[Fugo's room is brightly lit, painstakingly tidy, and oddly empty, for someone who's been living in it for a nearly a month now. The most lived-in part of it is the desk, which has a collection of pens and pencils in a mug, some books from the library and bookstore in a stack, and what looks to be some handwritten sheet music resting on top of a notebook in the middle. His window is open, curtains thrown back to let in sunshine that won't be here for a few more hours yet. Fugo himself is sitting on his bed, a book over his knees. He's dressed in his pajamas, but his bed is still made. It's hard to tell if he's actually tried (and given up on) sleeping or if he hasn't felt the right sort of tired to try and lie down.]
Not really. You? [Fugo doesn't elaborate, but the nonchalant way he shrugs is indicative that these circumstances are hardly unusual. He unfolds from his position, abandoning the book, and pads over to Kakyoin.] Thanks for bringing these over.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2016-08-23 05:45 am (UTC)Not really. You? [Fugo doesn't elaborate, but the nonchalant way he shrugs is indicative that these circumstances are hardly unusual. He unfolds from his position, abandoning the book, and pads over to Kakyoin.] Thanks for bringing these over.