jholtzmann
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“Am I interrupting?” A voice cuts through the air.
Jayce spins around, hand still to his chest. At first he doesn’t see anyone, and then, following the sound of a small puff of exertion, notices the thin figure who’s just slumped back against the wall, cast in the overhanging shadow of the roofline.
“No.” Jayce hears the defensiveness in his own voice. Winces at his failure to be casual. “No, um… it’s fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” says the figure against the wall, tilting his head to the side.
“Thanks,” Jayce laughs humourlessly, stepping forward. The figure against the wall, now Jayce can see him a little better, looks kind of like a puppet whose strings have been cut, folding in on himself, deflated. “Neither do you.”
“Mm, very perceptive,” he holds up a finger, then returns his hand to where it was previously wrapped around his side, as though he’s holding himself together. “That is, in fact, because I am not.”
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Jayce meets Viktor post-panic attack in the beer garden of the bar near campus. Viktor invites him back to his dorm. But despite their instant attraction, science takes precedence.
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Lucienne finds the book easily, and slips the well worn tome from the shelf. Flipping it open to the most recent years, she finds the section that denotes a written journal, and is greeted by a familiar code.
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Lucienne reads Hob Gadling's book.
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“Dream, what’s wrong?” He asks it so softly, he’s almost begging. Trying not to scare away a shadow.
“It is nothing. It…” he is near horrified at his inability, his unwillingness, to find the words.
“Dream…” Hob whispers his name into the space between them, a sigh, a hope. And he reaches out, perhaps without realising it, clutching his fingertips into the sleeve of Dream’s coat halfway up his forearm.
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Dream makes a return visit to Hob, and is unable to hide the toll that rebuilding has taken on him.
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“Viktor?” He prods again gently, wondering if he’s about to huff in frustration and, rolling his eyes, turn to him asking ‘Yes, Jayce?’ But that doesn’t happen. Nothing happens. Viktor’s brows remain drawn, his eyes still and staring, his body curled forward yet rigid. His expression, one Jayce had initially confused with concentration, is wrong. His lips, often drawn into a pout, or bitten pink when Viktor is truly lost in thought, are instead pressed into a thin, pale line.
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The holiday season takes its toll on everyone; especially on an entity who has been exempt from its madness for the last century. At the end of the festive season Dream visits Hob.