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He can’t sleep.
It’s not for lack of trying. Weighed blankets, hot showers, meditation, even a silly self-help book from the university’s library. He’s tried them all, and still sleep remains elusive. Every night he spends staring at his ceiling, tensing at every shifting shadow, every quiet sound caused by the summer breeze knocking against his window. He knows where he is, most of the time. It’s the single seconds he doesn’t that rob him of his night’s rest.
He thought he was fine. Perhaps he was, for a little while. When he woke up at the LA County hospital, he could barely recall what had happened. The vertical slashes on his chest told a likely tale, and with Dan’s help, he’d pieced together most of the evening, but when it came to his actual memories of what had happened in that hotel room, he’d drawn a blank. Preston had gladly regaled how the fact that they’d found him butt-naked in a rather compromising position must mean he’d at least enjoyed himself and scolded him for being desperate enough for some action to fall for what must have been Sil’s mating ploy, whereas Laura had frowned and explained that it might be a trauma response. He’d laughed it off, said that a good shag was worth a few scars, signed the NDAs, and then dutifully attended his physical therapy sessions until the world went back to normal – Laura went back to her lab, Preston followed her like a little lapdog, and Dan went back to wherever Dan went. Meanwhile, he went back to his small apartment and was immediately buried with work – there were essays to grade, end-of-year meetings to attend, a paper deadline that was long overdue. While he was still recovering physically, there simply seemed to be no time for anything else, and he found that that suited him just fine.
Then summer came. The workload died down. The colleagues, friends, that he spoke to every day slowly abandoned their shared offices for holidays and family visits, pursuits he had given up on years ago. He liked summer, usually. While Harvard was quiet and calm, the city would be bustling – every stroll through town offering new faces, new names.
So, he did what he always did. After a shot of liquid courage, he stepped into one of Cambridge’s more civilised clubs, sidled up to one of women at the bar, and bought her a drink. She was pretty enough, neither of them completely sober, and he thought he was about to get lucky when she brushed her hand against his chest. What happened afterwards was a blur. His glass, broken on the floor, his hand encircling her wrist with more force than he knew himself capable of. There were tears in her eyes, and while he inexplicably knew that he was the cause for that, he couldn’t bring himself to do something about it because he simply couldn’t breathe.
He didn’t remember how he’d gotten home that night. Someone must have talked him down, perhaps even walked him the little distance to his apartment. What he did remember was the silence of his living room as he stepped through his front door, swaying on his feet. The pervasive feeling of dread as he stared at himself in his bathroom mirror, barely recognising the man who stared back. That night, the nightmares came.
They always started innocently. That was the worst part. Her hands on his chest, a brush of hair against his face. Little things that made him want to crawl out of his own skin. He couldn’t – she was there, always, pinning him down. When he moved his lips, no sound came out. When he closed his eyes, she was still all he saw. Sometimes she taunted him. Sometimes she praised him. He didn’t know which was worse. It didn’t matter either way. He always died screaming.
It became increasingly difficult to fall asleep. Knowing what was coming, there were only so many sheep a man could count before those sheep grew tentacles and an exoskeleton. His brain ran on overdrive, his body jumping at every sound. Even during his waking hours, there was no escape – he saw her in every woman on the street, found himself flinching at shadows, his hands shaking after a simple trip to the grocery store. As days bled into weeks, he found it harder and harder to leave the house, so in the end he didn’t. Some days he wistfully leafed through the Yellow Pages, wondering if it held any government-approved psychologists. Other days he wondered if he wouldn’t have been better off bleeding to death in that hotel room.
This is one of those days. Nights, perhaps. It’s hard to tell. He’d blacked out the windows – he can’t bear to see what’s outside, the sun playing games with his furniture. The phone rings. It hasn’t done that in a while. He knows he should pick it up. It could be important. He doesn’t, though. Can’t bring himself to get up from the couch. Can’t bring himself to find out that life might have moved on without him.
He closes his eyes. A fruitless endeavour – nowadays he dreams of her with his eyes open. His fists grasp the linen bedsheets, which have been feeling grimy for– a while now, he supposes. It is tangible. Real.
It rings again. Sighing deeply, he pushes himself up, and up, stumbling towards the receiver and pressing it against his ear. He is lightheaded, spots dancing in his vision, and for a moment he just stands there, catching his breath.
“Stephen?” a familiar voice says. “Are you there?”
“Dan,” Stephen says, and he is startled by his own relief. He imagines staring into his eyes, grounding himself in them.
“How are you doing?” Dan says, perhaps a little sleepy. “I hope I didn’t wake you?”
“I’m fine,” Stephen says, cringing at how pathetic he sounds. “You know me, just working on a thing. What’s keeping you up?”
There is a steady beat of silence, and Stephen can feel his heartbeat in his throat.
“You don’t have to lie to me,” Dan says, his voice softening. “I can– You know how I feel things?”
“I can’t say that I understand it, but–”
“But you believe it, right?”
“How can I not?” Stephen says, his pulse quickening. “Truly, I do. But I don’t see how–”
“I could sense you,” Dan says.
“Sense…”
“Your distress,” Dan says, his voice growing bolder. “You’re not fine. And I think you haven’t been fine for a while.”
“I–” Stephen starts. He leans his head against the doorpost, the edges of his vision darkening as he tries to use his shaking hands to steady himself against the plaster.
“Sit down.”
“Wha–”
“Sit down, before you faint,” Dan says, his voice kind, but insistent.
Stephen has little choice but to obey. Clutching the receiver like a lifeline, he sinks down onto the floor, leaning his head back until the sparks have gone and he can see again.
“Breathe,” the voice on the other end of the line says. “Slowly. Count.”
So he does. He counts until he loses track, his eyes heavy but his hands still.
“Are you with me, Stephen?”
“Yes,” he says, his voice slurring slightly. He touches his cheek, and it comes away wet.
“You’re all right, Stephen. You’re safe.”
“I know.”
“You don’t,” Dan says. “But you will.”
“Okay,” Stephen says. Guilt settles in his gut as he remembers – the little jokes at Dan’s expense, the Long-Island iced teas. Dan is many things, but he has never been a liar.
On the other end of the line, Dan keeps whispering platitudes – you’ll be fine, you’re safe, you’re not alone – until Stephen’s errant tears turn into sobs, his body shaking as he curls up on the floor, the receiver gripped tightly in his hands.
“I’m here,” Dan says, and he starts humming, a low, vibrating sound. “I’m here.”
“You’re here,” Stephen repeats.
There is a soft sigh on the other side of the line, and the humming turns into words, an uncertain song. A lullaby. Dan isn’t a singer by any stretch, but still low cadence of his voice is soothing, almost like an embrace. Stephen imagines Dan there, like he had been at the hospital. Holding his hand. Finding solace in his arms. He smells like the earth. Stephen closes his eyes and presses his face into Dan’s chest, and for the first time in days – weeks – he feels safe. Stephen’s limbs turn to lead and his body sags into itself, and as the song grows steadier, stronger, he chases it, finally allowing sleep to claim him.