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im thinking about wwx who's having a particularly tough night, a night where there's a raging storm inside him of... things. of loneliness, wrongness, ugliness, something suffocating, something that makes him feel as if theres unpleasant pins and prickles all over him
he huffs a lot, he turns from side to side. he covers himself up head to toe, he strips down to his underwear. he hugs his pillows, he throws his pillows away. he lays on one side, on the other, on his back, tummy, he sits up. he stands up
all of it feels wrong and uncomfortable
all of it feels wrong and uncomfortable
he's restless, antsy, anxious and he cant pinpoint why. it isnt like hes having any particular thoughts that keep him awake too. his head is all blank, or maybe static noise? he doesnt know, but He's extra fidgety, and maybe he wants to crawl out of his body
he puts on his pj pants and pads to the kitchen. he isnt particularly fond of milk, but the warmth of milk and honey can probably help him calm down to a level where he can finally sleep
he makes the milk. he tries to drink. he feels the warmth of it on his tongue, but it doesnt reach the uncomfortably cold places inside him
he aches for warmth. a lot of it. a /lot/ of it.
he aches for warmth. a lot of it. a /lot/ of it.
the feeling of these damn pins and needles returns, now with something twisting uncomfortably in his guts. some sort of coiling that makes a cold shudder run all over his body. he places the mug away, crouches down and hugs himself. tightly.
he doesnt want that milk anymore
he doesnt want that milk anymore
he's near damn ready to pull at his hair from how uncomfortable he feels. he just wants to fucking sleep, He's exhausted and tired and really, really needs to shut his brain down for a while. he considers going for a run at 2 am to burn whatever hellish excess energy he has
he walks out of the kitchen, towards his room, but he abruptly stops when hes in front of his flatmate's door
the prickly, antsy, restless, /annoying/ sensation is bones deep in his body, in his consciousness, the—feeling, whatever it is, is ugly, and it feels wrong. everything feels wrong.
but he knows, no matter how haphazardly, illogically wrong everything feels, there is one—two things, people, that could never be wrong. two who are unattainable by the ugly tendrils of these wrong—whatever. they're the right in this world, the sun that chases away his storm
one of them is sleeping in this very room.
as shameless as he usually is, he still tries to be considerate, but right now he is in desperate need to balance all this wrong feeling, to settle down a bit. he wants to lay down and not feel as if he's being suffocated by the very action of laying down, of existing
thoughts like "i shouldn't disturb lan zhan right now" or "there's no way i can ask that from him" are too much of a luxury for his tightly coiled self. he doesn't think, he doesn't consider
he needs, and he acts on those needs
he needs, and he acts on those needs
