Clive's eyes fly open.
He lies still for a long, terrifying minute, frozen and stunned. All he can do is listen to himself breathe, and try to remember where he is. Slowly, feeling returns to his body, and he realizes how much he's trembling, and how hot his face is, and how disgusting the feeling of the pillowcase sticking to his tear-stained cheek is.
Then he remembers the dream.
With a burst of energy, he sits up, pulling his blanket around his shoulders, letting his head fall into his shaking hands. The darkness in the room is overwhelming, crushing the breath from his lungs. He needs light, but he doesn't dare get up to turn the light on; he's shaking so much, he's half-afraid that he'll fall if he tries to get up.
He can't stop the sobs, no matter how hard he tries. But he tries and he tries. He can't let anyone hear him. He'd rather die.
His throat hurts, and his lungs feel paper-thin, threatening to tear themselves apart with every shaking breath, but he bites back each sob until it bursts out in a painful gasp. He doesn't want to hear himself cry; every sob makes the memories feel more and more real, until he's a little boy again, crying in the street.
It's never going to get better, is it?
It doesn't matter how many years pass, or how much progress he makes. He's going to be possessed by these ghosts forever.
It's the same every time. It's been fifteen years, and it's never gotten better. Clive's gotten better at hiding his weaknesses, certainly. Constance never caught more than the first five of these outbursts, when he was a weak little child who couldn't control himself. Spring and Cogg never saw any. Dimitri only saw one. The professor saw the very first one, so many years ago and… perhaps three or four, back in the hospital (it's so hard to remember now), but never any since he's come to stay here, because Clive's stable now. Or, at least, he acts like he is.
And Flora… she's never seen all of one. And she never will. He'll never let her see. Never.
The thought of anybody seeing Clive in this state is humiliating, but the idea of Flora seeing him like this is terrifying.
He's not afraid of her reaction; far from it. She'd be kinder than anything. He knows her; she'd drop everything to help him feel better. But he… he doesn't deserve her sympathy. And… and she's never going to see him lose control again. Never. Never. Never…
He stays like this for a long time, waiting desperately for the images to fade from his mind, but they don't. Even in the total blackness, he still sees the flames, hears the…
Don't think about it.
He has to get up. He has to get out of here, away from the images. He needs light, and warmth. He needs… tea.
Tea. Yes, that will do it. He's shivering, so he's cold, so tea will fix that. Lovely. A perfect, logical, plan. He's not going to sleep again tonight, anyway. He can settle down with some tea and actually do something useful. But first, he has to stand up.
It takes an age to summon up the energy to move at all, but finally, Clive manages to lift his head from his hands. He keeps his blanket wrapped around his shoulders; he's shivering too hard to leave it behind. He moves his legs tentatively, first one than the other, until both his feet are on the floor. He stands. The world spins, and then he's sitting on the bed again. He breathes in a slow, shaky breath, and stands up again, more slowly this time. This time, he's successful.
Tripping and hesitating, he fumbles his way to the door, stepping out into the hallway. It's just as dark outside of his room as inside, and the trembling in Clive's muscles still hasn't abated. He takes a step forward. His leg gives way, and he falls against the wall. He hisses quietly in frustration; he has to be quiet. He can't wake Flora. He can't wake the professor or Alfendi either, but especially not Flora.
Despite his clumsy movements, his memory carries him over toward the stairway without any more major mishaps. Then, he sees a light on at the bottom of the stairs.
Clive stops dead, swaying as he stares down towards the light. His mind races, frantically coming up with possible explanations. Did he forget to turn it off before going to bed? He'd been up past midnight, after all, as usual, and, though he hates to admit it, he wasn't exactly thinking clearly when he'd stumbled upstairs, exhausted and lost in his thoughts. He could have easily forgotten. But maybe he didn't. Maybe there's someone down there.
It's a miracle that Clive doesn't fall down the stairs, between his racing mind and his shaking legs, but he makes it. Quietly, he walks to the kitchen, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for any signs of an intruder. So far, nothing. Perhaps he did leave the light on, after all—
He hears something.
It's barely audible, but it's there: a quiet whimper, its source hidden by the tall back of the sofa. Clive makes his way over to the sofa with soft, tentative steps, peering over the back with trepidation.
It's… it's Flora.
(It's very odd how Clive's heart decides to race harder now than it did before he knew there was no danger).
She lies there, curled up into a tight ball, her arms clutching a pillow tightly against her chest. She whimpers again, the same sound that he'd heard before, and curls in on herself a little tighter. Clive holds his breath, waiting for her to notice him there, to sit up and scold him, telling him he should be asleep, or to laugh and throw the pillow in his face. She doesn't stir; she only breathes slowly, in and out. The sound is calm and predictable. Slowly, a strange calmness washes over Clive as he watches her. His erratic heartbeat slows, and slowly, he begins to breathe again, in and out...
He should go back upstairs. She doesn't want to see him, and he doesn't want to see her.
The thought rings out like a gunshot through Clive's mind, and the calmness he'd just felt shatters to bits. He tries to chase the thought away, but it's lodged in his brain like a bullet he can't remove on his own. After all, it's the truth, isn't it? Clive didn't want Flora to see him like this, did he? Not with his red tear-stained face and shaky hands. He has an image to keep up, after all; he's a "good person" now (even though he'll never be a truly good person). He's calm now, and he's rational, and he's reformed. He's never going to lose control again, or, at least, she's never going to see it again. He swore to himself that she never would. But with this dream so fresh in his mind, he's… he's not sure if he can keep it together if she does ask him about what's wrong. Of course she'd be kind to him if he did break down, but… it would only be because she's a nice person, and she'd feel like she had to be kind. He doesn't want her forced sympathy or her insincere mercy. If he escapes now, she'll be none the wiser.
Slowly, Clive backs away, turning back towards the stairway—
She makes that sound again.
Clive freezes, then turns back, watching her carefully. For the first time, he sees how much she's shivering, how red her eyes are, and notices the tear-streaks on her face.
She's dreaming, too. She's tormented by her own ghosts. He's not… he's not the only one.
Clive feels like he's being pulled in two different directions. He wants to run away, but… but he doesn't want her to wake up alone. It's lonely, and almost painful, when you have to keep your dreams to yourself, and mull them over alone in the dark.
He's going to make tea. For both of them.
After all, that would be a nice distraction, wouldn't it? He can do something nice for her, and make her a little happier, and then he'll feel a little happier too. It's always worked before. It worked with Constance, and with the professor, and it's worked with Flora in the past. It's mutually beneficial. There's no reason why he shouldn't do something simple like that for her.
Clive turns to go, but the image of her shivering stays emblazoned in his mind's eye. He can't leave without fixing that much. Slowly, Clive shrugs the blanket off of his shoulders. He doesn't need it as much as she does. He gently tucks it around her. Flora's shivering gradually slows, and a warmth grows inside Clive at the sight, replacing the superficial warmth the blanket had given him. Maybe her dream won't end quite as badly as his did.
Quietly, Clive makes his way to the kitchen. He turns on the kettle, then turns to the difficult task of selecting the right kind of tea. If he were making it only for himself, he'd make something strong and caffeinated, so that he wouldn't even be tempted to fall back asleep. But this is for Flora. She likes chamomile, and he wants her to sleep well, so chamomile it is for the both of them. He sighs as he drops the tea bag into his cup; he knows that she'd want him to drink something calming too. He's still not going to go back to sleep, but he'll do it for her. Carefully, he carries the cups into the living room. They seem remarkably heavy, somehow; but then again, everything makes him feel tired right now. He walks through the living room door.
Flora's sitting up when he enters.
At first, she doesn't seem to notice he's there. She sits quietly, back hunched, knees drawn up to her chest, hands holding Clive's blanket tightly around her shoulders. Her wavy hair cascades down her back, loose from its usual tight ponytail. She's not crying anymore; she merely stares off into the distance, as if still lost in a dream. She seems far calmer than Clive himself is; his heart is pounding in his ears. A wave of anxiety hits him like a slap in the face. The idea of sitting down and having tea with her seems ludicrous now; he was an idiot to even consider it.
She doesn't need him. She just needs to be by herself; after all, that's what he'd want. He'd want space to compose himself, so why would she be any different? He'd known it all along; he's no help to her at all. If only Clive had followed his instincts and just gone back to bed when he'd first seen her asleep on the sofa. Now, he can't get back to his room without passing her; there's no way to sneak by discreetly. He may as well give her the tea and then leave her alone.
Clive coughs quietly. Flora startles, looking towards him. Her eyes widen, filled with some emotion that Clive can't name. Then she blinks, staring down into her. "Hi," she says quietly, shielding her eyes with one hand. "Um… how come you're up?"
There's a wobble in her voice; it's almost imperceptible, but Clive's heard the same shakiness in his own voice many times before.
He shrugs. Nonchalance is the best way to hide a disgustingly fragile emotional state. "I woke up and wanted tea," he says carelessly. "I saw you sleeping and made some extra in case you happened to want any. But… um…" His own voice wobbles, and he scowls at himself. "...you don't need to have any if you don't want it."
"I want it," Flora says quickly, almost before he finishes his sentence. She holds out a hand, still covering her eyes with the other hand. Clive stands still for a moment too long before realizing what she wants. Quickly, he takes a step forward, puts his own cup down on the coffee table, and reaches out, putting the cup in her outstretched hand. Her hand shakes as she lifts the cup to her face, breathing in the warm steam. "Thanks," she says softly. "I thought you didn't like chamomile, though."
Drat. He'd forgotten about that. Of course Flora would catch onto such an important detail. "I don't," he says quickly. "Or… I mean… I don't when I want to stay awake. But it's useful for when you want to calm down..."
Clive realizes too late that he shouldn't have said that last sentence. He should have known that Flora would latch onto it immediately. "Calm down? Are you having trouble falling asleep?" Her voice brightens suddenly, though she still doesn't uncover her eyes. "We could, um… do something for a bit. Like play chess, or read, or something, so you can fall asleep. We can do whatever you want."
Something aches in Clive's chest. She's so good at pretending that she actually wants this, but Clive knows the truth. She's just trying to be nice to him. She feels like she has to be kind to him, even though he doesn't deserve it, and she won't stop until he makes it clear that she doesn't have to pretend. He needs to end this quickly. "I appreciate the offer, but no thank you. I'm… quite calm already." He tries to sound casual, but the words come out rather stiffly. "I… I think I'd better… I'd better go…" His voice is shaking again… just lovely. He needs to leave, now, before he breaks down in front of her.
"Oh… okay." Flora's voice is unnaturally bright. "Have a good sleep!"
"I'll try," says Clive weakly, and turns away from her.
His legs are heavy as he climbs the stairs. If only he wasn't so cynical; if only he could take her at her word that she really does want to spend time with him! But he can't; he's too enlightened. He knows the truth, that she's only being kind, and she's only trying to—
He hears a sob.
Clive's heart stops.
Suddenly, he's running back down the stairs. He doesn't care anymore if he makes a fool of himself, or if she's being insincere, or if he starts crying in front of her; he needs to help her somehow, even if he's the worst person in the world. He steps back into the living room, and Flora blinks up at him in shock, eyes wide and red, and it dawns on him how breathless he really is right now. "Um," she says, blinking furiously, looking towards the coffee table. "You forgot your tea."
"Flora, I'm sorry," he hears himself say shakily. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry. I…" He doesn't know what to say.
Flora blinks again, looking away. "Y-you didn't. I was already… I mean, i-it's okay. If you're tired, you should go to bed. I'm fine. But you forgot your tea, so you should—"
"Never mind the tea, Flora; I don't care about it." Flora's right arm hangs down beside her, her hand half-clenched in a shaking fist, and Clive wants to sit down beside her, to reach out and hold her hand so badly, but he doesn't dare to. "You're not fine, and I… I don't want to make you feel even worse. Just tell me how to fix things."
"There's nothing to fix." Flora laughs unsteadily. "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm just… I'm just clingy and annoying, and, and…" She covers her face again, looking away. "It's so stupid. It was just a bad dream. But it just… it really scared me, and then you came here, and I… I thought... " Her voice is almost a whisper now. "Never mind. You can just go to bed. I don't… I don't want to bother you…"
Does… does she actually want him to stay?
Clive laughs incredulously. Now it's his turn to look away from her, to shield his eyes from her gaze. It's impossible. Why would she want him, of all people, to be here? But… but there's no way she can be lying, not with that voice, not with her laughably untrue self-deprecation.
Hesitantly, Clive sits down on the unoccupied sofa cushion. Something like hope lights up in her eyes, and a little more courage builds in his heart. "It's not a bother," he says, his words coming out in a tangled rush. "And I'm sorry if I made it seem like I was bothered. I'm just… I'm not good at…"
At being honest, at being a good person, at believing you don't hate me…
Clive swallows, then starts again, trying his best to keep his tone neutral, and failing miserably. "But I'm here now. Just tell me how to help."
"But I…" Flora stares past him, eyes wide. "But I really don't want to bother you. I mean, you were… you were crying too, right? Didn't you have a bad dream too?"
Clive startles, his mind going blank. How… how did she know? "N-no, I…"
"You did, though. You look so tired, and..." Flora's voice climbs higher and higher. "I'm sorry, I know you don't want me to know about it, but I… I always notice that kind of thing; I just can't help it. I always worry about the people I care about. I always have, ever since Mama…" Her voice shakes. "A-and you never ask for help or tell anyone, even though I wish you would, and I want to help you, but I don't want to bother you, and you were going to go back to bed until you heard me crying, and you shouldn't have to help me when you're feeling so bad already—"
Clive stares, speechless.
She said that she cares about him. His mind tells him that it's a lie, but her voice is so sincere. He… he doesn't know what to do with that information.
All he wants to do right now is to help her, and now… now he feels like he's allowed to.
Clive swallows his anxiety, reaches forward, and takes her hand. Flora stops, eyes widening, and stares at their hands. Her hand is so cold, and, when she doesn't pull it away, Clive holds it a little tighter,
He has to say his piece before his courage shatters to bits.
"Look, Flora," he says, not even bothering to try to steady his voice. "I want to help. I wanted to from the moment I saw you asleep down here, but I just… I didn't know how. I thought I'd ruin everything, and I still think I will. But I do want to help. And I…" He may as well admit it. "I did have a nightmare. But I don't want to think about it anymore. I need a distraction, and I think that being here with you might help me too. That would be the best way for you to help me. Please believe me. I'll do whatever you want, as long as it's helpful to you."
His voice cracks on the final word, and he looks away from Flora's stare, from her wide, teary eyes. Slowly, her hand slips away from between Clive's fingers. He stares down at his empty hands. All he can feel is the ghost of Flora's hand between his fingers; all he can hear is his heart beating in his ears. He'd made a mistake, hadn't he? He'd misread her. He'd—
Flora falls forward, flinging her arms around him. Clive stops breathing. His own arms stay frozen by his sides, his mind racing, trying to make sense of what's just happened. "I hope this is okay," she whispers. Her fingers clutch at his shirt, as if she's afraid that he'll disappear. "I'm just scared to fall asleep by myself. Just… don't leave. Please. That's all I want."
Clive finally remembers to breathe. Being this close to someone else isn't something that he's ever done, or wanted to do before. It makes him feel vulnerable, and very, very… odd. But somehow, with Flora… he doesn't mind. Slowly, hands shaking, he lets himself wrap his arms around her, drawing her closer, cradling her head in his palm, guiding her head to his shoulder. "I won't," he says quietly.
They stay like this, holding each other close, for what feels like forever. Flora's breathing gradually slows, her breaths becoming free and easy, her head relaxing more and more into Clive's shoulder, and her arms slowly losing the tension they'd held at first. The weight of her body against him is oddly comforting, and Clive slowly realizes that he isn't shivering anymore, and the trembling in his hands is nearly gone. The awfulness of his uncontrollable sobbing, and the darkness of his room, feels like a distant dream, and his nightmare, a dream within that dream.
He doesn't want to let her go.
But any minute now, she won't need him anymore. She'll let go, and then he'll be all alone again, lost in that familiar darkness. The nightmare will return.
The sudden feeling of dread is heavy, and he can't carry its weight any longer. He needs to ask her now, so he can prepare himself before she leaves him suddenly.
"Are you alright now?" he asks quietly, shifting slightly. He waits, but she doesn't reply. Her breath continues, slow, in and out, uninterrupted in its gentle rhythm.
She's…asleep.
Relief floods through Clive, and something in between a laugh and a smile escapes him. It seems like neither of them will be leaving the other behind tonight. He holds her a little tighter, letting his cheek rest against her hair, and gently, so he won't wake her, he leans against the back of the sofa, pulling her blanket more tightly around her shoulders. Finally, he allows his eyes to fall closed. He drifts into a warm, friendly darkness, unafraid, protected by her presence.
A/N: *tries to cram in all of Clive and Flora's attachment issues into one fic and fails*
This was a tumblr request, using the prompts "anxiety" and "protectiveness." Thank you so much for requesting; I really hope you like it!
This is probably the most straight-up romantic thing I've ever written… I'm sorry that it isn't perfect. I rewrote it so many times, especially the ending, and I'm still kind of embarrassed by it (too romantic, ahhh...), but finally I decided it was as close as I could get it.
Clive and Flora are both quite self-sacrificial/self-denying, I think, and like to hide their difficulties behind masks... Clive in a more grandiose way, and Flora in a quieter way. Because of this, I like thinking of them finding some comfort in each other that they might not be able to find in others, since they kind of understand each other's habits of hiding the things that trouble them.
This is probably my last fic for 2020 (I might be able to finish some drabbles before 2021 but most likely not anything longer), so I just really want to thank you and everyone who's read my other PL stories so far this year. I've been so inspired by PL, and I've made so many friends and been so encouraged by so many people. I haven't been this inspired or excited to write in a long time, and I owe it both to the wonderful world of Professor Layton, and to the people who have commented on and read my stories. I'm so grateful to you all. Thank you for making my 2020 a little brighter.
Thank you so much for reading!