@falsecop said: bed : my muse wakes up in the same bed as your muse with little recollection of the night before. ❰ one word prompts, accepting. ❱
early morning sun filters through the cracks between the boards that cover the tower’s many windows. slow eddies of dust flicker and glint in the cool light, caught in a draft they likely won’t ever escape from, and her fingers lift as if she can reach out and touch them. there’s a hint of half-dreamed reverence to it — she might yet still be asleep the way her eyes play tricks on her, tracking the whorls of dust as they shift and shimmer, all but reaching right back to her.
a half second of panic bursts in her chest as the dust all but shapes itself into the idea of fingers to mirror her own and she’s centimetres from making contact when a hand stretches its fingers flat against her stomach.
she jerks awake and the dust spirals away, scattering with the sudden movement.
it takes everything in her not to immediately clamber off the bed and across the room. she doesn’t remember falling asleep. she knows it’s only been hours but it feels simultaneously like days and lifetimes have passed in the same breadth of time. remembering the night before feels like trying to remember six months ago and it doesn’t sound entirely wrong inside her head to say there’s no real difference.
the hand belongs to him. there’s no real question of who, of course it’s him. it’s just that she’s forgotten in her six-hour-six-month sleep that he’s been there with her the whole time. it takes a concentrated effort to turn her head back far enough to see if she’s tipped him into wakefulness too. the sudden relief that washes over her when her eyes find his in the grey light is almost shameful. she doesn’t want to examine it.
there’s just the one bed, but that doesn’t explain why even only half-awake she's glad for it. slowly, careful under his hand lest she scare it away, she turns where she lays on her half of the cot until their knees touch, until there’s nothing between them but the span of empty space and the bridge he’s built with his arm. it says something, but she’s not sure what.
she builds her own bridge to answer him in silence. dream fingers, real fingers, dust eddies of her own as the centimetres close and ghost-light she touches the curve of his chin in the murky haze of morning. for a brief moment there’s no secrets between them, no convenient lies or half-truths or pretenses to dance under. for a brief moment there’s just the searing light of possibility and despite everything else going on outside the bounds of their little bed she can’t help but feel like this is right.
she doesn’t smile, but the sentiment is there all the same when her thumb grazes the scruff that hides his jawline. she feels like she hasn’t seen him in years. maybe she’s never really seen him at all. maybe this is all that really matters, for as long as this moment lasts.
