Markus Franke used to love Porcupine Tree. His older brother's exultation when Matthias gifted him a signed CD of 'Deadwing' for his fifteenth birthday is clear as day in his memory. He also remembers the evening when Markus had played 'Arriving Somewhere, But Not Here' in the car ride home from school. "Just listen," he'd said, smiling.

Matthias still listens to the Spotify playlist that Markus had shared with him after he'd received his first smartphone, and they'd gotten little Elias into it, too. That collection of masterpieces, titled 'Porcupine Tree Fanboys', was the thickest amongst all the threads that tied the three brothers together. As different as they were, as unique their tastes and personalities, as far as the years between them, they could spend hours lying in the grass in their backyard, this playlist on repeat.

Like in every single visit in the past, the foremost thing Matthias does is start 'Porcupine Tree Fanboys' – at a volume that won't disrupt the hospital's quiet ambience – and keep his phone on the nightstand. Carefully avoiding the intubation entwining Elias, he touches his lips to his crown, then settles down on the couch beside the bed. In a few hours, the doctors will come around with updated charts and test results, but with the same old news and the same old advice.

Elias's rusty, curly hair is painfully similar to Markus's, something they'd both inherited from Hans Franke. And they had Laura Franke's warm, brown eyes. Seeing all of his family in Elias never ceases to fracture Matthias's foundations and his fortresses. A hollow ache pounds in his chest, gnawing on his ribs and his sternum. His hand reaches up in a physical attempt to comfort his crippled heart. Laying his forehead against Elias's side, he crumbles and lets the tears flow free.

Exhausted from the emotional overhaul, Matthias drifts off to 'Stars Die', a melancholic lullaby for Markus sleeping forever, a dulcet beacon for Elias lost in the liminal space between life and death.

Just listen, he tells them, dreaming.

❧

The exhaustion persists until the next day. Of the three hours long trip to and from the hospital in Salzburg. Of meeting Elias, here but not truly. Of holding on tight to his sanity and the sleeplessness it brings.

Lethargy is heavier than all the laundry bags Matthias hauls from the loading deck of his Volkswagen to the laundromat. He curses, his breath burning – his dratted washing machine chose today of all days to malfunction.

One more trip and he can ultimately get to cleaning every piece of soft furnishing from his house. With the timer set on each of his washers, he sits in the waiting area, retrieving his commonplace journal and opening it to a fresh page. He's making a list of the tasks that need to be completed right away and another of those that can be done over the week, but he might forget.

call w/m service

empty compost ditch

rose garden – spread compost

repot

loosen lavender soil

Someone occupies the chair right next to him. Annoyance prickles in him; of the number of empty seats here, why do they have to sit this close? He lifts his head, and freezes.

It is Emerynne Kaufmann. The ever-colorful Emerynne Kaufmann in a green acid-wash sweater with its sleeves pulled up, yellow cargo pants, and red Converses. He wonders if it's a coincidence or if she intends to be a traffic light.

She smiles. "Hey. Matthias, right?"

Matthias nods slowly, his initial irritation receding. Unease begins to rise in his gut. What does she want?

"I'm the girl that was dancing in the dock. Emerynne Kaufmann. Call me Emery."

Emerynne holds her hand out, Matthias accepts her shake. While his rationale warns him of past experiences with people his age, his instinct seems to be convinced otherwise. There's no secret sneer in that grin, no acid in her voice, no contempt in her aura. And his past experiences with her haven't been unpleasant...

This close, he absorbs every tiny nuance of her. Devoid of her standard make-up, she is reborn in his eyes. Lacking the sharpness of contouring, her heart-shaped face bears the gentlest features. Wide-set eyes, freckle-dusted button nose and apple cheeks, a small chin. Her moue, missing its typical overlined lipstick, shows that her upper lip is thicker. She is softer, lovelier.

For someone who detests being stared at, he is staring himself. The thought is a caustic reproach, yet what is he to do though?

Talk to her, his instinct apprises. A conversation is better than staring.

If she so happens to be like the others her age, here to poke fun, jibe at him, all he has to do is stand up and leave. He's got nothing to lose after all. So he writes, then shows it to her.

sorry about crashing into you that day

i just wasn't expecting you around the corner

"Oh, no. No, it wasn't your fault at all. That's on me. I shouldn't have been dancing out there," she says. She appears uncertain, and that reassures him because he knows uncertainty well. Confidence building, he puts his pen to the paper again.

you promised Noemi and me another dance

Inclining her head closer, she reads; dewed mist twinkles in her hair. Hair the color of blooms on the plant that Hans had gifted to Laura on one of their anniversaries. If Matthias is to paint it, he would have to take care and mix magenta droplet by droplet in a big dollop of white. Emerynne looks up at that point, nearly startling him. Her beaming face is summery, making him strangely warm.

She moves her hands about the waiting area, her gaze follows. "I'd dance right now, but it's not exactly spacious here..."

Emerynne's right arm has small, scattered tattoos, whereas her left one is absolutely covered in a composition. Bluebells on vines, blue butterflies, and... is that a bluetit on a blueberry branch? She must like blue very much. He recalls seeing tattoos on her legs the day she danced on the dock, she wore a blouson dress that time. How many tattoos does she have? Definitely more than he has ever seen on a person so young. He's staring again.

Distracted by the relief on Emerynne's skin, he couldn't think of an appropriate response. He ends up with:

pity

In the stillness that lapses, Matthias's newfangled courage grows into something solid, something unfamiliar, nonetheless, it is not unwelcome. And he writes again, surprising himself by the honesty in those words.

i like your hair

it's the color of begonias

A flush creeps over her neck, imbuing her chill-kissed cheeks in a deeper red. Her dainty fingers run through her locks, revealing dark roots. "Thanks," she says. She seems as shy as he feels, but then she says something that threatens to shake his composed front. "I like your hair. It reminds me of snow. And I like your eyes, too."

Nobody aside from his parents and the Lagerlofs ever complimented his appearance. His father called him a handsome devil, his mother her beautiful baby. Sonja had once said, "you're the most magnificent person I know. And you're intelligent, and you're independent, and you're also strong. So, so very strong." Amelie never fails to say, "that shirt looks good on you," no matter which shirt he's wearing. He always thought they were lies. Still does. Love makes people lie.

Although Emerynne could simply be lying for the fun of it, as young people always do. Yet, however much he tries, he doesn't detect anything sardonic in her compliment.

She is talking again. "Sorry, that was... weird. Umm, I—I better go finish my laundry." Then, she... leaves.

There's no doubt in Matthias's mind that it was awkwardness she exuded. But then again, what could Emerynne Kaufmann – the pink-haired wearer of many colors, the fearless outdoors dancer, the only fairy in fairytale town Hallstatt – have to be awkward about? Self-assurance swells in him; he writes his reply in his diary and pursues her. This could be his first real friend, first real connection outside of family, and he'll be damned if he lets it slip from his fingers. Even if she doesn't turn out to be what he hopes, this will clarify it for sure.

He has nothing to lose after all.

As it plays out, he doesn't regret his decision. Emerynne is clement and kind, conversant and keen. The further they engage, the more authenticity seeps into her sentences and her smiles, sinking into him, mellow and nice and blissful. Her intentions are pure. She is pure.

❧

Every time Matthias opens his journal to note chores and deliveries, or to doodle, he pauses to go over the things he wrote to her. He does it again now, his fingertips tracing the ink. That Sunday feels so many weeks ago, but maybe it was only last week – he has never been good at tracking time.

He is good at making lists though, and he is good at following them. Lists give some semblance of structure to his life, like his life is more than a mere, empty, purposeless biding of his time until Elias wakes. Or dies.

He makes a to-do for the day – it is why he picked up his journal in the first place.

Sonja's bonsai

clean bathrooms

vacuuming

carpets – dry cleaner's

buy fertilizer

rearrange bookshelves

After breakfast, he rolls up the rugs from around the house and ties them together for easier transport. Matthias has just finished applying his sunscreen when the doorbell rings. The sound jolts him; it is the weekend and far too early for visitors. The Lagerlofs are both at work, and they have the keys so they never ring. No repairman or technician is due today...

Cautiously, he opens the door to Noemi Unger. Also, Emerynne Kaufmann. Why are Noemi and Emerynne at his house?

"Hi, Matt," pipes Noemi.

Brows arched in query, Matthias signs: good morning. What's up?

Noemi translates for Emerynne, and Emerynne wishes him a good morning. Thereafter, Noemi continues, "so it's Sunday and it's pleasant. We're off to a picnic. You should come with us. We have vegan pâtés."

A picnic. Where?

Noemi replies, "just up the hill from the viewing deck. You know, along that trekking trail..."

Matthias debates on declining – he has a list of stuff that need to be done today – only to realize that he doesn't actually want to. He doesn't want to say no, to turn them away after they have come down to his house to personally invite him. People never really invite him to places, and he never really had any friends to ask him to hang out. Until now.

At that moment, Emerynne inserts, "please come. It'll be fun."

Where Matthias believes that he has hardly breached acquaintanceship with Emerynne, in spite of the many compliments they exchanged at the laundromat, here she is at his doorstep, beseeching him to join their picnic. As a proper friend does. He already decided to accept earlier, however, now tied and trussed by the earnestness in her expression, there's no changing his mind. She is making an effort to be his friend, that much is discernible from her actions. He ought to do his part.

Just like that, he is agreeing, his little to-do list pushed aside.

And just like his choice to carry forward their conversation that unforgettable Sunday between rows of washers and dryers, his choice to go on the picnic is one Matthias won't regret. It is a simple outing bearing simple pleasures. Even the sun that usually wallops him is lenient, as if wanting to let him enjoy the day.

Emerynne shows Matthias her sketchbook and it helps him gain a deeper insight into her. For instance, she prefers to paint places rather than people, specifically places that make her happy – and to paint them feels like a greater reverence than to photograph them, she explains. She uses watercolors more than gouache – because gouache is loud and harsh and too much, she says. She loves drawing flowers and insects, and that rouses some childlike delight in him because he does, too.

Her mannerisms are lively as she talks about her art, but it is her eyes that are the liveliest. Her irises, lucent with enthusiasm, are reminiscent of lichen on the bark of the pines behind his house. If Matthias is to paint them – and someday he just might – he would use sienna for the brown and streaks of olive and lime greens for the flecks.

In a while, Noemi plates and distributes the food. They chat, and eat savory pâtés, and drink sweet goji tea. In the midst of their feasting, the only untoward thing that takes place is a bee flying into Emerynne's face. Even so, it doesn't cause any major inconvenience, and they settle back into meadowgrass and mountainsong, awash in tranquil revelry. She laughs at his comical croquis and at his silly puns, a laugh that is light and floaty, dandelion fluff in the breeze.

It ends all too soon.

The nostalgia of it has barely taken hold before the fairy shows up at Matthias's doorstep again on Sunday – a polychrome of navy blue, lilac, red, and that permanent begonia pink, come to restructure his to-do and routine once more. He doesn't mind.

a/n: matthias franke's pov is the most difficult thing i've ever written. but i think i did an okay job... lemme know if anything comes off as an offensive portrayal of the life and appearance of a person with albinism.

that aside, here's the music that makes up a lot of his memories:

"arriving somewhere, but not here" by porcupine tree

https://youtu.be/WxIRFf-u_Bs

and "stars die" also by porcupine tree

https://youtu.be/2p2a38O85RY