Jan. 6th, 2012

tayastorm: (Moments)
Nathaniel woke in a stranger's bed with a headache, a traffic cone, and no idea what day it was. It wasn't much evidence to go on, but he was willing to call it a successful New Year's celebration. What he wanted now was a successful recovery from said celebrations, which was going to require a long shower, several strong coffees, and decent painkillers. First though he had to decide whether or not he wanted to open his eyes.

Attempting to burrow under the covers settled the matter as he realised the bed stank. Getting up was definitely a priority.

His headache turned from a dull throb into a full marching band trying to reduce his skull to so much rubble with its enthusiastic banging when he sat up and opened his eyes to too-bright daytime. The windows, he discovered, were too high to see out of, but a perfect angle to let in all the sunlight ever. They also stretched the full length of two of the walls, with mirrored wardrobe doors to reflect it back, so there really wasn't anywhere to hide. Grabbing pants he hoped were his, Nathaniel clambered with much aching and cursing over the bed and across the obstacle course of toppled furniture and clothing, reaching the safety of the windowless bathroom with a wheezed prayer to a god he was willing to believe in if the sun would just not be there when he came out.

Sitting in the pitch black bathroom with his back to the door, he waited for his head to recover from the sudden activity, and gave the marching band a chance to slink out with their dignity intact before he evicted them forcefully.

He smiled in the darkness, chuckling painfully at the mental image. If only headaches were so tangible. He could get hours of fun by beating one up. Although knowing his luck they'd have a healthy concept of vengeance, and then he'd really be up the proverbial. Just for a change of pace of course.

Eventually his own odour drove him to action. Levering himself carefully to his feet he fumbled around for a light switch, pausing a moment to cover his eyes with one arm before turning on the light. It was weak enough that he actually dared to move his arm away and turn to the shower. Which was of course when the lights remembered that they could be brighter and he stumbled back in shock and pain, somehow ending up wedged between the toilet and the wall with a laundry basket hanging off one foot and a hand planted in a cat litter tray. He couldn't even glare at the offending light because the marching band was back in full force.

When he finally dared the shower it was kind enough to have decent water pressure, just enough heat, and no surprises. Except of course he hadn't checked whether there were any clean towels - there weren't - so he had to dry himself off as well as he could with the pants before braving the room of sunny doom for the sake of pants. Cracking the door open, he peered cautiously out, trying to assess the situation without getting the band's attention again. The shower had made them docile, but he still needed help to get rid of them completely.

Deciding that he could probably deal with the light as long as he didn't look at it directly, he opened the door wider and looked out, really noticing the room for the first time. It was a nice room, in potential at least. The bed stretched out from the middle of the wall opposite the bathroom, with plenty of space on all sides. The mirrored wardrobe leaned against the wall to his right, and to his left was a long low sideboard positioned so the door leading out to the rest of the apartment could never open completely. With the bathroom door sitting open, anyone coming in suddenly would probably get more of a shock than the person in the room, and certainly more door in their face.

What mostly got his attention though was the way things were strewn around the room. Less like they'd been discarded carelessly and more like his mother had been right about the spontaneous indoor tornado effect. The most disturbing part of which was the fact that all of the draws and doors on the sideboard and wardrobe were neatly closed. Even more disturbing, he found not long after when he opened one of the draws, was the fact that it was completely empty. He was pretty sure his mother's mythical tornadoes weren't that neat.

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Tundra

April 2012

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