#pipscupoftea

"It's only Christophe. He asked if he can sleep here." He said quietly, not wanting Gregory to wake up too much. Pip leaned in and snuggled close, getting sleepy himself. With a soft yawn, he closed his eyes. It was surprisingly comfortable inside the coffin and it made Pip fall asleep as soon as he closed his eyes. @pips-cup-of-tea

——

By the time the sun went down again, Christophe was still fast asleep, burrowed completely under the blankets; he slept well, which was something so rare for him that Gregory was surprised when he woke up and could still hear the Frenchman’s mumbling in his sleep. He rolled his eyes when he heard a cuss word said the loudest of all.

(@pips-cup-of-tea)

MY FIRST HAPPY BIRTHDAY MESSAGE, everyone!

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Outside of Gregory’s light blocking curtains, the sun was setting on a cool Spring day in South Park. Pouring a cup of tea, Gregory scrolled through his phone when he noticed he had some unopened text messages.

Pausing in his steps when he saw the time stamp, Gregory nearly forgot to shut off the tea kettle until it began to whistle and he had to step away from his phone for a second to switch off the stove top.

When he got to reading the messages at last, the vampire felt like his undead heart metaphorically dropped: he didn’t recall sending these texts to his friend. From the tone of the texts, he felt that he sounded overly sentimental... how embarrassing.

The series of messages began with Gregory assuring Pip that, though it was almost seven in the morning and the sun was going to be completely risen any time now, that he was home and safe, away from the light, then went on to become, in Gregory’s opinion, simply embarrassing: he felt like a mess:

The next text read “I was thinking” and Gregory was already ready to come up with an apology. ‘I was thinking’ was never something that he wanted to read when he knew that he’d been past just drunk when typing.

Watching the last of the white wine empty from the bottle into his favorite crystal wine glass, Gregory waited for Pip to arrive. His life was picturesque as always on the outside, but, now, was tinged with another layer of darkness. Most would read him as not only mysterious, but distant. This was nothing new, it was an image he’d painted, his own kind of brick wall, since he could remember, but, since the night he’d become a vampire, he could feel his own friends begin to resent him for it, thinking that he’d become a different kind of vain. None of them knew the truth yet.

Saving his game, the Frenchman got up from the couch and yawned before finishing his last glass of wine he’d taken the liberty of taking from the vampire’s kitchen, and went down the short hallway to climb the stairs of the loft apartment up to Gregory’s bedroom. He didn’t bother to knock, and, instead just entered the room. He expected to see Pip on Gregory’s so called king sized ‘mortal bed’, but the other Brit was nowhere to be seen. That was when the mercenary’s olive green eyes averted down to the coffin on the floor.

Gregory had wooden floors, with a plush white rug under and around the bed, but, under the dark coffin was a thin slab of marble to protect the floors from the graveyard dirt that was kept around the coffin. Mole had to roll his eyes at that. If it was himself who was the vampire, he would’ve just put down a plastic tarp, but, of course, Gregory was all about the fancier things in life. Even his coffin was made of nice materials, with soft black silk satin lining on the inside. The coffin was big on purpose, since Gregory couldn’t imagine not being able to move around in his sleep like he did as a mortal.

@pips-cup-of-tea​

Despite how he fought to stay awake, Christophe dozed off to the sound of singing that transitioned into quiet humming of a melody he was too tired to place, but he knew that he’d heard it somewhere before. 

No more than two hours later, the Frenchman had woken up with a start, olive green eyes wide with fear as he wrestled out from the blanket that had been tucked in under both of his arms. “Fucking- what kind of shit is this?” The lighting in the room was dim and, feeling feverish, he wasn’t understanding that it was a blanket that he was fighting: in his mind, he imagined it was some kind of rope, even if the texture didn’t make sense for that to be true. Finally defeating the evil blanket, sending it and a pillow that had been tucked under his ankle flying to the other side of the room, Christophe sat up, heels digging against the wooden floors, and blinked, taking in the sight of the room. Once he settled down, he realized that he was at home, in the main room. To his left was a now only slightly damp towel.