Chapter Text
The day was a grueling as ever. And now, as you walk into you apartment, you see a pile of dirty laundry, a stack of dishes that can't be ignored any longer, and puddle of something you spilled on the way out this morning that's fermented through the day. You could just throw out all the dishes and push the dirty laundry on the spill, right? they have to be washed anyways!
"Home, sweet home," pulling his locs into a ponytail, the Gladpire whistles a haunting tune as he starts washing dishes.
Somehow, some way, you've gotten used to a man in a cartoonish vampire costume living in your house that only you can see. But he's been an up lifting addition to your life. Always lively, always teasing, and always carrying the loads that threaten to crush you.
Other than the embarrassment of someone else looking after your apartment.
"Wow, hey, its okay. I'll do them, you don’t need to do that. None of those are even yours." You trail off. "Do you even eat?"
He glances over his shoulder with a chuckle. "Don't worry about me, blood drop. You work all day to pay the rent, I'd feel like a mooch if I didn’t do at least this. Besides, I'm having fun."
"Fun?" If you've gone crazy to see a a man dressed like cartoon vampire in your home, he's gone crazier.
"Yup. It's a game! See the tub has so much soap, I cant see in the water at all. So each dish I grab is a surprises, and how many swipes it takes to clean decides the points. Easy."
"Then how do you win?"
"When you're having fun, you're always winning."
Ah. That smile. The nose wrinkle, the tongue stuck out. All from finding such a dumb way to enjoy washing nasty old dishes.
You resent it. Your lip threatening to curl in disgust.
Taking a breath, you move beside him, elbowing him to the side. "Bull. It's not a game if you can't win. Let's play, most points win."
His shoulder rubs yours, his smile turning dopey. "Alright, let's see what you can do, blood rush."
Fueled by a frustrating mix of resentment and affection, you still lose.
He snickers as you hit the bubbles in frustration. "Better luck next time."
Rinsing off your arms, you storm off to the bedroom. Plotting how to make as many dishes as possible as soon as possible for the rematch, and how to win.