The sound of the door opening—a soft and subtle thing in a house where creaks were eradicated once a year—woke him, as it always did. He was a wolf, sleeping with one eye open, a surge of awareness as he listened in the dark: steps with a known, familiar cadence, the patter of Isuma's claws on the floorboards. It was only Jigano, slipping in long after sundown, as he often did. Rory's mind let go of its wakefulness, began to drift back into the murky depths of sleep, though he lingered in the borderland for a time longer. No sense in falling asleep until Jigano was settled in bed.
Though if the other knew he was awake—if he knew that Rory always woke—he didn't know. His breathing never changed, his eyes never opened, but had he had mobile ears, one of them would've been a dead giveaway, turned in his direction.
Oh, well.
Rory didn't mind. He always fell asleep again when Jigano was settled between the sheets. The few minutes he lost over it didn't matter. If anything, it was rather nice, to be in that situation at all, where he had someone to wake him in the middle of the night by slipping into his bed (though it had led to Rory finally moving on, and moving into the bedroom that had belonged to his mother, because that bed was actually made for two, and he still didn't know how he felt about that).
Only this time, something was different. Jigano didn't just slide into bed and settle, but wrapped a night-cool arm around his waist, pressing close. Rory could feel the outline of his face pressing against his spine, and after a moment—Jigano began to shake, shiver, shudder, something warm and wet touching his skin.
More than halfway asleep again, it took Rory a moment to understand that Jigano was crying, but once he realized that, he pulled his tired mind from the depths and surfaced—clear, concerned. He brought one hand up to rest against Jigano's forearm, afraid of scaring him off by turning around and facing him. "Jigano," he said—his voice roughened by sleep, more of a deep murmur than anything else. "What's wrong?"
Though if the other knew he was awake—if he knew that Rory always woke—he didn't know. His breathing never changed, his eyes never opened, but had he had mobile ears, one of them would've been a dead giveaway, turned in his direction.
Oh, well.
Rory didn't mind. He always fell asleep again when Jigano was settled between the sheets. The few minutes he lost over it didn't matter. If anything, it was rather nice, to be in that situation at all, where he had someone to wake him in the middle of the night by slipping into his bed (though it had led to Rory finally moving on, and moving into the bedroom that had belonged to his mother, because that bed was actually made for two, and he still didn't know how he felt about that).
Only this time, something was different. Jigano didn't just slide into bed and settle, but wrapped a night-cool arm around his waist, pressing close. Rory could feel the outline of his face pressing against his spine, and after a moment—Jigano began to shake, shiver, shudder, something warm and wet touching his skin.
More than halfway asleep again, it took Rory a moment to understand that Jigano was crying, but once he realized that, he pulled his tired mind from the depths and surfaced—clear, concerned. He brought one hand up to rest against Jigano's forearm, afraid of scaring him off by turning around and facing him. "Jigano," he said—his voice roughened by sleep, more of a deep murmur than anything else. "What's wrong?"
