Flipping Pages


Lachrim Crispin

Summary: Crispin moves into the dorm and meets his new roommate Lachrim.

Date: March 23, 2015

Log Title: Flipping Pages

Rating: PG

Room 311

Most of what Lachrim has, he has already moved in. He took the leftmost room, or at least what it would be approaching it head-on. The one on the other end of the apartment, however, is for his roommate: Crispin. A few boxes of Lachrim's things remain in the common area, what would be the living room in most places, disregarded as if it were unimportant. But anyone with any sense whatsoever, extra or otherwise, can get a feel off it. It's dangerous. Even down to the books.

There's quite a ruckus from the common area of the shared dorm… some of what sounds like one of Lachrim's boxes getting knocked over. And something else hitting the floor. What it is is pretty clear in a moment. "Son of a goddamn bitch…." And the sound of sucking air past one's teeth a few times. When Lachrim gets out there, he sees one of his boxes kicked over and Crispin sitting on the floor with a box of his own stuff scattered about.

Lachrim does, in fact, get out there…and he looks annoyed at the disruption at first. The expression melts into a sort of irritated amusement, a kind of smirk, as he sees Crispin on the floor. "Learning about motor coordination? Yeah, I can help you with that." He gazes around the other boy's form, taking him in, thinking back. "I saw you at the orientation. You didn't stick around. Makes me like you already."

Crispin offers a sarastic laugh at the whole 'Motor Coordination' thing with a bit of an eye roll. Though there is a bit of a smirk there for those who pay close attention. So they both have a secretive lil smirk at the very least. "Yeah, sorry… I don't like crowds much. I tend to keep to myself. I'm not a huge people person." Crispin notes as he gets up and just shoves his box of stuff towards his room. "It's Crispin, by the by."

"Lachrim. If you can guess what it means, bonus for you." He reaches down to offer a hand up, but that's all he offers. Not to pick up the things spilled or anything like that, of course. That's not his style either. "Kind of guessed that. At least we got the luck of the draw. No one else has to put up with us."

"Don't have a clue. Interesting name though. Probably got you picked on plenty though." Crispy smirks just a bit as he takes Lachrim's hand and pulls himself up. Though he seems to be really dense for his size… like he's built like a brick shithouse. "Heh. So they stuck the problems together. Big surprise. Guess them idjits figure we'll bond over being outcasts or whatever."

Lachrim smiles a soft smile, but it's the kind that carries a sort of terror with it, when it resonates with his eyes. "Not for long," he answers, which is left in its own mystery. "I don't really care, I know Kris. We're in a band. I've got somewhere I can go if it gets awkward here, so…" Once Crispin's up, Lachrim busies himself collecting the spread contents of his box and setting them back in that box. "You didn't…touch any of this, or read any of it…did you?"

Crispin perks a bit of a brow over the somewhat threatening display that Lachrim manages to convey. "Ahh, a band. You play at that coffee shop or whatver the Guidence Couselor mentioned to me or something?" Crispy wonders as he kicks a few more of his things towards his room. "Just what I fell across when you left it sitting out in the open. Why? You got some mushy poetry you're ashamed of." Crispin steps close and peers at the box and the books especially.

"Wherever we get a gig." Lachrim finishes replacing some of the items and takes up the whole box in his arms. "No," he answers, for once extremely serious. There's not even the slightest light in his eyes; they're like india ink, an infinite depth of black. "You're taking your life in your hands if you look at this. Take in enough, and nothing will save you." It sounds a little corny…but there's no mirth in his voice, and there's a sort of gravitas in the way he says it all. Like it can be believed. Like it *should* be believed.

"Pffft." Crispin offers to Lachrim. "It's just a box o'junk and books and stuff. What is so scary about that?" Crispin moves to stand in Lachrim's way and crosses his arms just a bit. "Do I look like the kinda guy who's scared of a book?" Crispin offers with an entirely serious look.

"No, you don't." Lachrim tilts his head slightly back, looking down a little at Crispin. "And that's something that can get you killed." He doesn't mince words, apparently. Whatever may be in those books.

Crispin offers another 'Pfft' at Lachrim. "Fine…. keep your secrets…. for now." He offers a bit of a smirk and moves out of Lachrim's way. "But the day I'm afraid of a book…. " He scoffs loudly.

"Sometimes the things you should be scared of are the things you overlook until it's too late." Lachrim takes the box into his room and returns a moment later, to dwell in the doorway of his part of the apartment. "So what are *your* secrets, then?"

"Who says I have any secrets?" Chrispin offers with a devious grin at Lachrim. "Do I look like the kinda guy who has secrets?" Crispin asks of Lachrim with a devious and playful grin.

Lachrim smirks ever so slightly, returning to that more approachable mien. "Everyone has secrets," he replies easily enough. "It just depends on exactly how valuable or how dangerous those secrets are."

"About the only secrets I have is what kinda undies I wear with my utili-kilt." Crispin offers with a playful smile and crosses his arms lightly. "But that's just as dangerous as your secrets are."

"I doubt it." Lachrim slips past, to kneel down and pick up another of the boxes in his arms. "I'm sure you go regimental, right? You're the kind of guy who seems like he does."

"Regimental?" Crispin asks as he quirks a brow. "I don't think so. But then I've never heard that term before." He stretches and finds somewhere to plop down and relax.

"No panties." Lachrim pointedly replies, disappearing into the depths of his room again and emerging a moment later, just like last time. He hasn't taken the time to place the contents of the boxes where he wants them, but they're at least no longer lingering around the living room, dangerously tempting someone into reading them.

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