Work Text:
All Alfred knows is that he can't move.
He's trying, but he's limp and someone's calling from the hallway outside. His instincts are livid, shrill in screaming at him to get up and run from the odd lights at the corner of his vision, or at least burrow further into the sheets. He stays motionless, heart pounding too hard and eyes - thank god for his eyes - darting around the room, terrified anew at every face poking through the shadows, forming in the pile of his shirt strewn across the floor, on the popcorn ceiling, appearing like pictures on a connect-the-dots book.
Somewhere, he knew he was transitioning. Some part of him was saying 'it's just sleep paralysis', while the sleeping part was still shrieking like a possessed child, sounding as if it came from beyond the bed and beyond even the room.
He drifts in an uncomfortable space between waking and asleep.
That's all he knows. He can't move and it doesn't feel like he's breathing, either.
So he stays that way, trying so hard to squeeze his eyelids shut - so close! why won't they just shut? - his arms tucked uselessly around, because they're heavy he can't feel them. His head is resting just off of his pillow, where some of his vision is obscured by a bunch of blanket resembling mountain peaks up close, coming in and out of focus as his vision shifts from it to the faces beyond, which flicker and contort just the right way to make him want to throw himself against the window and jump right through.
"Alfred?"
With all the effort he could, he tries to reply. Instead, his mouth hangs partly open and refuses to move more.
Matthew. Matthew, I'm fine. Just please, please go back to sleep.
You don't need to worry. I got this.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd been counting the seconds since he half-woke. And he knows that if he concentrates enough, he can hear himself counting higher and higher, dampening the other voices in a way that's almost enough, but not quite.
It feels just like he's drowning. There's panic, and some imaginary liquid seems to be pressing against him, an intense pressure which immobilizes him, instead of just slowing him down.
"Alfred. Can you look at me?"
Matthew's voice is soft, or perhaps it's the fact that his ears can't seem to tell reality apart from the vivid hallucinations.
"How do you feel?"
I'm really, really scared. Just -
If it had been any other time, he would've felt shame in admitting - even mentally - that he was scared. He isn't supposed to be scared. He is supposed to be helping others, not the other way around.
But in for the moment, he couldn't care less because he's pretty sure his systems are shutting down and he must be glitching out, there's little dark spots across his eyes and everything is -
- I don't like this.
It takes him forever to realize that the Canadian had wrapped his arms around him.
"Just focus on me, okay? I'm not going to let you go back." Matthew repeats, for what must be the dozenth time.
Go back. And suddenly the faces make sense. But, Alfred realizes, he doesn't want them to make sense.
He just doesn't want to see them.
So he keeps himself trained on Matthew. It isn't difficult. His honey blond is paler in the dark, where the world seems colourless except for the little pool beyond the windows. He's wrapped tightly around him, face buried in his chest so that all you can see is his hair and what's exposed of his back - almost as if Alfred had been comforting Matthew, instead of the other way around.
Matthew says something, and though he doesn't quite hear it, Alfred can feel the slight texture of his lips, and decides it must be a good sign.
And the more he speaks, the quieter the voices outside seem to get, until it becomes eerily silent, and he becomes aware of his own heartbeat, louder in his ears.
The figure beside him shifts, and Alfred tries once again to speak, to speak and thank him.
It's a tentative task. He opens his mouth and tests his vocal chords. At first there is nothing, but slowly the actions unravel into one another and he produces his first sound. And then a second. And after a few breaths (though not more, for he fears slipping back into that harsh middle point), it is nothing but thank you's and Alfred can move again. Muscles slowly relaxing, they are once again mobile and he uses this to return the embrace as much as he can.
He's blinking his eyes. He can open and close them, and he does so as much as possible, finally realizing how dry his eyes had become, and squeezing them shut.
When he opens then again, the ghosts are gone.
So is Matthew.