Content Warning for Suicidal ideation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, dead bodies & burials, nightmares.
(Ao3 Link)
All of the schools were up late.
Storm wizards were far too caffeinated for their own good, working on their current project. Their work was sloppy, something the perfectionist in them would hate come tomorrow morning. They would end up covered in smudges of graphite and charcoal and ink, none of it quite matching the purple-gray of the bags under their eyes. They'd yawn, laughing in that half-delirious state only acquired by the truly sleep deprived, and promise just a few more minutes, it's almost done, it's almost perfect. They wouldn't talk about why they won't sleep, why they have to work themself into exhaustion. The dreams of drowning, sinking deep into the same abyssal depths their spells come from. The dreams of crackling lightning, stretching unfathomably across the entire sky, the ones where they'd wake with electricity sparking from their fingers and through their veins.
Ice wizards were able to get away with it because of their reputation, their need to complete their assignments perfectly. Long nights spent studying, ink smudging their stiff, cold fingers. At some point in the night they'd move from their essays and worksheets into studying, rereading passages until their eyes blurred, marking pages for further review. They'd yawn, and then remind themself they can't sleep, they'll fall behind. Every other thaumaturge was hard at work at the late hour and they had to be the best of them. They wouldn't examine why they wanted to be the best, what they had to prove, just that they needed to prove it. They wouldn't mention the dreams, freezing in an endless blizzard, curling up in the snow and feeling it pile over them, finally feeling warm for the first time in years only to drift off into the waking world again. They wouldn't mention that every time, it felt more like a temptation than anything else, and they were terrified to acknowledge that some part of them wanted to sleep forever in the warmth under the snow.
Fire wizards had a dozen reasons why they were up late. Maybe it was a sleepover with their peers, all of them chatting late into the night, sometimes with the game that whoever fell asleep first would be pranked. Maybe they were finishing an assignment last minute, having procrastinated until they realized it was due tomorrow morning. Whatever the reason, they were the type to get giggly just past midnight, more susceptible to that sleep deprived delirium than most. They'd laugh and joke, brushing off any insistence that they sleep. They'd yawn and it'd be another joke, pointing at others who followed suit. There was no need to talk about why they weren't sleeping. The dreams of burning things they hold dear, the strange relief of being unbound by anything overwhelmed by the horror of everything's destruction at their hands. Watching priceless things smolder and ignite, a massive bonfire of beloved objects and people alike, as if they were in any way equivalent in value. All from their fire.
Death wizards were never asked why they weren't sleeping. Everyone knew why. They were haunted in a literal sense, from spirits in need of rest and ghosts that loved annoying necromancers. They had seen so much death, had dealt with the aftermath that others rarely saw, and could not be expected to sleep normally. They stayed up late doing assignments, maybe, but they might also be preparing a body. People died every day, and not even other necromancers could always handle the work that came with it. Long late nights spent preparing bodies for burial, painstakingly keeping to one of the traditions from the dozens of cultures and religions Wizard City's people were a part of. They'd yawn, scent of flowers and chemicals almost lulling them to sleep, whispering an apology to the recently departed. They avoided dreams of death, either messages from spirits or simply memories. Maybe they hadn't even seen those deaths, but the mind was a wonderful and terrible thing and could easily reconstruct from what they had been told. It felt disrespectful to not want to see it, to refuse to see what had been another person's reality, their last moments. And so it was easier to stay up, and hope the endless void embraced them when they finally passed out.
Myth wizards had schoolwork to do. Cyrus Drake was known to be a demanding professor, so it was rarely remarked upon. At some point these conjurers wouldn't really be working to perfect Professor Drake's assignments, knowing that even their best would never match up to his exacting standards. Instead they could read and say it was studying. Histories from other worlds, mythologies from other cultures, meticulous notes taken just so they could justify the simple happiness that reading brought them. In their sleep deprived state, they might even dog-ear the pages as they yawned, a sin to their fully awake mind, yet they were too tired to reach for a bookmark. It was understandable to try and avoid the dreams they had, the visions. Futures and pasts they never should see, visions that they can't help but burden themself with and feel responsible for, even if they can't change it. Especially if they can't change it, watching it happen and knowing that fate was never as malleable as others thought. It was easier to read, to pretend like they hadn't seen the events in their history books.
Life wizards needed to stay awake. There was so much to study, and if they couldn't learn it all they might be the reason someone died. If they didn't learn it all, they'd fall behind and their peers would find them an easy target or weak link. Long nights of studying, staring at anatomy diagrams of species they'd never even met in case they did meet one day and their healing magic was needed. Long nights thinking about how easily people could die, how hard it was to save them. Disregard the fact that being so sleep deprived made it so easy to make a mistake. Disregard that no one was demanding they be able to save everyone, only that they did their best. Disregard that Professor Wu never held them to this standard, neither did the previous Professor Drake, it was solely the product of the students' hierarchy and competition. They'd yawn and scowl down at the textbook in hand, trying to fight the inevitable. If they fell asleep, they'd dream of nature, listening to the Song of Creation trying to lull them to a sense of safety. It wasn't that the dream was terrible, it was just that reality would come creeping in and they'd have to tear themself away from it, which hurt so much that feeling that peace wasn't worth it.
Balance wizards spent long nights learning dead languages, translating old texts, trying to keep the past alive. To not let it erode away into nothingness. To remain relevant, needed, wanted, learned from. They would murmur in tongues no one else understood, the feeling of sand on their tongue either from magic or sleep deprivation, they didn't know anymore. They'd yawn and admit they needed to sleep, but meditating was basically the same thing anyway, right? They didn't want to dream. They didn't want to see these past civilizations so clearly, living in them, watching them be alive, speak their languages and understand who they were. Because they'd wake up, and they'd forget. They'd struggle in vain to try and remember, and they'd fail. It was so hard to remember dreams, after all.
Their poorly written assignments and half-forgotten studying wouldn't be worth the time spent damaging their mind and body. Eventually they'd all succumb to sleep, eventually the dreams would come for them anyway, and any amount of sleep lost beforehand meant nothing.
