Something Stupid (Christian)

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

Christian decided off the bat that his best course of action was to simply allow Emilie to settle herself down. He would not plead with her to lay in her own bed, and nothing short of her carrying him out of the room and back into his own bed would convince him to move. So, logic did dictate she'd settle in slowly. And, as logic was bound to do from time to time, it won out. She laid back in her bed, feeling secure under the shield of goose down and Egyptian cotton, watching the ceiling in determination not to face him. And her own curiosity.

Since they were young, Millie was a fiercely curious. Mostly of what Christian would do next. It was much how a caged bird watches a free one out a window. There was as much curiosity as there was apprehension. Wild birds were dangerous, after all, as tamed birds were, well, tamed. One of the first incidents, years and years before, had been when they were children. Long ago, when Adolfo had been married to Emilie's cousin, Jeanne. She, and her elder sister Katrina (mind you once, was now Adolfo's wife, and mind you twice, was at the shy age of twelve at the time) were visiting for Christmas. Katrina had been so awed by the splendor of the Alp's Home, and Christian's aunt Eliza (then age thirteen) had not been shy about giving the grand tour. She took the sisters and five year old Christian, then so young and still so innocent, on an informative and authoritative walk through, finally bringing them to the library.

Oh, that library. Christian still cringed entering there, though he faced it sometimes to look at his handiwork. While the older girls practiced their etiquette (or more accurately, Eliza directed the eager to please Trina in etiquette), Christian told Millie how this was going to be HIS house someday. Thus, he could do as he liked. The young, and incredibly grave but curious, little girl demanded proof. Christian, without giving it too much thought, went to find an inkwell and painted a large C and M (to the great annoyance of Emilie, who insisted her name had an E that Christian's young ear could not seem to catch), followed by his hand print. He had expected Emilie to do the same, though she refused. Soon, he was caught for ruining the antique wall paper. Caught red handed- or more accurately, black- in fact. Emilie took none of the blame, though she had urged the process, and Christian did not tell. Eliza was quick to blame her step cousin, but Adolfo would have none of it.

It was quite painful to sit on his bottom, for near a a week long after that. Though, the stubborn boy did.

He took the experience as a lesson, concerning the depths that Emilie would go to quench her dehydrated thirst to quench her curiosity. And it had only grown worse since, as Christian began to care less and less as the years went on. There was little that could be done, when one cared so little for the things he had. To take something from him would do little more than mildly annoy him, and he'd certainly have a new trinket to occupy himself soon after. In fact, it would most certainly be acquired by his own means too.

He sometimes thought Emilie envied that freedom Christian had. Very much the same way a caged bird envies how high a free bird could fly. But of course there was a fear of that unknown, most definitely. The fear was her cage, the apprehension was her bars.

"You like knowing things Aunt. Anything you can manage to know, you'll try and learn. Even if you think I think you don't think it's not worth knowing." He laughed, as his words trilled off his tongue easily. "To you, everything is worth knowing. Simply for the sake of knowing it. I think that's what I like most about you. Other girls are so very self absorbed, don't you think? They don't want to know what does not pertain to them or whatever they decide is interesting. You indiscriminate. That is what I like about you." He nodded, as if sure of his final answer. Which, in a way, he was.

Smiling a smile so similar when they first met, when she was so new and he had all but ordered her to be his new friend and she had refused as blatantly as she did today, he watched her moon softened face. Ah, she could purse her lips to her hearts content, but in this light her face could not help but look gentle. Christian rather thought she should always be in this light, though she would most certainly find it insulting as they were basically in the dark, and thus he decided to keep it to himself. "I seem to have woken you up, Song Bird. I can sing you back to sleep, if you like..." She probably thought he was being snarky. Millie had a bad habit of thinking the worse of him, though honestly at any other time she'd probably be wrong. But, right now, she would be most completely wrong. Entirely. Besides, it might be nice for her to be sang to for once.

Even a song birds voice grew tired, from time to time.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Emilie kept her bright eyes fixed at the ceiling as he spoke. She watched it carefully, as though somehow the words were projected there large enough for her to read, analyze, digest. As though it could ever be that simple. If it were, she’d have given up long ago.

She turned not to face him, eyes narrowing slightly at the laugh she was almost positive held a slightly mocking tone. He had her trapped and he knew it; they both knew it. Imprisoned by innate curiosity and sheer pride, her two greatest weaknesses proved to be incredibly sturdy bars, all things considered, and she couldn’t help but loath him for setting them up. Perhaps she could have put up more of a fight. Protested longer, actually tried pushing him out of the bed and onto the floor. But then, of course, there was the very small (miniscule, in fact, she insisted) bit of her that didn’t entirely mind his presence so close, though she could certainly have done with a less secretive entrance. Though has she been granted one, he wouldn’t have gotten within two feet of the bed. Emilie knew herself well, as much as she sometimes hated to admit it. She was a curious creature—particularly where Christian was concerned—and he apparently knew this just as well as she.

Still, despite her silence, she nodded slightly at his words. There was a strange comfort in his words, no matter how much she’d rather not admit it. His eyes were on her—she could feel them, like one might feel a faint breeze from a cracked window; slight, yet no matter how much she tried to ignore it, she couldn’t seem to. Without looking at him, Emilie pulled her hands from the comforter. She fidgeted slightly, smoothing out the white down before folding her hands across her stomach, just below her chest, fingers lacing over one another. Her bare legs moved beneath the sheets, crossing over one another at the ankles. She could stay like this, she told herself.

Of course he spoke then, as Christian was prone to do, and ruined whatever bit of poise she’d scrounged up at a time such as this. She turned her head slightly to look at him, just enough to narrow her eyes. Even in the darkness, they dripped with dryness. “Obviously.”

She responded curtly to his statement, which was clearly meant to mock her. “No, thank you. I don’t think that’s necessary.” Typical. A small scoff escaped her lips as she turned her head away again. Slowly, Emilie unlinked her fingers and turned on her side, back to him as she pulled the covers up a bit higher to rest just under her chin, the hand not curled around it still outside the white sheets. Her legs curled upwards again as she narrowed her eyes at the armoire for a brief moment. The expression relaxed shortly thereafter, however, and she found herself simply staring silently at the wardrobe.

She spoke after a moment. Despite the soft expression he could not see, her voice remained harsh, angry at the thing so very close to her she could not control. “Aren’t you going to turn around?” She was a bit annoyed at herself, that it’d come out a question and not an order. Still, she listened carefully to see if he’d turn away from her, eyes wide open as she held her breath ever so slightly.

Certainly, she needed no lullaby.

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

Millie's hatred was palpable.

Her movements were organized, tinged with nervousness, yet still precise. She wanted to give off the impression that she didn't care that he was there. An attempted mask of indifference, not wanting to give off the satisfaction of stirring such a powerful emotion as hatred was. Hell, he'd even complimented her, and it was met with curt scoff. His existance was one of annoyance to her, one of dissatisfaction. He couldn't muster any tangible emotion to this, but instead felt all the emotions. Amusement, anger, happiness, sadness, disgust, endearment. He couldn't pin point what he wanted, and found the collection cumbersome.

Though his offer was sincere, Millie assumed the worse of him, and scoffed once more. It was unfair of Christian to feel anything negative about this. He had proven himself to be mean, to be cruel. To mock her at any time, no matter if the surrounding situation deemed it appropriate. They had grown to be enemies. He simply stared at her, watching as she tried to relax herself under his gaze. Christian wanted to reach out. Slap her, brush his hand against her cheek, grab her jaw, stroke her lips. His brows knit and his eyes grew confused, attempting to will his brain to decide on his next move. Indignation? Or maybe he should attempt to convince her? To what point though, it would only return to how it was. Sometimes, however, it was best just to do nothing. And so he did. He did nothing as she turned her back to him, and as she struck out with her lashing words.

So that how it was.

Gently, he reached out to his Song Bird. His languid fingers laced in the silk locks, moving with nimbly balletic grace, over the honey curls. Even if he only had her hatred, it was something. At least it was something he knew what to do with! Yes, that was a better way of looking at it. What would he do with something so trite as love? Hate he understood, hate he got. So, yes, he could admire her lissome frame from afar, and accept her slings and arrows, as well as throw some back at her. Why change what has worked for seventeen years. Taking his hand back, he rolled over as she had all but ordered him to do. There was a heaviness in his movements, a reluctance.

Laying near her, Christian took a deep breath, trying to return to his place of peace. Though his body began to ache with exhaustion, sleep would not come. Trying to sooth his busy mind, Christian hummed softly, wondering if he was bothering her. If he minded if he was. After a second of consideration, Christian decided to follow through on his promise of a lullaby, regardless of her scornful words. He wondered if that was why she allowed him to stay, why she didn't call for a servant, which she very well knew would send him away. Even if it was not under the guise of tattling, even if it was just to ask for them to bring her water or a hot blanket. He'd have gone. But she didn't, because Millie had to of figured out, after all this time, that he was strong enough to take her wrath.

The tune was gentle and calm and simple, and pierced the darkness of the bedroom with an ethereal pitch. It was the only song in the world that he could compare to his Millie Song Bird.

"There's a little bird,
Somebody sent
Down to the earth to
Live on the wind.
Blowing on the wind,
She sleeps on the wind,
This little bird,
Little bird.

Light and fragile
and feathered sky-blue.
Thin and graceful,
The sun shining through.
She flies so high,
Up in the sky,
Way out of reach
of human eyes.

Light and fragile,
and feathered sky-blue.
Thin and graceful,
The sun shining through.
She flies so high,
Up in the sky,
Way out of reach
of human eyes.

Light and fragile,
She's feathered sky-blue.
Thin and graceful,
The sun shining through.

And the only time
She touches ground
Is when that little bird,
Little bird,
Is when that little bird,
Little bird,
Is when that little bird
Dies.

He ended, almost sadly, as if mourning the little bird. There were two facts of life: Everyone lies, everyone dies. The little bird reminded him of his own little bird; her eyes were sky blue, and she was thin and graceful. Emilie might have been Earth with the people, but her mind was so far from human eyes. Untouchable to the world, even to Christian.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Emilie waited in silence, her calm, even breathing slicing the silent air between them as she listened. Surely, he wouldn’t just stay still. He’d turn around, and she’d be able to convince herself he wasn’t there at all until she woke up, whereupon it would truly be no more than a bad dream. Not quite a nightmare—no, nowhere near that, in fact. A half forgotten something she’d think of later in the day in some secret, hidden place she didn’t want to keep, but would never quite throw out, either, because it would stay somewhere in the back of her mind as an unfinished melody. And music, as eerie as it was, could be made more beautiful when incomplete.

She held her breath as his fingers met her hair. It was for but a moment, but she felt her heart involuntarily quicken its place. Internally, she cursed it. Blue eyes cast their gaze to the floor as the skin of her scalp began to tingle and a flash of a ridiculous, immediately suppressed thought to turn her head to look at him raced through her head and then away, back to some neatly organized mental drawer she never wanted to open, but could never find the metaphorical key to lock. She could breathe again as he turned away, though the exhale was subtle, controlled so as not to become any more obvious than necessary in the already tangibly silent room.

Her eyes closed. Slowly, and with reluctance, for the truth of the matter was that she was too tired to sleep. Too tired to feel anything but a burning on the back of her eyelids when she closed them. Too exhausted to do anything but breathe in, and out…and in, and out…and pretend that somehow, counting how many times she could reach one hundred would lull her back off to her dreams.

She was at huit when he began humming. Dix-neuf when he began to sing.

Emilie listened, though care was not needed to hear his words, for they drifted around her bedroom on moonbeams. Across the walls and up the ceiling they floated—or fluttered, perhaps, was the better word—until the notes came to rest on her shoulders, curling in her hair and settling themselves on her skin like petals. They were a comfort unspeakably unrecognizable. A slight something stirred in the corners of her eyes and in her chest and she shifted her body slightly (just barely, so as not to disrupt the tune), blinking and watching the wardrobe as though somehow, the song had not yet made its way there. It was a lie, of course, and she found herself far too tired to fight it. Water welled delicately in her eyes by the time he reached the second to last verse; when he was finished, a single drop spilled over.

She rubbed her cheek slightly against the pillow, a little rush of air passing into her as she blinked, eradicating the reaming tearbuds before they could blossom. Her lips pursed again, though not in her usual manner, and she turned once more so that she was facing Christian’s back. It was a soft movement, almost as though she wished for it to go undetected, though certainly loud enough for him to hear in such a quiet room. Such a small space, when one thought about it. Her eyes flickered over him for a second before she let them fall gently closed; a minute, thankful smile seemed to be faded over her lips.