Review! :D
Gilbert flung himself back from the bars, hastily arranging himself and picking the horribly overused mask back from his pocket. The disguise of confidence was more likely to crack open, especially when pushed under such strain, but he had no time to try and prolong its life a little, or to dispose entirely and come out with his heart on his sleeve.
And...there she was, turning the corner with a regal expression on her face. Resplendent in an outfit of brilliant aquamarine, gold lace trimmed the hem and the neckline, which was brought into prominence by a thin-chained pendant. Her hair was up in a fancy style he'd never seen her wear before, but it suited her. He took the time to marvel at her, implanting this image back into his mind, before remembering that he was going to say something and somehow gain the upper hand in this conversation and possibly, just possibly - don't lie to yourself.
The brunette arched her neck to look at him, painful distrust on her features. In the weeks or months he'd been locked up, she'd matured, metamorphosed into a creature of the court, one that drank tea out of china glasses with her pinky extended and exchanged idle gossip with other women.
"You shouldn't do that," he said, a half-grin on his face. "It doesn't suit you."
Elizaveta merely raised an eyebrow. Her features were as frozen as a porcelain doll. "Do what?"
He waved a slightly shaking hand. "This entire masquerade. It clashes."
She pulled up the crate and perched daintily on it, trying mightily to suppress a scowl. "And who made you the judge of what I can or cannot do?"
He shrugged. "No one did. I just chose to judge."
"So, Mr. Beilschmidt- "
Ah, that hurt, but he deserved every single icy syllable. "Are we down to this again?"
"You've done nothing to earn your way up."
Gilbert sat forwards. "Come on, drop the facade. What do you feel? You hate me, right? I had a chance, and I screwed it up because I was greedy and couldn't wait. Not to mention I murdered your husband," he said in a controlled voice, though the last line was graced with a ridiculously pitiful rendition of a self-deprecating laugh. It would be best, it would be only fair that she hated him. With his reckless actions, he'd taken his enemy's bright future (as well as the one belonging to his best friend) and corrupted it with cantarella. What a stupid, stupid life. Even thinking about it made tears prickle in the back of his eyes. The fact was, he needed her hate to feel complete, to ease his consciousness. It's a funny old world, isn't it?
Elizaveta was still, considering his words. Finally, she sighed and rubbed a hand over her face, looking years older. "You seem very...misguided to me. And you were my friend for so many years; I can't discard you because you made a hugely stupid mistake, though I continuously try."
Gilbert wanted to scream. "Then how can I make you hate me?" His voice quivered on the breaking point of tension. "I was an idiot, a colossal dickweed! I drugged you, murdered someone close to you, almost raped you, and yet you still don't hate me!" Now he was crying; how pathetic. "You still don't hate me! Where's the justice? Why can't I be shunned and an ouctast and hated, by you most of all?" His voice was painful to listen to, and at the end of his tirade, he slumped forwards over his bent legs and made no sound.
The next time he looked up, she was gone, and a peculiar sort of satisfaction settled over him before he noticed the green butterfly, absently sunning itself in a stray beam of light.
He flung a handful of dirt at it, unable to bear it any longer, but the butterfly persisted.
"God damn the world," he muttered to himself, half-crazy with the loosening of his turbulence. "I can never win with you lot, can I?"