My next instinct is to survey the windows, but no, no one came crashing through there. The night is still, the lights from the neighboring buildings below and around us blinking like stars. I turn my eyes to the bed. Of course, the bed. God, I’m an idiot. An almost asleep because it’s the middle of the night, but I’ve just been roused from deep slumber kind of an idiot.
It’s Philippe making those horrible noises. Even as I watch, the sheets shift a little. There are pillows now piled all over his face and shoulders, but they stir like a moving cloud. It’s very creepy. I rush over before he accidentally smothers from the thick, dense materials all over his face. I grasp the first pillow and tug it over before throwing it to the floor. I follow that up with another three as I hurriedly fling them aside.
His face is scrunched up, but he’s still asleep. He looks like he’s in pain. He writhes, the twisted, damp sheets tangling with him. Twists. Turns. He continues to tangle himself hopelessly, and I can see his hair is drenched on the pillow.
Is this another panic attack? In his sleep? Is that even possible?
No, dummy, it’s a nightmare. Wake him the heck up.
The trembling in my hands vibrates all the way up to my shoulders and into my teeth. That must be why they’re chattering.
I very gently and tentatively set my hand on Philippe’s shoulder. His t-shirt is soaked. Even though his skin is clammy on his arm where the cotton sleeve ends, he’s warm. So warm. Duh, of course, he’s warm. He’s sweated right through his clothes.
My hand flies to his forehead without thinking. I’m worried he has a fever. Maybe he’s sick. No, as soon as my fingers graze the soft, velvet skin of his face, I realize that’s not it. There’s no fever. He’s warm, but not feverishly so.
“Philippe?” I shake his shoulder gently. “Hey. Wake up.” Of course, that gets me nowhere. I have to shake a little harder. I bend over, speaking directly into his ear. “Philippe?”
His eyes fly open, and he stares at me without seeing. He blinks. And it’s creepy. Even in the dark, I can see how his pupils are dilated. I shudder and back up a step.
“Whoa, uh…you were just…”
“Having a dream,” he finishes for me.
“Uh, I guess. Probably not a good one. Or do you usually have night sweats and cry out when you’re sleeping? Maybe you were dancing with fairies or something.”
“Yeah. That was definitely it.” Philippe picks at the mess of tangled sheets, trying to free himself.
I’m ridiculously relieved he hasn’t lost his sense of dry, asshole humor. If he’s still capable of being a dick, then he must be alright.
“Are the panic attacks and the nightmares related?” I should just mind my own business, but obviously, I’ve never been very good at that. Part of me knows I’m already in too deep to worry about my P’s and Q’s now. It’s kind of hard to focus on not saying something stupid when I’m entirely focused on keeping my heart from aching right out of my chest.
Philippe looks so lost right now. I mean, he’s a mess, but he’s a beautiful mess. He’s haunted. And in pain. I want to sit down beside him, wrap my arms around him (even though they wouldn’t even come close to fully wrapping around), and help him feel better. He’s not the tyrant boss right now. He’s not my crazy attractive fake date, either. He’s just Philippe. Wounded. Alone. Confused. Sad.
The longer I stare at him, the more I feel like my eyes are going to start leaking all over the place. The bridge of my nose is burning suspiciously.
“I guess so.” He reaches up and brushes his hair out of his face. Since it’s so wet, it pretty much slicks right back. I almost forgot I asked a question at all. “I don’t know. The nightmares started right after my dad died. The panic attacks…those are new. I don’t know if they’re related or not, but I’d assume so.”
“Are you okay?” Stupid. I know. I should say something else. Something better. Something that might actually fix things.
I get a long sigh as an answer, but then Philippe eventually gives me words. “I don’t know. I guess so. I’m mostly humiliated since you’re here, and you’re awake now, and you know all about it.”
“Don’t worry about me. I know all about the panic attacks already so…”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Sorry.”
He grunts. He’s basically untangled from the sheets by now. With another grunt, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t move. I’m not sure he knows what moves to make next. Not that I do either. I shuffle awkwardly from foot to foot. He sets his elbows on his knees and shoves his hands over his face. Not because he’s trying to hide. I don’t think. I think it’s because he feels truly fucked up. He’d have to because he was actually honest with me.