can't face the truth, why can't things always just begin, because they always end in tears.

[reprism]

[heading back from the music room, guitar case slung over his shoulder, Light hums quietly to himself. he's tired enough that he kind of just wants to lie down and sink into the floor, but he's also good at ignoring physical exhaustion, so he continues down the halls at a brisk pace

Comments

[curtainwizard]

[It's roughly mid-afternoon, by Light's unreliable timesense. He's heading back from the snow room, small black sketchbook tucked unobtrusively beneath one arm. He's a bit damp, and more than usually chilled: there's only so long he can crouch in the snow drawing polyhedra from different angles. He'd diversified into snowflakes, in the end: one annoyingly asymmetrical star-shaped crystal after another.

He listens for footsteps, glances to either side of him before opening his bedroom door: what he really wants, at this moment, is to shower and change his clothes. Nothing particularly evil is ticking through his head, unless the cold determination that what's behind the door will be exactly what he expects counts. Except, then he opens the door, and steps inside - and it's a room he doesn't recognise. And you.

A sigh.]

Hello, Light.

[reprism]

[whirling around when the door opens, an expression crossing his face which might, perhaps, be called the frail old grandma of horror and/or annoyance - exasperation tinged with apprehension, both watered down, maybe.] Oh, jesus, it's you?

This is going to be fun.

[curtainwizard]

[That expression's like a fire alarm going off: something bad here, some kind of dangerous interaction that you want to avoid. Light's eyes narrow, barely perceptibly.]

"Oh, jesus, it's me"? Popularity is so hard to come by around here.

Do I want to know what this room does?

[reprism]

What sort of underwear are you wearing right now?