Erran Serfaty (yahey) wrote in zenithrp, @ 2016-06-10 04:39:00 |
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Entry tags: | #day 037, erran, gemma |
Who: Gemma and Erran
When: Late morning (11am-ish)
Where: Their room
Warnings: Small TW for mention of a sexual assault and suicide.
Erran and Gemma had made it back to the house last night—she'd been drunk and he hadn't, but both were worn out and ready to drop. Gemma had managed to get out of the Cinderella costume and into her pajamas, miraculously enough, and Erran hadn't stayed awake much longer. He'd gone to the kitchen to grab a couple of extra bottles of water to leave on her bedside table, sleepwalked through his nightly bathroom routine, and mumbled the Sh'ma and Birkat HaMapil before getting in bed. So far, sharing a bed wasn't that awkward...neither of them wanted to overstep boundaries, and they were fairly comfortable around each other physically. If one of them rolled over in their sleep to encroach on the other side of the bed, neither of them was bothered by it. As quasi-punishments went, it wasn't that bad.
On his meds, Erran fell asleep easily but had bizarrely vivid dreams—it was a well-known side effect of anti-epileptic drugs, Lamictal especially, and he'd eventually learned how to cope with the existential doubt that everything else was just a dream too. Checking his watch or opening a book was usually a good way to tell, since letters and numbers always turned into an illegible scramble in dreams. Sometimes they were nightmarish, but more often they were just odd and intense.
In this one, Pam had found a large cardboard box full of feral cats—a crazy number of them, twenty or thirty in one refrigerator-sized box—and had drafted other people in the house to help her bathe and feed them. Not completely implausible. The cats were all identical, angry, and full of fleas, and they all kept trying to run away. Erran and Gemma were in charge of washing five of them in the bathtub, and had been scratched to ribbons in the process, but so far they'd lost three of the pissed-off calico cats, and the poor track record was making him anxious.
The sound of his own voice woke him up: he'd been mumbling in his sleep, "what're we gonna tell her," and he woke up a little uncomfortably close to the edge of the bed. He shifted over in bed, closer to Gemma, and rubbed a hand over his face—he was still processing the fact that he wasn't actually on the hook with Pam for the loss of three cats. Buttery yellow sunshine was spilling through the windows, bright and peaceful, and he turned over to see if Gemma was awake already or not.