Work Text:
It wasn’t unusual for Placido to wake up in the middle of the night.
He was perpetually tired — running on too much coffee and too little sleep. Such was the life of an honor student, especially one who had shifted programs three years into his studies. What was he thinking? God knew that his sleeping habits had only gotten worse since high school. And, well—
Usually, he woke up in the middle of the night to classical music and a promise of freshly brewed coffee the next morning. Usually, he woke up in the middle of the night with a fond sort of annoyance brewing in his chest and the softest curse under his breath. Usually, he could just suck it up — bury his face in the pillow next to his and call it a night. It would be warm enough, smell like cinnamon soap and home as Brahms lulled him back to sleep.
Tonight, he breathed in shallow pants — one hand on his chest and the other curled into a fist around his sheets. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, but his blood moved through him like sludge. His heart pounded to a beat he could not feel. His ears rang with a melody he could not hear.
Tonight, bitterness rested itself on his tongue without a drop of coffee — just stale saliva and a lump in his throat. Tonight, he was awake — no violin drills or lullaby to bring him back to sleep.
The moon shined outside the window, glowed behind dark, dark clouds — a pale yellow that stood out between too-far stars and flickering lamp posts.
Everything was cold, and empty — and maybe he had always been a little lonely, but he didn’t think he would be alone. “Come back to bed,” he used to say. Now, his hand reached out for shadows, for traces of someone who used to be there. Muscle memory from what felt like another lifetime.
“In a minute,” he used to get in return. But the minutes so easily turned to hours, and the hours became a habit that was hard to break.
Now, Placido didn’t know if he would ever come back.
He tossed, and turned, and waited for the dark spots in his vision to fade away.
He wondered, sometimes, if he should invest in a speaker and keep his phone plugged in throughout the night just to have a shred of normalcy back in his life. Waking up the way that he used to — to a bow screeching against strings, to calloused fingertips pressing against his wrists, his temple after a long night of playing — would be better than this.
But then, most of the songs on his phone were his friends’ favorite pop songs or recordings of late-night violin covers that made him want to rip his heart out. (As if it hadn’t been done already.)
He thought that maybe not waking up at all would be better than this.
It was melodramatic, sure — but Placido was in love once, used to date a boy with too many feelings.
And now, he was here.