i feel like i've known you ... for years ; log, pt. 1

[taptaptaptap]

( The Day After Tomorrow. Er, Yesterday. Basically, awkward post-snogging-like-horny-teenagers and ... conspiracy theories. Oh, my! )

Smith : The next morning, John awakes with a pounding headache and feeling as if the lining of his throat has dried up. It takes a shower and several glasses of only slightly colder than room temperature water for him to feel vaguely refreshed; he has no aspirin. He spends half the morning wandering about asking questions of people and trying to find useful information where he can. And he determinedly does /not/ think of his encounter with Harry the night before, because it would be much too ... embarrassing. It isn't until he's finished with his aimlessness which wasn't /so/ much so, that he turns up at Harry's door. There's a very good possibility that Mrs. Saxon might be the one to answer, but he'll have to take that chance and try not to act too guilty if he has to look her in the eye. John steels himself raises a hand, and knocks.

Saxon : As it turns out, Harry did not sleep particularly well after returning to his room from John's own, having a fitful night of only vaguely lucid dreams often interrupted by a pounding headache. He dreamed of an alien city in the future, walled and filled with imaginary people, composed of impossible stairs and corridors that lead everywhere and nowhere like an Escher drawing. He thought, throughout the dream, that John was there, always just around one impossible corridor or at the top of a stairwell that defied the laws of physics, just out of his reach and nothing more than a blur of beige jacket. That morning, he wakes feeling unsatisfied and defeated, with a pounding headache and a sick feeling utterly unrelated to alcohol. After a shower and copious amounts of water, Harry spends the majority of the day seeking out a library and several books, not entirely certain of his own purpose, and returns to the room off the Sanctuary to find Lucy gone to her own devices. Despite his headache, Harry works on sketching bits of his dream - somehow inspired and intrigued by the utter nonsense of it - in what turns out to be pages and pages of impossible constructions and architecture ... then less impossible, but more alien, architecture with roundels and geometric shapes ... then a whole page of spherical nonsense not unlike the design on his ring, which is where he is when the knock at the door startles him away from his work. He drops the pencil on the desk where he's been sat for hours, absorbed, and moves to answer the door. "Hi," is the automatic greeting he gives the unexpected face on the other side, followed by a nervous shuffle before he steps aside to let John in.

Smith : After knocking - conscious of his own headache, he assumes Harry might be suffering the same, and keeps the noise light - John backs away from the door just a bit and places his hands in his pockets, swaying back and forth in a heel-toe, heel-toe motion that mostly serves to make him feel seasick. Someone passes by while he stands there, brushing against his back in contact he can sense more than actually feel. Then the door opens and his attention snaps abruptly back around. Reflexively, John cringes, waiting for the dizziness that feels like the sudden tilt of standing on a storm-tossed ship's deck ... but oddly enough, as he sets eyes on Harry, his headache feels strangely less of an ache. There's a bit of nervous adrenaline coursing through his veins, which may be answer enough, but the pounding sensation is definitely gone. "Hi," he replies, because that's as good a place as any to begin, and he steps over the threshold, taking his hands out of his pockets as he does so.

Saxon : Although Harry's own headache - the constant percussion, the same four-beat rhythm pounding in his skull - doesn't ebb at the mere proximity to John, he is put a little more at ease by the other man's presence, somehow, and smiles just a little as he closes the door behind his friend. (Or, at least, he /hopes/ they're still friends.) "Get you anything?" he offers, like a gracious host, and indicates the small kitchenette with a tilt of his head. "Water, maybe? Got up with the worst hangover this morning." That, probably, is as far as he's going to venture in talking about everything that happened the night before.

Smith : It occurs to Harry as he begins to look around that this is his first time inside Harry's room - but, for that matter, the rooms seem to look fairly the same, so if you've been in one, you've technically been in the other. Even so. He shakes his head at the offer of water, then slides a little to his own right to find a seat somewhere. "How are you today? Aside from the headache."

Saxon : All right, Harry won't fault him that, considering the last drink John accepted from him resulted in them both in bed together, snogging like a couple of horny teenagers. He gravitates away from the kitchenette, hands finding the pockets of his slacks in an effort to seem more relaxed than he actually is at the moment. "All right," he lies, not as smoothly as a politician should be able to, and settles back down in the desk's chair, swiveling to face John. "How're you?"

Smith : Although he's not entirely /trying/ to be nosy, John can't help but look curiously at what Harry was doing, and the longer his eyes linger on the drawings the longer he feels compelled to continue looking. He props his chin in his hand, leaning over to study the various geometric shapes and patterns. "I'm - all right," he answers after a moment's distraction, looking back up with a bit of embarrassment. He can't help but wonder where Mrs. Saxon is, although he isn't about to ask.

Saxon : Actually, Harry can't help but wonder where Mrs. Saxon is, as well, but that's likely his guilty conscience speaking. He isn't in the habit, that he can recall, of keeping terribly close tabs on Lucy. "Good," he answers, overlooking the embarrassment on John's face (and then the embarrassment no doubt reflected on his own, given the extraneous statement he just made), and glances at the desk full of books and papers. "I found a library today," Harry notes casually, drawing a large art book from the stack and offering it to his friend with an obviously force air of casualty. "We were talking about Escher - ah, before - and I thought you might be interested in some of his work." That is, indeed, what the book is about.

Smith : Art is a fairly safe topic, and although John only fuzzily recalls the mention of an Escher, he reaches eagerly for the book anyway. One thing remains, hangover or awkwardness or whatever the case, and that is the fact that his mind is veritably like a sponge. He loves to learn and that's why teaching is a wonderful profession, as far as he's concerned. If you never leave school, you never stop benefiting from it. He turns the book around and opens it, a ponderous expression on his face. "You'll have to show me where it is, I'd love to go there."

Saxon : "The library?" he asks, apparently /full/ of extraneous statements and questions and anything to just fill the awkward potholes that would no doubt exist in their conversation without one of them talking ... and he's a politician, after all, so it could be his job to just keep talking and talking and talking through the most awkward of the awkward situations. "Sure. It's ... massively confusing, like everything else in this place, but useful. I found books on theoretical mathematics." Harry blinks, glancing over at the books he'd gotten, then amends, "For some reason. Huh."

Smith : John does, indeed, lapse into silence as he sits and turns through the pages of the Escher book. He pauses on a piece titled 'Drawing Hands,' from 1948, and it makes him look up again at Harry's drawings. "I see you're a bit of an artist yourself," he comments, wanting to mention what his friend was doing without being overly obvious in his inquiry. "Very symmetrical." He glances at the books on theoretical mathematics and wonders, briefly, why he feels like looking at one of those himself.

Saxon : Harry makes something of a dismissive gesture, though it isn't compulsively followed by any such embarrassedly shuffling the drawings away. Somehow, despite knowing that his artistic skill is lacking, he /likes/ that it's been noticed, especially by John, without entirely understanding why. "It's nothing, really, just ... something I was dreaming last night." And it is very symmetrical. In fact, he has a ruler and compass out on the desk next to his pencil, despite - for some strange reason - being able to draw perfect circles free-hand. "I was always rubbish at drawing people, never could get something about the anatomy. But geometry is easy, it's mathematical, it's ... perfect."

Smith : Dreaming ... John thinks he dreamt last night. He frowns, brows knitting in concentration as he studies Harry's drawings. He's inclined to think there was something like this in his own book of impossible things ... but he'd thought he was the only one having dreams like that. "These circles are perfect," he notes, before looking back up at his friend with a smile. "And you said you dreamt this?"

Saxon : "Mm," he answers simply, finding the bottom-most piece of paper and bringing it to the top without necessarily presenting his completed work with much flash or show - something about deriving this much enjoyment from John's attention bothers him just a little. "This, actually. It was ... well, we'd been talking about Escher, I guess I dreamt up something like his House of Stairs." And it's only a rough sketch, several different scenes overlapping - one of a courtyard filled with shadowy representations of people, another of a confusing connection of stairs and hallways, and another of a web with a small, shadowy representation strung up in the middle. Harry doesn't even /begin/ to attempt to explain that part, the part where he dreamed about a boy and mathematical equations. "Then I just got to drawing and sort of lost track of time. - Probably need a day job."

Smith : Something about this particular drawing strikes John - and he isn't sure /why/. He sits and stares at it for a moment, then picks it up and brings it closer, frowning in concentration. Something from a dream - and he feels like he's had the same one, before. "I don't think so," he says, countering that suggestion. "I ... have strange dreams sometimes. Often, actually. I kept a book - back home, that is - and tried to keep track of the thoughts ... did a bit of drawing, myself." He pauses. "It's funny, I dream all sorts of things. One time I dreamt I had two hearts."

Saxon : "Really?" Harry asks, settling back to pointedly refrain from showing off the rest of his drawings like an attention-seeking child fresh from art class. "My dreams just feel like non-sense sometimes, I don't know if I could ever put any use to writing them down. I guess I just felt inspired today, thinking about it." Inspired ... or maybe looking for a distraction, something else to concentrate on other than the feeling of John's lips and taste of his kiss and - "Two hearts, really?" Somehow, in a way he can't entirely explain, Harry finds that equal parts amusing and intriguing. "Sometimes I think I dream in twos, like a recurring theme or something; two, four, even numbers, divisible by two, things like that. I dreamt about a ... planet with two suns once. I only remember it because it was so beautiful - and I didn't think I had that great of an imagination."

Smith : Because it seems just a little bit difficult to make eye contact right now, John gestures at the drawings for a moment in question before sliding the rest of them over to sift through. He's rather intrigued by things like this, you see, what with his own dreams - and he'd been surrounded by people far too practical to do more than just indulge him, really. Joan was patient enough and vaguely amused by the incredible things she'd seen in his book, and then Martha, the only other person he'd been vaguely close to at the school, she seemed to discourage him from anything that seemed vaguely abnormal. He lets out a bit of a sigh at the thought of the life he left behind, then pushes all that away and resumes a cheerful expression. "I've only got the one, of course," he notes, tapping his chest. "But ... it felt terribly real."

Saxon : "Of course," Harry agrees, in that same way he's been speaking since John arrived that has more to do with filling space than contributing intelligently to the conversation at hand. Idly, in a way that he shouldn't, he thinks he might have noticed two hearts the night before, with how close they were to each other. Without drawing attention to the way his cheeks flush at the too-recent memory, Harry glances back at the desk and the books still on it. "I know what you mean, my dream felt very ... real. To have been so surreal. I guess that's why I couldn't shake the feeling all day."

Smith : John nods in sympathy, shuffling the drawings back into a neat little pile and setting them carefully back where they had been. Neat, orderly, tidy - those words easily describe everything he does /not/ feel right now. Their interaction is too stilted, and John feels responsible - either for not stopping it sooner, or maybe more for not /giving in/ ... oh, how he'd wanted to, he really had, but in the end morality became a greater clause. "I, ah ... I was wondering something."

Saxon : And /that/ sends a jolt of panic through his system, though he channels it in simply sitting up a little straighter in his chair and looking somewhat more attentively at his friend than he had been moments before. "Yeah?" Harry asks, trying - and perhaps utterly failing - to sound casual in doing so.

Smith : This is an important question, relating to an important subject, and John is determined to treat it with the gravity of such. He sits up straighter himself, and makes himself look his friend in the eye. "Your wife - how did she get here? I mean ... she looked ... prepared to be here. I was just wondering if - if that meant that ... she knows the way back. To where you came from."

Saxon : Harry - after expelling the very slight breath that hitched in his throat at the mention of his /wife/ - spends a few moments just staring at John, equal parts disbelief and confusion written on his face. "I ... I don't know," he supplies after a moment, brow knitting entirely into an expression of confusion. "I didn't - think to ask. I just - " ... can't explain it and he's at an utter loss.

Smith : "Oh." Inexplicable relief blossoms in his chest and John manages to breathe a bit more comfortably. He feels better, now, like less of a burden - he doesn't like to think of himself as that random bloke that happened to wake up in the same place at the same time and managed to be ... a tag-along. "Good. All right. Yes."

Saxon : The relief is obvious - almost palpable - and it doesn't seem to mesh /well/ with Harry's own confused dismay. Shouldn't he have asked about Lucy's bag? Isn't it strange that she /had/ a bag? What does that mean? Wouldn't she then, yes, know a way back? And, if she does, doesn't that mean she's ... lying to him? He supposes, in the grand scheme of things, she would be the lesser of two evils where lies are concerned, considering the truth he's currently withholding from her regarding his actions the night before, but ... "Good?" he asks, still confused. "John, I wouldn't ... I wouldn't just /leave/ you here."

Smith : Self-consciously shrinking back in his chair, John suddenly finds his feet rather interesting. Yes, these shoes, they're another unexplainable thing, just like that strange blue-lighted torch that was in his pocket. They look so /strange/ ... and dirty. He doesn't remember owning anything like them. "It's ... not that I think you would have," he corrects hastily, looking up. "It's only ... I wouldn't want to think you were hanging around here, when you had a way back, because you felt obligated or anything. That's all."

Saxon : Compulsively, Harry reaches for John's hand, not stopping to consider the implications of it until it's far too late to pull back without contributing liberally to even /more/ awkwardness between them. Instead, leaning forward onto the edge of his chair, he places a hand over John's own and meets his gaze steadily. "Look, the only thing I know for /certain/ in this place is you." He doesn't want to say it, he really doesn't, but with so many people - so many universes, apparently, crossing - here, he isn't even certain of Lucy. When had she ever lied to him before? (For that matter, when had he ever lied to /her/ about anything?) Yet, the implication is there. "I don't feel obligated, I feel ... I'm your friend, all right? I /hope/ I'm still your friend. And friends stick together."

Smith : That reassurance /is/ undeniably comforting, and while some other part of John tells him that he should find a problem with at least part of it, he fails to. He doesn't take his hand back, either, rather liking the feeling of contact with Harry. "Thank you," he says, then nods in affirmation. "Yes, we're still friends. In fact, I - I'd like to say that, even if we weren't in this situation, we'd manage to be friends." That's the boldest statement that John Smith has made thus far, actually, and it may be the boldest he will make.

Saxon : Harry either doesn't notice or refuses to acknowledge the danger of the fact that he takes a moment to carefully curl his fingers around John's hand. It's still a gesture meant to comfort, of course, and he doesn't stupidly attempt to press for anything more, not having enough alcohol in his system to make him feel immune to the consequences of his own actions. "Good. I don't want to do anything to damage that, John. And I'm sorry, I really am, if ... " There it is, the elephant in the room they're both desperately attempting to ignore. He glances down, mostly at John's battered Chuck Taylors, and exhales a relieved, breathless laugh. That /is/ the boldest statement his friend has thus far made. "I'd hope so."

Smith : "No, no, it's - that's fine." John's response comes a little too quickly, his cheeks coloring with the memory of the night before. A bit of a snog, really, should he be treating it in such a juvenile sort of way? To his credit, he handles it all rather well, resisting the odd temptation to twine his fingers with Harry's - somehow they just seem to fit, and it's just odd, but /right/ nonetheless. "It was ... the heat of the moment. Right?" He isn't sure he believes in that theory, but he doesn't like the idea of deluding himself into anything more, either.

Saxon : Yes, it was. Alcohol and proximity, an impaired judgment and fuzzy moral compass, they had all conspired against them both and ... that's it, that's all, that's how it happened. It doesn't explain how he feels for John, still, even after the alcohol has long been purged from his system and, apart from a pounding headache, he's thinking as rationally as he ever could. It doesn't explain how he feels that, yes, they just /fit/ together. It doesn't explain ... a lot of things. "Of course," Harry answers compulsively, only the slight tremble of his voice giving away the slightest hint of doubt. "Right. I wouldn't - not normally - just too much to drink, you know? That's all."

Smith : That reaffirming statement of Harry's ... er, normalcy ... should be of a comfort to John, but either it's not quite believable or he's not quite as eager to hear it as he thinks he should be. He nods tightly, any number of questions running through his head, but he doesn't feel quite comfortable with asking any of them. It's just not right or proper, and he can't move on if he wants to dwell on the subject. (Alternately, not asking will probably prompt him to dwell more, but ...) "Right, it was - it was the same with me." Yes. Really.

Saxon : Ridiculously, he could add an explanation that includes 'because I'm not gay!' and a very long explanation of how, really, he finds his wife devastatingly attractive and is completely, utterly satisfied with his sex life, but that seems a little awkward ... given that he's holding another man's hand and trying desperately to deny to himself that he's attracted to John in the slightest. Besides, any sort of denial on the subject would only effectively make the situation that much worse, highlighting all the possible reasons why he's exactly what he's protesting against being. (Though, really, he /does/ find Lucy attractive and he /does/ enjoy his sex life, it's just ... John. Somehow.) "Good," he interjects too quickly. "Glad we got that sorted, then."

Smith : John doesn't think of himself as typically fancying men, either - that would be a little strange, actually, given that he teaches at a school for boys - but it doesn't occur to him to come up with an explanation, or to mention Joan, or anything of that sort, because he isn't sure he'll ever see her again, anyway. She'll think he's missing in action, as everyone will. She'll move on with her life. Marry someone else, perhaps; he does hope that she isn't crushed by losing two men in her life to similar fates. He hates the idea of her spending the rest of her life alone because of him. He slowly draws his hand back, not because he particularly wants to break the contact, but it doesn't seem quite ... necessary, now. "I don't want to make things awkward, but - I feel like I've known you ... for years."

Saxon : Harry awkwardly draws his own hand back, looking down at the floor rather than his friend as he tries to suppress the inexplicable feeling of disappointment in the sudden lack of contact. /Stop it,/ he tells himself, logically, /just stop it./ When he looks up again, it's with a sense of relief and he smiles an unrestrained smile at John. "No, that's - that's exactly how I feel, like I've known you for ... ages." Longer than he account for, actually, longer than he's logically been /alive/. "It's weird, but it's - it's all right, isn't it?"

Smith : Somehow, it seems out of place that Harry should continue to ask for reassurance about their state as friends - but John carefully avoids saying anything about it, because after all, despite /feeling/ as if they've known each other forever, they really /haven't/. It's been mere days. "It's comforting for me, actually. I can't remember having such an instant connection with anyone, ever. Having you - it makes this whole thing easier. I don't feel like I need to pinch myself to test whether it's real."

Saxon : Honestly, it's almost a compulsion that he hardly, if at all, notices. It just seems natural, somehow, to seek reassurance and, maybe, approval from John. "Yes," Harry exhales the word, relieved even more to hear just how he feels expressed through his friend. "That's it exactly. I've never just ... /clicked/ with anyone, you know? But with you, it's like - you get it." Somehow, despite the apparent differences in timelines and the fact that John seems to be from some ninety years before Harry himself, it still works.

Smith : Quite painfully aware of how little he does 'get' sometimes, being that he's time- as well as universe-displaced, John can't help just a bit of a self-deprecating laugh as he looks down at his feet again. Those shoes, again, in his field of vision - nagging at him, bothering him, as to why he was wearing them. "I feel the same from you," he replies after a pause, "No one ever quite took some of the things I dreamt or said seriously, they always rather ... humored me. Thought I was a bit mad, maybe."

Saxon : ... This is a reasonable explanation then, isn't it? They're feeling the same thing in response to how well they get on, to easily clicking together and practically finishing each other's sentences, which could - in an alcohol-induced stupor - be easily misconstrued as something different, something like physical attraction. It makes sense, really. "I don't think you're mad," he answers honestly, a hint of a smile on his lips. If John's mad, then he's mad, and he doesn't think they're sharing the same madness. Are they? "I think ... whatever's happening here, with us and this place, we're going to figure out together, though. What d'you say?"

Smith : It sounds like teamwork, and teamwork sounds ... like an oddly heartening idea. Just like everything else about his bizarre and sudden bond with a man who had, only days ago, been a complete stranger. "I think I'd like that," he agrees, his previous laughter turning into a more genuine smile. "Maybe, with both of us waking up in the same place at the same time, someone was trying to tell us something."

Saxon : Harry nods, quickly, in agreement with his friend, relieved and unexpectedly happy with the proposal of ... yes, teamwork. "I think so," he agrees, then points out, "And what about how you're dressed? I mean, they didn't even /make/ those shoes back then, John, I'm sorry. I know - I really do believe you when you say you're from /when/ you're from, but it's weird. It's like Lucy having a suitcase, you know? Things are just out of place and they don't join up logically." He pauses, glancing over at his drawing with a contemplative frown. "It's like stairs that lead nowhere and a room that's in three places at once. I know it's right, but I can't put my finger on how or why. Like I'm looking at something I don't want to look at ... "

Smith : "I /did/ think my shoes were a touch ... out of place," John admits, glancing down at his feet once again. Just that nagging feeling. He wouldn't have put it past one of his students to ... knock him out and change his shoes just for the sake of it, but he wasn't even at the school. "And - and -" He gets excited, suddenly, and squirms around to reach into his pocket for the strange blue torch-thing. "This. What /is/ this?" he questions, holding it up for Harry's inspection.

Saxon : Harry inhales sharply, fully prepared to /name/ the object held out for his inspection, but ... there's nothing. Nothing but an odd, nagging familiarity that he can't place or explain. God, he /knows/ what that is, he really does, but he can't tell if it's only familiar because he's seen John holding it before or for some other, strange reason. In the end, he ends up expelling the breath in an anti-climatic sigh. "I don't know, but it's ... advanced? They didn't /have/ those back then. I don't even think they have them in my time."

Smith : "Those? But what are /those/?" Nothing if not persistent, John sits back with a frustrated sigh, and tries pressing one of the buttons on the side of it. The blue end of it lights up and it makes a strange whirr-whirr-whirr sound that doesn't /sound/ like anything else that he knows of, either. "It's very ... strange," he concludes, holding it out to his friend.

Saxon : There's absolutely no explanation for the inexplicable rush of exhilaration, triumph, and /power/ Harry feels when he takes the odd objection from his friend, so scarily intense that he quickly passes the perhaps-torch back with a quick shrug to cover up his startled reaction to himself. "I don't know what to tell you. Looks like a torch, maybe? Except it's kind of daft, a torch that makes a noise like that." He breathes, trying to fight down the way he stomach has knotted, and clasps his hands as he leans his elbows forward onto his knees for something to do ... apart from grab at the torch again. What is /wrong/ with him?

Smith : Fortunately, John moves the temptation out of arm's reach as he draws the torch-thing back with a frown. "It's not very bright, I tried it in the dark and it ... barely shines a spot on the ceiling. I really don't know." He sighs, placing the object back into his pocket - even if he doesn't know what it is, he feels strangely comforted by having it there. "Just another piece of this odd puzzle."

Saxon : Harry is relieved whenever the torch is out of sight - out of mind? - and he leans almost shakily back from the edge of his seat. "And," he begins uncertainly, heading into territory he's less certain about, "I've got the worst headaches since I've been here. It just ... it never /stops/, John. I thought I was hungover at first, but it just kept going and nothing helped, not aspirin or sleep or anything. It's always there, it's like ... this /drumming/ in my head. All the time."

Smith : Everything seems to keep getting stranger and stranger. John frowns, leaning forward, and carefully studies Harry's face as his friend speaks. "You should see a doctor," he notes, with some strange emphasis felt on the title, even if he can't put his finger on why a doctor seems that important. Aside from the obvious, of course. "It might be a ... a side-effect of what's happened to us. My head hurts sometimes, too - not drumming, exactly, but ... it pounds."

Saxon : He looks up at that, his attention perhaps snapping too quickly at the title and the strange emphasis felt on it, and licks his lips carefully before speaking again. "I feel like I need a doctor," he answers, the emphasis he feels actually /there/ in the way he says it, a sort of breathless need in his tone. Then it's gone, with whatever importance that one word held gone with it, and he's fixing John with a similarly concerned look. "Not all the time, then? Your head just hurts ... sometimes?" Somehow, it seems very important that John /not/ feel the way he does, not have the same drumming in his head, and he's terribly relieved - if not a little jealous - that his friend does not suffer the same. "Mine just won't stop, it's ... almost maddening."

TBC.