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"Are you going to go to sleep anytime soon, Sylvester?"
"Dr. Beefton, I told you not to-"
"Beefton deems it appropriate to refer to your colleagues by name when you live inside their brain. Outside of professional settings, of course."
Sylvie sighs and pauses his finger from where he was tracing an infinite loop of figure-eights on his pillowcase. "I suppose you're right."
"Beefton knows he's right," Beefton's voice rumbles through his head, leaving a vibrating sensation at the base of Sylvie's skull. He lets out a close approximation of laughter that rattles Sylvie's brain around, and Sylvie knows what's coming next. "Of course, he does have two more pHd's than you..."
Sylvie's almost too tired to be properly insulted by that. Almost.
"Beefton. We've discussed this. A doctorate in death is just a one-liner, it doesn't actually count."
"If Beefton has said it once, he has said it million times: a masters in mortuary science is closest Beefton can get without interfering with your schedule." he says and Sylvie can't help but chuckle, which slowly morphs into a yawn.
"And I appreciate it," Sylvie says, shaking his head slightly to get the cotton-y feeling out of his brain. "I don't think I could've finished my own dissertation with you having to write three."
Beefton responds with quiet, which is almost deafening compared to the near constant director's commentary track of his own life echoing in Sylvie's head. "Hello? Paging Dr. Irving Beefton, you still there?"
"Why don't you go to sleep, Sylvester?" Beefton replies gently. It has the lilt of a question, but it feels more like a suggestion. Sylvie already knows his response, stuck stubbornly somewhere at the tip of his tongue. He just can't seem to shake it off and say it.
So he settles for "You know why, Beefton."
And Beefton does know why, for the most part, anyways. Even before Sylvie knew how to Dream Big, Beefton was there. If you were to look back to Sylvie's extremely limited imaginary friend phase, you'd probably find crude crayon drawings of Dr. Beefton (his name written in what could be described as the three year old version of a doctor's signature). He's always been there, subconsciously or not. And he knows what happens to Sylvie when he falls asleep.
A classic Newton's Third Law of Magic. Every action has an equal opposite reaction. Every dream comes with a nightmare.
Sylvie's mind turns to that girl- Mera was her name, wasn't it?- and her... problem. It was similar to his, though as he feels the bruises and cuts bandaged along his collarbone from where she grabbed him, he can't exactly decide who has it worse. What was it that she said again?
Most people who train their epithet figure out new powers and ways to get around their weakness...
But not me.
"Sylvester, you're stuck in your own head again." Beefton pipes up, and Sylvie doesn't respond. "Are you thinking about the night-"
"No!" Sylvie cuts him off, and despite the fact Beefton wasn't tangible, he could see the disbelieving look. He sighs. "Maybe."
"There is no shame in discussing things that trouble you, Sylvester." Beefton says, and his tone sounds like the audible equivalent of trying not to shatter porcelain, which somehow makes Sylvie feel even worse. More breakable. "You of all people should understand that."
"I do! It's just..." Sylvie burrows deeper into his comforter, hiding his face from the glow in the dark stars and brain diagrams that decorate his room. His voice comes out muffled and quiet. "It's pathetic."
"Would you call a patient who suffers from frequent night terrors 'pathetic?'" Beefton responds, and Sylvie flinches under his blanket shield.
"No, of course not! But it's... different with me."
Sylvie swears he can feel his mattress sink near his feet and a warm, large hand settle gently on his shoulder, but he peeks his head out to see nobody there.
"Why?" Beefton asks.
Sylvie takes in a long, shaky breath.
"Because I'm supposed to be... better." And tears start running down his cheeks, but Sylvie can't be bothered to care. The phantom hand moves from his shoulders and starts softly stroking down his back, a motion close to petting, and Sylvie starts to laugh, almost pitifully. He's being coddled.
"Better? There is no shame in finding something fearsome, Sylvester-"
"Yeah, but it's...!" Sylvie trails off, fumbling for the word. He reflexively goes to push up his glasses as he thinks, accidentally jabbing himself in the eye before he lands on the word with a frown. "Dumb."
"I'm supposed to be 'so much more mature,' 'so much smarter,' 'so much more advanced,' 'so much better' than everyone else. That's all I'm supposed to be. That's all I've ever been supposed to be. Take that away, and what's left?"
The phantasmal hand stops cold in its tracks on his back.
"Nothing. Nothing but a dumb kid who still has nightmares." Sylvie finishes, before scooting forward, away from Beefton, resting his forehead against the coolness of his wall.
Beefton's quiet for a moment after that. A long moment. So long Sylvie thinks he's retreated back into his psyche for the night, until he feels the hand return, firm on his shoulder.
"Do you know why Beefton's here, Sylvester? Why you dreamed him up?"
"Because... I don't actually know why I made you a cow."
"Beefton doesn't exactly know either, but that wasn't what he was referring to." he says.
"When you were child- well, more child than you are now- hush." Beefton cuts Sylvie off as he opens his mouth to protest. "It is Beefton's turn to discuss psychological trauma."
"When you were child, and your par-" Beefton shudders and rewords his sentence. "Dr. and Dr. Ashling would reward you for 'adult' behavior, such as reading the dictionary or giving your stuffed sheep psychodynamics, and discipline you for 'childish' behavior, such as nightmares, you came to associate these feelings of pride and dejection with certain behaviors."
"If you're going to explain Skinner to me, I'll just go reread my old psych textbook."
"Dr. Beefton said hush. However, you and Beefton both are in agreement. Dr. and Dr. Ashling were, pardon Beefton's lack of tact, shitty parents, yes?"
Sylvie's quiet for a moment before barely nodding his head.
"And they are gone, also yes?"
Sylvie trembles, and in another, even smaller motion, nods.
He's gently lifted up into a sitting position in his bed, and he feels his upper body lean against something solid and real but looks utterly incorporeal. A large arm wraps around him and presses him into a hug.
"Dr. and Dr. Ashling have nothing for you anymore, Sylvester, including ideology. You have been forced into growing up too quickly, and you have been tricked into finding pride in that. They have stolen from you, robbed you, but there is still time. You are still a child-"
Sylvie buries his face in the intangible chest and heaves and sobs and wails. It's snotty and it's messy and it's wholly unprofessional but it's... cathartic.
"-and there's nothing shameful about that. You may have created Beefton, but Beefton is real. Beefton is here to take care of you, as was intended. And Beefton is here to tell you that nightmares and nightlights and sleeping with the plush animals from the Blyndeff's toy store are all 'behaviors' you're allowed to partake in."
Sylvie's crying has stopped and his breathing has slowed as Beefton softly rocks him back and forth. The glow in the dark stars on the ceiling cast a green shimmer on the tear tracks on his face that Beefton attempts to gently wipe away, before he slowly starts to lower Sylvie back into his bed.
"Dr. Beefton?"
"Yes, Sylvester?"
"Could I sleep in your bed tonight? Please?"
Sylvie feels a warm glow that starts in his limbic cortex and spreads down to his toes, and he knows Beefton is smiling.
"Beefton wouldn't have it any other way, little lamb."
Sylvie sleepily smiles.
"Dream Big..."