I don't like darkness; will you be it for me?

"Hey," the brown-eyed boy begins to whisper, "can you hear me?" There's a silence in his room. There’s no reply. He turns over in his bed to look at the window and sees the many bright stars in the black night sky and wonders if one of them will fall so he can wish for something. The moon, in its full form, glances at this whole town, as if it is the higher guard for them — for the people who sleep peacefully in their houses, who watch their best or worst dreams, who have to wake up in the morning to go to their work just like his father. The moon... The boy thinks it has the best place; it hangs above them all, alone, no one and nothing can touch it, so it can just be there and spread its warm white light through his bedroom. He wishes he were somewhere next to it. So the moon could gift to him its flickering glow. The boy sighs. He needs to fall asleep because he has to go to the school, needs to learn some new things; he doesn’t really want to, though. Or rather, he likes something new that is offered for his large curiosity; he likes it when his mom wakes him up with that gentle smile of hers, when there’s a tasty breakfast sitting on the table in the kitchen, some kind of eggs or pancakes, which have always been his favorite. He likes the time when his father takes him to the school, since they talk too much about little nothings that don’t really matter, but still being is a routine. He likes to be in the classes, but only because he has a friend he is hanging out with, not because of some interesting threads, dull teachers’ voices, and their pretending to be really into teaching strange kids and all that. These guys do their jobs, don’t they? So, yeah, maybe he likes the time between the school itself and classes. Besides, he is a little boy. He wants to run around the town and play and get many, many scratches from climbing up on trees, while the branches hit his cheeks, arms, and legs, as the rough bark scraps his palms. All while he’s looking for new places. That would be more fascinating than just sitting at the desk and listening to 'one plus six equals seven.' Perhaps he envies the moon. It has all the time in the universe; it can spend its time however it wants, and it can be wherever it wants, its life has been in the night. When most people aren’t awake. When beautiful lights cover the whole town, despite the frightening darkness everywhere (although he admits that the lights wouldn’t be so visible without it), when all living beings see dreams, when a silence stretches through— The silence... there’s still the silence in his room. He hopes there will be an answer. The boy doesn’t like to be in the darkness. The blackness is pressing on him, as though the walls move, getting closer and closer as if they’re full of determination to squish him. He doesn't like it, especially when he’s alone. When even that moonlight is out of help. The brown-eyed boy hates these moments. In fact, he hates almost all nights, and the little boy knows almost all kids are scared of the dark, and he also knows that there’s nothing in the shadows, in the darkest corner of the room, in the blackest spot in the house, but... the brown-haired boy still is scared of it. Sometimes he has someone in this nighttime. Someone he can talk with until the boy drifts off; someone whose voice always puts him at a peace, whose tone is smooth enough to make him listen to the nameless stranger’s stories, tales, and legends about some old war that was so, so long ago. That flared between ancient beings, celestial beings, so powerful, so beautiful things. The war was lasting, was bloody, was violent, and there were too many fallen warriors, tears, screams... Some of them lost their sisters and brothers, some of them betrayed their kin, left their so-called family. As this someone says, this stranger had become an enemy to all of them, so now the Nameless lives alone, lingering in the thickest shadows, wielding the darkness, and now — shoving the boy’s fear. Maybe this someone hides something, doesn’t tell the whole truth, but it doesn’t feel important. The boy doesn’t even know who — what — it is, if the stranger is real, if there was a mythical war between the Nameless’ cousins, but the brown-eyed boy doesn’t care. A few months ago, the moon’s light showed one shadow writhing and squirming and flickering. It happened in the same bedroom where he is right now. A glittering, ethereal mass gathered and grew until it turned into... an extremely thick, black shadow. In the opposite corner of his room. There was nothing unnatural about it, just a darker spot. Nothing against nature. Maybe it was only in his head, only his imagination; maybe his skittish thoughts decided to finally break out of his mind to become even bigger, even heavier, to paint the very air with their bizarre energy, to summon something that would calm down his brain, would bring peace to his soul, would tell him tales so he could breathe steadily again. Probably he should be scared. He probably should go and tell his parents about the whole thing, but— But the brown-haired boy thinks it’s not too bad, not too terrible; it is just some voice, just a voice! He’s not even sure if it’s the truth; it doesn’t hurt him in the reality, though. The little boy doesn’t think it’s an evil creature emerged from the very darkness. So, he continues to listen to the stranger. But, right now, he listens to no one. And that’s why he can’t sigh in relief, because there’s the silence all around him, and there’s nothing he can do with it — only lay and wait for a change. He wishes he wasn’t alone in the current moment; the starlight is getting pale as the floor becomes the black lake, only without the water itself. There is no reflection, no glitter, only a blackness, a fathomless chasm. He has no doubt that if he put his feet on the surface, it would turn out to be nothing short of an endless abyss, icy. How could his bed not have fallen already? And, at this point, the ceiling seems to be the same sky, the night sky, where, somehow, all the bright dots, all the white places, have faded. It’s okay, though; it’s not as frightening as faceless walls sliding closer to smash him, to make him into a mess. And it feels like he can’t breathe in already, as if tears that show out of his eyelids burn and sting on their way down from his temples, and he hasn’t any idea why it is so. There's some feeling in his chest, something eating him down to the core, squeezing his heart, forcing him to swallow a big lump in his throat and sniffle incessantly. Nuzzling into his fluffy blanket, the boy tries to figure it out, to figure this emotion out, to try and tell what it is. But the longer he thinks about it, the more this feeling absorbs him. He sobs quietly in the end, curls into himself, and wants that voice to speak again. Maybe that he is a little kid yet is the reason he doesn’t understand that it is and was a longing; longing for that someone. For a describable thing causing ease and warmth and comfortable, possibly even relief, because at those moments he has another person (he prefers to call the stranger like that) to chat to. Although the Nameless still hasn’t shown to him. The boy really wants this someone to emerge from those thick, black shadows, although the stranger never did. Perhaps it’s right — maybe the boy shouldn’t know how this someone looks. What if it turned out to be a monster or some humanoid thing. He couldn’t handle it at all. His imagination is painting scary pictures inside his mind already, making the air thicken even more. That’s when something changes in the atmosphere, like a breeze blows through the entire bedroom, although the windows are closed: winter is cold this year. Opening his eyes, the sight of everything is blurred due to the foggy veil of tears, the brown-haired boy steals a glance around. But he sees nothing strange or something out of place or anything else. Just his room, the same blinds on the window, the same design of his bedroom, there’s nothing else, no one else. But he can feel this difference. As if the skin vibrates at the barely-there buzz filling the room up, as if the environment shifts, giving spare place to cozier, more comfortable, more familiar feeling, pouring warm sensation through his rib-cage, bringing the lovely cover of peace to him. An irrational smile stretches the kid’s lips. Before the boy can mumble his initial question, the rumble cuts off any of his words. "I can hear you, Stiles," the voice says, the tone in it seems to be spoken by an adult, somehow reminiscent of his own but very, very grown-up and deep. What a nonsense. Maybe this is why the kid isn’t sure if this all is real, if it’s only his brain and childish imagination. Maybe it is, maybe it’s not, he couldn’t care less when the purring whisper comes, echoing from all around and from out of nowhere at the same time. "Did you cry, kid?" The brown-eyed boy doesn’t know why the Nameless calls him this way or how he always can tell what the little boy’s mood is. While the first one is more or less understandable (very possibly that the stranger is far older than him; he has a privilege), the second one was and is the best thing about him, since the brown-haired boy every time gets his comfort, his reassurance, and it’s nice. It's nice because the boy feels someone’s support and attention. The little boy loves attention and care directed to him, and he all of this time gives it to the boy. "Was there a reason for that?" the stranger asks softly a little bit later, as though he does care about this matter. Looking up at the window again, the boy, whose real name isn’t Stiles, drinks in the dull moonlight, calms himself as he’s trying to come up with anything he could answer with. He wouldn’t like to be even more of a child in the eyes of the nameless person, and he doesn’t want to tell him that he missed him and his fond tone: it’s a little bit embarrassed to admit something like this... but it would be quite disrespectful if he didn’t reply. So he lets out a shuddering breath and closes his eyes tightly as he says: "I’m— it’s... nothing." There's a hum sounds in the air, low and gentle, somehow soothing out his worries and unsettled nerves. And the boy has to hold back a whimper as the sudden noises of the rain, of soft pattering on the glass, startle him, because it all means only one thing — the moon gets clouded, and there’s no way the bright light can take a peek into the bedroom through the strips of blinds. He feels an itch in his throat, just about ready to burst out into feverish sobs, but he’s a big boy, and big boys don’t cry, so he has to be like one of them. He shouldn’t— shouldn’t... It's not possible, but he is aware of a kind of solid form of a palm on his shoulder, stroking him steadily up and down. When he opens his one eye to glance at the place where, as he supposed, someone must have just touched him, the brown-haired boy sees no one, nothing. He would shake if he didn’t catch the soft tone of the voice. "Now, now, little one," the Nameless coos, soothing out his arm, while the fingers travel down on his skin, tickling and cool. Then the other hand comes down to the boy’s forehead, brushing away his slightly long hair, the thumb softly drawing circles on his temple, sending prickling goosebumps down the little boy’s spine. "You know," the familiar voice begins to speak, sighing quietly, "there’s nothing wrong with being scared of darkness." The brown-eyed boy shoots his eyes all around his room, all at once startled because the stranger somehow has found out his fear, though he hasn’t told anyone about it, not even his parents, so no one alive should know. How does he know it? Isn't it so obvious? How— "How do you—" "It’s all fine; everyone has one or another weakness, fear, or something else. It would be weird if you didn’t have one." He pauses for a long moment, as though he went into a deep musing, then he adds. "Or, at least, that’s what people think." The words are even, steady, causing him to close his mouth tight, look down at the covers of the bed, and focus on the soft voice and the meaning itself. The last phrase caught his attention, and now the boy wonders what it would mean exactly, but the moment he steels himself enough to ask, the Nameless continues unwaveringly. "The main thing is that you’re accepting it and trying to fight back with it, without fearing to admit that you’re afraid of something, that you’re not the best at something, and working on it, trying to work on yourself," the Nameless says. The speech makes his heart skip a few beats, his breath hitch. He’s the one who tells him that it’s not bad and shameful if you’re scared of something, like he has heard from people in the school. The Nameless says it’s okay, if you work on your fear, on yourself... And he has to try and find the source of the voice, since he needs to look into those eyes to see the sincerity there, because the person says next... "It’s not something you should be ashamed of, kid. Because, look, you and I are talking with each other in the complete dark. You’re already doing very well, aren’t you?" "Because you are with me right now," the little boy argues promptly, blowing a short huff as he complains. "I’m not doing well when I’m alone. And everyone would rather laugh at me than... than help me to cope with..." He's gently but surely interrupted. "You are not alone, Stiles. You have parents and a friend, haven’t you? If you all are together, you don’t need to be afraid of anything. But. But if someone close to you laughs at you for it... then you should know that they don’t deserve you and your friendship." Throughout all of that, the hand on the boy’s forehead strokes him, brushing through his soft hair, while the other one on his arm runs down to his back, gentling him. Outside, it's still raining. The lights of the town are blurred by many, many droplets falling from those dark gray clouds above the people’s houses, which obscures the entire moon and its blessing glow. It’s not so scary now. The walls themselves don’t look like a narrowing trap that yearned to splatter him on them, and the eternal abyss seems like a normal floor again. The brown-eyed boy can see clearly and without a fear of something chilling down to the very bones, freezing the soul; there is just his old and kind room in front of him, nothing bad or evil or unusual. Except... Except this voice and these phantom touches. An unexpected swish of his blanket snaps the boy back to the present, as if the Nameless pulls it further to him, crafting a sort of cocoon all over him. This strange care leaves the little boy off-balance yet completely thankful for the gentle gesture to ask questions or to protest. He's trying to process all of the spoken words, to memorize whatever it is, to mull it over. And maybe he wonders, just a little bit, why this invisible stranger told him it, why he cares about it, where he came here from, and what’s the reason that he’s not showing himself to the boy? He wasn’t even aware that he had so many questions and thoughts about this whole matter until he really reflected on it. Perhaps he could voice one of them, some... "Why—" How should he put it? The boy has no idea what he should say, his mouth is fixed in an open position and doesn’t try to move anymore, his eyes are running all over around, wishing to stumble across on what, as he guesses, has been talking to him for the last five months. And he can’t remember the unnoticeable person telling his name to him, so the brown-haired boy still doesn’t know what he can call him. Luckily, he’s saved from telling, as the low murmur sounds in the space of his almost empty room. "Maybe I just understand you and there’s nothing more in this," the mystery person says casually, as if he knows exactly what went through the boy’s head, as if he does understand him, does sympathize with him. As if there’s really nothing big about it, although the little boy can’t find the reason for it, can’t get what the Nameless is talking about. How can he understand him? How can someone invisible and ethereal be afraid of something? It’s out of his mind, and he all at once wants to find it out. He has no clue where to start from and, the most important thing, for what he needs to know it. There's no way the stranger would give him answers. It's definitely a fruitless idea. "You..." the boy starts awkwardly, cutting himself off when he feels like it’s better not to ask, just to leave it alone; he’s too curious for his own good, though. "You have some fear too?" The hidden-from-view person sighs, a cool breeze fanning the top of his head, but it doesn’t seem to be exasperated or frustrated or discontent, more like he suspected that the brown-eyed boy would ask it, and now he’s considering that. "As I said, everyone has a fear," he responds, and this is what the boy expected, something very vague, making his brain work an eleven to guess what it would mean exactly in their case. To try and guess a possible hint between the words. It takes a long moment to hold back sour disappointment — it’s alright that the Nameless is not eager to share such an inner thing with someone else, with a kid — before the voice speaks again, secretively. "Yes, I do, too." The air rips out of the boy; he hoped he would have responded, not that he was really looking forward to it, but, at this moment, he’s glad that he’s not the only one in this matter. The brown-haired boy is not quite sure why it’s so important to him, but he likes the feeling of the support from someone else, especially when he’s treated as an equal. It melts some painful ice in his heart as much as the sun turns the snow into water, and these simple words warm him from the inside out. A stray idea hits his mind, something like a silly kind of plan. If he’s so interested to know what the fear the Nameless has, he can try and talk about his own and maybe, maybe, get the information that he needs so, so much. So... He parts his lips to start speaking, but... The little boy hears a chuckle. Low and quiet enough to not miss it. It’s so full of genuine amusement the brown-haired boy is just... overwhelmed with surprise and excitement because— why’s he laughing? What’s he laughing at? Didn't he— Didn’t he read his thoughts? Oh no... "Well, little one," the ethereal person begins to speak, very amused and kind, and puts away his hand from the boy’s back, leaving a cool trace on his right shoulder-blade. "As I know by all means tomorrow is Tuesday, so you, kid, need to sleep well so—" "No!" It breaks out of his mouth so sharp and pitiful the boy has to bite down on his tongue to stop any sounds or little noises, because his reaction wasn’t normal; it was unusual for him. And the little boy squirms, trying not to feel ashamed of himself. The pattering of the droplets over the glass of the window becomes so distinct that the boy can’t hear anything else but the flat rain, and so he shudders when there’s a sudden harsh rustle next to him. Then the mattress pushes down in front of him, as if this someone had kneeled down against the bed and rested on it. But there’s still no one in the room. Many emotions and many feelings are threatening to choke him, tightening his throat, eating him up; a strange feeling appears inside his chest again, stinging under his eyelids. Apparently, he won’t cope with it, will burst out with tears, and won’t find out the reason for this. It all is getting too much... The hand on the little boy’s forehead, stroking him up and down, shortly and slightly, slides to his hair before the voice cuts through the air and cuts his thoughts off. "C’mon, big boy, look at you. You’re so grown and strong enough already, no monster will dare to fight with you," the Nameless encourages him with absolute joy in his smooth, quiet voice, but without mockery. Apparently feeling a still-present tension vibrating in the boy, he decides to add for a good measure. "Besides, I’m here with you. With me, there's nothing you can be afraid of." The boy sniffs and sighs a shuddering breath at the whispering and warm words, at the clear and reassuring message in them as the streetlight next to his house turns on outside the window, and its yellowish gleam illuminates his ceiling. The droplets on the glass creating a beautiful pattern above his head with their play of light and shadow. The brown-eyed boy assumes if he glanced up, he would see them shining on the glassiness. Feeling an inner battle inside himself, he tries to choose: to look or not to look. The boy looks up at the glass all the same, and, yeah, there’s a beautiful picture on the window. The tiny droplets are quite similar to the very crystals, only without the sharp edges, glittering and reflecting and dripping down. They blur the view of the town from the outside, and the cloudy sight of it somewhat puts the brown-haired boy at the calm, so he just nods, not quite knowing to whom or what and for what. "Well done," the voice speaks up yet again, so softly and fondly, as the boy fumbles with his blanket, pulling it in and tucking it all around himself. As soon as the little boy settles down in his place, the Nameless seems to shift slightly, placing his palm on the back of the boy’s head, carding through the short strand of the brown-eyed boy’s hair. The touch is light and gentle, soothing. "Now, as I said earlier, you need to sleep well so you can wake up rested and go to the school." Before the little boy can formulate his protests, the ethereal stranger — if he can call him this way, considering that he’s been chatting with the Nameless for months — speaks over him immediately. "I’m not going to leave, don’t be worried, little one. I'll be here." "You promise?" the little boy asks so quietly it’s almost inaudible, hoping the Nameless will stay here, stay with him, for a night, hoping for an answer that he wishes for secretly. "I promise," the voice assures him immediately, and this steady reassurance unfurls something tight and cold, gnawing at him from the inside. Then the weight on the mattress eases off, allowing it to regain its shape, though the covers aren’t crumpled. Then there's a momentary silence that follows — no sound, no swish, no rustling. And the next second, as if the air itself changes its atmosphere, the rain trails off, leaving the town to languish in the light drizzle, and the voice splits the room apart once again. "Rest, kid. I’ll stand guard over your dream." And these words are so genuine and sure and heavy that the brown-eyed boy just... There’s no way he can explain his feelings right now, but he can say that it’s so nice and warm, and he’s completely smitten. His heart races even faster against his lungs; he can feel it pounding in his throat, the meaning of the spoken phrase sinks into him, spreading an unfamiliar warm sensation through his chest, sending a shiver down his spine — the boy has never ever felt this way before. So full of gratitude, of relief that he doesn’t have to be afraid of anything, since he’s protected by someone, something, who’s invisible and indestructible, and so this Nameless can defend him. It means a lot. The boy isn’t sure if there’s anything in those thick shadows, though. And he needs to shove away every doubtful thought, because he wouldn’t like to know that it might not be real, might turn out to be only his imagination or a dream or something else. He loves the thought that he has someone special, someone who is his and only his. Even if for some time. It's a very mind-boggling and weird thought. Maybe he shouldn’t feel that way... His wandering is stopped when the low, familiar murmur begins to speak. And the boy cracks into a wide smile, nuzzling into his puffy pillow, listening gladly. "Once upon a time, when Tenko turned five hundred years old, all the Kitsune gathered together around an ancient tree, a magical and beautiful tree, that was as tall as the very that Empire State Building of yours, as almost three of them in fact, to offer their congratulations and respect to the celestial being. Even the Nogitsune itself condescended to join in..." This tale is as fascinating as all the previous ones, and the little boy listens attentively, sinking into every word, every tone, and every note shifting at this or that moment as the ethereal Nameless narrates, sharing with him something the stranger knows himself; the voice is lulling, quiet, and slightly raspy, imitating each of the characters mentioned in the story, creating the atmosphere of those times. It's the most favorite part of the whole thing when the story is told by such a person who can retell it in such an interesting way that the one who listens to them can dive into the point, can drink in every detail of that complete picture. Maybe even to imagine themselves as someone from there. It seems to the boy like the Nameless has been in that land himself, as if one of those beings he’s talking about is him himself — the way he talks about what happened on that momentous day, the way he repeats the character’s lines exactly and without stumbling, as if he was with all of them back then, the way he accurately describes that place, those landscapes, Kitsune’s attires, their speech, their traditions... all of this screams to the little boy that these thoughts are the truth, that this invisible someone is the Kitsune. And the idea is extremely exciting, sending all of the boy’s senses into a frenzy, because if it’s true, then he has a celestial thing at his side; he somehow has the honor to meet it, to talk to it. Who else could boast of such a thing, huh? And maybe it means that he is special. But probably it’s just his mind along with his imagination. But he can’t think about it any further; the voice is too tempting to not surrender to it, so the brown-eyed boy throws his mind-wandering away and closes his eyes. And now it’s all too easy to drift off into the dream, where he will be walking with the most gorgeous strangers wearing the finest clothes he’s ever seen, will be talking in the language he doesn’t know and won’t know after, and chatting with someone who’s garbed in a shiny, white dress, looking far too beautiful for the normal people. He will meet someone who is different from that whole crowd gathered around a very long and wide table; this stranger will seem too familiar to the boy, but he won’t place why. And he will see a tree, a large and strange tree, the trunk of which would be so wide and big he would suspect there were small apartments inside it, the girth of which would be endless, and the crown would be so high from the ground that it would seem to reach up to the very sky. He will dance, sing, and eat some strange food he has never had back at home, and the brown-haired boy will be so happy he won’t want to wake up. But now he’s slowly falling asleep, cradled by the murmuring voice from somewhere above him and from around him at the same time, by someone who’s standing guard over his dream so he can sleep peacefully, without worrying about anything. The boy smiles, slipping his hand under the pillow, feeling safer than ever before at this point; it’s extraordinary. The boy sighs, squirming a little bit under the blanket, feeling freer in his own bed, finally able to relax. The boy settles down, not fearing the chilling darkness all around him at this moment. The voice continues to sound low and quiet in the space of his bedroom. The Nameless continues to tell the story. The little boy falls into a dream. The little boy sleeps.