new york is loud, loud enough to make the past feel like a dream. but you know better. it wasn't a dream. not when you still wake up with the scent of gunpowder and roses lodged in your lungs. not when you remember his voice—sarcastic, warm, brave—and the way he smiled, even when the world was ending.

and definitely not when you see him again.

he's standing outside in central park, in his left hand he's holding a large paper cup and you're sure it contais hot chocolate. he looks healthy. no signs of heroin. his skin is clear, and his eyes—those sharp, sky-colored eyes—are full of life, untouched by mid-world, by blaine the mono, or by death.

before you can reach him, he turns. he's indeed wearing a sweatshirt that says i drink nozz-a-la!, but you barely register that. it's him. that's what you register. it's edward cantor dean. and then even that becomes secondary, because what you see in his eyes is all you have feared. it's total puzzlement. he doesn't know you.

then, tentatively, he smiles, and it's the smile you remember.

"thank god," he says. "i'd just about decided i'd have to drink this myself. that the voices were wrong and i was going crazy after all. that.. well.." he trails off, looking more than puzzled. he looks afraid. "listen, you're here for me, aren't you? please tell me i'm not making an utter ass of myself. because, lady, right now i feel as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs."