Well… I have no excuse. I just wanted to write a one-shot. x3 it makes me happy, and will help me start writing the others again.
So please, be tasteful. And, please, tell me if you do enjoy it. I always love criticisms and honest compliments. No flattery, no flames, just honesty. So please, enjoy.
Disclaimer: Eternal Sonata/Trusty Bell: Chopin's Dream and all affiliates belong to Tri-Crescendo, Bandai-Namco and related companies, not me.
Standing on the bridges of Andante had always calmed his nerves. He didn't know why, but for some reason the rushing water falling to a deep, chill lake hundreds of feet below the soles of his boots calmed whatever jitters he seemed to have. Restlessness seemed to fade and clarify when he stood there. He knew that he hadn't left his bed for a walk to release the energy locked in his legs from a day of combat, nor simply to check on his second-in-command or the rest of his now at-ease army - what little of it there was at the base now. He remembered when he stood over that glacier-flooded lake on the intricately carved hanging paths.
He needed someone. Just to be with in the night. He didn't care if they were there in the morning, if he left on his next mission before they rose, or if they had their back to him the entire night. He didn't care if it was a man or a woman, just someone -anyone- who could make the loneliness dissipate. He didn't need them to be passionate or comforting, just… just there.
He needed someone, and if someone needed him tonight that was even better. He could actually do something - comfort someone, talk, spend the night remembering good times and laughing… Hell, even drinking would be good at this point, so long as there was someone to do it with.
Saints… he hated that he couldn't last even a week without someone next to him. Someone to hold, be held by, love -even if just for a night- in hopes of being loved in return, just to know they're there-
"Jazz? What are you doing out here?"
The dark haired man jolted upright at the confused tones, whipping about to face the source of the question. He didn't realize that anyone else was up this late, between the changing of guard shifts, especially not who he saw standing at the end of the bridge.
"Frederic," he stated, straightening up and smiling at the elder man.
Though the composer was indeed almost twelve years older than he, time in their world seemed to have done him a great deal of good; he no longer seemed nearly as ill, and in fact seemed almost younger than when they first met three years ago. Though, recently, Chopin had looked more than a little worse for wear. His dark hair that shone blue in all forms of natural light seemed more disheveled than normal, the lines at the edges of his eyes filling with more shadow than before against the strikingly pale skin. Even though he appeared kempt and neat, his unique clothes were beginning to fade in certain parts, even torn in barely detectable places. His disease seemed to have subsided into dormancy, only to be replaced by something else keeping him awake during the night.
With a worried frown, the composer walked down the bridge, his feet somewhat unsure on the slightly swaying and bouncing ground beneath his shoes. "Jazz, why are you still awake?" he asked calmly. "You said yourself that we would be leaving tomorrow morning if Falsetto and Polka were feeling better. At this rate, you'll sleep later than either of them."
The smile Jazz gave him was the same one he showed to everyone else; a constant soft gaze, coaxing those around him to believe that he would be all right, that everything would be fine. It was a gaze made to comfort others-- Frederic knew that well. "I just felt a little restless," the rebel explained calmly, his deep voice bringing a further soothing note to the atmosphere. "I thought perhaps a walk might settle my wandering instinct." There was a hint of laughter to his voice, like always; Frederic could never tell if that man was joking or serious when he had a simple conversation with the others.
With a slight nod of approval, Frederic held his gaze steadily; two sets of dark eyes each trying to impose their feelings into the other. "Make sure you rest a bit tonight then, will you?" he pushed, hoping that he had enough seniority over the man to have him listen. God only knew why Allegretto never did.
"I promise I will." An extra tilt to that smile, then, "Make sure you follow your own advice, Chopin. Even a father needs rest."
Frederic still felt a bit awkward being told that. True, Beat and the other younger children that flocked to him said he was like a father to them, and even Polka told him so (much to Allegretto's dismay). However, having had no children of his own -or even a completely intimate relationship- during his life back in Paris, he had no idea why they saw him as a father.
His pause, however, made Jazz stop and look him over for a moment. He noticed the discomfort, the doubt and unsure glance to the side from the deep blue eyes. He'd seen this look before so many times, and more often he knew exactly what it meant. With a light smile and a heavy heart, he knew he'd get what he needed tonight - even if they didn't sleep in the same bed, they would be in the same room all night. Jazz knew it; Frederic needed to talk about something. And who out of all the people he trusted was closest to him in that case but the leader of Andantino?
Clasping a hand lightly on his friend's shoulder, Jazz smiled gently at the man's surprised glance. "Frederic, let's talk for a bit. My room is a short way from here, and I assure you very private. You need to let some things off your mind." With a short, almost ashamed nod, the composer and warrior walked down the opposite side of the bridge Frederic had come from, following a small path through the cliff village into a deeper section the others had likely not been to. Chopin knew he hadn't; this was his first time in the heart of Andante.
Eventually, after a few moments, they came across a slightly ajar door of heavy wood behind the woven fabrics commonplace to the town. With a light smile, the taller man pushed the door open soundlessly, then led the way inside, the composer behind him unable to do anything but follow at that point.
The room itself was not very large, having only a single branch from the main section to a back bedroom. The main area stood with only a table, a large cabinet, and a few chairs, the intricate rugs of the city draped across the floor and walls with the same simple pattern as the rest. To be honest, in comparison with the rest of the city, this small abode for its leader was relatively plain.
'Then again,' Frederic noted mentally, 'Jazz never seemed the type for intricacies, or even for being treated differently for his position.' For privacy's sake, the Polish pianist closed the door behind him with a gentle grind of wood against stone, then a latch of the lock into place. Jazz glanced back at him once with an indiscernible expression, then pulled out a chair for the weary man.
"Sit down, Frederic. Tell me what's on your mind."
A few glances in a variety of directions ensued before he actually made his way across the room to sit in the chair offered. He seated himself with an almost exhausted drop, his frail body falling heavily into the cushions. Unlike the composed, almost regal man that stood before them every day, he felt as feeble and unsure as he knew he was to supposed to be. Folding his hands in his lap, Frederic sighed and bowed his head, his whole body aching with what felt to him like the weight of the world.
"I don't know if I can do this, Jazz." Stated so softly, the commander almost didn't hear his ally's first sentence. "I don't know how to be a father. I don't even know why my tuberculosis hasn't resurfaced, though my usage of magic has become ever stronger. I don't know if I will live through the next year, I don't know if I will let everyone that is counting on me to protect them down. I have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to this. I was always such a frail person, barely even able to get out of bed in my last few months. I feel as if there is nothing that I can do to prevent the pain that will be caused by my very imminent death." Shaking his head, he took the top hat from its place and held it, absently tracing his thumb over the edge. "I feel like I've finally found out who I am… only to have another secret hidden from me."
Jazz stood behind Frederic as he spoke, watching him, taking note of his movements and tone. Though on the surface he sounded just as cool and calm as he always had, there was a turbulence underneath it all that reminded him of all the expectant fathers he had to coax and comfort. With a grim smile, his hands gripped the seat firmly, keeping the large appendages from gripping too tightly inside his worn leather gloves.
"You don't need to doubt yourself Frederic," he answered softly, coating his words with the gentleness he knew was necessary. "You have been a worthwhile guardian and protector of these children for three years. It is not wonder they would think of you as a father when you mend not only their broken bones and bruised bodies, but also their shattered hopes and battered egos. You take care of them, Frederic, in every way that a father should. There's no one else in their lives that can do for them what you do; both lead and support, comfort and discipline."
"You would be the far better for that case than I, Jazz," came a bitter retort, one that surprised the swordsman. "I have no experience with children outside my own childhood. You are the person they all look up to, especially Allegretto, whom I have not been able to convince of my permanent stay here. He listens to you, he respects you. I have neither of those, nor should I expect them."
"But they do not care for me as they do you. You must understand that children will latch onto a man that is always there for them as a father figure when they have none. I rarely visit Ritardando; my business with Crescendo and Andante keep me away almost all the time. You are the man they look up to, Frederic, for being strong enough to stay with them day after day after day." With a smile of soft sincerity, Jazz confessed something to Frederic that had always calmed the nerves of any man doubting his ability.
"Though I have tried many times, I have never once been able to have a child." With a start, the composer turned to his ally in shock, not only to the situation, but at the idea that he would share this sort of information with him. "I take pride in the children in this village, yes. However, none are my flesh and blood, none even taken under my wing in absence of a parental figure." Gaze steady and voice firm, he added, "If I were in your position, I would consider myself blessed and simply try my best. Take it as it comes, and continue as you are; you'll be just fine."
The silence that persisted rested thickly in the air, one having finished speaking and the other not knowing what to say. It lasted in stillness for a time before the noble composer shifted his gaze, embarrassed. He felt in such poor taste now-- like he'd forced Jazz to say something that he hadn't wanted to just because he doubted himself. It wasn't right, and now he felt guilty about it. If there were some way to make up for it…
A clink of glass interrupted his thoughts, his gaze lifting to see the tall commander at the largest piece in the room; a case of wood and glass, inside which were everything from small trinkets to books looking like they were about to fall apart, right down to keeping safe a dried flower that Frederic did not recognize. The top door of the multi-layered case was open, revealing glasses of all shapes and sizes, and Jazz held one that fit into his hand with ease. He poured an amber liquid into the glass, set it aside, then picked up another and poured again, this time with a smaller amount. Blushing slightly, Frederic protested, "Jazz, I'm sorry, but I'm not one to…"
With a light chuckle, the man capped the bottle again, turning around and walking back to the composer with easy strides. "I'm not challenging you to a contest of endurance, Chopin," he laughed, holding the cylindrical chalice before him. "I just want to settle your nerves a little, not get you completely drunk." Indeed, the glass was less than a fifth of its way full, and with reluctance Frederic took it from his friend's hand. With that same disarming smile, the soldier took a seat across from him in a chair, swirling the liquid in his own half-full glass absently.
For a moment, there was a tense, uneasy silence; one made from Frederic being at a complete loss of words. Then, with a deep sigh, Jazz took a sip of the strong alcohol, placing the glass on the table between them afterwards.
"Don't fret so much, Frederic," he stated gently, smiling at him. "I've long since accepted my impotence. I don't expect any sympathy or discomfort from you." With a breathy laugh, he took another drink, decimating the remaining contents of the glass by half. "You would have heard from someone in Andantino eventually-- everyone here knows about it."
With a jolt, Frederic stared at the man across from him in astonishment. Stammering to find the right words, he could only express one: "Why?!"
The smile that came to the rebel's face was coy and wise at the same time, making the composer's face heat in insecurity. Frederic really wished Jazz wouldn't look at him like that sometimes-- it showed just how naïve the Polish musician really was more often than not.
"We're open people here, Frederic," he answered simply. "Ask anyone about a secret of mine and their response will almost always be 'Which have you heard?'. I have an open-door policy with a promise of confidentiality. Part of that is sharing information." The smile deepened slightly, and the taller man drained the rest of his drink with ease before giving a slightly wicked grin at the flustered composer. "Please don't tell me that this changes our relationship, Composer."
"O-of course not…" Frederic turned his head away, looking down at the glass in his lap for a moment while Jazz stood to get another helping of the drink. Tentatively, he brought the drink to his nose, sniffed it lightly, and took a taste. It burned, yes, but the flavor was smoky and sweeter than he expected. It actually reminded him of the fine Spanish cigars that Aurore used to smoke…
"Like it?" Looking up, Frederic saw that Jazz had gained another helping of the liquor, this time filling his glass almost all the way. With a faint smile, the composer straightened his back and nodded, placing his hands and the glass back in his lap. "It's nice," he answered simply. "It reminds me of my past… in a good way."
"Ah. Good." As the rebel soldier took his seat once more, Frederic was surprised to hear a gentle clinking sound that he knew very well.
"Jazz… are you still wearing your armor?!" The look he gained was somewhat perplexed, then turned downwards at the uniform. It was clean – that, at least, was certain. However, the rebel leader had not been seen out of uniform more than twice the entire two weeks they had stayed in Andante this time. The fact that he was still wearing his armor, about sixty to seventy pounds of extra weight, seemed excessive to someone such as Frederic.
Jazz, however, shrugged nonchalantly. "It seems I am," he answered with a laugh, taking a sip of his drink. "What of it?"
Sighing bitterly, Frederic gave him his best "stern-father" look. "Even you need rest, Jazz," he answered curtly. "Please, get some sleep without being in full dress uniform." Steeling himself, he finished off the brew, coughing slightly at the after burn before standing up. "Thank you for the drink, and for speaking with me. However, I must be heading to bed."
"…Yes, of course." Jazz placed the drink on the table with a soft clink and stood as well. "Hurry back to your room-- there are only a few more hours before the morning watch switches and the bell rings for dawn."
With a nod, Frederic gave a solemn bow of respect before walking to the door. Once he unlatched the lock (which he noticed seemed rather unused), he turned back with a light smile. "Sleep well, my friend."
"And you, Frederic. Saints bless your dreams." The gentle smile soothed the man's worries, and he left, closing the door behind him with a finalizing thud. He paused, thinking on their conversation, then continued walking down the tunnel, content.
Inside, however, Jazz was in less of a good mood.
Sighing in deep bitterness, he snatched the glass from the table and downed its contents, accustomed to alcoholic burn after years of abusing the substance in one way or another. Placing the glass back on the table, he stalked into the side room, pacing around like a caged bear as he tore the uniform from his body. Only the knowledge that he needed to wear this uniform for the next few days kept him from throwing it in a pile at his bedside. Folding it carefully, the rebel placed the uniform gently in its proper place, then stripped himself of the armor.
The steel rings shone in the dim light, as he'd cleaned and polished them earlier in the day, and he set them in their proper places as well, leaving him in only underclothes-- a half-sleeved shirt and long pants that he wore to keep his chainmail from catching his skin while moving. He ripped the shirt angrily from his body and sat on the edge of the bed, running his hand through the choppy black layers of his hair.
Why did he have to be this way? Why was it that he was so restless? He was isolated and closed off by his own volition, yet he had to be with someone in order to sleep. With a growl of stubborn discontent, he shifted himself under the thin blanket and sheet and lied back, closing his eyes with force. He would fall asleep. He had to. And damn any stupid habits that denied him rest.
Sadly, the moments ticked by with agonizing slowness, leaving the soldier tossing and turning in fitful half-sleep for a couple of hours. Finally, he gave up, staring in disdain at his ceiling of carved stone. It's useless. I'll never get to sleep now.
That is, of course, until he heard the door creak. Propping up on his elbow, he looked for the figure in the doorway, then stared in shock.
Frederic was standing there, holding the top hat he'd left behind however long ago it was. He looked as if he'd been standing there for a while, and his gaze was almost identical to Jazz's; shocked, confused, and a little questioning.
Swallowing the lump that came to his throat, Jazz asked casually, "Is there something I can do for you, Frederic?"
The elder man snapped out of his state, straightening and shaking his head fervently. "N-no…" he murmured, his voice soft and sheepish. "I just… well, I realized…" He lifted his hand, motioning to the hat in the opposing appendage before looking back at him with a nervous glance. "Ah… I'll… I'll let you rest…"
"Frederic, wait…" Jazz sat up, not wanting the man to go, needing him to stay. The composer stopped in his motion to exit and looked back, tentative. Battling with words for a moment, Jazz finally sighed. "I'm having trouble sleeping," he stated gently. "Would you mind… staying here for a little while?"
An uneasy sound from the elder man made Jazz regret his request. Shaking his head with a smile, he waved the question away with one hand. "Never mind. Don't worry about it. Have a good night, old friend." He smiled up at the man, and was surprised to notice that the slender figure did not move. Tilting his head slightly to the side, he wondered if there was something more that they needed to speak of before Frederic broke the silence.
"Jazz… Can I stay?"