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Through sleep, he notices little sounds and movement around him, but P4's brain easily blends that sensory input into his subconcious memory reel. Until the sounds — a yelping — become sharp and analogous to his furred dream mixture.
When P4 opens his eyes, P1 is leaping out of their shared bed. With his machine gun in hand, he lurks near the window of the trailer. He rakes back the curtain, readies the gun, and steels himself with a shaky breath. Quickly, he aims and looks at the same time. He does not fire. Just stares and sweeps the barrel across the window view.
“How's it look out there, dude?” says P4, casual and morning-voiced. He makes no effort to move. He knows damn well what this is.
“I'm sorry. I had a nightmare. I just need to check,” P1 mutters.
The apology was not necessary. His words are redundant. He says little unprompted defensive things like this often. It's for his own sake, P4 realizes. There's no use in chastising him for it. So instead he says:
“I figured. See anything?”
Despite the late hour, the scene is well-illuminated. P4 has grown accustomed to sleeping under noisome city lights by now. Between that and his own snoring, he wonders how P1 manages to sleep, if he even sleeps at all. It always sounds like a lie when he blurts “I slept just fine,” in the mornings.
The streetlights frame P1's eyes like a headlight upon a deer's. He's always got that look when he assumes his shooting pose, although the sunglasses usually hide it. There's no stone cold killer poise in this trailer tonight. His nakedness shows off the way he rolls his shoulders to force the tremble out of them.
“This is a dangerous place, dude,” whispers P1.
Still not an answer. Gotta keep him focused.
“What do you see out there? Murderers? Ghouls? Phalluses?”
“Nothing.” P1 huffily lowers his gun, keeps his eyes on the window. “There's nothing. But I still feel like something bad is gonna happen.”
A moment passes. It's as silent as a crowded trailer in a truck stop can be. P1 is gonna stare at the nothing in that window for the rest of eternity and when bad things come, he'll thank them.
“Look at me, dude. Bad shit happens all the time. I say it doesn't matter til it's happening. I got my trailer and my Champ and my dude. I'm just gonna enjoy that for as long as I can. And hey. There's nothing out there. Whoop-dee-doo. Let's celebrate by going back to bed.”
Finally P1 glances over through a curtain of hair. He looks creepy in the low light there, holding his bigass gun, freakishly tall with the crazy eyes. He is a creepy guy and it doesn't scare P4 at all.
P1 retreats into a safe slouch, pads over and kneels next to P4's side of the bed. Sits on his heels, gun in his lap. He just stays there, looking at nothing.
“Fuck you want?” P4 grumbles.
P1 opens his mouth and makes a weird explain-y gesture, fumbles it, tries again.
“I feel like God crossed our paths because I’m meant to learn from you,” P1 admits with a gravity. P4 nearly winces at it.
He's mentioned this once before. Last time, P4 responded by showing him how to hit a crack pipe, then explaining Krotchy lore in great detail. The comment had taken him aback then and it takes him aback now. A paradigm he is not.
“I doubt I have anything to tell you that you haven't already heard in a crummy motivational poster.”
“But I'm listening, now. I'll listen to it if it's you saying it,” P1 swears. There's this little intonation of urgency and resigned faith in his voice that you hear at AA meetings. He means his words but it's not that simple.
“Fine,” P4 grunts, thinks a bit. “Listen up. You gotta live in the moment, dude. Quit the worrying. You've already driven yourself crazy doing that.” It's not that simple.
“I was right to be worried, though. I was really under attack.”
“I know, I know. I'm not asking you to throw out your gun, but it'd do you good to leave it under the bed instead of spooning it, at least,” he smirks.
P1 doesn't respond. Instead he lifts his hand to his mouth and bites it hard. The motion shows off the angular, red imprints on the inside of his arm where his gun was laying while he slept.
P4 sighs. “C'mon, let's do bong rips.”
And so they do just that. And P1 is cute when he holds his lungs and exhales with a gentle “oh fuck yeah.” And P4 chuckles smoke when Champ lazily rests his head in his lap. And the skin imprints fade, and it isn't that simple, but it's working right now. And when they get back into bed — sans gun — P1 gives him scritches behind the ear.
“Good night. Sweet dreams,” P4 says to him.
Sweet dreams. He used to say things like that all the time to the Bitch and to everyone. How've you been? Have a good one! How was your day? Get well soon. I'm sorry to hear that. He would say them cause it felt like that's what he ought to do. Like a talking doll having its string pulled. And it felt real good to kick that habit for a while and stop giving a fuck. Sweet dreams, he wishes him, and he tries to mean it when he says it now. Tomorrow, they'll wake up in eachother's arms, peaceful and unbothered, and he’ll ask P1 how he slept and he'll pry for a real answer.