It was dark. It was always dark. Of course it was dark. He had blackout curtains on the windows and a pillow over his head; of course it was dark. But, as he blinked into the endless nothingness of 3 A.M, the darkness bothered him for the first time. It was really, really dark.

He didn't know when his eyes had opened. He didn't know how long he'd been laying there, wondering and pondering, a film of sleep coating him like the now-stifling blankets – wondering what had woken him. It wasn't the nightmare, the same one had always had. Oh, no – he hadn't gotten to the part that woke him up yet.

The image floated before him, cast upon the unshakable nothingness that lacked the gleam of ink, the glint of coal, the twinkle of the stars. There was nothing to compare it to. Like a projector, perhaps, the scene escaped, spread across the black existence as if cast upon a screen. He could see it – the man glaring at him, eyes sharp and cold; the woman smiling coyly, looking at him over her shoulder. Their faces were familiar, but their expressions bewildered him. Something about the gleam in their eyes was inhuman, something about the way they looked at him. It was the way a hungry animal looks at a slab of fresh meat.

Then, thankfully, they shimmered, and the tension in his chest began to relax – and then returned in full force. The woman disappeared, but there was that man, his eyes piercing the darkness, almost glowing. The man was there, life-sized, and while his height and his stocky build, his thick muscles hardened by a life of work – if those weren't intimidating, the hand reaching out for his shaking victim's throat was. In fact, it was terrifying.

The boy tore through the dream like a knife, sitting straight upward with a yell like no sound he'd ever made before. Footsteps exploded from the room across the hall, and the boy's door banged open, handle hitting the wall with a resounding crash. The weary face was panicked, the brown eyes wide, the creases drawn double-thick beneath them. The danger passed, the awkward and uncertain silence leaving him leaning in the doorway, one hand on his heaving chest.

“One of these days,” he sighed wearily, “you're going to give me a heart attack.” His eyes were not angry as he came forward to sit on the edge of the bed. It groaned beneath his bulk, but held him there, and in the window of light escaping from across the hall a tired smile was etched into his features. He reached up with one leathery hand, pretending not to see the boy flinch, pretending it didn't hurt him to see how scared the boy still was, of anyone and anything at all, after all this time. He ruffled the boy's hair and smiled. “Don't worry, Arlon.”
Arlon. And this is--

“Elliot.” Arlon's face crumpled instantly, the tears coming full force, like a flood. There was no warning. The old man was bewildered as always, and he patted the boy's back with one huge hand, trying not to harm him as he reached to turn on the light with the other. It was like an elephant trying to juggle robins' eggs.

“It's okay, it's okay,” the old man breathed, speaking in the familiar and hesitant chant of someone who had never had a child. His intentions were good, but his actions weren't exactly helpful. Finally, he simply began talking, chattering on in his low monotone, speaking of idle things just to fill the silence. He told Arlon of the book he was reading, and how they'd have to go to the library soon, and of what he'd had for lunch; of how rowdy his seventh-period class was, and all of the homework he'd given them – and oh, boy, Arlon should see the watercolor paintings they just put up in the hall, how fantastic they had come out--

“Can I?” As Arlon spoke, Elliot realized that somewhere in his rambling, the tears had stopped, and Arlon was back – Arlon, with his big blue eyes and his turn-on-a-dime emotions, both uplifting and haunting – Arlon, with his deep love of art.

“Can you what?” Elliot was shocked. His mind backtracked slowly. What had caught the boy's attention? Lunch? The library? Had Elliot just said something he shouldn't have?

“Can I see the watercolors?” Arlon practically gushed the words, and his smile was almost a smirk, as if he were laughing at silly Elliot, who rattled on without listening to his own words. The boy who had been sobbing a moment earlier was now practically bouncing with excitement.

“Wha-- I-- Well--” Helplessly, Elliot stammered, cornered, looking into the child's big, blue eyes; they sparkled with curiosity, and Elliot couldn't deny that. “Yes,” he found himself telling the boy, grinning back at him as the boy exploded into a jump for joy and a smile and a hug all at once, and those little arms were wrapped around his torso as far as they could reach – which wasn't far. The little boy was tiny, even for his age. Elliot smiled, and put a hand on the boy's shoulder, but something kept him from hugging Arlon back. “I'll bring you in with me tomorrow.” Elliot's eyes fell upon the clock. “Or, today,” he corrected with a rueful smile. Standing, he pulled the blankets over the smiling boy and tucked them tight around him. Finally, Elliot nestled the old stuffed rabbit in beside him. Arlon scrunched up his nose, but his eyes were please.

“Elliot,” the boy drawled, that familiar smart-aleck smirk-smile once again taking its place on his lips. It made him look so much older, and yet his tiny figure counteracted it easily. “You know I don''t need that old bunny any more.”

“I know,” the old man sighed, and he smiled at Arlon as he nuzzled the rabbit's head into the laughing boy's cheek. “But maybe he needs you.”

The boy's expression changed instantly, full of awe at the idle comment that Elliot hadn't even meant to say, let alone let him hear. Arlon's eyes drifted to their corners, fixing upon the ratty rabbit curled against his neck. Finally, he smiled. “It's okay, bunny,” he murmured, big eyes closing slowly as sleep came flooding back to him. “I'll protect you.” Elliot turned out the light with a smile, but as the click of the switch rang out, the boy spoke. It wasn't until Elliot had, puzzled but peaceful, returned to his room, that he realized what Arlon had said. Lying on his back atop his blankets, as Elliot stared at the ceiling, the words became clear to him. “I'll protect you,” the boy had said, and then – “Just like Elliot.”

'Yeah,' the old man thought with a sigh, his eyes drifting closed. 'Just like Elliot.'