Days Union Oneshot Book [DISCONTINUED]

aw hell i got sleep paralysis dont i... shit.

A/N: Huge thank you to @NE0NKITTYTEETH  and  @Marrowin for this idea! In advance, I am so sorry /hj

!!TW: Nightmares, gunshots and shooting, paralysis, eyes, and existential crises!!

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A jingle of his keys to the door of his apartment proclaimed victory over his difficult day like a triumphant fanfare over a battlefield. After an incident that tossed several of his editorials into a wastebasket and landed him face-to-face with the President himself, the coolness of the doorknob relieved the hands throbbing from hours of frantic scribbling he spent to rescue himself from the hot water he had landed into. The peace of a good book's fresh smell paired with the dim lamp of his bedroom and the orange glow of a cigarette seemed like heaven to Yaroslav after such a long day spent in hell.

A yawn escaped his mouth, extending his jaw wide open before it shut with a clack. Maybe just a nap would do.

The stuffy smell of the room seeped through the vents of his mask and into his nose, its peculiar odor mixed with old smoke hanging in the air attacking his senses enough to force him to scrunch up his nose. It only pounced relentlessly on his face once he removed his mask and tossed it on the nearby desk. The dull remnants of the day peeked its gray light through the cracks of the blinds, the rest of the room swallowed in darkness.

"Home sweet home," Yaroslav sighed as his hand reached for the switch.

After a moment of uncertain flickering, the fluorescent light secured its route through the electrical wires and into the ceiling light, casting the room in its sickly yellow illumination. He ambled through the tiny space crowded even more with his odd trinkets and wrinkled dress shirts strewn across the floor. On his way, an orange button-up shirt fit for a vacation down to Lake Larell's former resorts wrapped around his ankle and refused to release him from its soft embrace.

He picked it off of his leg and chuckled, "That tea party sure was something..."

The thought of Loch's reaction to the state of his house brought another chuckle out of him. The image of the prince gasping, "Fie!" at every article off a hook or out of color-coded order could make a weary man smile any day, even Yaroslav.

"I better pay him a visit again sometime soon," he checked a note within his head, but it fell to the back of his mind the moment he collapsed upon his bed and his face hit the pillow.

His hand rubbed the flesh of his face tender with hours of work without an ounce of self-regulation. For a second, his fingertips dug underneath the eyepatch over where his right eye was meant to be, but they slipped out as quickly and busied themselves with swiping the hat off of his head and tossing it near the coat hooks. After a miserable throw that landed the hat in the middle of the floor, he pulled out his ponytail and leaned back to gaze at the ceiling.

Stains of light brown blotched the off-white ceiling. No doubt alcohol stains—most likely beer— from possessions considered indecent contraband for individual off-sale ownership. Yet people do crazy things. What drove the previous inhabitant to sleepless nights of shattering bottles against the ceiling before guards inevitably evicted him and vacated the apartment just in time for Yaroslav to move into his new home?

He dropped the question as quickly as it came; he did not already want to find himself opening yet another can of worms, especially after the incident regarding that letter...

The lull of sleep fell upon his eyelids and drew them shut with its weight. A deep exhale finalized the ritual of his routine to fall asleep, and the night rewarded his dedication with the release of slumber. Pitch black pervaded his vision, throwing him into that odd weightless void before he fell into true sleep.