Dance with the Dragon

Chapter 4

Cynthia could have told you that John, despite his hatred for them, let nobody touch his contacts. 

Paul, in an attempt to mess with him, would often approach him with two fingers ready to poke each eye, and John would bat his hands away, shouting about germs and dirt and do you know how smudged you'll make them?!

He couldn't have been happier, though, to allow Buddy to pluck them straight out of his hands along with the gel, nearly whipping his glasses towards the ground -- John dived on his stomach in an attempt to save them from cracking -- and hunching over on his log, already opening his eye wider with one hand and moving the lens closer with another.

It took Buddy a minute or two to remember how to put them on, or maybe just to regain the control of his hand to do so, and John took a step or so forward, almost afraid to interrupt his struggle. 

"...you need some help?"

He only received a wave of Buddy's hand in reply. "Nah, nah, I have this, it's... it's just been a while... it's not like I was able to fly over to the store and buy a pair of these myself, you know?"

Buddy began to laugh as nearly poked his eye out on a particularly violent try, and John raised an eyebrow. Was that a joke? Was John supposed to laugh along with him? Maybe the years alone had left him more screwy than he had thought...

Finally, though, he straightened and blinked, eyes growing wider as he no longer found the need to squint. Slowly, he rose to stand upright, and turned to John, newly-exposed eyes shining. He was smiling like a child in a candy store, and John couldn't help but laugh.

"You can see okay?"

"I can see that you're standing in front of me, and that's all that really matters." 

He turned in a circle, dancing a little on his feet and hands once again gripping his hair. "I-- wow. I'm leaving this forest.  I'm leaving this forest!"

"Not until you use that hair gel," John chuckled. "Come on, then, I'm already starting to feel closed in here, and it hasn't even been a full hour yet."

Buddy stuck out his tongue at him before sticking his fingers inside the container and slicking his hair back, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"...this is what gel feels like. I'd forgotten."

John snorted. "Come on, Holly, that's nothing. You should see how much I used to put in."

"I'd have figured hair gel would be obsolete by now."

"Due to what, changing technology? It's only been five years. It's not like our hair can stand up by itself or anything."

Buddy's hand stopped mid-comb.

"It's... it's been five years?"

"It... yeah," John responded cautiously, trying to keep his voice even. "I guess you had no way to keep track of time. It's 'sixty-four now."

"Sixty-four, sixty-four," Buddy murmured to himself, hand moving even more frantically, and then he was silent, and John gulped, praying Buddy's sanity wasn't starting to go out on him like he'd suspected.

"Buddy? Five years, it hasn't even been a decade yet, you're okay..."

Buddy managed a nod, hands still firmly fastened in his hair. "Five years," he quavered, "That's okay. That's okay. I'm okay."

Buddy's wide-eyed gaze was fixed on the ground, and so John was able to advance on him and gingerly pry his arms back down to his sides, desparate to keep him focused on the present. "How slow did time pass for you here?"