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Yor wanted to scream.
She needed to scream. The urge to scream was a primal force, floodwater battering her lungs and throat, but despite its violence, she couldn’t release it. Try as she might, she couldn’t make a sound. Her mouth felt as if it were filled with wet cement, trapping her voice behind an impenetrable clog. She heaved all the breath in her body into what should have been an ear-shattering wail, but all that came out of her was a faint, futile whine of air.
Tears of frustrated rage dimmed her eyes. It was always this way. Always, she had to watch, silent and crying and shaking with fury, as her family was taken away from her. She couldn’t scream out a warning; she couldn’t bellow in rage. Her limbs were trapped by the same sluggish thickness that squashed her voice, so when she tried to run after them, she lurched helplessly in place. When she tried to raise her hands, they hung at her sides like they were encased in lead.
She tried once more to scream, straining until every muscle was taut as steel, until her desperation sizzled in the roots of her teeth. Until, violently, she woke up.
Yor gasped, thrashing in the sheets as she tried to orient herself. She was lying in a puddle of sweat. Her nightgown was soaked through, clinging to her chest and stomach. Her palms were stinging, and she didn’t understand why until she realized that her fingernails were digging deep crescents into her flesh. With a wince, she uncurled her aching fists. Her heart was clattering frantically behind the bars of her ribs, and her lungs shuddered in a stuttering rhythm that reminded her of the aftermath of childhood crying fits. She touched her cheeks and found them damp, although whether it was from tears or sweat, she wasn’t sure.
She pushed herself out of the tangled mess of her bed, and walked the silvery path of streetlights seeping through the curtains and across the floor. It was the emptiest part of the night, equally far from bedtime and from dawn. A chill trickled down the damp skin between her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling her pulse thudding against her own embrace. It was too early to give up on sleep, but she couldn’t bring herself to crawl back into those nightmare-stained sheets just yet.
Stealthily, she eased open her door and slipped into the hallway, placing her feet as silently as a cat. She didn’t want to disturb Anya or Loid. They deserved their peaceful night and untroubled dreams—but also, she cringed at the thought of them seeing her like this, creeping around sweat-soaked and trembling.
In the living room, it was easier to breathe. This space was a sanctuary. Here, every evening, she came home to Loid and Anya, and set aside the chafing vigilance that she wore like ill-fitting shoes every time she went out of their home. Here, she could simply be Yor Forger, the best version of herself—the Yor that Loid and Anya knew and seemed to value. Not the Yor that she reverted to when she was alone behind the closed door of her room, the woman who scrubbed bloodstains from her knives and woke up frantic in the night.
The tightness in her shoulders was already beginning to untangle, but she knew that sleep would elude her like a spooked animal for a while. She might as well do what she could to make the sleepless time go past as gently as possible. Navigating the apartment by touch and familiarity, she made her way to the kitchen and felt for the kettle. She flinched at the noise when she started to fill it with water, but Anya was a sound sleeper, and Loid’s room was far enough away that he might not be disturbed by the sound. Still, she bit her lip fretfully as she set the kettle to boil and hovered over it, ready to grab it before it started to squeal. Maybe she was being a bit too selfish in her comfort-seeking.
She snatched up the kettle half a second from a full boil and poured it carefully into her mug. The scent of her favorite cinnamon tea curled up to meet her, and as she inhaled it, she felt like she was taking her first normal breath since she’d been snarled inside her nightmare. The tea needed a long steeping time, so she carried the mug with her back to the living room. The ceramic was a little too hot to comfortably hold, but the sizzling sting against her palms was a welcome reminder that this was real.
The living room curtains were still open, so she curled into the corner of the couch closest to the window and looked out into the night. Apart from one lonely car lighting its own path along the street, there was no evidence that anyone but Yor was awake and aware at this hour. She knew that wasn’t true—there was an unseen world that came alive in the deepest parts of night, but it was tucked underground or behind guarded doors, and tonight that wasn’t the world she lived in. She took a cautious sip of her tea and burrowed deeper into the couch.
At the sound of a carefully-muffled footstep behind her, Yor jolted, sloshing burning tea onto her fingers. She whimpered, mostly in frustration at herself when she looked over her shoulder and saw that it was, of course, just Loid.
“Yor?” Loid’s voice was quiet, and sticky with sleep. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m so sorry, did I wake you?” She licked at the tea on her fingers, hoping it was dark enough that Loid couldn’t quite see what she was doing. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to have spilled any on the upholstery.
Loid shrugged. “I thought I heard something, so I got up to check on Anya.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Yor said again.
“No need to apologize. I’m a light sleeper.” Loid stretched his arms above his head, then scraped his hand through his hair. Yor felt like maybe she should look away—he was wearing plaid sleep pants and a white t-shirt, and while it didn’t look that different from his evening clothes, she had never seen him actually dressed for bed before. Maybe the veil of darkness emboldened her, though, because while she turned her head a little, she didn’t avert her eyes.
Belatedly, she realized she was also in her pajamas, and in a much sorrier state than him. Her nightgown was still clammy with sweat, and the way she was sitting exposed her legs to halfway up her thigh. She shifted uneasily, trying to arrange herself in a more modest position without spilling tea on herself again.
Loid noticed her squirming. “Are you cold?” he asked.
Yor shook her head, but he was already turned away, pulling the throw blanket from the back of the armchair. Her throat closed up, sealing off her voice as he came towards her, holding the blanket wide, and then draped it over her. The blanket carried his scent—he sat in that chair most often—and she closed her eyes as it billowed around her, stunned by how comforting it felt.
After a moment of hesitation, Loid sat down on the couch, more than an arm’s length away. She angled herself towards him, trying to convey that his presence wasn’t unwanted. They sat in silence together. It was too dark to see the hands of the clock moving on the wall across the room; hours might have passed, or no time at all.
“That tea smells nice,” Loid murmured.
“Would you like me to make you some?” Yor was already starting to rise from the couch, but Loid put out a hand to stop her.
“No, that’s okay.” He inhaled deeply, then let the breath go in an exhale that sounded like a long, soft sigh. “Did you have a nightmare?”
Yor flinched. Was she really so easy to read? Was it really that easy to believe that she’d be so unsettled by bad dreams that she had to flee her bed like a child? “You could tell?”
“You usually drink that blend when you’ve had a stressful day at work or when you’re worried about something.” Loid tilted his head towards her and gave her a tired half-smile. “It’s always either cinnamon tea or wine, on those occasions.”
Yor felt her face heat as she looked away. “You’re very observant.”
His next exhale had a gentle laugh tucked inside it. She felt the couch shift as he scooted a little closer to her. “If it would help you to talk about it,” he said, “I’m here, and I’m listening.”
Silence swelled between them. Yor fingered the edge of her mug. A response tingled on her tongue, but she couldn’t quite form the words.
“Or, if what you need is to be left alone, just tell me and I’ll go back to my room.”
Yor shook her head. Even if she was flushed with embarrassment and sticky with stale sweat, alone was not what she needed, or wanted. “It’s...” she said. She didn’t have the rest of that sentence yet, but she wanted Loid to hear her voice, to understand that she wanted him there.
Loid sat quietly. Yor watched the ghostly shift of his white shirt as he breathed. She realized that she was matching her own lungs to his, inhaling as he inhaled, exhaling as he exhaled, as if he was teaching her how to breathe. If she listened hard enough, she imagined, she would hear the soft, persistent slip of each breath that moved through him. And maybe the rhythm of his heartbeat, a slow and stable pulse. Maybe she could sync not just her breaths but her pulse to his own, letting him lead her like a metronome, keeping her safe within the boundaries of its steady beats.
And if he were gone—
The remnants of her nightmare lunged at her. She shrank into herself, curling around her cooling mug of tea.
“Yor?” Loid moved closer. She could feel the heat of his body even through the blanket.
He shouldn’t have to see her like this, shaking in the dark because her own brain had showed her something scary. She was supposed to be strong. Wasn’t that the one thing she had going for her, the one compliment Loid always offered whenever she doubted herself? She was strong, even if she was nothing else, but right now, she wasn’t even that. She felt like she owed Loid an explanation for her weakness, so, hesitantly, she opened her mouth. Maybe telling him would make him understand. Maybe telling him would make her feel better, selfish as that impulse was.
“This nightmare that I have,” Yor said to her tea, “it’s always the same. My family is being taken from me, and I can’t do anything. I try to scream, but I can’t make a sound, and I try to run after them, but I can’t move. I want to fight, but—” With a shake of her head, she cut herself off before she went too far down that path. “And the worst part is, they don’t realize how hard I’m trying to save them. They don’t know I’m there. They probably think I don’t care. I know, somehow, that it’s the last time I’ll ever see them, and I can’t even say goodbye—and they’ll never even know how hard I’m trying to—” She stopped just short of a sob, staring at the tea quivering between her hands.
“Oh, Yor.” Loid’s voice sounded nearly as soft and bruised as her own. “Is this... is this nightmare a memory?”
She shook her head. “Not really. It’s—” The dream was collaged together from ragged recollections of childhood experiences that she’d give anything to forget, and framed within the stark terror that came with an adult’s understanding of the world. Usually, it was her mother and her father and her brother that she was losing. That was bad enough. Tonight, though, the nightmare hadn’t been about Yuri and her parents. Tonight, it had been Loid and Anya who had vanished into the distance as she tried to scream for them. The old terror was painted in garish, new colors, familiar but freshly horrific. It was seared into her eyeballs, a lurid afterimage, so that even now that she was awake, the fear continued to pulse through her.
It scared her to realize how much she cherished this false family of hers. She should never have let herself sink so deep into the comfort of living as Yor Forger, because she had known from the start that she would one day lose this family. Someday, their charade would run its course. Eventually, a mistake would expose them, and if by some miracle she avoided that pitfall, then an even worse conclusion was waiting at the end of the line: the day would inevitably come when Loid would have no more need of her. Someday, probably with all his implacable politeness, he would thank her for her companionship and complicity, and then gently bid her farewell. And, like in her nightmare, she would be able to do nothing but let her unvoiced screams choke her into silence.
A broken, wet sound lurched from her throat before she could catch it.
As soon as he heard her whimper, Loid was moving, one hand taking the tea from her and setting it safely on the coffee table as his other hand slid around her shoulder. Then both arms wrapped her, pulling her to him in a hug, crushing her cheek against his collarbone.
He smelled of sleep, and soap, and the detergent she used to wash their sheets. She could feel the steady flicker of his pulse where her forehead was pressed to the side of his neck. She wanted to bury herself deeper in him, in the warmth of his skin and the comfort of his scent. Her own arms moved, reaching to circle his waist—and then, as if she were waking up again, she froze.
Loid felt her abortive movement and shifted, loosening his own hold on her. “Is this okay?” he asked. His breath touched her cheeks as he spoke.
Yor hesitated. It wasn’t that long ago that she couldn’t bring herself to give him a chaste kiss for the sake of their cover. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to tuck herself into his arms now, using him to soothe herself.
Loid eased back further, letting his hands fall to cup her elbows. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe that was too much.”
She shook her head. “No, it wasn’t. If anything, it... It wasn’t enough.” As she heard her own words, she cringed. Why had she said such a thing? She sounded so needy. When morning came, would Loid look at her differently, now that he’d seen her whimpering in the dark and begging for a hug?
“Then come here.” Loid exhaled as he folded her into his arms again, a soft sigh through his nose that ruffled the hair at her temple. If he felt any disappointment at how she was acting, he hid it well; his hold was firm and sure and maybe even tender. Encouraged, Yor let her arms link together behind his back. She let her muscles unlatch, testing what it felt like to trust him to support her. As she let herself soften, another quiet noise slipped helplessly from her. This time it wasn’t a sad sound, but Loid’s arms still tightened around her.
“I know that fear and loss follows a person forever,” he murmured. “I know the nightmares will always keep coming. But I want you to feel safe here, Yor.”
“I do.” It was the truth. She’d never felt so secure; that was what made the terror so sharp.
“Anya and I,” he continued. “We may not be your family in any normal sense of the word. And I know we can’t replace the people you’ve lost. But we’re here, and we—” A rumble vibrated against Yor as he paused to clear his throat. “We care about you. We—” It wasn’t like Loid to have such difficulty finding his words. She felt the roll of his throat as he swallowed, and when he continued, his voice wasn’t much louder than a whisper. “You won’t lose us.”
Yor winced, hoping he didn’t feel it, knowing he probably did. “But... this will end someday, won’t it?”
Loid’s cheek rested against the crown of her head. She felt it more than she heard it when he replied, “It doesn’t have to.”
A faint warmth trembled inside her. She knew better than to think that was a promise. She knew that Loid was only offering her the words she needed to hear right now. He was taking care of her immediate distress, not altering the foundations of their agreement. This moment, after all, was not quite real. Cupped in the colorless hollow between midnight and dawn, everything they said and did right now felt almost like a dream.
Perhaps it was safer to believe that it was a dream.
Yor closed her eyes and let herself lean against Loid’s chest, sinking into self-indulgence one last time. Then, reluctantly, she pushed herself up. She felt cold as soon as his arms slid from her shoulders, as if she’d stepped out of a warm bath to stand shivering on chilly tile. Still, she smiled, wide enough that she hoped he would see it in the dark.
“Thank you, Loid. This was—” She paused, feeling her cheeks heat. “This was exactly what I needed.”
She could see the slight flicker of his eyes as he studied her. “I’m glad. You know I’m here for you, Yor.”
Yor nodded. “I should let you get back to bed.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I feel much better now. I don’t want to keep you up any longer than I already have.”
“Okay.” Loid’s hands trailed along her arms as she scooted away from him, and he pushed himself to his feet slowly. He must be really sleepy, Yor thought, after sitting up with her like she was a little child like Anya. And still, a spark of selfishness flared in her as he took a step away; she wanted to lunge for him, catch his hands, tell him she’d changed her mind and beg him to stay with her until the sun came up.
Instead she readjusted the blanket around herself, and picked up her half-empty mug again.
“Goodnight, Yor,” Loid said. “I hope you can get back to sleep.”
“Thank you. You, too.” She watched him go, listening to the soft shuffle of his feet on the floorboards. She only looked away when she heard the click of his bedroom door.
She drained her tea, then pulled the blanket around herself, twisting into it until it was as nearly as tight and warm as Loid’s embrace. It doesn’t have to end, she thought, clutching the words like a talisman and pulling them with her back into sleep, into the gentle dreams where they belonged.