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Once a week, Czerny meets up with the one life he managed to save and watches the young man learn how to live.
They hadn't spoken at all, for those first few months after what became dubbed "The Vyseheim Incident", the entirety of his hometown reduced to one tragic performance. Ebenholz had been a shadow detached from a mirror in white, a lonely snatch of notes on a cello in the golden hour, a lingering reminder of where Czerny had reached and fallen short.
Then one day, Ebenholz had strode past a departing throng of child students and asked for (actually asked, not demanded) cello lessons. He wanted to learn for himself, with his own hands, not relying on ghosts. To his credit, his complaints were minimal when Czerny insisted on drill upon drill in cycling repeat, but in truth he didn't say much of anything at all. Not until the end when he pulled out his wallet, and Czerny had to practically shove the pay back into place.
"I am not doing this for pay." Even though he was perpetually broke, even with a recent promotion and raise from the Doctor. "I am teaching because I want to." Because he had to. A compulsion leaking from a broken body, a broken heart.
Ebenholz's brow furrowed, a prelude to temper that had been familiar in those brief Autumn weeks. But now he has to soothe himself, because no one else will do that for him. "Then at least allow me to treat you to coffee. Whatever you would like."
One black coffee. No sugar, no cream, no fancy flavorings. Ebenholz reassured that he means any order is fine. Czerny retorted that he did not need more expensive, as he knew what he liked. The bickering was familiar, a break in a pale mourning mask. Czerny finally acquiesed and added a bagel to his order.
That first week, they talked about music. Old mentors, challenging songs, new compositions. Ebenholz admitted that he wanted to write a song for the cello. He did not say why; he did not need to. Czerny offered his assistance, which meant a flood of thoughts and theories about composing, a rush of words he could never hold back. For his part, Ebenholz listened without complaint, nodded politely at all the right spots, and even asked a few questions.
"Would you mind if I brought you what I have next week? Same time? I will even cover coffee again, if you'll let me."
Sure. Fine. Czerny promised to remember, even added it to the calendar he sometimes remembered to consult. The next week rolled around and the scene repeated. Ebenholz scanned the menu for ages before ordering the latest special, Czerny got his black coffee. Ebenholz got him a bagel again, and he hated to admit that he appreciated it because he'd forgotten lunch as always.
They stayed for hours, table lost under a mess of papers, notes spilling onto napkins. There is an art to workshopping around a heart, finding beauty in raw emotion but refining the edges to turn cacophany into clarity.
"What do you want your audience to feel, when they hear this?"
Ebenholz shifted in his seat. He couldn't hold Czerny's gaze; that ability had left him in Vyseheim. "I want them to know how special he was. To understand the pain of him being gone, and yet...to keep going. That is what he wanted."
"And are you listening?" Czerny wanted to ask. He would have, before. He pours over the composition again instead.
"I will bring you the rest of my notes next week. Keep practicing, in the meantime. Those fingering exercises should help."
Next week. The week after. And after. Repeat the movement again, take note of the unscripted changes in how the same notes are played. Find a new pattern lying underneath.
Ebenholz is drawn to sugary-sweet drinks and bold flavors. He has started listening to Columbian rock bands and finds inspiration in their flow of verses and chorus, bridges and reprises. His fingers are always busy, and bandaged tips become coated in nail polish. He repeats his words when uncertain, and his voice still squeaks like a teenager if he's caught by surprise. He doesn't get slang. He groans at bad jokes more often than he laughs. His laugh is like a fowlbeast in Spring.
Every week, Czerny gets his black coffee and a bite to eat. It is a meeting he refuses to be late for. The week where Ebenholz is sick and they have to skip, Czerny falls asleep at his desk, and the next seventy-two hours feel entirely off-kilter without this anchoring point. He brings two weeks worth of composition notes the next meeting, and not a page of it is discussed.
Conversations instead drift to newly discovered musicians and songs, what the book club has been reading, recent missions and locales. Time, life, rolls on. Ebenholz learns a valuable lesson in remembering his sunscreen, yet his eyes shine brighter than his burnt cheeks and nose. They both grumble over trying hotpot and finding it far too spicy compared to their meals at home. Ebenholz has a strange leaf in his hair from climbing a tree, funny story why that happened, has Czerny been outside and smelled their flowers? They're in bloom right now.
Here, gather up the notes, take the coffee to go. It's a beautiful day outside.
More and more operators recognize Ebenholz and say hello, on their way to the elevator. He talks with a few, apologizes for cutting short, they have somewhere to be. He's smiling. It looks good on him. Of course it does, Czerny's aunt always said a real smile looked good on anyone, but this is different.
The world outside is green leaves and blue skies with fluffy white clouds, and when the sun hits Ebenholz's hair just right, it shines violet instead of black, the same bright as his eyes. His hand is small in Czerny's but holds so tightly. Their weekly respite unfolds from the confines of a cafe into the broader world, and Ebenholz is another color within it, a voice that fits perfectly among the wind through trees and the bustle of life.
"You belong in this world."
Ebenholz looks up at him, and from the confused look on his face, Czerny initially wonders if he misspoke, words that only make sense within the ever-shifting rhythms of his own brain.
"So do you. Are you enjoying it?"
"Of course. I enjoy time spent with you."
Weeks upon weeks that turn into so many months of meeting, all coliding into one pinpoint moment. They are outside of the cafe, each with a drink in one hand, their other holding tight. After so many conversations, words dry up. The world moves around them. They are once again still.
Czerny no longer sees a shadow, an absence, an ember cast aside from a doused fire.
What does Ebenholz see? He stares intently. Draws close enough that Czerny can feel the warmth radiating off his cheeks. And after that, the cold of his mouth from his iced drink, sugary sweet. It's not a flavor Czerny had ever expected to try.
"...Would you mind if our next coffee date is soon? I do not think I could wait an entire week."
Ebenholz's smile deserves a composition all on its own. "I would be happy to treat you anytime."