouble by taking a patient out of the hospital as she had been doing.
He was immediately put onto oxygen therapy. Blindly, Matthew reached for a paper plane that was hidden in his bedside table drawer. A nurse found it for him and put it into his open hand. He held tight to it, trying to draw strength from the words.
Matthew could vaguely hear his father shouting, trying to get into the room to comfort his son. He wanted to turn and look, but he was finally getting enough air and he felt so heavy. He couldn’t even turn his head.
Matthew’s father was left shut out of the room, the image of his son pale and fragile with an oxygen mask on his face burned behind his eyelids. When he returned to his work at the prison, he was haunted by the image. He found a boy who looked frighteningly like his son, a small pile of paper airplanes sitting in front of him. He snatched the plane the boy held in his hands and read it. The letter was written in Matthew’s handwriting. He tore it. This pitiful boy being held back by two fellow guards was the reason his son was lying in a hospital bed unable to move.
The prisoner released a feral roar and wrenched himself free. His fist flew at the man and the blow landed hard and fast. The guards pulled the boy back down, and he struggled and sobbed. For a moment he saw his son in that boy’s face, and he nearly had mercy on the child. But he blinked, and the image of his fragile, dying child flashed in front of his eyes. He ordered the guards to take the prisoner away and to send him to the gas chambers.
That night Matthew’s dreams stopped.
Two months passed by slowly for Matthew. It was painfully clear to him and his father that he was dying. He could no longer stand up without help and weighed less than forty kilograms. He was almost always using an oxygen mask to breathe. Yekaterina had vanished. Matthew began to line up his last wishes, his regrets. He asked a nurse to read him the last bits of the history of Canada before it unified with the UCNA. He cried when he read about the execution of the murderer who’d ordered Japan’s destruction. He listened to an old CD that taught Ukrainian.
He wished with all his being he hadn’t pretended to be strong for his friend. He wanted to tell the prisoner the whole truth. He wanted to see his friend’s smile, to hear his laugh. He wanted to apologise for what he’d done. He wanted to see his friend, the someone he treasured as he would a brother, once more.
At the end of spring Yekaterina returned, this time with a green-eyed man with heavy eyebrows at her side. He looked tired, as though he had seen far more than most, even if he was very young.
“This is an old and dear friend of mine, called Arthur,” she told Matthew, lifting him gently so he could lie comfortably against her chest. Matthew smiled weakly as she settled into a comfortable position behind him, Arthur sitting at the foot of the bed.
“Matthew,” he sighed gently, reaching out to take one of the boy’s porcelain-fine hands in his own. He spoke softly in a language Matthew didn’t know. Yekaterina whispered in his ear.
“Arthur does not speak Russian or Ukrainian. He is a Briton from the Western European Alliance. He has helped me plan rebellions in my homeland. He is calling you his darling son.” For some reason those words filled Matthew with warmth to the tips of his toes. Arthur was someone he felt he had known his whole life, like Yekaterina.
Arthur began to talk softly, still holding one of Matthew’s hands. Yekaterina murmured the translation in his ear. He took in what she said, but watched Arthur’s face and listened to the way his voice went up and down. It was so beautifully familiar to Matthew, but he didn’t know why.
Oh. Arthur was from his dreams, a man he considered one of his fathers. But… why were people from his dreams appearing now?
“Francis wishes he could be here, but he is busy getting the Estonian rebels to safety,” Yekaterina mumbled. Francis, too? This could hardly be a coincidence.
“Yekaterina,” Matthew wheezed, “what do my dreams mean?” The woman translated his question for Arthur and they looked at each other for a long moment. Then Arthur nodded briefly and drew a little closer to the two. His other hand covered Matthew’s.
“They’re memories,” she said gently. “Memories of a previous life.”
(Matthew stood before the mirror, a pair of scissors in hand. He hesitated to cut his hair only for a moment before his resolve settled. He would not let his twin die.
As he cut his hair he understood there was no going back.)
A tear slipped from the corner of Matthew’s eye. Yekaterina rubbed it away tenderly. His mind wandered back to his imprisoned friend. “Where is my brother?” he asked slowly, already suspecting the answer.
(He looked at his twin, staring at the rain running down the window pane. He bit the inside of his lip. He wanted to know that his brother would always be free. That he would be able to keep flying. That he could be happy...
“You have to leave,” he said. He pulled his coat around his twin’s shoulders. The fit was perfect, although the jacket had been tailored for Matthew.)
Yekaterina licked her lips slowly. “I was once his nurse, I knew him when I helped his family plan rebellions against United Russia,” she said. “He was captured, though, long before I found you.”
“He…” Matthew gathered his words. “He was the one I sent letters to.”
("Nobody will notice. I already cut my hair. I love you. Please go now, while there's still time." He smiled.)
“I thought so,” the Ukrainian woman replied, smiling gently. “You were drawn to each other.”
Arthur said something. Ukraine's translation fell on tired, unhearing ears. Matthew felt so peaceful now, even though he should’ve had many questions.
(No one noticed that it was Matthew wearing the pilot’s jacket and the glasses with a prescription that was close, but not quite right for him.)
Matthew vaguely heard the slowing of the beeping from the cardiac monitor. This was it, wasn’t it? At least he was dying happy, in the arms of and with people who loved him. He felt Arthur release his hands and felt a larger, cooler pair replace them. His father was here, too. Not angry or trying to be protective, just here.
(They bound his hands, as they would a common criminal. Matthew was glad he’d saved his twin the shame of that. When he got to the platform he didn’t kneel. No, he would never kneel. He would stand proudly, even in death. Matthew’s mind ventured to his brother, his family, and his friends; to all the people he loved, including his own. He had to reassure them somehow. He turned to the camera filming the execution, and he smiled.
It’s all right, he told them. Everything will be okay, so don’t cry for me. I’m happy, I really am. Stay free, keep flying. I love you.
He did not fear the shot and felt no pain when the gun went off.)
Matthew was smiling when he flat lined.