For almost an entire day, he drifted in and out of sleep in Len’s bed, watching sunlight cross the room, the shadow following it. As predicted, the crash after Provincetown had been Hindenburg-ian. Six nights of little-to-no sleep. Six days of never fully sobering. It all caught up at once— by the last day, he was like a house slowly losing electricity, all the lights dimming and flickering, barely making it off the bus and onto the first best mattress before going full dark. Lights out. Sleep kept him for twenty-four hours, straight through the sun’s decline and return. Hunger woke him— an ache like someone had vacuumed everything out of him, leaving his stomach a deflated, shrunken pouch. Now it was afternoon, judging from the slant of the light. Marlowe dug himself out from under the duvet and rose for a stretch, groaning, pulling his empty stomach taut to his spine, giving his hair a cursory tousle in the mirror— then he stepped out into the hallway barefoot, in only briefs and the rumpled T-shirt he’d been wearing on the bus, still holding the scent of the beach’s lost sunshine.
He entered the Perkins kitchen with his usual lanky grace, already smiling— but there was no one there to greet, so he just scratched the back of his neck and continued towards the fridge. It swung open with a quiet puckering sound. A can of cold brew was the first thing he grabbed. Chugging it down like a thirsty athlete (coffee was vile, but his blood pressure was barely above a faucet’s leaky dribble; now was not the time to be choosy), he then began a thorough scan of the fridge’s other contents, assessing their potential for breakfast. A Tupperware of cantaloupe slices, far too ripe, sticky juice pooling like syrup at the bottom; a block of cheese labelled on all four sides DO NOT TOUCH!!. He peeled back the Saran and sniffed it anyway— a little funky, but that was probably just how fancy cheese smelled. Maybe it would lend some European sophistication to an otherwise unsophisticated omelette. Finally, a sign of life; footsteps came into the room behind him, and Marlowe glanced over his shoulder with a backward-flung smile. “Morning!” The red digits on the microwave changed with a blink, silently disputing this statement; it was 4:23 PM. “What’s the bare minimum of ingredients you need to make an omelette?” He looked down at the skimpy collection on the counter, frowning: tabasco, the pungent square of cheese. A single egg which had wobbled over against the hot sauce. “I’m not sayin’ I expect the miracle of the loaves and fish, but this just ain’t gonna cut it, y’know? Any chance you have a spare egg on you?” His eyebrows rose along with his gaze, the wide smile hitching to one side. “Or suggestions on how to magic this into somethin’ better?”
A headache had made a home behind Abel’s left eyebrow since the second day of the trip. Probably a poor mix of several medications, too much alcohol, and definitely not enough water. It didn’t deter him, even now - overtired and simultaneously refreshed, somehow, Abel made his way into the Perkins kitchen with a grin. He made it a habit, to stock up Moris’ kitchen at random with whatever snacks he could think of in case any of the students there needed something. When he technically wasn’t supposed to be on campus, it felt safer to stock up Perkins’ kitchen instead, less likely to be caught there than his own residence, “Morning!” he chirped back automatically, grin only widening when he saw Marlowe’s classic sunshine demeanour. It took a few seconds for his brows to furrow in confusion, glancing down at his watch then back at the boy across from him, “Afternoon,” Abel corrected, setting the armfuls of snacks he was still clutching onto on the provided kitchen table, “You look like a very put together zombie. Not bad enough to be a real one. Not The Walking Dead level. Y’know?” Wordlessly, he walked closer to where Marlowe was so that he could pick up the brick of cheese, “I’m gonna take a wild stab in the dark and guess this isn’t yours?” he asked, already placing it back into the fridge, “You can have something from what I just brought, but I don’t mind taking you somewhere to get a proper meal. It’s the least I can do, got nothing better going on anyway. You even have anything real to eat since we’ve been back? Not to sound like your dad or anything. Just a concerned citizen. I’m not ready for grey hairs, yet,” About as dramatic as Abel got, he was already starting to reload the fridge with the other ingredients Marlowe had taken out, set now on dragging him somewhere that had more than just eggs on the menu, “Was the trip fun for you? You’re very popular, I didn’t find you once even when I actively tried to.”
