[ She's not sure how long the dark lasts. Some strange in between of unconsciousness and sheer exhaustion driving her to lapse into sleep. She's still for so long, nothing more but slow, shallow breathing until it finally does come to an end. It's slow-going to pull herself out from it, as if dragging oneself through mud. The faintest of hums uttered as she hovers on the border between sleep and waking, her face scrunching up briefly in reaction to it. She still feels so tired, a bone-deep weariness.
There's a softness beneath her head, beneath her cheek. It smells familiar, warm. For a long moment, she forgets herself — buries her face against it, grumbling a little louder: she doesn't want to get up just yet, it's too early. And she begrudgingly opens her eyes to a strange angle, the slow realisation coming to her: she's on the floor—?
And then she remembers: Peter.
She lifts her head, turns it to find him pressed against his bed, made small as he curls up into himself — watching her, his expression strange. Luna exhales sharply, pushing herself up to rest on her elbows. She stares at him for a long moment, stunned, hopeful. It is him, isn't it? He's... he came back? ]
Peter—? [ Her voice is hushed. Her lips purse. ] It is you, isn't it?
[ It has to be. Who else would go looking for The Weed? Certainly not Paimon, nor Charlie. Who else could it be? There's a flutter of panic in her chest: she's not gone and missed him, has she? That he was there for some brief moment and she'd gone and missed it?
Anything could be happening now, she needs to work out just exactly what. Slowly, she pushes herself to sit up. No sudden movements. She doesn't draw close, moves as if she might with a magical create, with a certain gentleness and cautious. She brings one hand up, fingers splayed and pressing against slightly against her chest. ]
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There's a softness beneath her head, beneath her cheek. It smells familiar, warm. For a long moment, she forgets herself — buries her face against it, grumbling a little louder: she doesn't want to get up just yet, it's too early. And she begrudgingly opens her eyes to a strange angle, the slow realisation coming to her: she's on the floor—?
And then she remembers: Peter.
She lifts her head, turns it to find him pressed against his bed, made small as he curls up into himself — watching her, his expression strange. Luna exhales sharply, pushing herself up to rest on her elbows. She stares at him for a long moment, stunned, hopeful. It is him, isn't it? He's... he came back? ]
Peter—? [ Her voice is hushed. Her lips purse. ] It is you, isn't it?
[ It has to be. Who else would go looking for The Weed? Certainly not Paimon, nor Charlie. Who else could it be? There's a flutter of panic in her chest: she's not gone and missed him, has she? That he was there for some brief moment and she'd gone and missed it?
Anything could be happening now, she needs to work out just exactly what. Slowly, she pushes herself to sit up. No sudden movements. She doesn't draw close, moves as if she might with a magical create, with a certain gentleness and cautious. She brings one hand up, fingers splayed and pressing against slightly against her chest. ]
It's Luna. [ She's Luna. ] You're Peter, and I'm Luna.