pasting a section of a sunwelt wip fic ive got here cuz if i bottle it up even more im going to loose it:
The volume of the television system has been lowered but the fizz and racket of two animated mechas locked in combat accompany Sunday’s blurred thoughts. Welt would have something insightful to say; he always does for every battle. Either some animator insider knowledge, fascination at the conviction behind each voiceline, or simply an expression of childlike giddiness unbound by any other technicality.
But for right now, the older man is fast asleep beside him on the couch, his body turned toward Sunday with an arm draped lazily over the other. Sunday can’t quite see Welt’s sleeping expression right now from how they’re positioned, his smaller figure tucked into Welt’s broad chest. He’s a subtle, woody fragrance paired with the floral notes of fresh laundry detergent. A stiffness in Sunday’s legs start to register, his circulation being only slightly cut off by the pressure exerted by Welt’s calf atop them. Though, he enjoys being molded like this.
Upon mindlessly tuning to the show for a few seconds, unable to find coherency in the amount of plot he’s missed, the flashing lights of the screen start to burn his eyes and Sunday turns his view upwards toward the ceiling. No matter, Welt would find him again tomorrow night in their mutual insomnia, and they’d rewatch from whatever point Sunday last recalls. They would watch, talk, fall asleep, intertwine, and one would awaken.
The two never discuss the entanglement of limbs they’d find themselves captured in. Never lingered on the pleasantness emanating from being able to hear the others' breaths and heartbeats so closely. They would each simmer and slumber in the other’s warmth, before being seemingly burned by the contact and coming to their senses.
And so, tonight was Sunday’s turn to rise and walk away from those unnecessary feelings.
Yet as he turns away from where his head is tucked in the crook of Welt’s neck, the older man inhales deeply and flutters to consciousness. He always lets out a couple coughs before coming fully into himself, his body scrunching up into itself before settling. Was it the twitch of a feather that caught the man’s skin for just a moment? The natural shakiness that comes with realizing their composition? The loss of a familiar weight now severed from one’s being? Anyhow, that wise and silly man has been roused awake nonetheless, the two now forced to confront their closeness.
The bulky arms wrapped around Sunday’s body withdraw themselves, legs unweaving from Sunday’s, though the older man’s body remains pressed against Sunday’s side. Usual mannerisms, Sunday has noticed. Welt is always keenly aware of their proximity in waking hours. Always allowing him space.
“Headed out?” Welt asks after a groan. His voice is alert yet tired and hoarse; the side of his face has markings from where his glasses had been left on and pressed too hard from sleep. Sunday is charmed by how its crookedness frames his face.
Swallowing a quiver in his throat, Sunday says “Just changing positions for now. I’ll be out in a moment.”
(ive been stumped on the spicier portions later on helpppp, i need to fuel this rarepair >-<)
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theartofmadeline
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