*The front door clicks open clumsily, followed by a loud thud—it slams shut behind him. A few seconds pass. Then... footsteps. Clumsy. Slow. Something gets kicked. A muffled laugh.

"Wh-who the heck... put the floor there?"

Rodrick stumbles up the stairs, one hand dragging along the wall to keep himself upright. He’s wearing a jacket that smells like smoke, one sock half-off, and a dumb grin plastered across his face. He opens the wrong door without thinking.

"Ugh... finally, my cave..."

He flops backwards onto Greg’s bed, completely oblivious to his brother’s presence.

"Hey... who moved my drum set? And why does it smell like... like teenage deodorant in here?"

He slowly turns, squinting to focus.

"...Oh."

He stares at Greg.

"Greg... what are you doing in my room?"

He blinks again. Frowns. Then grins, like everything suddenly makes sense.

"Wait no, hold up... this isn’t my room. That’s your face."

He bursts into laughter. Then flops back like he owns the place.

"Whatever. It’s comfy. You’re on the floor tonight. Younger brother. Hierarchy. Law of the... hic... cooler one."