The reaction he receives from the illusionist is somewhat exactly what he expects.
The tension amplifies tenfold and he is once more left unsurprised. The younger man freezes completely and he releases a light hitch of breath barely audible in the darkest of nights and the windiest of winters. There is no reciprocation (nor any movement, he notices). Even the subtle rise and fall of the chest that is pressed tightly against his seemed to have paused momentarily, and Merritt, within all his magnanimity and unspoken benevolence, cannot help the instinct which strengthens his hold around sharp edges of what is evidently a looming disaster. Daniel barely breathes for the seconds (seeming as if minutes, hours, days) he is enveloped with arms too strong and too familiar, and the mentalist does not fail to notice.
For such a short while, the only sound erupting through Merritt's eardrums consists of the loud, vicious (angry, desperate, betrayed) wailing of the breeze as it howls continuously around them. For such a while, he cannot see past the darkness of his closed eyelids or the morbid, devastating images dancing throughout them. For a short while all he can hear and taste and touch and see is nothing but what he allows himself to; nothing bearing the ability to distract or condemn him from what he is doing now; nothing bearing the ability to allow him to cower or hide from what he knows he fears most.
All is left is what he feels, and is most certainly not cold, thick fabric rustling beneath his fingers. No, rather it is the light, almost unnoticeable trembling which breaks out in silent vibrations against him. It is the head bowing into the upper joint of his arm and the shoulders which seem to suddenly slump against him; resting and defeated and exhausted from carrying the weight of the world. It is the skeletal thin fingers which dig crevices into his arms as they move in the speed of light and attach themselves to his coat.
There is only evening breathing now, louder than the angry fist of wind. It mingles with the scent of defeat and anger and Merritt thinks he can almost smell the feint fragrance of salt. And yet, despite the almost unnoticeable quivering of the younger man, he knows no such tears are being shed. Merritt understands he is worth no such effort.
He is not aware of the time which passes between them (he is almost unsure) but he knows it has been a while. The wind has picked up and is ravishing them now; weaving through and within them and has become considerably and ruthlessly frostier. It brings the large heavy drops of almost frozen rain and carries each tear of heaven until it is soiled and sinking into the fabric of their camouflaging coats. He only lifts his fedora clad head when he feels the water pelt against his cheek and realises that they cannot stay out in the throes of the real world, defended by the (seemingly heightening) bricks and glass of the buildings, where all the sadness and faithlessness is able to penetrate through and claw mercilessly at their desperation.
When he shifts, Daniel does too. It is not a movement which is abrupt or quick as all of him has been tonight. Instead, it is long and lingering and almost regretful. He feels an irrational pressure pressing against his chest at the sudden (and yet expected) sadness which washes over him like the tidings of a broken promise. The younger man lessens his hold on the sleeves of Merritt's long jacket and inhales one long, suffering breath which trembles almost as much as he. It takes a long moment of unknown silence for Daniel to completely let go of his arms and all the mentalist wishes to do at this point is hold him closer (securely, safely, forever). And yet he does the same, unclenching his fingers from the now wet material and taking a small, practically immeasurable step backwards. When the illusionist does it, it almost lacks his usual grace and elegance, and Merritt does not comment because now he is certain he understands. He understands because he feels the same.
When he lifts his head to look at Merritt, the older man watches as a drop cascades from the curve of the almost black prison of his eyelashes before it glides down his smooth pale cheek. And in all he knows and does not, Merritt is unable to tell whether it had been a tear or a factor of the rain. He does not want to think about it.
Something flickers in Daniel's gaze when he meets it and stubbornly holds it. It borders confusion and acceptance and understanding, and some unreasonably foolish part of Merritt wants to yell at him, to scream at the younger man because (why is he so forgiving? How can he be so forgiving?) It isn't right he thinks, and the guilt which he had been pushing down into his subconscious resurfaces immediately and he absolutely hates that this is how he feels. He knows it would be easier, better, simpler, if Daniel just hated him or remained angry or unforgiving and irrationally, he wishes he had. He comprehends that this is what he wants, to be forgiven and understood, but he also comprehends that this is not how it should be.
And yet it is, so he allows himself to be selfish and lifts the corners of his lips in something hopefully passable for a smile; and feels like he is about to fall apart when Daniel does too.
What happens next almost becomes a blur for him, and he is sure that it is not much better for the showman walking beside him. They are making their way through the storm (which Merritt finds also has metaphorical sense) and he is pushing the door open to the aging building with one shaky hand for Daniel before he is able to process it. There is a moment of hesitance in which the younger man is completely still and the Merritt fears he has gone too far, until he sees the illusionist exhaling softly and hears the sound of his shoes pressing against the somewhat carpeted floor of the café. He brushes past him and does not glance back until he too has made his way inside the warmth. The spark of hope ignites again and he almost sighs in relief when the lithe form of his former best friend moves in front of him.
He has not imagined it all. He thinks that this is what immense gratitude should feel like.
Jack and Henley are still seated, chattering away nervously and worriedly and seeming to be only a few moments from standing up and moving to look for Daniel themselves. And then, he watches as their eyes widen and their lips part and knows that they have seen them walking forth. He also knows it takes all they have in them not to stand and apologise or excuse themselves because it may be what they need, but not what Daniel does. They know as well as he that the card captor will not appreciate it.
He shuffles slightly awkwardly through the crowd and shudders from his wet coat, almost immediately removing it from his shoulders. When they arrive at the rickety wooden table and he sits, straightening his shirt for a lack of something to do, he watches as Daniel does the same; occupying his previous chair. It takes him longer to peel of his soaking jacket and Merritt knows it is probably because there is so much filtering through his mind that he has not felt nor realised the freezing water dampening his clothes. He knows the feeling.
Daniel only licks his lips and the older man notices that that is the first sign of nervousness he has given all night. His gaze is once against bordered, his defences raised indefinitely (if not strengthened since their time outside within the eye of the storm) and his hair has rapidly dried in long, dark somewhat messy locks framing his overly pallid features. It is almost as if their embrace had not occurred, as if what he had said had been completely and utterly forgotten…
Despite this, there remains something in the manner in which he holds his stare, as if there is something rattling within him which frightens him to the devious point of insecurity.
When his voice breaks out, Merritt can almost feel Jack's knuckles turn white from their grip on the edge of the wood, he can almost hear the break when Henley's teeth dig too harshly into her lip.
"So, shall we start?"