Place: Some Golden Space

[professeurdeloi]

When he'd found the set of rooms, he hadn't been thinking of anything in particular, that he was aware of. But the resemblance of them to his college rooms in the year he had spent at Cambridge was striking enough that he had occupied them almost at a whim.

The main door is heavy and slightly too low for modern comfort. It opens onto a room that is high-ceilinged and grand; large, but not too large to lose its cosiness. The walls are panelled, the wooden floor varnished and mostly bare, the ceiling painted plain white. On the wall, opposite the door, there's a tall, arched window that reaches almost to the ceiling, heavy burgundy tapestry drapes pulled back, to reveal a snowy scene. There's a cushioned window seat at its base, and it always seems to be winter outside.

The wall to the left of the window houses the centrepiece of the room - a large, tall stone fireplace with a small fire in the grate that is lit most of the time - a pile of small logs stacked on the hearth beside it. There is a large mirror over the mantlepiece and  a small wooden carving of a green man propped up against a few leatherbound books of poetry. In front is a deep rug, an armchair, a small low table and a large leather sofa. The latter has a grey wool blanket thrown over it and a few cushions piled up against one arm.

Either side of the fireplace are heavy oak doors. One leads to a surprisingly modern bathroom and the other to a small study, lined with bookshelves and with an antique oak desk under the small, deep window - which also looks out on the same scene as its larger counterpart. On the desk are papers, a fountain pen, and a small laptop.

To the right of the window in the main room is a large wooden bedstead - the bed itself neatly made with a feather comforter and white sheets, a cover matching the burgundy of the curtains folded partly back over those. On one side is a nightstand, on the other, a rug and the doors of a small walk-in closet. On the nightstand is a small  vase containing three dark pink, heavily scented roses.

On the same wall as the door is a bookcase and a long, low cupboard that houses some crockery and a small, built in refrigerator. On the counter top is an electric kettle and yesterday's copy of Le Monde. It is always there, and always the most recent copy. He has given up trying to understand how it happens.

The bookcase is filled with a mixture of law, history, philosophy and poetry books - some were here when he arrived, and some he has borrowed from the libraries he has found here. There is also a small stereo and a selection of CDs.

There are no personal belongings, save for the books and CDs, and a few things he has been given since he arrived. Woodsmoke, floor polish, coffee and tobacco mingle with the scent of the roses and the air in here is always slightly cool, as if winter is encroaching from the view outside.

"Still may Time hold some golden space
Where I'll unpack that scented store
Of song and flower and sky and face,
And count, and touch, and turn them o'er,
Musing upon them..."  - Rupert Brooke

Comments

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[You could call it a lapse in his manners, but he rarely knocked when entering a room here anymore. They were, by and large, empty, and he considered it a waste of time to wait to be invited into an uninhabited room.

It's only until he enters, noting that it does, in fact, look like there is someone staying there, that he speaks.]

Hello?

[Black slacks, and his "normal" black ankle boots under that. A cream shirt, fitted a bit close, and over that he's wearing a plain black jacket.

Over this, a burgundy, pink, and gold scarf, fastened with a Gavinners pin on his collar bone opposite where his hair rests. He's wearing his medical alert bracelet today, not that it's really obvious under the sleeves.]

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He's sitting at his desk when Kristoph enters, but while the study door is ajar, he's so engrossed in making notes from a book of law that he doesn't hear the main door open and close. It's not until he hears the voice that he looks up, and for a few moments he's unsure if he imagined it.

He gets to his feet, looking down at himself with a soft and resigned sigh, before pulling open the study door fully and leaning lightly on the doorframe - one hand on the doorknob and the other in his pocket.

He's wearing jeans - unbelted - not that you could tell, since his white cotton shirt hangs outside of them, as does the grey t-shirt that he's wearing under it. He's wearing socks but no shoes, and his glasses are pushed up into his hair, holding it back.*

You'll have to excuse me, I wasn't expecting visitors. And particularly ones who don't knock.

*His voice is slightly arch, and he takes off his glasses as he speaks, stepping into the room and placing them on the mantlepiece.*

I rather assume that you must have been looking for me, since this doesn't seem to be a place that people find on a whim.

*In fact, Kristoph is only the second adult to ever find the rooms, although he doesn't bother to say it.*

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

If I am a bother, your holiness, I am quite capable of showing myself the door.

[he leans against the door frame, folding his arms across his chest]

Perhaps I was. You did invite me, did you not?

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He sighs a little, stooping slightly in front of the fire, one hand resting on the mantlepiece, the other taking the poker and prodding at the embers. He puts another log onto the low flames, then straightens up and turns to face Kristoph, with a wry smile.*

You may be a deeply irritating man, Kristoph, but you have yet to be a "bother" of any kind.

*Moving to the sofa, he folds the blanket loosely and throws it onto the armchair.*

I did - although perhaps I did not entirely expect you to accept.

*He chuckles a little and shrugs, gesturing to the sofa.*

I'm afraid that I am not accustomed to receiving guests here just yet.

Please make yourself at home, although I am afraid that you may find that rather difficult. I seem to have chosen somewhat humbler lodgings than you are accustomed to.

*And there's a faint worry about what might have brought the man here, although he does a fair job of concealing it with a smile*

Tea?

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

After leaving Klavier in the infirmary, he's on the move through this place they've all been trapped in, eye narrowed as he searches for any sign of Edgeworth. Some clue that the man was in any of the rooms beyond each door that he passes.

He pauses at a few of them, but shaking his head, he keeps going. This is not the right room. Where was that stupid bastard?

He nearly passes it, stopping it only a few steps past it, nearly stumbling as he spins around.

The door isn't one that he's seen here before and he wonders what exactly about it made him stop, but by then he's already realized that he's found exactly what he's looking for, trainers soundless on the wood floor, the soles worn from days of wandering the forest that he had created.

He doesn't bother hesitating after that when he sees Edgeworth across the room at the window. Closing the door behind him, he walks quickly across the room, ignoring the nagging voice telling him that he's invaded the man's personal space.

Sitting down on the edge of the window seat, he brushes his right hand absently over his leg where his gun should be beneath the loose jeans, the weapon left behind in the infirmary. There's a moment of silence and he breathes, shivering slightly at the chill from the window, the white t-shirt doing nothing to warm him.

Nice view.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He's not sure how long he's been sitting here - it could be minutes or hours, and at the moment, he doesn't much care.

He's still fully dressed in his shirt and vest, still wearing his shoes. One foot is up on the window seat, the other on the floor, his head leaning back against the wall as he stares sightlessly out of the window. He doesn't register the view - all he can see is Klavier, clothes half-removed, skin reddened and dirty, trying not to scream as he binds up his broken fingers. He takes a long, shaky breath and almost gags, the stench of blood and sweat and sex so strong a memory that he can almost taste it. Groping for the window catch, he pushes it open, sucking in the icy air from outside, the cleanliness of it and the sharpness.

When he exhales at last, his breath freezes in the chill and absently, he notes that his hand is shaking as he takes a long drink from the glass of Scotch. He shifts slightly, resettling the the half-empty bottle that is tucked beside him between his body and the window.

He doesn't even hear the door when it opens; is only aware there is someone else even there when they move into the periphery of his vision. Even then he doesn't look away from the window, just takes another drink of Scotch.

There's silence for a moment and when he does speak, his voice is completely flat.

Whatever you want, Wright, I can't help you.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He watches Edgeworth carefully after he speaks, resisting the desire to pace and fidget, giving into every nervous habit that he's ever had. Anything to avoid his first instinct at seeing the other man like this.

So he runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it off his face, leaning into Edgeworth's space and taking the bottle of Scotch from between him and the window, simply holding it in his hand. Turning so that he's facing Edgeworth, he pulls one leg onto the window seat and leans back, glancing outside again.

I'm not asking for your help.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*His hand closes briefly on the bottle, more by instinct at the sudden invasion of his space than out of a desire to resist, and his gaze meets Wright's just for a moment when it does. But he doesn't prevent the other man from taking it - he's too tired to care, and he has more in the cupboard.

He looks back out of the window, his tone weary, still distracted by the horrors of the dungeon and the conviction that he could have prevented it - should have prevented it.*

Then what do you want, Wright? Tell me and get out.

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[Black boots in the snow, a tight black shirt and pants to match, and over it he's wearing a plain gray and green coat.

In his hand, a black violin case. The show is crunching underfoot, and he finally reaches the window after a bit of annoyance.

He raises a black gloved hand and knocks against the glass]

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He's become very fond of his evening routine since he discovered the rooms. And this evening is no exception. Fresh from a shower, and dressed in just jeans and a long-sleeved black t-shirt, he's lying on the sofa, the blanket loosely covering his legs and bare feet.

Still damp hair drying slowly in the heat from the fire, he's reading this evening's edition of Le Monde, a still-hot mug of tea on the table beside him.

He frowns a little at the knock, glancing up from the page and unable, for a moment, to identify the sound or where it is coming from.

Slowly getting to his feet, he hears the knock a second time and walks over to the window, slightly disbelieving and more than a bit wary.

One knee on the window seat, he peers out into the twilight, before unlatching the window and swinging it open.*

Kristoph... what in the name of God are you doing out in the snow?

*"And how the hell did you get there?", would have been the next question on his lips but one look at Kristoph's face and he decides against airing it.*

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[He doesn't really have to look UP at him, and his voice is lacking in the usual mirth]

I'm not entirely sure. I was in a bit of a rush to...

...I needed to be unavailable. I seemed that, in my rush, I ended up on the wrong end of your room.

[He shifted a bit, his breath fogging in the cold]

...may I come in, or do I have to stand out here all night?

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He frowns and taps a finger on the window catch for a moment; shivering in the sudden cold a little concerned at the words. And there's a witty rejoinder resisted as he looks at Kristoph's face searchingly.

But in the dim blue twilight he's unable to discern anything beyond a slight degree of annoyance in the set of his lips, a strain around the eyes.

He shrugs, pushing aside the cushions on the window seat and holding out a hand.*

I'm afraid that you will have to climb, as disagreeable as that may be.

*And then he gestures to the violin case with his extended hand, and his voice is a touch dry.*

Ladies first, perhaps? That should make things considerably easier.

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[The walk had been mostly in silence, the both of them seemingly uninterested in inane small talk to fill the short walk to Miles' room.

Still, even after entering, he'd not said anything, but the mention of "the view" had piqued his interest and, to be honest, it was something to distract himself with.

The room still held that odd chill, but there was bright sun pouring in from the window and it was there that Kristoph took up his post, seating himself in the window seat and letting the sunlight warm him a bit.

He peered out at the snow and noting with a bit of inward surprise...green against the snow. Snowdrops, and he shook his head. He smiled a bit, fondly recalling the memory of the library in Rothenburg. His own voice, young, Klavier sitting in his lap and he reads out the story to him.

"It was bitingly cold, and the days that followed didn't bring a sunbeam. It was weather to freeze such a delicate little flower to bits. But there was more strength in it than even it realized."

He turned back to Miles, and he almost smiled at him.]

Let me know if you need my assistance with your hand.

[He didn't meet Miles' eyes as he said it, but he couldn't let him out of his sight. Not after that.]

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He doesn't notice Kristoph's silence, too occupied with slipping off his jacket and vest, hanging them neatly on the hook by the door. Examining the cuff of his shirt he frowns slightly at the spots of blood staining it and those which have begun to show through the handkerchief wrapped around his hand. He unclips his cufflinks and places them on the nightstand, then crosses the room to the living area; switching on the kettle and retrieving a mug, a glass, and a wooden box containing a selection of tea from the cupboard below.

Holding the bottle of Scotch steady with his left hand, he unscrews it simultaneously and pours it perfectly steadily; demonstrating the practised ease of someone used to carrying out the task far too often one-handedly while the right is occupied with writing or paperwork.

Then he switches on the kettle, picking up the glass and turning to face the room just as Kristoph speaks, his hair framing his face as he looks towards Miles; glowing almost silver where the early spring sun reflects off the snow and catches it through the glass. He inhales slightly as he returns the look, an-almost smile on his own lips as he walks over to the window.*

I am quite sure that it appears a great deal worse than it is.

*He examines his bandaged hand dispassionately as he sips the Scotch, flexing it and grimacing a bit, then looking out of the window past Kristoph. His eyes linger on the snowdrops, the first signs of the end of winter, and a reminder of his days growing up on the Von Karma estate.*

Spring appears to have arrived at last, as you see.

*His voice is quiet and he downs the rest of the Scotch, turning away to put down the glass and then unbuttoning his shirt as he walks toward the bathroom.*

I shall take your advice and clean this. Please help yourself to tea - or whatever you like.

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[When he speaks, he feigns surprise]

Oh, has it? Ah, yes, no wonder...it seems you've got weeds invading. Would you like for me to take care of them for you? Really, it would be no problem at all.

[When he says it, however, he means it...for the most part. There's a very small bit of him that warms at the mention of Spring, but that is quickly locked away, discarded as best he can. Useless, frivolous, and dangerous.]

Thank you.

[Even so, he follows him indirectly, poking about the room a bit and fussing over the tea, almost making it seems that by roundabout chance he found himself standing in the bathroom doorway. His arms are folded across his chest, and he leans against the frame of the door, smiling just a bit]

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He's not fooled for a second by the show of surprise - and he's not sure if he was meant to be or not. He simply smiles and shakes his head, his voice still quiet.*

They are snowdrops, Kristoph, as I am sure you know perfectly well. But even if they were weeds... what is a weed? Simply a plant that chooses not to grow where we tell it to or how we tell it to.

*He shrugs, softly.*

I would far rather leave them be.

*And once in the bathroom he strips off the shirt, leaving it on the floor for now while he fills the basin with hot water and antiseptic solution.

He peels off the makeshift bandage carefully, dropping it to join the shirt on the floor, then slowly slides his injured hand under the water. It hurts, and he grits his teeth and clenches his other hand against it as the combination of antiseptic and slightly-too-hot water fill the cuts.

Red twists of blood swirl up like underwater smoke and he looks at himself impassively in the mirror, right hand still in the water, his other hand reaching up to touch the scar on his collarbone that is still present from his encounter with Kristoph's child self. He notes the dark circles around his eyes and the beginnings of lines that he is sure were not present before he was brought here.

And then suddenly he's aware of Kristoph in the doorway; his left hand drops to the counter, and his gaze to the water in the basin. He flexes his fingers slightly, pleased to note that his assessment of the seriousness of the cuts seem to have been accurate, then he glances sideways at Kristoph, his expression neutral.*

Is there something you need? I am almost done.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*The walk back had been slow, Wright still leaning on him from time to time; neither of them speaking much - Wright because he either couldn't or wouldn't, and Miles because there didn't seem anything to say that wasn't merely redundant encouragement.

Any attention they had attracted had been met with a frown and an unspoken "mind your own business", but it was still a relief to close the door and be away from curious eyes. He couldn't imagine for a second that it was pleasant for Wright to be stared at, and particularly not by some of the less savoury people that they had encountered on the way.

Gesturing to the sofa, he shrugs off his jacket and throws it over the arm of the chair, crossing to the fireplace and leaning in to place another log on the dwindling flames.

That done, he dusts off his hands and turns to observe Wright, his face impassive.*

Sit down, Wright. I apologise for the cold - I have been absent all day and as much as this place can perform all manner of tasks, it does not seem able to keep a fire burning.

*And there's a slight smile at that as he steps over to the low cupboard.

Would you care for a drink? I have tea and coffee - or alcohol, if you prefer.

[lost-turnabout.livejournal.com]

*The prying eyes they'd encountered along the way had actually gone largely unnoticed by Phoenix, as it's something he's more or less gotten used to encountering on occasions where he ventures out or assists Edgeworth at the prosecutor's office, and had thus learned to ignore them, both in mind and action, especially since being able to ignore the unwanted had long since become a survival skill for him.

The room Edgeworth's led them to is not unfamiliar to him, though mostly due to the feel of it and not anything about it in particular. He's surprised to see the fireplace actually lit, and moreso when he sees Edgeworth tend to it. He's never seen one lit before... No wait, that's not true...

He doesn't need to be told twice to sit, in fact, he probably would have even if he hadn't been told to at all, and curls up at one end of the sofa with his toy turtle, frowning contemplatively at the fire. When Edgeworth asks him about drinks, he counts back which ones he'd listed and then indicates a 'one', since that'd worked last time, and he's not close enough to try writing it out.*

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He considers the handsignal for a moment, then nods.*

Tea, then.

*Reaching into the cupboard he pulls out a box, a selection of small packs of tea carefully filed and labelled inside. He runs his fingers across them, thoughtfully, before settling on the English Breakfast, the one tea he remembers the Wright in his own world being fond of.

He switches on the kettle, retrieving two mugs from the cupboard and milk from the small refrigerator. The latter he places on the low table between the fire and the sofa along with a small pot of sugar cubes. Then he returns to the cupboard, leaning against it with his arms crossed; a slight frown creasing his forehead as he watches Wright staring at the fire and clutching the soft toy as if for dear life.*

When you have had your tea you can take a shower, and I will look out some clean clothes for you to wear.

Are you... here alone, or is someone likely to be looking for you?

[rockinglawyer.livejournal.com]

[ Weeks, days, months... time seems to be of no consequence in this place, does it? Everything seems to have happened too soon and too late and it all comes down to the present.

He's alive, and he has to move ahead.

It's been hard to look at a guitar these last few weeks, forget playing one. He's been told to not allow himself to strain his healing hand-- he's young, they said, he'll heal fast.

He'll heal soon.

Everything seems like such a lie.

But today is different. Today he actually has some good news, because today, he's spent more time in his rehabilitation activity and found that his healing fingers can actually provide the sort of effort needed for his playing-- today, on the acoustic he willed to keep himself company, he actually finished playing an entire song.

There's some color back in his cheeks, the tan slightly faded but never entirely gone, and he looks mildly healthier. He hasn't exactly been in much of a state to have an audience-- having kept to himself after that horrific incident that had everyone, all his friends, in anger and worry.

He doesn't think he'll ever get over the guilt of that.

But he can try to make amends. So today, he actually walks out of that room that has become his hideaway, that room that smells of medicine and music and effort, and looks for another. And with the smell of the roses, he knows where to go. His guitar is in its case his footsteps are swift-- and he reaches out to open a door he knows will lead him to where he wants to be.

His smile is brighter today, and he ends up entering without a knock, but quickly closes the door behind him. Looking around himself, he sets the guitar against a wall and calls ]

Herr Professor! Herr Professor, Wo bist du?

[ The voice is gentle yet enthusiastic-- bearing no bad news to be detected within, and he moves a hand to his belt, stepping in and glancing about, looking for that familiar sight~ ]

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*The voice is both familiar and unexpected, and it startles him out of his studies, the laptop and the book left open on his desk when he opens the study door. He hesitates in the doorway, just for a moment, before stepping out into the room.*

Guten Tag, Klavier. There's no need to shout.

*The tone is arch, but it's belied by a quick and surprised smile before he looks away,

He'd visited as much as he'd been able, the first time only three days after it had happened. Then, he had been sick himself - still suffering the after effects of the tarantula bite, entirely unsure if the sickness in his stomach was due to the memory of the last time he had seen Klavier, or merely to the venom that was still working its way out of his system.

The visit had been mostly silent, Klavier drifting in and out of consciousness, still recovering from having his broken fingers reset for the second time, the bruises on his face and neck obvious even in the low light of the room.

Klavier had gradually begun to look healthier, started to regain the use of his hand, but he had not found it any easier to meet the boys eyes over the passing weeks, even despite that. The lurking guilt over what had happened, his utter failure to protect him, and the possibility that somehow, his involvement of the boy's older self in Kristoph's plan had been the root cause of what happened.

Even now, it's an effort to meet his eyes, and instead he nods towards the guitar case.*

Do I take it that you are playing again?

[rockinglawyer.livejournal.com]

[ A light chuckle escaping him when he's reprimanded about yelling (he had to get his attention!), the boy smiles up at the older man. He's certainly missed Edgeworth, to the point where it became an almost desperate attempt to improve. He hasn't been blind, the way Edgeworth had been looking at him during his visits was a way that had him feeling awkward in uncertainty. He's been grateful for the visits from Herr Wright too, but for the most part, the fact that Edgeworth's been the one who has suffered the most out of this isn't missed by him. ]

Es tut mir wirklich Leid, Herr Professor! I thought I'd wake you up in case you had fallen asleep. [ He spoke in a teasing voice, reaching towards his guitar case and then as Edgeworth addressed it, he motioned to him to enter his main living space, and headed ahead of him, looking over his shoulder. ]

I'm not going to agree or disagree with that yet, Herr Professor. You'll have to see it to believe it!

[ It's not easy maintaining an upbeat temperament, though the fact that he was able to play today helps. His fingers have mostly begun to set, though he's not allowed to do anything more strenuous than that, and he needs to sleep with his fingers in protective splints at night, but for the most part, he's glad to be rid of them.

As he makes himself at home (never having been one to ask permission for taking a seat, if Edgeworth had any problems with him, he'd tell him and he'd move), he flops himself down on a couch with enough room for Edgeworth to seat himself next to him and smiles up at him before setting the case to a side and removing his acoustic. It's a beautiful instrument with a soothing sound, but with a nice enough build to sound upbeat if he had to play it that way.

Once it's out, he turns the knobs to get the right pitch, and then looks up at his idol, giving him a slight grin ]

I'm sure you're not too busy to refuse listening to one song, ja?

[ He looks eager-- trying his best to conceal it, but with one his age, it's a bit of an impossibility to hide. Once the guitar is set comfortably over his lap, he chuckles to himself. ]

I thought... if I could play a song today, you would be the first to hear it! So I am here.

O hai you can has a Kristoph.

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[He's sitting at the window, smoking and looking out over the flowers that seem to have infested the snow.

There's a soft "hmm", and he shifts against the seat, leaning back, stretching out his legs as far as he can, his black-socked feet nearly reaching the other side.

There's a small smirk, and he turns his gaze back to the room.]

So, your holiness, are we finally going to have our tea?

Oh yay. He needs a BFF. If he'll talk :|

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He hadn't been expecting company and the room is uncharacteristically untidy - if not by most people's standards, then certainly by his own.

The empty bottle and the glass are removed from the table, the latter smudged with fingerprints from many uses; the cushions rearranged and the blanket folded neatly and laid over the arm of the sofa. He scans the room restlessly, frowning at the slightly crumpled rug, the half-made bed and the dying fire, stepping over to the hearth to add another log and noting that the grate needs to be cleared of ash.

He looks up at Kristoph's words, having half-forgotten he was even there; too lost in irritation at himself and the room. There's a slight hesitation, a stubborn resistance to it, before there's a half-nod of acknowledgement and he crosses the room again to flick on the kettle and extract two china mugs from the cupboard.

It's routine now - he barely even needs to think about it. Lapsang souchong, and he knows exactly how Kris prefers it - the strength and the temperature.There's a sudden memory of Kristoph's alternate, smiling at him politely with empty eyes over the rim of a cup and he tenses slightly, pushing it away.

He doesn't look round, leaning against the wall beside the kettle and folding his arms as he waits for the tea to steep.*

I apologise for the state of the room. I have been somewhat occupied.

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[Half-watching him, half-listening, he'd guessed well enough that his encounter with his alternate had bothered him.]

I'm very nearly flattered that you feel the need to tidy for me...almost relentlessly, even...but I assure you that it's completely understandable.

[Compared to Daryan's hotel rooms, really, it was nothing.

A glance to the tea, and he takes one last long drag of his cigarette before flicking it out, half-aiming for one of the yellow flowers. He licks his numbed lips, tasting the saccharine on them and smirking a bit as he slipped his cigarette case back into his pants pocket.]

I should hope I'm not imposing, Miles.