I apologize for getting to this so late! I've had a rather busy life in the past couple months, therefore These Things Get To Me was put on a slight hold. However, I have finally finished chapter four, and I hope you enjoy it. I certainly enjoyed writing it.
Coming Soon: Chapter 5
New Works In Progress: A collaborative BeruSasha (Bertholdt x Sasha) fic with my friend ask-bertl on Tumblr. Stay tuned!
The walk to Jean Kirschtein's home was sweltering, but the teens managed to get there with minimal damage done. As the two were coming up the block, Sasha Braus took a look around at the neighborhood. It was full of rather large houses, and it made Sasha a bit uncomfortable. Sure, she lived in a nice neighborhood, but she considered Jean's neighborhood upper-end compared to her upper-middle-class block.
They finished up the slight incline, stepping toward a row of deep green hedges. Hidden among the center of the hedgerow was a black iron gate, which Jean proceeded to unlatch and open, stepping aside to let the girl through first. Inside the gate was a lovely garden. There was a willow tree to the left of the house, its yellow-green tangles hanging down almost to the ground, creating a sort of cave of leaves. A ways past that, closer to Sasha, was a pond that had lily pads and other floral water plants floating on the surface of the water, a couple of nicely contained cattails on the far edge opposite the teens. To the right of the stone path leading up to the house was a bed of flowers. Gerber Daisies, petunias, irises, tulips, and roses were arranged in a creative pattern, making waves of pink, yellow, orange, and purple: a late-evening sunset of petals.
The Kirschtein residence was a 3-story house made entirely of red-brown brick. Black panes around the 2-story windows symmetrical on either side of the front, two black pillars holding up an over-hang above the inlaid patio. There was a mail slot in the dark Mahogany door, with black electric lanterns on either side of the port.
"Basically, your house is gorgeous," Sasha emphasized, brown eyes wide disks.
"It's alright," Jean shrugged, leading her around the right side of the house to the back. There was a driveway down to the garage, which happened to be in a level one down the main floor of the house. The drive led to the side of the lot where larger, electric versions of the front gate stood. There was a passcode on it and everything. Sitting out in the sun, obviously freshly washed, was a palladium silver Mercedes-Benz CL550. Not that Sasha knew much about cars, but she did know her luxury vehicles. After all, she was a girl with fabulous daydreams. It wasn't her dream car by any means (for some reason she was drawn to Ford Mustangs), but it was certainly one she liked to imagine herself driving in occasionally. Oh, the looks a person would get in such a gorgeous, expensive car.
And that was about when Jean tapped a finger to the bottom of her chin, eyebrows raised.
"You're going to catch flies," he rolled his eyes.
"Oh. Oh. Sorry," the brunette grinned and awkward smile that clearly showed her mortification. "I didn't mean to drop my jaw I just love that car," her brown eyes slid over to the vehicle once more, a wistful sigh escaping her lips.
"It's just a piece of metal," the boy muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Johnson does not need to have that piece of shit sitting out right now."
"Johnson?"
"Step-father. Kind of a pompous ass if you ask me."
"… Oh."
Sasha didn't ask any questions. If Jean had wanted to elaborate on his step-father, he would have gone into further detail instead of shuffling toward the back door and opening it for her. She stepped inside, a wave of cool, refreshing air breezing over her. Bending down to unstrap her sandals, the girl glanced at the rack on the wall opposite the one she was leaning against. It was filled with a rack of shoes. Most of them were women's shoes: a variety of heels, flats, sandals, sassy strappy numbers, and a pair of puma running shoes.
Jean shot her a long look as he kicked off his shoes, noticing her staring at the collection of shoes. She immediately blinked a few times before straightening herself up and tilting her head to the side, trying to make it seem like she wasn't obsessing over his family's obvious wealth.
Clearing her throat, Sasha lifted her eyebrows, "Well? Grand tour?"
Jean grunted, signaling to her that no, they were not going to tour the house. Instead he just shrugged his left shoulder toward the end of the hall, "stairs 'round the corner."
With an internal sigh Sasha followed the young man down the corridor (hall? No, it was too fancy to be called a hallway) that was filled with photos of the family. One in particular by the stairway caught her eye. It was black and white in a trendy way, and it featured a dashing middle-aged man (presumably Johnson), a lovely woman, Jean, and a girl who seemed to be about 13 years old.
"You have a sister," she pointed out, looking up at him."
"Yeah, Louise. She's twelve." A year off, but a good guess on Sasha's part.
"She's pretty."
"Yeah, she really is."
"Does she look like you?"
"Yeah. No. I don't know. You'll have to see for yourself if you're still here by the time she gets home from her dance practice."
"Oh, your sister dances?"
"Yeah," Jean quirked a crooked grin, "She takes ballet, but also does competitive dance. They've already started training camps in preparation for learning their routines later this summer, followed by the competition season in September—which goes until May—then dance studio recital the first weekend in June, then training camps."
"Jeez, sounds like a year-round thing," Sasha grinned, "You know I dance."
"Wait, what? Where?"
"Expressions."
"You're fucking kidding me," Jean's eyebrows were practically in his hairline, bewildered.
"Not kidding. Why, does Louise go there?"
"Yeah, she dances at Expressions. Wait, did you quit?"
"College," the brunette giggled, tapping a forefinger to her temple, "I've graduated. This past recital was my last. Did your sister dance the first night or the second?"
"Second. Why?"
"Oh, that's 'advanced' show—"
"I know."
"—aka the same show I was in."
"Wait. What dances were you in?"
"Lovestruck, Love in a Box for pointe, Violet, Candles, The Middle, and a solo called Last Station."
"Jesus, that was you?"
Sasha's eyebrows shot up her forehead, "W-what?"
"You're like, amazing." He kept emphasizing words like that, "that Last Station was so great. It was like watching a fucking angel flying across the stage. The most beautiful dance I have ever seen."
With each phrase, Sasha Braus' face grew redder. She never thought she was that good, just that she worked hard to get some skills enough to dance for, well, fun. It wasn't a career, for her, and her studio didn't emphasize actual forms of ballet, just simple modern variations and routines to modern music. It was a hobby. Maybe Jean didn't know what he was talking about. Honestly, he probably had a good idea of what he was saying, since he mentioned (he'd been talking this entire time) something about Louise starting when she was three—just as Sasha had—so he had to have some knowledge of dance after seeing competitions and recitals all those years.
As she fought for words, the dusty blond boy flashed her a smile, elbowing her arm, "Aw, c'mon Sash, let's just go upstairs. I'll introduce you to Louise when she gets home, if you're willing to stay for a while." With that, he turned from her and started up the white-carpeted stairs.
Once the young adults got to the second floor, Jean took a turn to the right, rounding a left corner and out of sight. Sasha followed behind him, a little concerned about losing him in this grandiose house, but instead of getting lost, she simply bumped into something.
There was a white railing in front of her—she'd missed a second left and hit what was stopping her from falling off the balcony. Looking below her, there was a large dining hall. Well, large for a house. Certainly not something like those in a hotel or anything. However, it could pass for a small, fancy hotel. There was a white grand piano propped up in one corner, a bar below the balcony (she'd stretched her neck out and down to see what was beneath her suspended self), and plenty of white granite floor space to dance on, should there be a black-tie party of sorts. There was even a chandelier, for the ceiling went all the way up to what would be the ceiling of the third floor, right beneath the attic (Sasha assumed there was an attic). In the middle of the room—seemingly out of place—was a square dining table. It sat small in the middle of the big hall, lonely. All by itself.
"You coming?" Jean's voice from the top of the second set of stairs. Shaking her head of visions of champagne and evening gowns, Sasha smiled and skipped up the stairs, meeting him and rounding the next corner.
"This floor is kind of mine," he said with a grin, "My bedroom, my bathroom, and a theater room. I mean, the family kind of uses it, but mostly Marco and I game and watch movies in there. The occasional other guys and some chicks."
Cocky bastard, she thought with an eye-roll. For some reason the thought of other girls their age in his house was unsettling. Come on, Braus, you know that he's probably had girlfriends. After all, you just met him. You're just hanging out, try not to think about it. Oh well, she followed him to the left and into his bedroom.
Once more, she was stopped in her tracks. His bed was elevated as if it were a top half of a bunk bed. Lofted, she thought to herself. There was a small ladder that came down off the end, not straight up and down, but inclined. Beneath the bed was a desk with a laptop sitting open, the screensaver a slide-show of a bunch of different album covers—probably of his favorite bands. Sasha only recognized a couple of the band names.
His pale-blue walls were covered in posters. Movie posters on the left wall, band posters and a variety of pictures everywhere else. There was a television hung on the wall opposite his bed, and the far right wall had doors that presumably led to a closet. To the left of his bed-desk apparatus was a stand with a gorgeous blue acoustic guitar. On the floor surrounding the guitar, sheet music was splayed everywhere in a sort of organized-mess.
"You play," Sasha tilted her head, making a statement rather than asking a question. It was obvious he played guitar.
"Yeah, I do. I play the piano, too. And bass. I'm not well-versed in drums, though. I guess I know some violin, too, but that's because I took lessons for a couple years."
"Impressive. You know I sing a bit."
"Do you?"
"Yeah, it's nothing special. I can't play any instruments though."
"Hmm, maybe I can teach you sometime?" a soft smile graced his lips.
Sasha pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, "Yeah, that'd be nice." Taking a deep sigh, she walked past him, finding a spot on the floor and sitting down.
"Well then, Kirschtein, why in the world are we here? I was about ninety-percent sure you promised not only AC but also popsicles."
Scoffing, Jean rolled his eyes, "You're so demanding, Braus. Shut up," she was giggling, "I'll go get some. Flavor?"
"Lime."
He nodded, "'Kay, I'll be back," and headed down the stairs.
Suddenly Sasha wished she had gone with him instead of sitting on his floor. It was rather awkward for her to be alone in an unfamiliar house, especially one so large. Regardless, she sat there humming a tune to herself. It was a few minutes before she heard footsteps hurrying up the stairs and down the hall, back to his room where she remained.
"You sat here the whole time like this?" he was a bit surprised.
"What, did you want me to sift through your stuff? I'm telling you, I was so tempted to find your underwear and steal a pair. Keep 'em in my pillowcase."
"Oh my god, you perv."
"Hey, I could be an ax murderer."
"Maybe I'm a serial killer."
"Hey, we'd make quite the team!"
By now, he was sitting opposite her on the floor, and the two were laughing so hard they couldn't open the wrappers on their popsicles. Eventually they calmed down enough, and soon the two were long finished with the frozen treats and huddled in front of his computer screen sharing music interests.
"No, but seriously, this band is the best," Sasha insisted, her brunette ponytail over her shoulder and rested a bit on his shoulder.
"There's no way. Paradise-what's-the-other-part-of-their-name can't be super amazing."
"Paradise Fears.No, you don't understand," she was indignant, "I danced to one of their songs. Their music style is ever changing yet kind of the same, if you know what I mean—" he nodded, "—and I just can't get over how great they are!"
"Fine, I'll look them up. What song?"
"My favorite is one of their older songs: Hear Me Out."
"Okay, here it is."
With some clicks of the mouse, he was able to find the right song and play it over his speakers. It was a pop-punk number, a semi-love confession, but less lovey-dovey and more oh-dear-lord-I-confessed-my-feelings-and-you-haven't-said-anything-back-yet. When it was finished, Jean sat back in his chair and exhaled.
"What?" Sasha was worried he didn't like her favorite band, even though it seemed like his kind of music. After all, the music he'd played for her were bands similar to Paradise Fears.
"It's… different. A good different. I like it a lot."
Waves of relief crashed over her, "You do?"
"Honest to any and all deities," he winked at her, crossing his heart with his index finger.
Adorable, she thought, realizing she was suddenly looking at him quite close. After all, they'd been practically ear-to-ear the whole time they were listening to music. In fact, their eyes were locked on one another's.
Not sunlight, Sasha apprehended from the depths of her mind, yellow diamonds. Shards of them in his eyes. Why hadn't she noticed it? That night that seemed so long ago, all she had recognized was that he had a hot body and a great hairstyle. Drunk Jean seemed crasser than sober Jean, but sober Jean was more laid back. Either way, he was attractive.
As his eyes studied hers, Sasha Braus came to the realization that she was incredibly drawn to this ever-mysterious young man. More than she had ever wanted to be attracted to someone. What was the saying? A moth to a flame.