it's quiet back home ... for years his life has been constant forward motion — a whirlwind of train cars and hotel dinners, a new city every week ( if not every day ), his entire existence cut down to the size of a suitcase. so, it's safe to say he doesn't quite know how to cope now that he has, quite literally, been turned out to pasture. he spends his days drifting between bouts of syrup - slow stupor and violent bursts of activity: a morning spent lazing around the house capable of turning quite suddenly into a full - fledged war on granny's ever - leaky roof — an on - going battle he's beginning to believe he may never win. he's on a tear today, leaving no stone unturned and no soft spot un - prodded as he prowls from room to room, a long forgotten book still clutched tight in one hand.
❛❛ hey winry — looking for leaks !! ❜❜ graceful as always, he swings the door wide and makes himself at home, not even sparing her a second glance as he clambers onto her bed to poke and prod at where ceiling meets wall.
@spacecadette ( for winry ! )
