It's a smart bet to assume that Jeff might not know what day it is. Under normal circumstances, he's generally not operating with full awareness of his surroundings. It's not helped by the fact that he tends to keep weird hours, and frequently forgets the date when there aren't any gigs to keep track of. And it's only gotten worse in the past few weeks, what with the strange music and all the random bouts of narcolepsy.
So yeah: Jeff thinks it's Friday.
He's only been up for a few hours-- long enough to shower, shake off a probable hangover, and eat a poptart-- and he's just hanging out on his bed, noodling around on his guitar, trying to decide what he wants to do with his Friday night, if he's going to go out, or keep working on this new song, or try to practice some magic, or or or--
Someone's knocking. Wait. That's Tim. Wait. It's Saturday? And how does he know Jeff's not wearing a shirt??
"Shit!" he hisses, jumping up off the bed, scrambling to put his guitar away and grab something clean to wear.
"One sec!" he calls out, partially muffled by the shirt he's pulling over his head. It's black, it's clean, and it doesn't have any holes. Just for a little flair, he pulls on a button-down over it, some bright and colorful floral nightmare. Finishing touches: he runs his fingers through his hair to try to make something presentable of it (it decides that it's going to keep on doing its own thing, as usual), then grabs a bottle of body spray and gives himself a spritz.
Jeff wrinkles his nose. Strawberries and cream? Where the fuck did that come from? Oh well, too late now. He'll just have to own it, make like he totally meant to smell like dessert.
Okay.
He's ready.
Jeff opens the door, looking all casual and laid back, like he wasn't just rushing around his room trying to make himself look presentable.
"Hey, man. What's up. Wanna come in?"
It just occurs to him: are they watching movies here, or somewhere else? Fuck. He doesn't have a TV, or, like, a VCR or anything... Maybe they can get a private room at the Midnight Cinema on short notice. Lucky seems cool...
Jeff's room, for the record, is pretty messy, though somehow not as messy as Tim's. His own clutter-- clothes, liquor bottles, music gear, weird knickknacks, multiple mirrors, handwritten notes-- seems to have some vague semblance of organization. There's also potted plants placed here and there, in various stages on the life-death spectrum. He's trying out a new hobby, okay.
no subject
So yeah: Jeff thinks it's Friday.
He's only been up for a few hours-- long enough to shower, shake off a probable hangover, and eat a poptart-- and he's just hanging out on his bed, noodling around on his guitar, trying to decide what he wants to do with his Friday night, if he's going to go out, or keep working on this new song, or try to practice some magic, or or or--
Someone's knocking. Wait. That's Tim. Wait. It's Saturday? And how does he know Jeff's not wearing a shirt??
"Shit!" he hisses, jumping up off the bed, scrambling to put his guitar away and grab something clean to wear.
"One sec!" he calls out, partially muffled by the shirt he's pulling over his head. It's black, it's clean, and it doesn't have any holes. Just for a little flair, he pulls on a button-down over it, some bright and colorful floral nightmare. Finishing touches: he runs his fingers through his hair to try to make something presentable of it (it decides that it's going to keep on doing its own thing, as usual), then grabs a bottle of body spray and gives himself a spritz.
Jeff wrinkles his nose. Strawberries and cream? Where the fuck did that come from? Oh well, too late now. He'll just have to own it, make like he totally meant to smell like dessert.
Okay.
He's ready.
Jeff opens the door, looking all casual and laid back, like he wasn't just rushing around his room trying to make himself look presentable.
"Hey, man. What's up. Wanna come in?"
It just occurs to him: are they watching movies here, or somewhere else? Fuck. He doesn't have a TV, or, like, a VCR or anything... Maybe they can get a private room at the Midnight Cinema on short notice. Lucky seems cool...
Jeff's room, for the record, is pretty messy, though somehow not as messy as Tim's. His own clutter-- clothes, liquor bottles, music gear, weird knickknacks, multiple mirrors, handwritten notes-- seems to have some vague semblance of organization. There's also potted plants placed here and there, in various stages on the life-death spectrum. He's trying out a new hobby, okay.
The bed's clean, though!