Sleep
She studies him in the thin yellow light of the streetlamp outside. He sleeps deeply, his long lanky frame curling into a question mark.
She can tell that he isn't dreaming; he doesn't wear his usual scowl. (When he dreams, she sees unpleasant things, painful things, in the lines of his mouth, his brow.) She stares at his blank forehead; it seems strange to her without that familiar deep crease. He looks young now; impossibly young and brittle and open.
He looks nothing like himself.
She moves from her perch on the sill to his bedside. She looms over him (she, who always shrinks in his presence), but she still can't find in him in that uncertain light. She leans until she feels his breath against her lashes, her cheek.
And even at that distance, she still can't recognize him. (She realizes anew that nothing – everything – has changed.)
He stirs, wakes. He doesn't start, only stares at her with eyes still hazy. Can't sleep? he asks her thickly. (He doesn't think to ask what the hell she's doing there so close. After all that has passed between them, no such boundaries exist.)
Yes.
Bad dream? he asks, more awake now.
No.
He says nothing for a few moments. Then: Still thinking about it, huh?
Yes, she replies bluntly.
He breathes out slowly, one, two. He props himself up on his elbow, tousles his hair with his other hand. I can't tell you to move on and forget it, I know.
I told you, idiot, that it wasn't your fault, she snaps. So you don't need to apologize.
He ignores her. But you shouldn't throw it all away, either.
She doesn't answer at first. (She hears his conviction, his confidence; his voice is unafraid. She could tell him many things – both truths and lies – to weaken him. She isn't that brave, though.) Instead, she pins her elbows on the edge of the bed and waits for him to finish.
So don't give me any of your shit, he growls. He levels his eyes at her; they are calm and hard with decision.
She ignores him. What are you talking about?
Don't act stupid.
She measures him for a long moment, looks away, and then returns. He meets her gaze, finds something there that he can't quite name. Not fear, not sadness, not anger. He knows it's nothing as simple as that. It's something he has seen once before. (A girl hovering as on a thread of light, so high is she on that bridge, with eyes bright with fear and hope and impossible things.) Only now something else – something clear and sharp and old – tempers her eyes.
She notices his confusion, his growing suspicion. I won't, she assures him. So don't worry.
He hears the falseness of her words and bites back a hot retort. Before he can begin on another tack, she asks, Aren't you sleepy yet?
Not really. What about you?
No.
He moves in closer, peers into her eyes. (The look is gone now; she only seems weary and more childlike than ever.) He draws a sharp breath, a short hiss through his teeth. Then he jerks his head, flops onto his back.
What?
Can't sleep, right? And I'm guessing that the closet makes you feel a little claustrophobic . . . now.
She stares at him. She can find nothing mocking or pitying in his face; she can't place it in that gloom.
He shifts uncomfortably beneath her gaze. He is about to turn and bark out, Fine, then, but she creeps onto the bed and carefully positions her body near the edge.
Don't do that, stupid, he snaps. You'll fall right off.
What do you expect? she retorts. You're taking up all the room!
He sighs then turns on his side. Better now?
She wants to say, No, of course not, now I have to look at you, but she swallows it. She adjusts her position so that they face each other, bodies curving out like two question marks. She is so small she can fit in that hollow between his chin and knees, if she dares. (She doesn't.)
They close their eyes and listen to the tick of the clock on his nightstand, the steady rhythm of their breathing.
He falls asleep first. She opens her eyes, studies him as he sleeps; again, he sleeps without dreaming. (Only now she understands the quality of his dreamlessness.)
She watches him sleep until the night grays, then rises and presses her fingers lightly against his brow, where his scowl would be. She dresses quickly, folds her pajamas neatly (Yuzu will be glad to have them back, she thinks), and lays them in the closet. (She doesn't take anything with her.)
She steps onto the desk, stops at the sill. She takes one backward look – she sees the walls, the closet, and a sleeping boy. (She'd seen all this from that view once before, on the night they first met. And she realizes again that nothing – everything – has changed.)
Then she opens the window and jumps.