When Chuuya confessed that he didn’t dream, you took it at face value.

He wakes up tonight, gasping for air. There’s a thin layer of cold sweat along his chest, the length of his hair especially around his forehead seeming to stick to his skin. He pulls himself to sit up—his chest feels tight, nausea runs bone deep, his mind races as he tries to come back to reality.

Another nightmare, Chuuya Nakahara truly does not dream.

He should be used to the nightmares by now, yet doubtful he ever will be. In his sleeping state, his mind offers him mere glimpses of his life in the lab, images that stir familiarity and yet he can’t completely recall himself. It will never not be unsettling.

He glances over at you like he’s only just remembered he isn’t alone. If he could breathe properly, he might find the nerve to be embarrassed. Your presence is both grounding and humiliating; he doesn’t know if he wants you to come closer or to stay away.

He closes his eyes, inhaling deep through his mouth, exhaling a moment later through his nose.