Plates

Trystan was living the dream. He almost couldn't believe how great sharing an apartment with Jared was. He felt like a teenager who'd been given permission to do whatever he wanted with no responsibilities; the sense of untrammelled freedom was a heady rush and it felt so fucking good. He woke up, as he had every day the past week, late. 'YA-aawwn…' He stretched his shoulders back, feeling the joints click. Jared only had the one bed, and the couch wasn't the most comfortable of places to sleep, but Trystan was happy to put up with it. He propped himself up on his elbow and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He'd been up late—again—gaming with Jared, but while sleep was tempting, his stomach was begging to be fed. He wandered into the kitchen, scratching his arse crack through the threadbare boxers he wore as pyjamas (which Stacey had tried repeatedly to get him to throw away despite how comfy they were) and rummaged through the pantry for any food. The clock on the wall read 1 PM, but Trystan didn't pay it any heed as he grabbed a box of Frosted Sugar Flakes off the shelf and poured himself a bowl. He lumbered over to the fridge, looking for some milk, but the only bottle in there had the consistency of yoghurt and smelt sour. 'Ergh,' he grimaced, screwing the lid on and putting it back into the fridge. 'There's gotta be something I can use…' His eyes landed on a can of beer. Why not? he thought. There was no one to tell him he couldn't, after all. He cracked it open, poured it into the bowl and spooned some into his mouth. 'This doesn't taste as great as I thought it would…' he muttered to himself through a mouthful of cereal. He shrugged, and kept eating because, well, he was hungry and didn't have anything better to eat. Just then, Jared entered the room. He had already been up for a few hours now because he worked from home—some sort of IT or programming job, Trystan couldn't remember which and since they didn't waste time with boring small talk like "how was your day?" he'd never bothered to ask. 'Yo,' Jared said, sticking his head into the fridge. 'Mfph,' Trystan replied mid-chew. Jared pulled out a box of Chinese take-away, gave it a sniff to check it was all right, and tossed it into the microwave. The two of them sat in an amiable silence while it heated up. Suddenly there was a sound like a cross between a spit and a bang that came from the microwave. Jared hopped up and opened the door to find his food steaming, the walls inside the machine splattered with sauce. 'Damn, that's hot!' he said, gingerly poking his finger at the box. He pulled his food out, closing the door on the mess that was left behind to join the other stains and gunk from meals gone by. Blowing on it, he grabbed a fork and began to chow down. 'When Trystan was done with his cereal, he tilted the bowl to his mouth, draining the remaining sugar-sweetened beer, and licked his lips. 'Belch, ah. That hit the spot.' He went over to the sink and added his bowl and spoon to the growing pile of dirty dishes that had accumulated in it. Trystan scarfed down the last of his noodles, tossing the empty box to the side of the table and wiping his mouth on the already dirty table cloth. 'I've got another half hour for my lunch break,' he said. 'Did you wanna play some more of that Cry of Destiny campaign mission we started last night?' 'You can set it up,' Trystan said. 'I just need to take a leak.'

Being as it was his first piss of the day, Trystan's bladder was pretty full. He let out a jet of urine into the toilet bowl, the stream hissing and hitting the water with a loud splash. In his half drowsy, mildly drunk state, his aim was a bit off: some of it hit the rim of the bowl and dripped down to the tiled floor. But he didn't care. After all, it was just a bit of piss. It's a toilet anyway, it's supposed to get dirty, so why would you bother cleaning it up? When he was done, he shook out the last few dribbles of urine. A droplet landed on his hand, but he just wiped it off on his underpants. Tucking his dick back inside his waistband, he turned and headed to the living room without flushing, let alone washing his hands.