The tug is enough to alert him. To pull his attention. Listening to what may be on the end of it, before he might have seen them - what distance and what tension notably shrinking. Something he knew, somehow. Intuitively. (And it is footsteps that affirm his belief it was another - the manner and the weight of them. The feeling of them, that confirms that it is Asuka. If a tad more slowly than usual, as she quietly opens the door.)
He is not rising from the bed, but his eyes do turn to her. Flicker up. Not inclined to touch his feet down to the floor. Knowing the cold. Remarking, belatedly, on the feeling that bubbles up. Quicker than usual. That sits there, noticed. Comfortable. And not.
He might have known the story once; the significance and the meaning behind the string, but it had been lost. Buried beneath the weight of memories, still unremembered. The shadowy warmth of sleep, curling close and quiet. Beneath his skin. Into the fabric of his clothes. And on this morning, the pull for what (and he identifies it) endearment seems just a little stronger. A little more accessible, as he studies the string connects their fingers (that connects them) and murmurs, around the need to stretch. Quietly yawn. Still just waking up.
"...I am not entirely certain," and he's turning his wrist. Conscious of the tension. The almost-tug as he searches for a manner or a method in which it was tied, though the knot seems seamless. Endless. Not beginning or ending. The community's participation was obvious. However, the placement - the thread that melted into nothingness - it must have felt it appropriate to do something for the occasion. The holiday.
no subject
He is not rising from the bed, but his eyes do turn to her. Flicker up. Not inclined to touch his feet down to the floor. Knowing the cold. Remarking, belatedly, on the feeling that bubbles up. Quicker than usual. That sits there, noticed. Comfortable. And not.
He might have known the story once; the significance and the meaning behind the string, but it had been lost. Buried beneath the weight of memories, still unremembered. The shadowy warmth of sleep, curling close and quiet. Beneath his skin. Into the fabric of his clothes. And on this morning, the pull for what (and he identifies it) endearment seems just a little stronger. A little more accessible, as he studies the string connects their fingers (that connects them) and murmurs, around the need to stretch. Quietly yawn. Still just waking up.
"...I am not entirely certain," and he's turning his wrist. Conscious of the tension. The almost-tug as he searches for a manner or a method in which it was tied, though the knot seems seamless. Endless. Not beginning or ending. The community's participation was obvious. However, the placement - the thread that melted into nothingness - it must have felt it appropriate to do something for the occasion. The holiday.
At least, it was likely.