Any response is stuck in Michael’s throat for a couple moments. If he says something he’ll be admitting he’s awake, and then he’ll be officially awake and all tangled up with Wolfgang in bed while they’re wearing what is probably their pretty pink pajamas again, he can feel the silk under his hands, and those shorts are super short and their legs are really long and their hair (wavy and messy from being slept on, all the different shades of blonde hanging in their face, he can imagine it) is perfumed like citrus and liquor. It’s not fair. They keep doing this and it’s not fair. It makes him want to scream.
Who is he kidding. He can’t stay quiet. “Yeah, I’m up,” he admits. His foot twitches without his permission. Soon his whole body will join in the mutiny.