Room 517, Sunday Morning
Demyx might have been moping. Maybe. Just a little bit. Even if he'd swear he wasn't.
He hadn't slept at all, and was still sitting on his bed playing the odd, occasional note and writing it down, then scratching it out and tossing the page aside.
What the hell was going on? If this was more Fandom crazy, Demyx was going to be angry. Angrier than he already was, anyway.
The door was still cracked from earlier the past evening, since he'd never bothered to get up and shut it. Random little plinking notes from his sitar, and the follow-up cursing right behind them, could be heard clearly from beyond that crack.
(zomg open, and stuff. slowplay for great justice until about 3:30 pst unless the phones are dead and they let me off early for good behaviour.)
He hadn't slept at all, and was still sitting on his bed playing the odd, occasional note and writing it down, then scratching it out and tossing the page aside.
What the hell was going on? If this was more Fandom crazy, Demyx was going to be angry. Angrier than he already was, anyway.
The door was still cracked from earlier the past evening, since he'd never bothered to get up and shut it. Random little plinking notes from his sitar, and the follow-up cursing right behind them, could be heard clearly from beyond that crack.
(zomg open, and stuff. slowplay for great justice until about 3:30 pst unless the phones are dead and they let me off early for good behaviour.)