Michael’s eyes don’t open. If he looks, it might change something. It might end something. He lies still in the relative silence, chest rising and falling against the pressure of Wolfgang’s hand as he waits for his thoughts to resolve. It seems like it could take days. He wishes he could stay here, unmoving, until the end of it.
After a minute his hand moves from their face, arm wrapping around them again. He hadn’t woken up too long ago and can’t imagine himself falling asleep again so soon, but already he feels drained, and his body is comfortable here—or as comfortable as it could be anywhere, considering gravity’s hateful effect on his bruising. Maybe he should be more nervous about this. This kind of thing—resting together in an embrace—is more intimate than anything else he and Wolfgang have done. Maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow and have a panic attack about it. Right now, though, his brain can’t manage to take it into consideration along with everything else. It ranks only as a footnote.
“Thanks,” he whispers, because there’s nothing else to say. They both already know the rest.