He misses Wilde's (carefully calculated) approach, eyes having been drawn towards the windows as the wind rattles them in their frames again, but he turns when he feels the warmth of another human body touching his, however briefly.
"--oh," he starts, and then, "of course," at Wilde's words of thanks, and it takes him a fraction of a second longer than it should have to recognize that another man probably would have politely stepped aside to make more room. It's precisely what he would have done himself, and yet he hadn't, and the reason for why is not so mysterious to him as he'd like.
(It had not been that mysterious to him even three decades ago, when he and Bertram had huddled together for warmth in their lean-tos on the eve of that last skirmish between Cliffside and Black Rock, before they deserted the army.)
Wilde says, "Grab one for yourself," and Emery says, "Right," again, repeating himself both in word and in deed; because his eyes follow Wilde as he walks away until he disappears from sight. He exhales and reaches up to rub a hand across his eyes and the bridge of his nose, then picks up a blanket for himself and goes to one of the chairs near the fire. Once there he has to ease himself down into it, for the cold always causes the old injury in his left knee to act up. He stretches it out with a small sound of discomfort, but already the proximity to the fire is loosening the tight tendons and ligaments. (Would that a bit of fire could provide relief from other ailments--or desires he'd thought he'd left behind as juvenile fantasies.)
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"--oh," he starts, and then, "of course," at Wilde's words of thanks, and it takes him a fraction of a second longer than it should have to recognize that another man probably would have politely stepped aside to make more room. It's precisely what he would have done himself, and yet he hadn't, and the reason for why is not so mysterious to him as he'd like.
(It had not been that mysterious to him even three decades ago, when he and Bertram had huddled together for warmth in their lean-tos on the eve of that last skirmish between Cliffside and Black Rock, before they deserted the army.)
Wilde says, "Grab one for yourself," and Emery says, "Right," again, repeating himself both in word and in deed; because his eyes follow Wilde as he walks away until he disappears from sight. He exhales and reaches up to rub a hand across his eyes and the bridge of his nose, then picks up a blanket for himself and goes to one of the chairs near the fire. Once there he has to ease himself down into it, for the cold always causes the old injury in his left knee to act up. He stretches it out with a small sound of discomfort, but already the proximity to the fire is loosening the tight tendons and ligaments. (Would that a bit of fire could provide relief from other ailments--or desires he'd thought he'd left behind as juvenile fantasies.)