Work Text:
Moblit screamed.
It was a desperate plea for help, but it must have sounded no different than any other vaguely horrified utterance of his, and he was ignored by his fellow soldiers as if screaming was all he ever did. He watched them die in combinations of experienced memories and overactive imagination that clogged up his throat and made it hard to breathe.
It didn’t take long for the fear to push him into reluctant wakefulness, and he stayed where he was, huddled beneath a single thin blanket, nails digging hard into his palms. Dreams like this felt real—solid, like his squad leader’s shirt collar in his white-knuckled grip, like the sound of Keiji’s clumsy boots hitting the mess hall table support as he tried to fold his legs beneath the table, like Nifa’s soft hair fluttering against her cheek.
He always had dreams like this when he couldn’t drink enough to ensure nothingness behind his eyelids. That was what they were, weren’t they? Dreams?
Perhaps five minutes passed before a cool hand touched his face, or maybe it was an hour. Time was immeasurable and an almost irrational consideration when he’d just watched his friends die all too realistically, and not for the first time. Someone’s breath tickled his ear.
He didn’t move.
Their hand moved to his shoulder, squeezing gently.
“You’re up for taking watch, now.” It was Nifa, and her voice soft and apologetic as if she was sorry to have to wake him up. That she pretended not to know better was a kindness—and one only she would think of—so he played along, stretching and yawning as if just coming out of a restful night’s sleep.