He can't move.

He can't move.

There's—there's someone there—in the room—

He can't move.

Move, move, move, open your eyes, his eyes are open, he's staring at the ceiling and his body is sluggish, heavy, his limbs are leaden and won't respond. He hates waking up, hates how slow he is, and there's danger, there's someone there, it's the man, the man Edmund told him about, the dancer.

Pete doesn't want to fall in love.

Why is it so bright—

Move move move get up tell someone run away get up—

He takes in a deep, sudden breath, and opens his eyes.

It's dark. There's no one there.

Well, there's Hywel. He doesn't quite snore, but his breathing is audible from across the room. That counts for something.

(Also, he seems to have tossed away his blanket in his sleep. It's half draped over the side of the lofted frame.)

Deep breath.

He left his phone under his pillow so he can unlock it to see by its very dim light that there is, in fact, no one else here. Just him and Hywel. The door's shut. Everything's the same as when he went to sleep, mostly.

A dream. A nightmare. A night terror with night paralysis. He thinks. One of those he always fucking has, there's always someone in the room and they usually loom by his bed and he can't move, except they couldn't loom this time, could they, what with how you'd need to climb the ladder, so his brain improvised. The shadows on the ceiling and the light and the dancing man—cute. Very cute of his brain, really, to riff off the horror story from earlier today—he looks at the time on his phone—from yesterday. And very cute of the narrative, too. He hadn't actually given his dreams much thought, with respect to his Mary Sueness, except to think that he could just fall asleep and then wake up and have that be it. He was wrong, he guesses.

Well, Mary Sues do have to have some troubles, don't they. Troubled sleep, not in a way that actually impacts their day life by making them tired or distracted, only in a way that makes their face slightly haunted in a distant but alluring way. Give them a mysterious air, you know how it is.

He supposes he would in fact be okay with a narrative that includes him continuing to have dreams, and nightmares, and, yes, even the fucking night terrors. So he's not losing those.

Joy.

It takes him a few more minutes to calm his heart, to convince himself that there really isn't any danger, that he is okay, but eventually he manages it. And a few minutes after that he falls back asleep.

The next time he thinks it's very bright, it actually is. The sunlight's streaming through the window and getting all over his face.

Well, at least one of his predictions came true: he is feeling wonderfully rested and ready for a new day etc etc etc. Even if he's still feeling kind of shaken up by the nightmare. He's used to it.

Also, there is literally no reason for him to have morning wood given that he doesn't actually need to use the bathroom at all anymore so this is clearly just for fun. He supposes he appreciates waking up with an erection from a sort of impersonal perspective and he has to admit this body is really impressive.

He sits up and stretches and yawns and he doesn't have morning breath and in this body his joints don't crack at all.

(Wait, what the hell did he do with his blanket? He thought he didn't move while in night paralysis. Isn't that the whole thing? Meh, whatever.)

Hywel's still asleep, though outside the door there's at least one person walking around. Pete has the run of the room.

Well what time is it? When does he have class? Should he be trying to wake Hywel up, should be be finding the blinds and securing them more properly?

(Should he be trying to get back to sleep?, he would have asked at one point in his life, but he is so blessedly awake right now it's kind of insane.)

It's almost 7:00. Morning Assembly is 8:45, classes at 9:00. Breakfast served from 7:15 to 8:30. Neither the student handbook nor the omniscient narration can comment on whether he should wake his roommate.

...he has almost two hours before class, and fifteen minutes before breakfast. What's he even going to do.

Hmm. What are the odds that one of his plot people will also wake up at ungodly hours in the morning? When he puts it this way, quite high. But just in case they don't he's going to also put—he doesn't need to put his swimming gear in his backpack. He doesn't even need to carry a backpack. He's going to, because of his personal masquerade, but, but it's very freeing to know that he can just. Have stuff. Anyway point is if he can't find any plot he'll swim for like forty minutes to pass the time.

But today Pete's feeling Astolfo. His uniform will be the skirt, sheer black stockings, the vest, and an open shirt, and then he's good to go. By the time he hops off the bed he's dressed and has his extremely pink backpack slung over one shoulder.

Time to go find some plot. He'll meander towards communal areas of this school to see what awaits.

What awaits: Peter!

"My namesake!" he greets as Pete enters the common room. "You've risen with the sun, I see. And... frankly, taken more of the dress code to heart than I'd imagined."

"The dress code was indeed pretty specific. I suppose none of us can escape it," he says, grinning. "I had to make do. So how're you today?"

"Quite well. I'm just waiting for the cafeteria to open for breakfast, mostly - usually when I'm up this early there's some essay or what have you that I could be working on, but, well, first day. Could exercise a bit but I'm in uniform already, could read but I don't have anything in the queue..."

He walks over to the couch and sits next to Peter, making sure to arrange his skirt and cross his legs so he's not flashing anyone his underwear. "I've got my swimming gear in my backpack and I'd been thinking of doing that to kill the time if I couldn't find anything better to do. But then I ran into you." He's not going to say that Peter is something better to do, but he's thinking it.

"Swimming's great. Strengthens the core, the arms, the legs, just about everything really. Real all-rounder of a sport."

"A very textbook description of it if I've ever heard one. Ed told me you like fencing, though."

"Yeah. I favor sabre, Ed favors épée - when we fight each other we use foil and we both hate it, though he's still got a bit of an advantage."

"I know absolutely none of those words. That is a lie, I speak French, but still, épée just means 'sword' so I feel very unenlightened. Illuminate me?"

"So - fencing, right, it's like a swordfight except they took out the parts that kill people? The usual style is foil, which is garbage. When you fence foil - hang on -"

Peter stands from the couch and stands with his feet spread a few feet, roughly perpendicular to Pete. He's got his right arm extended, as if to point an invisible blade at Pete's heart; his left is loose at his side.

"Imagine you've got a sword. Now imagine you'd really like me dead. Where d'you hit me?"

"...from where I am? Uh, I'd... well with the understanding that i have no idea what I'm talking about, I'd probably try to aim for the parts of you that do not have a sword? Your," gesture, "body?"

"Well and good. My blade's got my torso pretty well defended, if you try for my heart I'll be able to lock swords with you, so I imagine that the body might be, say, the legs, the head?"

"I can't imagine you would have much trouble defending your head, your hand is right there, so legs, probably. If I imagine stuff I've seen in like fiction I would ideally want you to overextend to be able to hit your torso, though."