The girl wakes up first, hair disheveled and clothing rumpled. She smacks her lips. Her mouth tastes awful.
She carefully wiggles out from underneath the boy's pale arm, taking care not to wake him. He does not stir. The girl, relieved, tiptoes across the now-dark room. She scurries into the bathroom, then quickly but softly closes the door as the lights flick on. The bathroom is larger in reality than it appears from the door of the main room. The floor is of speckly, robins-egg-blue tiles, each about a square inch. Set into the far right corner is a small shower, curved, with a sliding door, made of paler blue, frosty glass. A deep teal bathmat skirts the edge of the shower and extends about three feet in all directions. In the far left corner is a toilet, sleek, modern, and cylindrical. The left wall is almost entirely covered in mirror, and the right wall sports a marble countertop the same blue as the floor. In the countertop is a sink, and set into the wall near the door is a little fountain that sprinkles over a series of white pebbles. The girl drinks this in with her eyes, amazed. She gazes around the room, and her view catches in front of the mirror. A lump rises in her throat.
Staring back at her is a petite, bony girl with chocolate-brown eyes and slightly curly hair to match. Her caramel-colored skin is pocked with scars, and her cheeks are sunken. The girl shivers, and her shirt flutters, hanging loosely on her skeletal shoulders. She feels a sudden emptiness, a longing for something she cannot place. Then, her bladder drives these thoughts out of her head as it reminds her why she came to the bathroom in the first place.
She uses the toilet, washes her hands, and is heading for the door when an idea pops into her mind. Why not shower? This room is not lived in; she can tell, and she has a feeling that it is meant for her. Suddenly excited again, she yanks her shirt up and over her head, then proceeds to strip down before tossing her clothes in the laundry chute and heading to the shower. On the wall next to the shower door is a control panel. She pokes at it, and it lights up, displaying a simple interface. She sets it to warm up, then turns to the mirrored cabinets over the counter.
In one cabinet, she finds shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. In another, a razor and several bars of fancy, scented soap. The third cabinet is full of grooming products: hairbrushes, makeup, a curling iron, hair clips and ties. The last contains products like toothpaste, toothbrushes, painkillers, band-aids, and the like. The girl selects random bottles of each of shampoo and conditioner, and opts for a freesia-scented body wash. She also takes the razor, as well as a wide-toothed, handled comb. As if by magic, the shower beeps to inform her that it has just finished warming up. She slides the glass door open and steps in, placing her products on the shelves built into the shower walls. As soon as she closes the door, the water flicks on, and she sighs as the warmth hits her frail body. The steam coaxes out the remaining aches in her legs and hips, and she stands there for several minutes, savoring it.
After she has warmed up considerably, the girl squirts some shampoo into her hand. It is a clear blue gel, and smells fresh, like snow. She rubs the shampoo vigorously into her scalp, which, despite the bath the boy gave her, still feels flaky and a little dirty. Leaning every which way to wash the shampoo out of her thick hair, the girl watches as the suds roll down her body and swirl into the drain. After the shampoo is gone, she applies conditioner, this one an opaque daffodil-yellow that smells exactly as it looks. Leaving the conditioner to sit in her hair, she steps out of the immediate stream of water, then proceeds to shave her legs and underarms. The smell of freesia fills her lungs and calms her; it has always been a favorite fragrance of hers. After rinsing out the conditioner and waging a mental battle with herself to conclude her shower, the girl reluctantly shuts the water off and wrings out her hair. Stepping onto the plush bath mat, the cool air hits her wet body, and she shivers as she reaches for a towel.
A towel.
She's forgotten a towel. She's also already rid herself of her clothing. The girl begins to panic, any soothing effects of the shower now gone. She takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself down. It fails miserably. Shivering, she considers her options. She could cover up with paper towels, but that'd be wasteful, and besides, they're tiny.  She could open the door a crack and shout for the boy to look away, but he might still be asleep. Asleep. Could she reach the dresser and throw on some clothes without waking him up? She sets her jaw and heads for the door, one arm over her nigh-flat chest. The doorknob is cold, and another wave of goosebumps rolls up her thin arm. Ignoring the prickling, she tosses her hair and pulls the door open a few inches.
From his spot on the bed, the boy notices the stirring of the bathroom door. He quickly bunches the covers up and towards his face, squinting so as to appear asleep. His heart skips a beat as he sees her pale skin and realizes she's not dressed. Odd. He is torn between wanting to watch and a strong feeling that he should look away. The latter wins, and he clamps his eyes shut. He hears her clamber across the room, and listens to the sound of the dresser drawers opening and closing. The boy winces as he hears her stepping into a pair of pants. He wanted to pick her clothes. He shakes the strange thought out of his head. She's not his doll. She'd be a lovely doll, though. She could be his doll. Another shake of the head. He needs to stop this.
The girl lets out a sigh of relief, now fully clothed, and walks over to the bed. The boy is frowning. Perhaps he is having a bad dream? She traces a finger down his cheek and along his sharp jawline, and he shivers, a small gasp escaping his lips. He opens his eyes to see the girl smiling down at him, her curly hair damp and deflated.
"Good morning," she whispers, then looks thoughtful, "Is it morning? I can't tell." The boy grimaces, of course she'd want to keep time. He doesn't. He sleeps when he's tired and eats when he's hungry. He only knows the date once a year, New Year's, because he's set an alarm to alert him the minute the year changes. He's not sure why; it doesn't matter to him what year it is. He blinks sleepily and checks his watch.
"Actually, it's evening." He scratches his head. The girl frowns.

"Have I slept that long?" The boy shakes his head and sits up, stretching. "I don't really know how long we slept-" his words are punctuated by a yawn- "but I've not slept that well in ages." She grins. "Nor've I, if we're counting." Something warms inside the boy, and he resists an urge to throw his arms around her and pull her onto the bed. He hems. "Ah, uh, I see you've showered..."
"Are you sure you don't know your name? Because I'm pretty sure it's Sherlock friggin' Holmes." The girl smirks. "I'm sorry; that was rude." The boy laughs.
"No, really, I just wasn't sure what to say." He pauses. "I'm not really used to talking to anyone." The girl smiles sadly.
"Nor'm I." She pats him on the head. "Are you hungry?"
"I take it you are?" he snorts.
"Quite so. Pip-pip!" She hops off the bed and beckons for him to follow.
"What am I, a dog?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. She widens her eyes and peers up at him in a condescending manner.
"No," she chides, "a dog would have followed me. Were you a dog, you'd catch on quicker." He groans and heaves himself out of bed. His hair is rumpled and sticks out in several places, while his waistband is twisted awkwardly a quarter-turn to the left, scrunching the pants around the side of his groin. He yawns and stretches, his shirt riding up in the process, and the girl narrowly resists the urge to poke him in the resultant briefly-exposed sliver of belly. He trudges off to the bathroom, squinting in the light that flickers on. The girl sighs happily and leans against the bed while the boy putters around in the bathroom.
This is nice.
She lets her mind wander, imagining her future, a future she didn't think she'd have. She has a friend in the boy, now, and she pictures having more than that. He's seen her whole body; it's only fair that she should get to see his...
No. This line of thought will not do. She doesn't want to make things awkward. But the image lingers in her mind of the boy's small section of torso visible as he stretches his arms. She feels her ears heat up, and presses her face down into the blankets in an effort to calm herself. The girl breathes deeply for a minute or so. Suddenly, her back and shoulders are encased in warmth, and she feels arms surrounding hers, thin, soft hands lacing their fingers between her smaller, rougher ones.
"You alright?" the boy inquires with a whisper, his breath tickling her ear and surrounding neck. She shivers and nods, unable to string any words together into a coherent sentence. He laughs softly, then rests his chin atop her damp head, breathing in the scent of her conditioner. The girl pulls his arms more tightly around her and leans into his embrace, relishing the contact. He murmurs into her hair, making wordless sounds of contentment. They stand there for several minutes, until the girl is reminded of her reason for rousing the boy. Reluctantly, she pulls out of the hug. The boy seems disappointed, but quickly adorns a mask of serenity.
"I take it you still want to get food?" he asks through a slight smile. The girl nods fervently.
"Come on."