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Ebenholz used to hate sleeping.
The bed was always too big. All that space had made him aware of how empty it all was, even if he could never remember otherwise. (Memories of bodies around him - nestled between his parents as a baby, or huddled with the rest of the Witch King's lineage in the orphanage - lay slumbering deeper than he could ever manage.)
Unable to toss and turn on account of his horns, he would wrap himself in blankets and stare up at the ceiling. Hum to himself, if he needed to keep the murmuring taunts of the Witch King at bay. What a paradox, of being the sole body in the room but never truly alone. Many nights, he'd wear himself out by sitting at his window, watching the late-night lives of Leithaniens bustling in the streets below until he could no longer keep his eyes open.
Then he found himself instead in Vysenheim. And deeper still, into the Afterglow. Into one ratty old bed, with a boy his mind had forgotten but his body had not, and they'd fit together again like two musbeasts huddling for winter warmth. Even when they had to sleep with limbs intertwined and bodies close, horns at risk of clashing together, Ebenholz hadn't felt nearly as embarrassed as expected. It had felt...right. Like coming home for the first time.
It didn't last.
The bed felt emptier than ever, after that. And his first dream alone was not of the fight itself, but of crawling onto a chaise with a cooling corpse and closing his eyes, cradling it close and breathing deep of the dust.
...
Now it is well past midnight. Even the tiny dorm bed feels unfathomably large, the room too vast. The nightmares threaten to start before he even closes his eyes, white hair curling into wisps of smoke trailing skyward past the Afterglow concert hall.
Ebenholz has developed a habit for nights such as these. He pries himself out of bed, throws a hoodie over his pajamas, and wanders down the hallway. He doesn't need to look at the room numbers, or pray to see light spilling from under the doorframe. He knows exactly where he's going, how many steps it takes, and how late its occupant tends to stay awake. He shows up right in time to hear a wadded ball of paper hit the doorway, which makes it his cue to knock in rhythmic percussion.
The furious scratchings of quill on ink come to a standstill. A chair scrapes against the floor. Tired footfalls approach. The door opens.
"There you are. I almost had to look at my clock to tell how late it had gotten."
"You say that like I'm your bedtime alarm."
"You might as well be." Czerny's sigh morphs into a yawn, and that's all he has to say on the matter as he lets Ebenholz inside. The lights are low, and the desk is covered in scattered paper, as is the floor.
Ebenholz absently kicks a wadded-up failure of a composition with his foot as he surveys the room. Less coffee cups lying around than normal, and there's only one plate of untouched food that might even be from earlier today. The bed is made up and untouched. "You cleaned up since this morning."
"As it happens, you can nag worse than Ursula and Fraulein Hibiscus combined." Czerny reaches over and ruffles Ebenholz's hair. "Lucky for you, you are cute enough to get away with it."
"Seeing as you are the one who needed to clean, I'd say you're the lucky one." He tries to ignore the flush of his face from the compliment, or the way his tail wags when he's touched. "Were you going to sleep soon? Or are you still busy?"
"That depends. How fares your head tonight?"
Ebenholz does not answer. He doesn't want to, and with how well Czerny knows him, the silence is answer enough. The elafia leans in, presses a soft kiss to his forehead. "Alright then. Get yourself settled in, liebchen, and I will follow close behind. Promise."
Ebenholz reaches for further banter, but he cannot find any. The promise of a peaceful respite is already tricking his brain into shutting down. "I'll hold you to it. Or hold it against you if you take too long."
"Then I will hold you either way." Czerny's hand traces down Ebenholz's face, resting on the caprinae's cheek for one extended moment, enough for the warmth to soak into weary bones. Then he pulls away once more, finally cleaning up the night's worth of papers.
Much as Ebenholz is loathe to admit it, this has become a near-nightly routine between the two of them. The former Graf Urtica showing up at the legendary composer's door, bickering like some old married couple, passing out in his bed, fussing until there are arms around him to still his body and brain. On one hand, he feels like a child who cannot sleep without parents. On the other...a decent night's sleep means less chance of migraines, or the past intruding on his attempts to build a future.
Besides, he thinks as he sits on the edge of the bed, he doesn't mind sharing a bed with Czerny. Even if the man is prone to snoring, or that Ebenholz occasionally wakes up with his face in the other's armpit. The two of them barely fit together on the tiny dorm bed, but somehow, he finds that a comfort.
Off with the hoodie. On with the sleepcaps for his horns, soft and padded to keep from stabbing any stray pillows (or elafia) in his sleep. Climb under the covers and breathe deep its scents: coffee, old parchment, a tinge of musk, and the herbal scent of Czerny's preferred brand of hand cream.
"You need to change the bedsheets. You've had these ones on for almost two weeks now."
"Es tut mir leid, mein Herr. My deepest apologies for forgetting that amongst the rest of my cleaning today." Czerny adds a put-upon sigh as he gestures to the rest of the room. "I even dusted in here. Dusted! I was sneezing for hours."
"Means you need to dust more often." Yet Ebenholz finds himself smiling as he settles down. He watches, quietly, as Czerny settles back at his desk, sorts out the papers he's thrown around in haste to see if any are salvageable, furrows his brow in concentration. The scratch of his pen on the parchment, the absent tap of his foot to keep a beat as he hums through a melody, the faint swishing of his tail when it wags to celebrate sorting out a particularly tough passage...these might not be the instruments of Czerny's typical lullabies, but this mundane intimacy swiftly lulls Ebenholz closer to sleep.
His eyes flutter closed.
(He hears a cello, low and deep. Hushed whispers. "Ebenholz, are you feeling better? Would you like some water?" A tender hand on his, pale and bone-thin. A gentle smile disappearing to pain, to a mask, to...)
A whimper escapes his lips, unbidden. The scratching of the pen stops.
"Fehlt Ihnen etwas, liebe?"
Ebenholz cracks open an eye, sees the concern etched over his partner's face. Shakes his head; "Nichts." Too quiet, hardly convincing. He draws a breath and resists the urge to pull the covers up to his chin. "Just looking at you hunched over like that makes me ache. Didn't Hibiscus say you need to take better care of your posture to help your back pain?"
"Are you suggesting I lie down to straighten it out again?" Most nights, Czerny will cast a longing look at his compositions before trudging to bed, but not now. "Fine, but only so the Fraulein does not yell at me further." He pulls away from the desk without hesitation, peeling away his extraneous clothes until he's down to his undershirt and boxers. Settles onto his side of the bed, propped up on his pile of pillows so his antlers don't crash into anything. Comfortable as Ebenholz is, he crawls closer. Drapes one arm over Czerny's torso, one leg over his own, and finally, carefully rests his head on the elafia's chest.
"Not content with your own pillow?"
Ebenholz shakes his head as he nestles into place. He searches for more poetic words to match the comforting heartbeat in his ears, but all his tired brain can find is a quote overheard from one of his friends. "World hard and cold. Titty warm and soft."
"You've spent far too much time around Fraulein Utage," Czerny groans. "And I am not soft. "
Ebenholz raises his hand up to his partner's chest and gives a firm squeeze. "Soft." He lets it drift back down to Czerny's torso, and this time squeezes his side. "Soft."
"That's muscle. From training. Which I have done quite a lot of, thank you very much."
"Du bist weich geworden. In more ways than one, I might add. The Herr Czerny I first met would have sooner kicked me out of his house than let me cuddle him like this."
"Because all he saw and heard was a temperamental flutist complaining around the silver spoon in his mouth." Despite his complaints, he wraps a sturdy arm around Ebenholz and holds him in place. "But I have since learned better, and now I can hardly imagine not having you around."
Ebenholz hums, eyes fluttering closed again. "Because someone needs to remind you that you are more than a machine for writing music and holding up shields. Whatever would you do without my knocking at odd hours?"
When Czerny is quiet for a long moment, Ebenholz initially wonders if he's said something wrong. Then, "What if you didn't have to knock?"
"Surely you are not so tired to think that leaving your door unlocked on a ship such as this is a good idea?"
"No. I mean...what if you officially moved in with me? Then you wouldn't have to knock. It would just be our room."
The suggestion takes its time to settle in, like a candle wick stubborn about accepting the flame. Surely, he shouldn't impose. But he's not imposing, he's literally being asked. Is this a trick question? Banter he's taking too seriously? No, this isn't something Czerny would joke about. So then...
"You're sure you want me here? Even if I spend every day nagging you about cleaning your room?" He does that a lot. He's a particular man. One prone to complaints, gloom, and headaches that can render him absolutely useless. There are days when his mind is a lake that only reflects delusions, and he finds it so easy to drown in the past. There will be days where Czerny doesn't rest on his bed, and days Ebenholz won't be able to leave it.
Czerny looks at him, as if able to see those days ahead too. He brushes the hair out of Ebenholz's eyes, tucking it behind his ears, and kisses his forehead. "Even so, yes. Though if we both live here, I think both of us would share in cleaning the room."
"Ah, I see. This is your nefarious scheme to pawn the laundry off on me full-time. How very devious of you."
Czerny snorts, the laughter briefly jostling the caprinae on his chest. But then his tone sobers, his gaze slipping away as if he is the one being judged for the offer. "Honestly, I would not mind it. I have learned that I do not fare well, living on my own. I need someone around me, so I do not get lost in my own head. So I do not treat myself like a machine, as you so aptly put it. And the more I think on it...I cannot imagine it being anyone else here but you."
Ebenholz thinks to his own room. The band posters he's littered the walls with, just so he can see faces other than his own in the mirror. How the instant he hits that lonely bed, his mind conjures the faces he misses most, even if the strongest memories are of those faces contorted in pain.
He thinks instead of coming here, every day, when his shifts at the trading post end or he is finished with the book club, or after longer stretches when a mission takes him far away from the Rhodes Island landship. What it'd be like to open a door and be greeted by music, even if the only song is the scratching of a pen, and a gruff but earnest "Willkommen zurück," or maybe even "Willkommen zu Hause," because he could maybe learn to call this place home if he had someone to share it with. And on the days when the world seems too big and he finds himself sinking into the depths of his own head, knowing there is someone who will always find him, reach a hand to pull him out, or just sit with him awhile until he surfaces again.
Something swells inside Ebenholz, starting in his chest and building up to his eyes, threatening to push tears out to make way for it. What is this feeling? Is he truly so pathetic, that one offer of companionship and certainty could bring him low so quickly? He doesn't know, just that he's compelled to wrap his scrawny arms around Czerny and squeeze as tight as possible, bury his face in his partner's chest until the tears are shoved back into place. Focus on the heartbeat, the smell of coffee and parchment and his partner , all these things that make him feel so safe that even the nightmares cannot get to him.
"Liebe? Did I say something wrong?" Sturdy arms settle around Ebenholz, not quite so tight, as if afraid that something inside the caprinae has already been crushed beyond repair. Like Ebenholz, for all the problems in his head and barbs on his tongue, is somehow worth protecting.
Relief. That's what this feeling is. Relief, that someone could look at this lonely soul and welcome him with open arms.
"Nothing wrong at all, mein Schatz." Ebenholz releases his hold. Maybe there's still a tear or two in his eyes, but maybe that's okay here. "You'll get sick of me living here within a week, though. Fair warning now."
"You forget that I'm the patient one here." Czerny leans in, kisses the corners of Ebenholz's eyes to dry them off. "I'll last at least two weeks, and you know it."
"We'll see about that." Ebenholz nestles back into place on his side of their bed, draped across his partner, in the room that will soon officially belong to both of them. He closes his eyes.
Instead of white hair rising into smoke and dust back in the Afterglow, his mind flickers to playing music together in this cramped room, long talks while folding the laundry, warm lips pressed to aching heads. Waking up to dawn spilling through the window and catching the light of his lover's hair like a brilliant fire to chase away the dark.
Ebenholz has never so looked forward to falling asleep, and what he will find when he wakes up next.