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At night, it’s different. The barriers between Asra and Cassandra break down. He is no longer ‘Master’, just Asra once again.
They share the only bed in their shop, wide enough to easily fit them both. There’s enough room that they could easily sleep separate, but Cassandra presses herself to him in her sleep, a constant cuddler as in life. He doesn't mind, he’s always slept better with others than alone.
It’s the dreaming that makes him consider getting another bed.
The nightmares are hard. The Lazaret looms overhead, black chimneys belching fire and ash to sing his failures. Bloody fingers sift through sand to find only charred bone. He wakes, cold sweat plastering his hair to his brow. Chest heaving, he sits up to hold his head in his hands; to quietly dry his tears. It’s then that Cassandra awakes to find him hunched over, remembering the past. He tells her nothing --is unable to tell her --so he lies. She takes the lie as easily as honey, stroking his hair before offering to make her Master tea.
The good dreams are harder. The Masquerades blend together until he no longer knows what time or year the dream represents. A million masks for a million faces, with only one standing out among them: A simple domino with purple hand-painted lilacs. The mask wearer is beautiful in all her glory. Grey eyes shine like stars as he cups her face; removes the mask to see her bare. Fireworks flash as he leans in to kiss her, bathing them in red. She closes her eyes and he feels as if it is their first and last kiss, and all of the ones in-between, before she melts against him, pressed between his body and the weeping willow tree.
Asra wakes, heart racing in his chest, giddy with love and still dizzy with sleep to find Cassandra next to him, Grey eyes closed and dreaming peacefully. She’s holding him, leg hooked over his— and for the briefest of moments, he forgets. He slides his hands over her waist to the curve of her hip, shifting to pull her closer in the warm heat of their bed. His other hand cups her cheek, thumb stroking the corner of her mouth as he moves in to kiss her. It feels right and familiar— but when her eyes flutter open, briefly awake in the dead of night, he remembers. He remembers and he mourns, as Cassandra drifts back to sleep.
She never remembers in the morning after, watching from the door of their shop as he disappears on another journey.