There is something, Hermione thinks, that is between the two of them that she really can't touch. Their bond is something invisible, something powerful, and as much as she loathes the idea of it that familiar, ire inducing envy prickles at her senses before she shoves it away, focusses instead on her friend, letting thoughts of Gilgamesh disappear for now. He has done nothing today that would make her consider anything positive towards him, even if she had stepped forward and held her ground. She had been honest with him; he could have become so important, so special to her, but...
He had made his choice. She has to make hers.
It's eerie, the difference between how Dorian handles himself in the wake of Gilgamesh and the way he treats her. For all that he had been sure that their friendship would be over he is as kind to her as he had ever been, even as his mood dips into melancholy and sadness, even when she has to confirm her friendship and her love for him on occasion. The easy nature of his bond with Gilgamesh frustrates her if only because she wants it for herself; not necessarily with Dorian, but something like it. It's been a long time since Ron, a long time since she dared let herself hope, everything too busy and too dangerous in this world for her to think that anyone would want that with her.
She forces herself to smile, though, to be as much herself as possible in the wake of Dorian's switch. She nods her head, hesitant before deciding not to reach for his hand or his embrace. She feels prickly, as if she's on the edge of another outburst, not sure of herself. None of today had gone like she planned and the guilt twists in her stomach - she upset Dorian, she upset Gilgamesh, and there is going to be talk. She's sure of that.
"Of course. I'll go and ask, if you want to stay here, or we can go somewhere else."
Her lips purse for a moment, her expression tense, before she finally gathers herself and holds her head high.
"I'm sorry for arguing with him. You love him and you care about him and I should be more respectful of that."
It doesn't hit its mark, that brutal strike, because the man he lashes out at is not the boy whom he contracted with. Dorian lets go, but only for the moment. Only because he can't hunt down Gilgamesh with his full resources when Hermione is near. Dorian lets go and releases Gilgamesh to flee, but he makes it clear:
I do not reject you. I accept and embrace you. Always. Rejection? Dorian has faced rejection. And he has changed its mind, over and over and over. I will call for you. And if you don't come, then I will come for you. My King of Kings, don't think you can shake me off so easily. I am not the man you chose because I surrender so easily as that.
And yet when Dorian looks at Hermione, he is almost himself again. The Dorian that Hermione knows. "Don't put it on yourself, Hermione. Frankly, I can't hold for him something he'll never give me, and no one should have to abide by what he demands." Except Dorian. With a brightened smile, he takes her hand. "Take me inside before I swoon? Or people won't believe I'm not a Victorian anymore."
Hermione is all but ethereal, incorporeal, intangible and false. They no longer exist to each other. All that exists, all that Gilgamesh hears is every bold, embittered word, every refusal of his rejection, every statement that would speak to defiance and one sentiment above the rest: this isn't over.
Yet Gilgamesh commits a fatal error and assumes that it is. He turns from Dorian and says nothing more, leaving the same way he entered—as a measly ball of light to carry his spirit far from here.
They are fated souls. As usual, they've much to think on for later. For now, Gilgamesh wishes to think of everything except for Dorian Gray.
Hermione watches Gilgamesh go, her expression tight before she breathes out and shakes her head. He isn't important any more - not right now, in this moment, and he is something she'll have to think more about later. She might even have to apologise, which makes her feel a little uncomfortable. Right now, though, she has Dorian, and she turns to him.
"Let's go, then." She smiles, reaching for his hand and taking it. "I can't let anyone think that you're a Victorian, not with how different you've grown. We have to keep up your reputation, don't we, Mr. Gray?"
She steps forward, leading him out, careful to keep her hand in his and her expression gentle, not wanting to antagonise him more than she already has.
"Don't we just," he agrees, walking with her. And then, with one squeeze of her hand, he leans over to add, "It's all right." In a stage whisper: "He's a bit of a whining bitch sometimes."
Dorian has already decided what he will do next. But that plan will only work when sundown comes. For now, for this moment, he is content to set it aside and enjoy the company of a friend in pleasantness—to drink tea, to sit together, to discuss when their next practice will be. All while planning to hunt down a wild, wounded thing and use unnatural force to make it listen.
Truly, they were all broken here. But each of them was mad in their own particular way.
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He had made his choice. She has to make hers.
It's eerie, the difference between how Dorian handles himself in the wake of Gilgamesh and the way he treats her. For all that he had been sure that their friendship would be over he is as kind to her as he had ever been, even as his mood dips into melancholy and sadness, even when she has to confirm her friendship and her love for him on occasion. The easy nature of his bond with Gilgamesh frustrates her if only because she wants it for herself; not necessarily with Dorian, but something like it. It's been a long time since Ron, a long time since she dared let herself hope, everything too busy and too dangerous in this world for her to think that anyone would want that with her.
She forces herself to smile, though, to be as much herself as possible in the wake of Dorian's switch. She nods her head, hesitant before deciding not to reach for his hand or his embrace. She feels prickly, as if she's on the edge of another outburst, not sure of herself. None of today had gone like she planned and the guilt twists in her stomach - she upset Dorian, she upset Gilgamesh, and there is going to be talk. She's sure of that.
"Of course. I'll go and ask, if you want to stay here, or we can go somewhere else."
Her lips purse for a moment, her expression tense, before she finally gathers herself and holds her head high.
"I'm sorry for arguing with him. You love him and you care about him and I should be more respectful of that."
no subject
I do not reject you. I accept and embrace you. Always. Rejection? Dorian has faced rejection. And he has changed its mind, over and over and over. I will call for you. And if you don't come, then I will come for you. My King of Kings, don't think you can shake me off so easily. I am not the man you chose because I surrender so easily as that.
And yet when Dorian looks at Hermione, he is almost himself again. The Dorian that Hermione knows. "Don't put it on yourself, Hermione. Frankly, I can't hold for him something he'll never give me, and no one should have to abide by what he demands." Except Dorian. With a brightened smile, he takes her hand. "Take me inside before I swoon? Or people won't believe I'm not a Victorian anymore."
no subject
Yet Gilgamesh commits a fatal error and assumes that it is. He turns from Dorian and says nothing more, leaving the same way he entered—as a measly ball of light to carry his spirit far from here.
They are fated souls. As usual, they've much to think on for later. For now, Gilgamesh wishes to think of everything except for Dorian Gray.
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"Let's go, then." She smiles, reaching for his hand and taking it. "I can't let anyone think that you're a Victorian, not with how different you've grown. We have to keep up your reputation, don't we, Mr. Gray?"
She steps forward, leading him out, careful to keep her hand in his and her expression gentle, not wanting to antagonise him more than she already has.
no subject
Dorian has already decided what he will do next. But that plan will only work when sundown comes. For now, for this moment, he is content to set it aside and enjoy the company of a friend in pleasantness—to drink tea, to sit together, to discuss when their next practice will be. All while planning to hunt down a wild, wounded thing and use unnatural force to make it listen.
Truly, they were all broken here. But each of them was mad in their own particular way.