*And he smiles a little as he hears the sheets rustle and a soft mumble; shaking his head and laughing to himself as he glances over at the half-empty glass of Scotch, the lack of appropriate sounds telling him that Kristoph did not bother even to undress.
He lights another cigarette from the butt of the first, remaining where he is and smoking it unhurriedly until the room is silent save for the wind outside and the fire indoors; the soft sounds from the bed silenced.
It's a while more before he stirs, lost in his thoughts as he watches the snow flurry outside gradually subside, just the odd flake sparkling now in the light of the window as they drift to settle on the ledge. Finally he stands, closing the window and making his way over to the bed; shaking his head again in amusement and looking down at Kristoph for a few moments before pulling back the comforter.
It's not the easiest task to undress him, Kristoph muttering sleepily in German and trying to assist; merely succeeding in hampering the attempt to remove his own pants and tangling himself in the shirt. But it's neither the first nor likely the last time he's dealt with inebriated guests, and he smiles a bit, remembering the last time Larry visited him in Paris, and Phoenix's birthday, eight years ago.
Still, it's a good quarter of an hour before he has the shirt and pants draped over his arm; the comforter and bedspread pulled back over Kristoph, and soft curls gently brushed back from his face. Then he turns away with a quiet smile, hanging up the clothes next to the coat, fetching Kristoph's boots and placing them below both. Then the violin case, moved from its position close to the fire and leaned carefully against the closet next to the boots, black gloves draped over it.
A couple of extra logs onto the fire, and then he turns out the main light before stretching out on the sofa, propped against the cushions, his own mostly-untouched tumbler of Scotch to hand. Covering his legs with the blanket and picking up the copy of Le Monde, he settles down to read by the light of the fire, after one last glance across to the bed.*
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-14 02:17 am (UTC)*And he smiles a little as he hears the sheets rustle and a soft mumble; shaking his head and laughing to himself as he glances over at the half-empty glass of Scotch, the lack of appropriate sounds telling him that Kristoph did not bother even to undress.
He lights another cigarette from the butt of the first, remaining where he is and smoking it unhurriedly until the room is silent save for the wind outside and the fire indoors; the soft sounds from the bed silenced.
It's a while more before he stirs, lost in his thoughts as he watches the snow flurry outside gradually subside, just the odd flake sparkling now in the light of the window as they drift to settle on the ledge. Finally he stands, closing the window and making his way over to the bed; shaking his head again in amusement and looking down at Kristoph for a few moments before pulling back the comforter.
It's not the easiest task to undress him, Kristoph muttering sleepily in German and trying to assist; merely succeeding in hampering the attempt to remove his own pants and tangling himself in the shirt. But it's neither the first nor likely the last time he's dealt with inebriated guests, and he smiles a bit, remembering the last time Larry visited him in Paris, and Phoenix's birthday, eight years ago.
Still, it's a good quarter of an hour before he has the shirt and pants draped over his arm; the comforter and bedspread pulled back over Kristoph, and soft curls gently brushed back from his face. Then he turns away with a quiet smile, hanging up the clothes next to the coat, fetching Kristoph's boots and placing them below both. Then the violin case, moved from its position close to the fire and leaned carefully against the closet next to the boots, black gloves draped over it.
A couple of extra logs onto the fire, and then he turns out the main light before stretching out on the sofa, propped against the cushions, his own mostly-untouched tumbler of Scotch to hand. Covering his legs with the blanket and picking up the copy of Le Monde, he settles down to read by the light of the fire, after one last glance across to the bed.*
Gute Nacht, Kristoph.