Come and whisper in my ear...

[amar_dulce_vin]

WHO: The Vicar (Marić) and the Washwoman (Sollomovici)
WHERE: Abode Unsanitarium
WHEN: Thursday morning, 4 AM
WHAT: ...it's Thursday.

Comments

[epsilonlessthan]

The ensuing shuffle into the hallway with a hand at his temple (scratching) and another at his chin (assessing the answer to 'shave or not to shave') was a long and arduous journey. There was a scowl sitting heavy on his features, a lingering after effect of having been woken from a very vivid lucid dream in which he'd just been about to bridge the gaping hole in his dissertation-

For once, the greeting shot at Ion was haphazard and Mihailo visibly disgruntled. He leaned against the wall, unable or simply unwilling to shamble the rest of the way into the kitchen. "...četiri i tridese... Why are you doing laundry so early, Sollomovici?"

[amar_dulce_vin]

"It needed to be done," Ion mumbled back, wadding the bedsheets into a more manageable ball and shoving it into the already-overflowing hamper. He gazed around once more, looking for dirty clothes shoved into unlikely places (not all that unorthodox, considering whose apartment it was)and managed to scavenge a few more lucky pieces from the confines of the sofa's underside and the curtain rod.

"There's coffee, if you want it."

[epsilonlessthan]

"At four in the fucking morning?"

It was humorous how the word 'four' and 'fucking' leaped from Mihailo with such petulance he sounded less like an astute educator of the populace and more a child woken too many hours too soon from a nap. He blinked and the shadowy rings accompanying the laugh lines around his eyes almost seemed to increase in prominence.

"Alright, alright, fine. I don't want to know your reasons."

Potential conflict may have ended at that but there was, quite suddenly, a shirt draped over Ion's head shamelessly reminiscent of a morning not long before.

[amar_dulce_vin]

The shirt’s hem was ruffled with a sigh and pulled away from Ion’s head with careful fingertips. The entire motion bespoke an almost offensive level of resigned tolerance, as if the teenager was dealing with a particularly spiteful child and not an adult nearly twice his age. The shirt was deftly folded away with its compatriots in the hamper, preparing to do waterlogged battle with the washing machine before emerging victoriously to march onward to the arid frontlines located in the dryer.

From there it was an easy ride home.

Or it should have been, but the offending article of clothing had reeked of must, sweat, musk, and a few things Ion couldn’t put a name to. It was enough to make his eyes narrow in irritation and put a knife edge’s to his words.

"Da, vă mulţumesc pentru că, iubirea mea. Am nevoie de mirosul corpului oribile la lumina mele de dimineaţă."