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John woke up to Smitty moaning in his sleep.
“Jaren?” He asked, softly, lifting his head. He could just see the shape of his boyfriend, lying facedown on the bed with his head tipped away from John. The room was dark, the lights turned off. Octavia was out in the front room, because their door was closed (they hadn’t wanted her coming in while they were fucking, obviously. She was Smitty’s baby, she didn’t need to be traumatized like that). So the moaning was definitely Smitty, not anyone else. Pushing himself up, John reached out and touched Smitty’s shoulder, repeating, “Jaren?”
Under any other circumstance, John would be memorizing how Smitty looked. A beam of moonlight pierced through a small gap in their curtains, cutting across his face. But his eyes weren’t lightly closed the way they usually were, brow pinched and nose wrinkled. His lips were almost pulled back into a grimace, jaw tight. There was none of the slack, relaxed softness that he expected to find on his boyfriend’s face.
Something was wrong.
Reaching out, John gently touched his boyfriend’s face, brushing some of his hair out of his eyes. Smitty was starting to break out in a sweat, fingers curling in their sheets until he was basically fisting them. His breathing had gone oddly heavy. “Jaren, baby.” Experimentally, he tried, “Smitty.”
Something was definitely happening. Smitty wasn’t the lightest sleeper, sure, but he should have woken up at this point. Usually, John just needed to pet his hair or kiss his temple, or just say either Jaren or Smitty once or twice. It didn’t matter which one. He’d respond to Smitty if he didn’t respond to his legal name, though.
Panting, Smitty whimpered again. His shoulders jerked. Gently, John rolled him over onto his back. That was what to do with seizures, shit. Was he doing the right thing? He’d never heard Smitty like this before. This wasn’t a nightmare. Was it a night terror? Was it something else? What was he even meant to do about this?
“Smitty? Hey, hey, Smitty.” He glanced around. As much as he hated to just leave his boyfriend obviously having some sort of episode, he lunged across the bed to his phone.
Smitty screamed.
It was a terrifying sort of sound. John almost fumbled his phone. He managed not to drop it, though. Turning to look at Smitty, John saw him kicking, face twisted up. His eyes snapped open.
Turning to him, John touched his shoulder. “Smitty? Smitty, hey, look—look at me, it’s okay—”
His boyfriend wasn’t looking at him.
Staring past John, he was staring at the ceiling, chest heaving and tears in his eyes. Some sort of moan left him, eyes flicking around but not seeing. Okay, okay, John turned back to his phone, stomach twisting. He was going to vomit. Maybe. Maybe not. His fingers shook as he began typing, he kept making mistakes. Blinking hard, John squinted down at the screen.
All the results were for parents helping kids. And sure, that might help a little, but Smitty was a grown man.
Again, Smitty cried out. His heels slammed into the mattress. John turned back to him.
He didn’t know what he could do, except wait.
Which was…not fun. Smitty thrashed, turning onto the side and curling into himself. He was facing John this time. With a sigh, he shuffled over and then settled by Smitty’s side, slumping slightly.
And he just started talking.
He didn’t know about what. It didn’t really matter, he was just rambling. Murmuring reassurances as desperately as possible, he fiddled with his fingers. He didn’t have his rings. They were being resized. He wished he did have them, because it’d give him something else to fiddle with. Something to do.
Whimpering again, Smitty kept mouthing words. Names. Maybe pleas. John didn’t know. Pushing himself up onto his side, Smitty let out another cry. His lips were peeled back into a grimace. He thrashed again, a name slipping from his mouth.
Shoving himself up, John tucked his legs to the side. He set a hand on Smitty’s shoulder, just to soothe himself. His boyfriend was stiff under his touch.
It felt like it lasted forever.
Finally, Smitty started to quiet down, breathing evening out. It wasn’t for long. He just wasn’t crying anymore, and then he jolted. His eyes cracked open. Blinking hard, he sniffed and then tilted his head to the side, looking back at John. A shiver crossed his shoulders.
“John?” He asked, then winced. His hand went to his throat.
“Hey, Jaren.” Leaning over, John brushed his hair away from his temple and kissed his skin. At the same time, he grabbed the water bottle Smitty left at his beside table, just within reach. “Come on, drink some water.”
When he held it for Smitty, John could see his hands shaking.
He paused, frowning. “You’re having a panic attack.” When he glanced at Smitty, he could see some of the other signs. It was a quiet attack, sure, but he looked a bit pale. He was squinting, too, the way he usually only did when his glasses had been missing for too long and he’d given himself a headache compensating for it. Dropping his fingers to Smitty’s neck, John took his pulse. His breathing was pretty heavy—he’d thought it was just waking up from the night terror, but maybe not.
“It’s fine.” Smitty said, voice strained. He managed to take the water bottle from John, uncapping it after a few tries and taking a sip as he propped himself up on his elbow.
Looking at him, John asked, “How can I help?”
Smitty took another few seconds, drinking more water. Then, he laid back down. His eyes fell shut. “Just—hold me?”
Moving to him, John wrapped his arms around Smitty’s middle. He set his chin on his shoulder, felt Smitty tangle their fingers together. He could feel Smitty’s heart pounding in his chest. Okay, okay. How do I fix this—
Matching his breathing to Smitty’s, John held him just a bit tighter, buried his nose in Smitty’s hair, and closed his eyes. Smitty sucked in a deep breath of his own, though it shook a bit. He held John’s hands tighter. There was another low whimper. Smitty cut it off. “Hey, you’re fine. I have you. Do you need pressure, or is this okay?”
“This is fine.” Smitty curled up, and John curled up with him, blocked him in. “Sorry. It’s dumb.”
“It’s not.” John pressed a kiss to Smitty’s nape. He took another breath, started to slow his breathing. Smitty matched him subconsciously. “We don’t need to be anywhere. We can just lay here for a while, okay?”
“Okay.” Smitty shifted again.
They really did lay there for a while, the minutes ticking by as Smitty tried to control his breathing and John made sure to match his and slow it down. It worked. Other than some brief sniffing, Smitty’s breathing was easy. Soft.
Eventually, John closed his eyes, drifting off to the sound of Smitty’s soft snoring and the feel of his boyfriend slack in his arms.
“It was my brother.”
The confession came around dinnertime that same day. John was making them breakfast for dinner—Belgian waffles, bacon, and scrambled eggs. Plating the food, he turned to look at Smitty, who was sitting at the table and fiddling with a napkin. “The nightmare?” John prompted, after a moment.
Smitty nodded, eyes focused on the napkin.
Bringing the food over, John settled down next to him. He reached out, touched Smitty’s wrist. “Do you want to talk about it?”
There was a long, quiet moment. Smitty sighed softly.
“I didn’t tell you everything about my brother. He’s…changed now.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Smitty settled his other hand in his lap. He seemed to be staring at his fingers. “But he was…violent. In the past. Not as bad as it could be, but—anyways, he needs somewhere to stay, and my other brother reached out last night to let me know. Didn’t know how to bring it up to you, I just—”
He trailed off, gesturing helplessly.
“You can’t let him stay here.” John concluded.
Smitty nodded again. “I wouldn’t feel safe with him here. I don’t even feel safe when I’m at family reunions and stuff, because I never know when he’s going to snap. I—fuck, I used to sit at the dinner table and think about whether or not I could grab his knife before he could use it against someone else, because I never knew what he was going to do. And I just…I dreamt he was trying to kill me again. It happens.”
“He’s not staying here.” John decided.
“And that’s okay! But I just—I can’t leave him without a place to stay.”
“Then we can purchase a hotel room for him.” John suggested. When Smitty turned to him, John challenged, “We’re together, and I’m not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. And if he does end up here, then I’ll make myself a problem until he leaves.”
“John, I don’t want you putting yourself in danger—”
“Trust me.” John held his gaze.
Letting out a long breath, Smitty nodded. “Okay. I trust you.” He glanced down at the waffles. “We don’t have a waffle maker.”
Shrugging casually, John said, “I stole Matt’s last time we were there.”
Smitty burst out laughing, and John settled into the sound with a smile.