Archive of Our Own

Neo wakes with a jolt, eyes wide in the dark, lungs scrambling for air.

Their chest rises and falls, fast and uneven, heartbeat pounding against their ribs like it was trying to find a way out. They don’t know where they are— their senses haven’t put the pieces together yet. Their fingers clutch uselessly at the sheets as they sit upright, pulse stuttering, eyes struggling to adjust. Sweat clings to the back of their neck, the curve of their spine, damping their shirt and pressing it tight against their skin. They’re shaking.

A jagged slash of lightning splits the sky outside the window, bathing the room in a pale white light for just a second, long enough for the shadows to rearrange themselves— and then thunder follows, heavy and guttural, rattling the walls like it’s trying to tear its way inside.

They don’t ever remember moving so much in their sleep, but the bed looks like a war zone. The blankets they had just laid down so properly (for once) the night before had been kicked halfway off in a panic, twisted around their legs. One corner of the fitted sheet peeled up from the mattress as if it was trying to escape with them. Some of their decorative pillows and plushies are no longer resting against the headboard, but scattered across the floor.

It takes them a second— longer than it should— to realize where they are. It’s too dark to be the sterile artificial light of Alterna’s domes, but also too warm to be the backseat of a broken-down car in which they’ve chosen to seek refuge for the night. 

Oh, right. It’s easy to forget, even after all the months they’ve been living here. The apartment. Three’s apartment. Neo’s apartment now, too, even if they struggle to believe it sometimes.

Even now, months later, it feels unreal. They’ve been here long enough to memorize where the creaky spots in the hallway are, which shelf in the fridge is unofficially theirs, the one specific spot on the living room remote that you have to smack when it stops working. It’s their own bedroom, not the ragged old base camp in Alterna, the rough leather seat of a train, or the quiet corner of a 24/7 convenience store. An apartment where they don’t have to work grueling GrizzCo shifts to put food on paper plates and pay rent every month. 

On nights like this it’s easy to forget. Easy to wake up expecting a world that, luckily, no longer exists. They’re safe now, and have been for a long time. They know this.

So why does it feel like they’re still stuck?

Neo wipes a trembling hand across their forehead. Their palm comes back wet.

You’d think after months away from the littered city streets they’d successfully escaped the chance of an early death, but it always finds them in their dreams like this. It’s a common occurrence, and usually about dying— getting sliced by a piece of shrapnel and bleeding out on a busted satellite in space; starving in a snowstorm, alone under a park bench as the world forgets all about them. Drowning, suffocating, burning alive, too many situations to count. Their young mind has a big flair for the dramatics, they’ll admit.

But this one didn’t involve them getting harmed. It was someone else. Because of them. 

They don’t remember all of it, just pieces, a scene fragmented by blood pumping adrenaline and the remnants of sleep. But they remember the weight of it, the helplessness that ate at their core— someone was in danger, someone important, and they couldn’t save them. They couldn’t move, couldn’t think, just watched it happen. Just the vague memory, distorted in all of its post-nightmare glory, makes their stomach twist. Maybe dying would truly be easier than living with the aftermath of that kind of failure.

And then there’s Three.

The worst of all was the sound. Not the raging storm, the crumbling building or the distant alarms, but Three’s voice— piercing, raw, something more emotional than Neo had ever heard from them awake. They just remember Three’s look of horror at the sight of the lifeless body in front of them. The way they sobbed and grabbed Neo by the shirt, slamming them against the hard wall, screaming their throat raw because How could you let this happen? Why didn’t you do anything?

Their chest tightens. Their hands feel shaky. They press them into the mattress just to feel something real beneath their palms.

Three… Isn’t like that. Of course they aren’t. They know that Three had a rough life, if the scars that litter their skin and the bags that never leave their under-eyes are anything to go off of. Their past experiences have turned them into someone rigid— they’re stern with Neo at moments, and once upon a time Neo used to believe it was because Three thought they were too much to handle, too weak, too naive, too much of a hazard to be worth keeping around. But they learned that it was just Three trying to prevent Neo from becoming a mirror image of themselves, someone who was thrown into a world of risky missions and immoral acts before they even had the opportunity to question whether or not it was all worth it.

It’s care warped by fear. Tough love, and all that. But still, the fear of disappointing them… It changes things. Even dreams.

Tick, Tick, Tick . The clock ticks on the wall. Neo stares at it like it’s mocking them. They never really learned how to read one, but got too embarrassed to ask Three for a digital clock instead. 

Tick, Tick, Tick. They roll on their back, cringing at the sweat. They stare at the popcorn texture of the ceiling and try not to flinch every time thunder roars. Their old apartment had the same texture, just this one is missing the chipped drywall and water damage.

Tick, Tick, Tick. God, why is their chest tightening up as if they were about to cry? It was just a dream, it’s not real. Three doesn’t hate them. If they did, Neo would be back sneaking into Alterna to sleep at night, and hanging out in ventilated public buildings during the day.

They let out a shaky, broken breath. They don’t know what time it is and their phone must’ve been thrown to the floor during their unconscious panic, because when they reach for its usual spot by their pillow it’s no longer there. It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s late. Too late to be awake, but too early to pretend it’s morning, and they can’t magically make themself fall back asleep.

They shift, peeling the twisted blankets of their legs, and swing themself out of bed. 

Neo doesn’t even know what they’re doing. They have half of a mind left to swap out of their sweat soaked clothes, but their brain doesn’t register that they’re walking until they’re coming to a halt outside of Three and Eights bedroom. They didn’t mean to end up here, their body just moved with muscle memory, on instinct— they felt they were in danger, and inside this room is where their gut is telling them they’ll be the most safe.

Hands still shaky, they twist the knob and open the door ever so slightly, wincing at the light creak it makes. But they don’t enter, don’t say a word, just stand. There’s a faint, warm glow coming from their bedside lamp, but otherwise, it’s dark.

It feels pathetic and childish, standing here because of a nightmare. What would they say, that a dream scared them so badly they couldn’t breath? That they couldn’t hear the sound of thunder without feeling fifteen again, curled up in the back of a car after getting thrown out of their first apartment? Three's going to wake up annoyed, and Neo knows how that will look for them— they’ve spent the past year trying to prove to Three that they were strong, that they could be trusted and depended on, just to come to their room in the middle of the night like a scared kid who wants their parents to check the closet for monsters. They can almost hear Three’s sigh of disapproval now— it’s not something they haven’t heard in the past.

So, they turn around. They’ve worked so hard to gain respect from Three, it’s better to protect their pride and just go back to—

“Neo?”

They freeze.

The voice comes quiet from behind them. Gentle, softened by sleep, but definitely not Three’s. And when they turn back they see Eight sitting up in bed, poking out behind the inklings sleeping figure, her silhouette outlined by the soft glow of the lamp. Her short tentacles fall loosely around her face, not tucked behind her ears as they normally are. She doesn’t look or seem tired. On the contrary, she seems as if she hadn’t slept at all.

“You okay?” She softly asks.

Neo flushes immediately. They can feel the heat rising to their cheeks, burning the tips of their ears. “Yeah. Sorry. I… didn’t mean to wake you,” they mumble, “I was just, uh…”

They trail off, because how are they supposed to finish? Just what? Having a panic attack? Fleeing a dream as if it were chasing them with an axe? Their skin feels clammy, and the embarrassment only makes it worse— they scratch their arm in a self soothing manner, a bad habit they never really got around to breaking.

Eight studies them silently before speaking. 

“Come sit down.”

Neo falters. It feels wrong to even think about taking a step further, crossing that invisible threshold. Neo hasn’t been in Three’s room much at all, maybe only a handful of times. Three had just always been very sensitive about their privacy, guarding it like a fortress, and although Neo would say they aren’t the type to snoop around, they definitely are— just not with someone they respect as much as Three. It feels like trespassing sacred territory. And now with Eight around, the air in the room feels even more private but in a different way. Secluded. Intimate.

But Eight flashes them a small, gentle smile anyway. She pats the mattress right next to her, a soft invitation— so, they begin to cross the room but they do it carefully, as if the floor might splinter open and swallow them whole. 

When they get to the other side of the bed, Eight is laying against the headboard with her hands folded in her lap, legs drawn up slightly under the covers. She wears a simple black tank top, and her eyes patiently watch Neo. They hover at the side of the bed, arms now drawn tightly around their middle— the room is silent except for the pattern of the rain, and the soft sound of breathing coming from beside Eight. They don’t want to impose or wake Three up, wedging themselves into a space they don’t belong— so after a moment of hesitation, they move forward and sink down near the foot of the bed, perching on the edge like a visitor in a stranger's home. Their posture is stiff, shoulders curled in, sitting as far away from Eight as possible without seeming disrespectful.

Eight turns slightly, quietly shifting to make more room for Neo beside her, if they so choose to take it.

Neo doesn’t move.

The rain taps softer now, a steady rhythm against the windows, no longer a monster outside but something gentle, like fingers drumming on glass. The thunder has winded down into a distant hum. The tension still remains, but it’s a little dull around the edges now.

It’s quiet for a while.

It’s not Eight's fault that Neo feels awkward around her. Neo had just gotten so used to living with Three, and all of a sudden there’s a new person in the equation entirely. They just aren’t sure how to act around her yet. Eight is nice. In fact, she’s maybe… too nice. Nicer than anything or anyone Neo is used to. She brings home trinkets and collectibles that she thinks Neo may like, she makes them snacks and helps them with their homework— but Neo is still a growing teenager, and between working GrizzCo shifts to pay rent and training in Alterna, they never really had time for socializing until now. Friends weren’t really a thing, and family? Even less so. They don’t really know how to be close to people, let alone silently exist in someone else’s comfort.

So, naturally, Eight is the first to break the silence.

“Do you want to tell me about your nightmare?” She asks casually.

Neo stiffens. “Um, I… I didn’t say…”

She lets out a soft, knowing huff of laughter at Neo's surprise. “You didn’t have to say anything. I can see it all over your face.”

Neo lets out a pitiful, awkward chuckle. They scratch their arm again, picking at a scrape on their elbow in which they had gotten at the skatepark a day before.

“Hey, don’t be embarrassed.” Eight gently reassures them, sensing their unease. “You’ll feel better if you talk about it.”

Neo shifts uncomfortably, their fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket as the question lingers in the space between them. They want to answer, or at least they think they do, but the words catch somewhere in their throat, shame and embarrassment pulling them back down every time they’re about to breach the surface. Their mouth opens halfway, then closes again. They’re sixteen, old enough to drive a motorized vehicle and apparently old enough to wield a gun, and yet they’re still being terrorized by the same thing that only bothers those who are less than half their age.

They look to the floor, then the window, then to Eight's face, quickly searching for any sign of impatience— but she doesn’t rush them. She sits there, quiet and open, her body still but not stiff. Her hands stay gently folded in her lap. The glow of the lamp highlights the softness of her features; the gentle slope of her cheek, the delicate curve of her nose. It’s hard not to trust her.

“Well. It's just…” They sigh, voice small. “It’s dumb. I shouldn’t be having nightmares like this. I’m going to be seventeen soon.”

Eight raises an eyebrow. “And?”

Neo shrugs, eyes focused on the floor. “I don’t know… I’m too old for this.”

Eight's response is immediate: “No you’re not.”

“Yeah, well.” Neo shrugs. “Feels like I am.”

“Sixteen is a lot younger than you realize, Neo. You’ve gone through things people twice your age could only dream of.” She reasons. Her words aren’t harsh, but she’s firm in what she says. “I still get nightmares sometimes, and I’m twenty-two.” 

Neo doesn’t respond, continuing to stare at the floor. Eight adds: 

“And so does Three.”

Neo's head snaps up. “ Three? ” They whisper, “They do?”

“Mhm.”

Neo looks to the person in question— still asleep, curled slightly on their side and facing Eight. One arm is folded under the pillow, the other tucked closely to their chest. Their breathing is quiet but even, rhythmic and slow.

Neo had never really seen them asleep before. They’ve always been awake, alert, on edge at all times— even in the home they seem slightly stressed, like something is always bothering them. Whether or not something truly is or if they just naturally look that way all the time, Neo doesn’t really know. But what they do know is that Three looks… different like this. Smaller. And they wouldn’t have thought anything of it if they weren’t watching Three so intently, but then they start to notice things.

Three twitches slightly, a flinch so small they could’ve just made it up— but then their eyebrows furrow a little, a faint crease forming between them. Their jaw tightens. Their hand pulls closer to their chest, and their breath stutters in a way that makes Neo go still.

Eight follows Neo’s gaze.

Her expression immediately softens.

Slow and practiced, one of her hands leaves her lap as she leans over and brushes her knuckles up Three’s arm, a featherlight touch against their skin, one with such gentleness that it makes something twist in Neo’s chest. Then, her fingers settle on their cheek. She runs her finger across their prominent cheekbone, before gently cupping their face with one hand, gently tracing the outline of their jagged scar with a clawed thumb. 

She touches them so naturally, as if it was a motion she had repeated a thousand times before, as if she’d do it a hundred times more if it was necessary. And Neo watches, wide eyed and in silent awe, as Three’s brow loosens. Their tense shoulders relax. Their breathing evens out, and slowly but surely they’re sinking into deep sleep again. 

“They don’t talk about it without putting up a fight, but I can always tell when it gets bad.” She murmurs, still watching them, caressing their face. “They’re a heavy sleeper. Sometimes they flinch or cry while they’re asleep, sometimes their breathing gets funny. Sometimes they just wake up in a panic.”

Eight’s gaze is soft, almost sorrowful, brows slightly furrowed as if she were troubled, as if she wanted nothing in the world but to take away their pain. Neo feels like they’re witnessing something sacred, something that’s not meant for anyone else to see. A version of Three that doesn’t exist in public, a version of Three that doesn’t exist for anyone but Eight.

“Sometimes I stay up just to make sure they’re sleeping alright, but Three doesn’t know that. They’d kill me if they found out I was losing sleep over them.”  A smile tugs at her lips, and she lets out a gentle laugh. “They hate being cared for, but want it so badly.”

Neo looks back to Three. Their face is still marked with dark circles and stress, and of course the large scar stretching across their face isn’t going anywhere any time soon— yet at the same time they’ve never looked more at peace. Their lips are now slightly parted, mouth slack with sleep.

Neo is quiet. Then, hesitantly, they whisper, “What do they dream about…?”

Eight’s eyes flicker back to the younger kid. “Do you know how they got their scar?”

Well, there was always a burning curiosity behind the story. Their scar is like something Neo has never seen before, the dark skin uneven and coarse, almost like a burn— and the eye that’s surrounded by the damage is a sickly teal color, rendering Three unable to see. The singular time they had asked for the details was when they were first training with Three in Alterna, before they had even gone up to space and risked their life. They had timidly— yet curiously— asked how Three got their scar in the middle of an aiming drill with the Tri-stringer. Three turned to them for a moment, looked Neo up and down as if they were inspecting them, and then went back to pulling their bow taught.

“Painfully.”  Was the simple word Three muttered before shooting. They went back to training without further elaboration.

Neo decided to not ask any more questions after that.

They shake their head. “No. They never told me…”

Eight nods slowly, like it’s the answer she expected. Her hand returns to her lap, and she shuffles back in place.

“Then I won’t tell you the details. That’s for them to tell.” She says, and Neo understands. Some stories are only meant to be told by those who experienced them. “It was essentially just a mission gone wrong. We ended up underground…” 

Her voice trails off, fading into something distant and quiet. Her gaze slips past Neo, unfocused, like she’s seeing not the room but something behind it. Slowly, she lifts a hand and absently reaches past her collarbone, fingers brushing the skin of her shoulder— her own scar that stretches up her back, slightly wrapping around her neck.

“It’s where I got my scar, too.” She says quietly, rubbing the rough skin with a tenderness that seems to contradict the harshness of the story behind it. There’s something fragile in her voice that suggests the memory still lingers somewhere just beneath the surface. 

They’ve always wondered about Eights scar too, that jagged mark across her back like someone tried to carve her in half, a permanent reminder of something dark and terrible— it’s pale, the skin charred, uneven, and ragged— something you don’t come back from in one piece, even if you survive. They wonder what could have left scars like that on both of them, how they managed to find the strength to keep moving forward after the fact.

She continues after a pause, “I sort of got knocked out. I just woke up there, and I didn’t remember anything from beforehand.” Her voice becomes quieter, more somber. She looks to her hands, “I still don’t.”

Neo whispers, almost astonished. “…You don’t remember anything?”

“Nope. No name, no family, nothing.” She shakes her head. “I came back to the surface and I had to learn everything all over again. Who to trust, where to go, what I liked and what I didn’t, who I wanted to be…” She trails off.

Neo stares at her for a long moment, heart tight in their chest. Really, they would’ve never guessed. 

Eight is one of the kindest people they know— her voice is always soft, temper always patient, presence warm in a way that makes others lean in rather than back away. Someone who had gone through something like that, losing everything they’ve ever known, and then at the same time had to integrate into a society that was once ruthless and cruel to their kind? You’d think that experience would turn one into a closed off, cynical person, but Eight is the polar opposite. 

She washes their dirty shoes and sews the rips in their clothes without them having to ask. She plugs in their phone when they fall asleep on the couch with it still in their hand. She keeps bandaids in her bag because she knows how neckless they tend to be— she notices the little things about others when she has every right to only be focused on herself.

In a way, they understand what it’s like to be in her shoes. They came to the city with no home to return to, no family to call at the end of the day, nothing solid to fall back on. They just had to work with what they had, survive on the streets and try to build something out of nothing in the same way Eight did. 

Two people carrying scars, seen and unseen. One lost her past, and the other ran from theirs.

“It’s likely I was just in the military before. That’s what was expected of girls my age down there, so I probably didn’t miss out on anything super fun.” Eight laughs, yet there’s a note of sadness beneath it. It’s evident when her voice lowers again, “But still, it’s hard to not have some feelings from where you came from.” 

Neo nods slowly. “Yeah.” they murmur, “Even if the place you came from wasn’t that great.”

Eight’s gaze flickers up to Neo. She smiles kindly, softly, an unspoken understanding building between them, born from loss and survival. There’s no need to acknowledge it outright.

 “Yeah.” She echoes quietly.

For a long time, they’ve carried the fear that their past made them less. Less capable, less deserving, less likely to be loved or believed in— but Eights story, or lack of one, isn’t so different than their own. Waking up in a new world that doesn’t recognize you, it feels like falling without a safety net. They both had to fight for a life that wasn’t handed to them, starting fresh, alone, and look at where Eight is now. She just got back from helping one of the most famous pop duos ever on their world tour. If that isn’t a success story, then Neo’s never heard one before.

They feel a new sense of admiration for her, deep in their chest. Not exactly for the pain she endured, but for the way she moved on anyway in the face of it all. 

“I have something better now, anyway.” She says, looking down at Three. “And so do they”

Three continues to sleep peacefully beside her, lips slightly parted, breathing deep breaths. Neo still doesn't know much about their past. Three’s like a safe you can’t unlock. They keep their past tucked away like an old photograph, faded, worn at the edges— but maybe it’s something Neo will come to learn with time. 

 “They don’t really dream about the past that much anymore.” Eight continues, still looking at them. “There’s something else now.”

Neo stares at Eight expectantly, curiously, unsure if they’re allowed to ask but wanting the answer all the same. Eight pauses for a moment, before turning back to face Neo. Her smile is small, maybe even a little sad.

“It’s you.”

The word lands like a stone to the chest.

“ …Me? ” Their voice is barely above a whisper. “They dream about me?”

Well, it shouldn’t come as any surprise. It’s no question as to why Three dreams about them. They showed up to the NSS inexperienced, naive, eager to prove themselves, so much so to the point where they threw themselves into danger without even realizing it. Threes dreams are probably a never ending loop of Neo’s shortcomings: missions where they aren’t fast enough, not quick enough. Missions where they do the wrong thing and get someone hurt, missions where they say the wrong thing and blow their cover. And it probably isn’t just NSS stuff— they’ve been freed from their NSS duties for a while now— it might just be everyday things. Neo dragging down Three just by living in their home, throwing a wrench in what used to be their everyday routine and life.

Eight nods solemnly. Neo really doesn’t want to hear the details of their failures, but by the look on Eights face, she’s going to tell them nevertheless.

“They dream about you getting hurt.” She murmurs. “About something happening and them not being fast enough, not strong enough. Losing you.”

…Oh.

And that’s. Well. That’s something.

The idea of Three having nightmares about them, about their well-being, it feels impossible. To matter so much to someone is a foreign concept in itself— they didn’t really think they mattered enough for anyone to dream about, let alone fear losing. It’s just what they’re used to, having been thrown out of apartments and turned away from jobs without an ounce of consideration or pity, tossed aside and discarded like other pieces of garbage.

It’s something unbelievable, and yet it slots into a place so deep, so tender. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it definitely aches.

Neo sits with their hands curled in their lap, mouth open but unsure what to say. They wonder if, maybe, Three is dreaming about losing them right now.

“I didn’t know…” they start, but then trail off.

Eight watches them with a faint smile. Not particularly teasing, but knowing. “You wouldn’t. They don’t exactly know how to show it, but they do care. A lot more than they let on.”

Eight looks back to Three, and Neo follows. They aren’t used to seeing this sort of vulnerability from them. They’ve had plenty of heart to heart moments over the past year, whether it be back in Alterna or here, but this is different. They’ve always seen Three as an independent person; the Three they know deals with their own problems, keeps to themself, and wears a brave face. They’re not used to this version of Three, who relies on another’s touch just to get a good night's sleep.

Though, Neo has noticed that ever since Eight returned, Three changed. They started waking up earlier, eating more, talking more, and the eye bags that reside under their eyes are less prominent, though they seem to be a permanent feature on their face. It’s a different side of Three for sure— after seeing the Captain's stoic persona for so long, it was weird seeing them be so open with another person. They never would’ve imagined Three to be the type to cuddle, but lo and behold when they open the apartment door, that’s usually what Eight and Three are doing on the couch. 

It’s not that Neo minds, exactly. They mind it in the stereotypical, “ewww, gross,” way, but they also like seeing this more comfortable side of them. They can only hope that one day not only is Three more open about their past, but Eight as well. And… Neo admits they could be better at opening up too. They want to ask more about both of their pasts, how they met, how they live with it all— they want to lean on their shoulders and cry about their troubles, cry when things in life get tough, cry when the world around them becomes too overwhelming to bear. But for now they just sit there and wonder if, in the future, maybe…

The thought feels ridiculous, but they can’t help it. The thought that, maybe, they could be like a family.

“Wanna stay in here tonight?”

Neo jumps, lost in their own thoughts. “Oh— no, it’s… I’m fine now, I just don’t want to be a bother or anything…”

Eights brown eyes soften. “Neo, you know you’re never a bother, right?”

Neo freezes, face warming up. They’re never going to get used to this kind of compassion.

“Yeah, I know…”

Eight smiles, satisfied enough with their response. She moves over slightly and lifts up the cover blanket, patting the empty space between her and her sleeping partner. “We’ve got room. And Three wouldn’t mind.”

Still, Neo hesitates. The storm is almost silent now, the rain gently pattering against the window. 

“It’s better than being alone.” She murmurs.

After a second, Neo nods.

Gingerly, they shift on the bed to crawl in, slow and silent, knees pressing into the mattress as they move into the small pocket of space between Three and Eight. The sheets are already rumpled from where they can only assume Eight was laying previously before they came in. The cover is pulled back to make room for Neo, and it looks comfortable, safe, but a small part of them still feels like they're intruding as they sit in their spot and kick their legs under the blanket. 

“Uh… Eight?” Neo whispers.

Eight hums, reaching over to flick off the bedside lamp. With a click the room goes black, save for the dim glow of the night sky peppering the room in a blue hue.

“Um… You can call me Veronika from now on. If you want…”

Around the NSS members, they’d always just been Neo. Three is the only person they let use that name. But, they suppose Eight has earned it by now…

Neo can’t see her smile in the dark, but they can hear it in her voice. “Of course. Goodnight, Veronika.”

Neo opens their mouth to return the sentiment. No words come out.

They feel Eight pull the covers up over herself as she settles into bed regardless, and Neo tries to get comfortable as well. Their arm brushes Three’s own as they adjust themselves, and Three shifts slightly toward the touch. Not awake, not consciously, just… aware, somewhere in that deep sleep, that someone is by their side. That someone being Eight, probably, at least in Three’s mind— Neo isn’t even meant to be here in the first place. The touch makes Neo freeze in place, trying not to move so they don’t get any closer.

Should they be lying on their back? Or on their side? Facing Eight? Facing Three? Is there a correct way to share a bed without brushing against someone else? Without taking up too much space?

They lie there, as rigid as a board, listening to them both breathe, feeling the body heat around them. They're safe now. It’s fine. They’re fine. This is a real bed and a real apartment. They’re lying between two real people who care about them. This is home, not a trap. 

They repeat the words in their head, but their body isn’t quite getting the memo.

They’re not used to this— sleeping has always been a cold, isolating thing. It had always just been them on a hard mattress, alone, covered in thin blankets. There was never anyone else, no one to wish them goodnight and no one to hold them while they slept. They learned how to sleep alone in frigid temperatures, how to hold their breath when footsteps passed too close, and how to disappear into their body until morning came. Always cloaked in quietness that isn’t truly quiet— sporadic sirens, city music, train engines rumbling in the distance. Always something there to fill in the gaps.

Here, the gaps are cavernous.

It’s almost dead silent. The air is thick with it, wrapping around their chest and making it hard to breathe. No wind, no distant traffic, no hum from the lively city leaking through the windows. It was different with the thin walls of their old apartment, but here it’s another story. Neo can hear everything in a different way: the soft rhythm of Eight’s breathing, the faint rustle of the sheets when she shifts, the too loud thudding of their own pulse in their ears.

Even the rain has stopped.

It’s funny, they’ve wished for this for so long: a family, a warm bed, people who care about them, but even though they want it doesn’t mean they know how to handle it. Their body doesn’t know how to rest in safety, in comfort, in company. It’s almost like it had forgotten how to relax in the presence of other people, or maybe it simply had just never learned at all. Either way, they don’t know how to deal with this attention, even if it’s not watchful eyes or spoken words, just proximity alone. Their muscles, although tired, refuse to sink into the mattress. The softness feels dangerous, deceptive— like they’re an intruder on something precious. They don’t want to wake or bother anyone. It feels like if they breathe too loud or shift too suddenly, everything will shatter into a thousand microscopic pieces.

They squint their eyes shut, try to force themselves into a deep sleep, but they can’t. Hardly anything is happening at all and yet it’s too much. It’s too warm. Three is way too close. Eight is way too close. It’s too quiet in here. They’re both breathing too loud—

A shift. Not from the right this time, where Eight lays, but the left. There’s more movement beside them, a sleepy inhale, a creak of the mattress moving.

Three stirs with a quiet, groggy sound. Their hand moves without thinking— sluggish and heavy with sleep— reaching out across the mattress in search of something familiar. Probably expecting the warm, soft skin and familiarity of Eight. But instead, their fingers graze an arm that doesn’t fit— an arm that’s way too thin, way too rigid, and absolutely way too soaked in sweat and nervous tension to ever be Eight. The moment Three’s brain catches up to the shape beside them, they freeze. Their body stills, and for a heartbeat, there’s only silence.

Three isn’t alone, that’s for sure. But they’re not alone with the right person.

“…Veronika?”

Their voice is still scratchy and hoarse with the remnants of sleep. They push up on one arm, slow and disoriented, and blink hard into the shadows of the room. Their other hand rubs across their face, raking the tiredness from their good eye like they’re trying to scrub reality back into focus, maybe trying to comprehend whether or not what they’re seeing in the darkness of their bedroom is real.

Neo doesn’t move. They lie perfectly still, limbs rigid beneath the covers, eyes wide. Caught up in the stupid, childish hope that maybe if they keep quiet, keep small, the moment will pass— the hope that whatever God is above will throw them a bone and make Three roll on their eyes and fall back asleep. Or, maybe even give Neo the superpower to disappear entirely, like warm breath fog on a mirror.

Unfortunately, Three’s eyes don’t deceive them. “…What are you doing here?”

Neo’s stomach drops like a stone in water.

The question isn’t sharp or accusatory, but it’s not warm either. They’re just confused, puzzled, warped by sleep and simple bewilderment. That doesn’t matter though. It still makes Neo shrink, like they’ve been caught someplace they aren’t supposed to be. The feeling isn’t new, their entire life up to this point has practically been them living in places they aren’t meant to be. It gives them the same gut-deep dread they used to get back when they thought someone had spotted them pocketing something small and essential from the store— socks, snacks, tubes of toothpaste. That unmistakable tang of guilt and shame, even when they haven’t done anything inherently wrong.

Suddenly, they can feel every inch of themselves. They become impossibly hyperaware of how much space they’re taking up, how peaceful the room had been before they cursed it with their presence.

Their lips part, then press together again. They have to be the words most inept speaker. Before they can fumble for an answer, there’s another shift behind them— Eight moving under the blanket, lifting herself up just enough to see over Neo’s shoulder. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t speak on their behalf, but her presence alone feels like a quiet nudge saying, it’s okay, tell them what happened. It’s a nice thought, that she would let them speak their mind. It should help in theory, but this has to be the worst case of stage fright they’ve ever experienced. Maybe the worst case of stage fright anyone has experienced ever. It makes it 100x worse— now they have two people watching them.

The words are there on the tip of their tongue, but they’re not right. It’s all wrong. Too dramatic, too vulnerable. Too… needy, and there’s nothing worse than that. They sit up a little straighter without meaning to, like better posture might make the words magically flow.

“I—“ Nope. The word breaks in their throat, thin as thread. They try again, quieter, “I had a nightmare.”

Three doesn’t move at first.

They practically go still. Their brows twitch faintly together, a small line forming between them for a split second. They simply stare like they weren’t expecting that answer. Like they don’t really know what to do with it.

They blink. Twice. 

Then, finally:

“Oh.” 

That’s it. Just that.

Nothing less, nothing more.

No follow up. No reassuring words or reaching out. Just one syllable and the deafening silence that follows.

And that silence grows too loud, too fast.

It opens up like a sinkhole, swallowing anything and everything in its path. No one says a word. Not Three, not Eight, not even Neo, and that has to be the worst part. They start to feel it curling tight in their chest, the shame that always comes creeping in after vulnerability. Like they’ve said too much, messed up again, crossed a flashing bright red line and somehow didn’t even notice it as they ignorantly walked across. They grab the blanket like a lifeline, fingers beginning to tremble. Panic crawls under their skin like a parasite.

They should’ve known better. Should’ve never came in here in the first place. They knew it. They knew it.

“…What was it about?” Three asks simply. 

Again, not hostile or sharp. Just asking. But Neo’s breath catches in their throat regardless.

They blink down at the sheets, eyes already threatening to spill over, the pattern becoming a blur. Their throat feels like it’s closing up. They didn’t expect that question— moreso, wasn’t prepared for what it would stir up. It hits them, hard, the memory returning with claws and teeth: that day, that mission, the slam of body against brick. The rasp of Threes voice, hoarse and furious and breaking at the edges. The look in their eye as they screamed, not at the enemy, not at the world, but at Neo.

And now here they are, sitting in bed with that same person— except now, that person is calm. Quiet. Maybe a little confused, looking at them with searching eyes, but not anger. Just waiting for an answer. The real version of Three who is completely unaware of what internal storm they had just summoned.

Oh, they’re losing this battle for sure.

“I… I don’t know. It wasn’t—“ They hesitate. Their voice is already shaking. They grip the sheets harder, knuckles pale. “It’s not important. It was stupid, it—“

The words are breaking faster than they can shape them. 

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t even remember all of it, I…”

They can feel themselves spiraling inch by inch. For Christ sake, it wasn’t even real. Yet every second no one else speaks is another foot they’re digging into their grave, using nothing but words alone. 

“Sorry,” they whisper. “I should just… I’ll go back to my room.”

They sit up abruptly, breath hitching as they struggle to untangle themselves from the blankets, moments taut but full of panic. The fabric clings to their legs, sticking to their ankles like it’s dying to subject them to more humiliation. They tug at it anyway, almost angrily, like if they flee fast enough Eight and Three will completely forget everything they just saw and heard. They shouldn’t be here, forcefully shoving themselves in between two people who already have something so close, so special, all just because they’re hungry to feel the same kind of unconditional love. The kind of unconditional love they’d only ever seen from the outside— what made them think they had the right to reach for it?

Their heart aches. Their vision swims again.

And then— just as they start to crawl over Three’s legs, blankets still holding them hostage by the ankles— a hand reaches out and gently grabs them.

Fingers curl around their shoulder, not harsh or demanding, but steady. Three shifts upright, more awake now, brow creased more with confusion than anything else. Their voice is flat, still husky with sleep, but laced with something soft underneath it.

”You… Don’t have to leave?” They say, as if Neo was being incredulous.

Neo blinks at them through teary eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” They can’t finish their sentence. Their voice collapses halfway through.

Three’s fingers stay there, warm and still against their shoulder. They look away again, ashamed, staring at the rumpled blanket pooled beneath them. The lump in their throat is so unbearable now, they could choke on it.

“You’re okay,” Three says gently, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I…” 

Neo swallows hard, trying to push the next wave of emotion back before it crashes onto land. Their throat tightens, breath stuttering with the effort to keep everything under control. They don’t want to cry. They have no reason to. They were just doing so well earlier with Eight. They can’t cry in front of both of them. It feels like failure, like evidence they don’t belong, as if their body is humiliating them just for wanting comfort— even worse, it feels like definite proof. Proof that they’re fragile, needy, still the scared kid from long ago, fumbling through a life they didn’t understand, selfishly aching for softness they didn’t deserve.

“Veronika,” Three says softly.

The name always feels like an anchor when it comes from Three, when they say it like that. Neo can feel them lean closer, like someone who’s trying to approach a frightened puppy without scaring it away.

“Look at me?”

Neo hesitates. Their head turns slowly, shame flushing their cheeks. Their fingers still tremble against the sheets.

Their eyes lift and meet Three’s, and it stops them cold.

Three is already watching them with a focus so still, so bare, it breaks something inside of Neo. Their face, so often unreadable, stern, or edged with exhaustion, is open now. Their face is etched with quiet worry, brows furrowed, mouth pressed into a tight line, concern woven through their gaze like a thread through fabric. And their eyes are contrastingly soft with something deeper, all in a way that wrecks Neo completely. It’s not pity or judgement: maybe worry, maybe care, maybe something Neo has not quite learned how to name yet. 

But still. Seeing it— really seeing it, not imagining it, not hoping for it?

Neo bursts into tears. And not the quiet, pretty kind, either.

It’s messy and sudden, like a dam giving out all at once. They gasp as if they had been struck, and their shoulders jerk with the force of it, breath stuttering as a sob tumbles out faster than they can catch it. Another follows, and another, and soon it’s all coming out too fast to stop, ripped straight from that ache in their chest. They twist slightly, turn away, desperate for some place to hide so they can save the last shred of dignity they have left—

But then they only manage to turn straight into Eight, who’s wide eyed— not with judgment, but the same care— and that's somehow worse. So much worse. They recoil, panicked, and shove their face into their hands instead, but it’s definitely much too late now. The sobs keep coming, loud and shuddering, their body shaking with the weight of them. They feel their last piece of dignity slipping away. They don’t want to be seem like this, cracked open and exposed. They don’t want to look like a child. It’s embarrassing how they gasp for air, wild and helpless, like they truly can’t control their emotions.

“Wh— hey, hey,” Three murmurs, voice unsure now, tinged with panic in a way it usually never is. They scramble forward, leaning over without thinking, their hand settling on Neo’s back. “You’re alright.”

Three tries to catch a glimpse of Neo’s face, but they turn away, refusing to let themselves be seen, breath still caught in a jagged rhythm.

Then there’s a soft click. Not that Neo hears it— they only see it, the golden glow that spreads across the covers, chasing away the dark, courtesy of Eight who had reached over to turn the lamp on. And of course, it reveals the full shape of what’s unfolding:

Neo's face is a mess. tearstreaked and raw, eyes red and glassy, face pink and splotchy. Their bangs cling to their forehead with sweat, and their eye shimmer with unshed tears. They curl in on themselves and hide their face in the crook of their arm like a wounded animal, trying to make themselves as small as possible, trying to disappear. The bed dips under a new weight— Eight moves closer, not saying much, settling beside Neo. She gently rubs up and down their arm, hand warm against their skin, calm and deliberate.

 “Oh honey…” She whispers, voice soft and aching with sympathy.

It barely reaches Neo through the sound of their sobbing though, sharp and breathless and ugly, ripping through their throat like it has claws. They try to compose themselves, taking long and deep breaths, but they can’t quite get a steady handle on it. Their palms still shake and their lip trembles.

“I’m sorry,” They choke out, voice shredded thin. Their breath keeps hitching like a scratched record. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying. I just— I don’t want to let you down.”

The silence that follows is still, but it doesn’t last long.

“You won’t” Three says, quiet, with a certainty that makes Neo's heart ache. “You never could, no matter what.”

Neo wants to believe it. They want to reach out and hold onto that belief, tuck it away somewhere safe from harm, but it feels too big to grasp. Too kind. It would slip out of their fingers if they had tried.

“Hey,” Three murmurs again, “Come on, look at me.”

Neo rubs at their face again, wiping the hideous mixture of snot and tears and sweat away as best as they can. It’s no use, it’s not like Three didn’t just see all of it, and it’s honestly not like it’s something they haven’t seen before today. Regardless, Neo slowly, reluctantly, lifts their gaze. Their eyes are puffy and wet, still blurry.

“You know I’m always going to be proud of you, right?” They whisper.

Oh, isn’t that just awful.

Neo makes a small, broken sound. They turn towards Three and fall into them like its gravity, clutching their baggy shirt and burying their face in it as another wave of tears rises and spills out. Three pulls them close instinctively— as if they had done the motion a thousand times before— wrapping one arm around them, and tucking Neo’s head under their chin. The other hand curls protectively around the back of Neo's neck, holding them close. The fabric of Three's shirt begins to grow damp, but they don’t budge. They hold them like they belong there.

“I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t know how to, how to live here. I don’t know —“ they hiccup, their voice muffled and shaky. “I don’t know how to be your sister.”

The feeling had always been there, aching and sitting heavily in their chest. Back in Alterna they’d watch Three from a distance, follow them without thinking, try to mirror their strength. They never called her a sister, never dared to speak the word, but they certainly hoped. They wanted someone who helped them grow, instead of resenting them for being small; someone who guided and taught them, instead of forcing them to learn everything on their own. So desperately did they want that solid place in someone’s life— a permanent one.

“I just want to be a good sister,” they whisper, small and fragile against Three's chest, voice cracking.

Neo can feel them rubbing their thumb on the nape of their neck. “You already are.” They say quietly, “You don’t have to prove anything.”

Neo sniffs. “But feel like I'm going to ruin it.”

“You won’t.”

“But what if—“

“Veronika.” They say sternly. Neo knows that voice. “You won’t.”

Neo exhales a long, shaky breath that curls out of them like steam, as if their whole body was deflating. The room falls into a hushed silence, only the faintest sounds remaining— the small whir of the lamp, the occasional creak of the bed frame, the muffled remnants of Neo’s sobs fading into soft hiccups. Their shoulders jerk with the aftershocks, each breath stuttering and snagging in their chest, but it’s softer now. The worst of it has passed.

Time stretches, no one speaks. Three doesn’t move and they certainly don’t let go. Their hand stays firm on Neo’s upper back, rising and falling with each of their inhales. Neo doesn’t realize how tired they are until their body begins to surrender to it: their limbs grow heavier, bones soaked in fatigue. The tight grip they had on Threes shirt loosens, fingers going slack. Even their sobs taper off completely, replaced by soft, wet breaths.

Three begins to lean back against the headboard, still protectively cradling them, careful with every moment so they don’t disturb them. They loosen their hold on Neo, but don’t let go entirely— they keep a hand on their back, brushing their choppy bangs away from their damp forehead with the other. Neo’s head rests against their chest, the sharp edges of panic now dulled into something soft. There’s a visible wet splotch on the front of Three's shirt, but they don’t mind. Really, they don’t even register it. Their clothes have seen sanitization, blood, and much worse.

One of Neo's hands falls by Three's side, but the other still lightly clutches their shirt— like even now, in sleep, they were afraid the other would vanish if they let go.

Eight moves closer without a word, her weight shifting on the mattress with the same careful consideration. Three senses and adjusts, lifting the arm that had been wrapped around Neo to give her more space— she shuffles into the newly opened spot without hesitation, sliding in behind Neo. Her body curves around theirs, and one of her hands snakes gently over their waist, not too tight, but a grounding, light weight. Three lets their arm fall naturally across Eights shoulders, bridging space from the other side. Together, they fold around Neo like closed wings.

Finally asleep, Neo is a different person than they were minutes ago. Their chest rises and falls in soft, even puffs of breath, a gentle rhythm. Their cheeks are still a little splotchy, lips parted slightly, their eyes puffy and red at the corners where they rubbed them raw. But their whole body is slack now, relaxed in a way that makes them look— well, maybe not younger, but more their age.

“They look like you.” Eight murmurs, her voice barely more than a breath.

Three turns to glance at her. Their eyes are a little glassy.

Eight’s mouth curls into a small smile. “I mean it. You curl up the same way when you sleep. And their mouth—“ She stifles a quiet laugh, “—it falls open. Just like yours.”

Three scoffs under their breath. “I don’t sleep with my mouth open…”

Eight grins. “No, you definitely do. I’ve seen it everyday for like the past four years.”

There’s a beat of mock offense before Three lets out a low chuckle, tilting their head so their temple rests against the top of Eight’s tentacles. 

They both glance back down at Neo, and in the soft glow of the room, it’s easier to see what Eight means. Their breath flutters gently out of their lips, mouth parted ever so slightly, innocent and unguarded. Their teeth kind of look like Threes too; they have the same gap in the middle, the same crooked smile. The same pale yellow tentacles, littered about with small scars and scratches. The same warm tan skin, and the same scattered freckles across the bridge of their noses. They even have the same eye color, dark brown— though one of Threes is a clouded, misty teal, the one they can’t properly see out of.

Three's expression shifts.

It’s not big or dramatic. Just the smallest tightening of their brows, the twitch of a muscle at the corner of their mouth, a press of their lips as if they were trying to stop something from escaping. It’s a change so small it would have went unnoticed if it wasn’t for the stillness surrounding it. Their eyes shine in the low, dim light of the lamp, and they squeeze them shut, leaning their head back gently against the headboard. As if they were holding back something, fragile, aching, and just below the surface.

One tear slips from their corner of their eye, tracing a slow path down their cheek. Then another. They don’t move to wipe them away.

Eight notices. She quietly untucks her arm from Neo’s side and reaches up, her thumb moving gently across Three’s cheek, catching the tears before they fall too far. Her touch is soft, grounding. Three leans slightly into her hand.

“I don’t know if I’m good at this.” They say quietly, voice barely louder than Neos breathing. “At being what they need.”

Eight doesn’t try to counter it with promises or praise. She just leans in, resting her head on Three’s shoulder, breathing with them for a moment.

“I don’t think you need to be perfect,” She says, “You just have to stay.”

Three doesn’t say anything back, they just nod. Their gaze drifts up to the ceiling, and they breathe in deep through their mouth, steadying themselves— trying not to shake or make any noise, trying not to wake the sleeping body curled into them. 

Eventually, Eight leans over and flicks off the lamp. The room dims into a soft blur, shadows stretching over their bodies. She pulls the comforter higher, tucking it over Neo’s shoulders with care, before she leans up and presses a brief, fleeting kiss to Three’s cheek. She then folds back into them, curling into that original shared warmth, resting her head on Three’s shoulder.

Three closes their eyes and lets their breath slow to match the others. Their arm, still draped protectively around her, shifts only slightly as they pull not only Eight, but Neo a little closer. It takes a second for the tension to leave their shoulders, but gradually it does— and they too wonder if, similarly to Neo, this is what family means.

The silence is calm this time.