See, it was fine, Monty had everything under control. It was nice to know – or nice to remember; he’d known before – that he could trust Monty with anything. Everything. He couldn’t say that about anybody else.
Monty had asked a question, but Ishmael was too disoriented by the two of them (three of them) disapparating that it took him a moment to gather his thoughts. They were back in the house, a haphazard arrangement on the floor downstairs. By degrees, Ishmael’s head stopped the worst of its spinning. That achieved, he shoved the dead man carelessly off Monty, and rolled him roughly onto his front – so he wouldn’t keep staring – by hooking a foot under the corpse’s legs and flipping him.
That left him free to snuggle up against Monty again. “No,” Ishmael agreed, hazily, “but I feel like I could, if you’re here with me.” His eyes kept almost dropping shut at the idea of sleep, though he knew his body didn’t need it, that this was all some illusion of the intoxication; but he moved his hand to Monty’s chest and tucked his head in on his shoulder, comfortably hypnotised by the steady thread of Monty’s pulse. “You sleep, you know,” Ishmael told him seriously, like this was news. “It’s very annoying. And I always wonder what you dream about,” he said, wishing that being cradled like this would bring back that unconscious ability, at least. “If I could dream,” he added, muffled into Monty’s clothes, “I’d dream of you.”
Monty had asked a question, but Ishmael was too disoriented by the two of them (three of them) disapparating that it took him a moment to gather his thoughts. They were back in the house, a haphazard arrangement on the floor downstairs. By degrees, Ishmael’s head stopped the worst of its spinning. That achieved, he shoved the dead man carelessly off Monty, and rolled him roughly onto his front – so he wouldn’t keep staring – by hooking a foot under the corpse’s legs and flipping him.
That left him free to snuggle up against Monty again. “No,” Ishmael agreed, hazily, “but I feel like I could, if you’re here with me.” His eyes kept almost dropping shut at the idea of sleep, though he knew his body didn’t need it, that this was all some illusion of the intoxication; but he moved his hand to Monty’s chest and tucked his head in on his shoulder, comfortably hypnotised by the steady thread of Monty’s pulse. “You sleep, you know,” Ishmael told him seriously, like this was news. “It’s very annoying. And I always wonder what you dream about,” he said, wishing that being cradled like this would bring back that unconscious ability, at least. “If I could dream,” he added, muffled into Monty’s clothes, “I’d dream of you.”
