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

[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]

[He moved the case in his hands, offering it to Miles so that he could grab the handle and set it inside]

Please do be careful with Allegretti. She's an old woman.

[that done, he grabs his hand next and braces himself against the window, pulling himself up and into the room]

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

I always treat ladies with the utmost respect.

*And he smiles a little as he takes the violin case, placing it carefully on the floor to one side of the window seat. Then he turns his attention back to helping Kristoph.

Once the other man is indoors, he closes the window, rearranging the cushions on the window seat, gritting his teeth a little to prevent them chattering in the cold.*

Can I take your coat?

I suggest that you stand by the fire for a while to warm through... and I take it that you would like tea?

*He's still watching Kristoph as he speaks, silently cursing that unreadable expression that Kris seems to be a master of. Finally, with a sigh of released tension. he asks.*

Unavailable? Is there someone you need to avoid, Kristoph?

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[He slips off his shoes before he finally climbs in the rest of the way, setting them down on the floor before he lets Miles close the window behind him.

A nod, and he slips off the coat in the chill air. His necklace is missing.]

You may.

Ah, thank you.

[He slips down from the seat, rolling his shoulders and wrapping his arms across his stomach as he steps for the fireplace]

Tea would be nice, I suppose. Do you not have anything a bit stronger?

[he shakes his head a bit]

Apparently there are a great many people I need to avoid, your holiness. I can only hope that, seeing that you are not from my own world, that my presence doesn't have an adverse effect on your happiness, as well.

[a derisive chuckle, and he shakes his head, combing his fingers through his hair to uncoil it from his shoulder as he settles down in the chair]

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He takes the coat, shaking the snow from it and stepping over retrieve a clothes hanger from the closet.

He pauses for a second, glancing around briefly at the answer to his question about tea, but makes no remark, returning his attention to hooking the hanger on one of the coat hooks by the closet door.

Then he crosses the room, pausing to retrieve a pair of tumblers from the cupboard, placing them on the table next to Kris.*

I see.

*He watches him for a moment in silence, noting the absence of the necklace but commenting only with a slightly raised eyebrow as his gaze skims Kristoph.*

Well, you have had none thus far, Kristoph. I should rather assume that is a good omen.

*And then he hesitates for a moment, still watching Kristoph, but with a brief glance down to the tumblers.*

I have Scotch or vodka. Are you quite sure that either is an entirely good idea?

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[He watches the fire for a few moments, before turning to nod at him]

Whatever you can give me will be fine. I'm afraid I'm not an avid drinker, I just need something to take the edge off of this afternoon.

[And he turns back to the fire, slouching back in the chair a bit and tapping his foot on the floor]

Miles. It's not some deep moral failing of mine that I don't value another man's happiness over my own simple struggle to be human.

[And he says it as if he were making a point that's soon internalized, the slip into German almost reflexive, and he doesn't care once he notices he's spoken in it. He's understood.]

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He nods quietly, crossing over to the cupboard and pausing for a moment, before he decides that Scotch would be the better choice, given that Kristoph has been out in the snow. He retrieves a two-thirds full bottle of single malt, turning and frowning a little as Kristoph speaks.*

Is that even a question, Kristoph?

*He uncaps the Scotch, pouring an inch of liquid into each tumbler, glancing up at Kristoph as he does.*

I should think that for anyone who knows you personally, your determination to put the demons aside would be cause enough for happiness in itself.

And as for the rest?

*He shrugs a little.*

Unless you are deliberately and wantonly destroying their lives, I fail to see why it should concern you what they think.

Although I realise that is rather easy for me to say, since I do not have to live out my life in the public eye any more.

*He holds out one of the tumblers to the other man, but keeps his hold on it for a little longer than necessary, his eyes on Kristoph's face.*

I trust that this will not interfere with your medication?

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[He thinks about that for a few moments. The audacity of it all, how selfish they were. They complained of their happiness, but he was merely living.

The feeling of being entitled to being happy they both had...how juvenile, how...American. Wasn't it enough to merely be living, as he was? He didn't know half of what they felt, so why should he be forced to care for these things? If they honestly felt that way, why didn't they work out their problems for themselves instead of whining to him to fix it all?

Miles' voice breaks his thoughts, and he shrugs a little with his head]

Hmm. I suppose so.

[He meets his eyes, looking over the drink for a moment before resting his eyes back on Miles']

Of course not.

[He peels off his lined gloves and takes the glass, holding it for a moment before he takes a drink.

How dare they, after all he'd done for them. Perhaps he should have killed Klavier when he had the chance.

No, that was all wrong. He just needed a bit of time to cool down.

Miserable, whining ingrates, the lot of them.]

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*The scepticism shows on his face when he allows Kristoph to take the glass, but he does not comment further.

He steps away quietly, busying himself with clearing away the now-cold tea from the table, folding the blanket, and moving the cushions to the end of the sofa facing the armchair. He takes his time, moving unhurriedly, waiting until Kristoph wants to speak again.

And then he sits, propping himself against the cushions and sipping his own drink. He doesn't speak, the silence only broken by the sound of the wind outside and the fresh logs still crackling on the fire.

The flames are reflected in Kristoph's spectacles and in the depths of his own glass of Scotch, and he wonders again why the man is here as he sits back and picks up his newspaper again, looking at Kristoph over it.*

What happened?

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[He takes another drink, swirling the scotch slowly and staring at the fire. They'd rather he be a monster, in a cage, awaiting the executioner's needle. They wanted him to die, and why? Just so that they could be happy.

Perhaps he should give them that and see how much they enjoyed it then. If only.

Another drink, and he waits a few moments before speaking]

You you remember the room that we spoke in, shortly before adjourning to my balcony? The odd one, with the pictures on the walls.

[he closed his eyes for a moment, taking another drink of his scotch, already feeling his head get a bit fuzzy as the alcohol burned down his insides, warming him from the snow]

I was confronted there by Apollo and Klavier.

[Miserable, stinking fools. They wished death on him, and only to make themselves happy. They'd be dancing on his grave at this rate]

They'd rather I suffer the same fate of my alternates.

[He pushed the glasses up his face, taking another drink. Selfish cretins. They would be glad if he were murdered tonight by his own alternate and wish to be der Leibhaftige's own.]

And for what? Their own happiness.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He nods, a smile briefly ghosting across his lips as he folds the newspaper and places it on the table.*

I remember it.

*And he does. Plain white walls, a wooden floor - the room of secrets - some admitted to, some not, and of all kinds. Happy, sad, violent, regretful... he remembers it very well, having seen some of his own placed there in the past.

He watches Kristoph as he speaks, switching from German to French and back again without apparently noticing; the usual studied expression of amused unconcern lost. Tonight, Kristoph looks angry, upset - and the honesty of it surprises him.*

I see.

*He frowns a little in thought, returning the conversation to English.*

Kristoph. I do not know Apollo, but I am quite certain that Klavier wishes no such thing, whatever that room may have implied.

*He stands. It's only a couple of steps to the chair and he waits a moment, looking down at Kristoph, the frown lightening a little as he reaches out to brush the other man's jaw with his fingers.*

And what about your happiness?

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[He meets Miles' eyes, and at the fingers across his jaw he closes his eyes. His first instinct is to pull back, the sensation crawling across his skin, but he doesn't. He leans into the touch a bit, his look thoughtful, and he softly brushes his lips against Miles' palm.]

Happiness.

[A bitter smile. Happiness. He wasn't quite sure that he knew exactly what it felt like, but there were times...Klavier's birthday, fighting with the cake, and they were both laughing honestly. A box car, watching the sunset and sharing a cigarette with Miles and just speaking, neither of them holding expectations over the other. A glossy magazine in his hands, his photograph on the cover and inside a shoot that he did with Armin. Rolling Stone, and the band all bickering like a family as they always did.

Christmas, and it was much the same, but he knew that he was alive, stepping into a world he wasn't sure he could ever understand, but that there were people that cared for him.]

My happiness is elusive, rare. I am content to merely be alive at times.

[and he meets his eyes again, just for a moment before he has to look away.]

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He smiles a little at that, but more in recognition than humour.

Fifteen years spent denying himself any right to happiness, or to any emotion at all. Immersing himself in books, in paperwork, in routine and bureaucracy; too ashamed even to be glad to be alive or to find any joy in it; telling himself that perfection and the approval of his mentor would fill that gaping hole. And then his trial, and that carefully constructed life that he had built had crumbled around him within the space of a day.

He withdraws his hand, looking at Kristoph for a little longer as he gazes into the fire.*

Rare or not, you are entitled to seek it, Kristoph. It's part of being human. Just as it is to be angry, confused, or unhappy.

*He shrugs a little, turning away, hands in pockets and walking over to the window.*

Contentment is what it is. I know it well enough.

*He stands at the window for a while, watching the last of the light fade into darkness, and then he looks down, the violin case catching his eye. He looks at it thoughtfully for a while, then stoops to pick it up, crossing back to the fire and laying the case carefully on Kristoph's lap. There's a slight smile when he meets his eyes, before he returns to the window, cracking it open a little and taking out his cigarettes.

I have heard you play, Kristoph.

I did not hear the playing of someone who is merely alive. I heard the playing of someone who knows what it is to live.

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[He watches him as he speaks, turning the words over his head for a few minutes before Miles returns with Allegretti.

He runs his hands across the cool black leather of the case, opening it and smiling a bit. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his fingers linger across the suede and velvet inside.]

Then perhaps I'm merely a fair actor.

[Still, he smiles a bit, and looks at the three bows inside the case, picking out the simple ebony and wood bow he often used when playing in his studio. He took a moment to adjust the strings and rub a bit of rosin on them before setting it aside.

Allegretti was next, and he smiled when he untied the violin from the case. He stood, setting the case against the chair and picking back up the bow.

A few test notes to make sure she was tuned correctly, a small turn of the pegs. He closed his eyes, resting the violin on his shoulder and his jaw against the chinrest, touched the bow against the strings and began to play.]

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He doesn't turn around, just sits on the window seat, smoking his cigarette and looking out into the darkness while Kristoph plays.

He recognises the piece, although he doesn't recall the title nor the composer - Italian or Hungarian, he supposed - not one that he remembered hearing played in the Von Karma house, either way.

He glances over a couple of times, but Kristoph is lost in his playing, so he just smiles a little, returning his attention to the moonlit court outside. Somehow the music seems perfect for the wintry scene and he leans back against the wall, relaxing slightly as he listens.

When the last note has died away he waits for a few moments before he speaks, turning to Kristoph with a raised eyebrow and a small smile.*

I don't think even you are that good an actor, Kristoph.

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[He's still as he finishes, lowering the violin and bow and just holding them in his hands as he started at the fire, not really seeing it. He heard Miles, and he let the words sink in for a few minutes before he turned.

He moved toward the chair, putting the violin and bow back in the case and slowly tying the neck in place. He braced his hands against the chair as he felt that familiar vertigo as he stood again, but it was only there for a moment before it passed, and he carefully crossed the room. He leaned himself against the wall near Miles and crossing one ankle over the other, his arms folded across his chest.

He just stood there, looking out over the courtyard, noting absently that his footprints had been already covered over by the falling snow. The occasional cold breeze rattled the window just a bit, drifting in and forcing the haze of smoke apart.

He shifted a bit, reaching down and resting his fingers over Miles', slowly plucking the cigarette from his fingers and bringing it to his lips. He took a drag of it before holding it out for Miles to take back, his eyes never leaving the courtyard as he did.]

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He glances up at Kristoph briefly when the fingers brush his; releasing the cigarette and rolling his shoulders a little, closing his eyes with a small sigh.

A slight shiver at an icy gust through the opened window and he opens them again, following the other man's gaze out of the window. He takes back the cigarette - his fingers lingering on Kristoph's for a few moments when he does.

After a pause, he takes a drag on it, exhaling slowly before he speaks, his voice quiet.*

I think you should speak to your brother again, Kristoph.

But in the meantime, you can stay for as long as you please. I imagine it unlikely that anyone will look for you here.

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

I should.

[His voice is equally quiet, and he sighs a bit heavily]

I will, I just need a bit of time to get my thoughts back in order.

[And he smiled a bit, turning and leaning his shoulders against the wall.]

Thank you, Miles.

[It's no outpouring of gratitude or anything else, just a simple thanks, and he closes his eyes for a few moments longer than intended. A yawn, and he stepped away from the wall, stretching and combing through his hair with his fingers as he walked for the bed.

Without his usual fussing over pillows, he pulled up and comforter and slid in, shivering as he huddled himself down under the thick blanket and among the pillows.

He closed his eyes, waiting for his body heat to seep into the bed, before he mumbled something under his breath that he was too tired to recall.]

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

Bitte schön, Kris.

*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.