PSL; [THE BELL WAS RINGING]

[saviorexe]

[There are good days. The ones where he helps Carl with his art, sunlight streaming in through the glass walls of the studio. Calm, quiet, seemingly detached from the outer world. Markus likes those days the best; where routine hastens along its little track, unerring and steady. Medications, injections, breakfast in the morning. A clear schedule (not always the case, but sometimes), no appointments to be ready for, to be late for. Only the scent of coffee, the quiet clack of chess pieces against a black and white board, or the melodies from a pianoforte threading through the air. They always talk about art, but sometimes Carl will talk to him about literature. About philosophies that he can’t still quite grasp, but he thinks he can see the shape of it if he focuses enough — the state of humanity, and all of its beautiful, unflattering forms. Markus listens, and he learns, tending to his duties easily enough. Happily enough, he thinks. There’s always paint to be cleaned from his fingertips when the afternoon comes to a close, and evening ushers itself in.

And then there are bad days.

Days where it’s hard to ignore something as fleeting as mortality; Carl’s health worsening, fluctuating, pains and soreness. A shadow of frailty casting a pallor over all the man is, opening the door for something they had worked to keep at bay for a long while yet — depression. He knows when he sees it creeping in, he can hear it in the tone of the older man, views it in the lines of his aged face. Markus talks to him, calmly, coaxing for him to tell him how he’s feeling, or to rest when he needs to. That his work will be there for him tomorrow, when he feels better, and that he should eat something while they wait for the doctor to come in.

Carl grumbles something at him, dry and a little sarcastic, and Markus just smiles. Says something witty in return, willing his LED to stay blue — (can he will it to stay that way? He had always wondered, but the thought slips away, like sand through a sieve) — for the other’s sake. Tells him he’ll be downstairs if he needs anything.

And he waits downstairs, thinking of what will pass the time until the doctor arrives. What needs straightening, what needs cleaning. To push away distracting thoughts via distractions itself. Yet Markus finds himself merely standing there, alone, looking at the door, while the false birds in their cages sing, echoing in the foyer.]