Mr. Stevenson believes in the stars and (stripes) wrote in repose,
Re: log: grant/matt, the woods
Grant could sense that his words were washing up against something that couldn't quite absorb their meaning, so he slowed them, his transparent expression settling again into confusion and dismay. The undercurrent of joyful disbelief was still there, and probably would continue to be there for some time, and the physicality of the conversation--the certainty it was happening, the this-is-not-a-dream-ness of it, that is what kept all that hope alive. It was incredible, but it was still true. This was no long-lost descendant, no happenstance lookalike.
A quick spasm of grief cut through Grant's expression. "You... I thought you were dead. Yeah." Grant stopped moving. That hug of reunion, the hard compress of arms through the joy of surviving another day, that wasn't happening. He could tell that the man a few feet away on the frosted ground wasn't going to relax into a hug. The fist seemed vaguely threatening, and Grant stared at it for a second in confusion.
"The platform?" Grant did a quick reversal of the calendar, twelve months backward, and then he blinked in slack surprise. "Alaska? You were in Alaska? How?" Grant's weight shifted forward, a series of muscles, starting with the lift of one hip ever so slightly, the heel coming off the ground, the preparation of chin and torso to transfer forward. Then he stopped. He looked at his friend's face and shoulders. "Owen. How did you get here?"