(the amount of crushing guilt jonas will feel realizing he's stood d up repeatedly will press down on him as sure as the world presses down on atlas' shoulders. tragic, like a shakespearean romance but with all of the misunderstandings and none of the murder or self-poisoning fiascos.

What, like... seriously? You were in somebody's dream?

(jonas, believing the story is grounds to prop himself up on an elbow, leans closer by a genuine pull of curiosity and desire for warmth. a powerful cocktail, one he has little resistance to, but at least his breath doesn't smell terrible. cigarettes and something spicy—predictably, the grablenuts and tea.)

What was that even like? My dreams are... weird to say the least, so I can't even picture getting trapped in one.