He pushes open the door to the house. His face is not the mask of amusement. He tosses his backpack against the coat rack. The long thin piece of wood with the sturdy base is not built for such abuse and rocks back and forth. He barely notices. Feet shuffling, Sebastion heads straight for the kitchen. His mousy brown hair is short and spikey and his clothes are long and oversided. He wore jeans, a short a long sleeve t-shirt of white and a button up shirt with blue vertical strips. The collar is turned down, the buttons are undone, and the sleeves are rolled to the upper arm. The long white cotton his arms are sleeved in left to lay loosely about the middle of his hands, covering his thumbs, but leaving his fingers accessable.
His lacksadaisical slumping leads him to the fridge where he pulls out the milk. He checks the date on it, then pulls the spout open smelling for freshness. The milk is ushered from his nose to his lips and Sebastion tips it back, taking a long drink from the carton. For all the notice he takes of anything around him, he could be in an empty space with just a fridge that when he opened it held one container of milk. Of course, in reality, he was in the kitchen of the house that he shared with his sister. University is expensive.