gʀɑɦɑɱ ɦɑʆɗɑʀ, ɛรquiʀɛ (businesslike) wrote in summerview, @ 2018-12-09 11:50:00 |
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Graham’s place was probably supposed to be meant for someone more cheerful than he was - ‘cheer’ was the vibe he first got, when he initially stepped into the empty flat (with gleaming hardwood floors, no furniture, it had once appeared bloody huge and gone were those days). In fact, it actually looked a bit historic, with large windows that unfortunately had to be covered, black-and-white checkered kitchen tiles, French doors, those kind of quirks. With the place being above a 24/7 shop that served food and the baking going on at all hours, he’d wake up close to the witching hour to the scent of fresh croissants or something like that - and the other scents, he picked up on every single one. Chocolate, coffee, ink, paper, dust. Ridiculous senses were both a blessing and a curse. It was usually dark in his flat, thanks to the velvet blackout curtains - sunlight was bad for his health, you see. As in, it could kill him. But right now he had plenty of illumination from wrought-iron lamps - warm, buttery light and nothing too harsh. The color scheme was truly Victorian - elegant and dramatic, black and gold and deep burgundy. His bookshelves were actually lancet windows, giving that unique shape - and he had quite a bit of books too; living right above a shop for such things meant that he always had ample opportunity to add to the collections. Right now he stuck to the kitchen, preparing dinner - nothing too complicated, spaghetti with meatballs and garlic knots, because he actually rather enjoyed garlic and that was simply one vampire anecdote (meaning, how it caused repulsion and death) that was not true. So there. But that combined with the other spices (oregano, thyme, basil) gave the whole flat a homey aroma - and when enhanced senses pinged at the sound of someone at the door, who had come upstairs, he went to answer right away in literally a blink. The books she had been given had been toted home and instantly devoured. Any spare moment she could get was dedicated to reading, understanding, learning. O never felt that time was wasted when it was spent engaging in a quest for knowledge and before the evening came to meet Graham for dinner she had already finished the first book and was a good ways through the second. There had been speak of Graham being a vampire. O sought some comprehension to enlighten herself with before that eventual meeting so as to better know. She had no fear of Graham; it seemed vampires consumed the blood of humans. Good thing she wasn’t human, or so she had convinced herself. When the moment came to meet up O left her loft and flew to the bookstore, landing easily upon the ground outside. Across the threshold, around the racks of books and shelves of tomes she wound until finding herself at the staircase she’d been directed to. Up, keeping her wings tucked close even though the bottom most points of her feathers scraped lightly at the steps as she ascended, O went. And then there was only a barrier of wood standing between her and Graham. Her heart was racing. She never had cared much for doors, a small sense of fear prickled at her skin and twisted in her stomach. Biting at her bottom lip she knocked before losing the last of her nerve. O didn’t have to knock long. Graham was there where the barrier had once been and she peered at him. Her expressions were a contortion of relief and stress. But the aroma caught her, a scent of something delicious that helped ease her nerves. She took a breath. “Hi.” Ah, there she was. “Hello, love,” Graham held the door open, stepping back to give O space to enter. “Welcome to my humble flat.” Humble compared to how he’d grown up, anyway - but these days, he didn’t need a lot of space. The most ornate thing he actually owned was the piano, chock-full of memories and musical notes; he recalled taking lessons in his youth, because everyone took lessons, even as pianos made their ways into working-class homes and those lessons were sixpenny. Not his, though. His father sprung for the finest teachers to keep Graham busy and away from him. But anyway, he bypassed the living room and its lone musical instrument, heading for the kitchen. “It’s spaghetti and meatballs,” he said, giving the pot a stir. “Kind of a bastardization of it, likely, but popular in this day and age. I’ve got wine if you’d like? Or something else?” The apartment was cozy, that was for sure. It was nothing like her own which was barren, scattered with hay which she used to sleep on and on occasional thing she brought home. She had no use for furniture, at least not in the sense that someone from a world that required the use of such things might. Her dearest possession was a doll she had brought with her, a toy she had somehow managed to hang on to. It’s origin was unknown to her and yet it was important. She moved after Graham, pausing to wander toward the piano. A moment was taken to offer a look of interested consideration before the smells drew her attention again. Careful, so as not to upturn anything with a wing, O padded into the kitchen. Peering around Graham as he cooked, she watched the water and noodles swirl together. Whatever spaghetti and meatballs was it smelled better than probably anything she’d ever inhaled before. O nodded. Her eyes turned to his, “Okay.” And then a few steps backward were taken so as not to crowd him. It must have been interesting, living on top of a bookstore and her eyes wandered with her thoughts, gaze falling on the door. Graham popped the cork on a bottle of fine Merlot - it was a good red starter, he thought, since he doubted O was much of a wino. But it wasn’t as harsh as a lot of other red wines, more fruity with the taste of plums, black cherry, even a bit of orange. It went well with tomato-based sauces, which was currently simmering. The pasta boiled, meatballs kept warm in a dish on the stove, and the garlic knots were still in the oven. He’d take care of all of that in a second - but first, having something in hand to sip on sort of added to the hominess. He poured wine into two glasses and offered one. “Do you play?” he asked, with a nod toward the living room. “The piano, I mean.” The glass was taken. Her eyes went to his own, she curled her fingers around the vessel as he did, mimicking the way he was holding it in effort to blend in a bit better. The aroma from the glass was intriguing. She was curious, and leaned forward some to get a better sense of what was in it. The burgundy liquid offered a muted reflection, she could see herself in it and was surprised to find herself quite odd with such a color seen in the ripples of wine. O took a sip, made a face - her nose crinkled, and cheeks puffed out but she swallowed it anyway - before turning to look at the piano. “No. I don’t know how to play.” Shaking her head, one of those ebony wings arched and stretched, all five feet of feathers taking a moment to ease tension as one might stretch a limb to wake it. Once it was folded, O turned to look at Graham. “Do you?” Perhaps it was an obvious question, why would someone own a thing and not do something with it, but then again she was of few possessions herself. Another sip was had, this one was easier on her this time as the shock wasn’t as much as it had been. There may have been a ghost of a smile on Graham’s face. O’s reaction to the wine was essentially how he pictured it would be. “It’s a bit much at first, but wine’s better with food - the food tends to bring out the flavor,” he explained. And some people made a big deal out of pairing wine with food too. A decent hobby - perhaps in the course of his eternal existence he’d someday own a vineyard. “I used to play.” Speaking of the piano, of course - he may even remember some of the more famous pieces, the ones he practiced over and over again. Salon pieces, and classical, Mozart and Chopin and the like. “My sheet music was stitched into personalized leather covers, that was what they did back then,” he said, draining the pasta water at the sink. “I rather just like the relic now, having the piano. But Für Elise, by Beethoven - I bet I could still bang that one out.” Plates were retrieved from the cupboard. “Do you want to just sit at the island?” There were stools there, and they could forego the kitchen table - he had a feeling chairs weren’t really O’s thing, or at least, chairs with high backs to them. She followed what he said about wine being better with food. Was that a thing? Probably. She was not up to the standards of what was what considering she had spent a lot of years - since she was six - in a glass cage. The wine sat heavily on her tongue, she could taste it without indulging. As he spoke she had wandered to the piano. Lithe fingers dove, plinking those ivory keys gently. From the instrument she leaned inward to experience the muted sound of the piano, as if it ached to be played. She pulled back, away as if it shocked her, moving back toward the kitchen almost sheepishly. It felt intrusive to invade his things and so she tucked back into that glass of wine and nodded at the suggestion for bar stools. Wings weren’t much for traditional seating. She seemed interested in the piano, Graham made note of it. He’d try to remember something to play for her but for now served up two heaping plates of spaghetti with meatballs, and those fragrant garlic knots. After several centuries of sad neglect, garlic had reemerged to be the reigning champ of the British kitchen during his youth (despite all the jokes involving it and smelly Frenchmen). “So, I’m curious - “ He pulled out O’s stool for her, then made himself comfortable on one of the others - such a tall person sitting on a stool was always amusing; he rather felt like one of those daddy long legs spiders. There was silverware, and linen napkins all set. He picked up his fork to dig in - no need to be shy. “What was your...upbringing like?” he wanted to know, then amended, “If you don’t wish to talk about it, that’s fine. I was merely curious, like I said.” O settled onto the stool. Her wings lifted, arching and maneuvering to accommodate the seat without her having to think about it. The glass of wine was set aside in favor of better things. Everything smelled so good, her stomach was growling. Eyes found his fingers, she picked up her fork and mimicked his actions again. As soon as the food touched her mouth O emitted a groan of satisfaction. She didn’t know the words to describe it other than a soft, “Good.” She did know about napkins, her face was cleaned of sauce as they dined. When the subject of her upbringing was brought up, O tipped her head down and looked at the pile of food on her plate. “I can’t remember,” she began, swallowing deeply. She made herself look up, at him, frowning. “I don’t remember how I got to the box,” O explained, her bottom lip quivered once. “The humans, they wore white coats. It was...so bright, and dark, and there was always pain.” Her eyes had begun streaming. Her voice was weighed down with the emotion and her hands shook. “They put me in the box, and then when they were done I went back to the cold room with the big door. It felt like hours and hours, dark and light.” Oh. Graham had an inkling it was something like that - she was so skittish and quiet, and curious about things others usually took for granted; she had to have grown up in captivity, with little chance to make her own choices or form her own interests. His suspicions were confirmed - and ‘white coats’ were telling. Of course it was something like that, of course. “Humans are rubbish,” he sighed, twirling his fork before setting it down. The edge of his napkin was used to dab at the tears from O, and he swiped his thumb over her cheek like he’d done in the bookstore. “I don’t particularly hate them, but I’ve never been impressed with them either - even when I was one.” They were a food source now, nothing more and nothing less. Lenore was compassionate, she still believed humans had worth and souls and all of that - and perhaps they did, but as O just explained, some were so terrible they held a girl prisoner and performed cruel experiments on her for whatever grand purpose. Some deserved the bad things they brought upon themselves. “Well,” he twirled a few saucy noodles around his fork after a moment. “You’re here now and it’s a safe island, all things considered. And I’m glad I got to be the one to introduce you to spaghetti?” She never really slept, not even in her loft on the island. Every time she closed her eyes those smiling faces appeared in the darkness and she awoke with a start. It was still fresh though she had been gone from that facility a while now. There was some comfort she took in the gesture, that soft swipe of his thumb across her cheek. O refrained from flinching away this time, making herself sit still though her wings twitched and rustled. “You were a human.” She repeated it though she had read about it in the book he had given her, a bit about vampires. Once humans, changed into something else. “I like you more this way.” Her experience with humans was only during her time in captivity so the claim to understand them was nil and her dislike of them was far greater. A nod from her in reply. “Me too.” She was glad he had shown her spaghetti, something she began to dig back into seemingly with a new sense of purpose. “I was human once, yes,” he confirmed. “My...former partner, in the romantic sense, she turned me into a vampire, and presumably we had eternity to be together. But eternity’s a long time and as soon as she discovered we wanted different things she left.” Just like that - poof, gone. Graham hadn’t been a newborn, but was close enough - and being alone while such a young vampire was not easy. Not to mention he was so angry over the betrayal, he didn’t have much of a sense of self-preservation. But anyway. He discovered, more and more, that O was good to be around and he liked her company - she didn’t feel the need to talk all the bloody time, and one of the things he loathed was pointless conversation. Companionable silence did exist, even if some thought otherwise. Considering that, he folded his napkin and set it down, fork on his plate in turn. “Here, come with me?” he offered, holding out his hand. She listened. O didn’t understand such a deep betrayal, she didn’t understand love though she had read about the latter in a book. The experience she lacked. She didn’t necessarily want to let on that she didn’t know, she didn’t want to be cast aside for not understanding or for not responding the right way to something. So she made sure she was careful at least to acknowledge something when it was offered even if she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Another nod of response. O wiped her mouth with her napkin, took a quick sip from her glass to wash her food away. And then her eyes moved to that extended hand. Lifting her hand she set her fingers into his outstretched palm with a measure of curiosity. Graham didn’t go far - just back to the living room where the piano lay in wait, gleaming in all of its temptations. He sat on the bench, making room for O to sit as well. “We’ll see if I remember. Like riding a bike, perhaps?” he suggested. It probably took time to get to the point where he had been, practicing hours a day - time to rebuild strength and flexibility in the fingers. But for this one piece, he was sure he could still recall the whole thing if he didn’t think about it much and just went with it. Fingers on the black and ivory, he took a moment to figure out how to kick it off. “Key signatures supposedly had personalities to them,” he shared, hands still poised. “This one’s...a mellow sort of playfulness, tenderness in a woman, and maybe even unrequited love,” and then when he was sure, he began to play. “But there are no hard and fast rules, I find.” The bench beneath her was hard yet comforting. O did her best not to crowd Graham as he played but there was an expression of wonder that settled into her features, offsetting the tenseness of her muscles. Her head tilted some as she listened. O closed her eyes and tried to imagine what he had explained to her, though she was sure her interpretation was far from truth. After a moment of absorbing the sound she opened her eyes, looked at the way his fingers moved over the keys and felt herself become overwhelmed with fascination. It wasn’t a long piece, not the way some could be. Graham had even more memories of constantly playing a specific prelude by Chopin - for a young boy, more than seven minutes was entirely too long; his teacher always used to say the A-flat note, and repetition of such, resembled raindrops. He wasn’t certain he agreed. But O didn’t look bored, at least, so that was good. Perhaps he guessed right when he assumed she’d be into the 88 keys, playing or listening. “Here - “ He’d give her a chance to play, in fact, sliding off the bench to move behind her rather than next to her. “Let me see your hands.” He placed his over hers, guiding her through the piece, and not all of it - due to the aforementioned seven-minute rule ingrained in him as a youth - but just enough to let her play some, and get a feel for it. When the sound ceased she watched those nimble fingers a few seconds more as if they might start up again, a slight bit of disappointment weighed on her and she lifted her head. Her eyes found his almost expectantly. More, more music, more distraction, more beautiful sound. She made noise, but nothing like that. As he rose she looked quizzical until it dawned on her what he was doing. Normally she wasn’t keen on such a position, the proximity made her nervous, but her eyes fell to the keys and she let him guide her. Together. For the first time in her life she was experiencing something with someone in a sense of togetherness. He smelled good so close. She breathed a heavy sigh of satisfaction through her nose and a few feathers rustled. Her fingers moved until both of them stopped playing though she kept the pose, only leaning into his frame slightly without a reason why. Graham still heard the echo of the notes in his head; Moonlight Sonata was one of Beethoven’s most famous pieces, even today. Gloomy and profound and spoke deeply to the soul - or what was left of his, anyway. Sometimes he wondered if he even still had one. But then, sometimes, in moments like these - he remembered. “Well - “ He cleared his throat softly, moving to stand upright and not crowd O at the bench. “...do you want dessert or anything?” Wonderful job at not being awkward, he told himself, which was of course a great big lie. Good lord. When he moved away her wings rustled. She sat up straighter, plinked a key or two absently with a finger to fill that silence before she nodded. Dessert. “Okay.” Gently the bench scooted backward, she moved to stand and pivoted gracefully on her feet. O waited to be lead not wanting to impose. Graham watched her, the rustle of those wings and the ascent from the bench - he had noticed how young O was before, and while she was technically a grown woman in the ‘normal’ scheme of things it was simply that noticed how young she was in comparison to him. Forever frozen at thirty but decades beyond that in supernatural years, and doomed to be. Right then. He really need to stop thinking. Thinking caused problems and all sorts of podsnappery, clearly. “It’s tiramisu,” he shared. “Since I went for kind of an Italian theme for dinner...” Well, spaghetti and meatballs wasn’t gourmet Italian or anything, but he supposed it counted. And that tiramisu hadn’t been made by him, thank goodness. He wouldn’t be appearing on any baking competitions anytime soon, let’s just say. “Also, thank you. For coming by. I don’t get many guests up here.” Not in his cave of solitude and darkness. She caught him as he observed her. Normally she would have been appalled at such a thing given the essence of what she’d been through but he had not shown her any intent to harm her so she let the consideration slide. Spaghetti, tiramisu - these were Italian words. O saved them in her mind for reference later on finding them useful in the scheme of probability. The thanks he offered shocked her slightly. No one had ever thanked her for anything before that she could recall. O didn’t realize she was smiling for one of the first times in her life. “Thank you for inviting me,” she returned softly on he hopes that it wouldn’t be the last invitation. “Of course, anytime,” Graham smiled a bit, and he knew that it wouldn’t be the last invitation. Not at all. He’d even teach her how to play the piano properly, if she wanted - it might help him remember how to play as well. It might help him remember a lot of things. None of them bad. He actually had high hopes for once. Optimism, such a strange and foreign concept, but certainly a welcomed one. |