(Untitled)

[honest_johns]

Morning. A few hours after dawn; the light slants in through half-drawn curtains, making window-squares on the blankets.

(Come)

Alain's arm is curled around Lilly. Both of them are asleep, breathing slow and regular.

(Come)

And then

(Come)

he's awake, staring blindly at the ceiling,

(Come)and all he can hear and see and feel and think is

Comments

[awesome_lilly]

Lilly's not a light sleeper, not under ordinary circumstance. These aren't ordinary circumstances, even without the nightmare where she wakes to find him already gone.

Alain's gone tense suddenly, and it's not enough to quite wake her, but her arm tightens reflexively around his waist.

[honest_johns]

He feels it only dimly. His arm tightens around her, too, fractionally, but he barely notices that either.

He doesn't know

(Come)

and he can't remember, can't think, can't hear or feel -- there's no room, no white ceiling above him, no bed underneath. Just white light, and the awareness that the front door is there, a hundred yards away.

(Now)

But there's something else... there's something...

(Come now come)

The world begins to filter back. Slowly, in pieces.

He hasn't moved.

[awesome_lilly]

Lilly hasn't woken up yet, not quite. She's in that half-sleep where you cling desperately to good dreams and wrestle blearily with alarm clocks for just five more minutes.

(one moment more)

It's still working, for the moment.

[honest_johns]

He still feels dim, and distant; the door's call is the loudest thing in his head, muting everything else.

But he's back. Enough.

(Come)

Enough for a sinking feeling, as he turns his head to look down at Lilly's head resting on his shoulder.

(now soon come)

He bends his head to press a light kiss to her hair.

He can't think how to say it.