Summary: Gray. Ever since she had been gone, his life had been gray. Without her scarlet passion, he couldn't seem to muster any himself, and without her there he didn't care.
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters.
Notes: A lot of its repetitive, but I kind of liked it. Enjoy, review.
The room was dark. Beside him, there was the sound of deep, even breaths, rhythmic but not soothing, a shadow near him in the night. Parties, bright blonde women in gaudy dresses, whiskey, money, charm; none of it mattered. It always came down to the same thing, and this was it. Always ended up in the dark, in his bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to rise. Always alone in the dark, no matter who was beside him.
Gray. Gray shadows played across the ceiling, a stark contrast to the life he wanted. Gray always brought despair. Gray was the Confederate soldiers, lined up on the ground in Atlanta, gray with the dust of the streets and the good ol' gray uniform. He hated gray. Gray was a color of death, despair, a life not worth living. Gray was the color of tombstones, an anthem to the dead, stone-cold in the ground, always empty, always alone. No flowers bloomed gray.
But roses bloomed scarlet.
Dammit. He had promised himself, promised himself when he had left that godforsaken place that he wouldn't do this to himself. He had waited on her for years, then gambled everything on her. But she hadn't even looked at him, running straight to Ashley, searching for Ashley, always her precious damnable Ashley.
Try, try again. And if you don't succeed, stop trying. No use being a damn fool about it. Too late for him. He had already been a fool about it, poured out his heart and soul, given her money, given her more than he could afford to give, and the emotional price had cracked him down the center. It was a lose-lose situation. If he went back to her--but no. He couldn't, wouldn't. All he could do was lie here, in the dark, thinking of her.
Scarlet was a life-color, he thought suddenly, unable to help himself. Vibrant, vivacious, alive red, hearts blood flowing, roses blooming. In bed with her, he had never laid in the dark, tossing and turning, always lay still, one arm around her protectivelly, feeling her breast rise and fall with her even, rhythmic breathing, and just knowing it was her soothed him. He could still feel her, silky hair in his fingers, her warm, smooth skin, her mouth, so fiery and luscious and sweet--
He cut off that train of thought. If he were going to keep that up, he would be gone before he could think twice, grabbing a horse and racing to Tara. Tara.
That godforsaken farm--but he hadn't ralized it meant that much to her. He should have, really. She was Irish; that gave her her passion, her fire, her courage that he loved in her, but with it was her love of th eland. If only he had taken it when she wanted the money. He could have bribed her with it, kept her, enticed her, anything to make her stay--
No. It wouldn't have mattered. She had chosen Ashley again, and his heart finally cracked. Five minutes too late, but five minutes was eternity. By the time she realized her own feelings, her his heart was cracked beyond repair. She was so naieve, so passionate, too much emotion and no head. He was the perfect complement to her; smart, cool, mature, sophisticated, but both of them so much alike. The ying and the yang, sharing dots of the other in each of them for perfect harmony; always pushing and pulling against each other. Oh, she was smart, the manipulative little bitch but she did not understand, and he could have made her understand. They could have been perfect.
He could have taken her anywhere. To Ireland, to the real Tara, and she would have loved it; to London and Paris, and her charm, passion, and beauty would have marked her apart, but she would have been his. Every life he had planned for himself had unconsciously included her because she should have been there, she was supposed to be there, with him. Every life would have been vital, scarlet, full of life because she was full of life, and he could have given her everything--everything, if only she had turned to him. He could have lived without her love; he knew what she loved. Tara, Tara, Tara! He would curse that name till he died.
Her abscense still startled him, sometimes. He would run into someone she would have hated, then turned with a thought to offer a comment she would have laughed at--only to find her not there, catching him off guard. He could only wince at some of the things she would say about him now. But he didn't care, or at least he tried to convince himself he didn't. She hadn't chosen him; why should he care?
Gray. Ever since she had been gone, his life had been gray. Without her scarlet passion, he couldn't seem to muster any himself, and without her there he didn't care. She was everything to him. And he had walked away from everything. It had felt good to just walk away, to break her heart like she had broken his, but broken hearts helped no one. In the end, all his revenge had faded, faded into gray without Scarlett.
He stared up at the ceiling, loathing tomorrow's inevitibility as well as its paleness. Turning slightly, his eyes landed on the piston on his bedside. There was always color in blood, scarlet heart-blossoms full of life spilling out, and head wounds always bleeded freely. But the heart circulated the blood, and the heart was where she had cut him the deepest. But he knew he was too cowardly to take his own life, not while she lived.
As long as she lived, he had dreams.
So foolish, everything seemed, suddenly, so foolish and trivial. He had run from her, searching the old life and the memories. What a fool he had been; all those golden days were gone, ravaged by war until they faded into gray. Someday, he knew, the grey woudl turn to silver, and a new generation would have memories of a glorious age, but that was no comfort to him. Gold past, silver future, and a gray present scattered with scarlet dreams.
He was old, now. He had always been too old for her and he knew it. She was a different generation; not silver, not gold, caught in the gray but brightening it with her life-presence. Maybe he should have waited for her to grow up, but he had already waited on her and he couldn't have waited longer. She was still naieve; maybe she always would be. Oh, she had so much potential--she was just like he had been, spoiled and pampered, fierce and proud. He decried her spoiltness and naievity, just as he longed to unburden her, to see her happy and laughing. Perhaps, someday, when age and time had healed things, she would grow, and he would go back to find someone--
It was too late now. Things had gone so wrong, and even knowing better as he did, he wondered if he could have changed her mind, if by telling her the truth instead of the mocking games, he could have mader her see. If he had not been so cowardly, so afraid she would reject him when she was already hating him, maybe things could have been different. There was enough blame on both sides, and guilt. He had hurt her, hurt her terribly--years later he would still regret that night, as he did tonight. He didn't know if it was memory of imagination or both, but he could still see her, her green eyes shadows, full of fear barely mastered with control, calm and aloof, trying to control him and regain some of her control in the process. He could see the fear in her eyes, the pain as she refused to cry out, her nails digging into his skin, her body rigid as a board. It was no better than rape--it was rape, had been rape. But he had been so stupid. He would have died for something from her the next morning, but she had offered him naught. How could he have expected something like that after what he had done to her? How could she have been so cold?
But she had loved him.
That warmed his heart slighly, but it no longer made him dizzy with happiness, ready to do anything for her. He had meant every word he said that day. He had waited too long, and the scarlet passion he had carried for her had slowly dwindled, unfed, until it was gone. All that was left was this; reflections alone, in bed with a whore, thinking of the 'if's and 'could have's, gray dreams imprisioning him. Yes, he had meant everything--only he hadn't realized life would be so gray without her.
It was such a humorous story, actually. Both in love, thinking the other hated them, yet married to each other. Bonnie had torn them apart. Oh Bonnie, his blue bonnie, light of his life, everything he had wanted her to be he had poured out on Bonnie. Bonnie was just like her, full of life and passion, and int he end she had replaced Scarlett for him. He loved her as he couldn't love Scarlett, and she grew just as he dreamed Scarlett could have. Had he been wrong? Scarlett could have loved Bonnie, and did, despite what she thought, and he kept her away, kept a mother from her child in the worst way, and at it had blackened Scarlett's reputation, hurting her with the many small cruel barbs she had given him so many times. He had loved Bonnie as he would have loved Scarlett.
A substitute. He winced, immediately ashamed of that thought, but it was true. There had always been substitutes for Scarlett. Belle for sex and Bonnie for love, but they weren't Scarlett and he knew it. Scarlett was more--she was wit and strength and courage and price, beauty and naievetity and heart. She never cared what they said--hadn't she married him? She was so proud and fierce and beautiful that he longed to kiss her, as she would never let him kiss her. "You need to be kissed," he had said, and meant every word. She had married him.
And was still married to him. That cut his heart. She had broken his heart, then had the audicity to come back, proclaiming love at last when he could have cared less. After all he had done, she wouldn't even give him a divorce. She was such a child, thinking that marriage meant anything to him, that she could somehow hold him to her by such a tie when he didn't care, wouldn't care. But then his mind whirled. He was married to her, married to the most beautiful creature, beautiful and vivacious and charming and passionate and fiery, and she was his. No one could take her away from him and he was happy, proud to have this creature as his wife, even if it meant nothing to him.
Contradicting himself. She always made him contradict himself; he never knew what he was thinking around her, never knew what she was going to do. He would have died for her, and she was always caught up in Ashley. His mouth twisted. Ashley, Ashley, Ashley, that damnable noble fool of a gentleman who put honor above the truth. He hated her for loving him, but she couldn't control it. Could she? No, he admitted grudgingly, he would hold it against her till the day she died, but it wasn't something she could consciously control. You'd think, he thought grimly, that I'd be over it by now. But he wasn't over it. He could understand without sympathazing and he wouldn't sympathize. Dammit, he had give her all of him and Ashley had given her nothing! He wouldn't sympathize. Maybe, if she had broken his heart less thoroughly, maybe if she had not caused all these sleepless nights, maybe if she were anyone else and he could care a little less. But she was her and his heart and soul were hers, had always been, and she never realized it.
Maybe if Melanie had not died.
Melanie had always known, known what she could know, which was love. She couldn't understand pride, or jealousy, or anger, or fear; all of which were the basis for their relationship--everything but love. But Melanie, God bless her, was so immune to that, and for years she was all that held them together. It all fell apart at her death. Melanie and Scarlett; such complete opposites, yet--his mouth twisted--best friends, sisters. Scarlett didn't deserve Melanie, no matter what she had done at Atlanta. Anyone would have done the same for Melanie, and anything she had done had been repaid thousandfold.
He was the only one who knew Scarlett, knew her down to her bones, and she was nothing like Melanie. Melanie had dno strength. When he had said that, Scarlett had given him such a look of disbelief, of such incredulty, that he stared at her in puzzlement. Was the girl stupid? No, he knew that, but she believed utterly that Melly was stronger than she.
If Melanie had lived, he could have...
So many 'if's, so many 'could have's, and 'should have's, so many scarlet thoughts. He might forget her in the day, but her ghost haunted him and claimed his nights, enticing him with sweet impossible daydreams, fuzzy-edged memories, flights of fancy. And when he woke, everything seemed gray and wrong beside his dreams. Maybe it was. Whatever it was, it was too late now. Just as she had been too late.
He didn't miss the irony.
He watched shadows until the sun melted them away.