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Being fast asleep after a taxing altercation was not surprising, it's just been a while since you've found yourself in this position. A quote rings inside your head; 'These limitations are necessary for everyone, and so is the attention for recovery.'
Having apparently, expended so much of yourself to justify being here, you would've expected to wake up less confused at least. Instead, you found a lethargy inducing room, dimmed for comfort, heavily clinical, and a need for water.
You move to lap at your dryness, teeth and skin raking to complain. You are not bothered by this, though you must eradicate the sensation. The noise of a neglected faucet, running gently from distance did not help you waken yourself faster.
Though there are a few things to be said about how peaceful it could've been though, when the fog lifts and the first immediate response you're greeted with isn't pain.
Not under the first register of your fingertips at least, it felt neutral, soft cotton neutral.
Hearing anything would've been distracting already, that running water, being unable to move and stop it— but the noise that found you next was more relentless, and far more forgiving. Beyond frosted windowglass, a gentle chirping accompanies the song of rustling of the leaves.
It had been raining.
Then there's a presence, not the slow awakening of your limbs but a genuine presence of another by your side. A presence you'd hate to recognize anywhere, more intolerable than hearing the bowels of the abyss.
You get yourself acquainted with the grooves of the ceiling for a few moments, before confronting this possibility and closing your eyes;
"Fuck you." You spat. Coarse, the air. It tasted light and dry.
There is no immediate response, you don't expect any.
But it was indeed them. Craning against the stiffness of your entire, meekly sustained body, your eyes were met with a familiar figure.
Fast asleep, making miracles. Even when it's just inventing new ways to sleep in the most painful ways possible.
"..."
You wish you could do soemthing, to curse them out, will your limbs into hauling them out that same window and continue in the bushes, under the rain and dewy trees. Though that kind of humor could only be entertained had you been even more delirious.
Unfortunately you're still sane. Sane and awake enough to finally feel the warmth of a hand, seeping into yours, the grains of time, tracing straight from theirs to yours. Because of course, why not?
Sure, no. It makes sense.
Total sense.
There's an urge to exchange that act of affection for your own vision, your hands on their neck. Frustration boiling into waves as times passes, and it settles.
They're insane. That was nothing new to you, the following coughs, and the gentle stilling of your heart spoke nothing of it.