Ahh, it’s back

i have disproportionately strong feelings about this.

every time i say “nah i’m not gonna watch it again.” BUT I STILL DO EVERY TIME.

YEAUGH

Ohhhh man. Yes. Perfection. Thank you! This might not be precisely what you had in mind, but hopefully it scratches the itch.

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Being a history professor has its perks, Hob has to concede. Aside from getting to wax lyrical about the evolution of human society throughout the centuries – something he did anyway, with relish – he is also occasionally invited to chaperone a trip abroad.

Being effectively immortal also has its perks. Hob recalls the days when travelling meant spending weeks aboard a ship, trying to hold onto your lunch, if you were lucky enough to have had one. It’s a far cry from this trip. This morning, he’d still been working on his go-cup of coffee when he arrived at St. Pancras station, and he’d even had time to pop into M&S to get himself some breakfast. He’d wheeled his little suitcase through the gates, through boarding, onto the train…

And now, a few hours later, he’s in the bloody Louvre. He still fidgets with the lid of the go-cup, long empty but occupying his restless fingers.

“Fuckin’ brilliant,” he mutters to himself. He’s got a casual eye on the students, but they’re all adults and mostly able to look after themselves. He’s just there to pad the numbers – and occasionally lend an insight.

Their group of students and professors drifts through the huge, endless halls of the museum, dispersing gradually to different wings with arrangements to check in at the meeting point in a couple of hours.

That leaves Hob in the company of silent, marble companions in one of the smaller exhibition suites. They float in a sea of pale grey walls and replica columns, looking like the frozen attendees of some grand ball.

A nudist ball, Hob muses, as he eyes a striking dark sculpture of Diana, her bow aloft, hounds in pursuit of some unseen prey. The place seems so peaceful, and Hob is more than content to examine each piece in turn, stopping only when he reaches a reposed male nude, adorned with poppies.

“Fuck me,” he mutters to himself. The sculpture before him is ivory marble, so smooth and softly rendered it could be lashings of whipped cream. The figure is cradled in a bed of tumbling fabric, an angular cheek pillowed on one hand, his shoulders crested by great wings. Haloed by curls, the soft face is acutely familiar.

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