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Jay's lips are flat, his eyes clouded under the line of his frown. He reaches for my hand, and I shift instinctively away before relaxing impossibly into his touch. My fingers are as cold as his are warm, beating with a soft thrum that holds me down to the acheron.
“Nick, my friend…” he starts, upset. I look at him squarely, and wonder vaguely at his perfectly construed countenance. He’s saying something now, a rush of words that drive a flush up his cheeks in the cold, but I can’t – won’t listen. I rest my other hand on his cheek, and it startles him to a stop. I run a thumb across the space under his eye, then draw back. His mouth falls open for a second before he recomposes himself.
I shake my head, tugging my scarf close around myself and letting my eyes dart to the snow underfoot. There is so much space between us… I wonder if he sees it, or if it’s just inconsequential to him-? The world parts before him, after all, all golden glory and red smoke that paint him out to be one of the greatest people I’ve ever met. Not that I’d tell him, of course… Occasionally, I am tempted, but I am all too aware of the gaping chasm that cracks into existence along with all of my desires.
“It’s nothing… just saw a stray eyelash.”