It is by the third time, that his sleep is disrupted.
Too insistent. Too curious. And he's being pulled into consciousness. Tugged into it. Lead. As he's shifting against it. Almost in sleepy protest, before the light and the cold creep in. Make themselves known. And what comfort and what rest is slipping past him, just long enough, for him to blearily open his eyes. To squint against the soft light of their room. All shapes and all colors slowly melting into focus. Clarifying, though -
Red.
And it catches his eye. Takes a moment to process, as he's blinking away sleep. As he's remembering what day it is. What time it might happen to be. And he's turning his wrist. Examining the thread that's tied (and too neatly) around his finger. The ring. (And he knows this significance. Knows the meaning of this finger. Acquainted with it; through study and through viruses. And part of him is murmuring warmth, though for what reason lies beyond him. Connected, and though he is not sure of it, to the pull that's on the other - )
End. And though he is able to see the tension, where it leads is unrevealed and uncertain. Dropping off after inches. At first, a trick of light, but - (this is a virus. And the answer is automatic. Quick, despite the grogginess that still sits rests against him. Within him. Silent and heavy. That leans against him, muttering that it is best to close his eyes, again. Regardless of curiosity. Regardless of - but, he isn't. And he can't. Not today.)
Not today. And he's pushing himself up, just a little. Feeling the pull of the thread, again. And though it takes a moment. And though it takes some willpower to push himself to sit up - he's managing it. Despite the cold. Despite the tempting warmth of the bed. The blankets - he's crooking his finger, with some note of curiosity. Some interest. Before gently (almost hesitantly) giving it a tug.
no subject
Too insistent. Too curious. And he's being pulled into consciousness. Tugged into it. Lead. As he's shifting against it. Almost in sleepy protest, before the light and the cold creep in. Make themselves known. And what comfort and what rest is slipping past him, just long enough, for him to blearily open his eyes. To squint against the soft light of their room. All shapes and all colors slowly melting into focus. Clarifying, though -
Red.
And it catches his eye. Takes a moment to process, as he's blinking away sleep. As he's remembering what day it is. What time it might happen to be. And he's turning his wrist. Examining the thread that's tied (and too neatly) around his finger. The ring. (And he knows this significance. Knows the meaning of this finger. Acquainted with it; through study and through viruses. And part of him is murmuring warmth, though for what reason lies beyond him. Connected, and though he is not sure of it, to the pull that's on the other - )
End. And though he is able to see the tension, where it leads is unrevealed and uncertain. Dropping off after inches. At first, a trick of light, but - (this is a virus. And the answer is automatic. Quick, despite the grogginess that still sits rests against him. Within him. Silent and heavy. That leans against him, muttering that it is best to close his eyes, again. Regardless of curiosity. Regardless of - but, he isn't. And he can't. Not today.)
Not today. And he's pushing himself up, just a little. Feeling the pull of the thread, again. And though it takes a moment. And though it takes some willpower to push himself to sit up - he's managing it. Despite the cold. Despite the tempting warmth of the bed. The blankets - he's crooking his finger, with some note of curiosity. Some interest. Before gently (almost hesitantly) giving it a tug.
What was connected would follow. Or not.