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Renfield felt awful. Awareness brought with it a throbbing ache behind his eyes and lingering nausea twisted his stomach. His limbs felt heavy and useless, but he was at least nestled in a comfortable bed. He hadn't felt like this in a long time, but the effect of what was clearly a hangover was softened somewhat by the arm lightly wrapped around him. He dared to crack an eye open and in the dim light of the blacked-out sun - Rebecca had put them up when he moved in to help when his sleep schedule reverted to being awake all night - he saw Rebecca with her face smooshed into her pillow, completely asleep.
His eyelids were sore and crusty, begging him to close them again and get more sleep, but he fought against it to stare. Her mouth was open, drool pooling beneath her squished cheek as she snored lightly. Her hair was a mess, still half up from the night before and the rest plastered to her face. She looked peaceful, utterly relaxed, one arm draped over him and the other curled under her pillow as she slept facing him.
Though he wondered what time it was, Robert didn't roll over to check. He didn't want to disturb her or break the warmth of this tiny moment, finally closing his eyes and sighing contentedly.
His head throbbed, though, his mouth tacky and dry with an unfortunately lingering taste of vomit still on his tongue. Last night had been a lot, but a good kind of ‘a lot’.
They had been celebrating.
It had been one year since Dracula was vanquished. One year since Renfield had been freed and finally found himself able to live on his own. It hadn't been all sunshine and good days, though, but he hadn't been alone. The DRAAG group had been there for him, Mark had been there. Rebecca had been there, too.
Last night, they'd decided it was worth throwing a party over. They started at the church auditorium and headed for the French Quarter, a mass of a dozen people heading for Bourbon Street. It was a haze now, but one tinged with vibrancy and happiness.
He remembered Carol kept giving him shots while he sipped on a frozen daiquiri, the normally reserved woman exposing herself as quite the partier with a few drinks in her. She knew all the best bars to stop at and led the group, which eventually began to split off. Karla and Caitlyn disappeared inside Lafittes Blacksmith Shop, they'd lost Bob at Fritzels Jazz Club and Renfield remembered Mark and Trevante heading for the Cats Meow before his memory started to devolve into colors and sounds.
He remembered dancing, mostly because his body was sore and because he had the faintest sound of Rebecca laughing over the live jazz stuck between his ears, like an audio clip on repeat. That made him smile, his dry lips not appreciating the action.
There was a wobbly memory of stumbling home, of Carol slurring her thanks to him and Rebecca before pecking them both on the cheek and hopping into a Lyft, and then… The not-so-fun part of the night.
Sometime in the morning he'd woken up and ran for the bathroom, still dizzy from the alcohol and only half awake. He'd emptied as much of his stomach as possible and then some, but Rebecca had gotten up to help him.
She sat on the edge of the tub and rubbed his back, held a glass of water for him to sip. She cracked a joke, he thought, but couldn’t remember it. Clearly, Carol hadn't been feeding her shots from every bar. He could still feel the way she rubbed circles into his back, her hands running through his hair and wiping it back from his clammy forehead. A gentle act following his violent upheaval…
“You up?” Rebecca said, breaking his brief recount of the night before with a voice croaky with sleep. He loved her like this, tired and disheveled, the soft side of a woman who showed the world her brave face. A part of her only he got to appreciate.
“Mm,” he croaked in response, his eyes not wanting to open again. He sighed and nuzzled into his pillow.
“Yeah,” she said, arms sliding up to tease fingers into his hair.
He melted at the contact, warmth flooding every muscle as she scratched gentle circles into his scalp. The gentle throbbing of his hangover was temporarily soothed, so calm he thought he might just go back to sleep.
Rebecca's hands trailed down the back of his scalp, Robert shuffling closer instinctively until he was pressed against her chest. She snorted, slipping her fingers down the back of his neck and grabbing something.
“Y’ still got th’ beads,” she slurred.
Renfield opened his eyes curiously, pulling back and noticing he did have a few strings of colored beads around his neck. He wasn't sure where he got them from, but they shone pink and gold and purple against the black shirt he was wearing.
Rebecca giggled as he glanced down at himself; this wasn't a shirt he remembered wearing either, eyes struggling to make out the white text stylized down the front. ‘I Got Bourbon Faced On Shit Street’
“Boy, did you,” Rebecca said, smiling wide.
Renfield groaned, smiling all the same as he closed his eyes again. She resumed stroking his hair and he pulled closer to her again, feeling her warmth against him. He liked that she was warm. Warm, and soft, and safe… He didn't want to think of the last time he'd gotten so drunk. There was nothing warm and soft about that time.
Rebecca tried to pull away and Renfield groaned a protest, a pout puckering his lips as he wrapped an arm around her.
“I'm hungry,” she explained, yawning a small laugh. “I'll make us pancakes and eggs or something.”
Robert thought about it but slowly shook his head into the pillow.
“Five more minutes,” he said. He didn't want to leave this yet, even if his stomach was gnawing at itself in hunger and his dehydrated brain begged for water. He could take care of himself later.
Rebecca gave an exaggerated sigh and then snuggled in closer. She wrapped both arms around him and pulled him closer to her chest, resting her chin on the top of his head.
“Fine. Five more minutes.”
