Who: Christian and OPEN.
Where: Butterfly Gardens.
When: Early afternoon.
There had been an anxious knot in his stomach all day that nothing had been able to shift or chase away. The dream had worked a number on him, putting him in a state of tense unease from the first moment he’d awoken and it hadn’t eased up in the hours since. The news Michael had relayed to them all across the hotel’s network hadn’t helped, but Christian couldn’t lie and say that the arrival of three new softies at once was the primary source for his anxiety. He certainly couldn’t convince himself of that fact, not when the real reason was still working its way through his brain, creeping like poison, infecting every other thought.
Like a few choice other members of staff Christian had spent time in the hotel before accepting a position as a member of staff. A long time ago though it had been he remembered it well, at least the times when he had been sober. As he bent to pick up the ball the aptly-named mongrel dropped at his feet he tried not to remember how he’d felt in the times between fixes, when his hands had trembled so badly that he’d barely been able to function, when he’d felt on the verge of a nervous breakdown because the need was so strong. So intense. Just briefly, as he closed his fingers around the ball, his hand shook. Christian thought he might drop the ball but instead he tightened his grip around it, picked it up as he tightened his jaw in a defiant clench, and straightened, drawing in a sharp, sudden breath.
Just a dream, he told himself, turning the ball over in his hand and then rolling it to his other. Just a dream.
Rusty hopped in front of him, making breathless panting sounds, eyes bright and ears perked, his tail sweeping furiously from side to side. Waiting, just waiting, for the ball to fly again. Christian obliged, sending it out across the garden in a powerful throw, feeling the pull of the muscles in his arm and through his shoulder and back, a rewarding flash of sensation that briefly derailed the disturbing thoughts about a past he very much wanted to leave behind.
When the dog came barrelling back towards him Christian recognised immediately that Rusty was too excited, that the animal wasn’t going to be able to pull up before crashing into him, and so he did the only thing he could think to do. He stepped aside. Too late he realised there was someone else there, behind him, and that part of Rusty’s enthusiasm was their very arrival.
“You might want to brace yourself,” he told them, as Rusty whipped past him. He hadn’t had time to grab the dog by the collar. Luckily, the excited mongrel was able to judge the distance properly and managed to apply the brakes in time to stop short of slamming into the new arrival’s legs, though he did greet them by dropping a somewhat damp ball on their toes, proceeding to look up at them expectantly, as if to say Well?
Who: Regan and OPEN.
Where: Outside the hedge maze.
When: Early evening.
Regan Frost wasn’t in the business of letting silly things like dreams have any kind of effect on him but there were exceptions to every rule. For several hours after he’d awoken from one of the most uncharacteristic dreams of his entire life he had stayed in his room, smoking more than his usual amount of cigarettes, trying not to get too caught up in the whole thing. That hadn’t worked. Sitting in one place doing only one thing wasn’t very conducive when it came to distracting oneself from unwelcome thoughts and feelings, and so he’d ventured out from his room. He’d showered before doing so, and by the time he’d stepped out of the hotel and onto the grounds his hair was still damp. The warmth of the breeze coming off the desert beyond the hotel’s boundaries kept him from feeling any kind of chill, not that he would have cared. Regan wasn’t in the habit of letting little things like weather conditions keep him from what he wanted to do.
It hadn’t taken him long to realise that walking around and smoking wasn’t much better than sitting still and smoking. So he’d gone back inside. Ventured into one of the bars. Demanded a drink. No, not a glass, the whole fucking bottle, you idiot. Only then had he gone back outside, prize in hand, having already forgotten what he’d asked for. It wasn’t only he was close to the maze and opening the damn thing that he looked to see what the bartender had handed him. Whiskey. Not a bad year either.
Regan scoffed, taking no care to do so quietly or discreetly. Good years, bad years. Everyone made such a big deal out of years, especially when it came to alcohol. With a dismissive shake of his head he lifted the bottle and took a long pull from the neck. It burned on the way down, flooding his chest and stomach with a welcome warmth, so strong that it almost made his breath catch. He lifted the bottle, considering the label again. Damn. Not bad at all.
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