milliways_bar | (no subject)

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A new desk, a new chair, a new desk lamp, a new location -- and no inspiration. If I weren't so terrified of admitting I'm blocked I'd ask Ouranos why his great-granddaughters were slacking on the job. Instead, I am sprawled out on a couch by the fire, reading a book, hoping I can get a little inspiration through osmosis.

[ petit tag: paul varjak ]

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"Pardon me, old sport, but what's that you're reading?"

The inquiring voice was quiet, politely detached but interested at the same time.

Gatsby wasn't sure why he asked -- it wasn't as if he lacked books to read -- but he supposed it was simple curiosity and perhaps a need for momentary company.

I take in a breath, hoping it doesn't sound too annoyed. I should know that Milliways is not a friendly place for uninterrupted reading. "The Autumn of the Patriarch."

Gatsby took the mildly annoyed tone in stride; the other man had perfect reason to be annoyed.

"I've never heard of it," he confessed, smiling slightly.

"I suppose I wouldn't be surprised if it was from a different time than mine."

"It's after my time, too. 1975."

"Good book?"

"It's very...winding."

It was a sympathetic smile this time (with an irresistible prejudice in your favor).

'Winding' can be a good thing or a bad thing.

The sympathetic smile is met with a blank expression.

Gatsby's smile didn't change; instead, he straightened up, putting out his right hand.

"You must think my manners are terrible," he said, laughing slightly, "I'm Jay Gatsby."

I can't bring myself to do more than stare at his hand. And at him.

In general, it is a little bit upsetting to get that sort of reaction upon introducing yourself.

Gatsby had faced it once before, thanks to one Paul Avery, but more swearing had accompanied the staring that time.

He kept his hand out nonetheless, looking a bit more concerned with each passing second.

"I haven't done anything terribly out of line, have I, old sport?"

The fire looks rather inviting, and perhaps, being British, just the thought of sitting in front of one helps keep away the gloom.

Or, at least, his gloomy thoughts.

Christian doesn't have his typewriter with him, but does have a notebook and a proper pencil. He sits in a chair, across from a man with white hair, who is stretched out on a sofa, reading a book. He seems quite absorbed in that activity.

Christian chews the end of his pencil for a moment then starts to write.

The man seemed engrossed in the book and yet, distracted at the same time, as if part of his mind was already somewhere else, waiting for the rest of him to catch up. He provided the illusion of wanting to read and be left alone when, in fact, he looked rather bored.

There are a many things that have improved with time: my reading speed, and my awareness of other people watching me. I have largely tried to tune out the latter sensation while in here. In public, there is always someone watching you, but rarely do they watch you as much as this other man has. When I peer over the book, I understand why.

-- and it makes me distinctly uncomfortable. I'm the one who's supposed to write about people; I'm not supposed to be written about.

Christian glances up and meets the man's eyes over the top of his book.

Ah. He suspects.

"Hullo," he says, in his soft voice. "Sorry, is my scribbling too loud?"

He continues to write:

The man was paying more attention than previously thought, but not to the book, it would appear.

"What are you writing?"

"Words," he replies politely, without missing a beat. "I string them together, to form sentences. It's very diverting." He casually turns the page and proceeds to write something other than describing what the man is doing.

The fireplace adds a level of comfort to the bar, which is otherwise very alien and much too large. It should be a pub or a crowded cafe, but it is neither, though there are interesting people...

I bite back a very -- You string words together to form sentences? Golly gee, how innovating! What do you call that trick? It must not be very important to you if you find it "diverting". -- rude response, and settle for an impassive, "Hmm."

The man manages a distinctly uninviting "Hmm." Christian gathers from the look in his eyes that he could have said something else - and that he should consider himself fortunate that he didn't.

"Sorry, I'm a just a writer, looking for inspiration. And you are...?"

"Paul Varjak."

Simple and to the point.

"I'm Christian." He inclines his head in a form of greeting. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Varjak."

"And you." It's so easy to say things you don't really mean. Perhaps I'm being too cruel, too judgmental. Hardly a first, for me. "Do you have a last name, or is it just 'Christian'?"

He gives a small smile. "Just 'Christian'. It's easier, isn't it? Then you only have one name to forget later..."

He has a last name, though he thinks it's a bit odd.

Leaning back in the chair, "Right."

"And what do you do, Mr. Varjak? When you aren't being a man of few words, that is?"

There is no sarcasm in his tone.

"I'm a writer."

"Really? Well, that's wonderful. So very nice to meet a fellow artist, though, no doubt, you're probably someone famous, aren't you?"

"In my time, yes."

"I apologize for not recognizing your name. You're... probably after my time."

At least, that's his guess, given what the man is wearing.

"Looks to be that way."

Christian can't help but smile. Poor man. All he probably wants to do is to read his book and someone professing to be a writer invades his peace.

"And the man of few words continues to be so." He closes his notebook. "I certainly don't want to interrupt your reading. I apologize for the intrusion and shall leave you to it."

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