December
One of one.
He hears the clinking of silverwares on plates; the flawless plop of ice cubes in a wineglass; laughter in the gold-lit room. But the noise is distant in his perspective, trapped in the hollow of his veins.
He chooses to remain comfortably slouched on his black leather chair and constantly peering through the glass of White Zin in his hand. He makes not a move if not for the occasional shifting of his legs.
Across the room, several guests have gathered in a circle. The one in the middle, Michael Guy Chislett, strums his guitar to the tune of Don McLean’s American Pie which all but everyone sings along to. A few do a little dance, unconscious of the minor creases that it causes to their semi-formal dresses.
However, the man on the black leather chair – his name is William Beckett – scarcely takes notice of this episode. His eyes are focused on solely one person in the room: the character with the scotch in his right hand, while Victoria Asher’s shoulder in the other. He screams fractions of the song with much gusto to further amuse the crowd. It works, eventually; everyone has also begun singing like drunken fools.
He’s always been the loudmouth, William recalls. Two years – two long years – of absence, and yet Gabriel Saporta is still Gabriel Saporta.
William secretly smiles to himself. Because he knows who Gabriel is. “The only one who truly ever did” were the latter’s precise words the last time they had seen each other. The last time they talked.
He perceives Victoria motioning for him to merge with the group, but he waves her off with his hand. He doesn’t feel like facing Gabriel now. Not after that night. Not especially now that fragments of the incident have so vividly resurfaced in his mind.
He aims his gaze to the window. The December snow continues to descend, carpeting the road outside. The similarity of its pallor makes him shiver and, suddenly, he’s taken back to that dust-covered room – where he had trembled so much from the cold, both his and Gabriel’s teeth chattering as they giggled in the shadows.
An out of order grandfather clock had spied on them in that moment, silhouette cascading down upon the two individuals. Even as William took Gabriel’s face in his hands, the clock had remained staring; witnessed the blunder as it mutely corroded in the dark.
William’s eyes return to the animated faces of the people in the room. The strum of the guitar lingers albeit the song has ended. At one point, William wishes that Gabriel would look his way even for just a second. Wave hello; let him know that all is well. Flash that captivating smile. But he doesn’t.
William feels nearly as vacant as he had two years ago when he glimpsed the look on Gabriel’s countenance: stunned, perplexed, at a loss for words. Stillness, so graceless, had stood between them, making William wish that he hadn’t done what he had done. How could have I been so stupid? The crispness of the memory aches that William gets up from his black leather chair and turns to go.
Outside, the snow is incessant. The gray sky seems darker than hours ago. William heads under the shade of a streetlamp to clear his mind for a moment. He stays there as though the faint glow of it will be able to warm his bare hands which are shaking almost passionately. He jams these inside his blazer’s pockets to keep them from numbing.
“Pretty cold out here, don’t you think?”
William looks over his shoulder, his heart pulsating rapidly. He’s certain that he would catch a glimpse of somebody else behind him. He might have even hoped that it would be somebody else – anybody – with the same familiar voice. But, a second later, he finds himself staring at Gabriel. His brown eyes, dimmer now than William remembers, twinkle as he returns William’s gaze. His lips outline the narrow smile that William has been missing.
“Gabe,” William tries to speak, but it comes off barely a whisper. Fog rises out of his mouth, apologetic.
“You left,” Gabriel goes on, referring to two years ago. “I waited for you to come back.” There is no bitterness in his voice, the smile remains on his face, yet his eyes are inquiring, begging for William to say something. But William is unsure of what to do. All the words that he had wanted to pronounce a long time ago have fallen out of his mind; dragged out into the gray, icy winter.
And Gabriel understands. He motions towards William while fumbling through his pocket. Out he brings his own pair of winter gloves and fits them into William’s freezing hands. “You won’t disappear this time, would you?” He asks, his hands still holding William’s, his grin growing wider.
“No,” William manages to whisper, overlooking two years ago: the room, the clock, the error, the silence. And, for some reason, he laughs.
They let their arms rest around each other, laughing still, allowing their voices to reverberate into the snow-covered street. They walk as one. Back into the gold-lit room.
He chooses to remain comfortably slouched on his black leather chair and constantly peering through the glass of White Zin in his hand. He makes not a move if not for the occasional shifting of his legs.
Across the room, several guests have gathered in a circle. The one in the middle, Michael Guy Chislett, strums his guitar to the tune of Don McLean’s American Pie which all but everyone sings along to. A few do a little dance, unconscious of the minor creases that it causes to their semi-formal dresses.
However, the man on the black leather chair – his name is William Beckett – scarcely takes notice of this episode. His eyes are focused on solely one person in the room: the character with the scotch in his right hand, while Victoria Asher’s shoulder in the other. He screams fractions of the song with much gusto to further amuse the crowd. It works, eventually; everyone has also begun singing like drunken fools.
He’s always been the loudmouth, William recalls. Two years – two long years – of absence, and yet Gabriel Saporta is still Gabriel Saporta.
William secretly smiles to himself. Because he knows who Gabriel is. “The only one who truly ever did” were the latter’s precise words the last time they had seen each other. The last time they talked.
He perceives Victoria motioning for him to merge with the group, but he waves her off with his hand. He doesn’t feel like facing Gabriel now. Not after that night. Not especially now that fragments of the incident have so vividly resurfaced in his mind.
He aims his gaze to the window. The December snow continues to descend, carpeting the road outside. The similarity of its pallor makes him shiver and, suddenly, he’s taken back to that dust-covered room – where he had trembled so much from the cold, both his and Gabriel’s teeth chattering as they giggled in the shadows.
An out of order grandfather clock had spied on them in that moment, silhouette cascading down upon the two individuals. Even as William took Gabriel’s face in his hands, the clock had remained staring; witnessed the blunder as it mutely corroded in the dark.
William’s eyes return to the animated faces of the people in the room. The strum of the guitar lingers albeit the song has ended. At one point, William wishes that Gabriel would look his way even for just a second. Wave hello; let him know that all is well. Flash that captivating smile. But he doesn’t.
William feels nearly as vacant as he had two years ago when he glimpsed the look on Gabriel’s countenance: stunned, perplexed, at a loss for words. Stillness, so graceless, had stood between them, making William wish that he hadn’t done what he had done. How could have I been so stupid? The crispness of the memory aches that William gets up from his black leather chair and turns to go.
Outside, the snow is incessant. The gray sky seems darker than hours ago. William heads under the shade of a streetlamp to clear his mind for a moment. He stays there as though the faint glow of it will be able to warm his bare hands which are shaking almost passionately. He jams these inside his blazer’s pockets to keep them from numbing.
“Pretty cold out here, don’t you think?”
William looks over his shoulder, his heart pulsating rapidly. He’s certain that he would catch a glimpse of somebody else behind him. He might have even hoped that it would be somebody else – anybody – with the same familiar voice. But, a second later, he finds himself staring at Gabriel. His brown eyes, dimmer now than William remembers, twinkle as he returns William’s gaze. His lips outline the narrow smile that William has been missing.
“Gabe,” William tries to speak, but it comes off barely a whisper. Fog rises out of his mouth, apologetic.
“You left,” Gabriel goes on, referring to two years ago. “I waited for you to come back.” There is no bitterness in his voice, the smile remains on his face, yet his eyes are inquiring, begging for William to say something. But William is unsure of what to do. All the words that he had wanted to pronounce a long time ago have fallen out of his mind; dragged out into the gray, icy winter.
And Gabriel understands. He motions towards William while fumbling through his pocket. Out he brings his own pair of winter gloves and fits them into William’s freezing hands. “You won’t disappear this time, would you?” He asks, his hands still holding William’s, his grin growing wider.
“No,” William manages to whisper, overlooking two years ago: the room, the clock, the error, the silence. And, for some reason, he laughs.
They let their arms rest around each other, laughing still, allowing their voices to reverberate into the snow-covered street. They walk as one. Back into the gold-lit room.