The humid continental climate of New York State is lovely this time of year; enough of a breeze that the moisture suspended in the air doesn't cling or clog in a tangible way. Sunlight highlights the turrets of the mansion roof and skates off the lake in fragmented shimmers, limns the trees, deepens their variable palettes and textures into a limitless depth of green. The balcony railing is warm under Charles' hands.
There is subtle wrongness here or there: too many weeds tangled around the School plaque up front; his own two feet planted, standing on his own power. Somewhere behind him, his pupils are shouting and talking, and soon, Hank will come out to them, calling, reprimand a poor fit for his growly voice and self-effacing demeanor. Yet there is no babble of secondhand thoughts rolling like a brook through his mind, or pain to interrupt it. It's pleasant, though. Convincing. He might not bother to question it, were it not for another presence shadowing his sleeping mind, picking out the details, gently courting him to lucidity.
It makes sense that this is where William comes to find him. This particular dream, where Charles once found himself frequently host to supplicants from all over the world.
Of course, William's a bit older. Twenty-six, maybe. Twenty-seven? Not a high schooler, at any rate, this young Asian-looking fellow who squeaks the glass door shut and makes sandal slapping sounds up until he draws even with Charles above the halcyon grandeur of the view. He's wearing a red T-shirt, for luck, and jeans that bell slightly at the bottoms, but it isn't yet the 70's; the tailoring is quite modest. "Wow," he says. He glances at Charles. "How do I enroll?"
chucky x!
There is subtle wrongness here or there: too many weeds tangled around the School plaque up front; his own two feet planted, standing on his own power. Somewhere behind him, his pupils are shouting and talking, and soon, Hank will come out to them, calling, reprimand a poor fit for his growly voice and self-effacing demeanor. Yet there is no babble of secondhand thoughts rolling like a brook through his mind, or pain to interrupt it. It's pleasant, though. Convincing. He might not bother to question it, were it not for another presence shadowing his sleeping mind, picking out the details, gently courting him to lucidity.
It makes sense that this is where William comes to find him. This particular dream, where Charles once found himself frequently host to supplicants from all over the world.
Of course, William's a bit older. Twenty-six, maybe. Twenty-seven? Not a high schooler, at any rate, this young Asian-looking fellow who squeaks the glass door shut and makes sandal slapping sounds up until he draws even with Charles above the halcyon grandeur of the view. He's wearing a red T-shirt, for luck, and jeans that bell slightly at the bottoms, but it isn't yet the 70's; the tailoring is quite modest. "Wow," he says. He glances at Charles. "How do I enroll?"