Chapter Text
Il fait trop froid…
Jacques makes out their bedroom through a static-y haze. Although the winds from above blow gently, their frigidness claws at his skin. “Éteignez-le,” flings itself into the spotlight of his flickering mind. It stirs his partly unconscious body to move.
He wriggles out of the blankets, hauling himself out of bed. Hobbling, his arms immediately meet the wall as he throws himself forward. He feels around for the fan switch, though his stubbornly clumsy body doesn’t make it easy for him. Sparks of frustration gather inside his gut as his eyes land on the switch, but his hand does not. Just a little too far, and he grabs air. Too close and his fingers crash into the wall. The longer he struggles, the weaker his bad leg feels. More sensitive. Raw. Are you serious? He hasn't even done anything today and his nerves are already being a thorn in his side. It's not an urgent call, but it adds to his utter annoyance. Exhaling and rolling his eyes, Jacques tries again. His palm finally meets the little rectangular knob and pushes it down. Humming he didn’t notice before promptly becomes silent, and the ceiling fan slows its rotations.
Satisfaction cools the embers inside him. He stumbles home, crawling atop the stacked mattresses. Peeling off the blankets, he lays down on his side and drapes them back over himself. It doesn’t take much shifting around for him to get settled, partly because exhaustion is grateful for any laying position and partly because the sheets feel like they're grazing raw flesh on his thigh. After slinging his arm over his best friend beside him, he sinks back into sleep.
***
Jacques thinks again.
The cheap plastic clock ticks on the wall. Something far away hums like the buzz of typical building operations. Unmoving, he opens his eyes. Everything is still in a dark haze. Jacques is met with the sight of his arm still laid atop of Viktor, who hasn’t moved an inch either. He’s still flat on his back with his hands intertwined over his torso. His chest rises and falls slightly, and his brows rest easily atop his closed eyes. Like a corpse in a coffin.
Mm. Tu dors encore? Il doit être très tôt, alors.
Although he recognizes the duties of today are laid upon him, Jacques continues to simply exist for the time being. He focuses on the sensations around him. The thick, fluffy comforter is still draped over them both. Half his face continues to press into the thin pillow. Jacques shifts his weight in bed and fastens his hold on Viktor’s side. He stares forward at nothing in particular as his eyes adjust to the dark.
It’s a moment frozen in time. That’s why he doesn’t feel so groggy; Nothing is immediately nagging at or shouting at or blinding him. There’s a difference between opening your eyes and waking up. And there’s a period, however long, between them. When that period is rushed, it doesn’t go well. But he’s had time.
Jacques slowly pushes himself up. His bedhead springs up as it always does before floating back down. He leans to the side to catch a glimpse out the window; The city is still dark, although painted in a navy blue. Some people say this city never sleeps, but it feels as if he’s the only one awake.
His gaze then turns to the clock. Even though the hands are muddled in the dark, Jacques can make out the hour hand being before 5. And the minute hand? It’s… a tick past 10. 51. It’s 4:51 am.
The bed calls his name, and he submits. He nestles back down into his spot and rolls on his side. Figuring he’d wake up soon anyway, Jacques throws a leg over Viktor and reclines. And just after he closes his eyes, Jacques senses the rustling of consciousness come to his friend. He feels the body under him shift and wriggle.