(no subject)

It used to be he could go for days on a few hours of sleep. It's a learned skill, training your body to simply need less, to more efficiently use what it gets. But here, he's lost it, gone soft, and after four days with hardly any sleep he's starting to feel ragged around the edges, wavering and uncertain in everything. Eventually, he's sure, exhaustion will take over and he'll be able to make up the time, but for now it's a waiting game. He'd looked into the mirror this morning and been distantly horrified at how old he's starting to look. He's not sure one good night of sleep could fix that.

He's sitting on the steps on the Compound, coffee mug in his hands, Tom left back at the World Tree to get what little sleep he can. Sometimes he wonders if Tom is staying awake out of sympathy. At any other time he might resent it but now he's just glad for the company.

Sitting here just like on his birthday, which seems centuries in the past now. He sighs and rubs at his eyes. Maybe a nap later, but not just at the moment. He has things to take care of. He's waiting for someone--and presently he sees him, and he hails him with a wave of the hand.

This would be easier if it didn't feel so final.