He's almost unrecognisable, Merritt thinks.

The long black coat he wears reaches his knees and covers his slender shoulders like a thick blanket. It's buttoned to the collar and hugs his lithe frame tightly, shielding him from the oncoming gusts of wind as it filters through the street and carries the light leaves of winter on its back. His hair as grown longer than it had been previously, still dark and thick and bordering his prominent features in smooth locks. That, however, has always been a trait of his, something that has only slightly differed from the last time Merritt had seen him. No, what honestly surprises him (though it probably shouldn't) is the shadowing of his onyx-grey orbs. Despite being hidden partially by his long curved lashes, eyes which had been bathed in so much curiosity and mischief and amusement had become those burdened with the deepening bruising of exhaustion in the form of circles marring his exceptionally pallid skin. Merritt knows that he had never been tan or overly kissed by the sun, but the pallor of flesh stretching over angular cheeks has become far too pallid to be healthy. Merritt notices that he is only a few meters away now, within the warmth of the café. Now that he isn't forced to watch the figure from beyond the glass of the window, he realises that the gaze he has not met in years is even shallower than he had anticipated. He watches as he approaches with a paper cup of steaming coffee between two gloved hands, and feels Jack and Henley stand as abruptly as he.

J. Daniel Atlas looks much younger (though it does come as quite the shock) than he had just about four hundred days ago. The steel in his orbs, instead of making him seem as uncaring and indifferent as he wishes, allows Merritt an insight to the battle of vulnerability and insecurity raging within the younger man. He doubts the others see it because the way Daniel holds himself he knows he has been there before, he has built up these defences in order to protect himself, and Merritt knows that if he hadn't been who he was, if he hadn't studied mentalism all these years, that he would miss the signs too.

When Daniel finally makes his way through the small crowd and to their table of too many seats, his light almost soundless footfalls fall short and he pauses for a moment. No one, not even Merritt, says anything for a while and silence cascades among them like a coverlet too thick and embroiled with the tight strings of tension. He feels Jack stiffen beside him and realises that he must have seen in Daniels eyes what he had too, though to his left Henley makes no sudden movements whatsoever.

Henley parts her lips to speak, but Daniel doesn't give her the chance. He edges forward in a poised manner and his long, lean fingers latch onto a chair opposing them, the furthest from where they sit at the table, and gracefully drops into it, the coffee cradled in his palm never tilting or sloshing to one side.

The awkwardness of the situation is further fuelled, Merritt realises, when the remaining three horsemen abruptly sit too, though all lacking Daniel's elegance as they struggle for words. Wood screeches against the partially tiled partially carpeted floor of the old café as no one makes a sound. The chatter and voices are all loud and evident around them, and yet he knows that none of the four of them hear anything past the silence descending between the former best friends.

The only movement that is made, seconds later, is Daniel's. Merritt, Henley and Jack all watch in strange fascination (as if they expect something of difference to occur) as Daniel shrugs of his coat. Merritt winces inwardly as he notices, for the first time, the honest sharpness of the illusionist's shoulders, the fact that his wrists have become thin enough for the mentalist to be able to wrap his hand around one and feel the ends of his fingers graze his palm. When Daniel slowly pulls of the fabric of his gloves from his fingers, the whiteness of his knuckles is (though most definitely should not be) the same whiteness as the rest of hands (the paleness of snow, or ash).

He does not know what to say, and finds that unsurprisingly, neither do his fellow companions. And yet Daniel only holds their stares, unspeaking, evidently and ominously waiting for them to initiate the first of contact. He will not say anything, Merritt knows, and still finds himself slightly lacking the ability to form words. The material of Daniel's dress shirt ruffles as he reaches for his coffee cup and holds it as if it was the most precious things between his fingers. He averts his gaze and lifts it up to his lips, swallowing a long drag. Merritt feels restless and finds that might have to be the one to break the silence.

"Daniel…" Henley speaks, and before he is able to comprehend what is occurring, his chance has already fled (he finds that he is thankful).

The illusionist's fingers tremble slightly at the sound of his former assistant's soothing voice, and Merritt understands why. He has no time to think over it, however, as Daniel rests the paper cup upon the table and replies.

"What am I doing here?"

The question is curt and straightforward and definitely not rhetorical. It reverberates through the room and it almost feels as if all of the conversations echoing within the café have stopped. The only thing that has not changed in the voice he had not heard in so long is that speed at which the question is asked. There is no underlying warmth or mirth, and matches the emotions flowing over his features.

Merritt finally finds his voice.

"The eye called us here, remember? We all have to be here. The horsemen have to be here." He knows it is the wrong thing to say, but know it is the only thing he can say. Coldness immediately filters through Daniel's eyes at the sound and tone of his voice, and Merritt almost wishes he hadn't spoken.

He tells himself the waves of guilt are unavoidable and deserved.

"You gave up being horsemen four hundred and twelve days ago when you left." Henley cringes beside him and Jack is barely holding himself together at the slight emotion which breaks through Daniel's voice. "I never did receive anything from the Eye. All I had was your word after over a year…" He looks up and for a moment, Merritt sees questions hailing a storm in his eyes. "I don't know why I thought that even counts anymore…"

It's not meant for one of them, but all of them. And yet it hurts as a separate blow, though completely expected. Three of the Horsemen had separated, gone their different ways because they saw no reason to remain. Only Daniel had remained and yet none of them thought that he was worth remaining with. Because in end love was not enough for Henley nor was the thrill for Jack, and Merritt had left before they could leave him. Only the card captor reigned through the streets of Los Angeles and New York, of New Orleans and Boston. Of Paris and Nice, of Venice and Rome and everywhere in the world the name J. Daniel Atlas had become infamous for his genius and magic- a solo act once more, abandoned and yet seemingly unhindered.

Merritt had kept track of the younger man even after he left, an odd feeling of responsibility washing over him. He had heard about the enchantment of Daniel, the shows in front of crowds with too many audiences to count, the amazing skill and nimble fingers which would filter through cards at the speed of light and wow viewers at an even faster rate. Sliding as expertly as a shadow from in between the fingers of law, Daniel Atlas had become a worldwide phenomenon even without them. Merritt pushed down the ridiculously emitting pride swelling within his chest and kept his eyes on Daniel who had yet to say anything else.

He watched as Daniel's eyes drifted to Jack, who had removed the summoning card from his jacket pocket and placed it carefully in front of him on the table, upwards so that it could be read. It only took the other man a moment to read and consider before he stood with an abruptness which shook the table slightly and made Merritt lean away in surprise. He donned his coat in a movement so swift that Merritt almost missed it, and shoved his gloves in one of the pockets, simultaneously knocking the now empty coffee cup into a nearby bin.

The others had stood as fast he had, but it had only taken one look at him to tell them what he had thought.

"This is a waste of my time. I'll be going now."

His footsteps echoed loudly, and he was out the door before any of them could process the movement.