[ He hasn't fallen asleep yet, and has taken to idly gazing at the ceiling, his free hand sliding up to rub over his face. It tugs at him, the fatigue of the day, and he zones out—in that sweet spot between sleep and awake.

And like a gentle press comes the vision of them both, at home when the windows are starting to glow, enjoying their time together. Such a simple happiness, it (never) was. The biggest problem he could conceive was how to make it last forever (when it would last never). He'd joked about how hard it was to get Aracha to look at him in any way that wasn't a glare, and how that effort has paid off a million times over.

And... just like that, he realizes it's not just his fantasy. Not his dream. Right. Mind melding, or whatever. It features him, but he shouldn't be looking at it.

There's something burning in his eyes, and he has to vigorously scrub at his face to get rid of the evidence of a deep sorrow. That didn't exist. It never existed. He should stop playing with this poor guy—even though he feels it stronger than ever, that "playing" isn't the word for it.

One deep breath later and... no, ten deep breaths later, and he's drifting away into his own dream; one that is mercifully (or maybe mercilessly) quiet. ]