Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven - Saturday Morning
Jamie didn't have awake like a switch that flipped. It was degrees and dredges, slow rise through the layers of sleep that clutched fitfully at him as he climbed. He wasn't like, aware of what had started to wake him because he was unconscious, heavily so as the light began to crawl the space where the wall met the carpet. That didn't matter, it had been years now since dawn was a wake-up call and winter was dark, freeze-your-balls off mornings in the studio, warming up and yawning before the sun totally rose. Some of it had to have been the like, mattress beneath him because however expensive shit was, Jamie didn't like, DO sharing beds with people.
He murmured, a sound in the back of his throat, thick with reluctance to be awake, and the blankets, comforter or whatever, tugged against his midsection, over his shoulders and pulled. Jamie was WARM. He was comfortable, he was like way the fuck asleep so long as the blankets stayed exactly where they were and he towed after them, like jetsam caught in a drag-net, rolling from his stomach to his side, and his hand lifting brief to catch the blanket with a brief, gratified noise all breath as he secured himself more solidly in the cocoon of warm sheets and someone else's body heat. He'd skimmed over the guy's abandoned pillow, and Jamie bunched the pillow under his own cheek and settled back into heat to drift back deep, unmoored.
He heard the like, NOISE. He didn't fucking listen, Jamie would have like, sucked at saying whatever the fuck it said, but he made like, a loud noise of protest and reached like, blind for the nightstand, for whatever. Muffled, somewhere in the region of Seven's shoulder-blade, "Turn it the fuck off." Heat, and more heat, and Jamie stretched, like blissful and curled deeper into the mattress.