You are the night-time fear
Aamu is very good at waiting. It came with his Ascension, when suddenly he found himself with no biological clock telling him to sleep away a quarter of his life—and sometimes not enough things to fill his extra hours with. He went through a phase of climbing on the walls, another of powering down into fake sleep for weeks on end, and then, in the end, he learned to meditate. It satisfied his needs, and still does.The fire is low and smoldering, spreading the necessary warmth to dry his clothes, but minds its own business as it eats away at thick pieces of firewood. Aamu sits on the floor, the pair of cleaned and oiled boots waiting by the kitchen door, his long hair dry and tangled, eyes closed.
It calms him. Centers him. Allows his mind to freely pick apart his thoughts, process memories, store away experiences, update, but he retains enough awareness to still be able to respond to his surroundings.
Sometimes, it's almost like he dreams.
She does not need him. He is not surprised: she seems too feral, too self-sufficient, to rely on any but her sister. It doesn't stop him from caring, from listening, waiting—when she finally reappears he takes a few seconds longer before rising elegantly and slipping back into his old, faded, dry clothes. Long fingers comb through his hair as he waits in the doorway to the kitchen, cocking his head as she arrives. She looks better: fresh, clean, alive.
His smile is small, warm, careful, hesitant. "Do you mind if I stay here?" he asks, quiet and delicate, as he is in all matters where he may break.
You are the morning when it's clear
AAMU
