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Johnny didn’t know what time it was. His little room in Outworld didn’t have a clock, and even if it did, he assumed that the time differed from California. By how much, he couldn’t begin to guess.
He was tired. He could feel exhaustion tugging at his eyes and sinking into his skull. If he were home, if he were in his own bed, he would sleep for hours and hours, through alarms and phone calls and social media notifications. But that’s if he were home. He was unfathomably far from home.
He was sharing a bed with someone else. He hadn’t done that in a long time. That comfortably? Never.
Kenshi had been asleep for hours at that point. When he first fell asleep, Johnny was against his back, and their hands found one another beneath the blankets. Kenshi’s hands were still shaking, long after his body had stopped, and Johnny held them as tightly as he comfortably could until the shaking ceased.
It was Kenshi who fell asleep first. Johnny followed soon after.
But he eventually woke up, vague remnants of a dream quickly leaving his subconscious, and Johnny lay awake on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Outworld was still dark outside the window, but Johnny could see the beginnings of sunrise peeking through the trees. He wasn’t sure how long it would be before he had to get up and start the day, but it was soon.
Kenshi was sleeping on his right side, his back to Johnny. At some point in the night, their hands had separated, and when Johnny woke, Kenshi’s arms were stretched over the edge of the bed. Johnny removed himself from around Kenshi’s torso and laid on his back. He focused on his own breathing, Kenshi’s breathing, and hoped either would lull him back to sleep. It didn’t work, but he expected that.
He was grateful that Kenshi was asleep more than anything. Johnny didn’t know if he could ever sleep again if he went through even half of what Kenshi had.
Johnny didn’t want to get out of bed, but he doubted he would fall asleep either. Therefore, he chose to lay there, stare at the ceiling, and wait.
…
…
…
…it was boring. Johnny’s mind ran a mile a minute, and the ceiling was obviously not interesting. He eventually rolled his head to either side, first to look at the far wall and then at Kenshi’s back.
Kenshi snored. Not much, not too loudly, but a little. He shifted in his sleep, minute changes in his shoulders or his legs. His feet repeatedly kicked Johnny, gently, in his efforts to get more comfortable. Johnny didn’t mind.
…
…
…
Kenshi turned to his left side. He settled back into the pillow quickly, his nose half buried in its case, and he sighed. He fell back into his deep slumber just as quickly as he briefly departed it.
Looking at him sleep, it would be hard to know that he had recently been blinded. His eyelids were a little swollen, only noticeable because Johnny was staring so much, and faded bruises covered the skin around his eyes. He looked far better than he did when he first was blinded, almost like it was a distant memory rather than a few days ago.
Even his face was relaxed. His jaw was slack, and his expression was neutral, almost pleasant, as he slept. Johnny felt like Kenshi always looked tense—ready to fight, ready to protect himself, and always guarded. It made sense, honestly. But seeing him sleep, out of control of how his face looked or how his body moved…he looked content. It was a relieving sight.
He had long eyelashes, Johnny realized. He almost didn’t look real.
Johnny’s thoughts raced. He pushed most of them back.
The time passed slowly. Eventually, orange hues from an Outworld sunrise filled the room, and Johnny watched sunbeams leave rainbow streaks across the ceiling and the wall behind Kenshi. It was still not fully morning, and Johnny guessed it was another hour until he and Kenshi and the others would have to get up for the day. He could maybe get another forty-five minutes of sleep if he shut his eyes, and–
Kenshi’s face suddenly pinched in discomfort, and Johnny’s tiredness vanished instantly.
He watched as Kenshi’s expression shifted from peaceful to distressed without warning. His eyebrows twitched, and his breaths grew shallow and rapid. Before long, his hands had balled up the blanket they shared in tight fists, and the skin around his knuckles grew white.
Johnny recognized a nightmare when he saw one. He knew enough about those he cared about, and even himself, to know the signs.
He slid forward. He wasn’t sure how Kenshi would respond to being woken up. Johnny knew he preferred getting woken up from a nightmare, but he wasn’t sure how that would go. He knew Kenshi responded well to touch—their earlier hug and sleeping positions were evidence enough—which gave Johnny enough confidence to proceed.
When Kenshi’s hands began to shake, Johnny grabbed them, disentangling the blankets from his grasp. Kenshi’s grip did not ease, and he held Johnny’s hands so tightly that the actor was sure he would form bruises. He winced, adjusting his hold slightly so his fingers were free, and he rubbed his thumbs across the skin of Kenshi’s hands. He pressed as hard as he could, hoping to remove him from the horrors he faced, but his efforts were limited due to Kenshi’s hold on him. How did he not realize he was so strong…?
He whispered his name. He focused on his hands, the shaking, the tattoos that had become a blur to his eyes. He whispered his name again, and he slid forward even closer. They were almost as close as they were the night prior, their combined hands resting against each of their shoulders, but they were miles away all the same. Another world, one entirely unnavigated and unfamiliar. But Johnny was ready. He had to be. If not him, then who?
It felt like an eternity before some tension in Kenshi’s face faded and his hands’ grip loosened. Johnny breathed a sigh of relief when feeling returned to his hands. He kept on.
Before long, Kenshi’s breathing evened itself out, and any shaking went away. He sighed, adjusted his hands, and sank his head into the pillow. His eyes did not open, but Johnny could tell he was awake all the same.
“…Johnny?”
“I’m right here, Kenshi. You’re alright. You’re safe.”
“Wh… What time is it?” He was mumbling.
“No clue. Early.”
“Time t’get up?”
“Not yet.” Johnny squeezed his hands. His fingers never slowed. “Go back to sleep.”
“…okay.” Kenshi’s hands briefly removed themselves from his hold, but Johnny didn’t have enough time to mourn before they returned, holding his hands far gentler than before. His own fingertips traced Johnny’s skin, the battle-formed calluses tracing his knuckles and up and down his fingers. Johnny watched them move, watched them memorize everything about him, and he begged his mind and his eyes to do the same. He didn’t want to forget either. He couldn’t if he tried.
Kenshi’s deep breath interrupted his thoughts. “Is this okay?”
“Y-Yeah. This is fine.”
Kenshi’s fingers stopped, and his fingers rested against the backs of Johnny’s hands. “Okay.”
Just like that, Kenshi dozed off again, just as quickly as he woke. Johnny stared at their hands for several seconds before he remembered to breathe. A smile filled his face, and he finally closed his eyes.
He would never be able to fall asleep, but he could dedicate Kenshi to memory all the same.