gibsie had a problem sometimes.

he couldn’t sleep. sleep was something that didn’t come easy to him, or it worsened after everything had happened. he was constantly hypervigilant, and when he wasn’t, he was stirring every hour, fidgety, or just wide awake. he thought that it would be an issue, when you eventually started staying over, but to his surprise? it wasn’t.

you slept through his fidgeting. you checked he was okay when you woke long enough to notice he wasn’t sleeping. you even stayed awake with him sometimes.

it wasn’t even that he was tired in the day — he generally seemed to thrive on little sleep, and that was the way it had always been. you? not so much.

gibsie always knew when you had barely slept. you got grumpy and the mood swings were intense.

but tonight was one of the worse nights. he had settled into your bed at nine, after a brutal rugby match. you fell asleep instantly, and gibsie… was awake. on one side of your bed, surrounded by your pillows, gibsie was wide awake.

for a hour.

and then another.

and then another.

but he time it was one, he was frustrated. tossing and turning, exhaustion thrumming through his body like a live wire after the rugby match, but still, he couldn’t switch off. it wasn’t even that he was thinking about anything in particular, but he just couldn’t relax.

“gibsie?” you mumble, half asleep.

he huffs, annoyed. he presses the palm of his hands into his eyes. “can’t sleep.” And replies. this isn’t a new situation, and the guilt he feels only intensifies as you prop yourself up and switch on your bedside lamp. “babe—“ he starts.