A Very Merry (Un)Birthday to You
WHO: Raivis, Logan, Toris and That Other Latvian (with special guest appearances by the koala formerly known as 'Biff')
WHEN: Wednesday 18 November (pretend this was yesterday)
WHERE: Centralia apartments, Room 403
WHAT: In which Raivis contemplates the meaning of life, Rihard dissaproves of everything, Toris angsts is concerned and Peter meets the sexy roomie.
Happy Birthday to you- Daudz Laimes, Daudz Laimes-!
Now shut your eyes and go to sleep and don't you move that arm.
Wednesday morning came in the blurry eyed awakening to a blank white ceiling half obscured by the cling of sheet plastered to a sweat drenched cheek and Raivis groaned at the clink of dishes beyond his door as consciousness crammed itself awkwardly into his skull. He rolled over.
Rather-
Tried to. Blinking led his gaze to the thick plaster encasing his right arm, that dull weight, an odd mass that kept him from shifting about as easily as he wished he could. Avoiding any longer than a mere passing glance at it, he looked to the burn of the bedside alarm's red numerals. Ten past noon. That meant something. Meant he was late? Late for-?
Raivis lurched out of his bed faster than his shock stilled heart could comprehend- he crashed into his dresser with a loud, sad thud and flinched soundlessly as pain bloomed a minor nuclear explosion in his arm. Work. Oh God, he would be late for work, the doctor would have his skin for such a slight. Clothing couldn't be donned quickly enough- his shirt was too complicated with the cast, his pants were a bother. The socks were an enigma he could not recall having ever been as tricky and the shoes were an unforgettable unfathomable nightmare.
At 12:15, he stumbled out into his living room to the scent of bacon, the hum of a solstice ballad and the abrupt silencing of such music as Rihard- who had been quietly setting tiny meat buns into a bowl- ceased working for a proper glower at his relative from the kitchen's entryway.
"Balta Cielva, why are you not- ...What is that? Why are you dressed like this?"
The boy froze.
Doctor Braginski. Employment in peril. He was far, far too late and why was Rihard looking at him so strangely and was that Toris lounging on his couch?
"I... I'm going to work?"
Raivis Galante, aged 20, now wondered if getting older didn't just mean getting progressively more confused.
WHEN: Wednesday 18 November (pretend this was yesterday)
WHERE: Centralia apartments, Room 403
WHAT: In which Raivis contemplates the meaning of life, Rihard dissaproves of everything, Toris angsts is concerned and Peter meets the sexy roomie.
Happy Birthday to you- Daudz Laimes, Daudz Laimes-!
Now shut your eyes and go to sleep and don't you move that arm.
Wednesday morning came in the blurry eyed awakening to a blank white ceiling half obscured by the cling of sheet plastered to a sweat drenched cheek and Raivis groaned at the clink of dishes beyond his door as consciousness crammed itself awkwardly into his skull. He rolled over.
Rather-
Tried to. Blinking led his gaze to the thick plaster encasing his right arm, that dull weight, an odd mass that kept him from shifting about as easily as he wished he could. Avoiding any longer than a mere passing glance at it, he looked to the burn of the bedside alarm's red numerals. Ten past noon. That meant something. Meant he was late? Late for-?
Raivis lurched out of his bed faster than his shock stilled heart could comprehend- he crashed into his dresser with a loud, sad thud and flinched soundlessly as pain bloomed a minor nuclear explosion in his arm. Work. Oh God, he would be late for work, the doctor would have his skin for such a slight. Clothing couldn't be donned quickly enough- his shirt was too complicated with the cast, his pants were a bother. The socks were an enigma he could not recall having ever been as tricky and the shoes were an unforgettable unfathomable nightmare.
At 12:15, he stumbled out into his living room to the scent of bacon, the hum of a solstice ballad and the abrupt silencing of such music as Rihard- who had been quietly setting tiny meat buns into a bowl- ceased working for a proper glower at his relative from the kitchen's entryway.
"Balta Cielva, why are you not- ...What is that? Why are you dressed like this?"
The boy froze.
Doctor Braginski. Employment in peril. He was far, far too late and why was Rihard looking at him so strangely and was that Toris lounging on his couch?
"I... I'm going to work?"
Raivis Galante, aged 20, now wondered if getting older didn't just mean getting progressively more confused.