P — Losing (Patreon)

Briefly, P was adamant that magical beings and the concept of nightmares was a common combination. The way a nightmare plays out like a sequence, the way they’re able to piece together each scene and remember its contents for days on end.

They’re not a regular occurrence for the blonde-haired individual. They never have been. That’s why P’s always startled when they do occur. A bead of sweat will form as their forehead wrinkles, their brunette brows will furrow, and suddenly, the magic in their veins will do its best to protect them.

But, protecting yourself from your own imagination comes with its own challenges.

Tonight is no different. Well, the only difference being that P’s jolted awake and a wave of calm has filled them, all due to the sight of you beside them.

“I suppose it’s a good thing that I don’t sleep talk,” P jokes as their gaze stays glued on you. It’s a tactic they can use; keeping their focus on the very person they adore. The very person they can look at and call home.

You arch a brow at P’s instant attempt to camouflage something that’s bothering them. As if the tiredness in their eyes isn’t evident, as if they haven’t been frantically clutching the sheets with the hope that their hand will find yours quickly enough so you can physically pull them out of their dream.

But, it’s what they want. So, you play along…for now. “If you did sleep talk,” you begin, your voice sounding slightly groggy as you turn to your side, “what language do you think it’d be in?”

“Dutch, definitely.” P thinks again. “Or maybe French. A mixture of the two.”

“Hm,” you hum. “At least I know what to listen out for.”

The mere question was supposed to give P a little more ease, but you debate whether it’s working when P’s teeth are gnawing on their bottom lip; when their fingers are flexed beside them looking for something to cling onto.

You slip out of the bed and swing your legs over. Your eyes glance to the clock on the nightstand, hoping that P doesn’t do the same so immense guilt doesn’t fill them when they notice it’s three o’clock in the morning. They’ll think they’ve woken you up.

“I’ll make you tea, shall I?”

–

Though it’s a question asked, it was definitely a statement. All shown by the way you ambled down the stairs despite P’s protests; along the lines of, “you have work in a couple of hours, go back to bed, love” and “it’s fine, I can make my own hot drink”.

The fridge is open for the milk. It’s the only light illuminating both you and P. You’re standing by the kitchen island, opposite one another, no other words uttered. Just questioning gazes, adoration and a boiling kettle rocking back and forth.

“I have a request,” you murmur quietly, as though the sound of your voice will be enough to wake up the neighbours.

P arches a brow, clearly confused, but their answer is always positively the same. “Anything for you.”

You take a step forward. Then another, all before you’re holding out a hand. “Dance with me?”

It’s not hesitation, just them taking in the scene around them. One P has wished for a million times before. To be in the kitchen with the love of their life, in pyjamas without a care in the world about how you look; with the opportunity to dance under refrigerator lighting.

P takes your hand and pulls you into them, answering your question with ease. There’s an unsaid rule about a slow dance; not that your hands are placed on either your partner’s hips or shoulders, but the fact that with the right person it’s comfortably easy.

Whilst barefoot, P’s tall frame begins to lead the dance. Two steps forwards, two steps sideways, and the same back. And then you lead. And then you swap and change to the rhythm of your own music that you both seem to telelpathically hear and understand.

Soon P’s hugging you whilst the two of you smoothly sway and enjoy each other’s embrace. A minute passes, and then another, and you almost forget why you suggested this in the first place.

“In the nightmare, I lost my magic,” P mumbles, their blended European accent much thicker than usual.

That’s the reason the two of you are in this position. A nightmare. “Hm?” you question, still holding onto them. “Is that what scared you when you woke up?”

P blinks. “Partly, but not just that…” They swallow hard before continuing, and blink back any tears that have threatened to come to the surface. “It wasn’t just the magic I lost. I lost the others, my family…you.”

An introverted heart with extroverted tendencies is a fair description of P Martens. They’d happily spend their time alone, but time alone with the right people can be such valuable thing too.

You come to a smooth halt and place your hands on P’s shoulders. “I’m here,” you utter. “Safe, sound, in need of a hot beverage,” you joke, it being enough to pull a smile out of P, “but here all the same. You won’t lose me, P.”

If it was enough, the two of you wouldn’t be in sucha position. P wouldn’t be embarrassing convincing themselves that their nightmare was just a nightmare. You can see the cogs turning in their brain, fiercely trying to calm them down until you bring their hands to your face.

P’s slender fingers rest on your cheeks. The pad of their thumb traces your bottom lip, enough for you to press a small kiss to it. “I mean it,” you whisper. “I’m yours and you’re mine.”

The words are like a code. One the two of you understand. One P can smile at and decipher with their eyes closed, even when a nightmare comes to attack them.

“And if we’re for each other, how can we ever be lost?” P mutters back rhetorically with a smile.