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You stare up at the ceiling in the dark. It's easier for your eyes to stay open then closed. You exhale firmly and force them shut, trying to will sleep to no evail. Your insomnia has been persistent for the past few weeks.
Your eyes creak open again, and you let sleeplessness win. You sit up straight and turn on your room lamp, blinking and looking around for something to busy yourself with.
You rub your eyes and stand up, deciding on finishing the sewing project you had set down before going to bed. You took the already threaded needle and continued your backstitched line.
Sewing had become somewhat therapeutic for you. Your other hobbies, such as music and art, took a lot more focus, and all of your attention. But when you sewed, your mind could wander, and you could relax.
Inserting the next stitch, you heard a faint sniffle. You paused, and turned to your bedroom door, listening. Another sniffle. You set down your project and stand up, creaking open the door as quietly as you could.
The hallway was dark, and all of the lights were off, save for your room. You look to your roommates bedroom door. How late is it?
You blink in the dark and look back towards your room, the clock hands pointing to two am. You creep forward and close the door behind you.
You step quietly to your roommates door, and listen again. Another sniffle, then a louder sob. This was new. He often teared up, crying at emotional scenes in movies, crying when you two find a stray begging for food, he even teared up when you remembered his coffee order without asking.
But he's never sobbed before, not like this. You hesitantly raise a knuckle to the door and knock. "Till? You okay?" You called out quietly. The walls were thin in your apartment building, and you weren't one to start trouble or wake your neighbors, that was Till's job.
There was a final sniff before the room went quiet. "...'m fine." His voice wobbled as he spoke, and you heard another hic from beyond the door.
You rest your fingertips on the door knob, not opening it just yet. "No, you're not." Your brow furrowed as you corrected him. Concern writhed in your stomach. He normally wouldn't lie about his emotions, unless he was in denial about a crush, or something miniscule like that.
You heard the creaking of a bed before the taps of bare feet on the wooden floor. You jumped a bit when the door swung open, quickly pulling your hand away from the knob as it flew in the opposite direction.
Till kept his hand on the door, half stepping out of the room. He avoided looking you in the eye. Your sight was limited in the dark, but you could see puffiness around his eyes, and a bit of red surrounding his irises. How long had he been crying before you heard?
Silently, you backed up so he had space to pass you. He closed the door quietly and made his way to the kitchen, with you trailing behind him.
The light above the stove made it easier to see him. It was dimmer than the other lights, so it didn't hurt your eyes. The light was warm, and it helped you relax a bit of the tension you had gotten from being unable to sleep.
You turned your back to the counter and leaned on it for a moment, before placing your palms on the edge of it and hoisting yourself up. Till rummaged through the freezer for a moment, and you watched him with curiosity.
He grabbed a spoon and a cup of ice cream before sitting down on the counter opposite of you. Through the light you could see his face better. His eyelashes had darkened and drooped from the weight of his tears, and dark pink had dusted his cheekbones and outer eye.
He ate a spoonful of ice cream before looking up at you, starting a bit when he saw you were already staring.
"Do you wanna talk about it?" You offered after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence.
He swallowed and looked back down at the ice cream. He chewed the inside of his cheek before shaking his head. "Not yet." His voice was a whisper, but you could still hear the tremble in his tone.
You look down at the floor and nod. Your apartment was cheap, and the kitchen was cramped. Despite being on opposite sides of the room, your feet were nearly touching.
He shifted for a moment before placing his hand on the edge of the counter and leaning forward, his other hand holding the ice cream. He reached out and offered you the cup, and you took it with a small smile.
For the next few minutes, you took turns eating and passing the ice cream between the two of you, until you let him have the last spoonful.
He set down the empty cup and stared down at his own feet, which dangled from his height on the counter. "Did I wake you up?" He broke the silence with a guilty wince.
You shook your head, leaning back against the cupboard behind you. "No, my insomnia was acting up again." You heard him sigh.
You glanced at the empty cup beside him and hop off of the counter. You tossed out the hollow cardboard and place the spoon in the sink, before pulling yourself up on the counter next to Till.
He began fidgeting with his nails, picking at the cyan and black pattern he painted on the morning before.
You stared at his fingers before looking back up at him. The pink around his eyes had spread across his face. Was he going to cry again?
"Till." You whispered. "Hm?" He jumped with a squeak. "Are you ready to talk about it?" You pressed quietly. He fidgeted with his nails again, and cleared his throat.
"Um, yeah." He took a moment to regulate his breathing, and you let your eyes wander around the kitchen. Staring at him the whole time would probably make him even more uncomfortable.
You let your eyes rest on the city outside of the apartment, through the window above your kitchen sink. You licked your lips, realizing you still had ice cream on your face.
"It's– it's stupid," Till hesitated. He slouched a bit. You leaned forward to look him in the eye. "If it's bothering you this much, it isn't stupid."
He blinked and stared at you for a moment before looking away. "I had a nightmare, about you." He became noticeably quieter when he mentioned you.
You sat up in slight shock. About you? He hunched over even more, resembling a guilty dog that got caught doing something it shouldn't have.
"Did–" it was your turn to be nervous. "Did I hurt anyone?" You leaned back a bit. Did you do something yesterday that triggered a nightmare?
Till straightened suddenly, and you jumped again. "No! No you didn't–" he swallowed. His hand had moved to the counter, and his index finger began tapping the surface anxiously.
"You didn't hurt anyone. You were... The one that got hurt." He stopped tapping the counter, and his fingers curled into a fist. He avoided eye contact.
Oh. Your shoulders relaxed and you leaned into the conversation. He joined his hands together and began twirling one thumb over the over.
"You know– you remember the trip coming up?" He was shaking as he spoke, and you nodded. About a week from now, your illustration class would take a trip to Italy, to study the works of Michealangelo and other famous artists from there.
"Well, in my dream, we were already there," his eyes trailed around the kitchen as he recalled. "We were in– we were in one of those bus things." He cleared his throat, and you noticed his foot bouncing in the air.
"And we sat next to each other, and someone started arguing with the driver," he swallowed again, and his hands began shaking so much that he couldn't fidget properly.
"The driver got distracted– he wasn't paying attention–" he inhaled. "Someone hit the car on the right side, your side." He waved his hands frantically.
"We went to the hospital as fast as we could– but I dont know Italian– I didn't know what they were saying– but they wouldn't let me in your room–" your face scrunched up at the rising panic in his voice.
"The doctor came out of the room– she looked sad– I couldn't see you and– and doctors kept running into your room– I heard beeping–" a tear fell from his eyes and you interrupted his rambling by pinching his arm.
He yelped and clapped a hand over his bicep, where you had pinched him. "The hell?" His voice cracked as he snapped at you.
"I'm okay." You stated firmly. He blinked and stared at you. "I– well I know that." He grumbled indignantly, still rubbing his arm. "I'm looking at you right now, I know you're fine."
"Till." You leaned forward, forcing him to look you in the eye. He clenched his jaw and leaned back slightly. "..Yeah?"
"You're safe." You whispered.
His eyebrows creased and he looked down. "I'm safe." You added, noting the unease in his eyes.
"We're in our apartment, not a hospital," you kept your eyes fixed on his face, monitoring how he reacted to your words. "We're in the kitchen, not a waiting room,"
He slowly brought his gaze up to meet yours. "And I'm a healthy, albeit, a bit tired, but not hurt." You spoke slowly, trying to gauge his reaction. "And not gone."
His shaking had gone down, and Till stared at you for a moment. His hands raised a bit, his fingers were no longer balled into fists, and he reached towards you hesitantly.
"How do I know this is real, and that wasn't? How do I know I'm not just trying to cope–" before he could tear up again, you pulled him into a hug, arms wrapping around his mid section, and your head resting on his chest.
Till tensed at the sudden embrace, before returning it so quickly (and tightly) that you nearly choked. You heard his heartbeat beneath where your head lay, and listened carefully for it to slow.
You felt your pajama top tighten in his fist as he pulled you as close to him as he could. "Don't die." He whispered, cheek resting on the top of your head.
You exhaled a laugh into his chest, and felt his heart rate increase again. "I didn't plan on it." Somehow, his grip tightened even more.
"Can we just– can we just avoid those bus things, at least?" He pleaded, and you nodded against his chest.
"If the professor says its okay, then of course." You reassured him once more, and he sighed. The shaking had stopped, and he seemed to relax completely now.
"Thank you."
~☆~
That night, after a few more minutes of leaning against each other in comfortable silence, you both went back to your rooms, and you had fallen asleep almost immediately. It seems that conversation helped ease the anxiety of you both.
During the trip, Till was insistent on staying by your side each time your group traveled. At one point, he tried to fit your carry-on into the overhead bin himself, and dropped the bag on his foot. When you scolded him for not letting you do it, and getting himself hurt from his stubbornness, he reasoned that it didn't fall on you, at least.
And when it was time for the group to take an airport bus to the hotel, he panicked again. You pulled your professor to the side and explained everything as vaguely as you could, not wanting to embarrass Till, and eventually got permission to walk to the hotel. It was only 15 minutes by foot, anyway.
While it was evident Till felt guilty for the extra trouble, you were just glad he wasn't shaking anymore. He made up for the added legwork by insisting on carrying your luggage for you, but you couldn't complain.
Though you hadn't noticed until the last day, each time your group walked on the sidewalk, Till had been beside you as a barrier between you and the cars.