In the dream, a woman was screaming somewhere.

Mirko was running, and it was dark, and he heard bullets whizzing through the air but he couldn't tell where they were coming from, or if he was the target being shot at. There were explosions going off in the distance, and the air smelled of smoke and death, and the woman just kept screaming, and screaming, and screaming. Mirko didn't know where she was, but he felt he had to find her- he needed to find her, but he could barely see, and everywhere he turned the streets were blocked by fire or flying glass or the endless barrage of bullets.

He was completely alone, because he knew his cousin was dead, and he was so afraid, and she was still screaming-

Mirko woke soaking wet and freezing, like he had just taken a dip in the ocean. His breathing was so heavy the sound of it filled the room; his lungs seemed desperate for air, like he really had been drowning. He didn't recognize the ceiling at first, didn't understand the sounds of cars passing by outside, nor the softness of the mattress beneath him. He sat up trying to reach for a gun- but there wasn't one, his bedside table held only a book and a reading lamp.

That's right. He wasn't at war anymore.

Where he actually was in time, though, eluded him a moment more as he sat there, shuddering from head to toe and breathing like the world was running out of air. It eluded him until a warm pair of arms found their way over his shoulders and around his neck, joined by soft lips on the back of his head, and a sleep-laden sigh. This lover was the city in Italy, which meant he was home, and it was all over, and he was safe.

"Nightmare," Martín murmured, a statement rather than a question, because this wasn't the first time. Mirko hummed, and rubbed the silk covering Martín's arms, and let himself be held like this until the shaking began to slow, until his breathing returned under his control.

"Tell me?" Martín whispered, breath hot against Mirko's ear, an absolute contrast to the frigid winter air in his memories.

"No point," Mirko replied. "The woman is already dead."

Mirko let himself be guided back under the covers, falling easily into a familiar embrace, Martín cradling his head close to his chest. The subtle, clean scent of his skin was comforting.

Martín fell back asleep in moments- perhaps he hadn't been truly awake- but Mirko did not, lying there for hours, focusing on the soft breathing that was not his, the steady heartbeat he felt against his forehead. He knew that on a night like this, the dreams would only come back the moment he slipped away, and so there would be no rest. But that didn't mean there couldn't be peace.

Though he slept deeply, Martín didn't let him go, and that was all Mirko needed.