아프더라도 너만 있으면 돼

J doesn't dream. Or, if he does, it's nothing that registers as he starts to wake, nothing that lingers or haunts him. With that being the case, it doesn't much matter if he did or not; it's a relief, even to a mind not yet awake, not to remember.

It's confusing, a little, waking up here. Even before he opens his eyes, he knows things aren't what they were yesterday morning. The light is different. The bed is different, too, bigger and cleaner and much more occupied, though that, at least, makes perfect sense. He doesn't need to be alert to know this, to recognize how it feels to wake up beside S. That sinks in before anything else — that S is here, that he's safe, even before he processes what he needs to be safe from. Even as that comes back to him, it feels astonishingly distant.

He hasn't slept this well in a long time. As he shifts and sighs, fighting the urge to roll over and go back to sleep, he finds he's still exhausted, but in a better way now, the pleasant ache of yesterday's exertion, rather than the insomnia dullness he's grown accustomed to. Being rested is new. He shifts closer to S instead, burying his face against S's shoulder. He isn't even sure if his boyfriend is awake yet, only that that wakes him up a little. His boyfriend. If he doesn't open his eyes, in spite of all the differences, he can stay here, time unwound, back to where they're meant to be.

But he can feel S under him, the shift in his breathing, the tiny things that tell him instinctively that they're both awake after all. "Hi," he mumbles, eyes still closed, making an indignant little whine at having to be awake. Even that's nice, though, to be annoyed at having woken naturally, rather than breaking abruptly from a nightmare or not having slept at all, and to do so tucked against S. His presence is reason enough for J finally to open his eyes, his expression softening as he blinks to try and clear his blurry vision, his voice softening too. "Morning."