This was what happened, sometimes, but lately it had become more and more frequent. Combeferre liked to think he was getting used to it; after all, it had been weeks since he had had a good night of sleep, and even before then he had had these episodes quite often. And his rational brain should find nothing to worry about: he woke in the morning and his rooms were the same as ever. No one had been there except himself. His door was locked, his windows shut. None of his possessions had been moved, not a piece of paper was missing from his desk.
And yet, after getting home from a long exhausting day, instead of settling in bed to rest, Combeferre stalled. He read, he cleaned, he wrote, even going so far as to engage aconversation with his landlady, an old widow whose hearing had been steadily declining for years.
If he were completely honest with himself – and Combeferre took pride in his honesty – he would say he was dreading going to bed. Oh, he would fall asleep in minutes, surely. But he would have preferred tossing and turning for hours, unable to catch any rest, rather than relieve what he knew would happen.
Eventually, however, the moon rose high in the sky and his candle became little more than a puddle of melted wax in the middle of the plate, and so Combeferre climbed in bed.
On the edge of his vision, darkness crept in, mocking him. A tickle behind his eyelids, and a soft ringing in his ears assured him that it would happen again tonight. There was so fighting it - Combeferre closed his eyes and waited.
And waited.
He could feel himself falling, sinking. His fingers were growing numb, his body quickly shutting down, but his mind was still running, aware and awake, allowing Combeferre no rest at all.
Before long, whispers came from the door and immediately Combeferre felt his heartbeat flutter, then speed up, irregular and painful, becoming uncomfortable as it dug against his ribcage.
He was asleep, he knew he was. He simply had to wake up, and it would be over.
The whispers were louder and louder, and in greater number, standing around his bed, towering over his prone body. He tried to turn his head, but as always when the whispers came, he found he could not move. His head, his hands and his feel were like lead. Muscle atonia, he thought vaguely, before the half-dream state overtook his last rational thoughts.
And still, in the dark room, the sinister presence looked down on him, breathing on his skin, stealing his air, choking him for interminable minutes.
Blink terror stuck Combeferre as he kept trying and trying to move away, to push the shadows away - calling out, screaming, the sound never reaching his lips.
Then, suddenly, it stopped.
"It's alright."
Combeferre tried to blink, to no avail. He groaned, and this time, the sound might have escaped his throat.
"You're only sleeping," the new voice, deep and gentle, cut through the mist like a knife through fresh bread – smoothly, calmly, undisturbed by the dark shadows lingering menacingly in Combeferre's room. The dark whispers, distorted, crawled back under the bed, mocking, shrieking -
"I'm here," The shadows drew back, slinking away through the window in a sluggish flow, through the door, left ajar –
By who?
"You're safe," and suddenly he was awake, fully now, his fingers clenching in the bedsheets and the terror clutching at his chest completely gone, replaced by the awareness of his own breathing. Only a nightmare, he thought, swallowing thickly, it was only a nightmare. The last of the ghosts faded away and once again the night was gray and calm. Combeferre was safe, with this familiar, beloved voice a beacon of peace and warmth. He felt a cool hand clasp his and he breathed once, deeply, to attempt to steady his heartbeat; his eyes fluttered open.
Enjolras was sitting on his bed, a candle in his hand, his pale hair a delicate halo around his fine, expressive face; through his vision was hazy, Combeferre noticed the worried eyes, the lips curved in a tight smile.
"Thank you," Combeferre murmured, his voice hoarse. He swallowed. "It's the first time I…."
"No, it isn't," Enjolras tilted his head; his eyes never left his friend's over the candle's flame. "You haven't slept well in days, my friend. I noticed."
"I haven't slept well in weeks, actually," Combeferre chuckled dryly. He rubbed his eyelids and grabbed his glasses. "But it is the first time… someone is there."
There was something sad on Enjolras' face, but warm, also, and tender. Loving.
"I could not sleep myself. And I wanted to give you back this book," he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Combeferre's desk. "The door was locked, but I –"
"It's fine," Combeferre touched his friend's arm. "I'm glad. Thank you."
Enjolras nodded, and he worried at his lip with his teeth.
"Your breathing was alarming. I am no doctor, but even I could tell…" he sighed softly. "Will it happen again? When you go back to sleep."
Combeferre shrugged. "Perhaps. I'm not sure. It could, but it was only a nightmare. I'll be fine."
The expression on Enjolras' face made it clear that he did not think such a nightmare was banal – especially since it had kept his dearest friend from resting as he should have been allowed to for weeks. He set the candle on the bedside table.
"If I stay, will it help?"
Against his will, Combeferre felt his muscles relax, his back curving. Oh, he did not want to importune his friend any more than he already had – but it was late, and Enjolras needed sleep as well, did he not?
"It will, yes," he admitted; he removed his glasses again and lay back on the pillows.
He felt rather than saw Enjolras slip under the bed sheets besides him, his weight a gentle, warm presence lulling him into the first hours of peaceful sleep he'd had in weeks.