He had a dream of him reaching out, standing in a golden field. The sky was bright blue and the wind was blowing lightly, playing with his hair. He looked happy.
"Come on." he said, his hand extended to him. "It's not that far from here."
They laid on the ground staring up at the sky. He felt warm next to him. Safe. Nothing else mattered in those few minutes. They both carried the scars, and had done so for so long, but on that day it was all forgotten. He almost could have called it home.
But his real wounds had started to ache and he could smell the iron in the air. Claude hadn't noticed yet but it was only a matter of time. He was so tired of hurting him.
In the summer of 1997, over a decade before the end, Charlie knew what he had to do.
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