Johannes has lost his remaining appetite, all things considered, but he sits down again and picks up his abandoned fork in silence. It's more than a little awkward, trying to eat when Horst is staring at him in silence. He's not entirely sure if he's doing it in spite of Horst's telling him so, or because he told him so. He stubbornly finishes his meal anyway. He makes a practice of it in his life: you never know when you're going to get another. He doesn't know when next he's going to get another here.
He reaches for his drink and too late remembers its absence and feels his soaked feet again. "You made me spill my drink," he murmurs under his breath with a touch of resentment, eyes flickering up to Horst's briefly. But he lets it alone and polishes off his food without saying anything else, feeling his brother's gaze on the back of his neck.
When he's done he stands back up and gives Horst another look-over now that he has a moment and at a reasonable distance. He couldn't have been here for an entire year, Johannes surmises: he hasn't even gotten changed. Surely not even Horst is that fond of that suit, the one he--
Johannes glances away and picks up his cane again by the pommel. Sometimes he dislikes his soul a great deal, having gone so long without it. It is a cold, heavy presence in his body; it bores a hole. "You look no different," he says, low, as he nods for Horst to lead the way. "Time can't pass the same way here. It's the following year for me. Or was. I couldn't say what time it is now."
1899? 2013, like they keep saying? Are they all Rip van Winkle now?
[location]
He reaches for his drink and too late remembers its absence and feels his soaked feet again. "You made me spill my drink," he murmurs under his breath with a touch of resentment, eyes flickering up to Horst's briefly. But he lets it alone and polishes off his food without saying anything else, feeling his brother's gaze on the back of his neck.
When he's done he stands back up and gives Horst another look-over now that he has a moment and at a reasonable distance. He couldn't have been here for an entire year, Johannes surmises: he hasn't even gotten changed. Surely not even Horst is that fond of that suit, the one he--
Johannes glances away and picks up his cane again by the pommel. Sometimes he dislikes his soul a great deal, having gone so long without it. It is a cold, heavy presence in his body; it bores a hole. "You look no different," he says, low, as he nods for Horst to lead the way. "Time can't pass the same way here. It's the following year for me. Or was. I couldn't say what time it is now."
1899? 2013, like they keep saying? Are they all Rip van Winkle now?