that's your power, steven! [beckenzo calls]

b e c k .

"when the lights come down,
got an empty crown"

Nightmares became more bearable when someone waited on the other side. This dance of theirs had become routine, a game that Beck knew better than to play. Still, he couldn't help the way his breath caught in his throat these early mornings, unable to look away from the phone resting like a lead weight in his palm. It was like he was waiting to be disappointed, ears straining and breath baited and once it rang then-

then he could breathe again.

He's most definitely taking advantage of Lorenzo's kindness. This was friendship earned of his worst memories and deepest weakness. The only explanation for Lorenzo's continued attention was the shadow of responsibility that must remain after Beck foolishly called out to him with his guts scattered across the kitchen floor. Beck doesn't mind that this was only sympathy - he must have seemed pretty pathetic after all. A voice like fractured glass barely holding back tears that still somehow managed to sneak through the gaps.

He should probably tell Lorenzo that it's okay. That he doesn't owe Beck anything and especially not something so precious as his company.

He won't.

(because he's scared that's when all of this ends)

He's selfish.

This morning is like all others. He gasps into wakeness, one hand clutching at his throat as bile rises up onto his tongue. He chokes on ghosts but lately he's been forgetting just what they've done to him. This nightmare was an incomprehensible haze of watercolor, splashed black and crimson against his skin and melding into something vile. He was grateful there was no more than that.

Nestling further into his comforter he begins to untangle himself from the flashes of memory that have begun. His dreams don't fade like they're supposed to anymore, often finding that's he's caught somewhere in between the arena and his mansion for most of the morning. Dawn has yet to arrive though the sky is a smoky lavender of anticipation, just waiting for the sun to break the horizon.

They have something in common, then.

The phone rings and Beck breaks out into a sleepy smile. He stumbles through the fog clinging to the forest floor, back thudding against a cabinet as he slides onto cold tile with the reciever cradled against his shoulder. Lorenzo's voice is bright enough to blind him, wincing as it cracks against him like summer lightening. He doesn't get morning people.

While Lorenzo talks a lot of nonsense - frankly, Beck had no fucking clue who Whicker was or why their barn required a shower after - he still hangs on every word. Beck figures it's less about what was being said and more who was saying it.

"Mornin' to you too, Enzo." His voice is all gravel, drowsiness forcing him to pull the words from somewhere deep in his chest. It still felt strange to refer to him so familiarly - they'd met all of once and Beck wasn't exactly the type to take to informality so soon.

(it'll be okay, soph.)

White noise scratches at his skull and he quickly shakes the memory. "Of course I'm up. I don't like missing your calls." He speaking without thinking, wrapping the coiled wire of his phone around his finger.

He'd heard Lorenzo speak of training on more than one occasion but it never failed to make him uneasy. "If you ever come visit we're gonna have to work on your sleep schedule, man." A soft chuckle interrupts his words, "I'm not a morning person. But don't worry I'll figure out a way to get you to sleep 'til noon. Teach you to live on the edge, y'know?"

These might be empty promises but they still felt good to make.