Octavia
I am woken by heavy breathing.
It takes me a moment to place where I am, to orient myself in the dark, my hand moving instinctively towards the blade on the nightstand before I stop short.
I take in my surroundings properly then, my gaze adjusting as I look around the room in the chalet.
It is dark, save for the bathroom door left ajar, a thin strip of light slipping through and spilling across the floor.
My brows furrow in confusion, because the last thing I remember, we were outside, and I had just been attacked once more.
A movement catches my eye, and my gaze snaps in that direction.
Markev is standing by the window.
Only his profile is visible, he is wearing nothing but his boxers, moonlight falling over his face.
His eyes are dark, but not in the murderous way. This darkness is different… distant, as though he is somewhere else entirely, caught inside his own head, lost to thoughts or memories.
My throat tightens, because I know this look… I know this state.
I recognise it all too well.
Swallowing becomes difficult. My eyes begin to burn, and it irritates me how fast the feeling hits.
I stay still, barely breathing.
“Markev,” I whisper.
Nothing.
It is like I never spoke at all. He doesn’t even flinch.
I don’t know what helps when someone is in this state, because when I have these episodes, I am alone. I come out of it eventually, but I have no idea how.
I know that sometimes touch can either help or make everything worse, and for reasons I choose not to dwell on, I don’t want to risk hurting him.
Which is ironic, considering I have stabbed the man more than once since the moment I met him.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “Markev. You need to snap out of it.”
He doesn’t respond, still staring out of the window.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, slipping out of the bed and taking a step closer.
I grimace the moment I realise I am still wearing the dress from our night out, and at the same time feel an unexpected surge of gratitude that he respected my boundaries and didn’t remove it while I was sleeping.
Fuck.
Swallowing is difficult again. I shouldn’t react like this.
This is the bare minimum a man should do. And yet the uncomfortable truth is that many don’t.
Slowly, I reach out and brush my fingers against his hand.
Nothing.
I curl my fingers around his, testing for any reaction at all.
“Markev,” I whisper again, as gently as I can manage.
His head snaps towards me so fast it almost makes me flinch.
He is looking at me, but it feels as if he is not really here at all, his expression is empty, his eyes are black and so lifeless it makes my chest tighten.
As I hold his gaze, I wonder if this is what I look like too, if this same blankness is what the world sees whenever I disappear into one of my episodes.
He keeps watching me without moving, and I squeeze his hand gently. “It’s okay,” I tell him quietly. “You’re not there. You’re safe.”
His eyes remain distant for a second longer, lost somewhere I can’t reach, and then they finally begin to shift, focus slowly returning, confusion, and then… pain.
I breathe a little easier.
He looks so vulnerable. It is so unlike him that it almost hurts to witness.
I lift my hand and touch his face, and he leans into it.
“What happened to you?” I ask softly.
He studies my face, and we just stand there for a while, neither of us saying anything.
When he finally speaks, his voice is gravelled.
“What happened to you?”
I give him a tired smile.
“I think,” I say quietly, “the same thing that happened to you.”