Chapter Text
Late afternoon settled in the town, and Linzer walked back into an apartment dripping in amber, contrasting her dark shadows against the now yellow walls. On the one hand, her gift for Creme Brulee lay in a small bag, which she had bought after she told Creme Brulee to go back to the hotel so he could get a head start on his composition. She paused outside his door. It was quiet, except for an inaudible murmur that phased through the door. Did he not know she came back yet? Waves of nostalgia washed over her as she combed a piece of hair behind her ear. Many days were spent at his parents’ house. Not speaking per se, only Creme Brulee at the piano and her at a desk not too far off, writing. One would think the room was empty if not for the sound of music and the scratch of pen on paper. She didn’t mind this arrangement most times, though she couldn’t help but worry if her unpredictable scribbling affected his focus. He never allowed his anger to emerge easily, as with his other emotions, yet it was ever apparent in the moments he would push down on a random white key. It would startle her, and he would reassure her with a stream of mumbled sorrys, yet his hand wouldn't raise from the key for quite some time. It sometimes felt easier to dissect his emotions from how he played rather than how he behaved. Regardless, it was the main place where she wrote her manuscript’s first, second and third draft. The first two should still be in that house, somewhere; she hasn't been there for years.
The interruption of chords brought her back to the present, memories returning to low tide, but the taste of bitter sea salt remained ever so. Stronger. She hasn’t remembered anything, it seems, rather forgotten that the taste was on her tongue all this time. A permanent tint, a rushing undercurrent meandering through everything in ways she didn’t realise or just ignored. How was spending the holidays? That answer’s changed drastically, a last-minute rewrite to a story about to go to print. She can’t decide if it’ll lead to any good, however.
She left quickly to place her bag and scarf away before knocking at Creme Brulee’s door. It opened after a pause.
“Ah Linzer, back already?” He kicked something from behind the door. So, she was right.
“Just as focused as ever, I see,” she says, averting her gaze, “may I come in?”
“Sure.” Inside, his room was identical to hers, only personalised by the objects in the room. His polished keyboard, for instance, each key glistening beneath the overhead light. Besides it stood a tall drawer, and on top, Linzer’s camellias sat inside a crystal glass vase. Most noticeable however, were the multitude of crumpled papers strung along the floor, overflowing the trash bin in the corner. They seemed lined with music notes, many of them, all crossed over in red ink. She was almost overcome with the urge to pick one from the floor, when Creme Brulee spoke. “Should I play now? What I’ve done so far at least.”
“Of course, is that not the whole point?”
“...Indeed.”
In seconds, he positioned himself at the keyboard. Linzer backed away, until she felt a strong tether in her chest, freezing her in place. Most of his back was towards her, but she had a view of half of his face, and it regained her clarity. Anticipation, trepidation, excitement, all woven into one thin string. Tethering her to him. After a moment’s pause, he began. Pretty notes and chords fluttered about the room, held together by an elegant melody, tempo and pitch blending back and forth seamlessly. Just as she expected. The music died down, and Creme Brulee turned to see Linzer’s eyes closed, arms crossed in deep concentration. Creme Brulee recognised the pose, and it terrified him. Somehow, it was her opinion that bubbled the anxiety inside him the most, not the sneering critics with years of expertise and experience, not even his parents, whose expectations caused his fingers to tense up at times when he thought about playing. Indeed, his fears stemmed from the fact that every piece of advice she gave spoke to him as a person, making him transparent and exposed only to her. Making it feel like he had to run for his life. She plucked the sheet music from the stand.
“May I read this?”
Without thought he nodded and she read through it with curiosity, as if searching for something. Quite quickly, a light flickered about her eyes and she smiled with satisfaction. “I understand what’s missing.”
“You think so?”
She nodded.
“It’s you.”
Creme Brulee’s breath hitched, “What?”
Linzer turned the sheet music over in her hands, as if the answer were hidden on the other side.
“While you may have played with remarkable skill and focus, you almost forget that you’re not confined to playing existing pieces. What you’ve just played, for instance, is a neatly sewn mashup of pieces you’ve played before. It feels… restrained”
frowned, his fingers tapping nervously against the polished keys. “You don’t think it was a good piece?”
“Did I say that?” she glanced up at him, “I’m not telling you what’s good or bad. Your melodies may be more impactful to others if you know that they resonate with you first.”
He paused. It was always a reliable method, to perform covers of other great compositions, greater than the ones he could ever compose. At least, that’s what he thought. Had he unknowingly made himself a slave to the dark shadow of a looming judge, one who’d condemn him if the slightest of emotions peeked from his visage?
“You may think too highly of me, Linzer, composition doesn’t come easily to me.”
“Hmm, even if I did, who says you can’t start now?”. He could tell Linzer was looking at him, and he averted his gaze hesitantly.
“And how may I implement that?”
“Start with an emotion,” she said, “Then expand on it, develop the idea into a story. Think about the different plot points that could transpire, and follow them through to the last thread.”
He let the idea seed in his mind, yet it was impossible for it to bloom. Fear. That’s what he felt weighing down on his heart, like the shackles that may weigh a prisoner down in its cell. It wasn't always this way: there were still memories of him playing just for the sake of it; to fill a room with sound that was almost tangible to the listener. Usually he’d scoff at this symptom of childish ignorance, yet now he looked at himself — this oblivious version of himself — with envy. The transition from playing at a different bar every night to performing in high class venues was inevitable and to return to the Creme Brulee of years ago… he might as well tear off his skin to a new form underneath.
He pressed middle C and allowed the note to expand as it permeated the room. Paranoia was deep seated within— it wouldn’t disappear in this moment. But he could overcome it.
In this piece he would choose joy.
With a flourish he plucked different chords and drew out a deep tone from the keys. What started out golden and opaque seemed to dissolve into light notes which danced into a glittery crescendo. He reinforced a reprise and continued with varying pitches to build blissful harmony, like the running of glimmering water in June. The piece ended in notes which mirrored raindrops scattering after a shower. Linzer noticed an unsteady tremble in the last few notes, and she saw his hands were shaking. A smile born of surprise broke out on his face.
Creme Brulee caught her gaze before glancing down at the keyboard shyly.
“So how was that?”. She nodded, “Exceeded my expectations,” the smile didn't reach her eyes, “now I only wonder the extent to which you’ve held yourself back.” A scrunched-up paper reached her foot. So many ideas tossed aside, a physical manifestation of trial and error. He noticed, and his body stiffened.
“Please, give me a moment to clean this room.”
She blinked. “Suit yourself, I’ll go now.” She gave a lingering glance before turning to leave. In the click of the door it was like the previous magic had dissipated, leaving Creme Brulee to stand in the emptiness. He bent down to pick up the papers. Yes, a familiar feeling was emerging now. The sensation that he was looking into an opaque pool; awaiting a glimpse from beyond the currents. The sensation that he would surely drown if he leaned closer.
And falling in anyways.
…
Linzer sat on the couch in silk pyjamas, her hair tied behind her. Scribbling, pausing, crossing out. The motions were quick, but not fast enough. Her thoughts spiralled far ahead of her in tangled vibrancy, and her hand could hardly keep up. But she enjoyed this state of focus: if she got all her ideas on the page first, she could arrange them afterwards. That was the less exciting part. She likened the process to shaping a large crystal into a polished diamond. She had to hack away the excess, trim the edges to form something palatable for consumers. Writing was a delicate act of sculpting, a skill that had gotten better with time. She lifted her pen from the page, concluding the outline of a scene where the killer's motives are revealed.
For habit's sake, the pen rested on her lower lip. The air was still, and the warm light overhead was sleep-inducing. Tomorrow was Christmas, and the day after that she was leaving. She had been invited to a Christmas ball earlier that month and it would be rude not to go after she had already accepted the invitation. But after that, she’d go: she couldn’t overstay her welcome any further, not when they were so far along separate goals. Creme Brulee’s skills increased tenfold in the past three years; he was well on his way to becoming a renowned pianist with time. And for her… her series was slowly reaching its denouement, and her publisher already informed her of the numerous author events, readings and signings she’d have to do for her growing fan base. Their time together was merely a brief chapter, maybe even a paragraph in their lives. If he’s moved on, she should follow suit, especially when it was she who…
“Linzer?”
She turned her head sharply to see Creme Brulee in loungewear behind the couch. Linzer’s brow furrowed.
“How long were you standing there for?”
“I've only been here for a few seconds,” he lied. With a knowing glance, her eyes softened.
“Sure. Are you here to sit down?”
“If you allow me.”
As if in a stranger's house, he moved gingerly to the couch and sat down an arm's length away. “Have you been writing a continuation to the series?” He finally managed to say
Linzer closed her notebook, leaving it and her pen on the table. “Indeed, but don't expect spoilers just because you're in the author’s proximity.”
“No, of course not,” he leaned his head against the sofa, “I was only wondering about your latest manuscript…” A hint of surprise flickered across Linzer’s eyes.
“Really? I can’t imagine you being very caught up in the plot.”
“What makes you say that? I finished book 5 not so long ago.”
“And what did you think of it?”
“Just as incredible as the last, though I found its resemblance to the Ribbons and Icing case rather striking.”
“I’m glad you noticed,” the shadow around her eyes darkened, but it highlighted her crimson eyes, which sparkled with intensity.
“Yes, you went with something different that time around, the different perspectives made it hard to believe they all came from the same voice. I suspect there was a hint of her presence from the beginning, her and the bookkeeper victim from book 2? I believe they’re one in the same.”
“You don’t know that,” a smile was spreading across Linzer’s face, “she announced her departure at the end of the book, don’t you think she was condemned a side character by the author?” Creme Brulee leaned forward.
“The author’s too smart to remove such a crucial part of the puzzle. She’s too important to the detective to leave forever. They know too much about each other”
“You remember she’s an outlaw for suspected murder, right?”
“Indeed, I was under the impression that she was a depraved murderer, but if what I believe is correct, then I think there’s more that meets the eye—she may not be the monster she makes herself out to be.”
Linzer’s smile became bashful. She blinked away as if in deep thought. Creme Brulee kept staring, trying to discern anything from the ocean. “I—”
Their hands touched. Linzer flinched. Creme Brulee withdrew. They regained the space between them and breathed in the now stale air. Linzer put a hand against her racing heart. Sitting up, she swallowed. These words jammed in her throat, swam in her mind. They weren’t the same words that raced to be made alive on a page; they hid in the dark recesses of her mind where light could not reach. She had to do what was needed.
“Perhaps we should get some sleep”, Linzer finally said, “Tomorrow’s Christmas after all.”
“Really?” Creme Brulee tried to remember what week it was, when Linzer was already standing from the couch to leave. “Wait.”
“Yes?” Her back faced him
He cleared his throat. “Will you be attending that ball tomorrow—”
“The one hosted by Mint Choco? Then yes, I'll be going, I received an invite.”
“Ah, that’s nice,”
“Then I'll be going.”
“What? Where?”
“Back home,” she sighed, “just in time for New Year’s…” She paused. “Good night, Creme Brulee.”
The door shut, leaving Creme Brulee alone with his thoughts. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to calm the nerves in his body. So she was leaving. They’d only just reunited, yet it felt as if she was departing as soon as possible. He wanted to grab her hand and ask, beg, plead for her not to go, or at least stay until he could find the right words, play the right melody to express himself, the feelings once dormant for years. In exhaustion, his eyes wandered to the notebook and pen on top of the desk. After a moment's hesitation, he held them in his hands: two of Linzer’s most prized possessions. He opened the book carefully to see that there was only one page left.
“Sorry, Linzer.” he held pen to paper and wrote. Then stopped, then wrote a sentence, resisted the urge to tear the paper out, and continued writing. And when he finished, he left it on the table and retreated into his room, the promise of a new melody blooming in his head.