Part of it is a few too many bottles, part of it is anxiety. Both make a potent adrenaline that miraculously still has her on her feet and alert at this point in the evening. It would be embarrassing to have to be carried home, even if Alan had been clear that she was excused from sailing duties. It would be even worse if she was absent entirely.
Ah, the sailing duties. There was an explicit understanding that it was not really ideal to any of them for her to spend the first day of the Expedition hung over and weeping in the hold, but that she could. Fair enough. It’s not like she wanted to. And in his defence, he’d been as kind and understanding as anyone could have asked for, given the enormity of what lay ahead of them. The team members she’d trained with for years understood the broad strokes, too, even if they didn’t all understand it. But it’s coming, closer and closer by the hour, and she barely feels ready for it.
Anyway. Her mind is wandering, skirting the reality that this is her last night in Lumière, probably for the rest of her life, but she doesn’t want to think about tomorrow, either. Worse, the oil in the streetlights is running low. The party is ending. People keep leaving, even if dawn is still a ways away. She can’t blame them. Not much of a party, was it? Hardly any dancing.
What to do? Where to go?
For a moment she looks down the emptying pier, and then she looks around the emptying party, and then she looks to see the latest retreating back.
On a whim, she follows.
It takes her until the top of the stairs to close some distance, but even then, it’s enough to warrant raising her voice.
“Gustave!” she calls. Her voice feels louder than it needs to on the empty streets, bouncing up off the cobblestones and into all the apartments above. She calls again –– “Gustave!” –– and breaks into a jog that feels a little precarious, given her current coordination.
He probably shouldn't have taken this bottle of wine. Someone had pressed it into his hand — Lucien, maybe, or maybe Catherine, her body warm at his side for a brief moment before she moved away again, searching for better, more amusing pastures. The looks they kept shooting his way all night have made him feel almost mad with the way they mixed sympathy and expectation.
But he hasn't shattered. He'd delivered that uniform Sophie had promised he'd bring to the festival — or tried, anyway. It sits in his pack now, an unexpected weight, blood red and shadow black. He doubts he'll wear it. Sophie hadn't touched those sleeves, those seams.
Afterwards, he'd wandered through the festival in warm, easy spirits, finding smiles and laughter with each of his friends and teammates. So what if his heart feels like it's slowly crumbling to ash and petals, the scent of the sea mixed with the roses of the Gommage fresh in his nose? A few mouthfuls of wine dull that aching grief well enough. Maybe Sciel had the right idea after all; maybe he took this bottle himself, just to dull the memory of Sophie's bright eyes dulling, her fingers drifting apart in his hands, enough that he can sleep.
Speaking of Sciel—
He turns at the second call of his name, fingers curled around the neck of the bottle he's carrying, and reaches out his metal left hand to catch her arm as she comes trotting up, a little unsteady. "I thought you'd left already."
Apparently not: it now seems as though she's had even more since the last time he saw her, face flushed enough he can see it even in the low light. He chuckles, fingers curling around her upper arm. "Run out of willing victims? Are they all passed out under the table?"
The process of slowing herself from jog to dead stop is a little more complicated than she expects, the bottom of her boot skimming a cobblestone lower than intended. If it weren’t for his hand, she’d probably end up on her wrists, and wouldn’t that be a truly terrible start to an Expedition! She grabs onto him in turn, a bit more heavily than she needs to, fingers curling into his sleeve. A little laugh bubbles out of her. It’s all a lot more graceful in her head.
“It’s just the quitters left,” she says. “The ones who don’t have to worry about throwing up everything but their souls come dawn! Where’s the fun in drinking with them?”
A challenge without consequence is a waste of time, and she’s got so little of that left.
“Are you headed home now?” she asks. She gestures at the wine bottle. “I won’t hold you up if you’ve got a nightcap with Emma to get to.”
Sciel wobbles a bit and grabs onto him, but he's well-versed in acting as a sturdy place to stand for when his friends need one part of the world to stop spinning; she's been the same for him on more than one occasion. "No fun at all, you're right."
Chuckled, as she regains her balance and gestures at that bottle. He lifts it, brow rucking up, and inclines his head with a small shrug. "Actually, I don't really know where I'm going. This whole day, I knew where I was supposed to be, and tomorrow morning I know where I'm supposed to be, but right now...? No idea."
He considers her, how she's clearly had more than him, even if he's had enough to feel warm and a little loose. "Want some company on your way home?"
“Oh, it wasn’t a suggestion, when they said to meet at the docks?” she teases, like she wouldn’t love to get off this island by any other way. If she could sprout wings, she’d do it in a heartbeat.
Still, it’s easy to loop her arm properly with his, a silent yes, better to have somewhere to be than letting her voice bounce off the streets all night like a stray cat. See, she still has some shame, even in this sorry state.
“My place is so empty, you’ll laugh when you see it. A few weeks ago I was thinking of asking Catherine if I could crash at her place on the last night, but I didn’t get around to asking,” she admits. “But at least I kept the furniture, so I won’t sleep on the floor!”
Some newlywed couple moves in tomorrow. They’re fifteen, so they’ll care little for a few chips in the plaster, or about the table leg that’s always coming loose. It won’t be theirs for long enough to matter; they’ll get a bigger place when the baby comes.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The Last Night in Lumière
Part of it is a few too many bottles, part of it is anxiety. Both make a potent adrenaline that miraculously still has her on her feet and alert at this point in the evening. It would be embarrassing to have to be carried home, even if Alan had been clear that she was excused from sailing duties. It would be even worse if she was absent entirely.
Ah, the sailing duties. There was an explicit understanding that it was not really ideal to any of them for her to spend the first day of the Expedition hung over and weeping in the hold, but that she could. Fair enough. It’s not like she wanted to. And in his defence, he’d been as kind and understanding as anyone could have asked for, given the enormity of what lay ahead of them. The team members she’d trained with for years understood the broad strokes, too, even if they didn’t all understand it. But it’s coming, closer and closer by the hour, and she barely feels ready for it.
Anyway. Her mind is wandering, skirting the reality that this is her last night in Lumière, probably for the rest of her life, but she doesn’t want to think about tomorrow, either. Worse, the oil in the streetlights is running low. The party is ending. People keep leaving, even if dawn is still a ways away. She can’t blame them. Not much of a party, was it? Hardly any dancing.
What to do? Where to go?
For a moment she looks down the emptying pier, and then she looks around the emptying party, and then she looks to see the latest retreating back.
On a whim, she follows.
It takes her until the top of the stairs to close some distance, but even then, it’s enough to warrant raising her voice.
“Gustave!” she calls. Her voice feels louder than it needs to on the empty streets, bouncing up off the cobblestones and into all the apartments above. She calls again –– “Gustave!” –– and breaks into a jog that feels a little precarious, given her current coordination.
no subject
But he hasn't shattered. He'd delivered that uniform Sophie had promised he'd bring to the festival — or tried, anyway. It sits in his pack now, an unexpected weight, blood red and shadow black. He doubts he'll wear it. Sophie hadn't touched those sleeves, those seams.
Afterwards, he'd wandered through the festival in warm, easy spirits, finding smiles and laughter with each of his friends and teammates. So what if his heart feels like it's slowly crumbling to ash and petals, the scent of the sea mixed with the roses of the Gommage fresh in his nose? A few mouthfuls of wine dull that aching grief well enough. Maybe Sciel had the right idea after all; maybe he took this bottle himself, just to dull the memory of Sophie's bright eyes dulling, her fingers drifting apart in his hands, enough that he can sleep.
Speaking of Sciel—
He turns at the second call of his name, fingers curled around the neck of the bottle he's carrying, and reaches out his metal left hand to catch her arm as she comes trotting up, a little unsteady. "I thought you'd left already."
Apparently not: it now seems as though she's had even more since the last time he saw her, face flushed enough he can see it even in the low light. He chuckles, fingers curling around her upper arm. "Run out of willing victims? Are they all passed out under the table?"
no subject
“It’s just the quitters left,” she says. “The ones who don’t have to worry about throwing up everything but their souls come dawn! Where’s the fun in drinking with them?”
A challenge without consequence is a waste of time, and she’s got so little of that left.
“Are you headed home now?” she asks. She gestures at the wine bottle. “I won’t hold you up if you’ve got a nightcap with Emma to get to.”
no subject
Chuckled, as she regains her balance and gestures at that bottle. He lifts it, brow rucking up, and inclines his head with a small shrug. "Actually, I don't really know where I'm going. This whole day, I knew where I was supposed to be, and tomorrow morning I know where I'm supposed to be, but right now...? No idea."
He considers her, how she's clearly had more than him, even if he's had enough to feel warm and a little loose. "Want some company on your way home?"
no subject
Still, it’s easy to loop her arm properly with his, a silent yes, better to have somewhere to be than letting her voice bounce off the streets all night like a stray cat. See, she still has some shame, even in this sorry state.
“My place is so empty, you’ll laugh when you see it. A few weeks ago I was thinking of asking Catherine if I could crash at her place on the last night, but I didn’t get around to asking,” she admits. “But at least I kept the furniture, so I won’t sleep on the floor!”
Some newlywed couple moves in tomorrow. They’re fifteen, so they’ll care little for a few chips in the plaster, or about the table leg that’s always coming loose. It won’t be theirs for long enough to matter; they’ll get a bigger place when the baby comes.