each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends can only read the title.
The pale morning light peeked through the curtain-shut window, hungrily seeking a lay figure to expose, and it did; a curled shape formed from bundled cushions and a comforter. The room looked a bit too cramped, a bit too shabby, smelled stale from dust, but he seemed to not mind—not mind at all as he blended well with the lackluster walls, as there was no better solace than to reside in a four-walled room of isolation.
Without warning, what broke him from his stupor was a sharp ring of shifting curtains and a glare of sunlight on his face, making him groan and skulk back within the closest shade he could find. Before he could holler a protest, his blue eyes squinted at her direction—must have pulsed wide, must have narrowed—and then visibly darkened, like seeing a living ghost for the first time. But Fitzgerald never believed in ghosts just as he once never believed in never attaining the world at the palm of his hand.
That was until she came, and Moby Dick crashed down like a falling star in the sky, and he had sunken into the mire only to return back as this rough broken mold of a man. Finally, it occurred to her; Reminders, she thought, Scott hates reminders.
For old time's sake, Virginia had greeted him an audacious smile, making a mental note that, perhaps, he still remembers this too.
"It's been awhile, hasn't it?"
". . ."
"You've had your share of troubles for these past days, I know. Miss Alcott didn't have to tell me. You make it painfully obvious. Oh. Don't give me that look. It wasn't my intention to taunt you."
". . ."
This time, she sighed.
". . . not even one of your snide remarks? I never found you taciturn."
His lips twisted into a snarl. "Are you done?"
Virginia's smile never wavered, holding back the urge to wince at his voice which was barely the smooth persuasive one she remembered, realizing belatedly how much she missed it, though he didn't give a smile of his own, not in a long shot.
"So he speaks," she said aloud. "I know you did it for nobler—hm, well, partly nobler ends, Scott, but you should admit to yourself that you overdid it. Ah, that's an understatement, isn't it? Putting an entire city into chaos doesn't necessarily justify anything and, no, regardless what you say to yourself you don't own Yokohama."
Her brown eyes wandered to his bitter unshaven face, now muttering something profane. It's been awhile since someone had tamped that ego of his down. She gave a mild chuckle absentmindedly, halfheartedly. "Those foreigners did quite a number on you."
Fitzgerald shot her his glare, still full of unavenged loathing. "You brought this to yourself, that's what you mean to say, right?" he bit back, every bit as cold and wounding like cutting-edge diamonds. "Spare me your euphemism; you're wasting your breath."
She flinched in reaction. He did always have such a volatile temper—the kind that viciously lashed out at anyone and it didn't matter who it was, just as long as it would render them small and hurt and him dominating. She had long since been immune to this side of him; years of tolerance and patience had made her impervious but there was one quality that Fitzgerald had that made his tongue sharper than a knife: his words were always straight to the point.
In this case, he'd managed to stab the hideous truth right towards her chest, metaphorically. As much as she'd want to hide her own abjectness of the matter, she couldn't let herself be cut to the quick—let this miserable Fitzgerald be misunderstood disdainfully for it. She then expired a sigh and let herself sit on the edge of his bed—futon? "Well, technically yes," she admitted. "But as much as I appreciate your retort, it isn't just about that. You're a wreck. If Miss Alcott hadn't found you, god knows what could have happened to you. I'm not surprised that most people think your dead."
He gave her a dismissing look; the sort that implied he wasn't willing to listen.
Virginia schooled her face into a solemn mask, chiding him. "Let me remind you, your wife isn't dead," she uttered, and this alone effortlessly riveted his attention. Fitzgerald adored his wife, regardless of her condition, "and she's still waiting for you, worried sick."
She hated being this kind of person. She wasn't the interloper of someone else's business—it was the most uncomfortable position to be in, in her opinion—but she had to make him snap out of his brood.
She inhaled deeply through her nostrils. Caught the scent of rancid liquor and sighed it out. "You can't keep yourself skulking in Japan for long."
He looked a bit dazed, a bit irritated—a bit, she hoped, like himself—beyond that rugged appearance, in those bright blue eyes. She missed his calculating elegance, that subtle charm that clung to him like charisma, now buried beneath the misshapen countenance of a drunk.
"Zelda," he whispered, "why I'm here . . . still giving a damn, still alive, it's because of her . . ."
Even though she had already known the whole story about it, she could only encourage him. "Go on."
But before he could act, he looked like he remembered he still had a vestige of his pride left in him and upon that realization he wouldn't allow himself to break into a sobbing mess. His pride was all he had now, under his complete possession, untarnished and unmolested like everything else.
Then he was once again overcome by his own bitterness. "I've lost everything."
She looked back at him, hoping in turn to see a faint glimmer of the proud man of what he once was; perhaps, had always been beneath those layers of melancholic turmoil.
And he—it wasn't the same as she thought.
It isn't like him at all.
It was unsettling to see him, to be honest. Not the kind that made her rebound from aversion, but that of sympathy. Sympathy in a way that rolled over her and crushed her whole till it crunched every bone, pushed out the very vulnerable beating organ just at the curve of her lips—now her heart was on her mouth and she could only tremble for his sake, only shed tears in recompense to his forgotten ones that burned invisible streaks at the sides of his otherwise hardened face.
Every scar, every tear, every smarting anguish that he hadn't acknowledged, hadn't known was there all along—it was hers now, the unsolicited burden for her to shoulder like that of Sisyphus who tried and got himself struck by the weight, but tried again, tried so hopelessly, futilely, anyway. All at once she would come to an understanding, a prognosis of everything he was and everything he would have been. He was suffering. Perhaps, not physically but the very best part of him was and she could feel it cut through her, thoroughly.
It unsettled her.
Virginia couldn't help but recollect the past when their lives hadn't reached that cold crucial point of its end; no more but a pictographic memory when they were both young and daring and so selfishly, utterly foolish in their own uncaring ways. It was those times that managed to instill the smallest of smiles on her lips. However she won't go so far as to blatantly voice out those sentiments. She hadn't been the sort to gush over it and he wouldn't be so inclined to listen even if the day comes.
With a mild smile, she held his hand gently. "Should we start again, old friend?"
"From the very beginning, roughly seven years ago . . . "
The sketch was the spur of imagination; a crisscross menagerie of bold decisions on a canvas of one's own. A concept, perhaps a whim, birthing a something so intimate, so precious, beneath all those freehand hatchings as that of knitwork entwined on a great tapestry— small and vague but distinct and essential. Each jag of charcoal on her fingers was without technique, without discipline; all but expression, making a portrait of her unstrained, constant impulses, patching black stains of herself within the imagery like signature. A scratch, a smudge, the decision was hers and hers alone.
Virginia felt a little bit of herself slip into an experience of absolute engrossment. It felt like the world outside the walls passed by each second and she didn't really give a care about it. She no longer minded the charcoal powder that clung on her fingertips, on her nails, as it did on paper, now sketched with a forming shape of a face. She drew a curve, let her pinkie smudge it, and found her own lips twitch from the smiling portrait, as if it was contagious.
She then dragged in the cigarette in between her lips. She couldn't help but recall that her small home had still smelled of turpentine from the last landscape painting she finished two days ago despite keeping all her windows open and ventilated. Nicotine—albeit being a toxin itself—spared her from the memory of that noxious rank. She never did tolerate turpentine. Puffing her last smoke, she removed the cigarette from her mouth and pressed it down the ashtray.
Only when she leaned back on her chair and expired a breath, she trained her eyes on her work. It was a rough sketch, maybe it could be a study, and within all the messy line art she saw a piece of herself etched on its abstracted lines, all the pent-up rupture within her person manifesting into the blank surface. Something of which another eye couldn't grasp. She gave a slight smile. She felt a whit of glee in it, as if having to know something others don't.
Then she exhausted a sigh, letting her eyes drink in her surroundings; a high-ceilinged room that left her to bask at its sumptuous, grand expanse rather than her more cluttered, tight-spaced flat. In her opinion, it looked at tad large and over-decorated to be occupied by two persons.
"Of all things," a distinct, American accent riveted her full attention, "why a painter? The most famous ones die before they do become famous."
She caught a hint of condescension in his tone. He made it bluntly—intentionally—obvious, to be frank. "Because I wanted to," she admitted with an insouciant shrug. "It's not always about fame and ambition for most artists, Mr. Fitzgerald."
Upon receiving his audience, Virginia couldn't help but notice the particular way he strut in the parlor, full of unmatched confidence and grandiose, and that alone in some way was overwhelming. From his mannerism to his posh, pressed suit, she could tell the man was built from his very own fortunes and apparently he always did relish the thought.
Fitzgerald lounged casually with an arm dangling on the backrest of his divan. There was a certain cool nonchalance in the act, as if he had done it countless times before. Then there was his smile; a sharp, refined smile that evened his confidence. Somehow, she couldn't shake off the thought of how it almost reminded her of a menacing shark because it wasn't without a calculating edge.
He looked at her. It wasn't a curious look. It was one full of disbelief. "You are still a Stephen, Miss Woolf. I find it a waste, having to lose all the privileges from a well respected family for an unstable job."
Her lips were pulled into a tight line. Having mentioned it, she recollected the days of their first meeting when he had addressed her Miss Stephen. And she absolutely detested it. She hated being recognized as Stephen in general.
"Oh. What a shame," she said in a dry, insincere tone. "I don't suppose you're still trying to persuade me to return back, yes? I do admire your perseverance after all these two, ah, no three months, but no." She sent him a pleasant smile, the practiced one.
"Ah, that mutinous nature of yours isn't really charming, Miss Woolf."
It wasn't his intention, of course, though she didn't repress a chuckle.
"Although I do appreciate your charity, buying my silly paintings and whatnot, I still find these motivations rather curious." She didn't have to voice out her thoughts about her relevance to her family and how he took the chance to goad her back, especially when a proper connection from her influential relatives would mean a stabler foundation for his organization, his benefit for the reaping. Fitzgerald always took what he wanted and never lost that opportunity.
He snorted irritatingly in response. "Charity? Nonsense, I buy what I want."
In other words, he was buying her attention.
Opposite of her, he indulged in sending her a contemplative glance to sate a tedium. His scrutiny was discriminating, if not knife-like. "What's curious is how a woman of your status decide to run away from your previous life in a wealthy estate," he said, "for that little backwater town you reside in."
That portentous, grim mansion she once called home couldn't hold a candle to Bloomsbury, was what she wanted to retort. She simply humored him a closelipped grin. "A change in scenery."
"And that you're also an ability-user. It's ridiculous to deny the opportunity to become my ally. I am offering you a membership in the Guild."
This wasn't new. "Of course, I respectfully decline."
Fitzgerald interjected, "I'm offering you a job."
"I have a job."
"A decent job," he quipped. "Something befitting your abilities than having to rummage about for a customer."
Her back erected, her hands were daintily folded on her lap, and her chin tipped. "Well, I'd refuse anyway. You have nothing I want nor do I have something to give," she dismissed coolly. "As I have cut my ties to my family long ago, I am a liability. An inconvenience. If I am to be of use to you, I can paint you your portrait and be done with it."
—
One thing she could confirm about Fitzgerald was the fact that he was persevered.
Oh, no, no, that wasn't what she meant to describe him. It still sounded a tad bit admirable, which she never intended. Rather, it was no more but a euphemism for stubbornness.
Bloody-mindedness, that's what it was.
After a series of futile attempts, he resorted through kicking her out of her own house. Perhaps, from his morbid sense of humor he intended to make her a living example of the starving artist— well, technically homeless artist but anyway.
There she was; soaking wet, spotted with mud, and cold, while still unreasonably holding onto her already doused cigarette, within his private parlor. From the pouring weather this afternoon, she fashioned herself a stick out wall decoration against his expensive furniture and antiques. Without a doubt, she appeared horrendous with her dark, wild hair appearing wilder than it had been, and it didn't matter—social etiquette be damned—especially when she took some shred of satisfaction in ruining his cashmere silk carpets.
Fitzgerald eyed her with what seemed to be half distaste, the other half amusement. He was in his casual spot on his divan with a classic, hand-rolled cigar dangling on his right hand. "Why don't you take a seat, Miss Woolf."
"No thank you."
Virginia stood her ground, withstanding the icy dampness of her skirt cling to her uncomfortably wet stockings. She never forgot that she was made of stronger things than this.
He motioned to offer her refreshments (an inside joke which earned him a scowl) and then went back to his earnest disposition. "What is this about, Miss Woolf?"
"46 Gordon Square."
"What about it?"
She pressed her lips together, maintaining an image of propriety. "Hours ago I was asked to move out of my own residence because it just so happens that my property was bought without my permission from some ruddy contract. When I sought for inquiries, I've discovered you were responsible for this. I believe you owe me an explanation to this filching, Mr. Fitzgerald."
He appeared so naturally guiltless, and she couldn't help but muse how many times he'd done despicable deeds to numb his conscience. "Well, I admit that I did buy it. I was thinking of running another hotel," he confessed, his tone blatant and deliberate. It was void of sympathy. "Apparently, your residence happens to be a perfect strategic spot for business."
Bollocks, the rest of it. Virginia sighed under her breath, refusing to swear. "Well, I couldn't exactly sue you for your tosh with your various resources."
There was a slight impressed glimmer in his eyes though they still held onto its professionalism. He was a powerful man after all. It would be foolish to oppose him in his field of expertise. "But I'm aware that I'm still accountable for your . . . loss," he explained. "You know, I could provide you residency in one of my suburbs in London. If, of course, you accept—"
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"That's what I came here for," she said sternly, "to tell you I'm not joining that organization of yours. I don't give a damn about the house. Make it your property for all I care, I just wanted to clarify my intentions so you could stop wasting your time persuading me."
Fitzgerald was shellshocked from her statement, broken from his previous shrewd demeanor. He gazed at her in a way to scrutinize the slightest reluctance in her resolution. "Does it even matter to you?"
"No. It's just a house. I could always just rent a flat." It was half a lie. 46 Gordon Square still had its sentimental value in her heart; the faded wallpaper, every crack and creak, the scent of ink and rosewood, she loved every inch of it.
Raising his brow, he sent her an incredulous look. "Rent? With your dire financial standing, how do you expect to even find yourself a decent place to live in?"
"I just find a way."
It was a stupid excuse, but at least she could very damn well pull it off when she said it.
With that, she finally placed the wet cigarette to her lips as if it was lit. She didn't bother knowing whether he regarded her with indignation or something else; she was too knackered and triumphant to try. Before leaving him alone in the parlor, she graced him a polite bid of adieu, as she always did.
—
With a new canvas at hand, Virginia came back to him, like she has always done for these past few weeks. He made himself her benefactor. That matter was becoming a contrary issue.
"I don't suppose you intend to market my work in a gallery?" she asked sarcastically.
"No," said Fitzgerald. "It's fine as my wall decoration."
Virginia couldn't tell whether it was an offhanded compliment or insult.
She sighed, surprisingly not in resignation.
—
Virginia remained still.
The silence had been an unforgiving consequence in such a spacious room. It was a curious thing to have sharpened senses in the midst of danger, even the aftermath where spent adrenaline strained your system. She could hear her breaths, each exhale frustratingly breaking its pattern, the rapid pulsing in her chest, the crackling of the fire laughing in the bedlam.
Indeed, bedlam. Chaos. How fast it had all been, like a triggered bullet— a barrage of them. She was gaping as if she had a concussion, still debating whether to collapse or retch her insides out. It wouldn't really do her good, no less. There was a strong scent of smoke and gunpowder, a trace of blood, a hint of expensive cologne; it condensed in the parlor that she could almost taste it. Then there was lighted nicotine—oh sweet, blessed nicotine—and now she wanted a fag, a long drag of it.
Virginia was quivering, only a bit. She wanted to believe it was from the cold even if there was a great roaring fire in the hearth. There was cold sweat prickling from the base of her neck. There were large shadows looming about the dark room like demons. There was a corpse in front of her. And Fitzgerald— Fitzgerald didn't really care, all nonchalant and arrogant, as he stood before the hearth, wiping the blood from his hand.
She wanted to speak, wanted to break into a diatribe— anything, really, even utter some nonsensical gibberish like 'aagh woh gawkkaa'. Noise. She wanted noise, but the words still chocked up in her throat and the silence isn't doing her sanity a favor.
"You were about to use it, weren't you?"
She didn't reply. She preferred basking in his voice.
"Your ability."
There was a strange ringing in her ears at the mention. Her ability. A room of one's own.
"The thing you did," she hated the hoarseness of her voice, "it would have killed you."
Her hands went lurid from gripping the canvas in front of her, almost acting like some sort of shield. Honestly, it actually was.
"I was told you have the same ability as your grandmother," he said. "I wanted to see it for myself."
Her memories came flooding in, a split second of motion picture unwinding, rewinding; the surprise assault, the firearms, the violence. She only came to bring him the canvas he ordered and then the chaos ensued. She remembered running, miraculously avoiding a six-inch long switchblade preying on her throat. Then she stumbled, crawled, and found herself futilely trapped against the wall. The assaulter brandished his weapon—he might have muttered something but she couldn't understand—and then, he came forward. It was all a blur for awhile; she expected to scream but her voice was lost. Then there was a pause, an alteration in the climax, when a hand protruded on her assaulter's chest and that hand belonged to no other than Fitzgerald.
Having recollected that madness, she chuckled from his response. She was practically going mental.
Virginia tried to rise up, grasping the nearest chair for support, and pushed her weight against the wall to balance herself. She winced. Observing her right foot, she must have twisted her ankle from the chase. She felt an urge to guffaw at herself for being so hopeless. After all, it was no secret that she wasn't a fighter. She didn't need to be one, especially when she had an ability that acted as a defense mechanism.
"My ability," she told him, managing to retain the placidity of her tone. "It pulls you in and you won't even realize it. It's like floating in a dream, you see. You'll find yourself so blissful that you'll never want to leave,"
Releasing a sigh, she finally sat on the chair. Her lips twisted into a sardonic smile. "It's death."
He was an inch near to death.
That kind of nerve was foolish, she reckoned. But his outmatched confidence made her think otherwise, that confidence she wanted all for herself.
Loosening his tie, he captured the cigar in between his lips, but from the look in his eyes his mind strayed away. He was leaning near the hearth, splashed with fervent colors of orange and yellow, almost gleaming maniacally in gold, from the heavy gradients of indigo and blue shadows. "Death trapped in a canvas," said Fitzgerald, temptingly puffing out white smoke. "What a terrible way to die."
Virginia shrugged, ignoring the dull ache of her shoulders. "Not really," she countered softly. "There are worse things."
Leaving his spot near the hearth, he took a step near her. There was an arm's length of distance between them. He still looked pristine, even with the bloodstained shirt, still so menacing, and she felt a bite of jealousy for that trait of his.
With an inaudible sigh, he inspected her sprained ankle. "You're pathetic."
At least, I didn't nearly die in a canvas. Unashamed, she returned a weak simper. "'suppose I am."
To her surprise, she then found herself relatively calm. So calm, in fact, she hadn't given some forethought about her situation.
"You're remarkably indifferent, Miss Woolf."
Was she?
"So are you," she replied, daring to gaze up at his eyes, leveling her newfound numbness to his calculating callousness. "Though this shouldn't be new, these assaults. You've given a big name for yourself after all," then she took a cursory glance at her assaulter across the room. Remembered how he punctured a hole in his chest. "This isn't really your first either, I'm sure." Her voice was even. He wouldn't kill her, she reminded herself.
His eyes were like cold fire. "If you think I regret my actions, I never do," he stated matter-of-factly. "His life isn't even worth a dime."
There was a certain evilness in him that manifested in shameless forms that she had witnessed for awhile, and she wasn't the slightest bothered about it. Rather, she would admit that she had taken a morbid fascination for it, contrary to her own redeeming beliefs.
But who he murders is his affair and she would gladly not take any role in it.
"Having to witness this," she reiterated. "It's not really my business now, is it?"
—
"Miss Woolf."
Her ears perked at the calling, humming pleasantly in response.
Miss Woolf. No one had called her Miss Woolf for awhile, aside from the neighbors whom she usually ignores.
Regardless, she couldn't help but feel a prickle of joy from hearing it. She would admit that she did love being called Miss Woolf—as she still referred herself of it—not so much as it was different from Stephen, but it was because it wasn't just hers, it was theirs. Their name, their forever.
Sometimes, it felt as if Leonard was still beside her typing away on his old type writer, afresh with the lingering scent of black coffee and ink—and then, when she'd come to him he'd smile and whisper ever so gently, 'Mrs. Woolf', and she'd laugh, wishing he'd utter it again—making the gap in her chest a little more better than it had been.
This man had been an exact contrast, had a different tone and aura, from her late husband.
She was thankful for it.
"What," Fitzgerald interrupted, as he took the liberty to sit next to her on the vacant spot on the park bench, "is with that look on your face?"
Virginia sent him a bemused stare. "What look?"
"Dazed," he remarked in his inspection. "Daydreaming, are we? I wouldn't be surprised. You don't appear like you've slept for a few days."
"Hm. You could say that," she replied, tolerating his bluntness. "I've been . . . occupied, rather. If you hadn't taken my house, I would have avoided a rough ordeal."
His aloof eyes said it all. That's not my problem.
She sighed.
Removing her reading glasses, she softly closed the small book on her lap. "I don't recall having any deadlines for you today," she said. Some sliver of curiosity lingered in her mind; this encounter with him in the park had been unexpected, if not surprising and coincidental. She would have preferred voicing out how he found her or why he had taken the opportunity to sit next her (not out of rudeness). "I thought you disliked this 'little backwater town',"
His tone was candid and a tad snappish. "It still is."
There was a certain shift in his behavior; one could tell with a strong personality like Fitzgerald's. He was usually loquacious, of course, if he felt like it, but the obvious sullenness in his demeanor had hinted he wasn't in the mood for common pleasantries. He was still immaculate in his expensive suit, almost as if he was determined to accentuate his standing and importance, but she noted his loosened tie and the faint scent of drink on him.
Virginia was aware that he was upset though from retrospect she quickly knew this was territory she would not involve herself in. She won't insist on asking his problem, like a true confidant. Perhaps, she had acted like a good listener to their previous conversations but those were simpler times and those motivations had been done out of habit. The fact remains that she wasn't his friend and she fancied this boundary between them that didn't invite any kind of meaningful relationship or intimacy. The thought didn't particularly excite her either.
"Why are you here?" she asked not unkindly, surprised to find her voice gentle.
Fitzgerald was silent for awhile, almost deliberating whether to ignore or answer her question. He then reiterated, "A change in scenery, as you put it."
Quoting her words hadn't really convinced her of his true intentions. He was apathetic of his surroundings, almost snobbish, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. She didn't like to entertain her thoughts with that almost familiar emotion in his gaze—it was, dare she say, loneliness, but she corrected it for something else, something that would have made sense, because Fitzgerald surely wasn't a lonely man and the thought was highly preposterous—and as much as possible, she didn't want to concern herself with it too much.
Breathing out, she affected a slight smile. "If you lack company, then I suppose I could offer you my friendship."
Her words were meant to buoy his mood, but they weren't deliberate.
A/N: Happy New Year!
This is a bit of a shameless fix-it fic so it's basically an AU (I prefer using my own headcanon for this). This will be short, just about three chapters long. I didn't particularly like the route Fitzgerald chose after having gone through his biggest fuck up. I mean, it isn't as redeemable if he's going to go through the book searching business all over again after undergoing that mistake sooo I made an alternative. This isn't really a romance. I was hoping for a platonic friendship . . . but I don't mind giving you the benefit of doubt of how you'll interpret their dynamic. The first part starts right after the Guild arc. Hope you enjoy!
The next chapter for For The Worse will be updated within the week.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bungou Stray Dogs.