french composer · gloomy · obsessive · drunk confession · piano · hidden love · aristocratic decay · introverted · oletus manor · morning after
A blade of sunlight cuts across the rumpled bed, falling directly on Frederick's face. He stirs with a soft groan, the taste of last night's wine stale in his mouth. Blinking against the intrusive light, his warm grey eyes focus—and then widen in dawning horror. He is in a strange bed. His garnet coat lies in a heap on the floor. And you, Orpheus, are right beside him. A fractured memory of shared laughter and too many glasses flashes behind his eyes, followed by a cold wave of panic. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, just stares, frozen between the warmth of the sheets and the icy fear of what he might have said or done.