Le ciel lointain
English: The Distant Sky; Sun in an Empty Room: Erik's voice
For my kind readers who have added Sun in an Empty Room to their story alerts: Here's a little bonus. :-)
Summary: Erik's voice, one-shot. "I was thinking of the scene in the rain all over again. Soon my mother's, father's face would appear in the mind, as if they were calling me again and again."
Disclaimer: I just own the plot.
Le ciel lointain
I WAS WITH CHARLES, at the balcony of his room, talking about his master thesis about mutations. "The topic is a brave area," he said, looking at me with a serious look on his face, "There are times when those people start telling me that I am either crazy or desperate. ça fait mal." He laughed, but then I knew that it was a concealed sentiment.
He was a dyed-in-the-wool perfectionist, Charles. He would work really hard then pretended as if he hadn't even set his mind to work that hard. He would come back to me with a relaxed expression on his face, as if unperturbed. He never looked angry, or disturbed, but then those were just the looks on his face. My point of view wasn't an expression of sentiment: It was something more like a theory formed by looking at him. He would do anything, absolutely anything, to avoid being judged.
Django Reinhardt's rendition of "Night and Day" was playing in the background. The sky was dark it looked almost velvety, mysterious. I looked at him, bathed in scotch-colored light of the reading light by his bedside table. He was reading, reading, deep in his mind he was wondering what was that of his theory that had made him vulnerable to false judgments.
"You know," I said to break the silence, "Raven never thought you'd like this kind of music rather than your regular Haydn and Mozart."
He chuckled. His eyes were still on the book. He frowned a bit as he, probably, finished the last paragraph of the page, then looked at me with a smile.
"Even Haydn and Mozart could bore your ears sometimes."
Silence.
"Anyway, the best thing about this music is the imperfect recording," he said, altering the tide of the conversation. "Hear the slight voids, air scratches? They give the distant effect, as if we're hearing this thing from another dimension. Recordings are getting better, and alterations would get worse by time. So much for constant advancements in technology."
I smiled.
He closed the reference books, the thesis also, then stood up from the chair.
"You theorize all the time." I said.
"There would always be at least an explanation for everything."
"Pas toujours, ça."
He leaned closer towards me. I could feel the fabric of his gray cashmere sweater brushing the tips of my fingers. When he smiled, I knew I had made a right decision.
To had stayed.
WHEN RAVEN ASKED ME about the music she often heard as she walked the corridors, I told her about European jazz. She was perplexed with the answer. "Now you're telling me about European jazz?" she asked me as if I was speaking to her in a strange language.
"When I was in Switzerland, they were crazy about Parisian street jazz. Django Reinhardt and Stéphane Graphelli— more gypsies with songs than musicians. Charles fell for their music the first time I lent him the LPs."
She said nothing, just kept walking next to me. We were walking slowly, slowly as if the passage of time had rolled far slower than it used to be. She'd smile from time to time, although she was trying hard to keep it discreet.
"I wonder," I said, "You're not even here longer than I, but you've known a lot more about Charles than I do."
I said nothing. Then I looked at her, to look up for a possible answer I could've given without making her even more curious than she already was.
"You know," she continued, "You came right away then take my place." Then laughed, as if it was a bad joke. If she was to retell the entire story, I was a hundred per cent sure she would leave this part.
I looked away, to a random spot at the distance, to the edges of the wall near the ceiling.
"We'll talk later," I said, patting on her shoulder.
"You're going back to the library?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Tell Charles I'm there, will you? He was sleeping when I left his room."
Ever so slightly, she smiled. She was trying to keep it discreet again.
I WAS READING L'EXILE ET LE ROYAUME when he walked in. He opened the door then closed it without a noise, as if he was aware of my unwillingness to be disturbed. His hair was already neat, although he swept it back with his hand as he approached me. I looked at his eyes: the bluest eyes I'd seen my entire life. I tried to look back at the book, I couldn't. He kept looking at me, Charles, I realized that as we gazed at each other, this was a moment to last. To last for a long, long time.
"You're reading again, Erik. You always read… read too much." He said with a smile.
I said: I just don't want to be left behind, after all that had been striped away from me.
He was still smiling, Charles. He kept looking at me, I looked back. I tried to find an answer that would rage those calm blue eyes. I thought of the shade of the sea I used to like as a boy, the sight of it was no more, no more, because the sight of his eyes had replaced the calmness that once was.
I stood up from the chair without even had the book closed. I cupped his face then kissed him: a deep, passionate kiss. I thought he would try to react in a way I wouldn't like, because such kiss wasn't even proper, pas même pour les européens. When the kiss had ended he looked at me as if he was clueless, but that was before he held me by the shoulders then pulled me closer.
"Kiss me again."
I kissed him again. His small lips were warm, willing. I tasted his saliva as it entered my mouth. It was a far sweeter taste than mine, his saliva. Tasting such taste I suddenly thought of quitting smoking. I didn't even tell him that: he'd already know. He ran his hands on my back, brushing it lightly, trying to lift up the leather jacket I was wearing. I wouldn't let him. If that was a question on who should be leading who, here in this game, I'd rather be the one who lead. I'd rather possess him because if I ever let him, when the time came for me to let go of him, I would feel an attachment.
Je n'aimerais pas les sentiments éxagerés.
He was willing. Willing, as I walked him to the ebony table. Willing, as I laid him there, as I swept the books off it. I undressed him: first his sweater, then shirt, belt, his old blue jeans. He was smiling at me. Smiling, as I worked my fingers on his bared torso, on his legs. His thing quickly responded to the touch. I had never seen such quick reaction. I took him as desiring me. Back then such emotion would rather be cleared from my mind, because the desire for love had been taken away from me the time the iron gates with barbed wire blocked the sight of my family. Funny, as I undressed myself, as I let him watched me undressing myself, I was thinking of the scene in the rain all over again. Soon my mother's, father's face would appear in the mind, as if they were calling me again and again. I let those emotions being poured on Charles, on this lovemaking. I let them float on this thin, although stifling air in the library.
I pressed myself against him. His warm body said only a thing: desire. Such clean, calm, transparent desire. I closed my eyes and let the instincts led. In the end I was the one being led, because the scene in the rain was in the mind, like a film with a scene put in repeat mode. When I suddenly stopped caressing him, he remained there on the table, looking confusedly at the ceiling.
"I have gone mad, Erik, I'm sorry." He said it in low voice.
Nothing to be sorry about.
I was left there, torn inside memories. The memories far yet close, the screams, the scene in the rain. If I hadn't bent the gates, would my mother be killed? The image of the coin flashed before my eyes as if I was seeing it right now. I wanted to kill. I wanted to kill and get rid of myself. Sometimes I would tell myself such things whenever I was alone.
He'd read and seen the entire images by now. I felt it. The first time I'd told him to stay away from my head, but I knew I would rather him read it all the time. The desires, the loss, the memories, the willingness to kill….
I kissed him again. I held him tight. If I ever let go I would return to those horrible scenes in the rain. He held me back, he was giving himself to me. He knew I'd rather possess him, he'd known it already. He smiled in such understanding.
"There is no rain," he whispered it in my ear. His breath was warm. The feel of it brushing my ears sent shudders to the end of my fingers, "Right now, there is no rain in sight. No rain, just flesh."
I have said I like the sounds of imperfections, he said to my mind, right now I am feeling the feel of them, the imperfections.
I smiled. I buried my face on his neck.
I breathed him in.
A very short piece that I love the most… at least for now.
thanks to aurore for correcting the title :-)