There's a lot he'd rather not explain, about being raised from the dead in the correct timeline. He'd really rather not think back on it, but he can't help it, even though it's already been nine years, which is hard to process.

He still has nightmares. About the first apocalypse, his family, Reginald, the overall violence of his life before, and his own death. That's one he keeps getting stuck on. The feeling of the weird, burning substance that crawled up his body and his sibling's bodies, eventually covering him entirely and making it impossible to see or breathe or move or do anything at all, other than suffocate and burn.

That's the nightmare he wakes up from, most nights, by himself in the guest room your house. He's been staying there for four years now. You're an odd person, but you're a lot like him, and can match his sarcasm any day of the week. But he doesn't often talk about his past with you- or anyone, for that matter. It scares him- the prospect of a person knowing his weaknesses.

Tonight is like any other night. Sleep comes, eventually, only to be disrupted by the same nightmare. He usually stuffs a sock or something in his mouth, in case he does scream, but apparently, tonight he forgot.

He's suffocating. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and it's everywhere, and he can't get out, and- he's being shaken.

"Five? Five! Wake the fuck up!" you say, shaking him one more time in hopes that he'll open his eyes and stop screaming. He does, a moment later, sitting up immediately, rigid as a board, and grabbing onto your arm more roughly than he means to, digging his nails into your skin to ground himself, breathing hard. "Hey, hey, it's alright," you try, wondering what could have made him this scared, when usually, he's such an all-knowing asshole.

"Yeah. I know, I'm sorry," he says after a minute, shaking his head, but still holding your arm in a vice-like grip.