9th Life

Ch. 5 To Sleep, To Dream

If cats could talk, they wouldn't. –Nan Porter

 Pleased with myself, I admired the tiki torches dotting the night, but couldn't seem to recall what Bastian and I had been celebrating.

Speak of the devil. He stepped onto the porch, glancing around before pulling me close, saying, "The only thing left seems to be fire." He brushed over the hollow of my throat and then slid down to the top button of my shirt, where he only paused a moment before liberating it.

It seemed I blinked, and his lips were brushing under my jaw, his fingers slipping to the button below. Then he stopped. Frowning, I opened my eyes to find his locked on mine. Then my eyes were drawn to the hand on his shoulder—Hudson's.

Bastian lingered a moment longer, brushing his thumb across my cheek before turning to face him. What happened next took a moment to register.

Hudson threw a punch that Bastian caught mid-throw. For the briefest moment I thought Bastian had crushed his hand because he stood frozen, eyes wide, mouth gaping—but no sound. A flash of red against his pale yellow shirt drew my eyes down to a growing crimson stain—from where Bastian had slipped four clawed fingers between his ribs.

My eyes snapped open, and I winced at the sharp pain lingering below my ribs, as if I'd been struck. It took as long to shake the sensation as it did for my eyes to adjust to the dark. Damn nightmares. Textbook explanations about dreams resolving issues from the day are cold comfort when your heart's pounding in your chest. And I dreamt more than most. Perhaps you have more issues.

When I could make out shadows, I noticed the tufted-eared cat standing at the foot of the bed. He must have heard me dreaming. Of course he had. With feline sensitivities, he could probably hear my normal breathing. He rubbed his head across my heel, his purr comforting yet still managing to sound like a question.

"I'm fine, really. Just a nightmare. I suppose I'm bound to have a few."

The cat... Bastian stepped over my foot and curled up next to my knees, letting his eyes drift closed. I realized I couldn't wrap my brain around thinking of this cat as him, the man. I found it taxing to try to correlate the two, so I let it go. At least the disturbing dream was fading.

I closed my eyes and listened to the hypnotic purr near my feet. Drifting off, I whispered, "I'm glad you're here."

***

The next time I cracked my eyes, sunlight was streaming through the curtains, and I had to take a moment to process that the last thirty-six hours had actually occurred. I smiled, stretched, and then caught myself before I could kick the cat. A quick glance around the room though confirmed I was alone.

After getting dressed and employing a comb, I peeked into the living room. It was empty and Bastian's clothes were missing. In the kitchen (also empty), I poured a glass of orange juice before making my way to the porch.

I found Bastian sitting barefoot on the top step with a glass of water untouched beside him. Dropping next to him, I followed his gaze out into the trees. He seemed tired, and I suddenly wondered if he'd slept well. I was so comfortable with cats, it had been easy to overlook that he was in my bed. Did you consider he may have found you a little harder to ignore?

Not comfortable with that angle, I asked, "So do you find you sleep better as man or cat?"

His gaze reeled in to the step below us, but didn't bother focusing. "I sleep better not alone." He reached for my hand and pulled it to his forehead, propping his elbow on his knee. I'd become so used to him looking me in the eye that it was striking now that he wasn't.