Inversion [Camp NaNoWriMo July 2021]

day 10

d a y   1 0

I'm sitting in the back corner booth of Melissa's, the same one from that first day. The lunch rush is long over, and there are only a handful of other diners. A dark-haired waitress comes by with my bacon cheeseburger and vanilla milkshake, and I barely manage to thank her before she scurries off, head down.

I eat slowly, only glancing up whenever the bell chimes as the door opens. I'm halfway done with my food when Cian strolls over, a mug of coffee in his hands. He slides onto the bench across from me, setting the cup on the table. It must be his break.

"How's your food?" he asks by way of greeting. I just take another bite of my cheeseburger in answer, and he flashes a smile. "Glad to see you're getting your appetite back," he comments. I wait for a beat, expecting to feel offended, but there's only mild amusement.

Cian takes a sip of his coffee, and I make a mock-disgusted face at him. He just grins. He knows I can't stand how he drinks his coffee. He puts so much sugar and cream in it that it's barely even coffee anymore.

"Glad to see you still haven't learned how to properly make coffee," I retort, leaning back against the seat.

"Sorry not everyone drinks coffee the way you do." He looks relaxed, an easy smile on his face.

"I drink coffee the way it's supposed to be drunk. Coffee with a bit of milk. Not milk with a bit of coffee."

Cian lets out a chuckle. It's not the first time we've had this discussion, and he's heard me say that more than a few times.

We chat idly for the rest of his short break, and I finish my food soon after he returns to the kitchen. The dark-haired waitress returns with my bill, and I wave goodbye to Cian as I leave the diner.

For the first time in a while, I feel comfortable. Settled.

* * *

It's nearing midnight when I finally set my guitar down to get ready for bed. I've been playing for a few hours, since dinner, albeit softly since Cian went to bed some time ago. I pull off my headphones, the music fading as I leave it on the couch and head towards the hallway. It had been bright out when I started playing, but now the apartment is dark, and I navigate slowly around the furniture, not inclined to turn on a light. The faint light streaming in from the window is enough.

I've taken all of three steps when I falter at the sound of crying. With my headphones on, even with one ear uncovered so I could hear my playing, I hadn't noticed.

Cian's nightmare.

He has them occasionally. I can hear him across the hallway. Most nights, I ignore him, pretend I don't hear—it's none of my business. But tonight, for some reason, I can't make myself turn away from his door. Maybe it's because his nightmares sound so much worse this time around. Maybe the hours of losing myself in music or our increasingly comfortable relationship have blurred the boundaries. Whatever the reason, I find myself turning the doorknob and stepping cautiously into his room.

The first thing I see is light, and I have to shut my eyes against the brightness. When my eyes finally adjust, I see that Cian's curtains are pulled back, and the streetlamp outside his window is shining directly into the room, onto the bed, where Cian is tossing and turning, head wrenching from side to side, face contorted in an agonizing expression. Without thinking, I head towards him, my hand reaching out to shake his shoulder.