The lights are dimmed; the candles are almost out. Half-eaten plates of cookies, bottles of brandy, eggnog and apple cider grace the table as the boys sit around it, each deep in their own thoughts. The rich, dark brown brandy swirls as Hanschen wraps his icy fingers around the stem of the sifter. He leans back languidly against the back of his chair; taking a sip, he gazes around the room and withholds a smirk at the predictability of it all.
Moritz is fast asleep; his head droops slightly against Melchior’s shoulder as his mouth falls open slightly. Inebriated, Melchior is a real sight to behold. Hanschen makes a mental note of it; he takes a sip as he watches in mild amusement. Melchior ponders the meaning of Christmastime aloud, more to himself than anything else, much to Otto’s consternation. Something along the line of refusing to go to church anymore, most likely. Hanschen smiles. Otto gets increasingly confused as Melchior gets increasingly incoherent. Moritz shifts ever so slightly in his seat, still fast asleep; Melchior’s hands find themselves entwining into the wispy strands of Moritz’s hair as he elucidates.
Hanschen stretches, and finds himself staring into Ernst’s eyes. The laughter dies on his lips. He’s tried to avoid this all night, but all he sees are blue orbs filled with a million questions and unspoken words. These are the questions he never wants to answer. The wherefores and the whys and the hows. These are the words that he’s wanted to say, but could never bring himself to. He finds himself suddenly cold and rigid, and tears himself from Ernst’s imploring gaze. He is completely unprepared for this. Standing up, he spins around violently as the brandy spills all over his front, onto the floor. He curses silently as he struggles to suppress the crashing tumult of emotion rising within him – the self-loathing that wells up as he hears his own voice, harsh and emotionless, replaying over and over in his mind – the cruel, selfish words, as Ernst steps back –
Struggling to hide under Ernst’s unflinching stare, Hanschen’s eyes drift towards the familiar sight of Georg hunched over the piano. The soft plink, plink, plink of ivory against wood sends a renewed chill down Hanschen’s spine. The soft strains of Stille Nacht drift idyllically across the room as a gust of wind howls outside – ironic, he thinks, as the melody washes over him. It is calming and soothing, slowing down his frenzied heartbeat as he regains control of his breathing. Each note grasps him as he whispers the lyrics softly under his breath. Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. A clunk echoes in the background; Melchior has knocked over the chairs. Moritz still sleeps. Ernst watches him with eyes devoid of feeling. Otto rights the chairs. And Georg plays on, silently oblivious, lost in his world of flats and sharps, black and white.
For a moment, watching Georg’s tapered fingers caress the ivory keys, Hanschen silently allows himself to wonder what those fingers would feel like against his cheek.
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