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...I don't know, man.

[why what? why anything? he has the same answer for it all at the moment: he really doesn't know. what to do about it, what to do now, nothing. he doesn't know why yesod sounds the way he does, either, not quite making any connections yet.]

I thought I did. But if she could have changed that much and still...

[ Anything more to say is glass on the verge of shattering in his mouth, still, and he stays silent while Netzach answers a pointless why with an echo of the same despair. The hope they considered, confronting Angela, speaking with Don, the last of it turns to dust. There is no concrete evidence to refute the void left behind; pages of notes and endless speculation, but none of that has any practical application.

Even so, when he can trust himself to speak again, Yesod makes an attempt not to discard a different perspective yet. ]

...Have you changed your mind about this place, Netzach?

... don't know about that either.

[he's not necessarily thinking straight. what he knows in the moment is: yesod is here but not here, and after everything, that distance is too much. he wants to reach out; he doesn't feel like he can move.]

She said... she said she remembered it like a dream. Don did. If we all had the same strange dream... would we listen to it? Are we just dreaming it all in the first place?

[ Despite his current state, the thoughts that Netzach expresses aren't nonsense. Yesod's thoughts were similar: if they were to remember anything experienced here like a dream, nothing more than fragments lacking any context, that would be of little help. Discussing that now, further speculation, is just as pointless.

Besides, he isn't certain that Netzach knows where he is or that their conversation is really taking place, like this. Too much this month was a precursor setting the rest of its trajectory, Yesod thinks — like the mannequins, those teas targeted vulnerabilities with precision.

He can't be certain that Netzach isn't seeing things not there at all, either, or hearing other voices. In the near-darkness of the room, Yesod finds one of Netzach's hands, clasping it between his palms. ]

No. I don't believe that it would be accurate to view it as a dream.

I don't want it to be one.

[as little clarity as he has right now-- he can say that much with some certainty. yesod's touch is grounding, his hands warm on either side of netzach's, and after a moment his other hand finds its way to yesod's wrist, fingers curled around it.

things like this... he doesn't want them to be a dream. the people he's met. the lives they've been able to start living. the progress they've made with each other, removed from the library.

his head swims, but he holds on to that point of contact like an anchor.]

[ Ideally, these responses indicate that Netzach is regaining awareness of his immediate surroundings, comprehending that the conversation and the contact are neither elements of a dream nor the product of any hallucination, consciously choosing to interact with both. The grip around Yesod's wrist seems deliberate. In answer, Yesod gives the hand caught between his own a squeeze, hoping that it registers as palpable proof that this must be real.

He understands Netzach's implied meaning, the things left unsaid. Beyond any knowledge of the future, the experiences here are valuable for other reasons. ]

...I agree.

[ But he can't guarantee that he has set himself an attainable goal — it's impossible to make anyone a promise to solve the problem of their having no influence over the disappearances or their future memories. And this, the wordless gestures offered now, feels as insufficient as his efforts in the mall. ]

[it feels real. he knows, of course, how enkephalin works; he learned a long time ago to let the hallucinations go, and on a reasonable level, he knows that the way yesod is in and out of existence is not reality. he's here. netzach is holding on to him, even when his vision says otherwise.

he closes his eyes, then, so that it can't affect him, and tugs. pulls him closer. he's been given too much reassuring contact lately, and it leaves him wanting more of it, further proof that his colleague isn't going anywhere.]

[ Yesod knows full well that while he may be considered dependable, he has never been a comforting presence by nature, neither his voice nor his demeanor. Still, the request in Netzach's touch doesn't go unheard; tugged towards Netzach, Yesod gives in to the pull of what granting it now might accomplish, permissible and justifiable to allow himself for that reason. He tries to mask the misery of weeks and weeks of futile observation, a useless notebook — Netzach in this state signifies a reality that he wanted to defy, and securing relief is wrenched out of reach.

Leaning over Netzach, instead of any reproach acknowledging the cans and bottles scattered across the floor or the scent of alcohol layered thickly over the air or the glowing vials mocking Yesod for his failure, he says nothing. One hand moves to adjust its position; Yesod's arm settles around Netzach's shoulders. His fingers catch in the back of Netzach's shirt as his forehead brushes against Netzach's hair.

Closing his eyes leaves his lashes wet after all, but the pressure behind his eyelids stops at that. ]

[...it's nice, he thinks, a little hazily. it helps; his own arms shift to wrap around yesod, shifting a bit to allow him room, and for a little while he's quiet. nothing but the sound of his breathing, face pressed against yesod, eyes still closed.

finally, though, a little muffled:]

...what are we gonna do, man.

[what can they do?]

[ In the stillness, Yesod counts Netzach's breaths, steadying his own. He wonders whether this embrace has had the intended effect, similar to Netzach using his voice to soothe others. The couch is in the way — his knees bump into its side as he makes an effort to fit himself into Netzach's arms at a less clumsy angle. Reflexively, his hold on Netzach tightens.

But when Netzach asks his question, Yesod has no immediate answer to give him. What can they do? He's spent hours upon hours occupying himself with that thought.

The lack of any definite answer is unacceptable, and Yesod stirs a little to lift his head without breaking the connection slotting their bodies together. For now, a reminder is all that they have. ]

...We're alive here, Netzach. You said it yourself. That must have some meaning.

...maybe it does.

[that's the best he can say for it, at the moment, but the way yesod shifts to try to fit against him-

it helps.

he shifts in turn, moving a little bit more easily with his vision obstructed, with yesod as an anchor; netzach rearranges himself in an effort to allow yesod more room, a less awkward angle.]

[ Maybe is far from enough. But then, Yesod had nothing reassuring to promise; he has partially-formed ideas, at best. If they lead nowhere, then...

He follows Netzach's movements, closer still, like nearing something that might crumble to pieces, to nothing, if he touches it too abruptly. Slowly, assessing the available space, he slides himself onto the couch beside Netzach, the blanket between them, stilling once their bodies are aligned.

This way, he reasons, Netzach will know that the room around him is real. The coffee table is behind a barrier then, too. Right now, telling Netzach to dispose of the remaining small containers there and to limit his drinking might drive him to take it all somewhere else, alone with it and his thoughts. ]

[yesod overestimates how easy it would be to drive him away from reassurance. familiarity. although this, yesod settled next to him in the space he can make for himself, is not so familiar--

but he likes it, he has to admit to himself. this isn't only good with midnight or kaveh. the more time he spends with them, the more he acknowledges certain facts... the more he's aware of who else those facts apply to, though he hardly expects it would be the same for yesod.]

...hey, Yesod.

[he manages to mumble eventually, still holding on to him.]

If we remember this as a dream-- maybe we'll remember this part. We have to promise we'll talk about it. However crazy it sounds, back in the Library, if we can at least remember saying we'd talk about an impossible-sounding dream we had...

[ This part, specifically these moments? Maybe Netzach's earnest wish to hold on to something of this place could indeed act as a potential trigger to unlock the rest, if it comes to that.

This part should be memorable enough, even now. No doubt anyone who knows them would think of it as crazy and impossible that they are here, clutching each other as though they expect to fall if they let go, dangling over the maw of some waiting abyss below them. Yesod can track Netzach's breathing by touch; its rhythm presses Netzach's body into his arms where they encircle it. They are alive, and this embrace, a desperate interlocking of limbs, is real.

It isn't unpleasant, aside from the byproduct of that realization joining others to scrape against Yesod's heart, but he reminds himself to leave such notions alone. ]

...Presumably you'll question what I was doing in this impossible dream. Perhaps you'll mention it to Roland, and I would recall it myself.

[ By arranging himself a little higher up than Netzach on his section of the couch, Yesod can let his body curve around Netzach's form slightly, resting his cheek against the top of Netzach's head. ]

What would you like to talk about then?

I think-- I think it doesn't matter what. We just have to talk about it, and know we all really did go through the same thing.

[and if they talk, maybe they'll remember. they'll think of moments like this: wrapped in each other for the security and the comfort of it. of the ways they managed to grow closer once they were no longer trapped in the library with their work. of how they were here, and alive, and so were all of the others that they met.

he inhales, and he breathes yesod in. solid. present.]

[ It's tempting to abandon good sense just slightly, presented with the justification of memorable moments. Yesod's hand drifts upward, closer to the back of Netzach's neck, narrowly stopping short of brushing his fingers through Netzach's hair. Whether or not it is in disarray, he would have no reasonable explanation to offer.

It might be distracting, if nothing else, one more impossible memory. Very lightly, Yesod lets his fingertips skim across the change in texture beneath them: fabric, skin, hair. ]

...I'd like that as well, in that case.

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