.tethers ;; chapter four - [pandora hearts]
prompt: 241. to carry you along
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.four
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i still feel you and the taste of cigarettes
what could i ever run to?
just tell me it's tearing you apart
just tell me you cannot sleep
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Gilbert looks far away tonight, and so very small. You’d be lying if you denied how much longer and leaner he is than you, and, by default, how much older. It’s all in terms of inches and years, of course, because it’d be an even bigger lie to say that he doesn’t remind you of some timid little bird in moments like these, but still - as laconic and broad as he’s shaped up to be, he seems to barely take up any space on the leather seat of the carriage, curled as he is into himself and against the window. His breath paints a portrait of fog against the cold glass, one that dissipates in moments only to puff back out in a pool of misty white.
You’re just glad he’s sleeping, though. Well, at least half-sleeping, what with the way his eyelashes will flutter like dark wings before he just barely opens his eyes, looks over at you, and blearily asks where he’s going. When you tell him the carriage is taking him home, he’ll then ask if he did anything wrong and if you hate him. The moment you tell him no, of course not, he’ll give a heavy bow of his head before nodding off again, leaving you in thoughtful silence for another twenty or so minutes before the cycle starts all over again. It’s not as if you particularly mind - as long as Gilbert is some semblance of okay after your reassurances, then so are you.
It’s on the third time around when he starts whimpering in his sleep that you decide to move to the other side with him, taking a seat beside his slumped-over form and letting him flop against you when the carriage makes a sharp turn. His body is firm and warm when it collides with yours, a solid wall of sinew that no amount of alcohol could ever slacken; you notice this even in the midst of the man’s less than flattering state, and when his head lolls onto your shoulder, you take note of the softness of his hair brushing your cheek as it springs loose out of its ribbon. The feel of it brings about a small lift of a smile to the corner of your mouth, however bittersweet and faint it’s colored when nostalgia begins to kick in.
You don’t suppose there’s any specific cause for such a feeling. Things are changing, yes, but that’s never been a bad thing, not to you - if anything, you welcome change, you adapt to it, because what else are you expected to do when you’re flung ten years away from the world you once knew? You greet change with a smile and a wave because you have no choice but to, and it’s for that exact reason that the sight of Gilbert’s long, willowy legs and the pretty arc of his neck as it cranes to the side doesn’t frighten or confuse you but simply…interest you. It’s with a quiet sort of wonder that you take this man in, relishing the silence of this moment to absorb everything refined and new about him, even if his heart hasn’t changed since you left him.
Still. You won’t pretend that it doesn’t sting a little, the thought of ten years bridging between you two without so much as a blink. It still grips you sometimes with cold, bony fingers when you least expect it - that ever-chilling reminder that the space of a single day to you equates to nearly half of Gilbert’s lifetime, a lifetime you weren’t there for. Sometimes it makes you want to run, run far and fast until smoke blooms from under your feet, because there’s still so much you don’t know, so much that Gilbert hasn’t told you. You know it pains him, agonizes him to the point of wishing to drink it all away whenever you’re not there; logic tells you that you can’t be near him at all times, just as he can’t be near you all the time, but…well, if that were the case, you two wouldn’t be in this situation, would you? Moreover, in the back of a rickety carriage that smells of rainy musk and dust as it carries you away from the Rainsworth estate and back to Reveille, that corner of a city that Gilbert halfheartedly calls his home.
Another winding path leads to a sharp turn that nearly sends Gilbert’s head slamming into the window, but you catch him in time to avoid it, cupping his face with a gloved hand to keep him in place on your shoulder. He mumbles something unintelligible beneath his breath, groggy as he just barely stirs awake, only for you to lightly hush him back to sleep before he can start asking you if you’re disappointed with him.
You aren’t. You never could be.
Gilbert sleeps through the rest of the ride, only waking up when you gently shake him by the shoulder and tell him you’re home. He’s still dead weight, all helpless limbs that clash clumsily against your own; the driver may or may not eye the two of you up curiously when he opens the door, but you’re much more preoccupied with finding the most comfortable way to ease Gilbert out of the carriage without floundering beneath his weight. Eventually, you settle for letting one of his arms sling over your back as you get him to stand as upright as you both can manage, supporting him to the best of your ability as you carefully guide him up the pathway to his apartment.
“Oi!” comes the sharp call of the driver behind you, clapping his large hand over your shoulder and making you jump. “Pay up, kid!”
“On the seat,” you reply quickly, eager to get away from the scene before the man’s hoarse voice startles Gilbert and sends him into one of his customary drunken tirades - you could both do without such a thing, after all, especially on a night like this. The driver shuffles back over to the carriage to check the seat for your pay, then nods you off with an abashed wave, mumbling a gruff apology before climbing back in to take his leave. Over the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the only other sounds to be heard are the brisk, winter winds sighing through the trees and Gilbert’s shaky breaths as he wearily nuzzles his face into the side of your neck.
In this perfect near-silence, you stop, breathe in, and turn your eyes to Gilbert’s flushed, tired face. He’s looking right back at you; his eyelashes are long and dark, still wet with tiny dewdrops of tears. When a cloud of confusion passes over his eyes, you lean in and say, “We’re home now, Gil. Think you can walk for me?”
Gilbert doesn’t look away from you. For a long, quiet moment, all he does is stare at you, his eyes bright and misty as they flit over your face as if unsure of where to look first. What’s he thinking about? Will he start crying again? You pray that he doesn’t. It aches to watch Gilbert cry, every single time.
But then, with a tremulous reach for your sleeve, he murmurs, “I really…like you.”
Something in the air above your head turns over and tightens. Within the same moment, it releases on an invisible stream of smoke, fizzling and unraveling until nothing but a tiny, glowing core is left. It warms you from the inside out, in spite of the chill in your toes and at the tip of your nose as you stand in the cold.
“I really like you, too, Gil,” you say softly. At these words, Gilbert slackens in your hold, and it takes every bit of dwindling energy in your body to guide him to the entrance of the brick building before you. You bet this is a strange sight, the two of you stumbling and struggling to support and be supported in turn, but when your hands bump together when you both reach for the doorknob at the same time, Gilbert laughs. However tiny and barely-there the sound may be, you cling to it, and you breathe.
Up above, snow begins to fall.