Tristan Sable || Dream (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} demos_oneiroi) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} musingslogs,@ 2011-01-19 15:17:00 |
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What: The Letter
Where: Aubade 402
When: In the week(s) following Alfie’s funeral, after meeting Hal
Warnings: Kind of sad, but slowly getting better!
It took him over a week to find the letter.
Past 4 in the morning, and he finally couldn't sleep any more, having traveled through people's dreams spreading grief and guilt and sadness in each one. There was only so much sleep his body could take, though, and he’d finally reached that point. When he found himself laying awake in bed for a long passing period of time, he carefully slipped out of it instead of running the risk of waking Wren where she was curled against his side. He made sure to spread the covers back over her, keeping her warm in the chill of the night air.
There were no lights on in the entire apartment, only the faint sodium orange filtering in from the outside, and he turned on a stray, dim lamp or two as he moved through the rooms. His feet were cold but silent against the bare floors, but it was a feeling that was real and wasn't the heavy grief that had weighed him down since the voice over the security radio had delivered the news of Alfie's death. He was finally able to begin to see the apartment without feeling the loss of her so keenly, and knew somehow that come morning and the introduction of light back into the space, that he might finally begin to think of making the apartment a different place. Someplace he could live (with other people) and call home.
His round-about path eventually took him into Alfie's office, things still on her desk from the last bit of work she'd done. The house staff had tidied things one last time before they'd been dismissed (those that had lingered through the attacks, at least), and no one had been in the office since, so her desk was mostly clean when he sat down in the chair. After a few minutes, even though it still felt like intruding, he opened the top drawer to find a few high-end fountain pens and an envelope. Addressed to him in her still-familiar handwriting. His throat tightened painfully, but he lifted the ivory rectangle, turning it over to find it hadn't even been sealed. The paper inside was thick velvet to his fingers, the ink a deep contrast. He turned on the desk lamp, letting its glow illuminate the paper into something warm as he read.
My dear Tchaikovsky,
While I know you would frown at me for writing such a fatalistic letter, with the current state of things I feel it is advantageous to be prepared. There is the possibility that this will be needed sooner rather than later.
If you are reading this, then you've been contacted by my lawyers and have been given over the apartment and the studio. I am certain that you are furious with me for such a thing, but you must get past that. The papers are all legal; I had them finalized just the other day. Upon my death, you will be the owner of everything contained in this apartment, and you are to do with it all as you see fit. Do not let nostalgia prevent you from making this place your own. Use it to make art and push yourself to greatness.
That being said, I am certain that my taste in decorating is not yours. In the brief time I've known you, I am also certain that you have likely not read through the package of information from the lawyer, and that you are not aware that I have made the proper arrangements for you and the apartment to be taken care of. The lawyers have all the technical information, and it is available upon your request, but just know that you have nothing to worry about. There is a fund to take care of redecorating, if you should see fit, as well as living expenses, art supplies, housekeeping if you desire, and the like. You have access to lawyers and accountants as well, and you should perhaps think about getting a manager for yourself. Read the information from the lawyers, it is all in there. I committed to being your patron, and my passing will not stop that. All I ask is that you make more beautiful art for me, Tristan.
I never enjoyed goodbyes.
Yours,
Nadezhda
Alfie
Penelope Worth
P.S.: Do not forget to contact the lawyers about the fund. I will imagine your face while you do so and it will bring me great pleasure, wherever I am at the time.
He had to set the letter down by the time he reached the end of it, his hands shaking and throat painfully swallowing down tears even as he smiled faintly. "Infuriating woman," he choked into the silence of the office, then rested his elbows on the desk and hid his face in his hands. His next few breaths were shaky and hard, and he couldn't stop the few tears that pressed out between his fingers. "...fuck."
After he'd composed himself again, a few long, painful minutes, he wandered out to what he figured was the living room, a room with couches, at least, he thought, and curled up on one of them. He watched out the massive windows as the sky slowly began to lighten, a clear and crisp shift that looked cold but alive. For all his strange sleeping habits, he'd never really made a point to watch the sun rise, and he found he enjoyed it. It bloomed over Seattle and brought it to life, and as he watched, he began to think of how to make the apartment his own. He knew he'd need to return to Hamartia, pick up some of his things. Find Genny and tell her that he'd moved and that she had a new room waiting for her if she wanted it. Get a renter for the studio and renovate the rooms in this apartment.
It gave him things to think about, lists of things to do, a plan to hopefully push him out of the grief. He couldn't paint, not yet, but he hoped he'd be able to soon and he wanted to be ready for it.