[ he sleeps in snatches, fragments of moments tossed about the sheets like the maps he's drawn up by hand and the missives he's gathered. paper curls like the thick of his hair as he breathes in against the pillows on side of the bed he does not often occupy, the faint scent of oils and balms left hours after its resident left.
he'd done the same back then, he thinks. he'd done the same in the nights that eclipsed the days that stretched golden and endless, worry lurching hungry and restless from the bottom of his chest. he hadn't known where kaeya had gone in those hours that felt as though weeks, hadn't known of the world that would await them both at the tail of their childhoods. he hadn't known he would love him anyway, as hopeless as before and hopeless even still. no matter the unbroken weave of fate— he knows it silly to think on it. irrational, to believe that kaeya should have found something else in the deserts to discard the life he's built here against the odds of all and any.
the child he once was still dreads either way.
and so, perhaps it is not too unexpected that the barest tap against the thick panes of his window stirs him. there is no greenery that stretches its arms far enough to scratch against his corner of the manor (has never been) and already he's unspooling himself from the linens and shuffling papers off of the bed. they scatter about the pale of his bare feet as he sets them against the floor, wobbles uncertainly.
he's dressed in unseemly nightclothes, oversized and worn to softness, but it doesn't matter to him. not in this moment. and it is only because—
the figure that greets him is known as unlatches the window, pushes it outward enough to allow them entry. ]
In, [ he commands, though it comes as more a grumble. he leans, one hand against the windowsill and one hand reaching out. his fingers clasp for any bit of kaeya, the warm dip of his waist or the bird bones of his wrist. sleep drunk and warmed as he is, he squints against the sliver of the moon and seeks to haul him in. whether it be to rest against the polished floors of his bedroom or into the circle of his arms - it doesn't matter to him. what matters is that he is here, insufferable as he might be always.
he missed him, of course. but, even with dark shadows that smudge beneath his eyes, he won't tell him with his mouth. ]
( post-sumeru. )
he'd done the same back then, he thinks. he'd done the same in the nights that eclipsed the days that stretched golden and endless, worry lurching hungry and restless from the bottom of his chest. he hadn't known where kaeya had gone in those hours that felt as though weeks, hadn't known of the world that would await them both at the tail of their childhoods. he hadn't known he would love him anyway, as hopeless as before and hopeless even still. no matter the unbroken weave of fate— he knows it silly to think on it. irrational, to believe that kaeya should have found something else in the deserts to discard the life he's built here against the odds of all and any.
the child he once was still dreads either way.
and so, perhaps it is not too unexpected that the barest tap against the thick panes of his window stirs him. there is no greenery that stretches its arms far enough to scratch against his corner of the manor (has never been) and already he's unspooling himself from the linens and shuffling papers off of the bed. they scatter about the pale of his bare feet as he sets them against the floor, wobbles uncertainly.
he's dressed in unseemly nightclothes, oversized and worn to softness, but it doesn't matter to him. not in this moment. and it is only because—
the figure that greets him is known as unlatches the window, pushes it outward enough to allow them entry. ]
In, [ he commands, though it comes as more a grumble. he leans, one hand against the windowsill and one hand reaching out. his fingers clasp for any bit of kaeya, the warm dip of his waist or the bird bones of his wrist. sleep drunk and warmed as he is, he squints against the sliver of the moon and seeks to haul him in. whether it be to rest against the polished floors of his bedroom or into the circle of his arms - it doesn't matter to him. what matters is that he is here, insufferable as he might be always.
he missed him, of course. but, even with dark shadows that smudge beneath his eyes, he won't tell him with his mouth. ]