On nights where Logan stays up typing essay after essay - history, biology, English, Kendall stays somewhat with him. Logan liked leaving on bright lights, whether it be a bedside lamp, desk lamp, or all the lights in the kitchen. He said it helped keep him awake.
Thing was, they also kept Kendall awake. So Logan would shuffle downstairs and plop down on the floor, or in the desk, or on the kitchen counter. But it wouldn't be long (half an hour, fifteen minutes, right away) before Kendall would stumble down after him, rubbing his eyes and complaining that something was wrong.
"The sink won't stop dripping."
"I can't close the window and it's cold."
"I think there's an animal in our wall."
"Carlos left a moldy corndog under the bed and I can't reach it."
So Kendall would sit, on the adjacent orange couch, or on the floor, or on a boogieboard, or on the bar stools, half-consciously watching Logan type out his essay.
And after Logan finished, he would shuffle back upstairs to their shared room and close the faucet tighter, or unjam the pice of whatever Kendall stuck in the window, or take out the automated cheeping or scurrying from inside the wall, or blindly reach under Kendall's bed for a moldy corndog.
Kendall would follow, shoulders slumped with sleep, feeling a little bit defeated at being found out so easily. But Logan didn't mind the company, and Kendall knew that.