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There are nights when Anya simply cannot sleep, and these are some of the worst for her.
In a way, insomnia is a mercy; a reprieve from the electric chair just before the switch is flipped. When she lies in bed, eyes wide open, gazing at the ceiling, she feels disappointed with herself. She also cannot escape the sense of bone-deep relief that comes with knowing she will not face the nightmares tonight.
The dreams have gotten better since she remembered. Now, she is no longer haunted by anonymous specters; she can put a name to each hollow pair of eyes that dance through her dreams. When she closes her eyes and sees a bony, skeletal face staring down at her, she recognizes her sister Olga’s eyes; the strains of a song that drift through her dreams are sung by Tatiana’s familiar voice; the girl dancing around the foot of her bed, ribbons in her hair and bayonet wounds blooming across her breast, is Maria. Alexei soars over her on his swing, reckless as he never could be in life. Her mother’s tiara glimmers; her father holds a gloved hand towards her, just out of reach.
She knows them, and this is the worst part. The dreams are more painful now, on the rarer occasions they do happen, than they were when they haunted her from the brink of oblivion every night.
When Anya closes her eyes and finds she cannot get to sleep, she breathes a sigh of relief.
Instead, she keeps herself busy. (She’s always been good at that, and only gotten better over the years.) She knits; she sews; she reads books, does jigsaw puzzles, and cleans their little apartment. Sometimes she tries to write, but she’s never had a gift for that. Her letters are simply-worded at best, clumsily at worst. Sometimes she will simply curl up in the little nook beneath the window, and stare up at the night sky.
Clear nights are her favorites. The sky glitters with stars, and for a little while she can imagine she could fly anywhere in the world.
Tonight is not a clear night, but it is an awake one, and that’s enough for Anya. She glances out the window for only a second, disappointed by the overcast sky. The moon is full, but clouds nearly obscure its light from view. There’s certainly not enough glow to read by, so she’s forced to light a candle, and hunches over one of her old favorite Brontë novels by the dim light.
She’s so engrossed in her reading that she misses the first signs that something isn’t right. She doesn’t hear the small grunts of distress coming from the bed. She doesn’t notice the way Dmitry shifts, covers tangling about his legs. She doesn’t see his hands ball into fists, face scrunching up.
She is only jarred from her concentration at the sound of one word. Despite its desperation, is is murmured instead of gasped, as if it is unable to force itself from the speaker’s lips fast enough. “Anya…”
Her head jerks up. Finally, she notices; she can’t help the way her jaw drops open.
Since they’ve run away together, bad dreams have become a recurring theme of their nights. Dmitry has comforted her countless times in the wake of her terrors. She’s poured her heart out to him, whispered memories of things long-buried into his chest, sobbed until his gentle rocking and murmurs killed her back to sleep. Anya has gotten used to being saved from her own memories by Dmitry.
Yet never before has she seen Dmitry in the throes of a nightmare of his own.
She rises to her feet cautiously, leaving the candle burning by the window. It’s flickering light sends shadows stretching along the walls. She watches herself creep closer, hesitant, wary of making the floors creak under her. If she wakes Dmitry wrong, he could react poorly. If she wakes him at all, for that matter, his stubborn pride could have him pull away from her. Still, if she doesn’t wake him, she’ll be absconding him to the mercy of his dreams, and she knows that’s the worst torture of all.
Gently, Anya settles next to Dmitry on the bed, and places a hand on his shoulder. “Dima,” she whispers into the still night. “Wake up, darling. Dima…”
Dmitry’s eyes flutter. He lets out a moan.
“It’s alright. I’m here.” She brings her hand up to stroke through his messy hair. His forehead is slick with sweat; at her touch, his brow crinkles. His lips twitch, as if struggling to form words, but they don’t quite manage it. When she leans forward, she hears his raspy exhale. “Come on, it’s okay. Wake up.”
This last request seems to be the golden ticket. Dmitry’s eyes fly open. His mouth parts in a breathless gasp, a drowning man desperate for air. For a moment, his pupils flicker wildly in the darkness, eyes hazed with panic.
“Wha— what —“
He fights to sit up. Tiny whimpers escape him as he struggles for breath, teetering on the verge of hyperventilation. Anya keeps a hand on his back, though she’s not sure he can feel it, encouraging him to breathe through it. When Dmitry’s fingers claw at his hair, she gently grips them in her own.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re okay.”
Gradually, the grip of panic loosens it’s hold on him. His eyes clear; he’s able to focus on her, taking in her silhouette in the dim light. She hears him draw a raspy breath, and his shoulders relax. “A-A-Anya?”
“I’m right here,” she says again. (How many times has he read the exact same script to her, under these exact circumstances?) “it’s just me. You’re safe, okay?”
He exhales in a shuddering rush. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s trembling until he brings an arm up to wrap it around his chest and feels himself quaking. His wide eyes register surprise, then shame, as they flicker up towards Anya.
“I — I’m okay,” he manages after a minute, once his breathing has begun to level out. “You can go.”
Anya shakes her head. “I’m not going to do that, Dima.”
“No, I’m mean it.” There’s an edge of harshness in his voice, but she knows him enough to recognize that he is defensive. “Just — leave. You don’t have to worry about me.
Instead of doing as he says, Anya simply crawls over him, and curls up on the empty side of the bed. He doesn’t protest when she pulls him close, drawing him into her arms. Despite his pride, he curls in closer to her. The last thing he wants is for her to go anywhere.
“You can’t kick me out of my own bed,” she mutters. “I live here too, you know.” When he huffs a chuckle into the darkness, she smiles. That sounds a bit more like her Dmitry — not the panicked, skittish creature who emerged from the dream.
“I’m okay,” he says again, voice firm. “I’m fine.”
“It was just a bad dream.”
“Right. They happen.”
Anya lets the pause linger between them for a moment. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Dmitry sighs. “Not really.”
That’s good enough for her. Instead of pressing, she just stroked her hand gently along the side of his head, feeling his silky hair thread through her fingers. He uses her shoulder as a pillow. He’s nowhere close to drifting off again, but that’s fine. At least the panicked symphony of his heartbeat is calming down; Anya can feel it begin to mellow against her chest. His breathing is returning to normal, too, and he’s even stroking her shoulder, like he’s the one comforting her all over again.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says after a moment. Anya hums, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.
“It’s alright. I wasn’t asleep anyways.”
He knows what that means. His hand lingers over her shoulder. “I’m glad,” he whispers after a few seconds, and it settles there, a comfortable weight. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to get back to sleep either.”
“That’s alright,” answers Anya. “You don’t have to.”
As long as he is awake, she’ll stay up with him. He’s done the same for her more nights than she can count. It’s high time, Anya decides, that she return the favor.
It seems like neither of them will be getting any sleep tonight. Anya can’t really say that she minds.