it’s ironic that the demigod of sleep tends to not sleep that much over all. he carries his sleepy bones daily, pushing himself to the limits of exhaustion before he has to crash and sleep for a few hours and start all over again. it’s been that way since he was little. sleep, for him, was never a safe space—the land of dreams could easily turn into a land of nightmares, an inescapable hellscape.
but a fox told him that he is strong enough to wake himself up, that he’s enough.
and that’s enough for him.
he sits on top of his bedroll, some of his things neatly tucked underneath it, and balances a black and gold dagger between his fingertips. the sands pour back and forth like an hourglass, shifting the two opposing colors back and forth. it brings a small smile to his face.
looking up, he sees maslo watching him. he twists his wrist and the dagger moves, point pointing toward the son of pan.
“can i help you with something?” romeo questions, arching an eyebrow.