Why are you not home yet? It's late. // welcome to 2k!
It’s not like he doesn’t know that he shouldn’t be here. It’s not even like he wants to be here, not this late, not this tired. The rest of his group is at their dorm, each and every one of them more than likely fast asleep, dreaming about whatever it is they’re hung up on this week, be it the latest drama they’ve watched or the latest pretty girl they’ve seen out and about. The point is, they’re snoozing the night away in their beds, and Qifang is holed up by himself, back hunched awkwardly over the table he’s seated at and fingers gripping a pen too tightly to be comfortable.
There are crumpled papers scattered on the tabletop around him, remnants of raps that he’s written and quickly discarded. Nothing seems to flow right, and he really doesn’t know anymore if it’s the fatigue settling into his bones or just him. Abruptly, Qifang tears the sheet of paper that he’s writing on out of his notebook, crushes it in his fist, and tosses it unceremoniously into the pile. His frustration is starting to overtake any shreds of creativity left in him, and when he hears the door slowly creak open behind him, it’s almost like his brain shuts down altogether.
Qifang turns around slowly in his chair, the sound of plastic swiveling against metal obnoxiously loud against the quiet of the room, and he’s almost certain that he looks like some sort of supervillain, winding speech about his diabolical plans on retainer for precisely this moment. Mostly, he just feels tired, and the sensible part of his brain, the one that’s nearly turned off altogether, is sure that he looks like that, not whatever ridiculous comic book character he’s concocted in his head.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he points out, voice airy as he props his elbow up on top of the notebook and rests his hand in his open palm. Qifang doesn’t exactly have much leverage here, and he knows it; Max isn’t OK:GO’s manager, but he’s a manager, and that’s enough for him to have some authority over him. If he’s instructed to pack his things up and head home, his options are limited. “We run on the same clock, don’t we?”
