Pneumaion, Part One

They stepped into the dusky shop as the bell trilled their hurried arrival out of the torrential rain. For an instant they stood still, adjusting to the shadowlight of the firelit room, drawing deep, rather steamy breaths and shaking off their coats. Steven was quickest, wriggling out of his patched jacket and lunging for the farthest corner in the dim room where his chair, battered, beaten, and quite beloved, was awaiting him. Tall and careless, he slung his coat onto the bricks of the hearth, pushing the glasses up higher on his nose, shaking the rain out the dark tangle he called his hair. Within seconds he was quite at his ease, feet propped easily on the bricks, shoulders sunk deep in the battered red velvet as he watched his much slower friend claim the seat opposite him.
While Steven had been settling himself, Thomas had been straightening the wind and storm out of his well-kept person. His black coat was draped over the quiet dignity of his arm, and as he took the plumped armchair opposite Steven, he smoothed his collar and ran a hand through the short of crop of his dark hair.
Neither said a word for several minutes. The fire had reached the middle age of its loveliness and burned steadily in a mellow dance of gold and crimson. The crackle of its quiet flames was the only noise to disturb the ease of their silence. Steven stared off into a far corner, Thomas cocked an eyebrow and seemed to stare absently at Steven, but neither spoke until the waitress appeared to take their orders. They broke their silence with, "coffee please, very hot, with cream,". When she was gone, Steven suddenly set his feet on the floor with a firm thump, planted his hands on his knees and leaned full forward.
"So Thomas, my friend, could a man really lose his soul?"
Thomas stared just for an instant and felt as if he had somehow stumbled into a strange story where a wild-haired man accosted him with impossible questions. Steven was a sight, an eery, elfin sight with the shadows twined round his face and the light glinting off his glasses, obscuring his eyes. He was leaning forward almost far enough to touch Thomas with an intensity that belied the seeming carelessness of his question.
"Well," Thomas almost sniffed, crossing his long legs and adjusting himself so that he was entirely out of Steven's reach, "how could anyone know? It's one of those grandfather type questions that no one can answer and so no one ought ask. You will harp on about the impossible topics, won't you? But if you must, then I would recommend the classics, Faust for example?"
And so saying, he tapped the cover of one of the worn books at his elbow.
"Try this," he said, holding the book out to Steven as if he would drop a pet a bone to placate it. Steven's eyes, however, grew instantly bright, and he snatched the book from his friend.
"Have you read it?" he queried.
"Of course not, I'm no interested in such mental gymnastics as involve the imagining of losing one's soul. Mine is quite safe. I do sometimes wonder about yours though. You know Steven, you are beginning to get rather impossibly strange," and Thomas cocked his eyebrow very purposefully.
Steven merely grinned.
"Oh really?"...