Embers of Spring PV Finished

banner by Prat Pass | interacting as Archer Duncan

Change — a thing that could be both a butterfly spreading her wings first out of the chrysalis and a werewolf growing his claws and teeth under a full ray of moonlight. Although fire was romanticised as the warm, cradling womb in which ash rebirths into the glorious phoenix, if Archer ever had wings those white, angelic pinons had only been singed. It was undeniable he had returned to the isolated isle a different person, the image forever burnt into his retina, a brand forcing memory. It had been his thirteenth birthday, the mark of his entrance into adolescence, and fittingly, he had grown up.

Literature should have been categorised as substance abuse. Like the warnings against drugs proclaimed, they lured the young, naïve boy into their clutches, rendered him a state of euphoric bliss, blessed him with beauteous, opiate illusions before leaving him to realise, in a breathless, self-deprecating distress, that he was still sat curled in the fiction section. Yet still he had returned to the unfortunate habit of shouldering open the oaken door daily, sometimes with Zeno in his arms but more often a stack of books and papers while the feline familiarised himself with the scent of yellowed parchment. His logic was hardly present in the nooks and crannies of the room, a crack in a system once as closely-kept as the Dewey Decimal system where irrationality slipped through.

It was either a wondering imagination or a day at the training room, spread out evenly enough for him to convince himself his lifestyle was one healthily designed, with both academic intake and physical output. Troubled student athlete — not a particularly factual one but it was a trope he could live with. After all, anyday not consumed by his own grief was a good day. Following the painfully pitiful defeat of his second duel and and an alliance strewn wrecked in its wake, he had grown prickly, far more easy to anger, and far more outspoken, no more of the quiet mountain boy who talked only of authors and philosophies. Yet as he had learnt, destruction of others, however aching remorse was, proved nowhere as painful as his self-destructive penchants.

Duncan did not think anyone would be looking for him; why would he? He considered little people as friends, much less those from overseas. He could never seem to keep any of them either, most of the small population no longer tolerating his eye rolls or longwinded explanations, though more so slinging insults of selfish or inconsiderate. Archer did not mind much his solitude, returned to relishing in it as he always had. He did not feel his loneliness, embraced it instead as he slipped away into worlds of his own, the orange tabby cuddled in his hands, his only anchor left to the material world as he rather himself be no more but a breeze. The only warm hand who had ever held his arm was his mother’s; all others had no qualms with stabbing a knife into the very same shoulder blade.

The calling of his name jolted him out of his seclusion, the soft warmness of a closing body, the voice he recognised, the eyes that stared. The other’s own name rose up in his throat, but just as his counterpart’s words fell in his vocal cords, Archer’s did the same. Brows furrowing and eyes narrowing as his face contorted into a slight scowl, not enough to prove his difference but the glimmer in his gold-flecked irises betrayed the long months where he had pined for the Frenchman’s company, he shifted a leg over the other, to which Zeno meowed loudly in protest, as the book slammed shut resoundingly in the noiseless library. Almost sounding vexed at the delay, though those whom he was close with would have known better than to believe his tone, Archer said monotonous, “I wish you had come sooner.”

Interacting with @Archer Duncan

Roleplaying as Maximilien de Fostoncy [x]
English | French

The snap of pages closing echoed with startling clarity in the stillness, and sent a throb ‌through‌ Maxi’s heart. Hogwarts’ library had always been beautiful. Most days, Maxi would bury his head in the books, and devour the stories older than these stone walls. But with Archer’s tightened jaw and ‌slightly miffed‌ demeanor, the rest of the world faded into the darkness, leaving only sorrow and dust.

He hadn’t mentioned anything specific, yet Archer knew immediately what he ‌alluded‌ to. Sorrow might take root in a day, an hour, a minute, or a second, yet scars heal over years ‌or‌ even centuries. He studied the Slytherin boy intently. Had sorrow been etched into Archer’s face, or had it always lingered there, unnoticed? Archer’s eyes had the storm he had tried to outrun in them. Maxi’s gaze lowered to the book Archer had closed, then flickered to the cat meowing as Archer shifted. A‌ pet offered some comfort, at least.

Oh, he had so much to say. And oh, he had no idea what to say. The ever-smart writer Maximilien was at a loss. His teen years hadn’t been exactly joyful, but those he cared for lived, not to mention that lately everything in his household had taken ‌a turn‌ for the better. If it ‌were‌ his own mother… How did Archer pull through? For a second, the majestic Hogwarts library made Maxi recollect the time they’d roamed through Lyon and discovered that little antique shop, when Christmas bells still merrily rang.

History. What a tender yet ruthless word.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, a blend of sympathy, concern, and regret in his voice. “Really, truly sorry.” He didn’t clarify—whether about Madame Marguerite’s fate, Archer’s sorrow, or his absence ‌when it happened‌. He was late. For everything. He once thought that maybe it was better this way, but seeing Archer—‌a‌ breathing, aching Archer—‌he‌ knew he’d erred. Regret struck. Yes, he was late. He should have been there for him, always.

This thought had been in him for a while already, and at this moment Maxi couldn’t help but think of it again, this time with far more complex emotion—how he wished to be there. Granted, he wasn’t ‌a‌ super-wizard to make everything okay, nor could he possibly change any outcome, but Maxi simply wanted to be there. As someone to guide through the mist. He knew; he’d been guided himself.

Silence settled. Finally, Maxi leaned closer, arms outstretched. A hug couldn’t fix everything—but it held them together. Safe and sound.

banner by Prat Pass | interacting as Archer Duncan

“I'm so sorry.”

And? The question was not one asked out loud but Archer knew Maximilien could have heard it in the way he cocked his head, as if he was an impatient child waiting for more answers. He had only offered the most predicted of apologies, and despite entire millennia to hone such a simple statement it still tasted faux in the charged air.

“Really, truly sorry.”

“You don’t think I’ve hear that enough?” Archer snapped, words jarring despite the lowered tone of a whisper. He chose not to acknowledge the sincere remorse in Maximilien’s voice, how despite each sound produced being the same it differed from all the half-hearted condolences from distant black-clad figures who reassured him they understood his pain. At the end of the day, the pity in their pained expressions were all the same, how they treated him as a shattered glass figurine, his heart a delicate specimen destined to break under even one voice raised too loud. How much did he need to release to prove that he was not fragile.

Ever since his duelling defeat weakness became intolerable, not just on the piste where there was always professional supervision to take him, unconscious, to an awaiting hospital wing, where the worst failure he could experience was not being awarded a winning streak as elder serpents he idolised. That pain of humiliation already bore into him deeply enough, yet Archer was the only one who could even attempt to put into words how much more lowering down his walls for moments of vulnerability threatened to tear him apart. The last time he had shown his pain, Matthew had only used it against him. A friend just as Maxi claimed himself to be, how could Archer trust again?

But if Archer would admit to needing help? It was not as if the duct-tape holding de Fostoncy could do anything trying to stitch together the remnants of his past.

As Archer allowed the stronger pair of arms to be wrapped around him in an embrace, the air between them grew uncomfortably hot as it was pressed between them, their closeness squeezing the oxygen out of his lungs and leaving his head faint and dizzy. If only it had merely been the physical distance that irked him as every friendship around him seemed to fall apart, as he no longer had a hold on a world with everything driving into him so suffocatingly he rarely had a chance to breathe. Finally pulling away with disgruntlement, he murmured two words, indifferent and careless.

“Forget it.”

Interacting with @Archer Duncan

Roleplaying as Maximilien de Fostoncy [x]
English | French

His stomach dipped. He should have known that before abruptly showing up and blurting out sorries. Maxi couldn’t deny feeling somewhat discouraged, but he almost immediately grasped the simple fact—oh, how come it didn’t cross his mind a moment earlier?—that, of course, Archer’s been hearing such things for the umpteenth time. Most condolences were surely sincere, yet as the years unfolded, Maxi had come to understand how words could ring empty. A simple I’m so sorry didn’t cost you veering off your original path and actually getting to that mourning person. He could understand why Archer suddenly got snarky and put his defence up.

But I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to have been away all this time. I’m very, very sorry with your loss—

The voice screamed in his head, alarmingly loud and persistent, racking with tears. He knew well that it was what he had been craving to tell Archer through the last few months, but now it didn’t sound right. Slight dizziness caught him. What would it take, to lick your wounds alone and pose as if you’d already brushed it off? And how would it feel, to attempt to decode every single word of so-called sympathy to see if they were genuine? The thoughts pained him. He had never experienced that kind of thing himself.

Yet at least, there was one thing that he was well acquainted with, despite having never lost someone or something he loved to another world: that one immutable fact of life. Everything was fleeting, and you were just helplessly rushing behind to try to clutch some of those fragile things in your hands, while endlessly denying to yourself that they were evanescent and momentary. The people you loved, the memories you formed, the dreams you were aspiring to achieve—they all fell into that category, when you were always a mere runner-up, always pathetic, never being fast enough.

His heart ached when he had Archer in his arms, his cheek nuzzling his dark hair. The crisp sound of pages flipping that he had always been so keen to catch seemed to have faded away, and Maxi just let the moment sink in between them, careful not to break the precarious, delicate stillness, until the warmth just pressed against his body pulled away. “Forget it.” He heard Archer say, his tone seemingly careless. At least he had accepted his offer of a silly bear hug, Maxi thought, and that meant he wasn’t entirely pushed away.

But for now, Maxi was completely at a loss, having no idea if he should present his silent company or take his chance on another attempt. Transparency wasn’t something granted to human beings. He let out a short breath, his eyes softening as he briefly glanced away, before boring into Archer’s in earnest. “Look, I don’t know if I’m qualified, but—” He mumbled. “she probably wouldn’t want you to be stuck in this.” Maxi inhaled, before continuing cautiously, his voice hesitant and tight. “She—we—want to see you smile.” And find solace in it. Maxi didn’t know how Archer would receive these words, but he could accept anything, he supposed. Turning his back on him wasn’t on his to-do list, under all circumstances.

banner by Prat Pass | interacting as Archer Duncan

“She—we—want to see you smile.”

And what did de Fostoncy know about his mother?

Certainly not enough to waltz back into his life and start defining what his mother would or would not have wanted for him. As much as Maxi wanted Archer out of it clearly he knew nothing of the quicksand he was stuck in. It could not be pulled apart forcefully, like a simple side of light and dark he needed to choose. Perhaps Maxi was just too far removed from the kind of person his mother had been, willing to wait as he burnt out, and willing to wait as he, hopefully, heals once more. And perhaps even to dive into the trenches itself while she was at it. A smile could not be conjured truthfully without patience, and what good was a smile for any other matter? If nothing else, he knew with certainty his mother would have never asked for him to smile through the tears.

“To me,” Archer said, placing his words carefully, as if he was merely uttering a scientific truth rather then anything even vaguely sentimental, “it doesn’t seem quite too intuitive to smile when I feel absolutely miserable.” A statement admitted bluntly for to him the reasoning seemed straightforward enough; why ought he put on a mask of manipulative faux emotions, no different from the ones that had once deceived him? What, so he could show vulnerability just like Matthew and eventually lie to even himself? Genuineness was far more important to the boy who had prided himself on honesty so if Maxi only wanted him in a clean package with a pink ribbon he should look elsewhere. So to the brown eyes of Maxi that bore into him he only returned his own, unrelenting as he held his gaze, almost in challenge despite knowing that he should have charted the elder boy as on his side of a erratic, messy, and ultimately, what felt like never-ending recovery.

“Why,” he asked, though there was little tone of the familiar curious inquiry, just confusion with an edge of bitterness, “Does this make you happy?” He allowed his lips to stretch ever so slightly in the ghost of a smile, holding no beautiful memories or wondrous thoughts, devoid of life behind what was a mere mask — and was that what Maxi wanted? Of course, as if that was solving anything, as if he wanted to be stuck in misery when he could have been as free and blissful as he once before. He should trust him that if he could have gotten out he would long before having to wait for his self-acclaimed preacher’s arrival.

So he continued on the tangent, the smile, even one without any meaning behind it, proving to be brief as it soon dropped, a voice monotone no longer able to hide its emotion as it verged perilously close to breaking on the final few words, “You had more than enough opportunities to come, whether at Christmas itself or exeat or Spring Break, or you could have just sent an owl to me. But you did not, and instead you just pop in, with every right in the world, and feed me cliche, impossible words on happiness.” He shook his head with disappointment and turned his eyes away, “I don’t know what to think, Maxi, because I’m not the one being difficult here — you are.”

Interacting with @Archer Duncan

Roleplaying as Maximilien de Fostoncy [x]
English | French

Alas, so that’s where the constant sinking feeling came from. Maxi squeezed his eyes shut as Archer snapped back, sensing the tingling in his guts even if Archer’s tone sounded perfectly even. I know. I know. But you’ve got to try and get over it, don’t you? Maxi subconsciously extended his hand to him, but almost immediately withdrew it with embarrassment, at a loss to understand what he meant to express.

Clearly, he wasn’t well-received. But how desperately he hoped to lend a hand, to drag his friend out of it. The intense gaze between them was already broken by him, and he felt that something was shattering underneath. Fine. He’d just be a menace for once—“If tears make you feel better, then do it.” He followed, patiently. “Sob, cry, wail, whatever, but in the end, you will have to smile.”

He tried to make his words credible, but no, he had no experience nor existing facts to elaborate on the point. Maxi had to admit, defeatedly, that probably he really didn’t get a say in all this. All he could provide was genuine sympathy, and nothing more.

“Does this make you happy?”

“Does this make me happy?” Maxi repeated slowly, stunned. “Why would I—?” Blinking, he forced his words back, striving hard to maintain a poised expression. Do I get anything out of being happy? He might have retorted out loud if it wasn’t Archer. His brows furrowed, slightly disgruntled. Yet the next moment the persistent ache came back, and for a second he wasn’t sure of what pained him more—Archer thinking ill of him, or the stiffness of the younger boy’s smile. Maxi felt like he was out on the vast ocean and drowning, slowly deprived of the privilege of breathing.

He numbly listened to Archer accusing him of his absence. Maybe he was wrong, after all. Maybe he should have been there for him. Maybe he shouldn’t have relaxed himself in the mirth of the Beauxbatons Valentine’s Event. Maybe he should have written a letter. Maybe…There were too many maybes than he could possibly count. “I thought…” He choked, inhaling sharply. “…I’m sorry.” was all he managed to muster, even if Archer had already stated that he wanted nothing more of it.

Strangely, apart from self-resentment, he felt indignation growing, unsettling, gnawing the tenderness away. He agreed that it was very wrong for him to boss around with clichés—Archer do this, Archer do that!—when he knew nothing of the real pain, but why should his genuine feelings be doubted? Practically speaking, Maxi was so sure that he would be even more unwanted during Christmas, while it was difficult for him to sneak out during spring break, and letters were just superficial. He had no plans for the spring ball. He had no people to hang out with in Hogwarts. He had boarded the carriage to Scotland solely for him. He might be late, but he was trying to make up for it. Please, please do believe in me.

He was on the verge of a cliff. A step forward, he’d fall into the bitterness of his heart not being understood. A step backward, he’d be stuck in unconditional sympathy for Archer’s loss, and endless self-examination of not being there for him sooner. Maxi—his heart softened hearing his preferred name on Archer’s lips, at least he wasn’t Maximilien. He could try again, just wait for Archer to open up, and he always had time for him—

“…you are.”

How pathetic.

“Oh, yes indeed.” He laughed, self-mockingly, ignoring the glares from adjacent tables directed at him. “Better never than late. I’m so ignorant.”

Maxi shrugged. Perfect, he was indeed being difficult—he was the one forcing unwanted sympathy on Archer. He was being difficult—difficult! Oh, and maybe his junior friend was right, after all. Maxi was happy, deriving solace and fulfilment from overprotection. He was much smarter than Maxi’s seventeen years of age, wasn’t he?

Maxi tentatively withdrew a step back. Leaning down, he softened his tone and whispered slowly. “I guess I’d better just disappear and leave you sulking alone in this castle or wherever you want, if that’s what you prefer, Archer?”

banner by Prat Pass | interacting as Archer Duncan

Merlin help him.

“Sob, cry, wail, whatever, but in the end, you will have to smile.”

So Maxi spoke once more, because he just had to. The emphasis of have did not particularly harness a good reception from Archer either. And so there he brooded, mulling over the word and hating the sour taste it left in his mouth.

And then he said the longest thing he had since their reunion, the words just gushing out of him like a dam relenting to the water far beyond its control, charging through like the tidal waves they were, washing away every cold defence he had planned until his voice was raised far louder than what was appropriate for the library. Archer felt far too exhausted to shout yet he was certain the pain in his eyes conveyed every emotion blended into those words well enough, so full of sentiment it threatened to spill further. “You don’t understand. You’ll never understand. And you know that perfectly well so just please, for the love of God, don’t pretend you do. Nothing would make me feel better right not and certainly not you. Whoever died in your life? Whatever sorrow have you ever experienced? However do you think you are qualified to console me, Maxi?”

Thank goodness — at least he was no longer doing anything on the list Maxi had listed. No, that era of vulnerability left in the open to be used and manipulated was over and he had had enough of it while it lasted, dragging each day into the other when all he could register were his tears.

So Archer only stared at Maxi fiercely as he repeated the question, voice stunned, words trailing off into nothingness, as if he had to purposefully cut himself off to not fall into an absolute berating of his unreasonable underclassman. Say it, Archer wanted to taunt, Say it and watch me deal with it like I’ve dealt with everything else because I’ve dealt with far worse things than whatever your lace and satin words have to offer. He watched intently, mirroring the movement as Maxi’s brows furrowed. He did not know how Maxi dared to compare himself in such florid metaphors of suffering, as if the boy in front of him was not living a real, very much non-literary hell that had no hope of being covered up by words. And to think Maxi was the one drowning in sorrow? Ha. He was yet to hear a jest more amusing.

Archer sucked in a deep, hissing breath, cutting through the air and careless for where it landed, “Whatever in hell do you want me to do? To feel? To think? I swear, if it was as easy as you made it seemed to be of course I would be doing it already.”

“…I’m sorry.”

There it was again. There it was again and it made Archer’s face contort into a terrible scowl. Choking sounds and sharp inhales — all semblances of sympathy and understanding, just as what he had heard a million times already amongst the small research groups that had bothered to attend his mother’s funeral. He didn’t even know what to do with the statement anymore, for no matter how many times he refused the condolences Maxi did not seem to stop, and as Archer sat, up straight with rattling breaths, perhaps he did not seem so either.

Perhaps at some point Maxi harboured hope in his heart. Pity, because Archer would have told him it was wrongly there. What a dangerous thing it was, and how easily Archer could have shattered it right there, barely without the need to lift a pinky figure so fragile was the thing. He was not a tender person either, and whatever small seedling was growing in Maxi’s heart would die as soon as it touched Archer’s hands. Perhaps Maxi had truly just come to Hogwarts for him, but that was just another mistake made. Maybe Maxi should never have come to this cursed castle in the first place, should have just relaxed on his Lyon vineyard and forget about everything that had ever happened with this Archer Duncan, whoever the hell he was. Maybe the world should just forget he ever existed.

Then something snapped.

At that moment Archer could never have known Maxi’s thoughts, and he knew that was exactly how he wished it to be. Thank Merlin he was oblivious, because that look he was receiving could have killed him right then and there. He didn’t understand how it could cut so deep, circle around his heart like a wolf playing with its prey before making the fatal shot and taking it down, just through a pair of eyes set on his own. He didn’t even know why he was surprised in that second that passed with the blink of an eye yet seemed to last forever in his mind. This was exactly how his damned self was like. Clingy, constantly looking towards someone for validation, hating that scrutiny, hating that judgement. And considering who it was coming from, probably hating himself along with it.

Then his chest deflated, his chin lowered, and tears threatened to brim at the edges of his eyes, but he blinked them back violently and determinedly, still unwilling to let Maxi in, fearing that he would never be. Fearing that, if he ever did, he would only grow to detest whatever decisions were made in goodness. Fearing pity that would never come, fearing manipulation that would never exists, fearing that he was turning Maximilien into just another Matthew Campbell. His fingers tightened as it grasped into the fabric at the name, knuckles turning white as every part of him wanted to tear the cloth out and stuff it in Maxi’s mouth. Or… better yet, his own.

Zeno meowed loudly again, jumped from his lap, circled around Maxi once, seemed to be indifferent, then leapt away from the dysfunctional duo. He padded away into the distance, curling up peacefully under a sun-bathed window as he closed his eyes, choosing to be blissfully unaware at the drama unfolding in front of him — exactly as he should have. For a rare day he chose to take a catnap as those cunning eyes fluttered shut. Sneaky little devil, Archer thought as he narrowed his eyes, but made no move. He was as sharp-witted as he was mischievous, and the tabby knew what was best for him. How he chronically envied that cat.

His attention was quick to be drawn away from the feline, however, as a harsh laugh from Maximilien cut through the quiet library air. It was nothing like the laughter they had shared as they walked down the streets of Lyon, eyes wandering through the shops, never ceasing in their enjoyment of each others company. Like how his own had become there was no joy in the sound but sheer bitterness, and within that consuming pit he thought he had heard what almost sounded like sarcasm, mockery. Archer’s gaze flitted self-consciously as other students turned to glare at the noise but when he found the stare of Maxi still set in his direction, resolute and unmoving, his forced his own back to meet his, not as certain as it had once been. Then Maxi shrugged, and it stabbed Archer in the heart how little he cared.

He was acting in a way Archer had never seen before, but the same could be said vice versa.

“Better never than late. I’m so ignorant.”

The words replayed in his head, sharp as a serrated knife making a slice that was nothing but clean across his mind, tearing into the very psyche that barely struggled to hold the world together atop a crumbling life. Why, why, was he like this? In front of him he saw a boy he could no longer recognise, just an imposing young man who seemed to antagonise him. The grey eyes that once seemed dreamy were steely and cold, the poised pose was menacing, that height he had found comfort in was malicious. Archer’s body tensed on instinct, as if he was once more stepping into the duel with the Hufflepuff seniors, and he knew that he was about to lose. Because Maxi may not be a duellist but unlike the acquaintances formed in passing despite their distance he knew well enough how to pull on his heartstrings, forcing him to let go of all rationality and face ivresse des grandes profondeurs as he sunk into uncontrollable emotion.

Ferme-la, ferme-la.¹ In English or Français he just wanted Maxi to shut his poetically smart mouth up for a second so he could think without the disturbance, that constant breath over his neck repeating in jeers everything he already knew to be wrong. Maybe Maxi should just shut up so he could actually straighten his thoughts, pull himself together, and manage to display a the side of him he actually deserved. Because as the conversation was progressing all Archer could think of was the dawning realisation that rather than the upperclassmen being difficult it was undoubtedly his own fault. Just like it had happened every time, all the things he cared about were falling apart in front of him, and just like it had happened every time, he had no one else to blame.

“I guess I’d better just disappear and leave—”

The rest of what he had to say ceased to matter as Archer’s mind honed in on that single word, panic riddling into his mind and driving out every other thought. Leave. Leave. Leave. The hands that had been gripping at the fabric of his seat threatened to spring upwards, if only to force him to stay, to take ahold of his friend’s shirt and tug on it shamelessly, just as he once had asking him to go into that vintage shop, when all things could be solved with a locket and an oddly-flavoured coffee. As Maxi took a step away from him a pang hit Archer’s heart, the boomerang of his own words turning back to smack him in the gut. His face soured further, not out of displeasure or irritation but a scrambling mask as his features struggled to cover up the evident fear peeking through his eyes.

He could not dissect Maxi the way he would a problem or an equation, could not understand why he bothered for that soft tone to accompany sass-lined words, but somewhere buried deep in a fractured heart he knew that the one person teetering on the cliff’s edge of estrangement was all he had, and despite his bitter mood he knew his lone presence would have been a blessing to him. He could only count one dead but as if that one name had been a catalyst sending down the chain of inevitable dominoes there laid before him a list of all the people as good as that. His father, his friends, hell, in that enraged, sorrowful, broken moment even his cat, so perhaps just like everyone else, Maxi would leave him. That one word resounded in his head to the beat of his pounding pulse. Leave. Leave. Leave.

“Je suis désolé.²”

His voice spilt out before he could stop himself, and when they did he did not know if he should have wanted to in the first place. The words hung in the air like a chandelier in a long-forgotten, fast-deserted home, no longer candlelit or sparkling, just dusty and desolate, a final tether in the palpable tension. They were just six syllables, and six syllables he was tired of hearing for that matter, six syllables he barely made out and perhaps six syllables that were a mistake to say in yielding. But he was sorry, and sudden shame heated his face. He didn’t truly know how he had treated Maxi and only that it was unacceptable and childish, closing himself off from a person who actually cared, who bothered to extend a hand even when he only responded with hostility. He was sorry, he was so so sorry. Perhaps it was selfish and clingy and even more immature but Archer just didn’t want Maxi to leave.

Perhaps to anyone else he would have only rolled his eyes and signalled his complete indifference but Archer was not blind — he recognised how it was different when it came to this particular character in his life, for even if this was only the second time they had met he was still naïve enough to believe in the invisible bond that seemed to have connected them from the first time they spoke back in Lyon. All he wanted was for this to not end up like his bitter conclusion with Campbell. It was not even like with his fellow snake. His potential with Maxi was not one that had gone to waste but that had been harnessed, blooming into a friendship Archer hoped could persevere through the momentary hurdles thrown his way. There were so many things he wished he had told Maxi, first good, then slowly deteriorating away as a dark cloud settled over it all. So many things he still ached to say and so many things he feared he might never be able to say if they kept going down this dark, consuming path.

Trying to intercept his own self before Maxi could speak and dreading to think what would escape from those thinly pressed lips, he found wisps of sound in his own throat and straightened himself, determined for the words to come out with strength. That, however, failed spectacularly as the boy who had just raised his voice to argue seemed to have disintegrated. Voice alternating between the two languages he managed, taking sharp breaths between each change, “Je m’en fiche what you do—³” His words choked there, but he pushed pass it with force, and pushed the rest out in a messy, unpolished breath that trailed off towards the end, “S’il te plaît I just ne peux pas rester seule en ce moment….⁴”

Archer looked up at Maxi, and there was only pleading left in the beaten hazel eyes.

Interacting with @Archer Duncan

Roleplaying as Maximilien de Fostoncy [x]
English | French

Maxi’s nostrils flared as he finished coaxingly threatening Archer, gasping as he inhaled the parchment-scented air. His eyelids snapped shut when slight dizziness caught him, the library’s umber tones pinning him down. One’s ears were usually sharper with their eyes closed, and for a second Maxi thought he had caught the subdued whispers and snickers from the students close by. He rolled his eyes behind his eyelids before reopening them again, only to find that he had to turn his head and cast them away from Archer, unable to look right into those hazel eyes.

He finally decided to settle his focus on Archer’s tabby cat, the creature that had been circling him and leaving him a slightly itchy sensation now basking cozily in sunlight. With his eyes dazzled by golden hues, Maxi wearily debated whether he should just leave and make everybody happy right away. For a moment he did feel a kind of remorse, blaming himself for being too harsh and menacing, but the next moment Archer’s earlier words were ringing in his ears, ripping through him and cutting him open. You don’t understand. You’ll never understand. Again he heard him saying so, every syllable striking him right in the heart. Nothing would make me feel better right not and certainly not you. All of a sudden Maxi felt like all eyes in the Hogwarts library were mockingly sweeping towards him, and he had to shrink to get away from them.

His cheeks heated. It was a weird thing, really, that his initial indignation was fading at this moment. Maxi could hardly describe his exact feelings—defeated, maybe. Foiled by the fact that he had trekked all this way to Scotland, and was in fact unwanted. “I gotta g—” He mumbled, faintly, drawing his foot back and deciding to step sideways. He might just be…at a loss, and he definitely needed a great deal more time to thoroughly digest the matter.

“Je suis désolé.”

To say that he wasn’t startled was a lie, and Maxi’s already outstretched foot dangled in midair. He nearly lost his balance, but steadied himself at the last moment, incredulity rising in his irises. Ever since he set foot on this library and sought Archer out, the other boy had been impervious. And now, for the first time, he sensed the tension in Archer’s voice, something stirring beneath the surface, sending ripples through his heartstrings. Maxi wanted to say something but choked.

“Je m’en fiche what you do—” His mind went blank for a second when a different language popped up in Archer’s words, before deciphering it as English and wanting to laugh at himself. It seemed that this was torture for both of them. “S’il te plaît I just ne peux pas rester seule en ce moment….” It was when Maxi finally dared to draw his vision back and look directly at him, dark grey eyes undisguisedly staring into the hazel colours, overwhelmed by the pleading in them.

For a while he was silent. Maximilien had never been the most philanthropic of all people. Honestly, he should have retreated already, sheltering himself from the moodiness of the British weather. “Eh…” His voice cracked coarsely in his throat. Maxi swallowed, trying to compose himself.

“It’s okay.” He eventually said, in English. While the pleading in Archer’s eyes did melt his resolve, pride held him back. Archer’s prior defensiveness did hurt, those words spoken with brutal honesty drowning out him. “…je sais pas¹.” He mumbled to himself, letting out a sigh. But when he looked into those eyes again, the steel in his own ones unavoidably softened to stardust.

It was when Maxi realised, distressed yet strangely blissful, that no matter what there would always be a soft spot reserved for Archer in the depth of his heart.

“T’inquiète².” The whisper was for both Archer and himself, to soothe, and to confirm. He gingerly squeezed a small smile out, a mixture of reassurance and uncertainty in his expressions.

He could never say no to him, could he?

“Really, it is okay, Archer, it is okay if you…I’m not…I won’t…” His voice faded, unable to make up a complete sentence, before settling on a simple phrase—“Je suis là³.”

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1: I don’t know.
2: Don’t worry.
3: I am here.

OOC: Thank you so much! I’m so honoured and I absolutely love writing with you as well! Your words are beautiful and resonate so deeply with me.

banner by Prat Pass | interacting as Archer Duncan

“It’s okay.”

“Is it?” He asked hesitantly. He certainly didn’t believe it; it didn’t feel okay, and that was his fault, and he still felt as if Maxi was glaring at him with all the loathing in the world. “I’m sorry if I was unpleasant. It’s just that… the whole world has only shown be hatred since—” His voice trailed off, but they both known what he would have said. Since her passing, which twisted everything in sorrowful knot of grief. His father spun away from him in an disorientated spiral, his friends pushed him away too afraid of his bomb-fragile personality, and it was as if a curtain had been drawn over anything bright. It was unfair, everything was unfair, and it was most unfair for Maxi, who only ever wanted to help, to be caught in the middle of it. “And I never meant to direct it at you but it has to go somewhere—”

“T’inquiète.” The word was soothing, short yet it was a confirmation. As it cut off his anxieties Archer allowed himself to hope against the dark and ugly side of things he had always been exposed to, and believe, even for a second, however hopefully naïve, that’s everything would be fine. Maxi smiled, and Archer didn’t know how, but he swore the side of his lips tugged up in accordance.

Like hell…. He waited for Maxi to finish his sentence, yet nothing followed. Nothing but a short phrase, a mere three words but enough. They grounded him, focused his vision, and slowly, his knuckles relaxed as he let go of the beanbag’s fabric he had been clutching onto. Words he had not heard in so long, words that reminded him he wasn’t alone, words that brought back a tidal wave of memories both painful and coveted. Je suis là; he was here. Overwhelmed in the moment, Archer wasn’t quite certain what to say in response.

Even if Maxi emitted the same comfortable light of security as he had in the past, Archer didn’t want to sit in silence. He knew, if this was any other reunion without the heavy shadow of grief hanging over him, his mouth wouldn’t have stopped talking even for breath. Interspersed rarely between the bad were shimmers of light, and it was a solace to think he couldn’t wait to tell Maxi about it all. After all when he had first met Maxi wordlessness was a stranger, and there had been nothing the two wanted more than to talk, two kindred spirits matched together by a favour in the stars. All he ached for was to return to Christmas, 2023, and forget 2024 ever happened.

Voice raw and unsteady, he offered, pointing to the reclining feline, who stretched in the sunlight as if he knew he was being talked about, “That’s Zeno, by the way… I’ve, uh, never introduced him to you yet. He likes to rampage and scratch people normally.” So when he didn’t, you’d know it was really bad. Archer laughed slightly, the sound awkward but not forced. It wasn’t grand or sentimental, but it was something, an invitation for them to believe that everything was back to how it should have been, matters trivial enough for him to be discussing a cat. Any semblance of normalcy he would take, and now he only hoped the occasion to be a reunion after a long separation rather than a therapy session. There were little people Archer deemed as friends, and Maxi being one of them, he would have preferred to keep it that way.