[ Gracious soul, Michel thinks. He's worried about me - and in such a passable French.
Since he can't dismissively wave his hand, the tray stuck between both of them, the way he'd usually do, Michel instead inclines his chin, lifting his head a little and then, shaking his head. Not in a manner that denotes, no, but to say, never you worry, just an old man taking a piss. After seeing Timm's windows illuminated, he had sent Fabiola, who's moved with them out into the country, now often ferrying between Michel's wing and Timm's without a single complaint, although she'll mutter things like no damn carrier pigeon, monsieur or at least the sheets are clean these days in Italian when she can pretend to think he won't hear or understand - tasking her with turning off the unnecessary lights and closing doors that need to be closed at night in such an old house. Timm doesn't consider these things. He considers what blues to plaster Michel's childhood home in. What kind of dots or stains or whatever the term is for these particular formations to splash onto the walls.
The piano, he's been strictly forbidden to touch.
The artistic mind, doesn't Michel know it! Alas, not from himself, but he has had artists in his life before. Great ones.
Moving over to the rickety construct of a table placed off to the side, two chairs at home around it, he puts down the tray, arranging the porridge in front of Timm's spot, then with habitual ease, coffee, tea, juice, bread and, lastly, in front of Timm's seat as well, pills. Not a diabetic like his father and in surprisingly strong form, says his doctor and you must listen to him, surely, Michel doesn't need any. Especially not these. ]
Birds have brains the size of nuts, my friend. They don't know any better. You certainly do. Now, [ He sits down with a satisfied grunt, reaching for a croissant. ] join me, allons-y!
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Since he can't dismissively wave his hand, the tray stuck between both of them, the way he'd usually do, Michel instead inclines his chin, lifting his head a little and then, shaking his head. Not in a manner that denotes, no, but to say, never you worry, just an old man taking a piss. After seeing Timm's windows illuminated, he had sent Fabiola, who's moved with them out into the country, now often ferrying between Michel's wing and Timm's without a single complaint, although she'll mutter things like no damn carrier pigeon, monsieur or at least the sheets are clean these days in Italian when she can pretend to think he won't hear or understand - tasking her with turning off the unnecessary lights and closing doors that need to be closed at night in such an old house. Timm doesn't consider these things. He considers what blues to plaster Michel's childhood home in. What kind of dots or stains or whatever the term is for these particular formations to splash onto the walls.
The piano, he's been strictly forbidden to touch.
The artistic mind, doesn't Michel know it! Alas, not from himself, but he has had artists in his life before. Great ones.
Moving over to the rickety construct of a table placed off to the side, two chairs at home around it, he puts down the tray, arranging the porridge in front of Timm's spot, then with habitual ease, coffee, tea, juice, bread and, lastly, in front of Timm's seat as well, pills. Not a diabetic like his father and in surprisingly strong form, says his doctor and you must listen to him, surely, Michel doesn't need any. Especially not these. ]
Birds have brains the size of nuts, my friend. They don't know any better. You certainly do. Now, [ He sits down with a satisfied grunt, reaching for a croissant. ] join me, allons-y!