mitsubishievo | (no subject)

Kavinsky had never been bothered by wasps or bees or other insects like that, so the first time he dreamed of the giant black wasp he wasn't afraid of it, or particularly invited by it. As with all things that could sting you, he gave it a wide berth in the dream. In Virginia, you had to learn how to coexist amidst the things, living under each others skins in the oppressive summer heat, and Kavinsky had been stung enough times to know how to avoid that. But he was not afraid of it.

The moths though.

Kavinsky could not explain his fear of moths. Butterflies were colorful, skittish, a thing that was rare and beautiful and dreamt of smoke. Moths were a flurry of half-rotten odor in a closet of a pungent house full of stale air, truth or dare in the dark and little flashes of light in the torch light dare, dare, dare. They were all the sad memories of his mother's moth-eaten wedding dress in the back of her closet and her screaming at him in a drunken stupor. Little flutters on his skin in the dark on the edge of a substance party, too fucked up to say no. Kavinsky couldn't say why he was so scared of moths but they made his skin crawl.

The first night he dreamed of moths they were in his mouth. He could feel them beating their wings against his teeth and his tongue but his lips were sewn shut, and then, in the dream, the moths climbed through the stitching, one by one, and onto his face. He wanted to claw his own skin off.

But it was the next night that was worse. He dreamt of the forest, which he had not dreamed of in ages. It felt different. And he felt, as he wandered, a strange hollowness under his skin. He itched at it. There were bumps on his forearms. That happened from time to time, and Kavinsky--impulsive as he was--had a terrible habit of picking at them. He did. He gouged at the bumps with his thumb nail as he walked and the strange feeling of hollowness under his skin changed a little bit because, as he picked, he suddenly felt crawling.

He looked down.

There was a moth, wriggling out of the hole he'd made from the bump in his arm.

Kavinsky woke up slapping at his arms, violently and viscerally awake.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A lot of the time, even years later, Newt still doesn't sleep well. He's sitting propped up in bed, his knees drawn up, the small reading light at his shoulder angled so that it points only at the pages of the book he's reading and a cup of tea at his elbow. When Kavinsky explodes into being awake, Newt closes the book, leaning forward.

"Baby?" he says, softly. "You're okay. I'm here."

Kavinsky breathed rough for a moment, like he hadn't heard Newt or that the words were very far away. It felt late, or very early. He swiped at his arms, still feeling that wriggling and the little feather-light touches of wings.

"Shit," he breathed, and collapsed back. "Oh, shit."

"You're okay," says Newt, setting down his book and rolling onto his side, tucking in closer against Kavinsky, with his head propped up on one elbow. He reaches out and pushes them into Kavinsky's hair tugging lightly, grounding him.

"I'm here."

Kavinsky focused on the tug. It was easier than the words, for whatever reason, a more focused thing. He sometimes heard Newt's voice in his dreams, after all. But the tug was different than the sensation of wings on his skin, and it pushed back that feeling. He scraped his nails over his arms again. No bumps. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He leaned his head into Newt's chest but didn't close his eyes.

"What time is it?"

"Three-forty five," says Newt, glancing over his shoulder at the clock on his bedside table. "Early. Late. Whatever. Do you want something? Tea?"

He hadn't even been out for that long. No wonder he felt so exhausted. Still, he couldn't even think about trying to get back to sleep now, not with the aching terror of that dream pressing at his lungs from the inside out. What a stupid thing to be so scared of.

"No, I just. I just need a minute."

"Is there anything I can do?" He keeps his fingers in Kavinsky's hair, stroking, twisting it lightly around his fingers, keeping that point of contact.

For a long time, Kavinsky was quiet. He let Newt pin and fuss with his hair, and when he thought he could laugh without sounding hoarse, he did. He laughed at himself and said, in a twisted sort of voice, "I dreamt about moths? Like. Jesus, calm down ya fuckin' loser. It's a bug. Get over it."

"If it was rational, it wouldn't be a shucking phobia, would it?" says Newt, gently, his fingers still moving in Kavinsky's hair. He's had to catch moths in the house, sometimes, seen the way that Kavinsky reacts to them. And he knows that dreams don't always stay in Kavinsky's head. "No moths in here, love."

"Doesn't make it less fuckin' stupid," Kavinsky breathed, staying burrowed down, letting his voice get all muffled into Newt's shoulder. He could still feel that crawling feeling under his skin, that feeling of his mouth sewn shut and the flutter of wings from the other night that hadn't woke him like this. He thought of dreaming of the wasp, then. It was all weird. He didn't like any of it.

"It crawled out of my skin," he said slowly, quietly. "It was..."