When Jack awakens a few hours later, he doesn't notice that Orev is still awake. He sees only thin morning light creeping in through the window. He knows he can't stay here, because staying means talking. It means answering questions he's not ready to face. It means confronting what he's done: sleeping beside the man who threw him aside. ((Is that...what happened? Orev seems so broken, so mournful. Is it possible-) No.)
He doesn't think about how he remained still and safe in Orev's embrace all night as he extracts himself from it. He doesn't think about the biting chill of the room when he leaves the bed. He pulls on his vest and gun, sets his hat (adorned by Orev's feather still) on his head, and picks up his boots from the floor. It's as he's picking up his coat that he sees the arcane focus peeking from Orev's clothing on the same chair.
He doesn't think about that, either. He only takes it in the same motion that he uses to collect his coat before he creeps from the room, closing the door silently behind him.
(Not without one last, hungry, aching look at Orev, however. Not without thinking, I miss you.)
At breakfast when the party reconvenes, Jack acts as though the night before never happened.
<.>
What use in either feigning sleep or restraining Jack?
Orev felt the lull of sleep falling away from the man, felt the body in his arms stirring toward awareness, and toward a tension of decision. (For a moment - brief, and overhopeful - he’d thought perhaps Jack would meet his eyes, and raise fingertips to trace down Orev’s cheek. Had thought that they might… Perhaps not talk, but share a morning’s silence before returning to the world.)
(He’s already taken too much.) (He’s had more than his due.) (He should have known— And really, he did suspect what follows.)
Jack extricates himself from Orev’s hold; Orev doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t close his eyes, but doesn’t speak, scarcely moves. If Jack wishes to leave, perhaps permission, noninterference is the least Orev owes him. (He has the knowledge of this man in deepest sleep, held in his arms and peaceful. If there’s nothing else— (This isn’t an end.) (He wouldn’t and he won’t allow it.) At least he has this to grasp in memory.)
Orev notes the swiftness and the grace in Jack’s departure. How easily he (leaves Orev behind) ((oh, but isn’t that only fair?)) navigates the room in quiet; how he might very well have left unnoticed, had Orev not been awake already. He sees his arcane focus taken (and might almost huff a laugh; does smile, slight and crooked, there and gone again). And he sees—
That look. Watches Jack without demanding attention. Only witnessing the… What is that? Hope, longing, hunger in his eyes. Only feeling a pull and twisting of his own insides. (He needs to fix this, he ought to fix it.) (He doesn’t know how. (Not yet.) He doesn’t know what he did, himself. (Not… Yet.))
For untracked minutes after Jack’s departure, Orev doesn’t move. Scarcely breathes. Only stares at the door, not recognizing the voice of a quiet hope in his own mind (that maybe, maybe the door will open again; maybe Jack will return), not thinking of the way his hand’s moved to his chest and begun tracing, imitating the movement of Jack’s hand.
Eventually, he rises. Dresses, readies himself for the day. And when he joins the table, he notes Jack’s posture, notes what he can only class as hesitation, reticence— Or simply a closed door. And for now, he doesn’t speak of the night. If he watches Jack closely, if he watches Jack often, it’s no different from every other day of watching Jack closely. And if Orev appears somewhat off-balance, poking over-much at his breakfast and looking inexplicably at a loss—
Well. That’s not so much of a chance, either.
And anyway. Anyway, the party has business to attend to, and next steps to be discussed.
<.>
When Cala sees Orev coming down to the table, she stands - casually and not so - from the seat she occupied beside Jack. Moving at a pace that isn't idle, she takes the seat on the opposite side next to Walter under the pretense of reading his book over his shoulder. In doing so, she effectively leaves only the seat beside Jack available. Her eyes flicker up at Orev and back down at the book; she fails to suppress a smile.
Jack doesn't notice this. His attention remains fixed on his food; he picks at it, thinking he should have stayed in bed with Orev. He should have touched his cheek, should have whispered to him, should have kissed him - something. He wishes he had, but knows it would have been a bad idea. It's better this way. (And - and. Orev will realize his focus is gone and still, he'll pay some meager attention to Jack. There's that. He'll demand it back. He'll command it back.
Jack shivers.)
He can feel the heat of Orev's gaze on him. He knows the other man is watching him, just like he has the past few days, just like he did when he was Draža. It takes everything in him not to look up.
<.>
He isn't about to argue with Calamus's decision. (He also isn't going to ask Cala or Walt what they may have discerned over the night.) (He is moderately relieved to see that Walt's not brought his doll to the table. Or at least hasn't placed it anywhere within sight.)
Orev nudges a piece of... something, some scrap of meat around his plate, eyes drifting over and again to Jack, peripheral vision focused on the lackadaisical way the man's approaching his own breakfast.
He'll need his focus back. He's not ready to (take it from Jack) approach that yet.
He tries to look at the pair across the table; it doesn't last for long.
Eventually, he clears his throat. Speaks, not quite looking at anyone (not not watching Jack), "I trust everyone slept well."
Everyone. Never mind that there are two members of this party who really actually sleep, and that Orev knows pretty well how that went. It's... Fine, everything is fine, and he's just going to continue with—
"It seems we have business yet in this town. I'd just as soon leave returning to the Druskenvalds for another day... But. Calamus." And. And. "Jack. Perhaps your task is best attended to first."
<.>
Jack stiffens at the mention of the task waiting for him and he darts a glance at Orev as though wondering just what he meant by that; if he's in a hurry to help Jack end his contract - then, of course, Jack recalls Orev knows nothing of the real reason why he wants to go to the Drowned Crossroads. He resumes picking at his food and trying not to be aware of how his arm brushes Orev's.
Calamus merely hums and shrug. "That's not a today thing. We need to rest up after last night. Maybe earn a little coin if we can."
She shoots a pointed, accusing look at Jack, who doesn't outwardly react.
"And," she continues, "I don't sleep. Neither does Walter." In a sing-song, off-hand tone, she adds, "But I'm sure everyone else slept well!"
"I'd sleep better without that creepy doll in our room," Jack contributes blandly.
"You weren't in the room, so why do you care?" Cala leans forward, chin in her hands, and fixes Orev with a Look. "How did you sleep?"
<.>
A quandry (or, a puzzle to be set aside for now and gnawed over slowly): Why Jack tenses at the mention of his task with Calamus's contract. Why it should set him on edge, when it seems so soundly in his and in Cala's best interest. (Perhaps it's only nerves. Perhaps the Crossroads seems to promise some reckoning or startle.) ((Orev doesn't think it's that, at all, but can locate no other cause for such prickling.))
[ insight: 11
Jack seems like he doesn't want to talk about contracts or the Drowned Crossroads. ]
Orev.
Doesn't know whY this might be.
He also isn't going to pursue the question, and in any case, Calamus is correct; it's likely best for all of them to linger closer to town for the day. She isn't wrong about the need for rest, never mind that neither she or Walter requires anything of the sort, and never *mind* that questioning of hers, though Orev finds he's shaking his head, finds he does respond—
"Better than I've any right to claim." Never mind that the brightest part of his night had involved no sleep at all. Never mind that he'd felt more peace while drowsing, awake and holding (his—) Jack than he had while sleeping.
Never mind *anything* because he'll just. Move along from all of that. Clearing his throat again because yes, why yes, wasn't he about to say something?
Yes he was, and he notes now that they'd do well to resupply their stocks, and see themselves better prepared for whatever weasels or intervening spirits might next catch them off guard (not thinking about the way he speaks of 'them,' of this group as a party, a unit that will remain united). After which he comments, not quite idle and very much in Jack's direction—
"Eat your eggs, Jack.
"They're going cold, and you'll need the sustenance."
It isn't a request.
<.>
Jack freezes. He doesn't look at Orev; he only sits there, staring at his food for a moment, feeling goosebumps prickle along his skin and the small hairs on the back of his neck raise. (He remembers the feel of Orev's (Draža's) body against him in bed, the trace of his talons, the thrum of melody in his chest.)
He swallows and shifts against a faint tension he doesn't want to think about, and then, yes, sets to work slowly picking at his eggs.
(He thinks, faintly, Yes, Daddy - then pushes the thought away.
Not here. Not in front of Cala.
Not with Orev?)
As he eats, he thinks about Orev's comment about his sleep and wonders what he means by it. Why he might think he deserves less than good, if he can't remember anything.
Finally, he speaks. "If you want to earn coin, we'll do some day labor. People in little towns always need someone to fetch and carry, hunt down a neighbor, kill some vermin. It might be more than a day to satisfy her ladyship - " He indicates Cala with his fork, "- but we'll manage."
When he finishes the last of the eggs, he sets down his fork, but doesn't push the plate - still half-laden with food - away.
<.>
[ perception: 21
Sitting this close to Jack, Orev can note the evidence of goosebumps on his exposed forearms, the faint reddening of his cheeks, the shiver that rolls through him. He can hear the subtle unsteadiness of his breathing and see the tremor in the hand holding the fork. From this angle, an inquisitive birdman can probably also note that Jack shifted to stifle an erection. He's clearly aroused, terrified, and excited - and just as clearly doing a very good job at hiding it, which suggests he's had lots of practice hiding how Draža makes him feel when in public. ]
He thinks: You little shit.
Noticing that, yes, the eggs have gone, but the rest of the boy’s breakfast remains. Having seen the way Jack focused on the eggs, if slowly, if with some guise of not-quite-nonchalance.
Knowing the reason, or something to its approximation.
(Wondering again, why, why doesn’t Jack bear the mark. And why would Orev have taken it away?
And. Why obey at all, if the mark no longer exists? (That question, he thinks he might begin to answer. And isn’t going to pursue just now.))
Knowing as well. Noticing as well—
It. Would be difficult (…hard?) not to notice. With how clearly Jack’s body speaks itself to Orev. (Only think how easily it’d shifted to his side last night. Only think how readily his own form had responded, how he’d found perfect comfort against this man.) With how immediately (instinctively, almost?) Orev understands that yes, Jack’s hiding his reaction, and yes, this response and this veiling is familiar to the boy. (It was more than and other than soft nights, whatever they were, whatever they might have been in proximity with one another.)
((Again he thinks: Mine. And briefly, briefly, there’s a sharp and knowing glint of his eyes.)) He lets his gaze drift over Jack’s form once, up and down, raking lingering. Once, and then again. (Perhaps it isn’t— Unwelcome. Unwanted. These commands he’s offered.) (Only think what he’d seen in Jack’s thoughts; not a revulsion to command, but a wariness around Jack’s own sadness, a desire to keep it hidden.)
((His poor Puppy.))
He sights and shakes his head. Spears a piece of toast with his fork, and moves it to Jack’s plate. Not quite looking at Jack as he speaks, “That, as well.”
After a moment: “And your water.
“You’ll need your energy for a day of continued weasel assassination. Or hunting. Or whatsoever these townsfolk might get into their head.”
He’s thinking that he’d like to return to the bookstore. That he’d like to learn more of the mayor. That, no, he doesn’t have much sense of the worth of coin or the need for its earning, but yes, he could use a stronger store of it himself.
Watching Jack and waiting, waiting to see what he might do.
<.>
He made a mistake. He glanced at Orev to see if the man agreed with his assessment and, in doing so, caught sight of that…look. (And oh, he's seen that look so many times.) Jack finds himself hanging on it, startled and staring, realizing Orev knows exactly what he's doing.
(Maybe a visceral memory, or. Or. Maybe some things are so deeply ingrained in his personality that he can't help himself.
Or maybe he's just enjoying causing Jack to react this way?)
He looks down at the food added to his plate, then quickly steals a glance at Cala to see if - But no, she's reading Walt's book. Neither of them are paying any attention now that Jack's agreed they need coin. They don't see how he's begun to sweat, how his skin is burning.
Under the guise of reaching for, taking a sip of his water, he glances again at Orev and whispers, "Don't."
It's a plea full of complicated emotions. Some of them suggest maybe he's not asking for something he wants.
Still, when he puts the glass down, he obeys and sets to slowly eating the toast.
<.>
That's certainly... Interesting.
(Orev doesn't dislike the way Jack's reaction - the flushed skin and skipping-racing pulse; the wide and startled eyes, the furtive glances toward their companions and the veiled, compulsory reach toward the water, the toast - sears through his being. Nor does he dislike the way his own heart's picked up its pace, the way something electric dances at his skin, the way his head spins vaguely dizzy, the way the world feels— Removed. As if all that can exist is this man and himself, aglow and primary. Vital.)
(He's known this before. He... must have?
Jack doesn't seem surprised, or unaccustomed.
Jack seems—
Not displeased. Playing at a warding off, but isn't there longing in his voice, as well? Isn't there something in him that seems to settle even in this excitation. (Did they have this, as well?) (Did Jack miss this, as well.))
He doesn't take his eyes from Jack. He does cant his head, lift his eyebrows slightly, slightly. He watches the glass. The toast. And finally responds, "I'm not sure what you mean."
He isn't, and he might be. He might have some idea. And it's following this idea, following its impulse, that brings the next words, toned music and with a sense of (is it?) (yes, he feels it; this boy's done very well) pride—
no subject
He doesn't think about how he remained still and safe in Orev's embrace all night as he extracts himself from it. He doesn't think about the biting chill of the room when he leaves the bed. He pulls on his vest and gun, sets his hat (adorned by Orev's feather still) on his head, and picks up his boots from the floor. It's as he's picking up his coat that he sees the arcane focus peeking from Orev's clothing on the same chair.
He doesn't think about that, either. He only takes it in the same motion that he uses to collect his coat before he creeps from the room, closing the door silently behind him.
(Not without one last, hungry, aching look at Orev, however. Not without thinking, I miss you.)
At breakfast when the party reconvenes, Jack acts as though the night before never happened.
<.>
What use in either feigning sleep or restraining Jack?
Orev felt the lull of sleep falling away from the man, felt the body in his arms stirring toward awareness, and toward a tension of decision. (For a moment - brief, and overhopeful - he’d thought perhaps Jack would meet his eyes, and raise fingertips to trace down Orev’s cheek. Had thought that they might… Perhaps not talk, but share a morning’s silence before returning to the world.)
(He’s already taken too much.) (He’s had more than his due.) (He should have known— And really, he did suspect what follows.)
Jack extricates himself from Orev’s hold; Orev doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t close his eyes, but doesn’t speak, scarcely moves. If Jack wishes to leave, perhaps permission, noninterference is the least Orev owes him. (He has the knowledge of this man in deepest sleep, held in his arms and peaceful. If there’s nothing else— (This isn’t an end.) (He wouldn’t and he won’t allow it.) At least he has this to grasp in memory.)
Orev notes the swiftness and the grace in Jack’s departure. How easily he (leaves Orev behind) ((oh, but isn’t that only fair?)) navigates the room in quiet; how he might very well have left unnoticed, had Orev not been awake already. He sees his arcane focus taken (and might almost huff a laugh; does smile, slight and crooked, there and gone again). And he sees—
That look. Watches Jack without demanding attention. Only witnessing the… What is that? Hope, longing, hunger in his eyes. Only feeling a pull and twisting of his own insides. (He needs to fix this, he ought to fix it.) (He doesn’t know how. (Not yet.) He doesn’t know what he did, himself. (Not… Yet.))
For untracked minutes after Jack’s departure, Orev doesn’t move. Scarcely breathes. Only stares at the door, not recognizing the voice of a quiet hope in his own mind (that maybe, maybe the door will open again; maybe Jack will return), not thinking of the way his hand’s moved to his chest and begun tracing, imitating the movement of Jack’s hand.
Eventually, he rises. Dresses, readies himself for the day. And when he joins the table, he notes Jack’s posture, notes what he can only class as hesitation, reticence— Or simply a closed door. And for now, he doesn’t speak of the night. If he watches Jack closely, if he watches Jack often, it’s no different from every other day of watching Jack closely. And if Orev appears somewhat off-balance, poking over-much at his breakfast and looking inexplicably at a loss—
Well. That’s not so much of a chance, either.
And anyway. Anyway, the party has business to attend to, and next steps to be discussed.
<.>
When Cala sees Orev coming down to the table, she stands - casually and not so - from the seat she occupied beside Jack. Moving at a pace that isn't idle, she takes the seat on the opposite side next to Walter under the pretense of reading his book over his shoulder. In doing so, she effectively leaves only the seat beside Jack available. Her eyes flicker up at Orev and back down at the book; she fails to suppress a smile.
Jack doesn't notice this. His attention remains fixed on his food; he picks at it, thinking he should have stayed in bed with Orev. He should have touched his cheek, should have whispered to him, should have kissed him - something. He wishes he had, but knows it would have been a bad idea. It's better this way. (And - and. Orev will realize his focus is gone and still, he'll pay some meager attention to Jack. There's that. He'll demand it back. He'll command it back.
Jack shivers.)
He can feel the heat of Orev's gaze on him. He knows the other man is watching him, just like he has the past few days, just like he did when he was Draža. It takes everything in him not to look up.
<.>
He isn't about to argue with Calamus's decision. (He also isn't going to ask Cala or Walt what they may have discerned over the night.) (He is moderately relieved to see that Walt's not brought his doll to the table. Or at least hasn't placed it anywhere within sight.)
Orev nudges a piece of... something, some scrap of meat around his plate, eyes drifting over and again to Jack, peripheral vision focused on the lackadaisical way the man's approaching his own breakfast.
He'll need his focus back. He's not ready to (take it from Jack) approach that yet.
He tries to look at the pair across the table; it doesn't last for long.
Eventually, he clears his throat. Speaks, not quite looking at anyone (not not watching Jack), "I trust everyone slept well."
Everyone. Never mind that there are two members of this party who really actually sleep, and that Orev knows pretty well how that went. It's... Fine, everything is fine, and he's just going to continue with—
"It seems we have business yet in this town. I'd just as soon leave returning to the Druskenvalds for another day... But. Calamus." And. And. "Jack. Perhaps your task is best attended to first."
<.>
Jack stiffens at the mention of the task waiting for him and he darts a glance at Orev as though wondering just what he meant by that; if he's in a hurry to help Jack end his contract - then, of course, Jack recalls Orev knows nothing of the real reason why he wants to go to the Drowned Crossroads. He resumes picking at his food and trying not to be aware of how his arm brushes Orev's.
Calamus merely hums and shrug. "That's not a today thing. We need to rest up after last night. Maybe earn a little coin if we can."
She shoots a pointed, accusing look at Jack, who doesn't outwardly react.
"And," she continues, "I don't sleep. Neither does Walter." In a sing-song, off-hand tone, she adds, "But I'm sure everyone else slept well!"
"I'd sleep better without that creepy doll in our room," Jack contributes blandly.
"You weren't in the room, so why do you care?" Cala leans forward, chin in her hands, and fixes Orev with a Look. "How did you sleep?"
<.>
A quandry (or, a puzzle to be set aside for now and gnawed over slowly): Why Jack tenses at the mention of his task with Calamus's contract. Why it should set him on edge, when it seems so soundly in his and in Cala's best interest. (Perhaps it's only nerves. Perhaps the Crossroads seems to promise some reckoning or startle.) ((Orev doesn't think it's that, at all, but can locate no other cause for such prickling.))
[ insight: 11
Jack seems like he doesn't want to talk about contracts or the Drowned Crossroads. ]
Orev.
Doesn't know whY this might be.
He also isn't going to pursue the question, and in any case, Calamus is correct; it's likely best for all of them to linger closer to town for the day. She isn't wrong about the need for rest, never mind that neither she or Walter requires anything of the sort, and never *mind* that questioning of hers, though Orev finds he's shaking his head, finds he does respond—
"Better than I've any right to claim." Never mind that the brightest part of his night had involved no sleep at all. Never mind that he'd felt more peace while drowsing, awake and holding (his—) Jack than he had while sleeping.
Never mind *anything* because he'll just. Move along from all of that. Clearing his throat again because yes, why yes, wasn't he about to say something?
Yes he was, and he notes now that they'd do well to resupply their stocks, and see themselves better prepared for whatever weasels or intervening spirits might next catch them off guard (not thinking about the way he speaks of 'them,' of this group as a party, a unit that will remain united). After which he comments, not quite idle and very much in Jack's direction—
"Eat your eggs, Jack.
"They're going cold, and you'll need the sustenance."
It isn't a request.
<.>
Jack freezes. He doesn't look at Orev; he only sits there, staring at his food for a moment, feeling goosebumps prickle along his skin and the small hairs on the back of his neck raise. (He remembers the feel of Orev's (Draža's) body against him in bed, the trace of his talons, the thrum of melody in his chest.)
He swallows and shifts against a faint tension he doesn't want to think about, and then, yes, sets to work slowly picking at his eggs.
(He thinks, faintly, Yes, Daddy - then pushes the thought away.
Not here. Not in front of Cala.
Not with Orev?)
As he eats, he thinks about Orev's comment about his sleep and wonders what he means by it. Why he might think he deserves less than good, if he can't remember anything.
Finally, he speaks. "If you want to earn coin, we'll do some day labor. People in little towns always need someone to fetch and carry, hunt down a neighbor, kill some vermin. It might be more than a day to satisfy her ladyship - " He indicates Cala with his fork, "- but we'll manage."
When he finishes the last of the eggs, he sets down his fork, but doesn't push the plate - still half-laden with food - away.
<.>
[ perception: 21
Sitting this close to Jack, Orev can note the evidence of goosebumps on his exposed forearms, the faint reddening of his cheeks, the shiver that rolls through him. He can hear the subtle unsteadiness of his breathing and see the tremor in the hand holding the fork. From this angle, an inquisitive birdman can probably also note that Jack shifted to stifle an erection. He's clearly aroused, terrified, and excited - and just as clearly doing a very good job at hiding it, which suggests he's had lots of practice hiding how Draža makes him feel when in public. ]
He thinks: You little shit.
Noticing that, yes, the eggs have gone, but the rest of the boy’s breakfast remains. Having seen the way Jack focused on the eggs, if slowly, if with some guise of not-quite-nonchalance.
Knowing the reason, or something to its approximation.
(Wondering again, why, why doesn’t Jack bear the mark. And why would Orev have taken it away?
And. Why obey at all, if the mark no longer exists? (That question, he thinks he might begin to answer. And isn’t going to pursue just now.))
Knowing as well. Noticing as well—
It. Would be difficult (…hard?) not to notice. With how clearly Jack’s body speaks itself to Orev. (Only think how easily it’d shifted to his side last night. Only think how readily his own form had responded, how he’d found perfect comfort against this man.) With how immediately (instinctively, almost?) Orev understands that yes, Jack’s hiding his reaction, and yes, this response and this veiling is familiar to the boy. (It was more than and other than soft nights, whatever they were, whatever they might have been in proximity with one another.)
((Again he thinks: Mine. And briefly, briefly, there’s a sharp and knowing glint of his eyes.)) He lets his gaze drift over Jack’s form once, up and down, raking lingering. Once, and then again. (Perhaps it isn’t— Unwelcome. Unwanted. These commands he’s offered.) (Only think what he’d seen in Jack’s thoughts; not a revulsion to command, but a wariness around Jack’s own sadness, a desire to keep it hidden.)
((His poor Puppy.))
He sights and shakes his head. Spears a piece of toast with his fork, and moves it to Jack’s plate. Not quite looking at Jack as he speaks, “That, as well.”
After a moment: “And your water.
“You’ll need your energy for a day of continued weasel assassination. Or hunting. Or whatsoever these townsfolk might get into their head.”
He’s thinking that he’d like to return to the bookstore. That he’d like to learn more of the mayor. That, no, he doesn’t have much sense of the worth of coin or the need for its earning, but yes, he could use a stronger store of it himself.
Watching Jack and waiting, waiting to see what he might do.
<.>
He made a mistake. He glanced at Orev to see if the man agreed with his assessment and, in doing so, caught sight of that…look. (And oh, he's seen that look so many times.) Jack finds himself hanging on it, startled and staring, realizing Orev knows exactly what he's doing.
(Maybe a visceral memory, or. Or. Maybe some things are so deeply ingrained in his personality that he can't help himself.
Or maybe he's just enjoying causing Jack to react this way?)
He looks down at the food added to his plate, then quickly steals a glance at Cala to see if - But no, she's reading Walt's book. Neither of them are paying any attention now that Jack's agreed they need coin. They don't see how he's begun to sweat, how his skin is burning.
Under the guise of reaching for, taking a sip of his water, he glances again at Orev and whispers, "Don't."
It's a plea full of complicated emotions. Some of them suggest maybe he's not asking for something he wants.
Still, when he puts the glass down, he obeys and sets to slowly eating the toast.
<.>
That's certainly... Interesting.
(Orev doesn't dislike the way Jack's reaction - the flushed skin and skipping-racing pulse; the wide and startled eyes, the furtive glances toward their companions and the veiled, compulsory reach toward the water, the toast - sears through his being. Nor does he dislike the way his own heart's picked up its pace, the way something electric dances at his skin, the way his head spins vaguely dizzy, the way the world feels— Removed. As if all that can exist is this man and himself, aglow and primary. Vital.)
(He's known this before. He... must have?
Jack doesn't seem surprised, or unaccustomed.
Jack seems—
Not displeased. Playing at a warding off, but isn't there longing in his voice, as well? Isn't there something in him that seems to settle even in this excitation. (Did they have this, as well?) (Did Jack miss this, as well.))
He doesn't take his eyes from Jack. He does cant his head, lift his eyebrows slightly, slightly. He watches the glass. The toast. And finally responds, "I'm not sure what you mean."
He isn't, and he might be. He might have some idea. And it's following this idea, following its impulse, that brings the next words, toned music and with a sense of (is it?) (yes, he feels it; this boy's done very well) pride—
"Well done, Jack."
(My Jack.)