Oliver (number_ix) wrote in halcyon_halls, @ 2008-01-02 21:41:00 |
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Entry tags: | catalina, ezra |
Week One: Wednesday
Who: Ezra and open
Where: Hallcyon stairwell, between tarot reading and going to his office
When: Week One: Wednesday
School, in any capacity, was still somewhat of an unfamiliar and strange experience for him. His learning had been at home with his mother or in the more intimate setting of having a mentor or personal teacher. All this hustle and bustle was a bit foreign in his life. Even when he travelled he eschewed the busier parts of life and tried his very best to stick to the quieter, more serene atmospheres. It had only been a little over a month, but Ezra already knew some of the best ways to get around with the least people. Little corners that weren't being used with usually empty stairwells and hallways.
So far, so good. He hadn't had any really bad episodes. For Ezra that meant he'd been able to attend all his classes and, thus far, hadn't spent a day or two stuffed into a little box trying to regain his sense of sanity and self. There were good days and bad days, then okay days and extremely tough days, but he was weathering the storm. He thought his students sort of knew, anyway. When they asked him a question and his eyes were glazed over for a minute or more while he mindlessly stroked a card or watched tea leaves settle.
They looked at him curiously for knowledge, but, probably just as curiously to them, he resolutely acted like he'd seen absolutely nothing. In the hallways, no one paid him much mind, except a few people complimenting his dress. That always kind of made his day. Today he had on black pants with a black button down. Over that a black satin-backed vest with a houndstooth front panels, pocket watch and dapper black sports jacket with black and white faux-suede shoes. His hair was immaculately pointed and his briefcase all leathery and new, strapped over his shoulder.
He should have known he'd pay for his lack of attention. His divination class was too many floors up, but he had too much pride to complain about it. All it took was a swirl of dust on his usual, slightly darkened route. Those curiously swirling eyes of his glazed over for less than a second, nothing really, but it was just enough to make him miss that his eyes misjudged the distance, just by a smidge, between his foot and the first step. Twisting, he tried in vain to avoid the inevitable.
There was that moment of weightlessness, when the world seems to stop and you realize what's about to happen. He felt himself react and float, literally, for at least a full half or three-quarters of a second, before good ol' gravity returned again. Dimly, somewhere in the thud and twists of his adventure down the stairs, he heard one of his shoes clatter and stop somehwere halfway down. He hit the ground hard enough to slide a few inches across the slick marble floor. Coughing, he pulled his bag from around his neck and just lay there for a second, getting his bearings slowly. Damn, traitorous eyes. He'd probably made a right racket with that one.