.tethers ;; chapter three - [pandora hearts]
prompt: 235. and the edges blur
-
.three
-
darling heart, i loved you from the start
but you’ll never know what a fool i’ve been
darling heart, i loved you from the start
but that’s no excuse for the state i’m in
-
It takes just three glasses for you to lose yourself. You’re wobbling on your feet as your muscles turn to water, knees weak and blood ten degrees too warm, but it’s still not enough - there isn’t that edge of nothingness brushing your psyche in which reduces every thought and worry to unintelligible jumbles of long-gone languages. You still hurt, and you still ache, so clearly something isn’t working as it should. But why? Why does oblivion deny you tonight of all nights, when you need it the most? You need a blackout, an erasure, something to cling onto as you let go of everything else for good.
Oz and Alice will be coming back soon, right?
But all thoughts on that matter are promptly flushed out when you realize that the temperature of the parlor is rapidly rising, getting warmer and warmer until beads of sweat form along your brow. You feel glazed over, dizzy, confused, and your feet, suddenly too big for the rest of you, carry your clumsy form over to the massive oak doors leading out to the garden. Thankfully, one of the servants opens it upon seeing you, and you mutter something about gratitude beneath your breath as you make your unsteady way outside. In spite of your flushed disposition, you can at least register that tonight is cold, bitterly so, warranting pale frost to nip at the grass as it crunches beneath your boots. You think you need to sit down, because with every step, your legs feel more and more like limp noodles that can’t function or support, only go lank and useless as they threaten to give out beneath you completely.
In the very back of your mind, you hope that Oz didn’t have any of this wine. Oh, heavens, or Alice. Who knows what would happen - or moreso, what wouldn’t happen, given your worst fears that are only a matter of time before they become a reality. It’s not impossible. You’ve known for a long, long time that nothing anymore is impossible, not after all the things you’ve seen and done and felt. Anything can happen.
That thought makes you feel sick, though, sick enough to wretch, and you clutch at your stomach with one arm before warily taking a seat on the nearest bench, folding in half so that your forehead rests atop your thighs. Your arms hang by your sides, fingertips grazing the cold blades of grass touched with winter, as you let your exhausted eyelids finally flutter shut.
Here comes the blackout. Here comes that rush of relief that you need so badly, when your senses are sent into overdrive before suddenly shutting off and leaving you in darkness. It’s perfect every time, flawless in its execution, even if it leaves you nauseous and weepy and an absolute mess in the long run. But for once in your life, you don’t care about the long run - you can only focus on right now, on these quiet moments before Oz and Alice return with the whole night sky etched into their eyes and pale fingers interlaced like the ribbons of a corset.
Slowly but surely, you’re starting to accept that the “long run” doesn’t involve you. Perhaps it never really did. All your moods and desires and sedatives have a place somewhere - they have to, don’t they? - but somewhere far, far away from here. You can feel that revelation creep up on you with grimy nails and teeth, gripping you in its hold until you’re paralyzed within it; it’s that damnable, all-crushing feeling of not belonging, of being nothing more than a too-tall hindrance with a heart set on infinity but deserving none of it.
Even if you don’t ask for much, for you to ask for anything from this world, no matter how small, is…absurd.
“Gil?”
Ridiculous.
“Gil.”
Hopeless…
“You’re not dead, are you?”
Wait. Wait, you know that voice. Through the rushing in your ears, you recognize that voice, every sweet syllable ringing out until you manage to lift your head just enough to ensure it isn’t simply your imagination playing out before you. Upon looking up, though, you see that you’re entirely correct when bright, curious eyes meet your own - Oz’s eyes, looking right at you.
You aren’t sure whether to be enraptured or humiliated, so you settle for a strange mashup of both, staring up at him in awe but feeling your cheeks flush three shades darker as your head spins like a whirring top. It feels as though it may tumble off your neck and roll to the ground, though, so you half-heartedly prop it up on your hand to look at Oz properly, or as properly as your intoxicated state can muster. It’s a pathetic attempt, but you’ll always try for Oz, no matter how useless you devolve to the moment alcohol sinks into your blood (as if it makes much of a difference, honestly).
All you can bring yourself to say is a lost little, “Hi.”
Oz seems relieved for a moment that you do manage to lift your head, only for his expression to shift into a sad smile that may or may not be scolding; you can’t really tell, but you hope he won’t scold you - you’re not sure if you could handle disappointing him tonight without crumbling into dust, and wouldn’t that be a sight to see. Kneeling down before you, Oz breathes out a soft sigh before resting his hand on your knee, murmuring, “You drank too much again, didn’t you.”
You aren’t sure how to respond to that without sounding disgusting, and so you say nothing, opting instead for a guilty nod and a shaky frown. You dig your fingertips into your cheek as you struggle to keep your head upright, and you hear Oz sigh again as your gaze drifts off somewhere beyond his shoulder, too embarrassed to look him in the eye anymore.
This was a bad idea. You sort of want to find Break and punch him in the teeth for reminding you of your lack of virtues, of your escapism that has never done you any good, and you give a frustrated huff at the thought, pouting like a displeased child.
“Oh, Gil,” Oz breathes out, but not without a soft pat to your head as he rises and takes a seat next to you. It takes no effort on his part to guide your weakened body down to settle your head on his lap, and all you can even pinpoint in this moment is how close you are to him, how nice his hand feels as it brushes your hair out of your eyes, how…how Alice isn’t here? That does something strange to your stomach, because would Oz have sat here with you like this if she had been here? With this haunting thought in mind, you have to swallow around the lump in your throat in order to get out a slurred, “Where…Ozzz, where’zat shtupid rabbit, huh…?”
“Sharon stole her away to show her one of the master bedroom’s closets,” Oz says lightly. “She wanted her to try on a bunch of dresses or something. Alice didn’t look too pleased about it, but…well, you know how Sharon can get when someone tries to tell her no.”
But even as Oz laughs through his words, you feel a hot shard of something like anger spear through your stomach. Did Oz try to tell Sharon no? Did he want Alice to stay with him? The questions make your head ache, and you bury your face into Oz’s idle hand to block them out as if trying to shake them out of your ears. “Oh…”
Oz peers down at you for a moment, a soft hint of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “You know,” he says quietly, “even though I wish you hadn’t drank at all tonight…I’m at least glad you aren’t crying this time. You just look very sleepy…it’s almost nice, actually.”
Oh, hell. It only takes about two seconds flat for you to break beneath Oz’s words, cracking in a hoarse sob that destroys Oz’s momentary relief and all hopes of appearing at least a tad put-together before him; but you can’t help it, absolutely can’t, not when his voice is so soft and his hand is so warm and you finally, finally have him alone only to be too inebriated to even fully comprehend it. You’re a sickening piece of work, crumpled on this garden bench and flopped onto your master’s lap, your tears soaking his hand as he just keeps stroking stray curls out of your eyes. You hear him hum sadly for a moment before the pad of his thumb rubs away a salty tear clinging to your cheekbone. “Ah,” he murmurs, “looks like I jinxed it, huh…”
You want to apologize. No, you need to apologize, to spit out your sorrows and be a man for once in your life if you think you ever have a chance of holding onto this boy. Just now, looking up at him through glassy eyes that blink away tears, he looks miles taller, miles away; just to measure how many, you weakly lift your arm and reach up to him, only for the sheer weight of it become too much to support as it falls back onto your chest. This whole time, Oz is staring at you with round eyes as if trying to understand but not quite getting there.
You wonder, vaguely, if he ever will.
But then, Oz is asking you if you want to go home, if you’d like it if he booked a carriage for you to take you back to Reveille. That coffin of an apartment comes to mind within an instant, and you grab at his coat and shake as if he’s leaving you behind forever - on a night like this, though, it’s not too bizarre of a concept, given how you wouldn’t blame him at all if he wanted to abandon you and move on with his life. Sometimes, you wish you could do that to yourself, to simply strip away your soul and leave your body behind to find a new skin, a new face, a new somebody to sink into.
You could never blame Oz for leaving you behind. You just don’t want him to.
Through your stutters and slurs, you distantly hear yourself asking him to come with you, please, to not leave you in that hole of a city all by yourself, not tonight, god. You’re tripping and stumbling over every word, and Oz only gets through half of them until he hushes you with a gentle hand over your mouth and that one perfect, blessed word: “Okay.”