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The needles stab out from the inside, pushing up through his skin, shivering and cold in the stale night. The blanket brushes against his toes and he can just barely see it through the hidden safety between his knees. He can feel it though, and it scratches holes into his bare feet.
Unbidden, his legs kick it away. He stares at his toes, and no, they’re not bleeding. It feels like they are but he can see them right in front of him and he’s fine.
He’s fine. If he’s fine, why can’t he breathe?
Some dusty memory reminds him to breathe. The memory speaks with his voice but he can’t remember who he’s talking to. He tries to count.
One, two, easy. He doesn’t even have to think for one and two. The next number, though, is gone. It’s replace by some guttural sound that feels like water in his ears that he is completely convinced comes after two. It doesn’t come after two, because something else does. Right?
He starts over, and this time, there’s nothing there but those sounds, in a specific order that he doesn’t quite understand.
Each one is accompanied by another sound, repetitive, the sound of air being broken by a jet plane that refuses to move slower than sound. It’s a crack, a snap, and then the air cuts through his back.
He chokes on a cry.
Keith stands outside the door, listening to the heavy breaths that woke him up. Shiro didn’t need to know how thin the walls were, and how much of the nightmares Keith heard. Keith normally laid in bed when the nightmares started, making sure that Shiro was able to wake himself up but ready if it got out of hand. Most of the time, he’d hear tossing and turning until Shiro finally woke up and went for a walk.
Tonight, after all the usual rustling, there were no sounds of Shiro getting out of bed, getting dressed, his bare feet on the metal floor.
Just the breathing.
It was wrong and off, even and clear for a few seconds and then stuttering like he was choking on the air. Something had pulled Keith out of bed, but now, standing in front of Shiro’s door, fist poised to knock, he is still.
Shiro would hate it. He would hate knowing that Keith heard him scream sometimes, that Keith knew that he wasn’t completely okay. He’d feel weak, and he’d hide behind his speeches and his optimism and would be ever more careful about where and when he let himself fall asleep.
The cry reaches him from behind the door. It sounds like a child, and god, that child is so afraid.
This time, Keith doesn’t hesitate to open the door.
Shiro is shaking in the center of the bed. His head is between his knees and between them Keith can just barely see the glint of fear in his wide eyes, like a horse who’s just seen a snake. A horse would rear back, run away, but Shiro is stuck, his fingers white where they grasp his leg, nails digging into the fabric of his sleep clothes. His right arm lies limp at his side.
Shiro’s voice jumps. He’s still shivering. It’s not cold but it looks like his muscles are trying to collapse in on him. Keith can trace every line of sinew that controls his jaw and each one is trembling.
“Shiro?” Keith asks. Shiro just shakes his head and pulls his shoulders even closer together.
He’s trying to make himself a smaller target, Keith realizes. He bites on his lip and refuses to cry for Shiro. Shiro deserves so much more than pity.
Keith almost misses it, the broken sound that slips from Shiro’s lips. “Keith.” Shiro’s lungs fill up and exhales the rest of the words. “Go home go home go home, it’s not safe, go home,” and then he’s out of air and has to swallow another quick lungful.
Shiro deserves so much more than pity.
Keith sees the blanket, discarded at his feet, and at his first move to pick it up, Shiro jolts.
Keith freezes, watches Shiro, and holds up one hand in placation.
The rest of his movements are slow, careful, his eyes never leaving Shiro. When he stands up, he’s careful to keep everything even. Everything slow. Nothing sudden. Shiro keeps forgetting to breathe, gulping everything in at once, and then coughing it back out.
Shiro was the one who taught him how to do this, before, when the occasional nightmare belonged to Keith.
Keith’s voice is a prayer.
“One, two, three, four in…” Shiro shudders and his shoulders fall away from his knees, allowing him to breathe a little bit easier.
“Five, six, seven, eight out…”
Shiro exhales.
Keith takes a step forwards with every turn of air.
As he gets closer, he hears the sounds that Shiro is choking on. He recognizes rudimentary Galran.
He makes his own counting louder. He sees himself learning to count as a kid. One, two, three, four, easy. He hopes Shiro can attach similar images, to remind him that he’s not there. He’s safe. They count in English, just like they did when they were kids.
Keith repeats the numbers, over and over and over until Shiro starts speaking along with him. Keith clutches the blanket in his hand and just counts.
He’s never seen Shiro like this. He knew about the nightmares. Of course he knew. He heard them.
But Shiro always got up from the nightmares.
He looks so small, hiding in himself.
Keith wonders if he can touch him, but Shiro’s still shaking, he’s still coughing on the numbers, so Keith sits down. He holds the blanket in his lap and keeps counting, paying special attention to the fabric between his fingers and careful not to scare Shiro off with a stare.
“One, two, three, four in…”
Shiro falls into Keith’s chest and Keith only falters for a minute before continuing his count and wrapping an arm around Shiro. Shiro’s limbs are loosening up, legs not so tight against his chest, most of his muscles not trembling with self imposed strain. Keith brings his legs up on the bed and tucks the blanket over both of them. Shiro shivers and grips Keith’s sleep shirt.
Shiro’s whispering changes from the murmured numbers to something else. Keith can barely make it out.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”
Keith fights the sting in his eyes. He blinks, and then blinks again, and bites down on the inside of his cheek.
Shiro deserves so much more.
Keith brings up a hand to card back through Shiro’s hair. Shiro’s relieved shudder at just the barest touch is enough to push the tears out of Keith’s eyes.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Shiro nods and lets himself nuzzle against Keith’s chest. Keith keeps up his quiet ministrations until the fist in his shirt goes slack and he hears the quiet snore that signals real sleep.
Keith lets out his own breath. Shiro must be exhausted.
He knows that Shiro will want to pretend it never happened in the morning.
Keith won’t let him.
That’s a problem for tomorrow.
Now, he closes his eyes and lets himself drift off, counting Shiro’s breath and timing his own to match.