Morceau Oleander is an exceedingly small boy. He swims in his school uniform, and no amount of cuffing can prevent his sleeves from falling past his fingertips. When he's sat at his desk, his feet barely skim the floor. He's walled in on all four sides by kids that are double and triple his size.
"The muscular system is composed of approximately 600 skeletal muscles," a voice booms from the front. Morry alternates between scrawling down detailed notes and doodling in the margins on his page. They're simple designs - some swirls, some fish, a grenade or two, a rabbit. They keep his mind on the task at hand, keep him focused in the endless lectures on anatomy and physiology.
Then, his pencil breaks.
He's a typically a meticulous child. He keeps a pencil case with him at all times, and there's always a few loose pens rolling around in the bottom of his backpack. Morry turns to check his bag, but it's gone. He whips his head around, but it's nowhere to be seen. He would have never left it at home. Was this a prank?
If it was, none of his classmates were showing their guilt.
It wouldn't be the first time.
Morry takes a breath, building up the courage to reach a pudgy finger out and poke the boy in front of him. "Could I… um… borrow a pencil, please?"
CRACK.
A ruler smashes down upon his desk, hard enough for the wood to splinter. Morry jumps, clasping his hands against his chest protectively. His teacher looms above him. "Talking in class?"
"N-no, I just…" He swallows, glances around him to find the whole class staring. "I just asked for a pencil."
"So you were talking," the teacher growls. Morry drops his head, trying to steady his breathing. "Lying warrants a demerit, young man."
"I didn't…" Morry starts, but the ruler comes crashing down again, close enough to feel the rush of air against his skin. Half of the wood flies off, clattering against the floor. His classmates remain a silent jury.
"Insubordination will not be tolerated!" Morry counts his breaths, squeezes his fingers to regain composure. He's done nothing wrong; this is a huge misunderstanding. If he just apologizes, just takes the demerit, maybe… He looks up to plead his case, but his words get caught in his throat.
That gaunt face. The sunken eyes that haunt his dreams. He grips his desk, but the wood is slick. He doesn't look down, doesn't need to. The smell is enough, like the back of a butcher shop during summer break. He slides out of his seat, keeping his soiled hands outstretched and his eyes glued on the knife that is slowly rising in the air.
"Unprepared for class, talking back," his father booms. "What are we going to do with you?"
Morry doesn't want to know. He turns and books it in the opposite direction, running as fast as he can with his little legs and the floor covered in slick, but it doesn't matter. He's hoisted into the air by a fist the size of his head.
"Daddy…" Morry begs, but he's drawn closer and closer to his father's gaping maw. He squirms and cries, digs his nails into the bloodstained flesh that grips his arm, but it's all in vain. Reeking breath hits his skin and Morry squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for impact.
The impact never comes.
Morry opens his eyes to see stars. Fake ones. Little pinpricks of light that dance along the ceiling and walls. He lets out a shaking breath, runs a hand over his face, stretches out his aching legs.
"Morry?"
The voice behind him makes him jump a mile. He almost shouts, but Sasha clamps a hand over his mouth. Morry smacks it away and climbs to his feet, kicking away the knot of blankets that managed to snake around him in his sleep. He's about to chew Sasha out for scaring him when he notices Milla on the sofa, still snoozing away under a pile of blankets. He drops his voice to a stage whisper. "What the hell are you doing, Nein? Watching me sleep?"
"Technically, yes," Sasha says in hushed tones. "You were thrashing."
Morry bristles and mutters a half-apology, before shuffling off to the bathroom. He mashes his hand in the general direction of the light switch until he's bathed in harsh fluorescents, momentarily blinding him. When his vision readjusts, he finds Sasha standing in the doorway.
"You know, Nein, sometimes a man just wants to take a leak without having a German spy hovering over him."
"Ah, sorry," Sasha says simply, before closing the door. "I'll wait."
Morry huffs out a sigh and sets about relieving himself. When he's through, he washes his hands, letting the floral scent of the soap fill his lungs and artificial roses mask the blood in his mind. He dries his hands and opens the door to find Sasha still standing in the same spot.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"Never better," Morry says. "Dreamt of being in the trenches and beating the snot out of-"
"Why are we whispering in my bathroom?" Milla interrupts, the blankets wrapped around her in a thick cocoon. She yawns and rubs the sleep from her eyes. "It's like two in the morning."
"He's still having nightmares," Sasha says. Morry could argue, could protest that he doesn't need to be treated like a child, especially since he's older than the both of them, but Milla wraps him in a tight hug.
"Poor Morry," she says, resting her cheek on top of his head. "You're fine now, hm? Not going to let a little dream keep you from getting some rest."
"Course not."
"Good," she says, pulling back with a smile. "I couldn't fall back to sleep without my boys."
Milla yawns and floats off, the blankets dragging behind her until she drops onto the sofa, reclaiming her former spot. She opens an arm in invitation and Morry nestles in beside her. Once Sasha sits, it takes a few moments for everyone to readjust. They end up in a pile, slightly cramped, but the proximity is comforting. Morry sleeps without dreams that night, for the first time in a long while.