#{{ Again in reference to events on the i.c. blog lol }}

[alicesought]

Listen.

♡♠♢♣  ⁀  How many times can one push a thought from their mind?

When done improperly, or incompletely, the thoughts merely begin to pile up at the edges of the room, upon tables and under beds. And so the space your thoughts are allowed to tread shrink and shrink. And it was the claustrophobia, you see, that caused the Hatter's dizzying distant feeling as of late, his mind addled by the strain of constantly avoiding banging his shin on a thought he did not want to acknowledge. And worse so, he seems to have lost somewhere in the clutter the reason why he kept these thoughts at all. Yet he kept pushing and hiding. But all this diligence was for not, as he's abruptly struck with the mental equivalent of simply swinging the entire end table into his head, like bringing up aIn elephant painted to match the drapes.

As when one paints an elephant, it is to invoke the unspoken assumption in the guest that the host is aware of the elephant but deliberately attempting to simply live with its presence. A sort of compromise you could say, where the elephant was allowed to step on the sofa so long as it didn't clash with the throw pillows.

But all of this is nonsense. And also the horrible racing thoughts of a mad man trying desperately not to think about the person he was currently sleeping right next to.

Habitually twitchy eyes and their equally unstill pupils glance near chronically at the face beside him. They were sleeping on their back, probably best for them to lay straight after the past few days, but the hat maker rarely slept without curling and twisting to one side. Except tonight. Tonight he was stiff as a board beside them. Did they notice? Not likely. As when he first climbed into bed he was just as usual, mumbling something about croquet, offering their last goodnights.

But his eyes, treacherous things, they kept peaking open. Stealing glances of the way the blankets rose and fell with his chest and eventually wandering back up to their debilitatingly close face. Their closed eyes. Their mouth. Their mouth. Their mouth...

But the moment his brain, at last and finally, managed to complete the cognitive connection between 'lips' and 'beds' he immediately began to feel entirely too real and entirely too where he was in that moment. And red as a rose. And so he laid himself flat at the far edge. And he stared to the ceiling. And he tried to think anything else. And this is how we began to talk of elephants.

Yet his eyes kept wandering back to the sound of their breathing. To the feeling of that breathing pulsing through the sheets. And he remembers what he was asked to do. Though truthfully, he considered, at first, simply lying that he had. But you see, he let his thoughts slip just then, and now he was making up reasons.

He'll never get to sleep this way. He must rest before croquet. And if he sneaks beneath the sheets to where their heart beats, he can't be distracted by the face, surely.

And so turning onto his stomach, every last movement done at a snail's pace and about as quiet as one, he got on his hands, and with eyes locked firmly on their lips-- but also any sign of stirring-- he inched himself back closer. And much like a cat about to knock something over, he kept a steady gaze as his cheek began to approach their ebbing chest, all the way up until near contact, where at last he turns away into a comfortable position to sleep and steadily releases his full body weight onto their side.

And with one round ear against their chest he hears it. A beat more beautiful than any clock or metronome he's ever used to bring an ounce of rhythm or peace to his chaotic mind. Hypnotic.

What was it saying?

' Stop resisting ' He heard it whisper. ' Close your eyes, and come home. '