**
Hugo saw himself standing in a wind tunnel. He was grinning like an idiot. He was content. This was the best place in the world and everything was so clear and hopeful. The him that was observing all this realized, belatedly, that his hair was barely stirring and the fierce wind, colored interesting shades of purple, was swirling around him; he was the center of a colorful tornado. Outside of the wind tunnel a pretty woman with black hair pulled into a ponytail and a white lab coat was looking on, blue eyes bright and curious.
And then Hugo woke up. He slowly opened his eyes to the dim, gray light spilling from his window, reluctant to let go of that sense of euphoria. Eventually he sat up; his bedroom looked like a modest windstorm had passed through it. Hugo blinked stupidly at the destruction in his room. Slowly he swung his legs over the side of his bed, careful not to step on the sheets of music notes that had scattered across the floor. What had happened? His room was a mess, more so than normal. Had he caused the destruction?
Hugo’s alarm went off, tearing his thoughts from the state of his room to the need to get ready. He was going to have lunch with his brother. He’d worry about cleaning up the room later.
Lewis was punctual as always. “Did you just wake up?” He asked when he saw his younger brother, a note of mocking in his voice.
Hugo shrugged, yawning a little, “Maybe.”
His brother shook his head, and they both walked back to his car. “I can’t believe you sometimes.”
“You’re just jealous.”
His brother snorted as they got into the car, and then he pulled away from the curb, lurching into Seattle traffic. “How’s work?”
Hugo glanced out the window, sighing slightly. “The same.” But things weren’t the same, he wasn’t the same. Hugo opened his mouth, then closed it again. Could he tell his brother what he’d been seeing? How would he explain it? Lewis would probably think he was just taking drugs again. Hugo’s shoulders slumped at that. He’d ruined everything in college; his career as a pianist, his chance at a degree, his mom and Roger had been so disappointed. He’d never do it again, but it was too late, the mistake had already been made. He was good at making mistakes.
“Are you looking for another job? You can’t stay at the music store forever.”
Hugo kept his eyes glued to the moving scenery. What was wrong with staying there? It paid the bills and he had plenty of time for band practice and hanging out with his friends. Not that he wanted to do that much lately, the dreams, or whatever they were, were taking up lots of space in his thoughts and he was starting to get nervous about touching people. He never saw anything good.
“What is wrong with you?” Lewis asked, a note of irritation in his voice.
Hugo jerked into an upright position, glancing at his brother, “Nothing?”
Lewis snorted, “What is going on in that head of yours? You’re spacing more than normal.”
Hugo looked away again, “Nothing, I’m just tired.” And having visions. He could tell his brother, Lewis knew everything about him, he would know that Hugo wasn’t lying about what he saw. There must be some way to prove it too. He had to tell someone, he couldn’t keep it to himself. Maybe his brother could tell him where to look to find out what caused the explosion he saw so often in his dreams; he was a detective for god’s sake! Hugo opened his mouth to let the words out, but he couldn’t force them past his throat. It was insane. He was insane. He saw the past and the future. No one would believe him, not even Lewis. He was alone.
“Haven’t been sleeping well? It’s probably all that coffee you drink.”
Hugo didn’t respond. That killed the conversation till they got to the restaurant. Once there, between ordering and eating, they made small talk. Lewis talked about work, and his most recent girlfriend, which Hugo tried to be interested in hearing about, but she sounded like a ditz and he knew it wouldn’t last very long. And then Lewis abruptly changed the subject to one of his favorite topics, nagging, “Call mom. She keeps asking me how you’re doing.”
Hugo rolled his eyes. “I will. I’ve just been busy.”
“Bullshit. You sleep till noon or later every day, you can’t possibly be busy.”
“I have band-”
“Will you just call her? I’m sick of her asking me to check up on you.”
“Yeah yeah,” Hugo sighed. He wasn’t trying to avoid his mother or anything; it’s just that whenever he thought to call her, it was always too late or he was busy.
“She wants to have us over for dinner on Sunday.”
Hugo tensed up, glancing around the restaurant, wracking his brain, “Did I miss someone’s birthday?”
“Not this time. Mom just wants to have us over.”
Hugo’s body relaxed, “That’s cool. I think I can do that.”
“Good.” Lewis set down his fork, “Look, don’t get pissed, but I don’t think I’m going to go see Dad this year for Thanksgiving. I’m sick of-”
Hugo dropped his fork “What?”
“Will you just listen? I’m tired of his bullshit. I don’t understand why you-”
“No! He’s our father, and we’re going to go see him. He needs us to-”
“You go see him. I can’t stand the-”
“Don’t you dare!” Hugo exclaimed right over what his brother had been trying to say.
“Hugo, why do you-”
“Shut the fuck up!” Hugo’s declaration came with a burst of wind that shoved their plates off the table so that they could crash loudly on the floor, the glasses spraying liquid all over the white table cloth.
The restaurant fell silent. Hugo stared wide-eyed at the new wrinkles in the tablecloth. Had he….?
“That was weird,” Lewis said after a long moment, glancing towards the door. It wasn’t open, so he couldn’t calculate where the sudden draft had come from. Suddenly Hugo realized all eyes were on them and he shrank down, painfully aware of the fact that he’d been swearing loudly and now their table was a mess. He scrambled out of his chair and started to pick up the broken pieces of the dishes. A couple waiters were there a moment later, waving him away. Hugo sat back down awkwardly, unable to look at anything but his hands.
Once the mess was cleared and Lewis paid the check, they walked back to the car. “Are you done throwing your fit?” His brother asked, a measure of irritation in his voice. Hugo, who was watching the ground, looked off to the side, shoving his hands in his pockets. Lewis sighed, “Ok, we’ll go.”
Hugo was barely listening, his mind replaying the argument in his head, and the moment the burst of wind had blown across the table top. In that moment he’d felt perfectly calm, but the feeling had quickly faded. The wind tunnel dream came back to him, vivid and clear. He could almost feel the still air enveloped by the streaks of color.
It couldn’t be possible. But he’d learned to tell the difference between dreams and visions (God he hated calling them that, but he really couldn’t think of a better term), and that had been the future.