paradisalogs | If there is to be reconciliation

Entry tags:

If there is to be reconciliation

Who: Felix and Gideon
What: A discussion
When: The night the expedition returned
Where: Chimera HQ
Rating: PG-ish?

Felix had lived in Paradisa long enough to know that anything was possible, no matter how absurd, remote, or terrible it may have been. Gideon's arrival was at least one of those things - something he'd once remotely considered as a possibility and chose at some point to no longer entertain. Because why? He had been comfortable? Happy, even, with Ashura. With his life here. And now it was all starting to be swept out from underneath him.

The absolute worst part wasn't that it was was painful and inconvenient to have to look at Gideon again after he'd mourned his former lover and attempted to move on, even knowing that all the pain the man endured was on his shoulders, but that doing so brought the sharp realization that he had not, in fact, moved on at all. It could have been that such a feat was out of the hands of any mortal. Without conscious effort, Gideon had settled into his life and become a piece of it, barbs and all. And when it had gone he'd lost that piece. Ashura, however, was not a replacement for that hole, in any sense. So now he was a man divided.

While Gideon's death had left it's own mark on him, he knew that he assuredly had left his own share of wounds on the other man - things which he had no way of apologizing or making amends for, if such a feat were possible. At least until now. Missteps aside, he had been trying, for years, to somehow do better. To make up his mistakes and be someone worthwhile. He'd vowed it to Ashura, but he owed it to Gideon. Assuming that Gideon would be willing to listen.

He paced for a time in the lobby, waiting for Gideon to arrive, until finally giving up and going out to stand on the balcony, back tense as he stared down at the lights of the town, not unlike his old habit, though the City Royale could never quite match Mélusine in that regard. It was something to focus on for the time being.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Gideon comes with his wax tablet close at hand; he knows before he begins the climb to the top of the tower that he doesn't want to have a record of this conversation when it's through--a one-sided commentary, rather, since Felix has no reason to write out his answers.

He pauses in the doorway, staring with wonder at the sight before him. The mosaic floor is familiar, made newly strange by the fact that it's entirely out of place outside the Mirador. And beyond, standing at the rail of a balcony, is Felix.

With some hesitance, he walks across the room to the doors leading outside. There are certain truths Gideon knows will not change easily; his willingness to give Felix one more chance, regardless of the number of chances he's discarded previously, is one of them. But that was before Ashura--before the image of Felix not only sleeping with but caring personally for another man invaded Gideon's restless mind.

Ashura changes things. Changes what Gideon feels, changes what Gideon can offer.

He trusts that the quiet click of the doors and the steady beat of his footsteps is greeting enough for this occasion. Gideon joins Felix at the balcony's edge, his gaze falling not on the town below but the man beside him.

Edited 2013-05-06 07:03 (UTC)

Felix doesn't look up at the sound of footsteps. He has a brief thought of flinging himself over the balcony edge like Lord Stephen has once half-jokingly said he might, in order to escape this conversation before it can start, but that won't help anyone in the long run.

He waits until he feels Gideon's familiar dark-eyed gaze to look up, and for the second time that day, it's as if there were two mute people in the room.

It's far easier to approach Felix now that they're alone. Without strangers milling about, there to bear witness to whatever happens between them--and without Felix's new light of love lurking in the background--this nearly feels like a continuation of the life they once had.

Felix stares at him, and the expression in his eyes makes Gideon's chest ache. He longs to reach up for his cheek, run his thumb over the sharp cheekbone in a caress. But it's a gesture that would have seemed hopelessly sentimental of him at the best of times; now, he doesn't know how it would be interpreted.

Best to scratch out a comment instead--something small, something to help them both remember how to converse with each other. The mosaic is an excellent re-creation.

As conversational gambits go, this one is so very Gideon that he lets out a short, soft laugh.

"I thought you might notice that particular detail," he says, turning to put his back to the rail and look inward instead, "which you can thank the castle for. I suppose I was feeling particularly homesick when I had all this built."

It had all happened rather fast, once the shock of arriving in Paradisa had dissipated, the realization that he was both alone had come next, along with the firm conviction that he'd been handed a blank slate to do with as he wished. It was debatable how successful he'd been in the interim.

Gideon turns, too, glancing back into the empty room beyond with a little smile. He wouldn't admit much longing for the Mirador if asked, but it never held quite the same sway over him as Felix. And even without that personal longing, it is a lovely space; he can imagine the appeal with late afternoon light pouring in, sitting comfortably with a new book.

But he didn't come here to discuss interior design, and Felix's little burst of laughter is enough that he's willing to steer the conversation towards more treacherous subjects. He jots down a question for Felix and holds the tablet out so both can read it.

And what are you feeling now?

"At the moment? I am beginning to recall the feeling," he began, tone mournful, heavy with a melancholy that was apt to crush him. "I have been here so long - nearly two and a half years now - that I admit to forgetting now and then."

He looked up at the stars for a moment - that foreign Paradisa sky that would forever haunt and remind him that he was not even within arm's reach of home. Even on the road to Corambis that sky had been the same.

"Gideon," he said at last, looking back at him, "I...owe you so much. There was so much I should have said back then and lost the chance to say. I don't even know where to start except...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. For everything."

Gideon stares back, and for just a moment, his face is blank with confusion. If not for his years-long habit of keeping his mouth closed at any cost, it would be slightly agape.

He's grown so used to their fights--to each baiting the other, rising to the occasion at a barb's strike and then carrying on as though the fight hadn't happened--that the idea of Felix apologizing is difficult to comprehend. Had it not occurred twice, in quick succession, he might not have believed his ears.

It's not something to which he's certain how to reply, particularly not when he can feel an old, familiar irritation at the corner of his eyes. He's determined not to let any tears fall, but the sensation is there--did Felix really just apologize to him?

Two years here have changed you, Felix.

"Not as much as you might think."

The fact was, he was still terrible at it. He still lied and obfuscated and avoided the truth wherever he could. The irony did not escape him that he not mentioned his former lover to a soul, other than Ashura, for almost the entire time he'd been in the castle, up until a couple of months ago - a thought which brings on a fresh pang of guilt. It remained that at least for Gideon, the apology had come easily, because he'd been longing to say it for years to the point that it was well-rehearsed in his mind, at least in theory. He had said it once already, to a dream facsimile of Gideon, thinking it would be his last chance to see him again. But this time it mattered, and it would take more than just an apology to set both of them to rights.

"I have never felt as lost as I did that day. That it took you dying to show me what I'd had is only a testament to how abysmally stupid I had been about the whole thing. I still can't change who I am, but I can at least attempt to do better."

Gideon doesn't know what to say. Felix looks and sounds contrite, far more sincere than he can remember the man being beyond their bedroom walls. Perhaps it's the fact that, more than the time that's elapsed, this place is not the Mirador. Certainly Gideon can trace the changes wrought in him after deserting the Bastion. No man can come out from the shadows of such institutions entirely, but the change of place helps immensely.

Or perhaps it's simply that Felix has had two years to think about the life he left behind. Most likely, he thinks, it's both. But the years have altered him to Gideon's eye, and so far, it seems to be for the better.

He looks down at the tablet, writing out I before stopping, trying to gather his thoughts. Gideon blinks once and then again, hard, against the prickling pressure of tears. He slashes out the "I" and starts again. You can.

A similar emotion plays out on Felix's face. He has little need to disguise it, now that they're alone. Now that he's resolved to shed as much of his armor as he can possibly manage.

He curls his fingers around the edge of the tablet, as close as he can bring himself to touching Gideon at the moment, his fingers making a pattern of half moons on the surface.

"Then tell me how. Please. Whatever it is you need to hear from me. Whatever it is that I can explain to help you understand or forgive me..."

Having gotten hold of himself from beneath that wave of feeling, Gideon looks up at Felix, taking in the nakedly pleading expression of his face. He trusts utterly in Felix's sincerity at this moment, but the combination of his words and mien leave him smiling sadly. How blind Felix can be to the wills of others--or, perhaps, how unwilling to accept what there is to be seen. It's no secret that Gideon has always found it difficult to deny Felix what he asks.

It is as it always is, Felix. You've asked forgiveness. You've received it.

'Always' is, perhaps, something of an exaggeration; he would like to believe that if Felix seemed insincere, he wouldn't grant him absolution. But here, now, the words come easily to him.

Felix lets out a shaky breath, trying to keep himself from flying apart. The words are a comfort, but not as much of one as he might have hoped, in part due to a creeping feeling that Gideon was letting him off lighter than he deserved, and a craven desire to let him do it to allow both of them to move on.

"You didn't, once." And that had nearly ended up with both of them dead.

Gideon nods in agreement, shrugging as though to say you're right--I didn't in answer. And it wasn't so long ago for him that it had happened, either. The memory curls around him, lodging itself somewhere beneath his ribcage, a vile, thorny thing that makes it difficult to breathe.

His hand is still for a long time; he's lost in thoughts of the last hours of his life, of the way he had believed it was Felix who had written that note. It had left him cautiously optimistic, planning what he'd say on his way to the workroom: that things must change, but that they could try again. He would stand firm on the matter of where he lived. And perhaps things would be different this time.

Finally, he writes an answer, forming each letter slowly and deliberately. Why do you think I went to him that night?

His heart is beating too loudly, as if trying to escape the crushing feeling of guilt, but he knows the answer all too well.

"Because you might have been ready to forgive me, but what happened...I'm almost as culpable as he is. I was with him, right after..." he sneers with disgust and anger at himself, "That was how I found out."

Gideon squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, tempted to press his fingertips against his eyelids until stars appear in bursts behind them. He knows what Felix has been--was, he reminds himself, for Felix hasn't seen anyone in the Mirador in two years--doing with Isaac Garamond, but the reminder is no pleasant thing. And he hadn't known just where Felix was the night he died. After Garamond's hands tightened the garotte around his neck until all he could do was kick out at nothing, they'd moved over Felix's bare skin.

He realizes suddenly that one hand is at his neck, fingers curled over the invisible line of the wire. With some effort, he lowers it, gripping the edge of the tablet until his knuckles are white.

One deep breath. Two. He opens his eyes and stares down at the tablet, unable to bring himself to meet Felix's eyes at that moment. He writes Forgiving you is one of the few vices left to me.

Edited 2013-05-08 00:32 (UTC)

It's an odd feeling, to want somebody to hate you for something, at the same time you craved their forgiveness, but that was where he stood. Even with the affirmation, it would never really leave his shoulders. At least, not all at once. But he had needed Gideon to know, or it would have been meaningless to him.

There were a lot of things he'd come to love about Gideon, and that gentle charitable nature was one of them, even if it had been his downfall, and those words come will a conflicted flutter of feeling.

He reaches out, tentatively, and touches Gideon's hand, fingers curling gently around a wrist.

"He won't hurt anyone else."

Gideon keeps hold of the tablet in the hand Felix is touching; with his other, he covers Felix's hand with his own. In the twilight, Felix's skin is the color of fog, but his palm is far warmer than any mist.

If things had been different--if he had been brought from the darkness of death to this place before now--perhaps he could have bent his head to kiss Felix's fingers. But things are not as they were; this conversation might not have occurred in the first place if they were. And so he looks up at Felix instead and nods.

Saying anything about his lack of surprise would implicate Mildmay. Instead, he lets go of Felix and takes up the stylus again. Thank you.

The break is contact is hard. For a moment it had been like the first time they touched - that light gesture of comfort and that open look of longing he'd perhaps at first exploited but later come to adore. He wonders if he can still mentally map Gideon's skin, every angle and each hidden spot that made him sigh with pleasure.

But those are traitorous thoughts at the moment, as prone as he is to them, even with people he doesn't know nearly as well. He is, and will always be, a carnal creature.

"What do you want to do now?" he asks, not caring to contemplate the fate of Isaac Garamond much further. It hadn't pleased him to do, but if it please Gideon to know he'd been avenged, he would accept it. The greater issue lay now in the future.

I can content myself with this dark imitation of life, he writes. But that isn't what Felix means, and Gideon knows it. He pauses, wondering what the etiquette is for discussing one's amorous expectations post-mortem; Mildmay would have a story for the occasion, he suspects, but it would be anything but polite.

As much as he would like to have Felix back, to feel more than just his hand curling around his wrist, Gideon despises the idea of drawing him away from his current lover in the process. This man isn't his to have, and the sooner he accepts it, the better. I think that I should wish you well and hope that we might be friends. He jabs the stylus once at the word 'should,' emphasizing it.

"Friends?" he echoes with a pained smile, not just because it was a hollow substitute for what they once had, but that his relationship with Ashura had started in much the same way - the vow of friendship. It was also here they had kissed for the first time. "It would be a good start."

But it isn't what either of them really wants, and the doubt is there in his voice. It was fresher for Gideon, but no less vibrant to Felix for the time that had lapsed.

Gideon can't bring himself to smile back, not even half-heartedly. An offer of friendship is the least of what he wants--but it's what he can have. And he has plenty of experience with admiring Felix from afar. Perhaps it's a role that one can slip back into, given time and effort. (He doubts it, certainly, but he certainly has the time to try.)

I would like to count you as a friend, if you will let me. He's tempted to write out what he really wants, but it would be a petty gesture, and an unnecessary one. If Felix cannot guess at his thoughts on the matter, Gideon will be surprised. But I hope you'll forgive me if I cannot do the same for your lover.

"I always did," he said, which contained nearly the same amount of certainty that Gideon's earlier declaration had, but it was true enough. Even before Mildmay, Gideon was the only one that was truly on his side

He can't blame Gideon for it, especially knowing how prickly his former had been around Isaac even before he fulfilled that prophecy, though it hurts a little despite that.

Felix stared at his hands a moment. "You know, I once told him I thought you two would get along." He wasn't sure why it was important for Gideon to know that. It was maybe a less direct method of wishing maybe they would, if only to make his life less complicated, but he would not insist on it. And it was true that there was many ways the two were possessed of similar personalities.

Gideon is still for some time, the stylus faltering over the tablet. The idea that Ashura might otherwise be reasonably pleasant to spend time with doesn't help much, in truth, much as it might comfort Felix. Perhaps they are similar, he thinks; perhaps someday Gideon will be able to muster up something other than barest civility. But everything is still so fresh for him that the idea is like salt in a wound.

I suppose I should be honoured you've replaced me with someone I'd like. He gives the words a wry-mouthed look and shakes his head. I can't pretend I'm not a jealous man, Felix. Even for you. Getting along with Felix--as nothing more than a friend--is the best he can do.

Felix flinches visibly at the response. He isn't sure what he wants or what is ideal, but has no desire to cause a feud amongst his social circle. The idea of Gideon of being nothing but a part of that causes him a feeling of emptiness that he isn't sure can be remedied except by opening up another one elsewhere.

"Fair enough," he says, though he's swallowing around a bitter lump of emotion that seems to say it isn't. Not by a long margin.

Getting in a strike like that is a hollow victory after Felix cringes back from him, but it was hard to resist in the moment. He's not sure how to say give me time to Felix--those words are vulnerable in their present form--but it's what he wants. More than a fortnight to consider his death, his apparent resurrection, his lover's new lover. In time, perhaps things will be different, but for now, it's all too raw for him.

He dares give Felix another glance and, seeing the look on his face, reaches for his hand. It's part instinct, part active desire to offer some comfort--some safe comfort--as a silent apology for what he's just said.

It's hard to reconcile in his mind, that difference in time. Hard not to act as if it were ancient history for both of them, and he'll need to time as much as Gideon does to recognize that. He reminds himself he's selfish and the barb isn't entirely undeserved.

Still, he takes the hand, an action as much instinct to him as it is to Gideon. Something not too long forgotten (and again, more for Gideon than for himself). And because he's selfish he wraps both his hands around it, holding it tight, desperate for this little memento of the past. He touches his lips to his own fingers, as close as he can come - a safe enough gesture at the moment for the both of them.

And that's when his calm cracks open. Just enough to let out a shuttering half-sob, a few tears falling onto his own knuckles.

Gideon squeezes Felix's hand, longing to draw him close and let him rest his head on his shoulder, let him weep all he wants. But for Gideon, there's too great an offer of intimacy in enveloping the man in his arms; he knows his own limits, and that's past it.

He savours the sensation of Felix's hands covering his, knowing with only a twinge of shame that it's a memory he'll revisit again when he's alone, lying in bed on the verge of sleep. And he dares what Felix will not, tilting his head down to brush a kiss over one of the teardrops splashed against Felix's thumb. It, too, is a gesture of some intimacy as well as comfort, but Felix is still at arm's length. Safer than an embrace, much safer yet than a kiss to the cheek or mouth.

If he's to say anything, he realizes, he'll have to let go of Felix. And he isn't ready to do that--not when the man is struggling not to sob with impunity. So he remains silent, looking up at his erstwhile lover, and nods slowly. He understands the outburst, understands the tears, and were things different...

The kiss brings on another spasm of grief, comforting though it might have been. Comfort coming from Gideon was, from this point onwards, it would seem, to be forever bittersweet. But he doesn't let go. He almost cannot, for all the effort it takes to keep silent, though the tears continue to fall for a few more moments despite himself. Fitting, maybe, that tears were always seemed to fall between them, and nearly always his. But it was Gideon that was dead while he lived on, and with that perspective, it felt as if he had no right to that sorrow.

Eventually he does straighten, pulling his hands away and against his chest, saying with a soft voice, "I missed you."

He's sorry to let Felix go, but he can do little but stare sadly at the man if he doesn't. His hand now free, he returns to the tablet.

Likewise - for a far shorter time.

Every minute up to his receipt of Garamond's note, though his longing for Felix was tempered by fury. And every minute since he opened his eyes to a strange, sun-dappled garden and the castle beyond; that feeling, too, was dampened, this time by thoughts of his death. By the knowledge that he was not where he'd hoped he'd be--and later, by the realization that for Felix, his death had occurred two years ago. Two years, when he'd arrived still fighting the garotte around his neck.

Gideon's life has become a metaphysical puzzle. And while he finds it fascinating intellectually, he's less enamoured of the personal implications. Even when they distract from the morass of yearning and sorrow and indignance that Felix's name now draws from him.

He's woolgathering, staring vaguely in towards a familiar mosaic and the doors beyond. When he catches himself, he shakes his head ruefully and looks down at the words he just wrote out.

I shouldn't keep you.

Felix wants to ask what Gideon thinks he might be keeping him from at this hour of the night, but this thoughts on that matter are not difficult to guess. But even promised friends, Gideon's very presence makes that difficult. Even out of sight, the idea that his former lover - no, the man he still loves and loved first - is separated from him only by walls instead of the mire of death will certainly put a strain on that aspect of his life.

The wounds between them have only been bandaged, but it would take time for it to heal, for the both of them.

He nodded with some difficulty. "Very well. But we should...talk again. Later."

I would like that, Gideon writes out immediately, nodding his head. Conversations with Felix are less convenient than they once were, when he needed no implement but his own magic to respond, but Gideon hopes he can come to accept this form of communication. Felix's willingness to try helps manyfold.

He glances up at Felix and gives him a small, tired smile. Everything else he can think of to write would be decidedly inappropriate between mere friends, however close. And so he closes the tablet again.

He mirrored the expression, fighting off every urge he felt to bridge the distance between them again. It probably was best he left, before his composure slipped again.

"You're welcome to stay here a bit longer, if you like," he said, gesturing towards the telescope on the balcony and the starry sky beyond, remembering Gideon's previous love of star-gazing and Paradisa supplied an entirely new sky to learn, "just lock the door when you go."

Perhaps later he would offer Gideon a key, or offer him a place in Chimera, but for now he wanted to limit his former lover's presence in his life.

Gideon's eyes light up at the sight of the telescope. He would like the opportunity to take a closer look at the stars, having been unable to recognize any from their home. And more than that, he would like some time to think about everything that's happened that day. Outside, somewhere beneath the strange sky and above the somewhat more familiar grounds, the space exists to consider such things.

He nods his agreement to Felix, rather than writing it out. If they begin to converse properly again, he suspects it'll be difficult to stop. Better to smile and silently wish the man a good night.

"Good night" Felix answers, knowing what Gideon had meant to say even without having to hear it. Admittedly, he regretted not being able to hear Gideon's "voice" again, but the other man had never lacked for the ability to express himself in one way or another.

He turns and leaves, not looking back, leaving Gideon to consider the stars in his absence, and hoped it would bring them both answers.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

If there is to be reconciliation

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject