Oneshots? Oneshots.

Cold Tea

Don woke up to the bright afternoon sun flashing obnoxiously through the cracked window, creating distorted shadows that danced across his room. The male groaned and sat up, limbs stiff and mind heavy with the uncomfortable feeling that comes from waking up when the day is almost over. Even though he was waking up well past midday, the short elf had gotten little sleep and was still exhausted. He glared at the sun and it glared back, slowly sinking, promising him an unproductive day.

"Great." He mumbled.

Slowly, he got out of bed and stumbled groggily across the floor, strewn with clothing and old take-out boxes. The man made his way to the bathroom, ignoring his tired reflection as he turned on the faucet. He grabbed his toothbrush and splashed some water on his face. It was cold and he shivered, an unpleasant change after the overbearing heat of the night before. Today seemed to promise to be another scalding day, though it looked like Don had slept through most of the day's suffocating heat. He glanced at his reflection as he brushed his teeth. Even he had to admit, he looked awful.

Deep circles carried his amber eyes in baskets, and his dark skin accentuated the redness at the corners of his eyes. He briefly wondered whether this was from his lack of sleep or his angry tears, but quickly pushed the thought away. His usually messy hair was even more chaotic than normal, the sloppy ponytail barely containing the angry orange curls. He hadn't felt like brushing it for a couple of days and each day just made the mess worse and added to the difficulty of the task. The dots on his face looked faded and sickly, looking more like measles or some dreadful disease than they did the freckles that usually adorned the man's face.

Don cast his eyes down, not wanting to look at his reflection. Instead, his gaze shifted around the bathroom counter, glazing over shampoos and mouthwashes until it landed on a shaving kit. Don's eyes darkened at the item, familiar though he'd never once been able to grow a beard in his entire life. He sighed and spit angrily into the sink before shoving his toothbrush into the water and throwing it on the counter.

Don turned around sharply and started to make his way into the kitchen, trying to ignore the irritating storm of emotions bubbling inside of him. It was for this very reason that Don usually tried not to show his emotions, or better yet, not to have any at all. Once you indulged even the smallest one, all the others came crashing down on you like an angry storm of water. By that point, there was no way to stop them, no way to call them back, all you could do was wait as the overwhelming pain consumed you and hope that it would stop soon. At least that's all Don could ever do.

Still though, the defiant elf pushed back, trying through raw willpower to not feel anything at all as he walked across his room. He was so focused on trying to hold back the swarm of emotions that he didn't pay any attention to where he was going until he was already on the floor.

"Fuck!" He shouted as his foot caught on something, sending the jester tumbling to the floor. Don flailed his arms, trying to somehow catch himself, though of course, his struggles just ended up making things worse for himself. In a quick display of his unbelievably rotten luck, the jester's flailing limbs caught on a nearby table, sending some of its contents onto the floor alongside him. Something crashed next to him and its sharp pieces scratched the side of Don's face.

Groaning, Don picked himself up and rubbed his elbow which had taken the brunt of the blow from the table. He looked to his left and saw the source of the crashing sound. Some shards of ceramic sat scattered on the floor. Don picked up a piece and recognized the pattern. It was a stupid mug that was part of a pair he and his boyfriend had bought cheap at some garage sale or something. One of them had a cartoony drawing of a cheese wedge with a face and a caption that read: 'not to be cheesy, but...', while the other had an overly cheery depiction of some butter and the words: 'you're my butter half!', scrawled on the side. The cheese mug, thankfully empty, had fallen from the table and shattered against the floor, leaving its partner miraculously intact, still on the table's surface.