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There are nights he can’t sleep. Nights when the thoughts are too loud, too violent, reaching for the darkest parts of him no matter how hard he tries they don’t seem to go away. Nights he wakes shaking and drenched with sweat, panting in the silence of his room, looking for trouble and finding none. Nights when the scarier, darker, the worst parts of him take hold and suddenly every horrid thought sounds like a good plan.
It’s night like these he runs to her.
He doesn’t bother sending her a text he’s on his way over. She’ll know and she’ll forgive him.
She knows what it's like to face your demons alone. She doesn’t want him to be alone. He’s suffered on his own long enough.
It’s why when he throws a pebble at her window and she’s there, half-asleep and rubbing dreams from her eyes, the bat at her bedside stays there, glinting in the moonlight with the threat that never comes.
Words of apology nip the end of his tongue until she’s suddenly yanking him through her window into her embrace.
It’s nights like these he finds himself in her arms more often than he would care to admit.
He can’t help it.
Not when his mind is racing with thoughts of destruction and bloodshed and actions so archaic he’s sure if he voiced them his ass would find its way seven ways to Sunday in an institution. He finds comfort in the heat of her body, in the lingering smell of her shampoo, the steady beating of her heart.
He buries himself there, and lets himself go.
He doesn’t remember ever moving to her bed, but his head is suddenly in her lap and he’s losing all semblance of sanity as her fingers wind their way into his hair, nails ever so gently raking over his scalp, untangling his golden strands as she finds the knots.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Does he? Can he? Can he voice the thoughts he swore he wouldn’t tell a soul — words he wouldn’t even tell Kenny? Can he tell her he still sees his brother’s body, lying battered and bleeding on the cold tile of his bike shop? Tell her the never-ending moment of Baji’s last bloodied smile? Would she still be there if he told her he enjoyed watching the life leaving Kazutora’s eyes?
The very thought tightens his throat and his eyes burn with unshed tears of anguish and anger.
He shakes his head, too scared of breaking in front of her. Too scared of letting himself be vulnerable. Too scared to let down that wall. Too scared the moment he does he’ll never be able to build it back up again. Not for her.
Yeong-Ja sighs, adding the faint scrape of her nails against his scalp as she cards through his thick hair, into his fade, and rubbing between his shoulder blades where she knows he’s worked up a knot.
He puts too much stress on himself. To be the guarded leader he always wants to be. She understands, in their weird, twisted little way. There are even things she has yet to tell him, thoughts even she is scared of when they creep their way into her conscious. There are nights she runs to him, when she can’t sleep and can’t bear the thought of being alone. She knows she can trust him, can trust him to keep this break in facades to one another.
For now, she’s content running her fingers through his blond tresses, humming a song under her breath, relishing in his calm, slow breathing as he finds sleep.
When they’re ready, when he’s ready, he’ll let her know.