Written in the midst of incorrigible heartbreak by an open window.
I don't own Pandora Hearts.
.by candlelight+
/
The study is half-lit by a candle's glow, the shadow of its flame swaying sensually against the damask wall like the warm body of a dancer. Not a single sound can be heard outside of the lulling ticktock of the clock hanging on the far wall; at an hour this late, three chimes past midnight, it would be no surprise if the entire manor were rich with slumber. Even the most dreamless of souls would find it in them to slip beneath the rough terrain of consciousness and into the silky gown of sleep, immune to the horrors and follies of the wakeful world.
Gilbert Nightray, as it stands, is no exception to this. Slumped over the writing desk, his black curls spilling over a sheet of parchment like a violent inkspill, he holds the air of an exhausted prince preparing for the title of king, a boy on the precipice of a great and terrible duty. While the slight pout of his parted lips suggests an eternal note of childhood destined to linger with him for a lifetime, his face is a striking one, lit as it is by that golden thread of fire. The planes, angles, and bones of such a visage contain an almost alarming beauty that is both elegant and a trifle tragic. The cupid's bow of his top lip lacks an effervescence that might have been evident in the days of his pseudo-Vessalius youth; the arc of his throat is aimed skyward, Adam's apple protruding sharply from beneath white skin like a needle poking through satin; his eyelashes are long and fragile as they graze just-so against his cheeks, as if asking, Might I touch you? Yes, I think I might.
The position that his body has fallen into is everything but conventionally comfortable. With his spine curled, shoulders rounded, and legs still crossed demurely beneath the desk, he's a living picture of accidental masculinity mingling with an even more accidental feminine grace. His arms are folded beneath his head as a secondhand cushion, suggesting that this fit of rest was not entirely accident, but that perhaps he had simply lain his head down with the innocent intention of letting his thoughts die down for just a moment long enough to gather them in a sensical fashion, but had grown fatally comfortable with the position and dozed off. Given the unfinished state of the letter currently lying passive and patient beneath his cheek, this isn't an unlikely possibility in the slightest.
Also, given the fact that Gilbert Nightray hasn't slept in two and a half days, it's all but undeniable.
The flame of the candle shivers wildly for a moment before finding steady footing again on its wick; a sighing breath, a shift in the air, any delicate movement could have caused it. Were Gilbert awake, he would have pondered over the legitimacy of fire and how in spite of its more than passable ability to destroy and devastate, when produced in small qualities, like that of a tiny, teetering flame, it's about as threatening as a puppy in a wolf costume. A single sigh can send the flame skittering into a frantic, desperate frenzy, unable to hold purchase on the air and therefore left to squander and flounder, lost in its own haywire heat. But since Gilbert isn't awake, he simply dreams of green eyes and the ever-hanging gloom of raven's feathers, with the occasional quiver of some diluted and deluded desire flitting through the mess that he hasn't been able to name ever since its birth.
Even at eighteen years old, after four years have passed in quietly raging submission, after the first cracks of gunfire and the first swells of blood creeping thick and red across the carpet – even after having felt every emotion capable to man in nearly crippling abundance, Gilbert still hasn't been able to put any of his turns of heart and twists of spirit to words.
After a long stretch of motionless, unruffled rest, Gilbert's face suddenly tenses, eyelids twitching and brow furrowing. A long, shuddering exhale from his lips urges the flame to engage in a manic flicker. The shadowy dancer on the wall trots faster, whirls at a dizzying speed, before dying back down into its customary death waltz, smiling at him with its dark mouth. Gilbert's breath steadies again, and his face returns to poignant calm.
The clock makes its fourth chime of the new day. In three hours, the sun will be up, the manor will be stirring, the backstreet duties will assign themselves onto Gilbert's lean, tired body without so much as a glance of recognition (the unfinished letter, after all, is made out to a certain Xerxes Break). Children with round, clear eyes will be one step closer to the day in which they narrow and glint with contempt, and the adults with their serpent smirks and stiff collars will be one step further away from the softness of humanity.
And as for Gilbert, he will breathe through gritted teeth, and he will beg every bright and beaming god for just five more minutes of sleep.
So, pray you, don't wake him. The boy needs rest.