Butch sat up slowly and turned his eyes to the alarm clock. It was 3 am. He groaned and rubbed his face. Why couldn't he just sleep? Why was he so nervous?
He slammed his hand back down on the mattress beside him, leaving his short black hair to plaster over one eye. His hair still hadn't dried from washing the gel out. Oh well.
He gazed over his shoulder at his sleeping partner. He was smiling in his sleep, comfy and cozy and perfectly fine. Lucky.
Butch swung his legs around to the side of the bed and threw off the covers and he exhaustedly began his journey to the bathroom.
A flick of the lightswitch sat the room on fire, at least, that's what it felt like to his tired eyes. When they adjusted, he absently stared at his arm. It had entirely popped out of the sleeve of his "90s hate child" teeshirt. How, he had no idea. The nightmare must have made him thrash violently in his sleep again. He didn't care enough to fix it.
He turned on the faucet and gathered some water in his hands. I