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He's so tired.
The air in Monmouth is warm and thick. Muggy. Late summer in Virginia, inescapable even inside. He misses English summers. Does he? No air conditioning in England. But the freedom, the being of no one at all except himself for the first time – for the last time – for once – he misses –
He doesn't. He does. He can't.
It's stagnant. The air, that is. No air conditioning here, either. Not right now. He needs to call someone to fix it. Tomorrow, tomorrow. It goes on the list, like everything else. He can't remember what everything else is right now. Maybe it'll come back with the morning, if morning comes. How long has it been dark now? Aren't summer nights supposed be short? He doesn't know what time it is. He doesn't know when the last time he slept was. The cardboard is shaking in his hands. He gave up trying to glue it hours ago. Minutes ago? It doesn't matter. He can't get the edges to line up. He's so tired.
The air is so heavy. I should buy a fan, he thinks, and then he hears the soft mechanical buzzing from his desk and thinks, Ah. He should buy more fans. Or – the buzzing – so maybe not. Maybe, if they're silent ones. He should throw his fan out. Try to give it to Adam, maybe, but he won't take it. Maybe he would, if he knew about the buzzing, but how is he supposed to tell him that? Even if he does, what if Adam laughs? He wouldn't. But Adam could give him that look instead, the one that cuts right down to his bones without mercy, and that would be worse.
It's mechanical. The buzzing, that is. It sounds so mechanical. Monotonous. Repetitive. It doesn't breathe. It doesn't swarm. But still – the buzzing – and the other buzzing, the hornets, the hornets in his ears –
There's a cold hand on his cheek, and then there's a soft voice saying "Gansey," like an order, like a plea, and then – he is.
He is Gansey again, and he is breathing Monmouth's thick air, and he is blinking hard until Noah comes into focus.
Noah is fuzzy around the edges, but Gansey isn't wearing his glasses, and for once he's pretty sure that's the only reason why. Moonlight is pouring through the high windows but not through Noah. It lights him up like a statue, hard marble gentled by a master's hand into soft lines and delicate curls and a worried frown. In the moonlight, he looks almost alive – the smudge under his eye is just another shadow – and he is beautiful.
Gansey says, "Noah." His voice sounds creaky and hoarse and a thousand years old. The word sounds like a surrender. He wants to reach out and smooth the lines of Noah's frown away, but that's an impossible thing, and, well. Gansey is used to wanting impossible things from his friends, and he's used to the pain that comes with them, but the sleep deprivation is making him a little raw tonight, so it hurts anyway.
It hurts worse knowing that this time, the thing he wants isn't an impossible thing. Not really. Not objectively. Noah would let him, if he could just lift his hands. Noah's hand is still cold and gentle on his cheek, anchoring him in place, and Gansey knows he isn't guessing when he takes that as permission, but – he can't. Even then. He can't make his fingers uncurl from the cardboard.
"Where's Ronan?" he asks, because if he doesn't distract himself he's going to scream or cry or maybe even touch Noah's face, and for the first time in years Ronan seems like the safest conversational topic available.
"Asleep," Noah says. The for once goes unspoken. "Where were you?"
Gansey doesn't know what Noah means by that, exactly, but he knows that he wouldn't be able to answer even if he did. He shakes his head.
Noah sighs quietly, then says again, "Gansey," so softly and sadly that Gansey thinks his heart breaks, just a little. He waits for the shame to hit, the guilt, but they don't come. He just feels sad.
"I'm just tired," he tells Noah. He's not sure if it's meant to be a reassurance or a confession. "That's all."
Noah's thumb drags softly across Gansey's cheekbone, just once, and this time Gansey is sure his heart breaks. "Sleep, then."
"I can't. I've tried." He sounds whiny even to himself, and finally the shame starts creeping in. He turns his head out of Noah's palm, and it only makes it worse.
"Try again, then. For me." Now there are cold hands on his hands, and Noah is prying the cardboard away from him, and Gansey doesn't even have time to think before he's being gently tugged to his feet. "Come on. I'll sing you a lullaby."
Gansey thinks about protesting, but the room is swaying and black around the edges just from the effort of standing up, and Noah is the only thing keeping him on his feet, so he lets himself be bundled towards his bed without a word.
And anyway, it's so rare that Noah asks for anything. There's not much you can give a ghost, but Gansey would give him the world if he could. There's no way he can deny him this.
As they pass the desk, Noah slaps the fan's off switch with a little more force than is strictly necessary. Gansey doesn't ask how he knew. He's both embarrassed and grateful that he didn't have to say anything.
Noah clambers into Gansey's bed like he owns it and nestles comfortably against the headboard. He looks up at him, waiting. Gansey goes to sit down, then stops, stands back up. He hovers awkwardly at the side of his bed, spine straight as a steel rod. He doesn't know where to put his hands.
This time, Noah's voice is entirely unimpressed when he says, "Gansey."
Gansey knows exactly what he means. Lie down, Gansey. Just lie down next to me. He knows it's permission. And he wants it, but still – it's an impossible thing, and he can't. He sits down on the very edge of his bed, limbs and back still stiff and straight. Noah is looking at him, and the shame floods every inch of his body, and suddenly crying is once again a very real possibility.
Noah isn't telling him to touch his face, or kiss him, or any of the other impossible things Gansey wants. He's just telling him to lie down. It should be easy. It should be so easy, and Gansey wants it so badly. So why can't he do it? Why is he –
Cold hands, again, on his face and on his arms, and Noah is tugging on him, and the steel in Gansey's bones bends to it. He lets himself be molded until he's lying down, his head on the pillow just above Noah's hip, Noah's hand in his hair. Gansey's throat catches on an inhale. He tells himself it's not a sob, but it is.
"Just for once, try not to think," Noah tells him, and then he starts singing. "Czerwone jabłuszko po ziemi się toczy..."
Gansey doesn't know enough about music to know if Noah's voice is classically good or not, but he thinks it must be, because it sounds like sunlight, or Cabeswater, or magic itself, if any of those were tempered down into sound. Or something like that. He can admit that the sleep deprivation might be the one talking there.
Noah's voice is nice, though. It gets lower whenever he speaks Polish, the Slavic vowels pulling notes from his throat that Gansey has never heard before, and they sound right. The song is slow, and Noah sings it gentle. Gansey doesn't know if it's supposed to be sad, but if it is, it's not working. The tears are drying tacky on his cheeks and there's no sadness in him right now. Even the shame is starting to drain away, and without it he just feels tired. But good tired. Safe tired. The Monmouth air is warm and heavy and it rests around him like a blanket, or a hug, and he does not suffocate.
"Ja ci buzi dam, ty mi buzi dasz," Noah croons, his fingers teasing whirlpools into Gansey's hair. "Ja cię nie wydam, ty mnie nie wydasz."
"What does it mean?" Gansey asks when the song finishes. Or tries to. He can barely get the words out, and even then, he's not sure they're actually words. He can't even open his eyes. He's so tired.
But Noah understands, somehow. He always does. "I'll tell you when you wake up."
"Will you be here?"
"Yeah." They both know he can't promise that, but they both know he'll try, and that's enough to make the rest of the tension drain from Gansey's body. He is warm and heavy and safe. "Sleep now, though," Noah tells him, and this time, Gansey listens.