Work Text:
There was something restless in the silence of the night. It wasn't the kind of stillness that lulls you to sleep, but the kind that watches — patient, lurking. Michael Kaiser stirred in bed, his brow furrowed, until he awoke with a rough sigh escaping his lips. The dream dissolved too quickly, leaving behind only the familiar sensation of cold settling in his chest.
For a few seconds, he remained still, as if any movement might drag him back to whatever had shattered him. His breath struggled to find rhythm, caught between the still-pulsing fear and the subtle reality around him. Kaiser brought his hand to his chest, pressing it hard, trying to remember where he resided and since when that cold had ceased to be real.
Nothing seemed out of place, and yet, everything felt wrong. Cold sweat trickled slowly, contrasting with the tension building in his muscles. Kaiser breathed deeply, again and again, trying to quell the tremor in his hands, like someone fighting to prevent an inner turmoil from spilling over into the quiet of the early morning.
The sound was almost imperceptible: the slight creak of the mattress yielding to a shifted weight. Yet, it was enough to pull his girlfriend from her sleep. Her eyes opened slowly, blinking against the gloom, and it took her a few seconds to understand why the room felt somehow different.
For a second, their eyes met. That was enough.
Michael immediately averted his face, recomposing his expression with practiced speed — the same he used before the world. The emperor was back. Or, at least, the version of him that didn't show cracks.
“Go to sleep,” he said softly, not harshly, but also without room for argument. Kaiser ran a hand through his hair, giving the impression it was just tiredness, not escape. “It's nothing.”
She knew that look. The mask remained in place, impeccable for the hour. Her boyfriend only wore that expression if a weight hit him deeply — and if he absolutely didn't want anyone to notice.
Michael seemed only half present. His opaque blue eyes were fixed on thoughts that found no words, while his rigid jaw betrayed a constant discomfort. He remained there, whole, as far as appearance went, sustaining a version of himself that was beginning to weigh him down.
“I'm going to get some water.”
The explanation came simply, to the point of not matching the tension that accompanied him. Kaiser walked to the kitchen, his steps muffled by the early morning, and turned on only the light necessary to see the glass in his hands — nothing more.
He filled the glass with excessive care, attentive to the sound of the falling water, as if it could wake the entire house. As he brought the glass to his lips, he noticed the slight tremor in his fingers, too small to be noticed from a distance, yet impossible to ignore. The first sip went down slowly, bringing no expected relief; it only confirmed that the cold did not yet exist elsewhere.
His girlfriend entered the kitchen without announcing herself. The sound of her footsteps was light, almost a request for permission. Instead of approaching further than necessary, she pulled out the chair next to him and sat down, maintaining a minimal distance — just enough for him to know he wasn't alone and that there was still room to breathe.
Time passed in small intervals, almost imperceptible. She watched him from the corner of her eye, while Michael stared at the nothingness in front of him. The calmness was not empty; it was laden with things that, until then, had found no words. The glass in his hands remained still for a prolonged time. He took a deep breath, as if gathering something he didn't want to name, and finally murmured, almost to himself:
“Some nights just don't end.”
The sentence hung in the air, dense enough to change everything. Kaiser fell silent after that, as if waiting for the sentence to dissolve on its own, but it didn't. He swallowed dryly, his eyes remaining downcast, and added:
“Some of them... start long before I go to sleep.”
Michael brought his hand to his arm, squeezing it as if feeling an old trace beneath his skin.
“There were days when the ground was warmer than people," he said, dryly. "And the fear... never slept.”
The pause revealed all that he dared not name.
“There was trash everywhere,” he said, after a while. “And the constant feeling of being part of it.”
The word sounded ugly in his own mouth, yet too true to be corrected. Kaiser ran his tongue over his dry lips, as if perpetuating that old taste. There was no drama in his voice, only a statement of fact — and that made everything worse. He fell silent after that, staring at the glass as if it were a strange object.
“Sometimes I think...” he began, and stopped. His jaw tightened, irritated with himself. “If I had met you sooner.”
The sentence didn't finish — and it didn't need to. Its weight settled between them, too definitive to be undone. Michael realized too late what had slipped out. He straightened in his chair, as if a simple adjustment of posture could put everything back in place. He brought the glass to his lips again, though the water no longer seemed necessary. The reticence that returned was no longer comfortable — it was defensive, hastily erected.
His gaze drifted again into the empty kitchen, without fixing on any specific point. He seemed to search for a trace among shadows and memories, a presence that never arrived, leaving a trail of heavy quietude.
Suddenly, his girlfriend leaned forward slightly in her chair, reducing the distance without invading his space.
“I know the 'before' hurts,” she said calmly. “But you don't have to carry it alone.”
The simplicity of the sentence began to redefine the kitchen's quietude, transforming it into something safer. She rested her elbows on the table, her hands clasped, and took a slow breath before speaking:
“What you went through doesn't define all of you. I see the adult you are... and I also see the boy who still needs care. I am here for both.”
His burden seemed to lighten, as if the surroundings finally allowed him to breathe. She moved closer slowly, wrapping her arms around him at the torso, without squeezing tightly. Michael, large and firm, instinctively braced himself, ready to protect. However, this time, he was the one who let himself be held, even for a few seconds, feeling her presence take root.
Kaiser said nothing, but every gesture spoke for itself: tense shoulders slowly relaxing, hands trembling slightly, irregular breathing. He was almost crying, the emotion so close to the surface that only her presence prevented it from overflowing completely. Her safety allowed him not to control himself so rigidly. Finally, he could be vulnerable, even if only for a short while.
She hugged him a little tighter, adjusting the embrace to be firm, yet gentle — welcoming not only the man before her, but also the boy who had never left him. Michael snuggled in, finally allowing her comfort to penetrate all the layers of pain he held.
They remained there for a few more seconds, the embrace secure and peaceful. When she pulled away slightly, he took a deep breath and murmured:
“Shall we... go back to the room?”
Without haste, they walked side by side; the serenity between the couple was now comfortable, almost comforting.
They entered the bedroom slowly, each step filled with tranquility. She sat on the edge of the bed, leaving space for him to settle first. As soon as he lay down, he turned gently to her side, and together they found the rhythm of a shared breath — silent, comforting, and serene.
Michael closed his eyes, and for a moment, there was nothing more to fear. There, side by side, everything was right.