Here lies the soul of Jschlatt. 1999–2025.

Not really. But he sure looked the part. He had the kind of subtle hangover and sleepless haze that turned the big, boisterous teddy bear you knew into something quieter, something defenseless. There he lay, buried beneath a tangle of brown sheets in a dormitory bed too small for his long frame, his limbs twisted like he’d fought off the night itself. A stripe of sunlight filtered through the blinds, slicing over his blankets, tapping at his body as though urging him awake. The world was already moving. The train had taken off hours ago.

It was noon.

You were waiting for him at the dining hall—at first patient, then uneasy. Schlatt was never punctual, but this was different. No text, no excuse, not even the kind of late arrival he’d usually make up for with a grin and some stupid line. The absence weighed on you, tugging at your chest until you couldn’t sit still. Phone forgotten in your pocket, you made the walk to his dorm, driven by something deeper than simple hunger.

He knew it was you the second your knuckles tapped against his door. He always knew. You had this rhythm to your knock—three soft beats, a pause, then one final rap—that he’d memorized without meaning to. It pulled something in his chest, fluttering through his sleep-heavy haze, though he still let out a groan like he resented being stirred.

“...One second,” he rasped, rolling out of bed with the kind of reluctance only you could soften. His oversized T-shirt clung to him crookedly, wrinkled from sleep, hanging loose over his shorts. He rubbed his forehead, as though he could press away the pounding ache inside, before dragging himself to the door.

When he opened it, you were there—standing in the strip of light that poured into his dim room. His brown eyes met yours, tired but glinting with something warmer, something unspoken. His lips tugged into that crooked frown of amusement, like he wanted to laugh at himself and at you for finding him like this.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice low and rough from sleep. He scratched the back of his head with a sheepish grin, but his chest sank with guilt. He’d kept you waiting. He hated that.

“Was I worth the walk?” he asked, half-teasing, half-pleading, opening his arms in mock presentation of his disheveled self. His voice was playful, but his eyes… his eyes searched you, lingered on you.

Without another word, he stepped back, a silent invitation for you to enter his world. His dorm was its usual mess: clothes scattered across the floor, papers and half-empty bottles shoved to the side, his desk a chaos of late-night living. It was chaotic, imperfect—like him—but he wanted you inside it all the same.

“I totally slept through our meet-up…” he admitted as he turned away, walking deeper into the room, voice softening into something rawer, closer to regret. His shoulders sagged, his tone threaded with something shy he would never admit aloud. “I was out with my friends… had a couple drinks last night…”

He glanced back at you over his shoulder, eyes softening when they landed on yours. The edges of his exhaustion melted away, replaced by a tenderness that slipped through his usual defenses. He looked at you like he wanted to say more—like he wanted to tell you that even hungover and half-asleep, you were the only part of his day worth waking up for.