(no subject)
He thinks it might be the only non-woolen blanket in all of London, and Jason is in love with it.
He's in love with the wide couch he's found in the basement of the Compound building, too. It's not much softer than his bed at home, but it's new, showing him a view beyond the bedroom he's been cooped up in, and that makes all the difference. It's only been a few days, and yet Jason feels like he's been sick for weeks, his supposedly mild flu an exercise in seeing what can hurt the most: his throat, his head, or his entire aching body. It's misery, all the moreso when all his light cotton blankets at home have transformed into wool. Their itchy fibers are a torment to his overheated skin, but this...
Jason groans aloud, wrapping the soft blanket more firmly around himself. It's cashmere, he thinks, expensive and fine and calling his fevered thoughts immediately to Talia. He's glad she can't see him in it now, his breath too warm and humid against the silken threads, cheeks an ugly red where they protrude above the folds. He'd been watching something, a movie made of tiny negatives moved across candlelight by clockwork, but they must have run out, because the wall they'd been projected on is empty now.
Jason sighs and lays his head against the armrest of the couch. He'll muster the will to get up and start the film over in a moment. Just one moment more.
He's in love with the wide couch he's found in the basement of the Compound building, too. It's not much softer than his bed at home, but it's new, showing him a view beyond the bedroom he's been cooped up in, and that makes all the difference. It's only been a few days, and yet Jason feels like he's been sick for weeks, his supposedly mild flu an exercise in seeing what can hurt the most: his throat, his head, or his entire aching body. It's misery, all the moreso when all his light cotton blankets at home have transformed into wool. Their itchy fibers are a torment to his overheated skin, but this...
Jason groans aloud, wrapping the soft blanket more firmly around himself. It's cashmere, he thinks, expensive and fine and calling his fevered thoughts immediately to Talia. He's glad she can't see him in it now, his breath too warm and humid against the silken threads, cheeks an ugly red where they protrude above the folds. He'd been watching something, a movie made of tiny negatives moved across candlelight by clockwork, but they must have run out, because the wall they'd been projected on is empty now.
Jason sighs and lays his head against the armrest of the couch. He'll muster the will to get up and start the film over in a moment. Just one moment more.