As he tries to fall asleep at night, he listens to the silence. (Each tap at the window. Each quiet sigh. Each time a breeze will come to him. Whispers. Lies. His ears flicking, restlessly. Searching for sound. A sign.)

And he will lay like that, curled and mute in his bed - beneath tangled sheets and blankets and covers. (The alarm clock blinks foreign times. 12:HG, 12:223. His eyes are blurring. There is no longer an axis on earth.)

And he will think like that, mouth twisted shut - all words and wails and whimpers caught in the meshing of his fingers. (Sometimes he focuses on the smell that lingers, here. In his room. Smoke and ash and distinctively S---.)

And he will never admit to that. (The blue screen opened and warmed by his stomach. A mechanical masterpiece sharing his bed. A silly, surreptitious cellphone. A reminder of someone far too old. A reminder of a child in a man and an enigma in ---)

He thinks, sometimes, that this sleeplessness will end one day. He thinks he will, in time, forget the face that smiles toward his own. He will forget this all. (It reverts, this way. It happens, this way. He knows, one day, the warm, dry fingers that sweep along his cheeks will fade.)

And he thinks like that, his sight clarified. His voice, raw. And he will think like that, until that one, lone evening where there was nothing in the air, but rain - Soubi came to him. Crouched beside his bed. And took his wrist, tight:

"Command me, Ritsuka."

Quiet.

"Staythenight."

(he had never slept better)