notaplanet (![]() ![]() @ 2012-04-02 07:27:00 |
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Entry tags: | !thread, ♥ cora labroche, ♥ todd whelan : dropped, ♦ eris, ♦ hera |
Who: Eris and Hera.
Where: His flat.
What: Comforting.
When: Late Sunday evening.
It had been too difficult to find his wallet (which he'd stuffed into the fridge instead of the butter, which was now in the bread basket) - and his cell phone had been at the ready anyway to text people - because that's what you did when you were drunk. It didn't matter if they couldn't read shit, what mattered was the fucking intent of the action. And then, then his doorbell had the fucking decency ... The fucking decency to ... ring ... while he was so far away. His eyes widened at the door, his back straightened and he turned, only for a glass of wine to crash to the tiled floor. And then the long trek started. Chairs crashed to the floor, the telephone's horn ended up entangled with the ficus, he tumbled over his own shoes and messed with the locks for far too long.
But eventually, an obviously bleary-eyed and wasted Eris stood in front of Hera. "You ... you are ... flash." And he made a 'zzzzz' noise as he moved his arms ... which made him lose his balance.