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It hurt. It hurt so damn much.
His insides burned. Black flames tore across his skin, acid coursed through his veins in place of blood, and he stumbled into the viscera surrounding him. It reached his ankles and was slowly rising higher. To his shins. To his knees. Phantom hands gripped at his legs and wrists. He struggled to stand, trying, but failing, only falling further in to the deep red sea.
Faintly in the depths familiar colours caught his eye. They floated closer until they were mere inches from him and he realized just what—who—they were.
Hell. He must be in Hell.
He could barely make a sound; strangled gasps were the only thing to escape his throat. He wanted to scream. The colours overturned, bobbed to the surface and revealed dead eyes that bore into his—
Stephen woke with a start to find the inn's ceiling staring back at him, tinted pale blue in the moonlight. He gasped for breath, fast and heavy, feeling the sweat collecting at his hairline, tears at the corners of his eyes, and a familiar coldness resting aside his temple. It was a welcome sensation against the feverish heat the dream left behind.
His eyes darted to his right to find Hosuh perched on the edge of the bed, eyes closed and humming softly. He seemed to blend into the night almost seamlessly, haloed by the same pale glow of the moon. His silver hair fell loose and messy over his shoulders, a clear sign that he had just rolled out of his own bed across the room and over to Stephen's sounds of distress.
Stephen let himself lean into the back of the cold hand at his cheek for a brief moment, letting the last of his tears fall in relief at the sight of his friend alive and not drenched in the gore of his night terrors. Hosuh's eyes opened slowly as his humming came to an end. He gently tapped his knuckle against Stephen's cheek.
"You okay?"
Stephen's breathing had begun to even out and he sniffed, turning his head away from the cleric and the comforting cold of his hand. He brought his arm up to hide his eyes, wiping at the remaining tears that fell down along his temple and annoyingly over his ears.
"Yeah… Yeah, I'm fine."
"It sounded pretty bad this time. Do you… Want to talk?"
Stephen grunted in response and Hosuh didn't pry any further.
Stephen hated feeling vulnerable. He was supposed to be the confident hot head of the group; boasting about carrying the team through everything and keeping emotions on the back burner. A large part of the reason he began studying the art of necromancy was the sense of control it gave him. Battling with an undead army made him feel invincible at times, untouchable—but there in the dead of night, he was still at the mercy of the anxieties the dark arts brought. The fear of spiraling out of control.
Then what would he do? All he had was the four other people in the room with him—his party, his team, his band of loveable idiots—and that was far too much to lose. He couldn't allow his nightmares to turn to prophecies. He took a deep breath and swallowed hard.
"… Did I wake you up?"
Hosuh hummed in thought for a moment, "A bit. But, I'd rather you did."
Stephen glanced out from under his arm and Hosuh smiled in response to his questioning look. The healer gave a small shrug.
"Well, I wouldn't want you suffering alone, right?"
Stephen huffed and hid back under his forearm, mumbling, "'s just a bad dream, no big deal…"
He wasn't a kid anymore. Dreams shouldn't scare him like they used to, regardless of their intensity having grown exponentially—from merely being hunted by childish monsters and demons to actually becoming that which he feared. He guessed some things never changed; so long as he studied the dark arts, his chronic nightmares were sure to continue.
Hosuh's soft humming started up again and weaved into a quiet song in a language known only to him and his ancestors. It took Stephen's mind away from the churning thoughts and horrific imagery, right back to childhood days. Back to when the two of them and Daniel would stay over at each others' houses, laughing into the night until their eyes drooped shut and they fell asleep in a pile on the bed. Sometimes, a night terror would startle Stephen awake, trembling and tearful. Dan—being the heavy sleeper he was—would stay asleep, his light snoring a grounding reminder that Stephen was back in reality. Hosuh, however, would always wake up soon after, pat his back as the tears fell, and sing the same song, soft and out of key, to lull them back to sleep.
Hosuh once said it was his grandmother, a great cleric of her own time, who sang it to him whenever he would wake up scared and alone. It was one of the comforts he kept close after her passing, singing it faintly to himself before serious battles and in their aftermaths while healing their team. Now much older, his melody was smoother and steadier, reminiscent of the way the cleric came to carry himself, both on and off of the battlefield. Calmly, steadily, effortlessly.
Hosuh's voice faded into a waver and Stephen eyes felt heavy with sleep once again.
"Do you need anything?" Hosuh whispered, noticing Stephen's now closed eyes and rare peaceful expression.
"Nah," he mumbled in response, "Just… Sit here for a bit…"
"… One more song?"
Stephen nodded; the response practically habitual in regards to the question. His mind wandered back again, imagining Dan's old room, lit only by the slivers of moonlight that slipped through the curtains. He recalled sitting up in the middle of the large bed, Dan's legs thrown haphazardly across his own, and Hosuh's arm draped over his shoulders. The two swayed slightly side to side, slowly rocking themselves back to sleep. The nostalgia he felt was warm, comforting and enough to ward off the nightmares for a while longer.
With Dan's and Jay's quiet snoring from the other corners of the room, Ann's periodic rolling and shifting, and Hosuh's gentle humming beside him, Stephen let himself fall into that vulnerability for once in a long time, assured that everything would continue on as chaotically as always come morning.