#ficition

It’s late when he wakes. Still dark out and there’s barely any stars in the strips of sky. He wakes up awfully. Mind buzzing in panic and skin slick with a thin layer of sweat.

Another bad night of sleep. Another bad night of a dead daughter. It never goes away.

He sits at the edge of his bed in pain. Like someone’s wounded him, and I guess in a way someone has. This is a wound that will never close, because he keeps picking at the scab.

He drags his heavy hands over his dewy face and through his darkish-grey sprinkled untamed hair. He feels old.

You live upstairs, next floor above him.

It’s a quick and quiet walk to you. He does it all the time. Even past curfew, much like he’s doing now.

He knocks gently at first, he stands far from the door and looks down both ends of the hall in the dark.

Nothing happens for awhile. He knocks again, a little louder. He’s not trying to wake anyone else up but you. He’s sure no one would rat on him, but still.

His chest aches a little less when he hears the sudden click of a lock, your door is pulled open seconds after.

Joel doesn’t wait to see your face, he moves smoothly into your apartment past you—closes the door for you. Doesn’t lock it, incase he needs an escape.

The apartment smells like you and lavender, it calms his aching muscles down instantly. “Joel..” He barely hears you, it’s such a soft whisper, full of sleep and confusion. Your little sister is sleeping down the hall, and you don’t really enjoy him being here when she’s around. You don’t need her questions or judgement, she’s a teenager—it’s bedded into their systems with age.

He looks back over his shoulder at you, you look shorter than he remembers. He hasn’t seen you in a couple of days, almost a whole week. He isn’t necessarily attached to you, he knows he shouldn’t be, but he knows deep down you do something for him. Though, he can lie and say you don’t—but you can see past the lie, doesn’t mean other’s do.

You’ve got small shorts on, they look soft from where he stands. An oversized long sleeve covers your top half. Your hair is down and pooling over your shoulders and the front of your chest. Your feet are bare against the old wood flooring. He wonders if your feet are cold? Sleep glazes your eyes and he suddenly feels bad for standing here. For bothering you on one of his bad nights. His natural frown deepens. “Sorry,” is all he says.

You shake your head, gentle, your hair floats around at the action. You give him a small smile. “It’s okay.”

You look down the hall and he watches you, he regrets coming down here. Most times, when this happens, he drags you to his apartment in your sleep haze. He’s not sure why he’s still standing here. And he thinks you know he doesn’t want to leave, because he hasn’t fucking moved. He left the door unlocked for fuck sakes…

You turn and lock your door suddenly before you look back at him. You don’t say anything, you simply hold out your small, soft hand for him. He hesitates, for awhile. You don’t mind, you still hold your hand up. His eyes look up to yours and you raise a brow and nudge your hand out a bit more. He eventually takes it.

He lets you lead him down your hall. He tries to copy your exact steps, you seem to be stepping calculated. Almost like you’ve done this before, the late night walking, trying not to wake your little sister.

He misses the last step you take and the floor creaks too loudly. It makes him flinch a little. You don’t seem bothered by it, almost like you’d seen it coming. Maybe you don’t have much faith in him. He’s here.

He can hear a door suddenly open behind him, and your door in front of him opens at the same time. It makes his head feel more fuzzy.

He looks over his shoulder and meets your sister’s tired eyes. He can’t read her face, she’s just staring, curiously? Confused? Annoyed? Regardless Joel just nods at the younger girl, before he can’t see her anymore. You’ve gently pulled him into your room. You close and lock your door. He’s never seen your door locked before.

You let go of his hand and he feels cold again, he hadn’t realized he felt warm.

You’ve had a lamp on, next to your bed. You move towards your bed and crawl in, sheets engulfing you instantly.

He’s just staring. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, why he’s acting so off. So unlike him.. He’s done this before. He needs to move.

You eye him. His dark plain shirt and sweats that look too big for him. They are. “You okay?” You ask gently and he finally moves at your voice. He nods, toeing off his shoes before he sits on the edge of your bed.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He doesn’t. You know he doesn’t, but you give him the option anyway. He grunts a little, shakes his head. No. You just hum and pull back your covers. He hears the rustling and looks back at you, you’re waiting for him. Your brows jump again. “You could also sleep on the couch, if that’s your fancy of the night?”

He rolls his eyes and you smile. It makes him feel warm again but he doesn’t show it.

He moves more into your bed, laying at your side. You lean over and pull at the lamp, the dim light fades.

It’s quiet as you lay, and it doesn’t bother you. But Joel feels like he could yell or ram his fist into a wall.

He moves.

He moves closer to you. He shuffles down your bed a little, and his cold nose is suddenly against the back of your neck. Your hair tickles his skin but he doesn’t move it. An arm slides over you waist and gently pulls you back into him. You don’t move away, so he moves even closer. You smell so comforting, he wishes he could cut you open and climb into you. He’d live there and never be bothered again.

But this will work for now. Being in your bed, holding you so fucking close.

Your hand suddenly comes down, over his own around you. Your palm wraps around his wrist and squeezes gently. You don’t say anything, you don’t need to.

Yeah, Joel still has nightmares. He probably always will. And he’ll probably always have to call to you to calm down.