While William messed around with his things, Angel worked to finish the desk where it was supposed to go instead of having to push it up against that particular wall. There it sat as if it were meant to be there, made for the room, and when he assembled the three-piece chair to go along with it, everything seemed to fall into such perfection. He grinned at it, moving on to the bedside table and its lamp---a stout thing with a gentle light, and spare bulbs should they go out. He'd had light bulbs last for over a year more than once, after all. The table sat underneath the window on his side, as if fitting into a puzzle flawlessly. Looking around his bag, Angel found the curtains. Very long things normally, but the window here was tall. They would fit well though, reach a few inches below the bottom sill. And the faintly lined fabric smelled like lilac.

Glancing sideways, he shivered almost unaccountably. So perfect. Too perfect. Too perfect for anyone to live there comfortably, surely. He didn't get it. Just didn't get it. The only thing his family ever tried to arrange perfectly were the paddocks and grazing fields before erecting fences. The house was well-lived in. Built by his great-grandparents and their children. A legacy was there, and he could feel it. Angel sighed, kneeling at the bed and sliding an organizer under it to make sure it fit. He missed home already, and his parents and sisters were probably not even back at the hotel yet. Maybe they'd call before bed tonight... Surely his mother would, she'd been tearing up more than once on flight, and came back a few times with red eyes. Angel shook his head. He was here for two years. He'd see his parents and siblings, and a few others, soon. During visitations, during their week-long vacations, Easter and Christmas and a few others... He nodded to himself, glancing back William's way as he began arranging his art supplies. These were the only things he cared to keep in perfect order. Large canvases, long canvases, small canvases. Hard and soft paintbrushes of varying sizes and styles. Colored pencils. Pencils. Pens. Markers. Carving utensils. Paints. Pastels and chalks. Cups. Towels. A spray can of clear adhesive---it was meant to protect specifically graphite drawings and keep them from smearing.

It all fit under the bed like a glove. He was proud to see that. Again he glanced at William. He wanted to say something... But what?