the most requested: good old fashioned nightmare+comfort!
A nightmare and some comfort cuddles for Carlo?? @sofspook
Maybe Carlo has a really bad nightmare and Max wakes him up and comforts him?- anon
CW: past dehumanization, pet whump, kept in cage, nightmares
For a moment, Max doesn’t even want to touch him. He seems disoriented, half awake and still dreaming, sheets soaked in sweat. It’s unnerving, like watching someone in a fever dream calling out for people who are not there, for people who are long-dead.
But it’s Carlo. His Carlo. And for that he does touch him, even though the boy jerks away from his hand like a jolt of electricity.
“Carlo. Come here, baby. Come on. Wake up.”
Max reaches out again, touches his forearm. He sobs, wrenches his arm away so violently his knuckles clip the wall behind him. Max winces, wanting to pull him down a few inches by the waist so he doesn’t run the risk of hitting his head. He won’t do that to him though, not while he’s like this.
“Carlo.” He says again, and shakes his knee gently. “You’re dreaming. You’re home. You’re safe. Open your eyes, honey.”
He stills, frowning in his sleep. Slowly, his eyes blink open and take in his surroundings. He’s wearing one of Max’s old tee shirts he hasn’t worn himself since college, damp at the collar. In his confusion and fear, he looks to Max something like he did those first weeks, when he was a painfully young, underfed thing who jumped at his own shadow.
Max touches his cheek. “Are you awake, little one?”
Carlo’s bottom lip trembles. He opens his mouth like he’s going to reply, shuts it again. He sits up, crawls into Max’s lap.
Yes, he thinks. This is quite like old times. He gathers Carlo close as he can, feeling his skin is hot to the touch. He rocks them, kisses Carlo’s sweaty temple, those soft cinnamon curls.
“You were dreaming.” He murmurs. Out the window, the gauzy sliver of the moon is sinking back beneath the trees. “Just bad dreams, baby.”
Carlo sniffs wetly against his shoulder. “Where is that dog cage?”
Is that what you dreamed about?
“The kennel? From the garage?”
He can hear the tears in Carlo’s voice. “Yeah.”
Tell me it was Erik Holstrom, in your dream. That it was Keith. You know I would never do anything bad to you.
“I put it out for garbage collection.”
“The day after we had our... our talk about it. That thing is long gone.”
On nights he can’t sleep, he sometimes wonders if the kennel Carlo told him about was tall enough to stand up in, or long enough to lie down. He wonders if the floor was flat or if it was a grate. He wants to know about practicalities- if he had water, or a blanket, or a way to ask for the bathroom. Less practical questions cross his mind, like why you would make your only pet, a soft and gentle thing, a hostage in your own home.
He never asks these things.
Carlo shivers violently in his arms.
“You’re soaked.” He says softly. “You need a new shirt.”
Carlo nods. He knows. But he won’t let go, keeps closing the space between them so he is tight against Max’s chest. He presses his nose in Max’s neck, heaves a shaky sigh.
“Alright.” Max says, and keeps holding him. “I hear you. Not yet. I got you.”
