[ The hands on Aracha tighten. He's not awake, is he? No... he's just imagining things. That he's needed. It'd be fine for anyone else to do this, he's sure.
But he's glad it is him. You don't go from being so interwoven with someone else, being such a large part of their life, to nothing... or maybe you're supposed to, but Miguel can't. Either way, he's glad he found his... whatever he is. ]
It's okay. I got you.
[ Miguel doesn't know if comforting is needed, wanted, but there it is anyway; he's heading back to Eonia's quarters now. Leaving a sick, unconscious guy anywhere else is... not about to happen. He has to jostle the door open, which is a real measure of his exceptional talents (juggling a big man and a phone!) and then he—ah.
Where... can he leave him. The couch? No, he knows Aracha wouldn't want to be left in public. And the idea of leaving him in Aracha's "new" room doesn't occur to him; he didn't see which one he used, anyway. The only option left to him is...
Their room. It was their room. ]
...shock me.
[ His curse is breathed out more than anything, then he's steeling himself, opening the door and trying to lay Aracha down on the bed as quickly as possible. As if spending too much time in there will hurt (because it will, it does already). He refuses to look at the furniture they moved around, the various things they won from performances, the clothes he hadn't come back to get. He puts Aracha down on his usual side of the bed and... the idea was to vanish.
But he doesn't.
Instead, Miguel sits next to him, reaching out a hand to feel Aracha's forehead, running a thumb along his brow. He murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like a "sorry" when he draws his hand back.
God, he's tired. He's so tired. Exhaustion lines every part of his body like fleece; it's been days since he's had a restful sleep, and with a lifetime of extra memories rolling around like marbles in his mind, he's not going to be surprised if he never relaxes again. How can he? Half of him is doubled and yet, missing such an important component.
He hates this. He still loves him. His vision sways, and... shit, the pillow looks so comfortable. He knows it's comfortable. He's slept on them for months, when he wasn't using Aracha as one.
That's his last thought as his head hits the pillow and he's out like a light. Whoops. ]
no subject
But he's glad it is him. You don't go from being so interwoven with someone else, being such a large part of their life, to nothing... or maybe you're supposed to, but Miguel can't. Either way, he's glad he found his... whatever he is. ]
It's okay. I got you.
[ Miguel doesn't know if comforting is needed, wanted, but there it is anyway; he's heading back to Eonia's quarters now. Leaving a sick, unconscious guy anywhere else is... not about to happen. He has to jostle the door open, which is a real measure of his exceptional talents (juggling a big man and a phone!) and then he—ah.
Where... can he leave him. The couch? No, he knows Aracha wouldn't want to be left in public. And the idea of leaving him in Aracha's "new" room doesn't occur to him; he didn't see which one he used, anyway. The only option left to him is...
Their room. It was their room. ]
...shock me.
[ His curse is breathed out more than anything, then he's steeling himself, opening the door and trying to lay Aracha down on the bed as quickly as possible. As if spending too much time in there will hurt (because it will, it does already). He refuses to look at the furniture they moved around, the various things they won from performances, the clothes he hadn't come back to get. He puts Aracha down on his usual side of the bed and... the idea was to vanish.
But he doesn't.
Instead, Miguel sits next to him, reaching out a hand to feel Aracha's forehead, running a thumb along his brow. He murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like a "sorry" when he draws his hand back.
God, he's tired. He's so tired. Exhaustion lines every part of his body like fleece; it's been days since he's had a restful sleep, and with a lifetime of extra memories rolling around like marbles in his mind, he's not going to be surprised if he never relaxes again. How can he? Half of him is doubled and yet, missing such an important component.
He hates this. He still loves him. His vision sways, and... shit, the pillow looks so comfortable. He knows it's comfortable. He's slept on them for months, when he wasn't using Aracha as one.
That's his last thought as his head hits the pillow and he's out like a light. Whoops. ]