my remote concern || keith & maia || event
For three nights, Keith didn’t sleep.
The minute you say insomnia, people start offering up advice. Try moving to another room and reading a book. Try drinking more water. Try making yourself really, really warm. Back in life, when it all started to go wrong, he’d nod and bite his tongue, bite back the counter-arguments. Thanks, but no thanks—I think I know better than you. And when it got even worse, he tried them all. Desperately. Please.
He’d tried them all again these last three nights. After Dominick showed up bearing a cross, after Mikhail kicked Keith back into the snow, he pulled the list back out and went through them bullet by bullet. He turned off the lights, he piled on the blankets, he climbed into bed with pajamas on and then with nothing on at all. He jerked off. He counted sheep and bones and body hairs. Futile. Futile. Futile.
Tonight, he tried wine. Never could take the taste of anything redder than Chardonnay, but it always made him tired—he’d take it, if it could do him good. Anything that would do him good. Dom and Mikhail like caffeine drips. Somewhere along the way, Keith had picked up a couple wine glasses; he up-ended the last of a Merlot bottle into one of them now. It was a dizzying thing, wine and sleeplessness together. It had him yawning against his doorframe, sitting down to tie his shoes, and shuffling down the sidewalk before he knew where he was going.
And then he was at Maia’s door.
Keith knocked, yawned again, and pulled his jacket even tighter to his chest.
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