Autor's note: the alternate title would probably be Autor bitches for twenty-some pages due to lacking talent and sexual frustration.
Warnings: This is set in a modern AU, and I actually have quite a few plots concerning this universe, which should delve into the differences between the cannon relationships and the ones in this series. I'll be posting them when I have the chance. Liberties have been taken with modern slang and locations and the like, as I'm not positive how it would translate from German.
Also, I'm pretty sure the piece played in the end was something like this: Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto #2 In C Minor, Op. 18 - 2. Adagio Sostenuto.
Summary: Autor isn't satisfied with anything, which hardly differs from the norm. AU set in a modern college environment.
Disclaimer: This is a fan-made story for nonprofit use. Princess Tutu is the property of Ito Ikuko, animation studio Hal Film Maker, and ADV films.
I never get around under the sun and the stars
And I may be always frowning
But wonder you will see, under the sun and the stars
You will turn around and I'll be emotion
-The Motion Waltz, Rufus Wainwright.
Autor has had a decidedly vile morning.
To put it eloquently.
It should have been obvious from the moment that he cracked opened his eyes a full two hours before his alarm was set to wake him (it was still too dark dark dark out) and in a sleep induced haze unwittingly slipped his bare legs from the cozy interior of his sheets to have his skin come in contact with early morning coldness-effectively shocked the rest of his system into a harsh state of wakefulness. Any attempt to recapture the little sleeping hours he allowed himself was futile.
After sending a bleary glare towards the other bed and its blissfully slumbering inhabitant that occupied the room, he'd stumbled his way to the shower-chipping his elbow against the doorway on the journey-and had the incredible fortune of being the first to discover that the heater providing hot water to the dorms had broken down.
He actually swore quite loudly when the 'tiny pin pricks of ice son of a-' struck his unsuspecting skin, and in the confusion had slipped and twisted himself into the shower curtain. Grand. The racket might have woken those in the rooms neighboring his own.
Well good. He needn't be the sole suffering sod.
…Freezing suffering sod.
And the windows taking up much of the wall space should have given him some indication of the state of the weather, for by the time he'd managed to pull on meticulously pressed and pre-laid clothes before bursting from his room and down the stairs, out into the world slipping striding across the lawn to his ultimate destination, the university's library door, it had started to rain.
At 4:00 a.m.
So said door was locked.
But it was quiet, at least.
His toes were cold.
…
If the student assistant who found him crouched in as dignified a pose one can manage while crouching outside of a building in an attempt to keep both warm and dry had smirked as he unlocked the door, he was fortunate that Autor had much too civil a disposition to punch him right in the aforementioned smirking face.
And his fingers were numb; too much so to even attempt to form into a fist.
So he got off lucky, either way.
He dumps his bag at a vacant table and rubs his frozen hands together in an attempt to restore them to life, with varying degrees of success, before setting to his daily self-assigned mission of reorganizing the library's woefully out of date catalog that he'd begun since entering the school.
He very pointedly ignores the student assistant and is ignored in turn.
As of late, Autor had made amazing progress, already speeding through the categories and presently somewhere in the middle of the E's in fiction.
Ebersbach J., Eggers A., Eichel E.-why was a book on social psychology mixed in with the novels? Evans Q., Ealbach R.-Tch, do the bumbling idiots ever even bother to remember where to replace a book once they've finished with it? They shouldn't have the privilege of borrowing it if they aren't proven suitably capable of handling the responsibility. Did he need to go through the entire room and move all of the mislaid books to their proper place?
In a huff and with a jerk of the spine he starts down the nearest shelf and is pulling off any book within reach (Carefully. Chances are they were the closest resemblance he had to loving friends.) intent on resolving the issue.
He'd do it all on his own. Because everyone else was incompetent, too busy gibbering and pelting their friends with trash and balls of dirt-yes quite like animals-and generally being a nuisance, or snickering as they oh-so-cleverly steal each other into their dorm rooms for brilliantly immoral activities (As if no one noticed a boy tearing across the lawn in the peak hours of the morning from the direction of the girl's dorms. They never matured, why did he keep expecting them to?). Because he was the only one who cared.
Which was not pathetic in any sense of the word. It made him a sort of hero actually: the lone champion of these sacred tomes that filled the world with so much beauty and confusion.
His lip twitches.
Yes. A champion. He likes that. It makes him sound…important useful gallant.
The rain has started to hammer against the roof and windows as he reaches the middle of the shelf, giving him a steady tempo to work by. He doesn't turn to the whoosh, click of the heavy front door. He does look up when the startling, unmistakable pungent smell of lilacs wafts across the room.
Really legitimate actually. He's indoors. It's raining. Where in blazes were lilacs coming from?
At the briefest glimpse of lightly tossed hair and the wave of tanned slender fingers he's ducked away quickly back behind the shelf. For no apparent acceptable reason that he could convince himself of. He isn't a coward, simply cautious.
Books. Right. The books remained safe in his absence.
….
For-it must be-the millionth time he wonders why he bothers.
"It isn't that you're analysis on the significance of Odysseys' subplot concerning Penelope's struggle and thus changing the direction of the plot isn't an interesting proposal-…"
Buuuuuuuuut there was a buuuut coming on stop tiptoeing around and just say it-
"However-" Hah. "-it's in the second act when the characterization seems to drop-…"
To quell the exasperated hiss rising in his throat, he bites down on the inside of his cheeks.
What did they want? Just what did they want from him? What difference did the application of the character make if the reader was already familiar with the story? How did redundancy fix anything?
"You understand what I'm saying is that you're capable and are well versed in the basics of technique, but if you're willing to improve-…"
Willing? Oh no of course not. He hadn't spent months studying the finer points of story-spinning, of tutoring pirouetting-pompous-fools about prose and rhyme scheme and nothing that didn't evidently amount to worthless drivel whenever he tried to pick up a pen for himself-bloody-was he cursed? Forced into a lifetime of servitude, a critic for all eternity? For what are critics but those who can't create and spend they lives judging others' creations as compensation?
He tries to keep is eyes from burning holes through his graying professor's skull, his hands clenching and unclenching in an attempt to hold the aggravation at bay. Those who can't do, teach. Isn't that how the adage went?
His professor looks at him over the top of his completed assignment. Half of which just judged utterly worthless.
"You understand Mr. Autor? I can offer an extension for revisions."
Keep a civil tongue keep a civil tongue keep a civil tongue-
"Yes." But his brow still twitches.
…..
He'd escaped back to his safe musty shelves by break. The accumulated dust did wonders for his sinuses.
Sneeze.
A throng of students chattered animatedly as they parade past the front desk. He openly stares after them with contempt. Not due to jealousy, nooo. But there was a time when the library was respected, a consecrated world used to relay information and ideas, and now it was apparently functioning as a substitution for a pizzeria. One of them even had the gall to be shoving half a sandwich into his face as he spoke, bits of lettuce dropping to trail after him on the floor.
Bloody foolish rotten…. people.
…Clever. Please, he could do better than that. It was just his recent temper throwing him off.
Or perhaps he couldn't. Hadn't his capability of taming words been proven inadequate of late?
Autor traces his finger over the gold lettering on the spine of the novel in his hand. It winks at him in the lamplight.
No, no he most certainly could, he the champion of literature! Preserver of their pages! Protector of their dignity!
SNEEZE.
Although not his own. The tip of his nose is becoming red and shiny from his rubbing it with a handkerchief, an action that unfortunately helped very little.
And then, even with the cloth to his nose, lilacs.
He is startled to look up and find her grinning down at him from the other side of the desk and tries to ignore the way her presence makes his heart pulsate irregularly. He was never one for being caught off guard.
"Hey…down there." She giggles, because he is the funniest bloody thing she's seen all day, probably.
Now now, one shouldn't swear at a lady, even in one's own addled mind.
"…Tch." His finest retort is a very Fakir-ish one. Which didn't help matters, because he was not. Fakir.
Autor straightens so he can meet her head on (That is, glare at her over the rims of his glasses), making sure to cover his nose so she won't see the discoloration.
She is still smiling, although a little concern now touches the corners of her eyes.
"Are you okay? Allergies?"
Yes. He's allergic to rain. And people.
"It's nothing." His eyes shift about suspiciously, never meeting her face.
"…Where is she?"
Blink. "Huh?"
"The blonde terror. You're both joined at the hip aren't you?"
"Ohhh. Pff. We're not." she laughs again, waving her hand, even though they most certainly are most of the time. It was one of the reasons people had trouble keeping their names straight.
He does not laugh with her. He does not smile. (Autor's never really smile anyway. They sneer, if anything.)
"Humph."
He is perfectly in the right to be on edge. Should the girl's constant companion emerge from beyond his field of vision he should be primed to make a hasty departure. Ever since the two had discovered his questionable connection to the head danseur of the advanced ballet class in their preparatory school years they-particularly the other-had found great entertainment in locating and harassing him. The more he'd tried to avoid them the more persistent they became, once going as far as to wait outside of one of the restrooms that he'd taken refuge in-for even they had limits as to how closely they'd follow-for a full half-period as they called loudly though the door insisting they'd summon a nurse to help aid him with whatever problems he was experiencing with his bowels.
Soon it had developed into sort of a pastime, finding him once a day and thoroughly rattling his nerves, and now it looked as though they might wish to continue the sport beyond the academy and into college.
He wouldn't give the satisfaction.
But…how odd that she is alone.
She starts twirling the ends of her hair around her finger, forcing him to acknowledge her latest resolution to grow it out. Which might not be a poor idea, as now it softened her features and framed her face in a not all too unappealing way-…
Ahem. No.
"So what are you up to?" she peers at the book still tucked under his arm.
Her gaze ignites the urge to hug it closer to his chest. She didn't need to know what he was doing; she didn't need to invade into his personal affairs, for how easily she'd use the information against him.
"Nothing…Do you need something?" Changing the subject seems to be a satisfactory idea. Draw the focus away from himself.
"Well…not really I guess…" she pauses. "I'm just sort of looking around. But this place is a bit bigger than the library at the academy so I'm not totally familiar with it." She looks at him. "Though I'm sure you know it inside and out by now."
Oh ha ha a laugh at his expense. Which might have been acceptable, were they close.
She is scanning the tables. "There's quite a bit of people in here though. It must be a popular spot."
Don't say that as if it were a positive attribute.
When she laughs she gets this little wrinkle high at the corner of her mouth. "I guess you'd rather be alone in here most of the time, hm?"
Wha-? Oh no wait, he'd spoken aloud. And here's a poorly concealed flush of fresh embarrassment at his own foolishness. Hah. He should pay closer attention to what he was allowing to slip past his lips and less to the way her hair curled in to brush against her bare neck.
She says something, tilting her head to the side in a purely rhetorical fashion. The shift causes one of her short sleeves to slip down her arm a fraction. Wasn't she cold on a day like today when the collar of her dress was barely covering her shoulders-that's not paying less attention.
"Fakir probably keeps you company though, or something?"
He jerks out of his private musings at the boy's name. His eyebrows snapped together.
"Probably." He sneers, suspicious.
"I don't suppose-…" she glances back towards the tables casually, eyes bright.
Realization hits him hard.
Oh. Oh is that it. Ha ha. Of course of course of. Bloody. Course! Because he was the boy's keeper!
"I wouldn't know." Autor bites out. He feels any taste in his mouth suddenly sour. He swallows the venom.
And he spins on his heel.
She watches him, frowning in confusion. "Um, hey wait!"
He's already slipped into the backroom, gripping the book still in his arms with unnecessary force.
You see? Human interaction isn't all it's caulked up to be. Anyway there were books to attend to.
…
Perhaps, he thinks, he wasn't just meant to protect the sanctity of the library alone. Perhaps the privileges extended out and beyond to, say, the classroom.
Whisper. Whisper whisper scratch. Scratch scratch whisper scratch giggle.
But they aren't responding to his clipped looks or indignant clearings of the throat. They just snicker and scribble notes on the piece of paper, crumpling it and tossing it back and forth between one another.
He keeps staring for a moment-but only a moment- before declaring the cause lost and the action beneath him.
Humph well fine bloody fine screw around during class see if he cared.
He is in a perpetual state of aggravation today.
And not that he is entirely focused on schoolwork either at the moment, he begrudgingly admits, but he is always studying anyway so double emphasis on that last humph.
Focusing on his papers tucked underneath his textbook once more, he attempts to return to his vain attempt at author-ing. Autor-ing. Hm. His name is riddled with horrible cruel irony.
He pulled her in, arms circling her waist with gentle care and his eyes searching hers with longing, even though his face set with bitter determination. "I have my duties." He said, grim with responsibility.
With eyes that glowed like sunlight, imploring and distant at once, her lips curved into a soft smile as she said his name. Her grace was unparalleled, her body held a graceful natural sway that could only be possessed by royals, by the most polished and practiced performers. She was something dreamlike. She was woven from captured moonbeams. And she reached for him with an elegant pale hand.
"Come and take me, and I'll be yours forever. With your heart-
…Aaaaand where is this going? Why did it sound so contrived on paper? Wasn't he always lecturing Fakir on the importance of not being overly maudlin?
He'd mentioned grace twice. Damn it.
He's wasting ink crossing out lines of words.
Giggle giggle.
His ears redden as if personally attacked. He's forced to whip his head around at the surrounding hunks of wasted intelligence. Two seats away a couple is trying not to call attention to themselves, mouthing words to each other. The awkward blonde boy blushes sheepishly and reaches out to gently cup the girl's hand. She responds with her own blush that extends up to the roots of her short curled brown hair. But she smiles. If Autor's not mistaken, the two were as serious in their affections as to become engaged weeks ago. As one seems to do when entering university life: everyone pairing off and subsequently breaking apart and switching partners. Like it was a part of the curriculum. Like it was mandatory.
After all they were all running out of time, and it was forever from here on out. The loss of their prime and resulting need to sample everything that was made available to one was something induced by that fear.
It still makes his lip cuuuurl. Letting the most basic of animal instincts rule you're actions was unfavorable. Didn't anyone care about social etiquette anymore? Was it lost to the past forever in favor of this loose-moral code of the modern age?
He was of another time, he knew.
Another couple has propped up a textbook on their desk to hide the quick kisses they share from prying eyes. He stiffens as he watches. Did the abuse towards that which he was sworn to protect never cease? He was a chaste hero he was. And underappreciated.
He jerks his chair backwards in the rush to leave and sends his papers flying.
…..
Treading to his next class, Autor decides it was time to regain some of the dignity he'd lost over the course of the morning.
He holds his head high, his back erect, and makes a point to look down his nose at everyone he passes.
Yes thank you, make way for the brilliant champion as he commands his world, you are right to think yourself unworthy of his presence.
Even the weather seemed to be swaying to his favor, as the rain had drifted in and out that day, currently holding the form of a nonthreatening drizzle. He could shake off the embarrassment it had caused him earlier and conduct himself with his usual pride.
And he proudly nearly tumbles over his own feet and off the sidewalk.
Fuaaaaaaaa-
Autor waves his arm like a goddamn duck bird trying to keep his balance. And then straightens himself as he discreetly looks around to be sure no one's seen him. Good. Okay. No blow to the ego. Start again. Left foot right foot left foot-
He turns a corner and is heading under the long arch on the edge of the courtyard.
"Oh, hey Autor!"
Lilacs lilacs lilacs. Argh, why can't he shake her today? Hm? Hadn't their one encounter filled whatever quota existed?
He pretends not to hear her and moves along down the path, and thus squeaks when he finds she is actually suddenly in front of him right in front blocking his way-
That is, he comes to a smart stop with his decorum intact, and there were no rodent-esque sounds involved.
The group of girls she had been walking with-again, the blonde is absent-pass the two of them, waving to her over their shoulders as they went, although she didn't respond as she was staring at him. Why wouldn't she just keep walking with them? Why did she feel the need to stop?
Alone.
Again.
Well.
He sniffs. "You're wearing too much perfume."
Not the best opening line. But he was sure would reek of lilacs for the rest of the day thanks to her. Two quick sprays from the nozzle were usually enough for some women but it appeared she preferred to bathe in the stuff.
She takes his poor manners to suggest something else. "Oh, are you still having trouble with your allergies? Are you still sneezing?"
He tenses.
"I said it was nothing!" he declares, just as his hand rises to his face as if worried that his nose might still resemble a tomato-er, something bright red that sounded a tad less cliché. "My only allergies are related to birds anyway." Not that she needed to know, and she really didn't.
She laughs; the previously discovered wrinkle is even more prominent. Was he really that amusing-stop. Laughing at him.
"You must have trouble with Ahiru's 'friends' then. You're nose is still pretty red."
Grrrrrawhrawhrawh so she'd noticed the first time.
"It's involuntary, and tends to happen when it's cold out." He snaps matter-of-factly. And he finds as he touches it that his nose is cold. As were his cheeks. "Your face is also red. Brighter than mine, in fact." That's it, keep the higher ground! For he was right and always is don'tyouforgetit!
She looks genuinely curious. "Really?" Her slim fingers felt about her face, pushing at her cheeks. "Ah hah you're right! How funny. I mean it's not even that cold out!" Why is she finding pleasure in this? "I guess we match!" Griiiiiin.
While his face is cold, her eyes are warm, warm and friendly and joking and looking straight into his; as if willing him to smile with her, to infect him with the cheer that she seemed to have attained from the simple enjoyment of-a traitorous voice from nowhere dares to suggest-speaking so nonchalantly with him. And his cheeks color a little.
Surely from the chill.
And from this he lets himself think maybe, just maybe, she really didn't have an ulterior motive. She really wasn't as irksome on her own without Lillie driving her actions.
"Pique!"
She turns those warm eyes away at the sound of her name.
"Ah!"
And suddenly that momentary exclusive attention is very much off of him.
The boy who called to her, he gathers from their conversation, is acting as her dance partner in an upcoming performance. He speaks casually with her, his mouth cocked in a perpetual easy smile that Autor would never be able to manage. He's also taller than him-not that such a detail matters, or anything like that.
As they talk, he's making her laugh, and watching the other boy Autor is able to catch the little looks he flashes her, dancing up and down her bare legs and exposed collar, as if she were such a common sample.
The boy then glances up and notices him-why is he still standing there?-, and looks him over as if finding Autor's existence something worthy of only minor interest. Autor accepts the challenge by meeting the gaze straight on; squaring his jaw and puffing up like that ditzy redhead so often does during one of her frequent tantrums.
"Oh," Pique pauses in her babble and sees this exchange. "This is Autor." She sounds like a hostess at a dinner party and has the cheery smile and the hand gestures to match.
The other boy raises his eyebrow. "Oh?" he inquires. Che, like he's actually interested. Autor counters with a cool look.
Pique must have said his name at this point but Autor won't commit it to memory or even pretend to care, especially when the boy looks so damn unperturbed staring down at him, his eyes barley concealing their sarcastic conceit. And Autor knows immediately that he's humoring this encounter for the benefit of making an impression on the girl standing between them.
"Ah, you know, you do look a little familiar. I don't suppose we have a class together?"
"I highly doubt it." He scoffs. Don't try to use his association with her to get into her good graces ruffian, he knows precisely just what you're up to.
Ruffian is unfazed. "Something else then?
Pique might look a little worried. Or totally untroubled, it's hard to tell with her. "Autor's usually in the library."
"Oh? Oh yeaaaah, I think I remember you now." There's light recognition in his eyes and fresh amusement in his tone that is entirely unfriendly. Through this recollection he's seemed to classify Autor as something far below a threat, and even an object of thinly veiled mockery.
And with that, Autor decides that he's had quite enough.
"I'm in a hurry." He states, a brisk brush past them in what he hopes is an imposing exit.
Pique is caught off guard as she watches his departure. "Ah, um…"
The boy, in contrast, is unconcerned.
And neither should Autor be. Stupid stupid cold, stupid red nose.
….
His procession up the stairs is slow and weighted, so it takes him twice as long as usual to reach his dorm room.
When he does finally arrive and push open the door, he finds Fakir up and lounging on his bed, his change of clothes the only indication that he'd even gotten up at all since Autor left that morning.
His roommate/classmate/student/not friend/rival/insufferable prat cousin doesn't even look up to acknowledge him when he enters. He is instead occupied with a thick book that may or may not have been pilfered from Autor's bookshelf, and is leisurely scanning the text in what is a very prat-ish way. Amongst his already impressive résumé, Fakir had the talent to make any action he performed seem prat-ish. The British had invented the word solely for him. (Or maybe he's just projecting his frustration onto him simply because he's there, but Autor can't bring himself to care.)
To complete the scene, he is not alone. She-the squawking bird-thing referred to affectionately as Ahiru-is molded against his side with her jaw resting on his shoulder, wearing some sort of fluid dress whose skirt is scandalously short, and her bare bare very bare leg is hooked around his own mercifully clothed one-although the scene is none the less indecent-her sandals abandoned on the floor. Fakir seems unconcerned with this new growth attached to his right side.
Her mane of red hair almost completely engulfs her slim body and small face, but the vaguely curious expression it takes when she matches the glare Autor sends her pound for pound as he stands on the threshold is still clear.
What does he want? He's interrupting. No doubt she feared she would be expelled from her cozy position napping against her boyfriend should he want to engage the older boy in discussion about his writing, a topic on which she was rarely welcomed to offer any input.
It is his room, he silently shoots back, he can come and go as he pleases, she who is has no business being in the boy's dormitory in the first place.
She huffs and turns her attention back to the boy she lay against, moving to wind her arm with Fakir's as if to solidify the point that he'd been claimed for the day as her pillow. She closes her eyes tries to resume her slumber.
Autor was once more forced to wonder at it. How could someone like the young man before him constantly act so aloof and miserable when they possessed so much raw talent, had the whole of the female population-including those who new very well they were taken-pitching themselves at their feet, and an inhuman little spitfire of a girlfriend attached to their side in all hours of the day? He grimaces, honestly hoping wearily that she wouldn't decide to spend the night. He doesn't think he can take it on top of everything else.
Fakir never appreciated all that he had, and Autor often in turn made it a point to tell him so.
"I see you're up." He mutters. Autor moves to inspect his small bookshelf so as to locate the books needed for his next class. But he keeps watch on the two out of the corner of his eye.
Fakir grunts in reply. Charming.
"Have you even tried writing today?" He is facing him now, determined to make the boy pay notice to him.
Ahiru didn't open her eyes but frowns at the question. Fakir turns a page.
"I've been writing all week. There's no reason I can't take a day off."
That sounded to Autor suspiciously like something his girlfriend would have said.
"Oh really? Well then, where's your latest manuscript?"
Fakir gestures with a jerk of the hand in the direction of the desk without looking up. Autor frowns and stomps off to find the document sitting atop a messy pile of ink stained papers. He wrinkles his nose at the clutter. "Can't you be a little tidier?"
Grumble grumble no one can. He was everyone's maid.
He picks up the suspiciously thin stack of parchment and glances at the familiar slanted writing, silently cursing Fakir's penmanship. Then he curses Ahiru, because he would have to deal with deciphering it if she hadn't destroyed the computer. She destroyed everything electronic she got her hands on.
There are only seven pages written so far. Seven. Writing all week and this is all he could show for it?
Undaunted, he's trying to read it-shuffling the pages until they resemble some facade of order.
And just as he starts scanning the words of the first few paragraphs, he freezes.
…It's about her.
She of which we do not speak, of which he did not want to remember. She with the smoldering eyes and beckoning hand that once, and only once, had called to him and just as quickly tossed him aside. She who was the pinnacle, the embodiment of everything he'd ever dreamed of wanting. She who did not seem to acknowledge his existence when she visited them from the rapturous holy kingdom of what's-it's-name with him. His highness the equally forgettable.
Them. They are not she and him but a them he is forced to remind himself. They are they and they are exultant, as they glided blissfully around town like…royalty. Always hand in hand, no doubt rubbing the union in his face, intentionally or otherwise. He'd hoped for it once, he wished for it, but it was never his would never be his.
Now Fakir was writing about them. Why, all of a sudden? Certainly, he often worked his experiences and people he knew into his writing, only changing details like the names and situations. But…didn't they have enough happily-ever-afters for one lifetime?
His fingers grip the sides of the paper, enough to emit a crinkling sound and make a crease. And suddenly he doesn't find editing Fakir's most recent venture into the world of spinning entirely favorable. Although try as he might he can't seem to set the papers down.
He looks up, and all at once notices that the room he shares with the writer is utterly lackluster. Or at least his half of the room is. All of his personal items labeled and sorted according to convenience, importance, security.
It's anal, he sees. It's really truly undeniably a-nal.
Autor turns, finally allowing himself to loosen his hold on the document and set it back on top of the perfectly messy pile of papers. There's a book lying abandoned on the chair, and he picks it up to set in the bookcase. He swears he feels it shying away from his hand. Who are you, feeling you can touch me? Thinking you have that right? He shoves it onto a shelf as quickly as possible without damaging it.
Shut up.
When he turns again, Fakir is still secure against his headboard, seeming to have made little headway with the text held up before him. Ahiru has finally drifted back to sleep and somehow draped her spindly limbs even farther across his body in her subconscious resolve not to be moved. Her casually bare thigh and what it promised mocks him, a clear picture in the forefront of his mind even as he strides past his neatly pressed bedspread and towards the door.
Salacious. Yes. And could you Just. Be. Quiet?
…
Autor expects, and rightly so, that he must make a rather pitiable sight.
He's sitting on the library stairs, to ashamed to even attempt to venture inside. He didn't have the honor.
Why, he wonders now, did he shut himself away in this building at every liberated moment? Were his contributions to it really that imperative? (Yes.) Was he coming here not out of duty and reverence for the work, but because he was trying to avoid contact with the other obligatory inhabitants of his world? (Don't be idiotic. He does what he wants, there's no need for psychoanalysis.)
What was he, really?
Stupid stupid stupid things were probing the edge of his mind, resisting his struggle to shoo them away.
And he decides, sitting there on damp cement in damp clothes with water droplets chasing each other down his lenses and his hair deplorably mussed, no longer caring that it was raining or how he'd appear to someone should they pass by that he really. Couldn't. Stand. People.
He doesn't know why he eventually looks up, or what told him to do it, but look he does all the same.
She hasn't changed, still in the same impractical dress and ballet flats, save for the small addition of a magenta umbrella. Though despite this her hair is slightly dampened from the water, and it curls, sticking to her face.
He stares like an idiot, surprised that he is surprised. Maybe because he hadn't smelled her coming this time. He sort of missed the handy notification. Sort of.
Silence. Tap tap pitter pat rain was starting up again.
The eyes so often previously noted as warm harden as they take in his form. He shifts under their scrutiny, uncomfortable, not sure if he really wants to meet her gaze.
Say something, maybe? 'Kindly keep your disparaging stares to yourself?' Er…
Her lips purse themselves into a thin line.
"You keep running away from me."
Huh? She accusing him?
Whatever he'd expected her to say, it wasn't that.
Her grip on the umbrella's handle tightens. "Why is that? I'm not stupid. You're doing it on purpose. I can't get through two sentences with you before you brush me off."
He snorts. "You most certainly have-…"
"You know what I mean." Pique, for once, is all seriousness. And appears to be angry with him to boot. Humph. Why? He was always running away from her. He's done nothing out of the ordinary.
"What's going on with you?"
"…Nothing." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Nothing's going on with me. Aside from the fact that I can't seem to spend a moment on my own uninterrupted." Which is all her fault. He glared at her feet, willing them to move her…somewhere. Anywhere. Away from him.
Yet they stayed rooted to the spot.
"I think you're upset about something."
He nearly chokes on his own air. "Well it's a pity I'm indifferent as to what you think." He rests his chin in the palm of his hand. His cold hand. He's perpetually cold as well.
"So just tell me what's wrong."
He glares, but without the arrogance the act normally possesses.
"Nothing's wrong."
Anger has switched to exasperation. "You really don't think I can tell, do you?"
Well…no not to that extent, as she said she wasn't stupid, but-
"You honestly think you're not that transparent?"
Now wait a moment!
He squares his shoulders. Was she under the impression that she had free rein to waltz up and start insulting him?
"As helpful as your analysis is, it's unwarranted." At least the heat of his building anger /not embarrassment was helping to warm his limbs. "As is your presence. Don't you have somewhere to be?"
"No nooo, it's fine. I get it. You're gong to be that way." Like a pouting spoiled child is what she means. He got the message loud and clear.
He sighs. He really didn't feel like dealing with her right now. He was too tired. Too beaten. "Whatever. So you're leaving?"
And for a moment, he thinks she is. Her footsteps sound as they slap away from him on the wet pavement.
So his body nearly shot a few inches into the air when he felt her hand suddenly snatch a hold of his wrist.
They take off at a run. He doesn't have time to think, to tell his feet to stop as they slip erratically-barely keeping up, to bark a protest as she drags him across the lawn, pulling him into a building and up a flight of stairs, trudging on even as he looses his footing once or twice. When they finally came to an abrupt stop he had to double over to catch his breadth. Once he was certain his heart would resume a healthy rhythm and his lungs weren't going to explode he straightens, leveling his skewed glasses and pushing wet bangs away from his face. No time to be concerned with one's vanity. He'd been outright kidnapped.
"What-…" he chokes, "is wrong with you? What in the hell was that all about?"
Being significantly more athletic due to years of dance training, Pique is barley affected by their impromptu run. He counted this as yet another blow to his injured self-esteem.
She is smiling damn her.
"I thought I'd help you." She says simply.
"Oh, and by doing what exactly? Taking me for an afternoon sprint across campus? I told you-…"
…Wait, where had she taken him?
For the first time he takes inventory of his new surroundings, and realizes with a jolt that they were in one of the practice rooms. It was darkened by the cloudy skies visible through the huge windows, the recognizable black bulky shape of a piano standing not too far away. Pique is already walking over to it, running a hand along the dip in its polished surface. He pauses, indecisive as to his next course of action.
He could leave now that she'd released him. He was right there in front of the door-he'd just have to turn and-
He is already following her.
Damn.
They come to a stop, standing on either sides of the bench. She shifts her weight from foot to foot as she speaks.
"Sometimes, when I'm upset, or really stressed out from class or tired of dealing with Lillie and her…enthusiasm, or something, I like to go to one of the practice rooms by myself and dance. You know, burn off some steam and stuff like that. It helps me relax and kind of…get whatever I'm feeling out."
Her fingers lightly play atop the piano keys in a manner that was almost affectionate.
…So?
"…So?"
"So, since you refuse to share your feelings with me, I thought maybe you'd like to do the same."
He scoffs. "I don't dance."
She snorts. "Well duh. That's why we're in here." She sits down on the bench's faded tan cushion, smoothing her skirt.
"Sit." She gestures.
Autor hesitates. "I don't-…"
For the second time she reaches out and grabs his arm-his unjustly maltreated arm-forcing him down into the vacant spot on her right. In response, he stares irritably at the black and white keys.
"Just what do you expect this to accomplish?"
She half-shrugs, still smiling. Does she ever stop?
"I'm not sure. That's up to you I guess."
It's bothersome, the way that the look in her eyes makes his insides squirm. It reminds him of how his mother used to watch him when he was first learning how to read, insistent and firm and unwavering until he'd completed sounding out a line or a word on his own. She never gave hints, determined that he workout the problem for himself.
No one else should be able to have such an influence on him. He blames it on the years of torment she'd put him through.
She nudges him, her bare arm brushing his clothed one.
"Play something."
"This is-…" Pointless pointless pointless
"Try."
He mulls over her insistence, and then his hands rise slowly as if of their own accord to rest on the keys. Traitors. So bloody foolish. It could still easily be a trap. Lillie could spring through the door at any moment with instruments of torture and he'd curse his gullibility for eternity.
What was he supposed to even play? He wasn't the type to improvise.
Autor's incensed glare is answered with her encouraging nod.
Well…humor her. Maybe then she'll leave him alone.
He starts in slow, very slow, tapping the keys with only the lightest brushes, four notes at a time. There is nothing complicated about what he plays, and as time goes on he becomes more and more confident in the direction of the melody. He can almost hear how the accompaniment would enter: some violins, a flute, perhaps. And gaining that confidence he starts to play stronger. Although simple, the melody lulls him into a state of security.
Yes, finally. This was his element. No one could match him at this. Watch now, you frustrating girl, you'll be awed at his skill.
His arms work up and down with the swell of the music. Faster faster pick up the tempo it rises and rises and fades once more but the speed is the same really he can play this in his sleep speed up again the sound needs to be harsher, louder, softer softer louder crescendo yes and this was the part that was quickly paced and runs his hands all over the keys flash faster faster faster to the highest pitches and. Then.
He feels something swell and erupt, his chest pooling with…what was it, warmth? Peace? It felt so…uncomplicated. So utterly effortless.
So satisfying.
Remarkable.
His fingers slow as he plays the final few notes.
When he finishes, letting the last cord hang in the air before fading out, he opens eyes he didn't realize he'd closed and stares out into nothing. It takes him a moment to remember that he is not alone.
Tired and…cleansed, completely relaxed, he allows himself to finally turn and meet her eyes. Without him realizing it she'd leaned toward him over the course of his performance. Her tanned bare leg now lightly touches his own, her shoulder is half an inch away. Ah, with her this close he can smell the lilacs again.
If he had thought there wasn't any possible way for the expressions she makes to hold any more warmth, he is proven devastatingly mistaken for her skin is positively glowing-her beaming face alight with joy and knowing satisfaction.
And there they are on a piano bench, tousled hair slowly drying, clothes still damp. But they aren't cold.
Nothing about this room is cold. It comes as a surprise to him when he glances at the windows and sees the rain is still sprinkling steadily down from the blanketed gray heavens.
"See?"
He breathes though his nose.
"Pointless."
She laughs.
~Epilogue~
In the end she walks him back to his dorm, Because he's just uncoordinated enough to slip on the wet sidewalk and break his nose if he was alone she'd said. Bah! Musicians need plenty of coordination. She'd deliberately tried to goad him into an argument.
And yet he doesn't press the matter.
"Home sweet home-Wow, you really don't mind having to live this far from the campus library?"
He shrugs. "I've probably moved half of its contents to my room at this point anyway."
She puckers her lips. Um.
"That was a joke." She says. It wasn't, but… "You're funny today. That's kind of unusual."
He deadpans.
"You just find amusement in laughing at me, it has nothing to do with any humorous trait on my part." He adjusts his glasses.
She rolls her eyes. "Whatever you say."
Autor has a startling moment when they finally reach the few steps leading to the front doorway of the dormitories. She just sort of…stands there. Smiling. Bouncing on her toes. Watching him.
His eyes alternate between her and the staircase.
What, what, what is she waiting for?
He mentally snorts. They way they awkwardly stand there together before his residence; if reversed it was somewhat reminiscent of the well-known scene that came for a couple at the end of a date. Is she waiting for a goodbye ki-? No!
"I suppose…I'll see you tomorrow."
She seems satisfied with this. "Yeah! Tomorrow." And she turns on her heel to leave.
As an after thought-though without really thinking-he adds, calling out to her, "It's strange, how we kept running into each other today. An unusual coincidence."
Pique pauses in her withdrawal to turn and look at him, really look at him/creepily stare right through him. He feels himself stiffen reflexively.
"…Yeah. A coincidence. Right?" And her smile reaches her eyes and holds something deliberate in it that he can't decipher as she pops open the umbrella and takes off without another word.
Wha-what?
He is left wavering on his front step with the feeling that he's missed out on something, a feeling he rarely experiences and never wishes to experience because he knows absolutely everything.
That, and that he is being watched.
He turns around abruptly to find Ahiru, now properly clothed in a bright blue coat that falls mid-thigh and matching umbrella already opened, standing in the doorway. Her expression can only be described as somewhat cross with a hint-o-frustration, directed first at Pique's retreating form, and then squarely at him. Their gazes, his own eyes blinking as he was justly perplexed, lock violently.
"What?"
With a huff and toss of her hair, she struts purposefully past him with her nose in the air, assumedly after her friend.
"Moron." She says.
He'll need to talk to Fakir about his negative influence on her.
~End~