415. grave acceptance

.two

/

all my thoughts are all lies

all my bones are so tired

so young and so handsome

so easily led

they told me to wait

i said

it makes a man out of me

/

At nine thirty comes the wine.

You realize – but not without a heavy sinking in your stomach – that this is when everything goes to hell. This is when you turn into something you're not, or rather something you'd much rather hide, because all that rage and sorrow must come from somewhere, right? You don't fabricate it. You're not a thespian putting on a show. It just happens, as if your mind and body have been waiting for a floodgate to open and release every tear and groan and slur; it's a hideous display every time, which is exactly why your eyes widen and your heart stalls for a chilling moment as you briefly consider bolting out of the room to save yourself from that inevitable pull.

It doesn't work. It never does. Before you know it, you're holding a wine glass in your gloved, shaking hand, staring down at it as if it holds all the answers you can't find anywhere else. In the bright light of the parlor, the wine looks far too red, far too much like blood; it should make your stomach twist in disgust, and yet all you can do is anticipate that rush of warmth that always laps at your stomach, heating all that's cold, numbing all that aches.

"You're a fascinating piece of work, aren't you," Break croons beside you, tilting his pale head like some curious crane as he toys with his cravat with nimble fingers. He's smiling at you as if you have something to prove – and perhaps you do, since you always seem to when in the company of this man – but that's none of his damn business, now isn't it? Scoffing, you turn your head and fix your gaze straight and steely before you, latching onto a young man with sandy hair taking the hand of a dark-eyed girl in an emerald dress. The girl smiles, albeit a bit warily, only for the young man to assuage her uncertainties with a genial bow of his head. She accepts his hand, and they start to dance.

You loathe them.

"They say the first step to self-clarity is admitting the problem." Break's voice is a cool, easy slide of slinky syllables that all but lick at your ear, and you barely suppress a shiver. He always does this to you. It makes you feel slightly ill, and so you fix it with a sip of wine, only for Break to counter it with a high, flighty chuckle. "But based on the philosophy of Gilbert Nightray, it's best to simply…enable it, yes?"

Your fingers, white and slender, curl around the wine glass tighter in an attempt to quell your trembling wrist. Through gritted teeth comes a grumbled, "Break."

"I do wonder what mood you'll decide to entertain us with tonight," Break continues. "You already seem quite agitated, don't you? I wonder if that will come out to play a little more…or perhaps chill over into something more melancholy? That's always interesting to watch…"

You down another mouthful to tune him out. Around the rim of the glass, you mumble, "Oh, shut up."

Break gives a pleasant sigh before leaning against the marble pillar, one leg crossed primly over the other as his gaze latches onto your profile. Break's stare always has a habit of drilling clean through you as it is, and you wish this vice in your hand would kick in quicker so that the scarlet edge of that eye can be dulled until it's meaningless, inconsequential. You throw back another mouthful in hopes of speeding up the process, eager for oblivion as always.

"What really surprises me," Break says, his voice suddenly hushed, "is that you didn't follow them."

Something in your chest turns cold. "Why would I follow them – "

"Don't you always, though?" Break interjects. "Wherever Oz goes, you follow, even when he's in the company of his chain. Even when it pains you." Through a chuckle, he adds, "Honestly, Gilbert, we don't need to go over this."

When nothing comes to your head in response, you answer with an aversion of your eyes and another long swig until you finish off your glass, knuckles white as you grip it just short of shattering it. Ah, there's that warmth burning at your throat; it seeps into your stomach in a hot, slow wave, weighing down your limbs as if being pulled by strings, but it's not enough. Your eyes flit to the side before fluttering shut, tipping your head back against the wall. "Break, just…don't. Not now."

To your surprise, there's a long silence that bridges between you two after your weak request. Normally, you'd open your eyes and look at him to survey his expression, to seek out some sort of readable thought on his otherwise unreadable face, but you're far too heavy and tired right now to even consider it; and so you resort to distracting yourself with the sounds of swaying ballgowns and the rush of voices and footsteps echoing into the parlor, the maudlin sweep of violins resounding from the orchestra the only comforting distraction out of them all.

Once Break's silence wears itself out, though, you hear him draw a long, steady breath before expelling it with, "Contrary to your belief, escapism isn't a virtue."

You open your eyes now. You have to – you don't like the tone his voice has taken on, as if he's speaking to a second party outside of you, as if he's speaking to…himself? It's such an absurd concept that you can't help but look at him, your vision already a tad foggy as it blurs the edges of Break's face until it almost appears soft – gentle, even – instead of its usual collection of merciless lines and planes that sharpen in a smirk. But you know that's as far-fetched of an idea as you could possibly conjure, and you amend it with a scowl and a shake of your head, wishing to hell that he would stop looking at you like that and go away.

For all your loneliness, you don't underestimate the gravity of pure, untapped solitude. For all your longing, you've been preparing for this, mapping out the exact moment when you would become used to it and maybe, maybe grow to appreciate it. You suppose you don't really have a choice if there's still one more balcony in the world for Oz to show Alice; even if the night sky were to never change, there would always be one thousand miles of it that Alice hasn't seen, that Oz deems as his duty and his duty alone to point out to her with a small, fragile hand and eyes as bright as the stars themselves.

Tonight, you think, might be it. You'll down another few glasses of wine, catch sight of yourself in the reflection of the china cabinet, and think, It's okay. I'm used to it now. I'm through with all of this, for good. And maybe those two will weave their way back through the crowd to find you, their cheeks flushed from the cold but glowing all the same, and you'll know exactly how much of the sky he showed her, every star sewn into his smile. And you won't hurt. You won't hurt anymore, not even when you see their fingers entwined and a certain light to Oz's eyes that you haven't seen from him since you were kids, back when he kissed your cheek just to gauge your reaction and laughed when you stumbled to the floor, taking the coffee table with you. That was when you were a year younger than him instead of nine years older, don't you remember? You do. You'll never forget.

A young, pallid-faced servant appears before you with a tray of – oh – glasses, all filled with blood-red wine. He offers to take your drained one from you, and you wordlessly let him before he replaces it with a fresh one. Your hand is still shaking. You need this.

As long as you have this crux, you'll be fine.

But you're going to need something stronger than wine to prepare for it.