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Jeff found no comfort in crowds. It was the way he’d always been, even when he was just a kid. Being alone, acting averse to the people around him, seemed the easier option when faced with the possibility of rejection and ridicule. On hindsight thoughts like these were ridiculous, something he still needed to teach himself to grow out of, but for whatever it was worth, back then it’d seemed the only viable solution. He wasn’t sociable, and by building up a persona that repelled every effort of others approaching him he’d found a space for him that was comfortable. Even so there was a part of him that had hoped being pulled into this new reality; this self-repeating nightmare; would make him find some comfort in being with people who were enduring the same thing day in and day out. Turns out, no matter the crowd, he found it hard to assimilate.
In the end it was all about breaking the habit; breaking the habit of closing up; but for some reason it had turned into a larger hurdle than he’d anticipated. A place like this got its power from submission, from the apathy of its victims, and even so, this knowledge didn't make it any easier to break the ice. He knew how to communicate, but when it came to taking himself into situations where this knowledge could be useful, he fell short.
Most of the people of the fog had already found someone to keep company by the time he’d arrived. The people that had come after him were much faster and braver when it came to finding someone to talk to; someone to spend time with around the campfire. Jane, for an example, found it easy to weave her way through the crowd, and could often be seen in intense discussions with just about anyone willing. David and Bill had some sort of common ground that made them share stories to each other, and Nea could often be found sitting beside Quentin’s eternally tired form. Close proximity had brought them all together.
Jeff participated in discussions here and there, of course he did, but for whatever it was worth, there was no companionship. The trials brought a handful of them together and then threw them back again, separated, and that was a permanent state for him. He was a face in the crowd.
After being brought back from yet another trial, Jeff perches himself on the log David had set up by the fire. He draws in a deep breath and rests his head on his hands, rubbing his eyes, the phantom pain on his shoulder slowly making way for the usual numbness that seemed to overtake him whenever he wasn’t in one of the Entity’s realms, running for his life. He draws in a deep breath and straightens his back, grabbing a stick that’s laying by his feet.
Jeff can hear Kate talking to Nancy, both of them an arm’s length away on the same log he’s sitting on, their voices hushed and an overwhelming air of grief surrounding them. He remembers how he’d envied Nancy, in a way. She and Steve had come together, whereas all the rest of them had arrived alone. He’d since learned their relationship was strained; a friendship on life support; but there had to be some kind of comfort in having even one familiar, friendly face in the crowd.
While he’d made a point not to listen in on other people’s discussions, determined to keep even some air of privacy up even when the surroundings they were in offered barely anything to support it, he can hear Kate’s sigh clear as day.
“If things were different..”
She doesn’t even need to finish her sentence for Jeff to get the gist of their conversation. He lets his head hang low, eyes focused somewhere between the pit of fire in front of them, and the stick he’s absentmindedly using to coax it. Through the flames he can see fellow survivors hunched by the fire, either completely silent or speaking in voices so low it’s hard to hear anything but a sea of mutters accompanied by the crackling of the fire. He saw how the black smoke came just moments ago, throwing four of them into yet another trial.
“You were an artist?”
Jeff snaps out of it, his eyes locking in on Kate and the expectant expression on her face. She’s closed the gap Nancy’s departure has left, and is sitting close enough for him to be able to see the fire flicker in her pale blue eyes. He’s silent for a moment, as if he needs to search for pieces of information on himself he’s forgotten in the time he’s been trapped in this hellscape, and amidst the confusion he realizes he’s using the stick in his hand to draw on the ground in front of him. That was a telltale sign, he had to admit.
“Yeah, I – yeah.”
He brings the stick to rest against his thigh, suddenly all too aware of her looking at him to be able to focus on drawing any longer. While rusty, he’s managed to create a sketch of a ghostly looking skull in the dirt, a tad lopsided maybe, but still recognizable. He knows it’s not fair on her if he doesn’t break this sudden lapse of silence his confusion has caused, and nods towards her.
“You?”
If he knew her, he might’ve thought his continuation of the conversation made her relax. Seeing people get pulled in by the fog never got any easier.
"I sing. Or, sang. One of those cliché Southern musicians, I suppose.” There’s an air of sadness in the way she says it, something Jeff supposes everyone here can attest to; a sadness for the life left unlived in the world out of their reach. She glances at the fire, be it to distract herself from unwanted memories or something else, but something in her doesn’t seem unwilling for the conversation to continue. Jeff swallows the rest of his reservation down.
“You play?”
“Guitar. Acoustic, mostly.”
“Figured.”
“See, I told you; cliché.”
Jeff can feel his cheeks burn, all too aware of how condescending his choice of words sounded.
“I didn’t mean it to–”
And just like that she surpasses all of his expectations.
“No, I know what you meant.”
Jeff’s eyes meet hers. The smile she’s giving him is so warm, for a moment Jeff forgets just what they’re in, what they’re made to endure. She’s looking at him with no reservations, no uncertainty, just a hint of jest that’s making something in him stir. He’s about to tell her how much he misses being able to play, a thought he’s not allowed himself to have, when the black smoke comes and she vanishes into thin air.
He looks at the empty space she’s left for no more than a second before he’s turning back to face the fire, the weight returning to his shoulders like a shroud of lead. He lets his eyes drop back to the space between his legs, on the half-assed drawing in the dirt, and stretches his leg out to use the bottom of his boot to bury it back into the dirt.