Hisoka sees the sign immediately, and having already talked with Jaenelle about this project (back in October, while canoing), Hisoka walks straight down the hall and through the third door. In that conversation, he had thought he was interested in this more for other people's sake than for his own, but he was lying to himself. He dearly wishes to know what the memory room can do. He has no purely happy memories, not a one. For him, joy has always been liberally mixed with sorrow (and usually trouble, as well). He thinks, I'll walk into the Bydan Forest, in the airship world. He supposes that the lovely, magical woodland into which he used to escape as often as he could, as a boy and a teenager, would be the nearest to what the room might have been intended to provide
( ... )
Jaenelle saw him following the directions, and trailed after him, curious and wanting to say hello. When she opens the door, then, and steps inside (for a moment impressions swirl of a garden, of a ballroom, of a room full of books scattered all over and a young girl in the middle), she stops, suddenly appalled.
Her hands press to her mouth.
"Hisoka?" she says, suddenly very worried. Did something go wrong?
He's only here for his sister. Parties are not Lucivar's thing, not at all, not since he had to attend them on penalty of pain, and he really doesn't get why Jaenelle seems to enjoy the whole mess so much. At any rate, he's here, standing in an inconspicuous corner - at least, as inconspicuous as any corner containing a nearly seven foot tall Eyrien can be. His wings rustle discontentedly and he glowers discouragingly at the people walking by, sipping a glass of ale and wishing he had something stronger.
Jaenelle would let him leave if he asked, but she would be sad and give him that look and it just isn't worth it.
Lucivar knew old!Melou, didn't he? And, well. This might not be a good idea, but it should be amusing.
Parties aren't really Melou's thing, either, and he's just sort of drifting around the room, trying to avoid talking to anybody. He has a glass of wine in one hand, which he sips at occasionally, but he hasn't touched any of the food.
He stops walking and starts staring when he sees Lucivar, because, well, he's nearly seven feet tall and has wings. And he looks like he might be a demon or something.
It was probably a bad idea, in retrospect, to follow any directions in this place. In retrospect, of course. Couldn't have thought of that a bit earlier.
Drawn by the sound of celebration downstairs, he wandered in, raised his eyebrows, noticed the sign, and followed it down the hall. Staring at the sign for about three minutes, eventually he makes up his mind with a mental shrug - how bad can it be? (really bad, yes, he knows, it just seems kind of...irrelevant) - and steps inside.
It's nothing big, just sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, the familiar sound of the engine underneath and AC/DC from the tape deck, and Sam looks sideways and sees Dean, as he was before Hell, when they were getting back into the groove and they were both so much younger.Dean notices him staring and his mouth quirks in a remembered uncertain smile. "Dude, what are you staring at
( ... )
So, parties are cool, right? Never mind that he and Jaenelle keep tripping on each other, and he's supposed to be keeping himself busy with plans for the snowball war right now, and that he really shouldn't be around this much alcohol right now because dammit, he's doing well, he's maintaining, he's toeing the line and the center is holding, and that's... that isn't nothing. It's not much, but it's not nothing, and he reminds himself of that fiercely every time he stops to think
( ... )
Sam would be so proud of you, Dean. If he weren't otherwise occupied. (And yes, it's totally as angsty as it sounds. He says. You can talk, Sam.)
Sam is in the middle of rubbing his eyes and trying to straighten out his thoughts. It was stupid. He shouldn't have- but he's kind of glad, too, in a painful, terrible way, of the reminder. That they were that once. Maybe (maybe) can get there again. (He won't let himself hope too much. They're a long way from there. Maybe forever from there.)
His head jerks up when he hears that voice, expression blankly startled before he manages to smooth it out, sort of. More or less. It doesn't work all that well, not this time, not right now (not with the echoes still reverberating).
"Hey," he says, voice low and - tired, but even, at least. Mostly. "Dean."
No, not acknowledging the implicit question. It's fine, right?
Dean would like to say he never forgot they were that, but it would be a lie; he remembers, of course he does, it's what he got by on for years both topside and below. But it's tarnished and faded and he's not really sure he remembers what it feels like, and the only thing he knows for certain is that he wants it back and isn't sure they can have it. Isn't sure that they should. It hasn't done them any favors so far, right?
Wrong. He knows that. Just sometimes...
Sam's attempt to keep his face blank plus his response is not exactly reassuring to Dean, who pulls to a stop directly in front of him, glancing both directions down the hall for what the problem might be before focusing on Sam. He doesn't see any blood, but he knows enough to know that sometimes that doesn't mean anything, and he thinks almost nothing of reaching to touch his brother, fingers seeking a wrist to move Sam's arm so he might get a better look, but mostly just the distant instinct to reassure them both with the contact
( ... )
Oh no. No no no, he is staying far away from that room. Far far away. (Though he may have had a standoff with it for a while. Thinking about what it would be like to hear New York again. Smell it, maybe. He misses the city.) But no. Nothing that woman has touched. Girlfriend of his brother's or not.
It's just not a good idea.
He'll help himself to the food, though, and can be found wandering through the hall, snagging things for his increasingly crowded plate. Sure, normally he eats like a bird, if birds liked hot dogs, but he knows how to gorge when the mood strikes.
"They're not tears of sorrow," he says, a bit embarrassed that someone has seen him in tears. There's a small smile of nostalgia playing about his mouth, but it's clear he's just witnessed something he wishes he could hang onto, like Andersen's little match girl, lighting a whole bundle of matches to keep the spirit of her grandmother close.
That's exactly what Muraki looks like at this moment, and Hisoka finds himself strangely in sympathy with the man. Probably this is because he himself has a little-match-girl-aura at the moment, having been so recently and so unexpectdly under the light of his grim angel's gaze. "What did you see, if I may ask?"
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Her hands press to her mouth.
"Hisoka?" she says, suddenly very worried. Did something go wrong?
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Jaenelle would let him leave if he asked, but she would be sad and give him that look and it just isn't worth it.
Suffer in grudging silence it is.
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Parties aren't really Melou's thing, either, and he's just sort of drifting around the room, trying to avoid talking to anybody. He has a glass of wine in one hand, which he sips at occasionally, but he hasn't touched any of the food.
He stops walking and starts staring when he sees Lucivar, because, well, he's nearly seven feet tall and has wings. And he looks like he might be a demon or something.
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Lucivar straightens up himself, because - there's a face he hasn't seen in a while. "Melou?"
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"Yes?" he replies, uncertainly.
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Drawn by the sound of celebration downstairs, he wandered in, raised his eyebrows, noticed the sign, and followed it down the hall. Staring at the sign for about three minutes, eventually he makes up his mind with a mental shrug - how bad can it be? (really bad, yes, he knows, it just seems kind of...irrelevant) - and steps inside.
It's nothing big, just sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, the familiar sound of the engine underneath and AC/DC from the tape deck, and Sam looks sideways and sees Dean, as he was before Hell, when they were getting back into the groove and they were both so much younger.Dean notices him staring and his mouth quirks in a remembered uncertain smile. "Dude, what are you staring at ( ... )
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Sam is in the middle of rubbing his eyes and trying to straighten out his thoughts. It was stupid. He shouldn't have- but he's kind of glad, too, in a painful, terrible way, of the reminder. That they were that once. Maybe (maybe) can get there again. (He won't let himself hope too much. They're a long way from there. Maybe forever from there.)
His head jerks up when he hears that voice, expression blankly startled before he manages to smooth it out, sort of. More or less. It doesn't work all that well, not this time, not right now (not with the echoes still reverberating).
"Hey," he says, voice low and - tired, but even, at least. Mostly. "Dean."
No, not acknowledging the implicit question. It's fine, right?
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Wrong. He knows that. Just sometimes...
Sam's attempt to keep his face blank plus his response is not exactly reassuring to Dean, who pulls to a stop directly in front of him, glancing both directions down the hall for what the problem might be before focusing on Sam. He doesn't see any blood, but he knows enough to know that sometimes that doesn't mean anything, and he thinks almost nothing of reaching to touch his brother, fingers seeking a wrist to move Sam's arm so he might get a better look, but mostly just the distant instinct to reassure them both with the contact ( ... )
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It's just not a good idea.
He'll help himself to the food, though, and can be found wandering through the hall, snagging things for his increasingly crowded plate. Sure, normally he eats like a bird, if birds liked hot dogs, but he knows how to gorge when the mood strikes.
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"Are you all right?" Hisoka asks.
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