[oom; room 123]

[notjustnarrator]

Nick finished reading Christian's story two days ago.

It was -- is -- extraordinarily sad, and all he could think about, all he could see in his mind's eye while reading page after page --

-- and the one thought he couldn't bring himself to swallow --

He's standing outside Christian's room, now, looking a lot less neat than he did when they first met

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[hopefulpoet]

Christian is sitting at a small desk, which was present in the room when he arrived, just like all the other furniture. His typewriter fits on it perfectly, with space for his notebook beside it and room for a cup of coffee.

He is dressed in his usual trousers and shirt, suspenders dangling from his waist. He hears the knock, hears the voice of the fellow writer he met int the bar a few days back and smiles. He scrapes back his chair, pulls his suspenders up and approaches the door. A few click of locks later, and he has it open.

"Nick, hello, it's good to..." He stares at the slightly rumpled man before him. "To see you," he finishes. "Are you well? Oh, come in, come in."

[notjustnarrator]

"Well enough," he says, offering Christian a small (albeit tired) smile as he walks inside, setting the manuscript down on the desk. "That was... quite the story."

[hopefulpoet]

He blinks. No preamble. Straight to the point.

"Thank you," he says, opting to take that as a compliment. "Please, sit down."

Frankly, it looks like Nick might need to.

[notjustnarrator]

He sits, smoothing his hair back. "I apologize for my appearance," he says, sounding a little sheepish, "I haven't been sleeping as well as I usually do."