(Untitled)

[soapcarvedhands]

What--what.

It's been--it's been so, so incredibly long, and he's been so--for all that he's locked up with seventeen other men twenty-four hours a day, he hasn't exactly had company

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[cheevy]

And so is someone Harding may recognize -- though he's gotten scruffier. About a year scruffier, uncombed, trenchcoat-wearing, pill-popping, and guitar-playing. If anything, somehow he looks MORE like a hippie now than he did when he first got to the bar.

[soapcarvedhands]

Harding doesn't see him; he's too busy looking around--he hasn't even sat down yet. His hands are frozen in front of him (but in wonder, not fear, and oh, it's been so long). Harding's no scruffier, but he's thinner yet, and clearly more exhausted.

[cheevy]

He's greeted by a tune strummed from the guitar -- something he might recognize, something old and calming, and the sad-eyed hippie smiles at him wearily.

[soapcarvedhands]

There's a double take--

[visible_sariel]

And through the miracles of Millitime, because Sariel's mun was rather insanely and happily busy yesterday...

"Harding?" Sariel had a chair. Now that chair is empty. She doesn't hesitate this time; she reaches out and hugs him, though she's gentle about it. No sense breaking your friends. "I've been worried, you have no idea."

[soapcarvedhands]

"Sariel--Sariel!" he says, thrilled, and clutches back instinctively.

(The narration would like to point out, rather unprofessionally, that Harding's mun has also been busy, insanely but not happily, and has missed this terribly.)

[visible_sariel]

This half of the narration will point out much the same, because both counts are true.

Sariel lets go, the better to not squish Harding; she's still careful, even now. "I've missed you, you know." Beat. "Are you alright? I mean...?" One hand gestures in the direction of her own visible front door.