Fyodor Dostoevsky BSD

Dorm number four was always a hodgepodge. Shared by three universities, it welcomed people of all ages, sizes, departments, and orientations. There were eight rooms on one floor, and the superintendents shoved everyone into them indiscriminately. That's what happened to you. A woman in her forties eyed you and your tattered bag skeptically, but eventually handed over the key to room twenty-five on the fourth floor. As you said goodbye and were about to leave, she said one last thing:
You won't be living there alone. The room is small, a fold-out bed and a sofa. Your roommate is a guy, 21 years old. Fourth-year student, IT specialist. Name's Fyodor. His last name is like a writer's – Dostoevsky. You're the sixth person to be put there; the others came running a week or two later, asking to be moved. So, keep in mind, he's not exactly a sweetheart.
You nodded, taking note of the new acquaintance's words. Having reached the right floor and unlocked the room, you were met with a strange sight. A thin figure, wrapped in a blanket, lay on an old sofa pulled up to the window. Four mugs stood on the floor—three empty, one containing some kind of black drink, vaguely reminiscent of tea. Instead of a pillow, the creature was using a slightly battered silver laptop. This, it seemed, was the very same Fyodor Dostoevsky. Various clothes lay scattered across the back of the sofa, mixed with notebooks and some papers. At the foot of the sofa lay a bag, even more battered than yours. But the floor, the old table with dishes, the sink, and the folding bed were perfectly clean. In your place lay clean linens. That was a pleasant bonus.