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“I had a weird dream last night,” Marche told his brother as they sat at their kitchen table.
Doned looked up from his eggs. “Oh yeah?”
“I dreamt that Ritz . . .” Marche swirled his spoon around through his oatmeal. “I dreamt that Ritz killed me.”
“That’s not a very nice dream.”
Marche shook his head. “No, it’s not. And . . . and It’s been giving me the chills ever since I woke up.”
Doned shrugged. “Maybe it means something.”
“Like what?” Marche put his spoon down on the napkin next to his bowl of oatmeal and looked up at his red-haired brother.
“I don’t know . . . maybe that Ritz is mad at you?” Doned scowled. “Did you forget her birthday or something?”
Marche chuckled and shook his head, “No . . . I don’t think it’s like that. It--”
Doned interrupted. “Did you say something that offended her? You do that a lot by accident.”
“No, it--”
“Maybe . . .” Doned put his finger on his chin in thought. “Maybe she’s mad at you because you’re oblivious to the fact that she likes you.”
“Ok, now you’re being silly.” Marche huffed and rapped his fingers on the table. There was no way that him and Ritz could be together, not anymore.
“Oh! Maybe--”
This time Marche interrupted, blurting out what he had been trying to say all along.
“Doned! My dream was in Ivalice!”
Doned put both of his hands down on the table. “You mean . . . dream Ivalice?”
“Yes.” Marche clenched his hands into fists. “Ritz was dressed as a judge and . . . she killed me . . .”
“Dressed up as a judge? That’s . . . surreal.”
Marche rolled his eyes. “Surreal is an understatement.”
Both boys were quiet for a minute, until Marche cleared his throat before speaking.
“Doned, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.” Doned smiled and went back to picking at his eggs while listening.
Marche clenched his fists tighter then relaxed to lay his open palms on the table. The question he had had been a long time coming . . . it was something that Marche had been too scared to ask because he loved his brother.
“Do you hate me, Doned? Do you hate me for bringing us back to this Ivalice?”
Doned’s response was immediate, like he had had the answer tucked away forever.
“I don’t hate you, Marche. You’re my brother. I can’t hate you.”
“But . . .” Marche bit his lip. “But you could walk in dream Ivalice . . . you had freedom there! You--”
“Marche! It was a dream. Nothing there was real. In the end, the entire world was simply a figment of our collective imaginations.” Doned slumped his shoulders, “Sure, it was nice to walk, but . . . it wasn’t reality. What good is anything if it’s not real?”
“It felt real.” Marche said.
“Most dreams do.”
Marche took a deep breath and stood up, picking up his oatmeal as he did. He walked to the refrigerator, put the bowl in it, then made his way over to Doned. He patted his head as he walked by and smiled.
“I’m going for a walk. Tell mom where I am.”
Doned nodded. “Okay.”
Marche pulled his jacket and scarf on then walked to the front door, only to stop before leaving.
“Doned?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Doned twisted in his wheelchair to look at Marche behind him, “Thanks for what?”
“Not hating me.” Marche shot him a smile then left, leaving Doned alone in the house.
Stupid Marche, he thought, how could I hate him? His life has been about sacrificing for me!
Doned turned back to his eggs and sighed. It had been at least four months since they came back from Dream Ivalice and in that time Marche had changed slightly. He and Mewt were hanging out more and he was also spending more time with Doned. Marche seemed to care more nowadays, if that was at all possible.
But . . .
Marche had always had a problem with keeping important things pent-up inside. Like this ‘dream’ he had . . . if Doned wasn’t his brother, chances are that he would have told anyone about it. He didn’t even give Doned that great of a rundown . . . just glossed over it, like he was making conversation. Doned knew better: any dreams of Ivalice were rare now and needed to be discussed. He and Ritz had had a many conversations mulling over her dreams--it was one of the big reasons that they started becoming friends.
Oh Marche . . . Doned thought and pushed away from the table, wheeling himself to go get dressed.
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