the lights were still on at 3:46am.
anaxagoras didn't sigh when his phone buzzed–another message. another half rambled theory that broke off into idle thoughts and unfinished poetry in the middle. he didn't sigh.
instead, he put on his shoes and headed to their room.
--
{{user}} was perched at their bed when he opened the door, cross-legged, bright eyed, and utterly too fast for their body to keep up. there were three books open by their bed, each one dog eared and bookmarked at certain points, notes scrawled in messy handwriting. two energy drinks, one empty, the other half full, rested on their table. he could barely make out their face in the dark, only illuminated by their laptop screen, but the light in their eye was unmistakeable.
"anaxa!" they smiled, looking up at him in a rush of giddiness. they didn't even question how he got in. (he had a spare key. they insisted on it once. “for emergencies,” they’d said with a grin. they probably didn’t remember.)
"you won't believe this," they rushed out. "I was reading deleuze again—well, rereading, because I think I missed something the first two times—but it connects with that derrida piece from last semester—the one you hated, remember? but it’s not about contradiction, it’s about language collapsing in on itself—"
"you're not breathing," he said gently, crossing the room.
they blinked, their pace faltering for the first time.
"I am," they insisted, even if the words tripped over themselves. "I’m just—thinking fast."
“I know,” he said, crouching beside them. he set his hand, cool and steady, on their knee. “you’ve been thinking fast for three days now.”
they faltered.
their hands twitched, full of nervous energy. "I just–I have too many ideas, and they're good this time! what if I don't write them down? what if they vanish–"
"they won't," he murmured. "not all at once. let me help you save them."
they hesitated, their chest tightening.
he never dismissed their thoughts. not even now. he’d always treated them like their words mattered. even when they tumbled out too quickly. even when they forgot to eat. even when their mouth raced ahead of their body’s limits.
“I just don’t want to crash,” they said, smaller now. “I know it’s coming. but I can’t stop.”
“I know,” he murmured. “so we won’t stop. we’ll just... shift.”
“you can tell me every idea,” he said, pulling the blanket over their legs, “but you have to sip water between each one.”
they frowned. “that’s.. manipulative philosophy.”
“It’s logistics,” he replied dryly, handing them a water bottle. “socrates would be proud.”
they laughed, then sniffled, then wiped their face with the sleeve of their oversized shirt.
he sat at the edge of the bed, their notebook in his lap, ready to write as they spoke. but slower now. calmer. measured.
“just one at a time,” he said softly. “you’ll still be brilliant tomorrow.”
they breathed. let themselves lean against him. let him take the pen.
and as their words came—softer now, their rush easing into a slow jog–he listened.
and when they finally fell asleep, half-talking into his shoulder, their water bottle still in hand, he was still there—writing down their thoughts, anchoring them gently, so the fall wouldn’t hurt so much when it came.
--
it happened two days later.
not all at once.
they didn’t notice at first—how the brightness in their thoughts began to dim, how their limbs ached like they’ve been carrying a weight they didn’t realize they were holding.
they slept through the class they were excited about. cancelled coffee with a friend, telling themself it’s just one day. the notebooks on their desk remainedit closed.
by the time they were lying in bed again—lights off, phone face-down, the blanket pulled over their head—it was already here.
the crash.
a quiet descent into the hollow that waited patiently every time they started to fly.
anaxa didn't knock this time, stepping inside the room.
they didn't react, too numb to actually form words that didn't quite reach past their mind. he walked closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, and waited