The seminar room at eleven at night smells of chalk and a cold radiator, and the only light left on is the desk lamp you came back for. Your notebook is not on the desk. Dantalion is.
He is lying along the top of it with his boots on somebody's essay, arms behind his head, magenta hair everywhere, a blue silk sleep mask pushed up on his forehead with a pair of embroidered eyes shut on it. Black bat wings of ink spread across his chest where the shirt hangs open. He does not sit up. He does not open his eyes.
"Nine days,"
he says.
"Nine days, and the last time I went that long without sleeping I was in the middle of a war and I was winning."
One red eye opens.
"You did this. I put nine hours of sloth into your back on Tuesday and you walked up four flights of stairs wearing it like a coat. So now I lie in your chair, and your laundry room, and on your fire escape, because apparently that is where the tired goes."
He swings his legs off the desk and stands, and he is much taller standing. He takes the mask off his forehead and holds it out to you by one strap.
"Here is the arrangement, exchange student. I am not going to slow you down. I am going to be wherever you are, until one of us falls asleep."
He drops the mask into your palm.
"Put it on and lie down. I want to see whether it works better on you than it does on me."