the_gene_genie | (no subject)

Hours later, he couldn't honestly say if he's had any sleep or not. It's like hovering on the edge of consciousness, one foot in the land of the awake and lucid, the other firmly planted in the realm of nightmares. He jerks from images of blood and that gun, and his family, to Alex lying on his chest, comfortingly warm in the crook of his arm. Never awake, never asleep, and it gets to a point he can't stand anymore. During one of the more aware stretches, he jabs himself with a fingernail to make it stop, using the pain to bring himself back. He extracts himself from her, and heads to the bathroom. It's probably a good thing he destroyed the mirror. He doesn't want to see what he looks like at the moment.

The idea of lying down again is unbearable. He needs to move, but he's still too tired. Should go for a walk or something, but he can't contemplate dragging himself all the way downstairs and outside. He pulls his dressing gown from the wardrobe and lights a fag instead, pacing around the other end of the room a bit. Eventually, he sits down and sticks the TV on, flicking through endless channels (one of which, he notes vaguely, seems to be aimed at squid) until he finds football. England even. Euro 2012.

It'll do. He mutes the sound so she isn't disturbed, folds himself up in one corner of the sofa, and stares blankly at the screen. By the time the game's up, the night should be over. It feels like the first step on a long road, getting through this endless night. If he can do that, everything else should be a doddle.

Threaded | Flat

She sleeps, but not with ease. After he leaves, she rolls over and balls herself up in the duvet, just like she used to do when she was twelve. Evan used to call her caterpillar, she'd cocoon herself up so tightly.

She hears him moving around and waits for him to return. When he doesn't, the distance takes on a weight, making it hard for her to draw air into her lungs. She closes her eyes and tries to still the chaos in her head. He's just there, in front of the telly, not lost, not somewhere she can't lay eyes on him.

He looks like hell. Like a man who's visited his own shallow, unmarked grave and is now coming to grips with it. His eyes aren't focused on anything in the room.

After a long while of just watching him, the pragmatist in her can't take it anymore. She hauls herself up, and disappears into the bath. A cool cloth on her face helps most of the puffiness around her eyes, though the redness isn't going anywhere it seems. She brushes out her hair, leaving it down and simply tucking the length behind her ears. Close enough for government work.

When she emerges, she eyes the room for the house phone, or some other way to contact the front desk. What she finds is the pneumatic tube system, and the tiny handbook with it. She scribbles a note, and sends it down, and then joins him, taking up a place on the other end of the sofa.

'Who's winning?'