Tomas sees Marcus having a nightmare wakes him and they sleep together for comfort
send me writing prompts bc i love dying
marcus has always slept in fits and starts; he pushes himself to the edge of exhaustion and back again, over again, dozes whilst tomas drives, nods off standing in line at the grocery store, lays out flat on the bed of the truck so that tomas can sleep on the bench in the front. sleeping under the stars, thatās never been so bad, and he was raised in the kind of cold that makes nights on the road positively cosy.
motels are much the same. marcus sleeps for one, two hours at a time, wakes up, stares into the dark, voided spaces just in front of his eyes. marcus has bad dreams, not prophetic ones, but even when he wakes with his heart racing he never wakes - loudly, or obtrusively. heās always been glad of his quiet nightmares. whatās in his head, can stay there.
ā which is why marcus lashes out, when tomas wakes him up in the middle of one of those supposedly quiet nightmares. tomas is justĀ fast enough to avoid an entire arm to the face, before he re-appears, stiflingly close, hands on marcusā shoulders. heās saying something and it doesnāt get past the ringing in marcusā ears, the rabbit of his pulse in his throat; coiled like a spring with tomas holding him down, it takes six long, gulping breaths for marcus to say,Ā ā tomas, let me go. ā
he does.
marcus pushes himself upright, pulls the sheets down where theyāre choking him. he doesnāt look at tomas so much as he looks throughĀ him, eyes pinpricking. before marcus can say anything, ask anything, on the opposite bed where heās now perching tomas splays his hands and says,Ā ā you were talking. ā in the wake of marcusā confused blink, he elaborates,Ā ā you were telling someone, something to stop. i didnāt mean to scare you. you just seemed ... distressed?Ā ā
the finer points of the nightmare are already fading. this suits marcus, who revisits enough in his waking hours that revisiting dreams has never been on his agenda. ā gabriel, ā he says, a lie told by way of explanation, and though tomasā brow creases, he doesnāt needle the point. thank you,Ā marcus thinks. he knows heās transparent, half the time, and - he doesnāt think tomas is stupid, or that tomas canāt tell when marcus is lying to spare himself. gabriel is just obvious, something tomas already knows. maybe someday iāll tell you everything iāve ever dreamed about. but not tonight.
ā today, even. this morning. itās dawning light filtering through cheap blinds, not the blue of evening.
when the dream is gone, all thatās left is the fear, unusually paralysing. marcus doesnāt know how or where to move, elbows locked, back already starting to ache from the way heās sat. itās tomas who figures it out, who stands up and, before marcus can protest any differently, is pulling his hands up where theyāre bunched in the sheets, touching his neck, his shoulders, and marcusā breath catches in an uglyĀ way in his throat to realise tomas is doing all the things for him, that marcus would do for him, in the same situation.
right down to the way that, when marcus has turned on his side, oppressive sheets kicked off the single bed entirely, tomas very carefully lies down behind him. at first marcus can tell heās laying on his back, probably staring at the ceiling the way he doesĀ when heās having a good think about anything. marcus doesnāt want to ask. he prays, with half-closed eyes, that he doesnāt have to.
as though right on cue, the weight on the mattress shifts. marcus holds his breath when tomas tucks up against him, his front pressing along marcusā back. his arm slings across marcusā waist, warm hand covering still-rabbity heart. marcus lets that breath go. tomas must feel the rise and fall of his chest with it.
marcus falls asleep with his head on tomasā other arm. not for long, but he does sleep.
