That's what the sign says.
"The Architect"
Stephen/Hugh, vaguely; about staying awake so hard your eyes hurt.
The first night, he simply forgets to go to bed: a few cups of coffee here, a book there, and the sun's sprawling its way towards the house before he's even half-yawned. And here, he might as well keep going, take a shower (and another cup of coffee), nothing but a slow stiff-armed stretch and a newspaper scraped off wet pavement separating him from the rest of the day. There are so many things to be done.
The second night, he lies in bed, eyes scrunched closed, toes wriggled deep into the blankets. He counts the creaks in the pipes. 6 AM, and it's a brand new day: rise and shine, rise and shine, reflections stumbling their way out of the mirror.
He wonders vaguely how much caffeine it takes to kill you (and he should know that one, really he should) as his pulse tries to push its way out of his wrists and chest after his third cup of coffee and his sixth cigarette. He's brushed his teeth four times today and his mouth still feels dry and awful. He wonders, briefly, if he could actually die; he does certainly (occasionally) feel like he might. That slow dropping nausea, shivering hands and tapping feet, eyes sore, blinking, blinking, his tongue pressed against the bile in his throat. He finds time to answer questions, oh, he could talk all day, about everything, so many things -
He drifts off for fifteen minutes during the afternoon news and dreams about hospitals; later, in a cab, he dreams about the Guggenheim, clean white staircase spiralling up and out.
The third night, he starts reading the encyclopedia. He falls asleep at 'Argentina' and wakes up five minutes before his alarm clock rings, his forehead white-marked with the imprint of his favorite fountain pen.
The fourth night, he leaves a message on Hugh's voicemail (I think I'm suffering from a terminal case of avoidance) and immediately regrets it. He leaves a second message: funny, isn't it, the sort of thoughts that pop into one's head late at night, Hugh?
Four minutes later, Hugh sends a text message (and he spares a moment to admire the perfect grammar): Liars are more convincing when they don't want everyone to know they're lying.
He flips through the encyclopedia to 'magpie' and takes a picture of the entry, sends it to Hugh, spares a moment to marvel at technology.
"All the kids are holding their conversations in spoken words these days. Hot new trend," Hugh says when the phone finally rings again.
"Mmm?" Stephen manages through the cotton lodged in his mouth.
"Trouble sleeping?"
"Something like that."
A pause. There are so many things he could say, apologies and explanations, a dozen and one little chances. Another pause, and another, and he hears Hugh start to sigh and there it is, that's that gone then.
"Take care of yourself," Hugh says softly.
"I'll try," Stephen says, and "I miss you," and maybe that's enough for now.
He lies with the phone absent and hollow against his ear - what marvelous technology. If he sleeps, he dreams about atoms, about flies in cathedrals, so much buzzing in such empty space.