Witching Hour

Jay couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t a new problem; he had a suspicion his parents had started giving him computers as a kid just to keep him from wandering the house at night and scaring the life out of them.

On this particular occasion he’d given up any hope of a good night’s rest by about three in the morning, waiting instead for the chorus of bird calls which announced to every insomniac that the dawning day was irrevocably fucked. It’d be pigeons, this time of year—many of London’s other birds had flown south for the winter.

Sebastian lay sound asleep next to him, despite Jay’s tossing and turning. Jay wouldn’t have expected him to sleep so deeply, but maybe a soldier had to learn to sleep through anything. They’d met up earlier—yesterday, now—after an uneventful day on Jay’s part and a frustrating client meeting on Sebastian’s, having a few drinks together before heading back to Jay’s flat for the evening.

If Sebastian hadn’t woken up yet, it was probably safe for Jay to check his phone. But as he reached toward the bedside table where he’d left it charging, a soft pained noise sounded from the other side of the bed.

Jay rolled to face him. “Sebastian?”

Sebastian’s body was a vague outline in the dark; he didn’t answer, but after a second or two made another sound, low in his throat, and shifted uneasily beneath the covers.

He was having a nightmare.

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