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]

And yet, were that the case, I think you'd find my company only half as enjoyable.

[A look and slight nod, and he takes a sip of his tea. When he speaks, it's soft, his lips only just leaving the rim of the cup.]

Je ne suis pas surpris.

[A sigh.]

I had been hoping that perhaps he'd been returned to wherever he came from...the state prison, Los Angeles County.

[Stated simply, he takes another drink of his tea and looks at his reflection for a moment before setting the mug back. He reaches up, closing his eyes and combing his hair back, ruining the tight curl with his fingers until it fell loosely around his face and down his back, a few bits falling over his shoulders.

There's a knowing look and a slight smirk]

I hope you don't mind.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*There's another smile at that as he sips the tea, watching Kristoph over the rim of the mug.*

But you would enjoy mine exactly the same regardless, no doubt.

*And then he looks away, staring down into the dark, smoky depths of his tea before setting the mug aside with a frown, his fingers lingering absently on the handle for a few moments.*

Nor am I. And if he did leave, it would seem he has been returned for a while - although whether to cause general mischief, to prey on Klavier, or to make some attempt at avenging himself against you, I couldn't say.

*His voice hardens a little.*

I did not care to discuss either his motivations or yours in the situation I was in.
...Although he refused to admit that he knew of me at all, I know that he was perfectly aware that it was yourself I had intended to visit.

*A slight sigh and he's silent for a while, struggling with the desire to be honest about his behaviour but his mind automatically recoiling at both subjects - Phoenix and der Leibhaftige looming at the edges of his memory.*

He's... very like you. *And there's a shrug as he looks away again.*. I didn't expect that.

*There's silence again and then he watches Kristoph combing out his hair - the tight neck-curl unfurling under the attention, the immediate resemblance to his alternate fading as his hair is loosened, framing his face and softening his features. He looks almost serene as he pulls his fingers through the strands - at least until he opens his eyes.

But despite the smirk, and the words, he knows why Kristoph has done it and he's both ashamed and grateful, although he doesn't speak. He merely returns the smirk with a nod, his tone perfectly serious.

Actually... I prefer it.

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

My, it seems you've figured me all out, Professor. Perhaps I simply don't give you enough credit.

[The words are there to fill up the space, knowing that he'd been fearing those exact things.]

He may simply lack for sources of amusement.

I suppose I should thank you for that...though I would suggest you take care when wandering about. If he thinks that perhaps we may be...acquaintances of sorts...

...I truly hate to think the lengths he may go to.

[There is a sigh, and his gaze goes distant, looking out of the window before he speaks. His voice is quiet, and he's back there again in loose, institutional blue pants and a shirt. He's sitting in the window, one leg propped up and his elbow resting on that, fingers on his chin in thought.

"Mr. Gavin...is something the matter?" She had smiled, her voice that odd tone. Gentle. Caring. Words he knew could never be used to describe his own words.

"Not in the least. I was merely thinking." He shook his head a bit, rising from his seat.

Eight months and years before that separated them, but he knew...]

That's hardly surprising. He and I are...I suppose one might consider us two sides of the same coin, for all that implies.

[He says nothing more, taking a drink as he looks out at the broken snow.]

My, I would have never guessed, especially not with how eager you seem to be to make a mess of it.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

Or perhaps you give me too much.

*His tone is wry but there is no accompanying smile and he returns his attention to the mug for now, wrapping his hands around it to warm them against the china, intent on his own concerns. He doesn't look up until Kristoph voices the warning and then he frowns, his thoughts flitting briefly to Klavier, and to Phoenix.*

I know well enough what he is capable of. And you have no need to concern yourself - I have no intention of endangering myself... or others.

*But he can tell Kristoph isn't listening, that he's lost in his own thoughts, somewhere, and he doesn't attempt to disturb him. Instead he waits, silently, watching something - he doesn't know what - play across Kristoph's face. And there's the silver bracelet tucked just inside his sleeve, and that's enough to remind him of the differences between the two versions of this man - the ones that lay deeper than just clothes, or hair.

And then he remembers Phoenix in the bar - older, bitter and angry; so different from the man that he had treasured in his memory for so long, and yet the same. He wonders now if it had been the same for him, if it had felt as if he was meeting a stranger.

He keeps his eyes on Kristoph when he finally speaks, even though Kristoph does not look away from the window, then places the mug back on the table, considering his words.*

Two sides of a coin that will always look in opposite directions, perhaps.

*And then he nods to the window.*

The yellow flowers - they are called coreopsis. They were a gift from Klavier.

*And he leans over, his expression finally relaxing into a genuine smile, reaching out to push one of the strands of hair away from Kristoph's face, and catching it lightly between thumb and forefinger for a moment.*

Sometimes, perfection is inappropriate.*

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

[He takes a drink of the tea. His voice is quiet, thoughtful, and he murmurs the words as he passingly studies the snow.]

I suppose you could put it that way.

[He turns back at the mention of his brother...or a version thereof, and manages a soft smile.]

Ah, so you've had guests, then? The flowers certainly are...fitting, I suppose.

[There is another question, but it's forgotten at the touch. He turns his face a bit arching brow and smirking at the comment, and he meets Miles' eyes.]

Then I must be very nearly obscene.

[He pulls his hand away his hand then, brushing his lips across Miles' fingers before releasing them.]

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*And there's a chuckle at that, and at the smirk and the lips against the back of his fingers. He can almost feel the tension disappear, and he shifts round slightly until he's facing Kristoph, his face serious again.*

He is much improved - he has even started to play again, although his hand is not entirely healed.

...That's why he came here, in fact - to play for me. With the full permission of his doctor, of course.

*And there's a small but warm smile at the memory as he settles back against the wall, bringing up one knee and resting his foot on the seat. He rests his arm against his thigh as he reaches into his jeans pocket for his cigarettes and lighter.*

He looked much better than when I last visited him in the infirmary.

*And then he lights the cigarette, a slight cough at the first inhale, rough against his throat; picking the mug up with his other hand and sipping the rapidly cooling tea.

His gaze wanders towards the window as he thinks - about Klavier, about der Leibhaftige, about Kris... about Phoenix.

He doesn't look back at Kristoph, and he doesn't speak for a while; smoking quietly as he remembers Point Loma and the conversation in the bar nine years later. It's almost just thinking aloud when he speaks.*

...I met someone that I knew in my world, once.

[managingchaos.livejournal.com]

Ah, so it was that version of my brother. I've not seen him about, but I trust that he was well?

[He face impassive, he takes another drink of his tea before his question is answered as the cigarette is lit.

He lets the conversation die out, sitting in silence for a few minutes and letting the smoke drift lazily between them. When Miles speaks, he pushes the glasses up his nose, his expression that neutral half-smiling mask.]

Oh, did you now? I don't suppose it would be someone I might know?

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He starts slightly at the question, only half-realising that he had spoken aloud, his eyes flickering back to Kristoph briefly before he looks away again, back out at the yellow flowers that have begun to blossom wherever the snow has melted, gradually encroaching on the white and the green.

There's a part of him that resents them - an alien presence that disturbs the tranquility and the constancy of what once belonged only to him; that forces itself into his notice and demands his attention.

And there's another part, one that looks at them and knows they are far more beautiful than anything he could have created, just by virtue of being beyond his control.

And he shakes his head, a small smile quirking the corners of his mouth*

As a matter of fact... no, you hardly know him at all.

It was Phoenix Wright.