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Vanitas has never been a restful sleeper. Ventus thinks he knows this fact better than anyone.
Bedtime is a routine that Ventus looks forward to every day. After coming home from a long shift, he'll skip dinner more often than not and drag his feet straight to the bedroom. There, Ventus will change into his sleepwear; a simple t-shirt and a pair of clean boxers. Moving over to the bathroom, he’ll stand in front of the sink and stare into the vanity mirror, eyelids drooping as he methodically brushes his teeth. Ventus will regard his tufts of hair, always messier by the end of the day, and the bags under his eyes with vague disinterest. He thinks he might need to change jobs again.
After using the toilet and washing his hands and face, Ventus will make his way back into the bedroom to crawl unceremoniously under the covers of their unmade bed. He’ll affix himself to his usual spot on the mattress, pillow squished unkindly under his head, and he will proceed to cocoon himself in his blankets, curling into a ball to find some semblance of warmth among cooled sheets.
Sleep comes easily to Ventus not long afterwards. He sways blissfully for a moment in between the waking world and the unconscious one before dropping off into dreamland. Breath even and steady, he can finally relax.
This never lasts long. The door to the bedroom creaks open on un-oiled hinges to let in a sliver of golden light that shines directly on Ventus face. Since this is also part of routine, Ventus pays it no mind. He knows what is to come next.
Vanitas’ own bedtime routine isn’t much different from Ventus’. He, too, will change into his usual long pajama pants and a tank top and head into the bathroom to do his business. When finished, he’ll make his way to the bed to flop down on top of the mattress, uncaring of its other occupant. Vanitas does not grab for any blankets, only his pillow which he will fluff up to his liking and lay his head on.
On good nights, Vanitas will sleep where he lies on his designated side of the bed. He will make barely a sound and he won’t move an inch--just lay there and breathe deeply until morning comes. Vanitas never moves closer to Ventus on good nights. Not for blankets, and definitely not to cuddle. Ventus used to wonder if there was something wrong with himself, back when they moved in together. They aren't affectionate with each other as lovers tend to be. No cuddling on the couch, no sitting in each others’ laps, or holding hands and sharing chaste kisses in public. Vanitas keeps to himself, and Ventus finds that that attribute carries over into sleep.
On bad nights, Vanitas will start off with his usual routine. When he falls asleep, that’s when the routine shifts. It begins with noise--soft whimpers like wind outside the window. Vanitas will shift and turn, tug on his pillow and curl up around himself as if he is cold. Ventus can do nothing but roll over and watch as Vanitas works through whatever nightmares his brain has conjured up. There’s nothing more he can do. Waking Vanitas up or giving him a blanket had proven futile before, so Ventus lets these nights pass by. In the mornings, both will wake up to begin their morning routine as if nothing had happened. Vanitas will not mention anything, and in turn Ventus doesn’t bring it up.
There tend to be more bad nights than good ones.
This night, however, is different. Routine in place, everything moves like clockwork. Ventus tucks himself in and Vanitas joins him like any other night before this one. Quickly, the pull of sleep has a hold on both of them.
Ventus is jolted awake as he feels the mattress shift behind him. He turns groggily to regard his partner. A bad night, then. But the whimpers steadily increase in volume, and Vanitas’ breathing is not so even anymore--he’s gasping for breath, like a drowning man sucking down air. Ventus doesn’t know what to do, has never felt so helpless before. He thinks to ride it out like any other night, but Vanitas doesn’t seem to share that sentiment.
Vanitas' eyes crack open, watery and glazed over. He isn’t seeing the real world, only the one projected by his dream. He croaks out Ventus’ name, like a prayer, reaching blindly for something, someone, to hold on to. Ventus doesn’t think he has ever untangled himself from his wrap of sheets so fast. With numb hands, Ventus pulls Vanitas towards him. Vanitas, for all his freaking out, doesn’t push Ventus away. Instead, he curls closer, right up against Ventus’ breast, against Ventus’ heart. He is holding on to Ventus’ shirt with a vice grip, unwilling to let go. Ventus can only wrap the blankets securely around them both and cradle Vanitas’ head to him, hushing him as he would a scared child. He ignores the growing wet patch on his chest in favour of stroking Vanitas’ hair with deft fingers. This, too, shall pass like any night before it.
Eventually, Vanitas calms down. He’s silent again, and his eyes have stopped leaking tears against his will. Ventus drifts off as well, albeit in a much lighter sleep than usual.
They both wake in the morning, Vanitas’ head now resting in the dip of Ventus’ neck. Neither speaks. They are not in any rush to get up and start their day.
Ventus believes that this is a one time event, an outlier of the norm. At the end of the day, nothing has really changed. But as they fall into bed once more, as they will do for many nights to come, Vanitas tugs on Ventus’ cocoon, a silent demand of childish proportions. Ventus opens up to him and Vanitas dives in, knocking his temple on Ventus’ collar bone to settle in a comfortable position, his arms around Ventus’ waist. It is warm as Ventus engulfs them in the safety of the blankets and holds Vanitas to him tight.
That night, nothing haunts Vanitas' dreams.