[they were lying in bed together not even thirty minutes ago, when Wilhelm finally had to get up, and finally had to get dressed, and finally had to go into the office for the first time in two weeks... but, yeah. but still. but chaos still misses him a great deal.]
[Wilhelm wouldn't believe you, if you were to tell him he's short-sighted. He's been called a visionary, and he has a vision. This vision may differ from what the magazines assume, but it's there, and it's everlasting. He couldn't be short-sighted...
Even if he is perusing the nearby florists.]
Why don't you call me at 2 o'clock?
You may order in for lunch, if you'd like. My card is in the nightstand drawer; there are menus available there.
[They're menus in the style of Joshua's favorite cuisines, of course. And the majority of them are for family-owned restaurants, often hole-in-the-wall spots with bicycle delivery services. That sort of thing. Wilhelm is a visionary and he is well-prepared.
[two o'clock in the afternoon feels like it's forever and a day away. Wilhelm doesn't get to hear chaos' groan of frustration, and he doesn't get to see how chaos squirms in the sheets, already restless, made even more so. the mention of the menus is something of a reprieve, though. chaos migrates to the edge of Wilhelm's bed, his hand reaching out, then fumbling a little--he gets open the nightstand drawer after a few blind attempts. the credit card is a sleek black piece of plastic that would allow chaos to buy pretty much anything he might want. it's kind of scary to think about that, about the power behind that, so he tries not to think about it; he's digging out the folded paper menus instead.
the first one is for a small greek restaurant that serves authentic, mouth-watering food. he remembers having it the last time he was here, and he remembers convincing Wilhelm to try the homemade avgolemeno, albeit in between kisses. it had a good flavor. really good. really, really good, and really nostalgic...]
two o'clock, then. that works for me.
[he rolls over onto his back, cradling the menu against his chest.]
unless you've got prior plans, i'm going to order some lunch for you too.
[Wilhelm sends, first, six digits, and then he explains,]
For the delivery. This allows entry past the front lobby. Please instruct the delivery to come all the way to the top floor.
[The delivery person will need to receive their tip, after all.
Then, as a courtesy, Wilhelm sends an email from his phone to the colleague whose offices take the floor just below Wilhelm's. He thanks the colleague for his efforts throughout Wilhelm's personal leave, and sends his appreciation for their scheduled lunch meeting. Unfortunately, it now conflicts with a vital matter, although this colleague is welcome to meet with him for a quarter of an hour later in the day. Wilhelm sends just as much appreciation for his understanding. "You keep us going, Kevin," he writes, and ends it with that.
He gets work done, between then and two o'clock, but not enough. And he cares about that, but not enough. At last, he has read the same three lines of an internal memo for the past nine minutes, because his eyes keep flicking away from his screen to look at his phone. He's waiting for the call. He's waiting for the call. He knows he will hear it ring when it rings, but he looks for it regardless. And when it does ring, the bloom inside him is a time-lapse feed, the unfurling fast and overmuch.
In answering his phone, he does not sigh.] Joshua; hello. [But his voice has the quality of gleaming candlelight on porcelain. He does not sound like he's straining, but he is straining to hear any background noise, any shuffle or creak. He wants to know what to be jealous toward, whether he shall remain in envy of what his bed sheets touch, or whether something else has come to collect Joshua's body. Sunlight itself might be more privileged than Wilhelm.
What he says is unlike the appreciation afforded to Kevin Winnicot, the most diligent of his employees--]
[for Wilhelm, chaos goes ahead and orders the avgolemeno with a side of grilled pita bread, because he knows Wilhelm will enjoy at least a couple bites of it. for himself, it's the shrimp santorini, just swimming in feta and oregano, and he gladly thanks God for the bounty, the opportunity to eat. having the means to fill his stomach will never be anything but a blessing.
he has to thank Wilhelm for picking up the tab, too. at two o'clock, just about on the dot, he reaches for his phone and he dials Wilhelm. the sound of Wilhelm's voice is more of a relief than he thought it would be. there isn't much else for him to hear--Wilhelm keeps a quiet, tidy office, or so chaos imagines, brooking no distractions. on chaos' end, there's the slightest, just the tiniest ruffle of his hair getting caught in a breeze. he tucked into his lunch on the back porch of Wilhelm's estate, with the sunlight to warm him and the flowers to keep him company. he's still sitting out there in a comfortable heap, cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder.
ice clinks against ice when he finishes taking a sip of water. then:]
Wilhelm. I'm convinced I should be the one thanking you.
[that isn't the english language. that isn't greek, or french, or finnish, or spanish, or an obscure dialect of something they studied while in college. it's a language with more subtleties than any other known to man, allowing for an array of connotations, no matter the literal meaning. when chaos speaks in this unnamed tongue, he uses it to convey his thankfulness, his longing, and his own hope that he isn't interrupting anything important. it also holds the hope that Wilhelm hasn't forgotten the satisfaction and keen fellowship of being able to communicate like this. creating their own language within wreaths of notepads and flashcards was far more interesting than doing their linguistics homework. it's been a while since the last time chaos tried to do this...
but with more than 3,000 versatile words, they shouldn't have a problem holding a conversation.]
Did you get all the work done that you wanted to?
[curiosity, concern, a little bit of guilt, and just enough sun-warmed contentment.]
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altaschith) wrote2013-08-19 12:58 am
no subject
Even if he is perusing the nearby florists.]
Why don't you call me at 2 o'clock?
You may order in for lunch, if you'd like. My card is in the nightstand drawer; there are menus available there.
[They're menus in the style of Joshua's favorite cuisines, of course. And the majority of them are for family-owned restaurants, often hole-in-the-wall spots with bicycle delivery services. That sort of thing. Wilhelm is a visionary and he is well-prepared.
Never mind his own lunch.]
no subject
the first one is for a small greek restaurant that serves authentic, mouth-watering food. he remembers having it the last time he was here, and he remembers convincing Wilhelm to try the homemade avgolemeno, albeit in between kisses. it had a good flavor. really good. really, really good, and really nostalgic...]
two o'clock, then. that works for me.
[he rolls over onto his back, cradling the menu against his chest.]
unless you've got prior plans, i'm going to order some lunch for you too.
no subject
For the delivery. This allows entry past the front lobby. Please instruct the delivery to come all the way to the top floor.
[The delivery person will need to receive their tip, after all.
Then, as a courtesy, Wilhelm sends an email from his phone to the colleague whose offices take the floor just below Wilhelm's. He thanks the colleague for his efforts throughout Wilhelm's personal leave, and sends his appreciation for their scheduled lunch meeting. Unfortunately, it now conflicts with a vital matter, although this colleague is welcome to meet with him for a quarter of an hour later in the day. Wilhelm sends just as much appreciation for his understanding. "You keep us going, Kevin," he writes, and ends it with that.
He gets work done, between then and two o'clock, but not enough. And he cares about that, but not enough. At last, he has read the same three lines of an internal memo for the past nine minutes, because his eyes keep flicking away from his screen to look at his phone. He's waiting for the call. He's waiting for the call. He knows he will hear it ring when it rings, but he looks for it regardless. And when it does ring, the bloom inside him is a time-lapse feed, the unfurling fast and overmuch.
In answering his phone, he does not sigh.] Joshua; hello. [But his voice has the quality of gleaming candlelight on porcelain. He does not sound like he's straining, but he is straining to hear any background noise, any shuffle or creak. He wants to know what to be jealous toward, whether he shall remain in envy of what his bed sheets touch, or whether something else has come to collect Joshua's body. Sunlight itself might be more privileged than Wilhelm.
What he says is unlike the appreciation afforded to Kevin Winnicot, the most diligent of his employees--]
Thank you for calling.
[--but it's still pristine porcelain.]
no subject
he has to thank Wilhelm for picking up the tab, too. at two o'clock, just about on the dot, he reaches for his phone and he dials Wilhelm. the sound of Wilhelm's voice is more of a relief than he thought it would be. there isn't much else for him to hear--Wilhelm keeps a quiet, tidy office, or so chaos imagines, brooking no distractions. on chaos' end, there's the slightest, just the tiniest ruffle of his hair getting caught in a breeze. he tucked into his lunch on the back porch of Wilhelm's estate, with the sunlight to warm him and the flowers to keep him company. he's still sitting out there in a comfortable heap, cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder.
ice clinks against ice when he finishes taking a sip of water. then:]
Wilhelm. I'm convinced I should be the one thanking you.
[that isn't the english language. that isn't greek, or french, or finnish, or spanish, or an obscure dialect of something they studied while in college. it's a language with more subtleties than any other known to man, allowing for an array of connotations, no matter the literal meaning. when chaos speaks in this unnamed tongue, he uses it to convey his thankfulness, his longing, and his own hope that he isn't interrupting anything important. it also holds the hope that Wilhelm hasn't forgotten the satisfaction and keen fellowship of being able to communicate like this. creating their own language within wreaths of notepads and flashcards was far more interesting than doing their linguistics homework. it's been a while since the last time chaos tried to do this...
but with more than 3,000 versatile words, they shouldn't have a problem holding a conversation.]
Did you get all the work done that you wanted to?
[curiosity, concern, a little bit of guilt, and just enough sun-warmed contentment.]