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It's three past midnight when Gauche drags himself out of his bed, mind clouded and worked up, body tensed and on edge, breaths held at the back of a dry throat, a faint dark circle settles under his lonely eye as he ponders the silent room shrouded with nothingness.
On the easiest nights, it's the nightmares that'll keep him wide awake, often with no memory of what's been haunting his dreams. But they're barely of any harm to him; they don't give him the creeps, they don't crawl under his skin, they don't add an extra dimension to his eyesight. Nightmares are merely nightmares, and Gauche deals with them the same way he deals with sickness, and with the regular nosebleeds, and with the life-risking missions. That's it, with mild indifference, because what's there to be bothered about? Marie's healthy and Marie's happy. That's all he needs.
But tonight, is not an easy night. Not because of the insomnia either—it's hardly anything new to him, and it rarely makes him feel like choking on nothing or watching behind his back. If anything, Gauche regards the sleepless nights as a gift from heaven where the world is clear and simple and he can spend even more hours adoring his beloved angel in the privacy of his room.
But tonight, tonight his room is different. It's been different for several weeks now. It's so colorless, the air is thick and heavy despite the wide-open window, and something about the door—shut but not locked—is making his heart pounds. In the farthest corner to his bed flickers a mirror, and from the mirror emerge a fleet of flickering shadows playing a game of tug-and-war with the robe of his sanity. When Gauche tries to stare into them with a firm grip on reality, the shadows—the mirror, the room will stare back at him.
Gauche wonders when his room starts shifting into a twisted reflection of the lonely prison cell once occupied by him, when it starts turning itself into a dull version of a child's room inside a mansion that used to be his to inherit and his to live in. The resemblance has been leaving him sick, restless, unsettled, and more than anything not wanting to be left alone in a place where the only company he has is himself and the dreadful thing behind his back.
Suddenly panic spikes up with a fit of rapid inhales and exhales, and next he knows his body is slipping out the dark room and into the calming brightness of the hideout. Soundless footsteps is quickly followed, aimlessly wandering off to an elusive destination that can be anything but his room, slowly drawing his attention to the residence of the Black Bulls. It had taken Gauche a lot longer than others to fall under the charm of Henry's mansion, but the hideout had become his home even before he realized it—always has been, always will be, Gauche's only wish is for Marie to move in with him here once she turns fifteen if by that time he hasn't convinced her against becoming a magic knight.
Henry's mansion is home, but nowadays it's become harder for Gauche to keep the phantoms beneath his consciousness from roaming free when the night is dead and everyone else is long asleep. Whether it's a negative reaction to the recent gap inside him that was once occupied by someone else's soul—a soul that was his company even before he learns what company is, or the unnerving quietness that overwhelmed the base after half of its inhabitants left to train elsewhere, it's beyond him. But he knows it's not insanity, or depression, or homesickness. Gauche gets over them the moment they interrupt his mind by simply thinking of Marie.
Right now though, the mere mention of Marie exhausts him, scares him.
Sometimes he can see her, in the depths of his mind, pure and innocent and is taken from him—stolen by the abyss that's his dark, empty room, the same abyss that was his dark, empty cell. Kidnapped, snatched, stabbed in the back--
"Hey."
Heart jumping, fists clenching in pockets, grimoire glowing in purple, the world spins around before Gauche realizes it's his body who's twisting aggressively with a crack. His hostility subsides once his bleary eye blinks to a red-haired figure.
Zora's toothy frown shines under the dim light, confusion and concern knit together in his brows. "You look like you've seen the grim reaper."
Gauche's grimoire draws back to his hand. The lump in his throat is swallowed hard as words struggle to find their way out of his chest. He can suddenly feel water and salt across his skin and a dread hanging at the nape of his neck, behind his back, and then he's twisting again with a shriek and then the world spins once more as he stumbles on his foot.
Yet, a grip holding him-holding his back keeps him from hitting the earth.
"Scratch that. You look like you've been chased by the grim reaper." Zora's voice is strangely reassuring to his ears right now. Gauche finds himself clinging to it the same way he used to hold on Marie's soothing voice when it was lonely and gloomy and only the two of them against the world.
When Gauche turns to him--head in hands, his own voice comes alerted, agitated. "I can't sleep."
Zora's eyes lit up and the edges of his frown soften in understanding—they're used to bump into each other night owling around, mostly in the common area with Gordon, Vanessa, or Yami, sometimes on the rooftops with Magna, Luck or Nero, rarely do their absent-minded roaming lead them in front of each other's doors, but it happen more often than not, and tonight seems to be one of those heavy, thick nights, which is why Zora spent the better part of it outside. Zora can already see its toll on Gauche as the latter moves his eye tentatively to look elsewhere and keeps rubbing the side of his neck.
"I just came back from my patrol, super magic knight stuff," he says, a hint of a smile works itself through his eyebrows. There's no eye contact when Gauche hums in return, no words shared further, but when Zora opens his unlocked door and jerks his head in invitation, Gauche steps without hesitation.
It's two steps inside when Gauche's movement comes to a sudden halt as he senses it once more, out of the corner of his eye, an abyssal darkness flowing from corners smell of ash and charcoal. Zora storms in his room carelessly and takes off his mask, stretching his arms and rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes. He lazily peeks at his night visitor, then peeks toward what upsets him, then Gauche hears him chuckling in an impish glee until Gauche's attention is back to him again.
When Zora speaks up--hand reaching out, his voice comes resonant, expectant. "C'mere, I'm sleepy."
He jerks his head once more, walking over to sit on the edge of his bed and tossing off his shirt on the way. Gauche creeps through the fleet of wavering shadows toying with someone else's mind and climbs in after him, not bothering to stifle a heavy yawn filled with relief once two backs are pressed together.
He finds himself scoffing, body facing the window. "You're fucked up."
"And you're not?" Sneers Zora back at him with a grin, facing the door.
And there they lie, each turned outward, backs seeking comfort against each other's; when Gauche will press himself closer to indulge in his presence, Zora won't make any remarks, and when a dozing, mumbling Zora will intertwine his limps with his stiff, cold body, Gauche won't throw any insults. It's a habit—kind of a ritual—born out of a shared trauma tied to loss and betrayal, even when neither of them know the finest details of the other's past. Tonight wasn't their first, and it won't be their last.
And there they lie, as Zora's snore filled the room one minute later, as Gauche's eye dozes off ten minutes after, with his mind going back to his room, to the shadows dancing wild in an empty space shrouded with nothingness, as he faintly wonders when his yearn for someone's presence became unbearable and when he found a kindred spirit in a masked man's back.
And there they lie, in the thickest of midnights, secured in the trust of each other's side, in the mental safety of knowing that the dreadful thing won't pass past the unity of their safe haven to snatch another loved one of theirs with a stab in the back.
So long as a stabbed back is pressed against another stabbed back.