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They aren’t nightmares.
By definition, they can’t be. Riyou doesn’t wake up drenched in her own sweat. She doesn’t scream or cry or sob or wheeze. Tears don’t trail down her cheeks, her heart doesn’t trip over its own rhythm in her chest.
She is not afraid, and so the dreams aren’t nightmares. They don’t count as bad dreams, either; just… meh. Meh dreams feels about right.
It’s not a matter of denial, because Riyou knows what nightmares are. She has had real ones, the kind that steal her sleep and haunt her through the day. The kind that linger for hours even in good company.
She doesn’t get nightmares anymore. She hasn’t in a long time. When she dreams of tasting iron and red streaks too viscous to be her hair, it isn’t a nightmare. When she wakes up in the middle of the night, half-conscious and confused, it isn’t out of fear. And when she can't go back to sleep, it’s just a by-product of her bad nutrition and sleep hygiene coming to bite her in the ass–she’s always been bad for leaving the TV on at night.
So they aren’t nightmares. Can’t be. But the meh dreams don’t let her fall back asleep right away the same way nightmares do, and she has to do something about it.
Riyou untangles her legs from the many layers of bedding she cocoons herself with–she sleeps better warm–and lurches to her feet. Hand on the mattress for support, she wobbles her way towards the door, head a little fuzzy from standing. Sometimes her vision blacks out when she gets out of bed, but she’s saved from that particular issue tonight.
Slipping out of her room quiet as a mouse, she walks down empty, dimly lit corridors on the balls of her feet; a silent method of movement she’s practiced to a deadly precision. Faster than any stealth mission would have allowed, she nears the speed of a sprint down to the dining area, peering around corners before she passes them. It’s unwise to get caught using this maneuver, wandering this late; word always gets back to Enjin, and Enjin never fails to have some bullshit concern to bring up with her.
(She had gone to him once, and only once, the first time she had one of these meh dreams at the Cleaners. She’d knocked on his door, welcomed herself to his space and into his bed, and pointedly did not make eye contact with him the entire time. He wouldn't stop asking her what was wrong, no matter how many times she insisted she was fine. And she was fine, because they aren’t nightmares. But he made such a big deal out of saying he was there for her and she could always talk to him and blah, blah, blah.
She makes sure not to mention the dreams around Enjin anymore.)
Few people skitter through the halls this late, and most are easy to avoid without being noticed. Too tired to pay attention to the head peaking around the corner. She encounters just one figure outside the entrance to the kitchen, their back turned and walking away. They turn the corner, and Riyou counts, one, two, three, four, five, ensuring they aren’t coming back. Lack of return trip confirmed, she darts out and closes the distance between herself and the kitchen door in three quick strides. Twists the door handle to the left, because it’s quieter, and holds it as it falls shut to prevent any creaking or slamming as it closes.
Padding over to the pantry, she riffles through thin packets of tea until she finds the chamomile. She slides her fingers over the lines of the packets and fishes out two; one for now, the other to stash for later.
(She used to take two every time, thanks to her habits left over from working as a child killer, always two steps away from death and starvation. Taking food from the people she killed and stashing it for emergencies was how she managed to survive so long. Now, she only takes two on occasion, when the stash under her bed is feeling more empty than she prefers.)
Pulling the electric kettle out of a lower cupboard, she fills the basin with water and plugs it in, flipping the switch on. She sets down the packet of tea against the counter alongside a mug. She slots her hip against the counter and, for the first time since waking up, relaxes the muscles in her back.
The kitchen door swings open. Her heart jumps in her chest, more than it has at any meh dream. She looks up and her eyes are full of the yawning hunch of Zanka.
Any panic threatening to bubble up fizzles out as fast as it arrives. Zanka won’t snitch on her.
Rubbing sleep from his eyes, his eyes linger on Riyou for a solid moment before he seems to process that she’s actually there. He freezes, squints, and yawns.
“What’re you doin’?” he asks.
Riyou shrugs at him. “Tea. Want some?” The second packet she grabbed is already tucked in the back of her waistband, out of sight, but she has no qualms with grabbing another.
“Uh, sure?” he says, waddling his way over to the kitchen island. He plops himself onto a stool there, yawns again, and slumps forward to rest his elbow on the surface.
“What’re you up for, if you’re so sleepy?” Riyou says around a smile, opening the cabinet again. “Chamomile? Lavender?” she asks him.
“Laven’er,” he mumbles. “Y’know when… yer’ so damn tired, but ya’ still can’t fuckin’ sleep, no matter what?”
Riyou grimaces. “Yeah, always sucks.”
Zanka hums his agreement, and for a moment Riyou thinks he might just pass out right onto the counter. Then he sits up again, face still scrunched like a grandma missing her glasses. He looks right at her.
“Whas’ up with you, then?”
Riyou sets down the second tea bag and grabs a second mug to join the other. “Woke up, can’t fall back asleep. Happens sometimes.”
Zanka doesn’t need to know about the meh dreams, either. He wouldn't be as much of a worry wart as Enjin, but Zanka has his own issues that he tends to project onto people.
Hot condensation warms the back of her arm where it rests on the counter, seeping from the vent in the top of the kettle. The water's way of signaling to her that it's almost down boiling. Riyou takes the opportunity to turn away from Zanka. She hopes he takes the hint and doesn't try to ask her anything more.
She tears open their packets of tea, setting the bags in each cup, white strings dangling over the outer rims. After a few more seconds of spitting out bubbles and steam, the kettle beeps at her and the button flicks off automatically. Hot steam makes her face scrunch up as she pours water for both their drinks.
Dumping the last bit of liquid left over into the sink, she sets the kettle aside and walks to the fridge.
“You a milk and sugar guy?” she asks, tossing her head over her shoulder. Zanka, chin in hand, shakes his head as best he can without removing it from its pedestal.
“There's–” he cuts himself off, jaw squeezing shut.
He seems to consider some unknown detail on the far left wall for a moment, then he pushes off his stool with a grunt. Rounding the island, waving his hands to shoo her out of the way, and Riyou obliges, giggling. She's ready to ask what he's looking for as he slides the mugs out of the way, but then Zanka hooks a knee onto the counter and climbs up. He opens the doors of the cabinet above the fridge and reaches an arm into the very back of the top shelf. He finds whatever he's looking for and drags it out, handing a cylindrical container to her.
She flips it over and gasps out loud. Real honey. The golden labelled jar might as well be actual gold. Finding someone who could feasibly make honey on the ground is rare, and getting your hands on it is damn near impossible. Expensive as all hell, too.
“Nice,” she says, because Riyou isn't about to question Zanka over how he got his hands on the stuff. She's honestly impressed he's managed to keep a secret for so long; Riyou's sacked the kitchen more times than she can count, and not once has she found honey.
Zanka shoots her a smug grin. “Our secret,” he says, “wanna toss a scoop in mine and I'll put it back?”
Riyou offers a smile of her own as an agreement. She twists open the lid of the container and starts to dig into it with her spoon. The pale yellow substance is solid as it ripples onto her spoon, but begins to melt when it makes contact with the simmering tea in her cup. Collecting a second chunk, he hits her spoon against Zanka's cup to send the other glob into his, then seals the container and hands it back to him.
As Zanka hops down off the counter, Riyou evicts the teabag from her cup and stirs her drink in rippling, cloudy swirls. Zanka drags a spoon out of the cutlery drawer to mimic her actions.
Riyou raises her mug to her lips, blowing at the tufts of steam, and takes a precautionary sip. The liquid is hot on her tongue but coats her taste-buds in a distinct sweetness. She hums her satisfaction.
“Ya’ headin’ to bed?” Riyou asks. Zanka stiffens in place, not meeting her eyes.
“Dunno.”
“Wanna watch some shitty reality TV in my room?” she offers.
Riyou may never tell Zanka about her dreams and their unsettling contents. Zanka has never confessed to her face the causes behind the times he wakes up screaming–she only knows it happens from hearing his sharp cries. And just as she's aware he's hiding his night terrors, she suspects he knows more about her disturbances than he lets on. Riyou appreciates him and his awareness that no, she doesn't want him to ask, because this is her issue. And until she's ready, and until he's ready too, neither of them will address the underlying ghosts they share in common.
The pasts that haunt them, the pain and the fears and the doubts and the loss, there's a chance they may never talk about it. But there's solace in connection, in unspoken understanding. To know others are also navigating through the darkness. To know there's a chance they could emerge on the other side.
Zanka nods, a slow, subtle motion. “Yeah,” he swallows around the words. “Sounds good.”
Riyou hoots a little cheer, volume low in the dead of night, and cradles her mug to lead the way to her room. She doesn't keep her feet light as Zanka follows, and she doesn't look behind him to double-check he's present.
Because they may not talk about it, but Riyou would follow Zanka to the ends of the earth, and she knows he would do the same.