#roman-winter

send “together"for a drabble about them spending their first night together (platonic, just sleeping)

Her hair smelled so fucking good.

He was drunk, he knew it– knew it from the way the room was spinning when he opened his eyes, knew it from the taste of vodka in his throat, knew it from the way his brain kept saying he when he thought about himself in a way that it didn’t when he was sober and focused and in control. Knew it, too, from the fact that he couldn’t quite remember how the two of them had gone from having a beer or two while decorating protest signs on the floor of the common room in Eileen’s dorm to playing truth or dare, just the two of them, in her dorm room, passing a handle of vodka back and forth between the two of them until they were laughing too hard to remember who’s turn it was.

          Truth or dare?

                                                                      Truth.

          Have you ever faked an orgasm?

                                                                      Oh-- uh, I don’t know. No? Not really.

          What d’you mean, you don’t know?

                                                                       I’ve, um. Never had one? So.

          W-what?

                                                                       I mean, it’s no big deal, I--

          No. Nope. Come on, come over here. 

                                                                       What?

          I’m about to change your life. 

Because afterwards, while she’d been taking a drunk shower to wash the day old hairspray out of her hair, he’d been pouring over her bookshelf just to see if he’d ever read anything on it, like he needed an excuse to keep her talking to him.

Because now, curled side by side on her twin bed, her sound asleep, neither quite fitting next to each other, he could smell her strawberry shampoo where her hair fell, still warm and wet, across the pillow by his head, and his head was spinning a little with the scent of it. Somewhere in the process of getting comfortable enough to fall asleep, she’d thrown her arm over his chest and left if there, anchoring him in place.

If he hadn’t been drunk, he probably would have been scared. Not of her, not of what had happened, but of himself, of everything he was thinking. The thrill, in him, every time he thought about her, and her fingers, and her tongue; the warm feeling in his stomach, as he listened to her breath rise and fall in that soft, even rhythm; the way he wanted to bury his face in her strawberry-scented hair. The feeling of wanting to lift his hand up and trail his fingers along the bare skin of her shoulder, where her camisole left it bare. 

The feeling of having, for what felt like the first time in his entire life, for just a short time not hated his body, not felt disconnected from it, like he didn’t really belong in it, or anywhere at all.

But he was drunk, and he wasn’t scared. And he did lift his hand up and run it along her shoulder, watching her face shift softly in sleep at the sensation. And whatever this was, wherever it was going -- even if that was nowhere -- he had this: this moment, together, and the memory of her strawberry scented hair.

send “important” for a drabble about one character explaining why the other is so important to them

     “Can I ask you something, Professor?” Zeke asked, dropping his messenger bag onto the wooden chair across from Andrew with a resounding thud.

     “If it’s about tomorrow’s quiz,” Andrew said, leaning back in his chair to look up at him, fingers laced behind his head. “Then, no.”

It was noisy in the hallway outside, students rushing out of their afternoon classes and into what had shaped up to be an unseasonably beautiful day. The windows at Uncommon Ground would be open, Andrew knew, for the first time this spring, and he was looking forward to getting over there once his monthly departmental meeting at four was over, but there was still some time to kill in his office before he could go.

     “No,” Zeke said, and it took Andrew a split second longer than it should have to notice the hesitation on his voice; Zeke didn’t sound like that, when he talked about class. He sounded like that when he was worried about something. “No, it’s not about class, it’s uh, it’s kind of personal?”

Andrew sat up straight, as he listened, his mind already racing, trying to figure out what this could be about, what personal advice he would be able to give Zeke. It wasn’t the first time– far from it. But he never exactly felt qualified to give life advice to anyone, even Zeke. 

     ‘Of course,” he said, shifting his tone to match Zeke’s hesitation with his own seriousness. 

     “I, um–” Zeke started, scratching the back of his head and sitting down on the very edge of the chair, in front of his bag, avoiding looking at Andrew, his eyes scanning instead the bookshelf of reference books behind the desk like he was looking for something in particular. “Sorry, I know you’re, like, at work, this is probably weird. I’m just-- fuck, Professor, I’m so fucked, I can barely make it through the day, sometimes, and you... how did you make it this far?”

He was silent, for a breath, absorbing that question, trying to find an answer that didn’t sound like something he’d made up to sound good.

    “Honestly?”

     “Yeah,” Zeke breathed, his eyes finding Andrew’s face, finally.

     “I almost didn’t,” Andrew said, and then shrugged, a helpless sort of gesture. “Believe me, I had more days I thought I wouldn’t make it through than ones I thought I might.”

     “But you did.”

     “I did,” he said, glancing away from Zeke, needing a second to think, to make sure what he was saying felt right, and his gaze fell, instead, on the framed photo on his bookshelf, the only one in this barely used office. “But not without a little help.”

     “Eli?” Zeke ventured, and Andrew nodded.

     “He was with me, every step of the way. I couldn’t have asked for a better support system. He didn’t know what he was getting into, with me, but he didn’t have to do anything but love me, every step of the way. I was scared and insecure and I felt like I was going crazy and he allowed me to feel what I was feeling.”

     “And you did the same for him, didn’t you?”