I don't want this weekend to end
Eduardo wakes up alone. Given that he's done so far more often than not over the last twenty-three years, this shouldn't be noteworthy, and yet the first thing he finds himself doing is shifting towards where another person ought to be, finding nothing but empty mattress instead. It's far more disappointing than it should be, but with his eyes closed against what must be afternoon light, it's easy to assume that Olive, whom he fell asleep so contentedly curled against, just got up for some reason, and is bound to return at any moment. He doesn't remember much about the moments he spent awake, what was said or how they wound up with their limbs entwined and her head on his shoulder, but she'd seemed about as comfortable as he was; there are plenty of things he may have made up, but that, he doesn't think is one of them.
The light is wrong, though, and so is the bed, and he becomes aware of this when, finally, he looks to see if she's elsewhere in the room. She isn't there because he isn't in his dorm but his hut, leaving him to spend a few moments disoriented, blinking, trying to work out how this could even be possible, or if he might be dreaming. He was back, and she was there with him, and despite everything, he'd been glad for it, except now he's here again, and he doesn't know what to make of it, or if any of it was even real. He gets it now, he thinks, what people say about the island being cruel; if that was its idea of a joke, it was a fucking sick one, his stomach turning before he decides that it isn't worth dwelling on. Whatever's happened, he can work it out later. There are more important things to take care of first, when he can't stop thinking about how good it felt to have Olive nestled against him, how, for those few brief moments, nothing else seemed to matter.
He gets dressed too quickly, tugging on a pair of pants and trading the t-shirt he'd slept in for a button-down, which he doesn't bother to start buttoning until he's already out the door. It is, he thinks, the least care he's given his appearance in a long damn time. Somehow, he feels more tired than he did before even going to sleep, the way one does after having slept for too long, dizzy and slow, but he doesn't care about that, either, even as he lets himself wonder if it's somehow been days since he's eaten, like he doesn't recall so distinctly sitting on his bed with Olive and containers of Chinese food. (Something in his chest hurts, unrelated to the fact that he thinks he must be starving, but that, too, he pays that no mind.)
For all that he's been able to think of little else since waking up, Eduardo is somehow surprised when he actually sees Olive, fingers going still on one of the upper buttons of his shirt as he watches her leave the hut. He doesn't stop for long, though, can't let himself. "Olive," he says, walking more slowly the rest of the several yards towards her. "You're awake."
The light is wrong, though, and so is the bed, and he becomes aware of this when, finally, he looks to see if she's elsewhere in the room. She isn't there because he isn't in his dorm but his hut, leaving him to spend a few moments disoriented, blinking, trying to work out how this could even be possible, or if he might be dreaming. He was back, and she was there with him, and despite everything, he'd been glad for it, except now he's here again, and he doesn't know what to make of it, or if any of it was even real. He gets it now, he thinks, what people say about the island being cruel; if that was its idea of a joke, it was a fucking sick one, his stomach turning before he decides that it isn't worth dwelling on. Whatever's happened, he can work it out later. There are more important things to take care of first, when he can't stop thinking about how good it felt to have Olive nestled against him, how, for those few brief moments, nothing else seemed to matter.
He gets dressed too quickly, tugging on a pair of pants and trading the t-shirt he'd slept in for a button-down, which he doesn't bother to start buttoning until he's already out the door. It is, he thinks, the least care he's given his appearance in a long damn time. Somehow, he feels more tired than he did before even going to sleep, the way one does after having slept for too long, dizzy and slow, but he doesn't care about that, either, even as he lets himself wonder if it's somehow been days since he's eaten, like he doesn't recall so distinctly sitting on his bed with Olive and containers of Chinese food. (Something in his chest hurts, unrelated to the fact that he thinks he must be starving, but that, too, he pays that no mind.)
For all that he's been able to think of little else since waking up, Eduardo is somehow surprised when he actually sees Olive, fingers going still on one of the upper buttons of his shirt as he watches her leave the hut. He doesn't stop for long, though, can't let himself. "Olive," he says, walking more slowly the rest of the several yards towards her. "You're awake."