Migraine || Wriothesley

1

The Fortress of Meropide was silent, save for the rhythmic click of Wriothesley's boots echoing against the cold, gray floor. 

It was the dead of night, and Wriothesley, the fortress's administrator, found himself unable to sleep. His insomnia often led him on these late-night walks, the fortress's metal corridors providing a cold, comforting solitude. 

Wriothesley sighed.

This was his home, and he knew its every nook and cranny like the back of his hand. The cold metal walls and floors, the harsh lights that usually bathed the hallways but were now dimmed, the rust growing on the edges. Over the years, the constant noise of the inmates had grown quiet, becoming nothing more than white noise.

But there was one sound that was unfamiliar to him, one that seemed to be getting louder as he walked, and it was enough to make him stop.

Was that... shouting?

Wriothesley immediately assumed the worst: an inmate was attacking a guard, or vice-versa.

The dark-haired man ran toward the guard's quarters, his boots clanking loudly against the ground, the noise only adding to the growing cacophony.

"Who needs sleep when you can have a midnight sprint instead?" he muttered, clenching his jaw in frustration. 

The shouting grew louder, more desperate, and it was then he recognized the voice - it was Y/n's. His breath hitched, fear gripping him tighter with each step he took.

Bursting into the guard's quarters and rushing to open Y/n's door, he was prepared for a scene of chaos. But instead, he found Y/n, alone and bundled into the sheets of her bed. Her cries echoed off the cold metal walls, making his heart ache.

"No, no! I didn't mean it! I-I didn't mean to!"

She sobbed, her body was trembling and she was clutching onto the sheets as though they would be capable of saving her from her nightmare.

The relief that washed over Wriothesley was quickly replaced by concern. He moved closer, his boots silent against the cold metal floor. He reached out, his hand hovering over her trembling form, uncertainty etched on his face.

"Hey," he whispered, kneeling down to gently squeeze her hand in his own. "I'm right here, baby. It's okay."

His mind raced as he tried to bring Y/n back from the nightmare, back to him. He watched her struggle, her face contorted in fear. He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle.

"Y/n, come back to me. I need you to wake up."

Y/n's eyes snapped open and she jerked away, a look of terror and confusion on her face. Her heart was beating so fast that it made her feel sick. She took deep breaths, her gaze darting around the room in an attempt to ground herself.

"You're safe," Wriothesley murmured, his voice gentle as he watched her try to calm herself. "I'm right here."

It was a few moments before Y/n could focus on his face. He was crouched beside her bed, a look of concern etched into his blue eyes. His dark hair was messy, as if he'd been running his hands through it in his worry.

"Wriothesley?" she mumbled, rubbing her eyes and sitting up. She could still feel stray tears running down the side of her cheeks and it made her feel embarrassed to be crying in front of her beloved in that way.

She was always the strong one, the unbothered one, and here she was, crying like a child in front of him.

Y/n cleared her throat. "Well," she began, attempting to hide the tremor in her voice, "Your midnight sprints have really improved. Record time. What's your secret? Late-night workouts? Or is my bed hair just too irresistible for you to stay away from?"