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.]

[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.

[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]

[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]

*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.

[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~ ]

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?