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He tried again the next day. And the next. And the one after.
But every time he saw Elizaveta coming down the hall, he couldn't help but to run. Every fiber of his being pulled away from her, as if the two of them were the same ends of a magnet. It was just a base repulsion, emerging from the heartbreak.
Except, of course, his heart was addicted to her.
For the umpteenth time since that day, he sat down somewhere in the castle. He knew Elizaveta would find him eventually.
As he sighed and brought his hand up to brush the white hair out of his eyes, the cantarella clipped inside his black sleeve brushed against his arm, a discreet reminder of his purpose. And he had to make this work.
Right around noon, he heard her coming.
He braced himself in his chair. This time I'll do it. I'll talk to her and apologize to her and then I'll do it.
He heard the rustling of her skirts, somewhat like the sound of hundreds of butterfly wings as she approached. His hands tightened.
And then she swept right on past him, skirts flowing smoothly down her shapely figure, chestnut tresses tumbling down her back. His mouth almost dropped in surprise. For days I've been waiting, and when I finally consolidate my nerve, she stops caring?
Just my luck.
She cast a glance over her shoulder that clearly invited him to follow, if he was going to talk at all.
He didn't want to talk all that much, but their friendship -even if it wasn't the perfect romance he'd fantasized about- meant a lot to him. Even if this plan failed, he wanted back the long silent walks through the gardens, before-
The albino abruptly stood and followed her, his footsteps nearly silent on the cold floor.
Elizaveta cut left, out through the hall his sin had been painted in before he'd painstakingly wiped the floor clean. Even now, his eyes darted around, searching for a stray slick of dried blood. He'd never seen any before, but it wouldn't hurt to check. It felt as if the hallway was irrevocably painted with blood.
There was a patch in the shape of a butterfly in the middle of the floor. He wondered how he could've missed it, and scuffed at it with the toe of his boot. A space of a blink later, it peeled upwards and flapped madly, careening directly towards his face. It looked demented, and the idea of Roderich turning the knife on him, NEVER scratched into his chest, sped through his mind.
He nearly ran to catch up with his princess. Elizaveta had turned again, and was outside. With a sinking feeling, the albino anticipated where she was headed. Not there. Not back there again.
But no, he saw the edges of her skirts glide over the underbrush littering the cobbles, and then he rounded the corner and she was there, sitting on a bench under the tunnel of purple flowers. Why must she torture me like this?
She looked away, skirts neatly folded under her, pretending not to notice his approach until the other end of the bench creaked. "Gilbert," she said in greeting, and the albino inclined his head. "Lady Herdevary."
At that, she whipped around suddenly, emerald eyes surprised and hurt. "Have we fallen that far? We used to be-" She dropped her head. "I ruined it, didn't I? We can't go back, can we..."
And the albino didn't know what to say.