In anticipation of Sprache XVIII, which will make its debut tomorrow, I bring you a few outtakes:
Christoph had pursed his lips in contemplation for a moment, and then he'd clapped him on the back and given his nape a gentle squeeze. "Then I wish you luck," he'd said earnestly. "But you're going to need it if she's anywhere near Till. She might not be interested, but that's never discouraged him from the pursuit."
Richard had groaned. "Don't remind me."
"Like I have to."
A narrative dead end with no graceful exit strategy.
and
Or maybe she got tired of waiting for you to pay her any attention and went in search of someone who would, someone who wasn't so absorbed in the spoiled fruit of his loins that he couldn't be bothered to hold her hand, Caron had suggested. You've got a one-track mind, Richard, and it's no picnic when you're the one that gets left behind in favor of a brighter rainbow.
Or maybe, his father's leering voice had said, Christoph was lying, and she and he are fucking in his hotel suite, mouths reciting sonnets while their bodies sing paeans to Dionysus. He's been sniffing around her all night, and she hasn't exactly turned him aside. She's been all wide-eyed interest and lively chatter and inviting laughter. She's hardly spared you a word or a glance all evening.
She's lively with everyone, he'd protested. Besides, it's not like I've given her many openings tonight. I've been busy with my children.
All of it true, and yet, his mind had persisted in conjuring images of her wrapped in Christoph's coital embrace, rising and falling with the surge of his hips as his soft drummer's hands palmed her ass or cupped her breasts and he mouthed the exposed hollow of her throat, greedy lips pressed possessively to her pulsepoint as she gasped and keened. Christoph, triumphant and smirking as he moved over him, elbows driven into the mattress like tentpegs, and Calliope, ripe and wanton and splayed in shameless offering.
He'd tried to flee the image, footfalls scraping and clacking on the damp pavement as he'd strode toward the glow of the Brandenburg Tor, but it had pursued him effortlessly and been so vivid that he'd heard the pained, discreet creak of bedsprings beneath the thunder of fireworks and the wordless, musical joy of the crowds as they'd cheered and hooted and dropped beer-soaked steins from frozen, drink-stupid fingers. He'd even heard the rasp of her breath and felt the exhilarating tickle of coarse, copper curls against the base of his cock. He'd known how she would smell and taste, had heard the ragged words she would whisper into Christoph's burning skin and the dead, eyeless gaze of the ceiling, and it had driven him to distraction.
Oh, for Christ's sake, you're being ridiculous, Caron had cried in exasperation and pity, and his heart had swollen with remembered affection. She hadn't always been hard and bitter and spiteful, full of bile and aimless rage; she had been kind, too, protective and sweet and rational when he was lost to the lunacy of too much cocaine and too little sleep. She had often talked him down with that same mixture of irritation and sympathy, a woman soothing a cornered, snapping dog. What the hell makes you think your precious goody two-shoes is hiking her skirts for anybody who wants a sniff?
\
Because good things don't happen to me, he'd answered helplessly, and fished his cigarettes from the pocket of his coat. Those things do.
Oh, Richard, she'd said, and pity had swallowed exasperation entirely.
She had not, however, contradicted him. How could she when she was the ultimate proof of his hypothesis? He had thought her his salvation and sweetest rest, and then he had come home to find her beneath the steadily-pumping ass of a rutting New York DJ. Before her, there had been Tatjana, who had borne him Merlin but sold his secrets to the Stasi...
and
"Richard!" Thin and grateful, and she'd turned to meet him, arms outstretched.
He'd enfolded her at once. "I've been looking for you," he'd murmured into the tangle of hair and scarf and coat. "I thought perhaps you'd gotten lost."
She'd shaken her head and burrowed into him, had parted the flaps of his overcoat and pressed herself against him, soft and eager. "No," she'd told the crook of his neck. "I just thought you wanted some time alone, so I decided to go for a walk. I watched the fireworks for a while, just let my feet follow them. By the time I turned off the autopilot, I was here. I thought about going back, but then I figured you might still be busy with your family, and I didn't want to intrude." She'd squirmed, pressed herself against him more firmly still.
He'd cupped her face in his hands and raised her gaze to meet his. The tip of her nose had been wet and red, and her cheeks had been raw with cold. He'd winced inwardly and resolved to soothe the angry, red skin with a thorough application of moisturizer once they'd returned to the cozy sanctuary of the hotel. "Calliope, for God's sake, you're not an intrusion," he'd chided, and drawn his thumbs over rough cheeks. "Intrusions don't get invited to Silvester's parties and share my hotel suite. They buy a concert ticket, finagle their way into a meet-and-greet, shove cameras and pens in my face, and try to grope my ass."
"Well, you can't fault them there," she'd said mildly. "It's quite alluring. And you can't tell me you mind the cameras."
"Most of the time, no." He'd stepped back and begun to fuss with her scarf. He'd straightened it and then wrapped it snugly around her neck. "But after half a dozen pictures, you start to go flash-blind." Scarf arranged to his liking, he'd turned his attention to her collar. "But that's not the point," he'd said briskly, and plucked at the drooping corners until they'd been stiff and straight. "The point is that you're someone I want grabbing my ass."
"How romantic," she'd muttered, but her lips had twitched with amusement.
"And if you're allowed to grab my ass," he'd continued,
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
