He couldn't get comfortable. It was too quiet, and his old room – his old bed – just didn't seem to fit him any more.  He could make out the familiar shapes in the darkness, the bulk of the wardrobe in the corner, the glint from his desk, where the moonlight caught the computer screen, but the pile of papers on the desk were Seth's, not his, and there was a mound of *stuff* on the chair, which had accumulated on the bed while his bedroom had been being used as a study-come-junk-room for the past three months.  It just felt – off. 

[happy birthday [livejournal.com profile] byrne]


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