Sunrise...
     It turned the overcast from grey to salmon pink and violet, and bronze basilicas captured whatever rays pushed through the rolling clouds. Clouds heavy with snow. And then from first rising brilliance to muted shades, the grey returned after the first part of morning...
     Long wool coat...
     Gloves...
     Sweater and trousers...
     Socks and shoes...
     Strewn about in no discernible order or pattern and yet arranged in the Order They Were Removed. Pants being last, by the bed. All the evidence of the last night, which the sun's rising has already ...swept away...
     Downstairs, there is the smell of coffee...
     Rich and fragrant, it fills the entire loft -- upstairs and down -- and sparkles of glass chime against one another, glimmering in the breeze that passes them by. Oh yes, it's quite cold, and yet there is one window slightly ajar...
     Scented steam rises from a large porcelain cup, resting on a small glass-covered table. And propped up and surrounded, cupped and held aloft is Kit upon a firmament of collected pillows. Barefoot. Wearing a loose thermal shirt and baggy trousers, thick plush cotton. And his eyes are on his moving fingers.
     Pressing strings against the frets, he moves from chord to chord. Soft modulations. A press and a squeeze, and the string warbles. A slide, and its voice dips and slows. A rush of fingers, and high notes trill. It is a song that is No Song. Something picked up mid-verse.
     Borrowed from the cosmos...
     The musician's face is set, stony serious concentration. But his grey eyes are soft. Lightly laying attention upon his shifting fingers.

     From the quiet, there is the disruptive knock at the door.
     A sequence of two.
     Followed by a sequence of three.

     And it ends just as it should...
     Where he leaves it...
     Fingers still against the neck of the guitar and his other hand halts and hushes the strings at the box. Dark brows knit and he rises, a glance to his coffee...
     I should take that with me...
     ...but then he is already in motion...
     The blue door is opened, slowly, upon the last knock of the sequence of three. A pull ajar, and his dark curls bounce before his face. Ah, the look of the newly awakened...
     Better said, one who has not slept...
     "Si, buoa mattina," Kit begins. His Italian fluent and quiet, warm and soft.

     The man at the door turns around, light brown hair falling into his green eyes. "Buoa mattina," he chimes, smile radiant. Beauty incarnate. Rather lithe, he looks like a dancer, despite the obvious clues of dressing in spandex pants and a sweatshirt. He's recently come from practice, it seems, and in his hands is a dish, covered in a towel.
     "You...are new?" he asks, Italian rather sudden. "Welcome...I..." he smiles, lips sweetly turning skew, "I...just wanted to welcome you to our building." The dish is lifted towards you, so you can see it. "I'm...Daniel. I live..." he twists to motion, "...across the hall..."

     The door is opened more widely, giving a view of the tiny corner loft. Its windows. Its sparkling glass. The relative unfurnished -- well, unless you count the pillows and rugs. The apartment is roughly triangular, from what can be seen of it...
     "Thank you, Daniel..." Kit says, "...and I am new, yes," the Italian used is Venetian, still, the accenting is not quite assimilated yet, but he speaks the language well, as if he were native. Nearly. "Very new in fact, just a few weeks. My name is," and there's not even a pause, "Christopher...Would you like to come in? Please," and he steps aside.
     "I have coffee, fresh... you are welcome to join me..."
     There is never a closed door...
     How could there be?

     His brows arch, as if pleasantly surprised. "Oh...great," he grins, breath rough as if a sigh comes behind it. Daniel siddles in, feet in thick socks. "Oh, wow," he nods, "...this is...beautiful." His head bobs approvingly, eyes moving to each item, each bit of color.
     "Oh, here," he spins easily, offering you the dish. "It isn't much," Daniel grins proudly, "...just a bit of bread I made and a few almond cookies...Christopher." A name he likes -- it's in the pull of his lips.
     It looks part Venetian, part Moroccan, part Indian. East and West colliding -- and where better than in Venice? With her Byzantine buildings...
     As he steps aside, Kit smiles more widely and his arm extends. "I do not have much in the way of furniture, but you are welcome to take a rug, si?" The door closes and he takes the dish. "Grazie," he says, smile twisting, he lifts the bowl of bread and cookies. "Do you take anything in your coffee?"
     He is already moving to the small kitchen, an angle of the triangular space, his barefeet sounding on the tile. "Such a welcome, I appreciate it..." The bowl is set upon the tiled kitchen counter. "I liked the space. I was very fortunate to find a room here. You have lived here a while, Daniel?"
     The coffee he pours is Turkish. Maybe you can tell this from the smell of it, rich and dark. And the cups are all Italian porcelain, with its wild colors and wide bowls.

     "Me?" Daniel grins, "Oh, yes. Several years, since I came here from Sicily..." eyes wandering again around the room. There. A spot. He turns about and now it's evident -- he has been dancing a long time. Beneath moving sweatshirt is a body devoid of anything but muscle. And at the hem of his sweats, powerful thighs sometimes reveal. "It's a nice building," he says softly, bending to peer at a curious stone near a rug. And then that captures him. How ornate. You must travel.
     "And..." he twists again, bent in two, "...oh, nothing in the coffee, thanks, Christopher. Just as is." Daniel returns to his height, about six feet, then lowers easily to knee before letting himself drop to the floor. Immediately, he begins to fold himself akimbo.
     "I like the decor! It's," Daniel's hand waves, "...so eastern? But then, these stones you have and...it is just so brilliant and colorful. So...alive, you know? Vibrant. Fun.
     And there is so much to see. He speaks to you, while his gaze flits about the place. "You travel a lot? I have not spent much time East...other than Moscow, Stalingrad...." where the legendary ballet companies reside. "Not Middle East though...oh..." he laughs, picking up that he's missed a part. "I dance. Ballet," he adds self-consciously, shrugging and tugging at his shirt. You might have figured it out.

     Turkish coffee needs little embellishment. And so, he pours, grey eyes lifting, peering between dark curls. Dark -- something between brown and black -- longer in the front than in the back. Some style long grown out, but it fits him. It fits him Here. And of him, what can you tell? He is not nearly as tall as you. Not nearly. You are six-foot -- he is something more like 5'9". He is fit, even athletic, but of that more wiry, lean build of a futbol player. Of a poet who knows the value of running as much as meter.
     He is, in short, handsomely haphazard.
     But his hands? Those belong to a musician...
     Kit strolls to the living room -- it's not much of a walk -- and he smiles, setting your cup of coffee on the small table. "Grazie," he murmurs, "... it is just....well," a hand lifts and pushes through dark curls, pushing them away from his face, "...a collection of things, not so much an order to it, but it reminds me of the places I've been in the last year or so..."
     He is turning again, heading back to the kitchen for your housewarming gift, the cookies and the bread. "Ah! Moscow! It is a beautiful, old city I hear. I would like to go sometime. I travel now and again, when wanderlust grabs me. Bit of a gypsy soul, but... I guess the pillows gave this away, yes?"
     The bread is set upon the table, the covering removed, and Kit starts to settle. Pausing, smiling a little and moving his guitar out of the way. He sets it on a nearby stand.
     The guitar is stout, somewhat like him, but blue and violet. Wide-bodied and full-throated. A more classical guitar. A twelve-string...
     "A dancer..." he settles not far from you, "...ballet," an echo, "...such dedication. You do this professionally, si?" It is more than just a hobby, to look at you.
     And grey eyes do...

     "It is," Daniel nods, used to wandering eyes. He grins and picks up the coffee, easily at home here. "Since I was..." he squints, thinking, "...about five. My mother had been a dancer, and well..." he laughs, "...so here I am." He watches you over the cup, tipping it up with a soft, "Grazie."
     "And yeah," Daniel's cup lowers to his lap after the taste, "...it's obvious you like to travel," he smiles. "I like travelling too...but it's often with a group. Venetian State," he lets you know, grin of pride following. "I am not principal, but..." he laughs and lifts crossed fingers at you.
     "I'd seen you coming and going a few times," Daniel explains, lifting his cup again. "...and in the courtyard." He hopes you don't mind him visiting. "It was strange seeing you come and go and I hadn't introduced myself or anything, seeing we're neighbors."
     Eyes wander to the guitar. "Music," he grins, motioning with his cup.

     There is a reach, and his hand captures the other wide cup. The coffee is only just now cooling, but he does not mind. And he smiles, a slight twist to his lips. His eyebrows lifting when you mention Venetian State...
     The smile broadens as you cross your fingers. And he crosses a finger in sympathetic hope with you. "I wish you the best of luck. So, do you have to try out for that honor, or is it something that happens by some other selection?" He tilts his head, interested, and he sips at his coffee. A sip, and then with a grin Kit reaches for an almond cookie. Gesturing toward you with it -- a salute. Salut!
     At the mention of seeing him come and go, Kit chuckles, soft laughter and he rakes a hand through curls again. "I have been moving in, in spurts," he admits. And then a blush, "Not that there is much to move in. Some rugs... but the rocks... the candles, there were boxes and boxes of them. But I am glad you came by. I am usually more social. I am looking forward to spring, sitting on the balcony..."
     Music...
     "It is what brings me joy, Daniel, music. And it allows me to travel. I can always work wherever I go!" A salut with the cup, a wink of grey eyes, and he takes a sip of coffee. And finally a bite of a cookie. Eyes sparkle: "Very good! Grazie!"

     He blushes at the cookie, waving his hand again. "At least they're good. I'd hate to make a bad first impression by making you sick!"
     Daniel takes a drink from his coffee, continuing, "Grazie, on the luck. It is...a selection more than anything else. Time spent, roles, how good you are...people in influential places," Daniel smirks. Maybe he has friends, maybe he does not. "Our principal...Anastazio Prima...he is very famous. And...well, they say is thinking of becoming a Feature." Command performances around the world. "He might leave State next year, and so...I am...preparing." For his chance. A blush to confess such personal hopes to you, but Daniel does. You seem amenable to such.
     "But enough of me," he smiles, lips thin. He turns to pick up a cookie, asking, "You are a professional guitarist? You have concerts?" If you can travel and play, you must do well...

     But I would rather hear more of this dream of yours. This hope you have...
     No, this aspiration...
     And Aspiration's own self sits forward with interested eyes. Grey clouds and sparking lightning. "Really?" he asks. "This would be such an opening... you must keep me informed! And I would like to see a performance. Is it currently on or off season for your company?" Being new in town, of course, he does not know such things yet. Kit sips at his coffee again, and the cookie is finished, washed down. A perfect companion to the Turkish bean...
     "I can call for a schedule too, yes? I will do so," it's decided...
     Grey lowers to the dark brown in his cup. "Professional?" The smile is ribald with the notion. "Of a sort," Kit says, smiling constant. "I play, but I also teach. It is the teaching that allows me to afford to play and to travel. I play guitar and violin. And I think this spring I will start taking students. If I make too much noise, throw a shoe against the door!"

     Daniel's eyes widen, and then he laughs, shaking his head negatively. Auburn hair flutters in his face -- they cannot be in season for the locks that hide his eyes. "I'm not at home so much...practice, seeing friends. But I love violin, so do not not practice or have students on my account," he explains. "And yes, you can get a schedule by calling the Palace." As if you would know which. "Next season, we are doing The Firebird, Die Flugelhorn, La Toreador..." just to name a few. "I will be the second in Flugelhorn, but will dance the Prince in the Firebird..." a prime role!
     "So, yes!" Daniel chirps. "You must come. And there are stage parties...maybe you'll meet us one night after a performance." Eyes wander as he tips his coffee again, realizing he is reaching the bottom. Too bad.

     Both hands lift, coffee for the moment set aside, and Kit smiles, "Very well, I will take students, but the option on the shoe, it is still open...but I will come to a performance or two or three or ten. I will make sure to come when you are dancing the prince. Then I can say: that is my neighbor, Daniel..." He brings his cup back to him, lifting it for a sip and swallow. "Of course, I will be there." He nods. Where aspirations and dreams live, this is where I always am.
     The smile slants at the mention of stage parties. "I do not think I will pass for a dancer," he laughs at the notion, "but... perhaps after your night of nights as the prince, I can catch you and give you congratulations..."
     He reaches for another cookie, murmuring 'Good' as he lifts it in salute again to you. "We should have a tenants gathering... ah, do they do anything here for Christmas? Everyone in the building?"

     "Yes," Daniel continues to grin, especially after you have praised him so. He looks at the door, as if seeing into the hallway. "There are holiday parties that people have, and then the building party in the courtyard. That will be..." green eyes narrow, lip curling, "....oh...the twenty-third. They will post again on it. I believe though I have the invitation in my apartment."
     "The tenants council is a board of eight. They have lived here a long time, though there is one young person, Maria Genovese, that's also on the committee. The owner," Daniel's nose squishes up, "...is a man named Frederick du Marle. German...maybe Austrian. He bought the building several years ago." More there, but Daniel's lips purse together and he sighs. "But it is a good council. They can get things done...like when we needed new coolboxes in some of the apartments, like mine." He nods his head, letting hair bounce, "That was a good job. My coolbox had been leaking, as some of the others were. Then we realized it was a particular kind of box that was put in." He snorts, showing disdain. "They did not want to fix it, but the council got them to get us new coolboxes."

     "I want to go to the building party. I should meet the others here and not be such a stranger. One who comes and goes without saying 'hello'. I will do that... I will look through my papers," a hand through curls again. As if such organization were just not 'him' -- and so it is not. "I am sure I have the post with my other papers. I should go through that stuff sometime and file it." And he laughs. It will never get done.
     A swallow of his coffee and it's done. He sets the cup upon the table and sits back on the cushions. "The office has been kind to me. I could not believe this apartment was available. I saw it and I wanted it. I like the feeling of being in a loft. And the windows. A nice view of the courtyard. It will be a good place for music. I am glad they are responsive, though. Me, I am easy to please, just a few pillows and some shiny rocks usually takes care of it. The courtyard will be nice, come the spring..."
     All the tiny little hopes for sunshine and company. Good weather and shiny rocks. A place to play music. A cushion for the head. Such tiny dreams. The world is full of them...
     What would it be like if they were all answered? kit smiles, half-slanting. "I forgot to ask them how they were with pets..."

     "Oh," Daniel swallows, "...they do not mind small pets. I think some have lhasas and other dogs," he nods, setting his cup down too. "But it's good to be easy to please. That is my motto too...enjoy life, enjoy dancing. Or music," he grins at you. "But it is a nice building, one of the nicer ones in the area. That's because of the people," he nods vigorously, truly believing it.

     "Maybe I will just feed the pigeons," he says as if thinking aloud, "...I am sure," grey eyes find you and he laughs, "...that would make me popular here, si?" The laughter ends in a softening breath. "I like it for its age. I said I wanted to be in one of Venezia's older children. To feel the soul of the place. I am so fortunate that I found it. In the spring and summer, I imagine it is very lovely. The courtyard is flowered. I will sit out on one of the benches and play and play. This is the good life," he nods, agreeing.

     It is that. Daniel nods as well, and the feel of departure time draws nigh. "I should go..." Daniel smiles, reaching up to push hair from his face. His head tilts, causing the fall of locks, and he watches you a long second. "I'm glad to come over, new neighbor," he smiles warmly. A happy young man. "Maybe we will have drinks together sometime? There is a nice place around the corner for drinks." He asks. Wondering.

     "I would like that," Kit agrees, and nodding, straightens. "I have not found a good... what do they call in Italian..." And suddenly there is English, "... bar?" He laughs. "I cannot believe I do not know this word in every language. Yes, I would like to go... I have found several good caffes already," but no bars. With a sigh, Kit starts to stand. "It has been lovely meeting you," he holds out his hand. "Thank you again, Daniel, for bringing a little housewarming gift to me," grey eyes soften, "It was very kind..."
     And I needed it. Sometimes, even an angel has to have a helping hand...
     "Maybe this week...well... you let me know, yes? When you can do this, I do not know what your practice schedule is. And I will not interrupt that!"

     He grins and pushes himself from the floor in a graceful rise. One motion. "Si," Daniel brightens, "...a drink then." It's a date. He smirks at the mention of the gift, extending his hand to grab your own for a shake. Smooth they are, hands that have never seen manual labor. "It's been nice meeting you too, Christopher." Such a name. Daniel grins and moves around you slowly, heading to the door.
     "I normally have gymnasium in the morning, and then practices in the afternoons. I am around at lunch times, unless I eat at a cafe. But you can put a note for me under the door, and I will find you. I normally come in after practice, to shower and change before going out for the evening." With friends...or whomever.
     "So, we will have a drink, maybe tomorrow night." There. He grins and steps to the door, hand upon the latch.

     "I will leave a note," he nods. Agreement. And Kit grins, eyes sparking. "And tomorrow night should be fine for me..." As if I have plans. What are those? Apart from work or seeking work? What else is there?
     At least while Soldekai is away...
     Kit follows you to the door, courteous -- it would seem -- to a fault. "Have a good day, yes? I will see you soon. Thanks again for coming by..."

     Daniel nods affirmatively, creating the need to brush away hairs again. "You have a good evening too," he twists, shuffling himself out of the door. "And you're welcome. Bye!" he waves, stepping out into the hall and walking backwards to his door, just a ways down.

Posted by rowan at May 17, 2003 07:12 PM