Room 1, Floor 6, House Bestia Tower
Alistair could be described as nothing other than a corpse when he slept. Strategically, he had 2 alarms set on his clock on weekdays. One at 6:30, the other at 6:35, both of which he'd hit snooze on an average of 3 times before he woke for the day. He was definitely not a pretty sight when he woke up, his thick brown hair looking more like a rug than anything else. On this morning, he'd forgot to set his alarms the night before. He'd only woken up because of one of the cats had found his face the perfect place to lay on. Unable to breathe, and his mouth getting clogged with thick tabby orange fur, he attempted to pull the cat from his face. Claws latched into his skin, and he yelped, finally dislodging the feline and sending it back to his realm.
With a bit of morning grumpiness he muttered something about never letting his summons sleep in his room, but there was no real threat behind his words. On the nights that memories of his past wormed their way into his dreams, the cats helped him to sleep. Often, he didn't have to command them to comfort him, most of them were more than happy to keep him settled through the night. He didn't show it much, even in the privateness of his room, but he was grateful for the cats that laid on and around him.
He grabbed a couple of clothes and stumbled over to the bathroom, his hurried attempts to get to breakfast before the best of the food was picked over sacrificing his gracefulness. He managed to trip over a pile of books and stub his toe on the leg of his desk before he made it to the bathroom, thankfully in one piece. A wide toothed comb did little for his hair except take out the knots and make it lie a little flatter, giving his mop of hair its trademark 'messy in its own charming way' look it had every day. He grabbed his bundle of clothes, pulling off his night shirt, his movements slowing as his eyes fell on his scar. He turned around and looked over his shoulder to see if it looked any better than it had yesterday, but as usual, the skin was still pale and irreparable. He scowled, even after years since the incident he never got used to the look. He pulled his shirt over his head and rounded the corner to get to the cafeteria, nearly running down one of his roommates, Silas, in the process. He just barely pulled up short in time.
"Shoot, sorry man. I didn't see you there."
Some Room, Some Floor (TBD), Phantasma Tower
Ives awoke with a dull ache in his head. He blinked sleep from his eyes, blearily sitting up but stopped when the movement shot discomfort up his spine. His back had an awful crick in it, but he expected as much from sleeping upright. He'd fallen asleep on his books again, and his glasses had been pushed up his forehead, leaving ridiculous pressure indents in his skin.
No matter how late he stayed up the night before, Ives woke up at the same time of day every morning, at 6:45. Today was no exception, despite his estimates that he'd been up past midnight the prior night. He always promised himself that he'd drop the habit of staying up late to study, but he never really bothered with trying. One way or another, he'd make his family wish they wanted him when they had him.
There were noticeably no pictures in Ives' room, and there were very few objects of sentimental value. It didn't take someone to know Ives personally to conclude this, his room was barren except for school books, and tons of sketchbooks, canvases, and art mediums lined neatly by his bed. Some were full, others blank. Several of his paintings were stored on his bed, and a vanitas he'd painted were hung up on the wall. He was particularly fond of the one he'd done of the skull with red and white wilted roses growing out of it resting atop an overflowing chest of gold. Most who saw it would poke fun at Ives for it, calling him edgy or depressive.
Ives went to his wardrobe, grabbing a navy collared shirt and a black pair of jeans. Ives was careful to check no one was in the hall when he slipped into the bathroom, he was certainly far from presentable at the moment. His hair, washed the night before as it always was, no longer had gel to hold it back from his face. Jet strands hung over his eyes, which had pronounced dark circles under them. He changed into his shirt, making sure the collar was properly folded, and washed his face. The cold water certainly helped to wake him up and took care of the pressure indents. He slicked back his hair and grabbed his glasses, getting ready to leave for breakfast.