He flutters into existence – that’s the most apt description of how it feels as he wakes up, his body heavy from sleep still. He hasn’t been dreaming (been doing a lot of that with his eyes open last night as it were) but even so, the faint echoes of church bells seem otherworldly. Disruptive, too, once his mind catches up. Eyes flying open, he sits up with a startle, eyes fixed on the nearest windows, his whole body stiff as a board. What… oh God, it’s Sunday. It’s Sunday and he’s slept too long, far too long. Around him, the sheepskins feel almost luxuriously warm from his body heat, from Claude’s too. Claude… who’s…
Head whipping around fast, he almost believes himself alone for a second’s worth of additional panic. But no – sitting over there with his back to him, Claude’s stretching out his body in a way that ought to be physiologically impossible. Staring at him, his mind screeching at him to get up and run, be late if he must, stand in the back, go on - he slowly settles back against the floor once more. Stretches out his legs, a convulsive stiffness making his limbs seem shorter somehow. Stuck in a way. Not the worst description, really.
There’ll be an excuse, yet another, and Vincent will return to a life full of lies and deceit – except this time, he won’t be a mirror to the world will he? He can’t possibly go back to that, to reflecting other people’s desires back at them. He can’t. Toes curling, he sighs loudly and runs a hand through his hair, strands sticking up in all possible directions. “I should have asked you to wake me up.” There’s no reproach in his voice, only a faint hint of regret. Looking Claude over, he leans back slightly, drawing the sheepskin tighter around his lower body. The air’s cool around him and in a moment, he’ll probably have to get up and get dressed. In a moment.
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Head whipping around fast, he almost believes himself alone for a second’s worth of additional panic. But no – sitting over there with his back to him, Claude’s stretching out his body in a way that ought to be physiologically impossible. Staring at him, his mind screeching at him to get up and run, be late if he must, stand in the back, go on - he slowly settles back against the floor once more. Stretches out his legs, a convulsive stiffness making his limbs seem shorter somehow. Stuck in a way. Not the worst description, really.
There’ll be an excuse, yet another, and Vincent will return to a life full of lies and deceit – except this time, he won’t be a mirror to the world will he? He can’t possibly go back to that, to reflecting other people’s desires back at them. He can’t. Toes curling, he sighs loudly and runs a hand through his hair, strands sticking up in all possible directions. “I should have asked you to wake me up.” There’s no reproach in his voice, only a faint hint of regret. Looking Claude over, he leans back slightly, drawing the sheepskin tighter around his lower body. The air’s cool around him and in a moment, he’ll probably have to get up and get dressed. In a moment.