Opening his front door a bit more heavily than was strictly necessary, Owen sloshed inside, his long, silky black hair in wet clumps, some of it plastered to his face, and his dark clothing completely stuck to his muscular form. Puddles formed on his floor with each squishing step, before he paused just inside his apartment (which he affectionately referred to as his "space"), closing the door and beginning to remove his soaked clothing. It hit the floor with a wet splat, leaving him naked yet still dripping from the sudden rain that had caught him off guard on his way home. Annoyed, he padded into the kitchen, grabbing a clean towel to dry off his long, luxurious tresses, hoping he didn't come down with a cold. He never handled colds very well, and usually ate little to nothing while he was sick, staying naked in his bed with several boxes of Kleenex to help his nose clean up after the copious sneezes.
Toweling off his drenched hair, Owen thought back to the last time he'd caught a cold. It had not been a pleasant week, what with the coughing, fever, sniffling, and constant sneezes that never failed to soak through his tissues. The memory brought a tickle to his elegant nose, and he set the towel on the counter top, bringing his slender hands to his face, preparing, but the sneeze never materialized. Grumbling, he sniffled and returned to the hallway, eyeing his wet clothes with obvious distaste. At twenty-three, he lived alone, in a small, one bedroom apartment, on the third floor of a dilapidated complex filled with a wide assortment of rabble. Climbing up the stairs every day, he tried to ignore the frequent sounds of sex that assaulted his ears, and the many drug deals that went down in broad daylight; besides, he couldn't afford any other place, and there was always Ms. Honey.
Ms. Honey. A lovely Polish woman who lived on the first floor, Ms. Honey was one of the only reasons that Owen left his space. The two had a uniquely special bond, and anyone who heard him speak of her could tell that he simply adored her. She was getting along in years, unable to see well or walk without great difficulty, and Owen had adopted her as his own, in a sense, visiting her frequently and sharing his life with her. Sometimes, she would call him, and he would slip down to her room, and carry her up the two flights of stairs to his space, resting her on the bed while he sat on the floor to listen to her many stories.
He thought of her, and smiled despite the sudden chill of being slightly damp and completely naked. Maybe he would go visit her later on in the evening, or perhaps tomorrow, depending on how he was feeling. This reminder of his present state made him grimace, a scary sight indeed, with his full, black lips and slightly streaked black eye makeup. Perhaps a bath was in order, he mused, taking a fresh towel in the bathroom and examining his reflection; he looked like a fright, with blackish-grey streaks down both cheeks and a determinedly sour expression. He rarely smiled. Experimenting with the concept, he bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a friendly expression, but it came across more like a menacing snarl.
Shaking his head, he began to run the bath water, testing the temperature with slender fingers that tapered off into black, well-kept nails. When he was satisfied with the water, he opened the cabinet over the tub and withdrew a few bath beads, adding them to the steaming liquid, letting them dissolve while he went to his bedroom, gathering a few candles and matches. Once Owen returned to the bathroom, he placed the candles around the edge of the tub, keeping them well away from the white curtain, then lit them almost ceremoniously, watching the flames rise proudly. He turned off the bathroom light, leaving himself in partial darkness, before climbing into the tub, sinking into the water with a long sigh of pleasure.
He rested peacefully in the steamy water for almost an hour, while it cooled around his long, lithe body; at six feet and two inches, he barely fit into the small space. When he began to shiver, and his fingertips seemed similar to raisins, he reluctantly extricated himself from the tub, draining the water, extinguishing the candles, turning on the light, and drying himself off in the chilled air. Owen took a moment to wash off his face with soap and water, cleansing it so he could reapply his dark makeup. Afterwards, he left the bathroom, sniffling softly, and dressed in a simple black cloth, a longer version of a kilt, which he called a man-skirt. Shirtless and barefoot, elegantly dark and delicious, he would have looked almost ominous, had his nose not chosen that exact moment to initiate a tickle. It grew too quickly for him to suppress it, and he was forced to close his beautiful green-blue eyes and bring his cupped hands to his face, covering his nose and mouth, before sneezing wetly into them.
"Huh... Hut-Chooo! Heh... Shhissst!" Sniffling almost liquidly, he reached for a box of tissues that rested on the nightstand, withdrawing one to dab at his nose and hands. "I am not getting sick," he hissed in the general direction of the bedside candles, though they gave him no reply. A sudden sneeze caught him by surprise, solidly refuting his statement. "Huht-SHOO!" Owen did not have time to catch this one, and when he opened his eyes again after its passing, he could still see a bit of spray drifting through the air. He sighed in disgust, realizing that no matter what he might tell himself, he was, indeed, sick, and there was little to nothing he could do about it.
"I
could
go see Ms. Honey, to take my mind off of it," he mused aloud, looking completely adorable with the strange mixture of his pierced nipples and reddened nose, a contrast between control and vulnerability that was completely lost on him at the moment. Preparing to go downstairs, he paused, deciding maybe he should call first, and make sure that Ms. Honey would still want his company, even though he was ill. A short phone call later, he grabbed a box of tissues and headed out the door, privately relieved that she was not bothered by his cold; he desperately needed something to distract himself from having a pity party.
