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The dreams had never played out like movies or memories. They usually came in fragments, flashes of broken up images that he could never quite make out. But they were enough.
It was like those plastic stereoscope toys, the ones that came with a film that let you flick through 3D images. He had one briefly when he was a kid, lost the film within the first week of having it, reducing the toy to a piece of useless, flimsy plastic that sooner rather than later got lost somewhere under his bed too.
His dreams were like that. Except instead of historical landmarks, or cartoon scenes, his dreams were filled with unsettling images his brain seemed determined to revisit over and over.
It came in flashes of red, lights that were too bright, sirens and screams that didn’t actually exist. And the shapes of moving monsters, enormous things that were just shy of looking human, had it not been for the limbs that were too long, and the proportions that were off.
His loved ones are there too – family, friends from childhood, you. He’d never been able to see their faces, but he didn’t need to to know who they were. He’d hear them calling out, just as afraid and in need as he was. All while he was frozen, while all he could do was watch. Like these dream worlds had stripped his ability to move at all.
That was always the worst part of it, that was what scared him the most; the helplessness.
These dreams shouldn’t still affect him as much as they did. He’d been having them ever since he was a kid, whenever he felt stressed or afraid, the dreams would follow. While they were more or less the same at their core, some things would change just slightly, mirroring whatever was weighing on him.
He’d never been able to fall asleep again after having them, once he woke up – out of breath, shirt sticking to his skin with a thin layer of sweat – that was it. He’d be up for the night, no matter how tired he was.
Some nights, when he was much younger, he’d sneak down the hall to his mom’s room and climb into her bed when his dad was away for work. He did it all the way into his late teens, well past being ‘too old’ for it, but his mom never sent him away, just moved over to make more room for him.
Those were the only nights he was ever able to fall asleep again. Not that it was anything he’d ever admit to. He’d always been too tough, too strong, too proud to admit that he found comfort in something as childish as sleeping in his mom’s bed. But her sheets were soft, and she smelled like home, and that always calmed his nerves.
But he didn’t have that anymore.
It had been some time since his last nightmares, a few months of nights that he actually got some decent, restful sleep. He wasn’t surprised that they came back, he always expected them to eventually.
It was the same routine as always. He woke up gasping for air, sitting up in the bed so fast it made his head spin. His shirt clinging to him, just damp enough to be uncomfortable, his fingers curled around the fabric like that could keep his heart from racing so fast against his ribs.
It took him a few moments to start collecting himself again. His eyes flicked over the room, at the placement of the furniture, the decor, the pictures on the wall, the shape of the lamp. There was something soothing in the way it was so familiar.
He reached to his side, his hand found the curve of your hip immediately. Warm, and solid, proof that this is what was real.
Your back was to him, knees pulled close to your chest, the sheets tucked loose over your shoulders. Eren shifted closer, the mattress dipping under his weight. His arm slid around your waist, pulling you back against him until the curve of your spine was pressed against his front. He brushed the hair away from your neck, tucking his face into the crook of it.
He took in deep breaths, senses filled with the scent of you. Something sweet, delicate, soft and faintly floral. Like cotton and violets coated thinly in honey, the softened edge of citrus buried beneath it.
Eren wasn’t usually someone who was poetic, but if he ever had to be, he’d probably describe the way you smelled to be the way he imagined the moon to smell if he was ever able to hold it.
He stayed there until his breaths evened, and the tremble in his fingers eased slightly. He pulled away careful enough he wouldn’t wake you, slipping out of the bed and out of the room, leaving the door just shy of latched closed.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his reflection in the mirror that hung in the hall, it startled him for a second. He was an absolute mess. Hair mussed from tossing and turning, short bits of fringe stocking to his forehead. His eyes were sunken from the nightmare, red rimmed, bottom lashed clumped together. Had he been crying in his sleep ?
“Pathetic” He muttered to himself.
He moved the rest of the way down to the kitchen, yanking the fridge door open with more force than necessary. He stared into the bulb until he saw stars dancing in his vision before grabbing a water bottle from the shelf. He finished it in two drinks before tossing the bottle in the general direction of the recycle bin.
The fridge door closed on its own as he turned away. He stopped on the way to the living room to mess with the thermostat on the wall. He played with the buttons for a bit before eventually just setting it back to what it had originally bet in the first place.
He took some refuge in movement, filling the next several moments with useless, mundane tasks. Shifting the decorations on the shelves, without actually moving what spot they were in. He wiped dust off the TV stand, and started a load of laundry.
He zeroed in on the faint drip from the kitchen sink. It took him less than fifteen minutes to fix it, tightening things here and there before the maddening sound finally stopped, and silence rushed in to take its place. He couldn’t tell what was worse.
He did anything and everything he could to keep his hands and mind busy.
It was about an hour after he initially got out of bed that he finally dropped onto the couch. It wasn’t relaxing, not even close, now that he had nothing to do the tension had a chance to settle in fully. He sat on the edge of the cushion, body still on-alert.
He was like a well trained guard dog, whose only job was to protect. Except Eren was a guard dog who didn’t know what he was supposed to be protecting, or how to do it. A dog with one job that he didn’t even know how to do, beyond just waiting for something to happen.
And what if something did happen ? Would he be just as useless as he was in his dreams ?
Fuck.
He ran a hand down his face, forcing himself to lean against the back of the couch, but it didn’t do anything to get him to relax. He was still just as tense, arms crossed tight over his chest, the only movement that came from him was the wild bouncing of his leg that he’d given up trying to stop. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, unblinking, counting the bumps and air bubbles in the paint over and over.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he heard movement, but he shot up right when the second sound hit his ears. Your footsteps followed, and you emerged from the hall a few moments after that. Your feet dragged against the ground with each step, socks scrunched around your ankles, wearing his shirt that was too big on you, but not much else.
The sight of you – sleepy, and soft, and so beautiful – softened the edges of his panic, if only for a second.
“What’re you doin’ up s’ early ?” You asked, voice soft with a yawn, still rubbing the sleep from your eye.
Eren didn’t answer your question with anything other than a sharp grunt, but you didn’t actually need words to know what was going on. Once you blinked the sleep away and your vision cleared, you could tell just by looking at him. The way he was tense, alert, leg shaking.
“Y’ wanna try ‘nd go back to bed ?” You offered,
“Already up.” He replied – tone sharp, words final.
You didn’t take it personally, you expected him to answer that way. You nodded, and walked past him towards the kitchen without saying anything else. You flicked the light on, and started the coffee without thinking. It was muscle memory at this point, one of those tasks you don’t really have to think about.
“What the hell are you doin’ ?” Eren’s voice came from the doorway “Not even two in the morning, go back to bed.”
You glanced over at him, shrugging again, unbothered “Already up.”
That earned you a quiet huff and an eye roll from Eren. Though there was no real irritation in it, not any that was directed at you anyways. “You’re impossible.” he grumbled before returning to the living room, planting himself back on the couch.
You watched the pot start filling with coffee, the machine humming as it worked before you followed Eren into the next room, settling on the cushion next to him, your back against the arm rest. You held your arms open towards him.
He hesitated before shifting, settling between your legs, his head lowered against your chest. You slid your fingers through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp with just enough pressure to make him let out a shaky breath.
“How long have you been up ?” You asked
Eren shrugged, “Hour or so.” His answer came muffled by the fabric of his own shirt that you were wearing.
You hummed softly in acknowledgement. Neither of you said anything, silence hovered over the room that teetered dangerously between familiar and uncomfortable, almost too heavy. It was broken only by the soft ticking of the clock, and the occasional sniffle from Eren. Each time he shifted to tuck himself a little closer to you.
You didn’t say anything about them, or draw any attention to the small shudders and trembles that ran through his stiff shoulders and back. You didn’t make a fuss when the pajama top you wore started to feel a little damp where his face was.
Eren appreciated that.
Minutes passed, filled only with shaky breaths, quiet sniffles, and gentle ticking. Eren did eventually go still, quiet and limp long enough it made you shift to look down at his face tucked against you.
His face was relaxed, brow finally unfurrowed. His eyes were closed now, lashes brushing against the rounded tops of his still damp cheeks. His nose twitched with sporadic sniffles, but he was asleep. His weight fully pressed against yours, breaths evened, the tension between his shoulders finally eased. Something close to peaceful.
Your hands continued the slow, consistent movement through his hair. You leaned your head back against the armrest behind you, looking up at the ceiling speckled with bumps and air bubbles in the paint.
You counted them absentmindedly, letting the quiet settle and finally soften.