The Boy with the Whiplash Tattoo

Three

Something woke me. Sitting up, I rubbed at my eyes, cursing softly. I'd only just managed to fall asleep.

Across the room, a small groan escaped Aaron's parted lips.

I couldn't see a thing, and was therefore painfully aware of every tiny noise he made.

I could hear him breathing, and for some primal reason that made my heart speed up.

He cried out, louder this time, and flung out an arm, smacking his hand against the bed frame. I winced, but he didn't wake.

I lay very still, holding my breath, willing his nightmare to stop so I could back to sleep.

But it didn't stop, and he was sobbing now, crying in his sleep like a little boy.

I don't know why I did it, but I couldn't help it. I couldn't just let him lie there sobbing without anyone to comfort him.

I slipped across the room to his side, first reaching across to open the curtain so I could see. Sickly yellow light from the street lamps streamed in.

The buttons of his nightshirt had come undone, revealing his dark chest, slick with sweat. I tried hard not to stare at the hard muscles under his skin; I didn't need the distraction.

Tears streaked his taut face, his eyelids fluttering. He was mumbling under his breath.

He turned his head suddenly as if struck, shouting "No!"

I did the only thing I could. I sat cross-legged behind him, wrapped my arms around his shoulders and pulled his head into my lap.

"Sh," I whispered soothingly. "It's ok."

I stroked his damp black hair, tucking the strands out of his face.

He stiffened momentarily, and I was suddenly scared that he'd wake up and be angrier than ever. But then he relaxed and slumped into my embrace.