(no subject)
Oct. 24th, 2007 05:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wellownedbkupAbout Nix.
Sixth Sense:
When he is lying in bed on his own, he can sometimes feel someone else in the room. They are always just out of eyesight, just out of reach. He can feel them, though, and he does not know how to tell anyone what he is experiencing without sounding like a total nut job. He worries that it is just the fumes from too many oil paints and turpentine and photograph developer and little ventilation. He worries that he may actually be going crazy.
It happened again last night, the third night in a row. He is lying in bed, eyes nearly shut with the constant hum of voices from the rooms surrounding his. He is nearly asleep when he feels it, the eyes watching him. And suddenly he cannot sleep anymore, body tightening and stiffening in fear and curiosity. His breath starts coming in shallow pants, and his mouth is dry.
“Who are you,” he whispers, not expecting an answer. When none comes, he raises a hand in invitation to the unknown spectre behind him with a sigh. “You may as well join me, then. It is too cold to hold a conversation with you outside of these covers.” In return, Nix tries not to stiffen even more as the covers shift and he feels the warmth of a body next to him.
He knows it is not David come home, because this body is closer to his own height, and it is like spooning with Ailis, where there is no ‘big spoon, little spoon,’ though the slight feel of hard planes against his back lets him know the phantasm is a male. He closes his eyes and ignores the sinking feeling he feels in the pit of his stomach of loss. David is long gone and not coming back to him. That was abundantly clear.
“Are you really here?” he whispers, and has to force himself not to turn around. He can feel the warmth of the body, the faint press of a body shape next to his. But there is no air stirring, no sound of breathing, nothing tangible at all. He feels the press of an arm across his side, cool fingers that skate along his bare arm, leaving goosebumps trailing in their wake. He cannot see anything, the room darker than he remembers it being only moments earlier.
He closes his eyes against the pitch black, and the form with him seems to materialize itself more. Suddenly there is more heat, more solidity to the body, more reality to this surreality. Suddenly there is just more. He thinks he feels the press of dry lips and the brush of a day’s stubble to his pulse, the slip slide of his hair against his cheek with the disturbance. He shivers lightly, and brings a hand up to pause just above where he can feel those cool fingers drawing abstract patterns into his side before dropping it back by his head.
“Will you stay the night with me?” he asks the air, deepening his breathing and slowing his mind down. He feels himself pulled in tighter to the not-quite-there body beside him, and feels strangely comfortable enough to fall into the deepest sleep he has felt for a long while.
When he wakes in the morning, the sheets and blankets are only disturbed on his side of the bed, and all the doors and windows are still locked tightly from the inside.
Sixth Sense:
When he is lying in bed on his own, he can sometimes feel someone else in the room. They are always just out of eyesight, just out of reach. He can feel them, though, and he does not know how to tell anyone what he is experiencing without sounding like a total nut job. He worries that it is just the fumes from too many oil paints and turpentine and photograph developer and little ventilation. He worries that he may actually be going crazy.
It happened again last night, the third night in a row. He is lying in bed, eyes nearly shut with the constant hum of voices from the rooms surrounding his. He is nearly asleep when he feels it, the eyes watching him. And suddenly he cannot sleep anymore, body tightening and stiffening in fear and curiosity. His breath starts coming in shallow pants, and his mouth is dry.
“Who are you,” he whispers, not expecting an answer. When none comes, he raises a hand in invitation to the unknown spectre behind him with a sigh. “You may as well join me, then. It is too cold to hold a conversation with you outside of these covers.” In return, Nix tries not to stiffen even more as the covers shift and he feels the warmth of a body next to him.
He knows it is not David come home, because this body is closer to his own height, and it is like spooning with Ailis, where there is no ‘big spoon, little spoon,’ though the slight feel of hard planes against his back lets him know the phantasm is a male. He closes his eyes and ignores the sinking feeling he feels in the pit of his stomach of loss. David is long gone and not coming back to him. That was abundantly clear.
“Are you really here?” he whispers, and has to force himself not to turn around. He can feel the warmth of the body, the faint press of a body shape next to his. But there is no air stirring, no sound of breathing, nothing tangible at all. He feels the press of an arm across his side, cool fingers that skate along his bare arm, leaving goosebumps trailing in their wake. He cannot see anything, the room darker than he remembers it being only moments earlier.
He closes his eyes against the pitch black, and the form with him seems to materialize itself more. Suddenly there is more heat, more solidity to the body, more reality to this surreality. Suddenly there is just more. He thinks he feels the press of dry lips and the brush of a day’s stubble to his pulse, the slip slide of his hair against his cheek with the disturbance. He shivers lightly, and brings a hand up to pause just above where he can feel those cool fingers drawing abstract patterns into his side before dropping it back by his head.
“Will you stay the night with me?” he asks the air, deepening his breathing and slowing his mind down. He feels himself pulled in tighter to the not-quite-there body beside him, and feels strangely comfortable enough to fall into the deepest sleep he has felt for a long while.
When he wakes in the morning, the sheets and blankets are only disturbed on his side of the bed, and all the doors and windows are still locked tightly from the inside.
