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Olivier has always struggled within the night. He wouldn’t really call himself an insomniac - or at least not compared to someone like Ryad; who’d roam the empty halls of Hereford like a ghost, running from a rampant demon that haunted his every footstep.
No, Olivier on the other hand, remained still during the precarious nights; shivering in the brisk air of his apartment despite the thickly layered bedsheets and duvet that lay bunched up around his crossed legs as he willingly allowed his rampaging thoughts to tear him apart piece by piece. Molecule by molecule. He’d always found it difficult to run away from the debilitating demons. Or at least while sober.
Olivier winced at that thought, breath hitching in his throat as a certain itch he thought he’d long gotten rid of inflamed throughout his frame, incessantly gnawing at his innards. He felt uncomfortable and constricted in his own skin; his heart pounding in his chest like a large fluttering bird trapped in a tiny cage, and he could almost hear the sound of his own blood pumping in his veins hot and heavy.
He felt trapped. Imprisoned, in his own self-loathing body he’d grown to despise, the feeling growing intangibly throughout the many years but nullified through nights of intoxication - and now he didn’t even have that crutch to ease the overbearing despair that bombarded his senses, overflowing until Olivier was just a puddle of emotional vulnerability heaving at the chest.
Olivier, after sitting up fervently in his bed, took in a deep gulp of air, hoping the cold mid-autumn air filtering through the room would ease the flaring hatred that flamed in his gut, before sputtering out the inhale as a sob slivered through his self-restraint. It unleashed a flood-gate he nearly choked on to hold back. His throat burned from his efforts of holding back stuttering breaths that could be considered almost wails, the sounds equally as pathetic.
There was movement next to him; a meek shuffling of blankets and thin sheets that momentarily distracted Olivier, anxiety bubbling in his gut turning him stiff as stone. Olivier held his breath as he watched Gustave, his beautiful tanned body dancing nimbly with each flex of his muscles as he stirred in his sleep, his features highlighted under the dim moonlight that crept through the pale curtains and blinds draping their bedroom window. An inquisitive hand jostled his forearm roughly making Olivier flinch as Gustave let out a long breathy exhale, one of the man’s many clues before he’d wake that sent Olivier in a panic mode - dreading the thought of Gustave seeing him in this state.
Luckily for him, Gustave still seemed to be teetering on the edge of consciousness, his dark eyes drowsily half-lidded as he side-eyed Olivier sleepily. “Go back to sleep,” he heard Gustave mumble quietly, voice muffled underneath the thick pillow half his face was smothered by and seemed unaffected by the raging typhoon that stormed around Olivier.
Olivier didn’t respond and made no effort to do so much as lay back down to appease his lover’s wishes, and merely gazed distractedly at Gustave - expression taut as he fought down the tight feeling that bubbled in his chest.
“Olivier?” Sheets were discarded as Gustave tentatively rose his head, eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed as he adjusted to the darkness that drowned the room and obscured Olivier’s forlorn expression. Gustave’s features immediately shifted into concerned alarm when he saw the dread encapsulating Olivier’s eyes; a darkness where there once was vibrancy in his pale blue eyes. “I - wh - are you okay?” The confusion and uncertainty intermingling in Gustave’s worried expression made Olivier feel like a stray cat; as if approaching him would potentially scare him off - or bite.
But, little did Gustave know, Olivier didn’t have the energy to run or fight anymore.
“Yeah, o-of course,” Olivier said, the shaken whisper of his voice betraying the facade of nonchalance in his words. The edges of Gustave’s lips twitched downwards before the other French man moved, squeezing past Olivier’s frozen frame to turn on the bedside lamp atop the small table, eyes darting to the illuminating clock that read in bright-red criminalizing text: 02:42.
“How long have you been up?” Gustave murmured, shifting back until he could look Olivier in the face. Olivier frowned in dissatisfaction, his lamp casting betraying shadows among the meek light that betrayed the melancholy undoubtedly painting his pale face like a canvas. Traitor.
“Not very long,” Olivier lied quickly, momentarily averting his eyes as a wave of shame rushed over him - the feeling kicking him in the gut and making him nauseous. Another fault of his - and god, he had so many.
Lying had always come embarrassingly easy to him, the sinful nature of deception often eating him alive. He’d been trying to fix this habit, and yet it always came back to him as a pseudo-crutch that, if he was being honest, only made his self-hatred flare up even worse. He just couldn’t help it. All his life he’d learned to lie in order to selfishly suit his needs; from small things like lying about not eating his sister’s birthday cake to lying about his alcohol and drug habits he developed early on in his teens, and he’d gotten so good at it that nobody batted an eye until it all brewed up inside of him and spilled out, the eventual truth having far more dire consequences than it would have in the beginning of his lies.
“Right,” Gustave mumbled, dissatisfaction etched in his tone that made Olivier’s breath hitch, a fire-hot redness burning on his cheeks. “You say this but it looks like you haven’t slept at all.” Olivier couldn’t bring himself to reply, his mouth tingling in shame that kept his lips firmly pressed together. At a lack of response, Gustave let out a disappointed sigh, his brown eyes darting to Olivier’s hands that were twitching nervously.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” The words, spoken so softly - almost as if Gustave was speaking to himself rather than Olivier despite it being directed to him - nearly went unheard but the pain that flourished in Gustave’s trembling voice was as loud as mortar fire. “Why?” This time the words were slightly louder and sharper, the pain inhabiting the previous question versatile and lost as a fit of surging anger pierced through.
“I don’t know,” Olivier lied again. Oh, he knew. He knew how distant he tended to be to emotions, especially ones surrounding Gustave. It was just so easy to pretend like they didn’t exist. It’s all he’d ever done when he was younger, even if the path of suppression had lead to nothing but heartache. He knew explicitly the fear that held him back from truly trusting and committing to Gustave that stemmed from something much deeper than the internalized homophobia Gustave had assumed it was.
Truth be told, love was something very foreign to him. What he had with Claire was something he’d hesitate to have called love. It consisted of a plethora of emotions with most of them being negative; the rage, sorrow, and curiosity that trademarked both of their bitter teenage years bringing them together in an almost symbiotic relationship where truthfully neither party benefitted. Sure, Olivier cared about Claire, and he didn’t have any regrets about what they had, but she had never been an island of security to Olivier. She was another outlet Olivier would turn to as a distraction; the downright ridiculous and negative emotions that’d bubble up inside of him momentarily soothed by their ‘love’ he felt he was starved of.
Gustave was different though. Gustave is safety. He is warmth. He is an intricate force. Delicate, dainty, and thoughtful with an almost war-torn roughness. He is calloused hands running softly along soft bare skin, gentle and steady that leaves Olivier trembling with a desire for something more than physicality. Gustave is home. He is love.
And he is terrifying.
He’s an uncertainty that leaves Olivier speechless, fearing the worst that would come if he opens his notoriously loud obnoxious mouth. He’s never really feared losing someone like this, and it opened up a helplessness in his aching soul that remains unappeased. What if he scares Gustave away? Or, definitively far worse, what if he somehow hurts Gustave? A thought that’d have made him scoff and cackle at nearly a year ago - before he’d gotten to know his fellow countryman on a deeper emotional level. Sometimes a more morbid part of Olivier wishes he could go back to that time. It’d been easier and less stressful when he didn’t have Gustave.
Another lie.
“Come on Olivier, you know. What’s on your mind, my love?” Gustave whispers after moments of terse silence, cold steady hands snaking their way to grip Olivier’s quivering ones, the reassuring squeeze sending a wave of comfort through him that eased the almost choking grip that constricted his chest. “Please?” Olivier doesn’t miss the moisture that begins to glisten the other man’s eyes that mirrored his own, a streak of scorching wetness sliding down the noble curvature of his face that falls on the sheets underneath them as Gustave brings a hand close to him, planting tentative kisses on each knuckle.
“I just - it’s hard,” Olivier admits, the thickness clogging in his throat that’d previously prohibited him from speaking clearing up and allowing him to shakily speak the words, though his limited phrasing did little to match up to how incredibly difficult it was for him to even speak his overbearing emotions holding him back. No words in French or English could even begin to compare to the pressurizing feeling that left him suffocating in his own despair. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Gustave dismisses with another squeeze to his hand, eyes inquisitively flickering to Olivier’s downcast ones thoughtfully. “Here, let me just ah,” Gustave mumbles disconnectedly as he shifts, hesitantly bringing Olivier close to him - uncertainty radiating off the man that almost makes Olivier snicker teasingly. Gustave was not known for his spectacular ability to comfort, but the act still nonetheless makes Olivier melt against Gustave’s chest. Olivier hid his face in the crook of Gustave’s neck, relishing in the feeling of Gustave’s embrace as the man slowly wraps his arms around Olivier, sheepish hands gingerly resting on his back. “Take your time, I’m here with you. Just - promise to tell me when you’re ready.”
Olivier makes a small sound of acknowledgment that rumbles in his throat and the careful hands resting on his back move up and down in a seemingly endless cycle that locks Olivier into an abundant vortex ignorant to everything except for them. It leaves Olivier in an almost blissful state as he nearly slumps into Gustave’s body, the other man’s warm skin muffling the sound of his sniffling and trembling exhales that undoubtedly echo throughout the silent room. Gustave doesn’t try to pry anymore even when Olivier practically drenches his shoulder in tears, his deep lilting tone whispering soft reassurances into his ear that slowly aids to pacify him like soothing honey.
“Thank you.” Olivier breathes out long into the night when the intangible darkness subsides into the lucent glow of the upcoming dawn, and Gustave’s hands have long fallen by Olivier’s side, his head resting on his chest as he lets out soft snores. Olivier knows Gustave can’t hear him, and yet there’s an intangible freedom Olivier feels as he murmurs his thanks into the lonely void of night.
For once, as the bright electronic clock reads 04:54 and the room’s atmosphere is encapsulated by a riveting longing that tugs at Olivier to bring the man he loves closer to relish in the warming glow he exudes, Olivier can finally breathe easier.