James S. Young
Basic Information
Name: James S. Young
Age: 18
Birthday: April 30
Height: 6'5
Sexual Orientation: Pansexual
Godly Parent: Hypnos
Sign Placement: Right ankle
Weapon: None
Age: 18
Birthday: April 30
Height: 6'5
Sexual Orientation: Pansexual
Godly Parent: Hypnos
Sign Placement: Right ankle
Weapon: None
Powers
* - Rare ability of that god's particular children
^ - Ability unrelated to godly parentage
^ - Ability unrelated to godly parentage
Sight: Ability to see past the Mist to see the world for what it really is.
Greek and Latin Fluency: Automatic ability to translate and speak Ancient Greek and Latin
Prophetic Dreams: Cryptic dreams foretelling important events and/or omens affecting the person's life that come once in a while
Dreamscape: Ability to control anything within the realm of dreams. Lucid dreaming while within his own dreams.
Dream Travel: Ability to enter other people's dreams.
^Mist Manipulation: Ability to manipulate Mist to warp the vision of how things appear, even to non-mortals.
Greek and Latin Fluency: Automatic ability to translate and speak Ancient Greek and Latin
Prophetic Dreams: Cryptic dreams foretelling important events and/or omens affecting the person's life that come once in a while
Dreamscape: Ability to control anything within the realm of dreams. Lucid dreaming while within his own dreams.
Dream Travel: Ability to enter other people's dreams.
^Mist Manipulation: Ability to manipulate Mist to warp the vision of how things appear, even to non-mortals.
Personality and History
Personality: James is somewhat of a affectionate cat, personality-wise. He's a generally very easy-going young man, hardly ever bothered with everything and anything going on around him. He always looks relaxed enough to take a nap right then and there, which in itself is not a rare occurrence. He has probably the greatest knowledge of Greek myths and the magic that surround them, always filling in missing bits and pieces of information for the others. For all that knowledge, however, he is equally laid back in his brain-to-mouth filter, which causes him to unintentionally anger or upset people occasionally.
History: Emily Young was a creative soul from the start, but perhaps not... all the way there. She was beautiful, but flighty and often forgetful. She loved art and dance, but never seemed to quite understand she could not comfortably live off of these things, not with certainty. She painted birds and flowers on her walls, hung crystals from her lights, walked barefoot all around the house. Her family worried and worried, but she hadn't a care in the world. She was a kind girl, but so out of touch with reality that they had a hard time picturing her future. The straw that broke the camel's back, however, was when she fell pregnant at seventeen. Not only that, but claimed that "the kind man who visits me in my dreams every night" was the father.
Despite loving her newborn son plenty, Emily was hardly interested in raising him the way most mothers did, instead going out hours on end. She rarely breastfed, and never woke when he cried at night (which was a rare occurrence anyway, for the boy was marvelously calm for a baby). She seemed convinced that the new fortune-telling "business" she created would be enough to support her and her son eventually, and in her spare time mixed herbs and things together to make home-made soaps, candles, and "health potions". Meanwhile, the care for her infant son fell squarely on her parents' shoulders, much to their continued agitation. But they wouldn't dare throw their daughter out on the streets when they knew she'd most likely end up homeless, and they loved their new grandson to bits and pieces, would never want him to grow up in those conditions, or with them and never seeing his mother.
As James grew, his poor grandparents started growing more and more worried for their grandchild. A tall and healthy boy, James always seemed to be dozing somewhere in the house. On the sofa, on the porch, even curled up at the stairs; that child seemed to do nothing but sleep sometimes. It was so bizarre and unnatural for a young boy like him, at an age where he should be doing nothing more than running around and playing with other kids. They took him to several doctors, asking if there was anything that could be wrong with him. Emily waved it all off, claiming that he got his sleepiness from his father, but the grandparents were never convinced. They were scared to even think of who this "dream man" might be, since their daughter talked like she knew him even though no one of his description lived anywhere in the area. At first they had thought, to their horror, that she had been raped and simply made up the man as a coping mechanism, but a trip to the doctor's revealed no damage to her whatsoever. They have never seen anyone like him, yet she claimed he was still visiting. He was an obscure concept.
But this was not. This was their living, breathing grandson, a grandson who at five years of age could sleep the day away without a care in the world, who was never interested in running or playing. The doctors all claimed he was in perfect health, had chalked up his tendency to sleep to a possible case of narcolepsy. But that, too, soon proved to be false; James never spontaneously just went to sleep. He decided whenever he wanted to or not, and when he did, he simply did. He had perfect control over his sleep and being awake, always letting everyone know he was going to go to sleep soon before calmly walking out to find some place comfortable.
James, for his part, was perfectly content with his life. By day, his grandparents took him to school and cooked for him and loved him, while his mother came back in the evening to paint with him and tell him stories. At night, meanwhile, his father came to visit him, and they would sit for what seems like hours, his father telling him all about the things he's seen throughout his many years. He also told him many, many things about the creatures that lived among him, the things only he and his mom seemed to see while his grandparents (and everyone else) always looked over, then asked what he was talking about. Things like the ladies he saw melting in and out of trees, flowers in their hair and pretty as spring (they were called nymphs, his dad told him). He told him of Mist, the magic that wove among them that hid those things from most people, with only a few people having the eyes to look past it. People like him.
People like his mother.
He and his mother were a little different, he knew. He could see past the Mist because his dad, unlike the rest of his family, was not mortal. His mom, however, was one of the rare humans who could see past the Mist all on her own. Princess Ariande, James knew, was the same way. It was how she helped Theseus through the Labyrinth, because its magic did not work on her like it did on him. James learned many, many stories about people like her, and any other that happened through Greek history, or really ANY history. How William Shakespeare was blessed by the Muses and wrote stories after stories that stayed in the very heart of history. How the missing planes and ships of the Bermuda Triangle were a result of the dreaded monsters Scylla and Charybdis. How George Washington, one of the greatest sons of Athena of all time, had led a whole new nation to victory and refused to be crowned king because he knew what said nation truly needed.
He told his grandparents these things often, feet swinging as he ate at the table. He had told his mother before, and she seemed delighted, pleased he knew so much. His grandparents only smiled thinly, uncomfortably; they had patted his head and said "that's nice, dear", all while shooting one another worried looks. They had chalked up his stories to a child's imagination, even if for the life of them they did not know why he knew so much history, or Greek mythology for the matter. But he was smart for his age, and really, how could they complain about this?
James was fascinated with the magical beings that lived around him. He always wanted to talk to one, despite his father warning him against it. It was perhaps why, when he first saw the lady walking behind him, her hair oddly bright and flickering and walking with a strange limp, he didn't tell her to go away. He didn't do anything. Simply went home, and when he looked out the window, she was looking right at him. He waved, then shut the blinds. When he opened them again, a minute later, she was gone.
The next night, he was not yet asleep when he heard the crash downstairs. He was not yet asleep when someone burst into his room, grabbed him by the hair and dragged him out. He was wide, wide awake as a monster, a woman with bloodless skin and flames for hair and mismatched legs (one goat, one made of solid bronze) dragged his family down, one by one.
First they took his grandfather, held him at each side as the third tore his throat out with her teeth. The blood sprayed in a fountain, staining James's face and clothes.
Then they brought his grandmother. Her they did not want to drink dry. Her head was snapped before she could start begging for her grandson's life. James heard the crack as if it was a gunshot.
And lastly, they brought his mother. His mother, her big eyes wide as she looked and knew what was happening, of what these monster women really were. She swallowed, looked at her son, and smiled. She told him that he had to be brave, be strong like his dad. Her head came off the very next second.
James was vaguely aware that sometime during all this, there was plenty of screaming that echoed all throughout the house, so loud it was a miracle none of the neighbors came to check. It was only after he saw his mother's lifeless eyes and slack jaw rolling next to the two previous bodies, both turning cold already, that he realized the screaming was coming from him. And that his face was wet with tears he had not even felt until then.
The woman who was holding him leaned in at some point, hissing sweetly "you're next, little demigod~" into his ear, but he did not care. He did not care about the thick, white Mist swirling around him, enveloping the monster girls (Empousai, a disconnected part of his brain whispered) like a cloudy snare. He did not see their glossed over eyes and suddenly-confused faces; all he knew was that he ran, and ran until his lungs could take no more.
Nine year old James was one of near-muteness. He did not remember child services finally finding him. He did not remember being brought in for questioning over his family's death, nor the answer he had given them. He did not remember the drive to his aunt and uncle's house (his closest living family now) that was in the neighboring state. He did not remember what they said when they met him, or what day it was. He sat in the room they provided him, knees to his chest and blank stare directed at the wall, and did so for a long, long time. All the while, his hair slowly turned stark white. Marie Antoinette Syndrome, he had heard his aunt whisper to his uncle once. He ignored them.
His uncle was his mother's older brother, and he tried time and time again to talk to the boy while suffering through his own grief. However, after a multitude of failed attempts, he simply... gave up. James didn't blame him.
The only solace he had ever gotten anymore only came during his dreams. The visits from his father were the only piece of his old life he had left, and he clung to it. Even if his father was a god, even if he was not supposed to, James suspected that he himself could not bare to leave James alone, not after all of this. Gods, it would seem, had distinctly human emotions as well.
It was the third month of his stay with his aunt and uncle when, in the extremely rare occasion of him being awake (if he had slept a lot before, then he was practically comatose these days), another godly visitor had come into his life. Mist had crawled into his room like slithering milky snakes, and the world had gotten a sort of glossy quality all around him. James knew he was not dreaming; if there was any mortal familiar with dreams, it would have been him. Instead, he had been greeted with an overpowering presence flooding into the room, akin to his father's yet so very different. A long howl of the dog sounded once, haunting as the Mist around him. And then she appeared.
The woman that had appeared before him was unlike anything he had seen before. Unlike his father, who he had only ever seen within the realm of dreams, her presence was solid, impossible to ignore and filling up the room. She was dressed in a long, raggety skirt riddled with patterns, multiple worn fabrics layered upon one another, while the sleeves of her blouse were long and billowing; hanging from her belt were a multitude of keys and daggers. However, once one looked up, three faces greeted them instead of one. Her, or rather their, eyes were dark as the night, but held a small flickering in their depths; like a single torch you only saw from a distance in the dead of night. She looked like a handsome gypsy woman in her thirties, her dark hair intertwined into elaborate braids that connected the three heads together. The woman was accompanied by a... golden retriever? It sat by her skirt side, completely patient.
She had stepped closer to the boy, running a hand through the now-silver hair. Her faces never changed as her left head said "Even for a demigod, your fate has been unjust; and by my own servants' hands, no less." Her flickering eyes were focused on his hair rather than him as she spoke. This time it was the head on the right. "They must have sensed it; your mother was very gifted in magic, a rare feat for a mortal. It is one of the things that won her favor with your father, Hypnos; it seemed that you have inherited her prowess in the art. You would not have escaped alive of my children's jealous clutches otherwise." She stroked his hair in an almost-affectionate manner, and finally her eyes met his. The force behind her gaze was so powerful he almost wished she had looked away again. The main head had finally decided to speak; as she did, she gently pressed a thumb to the center of his forehead. She smelled faintly of yew. "O son of the god that resides by the river; for both the maternal gift in your veins, and the failings of my own kin, I grant thee the Blessing of Hecate. By the names of my father, Perses, and my mother, Asteria, let the Fates hear of the gift that I bestow upon thee. May it serve thee well, in times of peace and times of peril." Two torches appeared by them as she chanted this, throwing both in a golden glow that only grew brighter as she completed her vow. The fire was eternally burning, a bit more golden than what seemed natural, yet the wood underneath it remained completely uncharred. She took her hand away from him, and with a final howl from her canine companion, the mist cloaked her figure, and all melted away without a trace, fire light and all.
James was 11 when he had manipulated the Mist into making his aunt and uncle forget his entire existence. It was almost too easy; the Mist was something that he could play around with as if it was an all-powerful clay ever since that faithful visit. It had gotten people not to question why a child was wandering alone and looking for an apartment, the origins of the money he owned, or why he never seemed to go to school. He lived perfectly alone in the big city. And with it, he came to know that there were a lot more demigods like him than he realized, and that he still had much, much to learn.
And learn he did. He learned everything there was to learn about the mythological world around him, about the properties and potions he could make. And he had met demigods, a multitude of them. He helped them through their struggles, gave them food and shelter that was safe from monsters, a extremely rare luxury for people like them. Finally, the misery he carried around was over; he helped people, and it gave him a sense of freedom. Freedom, because now he was not the naive child he was back then, who thoughtlessly led monsters into his home to kill his family. He was okay now. Really.
History: Emily Young was a creative soul from the start, but perhaps not... all the way there. She was beautiful, but flighty and often forgetful. She loved art and dance, but never seemed to quite understand she could not comfortably live off of these things, not with certainty. She painted birds and flowers on her walls, hung crystals from her lights, walked barefoot all around the house. Her family worried and worried, but she hadn't a care in the world. She was a kind girl, but so out of touch with reality that they had a hard time picturing her future. The straw that broke the camel's back, however, was when she fell pregnant at seventeen. Not only that, but claimed that "the kind man who visits me in my dreams every night" was the father.
Despite loving her newborn son plenty, Emily was hardly interested in raising him the way most mothers did, instead going out hours on end. She rarely breastfed, and never woke when he cried at night (which was a rare occurrence anyway, for the boy was marvelously calm for a baby). She seemed convinced that the new fortune-telling "business" she created would be enough to support her and her son eventually, and in her spare time mixed herbs and things together to make home-made soaps, candles, and "health potions". Meanwhile, the care for her infant son fell squarely on her parents' shoulders, much to their continued agitation. But they wouldn't dare throw their daughter out on the streets when they knew she'd most likely end up homeless, and they loved their new grandson to bits and pieces, would never want him to grow up in those conditions, or with them and never seeing his mother.
As James grew, his poor grandparents started growing more and more worried for their grandchild. A tall and healthy boy, James always seemed to be dozing somewhere in the house. On the sofa, on the porch, even curled up at the stairs; that child seemed to do nothing but sleep sometimes. It was so bizarre and unnatural for a young boy like him, at an age where he should be doing nothing more than running around and playing with other kids. They took him to several doctors, asking if there was anything that could be wrong with him. Emily waved it all off, claiming that he got his sleepiness from his father, but the grandparents were never convinced. They were scared to even think of who this "dream man" might be, since their daughter talked like she knew him even though no one of his description lived anywhere in the area. At first they had thought, to their horror, that she had been raped and simply made up the man as a coping mechanism, but a trip to the doctor's revealed no damage to her whatsoever. They have never seen anyone like him, yet she claimed he was still visiting. He was an obscure concept.
But this was not. This was their living, breathing grandson, a grandson who at five years of age could sleep the day away without a care in the world, who was never interested in running or playing. The doctors all claimed he was in perfect health, had chalked up his tendency to sleep to a possible case of narcolepsy. But that, too, soon proved to be false; James never spontaneously just went to sleep. He decided whenever he wanted to or not, and when he did, he simply did. He had perfect control over his sleep and being awake, always letting everyone know he was going to go to sleep soon before calmly walking out to find some place comfortable.
James, for his part, was perfectly content with his life. By day, his grandparents took him to school and cooked for him and loved him, while his mother came back in the evening to paint with him and tell him stories. At night, meanwhile, his father came to visit him, and they would sit for what seems like hours, his father telling him all about the things he's seen throughout his many years. He also told him many, many things about the creatures that lived among him, the things only he and his mom seemed to see while his grandparents (and everyone else) always looked over, then asked what he was talking about. Things like the ladies he saw melting in and out of trees, flowers in their hair and pretty as spring (they were called nymphs, his dad told him). He told him of Mist, the magic that wove among them that hid those things from most people, with only a few people having the eyes to look past it. People like him.
People like his mother.
He and his mother were a little different, he knew. He could see past the Mist because his dad, unlike the rest of his family, was not mortal. His mom, however, was one of the rare humans who could see past the Mist all on her own. Princess Ariande, James knew, was the same way. It was how she helped Theseus through the Labyrinth, because its magic did not work on her like it did on him. James learned many, many stories about people like her, and any other that happened through Greek history, or really ANY history. How William Shakespeare was blessed by the Muses and wrote stories after stories that stayed in the very heart of history. How the missing planes and ships of the Bermuda Triangle were a result of the dreaded monsters Scylla and Charybdis. How George Washington, one of the greatest sons of Athena of all time, had led a whole new nation to victory and refused to be crowned king because he knew what said nation truly needed.
He told his grandparents these things often, feet swinging as he ate at the table. He had told his mother before, and she seemed delighted, pleased he knew so much. His grandparents only smiled thinly, uncomfortably; they had patted his head and said "that's nice, dear", all while shooting one another worried looks. They had chalked up his stories to a child's imagination, even if for the life of them they did not know why he knew so much history, or Greek mythology for the matter. But he was smart for his age, and really, how could they complain about this?
James was fascinated with the magical beings that lived around him. He always wanted to talk to one, despite his father warning him against it. It was perhaps why, when he first saw the lady walking behind him, her hair oddly bright and flickering and walking with a strange limp, he didn't tell her to go away. He didn't do anything. Simply went home, and when he looked out the window, she was looking right at him. He waved, then shut the blinds. When he opened them again, a minute later, she was gone.
The next night, he was not yet asleep when he heard the crash downstairs. He was not yet asleep when someone burst into his room, grabbed him by the hair and dragged him out. He was wide, wide awake as a monster, a woman with bloodless skin and flames for hair and mismatched legs (one goat, one made of solid bronze) dragged his family down, one by one.
First they took his grandfather, held him at each side as the third tore his throat out with her teeth. The blood sprayed in a fountain, staining James's face and clothes.
Then they brought his grandmother. Her they did not want to drink dry. Her head was snapped before she could start begging for her grandson's life. James heard the crack as if it was a gunshot.
And lastly, they brought his mother. His mother, her big eyes wide as she looked and knew what was happening, of what these monster women really were. She swallowed, looked at her son, and smiled. She told him that he had to be brave, be strong like his dad. Her head came off the very next second.
James was vaguely aware that sometime during all this, there was plenty of screaming that echoed all throughout the house, so loud it was a miracle none of the neighbors came to check. It was only after he saw his mother's lifeless eyes and slack jaw rolling next to the two previous bodies, both turning cold already, that he realized the screaming was coming from him. And that his face was wet with tears he had not even felt until then.
The woman who was holding him leaned in at some point, hissing sweetly "you're next, little demigod~" into his ear, but he did not care. He did not care about the thick, white Mist swirling around him, enveloping the monster girls (Empousai, a disconnected part of his brain whispered) like a cloudy snare. He did not see their glossed over eyes and suddenly-confused faces; all he knew was that he ran, and ran until his lungs could take no more.
Nine year old James was one of near-muteness. He did not remember child services finally finding him. He did not remember being brought in for questioning over his family's death, nor the answer he had given them. He did not remember the drive to his aunt and uncle's house (his closest living family now) that was in the neighboring state. He did not remember what they said when they met him, or what day it was. He sat in the room they provided him, knees to his chest and blank stare directed at the wall, and did so for a long, long time. All the while, his hair slowly turned stark white. Marie Antoinette Syndrome, he had heard his aunt whisper to his uncle once. He ignored them.
His uncle was his mother's older brother, and he tried time and time again to talk to the boy while suffering through his own grief. However, after a multitude of failed attempts, he simply... gave up. James didn't blame him.
The only solace he had ever gotten anymore only came during his dreams. The visits from his father were the only piece of his old life he had left, and he clung to it. Even if his father was a god, even if he was not supposed to, James suspected that he himself could not bare to leave James alone, not after all of this. Gods, it would seem, had distinctly human emotions as well.
It was the third month of his stay with his aunt and uncle when, in the extremely rare occasion of him being awake (if he had slept a lot before, then he was practically comatose these days), another godly visitor had come into his life. Mist had crawled into his room like slithering milky snakes, and the world had gotten a sort of glossy quality all around him. James knew he was not dreaming; if there was any mortal familiar with dreams, it would have been him. Instead, he had been greeted with an overpowering presence flooding into the room, akin to his father's yet so very different. A long howl of the dog sounded once, haunting as the Mist around him. And then she appeared.
The woman that had appeared before him was unlike anything he had seen before. Unlike his father, who he had only ever seen within the realm of dreams, her presence was solid, impossible to ignore and filling up the room. She was dressed in a long, raggety skirt riddled with patterns, multiple worn fabrics layered upon one another, while the sleeves of her blouse were long and billowing; hanging from her belt were a multitude of keys and daggers. However, once one looked up, three faces greeted them instead of one. Her, or rather their, eyes were dark as the night, but held a small flickering in their depths; like a single torch you only saw from a distance in the dead of night. She looked like a handsome gypsy woman in her thirties, her dark hair intertwined into elaborate braids that connected the three heads together. The woman was accompanied by a... golden retriever? It sat by her skirt side, completely patient.
She had stepped closer to the boy, running a hand through the now-silver hair. Her faces never changed as her left head said "Even for a demigod, your fate has been unjust; and by my own servants' hands, no less." Her flickering eyes were focused on his hair rather than him as she spoke. This time it was the head on the right. "They must have sensed it; your mother was very gifted in magic, a rare feat for a mortal. It is one of the things that won her favor with your father, Hypnos; it seemed that you have inherited her prowess in the art. You would not have escaped alive of my children's jealous clutches otherwise." She stroked his hair in an almost-affectionate manner, and finally her eyes met his. The force behind her gaze was so powerful he almost wished she had looked away again. The main head had finally decided to speak; as she did, she gently pressed a thumb to the center of his forehead. She smelled faintly of yew. "O son of the god that resides by the river; for both the maternal gift in your veins, and the failings of my own kin, I grant thee the Blessing of Hecate. By the names of my father, Perses, and my mother, Asteria, let the Fates hear of the gift that I bestow upon thee. May it serve thee well, in times of peace and times of peril." Two torches appeared by them as she chanted this, throwing both in a golden glow that only grew brighter as she completed her vow. The fire was eternally burning, a bit more golden than what seemed natural, yet the wood underneath it remained completely uncharred. She took her hand away from him, and with a final howl from her canine companion, the mist cloaked her figure, and all melted away without a trace, fire light and all.
James was 11 when he had manipulated the Mist into making his aunt and uncle forget his entire existence. It was almost too easy; the Mist was something that he could play around with as if it was an all-powerful clay ever since that faithful visit. It had gotten people not to question why a child was wandering alone and looking for an apartment, the origins of the money he owned, or why he never seemed to go to school. He lived perfectly alone in the big city. And with it, he came to know that there were a lot more demigods like him than he realized, and that he still had much, much to learn.
And learn he did. He learned everything there was to learn about the mythological world around him, about the properties and potions he could make. And he had met demigods, a multitude of them. He helped them through their struggles, gave them food and shelter that was safe from monsters, a extremely rare luxury for people like them. Finally, the misery he carried around was over; he helped people, and it gave him a sense of freedom. Freedom, because now he was not the naive child he was back then, who thoughtlessly led monsters into his home to kill his family. He was okay now. Really.
Misc.
Family: Mother (deceased) - Emily Young
A mortal girl born with Sight and high aptitude for magic. Was loving, but not always present (physically or mentally)
Grandfather (deceased) - Paul S. Young
A solid family man. Had been a dentist; always scheduled family medical appointments.
Grandmother (deceased) - Mildred Delgrego Young
Had been a housewife her entire life. Practically had her own small library.
Uncle - Kelvin Young
Geography teacher in middle school. Never quite got along with his sister.
Aunt - Alexis Westwood Young
Substitute teacher. Currently working on a teaching degree online.
Partner: Antonio Ramirez-Diaz-Morales
Theme song: "The Cave" by Mumford & Sons
Quote: "Whenever I feel the need to exercise, I lie down until it goes away."
Misc. Facts:
- Loves all sorts of seafood, but is particularly fond of tuna and crab meat
- Predictably, nearly all the songs he listens to are indie
- Greatest Hugger™
- Probably puts a bunch of kawaii emojis into his texts
- Contrary to popular belief, he never smoked weed
- On a "normal" day he sleeps about fifteen hours a day... just like a cat would
- Somehow always knows all the answers in crossword puzzles
A mortal girl born with Sight and high aptitude for magic. Was loving, but not always present (physically or mentally)
Grandfather (deceased) - Paul S. Young
A solid family man. Had been a dentist; always scheduled family medical appointments.
Grandmother (deceased) - Mildred Delgrego Young
Had been a housewife her entire life. Practically had her own small library.
Uncle - Kelvin Young
Geography teacher in middle school. Never quite got along with his sister.
Aunt - Alexis Westwood Young
Substitute teacher. Currently working on a teaching degree online.
Partner: Antonio Ramirez-Diaz-Morales
Theme song: "The Cave" by Mumford & Sons
Quote: "Whenever I feel the need to exercise, I lie down until it goes away."
Misc. Facts:
- Loves all sorts of seafood, but is particularly fond of tuna and crab meat
- Predictably, nearly all the songs he listens to are indie
- Greatest Hugger™
- Probably puts a bunch of kawaii emojis into his texts
- Contrary to popular belief, he never smoked weed
- On a "normal" day he sleeps about fifteen hours a day... just like a cat would
- Somehow always knows all the answers in crossword puzzles