The Marriage Game

In Which We Check In With Alex

When Declan and Camila reached the end of the tunnels, the sun was rising. Camila had reached the point of exhaustion where she no longer thought or felt, moving sluggishly forward with as much focus as she could muster. She was dizzy, her vision clouded. All she wanted was to sleep.

They were on the outskirts of the rainforest. An overgrown dirt road ran beside the trees and a faded blue pick up truck rested on the tall grass.

Wordlessly, Declan passed her a sleeping bag from the back of the pick up. "We'll stop here," he said. "It's safer to travel at night and we need to sleep."

Camila didn't bother to reply. With single-minded determination, she grabbed her sleeping bag. Unfolded it, her fingers unsteady. Dropped it to the ground.

"Here."

Her eyelids drooping, Camila looked up.

Declan was shirtless.

She stared, dumbfounded. It didn't even occur to her to be embarrassed, she was so tired.

"Um." Camila's voice was dry. "What?"

"My shirt." She realized he was offering it to her, a simple black t-shirt. "I forgot pillows. Should be softer than the ground."

Goddess, did the man have a single ounce of fat on him? He was made of tanned muscle. Camila knew he was strong, but she hadn't really expected him to be quite so...built.

Faint freckles dappled across his shoulders. Thin scars crisscrossed his chest and lower abdomen.  His skin, slick with sweat, looked smooth as satin, stretched across muscles hard as rock.

"Um." Camila sat on the sleeping bag. It was barely softer than the rocky ground, but she didn't care. "Thanks?"

His eyes glinted with something like satisfaction. He tossed her the shirt. "Anytime."

Declan walked back towards the truck—to grab food maybe, or a phone or map—but Camila was already inside the sleeping bag, curled onto her side, her head nestled against Declan's shirt.

When Camila opened her eyes, she knew she was dreaming.

She stood in the ballroom. Everything was muted: the vivid blues and yellows of the skylight reduced to faded pastels, the violinist's solo barely audible. Her dress was a pale violet, the skirt so wide it felt like she was swimming in fabric.

Except for her, the massive room was empty.

"Camila?"

She turned slowly, her skirts heavy, dragging on the polished floor. There, across the room, his face smeared with dirt and blood, was Alex.

"You're dead." In the dream, she didn't feel sad. Just lonely.

"Not dead." He stumbled towards her. He carried most of his weight on his right leg, his left leg stiff and unmoving. The fabric of his left pant leg, just above his knee, was a dull brownish red. "Camila, I need you to listen to me."

The words sounded strange, like he was speaking underwater.

"I didn't get to say goodbye," she whispered, talking more to herself than to him.

"I'm not dead." He took another step forward, swaying on his feet. "Camila, I can't be here long. Come closer, I need to-"

"You are dead." Her voice broke. "And this is a dream. I'm never going to see you again."

"I've got a witch friend, that's how I'm here." He lurched forward, shaking her by the shoulders. His blue eyes burned into her. "I need to tell you something."

Camila sighed. "Okay."

Now that she'd agreed to listen to him, Alex stood still, his chest rising and falling gently, his mouth half open like he'd forgotten what he was going to say.

Her eyes burned. Camila swallowed. She wasn't supposed to cry. It didn't send a strong image. "...We're not going to finish the Marvel movies together." 

"Camila." Alex lowered his head, his blue eyes clear as a crystal ocean. "I promise you. We will get through Infinity War. And Black Widow. And whatever they're working on now."

But he was dead. Camila would watch the movies on her own, sobbing into her popcorn. "And we're never really going to be friends again," she whispered.

"Of course we are. We're already friends."

"And I should've trusted you. I shouldn't have forced you to tell me you were a vampire."

His finger touched her chin, tilting her face upwards to meet his. The tears streamed down her cheeks, rivers running from the corners of her eyes to her chin. 

Alex shrugged slightly. "It's not a problem. I should've- um. Not ignored you for five years."

"Yeah, that's pretty bad." Camila frowned. "You win."

"Is there a prize?"

"Bragging rights?" Camila sighed, a sudden wave of sadness washing over her. "You're dead. It doesn't matter."

"I'm alive, Camila. Are you safe? Where are you?"

Camila opened her mouth to answer-

"What the hell are you doing here?" The voice was deep and rough. Familiar. Camila looked around. Declan strode towards them, wearing a clean pressed navy suit. If the rest of the room was rendered in hazy, faint colors, Declan was in vivid detail, from the thin scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his chin to the engraved gold cufflinks on his jacket.

Quickly, Alex ran a hand down her side, looking for something. He found her pocket—since when did she have pockets?—and shoved something inside.

"Be careful, Camila. He's dangerous. You-" Then, like a puddle in the desert, Alex disappeared.

Declan jogged over to her. "What did he want?"

Camila didn't think. It was a dream, after all. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. 

"I don't know," she said when they finally broke apart.

It was quiet. The violin played faintly in the distance.

Too quiet. Something tugged at her memory: the smell of ash, a shrill scream- 

"Let's get out of here." Camila pulled at Declan's sleeve.

"You okay?" His brow furrowed into a worried line.

"I'm fine."

And she was, really. Dream Declan was perfect. He was just a guy who went to the gym a lot and she was just a girl who was really into knife throwing. There weren't any vampires or werewolves, any empty coffers or bad blood. But it wasn't real.

Nothing perfect ever was.

So... anyone think it's actually just a dream?

As always, thank you for reading! 

-Harley