Crash, Bang, the Temple Remix
by northern

Part of the We Invented the Remix challenge, original by Shine. Thank you to pierson and silveryscrape.

The cell isn't too bad. In fact, it's nice being away from his family and all the noise they make. His father told him before he went, "You'll miss us, but it's for your own good," but Justin hasn't missed them yet. He knows it's to prepare him for his life as a grown man — to mark the passing of his boyhood — and it feels right, fulfilling, in a way he can't imagine he would experience if he hadn't come here. It's only for two weeks, and they are almost up.

There are three rules at the temple for initiates. Read and contemplate the Scripture every day. Observe silence and isolation excepting the hours at mealtime and twilight. Don't open the door to anyone after nightfall. The rules are simple and easy to follow, and Justin appreciates them, even though the Scripture isn't very exciting reading and it's a little strange to go long hours without speaking.

His actual birthday is tomorrow. He was born at dawn, his mother tells him, and so there will be offerings to make. He'll shave his head and burn the hair, walk naked through the pool and stand before the fire. And then he will never be a child again.

He twists the sheet tighter in his hand, pulling it up under his chin. He was dreaming about something that's fading away now, something about rain or whispering, but he woke up. He should get back to sleep, because everything is quiet and there's no reason for him to be awake.

Except there the sound is again, a soft scratching on the door to his cell.

Justin freezes in his bed. There shouldn't be anyone there, not after dark. And it's not morning yet.

The scratching continues, and Justin listens and doesn't breathe. It sounds like metal on the wood, or maybe nails. A cold shiver running up the back of his neck makes his heart rush madly. There is a small space beneath the door, but nothing moves there that Justin can see. Not even a shadow from the steady, soft light of the corridor.

Justin slides the sheet away soundlessly and eases his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cold stone, but that only means his bare feet are silent on it. As he moves toward the door, the sound grows distorted. Maybe it isn't scratching at all, and the noise could be coming from somewhere else, the way it suddenly sounds as if it's rushing in from everywhere and nowhere like erratic gusts of wind. Justin presses his ear to the door and listens to the hollow, whispering rasp. It sounds almost like speech, in a way. As if, if he listened closely enough, he would be able to hear words.

It must be close to dawn. The light under the door is maybe a shade colder, clearer, when he looks down. Maybe people are preparing for the ceremony, and that's what he's hearing. Maybe it's only the wind, speaking with the help of a drafty corridor.

He stays absolutely still against the door, closing his eyes, and in the middle of a string of harsh whispering he hears it.

"Justin."

It's faint and distorted and echoes strangely, but it's his name, and it's coming from outside his door.

He pulls his hand back from the handle before he can touch it. He's not supposed to open his door while it's dark, and he suddenly remembers why. "You may hear noises in the night," they'd told him, and "It's dangerous to listen to the dead." Justin has his whole life in front of him. There are very good reasons not to touch the handle.

Still, there really are words spoken, clearer now. He doesn't even have to press his ear to the door to hear them. There is a mumbled mass of voices, weaving in and out from clear to inaudible in ceaseless discussion — so many voices now that it's hard to know which one to listen to as they stumble over each other to talk of battles and heroes, of bread and sweets, songbirds and dancing, the words all blending into each other, telling him about things he could have. They sound wild and reckless, as if they would rather tear him limb from limb than give him things. He stands there staring at the solid wood door, skin crawling with unease and thankful for the barrier. He's unsure whether to keep listening or to just go back to bed and wait for the real dawn. He needs his rest. Tomorrow will be long.

But something within him tells him he will be safe as long as he doesn't open the door. He can wait a little bit longer, see if there is anything he can make out in full. It would be good, to hear what the dead could say to him. They might know secrets. And he doesn't have to speak back, after all.

There is another sweep of whispering wind, merging the babbling voices into a softly surging background, like what Justin imagines the sea would sound like. One voice comes rolling in, a clearer one, and again what it says is "Justin."

Justin raises his head up a fraction, because there is something familiar about that voice, despite the way it sounds like it's on the other side of his door but not. Like someone he might have known a long time ago. He strokes his fingers across the dark, rough wood of the door, searching his memory for something that will help him decide who the voice sounds like.

"Justin."

And just like that, it slides into place, and Justin has to fight not to let the breath he sucks in escape again in the form of a name.

"Justin, you can hear me, can't you?"

He's dead and burned, and Justin tries to convince himself that years of arguing, laughing, singing with this voice are dead and burned too. That Chris, who knew all his secrets and remained his best friend, isn't on the other side of the door. Justin never thought he'd have a life without him.

"Justin?"

He drops his head, his forehead making a thunk when it hits the door. There is no way he can not answer. Everyone else he could have just ignored, but this is Chris. And he hasn't opened the door. He should be safe.

"Yeah." His throat hurts, saying it, but he has to.

"Justin." The voice behind the door sounds warmer. Just like he remembers it, and Justin leans against the door, remembering warm summer days lying in the hay, watching Chris's face and quick hands as he was telling him a story.

"Justin, I've missed you," Chris says. "It's been a year and a day, and I couldn't come to you, but this night I can. Please open the door."

He sounds warm and vibrant, almost alive, and Justin hurts so badly, because it's almost, and nothing more. He thought he'd been done with mourning, but hearing his voice again brings the pain out fresh.

"Chris, I can't." The cold is seeping into him from the stone floor, and he shifts his feet to make them warmer, but it's just as cold wherever he stands.

"I can't come to you if you don't open the door." Justin hears the echoes of all the things Chris has ever explained to him, taught him. "This is my only chance, and if you don't open the door, we will never be together. I missed you, Justin. I thought about you."

They were right when they told him that listening to the dead was dangerous.

"I missed you too." The pain in his chest will come up and choke him if he's not careful. There is a sound as of a small sigh from the other side, and Justin imagines what Chris might be doing, if he were on the other side of the door, alive. He would be picking at something, maybe his hair or his clothing, because his hands were never still. Chris was always moving. It had been so strange to see him laid out on the stone table, still as the stone, and pale. Cold.

"Justin."

Chris doesn't sound cold now. He sounds just the way he was, that last year, when they spent more time alone together. Long hours of quiet talk and touching.

"Yes," Justin says, pressing himself closer to the door, to hear everything he can. He thinks he can hear Chris breathing, which hurts in a whole new way. Maybe this isn't the end. Maybe there are alternatives.

"There isn't much time. Dawn is almost here. Please open the door, Justin."

Justin thinks about his life, and about the ceremony that will take his last bond to childhood away. He doesn't know what will happen if he opens the door. They didn't tell him that. His family would be disappointed, if he was gone at dawn. Or maybe he wouldn't be gone. Maybe he would just be lying on the floor, dead.

"Justin, I love you. Please."

He looks back at the shadows where the bed is. Any possibility that he will go back and wait for them to come at dawn with bells and white cloths is getting very distant. Chris seems so close. It's like he can feel the warmth of his hand through the thin barrier of the door. Feel his breath against the side of his neck. It hurts, that there isn't time.

The background surge of voices is becoming clearer again, restless and wild. If he waits, they will come and take Chris away with them again. And Justin will go on with his life, become a man, with work and a family of his own, and he will remember Chris, always, as part of his childhood.

He puts his hand on the door handle.

The first peal of a bell far away in the temple sounds, and Justin presses down, reflexively, and as the door swings open and the roaring whispers rise all around him he keeps his eyes shut tight. "Justin," he hears again, as familiar arms close around him. There is a burning touch to his lips, almost like a kiss, and the sensation spreads through him until he's tingling with it, restlessly hovering on the edge of movement but heavy and warm and held still. Then all of a sudden everything splinters into weightlessness, and he opens his eyes, and all he can see is blinding brightness.