#allmothered

Ask Meme: What are the Vibes?? -- @allmothered

@allmothered​  »  [ AWAKE ]:     the sender, unable to sleep, gets up to go for a walk, and finds that the receiver is also unable to sleep.

hours tick by. it’s something to be conscious of now: time.  the literal, not figurative interpretation of. the sun sets; the sun rises and yet hardly did he know there were numbers assigned to each and every moment.  a midnight, a noon, a half past, and something called a rush hour that still right out of his fumbling grasp.   

ever so, there is a familiar ache in his bones, twinges that creep on his arms, and joints that rattle - he gets to name it now. fingers tap the focus planted (gingerly) along his temple:  02:00AM. whatever that meant.  but that settling scream in the din of night, the rampant shake that both him and ersa endured, the coiled fingertips that yank and demand... 2AM, it had a name now between the snarls and the shrieks, the scampering bare feet into the middle of the dusty road to just escape hollering. 

seems fair, he supposes, with jaw clicking tight and pale eyes blinking faster than the sweltering memory can form.  something as unremarkable deserves an unremarkable marker ( ‘ don’t do that to yourself ’   — what do you know, ersa  ) 

and he reaches for a tankard with mead now turned warm and flat before stopping short with staggered palm.  a soft promise remains, something that he told himself afters scraping his sister’s knee, after they were no longer under that roof and out for themselves - he wouldn’t ... he wouldn’t.   

it’s the footfalls that snap him out of a late night reverie, hand snatching back and shoulders dropping with a quick jerk of his head.  like a forge flame burning bright, he’d know her anywhere and judging by the weary... well, wearier look she bore, it’s hard to feel bad for himself.  

“  can’t sleep  ? ”   he offers obviously, a meek chuckle guising whatever plaintive emotion wore harsh before. before she can answer, before she can rebuttal him or scold him into being awake at this hour, like his body doesn’t remember every single night. . .   “    yeah, me neither.  hey, uh, since we’re both up, how about a game of strike  ?  if you’re up for it. not saying you have to but it’s a way to pass the time.  ”  he doesn’t wait to clear a space, doesn’t wait to remove the full tankard to the floor, forgotten for now.    change the routine, change the memory - rather than sleepless, rather than painful, maybe for a change something new. something with her.  a new way to define 2AM. 

❝              do  you  make  a  habit  of  picking  battles  you  can’t  win  ?  ❞  more  rhetorical  than  anything  else,  the  question  is  voiced  passively,  velveteen  tone  full  to  the brim  of  disinterest.  still,  she’s  never  taken  any  chances  and  isn’t  about  to  start  now.

so  her  stance  remains  unmoving,  the  balls  of  her  feet  pointedly  rooted  in  her  kata  ;  a  clear  DICHOTOMY  between  body  language  and  speech.

his forehead taps down against hers, noses barely brushing and by the forge, he’s convinced his grip is bruising.   “  not sure where to put my hands, ”  it comes in a breath of laughter, unbelievable and wild  - errant urges cast to the wayside and he’s a man wanting finding solace in the most simple of things.    this right now ?  it’s perfect.    

“  you, uh,  . . .    you tell me if i overstep, just lay me out or something. i know you’re capable, ”  of that much and more. teeth worry a bottom lip - he’s stupidly sober, a snarl ringing in the back of his mind, liquid courage would ruin this, ruin everything and he knows it.   “  i  just . . .  i just want you to know that this ?   this is fine. better than fine, great even, i  . . .  forge, i’m bad at words.    ”