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Resurfaced // for Harry
September 17th, 2019
It'll be nice to see Harry again, apart from the novelty of spending time with someone outside The Archive. Things are moving along well enough, and he's... well, it feels a bit weird and in some ways quite awful to say it, but he feels happy. He and John have made good progress, both in terms of their own survival here and with their relationship, such as it is. And Martin's started making friends again.
Or, well, he's trying. He wasn't good at it before he fell in with the Lonely, and now, well, he's rather out of practice. He sees Eliot and Kat just about every day, and there've been a few others with whom he's having some regular contact, but it's still piecemeal. At least it's getting markedly easier to feel like it's something he deserves, something he ought to be doing. Having people in his life again. It is better than not.
As embarrassed as he is by how long it took him to follow up with Harry after their initial meeting, he's far more embarrassed about the botch he made of his overtures. Harry is, at least, terribly gracious, and agrees to lunch, so he must not have made too big a mess.
He's sitting at an inoffensive little place about an equal walk from Candlewood and Ocean View, a blandly pleasant sort of gastropub, if he had to describe it. He got there much too early, of course, and is now sitting a bit nervously with a beer that's steadily dripping condensation onto the table. There is no reason to be nervous, absurd texts notwithstanding; and yet, he is. It takes him a moment to parcel out that most of his anxiety stems from the fact that he's just... looking forward to this. Sitting down with someone and just having a chat, like all's normal. It feels like cheating. Like he shouldn't be allowed. But he is.
He smiles to himself and runs his thumb up the side of his glass, clearing a little line in the condensation, entreating himself to relax. This will be nice, and it's allowed. That's all.
It'll be nice to see Harry again, apart from the novelty of spending time with someone outside The Archive. Things are moving along well enough, and he's... well, it feels a bit weird and in some ways quite awful to say it, but he feels happy. He and John have made good progress, both in terms of their own survival here and with their relationship, such as it is. And Martin's started making friends again.
Or, well, he's trying. He wasn't good at it before he fell in with the Lonely, and now, well, he's rather out of practice. He sees Eliot and Kat just about every day, and there've been a few others with whom he's having some regular contact, but it's still piecemeal. At least it's getting markedly easier to feel like it's something he deserves, something he ought to be doing. Having people in his life again. It is better than not.
As embarrassed as he is by how long it took him to follow up with Harry after their initial meeting, he's far more embarrassed about the botch he made of his overtures. Harry is, at least, terribly gracious, and agrees to lunch, so he must not have made too big a mess.
He's sitting at an inoffensive little place about an equal walk from Candlewood and Ocean View, a blandly pleasant sort of gastropub, if he had to describe it. He got there much too early, of course, and is now sitting a bit nervously with a beer that's steadily dripping condensation onto the table. There is no reason to be nervous, absurd texts notwithstanding; and yet, he is. It takes him a moment to parcel out that most of his anxiety stems from the fact that he's just... looking forward to this. Sitting down with someone and just having a chat, like all's normal. It feels like cheating. Like he shouldn't be allowed. But he is.
He smiles to himself and runs his thumb up the side of his glass, clearing a little line in the condensation, entreating himself to relax. This will be nice, and it's allowed. That's all.
no subject
That is not how it is for most other men, he's seen. His brothers had teased him relentlessly for having never married, had finally, in his late twenties, purchased a prostitute for him, worrying he'd yet to experience sex. They had been right, of course, but he hadn't found the interaction particularly enjoyable.
He's never known what that says about him, what it means.
"Well, I suppose we'll see, won't we?" he asks, smiling faintly. "And I'll be sure to let you know, unless I make a complete fool of myself."