[In his dreams, hands always reach for him. The dead grasp at his ankles, tear as his cloak, place their fingers around his neck and eyes and whisper in his ear that he isn’t doing enough — when will he do more? Dimitri should be more wary, then, of shadowy things that reach for him more, maybe fall on the instinct to recoil his fingers an inch or two in hesitation.

But no such hesitation comes. He doesn’t understand why, nor is he prone to questioning it, but slotting his touch against Oz’s companion’s is as easy as breathing, like he is reaching out to an old friend of many years. It's centering, correct, so much that it’s oddly distracting, and Dimitri has to blink and reorient himself in the moment when their contact is finally severed.

He flexes his hand out of habit, gives Oz an almost bashful-sounding laugh in reply.]

I’m glad to have made such a positive first impression.

[He drops his arm to his side finally, and the bright grin on his face fades into something softer.]

It is hard to explain why, but I feel as though… I have known the both of you all my life. I know that isn’t the case, but it’s strange, isn’t it? That I should call you my friend so readily and so soon.

[Ever earnest, he says it as he feels it.]