The Work Day

You forget, sometimes, that Eridan has to work as well. It’s a bad habit, one that you really hate yourself for, but you assume that since he focuses on more fine arts, history and photography primarily, he doesn’t have to work at it. It’s just reading books and pointing a camera at shit, right? Not nearly as hard as memorizing drug names and knowing how to give injections or recognize dozens upon dozens upon dozens of symptoms and illnesses. So it’s always a bit jarring, so used to seeing him putter around the apartment and take care of things for you that you neither have the desire nor time to take care of yourself, to go into his room and see him with papers spread all over his stupidly soft comforter and a book propped against his knee, looking at the papers marked through with reds and purples and blues before consulting his text again.