This just popped up in my head today. God knows from where, but I had two Muses insisting I should write it. *sigh* Maybe it's because I've just gone back to college. Loss of freedom and all that.

Timeline: Takes place a few months after "Is That a Mutant in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Glad to See Me?" Reading it is recommended, though I've tried to make everything clear here.

Disclaimer: In the great tradition of Subreality stories, disclaimers are placed at the end of the story.

Rating: G

Feedback: Much appreciated.

Everybody knows
You only live a day
But it's brilliant anyway
-- Independance Day, Elliott Smith

Tristram held the tea cup critically to light, then mentally slapped his forehead as he remembered. Of course there wouldn't be lipstick marks on the cup. Iphianassa -- the Captain to everyone else -- never wore lipstick that he knew of.

Well, except for that one night back in the 1930s. He chuckled quietly. But then again, she wasn't entirely sober. Neither was I, as I recall.

The gray-haired Muse finished the last of the dishes, hesitating as he wondered if Onix was not averse to having dinner with him. His colleague, who taught Weaponry and Swordplay, rarely left the Collegium's grounds. A night out at the Subreality Cafe should be perfect, even if he had to entice the poker-faced man with talk of past experiences and war fiction.

He gazed outside the window, enjoying the view immensely. It was a beautiful afternoon, he thought appreciatively. The sun managed to catch the deep colours of the flowers in the gardens, and the weather was pleasant enough for a long excursion outside the Collegium's buildings. Onix could wait another day, he decided. Now was the time for a leisurely stroll, then an early dinner before finishing the book he was reading.

The doorbell interrupted his thoughts, and with a sigh he wheeled towards the door to greet his visitor. His quarters still felt empty to him, a feeling reinforced by Iphianassa's recent visit. Tristram had acquired it for hundreds of years, but only recently had he truly lived in it. He tended to be a wanderer; moving from Writer to Writer and mentoring for a number of young Muses, the last of which had been the Captain.

He opened the door to see a blue-haired girl, smiling uncertainly at him. Elpis, his memory supplied, one of the senior students. She carried a pile of papers, and was bent slightly from the weight.

"Hi, Tristram," she said. "Um, these are our assignments. Sorry I'm late, but Keisuke spilled coffee on his and had to reprint it." The student made a face. "Of course, he had to forget where he kept the diskette."

"I'll have to talk to him about keeping his work away from the cafeteria." He smiled at her, and she relaxed. "Here, I'll take those."

"Don't you want me to carry them for you? It's no problem," she offered earnestly.

"I'm a paraplegic, Elpis, not helpless." His tone was mild, but the rebuke brought a blush to the her cheeks. With his intelligent brown eyes and dignified presence, he was imposing enough even if his sonorous, rough velvet voice was absent. Even if she had to look down to meet his gaze.

"I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean..." she stammered.

"It's all right," he soothed, taking pity on her. "I know you didn't mean any offense." Tristram took the papers from her unresisting hands, arranging it on his lap. "Go on -- enjoy the rest of your weekend."

"Thank you, sir!" She waved to him as she departed, a faint scent of lilies trailing behind her.

Tristram smiled indulgently after her, closing the door. His desk was thankfully clear for once, leaving enough space for him to work on. It faced a window, which looked out towards the Imagination Collegium's gardens. He spared the beckoning trees a regretful glance, then looked down at the first of the essays. The Muse winced. It looked like a night of entertaining reading was out of the question too.

Forty minutes later, the wince had long turned into a frown. He shook his head at the amount of red ink decorating a student's paper, and wrote: "I suggest you read more of Sun Tzu, and play less of Final Fantasy VIII. Unless you are truly curious to see the other side, the tactical equivalent of hitting someone on the shins many times and hoping he would drop dead will not work to your advantage."

A cup of tea, he thought desperately. A cup of tea was what he needed.

Hot water, tea bag, sugar, and milk. Tristram repeated the mantra to himself as he searched for a clean cup. He repressed a sigh, realizing that there were only two cups in the quarters -- both of which were used during his friend's visit. They were still drying next to the sink.

Note to self: buy more cups.

He took the one which looked the driest, wiping it with a terry cloth. The dark-skinned Muse quickly made himself some tea, and carrying it carefully he made his way back to his study. It was a fairly slow progress, hampered by the effort of not getting hot water splashed all over himself.

Tristram savoured the first sip, which was like an elixir of life to his tired mind. He laid the cup gently beside the unmarked essays, determinedly taking the next one. To his relief it was much better than the last, and he found enough of his sorely-tried good nature to give the student some favourable comments.

Despite himself, his eyes strayed towards the gardens. The sun was lower in the sky, lending a golden hue to everything. It splashes through a diamond fruit tree, creating little rainbows against the white bark of another tree nearby. He first fell in love on a day like this, a long time ago, with a woman he knew he could but never should have.

No, he told himself sternly. Reminisce later. Work now.

Two paragraphs later the words of the next essay blurred into a black-and-white mess. Putting down his pen, he stared longingly at the picture perfect view. There were purple bougainvilleas right outside his window, the bunches of papery flowers flourishing like fireworks. Tall, graceful beeches defied the laws of nature to grow next to tropical bamboo. The gardens of the Imagination Collegium had every plant ever written in works of fiction, including those which never existed in reality.

His favourite place was the rose garden. It was situated near Peiwoh Lake, where water-lilies and lotus flowers created their own haven. He usually entered where pink-blossomed Zephyrine Drouhin grew up a trellis, and would stand there for a long while, just inhaling the scent. There was a bower in a secluded corner of the garden, half-hidden by bushes of tiny white roses, where he had whiled away many a pleasant evening with friends and lovers. The bad memories in his life never seemed to touch the private world there, even during the Muse War.

He hadn't been there since his paralysis. Hadn't been there for a long time even before then, really -- he was too embroiled in his private soul-searching, and had been to ashamed to risk facing the dear friend he had abandoned without a word.

Reluctantly Tristram looked down at the paper in his hands, then up again at the green temptation. He really should be concentrating on the essays. Iphy would probably laugh herself sick if she knew her mentor was playing truant, he thought. And quote, word by word, the riot act I read out to her when she was distracted from her duties.

His gaze was dragged, with little resistance, towards the direction of the rose garden. There was still slightly less than three hours of light left, he calculated. Enough for a stroll and perhaps even a long moment of peaceful solitude in the bower.

The study, which had seemed so light and airy, suddenly felt claustrophobic.

Tristram capped his pen, hastily piling the papers into two orderly stacks. There was time enough for work tomorrow. Today was something which never would come again -- and any day as beautiful as this was meant to be cherished. He grinned rakishly, wheeling around towards freedom.

Cooling in the afternoon breeze, his cup of tea lay forgotten on the desk.

THE END

Disclaimer: The concept of Subreality Cafe was created by Kielle. Onix belongs to Farli, who also created the concept of Imagination Collegium. Tristram, the Captain/Iphianassa/Iphy, Keisuke, and Elpis belong to me. "Independance Day" was written and sung by Elliott Smith. I don't know who owns the copyright of the song (presumably Smith himself), and Final Fantasy VIII, but it isn't me.

Oh, and for those of you wondering how Tristram came about, let me just say that I was greatly inspired by Laurence Fishbourne's performance in "Othello", and to a lesser extent, Obi-Wan (Ben) Kenobi. A short bio of Tristram will be up soon at Subreality Central -- right, Kielle? ;)

(Plug for "Othello": Watch it. It's a damn sight better than the recent "A Midsummer Night's Dream", which disappointed me. Except for Kline's Nick Bottom. Turning him into a comic-tragic character was an inspired interpretation)

After all these stories about Muses, I think it's high time I write a regular Subreality/Writer's Cafe fic. The way things are going, I might get dumped with a whole bunch of Muses. Tapestry I am not, and Tapcoterie I can't handle. :P