#Late Night Check-in Düsseldorf | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

christophcalledbingo · 5 years ago

Text

The Guessing Game Part 2 (Dr. King Schultz fic)

Hope you are all doing well! It’s sequel time! This is the second part of the fic, read the first one or you’ll be lost.

(Link to the first part)

https://christophcalledbingo.tumblr.com/post/616560017298112512/the-guessing-game-dr-king-schultz-fic

(This is a bigger chapter btw, a bit more of 4k)

Hope you got the memes too hehe. There is teacher kink? There is teacher kink! Kids having class on Saturday? Yeah, it fits the narrative, don’t question the narrative!!! There is some anachronisms, this is a fic, don’t worry about it! A bit of relationship building and a bit of spice :) (I‘ll wait to use the big guns on the next part). WE GOT POVS EVERYONE (points of view).

Mentions of loss too.

It’s not that nsfw but it gets close so... idk, just enjoy.

Translations:

Himmel: Heaven

Bitte: please

Natürlich, ja!: Of course, yes!

Liebling: dear

Bastard: it’s the same in English but with a capital letter :)

Danke: Thank you.

CLARA’S POV:

I wake up to the sound of a rooster crowing, but I’m still too tired from yesterday’s little adventure, so I just go back to sleep-

“I’M A TEACHER!” I suddenly remember that I am an adult with adult responsibilities. I try to dress as fast as I can. However, my wrist still hurts and it takes longer than expected. I end up wearing a light-blue blouse and a long black skirt up to my knees. I put my caramel brown hair in a bun, grab my glasses, my shoes and my bag and I run to the school.

Our town is the most centrical of a lot of tiny communities, so the school is located here, and all the kids from the surrounding towns come here to learn from me!

I’m was running so late that I forgot to eat breakfast... Today is going to be a bad day. Just before I arrive to the building I see a carriage with a bouncy tooth on top of it. That must be King’s… He must have parked it here and then went off to sleep at the Inn, I don’t see him anywhere. However, I see a very friendly-looking horse that’s drinking some water. Just as I get close he salutes me.

“Good morning to you too!” I say, cheerfully. This must be King’s horse then. He looks like he has had nothing to eat since yesterday though…

I sprint towards the school building and I see everyone inside. As I expected, someone has left me an apple on the table. I grab it.

“Thank you, to whoever gave me this, I appreciate it, so much. However, there is someone who needs it more than I do. I’ll be right back!” I then sprint outside to, what I presume, King’s horse.

As he sees me arrive, he moves his head in a happy motion.

“Here you go boy, hope you like it. It looks very tasty indeed!” I smile and pat his head. I wonder what’s his name… “I’ll see you later, untitled horse.” And I go back to the school to give my lecture of the day.

KING’S POV:

I woke up quite early at the calling of a rooster. I’ve slept quite nicely… but I can’t get Clara out of my head, so unique and yet so intriguing. I hope I can find her today.

I leave the inn in a rush, no jacket, just my vest and my hat. I forgot Fritz’s dinner yesterday. He is going to be mad at me, I’m certain. Just as I arrive to the spot where I left him, I see that there is someone interacting with him. As they turn to pat Fritz, I see Clara. I try to call her, but she ends up not hearing me and running to the closest building.

“Sometimes I envy you, my dear friend… I wish that was me, a moment back there. To be the one she gets to pet so dearly.... I mean, not pet- just- just have a good lunch together and then maybe hold hands, and then...” I shouldn’t think that way, she is far too young and no interested at all… Nonetheless, curiosity gets the best of me and I look through the window of the closest building. Clara is writing something on a board in a beautiful cursive, and there is a room full of children that seem to be cherishing every instant.

“Ok, so today is ‘shifting book day’.” And every kid in the room just complains. “I know and I’m sorry. I know that you wanted new books, but I couldn’t aff… get my hands on any that were worth of your amazing taste! I’m so sorry, I’ll try to find some worthy books next week.” She seems to have economical issues, and I just caused her night job to close…

The kids shift the books with their friends as Clara looks at them with sadness. Just at that moment she takes notice of my presence. She gives me a very big smile and I smile back, then raises her hand, showing me one finger, and mouthing something on the ways of “Give me just a moment.” And I nod to let her know that I understand.

“Next class is going to be biology everyone, but before that we should all get a rest. Grab your snacks and we will resume the lesson in fifteen minutes.” All the kids cheer as they go outside. Then Clara makes a motion that lets me know that is ok for me to enter the building. As I enter however, I take notice of how beautiful she looks today, and I unwittingly smile .

“Hello you! Good morning! I knew that we were going to look for each other today, but I wasn’t expecting that you were to find me so soon!” Clara laughs and I think I just went to Himmel.

“It took longer than planned, where you hiding from me?”

“Me? I would never do that! Not from you that is.” She says ironically, as she puts her bandaged hand on her chest.

“Are you feeling better? Does the bandage hurt?”

“Oh, no, not at all. I guess… I guess it’s a little bit tight, but it’s supposed to be like that, isn’t it?”

“Indeed but, can I take a look? Just in case.”

“Yeah, sure, of course, do whatever you need to do…” I put on my glasses, grab her hand very gently and I start to examine the bandage.

CLARA’S POV:

Oh my- Why am I so flushed?! He touched my hand yesterday and I wasn’t so flushed! Is it the glasses? He does look very handsome with them- I SHOULDN’T THINK ABOUT THAT! He touches my hand very gently, putting one of his under mine for support, and he uses the other one to look for any weird marks of signs of excessive pressure.

“I don’t see any worrying marks, but if you want I can change the bandage now and loosen it up a bit.”

“Please… If it isn’t too much trouble, it’s difficult to write in a blackboard with the bandage so tight.”

“I’ll go to get what I need then, just a moment.”

As I see him get out of the building, I allow myself to drop on my chair and breathe. This man should know what is he able to do with such charms. However, I shouldn’t get my hopes up. He is going to leave in a couple of days and my heart will be broken for nothing… I don’t even know if there is a Mrs. Schultz in the first place?! I’m so dumb… Even if he didn’t have a wife, I’m sure he wouldn’t like to have anything with me… Just as my mind gets to that last thought he comes back, smiling like the cute dork he is.

“Give me your hand, bitte.” He says while sitting on the edge of my table, one leg hanging, one on the floor. (SIR! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME? I’M WEAK!) “This is not going to hurt, you don’t have to be so tense.” King comments, as if it was so easy! To calm my nerves I just try to distract myself with a little small talk, maybe I can kill two birds with one shot.

“So, King… I know you are leaving in a couple of days, but you seem to be a very interesting person” the most interesting person I’ve ever met, in fact “and I want to know you a little bit better. Is that ok?” He smiles so widely that I can see both of his rows of teeth.

“Natürlich, ja! But you have to tell me something about yourself as well, liebling.”

“It’s a deal then!”

“I wanted to ask you about this double life you seem to have…” King says and stops, maybe not knowing what to say next, perhaps thinking about how to phrase it. “Do you have money problems?” I am a bit scared of that question, but I can see where is coming from.

“I have…” I say with hesitation. “ However, my main job is this one, I take pride on being a teacher but the salary here is not the best, so I decided to look for another job.”

“That’s a very sacrificed thing to do… I admire you Clara.” I blush to that compliment and I joke a bit.

“You just met me so… Causing a first good impression: check.” I say while I make a ‘tick’ with my other hand.

“You caused the very best first impression, if you allow me to compliment you some more.”

“Just if I can compliment you as well...” I say and he chuckles.

“I am a bit shy, I like better to compliment than to be complimented actually…”

“That is because you have never been complimented by me!” I laugh and he flushes, a lot. “Did I say something…?”

“No, it’s fine… What is it that you wanted to ask?” He changes the subject, but I don’t forget that I will have to compliment him later, even if he combusts.

“I just wanted to know something about you… I just know that you are a bounty hunter and a dentist, that’s it.”

“Oh well, let me delight you with a German tale then…” he begins “I was born in Düsseldorf, you don’t need to know the year.” I chuckle “I practiced dentistry for some years, I got married-” I hold my breath… I knew it… “but” he pauses, looking extremely sad “she died a long time ago, of a fever.”

“King, I’m so so sorry…” I say, genuinely, tears forming in my eyes, I hate to see him this heartbroken.

“No worries dear, we Germans think positively about death. I still think about her a lot, but I know she is in a better place and that she wanted me to be happy.” He smiles a bit, but I can still see sadness in his eyes. So I smile back and put my other hand on his. “Well, after that, I moved to America with my brother, and we both became bounty hunters. We hated slavery and we wanted to do something about it.” I just gasp to give a bit of a dramatic effect and he laughs, but the sadness isn’t gone. “Sadly, my brother was killed while we tried to help a couple of slaves that were trying to get to the north…” I just stayed in silence, he knew what I wanted to say, my hand just stayed on his and squeezed it a bit, tears now rolling down my cheeks. “And now I travel from state to state collecting bounties. I think that’s it, for now…” He says, in an exhale.

“I wanted to complement you later, but allow me to do it now…”

“Clara, I-”

“Please…” He stays silent, and nods.

“I just wanted to say that…” I hold my breath a bit, trying not to cry, unsuccessfully. “You are the most incredible person I’ve ever met. I’ve just known you for a day and I realised instantly that no matter the issue, no matter the problem, you are there to help.” He lowers his head. “I appreciate you so much… and I’m so happy I got to meet you. I will thank the universe everyday for that.” He squeezes my hand, and then looks up. His eyes are shiny because of the tears forming.

“You were right… I just had to be complimented by you.” I smile. “Thank you, Liebling. I-”

As he is about to say something all the kids enter the room and stare at us with curious eyes, holding hands, looking each other in the eyes.

“Miss, is he your husband?” Says little Sheryl, and I just start to panic.

“NO, OF COURSE NOT!” King looks at me with a grin on his face and with a slight blush. “I mean- He is just a friend…” And then I got a mischievous idea “In fact! Dr. Schultz is a dentist that has come here today to explain you all about your teeth and how to take care of them.” As words come out from my mouth, King turns his head to look at me very slowly and in the end murmurs something like “I hate you” and I murmur back “No, you don’t” and I go sit down with the kids with a very big smile as King stays alone at the front of the class.

King starts to explain, he seems to be a little bit nervous, maybe he has never talked to children like this, the look in his face is priceless. As time passes he actually starts getting confident and explaining some interesting stuff I don’t know about. I get happy every time he looks at me and smiles. I try to cherish every bit of information that leaves his lips. I think I’m actually getting turned on by this…

“And I think that is all I have to teach you, Professor Valle, is there anything else I should say?” He gets me by surprise, as I was looking at his lips, but I stand up as quick as a spring.

“No, I think that’s it. Did you enjoy the lesson?” I say, looking at my students and they all nod or say “yes”. “Then that’s it for the day, remember to do your homework, on Monday I will be checking it.”

As the students leave I get close to King and he looks at me. We start talking at the same time.

“I-”

“You first.” He says.

“I want to thank you for this, and I’m sorry for putting you in this situation. I really enjoyed your lesson, I feel like I’ve learned a lot.” I say, still my eyes looking shyly at his lips.

“I was going to say that I really liked the experience. At first I was quite worried and cursing you a bit, but I ended up liking it.” My eyes turn to his.

“I’m very glad! You truly have a way with words…”

“Danke!” I quickly go back to where the students’ tables are, sit on one of them and raise my hand. “Yes? The pretty lady of the first row. What’s your question?” He said I’m pretty? Oh Lord… I’m actually quite hot and this isn’t helping so I unbutton the first three buttons of my blouse, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yes, I actually wanted to ask about the sensibility of the teeth. When I clean them, sometimes they bleed. Is that normal? Because I think is not…”

“It is actually quite normal. It is your gums that bleed, maybe you brush them too hard, but if you have not complained about it before, I guess that they aren’t inflamed. I could also take a look at them, if you want.”

“I couldn’t- I- I mean you have done so much for me and-” I stutter.

“It’s fine, really, it’s my job… well one of them.”

“Fine, but I will pay you.” And I stare so hard that I think he gets scared because he agrees to me paying him, even though I don’t have any money.

KING’S POV:

We arrive to my carriage and Clara goes directly towards Fritz.

“What’s his name? I’ve been wondering about it all day!” She says while petting Fritz, that lucky Bastard.

“His name is Fritz, and he is the most loyal companion one could ever ask for.”

“Awww! That’s so adorable! I love him, he’s so friendly!” Clara kisses Fritz’s head and I think I’m about to lose it.

I take out all the equipment to the alley, including the chair for the patients. I offer Clara the seat as if we were in a fancy restaurant.

“Oh, thank you so much. What a gentleman!” I smile a bit and then I get sad, thinking that this might be the only time I get to do this for her.

“Ok, let’s see if there is anything wrong in here.” I put some gloves, grab my tools and ask her to open her mouth, I suddenly freeze. Is that how she looks when-? King! Control yourself! You are a gentleman, she said so herself. I get a grip on myself and I start examining her mouth. She has pretty good teeth, not exactly white, but with signs that she sometimes smokes. it doesn’t seem frequent though. Also her inner cheeks have bite marks, she must be a pretty nervous person.

Just as I finish checking her mouth I take notice that three of her blouse buttons are open and... I can see her undergarment, it’s shiny and white, and a bit of her breasts… I try to breathe normally, but it is actually quite difficult…

CLARA’S POV:

Why is he breathing faster? The faster he breaths the quicker my heart gets… Suddenly I realise that I’m getting a bit cold on my chest and I see that I still have my blouse open… He- he is looking at my�� I then take notice of his hair and beard moving a bit because of a slight breeze. He looks so sexy in that vest… I couldn’t bring myself to call him ‘sexy’ until now, but that is exactly what he is, he is even more than that.

I just get lost in his features, first his eyes, his nose, then his cheeks and finally his mouth. I stay there, looking at this pure ball of positivity. He seems to notice my eyes, wandering. King stays still, dentist tools still in my mouth, and returns the look. I feel his eyes looking not only at my face, but also my whole body. I feel exposed, but also safe. I want to be feel vulnerable, only if it’s him who makes me feel that way. He takes the tools out of my mouth, but we are still silent, looking at each other. The colours of his eyes are mixing into something darker, filled with what I can only infer is desire, and I can’t stop myself from biting my lower lip, trying to restrain the sounds that want to come out of me. He gets closer to my mouth, as if he is looking for something in it. Maybe something that makes sense, probably something that tells him to stop. However, before he retreats or changes his mind I push myself up from the chair a bit and kiss him. I can feel in his lips that there is a confrontation inside of him, but I just close my eyes, caress gently his face with my hands, and I try to tell him through my kiss that everything is ok. It takes a bit, but he gives up to it.

He grabs one of my cheeks with one hand, and the back of my head with the other and kisses me passionately. My hands go down to his neck and I can’t stop myself from grabbing his shirt collar with both hands, which makes him get closer. His beard and moustache tickle my face. I giggle into the kiss a bit and he lets go.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you? I shouldn’t have-”

“King! It’s ok. It was just your beard, it tickles a bit. I really want this…”

“Are you sure? I’m old and, and you are beautiful and-” My heart skips a bit. He is still on top of me but he is looking away. My hands go back to his cheeks and make him look at me.

“I really want this… I fact, I thought that you didn’t want it, that I wasn’t attractive enough...”

“Liebling… Listen. You are beautiful, no matter what. I am in fact attracted to you in a way I had never felt before, but I don’t want you to waste your time with someone like me…”

“I am more attracted to you than to anyone, ever. You have this magnetism that pulls me to you. Again, I’ve just known you for a day, but I can tell that you feel it too.”

“I do… guess what I want to do to you now…”

“I-”

Before the words leave my mouth, he takes them on his. He becomes and extension of my breath, wet and needy.

I can tell that he is getting tired of this position, so I push his chest backwards with one hand and stand from the chair and I lead him into the wall of the school building. My arms are on both sides of his head and he looks at me, not scared, just eager. So when I kiss him again he grabs my hips and shifts our positions. Now I am the one pushed against the wall. With both of his hands he grabs mine (not my wrists because of the injure) and pins me to the wall, with my arms of top of my head. King’s carriage is hiding us from the street, but I can still hear people walking and talking, not that far away from us. As the kiss gets even more passionate I open my mouth a bit. I try to hold a moan when he slides his tongue in, as if he knew what I was about to do, quieting me up. One of his hands leaves mine and goes directly to my ass, grabbing it tightly. An impulse makes me rise my leg up and put it on his back, which makes him be a lot closer to me. He is so close to me in fact, that I can feel a bulge starting to form in his pants. If I was getting wet earlier during the lesson, now I feel a river. With my free hand I grab King’s hair, his hat falling to the ground. As I mess with his hair our lips part. He takes advantage that my blouse is a bit open. His mouth goes to the spot where my neck joins my shoulder and starts kissing there. To repress a moan, my mouth goes to to his left ear and I start to bite his lobe. I can tell he is liking it because he starts to bite instead of kissing… this is going to leave a mark.

Just as King’s hand leaves my ass and starts to lift up my skirt we hear someone’s steps approaching, so we quickly separate, both sweaty and breathless.

“Miss Valle, I’m so sorry. I forgot my book on the table, could you please open the school?” A worried Sheryl pleads, she does not seem to notice how messy we look.

“Yeah, of course.” As I go to reunite with Sheryl to help her recover her book my eyes go back to look at him. King is getting his hat from the floor and smiling, once again, like the precious dork he is.

When I get back to King, he is trimming his moustache and I’m once again alone with him. He looks a bit disappointed and the air feels tense around him. However, I try my best to act calm and collected.

“I’m back, I’m so sorry for the interruption-” I cannot even finish, once again he is kissing me only this time he is much more gentle.

“Sheesh! I cannot restrain myself around you, can I?” King says, smirking. I cannot stop myself from laughing.

“You silver tongued devil you! You still haven’t invited me to a cup of joe!” I joke, and he laughs too.

“I don’t know what we are waiting for then.” He offers me his arm and suddenly I remember.

“King, the tavern is closed…” He stops, and looks at me very slowly.

“I… I forgot about that, sorry…”

“It’s ok, I also forgot but” I pause dramatically “I got some coffee at home, would you like to come in for a cup?”

“Just if I can kiss you all night long…”

“That is one of the requirements for you to enter my home again, don’t you worry, it was part of my plan.”

“Is there more to your plan, Liebich?” King asks, his eyes locked in mine.

“Why don’t you try to guess?”

#dr king schultz #christoph waltz #django unchained #fanfic

19 notes · View notes

awackyphdinadorkable · 6 years ago

Text

A little snippet of a Cherik fic ghosting through my head...

This one keeps going through my mind for some reason, even though it is nowhere near an actual fic at this point. Despite that all, I thought I might share at least the tender, drafty first steps in that direction, because... why not? I just like the mood of it, or rather, the mood it gets me into. *flies away*

There are those days when Erik wished he was back in Paris, in his tiny apartment at the very top of a very shabby building from which he could smell both freshly baked baguettes and fish being delivered for the small food store below every day.

Those were the easy mornings that left his mind blissfully blank – because he didn’t want to think, even less so remember. Those mornings smelled of black café with just a dash of lait. They tasted of croissants with jam. They sounded of the streets waking up below his small balcony where there was only space for a garden chair, a tiny table, and a lonely potted plant that never came to bloom yet didn’t die either. And most importantly, those mornings looked like new beginnings, as the city was painted orange and violet, leaving only the picturesque yet iconic shape of the Eiffel tower in the distance to Erik him yearning for the sensation of that steel.

Now in New York, Erik still has black coffee with just a dash of milk every morning, but the milk doesn’t quite taste like the one he used to buy in Paris. The croissants are positive crap. And when he stands on his balcony, albeit this one is a bit more spacious, there is no smell of fresh bread and fish in the air, just the odor of gasoline and burned rubber rising up in dark clouds, painting even the new beginning of the day in shades of gray. It is those moments that take him to where Erik knows he doesn’t want to return. Ever again.

He scratches his naked torso, feeling a shiver run through him from the cold seeping into his bones. Weather is always miserable around the season, which, Erik will admit, likely suits his overall mood. He supposes it’s more fitting his occupation. In that way, he is merely living up to expectations.

Taking another suck from his cigarette, Erik flicks the stub into the empty flower pot and heads back inside. He lets his eyes briefly dance over the darkened room, wrinkling his nose. Maybe he really should follow the advice he was given and make an effort to make this place a little more personalized. He bought the furniture from the previous tenant in its entirety, only ever threw out the mattress and rearranged some of the pieces because the tenant had no sense of using space whatsoever.

When he rented this place, Erik didn’t much care. His mind was elsewhere entirely, but the apartment looks perhaps even more desolate that the street below his small-albeit-slightly-bigger balcony. However, having spent more time here now, looking at it right at this moment, it has Erik consider a personal touch, if only for the briefest of moments, as this is something Erik never really did and doesn’t really have any intention to start with now.

Most people would buy some flower-patterned pillows, maybe paint at least some of the walls in a brighter color, or hang up a few picture frames, none of which are even up for consideration for Erik. Flower-patterned pillows make him think of Düsseldorf, and he can’t go back there, not even inside his mind. Bright colors tend to make him antsy if he looks at them for too long, reminding him far too much of the darkness residing with him. And picture frames, photographs? Completely out of question.

And so, naked walls it is.

The movement of his wristwatch’s second hands pulls Erik out of his musings. He furrows his eyebrows as he checks the time. Staring at his impersonal apartment took Erik longer than intended. He grabs the wrinkly shirt he never bothers to iron for the occasion to pull over his head before shrugging into his worn, brown leather jacket. He slips into his shoes, ties the laces, and stretches himself once to ease the remains of the chill out of his bones. With keys in hand, Erik flies out the door and sinks into the gray mass awaiting him below.

Of course it rains by the time he makes his way outside.

Of course.

Erik mutters silent curses under his breath as he pulls the collar of his jacket up higher, pondering why he never bought a new umbrella after the last one had a small accident late at night a few months back. Though realization hits Erik with about as much force as the water being pushed out of the puddles as taxis speed past them.

The reason is that Erik doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to remember.

And that is also why his walls are still naked.

It is the reason why nothing changed in his New York apartment ever since he moved in, safe for the arrangement of the furniture.

It is the reason why the mattress is the only thing new in his apartment.

And so, Erik has to walk on without an umbrella, hoping he won’t be completely drenched by the time he reaches the studio. It’s just the last thing he needs on a mediocre morning like this that leaves him yearning for Paris, for his apartment, well aware that he left that all the same way he left his undead plant behind.

When the building comes into sight, Erik finds his hopes most certainly failed, which does not come to him as a surprise, it is the season after all, and hope does not seem to fit him, no matter what certain other people may say. Erik grimaces as he can feel the rain finally seeping its way past the layers of leather onto naked skin, making him wince. He pushes inside, then, leaving gray and rain behind him to deal with later.

Once inside, Erik shrugs out of his soaked jacket and puts it on the hangers he contributed, twirls and swirls of metal, none of which look the same. They made their way all across the Atlantic to here, upon one man’s insistence, who argued, or rather insisted, that throwing away art is “very counterproductive” to their overall cause. The thought never ceases to entertain Erik, since he didn’t believe in a shared cause all the way to New York until it hit him that, yes, he is part of something bigger, a shared cause, whether he wants to or not at times.

Though Erik is still left wondering, more than once, just what that cause may be. Paris took his sense of direction away, which had been sharp as a knife’s edge ever since he left everything behind a metal fence he never wants to cross again in a lifetime. Erik never lacked a sense of purpose for most of his life, but ever since he moved to Paris, almost ran there, cause and purpose became such abstract notions that he finds it hard to believe at times that he used to know so exactly what both meant for him. The cause only ever gained some ominous kind of shape when he walked into the studio for the first time – and found his way there again every day since, not just in Paris but now also here in New York.

He found this most curious group of people back in Paris, or more accurately, the group found him. It was at an exhibition where Erik featured one of his latest sculptures. Needless to mention people were full of praise for his piece of art, which made it hard for Erik not to laugh during the event. The statue was shit, something thrown together, bent out of shape, punched out of it again, to vaguely resemble something avant-garde.

Because once it’s abstract enough, avant-garde enough, no one asks questions anymore, it seems. Then you can get away with almost anything.

Erik accounts part of the lack of critique of that statue to his reputation as a kind of prodigy in the field, a man who never received formal training in the arts and yet crafts metal as though it was natural to him. Which it is, but that is something people either purposely forget about him, which is entirely beside the point of his art, or just begrudgingly accept because of his undeniable talent, which may be only minimally better.

Back at that exhibition in Paris, there was only one person who voiced his disappointment in Erik’s latest creation, a dashing young man with dark hair and arguably the bluest eyes Erik ever saw in his entire life. He was all quick smiles and easy laughs, the kind of man to charm his way in and out of every conversation he either wished to take part in or leave because he found it uninspiring, Erik could tell right off the bat. And that man always had a comment on the tip of his tongue, he could tell that, too. It was he who invited Erik to join their “little potpourri of similarly minded yet out of mind artists,” arguing that Erik would make a “wonderful” addition to it.

Erik politely told the man no, because he worked on his own, would stay on his own till last, Erik was sure, but the man insisted that Erik at least visited the studio just once to see for himself before giving a definite answer.

“You can’t properly judge something without having seen it. I also had to see that statue in the flesh without any flesh in order to be certain that it was only thrown together for the occasion and thus most certainly is below your acutely high standards.”

Erik was shocked at first, then mildly offended. Just because he called it crap didn’t mean anyone else should or had any right to it. Though the easy smiles and the occasional pat on his back soon made him forget his irritation and instead find a strange solace in at least one person seeing that this statue was below Erik’s high standard.

When the young man kept going on about his favorite pieces of Erik’s collection, anger completely deflated and something rather curious set in the pit of his stomach as he sipped his champagne next to the blue-eyed man who seemingly couldn’t be stopped from complimenting Erik on his craft. Though, perhaps to his even greater shock, that man most accurately identified what the statues meant, what Erik had in mind when he made them, even for those that didn’t have a title indicating what exact direction they were heading, what horrors they were critiquing by twisting knots into barbwire and mimicking tooth fillings made of gold, twisting into a loud metal shriek saying “never again.”

By the end of the evening, Erik had been thoroughly introduced to every member of the Parisian Potpourri, eased into conversations he was no longer accustomed to having, and found himself listening intently to the blue-eyed man’s little game of guessing what the art critiques at the event were thinking. He did so based on the way they looked at the painting and sculptures, or so he said. Though he mostly only did it to entertain the remaining members of the Potpourri, as he continued aping those critics in their pompous way of seeing themselves as the only ones able to see, consume, and understand the art.

“If I ever end up making art only just for the critics, that you must promise me, my friends, just go ahead and shoot me point blank.”

Erik enjoyed the evening more than he thought he would, more than he grew used to ever since he moved to Paris to lose all direction. He remained fairly certain that it was no more than a pleasant evening, though, and that he would move on from it the way he always did, never looking back.

Yet, when he left his small flat in Paris the next morning, it seemed oddly familiar, oddly needed, to head to the studio he’d never been to in his entire life. And for the first time in a long time, he found himself looking forward.

Most of those people came and went over time, befitting the lives of artists, or at the very least, living up to a certain stereotype. The Parisian Potpourri was under constant change, people flying in and out, some joining, others leaving, some coming back. But that was the entire purpose of the studio, to give a room for creativity to unfold without dictating boundaries or setting up rules – and keep low the costs, since such a workshop, in Paris no less, would have been nearly unaffordable for most of them, if not as a shared effort to maintain the studio.

The idea remained part of Erik’s time in Paris until he bid adieu to his apartment above the food market, left to wonder what would become of his potted plant now that someone else would take care of it, or rather, not take care of it because he never watered it or gave it manure to thrive.

In fact, it carried on beyond that day, because the man carrying it with every ounce of himself took the idea of the studio all the way with him to New York, only to open up a new workshop where a potpourri of new people soon flew in and out, as artists do, leaving only three constants within: Erik, the hangers, and…

“Charles! I told you to leave that statue alone. It’s not finished!”

Sometimes Erik wonders how that man is even an actual person. Because he can say with utter surety that he never met anyone like Charles Francis Xavier in his entire life. That man is charismatic to the point that it is near painful. He is likely more intelligent than 99% of world’s population, able to recite most of The Once and Future King from the top of his head even when roused from deep slumber. He is young, agile and lithe, and yet, seems to fancy himself wearing cardigans any gray-haired professor at college would want to call his own, only to walk around in just jeans, no shirt and no shoes whenever he sees fit, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Charles always seems to know what to say and what not to say, and sometimes he says just what is wrong to say on the occasion because it pleases him.

And that man convinced me to come all the way to New York. Damn.

“You know the allure of covering the object to be adored, Erik! That is the same reason why most people find so much thrill in the act of undressing and not just in the acts that succeed it,” Charles calls out, hands folded in his back, circling around the covered statue like a lion approaching its prey.

“Hands off, I told you often enough,” Erik warns him, though he knows his voice lacks the fight he used to put into it back in Paris. These days, it’s just mild annoyance with Charles’s apparent inability, or rather refusal, to work on some of his antics which tend to drive Erik near mad.

“My, my, aren’t we in a good mood today?” Charles snorts, flashing one of his easy smiles. Always the easy smiles, no matter the occasion, no matter the season, no matter the rain or the bad mood people have around him.

“You know me, Charles, I am always in that kind of mood.”

“It’s the rain, I suppose,” Charles muses, stepping away from Erik’s work to glance out the window.

And that is the other thing with Charles Xavier that makes him the most curious person Erik ever met. The shifts. Erik lacks a better term for it. He reckons a poet in their group may finally come up with a more elaborate and artistic way of expressing it, but up until now, no artist of the word found their way into the studio.

What he noticed over his time together with this most curious man is that Charles can be bubbly and laughing one second but be completely lost the very next. He can be so close to Erik that there is no more than an inch between them and suddenly, he is a thousand miles away. One moment Charles is elaborating on the merits of the notion of l’art pour l’art, the next, he fades away and leaves nothing but a blank expression on his face behind, before going on about whatever it is that seemingly manifested itself inside his head, only for him to know.

And it is this man Erik followed all the way to New York, away from his small balcony with the curious plant and his morning café with the dash of lait.

Really, damn.

“You know, I like the rain as a motif, but I can’t say I enjoy painting while it rains outside,” Charles ponders, wrinkling his nose as his eyes remain fixed on the scratched, dirty window where veins of water run down it as rain keeps pouring over the glass, pulsing to the beat of a colorless heart.

“How so?” Erik asks.

His fellow artist shrugs. “People are not in a good mood when it rains. Look at yourself.”

“Well, what is there to like about the rain, you tell me? Other than its necessity for wildlife and nature? People are in a terrible mood, as you say. Clothes get drenched, you have to dodge taxis because they will take any pothole there is to leave you even more drenched, and everything is just dark and miserable.”

“But then there is petrichor,” Charles sighs, grinning faintly.

Erik curls his lips into a frown. “Petrichor?”

“The smell of damp earth just after the rain. The smell of a new beginning.” He smiles, but then shifts, turns around abruptly and walks back over to the canvas he put up before Erik even walked into the studio.

Sometimes Erik wonders whether Charles actually moved into the studio without anyone’s realization months ago, but then he remembers the taste of bourbon and the staccato of chess pieces moving over at Charles’s apartment just a few blocks from his own. No, Charles doesn’t live in the studio, though perhaps he really rather would. Erik finds it hard to tell at times.

While his apartment is as impersonal as it can get, Charles spread all of himself in his home, bought entirely new furniture upon his arrival in New York. Though he tends to purchase secondhand since he enjoys “the echo” used objects leave behind when they don’t come straight from the factory. There are some of his small paintings hung up on the walls, a “shameless self-promotion,” as Charles calls it.

He made himself at home in New York, simple as that. And whenever Erik winds up on his doorsteps for a round of late night chess and bourbon, Erik finds it hard to picture Charles anywhere else but in this apartment. There is a way to how Charles navigates through his home, as though he knew ever crevice, every bump in the floor by heart, moving with a kind of self-assurance, a kind of grace that seems particular to only just this man. And sitting in his worn leather armchair, rolled up in one of his cardigans, Erik is led to believe that Charles would rather never leave that place in a lifetime, looking far too cozy, far too comfortable, far too content with the world to ever cross the threshold leading to worlds of gray, taxis, and smog.

At the same time, Charles is normally the first one to come to the studio – and the last one to leave. Erik caught the other man a number of times snoring on makeshift beds made of packs of clay and cloth some of the other artists tend to put on the floors for when they toss color everywhere for abstract paintings. In that way, Charles is always the first person to greet Erik in the morning, and the last to bid him good night, which, Erik will admit, if only just to himself, he finds oddly calming. Yet, it leaves Erik wondering how it comes that Charles seemingly loves being in the apartment, looking so cozy, so at home there, while at the same time seemingly being unable at other times to leave the studio, giving any impression that he lives there, too.

Erik finds himself back in the reality of the studio when his eyes catch movement to his right as Charles picks up the palette with his left hand and dabs the next best brush he can find into the acrylic paint he already applied and started to mix well before Erik arrived.

“One of your commissions or something for yourself?” Erik asks as Charles brings down the brush on the canvas for the first time.

While Erik himself wouldn’t know how to paint even if his life depended on it, he found himself easily fascinated by the way Charles moves the brush across the canvas, how worlds start to grow under the movement of this sometimes impossible man. Because there is a distinct way with which Charles leans into every stroke as though it was a dance to a melody only he can hear inside his head. It is a most intimate kind of dance that leaves Erik questioning at times where the artist ends, the brush begins, and where exactly paint morphs into art.

“Oh, this one is merely to indulge myself, though perhaps I will sell it, if someone is willing to purchase it once it is done. I have a feeling it could turn out really good… despite the really not good mood around here,” Charles says, yet again all easy smiles as he continues his small dance with the brush and the paint.

As always.

Charles became known in the scene as The Clairvoyant, because he has an innate ability to create paintings his commissioners want, crave, in fact. Erik read some of the articles talking about this “art prodigy of the century” after he met him back at the exhibition in Paris. While they were written in different languages, they all shared in one meaning, because they all spoke of a man who can deliver every style from a Renaissance-like paintings all the way to the abstract, leaving even the toughest critics wondering just how this painter manages to create the art his commissioners want to see – and seemingly never failing at the task, not once.

After his research back in his apartment in Paris, Erik was sure that the artist could never live up to the title he was given by art magazines and columns in the back of newspapers. However, Erik had to revise that opinion rather soon – because he became witness and since can confirm that Charles possesses a talent unmatched.

Erik was still getting accustomed to the noise of the studio in Paris when he found out the truth, to people’s chattering and talking about topics he didn’t want to hear about as he struggled his way through the next sculpture bound to leave him unimpressed with his own creation.

An old lady came into the Parisian studio one day, which set forth the process of realization in Charles’s particular ability for Erik. Almost coincidentally, it rained that day, too. She wore her best coat, though it was at least a century old. The gray hair in a tight knot, but with a warm kind of smile withstanding even the nasty weather outside. Erik could tell from her accent that she was from Eastern Europe.

She wanted a painting from Charles, having read about him in the newspapers. A small one, she added shyly, since she couldn’t afford a large canvas by any means. Charles took her aside, charmed her into an easy conversation. Erik grew almost weary at the sight because it left him with the feeling that Charles went in a similar way about him to make him join the studio. By the time the old woman, Alyena, left, Charles was almost instantly up by his easel to set to work.

It was those days Erik was sure Charles didn’t see the inside of his apartment at all. It left him almost worried for the young man because Charles seemed to work without catching a break for more than a couple of minutes before working on the next stroke. Erik could tell that this painting was a matter of heart to Charles because he wouldn’t let anyone in on the process. He locked himself up the way Erik tends to do when he creates, and instructed everyone to leave the small side room alone until he was finished and “ready to return to the world.”

Some days later, Charles welcomed Alyena back to the studio, all the more cheerful when he saw her come in, touched her shoulder for comfort, complimenting her on her lovely coat over and over again as he led her to where he had set up for the reveal. The old woman was visibly nervous, but Charles knew what to say to ease her, the way he always knows. And this time, he said nothing wrong on purpose.

The canvas wrapped with linen certainly did have a particular kind of allure, too, Erik will have to give Charles that much, though the effect only ever set in once everyone got a glimpse at what was underneath.

Charles revealed a most realistic painting of a young, dark-haired girl with ribbons braided into her hair, spinning round and round in sheer joy while holding on to another girl with lighter hair in a tight braid with the same ribbons sitting on top of her head like a crown. And at that sight, Alyena simply started to weep. Erik never saw such a reaction from a commissioner, even less so when the old woman pulled Charles into a fierce hug, asking over and over how he knew, how he could possibly know what Justina looked like as a girl. How he knew that Alyena longed for an image of her childhood friend when she long since forgot the features of Justina’s face.

“But you see her now, don’t you?” was all Charles offered, patting her back soothingly.

“I do, but I don’t know how.”

“And that is the artist’s magic.”

It didn’t surprise Erik that Charles had chosen a way larger canvas than the one the woman had paid for. Neither did it that Charles never made mention of it. The only thing that kept surprising him was the woman’s words to Erik when Charles disappeared for a moment to wrap the canvas for her to take back home. She recounted to him still teary-eyed how Justina was her childhood friend and how they danced at the wedding of one of Justina’s cousins – one last time. The following day, Alyena’s family left, or rather fled from a war about to come, only to learn, years later, that Justina died only a day after they last danced, very likely still with the ribbons in her hair.

“I never had a photograph of her, you see. And my memory is fading faster than me. I always wanted to remember her, though. Because who else will? I never dared to think I’d see her again, but now I do. Right there. She looks just like the last time I saw her. Just like it. It’s like the photograph I never had of her – and so much more.”

That was when Erik understood what people meant when they called Charles Xavier a mindreader, The Clairvoyant of the scene, and it was also the day he accepted that as the only appropriate title for Charles’s way of making art. Because Charles knows what to paint even without the commissioner telling him what exactly he or she is looking for. He just knows somehow, and he knows how to ban it on canvas.

Sometimes Erik finds it a pity, however, because he sees Charles struggle at times, many times in fact, with a painting for a commissioner The Clairvoyant only very silently admits is “not of the kindest nature” or “of a very limited creative mind.” Ever since Erik saw Charles reveal Justina to the old woman, he feels any urge to take Charles’s brushes away when he paints yet another image of a tycoon looking for a pompous self-portrait, putting him in the best light when he likely does nothing but shady business. Because what is Charles, a thoroughbred artist, doing, wasting his precious time and outstanding talent on those tycoons when he could create so many more impossible memories, could paint many more Justinas, making those memories real and last for many more generations to come and adore?

It is those days that Charles shifts away nearly at all times, working late hours, seemingly just to get over with those commissions, to get them out of the studio like trash that needs taking out before it starts to stink. At the same time, Charles seemingly doesn’t find it in himself to refuse a commission, no matter how “unstimulating” he tends to find them – and the commissioners in particular. Charles is seemingly too busy pleasing everyone to ever truly learn to say no.

Erik, by contrast, learned to say no very early on in his life, with absolution in his voice. Right along with “never again.” He doesn’t take commissions. He never creates statues for a certain theme or a particular event. People can purchase his work, but Erik decides who gets them, and he alone settles the price. Some people are irritated by his insistence on it, but Erik won’t have it any other way.

He doesn’t trust anyone with his art other than himself.

He doesn’t trust anyone other than himself, period.

“Oh, by the way?” Charles hums. Erik turns his head, blinking. “Hm?”

“It appears we will be alone for a few weeks,” the dark-haired man informs him, his eyes never leaving the canvas as he continues the easy-going conversation on a rainy day in New York.

“How so?”

“The others are going to this conference of sorts in Milan after all.”

“Thankfully I am keeping out of that,” Erik snorts. “Artists parading themselves and their views on the art is about as interesting as watching paint dry.”

“There is actually something quite stimulating about watching paint dry.”

“Nothing that I can see.”

“I can always show you, Erik.” He smiles. As always.

“I am a sculptor, not a painter.”

“I am a painter and yet I love watching you prep up the metal pieces for your installments,” Charles argues, and Erik knows that to be truth, as often as he tends to usher Charles out of his workshop. “Art enjoys its lack of limitations, does it not?”

“How comes you are not there with them? I bet you’d love to gush about the state of the art while having some Italian vintage,” Erik snorts, the image of their first meeting in the exhibition back in Paris still fresh on his mind.

“Oh no, most of those people are not at all stimulating. Then I rather watch paint dry, or talk to you.”

Erik grimaces at that. “Talking to me is as stimulating to you as is watching paint dry?”

“I love watching paint dry and I love talking to you, so yes.” He shrugs.

“You know, it is these moments that make me question why I ever befriended you.”

Charles chuckles, momentarily stopping his dance. “I know I am irresistible.”

Erik scoffs, though he supposes there is more truth to it than there should be. Because there is something very irresistible to Charles’s person. Erik can see it with nearly any person Charles interacts with, himself included. There is something about him that drives people into his orbit. Like bees attracted to a colorful flower, promising nectar.

There is something intoxicating to Charles’s enthusiasm not just for his own work but that of everyone else. While he will express his views on some Pollocks – which he finds bollocks, all the more enjoying that poor rhyme – and artists whose work he finds “empty” and “devoid of the essential of the art, its meaning or lack thereof,” Charles tends to find something good in almost anything.

He always has hope.

And that is irresistible, something that may or may not have made the decision easier for Erik to leave his balcony and the croissants behind for a shabby apartment in the middle of New York where coffee never tastes quite like it did back in Paris and where his impersonal apartment leaves him frozen in time more often than it should.

“You know, your silence tells me that you tend to agree, which I take as a compliment, Erik.”

“I don’t honor your words with a reply, that’s a big difference.”

“Ah, those talks will certainly take me through the desolation of the empty studio until the others return in a couple of weeks. I thank God that at least you stay by my side, my friend.”

“Someone has to, it appears,” Erik sighs. He shakes his head with a grin before walking into the separate room of the workshop where he can work on iron, tin, gold, and steel without disturbing the finer artists in their daily routines.

“I shall terribly miss you, Erik!” Charles calls out as Erik rolls back the big metal door to slip inside.

“You know where to find me.”

“I always do!”

“And no peeking!”

“I would never! I will be patiently waiting for you once you decide to join me again, my friend. Until then, au revoir.”

As Erik rolls the door back shut, he can hear Charles hum the chanson J’attendrai by Rina Ketty, which has Erik snort while at the same time miss Paris just a little bit less. Charles has a pleasant singing voice and brings him right back to his balcony with the undead plant and the promise of a new beginning shining brightly behind the steel of the Eiffel Tower, with no more than the promise that he will wait.

○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○

“Check, my friend.”

Erik leans back on his arms as he looks at the checkerboard another time, pondering his next steps. Chess grew to be one of his greatest self-indulgences because it is within this game that he feels more direction than he does outside the doors of the studio or within the walls of his impersonal apartment. And thankfully, he found a match in Charles who is always eager for a game, no matter what time of the day.

“I still wonder why you kept that thing,” Erik ponders aloud. “I mean, there is fancier ways to play the king’s game, I’m sure you are aware.”

“But we are in a studio where there is dust and paint and clay flying around on a daily basis. Why would I waste good, polished wood on something I may very well get paint on? This is about the game itself. And thankfully, it would stay the same even if we played it with a bunch of rocks and squares drawn on the ground,” Charles argues. “And anyway, I think the checkerboard has a certain charm to it. I found it abandoned in the back of my drawer when I moved into my apartment in Paris. It reminds me of the good old days.”

“Sometimes, you have to leave those things behind,” Erik mutters.

“And sometimes, you have to keep things to keep alive their memory.”

Erik moves his rook with a frown, making sure to keep his eyes set on the small chessboard instead of Charles’s piercing blue eyes, fearing they may catch just those details Erik is intent on keeping out of everyone’s view. He enjoys playing chess with Charles, did ever since he realized the man was a match to him – and was eager to play whenever both took a break from the art and didn’t yet crave the bitter taste of nicotine to die on their tongues.

What he doesn’t enjoy about it is that very often, Charles talks about things fresh on his mind, things Erik wants to leave abandoned, far away from himself. It makes Erik feel like being caught, and he doesn’t want to be caught, can’t stand the thought of being trapped, the memories of rain and fences too fresh on his mind, no matter how many years passed since then. Because that would lead to admissions about himself, about what he thinks, what he looks like inside, and those admissions are reserved for his art and his art alone. Erik can let them all out there, he can all hide them there, in plain sight. But there is no hiding in plain sight when confronted with Charles Xavier. And sometimes, Erik isn’t sure whether he likes that.

“I really hope they will return from Italy, you know?” Charles contemplates, one hand under his chin, curling his lips into a frown.

Erik wrinkles his nose. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“Temptation is strong in that city. A great artistic scene and the Italian sun… Italian food… Italian wine… I can see the appeal… and then of course… the intimacies and inconveniences coming along with it.”

“What now?”

Charles chuckles softly. “You do not believe that any of them will remain celibate throughout the trip to Italy, do you? They all shake it up already here in New York.”

“All of them?” Erik makes a face. “I knew about Emmet and Sally, but…”

“All of them. They just switch around a lot. Emmet and Sally are the only ones who seemingly want to commit to a relationship, even though they both have since explored the possibilities of the number three, if you understand.”

“You know, Charles, there are those things I am not eager to know, and yet, you are the one forcing me to keep them in mind from now on,” Erik huffs, moving his pawn.

Charles removes one of Erik’s pawns. “My sincerest apologies.”

Though both know Charles is by no means sorry. For that, his grin is far too wicked.

“So now you think they will form a community in Italy and just shake it up all day?” Erik questions, which has Charles shrug. “I wouldn’t put it past them, let’s leave it at that.”

“And you didn’t join them? Now I am all the more surprised,” Erik huffs.

While Erik tries his best to keep out of the private affairs of others, he didn’t miss Charles’s seemingly innate ability to charm, sometimes smoothly, sometimes with the grace of a klutz, talking about “groovy mutations” such as brown hair for some reason. Erik can’t tell whether Charles was in a steady relationship ever since he got to know him, though he dares to doubt it since Erik tends to wind up at Charles’s apartment more nights than maybe he should. And he never saw someone there with him, not in Paris, not in New York. There never were strewn around clothes forgotten or someone hiding in the bathroom when Erik made his way inside with the bottle of bourbon. There was always only Charles.

What exactly Charles may be looking for in a relationship? It is a mystery to Erik, too, though he makes sure not to put any effort into learning the truth. After all, that is Charles’s business. It is mere curiosity, Erik tends to think, because a small part of him would like to know what someone as curious as Charles Xavier may seek in a partner. However, despite his way of making people join his orbit, Charles seemingly mastered the skill to keep himself behind a thin layer of fog, leaving Erik always wondering but never quite knowing.

“Oh, you wound me, my friend!” Charles exclaims dramatically, clutching at his shirt. “I am not a man for the quick passions and meaningless couplings. My heart could not take it. I am far too committed to everything I do… and everyone I do.”

“My sincerest apologies.”

Charles smirks at him before looking back at the checkerboard.

“Well, if all of them decide to stay in Italy to follow all aspects of their various passions, we may have to close down the studio,” Erik continues, removing one of Charles’s pawns.

“I would never let that happen, believe me that, my friend,” Charles argues, a kind of sincerity in his voice that has Erik look at him with a grimace. “How would you prevent that anyway? We all share the rent.”

The dark-haired man shrugs. “I have my ways. For that, it is too important for me to maintain the studio. It is the one way creativity can thrive, for me at least.”

“Well, I suppose some may eventually wind up being sated with the gelato and pizza… and the needs of the flesh,” Erik offers, pushing the immediate thought away of when was the last time he satisfied such a need, well aware of the answer, and even more acutely aware of how he doesn’t want to think about it, wants it gone as far as possible, much further than Paris could ever be.

“One can hope,” Charles sighs heavily.

“You have enough of that anyway,” Erik scoffs, far too much to his liking at times, but he grew accustomed to it like he grew used to Charles ghosting through his workshop when he is not supposed to.

“For the both of us most certainly,” Charles laughs, easily, as always. “But you know what?”

“I bet you are about to tell me.”

“I would consider manslaughter for a true French croissant right now. I don’t know what they do with the pastry, but it’s miles away from what we are served here.”

Erik snorts at that. “Tell me about it.”

And just like that, Charles is right up close with him when not long ago, he was a thousand miles away. Those shifts, they are maddening to Erik. And yet, he also grew used to them, no matter how much they irritate him at times. They are constants in his life, too, and oddly so, they create a kind of direction, a drive forward, to the man shifting away.

“I suppose the French put more love into their food. For them, it is more than a way to satisfy a bodily need. It’s a way of life, really. And a very tasty one,” Charles ponders.

“I can only agree to that,” Erik says, moving his knight.

“The manslaughter or the croissant?”

“Maybe both?”

“Ah,” Charles laughs, always easy, something between incredibly close and far, far away. Erik looks past the painter over to the canvas where the acrylic paint is still drying. “I see you made good progress today.”

Charles looks over his shoulder before flashing Erik the brightest of smiles, reaching all the way up to his eyes. “It went rather quickly, yes. I was surprised myself. And how was it for you?”

“Same as old.” He shrugs.

Charles is one of the few people who know a bit more about Erik’s ongoing struggle with creating statues. Erik wouldn’t want him to know, but Charles noticed his shit work before, which was the reason why hiding seemed rather ridiculous by the end of the day. While Charles didn’t press for details and Erik wasn’t willing to give them either, Charles understood that Erik struggles to finish his statues as of late, which makes it all the more irritating to present them at exhibitions, receiving praise for what he knows to be incomplete without a purpose other than not being able to add the final touch.

Thankfully, Charles was graceful about it since the day they exchanged muttered words of understanding, never making mention of it in front of anyone else, not even alluding to Erik’s struggles with his own art. It isn’t in Charles’s nature, it seems, to purposely embarrass someone or point out the errors of their ways, unless they are born out of malice or ill spirit. He is too kind for that, and too kind to say no.

“Oh well, the worst you can do is put yourself under undue pressure. Art needs room to breathe and grow,” Charles points out to him, his tone so soothing and comforting that Erik feels both the imminent urge to hold it close and let it warm his heart and push it as far away as he can because he knows he needs the pressure, the edge. It got the job done before. It has to again.

“Tell that my landlord,” Erik huffs.

Charles studies him, asking quietly, “Are you in financial trouble yet?”

“No, the last exhibitions paid really good money, so I don’t have to worry for another three months. After that, I may have to see to it that something gets done again. Though even then, I have my savings, so there is nothing to really worry about.”

Erik learned the very hard way that you always have to prepare for the worst. He doesn’t live in excess. He always make sure to have enough in his bank account to get out of the country fast, and start over somewhere else.

Perhaps that is part of the reason why his apartment looks that empty, too. So that he is quick enough to abandon it, if he has to, so that he leaves nothing of himself behind for others to find, for others to see, to miss.

Charles smiles at him, albeit a bit uncertainly. “Good, I wouldn’t want you to be in any trouble, my friend.”

“I always find my way around, Charles.”

“That I know.”

“Check.”

“Ugh!” Charles grunts, leaning his head back. “I shouldn’t have given you that opportunity with the knight.”

“No one asked you to.” Erik can feel a thin smile creeping up his lips.

“I know, but I also know you have me at checkmate in two more rounds, which is disappointing for me because I definitely had a chance there, had I not made the dare.”

Erik cocks an eyebrow at him. “Do you want me to go easier on you?”

“Oh, please, never!” Charles insists. “Now pass the sentence, my friend. Let’s not prolong the moment of truth for my poor queen.”

Erik puts the queen away in a swift motion. “Checkmate.”

Charles throws himself to the ground in theatrical fashion, an exasperated sigh falling from his lips as he settles down on the concrete floor. His long fingers play piano on his ribs as he continues huffing.

“Are you seriously pouting now?” Erik teases.

“I am thinking.”

“About how you lost?”

“No, about the Sistine Chapel,” Charles sighs, shifting many, many miles away, all the way to the Vatican, it appears.

Erik makes a face. “What? Why?”

“We don’t have any frescos on the ceiling, though we certainly could have, considering how many able artists we have here who could easily put something up there to personalize all that naked concrete. I mean, look at all that empty space up there!” Charles thinks aloud, his left hand leaving his torso to wave around in the air.

“Isn’t the workshop supposed to be a kind of empty canvas so you are not distracted from your own creations?” Erik questions. He never gave it any thought what the studio looked like. It suited his purposes, whichever those grew to be, and it created a constant, a sense of direction in Erik’s life, to somehow manage his daily routine even when he feels entirely lost in the world.

“But hardly anyone looks at the ceiling while they work, so that shouldn’t really be distracting for anyone,” Charles argues.

“Well, you do.”

“Which is why I keep thinking about it,” Charles sighs. “Maybe it would spark my creativity if there were frescos up there for when I glance up to see nothing but a vastness of gray concrete. And cobwebs… someone should dust up there some time. Ugh.”

“I suppose you can talk to the others about the possibilities of having a Sistine Studio,” Erik offers.

Charles grins at that. “I like the sound of that. Sistine Studio, quite catchy, that, even more so since we are no longer in Paris, which left us with the New York Potpourri, which is not at all as catchy as it was back in the day… Sistine Studio…”

“Do you already have an idea of what you would paint on there?”

“Very much so.”

“Ah.”

“Do you want me to elaborate in more detail or would you rather resume your work?” Charles questions, always easy, yet always mindful. Sometimes too mindful to Erik’s taste, because he finds himself scared of the care, the comfort.

He dared to sink into that again, and it left him without an umbrella even years later.

Erik exhales deeply as he puts the checkerboard away to lie down on his back next to the curious painter he followed from Paris all the way to New York. Charles smirks at him brightly before looking back up again. He stretches out one arm to point it at the areas he wants to see redone in color, likely seeing before his eyes already in painstaking detail how he would want to shape the world, even if the world is only the ceiling of a shabby studio they all pay too much rent for.

“Right there, we could have the scenery of Paris, with the Eiffel Tower, for matters of iconography. After all, it must be recognizable even by those who are not of the fine arts. And on the other end, New York, evidently.”

“Evidently,” Erik chuckles, easing into those moments even though he would rather be much more hesitant, more restrained, but following Charles’s long fingers as they point to the ceiling make him forget about his lack of direction, following, for once, only just those swift movements and the soothing sound of Charles’s voice.

“Perhaps the skyline in the background, with some taxis stuck in traffic and the city lying under a strangely comforting blanket of smog,” Charles continues, painting in thin air already. “It would be a voyage, you see. A tale of the past ebbing into new beginnings. A tale of hope. We could have images of every artist of our little potpourri up there. Oh, and there has to be water.”

Erik frowns at that. “Why?”

“I need some blue.” Charles shrugs, seemingly not feeling any urge to elaborate.

“Ah.”

“And then metal, of course, for you.”

“Much appreciated,” Erik snorts, amused, finding himself somewhat surprised at how much he likes the thought of a piece of himself up there despite the lack of himself in his own apartment. “And what of yourself would you put there other than your own image?”

Erik is irritated when there is no instant reply from Charles, as he would expect. Turning his head slightly to look at the young man beside him, he can see an uncertain frown forming on his red lips, his eyes fluttering.

“Petrichor?” Charles offers at last, only ever adding to Erik’s irritation. “How would you draw that – and even if you can, how is that quintessentially you?”

Until this morning, he didn’t even think about petrichor, which makes it hard for Erik to think that this impression of the senses, in any way, encompasses The Clairvoyant of the scene, the man who seems everything and nothing at the same time, who seems to be always at home and always at the studio, up close and incredibly far away, saying nothing and saying everything, the paradox in Erik’s life managing to give direction by not offering any direction at all.

“The artist is in a constant process of reimagining himself, so perhaps I cannot fix myself in my essence because I keep changing?” Charles puts forth, though his tone tells Erik loud and clear that there is a thinly veiled truth behind the smog swimming up before Charles’s brilliant blue eyes.

“Now we are getting philosophical,” he huffs, somewhat frustrated that he seemingly won’t come any closer to resolving those mysteries, clearing that fog, to see what lies underneath.

Erik sighs, trying to see the journey up there, all the more disappointed for what he knows to be no good reason, but Charles is shifting away again, and he doesn’t like it at all. Because that man knows more about him than most others, and yet, there are a great many things Erik doesn’t know about the constant paradox in his life. He doesn’t know when Charles comes and leaves the studio. He doesn’t know how he creates those paintings. He doesn’t know if Charles had or has a partner and what he would seek in a partner to begin with. And he shall be damned all over if Charles remains right about the allure of the covering, not knowing what is underneath.

“One thing I know for certain, though. There has to be a checkerboard somewhere. That much goes without a doubt.”

○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○

“So you will be leaving?” Charles asks, cleaning his brushes, creating swirls of color in the glass jar of turpentine solution.

“No chance for the rain to stop today,” Erik answers, rolling his shoulders. “And it doesn’t seem to me like any progress is in sight.”

“I am sorry.”

“It’s alright. Maybe tomorrow.”

“One can hope.” Charles smiles at him, not as easy this time, bearing much more meaning than Erik can take at times, because it tells him that, yes, Charles knows, yes, Charles understands, yes, Charles comforts. And he wants none of it while wanting all of it.

“And you?” Erik asks, kicking away invisible stones.

“I am just about to finish up. I just have to clean the brushes before I go. Emmet was raging mad at me when I forgot it last time, even though I will say in my defense that I dutifully replaced them all by the next day.”

“Emmet is… one of a kind.”

“We all are. I like that about us. Being like everyone else? Both impossible and even if it were, entirely boring,” Charles huffs. “Either way, I won’t keep you from heading home.”

Erik just keeps standing there silently. Whenever Charles is about to leave at the same time as him, he always waits, if only to break out of the cycles of his and Charles’s creation for once.

Charles smiles silently at him before continuing his routine of cleaning the brushes, having understood the message, no doubt. When the last brush is safely put away, Charles walks over to the basin to rinse his hands another time to get rid of the smell of turpentine. Once he is done, he mindlessly wipes his hands against his worn, slightly splattered shirt. Erik starts walking to the hangers, then, Charles following right behind.

The woolen cardigan Charles brought quickly covers the stains on his shirt, leaving him to look like a professor more than the eccentric artist Erik saw walk around the studios mere moments ago. Those shifts, they are maddening, but they are also constant, and in that way, a matter of getting used to, Erik reckons.

“Erik, before I forget it!” Charles suddenly calls out, whirling around.

Erik furrows his eyebrows. “What is it?”

Charles lifts his woolen coat off his favorite hanger, to reveal an umbrella underneath.

“Here,” he says, handing Erik the black and white object. “You seem to keep forgetting yours.”

“Oh… thanks,” Erik mutters, his mind making any effort to think of the reason why his old umbrella is gone and why he didn’t buy a new one since.

“It’s nothing,” Charles assures him, though it is not nothing for Erik, and that is about as maddening as Charles’s shifts. Because it should be nothing. It is, for all purposes, no more than a cheap umbrella his friend bought for him after having noticed that Erik kept coming without one in hand, all the while complaining about the rain. And yet, holding it in hand, it feels so much heavier, bearing on so much more meaning than it likely does.

“Alright, I believe it is time for us to head out, yes?” Charles continues as he slips into his woolen coat.

“Right,” Erik agrees, proceeding towards the door, his fingers unable to notice the metal of the knob as he twists it and opens the studio to an even darker shade of gray awaiting the two men outside, thunder rolling in the far distance.

“I wish you a nice day, despite the weather, my friend,” Charles tells him, smiling all easily once more, far too easily. “Let’s hope petrichor soon returns to us.”

“Bye.” Erik waves numbly as Charles crosses the threshold, or rather, jumps over it with the same grace with which he walks through his apartment. Charles’s own blue umbrella reminds Erik of one of those cheap monochromatic photos on canvas so popular in furniture stores where just a single object is left in color.

Erik watches Charles walk away with fast strides, hopping over puddles, making his way through the gray mass of people with the lightness of a feather in the wind. Once he approaches the streetlight, however, Charles, for some reason, closes his blue umbrella. He leans his head back and lets the rain drip on him, soaking his skin.

“Truly one of his kind, that one,” Erik mutters, shaking his head as he turns the key in the lock and starts to walk, now with the umbrella in black and white shielding him from the rain, leaving only the faintest doubt on his mind whether Charles knows he actually doesn't forget his umbrella but keeps staring at it late at night, abandoned in the corner, bent out of shape of memories he wants to leave behind about as much as he yearns for the smell of freshly baked baguette, his small balcony, and the plant that neither died nor ever truly seemed to live.

#charles x erik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #cherik #cherik au #fanfic #fanfiction #ficlet #beginnings of something #ramblings #musings #yadda #charles as a painter #erik as a sculptor #yadda yadda

39 notes · View notes

lmsdmd · 5 years ago

Text

Beer, schnapps, repeat..like good Germans!

San Sebastián to Dortmund, Germany

So, I have a motto on the days to travel ‘prepare to be hassled-then your are ready for the hassle’. So, we got to the San Sebastián airport at 6am for a 7am flight to Madrid, then to Düsseldorf, Germany, when we checked in we were told we would be bussed to Bilboa (an hour away) to fly to Madrid. Hassle number one! Compounded by the fact that I was very ‘car-sick’ with the rising sun and headlight reflections on left and right windows. Then a 5 hour lay-over and on to Düsseldorf, we arrived at 730pm and still needed to take a train to Dortmund-of course, there are two train stations in Dortmund-one at the airport and a big one in the city! We sky trammed to the one at the airport and our train was 10 minutes late. Christina (my friend, Doug’s wife) met us at the station and we rode about 20 minutes to the Anthony’s house-picking up a pizza on the way! Their twins were up to greet us and so adorable. We ate pizza and caught up on life! Doug is recently retired so we trained down to Cologne the following day! Great city! The cathedral in Cologne is believed to contain the remains of ‘the three wise men’. There is a shrine to them adjacent to the high altar with a reliquary containing the remains. Such a beautiful cathedral! We walked through the old part of town and I had a Wiener schnitzel-which made the trip to Germany so worth it! We trained back and Christina and the girls were home when we got there. The next day we went to the market, then to an arena where Christina ‘vaults’ on a horse. ( think gymnastics on a horse!) In the evening we walked next door to Christina’s parents for a beer! Her dad is the Mayor of their town and an avid cyclist. I can NOT drink with the Germans. Beers and schnapps and repeat! We stayed about an hour and walked home to cook chicken saltiboccia, rosemary potatoes and Greek salad! What a delicious dinner. We tried to get to bed earlier because we all had to catch trains today. The Anthony’s were going to Amsterdam to visit friends, then on to Daytona, Florida to visit Doug’s mother. We were going to London to spend a night before flying home. Well, we got to the Dortmund train station ok, but missed our train out of Düsseldorf by 3 minutes. So, we rerouted a bit but made it to Cologne and to Brussels, then hassle #2! We have trained quite a bit around Europe, but going in to London has security tighter than Hartsfield! We missed our train due to security-then had our tickets (for a much earlier train)questioned. Good thing train tickets are train tickets and we did not incur extra expense! However, I did need to explain the events of the day-to a train attendant, who really could not have cared less to have our tickets ‘renewed’! So, the Sunday evening train from Brussels to London is FULL of young adults and young families. Children are well travelled and comfortable keeping up with their own bags and backpacks. So, we made it to London! My youngest and I visited London in 2007. We met B1 and her family here when they were deployed to Germany! So, I studied ‘the tube’ map like crazy! I did not want to get lost in London and prove to my baby that I am chronically lost! Well, about 1/2 the lines are closed today AND half the Southern US is here for the Tampa Bay vs The panthers game! So we read hand written signs to get downtown. We were hurrying for ‘the Piccadilly line’ when Brion gets his backpack STUCK in the train door! So, we delayed our train and he looked hilarious stuck there! So...I hope you got a good laugh!🤗❤️

1 note · View note

diefalschemaryscott · 6 years ago

Text

“The only failure is never to try.”

Sunday, 9th September

I'm there – or better to say: I am here.

Currently I am sitting in my bed, my blanket from home over my legs, leaning against new and old pillows and looking outside my huge window on a sky of grey clouds and the top of a mosque. And just now as I started typing this, it started raining.

Yesterday was quite a long day. I had to get up at six, to be two hours early for my flight from Düsseldorf. Everything went smoothly except for the fact, that my flight was an hour delayed. I already began worrying a bit, because I had booked my check in for my accommodation for two p.m. and due to the delay I didn't land before one p.m. in Glasgow. Originally I had planned to look for Strathclyde students to welcome me at the airport, but I didn't see anyone with the described purple shirts and I figured, since I was over an hour late, they might not even be there any more. I looked around for the taxis myself and managed to find them (it really wasn't a complicated thing to do, even though I had two huge bags). Apparently in Glasgow you can line up for taxis and that way everyone gets their turn. I don't know whether that is a thing in Germany, too. Before yesterday I sat in a taxi like twice, so I really have no clue. But it was easier done than I would have expected.

The taxi driver brought me to my accommodation, and I managed to walk through the doors at two p.m. sharp. I don't live in the main building so a guy helped me bring my stuff over and showed me around the house. He also invited me to a welcome party that evening for people from the student hall.

When he had left I started unpacking and quickly realised, that I needed to get going if I wanted to go shopping before the party thing. Turns out having several watches and clocks that show different times is extremely confusing.

Just when I walked out I pressed a button thing on my door that I didn't know what it was good for. It turns out, that when you press that thing, you prohibit anyone from opening the door from outside. So, yeah, I was an hour in my new apartment, when I locked myself out.

Luckily that was not a problem. I walked over to the main building, and the guy that had shown me around earlier helped me fix my problem and was really nice about it. He said, that he didn't know that button had that function either.

I left for town right afterwards, in clear mission of buying a pillow!

Turns out, that most pillows are sold on moving day (who would have thought of that?), but I managed to find some nonetheless. I went grocery shopping as well, and I was so confused when I realised the cashier would not make me hurry up even though I took ages to pack up my stuff. She just smiled at me and waited until I was done before she told me the price I had to pay.

I got back pretty much just in time for the party. Before that I lay down on the bed and for a second I thought I might fall asleep, but I pulled myself together and got up anyway.

I was one of the earliest people at the get-together, but it quickly became full. I talked to a group of girls and we had a good time together. I swapped a lot of phone numbers that night. One after the other left after a while to go to bed and I actually also wanted to excuse myself, but I became more awake the longer I was there, so when someone asked whether I wanted to accompany them to a pub, I said “yes”.

I originally had planned to introduce myself as “Mary” (hence the name of this page), but in the moment, my real name just slipped my lips before I could stop myself. And, as I had predicted, people had trouble understanding me and pronouncing the name. Fun thing was though, that whenever I was introduced to a fellow German they noticed my germanness immediately when I said my name. I met people from Stuttgart, Münster and Köln but also quite a lot of British people.

I am extremely glad I decided to accompany them to the pub. We had arranged a meetup already beforehand for today, but going with them made me feel like I was really going to be able to do this.

I forgot why I am here – I tried to remember when I was in the plane, but honestly, I don't remember why I signed up for this, other than “Why not”. I am not the adventure type, but never mind. I am here now, for whatever reason, and I will enjoy myself.

I just need to be a little bit more confident.

And it sure would be nice if it stopped raining – but it is supposed to do so in the afternoon. Actually, I can already see quite a lot of blue sky from my window.

Until next time,

Mary.

*lyrics again by Passenger “Things You've Never Done”

#personal #glasgow #studentexchange #blogger #erasmus #honest

1 note · View note

germanfulbrighteta · 7 years ago

Text

End of the 2017/2018 Fulbright year - Wimbledon and home at last!

It’s over! My Fulbright year has officially come to an end. I cannot believe how many amazing people I met during the past 10 and a half months abroad, and how many places I was fortunate enough to have traveled to and to have experienced as well. It’s been an incredible ride, and though I’m sad it’s over, I’m already excited about and looking forward to whatever adventures may lie ahead.

Before leaving Europe for good, however, my Dad and I teamed up to squeeze in one more fun excursion in London, England. Below is my account of attending the first three days of the most famous tennis tournament in the world: Wimbledon!

The trip from Germany to England to meet my Dad began with - you guessed it - a delayed flight. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise, however, as France was playing Argentina in a thrilling World Cup game, and many of the people in the Düsseldorf airport had crowded around T.V. sets to watch. Even when in transit, Europeans apparently take the sport of soccer very seriously. (Though that wouldn’t compare to the England vs. Columbia game I would later bear witness to - more on that further down.)

I eventually arrived in England that Saturday evening, and as Wimbledon didn’t start until two days later, our first day together was simply spent sightseeing around London. We first checked out the London Science Museum (note to all future attendees: although interesting, it’s mostly a children's museum) before managing to complete my favorite walk in London. Here’s how it goes:

Start at Westminster, admire Westminster Abbey and Big Ben Walk up Downing Street Stop for lunch at The Old Shades Cross Trafalgar Square Finish by walking down to Buckingham Palace and potentially taking a selfie with the Queen

At last, Monday morning finally arrived, and my Dad and I embarked on the famous tennis pilgrimage to the lawns of Wimbledon at the All England Club. It’s something every tennis player, whether professional or amateur, hopes to see at least once, and we were both thrilled to walk around the prestigious grounds and hop from match to match, knowing that we would be surrounded by world-class tennis no matter where we looked. Excitement levels: off the charts.

We started by orienting ourselves with the Wimbledon complex. One of the first things you see when you walk in is Centre Court, the most famous tennis court in the world and where only the best matches are played. Nearby are the bigger courts of 1, 2, 3, 12, and 18 (where the world’s longest match ever, at just over 11 hours spanned over two days, was played in 2010), and finally, the myriad of shops and restaurants where you can spend your money on amazingly overpriced (but still pretty cool) merchandise and snacks. Basically, the main question facing any newcomers is simple: where on Earth do you begin?

We decided to check out the outer courts for a few hours before proceeding to Court 1, the second biggest stadium at Wimbledon. There, we saw Sloane Stephens, one of the top ranked American women, lose handily to Donna Vekic (ranked 55th in the world), as well as Milos Raonic and Serena Williams win their matches with no trouble. We also managed to secure the famous strawberries and cream dish, a classic staple of the Wimbledon experience, and see Caroline Wozniacki, the #2 female player in the world, on a practice court. It was an amazing day, and only had us hungry for more once we left nearly 9 hours later.

If I had to describe day two of our Wimbledon extravaganza, it would look something like this: Centre Court. That’s right, we actually had tickets all day for Centre Court at Wimbledon, and on schedule to play were Rafael Nadal (men’s world number one), Garbine Muguruza (Wimbledon defending champion), and Simona Halep (women’s world number one). I’ve posted pictures and videos of each match below if anyone is interested in seeing a behind-the-scenes Centre Court perspective. Otherwise, take my word for it: seeing that many top players spar on the greatest tennis court in the world is nothing short of a dream come true, and my Dad and I loved every minute of it.

That evening, England played Columbia in the World Cup round of 16. We went to a pub to get the full experience, standing among at least a hundred other people (many of whom, ironically, were Americans) to watch England come within minutes of winning the game, then be stunned by a last-minute goal from Columbia, and finally see the game be taken to a sudden-death penalty shootout. The tension in the pub was palpable, and it was an amazing experience being there when England scored the final goal and the whole pub basically erupted (video posted below!).

Our final day at Wimbledon involved a little strategy, as we arrived extra early to escape the somewhat voluminous crowds. Our reward was a court level view of three great matches (featuring Gael Monfils and Stan Wawrinka) on Court 3, where we spent the first 6 hours of the day. We also managed to see some of Marin Cilic’s match on Court 1 before rain caused a premature end to the day, and to our Wimbledon experience as well. Our luck with the great weather had finally run dry, so we bought a couple of small souvenirs, sent a postcard back home, and left the gates of Wimbledon for the last time.

We had one more day in London to spend, however, so the next morning we went to the British Library, home of, among other treasures, the Magna Carta and ancient Biblical texts. In between train delays and cancelations, we also managed to see the Harry Potter store at King’s Cross and visit the House of Parliament. We ended the day by watching a few Wimbledon matches at the local sport’s bar before turning in and flying home (really) early the next day. It was a great last day in Europe, and was a suitable ending to one of the most surreal and memorable years one could ask for.

Writing this last article back home, surrounded by my 2 dogs and 3 cats, I find it hard to believe that the last year really happened. It feels great to be back, but I know I’m going to miss the traveling and late-night Döner runs. Most of all, however, I’m going to miss the amazing people I met in Germany, as well as in the other countries I traveled to during my months teaching abroad. However, I’m also excited to see how the Fulbright program will continue to develop, and what kinds of stories future participants will return with. I’d highly encourage anyone who counts among their interests living abroad, traveling, and languages to apply - you can visit their website (https://us.fulbrightonline.org) or talk to your campus representative for more information.

With that, I hope you enjoy the pictures and videos I’ve posted below of London and Wimbledon! Thank you for reading this blog of my 2017-2018 Fulbright year in Germany - I hope you’ve had as much fun reading it as I have had writing it. Safe travels!

Das Ende

2 notes · View notes

agermanbetweenscots · 4 years ago

Text

Summer 2019

In June, my parents and me decided to fly to Vilnius to check out Vilnius (and the uni) and I think I speak for all of us if I say that the time spent there was wonderful. Vilnius is a lovely little big town – old cobblestones, nice people, a wonderful walking trail around the town. We had great coffees, rented some bikes and eScooters and cruised through the city. The people were so friendly, the sun was warm on our skin and wherever I turned my head, I thought I could be very happy here. Papa said that the women in Vilnius were among the most beautiful he had ever seen, whereas I just loved the vibe. At night we sat near the river, drank some alcohol and watched people dance Tango together. Wow. That river by the way won me over (it's splitting the town into old and new) and if you know me (which by now you hopefully do) you know I love cities with a river through it (Melbourne, Frankfurt).

On the second day, we rented bikes and cycled to the Uni. The uni was an old building in-midst of a quarter with old mansions (some looking recently renovated, some had seen better days). For a bit we just wandered along the building, trying to find a way in - classic breaking and entering until we just walked through the front door, ignored an old man that probably was not amused and just wandered down the hallways until we found the wing of the medical faculty. Technically, the uni was closed, but nevertheless they let us walk through the building and it didn’t look too bad, I remember the main building being quite new and white and colourful, while the lecture theatres were tall and wooden and old. Again, a vibe.

I could have lived (and studied) wonderfully in Vilnius.

But better things were to come.

Upon returning to Goslar, I applied to finish my last month of Pflegepraktikum - the plan was to work in Wernigerode in the Children's Hospital and so I applied, got accepted and drove to Wernigerode for 8AM. I stood outside the hospital, walked in, asked for the person responsible for me, got redirected to the main hospital and was therefore 30min late. My inner German, and outer German was freaking out. I hate being late on the first day and this was just my own stupidity. I should have just entered the Children's Hospital 15 minutes earlier, instead of standing around waiting for it to get closer to 8AM.

For an entire month, I therefore commuted 25 minutes in the morning (I had to get up at 4:30!!!) to get to a gynaecology and birthing ward that we would also have in Goslar. But i would have not wanted to miss it for the world. I loved the nurses and doctors and the entire hospital was s friendly to me. In the second week of me being there, we suddenly got way more interns that would have been necessary on this small ward.

In the worst days we were 2 student nurses, 2 interns, 1 student intern and 1 student nurse in her last days. How and why they decided to cram 6 people into a ward, where its patients do not need much help anyways - no one knows. But it was alright. I think at some point I literally cleaned the cupboard twice in a day but generally, it was really nice and good to see something else. I even got to see a birth, which was a really good experience. I also got to taste some Vitamin K. Gross. I do not recommend.

In July, several things happened at the same time.

1) My mum passed her palliative Care certificate (yay mum!)

2) I got my Kassel Medical School interview invitation

3) I had to graduate from Napier.

And because the July just wanted to know it, all of that happened on one weekend. So me and mum embarked on what would become the most Jetset Weekend in my life so far.

Mum and me drove to Hannover on the 3rd of July, so she could smash her exam and become qualified, before we flew to Scotland, slept at Motel One (where else?) and were ready for my graduation on the 4th of July. My graduation was around 2PM, so we ate at Wagamamas (where else?). I got a gown, posed for pictures and introduced my mum to Niamh's parents.

I love that graduation is such a big thing for Brits. In Germany, you get your certificate and that is that. I loved seeing everyone again, seeing the Italian's walking around with flower crowns (really wanna know what that tradition is about), loved the nervousness of me having to walk over stage in the highest high heels I have ever worn and loved that I was mentioned first because of my 1st class honours.

It just feels right to celebrate the end of four wonderful years. Edinburgh and Napier are so much a part of me, they gave me all my friends, my boyfriend, a home-town across the world, self-confidence, made me into a runner and made me grow up into a young woman and shaped me in ways I probably cannot really comprehend. I would not have wanted to miss graduation (even though I had to miss the graduation ball).

Graduation ended around 5PM and me and mum were already racing to the airport for a flight at around 7. Because we had to fly to Düsseldorf to sleep there a night to be taking train to Kassel for the 5th for the interview that (SPOILER) was gonna change my life.

So me and mum are racing to the airport, running along cobblestones in high heels, jumping into the 100 to make it to the airport in time. And we were slightly worried (Dad in Germany probably more than us) because not getting this flight meant not getting to Germany and that meant not getting to Kassel. I remember changing my heels in the bus and the jump suit in the airport toilet because we were running so fast. We had a nice little dinner in the Weatherspoons because ... dum dum dum ... the flight was delayed. So all the stress was for nothing. But probably also stopped me from getting very sentimental about leaving Edinburgh.

We arrived in Düsseldorf, and the taxi dropped us off at a really random hotel (my mum booked it) and tbh it looked liked the hotel in this new Netflix show 'Disappearance in the Hotel Cecil' so in short very murderous. We slept in the cellar, it was very hot and sticky and I remember the carpet as very disgusting. But we were only there to sleep, so did it really matter?

In the morning, I got dressed, spoke to Chris (to awaken my English speaking skills) and me and mum went to the station to get the train to Kassel.

0 notes

notprincehamlet · 8 years ago

Text

tecklenburg misadventures & meeting pia again: a post

August 13.

11 am. I come to the Düsseldorf train station to leave for Tecklenburg.

11:15 am. Turns out my train, of all trains, is five minutes late. Interesting.

12 am. Someone kicks me out of the seat because they booked it. After that I start realizing I will probably miss the second train because this one was late in the first place. Mild fear begins to settle in.

1 pm. The train arrives. I jump out and see that my other train has not left yet. I sprint down and up the stairs with my heavy-ass suitcase in two seconds. I make it to the train. Some guys are laughing at me. Then I see the info board. Turns out this train was also late. It doesn't leave the station for the next ten minutes. I begin to get the jokes about Deutsche Bahn.

2 pm. I arrive to Lengerich. Now I only need to catch the bus to Tecklenburg. I see two buses approaching but I'm not sure if any of them is mine. I have to check. By the time I finish checking, both of the buses have left. One of them was definitely mine.

2:30 pm. I find the bus schedule on the wall. Apparently, the next bus will only come in two hours because it's Sunday. I want to punch myself in the face. The station is eerily quiet. I sigh, sit down and start rereading Rebecca.

2:45 pm. A taxi drives by to the taxi parking. The driver and I exchange glances. I'm not sure if I should do this and spend the money on a taxi. But what if the bus doesn't come and this guy also leaves?

3 pm. My anxiety and I approach the driver. "Sprechen Sie Englisch?" I ask hopefully - hope is always the last to die, after all. "No". Hope dies in agony. "Können Sie mich nach Tecklenburg fahren?" He can. We drive.

3:15 pm. The hotel door is locked. This can't be happening. I start pushing every button I can find on the wall because I’m smart like that.

3:16 pm. A man parks his car nearby and comes to the door, carrying some boxes. I ask him if he knows how to enter, adding the shameful "Ich spreche aber fast kein Deutsch" at the end of my sentence. Turns out he works here.

3:20 pm. The key to my room is missing. I love adventures. The room, however, isn’t locked, so I can at least come inside and get ready for Rebecca. "Der Schlüssel kommt später," says the guy. Cue nervous laughter.

4 pm. I come down to ask if anyone has found the key. Nope. Someone, however, is gonna come in an hour, and that someone apparently has the key. I start googling mild German insults, just in case.

6 pm. I come down to leave for Rebecca and see the key hanging on the board behind the counter. The girl (she speaks English) hands it to me. "Sorry, I found it too late", the woman next to me says, also in English. She is beautiful. I'm gay and not angry anymore. She tells me to open the front door with the same key because it will be late when I return from the musical. She asks me if I would like to have breakfast tomorrow from 8 to 10. Maybe I would but I’m too gay to think about it right now. On that bright note I lock my door and leave.

***

I did manage to come earlier, which was nice after all the nightmares I'd had about being late to Rebecca (yeah, I guess being a bit late to Elisabeth in June took a toll on me). It was such a nice weather and I'm SO grateful for it, especially since it had been raining so hard the night before. Tbh I’d been kinda skeptical about the production at first becase it looked so different from the Stuttgart one and I thought the costumes looked ugly but my friends told me I’d definitely like it (especially if I didn’t rewatch the Stuttgart production - which I didn’t). AND SURPRISE, I LOVED IT. Let me just say I will never doubt open air productions again. Everything was so cleverly done imo and I loved the changes made to adapt to the demands of an open air stage and the costumes didn’t look so ugly in person :”) I would’ve loved it even if it hadn’t been Gay™ and that’s huge because Gayness was my main criteria for this show (i know.... i know)

We all know the main reason I came there for (Gay Icon Mrs Danvers aka Pia Douwes aka Actual Light of my Life etc etc) but I was really excited to see the rest of the cast. I was curious about Milica since I’d only heard like.. one song of hers. And I loved her (d u h I almost cried during Zeit in einer Flasche), though her Ich seemed a bit too mature for my liking. As for Jan Ammann, I still can’t believe I saw and heard him live, I love one man ;~~; and I don’t know him personally but I.... trust him. Also! He looked more like Laurence Olivier than usual, 10/10 would recommend 😍 I was very much looking forward to Roberta Valentini as well. I love Kerstin Ibald’s Beatrice with all my heart but Roberta was wonderful too, and I think I would’ve picked her Beatrice if I ever had to choose. I’m glad I don’t actually have to choose though C: I also really liked Thomas Hohler, which was a surpise since I’ve never given much thought to him. Guess I gotta check him out in Elisabeth or something.

(there was also this one guy in the ensemble whose face was dead serious the whole time he was dancing and it was h i l a r i o u s. also #mood. and he reminded me of Thomas from Downton Abbey)

Now, to the Love of my Life. Mrs Danvers was Extra Gay in this version, I would like to thank everyone involved in making the gayness happen ;~; the Gay Subtext™ was palpable and I loved every second of it. Pia was amazing and killed it in every song, and by it I mean “IT but also ME”. The stage was pretty big and I died a little every time Pia was upstairs or in Rebecca’s bedroom because I couldn’t see her properly then. Good thing I have a strategy for such cases; it’s called “press glasses as close to your eyes as you can and squint as hard as possible”. Now to (some of) the songs and general moments.

Sie ergibt sich nicht: gay, upstairs, the orchids are red, nice Die lieben Verwandten: ROBERTA AND HER PLAID TWEED LOOKS The scene after Bist du glücklich: the way Danvers asked Ich what she did with the remains of the statue made a Danvers-shaped hole in my heart (and I don’t even like Mrs Danvers l o l)

Danvers: *lurks at the back of the stage looking pensive* Me: *clutches chest* oh my god (was she realy somewhere on stage during Hilf mir durch die Nacht or did I imagine it? or was it during another song? I honestly can’t tell anymore)

Was ist nur los mit ihm: I just listened to it again and almost cried, I love Roberta so much and I loved her in that green dress Sie war gewohnt, geliebt zu werden: THIS IS MY FAVOURITE SONG FROM THIS MUSICAL NO JOKE and I loved the whole setup with Rebecca’s bedroom. Not sure what to think of the whole Favell on top of Danny thing but I had to try very hard to block every association with amateur porn from my mind because EWWWW. In other news: this song is still gay and I l o v e it. Rebecca: I REALLY ACTUALLY HONESTLY HEARD IT LIVE CAN YOU BELIEVE IT. ICONIC. Obviously, this song became 198776542x times more gay (I thought it wasn’t possible but here we are) because of that Rebecca shadow thing and Danvers putting the nightgown on her. I had vaguely heard about it and I’d heard it was controversial so I didn’t really know what to think at first. It’s hard to overestimate my undying belief in not having any physical representation of Rebecca at all, and I feel like this wasn’t really necessary, but on the other hand the production didn’t suffer one bit because of it. Plus the Rebecca/Danny shipper in me says YES PLEASE THAT WAS AMAZING. Yeah, I’m pretty biased here (BIased!!!!! get it????/?). Finale erster Akt: I got chills.

Then came the intermission and after an hour of sitting on a wooden bench my lower back was Not Happy.

Rebecca (Reprise): I felt like someone was cutting my heart out of my chest thanks to Pia, plus goosebumps all over Nur ein Schritt: I live for creepy!Pia tbh. And the rocket was real! Have I mentioned I love open air now? Mrs Danvers bin ich: Danvers looked so hurt, m*rder me right now :”) and I was looking forward to hearing Pia shout “Nein” but I got distracted right before it l m a o. Life is hard when you have the attention span of a goldfish. The court scene: I live for this kind of symbolism!!!!!!! The scene where they found out Rebecca was sick and it was like someone stabbed Mrs Danvers when she heard it.... that moment ended me. I thought that was IT. But I knew nothing yet. Ich war ihr nah: WOWZIES. I’m always a sucker for some suffering!Pia, especially when she’s alone on stage. Just. Wow. Her voice. Her acting. She really did THAT. Also...... gay. Jenseits der Nacht & Manderley in Flammen: I LOVED the way they handled the fire!!!! That was the thing I was looking forward to the most. Everything looked so good. Besides, the weather was really cooperating which only added to the atmosphere. My friend had told me I would die and I *was* dying, but then The Scream happened. THAT was when I truly died. The Scream & Rebecca taking Mrs Danvers with her: DID SATAN CREATE THIS? IS THIS A FANFIC OR?? I’M???? #DEAD #SHOOK #SHOOKETH Tbh I was about to crawl to the nearest cemetery, dig my own fucking grave and just lie there. Then again, that moment was absolutely unnecessary from the rational point of view but I enjoyed it SO much and I felt SO emotional that I don’t give a single shit. THAT WAS AMAZING.

***

After the show and multiple bows (I love these people) it was over. And when you leave, you have to walk up the stage and towards the entrance. May have screamed a little when I saw the set up close, may have taken a blurry selfie (or three). Anyways, I found the stagedoor, I found my friends, I managed to burn my finger on some vile stingy plant all within the scope of 30 minutes, and THEN She came out. And She was the sweetest. As always. I just. Talent aside, I will never get over how genuinely NICE and GOOD Pia is. She took her time to talk to everyone, she posed for pictures, she signed everything and she was very excited about her gifts :”) she is such a good person and I honestly can’t deal with the way she radiates that energy.

I wanted to give her a book of translated Russian poetry as a gift, I’d even wrapped it up in craft paper and stuck a “thank you” sticker on it. I wish the book was thinner but it was the only one I found that had most of my favourite poems lol #priorities. I had A LOT of doubts about it but then again, I’m pretty sure it’s not the weirdest gift she’s ever got. So I finally came up to Pia, said hi, gave her the gift, pointed out the “thank you” sticker and explained that it meant “thank you for your work” (her face was so close holy shit). Honestly, I keep saying sorry and thank you every time I meet her lmao but I’m thankful!!! and I’m sorry!!! and I want her to know that!!! what else am I supposed to do!!!! And I *think* I said something about the show being great and her being great in it, but I’m not sure.

Then she was like “and you’re from...?” “Russia”, I told her, not expecting her to remember anything about me. Then she went “Of course! We’ve met before, right?” “We did, yes” “I was gonna say Russia!” WHAT KIND OF FACE MEMORY DOES SHE HAVE OH MY GOD. Well, probably the selective kind, let’s be real here, but this is still unbelievable. As of August 13 it has been a little over a year since our last brief meeting - a year, three months and 12 days but who’s counting? - and after all this time there was something that made her go "wait, I know her” when she saw me ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ And it’s the SECOND time she remembered me so we’re practically married at this point, right? Right??? I replied with something generic like “oh, you remember me? That’s so nice!” yeah, “nice” indeed :“”“) I will be raving about it forever because I honestly can’t believe it keeps happening to me. What have I done to deserve this? Could it be possible to love this woman more? At that particular moment I thought not, but the evening wasn’t over yet. Then this happened:

Me: thank you 😍 Pia, taking the gift: thank you! Me, distracted by her closeness: thank you 😍 Pia, pointedly: thank you for the gift Me: Oh. You’re welcome. (jesus fucking christ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Then she signed my programme and then I almost left without a picture because I was THAT awestruck :’’’’’’’) As we posed, she was standing THIS close to me and she was touching my elbow behind my back all the time we were posing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You can see how hard I’m trying to conceal my emotions in the pics because um ??? an actual Goddess is touching my arm right this second???? And then she said she appreciates my coming to see her again ♥ I’m sorry but I’m pretty sure being this precious is illegal, I’m gonna have to alert the authorities. Oh, and I’m tattooing every single generic phrase she said on my forehead.

Then I just hung around for a while and even took a good enough picture of my friends and Pia! My hands weren’t shaking like they always do when I feel Emotions!!! I am truly growing.

After a while the crowd started to dissolve a bit and I spontaneously decided to try and ask if I could give her a hug. Yeah, I know, I don’t recognize myself either. And I did ask her, with countless “I’m so sorry”s and “I understand it might be intrusive”s (her face was so close and she was looking at me so intently i’.m!!! dying!! I was Not Prepared) because making her uncomfortable is my worst nightmare.

And then

she DEADASS GRABBED THE BARE PART OF MY ARM (my sweater covered my elbow but not my forearm so it was a skin to skin contact with the goddess!!!!! I’m a normal person with a normal life and zero obsessions I swear), looked me in the eye and started explaining why she doesn’t normally do it - because, quote, “then she *nods at someone* would wanna do this, and she would wanna do this and I would be here till 3am”. Somehow my brain didn’t shut down completely: all I could feel was her hand on my arm, but I was actually registering what she was saying and I was even ANSWERING stuff like “that’s totally fine, yes, i understand, everyone would want to do this, that’s absolutely fine, thank you so much”. But she honestly has THE SOFTEST hands, it’s literally like touching a cloud, what kind of magic is this (and what kind of hand cream), I couldn’T COPE. SO SOFT. AND SHE WAS SO CLOSE. HER PERFECT FACE. CLOSE TO MINE. SAYING THINGS. SMILING. I LOVE HER. And it seemed that explaining the reason was very important to her and she wasn’t letting go of my arm the whole time 😭 honey….. you don’t have to explain anything to me…. I’m just happy to be here…. And she was looking me in the eye the whole time too. Anyways, I FINALLY timidly put my other hand on top of hers (!!!!!!!!! living that self-insert fanfic life) and told her it was absolutely fine again while trying very hard to conceal my emotions (hahaha who’s freaking out? not me lmao hahaha lol). I LOVE HER SO MUCH WHAT A GODDESS WHAT AN ICON. Not to be dramatic, but I can still feel her calming touch :”) she may have cured my anxiety or something. And yeah, well, I told her it was absolutely fine and she told me to take care and that was it.

Did I sound like a complete tit? Certainly. Did I still sound more coherent than the other two times I met her? Absolutely. I’m SO proud of myself. Am I still #shook? You bet! I can’t believe life is this good to me. And I’m still very sad I don’t know when I will see Pia again :/ certainly not next year because it’s my final uni year and I’m gonna be busy as shit, plus all these trips are getting expensive. I hope she doesn’t do anything HUGE next year and saves it for the time I can travel again ~

Oh, by the way, it was pitch black almost the whole time I was walking back to the hotel and I even had to pass by a church graveyard. Fucking T*ckl*nburg.

#the great pia meltdown 2k17 #~

12 notes · View notes

stulum2 · 7 years ago

Text

Day 7

The fire engines returned during the night to the factory fire which had obviously flared up again. It meant that Pete, Shazza and Kaitlin found themselves on the wrong side of the cordon so they had to leave the car behind and walk up to the hotel. Megan heard an explosion during the night and after confirming that it wasn’t me concluded that another part of the factory had collapsed.

Up for an early breakfast and then a drive to Düsseldorf airport with Pete, Shazza and Kaitlin. We are off to Barcelona, Pete, Shazza and Kaitlin are off to Poland for a couple of days and Hayden and Jess are staying with Tina and Michael for a few days to catch up. The Fussells will join up again in Germany and then go on to Paris and London.

Our flight ran about an hour late and upon arrival in Barcelona we had to circle to wait for a landing slot. On the upside we got to see a lot of Barcelona from the air. Bags arrived safely and the taxi man was where he said he would be so all good. Staying at Well & Come Hotel in the centre of Barcelona. I know what a name, when Megan was booking the place she had to do some online checks to make sure it wasn’t a knock shop!

We are only a couple of blocks from La Sagrada Familia and everything is within walking distance. Not a bad wee hotel. We wandered out around the block to get our bearings and then had a light meal at a Tapas bar across the road from the hotel. After that grabbed a cheap three euro bottle of wine some cheese and crackers and returned to our room for the night. Nice to be in a country with a bit of warmth.

1 note · View note

tourguideexpert-blog-blog · 6 years ago

Text

The First Thing to Do When You Enter a Hotel Room, and Other Travel Tips

New Post has been published on https://travelqia.com/trending/the-first-thing-to-do-when-you-enter-a-hotel-room-and-other-travel-tips-2/

The First Thing to Do When You Enter a Hotel Room, and Other Travel Tips

Designer Karim Rashid is known for his sexy but simple designs, such as the Bobble water bottle or the Garbo plastic trash can. His next project is a new wine bottle for Stratus Vineyards.

He describes his style as "sensual minimalism" and calls his products "blobjects." His love of pink and white appears not only in those products but also in his own wardrobe, which consists almost exclusively of white, pink, and a few bright yellow clothes. His latest project includes the new integrated architecture and design firm, Kurv. He logs around 400,000 miles in the air each year and has several million miles banked on each airline alliance. “I’m on Aeroflot a lot this year, as I’m working in Russia.” He also spends 180 nights, or half the year, staying in hotels.

How to Make Your Own Coffee on a Plane.

America has a history of bad coffee—all the airlines, whoever they are, the coffee is atrocious. And I love coffee, I’m completely addicted, so I carry organic single-serve powdered coffee with me—it’s basically freeze-dried, instant coffee. So I get a cup of hot water from the cabin crew and use that—sometimes I order a half-cup of hot milk, too, so I can make a strong latte, which I love. There was one woman beside me on a plane complaining about the coffee, so I handed her one of my packets. When we disembarked, she thanked me profusely, I don’t know how many times.

How to Ensure You Always Have Something Interesting to Do at Night

Kraftwerk performs in Düsseldorf.

Photographer: ullstein bild/ullstein bild

I always check the Bandsintown app when I book a trip to a city to see what bands are playing when I’m there. When I get to a city, I can just open my phone and know who’s playing that night, the location, and its distance from my hotel, and buy tickets on the app. I’ve seen some amazing concerts in Berlin (Pink Floyd), Stockholm (XX), London (the Killers), Kiev (Disclosure), Milan (GusGus), Moscow (Tesla Boy), Belgrade (Air), Düsseldorf (Kraftwerk), and on and on.

How to Unpack: Just Fill up One Drawer

When I design hotels I don’t put any storage anywhere except the main area—that’s the one closet where you can put everything. If there are drawers in the bedside cabinet, so many cupboards, even an over-the-top TV console that is also a cupboard? It’s so unnecessary, and you end up leaving things behind or losing them. The cleaner the room is, the more minimal it is, the lower the chance you’ll leave anything behind.

The First Thing to Do When You Get Into a Hotel Room

A room inside the Hudson Hotel

Source: Hudson Hotel

The hotel industry loves to fill rooms up with things, which comes from the idea that a hotel room is an extension of your home. But for me, it’s too much stuff, too much clutter. If I’m going to spend three days in there, I need to be really free and able to think. I take every piece of paper, every note or book, and put it in drawers to hide them. I don’t like visual clutter. And in the bathroom, too—there’s a crazy amount of stuff they shove in there. The worst for this is the W hotels: There are so many Ws around everywhere, on everything—the desk, pen, the pad, the soap, it’s too much. Once, when I was staying for two weeks at the Hudson Hotel in New York, which Philippe Starck designed in the late 1990s, I removed almost all the furniture and rearranged the bed. It was up against the window, with the light behind you, and you want to wake up looking at daylight coming in through the window. When I left, the manager came to me and said, ‘Thanks, we really like what you did with the room.’

How to Truly Make Sure You Remember a Place: Get a Tattoo

It started 25 years ago, when I got my first tattoo in Toronto. After I moved to New York, and I started getting busier, traveling, it became a habit, a present to myself: I consider each of them a poetic memory of places [where] I’ve spent a lot of time. To date, I’ve done 26 in 26 different cities. There’s a guy in Istanbul, Emre Dizici, near Taksim Square, who is really fantastic; he’s been practicing for almost 30 years. Japan was the hardest place to get one done, as it’s still frowned upon [as a symbol of organized crime]—in fact, I was recently at an Intercontinental hotel there, and they wouldn’t let me in the swimming pool because of my tattoos. I found my tattoo artist there when I went for a drink with a young guy I was working with; he rolled up his sleeves and showed me his tattoos and told me not to tell anyone at the office he had them—and then recommended his tattoo artist.

Karim about to take off.

Source: Karim Rashid