Jack catches himself staring sometimes. It's a bad habit, always has been. When he was at the academy he'd spend all period with his eye hooked on the curve of Isaac Mattan's neck in the glass-bent sun, letting the grand sum of a thousand years of philosophy pour in one ear and out the other without a care
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He knows, with some hazy weight of certainty, that he was at David's side when the year began. It seems natural that he would have been, but he remembers, too, that it felt right when he was
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