One month later
He's lying on the couch in the backroom of the shop, waiting until it's late enough for him to go home and then go straight to bed. His jacket is draped haphazardly over a nearby chair and his tie is on the floor. He'd flipped the "Closed" sign a while ago and turned out the lights. Now only a faint glow can be seen from outside the shop window.
It's been like this for a while now. He'd realized pretty quickly that he hated being in that house alone, so this is what he's reduced to: a pathetic man too terrified of silence and loneliness to go home.
He'd thought about calling her many times, but if he just waited a few minutes, he managed to persuade himself it was a bad idea every time. Except that one evening cheap wine had made him too bold for his own good and he'd left her a message on her answering machine. He'd talked about the week his thoughts had been consumed with dying and the fear of not knowing what would happen the inevitable day he closed his eyes for the last time, and how she'd held his hand every night, saying that whatever it is, it must be pretty amazing, since we're all dying to see what it is. He knew she'd meant it as a joke, but it had truly made him feel better. He'd told her that that was the moment he knew he'd found something truly wonderful, something worth cheating death for.
And then he'd woken with a pounding head and a feeling that he'd done something stupid. He'd cursed himself and whoever thought a '2 for 1' deal on wine was a good idea, and was set on calling to apologize before he'd gotten side tracked by his stomach and its need to empty its contents.
Thankfully she'd never called back.
His gaze is distant as he lets tiredness and weariness overcome him when the bell over the door rings. He doesn't bother getting up. "Shop's closed!"
Snow peeks her head through the backroom door, a small smile on her lips. He'd be lying if he said his stomach didn't feel a little more hollow at the look of pity in her eyes.
"David said I might find you here," she says.
Of course. He hadn't missed the way David kept looking more and more worried every time he'd stop by to make sure Rum hadn't done anything stupid. He must be in a sorry state if David has sent his wife to check up on him.
He can't think of anything to say, be it an excuse as to why he's here after hours, or that he was just taking a nap and most definitely not wallowing. Snow sits herself down on the chair closest to him, her elbows resting on her knees, a slight furrow between her brows; proof that she actually cares.
"You're withering away, Rum," she says gently.
He closes his eyes and sighs, because that's exactly what's happening to him, what he knew would happen. He just doesn't want to hear it said aloud. But he's too bone tired to come up with a snarky retort, so instead he murmurs, "This is how she wants things to be."
"That is not true and you know it. She wants you to be happy, too, Rum."
He knows she's right, and he doesn't blame Belle for the state he's in. This is just what being without Belle feels like. And that's not her fault.
He presses his lips together, but he can't help but ask," How is she?"
Snow sighs and leans back in her chair. "She's putting on a brave face, or at least trying to, pretending that everything's okay. But she's lonely and she isn't sure how to do something about it."
He sits up. "If she's lonely she should just come home!"
"You know that's not what she wants."
"It's what she would've wanted if she would just remember!"
The silence is pressing as they stare at each other, his gaze bloodshot and hers determined.
"I…" His voice is too thick, too vulnerable, and he clears his throat before saying, "I don't blame her, but I just… I j-just…" He draws a shay breath and buries his face in his hands, the hollowness in his stomach now pushing itself up his throat and out as quiet sounds of sadness.
He feels the couch dip as Snow comes to sit beside him, and he feels the warmth of her hand rub soothing circles on his back.
"I just miss her," he says into the skin of his palms, but Snow still manages to make out his words.
"I know, I know," Snow repeats, her voice soothing and reassuring.
Her hand eventually stills, but her touch still remains, and he's grateful that she's here. Grateful for the small patch of warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt, grateful for her understanding.
"Have you considered visiting her?"
His hands fall away from his face and rest in the space between his legs, his elbows on his knees. He's treated Belle's desire to live alone as a restraining order, and he's barely caught a glimpse of her since she's moved out, avoiding the library and Granny's altogether.
"Do you think she would want that?"
"I think she needs to be reminded that one can be alone without being lonely. And I think you're the who can do just that."
"This is a bad idea. This is a really, really, bad idea," he mutters under his breath. He's standing outside apartment 2E, a potted plant in one hand and a small, old-fashioned suitcase in the other. He hadn't planned on going, but somewhere during the night he'd managed to convince himself that anything was better than missing her so incessantly.
His knock is hesitant and awkward as he struggles to hold the plant and suitcase in one hand. He hears the muffled sounds of footsteps nearing the door, and before he gets a chance to turn on his heel and make a dash for the stairs, the door opens.
She's exactly as he remembered. Her eyes are bright and her hair is done up, only a few tendrils framing her face. Her smile is bright, and she looks surprised when she sees who's come a-knocking.
"Rum," she says, almost like she's glad to see him.
"Hello, Belle."
She opens the door further, but her outstretched arm in still holding the door. She hasn't let him in yet. "What are you doing here?"
"Just wanted to check in, and drop off a late house-warming gift," he says lightly, raising his occupied hands.
"Oh." Her smile widens and he notices how she relaxes, her shoulders lowering slightly. "Come in."
He surveys what she now calls her home. Large windows let in a dazzling amount of light. The couch is littered with pillows and throws. There are rugs on the floor, and a bookcase that's half-full. And in the corner by the window is a desk, already littered with papers and empty mugs. In the centre sits a laptop, and he can see that a document's open on the screen. Belle used to prefer the typewriter. She liked how final the words on the page became, when the ink left a print as soon as she pressed a key. It helped her make every word count.
This must be part of the new Belle, the Belle that is no longer his wife. And that's okay.
"It's not exactly fit for a princess, but…" She trails off. He turns and sees her standing in the middle of the living room-come-kitchen and she looks like she belongs. "I think I like it here." She bites her lower lip, looking hesitant. She needs for him to say that this is okay, that it's alright that she's managed to create a space that's just hers. And he has never been able to deny her anything.
"It's lovely," he reassures her.
A few moments pass in silence, before Belle offers to take the potted plant. Fuchsias, one of her favourites. She puts it on her desk, fingering the delicate flowers, thanking him. Then she gestures to the suitcase he's still holding. "Shall I…?"
He remembers himself and places it on the kitchen counter. He opens it and reveals a delicate looking tea set, the china white with blue and gold details.
"Every proper lady needs a proper tea set," he quips.
"Who on Earth said I was a 'proper lady'?" she teases, and his breath catches.
He laughs. "A proper lady knows the street is no place to be this late at night," he retorts, the tips of his shoes dangling off the sidewalk.
She looks at him and raises an eyebrow.
"Who on Earth said I was a 'proper lady'?"
She has never seemed more like the woman he lost that fateful evening. And even though she's changed, there are still bits of her that have lingered. She's still in there. He still loves her, and maybe those bits still love him back. Or maybe they will again one day.
Her smile slips and she looks concerned. "Rum? Are you alright?"
He shakes his head minutely to clear his mind of images of Belle sailing over the hood of a car. He hopes his smile isn't as strained as it feels. "Yes, fine dear."
"Would you like something to drink?" she offers, always kind, always caring.
"Water will do fine."
She snorts. "I'll put on some tea."
He chuckles and meanders around the room. He keeps glancing back at the laptop screen. "Have you started writing again?" he asks.
Her back is turned to him as she fiddles with mugs and tea bags. "Yeah. It took a while, but one day I just woke up and felt like it wasn't so hard anymore. Like there was something to tell."
She's found her inspiration again, and he's grateful to whatever or whoever helped her find it, even if it wasn't him.
"Anything spectacular?" he asks, accepting the steaming mug she hands him. They plop down on the couch, almost thigh to thigh.
"Not really. Maybe I'll let you read it someday." She watches him out of the corner of her eye, and she can't possibly miss the way his smile becomes more relieved, his eyes alight with joy and relief at how easy this is, just being together.
"I'd like that," he says, hiding his grin in his mug.
He leaves when it's dark outside. They swapped their mugs for wine glasses hours ago and it loosened their tongues. They found themselves in a comfortable state where they could talk and laugh without feeling stifled by thinking that they should behave like married couple; that Belle should feel like his wife. And if Rum wishes he could kiss and lick at the soft stain on her lips from the wine, he doesn't say. But before he leaves, he can't help but ask.
"Belle, you're happy, right?"
And the selfish part of him likes to think that the pause between his question and her answer is hesitation.
"Yeah."
But the part that loves Belle more than anything is thrilled that she's doing okay. So he returns her smile and says that if she ever needs anything, she mustn't hesitate to ask.
She thanks him. And then she leans in to press her lips softly to his cheek. It's quick and fleeting and over almost before it's begun, but it's more than enough.
"Goodnight, Rum."
"Goodnight, love," he says softly.
He doesn't let the spring enter his step until he's rounded the corner and is heading down the stairs. He takes the last two steps in one joyous leap.
She caresses the spine gently, her fingers trailing over the engraved title, as she puts it back in its designated spot on the shelf amongst the others. The library is quiet; only the occasional rustling of pages turning can be heard together with the muted sounds of her heels on the carpet as she wanders around, dusting and sorting books.
It has turned into a regular thing, whatever she and Rum are doing. He'll come over and bring chocolate or a take-away dinner and she'll supply the wine. It's innocent and easy and every night she's sad to see him go. She'll go to bed and have dreams of asking him to stay, of him joining her among the covers, not as the man she can't remember agreeing to spend the rest of her life with, but as the man who saved her when she was lost. The man that still looks at her lovingly despite them not living under the same roof.
The sound of the bell at the front desk rings out, pulling her out of her reverie. She turns and sees Gaston leaning on the desk, smiling shyly.
"Hey," he greets.
"Hi, Gaston. I-I'm sorry, but I can't make dinner. I-"
He raises a hand. "I'm not here to ask you to dinner, Belle. I'm here to say goodbye."
She stills and her brows knit together in confusion.
"Goodbye? You're leaving?"
"Got a job offer in New York. Big firm, big opportunities, you know how it is."
She nods, but she really doesn't. She never wanted to be a part of that cutthroat world, and she still doesn't see the appeal.
"When are you leaving?" she asks.
"Flight leaves tomorrow. So I just wanted to stop by, wish you luck and all that. And I guess a small part of me was hoping for one drink, for old time sakes." He isn't trying to make her feel guilty, or pressure her into joining him. It's just how Gaston is, how he was when she first met him.
"Gaston, I can't, you know that. We've changed-"
"Belle, it's alright." He smiles. "I wasn't expecting anything. You've changed. I see that. I see the way you look at him," he adds with a wink.
"We're not together anymore," she says, her hands idly fiddling with the pages of an open book on the desk.
He lowers his voice, and he almost sounds concerned. "Do you honestly believe that?"
She looks up and there must be something in her eyes that answers his question, because he chuckles and shakes his head.
She sighs. "Is it meant to be this hard, finding and holding onto love and all that shit?"
He laughs. "Easy on the swearing. This is a library, for Christ sake," he jokes. "But, honestly? Yes."
"And we do it because it's worth it, right?"
"Sounds like you've cracked the code," he quips.
She chuckles and a few beats pass before the amusement in Gaston's eyes fades into something more serious. "I wish you the very best, Belle. I always have, even when I wasn't able to give you the best."
She doesn't ask what he's actually referring to, partly because she doesn't want to feel the hurt all over again, and also because she's not interested in living in the past. And that's where Gaston belongs: in the past. And she knows she has to keep looking ahead, or else she'll be bested by misery.
So she extends her hand and raises her eyes expectantly when he stares at it for a few seconds.
"Is this when we part ways as unlikely friends?" he asks, taking her hand in his.
"Something like that," she smiles. "I wish you luck, with everything."
He presses a chaste kiss to her knuckles before letting go. "And I hope you find the very best."
He leaves with a raised hand and a smile.
"I'll leave a spot open for you at the firm when you grow tired of this place!" he calls over his shoulder.
"Keep dreaming, sailor!" she calls after him, earning her a few dirty looks from the people trying to read in peace.
Her mind is quieter when she lies in bed that night. She feels like a weight she wasn't aware of has been lifted from her chest. She said goodbye to the last tangible trace of her past today. And she's actually a little relieved. And a little hopeful, something she hasn't felt in a long time.