AFTER HOURS [c] Mar 2, 2017 5:39:13 GMT -5
Post by OLIVER FROST on Mar 2, 2017 5:39:13 GMT -5
tagged HUNTER BORSELLINO
there's always something nice about reading a book under the covers with a flashlight. it takes oliver back to his childhood when he'd stay up all night against his mother's orders just reading. they were simpler times. the only other person still awake was his father downstairs, watching tv until he passed out from inebriation. they were quiet times, too. living in a dormitory is the opposite, and oliver can't say that he enjoys it. he's been here for three years, and he still can't get used to the constant commotion from his neighbors. couples arguing in the room next to him, the guy who plays clarinet somewhere on their floor that oliver can't identify for the life of him... but none of them are as bad as the person in the room right above him - the asshole who plays godawful music at 2am and oliver can't figure out how the hell nobody's complained, because it's fucking ridiculous. that guy's roommate has to be the heaviest sleeper in the world.
oliver likes to think he's a rational guy. he's not the kind of person who would march up a flight of stairs at 2am to yell at his upstairs neighbor for his bad taste in music, he has a tolerance for these things, and a knack for keeping his nose in his own business. but tone-deaf assholes shrieking shitty pop punk lyrics in the middle of the night? that's where oliver draws the fucking line.
which is exactly how oliver finds himself pounding on the door of room #305 in nothing more than his pajama pants.
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