It was evening. He could feel it. Robin rolled over, his back was covered in sweat, the air in the room was heavy; his head was heavy. He lay there on his bed for a while, eyes open and looking up at the white ceiling. I overslept. He turned his head toward his nightstand: 7:00PM. He had been in bed since 6:00AM that morning.
He was sticky. He knew his hair was a mess but he didn't care. He barely even remembers the last time he cared about such a thing. Slowly Robin dragged himself out of bed. He crawled over to his closet, nothing on but an unbuttoned white linen shirt and a striped brown pair of boxer shorts, down feathers in his hair and clinging to his face.
"Thus begins the part of the day I can't just sleep through," he mutters as he brushes the red hair off his face, trying to button up his shirt at the same time.
What is that smell?
Robin's hands drop to his sides. Hair falls back onto his face, and in one swift motion Robin flings himself back onto his bed, pulling the comforter over his head at the same time. She was home today, again.