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Night terrors were common for Norton. The faces of dead friends, suffocating enclosures, even the more recent terrors of the manor, he could imagine them all so vividly in his sleep. It was becoming more common that Norton decided not to sleep. It was better to face the exhaustion than their sick, molten faces- better to meet matches than to be harassed by their twisted image. Plus, it gave him plenty of extra free time. Demi often gave him company with her small gaggle of late-night drinkers. Though he quickly learned he sucked at cards and drinking alike, good company was good company and he joined them often. On the off nights they didn’t meet, he stayed in his room returning to the work he had once sworn off of.
The manor had supplied him with all the equipment needed; he no longer needed to search for minerals, so things like picks and hammers were enough to keep him busy. A hefty table stashed in the corner of his room held each mineral the manor had gifted him, and the lights in his room illuminated each he had already broken open.
It was odd, he thought. How everyone clung to their pasts- even he did. The gems and their craggy exterior reminded him of the interiors of treacherous caves that had once eaten him whole, yet he could not give up his passion for breaking them open. The people here all stood strong to their roles, their ideals from their past lives, and some even to their career paths. It was all they had, he supposed. Everything had been stripped from them but their identity. A manor full of strangers, or faces you hadn't wished to see again, you could truly only look to your past. Norton did his best to not look too deeply into his, for the abyss always looked back. That was the reason he stayed awake. The eyes of his past were far too alive.
A soft knock rose him from his thoughts, the gem in his hands shattering from a misplaced, crack of his pick. A curse swept under his breath. Standing from his chair, he opened the door and was greeted with a familiar tuff of hair. Margaretha Zelle. She was wrapped in a blanket, her entire face sporting a pout that was fairly common, but misplaced for the situation. Marg only pouted for show. “What are you doing here?” he glanced at the time, not doubting it was well past the hour for friendly visits.
She was finicky, glancing between him and the adjacent doors, and somewhere further down the hallway. It was a look he knew too well- one he often shared. “Give me a moment to think of a lie?” It was hushed and felt forcefully comedic. Norton grabbed her by the scruff and pushed her inside, the door shutting behind them both. He abandoned her in the middle of his room while he tidied up his bed, stray shirts and magnets being thrown from the sheets.
“Make yourself comfortable.”
“And where will you sleep? I can’t just…steal your bed, Norton.”
He struck her with a look that oddly said, “is that not why you came over?”, before letting out a sigh. “It’s fine, Margs, I don’t plan on sleeping anyway. Take the bed and I’ll try not to disturb your sleep.”
“It’s already been disturbed.”
“Do you want me to kiss it better? I am not a magic man, Marg, I can’t read your brain.”
They share a mutual glare, and Norton’s grip on his chair only tightens. Margies eyebrows furrow in a way he does not often see.
“Perhaps I would.” She approaches first, an accusatory finger pressed deeply into his chest. “Perhaps, I would like you to be a bit more observant, Norton.” The air is sweltering, and Norton cannot deny he is utterly clueless. He and Margie…were complicated. The thin line between teasing affection, and the snapping chord of truth. They had seen too much of each other yet refused to admit they had seen. That is why Norton knew exactly what she wanted to frame this as, and knew exactly he would not be indulging her in such. His kiss did not land on her neck, nor her lips, but simply on her forehead. Rugged hands wrapped around her nape once more, a soothing grip to help her ground herself. The other worked on the blanket she so desperately clung to. He had more than enough on his own bed, and Margs always ran hot.
However, he faltered, eyes suddenly casting a worried glance.
“You’re still wearing your clothes from your match.” He hadn’t checked the hunters for the matches, but he did not doubt it was that man. More particularly, that clown. Norton didn’t know what had happened between the two; some strange mutterings about the circus and her general behavior when he was in the match told him enough, however.
He didn’t wish to part from her, but he withdrew from her warmth regardless, ransacking through a nearby drawer. For once, Norton was thankful Naib was such a slob. A smaller pair of Naib’s shorts and one of Norton's shirts were handed off to Margie with the demand to change. She looked rather dazed, no doubt finally processing what the day had done to her. What he had done to her - whether directly or indirectly. The memories she had no doubt seen flashing before her eyes, the scars she had felt blistering beneath her skin. The utter agony of knowing you could only run. Run and run and run. You could never confront anything in the manor nor anything from your past. Norton knew the feeling all too well. He could feel it reflected in her eyes and could describe it down to the very marrow of her bones.
He changed her beneath those dim lights. It was sickeningly intimate, in the way old lovers would come home from a tiresome day of work and merely gaze into the other’s eye without a word. Some part of Norton despised that he was doing this. That he was being so gentle with each of the bruises, with each of the old scars she presented, that he was soft with the fragile quiet that had blanketed them. Yet- a part of him cherished it. A swirling glaze atop what he knew to be a bitter fruit.
“I look swallowed.” It was scoffed, yet quiet, as if she expected him to jump as soon as she spoke. “You might as well have left me in the blankets.”
Norton did step back, heavy boots trudging across the hardwood floor. The oil lamp that had supervised his work table was put out, the remaining light leading them to their final destination. Marg had already climbed deep into his bed burrows, greedily stealing at least half his pillows and one more of his beloved blankets. Why she needed more warmth would always elude him.
“Will you not join me?”
“Should I?” He remained by his chair as he had earlier: Only now the shadows ate at his face and torso, only allowing the light to shine upon his boots. Norton’s voice would never betray him, but his face would. Perhaps that was a lie. His body was a confusing, wretched thing, that lied even to him. “I wouldn’t want to… wake you.”
Silence. Only Margies wide eyes, desperately trying to seek his face.
“Like last ti-”
“Get in bed, Norton. When was the last time you slept? How many days?” More silence and her fingers twisted about in the sheets. “I cannot make promises you won’t have…those. But, we’ll be here for the other, won’t we? Watch my back, I’ll watch yours. Though, I guess I would have to crawl into your brain…”
A conjoined chuckle from the pair.
Exhaustion did weigh heavily upon his eyes, upon his shoulders, on his very being. Margie was a radiating warmth who promised sleep for a night- maybe more…
Maybe more. There would be more to this. More of those hazel eyes and calloused hands (no matter how soft she tried to keep them). Norton climbed into bed and he could not resist taking hold of them.
“Don’t go missing in the night. Or the morning.” They slipped from his grasp to undo his scarf, and then a few odd accessories deemed too hard to sleep with. The oil lamp beside them was turned off.
“Return tomorrow.”