[He hates nightmares, he really does, but after a full year of them, he supposes he ought to be used to it by now. They're better than hallucinating during the day, aren't they? But they've gotten worse since December came, and there's nothing more humiliating than waking up screaming and knowing the whole house has heard.
God. He didn't used to be this bad. Time was, he'd jerk awake in the middle of the night maybe once a week. Just spring awake, that was it, no screaming or shouting at all. Sometimes he'd even be able to shake it off on his own. Having Bruno there helped, god knows: there's nothing more assuring than someone else in your bed.
But not now. Not lately. Now he wakes up crying, gasping for breath and Abdul's name on his lips. Had he shouted in his sleep? It's possible. It wouldn't have been the first time, god knows. Polnareff shudders and runs a hand over his face, trying to both wipe away the tears and pull himself together. He doubts Bruno had slept through all that, but his lover is still lying with his back to him, so perhaps he's gotten lucky.
He sits up. He doesn't dare get out of bed, not yet, but there'll be no going back to bed tonight. Polnareff shoves a hand through his hair, tugging lightly, as he glances around the room. Their room, or one of their rooms, anyway, which in reality is really his room. There: the pile of books he still has to return to the library. There: the basket Bruno had finally bought him for laundry, neat in the corner. There: his dresser, with Julian's sword perched upon it. And right above that . . .
Polnareff exhales shudderingly, his eyes locked on the illustration hanging there. There, Abdul, his Abdul, grinning so triumphantly before Magician's Red.]
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God. He didn't used to be this bad. Time was, he'd jerk awake in the middle of the night maybe once a week. Just spring awake, that was it, no screaming or shouting at all. Sometimes he'd even be able to shake it off on his own. Having Bruno there helped, god knows: there's nothing more assuring than someone else in your bed.
But not now. Not lately. Now he wakes up crying, gasping for breath and Abdul's name on his lips. Had he shouted in his sleep? It's possible. It wouldn't have been the first time, god knows. Polnareff shudders and runs a hand over his face, trying to both wipe away the tears and pull himself together. He doubts Bruno had slept through all that, but his lover is still lying with his back to him, so perhaps he's gotten lucky.
He sits up. He doesn't dare get out of bed, not yet, but there'll be no going back to bed tonight. Polnareff shoves a hand through his hair, tugging lightly, as he glances around the room. Their room, or one of their rooms, anyway, which in reality is really his room. There: the pile of books he still has to return to the library. There: the basket Bruno had finally bought him for laundry, neat in the corner. There: his dresser, with Julian's sword perched upon it. And right above that . . .
Polnareff exhales shudderingly, his eyes locked on the illustration hanging there. There, Abdul, his Abdul, grinning so triumphantly before Magician's Red.]