A/N: This story is inspired by a Chinese Writing exam I had to sit for. The topic was "A Regretful Experience". This story is dedicated to my younger brother, to whom I owe a lifetime worth of apologies, and who will never find out about this unless he starts reading Suite Life fanfiction because I have no intention whatsoever of presenting this to him personally. I have an ego to keep.

A/N(2): Revised on slight illogicality due to inadequate inspection before publishing

Evanescence

Chapter One - Blow Out the Candle and Kiss Me Goodnight

Zack prided himself in a lot of things – his looks, his magnetism, his hand-eye coordination, his physical strength – but none makes him stand taller than his ability to articulate speed in the way that defies the language of ordinary man.

It was something that came to him naturally, a gift and talent that became the foundation to his personality. It was a skill first discovered when he fled from the infuriated kindergarten teacher who fell victim to a spit ball gone astray, then honed and sharpened through years and years of practice.

It became not only the source of his temerity, but a rather desirable reputation as well. The athletic team captain had promptly invited him into the family upon witnessing him successfully elude a soda-soaked vice captain on the very first day of middle school. While the rest of the team spent practice doing laps and racing each other, Zack worked on beating his 11.7 record on the track under close mentoring of the coach.

His best record, though, was the 9.97 one in the school corridor on the second floor.

There was a girls' bathroom involved.

For six months he was convinced that he could go no faster. One late afternoon, however, he emerged from the showers after basketball training and saw, from a small distance away, a silver Ford heading straight towards a blond figure buried in a book that looked suspiciously like himself.

A part was his mind was laughing at the ludicrous eccentricity that he would be seen anywhere captivated in a book at all, but his body had already sprung into action.

One day, he would look back at this moment, and he would be grateful that good reflex was in his nature.

He hurled himself at his brother, saw Cody turn towards him in shock, saw those dilated pupils reflect the tumult and horror that could only be when one was being rushed at by one's own older twin brother and a sixty miles-per-hour vehicle simultaneously.

They crashed violently, the momentum knocking both off their feet. Cody cried out, the book flying out of his hands. The car behind them screeched to a halt, scarring the road with streaks of artistic tire marks that would forever remind them of this incident, and for a moment Zack allowed himself to believe that everything was going to be alright.

Until, somehow, he landed on his arm at a rather disagreeable angle.

Zack wasn't sure how he ended up in that uncomfortable position; one portion of a second he was heading towards the ground with his little brother underneath him, another when they tumbled in a heap of tangled limbs and skin sticky with sweat, and the next finding his weight on top of a throbbing and protesting arm.

He hadn't noticed it at first; he was still giddy and dazed from the impact when he slammed into Cody – his brother had rather sharp-edged ribs – but even more so from the overwhelming realization of the true significance of his save: he had just rescued his brother from what was almost certain death, not to mention officially entitled to making Cody finish all future school assignments.

That was when he discovered his arm wasn't bending in the normal direction, and all hell kicked in.

Any sane person would proceed to scream bloody murder. Any sane person with a functioning nervous system would moan and screech for all their worth. This was one of those situations that you were excused for creating noise pollution and no one would ever hold you responsible over a destroyed eardrum, but even so Zack swallowed the pain of every shrieking particle of his entire being, forcing it down, down, down this throat, because…because come on, it doesn't really hurt that much, does it, so what is there to scream about?

He felt the uncomfortable feeling of his throat constricting as he managed to suppress the excruciating cry to a strangled whimper, small enough to go unheard. (Not that he would know; the blood pounding in his ears drowned out all other sounds.) He blinked the lights from his vision, gritting his teeth, yet even as he viciously bit down his lower lip, struggling against the overpowering urge, the searing agony was more than enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Don't…don't cry. Urgh..d-damn it.

Silently, he willed the pain to pass, as all pains did at their own pace.

The pain made its point by staying exactly where it was.

Zack was partially aware of that fact that there was a crowd forming around him. It made him more than slightly self-conscious to be on the ground, exposed and vulnerable, but a wave of nausea hit and he found them to be the least of his problems at the moment.

As far as he was concerned, the world needed to stop spinning, and somebody needed to remove those spotted spectacles from his face.

Zack remained conscious the entire trip to the hospital.

The medics insisted on putting him on a stretcher in case he was suffering from a concussion, despite him repeatedly stating that no, there has not been any hard impact on his head, and no, he sincerely did not feel like lying down. He had settled for sulking and refusing to respond through any means by gluing his eyes upon the ceiling of the ambulance.

Some time into the ride it dawned on him that he was no longer able to participate in the interschool basketball Spring Finals held on the following Saturday. He would be lying if said he had been practicing extremely hard for the occasion, but he had truly been looking forward it. He had gotten sick on the day of the Winter Final the previous year, and so this competition had been his chance to show the team the true extent of his finesse.

He wasn't too keen on waiting for another three months.

In fact, he was starting to feel slightly angry.

There was a hand that clutched his throughout the journey - a small, sweaty hand with cold fingertips and a horrible tremor. It squeezed his palm – his left, because his right arm has been completely wrapped up and fixed in front of his chest – and held on as if he was to disappear.

Zack told himself he was paying no attention to it.

His mother was there when they wheeled him out of the vehicle, the Boston Children's Hospital being ten minutes on foot from the Tipton. Residues of green face mask cream clung to the tips of her side strands. She looked exasperated, almost resigned.

"How are you feeling, darling?"

He rolled his eyes. His mother reached out and he took her hand. "Great," he stressed. "Better, if they let me get off this thing."

She sighed, flanking his stretcher. "What did I tell you about blindly running into the traffic?"

"No!" Cody exclaimed immediately, finally breaking through his extended silence. He was flushed, stiff, and the end of the syllable was cracked. Zack's left eyebrow twitched subconsciously.

Their mother turned, frowning, questioning. "No?"

Cody bit his lip. "It was me." If she was nonplussed, she did not show it. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

He raised his head timidly, trying in vain to hold her gaze. "He saved me."

Their mother ran a hand through her hair, still oblivious to half-dried unguent stuck to it. "I see." She pulled her younger son close and embraced him.

Zack snorted. Cody flinched and shied away.

"I'm sorry," his brother whispered. He sounded extremely tiny.

It did nothing but fuel Zack's temper; as hypocritical as it seemed, gone were the days a simple apology solved the problems of his world. "'Sorry' doesn't change the fact that I'm not playing in the Spring Final."

"Zack," his mother chided, gently yet firmly in the tone that only a mother was capable of, "while I'm proud of what you've done for your brother, that is no way to speak to him. He feels bad enough without you blaming him for what happened."

"Whatever. Let's just hope that he realizes I'm not going to live my life for the sole purpose of jumping in front of cars for him."

The small hand slipped miserably out of his.

Zack knew he was dreaming.

He could tell, partially because he was floating in mid-air, mostly because he was staring at a fully-grown man in a billowing purple cloak with hair that reached his back and fluttered as much as the mantle.

No man with any dignity or self-respect wore their hair like that. Not in the twenty-first century.

Zack supposed that he had nothing to lose. "Hi," he said, boldly, approaching the stranger, "who are you and what are you doing in my dream?"

The man, who previously had his back to Zack, spun to face him. The act itself was elegant and majestic, but the hair and cloak swished so dramatically Zack had to grip his mouth tightly to prevent himself from laughing. After all, it wasn't polite to snicker at others' taste in fashion.

The man was donned in a long sequined robe that reminded Zack of the regalia of the ancient mystical worlds he came across on television. He started to wonder if the man was of aristocratic descent, or even royalty.

"Morpheus," the man answered, lightly, and to Zack's astonishment the voice shook with power and authority despite its colloquial register. It made Zack feel being towered over more than he actually was. "Everyone receives a visit from me at least once a lifetime."

The oxymoronic nature of Morpheus's language took Zack by surprise. He was almost expecting the man to articulate in verse in the form of iambic pentameter and cross rhyme.

"Why?"

"Possibly because they feel the desire to make some adjustments in their lives." Again the man's intonation suggested noting but casualness, but there was an inexplicable weight in the words that made Zack cower slightly in unease. He proceeded with caution.

"Adjustments," he repeated, warily. "You're some random character my inner consciousness conjures up and you're saying that you have the ability to change how my life works."

"Perhaps," Morpheus's eyes flashed. "Perhaps not."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Unfortunately, said caution was unable to restrain his built-in attitude.

"Whether or not your way of life is changed depends entirely on yourself," the man explained distantly, "though I should wonder what a fortunate boy like you would want to adjust in his life."

Zack pondered. "I…" He sucked in a breath. "Right now, all I want is to play in the basketball championships on Saturday."

"What is stopping you?"

He groaned. "A broken arm. And to think I've been waiting for this day since forever!"

There was a long and pregnant pause, in which Zack fumbled around awkwardly and Morpheus was still.

"And you resent your brother for it."

Zack was about to protest, to insist that he didn't resent Cody at all, to defend him, to say that even if Cody ravaged his long-term attainment of becoming a social eminence he would still genuinely love him.

But – "You're right. I guess I do hate him. For so many things." For the first time in his life Zack found himself no longer on Cody's side. For the first time in his life Zack spoke ill of his brother without the guilt settling in his stomach. "Of all the twins I get stuck with…it's just…h-he's a threat to my social status!" My repute as an able athlete is the only thing I have, the only thing I can cling unto. "He drags me down. I…I don't really oppose him being there . I just wish he was better. Cooler. "

Zack was not a sentimental person. Appealing to people with his sensitivity has always been his little brother's job. He did not enjoy discussing his emotions, for he believed that his feelings were personal, sacred, and should not be shared. The sensation that a certain matter evokes in one's heart should be kept a secret – it is the only way to protect oneself.

And yet here he was, revealing his innermost pains and tribulations to this mysterious person with a questionable origin and empathy that may-or-may-not exist. What reason, he asked himself, did he have to justify his current action? He had spent all his life in hiding, and he liked it. What was he hoping to get in return? Sympathy? Advice? A hug for comfort he had been too proud to ask for from his parents? A kiss on the cheek to proof that he was cherished?

"I mean, he's my brother, I'm obliged to love him. I guess I only hate him for the things he does, for existing in the way he is now, but even then it's not his fault. He can't help being the way he is. It's what he was born with, it's what he is stuck with, and I can't blame him. I wish I could, then I wouldn't feel so terrible every time I loose my temper with him."

It's atrocious for one being to hate another for being alive.

"You wish for your brother to change?"

It was not a feeling of love or trust, but a need to be completely honest with Morpheus. "I'm not academically-gifted, and I can't live with myself being one of the faceless. Cody already has a clear destination in his life, and there's no reason why he shouldn't get there. I'm working towards my goal, too, just in another way. But -" He stopped, swallowing. "But -"

"Your brother is a hindrance?"

He nodded slowly. "I just wish he was a little different."

Morpheus's dark eyes seemed to bear right through Zack as the man considered him with the air of a judicious elder, despite his youthful appearance. "Do you truly mean what you say?"

Zack stood straight and looked right into the man's face.

"Yes."

And he has never been more substantial regarding anything in the whole of his existence.

It was three-forty in the morning and Cody was curled up on the marble floor of the suite's bathroom.

He had retrieved the book from the scene of the fateful car accident. It had slid out of his hands and fallen on the edge of the ditch. Half the pages were ruined by the mud and the words were no longer legible.

Cody told himself he wasn't that engrossed with the book anyway. He wouldn't have bought the graphic novel if it wasn't for his Literature teacher's enthusiastic recommendation.

The themes in Deogratias were downright unnerving, and too ghastly for his liking.

It was all too real for him.

With a passionate gesture he tore out all the pages from the spine and chucked them into the toilet bowl. He tossed the hard cover, now bare and worn, into the sanitary basket. He pressed down on the flush handle with more force than necessary, watching humorlessly as the swirling water gradually soaked through paper and engulfed them completely in a whirl of chaos and devastation.

He stood there for a few minutes. He observed the water return to its original, undisturbed state, as if they had been no previous disruption whatsoever.

Then Cody stumbled, collapsed beside the bathtub, and cried.

End of Chapter One