Rosy's Song

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Rosy's Song
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ATasteForVintages
ATasteForVintages 
@atasteforvintages 2 years ago
Chapter 3
They decided to meet up the next day, when they were both done with their respective business. Rosy had wanted to show him the town; a tour from a native Londoner, he’d called it. But as the minutes ticked by on the grandfather clock in his office, he couldn’t help but feel the swell of nervousness rise in him.
He found himself showing nervous ticks he never attributed to himself before: bouncing a leg under his desk, tapping his pen on his pad of paper, biting at the dead skin around his thumb nail. His breaths felt labored even though his heart rate was steady, and he didn’t have the faintest idea why.
As the clock chimed the hour, he hurried from his office, taking the steps two at a time, waiting beside the door for the anticipated knock.
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“I must go back to Russia.” Shaya says one day, as they cohabitate, reading together in his hotel room a few weeks after their initial meeting. He doesn’t look up from his book as he says this, keeping his eyes pointedly averted from Rosy.
The air seemed to still at his words, the only noise the shift of paper as Shaya turns the page of his book.
“...What?” Blood rushed in Rosy’s ears, his eyes widened but staying trained on his page, roving over the same paragraph several times without taking in any of the words.
Shaya did not reply, just turning another page as he read on.
Rosy set his book down harshly onto the coffee table between them, the noise jarring in the silence. “What did you just say, Shaya?”
Shaya looked up at that, setting his book down beside Rosy’s. “I said what I said. I go to Russia for a while. I will be back.”
“How long?”
“I will go for at least a month.”
“A month?!”
“Russia is far.”
“Why?”
At this Shaya looked away from the other man, shifting his eyes to the hands he had folded in his lap as to not fidget.
“The day we meet, I also meet with director at concert hall. I go there for audition for second violin, leave with position at piano. They now offer me trial concertmaster position, and I take it. I must go to Sankt Peterburg to pack my flat there.”
“But...a month?” The words hurt as they leave Rosy’s burning throat, feeling as though they're burbling out with a wave of nausea.
“... At least.” Shaya has the good graces to tuck his face into his shoulder in shame. “Maybe for summer season.”
“When,” Rosy clears his voice, hoping it will help lighten the pitched sound his words have taken. “when do you leave?”
“In three days.”
The noise of an entire crate of crystal glasses shattering on a hardwood floor suddenly rings through Rosy’s head, deafening him, leaving him to stare dumbly at the bearded man’s face.
“And you didn't think to tell me sooner?” The statement is trivial and adolescent even to Rosy’s ears, knowing they had only known each other for a short tone, but still feeling betrayed by the lie of omission.
“I did not know—”
“There are plenty of things I don't know either,” A pause for a deep, anxiety ridden breath, “Like, why you were were auditioning for second chair violin when you are one of, if not the best pianists I've ever met; why I care that someone I barely just met is flouncing back to his war-torn, barren wilderness; or, most importantly, why you didn't tell me sooner.”
The rant had started with a passion, a spark that flared with every passing word, but slowly tapered out at the end as Rosy looked up from his balled hands in his lap to see Shaya staring distantly into the grain of the wood that made up the floor.
Rosy didn't need his years of psychiatric training to see the man was disassociating, and quickly reined his emotions as to not cause a further divide between the two upset men.
“Why didn't you tell me, Shaya?” The words were calm, said soothingly. Rosy leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to meet Shaya’s downcast eyes. It's a form he takes often with his patients, one he knows that Shaya will combat out of spite, if only to ruin any airs of professionalism that Rosy brings to their friendship.
It did not have the usual effect, most likely due to Shaya keeping his eyes firmly trained to the floor, thick brows drawing in, thin fingers clutching tightly at knee caps.
Rosy, believing that Shaya has gone into one of his “silent as the dead” moods, leans back into his chair and goes to take up his book, figuring the conversation was over. As he begins to lift the book from the table, he hears a small voice say,
“I did not know how to tell you, so I did not.”
The answer surprises Rosy, eyebrows meeting his hairline, book now lying forgotten in the his lap.
The clock in the corner tolled four times, singling the hour.
“I must go.” Rosy said, setting the book back onto the coffee table, proceeding to stand and grab his coat from the back of the chair.
“Henry—”
The doctor interrupted with a raised hand, “I really must go, I've been gone too long as it is.” He pulled on his coat, applying too much of his attention to the buttons if only to not meat Shaya’s eyes.
He briskly watched to the door, Shaya barely having enough time to stand to meet him in the entryway, before retching the door open.
Rosy stopped, hand still on the knob before turning back to the other man, and firmly grasping the hand that lay at his side giving it a harsh shake, his emotions spilling over into the gesture. “I wish you safe travels.”
Their eyes lingered on each other, something reminiscent of their first meeting. This continued for a few seconds longer than would be notably appropriate of two men in a doorway of a crowded hotel hallway.
The moment was broken when Shaya’s once lazy grip tightens to a comparable level of Rosy’s, pulling him in to lay a breath of a kiss to both cheeks. “Dosvedanya.” The word a whisper against his ear.
Rosy pulled away and left. It was the last they saw each other for many months.
Moonlight Picnic · The Role-playing Scientists · Disqus
( Two light taps knock against heavy wood, the sound reverberating across cold marble. Those taps are answered by the gentle ticking of a grandfather clock, the only sign of life for such a remarkably huge building Where had all those Rogue Scientists gone? Shouldn't ONE of them at least be home? Suddenly, the knocks are answered with the click clack of shoes against the hard polished stone. With a slow creak, the massive green doors pull inward to reveal a familiar curvaceous ginger. Entirely different, however is the way the doctor's hair is pulled taut against his head, rose gold curls jutting out at the nape of his neck. Plump pink lips curl up to form a delighted smile) Shaya! right on time! please do come in! ( He twists in the direction of the doors to reveal the grand foyer, heavy waistcoat sliding over heavy bust. How did he ever manage to fasten all those buttons? )
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Mz.Hyde Mod • 2 years ago
https://youtu.be/1BdPDaFXcEo
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